Hell Is for Real, Too : A Middle-aged Accountant?s Astounding Story of His Trip to Hell and Back (9781101571026)

by Shmuley, Skip

  The coming disaster. It’s a given that Al Gore is one of the smartest men who ever lived. He invented the Internet, as well as a cable channel watched by as many as a dozen people at once. But his inability to admit a mistake will cost us. It turns out that long ago he hit a wrong key and we should have been worrying about global worming . It turns out the world will end much like the movie Tremors. With Kevin Bacon as our only hope. And with all those night crawlers, President Octomom’s solution is “more fishing.” More fishing leads to a depletion of our oceans. Which leads to a food shortage, which leads to . . .

  http://www.washingtonpost.com/national/discovery-of-worms-from-hell-deep-beneath-earths-surface-raises-new-questions/2011/05/31/AGnzJTGH_story.html.

  The coming famine. In 1840 the population of Ireland was nearly wiped out by a potato famine. In 2040, the population of America will be wiped out by a potato chip famine. Forced to give up their junk-food diet and for the first time confront green, leafy vegetables, Americans will be thrown into a tailspin. The craving for junk food will lead to the invention of things such as beer-battered spinach. The only people able to cope with the new thirty-calorie-a-day diet will be the Olsen twins, Lara Flynn Boyle, and Mischa Barton.

  The not coming coming. By the year 2020, men will be so addicted to Cialis, Levitra, and Viagra that they will be unable to reproduce without the aid of medication or a hot tub. Much as we’ve lost the ability to run like our ancestors, we will lose the ability to procreate. Since natural sildenafil is found in the Middle East, this means EDPEC, a cabal of Middle East nations, will control our sex lives. It’s bad enough they’re screwing us on oil; soon they’ll be screwing us on screwing.

  The coming Rapture. On Judgment Day at the precise moment, the heavens will open and the earth will tremble. As the ground begins to crack, revealing the gates of hell, only a chosen few will be levitated into heaven. Actually, a chosen few seven billion people. But the 144,000 who think they are going to be taken away in the Rapture will go straight to hell.

  The Most Important Facts About Hell

  The most important thing to know about hell is also the worst thing about it: in hell, Satan kills you over and over and over again just for his own amusement. It would seem the one and only upside to being in hell is that at least you’ve got the dying part over with, but they won’t even let you have that. Turns out, hell is ironic. Which sounds like that Alanis Morissette song. Which ironically is hell to listen to.

  So down there, every day ends with you dying, only to be brought back again to start the whole thing over. Here are but a few of the ways they go about it....

  Heart attack. Just like here on earth, heart attacks are one of the biggest killers in hell. Especially of men. But it’s never the good kind of heart attack. Not the kind that’s the result of eating your weight in jelly donuts, followed by a thirty-six-hour coke binge, culminating in a three-way with Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor (both down there, by the way—the Jewish God doesn’t like converts). In hell what triggers a massive coronary are mandatory Pilates and spinning classes.

  Mauled to death by a snarling pack of Navy SEAL war dogs (Osama bin Laden only). Your disembodied leg is then dry-humped by a basset hound that couldn’t quite make the squad.

  Dying of embarrassment. In hell, you can literally die of embarrassment as Satan’s entire army of demons gathers around to laugh at old photos of you from awkward stages of your life. Your young face full of braces and headgear; in a leisure suit about to attend a key party; the hair metal years; that time you joined Greenpeace just to impress a girl; the mullet years; that one month you tried to dress like a rapper; awkward facial hair; and of course the camera phone footage you took of yourself in a dress.

  By the way, in hell, whatever you died of is considered a preexisting condition. This guarantees that no insurance company will cover you. You’ll spend fifteen to twenty years on hold with your health care provider, trying to talk to a live person. Then your call will drop. As a result, whatever your condition is it will slowly deteriorate, lead to other, worse conditions, and eventually leave you a shut-in and an invalid. Once the poor circulation, festering bedsores, and early-onset diabetes have set in, you’ll die a slow death sitting in a rotten Barcalounger in a pool of your own filth. Probably the same thing that killed you on earth.

  Shooting spree. Everyone is disgruntled in hell. Ten thousand millennia of white-hot flames blistering the crack of your ass will do that to you. People are ready to snap at any moment. Especially on the job. The last thing you want to do at work is move somebody’s cheese. The number of workplace shootings in hell averages twenty-five per day. Almost as high as the U.S. Postal Service. Most people work in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s a nice enough area as long as you stay clear of the Jets and Sharks. A lot of people are happy just to be employed, but if there’s that one guy that everyone knows is about to lose it, try to get on his good side. Grab him a slice of cake next time there’s an office birthday. Or try one of those “The worst day fishing is better than the best day working” bumper stickers. And if he does get that pink slip and comes back with an AK-47, well, it doesn’t really matter. You’ll just wake up and start all over again tomorrow. There are no sick days in hell.

  Little-Known Facts About Hell

  Hell has a national park. Unlike California, hell can actually afford to keep its parks open. And a lot of people like to visit them. There are some beautiful rock formations, including the Devil’s Punchbowl. Sadly, every visit to a national park ends with being eaten by a large grizzly bear.

  The pitchfork was not Satan’s first weapon of choice. For several hundred years, he reigned in hell toting around a gigantic spork.

  In the throes of a midlife crisis, Satan once bought himself a brand-new Corvette with the license plate “Say 10.” He was going to paint flames on the sides, but decided that would look stupid.

  Satan’s favorite holiday is Halloween. Not because of ghosts and evil spirits. The week after Halloween, all the candy corn that no one ate gets shipped directly to hell.

  Even Satan cannot get a steak cooked rare in hell.

  Satan and his minions have rigged the last six seasons of American Idol. How else do you explain Taylor Hicks?

  Satan is now the second-largest U.S. debt holder, behind China. He’s buying up thousands of foreclosed properties and will combine them to start a giant amusement park, Standing-in-Line World.

  When Satan was first cast out of heaven and fell all the way down into hell, he faked a broken leg and tried to sue.

  Satan is in the gym a lot. And he’s one of those guys that constantly checks himself out as he pumps iron. Afterward he has a big meal of nothing but lean protein. Usually a couple of arms and a torso.

  Satan loves celebrity gossip. He follows the triumphs and the heartbreaks of Jennifer Aniston incessantly. Even now, he secretly hopes she’ll find some way to get back together with Brad. Through all her highs and lows, she perseveres. If you are in fact sent to hell, you’ll be expected to discuss this for hours on end. And woe be to the man who calls her Jennifer No-Man-iston.

  Hell has never frozen over. (Conversely, Mrs. Shmuley has never thawed out.)

  Sometimes things do arrive in hell inside a handbasket. They include, but are not limited to: Guns N’ Roses, the U.S. economy, Lindsay Lohan’s career, the VCR, Donald Trump’s presidential campaign, and that fixer-upper house you just bought. Which leads to the other riddle that would stump even Satan. What the fuck is a handbasket?

  The road to hell is not, in fact, paved with good intentions. It was paved by nonunion laborers and is now riddled with potholes. Also, the convenience stores along the way have a terrible selection and no bathrooms. So you probably want to hold on to the bottle once you finish the Gatorade.

  Hell doth have a fury like a woman scorned. Come on, what kind of expression is that? Really? An eternity of being stabbed in the neck with a flaming pitchfork, or your girlfriend causing a scene at the Cheesecake Fact
ory? The worst she can do is destroy some of your stuff. And if it really does get that crazy, the sex was probably so good it was worth it.

  “Satan” is just his first name. His full name is Satan Bartholomew Beelzebub Higgenbottom Demonseed. Although you never hear that unless he’s being yelled at by his mother, Ann Coulter. His name also used to have several umlauts over it, but he dropped them, claiming they were “too ethnic.”

  Hell has to get its water pumped in from elsewhere. Where do you think your toilet leads? Naturally the tap water is filthy in hell, so most people buy the store brand, Pitchfork Springs. Although even in hell, you now get dirty looks for not having a reusable water bottle.

  Hell has a visitors’ day, when loved ones from back on earth can come see you. Security has tightened in recent years, ever since they caught a guy trying to keister in a cell phone. Families get a chance to catch up, but the conversations get a little repetitive. “How’s things back on earth? You doing okay? How’s that family of five I brutally butchered . . . oh, right.”

  Hell has a smoking section.

  There is no hard alcohol in hell. The flames would cause every drink to light up like a novelty party shot at a sorority girl’s twenty-first birthday. Drinks are watery. This has cramped the style of many an international jewel thief who’s been sent down there. It’s hard to look debonair with a Smirnoff Ice Pineapple martini.

  Recreation isn’t quite as much fun in hell. The most popular game down there is Beer Kong. The player throws a Ping-Pong ball into a small plastic cup of beer. If he misses, he is chased down by a large gorilla and ripped to shreds.

  Anyone who ever robbed a convenience store is sent to hell and forced to live on a diet of Budweiser Cheladas, Hostess fruit pies, Charleston Chew, and grape-flavored cigarillos. Amazingly, no one has mentioned to Satan that this is better than people eat back on earth.

  There’s always hubbub about his influence on earth, but the only country Satan exerts a direct hand in is Finland.

  If you thought you knew where Taco Bell’s meat substitute comes from, guess again.

  Hell is full of the Amish. And Satan loves electricity.

  The largest dildo factory in history is located in hell. Believe me when I say you don’t want to know why.1

  You see a lot of celebrities in hell, but all the interesting ones go to heaven. Turns out Jesus likes a good story. Hell has Mister Rogers and Mother Teresa. Heaven gets Hunter S. Thompson.

  Everyone down there got sexted by Anthony Weiner.

  In hell, your mother-in-law still makes you go to church every Sunday even though you’re already in hell.

  You always have to use a condom, and it always breaks.

  In hell, even the semiattractive women all have cats.

  An actual snowball, sitting there in hell, lasted longer than Mel Gibson’s The Beaver did at a theater near you.

  Other things that a snowball in hell has outlasted:• Gary Busey’s attention span

  • Newt Gingrich’s 2012 campaign

  • Any given generation of the iPod

  • Parker Spitzer

  Things to Do in Hell

  If you know where to look, there’s a lot of fun things to do in hell. Hopefully this chapter will act as a handy guidebook to some of the entertaining ways to spend eternity while rotting away.

  There’s actually quite a bit of nature to be seen down in hell. You can walk the nature trails at Brimstone National Park. They have a famous geyser there, Old Miserable, that goes off exactly once every seven hundred years. But although the timing is consistent, the location is not. Old Miserable makes sure to blast its rocket of scalding-hot water out exactly wherever you are standing. Doesn’t matter where, if you’re in the park, it’ll find you like a hungry bear finds the slowest kid in a family of hillbillies; it’ll find you like a tornado finds a trailer park. The three-foot-wide gusher will shoot you a hundred feet in the air like a supercharged enema. Think of a searing-hot bidet—that’s Old Miserable. But the good news is it should finally dislodge that last piece of porterhouse from your intestinal walls. If Elvis had stood over it he might still be alive. And by the way, for all you conspiracy buffs, Elvis is indeed dead, in hell and “all shook up.”

  Most of God’s creatures are pure of heart and go straight to heaven, so there aren’t a lot of animals at Brimstone National Park. Among the only animals that do get sent to hell on a regular basis are those yappy little dogs that get shuttled around in designer handbags here on earth. The more expensive the handbag, the more torturous the little mongrel’s existence will be in the afterlife. A teacup Chihuahua that spends its life snapping at strangers from a fifteen-thousand-dollar Hermès bag will promptly be placed in a blender, liquefied, and given to Satan’s cat as a digestive.

  Like to work out? They have a gym in hell. Stay away from the locker room, though, as it’s entirely populated by old men with eighteen-inch scrotums who refuse to wear a towel. When they sit on the toilet, you finally learn the meaning of the word “splashdown.” And the men’s exercise room is no picnic, either. There are plenty of great classes, Hot Yoga, Hot Kickboxing, Hot Spinning, and the Hot Coal Fire Walk Treadmill. I tried to work out there once, but unfortunately, every single machine is covered in the last guy’s sweat. And the bench press had skid marks.

  There’s plenty of shopping in hell. Hundreds of wonderful boutiques and furniture stores. Unfortunately they’re only for the guys. For women, there’s a heavyweight championship fight every night followed by six hours of video games. Ladies, should you ever go shopping with a guy in hell, you will be mortified as he proceeds to tell you that every single pair of jeans does in fact make your ass look fat.

  Big sports fan? You can always drop in to one of hell’s local sports bars to catch a game. Sadly, most of the TVs only show Asian amateur jai alai and major league soccer.

  In hell, one can live out every depraved fantasy one has ever dreamed of. No scenario is off-limits, but it comes at a price. It’s always just a little bit off. While I was in hell I asked for a night of unbridled sex with Jessica Alba. Instead, I was given the Duchess of Alba. . . .

  (Actual photo. Believe it or not, this isn’t Lucifer.)

  Although I can assure you that what she lacks in facial beauty, she more than makes up for in penis size. Think Lady Gaga in the year 2070.

  Enjoy fine dining? You’re in the wrong place. Hell’s food court has the most stomach-churning slop you’ve ever had to choke down. Orange Judas, Hell Pollo Loco, Church’s Chicken. Interestingly, the only dessert they serve is angel food cake. But they spit in it.

  Deep in hell’s wine country, you’ll find the one nice restaurant, the French Lavatory. The dining is exquisite—ten Michelin stars and a thumbs-up from Bridgestone. Unfortunately the clientele is made up of insufferable foodies who insist on hearing more about how the cow they’re about to eat, “Sidney,” was raised. After a ninety-minute spiel on its upbringing and education you’ll be craving the lava rocks and rotten toad meat back at the mess hall.

  Eternity with Morrie

  Even though there are plenty of things to do in hell, the one thing I craved when I was there was human companionship, someone to talk to who understood me like a schizophrenic understands Glenn Beck.

  Because in hell, as on earth, companionship in life is something we all look for. Some people find it in family, some people rent it by the hour.

  The people around you can be role models. Having a mentor to help guide you through adversity is invaluable. Without my father’s guidance, how else would I have ever learned about the STD lemon juice test?

  And as far as friends, when I was among the living, I had plenty of compatriots from whom I could seek advice. Like Gus, the old wino with tuberculosis who lived in the alley behind my office. He taught me how you can subsist on a diet of nothing but Chivas Regal and Bit-O-Honey. Or Chantilly, the hooker with a heart of gold, who worked the streets near my favorite burger stand. She never talked too much, though; she
was afraid her pimp would slice off one of her fingers for wasting time. Also, more often than not, there was a penis in her mouth. Usually mine.

  So in hell I sought out a new peer group. People I could relate to and discuss shared experiences with. Someone to watch my back, so as to avoid the constant anal raping by winged, fire-breathing demons.

  It was around then that I met Morrie. Morrie was a kindly old man. Back in the early 1900s, he’d worked as a handyman in Margaret Sanger’s first Planned Parenthood clinic. He was doomed to hell after his lax safety standards led to over fifty women electrocuting themselves to death in what is known in feminist circles as the invention of “retroactive birth control.” He wasn’t like most of the other people I met down in hell. For one thing, he enjoyed the rectal pillaging from those fire-breathing demons. But more important, he had a tranquil, sagacious air to him that radiated wisdom. (To be fair, in a world made entirely of molten lava, everyone radiates.) I took to having hourly chats with Morrie as we sauntered through the doomsday wasteland. Our relationship could be characterized as mentor-protégé or convict–prison bitch.

  “Morrie,” I said to him one day as an incubus went to town on his colon, “to be honest, there’s probably a few old friends of mine who’ve ended up down here. Maybe I should try to find them.”

  “Bad idea,” he said. “Let me guess, these are people you haven’t seen in years, decades even, who you kept in touch with online? Don’t go looking for your Facebook friends in hell. They didn’t want to meet face-to-face in real life; they sure don’t want to do it here. Besides, the only social network anyone uses down here is Ashley Madison.” Morrie gazed into the distance, I scratched my chin, and the incubus climaxed, rolled over, and lit a cigarette.

  Another time, I bumped into Morrie right as he was about to duck into a peep show. I didn’t realize that was his cup of tea. He told me when he worked at the vibrator factory, he used to go all the time to do market research. Of course, we were still on the gold standard back then. Consequently, several strippers were accidentally killed onstage after being pelted with doubloons.