SHABBOO-SHABBAH

             The patron saint of mattresses, St. Wendell, felt at odds with the other saints in Hell.

            “You guys seem to really have your shit together,” he exclaimed.

            “This again?” replied St. Marco, the patron saint of discount furniture as he lit a cigarette from a nearby, smoldering rock.

            “No, really,” Wendell barked, “this is something I’ve got to figure out.  Why is that I feel so out of place here?  You guys seem to have it really figured out.”

            “Well, we’re all in the same place, if that makes you feel any better,” chimed in the patron saint of bad investments, St. Clement.  “If anything, that should put your mind at ease.”

            “Clement, man, you deserve to be here,”  Marco snapped.

            “You’ve been riding my ass for 700 years now, Marco, and I’m about sick of it.  Get off my back!”

            “Fellas, listen,” Wendell interrupted, “give me some insight.  What’s the secret?”

            Marco took a long drag.  “Wendell, I’m going to throw you some clichés your way.  Just see if you can pick up what I’m laying down.”

            “Okay.”

            “Play to the hoop.”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “You’ve got to leave the past behind.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Flip the script.”

            “Okay.”

            “If a frog had wings, it wouldn’t bump it’s ass a’hopping.”

            “Right.”

            “Shabboo-Shabbah.”

            “What?”

            “It’s Klingon.”

            “It’s a fucking INXS album,” yelled Clement.  “Marco, shut the fuck up!  Listen, Wendell, you want to know the secret to being here?”

            “Yes!” Wendell pleaded.  “Of course!”

            Clement reached into his robes for the first smoke he’d had in 150 years.  He grazed the tip on the edges of flames shooting up next to him.

            “You’re in Hell, pal,” he said to Wendell.  “Just don’t tense up when they shove the spiked glove up your ass and try to hum some Carpenter’s song when they push you facedown into the Republican pit.”

            Out of the brimstoned air, they heard, “Guys, it’s time!”

            Clement punched Wendell in the arm.

 

 

            “Good luck, kid.”




-SLL