Another piece of mindless drivel

By Zachary "Keeper of the Hamster" Robertson

Satan: You have to be fucking kidding me! You call that a fair fucking play? Oh come on, man, they’re cheating! What? WHAT?! What a flying crock of monkey shit! I am not cheating! You’re accusing me of cheating?! I’m playing this game by rules that even Emily Post would be proud to print on her underwear!

Oh, that.

Dahmer! DAHMER!! Quit gnawing on the base runner! You’re the first baseman, this isn’t snack time! That’s right. Good boy. Good boy, I’ll throw in a little something for you later okay?

There. You happy?

The eleven hundred twenty seventh annual Heaven/Hell softball game. God, I can’t tell you how much I look forward to this. It is nice to see the whole gang again. I remember the days where we would just pal around. It would be me, Gabriel, Michael, and that retarded one… what was his name? Oh shit I can’t remember. Anyway, I can say that I have had time to think about what I’ve done since you fleshbags showed up, and I can honestly say that I kind of regret what happened. Okay, so at first I was a little angry…

Oh fuck, man, he was safe! Are you fucking blind?! Do I need to get you a fucking cane? Hey your missing a good game ump!

But I’m over that now. So I’ve taken to managing this softball team. It keeps me busy. You know what they say: "Idle hands are the devils playground" or something like that. I remember the day I retired from the heavenly host. Oh, they threw me such a wonderful party, everyone showed up… it really meant a lot to me. The retarded guy, (why can’t I remember his name?) made me a cake. Oh it was good, made of some dark rich chocolate that didn’t have a name at the time… I wonder what you all call it now… Oh well, now I can call myself retired and sit back and ease into the life of a softball manager.

Hey, OJ, what the hell are you doing out there? What did I tell you? You’re job is to sit here on this fucking bench, right next to me, and keep trying on the batting gloves. That’s it man, that’s all you fucking do. Oh, so now that angel standing on third is sleeping with your ex-wife? I don’t think so, OJ, angels have no dicks.

Gabriel excepted. His is impressive.

Yeah, the eleven hundred twenty seventh annual Heaven/Hell softball match… and I haven’t won a single time. I’m always winning in the ninth, two outs in the books, when God sends his kid in. That’s right, God sends his kid in every year, the one that sits on the bench the whole game whining about his dinner. He sends in the boy like God’s son is some sort of superstar or something. And wouldn’t you know it the bases are always loaded when he hits the ball, and sure as shit the ball goes over the fence. Game over, I lose. Every year. Hooray for Jesus, he can hit the ball.

Like now. Two outs, a runner on first and third. And you know who’s on deck? The superstar.

But this year I’ve got me a plan. Dahmer! Stop chewing on him and change places with Charlie… yeah, let Manson play first. OJ get the fuck over here and let Koresh play his fucking position! Try on your gloves OJ… try on your gloves. Now for the secret weapon.

Hey ump! Time out! I need to speak to the designated hitter! I know he’s on their team, but I have to talk to him. Okay, fine, I’ll say it from here. There are two outs, and we’re up three runs… I’m counting on you for this one my friend. I know you’re on God’s team but I think it’ll be better if we won this one. What do you think? All I need you to do is strike out. Let Pat Buchanan throw his fastball by you three times and the game is over. What do you say Judas?

Fuck me?

And thus the stage is set. Hello superstar…do your thing.

Same time next year?