11.04.2004

All Trucker Hats Go to Hell

I had this friend named Fredrico. You can call him Freddy. Or Rico. I’ll just call him Fred. Fred loved his cheerios. Honey Nut, Frosted, Apple Cinnamon, you name it.
Fred died. He was watching Dave Chapelle at his apartment while munching on some Team Cheerios, laughed, choked, and suffocated to death. Quite sad. Unless you didn’t know Fred, then it’s not that sad. Now after much deliberation, Fred’s in heaven.

Man, what is going on with all the clouds? I thought that was just a cliché…
What’s the matter Fred? White, puffy clouds on a blue sky aren’t your idea of the afterlife?
God? Wow, it’s actually God. This is amaz…wait a second, why’d you have to kill me with a cheerio, I mean seriously, a God damn cheerio?
Why should I send a cheerio to hell?
Umm, never mind, so what’s the deal with this place?
Walk with me Fred.

And so God and Fred walked over hills of happy clouds, with birds chirping and angels flying around with harps. It was like a hallmark card, and Fred was not fond of hallmark. As they continued their walk, they came upon a glorious three story mansion, with a sign that read “If you’re Human, you owe me your life…and a beer.”

Hey God, who lives in this place?
That…would be my son. He’s in the rebellious phase of his eternal life.

Then with an aura and mystique only paralleled by Hefner himself, Jesus stepped onto the golden second floor balcony. Marilyn Monroe on his left arm, Audrey Hepburn on his right, while platinum, diamond encrusted crosses dangled from his neck, bouncing on his white tank top. Jesus, was a baller.

Oh shit, Jesus is a pimp! Hey JC, you my homeboy, right?
Not another one…look kid, I had nothing to do with those damn trucker hats.
Hold up, you can’t say damn, you’re holy.
No, seriously, they’re damned. All trucker hats go to hell. And anyone who wears them on earth ends up cleaning my pool.
Yeah, speaking of that, aren’t earthly possessions supposed to mean nothing in Heaven?
If it ain’t on earth, it ain’t earthly playa. Check ya later kid, I gotta hit up the hot tub with Miss Monroe.

Thus, God and Fred continued their walk. In the distance the clouds broke, and they stepped into an ivory kitchen which twinkled and shined in ways Mr. Clean could only dream of.

Sorry about my son, he’s lost his fucking mind recently.
You did not…no way. You can’t say that. I know you can’t say that.
Who said I can’t?
Well, uh, people did I guess…good point. So God, we got eternity, what now?
We eat cheerios.
You’re an asshole.
I know.

1 Comments:

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