Tuesday, August 31, 2004

 

In Glorious Transit, Need Help

Great. Just fucking great. Started out imagining I was blogging from the RNC, and now, here I am in line at the pearly gates. Bitch is, I got killed during an imaginary visit. That’s gotta mean extra paperwork. So, blogging from heaven. Just ran into Sam Clemens, he’s working as a security guard up here, and the old fart started in about how he got here in a sailboat and worked his way up through the ranks, and anything I write up here can’t be understood on earth, so I might as well pass over it in silence and put up the laptop. Like he knows diddly. Some great writer. Can’t even use a transdimensional sprachenetherizer. Ol bastard had the nerve to search my travel bag and run a scan on my laptop. His HSA uniform is too tight. He sees I'm annoyed. “Security’s tight,” he shrugs. “Yahweh wants everybody screened. Even commies.”

“You got commies in heaven?” I asked.

“Sure, in the Marx district. They absolutely hate it, keep trying to turn it into a worker’s paradise. They even resurrected that old bat Wittgenstein. Sent him to the RNC. But they don’t know he really works for the pope. RNC. Ha.”

“Sayyyy…that’s where I got killed.” I rubbed my jaw.

“Yeah, saw the whole thing. Terrible accident. And you weren’t even really there.”

Accident’s ass, I think. I suspect the worst. Lincoln, maybe. Allah? Maybe mantids.

“How long we stay in line?” My feet are sore. Shoulda worn sandals insteada boots.

“Depends. I know you got the announcement about getting here at least an hour before you die for security screening. Gotta go.” And off he goes, chasing after some dog or something that ran through the gates.

This isn’t adding up. But then, adding up was something I was never very good at. Let’s see what we’ve got so far:

1. Killed while imagining I was on the floor of the RNC
2. By a goat that wasn’t really a goat.
3. Frisked by Samuel Clemens.
4. Waiting in line.
5. It is now 12:30.

But which of these are facts? Which are relevant to the case? I can’t work with opinion—I need verifiable propositions. I need the urim and thummim. The golden plates. Some reliable translation. Wait!

Mullah Billdoug. He can translate. He has three sets of urims and thummims. I’ve seen ‘em. They’re in the bottom drawer of his nightstand. He used them to translate the compleat works of Walt Kelley into Urdu. He can take these propositions and translate them into a ladder. That’s it! I need a ladder, and then I need to climb up the rungs, one by one, skipping none because each one is a valuable proposition, and then I need to kick the ladder out. Good thing I wore my boots after all.

Sure, I might fall from heaven. Might bust my ass as I land back in the midst of the RNC, frighten some of the folks on the podium, shake loose a few scarab beetles. But I might just stay where I was after climbing, ladderless and looking down on the gem of perfection, the language of the gods, the bright jewel of transcendence. The pearl.

If only that big guy up at the front of the line would move faster. He’s holding everything up. I nudge the guy standing next to me quietly.

“Psssst, buddy,” I hiss, “who’s the guy up front with the huge erection under his shimmering robes?”

“That’s Moroni. Big shot, I hear. He checks and punches your ticket. Assigns you to your heavenly MOS.”

“No talking on line!” a big fat eunuch with a flaming sword shouts. Clearly he is unsure who was talking.

I take out a cigarette, light it, inhale. Must post this before I get to Moroni. The future of Sufi U depends on it.



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