When It Rains, It Pours

“Come to the light, my son.” The baritone voice beckoned me through the little hole in the clouds. “We have an open bar, free Snuggies for all, and a beer pong tournament at 4:15.”

At this point, I can’t help but think I made it. I did it. Some sort of error on the books, and all my transgressions were overlooked. That bungee jumping accident sure sucked, but I’m headed to a land of milk and honey—if by milk I mean booze, and by honey I mean the most comfortable wearable blanket in the history of mankind.

The time I dropped the neighbor’s cat off the roof to see if they really did always land on their feet (they don’t); the time I convinced Doug Becker to start smoking; spooking the cows at Old Man McCaskey’s farm; telling those kids that Santa Claus was mauled to death by polar bears; all gone, all, as they might say on “Law & Order,” stricken from the record.

I start to wonder how this could’ve happened, but then I arrive at the gates. The man standing behind the podium has an otherworldly beard, long and white and magnificent. Then he sees my beard and says, “Hey--beard-bros,” and offers me a high five. “Come on in,” he says. “Here’s your ID badge and your Segway scooter,” because Segway scooters are the preferred mode of transportation here.

Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold” is pouring from unseen speakers, and I loudly exclaim that this is the best song of all time. Then I feel bad, because Jimi Hendrix is standing right there and I think, well, this is awkward. Jimi gives me a reassuring look though, because, well, Jimi’s just that kind of guy. Then, we high five.

To our right is a buffet, like Golden Corral, only the food looks good. After the beer pong tourney, I think, I’m headed straight for the taco bar.

When the beer pong tournament began, though, so did the trouble. It seems I left my shot back on earth somewhere. After my fifth miss in a row, I yell “Goddamnit!” and brace myself for some sort of punishment. Only nothing happens.

15 minutes later, I’m on the verge of madness. I’m partnered with George Wallace, who is an adroit Beirut player—and I still haven’t made a cup. “Pull it together, dick-head,” he says, and I say, “Sorry Mr. Wallace.” And I am, but that doesn’t help my beer pong game at all. We’re eliminated after a skunking courtesy of Hendrix and Frank Sinatra. Wallace shakes his head and looks me over. “You know, I’ve never been eliminated in the first round before—thanks a lot, block-head.”

Up there, the rules are different. After losing, you’re required to do a keg stand of at least 45 seconds. I’m already full of beer, though, so I spew after 30. Then Plato calls me a pussy, and I’m really embarrassed. “Stranglehold” is still blaring, and as much as I love that song, Jesus, let’s have some variety.

Then it’s dinnertime. I’m too full to eat though, and the smell emanating from the steam trays are making me nauseous. For the 106th time that day, Nugent is saying, “Come on, come on, come on, come on baby,” and I think I’d like to leave. I drive my Segway to headquarters and ask to be shown to my room. “Are you sure we wouldn’t like to eat? We’re catered by Golden Corral,” says the man at the desk, and I say no.

It was then that I noticed that this guy was red and covered in scales, and I think of course—of course! It was Golden Corral—this can’t possibly be Heaven. And the scaly guy says, “Of course not—you didn’t honestly think you were...” He starts laughing and tells me that the “Come to the light” bit was just something they like to do to fuck with the newcomers.

Then he starts laughing again and shows me to my room, which looks like something out of a seedy, small-town motel—the sort of place where impressionable teens come to get pregnant. The bed is covered in stains and the television shows nothing but “Tila Tequila’s Double Shot of Love” and “Carnie Wilson: Unstapled.” There’s a picture of a sad clown on the wall. “Stranglehold” is even louder in here. I’d just like to go to sleep, but that’s impossible in this cacophonous cell. So instead, I wrap myself in a Snuggie—which, I should add, is the absolute peak of practical comfort—and watch Tila Tequila, and I can’t help but wonder if true love is really what she’s after.

To top it all off, I look at my ID badge and notice that my name has been misspelled. Then I just have to laugh because, well, when it rains, it pours.