LushForLife.com Visits Heaven


HEAVEN – A recent visit to Heaven with LushForLife.com correspondent, and close confidant of mine Arthur Rocks proved to be a truly…enlightening…experience. We received an invitation from former basketball wacko, and current Holy Committee of God representative Charles Barkley, via an act of Divine Intervention spoken through a series armpit farts from one of our remaining living trained chimpanzees.

According to Barkley’s message, the committee has attempted to contact our staff for several weeks through varying forms of – what they call, mind you – miracles. When senior partner Duncan Idaho’s hallucinations of God following an intense sexual experience with an oversized man-frog occurred, we figured he’d simply lost his mind – not that the Committee was really attempting to contact us. But when Egbert finally got a date, after years of what he claims was an exercise in “religious abstinence,” and the woman who asked him out happened to be a disenchanted nun-turned-eccentric acid-dropping mystic, and spoke dirty to him in tongues, I began to think something was going wrong. Arthur, obviously, thought I had gone completely mad when I told him what I was thinking, responding with a simple, “You took too much.”

In reality, which is something that I’ve never claimed to be an expert, I was on to something. Duncan’s vision and Egbert’s date turned out to be a series of messages from the Holly Committee of God, who were desperate to go on record with us for the first time since the conclusion of the God Election ’05 – mainly because Heaven considers L4L to be the only reputable and reliable news outlet in the vast entirety of both the Pearly Gates, all the levels of purgatory, and the mound-like fuck rock Heaven residents call [expletive], and we call Earth.

Charles Barkley was indeed in dire need to go on the record. For some reason, he felt the best way to contact us was through the vessel of a drug-addicted mystic, using filthy sex jabber with Egbert. This could simply be Charles’ bizarre, inane sense of humor – or just yet another attempt to stake his claim as the most fucked-up individual to ever exist.

It turns out that Heaven has the most delicious empanadas that either Arthur or I have ever tasted. It seemed like a bizarre occurrence that the first thing Arthur and I see as we passed by Saint Peter – tossing him a Marlboro – through the Pearly Gates and into Everlasting Light, was Pontius Pilate, serving greasy, Jamaican empanadas from a rolling concession cart. The Christian consensus of Pilate was that he “walks the earth” for all eternity, but we can tell you from first hand experience that he is alive and well, flourishing in Heaven as an empanada vendor, bringing home an Earthly equivalent of six mules a week.

“I tell you, boys,” Pilate said, “everything I make here is all profit.” During our entire encounter with him, he continually refused to tell us where he actually got the empanada meat from.

“It’s between me and the Big Man,” he said as a demon slave he had chained to his ankle licked the pita bread of an empanada closed.

“That’s who we’re here to see,” Arthur told him. “We’re here to clean out the cobwebs, if you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Pilate said, as he began to stroll away, “but you better be swift. This isn’t a place fit for the likes of the two of you.” He spouted something in Aramaic, kicking the demon dragging by the chain, as he slobbered all over the pile of empanadas he had stuffed in the women’s panties he was wearing.

We were escorted to Barkley’s quarters located on the outskirts of Promised Land by a pair of his personal homosexual Canaanite midget servants. His home was covered in diamond-studded gold walls and floors, with gallons of Old Crow bourbon flowing in streams throughout the home, as well as a ten-foot wide moat surrounding his decadent compound. Arthur decided to abandon the interview, stripping naked and diving into the moat of whiskey with a group of former Philadelphia 76ers Nigerian cheerleaders dressed as Arabic belly dancers.

“He better be careful,” Charles Barkley said as he emerged from his decadent lair. “Last time I did that those girls gave me warts and I shit rocks for a month.”

“Beats your commentary,” I said to him, hoping for a witty response. Let him do what he wants. “Why don’t you tell me why we’re here?”

The two of us staggered back into Barkley’s lair, where we sat and talked, drinking freshly made Mint Juleps, both of us with Nigerian cheerleaders draped on each of our arms, as Canaanite midgets brought us slivers of proscuitto and mozzarella laced insalata.

“I want to make a proposal to you guys, Danny,” Barkley said, leaning forward as he slapped a cheerleader on the breasts. “LushForLife deserves a seat on this committee.”

I was not quite sure if this weirdo was saying what I thought he was saying. “Are you kidding?”

“I’ve got full approval of both the Committee and all of the Heaven residents,” he said, reassuring me he wasn’t joking. “We’d really like to have one of you join the Committee, and well, become God, in a sense.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. These fucking wackos really have gone completely loony now – if they’re going to offer us a seat on this silly thing. I guess I was a bit honored that my colleagues and I are considered God Material – albeit considered one by these crazed, religious apes. Though flattered, I couldn’t help but remember the last thing that Pilate said to us. Better get out while we still can.

“No thanks, ‘Bama boy,” I told him as I shrugged the women off my arms and walked towards the door. “We feel a lot more comfortable down on the ole’ sweat rock, making fun of all you assholes.”

I had a half dozen or so of the midgets drag a drunken, comatose Arthur Rocks onto a stretcher and carry him out of the Barkley Compound and back towards the Pearly Gates. On the way out I grabbed a daily newspaper and saw some of the headlines: “New Holy Committee Sub-Committee to Host Gala in Honor of Committee Member Suze Orman,” and “Daily Mass Results,” and a magazine called “The Nicodemus Reader.”

What a truly bizarre place to want to spend all of eternity.

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