President Bush in Heaven and Hell

While praying in his private chapel one day, a well-known current Republican head of state is tragically struck by the falling cross and dies. His soul arrives in heaven and is met by St. Peter at the Pearly Gate.

“Welcome to Heaven,” says St. Peter. “There seems to be a little problem. You see, we seldom see a high official around these parts, so we're not sure what to do with you.”

“No problem, just let me in,” says the ex-head of state.

“Well, as much as I'd like to, I have orders from higher up. What we'll do is have you spend one day in Hell and one in Heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity.”

“Really, I've made up my mind. I want to be in Heaven. That was my plan even back in Texas,” says the ex-head of state.

“I'm sorry, but we have our rules.”

With that, St. Peter escorts the ex-head of state to the elevator, and he goes down, down, down to Hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a lush green golf course. In the distance there is a club, and standing in front of it are all of his buddies, campaign manager and other politicians who had worked with him. Everyone is very happy and in evening dress.

They run to greet him, hug him and reminisce about the good times they had while getting rich at expense of the people. They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster and caviar. Also present is the Devil (another Republican), a chummy guy who has a good time dancing and telling jokes.

They are having such a good time that time is up all too soon. Everyone gives him a big hug and waves while the elevator rises. The elevator goes up, up, up, and the door reopens in Heaven, where St. Peter is waiting.

“Time to visit Heaven.”

So 24 hours pass with the ex-head of state joining a group of contented souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They are having a good time in their modest way and, before he realizes it, the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns.

“Well then, you've spent a day in Hell and another one in Heaven. Now choose where you want to be for eternity.”

Our ex-head of state reflects for a minute, then answers, “Well, I would never have thought it, I mean Heaven has been delightful and all, but I think I would be better off in Hell.”

So St. Peter escorts him to the elevator, and he goes down, down, down to Hell. The doors of the elevator open, and he is in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage.* He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags.

The Devil comes over to the ex-head of state and lays an arm on his neck.

“I don't understand,” stammers our ex-head of state. “When I was here yesterday, there was a golf course and club, we ate lobster and caviar, drank champagne, danced and had a great time. Now all I see is this wasteland full of garbage, and my friends look miserable.”

The Devil looks at him, smiles and says, “Yesterday we were campaigning. Today you voted for us!”

*It may not be necessary to go to Hell to experience this. Just give these leaders and their cronies a few more years, and Earth will look like this.

Über Anregung

Um aus einer Anregung etwas Literarisches entstehen zu lassen, bedarf es eben nicht nur der Anregung an sich.

Man kann den Vergleich mit einem Feuerzeug zu Hilfe nehmen. Die Anregung wäre der Finger, der das Rädchen drehen wird.

Aber es wird eben mehr gebraucht als nur dieser Finger; unabdingbar ist auch der Brennstoff. Es muss etwas da sein, was die Fähigkeit hat, gezündet zu werden.

Und das Rädchen muss auch die richtige Reibung erzeugen. Ohne die kann kein Funke, keine Flamme entstehen.

Ein glückliches Zusammentreffen verschiedener Voraussetzungen ist also notwendig.

Kommt noch hinzu die Menge des verfügbaren Brennstoffes. Und dass das Ventil gedrückt bleibt. Sonst ist Kürze die Würze ... oder es gibt eine fade Sparflamme.

Eher Unkraut

Beim Morgenspaziergang die Gedanken schweifen lassen, mich daran erinnert, auch den Blick schweifen zu lassen, punktweis abgeplatzten Putz am Haus gegenüber wahrgenommen, dann die besondere Fleckung des Bürgersteigs aus Trockenem, vom Regen noch Nassem, von Geflicktem, Hebungen und Eindellungen.

If that ain't poetic.

Brownfeld's wisdom no. 1

He considered himself to be virtuous for not doing any of the evil things he could think of.

- Arthur Brownfeld

Cerebral agony

ALL AGONY IS CEREBRAL.

Huh?!? Where'd that come from? From:

Ora Odoura is photographer and specialises in outdoor and creative photography. Her storytelling shoe fiction was selected for Argo Spier’s 'Heaps of Cream' sequence because of both the contrast and complement it forms to the sequence . Her's is a story of peaceful meditation. 'Heaps of Cream' is cerebral agony.

To be seen at ArgoBoat.

Roller, Urlaub, Sturz

Das wurde als "Labels" für diesen "Post" vorgeschlagen.

Na, an die Terminologie werde ich mich vielleicht bei meinem nächsten Roller-Urlaub auf Kreta und hoffentlich ohne Sturz gewöhnen.

Und nun ein Wort zum Garten literarischer Irrungen und Wirrungen ...

Im Prinzip ist alles Irrung oder Wirrung, und auch diese sind ja Amplituden der Wahrheit. Verknüpft mit Literatur ergibt sich daraus etwas noch weit Vageres.

Ein vages, nebliges, weites Feld. Wie schön, vor allem für einen nebligen Dezemberanfang 2006.

In einem Garten wächst etwas. Gewolltes, Gezüchtetes, Unkraut.

Así es. Genau das soll hier wachsen.