Andrew Breitbart in Hell: A Fantasia: (The Rude Pundit)
3/01/2012
Andrew Breitbart in Hell: A Fantasia:
"Well," thought Andrew Breitbart in soul form as he descended while he watched Davy Jones ascend, "this is surprising." No, he wasn't a religious man on Earth, as he himself admitted, but surely, he thought, there was a chance for some reward at the end. In a moment of self-reflection, he pondered, "Arrogance. Pride. Yeah, those are sins, but they're kind of pussy sins."
Breitbart had been as surprised as anyone that he died. He had been retweeting every Twitter slight that crossed his feed, calling everyone he could a "putz," masochistically masturbating by slamming his dick with his iPad every time he answered one, when he had gone out to get some air and his heart just exploded. At first, he thought he was on an drug trip, it happened so fast; his soul popped out of him like a cork on a shaken champagne bottle. He saw his corporeal form on the ground and thought it was a wacky out of body experience, perhaps some flashback from the time he licked LSD off Michelle Malkin's ass cheeks, perhaps some residual peyote dream from that Western walkabout he did with Sean Hannity, when they got naked and rubbed each other with red dirt until they howled out that they wanted to kill the Indians again. Those thoughts quickly pushed out of his head as he arced and began to descend from the air and into the filthy ground below. "Fuck, I had a post to finish where I called the President a rape-enabler" was his last thought as he went underground.
...................
Suddenly, he entered into a light and found himself on the floor of a cold, brightly lit, all-white room with no doors or windows. He opened his mouth to call out, but no voice came out, not even a whisper or rasp. It was as if he had no vocal cords, no lungs, no means of making a sound. He didn't let himself freak out. He calmly walked the room to find an exit or crack. There were none. It was a solid box. Slowly, it began to dawn on him.
"Not this," his lips formed. "Anything but this." Bring on the rape demons, bring on the zombie conservatives, the shit, Kennedy, any fate would be better. He beat on the walls. No sound. He stomped. No sound. He slammed his head into the wall. Not only was there no noise, but he didn't even feel pain. If he could have gotten sick, he would have vomited. He collapsed and waited.
Eternity, it seemed, was going to be long time.
the rest:
http://rudepundit.blogspot.com/2012/03/andrew-breitbart-in-hell-fantasia-well.html
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