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The Scum Gentry Alternative Arts and Media.
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Prepare my spaghetti dinner immediately! - Short Story by Jim Meirose

The way she acted, I bet, hurt her just as much as it hurt us. Especially if you are in the majority of humans who, when asked if they will buy a lottery ticket when the payoff is a windfall of astronomically huge proportions, simply answer, Nah, I never win anything. So? I’ll save my couple of bucks for a coffee. How is what’s going on now anything at all like that I don’t get it—your spouse will begin to have bad luck—I—I don’t know Jamed. The coffee is guaranteed. I’m sorry you’re upset. To throw guaranteed coffee away in favour of what will probably be only lack-of-coffee not just now but forever, and a bigger forever way out past the sun’s death and rebirth and whatever’s next that way, is completely irrational. I really can’t help you—we are beginning a long-term test of your spouse to see how much stress he can absorb over time—what? We all need coffee. Not a minute ago, you were going to tell me exactly why I should not worry or feel bad about how she’s acting. Huh yes, we do, duds. Now, all of a sudden, you—you clam up! When your superheating pot comes to a boil, or boils over if you are careless, pop the top and slide in the spaghetti piercing the never notice but very real surface tension. But now; even though that should have been enough to pump your grey matter all fatly puffed with ammunition to shoot off the right decisional bulls-eyes, there is more; consider that on this human plane everything is physical bodily carnal corporal corporeal embodied fleshly and so forth et cetera, where on earth then is heaven? Go on, help me understand—your spouse will suddenly be overwhelmed with such repetitive and wallet-draining bad luck that she will become dissociated and will consider booking a room in the state nuthouse—I—I can’t help you understand what I don’t understand myself—hey! Or where not on earth then is heaven? My God, the water’s boiling over—move, move. And, how can there have been mortal humans who upon death have been brought up in their physical form to heaven? I need to get by you—he will be almost constantly angry, frustrated, and depressed for the rest of his present iteration of life—sure sure push past me worrying about my only child just like you push past whenever I tell you there’s something driving me nuts—there’s always something more important—a phone call to take—a pot boiling over—a doorbell to answer rung by some loser door-to-door creep—creep creep creep there’s always some creep more important than me a creep’s more important what does that say about what you think of me—if he does not break down before you both report for termination at the end of the whole process we’re leading you through, he will be judged acceptable to be gifted with immortality—Jamed, won’t you help me? The Mother of God; Elijah the prophet; and Jesus Christ were brought physically to heaven, so they say. Grab some paper towels! Does this mean that the following might occur? This is a giant mess—no matter how great his suffering might be, you must never give in to the mounting pressure to cry out to us that we should stop, back off him, or anything like that—Wendy, deal with the mess yourself for a change. Boil the spaghetti twelve minutes on medium heat and as it softens use a big fork to softly slowly gently curl it around to all fit around in the pot below the water. Captain, our iron starship that we have piloted already eighty-nine hundred light years from home, has just hit an object or objects or worse. Maybe I’ll treat you how you treat me—and, if you tell him about this both of you will end up in Hell forever—What—your test is if you will be able to see your spouse enduring Hell, without helping or breaking down and pleading for us to stop—I am sick with worry, and—we were talking about it and it was clear as crystal, that halfway through you helping me feel better, something in you decided to turn away and not give a shit—is this really going to go on for the rest of our lives—Jamed—living forever requires that you be hard—I’ve been noticing that about you a lot. Up here in the eternal void we have been condemned to explore with no hope of return, there should be no objects. For a long time too. But, the space walking fools evolved to our era from the primal yet legendary Zappa-maginary dancing fools, have come back in the house and shut the door and reported thusly; There is an elderly woman’s body floating outside, there is an old man’s body all skinnyribbed and lanky, and there is a man in his thirties’ body also, which resembles the picture we have in the starship chapel of the one whose name was long ago lost but whom we revere as the very reverend most legendary highness the very son of God who died for us in some obscure secret impossible way. I have about had it. And the Captain turned pale and orange combined with a complexion similar to Tan Mom’s intensified by a factor of ten by the lack of an atmosphere to attenuate hot deadly very very fearsome as fearsome as thirty giant Chernobyls and a few even larger and fatter Chernobyls worth of a deluge of 24/7/365 cosmic rays and blurted fearfully No, no. And now having Janie treat me like shit too, is starting to feel a lot like the last straw—this will continue for the remainder of her current life—Jamed—I—you are not permitted to comfort her in any way—What—her cross is to suffer a horribly troubled life—Perhaps we should never have married, Jamed. That cannot be. Gas off, pour water and spaghetti together into a big wide deep shimmery chrome plated colander. Clearly you are twisting hard the way I am and the way I try to help into some imaginary lie. You never saw that and you never said that and I never heard you say that or you this! If I wanted to hurt you, kiddo, I could do a lot better job of it than you are imagining I’m doing—your cross is to be banned from helping her through and to bear the pain of having to hold back from comforting the one you most love in this life—what—if you violate this code of secrecy, you and your family will be booted out of the Club without any refund of the nearly half a million dollars you have paid into the research fund since the day you signed the Contract we offered you after you applied for club membership—Back off! Whew! Back off. What a ruckus that find would cause back home, although even if we transmit it back now it would take greater than the smallest possible forever to get there; that is how far out we have got. At this point I’m only putting up with you to keep things together so we can keep up good standing in the Club! Thus, it is impossible to see or know smell or touch heaven; so, let’s take the few remaining moments, to give up the podium to Doctor Peter-Stuckly-Mann, who will provide us with this checkpoint’s fill of examples of noted resurrection processes of the past.


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