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How a Blonde, Bitch, New York City Broadcaster Had an Accident and Went to Fascist Purgatory - Where She Met Some Real Fascists.




Chapter 1


Day One



The tall, thin, blonde lawyer climbed out of her bathtub and stood nude before her bathroom mirror.

          Fuck him!  What did he mean when he said I was a borderline personality disorder?  Fuckhead!  she reflected on the comments of a rather drunk Democrat psychologist she had met at a party the previous evening. 

What is a borderline personality?  Someone who is on the border of something?  Speeding on the borderline?  Borderline of politics?  Well, I won’t be on the border of the liberal line of his commie pinko bullshit!

          She dried her body with a warm towel and began dressing.  Next, she put on her Fruit of the Loom mens whitey-tighties.  Finally, she pinned her little metallic American flag pin on the front of her whitey-tighties.

          Then, the fuckhead kept referring to me as the ‘BPD.’

I’ll BPD that muthafucker!

          She began drying her hair with a blower as she practiced her Jerry Falwell beatific look. 

          Then, the son-uv-a-bitch said I was ‘splitting.’  What the fuck is splitting?  Fuckhead amateur psychologist!  Called me an ‘archetype’ of the BPD.

          She finished drying her hair.  She turned her attention to her whitey-tighties.  She loved the look and the strength of the cotton fabric.  The cotton fabric was strong enough to allow her wearing her American flag lapel pin and the little Boy Scout medals her friends had secretly given her during her White House visits. 

          And, my own shrink fucked over me!  What the Hell does he know?  Dysthymic!  I am not dysthymic!  Son-uv-a-bitch said I had low self-esteem.  So what if I do have bad hormonal swings and a poor appetite?  And, I do have insomnia—when I work hard.  It takes a lot of energy sneaking into the men’s rooms down at the bus station to read the walls for materials for my books.  Bastard said I have feelings of hopelessness, poor concentration, and that I’m dysthymic!  Cocksucker!

          Next, she looked in her bathroom mirror and continued practicing her Jerry Falwell beatific look.  The look was supposed to give one charisma and draw people to its wearer.  She practiced the look over and over: slight pleading smile, head looking up slightly, and open smiling eyes.  She was confident her Jerry Falwell look could help deflect some of the slings and arrows being hurled at her by recent critics who claimed she was basically nuts for attacking the 9-11 widows because they were spending too much money on their lifestyles. 

How the hell do I get a filthy rich husband in a burning building? she asked herself.

          She next was sitting on her commode and watching FoxNews on the 36-inch HDTV set she had installed waist high and facing her deluxe golden crapper.  As she watched the morning news, she became upset with the comments of a Democrat who was once again attacking an old discovery of what he said were phony Weapons of Mass Destruction in the desert of Iraq.

          “So what if they are old, prior to 1991 munitions?” she exclaimed at the television set.  “They’re the mother lode!  We’ll keep cramming those old caches of weapons down the liberals’ throats.  Stick’em up yours Barbara Boxer!  Up yours sideways, Hillary!   Choke on’em, Obama!”

          She rose from her golden crapper and began shaving.  She scrapped and shaved the tiny moustache from her upper lip.  The resulting scratches caused by the dull, men’s razor left her lip burning.  She looked up and saw her men’s Aqua Velva shaving lotion out of reach on the top of her bathroom cabinet.  She took a little foot-stool and mounted it to acquire the bottle.  At the top of the stool, she heard a New York liberal attack Karl Rove and George Bush 43 on FoxNews.  In a reflex action, she tried to turn to look at the screen, cuss him, and flip him a bird, but she lost her balance and fell. 

The fall was nasty.  Her arms and legs went akimbo, and her head struck the edge of the bathtub.  She experienced a bright, quick flash of white light in the visual cortex area of her brain.  Just as quickly, the light changed to black.  She slid into a black void.  She could not feel her body.  She could only see a total blackness.  She could hear nothing—not even the beat of her heart.

          Am I dead?


*     *     *




        “You are Miss Ann?” a feminine voice with a slight German accent asked out of the black void.

          “What?  Who are you?  Where are you?”

          “Oh, I’m sorry.  I forgot the initial blackness,” the voice replied.  “There,” the woman said as the light slowly began returning to the lawyer’s field of vision. “You should be able to see me in a few seconds.”

          As the light became brighter, Ann could see a rather attractive, dirty blonde woman about 30-years old seated on a sofa in the living room of an apparently very plush apartment.  She looked vaguely familiar.  As Ann looked around, she realized that she was lying strapped on a hospital gurney.  The woman rose and came over to her.  She released the straps.

          “There, Miss Ann, you can get up now.  Would you like some coffee or tea?”

          “Well, some strong coffee would be nice right now,” Ann replied.  “Better than that, a bourbon on the rocks.”

          “You can get rid of that hospital gown.  You will find some clothing we copied from your wardrobe in the closet by the window.  I’ll get your coffee while you dress.  Might I suggest something summery?  It’s rather warm here.  Perhaps a basic cotton dress.  Oh, yes.  We also got you some of the Fruit of the Loom whitey-tighties you like to wear,” she said as she turned to leave room.  "Alas, the little medals you like to wear on your underwear are still at the hospital.”

          Ann put on a pair of mens whitey-tighties, a cotton bra, and a basic cotton dress with low-heel penny loafers.  She surely missed her little American flag lapel pin.  It gave her a certain feeling of security and comfort when it was pinned just above her womanhood.  Then, she returned to the center of the room where she took a seat in a large, leather chair at the corner of the sofa.  Shortly, the woman returned with a tray bearing coffee, cream and sugar.

          “Perhaps I should introduce myself.  I’m Eva Braun.  I work here to help people like you to pass-on to their final destination.  It’s my job to get you started with your processing and evaluation.”

          “Did you say your name is Eva Braun?  Gee, you have the same name as Adolph Hitler’s mistress.  In fact, you look just like her,” the lawyer observed.

          “Yes, Adolph and I were a little before your time, I’m afraid.  Actually, Adolph married me just before we committed suicide in Berlin,” Eva said nonchalantly.

          “You’re the real Eva Braun?  From Nazi Germany?  Am I fucking crazy?  What the Hell is going on here?” she almost shouted her question to Eva.

          “Well, Ann, it’s not Hell.  You’re in Purgatory.  More specifically, you’re in Fascist Purgatory.”

          “I’m sorry, Eva,” Ann said in a desperate voice.  “Can I call you Eva?  Eva, I apparently am not having a good day.  I slipped and fell in my bathroom, and I went into some kind of god-awful unconsciousness.  Now, I wakeup strapped to a hospital gurney, discover you and this room, and then you tell me I’m in Fascist Purgatory!”

          “Yes.  You see, Ann, here in Purgatory we’re sort of in limbo between Heaven and Hell.  As our client souls arrive, we try to make them comfortable.  We always assign them to divisions that are closest to their lifestyles in the normal world.  Since you are a fascist, the intake angels assigned you to Fascist Purgatory.  Oh, Ann, you’ll meet some people here you’ll just love.”

          “People?  What people?” Ann asked curiously.

          “Oh, other fascists like you.  People from around the world who have exhibited strong desires to be fascists in their respective countries.  And, you’ll just love our case managers and therapists.”

          “Goddammit!  This is crazy!  Maddening!  I do not need therapy!  I am not a fascist!  I am a conservative Republican!” Ann exclaimed.

          “Oh, Ann, your American, ultra-conservative Republicanism and Fascism are relatively the same,” Eva replied.  “Now, what you need to do is to relax . . . . .  

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