Thursday, April 30, 2009

Day 1: LDS Doesn't Cure Migraine Headaches

Why I was picked as President Monson's patient zero, I'll never know for sure. I guess it had something to do with the life of drunken debauchery I was leading in the after-life. If I wasn't chasing booze with women, I was planning practical jokes to play on Jesus, usually involving a fake rubber penis I got on the black market from a demon friend. (While it might seem counter-intuitive, there is in fact a whole host of hellish imposters in the Celestial Kingdom, from whom you can acquire all kinds of evil shit to kill the boredom of piety). I suppose President Monson received word from Jesus, who was sick of finding himself accidentally grabbing, fondling, or sucking a rubber dick, that it was time to get Hunter the fuck outta there.

Since the Cold War, the Mormons have been secretly running a high tech cloning program from their church office building in Salt Lake City, and therefore had the means of transporting my soul from the CK, back to an exact replica of my twenty-one year old body, in the year 2009. Imagine my surprise waking up in a dimly lit room, surrounded by a bunch of squares in boring-ass suits, explaining to me that I was the first successful clone produced by the LDS church.

I was confused at first. "LDS church?" I asked.

"Mormons," one of the squares explained to me.

"The fuckers who don't drink?"

"That's us."

I was infuriated to discover, now that I had been given more life, in a youthful body, which I planned on abusing with the usual sex, drugs, and rock and roll, that I was in the worst place possible for sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Salt Lake Fucking City. "Are you kidding?" I asked. "You brought me back to life in Salt Lake City, Utah. What am I going to do in Utah that's worth a damn?" I would have got up and left if it wasn't for a splitting headache, brought on like a brick shithouse by Satan himself, that made it impossible to walk. The squares explained to me that I needed some recovery time, which was something that made sense to me at least. I spent most of my first life recovering from this or that. But this time I didn't have the leftover smell of a woman, or the insane memories of a night spent consuming chemicals made in laboratories staffed by dwarf lepers, to keep me company as I lay there, in agony. I could feel the fear and loathing in me, dangerously close to its boiling point. These religious nutjobs thought of me as a science project. A rat with wings to be paraded around like a dove. Jesus Christ, what was I doing here?