GO TO HELLISTAN

Yesterday, I commented on Rivergirl’s March 25 post titled “THINGS THAT FALL INTO THE WTH? CATEGORY”, which told of (among other things) a place known as the Door to Hell in Derweze, Turkmenistan. As I mentioned in that comment, I’ve actually gone to Hell (by car, by the way; not in a handbasket) — the town of Hell in Michiganistan, which may not be as hot as Hell in Turkmenistan, but is more convenient. I figure this is more than enough to qualify me as an authority on anystan’s Hell, hence this post.

When I say “more convenient,” I of course mean convenient to my followers here in the good old United Statesistan. If you live in Asiastan, you will undoubtedly be able to go to Hell more conveniently in Turkmenistan. On the other stan, if you live in Hindustan (aka The Republic of India), you’re stuckistan in Hindustan because India is in total lockdown due to the coronavirus (I would’ve said coronavirustan, but I understan that’s sickistan).

Anyway, the Hell I’ve been through in Michiganistan has an official website; rather than me give you the scoopistan, here’s the official poopistan straight from the horse’s mouth:

https://www.gotohellmi.com/

Now, if that doesn’t make you want to go to Hell, I don’t know what willistan. I happen to know a guy (his name is Stan) whose wife is a real clothes horse and looks hot in green, gray or white; he often takes her through Hell no matter what she’s wearing, even though….

I close with this thought: Where do people in Hell tell each other to go?

 

HELL ON WHEELS

If you’re going through hell, keep going. –Winston Churchill

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After my last post (BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT) generated quite a bit of interest, I could hardly wait to see what I would write about next. Whatever benefit doubt may have, I don’t want to overdo it — yet there is something to be said for doubling down while the iron is hot and the pot is empty, ideas-wise.

So last night, in the hope that some fresh CO would blow away the fog in my brain, I’m out flying down the highway on my air-conditioned motorcycle, happy as a good old boy on a bad new toy, when I come upon this big-ass truck hoggin’ the road like he owns it. I don’t know exactly how slow he was going, but let’s just say it waren’t fast enough to suit me. So I get stuck behind this yahoo for longer than any reasonable man should suffer, because there’s too much traffic to pass.

Finally, I decide to Winston with this crap, and I start to roar past him on the right shoulder like a bat out of hell, because you never know how long a shoulder is going to last before you run into something….and wouldn’t you know, there’s a cop just ahead motioning me to pull over — like I’m not already over, trying to get past this big ass truck.

Anyway, to make a long story, I suddenly realize that I’ve never owned a motorcycle in my life — much less flown one — so I must be dreaming. Well, if you’ve ever awakened in the middle of a dream, you know there’s nothing worse than not knowing how the dream would’ve turned out. So before I wake up, I bring my bad boy two-wheeler to a stop and, when the cop comes up to me, I tell him to go where bats fly out of when their cave’s on fire (like in a volcanic eruption, which sounds far-fetched, but what the hell — it’s a dream, for heaven’s sake).

I may not have gotten past my doubts about this post, but I never woke up feeling better in my life.