Bus Tour to Hell

It’s always interesting to travel to new places. I have a curious nature and I enjoy learning. That’s probably what intrigued me about the pop-up ad that appeared on my smartphone … “Take a Bus Tour to Hell- you know you want to”. Now let’s be clear. This was not a scam to get us to be driven to Hell, Michigan- a tiny town of 70. I checked. 

I smiled at the sweet young thing who was signing up passengers. The capacity was limited so I was lucky to snag a seat, a window seat at that. I signed the waiver. I would not sue Satan if I developed toenail fungus, hair loss or intestinal polyps. Since that’s already a fact of my life I signed.

I lined up with the other 39 passengers as we prepared to board. The bus had a huge picture of the traditional Satan on it’s side, horns and all, smiling and pointing his finger right at me. His eyes seemed to follow me as we inched forward. The conversations amongst the passengers were interesting. Some expressed skepticism about the existence of Hell. Some thought Hell might be fun. After all, they continued, maybe religions are just trying to build up their business by knocking Hell. Another passenger chimed in- “Why must it be a binary choice?  Maybe there’s a little bit of Hell in Heaven and a little bit of Heaven in Hell”. 

I got into my window seat and we were soon off. Almost immediately the traffic enveloped us. We were surrounded by cars, bikes, rickshaws, cowboys herding cattle, ice cream trucks on fire, and a Rooms to Go truck- all slowing our progress. The cattle were cute though with Marlborough’s dangling from their huge red lips, as they sang endlesses verses of “Happy Trails to You, Until We Meet Again”.

On the huge bridge, I spotted Albert at the exact middle of the bridge. His arms were crossed as he pointed in opposite directions. He still badly needed a haircut. As the bus moved along Albert seemed to move along with us, still pointing. As we crossed over, we were treated to a gorgeous black sand beach with swaying palm trees and a ruby red sea. A Japanese passenger rushed over to sit on my lap and take 112 pictures- I counted.

Time does not exist in Hell, it appears. In seconds, minutes, hours or days we arrived at a desert. The only thing of interest were tumbleweeds which began to burst into flame as we dodged through them. It was kind of exciting actually. Our skillful driver, Bob, announced we would soon stop at a rest area. He urged us to use the facilities as it would be about 12,000 miles before the next stop. He warned “Be back in ten minutes or I will have to leave you here”. We pulled up to the quaint stone building as Bob stated, “The clock starts NOW”. 

The restrooms were what you’d expect in Hell. I was surprised though by a talking turd in the toilet. While it floated around leisurely It was babbling on and on about Nietzsche’s philosophy- concluding “God is dead and man is responsible for his own destiny”. After I flushed, it didn’t disappear. It was joined by several other turds of different sizes, shapes and colors. I left as they all were engaged in a heated debate about the true meaning of life. 

Boarding the bus at minute 9, I smiled at Bob and opened my mouth to speak. He interrupted, “Yes, I know. “Talking shit” is a real thing. I’ve heard that more times than I can count. It’s not funny any more”. Rebuffed, I decided to ask Bob to show me his “ID”. He pointed to the  badge attached to his belt. There was a smiling Bob. The small print below the “Bob” name said simply, “aka Satan”. Wow, I was surprised that the Big Guy himself would be driving. Now that’s hands-on management. It’s the only way to run a business.

The scenery changed every few minutes, hours or years. Remember there is no time in Hell. We were treated to floating sharks, whales playing pickleball, IRS auditors motioning us to come on over and sit at their desks, pizza shops with only anchovies as a topping and a sea of flag waving politicians all in blue hats smiling and reaching out to us with their pamphlets in hand. 

The passengers also changed every few minutes, hours or years. At times the passengers were all bald, robed, and smiling as they held out baskets for us to donate to the Save the Puppy Fund. Then they were all dentists saying “Open wide”. Sometimes they were timeshare salespersons offering a free lunch. Worse still, sometimes they were all my mother urging me to get more sleep and eat broccoli. 

Finally, Bob announced the tour was over. He cheerfully invited us to “Come again, real soon”. Instantly we all  stepped off the bus and into the Satan Shoppe. I passed on the Satan bobblehead, the red underwear with “Satan Rules” on the rear, and settled for the red cap with the words “Go Devils” in big letters. Nice. 

As I departed the shop I was greeted by pollution, trash, face masks, picket signs pronouncing hatred for everything, “closed” signs on most storefronts and a fellow who looked like a decrepit ancient Andy Williams humming “Moon River” and panhandling probably for booze money.  I looked back at Bob who was apparently on his break. He was leaning against the bus, with a big cigar in one hand and a scotch in the other. I shouted out,  “Bob, when is your next tour?”.