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Diablerie, February 1944

Page 8

8                                               diablerie

                  Lies there a country
tearful years of life each must keep himself strictly clean for his wife-to-be, and otherwise refrain from indulging in any excessive amounts of pleasure. Poor devils.

   Then one must hastily add, if so inclined, "Poor us." Hell, if the so-called masterful entity known as God or The Savour up above on his cloudy throne discovers me consorting with some full-bosomed skirt who is absolutely not an aquaintance of mine, or finds me in my customary state, languidly wound around a streetlamp singing shakily but nonetheless lustily some bar-room creation about a gal named Tess down old Texas way, I am promptly expelled from the rolls of the innocently incumbent scheduled for a demand performance in heaven and my name is jauntily set down in the accredited tomes with near-coagulated witch-blood as slated for The Devil and His Kynde. 

   I can only say if all that innocence nets me is a pair of wings which cannot be used due to recent rules set down by the Home Defense pertaining to civilian flying; a brass halo; and an eight-stringed harp (god knows what I would do with that!), I refuse here and now to remain innocent and sweet sixteen.

   Heh heh.

   Why, as has been speculatively questioned by many individuals, cannot we have the comparatively easy snap possessed by the Norsemen? Providing they did no great amount of fibbing, were cleanly and consistently constructed, they could go to heaven and still have their customary portions of booze, babes, and bear-meat. 

   Valhalla was really the place for a hot time, as has been heartily and full-bloodedly related by several fiction writers, with many a carcass-strewn battleground and haggard rape victim being discovered with the coming of the dawn. 

   These liberal races, it must be admitted, have their many exceptionally outstanding points, while the poor sap christian, generally an exceedingly dull-witted fellow, plods his hypocritical way through life into the darkened folds of death's cloak. 

   There is, of course, the thirty-words-a-minute pulp writer, literally bubbling over with frothy and hack-neyed ideas for creating his personal, self-styled, half-baked paradise. Each writer, depending usually upon his own character, has depicted the happy-hunting -ground as being everything from a stately and imposing cloud castle filled with a maximum capacity of twittering cherubs to a second-class bawd-house sprinkled with a generous amount of short-skirted, tight-bloused and otherwise floozily drap wenches.

   They may be forgiven and forgotten, however, because they too must keep the periodically ringing creditor away from the door, as must we all. They are much more intelligent than we, though, in that they have discovered and capitalized on the easiest method.

   But, to return to our main theme: in the final analysis, there are no actually ideal and perfectly suitable Edens; they all have their faults - unluckily.  Either too much of a good thing - as in the Mohammedan heavenly kingdom - or just a life, an endless one at that, of boredom as would be the case in the Holy City.

Saving...

8 diablerie Lies there a country tearful years of life each must keep himself strictly clean for his wife-to-be, and otherwise refrain from indulging in any excessive amounts of pleasure. Poor devils. Then one must hastily add, if so inclined, "Poor us." Hell, if the so-called masterful entity known as God or The Savour up above on his cloudy throne discovers me consorting with some full-bosomed skirt who is absolutely not an aquaintance of mine, or finds me in my customary state, languidly wound around a streetlamp singing shakily but nonetheless lustily some bar-room creation about a gal named Tess down old Texas way, I am promptly expelled from the rolls of the innocently incumbent scheduled for a demand performance in heaven and my name is jauntily set down in the accredited tomes with near-coagulated witch-blood as slated for The Devil and His Kynde. I can only say if all that innocence nets me is a pair of wings which cannot be used due to recent rules set down by the Home Defense pertaining to civilian flying; a brass halo; and an eight-stringed harp (god knows what I would do with that!), I refuse here and now to remain innocent and sweet sixteen. Heh heh. Why, as has been speculatively questioned by many individuals, cannot we have the comparatively easy snap possessed by the Norsemen? Providing they did no great amount of fibbing, were cleanly and consistently constructed, they could go to heaven and still have their customary portions of booze, babes, and bear-meat. Valhalla was really the place for a hot time, as has been heartily and full-bloodedly related by several fiction writers, with many a carcass-strewn battleground and haggard rape victim being discovered with the coming of the dawn. These liberal races, it must be admitted, have their many exceptionally outstanding points, while the poor sap christian, generally an exceedingly dull-witted fellow, plods his hypocritical way through life into the darkened folds of death's cloak. There is, of course, the thirty-words-a-minute pulp writer, literally bubbling over with frothy and hack-neyed ideas for creating his personal, self-styled, half-baked paradise. Each writer, depending usually upon his own character, has depicted the happy-hunting -ground as being everything from a stately and imposing cloud castle filled with a maximum capacity of twittering cherubs to a second-class bawd-house sprinkled with a generous amount of short-skirted, tight-bloused and otherwise floozily drap wenches. They may be forgiven and forgotten, however, because they too must keep the periodically ringing creditor away from the door, as must we all. They are much more intelligent than we, though, in that they have discovered and capitalized on the easiest method. But, to return to our main theme: in the final analysis, there are no actually ideal and perfectly suitable Edens; they all have their faults - unluckily. Either too much of a good thing - as in the Mohammedan heavenly kingdom - or just a life, an endless one at that, of boredom as would be the case in the Holy City.