This is one of those cases where if you've got nothing good to say, remain silent. So I will. However, "The Rude Pundit" is wired a bit differently.
by Lee Papa, aka The Rude Pundit
Andrew Breitbart in Hell: A Fantasia:
"Well," thought Andrew Breitbart in soul form as he descended while he watched Davy Jones ascend, "this is surprising." No, he wasn't a religious man on Earth, as he himself admitted, but surely, he thought, there was a chance for some reward at the end. In a moment of self-reflection, he pondered, "Arrogance. Pride. Yeah, those are sins, but they're kind of pussy sins."
Breitbart had been as surprised as anyone that he died. He had been retweeting every Twitter slight that crossed his feed, calling everyone he could a "putz," masochistically masturbating by slamming his dick with his iPad every time he answered one, when he had gone out to get some air and his heart just exploded. At first, he thought he was on an drug trip, it happened so fast; his soul popped out of him like a cork on a shaken champagne bottle. He saw his corporeal form on the ground and thought it was a wacky out of body experience, perhaps some flashback from the time he licked LSD off Michelle Malkin's ass cheeks, perhaps some residual peyote dream from that Western walkabout he did with Sean Hannity, when they got naked and rubbed each other with red dirt until they howled out that they wanted to kill the Indians again. Those thoughts quickly pushed out of his head as he arced and began to descend from the air and into the filthy ground below. "Fuck, I had a post to finish where I called the President a rape-enabler" was his last thought as he went underground.
As he headed deeper and deeper, Breitbart wondered what awaited him. He steeled himself to everything: barb-dicked demons raping his ass for eternity; the corpses of Reagan and Joseph McCarthy tearing off his balls and forcing him to swallow them, only to have them grow back again, with a row of dead right-wingers stretching as far as the eye could see, from Nixon to Attila the Hun, all waiting their turns to do the same; being made to exist in some liberal fantasyland, where Ted Kennedy reigned as god and everyone's wealth was shared and everyone was, oh, fuck, equal; or perhaps he'd just be fed shit, day in and day out, by the shovelful, as some kind of karmic retribution.
It was easy for Breitbart to think of such things for he had spoken ill of the dead on the day of their deaths before, like Kennedy and Michael Jackson. "Why do you grant a BULLY special status upon his death?" he had said about Kennedy, ha-ha. Fuck, he'd hoped he'd at least get to see what the fucking liberal bloggers were tweeting about. He'd love to tweet them back, and he was pretty sure his Blackberry would have reception in Hell. He'd love to find out how much loathing he inspired. He'd love to read the rants about Shirley Sherrod and ACORN, about New Black Panthers and James O'Keefe.
A man can do a lot of damage in 43 years, he knows, and he smiled about all the people he had fucked with, all the lives he had fucked up, all in the name of an ideology he saw as more important than compassion for anyone different from himself. "Shit," he thought, "better be careful. That's more pride."
And, almost as much, he'd love to hear all the leftists tie themselves in knots to say something nice about him, about his family, about who he was a "person." That's even more awesome than the tears the right was no doubt shedding. Goddamn, he needed a drink. Goddamn, he wished he could mock them for their goodness as he had so many others.
Suddenly, he entered into a light and found himself on the floor of a cold, brightly lit, all-white room with no doors or windows. He opened his mouth to call out, but no voice came out, not even a whisper or rasp. It was as if he had no vocal cords, no lungs, no means of making a sound. He didn't let himself freak out. He calmly walked the room to find an exit or crack. There were none. It was a solid box. Slowly, it began to dawn on him.
"Not this," his lips formed. "Anything but this." Bring on the rape demons, bring on the zombie conservatives, the shit, Kennedy, any fate would be better. He beat on the walls. No sound. He stomped. No sound. He slammed his head into the wall. Not only was there no noise, but he didn't even feel pain. If he could have gotten sick, he would have vomited. He collapsed and waited.
Eternity, it seemed, was going to be a long time.