To prepare for This Is The End, the new Seth Rogen & Evan Goldberg ego-immolating, drug-slapsticking, male-bonding and unbonding fun-poker, my friend Scopes and I sat down and took about twenty lung-busting bong spanks before we left the house. This is not saying much, since my gilded glass steamroller bong is only four feet long. A couple hours prior we had eaten a freezer bag full of goofy shrooms, then gobbled a small pill bottle rattling of ecstasy for desert. This Gonzo-worthy menu of substances was just taking hold when I slipped the fifth of vodka into my backpack as a theater-mixer, and rumbled out the door with Scopes at my side.
After puffing a couple of zeppelin-themed hashish joints in an alley fire began raining from the sky, and a gaping sinkhole opened not two steps in front of us, taking with it a couple of recycling bins and a brindle pit bull.
“Drugs one, users zero,” Scopes said.
“Uh, I don’t think it’s the drugs.”
We agreed to disagree as I pulled from my trousers (insert dick joke here) the Xanax that was on the docket for hours later after the hilaro-frenzy had peaked. These went down without a fight. We attempted a unified face of good humor, and, ever so slowly, made our way into the theater.
We lit a hash roach as the lights went down and sipped the vodka to freshen our breath. Suddenly the theater shook and the crowd emptied into the street. Seems the entire city was under the terror of a rapture not seen since Jesus wrote the Bible. Bejeesus bats were circling above, and horned demons prowled the streets. These were big fuckers, sinister Night On Bald Mountain muthas undulating of lava, goring and consuming every last sober individual they could grab.
After rolling a final joint of pipe-resin and lint-weed found between the cushions of my tastefully upholstered loveseat…
Somehow we made it home. Scopes had come down with the shakes and locked himself in the bathroom for an hour, mumbling his final will and testament to the toilet. The drugs were finished. I resigned myself to a last night on Earth by dressing in my tux and raiding my big-box stash of chips, candy bars and, much to my chagrin, the keg of San Pellegrino sparkling water I was saving for my Saturday bath.
The room remained lit all night by fires raging throughout the city, and smoke was suffocating the room. We had just tucked into the San Pell when there came a cloven-hoofed clopping on the stairs. The beastie, our maker and infernal redeemer, fought his way in, and as Scopes let out a final man-baby cry of fright he spilled his sparkling water on the demon’s hooves. The demon screamed in pain, then evaporated.
This was the key, but there was not enough San Pell in the city to save us all. After rolling a final joint of pipe-resin and lint-weed found between the cushions of my tastefully upholstered loveseat, we entered into an eternal pact of brotherhood. We vowed to sacrifice for one another and love one another, even if it meant living in an eternal limbo sans friends or readily available pocket lighters.
With this pledge the roof was ripped away, and a Close Encounters kind of light suddenly appeared above us. We began to rise as if lifted by the double-thumbed peyote fist of Doctor Gonzo himself. In less time than it takes to order a taco value meal from the Jack In The Box drive-thru we found ourselves above the clouds in a slick production number of heaven.
Gold platters were offered with all the endo we could ever puff, puff, share. Spigots of cerveza fed glowing, golden streams (insert second dick joke here). All the ex-girlfriends who had ever pinched us for our collections of Eighties standup VHS tapes danced in tandem, beckoning us to join.
We knew for true it was heaven because they were all nice to us like when we first met, we got (most) of our Kinison videos back, and no one ever had a tequila hangover again.