So … this guy Bob works at a call center, right?
Yeah. His name’s Bob Mishkin. He’s an idiot.
He’s The Idiot. He most certainly is.
He works with his friend Virgil and Virgil is…
Virgil? I’m sorry … what? Virgil is Virgil?
Yes. Virgil. He wrote the Aeneid. The Virgil?
Yes. That’s the one. So he and “Bob” work in a
“call center,” but it’s really the afterlife?
Exactly. They exist somewhere outside of
time and interact with people they knew who
look nothing like the people they were. And who
were they? It doesn’t matter. It would take too
long to explain it anyway. Let me get
on with this. People hate longwinded poems,
the fools who recite them, and the assholes who
snap approval when the reading’s concluded.
Virgil does too. He is a reluctant guide
and a drunk. Like Noah. He’s a smart ass. Most
people are. People don’t like Virgil. He doesn’t–
What? Play their games? He’s done with them. He carries
around a baseball bat signed by Babe Ruth in
one hand, a bottle of port in the other,
and a chip on his shoulder you can see from
space. So you’re saying he’s an asshole? Yes, but…
He’s a likeable asshole. If he says you’re
wrong, you’re usually wrong. Yes. His flaw is
he has no tact. He’s a Hermit! He’s been dead
for thousands of years, forced to play the role of
Hell’s Tour Guide for a number of ungrateful
souls who were offered the opportunity
to walk a line through the swirling inferno
and couldn’t see the forest through the trees. They
walked, they stumbled, they fell. Most of them got up.
A few reached the mountain’s summit, only to
fail, ’cause they planted their flag in the snow. Bah!
The trick is, at least in my opinion, is
to leave this place the way we found it: free of
Us vs. Them. You sound like a hippy, pal.
Listen– You listen. I hate long-haired, beatnik
hippy freaks as much as the next guy, but come on…
Do you ever wonder why there is so much
evil in the world? Corruption in business.
No money for schools? Kickbacks for senators…
Sure. Those assholes in the sixties got so
wrapped up in drugs and sex that they lost sight of
the yellow brick road and just sat on either
side of it like bloody goddamned hobos. Come
Together by The Beatles is not about
coming together. It’s about peace and love.
True love. Not lust. And Here Comes the Sun? Pardon?