How To Avoid Going To Hell.

Have you ever thought of having a surrogate you?

“If I’m going to hell, I’m going there playing the piano.” Jerry Lee Lewis

On the off chance I’m not going to Heaven, I’ve made other arrangements. I can’t go into complete details right now, since we’re still in the early stages, but I’m pretty sure my plan will work. No doubt others have contrived similar strategies in the past, some possibly just as cowardly. Death is a cowardly business. Who doesn’t worry they’ve done some bad things?

For all I know, eating peanut butter is the most godly thing we can do.

I wouldn’t say I’m a terrible sinner. I’m not even sure what constitutes sin anymore—or good, for that matter. For all I know, eating peanut butter is the most godly thing we can do. Imagine getting to Heaven and finding everyone eating Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

It’s no crazier than what we believe these days. We put a lot of trust in religious faith these days. Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Luddism. They can’t all be right. Maybe we should put our faith in Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

It makes more sense than what we’re doing now. Here on Earth, people of faith, thousands of miles away, can point their finger and damn us for all eternity. Why can’t we point a finger back and double-damn them?

If they complain, someone up there will say, “Keep bitching and we’ll really give you something to bitch about.” I think that’s what happened in the last Ice Age. For all I know, dinosaurs were bitching all the time, and the next thing you know—BOOM—they all got fried like bacon.

I imagine there must be a lot of mastodons in Heaven. Afterall, what sin did they ever commit? They ate grass. Hardly a case of gluttony. By comparison, we commit outrageous acts of gluttony at Taco Bell every day.

Or maybe we end up in New Guinea.

I’m also convinced the right path to Heaven isn’t a path at all. Supposedly our souls are light as feathers. Who’s to say we don’t stray off course, floating all over the place? Maybe we end up in New Guinea.

Not that I’m particularly worried. It won’t be me. Once I pull the big switcheroo, I won’t be in the hands of angels or the New Guineans.

I’ll be here on Earth, praying or reading some religious text, whatever it takes to redeem myself and get in good with somebody. I doubt any saint will be clapping their hands at my shenanigans. That’s their problem. I’m just doing my best to avoid hellfire which, based on what I’ve read in Dante’s Divine Comedy, ain’t something to be sneezed at.

So what’s this plan, you ask, this switcheroo? Well, it’s a form of surrogacy where, to put it bluntly, I ask someone to take my place.

For that they get to “roll the dice,” meaning they can either damn themselves, or rise up, on the wings of angels, possibly ending up on a cloud surrounded by mastodons.

This isn’t a free deal, mind you. I’m not asking for favours. What I’m offering is a certain percentage of my wealth. For that they get to “roll the dice,” meaning they can either damn themselves, or rise on the wings of angels, possibly ending up on a cloud surrounded by mastodons.

What I really need is someone with conviction, someone entirely devoted to the cause of surrogacy. This is a cause in my mind. And it takes real backbone to “tread the boards up in Heaven.” Saints aren’t fond of being fooled. On the other hand, if they go back over their own psalms and texts, where is it written that you can’t throw your own death out for tender?

I should also add that I’ve been completely transparent. If you read my advertisement, you could say I’m being entirely honest and candid:

“Wanted: Someone to take my place on the day or reckoning. Generous compensation, plus a bonus if you perform above expectations. Please contact at your early convenience. References of good character will be required.”

“My heart leapt when I read this,” she said, holding the newspaper to her breast. “How you’ve captured the very essence of commitment.”

Frankly, I think I’ve got it in a nutshell. If someone accuses me of hucksterism, I’ll simply tell them to sod off. I’m not looking for friendship here — or a relationship. One woman thought it was the best dating ad she’d ever seen. “My heart leapt when I read this,” she said, holding the newspaper to her breast. “How you’ve captured the very essence of commitment.”

Silly woman. What part of dying doesn’t she understand?

In any event, I’m still trolling through the responses, getting rid of the undisciplined and inconsiderate. They say they’ll show up at five, then arrive at quarter to six. Others don’t bother showing up at all. I understand them having second thoughts. Still, a little courtesy wouldn’t hurt, even if they do think I’m off my meds and need an electric current ripping through my brain.

Some nights, I’ll have six or seven applicants lined up, each one convinced they can pull this off. “I know just how to confuse them,” they say, and I’ve had to explain that I’m not trying to confuse anybody. This is simply me providing a substitution, nothing more, nothing less.

If they’ve got the credentials (birth certificate, Diner’s Club, etc.) who’s to say this isn’t prima facie?

In legalize, it’s known as prima facie, meaning there’s enough evidence. The evidence in this case is someone standing there saying they’re me. If they’ve got the credentials (birth certificate, Diner’s Club, etc.) who’s to say this isn’t prima facie?

Now, as to whether I think this will work or not — frankly, I have my doubts. Something tells me they run a pretty tight ship up in Heaven. They probably have all the latest technology, eye scans, DNA markers, etc. If it’s an issue, I’ll simply say I’m testing the waters. I’ve never liked travelling to distant climbs without knowing the topography and the culture.

On occasion, I’ll take out a multitude of travel books, each one filled with notations on little purple Post-it notes. Perhaps I could get away with saying my surrogate isn’t a surrogate at all, but rather a fact-finder. After he determines the lay of the land, I’ll know what to pack and what to leave behind. Asking the temperature, for instance, will give me a good idea of where I’m going after my death. Same with topography, for that matter.

Anyway, that’s my plan. I’m still firming up possible candidates, striking off the lovesick, leaving the slightly unbalanced as a “maybe.”

That’s if I get caught. If my surrogate gets rejected or exposed, I’ll accept my fate (and wear the right clothes). If he doesn’t, I’ve got a number of years before the whole thing gets realized, and I’m called upon to make an account of myself. I’ll just sniffle and sob. I’m good at both. I’m better at throwing up, but that might not be necessary.

Anyway, that’s my plan. As I say, I’m still firming up possible candidates, striking off the lovesick, leaving the slightly unbalanced as a “maybe.”

One guy selling an old Gremlin for $10,000 is an obvious maybe, see as I doubt they cost that much new. Someone mentioned that and he simply added “vintage” to the description. Then there’s the woman who wouldn’t get vaccinated because , as she claimed, her “eyesight was bad enough already.” I think I can write her off as “mentally congested.”

Needless to say, I’ve met some real characters. Hopefully, the right one will come through the door, ready to face the unknown (since I have no intention of facing the unknown myself if I can possibly help it).

Who knows, I might end up sitting on a cloud with a bunch of mastodons.

It’s in God’s hands, as they say, and there’s always a day of reckoning. Who knows, I might end up sitting on a cloud with a bunch of mastodons. They might make good companions, or they might still be griping about whatever got them fried in the first place (it pissed somebody off, I’ll tell you that).

I’m getting ahead of myself, though. First, I have to get this surrogate thing ironed out before others jump on the bandwagon and pick the world clean of surrogates. You know how fast a trend can happen these days. Fortunately, I’m in the advanced stages of my plan. My advertisement is in all the papers and, outside of a few lovestruck women, I’m in pretty good shape.

We’ll just have to wait and see what happens next.

Robert Cormack is a novelist, satirist and blogger. His first novel “You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive) is available through Skyhorse Press. You can read Robert’s other articles and stories at robertcormack.net