Don’t get me wrong. It’s not common to see angels around here, but it happens. Eventually, you get to know the difference between Seraphim and Cherubim and even those Nephilim sons of . . . Then there are those pesky, outrageous Metaphilim. But that’s another story, or at least a parallel story.
Actually this isn’t a story at all, that Metaphilim thing, it’s a part of the divine comedy I’m in, so you’ll catch up with that sooner or later. No this is an essay. A philosophical diatribe, if you will, since Hell don’t do essay. Around here the harangue is du jour, just like those awful thick crust frozen pizzas they made in the 21st Century.
Where was I? Oh yeah, fucking angels. As far as diatribes go, is that forceful and bitter enough for you. People stopped being squeamish in the 21st Century and the only place you couldn’t say seven words was on broadcast television. Which is quaint because broadcast television became an anachronism at the same time.
Humans have this thing with seven. Seven deadly sins, “seven, eleven or doubles,” seven brides for seven brothers, and seven words you couldn’t broadcast. Maybe you can only have intercourse with seven angels in Heaven? And six times seven is the number of virgins waiting for you under certain heavenly conditions. Does that mean angels can be virgins?
It’s pathetic, I don’t even know if you can have intercourse in Heaven. I don’t mean a dialogue with God, I mean sex with angels. I would think sex with dead humans, and there’s plenty of that around here, wouldn’t be as interesting as sex with angels. Unless, of course, everyone who gets to heaven becomes an angel? Nah, that can’t be right? “Welcome Ira, Cherubim First Class.”
I’d better check on that. I wonder who the authority would be on this subject? Let me rephrase that, I wonder who in Hell would be the authority on angels in Heaven?