A Nameless Blog

Awhile back I took the ladyfriend to see Maria Bamford at the Tempe Improv.  (She was very funny.)  It occurred to me that the Tempe Improv is something of a misnomer, as very little improv comedy is shown there.  It’s mostly stand-up (and pretty good stand-up, at that).  It might be the most pleasing misnomer I’ve encountered.  I’ve written before about improv comedy — and subsequently amended my comments — so I won’t belabor the point with bitching about shitty improv comedy.  I will, however, do what most “improv” comedy fails to do: actually improvise.

So, I shall now write a short story completely off-the-cuff.  I have no plans, points, or jokes prepared.  My head, like normal, is effectively empty.  Now… can I get from the crowd an animal, please?

“GORILLA!”
“WILD BOAR!”
“AARDVARK!”

Okay, I heard gorilla.  Now can I have an occupation?

“OPTOMETRIST!”
“SCREENWRITER!”
“TAXIDERMIST!”

The person who yelled taxidermist sounded drunk, so we’ll go with that one.  Now, can I have a location?  Anywhere at all…

“HELL!”
“KING OF PRUSSIA!”
“GILA BEND!”

Ooh… Hell’s a nice choice.

Okay.  What follows is completely improvised; I have no idea where this is going, but I imagine the answer is “nowhere”.  Let’s begin.
———
Believe it or not, my gig isn’t so bad.  Sure, the title “Satan’s Taxidermist” causes alarm when people see my business card, but all in all, it’s pretty good.  At least I get a lot of stories out of it.

Like this one time Satan came back from a big unicorn hunt.  Relatively speaking, it was pretty early in my career — I had only done about twenty unicorns previously.  He said that this herd was particularly defiant.  The alpha male reared up a few times, stabbed a few demons with his horn, and even sprayed Satan himself in the eyes with magic dust.  After the Dark Lord finally bagged the creature, he gave me a special request.  I must have done a good job, since he put my work in Hell’s entryway.  Now, the newly damned are greeted by a stuffed unicorn fellating itself.

In life, people often talk about wanting to be the best.  No matter his field, man strives for greatness.  Linebackers want to play in the NFL; mathematicians want to work for NASA.  It so happens that my field is taxidermy, and that my big leagues are where no other soul wishes to find himself.  Thankfully, I’m on the staff, so the Mandatory Constant Torment Doctrine doesn’t apply to me.  It’s just one of the perks.

It’s not all fantastic, though.  As you might imagine, Satan has some lurid tastes, so I’ve had to make some unsavory stuffings.  The fellating unicorn was fun; simulating a massive dog-cat orgy using the deceased stars of The Adventures of Milo and Otis — less so.  Remember Ruby, the elephant that painted abstract pictures?  She’s in Lucifer’s den, still holding a paintbrush… except she’s entirely inside-out.  Why inside-out?  I don’t know, ask the whimsical Satan.  Ugh.  I’d hate to see what he’ll have me do when Koko the gorilla dies.  He hates famous animals.

That elephant was hard, too — what taxidermist is ever asked to turn a two-ton animal inside-out so that “you can see all the muscles and shit”?  I had to invent a new preservative so that could even be possible.  Things rot in Hell, too, you know.

People always ask me what it’s like to work for Satan.  They want me to put him down; say he’s a bad guy and a horrible boss.  I hate to disappoint you, but he’s not Rosie O’Donnell — he’s a perfectly fine boss.  Yes, he’s a tad demanding, and you learn to stay out of his way.  But that’s the price of greatness — he’s the best in creation at what he does.  He can make outrageous demands because he earned it.  He’s the original Tormentor.  He invented suffering.  Give the man some credit.  If he wants Murray from Mad About You getting dry-humped by a griffin, he’s gonna get it.

To answer all the questions, no, I don’t fear him.  I respect him and make sure he’s pleased with my work.  He knows I’m the best in the world at what I do; otherwise, he wouldn’t have hired me.  That said, there was one time when I was in fear.  About two years ago, Satan and Jesus were in a squabble over animal rights — that is, who gets the rights to fallen animals.  Since, technically speaking, animals lack souls, they’ve always been considered up-for-grabs.  Satan being the hoarder he is, pretty much every animal ever has ended up in Hell.  (Sorry, Timmy, there is no doggie heaven.)

Anyway, Jesus tried to argue that all of God’s creatures should get a fair shake.  For a moment, it seemed like he had a point.  That made me fearful — if Hell’s animals get taken away, what is there for the underworld taxidermist to do?  My contract, like those of every minion, is for eternity.  Would it mean I’d keep the cushy position, but lose all responsibility?  More likely, Satan would ensure that his most useless employee would enjoy his days getting sodomized by white-hot pokers.  I wasn’t eager to find out, no matter the case.

A week later, they had another meeting, but this time Satan came prepared.  Armed with the original Deed to the Underworld, Satan found that the Heaven-Hell distinction applied only to ensouled beings, so God’s power-grab was baseless.  What a relief.  It’s a good thing God has a shitty lawyer.  I mean, really — you sent Jesus to negotiate with Beelzebub?  What rank, foolish nepotism.

Well, that’s the long and short of it.  I have a few more stories of animals frozen forever in unspeakable positions, but I don’t want to bore you.  Besides, the monkey from Friends just died; I’m guessing Satan already has big plans for him.
———
Hey, I was right — it didn’t go anywhere.  At least it was funnier than most improv comedy.  I realize that that’s not saying much.

-Darrell

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