An alcoholic, a sеx addict, and a pothead all die and go to Неll. Sатаn is waiting for them and tells all of them, "I am in a good mood today, so I am going to let each one of you pick one thing you love from Earth, and let you keep it here for 100 years, and then I will return for the goods." Sатаn first approaches the alcoholic, "What is it that you would like to have?" to which the alcoholic responds, "I want the finest brew, wine, and liquor you can get me." Sатаn brings him to a room filled with every type of вееr on tap, the finest aged cellars of wine, and of course the purest grain alcohol. There is each type of liquor you could possibly think of or never afford to even taste, a never ending supply of it all. The man yells, "Whooa Hoo!" in excitement, and runs into the room. Sатаn laughs, shuts the door, and locks it. Sатаn then approaches the sеx addict and asks, "What is it that you would like to have?" to which the sеx addict responds, "Women! I want lots of beautiful women, one for each day of the year!" Sатаn brings him to a room filled with only the most gorgeous women imaginable. Some with huge вrеаsтs, some with small вrеаsтs, some with big аssеs, and some with small аssеs, some tall with never ending legs, and some short, some have tight p*ssies and some have shaved p*ssies. All of the women are hot, nакеd, and very hоrny. The sеx addict immediately gets a raging hard on and runs into the room. Sатаn laughs, shuts the door and locks it. Sатаn finally approaches the pothead and asks, "What is it that you would like to have?" to which the pothead responds, "Well, that's easy! I want the best рот you got." Sатаn brings him to a room which is filled with the tallest, thickest, stinkiest, most dank plants growing on for acres. The sweet smell from the purest plants fills this enormous room. There were crystals growing on some buds which grew 15 feet high, just begging to be harvested. The quality of the bud would put the Cannabis Cup winners to shame, in all categories. It was beyond belief. The pothead was so awed and humbled by the sight of these beautiful plants, that he slowly walked into the room, he sat down Indian style, with his legs crossed, took slow deep breathes, closed his eyes and proceeded to meditate on this miraculous sight. Sатаn looked at him curiously, shut the door and locked it. 100 years pass. Sатаn returns to the first room, remembering the alcoholic, unlocks and opens the door. There is broken wine and liquor glass bottles shattered everywhere. The room smells like rotting animal flesh and рiss. The alcoholic comes running at the door, nакеd, covered in his own vомiт and shiт, screaming "Help!, I don't want anymore. Let me out of here!" Sатаn laughs, shuts the door, and locks it. Sатаn then returns to the second room, remembering the sеx addict, unlocks and opens the door. There are thousands of kids running around the room and babies crying madly making so much noise no one could hear their own scream. Hundreds of very, very old ladies now limp around with no clothes on, still very hоrny for the sеx addict who attempts to run out the door as Sатаn watches. Before the sеx addict can utter a word of desperation, Sатаn laughs, shuts the door, and locks it. Sатаn finally arrives at the third and final room, remembering the pothead, unlocks, and opens the door. After a quick look inside, Sатаn's evil grin turns to a look of confusion. Nothing had changed. The plants were untouched, just as dank as the day he left them. Even the pothead was in the same position, sitting down with his legs crossed. So Sатаn walks up behind the pothead, taps him on his shoulder and says,
"What's wrong?" A tear rolls down the pothead's cheek as he turns to Sатаn and simply replies,
"Got a light, man?"
At last, the long-awaited finale of the televised poem competition had arrived.
The pope, who was a keen lyricist and writer of poems, had to everyone’s surprise entered the competition. He immediately announced that he would only be reciting poems about personal spiritual experiences. Despite this limitation, it turned out he was gifted with words and he had made it all the way to the final. His opponent was the favorite to win: a Harvard linguistics professor on the top of his career and with a mind as sharp as a knife’s edge.
The Harvard professor was up first. He was informed of the rules:
"Two minutes to come up with a poem, and it must involve Timbuktu."
The clock started, and when the time was up the Harvard professor approached the microphone:
"On my way through desert sand
Met a lonely caravan
Men on camels, two by two
Destination: Timbuktu."
The crowd went wild. Commentators were lyrical. This was without a doubt the best poem of the competition. The Harvard professor had done it again! But as the crowd settled down their spirits sank. As far as anyone knew, the pope had never been to Timbuktu, which was soon confirmed by the TV commentator. How could the pope have a personal spiritual experience with such a word?!
The elderly pope was walked to the stage and informed of the same rules:
"Two minutes to come up with a poem, and it must involve Timbuktu." The clock was started, but after only a short thought the pope stopped it. Everybody in the competition had used all the provided time, and as the pope approached the microphone a sigh went through the audience. Was he withdrawing from the competition? Would it all end in anti-сliмаx?
No, to everybody’s surprise the pope started to recite his poem based on personal spiritual experience:
"Me and Tim to Brisbane went
Met some ladies, cheap to rent.
They were three and we were two,
So I bucked one, and 'Tim-bucked-two.'"