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Dennis Miller Learns the "3 P's of Selling Out" Dennis Miller Live, the tongue-in-pucker talk show that has been taking the right wing world by storm had no less than three unexpected appearances on last night's installment of the show that has been billed as "fair and accurate talk television." "It caught me off guard, I'll tell you what," said studio guest Mars Barner. "I was at the John Hagee taping that morning and I'll tell you what." We waited for him to tell us what. "If the minister had been there at that there Miller show he would have rebuked each one of them demons and bent them over one by one for the Lord!" Unfortunately for Mr. Miller, his audience of penitents, and their Lord, no minister was present at the taping. So right when Dennis was finishing his third John Kerry crack: "I just don't see how liberals can go with Kerry. The guy is more indecisive than Michael Jackson after his pretrial brain tuck and cerebral collagen injection." The lights dimmed, the ominous music started playing, and the ghosts of Lenny Bruce, Sam Kinison, and Bill Hicks came sauntering in through the wall. There was no one there to ask for their spiritual stage pass. All was quiet and thick with held breath. Not a sound was uttered save for the almost imperceptible whisper from the studio manager to the cameras to "keep rolling." The ghosts were silent, looking much as they did in life, only a bit more runny around the edges. Bruce was the first to react, floating over to Miller's desk and causing his collected guests to scatter. All save for Jeb Bush who just stared on in awe. "I knew it! I just knew it! Momma always told me if I kept my hands off Mr. Winky I'd see one and now I have." Jeb crosses himself and clasps his hands together. "An angel!" Bruce rounds on Jeb: "And you can bank we'll be the last ones you'll ever see. Daddy's boy." With that Bruce squared his attention back on Mr. Miller. With every passing moment the spectre appeared more tangible. His look; one of extreme scrutiny, almost disbelief. He turns back to Sam and Bill. "Lenny Bruce for the new millennium my hairy Mediterranean tucchus! He's a mouthpiece and an idiot and he doesn't even look like me." "Calmly Lenny, calmly," Hicks says, "you'll feel better after we've finished the job, and if you're good I'll buy you a bagel at Starbucks before we leave this plane." "What, you're saying you have ghost money in your ghost pockets? I think you're just a smidge ghost-meshuggah there, Bill." "Okay Lenny, whatever," Hicks concedes, "just start already. You're the first and we have to be at Drew Carey's house by eight or there'll be Hell to pay." "It's okay guys," Kinison says under his breath, "if therešs any Hell to be paid, I'm sure Dennis will be more than happy to pick up the check." At this Dennis puts on his most evasive grin. The kind that would make the Dali Lama frown. "Alright guys I get it. Three ghosts, booing it up and showing me my transgressions until I get all Scrooged up and buy some poor gaffer a Christmas duck. I mean could you be any more-" BANG! Bruce slams his all too substantial fist down on Miller's desk to silence further Dickens. He grinds teeth that aren't there and his eyes glow in a way that couldn't have been picked up this side of the grave. "Do we look like festive spooks to you, Dennis?" Bruce puts his face close to Miller's, driving him into his chair. "I spent my life trying to transcend this Christian shtick and now I come back to haunt and I'm the bloody ghost of Jesus Past! Is that it, Miller? I might as well be carrying a crucifix in my perforated palm." Bruce regains his composure and steps back from the desk, Sam and Bill come up to stand beside him. Lenny Bruce continues. "I pity you Dennis Miller, the ghosts in Dickens' book were there to save Scrooge. You, my dear puppet don't deserve saving. That is why we're here to give you:" "The three P's of selling out." They all say in unison. "It sounds even more lame on Earth." "Quiet Sam!" Hicks whispers. Bruce quickly steps forward and points down at Miller. Dennis gulps, still smiling that stapled on the face smile, sweat starts to gather on his brow. "I am the first, Dennis Miller," Bruce drones in an overly spooky voice while wiggling his outstretched fingers. "Artists who compromise themselves for profit do the world a harsh injustice. We are here in recompense for your selfish acts. I am the first P and the first P is me. I am Penance." Bruce's eyes go red again as a dart of light shoots from his outstretched finger and strikes Dennis Miller right between the eyes. Miller blinks. "My work is finished as you stand damned. You are destined for Hell now, there is no escape. May you have mercy on yourself." Miller wipes his forehead, finds nothing but sweat and makes a stab for his high horse. "Who are you to send me to hell? How could God hate me more than God hates you? You basically gave him the finger every time you were on stage." Lenny sighs. "You are indeed a fool's fool, you fool. I'm not in Hell because I didn't want to be. The afterlife, if you can call it that, is far more subjective than people are led to believe. You go where you want to go, or more appropriately, where in the deepest darkest recesses of your guilty little head you know you deserve to go. You put yourself in Hell, Miller. You built it, buried it, and made your own reservation in the hottest part. I'm just here to tell you the car is waiting. I'm done with you now." Lenny backs away solemnly, screwing up his face. He barely makes it back to his companions before he bursts out laughing. Kinison is literally jumping up and down with anticipation. "Now?" Sam Kinison whines. "Now." Lenny Bruce answers. Sam Kinison's eyes erupt with molten fire. His face turns a bright red as his beret flies off his spectral head and his hair writhes on end, lashing out at all angles. He strides forward like a king or rooster and plants himself squarely in front of Miller. "I've been to Hell, Miller. Had some fun, got bored. Don't think a pansy like you will get on too well there." "So is your p-p-P, p-p-pansy?" Miller asks, running on joke autopilot now. "Don't you wish it was, huh?" Sam laughs. "I don't go in for ceremony like my friends. My P is Pain, ready? ARRH! ARRH! ARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!" Kinison's famous scream had picked up something in the hereafter. It grated on Dennis Miller's psyche like all the chalk in the universe on the blackboard of his brain. He moved to grasp his temples but every motion was a million knives stabbing him. Every thought a billion banshees laughing. Kinison stops. Dennis Miller collapses over his desk. He looks up through tearful eyes and forces his vision to focus. There were the ghosts, Kinison standing forward from the others, and other than that an empty studio. All had fled this sinking ship leaving Miller to whatever fate held in store. Even Jeb Bush was nowhere to be found. Miller's eyes roll back to Kinison." "P-please Sam, I-" "Want more?" Kinison interrupts. "You want more? Well I am more than happy to oblige. ARRH! ARRH! ARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!" After what seems like an eternity the screaming ceases. Dennis slowly regains composure and notices a faint but swelling taste of blood. Hicks steps forward. "You've cracked three teeth," Hicks says, "An incisor and two canines unless I miss my guess. And I don't. Still, I have to admire your fortitude. You handled that better than most. But I suspect a turncoat like you will have had experience with pain, and it's far from over." Dennis cringes. He pushes his way out of his cushy chair and squirms down behind his desk. His every motion breathes anguish. "Oh no Dennis, not now." Hicks throws the desk aside as if weightless. "It's far too late to be running now. I spent my whole career fighting against sellouts and fat cats and the rest of you nuzzling Satan's piglets. You're not getting any mercy from me bucko. I am the third P, Mr. Miller, and I am your Punishment." Bill Hicks makes a gesture of beckoning and an unseen force drags Dennis Miller to his feet. Suspended, he hovers in front of Hicks with horror in his eyes as Bill grabs him by both sides of his head. With a sound like primordial ooze being dredged up from the depths of the earth, Hicks hocks up a portion of his own personal lung butter and gives Miller a full and open-mouthed kiss on each of his damp and beady little eyes. Hicks wipes his mouth and backs away as the force lifts from Miller's body and he slumps to the floor. He tries to wipe at the viscous ooze but it sticks and holds fast. "I'd save my energy if I were you. It won't ever come off." Hicks grins. "I guess you could also call my P, plague. Give it a day, or a week, or whatever, and you'll start getting boils, ulcers, scabs, hair falling out, the whole nine yards and one to grow on. Good luck with your television show." Sam and Lenny come up to border bill and once again they speak in unison: "The curses said, our work is done. Let all who see you fear our mark, their payment waits in darkest dark. And those who would forsake their spark. Our bite is far worse than their bark." They turn and leave in unison, walking back through the studio and growing more incorporeal by the moment. And over the miserable whimpers of Dennis Miller and the scrabbling sound of his futile scrapes to clear his eyes, you can hear their parting words on this planet: "Come on now Bill, that last bit was worse than Lenny's. You really could make Jesus blush, you know?" "I don't want to hear it Sam, or anything else for that matter. Your voice is like a bus-full of nuns driving into a blender." "Come on now you guys, quit yapping. We don't get paid for this anymore." Bruce takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "Sometimes I envy Franky; Tenth level of Hell and he's still picking up royalties. Thatšs show business."
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