Bob McNair goes to the Good Place

/Inside an empty waiting room with an instrumental version of Creed’s My Sacrifice being played in the background

/Suddenly, a Door Flies Open. A younger looking Bob McNair enters the room

Bob McNair: What in the hell? Where am I?

/A Confused McNair notices another door to his left and decides to walk over to it, opens the door and enters the next room and notices an older looking man sitting behind a desk

Older Man: Hello Bob. My name is Michael. Please have a seat. /McNair sits down on a chair

Michael: How are you today?

Bob: I’m great, Thanks for asking. Oh, one question: Where in Sam Hill am I? Who in Judas Priest are you? Why do I look so young and what’s going on?

Michael: Right, so, you, Bob McNair, are dead. Your life on Earth has ended, and you are now in the next phase of your existence in the universe.

Bob with a stunned look on his face: Oh. Okayyyy. I have some questions.

Michael:  I thought you might.

Bob: How did I die? I-I don’t remember.

Michael: Yes, um, you do recall you had leukemia, right?

Bob: Yes. Well shit, that makes sense, partner. So, considering how you’re a dapper looking gentleman and I’m a good, God loving Christian man, I can only assume this place is the waiting office to get into heaven. When can I meet my lord and savior, Baby Jesus?

Michael [chuckling]: Lets take a walk, shall we?  /Michael Snaps his fingers and he and Bob enter a gated resort

/Bob raising both his arms up high: Yahoooooo! Now that’s what I’m talking about, partner. We don’t have any Spices cleaning up our room. . . Wait a minute. Holy shirt, why can’t I say Spices?

Michael: Okay. So this is how it works. What you refer to as Heaven, we call The Good Place. The Good Place is divided into distinct neighborhoods. Each one contains exactly 322 people who have been perfectly selected to blend together into a blissful harmonic balance. Each neighborhood is unique. Some have warm weather, some cold.

Some are cities, some farmland. But in each one, every blade of grass, every ladybug, every detail has been precisely designed and calibrated for its residents. For you, this neighborhood is for hard working folks, such as yourself, who don’t like to swear. There are no people that look different or prefer different things than you.

Michael playfully elbows McNair in the ribs and whispters: In fact, between you and I, you might be in a community with Marge Schott, Thomas Yawkey and your idol, George Preston Marshall.

Bob: I think I’m truly going to love it here in Hev—er—I mean The Good Place.

/As Michael and Bob walk to the town square, they see a group walking towards seats that are in-front of a big screen film projector. Bob cracks a smile because he likes what he sees.

Michael: Since you ranked number one in this community, you get to grab a seat in the absolute front. Do it now because the movie’s about to begin. /indistinct chatter heard in the background

/The movie begins and it’s Michael on the screen: Hello, everyone, and welcome to your first day in the afterlife. You were all, simply put, good people. But how do we know that you were good? During your time on Earth, every one of your actions had a positive or a negative value, depending on how much good or bad that action put into the universe. Every sandwich you ate, every time you bought a magazine, every single thing you did had an effect that rippled out over time and ultimately created some amount of good or bad. You know how some people pull into the breakdown lane when there’s traffic? And they think to themselves, “Ah, who cares? No one’s watching. “We were watching. Surprise!

/audience laughs in unison

Michael: When your time on Earth has ended, we calculate the total value of your life using our perfectly accurate measuring system. Only the people with the very highest scores, the true cream of the crop, get to come here, to the Good Place. What happens to everyone else, you ask? Don’t worry about it!

The point is, you are here because you lived one of the very best lives that could be lived. And you won’t be alone. Your true soul mate is here too! That’s right. Soul mates are real. One of the other people in your neighborhood is your actual soul mate, and you will spend eternity together. So welcome to eternal happiness. Welcome to the Good Place! Oh yeah, there is one last thing. . .

/the projector spontaneously ends and disappears. Michael is now on the platform where the projector was and has a sinister smile on his face

Michael: I’m not actually Michael. I’m. . . /Michael snaps his fingers to reveal his “true” form

Bob McNair: DeShaun? What are you doing here? I thought there were no-

Kunta Kinte interrupts McNair: No, you cracker! I’m Kunta Kinte and I am a demon who took over the imagery of one of your greatest fears: The black man rising up. Surprise! You’re in the bad place, Honkey! I officially own you and you’re going to be my slave for eternity!

Bob McNair: Jesus, Mary and Joseph save me!

Kunta Kinte: Those three were brown and Palestinian, mother fucker! They aren’t going to save your racist ass. Hey, go look at your new friends now!

/Bob turns around and yells in horror

Kunta Kinte: That’s right Cowboy! These demons are inmates who now run the asylum. They’re going to be torturing you for the rest of eternity. They feel like playing basketball? They’ll be using your balls, son! Oh, but there is so much more, you old, bigoted piece of shit!

/Kunta Kinte snaps his fingers and more demons that look like McNair’s fears appear out of nowhere

Kunta Kinte: Because I know how much you love people different than you, these lovely demons are going to be in-charge of farting natural gas on you, and then setting your prune ass on fire. And then they’ll do it again. And again. And again. Again. Again. From multiple different angles.

/McNair begins to weep profusely

Kunta Kinte: Oh, you’re crying? Not a good look for your wrinkly ass /Snaps finger and McNair resorts back to his old self before he died.

Kunta Kinte: That’s better, hillbilly. There isn’t anyone who is going to defend you like you did Jerry Richardson. Oh, you’ll pay for that and your other racial sins that the public doesn’t know about—but we do. But I don’t want to give away all the torturous things we’ll make you do, like, pay your taxes and show you how much money people will save in electricity after we re-regulate electric bills, you fat pig.

McNair: Is that the only political atonement I have to pay for?

Kunta Kinte begins to laugh: Your funding of hate? Such as Scott “Protesting teachers are the same as ISIS” Walker? Lindsey “Genocide is good, actually” Graham? The Zodiac Killer, Ted Cruz? Over a million spent on the Progress for America Pac, which blatantly lied about linking Iraq to 9/11 and causing a genocide? We have demons lining up for the privilege to torture you.

McNair: Please, just take all my money! Don’t hurt me!

Kunta Kinte: Oh don’t worry. There will be days where we’ll be the IRS and take all your money, and your dipshit sons’ money too. It’ll be 2005 all over again, but with a happy ending!

/Kunta Kinte snaps his fingers and changes form

Terry Crews: Now hop on the bus that has the heat cranked full blast and enjoy the crème brûlée that will be served.

McNair: Well, that doesn’t sound so bad.

Terry Crews: Oh, the crust on the crème brûlée is going to burn the top of your mouth, and then fire ants are going to attack you in your mouth. HA HA HA HA HA! Welcome to hell!

McNair: Noooooooooooo!





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Well done, sir.

Titans @ Texans – Monday Night Existential Open Thread – [DOOR FLIES OPEN]

[…] cannot be considered free if it’s expected to respect the dead, even assholes who deserve a thorough roasting. My sole regret is that McNair will miss Bad Bunny as the halftime entertainment. Bad Bunny, of […]

King Hippo

Love this just so, so much. You are an incredibly creative writer, those LOLphin-induced tribulations must work good on the mind.


Toilet spiders are too good for him. The penis flatener is too good for him. Basically, Billionaire Hell requires a whole new broadening of perspective that only hard-ass drugs will inspire. Hippo: It’s time.

King Hippo


Ian Scott McCormick

I really want to see what Janet does to him


Something that involves “jamming it” I would assume.


comment image


In my muddles brain I kept confusing Bob McNair with Steve McNair. I didn’t know Steve was racist. The more you know.


I believe the demons will run a different Houston 500 on him.


After spending my morning (on hold, mostly) with credit agencies and such, I don’t find your depiction of “hell” to be terribly intimidating.

Low Commander of the Super Soldiers

“This isn’t fair to McNair!” – Roger Goodell

“Won’t someone spare McNair?!” – JJ Watt

“Are we supposed to care about McNair?” – DeShaun Watson

“I like chair!” – Trent Green


Hang on, I fart natural gas! What does that mean?


Good Riddance.

Game Time Decision

One can only hope that he’s in for that after life


I will go as far as to press one F for Bob McNair.