Christopher Hitchens and Kim Jong-Il stand on a cloud. There's some soft harp music and, I dunno, some angels hanging around or something.
Christopher Hitchens: Where are we?
Kim Jong-Il: If I didn't consider religion the sigh of the oppressed creature, I'd say we were in heaven.
CH: If I didn't consider all religion a form of bawling and fearful infancy, I'd agree.
KJI: Wait, who are you?
CH: You must not know 'bout me. I'm Christopher Hitchens. I'm the finest essayist of the century, according to myself and maybe some other people. Who are you?
KJI: I am Kim Jong-Il, aka Dear Leader, aka Dear Leader Who is a Perfect Incarnation of the Appearance that a Leader Should Have, aka Sun of the Communist Future, aka Shining Star of Paektu Mountain, aka Guarantee of the Fatherland's Unification, aka Ever-Victorious, Iron-Willed Commander, aka Great Man, Who Is a Man of Deeds, aka Amazing Politician, aka Highest Incarnation of the Revolutionary Comradely Love.
CH: You're even shorter than I imagined.
KJI: Woah, you're right. Where did my platform shoes go?
CH: Maybe they don't allow platforms into heaven.
KJI: Then this must be hell.
CH: I visited North Korea once, and I've got to tell you, that place was no fun.
CH: Shut up.
Vaclav Havel: Fuck both of you.
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