OJ Simpson Meets His New Roommate
Satire Alert.
He was groggy as he began to wake up, eyes blurry, trying to focus on the faces peering at him. Rubbing his eyes, he could feel his heart pounding in his chest, disoriented as he woke up from what he thought was his final moments on earth.
“OJ!” one of them barked. “OJ Simpson!”
OJ Simpson, who died of cancer a few weeks after posting on Twitter/X how healthy he was, his last lie, struggled to sit up. The room was dimly lit with no windows, and he wasn’t on a hospital bed anymore. He was on what seemed to be a stony floor, uncharacteristically warm. Not very luxurious, that was for sure.
“Damn, it’s warm in here,” Simpson muttered as he tried to sit up. The people around him broke out in a laugh.
“Welcome to your new home,” said a distinguished-looking Middle Eastern male with gray hair and a beard, arms wide. He wore a dark green uniform with bright gold insignia that OJ didn’t recognize. “I will be your new roommate until our Father Below assigns you to your permanent residence. Spouse murderers and liars live in a special wing that even I don’t qualify for. We call it “Justice Hall.”
“I’m in charge of ‘freshman orientation,’” Qasem Soleimani said, using air quotes. “For VIPs like you, of course.”
“Is this heaven?” OJ muttered, squinting his eyes as they began to focus on the others around him, who looked vaguely familiar.
The group broke out in laughter. “Yes!” they laughed, “This is your reward. And it’s not a movie from Iowa. THAT was heaven compared to this. And wait until you meet the boss and his management team,” said one of them with what seemed like a Russian accent, chain-smoking cigarettes. “And I thought Stalin was a tough taskmaster!”
“Stalin’s a couple of floors down, by the way,” Soleimani said. “I’d avoid him. He’s not very personable. On the other hand, Khrushchev is a jovial fellow who often wanders upstairs to visit us. He’s on the second floor above Adolph, Mao, Idi, and Pol. And Josef Stalin, of course. Our Father Below really likes Stalin and Mao.
“Where the hell am I?” Simpson asked, his eyes finally coming into focus. “And who are Idi and Pol? Do I know them?”
“You’ve answered your own question,” Soleimani quipped. “Second, Idi is Idi Amin and Pol is Pol Pot. They’re not nice guys, but that’s why they’re on the first floor with The Father. “Kim, Ivan, and Saddam are down there, too, along with Vlad.”
“You mean, Vladimir Putin is here?” Simpson asked. He knew who THAT was.
Laughter broke out again. “No,” Soleimani chuckled, “not yet, but a special place awaits him. His nameplate is ready, but he’s still earning his way to the lower floors. Vlad is Vlad the Impaler, a Romanian fellow. Cut quite a swath in his day. He’s a little hard to relate with.”
“Why am I HERE!” OJ exclaimed, almost screaming. “Damn, it’s HOT here! Someone turn on the air conditioning!” Laughter broke out again.
“I’m a nice guy! People like me! A jury believed me when I said I didn’t kill my wife and her miserable, loser boyfriend. I don’t deserve this!” OJ blurted. “I didn’t start a war or kill millions of people! I won a Heisman Trophy! I was a football hero! I did commercials for Hertz! I’m a great golfer!”
“You’re also a liar and not just a murderer but a wife killer,” Soleimani said. “Not even I did that. Brutal.” Soleimani and Heinrich Himmler shook their heads and looked at each other as the Nazi pulled up a photo of Nicole Simpson on his iPad. “She was quite beautiful,” Himmler said in a strong German accent. “She would have been very useful to the Fuehrer.” Himmler looked at OJ and slowly shook his head.
“What was with the whole Bronco scene on the LA freeway?” someone asked from the rear. OJ didn’t recognize him and didn’t want to answer the question. “I’m Walter Duranty, by the way. I was a New York Times reporter and a Moscow bureau chief, and a friend of Lavrentiy Beria and Stalin.”
“You’re ‘juries’ and slick trial lawyers don’t matter here. We know the truth,” muttered the Russian, Beria.
Who are you?” OJ asked. The man took a slow drag on his cigarette as he peered at OJ. “Lavrentiy Beria,” he said. “You may remember my famous quote when I served Josef Stalin: ‘Show me the man, and I’ll show you the crime.’”
OJ quizzically looked at Beria as the quote seemed vaguely familiar.
“I know you, and I know your crimes,” Beria said, blowing perfect rings of smoke above as he turned again and glared at OJ. “We all have our roles here. I am the chief investigator. We’re not sure what to do with you. Can you still play this game, football?” he sneered.
OJ sneered back. “Nobody warned me about this. I would have lived very differently. Can I go back and warn my friends?”
Laughter broke out again among the group as others wandered into the dimly lit, windowless, and warm room, wondering what the humor was about. Humor and laughter were a rarity here. Nobody answered OJ’s question. They didn’t need to.
Then, suddenly, a tall, striking figure and a familiar face to OJ entered the room.
“Deacon!” OJ exclaimed, “Deacon Jones! One of the dirtiest defensive players in NFL history! Man, do I remember you? Head slap and all. What are you doing here?”
“You answered your own question,” Jones said, towering over OJ, still sitting on the floor after his rude awakening. “I bring news for you. We have football teams down here, a helluva league, no pun intended. You’re starting at halfback tomorrow. I’m on the defensive line. And the worst refs in the league who never call anything are all down here with us. There are no timeouts. Ain’t no doctors or hospitals down here, either.”
OJ, remembering a few tackles from the Hall of Fame defense end who played for the Los Angeles Rams, San Diego Chargers, and the Washington Redskins, begin to look worried. “You’re not going to hurt me, right, Deacon, old friend?”
A wide, toothy grin spread across Jones’s face.
“Get up,” Soleimani ordered, holding his right hand to OJ. “We have to meet the boss. It’s a short elevator ride downstairs. He’s quite the football fan and has been eagerly awaiting you.”
“What other sports does he like?” OJ asked Soleimani. “Does he play golf?”
“Just the violent sports,” Soleimani responded, “and curling, for some strange reason, perhaps because it is so tortuous to watch, and he finds the concept of ice so fascinating. He laughs at European soccer players when they feign injuries, so that’s high on his list. Oh, and Johnny Cochran is going to join us. You remember him, of course.”
Cochran, almost on queue, bursts into the room. “If it doesn’t fit, you must acquit!” he yells, arms spread, beaming his trademark smile as he greets his former client, citing the famous line from Simpson’s murder trial. “It worked on earth, but not down here. I was told you’d be here soon! Let’s go meet our new judge,” he extols as Cochran leads Soleimani and OJ to a special elevator leading. . . downstairs.
Go , OJ!! Go!!