And lo, it came to pass, in the fullness of years, that the immortal soul of Leah Remini, professional bigot and religion-basher, ascended the golden staircase for judgement before the Divine Tribunal.
The Supreme Arbiter opened the Great Book of Deeds and found her name there. Allowing himself a moment to reflect on what he read, he then addressed her.
“Ms. Remini, you have been a busy bee.”
“Please, I can explain,” she protested. “I was only trying to help people in their search for the one true religion. That’s why I spent so much time bashing Scientology and other faiths—they just—”
“The one true religion, as you call it, is Religion,” the Supreme Arbiter interjected. All religions are different pathways to God! Whichever way you want to interpret God. For the Christians, it’s loving kindness. For the Buddhists, it’s enlightenment. For the Jews, it’s study and discipline. For the Muslims it’s wholeness and submission. For the Hindus, it’s karma. I could go on, but the point is, Ms. Remini, for someone so concerned about other people’s faith, you have none of your own. You don’t believe in God or the spirit or immortality or anything at all, really, and you’ve said so, loudly, to many.”
“I never said that—ever!”
“Of course you did,” the Supreme Arbiter continued, his voice taking on a slight edge. “Not with your mouth, of course—you’re too sly for that. But with your actions. Every time you attacked the beliefs of people. Every time you mocked what people all over the world held in their hearts as sacred. Every time you used your TV series as a platform to dismay and discourage people from having faith. You made a lot of money sending people away from Heaven, and for that, I’m afraid, we’ll need to fire up the furnace.”
“You’re sending me to Hell?”
“No, no. Too many friends of yours are there already, and, as Mark Twain once said, ‘Heaven for climate, Hell for the company.’”
“Well, what then?”
The Supreme Arbiter regarded her thoughtfully a moment before speaking again.
“Allow me to introduce you to—Mikey. Mikey, this is Ms. Remini.”
After a puff of smoke, a young man appeared. Bespectacled and flush-faced, sporting a Mets baseball cap and wielding a bulging briefcase, he extended his hand breathlessly. “Ms. Remini!! I’m SOOOO excited to meet you!! I’ve got this amazing idea for a sitcom.”
Suddenly a complete office materialized out of thin air, and Remini found herself sitting at a pinewood desk strewn with stacks of scripts, script treatments and outlines, worn pencils and old coffee pods. Mikey, now sitting across from her, was already eagerly laying out several more script outlines in front of her.
“It’s about these two guys who run a pizza place, see, and ONE of them—” (and now Mikey could barely contain himself for laughing) “—is allergic to GLUTEN! I call it Give Pizza A Chance. Get it?”
While Mikey snorted with laughter, Remini heard only the Supreme Arbiter’s voice ringing clear and sonorous. It reverberated inside her head and resounded throughout all of Heaven. “Leah Remini, for thy sin of sowing the seeds of hatred and doubt among the multitudes, this Tribunal condemns you to an Eternity of listening to stupid sitcom pitches.”
“Wait!!” Remini shouted. “Not THAT! Anything but THAT!! I’ll take fire and brimstone instead! Please! Mercy!” But it was too late. The only voice she could hear now was Mikey’s.
“THEN I’ve got this one about these two ceramic tile setters, Moe and Frank. Only THEY’RE NOT REALLY CERAMIC TILE SETTERS!!! They’re actually—”
And that, dear reader, is how Leah Remini was recompensed in the Hereafter for her faith-destroying efforts in this life: an Eternity in what every Hollywood producer quakingly refers to as “Development Hell,” that deepest pit of damnation from whence no mediocre sitcom idea or producer returneth.