"Excuse me, is this seat taken?", Jim Morrison asked.

"Yes, it's for Martha Stewart."

"Oh, for sure?"

"Pretty sure."

The houseband, Paul Revere and the Raiders, were singing "Devil With The Blue Dress On" to the delight of the crowd. The demons were doing flips and yelling. The Devil himself was roaring toward the stage to put a stop to this. Blue dress, my butt. Thing is, the band didn't care. What could he do, send them to hell? They liked to tell the Devil that.

James Dean was sitting at his usual table, wearing a bag over his head, tapping his fingers on the table and muttering, "Should have used a seatbelt, should have used a seatbelt."

His buddy, Rock Hudson, told him, "Well, James, that would have been pretty wussy."

"Yea, man, and you'd know."

"Yea, I would. Nice bag."

John Lennon and George Harrison were talking. When George first got there John hid. George kept looking until him found him in the ladies room. He said he recognized the legs.

"Can't get away from you even in hell", Lennon told George.

"Well, John, that's why it's called hell. Maybe Paul will end up here too."

"Okay, rub it in. But, if Yoko gets here, I'm leaving."

Joe Stalin was telling Dick Nixon to quit moaning. Boy, could Nixon cry and whine and moan. Stalin knew why this was called hell. Jeez, an eternity with this guy.

"Dickie, you are well liked here. You're well thought of in these parts. Me, I did what everyone expected from a commie. You did what you did and got the people to re-elect you. Jeez, you only tried to fix the election. I did fix mine. No, what you did was a lot better than me."

"Yes, but am I loved? Am I as good as Kennedy?"

Stalin laughed at that one. Dick was a babe in the woods if he thought that. But, what the hell, "Go ask him if you can get through the flock of women."