Recently, I died. It was not my choice of entertainment for a Friday evening but still better than watching Blue Bloods on my beloved CBS.
I was hoping that getting into heaven would be a quiet, unencumbering experience. The first thing you see are these big Pearly Gates. Why pearly? When I was a kid, we were happy to walk through simple iron gates with little or no fanfare.
And St. Peter sure asks a lot of questions. He’s like the divine TSA. Is he worried I’m a terrorist? Do you see 72 virgins surrounding me? And why no x-ray machines?
As if that wasn’t bad enough, once you get past celestial security, you have to deal with all the people who came to heaven before you. You know, goody-goodies.
What a boring bunch. I assumed that I’d get to relax with my family and friends, but it turns out that seating is assigned randomly on the other side. So I’m stuck with a housewife from Newark who never said a dirty word and Mother Teresa. They both have unique smells.
Angels sure like to gossip. All I hear about is which cherub is sleeping with which hashmal. It’s like I’m in a big, Elysian beauty salon.
Well, that’s it. I’m dead. I guess I’ll be here for awhile. Still, it could be worse – at least Dan Rather isn’t up here yet.