My post-ascension report from Heaven

Yesterday I ascended.  So listen, here’s how things go down.  First of all, you get to keep your Facebook page, which is pretty cool, although the hours for usage are rather tight because these fucking angels do a lot of status updating, plus the whole “Oh yea, who died and made you God” contention when someone tries to kick you offline, isn’t nearly as effective, what with the…well, you know.

There’s a BYOB policy, however, Bartles and James – remember those two old dudes with the fishing hats and the smartass flavored-beer commercials – have a sweet set-up outside the Pearly Gates and offer a good pilsner along with a pale ale for a spattering of frankincense and myrrh. (I didn’t bring my myrrh yesterday but jeans are hard to come by in Heaven, so if you can hang onto that pair of Sevens for the upward journey, you can trade them for unlimited vials of myrrh and pretty much be set for eternity. True Religion pants are a dime a dozen though, so don’t say I didn’t warn you). Barring denim, folks gravitate toward fig leaves, and let me forewarn you, get a wax job before you die.  This place makes scanning for genitalia harder than finding Santa Claus’ mouth.  Just sayin’….

I’ve had a chance to look around and I have to admit, there are a lot less suicide bombers than I expected.  After all, martyrdom seemed popular back on Earth and it’s possible some the planet’s citizens have been sold a bill of goods, because the benefits package promised – virgins, fruits, etc. – aren’t showing up on the radar.  Some of you might want to investigate another after-life insurance plan.  Two other quick notes. When achieving orgasm in Heaven, the phrase ‘Oh My God” begets a booming response that sounds vaguely like “I KNOW, AND YOU’RE WELCOME!” Also, bathroom lines are excessively long.

Due to the large influx of new members, St. Peter and his team threw a great party last night, replete with red carpet, low-calorie dessert plates, and a grand duet performance by Sinatra and Pavarotti– for which the recently-ascended Italians went nuts – although the Vatican Priests were noticeably absent (unsubstantiated rumors had it there was an un-cancelled little league game that evening and the patriarchy felt obligated to stand behind the boys, at least through the seventh-inning stretch).

Apparently you folks down on Earth are in for a pretty rough go over the next few months.  The Heavenly weathermen are predicting earthquakes, hailstorms, torrential rains and flooding – although to be honest, their boast of 100% accuracy on the weather forecasts seems a bit disingenuous considering they control the damn atmosphere, cocky bastards.  My personal suggestion is to drop down onto those sore patellars and toss a few Hail Mary’s and lordly praises northward, unless your last name is Sheen, in which case you’ve already got a large piece of property reserved way down south, so keep up the hedonism and pray Satan has a large stash of Viagra.

By ccxander

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