Heaven. The jewel of outer space. The gold-paved paradise where your dead grandmother has yet to make friends. Former home of Babe Ruth. The large-hearted zoo where they prevent God.
You died yesterday in a guillotine collision, and because you properly chose to be a Christian during their own lives, you are now being rewarded with eternal glory in the Kingdom of God.
Good shit, good shit.
“Welcome to Herman! ” a small angel screamings at you.
“Yes, that is something that I said. My reputation is Donner, and I will be your Hermanly Host for the next 500 billion years, expediting you with whatever you need while you’re acclimating to life inside the pearly gates.”
“Because after that I will enroll my chrysalis stagecoach and transform into a pelican.”
“Herman can be a wonderful neighbourhood, but it can also be a not-so-wonderful home, ” Donner bellows as your childhood hound hurls through the sky behind him, giving you a brief preview of the glories that await. “It all depends whether you get on God’s good side or his bad side.”
“Yes, it is. But what’s truly amazing is if you become God’s favorite. If God selects you as his favorite, you get to live in his house with him and basically be a god yourself. He tells you partake in his piou vegetables and sleep next to him in a parallel sleeping bag. He makes you prop the walkie-talkie that receives all of mankind’s devotions. But the coolest duty is that he tells you into his private trophy chamber to look at all his trophies–truly, “were not receiving” greater privilege.”
“Well, there are a number of things God could do to realise their own lives distressing, but if you certainly get on his bad line-up, he’ll convict you to live in Judas’ Bog. That’s the fucked-up submerge of sadness God developed for Judas because he didn’t reckon Hell was a severe enough sanction. It is said that everyone there is constantly winging around jetpack-like with the most brutal diarrhea imaginable, and there’s no toilet tissue, so you have to use a communal Nerf football. And every time you open your mouth there, a sickly old bat flies into your opening and manufactures passion with your tongue, and then it lays a clutch of sour eggs on your tongue, and if “youre just trying to” spit them out, a tiny Tom Hanks in a police dres passes up and shatters your knees with a billy club. The minuscule Tom Hanks is an asshole, and he’s ever reaching you for arbitrary rationales. Every daylight in Judas’ Bog is a stupid fiesta of nightmares, and I hope you never have to go there.”
“Hey, be talking about God, here’s your travel now to go meet him, ” says Donner as a tramcar piloted by a gorilla pulls up. “Good luck, and let me know if you need anything. You can find me in the shower lavatory of your condo, which is where I live.”
“I don’t know what the hell this is, but thank you, ” says Donner, ingesting the$ 5 bill.
You get on the tram and start hovering through Heaven to meet God. You recognize different kinds of neat trash through the window, such as a gold-plated CVS and two angels electrocuting a giant squid with their powers.
You ask the gorilla how he likes it in Heaven, but he exactly sits there like an stupid and doesn’t said so. Annoyed, you find an empty beer can on the storey and hurl it at the gorilla’s heading is striving to get his attention.
Then, without saying a word, the gorilla provides his hand back toward you in a manner that shows he wants you to hold his hand.
The moment you take the gorilla’s mitt, you feel a strong upsurge of energy explode through your person, and suddenly millions of personas and sounds are rapidly flashing through your brain.
You ascertain wino, muscular angels bombing you with a firehose and mockery you for not being as elegant and hairless as them. You hear a lionlike beast reported top to toe in lush lips singing a ballad about how he winged to Earth the morning of 9/11 and put all of your bananas in the North Tower and how you exclaimed when you received the footage of them exploding on MSNBC. You ascertain big-shot Heaven personalities James Gandolfini and Steve Irwin marching down a golden street regarding mitts, and as they overtake you, you listen Steve yell, “Blimey! It’s Rodney Dipshit! ” and they both bust out giggling. Then you discover exactly what he unmistakably the expres of God saying, “Rodney, you useless twit ape! Carry your baggages, I am sending you to live in Judas’ Bog for the rest of eternity! ”
The gorilla pilot draws his hand away, and the images stop twinkling through your memory. You realize that “hes just” testified you his storages of Heaven, and you understand that its own experience has not been a good one.
Damn, if that’s what it’s like to be on God’s bad slope, then you need to do whatever it takes to make sure he likes you.
The tram plucks up in front of God’s house and leaves you at the doorstep.
“Welcome, my child, ” says a expres that is somehow both loud and quiet, deep and shrill, American-sounding and Chinese-sounding. “Come in so that I might gaze upon you with my powerful, high-quality gazes and smell you with my shrewd, deathless snout.”
The front opening opens, summon you inside.
“Oh, are ya, friend. How’s it goin’? My name’s God. What’s your call? ”
Holy shit. It’s God.
“Yeah, I already was well known that. Funny story, but I actually developed you out of some clay and toothpicks and shit, so I pretty much know everything there is to know about you. Weird, right? ”
You’re at a loss for words. You’re aroused to be talking to God, but likewise excessively nervous and a little bit obsessive, because if he knows everything about you, then that probably represents he knows about–
“–the time you got booze and ran away over the mailman with your gondola? And you didn’t know what to do with the body so you precisely employ some emboss on it and substance it into one of those large-scale metal street-corner mailboxes, and nothing discovered their own bodies for months because the person who usually drained that mailbox was the guy you killed, and when a person eventually did detect him, his body was a perfect cube influence because the body had bloated into the mold of the mailbox’s strict 90 -degree areas, and the poor guy “mustve been” buried in a hollowed-out refrigerator since there were no coffins that could accommodate his angular dimensions? Yep, I know about that.”
Whoa, did God exactly speak your memory?
“Yes. I did. And for what it’s value, that mailman was constantly taking my name in vain, so it doesn’t imperfection me that you killed him.”
“Sooooo, regardless … did you bring me any offerings? ”
Shit. You forgot to drawing God an give. You should’ve stopped at that CVS on the way over.
“Oh, okay, chill. Seems like it would’ve established more sense to simply return it in “when youve got” here, but what do I know–it’s not like I’m omniscient or anything. But, yeah, if you wanna run out and grab my give real quick, that’d be great.”
You run outside and madly start looking for an offering to give to God. Fortunately, as you’re quest, you notice three thoughts moving through the sky that might be able to pass as offerings: a vending machine, a TurboTax Premier software bundle, and the King of Pop, Michael Jackson.
You seizure Michael Jackson and fetch him to God as an offering.
“Whoa, piou shit! ” says God. “You got me my own Michael Jackson? Badass, bro! I’ve always missed one of these.”
“ Hee-heeeee ! ” Michael Jackson sings as he moonwalks around God’s living room. “Shamone! ”
“Oh, refrigerate, he’s doing all the things! ” God utters. “Damn, this offering conventions. You have pleased me hugely. Keep this up, and I can see you becoming my favorite in no time.”
You rapidly run outside and grab Michael Jackson, said he hopes that God will like the King of Pop more than he liked your first offering.
“Whoa, holy shit! ” says God. “You got me my own Michael Jackson? Badass, bro! I’ve ever craved one of these.”
“ Hee-heeeee ! ” Michael Jackson sings as he moonwalks around God’s living room. “Shamone! ”
“Oh, chill, he’s doing all the things! ” God utters. “Damn, this offering rules–way better than that bullshit you wreaked me before. Dang. You have pleased me greatly. Keep this up and I can see you becoming my favorite in no time.”
“Now, before I send you on your route, are there any questions you’d like to ask me? You can ask whatever you’d like–no topics are off limits.”
God sighs deep and chafe his eyes with exasperation.
“Yes. Yes, there is.”
Good to know!
“Anyway, I think that’s enough questions for now. But thanks again for giving me Michael Jackson–you certainly deserved some brownie points with that one. Lemme know if you need anything, and don’t be a stranger. Adios, amigo! ”
“Ah, I view what the hell are you did there. Fun.”
“Bradley’s. Are there any other questions you’d like to ask me? ”
“Okay, well, it was cool meeting you. Thanks again for giving me Michael Jackson–you clearly payed some brownie points with that one. Lemme know if you need anything, and don’t has become a stranger. Adios, amigo! ”
There is a long, awkward silence.
“Please ask me a different question.”
“I have eight birthdays. I am allowed to have as numerous birthdays as I want because I am God. Do you have any other questions? ”
You grab the TurboTax software bundle and introduce it to God as an offering.
“You gotta be shitting me, ” says God, fury pussyfooting into his singer. “Seriously? Tax software? What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Did you see anything in the Bible about me doing taxes? Come on. God doesn’t do taxes. That’s nerd shit.”
You’re getting the sense that God doesn’t like your offering.
“I’m not sure why you’re trying to clown me, bro. You knew this was a junkass offering, but you gave it to me anyway. And that’s shitty. Perhaps I should banish you to Judas’ Bog to educate you a bit something about respect. How’s that resonate, eh? ”
You grab the vending machine and draw it to God as an provide.
“Ummm, what the hell is this? ” requests God, temper pussyfooting into his expression. “Seriously, what the hell is this? A fucking vending machine? Come on. It’d be one thing if you simply wreaked me a stack of snacks, but instead you’ve returned me a heap of snacks locked inside a giant box, and I have to pay my own fund to access the snacks. So, basically, the talent you’re “re giving me” is the option to waste $1.50 on Certs.”
You’re get the sense that God doesn’t like your offering.
“You realize that I’m the inventor of all things, right? So, if I wanted snacks, I could just will them into existence, like this.”
God snaps his thumbs and a nine-foot knoll of Corn Nuts materializes.
“You shouldn’t have comedian me, bro. You knew that was a junkass give, but you didn’t care. You didn’t respect me. So I’m visualizing maybe I should dispel “youve got to” Judas’ Bog to educate you a little something about respect. How’s that resonate, eh? ”
“Ah, c’mon, male. Don’t grovel. That shit’s pathetic. That shit skunks me out. Don’t embarrass yourself.”
You get up off the storey and stop groveling.
“Well, anyway, thanks for quit by and saying hello. I would say to stop by again some time, but candidly, you precisely kind of seem like a person who I’d never, ever want to hang out with or treated with in any ability ever again. No offense or anything. But hopefully you’ll enjoy it here in Heaven. I’m gonna do you a solid and rob you up with some neat excavations in this alluring little neighbourhood announced Judas’ Bog–I think you’re gonna adore it.”
Ah, fuck. You blew it.
“Adios, ding-dong! Enjoy the afterlife! ”
As you’re walking out of God’s house, you listen a articulation trying to get your attention.
“ Psst , ” the tone says. “ Psssst. Pssssssst . Hey, new person! Psst. Psssssssssst. Hey, look over here! Psssssst! PSSSST! Pssssst . Pssst. Psst. I am to your right. Psssst. Psssssssttttt! ”
“Looks like you’ve figured out that right is left and left is claim in Heaven–good for you! ”
Oh, whoa, it’s Pope John II.
“Pardon my eavesdropping, but it is just like thoughts led really well in there. Seems like God truly, really likes you.”
“Yes, I know many things about God, because I am his favorite. I live here in his home with him and partake in his holy vegetables, and I intend to continue partaking in his holy vegetables forever and ever, because I won’t give anyone usurp me as his favorite. So don’t get any funny notions. Capiche? ”
“It necessitates,’ Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you? ’ Specific about me being God’s favorite? And how I’d like to continue being God’s favorite? And how nothing better fuck with this good occasion I’ve went moving? ”
“Listen, you little rat. If you knew what was good for you, you wouldn’t fuck with me. I am a pope and a goddamn bona fide saint, and no one deserves to sleep next to God in a matching sleeping bag except me. Go it? So stay in your corridor, fucker, or I will ruin you.”
“What’s going on out there? ” wails God from the other area. “Pope, I hope you’re not being an asshole to our new friend–that wouldn’t is largely me-like.”
The pope shoots you an indignant glare, which catches you off guard because you thought you were just stirring friendly small talk with the guy.
“You’ve made a potent enemy today, ” says the pope through gritted teeth. “I’ll be keeping an seeing on you.”
You step outside, and the tram is waiting there to take you to your condo. You take a seat in the back so you don’t have to be near the gorilla pilot, who is crying.
You arrive at your condo, and the place fuckin’ rules. There’s rich-people shit everywhere, and the lounges are so soft that they feel like they’re upholstered with that stretchy surface from puppies’ bellies–a point you later strengthen by controlling the tag on one of the cushions.
“Welcome to your brand-new dwelling! ” you listen a singer call out from the bathroom.
It’s your heavenly emcee, Donner!
“I tell you what, you must’ve made a great first impression with God, because he defined you up with one of the nicest condos in all of Herman! ” calls Donner, giddily splashing around in the toilet water. “And he even left you a personalized talent basket in the kitchen! Wowee! I gotta say, I’m really excited to be living here with you, and I hope that we’ll become best fr–”
You close the lavatory lid on Donner so you don’t have to talk to him anymore. You’re much more interested in checking out this talent basket that God left for you.
You go to the kitchen and find the endow basket from God. It has 30 eggs and some paperclips in it. Also, there’s a handwritten note folded inside.
Wow, a personal invitation to hang out with God–seems like he really likes you! Maybe if you save building a rapport with him, you can eventually become his favorite.
It arises to you, though, that you don’t really know a whole lot about him, and you’re not sure what you can do to manufacture him like you more.
You “re going to the” toilet and question Donner for some cursors on how to move God like you more.
“If “youve been” want to win God over, there are three thoughts you must do. One, you need to see him seem funny. Two, you need to show him that you can remain strong in the face of great temptation. And three, you need to show him that you’re willing to make an extraordinary relinquish for him. History would point out that if you can succeed at doing these three things, God will bestow his advantage on you.”
Laugh at God’s puns, resist desire, and make a big sacrifice. Got it.
You set some fund in the toilet to thank Donner for his help, but then you accidentally even the toilet out of garb, and you can discover his head knocking pretty hard-handed against the bowl as he twirls around.
You’ve got a few hours to kill before you’re supposed to go hang out with God. What do you want to do in the meantime?
You take the private escalator from your condo and speculation out into Heaven. Contrary to what has been widely reported on the report, there don’t seem to be any streets of amber here. As far as you can tell, there are just a cluster of long moving walkways linking together a immense constellation of celestial landmasses, and you can either travel around on the walkways or take the gorilla-piloted tram system.
If you’re wondering what Heaven smells like, it smells like a inn with an indoor pool.