We have dropped the ball, all the way from heaven. Did you know balls turn to solid ice when they enter the atmosphere? Ours crashed through the rumpus room of a nice family in Petoskey, Michigan. No one was killed, strictly speaking. I suppose it doesn’t matter what happens to the people of Petoskey, since they are stuck on Earth while we are in heaven.
But heaven really is not all that it’s cracked up to be. We thought it would involve lying around, getting mud wraps, maybe a lute lesson here and there. Nooooo. There is a natural foods co-op, and everyone is required to take a shift. I can’t tell you how sick I am of organic parsnips. I’m sure it builds character, but mine was already in quite a state, so why rock the boat?
Anyway, we had hoped to tune into Earth and see how some our favorite people are doing. Morrissey was going to write a post constructed only of Morrissey song titles and lyrics. But things came up, and as you can see from the above images, he is in a bit of a pissing match with Pete Burns. He has forgiven Jesus (for now), and he tells us about his chances of getting into heaven with uncharacteristic optimism:
I was gnawing on a skewer of chicken satay, and then I wasn’t. I found myself face down on laminate flooring. I fumbled around, and my satay was gone! I was still hungry. This would not do. I picked myself up and sat on an uncomfortable yet unobtrusive bench. What a strange room. Why is Karen Carpenter sitting across the room reading an Allure magazine from 1998? Did she take my satay? This cannot be. Where are my keys? Where is my phone? I thought this kind of predicament only happened to Lady Gaga.
I poked my head out in the hallway, and I spotted a desk staffed by unflappable women in tidy smocks. I inquired, and they pointed out that, derp, I had been raptured. Oh. That explains my robe and fuzzy socks with rubber grips on the bottom. They said my personal effects were being stored for safe keeping in a little locker. The first day would be free, but there would be a nominal charge after that. My first thought, after my family, yadda, was “Where is Lambchop?” And I thought this would be jazzier somehow.
I was still hungry, so I followed some brutally direct signs. I finally found Lambchop in line at the cafeteria!Â We have a natural affinity for steam table food, and her last supper was similarly interrupted. We were surprised at how desolate the place seemed, and eventually it came to light from chatting up a man with a ladle that we were the only two citizens of Earth to make the cut on May 21st.
WHAT? That’s not at all what we were expecting. Why would He take us, deprive us of our family and friends, and leave Morrissey? Why was the only thing on the menu Swedish meatballs with lingonberry jam? How can a coffee table cost only $14.99? We held each other, weeping. We put back our own trays like the brutal signs instructed. Why the fuck was everything printed in Verdana? I expected at least Helvetica from heaven.
The man with the ladle shrugged and said they were projecting more guests as well, but that’s just how theÂ PEPPARKAKOR crumbles. Three consulting firms had their sticky paws on the algorithm that controls all the technical stuff pertaining to rapturing. The whole project was just a nightmare.
The man normally works upstairs, but he had kindly offered to staff the serving line in case of a rush. Something seemed familiar about his honeyed tones and suave British accent. He was quite striking, really, with one blue eye and one green eye. He smiled a rather rakish smile and told us to go enjoy the rest of our night. Enjoy? In heaven? Who was this guy kidding?
Ever heard of Colton Burpo? If you can forget his unfortunate moniker, there is another reason to dislike the chubby little tyke. He had one of those near death hallucinations on the operating table. An extremely magical tale of white light and a visit with a miscarried sister (eww) which his minister father turned into a book, which is now being made into a film, called Heaven is For Real. If you can banish the image of a mewling fetus that wants to hug you, REJOICE for, according to Master Burpo, there is also a blonde, blue-eyed Jesus waiting in that snuggle queue! Well, thank fuck, li’l Burpo, because I thought my heathen ass was grass. Actually, I thought my ass was gonna be Satan’s personal little golf green.
We have written about our trips to Heaven in this very space, and you don’t see us making a poxy film about it! Heaven was a bonified snooze. Heaven is a lot of things, but the one thing it most certainly isn’t is REAL. Someone break it to wee, little Burpo, your dad is just an asshole. Of course the most irritating thing about the whole sorry business is that no one ever offers to pair MY ideas with a craft services table. I want advances, Malibu homes with saltwater pools and sexually voracious nannies. And you won’t even have to accept Zac Efron as Jesus*, your lord and personal celluloid savior, in the process!
*credit for that particular casting decision goes to Gawker’s angry Richard Lawson.