September 10, 2014
I’m writing to you from heaven, as I died this morning at St. Anthony’s Hospital, at 8:30 am, central daylight time. The cardiac catheter was mistakenly inserted up my ass. My head was discovered up there, but no heart.
Also discovered were a ticket stub from a Fleetwood Mac concert in 1970, my divorce papers, Season 2 of “Sex and the City,” the Mormon Tabernacle choir, the muffler off a 1967 Corvair, and a “I Heart New York” sticker, which was repaired, not be confused with my real heart which has been found in San Francisco.
I was pronounced dead and Farmer Orville buried me in his compost pile, with all the rest of the shit, and Reba the dog wallowed in me. If you’re going to buy some of Orville’s tomatoes, don’t pet the dog.
What is heaven like?
Pat Robertson is CEO. I know, you’re saying, Pat Robertson is alive. He hasn’t been alive since 1987. That’s a hologram you’re seeing on the T and V. Robertson had been consigned to hell, but the lower depths wouldn’t take him,
Jim and Tammy Faye Baker are here; they’re the wait-staff for the White Food Café, which serves vanilla-flavored coffee, white bread cucumber sandwiches, fried white flour dough, Whitey Herzog hair clippings in a vegetable oil roulade, whitefish with extra-virgin salt seasoning and pureed white rice cream.
I haven’t met God—there’s a waiting list a millimeter long. I have met Jesus, at the white wine bar. I didn’t recognize him because he was decked out in a Paul Fredrick skinny suit. He tells people he’s the son of Manny, not God. He seems nice, but I don’t speak Hebrew. He’s fun to hang with.
I’m a teacher in a girl’s school up here, for young ladies who died before their time. There is no Spandex in heaven, no Lululemon pants, no revealing bathing suits—there’s nothing to swim in—no cleavage here at MonticelloSchool for Girls Who Died.
If even a single naughty thought enters my mind, a voice sounding like my Grandma Olive whispers, “I’m-a gettin’ me a willow switch and whuppin’ your little butt.”
I met Lauren Bacall for lunch. She said, “You know how to whistle, don’t you Steve—I mean, Gene? You just clench your butt cheeks together and blow.”
I know: many people who read my Chronicles take me literally. “Are you really dead?” Yes. “Do you pinky swear?” Yes. “Are you really in heaven?” Yes—on level 666. I room with Richard M. Nixon. He plays the piano 24/7 and plots a run against God. Saddam “Sad Sack” Hussein is running for VP. “Is there a devil?” Yes: Dick Cheney with Harry Carry’s voice.
To all my terrorist friends: There are no virgins here. Well, a few of my students at MonticelloSchool for Girls Who Died are virgins, but they wear chastity belts. I have the electronic key. It ain’t exactly the key to the kingdom, if you get my drift.
What is the meaning of life?
Of which there is none in heaven. We have pi, no pie. If you lust for pie, a voice sounding like my Grandma Olive whispers, “I’m-a gettin’ me a willow switch and whuppin’ your little butt.”
There is baseball here, and cricket, and chess, and cheese dip. Of course there is. Ernest Hemingway guzzles cotton gin and tonic. Ralph Ellison revises “Invisible Man” with invisible ink. Elmore Leonard sits around, bored. There are no mysteries here. Ayn Rand, who was sent here against her will, withers under the derision of the real writers as she sits in the Bad Poets Society Corner, and rails against her vapid namesake, Rand Paul, the fake eye doctor.
I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now. From both sides now. From both sides now. From both sides now.
I have to go. I have a 2:00 whuppin’ appointment.