Heaven Ain’t What It’s Cracked Up To Be
I’m not the kind of person to complain—I never was. But now that I’m dead, I’m finding it a bit hard to keep quiet. The thing is, you lead a good life all your life (or at least as good as can be expected from anyone) and you do it because… well, let’s not be coy about it… you do it because you want to enjoy the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Now here I am, and to tell the truth I’m just flat not impressed.
First, the food—or should I say the total lack of food? Did anyone ever tell you there’s no eating in heaven? Well, no one ever told me. I always thought heaven would be my chance to eat whatever I wanted. Cinnamon rolls for breakfast by the dozen! T-bone steak every night with fully loaded baked potatoes! Gobble it all up without counting calories or cholesterol or cost, like food should be enjoyed. But nothing to eat? Nothing to drink? It’s a bit ridiculous.
Second, there’s the heat. I’ve always liked summer days; I’ve never minded catching a few rays, getting a bit of a tan. But where’s the beach? Where’s the pool? Heat without a place to swim and cool off, or even just a comfy lounge chair and umbrella for some shade! To be honest, it’s all a bit oppressive.
Third—and this is the one that really gets to me—I never get to see God or Allah or Jehovah or Buddha or whoever’s in charge. Now I know better than most that the guy (or gal or guys or gals, I don’t care who, I just want to meet them) at the top doesn’t have time to rub elbows with the likes of me all day long. But from time to time it would be nice to see some management around here, is all I’m saying. Maybe get a chance to slip in a few words about the heat and the service, see if anything can be done about it? Hell, I’d settle for a middle-management type, get talking to Jesus or something, see if he can pass the word up the ladder, let him know what’s really going on in this heaven of his.
But all day long the only people I see are like the worst service people back on earth—ill-tempered, not open to constructive criticism, and downright rude.
It almost makes a guy wish he’d given in to his baser instincts when he was alive—more often, I mean.
About the author:
Karl El-Koura lives with his family in Canada’s capital city. He holds a second-degree black belt in Okinawan Goju Ryu karate, is an avid commuter-cyclist (on a stationary bike, in these pandemic times), and works for the Canadian Federal Public Service. To find out more about Karl, visit his website at www.ootersplace.com.