If you want to get to heaven, you gotta raise a little leaf

Bob Morrissey

It was a dream I’ll never forget — not because it was so full of drama, but because it was so silly.

I had died and gone to what might have been heaven. I say “might have” because there was a sign on the Pearly Gates that read: “This will always be a Trump-free zone.” 

Instead, there was Saint Peter, looking bored and crotchety as I nervously made my approach. “Hmm, do I genuflect?” I wondered. “Do I kiss his ring?” Then I chuckled. “What I SHOULD do is kiss his ass — if I want to get in.”

Instead I said, “As I live and die, so you’re the great Saint Peter, God’s maître d’.”

“That’s Saint Pierre to you,” he replied, sternly. “You’re from Quebec; speak French!”

Then he looked me up and down. I was standing there naked.

“You can’t get in without clothes on,” he said.

“What do you expect?” I replied. “I died in my sleep and I sleep in the nude.” Then, annoyed, I asked, “What, is there a dress code here?”

“You need at least a fig leaf.” he said. “That’s one of the Golden Rules.” Saint Peter, squinting, then looked down at my, um, peter. Smirking, he said, “You’d only need half a leaf.”

“That’s unfair,” I said, defensively. “You’ve heard of shrinkage? I blame it on my baptism. The water was cold. I never … .”

Looking perplexed, Saint Peter interrupted, “Look, I think there’s been a mistake. There’s no way you’re heavenly material. I hate to say it, but you’re going to a much hotter place — a place where everyone’s old and has denture breath.”

“Florida?” I said.

“No, a lot hotter.”

“A clue, please.”

“Well, it’s a vast wasteland where people wander around aimlessly, their bodies flailing away, their words slurred.”

“Not The Montreal Gazette?” I said, remembering fondly our yearly Christmas parties. Oh, how we danced!

“No,” he said. “This is a place where sin lives; where women dance lewdly for the devil.”

“Is there a cover charge?” I asked.

Ignoring me, he continued.

“They won’t speak or listen to you. They’ll kick you out of their rooms. You will be totally ignored.”

“Please,” I begged, “you’re not reuniting me with my wife.”

He talked right over me. “The winters will be never-ending. The landscape will be nothing but snow. The blizzards, deadly.”

“Please, not Nunavut,” I cried.

“You will be an outcast … until they want something from you. They will never accept you. And you will be forced to eat only Middle Eastern food.”

“You mean I can’t order from Skip the Knishes?”

Suddenly, the alarm woke up me and my girlfriend.

“That was quite a dream you had,” she said.

“Tell me about it.”

As I got up, she looked at me and smiled.

“What’s the hurry?” she asked, basking in my nakedness. Peter was a-poppin’. “Do we have time for a little you know what?”

“Let me check my schedule.” Two seconds later, “Yup, there’s an opening.”

Passionate lovemaking followed and so did the usual pillow talk.

“How was it for you?” she asked.

“Great,” I said. “And you?”

“Great - but I still wish you hadn’t gotten baptized.”