In my pre-rapture exuberance, I zigged when I should have zagged. And by zigged I mean I mainlined a *speedball* of Prozac and Ambien and died. So I guess I missed the rapture which didn’t occur anyway but I did get to see heaven and meet God so I think I’m slightly more Christiany than Harold Camping.
I woke up (from death) in a bright yellow kitchen. That’s probably what all those near death experience people see, a bright yellow paint job that catches the sun and is really hard on hung-over eyes. When I came to I was sitting at an enormous dining room table and in the grains of wood I could see all of creation, the true essence of time, and all that ever was and will be. I thought it was weird. Why would God put a dining room table in a kitchen? If God was this tacky then we must have gotten our sense of style and refinement from Satan. But none of that mattered, not in this kitchen. God was an elderly, ancient even, Italian woman, who only stopped cooking long enough to stand at the back door and smoke foul smelling cigarettes. At the table with me were 15 or so people, who were also dead. Some I recognized and some I didn’t. They constantly shifted and morphed into new sets of people. I saw Bin laden but he was in the time out chair so I didn’t get to chat with him.
In front of us were plates of the most delicious foods imaginable. When we were finished with one course, God would bring us another. She seemed generally happy but also seemed to feed off of our moods. When we’d laugh at something George Carlin said, she’d cackle and slap her thunderous hips. When Hitler or the apostle Paul would complain or act out, as they often did, she’d rush over and curse loudly, doing that thing with the back of her hand under her chin. Sometimes she’d hit one of us rather hard with a dish towel or wooden spoon, and it hurt like hell. Apparently God doesn’t know her own strength. The only other time she’d get truly angry is when one of us would push our plate away and beg off. She’d mumble “Mangiare di piu” and bring a cannoli and some espresso. If we still wouldn’t touch that then she’d turn into Samuel L Jackson and tell us that we’d better eat before she got motherfucking wrathy. Then we ate more. Except one time when Marvin Gaye said he was too high to eat anotherr bite. Then God/Samuel L Jackson shot him in the face. Then she turned back into Old Italian Woman God and blamed Samuel L Jackson, who wasn’t even there anymore, for making her shoot Marvin in the face. So God can be a little psychotic and delusional but only when she’s Samuel L Jackson. Besides, by the time the next course rolled around, Marvin was back like nothing had even happened. His appetite had improved drastically though.
Then God came over to me personally, bent over, kissed my cheek and slapped me really hard in the face and the next thing I knew I was alive again. Lying in a pool of my own urine in the back of a stolen Escalade. And no, it was NOT an Ambien based hallucination, it all really happened. I could tell because when I woke up I still had that cannoli taste in my mouth and my cheek was red and sore from God’s over zealous affection.
* I’m pretty sure Prozac and Ambien isn’t technically a speedball. But it’s still dangerous as shit. Obviously.