Hi, God. Bernie Turkingham. Duh, you know that. You got a minute? Great, thanks.
I'm gonna tell it like it is: I think you're doing a bang-up job. This world's what, a few hundred years old, and you're still running a tight ship … Millions? Wow, I was way off. Point is, you've got a great business model that's working for Earth, and I salute you for that.
And that's to say nothing of Heaven. I mean, this place, just, wow. This place is amazing. They weren't lying, everything's better up here. You have an entire TV channel dedicated to old “Head of the Class” episodes! I had Boston Cream Pie for breakfast this morning! And Al-Qaeda really undershot it with those 50 virgins. When I was welcomed here by 100 gals ready for their first plucking, I was… I'll just say you're too kind, God. Way too kind.
I really don't want to take up too much of your time. You're a busy woman. But there was something I wanted to run by you quickly … Oh, yeah, I know about the cafeteria suggestion box. This is just a bit more “exclusive” to me. Um, yeah. This is difficult, so I'll just come right out and ask:
Why did I die while picking my nose?
You clearly had control over that. I've seen you direct ants on a farm outside of Ankeny, Iowa, so you obviously run every little detail on earth. Why did you choose for me to die with my finger in my nostril?
I'm not at all upset that I passed. I was certainly ready. My wife wanted to buy a Jetta, and I told her I'd rather be dead. I wasn't lying. And I'm not mad about the method you used. I had always assumed a heart attack during Wheel of Fortune would get me, and you nailed it. But did you need to take me while I was knuckle-deep?
I was at the funeral. I know what people were saying. My brother must have told 50 people on his own. Were you entertained when Chuck from accounting moved my hand in the casket to put my finger up my nose? Because everyone else sure as hell was.
There's no pride in going that way. My family's first reaction upon finding me should not have been laughter and “Dad's fallen asleep digging for gold!” No, it should be an immediate, “Oh shit, he's dead.” My death was laughed at, God. By my own family.
How do you expect me to defend myself to my friends, family and colleagues? I can't go back and claim allergies as a defense. I'm friggin' dead. That's it. That's my legacy on earth. “Bernie died while picking his nose.” If I get caught like that on a regular day, I still have time to make a new name for myself. I could use my final years to mold myself into the Guy Who Donated His Savings to Charity. Or the Guy With The Best Email Forwards. Or even The Motorcycle Gang Guy. Anything.
Listen, I'm not above leaving the mortal coil in an uncompromising position. I mean, I masturbated daily. Couldn't you have used one of those opportunities? At least if I went that way people would be like “He died doing what he loved.” And if I was extra kinky that day (with, well, I don't need to explain. You saw me) so be it. Just makes it more bad-ass. Then I become the “Wow, that dude had some pretty dark secrets” guy. Who wouldn't want that?
But you know what's the worst, God? Heaven is an eternity, which would normally be a good thing. But everyone here knows. Literally everyone. When I passed through the gates, that “Saint” (I use that term loosely) Peter announced over the loudspeaker, “Here comes the nasal scavenger!” I will forever be known as that guy, even up here. You've not only ruined my life, but my after-life. Yesterday I saw Betsy Ross (Betsy Ross!!!) sitting with some folks at a coffee shop on Cloud 8 and they had an open spot at the table. I asked if I could join them and she said “I don't know, have you washed your hands recently, Booger Brown?” Why is Betsy Ross being mean to me?
If there is anything I can do to change this? Can you, like, send out a memo to the angels saying that I helped save a burning hospital or something? … Yeah, I didn't think that's how it worked.
… What? … Yes, I do remember the Jets vs. Bills game in 2002. That was a huge game. It went into overtime and I told my buddy Bubs that no matter what happens the rest of my life I'd die a happy man if the Jets won… Oh.
Ryan Krebs is a writer from Chicago. When he's not researching the legality of domesticated panda adoption, he can be found tweeting here.