THE AFTERLIFE

Paradise Sounds Like Hell

This Supreme Being doesn’t inspire supreme confidence

Is heaven even a good idea? I’m not convinced.

God’s work to date isn’t promising. Earth is a mess, why would He get it right in the Great Beyond? If you need to rewire your house, don’t call the electrician who screwed it up in the first place.

If He can make a perfect eternity, that’s even worse. What kind of craftsman would stick us with this cut-rate shitshow?

It’s in a bad neighborhood. Admission standards are far too low. God-botherers are high on the list of people I’d rather avoid post-mortem. Death doesn’t come with a lot of upsides — escaping those asshats is supposed to be one of them.

The best version of paradise is the one with the fewest believers in it.

Which is not surprising. Religion doesn’t care if you’re a good person, it’s a club based on memorizing a handbook and relentlessly forcing it on others. Shouldn’t death be the end of Homeowners Associations?

I bet it’s the HOA-types who claim dogs aren’t welcome, though others say the afterlife is pet-friendly. Hopefully that’s true. I’m with Will Rogers — “If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die, I want to go where they went.”

There’s no sex. Wait, what? If nookie-free is your kink, that’s cool. Don’t go to town. Enjoy your intimacy with God and transcending the physical limitations of earthly life, yada yada. In my paradise, I get to ditch the harp for an eager heavenly female whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Though it could go too far the other way. Specifically, I have questions about the 72 virgins concept. Do all of them live with you at the same time? You’d better have a big-ass cloud because you’ll need 73 bathrooms. And I hope they’re OK sharing one guy. I’ve seen The Bachelor, and that shit’s crazy with half as many women.

They arrive pure, but does it last? No version of eternal bliss starts with a houseful of perpetual novices who don’t know their way around a mattress. Can I petition for some sluts in the mix? A randy damsel who knows what she’s doing would make a nice break from all the deflowering.

On the other hand, if they do get a taste for horizontal refreshment, is it even possible to keep them all satisfied?

There is some data: “(T)he penis of the Elected never softens. The erection is eternal.” That sounds great — in theory. But it’s nice to holster the pistol once in a while. I spent my early teens on that train, and the damn thing can get in the way.

Where will the Lord find a squad of 72 women “with downcast eyes whose chastity has not been violated”? By my sophomore year in college, I didn’t know enough of those to field a basketball team. There must be a Strategic Virgin Reserve to fill all the open positions.

Or maybe retreads? Call them the Sisters of Sisyphus. Instead of rolling a stone up a hill, they’re pimped out to play “Muffy Meets Mr. Trouser Snake” when a new guy arrives. If the relationship doesn’t last, they take a quick trip through the Revirginator and wake up with a fresh cherry. Rinse and repeat.

I hope amnesia is included.

Heaven sounds like a sausage fest. Will females have any fun there? The literature isn’t promising.

On the plus side, the full Holy Hard-On quote above also says the virgins will have “appetizing vaginas.” In addition to being an excellent name for a band, the intriguing word choice offers some hope.

They’d better not get the same deal as the men — the thought of 72 virgins is horrifying. If there were a just and merciful God, no woman out of her teens would find herself squashed by an over-eager oaf who doesn’t know how anything works and wouldn’t know a G-spot if it walked into the room wearing a name tag. Put Leo Grande on call. It’s heaven, room service should be quality service.

If the Lord has a suggestion box, perhaps He should consider giving every clitoris a little red light to make it easier to find. Or was that in the porn version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?

That still leaves the question of women who are fed up after a lifetime of fending off unwanted dicks. Maybe they’d prefer a nice little place of their own with no Y chromosomes in sight. Throw in a hunky pool boy menu option for when the mood strikes.

So, are we sure this is heaven? The guy in charge has a sketchy record and a weak résumé. Misogyny is rampant. I’ll either be celibate or trying to satisfy 72 sexually inexperienced women. The neighbors will be pious douchebags and HOA presidents.

Sounds more like a blueprint for hell.

John Werth is a Medium Top Writer in Humor and Satire. He’s not a real person, merely a sufficiently large number of monkeys typing randomly to string together a few coherent sentences. Please read “his” stories. Our credit with the fruit stand is running out, and we need the bananas.

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