Something exciting is coming. And surprise! It has almost nothing to do with food and/or farting.

Casting starts today.

Casting starts today. Watch this space. (But not *this* space. That’d be really boring.)

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Welcome to the new Microsoft Cloud-Based Virtual After-Afterlife, A.K.A., Heaven2. (It’s a working title.)

What happens when the afterlife reaches capacity?

“Sorry, we’re full. Have you tried Limbo?”

We humans have been dying for years. Like, literally dying. Passing away. For millions of years. Billions of us. And we’re still dying. Every day, every second. Mothers and fathers and grandfathers and second cousins and hot dog vendors and movie stars and their pets and other assorted sentient beings like that rabbit you ran over without even a second thought because you absolutely had to get down to the Stop’n’Go for a 6.5oz. SunnyD and some smokes. (His name was Terrence, by the way. He had a family.)

Anyway, that’s a lot of death. And there comes a point when there’s not much room left. You know, space. In Heaven. It doesn’t exactly go on forever up here in The Hereafter. There are limits, borders, Maximum Occupancies determined by the Fire Marshal using the general rule of thumb of multiplying width-in-feet by length-in-feet, then dividing the answer by thirty-six to arrive at a basic occupancy figure. In this case, a gajillion.

Now, we’ve known about this for some time, since the late 1840s or so. But back in the day when humans thought the stars were just little holes in the sky that offered us a glimpse of God (and a subtle reminder to not throw that rock at that other pre-Neaderthal), this place was all halos and harps as far as they eye could see. You could really spread out, you know? But then y’all just kept dying. You’d fall in a hole or slip and bang your head on the bathroom sink and hey, that lion looks friendly enough and gee, I wonder what these really bright red berries taste like. (I don’t know, maybe if we were a little smarter we could’ve gotten a few more centuries out of this place.)

So we started increasing life expectancy down there and coming up antibiotics and heart medicines and lactaid tablets and for awhile, things were looking up. But then the unexpected retirement of St. Peter in 1967 sealed the deal. The guy at least had some standards, but ever since his apprentice Reggie took over, it’s like everybody gets in.

Finally, something had to be done. A committee was formed, its members tasked with figuring out what that something might be. I was put in charge.

Day one, somebody suggested we annex some farmland in Iowa. Been there, saw the movie.

L. Ron Hubbard had an idea that had something to do with earning points or medals or ribbons and something about a rocketship, but it was just too weird and the rest of us were all, “Dude, really? Nobody’s gone fall for that shit.”

And then one day, somebody – I think it was God’s youngest (long story) Julian – came up with the idea of just killing people off. You know, like just shooting them. You die, you go to heaven, you’re having a blast running around with Evel Knievel and your second grade teacher Miss Encarnacio, and then one day, somebody comes up to you and says it’s your time – again – and pow, you’re dead. Again(Personally, it’s a bit too M. Night Shamalan for me, but for now, it’s all we got.)

So any day now, people are going to start dying up here. (We’ll begin with those who kicked their initial bucket before the fall of Mesopotamia, by last name, A-through-F.) After this second death, your soul will rise once again, but this time you’ll be off on an all-expenses-paid trip to Heaven2.

And while budget cuts did not allow for “pearly” gates, the teak with mahogany inlays looks really nice thanks to Jesus’s brother-in-law (long story) who took over the family business.

We look forward to welcoming you to The Deuce, opening day tentatively scheduled for July 1, 2021.

Meantime, we’re sending everybody to Myrtle Beach.


The Management

P.S., In case you’ve been wondering, it looks like you’ll have to give up on your dream of becoming an angel. The Council stopped accepting applications back in 1955. Though nine open slots still remain, one is reserved for Buck Henry for putting up with Warren Beatty’s shit, and the other eight will be going to those girls from Victoria’s Secret.

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Top Ten Last-Minute Gifts For Mother’s Day

10. Wear a hat.

9. Don’t smoke the pot.

8. Did you look?

7. Taste it before you say you don’t like it.

6. Don’t put your eye out.

5. Know better.

4. Wipe that smile off your face.

3. Don’t try on someone else’s glasses.

2. Did you really look?

1. Socks that pick their own goddamn selves up.

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The lost lyrics of Rupert, the hypochondriacal, manic-depressive 6th Beatle.

♫ ♪  Desmond has a barrow in the market place

Molly is the singer in a band   ♫ ♪

♫ ♪   Desmond says to Molly, “Girl I like your face”

And Molly says, “Piss off, creep.”

The end.

♫ ♪   Well my heart went boom

When I crossed that room   ♫ ♪

Is it hot in here?

And what’s this shooting pain in my left arm?

♫ ♪   Listen

Do you want to know a secret?   ♫ ♪

♫ ♪  Do you promise not to tell?

Whoa-oh, oh I’m so lonely 

Something in the way she moves,

I think it might be rickets

♫ ♪   We all live in a yellow submarine,

with only 12 minutes of oxygen left

♫ ♪   ob-la-di ob-la-da,

life goes on,   ♫ ♪

and on,

♫ ♪   one disappointment after another,

until you die, broken and alone.   ♫ ♪

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