Heaven, the playground of the dead

Heaven. C'mon in, set a spell.

Ah, what fun they must have up there in heaven where it's always swell, and all. What a joy it must be to get up each morning, ready for a robust day of god-adoring. It sounds grand!

And just think: all the dried-up, nasty old church people you always detested are up there, too! It'll be swell to see them, and the saints and all. And of course, as the popey guy makes new saints they'll pop up in heaven, all fabulous and everything, their stature established for all time. And these saint-raisings are great because they break up the monotony.

Oh, wait. Did I say monotony? I meant ecstasy. Sorry, and of course I meant pious ecstasy not the other kind, the bad kind. (And certainly not the drug!) No, there's none of that sort of thing in heaven. You don't want to let the riff-raff in -- and that other kind of ecstasy might attract them. That's why there's no pleasure in heaven: to keep out the unsavory types. None of that element up in heaven.

Oh, let us go adore him right now. Snore. Yes, indeed. It must be great in heaven! And just think: it's almost May 21st! We'll be there soon! Woot!