What Happens Really

I hope when I die there is an afterlife. I will be greeted by my own personal Jesus who will give me a guided tour of the new digs. We will pass down a long, well lit corridor lined with naked, vaginaless (I’m assuming it’s Hell) Zooey Deschanel clones and I’ll be led into my very own theater. Jesus will hand over a 32 gallon popcorn bucket and just as the lights go out and the movie starts, I’ll realize that fucker forgot the butter. It will take a few minutes to recognize my life’s highlight reel, in it I will get to bask in the reliving of peeing on the floor of my nursery school class because I was too shy to ask permission to use the washroom. Laugh all over again about the time I stabbed Gary with a 6” Schrade hunting knife as the last thing he saw before losing consciousness was me licking his blood from the dull blade. Then there was the time I was “caught” masturbating by our French house maid and she made me give her a glass bottom boat(at least I didn’t have to clean up). Then when the movie is over I’ll be placed in a cubicle next to John Banks (I'm pretty sure we died in a murder-suicide) where we’ll spend eternity reading mundane Facebook status updates and not have the ability to unfriend anyone.