Member-only story
Tyranny of the Timeclock
Eternal Rest? You Crack Me Up!
Bots in heaven? Are you kidding me? I did not spend countless hours getting on my knees, standing up, getting back down on my knees, lip-syncing Latin, and nodding off in countless Masses to find myself here! I want angels. I get gambling bots.
Worse — and believe me no one is going to clue you in about this one — we have to punch a timeclock.
You heard me. Right behind serene old St. Peter (btw, what’s with the red lego-head there, Pete?), positioned so you can’t see it while you’re in line to get in, is The Eternal Timeclock. Your card is waiting in the rack. You can tell it’s yours because to you it glows. There it is. Your name, well all your names, which can get complicated, along with some pertinent information. Date of birth, date and cause of death, mother’s maiden name. And then you’re back in another line to punch that card.
I was looking around at my fellow Heaveners, wondering if anyone else thought this was weird. Nope. I’m thinking a lifetime of showing up reasonably on time to work, eat, sleep, fuck, watch television, and die has conditioned most people to accept this happy horseshit.
Not me.
Or so I think until it’s my turn to clock in to Heaven. Canny bastards have positioned The Eternal Timeclock right…
