The Tractor, My Death, and Saint Peter

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I was mowing the grass, and my mower blade hit a tree root. The tractor jerked. I fell off, hit my head on an Oak tree, and then I died. I saw a bright light at the end of a tunnel. So, I got up and headed toward the light. There was a handsome white bearded man in white robes.

“Are you Saint Peter?” I asked.

“Yes, I am Saint Peter the Rock, and welcome to the gates of heaven.”

“You mean, I’m going to heaven?” I asked.

“Not quite yet,” he said, and he motioned toward an elevator. As we boarded the elevator, he explained that I would have to do fifty years on the hot basement floor. He said that fifty years was but a blink of an eye in eternity. Then he blinked his eyes and smiled.

The elevator opened, and, outside, it looked like a big casino. There were topless dancers. I saw Adolf Hitler, Richard Nixon and Mother Theresa knocking back shots of whiskey.

“Mother Theresa stays here?” I asked Saint Peter.
“Yes. She was a saint during the day, and a devil at night,” he said. “That black-haired one over there, she likes to have her breasts fondled,” he mentioned and smiled again.

“Hey, Saint Peter– it’s OK if you sign me up for one hundred years.
You know that’s just a wink of an eye in eternity,” I said, and I winked at him.

Then I woke up.
It was all a dream. I had to get up and do another day,
with maybe a little less fear of dying.

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