At The Pearly Gates

   The huge bouncer glanced up from his clipboard and nodded at me. I shuffled forward, next in line.
   "Yeah.. uh.. my name's Don..."
   "I know who you are," the bouncer said, glowering at me. He still flipped through pages on his clipboard, sheet after sheet after sheet, it seemed like a ream of paper even though it looked like there was only one page.
   "So you're Saint Peter?" I asked.
   The bouncer nodded.
   "But... I thought... I mean... you're black."
   St. Peter stopped flipping pages, and stared over his reading glasses at me. "Is that a problem?"
   "Oh, no, no. God, no!" I said. "It's just.. I thought you were Middle Eastern."
   "You mean Jewish?" Saint Peter asked. "Is that a problem?"
   I ran my finger along the velvet rope and looked past him to the white, luminous gates. Still closed.
   "You gotta understand," I said. "This is not at all what I thought it would be. Waiting in line forever, the limos, the kleig lights, the velvet rope. Who knew the gates to Heaven looked like one of those douchebaggy Hollywood clubs down on Sunset?"
   Saint Peter pushed his glasses up on his nose. "So your eternal reward looks... what did you say? douchebaggy?"
   "I'm just digging myself deeper and deeper here, aren't I?" I said with a nervous laugh. "I was expecting..."
   "Clouds? Harps? A wise old white man with a white beard, a big tome, a quill pen with a really long plume?" Saint Peter grew more agitated with each word. "Let me ask you something, smart guy, do you eat the same thing every day?"
   He stared at me, his eyes reflecting infinity, and I knew he expected an answer.
   "N... no," I said. "I like to mix it up. Mexican, Chinese, good old home cooking."
   "So what makes you think I want to see cherubs and dazzling golden light all the time?" Saint Peter said. "I've been here near on two thousand years, maybe I'm tired of harp music, maybe I think I'll puke if I see another puffy cloud. Maybe I want to be a black guy every once in a while."
   I held my hands up, surrendering. "Okay, okay, sorry. I'll keep a more open mind."
   Saint Peter cleared his throat and regained his composure. "I happen to like Hollywood. Reminds me of Rome under Nero. Before the fire, of course."
   "So..." I said, pointing at the clipboard, "I don't want to be a pest, but..."
   He flipped a few more pages on his eternal clipboard, scanning them intently. "Well, I don't see anything too egregious. You were mostly good, and the bad stuff you did wasn't all that bad, compared to some people I see. Looks like you're... oh..."
   Ready to step across the velvet rope I paused. His 'oh' didn't sound like a pleased 'oh,' but more like a troubled 'oh.'
   "Is there some sort of problem?" I asked.
   "Kind of," Saint Peter said. "It says here you kept a blog?"