While she was being measured for her wings, Ann Coulter noticed Kristin Breitweiser on a distant cloud talking to Mahatma Gandhi. “What is that self-obsessed witch doing in heaven?” Coulter asked.
The angel who was measuring her didn’t respond, which only fueled Coulter’s anger. “She’s one of those Jersey Girls,” she explained. “She enjoyed her husband’s death in the World Trade Centre on 9/11 – she, she was one of those women who reveled in their status as celebrities while being lionized on TV and in articles about them! But, could anybody say anything about them? Oh, no! By telling their personal stories, they pretty much shut down their critics with sentimentality! How can they let people like that into heaven?”
The angel, its work done, shrugged. St. Peter appeared on the cloud and gently led Coulter away.
“Ann, Ann,” St. Peter said, “welcome. How are you enjoying heaven so far?”
“I’m not impressed,” Coulter admitted. “You let 9/11 widows in?”
“Ah, yes, well, let me explain how heaven is supposed to work,” St. Peter, a little chagrined, stated. “It’s not really considered proper etiquette here in heaven to question the presence of others. A little charity, you will find, goes a long way.”
“But, they were shameless in exploiting their dead husbands to oppose the Iraq war!” Coulter protested.
“As you were shameless in exploiting the 9/11 dead to support the Iraq war,” St. Peter, summoning all the charm he could muster, pointed out. “You see, the thing is, up here, those petty squabbles really are irrelevant. You need to leave them behi –”
Coulter’s attention was momentarily distracted by an Arab man and a woman in a Burqa flying past. With a smirk, she said to herself, “My god, we did it. We invaded their countries, killed their leaders and converted them to Christianity!”
“Ah, actually, no,” St. Peter responded. “Heaven is non-denominational. If you are good within the tenets of your religion – whatever it may be – you are allowed in.”
Coulter was aghast. “Does that mean you let Satanists into heaven?”
“Ah, Satanists, ah, good question,” St. Peter stuttered. “As a matter of fact, no. The religions that allow you to get into heaven all believe in basic ideas such as loving thy neighbour, doing unto others as you would have them do unto you and like that.”
“Islam?”
“Yes.”
Coulter looked like the eyes were about to pop out of her head. “Islam is nothing like Christianity!” she shouted. “It’s one of those religions whose tenets are more along the lines of ‘kill everyone who doesn't smell bad and doesn't answer to the name Mohammed!’” She didn’t notice Gandhi looking at her with disapproval.
“Yes, well, I’m sure you thought that was a clever line when you wrote it,” St. Peter sternly responded, “but even you must know that it is a gross distortion of a religion practiced by over a billion people throughout the world.”
“So, that’s what this is about?” Coulter brayed. “Numbers?”
St. Peter rubbed his eyes. It was a good millennium since he had felt the pressure that would soon lead to a nasty migraine. “It’s about not judging others, Ann,” he stated as calmly as he could. “The Bible is very clear on this point: judge not lest ye be judged.”
“How did I end up in this multi-culti nightmare?” Coulter asked herself.
St. Peter sighed. “You confessed on your deathbed and were given absolution,” he explained. “When you do that, we have to take you. That’s the way heaven works.” He didn’t sound very happy about it.
“Right, but I never thought –” Coulter was stopped dead by a vision of Jimmy Carter and Bill Clinton talking amiably on a passing cloud. “What are they doing here?” she darkly asked.
“President Carter was a good Christian man his entire life,” St. Peter answered. “President Clinton strayed on occasion, but his heart was largely in the right place and –”
“They were traitors!” Coulter shrieked. “All Democrats are either traitors or idiots!”
St. Peter looked at her intently for a few seconds. “Ann,” he delicately began, “do you think heaven is the right place for you?”
“What do you mean?” Coulter belligerently replied.
“It sounds like you would be happier…in the other place…”
Coulter thought about it for a moment, then eagerly asked how she could be transferred.