Georgie Bumwheel wasn’t feeling well.
He had been on his way home from Dirty Harry’s, the local pub, when, in the middle attempting to think of a decent excuse to tell the missus shy he was so incredibly late, a gigantic pink pig (incidentally it had reminded him very much of his missus whom he believed to be mankind’s closest resemblance to a ball) had waddled into the road. He swerved but since his senses were slightly muddled there was a whumph! as he squashed the pig. His last thoughts were of chops with chutney and sizzling, fatty bacon.
Georgie’s left arm and the big toe on his left foot were broken. To worsen matters he had bitten his tongue before his false teeth had unceremoniously evacuated. He would have mended well, despite his handicap as a pensioner, if it wasn’t for the inconvenient fact that his lower torso was trapped beneath the crushed dashboard and his upper torso had been invited through the windscreen and now lay motionless ten meters further along the ravine.
Georgie’s spirit peered curiously at the accident, having not yet accepted the fact that its physical self was dead. And since that was the case, his spirit was acting like the Georgie that everyone at Dirty Harry’s knew. In other words, he was roarously pissed.
It was in this frame of mind that Georgie was suddenly in desperate need of a wee.
Consequently, the arriving angel, Gabriel the Fifty-Third, who had only being an angel for two hundred thousand and some change years (it goes without saying that’s an awfully short period in heavenly terms), was astonished to find a limbo spirit having a non-existent wee on an equally non-existent tree. Totally unbecoming of any dead person.
“Hey, what in Heavens name do you think you doing?” the angel asked, having turned a paler shade of perfect white. Georgie pulled up his fly, turned around, and, having totally and typically, misheard the question, replied, “Sure. I’ll have ‘nother pint. Nice of you bud.”
Gabriel stood stock-still for a couple of seconds. Bud. BUD. He had never been called that before. Then, realizing what he was doing, he fought for control over his thought vocabulary and got ‘BUD’ back down to a respectful ‘bud’.
Aggravating the problem was the fact that Gabriel wasn’t the brightest of angels. In fact he was the dumbest. Even when he had attended bible school, his teacher, Jesus, had often made him sit in the corner of the classroom with the fool’s halo perched on his head.
When it finally dawned upon him that Georgie wasn’t been rude, his face lit up with a Christmas tree smile (an action that had earned him fifty percent – his highest mark ever had come from the Benevolent Looks class).
“Sorry,” Gabriel said, “but Heaven runs one day faster than Earth … and God will not allow any beer guzzling on holy days. You died earth-time Saturday. That makes it heavenly-time Sunday.”
A sober Georgie would never have been able to accept the weight of what he had just been told but this was the drunken Georgie so all he muttered was, “Damn,” and when he realised the bright side, said, “I never realised that it would be so easy to divorce the old cow.”
Gabriel allowed Georgie to finish a non-existent vomit and then helped him climb the stairway to Heaven…
Read Part 2