When Jane Goodall died and went to heaven, St. Peter said,
“I’m sorry, but can you prove you really are Jane Goodall?”
She gave a soft chimpanzee call and gently groomed an invisible flea from his shoulder.
St. Peter smiled. “Ok. It’s you.”
When Charlie Kirk died and went to heaven, St. Peter said,
“You look like Charlie Kirk, but how can I know for sure?”
Kirk launched into a breathless explanation about how Western civilization is collapsing because of LGBTQ+, Antifa, and the dangerous rise of empathy in college freshman orientation programs. He assured St. Peter he was simply defending common sense.
St. Peter rolled his eyes but said. “Alright. It’s you.”
When Donald Trump died and went to heaven, St. Peter said,
“I’m sorry, but I’ll need you to prove who you are. Jane Goodall proved it. Charlie Kirk proved it. So I have to ask.”
Trump said, “First of all, nobody’s ever proved who they are like I have. I proved it. I proved it by bombing the bad guys while stopping the wars nobody even knew were happening. People come up to me...big angels, strong angels, with tears in their eyes, saying, ‘Sir, thank you for stopping wars.’ And I passed the hardest test ever. They said nobody could pass it. Person. Woman. Man. Camera. Heaven. I aced it. Perfect score. The best score. Honestly, St. Peter, you should be thanking me.”
St. Peter blinked twice.
“Okay. Come on in. It’s you.”
Trump walked through the gates. The assistant angel adjusted hir clipboard. “I was surprised those last two are skipping purgatory. The Lord’s forgiveness is remarkable.”
St. Peter nodded. “Mercy is easy. Understanding is harder. Let’s see how they handle meeting a brown skinned Middle Eastern Jewish man who preached love over money.”