When I get to heaven, there'd better be skee-ball

There's a gorgeous cemetery that I passed today on my way to get an oil change and a car wash. It looks like an enchanted forest, all lush grass and mature evergreens, and all the grave markers are flat to the ground, nothing sticking up except for a miniature flag here and a flower arrangement there. As I was driving by, I offhandedly wondered if it was haunted. Then it occured to me that a ghost that would haunt a cemetery, hanging around its own grave, would have to be a pretty narcisscistic phantom.

Then again, maybe it's like a spirit party out there, ghosts getting together to hang out and flirt, making fun of the mortals. Especially in family plots, you know? Picture all your old relatives sitting around the table like on holidays, bitching to each other about how Aunt Edna never shuts up and how cousin Charlie is still a cheap bastard even in the hereafter.

My great-grandmother believed that in heaven, everybody was 35. And she thought that when you died, you showed up at the table of a really good card game. If that's true, my family is going to be up there playing Pokeno and screaming over one another about who's going to win Cover All.

But the biggest question is... is it ever going to be me? Because it sure as crap isn't ever me in this world.