Poem 102: A Monologue on the Eternal Banquet

And here in heaven at the Eternal Banquet
there’s strawberries and cream.
I’m not fond of strawberries, I once said.
Everyone was shocked. They like strawberries.
Just eat the whipped cream, says one, rather than insult the Cook.
You’d think with all the resources up here and stuff like that
they could provide more variety.
But no! When Adam and Eve arrived they said everyone would want
strawberries and cream. Certainly nothing with apples.
Strawberries three times a day. Full stop. Period. Permanently.

Then Queen Elizabeth the First of England
(she’s got really fat – I mean really really fat)
says that if I want variety I should go to the other place.
Hell, I say, what do they eat down there?
Raw quince and crab apples.
All day and every day with no whipped cream.
They’re all skinny as rakes.
For a special occasion they get an uncooked cooking apple.
Well, I say, it sounds like that other place sucks.
So I get stuck into my strawberries and cream.
I’ve been here two hundred and eleven years now
and have never got used to the diet.

Once in a blue moon, for a special occasion,
we have a big feast;
like the other day when Abraham and Sarah celebrated
their four thousandth year since getting pregnant.
We all got a dry pink wafer cookie
stuck in the strawberry concoction.
Honestly, I crave a hotdog.
I wouldn’t mind if it came poked into the whipped cream.

The other day some visitors popped over from
the Conservative Sector for a social visit.
They took one look and said, Bloody hell!
Is that all you eat? You need to sack the Cook.
So we’re having a meeting about it, all fifteen billion of us.
The angel in charge said a decision has to have a 100% consensus
before any changes can be made around here.
That’s impossible, especially with some of the politicians in our Sector.
I’m not putting much hope on our chances of firing the Cook.
Besides, God loves to personally prepare the strawberries for us Liberals.
It’s the reward we get for being always right.
Bon appétit.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

583. Heavenly banquet

© Bruce Goodman 16 May 2015

Herman was a greedy-guts in life; a glutton. He died and went to Heaven. He noticed something strange. He didn’t have a … (Dear Reader, please excuse me, but this is a word I don’t like. I don’t like the sound of it and I don’t like the look of it. Let me start again …)

Herman was a greedy-guts in life; a glutton. He died and went to Heaven. He noticed something strange. He didn’t have an … anus.

In Heaven there were rows and rows of tables staggering under different foods. Everyone was tucking into the grub (“grub” as in “food”). There was a huge table just for oysters, all being freshly shucked by angels. There were meats of every kind. There were even stuffed pterodactyls served with a prune-like sauce garnered from another galaxy. Herman was in awe. But what was he to do if he didn’t have an … anus? How does one … ? How does one … poop?

Herman approached a cherub whose sole task was to create sorbet-vodka shots for the Redeemed.

“How come these people in Heaven are tucking into the grub if they don’t have an anus?” asked Herman.

“Oh but they do have an anus!” announced the sorbet-vodka mixing cherub. “If you don’t have an anus it means you’re in to Hell.”