I'm gorgeous and brilliant. I’d be the perfect boyfriend... if only I wasn't damned.

The other night, you see, I had this dream in which I died – the result of a misadventure, that I won’t go into now. I found myself in front of those pearly gates dealing with a winged bureaucrat in a white uniform who kept telling me I was in the wrong place. “Go to Hell” he said. I demanded to speak to the guy at the top, but they sent his son instead (it’s kind of a family run thing they have going on up there). Jesus was His name and He told me that there were never any mistakes and that despite having lived a good and just life, I just wasn’t on the list… and should go to Hell.

Well, from everything I have heard about Hell it sounds just awful. Worse even than Cancun. What to do?

I imagined Jesus to be quite sporting - and so decided to challenge him to some sort of duel to win my right into heaven. He is, it turns out, a Sporting Lad and so replied “name your contest.”

Gentle reader, there is nothing I do better than make an omelet. Furthermore there is nothing I do better than anyone else alive, than make an omelet. I am not saying this lightly nor in an effort to get you to stay for breakfast – It simply is a fact. I make a great omelet.

“Omelet!” I said.

“Omelets at dawn.” Jesus replied.

I was offered to spend the night in the purgatory room until the matter was settled. The next morning I met Jesus in His kitchen.

Jesus has an amazing kitchen. Seemingly infinite shelf space stacked with every spice, every vegetable, every fruit known to man, and some that aren’t, all neatly tucked away, easy to find and perfectly within reach. Everything was organic and free range. It was a clean kitchen - immaculate in fact.

Jesus went first.

I was hungry, but didn’t have to wait long. The omelet that He proffered was beautifully presented with a sprig of parsley and a slice of honeydew. Jesus sure makes a classy looking omelet.

I took a bite. Reader, I was in heaven. Every bite, every chew, presented me with a new taste – some strange and wonderful – others familiar and comfortable. It was like taking my taste buds to a chiropractor, and then out for a massage. I was unable to even attempt a poker face, and scarcely able to hold back a moan of delight. I was enraptured. The perfectly blended tastes played in my mouth like a symphony of harps. For a moment I understood string theory. "Jesus, that's a good omelet!" I cried. It was in fact, a Divine Omelet.

My turn...and I was nervous. I knew I couldn’t compete with what I had just eaten. The after-taste (more like an after-glow) was still playing it’s harp string saffron symphony inside of me. Thoughts of an eternity spent with red-hot pokers up my butt started my teeth to clench. Think Scott, think. I looked around at the kitchen realizing I was going to have to try something very, very unusual. The greatest omelet I have ever made could never compete with what I had just eaten.

Then I saw the dog food.

Jesus, as it goes, has two Perfectly Silent versions of those otherwise yappy little white dogs. I asked Jesus what that spice was behind Him, and when He turned – I quickly, furtively, threw in the dog food.


Anyway...long story short, that’s how I once got Jesus to eat dog-food...and how I ended up here in hell with the rest of you.

First date, schmirst date.