There I was, drugged up the wazoo, wearing a thin white dress, with my leg propped up, underneath glaring lights, with ten similarly dressed men crowded around me. Toe surgery. It happens to the best of us. Actually, before I even get started, let me tell you—this was no small operation. This was my big toe, on my right foot. In the male body, this toe is responsible for 90% of all conscious thought concerning shoe purchase and wear. So if I was ever to buy shoes again without my mother helping me (which, let me tell you, really hurts your chances when you’re trying to pick up those cute lady shoe clerks), these men would have to use every ounce of their medical expertise and remove the sewing needle which I had driven through my toe while trying to mend the pocket on my jeans. Note to all men: sewing was never the woman’s job because the woman was less intelligent or weaker than the man. Sewing was the woman’s job because in the old days, there were no toe surgeons or antibiotics, and a sewing accident like mine, which (scientific studies show) occurs in roughly 100% of male sewing attempts, could prove fatal. It’s sort of like cooking—you mess up, you’re dead. Or in my case, your grandparents and cousins die before you get to try your own cupcakes, but let’s not get into that.

Anyway. One minute, I was blissfully unconscious. The next, I was dead. You know how you hear about all these “near-death experiences” where the person sort of rises out of their body and watches what’s happening below? Yeah, that’s crap. I opened my eyes, and there I was in Heaven without a chance to complain to the surgeons who’d let me die. Before you ask, I knew it was Heaven because of the hamburgers. Ahhhhhh, yes. I’d go into further detail but I don’t want to ruin the surprise. And it’s a great surprise, especially the part right before the barbeque and right after the penguin marching band. But I have to keep it top secret. That’s what Jesus said, anyway.

Speaking of the Big Man, He’s pretty cool. Wears a lot of jewelry, you know, calls it his “bling,” and every once in a while he does this funny thing where he gets up, says “Sorry, dudes, the Dance Hotline just received a red-hot message,” and starts break-dancing. He says he learned it during the Second Coming, which, by the way, already happened. Yeah, I was pretty curious too, but when I asked him about it, all he said was, “it kind of went off track a little,” and then he started doing the Christaroni. “A little to the right, a lot to the down and WHOO!” Catchy dance. I’m getting distracted, huh.

My point was, while I was up there, I realized just how important my big toe was. When you’re sitting around in Heaven relaxing, you get to thinking about your toes a lot. Especially when you’re catching some rays on Deck Twelve in the buff and you have a really good view of all four toes on your right foot. Yep, all four, plus the surgically-enhanced stump. The surgeons just plain cut that toe off. I mean, I knew my feet were pretty attractive, but whoa, you know? I guess I should have had it secured to my body somehow. I mean, more than it already was. J-Dawg said that the surgeons were doing their best but they had to amputate when they realized how much tissue damage the sewing needle had caused. You know what? It’s always been my medical belief that you NEVER need to amputate. Not on me, anyway. But I was getting too stressed out, so I reminded myself, hey, I’m dead anyway, what does it matter? Still, you’d be ticked off too if you bled to death long before your prime because some guy with an M.D. thought he’d have a little fun with a chainsaw, or whatever they use now.

Uh-huh, you’re being skeptical, okay, so were my parents at first. So how am I talking to you now if I was dead? Well, truth is, I really started to miss my pet guppy, Murphy. And if there’s one thing that Jesus loves, it’s that caring, unique relationship of devotion and love between a man and his guppy. If you don’t understand, you should buy one. Personally, I’d say a Delta Guppy would be a good choice, but J-Dawg prefers the Wail-Tailed Guppy. You can make your own decision; after all, it’s as much about each individual personality as breed. But don’t miss out. Where was I going with this? Oh yeah. So I told Jesus how much I was missing Murphy, and he said he knew the feeling, so even though he technically wasn’t supposed to, he’d send me back planetside, as we say in Heaven. And here I am, back from the hospital, with a newfound knowledge of the afterlife. Cool, huh? My parents listened to this whole story, and even though I could tell they were nonbelievers—Pharisees, really—they asked some questions at the end. The most important one is really why I’m telling you all this. They said, “So, Ken, what did you learn from this adventure?”

Well, lesson one, kids. If you’re a man, avoid needles of any variety. You never know where they might end up, or if they’ll cost you an appendage. Lesson two, buy a guppy. I can’t emphasize this enough. It may be your Get Back to Earth Free card, and if it’s not and you end up in Hell anyway, you’ll have something nice to remember. A guppy will never stab you in the back, no matter how hard it tries. Ever watched a guppy try to stab something? It’s sad. Finally, choose your surgeons carefully. If someone out there there’s a man who truly understands the phrase “Discount Health Insurance,” I’d like to meet him and swap stories sometime. I’d like to see him try to beat dying at the hands of a rookie. And while he’s at it, maybe he can get me a date with a shoe clerk. Because I’m still missing that toe.