Psychologists have often preached the significance of dreams, which are defined as any time something weird or stupid happens when you’re asleep. Most of my dreams are about me holding Wallace back while Gromit goes to town punching him in the stomach. No matter what deceit Wallace employs, I will never let him escape Gromit’s wrath. I hate my dreams so much, that I’ve been working on getting rid of them by setting my microwave on high and putting my head next to it for 45 minutes a day. My dreams haven’t gone anywhere, and the only change I’ve noticed is whenever I get mad at a person, they catch on fire and die.
Lately, however, I have been plagued by a new dream that involves the Archangel Gabriel instructing me to crush more PBR tall boys if I want to get into Heaven.
Historically, I’m not a big beer drinker, my drink of choice is something I call The One-Two Punch: big glass of milk and shot of Pepto Bismol. However, I heard a rumor that in Heaven, you can ride on the backs of angels and use their halos as steering wheels. That’s something I definitely would like to check out, so I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure that I make it there, short of living a just and moral life.
The first time the Archangel Gabriel appeared to me in a dream, he was driving Lightning McQueen, who will eventually go to Hell for the sin of pride like the wretched beast he is. Gabriel got out of the car and cracked a PBR tall boy before asking me to drive because they have skeeball in Heaven and Gabriel “plays better when he’s slugged a few brews.” I dropped him off at the gates of Heaven and all the angels came out to haze me by putting soup in my shoes and making me run laps around the gymnasium. When I woke up, my entire house smelled like beef barley, so I knew that this was no ordinary dream.
Right away, I set about practicing. I started shotgunning hot cans of seltzer warmed by the sun to strengthen my throat and worked my way up to beers, 60 cans a day. Before long, I began crushing PBRs like it was nobody’s business. And every night, Gabriel and all his angel friends came to hang out with me in my dreams and tell me how impressed God was with my partying. PBR might as well stand for Please Become Rowdy, because that’s what me and the fellas were saying to our brains with every sip of amber brew.
My wife divorced me. I lost custody of the kids. The priest asked me to stop coming to Church because I kept using the Holy Water for my gravity bong. I joined the Church of Scientology and reached the level of Operating Thetan. All of this was in service of being a better Christian and securing my spot in Paradise.
But a few weeks back, everything came crashing down. I died in my dream after I got sucked into the filter of a swimming pool filled with craft IPAs (it’s Nightmare on Elm Street rules, if you die in these dreams, you die in real life). When I met St. Peter, he said I was going to Hell! It turns out that God considers drinking, partying, and making people who displease me spontaneously combust to be sinful. Just my luck. Of all the deities in the universe, I had to get stuck with one who’s a stickler for the rules.
I asked to speak with the Archangel Gabriel but he said he’d never heard of me! Long story short, it turned out it was actually Satan, not Gabriel and the angels, that were visiting me in my dreams. Instead of ensuring my place in Heaven, I was actually rushing Hell’s fraternity, Kappa Beta Bad Boys. Hell actually isn’t so bad though. If it weren’t for the constant unyielding agony, I’d say it was pretty great. In my opinion, Heaven is where your best friends are, even if they’re demons who pretended to be angels in order to lure you into a life of sin. That means every day I’m in Hell, I’m actually in Heaven, chilling with my squad. I guess you could say it’s a dream come true.