I want to be Somebody in Heaven

God-

I need to bring cash with me to Heaven, more specifically, my life insurance proceeds.
I know this kind of goes against your rules a little, but just listen.
If we don’t get to bring our cash to Heaven, how are we going know who’s the shit up there?
Down here, if you have a lot of money, you’re the shit!
I’ve never been the shit.
I’ve wanted to be the shit, but unfortunately, I’ve just never had enough money.
Down here, if you have money and good looks, you wind up on the cover of People magazine every week.
You’re celebrated by everyone, and everyone loves you.
Sometimes, if you have a shit-load of money, you start making your own brand of vodka or cologne.
This is an important part of being rich as it allows others (clubbers) to share in your success by smelling just like you when they’re really wasted.
Not me, I still smell like Right-Guard and chicken soup when I’m wasted.

This leads me to the inescapable conclusion that I’ll never be the shit, at least not here or anywhere else unless I have some coinage, and that doesn’t seem likely until I die and collect on my insurance policy.
So this is why I was hoping you’d let me load my robe with dinero—so I could finally make something of myself. Be somebody if you will.
Why, I’d be on the cover of People and everyone would love me.
I’d be seen yukking it up at all major sporting events, and in the front row no less (with my bitches).
Oh, yeah, I’d have me some bitches.
I could even pontificate my bullshit political agenda on all the talk shows!
I’d have a jet, a helicopter and a yacht. I’d finally smell good, too.
I’m thinking we (you) could even give me a reality talk show since I basically have no talent and I’m not very interesting.
I’d have a crew. Money buys crews.
My crew would be lazier than mud, high all the time, kiss my ass, do any chores you might require, laugh at all my shit, and let me debase them like evil step-children.
I’d have a mansion. No, I’d have several mansions.
I’d have a white tiger, an English butler, and a midget named Leopold.
I’d have a movie popcorn machine and one of those pimply-faced theater kids tending to it.
I’d have an arcade, and an arcade fire.
A soda fountain with colored sports drinks, a cotton candy machine, and a pizza guy named Luigi who only speaks Italian and has a big mustache.
I’d even have an old French homeless-dude organ-grinder with his own monkey that begs for change from the crowd.
A dog named Owen.
A whore for a sister.
A neighbor I don’t covet, and a garden hose nozzle that lasts for more than one summer season.
Flops that don’t ever break. A pair of blue crocs, and a purple pair of Jellies.
I’d have a signed picture of George Burns, Gary Coleman, and the fat kid from InSync.
I’d have sworn testimony from OJ that he really did do it.
A male donkey without a dick.
A blind deaf-mute female porn star who can’t grunt.
And a video of Al Gore peeing in the Ganges.

Is this unholy of me or should I raise my policy benefits to 100k?

Longingly,

Diego