Cuckoo LLC

      Since 2002 or so

      SANTA MONICA, CA

      © 2011 by Michael Gerber

      All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher, and a signed note from Our Lord.

      HEY! TWERPS! LISTEN UP: This is a work of parody. Any similarities, without satirical intent, to copyrighted characters/material, or persons living or dead, are purely coincidental. This book has not been authorized by Todd Burpo, Thomas Nelson, Inc., or any other entities involved with the book Heaven Is For Real. No connection is implied or inferred.

      Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

      Sorry, The Library of Congress does not recognize sleazy ripoffs that make fun of good, kind, hardworking Christian Americans and their nice little sons. If that’s your idea of fun, Mr. Freethinker, why don’t you just go to the Soviet Union? Oh, I forgot—you can’t! Because we beat them! Because God loves us best! USA! USA! USA!

      ISBN-13: 978-1-8904-7009-8

      Published in eBook format by Cuckoo LLC

      Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Blastoff!

      AUTHORS’ NOTES

      My co-author, Michael Gerber (if that is his name) wrote this book with me under false pretenses. First, he told me that he spent a significant portion of his childhood in a small town in Missouri, but it turns out that he moved to Chicago for high school. Then, he said he was raised Christian, but any decent, God-fearing person knows that “Unitarian” is Liberal for “Satanist.”

      This book is the work of the Horned One. I disavow it completely.

      —Mitchell Creepo

      May 2011

      When I was four, I had an imaginary friend named Marie. Marie was a staunch Democrat (like my mom), and even went so far as to live in Vietnam and get bombed by President Nixon. My family found this very amusing and lovable.

      They did not, however, write a bestselling book saying that Marie was real and that I should become Secretary of State. What a difference thirty-eight years make, eh?

      I’m sorry Mr. Creepo feels ill-used. Might I suggest forgiving me, as I assume Christ would have.

      —Michael Gerber

      May 2011

      And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites [are]: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.

      But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.

      But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen [do]: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking.

      —JESUS OF NAZARETH

      PROLOGUE: NOT SUPERSTITIOUS

      As a pastor, I don’t believe in superstitions. If one of my parishioners back in Buffalo Nut, Iowa, came to me worried about black cats and broken mirrors, I’d gently remind them that none of that stuff could hold a candle to the awesome power of our Lord Jesus Christ. So I don’t put any stock in such foolishness—but I can tell you from personal experience that God works in mysterious ways. For example: Would you believe this whole “scandal” was caused by an Arby’s roast beef sandwich?

      Well, not an Arby’s sandwich—all the décor inside said “Ar_y’s.” We used to tease the owner, saying that it sounded Jewish. We’d shout at him, “Go eat some matzo!” It was all a joke—we didn’t even know what matzo was, except that kind old Pastor Johnson always called it “Satan’s saltines.”

      Anyway, I don’t think the restaurant really had a name, once Arby’s forced them to take down the sign. You just had to know it was there, and if you didn’t, well, you were out of luck. Small towns are like that, and that’s why people like me love them. I’d been coming to this place for fifteen years, since freshman year of high school, when I joined the baseball team. Then, when I was a senior, it got kicked out of the chain for salmonella or something, I don’t know. All I know is that it’s twenty-five cents cheaper per potato cake, fifty cents less for the sandwich, and that matters to us. My wife’s a preschool teacher, and there’s never much money to be had doing God’s work either, so every penny counts. I’m not saying that excuses everything you’re about to read, I’m just…well, I’m just saying it. I’m proud to be in jail. In wicked times, that’s the only place for a righteous man to be.

      We were on our way to see my wife’s relations in Nine Forks, Nebraska. That’s about six hours, as the crow flies, from Buffalo Nut. Their two-year-old Brendon had gotten possessed by a demon, and everybody was using the exorcism as an excuse for a good old-fashioned family get-together. You know what they say: when life gives you lemons…Anyway, we’d gotten a late start, but that meant at least the roads would be clear. A quick dinner, and we’d be on our way.

      “You know, this isn’t really meat,” my daughter Hayden said, eying her Ar_y’s sandwich like it was going to bite her back. She’s eleven, and a pistol.

      “Sure looks like meat to me,” I said, taking another bite. “Mm-MM. Tastes like meat, too.”

      “It’s not. It’s just a goo that comes in big bags. Then they bake it.”

      “Oh, bullpucky,” my wife said. Griselda’s the tough guy in our marriage. “Eat your sandwich.”

      “I told you we should go to McDonald’s.”

      “And I told you that McDonald’s is too expensive,” I replied. “Plus it’s way in