French is heavenly

Reading a comment by this Bob Poris guy, I was struck by his suggestion that the language used in heaven or hell might not be English. Holy crap! What do we, who know no other languages, do?

This should not be taken lightly. English is a latecomer. Maybe god thinks English is an upstart language that needs to be put in its place? Maybe god hates English? Maybe god sees English as a symbol of unbridled imperialism and war? Maybe god is angry at English because it seems to have trumped his old-time favorites, like Hebrew and Latin. We know he thought Aramaic was a decent language as he had his son who is really himself speaking Aramaic while on this earth for that very brief period of time lo those many years ago. And Greek, they say, is the language of the gods.

So this could be a real problem. What if you get to heaven and can't speak the language? Or hell? Let's say you're in hell and are given a choice of boiling oil or day old bread but you can't understand what those little demons are saying and you mistakenly choose boiling oil? Yikes!

Or pretend you're in heaven and St. Peter asks what you'd like to do on a particular day. He says you can have sex with the most beautiful women in the universe, or you can meet with St. Paul and have him read Galatians to you? You sure wouldn't want to make the wrong choice because you couldn't understand old St. Pete!


My friend, Pierre, has a tale to tell. He had a heart attack and died. This is his story:

"I was being airlifted to heaven with an angel on either side, holding my hands, and it was beautiful. We rolled through huge white fluffy clouds, merging into dark, dank clouds with lightning flashing around that amazingly never touched us, and then finally into this deep dark blue vacuum where we were sucked, with amazing speed into a vortex of nothingness.

"Needless to say, I was terrified, but thrilled at the same time. We were going so fast, though, it was difficult to keep my eyes open. Finally, we stopped, and just hung in outer space. The angels smiled and looked into the distance as if searching for something; then they pointed. My eyes opened wide, my mouth went agape.

"Afar off I could see what appeared to be the most beautiful garden on earth, only we weren't on earth. But cavorting through the garden, dancing around huge golden red flowers, and diving into a deep, shimmering pool of incredibly blue light, were a dozen or more gorgeous females who looked just like the girls at Hooters except for the fact they were wearing bikinis, more or less. I think they were waving at me to come to them, but they were at such a distance, I couldn't be sure.

"We drifted closer and I suddenly realized one of the girls was topless. She cried out to me, 'Bonjour!' When I finally lifted my eyes to her face, she was grinning from ear to ear and she asked, softly, 'Parley vous Francais?'

"'Non,' I cried, but immediately regretted my stupidity. In desperation, I yelled, 'Oui!'".

"Then she laughed in what can only be described as a heavenly trill, waved in dismissal and disappeared. She knew! She knew I didn't speak French!"

"It all went downhill from there. I began to feel a tug backward, a constant pull, sometimes a jerking motion. The angel's grip on my hands was loosening. I looked at their faces, but their countenances had dissolved into a pool of light and gradually, their hands, slick now, like soft water, let go of mine.

"Suddenly, I found myself in a hospital bed where people in white coats were standing over me holding paddles in their hands, while my body was jumping around like a hula dancer!"

"'He's coming back!' yelled an intense, dark-skinned woman which shiny black eyes that glinted points of light. Paddles raised, she hit me again, and again I about jumped out of my skin."

"'Enough,' I cried. 'I'm here. OK? Stop with the paddles already!' And they did."


Now, with a name like Pierre, you'd think the guy spoke French. But he's really Italian. When he was born, his mother's favorite actor was named Pierre and so she named him "Pierre." He didn't have a happy childhood, 'cause his last name was Rigatoni. Anyone with the name, Pierre Rigatoni, is likely to have identity issues and get in lots of fights.

Over the years he learned a couple of Italian words, but they were curse words so he didn't dare use them very often. He also knew a few French words he learned while in France for a two-week Air Force training mission.

It was never a problem until he died and came close to heaven.


Today, Pierre is considered an oddball, crazy, even! He insists that god does not speak English, or Latin, or even Hebrew. He says that in heaven, everyone speaks French, and while he's not sure of hell, he suspects it's the same there. He's terrified that if he cannot speak French, the Pearly Gates aren't gonna open!

So Pierre, fully recovered from his heart attack and not at all happy about it, spends a lot of time at Hooters, where he sits in a booth, watches the girls carefully and studies French. He's learned a grand total of five French words this year. One day he thought he spotted a girl from heaven, she seemed like such an angel, but when he asked her to marry him she poured a pitcher of beer over his head.

I can't vouch for everything Pierre says, but he's been a good friend and usually truthful, and while I may not buy the angels and bikini-clad females cavorting around a heavenly garden, I know he was gone from his hospital bed for awhile and when he came back he was a changed man.

These days, I stop in at Hooters every once in awhile myself, just to make sure I'm not missing anything, and I'm taking a course in French at the local community college. It ain't easy. But I figured it's better to be prepared than not.

J'etuidie le francais depuis un an. Mieux vaut tard que jamais. Au revoir!

For those slackers who still don't know enough French to get into heaven, those sentences read:

"I've been studying French for a year. Better late than never. Goodbye!"