A longtime minister passes away and finds himself standing in line at the Pearly Gates. The clouds are bright, the gates gleam, and Saint Peter is checking names one by one.
Standing just ahead of him is a guy who looks completely out of place—sunglasses, a loud Hawaiian shirt, leather jacket, jeans, hands in his pockets like he’s waiting for a cab.
Saint Peter looks up and asks,
“Who are you, so that I may determine whether you may enter the Kingdom of Heaven?”
The man grins.
“Joey Shasta. Retired airline pilot.”
Saint Peter flips through his massive book, nods approvingly, then smiles.
“Ah yes. Take this silken robe and golden staff and enter the Kingdom.”
The pilot slips on the robe, takes the staff, and strolls through the gates.
Now it’s the minister’s turn. He steps forward, straightens his shoulders, and says proudly,
“I am Joseph Snow, pastor of Saint Mary’s Church for the past forty-three years.”
Saint Peter consults the list again, pauses, then hands him a simple cotton robe and a plain wooden staff.
“Take these and enter the Kingdom.”
The minister bristles.
“Just a moment! That man was a pilot. I devoted my entire life to God—and he gets silk and gold?”
Saint Peter looks up calmly and says,
“Up here, we judge by results.”
The minister frowns.
“What results?”
Saint Peter replies,
“While you preached… people slept.
While he flew… people prayed.”
2. Family Legacy
Three old veterans were sitting around the VFW hall one afternoon, swapping stories and boasting about the heroic exploits of their ancestors.
“My great-grandfather,” one said proudly, “was only thirteen years old when he served as a drummer boy at Shiloh.”
“That’s nothing,” said another. “Mine rode with Custer and went down at the Battle of Little Bighorn.”
They both turned to the third vet, who shrugged.
“I’m actually the only soldier in my family. But if my great-grandfather were alive today, he’d be the most famous man in the world.”
The other two leaned in.
“Really? What did he do?”
“Nothing special,” he said.
“But he’d be 165 years old.”
3. The Bar Mystery
A well-dressed lawyer walks into a bar, orders a martini, and sits down next to a scruffy drunk who’s mumbling to himself and staring intently at something in his hand.
The drunk holds it up to the light and slurs,
“Well… it looks like plastic.”
He rolls it between his fingers.
“But it feels like rubber.”
Curious, the lawyer leans over.
“What’ve you got there?”
The drunk squints at it again.
“Damned if I know. Looks like plastic… feels like rubber.”
“Mind if I take a look?” the lawyer asks.
The drunk hands it over. The attorney examines it carefully, rolling it between his fingers, inspecting it from every angle.
“Well,” he says, “you’re right. It does look like plastic and feel like rubber—but I have no idea what it is. Where did you get it?”
The drunk pauses, then says,
“Outta my nose.”