In Memory of Bob Newhart

"Wow, you weren't kidding about those golden gates; those are flashy," the soul said quietly. "That's some celestial handiwork; excellent craftsmanship." "We do our best to provide a suitable welcome," Peter replied, trying not to laugh. "Homecomings are a big deal here." The soul nodded. "The thing about that," the soul continued dryly, "is that I'm not good at surprise parties. I'm never dressed for the occasion. Left to my own devices, I'm ... comfy." "Comfy?" Peter asked. "Plaid," the soul said flatly. "I'm a guy in a plaid shirt. Plaid courts a certain level of embarrassment and, while I know that, I'm a plaid guy. I can wreck a party just coming in the door, and I'm not above wearing pants in a contrasting print." Peter openly laughed. "Still not a barrier to heaven; we're delighted you're here." "At least it's not a designer plaid; it's not Prada plaid," the soul acknowledged. "The devil wears Prada; that's what I'm told." Peter waved his hand and covered the gates in flannel. "Better?" he asked. "Wow," the soul responded, "you dumbed that whole thing down for me? That's ... uh ... that's great." Everyone in line was cracking up, but soul didn't break its schtick until the end, giving them all a big smile over its shoulder before it turned to go in.