Steve Jobs speaks from heaven

Hey there, my good disciples, how y’all doing?  Have you missed me?  Of course you have!  That turtle-neck sweater factory at the end of your road, no doubt it’s keeping you awake at night as it churns out the old turtles non-stop.  Or Turts, as I like to call them.  For those that don’t know, I had a trust fund setup in my name before I died.  And when I say ‘died’, I actually mean ‘shot by that man on the grassy knoll’.  Anyway, this fund was created to make sure that there is enough cash to keep them factories ticking over, guaranteeing that there is an ample supply of Turts for me when I return.  And when I say ‘return’, I actually mean ‘immaculate resurrection’.

And why wouldn’t I want to return?  It’s kind of stuffy up here sometimes, and the bearded bloke who goes around telling people off is getting on my tits.  He has a really weird name as well, it’s something like ‘Dog’.

A while ago, I had the neat idea of getting a drama group going, so we could put on some shows for all the lost souls that end up here.  I had this amazing idea for a play, where I was this wise leader in a country known as ‘Few’, and I had the nickname The King of the Fews.  The play had a dramatic climax, where some bad people come along, and want to kill me by nailing my arms to two planks of wood at the top of some grassy knoll.  I even thought up some nifty little ideas, like me wearing a crown of thorns, and some soppy bloke called Peter betraying me, because he is such a big pussy.

I wrote a huge ten-page script out for it, on some really nice paper, and proudly presented it to Dog.  The miserable sod went bloody mental!  I swear, there was steam coming out of his ears, and he looked like he was going to start shooting thunderbolts out of his arse.  I decided to make myself scarce, and hid under my Turt blanket for a while.  I was actually pretty tired from all the excitement, and I let myself drift off into a nice sleep.  I then had a lovely dream, where everyone was walking around wearing white earphones, and swiping their fingers across their touchscreen smartphones.  There were shops on every street corner, all of them bearing my name on the front, and lit candles lined every pavement.  A secret police force went around making sure that no-one picked their nose, lest they dirty the front of their electronic devices.

Imagine Stalinist Russia, but instead of that moustachioed twat, there are pictures of cuddly old me all over the place.

Now that’s what heaven should be like.