Heavenly Interview

Interviewer: Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Naswhit, for doing this interview with me. I really appreciate it.

Harry: No problem.

Bertha: It’s fine.

Interviewer: ...All right then, let’s just get into it. Now Harry--do you mind if I call you Harry?

Harry: Are you implying something by that?

Interviewer: Not at all, Mr. Naswhit.

Harry: But I thought you wanted to call me Harry!

Interviewer: I, uh, it doesn’t really matter--

Harry: You can call me Harry.

Interviewer: Okay then, so Harry--

Bertha: I call him Har.

Interviewer: He.. you... okay, um, as I was saying--

Bertha: Even though he’s bald.

Harry: Be quiet, Bertha, you’re embarrassing me.

Interviewer: So as I was saying… no interruptions? Okay? So the first question I wanted to ask was--

Harry: But you already asked your first question. You asked if you could call--

Interviewer: I know! I know, Mr. Naswhit. I am fully aware, thank you. So if we could just get to the questions--

Bertha: We hit a squirrel on the way here.

Harry: She’s lying. We just got here ten minutes ago. Besides, there aren’t any squirrels in Heaven.

Interviewer: And that’s how I’d like to begin this interview, if you don’t mind. How did you two get here?

Bertha: Well, it all started last night when we decided to spend the night in a graveyard.

Harry: No we didn’t, you old hag. It was no one’s decision. You burned the house down with a gas leak from the stove and we both died in the fire.

Bertha: Well, it was still my decision. I wanted to visit that graveyard. Graveyards are cool.

Harry: Literally. Our tomb was about negative ninety degrees.

Bertha: You’re negative ninety degrees.

Harry: What--

Interviewer: Okay, we can move on to the next question, if that’s all right?

Bertha: Fine.

Harry: Fine.

Interviewer: So, Bertha, what was it like setting fire to your house? Did you do it on purpose?

Bertha: Absolutely.

Harry: Not.

Bertha: Dammit Harry, if you’d let me answer my own questions for just one minute--

Harry: You’re not capable of that. You’re a woman.

Interviewer: Um, it’s 2018--

Harry: Shut up.

Interviewer: Harry--

Harry: It’s Naswhit to you.

Interviewer: Fine. Naswhit--

Harry: Mr. Naswhit.

Bertha: Harry--

Harry: Shut up, Bertha.

Bertha: No, the question was addressed to me. As for how it felt burning the house down, it was a completely--

Harry: Unintentional, useless action that everyone thought was stupid.

Interviewer: Um, maybe we just move on to the next question, okay?

Bertha: But you were asking me!

Interviewer: I know, and I really wish you could answer, but your husband seems to--

Harry: We’re not married.

Bertha: We’re siblings.

Interviewer: B… but it says right here that you live together, and have two sons--I’m not quite sure I understand--

Harry: We’re from Arkansas. What did you expect?

Bertha: I believe they call it “in chest” or something like that in the north.

Harry: I think it’s “incest.” Anyways, we make love every night. Isn’t that right, Bertha?

Bertha: M-hmm.

Interviewer: I, uh, think I’m gonna gooo…

Harry: No! Stay! Don’t make me use the arm, now.

Bertha: Use the arm, Harry.

Interviewer: Let go of me!

Harry: Ha! Now, you just stay sitting in your chair, there. Bertha!

Bertha: I’m right here, you old coot. You don’t have to shout.

Harry: I left my hearing aids in Wyoming.

Bertha: When were you in Wyoming?

Harry: Just last fall--look, just give me the rope.

Bertha: Hey you, stop! Harry!

Harry: We could've stopped the escape if we had the rope right away--here--lie still, now. It’s just a chair. And some rope.

Interviewer: They let you bring rope into Heaven?

Harry: This is Heaven?

Interviewer: ...Uh, yeah, it is.

Harry: Well golly dang, I thought this was Hell, or at least Purgatory.

Interviewer: Um, why? What--you’re literally surrounded by white! There are golden gates like five meters away from us!

Harry: Oh, you stupid Europeans, with your metric system, think you’re so fancy and all. Well take that! And that!

Interviewer: Please stop hitting me, Mr. Naswhit.

Harry: Hmph.

Bertha: Sit down again, honey. Don’t let some uppity European ruin your day.

Interviewer: I’m from Canada.

Bertha: Oh, whatever. It’s all the same to me. Those stupid foreigners think they can just cross our borders and take whatever they want--

Interviewer: I’ve never set foot inside the States in my entire life.

Bertha: And for good reason!

Interviewer: Can we just… can we just finish the interview so you can untie me? I’m on watch duty in, like, five minutes and I can’t go until I’ve asked all the questions on this clipboard.

Bertha: Fi--

Harry: Sure.

Bertha: Harry, can’t you ever let me finish a sen--

Harry: You’re a woman, Bertha. Let me do the talking.

Interviewer: I’m a woman.

Harry: You?

Interviewer: Yes.

Harry: ...You?

Interviewer: For the love of God, yes! I don’t care that I have short hair! I’m twenty-one, and it also happens to be the twenty-first century, so please just--

Harry: Darn feminists. Ruin everything.

Interviewer: Mr. Naswhit, please--

Harry: It’s Harry to you.

Bertha: I’m Bertha.

Interviewer: I know, Bertha. This is Heaven. I’m the one who--

Harry: This is Heaven?

Interviewer: We’ve already established that!

Harry: Well, I thought it was Purgatory.

Interviewer: You’re a Christian. You don’t believe in Purgatory.

Harry: Well, I didn’t think so either, and then when we came up we had to be interviewed by you and I was just thinking, well, this can’t ever be Heaven, because what kind of Heaven makes you be interviewed by a girl with short hair?

Interviewer: Harry, for the freaking last time--

Bertha: It’s Mrs. Naswhit to you.

Interviewer: I wasn’t talking to you!

Bertha: Oysters!

Interviewer: Whatever. I don’t care anymore. I’ll get in a heck ton of trouble, but I don’t care. One of you, untie me, please. The rope is making it hard to breathe.

Harry: Bertha.

Bertha: Harry.

Interviewer: It doesn’t matter! Here, Bertha, okay? Bertha, untie me please.

Bertha: Fine.

Harry: Fine.

Interviewer: Thank you.

Harry: You’re welcome.

Bertha: I’m the one who--

Harry: Well yes, but you’re a woman, you see--

Interviewer: Holy crap.