St. Peter was having a remarkably baffling day at the Pearly Gates, trying to piece together a bizarre, three-part puzzle of a crime scene.
The first man in line stepped up, still clutching his chest. “I screwed up, St. Peter,” he groaned. “I came home early, convinced my wife was cheating. I ransacked the house looking for her lover. When I looked out the window, I saw a guy sitting suspiciously in a Volkswagen. In a blind rage, I ripped our heavy refrigerator off the wall and hurled it out the third-story window right at his car! The sheer exertion gave me a massive heart attack on the spot.”
St. Peter sighed, rubbed his temples, and waved him through.
The second man stepped up, looking utterly flattened. “I don’t even know what happened,” he wept. “I was just a local contractor sitting in my parked Volkswagen, minding my own business and eating a sandwich, when a Kenmore double-door refrigerator fell from the heavens and crushed me to death!”
St. Peter shook his head in pity and let him pass.
Finally, the third man approached the gates. He was shivering violently, completely traumatized, and wearing absolutely nothing but his boxer shorts.
St. Peter sighed. “And what on earth happened to you, son?”
The man swallowed hard and whispered:
“Honestly, I have no idea. One minute I’m just minding my own business hiding stark naked inside a refrigerator, and the next minute, I’m flying.”
