Dan “Danny” Stapleton was a young investment banker in the Regan boom years of the 1980s. He was a highly motivated member of the bond sales division, working a minimum of 70 hours each week. He died, at 27, choking on a Dragon roll at one the Village’s first sushi restaurants, in 1986.

Though he was not what you would call, “a good man”, in the traditional sense, Danny was allowed into Heaven simply because he was too busy on Earth –with work– to commit any real sins.

He writes a correspondence to WorldsDumbestMan.com once a month.

The first thing you need to know about Heaven is, if some thing breaks here, it stays broke. This place is island mentality, times a thousand. You ever tried to get your TV repaired in Jamaica? Well, imagine if Jamaica also had flying horses and famous religious figures walking around. No one wants to work. My door buzzer has been broke for months.

Buzzers, in fact, sum up this whole place perfectly. There’s no reason I should need a door buzzer in Heaven. There ought to be some thing that just lets me know once a friend shows up at the door, but we have some damn rule where Heaven can’t get a new technology until the inventor dies and reaches Heaven. Why did I have to wait 20 years for an iPod in Heaven? They had to know it was going to be invented, even back then. They could have just given it to me and said, ‘hey, it’s Heaven- anything is possible’. It would have blown my fucking mind, in 1986.

Technology –in general– makes this place unlivable. People forget: the human race was fucking stupid up until about the last 100 years or so. And every dead, non-ass hole in history up here.
BILLIONS of morons are walking around Heaven. Billions. And yet, the geniuses that run this place still give each one of them a cell phone, like a guy from the Bronze Age can figure this out:

“Hey friend! I have you on voice mail!” “No, you idiot- you have him on speaker phone! Not voice mail. We can hear every thing he’s saying!”

The worst part is: no one else gets angry. Food never arrives on time; buses stop randomly;
messages don’t get delivered; appointments are made for two hour windows, rather than exact times- this
place is a Banana Republic.

The other day, I ordered a wrap for a quick lunch and waited on the sidewalk for
forty minutes without hearing anything. I then find out, they shut the whole kitchen down after my order
because some one heard Bach was eating next door. As always, it just turns out to be some hack from
The Kingdom of Sardinia, or some other place you’ve never heard of, rather than Bach- but try getting them to re-open the
kitchen after that diversion:

“What’s your worry, man? The weather is perfect.”

What’s my worry?? How about: you put your name on the sign outside that restaurant, but don’t seem to
care if the food ever gets served? How about: no one in this whole God damn, Golden City ever cares about
loosing a customer? How about: I’m tired of having my time treated like it means nothing, just because we’re
up here for fucking eternity!

Seriously. This place is a joke.

Dan.