I Wish To Go To Heaven

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Area Dad Thinks Refs Should Just Let Them Play Football

DOYLESTOWN, PA—Facetiously questioning how the game had suddenly become a non-contact sport, local father Aaron Harper confirmed his belief Thursday that referees officiating a Thanksgiving game between the Philadelphia Eagles and Detroit Lions should just let them play football out there.
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I Wish To Go To Heaven

Booooo! It is I, the ghost of Herman Ulysses Zweibel, founder of The Onion, or, as it was known in my day, The Mercantile-Onion. Booooo!

As you know, my ghostly wraith roams the earth, chained to a printing-press. Every now and then, I haunt this space, whether to complain about my son T. Herman's abysmal incompetence, Henry Clay, or the skyrocketing price of calico. But this time, I am delighted to bear wonderful news: After a century of purgatorial wandering, the Lord is reviewing my petition for admittance into Heaven!

I was first up for membership shortly after my death in 1891. I was confident that my good deeds were plentiful enough to easily usher me past the golden gates. By jiggledy, I was the first white man to bring the cotton-gin into the Nebraska Territory, I played host to the annual barn-dance, and I once rescued a turkey from a raging cyclone! I also played the spinnet very well.

Unfortunately, my sins were perceived as overshadowing my good works. The Lord did not look well upon the time I threw a Franklin stove at Daniel Webster. But the fiend deserved it! He said I was a common rabble-rouser who twisted the truth. Besides, I missed, and he escaped unscathed.

There was also that troublesome matter of my decimating 970,000 bison for their hides. But upon what else was I supposed to print copies of The Mercantile-Onion? That fancy store-bought paper was costly back then!

What really tipped the scales against me, however, was the fact that I wasn't Mormon. Turns out, the Mormons are God's chosen people. Land o'Goshen, how was I supposed to know that?

I hope and pray I shall be allowed to shrug off this massive printing-press and enter heaven at long last. If so, I will flutter about the clouds with nary a care in the world. I will once again see my blessed mother and meet my child-hood hero, John C. Calhoun. I will have slaves and a fine coach with gilded wheels. Best of all, I will be able to rain fire and pestilence upon that bastard Henry Clay, on whom the Roman tyrants have nothing. Wish me luck!