Bob had a habit of enjoying his evenings a bit too much, and one night was no exception. He stumbled into bed late, slipping in quietly beside his peacefully sleeping wife.

Unbeknownst to him, the night held more surprises than he could ever imagine.

As dawn broke, Bob didn’t wake up in his familiar bedroom but instead found himself standing before the majestic Pearly Gates.

“Am I dreaming?” he wondered aloud.

St. Peter, with a clipboard in hand, greeted him warmly.
“Bob, I’m afraid you passed away in your sleep.”

Bob’s jaw dropped.

“This can’t be! I’m not ready to go. I’ve got so much

Bob, desperate to get back to life, reluctantly agreed. Before he could protest further, he was instantly transported to a nearby farm, now covered in feathers and clucking involuntarily.

Bob, adjusting to his new reality as a hen, was greeted by a rather smug rooster.
“Well, well, look who’s new in the coop! How’s it going, hen?”

Bob hesitated, still bewildered by the situation.
“Not bad, but I’ve got this weird pressure inside me. I feel like I’m about to burst!”

The rooster chuckled.
“Ah, you’re ovulating. Don’t tell me you’ve never laid an egg before!”

Bob, wide-eyed, shook his feathery head.
“Never.”

“Well, it’s easy,” said the rooster. “Just relax and let nature take its course.”

After a moment of hesitation, Bob gave it a try. To his astonishment—and a bit of discomfort—out came an egg. Overcome with emotion, Bob felt the unexplainable joy of motherhood. He laid another egg, then another. Just as he was about to lay his third, a sharp smack to the back of his head jolted him awake.

…

..

.

“Bob! Wake up!” his wife hollered. “You’re drunk again and pooping in the bed!” to live for!”

St. Peter, empathizing with his plight, offered a solution.
“Well, there is one way you can return—but only as a chicken.”