Ask A Dead Snake

Fred answers your questions about the afterlife

by Fred The Albino Kingsnake (Deceased)

fred

Hi there! My name’s Fred and I recently passed away from complications related to old age. Don’t feel bad — I had a long and happy life! My human got me from a pet store in 1995 and for more than 18 years I ate tasty mice, climbed driftwood branches and took comfy naps on my heating pad. All in all, a life well slithered, I’d say. But now I’ve shed that existence (get it?) and I’m up here in Snake Heaven with lots of free time. So I figured I’d answer some of your questions! (I got them by reading your mind. We do that here.)

Is Snake Heaven different than regular Heaven? Sorry you’re dead; hope all’s well.

Cheers, Josh C.

Hey Josh, I’m doin’ good. Snake Heaven is a park-filled neighbourhood in regular Heaven and there’s a really good transit system that makes it easy to get around.

Hello Fred, my condolences on your death. Have you met anyone famous up there?

Sincerely, Violet H.

Thanks for the condolences, Violet! So far I’ve met Gilda Radner, Jim Henson, Keith Haring, Mary Shelley, Farrah Fawcett, Randy Savage and Jack Kirby. Obviously I’ve met Steve “The Crocodile Hunter” Irwin — he greets all the new snakes. I met Tommy Douglas too — did you know he always regretted not bringing in universal vet care? I want to meet Roger Ebert but he’s way too busy and popular. I got Ray Harryhausen’s autograph, though. We passed away on the same day!

Oh, and I’m buds with Keyboard Cat. We play ping pong on Tuesdays.

If you don’t mind my asking, where are your, um, remains?

Regards, Victor K.

Jesus, Vic, that’s a personal question, innit? But what the hell. They’re in my keeper’s freezer awaiting a necropsy (yuck) at the vet’s. After that, I’m told, I’ll be cremated and interred in a cigar tube. I’m down with that.

Wait a second, I thought you were an atheist snake. What the fuck are you doing in Heaven?

All The Best, Liz M.

It’s really weird, Liz. The way Kurt (Vonnegut) explained it to me, Heaven is a metafictional phenomenon that only exists when someone’s reading about it in Prairie Dog. It doesn’t make any sense to me either but here I am, eating chocolate-dipped fuzzies with a ping pong game at 2:30. What are you gonna do?

Thanks for the questions. Until next time, don’t poop in your water dish!

Fred