Neil Armstrong has just touched down in the next world. I imagine the Lem, burning and scorching the golden streets, then Neil stepping out and planting the American flag on the nearest cloud. St. Peter's hollering, "Hey! You're supposed to go through the gates!" But everybody's ignoring him, all the angels are crowding up, asking for his autograph. Amelia Earhart is there, my dead Uncle Marion the U.S. Naval Aviator, Wilbur and Orville, General Billy Mitchell, astronauts Grissom, Chaffee and White, the whole gang. Neil asks if the bar's open. They tell him it's always open, and they all head off. St. Peter's still hollering. Paperwork's important, !@#$%. These !!@#$ yonderboys always pull this crap.