>Yeah, I'll be up there, with the pious and righteous, who'll be pig-sick when they see Freddie Mercury and Frank Zappa there, and wonder why they bothered. :-)

A jazz musician dies, and goes up to the Big Accountant.

- So, what will it be? Which door?

- Ummm... lemme see... gosh, I hate jazzers... this can't be! Ok, check again... incredible. You go to paradise. Which one do you want?

- Whaddya mean which one?

- Paradise is like those theme parks down there, to suit your lifestyle. To each his own paradise.

- Is there a jazzers' paradise?

- Sure. Get in, sixth door to the right.

The guy enters the door, and it opens into a back alley, and each door in that alley leads to a smoky stuffy bar with a great band playing in it. He gets into one, sits by a table, and an angel immediately serves him a pint of beer. The band is just great - all the great guys are in it. A real paradise.

Suddenly, a guy on the far right starts playing a trumpet, and plays it just so bad, and so out of time that he's completely ruining it for everybody. Our guy listens for a while, and thinks that this can't be right...

- Angel!

- Want another beer, babe?

- Not yet... who's that guy with a trumpet? He's awful!

- That's God himself... he's got this delusion that he's Miles Davis.