Wilfred passed away quietly in his cube, while the pagers beeped and the speaker phones blared.  Before long, the office curious gathered around to gawk and wonder.  They weren't quite sure what was wrong, but they knew that Wilfred wasn't answering his pages, and that was roundly viewed as a bad thing.
     At length, Sadie the office veteran peeped over her cube partition, trailing her intravenous caffeine drip behind.
    "What's the matter?" she asked. "Haven't you ever seen a corpse before?"
    There was a general inward drawing of breath.
    "How d'you know he's dead?"
    "Not in the office!  Ieeuw!"
    "You mean you have?"
    "Is this a common event around here?"
    And so on.
    "Sure, it's common," said Sadie. "Common enough."
    "What did he die of?"
    "Procedure Poisoning and Documentation Dementia," said Sadie expertly. "You see a lot of that around AWS."
    "Well, I've only worked at Amalgamated Whistle Systems for a short time, but shouldn't we tell our boss, Mr. Pfister?"
    "Nah," said Sadie, sitting down once more at her monitor. "The clean-up crew will take care of it."

    While his co-workers were chatting over his abandoned body, Wilfred was accelerating through a dark tunnel with a light at the end.  When he popped out the illuminated end, he saw a lovely, ornate set of gates covered with a milky white substance.
    "The Pearly Gates!" shouted Wilfred. "So, it's true!"
    Before the Pearly Gates was an angelic presence, complete with wings, halo, and white robe.
    "And you must be St. Peter!" gushed Wilfred.
    The angel smiled.  "So, tell me," he said. "Did you live a virtuous life?"
    "Well, I tried," said Wilfred nervously. "I went to church every Sunday."
    "Hmm," frowned St. Peter. "That's not good enough."
    "Oh, I know," said Wilfred. "But I'm not finished.  I regularly gave money to several charitable organizations."
    "Not good enough," said St. Peter.
    Wilfred started to sweat, to the extent that a disembodied spirit can.  "And I volunteered at a soup kitchen and at the food bank.  And I ran in every charity marathon that came down the pike.  And how about this?  I always tried to live by the Golden Rule, to do unto others as I would have them do unto me."
    "Not good enough," said St. Peter.
    "Not good enough?" sobbed Wilfred. "Why isn't any of this good enough?"
    "Because we're raising the bar," said St. Peter. "That kind of stuff used to get you in, but we have higher standards now.  So, you went to church, but you didn't propose any new principles of canonical philosophy, did you?"
    "Uh, no," admitted Wilfred.
    "You gave some money to charitable organizations, but did you seek out a new kind of charitable need and found an institution to address the need?"
    "Uh, no," said Wilfred.
    "You volunteered at a couple of places, but did you find out where all of your friends volunteered and help them out?"
    "Uh, no," said Wilfred.
    "You ran in marathons, but did you proactively pursue opportunities to found new marathons?"
    "Uh, no," said Wilfred.
    "You did unto others as you would have them do unto you, but did you proactively research their desires and do unto them according to their preferences instead of yours?"
    "Uh, no," said Wilfred.
    "One more thing," said the angel.
    "What?" cowered Wilfred.
    "Tell me about all the hours you spent at the office."
    "Oh, dear!" sighed Wilfred. "I was afraid of this.  I knew I was spending too much of my life there."
    "How much?" probed the angel.
    "Oh, upwards of 45 or 50 hours a week," Wilfred confessed. "Sometimes way upwards - 60 or more."
    "You call that a lot?"
    "Wa-a-ait a minute," said Wilfred. "Your face looks all ... rubbery."
    The angel reached under his chin in the time-honored rubber-mask-removing pose.
    "Oh, no!  You're not St. Peter at all, are you?  And I bet this isn't heaven, either.  I bet you're the devil!"
    "Worse!" cried the ersatz angel, ripping off his rubber mask.
    "Mr. Pfister, my boss!" gasped Wilfred.
    "Right you are!" cried Mr. Pfister. "Now, get back to work!  Death is no excuse for slacking off!  I told you we were raising the bar!"