Celestial Border Patrol Enforces "No-Hetero" Policy as Tea Smuggling Destabilizes the Afterlife

In a move that has sent shockwaves through the ethereal plane and caused a 400% spike in the price of Earl Grey on the astral black market, St. Peter has officially announced that Heaven is no longer accepting "straight souls." The new directive, reportedly handed down after a heated committee meeting involving several archangels and a very fashionable cherub, aims to "rebrand the afterlife into something with a bit more flair and significantly better interior design."

The policy change has left millions of suburban dads wandering the celestial waiting room in cargo shorts, clutching invisible grilling tongs and looking deeply confused. According to sources close to the Pearly Gates, the ban was triggered by an "overwhelming surplus of beige energy" that was beginning to dull the luster of the Golden Streets.

A confused middle-aged man in cargo shorts and a polo shirt standing outside massive golden gates, holding a spatula, while a fabulous angel in a sequined robe checks a guest list with a judgmental expression.

As a direct result of the ban, a clandestine economy has emerged. Black market tea smuggling is now the primary occupation of rogue seraphim. Since the "Straight Ban" also included a moratorium on "boring beverages," traditional black tea has been classified as a Class-A narcotic. Souls are reportedly trading their halos for a single bag of English Breakfast, hidden inside hollowed-out harps.

"It’s chaos down in the Limbo Loading Dock," whispered one anonymous whistleblower, a former choirboy turned oolong kingpin. "You’ve got guys in pleated khakis offering to trade their eternal salvation for a splash of milk and two sugars. The demand for Darjeeling is higher than the demand for redemption."

A dark, misty alleyway in the afterlife where a hooded angel is secretly handing a glowing box of tea bags to a man in a business suit, cinematic lighting, noir aesthetic.

While the heavens deal with the demographic shift, the physical infrastructure of the universe is beginning to surrender to the sheer absurdity of the situation. On Earth, the experimental "Plastic Roads" installed by eco-conscious governments have begun to melt, not from heat, but from a collective existential crisis.

Witnesses in suburban Ohio report that the asphalt is no longer solid, but has instead turned into a sentient, viscous sludge that sighs deeply when driven upon. The roads are reportedly refusing to lead to destinations, claiming that "the concept of a 'commute' is a hollow construct in a universe where St. Peter prefers show tunes."

A suburban street where the road has turned into a melting, colorful plastic liquid, cars are sinking into the colorful goo, and the liquid is forming the shape of a weeping face.

Scientists are baffled, though most have given up on traditional physics to pursue degrees in "Advanced Whimsy." The melting plastic has begun to form puddles that whisper nihilistic poetry to passing pedestrians, further complicating the morning rush hour.

"I just wanted to go to the dentist," said local resident Gary Higgins, while standing knee-deep in a pool of what used to be Main Street. "But the road told me that my teeth are just temporary calcium monuments to a life lived in fear of the void. Then it offered me a cup of bootleg Lipton for fifty bucks. I don't even know who I am anymore."

As the afterlife remains exclusive and the tea trade flourishes in the shadows, the Department of Reality has issued a statement urging citizens to "remain calm and avoid looking directly at the melting infrastructure," as the plastic has started to develop a very judgmental attitude toward footwear.