Though I don't work as a copy editor now, I have in the past, so I look forward to getting my wings.

A reporter dies and goes to journalist heaven, where St. Peter issues him a harp and a set of moderate-sized wings.

"These seem kind of small," the reporter complains.

"Well," says St. Peter, "Wing size here is determined by how much abuse you suffered in your earthly life. See that guy with the butterfly-sized wings? He was a publisher. And the person with condor-sized wings? She was a night city editor."

Just then a squadron of F-16s roars overhead, forcing the two to hit the dirt.

St. Peter stands up, dusts himself off and mutters, "Damn copy editors."