Lower your expectations ye who enter here, for these are the not terribly fernal regions of Heck. I am Fretful, constitutional monarch of Heck, and this fellow with the plastic spork is my second-in-command Behalfzebub.
As you can see, Heck is a not very pleasant place with many lakes of tepid bathwater and soapstone, valleys that echo with the faint sighs of the darned, and electric fires giving off a moderate amount of warmth. On your left is Semioblivio, the River of Not Remembering Very Much, and to your right is Mervyn the toothless one-headed guard dog.
We are in need of souls, so confess your petty shortcomings and be darned! Behalfzebub and I could also use some assistants, so we’ll be taking applications for minor nobility of Heck. It will help if you have some experience with darning things, or at least annoying people, but it’s not absolutely necessary – we’ll give you your very own spork and teach you all you need to know.
I have a confession to make: I drive an SUV. And I’m loving it! Am I eternally darned?
(Oh, yeah. I have an AYBABTU liscense plate frame. I’m surely darned now!)
Of course! Welcome to heck! We’ll even barb your tail with cotton wool to enhance your smacking capabilities.
I know of no Phil, Prince of Insufficient Light. Perhaps you are referring to Phil the Usurper. He has retired to his country estate and is presently enjoying his leisure.
For that you would need to go to Hick. Next underworld over.
I’d like to apply to be one of the nobility. I can be moderatly annoying when I so choose. I walk around all day going ‘HOO-AH!’ and ‘OH YEEEAAAAAHHHHH!’ very loudly, and constantly. Also, I know how to smack someone upside the head so that it’s mildly painful, but does no damage and is mostly just irritating.
I am sure I am darned. Often while in concentration I will tap my pencil. Also, I fequently say: D’oh a la Homer Simpson for no real reason. I deserve whatever the fates have in store for me, if they get around to it or not.
I know the difference between “that” and “which” and between “flaunt” and “flout” and lots of other often-confused words. I never use them incorrectly, even under extreme stress, and I look pained when other people get them wrong. So is that mildly irritating enough for the nobility of heck, or do I have to start openly correcting people?
Egads! He knows not Phil! He must have taken a dip in the River of Not Remembering Very Much! How could you forget Phil!! I mean look, he even stole Phil’s spoon and made it into a spork!
'Twas the middle of the night in the land of Hick.
The clock on the wall went tickety-tick.
A young bug, by the name of Beeberbee Powell,
Opened his mouth and let out a yowl:
“Oh, woe, oh, woe, my poor sore toe -
I bumped it on a stone, you know.”
But nobody answered; not a word was said.
So Beeberbee
Went back
To bed.
Could this be an indication, somehow transferred ‘Sixth Sense’ style through the realms of temporary beigeness, of the kind of minor trials one might expect to encounter in perpetual mediocrity? Or not? I was a funny kid, but never quite odd enough to see dead people. I saw… people who felt a bit unwell.
