I believe in Heaven and Hell. That said, I don’t believe that Hell is necessarily a place of smouldering heat and fire.
[sub](as a matter of fact, it may be a very cold place if the Chicago Cubs keep this up)[/sub]
I’d like to think of Hell as a personal torment, specific to the…uhhh, sinner. For me, it would be to live eternity in a small, tidy room with a single bed in it that was constantly covered with an array of bugs. Knowing that I’d have to pull back the sheets and see a swarm of crawly things in my bed every single day would freak me out forever.
You think I’m kidding? I assure you I’m not. Details:
People there to harp on anything bad I did. They lie about the good stuff and make fun of me for not doing better.
I cannot escape them except by fleeing to my room (unless it’s a long weekend, in which case I bask in the relative solitude I have). I listen to Oldies and wish for death. It does not come.
If I were already dead, that would be pure Hell. I wouldn’t be able to kill myself to escape.
A writer died and, for whatever reason, was given the choice of whether to go to heaven or hell. She said she wanted to see them both first. So they took her to hell. There she saw row upon row of writers chained to their desks, endlessly churning out page after page of material. Then they took her to heaven. There she saw row upon row of writers chained to their desks, endless churning out page after page of material.
“This is just like hell!” she said.
“Not quite,” they said. “Here, you get published.”
My personal Hell would involve consist either of endless lectures from Fundamentalist preachers or being forced to eat mint ice cream without chocolate syrup. Maybe both at the same time. :eek:
I’m locked in the most impressive auditorium imaginable - soft, comfy seats - incredible accoustics. On the well-lit stage, in concert for all eternity, are Barry Manilow and Bobby Goldsboro. They are only allowed to perform radio commercial jingles (which they do rather badly, though with great gusto) and songs written for BARNEY (which, to my dismay, they do with great precision and passion). To my left is Johnny Cash who constantly screams, “My name is SUE! How do you do?” and to my right is Weird Al Yankovic who waves his lighter in the air while yelling, “POLKA! POLKA!”
Several different places could serve as my personal hell:
A gigantic, never-ending shopping mall, with nary a book or record store in sight, and my mom constantly yakking at me about tank tops and lipstick.
A car without AC in August, stuck in a permanent traffic jam, no radio, after three cups of coffee.
A dentist’s chair, getting dozens of cavities filled, with the radio tuned to the soft-rock station during a 24- hour Celine Dion marathon.
I’d be stuck on the Tobin bridge, which would sway precariously in the wind. Several clowns would be stalking me, and since I couldn’t get off the bridge, I’d be forced to run from them constantly, at least when I wasn’t washing pots and pans that would be delivered daily to the bridge. Hootie and the Blowfish would be playing 24/7 from loud speakers set up on the bridge as well.
My darling ** poohpah ** hell for me would be my life without you in it to flirt with me and make me smile sometimes.
That and having to live my life over and over again and never learn anything from it all from one time to the next.
Make sense ? I thought not.
That reminds me of a scene in a book I read once. There was some weird metaphysical stuff about people having to live a certain way in order to move up to a higher plane of existence or whatever. Anywho, there was a bit where it said that when you die, you became a spirit in ‘Zone 6’. So then you’d queue up to get reincarnated back on Shikasta (Earth) again, but when you did you’d forget everything of course. Then you’d die, and you’d remember everything again, and you’d realise that you’d failed again, and you’d queue up again determined to live properly this time, but then you’d die again and realise you’d failed again, as you had the time before and the time before that and every single time before back into infinity…
psychogumby’s definition of Hell: Being locked in a small room (say 10’x 10’) with no exits, that has been converted into a karaoke bar, with Jennifer Lopez and Gwyneth Paltrow in a karaoke ‘sing-off’. With the PA volume jammed onto 11. Being Hell, they would have come up with a way of having such a powerful PA system in such a confined space without any sort of feedback whatsoever.
Come to think of it, the room would need to be much bigger to fit two egos of that stature in there.
