stops to remember when
he first bit the proverbial dust. Once he realized that hell was an awful lot
like any earthly city, only with shittier people and a much higher heat index,
he found his way to the offices of the one thing that every earthly city, no
matter how big or how small, has to have. A newspaper. Once he had walked into
the editor’s office and announced what he had done to find himself sentenced to
eternal fire and brimstone, he was hired on the spot. Since then, Joe has found
himself spending every day of his afterlife on the city desk of the Hellion
Gazette. His job was mainly writing stories cunningly designed to make
everyone, well at least everyone who would buy and read a paper down here, feel
even more miserable than they had before they read it. The circulation stayed
relatively low, compared to the population. Readers were mostly newbies who buy
the paper out of habit, since that was what they did when they were alive. Even
after the boxes with the disgusting websites showed up, the numbers remained
steady. Of course, it always spiked a little every once in a while, and Joe had
learned that was probably the month of January back in the land of the living.
Just one of the many fascinating facts Joe had learned while working at the
Gazette. More people die in January than any other month. People also die more
often at the beginning of every month than the end. And if you are looking to
be a true part of the “in crowd,” you’ll want to die at eleven in the morning.
Anyway, Joe was a natural from
jump. He had even gotten some hate mail for his work, which in Hell is the
equivalent to a Pulitzer Prize. Yesterday started like any other day, sitting
in the editor’s office getting the day’s miserable assignments. The editor with
the gruff voice of a lifelong smoker, asking who wants to write a story about
the thirty-fifth anniversary of the construction on 7 th avenue. Joe
passed on that one. He had written the story about the thirtieth anniversary of
the construction on 7 th avenue. Was that really five years ago?
Seems like yesterday. He offered the story to the guy who got the assignment.
All he had to do was go through it and change all the thirtys to thirty-fives.
Put in a few fives and go home early. The next story on the block was an expose
of one of the superstores at the edge of town. Specifically, how long it takes
to get out of the store once you walk through the doors and make the dreadful
choice to actually make a purchase. Some folks have claimed standing in line
for as long as six days. Joe leaped at the opportunity to finally get the
chance to write about the superstore. With its piss poor customer service, the
shoddy products, and the exorbitant amount of makeup the women who work there
seem to be forced to wear. All of this under the roof of a great white elephant
is exactly what poses as a shopping experience in Hell. He was thrilled when
the editor handed him the blue post-it note with the assignment written on it.
This was going to be his most depressing story to date. And it will practically
write itself.
Joe virtually skipped to the
superstore. He was that excited. His adrenaline was pumping like it used to
when he worked as a member of the paparazzi. The word paparazzi is Italian
meaning “large mosquito.” While most would say that is because they represent
annoying blood sucking versions of journalistic bottom feeders, he would argue
that it is because of the buzz he heard in his ears whenever he was chasing a
good story. That buzzing was happening now and Joe knew he was going to nail
it.
That is, until he arrived. Once he
got through the doors he saw something, something he was not expecting to ever
see here. Sure there was plenty of fodder for a real “down in the mouth” story
that would drive every reader into an abyss of hopelessness. The fact that it
took several tries to get through the electronic door, the guy standing in the
middle of aisle nine screaming to
he first bit the proverbial dust. Once he realized that hell was an awful lot
like any earthly city, only with shittier people and a much higher heat index,
he found his way to the offices of the one thing that every earthly city, no
matter how big or how small, has to have. A newspaper. Once he had walked into
the editor’s office and announced what he had done to find himself sentenced to
eternal fire and brimstone, he was hired on the spot. Since then, Joe has found
himself spending every day of his afterlife on the city desk of the Hellion
Gazette. His job was mainly writing stories cunningly designed to make
everyone, well at least everyone who would buy and read a paper down here, feel
even more miserable than they had before they read it. The circulation stayed
relatively low, compared to the population. Readers were mostly newbies who buy
the paper out of habit, since that was what they did when they were alive. Even
after the boxes with the disgusting websites showed up, the numbers remained
steady. Of course, it always spiked a little every once in a while, and Joe had
learned that was probably the month of January back in the land of the living.
Just one of the many fascinating facts Joe had learned while working at the
Gazette. More people die in January than any other month. People also die more
often at the beginning of every month than the end. And if you are looking to
be a true part of the “in crowd,” you’ll want to die at eleven in the morning.
Anyway, Joe was a natural from
jump. He had even gotten some hate mail for his work, which in Hell is the
equivalent to a Pulitzer Prize. Yesterday started like any other day, sitting
in the editor’s office getting the day’s miserable assignments. The editor with
the gruff voice of a lifelong smoker, asking who wants to write a story about
the thirty-fifth anniversary of the construction on 7 th avenue. Joe
passed on that one. He had written the story about the thirtieth anniversary of
the construction on 7 th avenue. Was that really five years ago?
Seems like yesterday. He offered the story to the guy who got the assignment.
All he had to do was go through it and change all the thirtys to thirty-fives.
Put in a few fives and go home early. The next story on the block was an expose
of one of the superstores at the edge of town. Specifically, how long it takes
to get out of the store once you walk through the doors and make the dreadful
choice to actually make a purchase. Some folks have claimed standing in line
for as long as six days. Joe leaped at the opportunity to finally get the
chance to write about the superstore. With its piss poor customer service, the
shoddy products, and the exorbitant amount of makeup the women who work there
seem to be forced to wear. All of this under the roof of a great white elephant
is exactly what poses as a shopping experience in Hell. He was thrilled when
the editor handed him the blue post-it note with the assignment written on it.
This was going to be his most depressing story to date. And it will practically
write itself.
Joe virtually skipped to the
superstore. He was that excited. His adrenaline was pumping like it used to
when he worked as a member of the paparazzi. The word paparazzi is Italian
meaning “large mosquito.” While most would say that is because they represent
annoying blood sucking versions of journalistic bottom feeders, he would argue
that it is because of the buzz he heard in his ears whenever he was chasing a
good story. That buzzing was happening now and Joe knew he was going to nail
it.
That is, until he arrived. Once he
got through the doors he saw something, something he was not expecting to ever
see here. Sure there was plenty of fodder for a real “down in the mouth” story
that would drive every reader into an abyss of hopelessness. The fact that it
took several tries to get through the electronic door, the guy standing in the
middle of aisle nine screaming to
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