Satan's Little Hellper.

I have been thinking a lot about hell.

While traditionally I always imagined the fire and brimstone, I have enjoyed thinking about the different forms it may or may not take as I have gotten older. I have been watching a fair amount of both TV shows 'The Good Place' and 'Preacher'. Both of which are quite good, but offer an interesting perspective on what hell is or might be.

On 'The Good Place', the idea is that an architect in hell is trying to veer from traditional torture methods and create something more sinister to torture people. In essence, trying to create emotional turmoil rather than locking you in a crate and dropping scorpions in. To be honest, I would much rather get tossed in a pit of snakes than have someone try to psychologically damage me. I'm a very simple person, it wouldn't be that hard to confuse me and make me cry, just beat me with a wooden bat when I get to hell.

The TV series 'Preacher' has the image that every person in hell will re-live the worst moment of their lives over and over and over, endlessly. Additionally, how you react each time could potentially trigger something worse to happen in your memory. I thought about this long and hard, and to be fair, I can't pinpoint when the worst moment of my life would be. Would it be that time when I ran down the hall in third grade, barfing the whole way, only to arrive at the toilet not needing to barf anymore, but covered my favorite shirt in puke? Or maybe that time when my older sister told me I couldn't have any of her 6 ft bubble tape and hid it in her dresser. Then, knowing where she hid it, sneaking into her room, chewing the entire 6 ft and sticking each chewed up piece to a sticker that was on her dresser? Then after that having my mom confront me asking if I did it, blatantly lying and saying no? Actually, I don't feel that bad about that. She should have shared when she had the chance, AMANDA. I do feel bad about lying to my mom. Sorry mom.

I always pictured hell in a different light. You see, I do imagine that there are architects in hell, drawing up plans for me to be uncomfortable for eternity. I also have a pretty good idea about what my hell would look like. Maybe I will get promoted to an architect in hell after a few millennia. You can laugh but, they let people out of prison for good behavior.

I would imagine when I arrive in hell I will be put in the middle of a crowded Ulta makeup store. I would really need to use the bathroom, and desperately trying to find my wife, or an exit to go use the horrible pig trough of a mall restroom. But every time I turned a corner, there would be a swarm of young teenage girls clogging up the aisles. I can see my wife's blonde head, but every time I would try to go down the aisle to meet up with her, there would be a gaggle of idiot girls. I refuse to say 'excuse me' and cut through the girls, because I refuse to do that in real life. I just keep attempting to go down a different aisle and avoid any confrontation, or speaking to anyone in any form, just like I do now, and finding more crowded aisles. The more times I try to dodge, the more girls that show up. Pretty soon it's like an Ozzy Osbourne concert, and I can't move at all, and I am surrounded by girls wearing black shirts of bands they don't listen to, and talking about boys they don't like. At this point I have to whiz so bad I decide to just go in a local garbage can but find none. The hell doesn't reset until I wet my pants, and every girl is pointing and laughing.

I do have an alternate hell idea for myself. I would be at McDonalds, and after picking up my order that is completely wrong, and full of pickles and mustard, I try to get to the drink fountain. I am just absolutely frothing at the mouth for some of that delicious, ethereal, saintly, seraphic, cherubic, celestial, heavenly McDonalds Coca-cola. While on my way to the fountain, there is a very long line of folks. The problem isn't the line, it's that no one is paying attention. They are all looking at their phones and showing each other pictures of their children, cats and dogs. So every time I try to shove ahead, a person turns to me, shows me a picture of their dog or cat, and I have to feign excited. It starts out with the cat people who just show you pictures of their cat sleeping and saying "He's an asshole." and I say "Yep, but at least he's cute?" and they laugh and agree. The Dog people are worse. They will not leave me alone until they tell me how old their dog is, what their name is, what tricks they can do, what their favorite snack is, what funny things they do, where they sleep. how often they have to walk them, and how often they have to poop. It gets worse as you progress the line because then it's moms showing you pictures of their kids. It's a similar thing to the dog people, except they tell you the bad things about their kids, too. Like how they only want to play Fortnite, and that their friend Alex is a bad influence, and how you found your Victorias Secret magazine in their underwear drawer. So after about 40 years of fake smiling and laughing and "Wow he/she is very cute." I finally arrive at what I assume is the fountain of peace and love, only to find that this McDonalds only offers Pepsi and Coke Zero. The hell wont reset until I cry trying to get back to my table to eat my food, but having to look at every ones animals (Children included in that sentiment) again.

So I guess you could say that you could put me into any hell where I have to make small talk. or where people are, and I wouldn't be happy. At all. I guess this means hell could be where I am. And maybe yours could be where you are...

That's bleak.

Maybe you're good enough that you won't go to hell, though. So if you are, that's great. However, if you are reading THIS blog, I doubt that very much.

Hello Sir can I ask you a quick question?

I saw a girl walking down the street the other day and she was wearing a tan twill pea coat with plaid markings on it. She was also wearing a hat of similar color with ear flaps that were tied to the top. It was around 70 degrees out, so it was odd to see someone wearing a coat at all. I said, out loud, "Huh. she must be off to solve some mysteries." I was in the car alone. So sure, she is dressed like a female Sherlock Holmes, but I am the one driving down the road talking to myself. So I guess we are both weird. I don't want to stereotype here, but she seemed like the type of girl who colors her hair blue and has a pet reptile whom she has named a real persons name such as George or Keith. I'm just grasping at straws here, but I'm guessing she probably also watches anime. Again, not trying to typecast, it's just what I would guess that someone wearing that outfit might do in their free time. 

Have you ever wondered what people might say about you when you are walking down the street? Not that I walk down the street anymore, that's why God invented dinosaurs that turned into oil that power cars that I drive so I don't have to walk like some sorry person. But maybe what someone would say about you if they saw you at the store?

See, this poses an interesting question. Because I will only consign myself to go to the store, more particularly the Wal-marts, after work. The reasoning for that is because morale is at an all time low after work. So there is literally nothing that the friendly staff and shoppers of the Wal-marts could do to me that could make things worse. Because of this, I am dressed very peculiarly. See, I wear my coveralls at work, so I wear trash clothes to work because my coveralls will cover-all (buh-dum-tiss) of my shame I show up in. So if someone were to see me at the Wal-marts after work I would be wearing a disgusting hat that is marred black by grease and hydraulic fluid. I would be wearing an old t-shirt that doesn't fit exactly right anymore, but I have held onto for many *reasons. I am always wearing old basketball shorts I bought 5 years ago. I am wearing my steel toes work shoes that are falling apart and make an odd flapping noise when I walk. Lastly my tall black socks will be rolled down to my ankles, but you can see the red marks where they were pulled up because my calves are so fat, it looks like I tried to stuff a sausage but gave up. So seeing me going around the Wal-marts, looking at my phone and cursing at my grocery list, and having a cart full of poor people food (My wife likes those Totino Party Pizzas that are one dollar and they, in my professional opinion, are pig slop. What you would leave out for stray dogs to fight over. Swill. Rubbish. Waste. But yeah, I've got those in my cart and like, raviolis and stuff to make PB&J's and canned meat.) You might think to yourself; huh. This fat, angry man looks like the rest of this lot. A sorry person. An imbecile. A fool! An absolute clod! He belongs here!

And to be fair, I wouldn't disagree. But that's part of my survival method. If you want to go to the Wal-marts and not be hassled by the XFinity salesmen waiting like snakes in short grass near the entertainment section, it's helpful to look like you are there to meet a drug dealer, or buy ingredients to make bombs. They whisper amongst themselves "I doubt this person even has a TV, much less Internet and Cable. Let him walk by without impedance." Which is great for me, because honestly, I would rather jump out of my own moving car and run myself over than talk to them.

One time I was at the Wal-marts and I was showered and dressed like a normal functioning adult, and I got trapped by one of those salespeople. She was like "What brings you to the store today?" and I wanted to say: "Well, I was hoping to trade stocks and/or race go-carts, but you guys don't do that." Like, why else would I be here? I hate myself and I need groceries for cheap. I am not on some secret treasure hunt. What I actually said was "Getting stuff for dinner." Like some half brained idiot. And she goes "What are you making?" and i said "Not sure yet." thinking that would ward her off, but ohhhhh no. She goes "Well, my grandma has this great recipe for chicken noodle soup and its great in the fall time its just..." and she proceeded, for the next 18 years, to tell me this recipe. When the truth was, I wasn't there to even get anything for dinner. I needed milk and toilet paper, and there I was, getting told some secret recipe for a soup I wasn't even going to make. I had already eaten dinner. I appreciate her being nice, but I really hate talking to people. In fact, I'm not even convinced that I actually got away from that. There is still a small chance that I am where I am in spirit, and my real body is still there, getting told how to make meema's chicken noodle soup.

I also really hate when I am at Sephora or Ulta with my wife while she is buying makeup, and I am standing there like a dunce staring at something I don't know, or care anything about. Then a worker comes up to me and says: "are you finding everything okay?" Like yeah, some husky man wearing a baseball hat and a black heavy metal t-shirt and shorts is a little lost on which highlighter to use. I am not some fashion forward metro sexual looking fellow who is here to browse. I look like a truck driver who came here on accident. I am not shopping here, I am just here to swipe my debit card when it's all finally, after many hours, over. That is my only purpose, the beginning and end. Notice how there aren't any chairs in those makeup hellscapes? BS if you ask me. 

I guess I shouldn't be so harsh, Those people are just doing their job. But the could use a little help reading the room, in my honest opinion. Or maybe I could stand to lighten up, and be friendlier?

No. It's definitely the first.

There isn't anything wrong with me. It's them.

It's always them. They are out to get me, the general public. They hate me and despise me and want to make my life miserable.

Yes.

That's it. You are all the problem.

*The reason I have all these old horrible shirts is because I literally cannot keep anything nice. So my wife will get me a new shirt, and ask me to keep it in presentable condition. And I usually don't, So If I am caught wearing a nice shirt to work, it would be the end of me. You would drive past our complex and read my tombstone that says "Here lies Jake, he ruined every t-shirt, perhaps on purpose. I couldn't afford to keep buying t-shirts for this moron. I just wish he could wear something nice out." And there would be a flip-book of all the many shirts I have ruined (Like a dictionary size. I keep staining them, what do you want from me? To eat like I am NOT starving to death? Maybe they should make food that doesn't ruin shirts. Again, I am not the issue here.

P.S. Sorry for saying 'The Wal-marts' so much, I have this problem where when I think something is funny, I will say it until it becomes a problem and everyone hates me for it. Just who I am as a person.