Hell

var addthis_product = 'wpp-252'; var addthis_config = {"data_track_clickback":true};I visited hell this morning. It’s pictured above, and it reeks of rotting skin and moldy feces and all the horrible, nightmarish, miserable things that Satan surrounds himself with. It is my local post office. I’m not really kidding. My local post office is like a visit to the morgue—you enter, and are immeditely overcome by a desperate need to exit. The lines are always long. The supplies are always limited. When you want a special sort of stamp, they always seem to have a choice of two: Images of some 17th centrury poet or the Smurfs. Worst of all is the woman—the woman who tortures my dreams. I won’t use her name here—we’ll just call her Hagatha the Evil Wench from ******* Hell. Trust me, it’s accurate. Hagatha the Evil Wench from ******* Hell hates her job. She also hates human beings. Which makes for an interesting combination. Hagatha the Evil Wen...