When I think of Hell, I always imagine a large atrium-type room (but with like, less of the pretty botanical touches and more of the speared shit and car exhaust) where everyone goes to do their chores while enjoying a cocktail of some mighty fine ass rape by staggering penises coated with AIDS, followed by an enema of stagnant leech-filled pond water and battery acid. But after all that daily socializing, everyone relocates to their bunkers — their own little personal Hells-with-the-lid-on.
I think that my room would probably have a row of bottled Henry-snores, the caps of which will lift up in random intervals, broadcasting a nasal symphony around the walls. Eleanore will be seated two feet from me, no matter where I am she’ll be two feet from me, ripping up sheets of paper, slamming desk drawers, and sighing heavily. Then she’ll stuff her mouth with food and start ranting about racism, while hurling a pair of scissors down against the desk top. The clatter of that will reverberate inside my head, making my teeth chatter.
The Gum Popper will have a permanent perch upon my shoulders, cracking and slurping and snapping her fat Bazooka Joe-wrapped tongue in my ear and down my neck and even when she pauses, it’s still all I can hear, the ghosts of the gum echoing inside my skull and no matter how many times I gouge flaming twigs into my ear drums, the drums Satanically repair themselves and the new carnations come packing amazing clarity.
A parade of strangers will back me up against the wall with their overused sayings, like “Any-who,” “om nom nom,” “Asshat,” and “Exsqueeze me” and every third one will touch my eyeball. And one by one all of my favorite bands will announce their tour dates but I’ll have to miss every single show because if I stop data processing for even three seconds, I’ll be eviscerated by a tag team of Fran Drescher and Jessica Simpson, who will laugh and sing in my face while strangling me with my intestines.
Then Henry’s ex-wife will come strutting around in a tie-dyed shirt, wearing her vagina on her face.
I guess it could be worse. No, that sucks.
Ahh, this reads like a Dr. Seuss book. Of sorts.
Is “exsqueeze me” overused? I thought it was retro. I’m always saying to my children, “exsqueeze me, please me” instead of excuse me please.
Hell probably rhymes, too. /
No you’re right — it’s not hardly overused these days. But I still, all these years later, have a bad taste in my mouth from my middle school years when everyone said it!
your imagry is so good… it makes me ill.
that’s an interesting concept… what would my hell be?
this is thought-provoking.
disturbing, BUT thought provoking.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it last night! I wonder if that’s why I ended up puking?
Eleanore and Henry!! *cracking up*
Anywho IS a dumb word.
Ooh, you know what I forgot?? “That’s how I roll.” I fucking hate that. Especially when it’s on a fucking middle aged housewife’s blog and they’re trying to sound so fucking cool and urban. I hate those women. Unless you’re saying it with a heaping spoonful of irony, you better be Dr. Dre or some shit.
oh snap!! I hardly think oh snap is overused, i almost never hear anyone saying oh snap, even when something oh snappable happens, ya know……snap
When Fergie sings a song about it, it’s overused. I see it/hear it all the time.