If I worked in Hell, the whole “yeah, work’s Hell” thing just wouldn’t work anymore.
I’d have to find an alternative way of telling you work was Hell, but if I did actually work in Hell (don’t ask me what kind of job although I suspect it would have something to do with making sure everyone was really unhappy and in extreme pain) I’ll bet you people who hated their jobs would walk around saying things like, “Yeah, work is heavenly” or “Although work sucks, it is so NOT Hell…”
And that would mean, it was hell but it wasn’t Hell.
But even more than the lexiconical phraseology or the inverse-meanings of work being Hell and now no longer being able to be referred to as “Hell” because the workplace actually is, really Hell, is the fact that I probably would be sweating up a storm cause it was so damn hot down there.
This brings up an even worse problem — my dress shirts. Now that I work in Hell, I would have to wear an extra layer of shirts underneath my dress shirts because if it’s that hot down there, you know I’m going to be sweating and you know that I’m going to sweat right through my dress shirts and that would just simply not be acceptable. Sure, I work in Hell, but it doesn’t mean I can’t look assured and confident (i.e., no sweat stains underneath the arms) while I’m doing it.
And you just know that the A/C units in my office (in Hell) are never going to work right, and even if they do work right there’s gonna be these shrieking women down the hall always complaining that it’s not hot enough for them and why can’t we all agree on one temperature and just stop it with this see-sawing A/C temperature contest that goes on every day and then because of this whole conflict, work would be even worse than what I had imagined Hell was because not only am I now working in Hell and sweating through my dress shirts but there’s women who won’t let me turn the A/C up higher because they’re already so warm with their over-abundance of estrogen coursing through their bloodstream.
And then, of course, we’d have to take the whole damn argument to the “big guy” who has so many other important things to worry about (like stealing people’s souls and stuff and lunch meetings) who would probably get pissed and fire someone because we couldn’t handle such a petty issue on our own. And you know him — he’ll probably make us all feel like crap for even bringing it up in the first place.
“This place…is this place,” I would say — happy that I had finally found a way to refer to the hellish conditions here in Hell, where I work because that’s the concept of this whole piece, and if you don’t suspend your disbelief and get your head into this whole “this guy’s pretending he works in Hell” then everything is ruined.
But more than the constant smell of flayed skin and hearing people screaming from outside my window all day long, and the nightmare it would be to actually get a hold of a ream of holed paper or a brand new toner cartridge for the copy machine — that whole A/C thing would really ruin my whole mood when it came to working in Hell.
I wouldn’t want to work in Hell. I think this has helped me make my decision on that matter. No, I am confident I wouldn’t want to work there at all.
It would just be too much like life.