They Shoot Becky's, Don't They?

Dear Diary,

Today I felt the true wrath of Satan as I waited for admittance into the seventh layer of hell. All around me the people were clammy with sweat, as they stood for hours on the hard concrete in a tortuous winding queue. Bones creaked as the people inched their way forward at a rate no faster than a physically handicapped snail crawling backwards on a conveyor belt. Demon spawn everywhere were up to no good. Screaming, running, terrorizing. Everywhere the midget hellions spread their bedlam and confusion among the masses as we stood there waiting like cattle on their way to the slaughter. High decibel voices pierced the air as parents attempted to buy off their progeny with storybooks, French fries, and threats to make him wear his puke-stained shirt for the duration of the evening should his woeful tantrum stimulate his gagging reflect. Moms chasing teetering infants through the snaking orange pylons and yellow crime scene tape, I admittedly watched several fall flat on their faces with no regard for their well-being. Kids are resilient, evil fiends are immortal. Attempting a bit of light reading amidst the din of hellfire, the hours ticked by and I inevitably came to the conclusion that the most boring book in the world could get no drearier.

It got drearier. My ipod died. The satellite child spinning around his father bumped into me for the 42nd time. I persevered. I inched forward some more. I reached the curtain. The triage area. The nurse. She shot me. Inoculation administered. Freedom at last.

And then I sprinted into oncoming traffic crossing the street and nearly collided with a semi on the on-ramp. Perhaps I was being careless, perhaps I was just tempted to see if hell really is as bad as were the preceding three hours.

Time will tell.