So recently, I died (I was really thirsty and tried to open a fire hydrant valve, but the water shot out, pushed me into the street, and a bus ran me over). I got sent to Hell because of all the sins I committed throughout my life. And while Hell is nice and all, it just cannot compare to my studio apartment in Washington Heights for one reason; the bagels here suck.

I get it. I’m in Hell. Eternal damnation isn’t supposed to be paradise. It’s supposed to be the complete antithesis of paradise, actually. Still, it would be nice if on my way to the bone-melting facility every morning, I was able to eat a something that doesn’t taste like cardboard to go with my coffee (which actually isn’t bad).

I know what you’re thinking: have I tried getting my bagel toasted to mask the taste? Since Hell is eternally engulfed in flames, everything is not only toasted, but burnt to shit. Also, it would take more than a light toasting to make these bagels taste better. With no access to New York City’s tap water (or any water for that matter), it’s no wonder that Hell’s bagels taste so bad.

I’ve seen medieval paintings and stuff, so I guess I should have expected this kind of treatment here.

Everybody likes their bagels differently. I like my mine with poppy seeds and cream cheese. But you can’t even customize the way you want your bagels here. Instead, when I tell the demon at the shop what I want, he tells me they only make them “Hell style,” which is pretty much code for “awful.” They’re consistently hard as a hockey puck and never have enough cream cheese. Uhhhh, I think I’ll spend my Hell stones (the currency Hell’s economy uses) elsewhere.

A lot of people who don’t live in the city roll their eyes when they hear New Yorkers complaining that other bagels aren’t up to our standards. But as a proud man who lived AND DIED in The Big Apple, I think that is it not only very interesting and really good when New Yorkers do this, but also everyone should thank us for it.

One of my favorite things about New York was not just the hustle, but also the bustle. Hell has plenty of both, but it’s not the kind of hustle and bustle that I like. For instance, instead of busy streets with honking cars, everyone in Hell is screaming because they have to swim in the piranha-ghost-infested fire pits, or for some other dumb reason.

I guess it’s true what they say; you can take the man out of the big city and send him to Hell for the transgressions he committed during his lifetime, but you can’t take the big city out of the man.

Honestly, I hate Hell. It sucks so hard, and not just because there’re no good bagel places here. Yesterday, a demon poked me with a pitchfork RIGHT IN MY LITTLE ASS because I wasn’t carrying big rocks fast enough. I was like, “Dude, they’re rocks. They’re heavy,” but he didn’t want to hear it.

I’ve seen medieval paintings and stuff, so I guess I should have expected this kind of treatment here. At the same time, I just wish the demons weren’t always in such a pissy mood.

Oh, and the trains here are all extremely efficient and arrive on time. This is horrible because it has taken one of the greatest joys that New Yorkers know away from me: complaining about public transit.

I am not debating whether or not I deserve to be here. I know I belong here. Take, for example, all the times I rummaged through old women’s purses when they got up to use a restaurant’s bathroom. Or all the times I deliberately refused to use salad tongs because I believed, and still currently believe, that they are for people whose hands aren’t as strong and not as good at gripping lettuce as mine are. Or even all the times I stuck my gum on the only empty seat on the train when a pregnant woman got on.

While I don’t regret any of those decisions, I do regret that those actions had consequences, which is, to be perfectly frank, a real bummer. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t be here, a place with dogshit bagels.