A Writer’s Allowed to Choose

A writer died, and due to a bureaucratic snafu in the hereafter, she was to be allowed to choose her own fate: heaven or hell for all eternity.

Being very shrewd for a dead person, she asked St. Peter for a tour of both.

The first stop was hell, where she saw rows and rows of writers sitting chained to desks, in a room as hot as a thousand suns. Fire licked the writers’ fingers as they tried to work; demons whipped their backs with chains.

It was your typical hell scene.

“Wow, this is awful,” said the writer, appalled. “Let’s see some heaven.”

In a moment, they were whisked to heaven and the writer saw rows and rows of writers chained to desks, in a room as hot as a thousand suns. Fire licked the writers’ fingers as they tried to work; demons whipped their backs with chains. It looked and smelled even worse than hell.

“What gives, Pete?” the writer asked. “This is worse than hell!”

“Yes,” St. Peter replied, “but here your work gets published.”

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