The wheels on the noggin go round and round

I'm glad there's no such thing as hell, because if there was, it wouldn't consist of Dante's malebranche poking my ass with red hot filthy pitchforks; dipping me and my flailing limbs in boiling seas of sulfur; covering my open, festering wounds with blankets of vermin ridden with the most virulent strains of disease; nor forcing me into horizontal bopping with a leather-clad Karl Rove, but something far more mundane, an abyss devoid of visceral, horrifying, sensation; c'est-à-dire, anything resembling, painful or not, life:

I am seated on a bus, a technogizmo chock full of soaring symphonies and flesh shredding metal in my pocket, my blessed shield against external distraction, yet my headphones, out of the blue, die over and over, the feeling of disappointment cycling fresh with each passing second, the vehicle populated with the vague stench of stale cigarettes, sweat and quotidian annoyances: a whining baby, a parent whose rising voice quickly reveals they can't handle it, someone talking too loud on their cell phone, an iPod on eleven blaring crap I loathe with all of my soul as I'm unable to drown its marching wail out, an old man sporting a toupee worthy of a bad TV comedy sketch carrying on the most banal conversations with anyone who'll listen while my bones are being pressed against the windowpane by some hulking behemoth formed of nothing but wifebeater-encased muscle, potato chip flab and the putrescent odors of the armpit with a side of garlic and salami halitosis as each stop along the endless road piles in more and more fleshy nuisances to where the rusty frame of the bus has to crack lest our bodies be violently pushed through the breaking glass of windows, soon-to-be gangrenous cuts and blinding self-amputation a small price to pay for sweet, sweet freedom. But the bus only expands, coiling its rancid, suffocating grip ever tighter as more and more people get on than the bus can seemingly hold, senses overwhelmed, vexation bubbling in my gut, wishing I could vomit until the stomach is emptied, sandpaper dry heaves, delirium, blood, unconsciousness, coma, death. Rest. But I remain awake. Forever.

Oh, I bet I'd have forgotten my coffee mug, too, and the only beverage available in hell is warm Busch Light, so it's a good thing there's no way I'm ever getting off the bus, huh.