I don't usually make it in here to the Funny Thing, so stop me if you've heard this one (and take my wife...please):
One day while walking across a street a highly successful newspaper editor was struck by a car and died. His soul arrived in Heaven, where he was met by St. Peter.
"Welcome to Heaven," said St. Peter. "Before you get settled in, though, it seems we have a problem. You see, we've never had a newspaper editor make it this far and we're not really sure what to do with you. So we're going to let you have a day in Hell and a day in Heaven, and then you choose where you want to spend eternity."
And with that, the editor found himself in Hell's anteroom, a beautiful putting green next to a spectacular seaside golf course strongly resembling Pebble Beach. In the nearby clubhouse bar were all the friends and lovers he had known in a lifetime of newspapering, perpetually young, cheerily inviting him to join them at the bar where the Cohiba cigars, shrimp cocktail and pitchers of margaritas were endless.
After a sub-par round of golf and filet mignon and lobster dinner at the penthouse restaurant, the Devil himself came by his table. He was a great guy and spent an hour talking about the editor's favorite sports teams, the deluxe accommodations available there in Hell, and the endless fun and rewards. Then everyone glad-handed him to the elevator going back to Heaven.
At the Pearly Gates he found St. Peter waiting, and with a smile he escorted him through a day of lounging on clouds, strumming harps and singing.
When the day ended, St. Peter asked for his choice.
The editor paused for a second and then replied, "Well, you've been very kind, but I think I had a better time in Hell."
So he found himself at the bottom stop of the elevator. To his surprise the door opened on a desolate wasteland covered in garbage and filth, smelling of sulphur, newsprint and ink. His friends were dressed in rags, slaving away at meaningless
drudgery, with nothing for sustenance but cold coffee and stale Lance cheese crackers they grabbed from a filthy communal bowl.
And there was the Devil, now an ugly, wart-faced taskmaster, embracing him in a grasp that he knew would never end.
"I don't understand," stammered the editor. "Where's the golf course, the penthouse restaurant, the luxurious accommodations?"
"Ah," smiled the Devil lasciviously. "Yesterday we were recruiting you. Today you're staff."
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