Dear God, Supreme Being, Creator of All Things and Absentee Landlord – Hope all is well up north. Down in hell, thanks to the super-frosty weather you’ve unleashed upon your dominion, everything here has arrived in the proverbial hand basket.
What’s with the cold snap, Dadio? Thought you should know the pipes burst last night, water flooded everywhere and now the Inferno looks like an ice rink. Yep, hell froze over.
Hell should be a place of fire and brimstone, not a winter wonderland. Frankly, it’s embarrassing. I’ve got Nazis making snowmen. I don’t believe this was part of the plan.
Obviously, this icy turn of affairs has more implications for you than for me since it’s your precious mortals who operate within the contractual clause, “When hell freezes over.” Good luck with that. I’m sure you’re already getting calls from would-be lottery winners and pubescent boys who now think they’re owed dates with supermodels.
So, what’s next, flying pigs? Besides the air-traffic congestion, have you considered the terminal velocity of airborne pig droppings? No, you haven’t, and don’t go changing history to say you did because I’m onto you. Like I’ve always said, you should never have moved forward with this whole probabilistic universe thing. Now, anything can happen and you know why? Science. Is that word even in your book? No. See what’s happening since you let the heat turn off? Your whole program is falling apart and now I’ve Robespierre passing out snow cones. Albeit they’re yellow snow cones (still got it, Robes!) but icy cold treats nonetheless. Icy cold treats in hell. Think about that a moment, would ya?