The Happiest Meal I Ever Did — New Poems

They say Hell is fire and brimstone. They say it’s pitchforks and
screams. Lies. Hell is a brightly lit diner with checkered floors, a
jukebox that only plays Kidz Bop covers of Linkin Park, and a greeter
named Cheryl who will ask if you’ve tried the “Smiley Meal.”
 I died choking on a mozzarella stick. That’s not important. What is
important is that when I opened my eyes, I wasn’t greeted by the
eternal void or divine judgment—I was greeted by a ten-foot clown
named Gurgle.
 “Welcome to Grinny’s!” Gurgle boomed, his voice like a kazoo in
a garbage disposal. “We’re dying to serve you!”
 “Am I… dead?”
 “You are, but don’t worry,” he winked, peeling his face off like a
sticker to reveal another, slightly angrier clown face beneath.
 “We’re all smiles down here.”
 The first hour was tolerable. A hostess named Shriek seated me in
a booth made of screaming flesh (mine? Unclear). My tablemate was
a demonic sock puppet named Uncle Munch who wouldn’t stop
whispering Arby’s slogans in reverse Latin.
 But the real torture came with the Smiley Meal.
 “Today’s special!” Gurgle announced, slamming a plastic tray
down. It contained a burger made of broken dreams, fries made from
the fingernails of people who interrupt in meetings, and a juice box
filled with existential dread.
 I bit in. It tasted… familiar.
 “Oh no,” I muttered. “Is this… is this my childhood birthday
party?”
 “Bingo!” Cheryl sang, her eyes spinning like slot machines.
 “Every bite a repressed trauma! Did you catch the note of your
father’s unspoken disappointment in the fries? We’re very proud of
that.”

 I tried to stand, but the booth sprouted seatbelts—crafted from
exes’ apologies—and pinned me down.
 “And here’s your toy!” Gurgle cheered, handing me a cracked
mirror that whispered everything I could’ve been if I just tried harder.
 I screamed. They clapped.
 “Oh, he’s LOVING IT!” Cheryl beamed, writing a Yelp review on
my skin with a branding iron.
 Days? Weeks? Time is meaningless when every moment is
themed after your worst holiday memories. I’ve had twenty-seven
Thanksgiving dinners, each hosted by a different version of me that
chose another career.
 But the worst part? The fries are addictive. Salty, crispy, coated in
just enough despair to feel like home. I hate myself every time
 I lick the carton.
 And still—when Gurgle leans in with that toothless grin and
growls, “Ready for dessert?” I always say yes.
 Because deep down, some sick part of me likes it here.
 Maybe the real hell isn’t torture.
 Maybe it’s relatability.
 And free refills.
 Good night.