Dante's Inferno, 21st century version

If, when I die, I find I was wrong, and there is a god who extracts pleasure from the eternal suffering of those who, for 80 years or so, did not believe in it, then I know exactly what my punishment will be:

I will, for time everlasting, have to spackle and sand ceilings. Bending my back further than is good for it, just because I am too lazy to have to get off the ladder and move it 6 inches. Almost falling (because of such irresponsible behavior; and more than once), and realizing as I teeter that the Consort is away on a business trip, the girls are in school, so the soonest my dead body would be found is 3 o'clock. Having to get down every 3 minutes and pressing the cancel code on the fire alarm system because of the unbelieveable amount of dust produced by the sanding (or by the amount of plaster spackle needed to fix the damn ceilings). (And even when the system is on "test" -- meaning they won't call the fire department -- it still beeps.)

If there is even a speck of pity in this god, maybe my experiences today (after I clean up all the dust that is on every surface and plaster wall) will get me some time off my eternal suffering. ("Eternal torment on the installment plan".)