I swear to sweet, dear Jesus, who sits patiently at the right hand of the Almighty Father, that this job was meant to be a life-test -- a holy diagnostic to try my patience and tempt me towards the devil himself ("the tattered clothing, and the heat,my God, the heat").

The issue: music.

Early on, they let the 19-year old receptionist choose the tunes, so we heard Brown Eye Blind and Blink 182 in excruciating abundance. I suffered.

Then, the older Bossmen took over. An AC/DC disc went a-spinning for weeks on end. Angus Young invades my dreams to the present day.

Recently, however, in the Terrible Third Epoch of Misery, they let the "tech" guys run the music. These code-writing motherfuckers are honestly killing me -- more than 100 times 100 packs of Pall Malls. Now, I hear the same mix of Depeche Mode, Erasure, and Smiths "classics" from the 1980s every day and I regard each rotation as another hammerstroke towards my crucifixion.

The nerds added a sinister wrinkle today, running, ad nauseum, a reel of movie theme song classics at maximum volume. The first playing of the triumphant scores of Star Wars, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Crimson Tide was a welcome respite from the mind-numbing whining of Morrissey. But by spin number four, I was tasting bile -- I felt like a leather-clad treasure hunter on the God-forsaken planet of Tatooine. "Periscope depth, Chewey!!"

There is so little mercy in this world -- and all of it comes from Jesus. The lessons I learn from this experience can only serve me well as I enter the Holy Firmament and play spirited rounds of Chutes & Ladders with St. Paul and all the angels of Heaven.