---Joke---I woke up dead one morning. I found myself standing on a giant conveyor belt that stretched for hundreds of miles. Far, far ahead I saw the Pearly Gates. Through some optical quirk I was able to see the entire length of conveyor belt.
The souls were lined about 7 abreast. The conveyor moved slowly but smoothly. I could see that God had been upgrading the facility to keep pace with the increasing population.
I settled down to await developments. One advantage of slipping one's mortal coil is there is no need to urinate, eat breakfast, smoke a cigarette or drink a cup of caffeine. (I found out later these things are optional. If you make it to the good place you can eat an omlette with sides of bacon, toast and raspberry freezer jam. You can drink a fresh cup of French Roast and smoke a Punch Robusto....but you are not physically compelled to do so.)
Up in the distance I saw an enormous He-Devil carefully scanning every soul as they passed by. He sure looked like Quality Inspection. I wish I could communicate back to earth. There were more than a few Production Supervisors who suspected as much.
As I got closer I saw him grab an occassional soul by the nap-of-the-neck and the seat-of-the-pant. He would roar "MINE" when he did so. With a slight twist of the body he would step on a treadle, a trap door would fly up. Then that He-Devil would pitch the hapless soul down into a roaring fire, the flames crackling and bletching oily soot.
Hell clearly has a waiver from the EPA.
Every once in a great while the He-Devil would start his little dance but suddenly stop in mid-treadle step. He would grimace, give the soul an extra, angry little shake and then pitch the soul onto a hither-to-fore unnoticed pile of souls.
I traded places with a guy near the edge of the belt so I could get a better look at the operation as I went by. The fellow on the He-Devil's side of the line seemed quite apprehensive and had no problems trading places with me. I have always been a window seat kind of guy.
Just as I came up even with the He-Devil the conveyor lurched, shuddered, made a screeching sound and ground to a halt. Souls are light but try carrying hundreds of millions of them, year-after-year. That kind of thing takes its toll.
Based on the number of skilled trades I saw scrambling to a smoking junction box and the smell of hot rubber, I figured we were going to be waiting for a while.
I struck up a conversation with the He-Devil.
I told him I surmised his purpose and that I "got" the purpose of the scanning and the trap door (and what lay beneath it). I then shared my puzzlement over the pile of souls. "What is the deal with them?"
The He-Devil said "Theys Cajun." as if that explained everything.
So I asked him, "You mean Cajun don't go to Hell?"
The He-Devil shook his gigantic head, a look of disgust on his face, "Nope. It is just that they is too wet to burn."