This is how most of us figure we'll end up someday: A slow, agonizing death by way of a lethal combination of frustration, stress, exposure to Top 40 radio from the cubicle next door, and eye strain. The best you can hope for is that a sunglasses-clad David Caruso  stands over your emaciated body and rattles off some sort of awful pun about deadlines. You'd think kicking the bucket would at least bring some much-needed relief but, if you thought you were miserable before, just wait until you start your eternal unpaid internship in Hell.