I'd have a cool title, like the Educator or the Vindicator. Before you come in, you get a glimpse of Paradise, then get shot down at breakneck speed through the floor through the flaming section only there to scare the piss out of you. You'd reach the ground, be evaluated by the Judgmental, and sent on your way.
First of all, I'd keep the damned place nice. Have a few artsy dead guys do interior decorating. The main facility wouldn't be flaming; I'd run it like Paradise's reform school. Behave, and I'll let you out. Any minor offense that isn't considered a deadly sin will get a lecture, the Wrath cell cuffs you for a bit, and you get stamped letter of recommendation to the escalator. Maybe a few odd jobs if I just don't like you.
Lusty folks are put in a pocket dimension as a child to live through their formative years and regain their innocence. If that doesn't work they get dropped into Slender for a few rounds, being chased by Gary Busey with a stiffy.
Gluttonous folks are put in a dimension where they are an athlete, prime of their life and physical condition, feel the joy of winning the Olympics, stuff like that. If that doesn't break 'em, put them as a child on a UNICEF commercial.
Greedy people get the typical garbage; Wall Street executive, master of money, yet still not happy, bla bla bla. Run through joylessness enough, and if that doesn't work, put them in Accounting for an eternity and a half.
Sloth gets a guy a position as Hell's gofer, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, up the stairs, down the stairs(NOT the escalator), get stuck with a cattle prod if you stop sprinting. If that doesn't work, you're put in a dimension as a speed addict eternally on speed. You WISH you could sleep.
Wrath get to let it out for a while on the blasphemers as mentioned about, or maybe provide entertainment for the rest of us in cage fights. If they don't respond, repeat for eternity.
Envy: see Greed.
For the prideful, keep a group of insult comics on call to study and put them down until content or depressed like the rest of us.
After that, you get a stamped letter and you're the property of the poor bastard who has to care how you feel.