The Unauthorized Chapter
To be fair, we should also remember the terribly funny and frankly un-angelic things President Angel did to the whole damned world. For example, one day, while the world was going to Hell in a pot, the president was dutifully doing the presidential thing and sitting in his office emanating waves of love to the poor world. But, and for this he cannot be blamed, on that fateful day when the world most needed him, suddenly, without appointment or warning, Death stole into the Oval Office. The old scoundrel had disguised himself as a doctor, so security asked no questions, for his kind were the norm in the White House. Without ado, Death sat down beside the president, checked his pulse and expressed mild disappointment. President Angel was greatly annoyed by the interruption and cried, “Go away, you old fiend! immortals don’t need no damn doctors!”
Death chuckled gently and remarked, “Look at your body, at your home and at your family! All your meditating and praying means you’ve neglected your health.”
“Nonsense! I’m in excellent health!” cried President Angel through a mouthful of false teeth and a speaking device implanted in his neck.
“Are you being honest with yourself?”
“Why do you ask, you fiend?”
“Well, by my count, you’ve had two dozen surgeries, you live in a wheelchair and you have a pacemaker, a titanium hip, a catheter, cataracts and two dozen drug prescriptions for an assortment of ailments including cancer, heart disease, diabetes and imbecility. Shall I continue?”
“No. That will do.”
“You are also overdue for a brain transplant.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot.”
“So, do you think that maybe it’s time for you to die?”
“Just give me a little more time to turn Amerika into utopia, okay?”
“Will another century be enough?”
“Can I have two?”
“I was kidding. Creating utopia is Chuck’s job. Your job is –”
“Fine!” The president miraculously stood up and growled, “If you the world has no further need of the one man who truly loves it, I’ll die!”
“Ha! Did I say I’d die today? Ha-ha-ha! I won’t die until you let me celebrate one more birthday!!! Ha-ha-ha!” he said and danced a jig.
Death laughed and quietly plotted how it would steal the honors and blow out all the candles!
A Birthday Musical
December 25th marked the start of the first and last Disneymas Day. It was a regal affair full of good cheer, heaps of presents and this abominable toast by Bitch Bollocks:
“Angel, congratulations on your spiritual leadership of our material nation. Thanks to you, belief in authorities is dead! Thanks to you, people are boycotting the global economy! Not one corporation has imported or exported anything for months. You surely are the son of Petrus Satan Isis Dudink.”
“Why, thank you for the compliment,” President Angel replied, smiling.
Then Bitch added, “And Zacharin the Clown is your half-brother!”
“That’s a lie!”
“And I’ve seen your birth certificate, and guess what? I’m your half-sister!”
“Oh, God help me!” cried help president, nearly fainting.
“Don’t be ashamed. Our mother was the greatest slut this country has ever seen. She had tens of lovers of all ages and sizes. But of course, the dwarves called her Snow White.”
“No-o-o-o-o-o-o! Not the dwarves, too!”
The president closed his eyes, took his own pulse and hyperventilated. On cue, his vigilant nurse whisked him away to his personal drama therapy room to lower his blood pressure. A usual, he would watch a live performance of the romantic comedy, The President Is Our Economic Hero.
He waited with bated breath. The curtains did not open. The performance was beyond lackluster. An hour passed. He feared the actors were on strike. Finally, the curtains opened, but the actors sat on the floor, eating cans of beans, drinking rainwater and farting. At last, the president lost his temper and whipped them with his old catheter. One actor sang out in perfect soprano-alto, “Buddyyyyyy, this ain’t the Slapstick The-e-e-e-eater!”
“Swallow your beans and let’s get started!” the president retorted. “I didn’t pay to hear myself fart! Bring me the director! I want a word about the script!”
The director approached him and lied, “I’m very sorry, Mister President, but we’ve taken a moral position on this script. You murdered the economy, so this script is pure propaganda and we quit.”
The president pleaded with them, “I don’t believe you! I did not kill the economy! I only made it green.”
“Yes, green with gangrene.”
The president cried.
The director continued, “Plus, you’ve seen us perform this play every day, multiple times a day. Surely you understand that we are bored of the same old thing. Imagine if every day were exactly like the previous one!”
The president did not understand. He liked things as they were, but the director’s complaint planted a seed of doubt, and he began to hyperventilate again. He might have died, right there, if he had not soothed his troubled soul by joining his nurse in singing this melancholic poem:
Oh, my sweet economy,
I loved you so badly!
They shouldn’t have killed you;
You know I still need you
More than a laceless shoe.
It was a slightly silly and yet profoundly emotional song, so the actors exited in a hurry. President Angel noticed and took their departure personally and commanded general Blowemup of the Pentagon to blow his damn theater up.
General Blowemup apologized, “Sorry, Mister President, but we don’t have the budget for impromptu operations. Your explosive final act will have to wait until next year at the earliest.”
The poor president cursed and angrily rolled himself and his wheelchair off the stage into a painful heap. The only spectator in the theater, Death, clapped from his balcony seat.
The Seven Gifts of Chuckmas
President Angel opened the White House doors to the public, kneeled on the doormat, and prayed that God would cheer him up. I kind of felt sorry for him, so I sent him Mr Bottle, Mrs Cow, Mrs Sheep, Mrs Bread, Mr Pig, Mr Goat, and Mrs Corn-Syrup. Unfortunately, I did not foresee what happened next, as they rampaged through the White House, corrupted servants with lust for the flesh, ate all the best food, drank the toilets dry and vomited all over the White House. Security captured the rowdy party crashers and marched them into the Offal Office to face a very displeased President Angel.
“Where are my presents?” he yelled, obviously irate.
The guests looked guiltily at one another.
“You freeloaders and moochers! This is my party, not yours! I opened my doors to you, and you abused my hospitality and ate my birthday cake and condemned me and my servants to hunger! What do you have to say for yourselves?”
Mr. Bottle took off his cap and laughed, “Mister President, drink my wine and you will not die today.”
The president thanked Mr Bottle, shot him through his belly and drank the red liquid that poured out of Mr Bottle’s wound. Then the president fell down, very intoxicatingly poisoned, but he loved it so much that he put alcohol in the water supply of every city and charged every household an alcohol tax.
By the second day of the party, every bit of bread in the house had disappeared, and Mrs Cow was caught with two crushed Italian buns in her pants. The president tried to eat them, broke a tooth and blamed Mrs Cow for condemning him and his staff to starvation. Mrs. Cow mooed, “Suck my teats and you and your staff will live a little longer.”
The president thanked Mrs Cow and liked her white milk so much that he patented cow teats and made sucking human breasts illegal. Millions of babies went into debt paying for cow’s milk while millions of mommies went out of business.
By the third day of the party, every ice cream and candy bar in the house had disappeared, and Mrs Sheep was caught vomiting, so the president quipped, “Your crimes lawfully entitle me to strip you and eat you.” Mrs. Sheep baaed, “I love the green grass and I love to breathe the wind. If you take my wool and my meat, I hope some of my nasty viruses and bacteria turn your organs to mush and kill you.”
The president shot her through her head, carved the carcass, ate it, and liked it so much he made lamb a mandatory part of every healthy breakfast for everyone two years old and above.
By the fourth day of the party, most of the guests had disappeared, but the gigantic, shapeless Mrs Loaf was caught with sugar and cream on her lips and bosom, so the president convicted her of eating his birthday cake and ruining his party. In her closing remarks, Mrs. Loaf said, “With all due respect, Mister President, when I asked you to lick me you declined, saying you could only love God.”
That was true, but the tone displeased the president, so he cut Mrs Loaf into slices, ate them and felt worse than ever, but he was a real white man, so he promoted white bread as a healthy part of every meal on the planet.
By the fifth day of the party, every nut, fruit and root vegetable in the house had disappeared, and Mr Pig was caught with the damning evidence in his poop. The president convicted him of condemning everyone to death and asked him to explain his extremely bad behavior. Mr. Pig oinked an argument fit for a toddler: “You invited me, a pig!”
The president realized Mr Pig really believed he was a pig, so he shot Mr. Pig and ate his hams.
By the sixth day of the party, the president felt gravely ill, and all his medicines failed to cure him, so he called Doctor Snake, a herbalist and naturopath. She prescribed a lot of green shit as well as garlic, apple cores, apricot seeds and carrots, precisely the kinds of things rabbits love to eat, and precisely the things she received in payment for her services and had already stashed in her burrow. Then the president knew this doctor was an imposter and a quack, so security located her subterranean nest, squatted over it, and farted so violently into the pit that she and all her children died.
Well, by the seventh day of the party, the house was as silent as death, but the president didn’t notice because he had a severe lower back pain, stomach ache, toothache, arthritis, Alzheimer’s, AIDs, acne, anal cancer, and so on. So the president blamed his only remaining guest, Mrs Corn-Syrup, and he asked her to defend herself, whereupon she rudely replied, “Mister President, with all due respect, before you started sucking my nipple I told you to read the label on my ass. It provides a complete public health warning, but you were too afraid to read!”
“Oh yeah! I’ll show you who’s afraid!”
He gave chase. Mrs Corn-Syrup fled the house and climbed up a GMO corn plant that reached Heaven itself.
“Come down from there, you evil witch!” cried the president. Mrs Corn-Syrup prayed for her life. Instantly the corn stalk withered and the falling Mrs Corn-Syrup knocked the president unconscious and leaked all her syrupy blood on him. Fortunately, Angel came to the president’s rescue, abruptly reviving him by kicking his balls. President Angel saw stars and said it was the best birthday party ever.
When Amerika was starving during a devastating famine, and the nation was on its knees praying for barbecued burgers and beer, President Angel gave Amerika a bowl of coal covered in syrupy oil served with a glass of gas. His nation’s chief of nutrition, Doctor C. Bollocks, wanted an explanation.
“Change isn’t easy, but people will get used to their new, high energy food. I know it looks and tastes funny, but that’s just because it was compressed, transubstantiated and processed over millions of years. It has an infinite shelf life. It really is a miracle product.”
Doctor C. Bollocks wasn’t convinced. “I’ll believe in miracle products when you are still alive 24 hours after consuming a single serving of your miracle product.”
So President Angel ate his miracle product and smiled. Doctor C. Bollocks didn’t realize that the president actually wanted to die. He fell terrible sick, yet no one noticed. Everyone was too busy reading and listening to their stupid iGods. President Angel was so insulted, he quit his job and told Amerikans to “Govern your own asses!”
Angel Go Home
Angel asked to be taken to “the land of angels,” which his good friend and doctor, Chuck Bollocks, interpreted to mean Los Angeles. Unfortunately, since petroleum was now Amerika’s number one food, every bus, limo and other vehicle had a tankful of air.
So, the president and his good doctor rode two flatulent ponies and began their windy journey out of Washington and into the sunset, looking like a poor knight and squire trotting to a battlefield from which no human being ever returns.
By mid-afternoon, their ponies ran out of gas and the old men laughed their heads off and continued on foot, at least for a few more feet, for at 7 o’clock sharp, Angel ordered his usual dinner. Chuck called for an emergency food delivery from Real Healthy Shit, Amerika’s favorite fast food chain. Unfortunately, the cooks were sick. Next, he called Industrial Slop, a wildly popular producer of industrial potions, but by some odd coincidence all their cooks were also sick.
“People are cruel,” said Angel.
“What do you say that?” Chuck asked.
“They’re obviously conspiring to starve me to death.”
Chuck grinned, pulled a maggot out of his friend’s ear and fed it to him. Angel called it a miracle and still thought he was immortal even though he was obviously dead.
“Hey, Chuck, am I in Heaven yet?”
Chuck surveyed his surroundings and thought they were in Hell. Actually, he recognized the place. He scratched his head and remarked, “This can’t be right. This can’t be Troytown!”
“In my previous life, before I become a real estate developer, I grew up here and hated it so much I swore I would turn it into paradise. So, I had to make money fast and got into the central banking and credit creation business. I grew fabulously rich and created the world’s greatest real estate development conglomerate. I bought ghettos, razed them to the ground and built affordable housing units with neat names like Libertyville, Clayton, New Rome and La Paris. I kept my prices down by building homes without garages, doors, windows, plumbing, electricity or roads! I built thousands of these dumps all over California, New Mexico, Arizona, Texas and all over the country! Thanks to my ingenuity, even the poorest Amerikans could afford to live in relative comfort and safety.”
“Now I remember. Didn’t I call you a terrorist and declare war on you?”
Chuck laughed out loud.
“Hey, Chuck, were you born an asshole or were you born from your mother’s asshole?”
“My conception and my birth were both miracles, for as the Bible says, a woman’s anus is her cleanest orifice. But I was not born an asshole. Being the world’s greatest asshole took hard work. You, on the other hand, never did any work. But there’s one job you can’t shirk: dying.”
“I’m the ex-president! Joe Smith can die for me.”
“Angel, no one can die for you.”
“Why not? Buddha died for a hungry tigress and didn’t George ‘Jesus Christ’ Washington live and die for all Amerikans. Besides, if I have to do something, I want a reward, a profit. Maybe I can make a profit selling tickets. I’ll hire the best producer, art director and –”
“Angel, Amerikans are tired of death. Don’t you remember how they all lost money investing in prisons, poisons and pistols meant to kill them?”
“Well, then fuck Amerika! Hey, where’s my dinner?”
“Angel, you asked already. Got Parkinson’s or something?”
“I want to eat Sundays in Heaven!” Angel wailed. He rolled his wheelchair to the edge of the curb and launched his body into the air. Despite a mercifully short fall, he broke both his fairy wings and rattled his skull.
Chuck rushed to his side shouting, “How do you feel? Would you like my ultimate medicine?”
Angel turned his bloody face up and politely asked, “Would you mind putting me out of my misery?”
“That’s my job, isn’t it?” Chuck answered as he stripped down to his bare butt. Naked, he sat on Angel’s face. Angel expelled his final breath on a muffled scream that seemed to say, “THIS IS THE AMERIKAN DREAM!”
Chuck thought it was wonderful to sit on Angel’s face and echoed, “THIS IS AN AMAZING FEELING!”
Angel’s teeth sank into Chuck’s inner buttocks, and despite the work of his tongue, Chuck held on tight until Angel died. Sorry to break the bad news to you. And if you think God should have saved his old puppet, according to God angels are a dime a dozen. God can create a billion angels in a single astronomical ejaculation, which is one more reason God doesn’t need genitals.
A Rare End
When his dirty work was done, Chuck asked some of the poor kids living in Paradise Estates if they knew where he could find Heaven. The brats told him to go to Hell. They thought that was funny, but those cruel words broke his heart. He loved children and couldn’t bear to be hated by them. It broke his heart, literally.
Well, I didn’t want him eaten by the dogs, so I rushed him into Heaven and revived him with a kick to his head. Surprisingly, he was none too pleased to see Me, but even less pleased were the angels. Chuck’s presence caused an uproar among them. They said they would never share Heaven with a glutton, a devil who waged war against all that is holy and a devil deliberately lost three wars against Satan. Well, I have all the time in the universe, but I didn’t feel like arguing with a bunch of overgrown birds and butterflies, so I threw them into the wilderness below and instructed them to build their own Heaven.
Honestly, who cares if Chuck destroyed the future? Maybe he committed more sins than were absolutely necessary, but he always sinned for the right reasons: for attention and because he loved Me.
Well, that should have been the end, but then came the biggest surprise. Just when I thought I had a friend with whom to share my endless life, Chuck complained about Heaven and began to nag and nag like a horrible wife. One day he said, “Why did I ever dream of joining you here? There’s nothing to do! But I have learned something. I’ve learned what it feels like to be a turd afloat in a bathtub full of radioactive waste.”
“Well, I’m sorry if you feel out of place, but you’ll soon learn to appreciate your eternal retirement home.”
I guess he didn’t see it that way. He wanted out, especially when the devils began inviting him down to their filthy farms. I tied him to Me, but one night he bit through the safety cord and smashed his iGod so we would be separated forever. Then he nimbly descended from Heaven and embraced the dirt. My fallen angels celebrated his arrival, and when they remembered their creator they shouted for “Old fart” to join their party. But why would I mingle with apes? They didn’t even know my name and they had purged their souls from their bodies!
“No thanks,” I told them. “But if you want to make me happy, a few of must join me in Heaven and worship Me just a few times a day.”
I was being quite serious, but they thought I’d cracked the biggest joke in the world, so I gave them my severest frown and asked, “Is there no pity on Earth for an old fart?”
“Pops,” Chuck Bollocks answered, “come down and we’ll give you something better than pity. In Hell we’ll make you laugh as much as you’ve made us laugh, and our gardens will give you health until the day you die. Come on,” he continued in his evil, coaxing, feminine tone, “don’t be a baby forever. You won’t regret your stay in Hell.”
“I’m God! I can’t go to Hell!”
“Sure you can. There’s plenty of room.”
“I’m too big!”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Down here you’ll shed your lard in a jiffy. Please, give Hell a try. We’d love to finally see you, even if you’re ugly, that’s not a problem; Hell will teach you to laugh at yourself. Oh, and your ex promised not to tell anyone about your sexual impotence and about the awful book you wrote.”
“Well, that is very kind of her. But, I’m still not going!”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Chuck goaded. “Don’t believe the rumors that no one works here and that we spend all our time enjoying great sex, colorful food, fresh air, lively conversations, appreciative children, and the Satanic arts. We really live just like angels.”
“And how do I know you’re not kidding?”
“How will you even know the truth until you give Hell a try?”
Damn! That boy spoke so sweetly, so kindly, and so logically! I hated him! He didn’t leave Me any choice! I couldn’t stay in Heaven all alone, eating antimatter and watching the stars and planets spinning, could I? So even though I am God, the author of the universe, I agreed to go to Hell, and guess what? I’m loving it!
If my pages disappointed you, if somehow they seemed entirely too ridiculous, or if you want to read something more serious, please accept, by way of consolation, my sincerest recommendation that you read the Devil’s books. Presently, you can find and purchase them online. You can also have digital copies mailed to you in return for a little love sent via email bank transfer (presently possible only in Canada through firstname.lastname@example.org or email@example.com). Anyone who can’t afford to pay can simply ask and receive.
For updates on book availability, perhaps check out the Devil’s blog at deweydink.wordpress.com. If demand exists, this or another blog or website might offer the Devil’s fans the chance to purchase via Paypal.
Below is a list of the Devil’s seven titles. The first four are available, the others are pending.
1.Fuck Civilization [a.k.a.] The Bible of the Neo-Natives: A Prehistory and History of Human Insanity and Visions of Paradise
2.The Last Revolution: Visions of an Unknown Paradise and Criticisms of Religion and Capitalism
3.The Criminal Bible: The Old Testament
(Published on Amazon as A History of Imperial Bullshit)
4.The Criminal Bible: The New Testament
5.The Vatican Library of Lies 1:
The Forgery and Falsification of Greek Classics
6.The Vatican Library of Lies 2:
The Forgery and Falsification of Roman Classics
7.The Anti-Book: Shakespeare Was a Bootlicker and Other Heresies for Book Lovers