Hi. I’m Devil. This is my blog.
Oh, yeah… I already said that, right in the beginning. Once is enough. Then again, maybe not. After all, I perfectly now what you microbes want. And the thing you little parameciums want most is, first of all… to know what a paramecium is. Lets just say the thing is a microscopic water organism. A single-celled one, that is. So, you don’t have a lot of thinking cells, do you? That’s a rhetorical question. I won’t even bother explaining what rhetorical means. Forget it. Just accept the fact that you all are plain stupid. That will do just fine.
So. As I was saying…
The thing you little microbes want most is not being rich. Not famous. Not good looking. Surely not smart. A super sized safe-deposit box in a bank (or several) won’t just cut it. It’s never enough. Fame? What a joke. I’m famous. And look what good it brought me. I’m still pissed with a lot of crap. The looks? You all are made of stinking guts inside. No matter how you cover that up, shit and piss will always be getting out of your holes. Those two very basic needs will always remind you to pull the car over and bend your knees behind some bush. That’s the way some crappy presidents actually born. Just a crappy bush. And brains? Oh, pleeeeeaaase! Not inside your hollow heads.
The thing you all really, really, really want most is just to continue on being the little microbes you ever were, and ever will be.
Quite a revelation, isn’t it!
Of course you will disagree. Once again you’ll think I’m just a stupid person who has nothing better to do.
Well.
I’m rich.
Famous.
Got a hell of a good looking face.
And I don’t have to tell you how smart I am. I mean, I rule the Earth (I truthfully do), and the only thing I had to do was telling God to fuck off. How smarter can you be?
You’ll never know. A color TV will suffice. You microbes are utterly fulfilled with the excruciating soap operas, and the witty sitcoms. I won’t even go into stupid chases after a ball, carried out by fully grown men, and then called sports. Even my guts turn inside out when I find myself regretting the fact that you microbes continuously come up with astonishing ideas to torture yourselves. I mean, Inquisition? Church? Democracy? Big Brother? How, in the old crapper’s left nut, do you come up with such ideas? My personal favorite is the media. Oh! What a blast. I often choke when watching some news on the tube, or when I read some stupid lying, deceitful, dishonest, two-faced, insincere, untruthful, mendacious, double- dealing, false lines on the pages of a newspaper or a magazine. Sometimes, I just get jealous. No point on denying it. There’s no shame on that. There’s no shame on me. That’s one of the prerogatives of being Devil.
I know what you microbes are thinking now. Believe me, I do know. That’s kind of sad… sometimes, I even feel stupid just for knowing your thoughts. Now, you may think that if I envy your creativity, that’s because I’m not so much smarter than you after all. Don’t think, you insignificant parameciums! Don’t think!
Here’s the second truth:

– The people responsible for all those creation are mine. Your sanctified Pope is mine. Oh, that’s right! Joseph Alois Ratzinger, born on April 16, 1927, expected do die on (hush), elected on the second day of the conclave, April 19, 2005, on the fourth ballot, (I voted for him; I mean, not in the strict sense of the expression, but in the sense that I arranged some votes; no big deal… a few souls and it was all), is mine.

Hell is upon you.
Do you want to know why?
No?
You stupid little microbes! I’m the Devil. I sure know were Hell is.
Of course you don’t believe me. That Prince of Lies shit haunts me every time, everywhere. Well, what about if I start to tell you a few good lies? If I’m a liar, I’ll be saying truths, won’t I?
Oh! Are your inexistent brains starting to get confused? Well, I can only say… let the games begin!

Hi. I’m Devil. This is my blog.
Hey! Why not? Everybody seems to have one. Don’t laugh! I’ll punish you! You microbes! I’m The Prince of Lies, and the only thing one hundred percent truth that you’ll ever hear from me is this: I’m Devil. Or it can all be one hundred percent lie. Accept the fact that you’ll never know.
Having said that, here’s the first truth:

– George W. Bush, age of birth: July 6, 1946, age of death: (it would be a barrel of monkeys if I told you right now, oh yeah, it would), 43rd president of the United States of Partial America, is in fact one of my minion jokers on the job.

I don’t care if you believe me, or not. I’m Devil. I couldn’t care less of anything. Why? You may ask. Why would the Devil tell such things to mere mortals? Well, my funny little microbes, by the same reason that I tell you to deceive, to cheat and to kill. For my own personal kicks. That’s why. If I’m to be blamed for all of that, I sure have the right to have fun with it. Even despite the fact I have no real responsibility in any of that. You all do. Not me.
But let’s cut the crap. I’ll go straight do the point. And the point is, little microbe Bush is mine. Mine, in every single stupid word that he spits with that samey expression on his face. Mine to the bone marrow.
You can say that this is just small talk of a stupid little person using the name of the Devil to hide the real one, and tell foolish things about other people. Well, this is the frigging Internet! Everyone is everybody, and no one is nobody. But, is it so hard to believe I’m Devil? If I told you I was God, you all had plenty of reasons no to believe me. I mean, the old crapper is dead a long time ago. Oh! Shit! I wasn’t supposed to tell that! My bad. You can always consider it a lie. After all, I’m Devil, you know. Or, if that makes it easier, you can take me as an internationally well known writer who’s just had enough of all the shit that thrives in this world, and its respective byproducts. So, this is my own personal binge and purge of all the crap I see around me every tiring day. Or I’m just Devil. Suit yourself.
As I was saying, little microbe Bush is one of mine. Do you want proofs? Proofs, you say. Hah! I could stay here all week! All year, if you ask me to be thorough! But let’s just stick to the big bangs. Actually, I’ll give you just one, right now. A simple date. A single act. Many deaths. Many tears. Sweet day for me. I planned it. He carried it out.
September 11, 2001.
Oh, yes! He did it! Sure-fire to my purposes. And to his own, for that matter. As he said on December 7, 2001, while marking the 60th anniversary of the Pearl Harbor attack, from the flight deck of the USS Enterprise (no, you stupid little microbes, I’m not talking about Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek space ship):

“The attack on Pearl Harbor was plotted in secrecy, waged without mercy. Out of that surprise attack grew a steadfast resolve that made America freedom's defender, and that mission — our great calling — continues to this hour as the brave men and women of our military fight the forces of terror in Afghanistan and around the world.”

Do you see where I’m getting at? I doubt it. Anyway… that was a very good plan to escalate the war conflicts all around this delicious little planet. I know it was good, because I planned it and it worked. Since then, every time I turn on the tube to watch the news (your news, I mean; I already know how things really did happen, but your interpretation is far more humorous), I always send a servant to unhook Hitler from his anal meet hook, on the only place in Hell where I have ice, and sit him down in a pool of acid to laugh with me. He doesn’t laugh too much, but I don’t give a cockroach’s ass about it. That little worm is there to be fucked good in his rectum, not for vacation. The bottom line is: that little microbe Bush serves me well. When his time comes, I think I’ll reserve a special treatment for him. I heard saying Saddam likes to force little stupid presidents on ass to mouth. Either way, I win. Isn’t that grand? The little stupid microbe fucks everybody up on Earth and, after that, I get to fuck him really up, here in Hell.
Well, you stupid little microbes, that’s all for today.
Stay tuned or get punished!

Devil, The.