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.