Ask Satan Anything

Dear Satan,

Did Michael Jackson go to Heaven or to Hell? 

~ Beat It

Greetings Beat It,

You’d think this would be simple, right?  It’s not.  Each of these high profile celebrity deaths become a colossal pain in my fiery ass.

I’ve had Michael under contract since he was eight years old.  I’ve been waiting for that bond to mature for 43 long years.  I’ve been patient.  I built him his own theater down here.  It’s a gorgeous replica of Celine Dion’s Vegas “A New Day” theater – except that it’s stocked with an audience of bikers and rednecks hand picked from the areas of Louisiana and Alabama that were never that into Thriller.  And, Michael’s contract states that he must end each nightly show with a center stage spotlight act of sodomy with a nine year old version of Ronnie Van Zant while singing an R&B rendition of Gimme Two Steps.  I’m sure Mikey missed that fine print.  They always do.  Anyway, he’s sure to be lynched by the angry rednecks after every show.  I do my best to come up with novel ways to impart my punishments.  I’ve also gone through considerable trouble to create a clone of Papa Joe to beat Michael to sleep every night. My point is that I have substantial investments sunk into this thing, and a group of restless bikers and rednecks in need of entertainment and violent release. 

Then I get the damned arbitration letter from that bitch, God.  She only sticks Her big gorgeous nose into my business when the press is involved.  Believe me, if it was Arsenio Hall coming down the hellevator, there would be no letter. But what can I do?  If I want to have any hope of ever gently caressing God’s heavenly private parts, then I need to keep humoring Her.  How long I can keep it up, I don’t know.  Seems kind of infinite so far.

[Minion’s Note:  We realize that Satan has not yet given you the back story between He and God.  He will.  It’s in his planner.  For now, just understand that She is a visual cross between the prime versions of Sophia Lauren, Penelope Cruz, Bridget Bardo and Selma Hayek.  Satan has been after that Ass for an amount of time you couldn’t comprehend. Be patient.  He will  reveal all when he feels like it.] 

But it makes these hard-nosed negotiations difficult.  I don’t want to give too much, because then I’ll look like a pussy.  But I don’t want to get all Satanic either.  Anyway, we put up a dry erase board and on my side of the M. Jackson question, I’ve got; alleged pedophilia, self-mutilation, my blood signed contract, and to my dismay – not much else.  God’s got; millions of entertained people, Make a Wish Foundation, We Are the World, Liz Taylor Aids Foundation, Heal the World Foundation, and then, to be honest, we ran out of dry erase board.

Please pet my monkey.

I tried my best to make my case.  For instance, the Heal the World Foundation helped to bring needy children to Jackson’s Neverland Home.  I posed the question, “How were needy children helped by petting a monkey named Bubbles and riding an un-permitted Ferris Wheel?”  Great argument, right?  I also pointed out that this “Foundation” was really just a shuttle service for the small hairless pecker set that Jackson allegedly preferred.

But you know, arbitration with God is really just a bunch of bullshit.  Especially when She’s standing there leaning over the conference table with those perfect God breasts hanging half out of Her blouse just aching to be held.  They put you under a stupefying trance, for Christ’s sake.  She pretends to be fair, but Her hair just smells so fucking good that I forget what the Hell I’m doing…  I need to get a hold of myself.  Actually, I need a pleasuring right now.  “Get Frederick Karl Pruetzel up here.  Now!” 

Ahh, that’s better.  Nice job Freddy. 

So, we finish arbitration tomorrow and then we’ll know where Michael ends up.  What the hell do I care, really?  I can use the theater for a big rock show.  We’ve got plenty of talent round here.  Or maybe I’ll just save it for Celine.  ”Careful Fred!   Roll your lips down over your teeth man…”   Jesus. 

You’re Welcome,

~ Satan