Monday, November 29, 2004

The Devil is Dead. Me and Pete Killed the Devil.  

Rejoice citizen. I have killed the Devil. I just wanted all of you to be the first to hear that. The Devil is dead. Dead as a doormat. No more Devil. Pass it on.

On Friday afternoon, November 26th, in the year of our Great Dithering Godhead, I the farmer do hereby solemnly swear before man and beast and the four winds and the sixed winged Seraphim and the genii's from the fire - and whatever the hell else you'd like to invite to the occasion - that I smote the impish archfiend Old Scratch and thats the end of that. Hokay.

I have photos too. On Friday afternoon, the day after Thanksgiving, I went walking in the vast tangle of virgin forest near my home with my old trusty friend Pete the Deer. Many of you will fondly remember Pete and his girlfriend Kitty Deer from some of my earlier blog posts dating back ten or fifteen years. Or at least it seems like ten or fifteen years. Yes. But just in case you've forgotten about Pete (shame on you) here is a picture of Pete catching a frisbee at last summer's Reindeer games. Before I killed the Devil. Well actually both Pete and I killed the Devil but since Pete can't read I'm pretty much gonna take most of the credit myself.

Anyway, me and Pete were walking down a trail in the woods, looking for some sticks to poke at stuff with, when we came across the Devil himself, just a sitting on a rotten stump in a small clearing, sucking the bubbling marrow from a charred femur bone. The final remains of Reed Irvine. We watched and waited till he had finished. We didn't want to interrupt that effort. He finally finished lapping up the filling and tossed the whole nasty brittle thing into his mouth and chewed it up and washed it all back with a big crunchy grin and a gulp of hot steaming mucous.

Pete and I just looked at each other in silence. Then the Devil suddenly turned and looked straight in our direction and pointed right at us and started laughing a ghastly hellish devil laugh. Plus his breath stunk of rotten eggs which was very unpleasant as you might imagine.

He was big too. Over nine feet tall I'd estimate. Had big black wings that jutted from between his shoulder blades and folded close to his back as he hunched on his rotten stump perch glaring in our direction. His skin was sickly pale, almost translucent, and glistened like a wet maggot. He smelled like rotten eggs and maggots. His eyes were, well, gone. The Devil had no eyes at all, only empty sockets where eyes should be, yet he was staring straight at us. Each of us at the same time. It was no fun.

And then he spoke to Pete and said "come to daddy my little furry Bambi." Well that fuckin' did it. Pete hates it when anyone calls him Bambi and I could tell all hell was about to break loose from his thicket. This is rutting season and Pete's balls are in an uproar as it is. This little furry Bambi crap was like waving a bloody hanky around in a lagoon full of piranah.

Next thing I know Pete comes roaring from the underbrush, head down, all eight points of grillwork lowered for the joust, snorting like a fat man on a mountain bike, a trail of snot streaming from his flaring nostrils, hairs along his spine bristling, standing on end, and every muscle in his body rippling to the charge. Scared the shit out of the Devil too. And the next thing I knew Pete had impaled his rack square into the chest of Satan himself.

I stood there at first, stunned, and slapped myself on the forehead and said to myself, Oh Holy Shit.

And then came the most unholy screech I have ever heard in my life. It sounded like a thousand cats fucking. The howl of human history's tortured and wronged lives. The sobbing of generations of innocents. But the spookiest thing of all was that it didn't make a sound. Not a sound in the usual sense anyway. But rather a vibration of sorts. A great soundless agonized echo. It was the loudest thing I've ever heard in my life. And all the leaves that were left on the trees shook and the birds went screaming from the branches.

It was eerie.

But then the Devil attempted to stand and when he did he lifted Pete's front legs off the ground as well because Pete was still impaled in his bosom and his great black wings opened - the Devil wanted to fly! - and the roots from the forest floor began to swirl up around them in a cyclonic whirlwind and the leaves on the trees shook even more violently in the quake and the birds screamed higher into the firmament and I decided right then and there that I would never never never ever call Pete a Bambi during the rutting season as long as I lived. No way.

Uh, oh yeah!, and then I jumped to my feet and drew my 14 inch Jim Bowie sawmill steel blade - ground on a water cooled wheel - Enlightenment Homeland defense knife from its handmade scabbard and I rushed at the miserable Devil bastard myself. I leaped onto the foul things back between those wildly flapping black wings that stunk like maggots and sulphur and gagging ignorance itself and held on for everything I was worth. It was like wrestling a giant demon turkey. Which I kind of chuckled about at the time because it was like the day after Thanksgiving and kinda ironic and well, never mind....

I held on as that horrible thing thrashed and snarled and tried to shake free and its neck snaked up and down twisting like a viper and finally I took my knife and with all my strenght I jabbed the blade deep into the beasts throat and with all my body weight I leaned into the torque and tore with all my might through skin and bone and grissle and the thick dead scales of ages old mythology until that godamned marrow sucking knob dropped off and landed in a stinking stupid hissing heap right next to its own flapping headless winged body.

Pete pulled free and I slid from the back of the Devil and we both just stood there all sweaty and a lookin' at each other. Even Pete was sweaty. And Petes a deer. Hey, you try killing Satan and see if you don't sweat. But nevertheless we had killed the Devil and the leaves on the trees stopped shaking and we were really exhausted but in a manly action kind of ehausted way. Like after a full day of skiing or hours spent drowning Grover Norguist in a toilet bowl of his own vomit or something physically and spiritually envigorating like that.

So anyway, to make a long story longer, the Devil was still twitching around and gurgling and acting weird there on the ground so I went back to the house and got a chainsaw and some gasoline and some matches and a weedeater and some big plastic leaf bags and I came back and cut and hacked and mutilated the Devil up into little tiny deviled egg sized pieces and me and Pete piled em up and I poured the gasoline over the things and lit the whole stinkin' mess on fire.

And we watched Hell burn. Sitting right there in the piney woods on a sunny autumn afternoon, with the birds twittering in the trees, me and a frisbee catching deer named Pete watched Hell itself go up in smoke. Who woulda thunk it huh? Think about it. It's was a humbling experience.

And who would have thought killing the Devil would be so easy. All things considered that is. Afterall the guy did have quite a reputation. Well, anyway, me and Pete were impressed with ourselves.

I told Pete: Pete, I said, after we get done spreading these burnt remains around the parking lot at the WalMart I'm gonna call Jesus and tell him what we done.

Pete liked that idea because Pete hates the WalMart parking lot as much as I do and even though Pete is a Druid and still belives that story about Santa Claus and the flying reindeers and all that nonsense and doesn't even know who Jesus is Pete was all for callin' up Jesus and indicated that I should tell everyone else I knew about how we killed the Devil. Especially those morons who publish deer hunting magazines. Pete had an agenda. And I didn't blame him.

So later that night I called Jesus and I said Jesus, I killed the fucking Devil! Then I said sorry, I didn't mean to say 'fucking'. And Jesus said don't worry about it farmer, I've had guys hammer nails through my hands for Christ sake, do you really think 'fucking' bothers me?

I could see his point of course. Jesus is not some limped dicked oped-columnist from TownHall.com or the National Review or one of those fainting rooms - afterall. Then Jesus asked me to tell him all about how we killed the Devil. And so I told him all about how me and Pete killed the Devil and he said, good job mates!, thanked us for saving America and western civilization and Kansas and some other places too and then he told me that becaus of what Pete and I had done he could get back to some regular yard work.

Whatever that means.

Finally Jesus asked me if there was anything he could do to repay Pete and I for taking the Devil off his hands. So I asked him if he would visit D. James Kennedy at the Coral Ridge Ministry in Fort Lauderdale Florida and kick the little jerk in the nuts for us. Just for the hell of it. And Jesus laughed and said he'd been meaning to get around to kicking that jerk in the nuts for a long time but would certainly take additional pleasure in the chore now that me and Pete had killed the Devil. Ha, that Jesus, what a cut-up!

He even told me he'd make Jerry Falwell's penis shrivel up like a little dried mealy worm and poison Tim LaHayes food with polio but then I cut him off, although I was grateful, these Biblical guys can go on and on with the horrors, ya know, and because I also wanted to ask Jesus if he could make reindeers fly over my house at least once this Winter on Petes behalf. He told me Pete could count on it because he knew many Druids personally and the next time he had dinner on the heathered moors during the solstice festivus he'd make sure Pete got his honorary flyover.

I thanked Jesus and hung up before he finished telling me all the horible things he had in mind for Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld.

In any case. The Devil is dead. Ok. So all the fundamentalist Christians can relax and just knock off the hysterical bullshit. You no longer have a monsters lap to heave your bogeymen into. The end times have been terminated. There isn't going to be an end times any more you stupid assholes because the Devil is dead. Ha ha. Dead! Hell has been liberated and Heaven reserved for scary Jewish comedians and blah blah blah.... And Jesus has been notified and the real Enlightenment is back on schedule. Unless you're fat Jerry Falwell's tiny twitching dried up penis in which case, uh, oh well... you got what was a comin' to ya. Heh heh, amen.

And thats my story. So decreed by the newly appointed honorary Seraphim of the first circle of the heavenly heirarchy "the farmer" and "Pete the Deer".

So don't press your luck Jeebofascists. Me and Pete killed the Devil. We can take you out like a cheap lightbulb.

pro bono publico


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