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Do you think that it is asking too much from the world for a man to be able to sit down to a nice dinner at the end of the day and to watch his favorite version of the evening news? Do you? I thought not. Have I been getting to do this? Nooooooo. For every day this week I have had to tangle arse with Satan. Yes, the Devil his disgusting self has popped up in the middle of my house and tried to beat the proverbial crud out of me on each and every day this last week. Well, the weekdays at least. It seems that Satan doesn't work on weekends.

Anyway. On Monday I was making a brutal end to a number of chicken wings when the Devil shows up wanting to wrestle. I must confess that at first just sat there with an undoubtedly stupid look on my face. I figure that Satan's pointing and laughing were at the expense of my appearance. The Devil is base enough to do things like that, you know. He says: "Boy, we gonna wrestle. Now get up and meet your end like a man." This I was unwilling to do. Rather, I bashed him in the knee, jumped off the sofa to sieze one of his arms and throw him over my shoulder onto the floor. This awakened the poor cat. Before he could recover, I placed Satan in a Bulgarian Headlock and smashed him face first through a pinball machine. Pop! The Devil fled back to Hell. Satan is not only stupid, he is a coward, too. God was talking to me once, whilst I was enjoying some good Mary-Jane, explaining how Lucifer was yellow. A coward. A chicken-bleep. "James," said God, "if you ever have to fight the Devil remember that he is a coward. If you suprise him, or get an advantage on him, he'll run. Remember this." Well folks, when the Lord Almighty tells me to remember something I make sure to do that thing. I'm nowhere near as stupid as I look.

Naturally, I thought that was the end of the matter. But, nooooo. Satan may be stupid and cowardly, but he is no end of determined. After all, he still hasn't given up on trying to kick God's arse. He sure wasn't through trying to kick mine after only one go at it.

So. Tuesday I am sitting there getting angry with the fools on the Channel Seven news while chomping on an acumulation of vegetables when Old Scratch himself trots into my living room with two pairs of boxing gloves. Old Scratch may be as stupid as a post, but he isn't insane and won't keep doing exactly the same thing while expecting different results. I suppose that he figured that while he couldn't take me in wrestling, he could take me in boxing. I didn't agree. I was already upset with those idjits on the news describing a ceartin candidates scandals as a "Vast (censored) Wing Conspiricy, and still irritated with the going ons of Monday, so there was no mercy in my heart at all. Not even a little bit. While he was trying to put on his gloves and mumbling something about "Keensburry," I jumped up off of the couch and punched Old Scratch right in the wesand. He starts gagging and falls into a nearby chair, landing on my cat. The poor cat was awakened by several hundered pounds of demon landing on him and responded as any sane creature would. Namely, by making an Olympic-class dash for parts unknown. I followed up with a right to his gut and a left to his crotch (no Marquis of Queensbury rules for me. I like bashing fiends in the (censored). Pop! Old Scratch decamped for hell at that point, aparently having changed his mind on the suitability of boxing with one Roberson, James R. I said some words that I hope don't get written on my tombstone as I cleaned up the mess and calmed down my cat. For some reason he was blaming me for all the rukus. Silly Cat.

I have already told you that I am not nearly as stupid as I look, neither am I insane. I figured that Satan would appear again on Wednesday for some sort of martial arts competition. The question was what sort of hand-to-hand combat would he choose. My thought was that he would upgrade to Karate, Judo, or even mixed martial arts. Of course, I was wrong.

It was now Wednesday. I had prepared and placed every form of martial arts weapon known to man in easy to reach spots about the house when the Devil hops out of a shadow and wants to fight. I just sat there. He was jumping about like a danzatore with fire ants in his cod-piece. I just stared. The Devil was going on about something that sounded like sabbat, sawboot or some damn thing. When he aimed a kick at my head I slid off the couch, grabbed a dining room chair and whacked him in the face with it. He hit the ground. I kicked him into the air and used my now broken chair like a baseball bat to smash him into the wall. Pop! He was gone. The cat gave me a very dirty look, said what was doubtless an extremely filthy word in Feline and left the room. Prissy cat.

This was getting rediculous. Broken chairs, broken pinball machine, angry cat and wasted food combined to make me as irritated as I have ever been. I fussed at God. I called him some uncharitable names whilst asking him why he created the Devil in the first place and why he was inflicting said Devil upon me. I swear that I heard chuckles in the background. Anyway. I straightened up the house, fixed a second dinner and tried to calm the cat, who responded by mistaking my left leg for his scratching post. Dratted cat.

Thursday. How do I tell you about Thursday. It seems that Satan was begining to understand that what he was doing was getting him only hard knocks and embarrasment. No one likes to be embarrased. No one I have ever known, at least. Satan aparantly decided to sneak up on me by coming down the hall. Might have worked too, if it hadn't been for the steel-nailed boots. Well. I'm setting on the sofa, savaging broccoli with yogurt when I hear someone coming down my hall. Turning to my right I see Furcas and Bael rushing toward me with Satan bringing up the rear. Now, Furcas is a Knight of Hell who shows up as an old man in armor armed with an axe; Bael is a King of Hell who appears as a King with the symbols of royalty. Satan I assume you know. In any case, these three fiends were intending to bring me to a sudden and unpleasant end. I didn't wish this. I called upon the Lord as I leapt to battle (Oh My God!). I siezed Furcas by the waist whilst simultaneously stomping upon Bael's right foot. Bael screamed. I jammed Furcas into his mouth. Furcas, the dimwit, believed that he was betrayed and about to be devoured so he began to pound Bael with his axe. Bael, who is also no genius, decided that he might as well devour this erstwhile friend who was attempting to slay him by means of battery and strangulation. While they rolled about the house saying true things about each other I pounced upon Satan with enthousiam hertofore unknown to man. I gouged his eyes, I slapped his ears, I head-butted him in the nose, I gave him Heaven. Pop! The coward was gone. The cat looked with disbelief from under the sofa. I just stood and laughed at the two imbeciles ripping up the carpet. They realized that with Satan defeated they had no chance against me and pop!

Sigh. It took me until after midnight to straighten the house. The carpet was ruined. Demom blood doesn't come out, you see. The cat asked me to take him back to the pound. At least that is what I think his scratching at the door and wailing meant. I don't speak feline. Confounded cat.

Friday. I must confess that I waited in fear for Friday. How many fiends would Satan bring with him? With what engines of destruction would they be armed? Would the cat ever stop chewing upon my leg? Bleeping cat. Satan, as I have said before is not insane. He learns. This time he was going to get in the first blows or know the reason why. This time he was leading a score of the Lords of Hell into the fight. This time there would be no boots to alert me of the aproach of my doom. The fiends were all naked. This might have worked, too; but the cat simply cannot resist sinking fang and talon into dangling, swinging objects. That sound you heard was not a tornado, not a massive explosion. No. It was 18 pounds of cat hanging from Satan's manly member. I love that cat.

Enjoy this short piece at Satan's expense. Stupid Satan.
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July 9, 2016
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