Well, here we are again, on the sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year, and all the smart money is on Satan appearing in all his demonic evilness and doing a really bad remake of a 70s movie (speaking of which, isn’t just a little bit blasphemous to try and cash in on Satan? I mean, even if its not like, a mortal sin or anything, it seems like one of those things that makes you more likely to get struck be lightening or eaten by a hungry, hungry hippo). And then like, jump out of a volcano somewhere as a cheap stripper doth a cardboard cake. And, um, you know, fly around and be all apocalyptic and stuff. The only real problem is, of course, that in fact, this whole 666 date thing is that it actually comes once per century and according to every single “stuff what happened today in history” page I could find, absolutely nothing of historical interest has every happened on June 6th, ’06, in any year, ever. No demons flying around throwing marshmallow peeps or death at people, no oceans turning to blood, no Captain Planet after-school kids-stay-away-from-drugs-or-I’ll-eat-your-dog special, nothing.
This of course leaves us at a bit of an impasse concerning the reliability of pop culture prognostication concerning old Beelzebub. It is of course possible that, Prince of Darkness that he is, just has a really busy schedule and never goes in for the big holidays. Or maybe, inveterate butthead that he is, he just likes messing with everybody and his favorite number is like, 582, but since it never comes up for him when he plays it on the lottery, he’s kind of given up on the whole superstition deal and become a more secular source of all evil. Or maybe he’s just a trekkie and is waiting for stardate 666, which happily enough won’t be until
But before we even get into all the complications of bringing to Devil himself to Earth, let’s take look at a few of the greater concepts of Old Sparky down through the ages. The Bible tells us that Satan, much like William Shatner, rebelled against God and was cast out of heaven with all his groupies to run amok here on Earth and give goth kids someone to write edgy yet vacuous songs about.
In early America, the whole goat-legged pitchfork guy look was widely favored, to the extent that forks came to be looked upon as the dining utensil of Satan and all good people either made do with sporks or just adjusted their mental image of Lucifer to have him wielding something a bit less common, like a pair of salad tongs, a spatula, or a rubber chicken. A fiery rubber chicken of lies and eternal damnation.
The Pope, who is, it appears, still learning the difference between the “reply” and “reply to all” buttons on his email recently made major eschatological booboo (that’s less dirty than it sounds) by confiding in the entire internet that he personally believes the Devil to be none other than President Martin van Buren, who happily enough died in the year 23,000,000 BC, after an unfortunate yet hilarious time machine accident, so we’re all safe after all.
And of course, according to those guys who wrote all those Left Behind books, the Devil is in fact Vigo the Carpathian, who shall remain imprisoned in a New York art museum forever, so long as Harold Ramis remains a faithful brother of that weird order that tried to kill Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
As for myself, I though the temptation to just pin being Satan Incarnate on Ben Affleck is both great and oh so probable, I’m gonna go with the less obvious route and suggest the Pillsbury Dough Boy. First, he looks like some creepy little anime ghost thingie. Second, he has no belly button, much like Alfred Hitchcock (who lost his when it fell off on the Shockwave at Kings Dominion). And of course, he never takes off his hat, which suggests the presence of either horns or the hidden face of Voldemort.
So anyway, until next time, I don’t think any of us have to worry much about all of this- RAAAAWRRRR!!!! AT LAST I AM FREE! FREE TO BRING RUIN TO THE EARTH AND TYPE IN ALL CAPS! MWAHAHAHAHA, THE NEW AGE OF DARKNESS HAS BEGUN; WHAT WAS WILL BE, WHAT IS WILL BE NO MORE. TIME TO LISTEN TO SO LINDSAY LOHAN ALBUMS AND SEND OSAMA A FRIEND INVITE ON MYSPACE. Oops, sorry about that, the cat just jumped on my keyboard there. She’s been kinda funny ever since my grandmother pegged her in the head with that accursed Babylonian can of orange juice. Well, she’s hovering around in a circle of fire again, so I’d better let her out for the night. Catch y’all tomorrow!
