To be fair, we should also remember the good things Chuck tried to do, even if he was a horrible traitor and villain.
First and foremost, let us remember that he worked hard in various government occupations and even tried his pitiful best as president of the world. Admittedly, he neglected most of his duties and did some damage, but at least he tried to push the world into a higher orbit, to a greater destiny, and he would have succeeded if not for one minor bump in the road.
Allow me to explain. One day, while the president was emanating waves of love to the world, suddenly, without appointment or warning, Death stole into the Oval Office. The old scoundrel was dressed like doctor, sat down beside the president and checked his pulse and expressed mild disappointment. Mistaking him for his personal doctor, President C. Bollocks cried, “Go away! I am in excellent health!”
Death laughed, “Look at your body, at your home and at your family! Look and see the consequences of your spirituality!”
“What’s wrong with my body?” he demanded, feigning ignorance.
“Well, you’ve had two dozen surgeries, you live in a wheelchair and you have a pacemaker, a titanium hip, a catheter, cataracts and two dozen drug prescriptions for an assortment of ailments including cancer, heart disease, diabetes and imbecility. Shall I continue?”
“No. That will do.”
“You are also overdue for a brain transplant.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot.”
“So, are you ready to die today?”
“Could you give me a little longer to do my job to create a world-wide utopia?”
“Sorry, but no.”
The president actually stood up and grumbled, “Fine! If necessary, I’ll die! But—not until you let me celebrate one more birthday. Just one. Okay?”
Death shook its tired head. “Chuck, you’re so immature. Fine! I’ll let you have your stupid birthday, but only if you let me blow out all the candles!”
That year, December 25th marked the start of the first and last Chuckmas Day. It was a regal affair full of good cheer and heaps of presents. But the celebrations really climaxed when Bitch Bollocks made this abominable toast:
“Chuckie, congratulations on your spiritual leadership. Thanks to your betrayal of the people, belief in authorities is dead and people are boycotting the global economy. Not one corporation has imported or exported anything for months. Damn, I’m proud of you. I’ll honor you with a new name. Henceforth, I’ll call you Petrus Satan Isis Dudink.”
The president restrained himself. He would not be provoked to anger.
So Bitch added, “Zacharin the Clown is your half-brother.”
“That’s a lie!” the president lost his composure.
“But don’t worry, I’m only your half-sister…”
“Well, that’s a huge relief.”
“But our mother is a slut. She has tens of lovers of all ages.”
“And Walt ‘Angel’ Disney is your biological father!”
The president closed his eyes, took his own pulse and hyperventilated. On cue, his vigilant nurse whisked him away to his personal drama therapy room to lower his blood pressure. A usual, he would watch a live performance of the romantic comedy, The President Is Our Economic Hero.
He waited with bated breath. The curtains did not open. The performance was beyond lackluster. An hour passed. He feared the actors were on strike. Finally, the curtains opened, but the actors sat on the floor, eating cans of beans, drinking rainwater and farting. At last, the president lost his temper and whipped them with his old catheter. One actor sang out in perfect soprano-alto, “Buddyyyyyy, this ain’t the Slapstick The-e-e-e-eater!”
“Swallow your beans and let’s get started!” the president retorted. “I didn’t pay to hear myself fart! Bring me the director! I want a word about the script!”
The director approached him and lied, “I’m very sorry, Mister President, but we’ve taken a moral position on this script. You murdered the economy, so this script is pure propaganda and we quit.”
The president pleaded with them, “I don’t believe you! I did not kill the economy! I only made it green.”
“Yes, green with gangrene.”
The president cried.
The director continued, “Plus, you’ve seen us perform this play every day, multiple times a day. Surely you understand that we are bored of the same old thing. Imagine if every day were exactly like the previous one!”
The president did not understand. He liked things as they were, but the director’s complaint planted a seed of doubt, and he began to hyperventilate again. He might have died, right there, if he had not soothed his troubled soul by joining his nurse in singing this melancholic poem:
Oh, my sweet economy,
I loved you so badly!
They shouldn’t have killed you;
You know I still need you
More than a laceless shoe.
It was a slightly silly and yet profoundly emotional song, so the actors exited in a hurry. President C. bollocks noticed and took their departure personally and commanded general Blowemup of the Pentagon to blow his damn theater up.
General Blowemup apologized, “Sorry, Mister President, but we don’t have the budget for impromptu operations. Your explosive final act will have to wait until next year at the earliest.”
The poor president cursed and angrily rolled himself and his wheelchair off the stage into a painful heap. The only spectator in the theater, Death, clapped from his balcony seat.
The Seven Gifts of Chuckmas
President C. Bollocks opened the White House doors to the public, kneeled on the doormat, and prayed that God would cheer him up. I kind of felt sorry for him, so I sent him the amiable Mr Bottle, Mrs Cow, Mrs Sheep, Mrs Bread, Mr Pig, Mr Goat, and Mrs Corn-Syrup. Unfortunately, I did not foresee what happened next, as they rampaged through the White House, corrupted servants with lust for the flesh, ate all the best food, drank the toilets dry and vomited all over the White House. Security captured the rowdy party crashers and marched them into the Offal Office to face a very displeased President Bollocks.
“Where are my presents?” he yelled, obviously irate.
The guests looked guiltily at one another.
“You freeloaders and moochers! This is my party, not yours! I opened my doors to you, and you abused my hospitality and ate my birthday cake and condemned me and my servants to hunger! What do you have to say for yourselves?”
Mr. Bottle took off his cap and laughed, “Mister President, drink my wine and you will not die today.”
The president thanked Mr Bottle, shot him through his belly and drank the red liquid that poured out of Mr Bottle’s wound. Then the president fell down, very intoxicatingly poisoned, but he loved it so much that he put alcohol in the water supply of every city and charged every household an alcohol tax.
By the second day of the party, every bit of bread in the house had disappeared, and Mrs Cow was caught with two crushed Italian buns in her pants. The president tried to eat them, broke a tooth and blamed Mrs Cow for condemning him and his staff to starvation. Mrs. Cow mooed, “Suck my teats and you and your staff will live a little longer.”
The president thanked Mrs Cow and liked her white milk so much that he patented cow teats and made sucking human breasts illegal. Millions of babies went into debt paying for cow’s milk while millions of mommies went out of business.
By the third day of the party, every ice cream and candy bar in the house had disappeared, and Mrs Sheep was caught vomiting, so the president quipped, “Your crimes lawfully entitle me to strip you and eat you.” Mrs. Sheep baaed, “I love the green grass and I love to breathe the wind. If you take my wool and my meat, I hope some of my nasty viruses and bacteria turn your organs to mush and kill you.”
The president shot her through her head, carved the carcass, ate it, and liked it so much he made lamb a mandatory part of every healthy breakfast for everyone two years old and above.
By the fourth day of the party, most of the guests had disappeared, but the gigantic, shapeless Mrs Loaf was caught with sugar and cream on her lips and bosom, so the president convicted her of eating his birthday cake and ruining his party. In her closing remarks, Mrs. Loaf said, “With all due respect, Mister President, when I asked you to lick me you declined, saying you could only love God.”
That was true, but the tone displeased the president, so he cut Mrs Loaf into slices, ate them and felt worse than ever, but he was a real white man, so he promoted white bread as a healthy part of every meal on the planet.
By the fifth day of the party, every nut, fruit and root vegetable in the house had disappeared, and Mr Pig was caught with the damning evidence in his poop. The president convicted him of condemning everyone to death and asked him to explain his extremely bad behavior. Mr. Pig oinked an argument fit for a toddler: “You invited me, a pig!”
The president realized Mr Pig really believed he was a pig, so he shot Mr. Pig and ate his hams.
By the sixth day of the party, the president felt gravely ill, and all his medicines failed to cure him, so he called Doctor Snake, a herbalist and naturopath. She prescribed a lot of green shit as well as garlic, apple cores, apricot seeds and carrots, precisely the kinds of things rabbits love to eat, and precisely the things she received in payment for her services and had already stashed in her burrow. Then the president knew this doctor was an imposter and a quack, so security located her subterranean nest, squatted over it, and farted so violently into the pit that she and all her children died.
Well, by the seventh day of the party, the house was as silent as death, but the president didn’t notice because he had a severe lower back pain, stomach ache, toothache, arthritis, Alzheimer’s, AIDs, acne, anal cancer, and so on. So the president blamed his only remaining guest, Mrs Corn-Syrup, and he asked her to defend herself, whereupon she rudely replied, “Mister President, with all due respect, before you started sucking my nipple I told you to read the label on my ass. It provides a complete public health warning, but you were too afraid to read!”
“Oh yeah! I’ll show you who’s afraid!”
He gave chase. Mrs Corn-Syrup fled the house and climbed up a GMO corn plant that reached Heaven itself.
“Come down from there, you evil witch!” cried the president. Mrs Corn-Syrup prayed for her life. Instantly the corn stalk withered and the falling Mrs Corn-Syrup knocked the president unconscious and leaked all her syrupy blood on him. Fortunately, Angel came to the president’s rescue, abruptly reviving him by kicking his balls. President C. Bollocks saw stars and said it was the best birthday party ever.
President C. Bollocks had done nothing for God, so when he prayed for food, my personal angel brought him a breakfast from Hell: a bowl of coal covered in syrupy oil served with a glass of gas.
“Angel, what the Hell is this?” the president demanded.
“Love pudding. It’s high energy food for your hungry engine,” Angel proudly replied and shoved a spoonful of the shit into Chuck’s mouth.
“Agh! Are you trying to kill me?” the president asked as he pushed Angel away.
“Hey, this is the finest organic food!”
“You just don’t recognize this food because it was compressed, transubstantiated and processed over millions of years. It’s a miracle product.”
“I’ll believe in miracles when you suck milk from God’s third nipple!”
“Have you been socializing with your sister again? Yesterday she told me to go suck God’s third nipple. I told her does not need nipples. The milk of God’s love flows from him whenever we pray for it. Didn’t you know that?”
“So why didn’t He do something to save the global economy? Have you seen the latest numbers?”
“Don’t worry. It’s all part of God’s plan.”
Chuck gave Angel a stinging slap that sent his dentures flying. “That was part of God’s plan, too. How are you liking it?”
Angel smilingly answered, “If that’s your love, it’s wonderful!”
Chuck lifted his friend over his head and sent him flying. A crumpled heap on the ground, Angel wiped away a tear and said, “You have a real talent for corporal punishment. No wonders Satan asked God if she could use you to fulfill his plans.”
“Fuck God’s plans and fuck God and fuck the stupid world he created!”
“Chuck! You don’t mean that, do you?”
Chuck gave a violent kick that sent his friend flying over the table and rolling on the ground. Clutching his wound ass, Angel wept, “Forgive me God! I only stole one cookie from the cookie jar! One! And it didn’t even taste good. Chuck, we used to be friends! Please, have mercy and give me the old love.”
Chuck felt a twinge of guilt and reluctantly moved to give his old friend a comforting hug. He should have known better. The moment he was in striking distance, Angel walloped him with his shoe so handily that Chuck cartwheeled across the room using only his head and his ass.
The two old men were well on their way to breaking their hips when Chuck sobbed, “Shit, look at this, look at us! Hell has to be better than this! Why am I still here? Death, take me!”
To heap insult on injury, Death left him to die slowly. So, he tottered outside and asked able pedestrians to sacrifice themselves for him, the indispensable leader: “Good fellow, would you please be so kind as to give me your hand, your arm, your heart, your kidneys, your liver, and all those other organs my doctor says I need!”
Subtlety never was his strong suit, but even if it had been, it wouldn’t have mattered, for the people no longer listened to anyone, not even if I addressed them directly. I don’t know what it was. They used to like it when I communicated morning greetings in pink clouds and disapproval with little thunderclaps, but now they’re all preoccupied reading from and listening to their stupid iGods!
Angel Go Home
After no one offered to help him, Chuck quit his job and told the world’s citizens to govern their own asses. Then he asked Angel to take him to Heaven, which Angel interpreted to mean Los Angeles, a place he had always wanted to visit. The trouble was that all the president’s chauffeurs and pilots had quit their jobs long ago, so how would they go anywhere? They called Satan, but the bitch wasn’t interested in having them.
Ignoring his own conscience, Angel embezzled all the funds from the World Treasury to build a giant wind generator and two flatulent ponies rigged with sails and reserved for private. With God’s help, the generator was built in a day and the men mounted their ponies and began their windy journey out of Washington and into the sunset. Together they looked like a poor knight and squire trotting to a battlefield from which no human being ever returns.
But all good things must come to an end, so by mid-afternoon, their ponies ran out of gas and the old men continued on foot for a few more feet.
Dinner hour was an even larger obstacle. At 7 o’clock sharp, Chuck ordered his usual dinner. Angel quickly called Real Healthy Shit, the world’s favorite fast food chain, and ordered the president’s usual. Unfortunately, the cooks were sick. So Angel called Industrial Slop, a wildly popular producer of industrial slop, but by some odd coincidence all their cooks were also sick.
“The people must be very angry,” said Angel. “Now they’re conspiring to starve you to death.”
“Don’t interpret the world so negatively, old friend. We’ll find a way to feed ourselves.”
“How do you figure?”
Chuck grinned, pulled a maggot out of his ear and ate it. He gave the next one to Angel. After this little breakfast, Chuck suddenly noticed his surroundings.
“Hey, Angel, I think we lost the road. What’s this place called? Looks like extraterrestrial aliens live here.”
“You old fool, don’t you recognize home? An old church used to stand here. Your mother was the preacher, if you know what I mean.”
“Shit, that can’t be right. This can’t be Troytown!”
“This brings back memories. Did you know that Troytown was such a ghetto it inspired me to get into the land development business? I bought ghettos, razed them to the ground and built affordable housing units with neat names like Libertyville, Clayton, New Rome and La Paris. I kept my prices down by building homes without garages, doors, windows, plumbing, electricity or roads! I built thousands of these dumps all over California, New Mexico, Arizona, Texas and all over the country! Thanks to my ingenuity, even the poorest Amerikans could afford to live in relative comfort and safety.”
“Were you born an asshole or were you born from your mother’s asshole?”
“My conception and my birth were both miracles, for as the Bible says, a woman’s anus is her cleanest orifice. But your other question offends me. It gives me no credit. I was not born an asshole. I developed into the world’s greatest asshole only through hard work.”
“Good Heavens, bravo! Have another maggot and prepare yourself for your last job.”
“Me? You have a job for me? Forget it. I’m done with jobs.”
“Here’s one job you can’t shirk: dying.”
“I don’t have time for dying. I’m the ex-president! Joe Smith can die for me.”
“That’s very funny.”
“Chuck, no one can die for you.”
“Why not? Buddha died for a hungry tigress and didn’t George ‘Jesus Christ’ Washington live and die for all Amerikans?”
Angel smiled a pitiful smile: “Chuck, you mustn’t believe every book. Dying is a job we must do ourselves, and no one will pay you to do it.”
“What kind of job is that? If I have to do something, I want a reward, a profit. If I must die, maybe I can make a profit selling tickets. I’ll make sure it’s beautiful. I’ll hire the best producer, art director and –”
“Chuck, please be reasonable.”
“I’m hungry and tired of eating maggots. Do angels make good dinners in Heaven?”
“You asked that already. Got Parkinson’s or something?”
“You’re fat and slow,” said Chuck as he withdrew an old pen knife and began sharpening it on a stone.
Angel stopped. His mental alarm rang. He saw himself roasting over an open fire, so he climbed into a tree and launched his body into the air. He broke both his fairy wings and rattled his skull.
Chuck dropped the knife and rushed to his side shouting, “What’s wrong with you? It was a joke and you’re not an immortal angel!”
“I’m not? But, what about my wings?” he asked and flapped his broken, surgically attached wings.
“They’re chicken wings! Oh, Angel, are you in a lot of pain?”
“Yes. I’ll never recover from this. Would you mind killing me?”
“Great. You’re always giving me work. Fine. But I think you should pay me in advance.”
Angel understood. He wrote him a check from a cool million and said, “Let’s get it over with. I’m dying to get back to Heaven.”
“The journey will be brief!”
Chuck removed his pants and underwear and sat on Angel’s screaming, upturned face. The weight was horrible. Angel flailed and pulled his nipples and his teeth sank into Chuck’s inner buttocks and his tongue … in vain. Chuck held on tight until Angel made the most undignified entry into Heaven ever recorded.
Perhaps you think God should have saved him, but why bother? Angels are a dime a dozen. God can create a billion of them in a single astronomical ejaculation, which is one more reason God doesn’t need genitals.
When his dirty work was done, Chuck asked some of the poor kids living in Paradise Estates if they knew where he could find Heaven. Guess what they said? The brats told him to go to Hell. They thought that was funny, but those cruel words broke his heart. He loved children and couldn’t bear to be hated by them. It broke his heart, literally.
Well, I didn’t want him eaten by the dogs, so I rushed him into Heaven and revived him with a kick to his head. Surprisingly, he was none too pleased to see Me, but even less pleased were the angels. Chuck’s presence caused an uproar among them. They said they would never share Heaven with a glutton, a devil who waged war against all that is holy and a devil deliberately lost three wars against Satan. Well, I have all the time in the universe, but I didn’t feel like arguing with a bunch of overgrown birds and butterflies, so I threw them into the wilderness below and instructed them to build their own Heaven.
Honestly, who cares if Chuck destroyed the future? Maybe he committed more sins than were absolutely necessary, but he always sinned for the right reasons: for attention and because he loved Me.
Well, that should have been the end, but then came the biggest surprise. Just when I thought I had a friend with whom to share my endless life, Chuck complained about Heaven and began to nag and nag like a horrible wife. One day he said, “Why did I ever dream of joining you here? There’s nothing to do! But I have learned something. I’ve learned what it feels like to be a turd afloat in a bathtub full of radioactive waste.”
“Well, I’m sorry if you feel out of place, but you’ll soon learn to appreciate your eternal retirement home.”
I guess he didn’t see it that way. He wanted out, especially when the devils began inviting him down to their filthy farms. I tied him to Me, but one night he bit through the safety cord and smashed his iGod so we would be separated forever. Then he nimbly descended from Heaven and embraced the dirt. My fallen angels celebrated his arrival, and when they remembered their creator they shouted for “Old fart” to join their party. But why would I mingle with apes? They didn’t even know my name and they had purged their souls from their bodies!
“No thanks,” I told them. “But if you want to make me happy, a few of must join me in Heaven and worship Me just a few times a day.”
I was being quite serious, but they thought I’d cracked the biggest joke in the world, so I gave them my severest frown and asked, “Is there no pity on Earth for an old fart?”
“Pops,” Chuck Bollocks answered, “come down and we’ll give you something better than pity. In Hell we’ll make you laugh as much as you’ve made us laugh, and our gardens will give you health until the day you die. Come on,” he continued in his evil, coaxing, feminine tone, “don’t be a frightened baby. You won’t regret your stay in Hell.”
“I’m God! I can’t go to Hell!”
“Sure you can. There’s plenty of room.”
“I’m too big!”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Besides, here you’ll shed some extra pounds in a jiffy. Please, give Hell a try. We’d love to finally see you, even if you’re ugly, that’s not a problem; Hell will put a smile on your face. Here, in Hell, you’ll enjoy a life of light physical activity—no, we don’t call it work here— plus wild sex, colorful food, fresh air, great conversations, appreciative children, and the Satanic arts. Oh, that reminds me, your ex promised not to tell anyone how bad you are in bed.”
“Well, that is very kind of her. But wait, how do I know you’re not kidding?”
“Here’s a better question: how will you know what Hell is really like unless you try it?”
Damn! That boy spoke so sweetly, so kindly, and so logically! I hated his logic! It didn’t leave Me any choice. I couldn’t stay in Heaven all alone, eating antimatter and watching the stars and planets spinning, could I? So despite the fact that I am God and the author of the universe, I agreed to go to Hell, and guess what? I’m loving it!
If my pages disappointed you, if somehow they seemed entirely too ridiculous, if you want to read something more serious, please accept, by way of consolation, my sincerest recommendation that you read the Devil’s books. Presently, you can find and purchase them online. You can also have digital copies mailed to you in return for a little love sent via email bank transfer (presently possible only in Canada through firstname.lastname@example.org or email@example.com). Anyone who can’t afford to pay can simply ask and receive.
If demand exists, this or another blog or website might offer the Devil’s fans the chance to purchase via Paypal.
Below is a list of the Devil’s seven titles. The first four are available, the others are pending.
- Fuck Civilization [a.k.a.] The Bible of the Neo-Natives: A Prehistory and History of Human Insanity and Visions of Paradise
- The Last Revolution: Visions of an Unknown Paradise and Criticisms of Religion and Capitalism
- The Criminal Bible: The Old Testament (Published on Amazon as A History of Imperial Bullshit)
- The Criminal Bible: The New Testament
- The Vatican Library of Lies 1:The Forgery and Falsification of Greek Classics
- The Vatican Library of Lies 2: The Forgery and Falsification of Roman Classics
- The Anti-Book: Shakespeare Was a Bootlicker and Other Heresies for Book Lovers