Don’t Say You Worship Satan If It’s Only on Halloween
The same thing every year: eleven months of schlepping our lonely way to the unhallowed grove and then BAM! The last week of October there are three square miles of parked cars around our sinister hidden shrine. Which, hello? HIDDEN SHRINE, people! Try not to tip off the whole freaking world to our secret unspeakable rites, ‘kay?
Where were all you seasonal Satanists the rest of the year, when we could barely find thirteen people to begin our unholy demonic liturgy? Where were you during the oppressive cheer of summer? Where were you at the bake sale? I had to buy my own boysenberry scones. Again.
Do you have a clue what this diabolical cult actually believes? You don’t even know what to chant. Most of you October occultists are just muttering and humming under your breath, like Lutherans, while the rest shout “Sabbath!” at random intervals. And then, every single Halloween, some once-a-year-devil’s-disciple has to scream and cry and yell for the police. Act like this isn’t your first blood sacrifice, people. It’s embarrassing.
Not that I can see tonight’s sacrifice. Thanks to you pumpkin-spice necromancers I’m stuck in obstructed view behind a pillar, surrounded by mouth-breathing Faustus-come-latelies with no respect for personal space. I can only make out, like, part of her shin.
Also, what are you wearing? Which part of “black robe” was too complicated? Did you really walk into our lightless abode of the damned dressed as Hellboy? And don’t even get me started with the slutty witch costumes. Why tempt our dread master Lucifer’s wrath by baring your cleavage at him? I think he’s made it abundantly clear he’s an ass man.
I don’t want to point fingers, but someone has to say it. Dressing as Buffy the so-called “Vampire Slayer” is in extremely poor taste, especially considering everything we’ve learned about Joss Whedon.
I know all you foul-weather-fiends will be happy stupid normies again come November, but some of us put in the work24/7/365, devoting ourselves to implacable, malevolent Evil. I’m talking about multi-level marketing. Standing at the front of coffee shop lines, refusing to decide on our orders. Strategically upvoting the most annoying Instagram posts, snatching hapless drifters as offerings unto Beelzebub, and playing our Billy Joel playlist on repeat, just loud enough for the neighbors to hear and just low enough that they can’t complain. Bwa. Ha. Ha.
So please, try not to act like a bunch of drunken college kids who’ve stumbled in by accident. Because drunken college kids do stumble in by accident, and the cops are a pain in the butt about it.
And for the last time, there is NO SUCH THING as “Satanic folk mass.” I mean, God forbid.
Jim Marino’s other jokes can be found on McSweeney’s Internet Tendency and Points in Case. His fiction appears in Alaska Quarterly Review, Apex Magazine, Santa Monica Review and elsewhere. His book on Shakespeare is not the least bit funny.