A Satanic curse

Julio, one of the temps in the office, has been sitting behind me for a month, sometimes praising Satan. Guess he decided I’m trustworthy, cuz he casually confessed he’s a disciple of the devil a few weeks ago.

Judy, the mega-Christian lady I used to work with who’s now twenty feet down the hall — she’d freak and probably call 9-1-1. Me, though, I don’t care that he wears a black pentagram medallion every day. It’s all make-believe — the cosmic good guys, and the cosmic bad guys. Just something we sometimes talk about.

Today he was talking about curses, because he really does take this crap seriously. We’re approaching a full moon, and he said for ten bucks he’d put a curse on anyone I’d like. Told him I’d pay half that, if he could bring Jennifer seven years bad luck.

“It won’t take seven years,” he said. “If I curse her, the bad luck will begin immediately. But why should I give half off?”

“Because you hate her too. You’re the one she’s walking all over every day. She mostly leaves me alone, so I only hear it in the background.” Which is true. She treats the temps like they're less than human.

He seemed open to price negotiation, but wanted cash in advance. “Nope,” said I, “the rube tourists are in Union Square. I don’t believe in what you’re selling, but I’ll pay if you can deliver.”

“What does ‘deliver’ mean?”

“I want her dead or dismembered or at least fired from here by March, but I’m ruling out any direct action. I’m hiring you for a curse, not as a hit man.”

“You gotta pay in advance, though," he said. "I’m a temp. I won’t be here in March.”

It’s all blather, of course, but we shook on it and I gave him five dollars. If there’s a Satan in Hell, which of course there isn’t, perhaps I’ll have good news to report shortly.

♦ ♦ ♦

Since I've said I find political rants boring or infuriating or sometimes both, a reader suggests that I shouldn’t write about politics in the zine. But, dear reader, you misunderstand — it’s only other people’s politics that sets me off. My own politics make perfect sense.

Today’s headline is that the mother of House Speaker Newt Gingrich (R-Transylvania) says “Newty” has called Hillary Clinton a bitch. So here’s my opinion on that: Who effing cares about an interview with someone who openly admits naming her son Newt and calls him Newty?

♦ ♦ ♦

With Stanley running interference — doing the trash thing, and reporting back that the office was empty — I came in late and got the December issue printed and stapled and ready to mail. Stanley must be good luck — the machine didn’t jam once. Then we sat around talking for a while, and liberated some of Jennifer’s chocolates. 

While I was using the company's copier, I also used the company's phone to check my messages, and there were two from the same stranger — a lady's voice, offering compliments on the zine, advice about my hemorrhoids, and a few other interesting comments.

My phone number is in the back of every issue, and she's not the first reader who's ever called. She's the second. But I bet normal people don’t ever get a call like that from a stranger, and normal people don’t leave such messages. Zine people are not normal, and I love that about us.

From Pathetic Life #8
Wednesday, January 4, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life 

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