Molested by Satan!

WARNING: The following contains explicit description of extreme acts of affection, and may cause nausea, vomiting and sharp chest pains. I strongly advise individuals of a standoffish nature, or those with heart conditions, to proceed with caution.

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My husband and I were molested Saturday night, and honestly, I doubt we’ll ever be the same again. Traumatized beyond all imagination, Lar and I have been drinking heavily ever since that unfortunate occurrence, so please forgive any typos I may miss with this post. Also, I am severely sleep-deprived, so some aspects of this entry might come across as nonsensical to you. For that, I apologize in advance. I will do my best to describe what happened to us, in full, lurid detail, despite the pain and humiliation it may cause me.



Onward, then.



Saturday began as any other -- screaming children, meowing cat, poop diapers -- with the exception of one thing: it was party day. My daughter’s belated birthday party, a sleepover type affair to begin at 4:00 p.m., was fast approaching, and there was plenty yet to do. I’d cleaned the house the day before in anticipation of the inevitable trashing it would receive, and I had already assembled the goodie bags, bathed the children, smoked my allotted amount of crack, and fed the animals by 8:00 a.m. -- but I still had a long road ahead. Had to bake the cake, finish laundry, check e-mail, take a shower, among other assorted essentials. I succeeded in all but the cake -- inexplicably, the fucking cake shrunk to the size of a doughnut, and I, already precariously teetering on the edge of my twenty-first nervous breakdown, dived full-on into the merciful depths of insanity. I had to feed fifteen people with a doughnut, and my mind simply couldn’t handle that fact.



The rest of the day and night that followed are hazy due to my catatonic state, but I will do my best to recollect the events. Again, I must insist on readers’ caution.



So 4:00 p.m. finally arrived, and upon its arrival, the gateway to Hell did open, as expected. Satan’s minions slipped into my home that dark afternoon, mischievous, sticky, wicked, loud, and thusly, the term “all hell broke loose” became more than a cliché -- it became truth for me. But I handled it well, thanks to the frequent gulps of courage I’d furtively poured into my “coffee” cup. My cup ranneth over.



Everything went along smoothly -- well, as smoothly as one can expect from demonic home-possession -- until the arrival of the last guest, that is. Unbeknownst to me, that precious child with the innocent brown eyes and bouncy pigtails was the daughter of Satan himself, and helplessly, I was forced to invite Beezlebub, The Prince of Darkness, Old Scratch, into my humble abode. As some of you may already be aware, when one invites Satan into one’s home, it is considered to be the most unholiest of all acts, and one will experience torments of unimaginable proportions.



Satan, disguised as an attractive African-American woman with a lovely, sweet voice, appeared, at first, as any other young mom; he patted his offspring on the head, gave her a kiss, handed my daughter the offspring’s sleeping bag and pillow, then....Oh, then...that is when Satan began to reveal his true self.



He followed me about the house, never leaving my side, inspected my good and clean home with faux appreciation, oooooing, ahhhing, asking about the woodwork, the paint, feigning interest in the wall paper. He was very, very good, but then Satan isn’t known as the Father of Lies for nothing.



And just as we were about to exchange our goodbyes, his eyes glowed with hellfire, and the stink of brimstone permeated the foyer, alerting me to his real identity. I froze. He smiled, an awful, malicious grin that sickened me to the center of my soul. He stepped close to me, closer, closer still, and then he...he hugged me. Satan grabbed me round my shoulders, roughly brought me to his chest, and he hugged me.



I must’ve gone into shock, as I was helpless when Satan then slithered toward my husband -- I could do nothing to prevent what was about to happen next...



He grabbed my Lar in a bear hug, seized him by the arms and pulled Lar to his bosom, swung Lar to and fro as if Lar were a mere rag doll. I could watch no more, and as silent tears welled up in my eyes, I looked away, focused on the happily playing minions as they laughed and danced across my living room floor. I thought the worst was over, that Satan, having had his fun, would now leave, go back to Hell from whence he came. But no, that wasn’t to be. He is a sadistic one, that Satan. Instead of waving and calling it a night, the Dark Father remained, taunting me and Lar by asking more questions, peeking into the rest of our home, eyes ablaze, saying things like, “we must get together soon -- my husband would love to meet you.” Dear God.



And as he spoke, it was within inches of my face, a close-talker like I’d never seen before, an abomination of all that is acceptable, normal human behavior. I nearly collapsed when he once again grabbed me, hugged me tight like I was his bitch.



Satan continued his torture for more than twenty minutes, hugging both me and my husband a total of three times before he finally vanished, leaving a trail of Chanel No.5 in his evil, evil wake.



It was at that moment that I allowed myself to drop to my knees, and as my husband cradled my head, I wept tears of relief. It was over.



Till the next morning, when Satan would be retrieving his tiny progeny. Needless to say, I hid in my office that morning, until it was safe. I left Lar to fend for himself, and for that I am truly sorry. But Lar is a stronger person than I. And yes, he got his satanic bear hug, and yes, my husband is still angry with me for abandoning him in his time of need, but I am weak.



I am weak.