Working for Satan

After over three and a half years of working for Satan, one can’t help but reflect on the vast merriment of times that I have had there.

Let’s start off with food; everyone loves food. First, refrigerator:

As you can see, simply amazing. Another great thing about working for Satan was that I ate at quite a variety of nice (well, nice to peasant folk like me) restaurants, including but not limited to (but probably entirely limited to) Capital Grille, Bobby Van’s Steakhouse, Michael Jordan’s Steakhouse, Virgil’s BBQ, Sinigual, and Pershing Square Café.

But the real treat for the tastebuds (as well as the wallet)? The in-house cafeteria $5 buffet.

No, it wasn’t junk food every day; I just like to take pictures of junk food.

One thing I will definitely miss is the lemon bars. If you do not know what a lemon bar is, do not be alarmed. Around a year ago I was in your same situation. My two buddies at work; *Nature Boy Sweet Cakes*, *Professor Cobra*, and I loved the lemon bars and ate several every Wednesday (which was proclaimed National Lemon Bar Day). Ever since I quit working for Satan, the two of them have been kind enough to constantly send me pictures of lemon bars and pictures of lemon bars being eaten. Swell guys all around, aren't they?

Yes that is a picture of *Nature Boy Sweet Cakes* wearing a gas mask. What can I say; he lives in a war zone.

Well, I think we’ve all had enough about food for now, so let’s get to the meat and potatoes of the matter. It is time for me to regale you with noteworthy stories about my experiences in working for the devil.

Hold on TIGHT:

Working for Satan certainly has its perks; one of which being the in-house fitness center or as I like to call it: the gym. I will never forget one time when I and someone we shall call *Cavalier* were changing in the locker room when he suddenly gets a call. “Hi, what’s going on? Oh my god, are you okay?” I don’t recall listening to the rest of the conversation because I did not want to seem like the eavesdropper I was and totally am today so I just finished changing and left. However, later on in the week I did get a chance to catch up with *Cavalier* so I asked him if everything was okay, and I mentioned how I had overheard his conversation in the locker room.

He begins to tell me what happened, and it turns out his son was in the forest cutting down trees… (to sell… bark?). Fair story so far; I would have given it a neutral rating if he had just stopped there. So, his son was cutting trees... and then he dropped a chainsaw on his leg. Let me give you a moment to let that comment slice into your flesh maliciously. Hmmm… poor choice of words. I’ll rephrase; let me give you a moment to let that sink in. Needless to say, when I heard that, my face instantaneously transformed into Orpah’s, like so:

He somehow managed to drive himself to a hospital or help or something or another. When all things were said and done, he ended up fine, but there is a moral you all should take away from this story. I know I certainly did.

Moral of this Aekwop’s Fable: Approximately 100% of your life will take place in a situation where the laws of gravity exist. To add to that, within that 100%, there will be times in your life when you are surrounded by, or in the presence of, enemies or just people who want to harm you in ways we will not discuss. Therefore, when holding objects such as rusty chainsaws, belt sanders, or even semi-automatic firearms, make sure you’re white-knuckling it.

Meet the Shareholders:

Having heard so many great things about Satan’s annual shareholder meetings, I jumped at the opportunity to be a volunteer. I woke up at 5:30 AM to get to the hotel where the meeting was to be held. Once there, I ate a light breakfast and prepared myself for the most important duty of the morning; directing people to coat check. Oh no, I had nothing to do with the actual coat check. I told people where the coat check was. “Coat check right this way!”

What makes these meetings so interesting is that many people come from all over to protest Satan’s company. They come equipped with pictures of souls harmed by Satan, and of course, heart-wrenching stories of Satan’s effects on mankind. The best part is the time allotted for shareholders to ask Satan questions. Due to the fairness of democracy, inevitably, Satan’s protestors obtain the mic and start with the stories and attacks. However, Satan is so witty, quick on his feet, and just plain smart, that he pretty much wins every debate and always has an answer for his naysayers.

“Satan, what do you have to say to all the American souls you have harmed?”

“We do not conduct any business in America, thank you very much, next question please.”

“Satan, do you realize how many lives have suffered around the world due to your trade/business? How can you continue to operate such a company?”

“If I discontinued my company, the illicit trade of my company’s product would skyrocket. This would provide the terrorist organizations that conduct this illicit trade with God-knows-how-much additional funding, as well as cost governments around the world billions of dollars in tax revenue.”

So yeah, you get the point. There’s nothing like watching a good argument, and there’s ESPECIALLY nothing like watching an argument where one side has a 100% chance of winning based on sheer platform (saving souls, come on! Who roots against that?), lose horribly when faced with the underlying facts of the situation.

Moral of this Tall Tale: Arguing with Satan will result in no small fail.

Seriously, just don’t do it. You know how you’re not supposed to argue with an idiot because he/she will drag you down to his/her level and beat you with experience? It’s similar with Lucifer, he will drag you down to his level and then you’re in hell. Then you automatically lose by cause of eternal damnation.

RANDOM SHIZZLE: You thought all the stuff about food was over? Terribly sorry to disappoint (not really sucker). Here is random proof of why you should not eat fruits in hell.

(THE FOLLOWING EXPERIENCE IS EXPLICIT, AND NOT IN A GOOD WAY, PROCEED WITH CAUTION, IF YOU WANT TO SKIP THIS EXPERIENCE, SCROLL DOWN TO THE “Short Tidbit of December 2010” ENTRY

The Dirty Soap of Summer 2010:

I am not burdened by night classes so I am able to partake in the festivities of BOWLING NIGHT! I bowl over 100 (or at least I think I did) to help bring our team to an improbable victory and an etching of our team name on the bowling trophy (CHELSEA BUTCHERS! YEAH!). But after bowling, the night was still not over. Satan also participated in a corporate soccer league. Seeing as how I had the free time, I had no other option but to attend and cheer on my fellow mini-devils! Due purely on my cheering encouragement, my company won the game and we all went out for some drinks to celebrate the soccer victory. I drank nothing but Guinness that night and lots of it. And it was good.

So I get home pretty late, slept the few hours, and then went to work the next day. I’m sitting down, and as is customary, I let out a little gas in the office, but that gas was in fact not entirely gas, and that simple little fact changed my life forever. I immediately felt the liquid seep through my butt cheeks. “OH MY GOD!” I thought. Refer to the Orpah picture above. Without hesitation I performed the sitting crunch-sit-up to obtain instantaneous view of my crotch.

The evidence was undeniable. Dark… wet… viscous… soapy… smelled very funny, and a whole slew of other adjectives that may or may not apply. I had experienced this before, and let me tell you, it was FOUL; that is really the only word to describe it. “Why did I have to wear my extra thin pants today?” I wondered. I had to act quickly, the gym! With the quickness, I went to Satan’s fitness center, grabbed a pair of shorts, and headed straight for the restroom. The shorts would have to act as my boxers for the day; my old and tainted boxers were thrown into and incinerated within the blazing infernos of Hell. I cleaned up as best as I could and headed back to my desk. Though I had cleaned my pants to the best of my ability, these particular pants had an uncanny ability to retain moisture against all odds, so I had this wet stainy mark on my butt that I wanted to get rid of at all costs. To make matters even worst, the funk was still there. As an evil galactic commander would say, the funk was strong in this one.

Luckily my officemate was not present that day, so I closed the office door and used the best and quite frankly, only thing I could find to eradicate the funk; classic Purell brand hand sanitizer. I put globs of it on a napkin and rubbed my pants like a woodchuck on steroids. However, this task was quickly proving to be inefficient and straining for my neck. The door was already closed; I knew what i had to do; I took off my pants. That was the only way I could really get in there; to INGRAIN the sanitizer into my pants and have Purell fulfill its life purpose. So while I am sitting there in my makeshift boxers from the company gym shorts, I hear a knock on the door. “Give me a minute…” I say. It is none other than *The Gambit*, one of my managers. She says “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll come back later.” In my head I think “Oh no you don’t!” and put my pants on with the quickness and proceed to open the door.

Looking back, I probably should have taken my time and just let her come back. This would have allowed me a few moments to collect my thoughts. So when she walked in, I inadvertently blurted out that I was fixing my pants. And then I noticed the bottle of Purell on the table, which according to my guilty conscience, seemed to look increasingly more and more like a bottle of lotion or some other form of stroking lubricant. Hmmm… so I was fixing my pants with the door closed… and I have a bottle of lotion-look-a-like right on the edge of the table as if I was JUST using it for something… This did not look good. It did not help that *The Gambit* started laughing. At what? To this very day I am still unsure. She later had to leave to gather and collect herself.

And it was not over yet. The next few days without a doubt marked the most anally cautious days of my life (probably because I've never been in prison). I thought that one day of liquid soapy expulsions from my rear end was enough for God to laugh at me about for eternity. I was sadly mistaken; for the next two days I had to look deep within myself for courage never previously known to me each time I wanted to venture more than twenty meters away from a toilet. I know this situation can be hard for many people to understand so allow me to explain in greater detail. You know every time you queef from your backside? It feels good to let it out, am I right? And aside from the smell and offending other people around you, you have very little to worry about. Now imagine that every time you had to queef from your caboose, there was a high chance that something MORE than gas would come out, and you NEVER KNEW when it would be gas or MORE than just gas. Scary, huh? This was the frightful dilemma I faced that weekend. I had to hold in every flatulent endeavor my body tried to undertake, and let me tell you; I wasn’t always successful. I knew I failed when the part of my butt cheeks that normally rub together became completely and utterly frictionless. The dark, foul, soapy substance created by my body probably had the smallest coefficient of friction known to man (later scientifically proven to be true by a famous world-renowned scientist).

Moral of the fable: There is none, which is why this is so scary. Sure, I could tell you to drink Guinness in moderation but then I’d have the Guinness lawyers up on my ass in here trying to cut into my slice of the pie. Also I doubt my morals/scruples system would allow me to say such a thing anyhow. Therefore, there is no moral. Why should you be afraid that there is no moral? Because this type of thing can happen to anyone and there is nothing you can do about it.

RANDOM SHIZZLE #2: You thought this was over? Sit yo ass back down. Here’s a random picture:

Short Tidbit of December 2010:

This one is a short tidbit about my insignificance in Lucifer’s company. It’s that time of year again, which means it is time for our department to undertake a pilgrimage together into a restaurant to share our collective joy in the merry weather for our holiday luncheon. Lunch was at 12:30, so when I get a call in my office around that time; I’m sure it’s my fellow co-workers telling me to meet up with them at the security desk so we can be on our merry way. I pick up the phone in an enthusiastic manner and say “Yello yello?”

On the other end is no other than *Soldier Boy*, who just so happens to be my direct supervisor. I say “Hey *Soldier Boy*, is it time to go?” He replies “Ummm… yeah… so the restaurant is on 42^nd and 3^rd…”

I gingerly say “Oh, okay, so we are meeting up now?” He again replies “Yeah… the restaurant is on 42^nd street and 3^rd avenue.”

It is at this point that I realize what has happened here. My entire department completely forgot about me and went ahead to the restaurant without even realizing that I was not there. My boss tried to cover it up and salvage the situation (without much effort) by simply repeating the location of the restaurant over and over again. What was going on inside my head at that moment? A whirlpool of thoughts questioning my significance in the world as my office pug stared off into the distance. What one word summarized my exact sentiments at that exact moment? “Oh.”

(At least the lamppost is happy.)

Moral of this epic: Never underestimate nor forget the futility of human endeavor.

Getting Hit:

*Nature Boy Sweet Cakes* was perhaps my closest friend at work and he trained/trains in kickboxing. In fact, the previous summer, *Nature Boy Sweet Cakes*, *Professor Cobra*, and I went to a boxing gym just to check it out, work on the speed bag, and engage in some legal sparring. Needless to say, *Nature Boy Sweet Cakes* completely demolished me using only his left hand (I guess that wasn’t NEEDLESS to say since the exclusive use of his left hand is pretty darn specific and I would not have expected you to guess that had I asked you). Getting punched in the face is an eye-opening experience mentally but an eye-closing experience physically, which is kinda cool because in a sick and twisted way, you get to do both at the same time. Anyhoo, if your white shirt ever needs some red dye, I highly recommend getting punched in the face, but I digress.

So *Nature Boy Sweet Cakes* was training for a fight and I have no idea why he incorporated sparring with *Professor Cobra* and I as part of his training. So fight day comes and it is a total mess. He doesn’t know when he is supposed to weigh in, and apparently instead of kickboxing rules, the fights will be under Muay Thai rules (meaning elbows and knees ARE allowed as opposed to being illegal under kickboxing rules). To top things off, his fight will be one of the last fights of the night, meaning he has the entire night to feel nervous and get the pre-fight jitters. It is NOT a good feeling.

So we finally get to his fight but we were all so busy watching the other fights and misjudged the timing that we only have a few minutes to warm up and perform the necessary pre-fight routines. It was a close fight at first, but in the end, the lack of training for Muay Thai overwhelmed *Nature Boy Sweet Cakes*. That, and a few dozen hard knees to the sternum, celiac plexus, and ribcage.

Moral of this legend: I’m sure there’s something to be learned here about knowing the rules of a fight before you go in or having a proper trainer/coach and such, but I just wanted a reason to post this picture.

Can you believe it? They had KIDS fighting that night. Literally, kids! It goes without saying that that fight was HILARIOUS and utterly amazing. It was almost straight out of a Mexican wrestler comic; morally unacceptable but comedically perfect. Either that, or straight out of hell. Where else would two pre(and I mean PRE)pubescent children be pitted to fight against one another in a match to the death?

A New Officemate:

During my final weeks working for Satan, I had the pleasure of spending a few days sharing an office with *Uncle Joey* who has got to be one of the most knowledgeable, intelligent, and funniest people I have ever met who has the ability to combine those characteristics into some kind of super characteristic. *Uncle Joey* first worked for Coopers and Lybrand and then worked for Satan for 25 years. Somewhere within that 25 years he became the big boss of financial reporting within the company, somehow retired, and was then rehired as a consultant of sorts, coming in to New York during the big reporting season in January.

So he tells me about his work as an auditor at Coopers and Lybrand. He audited some big conglomerates, one of which had a very unique business. Apparently, bull semen is/was a hot commodity; I’m guessing for breeding and the such. So according to *Uncle Joey*, big conglomerates had to find a way to account for the depletion of semen in bull testicles. After all, one bull cannot infinitely give away the seeds of life for offspring; one must account for the bull product and acknowledge that he will not last forever. What had to be done was an estimation of how much bull semen the conglomerate could reasonably expect from each bull (similar to a units-of-production method of depreciation I’m guessing). Can you imagine how the bulls must feel?

We continued our conversation by talking about Satan’s company and its history. Hoards of people have tried to sue Satan over the years and I asked *Uncle Joey* if that is the case today. Not anymore, says *Uncle Joey*, and it is for a multitude of reasons.

For one, the people who have a legitimate case against Satan are dying out. Nowadays, people are fairly and explicitly warned that their souls are in danger when transacting with Satan. This means that the “new” generation cannot sue on the basis of lack of knowledge that their soul was in danger, nor can they say that Satan knew his product would steal souls (which is the most popular platform to sue on). The people who had the “ignorance” claim are slowly becoming no more.

Secondly, Satan has made himself a very unattractive entity to sue. For example, if someone tried to sue “Satan Inc”, Satan would be like “NUH UH SISTA! You forgot the period; it is ‘Satan Inc.’” and then he would send that shit back. Any little error and mistake, Satan would jump on and send it back, making litigation with Lucifer, a nightmare. Satan also had a “no settlement” policy. I guess the policy there was based on the saying that if you give a mouse some milk, pretty soon he’s going to ask for a cookie. People would sue for millions of dollars, then later ask for a settlement of $400,000, and Satan would still refuse.

*Uncle Joey* explained that sometimes settlements are a cost of doing business. For example, let’s say a heater explodes in proximity of a child. Guess what? That kid is going to need a skin graft. Now, the explosion might not have been anyone’s fault, but you know what the court is going to say; that kid needs a skin graft, and somebody has got to pay for that. The company that produced the heater has to accrue liabilities like that every year simply because it is a cost of doing business. Satan made a ballsy move in never settling and after enough time passed, he was seen as simply too unattractive to beat the shit out of and get money from. There were easier ways to win big-money-pay-out lawsuits; for example; pharmaceutical companies. *cough cough*

Moral of the myth: Don’t sue Satan because he will drag you down to his level, yadda yadda yadda:

Seriously though, what we should take away from this is that you should always know how much bull semen your male bovine have left in the tank.

Farewell to the Inferno:

And of course, we cannot forget the perfect ending to a ride with Satan. *Phat Vandal* had embarked on a vacation to his native motherland in attendance of his mother’s wedding and would be back the coming Monday. *Nature Boy Sweet Cakes*, *Captain Volcano*, and I decided to welcome him back in style, and obviously, “in style” always involves a trip to the dollar store. *Phat Vandal* apparently always came in very crabby in the morning (I wouldn’t know, I always came in late), so this was our way of uplifting his spirits on a dreary Monday morning. He would either be very happy to see such a warm welcome, or he would be pissed off at us for messing around (the FUN kind of messing around) in his office and him having to clean up all the crap we left in there.

So off to the dollar store we went; we had many options to choose from for our decorations, but a limited budget. For example, in regards to balloons, we had to drop “IT’S A GIRL!” in favor of “C:” (that’s a smiley face by the way). Tough choice, I know. Streamers were also another must-have. For some reason we also obtained giant crayons but at the time they were deemed a total absolute possible necessity.

We had a lot of fun decorating the office. Every balloon that flew across the room or blew up only added to the ridiculousness of the situation. What exactly were we celebrating? The guy was gone a week and we are preparing for his return with an extravagant welcome sponsored entirely by a dollar store in midtown? It was MADNESS!, but it certainly wasn’t Sparta. But we devoted ourselves TO that madness, which is what counts in life; devoting yourself in madness TO madness. *Nature Boy Sweet Cakes* as well as *Captain Volcano* and I almost passed out at some points due to the sheer amount of carbon dioxide leaving our lungs in our successful attempts to make office 2C a happier place.

Moral of this journey: If you set out to bring happiness into someone’s life, it is always worth the risk of severely pissing that someone off if you have a lot of fun while doing it.

Aftermath:

I’ve always said that the best thing I could do for the company was leave (Can you believe that *Captain Volcano* argued with me about that? He couldn’t even give me that one little bit of glory). Aside from my constant and consistent tardiness, and my tendency to overbill hours (my way of fighting Satan, baby!), there was still yet something else that my void accomplished for the company. It allowed for Satan to hire another intern; a younger, more functional intern. One preferably (and realistically) much more attractive than myself, and of the female persuasion. Yes, she is hot, and yes, it hurts that whenever I e-mail my former co-workers, they inevitably respond to me six weeks later when they clean out their junk mail with a “Kwok who?” It is for the best though; she can offer the company things that I could not possibly provide without making several trips to South Korea. Also, for some odd reason it gives me great pleasure to say that the best thing I ever did for the company was leaving. Anyhoo, I hear she is doing well and everyone loves her; how’s that for a happy ending?

Moral to this ending: For the greater good.

Now, for what everyone really came here to see: uncensored, undoctored, unBELIZEABLE… BLOOPERS! (what Satan paid us to do at some points in our careers) (*Professor Cobra*, *Captain Volcano*, *Nature Boy Sweet Cakes*, and I used a program we had on our computers to collectively "collaborate" on projects using MS Paint)