Archive for the ‘Luc Reid’ Category
Ike Turnbull Answers “Datin’ Satan”
Wednesday, May 5th, 2010
Dear Ike,
About two years ago, some girlfriends and I started worshipping the devil, just as something to do on weekends. We’d make mojitos, watch Sex and the City, and then around midnight we’d sacrifice a kid goat and dance in its blood, things like that. It was just innocent fun at first.
But then sometimes if I had a rough day at work, sometimes I’d come home and eviscerate a puppy in a pentagram or try cursing the neighbor’s cat with hairballs, just because it gave me that little pick-me-up I needed … and then one day he started leaving me notes! I’d wake up in the morning and my wall would be dripping with blood saying “Keep up the good work, sweet cheeks,” or at work I’d be alone with someone in the break room and they’d start foaming at the mouth and writhe on the floor and shout out in an roaring, inhuman voice “You look really hot in that blouse!” It just kept getting more serious. I even changed my name to Diabolica, which he said sounded really sexy.
OK, long story short, we started dating a few weeks ago, but he hasn’t messaged me now for about ten days, and I think he may be dating other Satanists! I’m trying to just be trusting and supportive, but then I think how he’s evil incarnate, and I’m just afraid he doesn’t care about me as much as I care about him. What should I do?
Datin’ Satan
Dear Datin’ Satan,
1. Don’t worship Satan. It’s really that simple.
2. It may have been a bad move to change your name to Diabolica and then publicly announce that you’ve been hexing your neighbors.
Good luck, and stay away from piles of wood.
Ike Turnbull
The Otter Bakery
Wednesday, April 28th, 2010
“Our specialty today is wasabi otter in puff pastry,” said the smiling twenty-something guy behind the counter. “Would you like to try a sample?”
“Don’t you have bread?” said the orange-haired customer, “Or bagels?”
“Sorry: we only serve otter. Otter pie, otter calzone … things like that.”
“With otter meat?” The customer looked disturbed, then thoughtful. “Is it any good? Tell the truth, now.”
“Well … it’s not bad,” said the twenty-something. “But the wasabi otter is really worth a taste.”
“I can’t believe you people. I just want a bagel. Why would you make a whole bakery that just sells otter?”
“We hate otters,” said a man who stepped out of the shadows behind the counter. The twenty-something winced. The man wore a Boston Red Sox cap pulled down inside a dark blue hoodie, and his face was completely obscured. His arms hung limply at his sides, ending in leather gloves.
“Imagine for a minute that otters had killed everyone you loved: your parents, your friends, your brothers and sisters, your lover … that’s how much we hate otters. So we raise them on an otter farm and slaughter them to be served as tasty treats for people with a sick enough sense of humor to appreciate it.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself!” the customer said. “I wouldn’t buy a bagel from you in a hundred years.” She walked stiffly out, shutting the bell-rigged door with a violent jingling sound.
“You’ve got to stop that,” the twenty-something said. “It’s not like we’re getting a ton of much business in the first place.”
“People respond if you get them worked up,” said the baseball-capped man.
“Boss, come on–” said the twenty-something, but the baseball-capped man turned away and disappeared through a door marked “private,” closing the door behind him.
In the back room, he took off his cap and pulled back his hood, revealing himself to be an oyster on stilts. He slipped off his perch on the stilts and into an aquarium, where his one surviving friend was sitting at the bottom among their remaining hoard of pearls.
“This isn’t going to bring your family back, Eddie,” said the friend.
Eddie didn’t respond. He knew vengeance wouldn’t relieve the pain, but sometimes you just had to be satisfied with your available options.
Happy as a clam, my ass, Eddie thought.