Toni from New Jersey asks:

Q:

Where can I go to get my cat exorcised?

My cat is really freaky sometimes. For instance, everywhere I went in my apartment this morning, she was right there in front of me but I never saw her get up and move from one place to the other. I went to turn off the TV and she was on the window perch, then went to the kitchen and she was on top of the fridge, then to my room, there she was.. bathroom, right there on the counter. Plus her eyes are perfect circles and she can just stare at you for an hour with out flinching. Also, I’m pretty sure she can turn her head 360 degrees no problem.

A: Toni, I think you better be sitting down before you read much further, because I’ve got some news for you.

All cats are the slaves of Satan.

I have to say I’m a bit surprised that you’ve failed to pick up on this yet. I mean, dealing with your Satanic feline is soooo 2005. Welcome to the real world, Toni. You are the proud owner of furry and fanged beast, born in unholiness and owing all allegiance to an omnipotent worm, located in the metaphysical underworld, who is bent on eating your soul. Makes you want to just hug the fuzzy little fuckers silly, huh?

I vividly recall the first day I learned my cats were in fact dark servants of Lucifer. I awoke in the middle of the night one evening bothered by strange dreams. I arose and headed for the kitchen to get a glass of water. As I neared the living room, I noticed a low and guttural chanting noise that sounded strangely similar to Latin, but I dismissed it as someone’s car stereo coming from the street.

You can probably imagine my surprise when upon entering the living room, I found it lit by what seemed like hundreds of tiny candles. Standing in a chalk circle and surrounded by strange and esoteric symbols written on the floor, were my two cats, robed and hooded in black silk.

On what looked like a tiny version off a church altar that was positioned between them, there was a dead mouse, it’s blood seemingly drained and it’s entrails removed and arranged about the area in some dark and twisted pattern whose meaning was beyond my ability to comprehend.

Since that evening, my life has completely changed. I now know that I am not the proud owner of two cats, but rather the host to a demonic duo of parasitic doom-worshippers, who spend their days sleeping and their nights drinking mouse blood, chanting to Satan and perching on my chest, sucking out bits of my soul as I lie asleep in bed.

I live in sheer terror, naturally.

As to what advice I could give you, all I can say is—Run. Run fast. Run hard. Don’t look behind you and don’t stop running till your legs give out beneath you and when that happens, drag yourself further by your hands. Your immortal soul is in grave danger! No priest can help you. No exorcism can combat such insidious and maddening evil. There is no hope. All you can do is try to escape. It’s too late for me. Save yourself.

[Ask daveb anything! Either use this form or send an email to webmaster [at] davebgimp [dot] com with “Ask daveb” as the subject line. Remember, daveb knows all!]

This morning, having defused my alarm clock without really having awoke, I was forced to eject my ass out the door at a normally undesired rate of speed. I grabbed what I could, made sure I was clothed and nothing that might get me arrested or slapped was hanging out of my pants and charged the subway station to make my daily commute from Brooklyn to Manhattan.

I have a personal rule of always riding in the very far front or back cars of the trains in New York City. My theory is two-fold. First, the middle of a train is always the most crowded, much like how when entering a subway car, people take two steps in and stop completely, therefore crowding the entrance while leaving the rest of the train quite spacious. This is due in large part by the fact that people in general are fucking brainless sheep and deserve to die. We of the smarter elite should eat them, but that’s another post. My second reason, by virtue of the first, is that if ever there was a bomb or some crazy-ass motherfucker (aside from my innocent self, of course) decided he wanted to kill a bunch of people, all that shit’s going to go down in the middle of the train because that’s where you can cause the most damage. Call me paranoid, but its a habit I picked up in 2001 for what, at the time, I saw as a very good reason and to this day, I don’t really see a need to change.

So, when the train pulled into the station, I hopped into the very last car. Usually, the train is moderately crowded at it’s ends during the morning rush hour, so I was surprised to find an empty seat available. I looked around and saw at least four people standing nearby. If you get on a train during rush hour in NYC and there’s an empty spot with people standing nearby, understand that something is up.

I checked the empty seat. No spilled coffee or sketchy foreign smears of unknown organic nastiness. No half-eaten chicken wings. Nothing wrong there.

I checked the other occupants of the bench. Two middle-aged Asian ladies speaking mandarin and elderly white man in a ratty tweed coat, knit hat and serious case of ear-hair who appeared to be snoozing. I can handle that. I sat down next to the man and after settling my bag and getting out a book, I started reading. About two minutes later, I was startled by a sound to my right.

“Nuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuungh!”

It was the old man next to me. I looked over, noticing that his eyes were still closed and aside from the outburst, he still seemed to be sleeping. Whatever, I thought. Old people make fucked up noises all the time—it’s part of being old. I fully intend to make a shitload of disturbing exclamations in my sunset years, so who am I to take offense at his? I went back to my book with part of my brain painting rosy pictures of a withered and ancient visage of myself screeching profanity at children and whipping my catheter tube around like a dangerous weapon.

(more…)

Benedict XVI gets my vote as the single most evil looking Pope ever. It doesn’t matter what you do to dress this guy up nice, he’s still fucking satanic looking. Slap a Santa hat on the little bugger and he still looks like he’s shooting evil death rays out of his eyes, frying little non-believers where they stand. This is the kind of guy who makes babies cry. He’d probably make me cry too, if I bumped into him in a dark alley. He looks like the kind of guy that skull-fucks the corpses of small animals.

Browsing the aisles of his local ghetto supermarket, daveb noticed an unfamiliar product in the refrigerator aisle. Arnold’s Beef Scrapple, a blocklike slab of reputedly meat ingredients that looked like something along the lines of dirty tofu. What the flying fuck is Scrapple? It looks like ass and is dangerously reminiscent of the foods old people and scary peasants eat, What could it be? Reluctantly, daveb replaced the mystery meat product and continued on with his browsing.

As the day wore on into the evening, daveb’s thoughts could not help returning, over and over to that strange package of processed meat. Who would name food “scrapple”. Is it scraps of apples and crap? Is it fed to children as punishment? Something along the lines of “You best do your chores sonny, or it’s a spoonful of scrapple for you, m’boy!”? If you smear scrapple on your nipples whilst reciting the Lord’s prayer backwards, are you cured of shingles? Does the pope eat scrapple and if so, is that why he’s so fucked up lately? WTF?

The questions stayed with daveb till finally, he had no choice but to embark on a full fledged googling. Interestingly enough, there are many websites that appropriate the name scrapple, but are not actually concerning the scary-ass shit he saw in the supermarket. Checking Wikipedia actually turned up and entry.

Scrapple is one of those farm foods invented to use those parts of slaughtered food animals which were not suitable to be served on their own, in the same manner as sausages, or Jewish kishkes. Scrapple typically contains the meaty parts of hog heads, hearts, some liver, and other scraps. The proportion and spicing is very much a matter of the region, family, and the cook’s taste.

Commercial scrapple will often contain these traditional ingredients, with a distinctive flavor to each brand, though homemade recipes often specify more genteel ingredients, and consequently a blander taste.

Of course you realize that now daveb has no choice but to consume scrapple till it comes out his ears and he feels like crapple. More to come…