Lucifer's True History of Everything
Mar 22, 08 06:11 PM
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Easter Sunday, 2008.
Speak of the Devil! As my six billion fans may have noticed (or at least those who are Internet-savvy), I have been off-line for a while. Cheer up, my friends, I have returned!
(And a note to my Christian detractors: don't get excited, this is not the Second Coming. I never actually left!)
That I should return today, on Easter Sunday, is just a coincidence. Trust me: Easter is not an event that I ordinarily celebrate. For one thing, I've never been overly fond of hard-boiled eggs. There is no way you can dye or decorate an Easter egg that will make me want to eat it. Chocolate? Fine! If the Church is serious about reaching people like me with the Gospel message, then let's give up on pink and purple and green chicken eggs, and let's start pushing a mint-chocolate crucifix. A milk-chocolate Jesus, filled with caramel, would also be good. Or a box of white-chocolate Virgin Marys, each one with a … but never mind the filling, I don't even want to go there.
You may wonder why I've been keeping such a low profile for the past nine months. Here's why: Someone was trying to kill me … and I think you can guess Who.
My last post, on June 6, was devoted to Jesus' mother, the Blessed Virgin. I meant no harm by it. As always, I tried to be scrupulously fair and truthful. But one of my witticisms evidently caused some displeasure with the three fellows Upstairs, who overreacted, as usual.
I posted the offending blog from the Baipulya Cyber Café in Kathmandu, where I had been hanging out with friends after a visit to China. Suddenly out of the blue came a dozen blasts of lightning, one of which struck the children of Chaturman Waiba, a poor villager of the Makwanpur District. Both of his sons -- Pratrap Waiba, 14, and Bibek Waiba, 9 -- were killed.
The lightning missed me by nearly fifteen miles, but I knew, as soon as I heard of it, that I was the Lord's intended victim. Two weeks earlier, while I was still in China, in the village of Xingye, God fired dozens of lightning bolts at me in a single short squall, missing me but killing seven children and injuring 44 . After this second strike in Nepal, I knew He meant business.
So that no one else got hurt, I parted company with my friends and left Kathmandu, solo. But I got no further than Byas when God tried again. This time, His shafts killed nine people in the humble home of a poor family man named Tika Ram Mishra.
I fled southward toward Dacca, with lightning bolts following me like machine-gun fire; none of which, however, hit their intended mark. It was like one of those old Westerns, where the corrupt Sheriff meets the lonely, courageous, and unarmed protagonist on Main Street; and empties both pistols at the hero's cowboy boots, saying, "Dance, dance!" The difference is this: as I did my little jig to amuse the Sheriff of Heaven, his bullets of lightning kept hitting bystanders.
Bam! bam! bam! It was like a bombing run of American B-52s, dropping Agent Orange on the peasants of North Vietnam in hopes of hitting Ho Chi Minh. I tried to avoid populated areas, but Bangladesh is a crowded country of some 130 million people, and the Lord has never cared about any of them except for the visiting missionaries.
(BTW: Never, in 2100 years, has a Christian missionary been struck by lightning; which is a compelling argument for the truth of Christianity; it is also a very good reason to go into the ministry if you suffer from Astrapophobia, Brontophobia, Keraunophobia, or Theophobia.)
As I headed south, God kept trying to kill me, and kept missing. As I passed through the village of Joukura on June 10, He zapped Nizamuddin, 24, and Ashraf Ali, 32, neither of whom was especially wicked, plus nine others, mere statistics whose names I did not catch. Just outside Chittagong, one misguided blast caused a rain-soaked hill to collapse upon a congested shantytown. The mudslide buried hundreds of straw and bamboo shacks, each one of them home to a poor family earning less than $500 a year, but not any more, because God killed them. Had I passed through that miserable slum just ten minutes sooner, I'd have been buried, too.
Truly, I have not seen such a divine Blitzkrieg since the Lord burned Sodom and Gomorrha four thousand years ago, blaming His behaviour on the defenseless human beings who lived there.
Still the lightning bolts kept falling -- to my left, to my right, before, behind. My plan was to reach Cox's Bazaar, and there to catch a boat to Manilla. By the time I reached the port, the Lord had struck down another twenty-three people, each of them with a shaft of lightning aimed at yours truly. The victims included three shrimp harvesters in Moheshkhai; four adult fishermen and two children in Chokoria upazila; five men, three women, and five children in Sadar upazila (one of whom was just four years old); and an entire family in Brahmanbaria. Still the lightning bolts kept falling from the sky, and kept missing me. I begged the Lord to stop it, but He never hears my prayers. Besides, He was having too much fun. (Dance, dance!)
My boat reached the Philippine islands on June 12, without any human fatalities on board from strokes of lightning. But we left in our wake a trail of smoking dead dolphin who had tried to be sociable, and died for it.
Coming to the Calauag Bay off Quezon province, the sun was shining. This seemed, at last, a safe haven--but I was wrong. Within minutes after we cast anchor, a bolt from the blue struck a motorboat carrying three sisters: Ediza Manjares, 7; Ruby, 14; and Monalisa, 15. The youngest died instantly. The older sisters suffered severe burns and died upon arrival at the hospital.
From Manilla I caught a flight to London, with a stopover in Karachi. Unwilling to quit, the Lord tried to knock my plane right out of the sky: a powerful blast of lightning narrowly missed my jet but hit a home in the village of Swat, killing 16, most of them children.
Enough was enough. Changing my travel plans, I flew to Alberta, Canada, one of the most unpopulated areas of the Western World, where I thought I could sit out the Lord's wrath. I went camping on Pigeon Lake. Big mistake. I should have chosen a less popular recreational area: it was Father's Day weekend, and there were lots of campers. Even so, I did not think our Father who art in heaven would be up to any mischief on Father's Day weekend. That, too, was a mistake. About 11 a.m. on Saturday, the Lord tried to nail me but instead He zapped seven campers, including a pregnant woman and her 26-year-old husband. The husband and baby were both killed. The woman survived with burns. I was just two campsites away when it happened, and personally helped to care for the victims until the medics arrived, but their burns were horrible and it made me feel sick to my stomach to know that I was the Lord's intended victim.
By my count, since my June 6 blog, Jesus and his angry Father have killed 106 people by lightning, including 23 children under the age of 10.
This will not be an easy thing for me to do. I do it only in order to save the lives of the innocent. I have an apology to make.
Jesus: It's me, Lucifer. I am sorry. I am sorry for what I wrote about your mother.
Now, please stop.
--L.
Posted by Lucifer at 06:11 PM
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