Satan, goodness gracious, has called on all crass middle-aged white men of the world to file a class action against the Divine Creator.
"We know the difference between good and evil," Satan said, sucking all the goodness out of some shit. "We wrote the book on it."
Satan is threatening to throw the book at the Creator and take him to the cleaners with a suit so fanciful it makes Michael Jackson blush.
"I'm prepared to take everything but the shirt off his back," Satan said, hand on his his cold dead one. "Even if I have to lift his shirt."
Satan, liable to lift the shirt off the back of a string of suits, has every intention of convincing this world that he never even existed.
"I have an inflated opinion of my own standing," he explained, blowing up his wife with an explosive device. "The thing is, I'm always lying."
Satan, hoping like hell to face the Creator in a court of law, has every intention of tricking people into thinking there is no right and wrong.
"They're false dichotomies," Satan said, sharing his personality with the cult of his, "but that doesn't mean I won't be pretending I am."
Satan, pretending he doesn't exist, has pulled himself off for the last time, after slipping in the bath and pissing himself off, for good.
"The Creator pissed me off," Satan said, talking shit, "but only because I said I'd sue the shit out of him," he testified, eating his words.
A bizarre cult that had infiltrated a public forum, after getting caught perpetuating a hoax, has chucked it in after their leader, a castrated bully, turned his toes up.
"I've had it with this world," one cult member said, playing "Follow the Leader", "and I won't be coming back," she barked, following the leader. "It's against my religion."
The bizarre cult, loosely drawing on the idea that life follows death, had managed to keep their childish games hidden from those who would seek them out in this world.
"We were doing quite well there for a while," their castrated leader barked, sniffing out some arsehole, "and then we were found hiding behind a stack of the good books."
The bizarre cult, unable to confirm if there's life after death, are able to deny that there isn't because of what they found while hiding behind a stack of the good books.
"If you're going to hide behind a stack of books," one follower explained, "then you'd better make damn sure that they're the good ones," she went on. "Do you follow?"
The bizarre cult, making critical appraisals of works of fiction, have booked their flights aboard the suicidal train of thought after being unable to follow a few simple rules.
"If the game is dismantling a public forum," a second-hand dealer, explained, "then the idea is not to get caught working in the place where people go to play."
The flippin' head of Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe, having taken himself off mercilessly, has been "chopped off" and done a really bad impression of a person of interest.
"I am not a person of interest," Mugabe observed, waiving somebody else's rights to free speech. "I'm just a bad-tempered Robert with a history of blowing up."
Mugabe, a robot on the blink, unable to face himself, had every mirror in his domain taken down after having a few of his funny features pointed out with a shtick.
"It really hurts me to say this," Robert Mugabe said, nursing a sore throat, "but could someone get me a cough lozenge?" he beseeched. "My voice is going."
Mugabe, a blinking robot, lost his voice in an act of screaming lunacy that many believe is evidence he was an agent of the Socialist Alliance.
"This is a great day for terrorists secretly working in community media operations!" a Socialist boasted, packing his bags. "I think I'm going to explode!"
The Socialist Alliance, no stranger to the workings of Robert Mugabe's nose for smelling out a terrorist plot, have denied that Mugabe was pushed.
"Claims he was pushed are wrong," the Socialists fumed. "We tied his shoe-laces together, sure," they said, pushing it. "He was the one who walked."
The Socialist Alliance, having "seen off" Robot Mugabe, gave the departed a card which "everyone signed", and believe that, if Nietzsche's right, it's "super, man!"
The first Scientologist to be ordained as Pope of the Catholic church, Tom Cruise, has pontificated that, under his pontification, Catholicism will "really take off".
"We are going to bring the Vatican to the people," he said, going over a set of plans, "and by that I mean we will be converting it into a bloody great spaceship."
Cruise, it is believed by believers, has at his disposal the technology to convert the Mecca of the Catholic world into a vehicle for fading star John Travolta.
"It's about time the little people out there," Cruise said, making a sweeping gesture, "had a chance to see John Travolta in something that didn't go nowhere."
Travolta, a devout Catholic and staying alive thanks to a routine devised by his dark master, Richard Simmons, has made a big song and dance about his big trip.
"I fell into this roll," he said, tripping over the tongue of a devoted fanatic, "but it was lucky that I can handle my craft," he said, touching down on the Whitehouse.
Obama, perhaps Saturn, if not Satan himself, has laughed off jokes that God, in heavens above, is merely a descendent of Jupiter, the biggest "up there".
"It's my belief that those ideas are being propagated," he said, fertilising a virgin bed, "by home-grown terrorists who would have you believe their shit don't stink."
God and country, too fictional by far, have tricked enough people out there to throw their lives away for the promise of land or the promised land, according to some big prophets.
"If Islam isn't a superior religion to Christianity in every way," Mohammed said, sitting all over Jesus, "then there's no such thing as dying to go to heaven," he predicted, going to war.
Mohammed, a man on a mission, has spoken for the first time about the events he predicted would take place in the trenches of The Great War, that left an inedible impression on him.
"You had all these good Christian soldiers," he explained to a plastic Jesus, "and they just killed themselves for no reason on earth," he said, stomach turning. "Heaven's above."
Jesus, no stranger to killing himself, has spent a lifetime in "Hell" waiting for the day he could "return" to project himself upon others, thus enabling him to judge with extreme prejudice.
"I have returned," Jesus explained, melting hearts, "and I promise I won't kill myself," laughing John the Baptist's head off, he said, "A Suicidal Hero's Information Booklet" in hand.
God, a very promising writer of fictional texts, had a hand in the updated edition that just "killed them in The First World War", and predicted very big things for those dying to go.
"I can't hold it in anymore," God said, pissing himself. "I've about had it with the whole ungodly race," he explained about humans, "because they don't want my fiction in their lives."
God-fearing Norm, one of God's precious creatures, fresh from "telling it how it is" to the uninformed and admiring, has lashed out at no-one in particular in a frightening attack.
"I, myself, don't believe in myself," Norm said, turning up the heat on the important and wonderful, "but Jesus," he prayed, "it's gotten awfully stuffy in here all of a sudden."
Norm, the unheralded Master of the Universe, has consistently been at pains to avoid coming off as being so full of himself it's not funny, to the extent that it's starting to hurt.
"It hurts right here," Norm, a touchy typist, said holding his hand over his mouth, "but," he said, clutching your arse, "I'm afraid this climate is caused by people being stuffy."
God, fearing Norm like the plague, has been in hiding for fear of what The Master of the Universe would do to him if he ever got his hands, infinitely more creative than God's, on him.
"My hands," God said, "pale in comparison to his," he said, in a moment of rare and refreshing humility. "The fact that I don't even exist makes life very difficult for me."
Norm, as precious as can be in God's non-existent eyes, has lashed out at passing traffic after tripping over his own feats, and nearly snapping his neck talking behind Jesus's back.
"I had to swiflty usher myself away," he said, clutching his arse. "You won't hear me say, I didn't deserve it," he said, holding his hands over your ears. "Jesus will have my arse, if I do."
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