Happy Satan Day!
My grandfather was born in Brooklyn in 1910, to recent Italian immigrants. A couple of days later, a family friend casually asked, "what are you going to call the little devil?" A bad seed was unwittingly planted; Great Grandpa Giovanni, funny funny guy that he was, named his son Dante Lucifero. No shit. (The fact that my grandfather was pretty much Satan incarnate for most of his life is a story for another day. Right now we're happy, yay.)
It's clear, then, that I simply can't help it. The badness...it's in my genes. And today...it was made for people like me.
So how does one properly celebrate such a rare and momentous occasion as this?
For the NY kids, I recommend getting totally hammered at Duff's and calling in sick tomorrow. Then, when you get fired, you can sell your soul to the devil to become rich and famous. Everybody wins!
Denver monkeys should go see the Giraffes tonight, along with Stephanie Bastard, Raging Intestine, elusive Denver Post music critic Ricardo Baca (poo on you, Ricky!) and a mildly retarded host of others. I actually wish I was there. Kinda.
You could, of course, go see the Omen remake, or crank out some Slayer.
And for the rest of you lazy bastards, I'll make it easy to revere the evil...Maiden loves you.