Screw the eff word--I can't even write the ess word. It's certainly not because of my mom, who'd regularly pull out the powerful, "Tell the truth and shame the devil!" when I was growing up. That actually worked on me, my seven-year-old self imagining the devil--think hunchback goatlike creature with skin like a well-done hot dog, complete with pitchfork--melting like the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz with every statement of third-grade veritas I made. "It was me! I ate all the mini peanut butter cups!"
At least that brand of devil is understandable and beatable. Just be honest and he loses all power, a big windbag who tells lies. (Incidentally, not unlike many of the people who come before Judge Judy on Channel 55 every night at 10 PM.)
It's the kind of d/evil that I can't understand that makes me shiver--or, if I'm feeling particularly Pollyanna, puts me in a serious state of denial. Or I'll read stuff like Helter Skelter and The Executioner's Song, antsy and agitated the whole time, trying to find the answer to that $25K question--why would someone do that? They all leave me in a nightmare, facing a brick wall behind which there is…no door number 3. No answer.
Groan, another post gone south. Like way south. And I really just wanted to show you how un-evil my little Bing is, even when dressed in this Halloween costume I bought him 2 years ago on a business trip to Evanston, IL. I think they also sold candy that was supposed to look like snot, but no way would I buy that.
P.S. Incredible book, and I'm still trying to stop squirming so I can finish it: M. Scott Peck's People of the Lie: The Hope for Healing Human Evil
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