We all know that DFO is a gathering place for degenerates, smart asses, maniacs, and all manner of social rejects. And we’re proud of it.

Apparently, the Devil also reads DFO and when he saw my blog post about my conversation with God, well someone got his horns and tail all in a twist down there in Hell.

The other day, two demon dogs, dripping blood, saliva, and stinking of brimstone and a post-buffet Andy Reid appeared on my doorstep.

There was a note impaled through their heads with an obsidian dagger that read, “Fozz, I’m coming to talk with your dumbass. Please dispose of all crucifixes, rosary beads, bibles, and those dried out fronds of palm that keep falling behind the bureau in your living room.”

Wow, someone is a goddamn prima devil.

Our Lord Satan appeared, not in a flash of fire, but in Carroll Shelby’s personal 427 Cobra completely modified to spew blood and entrails out of its tailpipes and a Motorhead sticker on the front. Fucking poseur.

He was hauling two 50-gallon drums of liquor that had been distilled from the souls of several angels he and his minions had kidnapped from heaven. It had a distinct taste with notes of peach, charcoal, and ichor.

Also, he looked exactly like Don Knotts in his Threes Company era.

He poured the brew into the hollowed skulls of Joe McCarthy and Hitler, said a quick prayer, admired my collection of vintage Matchbox cars, and we got down to business.

The Devil: “So Fozz, I’ve been rolling in a brew that’s distilled from your anger and hatred over the course of your life. It’s delicious and thick. Like ranch dressing mixed with honey and the skin of unhatched dinosaurs. Lately, that output has been, shall I say, ‘Positively devilish’?

Fozz: “Yes, you dickhead. I’ve been pumping more anger than Peter North and John Holmes did throughout their careers. My only solace is booze. And yeah, and my family.”

The Devil: “Yesssss. Your family. They are quite a collection of idiots, worriers, and fountains of guilt. Do you like how I make your mother call you every day with a list of worries? And how your sisters constantly combat for her attention? Oh, and how about how I hide you fathers’ hearing aids so he bellows at you and you get so mad you want to bite through a marble?”

Fozz: “I have to admit, those are solid strategies. After most of these conversations, I kick the dog.”

The Devil: “I can send you a cat to kick. I hate those creatures.”

Fozz drains his skull of liquor, asks for another. This time it comes with an umbrella

The Devil: “So I heard you talked to God and got all misty eyed and found the good in things. They never last. It’s better when you’re mired in the mud and offal of your everyday life.”

Fozz: “Yeah. He was nice and all, but…”

The Devil: “One second.” He answers a cell phone shaped in the head of Anna Nicole Smith. “Yes. Yes, I’m here. I told you where I was going. I know, pick up a dozen fresh kidneys. And a few souls. I’ll make sure they’re fresh. Good bye.”

Fozz: “The wife?”

The Devil: “Yes. I mean, I’m the lord of the underworld and I have to get human kidneys? Really?”

Fozz: “They’re all the same.”

The Devil: “Let’s get back to the other people I’ve sent to torture you. HR reps, recruiters, people who interview you and ask questions that are dumber than JJ Watt. Stephen A. Smith. Browns fans. Good work, huh?”

Fozz: “Gotta hand it to you, you did a great job. When I talk to them, I want to stick their heads into a paper shredder. They give you hope and then snatch it away. Awful people.”

The Devil: “I place them high in my army once they die. Not one has made it into heaven.”

Fozz: “Maybe I can send a few of them to you tonight.”

The Devil: “I’ve got it covered. I admire your enthusiasm.”

Fozz: “So anyway, I’m curious as to why you targeted me. I’m an old, overweight white guy in suburbia. I’m up shit’s creek and nothing is working.”

The Devil: “I have a beautiful place on Shit’s Creek. The sunsets are beautiful, and the smell. It’s like ambrosia. Anyway, I have a deal. You sell me your soul and I get you the job of a lifetime. Whatever you want.”

Fozz: “So you could say that you’re in a bind, because you were behind?”

The Devil: “Yes, smart ass. That reminds me to switch the music over to a continuous playlist of New Country music. Now that’s torture.”

Fozz: “Hmm. I’m going to say ‘no sale’ for now. I mean, maybe I have a chance to get into heaven, well my version at least.”

The Devil: “Ha! Good luck. Keep hanging out on DFO and you and the rest of that crew will be forced to listen to Peter King discuss Brett Favre and Alagash beer for eternity!”

Fozz: “They’re good people. We’ll unite in the afterworld, get some kickass weapons and take over Hell. You dick.”

The Devil turns into a cloud of gas that smells vaguely of mushrooms and a dog’s ass. He leaves behind the drinking skulls as a parting gift.