When I was growing up, my soul and I had a deal--I didn't kill him by drinking rat poison, and he didn't bother me with any of that conscience crap. When a friend and I threw Wendy's chicken nuggets, honey mustard, barbecue sauce and a hand-grenade at extremist pro-lifers protesting outside a hospital, my soul didn't stab me with any pangs of guilt or remorse. And more recently, he allowed me a pure and untainted feeling of villainous glee when I watched two stupid freshmen girls drink a full gin bottle of urine which my friends had used as a toilet an hour before.
After such a distant relationship with him all my life, it was with no sense of loss that I sold my soul to my best friend Benny for 10,000 Italian Lira on a beautiful summer night in a restaurant in Rome. My soul and I hadn't spoken in years, and the Italian equivalent of $5 was worth much more to me in pizza than in soul.
A contract was drawn up on a napkin, signed by both Benny and me to make the transaction legal according to international law, and two friends witnessed the transaction. When the ceremony was over, Benny proudly declared that I would officially be his bitch in the afterlife. Whatever.
Let me tell you something about selling your soul: whatever you get for it is pure profit. I would have sold my soul for a piece of Bazooka gum, so I didn't think twice about selling it for 10,000 Lira. And I was selling my soul to Benny. It wasn't like I was selling my soul to the Devil. If that was so, I would have assumed hardcore soul-mistreatment and demanded more than just 10,000 Lira and included a small island country (Castro probably doesn't have much time left), a fleet of winged monkeys capable of doing my bidding and a clone of Hemo that lives in my closet and cooks for free.
But knowing that Benny wouldn't spit on my soul or step all over it, and that even if I do become his bitch in the afterlife I probably wouldn't be too sore from his nightly violations, I didn't think I was sacrificing much by making $5.
But I felt different after the soul-transaction. Before selling my soul, while being heartily and remorselessly mischievous, I could still laugh and smile with the innocence of a cherub. As my tour of Europe with friends continued, however, it was clear that I was beginning to change. My heart grew cold and black. I thirsted for evil. The fire that burned within my cool exterior was fueled by coals of death. I walked among ordinary men. But I was no longer man. I was Hell-imp.
After Rome, our next city was Amsterdam. This was where the carnival of glorious evil began. Our first stop was the city's red light district. As I stalked through winding alleys glowing crimson to reveal a well-stocked prostitute supermarket, my hunger for wondrous perversion rose within me. (It's not what you think. Even while being a soldier of Hell, I was not attracted to the hellishly ugly prostitutes.) After surveying hundreds of windows containing various specimens of ugly Big Mamas and ugly Girls Next Door, it became clear that only one thing could satisfy my appetite for wickedness: a live sex show.
I had never witnessed anything more magnificently hilarious. As my friends and I eagerly awaited the coming spectacle, a curtain rose to reveal a naked blonde struggling to free herself from ropes binding her to a silver strip-club pole. A familiar tune began to play in the background: the theme from the '70s Batman series. The blonde's savior was a black guy with a huge wang wearing nothing but a Batman mask and a cape!
Now, as we all know, Batman possesses superb mastery over incredibly advanced tools. Apparently the Dutch porn star knew this also, for after freeing the blonde, he showed superb mastery over both his tool and the blonde's back section.
It was then that I realized that watching Batman triumph over the criminal state of flaccidity is a scene so awesome that even with a soul, I would still have fallen victim to the power of its glorious depravity.
Sitting in that porn theater I reached the Nirvana of indecency and self-satisfaction. I decided then that I would live my life to its fullest potential of self-gratification: eat like a fat man named Homer Simpson, sleep like a fat man named Homer Simpson and screw like a fat man named Ron Jeremy. My life hasn't been the same since.
