The Satanic Rites Of Darlene Zschech

And now, if you take the Necronomicon back to the library, I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.

- Ed Begley as Dr. Henry Armitage, The Dunwich Horror

Every Walpurgis, it’s the same old shit with you, Darlene. You wake up to find yourself strapped to a stone altar, tits up and naked as a jaybird, staring at the sigil of Baphomet on the ceiling while a young Dean Stockwell look-alike hovers over you with his admittedly impressive lip broom, the unblinking eye of his crooked dick staring at you greedily as he unveils a chestful of shitty tattoos and mumbles something about his granddad and “fertility rites.” Next thing you know, he’s pawing you all over, “like, totally feeling you up and being gross.” You know violation is imminent, but you’re helpless to prevent it. And then you’re totally fucking pregnant with the Child Of Satan again.

What is it with you, Darlene? There’re only so many times I can drive you over to the clinic and wave my pepper spray at those batshit protesters. I know we used to joke about “75 and a ride,” like it’s Fast Times At Ridgemont High or some shit, but last time the doctor gave you a fucking punch-card. You’re probably psyched that your eleventh abortion is gonna be on the house or whatever, but this is getting ridiculous.

I don’t even feel bad for you anymore, because that’s what you get for drinking the mystery tea, Darlene. Fuck the Alamo—remember Rosemary’s Baby? I only made you watch it like ten times, even rewinding the parts where Ruth Gordon keeps pushing that weird health shake on poor Mia Farrow. What about Jackie Treehorn’s White Russian in The Big Lebowski? You love that movie, Darlene—especially the part where “he fixes the cable”—but you never seem to understand why The Dude ends up in the back of a cab listening to the fucking Eagles. What about that creepy urban legend about waking up in a bathtub full of ice with no kidneys? They’re called FUCKING ROOFIES, Darlene.

I happen to know that mom told you not to take mystery tea from strangers, and yet you persist in being a total blonde. This is pretty obvious shit I’m talking about here, Darlene. Basic safety training. So the next time Lucifer impregnates you, you’re on your own.

I guess I should have seen this coming, though. I mean, what kind of 15-year old girl thinks Anton LaVey is “hot”? But you’re 42 now, Darlene. Your bald plagiaristic fantasy-rapist has been dead for ten years now, and yet you still sleep with any sad goth loser who can quote a few verses from The Satanic Bible. And those are the relatively normal ones, Darlene. Some of these pompous, slow-talking weirdos you bring home from the bar give me the creeps.

As your sister and roommate, I obviously feel obligated to say all this stuff—even if it’s for the hundredth time—but I think we’re approaching critical mass here. Your selective deafness has resulted in what appears to be a severe and potentially permanent personality disorder. I feel like I need to stage some sort of intervention—or maybe “exorcism” is the proper term. But even that doesn’t seem drastic enough, Darlene. Maybe I should just sign you up for one of those extreme behavior modification programs. Like, I don’t know—the marines. Sometimes I catch myself wishing that you would just HAVE THE FUCKING KID one of these times. Maybe the unholy vengeance that will be wrought upon the unsuspecting citizens of our beloved Brisbane will make you feel so guilty and shitty that you’ll learn to give that sloppy clam-box of yours a rest. Even if you give the little monster up for adoption, you’d have to live with the fact that someone somewhere is raising a smug little Damien Beelzebub who will nonchalantly murder his rich parents, their maid, and the obsessive local priest before eventually growing up to become a flesh-eating, fire-shitting, cloven-hoofed Bringer Of Death.

Seriously, Darlene—is that what you really want?

>>This bullshit originally appeared in the January 2008 issue of Decibel magazine<<