The End

Have you noticed how every tale about a little girl or boy on an adventure in a mysterious place, where it’s never quite clear if things are real or imagined, seems to return home with a lesson learned? I guess it’s fitting that mine should, too. Whether Doro- thy comes back from Oz and decides there’s no place like home or Alice comes to her senses with vivid memories of Mad Hatters and Cheshire cats (whatever that meant), the story is always about self-discovery. It was like that for me, too. There was always a twist or turn to amaze me—what with Hollywood, big-time TV, running around the world and sometimes not knowing if I was running toward something or away from it. You may be surprised that somebody doing all that running can stay so pleasingly plump and then some. But I’ve had quite a voyage—one that was as crazy and exciting as money and a ticket to Tinseltown can provide.

Although I have to say that the best part, when I look back, was probably the leg of the journey before I got rich and famous. It was the breaking-out part that was the best—the part that started with me taking the saucy little jokes I cooked up at my kitchen table and serving them up to the yahoos in the bars, the lesbians in the church basements, and all the rest of the folks who looked into the funhouse mirror of my humor and either laughed or looked away. And then, finally, there I was, sitting onstage beside the great Johnny Carson—the wizard who sat in front of the curtain. That was the total fulfillment of the dream of the little fat girl from Utah, who had sat with her dad on a broken-down couch, basking in the silvery glow of the television in an otherwise empty living room, on that weird little street in that most enchanted of cities—the city where I lived under at least two or three spells before I even got to la-la land.

Let’s give credit where it’s due, though. My dad opened the first door by hollering, “Comedian!” whenever a craftsman of that hallowed guild would appear on the tube in the comedian’s uniform, the suit you just figured was navy even in black-and-white, and begin to spin his little tales that told the real truth about ev- erything—that there is nothing to do but laugh at it all! Buried somewhere in those short stories of cultural persecution, nagging wives, bad breaks, fat mothers-in-law, pain-in-the-ass bosses, heartburn, hangovers, guys walking into a bar, or dogs that would only talk to them when nobody else was around—somewhere in that briar patch full of haunting laughter, just for a second, I saw the grinning rabbit of happiness. He’d flash me a big toothy one and say, “Come on, kid—this is where you belong. Take your soul, full of sadness, alienation, and anger; add a dash of wry; swish it around; and serve it hot. Yell it back in the world’s face and make people laugh while you poke the big guys in the eyes for them.”

Watching comedians on that little screen, I realized where my path led. But before there could be deals with agents and publicists and attorneys, there had to be a deal with someone even more evil and devious than they. No, not me, not quite, but the Devil himself, or at least the one who worked in the branch office of my bedroom in Salt Lake City, and, of course, in the private inner world of this kosher, Mormon, fat, dark girl with no ass and a brain that would not stop asking questions of The God in Heaven or of The God in Hell.

Yep, the day came, years and years later and not so long ago, when I summoned old Lucifer himself, and much to my surprise, He showed up and granted me an audience. This time it was not a little girl with a head full of dreams who wanted some of His time and the benefit of His connections. Nope, it was a battle-tested veteran of the ego wars. I was more of a match for Beelzebub after navigating all the ups and downs that come with a big-time show- biz career, fame and fortune, and running the gauntlet from being hailed as the Next Big Thing at one end of the Tunnel of Love and Hate to being dumped at the other end and told, in so many words, “You’re played out, bitch!”

So how does one undo a satanic contract, you ask? Well, you must first mix the herbs, hair, blood, and rum together in just the right combination, and then into the mirror you must gaze, jumping through all of hell’s hoops to anthropomorphically conjure Lucifer in order to get face time with Him. He’s not easy to reach— what with being guarded by the millions of souls who once worked in PR and are now His minions in hell, and having a schedule that keeps Him very, very busy here in Hollywood, as you might well imagine. However, Satan accepted my invitation to lunch, perhaps because I made it known from the start that I would, of course, pick up the check, or simply because He loves Spago as much as I.

At last, the pre appointed day arrived. I began to dress for what was perhaps the most important meeting of my subconscious life. I thought about wearing all black, but it seemed so boring to me. I wanted to establish a power look right from the beginning, so I chose an all red outfit—a skirt with little red beads at the hem, a low-cut red bustier, red high heels, red nails and lipstick, and red chopsticks stuck at a jaunty angle in my up do bun, the one I had worn to the Emmys that year.

Are you ready for this, dear reader? I arrived first, and sat down and ordered a cocktail. I wanted to remain clearheaded given the task I had at hand, so I drank only two Belvedere martinis, filthy, with three olives while I sat there waiting. His people had told my people to tell me that He would find me. It seemed to me that every man in a suit who walked into the restaurant could have possibly been Him, but when none of them looked my way, I finally just gave up anticipating Him at all.

At first, I had no doubt that He would show up, but as the moments ticked away, I was no longer sure. Perhaps this was just one of the games He played with people like me, letting us just sit and wait all alone until it dawned on us that we had been stood up, passed over, and ignored by a powerful source—the worst of all realizations for anyone in Hollywood, being stood up in public. I began to doubt my powers of persuasion. I thought, maybe my bullshit didn’t work on the Trickster Extraordinaire.

My face was beginning to feel hot, and I wished I had worn black instead. I picked up my phone to see if I could get a last- minute replacement guest, just so I wouldn’t be sitting there all alone in red, sticking out like a sore thumb. That is a terrible thing for a famous person, sticking out like a sore thumb in public in Hollywood, alone! Everyone and their brother, after stalking you for a moment or two, while getting their pitch together, will commence pushing their screenplay or idea for a “comeback vehicle” on you, and that is almost a fate worse than death.

As if the situation couldn’t have gotten any worse, my ex- husband Tom Arnold walked in! I was so horrified and in shock that I wasn’t able to pull my eyes away from him in time to avoid his eyes catching mine. He approached my table. “You look thinner than I thought” were his first words to me. Beat. “I thought I would start out with a joke! Zing!” He laughed, shooting me with an imaginary gun.

I was so uncomfortable that I prayed Satan would come to the table right away. Tom stared down at me, waiting for me to say something. “Hello,” I finally said begrudgingly.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked.

I wanted to say no but said, “Sure.” I sold my soul again in order not to be seen sitting there alone. Calmly, I said, “Please, have a seat.” Tom sat down and didn’t say anything for a bit. He just sat there quietly. I had never seen Tom sit so still. There was no face pinching, hair twirling, lip smacking, or rocking back and forth at all. “You really aren’t doing coke anymore?” I asked.

He paused and sat back. “Roseanne, it’s me. Cut the crap. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“I didn’t want to talk to you at all. In fact, I am waiting for someone very special and I would actually like you to leave.”

Tom glared deeply at me. “No,” he said. “It’s ME—Satan.”

My stomach tied up in knots. Here I was face-to-face with the Master of Lies. I thought for a second and said, “I guess I expected You, being the Devil, not to be so ‘on the head’ with Your incarnation, I thought it would be more disguised. I thought there would be more nuance.”

“Nuance is for hacks,” He said. “What exactly is it you want, Roseanne? I am very, very busy at the moment, and since I already own your soul for all of eternity, I can’t imagine what this is about.”

I said, “I won’t take much of your time, Satan. I just needed to go over a few things with you.”

He seemed to like that I was respectful of His time and loosened up a bit, suggesting we order something to drink. I expected that Satan would order a Manhattan or a Bloody Mary, or, like in the song, a piña colada, but was surprised to find that ice water was His drink of choice, and He could barely get enough of it!

As we sat, perusing the menu, we began to overhear snippets of conversation about Hollywood business deals and box office openings, which were soon eclipsed by the drunken trivial gossip, loudly spoken by non-Jewish second wives in their late twenties, about what assholes their Jewish husbands were, but how generous and caring as well, and what surprisingly good fathers they make at age one hundred.

I muttered, “There but for your grace go I, sir.”

He laughed and said, “You would never have found a rich Jewish guy to marry you! They like thin and sexy young blondes, not fat, pushy Jewish broads!” And we both had quite a laugh at that.

“You are pretty funny,” I said, starting to shine his ass.

“Coming from you, that is quite the compliment!” he shined back.

“Hey, it’s really you—you came!” I said, surprised at my own enthusiasm.

“You noticed,” He said sarcastically. His voice reminded me of that deep one that you hear on spooky movie trailers.

“It’s been a long time,” I said, gathering my wits as I took a deep breath and sniffed a little to see if brimstone had an aroma. It did, I think, and it wasn’t pleasant. Or maybe the devil had had Mexican food for breakfast. Either way, He spoke next.

“Actually, it hasn’t. You might be surprised how many times I’ve been hovering just over your shoulder, whispering a tip or two and some encouragement at special times—you know, like when you were reading people the riot act or serving them a boat load of shit, when a little talking-to or a heart-to-heart might have done the trick.”

“That was You?” I asked. “I thought that was just me getting in touch with my inner bitch and getting people back for all the times I’d been hurt and talked down to on my way up.”

“Yeah, that was Me, every time you’d look past all the good things life had brought you and seize on some little slight to use as an excuse to blow your mind and scare somebody with your industrial-strength temper and hollerin’ chops. I’ve always been impressed with the way you could rummage around in the hay- stack of happiness till you sniffed out the needle of negativity, and then use it to pop the bulging balloon of bratty bullshit that you liked to spray all over everybody within raging distance. Did you think you did that all by yourself?”

“Oh my God!” I said, hating to hear it as the wave of recognition and embarrassing, creepy memories washed over me.

“Uh, do me a favor,” He whispered. “Don’t use the G-word in my presence, okay? It’s way politically incorrect when you’re in a meeting with my end of the religious symbolism industry. Now, what did you want to talk about? I’m busier than ever these days, what with all the politicians and priests and lawyers and famous cheating husbands I have to, ahem, counsel.”

“Do you mind if I order first?”

He nodded, compliant. We decided to try the beet tower and the fatted calf, still listening in as the “girl talk” from the table beside us got louder and drunker and the de rigueur flirting with the obviously gay waiter began. We rolled our eyes at the waiter pretending to be a top when he was obviously a bottom in order to seduce the unhappy, bored, and aging gold diggers who might help him get an audition with one of the many agents they knew.

“That guy, you might be interested to know, is going to make it pretty big, and will be dating in about eighteen months. He has a red carpet in his near future,” Satan said.

Finally, I screwed up the courage to spill the beans. “Satan, here it is, Guy. I want out of the contract,” I said. “You didn’t hold up Your end of our bargain. I may have been a little girl at the time, but now, at fifty-eight, and almost beginning to approach middle age . . . I must say that I remember the major deal points quite clearly.”

“That doesn’t take a genius,” He said snidely. “It was mostly a standard boilerplate ‘fame and fortune in exchange for your soul, or what’s left of it after it’s been jammed through the fame-and- fortune meat grinder’ contract. We call it ‘Form Six sixty-seven.’ There are no loopholes, although I must admit, your addendum with the ‘stay-fat-and-still-be-able-to-pull-men-under-your-spell’ clause was pure genius! Most of my female clients opt for the ‘stay-thin-even-with-the-occasional-binge-eating-episode-minus- the-upchucking’ amendment.”

“Hey,” I interrupted Him. “Form Six sixty-seven? What does Form Six sixty-six cover? That’s the most famous one, right?”

“You don’t want to know,” He said with a dismissive flick of His hand, as if brushing off something distasteful. “Let’s just say it involves ‘men of the cloth’ and leave it at that. We’ve gone through stacks of those. As it is said, where’s the last place you’d look for the Devil? Answer: in church! Enough said.”

“Oh my God,” I said again.

“Hey, what did I just say about the G-word?” He said. “Anyway, what’s this about Me reneging? You had your big whirl around the block in the Look-at-Me-Mobile, while everybody watched, year after year, and according to the agreement, everybody was either full of admiration or burning with jealousy or both. What did I miss?”

“The operative word there was had!” I snapped, barely letting Him finish. “Yeah, I knocked ’em dead in Denver, had them rolling in the aisles in L.A., and then had a gigantic hit show for nine seasons, and could still rake in some goodies in the wake of all that . . . but . . .”

“But what?!” my seemingly all-too-real apparition or whatever He was demanded.

“But a ton of it’s GONE! Yeah, I made some serious dough back in the day, and I got my attention and all the rest, but I’m still a writer and a comic and a thinker and an actor, and now, if I want to work anywhere besides my little studio—which, by the way, is conveniently located just minutes from LAX and is equipped with state-of-the-art Macintosh hardware and editing software and high-tech, industry-standard, top-name audio and video gear and is available for viewing by appointment, call us! if I want to work anywhere where I’ll have an audience of any size. . . . I mean, can You imagine how degrading it is to have to parade what’s left of my ass in front of a bunch of midlevel studio drones who went to high school with my kids before they dropped out? (My kids, I mean.) Do You have any idea what that’s like? Within a few years of having that gigantic show that’s actually been studied in sociology classes in universities for the impact it had on our culture—that show that was a training ground for people who learned enough to go on to massive careers—within a few years of that, I actually started to hear the word has-been whispered behind my back!”

“I know the feeling,” said the Dark Lord. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m not supposed to have feelings, but I do know what you mean about that whole has-been thing. There was awhile there, in the ’90s, when the economy seemed to be booming, but I couldn’t get a major war started to save My ass. Houses were ap- preciating like, well, like a house on fire. Most people weren’t too miserable. A black man and a fat woman—a feminist, in fact—had big TV ratings. I mean, people were starting to wonder if I was out of business! Those were pretty good times for lots of folks; needless to say, it wasn’t good for My brand.”

He paused, kind of wistfully for a Devil, I thought. But then He brightened up and shot me a self-satisfied grin, and said, “But then—well, let’s just say, thank G-word for religious fanatics, Republicans from Texas, cheap foreign labor, right-wing gasbags on the radio, the Catholic church, Mormons, hatred coming out of both sides of the Holy Land—I love that one!” He said it like a kid in a candy store, giving hatred and Holy Land an extra push. “Shall I go on?” He asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Oh, baby, one of my biggies: WALL STREET! Yeah, it’s all cooking up nicely again, and Devil stock is through the roof. Forget gold, kid—invest in war, homophobia, porn, payday loan shops in poor neighborhoods, that BS war on drugs, AND drugs—the legal kind, of course, the ones they push on TV—and anything having to do with insurance. It’ll stay bad—I mean good—for Me, of course, for a while, because even suggesting that something may actually be unjust and need fixing is, remember this now: negative thinking! Remember that one; it’s huge. Take this Devil’s word for it: Teach people that it’s not the stuff put into the food and the air and the water that gives people cancer or autism, it’s their own negative thinking! Holy hell, I really knew what I was doing when I cooked that one up. You know that book The Secret? It was My idea to call it that instead of Blame the Victim. Nice, huh? And the dopes LOVE it.

“Hell, with a little help from My conservative minions, who luckily don’t know what conservative actually means, I’ve got ’em rewriting the Bible and taking out all that ‘be kind to the poor’ and ‘don’t think about money all day’ thing that the Bronze Age Jew hippie told ’em about! And can I just give a shout-out to the Texas School Board and the textbook companies that kiss their Holy-Roller, snake-handling asses! Yeee-haaw! Let’s get evolution out of the schools, and take sex education out while we’re at it, and science along with both of them! Oh, baby! ’Scuse Me, while I kiss the sky! The dumber the Talibangelists can keep the Americans, the less they are taught to compete for jobs in the international workforce, and the more desperate they will be. And that’s makes for a gi-normous payday for all of My subsidiaries.”

I was staring, by now, with my mouth hanging open like an inbred, corn-fed white woman at a Sarah Palin rally demanding that the word intercourse be taken out of the dictionary, and taxes lowered, while escalating the war in some far-off country that doesn’t have the sense to be Christian. The Devil held up a single gnarly finger, like a litigant on Judge Judy just before she tells them to put their hand down or she’ll bite it off.

I jumped in anyway. “Hey, that’s all good, but I did a reality show on a big-ass network about trying to get a show on a little- ass network, and it turned out to be a giant cluster fuck that I had to hemorrhage my way out of. You call that fame and fortune and getting my ass kissed? You broke the contract, Mr. Dark Lord. What’s up with that, Homeboy From Hell?”

He said, “You have to realize that sometimes it gets complicated. Yours is not the only deal I try to honor. Believe it or not, a few people have made deals with me that run concurrently and include screwing with YOU! I’m a demon, not a proctologist—I don’t always have the luxury of dealing with one asshole at a time!”

“I beg your Devil-Ass pardon!” I said, indignantly.

But He held that finger up again, and said, “Okay, just to make up for a little of your trouble, here’s a tip for a shrewd investment while you’re getting advice from the original inside trader: Reality shows: They’ve really gotten better, and by that I mean, worse. You can’t go wrong getting behind marketing during the new amped- up reality shows. I’m talking about the ones where the people on the screen are way dumber than the ones who are watching, which makes everybody involved really feel good about themselves. You can so sell things during the breaks—you know: pills that make your ass smaller, your dong bigger, your wrinkles harder to see, your kids smarter, your marriage better, your attitude shinier, your . . .”

I’d heard enough.

“Been there, done that,” I said, feeling back in charge of the proceedings. “I’ve tried to go through the Home Shopping Network drill. That’s another cheesy hoop I wouldn’t have jumped through if stayed on the case like You were supposed to. That sucked! I had to get stuff made by Chinese slaves, brought over on nonunion asbestos barges, jack the price through the roof, and stand in front of the camera with way too much makeup on, and act like I was happier than I’d ever been in my life, like I was selling the greatest thing in the world! Trust me, it’s not as fun as it sounds. I lost my dignity and made a hundred and thirteen dollars! Another example of You not coming across!

“Now, let’s get back to the big stuff. When we made that deal, I seem to remember the word eternal being in there, as in: eternal soul. Even when I was a kid, I wasn’t dumb enough to trade something eternal for ten years or so of being top dog. Do You really think I’d fall for that and sign up for a hitch with You that never ends, without You at least getting me serious face time in the media right up to the end of my role as me? You’ve gotta be shitting me! Even when I was marrying all those special-needs dudes, most of the time I was thinking, I have to make this last . . . all the way to the divorce! I mean, it makes me mad that You’d think I was that stupid to lock in ‘forever’ with the likes of You! Even as a kid!


You know a little something about being mad, don’t You, O Mighty Angel of Anger?” I took a breath.

“Do I?!” He said, with a curled lip and a raised eyebrow and a furrowed forehead (I guess He doesn’t like the Botox). “You know what really gets My pointy tail in a knot? When I watch those award shows you showbiz types like to throw, the ones where everybody likes to act all genuine and sincere, while wearing zillion- dollar dresses and tailored tuxes and talking about what an honor everything is, and how thrilled they are just to be breathing the same air as a bunch of other ego freaks they hope to outshine.”

“THAT gets under YOUR skin?” I asked. “I figured You’d love those gushing fountains of swollen self-esteem on steroids!”

“Oh, I DO! Are you kidding?” He said, tossing His head back in disbelief. It was amazing how His face held its shape while smoothly morphing into everybody from Mick Jagger to Dr. Phil to some generic studio head type, to the pope, Oprah, Bono, Suzanne Somers, Tom Cruise, Angelina Jolie, some hillbilly Ayatollah TV evangelist composite, and Dick Cheney—unbelievable! It was a bit like I’ve imagined LSD to be, but without the peaceful hippie vibe.

“Hey, are you paying attention?” He snapped. “I’m listening to your griping—have some respect for Mine!”

“Sorry,” I said, a little sheepishly, but then I realized I was apologizing to SATAN for STARING! “Go on,” I said. “Hell, I’m not getting any younger.”

“I can see that,” He said.

“Don’t piss me off,” I shot back. “Finish telling me what pisses You off! And then I’ve got the floor again.” I waited for Him to compose Himself.

“What pisses Me off at those cinematic circle jerks is the way some people actually thank GOD for their success. Okay, I said the G-word, just to make My point. And by success I mean the ass shining from their peers in the ass-shining business. Can you believe that they’re not only vain enough to actually think that the CEO of the Universe, Inc., gives a good goddamn about whether some artsy-fartsy neurotic on a tiny, tumbling grain of sand in the middle of nowhere gets an award for their skills or not? Their skills are entertaining, but let’s face it—their craft consists of pretending to be someone they’re not, or making up stories, or rapping about how much sex they get or money they make or sex they’ll get and money they’ll make after everybody sees them on this glitzy spectacle in a tiny corner of a world half full of hungry people in rags. “Oh yeah,” He said, somehow even more sarcastically. “G-word just can’t get enough of that.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “I thought You said You love all that crap?”

“Are you listening?” He said, getting hot around His already smoldering collar. “I said it’s the thanking God for their success that pisses Me off! Think about it! Do they really think that the alleged author of all that’s good and caring and sharing and unselfish would be The One who provides them elbows sharp enough to slice their way through all those tux- and gown-clad careerist attention junkies and their rabid, conniving agents and publicists and crap lappers? I’m talking about the same weasels with a phone in each claw who live to get their clients’ faces blown up on the big screen that passes for reality in this sad charade of a world—the same world I work like a sock puppet! Baby, let Me tell you: In the entertainment capital of the world, like you said, the breasts may be fake, but the assholes are real. All that effort I put into working for them around the clock from the time they go to their first podunk high school drama class all the way to the podium of that massive, monolithic monument to bullshit that is big-time showbiz—and then they have the nerve to thank the alleged Source of Kindness, and selflessness!

“Come on! Has one of them ever had the damn decency to look into the camera and out at all those uplifted, face-lifted masks in the audience and say, ‘I deserve this adulation like a son of a bitch because I followed Satan’s brilliant direction to a T. It was HE who taught me you don’t get anywhere in a world where ‘money talks and bullshit walks’ unless you miss no opportunities to be noticed! They have absolutely no fucking integrity at all, Roseanne, or else they would honestly say, ‘It was the Devil who brought me the craftiest, highest-paid people in a crafty, highly paid web to do the pushing for me! Just once, I would like to hear, ‘Thank you, Dark Lord, for this moment where everyone is staring at me, me, ME!

“Listen, Roseanne, I agreed to have this lunch with you because I have a proposition to make you that I think will make you very pleased.”

“What?!” I shrieked, feeling outsmarted, almost.

He continued, “I want you to be the spokeswoman for my various business entities. I want you to speak for Me, and put a human face on My Brand. There can be a whole campaign, starring you . . . books, tours, television, radio, all media, and then an extended career in politics. Your own commercials, just like you dreamed of as a child.”

“Wow, it sounds amazing!” I remarked. “I like saying the things that are true and that no one else has the guts for.”

“I know you do, and I think you and I are the right fit,” He went on.

“Yeah?” I said. “I have always dreamed of selling out in a big, big way for the right price, but—before I consider Your interesting offer, indulge my curiosity for a moment, please.”

“Of course, I will,” He assured me.

It just tumbled out of my mouth. “You make things happen the way people ask You to. Then they get famous by selling their souls, and once they realize that they haven’t got one, they quickly hit bottom, which is where they always seem to see the Light! It seems that You are the One who brings most of us to God, though in a roundabout way, as if You and God are like good cop, bad cop. You are both on the same team, really. Aren’t I right, Mr. God-Devil?” I delivered the shot like David did to Goliath.

Unmasked at last, He smiled and shook His head from side to side, amused and amazed at the depth of my deciphering abilities.

Eventually, He spoke and said, “You have figured it all out, Roseanne. Everything, including Me, ends up working for The Greater Good, yes.”

I said, “I have moved out of childish things these days, and no longer care anything about commercials or success or show business or any of that bipolar stuff, so I think You should move on, and ask Glenn Beck to be Your number one disciple, and hawk Your message for You. He will do well for You, I think, better than me, really.”

Perhaps as a consolation to me, He said, “You know, you are probably right. That guy is totally bipolar, and so he is really divided, and therefore really knows how to divide people and as you know, Roseanne, that is how I am really able to control the world, for now. All roads do eventually lead to Rome, of course. You are on the right track of things, but a little bit ahead of the times, as usual. The entire concept of spiritual duality is vestigial, really, like hibernation. And one day, people will just slough it off, but until then, how else can storytellers tell people about the unfolding of Divine Awareness in humanity, huh? If you can come up with a better story, then, by all means, do so!” He turned to look me straight in my eyes.

I saw Those Eyes again, just then, as I did at age twelve—green and black plaid with a stripe of yellow around the edge and a combustible red center. There He was in all His glory, the Fallen Angel of pride and ego, now named Lucifer! He had showed Himself to me, Shana Rifke Bitnam Katz Davidovitz Borisofsky. We were looking at each other pupil to pupil, and I did not flinch, as His face morphed into an exact copy of my own. I had learned to calm the panic and horror that rose in me, so I could calmly confront the worst of my own ugliness, and I breathed deeply. I was on a mission to create myself over again, in wholeness, and to inte- grate shadow and light.

“What is it you are doing to Me?” His lips turned a shade of blue. As He searched the mirror of my gaze, I said, “I’m sort of giving you the Evil Eye.” He was getting pretty scared now. “Stop! You are giving me the Ayn Ara!” (Evil Eye of an Old Jewish Woman) “NO, I’m not!” I said.

He began freaking out. “It’s not the Ayn Ara, at all! I know because it’s impervious to my will!” His face was full of sweat and fear, now. I said, “This is something You have no conception of-that’s why it frightens You, because You don’t have it within You.” I spoke slowly, deliberately, just like Clint Eastwood did in that movie where he says: “Make my day, punk.” I wielded the sword of my tongue, and confessed: “I’m feeling sorry for You.” I said, knowing I had delivered the coup-de-grace.

Empathy-He could not exist in it’s presence.

“I am out of here!” He said, horrified, and then fell to dust and blew away.