No one is all bad. Weird Things Cultural Researcher Matt Finley takes a look at the silver lining in famous fictional monsters.
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Thanks to Ti West’s recent ‘70s/‘80s genre-smooching, suspense-laden “The House of the Devil,” a film that foregoes the kitschy pastiche of early Roth and Zombie in favor of a pure, effortless authenticity that’s as refreshing as it is familiar, we can take long look back at the days when Satanism was America’s threat du jour. We all know the score: the cultists wander around kidnapping all the single ladies, putting a runic ring on it, and impregnating them with the Archfiend’s baby. West seems pretty down on these Satanic OB-GYNs and their sinister fertilizations, but, c’mon girls, you could do worse. Rearing demon spawn does have its perks:
Biological Clock Stopper
Tick. John cheated on you. Tock. Mark was a closeted gay who begged you to tell your friends you broke it off because he was an uncomfortably straight alcoholic. Tick. Julian organized car accidents for the mob. Tock. Stan said the only good kid is a kid that isn’t his, and that also isn’t looking at him or eating a loud food like sourdough pretzels. Meanwhile, your desperation-powered cervix Swatch is quickly counting down to a menopausal
zero-hour that’ll find your therapist blown clear into the next tax bracket. So when Satanists kidnap you, tie you to a pentagram, force you to chug the contents of a goat skull blood bong and, of course, impregnate you with the spawn of Satan, I say roll with it. “Satan” is only one letter away from “Stan,” and did you ever look at Stan? Say what you want about Satan – I don’t see Beelzebub passing on the man-boob gene.
Parental Stress Eraser
Nurturant Parent Model or Attachment Parenting? Baby Einstein or Baby Mozart? Moral Nihilism or Epistemological Nihilism? Who cares?! You’re raising Satan’s baby! Go ahead – drop him. Feed him some fiberglass pipe insulation. Now drop him again. On his neck. It doesn’t matter. You could be the Carol Bradyiest mom ever and the kid’s still going to grow up, turn off the sun and change everything encompassed by nouns into purple fire. You might as well just make yourself a cup of tea and leave him to his evil. The worst that could possibly happen is that everyone craps blood out of their mouths instead of puking it out their butts.
Afterlife Reservation Confirmer
Ask yourself – Do I want a thread-bare nosebleed seat in heaven or a reclining courtside seat in hell? That high up in heaven, you have to walk down six flights of steps just to get ice cream. That far down in hell, a waitress brings you nachos. And there are cloth napkins.