Aleksander asks, "I have all these virgins stored up in my basement, I can't keep them in there much longer, their shit really stinks, what kind of dagger should I use to kill them? If I paint the altar black can I use a chainsaw?"
Satan's Mentor answers, "I'm assuming this is your first time, because most people who know what they're doing don't STORE virgins. There's always going to be virgins, you just pick 'em when you need 'em. But you seem like a nice enough guy so I'll help you out of your little predicament. Have a magic show. All of your little virgins will be your "assistants." You get to saw 'em in half, stick 'em in baskets and stab 'em with swords, drown 'em in milkjugs... All sorts of fun can be had if you're creative. You can put on a show for the local senior citizens' home or for the benefit of children at your nearest public library. Just remember to use the right incantations and it all counts as a cermonial sacrifice and will be added to your soul total. Just don't forget your receipt. Shop smart, shop S-Mart."

Ouchie Ilsa exclaims, "Great advice, bud. Now I've got a fucking squid buried in my womb and it won't come out. How do you propose I get out of this incident, O *great* and *WISE* one?"
Satan's Mentor laughs, "You ask for advice, but you don't take it. And then when you do take it, you expect me to solve all your problems. Besides, I told you to fuck an octopus, not a fucking squid. I hope you debeaked it."

Ankhsty Ilsa stammers, "I keep having recurring nightmares about retards gang raping me. Some of them look like Crackhead Bob. And when they shoot their nasty seed in me, they make this sound, like, "Unnnnn! Unnnnn! Oot Ooot! Me gumma cumma inna yooouah!" It's rather disturbing. Why do you think I keep having these dreams, O wise, powerful, and scandalously tantalizing Satan's Mentor? "
Satan's Mentor states, "It's just post-traumatic stress regarding your previous incidents of being raped by Regis Philbin. It does that to everybody. Probably also a sign you should really stop reading my column for a while, if you think gang-rapes by retards are anything to sneeze at. Go shove an octopus up your twat and get back to me with the details."

Dubya Bush eructates, "Do you ever hang out with God or Jesus?"
Satan's Mentor fornicates, "No, man. Those fuckers are messed up in the head! Cruel, heartless bastards!"

Crapping Dog defacates, "Yeah...I shit on my neighbor's doorstep because his dog shit in my yard, is that really wrong?"
Satan's Mentor barks, "Yes."

Cadavre Exquis gesticulates, "Dear _____'_ ______: My sister has been showing an unhealthy interest in Britney Spears lately. I understand that she is merely living dangerously and playing with detestable forces beyond her ken for a perverse laugh or two, but I am still concerned. She almost bought a Britney patch for her grungy old punk rock jacket! Should I let this phase run its course, or does this require action? Tenks."
Satan's Mentor quips, "Well, this could be symptomatic of many behavioral traits, some of which could prove problematic. Lemme give ya a rundown. Could be that she's pandering to her latent lesbian desires, as all women should to a certain degree. She could merely be seeing the cheese factor involved, much like my predilection for The Monkees. Or it could be that your sister has latent human genes which have switched on, causing a cancer of the mind which is the first step to becoming a mere human sheep, moving with the herd on the inexorable exodus towards the abbatoir. If the latter proves to be the case, kill her. Or better, send her to me. I'm into bestiality."

Ilsa questions, "Why is it, that every night, I wake up to find myself bound and Satan fucking me from behind? Could you please find out for me? Not that I mind, I'm just curious. Thanks a bunch!"
Satan's Mentor answers, "As nauseating as this is going to sound, it wasn't Satan, it was Regis Philbin. I contacted the Red Guy, though, and he informed me that Reege's behavior has negated his contract, so we'll all be seeing a lot less of him soon."

Your Bed bemoans, "What the hell do you think I am?!?! I don't deserve all this white shit thrown at me 5 times a day! What the fuck am I supposed to do? Store it for future use?"
Satan's Mentor soothes, "Why yes, bed of beds, store that precious jizz. For one day, my jizz will be worth 10 times its weight in dead nuns, and I hope I don't have to explain the value of a dead nun in the economy of the New World Order to you, Zem."

Gothicum ejaculates, "I need you to settle an argument, oh Great One! I say it's OK to have sex in public places, as long as you're tasteful about it. My friend says no way, that I'm going to Hell. What gives here?"
Satan's Mentor spews, "You are right. it's perfectly okay to have sex in public. In fact, that's the only way you should do it! You should also involve people with severe and debilatating disorders, the more physically repulsive to you, the better. Gang rape is great in these situations. Your friend is right too, of course. You're going to Hell."

Your Druidess asks, "Are there any exercizes I can do to loosen up my pelvic muscles? I think I'm too tight down there!"
Satan's Mentor scoffs, "All women are too tight for the mighty member of me! However, if you feel you need some loosening up, I've got a lubed-up Louisville Slugger with your name on it!"

Harlot of Hell queries, "How many Mansonites does it take to equal one soul?"
Satan's Mentor retorts, "Mansonites have souls! They are just very weak and flimsy after not being put to much good use. No good pain there, just a lot of crap. Take about 50 of 'em and cram 'em into an empty helium tank, though, and you can sell Soul Balloons for $5 a pop!"

Weeping Blood ponders, "There's this guy I'd really like to fuck, but I can't seem to get him interested in an reciprocity. Any suggestions, oh great and wise Satan's Mentor?"
Satan's Mentor responds, "Forget him and come to my house. Just leave your fuckin' reciprocity at the door, okay, toots?"

CyberGoth pontificates, "Does Satan take a holiday?"
Satan's Mentor sez, "That's a very good question. Most people think Satan lives in Hell, and in an extent he does. He lives in New Jersey. But when he's sick o' the ol' grind, he meanders downaways to Hell. On Grand Cayman island. You know? That tropical island paradise with all the thong bikini beaches."

Shmegeggy asks, "Um.. What should I do about this rash?"
Satan's Mentor replies, "Hmmm... That's a toughie. Try slathering it with sterno and lightin' the bitch up. If it don't work, then it won't be a rash you'll have to worry about anymore."

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