By Satan,
Guest Columnist

It’s bad enough that I’m having to cut back on roaming to and fro in the earth as it is–that and trying to swat down any of this horrid nonsense that I am somehow responsible for this one-off, repurposed Vanilla Ice necromancer.

You’re going to have to use your heads, people. I’m not sure where this notion got started, but the slightest whiff of any supposed causal relationship between me and that tattooed nitwit Justin Beiber is a serious charge. I’ve got a reputation to maintain. You think I’m willing to risk the hallowed specter of my dominion—one that drives the Sudan, honor-killings, the Holocaust, Darfur, and the rest of the laundry list of human horrors—against a dopey ignoramus that urinates into mop buckets?

Just what do you think I’m doing in the ninth circle? Planning an ‘N SYNC comeback tour?

Look, I’ve been touring with The Kings Of Leon, to begin with. If you think I’d even have expendable energy or flex time to handle Windswept’s career, you’re nuts. I can’t even maintain the vanguards necessary to keep these guys from hitting the Chivas Regal in the third hour of the day—I certainly don’t have time to keep some cherub-faced YouTube phenom from retroactively plowing off the Donald Sterling expressway.

All I’m saying is: Do the math. Would the guy that brought you the Manson killings really want to risk a PR nightmare like this? Give me some credit. Don’t make me show up on an on an Eagles record cover over this.

I’ll make Jimmy Page go all transcendental at Loch Ness, if you people don’t cut the noise.  I don’t engage in foisting gratuitous, audiological torture on people.  Not me.  Not this Devil.

Okay, I might have been the guy that told Meatloaf, “You can still hit those notes, brother,” But that’s it.

While I am at it, I’d also like to put some space between myself and:

• Alec Baldwin
• Kanye West
• Scratching Zak Bagans at Bobby Mackeys
• Yngwie Malmsteen’s propensity to continue wearing spandex into his late forties.

But above all else, this Beiber corollary has got to be put down.

It’s a lie from the pit of . . . um, well . . .