I walked in and took a seat at the table. 5:59 p.m.

A smallish man in a short-sleeved plaid shirt stood behind the podium. He smacked the gavel on the table and called the meeting to order. I looked at my phone. Six o’clock on the dot…

Believe it or not, Satanists are pretty much just like you and me. This is assuming, of course, that you and mewore black trench coats and played with big foam swords in the courtyard outside my college dorm. Which I did not do. But still.

Any archangel who’s capable of being everywhere at once would definitely know the correct pronunciation of his own name. I have come to this drastic conclusion based upon an ingenious logical proof I devised the other day while having coffee with my friend…

The best thing about doing anything naked is that you’re always prepared. It’s not like going to the gym, where you have to remember your shoes and, well, your clothes. This became evident earlier this week as I was contemplating attending my first co-ed naked yoga class. I was late leaving work and didn’t have time to run home and get ready, so I was on the verge of wimping out until I realized that, quite literally, um, I was born ready.