The devil went to the dentist last Thursday.
The receptionist there hates him. She doodles horns and a pointy tail around his 10:30 appointment.
The devil knows this and brings her a box of chocolates.
She’s a diabetic.
“The doctor will see you now.” She stares into his maddening poker eyes like Joan of Arc into the flames.
The devil blows her a redhot kiss as he waltzes in.
She hates him with a passion.
“What seems to be the problem today?” The dentist enjoys the power of God right now.
Evil lays prone before him wearing a cheap paper bib.
The mouth of hell is wide open.
“My molars hurt when I grind and gnash them.” Tears almost well up in Satan’s reptilian eyes, but steam leaks out instead. “Can you help me?”
“You’ll have to see a specialist.” (Oh, the omnipotent power).
“I can give you a referral.” (Oh, the benevolent blessing).
“You know, I never see this sort of thing in the saints or martyrs.” (Oh, the irony).
The devil left the dentist last Thursday.
The receptionist there smiled.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Satan, sir, but your insurance doesn’t cover this.”