Transcript of a Real Life Exorcism
It is well known but poorly documented that I underwent a Catholic exorcism in the spring of 1971. I had been dabbling heavily in the occult for some months, ritually sacrificing hedgehogs, smoking joints made from Ouija Boards, snorting holy communion — the usual stuff.
Before long it was apparent that I’d accidentally opened a portal to hell. It was the same month my washing machine broke and mobile phone signal weakened, thus proving that bad things do indeed come in triplicate.
The first evidence of the unspeakable evil visiting upon me was when my car keys went missing. Things escalated pretty quickly from there, when a gaggle of horny wench-demons dragged me from my toilet mid-brown and raped me for over six hours. These were gruesome, reptilian creatures: foul-stenched, snarling hunchbacks, hairier across the naval than the scalp. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and I’ll admit to yielding more concern for the car keys issue at the time.
I first suspected that the evil was gradually assuming control of me when I found myself telling a perfect stranger that his ‘mother sucks cock in hell’. I was promptly ejected from the Kindergarten, and the boy’s mother — alive and well — was largely furious upon hearing of the incident. When she confronted me in the car park, I tried to convince her that I’d meant it as a compliment of sorts. She planted her knee into my groin in an act of stout unforgiving.
The possession intensified quickly over the month of March. Most mornings I’d awaken with my head back to front and moon-walk straight into a wall. On the rare occasions my head didn’t sleep-rotate, I’d awake deeply confused and march face-first into the opposite wall.
Projectile vomiting became a feature too. Possessed though I was, it was hard not to be awed by the force and accuracy of this built-in slime cannon. It wasn’t long before I was turning on and off the TV with a short burst of pea-green ooze, or closing the curtains with a sustained torrent of bile.
Over time my plight gained notoriety in the local media, and the Vatican council were compelled to dispatch a duo of priests charged with ridding me of my demonic squatter. By then the possession was so entrenched that my own family barely recognised me: my body was a mess of warts and boils, lesions criss-crossed my face, my buttocks were permanently clenched, and my voice was identical to the character Zed from the Police Academy movies.
The ritual began in earnest on a balmy April morn, as I lay tethered to my bed. An audio recording was made for posterity. I present you now, with a transcript of that recording. Be warned: what you are about to read will likely disturb you.
Me: Your mother sucks cock in hell.
Father O’Reilly: Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Me: Your father…
Father O’Reilly: …sucks cock in hell. We get it.
Me: Well, I was actually going to say something about minge.
Father O’Reilly: Your obscenities will not deter us, demon.
Me: Your Aunt Nuala sucks…
Father Lowry: How did he know you had an aunt Nuala?
Father O’Reilly: Pay no attention to the beast, Father Lowry. He will try to divide us with his lies and double lies.
Me: Would you like to see a display of my power?
Father O’Reilly: Your powers are nothing compared to the power of the lord Jesus Christ.
Me: Behold!
Father Lowry: Are you serious?
Me: Huh?
Father Lowry: Separating your thumb? That’s your demonstration of power? My uncle used to do that at parties when we were kids.
Me: That’s only part of it. Watch…this….keep….watching.
Father Lowry: Ah Jaysus, he’s gone and shit himself.
Father O’Reilly: Father Lowry, mind your blasphemies. Taking the Lord’s name in vein is what the beast wants you to do. He’s probing your faith for signs of weakness.
Me: Eh..yeah. Yeah, he’s right. That’s what I’m doing.
Me: Conas ata tu?
Father Lowry: Oh Christ, he’s talking in tongues.
Father O’Reilly: Father Lowry please, no more blaspheming. Calm yourself.
Me: Is maith liom milseain.
Father Lowry: Oh God, what is he saying? What does it mean?
Father O’Reilly: It’s an old form of Gaelic, I believe.
Father Lowry: Let’s get out of here? We’ll tell The Pope he got away. Or that he wasn’t possessed at all. He was just on a bender because his wife left him.
Father O’Reilly: Father Lowry, I cannot use you like this. Please absent yourself.
Me: Is maith liom…agus….agus.
Father O’Reilly: Ca bhfuil tu in a chonai?
Me: Ta…ta me in a chonai…FUCK YOU.
Father O’Reilly: You see, you are not the only one versed in the Gaelic tongue, demon.
Me: It matters not. You can not defeat me, priest, for I am legion. We are many.
Father O’Reilly: Oh I understand, demon. You are all the millions of wretched souls in Hades.
Me: Woah, steady on. It’s me, Ted Bundy’s ghost, a few of Hitler’s SS, and a guy called Steve who once pushed his dog around by its hind-legs, like a vacuum cleaner.
Father O’Reilly: Ted Bundy isn’t dead. He’s in jail. This is 1971, remember?
Me: Eh…(muttering)
Father O’Reilly: What?
Me: I said can we get on with this?
Father O’Reilly: THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU.
Me: Who’s Mike?
Father O’Reilly: What?
Me: You said ‘the power of Mike compels you’.
Father O’Reilly: No I didn’t. I said THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU.
Me: Oh. That makes more sense. Now what happens?
Father O’Reilly: THE LORD COMMANDS YOU TO LEAVE THIS DISCIPLE.
Me: Fine. The stench is killing me anyway. Believe it or not, most of these hygiene problems were here before I arrived.
Father O’Reilly: Be gone, foul demon.
Me: Sound boss.
And like that, what had taken months to devour my body and soul, vanished in the blink of an eye. Father Lowry hung himself before I could properly thank him. Father O’Reilly died of a heart attack a few weeks after the exorcism. It seems the ritual took a bigger toll on them than me. Really makes you think (pair of brittle saps).
The cousin, where was the cousin when you needed him?
Those possessions, in Limerick, *pfft*, a right of passage to bush drinking. Girls won’t kiss unless you’re possessed with some sort of spirit. Vodka’s fine.
Excellent Manuel, a lease of life, a portal to another place. Ta.
I pray you never went through what I went through Sniffle. But if you do, I now run an exorcism service. Just call 1800-DEMON-BE-GONE, and I’ll be round to your gaff with a quack device that looks suspiciously based upon the ghost-catching gizmos from Ghostbusters.
Jesus , sorry Flan. I should have known , what with the interview that it was you. Still excellent, and I’m running down to the news agents now for this month’VCM. Besy of luck over here. You’re in great company
No problem, and thanks for swinging by Sniffle.
heh…..2 Manuels on this blog and you get the one guy who isn’t called Manuel…..Sweary will laugh……
No I won’t.
Perhaps you were possessed by the Other Manuel and that is what cause the confusion.
This is not me, by the way.
This is.
Whenever I hear about Exorcisms i think of riverdance. No idea why…
I nearly turned my monitor off (or maybe killed it outright) with the black coffee I projectile-splurted on it while reading this. Excellent stuff!
I once had an evil spirit inside me but IBS is a serious thing. A protestant minister would keep throwing half bricks at you until you stopped messing about none of that Christy shite.
Galwaywegian: It is well known that Michael Flatley has battled with possession all his life. Conservative estimates suggest that over 80% of Irish dancers are at the bidding of Satan.
Govestooge: If that coffee turns green, may I suggest you immediately throw yourself down a flight of stairs, ala The Exorcist movie? It’s called taking one for the team.
Old Knudsen: Ah, IBS. How many exorcisms have been mistakenly carried out in your irritable name? The answer is 1,394,498.
Snorting holy communion… That papery goodness… I could relapse at any minute.
Over here they would have just put you in rehab. I take it exorcisms are free? Also, I suppose as a plus, you are less likely to run into Britney or Lindsay at an exorcism. Although that alone should be enough to set you on the straight and narrow.
“It is well known but poorly documented that I underwent a Catholic exorcism in the spring of 1971″
“It was the same month my washing machine broke and mobile phone signal weakened,”.
This truly ruined the post.Obviously if you had a mobile phone in 1971 you were definately smoking and snorting something funny
Free exorcisms? Dream on, hippy. I had to provide those mooching priests with sandwiches AND fancy herbal tea. I was out of pocket by over 20 old Irish pounds by the time I was demon-free again. Back then 20 pounds was a lot of money (approximately 1 million euro).
Radge: Be strong, man. I found weaning myself off the communion with bog-standard Ryvita to be a great help.
Anon: My mind is not what it once was. It’s possible I’ve misremembered certain aspects of the tale. For example, I’m not sure I was possessed at all. I think I might have been one of the priests. It would certainly explain this weird collar I’m wearing, and I why I say mass most Sundays.
flann…
ive a problen woth shitting the bed..
does that mean im possessed???
Good question Bed Shitter. There are a number of reasons why one might defecate in a bed: faulty plumbing; revenge; dirty protest; impersonation of a pig. However, statistically, it is overwhelmingly likely that you’re possessed by Harold Shipman or higher.
I hate it when a legion of she-devils pull me from the toilet mid-brown. It’s the worst.
Ahhhh, bed tethering…
Native Minnow: Unfortunately, an all too common occurrence my friend. They seem to know when you’re at your most vulnerable. Ever notice how vulnerable even the most ferocious Rottweiler looks when he’s lowered his rump in expectation of a bowel purge? The same holds true across all the species of earth, including humankind.
Meadow: I was actually tied up before the exorcism started. It was a happy coincidence.
I was above in the pub tonight explaining your story to goat and donkey. Goat says no way, load of shite, let the devil come down and sit on his knee and he’d give him a kiss. (He’s a Methodist). Donkey however told about an ouija experience where he broke the thumb / pinky circle and then, Willie was thrown backwards from the table into the wall many metres behind. Were you there Flann?
I wasn’t there Sniffle, but such is the power of the Ouija board. I once used the board to try and contact my dead dog. Instead I got through to Judas Iscariot. He promptly materialised a wrought iron anvil and dropped it on my head. I was lucky to come away with 95% of my faculties.
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