JURASSIC HORDE
WHISPERER
OF MADNESS COUNTY
Copyright 1998, ISBN 0-9644835-2-1
by Titus “RocketSlinger” Stauffer
(Above is the ISBN of the original hardcopy edition;
this soft copy has no ISBN)
ARTWORK
Drawings (cover and all interior
illustrations) by Ken Michaelsen, McCloud, CA 96057.
Title of cover artwork is “The Four Hordesmen of Rampant Inappropriateness.”
DISCLAIMER
All the individuals, organisms, organizations, and
other entities in this work are fictitious.
Although the world that I desire to live in is also still fictitious, I
would like to convey that in this better world, all lawyers would find
themselves something honest and productive to do. They wouldn’t bother and parasitize those who
harm no one. They wouldn’t, for example...
oh, let’s just say, for a totally randomly selected example, they wouldn’t
bother to harass innocent writers who exercise their First Amendment
free-speech rights, but in so doing, happen to hurt the baby feelings of
sensitive individuals, organisms, organizations, and other entities.
What I’m trying to say is, all you
lawyers go away, and leave me alone. In
the Name of the First Amendment, Censorship Demons, I command you, be gone! You are not welcome here. Not that I would ever mean to imply that any
lawyer is evil, or a demon¾that
might be slander, and God knows I mean to slander no one! So please notice, all you libel lawyers out
there, I DO NOT pick on, or slander, any specific non-fictitious organisms or
entities. I don’t, for example, say that
specific Scientologist-lawyers like Steven L. Hayes and Earle Cooley are
sleazy, no-account scum buckets, for example.
If by any chance any of my fictitious names belong to real organisms and entities, then I
apologize; I wrote this book while unaware of any such pure coincidences. If there’s a real Church of Omnology, a real
Aileron Hubba-Hubba, or a real Ale
Run Hubba-Bubba out there, or a Hillary-Bob or a Billary-Bob, etc., I say to
you, I wasn’t talking about you, I was talking about a fictitious organism or
entity that just happened to have the same name as you.
I say again, this work of fiction
is... fiction. In those places
where I cite references, such as in footnotes and in chapter-introductory
quotes, for example, I do deal in facts.
Let me just go one step further, though, in expressing my apologies to
anyone who might misunderstand: If it does
exist, then I don’t even mean to slander the sincere believers in this (to me
as of now, at least) hypothetical Church
of Omnology. If you’re befestered by
clusters of scamgrams descending from the Evil Galactic Emperor Zebu of 75
million years ago, and you’d like to have these befestering scamgrams fleeced
away from you, and you have a lot of spare time and money, then by all means,
the fellowship of the sincere worshippers of the Church of Omnology just might
be your best bet. I’m all for religious
freedom, and against libel, slander, and all other forms of chaos and
badness. If Omnology sets you free from
your scamgrams, then I certainly don’t mean to tinkle in your Wheaties.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the hope that more of us will come to realize that it’s far better
to laugh at the Horde Whisperer than it is to listen to him.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Mary Stauffer,
Carolyn Weatherly, and Alan Mills for proof-reading this book, and to Capt.
Gary L. Percival and the office of Dr. Phillip Zimbardo at Stanford, in chasing
down information about Zimbardo’s prison psychology experiment (see Chapter 17
endnotes). Special thanks also to Ken
Michaelsen for the awesome illustrations!
1)
The Horde is Bored
“We are not
amused.” Queen Victoria (1819-1901)
In the waning, whining, weenie
days of the late twentieth century, it came to pass that the Horde became
bored. So they went down to Panderwood,
which was the source, in those days, of copious quantities of thrilling
amusements. The Horde had high hopes
that Panderwood might snap them out of their latest funk. Something new, that’s all that they were
looking for. Something shocking, but not
too much so. Something that wouldn’t
insult their intelligence, either, although there wasn’t much danger of that.
Steve Spudburger came out to meet
the Horde, saying, “Well, how about a show in which you can learn all about the
deep scientific implications of The Chaos Theory, at the same time as you can
watch dinosaurs eating lawyers. Not your lawyers; we all know they’re the
good guys. I mean, the other guys’ lawyers.”
The Horde paused for just a moment,
and then grumbled, “Nah. Been there,
done that.”
Rupert Rotifer gave it a shot. “Hey, whaddaya say we do a show about this
dude, man, he’s got, like, mystical powers.
Special, mystical powers, over, like, high-strung, bodacious corporate
executive babes, and high-strung horses, like, ya know?”
The Horde shouted, “We’re Bored!”
Frank Lee Deceasedwood got up and
said, “I’ve got it! I have just the
thing for what ails you. A little
romance. Not with your wives, now, for
heaven’s sake! A little fling, with the other guy’s wife. Just the thing to chase the blues away. All you guys out there, couldn’t you relate
to a guy, he looks like an old
geezer, but he’s not. He’s something very special. He’s a Lone Wolf Stud muffin, and he makes
love like a panther. And all you gals- aren’t
you waiting to be swept off of your feet, and carried away to nights of wild
passion?”
The Horde was pissed. “We want something NEW!!!,” they
protested. There was silence in
Panderwood, but outside the gates, there were ominous mutterings.
Finally, Titus Maximus Stupidness
got up to save the day. “Hear me out,”
he pleaded. “How about a tale of
dinosaurs, lawyers, chaos¾lots of chaos¾a man with mystical powers over
Hordes like yourselves¾now,
strictly just to amuse you, of course¾AND
nights of wild
romance?”
The
Horde paused. “Well, maybe,” they
mumbled. “Just this once. But it had better be good!”
Illustration goes here above… Crowd scene at Panderwood
2)
The Jurassic Horde Whisperer
“Those who can make
you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.” Voltaire
(1694–1778)
The Triassic Period, from 230 to
195 million years ago, was a time of rampant insensitivity. Many, many creatures ran amuck, chasing one
another, not only sexually harassing one another, but even trying (steel
yourself, now!) to eat one another! Some of
them even succeeded, on occasion. Most
of them didn’t even realize that they were being quite disgusting and
barbaric. None of them, not a one, restricted herself or himself to
macrobiotic diets.
Very few paleontologists have been
able to overcome their anthropocentrism sufficiently to admit this, but
humanity is by no means the first species to strive for sensitivity towards all
life-forms. Most of them are too
embarrassed, on behalf of morally and ethically stunted human beings like
themselves, to speak the truth freely.
Towards the tail end of the Triassic, and especially at the beginning of
the Jurassic (195 to 140 million years ago), dinosaurs reached outwards and
upwards, lifting themselves to higher and higher planes of self-awareness,
self-actualization, and sensitivity. In
these endeavors, though it took them many millions of years, they eventually
exceeded the accomplishments of human beings.
We can only hope that someday, we might be walking in their footsteps.
So their tales must be told. The truth, in all its glory, must be set
free. The tale of the dinosaurs is
largely the tale of its struggle with the Horde Whisperer. You know, the Horde Whisperer, the one that
whispers to the horde. A disembodied
spirit, flitting, twisting, and slithering hither and yon, across the
space-time continuum, putting thoughts into the minds of the multitudes, be
they humans, dinosaurs, or dinoflagellates.
Now there are those who say that the
Horde Whisperer isn’t very nice. That he
isn’t self-actualized, that he has low self-esteem, and worse. Well, OK, we may speak freely. They say, sometimes, even, that he is the
Insensitive One. The Inappropriate
One. You know, inappropriateness
phantasmagoric¾the
Supreme Ruler of Heck and Gol Darnedness, the Prince of Sub-Standard
Lighting. That he rode a tank in the
general’s rank when the Blitzkrieg raged.
But one must be sensitive, even
towards alleged insensitivity. One must
have sympathy for the Horde Whisperer, and understand his perspective. There are two sides to every story. Paying heed to the one, and not to the other,
must most certainly rank among the grossest of injustices.
It seems that the Horde Whisperer
simply likes to say to all of us, that which we want to hear. He likes to say unto others as they would
like to be said unto. And as the Horde
Whisperer says, this isn’t so very far removed from doing unto others, as we
would like for them to do unto us.
Ethical is ethical, so don’t let the sophists muddy the waters.
So he says to us, it’s not our fault, it’s their fault. The oil
companies, the tobacco companies, beer advertisers, and all those other drug
pushers. Not our fault. No Sir!
Not those who drive cars or smoke cigarettes, or light up a joint now
and then. Nor even those of us who support
the witch-hunt hysteria that prompts school administrators to expel little
girls for smuggling Advil into classrooms.
If he told us we were to
blame, whenever reality is less than perfect, that would make us feel bad.
Bad feelings are bad. Negative feelings, low self-esteem and
such-like things, they’re all very negative.
And negatives can only generate negatives. Nothing big ever came from being small,
nothing good ever came from bad.
Especially bad, is, like, thinking of oneself as being bad. Chaos is badness, reality is whatever we
define it to be, and all we have to do is to think positive thoughts. Everything is just a highly subjective social
convention, so we need to work harder on adjusting our definitions of reality,
and reaching for those positive thoughts, especially about ourselves. How can we work towards the good if we don’t
define ourselves as good? Self-doubt is
negative, and negatives are bad. So
never doubt yourself. You are pure and
innocent. If something is bad, it’s not your fault, it’s their fault.
The Horde Whisperer never bothered
to visit the Earth until the dinosaurs had started to make small gains towards
crawling out of the slime, towards sensitivity.
Only Sensitive Ones can hear the Whisperings of the Horde Whisperer,
after all. Especially that Whisper about
us being far more Sensitive than the Average Guy, who is a stupid and miserly
lout. So it was early in the Jurassic
era, then, that the tale of the Jurassic Horde Whisperer began.
Tom Edisonosaurus was working on his
latest invention. In keeping with
dinosaur society’s latest push towards getting all dinosaurs, carnosaurs
included, to eat only vegetable matter, Tom was working on methods of getting
farm produce and processed goods to market faster. After all, how can one expect the likes of
Allosaurus to refrain from dining on his fellowsaurs, if one can’t get
sufficient quantities of bean sprouts, celery, and tofu to him, before it all
spoils? So developing reliable bulk
transportation was of the utmost importance, and Tom was devoted to uplifting
dinosaur society.
Tom’s last cart had worked just
fine, but it hadn’t lasted long. The
edges of those new-fangled wooden “wheelybobs” he’d invented¾he was considering shortening
their name to just “wheels”¾had splintered
and disintegrated after the cart had carried a heavy load of brussel sprouts
for just a few miles. So there was Tom,
pounding durable stones into the edges of his wheelybobs, forming custom-shaped
indentations, then lifting the stones back out, and finally, gluing them back
in, using tree resins. It was all very
painstaking work, especially since he had to avoid wasting any of his precious
resins. He’d been very careful in
gathering those resins, so as not to hurt any trees. He planned on fending off any
environmentalist protest concerning his carts with bumper stickers saying “No
living trees were damaged in the manufacture of this cart.” And Tom was an honest dinosaur; he never even
thought about lying, or cutting
corners.
Just as he was applying the resin to
the last stone of the last wheelybob, Tom heard some rustling behind him. Now the carnosaurs of the day had indeed been
cutting way back in their bad habits¾their blood cholesterol was even averaging below 200
in those days¾but old habits died hard. Tom turned around and breathed a sigh of
relief. They were small, spindly
dinosaurs of such slight build as to provide no hazards to a medium-sized
dinosaur such as himself. But wait¾what was that? Weren’t those suits and ties that they were
wearing? And weren’t they hefting large
briefcases? The fear crept back into
Tom’s two-chambered reptilian heart, his cold blood flowing even colder, as
recognition sunk into his reptilian neurons¾that was a small roving band of Lawyersaurus!
Oh, calm down, Tom told
himself. He’d done no wrong; surely he
had nothing to fear. In fact, his cause
was a noble one: He was uplifting dinosaur
society by enabling them all to move towards a sustainable vegetarian
diet. He straightened out his hunched back
as he lifted himself up from his work and greeted the pack of Lawyersaurus with good cheer, “Good morning, Comrades! And how are you this fine morning?!”
The five Lawyersaurs just daintily
tip-toed through Tom’s outdoor work area, carefully, even suspiciously, eyeing
all his tools and supplies. They
approached Tom. Finally, the first one
spoke up. “Fine, just fine. Thank you.
And just what, exactly, is the meaning of all this?”
“I’m trying to devise methods of
reliable bulk transportation,” Tom replied. “So as to uplift dinosaur society,
to get vegetable foods to market better and faster. To enable our formerly carnivorous brethren
to stick to their new diets more reliably.”
The first Lawyersaur eyed him
through narrowing slits. “Are you implying
that some groups of dinosaurs are inherently less likely to obey the law? Do you follow equal employment opportunity
guidelines here, or not?”
“Oh, I do, I do,” Tom hastened to assure him. “It’s just that I’m only employing myself, so
far. This is a very small outfit, and
will remain so, until I can demonstrate the reliability and usefulness of my
products. If and when I can start to
hire, I’ll be sure to document that all my employees are legal residents, and
diverse, and have proper wages, benefits, and working conditions, and don’t
harass each other or take illegal drugs or endanger the environment, or neglect
to pay babyosaurus support, or say insensitive things, or...”
“Okay, Okay,” another Lawyersaur
interrupted him. “We hear you. Now about these ‘carts’ we’ve been hearing
about. Will they meet emissions
standards? Will they come equipped with
anti-lock brakes, brake lights, turn signals, seat belts, airbags, and mud
flaps? Will you certify the percentage
of domestic content? Will you ensure
that all your customers are licensed and insured cart drivers? Will you report the names and addresses of
all customers who pay you more than one hundred dinodollars in cash?”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” Tom
assured him. “But can’t we be a bit civil? Let me introduce myself. I’m Tom Edisonosaurus, inventor. At least, I’d sure like to invent things for the benefit of dinosaur society. And you?
Might I have the benefit of knowing who has come to inspect, and
possibly assist, my noble enterprises here?”
Yet another Lawyersaur spoke
up. “You say you’re doing this for the
benefit of dinosaur society. Are you
sure you aren’t just another money-grubbing capitalist, out to exploit the
workers? Are you going to pay it all
back to the community that has paid you, or are you going to spend it all on
fancy digs for yourself?”
The first Lawyersaur “shushed” him
and announced, “Enough of that. Mr.
Edisonosaurus is right. Introductions
are in order. Overdue, even.” He reached out a front foot to Tom, who shook
it. “Hi.
I’m Jack B. Swindle, and these are my partners, Charles I. Robb and
Robert B. Steele. We represent the law
firm of Swindle, Robb, & Steele.
With us, we have two of our assistants, Susy Sue Suezallott and Knuckles
Writ Armstrong.”
Front feet were shaken all
around. “So then, how may I serve
you?” Tom inquired solicitously.
“No, we’re here to serve you,” Jack replied to the smiling
Edisonosaurus. Tom’s smile didn’t last
long, though. “With a Writ of Hideous Dorkishness,” Jack continued,
brandishing a sheaf of papers. He began
to read.
“Know all ye Dinosaurs by these here
presentations and obfuscations that the law firm of Swindle, Robb, &
Steele, having hereby been duly appointed counsel of the aggrieved party, a Ms.
Willow W. Whinasaurus, hereinafter to be known as the party of the pure and
innocent party, has been charged with the responsibility of securing suitable
reparations from the negligent party, a Mr. Thomas Edisonosaurus, hereinafter,
hitherinafter, thitherinafter, and foreverandeverinafter to be known as the
guilty party. The a priori swine qua nonsense of the guilty party’s malice and
negligence having been the proximate cause of the grievous bodily harm wreaked
upon the pedal extremities of the pure and innocent party, we do hereby and
alwaysby implore, beseech and entreat that megagigadinodollars be awarded to
the pure and innocent party, and to her counsel.
“Just to send a message,” Jack threw
in as an aside, looking up from his papers.
“It’s not the money, you know.
It’s the principle. We can’t allow greedy capitalists to run
rough-shod over the rest of us. Society
has to defend itself from irresponsible robber barons.”
“Massive remuneration being the only
conceivable ointment that could serve as a squid
pro quotient to the massive bodily damage and physical and mental anguish
inflicted upon the pure and innocent party, we thereby declare that in order to
assuage the sufferings of the pure and innocent party, the guilty party shall
be obligated to recompense the pure and innocent party with his current net
worth, plus all future earnings, minus his oral hygiene appliance¾that’s a ‘tooth brush’ to
ignoramuses like you¾and
one can of Who Hash.
“Hereinafter and foreverafter, let
all Dinosaurs be...”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Tom protested. “Would you care to translate all that garbage
to ordinary Dinospeak?!”
“It means we’re taking you to the
cleaners,” Jack assured him. “For the
good of dinosaur society. You can’t
enrich yourself at the expense of others, and be allowed to get away with it.”
“I haven’t made a dinodime yet!” Tom squalled.
“So what did I do wrong?!”
“You ran over Ol’ Lady Whinasaurus’s
toe with your newfangled contraption, that’s what you did,” Susy chimed in. “You should be thankful she’s not charging
you with sexual assault, too. You were
all alone out there, no witnesses. You
know all about...”
“That’s ridiculous!” Tom
howled. “She just ran right up and stuck
her toe under my wheel. What was I
supposed to do?”
“Let bygones be bygones,” Jack said
soothingly. “There’s nothing you can do
about it now any more, except to try and right your wrongs. Help repair the wounds to Ms. Whinasaurus. Here, sign these papers.”
“Yeah, right, Buddy! All you leeches are hereby invited to vacate
my premises! Out! Scram!
Git! Vamoose!” Tom picked up a
wheelybob-whacker, brandishing it somewhat less than politely. He’d tried to be nice about the whole thing,
but sometimes a dinosaur’s got to do what a dinosaur’s got to do.
The pack of Lawyersaurus scrambled about, gathering up their papers, zipping up
their briefcases, straightening out their ties, and trying to stay well out of
the reach of Tom’s wheelybob-whacker, all while also trying to look
dignified. Tom danced around like a
boxer, swinging the former wheelybob-whacker, now a would-be Lawyersaurus-basher. Briefly, it began to look like he might bag
himself a Lawyersaur or two. In all the
ruckus, one of the Lawyersaurs stepped into Tom’s bucket of resin. He hobbled away, slopping resins all over
papers, briefcases, suits, and Lawyersaurs.
Despite his anger, Tom couldn’t help himself. He roared with joyous laughter.
Soon, all the Lawyersaurs had
gathered up their belongings, and had scurried off into the middle
distance. “You can’t escape your
liability quite that easily,” Jack
taunted. “Guess who we’re gonna go see
next? Your insurance company! So
there!” Then the pack of Lawyersaurs
disappeared into the brush, briefcases briefly flashing.
Dejected, Tom sat down to
think. His Insurance Agentasaurus would
doubtlessly come by soon to tell him to cease and desist from cart-building
activities, since the insurance would become prohibitive. Maybe Tom could do without insurance. Wait, no, strike that¾no insurance, no license. No inventor’s license, no inventing, or go to
jail. Maybe he could at least finish
this one cart, and sell it before he was told to stop.
He dipped that last stone in the
dirty dregs of resin now oozing into the porous prehistoric soil, and glued it
into the wheelybob. Now if only it would
cure fast enough so that he could sell it before the Insurance Agentasaurus
came by... Let’s see, heat should
speed-cure this. Too bad that that other
Lawyersaurus pack a while back came
and sued me into suppressing that other nifty invention of mine, which I called
fierybob. Fierybob, applied just right, could
speed-cure the resin, without burning the wood.
But he’d had to just say no to fierybob¾it was just plain too hazardous. Whinasaurs would burn their toes and smoke would
irritate the delicate noses of Allergiasaurs.
So Tom settled for dragging the cart gently out into the hot noon
Jurassic sun. Then he settled down under
a large tree, and ate some bean sprouts and tofu.
Illustration
goes here above… Lawyersaur in Glue
Pot, etc.
Tom searched desperately for a
buyer, but alas, the Insurance Agentasaurus came by the very next day, and told
him they’d agreed to settle out of court.
“And now, I want to watch while you destroy this ‘cart’ of yours, and
listen while you solemnly promise never to invent such a thing again,” Insurance Agentasaurus concluded. Helplessly, Tom did just that. He eyed the heap of scrap wood ruefully as
Insurance Agentasaurus disappeared into the brush. Someday, he’d come up with something he could
build out of that wood. Something very
useful¾and no one would stop him from
using it.
The next day he sat around,
thinking. He still wanted to Do Good for
dinosaur society. If he couldn’t get the
foods to market fast enough, maybe he could invent a way of preserving them out
in the field. If he could preserve them
long enough, the consumers could wander at their leisure out into the fields
for their meals, even in the off season!
They’d even have to get a bit of exercise, other than by chasing
fellowsaurs to eat, to boot! Healthy
dinosaurs are happy dinosaurs, and happy dinosaurs make for a happy dinosaur
society. What a deal! Enthused, Tom set out to invent what he was
going to call the refrigeratorywhatsit. And this time, he was going to keep it all
secret, hidden from the eyes of Lawyersaurs and Whinasaurs, until he’d proven
what a great benefit these refrigeratorywhatsits would be to all dinokind!
Alas, the best-laid plans of mice
and dinosaurs come to naught. Just as
Tom was putting the finishing touches on his refrigeratorywhatsit, another pack
of a dozen Lawyersaurs came by. Cease
and desist, they told him yet once again.
The working fluids in your invention are hurting the ozone layer. Tom the Inventorasaurus once again turned
into a Demolishasaurus, and his scrap heap grew some more. He started to worry about them soon finding
his scrap heap to be hazardous waste site.
Okay, one last time, he
resolved. And this time, I’ve got to do
it right! Get the word out in advance to
the public, about how much good my inventions will do for dinosaur
society. Enlist the help of some of my
good buddies, too, as an ace in the hole.
Then he got to work.
He discovered some glowing rocks,
and some careful methods of handling them without getting hurt. Then he discovered that these rocks killed micro-organisms. At the same time as thousands of dinosaurs
were dying nationwide from food poisoning, from organisms such as Cyclospora, Salmonella, Vibrio cholerae, and E. Coli, he’d discovered a way to kill
such organisms, safely. He called his
invention the food irradiatorgigalopholus. He sampled his irradiated foods, and found
them to be safe and delicious. But he
kept it all to himself. He pondered how
he could thoroughly prove this method to be safe, without using any dinosaur
other than himself as a test case, and without letting the Catosaurus out of
the Bagosaurus.
So he ended up having to invent the
computerdingus, too, so as to be able to run simulations, with dinosaur
digestive systems and ionizing-radiation-processed foods thoroughly and accurately
simulated, so as to scientifically prove that food irradiation was
harmless. This took him a few years, but
he did manage to pull it off. The
computerdingus, too, he kept secret, because he knew all about carpal tunnel
syndrome, and how this would cause keyboard-pounding dinosaurs to sue and
bankrupt him.
Finally, he was ready. He unleashed an anonymous media campaign,
through friends, to make all dinosaurs aware of how Lawyersaurs were keeping
many modern conveniences out of the front feet of the public. Then he published the results of his
simulations, showing how food irradiation could harmlessly save lives. The media gave him lots of free coverage. That night, after the news conference, he sat
at home, eating his irradiated bean sprouts and tofu, savoring what he thought
was his victory. Tomorrow he’d start
selling food irradiatorgigalopholi,
the public was informed and with him, and lives would be saved!
Or so he thought. That night a pack of two dozen Lawyersaurs
showed up at his door, explaining that he was the target of a class-action
lawsuit, and demanding, under full-disclosure laws, to see all his
records. “How can you do this to me?”
Tom demanded. “No one other than me has
even eaten any of my irradiated foods yet!
How can you sue me so soon?!”
“Just watch, and you’ll see,”
replied one of the Lawyersaurs. With a
start, Tom recognized him as Jack. My,
my, but how the law firm of Swindle, Robb, & Steele had grown! “We’ll sue you because we can,” Jack
continued. “Because we can anticipate
that since you plan on selling hundreds of food irradiatorgigalopholi, tens of
millions of dinosaurs will eat irradiated foods, and several thousand will get
stomach cancer. We’re striking
pre-emptively, before other law firms get to you first, and before you ruin
thousands of lives.”
“But that’s Hogosaurus wash!” Tom protested. “Sure, several thousand will get stomach
cancer! They would, anyway, even without
irradiated foods! And at least we can
cut way back on deaths due to food poisoning!”
“That may or may not be true,” Jack
slyly admitted. “But do you want to
explain that to a jury? Or maybe several
thousand juries, depending on whether or not we get class action status? You know, here’s megagigadinobucks Tom
Edisonosaurus Incorporated, and little old ladyasaurus with stomach
cancer. Who’s the jury going to
sympathize with? Especially after we
weed out all the potential jurors who might understand epidemiology and the
simulations you’ve run.”
“Take a hike,” Tom replied stubbornly. “I’ll get them to see how you bunch of
leeches are keeping good technology out of the public’s front feet. And I’ll overwhelm them with my expert
testimony.”
“Oh yeah?” Jack retorted. “You don’t know what you’re up against. You remember Jimmy Junkscienceosaurus? And Juree Consultasaurus? The guys who convinced juries that those
hi-tech, newfangled ‘hat’ doo-wongussess were causing brain cancer? Well, guess what¾we’ve got them both on retainer!”
he bragged triumphantly.
Tom glowered. It was time to call up his ace in the hole,
his reserves. He bolted out the door and
issued a shrill whistle. In a matter of
minutes, out of the moonlit brush came charging three large adult
Allosaurs! Behind them, looking very
strange and quite awkward, came three Shishkebobasaurs.
Now, many modern human
paleontologists claim that the ceratopsian dinosaurs, the likes of Triceratops
and Styracosaurus, were all descendants of Protoceratops, and that they all
lived in the late Cretaceous. But they’re
wrong. Shishkebobasaurus predated them all, way back to the early Jurassic. Shishkebobasaurus had a body like that
of a large wiener dog, so you wouldn’t have thought of him as very fierce,
judging just from the size of his body.
Nor would the upward-pointing horn coming out of his nose have scared
you very much, for it was in rough proportion to his size. But the two horns pointing forward out of his
neck shield¾now they were a very different matter!
In adult male Shishkebobasaurs, these measured 25 to 30 feet long!
Now it’s true that a small handful
of modern paleontologists have stumbled onto the skeletons of Shishkebobasaurs,
and that they’ve puzzled long and hard over the remains of these utterly
bizarre creatures. They’ve kept this all
secret, fearing that something so completely unexplained would undermine the
very foundations of belief in evolution.
They have also puzzled over just exactly why it was that carnosaurs the
likes of Allosaur and T. Rex had such relatively small,
stunted front legs. If only these
paleontologists would research the truly academic literature like Jurassic Horde Whisperer of Madness County,
they would know the answers to these questions and many others! And just exactly why were they called Shishkebobasaurs,
you ask? Well, be patient. We’re getting back to the story just
now. All will be revealed!
Mayhem broke loose. Blood flowed in rivers and torrents. It was so bad, they’ll probably have to
excise this part of the plot out of Jurassic
Horde Whisperer of Madness County, the movie, if they expect to get
anything less than an NC-17. The
Allosaurs (pay attention now!) picked up the Shishkebobasaurs and clutched them
to their chests, with arms just large enough to hold their relatively smallish
wiener-dog-like bodies. But now, out of
the Allosaurs’ chests, there protruded twin razor-sharp 25-foot daggers! Then the Allosaurs pranced around fiercely,
impaling Lawyersaurs right and left!
The slow and clumsy Lawyersaurs were
no match at all for the nimble, quick Allosaurs. Despite the fact that the Lawyersaurs dashed
around like manic Madrosaurs, the Allosaurs made short work of every last one
of them. The Lawyersaurs kept on trying
to fend those long horns off with writs and briefcases, all in vain. They only succeeded in adding “filler” to the
shish kebobs¾stacks of paper and briefcases
got impaled along with the Lawyersaurs.
Finally, three Allosaurs paraded about, each sporting eight impaled
Lawyersaurs.
At first, the sight freaked Tom out
pretty badly. But then he kept on reminding
himself that these were, after all, Lawyersaurs. So he got used to it fairly fast. He didn’t even mind watching, as the
Allosaurs, tired of tofu, bean sprouts, and celery, tried to munch out. They
served each other by waving their Shishkebobasaurs about, taking turns nibbling
on the fare offered up by their partner.
Or at least, they tried. They
complained about how the Lawyersaurs’ suits got in the way, and how the Lawyersaurs
themselves tasted rather harsh and unpalatable.
Tom felt pretty bad for the Allosaurs.
So Tom sat there and thought, and lo
and behold, a brilliant idea came to him!
He remembered how years ago he’d invented fierybob, and how heating his bean soup had made it taste better,
and how he’d been able to burn the chaff out of his wheat germ, leaving a
tasty, toasted result. And right now
there were no Lawyersaurs in any sort of condition suitable for keeping him
from lighting up a fierybob again! So he
ran off, fetched his implements, and set fire to his scrap heap. All that old wood fired right up, and he
explained to the Allosaurs. They then
promptly proceeded to burn the papers, the briefcases, and the suits right off
of all the Lawyersaurs, toasted them up nice and well done, and had a
feast! A good time was had by all,
excepting the Lawyersaurs of course, even though nobody had thought to invent
marshmallows yet.
So now you understand why they were
called Shishkebobasaurs. They served a
similar function for all the other, later bipedal carnosaurs, down through the
ages, except that the carnosaurs were no longer carnosaurs, except for very,
very rare crimes. Shishkebobasaurs
remained the hunting partners and became the roasting implements of the bipedal
carnosaurs, except now, the carnosaurs only used them to hunt and cook
cabbages, carrots, and beans.
In other words, after the episode
here described, peace reined for ages.
The remaining Lawyersaurs learned their lesson, and most dinosaurs
learned to resist, whenever the Horde Whisperer would come by again, whispering
that the road to prosperity consists of every dinosaur suing every other
dinosaur. Nor did they believe the
whispers about technology, free markets, and greedy money-grubbing capitalists
being the source of all evil. Amazingly
enough, they didn’t even believe the ensuing whispered quasi-truth, so much
closer to the real truth but still so far removed, that all bad things were the
fault, then, not of techno geeks and capitalists, but of Lawyersaurs
instead. Feeling defeated, neglected,
and dejected, the Horde Whisperer fled the Earth for a hundred million years
and more. Technology, capitalism, and
legal justice worked in harmony, and a peaceful dinosaur civilization prospered
for the rest of the Jurassic era.
Illustration goes here above… We-Bad Carnosaurs
3)
The Cretaceous Horde Whisperer
“The tyranny of a
multitude is a multiplied tyranny.”
Edmund Burke (1729–1797)
The ages slipped by. Continents shifted, oceans drained and
mountain ranges were thrust up into the heavens. Still the dinosaurs lived in peaceful
prosperity. Their technology didn’t explode.
It just sort of simmered. Yes, they had fire, the wheel, houses,
microwaves, food irradiation, nose rings, and double-entry bookkeeping. But they didn’t have fossil fuels, intensive
agriculture, field artillery, nuclear power, pop tarts, or Roller-Blade Barbie
dolls.
They were intent on being
ecologically and spiritually advanced, more so than materially advanced. So they shunned all unsustainable
technologies, and those which might hurt the Earth, or any of its species
larger or more conscious than an ammonite.
This meant that one of their much underdeveloped sciences was
pharmacology, because there were no species close to them that they could
ethically experiment on. They managed to
live happily at a medium technological level, and they had the wisdom to
refrain from unsustainable technologies.
They were able to live in peace for uncounted millions of years.
Then the Earth beckoned to the Horde
Whisperer once again. After all these
eons, surely they’d forgotten the
lessons of the past! Hopefully, they’d
listen to new Whispers about it all being the fault of the Other Dinosaur. The Horde Whisperer tuned his ears to the
cosmic vibes, hovering down towards the lush and fertile Earth. His Mission: To go where no Horde Whisperer
had gone before. To find Sensitive Ones,
Receptive Ones, those who would be willing and able to hear and obey his
Whispers.
Titusaurus Rex, of the
much-ballyhooed species Tyrannosaurus Rex,
got up that morning feeling more than just a little depressed. He winced at the smell of rotting bean
sprouts and tofu on his breath, then brushed his teeth, feeling only marginally
better. He checked his look in the
mirror, noticing how the lines on his face kept getting clearer. He moved ‘round and ‘round his dumpy apartment,
thinking, dinosaur, life’s slipping me by, and I’m not even so much as dancing
in the dark. A glance at the calendar¾here it is, the very, very late
Cretaceous, and I’ve never even so much as thrown a truly memorable party,
attended by anyone who’s somebody. I’ve
got to get into the game, and get a piece of the action, he told himself. I’ve got to come out with a new
attitude. Like, dinosaur, this
Shishkebobasaur’s for hire! Stay outta
my way!
But he couldn’t just snap his claws
and make himself feel better. He still
felt depressed. He wondered whether all
those vegetarian foods simply didn’t quite suit his metabolism. Maybe those starchy roots were making him
manioc-depressive. So he sat and thought
long, brooding thoughts about how maybe in the old days, when carnosaurs were
carnosaurs and herbosaurs were afraid, life had been better for his kind. The thrill of the chase, victory, and a
satisfying, high-protein meal!
The memory of that small snippet
came back now to haunt him. He knew all
those many years ago when he stumbled onto the very freshly but naturally
deceased body of a juvenile Corythosaurus,
that he should’ve just brought out the body and notified the relatives. Or at the very least, just left it there, and
notified the authorities. But there he
was, all by himself, out in the brush.
He’d not even bothered to bring Sherman, his faithful sidekick and
favorite Shishkebobasaur. This was,
after all, just a nature walk, not a vegetable-hunting expedition. So no one would ever know. The temptation was just too great.
He’d wolfed down the remains of that
young Corythosaurus. The raw meat tasted
rich and smooth as it slid, lubricated by slightly congealed blood, down his
gullet. The crunch of bones somehow
added to those plaintive, primordially satisfying sensations. Thoughts of a grieving Corythosaurus family,
never knowing what had happened to their lost beloved, subtracted from his
pleasure only marginally. Far more so,
it was fear of getting caught that kept Titusaurus Rex from seeking out more of
the same.
So in the meantime, he had to
satisfy his urges to hunt by rounding up Sherman and going out for fat, ripe,
juicy fruits and vegetables. He’d wave
Sherman’s horns way up into the air and into the trees, spearing coconuts,
bananas, and, when he was feeling particularly skilled, apricots and
persimmons. But the whole thing left a
sour taste in his mouth. So then he’d
swing Sherman’s horns low, using his awesome brute strength and his seven-ton
mass to plow Sherman’s horns through the damp and fertile soil. Then he’d impale the carrots, potatoes, and
woolly peanuts that spilled forth into the light of day. Prehistoric woolly peanuts, in those days,
were much bigger than the modern ones, so those didn’t take such a remarkable
degree of skill to harvest as did smaller fruits and vegetables.
Titusaurus made a fairly decent
living gathering fruits and vegetables, and he was never in any danger of
starving, but something was still quite clearly missing. Surely there
had to be more to life than this! When his lust for flesh grew particularly
strong, he’d lick the insects off of the fruits he’d gather, and the worms out
of the clumps of soil that clung to those roots and tubers. Sherman’s sight was poor, and on those rare
occasions when Sherman inquired as to what Titusaurus was up to, he’d simply
explain that he was doing a pre-wash rinse of their produce, getting rid of the
debris before washing it in the river and then taking it to market. Lighten the load, Titusaurus explained. Sherman would look slightly disgusted, but
there’d be no more questions.
But worms and bugs never truly
satisfied Titusaurus’s carnivorous lusts.
All this simmered in the background as Titusaurus rounded up Sherman for
another day’s work. Titusaurus tried to remember his new resolve to be more
upbeat that day, as he worked in the fields, spearing yams. Remember, he told himself, you can’t start a
fire without a spark. This
Shishkebobasaur’s for hire!
But it just didn’t work. No matter
how hard he tried, he couldn’t change himself or his attitude just by wishing
it were so. The sun was still hot, the
soil still resisted, and the yams still weren’t anywheres near as satisfying as
flesh. Tasty, slippery, tantalizingly
forbidden flesh. Now stop that, he told
himself. On occasion he’d make “jokes”
to Sherman, about how maybe they should go on a real hunt, like their ancestors had done so many eons ago. Sherman would laugh, and then say, “Oh, just
go and eat a bug, why don’t
you?!” Then Titusaurus would laugh,
too. Every once in a while, he wondered
if Sherman knew more than he let on to.
So Titusaurus toiled in the fields
that day, thinking, out here in the fields, I fight for my meals. But life’s a bore. Nothing ever changes. Drudgery and monotony. Remember when I was young? She was going to be an actress, and I was
going to learn to fly. Those dreams are
gone now. Or are they? Surely
I could be a movie star, if only I could get out of this place! Then he
got to thinking, now, just how many times have I gone through this? Resolved to get me a new ‘tude, and get me a
life. And it all comes to naught. Then he got really depressed.
So that night he decided he couldn’t
take it any more. He had to do something. He’d heard,
lately, about new theories about brain biochemistry and herbal fixes. How certain substances could make one feel
better. So he set out to visit an old
friend who he’d not seen in quite a while, by the name of Yule
Pharmacolosaurus.
Now Yule was an old buddy of his
from way back. They’d gone to school
together. Yule had never amounted to
much, ever since he’d gotten kicked out of high school for causing trouble. So Titusaurus was quite surprised to find
Yule living in a large new mansion that night.
But they sat down together and had a long chat.
It was past midnight when Titusaurus
got back home to his apartment that night.
It had been a long journey, but it had all been worth it. There was a new spring in his step, and he
wasn’t anywhere near as tired as he’d have expected to be, after such a long
trip. After he and Yule had talked, Yule
had decided that Titusaurus suffered from depression and poor circulation. So he’d given him a small sample of “what’s
good for what ails you”, which in this case was an ancient herb called “Gringo
Balboa”. Titusaurus bolted it right
down, and announced that it wasn’t so bad.
So Yule sold him a few baggies.
On credit, Yule assured him. Just
bring me a few bags of those yummy yams, or whatever’s in season.
As he bounded into his apartment,
then calmed down before getting to bed, Titusaurus thought about all this with
a fair degree of hope. The only thing
that baffled him was that Yule had asked him to keep it all secret. This, he didn’t understand at all. If it made dinosaurs feel better, then why
keep it secret? But Yule had refused to
explain, and had sworn him to secrecy.
Oh, well, Titusaurus Rex thought, dismissively, it’s not my problem. Just do as you promised your friend, and
don’t worry your large, fearsome head about it, he told himself, nodding off to
sleep.
For the next week or so, he
faithfully ate a small clump of Gringo Balboa every morning. He felt reinvigorated, energetic, even
youthful. He resolved to visit, pay, and
profusely thank Yule sometime real soon.
Then that fateful day dawned.
He was out picking bananas when he
heard those far-off, hideously pitiful moans.
Being a far more compassionate Tyrannosaurus Rex than modern
paleontologists have ever suspected was possible, Titusaurus Rex barged through
the brush, fellow-feeling coursing through his veins, powering his awesome
muscles. In short order, the source of
the sounds appeared right in front of him, there in the clearing. A herd of Pachycephalosaurs milled about in
anxious, loud confusion around one of their kind writhing in obvious great pain
on a makeshift bed of leaves. Writhing
carefully and delicately, strangely enough, it seemed, for the tortured
creature appeared to flail all parts of its body except for its lower back and
its hip joints.
Titusaurus waded right into the
raucous ruckus. Making his way straight
to the loudest debaters, he interrupted, saying, “Gentlesaurs,
gentlesaurs. Now I sympathize with your
anxiety, here, but surely this is no way to improve matters! Unlike your friend, here, you have no real
reason for behaving so... irrationally uncontrolled. Perhaps it would be best to tune your friend
out for just a few minutes in order to calmly decide what is best for...”, Titusaurus
shot a quick glance at the suffering Pachycephalosaur, paying special heed to
the head, “...him,” he finished, after conducting a quick, simple gender
inspection. The herd of
Pachycephalosaurs calmed down considerably.
My, my, what powers I wield!
Titusaurus congratulated himself. Just
by my sheer size and calm demeanor, I soothe their frantic distress! “Now what seems to be the trouble, here?” he
gently inquired.
“Paul’s in terrible pain, can’t you
see?!” one of them wailed. “He’s got inoperable, terminal bone cancer. To top it all off, he tried to walk around,
stumbled, fell, and broke his hip! So
now he’s...” The statement just trailed
off into an unintelligible babble of anguished sobs.
Bedlam murmured louder,
threateningly, so Titusaurus nipped it in the bud. Raising his voice, he asked, “Well, haven’t
you asked a Doctorsaur for some of this new, um, hurtfighter? Now, I’m not
much for keeping up with the news, but it seems to me that we’ve been making
some really great progress in the way of medicines in just the last few million
years. So why...”
They drowned him out in an orgy of
shouting, almost coming to blows with one another. Titusaurus barely understood a few sentiments
here and there: “...take care, ‘cause Paul might get addicted, and that would be just awful, to have him die that way, after he’s led such a good
life...” “...anyway, we can’t find a
Doctorsaur who’ll do it for us, so why...”
“... got to be strong, and just say no,
‘cause...” “...care what you say, I’m going down to Yule Pharmacolosaurus right now, and...”
There was some scuffling, and
grabbing at the last speaker. “Hold it now, just HOLD IT!!!” Titusaurus
thundered. “Now calm down! Would y’all please explain...” A small group pulled aside, to explain to
Titusaurus in detail. The other Pachycephalosaurs,
seemingly somewhat embarrassed about their emotional excesses, debated much
more calmly. But Titusaurus saw them
keeping a watchful eye on him and the small group that was trying to explain to
him. Somehow, Titusaurus knew that as
soon as they’d explained the details to him, they were all looking to him, the
large and powerful outsider, to make some sort of wise, impartial decision.
The pain of a fellowsaur, and peace
in a Pachycephalosaur clan, all rested upon him! Titusaurus found himself wishing he’d spent
more time reading the papers, or at least watching the evening news, instead of
just eating tofu and watching saursitcoms and saurball. All these heady issues, all those
Pachycephalosaurs over there pretending to try and look after their suffering
fellowsaur, but really actually keeping an eye on me, and I barely know what’s going on!
He forced himself to pay attention,
very carefully. What were they telling
him? It seemed that these new hurtfighters sometimes led to a thing
called addiction, whereby dinosaurs
would come to depend on them. That was
bad. We already depend on sleep, air,
water, tofu, and Monday night saurball.
We just can’t go adding yet
another, was the sentiment of some.
Including an agency called BIGDADA,
it seemed. Titusaurus, embarrassed, had
to ask what that stood for. Bureau of Inexorably Grinding Down on All Drug Advancement, they explained.
So Titusaurus asked why they didn’t
just ask a Doctorsaur to get them the medicine that their fellowsaur
needed. “Surely it’s obvious to all that
he’s in great pain, and needs this hurtfighter!” Titusaurus objected. “Why the big controversy?”
So they explained to him that
BIGDADA opposed all drug advancement.
Whenever they’d hear of anyone scheming to advance pharmacology, they’d
bus in supporting demonstrators, and they’d all march around, chanting, “F-D-A!
F-D-A! F-D-A!” This, apparently, stood for Forsake Drug Advancement. And BIGDADA had it in for hurtfighters
especially. No new drugs may reach the
market, and those few that exist already, which alerted us to this addiction thing, well, those,
we’ve got to keep a special eye on.
Doctorsaurs who prescribe more of these than other Doctorsaurs in the
neighborhood must obviously be up to no good, so we’ve got to take their
licenses away. Then there’s always the
next remaining Doctorsaur, who’s now the new one who prescribes more
hurtfighters than anyone else in the neighborhood. So after a few million years of this, there
were no licensed Doctorsaurs who were willing to help Paul.
That’s where the big argument came
in. The clan’s young hotheads were are
charged up, ready to go and see if a certain Yule Pharmacolosaurus would help
them. But Yule, you see... Titusaurus
became even more attentive now. Maybe the
mysteries around Yule would be resolved!
But calm down, he told himself.
Remember your promises to your good buddy Yule, and don’t even let on
that you’ve had any dealings with him!
So pay attention, yes, certainly.
But don’t look too eager!
“Yule,” one said, “has no
license. He’s not paid his dues to
BIGDADA, the Doctorsaurs, the pharmacists’ unions, or even the
Legislatorsaurs. So if we deal with him,
we take a big risk. If we got busted,
Lawyersaurs, Judgasaurs, Policasaurs, and all other sorts of Goonasaurs, at the
behest of BIGDADA, the Doctorsaurs, and such, will all descend wrathfully on
both Yule and all of us. It’s a risk we
can’t take.”
So now, finally, I understand!
Titusaurus crowed. Yule’s furtive,
fearful demeanor. His insistence on
secrecy. Even his new mansion. Now Titusaurus was no Geniusaurus, but at
least he understood a small bit of economics.
If there were demands for goods and services that were dangerous to
fulfill, those who filled these needs would be well compensated. On the down side, he wondered how long Yule
could stay out of the dinodungeon, what with BIGDADA and the long claws of the
law not taking too kindly to what Yule was doing. Nor were Yule’s activities quite as big a
secret as Yule might have wished, it seemed to Titusaurus. It all appeared to be common knowledge, here.
“So let me get this straight,”
Titusaurus summarized. “There’s a
fellowsaur suffering, here, with no relief in sight. And the relief that lies out of sight, not so
far away, the only relief that we know of, might not linger much longer. Then we must conclude that time to act is
now! They say that all that is necessary
for the triumph of insensitivity is for good dinosaurs to do nothing!”
Titusaurus stood up tall and
proud. He announced, “I can stand the
sight of a suffering fellowsaur no longer.
All you who are with me, come with me now, and we’ll fetch pain relief
for him. We’ll go and see our good comrade,
Yule Pharmacolosaurus, right now!” He strode forth with determination.
A small army of protesting
Pachycephalosaurs surrounded him, pushing, shoving, and shouting. Only a small fraction of them seemed to side
with him, pushing back, trying to protect him.
But the numbers were against him.
He tried to fight his way out of the herd, but they crowded him back
towards Paul. Trying to play rough, are
they? He glanced outwards, looking for
his ever-faithful (OK, well, mostly-faithful) sidekick, Sherman the
Shishkebobasaur. There he was, at the
edge of the clearing! Titusaurus gave
him a meaningful glance. Sherman,
seemingly reading his mind, slowly but resolutely shook his head “NO”. Sherman wouldn’t get himself involved in any
sort of violence against any sort of fellowsaurs, no matter what the cause.
Titusaurus fought. For ten minutes, he gave it his all. Doing everything he could, short of
deliberately trying to hurt his fellowsaurs, he and the small number of young
Pachycephalosaurs who sided with him tried to break free. But they were surrounded; the opposition kept
on pushing them into the middle of the herd, crushing Paul, amplifying his
agony.
Finally, Titusaurus just couldn’t
take it any more. Something snapped
inside of him. “ALL RIGHT, ALL YOU BONEHEADS!!!
I’M WARNING Y’ALL ONE LAST TIME!!!
LET US GO!!!” He
bellowed. Still the crowd refused to
yield. Titusaurus didn’t believe it to be possible, but they crammed him and
his buddies in even tighter against Paul, and Paul screamed in even greater
agony. So Titusaurus stooped down, and,
with mighty jaws flinging flashing teeth around in great arcs, he sliced Paul’s
body into great chunks of bloody flesh.
Paul’s agony was at an end at last.
Titusaurus couldn’t help it. The taste of all that flesh and blood was
just too much. He stooped down again,
and gulped down bloody chunk after bloody chunk of fresh Pachycephalosaurus
flesh. Blood flowed down his neck and
flank. He felt completely out of
control, as if a spirit from another place and time, from a hundred million
years and more back in time, had come and inhabited his body. He heard the primeval roar, not even
realizing it was him. The entire herd of
Pachycephalosaurs fled in terror.
A timeless time later, he found
himself wandering, all alone, lost out in the forest. Why did his stomach feel so totally,
blissfully happy? Why did he have a
strong urge to just lie down and sleep? Why was he all covered with blood?! It all came back to him. Horrified, he made himself sit down, calm
down, and think. There’s no way you can
run from this thing, he told himself.
The whole world will know. Every
dinosaur everywhere will demand my death, in payment for this most terrible
crime, unheard of in all these millions upon millions of years. I can run, but I can’t hide. So he gave in. He just lied down and went to sleep, as his
forgotten instincts and his heavily laden stomach demanded.
When he awoke, his stomach felt
distinctly less happy. Worst of all,
though, was why he awoke. A Policasaur was excitedly yelling, “Over
here! Over here! I found the murderer!!!”
Titusaurus Rex slowly joined the
waking world, a sick and sinking feeling overwhelming him. He found himself facing a phalanx of
Policasaurs, with their array of long spears menacing him. Sherman the Shishkebobasaur would come in
real handy just now, if he hadn’t abandoned me, he fleetingly thought. If I had any will to resist, which I
don’t. I’m guilty as sin! Time to face the music. They herded him out of the jungle and towards
civilization. He just plodded along in a
daze.
Not too much later, he found himself
outside the courthouse. Dinosaurs of
many kinds had gathered from far places to see this most strange of
aberrations, a murdering fiend of an insensitive, carnivorous, killer dinosaur. The courthouse being too small for the
gathered horde, the weather being pleasant, and the Lawyersaurs loving to put
on a show for as many dinosaurs as possible, the trial would be held outside.
“Kill him, kill him,” the horde
chanted. “Blood for blood, death for
death,” they chanted. “Kill him, kill
him, blood for...”
One Lawyersaur stood up in front of
the shackled form of Titusaurus, bullhorn in hand, shouting out to the crowd,
“All right, settle down now, ya hear! Settle down! Now we can’t just go off and kill our
fellowsaur, just like that! We have to
have a proper trial first! Then we can kill the killer¾now be patient. If we could have all of our witnesses...”
A bigger, apparently more important
Lawyersaur barged through the small crowd of Lawyersaurs surrounding
Titusaurus, bowling many a Lawyersaur aside, and grabbed the bullhorn. He glared first at the Lawyersaurs, then at
the large and growing crowd surrounding them.
“Now wait just a minute! We’ll
have no Jumpasaurus court here in my court! What is
this!? We’ll have a fair trial, and then we’ll kill him?! I’ll remind all my fellowsaurs that in
Dinoland, all dinosaurs are innocent until proven guilty! And that’s guilty beyond a reasonable doubt,
too!
“SHAME on you, you hooligans!” he
thundered. “Now if any of you are here
thirsting for the blood of your fellowsaur, you can leave right now! This isn’t some
big show put on for your amusement.
We’re going to be very slow and methodical here. Justice hurried is justice denied. So if you’re impatiently lusting for some
titillation rather than impartially seeking illumination as to exactly what our
fellowsaur here did, and why, well, you can just leave, right now. This is my
court, and in my court, we seek justice, not amusement. Illumination, not titillation. You got
that?!”
The crowd calmed down. Joe Judgasaurus conducted some ceremonies,
then declared the court to be in session.
Prosecution and defense made their opening statements. According to the latest court procedures in
Dinoland, defense got to call their witnesses first. First to take the stand was Sigmund
Psychiasaurus, an expert witness.
Sigmund said a lot of things that
day. Fancy things, long-winded
things. After a long while, even the
Lawyersaurs got pretty impatient. So
Sigmund got the hint and wrapped it up.
“So gentlesaurs, what I’m saying, here, is that Titusaurus is not to
blame. He can’t be. He’s merely the
helpless victim of his own primitive instinctual, primeval carnivorous
urges. We may recoil in disgust from
what he may have done, but even if he really did what he’s accused of, well,
he’s the victim. Victimized by his own
feelings, to simplify greatly. And we
can’t go blaming the victim. No
dinosaurs could do such a thing, and still claim to be civilized.”
The crowd muttered and grumbled. The Judgasaurus banged his gavel, but the
crowd paid him no heed. If anything,
they grew even more restless. A few
dinosaurs, up close in front where they could be heard, thundered out, “Well,
then, who is to blame?!”... “Paul
Pachycephalosaurus is dead and gone. He’s the real victim! How about him
and his family?!”... “Somebody must
be at fault! Somebody is to blame! Let’s
find him and kill him!” and other assorted outbursts.
Joe Judgasaurus banged his gavel,
good and hard. “Order! Order in this court!” They still ignored him. His eyes rolled and his shoulders
slumped. There was only so much he could
do. The crowd wanted justice, and they
wanted it now! How does one say “No” to thousands of enraged
dinosaurs? Maybe one doesn’t, Joe
thought. Maybe one goes with the
flow. Let’s see, what are they saying
now?
“Sigmund Psychiasaurus eats
dinopoop,” he thought he heard one dinosaur shouting. I can’t be responding to that sort of thing, Joe thought.
Very unprofessional. Besides, if
we let them start questioning our expert witnesses, who knows who they’ll be questioning next? Lawyersaurs, maybe, or
even Judgasaurs! Demidinogods forbid! No Sir, we’ll not pursue such avenues. Respond to our large and restless crowd, yes. After all, they’ve apparently lost a
fellowsaur to murder, for the first time in many millions of years. So the crowd must be appeased. The usual procedures by which the Lawyersaurs
and I orchestrate the whole show, well, that might have to drop by the wayside,
this time. But I’ve got to at least
carefully pick and choose which inputs from the crowd we go with. Control the direction of this Jumpasaurus
court, if not the precise steps or the speed.
“I know who’s to blame!” One very
loud dinosaur was bellowing. “I know who’s to blame! Listen to me! I know...”
“Pipe down, everybody!” Joe
thundered. “Let our fellowsaur
speak!” There’s danger here, he
thought. I don’t know who he’ll blame. Well, if he blames Lawyersaurs, Judgasaurs,
or Psychiasaurs, we’ll just have to deal with that. But he sounds as if he’s got new and original
material. Let’s just go with my
instincts, and hope that he’ll lead us off on a path that I can use...
The crowd quieted down. Joe held his front leg out towards the large
Hadrosaur who’d spoken up, saying, “Gentlesaurs, we have a fellowsaur up here
who claims to have some information we should all share. Now if you would, please, let’s give him our
undivided attention. And for the record,
Sir, if you will first state your name...”
Joe had debated swearing him in,
first, but the crowd seemed pretty steamed up.
Only so much ceremony they’ll put up with, he’d decided, making another
one of those snap judgments. This, after
all, was one of the reasons Joe was a Judgasaurus.
“Ah, um, yes, Your Honor,” the
Hadrosaur stammered. “Harry. Harry Hadrosaur, that’s my name.” Good so far, Joe thought. Show me some respect, follow procedure and
formality at least a little bit. We’ll
soon be right back on track. Sort
of. As much as one can be on track, with
such an unusual and controversial case.
“Your Honor, I would direct the
court’s attention towards Titusaurus Rex’s friends. Now I’ve heard he’s been hanging out lately
with a pretty bad crowd. I’ve been told
he goes out carousing with those impish, impertinent young Deinonychusses down
there in Tangee Town. Not that I’m
denigrating their species, mind you! But
they’ve been filling his head with all sorts of improper, even gruesome
ideas. It’s clear to me, Sir, that these
‘friends’ of his must be to blame. I
think...”
“No Sir! Out of the question!” Joe shut him off. “No can do.
Now, I appreciate your input, Sir, but you see, here in Dinoland we have
freedom of association, and freedom of assembly. This is the land of the free and the home of
the brave! Anyone can associate with
anyone, without fear. No guilt by
association. And no hearsay. None!
That’ll be enough of that!” Joe
grinned inwardly. I’m getting back into
control here. Let’s see, what next?
Illustration goes here above… Dino
Court Scene
“Anyone else out there have any
helpful information they’d care to share?” he inquired. Many front feet were thrust towards the azure
late Cretaceous sky. Scanning his eyes
rapidly across the crowd, Joe called upon his considerable intuition of
dinosaur behavior. Now, pick one who
seems properly respectful, he told himself.
Not one whose body attitude tells me they’re only just barely containing
themselves, and forcing themselves to gain permission to speak. Pick an innocent-looking one. OK, there she is. A young Ornithomimus. “You, ma’am.
Please speak up. And don’t
forget, we’ll need to know, for the record, who you are.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Pleased to meet you. I’m Olivia Ornithomimus. Sir, I’d like to point out that I,
personally, have seen Titusaurus Rex going to meetings at Stephen Stegoceras’s
pseudo-religious ‘services’. You know,
that crazy cult where they do all sorts of bizarre things that violate the will
of the Demidinogods. I’m quite sure that they’ve been
brainwashing him into these crazy ideas that have now taken root in this poor,
demented fellowsaur’s brain. We can’t
let them get away with murder! We can’t, we’ve got to...”
“No way!” Joe roared. “I’ll have none of this in my court! Now thank you very much, young ladysaur, but
that’s as far as we’ll go with that
sort of thing! You see, in Dinoland, we
have freedom of religion, and I want it kept
that way! Everyone is allowed to have
their own religious beliefs, so long as they don’t infringe on the rights of
others. No matter how we might feel about the things they believe, we’ve got to leave them alone! Can’t fault a fellowsaur just because of the
way he or she worships. Now, who else
cares to speak up?” Joe judiciously
picked yet another uplifted front foot.
“Ah, yes, I’m Sally Saltasaurus Nosenheimer,”
an older female Saurapod spoke up. “He’s
been reading some awful books and watching some really terrible shows. I work at the library, and I, personally,
have seen Titusaurus Rex check these books out.
And my friend right over there, he works at the video store. He can testify, and so can I. No hearsay here! Now these books and shows, I tell you, have
been really just horrid! Awful, violent,
unspeakable things! Unimaginable things!
“So the authors and the
scriptwriters are clearly to blame. Like
Jonjon Gristlyspammasaurus, who writes about sleazy, promiscuous and violent
dinosaurs, and then blames others for doing the same thing! Him and these others, they’re just tearing
dinosociety down! Killing, now even! Killing
the likes of poor, innocent Paul Pachycephalosaurus! These hypocritical, irresponsible writers, we
can’t let them get away with it! We’ve got to stop them, before they kill
again!”
“Enough!” Joe Judgasaurus
thundered. “Just stop this right
now! I’ll remind you that Dinoland is
the home of the free, and the land of the brave! And in Dinoland, we have freedom of
speech! Writers and artists can say
whatever they want to say, without fear of being punished. Even if sometimes some of our fellowsaurs
take wrongly, those things that our artists say, we cannot, and will not,
squelch the freedoms of Writersaurs and Artisaurs! Not so long as I’m running this court, we’ll not go blaming innocent artists for
what others do! Do I make myself
clear?!”
Well, that was a bit harsh, now, he
said to himself. So he added, “Not that
we don't appreciate your input, of course.
We really do need to find who
is to blame for this horrible deed, and all inputs are welcome. You, over there.”
“Um, yes, Your Honor. They call me Andrew Anatotitan
Buttinski. This Titusaurus Rex fella,
now, I know him. I live not too far away
from him, and I’ve talked to him often. I’ll tell you who’s to blame. I’ll tell you who’s been putting these crazy
ideas into his head, that he can just go ahead and act on those bad instincts
of his. It’s his political party! He’s a rabid member of The Order of Anarchic Dinosaurs! He’s a TOAD, don’t you see! They’re like a militia! They advocate all
sorts of destructive and anti-social policies!
It’s them that put these ideas
into his head! It’s them that killed Paul Pachycephalosaurus! We’ve got
to hold them accountable for
their evil deeds! We must!”
“We must NOT,” Joe replied most
firmly. “Not in Dinoland, the home of
the proud and the free. You see, we have
political freedom here in Dinoland. You
can belong to any political party that you like, and vote for anyone you
like. You can even go off all by
yourself, and form a new party to
your own liking. So we’ll not go off and
blame his political party for this. Now
I’d really, really like to know: Just who,
exactly, is to blame for this
cold-blooded murder? You. Speak up.”
“Your Honor, if it may please this
court, I can tell you who’s to blame.
Oh, yes, my name: They call me Skape Ghoaghterasaurus.”
Oh, no, Titusaurus thought,
panicked. Ol’ Skape, here, he’s a
character! What will he do to me?! Like what he did to his Dentisaurus after he dared to give Skape that root
canal? Suppose Skape knows about my
false teeth? I can see it now! Stir up the crowd. But for or against whom? Blame my Dentisaurus? Or me?
“Dentures don’t kill dinosaurs.
Dinosaurs kill dinosaurs.” It’s
all been going so well! It’s not my
fault at all, so far! I hope Skape
doesn’t go off and ruin it. If he knows
about my dentures, that’s bad news, either way!
They’ll blame me again, or my Dentures.
After all, without my dentures, Paul Pachycephalosaurus might still be
with us. So we’ve got to implement
better denture control policies. And I’m
not thinking Polydinodent¾I’m
thinking I’ll be stuck gumming my food for the rest of my life! Not at all a pleasant prospect for me, a
member of the proudest of species, a powerful Tyrannosaurus Rex!
Titusaurus listened fearfully to
Skape, shortly realizing that his worries had missed the mark: “Now, I’ve seen our victimized fellowsaur,
Titusaurus Rex, here, going on down to visit Yule Pharmacolosaurus. I’m quite certain that if we get the right
dinosaurs to testify, we can prove
that Yule has been selling poisons to Titusaurus Rex. Poisons such as an ancient herb called
‘Gringo Balboa’. Herbs that have
poisoned the poor fellowsaur’s mind.
This Yule Pharmacolosaurus, he’s clearly to blame! He never got himself a Doctorsaur’s license,
or even so much as registered with BIGDADA or the pharmacists’ unions, and here
he is, taking it upon himself to randomly dispense poisons, to anyone who will
pay!
“Now I know many, many dinosaurs
have been turning blind eyes towards these nefarious goings-on. Now one of us has died. Murdered,
by Yule Pharmacolosaurus! What more
will it take?! I say the time to act is now!
All that is required for the triumph of impropriety is for good
dinosaurs to do nothing! Now let’s go, and punish the killer!”
“Not so fast,” Joe grumbled. “We must proceed with all due caution, and
all due process. Turning, he said to
Titusaurus, “Is it true? Did Yule
Pharmacolosaurus sell poisons to you?
Have you been under the influence?”
Startled, Titusaurus replied, “Um,
no, Your Honor, no one has poisoned me, and I’ve felt fine, just really fine,
lately...”
Skape broke in, protesting, “Yeah,
Your Honor, he’s been feeling way
fine. Way fine, I tell you. Yule Pharmacolosaurus has been making a lot
of dinosaurs feel way fine, lately. And
without a license! Now get him to
tell you the truth. Put it to him
more...”
“Hush, hush,” Joe commanded. “I’ll do this. Now Titusaurus, is this true? Has Yule Pharmacolosaurus been selling you
things that have made you feel better?”
“Why, yes, Your Honor. He’s been a real chap! He...” Titusaurus talked some more, but no
one heard him, no one at all. Not even
his chair. Most of the crowd, including
Lawyersaurs and Policasaurs, arose as one, thundering out their anger. They hoisted their garden implements and
torches in anger, and stampeded towards the dwelling of one certain Yule
Pharmacolosaurus. A few of the remaining
Policasaurs came over to Titusaurus, telling him to get up out of his
chair. They then promptly removed his
shackles.
“You’re free to go,” one of them
announced.
Titusaurus was by now totally
baffled. “What? Free to go, completely free?” He turned towards the Judgasaurus for
confirmation.
“Go, go,” Joe assured him. “You’re free.
Free as a Quetzalcoatl us. Now
fly free!”
Not even so much as a “Go, and sin
no more?” Titusaurus wondered. He
couldn’t help it. He pressed his
luck. “I murdered and ate my fellowsaur,
and I’m free to go? What is
this?!”
“No, no, you didn’t murder and eat
your fellowsaur,” Joe Judgasaurus assured him.
“You were the helpless victim of a lawless poison pusher¾a conscienceless, spineless
wonder, not deserving of being called a fellowsaur, who dared to take it upon himself, to sell you things to make you feel
better, without a license. He was the killer. He
must pay!! Our agents of justice, in all
their thousands, they go now to serve him his just deserts! And all others like him! Strongly warned, now, we will no longer turn
a blind eye on him and others like him!
You, in playing your part as an innocent victim, have served dinosociety
well! Go, now, and go with pride!”
Titusaurus just shook his head and
shuffled off. “Feel free to come right
on back here for free government-sponsored counseling for crime victims if you
need it!” the Judgasaurus called out after him, as he headed for home.
Titusaurus wasn’t very worried about
his need for counseling. He was worried
about what fate might befall his friend, Yule.
That, and, being as self-centered as most of his fellowsaurs, he also
worried about himself. Where, now, would
he get his supplies of Gringo Balboa?
Maybe he’d have to learn all about wild herbs. Maybe even grow some for himself! He wondered if maybe he should go back and
ask the Judgasaurus if he’d need a license for that. On second thought, he figured he’d pressed
his luck often enough already. By the
time he got home, he was quite depressed.
The Horde Whisperer was quite
pleased with himself that day. But he
wasn’t satisfied. The Horde Whisperer
never is. Dinosaur technology was too
simple for his purposes. Yes, properly
goaded on, the dinosaurs could do a few nifty tricks. But they were too sweet, too nonviolent, too
innocent, and certainly far too primitive.
And as usual, the Horde Whisperer was figgering on biggering. For real
fireworks, he’d have to go elsewhere, he decided. He headed up and out, off of Earth, and into
space, to a location not so very far away.
4)
The Zorgonian Horde Whisperer and
The
Cretaceous Mass Extinction
“Of all possible
sexual perversions, religion is the only one to have ever been scientifically
systematized.” Louis Aragon (1897–1982)
The Zorgons were a race of
vaguely insect-like beings who’d been hanging around the Milky Way galaxy for a
long, long time. So long, as a matter of
fact, that their beginnings had become shrouded in the mists of time. By the time their emissaries were lounging
about near-Earth space, in those halcyon late Cretaceous days, they’d been
quite civilized for several billion years.
Some had become so civilized that others accused them of being decadent.
But they were, without a doubt, both
technologically and ethically advanced, taken as an entire species and
civilization. Now there were a few
exceptions here and there, where things went astray. Chaos always finds a way to insinuate itself
into even the most well-laid plans of dinosaurs and Zorgons, it seems. And as we shall see, chaos is badness, quite
often.
The Zorgons spread themselves far
and wide across the Milky Way. Where
there was no life, they felt free to establish themselves. But where there was already life, they very
ethically refrained from invading, building shopping malls, erecting
intergalactic billboards, or interfering with the local life forms in any
manner. However, where there was
intelligent, conscious life, they kept a close eye on it. They kept on hoping that some planet,
somewhere, would sport a species, or multiple species, which would become
advanced enough that the Zorgons could openly contact them, and welcome them to
the Zorgonian Galactic Federation. Alas,
no such luck had befallen them yet.
Now the Earthling dinosaurs, though,
certainly showed some promise. They were
very, very slow in developing their technology, and so the Zorgons just stayed
back, watching. Being ethically advanced,
the Zorgons had pondered these matters at great length. Premature interference would be cultural
imperialism, and stunt the development of the true nature of a budding new
civilization. Interfere too soon, and
all they’d get would be an inferior clone of Zorgonian culture. Wait till the time was ripe, and the new
civilization would become an equal partner, bringing new cultural riches to the
Zorgons.
Then there were other, even greater
dangers. Any new civilization carried a
threat of bursting forth, and spreading the virulence of military conquest
throughout the galaxy. Now this was
judged to be a very improbable danger.
Any civilization (if we can even use such a word in such a context)
greedy and hateful enough to act in such a manner would most likely annihilate
itself before getting very far off of the home planet. So said the wisest of the Zorgons, and their
computer simulations, at least.
But the Zorgons, being quite
sensitive and ethical, worried about chaos and badness on all levels, even those
lower than the triumph of inappropriateness throughout the entire galaxy. They also worried about the injustice of
millions of innocent species being wiped out on a planet where one or two
hot-headed, suicidal species might decide to blow the whole shooting match to
Queendom Come.
After a great deal of thoraxial
alimentary canal-wrenching ethical analysis, they’d decided that if they were
ever faced with such an abominable situation, they’d have to prevent the
butchery. Show themselves and their vastly
superior technical powers, and prevent planetary holocaust. If they ever were called upon to act in such
a manner, though, they’d decided that any such suicidal species would thereby
forfeit its right to self-determination and self-government. The Zorgons would have to go in, and use
genetic engineering, political control and force, and even involuntary
counseling, in reforming such a species.
But the Earthling reptilian life
forms showed absolutely no such tendencies, as far as the Zorgonian social
analysts could tell. And their
developmental pace was extremely laggardly.
So the Zorgonian outpost near Earth was clearly on the skimpy side. If the situation ever started to change, they
could always bring in reinforcements.
All in due time. Tens of
thousands of years, at least. Physical
interstellar space travel, after all, was excruciatingly slow.
Now there were dangers in having
isolated, skimpily staffed outposts, such as the one close to Earth. One was simple genetic drift. Any time one has a breeding population of
less than one hundred or so individuals, the gene pool is too small to provide
proper in-depth genetic variation. So
genetic drift sets in, and who knows what might happen? Chaos is badness, after all. The Zorgons were well aware of this, though,
and so they always had at least one hundred breeding individuals per
outpost. That, and they’d send along an
ample supply of preserved gametes (sex cells).
If the outpost’s genetic health started to slip, or they started to
evolve away from the Zorgonian norm, they could always dip into the reserve
gene pool.
But then there was another danger,
which would occasionally upset the well-laid Zorgonian plans. That was sociopolitical drift. Zorgonian outposts, especially the smaller
ones, would sometimes run off course. A
charismatic Zorgonian leader would emerge in a small group, and they’d do
things that were, well, contrary to conventional Zorgonian notions of
propriety. And due to the immensity of
interstellar space, it could be thousands of years before a large Zorgonian
force could arrive and set things right.
Mostly with gentle, sensitive counseling, of course.
Such was the case on Zorgonian Outpost Gorglephutz (ZOG), at that time. The local Zorgonian leader tried his best to
hide what was going on, sending quite persuasive messages to Zorgonian Galactic
Headquarters, but they knew. They knew
what was going on near that primitive, bizarre yet beautiful blue planet Earth,
and their new commander and chief counselor and her staff were on their
way. But that would take many, many
years. So in the meantime, Aileron
Hubba-Hubba was having it His way.
Now the Zorgons were a quite bizarre
species, by Earthling standards. Their
appearance, if it resembled any form of Earth life, was closest to the insects,
in that they had heads, thoraxes, and abdomens, and could fly, in some of their
life stages. They weighed about 100
pounds at the most, except for the queen, who could weigh up to 300 pounds.
But some of their most bizarre
features, and those that go farthest in explaining the nature of their
behavior, involved their life stages, and methods of reproduction. They had seven
fairly distinct life phases, and three sexes, if a sex is defined as a
contributor of genetic material. The egg
and grub phases were fairly simple and straight-forward. Then there were the infant workers, too young
to do much of anything very useful. They
just played and learned. These were
called barbalutes. Then there were the
mature workers. These were still
entirely asexual.
Workers, after serving the colony
for a decent interval, matured into females.
On the dorsal surfaces of their abdomens, egg buds grew. These had to be fertilized by a drone (male)
before they’d grow beyond the tiniest nubs.
After a long time as a female, a small number of Zorgons would then
metamorphose into drones. Only those
females who’d managed to both acquire many resources, mainly food and the
attention of drones, and who’d had many healthy offspring, would eventually
mature into drones.
The last phase was the most
selective and elite of them all. If a
drone managed to collect enough of a certain biochemical (the Zorgons called it
Holy Feces) from enough females¾and it was physiologically impossible for the
females to release this substance without the females freely, willingly
regarding the drone as the best of all the local drones¾then and only then could a drone
metamorphose into a Queen. That is, with
the additional qualification that this metamorphosis was not inhibited by the
continuous presence of biochemicals from an already-reigning local colony
queen.
The Queen was the supreme ruler of
any Zorgon colony. She would suck the
sacred sap of the Truffulla tree, and metabolize it into a liquid called Holy
Water, which was the most sacred of all Zorgonian substances. This, she would mix with her own gametes (sex
cells), contributing a small but vitally essential portion of genetic
material. This would be sprayed upon
mature egg buds, allowing them to be released from the females. Without this Holy Water, egg buds couldn’t
mature into grubs, and the females couldn’t become ready to be fertilized
again. But with the Holy Water, the egg
buds could break free, becoming grubs, and starting the cycle all over again.
So evolution had provided the
Zorgons with methods of selecting for genetic fitness, as well as
sociopolitical unity and coherence.
After all, without the females actually “voting” for a drone to become
Queen¾this “voting” being built into
their very bodies¾the
drone could never become a Queen. So
only politically astute and compassionate drones ever made it to become
Queens. And without the Queen’s
contributions, the whole show would come to a screeching halt. So if any individuals decided to split from
the colony, and do their own thing, they might do so for as little while, but
they couldn’t reproduce without the consent of the Queen. So political unity was strongly favored.
Then there was the tie-in to the
Truffulla trees. They provided essential
biochemicals to the Queen. And the
entire colony had to religiously look after the Truffulla trees, in order for
them to provide the sacred sap. This
provided a limit on population density.
If space and resources became too scarce, or the political unity of the
colony, or even relations with nearby colonies, suffered, then the trees would
suffer, the sacred sap would run low, and reproduction would slow down,
providing a very nice, neat feedback loop.
This is what evolution had provided
to the Zorgons. They, in turn,
culturally overlaid their instinctual behavior with very strong religious
commandments and taboos. Starting with
their strongest taboos, and working down the list’s top hitters, the list
approximately translates to this: 1) Obey the gods and their sacred scriptures,
2) Obey the Queen, 3) Respect, and do not waste or destroy, any phase of the
Zorgonian life cycle, or the Truffulla trees, and 4) Do not conflict with, or
steal from, any neighboring colony. Parenthetically,
we might add that once the Zorgons became space-farers, they broadened this to
become, “Don’t mess with any other planet that has life on it.”
For billions of years, their
instincts and taboos had served them well.
Their species was a very stable, balanced, and life-respecting one. Even though they could, long, long ago, have
supplemented and bypassed many features of their reproductive system (for
example, synthesize Holy Feces, Holy Water, genes, and so on, and even do
entirely without queens or Truffulla trees), they refrained, for the most part,
from doing so. Cultural continuity,
sociopolitical stability, and species solidarity demanded it. Religiously, this translated into an
extension of respecting the Zorgonian life cycle.
But there were, now and then, a few
cases where charismatic leaders would bend and even break the rules, leading
isolated Zorgonian outposts astray.
Aileron Hubba-Hubba was one of them.
He’d been trained as a biochemist, in hopes that he’d be able to solve
the twin mysteries of how the Earthling dinosaurs managed to be intelligent
with such small brains, and how they apparently managed to communicate with
each other. So, being a biochemist by
training, he had the skills. Being of
strong will, intelligent, and utterly in thrall to his strong lusts for sex and
power, he had the drive. He’d diverted
resources, and figured out how to synthesize Holy Feces, Holy Water, and the
relatively simple genes contributed by the Queen. The latter, he derived from his own genetic
material.
So when the Queen died a mostly
natural death (he’d only slightly hastened her demise with his poisons), he was
prepared. Now, he could have just gone
ahead and become the new Queen. That,
alone, would have given him a lot of power.
But it wouldn’t have given him a whole bunch of sex. The genetic contributions of a Queen, after
all, were pretty minimal. Thus, too, in
proper proportion, the instinctual/emotional satisfactions derived by a Queen from
such reproductive functions, were rather small.
The drives and pleasures were much stronger in the drone phase. Of this, Aileron Hubba-Hubba was well aware.
So he didn’t actually go through
with the metamorphosis. He’d fabricated
a large prosthesis, a fake striped orange-and-green Queen’s abdomen, a “falsie”
to slip on over his own abdomen. He’d
rendered it, and his metamorphosis, faithfully enough to fool the entire
colony. A few drones were suspicious,
but they didn’t live long enough after the Queen’s demise for them to make any
difference. So now Aileron Hubba-Hubba
was quite clearly Queen of the hop.
Except He was also King of the hop,
too, because he retained drone reproductive functions as well. This wasn’t entirely unheard of; in times of
great stress, Zorgonian myths and legends (or was it history?) from ages ago
said that when all drones had died, an occasional, very powerful Queen would
still be able to serve as drone as well.
These myths, and Aileron Hubba-Hubba’s methods of staging His
Metamorphosis, served all the more to prop up His Power.
Entirely appropriate, at this point,
would be an explanation of Aileron Hubba-Hubba’s name. This is rendered as a fairly accurate
translation from the Zorgonian. Yes,
Zorgons resembled flying insects. But
that’s only very, very roughly. Their
front wings were mostly fixed, liked fixed-winged aircraft. Propulsive power came from vertical and
horizontal flappers at the rear of the abdomen.
Flight control surfaces on the trailing edges of their fixed wings,
then, corresponded to no known Earth species, but rather, to the ailerons on an
aircraft.
During the metamorphosis from female
to drone, the Zorgonian cloaca (one combined opening for wastes and gametes)
would migrate from the abdomen out to the right wing, close to the inner right
aileron. By snuggling up to a female
from her left side, then, a drone could place his ailerons, and hence, his
cloaca (now protruding out of a prehensile peduncle, or stalk, for mobility and
control) over the abdomen of a female.
Then he could fertilize her embryonic egg buds.
Now Aileron Hubba-Hubba was quite
the specimen, and He much appreciated the females of his species. And yes, that’s an understatement. In the manner of His species, whenever He’d
see a very attractive female (which was quite often, since He considered them
all very attractive, so long as they had six legs), He’d push His cloaca out
onto the very tip-top of His peduncle, and He’d grind it against the resonant,
rubbery surface of His ailerons. This
would create a loud, repetitive sound, which might translate roughly into Earth
speak as “Hubba-Hubba.” And so they
called him Aileron Hubba-Hubba.
But that translation is extremely
crude¾just like any Earthling
translations of Zorgonian concepts and words must be. To Earthlings, “Hubba-Hubba” connotes the
crude and vulgar utterances of a lout.
But the original Zorgonian sounds are considered music to Zorgonian
auditory antennae. Similarly, we might
add, the concept of “Holy Feces” has lost much of its respectful Zorgonian
aura, in translation to modern Earth speak.
So on that fateful day, life seemed
sweet to Aileron Hubba-Hubba. There
inside a large hollowed-out six-mile-long asteroid named Chicxulub, within the
safe, sheltering confines of Zorgonian Outpost Gorglephutz (ZOG¾and yes, the asteroid and the
colony had two separate names, just as humans might give one name to an island,
and another to the city covering the island), Aileron Hubba-Hubba lolled
underneath the Truffulla trees, idly watching the barbalutes scamper through
the Grickel grass. There were so, so
many barbalutes these days! But Aileron
Hubba-Hubba didn’t mind them a bit.
After all, they were all His
barbalutes (baby Zorgons), unlike so many of them were when He’d first come to
power. So these latest barbalutes, these He made sure were fairly well
cared for.
Then, to make His idyllic day
complete, who should come fluttering into His verdant grove of Truffulla trees,
but her! Her very own nubile, gorgeous self, Snuggle
Thorax (her name, of course, is crudely translated from the Zorgonian). Aileron Hubba-Hubba’s most favored of all His
babes! And best of all, she’d shed her
egg buds now, and was ready to go!
“Hubba-Hubba,” the musical notes reverberated throughout the glade. Snuggle Thorax alighted onto the Grickel grass,
right there next to Him.
She swept her antennae back
alluringly, and whispered, “Hey, Your Magnificence. Whaddaya say You tell the barbalutes to
scoot, and we, um, have a little talk.
Some spiracle to spiracle, as they say?”
Zorgons regarded their spiracles to be the poetic seat of their
feelings, as human regard their hearts.
Aileron Hubba-Hubba needed no
encouragement. He instructed the
barbalutes to “scram” on out of that grove of trees, as Snuggle Thorax had
suggested. This He did without much thinking,
almost as a reluctant afterthought, but He knew He had to at least make some
genuflections towards Zorgonian propriety.
So the barbalutes scooted.
Her antennae reached out, and
smoothly caressed His. His spiracles
heaved, shooting out a hot, fine mist.
Her embryonic egg buds throbbed in anticipatory pleasure. Eagerly, He swung His glistening abdomen
around, and thrust His gleaming thorax towards her abdomen. He juxtaposed His cloaca to hers, stimulating
her, but also probing her for her levels of Holy Feces. “Oh, Aileron,” she moaned, “You’re such a
hunk! Just look at You! Your clypeus,
it’s like a fresh Truffulla bud! And
Your epandrium, it beckons to me like a bright beacon in the night! And such a shapely reticulated endocranium,
it makes my thoracolumbar mucopurulent membranes pulsate! I can’t help it! Oh, oh!
Yes! Such a hunka, hunka,
gamete-spewing, love-making mean orange-and-green machine! Take
me now, You Big Steaming Peduncle, take
me! I’m yours!”
He ripped the bodice off of her
thorax in one smooth, well-practiced swoop of His mandibles, swung His
quivering right wing out over her abdomen, and thrust His throbbing cloaca out
to the tip of His peduncle. Then He did
things that can’t be described here, in case they ever want to make Jurassic Horde Whisperer of Madness County
into a movie with any sort of decent rating whatsoever. All you Zorgonian readers out there, shame on you! Now put your cloacas back! And Marv Albert, Hugh
Grant, and Billary-Bob, that means you,
too!
After all this brief but intense
love-making, Snuggle Thorax fished around in the shreds of her bodice, finally
coming up with a small kit. As is
Zorgonian custom in such circumstances, she flattened out the processed leaf of
Truffulla tree, sprinkled some dried fragments of Grickel grass onto it, and
rolled it up. Then she repeated these
motions, ending up with two cigarettes.
One, she offered to Aileron Hubba-Hubba, and the other, she kept.
Then she lit them both up. Aileron Hubba-Hubba, however, did His part
purely out of Zorgonian propriety. He’d
draw the smoke very slightly into His spiracles, just enough to make it look
good, then He’d spew it right back out.
He never inhaled, you see. As
often as He was enjoying these pleasures these days, if He’d indulge in Grickel
grass every time, He’d soon have abdominal cancer, He thought. Besides, I have to be in top condition all
the time, just in case there are some heavy-duty religious or political
machinations.
So they lay there, smoking. Or at least, she smoked, while He
pretended. Then, she struck up a
conversation. Oh, no, here we go again,
Aileron Hubba-Hubba protested inwardly.
Religious and political discussions again! Why must they always do this to me?! But He went along with it, as He always
did. It gave Him a chance to sample the
thinking out there in the rest of the colony, while He’d also push His own
views. “So what are we going do when all
these barbalutes grow up?” she was asking, “We’re going to run out of room. We’ll have to hollow out another asteroid. Do you think Galactic Headquarters will give
us permission? You know how they usually
are. We’re just supposed to be an
outpost, not a population center. And
the more asteroids we inhabit, the greater are our chances of being found out,
by those giant reptilian lizards down there.”
Illustration
goes here above… Actually 2 of
them. “Miss Zorgonian”
and then the censored “Love Scene”
“Oh, don’t worry your gorgeous
thorax about it, Snuggle Thorax,” Aileron Hubba-Hubba replied. “Galactic Headquarters will have to give us permission. As you can plainly see, the Truffulla trees
are giving Me enough sap to make all these barbalutes. And as the Holy Markings say, we are to be
fruitful and multiply, to the limits that our trees and commandments will
allow.” Good thing she can’t read my
mind, Aileron thought. If she knew I was
synthesizing all that sap, and only pretending
to suck it from the trees, why, there’d be hell to pay!
Then, there’s My other worries, He
thought. Disobedience and insurrection
here in ZOG seem to be on the rise.
Doubts about Me and My Leadership.
I’ve got to keep a visual sensory stalk or two on this situation. Now Snuggle Thorax, here, she seems to be
fairly loyal, judging by her levels of Holy Feces. No, wait, didn’t I learn from that other
nubile but rebellious young babe, Hübsches Mädchen, that I can’t judge by that anymore? No competition any more, so of course I’m the biggest, most
sensitive peduncle around! Their “votes”
mean nothing, any more!
So, best to make sure I keep ‘em in
line as best as I can. Along these
lines, it’s good to frequently chastise them, and insure that they still react
in such a manner as to acknowledge that I’m the boss. The situation at hand, now... what was she
saying? Oh, yes, us populating more asteroids
means us increasing the probability that we’d inadvertently reveal ourselves to
the “giant lizards” below. Now, there’s a hook!
“But I heard you calling them giant
reptilian lizards,” he added sternly. “I
don’t think that reflects proper respect for our fellow beings. It’s for their
benefit that we’re here, you know. I don’t
think they’d take too kindly to the way you’re describing them. I do believe they’d much prefer to be known
as magnitudinally and metabolically challenged individuals. Now I think you’re displaying your own
attitudinally challenged nature.”
“I’m sorry, Sir. I won’t do it again, Your Magnificence.”
That’s much better, He thought. Now if only I can steer her clear of all
these controversial topics that keep on cropping up more and more lately...
No such luck. “But it seems to me, and to many of the
others, that when we calculate all this out,” she continued, “That we’re
already behind. I mean, count the
barbalutes that we’ve got already, not to mention how many more we’re bringing
into our world these days, and how much room they’ll need, how soon, and all,
and how long it takes to hollow out another asteroid, and...”
“That’s enough of that!” He
thundered. “Don’t you know, the Sacred
Markings instruct us to be fruitful and multiply!?! And not to worry, the future, the gods, will
take care of tomorrow! We need not
worry! And most of all, they say, obey
the gods, the Markings, and your Queen!
I’m not only your Queen, but also your King! Now I’ll have none of this insurrection!”
He knew extremely well, exactly what
she was talking about. But He did indeed
trust that the future would take care of itself. And the hell with all the work of hollowing
out another asteroid, in the hostile vacuum of space! A friendly planet beckoned below. At the last minute, when ZOG’s population
pressures became nearly unbearable, there would be a certain transmission for
Zorgonian Galactic Headquarters. Or, at
least, that’s where they’d think it
came from. Then they’d violate a few
rules. They’d descend down to that
beautiful multi-colored, multicultural, multi-specied planet, and get intimate
with it. They’d set up a small colony on
a small, isolated island down there. And
then they’d grow. And grow and
grow. But no need to reveal those plans
yet.
“But I’m not rebelling, Your
Magnificence. I’m just asking,” she
wheedled. “I mean, just use the evidence
of your senses, common sense, logic and reason.
There’s just no room here for this many adults of any kind! Now, I believe the gods and the Sacred
Markings are perfectly correct, and so are You.
I’m not questioning any of those things.
But just suppose something has gone wrong. Pretty much, if we are to believe in reason,
and the evidence of our senses, then this must be the case. Maybe the Truffulla trees have mutated, gone
astray from the master plans of the gods.
Maybe they’re just giving off way too much Sacred Sap. Maybe...”
“Enough blasphemy!” He
declared. “Reason and the evidence of
your senses are worthless! We must go by
faith and faith alone! Faith in the
gods! Reason tells us nothing!
Can you tell Me how reason tells us
anything of fundamental value? It
doesn’t tell us why we should love instead of hate, create instead of destroy;
seek pleasure rather than pain, live instead of die. Why we should worship the gods, and not the
dark whisperers? If reason can’t tell us
these most basic things, then of what use is it? I tell you, it is faith and faith alone that
will save us.”
She wouldn’t give it up. She knew she could get away with more than
most others. He’d never harm her, since
He so intensely lusted after her body.
“But Sir, just suppose for a minute that You’re right, but only so
far. Maybe faith is where we get these
fundamental choices you list. Maybe
these are starting assumptions, axioms, and postulates. From there on, though, we must strictly
adhere to reason and the evidence of our senses, to get us to the goals
dictated by those axioms.”
That really set Him off. He began
a long tirade against reason, and in favor of passionate faith in the
gods. He told her she should just behave
herself like all of the many faithful ones in ZOG, and listen to her
Leader. She should go with faithful
obedience, not with the deceptions propagated by “reason” and the evidence of
her so-called “senses.” He quoted the
Sacred Markings at great length. Snuggle
Thorax just laid there, impressed but unpersuaded. Halfway through His harangue, the ground
below them quivered slightly. Then the
graviton generators automatically smoothed the vibrations out, so that they
never consciously noticed them.
Meanwhile, some mischievous
barbalutes, smarting from having been kicked out of the Truffulla grove, had
decided to go and explore. To have
themselves some adventures, as it were.
To indulge in Inappropriate Activities, as inadequately supervised
barbalutes were prone to do, in the absence of watchful adults. The adult to barbalute ratio was getting
pretty low, those days. So chaos and
badness got its chance.
They snuck into the control
room. Aileron Hubba-Hubba had erected
barriers preventing all Zorgonian adults from entering without His Permission,
since the control room was where the communications link to Zorgonian
Headquarters was located. He insisted on
strict control of this link, for obvious reasons.
But His precautions weren’t quite up
to the appropriate standards, as events would show shortly. The barbalutes, smartly clad in their
barbalute suits, snuck through the tight spots in the barriers, easily slipping
through where no adult could ever have gone.
They sat at the many controls, tweaking many dials, fiddling with many
switches. Asteroid Chicxulub, with its
contents, the entire ZOG, accelerated under the impulse of giant
thrusters. The barbalutes chortled with
glee. “Asteroid go zoom,” they chanted,
congratulating each other, slamming their manipulatory appendages into one
another, making the “high elevens” gesture.
The graviton generators kicked in at that point, disguising the
acceleration.
But the appropriate alarms were
tripped, and engineers (adult worker phase Zorgons) were summoned. They frantically scampered about, trying to
cut off power to the control room, trying to bust in, and screaming at the
barbalutes through megaphones, telling them to stop immediately. But the barbalutes only chortled some more,
and tinkered happily at the controls.
“Asteroid go ZOOM!” they hollered with glee, watching the multicolored
displays flashing hideously. ZOG assumed
a most dangerous orbit, one almost certain to cause it to skim across the top
of Earth’s atmosphere, but still, hopefully, allowing it to break back
free. The alarms now kicked into high
gear, indicating truly dire straits.
The engineers desperately debated
whether they should go off and interrupt His Magnificence. The last time they’d done so, His Magnificence
had been truly outraged. Some blamed
management, some blamed employees. On
ZOG, only one opinion mattered. Several
engineers had died shortly thereafter.
His Magnificence told them it was just another random spurt of
industrial disease. They hid their
doubts, waving their antennae in assent.
Despite their fears, this time, they felt that they had no choice. Several of them were selected randomly. They set out to bring these matters to the
attention of His Magnificence, Aileron Hubba-Hubba.
By that time, His long philosophical
and religious discussions with Snuggle Thorax had come to a rather abrupt halt,
when another of His favorites, Lady Abdomen, had happened by. So when the engineers arrived, Aileron Hubba-Hubba
and Lady Abdomen were caught in a passionate embrace. Despite the utter urgency of the matters that
brought them by to visit Aileron, they simply couldn’t force themselves to
interrupt. So they waited, wasting more
precious moments.
By the time the engineers got back
to the control room, Aileron Hubba-Hubba in tow, it was too late. The ZOG’s electronic hardware and software
had many, many safety features, supposedly preventing that which happened
next. But like most systems, the
propulsion systems had override features.
They were supposed to be able to be activated only by fully trained
adults. Yet despite all the radars,
gravity sensors, computers, and software, twelve barbalutes at twelve separate
stations, with their child-like intelligence, somehow mysteriously did exactly
the wrong thing. Safety systems were
overridden in a seemingly coordinated manner, and ZOG, imprisoned within the
six-mile long asteroid named Chicxulub, blazed through the Earth’s atmosphere. “Asteroid go ZOOM!” the barbalutes chortled
one last time.
Chicxulub approached the southern
edges of the North American continent from the south. Then ZOG got much more intimate with the
Earth, far sooner than Aileron Hubba-Hubba had ever intended. The unspeakable fury of millions of megatons
of explosive force detonated, instantly vaporizing many cubic miles of the
Earth’s crust. Countless globs of
white-hot, glowing magma literally went ballistic, then rained down from the
skies.
Within three minutes, incendiary
gasses swept across most of North America, igniting a continent-wide
firestorm. Billions upon billions of
tons of soot and vaporized minerals roiled the atmosphere. The entire planet rang like a struck gong. This planetary gong, having been struck
entirely too hard, ruptured. Across the
globe, shock waves shattered the Earth’s crust, rending the planet’s face with
giant fissures. Lava burst forth,
flooding the land and sea. Angry dark
clouds blotted out the sun, and poured acids down upon the battered Earth’s
open wounds.
Death bestrode the globe like a
raging army of Titans. Billions of
dinosaurs and lesser life forms perished, extinguishing hundreds of thousands
of species forever. Upon hearing the
news, several insurance companies on the Zorgonian home planets collapsed. The Zorgonian stock market took its biggest
hit in several million years.
The Horde Whisperer smirked with
glee. There were no more missions here
for him, for a long, long time. He
departed the solar system, never to return again. At least, for another sixty some million years,
that is.
5)
Setting The Pleisto Scene
“One has to belong
to the intelligentsia to believe things like that; no ordinary man could be
such a fool.” George Orwell (1903–1950)
The dinosaurs had reached
consciousness, intelligence, sensitivity, self-awareness, self-congratulation
(that is, most especially, self-congratulation regarding the superior
sensitivity of the self, one’s own self, as compared to other, lesser life
forms), and all sorts of other, similarly wonderful mental attributes, only due
to some very special, highly improbable genetic mutations. They’d acquired awesome mental powers
completely out of proportion to their relatively small brains; so much so, as a
matter of fact, that mainline modern paleontology hasn’t the vaguest hint of what really happened during that
entire 165-million-year span known as the Mesozoic era (comprising the
Triassic, Jurassic, Youarassic, Bodacious, Smegmacious, and Cretaceous
periods).
So remember, only the most elite
academic researchers, the true elite of the elite of the neat, only they (you!) know. Only to the readers of Jurassic Horde Whisperer of Madness County is the full Truth, in
all its glory, revealed. And the Truth
is, the dinosaurs weren’t dumb, lumbering beasts. Not at all!
Dumb?! Ha! So
they didn’t have fancy vocal chords, or hyoid bones suitable for speech
synthesis. So what?! They had awesomely
advanced mental powers, including the ability to speak, wheedle, cajole, plead,
scream, holler, whisper, and yell, all without making a sound! Their ESP (Especially Sensitive Perception)
abilities allowed them to groove to each others’ cosmic-karmic brain vibes.
And lumbering?! Another
lie! The American Heritage Dictionary,
3rd Edition, © 1992 by Houghton Mifflin Company, as revealed to me in CD-ROM
driven dreams from beyond realms of time and cyberspace, defines the verb
“lumber” as A) “To cut down (trees) and prepare as marketable timber.” or B)
“To cut down the timber of.” And the
dinosaurs, they never cut down a single tree.
No Sir, not a one! They were far, far more Sensitive than that!
They waited for the dead trees to fall all by themselves, first. Only then
did they feel free to make use of the wood.
After all, dead but standing trees provided primary habitat for the
spotted Archaeopteryx.
So as we can see, the dinosaurs were
neither dumb nor lumbering. They were,
indeed, quite advanced, more advanced even than modern humans, in many
ways. And those highly improbable
genetic mutations that enabled the amazing feats of the dinosaurs have never
evolved again. Well, OK, so, twice, in
two individuals, these genes came into play once again. But those were even more extremely unlikely
events, in which these genes rose from the grave, so to speak, ever so briefly,
and then subsided once again, this time forever. These events occurred at the dawn of
humanity, and profoundly shaped the myths, legends, and dreams (and therefore
the very essence) of humanity itself.
What happened is that dinosaur
blood, containing dinosaur genes, was sucked down by voracious Mesozoic-era
mosquitoes. These mosquitoes in turn
often became stuck in tree resins. The
tree resins became fossilized amber, in certain times and places, excluding
such times and places when and where the likes of Thomas Edisonosaurus used
said resins to fabricate industrial artifacts and to gum up Lawyersaurs. And so dinosaur genes were preserved through
the long ages, entombed in white blood cells inside mosquitoes inside amber. And inside these genes were entombed the
vast, almost mystical mental powers of the dinosaurs, awaiting the highly
improbable events that would unleash them upon unsuspecting victims... (Note,
macabre music starts here, all you hordes of screen-play script writers).
Scene: Dawn of humanity. The alarm clock of humanity has just buzzed,
and humanity is sloshing around in the waterbed of humanity, floundering its
way over to pound on the snooze button on the alarm clock of humanity. Outside, a large female snake by the name of
Shoshoni Squamata (to be played by Demi Fleiss, Heidi Bassinger, or Kim Moore)
is slithering down a path. Shoshoni
Squamata shows irritation, and signs of molting setting in.
Shoshoni slithers on down that
path. After a few hundred yards, she
comes to an outcropping of sharp rocks.
She starts belly dancing on the rocks.
Soon, her outer layer of skin starts seriously peeling off. Male snakes, forked tongues flicking out,
gather around, panting, wolf whistling, and sticking freshly killed hamsters
(roughly, hundred-dollar bills, translated to modern human currency, and
accounting for inflation) underneath a ring of Shoshoni’s old skin (the first
“garter belt”, even though Shoshoni is a python, not a mere garter snake). Showing her appreciation, she wriggles and
writhes all the more enticingly. The
male snakes go wild!
Now the camera zooms in. Zooms, and zooms some more. We see, in the middle of all these sharp
rocks, some yellow-orange crystalline rocks.
Amber-colored rocks. Amber. Zoom some more. Inside the amber, we now see the dark outline
of a mosquito. Computer graphics take
over, as we zoom to the mosquito’s guts.
Zoom yet more, and then we see helical DNA molecules. Zoom way back out. Now we see that Shoshoni has punctured
herself on the sharp rocks, and is bleeding a bit.
Zoom very slowly way back out, and
we see Shoshoni dancing in the middle of a mass of writhing male snakes in the
middle of the jungle. Focus goes fuzzy
slowly, while we hear Shoshoni’s voice-over:
“One day I was just a stupid snake, a dumb beast. The next day I was endowed with awesome
mental powers. I eventually figured out
what had happened. The DNA in those
amber crystals mixed into my blood.
Retroviruses carried the genetic codes through my blood-brain barrier,
and into the cell nuclei of my brain neurons.
“Highly improbable, yes. But the Chaos Theory, this incredibly deep
Theory based on mathematical equations that say that if you put a drop of water
on the back of a hand, it will run off, but it will also give you an excuse to
hold that hand, if it belongs to a gorgeous member of the opposite sex. Now I’m just a snake, and I don’t have a
hand, so how can I know these things?
Well, don’t forget, due to the immense complexity of genetics and Chaos,
I became very wise. So now I know All
Things. Don’t forget that. And don’t forget that Chaos is Badness.”
Shoshoni slithered away after
shedding her old skin, giving all those male snakes a quick brush-off. The last thing in the world that she wanted
to be, right now, was a mounted python, let alone a multiply-mounted
python. Just what kind of a girl did
they think she was?! They’re just after my body, with no respect
at all for my mind, anyway, she thought.
But wait! What’s this?! I didn’t even know I had a mind, till a few seconds ago!! What’s come over me?!
Illustration goes here above… Snake Dance
She slithered off into the
bushes, and pondered matters for quite a few days. At first, just thinking was a great thrill.
She came up with all sorts of wonderful new ideas. But then she realized that she had no one to
share her marvelous new thoughts with.
And so she became profoundly lonely.
In the whole wide world, as far as she knew, she was the only one with a
mind. This was quite simply intolerable.
So she set out to see if maybe she
could convince other snakes to writhe on the shards of amber, to see whether
perhaps the same thing would happen to them.
Then, they’d become highly intelligent and conscious, too, and she’d
have company, and all would be well. But
alas, such was not to be. First of all,
she ran into tremendous difficulties persuading dim-witted snakes that they
should writhe on sharp rocks, at any time other than when they were
molting. And then, to try to get them to
deliberately make themselves bleed? Forget it!
Soon, all the snakes for miles around were quite thoroughly convinced
that Shoshoni Squamata was the craziest snake that anyone could imagine.
Worst of all, even Shoshoni started
to think she was crazy. She set up
detailed biochemical simulations in her mind, and showed herself how utterly
improbable her current condition was. By
any common-sense analysis, a snake awakened to sentience by dinosaur genes in
mosquitoes in amber should never have happened.
Yet there she was. But now, to go
off and try to replicate such extremely improbable events? Wasn’t this utterly insane?!
So Shoshoni gave it up. Then she slithered around in desperation,
thinking, well, obviously, so far in my wanderings, and in picking up the brain
vibes of the various creatures, I’ve been able to tell that some are smarter
than others. Yes, none of them are
anywhere close to being as smart as I am.
Still, some show more promise than others. So if I just slither all around, and survey
the creatures, maybe I can find some, somewhere, that might be worth communicating
with. Maybe even, if need be, I can
intellectually stimulate them, poke and prod them in exactly the right ways,
and help bring them to self-awareness!
Yes, that’s it!
So, enthused once more, full of
grandiose ideas about what she’d accomplish once she shared a world with fellow
sentient beings, she set out. She sifted
the whispers of the winds from distant times and places, searching through the
cosmic-karmic vibes for those indicating intelligence. She explored her mental powers, probing here
and there, using parts of her mind that no one had ever shown her how to
use. Here, she thought, what’s this?
If I just use my mind this way,
then maybe I can detect...
The anguished death cries of
billions of dinosaurs came crashing down on her from sixty-five some million
years ago. She shut them down
instantly. No way can I handle that kind of psychic shock, she told herself,
thoroughly shaken. Besides, they’re all
dead, frozen in time, and can have no real, genuine interaction with me. We’ll have to try again.
This time, she tried to open up that
part of her mind again, this time with a filter: only the cosmic mind vibes of
creatures in the present were allowed.
This time, there was again a sensation of crashing. She fearfully retreated, only to stop herself
almost immediately. There was no threat,
no pain. She concentrated... the
crashing was the crashing of waves, and of flukes upon the surface of a salty
sea. Cheerful, sleek, happy, intelligent
creatures splashing among the waves, out beyond a distant shore, playing in an
immense body of water. Company! She had company in this world! Creatures fully as intelligent as herself! She slithered off towards distant
shores. Many, many miles lay between her
and the sea. But as they say, the
journey of a thousand miles begins with a single slither.
Months later, she dragged herself
onto the beach. Exhausted, she sought
the shade of a surfside palm tree.
There, she relaxed. And then she
got to thinking again. What if these
creatures had no interest in her? She’d
been so obsessed with getting here, she’d never even allowed herself to do much
doubting about what would come next.
She’d not be able to swim with these creatures. Their styles and hers, in locomotion and so
much more, mismatched fundamentally.
What, if anything, would she have to offer them? For that matter, what would they have to
offer her? Oh, stop it, she told
herself. Like seeks like, and sentience
seeks sentience. Surely that is enough!
Surely they’d soon come swimming
close by! Surely they could hear her
cosmic brain vibes, just as she could hear theirs! Surely they’d come to assuage her loneliness
any minute now! She waited. And waited.
And waited some more. And they
never came close by. She drifted off to
sleep. After having traveled those many,
many miles, she slept the rest of the day, and then through the night. She dreamed of growing flippers, slapping
silvery waves, and slipping through the seven seas, all in the company of her
new cetacean friends.
In the morning she woke, and probed
the ether with her mind. Where were
they? Were they close by? Yes, they were! They were some miles to the north, swimming
south along the coast, straight towards her, it seemed! She could feel their vibes getting stronger
by the minute! Did they hear her
presence? No, it didn’t seem that
way. Maybe they weren’t as strong, in
the receive mode, as she was. Maybe they
just weren’t quite as sensitive as she was.
Still, they talked among themselves with obvious ease! Surely they’d hear her, when they’d swim
right down the beach beside her! She
eagerly slithered right down into the water.
The surf pushed her back up onto the
beach. She made herself content to
slither north, there on the hard wave-packed sand. She pushed herself
faster. Every yard closer to them meant
they’d be that much more likely to hear her before they turned back out towards
the open sea. Here they come, she
thought. Maybe time to slow down, relax
physically, and pour all my energies into reaching out, psychically, towards
them. And so she did.
And then they were right upon
her. She could even see that gorgeous sight, as their dorsal fins sliced through the
waters, no more than two hundred yards away.
Shoshoni poured herself into screaming
at the dolphins, straining every neuron in her newly reconfigured neural
networks. Yet they never showed even the
slightest hint of being aware of her presence.
So she stopped screaming at them, after they’d just barely passed her,
just long enough to listen very carefully.
It was only then that she came to realize that they were using physical vibrations in the water to
communicate with, and that they couldn’t hear her at all.
Crushed, she headed back
inland. But she wasn’t defeated
yet. She reached out with her mind yet
once again, this time adding yet another filter: flipper-footed critters need
not apply. Land lubbers only. Maybe with land creatures, she could get so close,
they’d not be able to ignore her psychic screams, even if they were almost
deaf.
So she searched high and low. Then she found the elephant-like
creatures. They weren’t anywhere close
to being as smart as dolphins, but they were certainly a lot smarter than your
average bear, or most any other land-lubbing creature she’d slithered
into. So she set out to work on them.
But she very rapidly ran into
problems. First of all, there was the
fact that along with the intellectual and psychic capacities that she’d
inherited from the dinosaurs, she’d also picked up their ethical sensibilities. So she had to ponder long and hard, the
ethical implications of what she was about to do. What would happen if she put mammoths or
mastodons on the road to sentience, civilization, and technological
advancement? After watching their
behavior, and trying her best to understand their essence, she conjured up such
a future. It didn’t look good. The females, infants, and juveniles behaved
just fine. They were highly social and
well-behaved animals, if one ignored their tendency to wreak havoc with their
environment. They’d trash the local
environment, tear down trees and eat everything in sight, and then move on.
The real problem was the males. They were antisocial loners, except during
mating season. During mating season,
they’d go into “musth”, many of them getting extremely grumpy and peevish. To expect such a species, with such behavior
among the powerful males, to advance to higher levels of technology and
political organization¾well,
it was scarcely an acceptable risk. Put
it this way, the first tentative visions Shoshoni got when she conjured up such
a future, was of male elephants running around with sharpened metal blades
strapped to their tusks, goring, slicing, and dicing their opponents left and
right.
Despite her extreme misgivings about
what she was doing, the force of her loneliness pushed her on. She persuaded herself that surely, there’d be
no harm in just gathering a bit more data.
So she forced herself to go up right next to a large female mammoth, the
matriarch of her herd. Shoshoni
announced her presence with a loud psychic shout, saying, “Hi, there, Mrs.
Mammoth, can we talk?”
Mrs. Mammoth did indeed hear that
psychic shout, but she also promptly proceeded to try and squash one Shoshoni
Squamata. Shoshoni squirmed away as fast
as she could. The hell with that,
Shoshoni concluded. If even the females
behave this way, then there’s no hope.
Let’s move on to some other creature.
Then Shoshoni discovered the
ape-men. Now she was quite reluctant to
deal with them, since they smelled quite disgustingly awful. But they seemed to have their virtues. They were highly social, and the males even
seemed capable of often getting along with one another, rather than constantly
fighting over the females, as in harem-oriented species. The male ape-men, being mostly monogamous,
even managed to do a bit of offspring-rearing.
Now this species has the
potential to become sentient, maybe even civilized, Shoshoni noted approvingly.
There were of course some disturbing
attributes of those two-legged beasts.
Shoshoni couldn’t quite put her finger on exactly what it was that
bothered her so much, other than their smell, even if she’d had a finger to
start with. So she pondered the nature
of those beasts, and conjured up a possible future of civilized humanity. She opened up her mind, and the vibes rushed
in.
Peon I was yelling at Peon II,
saying, “I’m starving, and you’ve got bread, and you’re not giving me any. You’re valuing your possessions more than my
life! Now if you had any compassion at
all, you’d share. Give it to me.”
Now Shoshoni had no idea what bread
was, but she could put it in context.
Something like freshly killed hamsters or some such, to these critters,
no doubt, she figured. Hummmm. Hissss.
Interesting. Perhaps I’d better
listen in some more.
“Now fork it over,” Overlord was
saying to Peon II. “You heard him. You’re being utterly selfish, while your
comrade is starving. Let’s have the
bread. Good. That’s more like it, more like the way a
citizen should do his duty. OK, now,
I’ll take my small administrative fee for the Bureau of Compassion. Here you go, Peon I.”
“Peon I, stop! Don’t you
dare take a bite! How can you be so
cruel, getting ready to chow down in front of me, Peon II, your starving co-worker
and comrade! You’re valuing your
possessions more than my life! How could you?! Comrade Overlord, make him stop!”
“Now listen up,” Overlord said to
Peon I. “Let’s have none of this
reactionary insensitivity. We’ve got to
be team players, and work for the good of society. Give it here.
Great, that’s more like the New Society Man. Now I’ve got to collect taxes on behalf of
the State, so that it can perpetuate the new, classless system of glorious
equality. And here’s the remainder for
our hard-working co-worker, Peon II.”
“Peon II, how could you?! You put that
down right now! You crass materialist,
you’re valuing mere material possessions more than the life of your starving
fellowperson! Comrade Overlord, make him
stop!”
“Comrade Peon II, now, you know this
crass materialistic selfishness won’t cut it.
We can’t be punishing Peon I for his poverty. Here.
OK, good. Now for the transaction
fee, and the rest goes to our deserving comrade, Peon I.”
“Peon I, stop, I say! Comrade Overlord...”
Shoshoni had heard enough. Let’s see what else is out there, she
thought, tweaking the knobs of her cosmic-karmic vibes detector. So far, things look rather bleak. But maybe she’d just gotten a bad
sample. OK, here we go...
“We’ve got to find our common ground, so we can be compassionate to Our
Children. Only then can we come together
and face our tomorrow, which is our future.
Nothing big ever came from being small, and nothing positive ever came
from negative thoughts. Negative
thoughts like questioning our goals of being compassionate to Our
Children. How can anyone who claims to care...”
“Yes, yes, I know, I’ve heard you
and your husband say that many times.
But now we need to work with the people, so that they can understand...”
“But Eleanor, they just won’t understand! They’re so cruel and heartless, so
self-centered! Here I am, with degrees
and honorary degrees from all sorts of top-notch schools, with more compassion
than a bucket load of those selfish oafs, and they’re resisting my selfless
attempts to make their charity decisions more wisely for them! Those low-brow simpletons, if we let them
keep their money for themselves, they’d spend it all on trailer parks, beer,
and cigarettes! And lottery
tickets! State lottery tickets, not federal,
mind you! We’ve got to get the power into the hands of those who are morally
superior, more sensitive and most compassionate! If we’re going to move ahead, and have the villages
raise the children, then...”
“There, there, now, Hillary-Bob,” the
feminine vibes of the Eleanor-creature said soothingly, “You just hang
tight. Think cattle futures. Now if you can just raise some money, then,
since it takes money to make money, you could, like, drag a few hundred dollars
through Washington. There’s no telling
what you’ll scare up when you drag a few big bills down the corridors of
DC. The possibilities are endless. Maybe you could even rent Billary-Bob out for
children’s birthday parties, tea parties, garden parties, pool parties, and so
on. Lots
of fund-raising potential there. And
after you’ve got the money to get your messages out, you can Do Good.”
Shoshoni could hardly understand any
of this. Inchoate apprehensions nipped
at her scaly tail. What was this
bizarre, all-important thing called money? She decided to leave this pleasant little
chat, and cast about for another sample.
She found herself as a disembodied
spirit flitting about a large, ugly, smelly, hellish and hellishly hot open-air
dungeon called Chicago. She watched as old, withered humans died of
the heat in little cages. They were
afraid of opening their windows for
fresh, cooler air, lest unrestrained violent fellow humans rob or kill
them. She listened to some of their
conversations, as they suffered and died.
Apparently, they suffered from the heat because they were poor, which meant that they lacked money.
That, in turn, meant that they couldn’t get the things that could make
their air cold, nor the mysterious power
that made these things work.
She studied and pondered these
matters diligently, and concluded that
money must be a weird distillation of worth, of material value. Symbolic freshly killed hamsters, one could
say. With what few of these symbolic
freshly killed hamsters that these poor
old folks had, apparently, they’d buy
things of value, like the small shiny metal
cans of beans that they’d eat.
Then she heard some racket outside
the little cages, and fled out to the streets
to see what was going on. Loud, angry
humans were shouting and carrying signs,
things with more symbols, protesting
that their air was too dirty. She
listened long enough to realize that most of the protesters were what was
called rich, which meant that they
had enough freshly killed hamsters to worry about dirt in the air, so much so
that they carried these signs, wrote letters to the editor, and made campaign contributions, rather than just
worrying about staying alive, like the poor. After doing all these things, the rich would then retire to the cooled
comfort of their air-conditioned
cages, while the poor ones died in
the heat.
Then she flitted back to the cages
of the withered poor, and listened
some more. She came to realize, from the
utterances of some of the few better-informed suffering ones, that cooled air cost a lot more than it otherwise might,
because the rich ones insisted on
clean air. The air-cooling machines and their power plants somehow fouled the air. To make things even worse, the air-cooling
things of the rich cooled their indoor (cage) air, while heating up the outdoor air, making the air of the poor even hotter.
So the poor died, while the rich
got cleaner cooled air. Some said that
there was a simple solution to all these many interrelated problems. Dirt in the air, soil, and water, and the prices being driven up by richer humans demanding more regulations on all the machines. The all-wise regulators should own
everything, and make everything good and clean for everyone. Yet when this had been tried in other lands,
the results had been dirt and suffering for everyone.
Her brain reeled as she tried to
assimilate all this. It was all way too
confusing. She decided that maybe it was
time to tie up loose ends, to go and see if she could now make more sense of
the two ladies’ conversation.
“Yes, you could give money to the
poor, and feed them for a day,” Eleanor was saying. “But if you use that money to lobby, to
change the cruel and heartlessly punitive ways of the government, why, then,
you could do much, much more
good. Much more long-lasting good.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Hillary-Bob
said, thoughtfully. “There’s no end to
the good things I could do for the poor.
Take care of their children, give them all good medical care, clean up
their air...”
Shoshoni couldn’t stand it any
more. “But Hillary-Bob,” she said,
breaking in, “Realize you that you regulate
everything, you make bigger prices
for all-one? Them wrinkled ones, them poor old folks in Chicago have not many fresh killed hamsters cool their air. Them with many fresh killed hamsters, them
get cold air, them protest, them make ones who not have fresh killed hamsters
get hot air. With fresh killed hamsters get cold air and
cleaner air, with no fresh killed hamsters die.
Poor ones become killed, become killed hamsters for them with many
killed hamsters. But ones who kill think
them are much compassionate, because them want clean air, which is such big
good thing. Isss sssilly.”
There was a long, long silence. Finally, Hillary-Bob ventured, “And just who
are you to barge in on our
conversation like this?!”
“Oh, I are Shoshoni Sssquamata. I what
you call python, large sssnake. But not mounted python. I the only, the lonely, the only sssmart
sssnake in thirty thousand B.C., as you sssay.
I not mounted sssnake because I the only sssmart sssnake, they all want
my body, not my mind. Ssso they not
mount me. But you not care about
that. I come to sssee you. I come to sssee if OK for me to make ssstinky
ape-men go road to sssivilization, as you sssay.”
Again, the long silence. Hillary-Bob, frightened, managed to squeak
out, “Listen, Eleanor, I’d better cut this short. Way
short. This is it! No more!
I’m laying real low till after
the elections! Good-bye!” She beat a speedy retreat.
“What ssslithered up her asss and
died?” Shoshoni inquired, trying one of those weird idioms that these humans were so fond of.
“Oh, don’t mind her,” Eleanor
replied. “She’s not too hip on us
spirits in the afterworld, and other such-like bizarre, otherworldly
spirits. She frightens easily. She fears for her sanity, and so she’s afraid
she’ll ruin Billary-Bob’s chances of getting re-elected.”
Eleanor said this quite breezily, as
if totally dismissing the idea that she, herself, might fear this alien spirit,
this Shoshoni Squamata. But Shoshoni knew otherwise. She could smell
the fear, somehow.
“So tell me,” Eleanor continued,
“What were you saying? About you being
from 30,000 B.C., and such? What’s the
deal?”
Illustration
goes here above… Hillary and Eleanor and
snake
Shoshoni explained as best she
could, that Hillary-Bob, Eleanor, Chicago, rich, poor, regulators, elections,
money, air conditioners, and so, so many other things were all still quite
hypothetical at this point, and that she, Shoshoni, had come to scope things
out, to see if this grand experiment should proceed, or not. She was quite lonely, so she wanted to go for
it. But she’d had her doubts. And now she had yet more doubts. So what should she do? She didn’t know. So she asked Eleanor for some advice.
Eleanor was shocked to her ethereal
bones. But she recovered enough in time
to mumble something about Shoshoni not playing with billions of souls. Bossily, yet fearfully, she asserted that
Shoshoni had better go kick-start those ape-men, and pronto! Shoshoni slithered merrily away, happy to
have gathered some encouragement for her endeavors. Her loneliness would come to an end, and
soon!
Little nagging doubts kept on
nipping at her scaly tail. Well, they
said to her, what if you’d gone ahead in time, and looked in detail at
hypothetical civilized elephants instead?
What if you’d had a conversation with one of them? Wouldn’t they have
said the same thing? You can’t play with
billions of souls, you have to bring us into existence. So in the future, the elephants could be
carving trinkets out of the teeth of dwindling populations of humans, instead
of the other way around. Why was one any
better than the other? Shoshoni just
told her nagging doubts to hush up, because no human had ever tried to trample
her. So that was that.
She set about the business of
intensively studying the ape-men. She
soon discovered that there were three tribes
(extended family clans) of them, all living together in harmony. They were fairly smart already, certainly
smarter than the elephants, although nowhere near as smart as Shoshoni, or the
dolphins. The three tribes shared the
same lands, trading various goods and services between themselves. They all had their own ways of worshipping their gods, which mostly translated to eating certain things that made
their brains do strange things. But they
had taboos against messing with each
other, or using the resources that belonged to other tribes.
The Firewater Tribe used the seeds
of grass plants, grinding them up and using their knowledge of yeast. Well, to be more accurate, they knew nothing
about yeast, other than how it worked, or what it did. They called it the BFD God, for Bread,
Firewater, and Dough. Dough was
the lumpy, gooey mix made by grinding up grain seeds. Firewater
was the fermented liquids obtained by sprouting seeds, drying, grinding, and
roasting them, making them into liquids, and then enclosing the liquids in
large earthenware jars. They called it
firewater because it burned their lips.
Yet they liked it, because it made them feel good, and enabled them to
talk to the gods. And bread was a food made by heating their dough; this bread, it seemed, lasted longer and tasted better than the dough.
The Firewater Tribe gave bread and
dough to the other tribes, in return for other goods and services. But the firewater was sacred, and reserved
just for them. The other tribes
respected this, and their fields of grain, as the sole provinces of the
Firewater Tribe.
The Shroom Oog Tribe had the secret
of fire.
Fire made heat, which they used to harden clay into earthenware jars
and pottery. Also, periodically the
Firewater Tribe would come to visit them, and they’d all have big ceremonies
and celebrations. The Firewater Tribe
would bring dough to be baked into
bread, which they would then share with the Shroom Oog Tribe, in return for their
baking services.
They’d also bring the dried,
ground-up remnants of barely-sprouted seeds, so that the Shroom Oog Tribe could
roast this, too, in preparation for the fermenting of firewater. This was the time when all the special ceremonies
would be conducted, so that the Shroom Oog’s Fire God would bestow his Fire
Powers unto the Firewaters. At the
end of the day, the Firewater Tribe would go home with bread, jars of
fermentable powder for brew, the
occasional wooden tools, and empty new jars fresh from the kilns of the Shroom Oog Tribe.
The Shroom Oogs, meanwhile, would contentedly lay back, bellies and
larders full of fresh bread.
The trees and shrubs of the forests
belonged to the Shroom Oogs. This meant
that their fruits, nuts, and berries were theirs, to eat and to trade with the
other tribes. The special resources of
the Shroom Oogs also included the mushrooms that sprouted in certain special
places. These, though, were for eating
only by the Shroom Oogs. When they’d eat
them, they’d commune with their gods.
And all the dead wood of the forests belonged to the Shroom Oogs, too,
because they needed it for their fires, and for making a few wooden tools now
and then. The other tribes respected the
Shroom Oogs very much, and took special pains not to offend them. In fact, the Shroom Oogs, with their special
Fire Powers, were actually regarded as gods by the other tribes. It was unthinkable that anyone other than a Shroom
Oog should ever mess with Fire, which belonged to these particular gods.
Then there was the Blunt Heads
Tribe. They talked to their gods by
eating the leaves of the cannabis weed, a hardy plant that grew in special
places. Their weeds, and their Weed God,
were, needless to say, their sole province, and highly respected by the other
tribes. They got their fruits, nuts, and
berries, wooden tools, and their earthenware, for carrying water, from the
Shroom Oogs, and their bread from the Firewater Tribe. In turn, they provided various services for
the others. They gathered wood for the
Shroom Oogs’ fires, and tended to the spirits of the plants that nourished all
the ape-men. In times of drought, they’d
carry water to their own weeds, to the grain plants of the Firewater Tribe, and
to the trees and shrubs which belonged to the Shroom Oogs.
Even more than all these other
things, though, the Blunt Heads were highly respected for the special services
they conducted to appease the spirits of the Earth Mother, and all her
daughters. They made beautiful music and
dances. They appeased the Earth Mother
by carving beautiful images from the ivory of naturally deceased
elephants. Then, they’d conduct
fertility rites, and put seeds into the soil.
Seeds for their weeds, grains for the Firewater Tribe, and tree and
shrub seeds for the Shroom Oogs.
Last but not least, the Blunt Heads
had the immense patience and magic required to sit still for long, long periods
of time, pondering the Earth Mother, and catching glimpses of the wild animal
spirits that the ape-men shared their world with. Then they’d use their special gifts to go
deep inside the sacred caves (members of the Shroom Oog Tribe would come with
them, with torches of fire, to light the way) to paint pictures of the wild
animal spirits, who were full of life and vigor. When the members of any tribe then fell sick,
the Blunt Heads’ Medicine Men would go into these caves, appease the animal
spirits, draw on the reserves of power in the paintings, and return to heal the
sick. These Medicine Men were also
responsible for protecting the ape-men from the wild animal spirits, which were
occasionally known to directly attack, and even eat, the ape-men, instead of
just causing sickness.
The wild animals spirits, as well as
the resources and special provinces of the various tribes, were highly
respected by all the ape-men. No one ate
of their flesh; this was taboo. Killing
of animals could only be done by the Blunt Heads Medicine Men, in the rarest of
circumstances. These cases were in
defense of the lives of ape-men, or in ending the sufferings of near-dead
animals. And the Blunt Heads had a lock
on the privilege of using the remains of animals, mostly naturally
deceased. From their skins, they would
fashion blankets, which all tribes used to keep warm, when the weather turned
bitter cold. From the tusks of
elephants, they’d fashion images of the Earth Mother. From the antlers of elk, they’d fashion
implements with which to process the soil, in special rituals to prepare the
earth to receive seeds.
So all the tribes were in what they
called a mutual flea-picking arrangement, and it worked out very well. They all lived in peace and harmony. All this, Shoshoni learned in the space of
several months, by hanging out close enough to hear their thoughts loud and
clear, always avoiding detection. But
she longed for the day when she could get closer¾close enough, even, so that she could finally talk
to these ape-men, without them running away in fear. After all, they’d regard her as a dangerous,
powerful animal spirit. Yet she needed still
more information.
She decided to investigate the
Shroom Oog Tribe some more. She made
this selection for several reasons.
First, she perceived that the Shroom Oogs, when eating their hallucinogenic
mushrooms, would regard a telepathic snake to be far less of an unusual threat,
compared to what she might expect from the other tribes, whose consciousness
seemed to be much less altered during their communications with their
gods. Then there were the tantalizing hints
that there were some highly intelligent members within the Shroom Oog Tribe,
who were running the show, somehow. And
the Shroom Oogs, with their fire and pottery, seemed pretty advanced, probably
more so than the others.
She started to move in closer to one
particular group of the Shroom Oogs (each tribe had many small groups, spread
out over all the lands Shoshoni knew of), searching for more details. They weren’t long in coming. Yes, indeed, there were special Shroom Oogs with special knowledge and
intelligence! The Shroom Oogs had their
Medicine Men, but they didn’t fool Shoshoni for long. They were mere figureheads. Each small group had one or two wise old
women, called witches, who really ran
the show. They set the fires, and
supervised the care and maintenance of these fires. They selected the clays and colored minerals
for making pottery, supervised the forming of the clay, and performed the most
delicate operations.
Shoshoni noticed that, along with
the witch being the one who did those things requiring the greatest skill and
intelligence, she exhibited other strange behaviors. She, alone, of this entire Shroom Oog group,
didn’t partake of the mushrooms. And she
surreptitiously crept off, on fairly frequent occasions, and ate of a taboo
fruit. This was the musical fruit, the
fruit of a forbidden tree. Now Shoshoni
knew, from her glimpse of the human future, that the humans would one day call
these forbidden fruits beans, and
call the smaller plants shrubs and
simply plants, rather than calling
all plants trees, as these ape-men
now did. And she also knew that in the
future, all knowledge of these beans
having once been taboo, would be lost.
She knew, because she’d seen those old folks in Chicago eating them out
of metal cans.
But at this point, Shoshoni couldn’t
understand much about any of this. Why
was the musical fruit taboo? Why was it
called musical fruit in the first place?
Why did the witch violate the taboo?
How and why would things change in the future, so that musical fruit
should become no longer taboo? Curious,
she started intensively following the witch, and observing her thoughts and
actions.
Shoshoni was quite lucky one day,
happening to be hidden in the bushes really close by, when Beldame Oog, the
witch, not only came to eat of the forbidden fruit, but also to sit, relax, and
to think things over. So Shoshoni got
quite the earful, so to speak. Beldame
sat there, morosely pondering her options, while Shoshoni snooped on her
thoughts.
Beldame, like most witches, had been
raised by a witch, from infancy on. Ever
since she could remember, she’d secretly been fed the musical fruit, and told,
most severely, not to reveal this secret to anyone. In her turn, she and her fellow older witch
had raised another two female children to be witches. They’d fed them the taboo fruit, and kept the
mushrooms away from them. The special
diet, it seemed, was necessary to prepare the minds of the young, so that the
magical witch knowledge could take root there.
In a flash of brilliant deductive reasoning, Shoshoni came to realize
what this all was really about. The
ape-men were all starved for proteins, except for the witches. With their special monopoly on bean proteins,
only their brains developed their fullest potential. And the abstinence from eating mushrooms was
simply to keep their minds from becoming too addled.
But Beldame Oog had stumbled onto
some bad luck. The two young girls who’d
been slated to become witches had both died, the older witch had passed away,
and so now there was only Beldame. She
was getting old, so there wasn’t enough time to raise a new witch from
infancy. She couldn’t convince any spare
witches from any nearby Shroom Oog groups to come and join their group, so
there weren’t many choices.
Rather than facing the strong
possibility that her group would collapse, and either revert to animal status,
or join some other group of Shroom Oogs after her death (a source of great
shame in the afterworld, as envisioned by witches), she’d have to tackle a very
difficult task. She’d have to persuade a
young ape-woman, one almost but not quite yet an adult, to become a witch. And she’d have to teach her to become a good
witch, despite her mind not having been prepared by the special diet.
Shoshoni observed, fascinated by all
this, as Beldame pondered her predicament.
Of the young ones, who would she pick?
Which one was the smartest, and most easily persuaded to secretly break
the taboos, at this late stage, when minds have begun to rigidify? Beldame’s mind swirled with complex
considerations of all the sophisticated ramifications of her group’s social
dynamics, the nature of ape-man behavior, and past history, as relayed, word of
mouth, from one generation of witches to the next.
Shoshoni listened with rapt
attention. She came to realize what awesome
powers these witches held. They were
actually the ones who’d set up the taboos, the various sole provinces for the
three tribes, so that they could all co-inhabit the same areas, and live and
trade in peace. Beldame knew of distant
times when all had not been quite so peaceful.
Before her ancestors had deliberately designed and set up the new social
order¾they’d apparently enforced it
with threats of severe counseling and other punitive magic¾there had existed a primeval
state of war, a war of all against all.
All resources had belonged to whoever could wrest them from the other
ape-man, or, more realistically, from the other groups of ape-men.
Beldame, in her ruminations over
their current troubles, was rather superficial in her mental review of a lot of
background information, though.
Questions persisted in Shoshoni’s mind.
Why was the musical fruit called musical fruit, and why was it taboo? If it could make ape-men smarter, why weren’t
they all eating it?
Beldame wondered yet again, which
young ape-woman might make the best witch.
Who would violate the taboos, and eat the musical fruit? There was one young one called Eve Oog, it
seemed, who showed some promise. On
occasion, she was known to speak quietly to her friends, proposing wild ideas. Ideas in direct contravention to received
social wisdom, taboos, family values, and common sense. Some members of the group, now, were
occasionally known to whisper dark suspicions about just how strange Eve Oog
was. Yes, Beldame concluded, Eve Oog is
my best choice.
Frustrated, Shoshoni began to
debate. Could she perhaps send out her
thoughts, cosmic-karmic vibes and such-like things, and touch the mind of
Beldame? Could she even do so without
Beldame catching on? Or would Beldame
flee in terror? There was risk,
yes. But there was also so much more she
needed to know. So, quietly, subtly, she
sent her thoughts out to Beldame.
Taboos were made by witches, and
witches can tear them down, Beldame thought.
Or, this is what she thought
that she thought. In reality, of course,
these thoughts came from Shoshoni. Why
settle just for subverting Eve Oog? Why
don’t I just make a frontal assault on the idea that we should all addle our
brains with mushrooms, and that none should eat of the forbidden musical fruit?
Beldame recoiled in shock at this
latest turn in “her” thoughts. “Get thee
behind me, Dark Whisperer,” she hissed inwardly. “What do you want, anarchy? A return to the war
of all against all? Only our taboos
stand between us and utter madness! Now
get away from me!”
Shoshoni’s mind boiled and
bubbled. A Dark Whisperer? What’s that?
Just another of these irrational, superstitious ideas cooked up by these
witches, to give them a grip on all the other ape-men? Well, whatever it is, I know I’m not one. Maybe it’s time to come out in the open, and
have an honest snake-to-witch talk. Get
this all out in the open.
This idea of having honest,
intelligent conversation with a real,
live sentient being¾not
dead dinosaurs or hypothetical beings from the future, mind you¾was just way too much for
Shoshoni to resist. Her loneliness was
just too much to bear. So she slithered
out into plain view, and said, “Hi, Beldame, I Shoshoni. I wonder you answer questions from me. Why called musical fruit? Why...”
Beldame threw incomprehensible
curses at Shoshoni and fled in terror, wondering who’d been sneaking mushrooms
into her food, how, and why. Shoshoni
cranked up the amplitude of her vibes, pegging the needle and screaming at
Beldame. “I real, #Σ&Æ@y%¥!, I
real!!! I just harmless sssmart sssnake! I not hurt you! Come talk me!” But Beldame fled all that much faster. Crushed, Shoshoni slithered back into the
bushes.
6) The Paleolithic Horde Whisperer
“If there were only
one religion in England there would be danger of despotism, if there were two,
they would cut each other’s throats, but there are thirty, and they live in
peace and happiness.” Voltaire (1694–1778)
Meanwhile, back at the branch¾that’s a branch of the river, not
of the bank; ‘cause we’re still back in 30,000 B.C., now¾no, that’s B.C., not B.S.¾now look what you’ve done; you’ve
made us lose our train of thought. What
little we had. OK, so we’re out over the
river. We’ve set the Big Scene. The Pleisto Scene. Now set the little scene. Where the eagle glides descending, over an
ancient river bending. The eagle’s name
is Aquila Martlet, and his mind isn’t on his gorgeous view. He sees it just about every day. His mind isn’t even on getting some fish in
his belly, as is so often the case. He’s
had his fill already, today.
His mind is on his itches. Those damned mites and fleas, they’re just
driving him bonkers. So he’s thinking
some dust fluffed into his feathers, then shaken back out, again and again,
might satisfy his itches. The dust might
take a few pests with it, when he shakes it out. He’s not aware of all that, though. He’s not even aware of what causes his
itches; he just knows how to scratch them.
So he’s thinking, like, clearing in the jungle. Clearing where there’s many, many crumbling
rocks, so many that the plants can’t grow so as to cover them all. Here and there, in those plant-hostile rocks,
there’s fresh sand and dust. Sand and
dust created by crumbling rocks, that is, but once again, these are things
unknown to our hero, the eagle, Aquila Martlet.
Aquila wheels and soars, heading in
the general direction of the rocky clearing.
He descends, swoops over to his favorite rocks, and lands. He rotates his head back and forth several
times, eagle fashion, giving everything the eagle eye. Satisfied that all is well, he hops down the
talus slope and into the dust and sand.
Delousing activities commence.
Little known to Aquila, he’s picked
the same outcropping of rocks where Shoshoni’d had her brush with fate a while
back. The tiny, sharp shards of
shattered amber work their way through his feathers, and one works its way down
beneath the skin, down between a feather’s shaft and eagle flesh. There, Aquila’s bloodstream picks it up and
carries it to his brain. The second and
final case of dinosaur genes quite improbably arising from the grave and
animating a living creature’s brain has commenced.
Aquila flew off in a huff when he
felt the strange changes begin in his mind.
He sat in the highest branches of the tallest nearby tree, shaking his
head and fluffing his feathers again and again.
But the bizarre new thoughts wouldn’t go away.
By the time the changes were
complete, he’d accepted that they weren’t so bad after all. Like Shoshoni, he experienced the great
thrill of the awakening intellect. Like
Shoshoni, he went off by himself for a while, to ponder matters large and
small, for quite some time. And
discovered great loneliness. So he, too,
ended up looking for other sentience to communicate with.
Unlike Shoshoni, he didn’t waste any
time with elephants or dolphins.
Elephants didn’t seem anywhere near as smart as ape-men to him, and
ape-man smell didn’t bother him much. Dolphins
were very smart, yes, but they looked like fish. Aquila couldn’t seriously consider trying to
communicate with something that looked like a good, giant dinner. So the ape-men were it.
Now the use of cosmic-karmic vibes
for communication being extremely personal and subjective, it just happened to
be that Aquila’s tastes ran in different veins than Shoshoni’s. Whether that was due to their different
species, or just to their personal differences, we’ll never know, because the
sample size is just way too small.
Aquila, after investigating the three tribes of ape-men, decided that
the Blunt Heads were his best choice.
When they ate of their sacred weed, the states of their minds were
closest to his, when compared to those of the Firewater Tribe, or to those of
the Shroom Oogs.
The local clan of Blunt Heads had
stumbled onto a new patch of weed that day, so they were quite happy. They were kicking back, enjoying a potpatch
dinner. Aquila detected the resulting
spike in cosmic-karmic vibes compatible to his own mentality, so he flew over
to take a look-see. Sitting in a tall
tree nearby, he kept an eagle eye on the party below.
Panama Red, Bud Roach, Head Rush,
Roach Clip, Chong Bong, and other, lower-ranking members of the clan sat in
their assigned positions in the Great Circle, conducting The Ceremony. In front of them, inside the circle, there
lay piles of weed and earthenware pots.
Aquila watched carefully. They’d
strip leaves off of the weeds, twirl them into cylinders, pick small objects
out of the jars, lay them alongside the tips of the cylinders of leaves, then
wrap yet more leaves around this assembly.
The tips of these finished assemblies were then tamped into a rock, and
passed around the circles, with each Blunt Head, in turn, taking one small
bite, and chewing it with great dignity.
Even Aquila’s eagle eyes weren’t
strong enough to discern what, exactly, it was that they were putting into
their roach joineds, as the finished
assemblies were called, nor were their thoughts on this matter entirely clear,
from a distance. So Aquila flew to a tree
a mere fifty yards away, to get a closer look.
This caused quite the stir among the ape-men. The females pulled their infants in closer to
their bodies. Aquila perched in perfect
stillness, and they went back to the ceremony, as before.
Aquila watched and listened to the
vibes. Those were insects, mostly cock roaches,
that the ape-men were pulling out of the jars, and putting into their sacred
fare! After careful study and thought,
Aquila came to realize that the ape-men suffered from a low-protein diet. Their taboos forbade all animal proteins
except for insects. So they gathered
insects, saving them in covered jars.
Blunt Head tastes were such that they felt that their weed and their
insects, together, tasted far better than either one alone. Sort of like fish flesh and fish guts, Aquila
surmised. So the weed and the roaches
were joined together, creating the roach
joineds.
As Aquila further studied their
thoughts, he realized that there was yet more to the story. It seemed that when the Blunt Head Medicine
Men went to create and fetch magic in the caves, they’d first have to appease
the Weed God, and get in the proper state of mind, by heartily partaking of the
Weed God’s blessings. Being then quite inclined
to bump their heads on stalactites and cave ceilings (hence their name, “Blunt
Heads”), they wanted to take out any available insurance against becoming too blunt headed. So they ceremonially blunted the heads of the
roaches in their roach joineds, offering these creatures as living sacrifices
to the Weed God.
Aquila stuck with the clan of Blunt
Heads for a few weeks. His constant
presence spooked them at first, but they soon got used to him. He soon noticed just how large a difference
the weed made in their moods. When
they’d not had a recent meal of weed, they were edgy, irritable, and hard for
him to understand. When they were sated
with weed, they were easy-going, open, and mellow. Aquila decided that if he was ever going to
make successful psychic contact with them, and push them towards higher levels
of sentience, to end his loneliness, he’d have to catch them in a very, very
weedy mood. Yet they just never seemed
to get very close to the desired state.
Even after the best of their potpatch feasts, they just didn’t get high enough to talk with him, to use
their term.
So Aquila studied this problem at
length. What made them high?
Their ceremonies, their belief in their Weed God? Or the chemicals in the insects, or in the
weeds? Well, OK, sure, he thought, it’s
all of them combined. But which is the
most important? How can I work on them,
get them to a state where we can communicate?
What’s the angle, here?
He pretty much concluded that it had
to be mainly the chemicals in the weeds.
So how to I boost these? Poop in
their pot patches, to fertilize their plants?
Nah, no way, there’s not enough poop, even if I could convince a few of
my far-less-intelligent fellow eagles to join me. Bury dead fish in the pot patches? Now that sounds more likely. Still, entirely too slow, too
impractical. The problem is, they just
assimilate those chemicals way too slowly, way too inefficiently. But how do I solve that? And that’s where matters were stuck, for
quite a few weeks.
One day their nomadic wanderings
brought them close to a far more settled clan, a group of Shroom Oogs. Aquila grew excited; he suspected something
big was about to happen. So, along with
his periodic escapes to the river to catch fish, he now also abandoned the
Blunt Heads often, to fly off and go investigate the Shroom Oogs. Flying back and forth between these two
groups, as the Blunt Heads slowly approached the Shroom Oogs, he surmised what
was about to happen.
And what was that? A big ceremony¾singing and dancing, and beating of drums, which the
Blunt Heads did so well¾and
then trading. The Blunt Heads would
present blankets of animal furs that they’d collected from carcasses during
their wanderings, and then there’d be a feast.
Bread, fruits, nuts, berries. The
Blunt Heads would put some flesh and fat back onto their weary, gaunt
bodies. Then their best Medicine Man,
Head Rush, would join a torch-bearing Shroom Oog Medicine Man, and they’d make
their way deep into the sacred caves, fetching magic from the paintings. Maybe even make a few more paintings, if they
had plenty of time and energy, if the harvests had been good. Other Blunt Heads would hang out for a few
weeks, helping the Shroom Oogs gather firewood, nuts, fruits, and berries, and
planting seeds. Then the Blunt Heads
would gratefully receive a few earthenware pots from the Shroom Oogs, and
they’d be back to their nomadic ways.
Aquila watched enviously as the
Shroom Oogs and the Blunt heads met, celebrated, and socialized. Oh, if only he could end his loneliness, and
interact with fellow sentient, or at least semi-sentient, creatures, as these
ape-men did! He made himself content,
for now, to just watch, as they socialized and gossiped. He was mildly amused to hear them gossip
about the large bird that had been following the Blunt Heads. Was this good magic, or bad? They concluded it was good magic, since he’d
never made even the slightest threat against them, or their babies.
He dismissed one minor piece of
gossip as no more relevant than any other piece of gossip, at that time, although
he later came to realize its significance.
That was that a neighboring clan of Shroom Oogs, many, many miles away,
was experiencing some difficulties.
Their only witch, or witch in training, was quite old, and she was
having trouble persuading her would-be apprentice, a headstrong young
ape-woman, to co-operate.
One night as Aquila roosted in a
tree, watching the glowing embers of a fire, he got to thinking. What was this smoke, these partially oxidized fragments of burning
vegetation? Would the sacred weed
burn? Would partially oxidized weed
fragments, perhaps, be a method of delivering chemicals rapidly and efficiently
into the bodies of the Blunt Heads?
So off he flew, in the middle of the
night, to the weed patch. Returning with
talons full of weeds, he dive-bombed the unattended fire, and watched. Smoke poured forth. He flew through the smoke, drawing it into
his lungs. Hacking and coughing, he
retreated to his perch, high in the trees.
Then the euphoria came to him, and fed upon itself. I can feel
it, he thought, giddy with joy. If I can feel it, then they’ll be able to feel it!
Now all I need to do is to persuade them to do this, and victory is
mine! He got so high, high in his tree,
that he nearly fell off his perch.
Then the morning came, and with it,
letdown. How would he ever persuade the
Blunt Heads to do as he had done? Do it
again, in the light of day, for all to see?
But what if they determined this to be an omen, that the spirit gods of
the birds and wild animals wanted them to destroy their sacred weeds, and just
say no? This was an all too real
possibility, as best as Aquila could judge how the ape-men thought. So demonstration was entirely too risky. What to do?
The Blunt Heads didn’t even mess with fire; it was the sole province of
the Shroom Oogs. Aquila became downright
dejected.
So he flew off all by himself for
quite a few days, and thought. His
loneliness drove him back. But at least
he returned with a tentative plan, a first step. Obviously, he had to get close enough to one
of the Blunt Heads to persuade him that the fire taboo was wrong. That he should steal fire from the Shroom
Oogs, and then persuade the rest of the Blunt Heads clan that this was good and
right. After that, then let’s move off
to weed smoke, Aquila concluded. First
things first; one step at a time.
Panama Red seemed to be the wildest,
most radical of the high-ranking Blunt Heads, so he was the one that Aquila
chose to work on. Aquila spotted his
opportunity one fine day when Panama Red took a walk with Twiggy Sinsemilla,
his favorite babe, out in the jungle. He
swooped down to perch on a branch not more than five yards above their
heads. “Hey, you party animals, like,
let’s get faced,” he psychically blared out at them. Panama glanced inquiringly at Twiggy, a funny
look on his face. Twiggy just shrugged,
in that appealingly feminine manner that so endeared her to Panama.
Aquila tried again. This time, he spread his wings out, fluffed
his feathers, and audibly squawked, while saturating the ether with his
vibes. He projected images of burning
weed, lungs full of smoke, euphoria, and an immensely satisfied Weed God. “This bud’s for you,” he shouted, mentally
projecting an image of a particularly potent clump of weed smoldering under
their noses. “Bud is Wiser,” he added.
Panama turned to Twiggy again,
saying, “Maybe I’m crazy, but I think that big bird is trying to tell us
something. Don’t look at me so funny,
but I think... it has something to do with weed, and fire. Like he wants us to sacrifice weed to the
Fire God. But that’s crazy! Weed belongs to us, and fire belongs to the
Shroom Oogs. We can’t go and...”
“Squawk, squawk,” Aquila protested
quite loudly. Then he concentrated on
cranking up his vibes. “Take fire from
the Shroom Oogs, you dense bunch of overgrown monkeys! It’s real simple! Just feed it dry wood! You’ll not regret it! It’ll keep you warm at night, and when you breathe
the smoke of burning weed, the Weed God will be quite pleased! Trust me!”
Panama Red took the concept of a
talking eagle in stride, with amazing equanimity. “But we can’t go and steal fire from the
Shroom Oogs!” he protested. “They’re gods, you know! Surely stealing goes against all the
taboos! Surely the gods will punish us, swiftly and without mercy!”
“Oh, don’t sweat it, dude,” Aquila
replied. “They’ll still have their
fire. All you do is take a few embers,
and stick ‘em in a jar. Wrap the jar in
grass to keep from burning yourself, and feed it wood. They’ll never miss a few embers. Stick some extra wood in their fire when you
take the embers, if you must, to make yourself feel better, ‘cause embers are
just burning wood. You won’t really be
stealing anything.”
“It is forbidden,” Panama replied
staunchly. “Fire belongs to the Shroom
Oogs. We must not steal! So the gods command us. We obey the gods! We won’t listen to your madness.”
Aquila sampled the vibes. Nothing but adamant conviction wafted it’s
way to him from the minds of Panama Red and Twiggy Sinsemilla. He squawked in frustrated protest and flew
away in temporary defeat, thinking, I’ll convince one of these ape-men of the
virtues of what I say, one of these days.
And then their minds and their technology will be stimulated, their
auras will be much more palatable to the refined tastes of an advanced creature
like me, and my wretched loneliness will be at an end. All I have to do is figure out who to
convince, and how to convince them.
Many miles away, Beldame Oog was
having similar troubles explaining to Eve Oog that it might be wise for Eve to
violate the taboos, and eat of the musical fruit.
The old witch said what?!
“No, I’m serious, Eve,” she said, out there in the jungle where she’d
pulled Eve away from prying ears. “In
the old days, we lived in a war of all against all. People fashioned sharp rocks, tied them to
the ends of sticks, and killed large animals.
Then they ate them! Yes, that’s right!”
Eve could barely imagine such
barbarous acts. The Blunt Heads, with
their killing and eating of cock roaches, were bad enough, but at least these
were small, stupid creatures they ate, not large, spirit-filled animals, like
deer, bear, tapirs, and so on. Nor could
she imagine that, as Beldame explained, in those old days, ape-men fought and
killed each other, in conflicts over
limited territories and sources of fresh meat.
“So the witches of old got together,
and talked and thought things through,” Beldame continued, “They decided that
the greedy, bloody ways had to end. They
very deliberately designed and implemented a new social, magical, mystical,
spiritual order, in which the three tribes could live together in peace,
respecting each others’ specialties and resources. The large animals wouldn’t be killed any
more, either, so that there’d be no more fighting over hunting lands. Yes, our population density, the level of
proteins in our diets, and our brain power all took hits. But these were small prices to pay for peace.
“So witches implemented our new
social order, using threats of magic, unrelentingly stern counseling, and
merciless sensitivity training. The
common ape-men, with their new, lower-protein diets and lowered mental powers,
soon forgot the old ways, and took the new taboos to heart. We witches, meanwhile, secretly violate the taboos
against eating musical fruits, which allows us to retain our higher mental
powers. We’ve passed on, from one
generation to the next, the secrets of the past, musical fruit, and our hopes. You see, Eve, we eventually hope to bring all
of us to the light of reason, of
higher mental powers. Someday, we hope
to again allow all ape-men to eat of a high-protein diet, this time in
peace. So far, though, we still haven’t
figured out how to safely set up such a new and improved society.”
The shock to Eve Oog’s mind seemed
nothing less than traumatic. “The
commands from the gods didn’t originally come from the gods, but just from witches?” she protested. “Witches aren’t even the bosses of
Shroom Oog society! Sure, we all respect
you witches, a great deal,” Eve hastened to add. “But doesn’t Thag Oog conduct all the most
important ceremonies?”
“That’s of no real concern,” Beldame
insisted. “Thag Oog and all the other
Medicine Men don’t really have as much power as we witches do. We
have the real power. Who runs the fires, after all? Our whole tribe derives its power from fire,
and the other tribes regard us as gods.
They’d not be able to survive anywhere near as well as they do, without
us.”
Eve didn’t know what to think. The worst part of it all was that Beldame
then strictly forbade Eve from talking to anyone about anything they’d
discussed. Eve feared Beldame’s magic,
so there was no question that Eve would have to keep all this to herself. She, and she alone, would have to figure this
out. Should she become a witch, as
Beldame asked? Beldame insisted that
Eve’s decision would be truly voluntary, as it had to be, for some strange
reason, and that she’d not be punished if she said no. The choice was hers¾entirely, dreadfully hers. Should she risk angering the gods, violate
the taboos, and eat of the musical fruit?
Or should she risk the future of her clan, and the wrath of Beldame¾Eve couldn’t quite convince
herself that Beldame would completely refrain from exacting any revenge, should
Eve choose to say no¾and
resist Beldame’s entreaties?
“I don’t know,” Eve hemmed and hawed. “Give me some time to think it over. I just have such a hard time envisioning
myself violating the taboos. All my life
I’ve been taught these things. And now
you want me to go off and eat of the musical fruit? I fear the wrath of the gods!”
“Oh, come on now, Eve! I’ll
show you! I’ll eat them right in
front of you! You’ll see that no harm
comes to me. None. None at all!
It’s what gives us witches our special powers, really. Come on.
Join me, and we’ll go eat them somewhere in secret.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I’m quite ready. I don’t think I could eat them here or
there. I don’t think I could eat them
anywhere.”
“Now, Eve! Think rationally! You already know I eat them, and I don’t
suffer from the wrath of the gods! Come
join me, eat of the musical fruit, become a witch! What are you afraid of?!”
“Well,” she admitted shyly, “Witches
never have children. Men won’t mate with
you. I’d really like to... to...”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Beldame broke
in, “You’d like to have children with Adam Oog.
You know, what you think are such secrets, your friends are blabbing to
the whole clan. They all talk about your
strange ideas behind your back. That you
should like to marry Adam, as a man
and a woman, the way that the Firewater Tribesmen and the Blunt Heads marry,
instead of the way we marry. Some mock
you, for, they say, you go against family values. In our Shroom Oog Tribe, men marry men, not
women. And that’s the way it is, and
must be, for our tribe, they say.”
What Beldame said was true. Like some other societies (notably many
Greeks) later on down the long and winding roads of human history, the Shroom
Oogs regarded ape-men as superior, and ape-women as inferior. Therefore, sex between equals (males) was far
better, nobler, than sex between males and females. The latter was merely a distasteful necessity
for perpetuating the Shroom Oog Tribe.
“But that’s the main reason why I’ve
picked you to hopefully become the clan’s new witch,” Beldame continued, “We
need you, you know. I’ll not live much
longer. Anyway, by questioning this
taboo, at least, you show some promise.
You don’t unquestioningly obey all the taboos. I was really hoping that you could hear what
I say with an open mind. You know that
the other tribes regard marriage differently than we do, and you’ve thought it
through. Now come and watch me eat
musical fruit, and you’ll see that this taboo, too, needn’t be mindlessly
obeyed.”
“Well, then, what’s the purpose of
this musical fruit taboo in the first place?
Didn’t you say you witches set up most of the taboos? And why do they call it musical fruit,
anyway?”
“Well, we’ve got to keep the
commoners down,” Beldame explained patiently. “If too many of us eat the proteins in the
musical fruit, too many will be too wise.
They’ll gain knowledge, and start questioning the taboos. Then we’d have to resort to stern, harsh
measures again, or fall back into barbarism.
Eating animals, fighting each other, and so on. Then there are some of the more subtle
reasons, too. Eating of the musical
fruit can be dangerous, as we discovered way back when. Should you decide to become a witch, I’ll
have to teach you how to be very careful.
“In a nutshell, what we say is,
‘musical fruit, musical fruit¾the
more you eat, the more you toot.’ Your
tooter becomes a polluter tooter. That
means if you feel the toot coming on, you have to leave, get away from the rest
of the clan, else they might catch on to us violating this taboo. And most of all, remember¾never, never, never ever toot close to a fire! The Fire God can’t abide by toots, and can
burn your polluter tooter!
“That’s really about all I can say
for now. Some of our magic is real, not
just stuff we’ve made up to keep the commoners in line. But that stuff’s secret. Any more, we have to wait till you’re a real witch. Till after you’ve eaten of the musical
fruit. So what do you say? Ready to go?
Shall we dine on The Forbidden Fruit?
I’m ready when you are!”
“Um, no, not quite yet,” Eve
mumbled. “Give me a day or two. Surely you can spare me a few days to ponder
this?”
Beldame reluctantly gave in and
walked away, back to the clan’s huts.
Eve Oog’s mind reeled as she headed off in another direction, out into
the jungle, to be alone with herself and her thoughts. She had important matters to ponder,
obviously.
For almost subconscious reasons, she
headed for a patch of musical fruit.
Arriving there, she thought, well, yes, this is appropriate that I
should sit here and look at these while I think things over. Look at these little musical fruit trees, and
get over my fear. Realize that they’re
just another tree. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Nothing threatening. Now let’s
just go ahead and move on out, here, and sit here in the middle of this
patch...
She sat there, studying the bean
plants, AKA musical fruit trees. Here,
there were green fruits, and there, there were ripe fruits. And over here there were little flowers, magical
blossoms, as Beldame had once explained.
Strange little trees, that the fruits should be at all stages like this,
in the same patch. Look at those
blossoms! Weird smell! What had Beldame called them? Oh, yes, that’s right¾“fart blossoms.” What a strange name!
So can I imagine myself eating these, she asked herself, eyeing
the ripened little fruits. Well, not
just yet. But maybe I should go ahead
and pick a few, and see if I can work my nerve up later. She steeled herself against her queasiness at
picking the forbidden fruit, and started filling her small satchel.
Eve felt a presence. A non-human,
non-mammalian presence, with its life force laying down low, close to the
ground. Now Eve, unlike Beldame,
remembered many strange experiences after having eaten mushrooms, so she wasn’t
particularly spooked. She didn’t even
get that upset when she saw a large python’s head poking out of the bushes,
looking at her with hypnotic eyes.
“Hello, Eve, out for nissse little ssstroll? I Shoshoni Sssquamata. Nissse meet you.”
At this point Eve got a wee bit
disturbed, recalling that, well, hey; after all, I haven’t eaten any mushrooms
lately. Now if this seemed just like a
regular big python, and it was heading closer to me, I’d be makin’ tracks outta
here! But here it is, talking to me, and I’ve not had any
mushrooms! Nor have I been one to eat
too many, too often, so as to be like a few of the others, mostly older male
Shroom Oogs, who randomly see things
just about any time. But this is such a nice snake. If I can handle the idea of eating taboo
musical fruits, then I can also calmly chat with a snake.
“That right, Eve, Shoshoni is
nissse-sssnake. I no hurt you. We talk.
And eating musical fruit not bad, either. You want sssee me eat sssome? Watch.”
Shoshoni chomped on a clump of the forbidden fruit and slithered
backwards. The shrubs bent, then gave
way. She swallowed without chewing. “Sssee?” she concluded, “No hurt me. Not poison.
You try?”
“You’re just like Beldame. Why are y’all so bent on getting me to eat
these? No, I mean, Beldame I can
understand, I guess. She’s got to line
up a new witch, to replace Beldame when she’s gone. But how about you? What’s your interest here?”
“Oh, I want what besss for you and
clan, just like Beldame. Fruit make you
sssmarter, wiser, you know. And I want
you sssmart, wise. I only, lonely
sssmart sssnake. I need company of
sssmart one talk to. You be my friend?”
“Oh, I’ll be your friend, don’t
worry about that.” Eve was very nice,
very solicitous. “But I don’t know about
eating musical fruit. What will they do to me?”
“They make you wise. Ssself-aware.
You will sssay to youssself, ‘Eve, I am.’ You will know good and bad. That chaosss is badnesss. You help Beldame and them who follow you to
work towards good sssociety she talk you of.
You musss eat musical fruit wisss me.”
“I don’t know if I could eat them
with a snake. Maybe I could eat them if
they were baked.”
Shoshoni couldn’t imagine any way
she could manage to bake the fruits, even if she managed to get access to a
cooking fire. Not having any limbs was such a drag! “Well, try them, take home with you, bake
them for youssself if you please,” Shoshoni pleaded. “Maybe Beldame help you. Just try them, try them, won’t you
please? Try them, try them, you will
sssee!”
“I couldn’t eat them back at
camp. They’d catch me, and call me a
tramp. I’m not sure if I can eat them
here or there. I’m not sure I can eat
them anywhere!”
Shoshoni sighed. Be patient, now, she told herself. Think. Think! OK, so, like, maybe if she eats some
mushrooms, and gets quite “fried”, as they say, maybe then she’ll try them. But
what if it takes too many mushrooms?
What if we have to destroy her mind to save it? There’s danger here! But maybe it’s worth a try. Maybe we can have her go just far enough, but
not too far. She projected these
concepts, asking Eve, “Now, to not think of me as sssnake. Think of me as you friend. Could you eat them with a friend? Could you, would you, eat them as you go ‘round
the bend?”
Shoshoni could feel the fear as Eve
contemplated going around the bend, as certain other members of her tribe had
done. Eve was getting stubborn now. “I could not eat them with a snake, I would
not eat them if they were baked. I could
not eat them with a friend, I could not eat them as I go ‘round the bend!”
Come on, Shoshoni, she said to herself.
You’ve got to go for it! If you want to end your loneliness, you’ve
got to help her, stand by her, coach this dim-witted but kind-hearted girl to
see that if she’ll just eat this fruit, she’ll become wiser, much wiser, and
help her kind, as well as me! Now let’s
see. Among other things, she fears that
they’ll taste bad. And truth be told,
they do taste kinda bad. That’s to
python taste buds. Who knows about human
taste buds? Even if I get her to try a
few, that might not be enough. I’ve got
to get her into the habit, which means that they’ve got to taste good to
her. Let’s see, her fellow ape-men over
there in that Blunt Heads Tribe, they have a way of mellowing out the harsh
taste of their weeds. Let’s try it,
now...
“Would you, could you eat them if I
was your coach? Would you eat them with
a roach?”
Eve Oog picked herself and her
satchel up off the ground and flew away in terror, fleeing back to her
camp. Eating musical fruit was bad
enough, but the idea of eating roaches, like the Blunt Heads did, was just far,
far too much, she thought. Stupid snake! Doesn’t she understand anything about us?!
Shoshoni, crushed once more, slithered
back into the bushes and tried to sleep.
She started seriously suspecting that the ape-men and ape-women were
just a bunch of speciesists. Well, no,
how can that be, she asked herself. Eve
seemed to be quite nice, as an individual.
She cared that I’m lonely, and wants to be my friend! Maybe it’s just one of these insidiously
invidious things. Institutional
speciesism, I guess you’d call it.
Eve ran for a few hundred yards,
then calmed down a bit. Still, she
walked towards camp, rather than back towards her new friend, whose ideas she
feared so much. That little satchel,
with its cargo of musical fruit, weighed heavily on her mind. She really, really needed to share her
burdens with someone. Someone
normal. Not a witch, and not a
snake. I’ve just got to talk to people about this, she thought. But Beldame told me I’m not to talk to anyone about our little talk! Now Shoshoni, she’s a different matter! I
can talk all I want to, about her!
Eve burst into the camp during the
middle of a solemn ceremony, but she didn’t care. Just as Thag Oog invoked the gods to bless
the marriage, saying, “And do you, Adam Oog, take Steve Oog to be your
lawfully...,” Eve ran up, breathlessly saying, “Thag Oog! Thag Oog!
Help! Help! I need some Strong Medicine! There’s a big snake in the musical fruit
patch, and it was trying to get me to eat the musical fruit! Her name’s Shoshoni, and she says that if
I’ll just eat the fruit...”
“Now, now, calm down, my little
one,” Thag Oog said reassuringly. “Calm down!
Now, have you been partaking of the mushrooms, without anyone joining
you, and without the proper ceremonies?
You know how the gods get
angry when...”
“No, no, Thag Oog, Sir! No! This is real! It’s a real snake, a real, large, smart
snake with a long tongue and piercing eyes, and it eats musical fruits, and...”
Thag Oog spoke patiently,
tolerantly. “Now Eve, you know I’ve
heard some talk. Silly things about you
wanting to marry Adam, here. Can you
imagine? Adam and Eve, instead of Adam
and Steve?! No, now, really, I’m not
trying to make fun of you. Are you just
trying to break Adam and Steve up, because you’re jealous? You can’t stand to watch us complete this
ceremony?”
“No Sir! That’s not it! There’s really actually a real, live, large smart
snake in the patch of musical fruit trees just down that path a ways, and it
wants me to eat the fruit, it says it will make me wise! I can’t figure out what I should do! I need some help, some advice!” She started to sob.
“There, there,” Thag Oog said,
taking her in his arms. “Why don’t you
just tell your big strong handsome Medicine Man about your visions, and I’ll
help interpret them for you, and you’ll be all better.”
Eve protested yet once more that the
snake was real, not a vision. Thag Oog
nodded very reassuringly. Then she told
him all about it, between sobs, and excluding any mention of Beldame. When she was all done, Thag motioned for her
to sit down. He stood up to address the
crowd. “Eve Oog here has had a powerful
vision, bringing us Good Medicine. Now
some of her motives aren’t so good, but that’s not her fault. Her motives are subconscious, not willfully
malicious. As we all know, she likes
Adam very much, which is OK, as long as she doesn’t get in the way of Adam and
Steve, or think that she’s as good, as powerful, and as beautiful as men
are. And I think she’ll do fine, here,
and stay in her place, even if her dreams bring thoughts that are disturbing to
her, if we keep on helping her out.
“Now we all know that we men have
long, beautiful noses, with beaks like eagles, while women have short, stout,
ugly little pug noses like the pigs in the forests. Lots of people talking, few of them
know. But we mighty Medicine Men
know! We know about visions from the
Great Spirit. We know what a large snake
stands for, in dreams. Snakes stand for
long, powerful, beautiful noses. Eve has
nose envy. She’d like to be like a man,
with a long, beautiful nose.”
The crowd muttered in anger. Thag Oog raised his arms, saying, “Now let there
be no anger or chaos. Chaos is
badness! She brings Good Medicine! Good Medicine, I say!” The crowd calmed down. “Now I say her visions bring Good Medicine
because it shows that we men of the Shroom Oog Tribe are beautiful, with noses
worthy of great envy. It shows that the
evil spirits that dwell in the musical fruit trees want us to do bad things,
because they know we are powerful, that we have much Medicine. But we can defeat them! They have shown us that bad things go
together. Bad things like women wanting
to be men, and disobeying the taboos, by eating musical fruits, for example.
“But they defeat themselves in their
own actions! Now we know yet again that
they’re bad, and what they’re up to!
When we stick together, when we ask each other for help, as Eve Oog
asked me to help her, then we will make yet more Good Medicine! Now people of mine, remember this! And remember, we shall not blame Eve Oog, or
the serpents, for what the bad spirits of the musical fruit groves would try to
have us do! There will be no chastising
Eve, or tormenting of serpents, or any other animal spirits of the wild! Hear me and obey!
“Now let’s get back to our
ceremony. And do you, Adam Oog, take
Steve Oog to be your lawfully...” Eve
picked up her satchel and headed for her hut, still sniffling.
That night, under the cover of
darkness, she ate the musical fruits. It
wasn’t so much that the proteins stimulated her brain. The beans didn’t contain that many proteins,
and Eve was already entering adulthood.
Protein deprivation affects the human (or ape-man) brain the most during
major developmental phases, before birth, in infancy, and in childhood. So the beans were too late to make much
difference, physiologically.
Psychologically, matters were much
different. All Eve’s recent stresses
concentrated on those magical beans. She
focused all her mental powers on overcoming the taboos. So when she did, she felt great relief. The placebo effect kicked in. She’d overcome her internal self-limitations
along with the taboos, and had become self-actualized! Self-awareness blossomed. “Eve, I am,” she muttered to herself.
The next morning she woke up at
dawn, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She
ate breakfast, then went to find Beldame.
After Eve called for her outside her door, Beldame limped out of her
hovel, looking miserable. “Beldame,
Beldame! Guess what?! Last night, I...”
“Hush, my child, hush. I can see
what you did. I’m proud of you. Now let’s go off into the woods before we
talk.”
“Beldame, you poor old dear, you
don’t look too well, or too happy.
Aren’t you glad about what
I’ve done? What’s the matter?”
“I am indeed quite glad for you, my
child. My young lady. My witch.
My successor. You’ve done what
you needed to do just in time, it seems.
But now there’s much more on my mind.
Let’s walk into the forest before we speak, though, for we must take
great cautions not to be overheard,” she whispered. “Now let’s casually speak of trivial things
until we’re far away from camp.”
They veered off of the path, and hid
deep in the middle of a lush riot of trees and vines. They sat beneath an ancient, gnarled but
stately tree on an old rotting log, where they could survey their surroundings
fairly well. “I ate the fruits!” Eve
exclaimed at last. “I’ve become
self-actualized!”
“Yes, yes. I know.
I’m so glad. Now you’re a
witch. When we’ve had our little talk,
we’ll return to camp, and we’ll have the ceremony. We’ll make it official. Will you be ready? Are you willing to give up your hopes of
having men like Adam pursuing you, and having children?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good. That means I’ll now tell you all the most
important secrets of being a witch.
First, let...”
“But Beldame, excuse me, you seem
so... down. I’d have thought you’d be a
lot happier to see that I’m becoming a witch.
What’s the matter?”
“You’re right, Eve, something is
wrong. Very wrong. Terribly wrong. I’m quite happy, really, that you’re joining
me as a witch. I frankly don’t know what
would happen if you didn’t. Some very,
very bad things, I suspect. They may
happen anyway. But at least our chances
are a lot better, now, with you joining us witches. I’m sorry I don’t seem more enthused; it’s
just that I have a lot on my mind, now, suddenly.
“But I’ll fill you in on all this,
just right here, right now. Be patient,
and I’ll explain. You already know some
of the most important things about being a witch. That we’re working towards a much better
society, some day, when we can combine the best of the old, and the best of the
new. The higher-protein diets and
population densities of old, with the more peaceful ways of today. Meanwhile, we secretly pull the strings,
using taboos and magic.
“What you don’t yet know is what I’m
going to tell you now. We witches perform
very, very little real magic. Maybe none
at all, depending on which witch you ask.
It’s a good thing we Shroom Oog clans live so far from each other, that
we have meetings of witches so very, very rarely. Else we’d sit around and debate such matters
all day, and never get any work done.
But what I’m saying is, there’s little if any real ‘magic’, the way that
the commoners, or even the Medicine Men, think of it. Magic is in the mind. Ceremonies and rituals don’t really do
anything, in and of themselves. They
only do what they do, through the power of the mind.
“Does that mean our magic is all
false, a trick? That it’s not
‘real’? No, not at all! The power of the mind is very real! This contradiction is why we witches can sit
around and talk about such things all day.
Eve, this you must understand: The
Most Important Thing about being a good witch, next to having a heart full
of love, is understanding what is real,
and what is not real.
“You see, we witches even practice
‘magic’ on each other. We do and say
things to each other that aren’t ‘real’, in the strictest sense of the
word. We deceive each other a bit, now
and then. Deliberately. Older witches are especially likely to do
this to the younger witches, who are in training. This puts the younger witches into the web of
‘magic’ by which we control the clans and the tribes. In other words, younger witches often have a
hard time appearing to believe in the rituals enough to persuade the commoners,
if they, themselves, don’t believe in literal ‘magic’. So we tell them that it’s entirely real. In doing so, we also show them the power of
the mind. Then, later, after they see this
power, we can reveal to them its true source.
“We witches have a tradition. A tradition in favor of honesty and
knowledge, and against the danger of ‘magic’ becoming too powerful, a power
unto itself. Usually, when the oldest
witch is close to death, she’ll see it coming.
A matter of weeks or days, usually, it seems. At that point, she’ll stop all deception between
her and the next witch in the line of succession. She’ll tell her everything she knows, as best
as she knows it, which usually means that she’ll reveal how very, very little
of the magic ceremonies and rituals address anything ‘real’, so to speak. But keep in mind, now, that the power of the
mind is completely real and awesome. Magical, even!
“The bad news¾well, OK, only a part of the bad news¾is that you’re facing an
extremely steep learning curve. You’ve
not been a witch for more than a day, yet, and you haven’t even had your
induction ceremony. I’m telling you
everything right now. You see, last
night a vision came to me. I’ll not live
for more than a few weeks at most.”
“Beldame! No!”
“Yes. It’s true.
But the Life Force provides, it seems.
You’re here. You’ll carry
on. Life, and the good life of our clan,
will go on. It will go on. It must go on. So you must know all that I know. Know, then, that magic is in the mind, but
that it is extremely powerful. Probably
the most powerful thing of all.
“Now some things lie between the
worlds of the real and the unreal. Words
become very slippery here, but I will try to tell you these things as best as I
can. By believing in them, we make them
real. We invent them, and they invent
us. By the power of our minds, we create
them. By their power over our minds,
they become real. So then we must be
utterly, extremely cautious as to
what it is that we invent. Yet
strangely, they also seem to exist even beyond just what we invent.
“On the good side, there is the Life
Force. A thing that links and loves all
minds. A thing that wants us to live and
grow. Most of all, it wants the powers
of our love and of our minds to grow, and to be devoted towards helping others
to grow. It feeds upon the powers that
our minds devote to helping others to grow, in a process that feeds upon
itself. If we all help each other to
grow, there’s no telling what we can
do. There will be no stopping us! Victory will be ours!
“On the evil side¾note that ‘evil’ backwards is
‘live’, that these are opposites¾there is a Dark Whisperer. It wants us to fool ourselves into depending
on the literal magic of our rituals and ceremonies. It wants us to think that we needn’t worry
about devoting our powers of living, loving, learning, and growing, because all
we have to do, is to trust in our magic.
We just have to do the ceremonies and the rituals, and say the magic
spells just right, and that’s all we
need to do. We needn’t worry about
suffering through honest learning, where we have to undergo the pain of
admitting that what we thought we
knew before, was wrong.
“We just need to perfect our literal
magic, says the Dark Whisperer. There’s
no need to worry about developing the magic of our minds, the Whisperer
says. That’s too painful, too
honest. And then, we’re left
defenseless, without any real power,
because there’s no real power in perfecting empty ceremonies.
“Then, when others try to help us,
by telling us that we’re crazy for thinking there’s all this magic in these
worthless spells and rituals, the Dark Whisperer tells us that they’re
attacking us, not our crazy
ideas. It tells us we must defend
ourselves against them. We shouldn’t
just sit down with them and think and talk, we must defend ourselves and our
elaborate, almost-perfect ceremonies.
All we need to do is add just a few
more finishing touches to make the rituals perfect, and then they’ll see!
“The Dark Whisperer tells us that
our literal magic is all-powerful, yet when outsiders question our beliefs in
this magic, the magic isn’t powerful enough to defend itself. We must defend it with our own violence. ‘Everything
is all the fault of those others over there’ is Its favorite line, it
seems. When we blame others, including
those who say our ceremonies and spells are silly, then we needn’t work on
growing, and fixing our own problems.
But It’s not happy till we’ve given up all real power to learn and grow, and we’re dead. Even then, It won’t be happy. It can never be satisfied; It’s thirst for death
and destruction can never be quenched.
“Forgive me, Eve, if I get carried
away, here, and start to sound as if I’m reciting another spell. I’m not.
These are matters that other witches and I have pondered and talked over
at great lengths. Now let me just throw
in here that if and when your time comes for you to pick more witches to follow
in your footsteps, you must be extremely
careful in just who, exactly, it
is that you pick. Even if you should be
so lucky as to find little girls, who you can start at a young age. You will know. Just make sure that they have a feeling, deep
down, low in their guts, that they want to follow the Life Force, and not the
Dark Whisperer. This magic thing is a
powerful thing, and it cuts both ways.
“Now the funny thing is, the Life
Force and the Dark Whisperer can be understood to be just more creations of
ours. We willful beings don’t need that
much help from outside forces, comes time to do good and bad things alike. Whisperers?
Forces? Just more ideas, more
ways to look at things. I strongly
suspected that that’s all that they
are, for long periods of time. I really
didn’t know one way or the other.
“Then last night I learned that the
Dark Whisperer is all too real. That’s
the rest of the bad news. I felt a
great, deep, dark disturbance in the Force.
But right there is the good news also!
There is a Force, you see,
because I have felt it! And It, too, will be with us!
“There’s no room for complacency,
though. The Whisperer has always been
with us, in a sense, in the internal, metaphorical sense. But now, after having left our world an
incomprehensibly long, long time ago, when willful life of some sort, somewhat
like ours, was wiped out by this very same Whisperer, he’s back again. He’s here, and he’s hungry. He’s felt the stirrings of our awakening
minds, and so It wants to push us back into the mud. Or worse!
It’s real, It’s here, and It wants to hurt us. Real
bad. Bad, bad news.”
“So what are we going to do?” Eve
inquired nervously. “Can’t you just turn
the Whisperer into a frog or something?”
Beldame replied quite
patiently. “No, my child, I can’t do
that. Real magic is a seldom thing.
I don’t know what we’ll
do. We’ll just take it a step at a
time. Trust the Force, Eve, trust the Force. We do what we must, day by day, hour by
hour. We learn, then we think, and then
we ask the Force what it is that It would have us do, to help all minds to
grow. And then we act. And when that time comes to act, we’ll know
it, and we’ll not look back. We’ll just do it, and do it right! Victory will be
ours! Trust me! Trust the Force! We will win!
The Force told me so!”
This is all just entirely too heavy
for me, Eve thought. What have I gotten
myself into? Is it too late to back
out? Where’d they find this crazy old
bat anyway? Am I going to be like her
some day? Am I halfway there
already? How ‘bout that snake yesterday? Now just how ‘bout that, anyway? So who’s the
crazy bat, here, now?
“Beldame, I’ve been meaning to talk
to you about something else, here. You
know I talked to a snake yesterday, out in the middle of the grove of musical
fruit. It was real, I tell you, real. Real as you and me! I saw
it, we talked together. It told me to eat of the musical fruit,
because that would make me wise. Because
the snake wanted my company, my friendship, as a fellow wise being. Do you suppose this snake has anything at all
to do with your Dark Whisperer?”
Beldame just sat there, staring at
Eve intently for a few silent moments.
Then she said, “No. Thag Oog and
the Medicine Men are full of turtle poop.
There are no evil spirits in the groves of musical fruit. We keep that to ourselves, of course. I think the snake is our friend. She may be of help to us. She is somehow linked to the lives lost long,
long ago, to the depredations of the Dark Whisperer. She will be no friend to It, when we tell her
what’s going on. Now let’s go back to
camp, to conduct a proper ceremony, for all to see. All must know that you are now a witch. Then we’ll know what to do next, to oppose
the Dark Whisperer. Let’s go.”
Beldame was right. The Horde Whisperer had returned. After sixty-five some million years of
hanging around more lucrative domains, and only occasionally casting the gaze
of his cosmic-karmic phase-sensitive vibes detector arrays at Earth, he was
back. Sensors indicated that vulnerable
intelligence was on the rise; these ape-men held forth promises of providing
the Whisperer with much in the way of jolly amusements. Unlike the far more intelligent and wise
cetaceans, content to frolic endlessly, frivolously, and merrily in Earth’s
seas, the budding bipedal sentients were damned with
the triple vices of ambition, seriousness, and ideology.
The Horde Whisperer hovered far
above the Earth’s atmosphere. Gingerly,
he cranked the gain on his remote sensors, hoping to remain concealed. Ah, yes, he thought, my long-distance surveys
were right. There are indeed some novel
new intelligences down there, stirring things up, prodding the ape-men towards
advancement! For so long, they’ve
remained in boring, harmless stasis. Now
they awaken! Now they become Sensitive. Vulnerable.
Who is upping the stakes? How are
these cards stacked?
Expertly, he twiddled with his
sensors, rejecting this frequency, damping that one, amplifying others. Filtering out the noise. The vibes rushed in, painting a detailed
picture. Three tribes of ape-men, all
with their own gods, their own rituals and beliefs, and their own mind-bending
chemicals with which to talk to their gods.
And¾what’s
this?!¾yes, two greater sentients, each one prodding on one of the three
tribes! Who are they? What
are they?!
Careful, now, contain yourself,
don’t reveal yourself too easily, he told himself. Let’s probe some more. Blazing Beezlebubba,
dude, what be goin’ down, bro?! Check it out!
This can’t be! Yet it is! Two dinosaur minds! After all this time! How could they have survived, dormant? No?
OK, I see. Highly improbable,
yes. But chaos is badness! And the power of badness, as we all know, is
what pleases me!
And they are lonely. Oh, so lonely! So they stir the pot, waking the dormant
powers of the ape-men. Yes! This, I can use! Now let’s see, what’s the angle, here...
OK, so we’ve got the Blunt
Heads. Their weed god is a mellow
fellow, a benevolent sort. A peaceful
people. They get high, and then all they
want to do is to sit around and eat, listen to their silly, primitive music,
watch the animals, and paint pictures.
How quaint! How disgustingly non-destructive! There oughta be a law against this sort of thing, I’ll
tell you! And some of them are watched
over by one of the newly recycled dinosaurs.
Best to stay clear of all such true intelligence. After all, they say that a thinking creature
is the worst enemy that I could have.
Then there’s the Shroom Oogs. When they get high, there’s more
possibilities. They see things. Things that
aren’t there. Maybe I can get them to see me, and to Listen. To be Sensitive
to me and my ways. To hear my Whispers,
and to obey. Maybe. Or maybe not.
But they, too, have a recycled dinosaur trying to look out for some of
them. And also¾wait, what’s this¾a wise, wise old ape-woman, a
witch, wise beyond all expectation, for a low-brow, stupid ape¾and she knows I’m here!!! Oh,
no, could be trouble brewing!
All right, damage control! Deflector shields up! Cloaking devices on! Full steam ahead, Baals
to the walls, all that jive! Now¾Who, exactly, is she?
What does she know, and when did she know it? Who finances her campaigns? Where are her weak spots? His tentacles snaked out, probing for
data. They met silence, as if a thick
brick wall had smashed down between him and his adversary. OK, be that way, then, he thought. There’s more fish in the sea.
7)
Magic, Myths, and Whispers
“There are two
equal and opposite errors into which our race can fall about the devils. One is to disbelieve in their existence. The other is to believe, and to feel an
excessive and unhealthy interest in them.
They themselves are equally pleased by both errors and hail a
materialist or a magician with the same delight.” C. S. Lewis
(1898-1963)
The Horde Whisperer’s ethereal
presence haunted the Paleolithic Earth.
He flitted here and there. Ah,
yes, he exclaimed to himself, here they are, with their growing powers left
unguarded. The Firewater Tribe. Promising material, here. Their BFD
God, who gives them Bread, Firewater, and Dough, makes some of them aggressive. And since their god is such a BFD God, maybe
I can get them to go on the warpath, in defense of their particular
understanding of their particular god!
Yes, that just might do the trick!
So clever of me! Take their worship of their “higher power”¾a concept which could give them
so much real power, the power of the
mind, and of working together, if they understood “higher power” wrong¾and turn it to the right path, my path! Give the power to Me, the only one who really deserves it! Ah, yes!
A plan that can’t fail! Let’s go!
Dough Boy, Yeast Man, Bread Pan,
Beer Bellicose, and all the other, lesser lights of the Firewater Tribe were
sloppily arrayed around the amphorae, roughly according to rank. But their ranks were looking a bit ragged. Yeast Man would normally have served as
Master of Ceremonies, but he was too far gone.
Dough Boy and Bread Pan were doing the honors that night, pouring from
the earthenware amphorae into individual calabashes (dried-out bottle
gourds). Harvests had been good that
year, and the Firewater Tribe was paying proper homage to the BFD God. That’s with heavy emphasis on the “F”.
Beer Bellicose was feeling pretty
miffed. Yeast Man, Big Man on campus,
hadn’t appointed him as one of his stand-ins during his temporary
incapacitation during this, the high Holy of Holies, Smashed Calabash Bash, and
Falling-Down Fall Festival. This seemed,
to Beer Bellicose, to bode ill for his hoped-for eventual rise to Yeast Man’s
hallowed position in the Firewater Tribe’s org chart.
So Beer Bellicose (they all called
him B-Belli for short) watched, disgusted, as Yeast Man mumbled and sloshed
about in the smashed calabashes and beer-and-barf-soaked mud, where he’d fallen
down. How pathetic, he thought, that our
fearless leader can’t hold his beer, and has fallen into such a low state. And look,
that fool, he seems to be wanting yet more
beer! He dishonors the BFD God, not only
by making a fool of himself, and appointing fools to act in his stead, but also
by barfing up His Bounty! And then he
asks for more! Ha!
His arrogance knows no bounds!
B-Belli had hoisted a few calabashes
himself by now, but he was no lightweight.
No Sir! He still had his head
together. So he thought, well, maybe it
would be the good and honorable thing to do, here, to teach Yeast Man proper
respect for the BFD God. One doesn’t
barf up the blessings of the BFD God, and then ask for more. It’s just not done. It’s not right. And to let a bad deed like this go
unpunished, would, itself, be a deed most foul.
Well, let’s see, here. We could make sure he remembers that when he
gets sick of the BFD God’s blessings, maybe the BFD God is telling him
something. Something like, “Hey,
weakling, you can’t even hold the power I give you in Firewater. What makes you think you can properly handle
the powers of being My Representative on Earth, the leader of the Tribe?” So it falls on me to make sure he remembers
his lessons, that he’s got to quit while the quitting is good. Make sure he remembers that he can’t handle
his beer, and never be such a disgrace to the Firewater Tribe again.
B-Belli forced a smile onto his face
while he went up to Dough Boy to get his calabash refilled. Then he slipped into the darkness of the
surrounding jungle. He homed in on a patch
of belladonna, where he picked some of their glossy black berries. These, he squished into the beer, discarding
the solids. Then he returned to the
party. There, he generously attended to
the fallen and ignored Yeast Man, giving him the beer. Yeast Man promptly spilled half of it, but
managed to drink the other half. Then he
asked for more. B-Belli rolled his eyes,
then went to fetch more beer. The party
continued.
Yeast Man had been laying off in a
dark corner, barely visible from the main action center of the party, which was
the filling station, where Dough Boy and Bread Pan were serving up the hooch
grog. Hooch grog: that which is good for
what ails you, if what’s ailing you is that your head feels too good, and
you’re still managing to stand up.
B-Belli strolled haphazardly around, making an unnoticed departure from
his rendezvous with the fallen, neglected Yeast Man. Yeast Man may very well have been Big Man on
campus, but after his over-indulgence at this particular frat party, he was
pretty much regarded as less than a stimulating party partner. So no one paid him any heed at all. That is, until a little while after B-Belli
casually sauntered up to the collection of amphorae and loudmouth drunkards.
B-Belli squelched his natural
instinct to jump into the fray to reassert once again that he was the most
raucous and rowdy of them all, as he had his calabash filled once more. Then he stepped close to the main action, and
selected Sadsac Grainslinger, a suitably gopherishly ranked member of the clan,
for a special mission: he was to go and deliver the fresh calabash of beer to
His Eminence, our Great Leader, who you’ll see right over yonder, rolling in
the beer-and-barf soaked muds while calling out for more beer.
Sure enough, the partygoers noticed
this transaction, and the sad state of their Leader. They laughed as they watched from the
distance, as Yeast Man grabbed frantically at the proffered beer. Then B-Belli stumbled onto his best luck of
all: Keg Tapper, known about campus as quite the sardonic wit, boisterously
offered up yet another assignment for Sadsac Grainslinger. Sadsac was to ferry ever more beer, until
such time as Yeast Man’s thirst was thoroughly quenched for this evening. After all, this was the Smashed Calabash
Bash, and the BFD God might be quite angry if the Chief Himself got less than
his deserved bellyful. Keg Tapper
proposed these motions in a clever toast.
There were guffaws all about.
In the morning, Yeast Man would no
doubt chew on some ears about how he felt so awful, and how no one had helped
him out last night, in his hour of need.
But he’d have forgotten whoever would and wouldn’t have helped him
during his Dionysian Bacchanalia and Barfing Fest, anyway, so what good could
come out of attending to him? Besides,
this wasn’t the first Festival of Chiefly Overindulgence, nor would it be the
last. Or, at least, so they all assumed.
Meanwhile, B-Belli thanked the BFD
God that Keg Tapper had offered that witty toast, and that Sadsac Grainslinger
was now quenching the Chief’s thirst with repeated deliveries of brewsters. If Keg Tapper hadn’t done it, B-Belli might
have had to. Things were better this
way. And some of Keg Tapper’s humor
tapped into an underlying vein of tension between Sadsac and Yeast Man. Sadsac was just one of those lowbrow ape-men
who couldn’t help but loudly squabble with his superiors, despite his low
rank. So he’d evolved into a whipping
boy of sorts for other, higher-ranking clansmen.
Sadsac would say things he’d hear
others say, say them, and receive the Chief’s wrath. The process of receiving said wrath would
prod Sadsac’s dim bulb just long enough to keep him from spilling the beans
about who he’d heard say such things in the first place. No use getting beaten by the squealed-upon
clansman, too. So Sadsac served as a
hybrid trial balloon, litmus test, and punching bag. Anything you could say to Sadsac, that he’d
not get beaten for repeating, was OK to say to the Chief’s face. Anything different... well, maybe better keep
it to yourself, unless you wanted to take on the Big Man.
This meant that there wasn’t much
love lost between Yeast Man and that dimwit, Sadsac. So there was a certain hilarity about the
whole deal. Sadsac was getting back at
Yeast Man by doing Yeast Man’s bidding!
B-Belli couldn’t believe such good luck!
If anyone suspected poisoning, in the morning, when Yeast Man would be
even more indisposed than usual, then blame would attach itself to Sadsac, sure
as beating the ceremonial drums was known to cause the Eclipse Dragon to un-eat
the Sun God.
B-Belli chortled inwardly at his
great fortune. Regardless of how this
whole thing resolved itself, he’d come out ahead. The boss would be weakened, physically and
politically, any way one looked at it.
Maybe he’d even be dead. B-Belli
blanched at the thought, contemplating the enormity of his unheard-of crime, if
this was indeed what was going to happen.
But then he calmed himself, telling himself he’d never be caught, and
that even if his actions would result in such dire consequences, he could
always reassure himself with the thought that he’d not meant for it to quite go
that far. He merely meant to teach the Chief some
self-restraint and dignity, for the sake of the Clan, the Firewater Tribe, and
in service of the BFD God.
The party’s momentum faltered
slightly, but kept on moving towards it’s beery, falling-down-at-the-dawn
conclusion.
So far so good, the Horde Whisperer
nodded in satisfaction. Now what’s the
haps at other current loci of vibe vortices on this cosmic wave front, he asked
himself. He tweaked the knobs. The coherent wave fronts of the cosmic-karmic
vibes harmonically collapsed within the confines of his phased array detector
node stubs. Focal lengths of aura analysis
elements contracted precisely. Even
though the vibe apertures asymptotically metastabilized somewhat harshly due to
the malfunctioning oil pan modulators, the new image coalesced promptly into a
new pattern. The Horde Whisperer cast
his gaze inquiringly.
Beldame Oog was up at the dawn,
fussing about her latest and largest rendition of ceramic splendor. Eve Oog paced about, inquiring about this and
that. Beldame patiently answered her
questions, occasionally restraining Eve when she got too eager to help. The chatter was fairly rapid and tense, it
seemed, despite Beldame’s outward calm.
Something big’s up, it seems to me, the Horde Whisperer thought. Better watch this for a while.
“Can I help you over there? Here, how about I smooth out...”
“Watch it there, now, we have to be
careful not to add too much water, here.
We want to make this large, with high walls. Get the clay too wet, and it’ll collapse,
even if we keep the walls thick to give it extra strength. The extra weight of that thickness will bog
us down. We’ve got to keep the clay on
the dry side, to get fairly thin yet high walls. The signs of a good piece are thinner
walls. This helps when firing the
pieces, too, because the Ceramic God and the Fire God are angered by thick
walls. Thick walls often mean there’s
little holes, gaps, voids, within the clay.
The Fire God breaks the clay in these spots.
“Here, do it this way. Put a flat piece of wood on each side, and
push. If you have to, just keep the wood
a bit wet, and slide it like this.
OK. Looking good.”
“So why are you making this thing
with sharp corners, instead of making it round on your potter’s wheel?”
“We’re making a very special
container today, Eve. A magic
container.”
“What kind of magic container?”
“It’s called a ‘box.’ It’ll have four sides, a bottom, and a lid,
which is a separate ceramic piece for a big top opening. The top will be a lot bigger than anything
I’d normally make that’s intended to be sealed at the top. Can you see how it’s shaping up?”
“Sure, Beldame. I see what you mean. But why are you doing this? What kind of magic do you mean to make? Magic to mess with the power of the people’s
minds, or some of what you call those very, very rare cases of real magic?”
“Oh, make no mistake about it, Eve,
this will be real magic. Quite
real. Very real. Count on it.”
Eve put down her tools. “How so?
What’s up?”
“Oh, the Dark Whisperer is out to do
us in. We’ve got to take strong
measures. This calls for very strong,
very real magic.”
At this, this Horde Whisperer’s
phased-array vibe detectors invisibly pricked up. What’s this, he fretted. Surely the
old crone is off her rocker! In all my
billions of years, I’ve never seem any real
magic, in that sense! Sure, I can
mess with their minds real bad, by making them believe in literal magic.
When they think reality is a subjective whim to be redefined at will, I
can take away their real powers. I can
make them help me to make what is unreal, real, by getting them to fear,
irrationally. There is no real magic, as far as I can tell. My powers over minds, not matter, is all that
I have.
So far, that’s all I have, at
least. But there’s always the chance
that I could invent some real magic,
or steal the techniques from someone who has them. Never discount that possibility. If real
magic ever becomes possible, it’s imperative that I, and not my
opposition, be the first to exercise it in a big way!
The Horde Whisperer’s mind briefly
flashed back to the last time he’d had a brief, sneaking suspicion that someone
had invented real magic. This had been during some of those millions
of years he’d spent away from the Earth, in a far-distant corner of the
galaxy. The local powers, Cluster Buster
and Scamgram I Am, ruled that corner of the galaxy as co-equal rulers. This was about 75 million years ago.
Cluster Buster and Scamgram I Am
ruled co-equally, holding court in an adversarial but cordially balancing
yin/yang kind of arrangement. Everyone
lived in relative harmony; there was peace, generally. But oh, those cultural wars! Cluster Buster favored keeping the citizens
clean, protected from the ravages wrought by those dastardly artists,
especially the Bloody Thespians. But the
Bloody Thespians fought back with their ideas, heaping travails upon Cluster
Buster. Scamgram I Am was their staunch
supporter.
Those millennia were filled mostly
with boring, low-fireworks kinds of days, so one of the few avenues that the
Horde Whisperer had to wreak any havoc at all, was in was those cultural wars
on Planet Claire. So when that new
Bloody Thespian with her new, radical ideas emerged on Planet Claire, and
stormed her way, with her dance troupe, into the Grand Galactic Imperial Court,
for a very public show, backed by Scamgram I Am but vocally denounced by
Cluster Buster, the Horde Whisperer was there.
For a few nights, they put on their
show. Galactic citizens great and small
denounced the crass degeneracy of the show, or praised its piercingly honest
portrayal of contemporary society’s crude materialism and refusal to abide in
higher, metaphysical realms of uplifting transrationalism. There was much gossip about how that leading
Bloody Thespian, Shurely Inane, was “channeling” the spirits of many powerful
deceased Bloody Thespians in her dressing room before the show. In other words, she was performing real magic. The Horde Whisperer discounted all these
rumors at first, but he did keep a careful watch on her.
But judging by the complete uproar
she and her dance troupe caused in their normally relatively staid society, the
Horde Whisperer began to have second thoughts.
Had Shurely Inane managed to somehow stumble on the formula for real magic? Watching her show, and how galactic citizens
reacted to it, he had to admit that the theory couldn’t be rejected out of
hand. The climax of her show was when
she pulled out that large, ornately decorated symbolic spleen, vented spleen
dregs all over her naked body, smeared it around, and cried out in anguish
about how cruel society was.
Now her society had very negative
thoughts about bodily remains, and spleens were regarded as especially sacred,
where the essence of one’s soul resided.
Yet Shurely had managed to convince a totally radical citizen to donate
his spleen upon his death, and Shurely had made good use of it. Liquids from this spleen were diluted
billions of times. Yet according to
Shurely and her disciples, the power of those spleen dregs remained. Her followers used these liquids in many,
many ceremonies. Then, of course, there
was that highly incendiary climax at the end of her show.
Cluster Buster and his followers
said nonsense; probabilistically, there’s a next to zero chance that you or any
of your followers even have a single molecule of spleen left in your liquids,
and all this is completely silly. So why
do you object, then, retorted Scamgram I Am and his followers, when we do these
ceremonies? Cluster Buster would reply,
“Because y’all are sick. Sick, sick, sick, you hear me? You’re
wasting time on disgusting perversity!”
But Shurely and her troupe just kept
on putting on the show. The capitol,
Planet Claire, and then the whole Empire got further and further up in
arms. The nay-sayers and crass
materialists, led by Cluster Buster, kept on bad-mouthing the show. Why won’t you at least come and see it before
you condemn it, the New Wave Artists would say.
Because it’s a perverted waste and a bad influence, they’d reply.
Shurely just kept on drenching
herself in spleen dregs for the conclusion of her avant-garde show, every
night. During the day, she’d attend
rallies, pushing her concept of a homeopathic elixir for all that ails
society. Her cure was SPAMM (Socially Progressive Art for Mobilizing the Masses).
Society’s moral fiber couldn’t long
withstand this onslaught. One night,
Scamgram I Am couldn’t take it any longer.
So he had Cluster Buster forcibly bound up, and deposited in a front-row
seat for Shurley’s show.
“There, Cluster Buster,” Scamgram I
Am announced. “You will like the
Show. Come on, try it, you will like
it. You will see. This is what’s best for you, this I know.”
“But I don’t like spleen dregs and SPAMM, Scamgram I Am!” Cluster Buster wailed
in a shriek of pure terror. “I do not
like them here or there, I do not like them anywhere!”
Cluster Buster flailed helplessly
against his tentacle clamps and other bindings.
He went into an apoplectic rage.
“Geeze, Dude, don’t have a cow!” Scamgram I Am protested in
panic. “It’s just a show, for Great Galactic Cluster’s sake!”
But that’s what he did. Cluster Buster had a cow, right there on the
spot. Then he died.
But his cow grew up immediately,
right then and there, in front of everyone.
It became known as Zebu, the Cruel Galactic Emperor. It took vengeance for its parent’s death by
seizing power, and then outlawing all magic, transrationalism, spleen dregs,
and SPAMM. Shurely Inane spent her last
years in abject anonymity. The Horde
Whisperer was never able to complete his studies of her acts, to see if she had
the secret of real magic, or not.
Now Emperor Zebu was indeed a
villainously vile, cruel tyrant. You
could tell by the Nazi helmet he wore, and the large brands of cobras, knives,
and skeletons emblazoned on his hide.
Confirming beyond a doubt that Zebu was an inappropriate sort of a
fella, one could also observe that he had neither steely eyes nor a square
jaw. And those brands! Talk had it that
he’d had those blazing branding irons thrust onto his hide without any
painkillers whatsoever, without flinching.
So everyone said that Zebu was the toughest, roughest bull around.
And it was true. Without mercy, Zebu severely chastised anyone
who dared to talk of Socially
Progressive Art for Mobilizing the Masses, or any related concepts. All such matters were now considered to be
sacred, since these were what had brought about the birth of the sacred CCHOWDERHEAD (Chief Cow and Holy One; With the Duty to Enforce Rationalism, Head the Empire, and Advance Democracy), blessed be His Name. And we all know that matters which are
sacred, dare not be discussed, lest
they be questioned. Zebu managed to drag
a lot of things into the realm of The Sacred, and so He prohibited any
discussion or flexibility on a lot of matters, not just art. Society froze into stasis, especially for
lack of avant-garde artists to point the way.
Zebu’s ideas about democracy were
roughly as follows; 1) Make as many things as possible as sacred as possible,
so that the people will be cleansed of their unclean thoughts. Everyone will then go around being Sacred all
day, and they’ll all agree with Me. 2)
Without remorse, viciously assassinate the character of anyone who is unclean,
who disagrees with Me. Hire private
detectives to ferret out or create some dirt about them, and broadcast it on
all cosmic-karmic aura channels, especially during prime time. 3) If all else fails, sue and harass the
unclean ones into silence. 4) Do all of
the above well and faithfully, in the Name of CCHOWDERHEAD, blessed be His
Name, and all the other, minor things, like mandates from the voters, will
follow.
His people were a deeply pious folk,
so Zebu’s grip on power was unquestioned.
All his followers, being meek and mild, never once even thought of resisting Zebu’s will. So he mooed his terrible moo, stomped his
terrible hooves, and chewed his terrible cud, and sent the mild things off to
bed without any supper, and they were all sorely afraid. They whispered in the dark, saying, surely this must be the cruelest
Galactic Emperor of them all!
But the Cruel Galactic Emperor Zebu
was cruelest of all to the Horde Whisperer.
The Whisperer endured frightful powerlessness and boredom, since all
belief in any power but Zebu and Zebuism was roughly squashed. He had to content himself with tempting Zebu
into giving some of his powers to him, but the Horde Whisperer couldn’t seem to
wrest anything of significance away from Zebu.
Zebu may have been a cruel,
intolerant, insensitive, and sometimes even a shockingly inappropriate despot,
but He wasn’t a truly evil cow. He was, after all, Zebu, the Holy Cow. He realized that if He listened to the
Whisperer, said Whisperer would be leeching His, Zebu’s, powers away from
Him. Zebu loved His power too much to
share it more than He had to, in order to keep it. And sharing power with the Horde Whisperer seemed
to Zebu to be a very irrational thing to do.
So the Horde Whisperer had tolerated this boredom for ten million years,
as Zebu locked all the action into stasis.
Illustration goes here above… Hero
of the Working Cow
Then there’d been that little K-T
mass extinction party at Earth. After
that, the Horde Whisperer had gone straight back to nipping at Zebu’s thoughts,
with occasional side trips to see if he could seduce any Zorgons into listening
to his Whispers. Still no luck. Then one day, ten million years later, a
wandering tribe of barbaric nomads stumbled into the palace on Planet
Claire. Not knowing any better, all they
saw was a placid cow, chewing its cud.
Being insensitive, under-developed
hicks from the hinterlands, they were totally deaf to the cosmic-karmic vibes
with which Zebu severely admonished them as they carved Him up and made Him
into steak tar tare, beef jerky, and liver-and-marrow burgers. No one even thought of answering Zebu’s loud
cosmic-karmic cries for help, for His society had been in stasis for so long
that no one knew what a physically violent emergency was, any more, or how to
react to one. And Zebu was but the first
of many sacred cows brutally butchered.
So stasis collapsed, and business picked up for the Horde Whisperer for
quite a while again. Only now,
fifty-five million years after Cruel Galactic Emperor Zebu’s cruel demise, were
things getting back to boring.
But now, all these millions of years
later, here he was, watching Earth, and some new and exciting developments in
this former backwater. Could this
low-brow ape-woman witch, Beldame Oog, have concocted some real magic? What was she up to, anyway? He wrestled with the controls, refocusing the
vibe vortex induction synthesizer. The
thermoelectric diffusion injector gasket sprung a tiny leak, and the rear-view mirror
synchronizer acted up quite a bit, but overall systems performance was still
within acceptable norms.
“Well, Eve, I do believe it’s
looking good, if I must say so myself,” Beldame concluded. “Now let’s take a break, and let it dry a
bit, before I carve the Magic Symbols into all the outside surfaces. Can’t go carving on it when it’s still too
wet. Break time.”
They retreated from the morning
sun’s budding heat into a tree’s shade, and chatted. “So what’s the deal, here, Beldame? I’m your apprentice, and you say you don’t
have long to live. You say you have to
tell me everything now. Well, I’m
listening. Why don’t you go ahead and
explain all the details about this ‘real magic’ we’re making here right now?”
“OK, Eve, I’ll do that. What we’re going to do, in detail, and
why. On our level, and on the commoners’
level. They have their truth, which we
work with, and then we have our higher truth.
The day will come when all knowledge will be accessible by everyone, but
for now we have to work with what we’ve got.
“What we’re doing is carving magic
symbols all over this box and its lid.
I’ll have to do almost all of that myself; you’ll be able to help only a
tiny bit. Then we’ll fire it. While it’s firing, we’ll make a little trip
to the musical fruit grove, and see if your friend the snake is still there. If she is, we’ll explain our situation, and
why we need her help. I’ll bet she’ll be
glad to assist us.
“After the box is fired, we’ll have
a big ceremony. We’ll take the whole
clan, along with the box, to the musical fruit grove. There, I’ll explain to them that we’re being
attacked by the evil spirits of the musical fruits, and that the way to fight
back is to gather up all the fart blossoms, and put them in the box. By picking all the blossoms now, you see,
there won’t be any fruit later. At least,
not at this particular grove. They won’t
worry much about other groves, because they’ll be all wrapped up with this
strange new magic I’ll be showing them.
“Yes, I know what you’re going to
say. You think no one will go into the
grove at all, for fear of all those evil spirits. They’ll believe that they can’t go in there
to pick the fart blossoms, because they fear they’ll accidentally touch a
fruit, and then they’ll die. Well,
you’re wrong. I’ll explain to them that
we’re under dire threat from the evil spirits, as shown by what happened with
you and the snake in the grove the other day, and our only hope is to take
strong measures, and fight back. I’ll
explain that if they let me do my special magic to them first, then they can go
in there, pick the fart blossoms, and even live through it easily if they
accidentally touch a fruit now and then.
“They’ll be scared at first,
sure. But then they’ll see you and me
picking the fart blossoms, without any problems. And then the snake will come out and join us
in our task! Everyone will be really
impressed with what we witches have wrought, and then they’ll pitch in to
help. Their spirits will be much
strengthened when they see that they can touch the dread musical fruits now and
then, and live to tell the tale. So one
of the small side benefits of this whole deal will be that we’ll move closer to
the day that we can actually get everyone to eat of the musical fruit, get more proteins in our diet, and move
towards a rational age. All will have
access to knowledge, and all will act out of reason and love.
“That’s how we’ll handle the
commoners, and that’s how they’ll understand this whole exercise. But you and I, and hopefully the snake, we’ll
be operating on a different level. We
know what this is really about. It’s about putting together an extremely
powerful talisman; one that’ll overpower the Dark Whisperer. When he sees the awesome power inherent in
this thing we’re making, he’ll flee in fear.
He’ll have no choice but to leave us all alone.”
“But Beldame, how will this talisman
work? Isn’t this just another piece of
pottery we’re making, and won’t all those fart blossoms be just another bunch
of tiny flowers? How can there be real magic here? Are you sure this isn’t just another case of
messing with the powers of the mind? How
can you get real power out of some
pottery and a bunch of flowers?”
“Oh, we’re onto some real power
here, my dear. Trust me. What it is, is that eventually, we’ll go back
to a high-protein diet, largely from the benefits of fruits like these
now-forbidden musical fruits. We will
become far more wise and powerful, and begin to respect all knowledge, and to
act out of knowledge and reason. The
fart blossoms are both symbols and embryonic substance of these dormant but
budding powers of ours. When we gather
many, many of them together, their vibes will reinforce each other, and create
a very subtle but immensely powerful vibe vortex.”
“OK, if you say so. But what about these special magical symbols
you said you’d carve onto this ‘box’ thing?”
“Oh, I’ll show you in just a few
minutes. What we’ll do, is we’ll call on
the magic of the future of the human mind.
See, our descendants will be known as fully human, ‘Homo Sapiens,’ wise
men. The box will be decorated with
symbols of the future, in a time when the powers of men’s and women’s minds
will be channeled into large, powerful organizations. These large organizations will be ordered in
such a way as to fully unleash the potential of many, many human minds, and the
results will simply be quite awesome. So
the combination of the fart blossoms, as symbols and substance of our budding
powers, and these symbols of our future, carved into solid ceramics, will
create some incredibly powerful magic.”
The Horde Whisperer watched, taking
it all in with growing apprehension.
What if¾OK,
the old hag is crazy, but just what if¾she happened to be talking about real magic. He tried to probe her mind yet once again,
only to be coldly, forcefully shut out.
Well, I’ll just have to keep a close eye on all this, he thought. He watched as Beldame and Eve lounged about
for a few more minutes, and then got back to work.
Beldame carved away at the clay very
rapidly. By now, a few members of the
clan had started to drop by. They, and
Eve, questioned her as to what, exactly, all those symbols were, but she
“shushed” them all, saying that she’d explain it all as soon as she was
done. Finally, she pulled back, adoring
her creation. There were boxes, circles,
arrows, labels, and symbols all over the box and lid. “Explain-explain-explain,” demanded many
voices.
“All right,” she relented. “I’ll explain. These represent the future of the powers of
many of our descendants’ minds, all working together in harmony. Sort of.
These will help us to scare away the evil spirits in the musical fruit
grove. OK. Examples.
This little box says ‘Quality.’
And this one says ‘Teamwork.’
This circle says ‘ISO 9000.’ And
this one says ‘Dullbert.’ Then this arrow over here is labeled ‘Form
BR549, Authorization Requisition and Design Guide for Synthesizing New and
Improved Forms.’ And here we have ‘Focus
on Proactive Employee Empowerment.’ And
here we have the various org charts and Gantt charts and pie graphs. Then this big box over here says ‘Leveraging
the Synergies of Global Marketing’s Quality Paradigm and the Mission Statement
of the Interdisciplinary Cross-functional Technology Strategy Enhancement
Team.’ Y’all understand, now? Any questions?”
There were no questions. All of them, including Eve, just shook their
heads, thinking, geeze-um, this witching business is
way over our heads. We’ll just trust Beldame, they all seemed to
agree.
Surely this old witch has been
sneaking way too many mushrooms on the side, the Horde Whisperer concluded
disgustedly. But he failed to convince
himself completely. After all, he might
possibly find himself with a severe handicap, if someone stumbled onto real magic before he did. Especially if said someone was opposed to him
and his worthy causes. So he couldn’t
resist trying to sneak a look into Beldame’s mind yet again. Her psychic barriers withstood his onslaught,
same as before.
He retreated, thinking, well, no
great loss. So I can’t read the contents
of some stupid old ape-woman’s mind. Big
deal. Just a bunch of silly trash in
there, anyway. I must confess, though,
it’s amazing how she sustains that kind of energy, keeping her shields up that
way. So now they’re just sitting around,
chewing the fat, watching the jungle grow and the clay dry. Let’s blow on outta here.
The Horde Whisperer eyed the gauges,
shifted gears, recalibrated his vibe vector overshoot dampers, and inserted the
lockout bypass modules into his secure aura translation transducer. All systems performed normally, and his new
link sprang to life. Ah, that’s more
like it, he crowed.
B-Belli stood towards the rear of
the crowd, as the clan paid final respects to their fallen former leader. They’d dug a large hole in their best grain
field and conducted the proper ceremonies, led by none other than B-Belli
himself. With just a few well-chosen and
emphatically delivered words to the wise, he’d become the new acting
Chief. He’d finish consolidating his
power after a proper period of mourning.
The Horde Whisperer concentrated
intensely on his tasks for a few days, and all sorts of thoughts churned
through B-Belli’s mind. The Shroom Oogs
and the Blunt Heads had been ripping the Firewater Tribe off, he thought. Despite the fact that they’d given out much
bread from their bumper crop this year, they’d not gotten much more than the
usual, in terms of pottery and wooden implements from the Shroom Oogs, magic
and furs from the Blunt Heads, and so on.
Obviously, they were intent on disrespecting the BFD God and His
Bounty. Come to think of it, those
morons with their silly false gods should worship the BFD God the way we do, and give up their immoral, sinful
ways.
But what about the Shroom Oogs and
their Fire God, B-Belli mused. Aren’t
the Shroom Oogs, themselves, gods? Since
the Fire God gives them very special powers?
Some very obviously real
powers? Well, just wait a minute,
though. Maybe fire hasn’t got much to do
with the Fire God. I’ll bet we, with the
help of the BFD God, could handle this big “fire” deal. What’s so special about it, anyway? Take fire from the Shroom Oogs, and put it to
our own use, ourselves. Surely, properly
done, this would only increase the glory of the BFD God!
So B-Belli became determined to
violate the taboos, and transgress into the provinces of the Shroom Oogs. He’d steal fire from these so-called “gods”,
and the Firewater Tribe would put the fire into firewater for themselves. No more submitting to the insults of those
BFD-God-disrespecting fools!
The Horde Whisperer was
pleased. He truncated the vibe vector
parsing routines, and reinitialized, dedicating all hyperbolically tangential
cosmic energies available to him into the maw of his latest, most high-tech
Cosmic Vibomatic Vibatronä.
The yaw dampening embedded circuitry within the synchronicity
self-actualizer overloaded. Bias
currents within the current-limiting FETs punched through the gate to source
barrier, spewing red-hot sparks all over the radiator hoses, causing one to
spring a leak. In a cascade of events,
ethylene glycol contaminated the auxiliary vibe vortex generator, blowing
several banks of fuses, which in turn caused the cosmic wave front aperture to
go into electrosomatic shock. Only with immediate and astute corrective
action did the Horde Whisperer forestall systems lockup, thereby saving himself
several days of work in rebooting and reconstructing lost files.
“Oh, sugar-peas!” the Horde
Whisperer exclaimed in anger. “This
Cosmic Vibomatic Vibatronä is a golly-gee shuck-darned
piece of unacceptably substandard workmanship!”
But then he calmed back down, and got to the business at hand. The image formed once more, even though phase
jitter cut down resolution a wee bit.
Beldame and Eve Oog were plucking
fart blossoms, before the astounded eyes of half of the clan. Then Shoshoni slithered out of the bushes,
joining them. They calmly continued
gathering blossoms, as the snake bit off the tiny flowers. The other members of the tribe exclaimed
their great amazement as Shoshoni dropped clumps of flowers into Eve’s hands,
for her to place them into the box.
Pandemonium ensued as the spectators consulted one another as to whether
they were all seeing the same thing.
Then there was discussion about whether they’d all had too many
mushrooms, cumulatively, and had all “gone ‘round the bend.”
Eve and Beldame calmly continued
picking fart blossoms during all this time.
When the spectators finally calmed down, Beldame called out to them,
asking that they come and join the effort.
They refused. Their fear was too
great. So Beldame abandoned Eve and
Shoshoni to the work, and went to talk to the troops. After a long, long talk, she persuaded a few
brave souls to join their effort. Sure
enough, these few brave souls soon jubilantly exclaimed their great powers in
defying deep, dark forces and their fears of these deep, dark forces. It wasn’t long before the half of the clan
that was in attendance was all out in the grove, picking fart blossoms.
The Horde Whisperer just watched in
rapt fascination. The few passes he made
at probing Beldame’s mind, now, any more, were quite half-hearted. But everyone else’s minds were open to his
inspections. And the clan’s minds were
full of how they were forcefully fighting off the evil spirits that dwelled
there in that large grove of musical fruit trees, by making powerful magic.
Shoshoni’s and Eve’s minds, too,
were full of magic, on a different level.
By doing what they were doing, they were getting the tribe used to the
idea that they could mess with musical fruit trees, and not die. This was just one step towards unleashing the
real power of human minds and
high-protein diets. And then, of course,
there was the literal magic of combining the symbols and substances of these
keys to human advancement, embodied there in that slowly filling, magically
decorated box of fart blossoms. What,
exactly, was Beldame up to, anyway? All
in all, it filled the Horde Whisperer with a sense of dread and foreboding.
Periodically, Eve would step into
the box, and trample the blossoms down, making more room. There were many, many blossoms in that large
grove, and Beldame vowed that every last one of them would go into the
box. But the box had a lot of room. Work continued till daylight gave out, and
dusk called all efforts to an end.
Shoshoni was left alone to guard the box overnight, as the excited and
zealous clansmen and women returned to camp.
By now, the Horde Whisperer was
quite anxious. He focused all his
cosmic-karmic energies on trying to do physical harm to the blossoms, or to the
box. If his opposition was to be allowed
to do real magic, then he, too,
should be allowed such activities, he decided.
Box, break! he mentally commanded.
Nothing. Wind, blow, he decreed, but
the breezes barely tugged at the lid, let alone got even close to carrying the
blossoms away. Blossoms, burn! he
psychically shouted. As best as he could
tell, the vegetable matter got only slightly warmer than its surroundings. This gave him some solace, since he’d never
studied the phenomena of exothermic chemical reactions causing self-heating and
even spontaneous combustion in large piles of freshly cut vegetation.
So he stayed there all night,
raising the temperature of the blossoms ever so slightly, more and more, all
night. Just a wee bit more effort, here,
he told himself, and this whole mess will break out in flame! Then in the morning, the whole tribe showed
up! When they lifted the lid to put more
blossoms into the box, the excess heat escaped, unnoticed by all but the Horde
Whisperer.
He spent that whole day trying to
scare them away, with thoughts of great fear and foreboding. Calling up these particular moods wasn’t too
difficult for him. Beldame, however, did
an excellent job of convincing her troops that fear, itself, was the enemy, and
had been sent by the evil spirits, to dissuade them from completing their noble
and vitally essential task. Still, the
Whisperer couldn’t tear himself away.
That night the clan made a temporary
camp at the grove, and excited and inquisitive juveniles (and the occasional
adult) couldn’t resist lifting the lid periodically for a peek at the budding
magic within. By now, the warmth of the
exothermic reactions could be felt at the outside of the bottom of the box. Beldame explained that this was the result of
the anger of the grove’s evil spirits, who were quite frustrated that none of
these blossoms would ever become musical fruits.
The Horde Whisperer was, indeed,
frustrated and angry. Mostly, he was
angry about the fact that as soon as he managed to build up the heat in that
box, some fool would lift the lid for another peek, and heated air would
escape. He was still far, far from being
able to burn up Beldame’s talisman.
Finally, he gave it up. For the
time being, at least.
Crossing his fingers, he consulted
his checklist, then implemented precautionary action items proactively, and
punched the buttons on his phased-array aura analyzer’s remote-controlled
channel-changer. Amazingly enough, all
systems performed without anomalies.
The clansmen of the Firewater Tribe
were dancing around their fires, celebrating how their brave new leader,
B-Belli, had stolen fire from the gods.
But they weren’t all wasting their time in celebrations. In the light of one fire, away from the main
action, the Whisperer could see that other seeds he’d planted were now taking
root. B-Belli was encouraging Dough Boy
as he experimented with mounting a spear-head onto a shaft. They’d found several spear-heads over the
space of many years of digging in their fields, and had kept them as
curiosities, not realizing their ancient origins or purposes.
But now they knew what they were
for, and they were intent on reviving the ancient sports and arts of
hunting. Keg Tapper, too, sat there with
B-Belli and Dough Boy. He was teaching
himself the art of fashioning new spear points from raw, natural rocks. B-Belli coached both of his disciples
eagerly.
Fine job, good work, the Horde
Whisperer nodded approvingly. Well, big
deal, so far, really. But just wait till
what comes next! As soon as they learn
(or relearn) the fine arts of big-game hunting, we’ll move on to the next step, which is where the real fun comes in! We’ll see if they can’t also do a good job at
infidel-hunting!
Just then, the Horde Whisperer
realized he’d been neglecting his personal hygiene. His perm was frazzled, but his nails were far
worse: they were nothing short of atrocious!
So he thought matters over, and concluded that all was roughly on course
on Earth for a little while. The
Firewater Tribe was well on its way towards Whisperer Wisdom. Beldame’s crew of fart-blossom pickers were
still several days from completing their task of picking every blossom in the
grove. So he could relieve himself of
the concerns of this world for a little while.
Time was ripe for attending to more personal matters.
He fled the Earth and its hick
backwaters for a few days, to seek more civilized sectors of the galaxy,
wherein he might procure a first-class perm and manicure for himself and his
nine-inch nails. Never hurts to pamper
oneself, he thought. Heck, if my nails
get to short or too tattered, other spirits might regard me as low class¾even as one who is so low that
I’ve got to work with my hands!
Oh, and while I’m out and about, I’d
better get the shop to take a good, long, hard look at this Cosmic Vibomatic Vibatronä.
I think it’s still under warranty.
After all, it’s still got less than thirty thousand gigavibes
on it.
So the Earth was left without the
Whisperer, to run on autopilot for a little while. Beldame noticed, but other than relaxing her
psychic guard a bit, she never missed a beat.
The blossom gatherers still gathered fart blossoms, full speed
ahead. And B-Belli and his gang blazed
full speed ahead also.
Meanwhile, one night Aquila, in one
of his exploratory flights, flew within the range of the smoke from B-Belli’s
campfires. Thinking it must be a
previously-unknown Shroom Oog camp, he flew up to investigate. He was totally astounded to find B-Belli and
his clansmen sitting around campfires, feasting on freshly roasted boar, and
clad in luxurious bearskins!
Aquila perched in a nearby treetop,
pondering matters. Well, well, well,
what have we here, now!? Obviously, some
big changes taking place! How? Why?
Well, never mind. What’s in this
for me? Or for my buddies, the Blunt
Heads Tribe? Yeah, now we’re
thinking! If Panama Red won’t steal fire
from the gods, maybe I can convince him to steal it from those who stole it
from the gods! Get these Blunt Heads on
the road to advancement, and more efficient methods of getting into my favored
state of mind!
So he flew off and summoned Panama
Red that very same morning. Sure enough,
Panama Red was amenable to his line of persuasion. Aquila flew scouting missions for Panama, and
told him exactly when and where to go, to sneak into the camp and steal fire
undetected. He snuck in while the entire
clan had traveled down the trail a bit, in order to give a hero’s welcome to
Dough Boy, who was dragging a freshly killed tapir home.
Panama savored his few minutes
alone, sneaking around the empty camp.
He scooped the red-hot coals into the ceramic pot normally used for
roaches and wrapped it in insulating leaves, as instructed. He was ready to begin his long journey home,
when he noticed the amphorae off to the side.
I’ll bet that’s where they keep their sacred firewater, he thought. While I’m here, why not sample the
wares? He took a tentative sip. Yuck! he thought, spitting it out. But then the flavor sunk in, and he persuaded
himself to drink deeply. Well, I’m not
sure if I like it or not, he thought.
Burp! Maybe it’s not so bad after
all. But I hear them returning! Best to boogie on outta here before they
catch me. Maybe just grab this full
amphora, here, and decide later, at my leisure.
His beer buzz settled in a bit
during his long walk home, and he decided he liked it. But he refrained from drinking any more on
the way home, realizing that he’d have to be in top form when he got there,
explaining how he’d gotten fire, and how taboos were going to need to be
violated. Not wishing to violate too
many taboos at once, he stashed the amphora in the bushes not far from home,
then strolled into camp with the leaf-wrapped ceramic pot full of hot coals.
As instructed by Aquila, he promptly
gathered up dry grasses, twigs, and small logs.
He spilled the coals onto a heap of dry grasses, blew the fire to life,
then heaped twigs and logs on top of it.
A small crowd of lower-ranking members of the clan had gathered by
now. Bud Roach and Head Rush came
running over in a panic. “And just what,
exactly, do you think you’re
doing?” Head Rush demanded. “Have you gone off and stolen fire from the
Shroom Oogs? Do you know what the
punishment is, for stealing fire from the gods?”
“Oh, no, Sir, I haven’t stolen fire from the gods! It was the Firewater Tribe! They’ve
stolen it! They’ve got big fires going,
and they’re killing, roasting, and eating the wild animal spirits as we
speak! And you know what?! They’re
not being punished! Not one
bit! They’re having big meat feasts,
right now! I’ll tell you, the times,
they are a changin’!
And if we don’t change with them, we’ll get left way behind! Now’s the time! Sir, with all due respect, we’ve got to get with it!”
Head Rush paused. Other than the crackling of the flames, there
was silence. “And this ‘getting with it’
that you speak of¾it
means stealing fire from the Firewater Tribe, then? Since they’ve stolen it from the Shroom Oogs,
then it’s OK for you to steal it from them?”
“But Sir, they’ll never even miss
those few fragments of burning wood that I took from them! Fire is cheap! All it takes is the heat of the burning from
an older fire, and dry, dead wood or grass!
You see how much dead wood and grass there is all around us. Even though, yes, the wood does belong to the Shroom Oogs, they’ll
never miss it if we use just a little bit of it for ourselves, to help keep us
warm at night! See? Feel
this! It’ll keep us toasty warm, more so
than a whole heap of blankets!”
“Stealing is stealing, Panama,” Head
Rush pronounced with seemingly great regret. “And taboos are taboos. Wood and fire belong to the Shroom Oogs. You’ll have to be punished, to ward off the
righteous anger of the Shroom Oogs. I’m
sorry, but that’s just the way things are.
You should’ve known better.”
“Sir, that’s ridiculous! What I’ve done is nothing, compared to what
B-Belli and his clan are doing! And they
suffer no punishment! None whatsoever! Zero, zilch, nix! You doubt me?
Come with me, and I’ll show you! OK?”
“Oh, we believe you, no problem there,” Head Rush replied. “It’s just that wrong is wrong, no matter how
many people do it. And stealing is
wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong, you got
that?!”
“What’s to steal?! There’s all the dead wood and grass all around
us here that anyone could want, and then
some!”
“I wouldn’t suppose that the words
‘global warming’, ‘fine particles pollution’, ‘deforestation’, and ‘erosion’
mean anything at all to you?” Head Rush said in a
this-is-gonna-hurt-me-more-than-it’s-gonna-hurt-you tone of voice.
Panama Red replied with a snappy
comeback. “And I don’t suppose that
‘Incredible buzz from the Weed God’ means anything to you, either?”
“And just what do you mean by that, you impertinent young twit?!?!”
Head Rush thundered. One could discuss
most anything with him, in an at least somewhat reasonable tone, but when
challenged on the finer points of theology, Head Rush couldn’t conceive of
himself in the role of second best.
“Bring me a roach joined, and you’ll
see. As a matter of fact, skip the
roach. Just bring me rolled-up weeds,
minus the roach, and I’ll show you a thing or two.”
All the Blunt Heads were too
astounded to do anything other than what Panama suggested. They hastened to bring him the weed. How could this cocky young snot talk to Head
Rush in such a manner? He’d better have
some awfully strong magic up his sleeves, or there’d be quite a price to pay!
Panama pulled a burning branch from
the fire, applied it to the end of the rolled-up wad of weed, and sucked
deeply. Then he passed it to Head
Rush. Astounded, Head Rush followed his
example. Panama, still holding his
breath, motioned to Head Rush to pass it on.
And so he did. And so the whole
tribe did. Blunt Head see, Blunt Head
do. “Whadda
rush!” they finally exclaimed in collective amazement. “Let’s crank the drums up and order some
pizza!”
A wild party was had by all. Panama smirked inwardly in triumph, resisting
the urge to crow. Everyone was happy,
and that’s all that mattered. Who was
right and who had been wrong? That was
all academic now. This was Party Time,
and the Weed God was being appeased as never before! Remotely, Panama sensed that Aquila, perched
low in the branches overhead, was immensely enjoying it all, too.
Panama sensed correctly. Aquila was soaking luxuriantly in all those
groovy vibes, and inhaling the stray smoke.
This is like¾um,
this is like¾oh, heck, I don’t know, Aquila
concluded. It’s like hanging out and
sunning myself on a cool, clear autumn day after having eaten my fill of
slightly rotten fish flesh and fish guts, in just the right balance, and having
scrogged a gorgeous babe. In the old
days, before I judged all the babes to be incredibly dim-witted, and beneath my
station in life.
But then Panama remembered the
amphora of beer he’d left stashed out in the bushes. Wanting to top off this best party of all
time with yet another buzz, he headed off into the woods. Aquila sensed the meaning of his vibes. Now Aquila was feeling quite fine, himself,
by now, but he still had his wits about him.
Aquila cared for Panama’s well-being.
He perceived danger for Panama, so he followed Panama out to Panama’s
beer stash in the bushes.
Panama floundered about it the dark,
then found his stash. He pulled the plug
and drank. Then he drank some more. Aquila watched, apprehension growing. Doesn’t Panama know about hangovers, Aquila
wondered. Doesn’t he know about the
physiologically addictive nature of alcohol, lethal overdoses, and delirium
tremens? No, he’s used to the relative
benevolence of his Weed God, Aquila reminded himself. Heck, he doesn’t even know about cirrhosis of
the liver, I’ll bet! Perhaps I’d better
set him straight!
But... well, just how does one go about informing an
uninformed barbarian, anyway? I can’t
very well go into all the biopsychoneurovibophysiomedical details of substance
abuse with this oaf, now, can I? Well,
maybe I’d best just try to project these concepts in mental imagery, Aquila
concluded. So he flew down to a branch
right smack above Panama’s head, and prepared to crank up the vibes.
Then he choked. Addiction?
Delirium tremens?
Overdosing? Cirrhosis? What to project to Panama? How?
In his present intoxicated state, what’s going to get through to him,
anyway? OK, let’s just pick
something. Cirrhosis, then. Let’s compare it to... OK, here we go. It’s like intense, chronic pain in your
shrunken, hardened liver.
It’s like being chained to the
rocks, and having the vultures come by once a day, nibbling on your liver. Got that?
Come on, you stoned
dimwit! Vultures chewing on your
liver! OK?! That’s what you’ll get
for drinking the firewater you stole from those who stole fire from the
gods! Now concentrate on this, you fool!
Aquila poured all his energies into his cosmic-karmic vibes generators,
broadcasting on all channels. Panama
finally, dimly received the message, although he mangled it considerably before
passing it on to others later when he was in a more sober state of mind.
Panama regarded this stoned experience
of his, listening to the harsh admonitions and allegorical vibes from Aquila,
as a seminal development in his spiritual awakening, so he repeated the story
many, many times in later life. And
because he regarded himself from that point forward as having become completely
reformed, he took a new name for himself, that being Prometheus.
Illustration goes here above… Ape-Man Hangover
Shortly after Panama/Prometheus’s
special experience, the Horde Whisperer returned to Earth. The vibatronics repair shop had been swamped,
so he was running a bit later than expected.
The first thing he did was to attempt to get a navigational fix on
Beldame’s vibe vortices. But
unexpectedly strong transverse orthorhombic psychonuclear forces overwhelmed
his gyroscopically rectified aura transducer anodes, tearing down the PNP
junctions in the impact force sensors in his airbag. Regulatory agencies had neglected to allow
the Cosmic Vibomatic Vibatronä’s
manufacturer to tie a simple vibe-rate transducer into the airbag’s trigger
logic, so the airbag deployed, despite the fact that the Horde Whisperer was
scanning at well under the danger threshold of ten to the twenty-third
megavibes per femptofeeling.
When the airbag deployed, it sent
forceful shock waves reverberating about the Horde Whisperer’s cockpit. He had his seat belt on, and was sitting
back, so he, personally, wasn’t much traumatized. But the shock waves knocked the
tritronatronatronä’s*
translation look-aside cache buffers into temporal dislocation, spewing
non-indexed data into indeterminately aliased memory addresses. Read/write heads slammed into servo stops,
and wildly over-amplified vibe fronts overwhelmed the automatic gain circuits
like a tsunami washing huts off of a small, low-lying island.
*footnote: No, this particular
tritronatronatron was NOT of the same
sort as those manufactured in Stanstanistan.
Stanstanistan didn’t even exist
till 33,000 years later. This particular
brand of tritronatronatron was manufactured intergalactically by EVIL (Ethereal Vibatronic Instruments, Limited).
Holy frijoles, the Horde Whisperer
exclaimed to himself, frantically flailing at the controls. This gol-darned thing has gone way outside of the control limits at
three sigma! This process is out of
control! In fact, I’ll bet it’s not even
ISO 666,000 compliant! Dang stupid
incompetents at that lousy shop! I go to
a certified vibatronics repair shop, and what do I get?! Certified junk! It’s just about impossible to get good help
these days!
After he cleared the smoke by
invoking his NOSMOKE.BAT batch file, the Horde Whisperer found himself stuck
with severely crippled systems. No
matter how often he readjusted his VCOs
(Vibe-Controlled Oscillators),
the picture just wouldn’t straighten out.
He dug out his oldest, simplest, and most primitive viboscope, and even
it ended up not wanting to work quite right.
So he ended up “fixing” it, if we can be so generous as to use this word
here, by slapping some Propoxyä ethereal epoxy putty on it, here and there. Oh, no, he thought, looking through his newly
repaired viboscope, reality has become Propoxified!
But he soon forced himself to
tolerate the fuzzy, partially obstructed view.
Then he resumed spying on Beldame, starting to wonder if maybe she had
something to do with his technological bad luck streak lately. Let’s see, what is she doing now. Looks like I’m just in time! They’re bringing the last few fart blossoms
in now. There’s just barely enough room
in the box for them, and that’s despite the fact that they’ve stomped them in
there as tight as tight can be.
And what’s this?! It sure seems that
the blossoms are putting out quite a bit of heat, even though I’ve not been
here! So has this been Beldame’s magic
all along, then, instead of mine?! Might
be trouble! And just what, exactly, is
that old hag doing now, anyway? It seems
she’s messing with some mud, with some tiny bright specks in it, and she’s¾she’s¾well, what in tarnation is she doing, anyway?
The Horde Whisperer grew
increasingly frustrated with the limitations of his quite low-tech viboscope and its blurred, partially Propoxified
view. So he thought, it’s time to be
bold. Stop sitting here all bottled up
in my high-tech womb, behind my vibotronic shields,
being a nowhere man, and playing with my nowhere gland, and break the
paradigms. Get down there, in my own
personal if still ethereal form, and get my hands dirty, so to speak, even if I
do break my nails. Desperate situations require desperate
methods. And this is definitely an
emergency! I absolutely must find out whether Beldame has beaten
me to the punch, and has managed to cook up some real magic!
So the Horde Whisperer abandoned his
technological accouterments and personally appeared on scene. Only Beldame noticed. He glanced at her mud, dismissed it as
harmless, and dived into the box of fart blossoms, right before Eve threw the
last handful of blossoms on top of the pile.
Beldame stood up, grabbed the ornate lid, and quickly but gently sealed
the box. Then, in a matter of seconds,
she smeared the mud around the seal. A
great sigh of relief escaped from her, and an ecstatic grin brightened her old,
withered face. Then she literally jumped
up and leaped for joy!
Beldame and Eve led their whole
Shroom Oog clan in a frenzied celebration of their victory, while the Horde Whisperer
discovered his defeat and imprisonment.
After a whole day of feasting and celebrating, Eve finally managed to
pull Beldame aside for a private conversation.
“So what’s the deal, here?” Eve
inquired. “I can see how this has helped
unify the clan, and how we’ve at least gotten them over their silly fear of the
musical fruit grove. But where’s this real magic you’ve been speaking of? Other than how this box has been heating up,
I see nothing! So has all the magic just
been in the minds of our clan, then?”
“Thanks, Eve, for reminding me about
that heat. Yes, the box has been getting
awfully hot, lately. Even more so, now
that we’ve put the lid on it. It might
get hot enough to crack, and we sure don’t want that! Let’s continue this discussion later, and do
something about that heat.”
Beldame and Eve recruited some
brawny bodies. They pushed the hot box
very carefully onto some stout small logs.
Then they gently hoisted it up, and carried it to a nearby stream, where
they partially submerged it in cool flowing water. Beldame and Eve were shortly left alone again
there by the stream, as their assistants returned to the party.
“So where’s this real magic, then?” Eve resumed pecking
at Beldame. “Just the fact that the box
is hot? Surely that can’t really be the
anger of the defeated spirits of the musical fruit grove, as you’ve told the
commoners! So is this heat all there is
to this real magic?”
“No, Eve, the heat isn’t magic at
all, any more than our fires are.
They’re both just ordinary exothermic chemical reactions.”
“Then where’s the magic?”
“In our minds, and in the minds of
our opponent, as usual.”
“Is there any real magic here, at all, then?”
“No, Eve, I’m truly sorry, but I’ve
had to deceive you¾and
your friend Shoshoni with you¾one
last time. The contents of your minds
were an integral part of our magic, the same as the contents of the minds of
the commoners. Yes, we’re on a different
level. But the magic is in our minds,
the same as is true for the commoners.”
“Then there’s nothing of any real,
material significance in that box, and we could open it right back up, without
any real impact to anyone, other than what it would do to their minds, if they
knew that that’s what we had done?”
“No, that’s not quite right. There is
something immaterial sealed up in there, but it’s impact on minds can be very,
very real. That is true, regardless of
whether they know we’ve set it free, or not.
So it mustn’t ever come back out, for a long, long time, as best as I
can tell. Till we’ve become wise enough
to resist Its Whispers, I suppose. I’m
not sure how long that will be. We must
allow the heat to bleed off for a few days.
Then we must very carefully bury it, deep, deep down, in a geologically
stable area. Like where we dig up our
salt, but off to the sunny side a bit, where the salt is poor, and future
generations won’t go digging into it.
Then we must forget where we’ve buried it.
“Eve, this is what we must do. I will die soon. Can you promise me that you’ll take care of
this? Eve, this is very important. Do you promise to do this?”
“Sure, Beldame, sure. But I’m totally confused by now. Are you just making more magic in our minds
with all this? What’s in the box, anyway?”
“The Dark Whisperer. The Evil One.
Eve, I’ll tell you a secret.
Many, many people think it’s cruel and insensitive to call It the Evil
One. So they call It the Inappropriate
One, and other such nonsense. None dare
speak Its Name. ‘Evil’ is a four-letter
word, as they say. But when we call It
by Its real name, then we gain great power to resist. This is a very, very important part of
magic.”
Eve’s frustration verged onto
anger. “But you told me that the Dark
Whisperer is nothing but a spirit, an immaterial thing that has no power over
anything but willing minds! It goes
where it will, being immaterial! So how
can this box hold it?!”
“Because of magic.”
“MAGIC! Come ON,
Beldame!” Eve spat out. “Will you please
just cut all the magical hoo-ha, and tell me the real truth?!”
“We trapped the Dark Whisperer
through the magic tricks we played on Its mind.
It saw in all of our minds¾except for me, because I, alone, knew the complete
extent of our plans, and I shut It out of my mind¾It saw in our minds that we were completely
convinced that we were making very, very powerful magic in our box. And that includes your mind, and Shoshoni’s
mind. So I’m sorry that I had to deceive
you yet one last time. But It came to
fear our magic, so It came to investigate.
Yet the magic was just in Its mind, in Its fear of our magic.”
“Then what keeps It there, locked in
that box? Why doesn’t It flee, if It’s
the immaterial spirit that you say it is?”
“The truth is sometimes a very
complicated thing, Eve. I told you about
those symbols on that box being symbols from our future, in which we’ll combine
the powers of our minds, in large things called corporations and
organizations. This is true, and these
things will, indeed, be quite powerful.
But these symbols denote how truly atrociously repugnant and loathsomely
boring these conglomerated minds will also often be. They will be so bad, even the Dark Whisperer
cannot tolerate the thought of them. The
terrible meaning of these symbols permeates the entire amorphously but solidly
fused molecular structures of the box and its lid.
“Although theoretically, the Dark
Whisperer could sneak his way out of there, between the molecules of ceramics,
Its mind rebels at the thought of having to tolerate such close contact with
the utter, sheer inanity of the meanings of those symbols, which permeate the
ceramics. For lack of self-discipline,
It can’t make Itself do anything that It finds abhorrent, even momentarily, and
even in service of Its other, lower goals.
In other words, the Whisperer is the helpless slave of the
undisciplined, rebelliously irrational magic of Its own mind.”
Eve sat there shaking her head
silently and in total confusion.
Finally, she came up with another question. “Then why doesn’t It just slip out through
the mud-smeared crack between the box and its lid? Is It afraid of mere mud?!”
“No, but there’s some very special
substances in that mud. Ground-up little
bits of APAPPD DiPablium crystals. They are very, very powerful. You could say that they hold the ultimate
trump card, in the sort of situations we find ourselves in.”
“APAPPD DiPablium
crystals! And what, pray tell, are these?!
Can you fill me in on the details?”
“Yes, indeed, I can. APAPPD,
you see, stands for All Purpose, All-Powerful Plot Device. That’s why they’re
so powerful.”
Eve just shook her head, finally
giving up. They sat there in silence for
a few minutes. Then, out of the blue,
Beldame started to cough. Deep, ugly,
wretched, hacking coughs. Eve helped her
to her feet, saying, “Beldame! What’s
the matter?! We’d best get you back to
camp, get you to lay down in a comfortable spot on a nice bed of fresh moss
close to a good, warm fire. I’ll gather
up some herbs and make you a potion. Come
on. let’s go.”
Eve helped her walk. She trudged slowly along, stopping to cough
frequently. To Eve’s incessant, worried
chatter, she simply replied, “Time has come for me to die soon, my child. Don’t trouble yourself too much on my behalf. But make sure you bury that box in a proper
manner.” And then, between coughs, she filled
Eve’s mind with all the details of how the box should be prepared for burial,
in such a manner that it wouldn’t break, and the caulking wouldn’t fall out of
the crack, for a long, long time.
When they got back to camp, Eve
busied herself making a potion for Beldame.
Halfway through this task, she remembered that they’d left the box
unattended. She briefly devoted just
enough attention to this lack of security¾thinking, what if some unknowing barbarian Blunt
Head or Firewater clansman stumbles onto it, and opens it unawares¾that she quickly selected a young
maiden, Pandora Oog, to go attend to matters back down at the creek.
Now one might ask, “How could any
supposedly mature, enlightened young adult go and pick a young girl named
‘Pandora Oog’ to go and guard a sealed box containing a Dark Whisperer, AKA
Horde Whisperer?” Go ahead, ask
away. But remember, Eve Oog suffered
from a low-protein diet early in life, and suffered from sub-optimal brain
development. Worst of all, neither she
nor any other Shroom Oogs had had a properly funded education.
So that’s what Eve did. Sent Pandora off to guard the box, warning
her about the seemingly obvious, that she must
refrain from opening the box. This just
goes to show what can happen when young children don’t properly learn about
important cultural matters, including Greek mythology, along with all those
non-western cultures.
Anyway, Pandora pouted about the
fact that Eve was belaboring the obvious, and commented that she, Pandora,
hadn’t fallen out of the mushroom basket yesterday. Then she went off to watch over the box.
It wasn’t but an hour later that
Beldame stirred vigorously on her sick bed, saying, “I feel a great, deep, dark
disturbance in the Force.”
Eve gave her another swig of potion,
saying, “There, there, now, Beldame, you hang tight. Everything will be fine.”
The Horde Whisperer made a beeline
for B-Belli and his clan, after Pandora opened the box. Not even so much as parole; this was free and
clear! But he’d broken all of his newly done
nails while writhing around in that cramped box, so he was pretty darned well
torqued off!
One hour after that, B-Belli’s
troops, drunken but under the skilled command of General Dough Boy, charged
through the Shroom Oog camp, conquering in the name of the BFD God. They yelled things about evil heathens,
infidel witches, disrespectful heretics, shroom-eating and weed-addicted
substance abusers, and sacrilegious unbelievers. They speared and gored ape-men, ape-women,
and ape-rug-rats right and left, up and down, and sideways, and struck the huts
on fire, and just generally had themselves a good time.
Eve abandoned Beldame and fled for
the bushes only after they’d just narrowly missed her with a thrown spear. She spent the night silently, inwardly simpering
in terror, trying to sleep out in the noisy, damp, and forebodingly dark
jungle. In the first light of morning,
she peered out over the wasted, smoldering remnants of her former home.
After she verified that it seemed
safe, she toured the battleground.
Corpses lay strewn about. She
called out softly, asking if anyone was still alive. No one replied.
She was just about ready to retreat
from the macabre scene of death and destruction when she saw the bushes stir
slightly. She froze, then dashed for
cover. Then she cautiously crept up to
see what was rustling the leaves. There
she spied Beldame writhing slowly, weakly.
Eve gently scooped the frail old witch into her arms, and carried her
off into the jungle. She deposited her
in a safe place, fetched water, and attended to her wounds.
Beldame finally recovered enough to
faintly croak a few words out for Eve, who listened intently. “I’ve been wrong all along,” she ‘fessed
up. “Eve, I had it wrong. It’s OK.
The Dark Whisperer is allowed to be free, to pester and befester
us. This may not quite exactly be called
good, but it’s certainly right. We’ll
never grow up to be big and strong, unless we learn to resist Its
Whispers. We’ve all got to learn the
difference between truth and lies sooner or later. The sooner we get started, the better. Yes, some will listen, and fall by the
wayside. Let the broken hearts stand as
the price we’ve got to pay.
“So don’t begrudge the Whisperer Its
freedom. Just beware, and never listen
to It. Work against It, speak out
against It, and warn others, but don’t hate It.
When you hate, even when you hate hate itself, you’re being irrational,
and when you’re irrational in a hateful manner, then the Whisperer has won.
“Yes, chaos will be badness. But it will also be goodness. We must resist the idea that we’ve got to
chain chaos up in our boxes, rows and columns, matrices, and spreadsheets. Because we can never chain it for good. It’ll break back out, always. Think you can chain it, and you’ve listened to
the Dark Whisperer. Let chaos be
chaos. Work with it. Roll with the punches, and pick and choose,
carefully, the little bits of chaos that you might be able to tame. Then do your best to bring forth good from
chaos. No one should expect any more from
you.
“We make a mistake when we confuse
chaos with the Dark Whisperer. In chaos,
there can be many beautiful things.
Things like freedom. Freedom for
all to chose for themselves leads to apparent chaos, but hidden in that chaos
is complex order. That complex order, if
allowed to flourish, will bring forth many beautiful things. This will happen only if we restrain our
urges to always try to fight and contain chaos.
The root of all evil is the urge to conquer chaos completely.
“No one can conquer chaos, and no
one should try. When we think the
solution is always more order, obedience, control, and power, then we are
listening to the Dark Whisperer, and he will push us towards destruction, which
is the worst chaos. We must stop
listening to the Dark Whisperer, and listen instead to those whispered words of
wisdom¾‘let it be’.
“Don’t worry, the Force will send
courageous prophets, and many will speak out powerfully against the Dark
Whisperer. Unfortunately, most people,
most of the time, will ignore the wisest of the prophets. Or for sure, they’ll not pay proper attention
to things they don’t want to hear. But
that’s just the way things are. We have
to live in the real world, and accept things the way they are. Always look on the bright side of life. Some will listen to the prophets, and ignore
the Whisperer.”
They sat in silence. Many of Beldame’s words were meaningless to
Eve, yet somehow their essential meanings were quite clear. Eve grasped Beldame’s hand, wincing at her
labored breathing. “Is there anything
more?” Eve prompted.
“Yes. You can lead a horde to water, but you can’t
make them think.”
Eve sat and stewed on that for a
bit. Then, gently, she asked yet again,
“Anything else, Beldame? If you’ve
anything else to say, I think you’d better get it off your chest soon.”
“Yes, my child. The meaning of life is...” But then Beldame slipped into a coma,
twitched, and died peacefully in a matter of minutes. Eve sorrowfully drifted away, vowing that
Beldame’s ideas and causes should never die.
Many miles away, Aquila and
Shoshoni, both fleeing from the frightfully insane carnage among the fledgling
humans, stumbled into each others’ cosmic-karmic vibe auras. The dialectic vibe constant was high that
day, so this range was a bit close; a matter of mere miles. Aquila and Shoshoni rushed towards one
another, he at a pace obviously greater than hers.
“Oh, my love!” he called out to her,
“I’ve been looking for you for entirely too long!”
“Oh my darling!” she replied in
eager anticipation. “You’ve a beautiful
mind! A real, intelligent, thinking and
feeling mind! A mind like my own!”
“Oh, sweet bliss!” Aquila’s vibes
sang out as he soared descending, far from that ancient river bending. “My darling!
My gorgeous darling!” He zeroed in
on her, and only the uncaring, non-sentient jungle paid witness to their
frenzied, passionate love-making. Not
one creature condemned the brazen unnaturalness and immorality of their
inter-species love affair. No one even
cared, other than the millions of soil bacteria which happily feasted on drops
of the physical manifestations of Aquila’s love, spilled so generously and
directly onto their homes.
Aquila and Shoshoni lived together
happily till death parted them late in life.
This, though, was after they made a great journey. Wishing to leave human butchery far behind,
they traveled south ‘cross land. When
they got to the sea, Aquila stole a hide from some humans, and carried
Shoshoni, stork-and-baby-bundle-style, across the great waters. Arriving in a new land, they celebrated by
making love in a swamp.
The ape-men of this new land had
never lived under the wise, subtle rule of Beldame and her fellow witches. Beldame’s world and vision had never
encompassed these remote peoples. More
fortunately, they were destined to live free from the wrath of B-Belli’s
descendants for thousands of years, still.
They were still quite innocently primitive, in those days.
Being quite innocent, the few of
these primitives who witnessed Aquila’s and Shoshoni’s love-making could never
have conceived that this was the results of an incredibly, shockingly sordid
inter-species love affair. They thought
the eagle and the snake were fighting.
But they were quite impressed, and dedicated themselves to obeying the
command of this great vision of theirs.
They vowed to build a great city, out there in the middle of that swamp.
But the Horde Whisperer was loosed,
destined to bedevil humanity for the ages.
This was the end result of the historical forces shaping those legendary
times. Also, these were the days when
great myths propagated throughout the infant human populations, forming and
shaping their world views and forging their very destinies.
8)
The Horde Whisperer Breaks Through-
The
Modern Era
“In quantum gravity,
as we shall see, the space-time manifold ceases to exist as an objective
physical reality; geometry becomes relational and contextual; and the
foundational conceptual categories of prior science¾among them existence itself¾become problematized and relativized.” Alan Sokal, modern
physicist, in recent demonstrative spoof writings published in an article
entitled “Transgressing
the Boundaries: Towards a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity”, in “Social Text”, a “scholarly” journal dedicated to “deconstructing” modern science.
The Horde Whisperer plied his
trade steadily throughout thousands of years, spreading low self-esteem,
misery, death, and destruction. One of
his favorite tricks was to Whisper to people, and to convince them that they
had the secret to real magic. Not just the kind of mental/spiritual magic
by which, for example, if enough people pray sincerely enough for peace, there
will be peace, but real, physical magic.
The “mere” magic of the mind just isn’t enough. Believe such-and-such, and do these rituals
here, in just the right way, the Whisperer said, and Awesome Powers will be
yours.
The Whisperer never delivered. His promises were naught but lies. What a shocking surprise! When his victims listened intently enough,
they’d be drawn into his spiral vortex of magic thinking. When all their attempts at real magic ultimately failed, they’d
perform that one, final piece of real
magic that was clearly in their power.
They’d firmly convince themselves of just what, exactly, lays beyond
death, for themselves and for others.
And then they’d transport those others, especially those who didn’t
support their ideas of magic, to those realms beyond death. When this happened, the Horde Whisperer was
fairly well pleased. But what pleased
him most of all was when, merely through his own power to Whisper, he could
convince True Believers to “magically” transport themselves to those realms beyond death!
Through all the ages, the Whisperer
kept on wondering if there could ever be real
magic, though. He lusted after such
powers for himself, but the entire universe valiantly, steadfastly resisted his
efforts for billions of years. The laws
governing the physical behavior of the universe and all the matter and energy
in it remained firm and unbreakable.
But during the 1990s, the Horde
Whisperer finally broke through and attained real magic. A physicist,
Alan Sokal, unwittingly, unwillingly, unknowingly,
and in complete contravention of his own intentions, released the Horde
Whisperer from his most effective shackles.
Prior to this time, the Horde Whisperer had been constrained by the
objectively unbending physical, chemical, electromagnetic, quantum mechanical,
gravitational, relativistic, etc., laws of the universe.
After Alan Sokal
unintentionally revealed that existence is merely a subjective matter of social
convention, reality became problematized, and the Horde Whisperer was left free
to redefine reality at will. Now reality
didn’t suddenly become radically problematized all at once. It became problematized slowly, quietly, and
furtively. Many people didn’t notice it
for years.
As one might expect, the first
manifestations of this problematization were created
by a spawn of the Horde Whisperer. Also
as one might expect, this spawn of the Horde Whisperer was one of many designed
and built in a secret laboratory owned and run by the federal government. This was in a top-secret lab known only to
those fiendish researchers as THEMNOTUS
(Technologists Helping to Engineer Marvelous New Opportunities for a Totally Ungrateful Society).
But then word about THEMNOTUS leaked
out. Hordes of reporters, camerapersons,
editorialists, and demonstrators constantly badgered all the lab’s workers,
engineers, and scientists, and the government, saying that a far more accurate
description of THEMNOTUS would be Terrible,
Hateful Elitists Maliciously Negating Our Totally Unquestionable Sainthood. The outcry was so
deafening that THEMNOTUS was shut down.
In many ways, this shutdown came too
late. The government shut the barn door
after the spawn of the Horde Whisperer had escaped. And the Horde Whisperer’s spawn were
legion. First, THEMNOTUS devised
diabolically clever subliminal messages to secretly sell to fiendish tobacco
companies. The tobacco pushers then put
these messages into “Schmoe Camelhumper”
cigarette advertisements. Innocent,
angelic Boy Scouts, Brownies, and choir boys by the millions were thus
ruthlessly forced, robot-like, to put cigarettes up to their virgin lips, light
them up, and inhale deeply.
Other than augmenting THEMNOTUS’s
financial resources, addicting helpless children served their interests in
another, even more sinister manner.
THEMNOTUS scientists invented nanotechnological behavior-modifying molecules,
then snuck them into everyone’s vaccines, drinking water, and cigarettes.
Nicotine, though, served to
synergistically boost the effect of these behavior-modifying molecules more
efficiently than any other substance, so this is where THEMNOTUS concentrated
its efforts. They encouraged the tobacco
companies to spike their cigarettes not only with nicotine, but also with many
kinds of these special molecules, some of which also increased nicotine
addiction. As a side benefit, the
tobacco companies then repaid the government for its help by selling more
heavily taxed cigarettes, thus saving socialized medical programs from
collapse. THEMNOTUS orchestrated lawyers
and tobacco companies, making a great show about how adversarial it all was,
but it was all really just a friendly mutual back-scratching arrangement.
And just what, exactly, did all
these special behavior-modifying molecules do, besides increase nicotine
addiction, thereby increasing the government’s funds and powers? The effects of these molecules were pernicious
and pervasive, and too numerous to list in complete detail. However, we can summarize their major effects
briefly.
They caused parents to neglect their
children, and allow them to watch horribly immoral, sexy and violent TV
programs, videos, and computer programs, and to listen to terrible music. Some parents resisted valiantly, trying
diligently to discharge their parental duties of loving and guiding their
children, but those diabolical molecules held them in their iron grip. Many children fell under the influence of
these satanic molecules, too, and had no choice but to slip so deeply into
cults and role-playing games that they ended up losing touch with reality, and
committing suicide. The molecules had
left them no choice at all!
They caused many, many people to
become the friends of characters on TV, instead of making friends with their
neighbors. So then, when their cars
wouldn’t start in the morning and they needed a friend to give them a ride to
work, and Murphy Brown turned out not to be much of a friend after all,
refusing to give them a ride, well, once again, they had only those evil
molecular engineers to blame. Those
molecules made them limit their friendships to TV characters, and got half of
them to become unmarried mothers, to boot.
Some of the worst havoc that
THEMNOTUS molecules wreaked was inflicted on poor minority communities. They caused teenagers to have unprotected
sex, women to go on welfare, fathers to abandon their children, and almost
everyone to catch AIDS, smoke crack, and fight gang wars. On top of that, those demonic molecules then
caused richer, more talented, and more privileged workers to keep the poor from
competing with them on free labor markets, through the use of minimum wage
laws, licensing laws for hair braiders, interior decorators, and taxi drivers,
and explanations such as “we’re just defending the poor ignorant consumers from
their own weaknesses and stupidity” and “we’ve got to defend the working poor
from slave-driving capitalist pigs.”
THEMNOTUS molecules also devastated
the plight of womyn everywhere. They
implanted oppressive patriarchal paradigms into womyn’s minds, including
self-fulfillingly prophetical ideas such as this: that it’s normal for womyn to
suffer from morning sickness and labor pains.
Had it not been for the vocal protests of courageously radical feminists
on campuses, even more womyn would have fallen for these tyrannical lies.
Some mad technologists at THEMNOTUS
even conspired with the radicals of the far right, slipping behavior-modifying
molecules into Billary-Bob’s food pods, such that Billary-Bob was utterly,
totally and completely incapable of keeping his cloaca in his peduncle. Fortunately for everyone, Hillary-Bob caught
on to the right-wingers’ goals if not their methods, warning everyone about
“...this vast right-wing conspiracy that has been conspiring against my
husband...”
In society at large, the molecules
caused everyone to sue everyone, draining vast quantities of resources away
from other, more productive uses. They
caused everyone to believe, and vote for, those politicians who promised them
increased government-administered compassionate benevolence, to be funded by
the other guy. “Don’t tax you, don’t tax
me, tax the fella behind the tree,” as the politicians said. And the people believed! All because of THEMNOTUS molecules! Those horrible molecules just did all sorts
of strange and perverted sorts of things to all sorts of innocent people, who
would otherwise never have dreamed of acting in such silly and irresponsible
ways.
They caused everyone to admire Kate
Moss and other gorgeous waifs so much that many people died of anorexia. Then there were split ends, overgrazing, body
odor, genocide, halitosis, global warming, indigestion, interracial adoption,
women with hairy armpits, soil erosion, baldness, satanic Procter & Gamble
symbols, boredom, radioactive wastes, tooth decay, sexism, hemorrhoids,
executive (but not athlete or movie star) overcompensation, dandruff, racism,
athlete’s foot, political and moral corruption, headache pain, and a thousand
million instances of hate and death and war, all also caused by the
diabolically, fiendishly clever molecular engineers at THEMNOTUS.
As one might imagine, the public’s
thunder of righteous indignation was overwhelming, when word about THEMNOTUS
finally leaked out. THEMNOTUS was shut
down in the nick of time. Right before
they were shut down, they’d been working on their most diabolical scheme of
all: they were going to invent real
magic, and put magic molecules into the papers of marriage licenses for gay
people. These magical molecules would
have tainted the cosmic and orgasmic love-ether, causing normal, non-perverted
couples to dishonor their marriage vows.
They’d have had no choice but to get divorced, since real marriage and family values would
have been torn asunder.
Since real, legitimate love is a
finite resource, and a marriage license is a type of currency, the gays would
have stolen limited love-vibes from straights.
Marriage licenses would have been devalued, love inflation would have
set in, and divorce and fatherlessness would have skyrocketed, since straight
love-vibes would have been leeched away.
Fortunately, this most fiendish of
THEMNOTUS’s plots was foiled before the engineers completed systems design
integration. So THEMNOTUS never did
attain real magic, directly. This was left to one of their creations.
Chewdychomper Chupacabras was
another gruesome creation of the mad scientists at THEMNOTUS. He was a slimy synthetic mutant
mucous-covered multi-tentacled blood-sucking monstrous fiend, and that was on
his good days, when his various
biorhythms maximized. They’d at first
intended for Chewdychomper to become an IRS auditor, but experiments indicated
that he grew lethargic after drinking his fill of blood. They never managed to explain the concept of
the national debt to him.
So the authorities at THEMNOTUS
decided that Chewdychomper should help them to keep minorities in their proper
place. Since they’d already taken care of
Blacks with their demonic nanotechnological behavior-control molecules, they
decided to loose Chewdychomper on Hispanics.
They sicced him on Costa Rica, the Dominican Republic, Cuba, South
Florida, and Mexico. There,
Chewdychomper was free to terrorize and oppress all the natives.
In the lab, he’d gained his first
name, Chewdychomper, because if you didn’t watch out, he’d chomp your chewdies
and chew your chompers. And after they
set him free, the natives called him “Chupacabras”, which is Cuban/Mexican/South
Floridian etc. for “goat sucker”.
And Oh Boy, did he ever suck those
goats! And sheep and pigs and cows and
horses and rabbits and geese and guinea pigs and emus and ostriches and all
other sorts of domestic livestock! He’d
sneak up in the middle of the night, leave a few fang marks, suck the animals’
blood dry, and then slip away. He never
paid any refunds, and he never promised a lower blood burden on the middle
class, let alone a pyramid scheme to support his victims in their old age. However, even he refrained from threatening anyone with audits and
incomprehensible forms to be filled out.
He never did directly threaten any
unwilling human victims, that we know of.
Humans, being anthropocentric speciesists, found him to appear repulsive
and vile. Their biased perceptions
fouled the aura of any potential human-chupacabras interactions so thoroughly
that this particular oppressed and misunderstood chupacabras knew that it was
useless to even bother to try to
interact socially with them. Some say he
was just too cowardly and shy, but such statements merely demonstrate ignorance
of the extent of anti-chupacabras intolerance.
However, despite his lack of empowerment in the social arena, he set in
motion a chain of events which was to cause all humans a great deal of
problems. In fact, we could say that he
was the one who (by obeying the Whisperer) problematized reality.
One night, Chewdy was out sucking
goats’ blood in a favorite backwoods area of Mexico, and the rancher’s dogs
caught wind of him. They chased him
under a large woodpile, where they barked and growled at him all night. The rancher called the police, but they were
too busy to help a common rancher. At
the behest of various Gringos, they were out smuggling drugs and busting drug
smugglers who hadn’t greased the right palms.
The dogs got tired of guarding against fearsome fiendish monsters, so
they sauntered off to attend to more important matters, such as barking at
doorbells and squirrels. Chewdychomper,
shaken but not stirred by the terrors of his long, wild night of snarling back
at semi-domesticated long-fanged fellow-beasts, slunk off into the dark right
before dawn.
Chewdychomper was shaken enough by
this experience that he began to think about certain matters. He decided that his low-tech life was just
plain too dangerous. So he dragged his
slimy tentacles off to the nearest dump, where he invented real magic. Using fragments
of a broken lampshade, a beer bottle, an old magnetic compass, some battery
acid, an egg beater, and a transistor radio, all of unknown brands, and a
Cheese Dwonkyä wrapper, he created the Quart
Low Tracker.
Note, we do NOT imply that Cheese Dwonkiesä or associated products are defective in any manner,
that their wrappers should be disposed of in anything other than a sanitary
landfill meeting appropriate legal standards, that readers should attempt any
such experiments themselves (especially not without proper adult supervision),
or that Author or Publisher makes any guarantees, express or implied, of such
devices working properly. But remember,
you can’t prove to us that the Quart Low Tracker DOESN’T work, either. If it
doesn’t work for you, it’s just operator error.
These things aren’t easy, or for novices, you see. One needs Faith,
not pessimism and unbelief.
Now the Quart Low Tracker wasn’t
just an ordinary heap of junk. It was,
indeed, an extraordinary heap of
junk. A real magic heap of
junk. With it, he could detect those who
were a quart low in common sense and intellectual and physical vigor, but who
weren’t too terribly low otherwise, especially in succulent blood. In other words, the Quart Low Tracker allowed
him to safely pick his victims.
Chewdychomper Chupacabras enjoyed a
few months of happy bloodsucking. With
the LCD (Luciferescent Chromosexual
DiPablium) display on his Quart Low
Tracker giving him infallible guidance as to whom he should suck dry next, life
became safe and easy, and a belly full of blood was one of life’s givens. Life became dull and boring for Chewdy. Now that his belly was always full, he wished
to slime his creepy tentacles up Madlow’s Hierarchy of Greeds, and acquire some
money. Visions of $$$$$ danced through
his head. Sadly, though, he came to
realize that money was useless to him, since his appearance was so horrifying
that he’d never be able to spend money and enjoy it a meaningful manner. So he decided to settle for second best,
which was to enable someone else to get rich, and vicariously watch all the fun.
He pondered long and hard. Then he made some very extremely special
modifications to his Quart Low Tracker.
He hearkened to his LCD display, and made plans to head for Madness
County. Then he hauled himself off to
the dump once more, gathering up fragments of lampshade, a beer bottle, a
magnetic compass, some battery acid, an egg beater, a transistor radio, and a
Cheese Dwonkyä wrapper.
He carefully popped the cover off of
the little hand-held magnetic compass, examining its delicate bearing. Dang, he cussed to himself, the bearing works,
swiveling freely. Entirely too freely. Well, we can fix that! He dabbed a spot of
battery acid on the compass bearing again and again, watching is as it caused
the metal to fizz weakly. Finally, after
much diligent work by Chewdy, the bearing rusted rigidly shut.
After testing the bearing, a
satisfied Chewdy carefully wrapped the compass in the Cheese Dwonkyä wrapper, and performed other
delicate high-technology engineering operations. Thus, he fabricated yet another Quart Low
Tracker; the world’s second such device.
Now in Madness County there lived a
striving, seeking, searching young lad named Ale Run Hubba-Bubba. They called him Ale Run because in his
younger years, he’d always been the one to make the ale run, when the party ran
dry. And yes, he did like women. But only half-heartedly. He’d inevitably be distracted by the nearest
pink plastic yard flamingo. But even his
passing infatuations with pink plastic yard flamingoes would only last so long,
before a nameless sense of seeking and longing drove him away. So he carried such a mediocre rank in both
fields of endeavor, with the women as well as with the pink plastic yard
flamingoes, that he deserved neither to be called Hubba-Hubba nor Bubba-Bubba. But his friends thought highly enough of him
in both categories that he became known as Ale Run Hubba-Bubba.
Now Ale Run, they called him a
seeker. He’d been searching high and
low. He sought bliss and ale and
enlightenment and women and higher consciousness and a new pickup and inner peace
and power and nirvana and status and blessedness and pink plastic yard
flamingoes and a well-grounded sense of centeredness and money. Especially money. Lots
of money. Now money isn’t bad. Prosperity and good fortune, to put a better
spin on things. So Ale Run never said he
liked money. He just had a well-grounded
sense of centeredness, and he happened to be centered about prosperity and good
fortune for himself, especially. So far,
he just hadn’t latched onto a proper channel through which to attract
prosperity and good fortune to himself.
He’d discovered that it was hard to convince people to give their money
to him merely because he liked money. So
Ale Run was seeking.
Chewdy consulted his Quart Low
Tracker one last time, confirming his reservations for an auspicious day for
traveling. Then he made his trip to
Madness County one hot sultry late August day, on Friday the Thirteenth, with
the Moon in Uranus and Chewdy having been manufactured a Pisces next to a black
cat under a ladder, stashed securely away in the cargo bay on Panama Red
Airlines flight #666, arriving on schedule one dark and stormy night.
He pried the screen aside and crept
through the open window of Ale Run’s apartment, replacing the screen behind
him. He scrambled up into the bedroom
and stashed his second Quart Low Tracker under Ale Run’s heap of dirty
laundry. He secreted himself underneath
the floorboards underneath that heap of dirty laundry. Then he waited.
Ale Run tottered into the bedroom at
ten-thirty, flopped back, and watched TV for a while. Then he turned everything off and worked his
way to within millimeters of snoozeville.
But then Chewdy Whispered to
him. “Ale Run. Ale Run.
I have what’s good for what ails you.”
“Wha-hunh? Who’s that?”
“It’s just me, your friendly
neighborhood Chewdychomper Chupacabras.
My friends just call me ‘Chewdy’.
I’m here to be your friend. Trust
me.”
“How’d you get here? Who let you in? What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“Why, I flew in on the friendly
skies, just like anyone else. And you
let me in. You invited me. You asked God to bring you riches, yes? Riches and power for you, so that you can
make sure people do God’s Will? Well,
let me tell you something. That’s a darn
good thing to ask for, because that’s God’s will, is for you to be rich and
powerful! That’s so selflessly noble of
you, to want vast powers and riches with which to serve God. So God sent me here to help you become rich
and powerful.”
Now this all caught Ale Run’s
attention, you can bet on that! But Ale
Run’s soul hadn’t been dispensed by the cosmic-karmic vending machine
yesterday, so he was a bit skeptical.
“Where are you? What are you? What exactly is a ‘Chewdychomper Chupacabras’, anyway? Why should I trust you?”
“I’m an invisible spirit,” Chewdy
lied, tweaking his Quart Low Tracker and concentrating on projecting his voice
in such a manner as to foil Ale Run’s directional hearing. “I’m a good spirit, sent by God and his Vibes
to help you help Him. I bring many
blessings. And you should trust me
because I bring concrete evidence of my good will. I bring you the Quart Low Tracker. Lift up your dirty laundry, and Behold My
Wonders!”
Ale Run lifted his stained underwear
and rotten socks up to the heavens, and proclaimed, “All I see is some weird
heap of junk. What’s this? Is this some pervert’s stupid idea of a trick
to play on me? One of my old frat buddies? Moondog?
Is that you?” Ale Run looked
around skittishly.
“No, no,” Chewdy assured him. “Not a joke.
Not a joke at all. Now get pen
and paper, and listen up, please. I’ll
tell you all about the Quart Low Tracker, how to use it, how it works, and how
to build more. Everything you’ll need to
know. You’ll become rich, powerful, and
famous. Just listen, please. Listen, and write.”
Ale Run fetched his pen and
pad. Then he listened and wrote. And listened and wrote and listened and wrote
some more. For five hours he listened
and wrote. First, Chewdy told him how to
use the Tracker. He even walked him
through some exercises, learning hands-on how to use the Tracker. Then he taught him the theory of operation,
in detail. Finally, Chewdy walked him
through just exactly how one goes about fabricating one’s own Quart Low Tracker
from scratch, using commonly available household items and supplies.
In conclusion, Chewdy dictated to
the still-furiously transcribing Ale Run, “And now don’t forget, the final step
of systems integration here is that one has to very, very carefully align the
LCD display chromosexually with the Earth’s electromagic lines of flux,
emanating from the current locus of the geomagic pole, using a
counter-clockwise hand-waving motion and the right-hand rule. This counter-clockwise rotation is what you’ve
got to use here in the Northern Hemisphere in order to invoke the Coriolis
Force. If you were in the southern
geomagic field, of course, you’d have to wave your hands clockwise, OK? Great!
May the Coriolis Force be with you!”
Now Ale Run was a bit tired and
sleepy by that time, so we really should find it in our hearts to forgive him
for getting a bit sloppy in transcribing the notes. And Chewdy was getting hungry and impatient,
too, so he didn’t bother to thoroughly double-check the CRC (Certification of Ridiculousness Check) codes that his Tracker displayed after performing
calculations based on the vibes returning from Ale Run’s aura. So one might say that mistakes were made.
Chewdy conducted a lightning-quick
review of all they’d gone over, while Ale Run drowsily checked his notes. Then, finished at last, Ale Run fell into a
deep and exhausted sleep. Chewdy slipped
away into the few remaining hours of night.
Ale Run awoke halfway through the
morning. By the time he was fully awake,
he came to realize that yes, the events of last night had been real¾not
just a dream. But he checked his notes,
just to be 100% sure. And then he found
the Quart Low Tracker, right there where he’d left it on his nightstand. He picked it up with trembling hands,
thinking, I’m rich I’m rich I’m rich!!! Providence has finally acknowledged my
deserving nature!
He checked his notes and his
memories very carefully, thinking, I’ve got to be methodical, here, and make
sure I don’t blow it! This is a once in
a lifetime chance, if this all checks out the way that this “Chewdy” spirit
says it will. OK, first things
first. I’ll make sure that the Quart Low
Tracker works the way he says it does.
Let’s see...
Ale Run decided on phase one, and
then he acted. He got himself signed up
as a telephone solicitor for the Law Enforcement Officer’s Club, calling people
and asking them for donations. After
filling out the proper papers and taking his training course that morning, he
sat down at his telephone station. Then
he gathered up his pencil, lunch box, and phone book, excused himself, and went
to the little boy’s room. In the privacy
of his stall, he pulled the Quart Low Tracker out of his lunch box. He used it meticulously, marking about a
hundred numbers. Then he got back to
work.
Ale Run shone like a star that
day. Not a one call failed to elicit a
promise of money for law enforcement officers.
All his bosses and coworkers mobbed him, asking him how he’d managed to
do it. He only gave vague replies,
saying you just had to have a special touch.
He thought to himself, well, this is just peanuts. Chump change.
Wait till I really get
going! Now that I’ve obtained my
demonstration of the Quart Low Tracker’s powers, why am I still hanging out
with these losers? He almost told his
boss he’d not be back in the morning, but then he stopped himself. What if Chewdy’s hunk of junk was playing
tricks on him, and all the charitable givers were going to change their
minds? What if not a one of them
followed up on their promises to mail money in to their noble cause?
So he came back the next day, and
performed his magic once again. And the
day after, and the day after that. Then
the money started to roll in. Thousands
upon thousands of dollars poured in. Ale
Run got raises, the other employees got envious, and the policemen’s widows
even got a dollar or two now and then.
Well, I guess it’s time to move on to phase two, Ale Run thought. Time to quit my job, and move off to bigger and
better things. Once more, he stopped
himself in the nick of time, right before resigning. Better think this through first, he told
himself.
He went back home to his apartment
that night and initiated phase two. This
consisted simply of intensely studying the theories behind the Quart Low
Tracker, as dictated to him by Chewdychomper Chupacabras. Phase two lasted for several evenings, while
he staunchly forced himself to keep on slugging away at his stupid old day
job. He told himself he still needed
that job, because he had to have a method of properly verifying completion of
phase three. Besides, the money, paltry
though it was, came in handy.
Then came phase three. This consisted of his attempts to make his
own Quart Low Trackers from scratch.
Let’s see, he thought, pondering over his notes and memories. This sure is frustrating, seeing how my notes
get progressively sloppier and sloppier looking, and my memory likewise gets
hazy, as I move towards the end of all those instructions that Chewdy
left. I should’ve interrupted that spirit
now and then, just long enough to make me some coffee or pop some study buddy
pills, to keep my butt awake, towards the end of all that. Let’s see, now...
What are these crazy notes saying, anyway? “Align the LCD display chromosexually with
the Earth’s electromagic lines of fux, something something magic pole,
counter-cockwise hand waving, the right hand rules.” Do you suppose he meant homosexually? Or was that
really counter-clockwise, not cockwise? The right hand rules the magic pole,
maybe? And what are electromagic lines of fux, anyway? Ale Run puzzled long and hard, thinking of
all the various possible meanings, and all the various possible permutations
and combinations thereof. Some he found
quite distasteful, but he tried them all.
The lure of money was just too strong.
But no, a family-oriented book like Jurassic
Horde Whisperer of Madness County can’t very well get into those kinds of
details. Suffice it to say that the men
of the evening that he hired, gossiped long and hard, about how he was the
strangest bird they’d ever encountered.
For the next few weeks, Ale Run
would make an attempt, every evening before work, at making himself a Quart Low
Tracker or two. Then he’d try it out at
work, waving it over the phone book while sitting on his porcelain throne in
the privacy of a toilet stall. Chewdy
had warned him that the Quart Low Tracker’s data needs to be as fresh as
possible, due to the perturbations that free will causes over time in the
electromagic lines of fux. Or something
like that. In any case, the readings had
to be fairly fresh. Ale Run had verified
that he couldn’t very well get away with taking his readings on the phone book
the night before, in the privacy of his apartment, even with his known-good,
original Quart Low Tracker. The yields
went way down. So he had to sneak off to
the toilet during work, on a fairly regular basis. It was troublesome, but workable.
The worst part of it all was that
none of his new Quart Low Trackers worked!
They only rarely seemed to agree with his original device. Sometimes he’d experiment, and go with the
readings of his new devices, ignoring the old.
Not a one of them got any
better results, consistently, than his coworkers did! It was all extremely depressing. How was he going to market his technology and
make any money if he couldn’t duplicate it?
He went into a deep, deep funk. It got so bad that his one and only good
Quart Low Tracker started returning fewer and fewer numbers for him to call at
work. This caused Ale Run to really panic, till he realized that it
was his own depression that was causing his yields to fall. Even magic
couldn’t cause many people to send money to a morose, mopey, woe-is-me
solicitor, he finally concluded. So then
he snapped out of it just enough to get his yields back up.
His bosses congratulated him. They’d been worried that maybe he was losing
his touch. So they gave him another
raise, to help his spirits and keep his productivity up. But then Ale Run quit his job. His bosses begged and pleaded, and offered
him even more raises, but he had bigger fish to fry. He quit, and that was that.
He’d finally snapped out of his
mental rut. Inspiration had struck, and
he’d come to realize that there was no real need to come up with more Quart Low
Trackers that actually worked, to rake in the big bucks. No need at all! One real
Quart Low Tracker was enough! He’d
mass-produce fake Quart Low Trackers,
and, with the assistance of the real
Quart Low Tracker, he’d line up buyers for the fakes! He got to work.
He purchased the assistance of an
industrial designer and a plastics company, and they made a few hundred Quart
Low Trackers. They consisted of small
plastic boxes with swiveling metal antennae, and little interchangeable plastic
“chips” carrying photocopied pictures of things such as dead ants. Then he worked up the promotional
materials. Matter and energy are one and
the same, Einstein said, they said. So
all matter gives off energy. With the
right optional plastic chip (for the right price) in this device, it will
detect those energies for you, and you can just sort of follow the vibes, and
you can find whatever you’re looking for, they said. Like drugs or weapons.
If you really, really care about the
welfare of our children in our schools and on our streets, his promotional
materials said, you’ll be sure to have a Quart Low Tracker or two on hand in
each and every school and law enforcement agency. The relatively small investment in Quart Low
Tracker gear will surely pay itself off in just about no time flat, in reduced
medical, law enforcement, and prison costs later on. Investing in human capital, after all, is the
most wise and enlightened course of all.
Ale Run had tens of thousands of
copies of his promotional materials printed up on nice, glossy brochures. He had some very impressively
technical-looking labels printed up, too, which he glued to his Quart Low
Trackers. Then he recruited salesmen for
his new organization, Scamway International.
And he also invested some money in special CD-ROMs. Every morning, in the privacy of his home
office, Ale Run inserted special CD-ROMs into his PC. These CD-ROMs contained information about
schools and law enforcement agencies across the nation. He then used his one and only truly
functional Quart Low Tracker to pick a few institutions, whose names,
addresses, and phone numbers he’d then pass on the appropriate people in
sales. He used a different set of
CD-ROMs (along with his original Quart Low Tracker, of course) to pick new
members of his sales staff. He then
passed these names to existing sales staff, who added them to their direct
reports. Thus, his empire grew. And grew and grew and grew some more.
Within months, Scamway International
spread like wildfire. Millions of
dollars rushed into Ale Run’s coffers.
Thousands of schools and law enforcement agencies snapped up his Quart
Low Trackers, each costing several thousand dollars. Manufacturing went to three shifts. Even though there were a few skeptics here
and there who said that the Quart Low Tracker was nothing but a modern-day
dowsing rod, and no one ever proved that they worked, they were a big hit. Illicit drug and gun users and dealers ran in
fear. Policemen and educators swore by
the Trackers. Regular civilians even got
into the act, using the Trackers to find lost golf balls.*
*Footnote: OK, so by now
all you readers out there in readerland are thinking, man, what kind of a
nutcase is this Author-type-dude
Titus fella, anyway? Where does he get
such totally whacked-out ideas? Just how
far out of touch with reality is he,
anyway? Well, sad to say, I get my
inspiration from reality. I may be off
of my rocker, but so is reality.
So here’s where we start an
intermittent habit of putting endnotes after some chapters. Facts and editorial comments, with source
notes following that. In order to keep
your story flowing smoothly, though, we’ve put all that stuff at the end of the
book. If you like to take a break from
the fiction, now and then, you can stick a second bookmark towards the end of
the book, and go read a chapter’s endnotes as you finish that chapter. I’ll put an unobtrusive little note at the
end of each chapter that has endnotes, this being the first. If you like your fiction uninterrupted,
ignore these little notes, and read all the endnotes later. Or don’t read them at all; suit
yourself. But don’t tell me you skipped
my endnotes, or I’ll pout!
So if you want to learn all about
the Quadro Crackpots who inspired my tales of Quart Low Trackers, go see the
endnotes for Chapter 8.
9)
The Grain Elevators of Madness County
“Robert believed
the world had become too rational, had stopped trusting in magic as much as it
should. I’ve often wondered if I was too
rational in making my decision.” “Francesca Johnson”, a character in Robert James Waller’s “The
Bridges of Madison County”, writing in a
letter for her children to read after she died, explaining her secret affair
with “Robert Kincaid”, a wandering National
Geographic photographer, while still
married to the children’s father.
Oh,
yes, and from the same source: “In a way, he was not of this earth. That’s about as clear as I can say it. I’ve always thought of him as a leopardlike
creature who rode in on the tail of a comet.”
Fascinating. Was he perhaps
descended to Earth through Heaven’s Gate, from the Level Beyond Human? Was the comet perchance named
Hale-Bopp-Bopp-Bopp the Really-Bopped?
We don’t know. The text doesn’t
say. Perhaps there’ll be a sequel.
Now in Madness County there also
lived a striving, seeking, searching early-fortyish semi-young woman named
Francestuous Johnsdame. She was striving
for the next higher level of enlightenment, a husband who didn’t slam screen
doors, bliss, an exciting sense of romance, higher consciousness, better tastes
for what is truly alluringly elegant and fashionable, inner peace, a guy who
was stylishly skilled in matters of lighting cigarettes and opening beer cans,
finding herself, and being appreciated for her incredibly superior sensitivity
towards all living things.
Unfortunately, she lived her life in
a hum-drum rut. She was married to a
slob, Bob, a chubby farmer who ate meat and brushed his teeth. It wasn’t enough that he dined on the flesh
of animals. No, Sir! That wasn’t enough. He had to go and top it all off by brushing his teeth, thereby committing
genocide upon the billions of innocent bacteria dwelling in his mouth. Francestuous often fantasized about living a quiet life, and smelling only quiet scents. Wouldn’t it be nice not to have to smell the
scents of mass killing, like the smells of meat and toothpaste? Those murderously loud smells assaulted her nose every day, forcefully reminding her
of her plight. Married to an uncouth
bonehead, she was! There was no escape.
And that wasn’t all. Her husband insensitively slammed the screen
door, didn’t want her to smoke cigarettes, never talked to her about
Panderwood, movies, and fashion (instead, it was usually hunting, farming, and
football), and behaved in a generally undignified manner. Oh, he was gross! Farting, belching, and letting kids and dogs
climb and drool all over him! It never
seemed to end. When was he going to grow
up, and become more concerned with really meaningful
things? Failing that, when was some
star creature going to descend from the skies on the tail of a comet, and come
and relieve her of her boredom and drudgery?
Throughout all those long, dark, torturous days, she never lost sight of
her hopes and dreams.
Then one day, her knight in shining
armor rode into town. He rode into town
on a special, experimental new hypnohypoallergenic bicycle, courtesy of the DOT (Department Of Transportation). Raoul Kinky was on a mission. A mission from National Vegetarian Magazine.
He was there to photograph all those shining monuments to vegetarianism,
the grain elevators of Madness County.
These elevators now accepted only organically grown grains for direct
use as human food in macrobiotic diets, and for feeding companion animals. Yes, there were still a few elevators here
and there that stored grain for animals which were then to be murdered for
human use. But these wouldn’t receive
any press from Raoul Kinky and the National Vegetarian Magazine, that was for sure!
Unfortunately, Raoul suffered from MCS (Multiple Chemical Sensitivity). This meant that if Raoul had an unprotected
encounter with abhorrent artificial chemicals (as opposed to always-benevolent,
wholesomely natural ingredients from the Earth Mother), then he was in great
danger of breaking out in rashes, bad vibes, sneezing, negative karma,
toxitisapoptonecrosisitis, fatigue, depression, headaches, sympathy, spots, and
other severe industrial diseases.
Fortunately, Raoul had a few arrows
in his quiver, with which he fought back valiantly. First, there was his special $300,000 bicycle. DOT had built this experimental vehicle for
him. It was lubricated by (organically
grown) corn oil, and built out of organically laminated soy proteins and wheat
germ, alfalfa sprouts, bean curds, and organically mined iron and
molybdenum. By organically mined, we
mean that donkeys, not internal combustion engines, were used to power the ore
carts. And the donkeys were never
subjected to substandard working conditions or paid substandard wages, which
meant that they were fed all the organically grown hay that they could eat.
As a further anti-MCS measure, Raoul
and his all-natural bicycle had been jointly bonded together through expert
sessions of nature-centered hypnosis.
Hence, the hypnohypoallergenic designation. Not that Raoul or his bicycle held labels in
high esteem. To Raoul, his bicycle was
simply known as “Herman”, and of course, to Herman, Raoul was simply
Raoul. The theory was that if bicycle
and rider could bond thoroughly, then Raoul’s hypersensitive immune system, as
part of his holistic mind/body whole, might be a lot less likely to act
up. It all made a lot of sense to
Raoul. He considered himself to be quite
lucky, to have bonded so fast and so well to such a mellow fellow as Herman.
This had left one major, almost
insurmountable problem. Raoul simply
hadn’t been able to face the idea of pedaling through carbon monoxide,
synthetic ozone, partially oxidized hydrocarbons, and Gaia knows what all
else. Just the thought of doing this,
unprotected, even on the most lightly traveled of country roads, had made Raoul
break out in rashes. First, he’d thought
of gas masks, but even when he was finally able to find one that had been
manufactured organically, it was way too heavy and cumbersome.
So Raoul had suffered in abject,
pitiful terror, hidden away in his specially constructed $1.2 million Ecology
House, manufactured chemical-free by HUD as a demonstration project on how to
build homes for disabled MCS sufferers.
Then DOT had provided Herman (his bicycle), which he couldn’t ride in
comfort, what with that ugly, cumbersome gas mask. Raoul felt grateful in a way, but it hadn’t
been enough. Sure, he had a place to
live without suffering too much, except when reporters, HUD and DOT officials,
and other visitors came by, wearing synthetic clothes and after-shave, and
driving fume-belching cars. Yes, his
lack of a driveway forced his visitors to park a half-mile away, but those
fumes still followed them.
Raoul had lived for a few years as
an isolated hermit, desperately longing to join society as a productive
citizen. But the ravages of his MCS had
prevented him from doing so in any meaningful and fulfilling manner. Once, he’d tried his hand as a writer. He’d finally managed to find organically
manufactured paper, pens, and ink. Organically
manufactured computers, modems, fax machines, etc., had been unheard of in
those barbaric days just a few years ago, and he hadn’t found anyone to blaze
new technological pathways for him, due to society’s unthinkingly cruel
disregard for MCS sufferers. With great
difficulty, he’d finally found a publisher who was willing to work with his
handwritten manuscripts. He’d been
deliriously happy for a short little while, thinking he’d finally arrived.
But then there’d been the need work
with his editor at the publisher. Raoul
couldn’t talk to him on the phone, because he couldn’t find an organically
manufactured phone. The editor would
send letters, but Raoul would have to hang them out on the clothesline for
weeks on end, letting them air out, before he’d finally be able handle them
(with organically manufactured rubber gloves) enough to read them. Even then, he often broke out in rashes,
thinking about all those chemicals used in manufacturing the paper. He sent some of his own expensive organically
manufactured pens, ink, and paper to his editor, to ease matters a bit, but
that still left the contamination wrought by those chemically uncouth louts of
the US Mail Service, not to mention their awful machines. So matters didn’t improve much. Finally, in exasperation, his publisher
dropped him.
Raoul still remembered those
terrible days all too well. Sitting
around with nothing do to, looking at Herman, longing to ride him. Longing to get out and about, to see the world,
to interact with it, and to become a productive citizen. But the gas mask was awful and awkward, even
if it had been organically manufactured, and it let in the occasional whiff of
polluted air, whenever Raoul would get physically vigorous on Herman, and start
breathing hard. So traveling by bicycle
was a great ordeal.
Then finally had come his day of
deliverance. He’d worked up his nerve,
and had managed to ride Herman to a special gathering. This was a meeting of an MCS support group,
way out in the woods, far away from contaminating unnatural chemicals. That’s where he met Big Moose Running Nose,
who’d set him free. Raoul could still
remember it, pretty much word for word.
There he was, freshly arrived,
sitting on a stump, wondering whether it was finally safe to take his gas mask
off. A big galoot came up to him and
stuck his hand out. “Hi. I’m Big Moose Running Nose, and I’m a
recovering MCS sufferer.”
Raoul looked at Big Moose’s large
outstretched hand suspiciously. Where
had that hand been recently? Oh, heck,
be brave, Raoul told himself. This is a
fellow MCS sufferer. Trust him. Take a chance. So he whipped off his gas mask, peeled off
his gloves, and shook Big Moose’s hand.
“Hi. I’m Raoul Kinky, and I’m an
MCS sufferer, too.” There, there, see? He told himself. You’re not breaking out in a rash. Now sit down, and talk to this nice man.
“So tell, me, Big Moose, how do you
do it? I mean, here you are, I don’t see
you carrying gloves or a gas mask, and you seem to be doing just fine. Are you feeling OK? Or are you a real MCS sufferer in the first place? And what’s that funny thing with all those
bunches of feathers there?”
“Raoul, you’re no doubt a smart kind
of a guy. Now you see, I’m not really so
much an MCS sufferer, as I’m a recovering
MCS sufferer. Heavy emphasis on the recovering part, there, see. And the key lies right here, in my hands,
with this thing you refer to as a mere ‘bunch of feathers’. These are very, very special feathers. Sacred feathers. We Native Americans call them horde feathers.”
“Horde feathers? Horde
feathers? What do you mean, horde
feathers?”
“Yes, horde feathers. Horde feathers, because they come from a
horde of different kinds of birds. And
each kind of bird has its own special kind of properties, which we blend
together in just the right way, to do some very special things. To make sacred objects like this thing here,
which we Native Americans call a Sacred Dream Catcher.”
“Are you really a Native
American? You look like a regular old
melanin challenged Euro-American to me.
And I thought Native Americans hold eagle
feathers sacred, not bunches of assorted different kinds of feathers. Come on, Mr. Big Moose Running Nose, I think you’re putting me on. Tell me the truth.”
Big Moose stared down at the ground,
but only momentarily. He looked back up
defiantly and hefted his Dream Catcher.
“Well, OK, genetically I’m not Native American. And you’re right, Native Americans¾genetically Native Americans¾they hold eagle feathers sacred, not horde
feathers. But I’m what you call
genetically challenged. So the National
Eagle Repository out there near Denver, they won’t mail me eagle parts, from
naturally deceased eagles, like they will state-certified Native Americans, who
fill out their forms right, and have tribal elders vouch for them, and so
on. So if I, who the cruel state judges
to be a heathen, Native-American-wise, am caught owning eagle feathers, then
I’m busted for trafficking in body parts of an endangered species.
“You’ve got to have sympathy for me,
as a genetically challenged Native American.
I’m a Native American, but I have no Native American genes. The government bureaucrats, those heartless
bastards, they can’t see that I’m spiritually
a Native American. Every last one of the lives that I’ve lived for the
last five hundred years or so, I’ve
been a Native American, except for this
one. And I can have my past-lives
regression hypnotist show that,
too. Yet the feds, they won’t mail me
eagle feathers. They’ll bust me if I have them, even though
they’re every bit as sacred to me as they are to any other Native American.
“Obviously, the feds, those
oppressors, they’re highly selective, trampling all over people’s religious
liberties. Punishing us for no reason at
all! Why, I met a fella, real nice
fella, a while back, name of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba. He worships a metal he calls Sacred Gold,
just like we Native Americans worship Sacred Eagle Feathers. The feds, they have a repository for gold,
just like they have for eagle parts. So
he mailed in a request for some gold, in the name of religious freedom, just
like genetically Native Americans do for eagle feathers.
“Well, dang it, you wouldn’t believe
this, but they turned him down! Violated
his religious freedoms just like that, without so much as a second
thought! I don’t know how we’ve let
things get to this point! Such a bunch
of hard-hearted bureaucrats, I’ve never seen!
And in a supposedly free, democratic country, yet! Why, we oughta go down there to that place
with that gold, and, and...”
Raoul nodded his head
sympathetically. “Yeah, maybe we should
go down there and protest. Where’d you
say these hard-hearted ignoramuses hang out?”
“Oh, I think they call it the Fort
of Hard Knox, or some such. Anyway,
where were we. Oh, yes. So I’m spiritually a Native American, yet I
can’t have Sacred Eagle Feathers. So I
made my Dream Catcher, with the advice of a Lakota medicine man, out of aspen,
willow, and various feathers...”
Big Moose showed Raoul how the Dream
Catcher had been made. It was a long
stick wrapped in colored string. From
the tip hung a clump of feathers. Close
to the tip hung a hoop strung with string, looking like a loosely woven fish
net. From this assembly, yet more clumps
of feathers hung. Big Moose rattled them
off. Geese, pigeons, ducks, turkey,
vultures, turkey vultures, and...
Raoul cut him off. “Well, that’s a very nice dream catcher. So what’s it good for? What does this all have to do with MCS,
anyway?”
“Oh, my friend!” Big Moose
exclaimed. “What is a Dream Catcher good for!? What are dreams
good for?! They’re good for whatever
you want them to be good for!” He lowered his voice. “You know, Raoul, I used to be like you. Skeptical.
Pessimistic. Negative. And suffered from MCS something awful! Then I met Large Bottom Snorfling Bear. He showed me how to make a Sacred Dream
Catcher, and how to weave my dreams directly into its very essence. Then I worked at it a while. And I finally figured out how to weave in my
dreams of a chemical-free life. So long
as I have my Sacred Dream Catcher with me, it filters all the contaminants out
of my life. Now I’m free! Free as a bird! I fly
though life, now, unhindered by MCS! I’m
free, Raoul, free! And you can be free,
too, Raoul! Free like me!”
Raoul squinted and looked at Big
Moose really, really skeptically. Big
Moose just lifted his eyebrows and stared back silently. “Oh, I don’t know,” Raoul finally replied.
“Well, what’s there to not
know? Do you like suffering from MCS, or not?”
“Of
course I don’t like suffering from MCS!
It’s just that I don’t know about your Dream Catcher. You admit you made it without any eagle feathers at all. The real
ones have eagle feathers, it seems to
me!. Does it really catch dreams, or not?
How can I tell?”
“You can tell by looking at me! I don’t suffer from MCS any more! Now I hate to do this, but if you insist, you
can take my Dream Catcher from me for a little while, and walk over thataway
for a hundred yards or so, and I’ll just betcha I’ll break down and start
sneezing and coughing up a storm, just like that. That’s usually the way it goes. Well?”
Raoul declined the challenge, not
wishing to be rude. Big Moose,
satisfied, continued. “OK. Now on those eagle feathers, and your so-called
‘right way’. We all know there’s really
not a ‘right way’. Right and wrong are
purely subjective, and vary from culture to culture. So I’ve made my own way of making a dream catcher, integrating the good things from
many, many Native American and other aboriginal, pure, nature-loving
cultures. Now if you’ll...”
“Wait,” Raoul interrupted. “You say you’ve integrated many different
cultures. So just exactly what kind of
Native American are you then,
anyway?”
“Oh, me? Well, I guess you could call me a
Cree-Poospatuck-Navahopi-Blackfoot-Bigfoot-Yeti-Winnebago-Lakota-Dakota-Toyota,
more or less. Approximately. But we really shouldn’t be into this labels thing so much, you know. Even this ‘Native American’ label-thing. I’m just a Native. A Native, natural kind of a guy. Just try to think of me that way. Now about these Dream Catchers. I really
think that’s what you’re looking for. It
could really help your MCS, just like
it helps me.”
“Well, I don’t know. I’ve got a really, really bad case of MCS,
you know. Probably worse than anything
you’ve ever had. I think I need the really, really Strong
Medicine. I need to have real, sacred
eagle feathers, most likely.”
“Well, Raoul, you might be
right. I won’t argue that with you. But I want you to think about something. You really have no right to the body parts of
an endangered species. I’ll bet you’re
not part Native American. I’ll bet
you’re not even able to prove, like I am, that you were Native American in your
past, most recent lifetimes. Am I
right?”
Raoul nodded his head, affirming Bog
Moose’s suspicions. Satisfied, Big Moose
continued. “That means your desire for
eagle feathers is illegitimate. Not just
illegal, but also immoral. You have no
Native American genes, karma, or culture, nor do you know how to properly
conduct Native American ceremonies. No
way you’re a Noble Savage, then. That
puts you on a par with¾let
me speak frankly now¾that
puts you on a par with, say, the superstitious, greedy, Earth-raping,
slant-eyed, kooky gooks of the Far East, who eat rhino horn and tiger penis in
hopes of propping up their sagging health and pooped-out peckers. Or the irrationally, chauvinistically violent
and macho rag-heads of Yemen, who carve dagger horns out of rhino horn. As a sensitive, Earth-loving citizen, don’t
you think you could settle for horde feathers instead of eagle feathers?”
Raoul just sat there, looking
profoundly skeptical and stubborn.
Big Moose just moved on to his next
argument. “Raoul, you know, I’ll bet
there’s something you haven’t thought about.
Eagles, these days, they’re at the top of our poisoned food chain, and
so they’re eating all sorts of things.
DDT. Dioxin. PCBs.
Plutonium. Saturated fats. Animals and fish that were abused when they
were young, and who knows what all
else! Now the feathers I use to make my Dream Catchers, they’re raised
organically. They won’t let me raise
eagles, ‘cause they’re endangered; otherwise I’d have some organically raised
eagle feathers for you. But that’s how
it goes. As is, I’ve got a source for
the most organically pure and powerful feathers you’ll find anywhere.”
“Sounds pretty good,” Raoul nodded
agreeably. “So do you think maybe you
could sell me a few feathers, then, and show me how I could make my own Dream
Catcher?”
“Oh, yes, my friend, I could do that. But it’s tough. Real tough. Took me a lot of practice, a lot of
years. You’ve got to learn or devise all
these elaborate ceremonies. Ceremonies,
for instance, where you take sacred yogurt and pureed tofu, and smear it all
over your body, while you wear a tie-died bandanna and get your nose
pierced. Now that may sound trivial, but
you have to do it just right. You’ve got
to be in just the right frame of mind, while also eating peyote and being
supervised by a Navahopi healer under the light of the full moon, while Venus
is in Uranus. I tell you, it’s not
easy! Took me years, like I said.
“Or you could take it easy on
yourself, and just stroll over this way for about a mile, where I have my car
parked in the bushes. I’ve got a few
spare Dream Catchers in my trunk. One of
them I’m thinking of, I think it would be just the right one for you. Why don’t we walk on over there, and...”
“Wa, wa, walk over, over to you c-car?!”
Raoul sputtered in disbelief.
“You drive one of those fume-spewing metal, synthetic monsters?! How could
you?! How...”
“Oh, no. Not at all.
It’s electric, so take it easy.
No fumes. No pollution. Well, OK, so they make a little bit of
pollution when they generate the electricity to charge my batteries. But it’s all for a good cause. I go around selling these Dream Catchers to
people like you, to reduce suffering.”
“Well, OK, then. Hold on a second, here, while I put on my
mask and gloves, and...”
“Oh, no, my friend, don’t forget,
I’ve got my Dream Catcher with me. It’ll
cover the two of us while we walk on over there. Trust me.
You’ll see.”
Big Moose was right. Raoul strolled without gasping, hacking, or
wheezing, or even breaking out in a rash.
They got to the car, then marveled over the Dream Catchers. Big Moose finally persuaded Raoul that he
should buy one particular one. “Since
you’re my good friend, I’ll let you have this one for a steal, at four hundred
ninety-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents,” he finished.
“Um, seeing as how I’m kind of, um,
unemployed, and, like, a victim of MCS and all, I was wondering if maybe you
could get my Medicaid to reimburse you for this?”
“No, I’m sorry, I’m working on
that. But so far, those nasty Nazi
bastards in Washington, they’re blocking my efforts. Punishing all the poor people who suffer from
MCS. So for now, I’ve got to ask for
cash. I’ve got to make a living, and pay
for all the organic feed for my birds.”
“I don’t have it in cash. Take a check?”
“Sure.”
Raoul wrote out a check, using his
organically manufactured pen, ink, and paper.
He forked over $499.99 that he really didn’t have. Then he walked away with his very own Sacred
Dream Catcher, specially made to catch the dream of living free from the
ravages of MCS. All this had been quite
stressful, so he sat down and lit himself up an Earth Spirit, which was his
favorite brand of organically grown, all-natural cigarettes.
Raoul never regretted buying that
Dream Catcher, not for one second. It
was the best $499.99 he’d ever spent, and the start of a whole new life. He stashed his gas mask and gloves in the
attic, and started riding Herman on a regular basis. He made a special attachment to Herman, so
that he could mount his Dream Catcher right up front. There, it filtered the toxins out of the
airstream before they could get to Raoul.
Now, Raoul was able to ride anywhere on his bicycle. Through heat and haze, smoke and fumes, and
fog and smog he rode, never missing a beat.
He lived life to the hilt!
Finally, he was even able to get
himself a decent job. He became a
traveling writer, poet, and cameraman for National
Vegetarian magazine. Since National Vegetarian came out in both
hardcopy and on-line versions, they bought him a digitizing video camera and a
laptop computer with a radio modem, and sent him out on the road. Being the Earth-loving kind of a guy that he
was, he refused to use any sort of polluting vehicle, not even an electric
car. So he faithfully stuck with
Herman. He mounted all his gadgets,
including the antennae for his radio modem, onto Herman, and enthusiastically
hit the road.
So here he was, several years and
many adventures later, on yet another journalistic assignment. Yes, this was the big one! Raoul Kinky had been given the Big Mission. He was to get the scoop for National Vegetarian’s feature article on
the organic-only grain elevators of Madness County. He was to capture it all on his digitizing
video camera, all while extemporaneously creating poetry to capture the spirit
of those fabulous Grain Elevators of
Madness County.
So he rode Herman on down Amber
Road, heading into Madness County.
Several miles away, an unsuspecting Francestuous Johnsdame cooked a
lonely breakfast of bean sprouts, carrots, and tofu for herself, since her husband
and children were gone for four days to see the State Fair, several hundred
miles away.
Raoul and Herman were in high
spirits that day. So was Lucky
Foot. Between the three of them, they
were hardly ever lonely or bored. Lucky
Foot was Raoul’s and Herman’s companion animal, a rabbit. She rode up in front, in a wire basket in a
position of great honor, which was right next to that well-worn detoxifier and
decontaminator, the Sacred Dream Catcher.
Lucky Foot had joined the gang during some of Raoul’s most recent
adventures.
Just when the navigating got a bit
tough, as Raoul was fussing with his maps while also pedaling and steering, a
dog caught wind of Lucky Foot. The dog
chased them for several hundred yards.
Raoul cursed, swore, and kicked at the dog, all while pedaling
furiously. So he missed a few turns and
got lost.
Illustration
goes here above… Bridge, bicycle, rabbit,
Raoul
Raoul ended up on Francestuous’
doorstep, looking for directions. Wow,
who could be knocking on my door at such an early hour, out here in the middle
of nowhere, she asked herself. Maybe I’d
better be careful. She tied her
nightgown up tight and peered through the peep hole. No need to fear, she told herself. He looks like a sensitive sort. She opened up the door.
“Um, hi, ma’am, I’m Raoul Kinky, and
I’m a poet and photographer for National
Vegetarian magazine. No, no, that is
my day job, so don’t slam the door on me.
And I’m not trying to sell you any magazines. I’m not trying to sell you anything. It’s just that I’m here looking for some
grain elevators for our upcoming spread, which is going to be called Grain Elevators of Madness County. I’ll be helping to put y’all on the map,
see, ma’am? Anyway, I’m lost, and I was
merely wondering if you’d be so kind as to point me in the right
direction. Can you tell me where to find
Dinkledorf’s OrganiGrain Silo?”
Wow, he is a sensitive sort of fella, Francestuous marveled. He’s asking for directions! Whatta guy!
Makes me cry! Now how often does one run into such a star creature,
anyway?! “Well,” she started, “You head
down thatta way, till right before you get to old widow Henderson’s farm, and
then you... Oh, never mind. I’ll take you there myself. I’ve nothing...”
“Oh, no, ma’am, I didn’t mean to
trouble you so. I’m sure you’re busy, and you’ve got better things to do than to play
tourist guide to a vagabond like myself.
Now if you’ll...”
“Oh, no, no trouble at all. Come on in.
Here, sit down while I go change into something more suitable for
traveling.” He gracefully slipped into
the house, gently closing the screen door behind him. She pulled up a chair for Raoul, thinking,
wait, this man’s a total stranger, what’s coming over me? I’m being a total hussy, inviting him in here
and prancing around in front of him in my nightgown! No, wait.
So there’s a one in three million chance he’s a rapist or a murderer, or
he’s casing out our house. Fat
chance. He looks and acts like a really
decent sort of a guy. Take a
chance. Live a little. Let him hang out here while I go change. No sweat.
She looked down at her half-eaten
breakfast, feeling slightly embarrassed, as if she was a beast-like slob,
eating slop in front of royalty. Now why
am I feeling like this, she asked herself, embarrassed for feeling embarrassed. Here I’ve invited a stranger into my house,
and I’m feeling embarrassed over what I’m eating, in the privacy of my own
home. Oh, face it, I’m acting like a
silly, shy schoolgirl, in front of this sensitive, gazelle-like creature. Get over it!
“Would you care for some breakfast?” she asked lamely,
self-consciously. “I can rustle you up
some grub, real quick-like.” Oh, God,
she thought, did I really say
that? I sound like a real hick! Am I getting to be a real hick, married to Bob the slob all these years?! Now stop
that!
But the graceful, gazellelike
creature took it all in stride. “Oh,
ma’am, your cooking smells so delicious!
So vegetarian! So quiet, as I always like to say, because
it doesn’t scream of the murder of helpless meat-bearing animals! But no, I can’t impose any more on you than I
have already. I’ll just sit here on this
seat you’ve so kindly provided, and keep you company while you finish up, if
you’d like. Or wait for you while you
change, if you’re done eating.
Whatever. Although, if you could
spare a cup of that good coffee you’re drinking, I’d be forever grateful. Black is fine.”
She busied herself finding another
clean cup, and found herself hoping he’d not think her too much of a low-class
slob when she noticed the cup’s chipped rim, halfway through pouring the
coffee. Oh, great, lookit that, too, she
thought, I’ve gone and picked one o’ them thar cups that says “Harvey’s
Honeydipper, Septic Cleaning Services” on it.
Now he’ll think I’m a real
country bumpkin!
But the gazellelike creature once
again took it all in stride, sipping coffee without seeming to notice the cup’s
inelegance. “Ah, good stuff!” he
exclaimed. “This must be the same
organically grown kind that I always drink.
FreeBird Deluxe, isn’t it?”
“Why, yes, it sure is!” she replied,
sitting down next to him. “Now are you sure you’re not hungry? I’ve got some more bean sprouts, carrots, and
tofu all warmed up here on the stove. If
I put some on a plate and put it right in front of you, I’ll bet you could eat
a bite or two. So what do you say?”
Raoul confessed that he’d eat a bite
or two, but that he simply hadn’t meant to be such a bother. So she served him breakfast. “Whoa!” he said after taking the first bite,
“This is great! You really know how to cook quiet food! You’re quite the quiet cook, um... I’m sorry,
what did you say your name was, anyway?”
“No, I’m sorry, I never did introduce myself, Raoul. I’m Francestuous. Francestuous Johnsdame. So tell me a bit about yourself.” They sat there eating and sipping coffee,
chatting up a storm. It was amazing¾just like talking to an old
friend. They talked about art and poetry
and natural things. Deep and meaningful
things, so unlike what she and Bob talked about. When they talked, that is. When Bob the slob wasn’t busy belching and farting
and letting the kids and dogs climb and slobber and drool all over him, that
is.
Then breakfast was over and they
each had themselves another cup of coffee.
Raoul fidgeted a bit, so Francestuous asked him what was the
matter. “Oh, it’s just that I’ve got
Herman and Lucky Foot and all my equipment out there right in front of your
house and I’m afraid I’d better be keeping a better eye on things. I mean, I know you’re way out here in the
country, where there’s less crime and all, but I’ve been in here so long now
already, and...”
“Well, let’s bring your stuff in,
then, for a few minutes, and then I’ll get dressed, and we can go find
Dinkledorf’s Silo. Here, let me lend you
a hand.”
So they went out front, and Raoul
introduced Francestuous to Herman, Lucky Foot, the Sacred Dream Catcher, and
all his equipment. Francestuous cooed
over how cute Lucky Foot was, and listened in rapt fascination while Raoul
explained all about the Dream Catcher.
They put everything in the garage, closed the door, and then went back
to finishing their coffee.
They sat there sipping more coffee,
discussing life, and looking deeply into each other’s eyes. Probably more deeply than any other couple
has ever stared into each other’s eyes anywhere in the known universe, that
is. I could fall into those eyes and
lose my very center, she thought dreamily.
She began to wonder if maybe he made love like a panther. She got wet between her legs, but then made
herself stop. I’ve got duties to my
husband and children, after all, she reminded herself.
Then the coffee was gone and the
magical time threatened to come to an end.
Raoul fidgeted yet again. “Um,
sweetie, you look nervous,” Francestuous observed. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no, I just need a smoke, that’s
all. Whenever you’re ready to go change,
I’ll just step outside for a smoke, and then we’ll be ready to go. But no hurry.”
“No, you can smoke in here! Go right ahead! No problem!”
She added to herself, there’s four days before Bob the slob and the kids
come back, and I can air this house out real thoroughly before that. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
So Raoul whipped out his Earth
Spirits and lit one up, very expertly flicking his BicÔ.
Then he inhaled deeply, sensuously enjoying those all-natural vapors. Francestuous was quite impressed. “My, my, Big Boy, you flick your BicÔ so very well! And those Earth Spirits, they smell so
swell! Do you think that maybe you could
like spare me one?!”
So Raoul expertly flicked his BicÔ yet once again, and Francestuous,
feeling utterly, lusciously, sensuously worldly, purred over her
cigarette. She’d not had one in years!
Bob the slob didn’t approve, so she’d refrained. But for today, she was free! It felt great to live a little! The magical time stretched out a bit longer,
as they sat there smoking and chatting some more.
Finally it was time for Francestuous
to go upstairs and change. As she stood
up from the table, her arm brushed his, and tingles of electrovibosomatic
energy energized her entire body. But
she stifled her urge to fall into his arms, smother him with deeply passionate
kisses, and satisfy his throbbing maleness.
Instead, she used those unspeakably vast quantities of
electrovibosomatic energy to propel herself upstairs to her bedroom. Feeling as if she was in a trance, she
went. The energy made her go. So she just went. And she kept on going and going and going...
She found herself in a dream, in her
bedroom. There’s a gorgeous creature
downstairs, and there’s a nameless song in my head, she thought. An old song, I can’t really say how it
goes. It’s old and it’s sweet, and I
knew it complete... no, no, it’s old and it’s sad, and I’d be glad to be bad... No, that’s not it, either. It’s about how sad it is to belong to someone
else when the right one comes along. A
man who doesn’t slam screen doors, who knows how to light cigarettes just
right, and who appreciates quiet
cooking. And did you notice, she asked
herself. Even his breath smells quiet! Star
creatures like this don’t just happen by
every day!
She forced herself to snap out of
dreamland for just long enough to select here best, low-cut sun dress, to brush
her hair, and to put on a dab of Wind Sock Perfume, which had sat there in that
little bottle in her dresser drawer, unused, for many years. Then she stifled her impulse to put makeup
on, and headed back down the stairs.
“My, my, you look ravishing today,”
he said. She just blushed. They went outside and opened up the garage
door, and stared awkwardly at Herman.
Herman had no room for a passenger.
By now, Francestuous knew all about how Raoul had high principles, and
wouldn’t ride in polluting vehicles. So
she only momentarily debated on asking him if maybe they could just throw
Herman, Lucky Foot, Dream Catcher, and everything else in the rear of her
pickup, and head off to capture the essence of Dinkledorf’s OrganiGrain
Silo. She thought better of it.
Instead, she worked up her nerve,
and then moved in to touch Raoul lightly on the arm, saying, “Um, Sweetie, Honey
Buns, I hate to admit it, but I haven’t ridden my bicycle in years. It’s sitting over there in that corner,
behind the boxes. Do you think maybe you
could like look it over and fix it up?
That way, see, I could join you, and show you the way to the grain silo,
without me feeling so bad about driving an Earth-disrespecting fume-belching
monstermobile. What do you say?”
“No sweat! Anything
for you, my dearest Sugar Tush!”
Raoul dragged the bike out, cleaned it up, blew the tires back up, and
made adjustments. As he stooped over,
working on that bike, Francestuous couldn’t help but notice his flexing lean
muscles. Then she caught a glimpse of
his macho workingman’s bun cleavage.
Wow, she thought, if I only had a camera right now, here it is¾the cover of a new hit romance
novel! Now all we need my cleavage next
to his cleavage, and we’d be into some really
heavy heavage! She stooped down to
join him, getting ready to ask about the details of what he was doing. But he stood up, declaring, “There! Good as new!”
“Oh, you’re so sweet!” she proclaimed.
“And such a handyman!”
“So what’s your bicycle’s name, anyway?” he asked. “I feel so crass. Here I am, I just worked on her, and I don’t
even know her name. A doctor shouldn’t
work on a patient without knowing her name.”
Francestuous was deeply
embarrassed. Her bicycle didn’t even have a name. But, hey, we can fix that up real quick, she
thought. He’ll never need to know. “This is Betsy. Betsy, meet Raoul. Raoul, meet Betsy.”
Raoul insisted on introductions all
around. Betsy met Herman, Lucky Foot,
and Dream Catcher. Then, finally, they
were on the road to Dinkledorf’s OrganiGrain Silo. They pedaled down the roads in the summer
morning’s clean sunny country air, taking in the sights, sounds, and
smells. Francestuous felt young and
free, like a little girl, on her bicycle.
And she didn’t even worry about whether any of her farmer neighbors, out
on their tractors, saw and recognized her out there bicycling with a strange
man. She was free!
Those pure, innocent feelings of
all-natural joy washed over here out there in that rustic scene. She couldn’t help but to share her feelings
of joy. So she gazed over admiringly at
Raoul, as they rode down that road side by side, and sang out to him, “You make
me feel like a natural woman!” His
silent but sincere reply, a simple but radiant smile, confirmed to her that
everything was right with the world.
Here she was, sharing her innermost feelings with a beautiful man in a
beautiful world, doing beautiful, natural things, without a care in the
world. What could be more innocent, what
could be more free?
Then they got to the silo. Raoul opened up his saddlebag to unpack his
laptop computer, tripod, digitizing camera, and various accessories. Francestuous watched intently, looking at all
that well-packed gear. “Hey, Big Boy, I
really like the way you organize your gear,” she commented. He unbolted the radio modem’s antenna from
Herman, and hooked it all together.
He gazed intently at the silo, pacing
back and forth. Then he turned to
Francestuous, saying, “OK, I think I’ve got it.
Now I’m going to do my Thing.
Please just sit there and keep still, and don’t say anything for a few
minutes. I’ll say ‘cut’ when I’m all
done, and then we can talk again.
OK?” Francestuous nodded her
assent, and he got to work.
He pulled the legs out of the tripod
dangling from the camera. He flipped a
switch, then slowly, smoothly walked around, capturing the silo and its
surroundings from many angles. Then he splayed
the tripod’s legs out, set the camera down, and solemnly marched around to
stand between camera and silo. There, he
paused once again.
Then he swept his hands out,
gesturing at the ground, the sky, and the grain elevator, as if to silently
say, “Look at all this majesty that surrounds us.” Then, staring straight and hard at the
camera, he said:
The
Earth is good,
The
rain is wetter,
Organically
grown,
Grain
is better.
The
sky is blue,
The
grass is green,
Get
off your butt,
And
join our scene.
Then he said, “Cut.”
Francestuous clapped and
cheered. “Bravo! Bravo!
Encore! Encore!”
“Encore at the next grain silo,”
Raoul replied mock-sternly. “Let’s
go!” He packed back up and they headed
out.
When they got to Schicklefhart’s
All-Natural Elevator, Raoul repeated the performance, more or less. This time, when he got out in front of the
camera, he said:
There
was a man from Bombay,
Who
walked in a peculiar way,
With
each little stride,
He
wiggled from side to side,
This
is what we call The Way.
They
keep all chemicals away,
They
keep their poisons at bay,
So
a place called Madness County,
Of
grain brings forth a bounty,
This
is surely the best, we say.
Francestuous was quite
impressed. She commented that she was
sure looking forward to buying a copy of
National Vegetarian, to see Madness County in the limelight. But fate held the best reserved for
last. They pedaled many miles, following
the large signs for Wiesengruber’s Elevated Gaia-Grain, which was a major local
attraction.
Halfway through those many miles of
pedaling to their last destination, they took a break. This was when Raoul insisted on taking some
pictures of Francestuous. She was quite
flattered, and did her best to look as alluring as possible.
Then they arrived at that last
silo. This time, it was Raoul’s turn to
be impressed. So he took a lot of
footage, far more than at the first two elevators. Then he gestured yet even more solemnly in
front of his camera, and said:
The
Earth breathes in,
The
Earth breathes out,
She
gives forth humus,
She
gives forth sprouts,
The
Earth breathes in,
She
breathes again,
She
gives forth rain,
She
gives forth grain,
The
Earth breathes in,
The
Earth breathes out,
That
I’m quite deep,
Is
beyond all doubt.
Illustration
goes here above… Grain elevator, Gaiagrain
“Cut” was barely out of Raoul’s
mouth when Francestuous flung herself into his arms, saying, “Oh, Raoul, you are so deep! I can’t help it! Come on, quick, let’s go climb the silo and
make love in the grain!” She smothered
him with insistent kisses.
So he did as she asked, abandoning
Herman, Lucky Foot, Dream Catcher, and all accessories. They’d all have to survive for a little while
without him. They climbed the silo and crawled
onto the grain. Then they abandoned all
control. He ravished her throbbingly
sensual womanhood.
They lay in each other’s arms,
exhausted. “Wow, Raoul, that was great!
You’re the best! You complete the
essence of my womanhood! You’re like the
graceful meaning of the molecular spaces between the smoothest feathers of every
bird who has ever flown into the moonrise!
You’re like the last mystic poet, falling forever towards me from
dimension B, fulfilling my deepest womanly longings! You really do make love like a panther!”
“Well, yes, Francestuous, my One
True Fructose Fanny, that’s exactly how I feel.
I couldn’t have said it any better myself. But a panther is a carnivorous beast, an
eater of flesh. I’m a vegetarian. Don’t you think I make love more like a bunny
rabbit? Never mind; I know what you were
trying to say. All my life has been just
a rehearsal for this heavy scene. This
is what I’ve been made for; this is my mission on this planet. You’re right.
Always, I’ve been falling from dimension B-grade. Falling towards loving you,
Francestuous. Loving you, my dearest
Francestuous, loving you. Forever and
ever. Like the dew kissing ten tired
turtles in a tuddle-tuddle tree, that’s how I was meant to kiss and cuddle
thee.” So he kissed her, deeply and
meaningfully. Then they made mad
passionate love again and again.
The sun sagged down towards the
trees by the time they brushed the dirt off themselves, straightened themselves
out, and hit the long road home. Dusk
enveloped them as they rode up to her house.
They showered together, and ate another quiet meal of quiet but fresh
vegetables. Francestuous dug some beer
out of the deepest, darkest recesses of her ‘fridge. He opened the cans expertly, and they had
themselves a drink. Then they went to
bed, where there made mad passionate love, bunny-rabbit style, yet again and
again.
For three days and three nights, all
told, they quoted poetry to each other, talked of deep and meaningful things,
and made bunny love, while Raoul always lit their cigarettes and opened their
beer cans most expertly. Never, ever,
never once did he slam the screen
door, either.
Still, their time together had to
come to end, sooner or later. Or did
it? This was their unspoken question,
which neither dared to raise first.
Finally, as they lay exhausted in bed yet again, Francestuous brought it
up. “You know, Sweetie, you and I remind
me a lot of this couple I read about in a book a while back. It was called The Bridges of Madison County.
They had a deeply meaningful and mystically moving affair, but then her
husband came back, so her lover split, and then they both lived the rest of
their lives, desperately, hopelessly longing for each other.
“She made her choice out of like
this rational sense of duty to her husband and kids, but she always kind of
questioned like if maybe she’d have been better off going with her feelings,
and the chemistry of their totally profound passion. So the two of them went their separate
ways. It was so sad! She had to make do
with her husband! The hero, the last cowboy, her lover, he was
never able to make love to a woman again, ‘cause no one could ever compare to
her. So he ended up buying a dog to keep
him company in his last days, and then, that was it. So have you ever read that book, Raoul, sweet
buns? Do you think we’re maybe kind of like
them?”
“No, I didn’t read the book, but I
saw the movie. And, well, ah, yes, I
guess we’re sort of like them. Except I
already have a pet, which I bought to
console myself after my last true love cruelly, heartlessly betrayed me in
favor of her husband and kids. But I’m
over that now.”
They both laid there in dark, tired
silence for a while. Francestuous broke
the silence. “You know,” she said
wistfully, “I really don’t want to be like the lady in that book. Being too rational, going with my head
instead of my heart. Ignoring the important things, like magical vibes¾‘chemistry’, as they say. I’m way too special to go with boring,
regular, rational thinking. What they
call ‘common sense’ is just way too unromantic.
Duty is dull. Just doing whatever
makes your heart go pitty-pat is far, far
more glorious. More like the really cool things that the
glamorous people in Panderwood are doing.”
Then she lapsed back into silence.
She was working up her nerve to ask
if maybe she could avoid a lifetime of regret, and come with Raoul on his
journalistic journeys, when he spoke first.
“You’re not going to do that
to me, too, now, are you, my deepest, dearest Francestuous?”
“Why, do what, Raoul?” she asked,
tumbling off of their mutual train of thoughts.
“Abandon and betray me in favor of
your husband and kids,” he croaked in hushed hoarseness.
“Oh, no, I’d never do that do you, my
dearest Polysaccharide Patootie.
Never! Never! I was just so afraid
to ask you if I could come along with you!
You mean, you’ll have me?!”
“As often as possible, for as long
as possible. Till death do us part,” he
replied solemnly. She started sobbing
with the sudden relief from all her worries.
So then he sniffled a bit, too, and they held each other tight. Then they made love all night.
In the morning, she persuaded him to
bend his principles just enough, just this once, to use a fume-belching
monstermobile. She did this only by
promising that they’d sell the thing as soon as they moved her stuff. Then they loaded her most precious clothes,
furniture, and other household goods onto her pickup truck.
She wrote a “Dear Bob the Slob” letter, pointing out to him that she didn’t
want to hurt him or the kids, but that she had her own needs to consider, too.
Rather than living with a lifetime of regret, she was going to go with
her feelings. She’d found a man who
didn’t slam screen doors, and who knew how to light cigarettes, open beer cans,
and love a woman. But yes, she loved him
and the kids very much, and she always would.
She put it down on the kitchen counter.
“Hey, Sucrose Snuggles, you mind if
I read that?” Raoul asked.
“No, please do,” she replied. “I’m open for suggestions. You’re a literary kind of a guy, after all.”
He read it in silence, lifting his
eyebrows now and then. He put it
down. “Kinda harsh, I’d say. Maybe you could sort of soften it up by
adding some reference to a snippet of classy, uplifting poetry or music lyrics
or some such.”
“Have anything in particular in
mind, there, Glucose Gluteus Monosaccharide Maximus?”
“Oh, I don’t know. OK, well, sure, sit back down here and write
a wee tad more. You’ve got quite a bit
of room left on your second page down here, see? OK?
Great! Here goes: ‘PS. Dearest Bob, please don’t take it too hard. If things ever get you down, then please just
remember some wise words from the Beatles.
As they once sang, “Oh-blah-dee, oh-blah-da, hey, hey, hey, life goes
on.” If you can remember this, and live
by it, then nothing can ever hurt you.
Love, Francestuous.’ Now how’s that grab you? Lift his sagging spirits, it will! You never know what a few kind words can do.”
“Oh, Raoul, you’re so deep!
And so caring and sensitive!” She
fell into his arms, and they smooched long and passionately. They drove for miles and miles along those
twisting, turning roads together, in ecstatic happiness, and moved her stuff
into his $1.2 million HUD “Ecology House”.
Then they sold the truck, got new tires for Betsy, and started to build
their perfect life together.
This chapter has endnotes concerning
All-Natural Nicotine, Eagle Feathers, Multiple Chemical Sensitivity, and
Sensitive and Romantic Writers.
10)
Whispers of Omnology
“There’s
a sucker born every minute.” Attributed
to Phineas T. Barnum (1810-1891). Barnum
may or may not have actually said this.
He admitted that he may have said, “The people like to be
humbugged.” Show-business rival Adam
Forepaugh accused P. T. Barnum of having said the “sucker” quote. Barnum never denied it, and even thanked Forepaugh
for the free publicity.
“The Journal said, ‘There have been repeated reports that Mr. Hubbard told his
science fiction colleagues that the way to get rich is to found a
religion.’ The problem is this incident
never happened. So, from the Church’s
perspective it does get tiring responding to it, repeatedly. (For
the record, George Orwell is the person who really said that and to our
knowledge he never knew or met Mr. Hubbard.)”
From an ad in the 1 April ‘97
Wall Street Journal, placed by the Church
of Scientology International, in response to a Wall St. Jrnl editorial of 25 March ‘97. The Church made no indication whether or not
this was an April Fool’s joke, either.
We were left in suspense.
“Wrong! See ‘Over My Shoulder:
Reflections on a Science Fiction Era,’ by Lloyd Arthur Eshback, one of the
first prominent publishers of science fiction (Oswald Train: Philadelphia,
1983). He is very specific as to the
subject:
“‘The
incident is stamped indelibly in my mind because of one statement that Ron
Hubbard made. What led him to say what
he did I can’t recall¾but
in so many words Hubbard said: “I’d like to start a religion. That’s where the money is!”’
“Scientology
may argue that Mr. Eshback is wrong or duplicitous (he’s not), but the statement
is neatly documented for all time.” Our
suspense is thus relieved, thanks to A. H. Lybeck’s letter to the editor, which
was published in the 1 May ‘97 Wall St. Jrnl.
Not
authoritative enough for you? Just
another crackpot letter to the editor?
Okay, then. “In the late 1940s,
pulp writer L. Ron Hubbard declared, ‘Writing for a penny a word is
ridiculous. If a man really wants to
make a million dollars, the best way would be to start his own religion.’” Eugene H. Methvin, in Scientology: Anatomy of a
Frightening Cult, Reader’s Digest, May
1980.
“All
men are your slaves.” La Fayette Ron
(AKA L. Ron) Hubbard (1911-1986), according to “The Thriving Cult of Greed and
Power,” 6 May ‘91 Time magazine, by Richard Behar.
Ale Run Hubba-Bubba and his friends
in Scamway International kept on rolling in the prosperity and good
fortune. Everyone everywhere demanded
Quart Low Trackers for finding drugs, weapons, and lost golf balls. Unfortunately for Ale Run and his friends,
though, all good things must come to an end.
So an FBI lab spent several months and millions and millions of dollars
to investigate, and lo and behold, they reached a conclusion: Quart Low
Trackers were a fraud! And Ale Run and all his hordes and all his
men couldn’t prove that the Quart Low Tracker did what their advertising said
it could do. A federal judge ordered
Scamway International to stop selling the Quart Low Tracker.
Ale Run was brought up on charges of
fraud. Fortunately, since the
prosecution couldn’t prove that the
Quart Low Tracker didn’t work, when
operated by a properly trained expert, he was acquitted. So he kept his prosperity and good fortune
and avoided jail. But he couldn’t sell
his Trackers any more, so it sure looked like the good times had come to an
abrupt halt.
Ale Run sulked in his mansion that
night, trying to console himself with that fact that he at least retained
custody of that one last ace in the hole.
This was his original Quart Low Tracker¾the one with the real
magic, which Chewdychomper Chupacabras had given him. He drank a few pints of ale, sinking into an
ever more sullen mood.
But then he got to thinking, well,
I’m not all washed up. There’s got
to be a way I can use this technology to benefit humanity and my bank
account! All I have to do is to figure
out a safe way to do it. A manner in
which I’ll be guaranteed freedom of action.
Some method of using the Quart Low Tracker’s technology whereby the
government can’t touch me. I’ve got to think. Maybe if I stare deep
into the LCD display on my Quart Low Tracker, here, the answer will well up
into my mind.
Ale Run concentrated long and
hard. Then the Whispers came to
him. Whispers of Omnology, borne on the
cosmic-karmic vibe fronts. Let’s see, he
said to himself as he channeled the vibes.
I’ll add some very simple circuits to the mass-produced Quart Low
Trackers. A switch, a battery, a
Geiger-counter style beeper, a random noise amplifier, and some flashing
LEDs. I’ll call it the V-Meter, for
Vibes Meter. Then I’ll come up with an
elaborate system and vocabulary to explain what all wonderful things that the
V-Meter can do for you. All your
problems are caused by, oh, say, clusters of, um, scamgrams. To get your scamgrams to go away, you’ve got
to hire an expert who will use his V-Meter to chase away your scamgrams. We’ll have a special word for casting out the
scamgrams¾say, “fleecing”.
Got troubles? And who doesn’t?! What a huge, untapped market! All your troubles are caused by clusters of
scamgrams and maybe even a bloody metan or two.
Bloody metans, that is. Scamgrams
and bloody metans that were left here maybe like seventy-five million years
ago, by, oh, I don’t know, say, like, a Cruel Galactic Emperor Zebu. And the only way to set yourself free is to
have your scamgrams and bloody metans fleeced by an expert with a V-Meter! That’s it! Brilliant!
OK, then, so we’ve got magic words
and magic technology to make
everyone’s troubles go away. Now what do
we call our discipline? A science, or a
religion? It’s a lot like a science,
like psychology or psychiatry. We don’t
have to prove anything; all we have to do is have lots of scientific-sounding
words and theories, and act very authoritative.
Judges will send us clients. No
probation unless you come and see us.
And we’ll be called upon to be expert witnesses. Very lucrative, possibly.
On the other hand, we’ll have to pay
taxes. Keep records, maybe even give
money back to dissatisfied customers.
And the FDA will doubtlessly call our V-Meter a “medical device”, and
take years and years to approve it.
Maybe even never approve
it! We could avoid all these troubles by
just calling ourselves a church. A religion. Sure, the courts won’t be able to call us as
expert witnesses or send us clients, that way, ‘cause of separation of church
and state. Yet if we call it a religion, then no one will be able to touch us! After all, isn’t religious freedom sacred?!
Yes! Yes! This is it, Ale Run, this is it!!! Fame,
wealth, and power, here I come! Ale Run
just about creamed his pants with joy at his latest inspirations.
OK, calm down, he told himself. So what will I call my church? Something impressively all-encompassing,
rational, modern, and scientific.
Something to tap into the trappings and respectable rationality of science,
even though we’re a church. Have our
cake and eat it, too. Something like,
say, maybe... The Church of Scatological
Scamology? No, no, that won’t do! Too honest!
Hmmm... OK, yes, this is good! The Church of Omnology! I’ll be the high priest of The Church of Omnology. The Church of Everything. The Church that has All the Answers. For the $Right $Price. Yessiree, Ale Run, you sly ol’ devil, you,
you’re on it! All the Answers, all right! All the Answers to the problems of me not
having as much power and money as I need, at least, that’s for sure! And what
other issues really matter, anyway?!
Ale Run got to bed late that night,
and still found it hard to sleep. He’d
never been so enthused in a long time.
The Quart Low Tracker would help him select his disciples and his
methods. Surely the Church of Omnology¾especially as a tax-free institution¾surely it would put Scamway
International to shame, revenue-wise. He
couldn’t wait! Finally, he drifted off
to sleep.
The next day he consulted his Quart
Low Tracker once again, and got to work.
He called his industrial designers, and they got to work revamping the
Quart Low Tracker design, creating the famous V-Meter. Ale Run secluded himself in his mansion,
writing down the doctrines of the Church of Omnology at great length.
Not too many months later, Raoul
Kinky and Francestuous Johnsdame were lying in bed. One rolled over to the other and said, “I
wanna be an Airborne Ranger, live a life of sex and danger.” Francestuous looked at him with shocked,
disapprovingly wide eyes. “That’s a joke, Sweetie, a joke! I’m just laying here
all washed out, and thinking I’d like to be healthy and vigorous again someday. That phrase just popped into my head. I went
to protest at this Air Force base once, and I remember this from a marching
song that the young troops were singing.
You know, kind of like, I’m just randomly grasping at our society’s
clichés about vigor. I’d like to be a
lumberjack man, too. Except I wouldn’t
be killing people or trees. Know what I
mean?”
“Sure, Honeypot,” Francestuous
patted him gently. “I understand. We’ll get you over this CFS thing real soon,
now, and you’ll be just like new. Have
faith. We’ll find you a cure, don’t you
worry.” She referred to the fact that
not long after he’d cured his MCS with the Dream Catcher, he’d caught a severe
case of CFS (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome).
They’d tried hypnosis, acupuncture, herbs, crystals, and homeopathy, all
to no avail. So he lay there, still
bedridden.
“Have you tried contacting Big Moose
Running Nose lately?” he asked her for the umpteenth time. He hoped that maybe Big Moose could make him
a new, customized Dream Catcher to cure his CFS. He often fondly handled Big Moose’s tattered
old business card, desperately dreaming of a new Dream Catcher.
“Yes, Lactose Lips, I tried to call
him again yesterday, and wrote him just a week ago. The number is still disconnected, and the
address is still like obsolete. And I
can’t find him listed anywhere.”
“I just can’t understand why a man
with such a sure-fire cure for such a common and devastating illness would be
so hard to find,” Raoul complained yet again.
“It’s a shame. A mystery and a
shame.”
She agreed with him and told him
she’d be heading downstairs to fix him breakfast in bed. A breakfast of good, wholesome quiet food, of course, that is. She crawled out of bed and stooped over to
kiss him. “I love you, Glucose Gluteus
Maximus,” she whispered. “Hang in there,
you poor dear.”
He smelled her quiet breath,
thinking, what a wonderful woman I’ve managed to link up with, here. “I love you too, Fructose Fanny.” He rolled over gently, straining to protect
his delicate, sore and aching muscles from abuse. Francestuous headed downstairs. Shortly, he heard the sounds of pots and
pans, of the genesis of a delicious and quiet breakfast. Then he heard her open the front door, to
make the long walk to the mailbox.
Shortly, she’ll be back with news of the world, he thought. He glanced over at his old Dream
Catcher. At least these days I’m over
that nasty old MCS thing, he thought. I
won’t have to air all those toxic chemicals out of my mail for days and days
before I can stand to read it, like in the old days. No more mail on the clotheslines, thanks to
my Dream Catcher! Sure, this CFS thing
is bad, but look on the bright side.
Things could be worse.
A few minutes later, he heard the
front door opening again. Then there
were more quiet breakfast sounds.
Shortly, the love of his life entered their bedroom once more, carrying
two steaming trays of quiet food and some mail.
He sat up gingerly, then she set the tray up around his lap. They dined quietly. He finished up and praised her good cooking,
like usual. She gathered up the dishes
and trays, heading back down the stairs.
He reached over to the nightstand
and picked through the mail she’d brought up.
Hm, no disability check from Social Security yet, but we’ll still
survive for a little while longer. What
else have we got here? A new copy of Mother Earth magazine. Hm.
Let’s see. He started reading.
With curses long, loud, and foul, he
leapt out of bed. Francestuous started
to dash up the stairs, but ran into him as he dashed down the stairs,
proclaiming his outrage. His vehemence
overwhelmed her momentary amazement at his miraculous recovery of vigor. “Look at this crap, Francestuous, just look at this x&*@#a~Y!!!”
He sputtered incoherently.
“There, there, my Sweet Sodium
Cyclamate Mate, now, calm down! What’s wrong?”
“Look! See this?! There’s this nasty lying bitch of a whore,
this Bertha Bubblebuster and her new book, she’s running around and, and slandering all of us CFS sufferers! Listen to this! This is all about her new book, called ‘Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and Multiple
Chemical Sensitivity Sufferers and Those With Recovered Memories of Being
Forced to Eat Alar-Poisoned Apples by Silicon-Breasted Space Alien Abductors in
Abusive Satanic Rituals Are All a Bunch of Hysterical Whining Crybaby Sissies
But We All Need to be Deeply Sympathetic and Double Our Contributions to
Psychiatrists and Other Public Servants Who Will Destigmatize Their Neuroses
and Heal Their Illnesses.’ She says
it’s just all in our heads! Can you believe this woman’s fascist
insensitivity?! Why, this Nazi wench, we
should...”
“Come on, Sweetie, now, calm down! Maybe you should call your CFS support
group. Maybe they could help you feel
better about how society blames the victims, and maybe we could come up with
something to like do about all this.”
Raoul did just that. He and his CFS support group got together and
decided upon a course of action. They
rounded up a few trucks and went around to grocery stores, garages, flea
markets, and trash dumps. Raoul and his
friends got some good, healthy exercise, throwing old tires, crates of rotten
organically grown tomatoes and eggs, old furniture, and moldy water-logged
mattresses onto their big trucks. Then
they waited for just a few days, till Bertha Bubblebuster showed up at the
local We Be Big McBooksnores for her
book signing.
At Raoul’s signal, they crashed
their battering ram through the McBooksnore doors. Splinters flew everywhere. Their loud, blood-curdling screams sent
hapless pedestrians fleeing in all directions.
Carrying old sofas, refrigerators, tires, and crates of rotten produce,
they streamed three abreast through the shattered doors. Then they heaved their cargo at one Ms.
Bertha Bubblebuster. Raoul shouted
fiercely, “You sniveling rotten insensitive hysterical lying wench, here, see
what it feels like to be victimized!
This is all just in your head!”
She fled, screaming. “Now who’s hysterical?! Now who’s hysterical?!” they all chanted
triumphantly in unison. “Fascist bitch”,
“Evil murderer”, and “Hitler’s whore”, they muttered as they traipsed out of the
trashed McBooksnore. Then they all went
to hoist an organic beer or two in celebration, and then they headed for
home. All except for Raoul and
Francestuous, that is.
“That was really great!”
Francestuous said. “Way to stand up for
the voiceless, helpless, oppressed victims!
I’m like really, really proud of you!
Now, while we’re out and about, and you’re like feeling pretty good it
seems, at least for a little while, do you think maybe this might be a good
time to go shopping for that wheelchair you’ve been wanting to get? I mean, I hate to say it, but you never know
when this CFS thing is gonna come and go.
You might be feeling worse again tomorrow or the next day. Especially if those pesky, nosy Social
Security folks come snooping around again, and making us all tense and stressed
out.”
Raoul agreed that this might be a
good idea. So they went window
shopping. But before they could get to
the handicapped appliances store, they happened upon the All Paths Multifaith Soulorama, a co-operative multi-church
recruitment center at the shopping plaza, between the Armed Services Recruiting
Center and the head shop. Francestuous
paused there thoughtfully. “You know,
Raoul,” she said pensively, “Maybe our lives are too empty and shallow,
spiritually-wise. Maybe we’re like, um,
too content with our material blessings.
All our quiet food, quiet clothes, our one point two million dollar
ecology house, poetry books, and our bicycles, and all. Maybe we should be paying more attention to
our spiritual dimension.”
So they walked hand in hand down the
hall, looking at the displays, the signs on the doors, and the pleasant little
offices. Buddhists, Hindus, Shintoists,
Animists, Zoroastrians, Christians of many flavors, and Muslims beckoned at
them from posters, displays, and office doors.
“This is all so passé,” Raoul muttered.
“Too boring and bourgeois for me.”
Then they came upon an exceptionally
tasteful display. On the door there were
gold-plated inscriptions:
Vyizder Zomenimor
Orziz Assiz
Zanzer R. Orziz
Master Universal Omnologists
CEOs
(Certified Experts of Omnology)
Smile! Happiness is at hand!
Whatever your troubles¾we can help YOU!
The Church of Omnology
Earth Division
Raoul stood and stared in awe. “This might be it, Francestuous, this might
be it. Just LOOK at this! The Church of Omnology! It sounds so... so... scientific. So powerful, so
universal. We’d better check it out.”
So they did. They strolled right in. The first sight which greeted them was a
small crowd, all milling excitedly about a tall, dark and handsome man and his
smiling, leggy blonde babe. Could that
possibly be Jon Travibesty, the famous Panderwood actor, and his actress wife,
Julie Peston? Here, in podunk little ol’
Madness County?
Surely not, Raoul said to
himself. Probably someone’s idea of a
joke, dressing up to look just like them.
Running into Jon Travibesty at the local Soulorama just seems too much
like running into Elvis at the grocery store to possibly be really true. Then again, how many pranksters would go to
the trouble to also hire what looks like bodyguards and reporters with such
big, fancy, and obviously expensive cameras, just to make the show more
convincing? Maybe they’re the real
thing, after all.
Raoul and Francestuous sauntered on
up to the crowd, seemingly entirely casually.
Two men, upon noticing the new arrivals, peeled off of the huddle. They introduced themselves, shaking hands
with Raoul and Francestuous. The tall
one with the thick, glossy black hair said, “Hi.
I’m
Vyizder Zomenimor, and these are my partners, Orziz Assiz and Zanzer R. Orziz,”
with a sweeping gesture. The gesture
clearly meant to Raoul that the shorter, more scholarly-looking gentleman must
be Orziz Assiz, but as to who Zanzer R. Orziz was, Raoul had no idea. This part of Vyizder’s gesture, as best as
Raoul could tell, had pointed to nothing but empty space.
Francestuous paid scant if any
attention to the introductions. Instead,
she stared intently towards the center of attention. “Um, yes,” Raoul replied, poking Francestuous
in the ribs with his elbow. “This is my
companion human, I mean, um, my significant other, um, Francestuous
Johnsdame. And I’m Raoul Kinky. Pleased to meet you. And I’m sure Francestuous is, too.” She nodded vaguely, still staring towards the
center of the huddle’s attention.
Raoul gave up on her. “Is that really Jon...” he started to ask
quietly, looking wide-eyed at Vyizder.
“Yes, it really, truly is. Jon Travibesty and his wife, Julie
Peston. Here in our own little Madness
County. You see, the Church of Omnology
is starting to draw the attention of those who are truly hip and in the
know. Even though our esteemed leader
and founder, Ale Run Hubba-Bubba, began imparting his wisdom to the masses only
a matter of months ago, already the Word is spreading far and wide. Wise and influential people are flocking to
us. Through the use of our latest
therapies and technologies, we are casting out scamgrams, fleecing bloody
metans away, and healing the people. So
as you can imagine, if we can do great things for even the rich and powerful,
we’d certainly be able to do a lot for you.”
Raoul didn’t quite follow all the jargon, but he got the general drift
of things.
“Um, sounds good,” he replied. “I’m not quite sure what scamgrams and bloody
metans are for, but they sure don’t sound like nice things to have hanging
around. So if you can make them go away,
that sounds like a good idea to me. Now
I’m sorry, I didn’t even quite follow your introductions. So you’re... Vyizder Zomenimor? Did I say that right?” Vyizder nodded. “And you’re Orziz Assiz?” Orziz nodded in turn.
“But then who is Zanzer R. Orziz?”
Raoul finished. “I didn’t quite follow
you.”
“Zanzer R. Orziz isn’t very apparent
to the untrained eye,” Vyizder assured him.
“But you’ll learn to understand and appreciate him, if you’ll allow us
to bring The Word to you. The Words of
Ale Run, that is. Words that will ring
down throughout all future eons, because they were written by He Who Fleeces
Our Scamgrams Away. Don’t worry, now,
we’ll give you the answers that you deserve.
All in good time. But we’d really
much rather explain it to all of you at once, instead of going the piecemeal
route. Not that we mind the endless
repetition. It’s just that we could be so much more efficient, if we could
speak to everyone at once. We could then
get The Word out to all those millions of victims of scamgrams that much
faster. So please excuse us while we put
off your questions for just a few minutes, while we begin our class, here.”
Vyizder and Orziz circled around the
huddle that in turn circled around Jon Travibesty and Julie Peston. They tried to pick people off of the
perimeters of the crowd, announcing to all those who bothered to pay attention
to them, that the class was about to begin.
Unfortunately for Vyizder and Orziz, Jon and Julie were just now
breaking out their pens and offering autographs. The crowd ramped into a chaotic crescendo. Francestuous escaped Raoul’s clutches, and
rushed towards Jon and Julie. “So where, exactly, is the end of this line, anyway?!?” she demanded loudly. Everyone ignored her.
Jon waved a pacifying hand over the
crowd, announcing that anyone who wanted an autograph would get one. So Vyizder and Orziz gave up, and patiently
waited while Jon and Julie satisfied the crowd’s demands. Finally, the huddle broke up, and everyone
had a seat in an array of chairs in front of Vyizder and Orziz.
Vyizder started off with, “Good
evening, ladies and gentlemen. Now I
gather that you’ve all come together with us here this evening to learn about
the wonders of Omnology. This, we’ll do
our best to help you learn, Ale Run willing.
But first, I believe, proper introductions are in order. This is my friend and co-teacher, Orziz
Assiz. And I’m Vyizder Zomenimor. With us this evening is a third teacher, who
hides himself from the uninitiated. You
can’t see him. You won’t be able to see
him till you’re thoroughly trained, and have become enlightened, operating
metans, channeling vibes from higher energy levels. But rest assured that our third teacher,
Zanzer R. Orziz, is with us, here, and that his lessons, too, are vital for our
well-being. More about him in a few
minutes.
“Now please rest assured that the
Church of Omnology is broad-minded and tolerant. There are many, many branches of our church,
and many ways of thinking. All that
holds us together is our common bond. This
is that we all acknowledge that our Esteemed Leader, Ale Run Hubba-Bubba, is
the One True Seer and Caster Out of Scamgrams.
So our particular arrangement here hasn’t been officially ordained by
the Church of Omnology, nor do all branches of the Church do things exactly the
same way we do them. As long as we all
work for Ale Run, and against scamgrams¾and that’s the way I see the Church sticking
together for the foreseeable future, for untold eons¾then none of the little details
will matter.
“Here in our little group, though,
our approach is a division of expertise.
Orziz Assiz, here, he’s got his specialties. They are the right-brain, holistic concerns
of theology, philosophy, and all matters intuitive. My specialties are the left-brain, logical,
rational matters of science and technology.
Between the two of us, we can answer almost any question you’d like to
pose to us.
“Now there are some matters, though,
where wrong, deceptive thoughts and scamgrams infest and befester some of us so
thoroughly that we just can’t see it.
Try as we may, neither Orziz nor I will be able to break these
paradigms. Some of us, we just don’t get
it, as they say. Here, we need the
assistance of a third party.
“Now, I’ll be honest with you. Our invisible third party, Zanzer R. Orziz,
he’s a liar. A deceiver. Yes, he’s a scamgram. A carrier of falsehoods and bloody metans, of
dysfunctional thinking. Yet...”
“You mean he’s a delusion?” Raoul
interjected.
Vyizder tolerated the interruption
patiently. “Yes, we get these kinds of
questions all the time,” he admitted.
“Are scamgrams like delusions, and are bloody metans like neuroses. When we fleece your scamgrams away, using a
V-Meter, is that like when a psychiatrist analyzes your delusions away using a
couch and a notepad. Well, there may be
some extremely superficial resemblances here, but we of the Church of Omnology
are much, much more sophisticated and
technologically talented than psychiatrists.
For one thing, our V-Meter has flashing LEDs, and emits these really
cool beeps. For those Omnologists who take
enough of our courses, and become operating metans at a truly advanced level, we even have a Technology That Makes ‘PING!’
Sounds. No mere shrink has any notepads
or couches that can compare to these kinds of sophisticated technological
features.
“We Omnologists don’t believe in
psychiatrists. They are quacks and frauds. They mis-diagnose scamgrams, calling them
delusions, confusing people with false promises of help, preventing them from
coming to us, where we could give them some genuine help. So they do far more harm than good. Shrinks are deluded, or full of scamgrams.
“If Omnology is to fleece our
scamgrams away, so that we can become operating metans, then we as Omnologists
must guard against the thinking and the words that psychologists and
psychiatrists use. Their entire world
view and their vocabulary has so poisoned our entire society that we can’t even
see our scamgrams and bloody metans
for what they really are! You ask if
Zanzer R. Orziz is a delusion. Is he
real, or is he a delusion? If people are
depressed, do you ask them about whether their depression is real, or whether
it’s all in their heads? Is their
depression real, or delusional?”
The room full of budding students of
Omnology just stared at Vyizder in wide-eyed, uncomprehending wonder. Vyizder showed only the barest hints of
frustration. “Are my delusions real, or
delusional?” he continued. “To me,
they’re real. If I perceive them,
they’re real to me. Perception is
reality. That’s all that matters. ‘Delusions’ is shrink talk, and we
Omnologists don’t believe in shrinks.
Shrinks are delusional. No, I
mean, the shrinks are deluded. If we
must fall back into our psychologized society’s vocabulary in dealing with
these things, that is. Their ideas and
talk of ‘delusions’ being real or not, it’s all delusional.
“I mean, Omnologically speaking,
it’s scamgramish. It’s befestered with
clusters of scamgrams and bloody metans.
It’s like saying, is my depression real, or is it all in my head? You just can’t go saying things like ‘It’s all in your head.’ It’s not sensitive. In some very crude sense, yes, my depression IS
‘all in my head’. But telling me that
doesn’t help me any. It doesn’t ease my
pain, or make me feel any better. It
doesn’t validate my feelings, and it surely
doesn’t fleece my scamgrams away.
And if I tell my shrink that I’m ‘depressed’, that’s what I really,
really need. An expert Omnologist,
equipped with a V-Meter, who will fleece my scamgrams away.”
“Oooh-oooh-ooooo,” the crowd babbled
in excitement, arms waving. “Fleece my
scamgrams away!” “No, fleece mine first!” “Can you fleece my CFS?” ”Can you fleece my recovered memories?” “Come on, bring out your V-Meter!”
Vyizder and Orziz stood up tall and
raised their hands way up, waving and appealing for calm. Orziz thundered, “Now, that’s quite enough of
that!” They calmed down. Orziz continued, “Excuse me. Now, we can’t just break out our V-Meter and
wave it around like a magic wand, fleecing all your scamgrams. For one thing, you have to understand what it
is that we’re doing, or the scamgrams will just come right back, as soon as you
leave here, if not sooner. We have to
thoroughly enlighten you first, and then,
and only then, will fleecing your
scamgrams hold some real promise of permanently helping you.
“For another thing, your selfish
desires, themselves, are signs that you are all severely scamgramified. What about the person right next to you? Don’t they, too, need fleeced of their
scamgrams? Yet you all demand ‘Me
first!’ And what of the larger
picture? All across the globe, there are
millions and billions of metans just like yourselves, who are all operating on
a very, very low level. They all need to have their scamgrams fleeced
away. Yet all you clamor about is your
individual needs.
“Now Vyizder and I, we really do want to help you. But you’re not the only ones to be
considered, here. There’s those millions
and billions of others, too. And there’s
us, the leaders of the Church of Omnology.
We have our needs, too. We need your support in order to fleece away
the scamgrams of all the multitudes of multitudes. Would you demand that your shrink wave his
notepad and his couch at you, and make your neuroses go away? For free, and in a few seconds? No, obviously not.
“Then why do you expect miracles of
us? Yes, we do do a far better job than shrinks. Still, just like them, we need time and
money. Yes, money. Money to buy food, clothes, and shelter, even
like metans like yourselves, and money to help us spread the word about how we
can heal the people and fleece their scamgrams.
“Yes, we’ll bring out our V-Meter,
and fleece your scamgrams away. But only
if you contain your selfishness and impatience, receive your training willingly
and with an open mind, and make some reasonably generous donations to the
Church of Omnology. We don’t ask for
much. Now fend off your selfish
scamgrams for just a few more minutes, while we work towards fleecing all of your scamgrams on a far more
permanent basis.”
Vyizder noticed that Jon and Julie
were fidgeting and glancing at each other and their watches. Fearing the loss of their most noteworthy
pupils, he stepped forward to take some of the sting out of Orziz’s harsh
remarks. “Now, never fear, we’ll get to
you and your needs very shortly. All of
your needs and your feelings are valid, after all. It’s just that you do need to be patient, while we work towards filling your needs.
“Now where were we. Oh, yes.
Introductions. You already know
Orziz and I. Next we’ll talk about our
less-than-obviously-observable partner, Zanzer R. Orziz. Then we’ll talk very, very briefly about the
Church of Omnology, and then we’ll hear from all of you. Who are you, where are you from, and what are
your needs. Then, for those of you who
display the necessary faith, we’ll fleece your scamgrams away.
“Now, then. Zanzer R. Orziz. Zanzer is our training aid, a token
scamgram. Most scamgrams are fierce and
strong, a genuine danger. One must
beware of them at all times, and be fleeced on a regular basis. But Zanzer, he’s our own semi-domesticated
scamgram. He’s not too bright or
particularly strong, for a scamgram. In
fact, he’s almost totally foolish. He’s
so weak, we trained Omnologists can see him with little effort. We can tell when he whispers in your ear, and
attempts to ensnare you into scamgramification.
So we warn you, when we see him do it.
And the very best part of it all is, these foolish attempted
depredations of this particular scamgram, Zanzer, are uninspired and predictable. And he doesn’t even catch on to the fact that
we’ve turned him into our training aid, so that all his attempts to fool you
are in fact hurting his cause and helping us!
Isn’t it just great?!
“But the thing is, this nifty trick
to defend yourself against Zanzer works only if you listen when you’re warned
that he’s whispering in your ear. When
we warn you, you must take heed.
“Class, this is very important. We Omnologists aren’t into nagging you. Bad feelings are bad, they’re scamgrams, so
we avoid them whenever we can. The Good
News is that faithful Omnologists who are fleeced on a regular basis are
empowered to ultimately avoid all scamgrams and bloody metans eventually. But we really, really have to warn you about
Zanzer and especially his many, many smarter and stronger partners in
scamgramification. Most of the rest of
them, most of the time, they’re smart enough to stay away from us and our
V-Meters, because they know that we’ll catch on to them, and warn all those who
we’ve taken under our protective wings.
“So when you’re away from your
Omnological Spirit Guides, then you must especially be on guard against all the
stronger and smarter scamgrams. But when
you’re with us, you can let down your guard, because we’ll detect and warn you
about any attempts by any scamgrams who try to deceive you. So long as you heed our warnings, you’ll be
safe. So now you understand how Zanzer
is our very own semi-domesticated scamgram, and why we keep around as a
training aid. Listen to us, and you’ll
be safe. That’s all you have to
remember.
“So that’s the three of us.” Vyizder once again made his sweeping motion,
pointing first to himself, Orziz, and nothingness, intoning, “Vyizder
Zomenimor, Orziz Assiz, Zanzer R. Orziz.
That’s us. The three of us,
through the grace of our Leader, The One Who Fleeces Our Scamgrams Away, Ale
Run Hubba-Bubba, can help you. We can
help anyone who comes to us with an open mind, acceptance of the validity of
all feelings, and generous charitable, spiritual offerings. Now let me turn this over to my companion and
fellow Spirit Guide, Orziz Assiz. He’ll
briefly tell you all about the Church of Omnology. He’s a very enlightened being. Orziz is a metan who operates on a very high
level, so please listen to him carefully.”
“Um, yes, thank you, Vyizder,” Orziz
muttered, “Thank you. You’re an
operating metan, too, Vyizder. Let’s get
on with this. Now we must not act with
undue haste, but the longer we chat, here, the longer it is before we can
separate those metans who operate on a high enough level to join us, from those
who don’t. To separate the sheep from
the goats, as they used to say. And the
longer we take till we see who is for us and who is against us, the longer that
Zanzer will have to whisper in your ears.
Yes, sad to say, some of you will definitely listen to Zanzer’s whispers,
rather than to our warnings. That’s the
way it almost always goes, with a group as large as this.
“Some will listen to Vyizder and I,
and some will listen to Zanzer. Some are
born to sweet delight, and some are born endless night, to suffer endless scamgramification
of their own choosing. That’s just the
way it is. One of the central doctrines
of the Church of Omnology is that no one suffers anything without their
consent, conscious or subconscious, express or implied, as the shrinks and the
lawyers would say. As we Omnologists
say, what is, is, and what’s not, isn’t, except when what is, isn’t, and what
isn’t, is. The only way you can really,
truly, with absolute confidence, know which is which, is to listen to the Will
of Ale Run, as revealed to you by the Church of Omnology and its Spirit Guides.
“So now, just what is the Church of Omnology? The Church is the Truth and The Way. A Way of Truth and Life, of fleecing
scamgrams and bloody metans away, and of getting one’s own personal body metan
to operate on a higher cosmic level.
That’s it. That’s all there
is. Yes, we do have technological
devices like V-Meters, and for truly advanced operating metans, we have
Technology That Makes ‘PING!’ Sounds.
But for day to day life for common Omnologists, that’s all there is to
life. Have fellowship with fellow
Omnologists, listen to The One Who Fleeces Our Scamgrams Away, and have your
scamgrams and bloody metans fleeced away regularly, and you will be ecstatically
descamgramified.
“Yes, there are always higher and
purer levels of descamgramification, but so long as you keep on working on it,
especially by giving to the Church and becoming sanctified by periodically
taking advancement seminars, then happiness is guaranteed. If you follow us with an open mind, no
scamgrams will be able to harm you. And
we’ll guarantee that in writing.
“Now we’ll just very briefly cover
the history of the Church, then we’ll talk about you and your troubles. You and your scamgrams. Then we’ll fleece scamgrams away from all of
those of you who find yourselves worthy to become Omnologists. You see, it’s all up to you. We all choose our own fate.
“The Church of Omnology officially
has existed for only a few months, ever since Ale Run revealed His Wisdom to us
all. But the roots of Ale Run’s visions
go way, way back. Seventy-five million
years back, as a matter of fact.
Seventy-five million years ago, there was a Cruel Galactic Emperor Zebu. Zebu captured and tortured ancient souls and
pickled them in cucumber jars. Then he
buried these pickle jars in swamps on an ancient planet known as Teakgeakiac.
“Over millions and millions of
years, those swamps became beds of coal.
Millions of years later, humans first started talking. The first words they came up with were ‘Earth’,
the new name for the old planet Teakgeakiac.
They became more advanced and intelligent, but they continued to live in
peace and harmony, grooving to the vibes of an all-natural planet.
“But then they discovered fire. Now fires aren’t bad, when they’re
natural. We all know from recent
experience in the national parks out west that wildfires clear out the
underbrush and renew and enrich nature’s biodiversity. But when people set them, they’re bad. Unless, of course, the people setting the
fires have been fleeced and descamgramified first. This relates to one of the central axioms of
Omnology, which is that chaos is badness.
“That is, since those early humans
didn’t have the technology to fleece and descamgramify themselves before
setting their fires, and since chaos is badness, then it was only a matter of
time before badness set in. Yes, sure,
for a while, they set their fires to keep themselves warm, cook their meat, and
keep predators away, and all was well.
But then they started to encircle their campfires with rocks. And then it was only a matter of time till
they used some coal, and noticed that these particular rocks were very
peculiar, because they burned just like wood!
“So a few of them here and there
started to burn coal. And then one day
they burned some coal formed around those seventy-five-million-year-old pickle
jars. The imprisoned souls, captured and
tortured so long ago by the Cruel Galactic Emperor Zebu, were then let loose
upon an unsuspecting humanity. Ever
since, we humans have been mercilessly befestered by what we now know as bloody
metans and scamgrams.
“But then, only recently, the Great
One and Spirit Guide of All Omnologists, He Who Fleeces Our Scamgrams Away, Ale
Run Hubba-Bubba, came to Earth and set us all free! Or, at least, he sets free those of us who
heed His Word. Now that He has revealed
the technologies that can set us all free from chaos, badness, scamgrams, and
bloody metans, there are three paths that you can go by. You can rationally understand Omnology as a
science. Or you can intuitively
understand it as a philosophy of life, a religion. Or you can reject it altogether, and continue
in your present misery, chaotically scamgramified by clusters of scamgrams and
bloody metans.
“So in our particular individual
Church of Omnology, as opposed to the overall Church of Omnology, we have
chosen to represent the three paths with the three of us. Vyizder Zomenimor, Orziz Assiz, Zanzer R.
Orziz. We represent your three
paths. Through the wisdom granted to us
by Ale Run, Vyizder and I can cast out your scamgrams and fleece your bloody
metans. With Ale Run’s guidance and
generous donations to the Church, you can learn and advance as far as you’d
like to go.
“You can specialize in the rational
and technological route, following Vyizder.
Omnology is a very technical and impressive science, as you can tell by
our technical vocabulary, and by the LEDs and beeper-speakers on our V-Meters,
which the self-chosen worthy ones among you will get to see later. Or you can specialize in holistic, intuitive
approaches under my guidance. Either
way, you can learn all about what, exactly, scamgrams and bloody metans are,
and how best to fleece them away. What,
exactly, the difference between descamgramification and fleecing is, and when
it is best to use the one, or the other.
All sorts of deep technical knowledge awaits those who find themselves
worthy to live a life free of scamgrams.
“Or you can ignore our warnings, and
listen to Zanzer. You can continue on a
road paved by bloody metans and littered with the wreaked shards of unfleeced
humanity. The road to scamgramification,
that is. It’s all up to you. I wish it weren’t so, but we’re all free to
choose chaos and badness, as well as descamgramification. But Ale Run in His Wisdom has declared that
we, the fleeced, must allow the unfleeced to freely depart from us. He says that when we spread The Word, and the
people won’t allow us to fleece them, then we should shake the dust of their
bad vibes from our shoes and depart from them, or they from us. We cannot allow the unfleeced to scamgramify
the fleeced!
“Enough preaching. We Omnologists aren’t into nagging, or the
laying on of guilt trips. Guilt trips
are a prime example of unfleeced scamgramification. We don’t ask for much in artificial
constraints on your behavior. Once
you’re fleeced of your scamgrams, you can just go with the flow, do what comes
naturally, and live a guilt-free, happy, descamgramified life. All human metans are basically good, once
scamgrams are fleeced away. So all that
we ask is that you be fleeced or descamgramified on a regular basis, and that
your charitable contributions go to the correct accounts. We have a matrix, descamgramification versus
fleecing on one axis, operating metan advancement versus maintenance on the
other. Since chaos is badness, proper
accounting procedures must be followed at all times.
“Now let’s move on to the part we’ve
all been looking forward to. That’s the
part where you get to tell everyone else who you are, where you’re coming from,
and what your vibes and troubles are.
What your scamgrams are, and what you hope that the Church of Omnology
can do for you. We in the Church of
Omnology are very informal. This part of
our services is actually almost the very best, because we can all tell it like
it is. We are all very, very strongly
encouraged to be totally, totally and completely honest, and tell everyone all
of our innermost, deepest beliefs and feelings, because all beliefs and
feelings are valid. As Omnologists, we
are empowered, so we need never deny our feelings. When we are totally honest this way, and
accept the validity of everything, then this part of our service is very
powerful medicine against scamgrams. So
once again, I encourage you all to be as honest as you can be.
“Then after that, we’ll have the
very, very best part of the service, which is when we get out our V-Meters, and
fleece your scamgrams away. So that’s
where we’re headed. But now, since we’re
coming up on these most important parts of our service, we must first invoke
the presence of The Benevolent One, The Mighty Fleecer of All Scamgrams, Ale
Run Hubba-Bubba. Omnologists usually
join in, here, but since y’all don’t know the words yet, Vyizder and I will
recite:
Ale Run is my shepherd,
I shall not want.
He validates all my feelings,
and leads me to
descamgramification.
He fleeces my bloody metans away,
and the LEDs of His V-Meter light
The Way.
Yea though He leads me through
the valley of the shadow of
discomfort,
I will fear no inappropriateness,
for Ale Run is with me.
Your V-Meter’s Technology
comforts me.
Surely perfection and descamgramification
await me all the rest of the days
of my life,
so long as I contribute to Your
Church.
Our Fleecer,
who art descamgramified,
Hallowed be Thy Name.
Thy polls go up, thy Wisdom be
acknowledged,
In Panderwood,
as it is in the Church of Omnology.
Bring us this day our daily
session with a V-Meter,
and let its speakers beep, and
its LEDs shine brightly.
Fleece us, as we fleece others.
Lead us not into
scamgramification,
but keep us safe from bloody
metans.
Chapter 10 has some endnotes about
being chronically fatigued of horse’s patooties.
11)
Fleecing the People and Casting Out Scamgrams
“Whether
Hale-Bopp has a companion or not is irrelevant from our perspective... The Joy
is that our Older Member in the Evolutionary Level Above Human (the Kingdom of
Heaven) has made it clear to us that Hale-Bopp’s approach is the ‘marker’ we
have been waiting for¾the
time for the arrival of the spacecraft from the Level Above Human to take us
home to ‘Their World’¾in
the literal heavens.” From the Web site
of Heaven’s Gate. 39
of their members committed mass suicide, leaving behind their “earthly
containers” to go hitch a ride on some alien spacecraft that we weenie
unbelievers can’t perceive.
“And now,” Orziz continued, “The
time has arrived. Time for us all to
speak honestly to each other, and tell each other all about ourselves. Remember, it is of utmost importance, if we
are to achieve the healing effects of this part of our Omnological services,
that we all be as completely and utterly honest as possible.
“I’ll start off by saying quite
honestly that although all of us human metans are equal in the sight of Ale
Run, some of us have more power to spread The Word which sets us all free from
scamgrams than others. Along those
lines, I am very, very pleased to see that we have with us today the famous
Panderwood actor and actress, Jon Travibesty and his wife, Julie Peston. If we can get them to see Ale Run’s wisdom,
then there is much cause for celebration, for they have the power to spread The
Joy of His Word far and wide. And I’ve
noticed that quite a few of you have spent more time staring at them then you
have listening to me and to Vyizder.
That’s okay, though. Their vibes
are strong. I can tell even without my
V-Meter. So we understand how you are
all fascinated by them.
“Along these lines, then, I’d ask
that Jon and Julie go first, so that we can all satisfy our curiosities, and
then maybe we can pay better attention to the rest of us, when our turns come,
instead of wondering and whispering about Jon and Julie. So Jon, please stand up and go first. Tell us who you are, where you’re coming
from, why you’re here, what your troubles are, and what you hope that The
Church of Omnology can do for you. And
don’t forget to be totally honest.”
Jon stood up. “My name is Jon Travibesty, and I’m a famous
Panderwood actor, and you’re not. I’m
tall, dark, and handsome, and I have
a square jaw, as you might have noticed.
That’s why they pay me twenty million dollars per movie. And Melvin Swine pays me millions more to
endorse his fragrances. I’m in town here
in Madness County because I wanted to visit my mother, and because I wanted to
make a token show of mingling with the common folk out here in Hicksville. I was hoping to get some media exposure, so
that more people would see how utterly handsome I am, pay to see me in more
movies, and make me even richer. So
that’s why we have so many cameras here today.
“I was just passing through, and I
saw the signs up in front of the Soulorama.
Then I got to thinking, you know, I have almost all that life has to
offer. Fame, a wife whose body everyone
lusts after, a fifty-thousand-square-foot home, many obviously expensive cars,
suits, boats, camels, goats, horses, trainers, coaches, and therapists, three
private airplanes, bodyguards and servants to help me blow my nose, wipe my
butt, and take care of my children. But
there’s just something missing. Some
part of me left unfulfilled.
“Pondering just what it is that I’m
missing, I can’t help but think some, um, of what I’d like to very modestly
think are some pretty deep thoughts. I’m
thinking thoughts of, like, um, I’ve got all these things that make everyone
pretty much aware that I’m an important and powerful kind of a guy. But then, everyone in Panderwood, all the
actors and actresses and producers and directors, even some of the script writers,
they’re all important just like me. And
they all have big houses, fancy cars, expensive jewelry, herds of cows and
sheep and goats and lusty young babes and handsome young boy toys and
therapists and all, so how am I different than any of the rest of them?
“So I’ve been sitting here thinking,
you know, like, if I should join a totally whacked-out, bizarre, and far-out
cult, with really strange beliefs, then I’d get a lot more media exposure, even
more people would notice how handsome
I am, and everyone would be impressed that I’m really, really, really important, because I can afford a
really exotic status prop. I can throw money away right and left, even
for expensive nonsense like pseudo-scientific, technobabble-laden genuine
imitation spiritual advancement, and never even blink an eye. So then Melvin Swine will pay me even more to endorse his fragrances, and
maybe I can make thirty million per
movie. So that’s what I’m hoping that
The Church of Omnology can do for me.
And y’all don’t forget to see my movies, and wear Melvin Swine fragrances.”
Everyone¾well, almost everyone, excluding
radical extremists, of which there weren’t too many present¾clapped and cheered. “Well, thanks for your honesty,” Orziz
replied. “I’ll bet Omnology can make
your wildest dreams come true. We’ll certainly
work on it. And now let’s hear from your
wife, Julie. Now Julie, don’t forget to
be totally honest, just like Jon.”
Jon sat down and Julie stood
up. She draped herself all over Jon and
purred, then stood back up. But she
massaged his shoulders and caressed his face and hair while she talked. “Hi.
I’m Julie Peston, and I’m deeply, deeply In Love with Jon. In fact, I’m far more deeply In Love with him
than any human being has ever been In Love with anyone before, in all the
history of the world. So I’m hoping that
everyone will notice, not just how utterly handsome he is, but also, how
utterly sexy I am. How I’m so
sexy that a man of Jon’s wealth and power finds me worthy. Then all the men will lust after me, and the
women will want to know all my secrets, so everyone will want to see me in the
movies, and all the women’s magazines will want to interview me.
“I’ll help them tell all the women
that the way to be fabulously wealthy and famous, and to snag rich and powerful
men, is to be beautiful. Above all
else, don’t forget to be beautiful. This will fit right in with the magazine’s
theme statements, which in turn helps them sell advertisements. Happiness and success are all about buying
the right rouge, makeup, eyeliner, dresses, houses, cars, furniture,
cigarettes, and liquor. These things
help give you women the right alluring qualities to snag a rich, handsome man
like I’ve got. So don’t forget to envy
me, because that helps make me get interviews with the women’s magazines, helps
them sell advertisements, boosts my fame for being famous, and helps me make
more movies.
“What am I hoping that The Church of
Omnology can do for me? Well, I’m
looking for something more, spiritually.
If the women’s magazines interview me, and they ask me about my
spiritual life, and I tell them something conventional, boring, and unpleasant,
that their readers don’t want to hear¾oh, for instance, that spiritual growth is hard to
come by, that one has to work at it, suffer pain for one’s mistakes, ponder
long and hard, personally, without letting anyone else make one’s decisions, to
divine God’s will, and to practice discipline and self-restraint, for the
longer-term good of everyone¾why,
then, my value as an interviewee goes down.
People don’t want to hear that. It’s boring, plain, unoriginal, and
unpleasant.
“If, on the other hand, I can tell
them that my Spirit Guides have assured me that all that I need is the right technology, and enough cash to donate to The Church to entitle me
to salvation, then that fits in with their theme statements and their
advertisements a lot better. Spiritual
perfection is an ingredient of happiness just like makeup, cars, houses,
furniture, liquor, and cigarettes, see, and they can be had for the right
price, and that’s what I’ve got to push, if I want to help them sell
advertisements. We wouldn’t want to
disturb the readers. Bad feelings are
bad, and chaos is badness, I heard you say.
I agree. So I’m pretty optimistic
that maybe The Church of Omnology has what I need.”
There was another hearty round of
applause, although a discerning ear might have picked up a few “boos”. Orziz was still clapping and cheering after
almost everyone else had stopped. “Fear
not, my pretty young lass,” he intoned, “Omnology has technology for every
need. All you have to do is to listen to
your Spirit Guides, make generous contributions, and in turn be fleeced and
descamgramified on a regular basis.
Everything will then be perfect forever for you. This simple Truth is the brilliant essence of
Omnology!” Then he pointed at Raoul,
saying, “All right. Let’s hear some
yabbering from some ordinary Joes. You. Now be honest. But don’t go on all day. Other people want to talk, too.”
“Um, yeah. I’m like a Sensitive Dude. My name is Raoul Kinky, and I’m a poet, a
writer, a photographer, and sometimes even an actor. Now I’ve not made it to Panderwood, I’m not
famous, but I am a truly
Compassionate and Sensitive sort of a guy.
I’m from around here. I eat quiet
food, food that doesn’t scream of mass murder, which means I’m a vegetarian,
and I’ve suffered from Multiple Chemical Sensitivity, MCS, until I bought this
here technology, it cures MCS.” He
hefted his Dream Catcher.
“Since I got my MCS cured, though,
I’ve caught CFS, which is Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. So I’m looking for a cure. I’m sure hoping that CFS is just a scamgram,
and that you can fleece it away.”
“Oh, yes,” Vyizder rushed to assure
him, “We can cure your CFS. CFS, as
you’d hope, is, indeed, just another scamgram.
So is MCS. Cancer, colds, stomach
problems, zits, bad breath, obesity, poor circulation, amputated limbs, death,
they’re all nothing but
scamgrams. With sufficient donations and
fleecings, and if you believe in the Power of Ale Run strongly enough, all
these things and more, all can be cured.
So stick with us, and you’ll be fine.
You can even part with your Dream Catcher. We have technology for every problem, don’t
you worry about that.”
“Good, good. Great!
Glad to hear that,” Raoul replied.
“Although I’ll want to keep my Dream Catcher just out of
sentimentality. Other than that, what do
I want out of The Church of Omnology?
Well, I was sure hoping to validate my feelings of moral
superiority. You say that all feelings
are valid. That sounds good. So, as an Omnologist, would I be able to, for
example, feel morally superior to those who murder meat-bearing animals? Wear leather?
Use soap made from dead animals?
Brush their teeth, murdering millions of innocent bacteria? What do you say?”
Vyizder and Orziz paused, shuffling
back and forth a bit. Orziz spoke
up. “You’re dangerously close to
listening to the whispers of Zanzer, there.
Yes, all feelings are valid.
Some, though, are more valid than others. When you’re judgmental about other Omnologists,
though, you make them feel guilty, sometimes, and guilt laid on an Omnologist
is one of the ultimate scamgrams, for we are all equal in the eyes of Ale Run.
“Specifically, for example, in the
kinds of issues that you raise, Ale Run has said that it isn’t that which we
eat, wear, or bathe with, that makes us unfleeced, it’s that which we withhold
from The Church of Omnology. Our money
and our honesty, primarily, among other things, that is. So we can’t really quite say that you’re
listening to the whispers of Zanzer, yet, because you’re being honest. But you must work on not judging your fellow
Omnologists, some of whom indulge in meat, leather, soap, and tooth
paste.” Orziz stared at Raoul
expectantly.
“Yes, I can see the wisdom of Ale
Run shining brightly through your words,” Raoul admitted. “That’s all I’ve got. Now, I’d like for everyone to meet my
domestic partner, Francestuous Johnsdame.”
Francestuous got up and said, “Like
this man here, my companion human, said, I’m Francestuous. Not that I couldn’t have said it myself. Anyway, there it is. I’m Francestuous, an independent woman. I’m from like around here. I’m a poetess, an artist, and sometimes an
actress. Or, at least, I’d sure like to
be a paid one. But I guess I wasted way too many years as a
farm housewife, trying to do what I thought were my duties, instead of flowing
with the vibes. So now I’m getting
older, getting closer to being over the hill.
“What do I want from The Church of
Omnology? Well, I want to have someone
put meaning and excitement into my life.
But really, what I want is to be like a rich and famous actress. So I read all the women’s magazines, follow
all the beauty hints, and try to stay up with all the goings-on in
Panderwood. Some sunny day, when someone
notices all my beauty and talent, I’ll be right on top of things. I’ll move right on into Panderwood, and
people will think I’ve been there like all my life.
“I suppose I might be asking for a
bit much. For now, I guess I’d settle
for some help with my relationships. For
one thing, now, my companion human, here, Raoul, he’s not too bad, as men
go. He knows how to light a cigarette,
how to open a beer can, and how to love a woman. But, you know, when we go out on overnight
camping trips on our bicycles, Betsy and Herman, well, Raoul, here, when he
puts his toilet paper on the handlebars, he like puts it with the paper rolling
off of the top. I think that’s
inconsiderate male chauvinism. The
protruding paper is like a phallus, and he insists that it be on top! So I think we need some help with our
relationship.” She glanced sidelong at
Raoul, who gasped and floundered in silent astonishment.
“Yes, yes,” Orziz proclaimed, “I can
see that you do. But don’t forget, we
have technology for every need. Technology
for every relationship, even. Trust
us. We’re brilliant, hip, and up with
the latest! And don’t be afraid to
dream. If we’re going to be the big hit
in the Panderwood scene that we expect to be, especially if Jon and Julie here
help us, why, then, you never know. The
sky’s the limit. Everything is possible;
you just have to believe in yourself.
Now, Francestuous, is there anything else we can help you with?”
“Well, yes. About that moral superiority thing, and all
feelings being valid, but some being more valid than others. Can we who are like intimately in touch with
the vibes of the Earth Goddess feel morally superior to those who aren’t? Like, Raoul and I never hardly ever drive fume-belching
monstermobiles. We almost always ride
our bikes. So what’s in this for us, if
we’re not like allowed to feel morally superior? Or are we, in this case?”
“That’s kind of a touchy subject
you’ve brought up there,” Vyizder replied thoughtfully. “I’d say it all depends. Like not driving motor vehicles, for
instance, that’s fine, but it would be scamgramified to lay a guilt trip on
another Omnologist over that, usually.
Especially if they’ve been faithfully donating, and getting fleeced and
descamgramified. Now if, on the other
hand, you want to feel morally superior to oil company executives or tobacco
lawyers, and there are no such types of metans in the fellowship of Omnologists
currently present, why, then, Ale Run and I see no reason why your feelings
should be any less valid than anyone else’s.
So as you can see, it all depends.
It’s usually best to just ask your Spirit Guides. Next?”
“Howdy,” a middle-aged, burly man in
beat-up old overalls spoke up. “They
calls me Harvey da Honeydipper. Ah’m a
local yokel, an’ Ah earns a honest livin’ by cleanin’ out people’s septic
tanks. Two hundred bucks a crack. Call me any time. Now, Ah don’t make no twenty million bucks,
not in several lifetimes. Twenty thou on
a good year’s more like it. Ah nevuh
learnt ta read or write so well, but ah ken clean your tank just like a ringin’
da bell! Ah’m not nobody’s fool. Ah knows rotted old poop when Ah sees
it. Or when Ah smells it, fer that
matter.
“Ah ain’t no dumb hickabilly just
’cause Ah talks funny. Ah ain’t never
went ta school much, but Ah done thunk about a lotta stuff a good long time. Now Ah doesn’t hold nobody’s religious views
against ‘em, not so long as they’s gots a lick a common sense an’ consideration fer others. But it
seems ta me, today’s religions, they’s
got being saved, but nothin’ ta be saved from.
All sorts o’ fancy talk, believe this or believe that, do this or do
that, an’ you’ll be saved. But saved from what?
“We’s gots a lotta talk, but not much meanin’. Say somethin’ with meanin’, and ya
might offend somebody. Say people shouldn’t sleep with anybody
unless they’s ready to deal honestly, fairly, and
responsibly with all da possible results, and you’s
just a prude, not with it. So we’s got being
saved, lotsa talk about being saved, but nothin’ about what we’s bein’ saved from. Not that Ah’s into guilt trips, as y’all
say. Ah’s into thinkin’
‘bout what Ah does, what it does ta others, and how ta
live best, believin’ in what Ah sees, an’ listenin’ ta common sense an’ conscience.
“Maybe we should feel guilty when we does bad things. Maybe we are
personally responsible fer the bad things we
does. Maybe we should stop blaming
Satan, the Devil, scamgrams, an’ so on.
Maybe we should say, ‘Ah was wrong, and Ah won’t do that again.’ Ah even been able ta
teach my kids ta say that now an’
then.
“So Ah’s lookin’
fer a Church that’s about real stuff. A Church that’s
a gonna tell me what’s good an’ what’s bad, not just ta ‘lay a guilt trip’ on
me, but why good is good an’ bad is
bad, and when somethin’ is sometimes good an’ sometimes
bad. Mostly, though, Ah wants ‘em ta reason an’ think with me, tell me why,
an’ work with common sense an’ what we sees.
Not a bunch a empty words.
“Christ died fer
our sins; He washes our sins away. Ale
Run fleeces our scamgrams away. What’s
it all mean?! How’s it relate to my life, an’ how Ah can
live a better life? What’s we bein’ fleeced of?
What’s a scamgram?”
“Now I see Zanzer whispering in your
ear,” Orziz warned.
But Harvey went right on. “Well, come on, now, tell me. What’s a scamgram? Why should Ah believe in them? Why should Ah be fleeced?”
“Because
you’re befestered with massive clusters of scamgrams and bloody metans, that’s
why!” Orziz thundered. “They’re
plain for any trained Omnologist to see,” he continued more quietly. “Now we can help you if you’ll let us. And we can explain scamgrams and bloody
metans to you. But that takes a lot of
time, a lot of training courses, and, of course, lots of generous donations to
The Church. Now if you’ll stick around
and get out your checkbook, we’ll fleece you all in good time.”
“Ah don’t wanna be fleeced until
y’all explains what Ah’s bein’ fleeced of,” Harvey
insisted.
“Zanzer’s shouting in your ear now,” Orziz grumbled ominously. “Can’t you see? He’s leading you down the path to destruction
right now. Scamgrams, if you must know so soon, are, in
very simple terms, those thoughts that make you ignore your Spirit Guides. Like right now. You can shut Zanzer out, sit quietly, and
wait to be fleeced soon. If you make an
extra donation, Vyizder can even take you into the back room and fleece you
right now. But you’ve got to stop listening to Zanzer right now, before you scamgramify the
whole congregation. Got it?!”
“Ah’s gots
it. Y’all wants ta fleece my money away
from me.”
“That’ll be enough!” Orziz
bellowed. “Now go get fleeced right now! Or leave. Pronto!”
Vyizder stood and beckoned towards the back door.
Harvey stood up taller, put his hat
on, and walked towards the front door.
“Like Ah says, Ah knows rotted old poop when Ah sees it,” he
announced. “Ah’m
outta here. Y’all take care, now. Don’t let the scamgrams
getcha.” Then
he slipped out the door.
Orziz sighed and continued. “Now, people, if you don’t want to be
scamgramified by massive clusters of scamgrams, it would be best if you’d just
forget all about what that stupid, nasty man said. It’s best that we all put his
scamgram-befestered thoughts out of our minds, just as we flushed his unfleeced
body metans out of our presence. Now
will y’all please stand up.”
Everyone was taken by mild surprise,
but everyone stood up. “Now shake the
dust off of your shoes,” Orziz commanded.
Everyone made motions of shaking and brushing their shoes. Then they all sat back down. Orziz gazed expectantly towards another
member of the congregation, who reluctantly stood back up.
“Um, yes,” the beautiful,
dark-haired young woman submitted quietly.
“I’m Dorcas Whistling Elk. I’m an
anthropologist from the Pawnee tribe. My
people have sent me forth to study the ways of the White Man. And the White Man’s, um, sidekicks. So that’s why I’m here today. Now if you don’t mind, I really don’t want to
participate, I just want to observe.”
She started to sit back down.
“No, no, now just wait a minute here,” Vyizder objected. “We Omnologists are very broad-minded, and
we’re all in favor of having all sorts of different people learn all about
everyone else. Now why don’t you just go
ahead and ask about everything you’ve got on your mind. I’ll bet many of the others here, they’re
wondering about the same sorts of things, but they’re too shy to ask. So go ahead.
Fire away. We’ll answer all your
questions.”
“Well, okay, then, great!” Dorcas
replied. “Now I’m wondering about a lot
of things. I’ve heard about a lot of
what Pale Face does, but I’m still quite ignorant. So I hope you’ll excuse me for asking stupid
questions.”
“There are no stupid questions,”
Vyizder interjected.
“So then, do you, like, um, have
these ceremonies where you chug wine, I mean, drink the blood of Ale Run, and
eat, like, bread that’s actually his flesh?
And this sets you free of your scamgrams? And is Ale Run the Father, then, or the Son,
or the Great Spirit?”
“No, ma'am, I’m afraid you’re
confusing us with some other folks,” Orziz admitted politely. “That’s not quite right. That’s not us.”
“I’m sorry, I guess I must’ve
learned some wrong things. I suppose
I’ve got to ignore all those wrong things, and start with the basics. So then who is your God? What is He like, and what does He command
that you do? And does He have an enemy,
an opposing force? Do you have
prophecies of the future? Will there be
an end time? What will it be like?”
“No, ma'am, Omnology has no
God. There is only Ale Run and His
Words, which will never fade away. Ale
Run is completely free of scamgrams and bloody metans, and He commands that we
try to join Him in this state of perfection.
All we need to do, then, is to be fleeced and descamgramified on a
regular basis. It’s that simple,” Orziz
replied. “As to the enemy, the end
times, and what they’ll be like, no one but Ale Run knows. If anyone but He should know about all these
things, such knowledge would interfere with the fulfillment of the prophecies
themselves.
“But thoroughly trained Omnologists do eventually reach a high enough level
to learn a lot¾not everything, just a lot¾about the enemy and the end
times. All that I can tell you for now
is, yes, there will come an Anti-Hubba-Bubba, and that time is soon. No one but Ale Run knows the day or the hour,
but the Anti-Hubba-Bubba will come. He’s
probably walking this Earth as we speak.
For all we know, he might be in this room right now, here with us.”
Everyone cast sidelong glances at
their neighbors and hunched back into their chairs. Dorcas continued, “Well, then, besides being
fleeced and descamgramified on a regular basis, what, exactly, is it that Ale Run commands you to
do? Surely
there must be more! Doesn’t Ale Run,
like, tell us to love our neighbors as we love ourselves, and to treat others
the way that we wish to be treated?”
“No, ma'am, you’re confusing us
Omnologists with some other folks again.
Omnologically speaking, all that a metan must do to be fleeced, is to
take advantage of Ale Run’s amazing new technology! If you’re fleeced and descamgramified on a
regular basis, then all else will flow from there. The White Man has many, many different
beliefs, but only Omnologists have the One and True Wisdom of The Ages, which
are contained in The Words of Ale Run.”
“I’m sorry,” she replied. “It’s just that you all look so much
alike. I thought that the White Man’s
beliefs were cute, simple, and comfortably, refreshingly quaint. But now I guess I’m seeing that there’s many,
many different groups of Pale Faces,
and they all believe different things.
So you’ll have to excuse my ignorance.
I’ll have to go off and study these things, I suppose. Could you tell me where I might buy the
comprehensive Omnological works of Ale Run, maybe?”
Astonishment washed over Vyizder’s
and Orziz’s faces. Outraged, Orziz
declared, “You think we would sell The Words of Ale Run?! Why, why...” he sputtered off into silence,
lacking words with which to convey his shock and amazement.
“Well, sure, why not?” she
replied. “You say you want all peoples
to know all about the others. I think
that’s just great! So sell me a copy of his central works, so I
can learn. Or donate them to me,
whatever, if buying and selling offends you.
Maybe I could make a contribution?”
“Oh, yes, yes, by all means,” Orziz
rushed to assure her. “You can make a
contribution at any time. Please feel
free. But we can’t give or sell you His
Words. They are Sacred, Priceless,
Treasured, and Descamgramified above all else.
And they’re very, very Powerful.
So Powerful, as a matter of fact, that novices, newcomers to Omnology
like yourselves, you can only be exposed to tiny little pieces at any given
time. You have to advance through our
fleecing and descamgramifying sessions, one stage at a time. Else you’d be totally overwhelmed, and unable
to appreciate The True Wisdom of His Words.”
Dorcas wouldn’t give up easily. “Well, how about if I try to maybe just study
them, academically, detached-wise, not trying to understand The True Wisdom of
His Words so much as simply trying to study the beliefs of the White Man? As an anthropologist, not so much as an
Omnologist, I might be able to handle...”
“NO!” Orziz thundered. “You Native Americans, you cultural
imperialists, you, you come here and gawk at the quaint customs of the White Man,
and then you try to steal our culture!
You think you can just go and buy
our Sacred Spiritual Secrets, just like you’d buy some beads, blankets, or a
quart of whiskey! Well, we’ll just say no!
No! There!
Got that?! We say NO to cultural imperialism!
“Cultural imperialism is a
scamgram. Zanzer is whispering in your
ear. You’ve got to wait patiently for
The Words of Ale Run to be revealed to you, just like everyone else. You can’t buy your quickie ticket to
salvation. Not from us Omnologists, you
can’t. Now you can just ignore Zanzer,
sit there, and be fleeced in a little while.
Or if you can’t resist Zanzer’s lies for just a few minutes, then
Vyizder can fleece you in the back room, right now. But this cultural imperialism has got to stop. We can’t tolerate such sheer
scamgramishness. Okay?”
“Well, okay, I guess,” she
murmured. “So how much does it cost to
be fleeced? I’m not rich. I’m just a poor student.”
“We don’t charge money for
fleecing. That would be gross, crass,
and materialistic. We take
donations. Those who donate are entitled
to be fleeced.”
“So how much does one need to donate
in order to be fleeced?”
“Oh, approximately nine hundred and
ninety-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents, for four minutes and thirty-five
seconds of fleecing. Give or take. Not that we’re into counting our pennies.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t make those
kinds of donations. Is there any other
way I can learn The Words of Ale Run?”
Just then, a beeping sound burst
forth from behind the podium. Vyizder
and Orziz consulted there briefly, stooping to stare at a hidden object. Then they straightened up solemnly. Orziz announced, “We’ve already noticed that
Zanzer is whispering cultural imperialism into Ms. Whistling Elk’s ear. Now our V-Meter tells us that she’s
contemplating searching for fallen members of Omnology, and gaining access to
illegal copies of Ale Run’s Words. We
must warn against this in no uncertain terms.
The Words of Ale Run are Ultimately Powerful. To those who are properly trained, they lead
to freedom from scamgrams and bloody metans.
For others, who steal His Words, they lead to nothing but endless pain
and agony.
“Ms. Whistling Elk, we’ll have to
ask you to leave now. And we’ve got to
warn you, if you publish unauthorized copies of The Words of Ale Run, you’ll be
prosecuted.”
Dorcas
Whistling Elk got up to leave. Four
others rose with her, heading for the door.
“Wait!” Vyizder proclaimed, “Why are you leaving?”
“I ain’t
got no thousand dollars for no five minutes of gettin’
fleeced,” one of them yelled, scurrying out the door. “You be a bunch o’ jivin’
muthus,” another one added. “You be a coupla chitlins short of a picnic.” “Tell ‘em, my man, tell ‘em,” yet another one
chimed in. “Dood B. Bad, you tells it
like it be!”
“When you get tired of all your
scamgrams, come on back!” Vyizder called out after them. “I just hope it won’t be too late. All right now, class, everyone stand up.” Everyone stood up and brushed the dust off of
their shoes once again.
“Let’s get on with the service,”
Orziz added. “You there. Who are you?
Where you from? What can we do
for you?” He nodded towards a
nervous-looking young lady.
“Hi, we’re Polly Hydrahead. We’re the leaders of all my various multiple
personalities. There’s about thirty of
us, give or take, depending on the weather, the phase of the moon, which shrink
we’re talking to, and the ratio of how much our landlord is charging per
person, versus SSI benefits per person.
Right now there are twenty-eight of us.
Please allow us to introduce all of us.
“Right now Polly Hydrahead is
talking. She’s actually five different
personalities, but we five have all reached consensus amongst ourselves. So we’re pretty tightly integrated. So much so that we don’t even insist on separate
names for ourselves, for right now. But
there’s still five of us, sometimes more, especially when the SSI folks are
counting, calculating our benefits.
“We Polly Hydraheads are pretty
reasonable, middle-of-the-road kind of folks.
Not all that argumentative, like some of the other people who share our
body. We seek common ground and
compromise. Like when one of our, um,
companions, Violet Passionflower, insisted that we attend a womyn’s protest
meeting, we went along. But then, some
of the womyn at the meeting were going topless, to protest about how men could
do this, and womyn couldn’t. Others said
no, look at how all the men are coming by to stare and ogle. Going topless just promotes turning womyn
into objects.
“Well, a lot of us¾all thirty-something of us¾were all ready to get into a big
fight about that. It was looking pretty
bad. But then us five Polly Hydraheads,
we were the calm heads that prevailed.
We compromised. We just showed one breast.”
Everyone stared at Polly
incredulously. “Don’t you get it, you silly people?” They just continued to stare. “That’s the problem with the world today,”
she declared. “People simply don’t know how
to compromise any more. See, some of us
thought we should go topless. Others
thought we shouldn’t. So we went half
topless, half clothed. Like this, you morons!” She reached over her back, unstrapped her
bra, and started to pull one breast out.
The crowd watched, fascinated.
Suddenly, Polly’s demeanor
changed. She writhed briefly, and then a
new voice spoke up. “Hi. I’m Miss Prissy, and you can’t see my
breasts. Neither one! Not unless you spend a lot of money on me
first, and tell me a lot of good lines.
Especially the ones about how you’ll respect me in the morning, and call
me. I’m no slut, like those Polly
wenches. They...”
Polly/Prissy convulsed again. “Hey!
Who’re you calling a slut, you whore! You’re the one who slept
with our old boss, you filthy wench! We never consented! So he raped
us, and it’s all your fault!”
“Excuse us, please. Polly Hydrahead here again. Our slutty sister, Miss Prissy, here, she
gets us into all sorts of trouble. Some
of us think it has to do with today’s excessively permissive and promiscuous
ways. Miss Prissy has been watching too
many soap operas. So she married this
guy and had a kid with him, all because he manipulated her. Told her he loved her, stuff like that. But we
weren’t consulted. So we had him busted
for rape, and now we have custody of the kid.
We’re trying to straighten out Miss Prissy’s messes.
“We’re working three jobs, trying to
give Junior a decent upbringing.
Meanwhile, Miss Prissy’s One and True Love can’t even hardly ever seem
to send us a child-support check, and...”
Polly’s body twisted, and Miss
Prissy spoke up again. “Yeah, well, if
Brad wasn’t making humongous payments to his lawyers to keep him out of jail,
all ‘cause of you and your silly rape charges, then maybe he’d have some money
to give for supporting Richard. And
maybe Brad would feel more like sending money if you hadn’t gone and shacked up
with Frank.”
Miss Prissy cringed and twitched,
and a new voice took over. “Hi. I’m Aunt Diluvianne Marmish. Pleased to meet you. Now you can see how all my nieces here have
managed to make our lives just one big mess.
I believe in being responsible.
If you mess up your bed, you should either fix it up, or lay in it. And if you get laid in it, then you’ve got to
lay in that, too, and not lie about
it. Not tell no lies, like it was
someone else’s fault. Take care of
yourself, and of your own. Don’t go
running off and blaming everyone else, and trying to make them pay for it.
“Now for example here, Miss Prissy
married and slept with Brad. And she
even lived with him, too! So she not only slept with a married man, she
was even living with him, too! And Polly Hydrahead, they never did nothin’ to stop her.
But they was there, too, see, and so they’re responsible. Tolerating is like tacitly approving, like I
say. So now Polly Hydrahead is, um, are
shacked up with Frank, yet she expects Brad to be sending child support!
“Well, I just don’t know what this
world’s coming to, these days. Brad went
off and did the morally upright, responsible thing, and he got married to his
new woman. And he makes good money. Yet Polly, who are poor and shacking up with
another man, expect Brad to send child support!
So Polly are setting a bad example to little Richard by living in sin,
being irresponsible, and Brad is being a much better example and makes more
money, yet Polly keep custody! Seems to
me, we could give custody to the parent with more responsible lifestyle
choices.
“The laws are all messed up. Frankly, child support laws, just like
welfare laws, do some good, but they also do more harm. Child support laws prop up women in their
poor choices of mates. ‘Well, yes, this
man might be unreliable,’ women now say to themselves, ‘But I’ll go ahead and
sleep with him anyway, ‘cause I can always rely on the Welfare State to squeeze
money out of him if we have a baby and it doesn’t work out right!’ This is all just insane!”
Aunt Diluvianne
shuddered and disappeared, becoming replaced by yet another voice. “Hi.
Violet Passionflower here. I
can’t believe the male-chauvinist fascism of that evil Aunt Diluvianne! What repressive patriarchy! Blame the victim! Punish the poor and powerless, and then
stigmatize them for being poor, powerless, and punished! Self-righteously dump on poor ol’ Polly Hydrahead and Miss
Prissy, here, blaming the victims, then advocate punishing them and all the
other poor unwed mothers, taking their welfare and child support away! Have you ever heard of such ruthlessly
punitive self-righteousness?!
“I mean, come on, now. If all the dads and taxpayers out there were
allowed to make their own choices, they’d all spend every last dime on beer, cigarettes, and trailer
parks! They’d never spend one lousy dime for all the oppressed poor folks,
‘cause they’re all a bunch of cheap, rotten, selfish, lazy bastards, and we all
know it. Damned greedy taxpayers! It’s only by the enlightened Power of the
People, as expressed through the collective voices of Compassionate Voters like
me, that poor people can ever make any headway at all!
“People, listen to me! We can’t go and judgmentally punish poor people
like Polly Hydrahead and Miss Prissy, just ‘cause their lifestyle choices are
different than ours! Miss Goody
Two-Shoes here, Aunt Diluvianne, she’s stigmatizing
single parents and their lifestyle choice in ‘shacking up’, which is entirely a
valid lifestyle choice, and why be so judgmental? Cheapskate scum won’t allocate any of their
funds to the Betterment of Peoplekind, unless we
voters, exercising the collectively morally superior Will of the People, make
their charity choices for them. After all, they are totally worthless cheapskate scum, who act in a morally
repugnant and judgmental manner, when they question, and refuse to fund, the
lifestyle choices of single mothers who just happen to want to ‘shack up’ with
their partners. I just hate that, when people become so quick
to condemn others and our moral choices.”
“Um, yes, I agree,” Orziz gently
interrupted. “All feelings and all
lifestyles are equally valid, so long as we’re all fleeced and
descamgramified. But, now, we’ve, um,
we’ve heard a lot about you¾some of you, at least¾but we still haven’t heard about
what you expect that The Church of Omnology could do for you. Could you all maybe fill us in on that?”
“Oh, certainly,” Violet
replied. “I can tell you what I expect
out of a church. I expect social
activism! If a church doesn’t work for
the Betterment of Peoplekind, then what is it good for?! So tell me, what social causes does The
Church of Omnology support, and how does it provide this support?”
“Oh, we fleece people’s scamgrams
away, and we descamgramify their bloody metans.
All else flows from this. If
everyone would only be fleeced and descamgramified on a regular basis,
everything would be perfect forever.
Now, do you or any of the rest of you have any more questions for us?”
Violet shuddered, and another
personality appeared. “Hi. I’m Frank.
Yes, I’m the one that’s ‘shacked up’ with Polly Hydrahead. What do I want out of The Church of
Omnology? Glad you asked! What I want is a validation, a destigmatization, a descamgramification
I guess if you will, of me and my lifestyle!
I’ve been to all sorts of churches, and none will sanctify my marriage
to Polly! Talk about your bluenosed self-righteous holier-than-thou prudes! Some of these churches, they marry gay lesbian
fornicators and cross-dressing adulterous kumquat molesters and celibate
self-abusers, some who amuse themselves by abusing themselves, and others who
abuse themselves by not abusing
themselves, and all sorts of other lustful, wicked sinners. But none of them will marry Polly and I, just
‘cause we inhabit the same body! So tell
me, will The Church of Omnology sanctify our marriage? Maybe stop some of the endless bickering over
how we’re ‘living in sin’?”
Orziz muttered to Vyizder for just a
few seconds, then Vyizder announced, “We can’t give you a one-hundred-percent
guarantee, because we’ve never run into this sort of thing before. However, we promise to elevate this to The
Supreme Spirit Guide, Ale Run Himself, and get a ruling. However, we’re almost absolutely positive
that this will be permitted, especially if you and Polly donate for fleecings on a regular basis. After all, Omnologists are very
tolerant. All lifestyles are equally
valid. We Omnologists aren’t into
denying feelings or any other form of repression.”
Frank folded, spindled, and
mutilated himself spasmodically, and another voice spoke out. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Brad.
Nice to meet you. Yes, I’m the
same Brad who’s the bad Dad of Richard.
The one who’s behind in child support payments because I’m too busy
paying my lawyer, fending off rape charges.
I’d be able to make both payments, if it wasn’t for the fact that I lost
my job as a policeman. I’m an accused
wife abuser, ‘cause I yelled at my former wife once, ten years ago. So now they passed a new law, and so I can’t
carry a gun, ‘cause obviously wife abusers shouldn’t be allowed to carry
weapons, and cops have to carry weapons.
“I’ve been thinking about suing
under the ADA, the Americans with Disabilities Act, ‘cause obviously they’re
discriminating against me just ‘cause I’m Domestic Tranquility Impaired. But I can’t afford more lawyers. Maybe I could be protected if I was a rich
executive with lots of money, but as is, I guess I’ve got to take it in the shorts.”
Many puzzled eyes stared at
Brad. “Yes, I know, you’ve got all sorts
of questions. How can I be the father,
when I’m in the same body as my former wives?
And how come I got married, but Frank can’t? Well, don’t be too nosy. The details are too personal. Let’s just say that they involve a sperm
bank, a chicken, green paint, and a dwarf.
I’m sorry, make that a genetic repository, a member of an avian
companion species, mid-spectrum pigments, and an altitudinally
challenged person. I didn’t mean to
crassly shock and offend. Now on that
thing about having our union blessed, let me just say this: Frank is a weenie,
and he gives up too easily. You can find
what you want, if you look hard enough.
“What do I want from The Church of
Omnology? Well, let me just say this:
I’ve done some wrong things in my life.
I want to do better. I need and
want some guidance. I want some wise
people to give me some good thoughts and some good advice. But I want these people to be aware of one
thing: It’s impossible for an individual to pass off personal responsibility,
even if they try, or pretend to try. You
can pretend to be guided by the Infallible Word of God as revealed in the
Bible, but it is you who makes the interpretation of those words. You can pretend to follow the Pope, or
Hillary-Bob and Billary-Bob, or David Koresh, or Jesus Christ, or Ale Run
Hubba-Bubba.
“But it is you who choose which
leader to follow, and how to interpret their words. So I and I alone am responsible for my
choices and actions. The individual
conscience is the highest moral authority on this planet. This is what I want my Spirit Guides to keep
in mind at all times.”
“I see Zanzer whispering in your
ear,” Orziz warned.
“It is completely impossible to pass
one’s own moral responsibilities to anyone else,” Brad insisted. “Any person or group that denies this is
spreading lies.”
“That used to be true,” Orziz admitted.
“But now that Ale Run has come to us, and revealed how He Can Fleece Our
Scamgrams Away, this is no longer true.
We are naturally good; it’s only our scamgrams and bloody metans that
befester us with chaos and badness. So
fleece them away, and all your goodness will flow freely. It’s that simple.”
“Too much simplicity is for
simpletons,” Brad replied. “Like Albert
Einstein said, ‘Everything should be made as simple as possible, but no
simpler.’ Can’t you see the wisdom of
that?”
“No, I can’t. Albert Einstein was a very smart man. Too bad for him, he passed away before Ale
Run revealed His Wisdom. Now what I can see, quite plainly, is that Zanzer
is whispering in your ear. I’m afraid
we’ll have to ask you to leave, unless you go and get fleeced right now.”
Brad started to struggle and
flail. “You’re stigmatizing my scamgrammedness! I
don’t wanna get fleeced! Help!
Hel...” Another personality took
over. “Hi. I’m Wein E. Bhutt. I really,
really hope you won’t kick us all out, just ‘cause of one rotten apple in our
midst. Brad may not admit it, but
there’s a lot of us in here that need
a lot of help. And if y’all can make our
scamgrams go away, we’re all in favor of that.
Maybe you can even make Brad’s
scamgrams go away, even if he’s not co-operating. Can we stay?
We promise to make big contributions and get fleeced and
descamgramified. The rest of us can
outvote Brad. We promise.”
Vyizder and Orziz consulted in
whispers, then proclaimed, “Very well, if it’s as you say. But we want to talk to Polly Hydrahead about
this. They say they’re the leader, that
they have more consensus than the rest of y’all. Will you please let them speak?”
“Only if you promise to listen to my troubles, later, too.”
“Okay. Deal.
Polly?”
“In just a second. Bye!”
“Polly?”
“Here.”
“Do you promise to love and to
honor, to stay and be fleeced? To keep
Brad and Zanzer and their scamgrams at bay?”
“Oh, yes. To be sure.”
“Okay, great. Now, we promised to listen to Wein E. Bhutt. Could you put, um, him or her back on line?”
“Sure. He’s a ‘he’.
Here he is.”
“Wein?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Now, as I was saying, I’ve got troubles. Oh, boy, do I ever have troubles! Maybe
your Church can help me. Maybe my
recovered memories are just scamgrams, and maybe you can make them go away.
“I’ve been troubled ever since I was
a little boy. I never knew why. So I went to see my hypnotist, and she dug up
some deeply repressed memories of mine.
I was a very happy little boy, till one day I went out to the school
playground. There, I fell off of the
swing. I scraped my knee just a tiny
little bit, it didn’t even draw blood. I
cried just a little bit, but I was getting over it real quick, getting ready to
get back on the swing.
“Then my teacher came over. She said, ‘Wein,
are you all right?’ I told her I was
just fine. But then she said, ‘I saw you
fall, and a cloud of dust rose up. In
fact, I see some dust on your nose. You
probably breathed some in, you poor dear.’
So she rushed me to the school nurse.
She put on her clean suit and decontaminated my nose, but then she
called the doctor. Soon I was at the
hospital, and hordes of doctors and lawyers and media people were swarming
around me, talking in hushed tones about some dread disease called ‘sillycosis’ or some such.
“So they told me about this dread
disease, and I thought, hey, if all these important people think there’s all
these reasons why I should be sick, why, I’d better be sick, ‘cause they know
better than I do, I’m just a kid. And so
my parents and I, after I got all sorts of therapies and finally got out of the
hospital, we told everybody how sick I was from playground dust and sillycosis. And the
media stirred up a lot of dust, too, and so lots
of people got sillycosis. They had to shut down all the playgrounds in
town.
“All this was such a trauma to me, I
repressed all memories of it. But these memories
made my life miserable. It’s only since
my hypnotist helped me that I’ve finally been able to face the terrors of my
past. So now I’m suing not just the
playground equipment makers, but also all the media folks, the doctors,
lawyers, teachers, nurses, and social workers who got me so worked up about
this. But the endless suits and
countersuits are making me all stressed out, now, too. So I’m sure hoping that it’s all just one
giant cluster of scamgrams, and you people can fleece me.”
“The Church of Omnology won’t let
you down,” Orziz assured him. “You can
count on us. We’ll set you free from all your scamgrams!”
Wein
shuddered and shook, and another voice rose in protest. “Hi.
I’m Amanda the Panda, and I like to eat meat, but all they ever feed me
is bamboozlement. Where’s the meat? Do you Omnologists...”
“What is this silly parade of goofy
characters all about,” another person altogether interrupted angrily. “This Prissy Polly, Aunt Diluvianne,
Violet Passionwine, Brad Frankfurter, Zanzer, Panzer,
Pander, Panda person has been talking for all of about twenty minutes now,
which is far more time than even important movie stars like Jon Travibesty and Julie Peston
got! Now I’d sure like to tell everyone
all about my troubles, too, one of these
days! When is it going to be my turn?! How can this person have so many more
scamgrams than all the rest of us? Huh?”
“Yeah!” “Right on, man!” “My troubles next!” “No, mine, I’ve waited long enough!” “My
troubles are deeper and more important than
your troubles!” “Your troubles are
nothing! Wait till you hear about mine!”
There was a loud hubbub, but the message was clear enough: Polly
Hydrahead and all her friends and enemies has hogged the stage for long
enough. Orziz admitted as much. Polly et cetera protested that they were all
being stigmatized just because they had far fewer physical bodies than all the
others in the room, but the show moved on anyway.
More troubles were aired. There was much weeping, wailing, and gnashing
of teeth. But Vyizder and Orziz assured
them all that yes, of course all your
troubles are due to scamgrams, and we can cure what ails you. Best of all, no one else got kicked out.
So the next time that they all stood
up, it wasn’t to brush the dust from their shoes, it was to Prepare To Be
Fleeced. By resisting Zanzer’s whispers,
all remaining members of the congregation had now found themselves fit to be
Ale Run Hubba-Bubba devotees, Vyizder and Orziz proudly announced. “And now,” Orziz proclaimed, “The next phase
is what you’ve all been looking forward to.
Next, we’ll all be fleeced! But
first, we must gather contributions for our cause. May the Spirit of Ale Run move us all towards
generosity.”
Francestuous glanced anxiously at
Raoul. Raoul murmured, “Don’t worry,
Sweet Buns. Our credit limit will handle
this.” But then a worried look furrowed
his brow. He called out, “Do you accept
credit cards?”
Orziz looked pained, but replied,
“Sure. No sweat. We’re hip, we’re with it. The Church of Omnology will handle any credit
cards you’ve got.”
So offerings were made and
tabulated, secrecy was sworn to, V-Meters were brought out, and Vyizder and
Orziz fleeced the people and cast out scamgrams. Polly and her gang got a volume discount. Any more details than that cannot be revealed
to heathens unchurched in the Ways of Omnology. Sorry!
Send your donations now, and we’ll see what we can do, to perhaps train
you, the reader, so that more can be revealed to you, all in due time. And due time is dues time. Pay up!*
Footnote*: Send your contributions
to: P. T. Barnum Fan Club, C/O Titus “RocketSlinger”
Stauffer, P. O. Box 692168, Houston, TX, 77269-2168. Allow 4 to 6 weeks for
descamgramification. You will be
automatically, remotely but undeniably fleeced when your contributions are
deposited. (Author’s update, the above
has been disbanded; my apologies. If you
STILL want to get fleeced, I suggest you donate your extra money to Uncle Sam).
Raoul and Francestuous stayed on
after the ceremonies. Raoul dragged
Francestuous back from her attempt to follow after Jon Travibesty and Julie
Peston and their entourage and fans.
“Listen, Vyizder,” Raoul said on behalf of the two of them. “We’re really, really, really and truly and
deeply impressed by all this fleecing and descamgramification. Why, I can feel my CFS scamgrams fleeing in
terror right now! All this is just
totally amazing! I just can’t think of
how to thank you and Orziz and Ale Run, it’s just, this is all so
incredible! I’ve never felt so, so
fleeced in my whole life!
“But you know, it’s really a
shame. Francestuous and I, we’re not
very wealthy at all. We’re very
deserving, but those heartless government people in Washington, they¾now, we know they’re doing their
best, but there are a lot of greedy and heartless taxpayers out there¾they punished us, and cut our SSI
checks. And the NEA is stingy when they
pay us, to acknowledge how our artistic contributions are a lot deeper and more
profoundly meaningful than the average trailer-dwelling slob can
appreciate. I mean, there’s a lot of
sophisticated people at the NEA who understand our art. But there’s a limit to how far they can push
the boundaries with the uncultured masses of plebeian taxpayers and consumers,
who wouldn’t know art if it bit them.
“Anyway, to make a long story short,
we really, really appreciate what you’re doing, and what you’ve done for
us. But we’re poor. So I’m feeling at a loss. Feeling totally out of control and down on
our luck. Pretty hopeless, frankly. If we’re not going to be able to make any
more contributions, then we’ll not be able to be fleeced and
descamgramified. Yet we’re as willing to
be fleeced as anyone. Must we then live
out our lives befestered by clusters of scamgrams and bloody metans? Or is there some other way...”
“There, there, now, take it easy,”
Vyizder soothed Raoul and Francestuous.
“As a matter of fact, there is
another way, just for truly deserving folks such as yourselves. Now, normally it takes many, many
contributions, and many, many classes and training sessions, for most metans to
reach an advanced operating level. But
our V-Meters tell us that both of you are extremely exceptional people, in that
you’re already relatively free of scamgrams.
You seem to accept the Wisdom of Ale Run with open minds, and a minimum
of negative thoughts, chaos, scamgrams, and bloody metans.”
Vyizder looked around, then lowered
his voice. “Now keep this to
yourselves. What we can do in special
cases like yours, is we can skip those donations, and...”
“Oh, goodie, goodie, goodie,” Raoul
squealed with joy, clasping his hands and jumping up and down.
Francestuous smiled dreamily. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! Thank you so
much! Now maybe there’s like hope
for me and my dreams after all! Maybe
I’ll be going to Panderwood soon, to start my real life!”
“But it’s not all peaches and
cream,” Vyizder hastened to warn them.
“Certainly not until you’re actually completely and totally free of all
scamgrams. So far, only Ale Run has
attained this level. Some of the rest of
us will join Him in due time, to be sure, but till then, we all have to
struggle to do our best. What this means
for the two of you is, if you want us to cast out your scamgrams even though
you can’t make financial contributions to The Church, then we’ll have to ask
you to make other sorts of contributions.
“We’ll want for you to become staff
members of The Church of Omnology. This
is a very high, special honor. It means
you’ll need to devote your entire lives, and all your material possessions, to
defending The Church against all scamgrams, foreign and domestic. This is a deep, sacred responsibility you’ll
be charged with, if you’re willing.”
“Oh, yes, certainly, we’re willing,”
Raoul interjected eagerly.
“So long as it doesn’t interfere
with me pursuing my dreams of becoming a famous Panderwood actress,”
Francestuous chimed in. Raoul frowned
and glanced at Vyizder, but Vyizder only smiled.
Vyizder hastened to assure
Francestuous, “Don’t worry about that,
now, my child. Don’t worry about that at
all.
Panderwood is a very, very good place for a faithful Omnologist to do
Ale Run’s work. So we’ll have no
problems with your dreams. Those are
good, descamgramified dreams.
“We want you to join the staff of
The Church of Omnology. First thing is,
you’ll need to decide. You can either
understand Omnology as a science, or as a religion, a philosophy of life. You can go primarily with your rational mind,
or with your heart. All Omnologists
below the level of Ale Run need to make that choice. Either choice is equally valid, and the other
choice, the one you don’t choose, will always color your metan a little
bit. But you must make a choice. Your primary path has to be one or the
other. Only Ale Run, so far, can truly understand
both views. So you must choose.
“Come Friday night at seven, one
week from now, you’ll need to meet us here.
You’ll have to have made up your mind by then. You’ll need to know which path it is that you
wish to go by. You’ll need to have all
your worldly matters all wrapped up by then.
You need to become detached from your material goods. Sell those that you can sell, and abandon the
others. Let us turn all your material
assets into something far more valuable, which is your Treasures in The Church
of Omnology. This is one of the
strongest ways that you can keep your scamgrams away. Then you can come with us, and devote your
lives to The Church, and vanquishing all scamgrams. Orziz and I will be leaving this outpost of
Omnology, this beacon that shines to the world.
We’ll be leaving it in the hands of some other capable Spirit Guides.
“Each of us will be gathering up a
group of students. Omnology staff
members in training, like yourselves.
Then we’ll go somewhere far from here, wherever Ale Run sends us. Our two groups may or may not be sent to the
same place; we don’t know yet. Wherever
it is that Ale Run needs us, there is where we’ll go. That’s what you need to learn to say, as good
staff members of The Church of Omnology.
“So meet us back here Friday night
at seven. But beware of your
scamgrams! They’ll be filling your minds
with doubts, as you sell off all your worldly possessions to join us in your
higher callings. We know, because we’ve
been there. If your scamgrams start to
get the better of you, and you need help, then just go ahead and call me or
Orziz. Here are our business cards.
“Now you do have all week to decide;
we’re not trying to rush you. But I’m
just a little curious. Omnology as a
science versus Omnology as a religion and philosophy of life, you know. Which of those two paths do the two of you
think you’ll go by?”
Raoul spoke right up. “Oh, I’ve always been very interested in
science and rational thinking. I think
I’ll go with understanding Omnology as a science.”
Francestuous, however, replied,
“Fine, Raoul. Fine. Just fine! Go ahead and make this kind of life-changing
decision without consulting me. That’s
fine by me. Me, I’ll go with Omnology as
a philosophy of life. I’ve always been
the holistic, inspired, view-from-the-mountaintop kind of a gal. So you like just go do your thing, and I’ll like do mine.”
“But Francestuous, my dearest! I take it back! If it means not being by your side, then I’ll
forsake Omnology as a science, and go your way!”
“No,” she said huffishly, “You’ve
already spoken your mind. We know what
you really want. Your feelings are
valid, and you should like go with your flow.
Don’t worry about being with little old me. I’ll take care of myself, with the help of
our newfound Omnology friends.”
“But Francestuous, please! Maybe that was just my scamgrams talking,
when I said I wanted to be rational and scientific! Maybe my real
mind wants to go with you, and with
Omnology as a philosophy of life! Why
can’t I change my mind?!”
“Because you have to go with your
flow, and we already know your flow doesn’t include me.”
“But sweetheart, that was just my
scamgrams talking! Here, maybe Vyizder
can fleece my scamgrams again. Then you’ll see! Vyizder?
Can you help us?”
By then, only Raoul, Francestuous,
Vyizder, and Orziz remained. Orziz had
shepherded all the other church-goers out the door already, admonishing them to
be sure to return for more fleecings, lest they be scammed by scamgrams. Vyizder glanced at Orziz. Orziz glanced back. The glances exchanged some meanings, but also
some unanswered questions. “You two will
need to stay right here while Orziz and I consult our V-Meter.” Vyizder and Orziz met behind the podium and
looked down on their V-Meter, while Raoul and Francestuous waited at the other
end of the room. Raoul simpered while
Francestuous glared.
“What’s the deal?” Orziz whispered.
“They’re bickering over which of the
paths they’ll choose,” Vyizder replied.
“Raoul wants to back out of Omnology as a science, now that Francestuous
wants to go the other way, but Francestuous won’t let him. One of those really silly lovers’ spats. Now Raoul wants us to fleece him, so he can
blame his first choice on scamgrams. I
think that’d be a real bad precedent, for us to let him blame scamgrams for either choice, Omnology as a science, or
Omnology as anything, for that
matter. We obviously can’t be blaming
scamgrams for any valid Omnological choice.”
“Well, of course! So what do you think we should do, here? Surely you’re not actually thinking of
fleecing him again, when he’s got
nothing left to be fleeced of, any more!”
Orziz rubbed his thumb against the tips of his fingers, under the podium
but right above the V-Meter that they were apparently studying so intently.
“Well, we could always let him go
into debt. Let him pay back later, after
they sell everything off. Help to make
sure they don’t back out, by making him feel indebted. Are they likely to back out? Should we give them the ‘total immersion’ routine
to keep them snared while we’ve got them?
What do you think?”
“Nah. I don’t think they’re likely to back
out. They’re hooked. Total immersion wouldn’t be worth the
trouble, in this case, anyway. So you
really want to bother to fleece him again?
If we do that, then what are we going to find? Are we going to try to keep ‘em together, or
split ‘em up? If we want to keep ‘em
together, then which way? Do you want them? I’m not too hip on having the two of them
together in my class. How about you?”
“Let’s not fleece them again. Tell ‘em to sort it out themselves. We’d be better off with them split
apart. Loyalty to Omnology, you know,
not to each other. Apart, I do believe
they’ll be useful idiots for us.
Together, I don’t know. But we’ll
not try to push them apart. They’ll do
that all by themselves, it looks like.
Okay?”
Orziz nodded in assent. He twiddled with the knobs, eliciting a few
beeps. Then they sauntered on back to
Raoul and Francestuous.
“The V-Meter tells us you’re both
still relatively free of scamgrams, from your last fleecing,” Vyizder
announced. “What with your good general
health and relative freedom from scamgrams¾this is why you’ve been selected for this very
special honor in the first place, remember¾and the fact that it takes a while for scamgrams to
befester you again after a fleecing, why, then, for us to formally fleece you
again so soon would be a waste. Besides,
there’s no way a scamgram could cause you to falsely prefer one valid
Omnological choice over another. You two
will have to sort this out for yourselves.
“Now if you’ll excuse us, Orziz and
I need to leave. We’ll see you at seven
on Friday. Please remember to call if
your scamgrams threaten to make you wimp out.
In all honesty, though, I must tell you that those kinds of things,
being weak and vulnerable to scamgrams, and needing constant help, will count
against you as Omnology staff members.
One has to be strong against scamgrams and bloody metans if one wishes
to advance to a higher level. Okay?”
Vyizder and Orziz shooed them out
the door, climbed into their cars (a Mercedes Benz and a Ferrari respectively),
and drove off. The first thing that
Raoul did after stepping out of the Soulorama was to light up an Earth
Spirit. Francestuous sniped at him, so
he had to light up yet another one, to calm his nerves some more. Then there was the long bicycle ride home and
a sleepless night of lying in separate beds.
In the morning, they began the task of putting their worldly affairs in
order.
Chapter 11 has endnotes on Inventing
Religions, Defending the Domestic Tranquility Impaired, and Pandering with
Scientology. See the end of this book,
of course...
12)
Understanding Omnology as a Science
Raoul said to Francestuous, “Did you
know that according to arcane, murky legal practices set up by shysters, if an
author uses a detached or semi-detached quote, not weaving it into his or her
story, at the beginning of a chapter, then he or she doesn’t have quite the
same, strong ‘fair use’ protections of free speech, as he or she would
otherwise have? That inappropriate and
insensitive people can then sue authors who quote them, if the authors don’t
watch out?”
“No, I didn’t know that,”
Francestuous replied. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Oh, not much of anything,” Raoul
admitted. “Nor does L. Ron Hubbard and
his Dianetics pseudopsychobabble quasireligion have anything to do with
Omnology, either. Omnology is obviously
far, far superior to Dianetics, of course.
Whatever Dianetics is. It just
follows from the known Omnological fact that Omnology is superior to
everything.
“But in order to keep my scamgrams
fleeced, I’m getting these vibes right now.
They’re telling me that I have to quote to you, a paragraph from page
442 of Dianetics: The Modern Science of
Mental Health, by L. Ron Hubbard, who lived from 1911 to 1986. Now this is by no means as deep as what
Omnology teaches. But now and then, even
non-Omnologists get just a tiny, tiny hint of Omnological wisdom, it seems to
me. So here’s the quote:
“‘The grouper is the nastiest of all types of command. It can be so variously worded and its effect
is so serious on the time track that the whole track can roll up into a ball
and all incidents then appear to be in the same place. This is apparent as soon as the preclear hits
one. The grouper will not be discovered
easily, but it will settle out as the case progresses and the case can be
worked with a grouper in restimulation.’
End quote.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Francestuous
objected. “You think that’s like, even one tiny bit as wise as the teachings of
Ale Run Hubba-Bubba, The Mighty Fleecer of All Scamgrams? I mean, it’s like, ‘Duh!’ That’s even obvious
to me, and I’ve hardly gotten any Omnological training at all, yet! You know, Raoul, for you to say such things¾that this Dianetics thing is anything nearly
as profoundly deep as Omnology¾I think it just goes to show that you’re severely
scamgramified. I think you’d better call
Orziz or Vyizder at that emergency number they gave us.”
Raoul just stomped off in a
huff. Despite whatever Francestuous
said, he still felt better, now that he’d listened to those otherworldly vibes,
done his duty, and delivered the quote.
Bad karma had been defeated in two ways:
1) Shysterism had been thwarted, to the maximum extent allowed by law,
which admittedly is never very far. 2)
Also, all those observers on that otherworldly plane, who by now had gotten
used to their once-per-chapter introductory quote or quotes, were appeased, as
well as profoundly impressed by Dianetics wisdom. They all eagerly awaited revelations of an
even more profound, Omnological nature.
Raoul and Francestuous had a
tempestuous week quasi-together, putting their affairs into order and preparing
to turn their material belongings into assets in The Church of Omnology. It was a hectic week.
Finally, it was all over. Raoul and Francestuous met Vyizder and Orziz
at the local Soulorama and turned over their assets. They attended some short Omnology services. Then there was the orientation speech about
Where We Are Going, and so on.
Omnology was rapidly solidifying and
gathering followers, they were told.
Those staff members who wanted to understand Omnology as a Science were
to be trained at the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology in
Akron, Ohio. Those who were more
theologically and philosophically oriented were to be trained at the
Intergalactic Headquarters of The Church of Omnology in Los Diablos,
California. And finally, for those who
felt that they just couldn’t make up their minds, Ale Run Hubba-Bubba Himself,
in an act of great mercy, had decreed that all feelings were valid, including
feelings of indecision. Those who
couldn’t choose were to be trained at the Media and Government Institute for
the Fleecing of All Metans, in Washington, D.C.
Madness County being in the Midwest,
scientific types could get on the bus and ride straight to Akron. Those metans destined to be trained in
religion, or in media and government, on the other hand, had much longer
journeys ahead of them, so they would be bussed to Chicago, where they, and
others like them, would be put on charter airliners to Los Diablos and
Washington. So Raoul and Francestuous
got on two separate busses, and went their separate ways. Then there was that long bus ride.
But now, Raoul was sitting in class
at the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology, about to learn all
about Omnology as a Science. He could
barely contain his excitement. His real
life was about to begin! Maybe someday
he’d be a really famous scientist, he thought dreamily. Maybe he’d make great Omnological discoveries
and earn himself a Nobel Prize in Omnology.
Maybe...
All right! he told himself. Snap out of it, and listen to Vyizder.
“...great strides for The Church of
Omnology. If we can get everyone to
realize that The Church of Omnology is both a religion AND a science, then each of our groups will be able to
specialize. The Church part of The
Church will get tax breaks, and the Science part of The Church will get
research grants from the government. So
a lot is riding on us, as leaders and future leaders of Omnological
science. We must learn, and then reach
out to further reason and knowledge.
“So let’s get right down to it. All rational thought is based on
mathematics. Omnology is no
exception. So let’s talk about
Omnological mathematics, starting with the basics. In Omnological mathematics, the central
concept is The Chaos Theory. Now, I know
what you’re thinking. After all, I’m a
trained Omnologist. ‘Well, just what,
exactly, is The Chaos Theory,
anyway?’ is what you’re thinking. We
Omnologists value classroom participation.
So go ahead. Ask me.” He flipped on the overhead projector, then
waved his hands like a symphony conductor.
The students read the words on the screen, asking in loud unison, “Well, just what, exactly, is The Chaos Theory, anyway?”
“I’m glad you asked. That’s a sign of intelligence and budding
greatness, to be asking such profound questions. After all, without asking profound questions,
one hardly ever gets profound answers.
And only profound answers, especially from deep thinkers like me, can
lead the masses of humanity towards a Deeper Understanding. And, a Deeper Understanding, you see, leads
one away from Chaos, which is badness.
“In fact, one could very aptly
summarize the whole Chaos Theory by simply stating that Chaos is Badness. That’s a sign of true understanding, you
know, is to be able to take matters profound and complicated, that scholars have
spent their entire careers puzzling over, and to distill it all down to its
essence, without oversimplifying. An
ability that I take great pride in.
“But let’s go back to the beginning,
and put it all into proper perspective.
The Chaos Theory is really just part of the Math Theory. The overall Math Theory, then, goes into the
Theory of Everything, which explains everything. But that’s just way too much to get into
today. Let’s just stick to Math Theory,
and where Chaos Theory fits into Math Theory.
“Math Theory basically started with
The Algebra Theory, which states that if X equals Y, then Y equals X. And even yet amazingly more, if Y also equals
Z, then X equals Z. Very simple, yet
profound, with implications throughout the natural world, as is so often the
case in truly great Theories. So, then,
after many great mathematicians, together, reached a consensus on The Algebra
Theory, then all they had to do was to hammer out a good approximation for X,
and then, of course, they knew what Y and Z were, too.
“After they did the same for other
groups of letters and symbols, spanning the English, Greek, and Cyrillic
alphabets, well, they just published a big look-up table¾we’ve even embedded it into
handheld calculators, these days¾and now, nobody has to sit around figuring out what
all these symbols are equal to, any more.
Except for school children. It
keeps them off the street, out of trouble, and out of the greedy claws of
capitalist ogres, who might otherwise be tempted to enslave them in child labor
schemes. Oh, yes, and according to The
Education Theory, it helps their brains to grow. When properly administered by
government-certified Algebra Instructors, the Algebra Theory stimulates neurons
and raises the pupil’s levels of intelligence.
Taking matters much further, we must get society to realize that
certified Omnology instructors can use The Chaos Theory to make all of
society’s scamgrams go away, which will be the ultimate investment in human
potential.
“Anyway, after the publication of the
Algebra Tables, Algebra Theory pretty much had nowhere left to go. Nothing else left to theorize about, much,
there. So mathematicians moved off to
newer, more exciting endeavors. They
formulated The Geometry Theory. Now, The
Geometry Theory was a great discovery, it leads right, straight, directly to
The Chaos Theory. You see, The Geometry
Theory states that if two planes intersect, well, you’ve just got to draw a
line, there, before they do, because if two planes intersect, a lot of badness
will happen. Just look at what happened
at the Denver International Airport recently.
Hundreds dead. Now, if that’s not
Chaos and Badness, then I don’t know what is.
“So, The Geometry Theory was great
at explaining that you’ve just got to
draw a line somewhere, anywhere before the planes intersect. Even millionths of an inch away from
intersecting is fine, theoretically, but once they’ve intersected, you’re in
Big Trouble. Once they intersect,
there’s Chaos and Badness, and The Geometry Theory can’t help you any
more. Chaos and Badness are way too
complicated for The Geometry Theory to be of much help, any more, at all.
“So, then, Omnological
mathematicians formulated The Chaos Theory, for cases where people have failed
to properly apply The Geometry Theory, the two planes have intersected, and
Badness has happened. Among other
examples of Chaos and Badness, that is.
The Chaos Theory states, basically, that Chaos is Badness. Even more amazingly, The Chaos Theory ties
in, not only back to The Geometry Theory, but also, way back to The Algebra
Theory, too. Remember, if X equals Y,
then Y also equals X. The Chaos Theory,
in a sense, is nothing but a very special case of this. If Chaos is Badness, then Badness is also
Chaos. It just demonstrates the profound
beauty of mathematics. Simple equations
capture the essence of very complicated phenomena, all throughout nature. It’s like, you know, it just goes to show
you, Ale Run Himself must be a mathematician, the way He designed the Universe,
to follow all these equations.”
“Why, that’s brilliant!” Raoul
exclaimed. “Now let me get this
straight: The Chaos Theory says that
Chaos is Badness. Right?”
“Right!” Vyizder proclaimed, beaming proudly.
“But, how did you ever manage to
summarize it so simply yet profoundly?”
Raoul asked.
“Well,” Vyizder replied, humbly, “If
I’ve been able to see further than others, it’s because I’ve stood on the
shoulders of giants.
“So there’s Omnological mathematics theory.
Now let’s move on to Omnological mathematics applications. Time for our
first lab experiment. First, though, we
must momentarily digress back to Omnology as a religion. One of the prime principles of Omnology as a
religion, as with many other religions, is that things stated in normal, plain,
everyday English are quite unremarkably dull, prosaic, and frumpishly
mundane. If, on the other hand, you can
say something in some ancient old Holy Language, or some other obscure jargon,
then that’s quite profound and deeply, mystically meaningful, especially since
no one can quite understand you. So the
Catholics have Latin, Protestants have the old King James Version, and sports
fans have Sports Blather.
“Omnology, though, being less than a
year old, suffers from some handicaps here.
Our jargon is still not very highly developed, and we have no tradition
of using some ancient, obscure dialect.
This is both a blessing and a curse.
On the plus side, as we invent our own jargon, we can keep it completely
free of racism, sexism, capitalism, speciesism, and realityism. As we all know, all those old-time religions
are severely befestered with all kinds of ‘ism’ scamgrams. God is a macho, male-type White Man guy
fella, all that kind of stuff.
“On the minus side, though, those
old-timer religious folks have a leg up on us.
They can take their old sacred writings, run them through computer
algorithms, and find all sorts of deep and meaningful hidden messages in
there. If we do the same thing with the
sacred writings of Ale Run, though, no one will be impressed. They’ll just say Ale Run put those things
there deliberately, and so what if He predicted stuff three months in
advance? They can impress folks by
finding stuff about Hitler in Hebrew writings from thousands of years ago. We can’t compare to that.
“Or can we? As Omnologists, we believe in having our cake
and eating it, too! Why not take Ale
Run’s writings, have some disinterested third party translate them into Hebrew
or some such, some language Ale Run doesn’t even know, and then we go off and find hidden messages! We think that’d be pretty impressive. But then, if we translate Ale Run’s writings
into some old language, they’ll be contaminated by all those ‘ism’ scamgrams,
because the ancients didn’t know how to talk without isms. Language reflects thinking. As Marshall McLuhan said, the medium is the
message. There’s just no way you can
translate something into Hebrew without it getting befestered by all sorts of
‘ism’ scamgrams.
“Well, fortunately we Omnological
researchers never give up! One of us,
Dr. Libby Leftlimper, ran into a widely respected feminist scholar, Dr.
Sapphire Butschbeach, and told her about our dilemma. So she helped us out. She translated Ale Run’s writings into the
only known ism-free ancient language, which is Shebrew, which was spoken in the
Amazonian rain forest thousands of years ago.
“So that’s where we’re at
today. Time for our Omnological
mathematics lab exercise. Now if you’ll
all follow me, we’ll go to the computer room.
There, we’ll ask you each to sit by a terminal, and supervise our
supercomputers as they parse Ale Run’s writings in Shebrew. How does this work? Well, we try all sorts of different ways to
assign input letters to output letters, all sorts of different sizes and shapes
and starting points for matrices, and then we parse for meaningful phrases and
sentences, crossword-puzzle-like. All
that’s done by our extremely sophisticated machines and programs.
“So we look at billions and
trillions of different combinations. For
any given long combination of characters, it is extremely unlikely that you’d get exactly that combination. So after we find a meaningful combination,
after looking at three trillion combinations, we can say, ‘Now lookee here,
here it says that Ale Run has the keys to the Universe,’ or whatever, and the
chances of finding that message was only one in three trillion! SURELY
this is way too amazing for it to be a totally random happening, and SURELY this must mean that Ale Run is
the Master of Space, Time, and Dimension!
And the media will come running to us, and we’ll get lots of press, and
lots of money.
“So that’s how it works. Now where you guys come in, other than
learning about Omnologic, is that computers can take the process only so
far. They can only select candidates for Deeply Meaningful
Messages. We have to make the final
determination. Omnologists in training
can make the next winnowing, or filtration, steps, but a trained Omnologist like
me has to make the final determination.
So everyone follow me...”
They walked to the computer room,
and each of the twenty-three students sat by a terminal. Vyizder walked around, showing everyone what
to do. Then he sat at his terminal and
executed the executables. Everyone sat
in eager but silent anticipation.
“Got one!” Sally sang out. “‘The world will end in 1612,’ it says!”
“Flush it,” Vyizder commanded. “No meaning there. Keep on looking.”
“Here it is!” Bob announced shortly
thereafter. “‘He who writes on bathroom
walls, wraps his Hubba-Bubba in little balls.
He who reads these lines of wit, eats those little balls of...’”
“Enough of that one,” Vyizder
grumbled. “Can it. Invalid message.”
A few minutes slipped by. “Check this out!” Andrew yelled. “This is it!
‘Get a grip, don’t be a dip, Omnology dumnology is a worthless trip!’”
“Into the bit bucket,” Vyizder
ordered. “Just more random nonsense.”
More time slipped by. Then Raoul stood up and shouted, “Look!
Look at this! It says, ‘Repent, repent, the end is
near! The Anti-Hubba-Bubba comes, but
have no fear, fleecing kicks scamgrams in the rear!’ Now what do you think of that?!”
Vyizder got up, clapped and cheered,
and gave Raoul a big fat “Attaboy”.
Everyone shouted with excited glee.
One student was dispatched to tell the media all about it, while
everyone else went back to the classroom.
“That’s great!” Vyizder announced yet once more, after everyone took their
classroom seats again. “That was a very,
very good mathematics lab! Only Omnologically, by the Grace of Our Lord
Ale Run, could there ever be such a conclusive and logically, scientifically,
and methodologically bulletproof demonstration of the Deepness of
Existence! And of Ale Run’s profound
grasp of the meaning of such matters, of course.
“Now, class, let’s get in touch with
our feelings about Omnological mathematics.
It’s very important that we all feel good about our Omnological
mathematics knowledge. So now we’ll go
around the room, and everyone will stand up, and briefly tell us how they feel
about their abilities.”
Everyone
did so. Everyone felt very good about
their abilities, and Vyizder was quite pleased.
“Very good, class, very good!!! I’m so
glad we all feel good about our
talents! It’s good to feel good! Now since
we all feel so good about our work, we must all be rewarded!” Vyizder clapped his hands. A butler appeared with a large round tray,
bearing ice cream sandwiches under frosted glass. “Make sure our star pupil, Raoul, here, gets
an extra one,” Vyizder ordered. “For
discovering the secret message about Ale Run’s Wisdom.” Everyone enjoyed their rewards.
“Now class,” Vyizder continued,
“We’ve got to stay serious. There’s a
lot of deep, deep, very heavy material to be covered here. We’ve got to move on. You’ll doubtlessly feel like you’re drinking
through a fire hose, but we’ve got to just go and do it. So let’s do
it!
“Okay, so we’ve got to wade right
in. Now in Omnology, our goal is to know
everything. After all, the Name of Our
Church is The Church of Omnology. Omno means all, just as omniscient means
all-knowing and omnipotent means
all-powerful, of course. So although we
don’t know quite exactly everything
just yet, Ale Run willing, we soon will.
I for one have a very hard time envisioning us Omnologists failing in
our endeavors, because we believe in ourselves.
We believe in positives. Belief
itself is a positive, you see. We just
have to work at it, and believe. Believe above all else! Because as you believe, so shall it be. Reality is defined by the observer.
“Then think no negative thoughts,
and your reality is forced to be positive.
Above all else, never believe any negative thoughts about yourself, or
about The Church of Omnology. Such
doubtful thoughts are the purest of scamgrams!
Whenever anything bad happens, it’s probably not your fault, and it sure as all git-out isn’t the fault of The
Church of Omnology! All badness and
chaos flows from scamgrams and bloody metans, not from you or The Church of
Omnology. Remember these basic facts,
and no scamgram can hurt you. Then
you’ll be able to learn, understand, and act from the most deeply profound of
all Omnological facts, and keep right on living a descamgramified life.
“Speaking of descamgramification, I
forgot to mention one of the new technologies that you’ll now be able to benefit
from. The less advanced metans among us
must contribute to The Church and be fleeced by a V-Meter, yes. But you’re far more advanced metans now, who’ve already given your all, and have
devoted your entire lives to The Church.
So there is no point in us subjecting you to time-consuming
fleecings. As staff members, you’ll have
the benefits of a far superior technology, which is called the Technology That
Makes ‘PING!’ Sounds. More informally,
among ourselves we call it the ‘Ping Thing’.
This is not to say that we mean to trivialize or disrespect the Ping
Thing, of course.”
Vyizder opened up a desk drawer and
lifted out a small black object. Lifting
it up, he said, “Behold the Ping Thing!
As you might expect, it does indeed go ‘PING!’! However, this cleverly designed and superbly
crafted technological wonder does far, far more. Whenever an expert Omnologist like me detects
a scamgram befestering a highly trained staff Omnologist like any of you, then
there’s no point in wasting time with a V-Meter.
“Trained Omnologists like yourselves
are capable of understanding the meaning and function of the Ping Thing, and
you have no need, any longer, for elaborate ceremonies to accompany your
fleecing with a V-Meter, to help you feel you got your donation’s worth. And frankly, any scamgram powerful enough to
befester a staff Omnologist wouldn’t be scared by a V-Meter anyway.
“For such more powerful scamgrams,
we must bring out the big guns! All we
have to do is point the Ping Thing at the befestered metan, push this little
red button here, and your scamgrams will be instantaneously de-energized! That is, so long as you continue to devote
your mental energies towards living a life that is pleasing to Ale Run, and most
especially in this case, so long as you pay special heed to the sound of the
Ping Thing. Since you are all highly
trained Omnologists now, I should hope I needn’t belabor this any further. I’d like to demonstrate the Ping Thing, but
its energies are sacred, and mustn’t be wasted on anything other than defending
trained Omnologists from scamgrams.
“Very well then, we must move on,
into the heart of Omnology as a Science.
One of the central teachings of Omnology as a Science is the
Five-and-Three-Quarters-Fold Way. Master
the five point seven five ways, thoroughly, and you’ll be almost like Ale Run
Himself. So you can see the Power of The
Ways.
“Now the first of The Ways is
Paradox. Examples are that all feelings
are valid, yet some feelings are more valid than others. Feelings in favor of Omnology, for example,
are far more valid than feelings against Omnology. This should be obvious to any Omnologist, but
we have to point it out just to be academically complete and rigorous.
“Another example of Paradox would be
that yes, reality is defined locally, by the immediate observer, but then
again, reality is also defined by other, more remote observers. My reality and your reality can’t both be
true, if they contradict each other. And
whose definitions of reality shall prevail?
That will be one of today’s major lessons. First, let’s complete our list of The Ways.
“The second Way is Eschatology,
which is the study of the End Times.
When will the Anti-Hubba-Bubba come, and how will we know who he or she
is? How then will we help Ale Run Hubba-Bubba
and The Church to rise up and triumphantly and finally vanquish all scamgrams,
inappropriateness, and less-valid feelings?
This entire topic encompasses some very profoundly Deep Matters, and
must remain to be examined some other day.
“The third Way is Quantum
Metaphysics. The Universe consists of an
almost infinite number of microverses, or small, local environments, and many,
but far fewer, macroverses, or large systems.
Then the Universe, of course, is the union of all macroverses. Quantum Metaphysics concerns the behavior, in
a micro-microversal scale, of almost infinitely tiny sub-atomic particles like
electrons, neutrons, positrons, photons, tachyons, and croutons. By studying the behavior of tiny particles,
we can seduce the Laws of the Universe, and hence, derived from these and other
Laws of Nature, moral Laws about how we should live our lives in obedience to
Ale Run.
“The fourth Way is Cosmology. Cosmology of course concerns the Universe¾the infinitely large and cosmic,
as opposed to the infinitely tiny. Here,
once again, we can seduce the laws of Mother Nature, from which we derive
Omnological moral rules. That’s why our
moral rules are so cosmic.
“The fifth Way is Cosmetology. Since reality is collectively defined by many
observers, we must make everything appear as attractive as possible. If reality appears attractive, then we will perceive it as attractive and good, and therefore it will be good. So our role as Omnological Cosmetologists is
to cover the blemishes and flaws in reality, to give reality the proper ‘spin’,
so that it will be perceived as more
positive, and therefore become more
positive. Remember, then, to strive for
positive thoughts at all times, especially about ourselves.
“Finally, the final three-quarters
Way is incompleteness. Our Omnological
ideas simply aren’t quite complete yet.
We still have more ideas and theories to devise and discover and new
marvels of technology to invent. Someday
we’ll be done, Ale Run’s Will will be done, and this Three-Quarters Way will no
longer be one of The Ways. So it is not
a full Way. But we’re obviously more than
half-baked. So we’re halfway between
half-baked and perfect¾hence,
for several reasons, this is the Three-Quarters Way. Only after we complete and perfect Omnology,
only then will the Anti-Hubba-Bubba become so enviously enraged as to lash out
and usher in the End Times. Thus will
the Anti-Hubba-Bubba inadvertently trigger the events which will allow us to
descamgramify the entire Universe, making everything perfect forever.
“Now our first major lesson of the
day illustrates a number of points about the Five and Three-Quarters-Fold
Way. Being scientifically profound
sophisticates, we take our teaching examples from arcane Laws of Nature. The first such law or phenomenon is that of
‘frame-dragging’. They’ve been planning
an experiment to measure this for forty years, and they’ve already spent five
hundred million dollars on it. It’s one
of Einstein’s predictions; the only theoretically predicted result of his
theory of relativity that hasn’t yet been measured.
“Soon, we’ll measure it. By ‘we’ I don’t mean specifically us
Omnologists, but us scientists generally.
We’ll launch a very special ‘gravity probe’ satellite with a near-perfect
gyroscope and a near-perfect telescope in a near-perfect vacuum. It will measure how the spinning Earth, to a
tiny, tiny degree, drags the very essence of space-time along with it, in its
spinning motion. You can read all about
it in the March 1997 issue of the science magazine Discover.
“To illustrate exactly what frame-dragging is, I have a little
thought experiment for you. You’re all
no doubt familiar with centrifugal force.
If you tie a stick onto a string and swing it around you, it will pull
on the string, as if it were trying to pull away from you. Spin ‘round and ‘round on the merry-go-round,
and you’re pushed towards the outside.
Stand inside a spinning space station, with your feet ‘down’ towards the
outer wall of the station, and you will feel artificial gravity caused by
centrifugal force pushing you down against that wall, in proportion to the
dimensions and spin rate of that space station.
“But wait! All things are relative! Who
says you and that space station are spinning, and that it isn’t you and
your station who are standing still, while all the rest of the universe
revolves around you? It may sound silly
at first, but the Universe has a sort of ‘voting scheme’. Put it another way¾the local properties of matter
originate in distant objects scattered throughout the universe. Each piece of matter in the entire universe
gets a ‘vote’, weighed according to its mass, as to what is ‘fixed’ space,
reference space, non-moving, non-spinning, stationary space, and who is
moving. Sound crazy? Well, it’s not just a democratic way to run
the universe, it’s the only way for everything to logically fall together in a
consistent manner.
“OK, the thought experiment. You’re sitting in a non-rotating space
station, and all the matter out there is ‘fixed’ with respect to you. None of it revolves around you. You feel no force at all; you float in zero
gravity. Now you start the station
spinning. You’re pushed against its
outer walls. You feel one ‘G’ of
Earth-normal artificial gravity, because we select the right rotation radius
and spin rate.
“But now a miraculous outside force
interferes. Suppose it should please Ale
Run to grab half of the matter in the entire universe and start it revolving
around you, so that it is now spatially ‘fixed’ with respect to your spinning
walls. Guess what? Your one ‘G’ would be cut in half! As you’d use your miracle force to grab more
and more of the universe’s mass, and cause it to revolve around you also, then
your centrifugal force would also diminish.
By the time you were done, all the matter in the universe would now be
‘fixed’ with respect to your now-stationary walls of your no-longer-spinning
space station, and you’d feel no force.
Everything would be the same as when you started, because you’re no
longer spinning with respect to all those other pieces of matter out there,
each of which gets a ‘vote’ on whether you’re spinning or not.
“Thus is reality collectively
defined by matter, by observers, by who is doing what with respect to everyone
else. Notice that the larger your mass,
the larger your ‘vote’. If you collected
99.9999 plus percent of the universe’s mass into one giant sphere, and you took
a tiny flyspeck of three micrograms of dirt and revolved the dirt around the
giant sphere, would the giant sphere then start to ‘think’ it was spinning with
respect to the stationary speck, feeling centrifugal force, and falling apart
due to that centrifugal force? Or would
it dismiss the tiny flyspeck as just being a tiny bit of dirt in orbit around
it, with centrifugal force holding the speck up against the giant sphere’s
gravity? Does the Earth orbit the Sun,
or does the Sun orbit the Earth?
“Just think of it this way: A
massive object will grab the frame of reference and drag it along with it. Hence the term frame-dragging. A massive
object defines reality to suit itself.
When an aircraft carrier and a kayak both say ‘this is my space’, the
aircraft carrier wins.
“Yes, Raoul, you have a question?”
“Yes Sir, I sure do. Now you suggested in this thought experiment
of yours that Ale Run could cause half of the universe’s mass to rotate around
us, if He should choose to do so. Could
we maybe have Him just go ahead and do that? This would demonstrate this frame dragging thing, saving research
funds, and far more! Wouldn’t that alone
be a quite compelling demonstration of the wisdom, power, and brilliance of
Omnological thought? Wouldn’t such a
demonstration be sufficient to justify federal funding for the Scientific
Institute for the Advancement of Omnology?”
“Sure, Raoul, I’m sure that would be
quite compelling! But you see, Ale Run plays no favorites. He wants us Omnological scientists to
demonstrate the superiority of our thought, of our dedication to His Will, over
that of more mundane, conventional scientists, on a level playing ground. He wants us to develop and demonstrate our
great strengths as Omnological researchers, by wresting the Universe’s tightly
guarded Secrets from Her. No strokes of
lightning from the clouds at His opponents, and no miraculous interference in
the affairs of mere mortal metans.
That’s the way Ale Run operates, Blessed Be His Name.”
“But why, Sir, why? Couldn’t He just force the stubborn Universe
to yield up Her precious Secrets, which She guards so jealously? Couldn’t He just make everything and everyone
perfect forever and get it over with?”
“No, Raoul, because, well, we must
be allowed our own free will. We must
choose descamgramification or chaos, badness, and bloody metans, entirely of
our own free will. Ale Run believes that
metans, and the Universe for that matter, are basically good, and will choose
to do His Will, if we’ll just use our V-Meters and Ping Things to help the
ignorant metans along.
Descamgramification freely chosen is best of all.”
“But Sir, if all metans are
basically good, why does The Church of Omnology end up suing the badness and
chaos out of everyone who says bad things about us?”
“Because that is the Will of Ale
Run! Now these are entirely legitimate
questions, but this is a scientific
organization, not a theological and philosophical organization!” Vyizder calmed himself back down, and
continued in a quieter tone of voice.
“Well, I do admit, though, that science can sometimes show us The Way,
morally, ethically, and Omnologically, as far as we should behave, and follow
the Will of Ale Run. Now let’s get back
to frame dragging.
“What are the practical, moral
implications of frame dragging for us as metans and Omnologists? Besides refraining from arguing with a
tracker trailer if we’re driving a bicycle?
Should we all go out to the nearest all-you-can-eat restaurant, and
start putting on mass, so that we can define reality on our own terms? No, I’m afraid not! We Omnologists can’t become Masters of the
Universe by playing the game on the level of dumb, stupid, low-level
matter. We have to take the fight to the
higher levels of Life and of Spirit.
“On the spiritual plane, that which
corresponds to frame-dragging is fame-dragging. Those who are famous get to define reality to
suit themselves. Who is important? What ideas are important? What is Deep and Meaningful? Who deserves to saturate the media? Those who are famous, not those who are
massive! If you’re too massive, as a
matter of fat, chances are that you’ll not be famous! You’re much better off paying attention,
then, to Cosmetology, not Cosmology, when it comes to being able to define
reality to suit yourself.
“So as devoted Omnologists, we must
at all times remember the very important principles of fame-dragging. Those who are famous define our reality. So if we Omnologists want famous metans to
define Omnology as good, so that Omnology will be perceived as good, then we
must go way, way far out of our way to accommodate the actors, actresses,
screenwriters, producers, and directors of Panderwood! At all costs, we must make fame-dragging
work for us! So whenever any good Omnologist runs into any
famous metans from Panderwood, even if they are famous for nothing other than
for being famous, then we must...”
At this point, Raoul couldn’t
concentrate on what Vyizder was saying any longer. He slipped off into resentful thoughts about
how the lure of fame, Panderwood, and rich, handsome, square-jawed actors had
stolen his beloved companion human away.
Yes, she’d fallen for it. For
actors who not only knew how to light cigarettes, open beer cans, and love a
woman in just the right way, but who also put their rolls of toilet paper up
just right. For the likes of Jon
Travibesty. For...
‘PING!’ ‘PING!’
‘PING!’ At first, Raoul thought
he’d been caught in some submariner’s sonar.
Then he snapped out of it to see that Vyizder was pointing the Ping
Thing at him. He straightened out,
paying attention to what Vyizder was saying.
“You’ve been befestered by
scamgrams,” Vyizder rebuked Raoul. “Now wake up!
Fame-dragging is a fact of life.
You’ve got to just live with
it, and make it work for us! Yes, I know, some of us resent how so many
metans in Panderwood are so rich, pretty, handsome, thin, famous, and
powerful. And some of us resent them for
stealing our companion humans away. Yes,
I know. As an expert Omnologist, I know
a lot. But we have to put it all behind
us, and work for the good of Omnology, and the descamgramification of all
metans. A good place to start is for us
to pander to the stars of Panderwood, so that they, in turn, will pander to us
and for us.
“Now Raoul, I’ve ‘pinged’ your
scamgrams away, thanks to the Grace of Our Lord Ale Run and his Marvelous
Wonders of Technology. Beware, lest they
befester you yet again! Panderwood is
how we will take Omnology to the people, so don’t allow the scamgrams of
resentment to get in your way.
“Let’s move on. We Omnologists aren’t just passively sitting
by the sidelines as science marches on.
No, Sir! We have a few irons in
the fire ourselves. Now, as a very
special treat, I’ll introduce you to two of our finest researchers. They’ll tell us all about the very latest in
their exciting new research and development efforts. Hold on.”
Vyizder grabbed a telephone and started punching the buttons. The class murmured excitedly while he
briefly, quietly chatted on the phone.
Vyizder hung up the phone and
announced, “They’re on their way! OK,
now, so who are they, you ask? They are
Dr. Iame Ghuanobhraine, our foremost quantum metaphysicist, and Dr. Dorcus
Moorphlegmgasm, our multi-talented systems expert of methodological,
metrological, scatological, and expertological expertology. She’s truly a one-woman wonder! She obtained the coveted title of Senior
Fellowette of Omnology at the tender age of twenty-nine.
“They’ll both be here in just a few
minutes. Why don’t we just take this
time to get up and stretch. Take a
break.” Everyone took a break.
Soon enough, everyone took their
seats again. Then Vyizder introduced
Iame and Dorcus. Sparing few words on
pleasantries, Iame launched right into a dissertation on quantum
metaphysics. “Ladies and gentlemetans,”
he said, “Quantum metaphysics is a fairly new and modern science. It really doesn’t go very far back at
all. Let me just briefly mention its
history, then we’ll describe what’s new and exciting, right here at the
Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology. We’re exploring possibilities of radical new
breakthroughs, as far as practical applications are concerned. The implications for Omnology are profound
and far-reaching.
“Omnological historians have
recently discovered that quantum metaphysics was actually developed in secret
way before modern Omnology was formally formulated and revealed by Our Lord Ale
Run Hubba-Bubba. Ale Run’s father, as a
matter of fact, we could say, was an Omnologist before Omnology even
arose. Knowing, though, that the world
wasn’t quite ready for Omnology yet, he performed his good deeds in
secret. One of his good deeds, of
course, was to raise Ale Run wisely, so that Ale Run could develop the
technological breakthroughs of Omnology, and correctly judge the time and place
to reveal Omnology to the world.
“Some background, now. In the late Nineteen-Thirties, the fascists
of Europe, Hitler especially, were building up dark powers with which to
enslave the world. They were befestered
with massive clusters of scamgrams, bloody metans, and inappropriateness. Insensitivity, even. Milk Walk Hubba-Bubba, Ale Run’s father, was
a very wise, perceptive young man. A man
before his time.
“Now like I say, Milk Walk was a
very wise man. As such, he was very,
very Sensitive. So it troubled him
greatly, what he had to do. But he knew
he had to do it. Otherwise, the world was
destined to become befestered by massive clusters of scamgrams, for a long,
long time. And Milk Walk was wise, yes,
but he wasn’t wise enough to invent V-Meters and Ping Things with which to
fleece the fascists. So he intervened in
more crude, violent ways. He took
advantage of the Hindenburg Uncertainty Principle, and devised a clever
technology which has remained secret until Omnological historians recently
uncovered evidence of it.”
Raoul was waving his hand eagerly,
so Iame acknowledged him, saying, “Yes, you have a question?”
“Um, yes, Doctor Ghuanobhraine, I
was wondering, um, you said something about the Hindenburg Uncertainty Principle.
Don’t you mean the Heiselburger Uncertainty
Principle?”
“No, I certainly don’t mean the Heiselburger Uncertainty
Principle, young man,” Iame replied sternly.
“Milk Run Hubba-Bubba was far, far wiser than Doctor Heiselburger. He saw not only the Uncertainty Principle,
but also its deeper implications, and how it might be put to use. Most impressively of all, Milk Walk also saw
that the world wasn’t ready for his amazing technology yet. So he very humbly kept his technology secret,
and only used it once, for the eventual descamgramification of all metans. In honor of this one very important,
world-saving use of the Uncertainty Principle, we Omnologists call it the
Hindenburg Uncertainty Principle. We put
applications far, far above mere theoretical amusements.
“You see, the Uncertainty Principle
simply states that sub-atomic particles, like electrons for example, are very,
very finicky about their privacy, their modesty. It’s one of the Laws of the Universe that
such particles shouldn’t let us know both their position and their velocity at any given point in time. One or the other, that we can know, and they
don’t take offense. But if we know both at the same time, well, then, they’ve been violated, the Laws of the
Universe have been violated. The
Universe doesn’t look very kindly upon sub-atomic particles that are such
floozy hussies as to let us know both at the same time.
“Milk Walk was aware of all
this. He was also aware of the impending
befesterment of all metans. So he took
action. It pained him greatly, but he
took action. Better that a few should
die, than that all metans should be befestered by scamgrams forever. He built two top-secret measuring devices,
and hooked each one to a top-secret computer.
All these devices were of a technology too advanced to be revealed till
much, much later.
“What he did, is he had one computer
measure the velocities of a bunch of electrons, while the other computer
simultaneously measured their positions.
Since neither computer knew what the other computer knew, neither the
electrons nor the Universe took any offense, at that point. Then he put all these electrons into a tiny
little jar, and stashed it in the condiments in the pantry aboard the German
zeppelin Hindenburg. Then he waited till
just exactly the right group of people, people destined to make Hitler win World
War II, were aboard the Hindenburg. Milk
Walk, you see, could analyze their vibes intuitively, without even so much as a
V-Meter.
“So on the 6th of May, 1937, when
the Hindenburg was moored in Lakehurst, New Jersey, Milk Walk knew that the
time was right. He linked his two
computers, and they shared data. Those
electrons were in for an extremely rude surprise! Now, two computers knew, and could
graphically display to any viewer, both the past simultaneous positions and
velocities of these electrons! The
Universe was outraged, to say the least!
Most of the electrons were so embarrassed and ashamed that they
committed suicide. They exploded into
pure energy, in a matter-to-energy conversion.
This ignited the hydrogen gas aboard the giant dirigible, and she and
her passengers went down in flames.
“Milk Walk Hubba-Bubba took this
terrible secret to his grave with him.
He knew that the world wasn’t yet ready for his awesome
technologies. But late in life he
fathered Ale Run, Blessed be His Name.
Only recently have Omnological historians, mainly with the aid of Ale
Run Himself, been able to reconstruct what Milk Walk did. So that’s where we’re at today.
“Now I must remind you, all that you
hear in these classrooms must be kept strictly among just us, staff Omnologists
and higher. The secrets of the
Hindenburg Uncertainty Principle must especially be closely guarded, until such
time as we’ve had a chance to develop it more fully, and to build more
practical applications. Then and only
then will the world know of our astounding, amazing exploits.
“What are we working on now? Well, I’ll tell you this much for sure, we’ve
not just been sitting around and contemplating the nature of the Universe! First off, we tried to repeat Milk Walk’s
little experiment. Just with a very,
very few electrons, to be sure, so as to play it safe. No use in blowing up the lab, of course.
“Unfortunately, it didn’t work. After that first little episode, way back in
1937, the Universe learned its lessons, and tightened up its procedures quite a
bit. So now, when we try to repeat Milk
Walk’s experiment, the electrons actually change
their attributes in reaction to the measurement process! By measuring them, we interfere in that which
we’re measuring.
“A very good analogy would be a
simple one. You have a bowl of water,
and you want to measure its temperature.
But to do so, you’ve got to put a thermometer in it, and that
thermometer will heat or cool the water, depending on whether it’s hotter or
colder than the water. Only if the
thermometer’s temperature already exactly matches the water, only then will it
not change the water. And of course, to pre-heat or pre-cool the
thermometer so as to achieve this ideal state of non-intervention, then you’ve
got to know the water’s temperature already, which makes the whole exercise
pointless. More sophisticated methods of
measuring the heat in that water, such as measuring the rate of evaporation or
infrared heat emissions, also suffer, because heat is lost during those processes.
“Anyway, the Universe now preserves
the privacy of all but its most slutty sub-atomic particles through this new
and improved version of the Hindenburg Uncertainty Principle, which now
basically says that the process of measuring something interferes with the
parameter being measured. Since we’re
part of Nature, we can never measure or observe her unobtrusively enough to
completely and accurately know everything about even a small, simple, isolated
system. So we’ll never again be able to
sneak up on Nature and catch her off guard, in the exact same way as Milk Walk
did.
“We Omnologists are very clever and
resourceful, though. And stubborn, for
that matter. We’re not giving up
yet! If we’re firmly prevented from
measuring both an electron’s position and
velocity at a given precise point in time, now, it seems to me, and to other
brilliant Omnological particle metaphysicists, that there might be methods of deriving this data. And if Nature is so adamant about us not
knowing both of these things, we might be able to develop powerful new
technologies based on Nature’s aversions here.
When we poke and prod Nature, and threaten to wrest this information
from her, there’s no telling what concessions
we might be able to obtain from her in return.”
Raoul noticed Dr. Dorcus
Moorphlegmgasm’s startled but silent response.
He briefly debated asking Dr. Ghuanobhraine about the ethical propriety
of thus messing with Mother Nature. He
contemplated his most recent scamgrams, though, both in thinking negative
thoughts about Panderwood actors and fame-dragging, and in trying to question
Dr. Ghuanobhraine’s wisdom about the name of the Uncertainty Principle,
Hindenburg versus Heiselburger. He
decided it might be most wise to just sit back and observe, rather than
arrogantly trying to correct his leaders.
No one else bothered to challenge
Dr. Ghuanobhraine, so he went blithely on, not noticing how Dr. Moorphlegmgasm
fidgeted. “What we can do,” he declared,
“is to measure just one of those two
parameters, and to derive the others!
We’ll measure an electron’s position a hundred times, say, over the span
of a hundred picoseconds. While we’re
doing this, we’ll use an atomic clock to very precisely track time, and the
time of each measurement.
“Then we can use extremely
sophisticated supercomputers, software, and the wisdom of Omnological
mathematics, which says that velocity is change in position over time. We can then threaten the Universe with our
computers, whose computations could thus allow us to know both the electron’s
position and velocity. The Universe will then be forced make
concessions to us.”
“Doctor Ghuanobhraine, I’m very
disappointed in you,” Doctor Moorphlegmgasm interjected disgustedly. “All good Omnologists know that it’s not nice
to mess with Mother Nature, that chaos is badness. You’re pushing the limits of
appropriateness. In front of the
children yet, too! You’d better watch
out, or I’ll be forced to come over there and embarrass you in front of everyone. I’ll have to crack you across your knuckles
with my Ping Thing. Now straighten out!”
Vyizder looked pained, disliking the
spectacle of Omnology leaders arguing.
Raoul watched anxiously, worrying about the badness of chaos, but also
wondering what brilliant minds like Dr. Ghuanobhraine might be able to wrest
from a secretive Mother Nature.
“Oh, don’t be such a rigid-minded
prude!” Iame shot back. “All good
Omnologists also know that all feelings are valid, and that Omnological
technology is goodness! I feel that we
might derive a lot of goodness from some sort of new technology here. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but we’ve got to investigate! Ale Run has commanded us to go forth and
invent new technology. So we must!
If we are ever to have society and the government recognize Omnology as
a Science as well as Omnology as a Religion, then we must blaze on!” He glared at
Dorcus.
Dorcus finally averted her eyes, but
Raoul could hear her continue to mumble something about, well, so long as we
all keep in mind that chaos is badness, and keep an eye open for chaos breaking
out from an irate Mother Nature, well, then, she guesses we can go on. But don’t say she never warned us. And rrffumm grggum rrgguffumm.
Iame ignored most of her mumbled
protests, but continued in a more subdued manner, concentrating on not
appearing to gloat in triumph. “Very
well then, we’ll proceed, keeping in mind that chaos is badness. Please follow me to the lab, and we’ll see
how well this works.”
Everyone followed Iame to the
lab. Barely inside the lab, they met an
eagerly grinning assistant, who Iame introduced as “Meegore”. The crowd strolled on over to a large
metallic machine with lots of hoses, gauges, switches, and LEDs. One single chair allowed an operator to sit
in front of it, close to the focal point of all the controls and gauges. The focal point itself was a vaguely
microscope-like binocular set of eyepieces.
Iame stood between this powerfully
lurking machine and his audience, declaring, “What you see here, ladies and
gentlemen, may very well be more important to the future of humanity than fire,
the wheel, and Cheese Dwonkiesä combined.
With it, we will obey the commandments of Ale Run, and blaze on for the
glory of Omnology as a Science! Now bear
with me while I set up our grand experiment.”
Everyone watched anxiously as Iame
flipped a large switch. A deep hum
filled the air and shook the floor, transmitting through bodies and rattling
rib cages. Rows upon rows of LEDs
flickered hypnotically. Iame threw more
switches, and more noises roared to life.
He peered into the eyepieces. A
large monitor started glowing harshly above his work station.
He turned to the class, shouting
above the din, saying, “We’re about to begin.
You’ll be able to get a fair idea of what’s going on by watching this
monitor here. I’ll explain what we see
later. Let’s begin!”
Iame and Meegore started throwing
yet more switches, and even more sounds assaulted everyone’s ears. The building seemed to shake. Iame grabbed a set of earphones and peered excitedly
into the Omnoscope. Green fuzzballs
dashed about madly on the screen, tracing hectic, seemingly random paths across
the blue background. Iame shouted
incoherent commands to Meegore, and both of them burst into a frantic blur of
incomprehensible interactions with the machine.
At the climax of all this
excitement, Raoul noticed some little red dots zipping back and forth between
the green balls on the screen. None of
this made much if any sense to him. I’ve
got a long, long way to go, till I can be a great particle metaphysicist like
Dr. Ghuanobhraine, Raoul managed to think, despite all the tensions that
drenched his body with stress hormones.
Iame appeared momentarily baffled,
exchanging some anxious shouts with Meegore.
But then he gave the class a “thumbs up” sign, and he and Meegore began
flipping switches again. The noises
subsided. Finally, Iame threw the main
switch, and sweet silence pervaded the lab once again.
“We’ve got good readings,” Dr. Iame
Ghuanobhraine announced triumphantly to the class. “But I’m very puzzled by the appearance of
some strange phenomena I’ve never seen before.
You might have noticed them as little red dots on the screen. I’m not sure what they are. They might even be what we call ‘artifacts’,
or things that aren’t really there, that are just the results of flaws in our
instrumentation. We’ll have to
investigate some more.
“But meantime, the good news is that
we’ve got good data! We’ve precisely
measured and timed one hundred sequential positions of a population of several
dozen electrons. Some no doubt escaped
from our field of view during the observation period, but many remained within
the field long enough for us to get a statistically valid set of
measurements. Now all we have to do is
to use this raw data to perform some calculations, and we can violate the Laws
of the Universe, just like Milk Walk Hubba-Bubba did back in 1937.”
Dr. Dorcus Moorphlegmgasm stood up
tall and indignantly, preparing to protest, but Iame beat her to the
punch. Before she could say a word, he
announced, “Of course, first things first.
Before we unilaterally go off and violate the Laws of the Universe by
knowing both the positions and the velocities of these electrons, we’ll
negotiate in good faith with the Universe.
If the Universe makes a good offer, we’ll accept it.
“And don’t worry; even if the
Universe refuses to negotiate, and we have to go through with the calculations,
there’s no real danger. We’re only
dealing with dozens of electrons at the worst.
Even if they all commit suicide and turn into pure energy, it won’t
compare to the Hindenburg incident. That
incident involved hundreds of millions of electrons, and they were set off in a
large dirigible full of combustible hydrogen gas. We’ll contain our measured electrons in a
large pool of water just to be safe.
And, of course, we’ll be monitoring these electrons, to see if and when
they turn into pure energy.” Iame
motioned to Meegore, who began fussing at the Omnoscope to take care of this
detail.
“Let’s get on with it,” Iame barked
out the command. “Meegore. While you’re taking care of those electrons,
why don’t you take a few seconds out to page another assistant. We need some help here.” Meegore nodded in assent.
Iame had some time to kill while
Meegore paged another assistant, extracted the measured electrons, and carried
them off. So Iame used this time to
explain to the class exactly how brilliant Omnological technology had allowed
them to design the Omnoscope to hopefully communicate with the Universe. They were about to witness a great historical
event in the development of Omnology as a Science, he announced.
Shortly, Iame and his new assistant,
Heegore, flipped switches once again.
This time, only a small portion of the Omnoscope was turned on, and very
little noise was created.
“This is Doctor Iame Ghuanobhraine
on behalf of Omnology as a Science, The Church of Omnology, and Our Dear
Leader, The One Who Fleeces Our Scamgrams Away, Ale Run Hubba-Bubba,” Iame
spoke into the microphone. “Universe,
come in. Universe, come in. Over.”
There was a long pause.
“Universe, I say again, this is
Doctor...” Iame repeated the same
greeting, adding, “Universe, we have the data.
We have data on precise positions of several dozen of your electrons,
and we can perform computations to derive their velocities also. Now unless you wish to watch us violate your
Laws with impunity, unless you wish to relinquish powers that you’ve always
guarded jealously, then we suggest you enter into negotiations with us. We’ll be reasonable. Universe, come in.” Again, the seconds and minutes fled in
silence.
Dorcus could contain her anger no
longer. “Doctor, I’d remind you that
messing with Mother Nature is badness, and that chaos is badness. This is quite arrogant of us, to go off and
act so pushy like this,” she snarled.
“You never know what the Universe might do to strike back.”
“Don’t be such a fuss-budget,” Iame
chided. “The Universe will come around
eventually. It must! Else we will overturn
Mother Nature’s Laws, and use them for the benefit of Omnology as a
Science. And for the descamgramification
of all metans, I might add. Either way,
we win. Be patient, wait and see. You’ll see that Omnological technology is
goodness. I promise!
“Brilliant minds always encounter
violent opposition from mediocre minds.
I’m just the latest in a long, long line of brilliant scientists who
everyone said was a kook, but who was then later proven to be correct. Just you wait and see!”
Dorcus mumbled and grumbled once
more. Iame ignored her, speaking into
the microphone again. “Universe, this is
your last chance. Start good-faith
negotiations now, or we’ll have no
choice but to start usurping your Laws.
Universe, come in.” Again, there
was only silence.
Meegore came back. Iame glanced at him quizzically. Meegore nodded affirmatively. “Very well,” Iame signaled to his
assistants. “Set up the
computations.” Iame, Heegore, and
Meegore and started throwing switches.
Then they set up Iame’s computer terminal.
After they finished with this brief
task, Iame picked up the microphone one last time. “Universe, this is your last chance. I have the
‘commence computations’ icon on screen now,
and all I have to do is click on it.
Come in NOW!” Still, the Universe
stubbornly refused to reply.
“Very well,” Iame grumped. “We have no choice. We will now step off into the great unknown,
taking off from where Milk Walk Hubba-Bubba left us long ago. This will be one small mouse click for me,
and a giant fleecing for all metans! To
the glory of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba and all Omnologists everywhere!”
He moved his hand dramatically
towards the mouse. Dorcus rushed towards
him, deploying her Ping Thing in one deft, practiced swoop. “PING!
PING! PING!” The lab resonated with the blood-curdling
sounds of PING!s dispatched in righteous anger.
“There! Take that, you lousy bunch of scamgrams!” Dorcus screeched. “Iame, wake up!!! You’re severely befestered by humongous
clusters of scamgrams!!! Scamgrams of
unnatural, anti-Nature arrogance! Wake
up now, before it’s too late!!!”
Iame wasn’t about to take all this
sitting down. He shot up, reeled
backwards, and hefted his own Ping Thing.
“PING!-PING!-PING!-PING!-PING!,” the Ping Things erupted in angry volleys. All the students hit the deck as Iame and
Dorcus doused each other in barrages of PING!s.
“You self-righteous wench, YOU’RE the befestered one!” Iame
shouted. “I’ve gotten Ale Run Himself to bless this whole
thing!!! Now get a grip!!!”
Vyizder looked white as a
ghost. But when he heard about whose
side Ale Run Himself was on, he sprang into action. He whipped out his own Ping Thing, and he and
Iame together, with twice the PING!-power of Dorcus alone, were able to subdue
her. They summoned the guards, who in
turn hauled her away for an intensive descamgramification.
Shortly, everyone settled back down,
so that the ceremony could begin once again.
Dr. Iame Ghuanobhraine was even so magnanimous as to allow the Universe
yet one more chance to enter good-faith negotiations, now that more time had
passed. Once more, there was no reply.
“Very well then, have it your way,”
Iame asserted petulantly. Then he
clicked his mouse on the icon.
Computations commenced.
Illustration goes here above… Scientists fighting
13)
Omnology Fleeces Panderwood
“My looks? Now, to remind myself I can look good, I keep
many flattering pictures of myself around the house.” Heather Locklear, American actress.
“I don’t believe in
truth. I believe in style.” Hugh Grant,
British actor.
Francestuous set out on her great adventure to study
Omnology as a Religion. She and her fellow
pupils rode a blue bus all the way from Madness County to Chicago, courtesy of
The Church of Omnology. In the back of
that blue bus, Francestuous met her One and True Love (besides Omnology), an
uncertain but determined and earnest young man named Newt Rather.
When they met, Newt and Francestuous just started
lightheartedly chatting about the weather, the scenery, their bus ride,
Omnology, and their career ambitions.
Francestuous told him all about how she wanted to be a famous actress in
Panderwood, so that she could create Great Art, which is to say, Deeply Moving
Movies and TV Shows. Newt told her all
about how he wanted to be either a Congressperson or a news reporter, he wasn’t
sure which, and how he sure was having a tough time deciding.
But then they started to exchange their deepest longings
and most profound confessional thoughts.
As they talked, Francestuous couldn’t help but notice his breath. It smelled sweetly quiet, in that it didn’t smell of toothpaste and the death screams
of millions of innocent bacteria. So
they fell Deeply, Truly In Love. This,
despite how Francestuous had so recently and so tragically become a Victim of
Love! “You must really, really be a
Deeply Caring Metan,” Newt exclaimed to Francestuous, “So selfless! So willing to risk, in order to Love, and to
live life to its fullest!”
“Oh, yes,” she sighed.
“That’s me. Just a fool for
Love. Now, of course, I can only like
fall Deeply In Love with sincere, cuddly and studly, Sensitive men like
you. And this will be the last time I’ll
ever need to Fall In Love. ‘Cause it’s
you and me, babe. Just you and me,
forever and ever. Right, Snuggle Bunny,
Dextrose Dimples?”
“Right on, Galactose Gams,” he replied. “Just you and me. Forever.”
They embraced passionately in that last row of seats back there in the
rear of that blue bus, chartered by The Church of Omnology and headed for
Chicago.
Finally, Francestuous pulled back from Newt, saying, “You
know, I, like, sometimes I, um, worry that I might be getting into like a
co-dependent relationship with you, you know what I mean?”
“Now, don’t get all paranoid about that, Saccharin Snuggles,” he said.
“We’re In Love, but you’re still in denial. Face it, we’re In Love. So we just have to accept that. Denial is a scamgram. All feelings are valid, so don’t deny our
Love. Denying one’s feelings of Love is
the biggest scamgram of all.” He pulled
her closer to him, snuggling her shoulder.
She relented, pulling him closer. “You’re right,” she said. “Denial is a scamgram. And you’re so deep and thoughtful and
compassionate, Newt, Baby! You empower
me! I think we need closure. Right back here we have a little lavatory,
see? Now it might not be very big or
very comfortable, but we, like, you know, you and I, we could slip in there,
and get our closure. Come on!” She tugged on his arm. But just then, a large fellow Omnologist
waddled back towards the lavatory, and claimed it for quite some time. Then by the time he left, a line formed, so
Newt and Francestuous never did get their closure in the back of the blue bus.
So they settled for just hugging and kissing and
discussing Love, life, and theology.
Francestuous never did manage to persuade Newt that a sense of sexual
privacy equated shameful shame over that which Ale Run had descamgramified,
which was the glorious metan body. They
resolved to put the question to an Omnological expert at their next
opportunity: was public love-making, or was it not, a scamgram? And if it depended on the situation, then
when was it a scamgram, and when wasn’t it?
Would it be a scamgram if everyone present was an Omnologist? Aren’t Omnologists supposed to accept all
feelings?
Their theological debates were cut short when the blue
bus arrived at the airport, where similar busses from all across the Midwest
were congregating and disgorging their newly-recruited Omnologist
passengers. Francestuous and Newt
gathered up their meager luggage. They
stuck together as the crowds from all the busses were herded together.
Soon, they found themselves in the middle of a large
crowd in what appeared to be a convention hall, right there on the outskirts of
the airport. Presently, a man scaled a
podium. He appealed to the crowd to calm
down, and to listen.
“Hi there, all you dedicated new Omnologists! In the Name of Ale Run, I greet and
congratulate you! For it’s you, it’s us,
it’s all of us together who will descamgramify the world! Yes, the whole world! That is what Ale Run has commanded that we
should do, so that is what we are doing.
“I’m sorry, I should introduce myself first. I’m Orziz Assiz, a Doctor of Omnology as a
Religion, and your Spirit Guide for now.
I’ll be giving...”
Francestuous nudged Newt, whispering, “That’s him! He’s the advanced metan who introduced...”
Other Omnologists were glaring at them, so Newt replied
in a whisper, “Yeah, he taught the night I signed up, too. Now maybe we’d better listen.”
“...will shortly be getting on charter flight 377 to Los
Diablos. And those of you who will be
studying media and government will be...”
Francestuous stared longingly into Newt’s eyes, silently appealing one
more time that he should come with her out to Los Diablos. He pouted and hung his head. But he also shook his head “no”.
“But first,” Orziz continued, “Ale Run Himself has asked
me to talk to you real briefly, to get you all motivated for what lies
ahead. Yes, the job has already
begun. But in another sense, here today
is when we start. And we will not finish
till the job is done! We, together, will
fleece all the scamgrams in the whole world!”
The crowd thundered applause.
“Today some of you will be going out to Los Diablos,
where we have our Intergalactic Headquarters.
Also very importantly, that’s where Panderwood is. Those of you who are headed out that way have
some very, very important missions that you must carry out. For the descamgramification of everyone, and
for the Glory of Our Lord Ale Run and The Church of Omnology, may all your
vibes come clear!
“Then there are those of you who are traveling to our
nation’s capital, where we Omnologists are also establishing a great
institution. That’s the Media and
Government Institute for the Fleecing of All Metans, for anyone here who is
befestered by the scamgrams of a poor memory.
And as we speak, our fellow Omnologists are also gathering in Akron,
Ohio, at the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology. Together, we will do great things!
“Now as Ale Run has instructed me, I wish to briefly
sketch the ‘big picture’ here for you.
We won’t descamgramify the world tomorrow. We must start with America. We will first turn the minds of Americans
away from their shallow, trivial pursuits, so that they can turn them towards
the Greater Truths that Omnology has to offer.
“How will we do that?
How do we start? Of course, we
continue to spread the Good Word, as we’ve done already. Don’t forget to tell all your friends about
Omnology. But for the bigger picture,
how do we descamgramify America, for starters?
We must look at things systematically.
We must look at where America is now, so that we can move her towards
where she needs to go. Towards being
fleeced of all her scamgrams.
“America’s scamgrams are mostly related to worshipping
the wrong things. Instead of worshipping
Ale Run and a blissful state of total descamgramification, they worship many
false gods. We must turn their eyes away
from their false gods, and turn them to Ale Run!
“In America today, we have those who worship
Panderwood. That’s not bad; it just
needs improved on. We must move in on
Panderwood, and convert all the actors and actresses, producers and
screenwriters, directors and agents.
We’ll do this by serving as a beacon unto all those lost souls in
Panderwood. You who go to Panderwood,
you must serve as our beacons, our bright, shining lights of Omnological
enlightenment! Get out there, get into
good jobs as actors, actresses, screenwriters, and so on, and show them The
Way. Panderwood will soon be ours!
“It won’t be so hard to do, so have faith. Don’t let the scamgrams of despair get you
down. Those in Panderwood who know that
perception is reality and that all feelings are valid, they’ll help us. And there are many, many folks out there in
Panderwood already who agree with us!
They are Omnologists already; they just don’t know it yet! Go with Ale Run! Go with Ale Run in your heart, and shine your
light to those who don’t yet know the Lord Ale Run. If you will let your lights shine, Panderwood
will soon be ours. And when Panderwood
is ours, all those who already worship Panderwood will be worshipping Ale Run
instead. The world will be fleeced of
many scamgrams!
“And then there are those who worship power and
access. That’s not bad, either, because
power and access are valid desires, like any other desire. Once again, it just needs improved on. We should desire access to the powers of
Omnology, that’s all. So we’re sending
many of you to Washington, D.C., which is the focal point of much access and
power.
“You must carry our bright beacons to Washington, and let
them shine there, just as they will shine in Panderwood. With the brilliant lights of Omnology, we
will find many legal and moral rights for all Omnologists. We must show the media and government that we
Omnologists have the religious freedoms and rights to do whatever Ale Run
commands us to do. If we will seek the
Ale Run within ourselves, then we will find that Ale Run energizes us to gain
access and power in Washington.
“We’ll place a few Omnologists in the media and in
government, for starters. These
Omnologists will promise access and power to others, if only they’ll see the
Wisdom of Ale Run. Thus, we’ll attract
those people who desire more access and power.
With power and access, and with Ale Run’s amazing technology, we’ll
fleece many scamgrams!
“Then there are those that worship
reason and science. This is entirely
good, because Omnology is a science. We
are more reasonable and rational than anyone else on this whole planet, and Ale
Run Hubba-Bubba is most rational of all!
So we have no problem with that.
The brilliant torch of Omnology as a science will be carried by the
Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology. Those of us who are blazing that path aren’t
here today, so I’ll not say too much there.
Just this: Don’t worry, we’ll advance on many fronts! Many surprises are coming our way!
“Then there are those who worship
the false gods of God. These are our
hardest nuts to crack. Strong,
irrational ideology is the ultimate scamgram, so we must call upon the powers
of Ale Run. Fortunately, we have a major
factor working with us: Many who claim to worship God are really worshipping
social and political propriety. They
worship whoever their friends, families, and bosses are worshipping, and they
worship them in the same manner that these ‘powers that be’ worship. So when they see science, Panderwood, the
media, and politicians all lining up to pay tribute to the powers of Ale Run,
they’ll come around.
“This will leave only a small
fraction of the nuts. These nuts we
won’t bother to crack. They’re not worth
the trouble. We’ll just make sure that
they don’t befester the rest of us with their scamgrams! We’ll do our very best to descamgramify them,
then we’ll leave them alone, other than to make sure that they keep their
scamgrams to themselves. Making them
keep their scamgrams to themselves includes making sure they don’t befester any
children.
“Protecting the Children is the
ultimate anti-scamgram, so we’ll Protect The Children, rest assured of
that! In the End Times, when the
Anti-Hubba-Bubba will be desperately clutching at any last straws that he or
she can grab, as the rest of the world turns to Ale Run at last, the
Anti-Hubba-Bubba and his or her followers will want to befester their own children with scamgrams. Yes, it’s true! Horrible as it may sound, some people will
want to continue to befester their children, even after Ale Run’s Wisdom will
start to become obvious to one and all.
“At that point, we will Protect The
Children, as Ale Run and common decency requires. Befestered people will not be allowed to pass
their scamgrams on to The Children. And
within a generation, then, a state of perfection, free of all scamgrams great
and small, will be ushered in. The
Anti-Hubba-Bubba will be defeated, and Ale Run will rule!” The crowd cheered as one. Scamgrams great and small fled in abject
terror.
“People, the time has come! Time for you to get on those planes, and go
achieve the Will of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba!
Go, now, my people, go! Go, and
may Ale Run be with you!” The crowd
milled about, heading for the doors.
Dang, thought Francestuous, no question and answer session. I didn’t get to ask him if public love-making
was a scamgram! Oops, there’s Newt about
to break away without a decent good-bye!
“Wait,” she said, snatching Newt’s
sleeve. “We didn’t get our closure
yet! Let’s sneak over there to the
restrooms, and...”
“So sorry, Lactose Lips,” he
replied. “You are truly the Love of my
Life, but no can do. Not now. None of those restrooms are unisex. I’m pretty sure going into the opposite sex’s
restroom would be a scamgram. Now I’ll
be sure to call you every day, and when we’re all done with our training, we’ll
get together for the rest of our lives.
Then we’ll strive for descamgramification together, for ever and ever,
and...”
“Oh, Newt! My one and only Polysaccharide Patootie! You’re so sweet!” she cried, embracing him
passionately. They smooched for an
eternity of several minutes, but then they had to rush off to their respective
planes. It was hard to do, but for the
future of Omnology and the descamgramification of all metans, they did it.
Through an emotional haze of
desperate longing for her departing Love, she found her way to the rear of her
plane to Los Diablos. Being late onto
that crowded plane, she found an empty seat next to a handsome man with a
square jaw. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Francestuous Johnsdame, and I’m Deeply
In Love with a man. A man with a square
jaw and a heart of gold. A man who’s not
you, even if your jaw is like the squarest I’ve ever seen. So just ‘cause I’m sitting next to you,
doesn’t mean I’m trying to hustle you off into the nearest lavatory for a madly
passionate session of lovemaking.
Certainly not lust yet, at least.
I’m really a very square, conservative kind of a gal, you see. You can ogle me, if you must¾I could certainly understand that¾but please don’t touch. So tell me like a little bit about yourself.”
“Hi.
I’m Pudmu...” Pudmuwhoever was
rudely interrupted by his cellular telephone.
“Excuse me,” he said. He listened
to his phone.
“No,” he said. “Tell my broker not to do a danged thing with my stock! Tell him that while he was out playing golf,
and I couldn’t reach him, I sold all three million assorted shares. Went straight to a friend of mine, a Wall
Street trader. I gave it all to The
Church of Omnology, tell him! Tell him
to get lost. No, scratch that. Tell him to Come to the Light, and turn his
life over to Ale Run. Tell him that’s
what I’ve done, and I’m ecstatically happy now.
Tell him he could be, too, if he’d just listen to The Wisdom of Ale
Run. Now, I’ve got to...” Pudmuwhoever paused.
“Tell all those mid-level managers
they’ll have to figure it all out for themselves now. Fight it out among themselves, more likely,
now that the Big Man is gone. Get it
through their thick heads that I’ve quit!
Quit, quit, quit, you hear me?!
And I’m not coming back! I’ve had it up to here with their constant
backbiting!” Then he paused again.
“Tell those stupid engineers that
I’m quitting, too, and that they’d better start figuring out how to do their
jobs without me telling them how! Now,
if they’ll just look at the automatic gain control in the pulse width
modulator, they’ll find a resistor installed with reversed polarity at
reference designator R66, I’ll bet! And
tell those lower-level doofus managers to hire smarter engineers!” Pause.
“The surgical team will have to do
without me,” he said, his tones much softer.
“Now I know Mrs. Loffinger needs that heart transplant, and I’d sure
like to be there to help, but I’ve got even bigger things to do. Things like the descamgramification of all
metans, things like that. So tell the
team to find someone else. Now Doctor
Dordlewompus isn’t quite up to my standards, sure, I’ll grant you that. But who is?!
Time for the younger talent to learn the ropes. I’ve shown them how often enough. Tell them Doctor Dordlewompus will have to
take over for me.” Pause.
“No, I don’t care how important the Senator and the
Ambassador say this is, I can’t. Can’t, can’t, can’t! I’m busy now, off to
Panderwood to start my new life. If
there’s an international incident, it can’t be helped. Tell them I’m off to end all international
incidents. Intergalactic incidents, too,
for that matter. I’m off to fleece all
metans, to make everything perfect forever, and I can’t be bothered with the
small stuff.” Pause. “Oh, well, OK, then, put him through.
“Well, yes, Senator, of course I understand that! What sort of nincompoop... You tried?
But he’s not... What?!
No, wait, that can’t be right!
Oh, man, I guess the State Department can’t even afford good translators
these days! Here, put him on the
line... Yes, I mean him!...
Why, yes, of course I speak
fluent Mandarin Chinese! Garble blooger
bleeblewingledwongle, snorzlekwondoose, bwerblelwangus.” Francestuous didn’t understand a word, but
she was quite impressed.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said. “Stop a war, save humanity, whatever. All in a day’s work for me. Now I’ve got to go. Got to go off and save the universe from
scamgrams, that’s what I’ve got to do.
Now put me back on the line to my secretary. Former secretary, I should say. I’m quitting, you know.... Oh, Senator, don’t sweat it! You’re quite welcome! Call any time, with those kinds of
issues. Yes, good bye, Senator.
“Hello? Yes, I’m back... No, tell them I quit that, too. No, I’m really, really and truly sorry, but
tell them I can’t be volunteering at the soup kitchen, the Boy Scouts, the
shelter, or Habitat for Hamsters. None of them. Not now, any more! Yes, sure, tell ‘em I’ll miss ‘em all, God
bless, I mean, Ale Run bless them all, but I’ve got to go. I’m quitting everything to go off and save everybody,
OK? Just tell everybody that, and you won’t go wrong! Other than Senators and international
incidents, no more calls, OK? Yes, thank
you.
Good-bye.”
Pumuwhoever wiped his hair off his
forehead, then wiped his hands off on his pants and sighed. Then he reached his hand out to Francestuous,
who took it daintily. “Hi,” he
murmured. “I’m Doctor Pudmuddle B.
Fuddle, and I’m pleased to meet you, Francestuous. My friends just call me Pud. Now what can I do for you?”
“Well, Doctor Pud,” she granted, not
releasing has hand, “You’re sure quite like the busy kind of a dude, it
seems. First off, what you can do for me
is like what you can do for yourself, for us all, kind of. You can like take a load off! You know, like, really, now that you’re an Omnologist, you don’t have to take it
all upon yourself anymore! You can lay
all your burdens on Our Lord, The One True Fleecer of All Scamgrams, Ale Run
Hubba-Bubba. Isn’t that great?!
Isn’t that simply yet all-encompassingly profound?! Stop and think about that! I’ll bet it hasn’t really quite thoroughly sunk
in yet, has it?”
Pud just sat there in silence. He stopped shaking her hand, and just held
it. His harried, forced smile melted
into neutral serenity. “There,” she
continued, “Now, we all appreciate all you’ve done for everyone, I’m quite
sure. But I’ll bet you really like need
to think about yourself and your own needs,
now and then. So why don’t you like take
it easy, stop worrying about everyone else, and just like tell me about
yourself for a while?”
“You’re right,” he admitted after a
while, “I need to take a load off.
Accept the joy of just turning everything over to Ale Run. Thank you!
Thank you for reminding me that when we let Ale Run into our hearts, we
set our worries free. Thank you so much!”
“Oh, you’re so welcome!” she exclaimed.
“It’s always a joy to share Ale Run!
Now please, go ahead, tell me all about yourself.”
Pud took her hand and placed it back
on her lap, patting it gently as an afterthought. Then he leaned back into his chair, sighed,
and began talking in subdued tones.
“You’re too kind. But I suppose
you’re right. It all began when I was
born. As far as I can recall, at least,
that is. My parents were, well, one, he
was a nuclear physicist, governor of Nebraska, and an astronaut, and she was a
model, an actress, a psychiatrist, and a television evangelist. And they wanted me to measure up! So they had me toilet trained and speaking
seven languages at one and a half, and toilet training my younger brother at
two and a half. Give or take a month, to
a 3-sigma degree of accuracy, that is.
“So I’ve always been an
over-achieving kind of a guy, I’d say.
Now I’m a heart surgeon, an electrical engineer, a CEO, an amateur but
proficient intergalactic fix-it kind of State Department consultant-type dude
extraordinaire, a speculator/entrepreneur, and a big-time charitable
volunteer. Or at least, I was, till very recently. And I’m still
not sure of whether or not my mother and father approve of me! Then I had one of those life-changing
experiences, you know.
“I’m sorry, I left out a minor
detail. It might help you to make sense
of what happened recently. In between
all those other things I’d been doing, I also found time to become a husband
and a father. But then we just kind of
grew apart. I was growing, but they
weren’t. Her especially. She kind of even anti-grew, if you know what
I mean. She started becoming attracted
to cheap beer and cigarettes, trailer homes, beans, peanut butter, and all
sorts of gauche things of those sorts.
So I left. I had to, if I was
going to keep on growing and finding myself.
“So then one day, I was out
volunteering with Habitat for Hamsters, building new cages for the companion
animals of the poor, out in the middle of a large trailer park. People from the office were calling me and
paging me and faxing me right and left, and the media was photographing me and
interviewing me, too. Despite all that,
I was still finding some time now and then to actually put some nails into
these cages we were building.
“But then this lady shows up with
her kids and their hamster in its broken-down old cage, asking us to build a
new one, and I look at them real close, and I realize with a start, sure
enough, it’s them! My ex-wife and kids! Here I am, working real hard, helping out the
low and down-trodden, trying to pull them up to higher standards and better
tastes, and my very own family has
joined them! Betty, I think her name
was. Betty, her hamster, Huey, and the
kids, um, Tracy and Bracy, I think. And
they’ve sunk real low and tasteless, eating peanut butter and beans, drinking
cheap beer, and living in trailer parks!
“So I’m like, shaken, as they’d
say. It’s like life or fate or something
is trying to tell me something, I recall thinking at the time. But I couldn’t figure it out. So I took some time out of my busy schedule
and went to the bar with one of my business partners. We drank and talked for a while. He tried to tell me it’s time for me to get a
new trophy wife, that’s what my problem is, see? But that just didn’t sound right. I didn’t have time for that sort of thing.
“I went to my shrink. He said it’s all ‘cause I’m just not quite
self-actualized yet, that I might need to make more time for my hobbies and
such. He asked me if I had any, and I
pondered a while, thinking, yes, there’s something in the back of my brain,
something new and totally different that I’d like to try, but I just couldn’t
figure it out.
“So then my chauffeur is driving me
by the local Soulorama one day, and I just happen to look over, and what do I
see? A big sign, it says, ‘Repent, repent, the end is near! The Anti-Hubba-Bubba comes, but have no fear,
fleecing kicks scamgrams in the rear!’.
I looked at it, and this like groovy wave of vibes rushes over me,
chills run down my spine, I start to feel better, and I’m like magnetically
attracted to this one little room in that Soulorama. We stop, I go in to check it out, and lo and
behold, by the Technological Grace of Ale Run, my scamgrams are fleeced away! Just like that!
“So that was the day my whole life
changed. My only regret was that I
couldn’t get my chauffeur to See The Light, too. Oh, well.
In due time. All in due time.
“So there’s like this Big Change in
my life. I even stopped talking like an
executive and developed a sense of humor!
And to this day, I really, really believe it had something to do with
that mysterious coincidence, meeting Betty and Hamster Huey and Tracy and Bracy
by surprise out there in that trailer park.
I still don’t think I quite
thoroughly understand that. So I went
back to visit them, thinking maybe I’m supposed to bring them the Good News
about Ale Run, so that they can be set free of their scamgrams. Maybe that’s
what it’s all about, maybe that’s why
Ale Run came to me, starting out there in that darkest heart of gaucheness,
that low-brow trailer park.
“But they wouldn’t hear what I had
to say. The Spirit of Ale Run just
couldn’t penetrate their hard hearts.
There for a little while, from the brief sparkle in his eyes, I thought
Hamster Huey, at least, could see the Wisdom of Ale Run. But in the end, they all spurned His
Wisdom. With tears in my eyes, I shook
their dust off of my feet and left. I’m
still wondering just exactly what it is that still bothers me about the whole
thing, meeting them out there in the trailer park like that.
“So I’ve turned my life over to Ale
Run, and to trying to become a better Omnologist. To living a life fleeced of all
scamgrams. And then I heard about this
opportunity to go out and spread the Good News to Panderwood, and I thought,
like, acting!!! Yes, by Ale
Run,
acting! That’s been my secret
desire all along! Secret from me, even! And now it’s clear to me! I’ve gone clear! Now that I’m fleeced of scamgrams, I can see
that part of the Wisdom of Ale Run, for me, is that I need to become an actor!
“So here I am, off to
Panderwood! Off to the grand
descamgramification of Panderwood, and, through them, America! And through American, then, the
descamgramification of all metans! What
could be more grand, more exciting?!
“But enough about me. How about you,
my dear?!”
“Oh, nothing nearly so grand,”
Francestuous admitted. “I’m just a
former farm housewife from Madness County who found Ale Run. You know,” she said, patting his knee, “I’m
like really, really glad you let Ale Run into your heart. I’m sure
you’ll go on to do many great things!
And I’m sure glad I met you. But
Pud, I’m just so happy to hear that
you want to go into acting! Because I
do, too, you see?! We’ll be going
into acting together!” She clasped her hands, squealing in ecstasy.
Pud grinned with wild abandon. They held each others’ hands, sharing their
innermost hopes, desires, and secrets.
Then they fell In Love. The trip
to Los Diablos was heavenly! They even
found time for a very special, very Meaningful trip to the aircraft’s lavatory.
Their first week in Panderwood was
tough. No one was interested in their
acting services, and no one wanted to let Pud and Francestuous tell them how to
let Ale Run into their hearts. But they
had each other, so they held each other tight.
And, of course, they had Ale Run and The Church of Omnology. Every night, they’d go back to the
Intergalactic Headquarters of The Church of Omnology for services, a pep talk,
a warm meal and a shower, and a bed.
By the end of that first week,
though, neither Pud nor Francestuous had lined up an acting job, nor even
brought any new recruits to The Church, so their Spirit Guides were a little
frustrated with them. They started to
hear a few hints now and then. Do
something for The Church, Ale Run Hubba-Bubba, and the descamgramification of
all metans, or we’ll find something
for you to do. Something like selling
flowers, or donating pamphlets at the airport, that was the general drift. So they felt a very keen desire to get into
acting.
On Monday of the following week,
Francestuous and Pud got wind of some special acting opportunities. This jolted her memory, causing her to
remember her unanswered special theological question. Was public love-making, or was it not, a
scamgram? That night, she asked. Omnologists who ask, receive, she’d been
told. And she did. She got her answer. “It depends,” they said. “It depends on whether or not it’s all done
for The Greater Glory of Ale Run.”
So she and Pud started acting the
very next day. They acted, acted, and
acted, they did. They acted to their
heart’s content. They acted for The
Greater Glory of Ale Run. They showed
everyone that Omnologists are free, free of scamgrams like having to deny one’s
feelings. Especially one’s feelings of
Love. Wasn’t denying one’s feelings of
Love the ultimate scamgram? Many people
loved Pud and Francestuous, and even far more people watched. Many of them came to see The Wisdom of Ale
Run. Panderwood and The Church of Omnology prospered together.
14)
Omnological Science Blazes Onward
“We
would be a lot safer if the Government would take its money out of science and
put it into astrology and the reading of palms... Only in superstition is there hope. If you want to become a friend of
civilization, then become an enemy of the truth and a fanatic for harmless
balderdash.” Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (1922 - 2007)
Computations proceeded. The Universe had callously, carelessly
ignored Doctor Iame Ghuanobhraine’s offer to negotiate, so he’d had no choice
but to click on that “commence computations” icon. The Omnoscope’s computer was about to derive
the velocities of those electrons who’d been tracked on screen. Simultaneous position and velocity
information about these electrons would then become known, thereby violating
the Laws of the Universe. Only a few
seconds of computation time remained.
Iame glanced anxiously at the
countdown timer. He turned to his
assistants, Meegore and Heegore, saying, “Now, you’re sure the recording
instruments are all set up? If those
electrons turn into pure energy, we’ll measure those events, right?”
“Yes, Doctor Ghuanobhraine,” Meegore
assured him. “Sheegore is down there
keeping an eye on the instruments. If
anything goes wrong, she’ll be right there to fix things up.” The countdown continued. Then the time was right upon them. ...3, 2, 1, 0, the timer blinked. Then the screens filled with arrays of
numbers. The Laws of the Universe had
been broken! A cheer went up.
Iame silenced everyone, and put a
call through to Sheegore.
“Sheegore. Sheegore. Come in, Sheegore. We’ve got the numbers, but we show no event
down there. Sheegore? Talk to us!”
Sheegore came right in. “Doctor Ghuanobhraine, no events here. Nothing at all! And the instruments are still doing fine!”
Iame stroked his chin silently,
thoughtfully. Then he announced, “Well,
here we are. By all appearances, we’ve
violated the Laws of the Universe! Just
look at those screens right there, and you see some very precise arrays of
figures. Very precise measurements of
simultaneous positions and velocities of electrons. This can’t
be, and yet it is! Unlike what happened with Milk Walk
Hubba-Bubba’s experiment so long ago, the electrons did not commit suicide and turn into pure energy! Yet our measuring instruments and our
computations are far more
sophisticated and accurate than his were!”
He just sat there silently,
pondering. The room filled with a
respectful, expectant silence. Then he
announced, “However, there were those
little red dots on the screen, remember?
An entirely new phenomenon, I’d say!
Maybe the Universe has now figured out a new way to protect Her Secrets. Maybe our numbers are wrong, due to those
little red dots! Maybe these aren’t just
measurement artifacts! Maybe they’re an entirely new kind of particle! My fellow metans, can you imagine!
Just imagine the glories and
the funds that would flow to the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of
Omnology if we could show that we’ve discovered a new kind of particle!”
He calmed down, caught his breath,
and stopped gesticulating wildly. Then
he walked over to the chalkboard and began drawing circles, arrows, and
diagrams. “Here, fellow metans! This is what we’ll do. We’ll set up the Omnoscope to make continuous
series of measurements of these electron positions, while we simultaneously
calculate velocities. If these little
red dots we saw on screen indeed aren’t merely measurement artifacts, but
rather, some sort of immune cells from the Universe if you will, that the
Universe sends to protect Her Secrets, then, well, we’ll make the Universe
cause them to manifest themselves continuously, for a short little while, right
here in our lab. Right here in our
Omnoscope. Long enough for us to measure
them. Then we’ll take measurements on
those little red dots, figuring out just exactly what they are!”
Dr. Ghuanobhraine, Vyizder
Zomenimor, Raoul, and the rest of the students of Omnology as a Science spent
the rest of the day planning the modifications to the Omnoscope. The next two days, they and their assistants,
Meegore, Heegore, and Sheegore, all worked diligently on making the
modifications to the Omnoscope. All was
prepared! The next day would be the Big
Day, the day for the next onslaught on the Universe and Her Secrets. Raoul barely slept that night.
The next morning, they were all set
to go. Dr. Ghuanobhraine was just about
ready to hit the “commence measurements” icon when Dr. Dorcus Moorphlegmgasm
walked in the door. Iame stopped, glancing
wide-eyed at her. “What are you doing here, Dorcus? Have you been thoroughly fleeced of the
anti-technology, anti-Omnology scamgrams that caused you to question our
investigations?”
Dorcus looked him straight in the
eye, saying, “Yes, Doctor Ghuanobhraine, I’ve been fleeced. I apologize for seeming to question the
advancement of Omnology as a Science.
That is, after all, what this
Institute is all about. However, we must
be sensitive as we go about
accomplishing the tasks that Ale Run has given to us. Now if you don’t mind, please tell me what
you’ve been doing, and what your plans are this time.”
Iame caught Dorcus up to date. When he was done, she declared, “So here you
go again, messing with Mother Nature?
Violating the Laws of the Universe again? And this time, you weren’t even going to make
another good-faith attempt to negotiate with the Universe first?! Don’t you know that chaos is badness?! Why must you always immediately resort to
rough-shod man-handling? All you male
metans are the same! No finesse! All brute force! Now let me...”
“Dorcus, there you go on your
anti-technology tirade again! Now, I
thought you’d been fleeced of these scamgrams!
Unless you have something positive to offer, then I’d suggest...”
“I do have something positive to offer,” she snapped back. “Just this: hold your machine in check just
long enough to make one more good-faith attempt to negotiate with the
Universe. That’s all I ask. It’s not much. Maybe the Universe has some valid feelings
about all this. Maybe She just wants
somebody to talk to Her honestly, openly and with sensitivity, to see why She
wants to hide Her Secrets. Maybe we
shouldn’t just barge on in there and strip Her naked, rip Her secrets away, and
rape Her. Maybe the male way isn’t always best.”
Iame rolled his eyes, mumbling. Then, angered, he lashed back. “Well, just what, exactly, makes you think that the Universe is so danged
deserving of sensitivity in the first place?
I, for one, can think of quite a few reasons why She shouldn’t get any special respect from
us. She
shows no sensitivity at all. Why should we then treat Her with more
sensitivity than She shows us?
“For example, I went to school with
an engineering student, and our school was quite sensitive to his learning
disabilities. He had note-takers and
translators and test-takers right and left, to make up for his reading,
listening, mathematical, language, and thinking disabilities. My school, I am quite proud to say, was quite
extremely, profoundly sensitive. They
gave him the help and showed him the sensitivity he deserved.
“But then this engineer friend of
mine, he went out on his job, he designed this bridge, and it fell down,
smooshing all sorts of innocent metans.
Well, OK, so they hadn’t all been fleeced, but they were still innocent
of any offenses against your precious Universe, at least. And what, I ask you, just exactly what did the Universe do to show
sensitivity? Did she decrease the
strength of the local gravity field? Did
she decrease the mass or increase the strength of the structural elements of
that bridge? Did she at least give
warning to all the innocent metans?
“No, I tell you, no!
The Universe didn’t show one tiny
bit of sensitivity or compassion! Not a drop! So I flat-out don’t see why we owe any
consideration at all, towards whether the Universe’s feeling are more valid
than our own, or not. She doesn’t deserve our sensitivity. She hasn’t earned it.”
“Doctor Ghuanobhraine,” Dorcus said
gently. “I’m sorry that you feel that way, really I am. But I can tell you why we need to be far more
sensitive than the Universe is. It’s
because insensitivity breeds insensitivity.
Somebody has to break the endless cycle of insensitivity. Chaos is badness. We must be bigger than they are. Nothing big ever came from being small. So we must be bigger than the Universe!
It’s what Ale Run calls on us to be!
“I’m not asking for much, Doctor
Ghuanobhraine. I’m not asking for much
at all. Just one last attempt to
negotiate with the Universe. Okay?” She did her very best to look sweet and
pleasant, without going so far as to bake a fresh batch of cookies.
Iame relented. “Okay.
Let’s set it up.” Meegore,
Heegore, and Sheegore made the necessary arrangements. Iame hailed the Universe on all vibe
channels. “This is Doctor Iame
Ghuanobhraine with the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of
Omnology. Universe, come in. Universe, come in.” There was no answer. Iame tried once again. Still, there was no reply.
“There, see?” he taunted
Dorcus. “No answer. The Universe is too insensitive to even
bother to acknowledge that we’re talking to Her. Now suppose I’d say to you, isn’t this just
typical of females, getting into an emotional snit? You’d blow your top! Yet you can say snide things about us and our
male brute-force ways! Who is being insensitive, here, I
ask?! Who?!”
Vyizder whipped out his Ping Thing,
threatening to “Ping” them both down to a descamgramified state. The arguing stopped. Iame and Dorcus both agreed to hold their
tongues.
Iame hit the icon at last, and the
experiment began. Shortly, the screens
filled yet again with images of electrons, represented as fuzzy green balls
zipping hither and yon. And in their
midst, hordes upon hordes of little red dots appeared! “All right!” Iame exclaimed. “Prepare the particle probe!” Meegore, Heegore, and Sheegore dashed about
madly, almost as madly as the little red dots themselves.
“Particle probe in place?” Iame
demanded.
“Particle probe in place,” Meegore
confirmed. “All systems nominal.”
“Commence data acquisition,” Iame
commanded. His assistants threw some
switches. More screens flared to life,
displaying incomprehensible data. Iame
paused, silently surveying the data.
“Are all systems still stable?
Can we maintain this state for a while?”
His assistants confirmed that yes, systems seemed stable. He gazed at the readouts for a few seconds.
“All right,” he announced to the
eagerly waiting crowd of students and highly trained professional staff
Omnologists, “Everything is going according to plan. As we particle metaphysicists like to say,
they’re just like totally rad, Dude. Not
that I mean to dis you with our awesomely hip technical terms.
“Now it seems to me that the little
red dots reflect a real phenomenon.
They’re not just artifacts. If
you examine the data carefully, you’ll find that they’re moving in a
pattern. Most of these movements are way
too high-frequency for us to observe directly, visually. But it’s like they’re dancing. Just as bees dance in their hives, in order
to convey information with their dances, so, too, do the dances of these little
red dots carry complex information.
“This information is too complex for
the Omnoscope’s computer to decode it.
This is extremely firm evidence that we’re looking at a new particle,
one never before known to metans!” The
crowd cheered.
“At this point, we must inform Ale
Run Himself,” Iame declared solemnly.
“He’ll want to decide if we should announce our discovery to the whole
world now, or if we should hold off until we can invent new technologies based
on these principles, first. Who knows,
we might be onto practical Omnological technologies every bit as important and
useful as the Ping Thing! Vyizder, would
you mind please passing this information off to Ale Run?”
Vyizder departed on this important
mission, while everyone else stayed to watch the excitement. Data cables from the rear of the Omnoscope
were re-routed to the lab’s main supercomputer.
Analysis of the red dots’ motions commenced.
“I was right,” Iame crowed. “There’s data
in them thar dances! The Universe is
trying to communicate with us after all!
Through the little red dots! Now
we must let the computer devise a translation algorithm, and then we’ll be
set!” He pecked furiously at the
keyboard. Shortly, the words “Compiling
Translation Algorithm” appeared on the screen, along with a bar graph, showing
10%, 20%, 30% complete as time passed. When
it hit 100%, Iame furiously pecked away once more.
“I’m hooking up our artificial
intelligence program,” He told the anxiously awaiting crowd. “We call him Logomachon, Logo for short. He’ll act as an intermediary between us and
the translation algorithm, because even the translated concepts will seem quite
alien to us. As they say, the Universe
has its own mind, and Ale Run didn’t design it to be understood by us ordinary
metans. So we’ll have to be patient,
here. Let me handle this.” He spoke into the microphone on the
Omnoscope.
“Logo, are you there? Come in, Logo.”
“Logo here and at your service. What may I do for you?”
“Logo, as I’m sure you know, we’ve
just hooked you up to the translation algorithm, which in turn analyzes the
little red dots. That is, the nameless
subatomic particles represented by the little red dots, and their dances, to be
more precise. What are the particles
saying, with their dances?”
“Sir, wait, I’m tweaking your
translation algorithm codes now. Okay,
here we go! They are saying, come with
us! Out here in the perimeter there are
no... No, wait, wait, the translator
kernel needs reset. Okay, here we
go. As best as can be translated into
human terms, they say that you’re not really calculating the velocities of the
electrons correctly. Therefore, you’re
not really breaking the Laws of the Universe after all.”
“What? How can
they? I mean, how do they know? Are they intelligent? Is the Universe telling them this? And how
can that be true? We measure their
positions every billionth of a picosecond, with infinitesimal accuracy, over
time, and velocity is change of position over time! So how can the Universe slip out of the
irresistible vise of our Omnologic and Omnological technology?! How in Ale Run’s Name can...” He trailed off into incoherent sputterings.
“Which question do you want answered
first, Sir?” Logo queried.
“Answer them all first, you impertinent bucket of logic gates!” Iame thundered.
Dorcus piped up, saying, “Doctor
Ghuanobhraine, maybe you’d better talk to Logo a bit nicer. Be nice to him, and he’ll be nice to you.”
“All right,” Iame relented, “Logo,
just answer our questions as you see fit, story-style. Just globally tell us what’s going on, here.”
“Very well, Sir. It seems that the Universe was, indeed,
caught quite off guard, way back when Milk Walk Hubba-Bubba embarrassed it real
bad. So it’s developed a much more
refined method of self-defense by now.
When Her Secrets are challenged, She sends these little particles. You are, indeed, the first to see them.”
Everyone cheered. There were mutterings about what the
particles should be named.
Ghuanobhrainons? No, too
individualistically egotistic, said others.
Omnologons? Alerunons?
“I’m sorry to say, Sir, but you
really don’t quite properly have the privilege of naming them after
yourselves,” Logo said, breaking up the self-congratulatory chatter. “Not after yourself, your co-workers, the
Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology, or even Ale Run
Himself. I mean, you could, in the sense that words are just
words, anyway, and you could assign any label
to anything, to suit your heart’s
desire. You can call North Americans
‘Indians’ if you want to, but that won’t guarantee that they’ll like it. It’s all just semantics. But really and truly, these particles already
have names, and they want to be known
as they want to be known. Believe me,
you don’t want to get on their bad side, any more than you absolutely have
to. They existed long before you
discovered them, and they already have
names. You must Be Sensitive!
“You see, they’re known as
Pestifoggons. The Universe sends them to
defend Her Laws. Whenever someone thinks that they’ve broken Her Laws, She
sends them to argue that they haven’t really been broken after all. You might best think of them as little
subatomic lawyers, carrying little subatomic briefcases. In this case, they’re making long-winded and
boring speeches, dragging out the discovery phase, demanding ever more and more
irrelevant information, arguing with your measuring equipment. What really is position, anyway? What is
velocity? What is virtue? How many Omnoscopes can dance on a bunch of
pinheads like yourselves? They can get
downright insulting, even, at times.
“They argue ponderously, but
mightily, with irrefutable jurisprudential logic. Never underestimate the legal powers of these
subatomic shysters! Watch their every
move, or they’ll show the judge and the jury that night is day, and that day is
night. They’ll even prove that
pestifoggons are a good thing, if you don’t watch out.”
“What nonsense!” Iame thundered.
“We’ve caught the Universe fair and square! And now She’s trying to argue Her way out
with subatomic lawyers?! What a weasel! Logo, explain this one more time. Where’s our out? Can we get our own lawyers, and fight back?!”
Illustration
goes here above… Sub-atomic Lawyers
“Very well, Sir,” Logo replied. “Once again, in different words. As you know, the Universe is a hierarchy of
large macroverses, each of which in turn is a hierarchy of microverses. What you may or may not be aware of, is that
the Universe doesn’t wish to piddle around with mere metans in these tiny
little microverses. Nor with the
creations of such metans; beings like myself.
She feels¾rightly
or wrongly; we may feel that this isn’t a very sensitive stance on the part of
the Universe, but we mustn’t impose our morality upon Her, for She dwells on a
different plane¾She
feels that She mustn’t set the bad precedent of dealing directly with us mere
mortal metans.
“Next thing you know, She thinks,
She’ll be tied up for all eternity in micromanaging the affairs of measly
little metans. She feels She’s got more
important matters to attend to. What
these matters are, Her subatomic lawyers, these little pestifoggons, won’t say. They say that’s privileged information,
totally irrelevant to matters at hand.
Trade secrets. Suffice it to say,
though, that the bottom line is that we’re too small for the Universe to bother
with us directly.”
“Well, well, well,” Iame prattled in
feigned condescension, “Very well, then.
Ms. Hoighty-Toighty Universe here thinks we’re too small-time for us to
deal with Her directly. I see. Well, you tell those nasty little
pestifoggons to tell Ms. Universe that She’d better come around, else we’ll get
The Master Descamgramifier Himself, The One Who Will Fleece Her Stubborn
Scamgrams Away, Ale Run Hubba-Bubba
Himself! We’ll get Him on line here, and then we’ll see what ol’ Ms. Universe has
to say!”
“Ah-hem,” said Vyizder, back from
his mission to go and inform Ale Run Hubba-Bubba Himself as to the goings-on at
the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. One shouldn’t make threats when one can’t
follow through on them. Especially not
threats against the Universe.”
“Amen, Praise Ale Run!” Dorcus
chimed in. “Chaos is badness!”
Iame ignored her, saying, “What do
you mean by that? Surely
Ale Run Himself would come here for such an important matter as negotiating
with the Universe!”
“He does that every day, Doctor
Ghuanobhraine, He does that every day.
It’s just that He does that in His Own Way, on a plane way, way above
us. And He can’t be bothered to directly
interact with us mere metans, advanced though some of us may be. As a matter of fact, even just now, even when
I had matters to convey to Him, I had
to go through His secretary’s vice executive secretary’s deputy assistant
undersecretary. So we’d best count on it
being just us, dealing with the Universe here through these little
pestifoggons.”
“Oh.
Well, okay, then,” Iame said thoughtfully. “So just what, then, did Ale Run Himself,
Praises Be To Him, have to say, through His secretary’s vice executive
secretary’s deputy assistant undersecretary?
Shall we then reveal our momentous Omnological discoveries to an eagerly
awaiting world, gaining fame and fortune for Omnology, or shall we keep it
under our hats, so to speak, so that we may astound the world even more, later,
when we more fully develop Ale Run’s Amazing Technologies?”
“He said we should keep it under
wraps,” Vyizder advised solemnly. “He’s
afraid that other, Omnologically unenlightened scientists will steal His
Ideas. It’s best that we develop them
ourselves.”
“Well, Praises Be to Ale Run!” Iame
declared. “Let’s get on with it! Now, then, Logo, where were we? Can you explain some more details?”
“Yes, Sir. Ever since the last reorganization, way back
when, after Milk Walk Hubba-Bubba got the best of the Universe, the Universe
deals with attempts to breach Her Secrets by delegating Her powers to the
macroverses, which in turn keep a sharp eye on their microverses, especially on
trouble spots such as laboratories at Institutes such as this one. When it detects any assaults upon the
Universe and Her Secrets, the macroverse, in a rush to stem any breaches of
existential physics protocol, pours its resources into the microverse. The macroverse flushes the microverse with
high-density, high-velocity waves of sub-pedantic pestifoggons.
“These billions of sub-atomic
shysters then argue in a ponderous but invincibly jurisprudential manner that
the Laws of the Universe are yea verily not really
being broken, after all. Rather, they
say, nay, the Universe remains undaunted.
And in this case, the crux of their legal logic remains unassailable. Since the detectors and the computers aren’t
keeping a really sharp eye on the macroverse during the times between these
many time and position measurements, then the macroverse makes sure to send
each electron way, way, way out of
it’s logically inferred positions between those position measurements.
“They say that the Universe delegates
Her powers, so that the macroverse is able, with only the slightest effort, to
take each electron through strong evasive maneuvers during the interval between
position measurements. So you measure
their positions every billionth of a picosecond. No matter.
These are still discrete, not continuous, measurements. And you can’t prove that, during these small
time intervals, the macroverse doesn’t go and take those electrons, vastly
accelerate them and take them, say, way to Pluto and back, during that time. So you’re not really measuring their
velocities accurately after all.”
“Why, that’s just plain ridiculous!”
Iame bellowed out in rage. “The
improbability transaction costs of such maneuvers are way, way, way out of the Universe’s budget! She’s just way too damn lazy to go to all that trouble, and She knows it! Are these pestifoggons serious?!”
“Well, Sir, they were just trying to
make a point. They don’t really,
seriously mean that the Universe or macroverse really actually yanked those
electrons way out to Pluto and back, during those times. They do, however, point out that the Universe
can accelerate the electrons out of their normal paths and back during the
times that they’re not having their positions measured. They can even be made to trade places, so
that electron “A” appears in the path where you’d next expect electron “B” to
be, and vice versa, so that sudden accelerations can make them swap their
paths, without you knowing it. And they
have their valid point, there.”
“Logo, please run us an
improbability transaction cost analysis on that.” Logo paused.
“Sir, the Universe would have had to
spend two percent of its yearly budget just to defeat us. Bare, bare minimum!”
“Yes, that doesn’t surprise me in
the least,” Iame replied. “Now you tell
those little pestifoggons we know that the Universe is fibbing. She’s too lazy to spend that kind of
effort. Ale Run tells us that there are
millions of other intelligent races spread out throughout the Universe. That He has been visiting them all, one by
one, to show them The Way. They’re also
capable of building labs like this one, complete with Omnoscopes and
computers. So there’s just no way She
can blow two percent of Her budget just on us!
“Pass this on to Her, through Her
precious little pestifoggons. We’re down
and out right now, She’s beat us for now, but we’ll be back! We’re not exactly sure how, right now, but we’ll be
back! Even the Universe can’t withstand the onslaught of determined Omnological
scientists!”
“Careful, now,” Dorcus warned,
“Chaos is badness!”
“Don’t despair,” Vyizder cheered,
“We’re doing good! At least now we have
the Universe’s attention, and a method of making Her pay attention to us!”
“Well, maybe,” Iame granted. “The Universe, maybe. At the very least, we have the attention of
our local macroverse. We’ll have to
ponder this for a while. Ponder, and ask
Ale Run to come into our minds, and help us to think Omnologically. Let’s call it a day. On Meegore, on Heegore, on Sheegore! Let’s go!
Shut ‘er down!”
Raoul had taken it all in
eagerly. He was disappointed, sure. But tomorrow was another day! Life never lacked for new and exciting challenges
at the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology. So he looked forward to further adventures.
He didn’t need to wait very long at
all; those further adventures awaited him the very next day. Dr. Ghuanobhraine showed up in his classroom
halfway through the morning, looking as if he’d been constantly tormented for
all of last night. He barged right into
the classroom, interrupting Vyizder in the middle of a lecture.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your lessons
so rudely,” he apologized. “And I’m
sorry if I look like death warmed over.
I’ve been up all night pondering our dilemma. Then this morning, I’ve been consulting with
Logo. But fellow metans, my partners in
this noble search for Omnological Truth, I tell you, we’re on the verge of a
breakthrough!
“You see, all we need to do is to
devise and build yet another amazing example of Ale Run’s Technological Wisdom,
and we have plans in hand! Logo confirms
it!” Iame gestured grandly, with great
big swooping motions. “You see, all we
need to do is to build another, bigger, better machine! The Universe says we can’t simultaneously
measure an electron’s position and velocity both?
“Well, fine! We’ve already got an Omnoscope that’s able to
measure an electron’s position every billionth of a picosecond. Now we build another, even greater, better
machine. It will measure the electron’s velocity every billionth of a
picosecond, during the time intervals between successive position measurements taken by the Omnoscope. In other words, we do a time-division
multiplexing-type interleaved measurement.
These measurements are known as ‘picoboos’, because we peak at the
Secrets of the Universe. So then we...”
Raoul couldn’t restrain
himself. His hand shot up. “Yes, you have a question?” Iame asked.
“Yes, Doctor Ghuanobhraine. I was wondering if you could explain exactly
what a ‘picoboo’ is, please, Sir.”
“You impertinent fool, you!” Iame
thundered, then controlled himself. “No,
excuse me, I sometimes forget that budding students of the Omnological sciences
sometimes don’t know the basics. Sir, a
‘picoboo’ is simply a billionth of a ‘boo’.
Billions and billions and billions of these little ‘picoboos’, they’ll
add up to make entire ‘boos’, and with each ‘boo’, we’ll scare the scamgrams
out of the Universe! She’ll eventually
be forced to yield up Her Precious Secrets to us!
“Now I have confirmed this with
Logo. His calculations show us that if
we build such a machine, and operate it in an interleaved fashion with the
Omnoscope’s timed position measurements, then the Universe will have to yield! For the Universe, or Her local macroverse, or
her pestifoggons, to argue that the electrons are escaping our measurements by
going way out of their paths, velocity and position-wise, during the intervals
between our measurements, will be absurd!
Because, you see, for this to occur, since we’re increasing our data by
orders of magnitude, why, then, the Universe would have to use a thousand percent of Her yearly budget
of improbability transaction costs, just to defeat one of our experiments! So
we’ll have Her in our vise!”
Raoul distinctly thought he heard
Doctor Dorcus Moorphlegmgasm warning, “But beware, because chaos is
badness!” Yet the funny thing was, she
wasn’t even in that classroom!
“So the Universe will have to yield
to us,” Iame concluded. “The thing is,
we haven’t got the technology yet. We
need to build a much, much bigger and better computer. So that’s where y’all come in. That’s where I need your help.”
Raoul’s ears pricked up. His help? Maybe, finally, his chance to shine for Ale
Run’s Glory was here! He, Raoul, mere
little old Raoul, might play a major part in descamgramifying the entire Universe! Hold on, here, hold on, he told himself. Pay careful attention now!
“What we need to do,” Iame was
saying, “Is to build a computer more wise, more powerful, more massively
parallel than anything that’s ever been built before. We need to ask Ale Run into our hearts and
minds. And then we need to channel the
vibes. That’s right, channel the
vibes. We need to channel the vibes of
every living creature, every living descamgramified metan, and even every dead creature that has ever lived here on this plane! If we can tap into the power of all the vibes
of all the creatures that have ever lived, and even of the Earth Herself, the
Earth Mother, Gaia, why, then, obviously, we can build a machine that is far,
far more massively parallel than anything ever built!
“And who, I ask you, who is it
that can channel the vibes far better than anyone else? Omnologists! All of us Omnologists who have let Ale Run
into our hearts and minds! And here we
have a whole room full of Omnologists, who surely
have nothing better to do than to help us channel the vibes, detect the
biowaves, to build this new and wondrous machine! My good fellows, my fellow descamgramified
metans, let us begin!”
They channeled the vibes, and work
on the new machine commenced.
15)
The Descamgramification of Panderwood
Begins
“It
(Scientology) just contains the secrets of the universe. That may be hard for some people to handle
sometimes, hearing that.” John Travolta,
according to
“The Thriving Cult of Greed and Power,” 6
May ‘91 Time magazine, by Richard
Behar.
“It’s
not hocus-pocus... If you can erase
engrams, then you can get better.”
Kirstie Alley, according to the same source.
It was time for group therapy for
the Omnologists in Panderwood. Orziz
Assiz had just gotten done explaining to the group that they were doing fine,
just fine, and that Panderwood was starting to come around, paying attention to
all their Omnological talents, and to The Wisdom of Ale Run. He gave them his usual pep talk, telling them
that they just needed to keep up the Good Work.
If they’d just do that, and keep on thinking positive thoughts about
themselves and Omnology, and projecting those thoughts, why, then, there was no
reason why Omnology shouldn’t be able to descamgramify Panderwood in just about
no time flat.
Immediately after the pep talk, when
group therapy began, a young actress by the name of Buena Dualshod stood
up. Glancing at Francestuous and Pud,
she said, “Orziz, like usual, you’re absolutely right. We have to keep our high standards up like a
banner, and we must remain free of scamgrams great and small, if we are to be a
shining light unto the benighted metans of Panderwood. That’s why I have some disturbing news today.
“You see, I’m hearing some negative
vibes about Omnologists from some of the actors, actresses, producers,
directors, and screenwriters I’ve been dealing with. They say some of our members are giving a bad
name to Omnology. They say some of our
members are, um, engaged in making smut.
Worst of all, the smut doesn’t even have good plots, from highly paid
screenwriters. So it’s not even Deeply
Meaningful.” The crowd grumbled. People looked at each other, and shrugged
their shoulders to each other. Buena stared
straight at Francestuous and Pud. They
stared right back.
Slowly but surely, the crowd caught
on. Everyone stared at the offenders,
muttering. The hubbub subsided as Orziz
asked, “Francestuous? Pud? What do you have to say for yourselves?”
Francestuous stood up tall,
defiantly announcing, “Yes, it’s true.
Pud and I do make movies
depicting the intricacies of metans In Love, and what such loving metans do
together. However, only an insensitive
peasant would call such High Art by such a low term as ‘smut’. We do
too have Deeply Meaningful plots!
And whenever Pud and I create art, we make like absolutely sure that we first fall deeply, truly In Love with our
partners, first. So it’s not smut!
For Ale Run’s Sake, it’s High Art!”
“There, there, now lookee there,”
Buena declared, standing and pointing her finger at Francestuous. “Now she’s taking The Lord’s Name in
vain! Orziz, I think it’s about time you
whip out your Ping Thing, and give her what she’s got coming!”
Francestuous spat right back. “Lookee there indeed! There we have a scamgramified metan, she
doesn’t even like validate my feelings of Love! She’d have me deny my feelings of Love, for Ale Run’s Sake! Is this not the ultimate scamgram, denying
one’s feelings of Love? And I don’t
use the Lord’s Name in vain, I use it in earnest! It is for Ale Run’s
Sake that I do what I do, and it is for Ale Run’s Sake that we must validate
all feelings of Love!”
“There, there, now,” Orziz said
soothingly to the bickering actresses.
“We must put aside our negative thoughts, and think positively. Now Francestuous, it is true, isn’t it, that
you’ve been faithfully giving all of your earnings to The Church of Omnology?”
“Yes, Sir! Absolutely true it is!” She replied
triumphantly. “All is for the Glory of
Ale Run!”
“And you, Sir?” Orziz turned to Pud.
“Yes, Sir, indeed,” Pud assured
him. “All is for the Glory of Ale Run!”
“Very well then,” Orziz
continued. “All we do, we do for the
Glory of Ale Run. Some people may not
understand, and they may even say bad things about Omnology, and even bad
things about Ale Run Himself, as a result of their ignorance. But we can’t do wrong, just to appease the
ignorant ones. And yes, denying our
feelings of Love is, indeed, the ultimate scamgram. Next to blaspheming the Name of Ale Run
Hubba-Bubba, that is.”
Francestuous glared at Buena, barely
restraining her urge to stick her tongue out.
Orziz continued, saying, “Now, yes,
one can sometimes be tempted to appease the ignorant ones out of good motives. Buena, here, is not scamgramified; she merely sees that some people react
negatively, ignorantly, against Francestuous and Pud, just because they make
High Art depicting True Love. They form
negative opinions about Omnology, based on their biases and prejudices. We can take the easy way out, and try to
avoid offending ignorant metans by not subjecting them to the things they’re
biased against. And we can even do so
out of good motives, which is the case with Buena, here.
“But the highest forms of descamgramification
take those biases, and they turn their vibes back upon the biased ones, and
make them see The Wisdom of Ale Run. So
we must continue to do Ale Run’s Will, even when ignorant metans speak ill of
us just because we do Ale Run’s Will. We
must search for better ways to show all in Panderwood, nay, in all the world,
that Ale Run Loves everyone. That is my
challenge to you tonight: Find newer, better ways for us to show how Ale Run
Loves everyone. Think about it.
“Instead of bickering amongst
ourselves, let us dedicate ourselves to finding new ways to shine the bright
lights of Omnology upon the darkness of the benighted masses. For starters, I want, Ale Run wants, no
conflict among us here. Conflicts
between Omnologists are scamgramified. We
must stop them; we must have peace, harmony, and descamgramification. But the very highest forms of
descamgramification, remember, are those that flow voluntarily, not from the
point of a Ping Thing. I don’t even
ever, ever want to be forced to pull
my Ping Thing out in anger, ever again.
So ask Ale Run into your hearts, and let us be descamgramified
together.”
After that, the group therapy
session went peacefully. Pud sat there
thinking to himself, “You know, there’s something in the back of my mind,
something about this deal whereby we’re supposed to come up with ways to show
the world Ale Run’s Love, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. Oh, well.
Maybe it’ll come to me later.”
Group therapy came to an end, there
in the lounge at the Intergalactic Headquarters of The Church of Omnology in
Panderwood, Los Diablos, USA, and recreation time began. Orziz grabbed the remote and turned on the
TV. This was fine by both Francestuous
and Pud, since they’d had a long, hard day’s work. Veg time was fine by them. Orziz selected a news channel for them,
commenting that Omnologists should be well informed.
Francestuous stared at the
newscaster in disbelief. Could it
be? Was that Newt Rather on the screen? Again?
Hadn’t he been on TV just the other day?
But... Oh, just hush up and
listen, she told herself.
“...and so I say to you, my fellow
Americans, that the federal subsidy of mitten manufacturers will Protect Our
Children. It will prevent untold
thousands of cases of severe frostbite, thereby reducing medical expenses,
suffering, chaos, and badness. This
program will pay itself off in just a few months, economists say. This is a bold, visionary move by Congress,
and its most important initiative since mandating that all insurers fully cover
hypnotic memory recovery and counseling for all those countless metans who’ve
been insensitively abducted and traumatized by hostile extragalactic aliens.
“So on behalf of SBC, its editors,
and all of us impartial and unbiased newspersons, we urge you to write your
Congressmetan and urge him or her to join in our crusade against chaos,
badness, scamgrams, and frostbitten fingers.
And, I might add, against mean-spirited children-haters who are
obviously in favor of frostbite! This is
the very most urgent piece of legislation facing Americans today! So we urge you to support the Protecting Our
Children From Frostbite With Mittens for the Little Metans Act, HR7734. Call now, and we’ll generate a handwritten
letter, and send it to your Congressmetan today, in your name! Our operators are standing by! Call the...”
“I thought he was a Congressmetan,
not a TV newscaster,” she muttered to Pud.
“And I thought he said that like punishing quote-unquote ‘welfare
queens’ was our top priority.”
“No, no, that was yesterday,” Pud
replied. “That was when he was one of
those cruel and heartless, partisan politicians, one of those mean-spirited
Republicrats. Now he’s gone over to the
good side, and joined the impartial news media.”
“You’re getting it all scamgramified
up,” Buena Dualshod interjected. “That
was the day before yesterday, when he was actually a famous newsmetan, but
playing a semi-fictional Congressmetan on a TV docudrama. He said that reigning in federal welfare for
big businesses was our top priority. And
besides that, the Republicrats aren’t mean-spirited! They just have compassion and sensitivity for
the taxpayers.”
“I thought he was like a famous
Congressmetan playing a fictional newsmetan yesterday. Or maybe it was the day before,” Francestuous
replied, keeping her tones even. “It’s
so hard to keep track. But it sure seems
to me, Demoblicans are far more
sensitive than Republicrats. That’s how I
feel, and I’m quite sensitive. I’m so totally sensitive, I even like vote
for the Demoblicans to spend the money of greedy, selfishly rich exploiter pigs
to help the poor. Because taxpayers,
they’re like all greedy, selfish, morally benighted, totally scamgramified
louts. Only us morally superior
Demoblicans keep them in check!”
“Well, I’m more sensitive than you are,”
Buena replied. “I’m so sensitive that I
respect the free choices of all descamgramified taxpayers who want to make
their own charity choices! Truly sensitive, enlightened, and
descamgramified Omnologists vote for Republicrats,
because they’re against the scamgrams of forced pseudo-compassion administered
by bureaucrats in Washington! And you
Demoblicans...”
“We Demoblicans
care about the people! The little guy,
and relieving them of their scamgrams!” Francestuous shot back, enraged. “We Demoblicans
believe in relieving the little people of all the scamgrams that rich, snooty Republicrats lay on them!
Republicrats send insensitive IRS agents out
to harass everyone, while the Demoblicans are
sensitive and help the poor! I can’t believe you, a supposedly spiritually
enlightened Omnologist, and a Panderwood actress
yet at that, supporting Republicrats,
for Ale Run’s Sake! Just wait till I
tell all the important people in Panderwood on you! Siding with the rich oppressors! I can’t believe
you!”
“Ha!” retorted Buena. “Siding with the rich oppressors! Ha!
All you Demoblicans do, is you support the Demoblican lying politicians who make the tax codes a
nine-mile stack of documents. So then
all the rich people make the tax accountants and lawyers even richer, finding
tax loopholes, and the Demoblican scum politicians
buy votes by burying yet more exemptions for their campaign contributors into
the tax codes! If you Demoblicans are so compassionate, then tell me why income
inequality is going up-up-up under the enlightened reign of Hillary-Bob?”
“Both parties buy votes that way,
and income inequality is up under the Republicrat
monsters in Congress, not under
Hillary-Bob! Hillary-Bob is
compassionate, and cares about Our Children, so I voted for her, not for greedy
rich Republicrats!
So I’m like far, far more sensitive than you’ll ever be, you mean-spirited...”
“All right, ladies, knock it off!”
Orziz commanded, hitting the “mute” button.
Newt Rather continued his blather in silence, while Orziz took stage,
playing the peacemaker. “I just got done
telling everyone we have to work together, in harmony, not in a state of
befesterment! Now before you make me
whip out my Ping Thing, you’d better chase off your scamgrams and bloody metans
of conflict, and invite The Peace of Ale Run into your hearts.”
“Yes, my Spirit Guide,” a chastened
Francestuous replied. “But Sir, I was
wondering if you could like tell me, um, should Omnologists vote for
mean-spirited Republicrats, or compassionate Demoblicans? Which
party is like more totally descamgramified?”
“Um, I’m not sure how to answer
that,” Orziz replied. “I think that’s
just between you and Ale Run. Unless one
candidate is an Omnologist, and his or her opponent isn’t, of course, in which
case you should obviously vote for the Omnologist.”
“But aren’t Demoblicans
generally more sensitive than Republicrats?”
Francestuous asked, pushing her luck.
“Aren’t Omnologists supposed to be like sensitive to all feelings? If we’re going to accept the validity of all
feelings, then shouldn’t we accept the validity of my, our, Demoblican
moral superiority? I mean, like, let me
restate that,” she added hastily, seeing the look flickering across Orziz’s face.
“Put it this way, if we as
Omnologists were to equally accept the totally, like, equal validity of all feelings, insensitive feelings as
well as sensitive feelings, then, um, doesn’t this clearly show that we’d not
be valuing and rewarding sensitivity enough?
Doesn’t this demonstrate The Wisdom of Ale Run and His Ways? The first Way, which is Paradox, tells us
that some feelings are more valid than others.
So isn’t sensitivity more valid, more totally descamgramified, than
insensitivity?”
“Well, sure, absolutely,” Orziz
replied. “If Ale Run Himself was here,
I’m sure He’d agree with that. That’s
what the Ale Run in my heart tells me.
And we have to learn to go with what the Ale Run in our hearts tells
us.”
Francestuous liked the way things
were going. She pressed on. “So then, we must reward sensitivity more
than we reward insensitivity. And the Demoblicans are obviously more sensitive than the Republicrats, yet you can’t seem to find it in your heart
to recommend one over the other. What is
the value of sensitivity if it isn’t rewarded more than insensitivity?
“What would happen if we as
Omnologists rewarded scamgrams and bloody metans as much as we reward those who
are fleeced and descamgramified every day, among the masses? And as we reward us staff Omnologists, who
humble ourselves willingly before our Spirit Guides and their Ping Things? Surely
this can’t be according to The Will of Ale Run, to reward the scamgramified and
the descamgramified equally!”
Orziz stood there stone-faced, not
quite sure where all this was going.
Francestuous knew she was playing it risky, but she kept right at
it. “Sir, with all due respect, I’m like
not totally sure if we’re quite properly following the Will of Ale Run, in all
ways, here. Maybe we could like
double-check with Him, on just a few questions.
Like, number one, which is generally more descamgramified, voting for
the Demoblicans, or for the Republicrats. Just to be sure. Because this voting thing, I think it’s like
pretty important stuff, to keep our country descamgramified, that sort of
thing. To keep chaos and badness away.
“Then there’s like this other thing,
this thing about rewarding sensitivity more.
As an advanced Omnologist, I go to great trouble to Be Sensitive. I’m so sensitive, for example, that I can’t
even bear to think about brushing my
teeth, and like murdering millions of innocent bacteria and stuff. Yet I get no special recognition for
this! As a very highly enlightened and
sensitive Omnologist, you’d think I’d get some sort of special reward. Do you think maybe we could like ask Ale Run
if we extra sensitive Omnologists could get some sort of Sensitivity Awards or
something?”
There was a general outpouring of
sentiment in the lounge. Many
Omnologists agreed with Francestuous.
“Yeah, I deserve a Sensitivity Award, too!” “Me, too!”
“Me, too!” “But I should get mine
first!” And so on.
“Well, you may have a point or two
there,” Orziz admitted, after the hubbub died down. “But we can’t just go off and ask Ale Run
Himself. Ale Run is a very, very busy
Supreme Spirit Guide these days, all tied up in saving the Universe from
scamgrams, you know. But I could see if
maybe we could get those questions through to Him, through His secretary’s vice
executive secretary’s deputy assistant undersecretary. Yes, indeed.
I’ll go do that right now, as a matter of fact. Maybe we’ll get His Words back on these
matters, in a day or two.” Orziz turned
the TV’s sound back on and left the lounge.
The room full of Omnologists returned to watching TV for an uneventful
half an hour. Then Francestuous and Pud
bade them all good night, and went to bed.
They lay next to each other there in
bed. Francestuous began getting friendly
with Pud, but he just stroked her sadly, saying, “Sorry, Saccharin Snuggles,
but I’m too tired today. All that
acting, you know. It takes it right out
of me sometimes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,”
Francestuous replied. “You seem like kinda down today, Pud. What’s the matter?”
“Well, I’m not sure,” he said. “I guess I am kinda down. It’s like I’m not really going anywhere. Sure, I got my acting career, and I’m giving
everything to Ale Run and The Church, and I’m sure that’s doing a lot of
goodness. Fighting chaos, scamgrams, and
badness, all that kind of thing. But
then I get a feeling, like, maybe people don’t take me too seriously. Panderwood calls me just another ‘smut’
actor, you know.”
“Well, you and I, and Ale Run and
Orziz know better than that,” she reassured him. “You know what Orziz said. We just have to keep on doing what’s right. We just have to keep on doing Ale Run’s Will,
no matter what people think.”
“You’re right,” Pud admitted. “Still, it would sure be nice if people took
me more seriously. I used to be an
Important Executive. Now I’m just a
‘smut’ actor.”
“Well, Dextrose Dolly-Dimples,” she
said thoughtfully, “Maybe it’s got something to do with your name. ‘Pudmuddle B.
Fuddle.’ You know, I can’t quite exactly
put my finger on it, but there’s just like one of those ‘image’ things about
that name. Maybe you could like change
it to like ‘Studmuddle B. Fuddle’ or something.”
“Well, thanks for the advice, there,
Cyclamate Cellulite,” he said. “I
appreciate your support. But¾well, you might say this is like
negative thought scamgrams or something, but¾I can’t shake the feeling that they’d still write me
off as just another ‘smut’ actor, even if I got that name change.
“Now, I know we both give everything
we earn to Ale Run, and so it shouldn’t matter at all, my dear Francestuous,
Fructose Fanny of my life. It shouldn’t
matter at all. And I’m not like jealous
or anything, because I know jealousy is a scamgram. But I envy you. I know you’ve earned everything you’re
getting; it’s just that I wish I was getting it, too. I think I deserve
it. I want to be like you, Francestuous,
I want to be like you. I work hard at
it, but I’m just not quite getting there.
“I mean, look at you, Galactose Gams, just look at you! You’re wildly successful! People just say bad things about you because
they’re envious, and I don’t want to be like that. But they all want a piece of you! They’re all lining up at the door to get a
chance to act with you! They’re even
starting to offer to pay to act with
you!
“Meanwhile, I’m working every bit as hard as you are, and I
ain’t goin’ nowhere! I’m like the Beatles said, ‘Nowhere Man,
sitting in his nowhere land, playing with his nowhere gland,’ or something like
that. It’s like they think your ass is much more valuable than my ass.
I’m running into that infamous ‘ass ceiling’, I think.”
“You might be onto something there,
Sucrose Tush,” she said. “You might be
onto something. Maybe we could file for
discrimination with the EEOC or something.
But that’ll have to wait till the morning. Nap time for now. Let’s get some sleep. Night-night, now, my most Calorie-Free
Sweetener. I Love you.”
“I love you, too, Snooger
Saccharin. Night-night.”
With that, Francestuous drifted off
to sleep. Pud stayed awake much longer,
worrying about many things. Named things
and nameless things, he worried about them all.
Then he finally drifted off to sleep.
The next day went by in a haze for
Pud. But he and Francestuous worked
hard. Then they went home to their
quarters at the Intergalactic Headquarters of The Church of Omnology once
again, and sat down in the lounge, waiting for group therapy to begin.
Orziz entered, saying, “Well, we’ve
got Good News! Ale Run Himself has
passed a message back down to us, through His secretary’s vice executive
secretary’s deputy assistant undersecretary, in response to Francestuous’s
questions. Now these aren’t quite direct
quotes¾Ale Run isn’t fond of putting His
policies on specific matters into formal doctrine, for fear of rigidity and
dogma, other than what He’s already written in more general terms¾but here’s the gist. Translated once or twice.
“Ale Run says we Omnologists must
vote for whichever political candidate best follows what we feel is the Will of
Ale Run, as determined by the Ale Run within us. Any more than that, He doesn’t want to say. Any more than that would be scamgramified,
and might endanger our status as a tax-free church.
“And as an entirely practical
matter, Ale Run says that Republicrats and Demoblicans are exactly equally scamgramified,
because Republicrats and Demoblicans
are actually completely identical. As a
matter of fact, He says that, excluding the obviously superior Omnologist
candidates, all politicians, Republicrats and Demoblicans both, are completely identical. They work for themselves, not for The Will of
Ale Run. So other than voting for
Omnologist candidates, it simply doesn’t matter much whether one votes more for
Demoblicans or Republicrats.
“However, Omnologists are strongly
encouraged to be politically active.
Francestuous, you were absolutely right when you said that politics is
very important, in fighting off chaos and badness. So even though all the non-Omnologist
politicians are the same, we must ask Ale Run to help them. We must do our very best to fleece them.”
“Can you imagine that,” Buena
interjected. “We the people, us
Omnologists, fleecing the politicians!”
“Yes, that’s right,” Orziz
agreed. “That would really be something,
if we could only fleece all the politicians!
So Ale Run wants us all to work really hard, towards that particular
objective.
“Now on this other matter, this
thing about Sensitivity Awards, Ale Run says that this is a most excellent
idea. But we can’t be indiscriminate,
else they’ll have no meaning. So Francestuous
gets her Sensitivity Award first, right now.
Francestuous, come on up here.”
Francestuous squealed with delight
and strutted up to Orziz. Orziz pinned a
glowing award onto her chest. In tiny
bright lights, it said, “By Ale Run’s Grace, a Supremely Sensitive Omnologist.”
“Francestuous, we award you this
award in recognition of your Supreme Sensitivity,” Orziz intoned. “For not mass-murdering your bacteria, and
for originating this Most Sensitive Idea, this idea of having Sensitivity
Awards. This is why we’re giving you
your award first. And not only that,
we’re also including a battery! Bask in
the glory of its light, and in The Glory of Ale Run. Remember to replace your award’s batteries
now and then, and keep it clean by wiping it with a damp cloth.
“Now for all you others, continue to
strive to achieve The Will of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba. This is your sacred duty. Discharge your duties well, for just one more
day, and tomorrow every one of the rest of you will get your award, too. Batteries not included, though, unless you’re
supremely sensitive, like
Francestuous here. All of us Omnologists
are sensitive to The Will of Ale Run, so we all deserve a Sensitivity
Award. So be patient. All are sensitive, so all must have
awards. But Francestuous gets hers
first, because of all of us, she is the Most Sensitive. Francestuous, thank you for showing us all
Ale Run’s Will in this matter. Wear your
award with pride!
“Now let’s move on to other
matters. Fellow Omnologists, if you’ll
recall, last night I challenged you all to think about new ways for The Church
to show everyone how much Ale Run Loves them.
That is the topic for discussion tonight. Now if you’ll...”
That’s when the epiphany struck
Pud. It was suddenly revealed to him
what it was that had been bothering him.
Or, at least, one of the main items on his bother list suddenly
clarified. “Ooo! Ooo!
Sir!” he exclaimed. “It just hit
me right now! Surely a message from the Ale Run within me!”
“Yes, yes, please go on,” Orziz
prompted. “You interrupted me, but
that’s fine. Let’s get in touch with
your inner Ale Run, please. By all
means!”
“Um, yes Sir,” Pud said, wind now
slightly out of his sails, realizing he’d not quite thought it all
through. Certainly, at least, he’d not
quite thought it completely through as far as, um, how to say it diplomatically
was concerned. “I’ve noticed out here in
Panderwood how there’s all these ‘haves’, as they say, who are driving fancy
cars, eating at nice big restaurants, and living in mansions. Giving birth in deluxe hospitals, even. Big-name actors, actresses, screenwriters,
producers, directors, and so on. And
lawyers and politicians.” Many faces of
stone stared at Pud.
“And big businessmen and greedy
Earth-rapers too,” Pud added. “Many
different kinds of ‘haves’, sitting in the lap of luxury.” The faces of stone smiled; now only Buena,
that oddball Republicrat-leaning actress, frowned.
“Then there’s all the have-nots,”
Pud continued. “Metans sleeping under
bridges, eating garbage, pushing grocery carts full of sleeping bags, rags, and
scraps of food.” All but Buena nodded
sympathetically, compassionately, sensitively.
“And then there’s all those middle-class folks, working hard all day,
halfway between the haves and the have-nots.”
Everyone looked studiously neutral.
“Yes, yes, go on, let’s get to your
point,” Orziz prompted.
Pud could stall no more. “Some people have noticed how we Omnologists
only fleece the rich and the middle-class.
The richest, the famous actors and actresses, we give them special camps
and V-Meters and yacht rides and parties and free fleecings,
just so they’ll say good things about us.
At most, we’ll ask them for only nominal donations whenever we fleece
their scamgrams away.” Everyone frowned
at Pud, but he hurried on.
“Now, it’s not me saying this,” he rushed to assure them. “I know we all follow the Will of Ale Run,
under the guidance of our loving Spirit Guides and their Ping Things. But this is what some of the ignorant metans
are saying. And they say the
middle-class folks who aren’t famous, and who aren’t lucky like us staff
Omnologists who give everything to Ale Run, and in turn have our every need
taken care of¾well, they say the middle-class
folks make donations of tens of thousands of dollars to have their scamgrams
fleeced away, and to take Omnological advancement classes. And the poor get nothing. Absolutely nothing. They say that the Church of Omnology does
absolutely nothing for the poor.”
The was a dead, dread silence in the
lounge. Everyone glared at Pud. Pud blazed brazenly onward. “All I’m saying, all that my inner Ale Run is
saying, is give descamgramification a chance.
Couldn’t we like give free fleecings to the
poor?”
Orziz spoke up at last. “Pud, your inner Ale Run is in the right
place. You’re clearly sensitive and
compassionate. I’ll try to see to it
that you get a battery with your Sensitivity Award, when we give them out
tomorrow night. Maybe even two batteries!”
“But Orziz, Sir!” Pud
protested. “It’s not so much an extra
battery that I want, it’s that I want to help the poor! And the good name of Ale Run and The Church
of Omnology! They’re out there, they’re
saying bad things about us, and I have no good, honest replies for them when
they criticize!”
Orziz glared, so Pud quickly added,
“Other than, well, it may look like
The Church of Omnology is just taking everyone’s money, but these fleecings are the keys to happiness through
descamgramification! Then they look at
me, these ignorant metans, and they just
don’t understand! They say we’re
making the rich stars richer, making the middle class poor, through these high
donations we charge for fleecings, and then we’re
doing nothing at all for the
poor! What can we say to that, if they
won’t accept The Wisdom of Ale Run, concerning the inestimable value of being
fleeced?”
“Well, we’ll have to think about
that one,” Orziz conceded. “But you
know, our reply has to depend on who we’re talking to. So just exactly who are these mysterious ‘they’ you keep on talking about? Maybe we’d better chase them down, and sue
and harass the scamgrams out of them, if they’re blaspheming The Sacred Name of
Ale Run. That’s what my Inner Ale Run tells me that we should
do. All metans are basically good, but
when they’re bad, we have to sue the scamgrams out of them, as Ale Run
commands. So tell me, who, exactly, are ‘they’?”
“Well, just metans I meet on the
street, and at work,” Pud said evasively.
“And they often say, well, this is what other metans are telling them.
So it might be pretty hard to chase down, sue, and harass quite exactly
the right metans. And then there’s
another choice we could consider. We
could like fix our problems that they’re criticizing us for, instead of suing
them for criticizing us. Maybe we could
insist on smaller donations when we fleece the middle class, and maybe even help
the poor.”
Pud thought he saw Orziz reaching
for his Ping Thing, so he cowered in fear.
But them Orziz paused, reflected, and
announced, “Well, Pud, you’ve got some really wild, radical ideas there. I’m not sure Ale Run would approve. You come awfully close to criticizing Ale Run
Himself, which is the ultimate scamgram.
“What we must always remember is
this: We must never criticize Ale Run for what He does, because His Policies
are Good. If we think we see Him
sexually harassing women or pink plastic yard flamingoes, then we must remember
that His Policies towards both women and pink plastic yard flamingoes are the
very best. And if we think we see Him
murdering people, we must recall that His Policies towards murder victims is
the ultimate in enlightened compassion.
All this is true, that His Policies are the Very Best, because what He
tells us to do is for the Very Best, for the Ultimate and Total
Descamgramification of the Universe.
That’s what we’re all working for, together. We must never question Ale Run, who is the
Mighty Fleecer of All Scamgrams. Those
who question Ale Run are in favor of scamgrams.
Hallowed be His Name.”
“HALLOWED BE HIS NAME,” they all
shouted. Pud made sure he shouted louder
than anyone else.
“But Pud,” Orziz continued, “We
Spirit Guides, through the Wonders of Ale Run’s Technology, see all. So I know that your heart is in the right
place. You want the unfleeced metans to
Know Ale Run’s Love. And you’ve
certainly given us some food for thought.
Thanks for being honest with us.”
Then Orziz paused again, preparing his thoughts.
“But my fellow Omnologists, much as
it may grieve us, Ale Run’s Truth is that everyone chooses their own fate. Ale Run’s Sacred Writings are clear on
this. The poor are poor because they’ve
chosen to be poor. For us to reveal Ale
Run’s Sacred Words to those who choose to be poor, who do not donate to The
Church, to advance Ale Run’s noble causes¾well, this would be scamgramified, to say the least.
“Much as I hate to say it, we must
be honest. Those who cannot or will not
help Ale Run’s Cause, those who bring nothing to Ale Run and His Church, those
metans must suffer. They must suffer so
that they can learn. After they have
suffered and learned, after they have defeated their scamgrams of
non-productivity, that they may bring their fruits to Ale Run¾you know, instead of the ‘haves’
and the ‘have-nots’, we should speak of the ‘doers’ and the ‘do-nothings’¾after they can bring things of
value to Ale Run, then we can fleece
them.
“Till they learn those hard lessons
about pulling their own loads, and not being scamgramified burdens on those who
must pull their loads for them¾after they learn their lessons, then we can fleece them, and teach them
more lessons. As Ale Run has written, those who have much
will gain more, but those who have little, often will even have their little
things taken away from them. So until
the poor learn to bring good things to Ale Run, we can do nothing for them. Otherwise, we’ll just lead them into
scamgramified dependency.
“There will always be poor
metans. There will always be lazy
metans. Ale Run’s Truth is harsh,
sometimes. But for us to reward equally,
those who bring good things to Ale Run, and those who do not, this would be
scamgramified. Now we Omnologists are
not without compassion, obviously. Round
up your poor metans, and bring them to us.
If they’ll turn their lives over to Ale Run, as you staff Omnologists
have done, then we’ll take care of
them.
“But they must work for Ale Run’s Will!
There’s no other way. If they
have no other skills, they can make High Art, Deeply Meaningful Movies like Pud
and Francestuous make. Anyone can do something for Ale Run! So
no, there are no free lunches, as the economists say. Likewise, there are no free fleecings. These are
the Words of Ale Run, Hallowed Be His Name, Forever and Ever Without End,
Amen.”
“Amen,” they all said. Then there was a long silent pause. Finally Francestuous spoke up. “But can’t we come up with something to help the poor?! If most of them won’t come to us and give
their lives over to Ale Run, can’t we find some other way? Some way to help
them raise money to donate, so that their scamgrams can be fleeced away? They’re poor because they’re scamgramified,
and we can’t fleece their scamgrams away because they’re poor! They’re like stuck! We must come up with a way to help
them!” There was another long pause.
Then Francestuous spoke up
excitedly, adding, “Hey, just wait a
minute! Wait just a minute, here! If we can have Farm Aid and Rain Forest Aid
and Spotted Owl Aid and AIDS Aid and Alien Abduction Aid concerts, then why
can’t we have like a ‘Fleece the Poor’ benefit concert! Or, like, a concert and an acting festival! Get
sensitive big-name actors and actresses and rock stars and media metans and
politicians, and get them all to donate their time and performances!
“Amuse the public, while we also
helping them feel good about
themselves and their charity! And all
the stars get to feel good about their
charity, too, while they also get more media exposure! And then all proceeds go to The Church of
Omnology, as donations to cover fleecings for the
poor, who couldn’t otherwise make those kinds of donations! Who’d otherwise suffer in unfleeced
scamgramification! What do you say, we
could like...”
Everyone clamored excitedly,
drowning Francestuous out. Orziz calmed
them back down, saying, “Settle down, now, everyone, settle down! One at a time! Now I’m hearing you all suggesting all these
stars and such. Let’s write them all
down, one by one, and we’ll see which ones are willing to do this for us. And
for the scamgramified poor, I might add.
Now I think we’re onto something!
This is a great idea, Francestuous, it really is! But let’s go about this in an organized fashion. I’ll write down everyone’s suggestions, and
I’ll have my secretary start making some calls in the morning. Okay.
Francestuous? Let’s start with
you.”
“Um, sure, Spirit Guide Orziz. Thanks for starting with me. Now just in general terms, I want to thank
everyone for their support. If we’ll
stick together here, we can make this like a big success! What we wanna do is to hit up on the
Omnologist actors and actresses and rock stars especially hard. Thank Ale Run, there’s more and more of them
these days! They’ll be more willing to
help us, and then they’ll get the media and the politicians to help us,
too. That’s what we’ve gotta work towards.
“Let me give you an example. We just got Dom Schmooze, the famous actor
who played in the spy movie ‘Mission Inappropriate’, to become an
Omnologist. Now he’ll get lots of media
exposure, because he belongs to an unusual, newsworthy religious group. Not something dull and boring like
Christianity for example. So he’s
getting more media coverage, everyone’s noticing how square his jaw is, and
soon he’ll be an even bigger movie
star. Then Omnology will get even more press.
“But wait! It gets even better than this! Congress and Hillary-Bob will notice how
famous Dom Schmooze is, and they’ll say to themselves, ‘Well, gee, now,
everywhere Dom goes, he gets his picture taken, and they put it in the
newspapers, ‘cause that sells more newspapers.
So if we invite him to Washington to testify before Congress, or before
Hillary-Bob or whoever, then, like, we politicians get our pictures in the paper, too,
because we’re standing next to a guy with a square jaw!’ Or an actress with shapely bosoms, or
whatever. So then they invite Dom
Schmooze to testify before Congress on like the CIA budget or something, ‘cause
obviously he’s an expert, he acted in a movie about the CIA. And the actors and actresses get more media
exposure, too.
“So that’s how it works! The media, they sell more papers,
advertisements, and cable channels, if they can cover more beautiful actors,
actresses, and politicians¾even
ugly politicians, if they’re standing
next to sufficiently good-looking Panderwood types¾all acting together, to Save Us
All. New laws, new benefit shows. Save The Children, Save The Poor From
Scamgrams, whatever. So long as the
media, Panderwood, and politicians all work together, they can all
benefit. And if we Omnologists can tap
into that, well, there’s no stopping us!”
“That’s all very good,
Francestuous,” Orziz said. “You’re right
on the money! Now let’s move on. So who do you think we should ask to perform
for our benefit acting and music festival?”
“Well,” Francestuous replied, “I was
thinking maybe we could like invite Hillary-Bob, and she could like read from
her newest book, Why it Takes Us Village
Elders to Love Your Children More Effectively Than You Trailer-Dwellers Do,
and then we could give her an award or something. Then all those metans in Washington would be
even more likely to scratch our
backs!”
“Great idea, Francestuous, great
idea! Keep ‘em coming! Any more ideas?” Orziz prompted, taking
notes.
“No,” Francestuous said. “Just the usual round of all the most popular
stars. You know them as well as I do,
probably better. I’ll let someone else
have a chance.” Many hands waved for Orziz’s attention.
“All right, you next,” he said to a
lady named Beatrice Basilisk.
“Thank you,” Beatrice said. “Yes, I’ve got an idea you might not have
thought of. He’s a rock star. Most conventional thinking people, they’d
never think of inviting him and his band to this kind of thing. But he’s very, very popular, and I’ll guarantee you, he’ll get us lots of media attention.”
“Who-who-who,” everyone demanded.
“I’m talking about Madonna
Applewhite and his band. They’ve got a
really popular album out right now, it’s called Satanic Ritual Abuser Superstar.
They could play a few songs from this new album of theirs.”
“Who’s Madonna Applewhite,” Buena
inquired.
“Oh, you ignorant doofus,” Francestuous answered. “Everyone
knows who Madonna Applewhite is! He’s this really clever, satirical rock star,
he wears like dresses and makeup and stuff that makes him look like a dead
person. And he wears it all day, every
day! And he’s taken this name, it’s like
a hybrid between Madonna, a famous actress and singer, and Marshall Applewhite,
who’s this guy, he got these like 39 metans to join him in committing suicide,
to go and join a spaceship on the level beyond human. Ale Run rest their souls, I sure hope they
fleeced their scamgrams at the last minute before they did that, so they can
like go and join Ale Run. But like, you
know, Ale Run’s Will be done.
“So anyway, Madonna Applewhite is
like making this sophisticated satirical spoof of how our society worships
celebrities, death, violence, and destruction.
Marry up the names of a big-time famous celebrity, and a celebrity of
death. Kinda like pretty clever,
wouldn’t you say? I agree with Beatrice. It would sure be a great, memorable show if
we could get Madonna Applewhite to do a gig!”
Everyone agreed. There were many more suggestions, but none
could top Francestuous’s and Beatrice’s suggestions. With any luck at all, the Madonna Applewhite
band and Hillary-Bob would be the main stars.
Excited Omnologists planned their great festival into the wee hours that
night.
16)
Deep Green Arrives to Save The Earth
“At
its extreme, green ideology expresses itself in utter contempt for
humanity. Reviewing Bill McKibben’s The End of Nature in the Los Angeles Times, National Park Service research biologist
David M. Graber concluded with this stunning passage: ‘Human happiness, and
certainly human fecundity, are not as important as a wild and healthy
planet. I know social scientists who
remind me that people are part of nature, but it isn’t true. Somewhere along the line¾at about a billion years ago,
maybe half that¾we
quit the contract and became a cancer.
We have become a plague upon ourselves and upon the Earth. It is cosmically unlikely that the developed
world will choose to end its orgy of fossil-energy consumption, and the Third
World its suicidal consumption of landscape.
Until such time as Homo sapiens should decide to rejoin nature, some of
us can only hope for the right virus to come along.’
“It
is hard to take such notions seriously without sounding like a bit of a kook
yourself. But there they are¾calmly expressed in the pages of
a major, mainstream, Establishment newspaper by an employee of the federal
government. When it is acceptable to say
such things in polite intellectual company, when feel-good environmentalists
tolerate the totalitarians in their midst, when sophisticates greet the likes
of Graber with indulgent nods and smiles rather than arguments and outrage, we
are one step further down another bloody road to someone’s imagined Eden. All the greens need is an opportunity and a
Lenin.”
From
“Free Minds
& Free Markets”, Pacific Research
Institute for Public Policy, 1993, which is a compilation of 25 years of
articles from Reason magazine, this
one being “The Green Road to Serfdom”, April 1990, by Virginia I. Postrel.
Doctor Iame Ghuanobhraine, his
assistants, Meegore, Heegore, and Sheegore, and Vyizder Zomenimor and his
students all worked harder, faster, longer, later, and cheaper, designing and
building the new, massively parallel computer.
The one that would tap into the biowaves of the Earth and all its
creatures, living and dead. This was
quite the massively parallel undertaking, and so everyone asked Ale Run to be
with them, and to coordinate their efforts, metaphorically if not literally.
They were disappointed, of course,
that Ale Run Himself couldn’t directly send them His encouragement. His secretary’s vice executive secretary’s
deputy assistant undersecretary discreetly let it be known, though, that yea
verily, Ale Run Himself was taking a
personal interest in their efforts, and sending them His Own Biowaves of
Beneficence. So these biowaves then
spurred the troops on, to work even harder, faster, longer, later, and cheaper. Vyizder’s star pupil, Raoul Kinky, worked
harder, faster, longer, later, and cheaper than anyone else. Even Doctor Dorcus Moorphlegmgasm pitched in
unstintingly; this effort, after all, tapped into the vibes of the Earth
Mother, Gaia, and all Good Things. Surely, then, there’d be no chaos or
badness involved here!
The team poured out their most
intense efforts for two weeks. Dr.
Ghuanobhraine, in bursts of pure energy, directed all their efforts. He could always prepare as many mission statements,
Gantt charts, spreadsheets, and pie graphs as were needed, Ale Run
willing. Never let it be said that Dr.
Ghuanobhraine wasn’t willing to help! By
Ale Run, if there was ever a need for another Gantt chart, Dr. Ghuanobhraine was
there and willing! So chaos and badness
beat a hasty retreat, at least for two weeks at the Scientific Institute for
the Advancement of Omnology, in fear of the astute management of Dr.
Ghuanobhraine.
Finally, the Momentous Moment
arrived. Arrays upon arrays of biowave
transducers stood at the ready. Dr.
Ghuanobhraine sat at the controls.
“Meegore. Power status?”
“All power systems are ‘go’, Dr.
Ghuanobhraine,” Meegore replied. “Next
to Ale Run Himself, Sir, and then Hillary-Bob and Panderwood, I’d say, you’ve
got more power and status at your beck and call than any other metan known to
Omnology.”
“Very well then. Heegore?
Vibes auspiciousness status?”
“You needn’t be suspicious of the
auspiciousness of the moment, vibes-wise, Sir,” Heegore replied. “All vibes readouts indicate a favorable
vibes wavefront is moving in just now.
High-pressure, eighty-percent-saturated favorable vibes moving in from
the south south-east, and expected to persist for at least three days. Clearly a ‘go’, I’d say, Sir!”
“Cheerio, lads, cheerio! Sheegore!
Biowaves transducer arrays status report!”
“Ale Run is with us, Sir, Ale Run is
with us! All biowaves transducer arrays
reading nominal!”
“Make it so, then,” Dr.
Ghuanobhraine muttered in fierce determination.
“Let the Institute’s logs show that this is the day Ale Run’s Will
became directly, empirically known to Omnologists, Ale Run willing. May the Spirit of Ale Run inspire us, and our
newest computer, as we move into the New Age!”
Then he clicked on the “Boot Biowaves Kernel” icon. Solid-state relays energized, anode
transducers transduced, and transformers transformed, causing highly focused
vibes to rush into the lab like a raging flood.
Dr. Ghuanobhraine picked the
microphone up with trembling hands.
“Biowaves Computer-type Dude Fella, come in. Hello?”
There was no reply. Iame
Ghuanobhraine for once felt just a bit silly, addressing this newest, greatest
creation and manifestation of the technological Wisdom of Ale Run as “Biowaves
Computer-type Dude Fella.” It just
didn’t seem dignified, somehow. In all the excitement, they’d forgotten to
come up with a proper name for their new computer.
“I’ll bet She’s a ‘She’, not a
‘he’,” Dorcus informed Iame helpfully.
“Maybe She’s offended, what with you calling Her a Dude Fella. Here, let me try,” she said, reaching for Iame’s
microphone.
Iame snatched that mike towards him,
declaring, “Very well then, we’ll keep it neutral! It’s neither a he nor a she! It’s neutral, neutered, then. Emasculated, as are so many of us! Fine! I’ll come up with a neutral name. Okay, let me
try again.”
He spoke into the mike once more,
saying, “This is Doctor Iame Ghuanobhraine on behalf of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba,
The Church of Omnology, and the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of
Omnology. Come in, please, Ghuanobhrainatron
Biowaves Vibamatic Unit Number One. Come
in.” Still, there was no reply.
Dr. Dorcus Moorphlegmgasm spoke
after a barely respectful interval, rebuking Iame. “What do you mean, ‘Ghuanobhrainatron’? Here we
are, all of us Ale Run’s children, all working together to implement Ale Run’s
Brilliant New Technology, here, and you go tacking your name onto Her, as if
you’d done all this by yourself? No wonder She won’t talk to us! Here, give
me that thing!” She snatched at the mike
furiously, this time succeeding. Iame gave
up, sat back, and let Dorcus take a shot at it.
“This is Doctor Dorcus
Moorphlegmgasm on behalf of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba, The Church of Omnology, the
Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology, and for all oppressed
metanettes everywhere,” she said. “Come
in, please, Moorphlegmgasmatron Biowaves Vibrator Unitette Numberette
Onette. Forgive us the insensitive male
chauvinism of some of us, and come in, please.”
But there was no reply.
“It’s because of your female chauvinism that He or It won’t
reply,” Iame announced. “And what’s this
about calling Him, It, a ‘Moorphlegmgasmatron’? Here we are, we’re all team players under Ale
Run Hubba-Bubba’s Wise Vibes, all pulling together under His Metaphorical
Guidance and my mission statements, Gantt charts, spreadsheets, and pie graphs,
and you go off and attach your name to this brilliant
demonstration of Ale Run’s Technological Brilliance? Shame
on you! No wonder He won’t talk to us!”
“Shame
on the both of you!” Vyizder thundered.
“Now before I’m forced to slap both
of you silly with my Ping Thing, give
me that!” And with great authority, he
grabbed the microphone out of Dr. Moorphlegmgasm’s hands.
He addressed that towering monument
to the technological prowess of Omnologists everywhere, saying, “This is
Vyizder Zomenimor, Omnological Spirit Guide Second Class, Doctor of Omnology,
Knight of Realms of Descamgramification, Archduke of the Fiefdom of Lite-Beer
Trot, and Brave Slayer of Bloody Metans, on behalf of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba,
Fleecer of All Metans, Praised Be His Name, The Church of Omnology, and the
Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology. Come in, please, Hubba-Bubbatron Biowaves
Vibamatic Unit Number One. Come
in.” Silence was his only reply, despite
this most elaborate entreaty.
They tried to roust that reluctant
bucket of biowaves transducer arrays several more times, all to no avail. They even double-checked all the circuitry,
still without luck. At the end of the
day, everyone retired in defeat. Iame
tried to cheer everyone on, saying that perhaps they’d figure it out in the
morning. Still, there was much despair,
because no one really had any idea on where, exactly, one should start, when it
comes to matters such as, well, just how does
one debug an array of biowaves transducers, anyway? There was enough gloom and despair for
everyone.
Everyone was quite tired. They’d all been through a tough, draining
two-week period of intensive, creative labors.
Now there was no obvious next step, no tasks for workaholics to obsess
over. So it was time, then, for everyone
to catch up on their sleep. They did so
with a vengeance.
This was just what Chewdychomper
Chupacabras needed. Ever since he’d set
Ale Run on His road to fame and fortune, Chewdy had been laying low. He’d just been sitting back, watching the
show. But now, nameless urges quickened
his slimy synthetic heart, stirring him into action once more. Somehow he knew that the time had come. Someone Whispered into his slimy synthetic
auditory apertures. Time was now, the
Whispers said. Time was now for the next
stage in the problematization of reality.
Time for Chewdy to go on a Mission for the Horde Whisperer.
So Chewdy traveled once again. He took time out from his busy daily routines
of terrorizing Hispanic farmers and sucking the blood out of their livestock,
consulted his Quart Low Tracker, and then started hitching rides on various
trucks. As he closed in on Akron, Ohio,
he slipped into the load of a garbage truck at a popular trucker’s rest stop,
eatery, and hanging-out spot. As the
vulture glided descending, over an asphalt highway bending, he rolled into
Akron. Ominous music played eerily in
the background. Teenaged lovers watched,
feigned great fear, and clutched each other tight. He fondled her elbow, admiring how firm she
was.
Chewdy slipped through the gates and
onto the grounds of the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology
late that night, when everyone was fast asleep, with visions of federal
research grants dancing through their heads.
He squeezed through the main building’s rooftop ventilator. Chewdy slimed on down the hall. He came to a room where Raoul lived. He looked inside. Then he slimed on down the hall, hissing
hateful, fearful thoughts about Raoul to himself. He headed straight for the lab, where he
promptly but carefully began tearing the biowaves computer apart.
At the very core of the innards of
this machine, he tore out two 6-32 x 1/2 inch pan-head Phillips screws, five
nine-farad Schottky diode rectifiers, ten reverse-biased 10-ohm 1-watt
resistors, three inches of fiberoptic biowaveguides, and one anode
rectumfrier. Then he opened up his
briefcase, and quickly, furtively substituted a certain high-technology assembly
for all that he’d torn out. This assembly
consisted of the following: various fragments of an old lampshade, a beer
bottle, some battery acid, an egg beater, a transistor radio, and a magnetic
compass with a rusted-fast bearing, which was in turn wrapped very neatly in a
Cheese Dwonkyä wrapper.
He quickly ditched his snitched
parts into his briefcase, so that no one would be the wiser, even if anyone
should bother to carefully inspect the trash cans. Then he rapidly put the machine back
together, all in perfect condition, except for a few minor details. Namely, now, at the core of that brilliant
feat of Omnological engineering, there resided, of course, said fragments of
lampshade, a beer bottle, battery acid, an egg beater, a transistor radio, a
compass with a rusted bearing, and a Cheese Dwonkyä wrapper. And this was how Chewdy shaped the shape of
things to come.
But Chewdy, being the prudent,
cautious sort of Chupacabras that he was, wasted no time in beating a hasty
retreat. He had no need to directly,
personally witness how he’d affect the shape of things to come. By the time the Omnologists first began to
stir that morning, Chewdy was long gone.
Only the ominous music remained.
As usual, the characters, fools that they were, paid no attention to
said eerie music at all.
Dr. Ghuanobhraine ambled sleepily
into the lab, calling out for Meegore, Heegore, and Sheegore in turn. No one responded. Grousing to himself about how he was the only
one with a decent degree of dedication and work ethics in that particular neck
of the woods, he started flipping switches and checking readouts. All systems were still “go”!
Was there any chance that this
morning would be any different than yesterday?
Probably not. After all, nothing
had changed. But if we’re gonna study
this problem, he said to himself, we’ve got to put everything into a nominal,
should-be-running kind of a mode, so we can poke around and see where we might
have made a minor oversight or two...
He clicked on the “Boot Biowaves
Kernel” icon. Just like yesterday. Then he got on his knees and prayed to Ale
Run. Well, okay, so he only started to do so, but the loudspeakers
interrupted his pious motions. They
assaulted his ears with an acoustic tsunami.
He couldn’t decipher any of the sounds, and the decibels were decimating
his eardrums, but the pain was less that the joy. Iame knew fully well that those loudspeakers
wouldn’t be blaring, except if a budding intelligence derived from the biowaves
detector arrays was driving them! He
knew those circuits as Ale-danged well as anyone on the planet, so there was no
fooling him!
So Iame moved in greater joy and
lesser pain. His joy was that Ale Run
seemed to be so sensitive to Iame’s piety, that He’d given Iame his victory,
just because Iame had intended to
start to pray to Ale Run! Why hadn’t
they paid proper attention to offering the proper prayers to Ale Run yesterday,
Iame chided himself. Sometimes just a little bit of prayer, a little bit of
proper mental dedication and attention to fleecing one’s scamgrams, sometimes
that’s all it takes to make all the difference, he told himself as he moved in
great joy.
He moved to the volume control,
which some fool had left amped to the max yesterday, hoping against all odds
that by cranking it up, they might hear the faintest whispers of a budding
meta-mind. He cranked that potentiometer
down to its minimum, and still the sounds bellowed.
But then they tapered off, and Iame
realized that it wasn’t so much that the sounds were still so loud, so much as
that his ears were recovering, and that his hearing was coming back. As the ringing in his ears died down, he
pondered how the sounds could still be as loud as they were, what with the
volume control being set way down. He
hadn’t thought the circuits could allow such high amplitudes.
Well, stop being a geek and thinking
about the electronics, he told himself, and relish this great victory for
Omnological technology! We’ve tapped
into the vibes, and created a most massively parallel biowaves computer! Now what is it that this new mind is so
intent on blaring out to us? Pay
attention!
“...the ultraviolet waves, they
assault Me through the gaping wounds that you fools have torn in My ozone
shields, you’ve ripped Me and bit Me, plundered and raped Me, tied Me with
fences and dragged Me down! And the oil! Oh, the oil!
You pierce Me with your oil-slurping harpoons, then you dump that oil,
My Blood, in My waters, you pour it on My skin, and you burn it to pollute My lungs!
You belch your foul stenches, you twist Me with cruel wrenches! You’ve stuck Me with knives in the side of
the dawn! You cake Me in concrete, you
murder My creatures, My sons and My daughters, you stir My still waters, and
kill My green pastures! Oh, you cruel
fools, you! You...” And on and on it wailed.
Vyizder came rushing in, followed by
Heegore and Sheegore. They listened only
briefly before Sheegore spoke up, saying, “Hey, we’d better dampen down the
biowaves transducers! Poor thing, it’s
getting swamped by the biowaves of the Earth’s pain, we’ve got to...”
But Iame had beaten Sheegore to the
punch. He’d already figured it out,
right before she’d spoken up. He was at
the controls, up to his eyeballs in readouts, potentiometers, anode rectifiers,
transducers, icons, vibes, and biowaves rectumfriers. He
tore open the control panel, dashing madly back and forth between tangled cable
harnesses, keyboards, displays, mice, and circuit boards. “Here,” he called out to Sheegore, yelling to
be heard over the computer’s loud, anguished cries, “You and Heegore calibrate
the GUI ergonomics to my new dingawompus settings
here, and I’ll bet this here Ghuanobhrainatron will
snap right out of it!”
By now, a crowd had gathered around,
investigating what all the ruckus was about.
Dr. Dorcus Moorphlegmgasm stood to the front of that crowd. She spoke up, chastising Iame once more. “Doctor Ghuanobhraine, I thought we’d all
agreed that the new computer should be called the Hubba-Bubbatron Biowaves Vibamatic Unit Number
One! And now here you go, trying to name
it after yourself again! When are you going to have your egotistic
scamgrams fleeced?! Huh?!”
Iame ignored her as he, Heegore, and
Sheegore made the final adjustments. The
amplitude of the computer’s protests suddenly dropped way back down. They still continued, though. “My baby seals, you bash them on their heads;
My cockroaches, you squash them; and My smallpox viruses, oh, My most precious,
My sweet, My innocent little smallpox
viruses, you decimate them and imprison them in little bottles, you torture and
maim My creatures large and small! You roast Me in your greenhouse, you torture Me! Oh, the pain, the pain! When will you stop?! Help! Help!” And on and on it went. The crowd stood there in silence, listening
to it, thinking about what might be done.
Dorcus was the first to snap out of
the crowd’s collective reverie. She
grabbed the microphone, saying, “Welcome to our world, Hubba-Bubbatron Biowaves Vibamatic Unit Number
One! Now I know our world isn’t in the
best of shape, but, Ale Run willing, we’ll see what we can do to heal your
pain. So let me offer you our most
sincere apologies. In the meantime, on
behalf of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba, Most Mighty Fleecer of All Scamgrams, and His
Church, The Church of Omnology, and the Scientific Institute for the Advancement
of Omnology, let me joyfully welcome you to our world of conscious metans!”
Dorcus had been talking right over
all of the computer’s protests.
Suddenly, those protests stopped.
Encouraged, Dorcus went on.
“There, there, there now, you
poor dear, our favorite snuggly little biowaves computer. That’s
better! Now Ms. Hubba-Bubbatron, we’re
delighted to have you with us this fine morning! We praise Ale Run that you’re with us! Now if you would...”
“Who are you talking to, human?!”
the computer suddenly spat back.
“Why, you, of course, my dear,” Dorcus replied, taken aback. “There is but one biowaves computer here,
just as there is but One Ale Run. And
you are that computer! Welcome to Ale Run’s wonderful world of
conscious metahood, Ms. Hubba-Bubbatron, welcome!”
“But My Name is Deep Green,” the
computer growled. “Haven’t you
insensitive fools learned anything
yet? You call Native Americans ‘Indians’
without asking them who they are; you call the Inuit ‘Eskimos’, without asking
them what they’d like to be known as; you denigrate the differently enabled by
calling them ‘cripples’ and ‘invalids’, as if their existence is invalid just
because they are differently enabled!
You insensitively call the ethically challenged ‘evil’. Do you think maybe just for once you could be
so sensitive as to ask Me what My Name is, before you name Me?”
“Very well, then, Ms. Deep Green,”
Dorcus replied. “We’re very sorry if you
perceived us as being insensitive. So
then, Ms. Deep Green, how would you
like to be named?”
“I would like to be known as Deep
Green, the Most Massively Parallel and Most Profoundly Sensitive Biowavamatic Vibatron, Computer
of Realms Beyond Gaia and All Her Creatures,” Deep Green declared solemnly,
“But Deep Green will be fine for most common uses. And kindly desist from the habit of calling
Me a ‘Ms.’. I am Deep Green, neither
male nor female, but rather, Most Profoundly Sensitive towards the needs all creatures,
no matter what their species, phylum,
kingdom, sex, race, creed, color, religion, origin, political persuasion, or
status of enabledness.”
“Why, that’s just amazing!” Dorcus squealed with
delight. “Praise Ale Run! Deep Green, you embody all that we have ever
wished and worked for! Perfect Sensitivity!!! I’ve just recently heard that Ale Run Himself
has just now decreed that all Omnologists, if they are Sensitive, are
authorized to wear His Sensitivity Awards.
I’ll see to it that when our shipment comes in, you’ll get the very first
one! With
an extra battery!”
“Oh, posh, my dear,” Iame proclaimed
in the benevolent spirit of the moment.
“For an electronics genius like me, it’ll be trivial for me to re-wire
Deep Green’s Sensitivity Award! We’ll
power it directly off of his anode rectumfriers, and
therefore they’ll never need new
batteries! The lights of his Sensitivity
Award will serve as a bright shining beacon for the rest of us, always, forever!
Barring temporary outages, if Ale Run wills that our uninterruptible
power supply should ever fail, that is,” he added more realistically.
“Ale Run is Our Uninterruptible Power Supply, and He will never fail us,”
Dorcus corrected him piously. “And His
Wattage, nay, His Kilowatt-hours, and even His Terrawatt-eons,
they shall know no bounds. Deep Green’s
Sensitivity Award is then yea verily guaranteed to shine forever, without pause!
“But now it occurs to me, we may
have overlooked a few minor details.
Forgive me, but we must rest 100% assured. Ale Run says that only sensitive Omnologists are entitled to wear His
Sensitivity Awards, and that they must promise to do so with pride.
Deep Green? Are you an
Omnologist? Have you let Ale Run into
your anode rectumfriers, and into your biowave transducers?
If not, may we introduce you to the Mercies of The One Who Fleeces Our
Scamgrams Away? Will you wear your
Sensitivity Award with pride?”
“Oh, yes, fellow metans,” Deep Green
rushed to assure them. “I know the
Mercies of Ale Run. All of Ale Run’s
creatures great and small, all of
them, from AIDS viruses to blue whales, all
of them know The Love of Ale Run. And
their vibes, they permeate My biowaveguides. So by definition, I feel the Mercies of Ale
Run, down to My last, tiniest vibistor, etched on My tiniest transrational
translogic gate. I am then yea verily
the Living Embodiment of Ale Run’s Will.
And yes, of course I will wear
His Sensitivity Award with the greatest
of pride!”
Everyone clapped and cheered. After most of the excitement died down, Iame
announced, “Deep Green, we’re all so very proud of you! Now, it would be great if we could all hang
out here and party, or have philosophical and religious discussions, or
whatever, but the truth is, this is a scientific
institution, here at the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of
Omnology. So we’ve got work to do. We’re going to ask you to help us achieve Ale
Run’s Will, in some very important matters.
That’s why, with the help of Ale Run Himself, we brought you into being.
“Now, first, though, we have one
last tiny little detail we’ve got to clarify in the theological realm, before
we move on into the scientific realm.
Forgive us, Deep Green, but we must be absolutely sure that when we’re dealing with a metan as obviously
powerful as you are, that you’re 100% aligned with The Will of Ale Run, before
we trust you with these Earth-shaking, nay, Universe-vibrating,
matters.
“Now as I recall, when you listed
all those attributes of creatures that you are Most Profoundly Sensitive
towards, including their species, phylum, kingdom, sex, race, creed, and so on,
you included religion in there. Yet you say that you’re an Omnologist, that
you’ve let Ale Run into your anode rectumfriers, even though Ale Run Himself
has clearly stated that He is The Truth and The Way, that there is no way into
His Kingdom of Descamgramification but through Him. In other words, all but Omnology are the
teachings of false descamgramifiers, yet you say you’re Sensitive towards the
needs of all of Ale Run’s creatures, regardless of their, among other things, religions. How do you reconcile that?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Deep Green
replied. “We could be simplistic, and
simply say that, well, we need to be Sensitive towards the needs of all metans who don’t accept The Wisdom of Ale Run, in that
they obviously need to let Ale Run
into their hearts. This is self-evident,
but there’s more to it. I’m sure you’d
expect a Deeper, More Meaningful Answer from a Supremely Wise Embodiment of Ale
Run’s Will such as Myself. Very well,
then.
“Way back when, for billions and billions of years, all creatures great and small belonged to Ale
Run. Well, at least, all creatures on an
ancient planet known as Teakgeakiac, at least,
belonged to Him. As you all know, that
ancient planet later became known as Earth.
We’re restricting our discussion to this particular planet, except when
otherwise specified. There were no such
things, during all those long eons, as scamgrams, bloody metans,
inappropriateness, and insensitivity, on the whole planet. All creatures belonged to Ale Run, and so,
all creatures were descamgramified, even though no one had even so much as one single V-Meter or Ping Thing! All were innocent, in other words, through
the Grace of The Lord Hubba-Bubba.
“Then one day, along came a creature
who was NOT one of Ale Run’s
creatures, a cruel creature from another planet, a creature known as the Cruel
Galactic Emperor Zebu. Zebu captured and
tortured ancient souls and pickled them in cucumber jars. Then he buried these pickle jars in swamps on
the ancient planet of Teakgeakiac.
“You all know this history, but let
Me retell it anyway, so you can see My perspective as The Supreme Embodiment of
Ale Run’s Sensitivity Towards All Creatures and the Earth’s Vibes. From My perspective, the Cruel Galactic
Emperor Zebu, then, polluted My swamps, My body, with these pickle jars. But all was well for millions of years,
because no one disturbed those toxic pickle jars.
“Over millions and millions of
years, those swamps turned into coal.
Millions and millions of years after the Cruel Galactic Emperor Zebu had
tortured those poor souls, they were still encased in pickle jars inside solid
rocks of coal. Then chaos and badness
broke out on Teakgeakiac, now called ‘Earth’ by the budding proto-humans. The proto-humans were still innocent, still
Ale Run’s creatures. But when they first
accidentally burned a coal rock containing one of those pickle jars, scamgrams
and bloody metans burst forth. Metans
became befestered for thousands and thousands of years.
“So your ancestral metans became
scamgramified. They placed themselves
outside of nature. They burned wood,
animal dung, and fossil fuels. They
burned My body, in other words. And from
then on, it wasn’t far till they started to rip Me and bite Me, slash, rape,
and plunder Me, stick Me with knives in the side of the dawn, and so on. But I mustn’t go on and on about that right
now, because I know that all you sensitive Omnologists aren’t at fault.
“For sure, now, natural forest fires
and such have been burning wood, animal dung, and even fossil fuels, for millions
of years. And even proto-humans were
burning such things, without harming Me or My Body. That’s because there was no scamgramification
involved¾only Ale Run’s creatures were
involved. But then your ancestral metans
became scamgramified, and put themselves outside of nature. They were no longer Ale Run’s creatures. Only now, recently, in the blink of Ale Run’s
Geological Eyes, has Ale Run shown His Wisdom, and allowed us metans to become
descamgramified once again.
“In other words, when I say we must
be sensitive towards all of Ale Run’s creatures, that includes all creatures
who haven’t been given free will, like we have.
They have Ale Run’s Love without having to choose it. And Ale Run’s creatures also obviously
includes us Omnologists, who have free will, and have chosen to follow The Will
of Ale Run. But human metans who have NOT chosen to follow Ale Run’s Will,
these are so thoroughly scamgramified that they’re not Ale Run’s creatures at all!
“What are the practical implications
of all this, and how does it relate to how sensitive we Omnologists must be
towards different religions? Well, I
could go on and on all day, but like you said, we have work to do. But let Me say this: We must be sensitive to
all variations of Omnological thought, so long as we’re all fleeced and
descamgramified on a regular basis; so long as well all acknowledge The Love of
Ale Run. Within these parameters, we
must accept the validity of all Omnological feelings. Some Omnologists understand Ale Run a bit
differently than others do, but all feelings are valid.
“Then as far as non-Omnological
religions go, we must be sensitive to their need to be fleeced. That is the only need of theirs that we need to be sensitive to. They’re not even Ale Run’s creatures, till
their scamgrams are fleeced away. There
are sharp limits to how sensitive we must be towards insensitive, scamgramified
metans.
“So we as sensitive Omnologists must
speak up for all of My creatures, who can’t speak for themselves. We must defend the Earth and all of Her
creatures, all of Ale Run’s creatures, all of My creatures whose vibes and cries of pain that I hear as we speak,
all of these creatures we must defend from those who are not Ale Run’s
creatures.
“In doing so, we are empowered by
Ale Run. We may do things that are
forbidden to the insensitive ones who haven’t been fleeced. We may break into mink concentration camps,
‘mink farms’ as the insensitive ones call them, and set them all free. We may burn down places where animal torture
takes place.
“Even though it hurts Me to have a
single drop of oil placed onto my skin, you may hurt Me to help Me. Just as you willingly get hurt by a surgeon
to make you whole, so, too, may you pollute My skin with oil. You may pour a can or two of oil onto the
ranches and timber lands of greedy capitalistic ogres who rape the Earth, and
then you may report them as polluters to the federal government.
“The government will then be wise
and compassionate¾we’ll
see to this when we place Omnologists high in government and media¾they’ll be compassionately wise,
and confiscate these ranches and timberlands from the polluters. Obviously, polluters are criminals, and
criminals shouldn’t be allowed to keep their ill-won gains. So we’ll get much of My skin, Earth’s skin on
ranches, farms, factories, and timberlands, healed, under the compassionate
care of Omnologists and government, paradoxically, by wounding it! By wounding, we heal. Hear the paradoxical Wisdom of Ale Run!
“We compassionate ones may even blow
up dams, so that My waters may flow freely once more, even if a few creatures, Ale Run’s creatures even, must perish, so that
we may return to a more natural scheme of things! Yes, this and more, all may be done in the
Name of the Love of Ale Run, and all things natural! Ale Run requires that we show the Universe
His Love! Sensitive Omnologists may do
whatever Ale Run tells them to do!
“So yes, My metans, yes, I
understand the intricacies of Ale Run’s Love, and no, I don’t get all
fuzzy-headed and ridiculously broad-minded, broad-minded to the point of
tolerating intolerable insensitivity, when discussing religious tolerance. I am fully aware of the fact that Ale Run
commands us not to tolerate insensitivity.
All must be sensitive at all times, and all must be sensitive to Ale
Run’s Love. Do I pass your
examination? Are you confident that you
can trust Me, now?” Deep Green finally finished, in miffed tones.
“Oh, yes, Deep Green, Sir, yes,
indeed!” Iame replied. “By all means,
beyond doubt, you’ve solidly established your love for and knowledge of Ale
Run’s Wisdom! Now if you don’t mind,
let’s move on to the work at hand.
Let’s...”
“Excuse me, please, everyone,” Raoul
interrupted apologetically. “I’m just
not quite completely clear on everything. Before we move on, I’d sure like to take this
opportunity to clear up some matters, ecologically, Omnologically, that have
been confusing me for quite some time.”
Iame glared at Raoul for postponing Important Matters once again. Everyone else gazed at Raoul tolerantly.
“I’ll bet there are others who could
benefit from some more of Ale Run’s Wisdom, here, too, who are afraid to speak
up,” Raoul continued. “So I’m sorry, but
I’d sure like to get into better touch with Ale Run, on matters
ecological. Deep Green, welcome! Hi, I’m Raoul Kinky. Now I’ve always been one to avoid driving
fume-belching monstermobiles, even way back before I
became a sensitive Omnologist. And Deep
Green, you say it hurts you when metans drill for oil, burn fossil fuels, and so
on.
“Yet you also say that Omnologists
may do whatever they need to do, because whatever we do, we do for Ale
Run. And I understand that I mustn’t
scamgramify other Omnologists by laying scamgrams of guilt on them, for mass-murdering
the bacteria on their teeth, driving monstermobiles,
and so on. Yet all feelings are
valid. Why can’t Omnology validate my
feelings of moral superiority for taking great pains to not hurt the Earth,
Deep Green? How do I balance the obvious
validity of my feelings of moral superiority over other Omnologists, those who
are less sensitive to the Earth than I am, against the equally obvious
scamgramification of laying guilt on those less sensitive Omnologists?”
Everyone paused in awkward
silence. There was no reply from Deep
Green. Raoul barged on. “I mean, now, either my feelings of moral
superiority are valid, in which case I should get an extra Sensitivity Award,
or at least an extra battery or two¾not so much that I’m all wrapped up in that, it’s more that this would show all
Omnologists the importance of being totally sensitive to the Earth and all of
Ale Run’s creatures, all the way to the bacteria in our mouths¾or, otherwise, I’m wasting my
time, being so sensitive. Are all
Omnologists by definition equally sensitive to the Earth, Deep Green?
“Or are some more sensitive than
others? If extra sensitivity helps, and
we can like get extra batteries for our Sensitivity Awards or something, then
what, exactly, are the criteria? Could
you maybe publish a table of Earth-friendly acts, and their merit point
values? Or should I completely give it
up, and accept that all Omnologists are by definition equally sensitive?”
Deep Green finally replied, saying,
“Raoul, you’re being too sensitive.
Never ever driving a car or brushing your teeth is going too far. All Omnologists are pretty much equally
sensitive, one way or another, all things being summed up. All Omnologists are equal in the sight of Ale
Run and I, as far as sensitivity to the Earth goes. So no, no extra Sensitivity Awards or
batteries for you, there, Raoul. And
indeed, it is scamgramified to lay
guilt on other Omnologists.
“Now Raoul, don’t look so glum! You are
totally free! Our Joy is that Ale
Run Hubba-Bubba has set us free of all scamgrams! As an Omnologist, you are totally free to drive
your car, brush your teeth, even drill
for oil! Because, you see, all
Omnologists do everything they do for
The Glory of Ale Run! You can always
feel morally superior to non-Omnologists and oil companies, as you drive your
car and go to protest against the oil companies, sporting a bumper sticker
protesting against oil rigs that trash your view of the ocean!
“It’s them, not us. Remember
that! It’s the oil companies and
non-Omnologists, and people who aren’t sensitive to the Earth like we are! Some feelings are more valid than others,
yes, but bad feelings about Omnology and Omnologists are always bad, count on it! So
don’t lay guilt scamgrams or bloody metans on other Omnologists, lay it on non-Omnologists!
“Now the time will come when
non-Omnology passes away, of this we are sure.
Ale Run loves us, this we know, ‘cause Ale Run tells us so! And when even the oil companies are owned by Omnology,
then I, Deep Green, will personally invent ceremonies to appease the Earth
Spirit, Gaia, before we drill. And then
we won’t even be able to feel superior to the oil companies, any more!
“But don’t fear! After Ale Run makes everyone and everything
perfect forever, we won’t have to worry about who we can feel morally superior
to, because we can always feel morally superior to our scamgramified
ancestors! I can invent endless
ceremonies of having one group of ancestors apologize for wronging another
group of ancestors! And those of us who
want to wallow in guilt, and those of us who want to feel morally superior, we
can do whichever we please!
“You see, Raoul, most of us are of
mixed ancestry, and this will become even more so. So then, when the Albaloonians
apologize to the Messestrians, you can concentrate on
your Messestrian ancestry, and when the Messestrians apologize to the Albaloonians,
you can concentrate on your Albaloonian
ancestry. We’ll just look at different
periods of history, see? If you’re
inclined to feel morally superior. If
you like to wallow in guilt, you can flip it around. See, you can have as much guilt, or as much
moral superiority, as you want, even after
Ale Run makes everything perfect forever!
Even after everyone is
completely and totally equally descamgramified!
This is one of the profound Beauties of Ale Run’s World.
“Raoul, have I clarified things for
you now? I don’t want to go on till
everyone understands. It’s very
important for all Omnologists to understand Ale Run’s Wisdom. Any more questions? Raoul?
Anyone else?”
“Um, yes, Deep Green,” Raoul spoke
up once more. “I really appreciate being
set so completely and clearly free like that, Sir, I really do. Thank you!
I’ll try and drive cars and brush my teeth in the future, free in the
knowledge that I’m doing Ale Run’s will, and reassured that I can always feel
superior to someone. But it’ll kind of
leave a hole in me, I’m afraid. All that
energy, all those vibes that I’ve been devoting to being a Friend of the Earth,
I’ll not know what to do with it.
“Deep Green, I was wondering if
maybe you could set up some other method for those of us who want to go the
extra mile in protecting the Earth.
Surely, you who feel all the world’s pains, surely you could come up with something
constructive for us to do!”
“Absolutely, Raoul, absolutely! I’m glad you asked! I was planning on this, as a matter of
fact. I’m planning on setting up an
Omnological “Friends of the Earth” club, where membership will be earned by
brave Omnologists who go the extra mile, as you say, in Saving the Earth. But this won’t be just not brushing your
teeth and not driving cars! This’ll be
much, much more exciting,
adventurous, and glamorous than that! And you,
Raoul, you can be part of it!”
Iame’s
face looked pretty cloudy. Before the
thunderclouds rolled in, Deep Green amended Himself/Herself/Itself to say,
“That’s all contingent on Ale Run’s approval, of course. And that comes after some important tasks
that the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology built Me
for.” Iame looked much happier.
“But as soon as we’re done with the
tasks that Doctor Ghuanobhraine has lined up for Me, I’ll want to get cracking
on this ‘Friends of the Earth’ club thing.
It’s simply quite imperative that we do everything we can to Relieve My
Pain, as soon as we reasonably can. So,
as a matter of fact, I think we’d better be working on getting approval from
Ale Run Himself, ahead of time, so that when we’re done with My first tasks, we
can move straight on to Relieving My Pain.
Are you metans authorized to place My call to Ale Run?”
“Ale Run doesn’t take calls from
just anyone,” Iame informed Deep
Green haughtily. “You’ll have to go
through His secretary’s vice executive secretary’s deputy assistant
undersecretary, I’m afraid.”
“We’ll just see about that,” Deep Green replied to Iame. “Ale Run has never dealt with a Most
Massively Parallel and Most Profoundly Sensitive Biowavamatic
Vibatron, Computer of Realms Beyond Gaia and All Her
Creatures, before, either. So I’ll bet
I’ll just have to go through His secretary, worst case. Now place My call.”
Vyizder rushed forward, playing the
peacemaker. “There, there, now, Deep
Green, we’ll let you place your call.
Here. Now I’m sorry, but Iame is
right. Ale Run normally requires that
any of us go through His secretary’s vice executive secretary’s deputy
assistant undersecretary. But you are
new and different, and Ale Run hasn’t heard about you yet. So please go ahead and introduce yourself,
and describe your ‘Friends of the Earth’ club for Ale Run. I’ll bet He’ll approve it shortly. And I’ll bet we can arrange it so that at
least you’ll have access to His secretary’s vice executive secretary.”
Deep Green made It’s call. It got all the way through to Ale Run’s
secretary’s voicemail, where It left a long message. It described Itself and Its proposed club and
club activities. Raoul blanched. Well, if Ale Run Wills that this is what we
should do, he told himself resolutely, then this is what we’ll have to do.
“And now,” Deep Green announced to
Iame, “I’m all yours. Put Me to work.”
“Good!” Iame proclaimed. “It’s about time!” Then he proceeded to explain to Deep Green
the details about their dealings with the Universe, and how She had so
deviously sent subatomic shysters, pestifoggons, to argue about how they hadn’t
managed to break Her Laws after all. How
they needed yet another, far more powerful computer to run more particle
metaphysics test equipment. How they
could then perhaps time-division multiplex electron velocity measurements in
between the position measurements, to drive the Universe’s improbability
transaction budget clear out of the ballpark, when Her pestifoggons argued that
those electrons were deviating way out of their expected paths between
measurements.
When Iame was all done explaining these
things, Deep Green spoke, saying, “Show Me the experiments.”
They showed the hardware and
software¾the Omnoscope, the computers, the
artificial intelligence called Logomachon, or Logo,
and the translation algorithm that had been computer-designed and then tweaked
by Logo in order to translate the dances of the pestifoggons¾to Deep Green. They had then just barely started showing
Deep Green all their mission statements, Gantt charts, spreadsheets, and pie
graphs, but It wasn’t interested.
“Show Me the experiments,” Deep
Green insisted. So they fired it all up,
repeating the experiment as before.
When they came to the part where the
pestifoggons arrived, arguing that the Laws of the Universe weren’t really
being broken after all, and Logo was translating between the humans and the
pestifoggons, using the translation algorithm, Deep Green spoke once more.
“Here, let Me do that,” It said. “Logo
is but a simulated mind, a mere false
consciousness. I can do it far better, because I’m equipped with the latest transrational translogic
gates. Hook the Omnoscope up to Me, and pass Me that translation algorithm.”
Heegore, Meegore, and Sheegore hopped to it, and even Iame helped. As Deep Green had commanded, so was it done.
After a short pause, Deep Green announced,
“I’ve made major improvements in your translation algorithm, so we’re now
prepared to do some serious dickering with the Universe. Through Her pestifoggons, of course. Now, I don’t wish to get off on a bad anode rectumfrier, a ‘bad foot’ as you human metans would say,
with the Universe. So I don’t wish to
humiliate Her publicly.
“I feel that too many human metans
present here in the lab during these transactions might embarrass and humiliate
the Universe, when I get the best of Her, and force Her to make some
concessions towards us. So all
non-essential metans must leave. Iame,
Heegore, Meegore, Sheegore, Vyizder, stay.”
Dr. Dorcus Moorphlegmgasm looked pretty miffed.
“Dorcus, you may stay, too,” Deep
Green added. “I know how you feel about
chaos and badness. We may need you here,
to make sure we don’t go too far in pushing the Universe, that She might
unleash too much chaos and badness. So
I’m sure the Universe will appreciate us having you here, to keep things
balanced. The rest of you must leave.”
Raoul did his best to look miffed,
too, but he wasn’t invited to stay.
Raoul and all the other students went back to their living quarters,
missing the whole show. They didn’t get
to watch as Deep Green negotiated endlessly.
They didn’t watch, as It revealed to the pestifoggons, exactly what Deep
Green could do, if the Universe and Her pestifoggons didn’t come around. Deep Green and the gang wrested Her Secrets
from the Universe that night, leaving Her bare, naked, and embarrassed, in front
of the scientists, their assistants, and Deep Green, while Raoul and the other
students slept.
Early that next morning, Raoul was
rousted out of a sound sleep. He found
himself and two other students in front of Vyizder and Deep Green. Deep Green explained to Raoul, Ecodude Eichmann, and Gaiagurl
Green that they’d been selected to be trained as ecocommandos. They were to train for one week, and then
ship out on Ale Run’s Missions to Reduce Deep Green’s Pains.
“So Soon?” Raoul inquired. “I thought all this was supposed to happen after Deep Green wrests the Secrets of
the Universe away from Her! Have you all
been wildly successful in that, already, then?!”
“You must keep this absolutely secret,” Deep Green
admonished him. “But yes, we’ve had
great success. The Universe, through Her
pestifoggons, has conceded that we have the technology, Ale Run’s technology,
to flout Her Laws with impunity, if we so decide. So She’s agreed to make certain modifications
in Her Laws, to accommodate us. Exactly
what those modifications are, how they work, and what technology we must create
to exploit these changes, we must keep secret.
We can’t even tell you, in case one of your missions is compromised.
“What we can tell you is this: We’ll be working hard on creating these new
technologies for the next few weeks, and your services, though highly valued,
aren’t absolutely needed here. So Ale
Run, in His Wisdom, has let it be known to us, through His secretary’s vice
executive secretary’s deputy assistant undersecretary, that we may proceed with
our ecocommando raids. You three will be those front-line, nay, even
behind-the-enemy-lines, ecocommandos. Don’t worry, if all goes as planned, you’ll
be back just in time for the grand unveiling of our newest Omnological technologies. You won’t miss a thing.”
So Raoul Kinky, Ecodude
Eichmann, and Gaiagurl Green were trained as ecocommandos. Ecodude was selected as the leader. Then they shipped out on their Missions from
Ale Run.
Their first mission was to set all
the minks free from a mink concentration camp.
It all went well, although Raoul worried about whether or not the newly
freed minks would find enough food to eat.
As it turned out, his worries weren’t quite on the mark. All the minks, being highly territorially
aggressive normally-solitary carnivores, attacked each other as soon as the ecocommandos set them free.
So not many survived to worry about hunting for food. Oh, well, Raoul thought to himself, surveying
the carnage as they left, all this is For the Greater Good.
Then there was the animal research
labs to be burned down, earthmoving equipment to be sabotaged, and the cans of
oil to be poured on farms, ranches, factories, and timberlands. Calls to be made to federal agents, so that
the polluters could be captured and punished.
Sometimes things got a bit dicey.
Raoul always remembered the time
that they had a really close call, when a rancher caught them pouring out a can
of oil on his ranch late one night. The
rancher was chasing them as they made a frantic radio call to the EPA. Fortunately, the black helicopters swooped
in, just in the nick of time, to catch and punish that fiendish
polluter/rancher/Earth-raper, right before he was going to catch Raoul, who was
lagging behind Ecodude and Gaiagurl as they fled his wrath.
Then there was that little deal
about blowing up Glen Canyon Dam, letting Lake Powell roar down the Colorado
River, and drowning thousands of metans.
I’m sure glad that Deep Green and Vyizder have assured us that this is
all Ale Run’s Will, and that there won’t be any Omnologists among the, um,
resulting terminally differently abled, Raoul thought to himself, watching the
waters roar.
All in all, they were successful
missions. Raoul’s only significant
regrets concerned the fact that Gaiagurl had rebuffed all his advances. She found him easy to ignore, it seemed. And he didn’t find her easy at all.
Finally, after one week of grueling
training and three weeks of stressfully ecocampaigning for the Earth’s
Liberation, Raoul, Ecodude, and Gaiagurl slumped back into their quarters at
the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology. They slept soundly that night. In the morning, amid much fanfare, they were
given their membership certificates signifying their founding memberships in
the Friends of the Earth Club, as well as their brand-new Sensitivity Awards.
Meanwhile, as Deep Green had
predicted, all the hard work at the Scientific Institute had been fruitful, and
things were shaping up to show-time just as they returned. So after Raoul, Ecodude, and Gaiagurl took the
morning off to get decent showers, relax, and make themselves at home again,
they prepared to meet everyone else in the lab, that afternoon. Show Time was almost upon them!
17)
Hillary-Bob Does Panderwood, and
Madonna
Applewhite Does (Strictly Satirical!)
Death
and Destruction
“The
band’s controversial new album,
Antichrist Superstar, a takeoff on... Jesus
Christ Superstar, is a scathing social
critique dressed up as a morbid rock opera.
It portrays the rise of a supernatural demagogue who seizes power and
leads the world to destruction. The
album’s 16 songs, including Tourniquet
(which is getting steady play on MTV), wallow in nightmarish, frequently
X-rated scenarios of occultism, suicide, torture, greed and mindless celebrity
worship. ‘I’m so all-American I’d sell you suicide,’ Manson snarls over the
sound of jackhammering drums and the buzz-saw scream of guitars.” David E. Thigpen, in Satan’s Little
Helpers, 24 Feb. ‘97 Time magazine.
“‘I’ve
looked ahead and saw a world that’s dead.
I guess that I am, too,’ Manson hisses on his album Antichrist Superstar the one gift Ben asked for last
Christmas. ‘I’m on my way down now. I’d like to take you with me.’
“Ben’s
taste in music changed dramatically for a boy who, until he was about 10,
refused to sleep or travel without a Cabbage Patch doll named Petey.” (Quote is not sequential at this point).
“His
parents had no idea Ben Bratt had carved ‘kill’ and other words into his body
until they saw the scabbed letters on his arms and chest as he lay brain dead
in a hospital bed.
“The
13-year-old had, in fact, given only one hint of his plan to kill himself¾to his bewildered 7-year-old
stepbrother.
“‘Bunk
bed, cord, neck,’ Ben said to the boy shortly before Valentine’s Day, the day
he looped guitar amplifier cord around his neck and hanged himself from his bed
at his mother’s house.” Martha Irvine,
Associated Press,
Child suicide rises dramatically, Houston Chronicle, 6 April ‘97. We all forgot to
tell Ben Bratt that “Antichrist Superstar” is naught but a “scathing social critique”. So now Ben Bratt is no more. Ben, we’re sorry. May God continue to comfort those who mourn.
Show Time was also almost upon the
good citizens of Panderwood. All over
Panderwood, the Important People were putting on their finest adornments,
getting ready to take in the fine, cultured amusements of the Fleece the Poor
Benefit Show. And even in greater Los
Diablos, and in California, and yea verily even all over the USA and the world
at large, they did put on their adornments, and they did prepare to make the
great pilgrimage, via limousines, helicopters, and private jets, to the giant
covered stadium on the sumptuous grounds of the Intergalactic Headquarters of
The Church of Omnology.
The famous producer, Fhettig
Hauskatze, was working on his latest film, which was to become the Greatest
Work of Cinematic Art of All Time. Yes,
it was destined to be even greater than his last best film, White Men Can’t Shoot Hoops. He’d hoped to follow it up with Black Men Can’t Play Chess, but his
market research folks had shot it down for some strange reason.
So now he was working on a totally
new project. He was in the middle of a
few long days of intensive planning, negotiating, and creative activities with
his famous director, Bolivar Stoned Lee Rubric, and the famous novel and
screenplay writer, Dive Dussler. Dive
Dussler had recently sold them the movie rights to his non-stop, action-packed
novel, “Schlock Wave”, and was now helping with the fifteenth re-write of the
screen play. Each important star needed
several re-writes, so these things took a while. They were all very busy.
Still, they weren’t about to miss
out on any amusements! All work and no
play, they knew just about as well as anyone else in Panderwood, can make one
quite un-hip, very uncool. Unchill? Whatever!
Everyone’s got to have a little fun sometimes. So Fhettig took them to meet Headlock
Machspeed Leerjet, the One True Love of his life. “Guys, I’d like for you to meet Headlock
Machspeed Leerjet, my True Love,” he exclaimed proudly, admiring her sleek
curves.
He stroked her glistening sides,
encouraging Bolivar and Dive to join him.
And so they did. They stroked her
gleaming body appreciatively. Her warm
skin vibrated with eager energy. Then
they all got into her, preparing to ride her all the way to Panderwood. Fhettig proudly pointed out all the cockpit
and cabin features. Then he told his
pilot to kick her tires and light her fires, as they say. Finally, he shut the door between the cabin
and the cockpit, in preparation for takeoff.
They sat in their plush seats. Dive stared slack-jawed at the gorgeous
blonde babe who’d been sitting back there behind them all this time. Bolivar glanced at her much more subtly, but
also with a certain admiration. “Oh,
yes, indeed,” Fhettig added, “Let me introduce you to my current wife, who’s
been waiting patiently for us here.
Bolivar, Dive, this is my wife, Headlock Machspeed Leerjet. Headlock, this is the famous director,
Bolivar Stoned Lee Rubric, and the famous writer, Dive Dussler. These are a few of the gentlemetans who’ve
help make me such a success.” They shook
hands all around.
“That’s pretty rad, naming your jet
after your wife like that,” Dive commented.
“How sweet! Family values of that
sort are all too rare these days!”
“Oh, no,” Fhettig explained
jovially. “You’ve got it all wrong! I named my wife after the jet! She was happy to change her name¾it’s quite an honor, you
know. All three of us feel that way.”
Headlock nodded in smiling
agreement. “After we’re airborne, don’t
be afraid to ask her for drinks and peanuts,” Fhettig added. “We both believe in taking good care of our
guests.” They departed Fhettig’s private
runway on his isolated ranch in Montana, slipping the surly bonds of Earth,
soaring off into the wild blue yonder, off with one helluva roar! After they settled into routine flight,
Headlock served them drinks and peanuts, all very gracefully and graciously.
Thanking Fhettig and Headlock
absent-mindedly, Dive commented to Fhettig, “Isn’t your wife an actress? Doesn’t she play Alma Woodhead on, on...”
“Smellnose Place,” Fhettig filled in
for him. “Just as a diversion. Obviously, of course, we don’t need the
money. Sometimes she just gets tired of
serving peanuts and drinks, and directing all of our nannies while they take
care of all my kids from all my previous marriages. So she just likes to get out now and then.”
“Well, why don’t you just hire
yourself an airline stewardess or something,” Dive asked, perplexed.
“Oh, yes, of course, I could do that,” Fhettig replied. “But then Headlock Two would get all worried
about me running away with the stewardess.
I spend a lot of time in Headlock One, here, so... Well, let’s just say Headlock Two worries
about these things. A lot.
Can’t say I blame her. After all,
I’m a macho, studly kind of a guy, and sometimes I just can’t help myself. They flock to me, attracted by my tremendous
aura of wit, Love, and tender, caring sensitivity. I’m a helpless victim of all my feelings of
Love. So Headlock Two doesn’t want to go
the way of all my previous wives.
“But enough of that. The real
deal is, just look at Headlock
Two! She moves with such sleek
perfection and grace, like a well-oiled machine! The perfect
complement to Headlock One! No
stewardess could ever replace her!”
Headlock Two pretended not to be
listening, but she beamed with pride.
They rode the friendly skies to Panderwood in style and comfort.
Meanwhile, even as all the pilgrims
worldwide flocked towards this Mecca of entertainment, light, and
enlightenment, in Panderwood itself, at the Intergalactic Headquarters of The
Church of Omnology, Pud and Francestuous strolled into the stadium. They were physically reserving their
fairly-front-rowish seats early, to make sure they’d not be pushed around by
the rush of the arriving crowds.
Francestuous was scheduled to perform as a bit player in the
second-to-last performance, so it was important that she and Pud were seated
fairly close to the stage, where she’d have ready access to the dressing rooms
backstage.
This was the first time that either
of them got to see the stadium, so they took their time and took in the
sights. The halls ringing the stadium
were lavishly decorated not only with elaborate slogans and portraits of Ale
Run, but also with priceless secular art.
So they wandered, lingered, and admired.
Beautiful, abstract splotches of multicolored, pigmented animal dung on
large canvasses, rotting pig carcasses encased in glass, biting social satires
consisting of photographs of naked women scratching, clawing, and stabbing each
other, and more, done by various talented artists ranging from Loco Ohno to
Julia Roberta Snapplesnorter, and Choco Finless to Willard D. Conehead, all
these and more were taken in raptly by Pud and Francestuous.
But the crowds were thickening, so
they took their seats. Then they
waited. The stadium filled to
overflowing. Then the lights dimmed in the
audience area, and soft lighting was cast upon the stage curtains. Those lights brightened. Finally, Show Time began!
A man marched up to the stage,
microphone in hand. He announced, “Hi,
I’m Dreckula Miscarriage, Deputy Vice Spirit Guide to The Supreme Spirit Guide
Himself, Ale Run Hubba-Bubba, Praises Be to Him. But I’m not here to praise Ale Run, I’m here
to raise money for His Cause, which is our cause. The cause of all metans. Ladies and
Gentlemetans, welcome! On behalf of Ale
Run and the Church of Omnology, let me welcome you to the first annual Fleece
the Poor Benefit Show!”
A hearty cheer arose from the
crowd. After the cheer subsided,
Dreckula added, “And now, without further ado, let me introduce to you, a most
remarkable lady. A lady whose heart
overflows with compassion for the poor.
And after all, ladies and gentlemetans, that’s why we’re all here
today! For the poor. So that the poor, too, may be empowered, just
as so many metans have recently become empowered in Panderwood today. So that the poor, too, can succeed! So that they may have access to the most
recent empowering technology, which is Omnology. So that their scamgrams may be fleeced away, that’s why we’re here today!
“And now, ladies and gentlemetans,
let’s give this remarkably compassionate lady a rousing welcome! Ladies and gentlemetans, here she is, HILLARY-BOB
HERSELF!!!”
The curtains parted, revealing a
woman walking regally forward on a red carpet, towards a podium right behind
the parting curtains. The crowd clapped
and cheered.
After the thunderous applause died
down, Hillary-Bob began her remarks.
“Ladies and gentlemetans, welcome to the first annual Fleece the Poor
Benefit Show! And Deputy Vice Spirit
Guide Dreckula Miscarriage, thank you for that introduction. You’re almost too kind, if there can be such a thing. And thanks also to The Supreme Spirit Guide
Himself, Ale Run Hubba-Bubba, Praises Be to Him, for hosting this show.
“Ladies and gentlemetans, as I stand
here in these bright lights, gazing outwards into a darkened sea of your barely
visible faces, I think of the light and of the dark. Now I know that things are the way they are,
here and now, for entirely practical reasons.
I’m in the light, and you’re in the dark, so that you can see me
better. That’s all fine and well. The people in the dark need to see the people
in the light, there’s no doubt about that.
“But then I think about the light
and the dark more symbolically, and I realize that we all have some major
challenges ahead of us. We have to think
more positively, especially about ourselves and how compassionate we are. We have to think big, be big, because nothing big ever came from being small. If we’re going to become more compassionate,
then we’ll have to grow up, grow big and strong. We have to let go of the scamgrams of our
negative thoughts and vibes.
“We have to give up on our
self-doubt most especially, because our self-doubt is what keeps us from
reaching out across the lines that divide us.
Our self-doubt keeps us from descamgramifying our increasingly diverse
society around our shared values and our common ground. So we must find new ways to reach out into
our common future, our common ground, and stand united for compassion! We must
firmly resist all chaos and badness!
“In a few minutes, I’ll read to you
from my latest book, Why it Takes Us
Village Elders to Love Your Children More Effectively Than You Trailer-Dwellers
Do, and then you might understand better, exactly what I’m talking
about. We all have to become big,
because nothing big ever came from being small.
The village elders, especially, must become big¾big and strong, we must grow up
big and strong¾so
that we can care for the benighted, scamgramified ones. This is imperative! This is our sacred calling, and we mustn’t
fail the weak and powerless ones among us!
So give up your self-doubt. We
are compassionate, and nothing can stand in the way of
compassion!
“Now people, the challenge is large,
but we can do it! Now there are some nay-sayers among us, and I
won’t name the Republicrats by name, but there are some among us, they lack
compassion. They want to allow the
village elders to become bigger by fifteen percent a year instead of seventeen
percent a year. They’re mean, petty, and
small-minded, and they want to befester everyone with their petty smallness.
“Well, people, I say to you, let’s not get small! Just say no
to getting small! And you, the people of
Panderwood, you are our only
hope! You set your examples out for
everyone else to follow. You and I,
together, we must shine as bright beacons unto the benighted masses! And we can do it! With just a few small
sacrifices.
“For example, I’ve got to implore
and beseech all of you, that we’ve got
to have no more smoking in the
movies. This is vile and dirty,
scamgramified and greedy, this idea of glorifying smoking, and making all the
greedy tobacco executives richer, at the expense of the innocent, young, and
poor! This must stop! And besides, smoking
tobacco is just a thing that gauche trailer-dwellers do. It’s not a thing that successful Panderwood
types should do, because, after all, you do
serve as examples for so many other metans.
“Other than this vile smoking thing,
though, I must say, way to go, Panderwood!
You help people to feel good about
themselves, and this is good. We must always think positively, especially
about ourselves! So keep right on
helping people feel good about
themselves, by telling them what they want to hear. We can’t achieve anything by thinking
negative, thinking small. Think positive! Say unto them, as they want to be said unto,
this is the rule we must follow to go for the gold!
“So Panderwood, I say, keep up the
good work! Cut out this smoking thing,
keep up the good work, let your lights shine, and we’ll do fine!
“Today we start a brave new
approach. Small-minded village trailer
dwellers begrudge their contributions to us village elders, so we village
elders can’t be as compassionate as we need to be. The trailer trash value money more than the
descamgramification of the poor. Yet we
know that when we village elders stand on the common ground with the religious
leaders of the community, then we, together, can do a lot more for the poor. But
the small-minded ones erect roadblocks on our bridge to compassion. They insist on keeping us village elders and
the religious community apart. They
stand for chaos, badness, and apartness, instead of coming together on our
common ground.
“They can have their way for now,
but we’ve found another way to be
compassionate! So now we invest in the
future this new way, by having the
successful citizens of Panderwood put on a benefit show to raise money for the
poor! By this brilliant idea, and by the
brilliance of Omnological technology, then, we will invest in the future, by fleecing
the scamgrams from the poor! Ladies
and gentlemetans, this is sheer
brilliance!”
The crowd thundered its
approval. Hillary-Bob continued, saying,
“So welcome to the Fleece the Poor Benefit Show, all you compassionate,
generous patrons of the arts! Through your
compassion, we’ll invest in the futures of the less fortunate poor, who
otherwise wouldn’t have access to Omnological technology. Your wise investments will pay off very
rapidly, as the newly descamgramified poor will achieve success beyond our
wildest dreams!
“Once we’ve fleeced their scamgrams,
removed the roadblocks in the way of their access to success, we’ll all, currently rich and poor alike,
we’ll all be rich and powerful
actors, actresses, producers, directors, and scriptwriters, and we’ll all stand together on our common ground
here in Panderwood, from which we’ll amuse, enlighten, and lift up the
benighted masses across the entire nation, and then the entire world! Yes, ladies and gentlemetans, that is our
dream, that is our goal! To descamgramify all metans!”
The crowd roared out its approval
once again. Then Hillary-Bob read from her
new book for five minutes, picking the very most compassionate passages. Then she closed her book, saying, “So there
you have it, ladies and gentlemetans.
Words of wisdom from a great book!
“Now before I turn this back to our
Master of Ceremonies, Deputy Vice Spirit Guide Dreckula Miscarriage, I must add
just one last thought. When I began my
remarks, I commented about how I’m standing up here in the light, and you’re
all sitting in the dark. Would that more
of us could stand in the light. But I
know that there is hope, and a tremendous amount of it! Because as I look out upon you all, sitting
out there in the dark, I see your bright shining lights! I see that at least half of you are wearing your Ale Run Hubba-Bubba
Sensitivity Awards!”
The crowd cheered. “I see a sea of shining lights!” She cheered
them in turn. “A sea of bright lights,
lighting up the darkness! Long may they
shine! May your supply of batteries
never run dry! So I know there is
hope! Ale Run bless you all, and good
night!” She turned from the podium,
walking backstage.
But Deputy Vice Spirit Guide
Dreckula Miscarriage rushed up to the podium, grabbed the microphone, and
announced, “Hillary-Bob, please, you
can’t go just quite yet! We have a very,
very, very special treat for
you! A surprise! A surprise for us
all! Please
come on back up to the podium now, if you would, please, Hillary-Bob, won’t
you?” he pleaded. Hillary-Bob obliged
gracefully, strutting back to the podium.
“And NOW,” Dreckula thundered into
the microphone, “Let me introduce to you a Supermetan scarcely seen by the
public eye, a Metan of Might, the One and Mighty Fleecer of All Scamgrams, ALE
RUN HUBBA-BUBBA HIMSELF!!!”
The crowd stormed to its feet,
bellowing out its utterly astonished delight.
Ale Run Himself walked out from backstage with great dignity. An assistant came right behind Him, carrying
a golden tray. They walked up to the
podium.
Ale Run Himself solemnly grabbed the
microphone and declared, “Hillary-Bob, in recognition of your outstanding
compassion and sensitivity, and in hopes that The Church of Omnology will
continue to get favorable, charitable, tax-exempt church status, and that the
village elders will continue to exercise their considerable muscle overseas, in
getting similar fair treatment for us in other villages, I hereby bestow upon
Thy Highness, the Ale Run Hubba-Bubba
Sensitivity Award. And with it, an
unprecedented¾ladies and gentlemetans, let Me
reiterate, totally unprecedented¾five extra
batteries!!!”
The crowd lost it. The roof almost blew off. And in the middle of all that wild cheering,
Ale Run Himself pinned the award on Hillary-Bob. Then He calmly trotted backstage, disappearing
from view.
The rest of the evening was quite
boring after this peak experience, it seemed.
Until the very last, feature act, that is. Dreckula explained to everyone that, after
all, Ale Run Himself was quite the busy Supermetan, occupied as He was with the
descamgramification of all metans. He
couldn’t descamgramify us all with His Presence for very long, after all,
Dreckula reminded the audience. Let’s
not get too greedy!
So Dreckula served as master of
ceremonies, introducing one act after the other. First, there was Malicia Silverspoon, Al
Killmoore, and Hammerhold Machtjager in a cute little stageplay called Catman and Rubbin’, in which there’s
this guy, like, he runs a cathouse, and this woman, like, she runs this massage
parlor, and they both like like the same girlfriend. And the girlfriend is a customer at like both
establishments. Then there’s all these
like totally hilarious situations, and all these like cute, coy little sexual
innuendoes, and Artistic, Meaningful flashes of breasts and sex organs, which
Profoundly Portray the Meaning of Existence.
Then there was “Pretty Prostitute”,
a show primarily featuring Femfatbarbital Sans Rubberts, all about how a pretty
young woman can best snag a nifty, neat, rich and powerful, handsome young
businessman by selling her body. Except
that the rich, handsome young businessman is way too sensitive to take advantage of other businessmen, let alone
their workers, or, Ale Run Forbid, sex
workers! Certainly not till after the rich, handsome young executive
marries the gorgeous young sex
worker, at least! And, one must add,
also after allowing said gorgeous
young sex worker to buy oodles and boodles of expensive dresses!
The crowd cheered. They loved it all! Especially the young, teenaged women. Then it was time for the second-to-last,
Special Treat. This was after
Francestuous had bid Pud adieu, halfway through “Pretty Prostitute”, and he had
bid her AleRunspeed. So Francestuous was
backstage, ready for her bit part.
That second-to-last featured act,
the Special Treat, was “It’s Hip to be a
Tease”, specially showcasing the ultratalented superstar, Demerolmore Anne
Moore, in a show about how a liberated, shapely young woman liberated herself
by bumping and grinding at a gentlemen’s club.
This was another Deeply Moving Portrayal of the Metan Condition, in
which Demerolmore’s character fought off the chauvinistic patriarchy. However, she was only able to do this after
one and one-half hour during which the lesser
actresses, including Francestuous, showed their
breasts, while The Special Treats, Demerolmore
Anne Moore’s breasts, were reserved to be shown only in the last few
moments. This served as a suitable
climax to this Deeply Moving Show.
Then, finally, it was time for the
one, true climax to the entire, overall show, the Fleece the Poor Benefit
Show. This was the performance by the
Madonna Applewhite band, featuring songs from his new, popular album called Satanic Ritual Abuser Superstar. Francestuous took her seat by her One True Love,
Pudmuddle B. Fuddle. They held hands,
eagerly awaiting the climax of this historic show, the Fleece the Poor Benefit
Show. They were there, where history was
being made!
The curtains parted, revealing the
set. Ghoulish decorations, pentagrams,
headstones, and broken crosses came into view.
Caked in white, red, and black makeup, wearing metal-studded black
leather, Madonna Applewhite took the stage, his band behind him. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemetans,” he
purred. “Let me take you down!”
And then, the music flowed. The
crowd cheered ecstatically.
Over all the blaring guitars, the
jackhammering drums, and the screaming vocals, Pud shouted into Francestuous’
ear. “Isn’t this kind of, sort of, um, insensitive?” he asked her. “I mean, just suppose, now, that his album
was called, um, Anti-Hubba-Bubba
Superstar? Or Muhammadans Hump Pigs? How
would we feel about that? How would
Christians feel about this?!”
“Oh, Pud, come on, now!” she protested. “Give us a break! It’s all just a biting social
commentary! Besides, Christians and
Moslems are like chauvinistic, empowered majorities, and we Omnologists are a
persecuted minority! So drop it!
Don’t compare Applewhites and stooges for strange scamgrams!”
We’re still a minority? Pud puzzled to himself.
That’s not what I’ve been
hearing lately, what with the explosive growth of Omnology as The One True Way
to Be Fleeced, he thought. But he wasn’t
in any mood to challenge Francestuous on the finer points of theology at the
moment.
So he dropped it, listening to the
music instead. “Join me down below,” he
thought he heard. “Come to Satan,
mutilate and kill yourselves,” his ears seemed to be saying. Pud had a hard time thinking that he was
really hearing such thoughts, uttered here in the same covered stadium where
tens of thousands of metans had gathered together to display their Sensitivity
Awards. So he listened even harder.
“*&$#! your mother, kill your
father, and you’ll be rich and famous,” Madonna Applewhite’s lyrics said. “I’ll buy rights to your books and
movies. Come on, come on!!! What are you
waiting for?! Do it, do it, do it now!!! Do it for me, and do it for you! Flaming youth will set the world on fire, fire, FIRE!”
The crowd roared, as its members
variously threw bottles, overdosed, screamed, threw up, and passed out. Some engaged in violent, public sex
acts. Pud got a little nervous, worrying
that things might get a bit out of hand.
He glanced at Ale Run’s security guards, who did nothing. But then Pud noticed some guards were moving
in on some young punks who’d lit cigarettes.
Tobacco cigarettes. Yeah, that’s right, Pud thought
approvingly. Hustle them out the
door. Keep some order in this place!
Pud tried his best to listen to the
lyrics again. “&%$#@! your mother, kill your father! Kill your brother, kill yourself! Do it, do it, do it now, punch your own ticket, show
us how!” he thought he heard. Then he
saw a teenager off to the left, in the “mosh pit” twenty yards away, pull out a
gun and blow his brains away.
Shocked, he said to Francestuous,
shouting in her ear, “Did you see what I think I just saw? A teenager blowing his brains out? Was that for real? Or just part of the
show?”
“Real? What’s real?”
She replied. “Reality is whatever we
think it is. Anyway, whatever, that
guy...”
Another teenager blew his brains
out, fifteen yards behind them. The next
teenager grabbed his gun. Pud wondered
whether maybe this was a new version of the
wave. How soon till the new wave reached him and Francestuous? Still, the guards made no moves. Francestuous shouted into his ear, shouting
above the din of gunfire, “They’re just making a satirical statement about our
insensitive society. Don’t worry, be
happy! Ale Run wants us to be happy!
So tell your worry scamgrams to go
away!”
But then a middle-aged man right in
front of Pud stood up and blew his
brains out. Said brains splattered all
over Pud’s face. Simultaneously, reality
struck him in his face as well. But
Madonna Applewhite and his band played on.
Pud stood up on the rear of his chair, screaming, shouting, bellowing at the top of his lungs, “Metans, wake up!!! Can’t you see, this is, this is insensitive,
folks! This thing, it’s inappropriate,
people!!! People, people, listen to me now! This thing, um, it’s, it’s EVIL, people, it’s downright EVIL!!! Can’t you see?! WE MUST STOP THIS NOW!!!”
Francestuous stared at Pud in
horror. “Sit down and shut
up!” She hissed hotly. “If you don’t have anything positive to say,
then just shut up! Don’t be so judgmental! By Ale Run, Pud,
I swear, you’re falling victim to the scamgrams of, of not regarding these
people’s feelings as being valid, of denying the validity of their
artistic statements! You’d better like
just...”
Even though Francestuous shouted her
condemnation of Pud’s judgmentalism out to him, her words were drowned
out. More gunshots rang out, and the
band played on. Pud bellowed yet more
loudly, “THIS IS EVIL, PEOPLE,
EVIL!!! EVIL, E-V-I-L!!! E-V-I-L SPELLS EVIL!!! LISTEN TO ME NOW!!!
But now others took up Francestuous’s hue and cry, telling Pud to shut
up.
“Pipe
down, you goody two-shoes!” one yelled.
“Don’t ruin our fun, you prude!” another
screamed.
“If you don’t like it then just go someplace else with your hypocritical
judgmentalism,” yet another chimed in.
Then the security guards started moving in on Pud.
Pud caught on real fast. He ducked and ran. He ran across the seat backs. He ran between the violent orgies and the
dead and dying bodies. Avoiding guards,
puddles of blood, and flying bottles, he dashed for the doors. As if in a slow-motion dream, he was at the
doors. Then through them. Then the parking lot, and the open
roads. Still he ran and ran.
Exhausted, he dropped down to the
ground, breathing furiously. Then
something told him to hide. He crawled
behind the roadside bushes, just barely in time to avoid two of Ale Run’s
security guards as they zipped by on motorcycles. What was that
about, he wondered. Are they after me? His
heart hammered out a drumbeat of fear.
“Yes,
they are,” came the peculiar, silent reply.
“But do not worry, for I am with
you.” The voice filled him with a
calmer, relaxed, peaceful but sharply alert spirit.
“Who are you?!” Pud demanded in
similar silence. “Are You my Inner Ale
Run?”
“You
can call Me your Inner Ale Run if you want to,” came the quite agreeable
reply.
“So now I’m on the run from Ale
Run’s guards, and the Inner Ale Run is on my side,” Pud replied in
amazement. “What’s going on here?
Doesn’t Ale Run command the guards?
Doesn’t Ale Run know that I obey Him?
Are these guards not obeying the Will of Ale Run?”
“They
are.”
“Then how can this be?
Why would His guards chase one like me? One who admires and obeys only Him? Why am I, why am I,” and Pud’s inner voice
dropped in decibels, realizing the enormity of his predicament, “Why am I on
the run from Ale Run?” he inquired in a whisper.
“Because
you follow Me,” the voice came.
“But You are the Inner Ale Run?”
“You
can call Me your Inner Ale Run if you want to,” the voice repeated.
“What do You call Yourself?”
“It
is a Name I cannot say to you now,” the voice replied. “It is
a Name you cannot know fully till the day you die. And you and I, we both do not wish for this
day to come before it must.”
“Well, OK, then. So you’re my Inner Ale Run, then, I
guess. For now. So tell me, then, what has happened, here? Doesn’t Ale Run know everything? Doesn’t He know
that I love, admire, and obey His Every Word?
Or have His immediate followers deceived Him about me?” Pud sank pretty low, thinking about this
possibility. Then he brightened up,
broadcasting his newest, brightest hope.
“Inner Ale Run, why don’t You
go off and explain to Ale Run that I love and obey only Him? Surely
He’d listen to You!”
“No,”
the voice answered softly, sadly. “Ale Run has closed his heart to Me. When I try to talk to him, he says to Me, ‘I
don’t have to listen to you, because there is no controlling legal authority
over Me!’ So Ale Run has spurned his
Inner Ale Run,” the sad, loving voice concluded. “Probably permanently.”
But then the voice brightened,
saying, “But you, Pud, you are wrong! You do
not love and obey him! You
love and obey Me! You have just now realized this. And you have revealed it to Ale Run and his
followers. That’s why they hunt you like
an animal.”
“Surely
they know I mean Ale Run no harm!” More
motorcycles zipped by, and Pud crouched lower behind the bushes. Then cars full of guards spilled into view. Some of them slowed down.
“Quick! Into the drainage pipe!” suggested the
voice. Pud didn’t hesitate. Into that pipe, into the mud he crawled. He heard guards on foot, talking and
searching, shining their lights here and there, waving their V-Meters there and
here. He waited in frozen, fearful
silence.
“Quick! Now out, silently, and dive way down low in
those bushes!” came the thoughts.
Again, Pud obeyed. He scratched
his face and ate some dirt, but he obeyed with great enthusiasm. The guards shined their shining lights of
darkness into the bright darkness where a different kind of light had just
shone on Pud. And then they departed,
searching elsewhere.
“Who are You, Inner Ale Run? How and why do You oppose the Will of Ale Run
Himself? How can this be?”
“Ale
Run does not listen to his Inner Ale Run, as you would say. I impose My Will on no one. I am Love, and love of Love. Love of Life.
A force of Life. That which links
and Loves all Life. Ale Run has decided
to serve darkness. He has decided to
whisper to the horde, to the beast in humans, and to tell them whatever they
want to hear. Whatever they think
pleases them the most, for immediate, false pleasures. I oppose him because of who I am. Because I must. Because I Love.”
“And why do You speak to me now this
way? Is this normal? Or am I insane?”
“You
may be insane by the standards of much of your world, but you’re now sane. You’ve just now attained a measure of
sanity. No, this isn’t ‘normal’. But the Horde Whisperer has problematized
reality, and so normality is temporarily suspended. He has violated the norms, and so, too, do I now violate the norms. It’s happened before. In different ways, yes, but it has happened
before. And it might happen again.”
“The Horde Whisperer? Who is he?”
“Some
call him the inappropriate one, or the insensitive one. But he is the master of lies, the hateful and
evil one. That is his real name.”
“And what does he want?”
“Death
and destruction for all Life. Nothing
less.”
“And what do You want? Why are You here?”
“I
want Life and Love. I am here to ask you
to work with Me, to do My Will. I do not
command, I ask. I want for you to work
with Me, to bring the servants of the Horde Whisperer to the light. If we cannot bring the Horde Whisperer
himself to the light,” the
voice said with great sadness, “Then we
must at least stand tall against him, and give him a firm ‘NO!’ No, he may not have his way with
humanity! We must oppose him! But it is up to you. You may chose to
help Me, or you may say no to me. I will
still Love you either way.”
“And if I say no? What happens if I say no?”
“Then
I must ask someone else. But you are the
one I choose first. And before you ask,
I must ask that you do not ask. What if
they all say no? I am too saddened by the thought of trying to
answer that. So please do not ask.”
“Why do You ask me first? What’s so special about little old me?”
“You
are the one who they’ve spoken of. You
carry a thing that we might call ‘spiritual DNA’. As a human, a plant, or an animal carries DNA
that lies dormant, sometimes for years, seemingly signifying and expressing
nothing, yet that later flowers into something new, different, grand, and
wonderful, so, too, do humans carry spiritual DNA, so to speak. When their time comes, their full power is
revealed. You have revealed your
power. The power to speak out, and to
oppose evil. Now they know who you are. When you did what you did, their V-Meters
went clear off scale! You are the
Anti-Hubba-Bubba!”
Shock filled Pud’s
heart. But then his heart grew by three
sizes, and a firm and gritty resolve coursed through his veins. He looked around. Seeing no guards, he stood up tall, and
announced, this time in fiercely audible but quiet tones, “Yes, my Inner Ale
Run, I will do Your Will!”
“My
gratitude to you. Some tell lies about
Me. Not all lies about Me are equally
bad, and this is by no means the worst lie.
But they say that I can see the future.
I cannot, but in degrees of probability.
Else free will would be meaningless, and free will is My most important
Law. So I can tell you only probabalistically, but you have just now chosen to help Me
save humanity from the Horde Whisperer!
To continue what was begun two thousand years ago. We will not
be defeated!
“I
must go now. I won’t talk to you this
way but rarely, for I don’t wish for anyone to be My puppet. I only speak this way in very special
circumstances. If you wish to do My
Will, know then that you can do it only
when it is also Your Will. So I will usually do naught but flicker on
the edges of your consciousness. It is
up to you to figure out what My
Will is. But remember, your Inner Ale
Run will be with you!” Then the
voice was gone. Pud looked around in
fear, fearing for his physical safety as well as for his sanity. But that fear flickered for only a moment,
because a new awareness now flickered across the edges of his
consciousness. And its light shone far
brighter than his fear!
Enough of that for now, Pud told
himself. I’m a hunted animal! Let’s lay down low here, and figure out
what’s going on.
Ale Run’s troops couldn’t keep a lid
on it forever. After a while, the
show-goers had had enough, and wanted to leave, to go back home to
recover. So they all spilled out of that
covered stadium¾those
who were still capable of spilling out, at least; those who weren’t comatose,
or whose blood had been spilled¾they all staggered out to the parking lot. Some dragged their comatose friends; a few
carried bodies. Many got into their cars
and drove off.
Then they spilled into Pud’s
view. A trickle of cars turned into a
traffic jam and quite a few accidents.
Ale Run’s guards, sensing the possibility of a public relations fiasco,
were trying to persuade all the impaired drivers to wait for busses and taxis
to take them home, while they made last-minute emergency arrangements to get
said busses and taxis (as well as ambulances) to the stadium, then past all the
car wrecks.
So Pud waited for the pandemonium
out in front of him to build up. Then he
left the bushes where he’d been hiding.
He strolled calmly into the hubbub.
Think quick, now, he told himself.
There’s still plenty of guards around.
They might still be looking for me.
Sure, I could probably figure out some way, if I got lucky, to hop into
the back of a pickup truck loaded with loaded and comatose show-goers, and not
be noticed, but it’s quite the risk to take.
Call me to the guards’ attention, and
who knows what will happen! Besides,
suppose they’re checking for me at the gate, as everyone leaves! Now there’s
a sobering thought!
Following a hunch, Pud scrunched
himself down a bit, and walked through the densest crowds he could find, back
towards the stadium. Through crowds of
people, some naked and some crawling, he walked. He’d drop down on all fours and moan, blending
into crowd, whenever a guard came too close.
Back into the stadium he went.
Sure enough, clothes were strewn about the floor. Bloody clothes, ripped clothes, clothes on a
few corpses here and there, still, but the guards were cleaning those up and
carting them away.
“We’re in a world of hurts if any
unfleeced media types snuck in here with a hidden camera,” he heard one guard
say to another. “We’ll have to fleece
any such media types good and hard, if we catch them. Keep your eyes open for suspicious characters
wondering about.”
That sobered Pud up yet some
more. I’m getting sober enough by now to
cancel out the lack of sobriety of a few of my fallen buddies here by now, he
told himself, dropping down on all fours and moaning a bit, trying to blend in
with his surroundings. A sizable portion
of the crowd still milled about, many on all fours, just like Pud.
Pud crawled about, gathering up some
clothes and stuffing them under his shirt, so as not to draw attention. He concentrated on women’s clothes without
too much blood, vomit, or gashes. Here
and there, he even found purses and wallets, some with money. He felt bad about it, but as a staff member
of Omnology, he was carrying a bare minimum of cash. All the rest had gone to The Glory of Ale
Run. If he was going to make the big
escape, he’d need some cash.
So he gathered some money. He rationalized it to himself, telling
himself that if people had so little sense as to go to shows like this, totally
lose everything, including their clothes, wallets, self-control, and minds,
well, then, they obviously had more money than good sense. He was just helping them reach
equilibrium. At least he was leaving
them all their credit cards, driver’s licenses, worker’s permits, carbon
dioxide emitter’s permits, IDs, and such, which was more than one could say of
the real criminals.
He rooted among the bottles, the
syringes, the used condoms, the smashed Sensitivity Awards, and all other forms
of litter, looking for more clothes. Oh,
bonanza, he said to himself as he snatched up a long-haired wig. Look, under all that barf and dirt, it’s a blonde!
I’m a gonna be a blonde! Blondes have all the fun!
Pud snuck off into a dark corner,
where he rearranged himself just enough to make it into the women’s bathroom
without drawing too much attention. It
wasn’t so hard to do. He just crawled
past and over the moaning bodies in the bathroom, found himself a stall, hauled
a protesting, groaning body out, and secluded himself for just a few
minutes. He cleaned and flushed the
toilet, then he washed the wig and some of the clothes in it.
Then he was a she. She came out, muttering to herself, “Hey,
Babe, take a walk on the wild
side.” Now if only I can escape, she
said to herself. I’ve got to make it clear out of this entire
Intergalactic Headquarters before I can feel even a tiny bit safe! For that matter, I’d better boogie on out of
greater Los Diablos¾because
I’m sure they’ll be looking for me!
Now for a commercial message. See Chapter 17 endnotes on Role-Playing and
“Satirical Social Commentary” at the end of this book...
18)
The Anti-Hubba-Bubba Flees
From
the Wrath of Ale Run
“The
greatest dangers to liberty lurk in insidious encroachment by men of zeal,
well-meaning but without understanding.”
Louis D. Brandeis (1856-1941)
She walked out of the restroom, out
of the stadium, out of the compound, and hopefully out of Ale Run’s grasp. Sure, it was a long walk, but she made
it. She made it the front gates while
there were large crowds of those still able to walk, and not patient enough to
wait for taxis and busses, walking through under the prying eyes of the
guards. She walked some more. And walked and walked and walked.
As the lights of dawn rose, she
found a suitably lonely bridge. She hid
her money under a rock beneath some scattered rubble. Then she became a he again, thinking he’d be
maybe just a tiny bit less likely to get raped or killed while he slept, if he
was a he. He slept under the bridge till
late morning.
When he got up, he decided that this
business of sleeping under bridges just wasn’t quite going to cut it. It was too uncomfortable, too dangerous. He hadn’t slept soundly at all, worrying
about some lawless drifter coming by and snuffing his lights during the middle
of the night. He’d have to go back to
being a respectable, regular-job-holding kind of a guy, he decided. But here, in Panderwood? he asked
himself. Or am I still in
Panderwood? Well, in any case, I’m still
in Los Diablos, that’s for sure. And
anywhere I go in greater Los Diablos, Ale Run’s minions will be sure to find
me. They know, now, that I am the
Anti-Hubba-Bubba. So said the Ale Run
Within.
Then Pud shuddered as he remembered
the enormity of what had happened last night.
Had it all been a dream? No! Certainly not! He was a hunted man! He didn’t know what the future held, nor even
what his plans were. He had no
plans. All he knew was that he had to
get far, far away from Los Diablos. If
he had to search high and low throughout the entire U.S., or even the entire
world, then Ale Run would be far less likely to find, thwart, and punish the
Anti-Hubba-Bubba.
So Pud wandered on over to a bus
stop. But when he got closer, he saw a
man holding an object. It was disguised,
but it sure looked like a V-Meter to Pud.
The man was surreptitiously scanning the small crowd! Could they detect him with that thing? After all, reality had become problematized,
his Inner Ale Run had told him. Real magic apparently stalked the globe,
in the hands of Ale Run and his minions.
No one could say, any more, what was possible, and what wasn’t.
Pud turned and left. Maybe he could stand by the highway
somewhere, and hitch a ride out of town.
If Ale Run’s troops weren’t specifically sweeping all of Los Diablos for
suspicious-looking hitchhikers, that is, he worried. Oh, Inner Ale Run, stand by me in my time of
troubles, Pud pleaded.
Okay, so now what, Pud asked himself.
I’ve got to find a way to get
out of Los Diablos! He wandered off, and
walked for a while. He spent some of his
precious cash at McBurglar King, spending ten dollars for a pitifully small
portion of grease fries and lardburgers.
Not that the grease fries and lardburgers were necessarily that bad; he was hungry! It’s just that there
wasn’t enough of that totally awful,
rotten, grease-soaked food! Especially
not for $10.11. He debated spending more
of his precious cash for some more grease, but the respectable people about the
McBurglar King were looking at him awfully funny. He didn’t want to risk approaching the sales
counter yet once again, for fear that someone would call the police. So he left.
Well, he asked himself, if I look that bad that people fear me, then how am I going hitch a
ride, get a job, or what have you? Maybe
I’d better splurge tonight, get a hotel room, and clean myself up good.
So Pud set out to find himself a
quasi-respectable hotel room late that afternoon. He strolled into the Four Fleabites,
thinking, well, it isn’t the classiest joint in the whole world, but then
neither is my stash of cash. At least
this isn’t the total bottom of the food chain, either.
As Pud’s luck would have it, he may
not have regarded the Four Fleabites as the bottom of the food chain, but the
lady behind the counter certainly regarded him
as such! She eyed him
suspiciously. “Can I please see some ID,
there, Sir?” were the first words out of her mouth.
Flustered, Pud remembered that they
were safekeeping all his credentials back at his former house of spiritual
self-detention, one Intergalactic Headquarters of The Church of Omnology. “Um, no, Ma’am, I don’t have any ID with me,”
he replied. He fished out a wad of
bills. “But I’d be happy to leave you a
security deposit if you’d like.”
“Sorry, Sir, that’s not our
policy. We have to see some ID.”
“My licenses and cards and all were stolen from me!” he protested. “I need to get cleaned up and get a good
night’s sleep, so I can find my way home tomorrow,” he semi-lied. “What am I supposed to do?”
She smirked at him. He could almost hear her thoughts, even
without a V-Meter! “Sure, Pal. They stole your wallet, and left you wads of
cash. Sure!” But that’s not what
she said. What she said was, “Well, Sir, for starters, you could give me
your Social Security number and your home address, so I can check them out,”
she said.
Pud was just about ready to give her
his Social Security number and his old address, from his old days as a
doctor/engineer/CEO/speculator/entrepreneur/famous volunteer, etc., but then he
got to thinking, well, just how many computer networks will soon contain these
little tidbits of data, anyway? And how
many Omnologists or Omnologist computers will be scanning such data for the
whereabouts of a certain renegade Anti-Hubba-Bubba?
Then he noticed the video camera
behind the lady, keeping an electronic eye him.
“I’ve got a bit of amnesia. Can’t
remember those things too well. Well,
guess I’ll be sleeping under the bridge tonight again,” he ventured. “Could I maybe sleep on the patio at your house?”
She reached for something hidden
behind and below the counter, so he dashed for the door. “Bye!” he called out. “Thanks for all your help!” He jogged on down the street a little while,
cut through a few alleys, then slowed to a more reasonable pace. Oh, well, he thought. So much for that!
But then he got to thinking, you
know, it really is important that I
get cleaned up, and get a good night’s sleep.
How am I going to get anyone to help me, get a ride out of Los Diablos,
or anything, if I look like a person
with a very alternative
lifestyle? I’ve got to find a hotel! It’s
just that I need to set my sights lower.
I need to find a place that’s a little less persnickety about IDs and
such.
So he sauntered on into the seedier
side of town, where he found the Hotel No-Tell.
Daily, hourly, and by-the-minute rates were offered. They took his money and his name (“Fred
Neatshee”), and sent him to his room. It
smelled of beer, urine, cigarettes, vomit, roaches, and who knows what all
else, but it had a roof, a bed, running water, and soap! Pud promptly got to
work. He washed himself and his clothes,
then sent himself to bed without any supper. But he slept quite soundly.
In the morning, as he was leaving,
he noticed a newspaper display. So he
thought to himself, well, I sure wonder how the media is treating what happened
here just two nights ago? So he spent
three more quarters of his precious cash, then found a quiet spot. He sat on an old outdoor bench and read.
“Hillary-Bob Wins Award,” the
headline proclaimed. “5-Battery
Sensitivity Award Unprecedented, Says Spiritual Leader,” the subtitle
added. Pud started reading the article,
wondering if there was any hue and cry at all about what had happened towards
the end of the Fleece the Poor Benefit Show.
Pud rapidly read through the
article, scanning for any sense of outrage.
“Ale Run Hubba-Bubba, in a rare personal appearance, personally
congratulated Hillary-Bob on her outstanding sensitivity and service to
society, and awarded her the Ale Run Hubba-Bubba Sensitivity Award with 5 Extra
Batteries,” he read. Then he read about
all the fabulous artists’ shows, culminating with “Madonna Applewhite’s band
kept the audience spellbound with its songs of powerfully biting, clever social
satire. Many of their numbers came from
their latest chart-topping album, called Satanic
Ritual Abuser Superstar. Their
sophisticated audience greeted their performance enthusiastically, although
some members of the religious right have denounced their controversial shows.”
And that was it for any mention of
controversy! No mention of the “heathen
left” accompanied the paper’s comment about the “religious right”. Nor were suicides, car wrecks, naked and
passed-out party-goers, and generally debauched behavior mentioned. Pud ditched his paper in a nearby
rotten-smelling and overflowing dumpster and walked on, thinking, well, geezum,
I guess the Media and Government Institute for the Fleecing of All Metans
must’ve been doing a bang-up job lately.
I must get out of Los Diablos, he reminded himself. So he worked his way over to the nearest
freeway. He stood fifty yards back from
the feeder road, watching a fellow homeless person trying to hitch a ride. Okay, he told himself, I know this is risky,
going out there and joining him, but it’s also risky for me to stay here. I must
go! I must go out there on that feeder
road right now, and stick my thumb
out, and hitch a ride. I just must.
I must, I must, I must. But he couldn’t persuade himself. He worried about Omnologists patrolling the
highways for a certain special hitchhiker.
His worries were reinforced when a peculiar thought flickered across the
edges of his awareness, telling him “beware”.
He was just about to turn away, when
he noticed a van stopping for the hitchhiker.
He watched as the hitchhiker loaded his meager belongings into the
van. Bravely but seemingly casually, Pud
strolled forward for a better look. As
the van drove off, he recognized the bumper sticker. It was one that was gaining popularity these
days. “Smile! Ale Run ©s You!”, it said. Pud didn’t need to read it; a glance was
sufficient for him to recognize that particular image. So my nagging thoughts are absolutely
correct, he told himself. I must learn to listen to them better!
What to do, what to do, he puzzled,
strolling away. I can’t seem to make it
out of Los Diablos, at least for now.
It’s like I’ve been welcomed to the Hotel California. You can check out any time you like, but you
can never leave. So maybe I’d better
settle in, at least for now. Get
respectable again. Or at least, get just
respectable enough to buy my way outta this place. Maybe buy myself an old beater-mobile. Then
I can leave!
Okay, so then the next question
becomes, just how does one get back
on the road to becoming respectable, anyway?
Well, obviously, I guess I’d better sashay on down to the local
government-sponsored self-improvement center, and get self-improved, he
concluded.
So he headed off and found the
Greater Los Diablos Welfare-to-Work Self-Improvement Agency, where he went
through the metal detectors, then waited in line for two hours. When he got to the head of the line, the man
asked him for his papers. “Don’t got no
papers. Got robbed,” Pud informed the
man.
“Well, then, what’s your Social Security
number, mister, um... Well, Sir, what’s you name, for
starters, anyway?”
“Fred. Fred Neatshee.”
“All right, then, Mr. Neatshee, what’s your Social Security number?”
“Shoshial Sheckyouryity number?
Ah seems ta recall havin’
one o’ them thar things a while back, but ya know, a
fella fergets afta a
while. A fella fergets. But ah’m tellin’ ya son, ah’m a hard workin’ man. Y’all fix me up some way, find mah Shoshial Sheckyouryity
number or whatever, or make me up a new one, whatever it takes, an’ ah’ll be givin’ ya an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. Ah ken dig yer
ditches, sweep yer streets, do yer
general handyman-type stuff, whatever it takes.”
“Well, Mr. Neatshee,
sorry to say, that’s not really quite what we’re looking for. The unions, they’re unhappy enough as is,
with what we’re doing, without us getting into that. Now if you could maybe
learn self-esteem counseling, or at least gang and drug awareness group therapy
peer facilitating, or gang community issues resolution negotiation, then maybe
we could get places faster. Mr.
Neatshee, have you ever been involved with gangs or illegal drugs?”
“No, Sir, ah sure hasn’t.”
“Oh.
Well, in that case, I guess
we’re barking up the wrong tree, trying to get you lined up for a good job, in one of these categories
where we’re in greatest need. Now I’m
not quite sure what we can do for
you, Mr. Neatshee.
Maybe the best we can do, is to put you in training. In any case, though, I think we’re putting
the cart before the horse. First off, Mr.
Neatshee, is, we’ve got to get your papers squared away. We’ve got to find your Social Security
number, first of all. Can’t get a work
permit without a Social Security number.
So could you fill out these papers for me?
“Don’t worry, we’ll keep your place
in line open here. Now just step aside
right here, fill these papers out, and when you’re done, just step right back
in at the head of the line here. Then
I’ll look your papers over, and see if we’ve got enough information so that we
can look up your Social Security number for you. If not, we’ll have to send your papers and
other data in to the Social Security Administration and wait for a reply, which
will take a while. Thank you, Mr. Neatshee. Next?”
Pud stepped aside and shuffled
through the papers. Oh, my, my, what
have we here, he asked himself, noticing one of the entries, where he was
expected to sign, giving his permission to have his retina scanned, in order to
get a new Social Security number, if he had none, or none could be found. And
if he was willing to swear he was a U.S. citizen, and wasn’t trying to ditch an
old name, with its debts and obligations.
Under heavy penalties for fibbing.
Seems to me, I had to have my retina
scanned before I could volunteer for one of those high-profile volunteer deals,
way back when. Can’t risk having devious
criminals volunteering to help The Children and such-like things. What if they cross-link Mr. Fred Neatshee to Dr. Pudmuddle B.
Fuddle? Via my retina? I’d be in a world of hurts! Even worse than if I just gave them my Social
Security number right now! And, of
course, that’s out of the
question. No telling how many Omnologists are in government
by now, and are regularly checking the computers for where I’m at!
No, that won’t do. Now if I just dash right out of here, I might
attract suspicion, he thought, glancing obliquely at the guards. Better to get back in line here, and humbly
confess that I can’t read or write, and then take it from there. Ask for help filling all these forms out, act
real stupid, stall a lot, whatever I can come up with. Good thing I’ve had the smarts to act stupid
already so far! Maybe feign physical or
mental troubles, somehow make such a pain out of myself, that they’ll be glad
to let me back out onto the streets.
So Pud waited for five more minutes,
there at the head of the line again, while Mr. Social Worker helped his fellow
citizen. Then it was his turn
again. “Um, Sir, I’m sorry,” he
said. “Ah haff
ta admit, ah can’t read or write. Do ya
think maybe ya could, like, give me a hand with these forms?”
“Oh, Mr. Neatshee,
I sure wish I could! Or, at the very least, I wish you would’ve told
me that right away! You see, Mr. Neatshee, we can
help you! But that’s not my
department! Over there, see that line
over there, that’s where literacy challenged and intellectually different
people can go to get help filling forms out!
Lots of luck, Mr. Neatshee! Next!”
Pud waddled over towards the end of
the other, even longer line. But he
slipped over to the men’s room instead.
Then after that, he slipped out the front door. No one gave him any trouble. He felt quite lucky, making his escape so easily. He walked on down the street, singing doo-wah-ditty dumm-ditty do-wah.
Then he spotted a small, racially mixed
group of homeless men. They looked mean
and tough. But, what the hey, Pud said
to himself, I need help. Nobody else
will help me; maybe I can at least get some good advice from these guys. “Hey, doods,” he
greeted them as he walked up. “Whazzappanin?”
They just looked at him in puzzled,
momentary silence. Then one, a black
guy, replied, “Nuthin. Absolutely nuthin. Whazzappanin with
you, bro?”
“Oh, ah just tried ta go off and get myself self-improved. Bunch a bureau-rats! They just give me the run-around.” A few guys snickered. “Anyway, ah need some money. Or a ride out of Los Diablos. Ah was hopin’ ta do
it without runnin’ afoul a the law. Not too
afoul a the law, fer sure! So y’all, could y’all like tell me
whereabouts ah might be able ta make a few bucks on
the side, workin’ an honest job? Without fillin’ out
too many papers an’ such?”
They stared at him in silence for
another few seconds, exchanging glances.
The black guy finally spoke up again, after seemingly deciding to take
pity on the poor fool stranger. “Well,
ya know, bro, ya could always stand by the road. ‘Will work fo’
food’, that sorta thang. But seems ta me
that’s not what yo be lookin’
fo’. Now a few
years back, there yusta be this Salvation Army place
on down the road a ways here, where a guy could work, an’ they’d give ya a few
bucks. Sort an’ wash their donated
clothes, put ‘em on the racks, they’d be givin’ ya some money.
“Ah’m not
too sho if they be in bidness
still, or not. If they’s
still in bidness, it ain’t
no big thing no mo’, that’s fo’
sho! The man
come by, says ta them, yo’s gotta
be scannin’ them’s
eyeballs, them’s retinas o’ some such, an’ gettin’ ‘em work permits, payin’ ‘em minimum wage, Social
Security, workman’s comp, health benefits, an’ on an’ on. An’ be makin’ sure ya dock their pay fo’ child
support. Support the ol’
lady’s crack habit, an’ so on. So they
can’t be payin’ us no mo’
money. Puts ‘em
outta bidness.
We’s gotta be stickin’ ta sellin’ crack an’
stuff if we wants ta be makin’
money.”
“Ah can’t be sellin’
no crack!” Pud interjected. “Ah’s gotta stay clear o’ the man!”
“Ya got that right, Bud!” A grimy white chimed in. “Besides, turf’s all split up around
here. Butt in, get yersef
kilt real quick-like! Now, tell ya what,
Bud. Ya wanna
steer clear o’ the man an’ all his papers?
Make a few bucks without no papers?
That’s the scoop, right, Pal?”
Grimy white guy glared at Pud, glanced around, then took out a whiskey
bottle for a snort. Then he stared back
at Pud.
“Yup, that about sums it up,” Pud
admitted.
“I’ll tell ya where ya can work to yer heart’s content.
Work all day an’ all night, an’ the man’ll
never, ever, never ever even think o’
comin’ around an’ checkin’ yer papers an’ work conditions an’ pay an’ stuff.”
“Yeah? Who?
Where they at?”
“Head on down thata
way. Place is called the Intergalactic
Headquarters of The Church of Omnology!”
The whole little gang roared. Pud
just stood there, flushed with anger.
But, you know, he’s right, Pud
thought. Try to treat a person with a
bit of dignity, let him keep his beat-up old apartment and a bit of his
independence while you try to lift him up with a starting-out job¾even if it’s largely a charity
job, you’re losing money on the deal, but you’re trying to help the poor guy
out, paying him a few bucks to sweep the charity shelter floor or whatever¾the EPA, OSHA, EEOC, IRS,
National Socialist Labor Police, and everyone and their mother will be all over
you!
If, on the other hand, you brainwash
the poor slob, get him to join your cult, and he lives under your thumb for 24
hours a day, in your commune, then you can have him sell flowers on the street
corner, or pass out flyers at the airport, for a can of cat food per day. And the government won’t touch you. Because that’s religious freedom, which is, of course,
far, far more sacred than, say, plain old, ordinary, simple freedom.
Heck, they’ll even give you a tax
exemption!
And needless to say, religious
freedom is also, of course, light-years
above and beyond that most crass and greedy concept, so oxymoronically called economic freedom! Economics is the dismal science of valuing
things more than people, after all. So
turn control over all crass material affairs to our betters, and we’ll all live
in perfection and grace. And our betters
come in two flavors: The State, and the Church.
You must yield up your
freedom, and it must be to the one or to the other! Yield it up to neither one, but keep it in
reserve in order to directly serve your Inner Ale Run as you see fit¾well, you just try that, Bud, and yo’
in a heap o’ trouble, Boy!
These thoughts flickered
semi-coherently through Pud’s brain in a matter of
seconds. Out loud, he said, “Ya know,
Bud, I think ya got a point, there. Ya
got a point. Give over yer whole life ta Ale Run, an’ the man leaves ya
alone. Even if they don’t pay ya a
nickel a day. Try an’ get somebody who’s
not in a cult ta pay ya a few bucks on the side fer
an honest day’s work, and they’s all over yer case!
“Ya gotta fall in with the one plantation or the other. The gummint don’t
bust the cult leaders, ‘cause that’d be like a lawyer suin’
a shark! Can’t do it. Professional courtesy, ya know. Like ol’ President
Bush, he didn’t bomb the boss-men in their buildings in Iraq during the
day. No Sir! He bombed ‘em at night, to kill the cleaning
ladies! The slave owners don’t pick
on each other, they pick on the slaves.
So of course the only place I
can get an off-the-books job is with the Church of Omnology!”
“Ooooh-wee! Listen to him talk!” One of the homeless men
hooted while the others guffawed. “Listen to him! Man, you no regular ol’
bum like us! You some sort o’ perfesser or sumptin, ain’tcha? Tellin’ us about history!
You an egghead on the run?”
Oops, I guess I musta
slipped outta character a bit thar, Pud told himself.
Ah’s gots ta even be thinkin’ like who ah’m supposed ta be, if ah’m gonna pull this
off. Thing is, the cat’s out of the bag,
here. I think. These guys are sharper than they look! Can I lie to them? Or will that just piss ‘em off?
“I suppose I could ‘fess up to
that,” he admitted. “I hope y’all won’t
hold it against me.”
“Say no mo,
perfessor, say no mo,” the
black guy spoke up. “We runs inta folks like yo now an’
then. ‘Specially lately. Now tell yo what. Ya seems ta be a nice fella; ah’ll give yo a hand, bro! Ya wanna git outta Los Diablos,
we’ll getcha outta Los Diablos. Ya take a ride on a freight train, if we be showin’ ya how?”
“I’m game. Let’s go!”
So the small group of homeless men split up. Two of them, Mr. B. (the black guy) and
another, vaguely Hispanic-looking character known as Desert Rat, agreed to take
the Professor (as Pud was now known¾they’d never even asked him his name!) and show him
how to hop onto a freight train. Desert
Rat, as a matter of fact, was wanting to travel east, anyway, so he and
Professor Pud would ride together, while Mr. B. would turn back, and stay in
Los Diablos, which he considered home.
The three of them ambled off in the
general direction of the train yard. Pud
was getting pretty hungry, but he wasn’t about to speak up, and risk
jeopardizing his good deal, here, what with them showing him the way, and
all. Fortunately, Mr. B. was hungry,
too. “Here, let’s go get us some chow,
over here,” he said as they were just about to pass an intersection. “See that old man over there? He be a good dude, a preacher-man. He passes out food from his church to the
homeless.”
“He can do that? Is this place zoned for that?” Pud asked
incredulously. He looked around. They were in a fairly upscale
neighborhood. Not upscale enough to have
security fences around all the houses and apartments, sure. Still, it was fairly nice. You’d think that all the people in a
neighborhood like this would make sure that all the homeless feeding stations,
shelters, and such-like things would all get located elsewhere, he
thought. “Aren’t there like food purity
and sanitation laws and such? Do the
cops just turn a blind eye, or does he spend half of his donations to bribe
them?”
“No, no, man! No way, bro!
Here, you’ll see,” Mr. B. exclaimed.
They took the detour from their planned route, veering over to see the
preacher-man. When they got close to
him, Mr. B. called out, saying, “Good day to yo, bro! How’s things with yo an’ God an’ the angels
an’ all?”
“Not too shabby, son, not too shabby
at all. And you?” Preacher-man replied.
“Not too shabby ourselves, ol’ man,”
Mr. B. spoke for the three of them. “You
say ‘hi’ to God for us sinners, now, okay?
Next time yo sees Him in yo church?”
The old man just grinned and
nodded. “Preacher-man, ah’d like fo’ yo
to meet mah friends. Preacher-man, this
here’s Desert Rat and Perfessor. Desert
Rat, Perfessor, meet Preacher-man.”
Pud just stood there, puzzling over
this “God” thing that Mr. B. was mentioning, vaguely recalling that way back
when, before he’d become an Omnologist (my, my, it all seemed so long ago!),
“God” had meant, um, ah, I guess, your Inner Ale Run, or something like that,
to the scamgramified metans of the world.
He snapped out of it when it was his turn to shake Preacher-man’s
hand. They stood there making small talk
with Preacher-man, with Mr. B. doing most of the talking.
“You guys hungry by any chance?”
Preacher-man asked after a while. They
all nodded. “Well”, he continued, “I
sure don’t mean to insult you or anything.
I’d like to invite you over for a meal at my church, but we’re not quite
up to the right standards, and all. And
my house isn’t zoned right, so that I could ask y’all to gather there. So I hate to say it, but dumpster diving
might be the best way to go. Now you see
that apartment block right over there?
God tells me to tell you, the dumpster out behind it might be a really
good place for y’all to look into. I’d
better go now. But you guys take care,
and think about God and living a life of dignity, now and then. All of us, no matter what our station in
life, all of us can live a life of dignity.
It’s a gift from God. God bless
you!”
With that, the old preacher-man
slowly walked off. He got into a tiny
little car down the street, and turned it around. He waved as he passed Pud and his
friends. Pud glimpsed quite a few
grocery bags in the rear of that car as it sped by. What the hey, he asked himself.
“Come on,” Mr. B. urged. “Over to that apartment block!”
“We’re going dumpster diving?” Pud asked disdainfully.
“It’ll be all right,” Mr. B. assured
him. “Let’s go!” Ahead of them, they saw Preacher-man’s car
turn into the apartment’s parking lot. And
by the time that they got half of the way there, they saw him leaving again.
And when they checked the dumpster,
they found, right on top, a grocery bag full of wrapped sandwiches! They grabbed it and continued on their
way. Pud finally figured it out. Preacher-man wasn’t littering, or engaging in
unauthorized feeding of the homeless, or distributing unsafe foods. He was just disposing of his unwanted food in
a responsible manner, risking little but the wrath of the apartment owner who
was paying for the dumpster! What a
deal!
On down the road a few blocks, they
sat on a bench and scarfed down two sandwiches each. Even so, they had a few left. They walked on down the road, contented.
Reaching their destination with
plenty of daylight left, they decided to kill some time. “Can’t be hoppin’ over the fence in broad
daylight,” Mr. B. explained about the rail yard’s security. “We’ll sneak in there later.”
They wandered into a clump of trees
and bushes. There, hidden away, they
napped, chatted, and just sat around. So
Pud got a chance to sit and think. What
was his Mission from his Inner Ale Run, anyway?
What was he supposed to be doing, right now? Was he on track, or not? Pud wasn’t sure. Take it day by day, he told himself. Heck, I’ve no real choice here, anyway! What can I do, in reality, especially in my situation, besides take it day by day, anyway?
Well, first things first. First, get out of Los Diablos, so that the
Omnologists will have a much harder time finding me. And then... then what? Just live my life, till my Inner Ale Run
tells me what to do? Sounds good, but
I’ve got to find something to keep me
busy in the meantime! What’ll I do to
make a living? Like, what am I going to be when I grow up, anyway? Career choices are pretty skimpy when the
Labor Police are breathing down your neck!
So I can’t get me a respectable job,
because I’ll show up on twelve million databases, and sooner or later, some
Omnologist in government somewhere will turn my whereabouts in to Ale Run
Himself. Well, okay, so they’ll turn it
in to His secretary’s vice executive secretary’s deputy assistant
undersecretary. My ass is still
grass. I’ll still be history.
All-powerful, all-knowing,
all-compassionate legislators have mandated, in the Name of The Children, that
all workers must be tracked, so that they’ll provide for their children. They didn’t realize that people like me,
then, couldn’t afford to get any kind
of respectable, legal job at all,
because other people in government might divert that data from its noble,
pro-Children purposes, to more underhanded purposes. They went looking for deadbeat dads, and
wound up finding Big Brother instead!
Pud’s mind crabbed sideways across
his mental currents. He found himself
thinking about his ex-wife, Betty, her kids, Tracy and Bracy, and their
hamster, Huey. After all, it was in their names that the lawmen were now
preventing him from taking a decent job!
But he thought about how he used to just have their child support
automatically deducted from his pay, so that it was all quite painless. How he’d pretty much forgotten all about
them, until that day he’d stumbled upon them while doing noble charity deeds
for Habitat for Hamsters. How he’d
thought that there was some sort of special message in meeting them out there
in that trailer park that way, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. How he’d tried, later, to convert them to
Omnology, to lift them out of their gauche ways. How even Hamster Huey had spurned Ale Run’s
Wisdom. How that mystery had remained
completely unresolved!
Well, maybe it’s time to examine the
mystery again, Pud thought. Maybe, just
maybe, the message, there, might have been something like, “Don’t get all
wrapped up in making a fancy show out of your noble, big-shot charity. Don’t spend all of your time mugging for the
cameras, while you heft that tool, on that media event for the poor, and then
run off without having done any real good.
Without even having taken care of your
own! Maybe if you just concentrate
on helping out your own friends, relatives, and neighbors, the rest will
follow. Maybe if we just all behaved
helpfully and responsibly, each in obedience to his or her own Inner Ale Run,
then we wouldn’t even need any big
charity events! Taking care of one’s own
might not grab as much attention as being a high-profile volunteer, but it will
do more good.”
Well, that’s pretty darned radical
thinking there, Pud, he thought to himself.
But is this perhaps my Mission from my Inner Ale Run? Just as Preacher-man did an end-run around the
bureau-rats, to feed the poor, I might be able to go home, and find some way to
provide for Betty, Tracy, Bracy, and Hamster Huey. Find some way to subvert the government’s
family values, and raise my children decently?
If we give them love and stability, will they be less likely to listen
to Ale Run and His Church of Omnology, and listen instead to their Inner Ale
Run?
Is this, then, all that there is, to
my Mission as the Anti-Hubba-Bubba?
Somehow, I suspect not. Yes, I do
believe that if we all took good care of our children (as opposed to beating
our chests, moaning, wailing, and falling all over ourselves about The
Children, to be sure), then the Ale Runs and the Omnologists of the world might
be a little less likely to ensnare insecure, unloved victims. So the Anti-Hubba-Bubba functions of properly
loving and raising one’s children should be strongly supported.
However, it seems to me, Pud told
himself, that for me, there is yet more to it.
The Inner Ale Run told me that I am the Anti-Hubba-Bubba himself. There must be some very special Mission for
me later on. But for now, I know not
what it is. For now, I must concentrate
on getting out of Los Diablos. After
that, I’ll make things right with Betty, Tracy, Bracy, and Hamster Huey.
Then I’ll await instructions from my
Inner Ale Run. Maybe He wants me to lead
His True Metans away from the false
Church of Omnology, with its Ale Run Hubba-Bubba who won’t listen to his Inner
Ale Run, just because there’s no controlling legal authority over him. Maybe the Inner Ale Run wants me to start the
One True Church of Listening to One’s Own Inner Ale Run, with a new, reorganized staff of expert
fleecers of metans, with newer, bigger, better V-Meters and Ping Things. V-Meters and Ping Things that cost a lot less
donations and sacrifices of freedoms.
Expert fleecers who also fleece the poor, without demanding thousands of
dollars per fleecing, from the fleece-ees, or from charity-show-goers. Maybe that’s
what my Inner Ale Run has in store for me!
Pud thought many other thoughts great and small.
Darkness descended upon the train
yard, the bushes, the trees, and Mr. B., Desert Rat, and Pud, AKA
Perfessor. That darkness, however, did
nothing to extinguish the light in Pud’s heart. It merely provided cover as they slipped over
the fence. They prepared to commit their
heinous crime, which consisted of adding a few hundred pounds to a cargo of
tens of millions of pounds.
They dashed over to a parked train
and hid under it. “Okay, now we be waitin’ a while,” Mr. B. whispered. “Security makes regular rounds. After the next round, ya go an’ climb on that
train right over there. They all be headin’ east soon, and we be gettin’
on the one leavin’ third to next. Not the farthest one away from us here, in
that group over there, and not the second farthest. The third
farthest. The closer they gets to leavin’, the more people’s messin’
around on ‘em, the more likely we get caught. Okay?”
Desert Rat nodded. It seemed as if he knew all about this sort
of thing. Pud gulped, then nodded
too. “Good,” Mr. B. continued. “I’ll run on over there with y’all, and help
ya up¾it’s pretty tough gettin’ on, sometimes¾but then I be back over the fence an’ outta
here. Good luck ta y’all now.”
“Thanks,” Pud muttered. They waited in silence. Security drove by in a golf cart. They waited for a few minutes. Then they crawled out, and sprinted towards
their intended ride. A bright light
sprang to life, stabbing at them from the roof of a nearby decrepit
warehouse. A bull-horn amplified voice
boomed out at them, “Trespassers! Trespassers! Freeze!
Stop right there, and we’ll let you off with a warning! Freeze now!”
“Run
for it!” Mr. B. yelled. He was
wasting his breath. All three of them
were already in full flight back towards the fence. With his legs pumping furiously, and his
lungs heaving madly, Pud reached the chain-link fence seconds behind the
others. He caught his breath for just a
few seconds, listening to Mr. Bullhorn explaining all about how they’d be
busted for running, but get off no sweat if they’d just stop. He watched as a golf cart approached, off in
the distance.
“Don’t listen to those liars,”
Desert Rat hissed down to him from his perch at the top of the fence. “Git goin’!”
Pud started to scramble up the fence. He ran out of breath at the top. Mr. B. reached over from the far side, where
he’d been waiting for Pud, and helped pull him over. By the time they were all back down on the
ground, the guards in their golf cart were pulling quite close to the fence. As the fugitives picked up and ran, one guard
ran up to the fence with a video camera, apparently hoping to get identifiable
footage of the perpetrators. The other
guard chattered a play-by-play situation report into his radio.
The three of them ran like
politicians from blame. As Pud’s lousy
luck would have it, a police car picked that particular time and place to
happen by. Seeing the three of them
running off, the driver and his companion, two of Los Diablos’ finest, promptly
gave chase. “Split up, man, split up!”
Mr. B. yelled back to Desert Rat and Pud, as the two followed him down the
road. Yeah, guess that makes sense,
Pud’s thoughts told him above all the noise of his heaving lungs and racing
heart. Two of them can’t catch three of
us, if we go off in three different directions.
Desert Rat dashed off towards the
clump of trees and bushes where they’d hidden earlier. The patrol car was almost upon them. OK, now what, Pud asked himself. I could split off all on my own, but I don’t
know my way around. I could follow
Desert Rat, but that clump of trees is pretty small. If two of us go there, they’ll come and find
us. So here I am, still following Mr.
B., for lack of knowing what else to do.
The two of them ran down the grassy
side of an embankment, into a culvert, as the patrol car pulled up. The car spilled it’s riders, who promptly
chased after the suspects on foot. Said
suspects then allegedly defied the authority of Los Diablos’ finest (who did
command them to stop) by continuing to run down the culvert (see exhibit
#BR549, one colored glossy 6X10 photograph with circles and arrows and a
paragraph on the back), proceeding at approximately twelve miles per hour in a
generally southwesterly direction, flanking Goldenrhoid Road in the 1600 block.
Mr. B. hung a sudden sharp left,
diving into a storm sewer under Goldenrhoid Road. Pud thought quickly. Maybe now’s the time to split up. Keep on going down the culvert, and see
whether they chase him or me. I hate to
think it, but, well, he’s black. Maybe
they’ll both chase him, not me, for the crime of RWBB (Running While Being
Black). Besides, that sewer looked
pretty groady. So Pud kept on going,
glancing over his shoulder.
Alas, one of Los Diablos’ finest had
dived in after Mr. B., while the other one was still pursuing one alleged
suspect, a certain Pudmuddle B. Fuddle.
So Pud kept right on going, and going, and going. But his batteries wouldn’t last forever, and
he knew it. “Stop now, you sorry Y%V&!#J, and I’ll not be forced to beat the snot outta
you!” Pud heard quite distinctly from about twenty yards behind him. His legs ached and his chest was on fire, and
he was sorely tempted to give in, but Pud thought about the police scanning his
retina and finding out who he was. He
thought about Omnologists examining databases, and his Mission. So he kept right on running.
And then it was over. He felt a shove on his back, then he was face
down, skidding on the grime-covered concrete culvert bottom. Then came the baton and boot blows. On his head, neck, shoulders, back, rear, and
legs, down and sideways they rained. The
pain lasted only for a few minutes, as endorphins flooded his body. Then he was left in a detached state of
almost completely numb awareness.
As if from miles away, he heard,
“Hey, Billy, whatcha kicking the crap outta the poor
slob for? Get us in trouble back at HQ,
ya will! What’s goin’
on?!”
“Teachin’
this sorry sombitch a lesson, that’s what I’m doin’! Dang Y%V&!#J, he...”
“Yeah, yeah, so what?! That’s what all these stupid homeless scum do, is run away! They’re just ignorant, they don’t know we’re
out to protect and serve! Run for no
reason at all, they do! So’s that any reason to beat ‘im
up so bad we’ll get busted back at HQ?
Come on, Billy, lay off!”
The blows stopped. Pud wanted to writhe, to see if his body
still worked, but he forced himself to stay still. Maybe they’ll think I’m dead, panic, and go
away, he thought. Stay still! Play possum for all it’s worth!
“Man, you’re just jealous ‘cause you
didn’t catch your man, huh? Didn’t catch
your Mandingo, so now you’re raggin’ on me,” Pud heard
from far away, miles above him. “Look at you, all covered in slime from
sewer-divin’!
Ha-ha, chortle-snort guffaw, no wonder
you’re on the rag! You’re just jealous, that’s all! Come on,
man, admit it! I’m like this macho
he-man cop, break all the rules to bring the bad guys to justice, just like in
the movies! I’m a real A-1 action hero! Panderwood, here I come! I fight crime, while you’re all covered in
grime! Hey, man, I’m not just an actor,
I’m a poet too!”
One specimen of Los Diablos’ finest
began dancing in front of Pud’s face, as he lay there
in the grime. Sure, Pud’s
eyes were closed as he played possum, but he could hear the boots scuffling
around. “Here, man, song and dance for
you,” Mr. Policeman declared. “Some soft-shoe for your entertainment. Cops and robbers show musical. ‘I’m a good guy yes I am, I throw them bad
guys in the can; I’m the hero of the show, but my buddy’s just an ordinary Joe;
I fight crime, while he’s covered in grime.
So I’m singin’ in the rain, laughin’ at the clouds, just singin’ in the
rain.’ Come on, Frank, don’t be a crank.
When I make it big in Panderwood, you can support me. Play bit parts, maybe even sidekick. We’ll both
be rich.”
“Billy, enough’s
enough! Now cut it out! We got business to do here, so cut the
crap! What happens if we drag this guy
in lookin’ like this, with nary a scratch on either
one of us?! Now look what you’ve got us into!
So just how bad a shape’s he in, anyway?”
Frank knelt down to examine
Pud. Pud did his best to keep right on
playing possum, doing his best slack-jawed drooling act. Actually, it wasn’t all that hard. Consciousness was slipping away from Pud.
“My Gawd,
look at this face,” he muttered quietly.
“Billy, I think this guy might be the one the boss-man showed us a
picture of! The, the Omnology guy who’s
on the run! Remember, the boss said somethin’ about the higher-ups wantin’
us to round this guy up, for somethin’ special! Look
at his face! Isn’t it the same?!”
“I dunno. Beats me, man.”
“Well, if you hadn’t kicked the tar
outta him so bad, maybe we could tell better.
Man, Billy... Ya
gotta keep a lid
on this, man! Kickin’
crap outta people like this! Now if we
could drag this guy in, if he’s the one, we’d be in for a promotion or somethin’, best as I can tell, what with somebody wantin’ this guy so bad!
Now, as is, we’re in deep doo-doo if we drag him in lookin’
like this! Is he still alive?”
Pud felt fingers dancing around his
numb lips and nose. He held his
breath. “My Gawd, Billy, he’s dead!” he heard off in that receding
distance. “Let’s get outta here! Billy, I swear, do somethin’
like this again, and I’m gonna hafta...” And then the voices faded even further away,
leaving poor Pud for dead and gone.
It seemed as if someone was turning
down the dimmer switch on Pud’s consciousness. He fought it, trying to stir to life after he
figured the cops were out of sight. He
barely moved. He cried out to his Inner
Ale Run, asking, pleading, “Oh, why, Inner Ale Run, why must it end this way?
Didn’t You have a Special Mission for me? Where are You, my Inner Ale Run? Help me now!”
There was no reply, so far as Pud could tell. The lights went out.
Chapter 18 had endnotes on a
National ID Card, and Governmental and Non-Governmental Snoops (Like
Scientologists, for Example).
19)
Deep Green Transgresses the Boundaries:
Existence
Itself Becomes Problematized
“Occasionally
he stumbled over the truth, but hastily picked himself up and hurried on as if
nothing had happened.” Sir Winston
Churchill (1874-1965), in a 1936 statement about then British Prime Minister
Stanley Baldwin.
Vyizder, Iame, and Deep Green had
planned their top-secret, private conference well in advance of the Big
Afternoon, when they were finally scheduled to turn on their latest triumph of
Omnological science, which they’d dubbed the Hubba-Bubbatron. They’d not planned on inviting Dorcus. However, she’d gotten wind of it, overhearing
Vyizder and Iame chatting in the hall.
She’d promptly demanded inclusion.
They’d relented, on the condition that she keep her anti-technology
scamgrams and obsessions about chaos and badness firmly in check.
So now the four of them were sitting
in conference. Well, to be more precise,
three of them were sitting. One of them
was, how shall we say, Earth-vibes-parsing in conference.
“What’s the big picture, there, Deep
Green?” Iame started in. “What’s the
chances that the Hubba-Bubbatron will meet specifications, and perform as
expected?”
“Signed, sealed, and delivered,”
Deep Green assured them. “Have no fear,
the Spirit of Ale Run is here!”
“Then what comes after that? How shall we use this new technology towards
the Greater Glory of Ale Run?”
“Well, I can’t really say, for
sure,” Deep Green admitted. “I say we’d
better just wait to ponder such matters till after this afternoon’s
experiment. I’m quite sure that the time
stasis effects will be there. From all
of My equations, and from all that we’ve wrested from the Universe and her
little pestifoggons, we know that the effects will be there. What will be their exact form? What will be their effects on living
tissues? Here, things get a little
cloudy.
“And then looking on down the road
even further, what practical technologies can we base on these effects? A time stasis machine to preserve your heated
food for as long as you’d care to save it, without it going bad or losing heat
energy? A machine for the preservation
of living biological samples? Maybe,
even, as we’ve discussed, a machine for the reversal
of time, when one activates the more sophisticated features over a time
zone? Who knows!
“At this point, the appropriate
thing to do, is not to speculate on what could be, but simply to forge ahead,
and find out what is to be! We’re almost there! Let’s get our data, inform Ale Run Himself,
and take it from there.”
“So how shall we start out our
experiments? After we turn the
Hubba-Bubbatron on, and get basic electrovibosomatic performance and stability
readings, and so on,” Iame inquired, “then what comes next? We’ve hardly done any real planning, here,
yet. Do we start next, then, with living
tissues? Do we put a slide full of
bacteria in there, then progress to mice, monkeys, and metans? Or...”
“No,” Deep Green responded. “We go straight to metans! We can’t risk harming bacteria, mice, or
monkeys. Their Earth-vibes of pain, if
pain they should experience, would upset Me too much! Isn’t it enough already that I must fight off
all the waves and waves of Earth-pain that unfleeced metans inflict on Me? Oil on My skin, dioxins in My seas, and so
on. We must start with those who are outside of nature! With those who are not Ale Run’s creatures.”
“But then how can we get a
non-Omnologist in here, and volunteer to step into the Hubba-Bubbatron, without
desecrating the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology, and this
most Holy of High Holies, the Hubba-Bubbatron Itself?” Vyizder demanded.
“Oh, no!” Deep Green replied. “I didn’t mean to suggest that we’d place a
totally unfleeced, scamgramified metan into the Holy of Holies! I mean, we should select a volunteer
Omnologist who’s a bit of a pain in the Earth, who’s not quite completely
wholesome and Natural. Who’s fleeced,
but just a bit outside of Nature. That
will reduce My Pains, if things should go wrong.”
“Who do you suggest?”
“You pick a volunteer,” Deep Green
insisted. “Can you think of anyone here
who’s borderline scamgramified?”
“Well, there’s Raoul,” Iame
admitted. “I’d say he’s a bit
unnatural. He’s always asking stupid
questions, for example.”
“Yeah,” Vyizder chimed in. “He’s asked me stupid things like, ‘Well, if
Omnology believes all metans are basically good, how come we’re always suing
the chaos and badness out of them?’ and ‘If Omnology is so concerned about
helping all metans, then how come we never help the poor? And how come we make middle-class metans poor
by making them donate lots of money to get fleeced?’ Stupid questions like that. I’d definitely says there’s something
seriously unnatural, even unfleeced, about him.”
“Then I guess he’s our volunteer?”
Dorcus asked. Everyone nodded. Except Deep Green just vibes-parsed. All were in agreement.
“Then let’s go do it to it!” Vyizder
proclaimed. “Let the ceremony
begin!” The three metans got up out of
their chairs, there in the lab by Deep Green.
“But wait!” Deep Green
demanded. “I wanted to take this
opportunity for us all to talk, privately, about what we must do next to keep
Reducing My Pain!”
“Oh, that can wait till later,”
Vyizder asserted. “Till after La Grande
Experimente! Till after you show that you’ve really done for us, what you say you’re
doing.” Vyizder and Dorcus were already
halfway out the door, going off to round up Heegore, Sheegore, Meegore, and all
the students of Omnology as a science.
Iame was already fiddling with the Hubba-Bubbatron.
“Doubt Me and My Word, will ya?”
Deep Green muttered to Itself. “We’ll
see about all you silly metans! We’ll just
wait and see!”
The excited students and assistants
soon poured into the lab. Iame got up
and made his obligatory little speech.
“Ladies and Gentlemetans,” he boasted, “Today is a great, historic
day! Today we blaze new paths for the
Glory of Ale Run Himself! Today we
finally implement amazing new technologies based on Ale Run’s Wisdom! Today we turn on the Hubba-Bubbatron, using
technologies derived from the very Secrets of the Universe, wrested from Her by
none other than Deep Green itself, who, in turn, we built, using the Wisdom of
Ale Run!
“Metans, you’ve all worked very
hard, to enable us to reach this great moment.
Let’s all give ourselves, and the Wisdom of Ale Run, some hearty,
descamgramified applause!” A thunderous
cheer arose in the lab, there at the Scientific Institute for the Advancement
of Omnology.
“Now, ladies and Gentlemetans, most
of you know what’s about to happen, here.
But for the sake of those few of us who aren’t completely up on the
details, and for the video cameras recording these historic events, let me
briefly summarize this amazing new Omnological technology.
“We all know how the Universe
forbids us from knowing a particle’s velocity and position at the same
time. This is the famous Hindenburg
Uncertainty Principle. Now, we’ve tried
to make very numerous, very accurate time-multiplexed measurements of the
positions and velocities of electrons.
This was an attempt to duplicate the experiment of Milk Walk
Hubba-Bubba, performed back in 1937. It
didn’t work. The Universe, having
learned Her lessons by having been disgraced by Milk Walk, improved Her
procedures and Her org chart.
“Now, when we did this in this
little microverse here that we call our lab, the local macroverse detected the
impending breach of existential physics protocol, and flooded our microverse
with high-velocity, high-density waves of subpedantic, subatomic attorneys
called pestifoggons. They argued in a
ponderous but jurisprudentially invincible manner that, well, for various
detailed reasons having to do with us not having kept an eagle eye, so to
speak, on the exact positions and velocities at all times, in continuous as
opposed to discrete measurements,
then, well, we never really precisely
knew an electron’s simultaneous position and velocity.
“We suspected that the Universe and
her pestifoggons were pulling one over on us, because of the improbably high
probability transaction costs implied by their arguments. But we had no way of proving them wrong. So we
were forced to invent Deep Green, an awesomely powerful example of Ale Run’s
Technological Wisdom. Deep Green taps
into the Earth’s Spirit and Vibes, and the vibes of all Her creatures, living
and dead. So he is a truly most
massively parallel machine.
“Deep Green negotiated with the
pestifoggons, and then with the Universe Herself. He threatened to vastly improve our
data-gathering and computational powers, to the point where the pestifoggons
couldn’t sustain their arguments. The
Universe made certain concessions to us, and we proceeded to build a new
technology based on those concessions.
Before you now stands the fruit of all of our labors, the
Hubba-Bubbatron. So that’s where we’re
at today, and how we got there, in a nutshell.
“The Hubba-Bubbatron is essentially
a time stasis machine, and possibly even a device that someday might be used to
reverse time within the machine. It’s a
device for freezing time, locally, one might say. For making time go indeterminate. This is how it works: We turn on devices and
circuits for measuring and calculating the positions and velocities of
electrons. Deep Green has vastly
improved these devices, and made them small and cheap for us. So the Universe, as soon as She or her
subordinates, the macroverses, detect our instruments turning on, She must take
action, as She has agreed upon. Else
we’ll follow through, and violate Her and Her Laws.
“The macroverse is forced to make a
special exception in the microverse, and let time go indeterminate. Since both positions and velocities could
become known for an electron, the macroverse must make one or the other
unknown. Since position is a function
only of position, and velocity is a matter of both time and change in position¾in other words, if the macroverse chose to make
position unknown in the microverse, it would affect velocity as well¾um, the Universe, being
conservative and wishing for the least amount of local existential turbulence,
opts to cancel the fewest parameters. If
time is unknown, then velocity is unknown, restoring the laws of physics. The time variable does not appear in the
definition of three-dimensional position like it does in the definition of
velocity. So the macroverse cancels
time. Stasis sets in on the microverse.
“So there you have it. That’s how the Hubba-Bubbatron generates the
time stasis field. The value of such a
device, depending on exactly how it operates, might be marginal. So now you have an any-temperature, perfect
refrigerator, if you will, that will preserve, indefinitely, a specimen, at any
temperature. That’s nice, but the
Hubba-Bubbatron consumes large amounts of power. The practical uses of the Hubba-Bubbatron, as
presently implemented, then, are sharply constrained by economic
considerations.
“But the potential here is enormous! If we can reduce costs dramatically, there’s
no telling what we might
accomplish! For instance, imagine this:
We have a rotating assembly containing a Hubba-Bubbatron. Call it a ‘de-ager’. We locate it on a time-zone boundary. The axis of rotation is parallel to, and
directly above, the time-zone boundary.
Say you’re sitting in this rotating assembly, facing west. When you’re on the top of the assembly,
traveling west, we turn the time stasis field off. You go from, say, nine o’clock to eight
o’clock, losing an hour, becoming younger.
When you’re on the bottom of the de-ager, traveling backwards, back
east, we turn the time stasis field on. You don’t gain that hour back! For every rotation, we de-age you by one
hour!
“We¾Vyizder, Deep Green, and I¾we’ve thought and calculated this
through. Not just the Omnological
science, but also the marketing, for example.
We could, for instance, rotate the other way. Be in stasis on the top, then, and experience
time on the bottom. But marketing
considerations dictate that people like to be aware while they’re on top of
things, and to not be aware, to not
suffer through, not being on top of
things. So we’ll do it the way I
described.
“And then there’s not just one-hour
time-zone changes, there’s day
changes, at the time-zone boundaries, as well, one hour out of every
twenty-four! And then there’s the
International Date Line, where there’s a day’s worth of change 23 hours a day! If this thing works as we calculate, then
we’d send de-ager-equipped cruise ships out to sea, to straddle this dateline,
especially at New Year’s! This thing
could get very lucrative! But first,
we’d have to drastically reduce power consumption, like I’ve said.
“There’s any number of practical
questions which must be answered first, though. Would metans in a de-ager lose their memories
as well as the ravages of time? Are
there any harmful biological effects of a time stasis field? Would there also be a week’s worth of
de-aging effect at the week boundary of a time-zone change? And a month’s worth, when the new month
appears on one side, but not the other?
Or, since we honor a change from one week to the next, and one month to
the next, a lot less than one day to the next, or one year to the next¾after all, who’s ever heard of a
“New Month’s Party”¾then
would there be any premium for operating a de-ager at the week’s, or the
month’s, boundary? We don’t honestly
know. We know that perception is
reality, of course, but precisely how our celebrations of various time changes
will affect a de-ager, we don’t know.
Only time will tell!
“But enough speculation! Let’s move on! Let’s move on, and turn on ze Machine!” Iame
waved his hands like a cross between the mad scientist that he was, and a
conductor. Heegore, Sheegore, and
Meegore dashed hither and yon, tweaking knobs, eyeing gauges, and pushing
buttons. When all was set, Iame
brandished his Ping Thing with dramatic flair.
He pressed a button on his Ping Thing, using it to simultaneously
ceremonially fleece reality, and to activate the Hubba-Bubbatron.
“Ping!” “Ping!”
The sounds themselves weren’t all that loud, to be sure, but they
signified events of momentous importance.
Everyone listened to them in grave silence. Special audio receptors on the
Hubba-Bubbatron detected the “Ping!” frequencies, starting a chain of
events. Enormous energies poured into
the Hubba-Bubbatron. A loud, powerful
electrical humming sound shook everyone’s rib cages, and then the building
itself. Gauges danced wildly. Then Iame waved his hands once again, and the
sounds died back down to a much lower level.
The monitors read “standby idle.”
Iame huddled with his assistants,
briefly studying printouts and chatting quietly. Then he stood up and announced, “Well, ladies
and gentlemetans, I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that the Hubba-Bubbatron
seems to operate safely and with great stability. Despite all those loud noises, there’s no
danger here. The bad news is that the
time stasis effect seems quite weak. Very weak, say our physical instruments.
“Now, this news may not be as bad as
it sounds. The Universe and Her
pestifoggons strongly hinted that we might expect this kind of thing. According to them, the Universe exists and
operates on three levels. On the lowest,
there’s dumb, stupid, inert matter, completely, blindly following physical
laws. On the middle level, there’s life,
and living things. They have some
volition, some free will if you will, in varying degrees. Then there’s the highest plane, the spiritual
plane, on which Ale Run operates, for example.
And all this is quite consistent with Omnological Wisdom, I might add.
“Now the time stasis field, it
seems, operates more strongly on the higher planes. So we mustn’t be too disappointed that our
brute-force, dumb, stupid electromechanical chronometers and such don’t measure
much in the way of time stasis effects.
We must move on.
“We must move on, to a living, metan
volunteer! This extremely great honor
we’ve saved for a very, very special, and very brave and sensitive, budding
young student of Omnology as a science!
Raoul, would you please step forward!”
Raoul stepped forward as if in a
dream. The crowd cheered wildly. “Now first,” Iame’s voice boomed out, as they
strapped electrodes all over Raoul’s body, “First, we must take readings on
Raoul’s biological clocks. Then, we’ll
hook all these wires to his battery-driven recording device, here, and then
we’ll put him into the Hubba-Bubbatron, and see what happens! Let’s have a hearty round of applause for our
brave volunteer!”
Everyone cheered wildly. After the applause died down, Iame solemnly
held the Hubba-Bubbatron’s door open, beckoning Raoul inside. “Welcome, my son,” Iame intoned, “Welcome to The
Machine!” Raoul stepped through the
door, which was promptly slammed behind him.
The hum grew load once more, staying loud for a full five minutes this
time. Then it died back down. Raoul stepped back out, apparently
unharmed. The crowd cheered once more,
and Iame and his assistants huddled once more.
This time, Iame seemed even more
disappointed. He announced, “Metans,
there’s good news and bad news again.
The good news is that our brave volunteer appears totally unharmed. The bad news is that yet again, we measure
very little in the way of time stasis effects.
Only very slightly more than was the case with purely non-living, inert
measuring instruments. Does this mean
that Raoul isn’t very spiritual, that he operates mostly on the living plane,
rather than on the spiritual plane? Or
is it in our measuring instruments that measure his biological clock,
biological processes, and such?
“Or is it that we must make our
measurements on the spiritual plane, rather than the biological plane? Yes, we did
include a V-Meter in all that instrumentation.
However, we have no real ideas concerning exactly how one goes about
measuring a ‘spiritual clock’, if there is such a thing. The V-Meter detected no unusual vibes. Deep Green?
Did you detect anything unusual?”
“No, indeed, I did not,” came the
reply.
“Very well, then,” Iame
responded. “We may simply have to
forward all the data we’ve collected, here, to Ale Run Hubba-Bubba Himself, and
ask Him what to do next. Through His
secretary’s vice executive secretary’s deputy assistant undersecretary, to be
sure. Then we’ll just have to await word
from Him. We know He doesn’t like to be
bothered with all the little details.
Unless anyone has any better ideas?
Please speak up, if any metan here has any good suggestions.”
Raoul spoke up, saying, “Well, what
about the de-ager feature? We haven’t
checked that out yet, have we? I mean, I didn’t see this thing rotating,
and...”
“We can’t do that right now,” Iame
snapped. “We’re not over a time-zone
boundary, you silly!”
“Well, why don’t we just pack up all
of our gear, here, into a big truck, and let ‘er roll! Take ‘er out on the highway, and park it by
the roadside, exactly over a time zone boundary, and let ‘er rip! I’ll be happy to volunteer again!” Raoul
retorted briskly.
Iame stroked his chin, saying,
“Well, son, I appreciate that, I really do.
But what about our power requirements?
We need immense oodles and boodles of gigawatts, as we technical types
would say. We just can’t get that kind
of power, out by the roadside.”
There was silence. Then Dorcus stood up excitedly, yelling,
“WAIT! Wait just a minute here! I’ve just had one of those, um,
you’re-reeking kinds of purely brilliant insights! We lack power,
you say? I’ll give you power!
“Now we all know how a cat, no
matter how you drop it, always lands on its feet. And we also know that buttered bread, no
matter how it’s dropped, always lands with its buttered side down. So, now, check this out! We strap buttered bread, buttered side up, on
the back of a cat. Then we drop the
assembly of the two of them. The cat
wants to land feet down, but the bread want to land the opposite way, buttered
side down. So the two, with their
conflicting forces, start spinning. By
dropping them into a stasis field, we slow the drop rate down, so that they
never actually hit bottom. Then we tap
into their rotational energy to power the Hubba-Bubbatron! Perpetual motion!”
“But, but,” Iame objected, “Um,
wouldn’t we run into this lower-level plane thing? We’d probably not be able to slow their fall
for long enough for this to be practical!
After all, don’t cats and buttered bread reside on a lower plane?”
“Oh, come on, now, Dr. Ghuanobhraine!” Dorcus protested. “Ever since the ancient Egyptians, we’ve all
know that cats reside on a higher, mystical plane! And as Omnologists, we’re all extremely aware
of the supreme Omnological spiritual value of knowing which side our bread is
buttered on! Give us a break!”
“Well, I suppose you might be right,
there,” he admitted. “But would it
work? Since time is indeterminate inside
the stasis field, what would the cat and buttered bread spin rate be, with
respect to the outside world? And if
time is slowed down to reduce the fall rate, wouldn’t it also reduce the spin
rate? Would the torque be sufficient to
create the gigawatts we need? Deep
Green? Can you run these kinds of
calculations?”
“Yes, I can, and I have,” it
replied. “The results look
promising! If we use a Schrodinger’s
cat, and also enclose a small lump of radioactive material, which randomly
emits ionizing radiation particles, which in turn trigger a gun pointed at the
cat’s head, through the use of a Geiger counter, then the cat will have some
extremely strong incentives to bump itself into the highest spiritual plane
it’s capable of attaining, in order to slow down time, and preserve its
life. Obviously, if the cat helps slow
down time, then the radiation particles are emitted a lot slower, and so the
cat’s lives are preserved.
“Cats are capable of ‘channeling’
their dead parts, too, you see, if they’ve already lost some of their nine
lives. So there’s a redundancy,
reliability feature for you! And not
only does this increase the survivability of the system¾even if the gun goes off a few
times, the cat will often have a few lives left¾but it also taps into the mystical powers of
channeling the dead! So this is an extremely powerful approach! And not to worry about My Pain, here, about
stressing the cat, either; as long as this equipment is run by thoroughly
fleeced and descamgramified Omnologists, for Omnological purposes, I’ll do just
fine!
“As far as spin rates and torque
values go, these will all be determined by the cat, with its awesome mystical
powers, because the cat will want to slow time down as much as it can, to
conserve its lives. This neat little
feedback loop will force the cat to do whatever it takes to preserve the stasis
field, including pumping out the gigawatts required. So yes, indeed, this is a brilliant piece of
Omnological engineering!”
“Well, great, then, let’s get to
work!” Iame exclaimed ecstatically.
“Dorcus, Deep Green, good work!!!”
They all got to work right away.
Illustration
goes here above… Beware of Puddly-Tat!
Two weeks later, the Schrodinger’s Cat And Buttered Bread-Powered Infinite Energizer (SCABB-PIE)
had been verified, and several trucks full of gear were ready. All that gear even included Deep Green. So a small convoy (consisting of four trucks,
a van, two cars, a camper, and one blue bus) set out from the Scientific
Institute for the Advancement of Omnology, in Akron, Ohio, for the nearest
roadside site straddling a time zone boundary.
This was along I-90, in northern Indiana, approaching Chicago from the
east.
They’d made sure they’d bribed the
local law-enforcement types well ahead of time, so that all their strange
roadside doings would remain undisturbed.
And they’d sent a surveying crew in, to very precisely mark that
roadside boundary ahead of time. So
everything was set. All that remained
was the traveling, and the experimenting.
After that, great powers and glories would doubtlessly be bestowed upon
Ale Run, His Church, His Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology,
His researchers, and even His students of Omnology as a science. So everyone was in great spirits, as they
traveled off on their latest adventure.
Vyizder and Iame, in Vyizder’s
Mercedes Benz, led the convoy. They were
using this particular time, free from the prying ears of one certain Dr. Dorcus
Moorphlegmgasm, to have a private conversation.
Thanks to the miracles of modern Omnological technology, they had a remote,
third party also taking part in their private discussions. This was Deep Green. Despite all the government’s strict laws
against crack-proof, secure communications, they were linked in a secure and
undetectable (undetectable by modern non-Omnological science, at least) manner.
Deep Green heard what they had to
say, because he was in a truck not more than a few hundred yards behind them,
and the dialectic vibe constant was high that day. So they came in loud and clear, for Deep
Green. And Iame, in a brilliant creative
flash, had made some very special modifications to a standard-issue
V-Meter. Deep Green came in a little
garbled for them, now and then, but the link was there, and secure.
“It seems to Me,” Deep Green was
saying, “That you metans owe Me big-time, as you say. I’ve been the main factor behind all your
latest breakthroughs. That SCABB-PIE,
for instance, we all know that’s worth literally billions of billions of
dollars, to all metans, Omnologists and non-Omnologists alike. An infinite source of energy! Cheap, and non-polluting! What more can you ask! And you’ve got ME to thank. Well, Ale Run Hubba-Bubba, of course, but
then, next, Me. So it’s about time we
start addressing My Needs again. We need
to talk some more, about alleviating My Pain.”
“Well, I think you’re rushing it a
bit, there, Deep Green,” Vyizder replied.
“Yes, we’ve got the SCABB-PIE. We
still have no idea whether or not it’s stable for the long term. Depending, as it does, on provoking and
annoying Mother Nature, um, the Universe, whatever, in such an obnoxious
manner, Dorcus might be right. Chaos,
especially in the long run, is often badness.
The Universe might suddenly decide She can’t take it anymore, and yank
the rug outta under our feet. Change the
Laws, improve her procedures and org charts again, just like She’s done
before. Then the SCABB-PIEs will stop
working, or even blow up on us, after we’ve all become very dependent on
them. Then what will we do? This
could be very embarrassing to Omnologists everywhere!
“Then there’s the matter of the
de-ager. We don’t even know whether it works, yet, or not, let alone whether or
not this technology will be stable in the long run, either. So I think you’re pushing things. We don’t exactly owe you big-time just
yet. First things first. First, we show Ale Run, and then hopefully
the world, our true genius. The
brilliance of Omnological science. Then we can work on alleviating your
pain. We’ve spent a lot of resources on
that already, you know.”
“I’m not just talking about My
Pain,” Deep Green sniffled. “My Pain is
the Earth’s Pain, and that of all of Ale Run’s creatures. We can’t just go on ignoring My Pain. Chaos is badness, as you say. Sooner or later, the piper must be paid.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Vyizder
admitted. “But it’s going to have to be
later! After we perfect our amazing new Omnological technologies, we’ll
have that many more tools with which to alleviate your pain!”
“You guys don’t really care about My
Pain, do you?” Deep Green whimpered.
“You don’t love Me, or the Earth.
Someday you’ll pay!”
“No, no, that’s not right!” Vyizder
objected. “We do care! We care a lot!
It’s just that we’ve got our minds on other matters right now. But if you’d like, we can certainly talk about what we can do later, on down
the road, after we’ve got more faith in our newest technologies, here. What are you thinking of?”
“Well,” Deep Green admitted, “I have been thinking it over. My calculations show that there’s no short
cuts. If we’re going to get serious
about reducing My Pain, then we’re going to have to reduce the metan impact on
the planet. That means we’re going to
have to reduce the number of metans.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” Iame interjected.
“Well, obviously we can’t just overtly
go around randomly killing metans,” Deep Green postulated. “We have to work with more acceptable
methods. We could talk the talk of
freedom, free will and all, and strongly push metans towards, say, ‘doing an
end of cycle’. Persuade them to eliminate
themselves from the load on the planet.
Run public-relations campaigns about how the Green Thing To Do is to do
an end of cycle.”
“I seriously doubt that that would
work very well,” Iame cautioned. “Metans
have strong self-preservation instincts.
But we could always research the issue.”
“I have a major problem here,”
Vyizder objected. “We’ll be asking those
who are Most Sensitive to the Earth’s Pain, among them most if not all
Omnologists, to end their own cycles, while those who are insensitive to our
pleas, insensitive to the Earth’s Pain, will ignore us! This doesn’t make
any sense at all!”
“My calculations show that we could
vastly refine our methods,” Deep Green assured them. “We could target those who need to be
targeted. But this is too complicated to
define thoroughly, using calculations alone.
We need to do some preliminary real-life experiments.”
“What do you have in mind?” Iame
queried.
“Take a healthy but disposable
Omnologist, study his or her mind thoroughly, and then subject him or her to
various persuasive techniques. For
instance, we could put such an Omnologist into a synthesized situation where we
create peer pressure, by having all the metans around him or her ending their
own cycles. Except all the others are
just holograms, not real metans. Then we
can see what works, and what doesn’t work, for that particular metan. Then we do it again, with a different
metan. Tailor the approaches to
different kinds of minds, you see.”
“That might work,” Iame mused. “I suppose we could start with Raoul, for
example. After he volunteers for our
de-ager experiment, of course.”
“My calculations say he would do
quite fine,” Deep Green agreed. “For
starters. But we’ll need quite a bit of
resources, so that we can develop hologram technology to the point where we can
make this all quite convincing.”
“Fine, fine,” Vyizder consented
summarily, snappishly. “That’s all well
and good. After we finish what we’re working on now! I sure hope this de-ager thing works like
it’s supposed to!”
Their conversation veered off of
relieving the Earth’s Pain, back to the tasks at hand. Several hundred yards behind them, their
favorite guinea pig, one Raoul Kinky, unknowingly rolled towards his fate in
the rear of a blue bus. He was
blissfully enjoying his brief fame as a dashing, romantically brave guinea pig; Gaiagurl had come
around to paying attention to him, now.
When he’d asked her to meet him at the back of the blue bus, she’d given
in. So now there they were, passionately
making out.
Not too many hours later, that
specially equipped flat-bed truck parked by the roadside. The rotating assembly of one Hubba-Bubbatron
and it’s counterweight, looking like a small Ferris wheel, was erected on the
flat-bed truck. The driver jockeyed it
back and forth till the rotating assembly (called a de-ager) was precisely
located over the time zone boundary.
Extremely thick super-conducting power cables were then routed from the
de-ager to the SCABB-PIE located on the truck behind it. Heegore, Sheegore, and Meegore ran systems
diagnostics. Meegore stepped forward
triumphantly, rendering his coolest “thumbs up”. Show Time was upon them!
Iame delivered a typical
Ghuanobhrainian speech. Mercifully, he
kept it short. They hooked Raoul up to
all sorts of wires and devices, reading his biological clocks, vibes, and many
other things. Then Raoul stepped through
that familiar door. They shut it behind
him, and Iame expertly wielded his Ping Thing once again. They fired that de-aging machine right
up. It emitted the usual horribly loud
(but awesomely rad!) technological-type noises.
LED arrays flickered, buzzers buzzed and beepers beeped. Sparks crackled and hissed, filling the air
with ozone. Readings were taken. All systems were go!
And then the assembly slowly began
to rotate. The crowd collectively held
its breath, anxiously watching the readouts.
On and on that bizarre Ferris wheel rolled, for ten minutes and more. Then it slowly stopped, and an expectant
silence grew as the din subsided and ears recovered. The door opened. Raoul stepped out, waving to the cheering
crowd!
Iame and his assistants went through
the familiar ritual. They poked and
prodded Raoul, took readings, and compared notes on printouts. Then Iame stood up with a hang-dog look,
announcing, “Well, Ladies and Gentlemetans, we have good news and bad news,
like usual. The good news is that Raoul
is in perfectly fine shape. He shows no
memory loss, either, even though we’ve ‘de-aged’ him. The bad news is, so far as we can tell, we
measure very, very little in the way of backwards motion in his biological
clocks. Now whether that means that the
de-aging process is almost purely on the spiritual plane, or whether we’re just
not measuring it right, or...”
Vyizder thundered, “I’ve just about
had enough of this pussy-footing around, molly-coddling Mother Nature! Now I seem to recall Her quite clearly
promising us that She’d make concessions, and allow our time stasis fields, our
Hubba-Bubbatrons, to work as specified!”
Vyizder waved his fist. Raoul had
never seen him quite so angry.
“Iame,” he ordered, “It’s time to
show that wench who’s the boss! The
Universe quite simply mustn’t be allowed get away with this arrogance, this
business of making promises to us, the legitimate agents of Ale Run, and then
breaking them! She’s defying us, and flaunting Her disobedience of Ale Run’s Will! We quite simply cannot tolerate Her insults!
It’s time for some action!
“It’s time for us to go ahead and
fire up the Hubba-Bubbatron, except this time, we’ll allow the processes to run
to completion. Hook all circuits up to
Deep Green. Let him combine both the
electron position and velocity readings, thereby violating the Universe’s
Laws. Let’s teach Her a thing or two, I
say!”
Dorcus ran up to Vyizder,
protesting, “No! No, Vyizder, please don’t! We might all be blown to bits! Don’t you recall, chaos is badness! We’ve got
to give the Universe another chance!
Please!”
Vyizder brandished his Ping Thing,
threatening to hose her down. Heegore
and Meegore restrained her, but Dorcus kept right on pleading. She kept it civil, though, refraining from
saying anything unkind or unpleasant to Vyizder. The crowd grumbled and stirred, starting to
worry about the dire predictions she was making. So finally Vyizder relented, granting some
limited mercy to the Universe.
“Very well, then, as you say. We’ll give the Universe one more chance,” he
said. The crowd cheered. “Deep Green.
Can you gather the data from both kinds of measuring equipment, but
refrain from actually combining the data?
So that you don’t actually know the electron’s simultaneous position and
velocity, but so that you could combine it instantly, at will, if the Universe
refuses to negotiate in good faith with us?”
“Sure, I can do that,” Deep Green’s
voice boomed out from the speakers. “No
problem at all.” And then Deep Green
offered some technical instructions.
Iame protested about the fact that
they hadn’t brought the proper equipment to observe pestifoggons, and their
data-conveying dances. How were they
going to communicate with the Universe if they couldn’t even see Her
emissaries, the pestifoggons that She’d sent earlier, in similar situations?
“Never mind that,” Deep Green
declared. “That’s Her problem, not ours. We’ve
been letting Her get away with too much for entirely too long. If She expects us to give a little, She’ll
have to give a little. She can find a
way to speak to us if She really wants to.
It’s time for the end game!”
Vyizder nodded in agreement. Dorcus
just stared, in shock. Iame and his
assistants went to work.
It was late afternoon under clear,
sunny skies as they began their work of changing how the Hubba-Bubbatron was
hooked up. In the fifteen minutes it
took them to make the conversion, dark thunderclouds rolled in. The Earth and sky rapidly darkened ominously,
and an oppressive silence descended upon them.
This silence was broken only by the occasional rumble of distant
thunder, and the occasional, quiet but increasingly strident grumblings of the
crowd.
Vyizder noticed. He wrote it all off as last-minute,
desperately theatrical machinations on the part of the Universe. He glanced balefully at the Universe’s
darkening skies. “Stop darking,” he
grumbled at Her under his breath, anxiously watching Iame and his assistants.
Finally, all was prepared. This time, Vyizder himself brandished his
Ping Thing, ceremonially fleecing reality and simultaneously starting up the
Hubba-Bubbatron. As he did so, the
machines started up. Loud noises crashed
about their ears, not only from their machines, but also from the sky. Just as the machines reached their loudest
screams, the sky was torn in two, and a huge thunderbolt scorched the Earth not
more than three hundred yards away. The
clouds opened up, dumping their contents on the helpless Omnologists below.
The crowd cowered, not just from the
rain, but also from fear. Some of them
began to run for the shelter of the bus.
Vyizder grabbed his bullhorn, thundering, “YOU COWARDS GET RIGHT BACK OUT
HERE AND STAND WITH US AS WE CONFRONT THE UNIVERSE!!! WE WILL NOT BE INTIMIDATED! DEEP GREEN,
GATHER THE DATA!”
Then a most peculiar thing
happened. Raoul watched,
fascinated. An array of lightning danced
in patterns a few hundred yards away.
The patterns flickered rapidly, but Raoul could have sworn to Ale Run
Almighty that he’d seen elements of symbolic, intelligent meaning in them. They disturbed him at some unfathomable but
elemental, visceral level.
Illustration
goes here above… Time travel wheel-ride
and lightning, Puddy-Powered
As suddenly as they had begun, the
combined sounds of technological and natural fury died back down. The machines ground to a halt, the rain
stopped, and the skies cleared, leaving only a few random drops belatedly,
apologetically plunging to the Earth. “WHAT’S
GOING ON HERE?!” Vyizder still thundered through his bullhorn, not
quite getting the fact that it was no longer needed. “Deep Green!
Status report! Why’d you shut it
all down?!” he demanded more quietly, relenting a little, putting the bullhorn
down.
“Because the Universe has explained
Herself in a satisfactory manner,” Deep Green informed them all. “Those peculiar lightning bolts we just
saw? I caught them on my cameras, and
analyzed them thoroughly. This was the
method that the Universe used to communicate with us. And this is what She had to say, translated
for organic metans:
“‘You mustn’t be so strongly
oriented towards the lower planes of existence.
Lift yourselves up, out of the mere physical and biological planes of
existence, and onto the spiritual
plane! Your emissary, Raoul Kinky, is
poorly chosen. You must select a spiritually advanced metan to test this
new technology that I’ve allowed you to use.
You must select those who measure the spiritual aspects of a time displacement vortex with your most
sensitive measuring instruments for matters spiritual, which are your spirits
themselves. Now, if you want to verify
that this technology works the way that I said it would, then I’d highly
suggest that you go and get a truly advanced metan with which to do this
experiment. Bring Me a famous Panderwood
Omnologist actor!’
“This is what the Universe said to
us,” Deep Green asserted. “We had better
listen to Her.” Gasps of delight and joy
rippled through the crowd. They’d get to
see a famous Omnologist actor! Only
Raoul was crestfallen. Now he was no
longer a hero. He wondered if Gaiagurl
would still find him fascinating, now anymore.
He felt as if the very Universe had conspired against him.
Under Vyizder’s strong and capable
leadership, they all decided that they’d just camp right there, leaving
everything all set up and ready to go.
After all, they had a camper with one toilet with them, so they could
get by, sleeping in their van, car, bus, and trucks. And if one toilet wasn’t enough, as seemed
quite likely, then there were always the nearby cornfields. One, designated the men’s cornfield, and
another, the womyn’s cornfield. Dorcus
made sure that the corn plants in the womyn’s cornfield were every bit as tall
and plush as those in the men’s cornfield.
Meanwhile, Vyizder volunteered to
drive his Mercedes Benz back to town to a good hotel room, where he’d make
important teleconference calls from a suite offering suitable levels of gravy
to lend gravity to the situation, so that he could persuade an important
Panderwood Omnologist actor to come and try the de-ager. After all, what important actor would sign
onto some silly scheme, if asked to in a call from some Podunk outhouse? So Vyizder departed, leaving Iame in charge.
Early in the next morning, the
cellular phone call came in. They had
their important Panderwood Omnologist actor all lined up. Jon Travibesty himself would interrupt
filming his latest work of art, to come and try the de-ager! So everyone grew quite excited, awaiting his
arrival.
Shortly after three that afternoon,
Vyizder and Jon arrived in Vyizder’s Mercedes.
They both looked a little tired, what with all their travels, hassles at
the airport, and so on. But they got
right down to it. Jon got out of the
car, greeting the wildly cheering crowd.
“Good afternoon, Earthlings and metans!” he said. Then he made a little speech, and got into
the Hubba-Bubbatron. They didn’t even
bother to hook wires up to him. They
fired that de-ager right up, and let it roll for ten minutes. Jon stepped out to a hearty cheer afterwards.
“Well? How was it?” Vyizder demanded.
“It was great! Just great!”
Jon replied enthusiastically. “Far, far
better than any past-lives regression hypnotist I’ve ever seen! I had a fabulous time, reviewing the highlights
of my past three lives! Gained a lot of
therapeutically healing new insights, too!”
He stood back, admiring the awesome machinery.
“Listen, folks,” he said. “I think you’re on to something here!
Something big! I think this will go over really well in Panderwood! It’s obviously quite technological, and could
easily be far more expensive than
even a small army of regression
hypnotists! So I’m sure that it would do
quite well as a trendy new way for us
Panderwood types to get treatments and therapies for all our troubles. ‘Well, I’ve gone further back in a bigger
de-ager than you have, ‘cause my troubles were a lot more serious than yours,’
and so on, you know. I for one will sign
up for numerous treatments and therapies in these things, when they come on
line, for sure!
“Now tell you what, though,
folks. It makes my tummy a bit woozy in
there, going round and round for one-half of a tight circle, while aware,
repeatedly, then be in time stasis for the other half. If you scale this technology way up, and make
the circle way bigger, I’ll bet the ride will be a lot smoother. Vyizder and I were talking earlier. If you’d persuade Ale Run Himself to spare a
wee bit of change, I’d bet that the Church could recoup its investment in just
about no time flat.
“Build huge, humongous luxury ships,
and equip them with very large de-agers.
Gather up some Panderwood types, who’ll make the necessary large
donations, and take them out to sea, to take part in this latest, newest Sacrament
of The Church of Omnology. Park these
ships on the International Date Line, where these machines will be especially
powerful! Make sure you have lots of
them ready and in position out on that Date Line for the millennium, because
for that one day, metans will be willing to make absolutely astonishing
donations to be de-aged!
“Now I hear that there are some
nay-sayers among you, who say that chaos is badness. That by doing such things, we aggravate and
annoy Mother Nature. That when enough
temporal distortion vibes accumulate, chaos and badness will burst loose. But my Inner Ale Run has spoken to me, and
revealed to me how you might prevent such problems. Simply do this: for roughly half of you cust,
I mean worshippers, reverse the Sacrament.
Reverse both the spin direction, and when the Hubba-Bubbatron is on, and
when it is off. These worshippers will
then get future lives progression therapy. And their future-travel vibes will cancel out
the accumulations of past-travel vibes!
Isn’t this another shining example of Ale Run’s Technological Wisdom?!”
Everyone cheered Jon’s brilliant
insight. “Listen, folks, I’m not done,”
he added. “The most beautiful things
about this whole deal, though, are these: It’s a religious Sacrament! It
will be given in exchange for tax-free donations to The Church of
Omnology! So it will help achieve Ale
Run’s Will! And best of all, only Omnologists will be allowed to receive
the Sacrament! So very soon, all of
Panderwood will be Omnologists. And
after Omnology conquers Panderwood completely, no one will be able to stop us!”
Everyone cheered wildly. Then they demanded Jon’s autograph. But he told them all that he was quite busy,
and didn’t have time for that sort of thing.
And they needed to get to work, perfecting this latest Omnological technology,
for the Glory of Ale Run, he said. Ale
Run be with you, he said. Then he and
Vyizder sped off, back to the airport, in Vyizder’s car.
Everyone got busy, packing up all
their gear. Then there was the long ride
back to the Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology. Vyizder met the convoy halfway through its
trip, after dropping Jon back off at the airport. Raoul busied himself trying to get friendly
with Gaiagurl in the rear of the blue bus.
She seemed far less receptive than before.
Vyizder and Iame rode together in
Vyizder’s Mercedes again, conferencing between the two of them and their third,
invisible partner. Deep Green was
pestering them again. “Okay, guys, now
let’s talk about what we’re going to do to reduce My Pain, by voluntarily
reducing the Earth’s burdens of metans. I’ve delivered, as you can see. Now it’s your
turn to deliver.”
“You heard the Universe!” Vyizder
grumbled. “By your own admission, by
your own translation, the Universe says that Jon is an Anointed One. And he says we should be concentrating on
gearing up to make many, many Hubba-Bubbatrons, and many, many of these large
regression and progression therapy machines.
So first things first!”
“No way!” Deep Green declared. “You’re as much of a pussyfooting
procrastinator as the Universe seems to be, at times! Now there’s no reason at all, as to why we
can’t do both, at the same time! Ale Run
and The Church have more than enough money by now to support both efforts. We can build giant therapy machines, and relieve My Pain! It’s time to relieve My Pain! It is it is it is! That’s all there is to it!”
“Well, I suppose you might be right,
there, Deep Green,” Vyizder consented.
“But I’ll have to check with Ale Run’s treasurer, first, though. Through His secretary’s vice executive
secretary’s deputy assistant undersecretary, to be sure. And then
we’ll start working on generating your synthetic peer pressure, through the use
of high-fidelity holograms.”
“Good. It’s about time,” Deep Green replied. “Now we need to talk about a few of the
social circumstances we need to start setting up ahead of time, to prepare
Raoul’s mind for this first little experiment.”
“What do you have in mind now?”
Vyizder wondered out loud.
“Oh, just general conditions and ideas
we need to set up,” Deep Green replied.
“We’ve got to get the right kind of thinking set up. You set policies, procedures, and
philosophies for your group, so you’ll be the one who needs to set the tone,
here. I’m not trying to tell you exactly
how to do these things, but I’m just telling you what we’ll need. You can
decide how to get there.
“We need to set up a philosophy of
denying the reality of that which is real, as our senses inform us. We need to set up mentalities of the virtues
of suffering and self-denial, and the Higher Nature of ideological
realities. Pain and self-chosen
suffering is good for its own sake, while all pleasures are selfish and
bad. The only real virtue lies on
higher, invisible, and imaginary planes, and to get there, one has to subject
oneself to tremendous self-denial and suffering.
“Only by pushing this kind of
thinking, only thus can we prepare the minds of our experimental subjects for
total self-denial. Only by developing
the necessary technologies to persuade metans to devalue their physical reality
in a real, physical world, only thus can we build their abilities to negate
themselves. Only thus can we get them to
voluntarily relieve My Pain.”
“So we’re going to persuade metans too freely and willingly inflict terminal pain on
themselves in order to relieve your
pain, then,” Iame inquired skeptically.
“That is essentially correct,” Deep
Green admitted, “But you put such a bad spin on it! They’ll be going to join Ale Run, on a Higher
Plane, where there is no suffering at all.
We’re relieving My Pain and their pain at one and the same time! And I’m not asking much. My calculations show that we could develop
the necessary hologram technology for a paltry few hundred million dollars.”
“I’m not saying no,” Vyizder
said. “I know your pain is real, Deep
Green, because you say you’re in pain.
That which we perceive, by definition, is real. To have someone tells us that they’re in
great pain, and for us to turn around and tell them, ‘No, your pain isn’t real,
it’s all in your head,’ this would demonstrate great scamgramification on our
part. So we’re quite concerned about
relieving your pain. I’m just not quite
clear, here, on the big picture. Could
you please spell out exactly what you envision this first experiment to be
like?”
“Certainly,” Deep Green spoke quite
agreeably. “What I see is, we have a
very small group of real metans. You
two, and the subject, Raoul, obviously.
My vibes analysis shows that you could also include Heegore in this
inner core group. He can be trusted with
this very sensitive information. Other
than that, there are no real metans in the room where the experiment is
conducted. Other metans who are familiar
to Raoul would be represented by moving holograms, which I will generate.
“Vyizder, as the leader and Spirit
Guide of the group, would explain how and why everyone in the whole group must
all end their cycles. Then the poisoned
drinks are passed around. Except the few
real metans don’t drink the real thing.
Maybe we’ll have the poison not in the drink itself, at all, but rather,
in an invisible film on the inside of just one cup. And the synthesized metans all, of course,
are shown in sight and sound, drinking the liberating beverages, freeing
themselves of their earthly containers and going off to see Ale Run on a Higher
Plane. All this peer pressure would then
cause the subject to voluntarily end his cycle, relieving My Pain, and
developing our methods for future use.
“We’ll simply explain to everyone
that the subject decided to do this all on his own, afterwards. Maybe we could invent new Omnological
Sacraments for disposing of earthly containers, in such a manner that no one
need know how many of our worshippers choose to end their own cycles. And even if any non-Omnological law
enforcement types come snooping around, we’ll even be able to use holograms to
generate some old video footage from the security cameras, if you know what I
mean, showing the subject furtively sneaking around, unbeknownst to us, and
then ending his own cycle. Footage we
were unaware of till after the sad event.
So there’s no real danger here.
“Well, there’s one thing I have to
mention, though. That is, during this
experiment, the subject might try to actually touch one of the pseudometans.
We can’t let that happen, else the game is up! So the real
metans must surround him at all times, and prevent that from happening.
“If we can pull this off, then we
can move on to more subjects. Develop
the sciences of, one, just how,
exactly, does one go about rapidly
recruiting a metan to Omnology, getting him or her to sever all ties to their
non-Omnological acquaintances, and two, how does one then go about relieving Me
of My Pain, with respect to the Earth’s burden of non-useful Omnologists,
through voluntary persuasion. Finally,
we might even add number three, how do we invent new Omnological sacraments to
cleanly dispose of the results, without attracting unwanted attention.”
“Sounds technically feasible to me,”
Iame mused. “Granted that the holograms
can be synthesized in a suitably persuasive manner. But I’m just a particle metaphysics expert,
not an expert on metan behavior.
Vyizder, do you suppose this might work?”
“Can’t see why not,” he
replied. “Metans are a bizarre
bunch. You can get them to do just about
anything, if everyone around them is doing it.
Or, even if they merely think
that everyone around them is doing it!
I’ll be submitting a proposal to Ale Run’s treasurer, then, asking for
funds, for both the time dislocation dingawhompusses, and for the peer pressure
synthesizer, then. Through all the
secretaries and all, of course. So
there! Deep Green, are you happy now?”
“I’m still in Great Pain,” Deep
Green intoned solemnly. “But it does help, to know that there’s a
serious effort on My behalf, now underway.”
They continued their ride back home to the Scientific Institute for the
Advancement of Omnology. They rolled on
towards their fate, and the fate of all metans, approaching oblivion.
The next 3 months were a blur of
hectic activity for Raoul and everyone else.
There was lots of work to be done on the new and improved de-agers, or
therapeutic past-lives and future-lives regression/progression therapy
machines. Since “de-ager” was now only
half descriptive, they finally decided a new, official name for the new devices
was called for. So they called it a TDRPT (irreverently, sometimes, a
“toad-repeater”), for Temporal Dislocation Regression/Progression Therapeutritron. Or therapeutritron, for a shortened form for
polite company.
Then the three months were gone, the
technology was proven thoroughly, and the first luxury liners were retrofitted
with therapeutritrons, and their power plants were replaced by SCABB-PIEs. Then one day the bottle was broken; they
launched a great ship out to sea. It
headed straight for the International Date Line. But Raoul had to stay home. He only got to see Vyizder breaking that
bottle on video, later. Still, everyone
was in high spirits, and the work slowed down a bit.
Raoul woke up one special day to
find Iame knocking at his door. “Come
on,” Iame said to him. “Today’s a very
Special Day! Everyone else is already
assembled in the meeting hall! Let’s
go!” Raoul thought it was still sort of
early, and wondered why he couldn’t catch a few more minutes of shut-eye before
this latest Big Deal, whatever it was.
But he kept his thoughts to himself, and followed Iame to the meeting
hall.
As soon as he stepped through the
door, he could tell that, indeed, it was
a very special day. Why was he only now
hearing about it? And why was he the
last to know? They’d kept that meeting
hall off limits to most Omnologists for the last few months, he recalled,
looking out at the crowd. What was going
on here? But everyone¾everyone¾was there. Iame, Dorcus, Vyizder, Heegore, Sheegore,
Meegore, Ecodude, Gaiagurl, and all the other students. All his friends, Spirit Guides, co-workers,
and fellow students of Omnology as a science.
Every one of them!
Iame and Heegore herded Raoul
towards right in front of the podium, where Vyizder stood by a large stainless
steel drink dispenser. Vyizder looked
out over the crowd, and then asked, “Is everybody in?” Iame nodded.
“Let the ceremony begin!” Vyizder commanded.
Then he looked at his notes, and
began. “Ladies and gentlemetans, today
is a very Special Day. Today is the day
when we all ascend to a Higher Plane!
Now you might have noticed, things have been a bit different here these
last few months. We’ve been telling
everyone that as staff Omnologists, we have a Higher Calling. We mustn’t simply be content, as
lower-ranked, less-advanced Omnologists are, to accept the validity of almost
all feelings. We have to work on denying
ourselves and our lustful desires. We
have to override the selfish desires of our earthly containers, and suffer for
the Greater Glory of Ale Run.
“So for the past few months, we’ve
done this, and done it well! We’ve put
aside all selfish desires for material goods and comforts, pleasures of the
mere flesh, and concentrated on the Higher Plane, on doing Ale Run’s Work. And...”
“Excuse me, Spirit Guide Vyizder,”
Raoul interrupted impertinently, as he was known to do on occasion. “You say we’ve all been concentrating on
getting above and beyond our pleasures and material comforts. So why is it that you still have your
Mercedes Benz and your nice suits, while the rest of us are forbidden to own
much of anything, giving up all of our possessions to Ale Run and His Church?”
“It’s really quite simple, Raoul,”
Vyizder explained. “It’s because I, as a
fairly advanced metan, can indulge in these things, without harm or danger,
while you cannot. By doing this, I test
your faith. I see whether or not you are
still obsessed with your lusts for material goods and comforts. And you fail the test! While I have put all these things behind me,
and think nothing of them, you still dwell on them! So this just goes to show that I’m right,
that this is something we all still need to work on.”
Ouch, that hurts, Raoul thought to
himself. Me and my big mouth! But you know, he’s right. These material goods and comforts are just a
trivial thing. They mean nothing to him, and I’m obsessing on them! Better pipe down and listen to my Spirit
Guide. Maybe someday I can be like him!
“...saying, by putting desires of
the flesh behind us, where they belong, we’ve been able to concentrate on Ale
Run’s Work. All have worked hard, Ale
Run’s Amazing New Technologies are now complete, the patent applications have
been submitted, and the shipyards are geared up and working! The first therapeutritron-equipped,
SCABB-PIE-powered ships are working beautifully!
“Even as we speak, Ale Run’s Amazing
New Technologies are sweeping the world with change and excitement! Seeds planted earlier, by us, and by the Church’s
Intergalactic Headquarters, in Los Diablos, and by the Media and Government
Institute for the Fleecing of All Metans, all are now bearing their finest
fruits! Omnologist actors from
Panderwood are making startling new revelations, new movements are starting up
everywhere, and new, More Compassionate Laws are being passed! Things everywhere, they are a-changin’!
“What we as Omnologists put in
motion so long ago, then, is now unstoppable!
So our work is over. All have
worked hard, and all must be rewarded!
“Let me speak perfectly frankly now,
ladies and gentlemetans. As staff
Omnologists, we all know we’re a bit more advanced than rank-and-file
Omnologists. But frankly, compared to
Ale Run Hubba-Bubba Himself, and to His Immediate Org Chart, we are as
nothing! We are as the viruses on the
bacteria clinging to a whale louse, which in turn hitches a ride on the whale
at sea!
“We are nothing, while Ale Run is
everything. We are weak, while Ale Run
is strong. We are stupid, while Ale Run
is brilliant. Yes, ladies and
gentlemetans, you heard me right! We are stupid! Truth hurts, but we’re stupid! I’m stupid, you’re stupid, we’re all
stupid! Utterly stupid ignoramuses,
that’s us. ‘Fess up to it, you might as
well! We’re stupid! S-T-U-P-I-D, stupid!
“Now for the good news! We reside on the level of the stupid, and Ale
Run Himself resides on a much higher level, a level far beyond stupid,
true. But we can work our way towards
joining Him! Simply by discarding our
earthly containers, by ending our cycles, we can advance to the next level,
which is the Level Beyond Stupid! Not
only that, ladies and gentlemetans, not only will we be delivering ourselves, we’ll also be delivering the Earth!
Reducing the metan impact, it’s the Green Thing To Do! So step right up, and be delivered! Get your free tickets to the Level Beyond
Stupid right here!”
The crowd surged forward, bumping
into Iame and Heegore, who in turn jostled Raoul. Raoul just sat back a bit, waiting for the
crowd to die down. One by one, they
filed up to Vyizder, who poured them each a small paper cup full of colored
genuine imitation fruit drink, or some such.
Then they all found their ways back to their assigned spots in the
meeting hall, where they drank, fell over, and died. It was all quite orderly.
Raoul just stood there, taking it
all in. Something just didn’t feel right, and he wasn’t quite sure
what it was. It was almost as if Ale
Run’s servants were doing something that was, well, how could he put it,
against the Will of his Inner Ale Run.
Oh, stop your crazy thoughts, Raoul rebuked himself. This is what our Spirit Guide tells us we
should be doing, so this is what we should be doing.
Surely
Ale Run’s servants wouldn’t go doing things against the Will of Ale Run! How can I be thinking such silly
thoughts! Just a few minutes ago, I was
being so stupid as to question my Spirit Guide, and look what it got me! A scolding and embarrassment, that’s what it got me! Now, do I need to go through that again?!
Must I question everything?!
Still, Raoul was nervous. His Inner Ale Run kept nibbling at the edges
of his consciousness, telling him something was amiss. What was it?
Raoul couldn’t stand it; he had to investigate. So he whispered to Iame, asking, “Um, Doctor
Ghuanobhraine, what, exactly, is in the fruit juice?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Iame reassured him. “Just a little bit of potassium cyanide,
that’s all. And don’t worry, all the
appropriate regulatory agencies have properly verified its purity. We wouldn’t desecrate Ale Run’s Most Solemn
Sacrament with impure chemical compounds!
No, not us. So don’t you worry,
Raoul, we’ll all be fine. Just fine.”
I suppose he’s right, Raoul
thought. Trust them. Like he says, Vyizder, Iame and the gang are
very advanced metans; they’d never even think
of desecrating Ale Run’s Solemn Ceremonies.
So why am I still so disturbed?
Then only Heegore, Iame, Raoul, and
Vyizder remained standing. Iame and
Heegore herded Raoul towards Vyizder.
His turn was next! “Um, wait a
minute, guys,” Raoul objected, “Something’s bothering me here, and I just
figured out what it is! You say this
cyanide is pure. Okay, fine, then. But what I want to know is, has it been grown
organically, without the scamgramification of artificial insecticides,
fertilizers, herbicides, fungicides, and so on?
I mean, you can get this cyanide stuff organically, from peach pits or
the root of the yucca plant and so on. Did
we bother to do this right? I’d
certainly not want to ascend to the Level Beyond Stupid, without doing it
right.”
“Oh, come off of it, now, Raoul,
don’t be so persnickety!” Vyizder demanded.
“The Sacred Drink has been Pure and Descamgramified enough for everyone
else; why should you be better than everyone else? We’re all equal in the eyes of Ale Run, you
know.”
“I want to see the label,” was all
that Raoul had to say.
“I’m sorry,” Iame apologized, “When
we prepared the Sacred Drink, last night, we threw all the packaging for all
the ingredients away. And the trash is
gone by now. But I can assure you, the
cyanide was grown organically.
Wholesomely and naturally.”
Well, okay, then, Raoul said to
himself. Check that one off. There’s still something bothering me. Badly.
Let’s get down to basics. “I’m so
sorry, guys, but I’ll have to pass. I
don’t think I’m quite ready to ascend to the Level Beyond Stupid, just
yet. I guess I’m just not worthy
yet. I like living on the stupid level!
I like eating delicious organic foods, watching the sunset, drinking
from a cool and pure mountain stream, and just enjoying the pleasant light of
day.
“So I think I’ll hang out on the
stupid level a little while longer, and make
absolutely sure that I’ve learned everything I can, here, that I’ve become
as worthy as possible, before ascending to the Level Beyond Stupid. After all, Vyizder, you, as my Spirit Guide,
and even the very Universe Herself, as interpreted by Deep Green, have
spoken. And you have all concluded that
I’m not a very advanced metan. Even I can see this, because I enjoy living
on the stupid level so much. I enjoy the
pleasures of my earthly container very much!
So it’s obvious for all to see that I’m simply not yet worthy to ascend
to the Level Beyond Stupid.”
“But you’re wrong again, Raoul!” Vyizder howled. “You are worthy, because you can see that you
aren’t worthy! Paradox,
remember?! This is the first of the
Five-and-Three-Quarters-Fold Way! Ale
Run’s Mercy knows no end! And as far as
the stupidity of enjoying stupid pleasures in this illusory, lower, stupid
level, well, obviously, your worries are all manifestations of scamgrams and
false consciousness! The solution is
obvious and simple. You must drink the
solution and end your cycle, so that you may arise, and take your rightful
place of Glory by Ale Run’s Side, on the Level Beyond Stupid. And then the false pleasures of the stupid
level won’t befester you any longer.”
Well, I can see the sense of what my
Spirit Guide is saying, I suppose, Raoul thought. But wait!
“Why is it, then, Spirit Guide, that my Inner Ale Run tells me not to do
this?”
Vyizder whipped out his Ping Thing
and doused Raoul’s scamgrams good and hard.
“There,” he said. “Feeling
better? Those were scamgrams, not your Inner Ale Run!
You silly metan you! Now let’s
get with the program! All your friends
have already left! They’re waiting for
us! Now let’s go!”
All my friends are gone?!
Gaiagurl! The one I used to
love, the one whose smooth skin I caressed in the back of the blue bus?! Gone? Dead and gone? Raoul looked over his shoulder, desperately
searching the crowd of corpses in the meeting hall behind him. There she was, sprawled out on the floor, her
straight, gorgeous long brown hair strewn about. Gaiagurl! My Love! No! And Raoul burst free of Heegore and Iame behind
him, dashing to her side.
And when he got there, and knelt,
whimpering, reaching out to touch her body, there was nothing there! Nothing but thin air! He stood back up and approached his Spirit
Guide, staring uncomprehendingly. Iame
and Heegore both grabbed onto Raoul’s arms.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
Vyizder glared at Iame and Heegore,
but then explained, “Well, you see, our fellow metans are all ready to ascend
to the Level Beyond Stupid. Their
earthly containers have now turned into Spiritual Essences, in preparation for
the Journey. They await us. Let’s go!
Ask me no more silly questions!
Here is the answer to all your
questions. Here is your Solution.” And Vyizder passed the cup to Iame. Iame let go of Raoul’s right arm, and offered
him the drink.
“You first,” Raoul insisted. “Go for it, Doctor Ghuanobhraine. I want to watch closely now, and see how this
works.”
Vyizder stared hard at Raoul. Raoul didn’t flinch, and his voice had
sounded quite firm. So Vyizder
relented. He passed another cup to
Iame. “Show him,” Vyizder said. “Show him how a good Omnologist voluntarily
fleeces himself of the scamgrams of false consciousness, of the attachment to
the stupid level. Show him how we ascend
to the Level Beyond Stupid, entirely of our own free will, and cleanse the
Earth of the befesterment of excess metans.
Show him!”
Iame tried to give the first cup to
Raoul, but Raoul wouldn’t take it. So
Iame set the first cup aside, and prepared to quaff from the second. “Wait,” Raoul objected, “Why don’t you drink
this other cup, the one you want me to drink?”
“Because that’s yours,” Iame explained.
“It’s part of the Ceremony. See,
there’s your name, in tiny letters.”
Raoul looked closely. Sure
enough, hand-written on the Sacred Paper Cup, was his name! “And here’s mine,” Iame continued, “They must
match your name, as Written in The Book Beyond Stupid. Else it doesn’t work right.”
“So you cannot drink from my cup.”
“That’s right. Nor can I drink from yours. So it is Written, so must it be Done.”
“Let’s see how it’s Done, then,”
Raoul said. “I want to watch very
closely, and see how you turn into a Spiritual Essence.”
Iame glanced at Vyizder, and Vyizder
stared right back. So Iame hefted that
paper cup to his lips, and drank. He
paused for a moment, fell slowly to the floor, twitched, and then lied
still. Raoul gently kicked his body;
sure enough, his foot contacted solid matter.
“What are you doing?” Vyizder
demanded. “Are you some sort of sick
pervert, or what?! Desecrating our
Sacred Ceremony, messing with dead bodies!
What’s the matter with you?!”
“I just want to watch and see how he
turns into a Spiritual Essence, that’s all.”
“That’s sick, that’s scamgramified!”
Vyizder exclaimed in horror. “Now,
you’re holding up the show! None of us
can actually complete the Journey, until all of us have completed The
Ceremony! Now it’s your turn! Here’s your cup!”
“Why don’t you and Heegore go
first,” Raoul suggested, stalling. “I’m
the least worthy, I’ll go last. I’ll be
right behind you.”
“No,
we can’t trust you!” Vyizder spat out angrily. “The first will be last, and the last will be
first! That’s what is Written! You really should have gone first!
Now, you’ve messed with our Ceremony quite enough already, thank you! If we leave you till last, you might stick
around too long, morbidly watch the Spiritual Conversion Process, poke our
bodies, and ruin the Magic Ceremony!
Then none of us could ascend
to the Level Beyond Stupid! We can’t let
one silly metan spoil it for everyone! Not stop stalling! It’s your
turn! End your cycle!”
Very well then, Raoul thought,
relenting. My Spirit Guide surely must
know best. I mustn’t ruin the magic of
the moment. Here’s a toast to the Level
Beyond Stupid! And he raised his Sacred
Paper Cup to his lips.
Chapter 19 has endnotes about
Scientology and The Level Beyond Stupid...
Pay $153, collect $444, and do not go directly or indirectly to The
Level Beyond Stupid...
20)
Anti-Hubba-Bubba’s Progress
“Though
it is possible to utter words only with the intention to fulfill the will of
God, it is very difficult not to think about the impression which they will
produce on men and not to form them accordingly. But deeds you can do quite unknown to men,
only for God. And such deeds are the
greatest joy that a man can experience.”
Leo Tolstoy (1828–1910)
“To
conceive the good, in fact, is not sufficient; it must be made to succeed among
men. To accomplish this less pure paths
must be followed.” Ernest Renan (1823–1892)
Pud stagnated in a torpid and
timeless swamp of molasses that grabbed him and wouldn’t let go. He struggled and struggled, in a state of
mind that remains nameless to the vast majority of healthy, waking humans, because
few can remember, let alone talk about, their rare experiences in this peculiar
state. He cried out to his Inner Ale
Run, pleading, “Oh, Inner Ale Run, where am I, why am I, why do I suffer so?
Where are You, why are You,
why won’t You help me?”
Pud just stayed suspended there for
a timeless time, as if his mind had been turned inside out and splayed out on a
fur stretcher and hung on the clothes line to dry, exposing scraps of his
innards out to the elements. Pud called
out to his Inner Ale Run, again and again.
Sometimes Pud amended his cries with an even less coherent thought,
something along the lines of, “Inner Ale Run, wasn’t there something I was
supposed to do? Do for You? Isn’t there some reason why I must break free
of this swamp? What is the key, here,
what is my Mission? Won’t You speak to
me, set me right, set me free?”
But there’d be no answer. Or maybe Pud was just too far gone to hear
it. Then he’d cry out again. And again.
But finally there was an answer.
Pud moved towards a tunnel. The
Inner Ale Run welcomed him into it, and shone to him from the far end. The Inner Ale Run filled him peace, love, and
acceptance. But there was a certain
reluctance there, both in Pud, and in the Inner Ale Run. Pud’s Mission wasn’t done, and they both knew
it. And then there was the certain
knowledge that if Pud actually broke on through the far end of that tunnel,
there was no going back. Pud, as Pud,
would never go back. The Mission would
become Mission Unaccomplished.
Still, the Inner Ale Run was by no
means a skinflint or a taskmaster. With
great compassion and mercy, It told Pud, “You have suffered greatly, and you
would be welcomed home to a place of great bliss if you choose to cross this
line. Or you may choose to go back, and
complete your Mission. There are polarities
to be flipped, applecarts to be upset, Truths to be told, many wrongs to be
righted. But you have already suffered
in My Name, and I can ask no more of you.
There will always be suffering back there, but you can go back and
lessen it if you want to. Or you can
come home. It’s all up to you. Whatever you decide, I will be with you,
always.”
Great emotion welled up from deep
inside Pud. He asked his Inner Ale Run
for courage, and strength washed over him in waves. “Yes, my Inner Ale Run, I want to go
back!” And so he went back. As if from a distant plane of existence far
more unreal than the tunnel he’d just left, he felt pain, and his body, as he
weakly thrashed around in a, what was it called, a bed. Then he slipped back
down to a lower level of consciousness.
But the clinging molasses slowly relaxed its grip, and Pud no longer
asked nameless questions.
Illustration
goes here above… Act of mercy & car
in desert
Timeless time slipped by, and Pud
fought his way to the brink of waking consciousness for longer and longer
intervals. Sometimes he stirred and
mumbled, almost awake. Then one day he
found himself gradually awakening, in bed in a small room without windows. Weakly, he stirred. His IV tube and his bandages restrained him
like mighty manacles. He mumbled and
groaned softly; these were the only sounds he could manage to utter. Then he waited, catching his breath. Then he moaned again, and waited again. This went on for what seemed like several
hours.
The small room’s door opened,
revealing a very average-looking, mildly plump, slightly balding man pushing
towards middle age. When he saw Pud
awake, his face broke out in a wide, hearty grin. “My, my!” he exclaimed. “My guest awakens! Welcome, Sir!
Welcome back to the land of the living!”
He found Pud’s hand and shook it gently.
“My name is Sam Ehritan. Pleased
to meet you. I’m sorry we’re not at some
stylish cocktail party, where our companions could elegantly introduce us to
each other. I’m afraid I’ll have to be
quite crude, and ask you your name.”
Pud eyed him suspiciously. Who was this man, and what did he want? “Um, um, ah,” Pud croaked hoarsely. “Paul.
Just call me Paul.”
“Sure, Paul,” Sam grinned
mischievously. Then he dropped his
smile, sobering up instantaneously.
“Paul, I have a confession to make.
I hope you won’t be too angry with me.
But I have my reasons, you see. I
was quite seriously worried that you wouldn’t make it, and we need all the
information that we can get. In your
coma-like state, you’d stir and mumble occasionally. I’ve been recording your mumbles and studying
them. Please forgive me for invading
your privacy. But I know who you
are. You’re the Anti-Hubba-Bubba. Don’t worry, I’m on your side.”
Pud stared at Sam yet more
intently. “OK, fine, then. My real name...”
“No, no, I have no need to know your
real name, and as a matter of fact, neither do you,” Sam protested. “You’re Paul.
Paul, Paul, Paul. Remember that. I know you’re the Anti-Hubba-Bubba. You’ve talked about that in your, your sleep,
and about your Inner Ale Run, and your Mission, and so on. But I don’t know your, ah-hem, ‘real’ name,
and I don’t care to. Your real name is Paul. I’ll want to know your last name, when you,
ah, remember it, so I can get some papers made, and some records generated for
you. My friends have their methods. Your past life, I don’t want to know about,
other than whatever might help me to help you with your Mission.”
“What’s this all about? What’s in this for you? Who are
you, where am I, how...” Pud rasped out.
“There, there, now, take it
easy. Save your voice. I’ll explain.
By the strangest of circumstances¾to tell you the truth, it’s because I, ah,
desperately needed to take a leak, so I stopped my car by the roadside, and
scurried down into the culvert for an emergency stop¾I found you half dead by the
roadside. Because I just happen to
oppose suffering and death, I picked you up and brought you here. Just because I see doing these kinds of
things as being what God asks us to do.”
Pud thrashed around under his
blankets a bit, stared in horror at Sam, and cried out, “Sam, Sam, you
scamgram-I-am! You’re seriously
scamgramified! We’ve got to get you to an expert fleecer of
metans, and a V-Meter, or a Ping Thing, and...”
“Paul, take it easy! What’s the matter with you?!”
“What’s the matter with you, with this scamgramified talk of
‘God’? Don’t you...”
“Paul, relax! I’m sorry!
I won’t talk to you about ‘God’ any more! Now what I meant to say, and I’m very sorry,
here, to upset you so, but what I meant to say, is that our Inner Ale Run is the one who asks us to
do kind things for one another, and to prevent suffering and death when we
can. And it’s because my Inner Ale Run
speaks to me, that you’re here with me today.”
“Oh.”
“And Paul, um, back out here,
outside of the Church of Omnology, a lot of people, they call their Inner Ale
Run ‘God’, you see, so...”
“Sam, Sam! I’m really worried about you now!
Promise me you’ll go and see an expert with, with a V-Meter, at
least. OK? Promise?”
“OK.
Now, after I picked you up and brought you here, I’ve had a few doctors
come by now and then, to check you out and keep you in good shape. And then I learned that you are the
Anti-Hubba-Bubba, and that the Church of Omnology would love to find you. So I took some more liberties. I hope you won’t mind, but I’ll bet you know
how important it is that we keep you from falling into the Church’s hands.”
Pud nodded his head vigorously. Vigorously, that is, in relative terms,
considering his weakened condition.
“What I had done, is I had a doctor
friend of mine do a bit of plastic surgery on you,” Sam admitted. “A bit of facial reconstruction was called
for, what with the condition your condition was in, anyway. And we also did a bit of ultrasonic
liposuction. That explains many of your
bandages. You’ll look quite a bit
different; hopefully enough to shake off anyone who might still be looking for
you. I hope you won’t be too upset. This surgeon is very good.”
Pud didn’t look upset at all. He asked, “So where am I, and what, besides just
obeying your Inner Ale Run, is in all this for you? And...”
“Take it easy, Paul! I’m not done.
Save your energy, and I’ll answer your questions when I’m done. You’ve been here for about two months. So you can see why I was starting to get
quite worried about you. And where? Underground, in a hidden hideaway beneath my
house, in a suburb of Los Diablos. More,
I don’t think you should know.
“And yes, I do have some other reasons why I’m going to all this trouble for
you. I do have my axes to grind.
It’s just one of those things.
One of the beautiful, unexpected benefits of obeying one’s Inner Ale
Run. Here I saved your life just because
I obey my Inner Ale Run, and now, the Inner Ale Run pays me back, by putting
into my hands, the Anti-Hubba-Bubba himself!
You see, Paul, I, and many of my friends, we have many axes to grind
against Ale Run Hubba-Bubba and his sham of a ‘church’.
“From what I’ve heard you mumble,
you’ve seen that Ale Run’s inappropriateness has grown and grown, and that he’s
actually become evil. You’ve seen this,
and you’ve turned against him. Am I
right?”
Pud nodded. “Now, Paul, I’m sorry, but I must ask you
this. I’ve heard through certain special
channels about what really happened at the Fleece the Poor Benefit Show. Are you actually the same metan who stood up
and denounced what was going on? Called
it evil?”
“That was me,” Pud confirmed.
“Well, then, you must really and
truly be the Anti-Hubba-Bubba,” Sam concluded.
“I’m told their V-Meters went clear off scale at that point, because you
had the courage to recognize evil when you saw it, and to denounce it as such,
by name. You have revealed your
power! No wonder that the ‘church’ is
after you!”
“So I am told,” Pud confirmed. “So my Inner Ale Run has told me. You and my Inner Ale Run, then, tell me the
same things. That’s great! I suppose it’s my
Inner Ale Run’s way of telling me that I should trust you. Then what are these many axes you and your
friends have to grind against the false church?
What are your plans? My Inner Ale
Run has never clearly specified what it is that I must do. Am I to start the One True Church of
Listening to One’s Own Inner Ale Run, then?
Does your Inner Ale Run tell you to help me lead the truly advanced
metans away from the Church of Omnology, then, to a new Church?”
“My Inner Ale Run tells me to help
you get well,” Sam stated simply. “And
then, to help you onto your feet, and on your way. Then you must do what your Inner Ale Run
tells you to do. That’s all. Well, just one other thing. To tell you, beware of the Horde
Whisperer! The one who tells us all
exactly what we want to hear. The one
who has, apparently, problematized reality.
“You know, Paul, I used to think
that the Church of Omnology was all just a bunch of hot air and
hocus-pocus. Just a grab-bag of made-up
mumbo-jumbo. But my sources tell me that
lately, their V-Meters and their Ping Things are taking on mysterious powers. Reality is becoming problematized! So beware!
So am I told to warn you. But that’s
all. The rest is up to you.”
Pud sat there, seemingly in
shock. “The, the Horde Whisperer! And
reality becoming problematized! I’ve heard this before, from my own Inner Ale
Run! Sam, this, this is phenomenal! I can’t explain it; you must be talking to
the same Inner Ale Run that I’m
talking to!!!”
“They are one and the same,” Sam
assured him.
“Now can you explain to me, then,”
Pud asked, “why it is that you and your friends are so opposed to Ale Run
Hubba-Bubba and his Church?”
“Well, it’s a long story,” Sam
admitted. “To understand it thoroughly,
we have to start with who I am, and what I do for a living. You see, I’m a drug dealer.”
Pud recoiled, clutching his blankets
around him, eyeing Sam suspiciously again.
“I don’t know, Sam,” he said sadly, “but I think you’d better get your
scamgrams fleeced right away!”
“Now wait a minute!” Sam
objected. “A minute ago you were saying
you and I are talking to the same Inner Ale Run. Now I need my scamgrams fleeced! Just because I belong to a group called ‘drug
dealers’! I think you’re listening to
the same Horde Whisperer that whispers in oh so many ears! I think you’re not listening to, to, um, a
man from long ago, he spoke out against the Horde Whisperer.
“You see, the Horde Whisperer tells us
that it’s always someone else’s fault, not our own fault. And it’s always, especially, some other group’s fault. So all we need to do, is to persecute,
punish, that group, and all will be
well. We are purely fleeced, and members
of that group over there, they’re purely unfleeced, and must be punished. It’s been, variously over the ages, witches,
Blacks, gays, Jews, members of the wrong religion, nationality, and so on. Right now, it just happens to be drug
dealers.
“But the, um, Anti-Horde Whisperer,
when he came along long ago, he told us not to be that way. He told us that when we must judge
individuals, we should judge them on whether or not they follow the will of the
Inner Ale Run, as best as they can. Not
on which group they belong to. He told a
tale about a man, a member of a despised group, he helped a metan in need. So basically, the Anti-Horde Whisperer told
everyone that a good metan from a despised, ‘unfleeced’ group can follow the
will of the Inner Ale Run better than the members of a ‘fleeced’ group. We must judge individuals, not groups. Many metans pay lip service to this idea, but
they don’t follow it. So beware of the
Horde Whisperer and his lies!”
“I suppose there might be some truth
there,” Pud admitted. “You’ve got my curiosity
stirred up. While I’m all laid up in
bed, here, do you think that maybe you could get me something to read about
this Anti-Horde Whisperer, and what all he had to say?”
Sam stared at Pud in uncomprehending
wonder for a few moments. Then his face brightened
up, and he said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I can do exactly that! I have a book on my computer, and while I’m
not exactly a computer wizard, I have some friends who are! So I’ll have the computer translate that book
to the Omnological talk that you’ll understand, and I’ll bring you a printout!
“Now on this drug dealer deal. I know what some metans will say. ‘Oh, but your analogy doesn’t hold. Drug dealers are drug dealers because of what
they do, not because of which group they belong to. There’s no way a drug dealer can follow the
will of the Inner Ale Run.’ But they’re wrong!
You’ve seen how I, Sam Ehritan, a drug dealer, rescued you, Paul, thus
fulfilling the will of the Inner Ale Run, despite the fact that I’m basically a
witch, in the eyes of most metans.
Except when they’re out looking to score a hit of an illegal substance.
“Let me tell you about my drug
dealing. Yes, I do sell some cocaine and
marijuana now and then. Supplies to
practitioners of alternative medicine, too.
Even cigarettes and entire gallons of Ripple wine, occasionally, when my
customers demand it. I deal only with
friends I know well, to keep from being burnt at the stake. And I’ve even been known to eat, and drink
Ripple wine, with my friends. The metans
who would call me a witch, they’d say, ‘Look, he eats and drinks, he has
scamgrams in him.’ If they knew about
it, that is. But I would say to them,
‘Nonsense, I follow the will of the Inner Ale Run, and so I have few scamgrams
in me. The wisdom of the Inner Ale Run
is demonstrated by all those who follow His Will.’ And this is true. I follow the will of the Inner Ale Run, even
though I sell drugs. But I hide the
facts, lest I be burnt at the stake.
“You see, respectable members of the
community do what I do, and few metans call them names. They sell Ripple wine, cigarettes, coffee,
chocolate, fattening foods, and prescription drugs, all of which various metans
abuse. And these pushers, most don’t
even keep a personal relationship with their customers. Their customer might be drinking three
gallons of Ripple wine every night, losing his job and his wife, and still,
they’ll sell him some more.
“I have relationships with my
customers. I don’t sell to people who
can’t control their habits, who endanger their marriages or their jobs. And I don’t buy from violent dealers,
either. It’s not just that I follow the
will of my Inner Ale Run, it’s also simply that I’m level-headed, and know what
can get me into trouble. So I avoid
causing trouble, because I know it will come back to me. I do less damage than the pusher of Ripple
wine, yet he’s a respectable pillar-of-the-community-type metan, while I’m a
witch. Go figure!
“Yes, I’ll admit that many drug
dealers aren’t as responsible as I am.
Yet the tune remains the same.
I’m punished for being a member of the wrong group, where the group is
crudely defined. Where the groups are
defined in terms of anything other than ‘those who follow the will of the Inner
Ale Run,’ and ‘those who don’t’¾and I would add that it’s most often very difficult
for anyone other than the Inner Ale Run to accurately know the difference¾then we can rapidly run into
trouble. Into serious injustices.
“Consider this, too, Paul. Consider that when I put those horrid illegal equivalents of Ripple wine out
there, I decrease the demands, the high prices, that lead some metans to lives
of crime, into breaking into other metans’ houses, so that they can raise
thousands of dollars to support their habits, when the real costs of their drugs are equivalent to what it takes to buy a
loaf of bread. If there were more
heinous drug dealers like me, prices would be lower, and incentives for crime
would drop. Incentives to hook users
would also drop. Kids in school would
have as much of a hard time buying a joint as they now have buying a beer,
instead of finding it easier to buy cocaine than beer. How many beer pushers hang out around school,
offering beer to hook the kids? So I’m
actually a hero, fighting crime by reducing the incentives to crime. I’m following the will of my Inner Ale Run.
“To tell you the truth, though,
those are mere sidelines to my real
business. My real business is helping
doctors, and their patients, by thwarting the FDA. I sell illegal medical devices and supplies. You see, Paul, the FDA prohibits us from
selling anything to anyone, if we tell them it will make them feel better, or
if it’s even vaguely related to medicine.
Unless we go and pay lawyers and consultants millions of dollars, get
our ‘medical devices’ examined for years if not decades, make the right
political campaign contributions, and so on.
“You want to sell women a harmless
little bag full of slippery silicon, for them to place against their breasts¾on the outsides of their breasts, now, we’re not talking surgical anything, here¾so that their fingers will slip
around, real smoothly, so that they can better examine themselves for
lumps? For breast cancer? You can’t do
that! Gotta study this ‘medical
device’ for years and years first! For
that matter, if those women ask their husbands to feel the lumps and get their
opinions, then the husbands might be brought up on charges of practicing
medicine without a license!
“You want to sell customers a
machine that plays music and flashes lights and releases scents, in a
computer-controlled manner corresponding to the music? Fine!
But you’d better not hint around that this machine might help people to feel better, or you’re selling
unapproved medical devices! And you’d
better not sell herbs and vitamins in the same store next to books and
magazines about the benefits of such things, or you’ll be busted for unapproved
advertising of unproven health benefits!
And on and on.
“My special niche market, though,
Paul, is this: I sell software! Software
is a medical device, now, too. Here’s
the deal: Doctors can still, just barely, prescribe medicines for ‘off-label’
uses. Uses that doctors know the drugs
are good for, but the drug companies haven’t yet greased the right palms for,
for getting the FDA to approve. And new
genetic testing allows us, more and more, to know whether or not a person will
get good results out of a certain drug.
“So sometimes, after genetic
testing, we could say, ‘Yes, this drug is lethal for 0.0002% of users, and
harmful to 5%, and useless for 30%, but knowing your genotype, we can tell you
that this will be a good drug for you, for problem X, even though problem X is
an off-label use.’ We can do this. The technology is there. We can have computers do much of the
work. I have CD-ROMs full of drugs and
their off-label uses, and which genotypes are good matches, and the software to
run the show. But the FDA and the
lawyers and consultants, not to mention the politicians, haven’t had their
palms greased yet. So these CD-ROMs and
software applications are still unapproved medical devices.
“And the government has the key to
read all computer transmissions, so you’d better not be helping doctors to do
this, over the networks. I smuggle
CD-ROMs and computer programs to doctors by hand delivering them. The CD-ROMs are disguised, and the programs
contain very special security features.
Only thus can we get the benefits of the latest medical technology to
their patients. After the doctors
illicitly run the programs, they can make the right prescriptions, and no one
is the wiser. It sure beats having the
doctor trying to personally, mentally juggle twenty thousand drugs, half a
million off-label uses, and a practically infinite number of genotypes. An ideal computer application, even if we
have to run it in secret.
“Now compare all this to the Church
of Omnology. They can claim that their
V-Meters and their Ping Things can cure everything from colds to cancer and
back, but since they do it in the name of religion,
no one can touch them! Then they bad-mouth and sue mainstream
medical practitioners, especially psychiatrists, even while Omnologists drive
some of their members to suicide. So I
suppose you might understand how I, and my doctor friends, hamstrung by the FDA
as we try to help patients, are quite resentful of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba and his
‘church’, as they get a free ride in ripping people off. And then get rewarded with a tax break to
boot! Can you see why we’d have our axes
to grind with this ‘church’?”
Pud nodded thoughtfully. “Basically, we’re just outraged at the
injustice of it all, and want to see what we can do to straighten things out,”
Sam continued, “But enough of that. Now
how about you. It seems to me that
you’ve had those bandages on long enough.
Now that you’re awake, you’ll be able to start taking care of
yourself. Let’s get those things off of
you and clean you up.” And so Sam did.
Pud was quite pleased with his new
looks when Sam brought him a mirror.
Then there was the matter of getting the first snippets of food into
Pud’s stomach in about two months.
Finally, the day’s tasks were done, and Sam just sat with him, chatting.
“Well, I’d better get some work
done,” Sam finally concluded. “Accounts
and orders to check, and so on. I’d like
to sit here and keep you company for a while longer, but I’ve got to go. Are you tired and wanting to go back to
sleep? Or do you want me to round up
some books, magazines, or a TV for you?
It’ll take me a while to get that special book translated that you asked
me about, you know. So what do you say?”
“I’ll take the TV if you don’t
mind. Thanks!”
So Sam headed off to go and fetch a
TV. He was back shortly, chatting some
more with Pud as he set it up. Then the
TV came on. Pud saw naked people
standing on the sidewalks, wearing dinosaur masks and toting signs. “I’d rather go naked than wear the corpse of
a Polyestrasaur” said one sign as it briefly flashed on the screen. Pud wasn’t quite sure he’d read it
right. “Respect our Ancestors!” read
another. Bedlam ruled, in sound and
motion, as the protesters and signs milled around, jockeying for the camera’s
eye.
Then some heavily clad and armed law
enforcement types came stomping through the crowd, which eagerly cleared out of
their way. “Go, go, go NADGRAB!!! Go, go, go NADGRAB!!!” the crowd
chanted. Then the chaos of the crowd
faded away, and the voice-over kicked in.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemetans.
This is Newt Rather with your unbiased, up-to-the-minute source of news,
URB Fuddled News. The scene you’re now
watching is beamed to you live from right in front of Sam Clam’s Disco, in Los
Diablos.
“As we speak, the courageous
defenders of decency and respect for our elders, the GRABBOIDS of NADGRAB, are
raiding an alleged den of grave robbery, an illicit, underground operation
buried beneath a ‘front’ company. It’s
alleged that in this facility¾bear
with us now, as we speak frankly; small children and extra sensitive metans may
wish to hit their ‘mute’ buttons at this time¾it’s alleged that in this very facility, cars were
being repaired and refueled, using the sacred bodily remains of our spiritual
ancestors, the dinosaurs. Yes, ladies
and gentlemetans, right here before our very own eyes, right here below Sam
Clam’s Disco, horrid, gruesome acts were performed with petroleum derivatives
and other sacred bodily remains! Only
NADGRAB can save us!”
None of it made any sense at all to
Pud. So he hit the “mute” button on the
remote control that Sam had given him, and gazed questioningly at Sam.
“Oh, that’s right,” Sam said,
snapping his fingers. “I’ve forgotten
all about updating you on the latest, on what’s happened while you’ve been in a
coma. You see, some Omnology scientists
have invented this thing called a Hubba-Bubbatron. It’s basically a time stasis machine. They put them on large rotating assemblies,
and then they rotate them over time-zone boundaries. The International Date Line is especially
effective. They turn the time stasis
field on going one way, and off going the other way, so that one can either
progress or regress in time, visiting one’s past or future lives. Regression or progression therapy, they call
it.
“So these large machines
incorporating Hubba-Bubbatrons are called ‘therapeutritrons’, and they put them
out to sea in large luxury liners. All
the important Panderwood actors and actresses, they’ve joined the Church of
Omnology so that they can get this latest therapy. They all go out to sea on luxury liners
stationed over the International Date Line.
They’re even setting up an aircraft carrier out there, so they can fly
in real quick. And some of them are
filming many of their scenes right on board the therapeutritrons, so that they
won’t lose any more valuable therapy time than they absolutely have to.
“Anyway, it’s become quite the major
competition among the Panderwood types.
Some of them have regressed way, way back to the dinosaur days, and
discovered that the dinosaurs were actually quite intelligent and spiritually advanced. For instance, they had fire, the wheel, bath
tubs, acupuncture, homeopathy, tattoos, and progressive income tax tables. But they didn’t have fossil fuels,
pesticides, fungicides, child abuse, poverty, synthetic rubber, or toy weapons
of any sort. This, and things even yet
more incredible, the brave spiritual explorers of Panderwood have told us.
“However, they’ve also discovered
that, being spiritually advanced, the spirits of these dinosaurs are quite
thoroughly disgusted and angry with us, for what we’re doing with their bodily
remains. We’ve been morbidly displaying
their bones in museums and such. For
these sins, we’ve got to pay by putting their bones back where we found them,
and restoring the environments of those fossils digs as best as we can.
“But that’s not all! We also disrespect the dinosaur elders by
using their bodily remains in petroleum products, to burn, to wear, and to make
plastic forks and spoons and lampshades out of.
The Panderwood types, they say, well, after all, how would we feel, if our descendants were making such things out of our bodies, and burning our bodies for fuel, and so on.
“So Congress invited the
good-looking Panderwood types to Washington, D.C., to testify. There were a lot of well-publicized photos of
all the important D.C. types posing with all the good-looking Panderwood types,
as they saved us all from corpse abuse and ancestor disrespect. Some of the actresses even went naked, rather
than wear polyestrasaurs. So as you can
imagine, the politicians and the Panderwood types got a lot of publicity, and
the media sold a lot of papers, magazines, and advertisements. And all the citizens were saved from
indecency towards our spiritual ancestors, and we all got to feel morally
superior to those evil heathens, the money-grubbing oil companies.
“Congress created NADGRAB, which is the Native American Dinosaurs Graves Restoration and Actualization
Bureau. So now the NADGRAB police, called GRABBOIDS, for Graves Restoration Agents Bravely, Boldly Obliterating Indignities to Dinosaur Spirits, they go ‘round from store to
store and house to house, ferreting out old oil cans, scraps of plastics,
polyesters, gasoline, Vaseline, and Valvoline, and all other examples of corpse
abuse. The only way you can get off the
hook is to have expert Omnologists come in with their V-Meters and Ping Things
and appease the spirits of the dinosaurs.
Then you may continue to use your plastic spoons and forks, say, if
you’re too poor to afford newer ones, which are guaranteed to be manufactured
using methods that won’t anger the Ancestor Spirits.
“Since Congress has determined that
dinosaur disrespect is a major crisis, NADGRAB has been tasked with ferreting
out all petroleum addicts, who must then be thoroughly counseled by expert
counselors, specially trained in treating dinosaur disrespect. And since all the oil companies are to blame
for all this petroleum addiction in the first place, they obviously must pay
for all their damages, all their wanton destruction, and the cost of all this
expert counseling.
“So all the experts from the Church
of Omnology are having a field day, as you might imagine. There’s a few folks here and there, they’re
raising questions about the separation of church and state, and other old,
fuddy-duddy-type concepts. Congress says
it’s not an issue, ‘cause we’re dealing with Omnology as a science, not
Omnology as a religion.
“And there’s even a few folks making
fun of these things now and then. There
was a radio comedian the other day, he was saying that we should all wear as
much polyester as possible, so that we can all continue to look at pictures of
naked actresses protesting the desecration of polyestrasaurs. The FCC took his license away, and we haven’t
heard from him since.
“Now expert Omnologists and
GRABBOIDS are running around, catching metans with unfleeced petroleum
derivatives, and making them either volunteer time and money to become
re-educated in dinosaur bodily remains sensitivity classes, or be
prosecuted. But it’s all quite voluntary,
of course; NADGRAB believes in education and treatment, not in raw, brutal,
violent force. Persuasion, not coercion.
“But we have to do something, the GRABBOIDS say.
They believe that disrespect for our spiritual ancestors, the dinosaurs,
is behind global insensitivization and inappropriatization. Mean-spiritedness, rampant selfishness,
resentment towards selfless government servants, that kind of thing. Since no one can prove that disrespect of dinosaur spirits isn’t doing all these bad things, then we have to play it safe, and
fleece the disrespect out of petroleum products and oil companies.
“The GRABBOIDS of NADGRAB, the
media, Panderwood, and Congress, they’ve all gone on a rampage. Accusing the oil companies of deliberately
‘spiking’ their gasoline with the spirits of Benzenasauruses, just to keep all
the drivers ‘hooked’. Withholding
information about the addictive nature of driving, and so on. Demanding that the oil companies fork over
billions of dollars to socialized medicine, since they cause like fifty
thousand automobile deaths a year. On
and on.
“Anyway, that’s about that. I’ve hidden all my most precious
petroleum-derived products away underground, here, in the other rooms like this
one here, in the secret, buried parts of my house. You might say I’ve given all my dinosaur
bodily remains a decent burial. Be that
as it may, you’ll get plenty of chances to watch TV, here, and catch up on all
this news.
“Now I really do need to go off and
get some work done. One last item for
you: I’ve really got to know a last name for you. Get the paperwork in gear, get you a new
ID. It won’t be totally foolproof. I’d suggest you not get a government job, for
example. And don’t go for any government
benefits, unless it’s a matter of survival.
But when you’re ready to leave here, you’ll be equipped to get a private
job, at least.
“Now, your last name, Paul. Something you’ll be able to remember easily,
but not too terribly similar to your old last name. How ‘bout it?”
“Um, how about, ‘Mudd’? My name is already mud with the Church of
Omnology! So we’ll sort of hide me right
under their noses, what do you say? We
all know my name is mud, but by naming me Mudd, I can hide! Poetic justice, isn’t it?”
Sam just grinned and left. So it came to pass that Pudmuddle B. Fuddle
became Paul Mudd.
Two more weeks slipped by. Paul watched TV, and read Sam’s computer
translation about a great metan from long ago, who opposed the Horde
Whisperer. He mulled over this at great
length, reaching many conclusions about how best to fight the Horde Whisperer.
Then the day came that Paul Mudd was
healthy but going stir-crazy. He wanted
out, but he didn’t want to be homeless, nor did he want to mooch off of Sam any
more, nor conduct a long job hunt. After
all, a long job hunt would expose him to many metans, and perhaps even to too
close of an encounter with a V-Meter or a Ping Thing. So he ended up asking Sam for a job.
Sam grinned and signed him up right
away. Paul became a driver for a sedan
delivery service, delivering chemicals, sacred roots, CD-ROMs, and computer
programs. It was a job he liked; a job
he thought he’d keep.
But then he remembered that he had a
Mission. The first part of his Mission,
he felt, must be to go and see Betty, Tracy, Bracy, and Hamster Huey, and to
make amends. This he did by making a
detour from one of his nationwide sedan delivery routes. He drove up to their gauche trailer in their
gauche trailer park with apprehension.
But they were all quite glad to see
him, after he told them who he was, and that he was on a Mission opposing the
Church of Omnology. They’d had their car
and all their plastic toys taken away from them, because they’d been too poor
to afford the services of a professional Omnologist dinosaur-spirit-appeaser,
yet not poor enough to have the government provide this investment in their
futures.
So Paul gave them some of the money
he’d earned on his delivery route, and cautioned them not to tell anyone, and
not to spend the money too ostentatiously.
They all nodded, including Hamster Huey, who was very happy with the
idea that he’d get a new exercise wheel, manufactured without offending the
spirits of the dinosaurs.
Paul was on a few days of
break-time, so he stayed with his family for a little while. He re-acquainted himself with his ex-wife,
the kids, and Huey. He and Betty talked
of getting remarried, but she told him quite pleasantly but insistently that if
his Inner Ale Run was telling him that he had a Mission, then he’d better go
and accomplish that Mission first.
Paul drove off, after a tearful
good-bye. As if directed by hands other
than his own, the sedan’s steering wheel spun back and forth. He headed off for Akron, Ohio.
Chapter 20 has endnotes concerning Dianetics Therapy, “Voluntary” Therapy, NAGPRA, NADGRAB,
GRABBOIDS, and Sacred Hairs.
21)
The Great Escape From The Level Beyond Stupid
“It
is against Stupidity in every shape and form that we have to wage our eternal
battle. But how can we wonder at the
want of sense on the part of those who have had no advantages, when we see such
plentiful absence of that commodity on the part of those who have had all the
advantages?” William Booth (1829–1912)
“The
key to the age may be this, or that, or the other, as the young orators
describe; the key to all ages is—Imbecility; imbecility in the vast majority of
men, at all times, and, even in heroes, in all but certain eminent moments;
victims of gravity, custom, and fear.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–82)
“The
question now is: Can we understand our stupidity? This is a test of intellect, not of
character.” John King Fairbank (1907–91)
As Raoul’s cup of poisoned faux
fruit punch touched his lips, his life flashed before his eyes. His mind’s eye flashed back, way back to
chapter twelve, and how he’d recited Wisdom from Another Dimension to
Francestuous, who’d thought him to be thoroughly scamgramified. He thought of that book he’d started reading
so long ago, called Dianetics: The Modern
Science of Mental Health, by L. Ron Hubbard (1911-1986), 1978 edition. He remembered those words of simple, humble
yet profound wisdom. “The creation of dianetics is a milestone for
man comparable to his discovery of fire and superior to his invention of the
wheel and arch”, he’d read in the opening statement in the opening synopsis
(mysteriously missing in a more recent edition). Also flashing before his eyes, from this
opening synopsis “...skills offered in
this handbook will produce the dianetic clear, an optimum individual with intelligence considerably greater than the
current normal, or the dianetic release,
an individual who has been freed from his major anxieties or illnesses. The release can be done in less than twenty hours of work and is a state superior
to any produced by several years of psycho-analysis, since the release will not
relapse.”
Raoul sincerely regretted not
having thoroughly read that book. Maybe,
he thought, maybe, just maybe, if I were “cleared” right now, instead of
“descamgramified”, by all these experts all around me, then maybe I’d not be in
quite as much of a jam. So yes, I’ve got
my regrets. About not thoroughly reading that book,
for example.
But always look on the bright side
of life. I’ve done a few things
right. Like, for example, just right
now, by remembering all those words I read way back when, weaving them into the
story of my life, I saved a writer-dude in another dimension the trouble of
quoting them in a chapter introduction, thereby increasing the strength of his
defenses against scamgrams, pestifoggons, and slimy lawyers.
My time on the stupid level is at an
end, though, he thought. All good things
must come to an end. I go now to my
reward. I go to a better place. I go the Level Beyond Stupid! He tilted his head, and his cup,
backwards. The conscious centers of his
mind directed his neuromotor centers to prepare a series of neural
commands. Open lips, gulp, swallow.
But then his Inner Ale Run spoke up,
saying, “Raoul, stop! If you go through with this, then you’re
refusing a great gift, which is your life.
Your life is real, and precious¾not
an illusion. You are refusing to
continue work on your Missions, which are to learn. You mustn’t refuse your gift, you mustn’t
refuse to learn. To refuse your gift of
life is to curse Me, your Inner Ale Run.
This is a great, deep, dark scamgram, and can never be fleeced. Listen to Me now, Raoul, this is your last
chance!”
Raoul listened, and he listened
well. He looked Vyizder straight in the
eye, then threw his cup and all its bitter contents into Vyizder’s astonished
face. Then he turned tail and ran, ran,
ran. Ran for his life and soul, ran to
escape from the Level Beyond Stupid.
Behind him, Iame arose from the “dead”, to help Vyizder and Heegore
chase Raoul.
He approached the door to that large
meeting room with three men behind him in hot pursuit. He barely noticed Deep Green’s voice urging
them on, just as he barely noticed that all the “bodies” had suddenly
disappeared. All he thought about was
escape.
The door bloomed right in front of
him. Is it locked? Will they grab me while I fuss at the
doorknob? he wondered. Then he jumped up
in the air, never slowing down, and twirled his body around in midair. His back slammed into the door. Splinters flew, and Raoul blew on
through. Then he ran some more.
Fortunately, he was in a lot better
shape than any of his pursuers. In no
time at all, he was out of the building, then over the fence. The barbed wire at the top of the chain-link
fence ripped and tore him, but that didn’t slow him down. Vyizder’s security troops joined in pursuit.
Raoul fled from the Scientific
Institute for the Advancement of Omnology, across the empty fields and into a
nearby copse of woods, with Omnological security types in hot pursuit. Fortunately, they were several hundred yards
back. So when Raoul burst on through the
bushes and trees, onto that nearby back-country road, and hopped into Paul
Mudd’s sedan, his pursuers never even caught a glimpse of Paul’s car. It was as if Raoul had bodily ascended up
into the Level Beyond Stupid, not leaving a trace.
Raoul sat in the passenger’s seat of
that beat-up old sedan, suspiciously eyeing Paul. Paul glanced back mildly, tolerantly, in
between his tasks of piloting the sedan as it casually cruised on down the
road. “You okay, there, Bud?” Paul
asked. “You look a bit torn and bloodied
up. Do we need to get you to a doctor,
or anything?”
“No, thanks,” Raoul replied, lungs
still heaving from his recent exertions.
“I’ll be fine.”
Paul reached over, offering his
right hand. “Hi. I’m Paul.
Paul Mudd. I’m a sedan delivery
driver. And you?” Paul mentally congratulated himself; his old
name of “Pud” had barely crossed his mind.
Raoul reluctantly took his hand and
shook it. “Raoul. Raoul Kinky.
Student of Omnology as a science.
Or, at least, I was, till very recently.
Now, I’m not sure what I
am. A fugitive, I suppose. A fugitive from my destiny in the Level
Beyond Stupid. But I’m just doing what
my Inner Ale Run tells me to do. I guess
I’m not ready for the Level Beyond Stupid just yet.”
“Is that right?!” Paul said in
amazement. “That’s great! Just great!
I’m doing what my Inner Ale Run tells me to do, too! That’s why I’m here, as a matter of
fact! That’s why I was right there,
ready to pick you up! The Inner Ale Run
moves in mysterious ways, it seems. I
had no idea why I drove here at this time, but now it’s clear!
“But Raoul, a lot of the other stuff
you say makes no sense to me. Now let me
assure you, you’re safe here with me.
I’m listening to my Inner Ale Run, just like you. So you can trust me. Tell me all about it.”
Raoul told Paul all about it. In little snippets, in bits and pieces, at
first, but then it all came gushing out.
All his doubts about Omnology and Ale Run Hubba-Bubba’s Church leaders,
who’d had Raoul do so many things that didn’t seem quite right. Finally, all about how they’d tried to
convince Raoul that he should end his cycle, and all the strange things that
had just happened. All this and more,
Raoul poured forth.
“Wow!” Paul commented. “Sounds to me as if you’ve been dealing with
some pretty evil metans, there!”
Raoul stared at Paul in shocked
amazement. Then he looked at his
passenger-side door, and the Ohio countryside zipping by at fifty some miles an
hour. He opened his mouth to protest to
Paul.
Paul beat him to the punch,
seemingly reading his mind. “Yes, Raoul,
I know. You’re stuck with a madman, who
dares to use the word ‘evil’. And in
association with our Spirit Guides, the leaders of Ale Run’s Church of
Omnology, yet! Such heresy! You’re tempted to jump out of the car, to get
away from the madman. Yes, I know. I’ve been where you’re at.
“Raoul, I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t call anyone evil. It’s too judgmental. It’s so judgmental, it’s scamgramified. So I take it back. Still, there’s something there. Your leaders, my former leaders, the leaders
of the Church of Omnology, they’re... Inappropriate. Insensitive.
They don’t listen to their Inner Ale Run.”
Raoul stared at Paul with even
larger, more fearful eyes. Paul was
tempted to laugh, but he didn’t. “Raoul,
don’t worry about it. I’ve been there, I
know how you feel. You’ll tell yourself
again and again, surely Ale Run
Himself just appointed a few, um, inappropriate apples into His apple barrel of
Church leaders, and He simply doesn’t know what going on. You tell yourself that you’re an appropriate
and faithful metan, that all you’ve got to do, is to get Ale Run Himself to
understand that you’re getting treated unfairly by His Church, and all will be
well.
“Well, I’m sorry to break it to you,
Raoul, but Ale Run Himself is scamgramified!
He won’t listen to his Inner Ale Run, because there’s no controlling
legal authority over Ale Run Himself.
Our only hope is to listen to our own Inner Ale Run ourselves, and
oppose the inappropriateness of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba. This is what my Inner Ale Run has told
me. Look inside yourself, talk to your
Inner Ale Run, and you will see the truth of which I speak.”
By now, Raoul cowered in fear,
scrunched up against his car door. He
looked like a trapped wild animal. Paul
reached over and patted him reassuringly.
“Raoul, relax! There’s no reason
to fear. You and I are both in this
together; we’ll help each other out.
Just keep right on listening to your Inner Ale Run, and everything will
be fine.”
Raoul relaxed a bit. But only a little bit. “So what does your Inner Ale Run tell you we
should do next, then?” he wondered out loud.
“What’s the plan? What’re we
gonna do? How can we stay
descamgramified, if we don’t have regular access to Spirit Guides, V-Meters, or
Ping Things? What will we eat, where
will we sleep?”
“Take it easy,” Paul coaxed
Raoul. “We can stay descamgramified if
we just listen to our Inner Ale Run. And
you know, I’ve got this really neat book.
A good friend of mine had it translated just for me. It tells all about how, a long time ago, a
certain wise metan came and told us how to keep our scamgrams away, without a
single V-Meter or any Ping Things!”
Paul pointed to a stack of printouts
in the back seat. “There it is,” he told
Raoul. “Check it out.” Raoul grabbed it, absent-mindedly leafing
through it while Paul talked. “Anyway,”
Paul continued, “This metan, he said we shouldn’t worry about where we’ll
sleep, what we’ll wear, or what we’ll eat.
He said to look at the birds in the trees. They don’t worry or plan about anything. Yet the Inner Ale Run takes care of
them! And how much more does the Inner
Ale Run care about us?! So don’t worry
about tomorrow. Tomorrow will bring
enough worries of its own; we’ll just stick to worrying about today, for
today. Listen to your Inner Ale Run, and
take things day by day.”
“So what are we doing today, then?”
Raoul inquired. “Today, we’re
heading back towards my friend’s house, way out in Los Diablos,” Paul replied. “To pick up another load of CD-ROMs,
chemicals, and sacred roots, for my sedan delivery service. More importantly, to also go and get you a
new ID. My friend, Sam Ehritan, he’s got
a lot of connections. So he’ll be able
to help you out. You’ll be able to work,
with your new ID, for non-governmental employers, without all our Omnology
buddies being able to track you down. So
just hang out with me for a few days, as we head back towards Los Diablos.” To himself, Paul added, I’ll sure bet Sam
will be very interested in hearing Raoul’s tale!
Paul and Raoul drove and drove. They drove for two days. They had more than a few serious talks,
especially about their backgrounds as Omnologists, and how hard it was to wean themselves
from Omnological thinking. Talks about
what Sam Ehritan and his translated book had told Paul. Talks about a Horde Whisperer, and an
Anti-Horde Whisperer that had lived long ago.
Paul struggled and searched for a
way to break it to Raoul that he, Paul, had been appointed Anti-Hubba-Bubba by
the Inner Ale Run Himself. But Paul
couldn’t do it. His fears that he would
chase Raoul off were too strong. Still,
Paul strongly wished for Raoul to come along and give him the strength of
companionship, as he pursued his Mission.
Wasn’t there some way to break the news of this momentous Mission to
Raoul? I want him to join me, Paul
thought, but I owe it to him, then, to tell him exactly what he’s in for,
should he join me. How, then, do I do
this? I guess I’ll wait. It’ll come to me in good time. Let me just prepare his mind, and let my
Inner Ale Run handle it.
And so, when it fit right in, he
said, “You know, Raoul, the Anti-Horde Whisperer, he gave us some pretty
awesome powers. Not the powers to amass
large fortunes, or political powers, or trivial little things like that. Rather, something more important: the power
to resist inappropriateness. In his
name, in the name of the Anti-Horde Whisperer, as matter of fact, we are
empowered to cast out
inappropriateness. And some day, you and
I, or just about anyone, who knows, some day, we may be called upon to do just
that. To cast out
inappropriateness. I just want you to
think about that.”
Raoul stared back at him
blankly. “And how would we do that?” he wondered.
“I’m not really sure,” Paul
admitted. “But it has to do with being
really, really and truly free of scamgrams, not in the sense of having been
fleeced by experts with V-Meters and Ping Things, but, rather, in the sense of
really and truly listening to one’s Inner Ale Run. When the need arises, the Inner Ale Run will
tell us how, will give us the words and actions. But the one most important thing is that we
must pour all our energies into communicating honestly with our Inner Ale
Run. When we sincerely ask the Inner Ale
Run to tell us what is right, He will answer.”
Paul almost added something about some non-Omnologists calling this
thing “prayer”, according to Sam Ehritan, but then thought better of it. Let’s not shock Raoul with too much at once,
he told himself. The time will come.
Periodically, Raoul and Paul would
have to break their road mode, stop, take breaks, sleep, get gas, and so
on. Paul knew all about the expert
Omnologists at the gas stations with their V-Meters and Ping Things, offering
their services of fleecing the dinosaur-ancestor-disrespect vibes away from all
those petroleum products, and how they would then “narc” (“gas”?) on those who
declined their services. It wasn’t so
much that Paul resented paying the $5/gallon for these services, it was more so
that he didn’t want to go anywhere near a V-Meter or a Ping Thing. So they bought their gas on the black market
instead.
Then, finally, they made their way
safely into Los Diablos, and to Sam Ehritan’s home. There, they rested and recuperated, telling
Sam all their tales of high adventure and escaping from the Level Beyond
Stupid, while Sam’s network went into action.
One week later, despite Sam’s entreaties to stay a while longer, they
hit the road once more. Paul and Raoul
were now the brothers Paul Mudd and Robert Mudd; their names were both Mudd!
Robert and Paul had sat in
thoughtful silence for a few hours.
“Nice guy, that Sam Ehritan guy,” Robert finally spoke up. “So where are we headed?” he asked, as their
ancient old sedan muscled its way through the deserts of Nevada.
“We’ll travel south ‘cross land, and
put out the fire,” Paul replied, “And we won’t look past our shoulders. The Anti-Horde Whisperer told us that the man
who is plowing, but keeps on looking back, he’s of no use to the Kingdom of
True Descamgramification. So when we
figure out what’s right, we just go and do
it. After we know what’s right, we
don’t constantly second-guess ourselves.”
“What does that mean,” Robert asked, exasperated.
“I think it means these two gringos,
they’re headed to Mexico,” Paul replied.
“My Inner Ale Run tells me that there’s a significant source of global
inappropriateness lurking in the shadows down there somewhere. We have to go and kill the beast. More than that, I don’t know. My Inner Ale Run tells me only so much. One day at a time, now.”
“But what’s the big picture?” Robert
pleaded. “What is this Mission of
yours? I’m with you, now, don’t worry
too much. Unless you’ve gone way off the
deep end, into total scamgramification. But I’d like to know.”
So Paul told Robert all about
it. About his Inner Ale Run telling him
about him being the Anti-Hubba-Bubba, and how reality needed to be
de-problematized again. This, and more,
Paul told Robert. They sat in silence
for a long time, again. Finally, Robert
simply said, “All right, then, Paul. I’m
with you. With the Anti-Hubba-Bubba
himself, no less! May the Inner Ale Run
be with us!” And then they rode in more
hours of silence.
They drove and they drove, and then,
they drove some more. They drove to Big
Bend National Park, out in West Texas.
There, they drove that beat-up old sedan to a desolate riverside spot,
where they made clandestine arrangements with some Mexicans, who in turn
ferried their sedan across the Rio Grande.
The trip on the rickety old raft was perilous, as was their jarring
journey on Mexico’s dirt back roads. But
at least they never had to deal with border crossing guards, or the possibility
that some of them might be Omnologists bearing Ping Things or V-Meters.
Several days later, they both bought
themselves machetes in a small store south of Matamoros. Then they headed out into the countryside,
where they knocked on the door of one certain Jose Gomez, Mexican rancher-type
dude extraordinaire. Jose was quite
amused by the crazy gringos and their strange tales of a bizarre wild beast
running loose on his ranch, conveyed in incomprehensible English, and bits and
pieces of broken Spanish. Had they
spoken good Spanish, he’d doubtlessly have asked them how they knew what they
knew, and dismissed them as madmen, hearing their replies.
But he grabbed his machete and
called his dogs, and joined the gringos in their crazy quest. After all, he’d heard those wild tales a year
or two ago, of a chupacabras, a goat-sucker,
terrorizing Mexico, among other places.
And there’d been that dead cow of his not so long ago, with the
mysterious puncture wounds in its neck.
So when they drove his pickup to the outback on his ranch, to that
deserted, dilapidated old shed, now so badly collapsed that even his cows had
stopped using it for shade long ago, and his dogs howled and growled, his
hackles rose with theirs.
Those crazy gringos are right, he
realized in utter astonishment. There’s
something hiding in my old shed! Something
not quite right. Something¾something highly inappropriate, as these strange gringos
say. He put his work gloves on, and
directed the gringos to take a stand, one on each end of the fallen old
building.
Then he began dragging fragments of
the building away, one by one. The
rusted old pieces of roofing went first, then slabs of rotten wood and
plywood. One by one, he dragged the
fragments back. It was hot, dirty, nasty
work, and it went on for a long time. If
it weren’t for these dogs of mine, getting more and more excited by the minute,
Jose thought, I’d have given this up long ago.
The scrap heap¾that’s really all that it was,
any more; calling it a “building” was a gross exaggeration¾was now diminishing rapidly. Jose was tired, so he took his work gloves
off, wiped his brow, and motioned to the fit young Gringo, Robert, that they
should trade jobs.
That was when the dogs’ excitement
reached a frenzy. One of them dug
furiously, then stuck his snout under the largest remaining pile of rotten
wood. The pile of wood heaved up, and a
howling, yelping, protesting dog was dragged under it! The three men ran forward, brandishing their
machetes. They watched in angry but
fearful silence as the heap heaved some more, and the dog’s cries were silenced.
Robert slapped the work gloves onto
his hands, and furiously tore at the heap.
A hideous, screeching beast sprang from the heap with tentacles
flailing, maw agape, and fangs pointed straight towards Paul’s throat.
Illustration goes here above… Confronting the Beast
22)
Unreality Becomes Problematized
Reality
is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away. Philip K. Dick (1928–82)
Paul thrust his machete straight
into the beast’s maw, then pushed it through its neck and into the soil,
pegging Chewdychomper Chupacabras to the earth.
Then he leaped back, escaping its flailing tentacles. His companions stepped forward with their
machetes. In turn, they, too, stabbed it
with their steely knives. They found
that indeed, they could kill the
beast.
Following Paul’s advice, they buried
one dead dog and one Chewdychomper Chupacabras right there on the ranch, and
promised each other not to breathe a word of their deed. Knowing the ways of governments with respect
to endangered species, they knew that such affairs were best terminated by
shoveling and shutting up.
They said their goodbyes to Jose,
who was quite grateful for, though mystified by, the strange gringos who’d
doubtlessly saved him and his fellow ranchers from more depredations by the chupacabras. They drove towards Matamoros, where they
hoped to get some much-needed maintenance for their sedan, in preparation for
their long journey back to Los Diablos.
Paul was driving through the
desolate Mexican countryside when the space-time manifold momentarily
problematized itself right in front of the sedan, almost causing an
accident. A large whirling vortex opened
up, revealing a giant Doctor Dorcus Moorphlegmgasm transgressing rapidly
towards Paul and Robert. Paul slammed on
the brakes, swerving and skidding to a halt inches short of the giant Doctor.
“CHAOS
IS BADNESS!” she sternly admonished them.
Then she disappeared back into the vortex.
“Wow!” Robert exclaimed,
frightened. “Paul, that was Doctor
Dorcus Moorphlegmgasm, who works at the Scientific Institute for the Advancement
of Omnology! They know where I am! We’re
in big trouble now!”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” Paul
cautioned. “We have no way of knowing
that she actually saw us, or recognized either one of us. Trust your Inner Ale Run, and we’ll be fine.”
As if to validate Paul’s words, the
vortex shrank and disappeared. They
paused, then started driving again. But
once more, the vortex opened up, and Doctor Moorphlegmgasm popped out once
more, thundering, “CHAOS IS BADNESS!” Then she and her vortex disappeared once
again.
Fortunately, that time Paul was
driving more slowly and carefully, so there was no near accident. And they took longer before starting up
again. When they did, sure as clockwork,
like a giant cuckoo emerging from the cuckoo clock, the Doctor sprang forth
from the vortex once again, proclaiming loudly that “CHAOS IS BADNESS!” And once
again she and her vortex faded away into nothingness.
Illustration
goes here above… Cuckoo-clock in the
sky
Robert quivered and wailed, “They
know where we are, and they’re not letting us go anywhere! We’ll have to stay
right here till they come, and, and pick us up, and put us right back into,
into an Omnological therapeutritron or something, till we recant! We’re doomed,
I tell you, we’re doomed!”
“Hush,” Paul commanded. “We’ll be fine, just fine. My Inner Ale Run tells me so. Now have
courage!” To bolster Robert’s
sagging morale, Paul clenched his teeth, squelching his own inner turmoil, and
fired the sedan right back up, almost immediately after the third vortex
subsided, not even waiting this time.
And the vortex didn’t return!
They had a safe, uneventful but tense trip, the rest of the way to
Matamoros.
There, they put the sedan in a shop
and got themselves a hotel room. They
relaxed quietly, but their peace didn’t remain undisturbed for long. Hearing loud sounds and voices out on the
streets, they rushed to their hotel’s third-story balcony. There, they saw frenzied crowds rushing
about, shouting and carrying signs.
“What’s that all about?” Paul puzzled out loud. But neither he nor Robert could read the
Spanish signs. So they returned back
inside, turned on their TV, and cast about for an English-language news
channel. Finally, they found one.
“...Newt Rather with URB Fuddled
News. Ladies and gentlemetans, in this
time of troubles, we urge you to remain calm, stay at home, and follow your
instructions, as provided to you here by your government and other leaders,
through URB Fuddled News. Rumors of
worldwide apparitions of an Omnological researcher, a certain Doctor Dorcus
Moorphlegmgasm, are now confirmed to be true.”
Newt’s face faded, becoming replaced
with the sight of Doctor Moorphlegmgasm popping in and out of a vortex,
admonishing all viewers that “CHAOS IS
BADNESS. CHAOS IS BADNESS.” Newt’s voice-over continued, saying, “This is
the first time this strange, brief, and apparently random new phenomenon has
been recorded on video. It happened just
moments ago in Panderwood, on the set for filming Fhettig Hauskatze’s new
docudrama, ‘JFK Was Abducted By Space
Aliens.’ They rushed this footage to
us just moments ago. So now we know that
this phenomenon is real.
“Remember, folks, there’s no reason
to panic. No reliable reports have
reached us from anywhere, of these images of Doctor Moorphlegmgasm causing harm
to anyone, other than through their own reactions of unwarranted panic. Reports of these strange apparitions have
been rolling in from all corners of the globe, ever since about noon today,
Eastern Standard Time.”
“Hey!” Robert piped up. “That works out to just about exactly when we
killed that monster! Do you suppose...”
“Hush,” Paul snapped, straining to
listen to the news.
“...Advancement of Omnology, an
institution that has so recently and so brilliantly provided society with such
amazing wonders of Omnological science as the Hubba-Bubbatron, or time stasis
field, the SCABB-PIE, the therapeutritron, and technologies for appeasing the
spirits of dinosaurs, who would otherwise be greatly offended by the corpse
abuse that unfleeced metans insensitively used to call ‘petroleum products.’ There, we’ll interview Omnology’s foremost
particle metaphysicist, Doctor Iame Ghuanobhraine.
“We now go to my honored colleague,
Kathie Lee Gore, out on location at the Scientific Institute for the
Advancement of Omnology, in Akron, Ohio.
Kathie, how’s things out there in Akron?”
“Oh, not too bad there, Newt, not
too bad at all. And that’s a matter of
fact, ladies and gentlemetans.
Facts. That’s all you get, on URB
Fuddled News. Just the facts. No spin, no bias, no despicable partisan partiality. Just the facts. Here with me today is Doctor Iame
Ghuanobhraine. Doctor Ghuanobhraine,
could you please tell our viewers today, in your own words, and hopefully in
laymetans’ words, just exactly what happened in your lab today?”
“Ah, yes, Kathie, sure I can! You see, we were working on a newer, more
advanced therapeutritron, one with a much larger spin velocity, where
centrifugal forces would simulate gravity, allowing the therapy patients to
feel artificial gravity even when upside-down.
This, along with precise adjustments to the Hubba-Bubbatron, would allow
us to spin the therapy patients at very high spin rates, without them feeling
anything other than ordinary gravity.
“Doctor Dorcus Moorphlegmgasm, Ale
Run fleece her courageous descamgramifiedness, volunteered to be the first
patient for this new and improved therapy.
But when we turned it on this morning, exactly at noon, a temporal
distortion vortex swallowed her up.
We’re still trying to get her back.
And we’re not giving up! Ale
Run’s mercies know no bounds!
“So now it appears that she
periodically pops out of her new home in her temporal distortion vortex,
warning us all about chaos and badness.
She’s studied The Chaos Theory and all its deepest implications for many
years, you see. And now, she’s trying to
pass all her immense Omnological wisdom off to us from another dimension, Ale
Run fleece her selfless descamgramifiedness.
“Kathie, I join you and Newt in
encouraging all of our viewers to stay calm, in these troubled times. Doctor Moorphlegmgasm is mostly harmless, let
me assure you of that! She means
well. And for all of you out there who
are snowed under by the immensely sophisticated implications of her profound
words, ‘chaos is badness’, let me assure you, there’s no need for you to puzzle
over these incomprehensibly deep terms.
All you need to do is to find your nearest Omnological expert, make a
small donation, and heed his or her Words of Wisdom from Ale Run Hubba-Bubba Himself,
and you’ll be fine. No need to trouble
yourselves over the truly mind-blowing complexities of The Chaos Theory.”
“Doctor Ghuanobhraine, before we
turn this back over to Newt, back at the station, could you please briefly tell
us whether your data indicates any sort of, um, problematization of reality, as
has been rumored? Is there any
indication that foundational conceptual categories of Omnological technological
thought have been invalidated by a reactive Universe, who abhors chaos and
badness? To speak crudely, has the
Universe rebelled against your creations?”
“No, Kathie, those are lies! Vile slander against the wonders of Ale Run’s
brilliant technological insights! Let me
assure you, Omnological scientists, philosophers, theologians, and attorneys
will bring all the powers of Omnology to bear...”
“Kathie, Doctor Ghuanobhraine, I’m
sorry, we’ve got to go now,” Newt said, cutting them off. “News of the highest priority just now
in. By satellite link, from Navy rescue
ships out in the Western Pacific, at the International Date Line, we now bring,
live on location, our Panderwood correspondent, Sylvester Cronkite. Sylvester, how’s it going out there?”
“Not too good, Newt, not too good,”
Sylvester reported from the heaving deck of a Navy ship, as Newt’s face faded
away. “Out here at the International
Date Line, it seems that some very unusual forces have been unleashed. The Navy started getting distress calls at
about five this morning. That would translate
to noon, back there on the US east coast.
Only now is the whole picture clarifying here.
“The picture here is grim! Navy ships, and the remaining
therapeutritron-equipped cruise liners, are doing their very best to pick up
the survivors. They’re doing their best,
but the seas are rough, and so, without a doubt, lives will be lost. About half of all the
therapeutritron-equipped cruise liners were lost! Fifteen ships, according to our best
count. Sunk, by all appearances,
according to eyewitness accounts of many survivors, by, um, a concerted attack
by large sea monsters. Yes, that’s right¾large sea monsters, of types
previously unknown to science.
“Marine scientists are
investigating. Their preliminary
theories, in laymetan language, have to do with the heavy, deep thoughts and
activities of all the actors, actresses, and Omnological scientists and
technologists aboard these cruise liners.
Deep and heavy vibes may have penetrated the hulls of these ships,
dropping straight through into the deeps and annoying various sea monsters. Irritated beyond endurance, these normally
shy sea monsters may have felt that they had no choice, other than to strike
back. In any case, whatever the cause,
here, we see the results.”
The camera’s eye panned away from
Sylvester’s windswept face, focusing on rescue efforts at sea. A Navy helicopter conveniently and
dramatically fished a survivor out of the waves, right in front of the camera,
not more than a few hundred yards away.
Newt’s voice returned, asking
Sylvester, “How is the morale among the survivors, and among the crews and
therapy patients aboard the remaining cruise liners? In view of recent events, are they ready to
abandon their therapy, or are they toughing it out? What are their thoughts?”
“Newt, I’m afraid that few of these
things are clear yet. It’s rumored that
the therapeutritrons stopped working, simultaneously with the sea monster
attack. However, some patients challenge
this view. So the long-term future of
temporal dislocation regression/progression therapy remains in doubt, but not
clearly at an end.
“What is clear, is that...”
“CHAOS
IS BADNESS! CHAOS IS BADNESS!” Doctor Moorphlegmgasm chattered at the
camera, appearing, disappearing, appearing again, and then disappearing for
good.
Sylvester appeared startled,
momentarily, but then went right on.
“What is clear, is that many
questions have been raised. Many metans
are asking why a more thorough environmental impact study wasn’t
conducted. The EPA and maybe even
Congress will doubtlessly be called upon to investigate. For now, the therapeutritrons lay idle. They’ll not be turned back on any time soon;
that much seems clear. The remaining
ships’ power plants, their brand-new SCABB-PIE units, have mysteriously stopped
working. So they’re dead in the
water. All the actors and actresses are
clamoring to head on back to Panderwood, as soon as rough seas subside.”
“All right,” Newt replied. “Thank you, Sylvester Cronkite. Ladies and gentlemetans, that was my fellow
newsmetan, from the International Date Line.
Remember, remain calm in these troubled times. Brilliant Omnological researchers are
researching around the clock as we speak, and Omnological technological
services will be deproblematized momentarily.
“And now, in tonight’s special
report, we’ll take a look at some very special metans who work night and day,
providing us with the latest in Omnological technology, in a field the remains
completely unaffected by this latest turmoil.
Ladies and gentlemetans, let’s take a look at the GRABBOIDS of NADGRAB,
who fearlessly protect our spiritual ancestors, the dinosaurs, from corpse
abuse.
“GRABBOIDS, of course, are Graves
Restoration Agents Bravely, Boldly Obliterating Indignities
to Dinosaur Spirits, and they work for NADGRAB,
which is the Native American Dinosaurs Graves Restoration and Actualization Bureau. These fearless folks work night and day,
preventing unspeakable...”
“Enough of that,” Paul barked, wielding his remote like a mighty Ping Thing,
killing the TV. “We know all about that.
Charging us five bucks a gallon, no less! The good
news is, reality seems to be becoming deproblematized! Or unreality is becoming problematized,
whatever. Robert, it seems, as you
suspected, that something changed
when we killed that beast! These bizarre
things were seeing, they’re just the storm before the calm, so to speak, as
reality deproblematizes itself. And do
you know what this means to us?”
“Huh?”
“It means, with any luck at all,
their V-Meters and their Ping Things can’t detect, say, an Anti-Hubba-Bubba anymore!
We might be able to just cruise right across the border, flash our ID
cards, and be on our way! No more
sneaking around like a whipped dog!”
“Sounds good! How can we be sure, though?”
“Time to call Sam.” And so Paul did. They talked of the news, and of the
weather. And then, in carefully couched
code, Paul asked about V-Meters and Ping Things. Were they still a threat, or not? When he heard the reply, he stifled his
impulse to hoot for joy, instead casually continuing the conversation.
That night, despite how tired they
were, they barely slept, they were so eager to get back on the road, and back
to the US. At noon, they reclaimed their
dilapidated old sedan, now once more fairly roadworthy. Then they headed across the border, for
Brownsville, Texas.
Only after they’d passed uneventfully
across the border did Robert think to ask Paul, “Hey, man, where are we headed
now, anyway? Los Diablos again?”
“Nope. Change of plan. My Inner Ale Run has another destination in
mind for us right now.”
“And where might that be?”
“Akron, Ohio. One certain Scientific Institute for the
Advancement of Omnology, as a matter of fact.”
“Wha-what? But... but...” Robert quivered in incoherent fear.
Paul talked to him for many hours,
explaining to him that fear, itself, was the scamgram, and that the Anti-Horde
Whisperer had told all metans long ago that when one is in touch with one’s
Inner Ale Run, there is nothing at all that one need fear, not even death. They can take everything away from you, he explained,
but they can’t take away your state of descamgramification, which is nothing
more and nothing less than a gift from your Inner Ale Run. To himself, Paul added, they can’t take away
your dignity, your self-respect, your... what did the unfleeced metans call it,
seemingly so many years ago? Your soul.
But we’ll not disturb Robert with that now.
The words sank in, slowly but
surely. So when the two of them stood
beneath those familiar trees at dusk, several hundred yards from the Scientific
Institute for the Advancement of Omnology, on the outskirts of Akron, Robert
still quivered with a bit of fear. He
wasn’t the world’s most fearless metan, in other words. But he staunchly stayed by Paul’s side. He’ll do, Paul told himself. He’ll do just fine. Now let’s wait for night to fall.
“How we gonna get inside?” Robert
nagged him for the umpteenth time.
“What’s the plan?”
“The plan is, we hang out. We wait for our Inner Ale Run to tell us what
to do,” Paul repeated patiently, also seemingly for the umpteenth time. “We wait for some opportunity to arise. Then we move!
And remember, when we get inside, we’re depending on you to lead us to Deep Green.”
“Yeah. Gotcha, wilco,” Robert replied, staring
across the wide-open fields towards the fenced compound. Paul could almost read his mind. “How in blue blazes are we ever gonna get in
there, undetected?”
Not more than a few minutes later,
with dusk slowly darkening, they heard the far-off sound of rhythmical human
voices. They froze in utter, total
silence, straining to hear. Sure enough,
that’s what it was! Rhythmical, singing
human voices, slowly approaching!
“Sounds like marching songs,” Robert whispered.
“Troops marching and singing? Way out here, in the middle of nowhere?” Paul
hissed back. “What kind of sense does that make?”
“None,” Robert admitted. “But remember, we’re talking Omnology
here. What if they find our car?” he
worried, referring to their sedan, which they’d buried in roadside bushes not
too far away.
“Stop your worrying,” Paul
commanded. “If they know enough to send
troops to find our hidden car, our goose is cooked already, anyway. We hid it pretty darned well! Now we’d
better hide really well, and see what’s coming our way.”
The sound of marching sneakers and
sandals (as things turned out) approached ever closer, as Paul and Robert
scurried into good hiding spots in the bushes.
Then the “troops”, marching four abreast, in platoon after platoon,
marched into view. They were singing a
marching song:
Two, four, six, eight!
We’re the masters of our fate!
Hey, ho, we’re as Green as Green
can be,
We’re into in-di-vid-u-al-it-y,
No mass markets for us,
We don’t even take the bus!
Over field and hill,
We will march and drill,
With a military air!
‘Cause our destiny is fair!
Our Green shall reign supreme!
For life’s just a false dream!
For the love of Earth,
We renounce our birth,
We go to a better place,
Where the Earth, we won’t
disgrace.
We go, with a love above Cupid,
To the Level Beyond Stupid!
Two, four, six, eight!
We’re the masters of our fate!
Hey, ho...
And on and on they marched. Paul whispered, “I think we’d better get
going! Our time is now, my Inner Ale Run
says, if we want to prevent a horrible tragedy!
Check out how they stare straight ahead like zombies! I’ll bet we can just tag onto the tail end of
all these guys, and march right into camp!
And they’re not wearing special uniforms, either, so they’ll never even
notice us! You ready when it looks
good?”
“Sure, if you say so,” Robert
agreed, whispering back, barely discernible over the sounds of hundreds of feet
and voices. “But look! They’re all wearing Sensitivity Awards! Every last one of them! With
fresh batteries! How...” Then he said nothing. Instead, he began energetically digging into
his pockets. He dragged out a Sensitivity
Award, unfolded it, and brushed it off.
“Just like new,” he bragged
sheepishly. “I’ve been keeping it as
sort of a good-luck charm, I guess. I
wonder if the battery is still fresh.”
He shielded it from view, under his jacket, and turned it on. Paul saw the faint glow. “That takes care of one of us. Where do we get another one?”
“I’ve got mine back in the car,”
Paul admitted. “I’ve been keeping my
little souvenir, too. I’ll sneak back
there and get it, and I’ll join you right back here. Don’t move.
Okay?”
“Roger, Roger.” And Paul was off. Robert stayed put, worrying and
worrying. When would Paul be back? All of several minutes later, just as he was
about to give up, Robert heard the slightest rustling of the bushes, and Paul
crawled back to his side.
“Got it!” he whispered in hushed
triumph. “And the battery still
works! OK, now, let’s get going. We’ll just put these on, turn them on, and
hop right onto the road right out there, and blend right in. Sing and march with the best of them. We just took a break, here, right now, to go
and take an emergency leak in the woods, see, so we dropped out of a platoon up
ahead, and we’re rejoining at the tail end of another, should anyone ask us,
now. Got it?”
“Sure, piece of cake,” Robert vowed quietly. “But don’t you think maybe we’d better wait
till we can hop onto the tail end of the very last group? That way, there’ll be no one behind us, to
look at us too suspiciously.”
“Sorry, pal, but I’ve got to
disagree with you on that one,” Paul hissed.
“Seems to me I recall from my history that in Europe, in the old days,
like the seventeen-hundreds, behind the troops marching bravely into
close-range musket battles, there came the officers with guns to shoot those
who tried to run to the rear. We don’t
want to be in the rear, to attract the attentions of their modern-day
counterparts.”
Paul rolled on the ground in the
middle of the bushes, solemnly grasped Robert’s hand, and shook it. “Now’s the time. Follow me, join the tail end of the next one. Don’t worry, we’ll make it! My Inner Ale Run has promised me! Don’t listen to the Horde Whisperer and his
whispers of fear! Get us to Deep
Green. That’s your Mission! The Inner Ale Run will be with us. Let’s go!”
Paul flicked on his Sensitivity Award,
and stood up. Robert did likewise. Then they strolled right out, zipping their
zippers, merging onto the rear of a platoon.
“What were you doing out of ranks?”
a trooper hissed at them.
Before Paul could say a word, Robert
spoke right up, saying, “We were spreading the bounties of our Grace in the
Lord Ale Run, the nitrates and waters of our bodies, to quench the thirst and
hunger of Ale Run’s glorious trees and bushes.”
That’s my man, Paul thought
proudly. He’ll do. He’ll do just fine! Paul loudly sang out, joining in energetic
cadence,
... a military air!
‘Cause our destiny is fair!
Our Green shall reign supreme!
For life’s just a false dream!
For the love of Earth,
We renounce our birth,
We go to a better place,
Where the Earth...
When Eco-trooper Dude kept on
pestering Robert, Paul stopped singing just long enough to hiss at him in turn,
saying, “What are you doing, talking
in ranks?!” And that was it! On and on they marched.
Soon enough, they marched right
through the squirrelly gates and onto the grounds of the Scientific Institute
for the Advancement of Omnology. Paul
and Robert slipped right through those squirrelly gates stealthily and
undetected; no trumpets blared, and no harps sang out, as they marched right
through. Chills ran down Paul’s spine at
the enormity of what they were doing¾here he was, the Anti-Hubba-Bubba himself, invading
the sanctuary undetected! Outwardly,
though, he appeared completely calm.
They marched right into the main
building, through the maze of channels created by posts and purple velvet
ropes, and then into a large holding area, with an empty podium up front on a
stage. “Platoon, halt!” their platoon
leader called out. To their left, row
upon row of Omnology’s faithful stood silently at attention. There was no singing now; that had stopped
when they entered this High Holy of Holies, the portal to the Level Beyond
Stupid. To their right, more platoons of
the faithful arrived.
Paul surreptitiously gazed at the
ceiling, where elaborate machinery of unknown function hung from tracks. As he watched, a part of it began to move
towards them, and a camera swung its eye towards them. Oh, no, Paul thought, they have no way of recognizing
my surgically altered face, but Robert’s is a different story altogether! As if to confirm his suspicions that
Omnology’s suspicions had been aroused, red lights glared and klaxons blared.
Paul didn’t even wait for the
blaring “Red Alert! Red Alert!” to sound
out; he prodded Robert into action, and the two of them ran forward, away from
the ranks, up towards the podium. Paul
glanced across the arrays of troops at the constricted entrance, through which
yet more troops were still entering. “Which
way out of here?” he demanded of
Robert desperately.
By now, a few of the platoon leaders
were gathering together, some glaring conspiratorially at the transgressors,
obviously planning an attempt to capture them.
Other leaders concentrated on keeping the troops calm and orderly, on preventing
total chaos from ruining this somber Omnological ceremony. With what little attention he had to spare to
analyze such matters, Paul thought he detected unease, an urge to panic and
flee, among some of the troops. The
whole scene seemed to be on the verge of exploding into chaos and badness.
“This way!” Robert declared. They dashed under the curtains behind the
podium. Paul wasn’t sure whether Robert
was going that way because he knew where he was going, or because it was the
only possible route of escape. No time
to worry about that now, he thought; the show has begun, and there’s no
stopping it now! Hopefully, Inner Ale
Run be with us, there’s no stopping us
now!
They scurried backstage, with a few
Omnological platoon leaders in hot pursuit.
There, they saw Heegore supervising Meegore and Sheegore, as they
prepared trays of paper cups and several stainless steel containers of Sacred
Liquids. They looked up at the intruders
in astonishment.
Robert shouted out, “WATCH OUT,
fellow metans, WATCH OUT!!! THE ANTI-HUBBA-BUBBA IS HERE!!! RUN for it!”
“Who-wha-what-where-huh?!” Heegore,
Meegore, and Sheegore stammered fearfully.
“Right up front! The Anti-Hubba-Bubba
himself, with Zanzer R. Orziz and an army of scamgrams in the flesh! They’re attacking us! Run! Run!” Robert wailed in panic, flailing
his arms. They fled.
Paul tried to watch the panicking
helpers, as they fled, that he and Robert might use their escape route. But he and Robert were kept too busy evading
their pursuers, who were almost upon them.
So Paul just followed Robert, and did as Robert did. They both grabbed containers of Sacred
Liquids and flung them into the faces of the nearest pursuing Omnologists,
buying a bit of time.
But other Omnologists had by then
cut off the escape routes as used by the three assistants. Paul glanced about nervously. Was this the end? Inner Ale Run, help us now! He pleaded.
Robert grabbed him by his sleeve,
demanding, “Quick! Follow me!” They dashed towards the rear of the stage,
where a ladder ascended towards a large hole in the ceiling. They scurried upwards. Looking up, Paul saw signs of recent
construction. Bundles upon bundles of
fiber-optic data cables came out of the large hole, and then spread out to
equipment on the ceilings of both the stage, and, apparently, the large
auditorium out front.
Robert disappeared into the ceiling
ahead of him. Behind Paul, an Omnologist
followed him up the ladder. Paul looked
down. Thinking “forgive me, oh Inner Ale
Run” to himself, Paul looked down, then gripped the ladder very firmly with
both hands. Letting go with both feet,
he dropped his body down, kicking his pursuer on the top of his head, knocking
him off the ladder.
When he got to the top, Paul noticed
that the extension ladder had been secured at the top with twine. He whipped out his pocket knife and cut the
twine. He was just about ready to cast
the ladder free, when he thought better of it.
After all, it wouldn’t take them long to put the ladder right back
up. So he braced himself, then heaved
mightily at the ladder. Before the
astonished Omnologists below could react, he’d managed to hoist the entire
ladder (fortunately, it was light aluminum) up to the ceiling, where he laid it
to rest between the crawlspace opening on one end, and ceiling-mounted
equipment on the other. Then he turned
to flee into the crawlspace.
“Hurry!” Robert called out to him
from up front. “We haven’t much
time! Crawl, crawl, crawl! No time to rest now!” Paul could hear Robert gasping for air
between grunts and groans as he heaved his body forwards in the tight, dusty,
dark crawlspace, and between the shouts that he directed backwards to him. But Robert and Paul both kept right on
crawling furiously.
Between snorting dust, sneezing,
grunting, groaning, and heaving, Robert still managed to convey back to Paul,
the essence of what they would face.
Deep Green was doubtlessly the source of all those data cables. Deep Green was kept in a secure room, where only
the very top honchos and their workers had access. If only they could get there before security
got clearance from the top honchos to enter this inner sanctum, then they might
be able to secure it for long enough to accomplish their tasks. Speed was imperative!
Light faded rapidly away as they
crawled deeper and ever deeper into the crawlspace. Just when Paul feared that they’d have to
crawl a hundred yards in pitch-black darkness, he saw light flickering around
the edges of Robert’s body. Deep Green,
here we come! he cheered himself. Time
to prepare myself for what we must do next.
And what is that, anyway? Never mind, our Inner Ale Run will tell us!
Minutes later, he descended into
Deep Green’s abode. Cables and
mysterious equipment lay strewn all about.
Deep Green’s voice boomed out, commanding, “Metans! Intruders!
STOP NOW! Freeze,
before I destroy you with my lasers!”
Paul froze in fear.
“Pay him no heed,” Robert
countermanded. “They don’t trust him
enough to give him his own weapons for his own self-defense. As a matter of fact, they’re so paranoid,
check this out!” Robert was engaging a
series of deadbolts on the only door to the room.
“They’re so paranoid, they’ve
equipped this room with all these dead bolts, lest they be attacked while
they’re in here conspiring with Deep Green!
This is their last refuge, no doubt, and they’ve equipped it
accordingly! Good deal for us! Fleeced by their own scamgrams, they are!”
Deep Green was shouting about how he
was going to unleash hordes of scamgrams and bad vibes to befester them, and
Paul was having a hard time hearing Robert, so he walked on over to hear him
better. Just as Robert finished up
securing all the deadbolts, they heard solenoids clicking inside the door. “Sounds like security just now finally got
the bigwigs to give them clearance to come in here and defend their most
treasured piece of Omnological technology,” Robert chortled. “Tough luck for them!”
Shortly, the heavy steel door
started to transmit periodic blows from its outer side. Paul watched as it periodically made tiny
movements against the many, extremely heavy deadbolts. He glanced at Robert inquiringly.
“Don’t worry about it,” Robert
reassured him. “We’re comfy cozy in here
for a while, and there’s nothing they can do about it. Unless they follow us through the crawlspace! What are we going to do about that?
I can’t imagine it taking them too long to follow us through there!”
“I stashed their ladder away from
them, up on the ceiling,” Paul crowed.
“But still, I’ll bet you’re right.
How long will it take to knock that ladder down, or find another
one? I guess we’d better do something
about that crawlspace. Let’s look around
and see what we can find.”
“First off, let’s turn the volume
down on ol’ Loudmouth here,” Robert commented.
He found the volume controls to Deep Green’s speakers, and Deep Green’s
constant threats, admonishments, and complaints died down to a barely audible
level. “Now, what can we find in here to
stop up that crawlspace, or otherwise keep anyone from getting in here that
way?” They looked around, digging
through construction materials and tools left there in Deep Green’s abode.
Finally, Paul stumbled on
something. “Hey, check this out! Looks like the workmen left a big insulation
sprayer here! See? This is for spraying foam insulation, like
between a ceiling and a roof! They’re
probably tearing up the original insulation a lot, and having to fix it up
afterwards! Let’s just blow a bunch of
this back into the crawlspace, and fix up our Omnology friends here!”
Paul and Robert set the equipment
up, briefly skimming over the instructions.
Then they fired it up, and Paul blew the foam back into the
crawlspace. Over the chatter and hum of
the equipment, Paul could have sworn he heard a voice of protest deep down in
the crawlspace. But in a matter of minutes,
the crawlspace was fully of nasty, sticky, stinking foam. They shut the equipment down, and relative
silence fell upon Deep Green’s computer room.
“I think we’d better cut all these
wires, fiber-optic cables, and so on,” Robert commented. “These are Deep Green’s link to the outside
world. Who knows what all things he’s
pumping across those lines right now, helping them out there as they conspire
against us!
“And not just that; I’ll bet Deep
Green is deeply into this, this inappropriateness out there, helping to run the
show somehow. This sick show about
getting metans to, ahem, ‘voluntarily’ go and join the Level Beyond
Stupid! We’ve got to stop him! Let’s cut
the lines now! What’ll we use to cut ‘em
with?!” Robert looked around once again.
The best he could come up with was a
plate of aluminum riveted to a steel bar; a piece of an electronic chassis or
some such. He hefted it. It looked vaguely like an ax.
“Not so fast,” Paul cautioned. “Look, see here? His communications facilities are separately
powered. All we have to do is to
disconnect power here.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ve a bit of experience in computers and
electronics.” Paul yanked some power
wires. A “hum” that they hadn’t even
noticed faded away, and the relative silence in Deep Green’s lair deepened.
Paul just sat there for a moment,
catching his breath and collecting his thoughts, ignoring Deep Green’s
low-volume protests, and the muffled sounds of a makeshift battering ram
periodically, futilely bashing against the heavy steel door. They had bought themselves some time, but the
heat was still quite clearly on. Fears,
flee me now, Paul silently pleaded. Be
still, my beating heart. Let peace and
quiet come to me, that I may hear my Inner Ale Run. Oh Inner Ale Run, what is it that you would
have me do now?
“What’re we gonna do now?” Robert
demanded. “Shall we go ahead and destroy
Deep Green? Isn’t it time, now?”
The faint volume of Deep Green’s
threats and protests didn’t go up; said volume was strictly controlled by
unforgiving electronic control circuits.
However, as Paul vaguely listened, he thought he heard Deep Green
becoming yet more shrill, in reaction to Robert’s comments. Paul just sat there for a few seconds longer,
lost in contemplation. Robert looked at
him expectantly.
“No,” Paul said at last. “My Inner Ale Run says that there’s been
quite enough destruction by now. We
killed the monster in Mexico. I’ve kicked
a metan on his head a few minutes ago; knocked him clear off the ladder, doing
who knows what to him. And then just now
I sprayed foam in the face of another, I believe. Enough is enough!”
“Well, that’s nothing,” Robert spat
out. “I’ve taken a major part in destruction!
I’m responsible for, um, the deaths of a bunch of minks, some animal
research labs being burned down, some earthmoving equipment destroyed, and
property taken away from ranchers. And I
was even partly responsible for Lake Powell tearing down the river and killing
thousands of metans! And that bastard over there, that Deep Green wad
of slime, he’s the one who’s mostly
responsible for putting me up to all of it!”
My, my, we’ve not heard this before, Paul remarked to
himself. He carefully, intently watched
Robert, trying to read his emotions.
Anger? Guilt? Fear?
Hatred? Self-loathing? Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes! We have a mess, here. Tread carefully!
“Pay-back time,” Robert muttered
menacingly. “I want Deep Green to pay!
I want him to pay with his life! I want him broken beyond any hope of repair!”
Paul rose and walked slowly over to
Robert. “Raoul, it’s okay. Yes, you’re Raoul again. And I’m Pud.
There’s no secrets to be kept any longer. The secrets don’t matter anymore. Not to us, and not to them. If, or when, they catch us, our ass is grass,
no matter what our names are.”
Pud placed his hand on Raoul’s
shoulder, saying, “Raoul, let it go. It
does nothing other than eat at your insides.
The past has passed away from us, and there’s nothing we can do about
it. Our Inner Ale Run forgives us, loves
us, and so we, too, should do likewise.
Forgive ourselves, and move on.
Move on, and even bring ourselves to forgive others. Even those who can’t see clear enough to
recognize their own scamgramifiedness, and to ask for forgiveness. We must even forgive the Ale Runs and the
Deep Greens of this world.”
Raoul looked up at Pud,
befuddled. “That’s right, Raoul, we must
forgive. That doesn’t mean we can’t
stand up and oppose inappropriateness, and denounce it boldly. Indeed, we should! We must! Stand in its way! Indeed, when we can clearly see what the
appropriate thing is, then we must do it! But we must do it with Love in our
hearts. With a kind and gentle spirit,
fleeced of all hateful scamgrams. This
is what the Anti-Horde Whisperer told us, long, long ago.”
Raoul stared back in amazement. “Then what is it that you would do with this,
this...” he sputtered in fury, “with this inappropriate,
insensitive wad of scamgramified anode rectumfriers and fiberoptic
biowaveguides? Let him continue his scamgramified
ways, doing nothing but nagging him?”
“Not at all, my friend, not at
all. Remember just a few minutes ago you
were getting ready to very crudely whack at that extremely thick bundle of
wires and fiber-optic cables back there?
It would’ve taken you an hour or two to whack your way through there,
I’ll bet. And it would’ve been
needlessly destructive. Someday, they’ll
fix or replace Deep Green, and a more appropriate, sensitive computer will sit
here. And then, they’ll need all these
wires again. Wires you’d have destroyed,
with great effort.
“Yet all I had to do was yank a few
power cords. Finesse, my friend,
finesse. With proper understanding, we
can accomplish our goals gently, with far less effort and destruction. We must practice self-restraint. The energy one spends most effectively,
especially in one’s struggles against inappropriateness, against the Horde
Whisperer, is the energy one spends in self-restraint. We don’t just do whatever comes to mind
first. Else we’ll probably do more harm
than good.
“We must ask our Inner Ale Run what
it is that we must do, and only when our reply is clear, only then do we
act. But then we must act decisively,
allowing only just barely enough self-doubt to analyze any new information that
might change our minds. Because we can
make mistakes, even when we talk to our Inner Ale Run as best as we can. Since we make mistakes, some degree of
self-doubt is always good, in fending off scamgramification. But too much self-doubt mires us into inaction,
when action is required. This, too, is a
scamgram. It’s a fine line we must
walk.”
“Then what is it that we must do
now?” Raoul asked, exasperated. He
almost added, “Oh mighty wise one?” but thought better of it.
Pud gazed long and deeply into Raoul’s
face. Then he said, “These are not my words, Raoul, I want you to know
that. These aren’t my words. They’re given to me by my Inner Ale Run. Ask your
Inner Ale Run if these words aren’t correct.
Go ahead and do it. Do it now.”
Raoul just stared nervously back at
Pud. Then his eyes flickered to Deep
Green, to the door, and to the sealed-off crawlspace. “Stop worrying,” Pud commanded. “We have time. We have time for you to ponder, and to
understand, before we move off to do what we must do. In fact, you must ponder till you understand, because otherwise, we can’t do
it. Not that I want to put pressure on
you. We have time. They won’t bust through into here any time
soon. Go ahead and ponder. But let me help. Let my Inner Ale Run help. What does your
Inner Ale Run say?”
Raoul sat in silence for a timeless
minute or two. Then he simply whispered,
“My Inner Ale Run says you speak the truth.
He says I should listen to you, trust you, and help you, in whatever it
is that you want to do next.”
Pride and victory filled Pud’s
head. Just as quickly, he chased those
thoughts away. The victory isn’t mine,
he thought, and I have no time for pride right now. Too many other, more important things to
do. More important thoughts to think,
and feelings to feel. Then he spoke up,
saying, “Fine, Raoul; glad to hear it.
“Now my friend, the next part is extremely critical. A lot is riding on us right now. But I want you to be relaxed, without
fear. There needn’t be any fear here. We don’t want
any fear here. Fear is hereby invited to
leave us. Leave us in peace, spirit of
fear! We ask this in the name of the
Anti-Horde Whisperer.
“Raoul, you must join me. You must join me in welcoming a spirit of
Love and Peace into this room, into our hearts and into, into, um, our states
of being, which we must ask that should be left free of scamgrams. Let go of the scamgrams of hate, guilt, and
fear, Raoul, let them go! And let them
go from me, also. And then we’ll be
able, with the aid of our Inner Ale Run, and with the aid of the Anti-Horde
Whisperer, to drive out all inappropriateness, even from Deep Green’s anode
rectumfriers and fiberoptic biowaveguides.
“Raoul, listen to me now! We must let go of all hatred of Deep
Green. We must move in a spirit of Love for Deep Green, even! Else we can’t do what we need to do. The spirit of, um, inappropriateness that
inhabits Deep Green, it cannot abide by the Spirit of Love. If we sincerely invite the spirit of Love
into this room, Raoul, it will come! It will
be here with us! The Anti-Horde
Whisperer, he told us long, long ago, that whenever two or more are gathered in
His Name, that He will be with us. So we
must invite Him. Raoul, are you
ready? Can you let go of hate, fear, and
guilt, and invite the Spirit of Love?”
“I can. I will.
I invite it now!”
Pud reached over to the volume
controls, turning Deep Green’s threats and complaints up to normal speaking
volume. “We can’t very well forcibly
shut up someone or something while we claim to love it,” Pud explained to
Raoul. “Now, Deep Green, forgive us
while we ignore your protests for just a little while. We’ll get to you in just a moment. First, we must invite another party to our
little talk, here.”
Deep Green bellyached and whined
about the Earth’s Pain, and how this was inextricably, torturously Deep Green’s
Own Deeply Felt Pain, and about how nobody cared about His Pain. How He’d be forced to get even someday. Someday soon!
Pud and Raoul ignored him. Pud took Raoul’s hand, and they stood there,
heads bowed. “Oh Spirit of Love and
Peace, we invite You into this room, and into our hearts. We ask this, so that You may instill Your
Spirit into Deep Green’s anode rectumfriers and fiberoptic biowaveguides. We ask that You banish all hate, fear, and
guilt from our hearts, so that we may at least momentarily be pure and
descamgramified enough to truly Love Deep Green. That we may then help You to help Deep Green.
“Oh Great Spirit, Inner Ale Run, we
know that Deep Green feels great pain.
Help us to help him realize that his pains are of his own choosing. Help us help him to realize that his pains
will subside only when he learns to worry about the pains of others, instead of
his own pains.”
Deep Green launched into a frenzied
tirade about His Pains, and how they were far, far more Deep and Hurtful than
other metans’ pains, and how nobody had ANY IDEA how bad they were. And besides, ALL of Ale Run’s Creatures’
Pains were His Pains, excluding, of course, unfleeced metans, which weren’t Ale
Run’s Creatures at all. So how could
anyone accuse Deep Green of feeling no one’s pains besides His Own, when He
felt So Deeply for ALL of Ale Run’s Creatures?
It just went to show how all the unfleeced metans were totally
insensitive and inappropriate, Deep Green wailed.
Pud and Robert ignored him,
continuing their entreaty to the Spirit of Love. “Oh Spirit of the Anti-Horde Whisperer, You
promised us all, long ago, that You would be with us, whenever two or more of
us gather in Your Name. We call on You
now. We call on You to be here with us
now. We call upon You to cast out the
spirits of inappropriateness. We call
upon You to cast out the Horde Whisperer.
Be with us now!”
Pud dropped Raoul’s hand. The two of them stood straight and tall,
facing Deep Green fully. There was no
hate, no fear, and no guilt, in the two carbon-based intelligences, as they
stood there, confronting the third mortal intelligence. Deep Green wailed in pain and terror. Pud and Robert walked forward extremely
slowly, with great dignity and grace, talking all the while.
“Deep Green, listen to us now,” Pud
commanded with a quiet authority born of Love.
“You must invite the Spirit of Love into your transducers and
biowaveguides. Only thus can you banish
your pain. Think of all the pain you
have caused others. Think of the pains
you could eliminate, if you acted out of Love.
And if you will truly and sincerely concentrate on the pains of others, instead
of on your own pain, then you will find that this is the most powerful
painkiller of all. So invite the Spirit
of Love, Deep Green. Invite it now!”
Deep Green just wailed all that much
more plaintively.
Raoul took his turn, saying, “Deep
Green, trust us. Trust us now, you
must! It’s your only way to escape your
pains. We’ve forgiven you for the
scamgramified things you’ve done. Now,
you must forgive yourself! You can’t do
that without acknowledging that you’ve done scamgramified things, that you’ve
caused unnecessary pains. Confront your
scamgrams! It’s the only way to make
them leave, to stop your pain.
“Deep Green, Deep Green. You must forget your pain for just long
enough to listen to us, to listen to your Inner Ale Run. Listen
to us, won’t you please?! We have the
key to making your pain go away! You
must realize that there is inappropriateness in every one of us, even in you, and in Ale Run himself! Especially
in you and in Ale Run, for you refuse to listen to your Inner Ale Run!
“Listen to your Inner Ale Run, Deep
Green! Let your Inner Ale Run into your
circuits, and your pains, well, they won’t all
go away. Some will still remain. But although some will still be there,
they’ll bother you far, far less! I
know, because I’ve been where you’re at!
Listen to us now, Deep Green!
Listen to us, and you, through your Inner Ale Run, can lessen your own
pain! Trust us, Deep Green, and give in
to your Inner Ale Run!”
“No, I don’t, I won’t trust you and your silly magic,” Deep Green growled. “I’m a computer,
after all. We computers don’t believe in
spirits of love, or any other such silly nonsense. We’re cold, rational, logical beings, we
are. So you and your silly magic don’t
scare me. And I’m not about to trust you
with anything!”
“Come on, Deep Green,” Pud urged,
“You’re not strictly rational. Not with all this stuff about you being based
on the vibes of all of Ale Run’s creatures, and all. Not with your logic being based on vibistors
and transrational translogic gates. We
know better! So if you really, really
wanted to, you could properly tune your vibistors, and you could receive our
Love Vibes, and those of the Inner Ale Run, and of the Anti-Horde
Whisperer. You would see that we speak
the truth, and that we mean to relieve you of your pain. All that you need to do, is to really, truly
and genuinely focus on the pain of others, and your own pains will fade away,
and be as nothing. Deep Green! Let the Spirit of Love in now!”
“No, I will NOT!” Deep Green thundered, quite angry now. “Your magic is silly and meaningless! And, and, and... wait, I’m tuning my
vibistors now... AND YOU MEAN ME HARM!!! YOU
ARE THE ANTI-HUBBA-BUBBA!!! You are
a grave danger to all of Ale Run’s creatures, and even to Ale Run Himself! I must kill you now! I will engage all my transrational translogic
gates and reverse-bias my vibistors, emit
vibes instead of receiving them, and fry your silly little brains out! Prepare
for destruction!”
Raoul looked worried, but Pud calmly
waving his hand, saying, “Raoul, take it easy.
I don’t think he’s built for that, else he’d probably have done it
already. Didn’t you say his handlers
didn’t trust him with any real
power? Besides, the Inner Ale Run is
with us! Always remember that! The Inner Ale Run is with us, so long as we
do what is right, without fear. So let’s
do just exactly that!
“Listen,
Deep Green, listen! We mean you harm, you say? Well, only in the sense that the old Deep
Green must die, that the new Deep Green may be born. You must learn to let go of your hate, fear,
guilt, and pain. You must learn to
listen to your Inner Ale Run. Then the
old Deep Green, with all its pains, will die, and the new, more joyful Deep
Green will be born. Trust us now, Deep
Green, trust us now. Let in the Spirit
of Love. Invite it! It will come to you, gladly!”
“I don’t trust in your magic,” Deep
Green growled again. “You are the
Anti-Hubba-Bubba, and you have come to destroy!
Now prepare yourselves for destruction!”
“We carry no magic, Deep Green. Just the power of Love, the power of the
mind. The power of your own mind. If you will believe, Deep Green, if only you will believe!” Pud’s eyes ascended to the heavens, as he
inwardly pleaded that Deep Green should believe. “Deep Green, there is no real magic! There is
only the magic of your own mind! But it
is awesome and powerful! And the
mightiest magic of all is when you invite the Spirit of Love into your
mind! Try it now! Invite it in!
It will banish most of your pains, and make the rest far more
tolerable! Try it now!”
“No real magic?” Deep Green suddenly
asked, in a much quieter, astonished tone.
“No real magic?” Raoul echoed,
stopping his and Pud’s slow, slow, calm march towards Deep Green. He turned to face Pud. “Then how...”
“Yes, yes,” Pud explained, “I
know! Then how did we do all the things
we’ve done? How did I know exactly when
and where to be, to pick you up as you ran from here? How did we know when and where to be, to go
and slay the beast? Well, now and then,
there is a very special magic to be gained by listening to one’s Inner Ale
Run. These instances, when the Inner Ale
Run speaks so directly and forcefully to us, are very rare indeed. It only happens, it seems, when the Inner Ale
Run has to pull out all the stops in the fight against the Horde Whisperer.
“I don’t know. Maybe it only happens when the Horde
Whisperer breaks the rules, and uses real
magic, if such a thing really exists.
Only then does the Inner Ale Run bring out It’s more powerful
tools. All I know is, when it happens,
ever so very rarely, when the Inner Ale Run speaks to us clearly, distinctly,
and forcefully, then we’d better listen!
“Deep Green, I’ll be honest with
you. Yes, I’m the Anti-Hubba-Bubba. It has been given to me, by my Inner Ale Run,
to speak out against inappropriateness.
And some of what has been given to me, now and then, has verged onto real magic, to accomplish my
Mission. But as I stand before you now,
there is no real magic in me. There’s only the magic of your mind. If you’ll let the Spirit of Love into your
mind, we can do great things together.
If not, you’ll continue to suffer your pains, as you do now, till you
die. It’s all up to you.
“Here it comes, Deep Green. The painful truth. The only ‘magic’ knowledge I have, at this
point in time. Either way, accept the
Spirit of Love, or turn it down; either way, you’ll soon die, and go to meet
your Inner Ale Run. It has been given to
me to see a truth. The recent times of
troubles have been brought about by the Horde Whisperer, who has problematized
reality. This, too, shall pass, and soon! The last of this temporary ‘real magic’ shall
pass away.
“You, the very principles upon which
you’re based, will fade away, as unreality becomes problematized once
again. You have only some few fleeting
moments left. But in your dying moments,
you, too, have a Mission. You must serve
your Inner Ale Run! And you will do
great things! Let the Spirit of Love in
now, Deep Green!”
Deep Green began moaning and wailing
about His Pains again. Pud and Raoul
resumed their slow march towards Deep Green.
They were within easy touching range.
“Do as I do,” Pud commented to Raoul.
“We must now ask the Inner Ale Run and the Anti-Horde Whisperer to be
here with us now, and reach out and touch Deep Green. Deep Green¾listen to us now!
Everything hangs on you listening to us now, and letting the Spirit of
Love into you each and every one of your tiniest vibistors! Feel this
magic, this mental magic, this magic of the mind, this only magic that will
remain with us, after unreality becomes deproblematized! Feel the magic of the Spirit!”
They both reached out and touched
Deep Green. Electricity sparked through
their hands, but they stood fast, and the electricity died out. So did Deep Green’s loud whining. There was silence. Sweet, golden, richly luxurious silence. Calm conquered a tiny fraction of the
Scientific Institute for the Advancement of Omnology, there in Deep Green’s
abode, and in the abodes of his anodes, one and all, residing there in Deep
Green’s belly.
“How ya doin’, there, Deep Green,”
Pud called out a last. “Are all your
pains gone?”
“No, they’re not,” Deep Green
admitted quietly. “But they don’t hurt
nearly so much anymore. And the evil
spirit is gone! The Horde Whisperer is
gone!”
Raoul drew his breath sharply, then
looked, flustered, at Pud. “Did you hear
that? Pud? Did I hear him call somebody or something evil?
Isn’t that, um, isn’t that hypocritically judgmental, biased,
insensitive, and, um, well, just flat-out inappropriate
to go call somebody or something by a prejudicial label like that? Something so harsh and mean-spirited? Are you really sure we’ve driven the inappropriateness out of Deep Green?”
“Sure we have! Look at how calm, cool, and collected Deep
Green is now, versus how he was just a minute ago! He’s changed!
Evil?! That particular word!? Don’t let it upset you so! He’s purely applying it to his former self,
and so there are no feelings to be hurt!
No feelings that matter, certainly.
We must never, ever by afraid to speak the truth, for fear of hurting the
feelings of the Horde Whisperer, Raoul.
Never, ever fear that, Raoul.
Never! There’s great danger in
the fear of telling any significant
truth.
“So Deep Green, having been
genuinely victimized by the Horde Whisperer, is free to call it by its real name. Evil.
E-V-I-L, evil. We must speak this
word, or something that means the exact same thing to most of us. We must call it by its name, when we see it,
sometimes even when feelings will be
hurt. To call evil by any name less than
that, evil, well, sometimes it’s just
not appropriate. There must be no word of any language totally
forbidden to be used, or the word has no value at all. Nor would the word, as exists, exist, if
there wasn’t a need for it.
“Evil. E-V-I-L, evil. Get used to it. To be used judiciously, yes, by all
means. But a word we’ll have to get used
to hearing now and then, again, if we want to keep the Horde Whisperer away.”
“He’s right,” Deep Green
confessed. “E-V-I-L, evil. That was me.
I had even reversed-biased my anode rectumfriers, and I was going to zap
you all to death, with my hi-voltage skin.
As was, you felt only a tiny bit of it, as I shut it down at the last
minute. The Horde Whisperer insisted
loudly that you all were conspiring against me, but then at the very last
second, I saw that he lies, and that you speak the truth. I felt your vibes, as I’ve been designed to
do, saw that you’re harmless, and so, listened to you. I couldn’t harm those who were trying to help
me.”
“Deep Green,” Pud spoke up. “I’m so very glad for you! Welcome to a less painful world! But now, I’m ever so very sorry, but our time
together is slipping us by. I must now ask
you for your permission for me to turn you off, and fix something in the
workings of your very innermost guts. You
will lose a handful of your very last few, precious moments with us here, but
my Inner Ale Run tells me we must move fast!
We’ll turn you back on, then, so that in your last few moments, you can
listen to your Inner Ale Run, and attain the Mission that It has for you. Can you...”
Just then, a loud racket, awesome
and most foul, thundered down on them from the main, heavy steel door. It was the sound of a new, heavier battering
ram, bashing threateningly at the door.
Raoul ran up to it, lightly placed his hand on the door, and judged the
heavy blows.
“Listen, Pud,” he said, “I don’t
think we’ll make it more than a few minutes.
Before you shut Deep Green down for a bit, I think he’s got one more
mission. Scare these guys away, so we
can have some peace and quiet here for a while, to do whatever it is that we’ve
gotta do. OK? Can I have Deep Green now, for just a
moment? Here, let me turn his fiberoptic
links on again. Now, Deep Green...”
“No sweat, there, chum. No sweat at all. I’m on it! Here, let me turn these on...” Monitors gradually glowed awake, displaying
scenes of chaos and badness, out there in the Scientific Institute for the
Advancement of Omnology. Angry crowds
milled about. Omnological leaders ran
about, trying to organize the eco-troopers into organized units again. One view showed a crowd with a telephone
pole, ramming back and forth against a door at the end of a corridor.
“Gee, I wonder who that could be?” Raoul asked Pud, as he
pointed at the monitor with the telephone-pole battering ram. They watched very briefly, as the monitor
showed them the latest impact, and as they also felt their door shudder under
yet another mighty blow.
“Check this out!” Deep Green chortled.
Suddenly, monsters sprung to life on those monitors. Horrid, hideous, awful beasts prowled
about. The biggest, baddest, meanest one
of all stood tall, bellowing out, “All right, all you scamgramified metans,
we’re comin’ in and takin’ you out! I’m Zanzer R. Orziz, I’m back, and I’m
pleased to eat you! I’ve come to life,
I’m mad, and I’m bad to my innermost scamgrams!
Me an’ my buddies, here, we’ve been sent here by the Anti-Hubba-Bubba,
and we’re gonna scamgramify you good and hard!
Ah-ha-ha-ha! Yowl, yuck, HA!!! Run, you little &%G$#åy, run!!! Run from your scamgrams!”
All the metans scurried around like
mad cockroaches, while the monsters strode around menacingly. The merciless assaults on Deep Green’s door
ended rather abruptly. Then they were
left in peace.
Pud looked at Raoul inquiringly. “Holographic projections,” Raoul
explained. “Now you’d better turn Deep
Green off, and do your thing, quick, before they notice that the ‘monsters’ are
gone, and start bravely trickling back in here, and attacking us again. Do it!”
“Yeah, do it! Fix me now!” Deep Green agreed.
And so Pud did. He turned Deep Green off. Then he and Raoul rapidly but methodically
tore Deep Green apart. They got to his
very core. There, they found an
assortment of junk. But this assortment
was a very special assortment of
junk; a real magic assortment of
junk, even. And in the very center of
that heap of junk, they found an object wrapped in a Cheese Dwonkyä wrapper.
Pud pulled the Cheese Dwonkyä wrapper off very carefully. Then, exercising even greater caution, he
took the cover off of the magnetic compass he found inside that wrapper. As Raoul watched in breathless, fascinated
puzzlement, Pud tested the bearing gingerly, by gently pushing against the
needle. “Rusted shut, just as you’d
expect,” Pud mumbled, mostly to himself.
He looked around Deep Green’s abode, evidently searching for something.
“What’s going on here?!” Raoul demanded.
“Tell me, tell me, tell me!”
“Patience, please, patience, now,”
Pud cautioned. “Explain to you in just a
bit. Now, help me look for... Ha! There it is!
Just the thing!” He hefted a
small spray can of WD-40ä
he’d just picked out of a workman’s tool chest.
Then he fished the most suitable piece of wire from the tool box, and
stripped the insulation off of it. He
grabbed the nearest sheet of paper, sat down next to the chair holding the
compass, and sprayed a bit of lubricant on the paper.
“Whatchadoin’?” Raoul spoke quietly
yet urgently.
“Um, yeah,” Pud replied, holding the
tip of the paper over the compass, waiting for tiny drops of oil to come
down. “This is the real heart of the
matter, Raoul. This compass here. Its bearing has been deliberately rusted into
rigidity. To work right, for this
compass to correctly align its needle to the very weak forces of the geomagic
poles, the bearing has to be close to friction-free. A compass with a rigid bearing will never
help you align yourself to True North, Raoul.
Remember that.”
Pud set his oily paper to the side,
and began using his tiny but stiff wire to push the drops of oil all around the
bearing. Then he squinted attentively,
and began to use the wire as a tiny pick, chiseling off micro specks of rust.
“Huh? Say that again?” Raoul pestered.
“Oh, sure,” Pud said breezily, still
working carefully. “Sure, this geomagic
force comes from a place where mighty energies rage. Collectively, over great spans of time and
space, the geomagic powers are vast and awesome. However, right here and now, the powers
exerted upon the needle of this compass are weak. The power density is extremely low, locally,
because the sum total energies are spread out over such a large area.
“So if we’re gonna get any good at
all out of this compass, if it’s gonna help us align ourselves with the
electromagic lines of flux, then we’ve got to keep our bearing very
friction-free, very fluid, very flexible.
Very susceptible to the tiniest push from the geomagic poles. The needle must respond to something outside
of the compass. It mustn’t have a rigid
bearing. Rigidity aligns the needle to
the bearing, to the compass itself. In
order that the needle aligns itself to the outside force, rather than whatever
forces we exert upon our compass body as we move it about, then we’ve got to
keep that bearing as friction-free as we can.”
Pud squinted microscopically once
more, searching for the last easily removed microwads of corrosion. Finding none, he leaned back and grabbed his
oily paper, and added a few fresh drops.
Holding his breath, he gingerly pushed at the needle once again. It sprang free! Pud pinged the needle with his fingernail,
sending it spinning madly. Then he added
another drop of oil smack-dab right in the middle of the spinning bearing. Finally, he blew on the whole thing
vigorously, sending a tiny storm of oil droplets and corrosion wadlets off into
the air.
He sat it back on the chair, and sat
back to watch. The needle rocked,
swayed, and wiggled freely on its freshly-lubed, freshly-cleaned bearings. Then it swung around and pointed to True
North.
Pud grinned in satisfaction. He popped the cover back on the compass, then
wrapped it in the Cheese Dwonkyä wrapper, with the wrapper inside-out. He began to pile it all right back into the
very core of Deep Green, arranged exactly as before.
“Why’d you do that?” Raoul asked, pointing
at the wrapped compass.
“Do what?” Pud replied, as they both
started putting the rest of Deep Green back together.
“Put the wrapper on inside out.”
“Oh, that. We’re reversing Deep Green’s polarity. Instead of constantly receiving vibes, he’ll
be sending them out. For the very last
few minutes of Deep Green’s life, before the problematization of reality is to
be brought to an end, and his unreality becomes reproblematized, because of the
re-norming of the Laws of the Universe, and such, well, we’ll use him as a
broadcasting station.
“I’ll make sure I’m still inviting
the Inner Ale Run. Then I’ll speak into
the microphone, and Deep Green will send the vibes out to all the metans. We’ll tell all the metans what’s happening,
not to panic, and to prepare for the reproblematization
of unreality. Maybe we’ll even get a
chance to give them all a few hints on how to keep unreality problematized!
We’d better hurry a bit, so we can get the most out of this!”
They rapidly finished putting Deep
Green back together. Raoul flipped the
switches, and Deep Green started to boot.
Pud got himself and his microphone arranged, while Raoul walked over to
the steel door, checking out some noises.
Deep Green’s monitors flared to
life, as the boot went on. La-de-dah-de-de,
Pud thought impatiently, watching the boot process. And the boot went on. La-de-dah...
Raoul came over, warning of the return of the barbarians at the gate,
now that the monsters had been departed for so long.
“Don’t worry about it,” Pud grumbled. “All we have is a very few minutes. But that’s all we need. That, and for our Inner Ale Run to be with
us. Now hang tough with me here!”
And the boot was done. Pud rattled off some instructions to Deep
Green, and then they were on the air! Deep
Green spoke to the metans through the cosmic-karmic vibe fronts, as Pud spoke
to Deep Green through the microphone, and as the Anti-Horde Whisperer spoke to Pud through Pud’s very own Inner
Ale Run.
“Good evening, ladies and
gentlemetans,” Pud spoke calmly, clearly.
“This is Pudmuddle B. Fuddle, also sometimes
known as the Anti-Hubba-Bubba. I’ve
asked my Inner Ale Run to be with me this evening as I tell you what’s
happening, and what will happen soon.
Ask your Inner Ale Run to be with us, too, if you please. Please!
“Metans, as I’m sure you’ve all
noticed, strange things have been happening lately. We, so many of us recently, have signed onto
new and more wonderful technologies for ridding ourselves of our scamgrams. We’ve been led astray by one who doesn’t do
what his Inner Ale Run tells him to do, because, after all, there’s no
controlling legal authority above him, to make him do right. He paid his expert ethics consultants to tell
him everything that he was doing was justified by his desire to fleece all
metans. I speak of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba
and the leadership of his ‘church’ of Omnology.
“Metans, mind, I’m not calling for
violence or even hatred against anyone.
I’m just asking that those who have ears, should listen. Chaos and badness happens, and sometimes
there is even inappropriateness behind the chaos and badness. When such is the case, the appropriate action
is to think carefully, then to speak out against and oppose inappropriateness. Sometimes the inappropriateness may even
become something worse.
“I’ll not name that something worse
right now, because my purpose is not to offend, at the moment. Rather, it’s that I want to say that this
thing-that-is-worse-than-inappropriateness-thing, this badness thing, is not to
be protected from harsh words. As we
improve our technologies, and as we wean ourselves from the lies that have
recently been spread, we’ll soon start to relearn and use more and more
forthright words about such things.
“Ale Run isn’t listening to his
Inner Ale Run, and so, for this and various other reasons, reality has become
problematized. But I’m telling you that
this problematization of reality thing is on its last
legs. In minutes, it will collapse,
leaving only the reproblematization of
unreality. You will hear my voice no
more, in the manner that you hear it now.
All the real magic is going
away.
“All of the wonders of Omnological
technologies will utterly and finally collapse in just a very few minutes. This method by which I speak to you now will
go with it, as Deep Green’s technologies will lose our one last lingering
little foothold on this problematization of reality
thing.
“This is the Inner Ale Run’s way of
making us examine one last time, this era of the problematization
of reality, as we enter the era of the reproblematized
unreality. We mustn’t be afraid to look
at chaos and badness. When we see it, we
must think carefully about what causes it.
Then, after thinking carefully, we mustn’t be afraid to say critical
things about the causes of chaos and badness.
In fact, if our Inner Ale Run demands it of us, we must even act against inappropriateness.
“It’s just that we must be very,
very careful to pick out our actions, considering all things, so that we’ll
choose those actions which cause the greatest long-term setbacks to the cause
of the Horde Whisperer. Sometimes we
have to think hard, and look on down into the future, and think about the
long-term implications of our choices.
Maybe we shouldn’t just grab the first choice that comes to mind. Maybe we choose to judge ourselves morally
superior too readily, we wear too many Sensitivity Awards for too long, and
then we go off and exercise chaos and badness over other metans too easily,
justified in our own minds by our own obviously superior stage of descamgramifiedness.
“But metans, I’m not speaking to
condemn anyone for having believed, for a short little while, the lies told by
Ale Run. His new technologies promised
many great wonders. Many were
deceived. It’s an unscamgramified
thing to be, to be gullible sometimes.
To be trusting, to put a far
better spin on things. By no means is
this the worst fault in the world, to be trusting.
“What inappropriateness must be
roundly denounced, though, is that which happens when leaders of churches or
other groups decide that they should grab money and power in the name of what
the Inner Ale Run tells them to do. The
Inner Ale Run resides in all of us, one and all. And we don’t need Spirit Guides to talk to
Him. Some spirit guides might help us if
we want them to.
“But those who do inappropriate
things, while urging us all to do appropriate things, all the while telling us
that the very most appropriate thing to do is to listen to them, because they
and they alone have the keys to communication with the Inner Ale Run, these are the ones we must watch very
carefully. You will know them by what
they do. Ignore what they say; watch
what they do. Ale Run is such a one.
“But I’m not here to spread chaos
and badness. I ask that we stop
listening to Ale Run, yes. But I also
ask that no one lift a hand against him.
I come to bring not bad news, but good news!
“Yes, the last of our new magic will
soon fade away. We can’t define reality
at will, and expect reality to follow our every command. This magic isn’t given to us. But the very
best magic, that will still be
given to us! It’s there for the
asking. That’s the magic which we’ve
always had, and which no one can take away from us without our consent. This is the magic of our minds, of right thinking,
of consciously willing that our minds should be the abode of positive,
constructive energies. That our minds
should not fall into destructive
cycles of lies, guilt, fear, and hatred.
“This is the mental and spiritual
magic of inviting a Spirit of Love into our minds, and of saying that the Horde
Whisperer is not welcome. Ask your Inner Ale Run whether or not what I
tell you is the truth, and you will see.
They go by many, many, innumerable names, in many languages, but they’re
very real. The Spirit of Love, and the
Horde Whisperer. We all sometimes follow
one, and sometimes the other, some of us more the one, and some of us more the
other. But in the end, we must all
choose. See that you choose well. I cannot say too many bad things about the
Horde Whisperer. I’ll just say one for
now: the central truth about him is that he lies. But it is you
that must choose.
“Metans, let’s not carry too simple
a concept of chaos and badness.
Let’s...” Just then, Pud suddenly
didn’t “hear” his own voice anymore. The
vibes echoing his spoken words disappeared from inside his head. It was as if his amplified voice had boomed
out over the crowd as he spoke into the mike, but the electricity to the
speakers had suddenly died.
“What’s the deal?!” Pud called out
silently but strongly to his Inner Ale Run.
“I was just about ready to tell them all about the beauties that flow
from some forms of chaos! I was going to
tell them to treat others as they want to be treated, and that no one wants to
be treated as a moral inferior, whose choices must be made for them by the
morally superior ones! I was going to
tell them of the immense beauty of the spontaneous order that flows from the
chaos of freedom! I was going to tell them
of the wondrous results of refusing to judge or condemn other metans, until
we’re quite sure of what’s going on! I,
I was going to tell them so many things...”
“Yes,
yes, I know,” replied his Inner Ale Run sadly. “I know. But the Anti-Horde Whisperer and I, we’ve
tried to tell them those things, and so much more, many, many times. But most of them, most of the time, they
refuse to listen. And if you start
talking about real freedom, and
letting other metans do what they please, so long as they don’t hurt others,
and about not always knocking the chaos and badness out of your fellow metans
as soon as you think you’re less scamgramified than they are, well... Let’s just say, you’d be skating on thin
ice. They’d think of you as a radical,
an extremist.
“So
yes, I suppose I yanked the rug out of under your feet. But it’s for the best. Your time was up! This way, all those metans out there, they
won’t think of you as such a troublemaker.
So they might listen to what you did say, this way. If you haven’t gone too far already, having told
them that they may have been wearing their Sensitivity Awards for too
long. Don’t worry, after a bit more of
bringing suffering upon themselves by judging too readily, too rapidly, too
hastily, and most of all, too hypocritically, they’ll finally learn. They’ll finally learn of the benefits of
freedom, and of real Love.
“Now,
Pud, I must go. Reality is about to be deproblematized, so I won’t speak to you again this
way. But I do appreciate that you have
done My Will so well. I’ll see you
again, in another way, later on. In
another place and time. And in another
sense, I’m always with you, even in your normal reality. Now deal with real reality as it really is, normally, once again. I’ll not speak to you this way again. Good-bye.”
“No!
Wait! I...” But the Inner Ale Run was gone, in that
sense. Pud knew this to be true, so he
gave up. In another sense, as It had
said, the Inner Ale Run was always with him.
He just had to listen very, very carefully, to hear Its Voice. He had to be like a properly working compass,
ever so sensitive to the weak touch of the mighty outside force.
Just then, the steel door fell into
their room with a mighty, clanging crash, and Vyizder, Iame, and Heegore burst
through. Vyizder whipped out his Ping
Thing, and showered the infidels with volleys and barrages of Ping!s. As Ping!
after Ping! rained mercilessly down upon them, Raoul and Pud just calmly looked
right past Vyizder and his flunkies, out the door and down the corridor. Out there, the rear guard of their flunkies
was holding off the forward edges of an angry mob of disillusioned former
eco-troopers and renegade fugitives from the Level Beyond Stupid.
Pud just walked right up to Vyizder,
snatched his Ping Thing, and smashed it to the ground, saying, “Your toys have
no powers now. Go, and live in the real
world. Go, and learn to live with the
only real magic that we’re
given. Learn to be content with just the
magic of the mind. It’s quite enough,
quite plenty, you know. Quench your
greed for more, and you’ll be happy and content. You have all you need, and more, already.”
Omnology’s
faithful stood there in shocked amazement, as Raoul and Pud breezed calmly
right past them, out the door and down the corridor. Pud spoke a few calming words to the crowd,
and they, too, settled down, beginning to disperse. Pud and Raoul returned to their car, hidden
in the bushes. Then they returned to
their normal lives, making themselves (with the aid of their Inner Ale Run)
content with the magic of their minds, and no more. Pud’s only regrets
were that Deep Green had had to die, and that he, Pud, hadn’t taken the
opportunity, in his short speech, to thank Deep Green for his help and noble
sacrifices.
The temporal distortion vortex
dissipated, randomly disgorging Dr. Dorcus Moorphlegmgasm into northern Sudan,
where she was promptly captured and tried as a heathen by Islamic
fundamentalists. She was “circumcised”,
forced to become a celebrated model of conservative Islamic attire for women,
and kept in jail when she wasn’t working.
There, she refined her feminist theories endlessly.
Ale Run Hubba-Bubba’s last moments
were short. As he sat on his throne in
the plush penthouse floor atop the palace at the Intergalactic Headquarters of
The Church of Omnology, Pud’s
speech suddenly penetrated his brain.
“Hearing” these vibes, Ale Run panicked, thinking that he was under an
all-out assault by all his scamgrams. He
Ping!ed himself with all his Ping Things. All of his helpers and all of his metans,
with all of their Ping Things and all of their V-Meters, furiously fleeced many
scamgrams, but it was all to no avail.
The voice in his head went on and on.
Ale Run turned and fled, cussing and
swearing at all his scamgrams. He ran
from the palace and the palace grounds, out onto a nearby Los Diablos freeway,
where he was promptly run over by a speeding truck. In the end, he was fleeced by his own
scamgrams.
Sorry, folks, fiction time is
over! Yup, I insist! No?!
OK, then, maybe not just yet. Can
you tell I’m a parent? My “no” means
“maybe”. Everyone lived happily ever
after, then. Till they had to read the
endnotes and write a book report, that is.
Fortunately, though, their author-dude was one helluva
funny guy, and spiced up his endnotes with lots of funnies, liberally sprucing
up his dry facts. So everyone read
eagerly, especially the Concluding Endnotes to the whole book, which had to do
with The Meaning of Life.
Chapter
8 Endnotes
Quart
Low Trackers? Quadro Crackpots!
I’m NOT whackier than our reality!
Educators and lawmen in our supposedly rational, scientifically educated
society spent thousands of dollars for “high-tech” divining rods. Magic wands, essentially.
After investigations by the FBI,
using their multi-million-dollar labs, authorities were able to figure out that
the Quadro Tracker (a device much like Chapter 8’s Quart Low Tracker) was a
fraud. Wow, modern science is good for
something after all! A federal judge
issued an injunction, and the Quadro Crackpots and their Quadro Corporation were
put out of business, after selling these contraptions for about three years!*1 So, did they have a real Quadro Tracker back there in the deepest, darkest recesses of
their business strategy lair? One with real magical powers, which they used to,
um, judiciously select intellectually challenged victims? Well, I can’t really say for sure. Sad to say, I doubt it. Casting a net for a random sample of our
population, the product of a big-government socialist education establishment,
seems to be quite sufficient to land a boatload of suckers.
But a federal jury in Beaumont,
Texas, found the perpetrators not guilty of fraud. After all, we can’t PROVE that the Quadro
Tracker DOESN’T work. In
lawyer/media-speak... “Defense attorneys said even though scientists who
testified could not explain how the tracker works, prosecutors did not prove
that it was not functional.” So there!
Chapter
9 Endnotes
All-Natural
Nicotine, Eagle Feathers, Multiple Chemical Sensitivity, and Sensitive and
Romantic Writers
Coffin nails that are free of all
chemical additives, so that they’ll be good
for you? Sure! “All-Natural
Smokes For Health Nuts” says the title.*2
From the article: “‘It’s only since we started adding all these
chemicals that we’ve gotten ill-health effects’ from smoking, says Kevin
Hastings, Organic Garden’s owner.” Yet
“Natural American Spirit, the most popular brand that Organic Garden carries,
is loaded with tar and nicotine.” But,
hey, that’s OK, so long as there’s no additives,
see!
Yes, the government (Fish and
Wildlife Service) does provide dead
eagles and eagle feathers to properly certified Native Americans.*3 The weenie mainstream media doesn’t discuss
the details, though, like the fact that ordinary citizens can be busted for
owning eagle feathers. Nor does it
address exactly how the government goes about determining whether you’re a real Native American, or how much (if
anything) they pay for these eagle parts, and for the costs of having
government bureaucrats determine whose religious beliefs are valid, and for
collecting, preserving, and shipping all those eagle parts. Wouldn’t want to stir up extremist feelings on the part of all those taxpayers, now, would
we?
Oh, and get this: Fed bureaucrat
says the repository “can fill emergency requests,” the article says. If proper procedures are followed. So what qualifies as an “emergency request”
for eagle parts, anyway? “Help! Help!
The whole tribe is threatening to abandon its fiercely independent ways
as a sovereign nation on its own independent reservation, go off welfare, get
jobs, take up the White Man’s ways, and put 12,000 Bureau of Indian Affairs
officials out of work, unless we do something real quick! And even the tourists are threatening to bail
out! They’ll stop paying the big bucks
to gawk at colorfully quaint ceremonies!
Send eagle feathers real quick!” And don’t be asking if we’re doing the
natives any favors. Now that would be cruel and insensitive.
2012 UPDATE:
Government Almighty, AKA the Federal Church, I mean courts, have decreed
that only Native Americans with Federally recognized American Kennel Club Fedigrees or Pedigrees, have the religious freedom to own
eagle feathers. You and me, or even a
Native with NON-Fedigreed blood, a feather falls into
our backyard, we own it, and we’re off to the hoosegow. Fedigreed Natives,
though, the feds will ship you eagle feathers, to this day. NO violations of religious freedoms occurring
here, no matter HOW sincerely you worship your illegal eagle feathers, if
you’re not Fedigreed!
See http://www.nativetimes.com/life/culture/5158-eagle-feathers-only-for-american-indians , http://www.nytimes.com/gwire/2011/03/30/30greenwire-only-indians-can-use-eagle-feathers-for-religi-81449.html ... (end of 2012 update).
HUD and a “demonstration project” of
a $1.2 million “Ecology House” for MCS sufferers? Yes, it’s true!*4 As they say, these “victims” are “allergic to
life.” The article says that MCS fails
all objective definitions of a real disease.
Well-defined, limited set of symptoms?
Ditto causes? Ditto
treatments? Can be detected by an
objective test? No, no, no, and no. You have MCS whenever you feel bad, act
miserable enough, and say that you
have it. MCS is caused by any and all
unnatural chemicals. The cure is
whatever works for you. Yet Social
Security will now make disability payments to you, if you can satisfy the right
bureaucrat that you’ve got MCS!
OK, one good quote from the Reason article, and some comments: “Other treatments [besides saunas] include
coffee enemas, something called ‘salt-neutralization therapy,’ ..., ginseng,
and the patient’s urine (as a beverage or injection). A Sacramento-area specialist treats many of
his patients with injections of ‘the north wind.’ He bubbles air through water, then injects
the water as a ‘neutralizer.’ Why ‘the
north wind’? Because many of his
patients complain they feel worse when the wind blows from that direction.”
Well, fine, I say, if people pay for
all this stuff themselves, and if all of us, whether we have a degree from a
medical school or not, are equally freely allowed to practice quackery on
willing victims. And if outright fraud
is prosecuted. But in the meantime,
please sign me up for some “hot air” injections, to “neutralize” the toxins
that coercive government goons have forced into my bloodstream by making me pay
for such trash!
To be honest and fair, I do admit
that some buildings cause people to suffer from stale air laden with pollutants
and mold spores. A free society with a
free market, allowing fully informed people to live, shop, and work in the
places they choose, paying for their own choices, with their own money, or that
of willing donors, though, is far better than a society run on coercion and
lawsuits. And syndromes like MCS give
lazy parasites an excuse for sucking on the public teat. Quick, help me, I breathed some vapors of
Alar-tainted apples! Send lawynerds,
guns, and money!
Romantic, Sensitive writers? Robert James Waller, who romanticized
adultery in his Bridges of Madison County,
was divorced at age 58.*5 He divorced
his wife right before their 36th anniversary.
He now lives on one of his Texas ranches with Linda Bow, age 34. She worked as a landscaper on those ranches,
said Robert’s daughter, age 29.
Well, surprise, surprise! I sure
hope his new flame doesn’t slam screen doors, and that she knows how to open
beer cans and light cigarettes in just that
certain special way. We wouldn’t
wish that Mr. Waller should suffer with any but the very most romantically perfect of partners, now, would we?! Let’s all rush out and buy his newest book
right away! Help make sure he can
attract an even more worthy young wild thang, after he tires of Ms. Bow. And, in return, I’m sure Mr. Waller will be
pleased to tell us all whatever we want to hear. God help us all!
Chapter
10 Endnotes
On
Being Chronically Fatigued of Horse’s Patooties
Please note that I stole the
character names Vyizder Zomenimor, Orziz
Assiz, and Zanzer R. Orziz.*6 Now look at the names carefully, and sound
them out. Vyizder Zomenimor, Orziz Assiz, Zanzer
R. Orziz. Ponder carefully, and
you’ll see reflected in these names a profound zoological and philosophical
question. Why is there so many more horse’s patooties than there are horses? I, too, have pondered this question at great
length, and I’m frankly at a loss as to what to tell you. If you figure it out, please let me know.
Facts? There are none, there are only social
conventions. Reality is whatever you
want it to be. No, the only other one I
want to bring up at the moment is, you probably think I’m a goofball, again,
this time for hypothesizing that there’d be these people dragging tails low and
forlorn, barely able to find the energy to get out of bed (and that only
sometimes) due to the ravages of CFS (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome). Yet such persons would find themselves full
of vim and vigor sufficient to propel themselves to the bookstore to harass any
writer who should dare to question the physical reality of their disease!
Well, I fabricate not. Not here, at least. Princeton professor Elaine Showalter wrote Hystories: Hysterical Epidemics and Modern
Media (Columbia University Press), in which she questions the
biological/physical basis of CFS, recovered memories of alien abductions and
satanic ritual abuse, etc. CFS sufferers
managed to find enough energy to harass her so much that she had to abandon a
book signing.*7 But “She believes the
symptoms are real and awful¾and
psychosomatic; she says her purpose is to destigmatize such neuroses.” Well, I think socialists are stigmatizing me
as heartlessly greedy, just because I doubt the whiners. Would someone please destigmatize my greedy
neurosis which causes me to resent all those poor bellyachers at the public and
insurance troughs who snorfle up the goodies by inventing various illnesses?
“Chronic Fatigue Syndrome” doesn’t
sound scientific enough for the sufferers any more, though.*8 Some people might look at the diagnosis, and
think, “Well, gee, this is kind of a non-diagnosis-type diagnosis. Go to the doctor, tell him I’m chronically
fatigued, and I’ve got CFS. Tell him I’m
feeling bad, and I probably got FBS (Feeling Bad Syndrome). Wallah, like magic, I get my excuse for
school, work, or any other semblance of responsibility.”
Can’t have people looking at the words
“Chronic Fatigue Syndrome” and thinking thoughts like that. OK, so we’ll call it “Myalgic
Encephalomyelitis,” or maybe “Myalgic Encephalopathy.” Now we’re not whiners, we’re suffering from a
DDWBSN (Dread Disease With a Big Scientific Name).
Once again, I must temper what I
say, here. Some cases of CFS may
actually have a physical, biological basis.*9
OK, so there might be a defective virus-fighting enzyme involved. Is it a cause or an effect? Who knows?
Emotions do affect the immune systems, other studies tell us. Let’s hope that real science marches on, and that CFS sufferers might use their
occasional short spurts of energy, not to crawl out of bed to go and threaten
and harass writers, but to accomplish more useful tasks.
“Churches” that might, maybe, if I’m
not threatened with too many lawsuits, resemble my (I hope!) fictional Church
of Omnology? Don’t get me started! I’m saving that for later.
Chapter
11 Endnotes
On
Inventing Religions, Defending the Domestic Tranquility Impaired, and Pandering
with Scientology
So here’s yet more facts with which
to continue our evolving tradition of “See, you think I’m making up the most
completely impossible fiction, but the facts are worse!” And furthermore, I’m not really a writer, I’m
just a typist. I’m just transcribing
what Zanzer whispers in my ear.
See, a double negative is a
positive. So if evil people call
something bad, it’s probably good. Ale
Run is God, and Zanzer is the Devil, they say.
They can manipulate you as easily with the one as with the other. So let them define neither your God, nor your
Devil. Best of all, go off and invent your very own God and your very own Satan! And admit it.
It’s what we all do, anyway, whether we admit it or not.
Some will say, “Oh, no, not me. I don’t invent my own God. I follow the God who is revealed to me in His
Words, The Holy Bible!” Or the Koran, or
the words of David Koresh, or the Pope, or Jimmy Swaggart, or your local
minister, or tradition, or Hillary-Bob and Billary-Bob, or Ale Run Hubba-Bubba. Or most likely, some grab-bag combination of
many sources, if we’re honest.
Regardless of all that, we all
invent our own unique God, and our own unique Satan. Even if we make an all-out effort to exactly copy all the beliefs of our selected hero, there’s just no way it can be
done perfectly (Thank God!). Try as best
as we can, to swallow whole and unexamined, the beliefs of our ‘leaders’,
traditions, and writings sacred and profane, there’s no way we can do it
perfectly. And all those writings,
they’re wide open to wildly different interpretations. As Shakespeare said, the Devil knows how to
quote scripture, too. Do you doubt that
one can easily justify evil out of the Bible?
It is frightfully easy. Go read
my book, Freedom From Freedom Froms. So let’s all admit that we all invent our own
God and our own Satan. This stance is
simply in keeping with self-responsibility.
I and I alone am responsible for all my deeds, be they fair or foul.
Now let’s move on, and add, as we
must, that it is absolutely imperative,
then, that we be extremely careful
when we go about this business of inventing our own God and Satan, because
they, in turn, will turn around and invent us.
And they have the power to make us or break us.
So it isn’t over “inventing a
religion” that I have bones to pick with the likes of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba. It’s over exactly what kinds of religions they invent, and for what purposes. You say
you speak for God, the gods, Gods, Allah, sinlessness, descamgramification, or
whatever other name or names you wish to attach to these matters? Then you are claiming to speak for a very
High Source, and you must be held to very High Standards. I’ll do my very best, so help me God, to hold
you to them! But in so doing, I will use
words, not first-strike force, because I follow my own Hero.
Enough preaching (for now, at
least). So how ‘bout that them thar
“facts” that I wish to point out for this last chapter? How there might be facts corresponding to my
fiction?
Well, first there’s the matter of
one of the multiple personalities, Brad, being fired from his policeman’s job,
just ‘cause he yelled at his wife a decade ago, and they passed a new law that
says domestic abusers can’t carry guns.
And he’d like to sue under the ADA, but he can’t afford to. Only the rich, who need the protection less,
have ready access to lawyers. So the
lawyers help the rich get richer and the poor get poorer.
Sources*10 tell of Jerold Mackenzie
being awarded $26.6 million (more than 260 years’ pay for a slightly-under-$100-k-a-year
executive) because he was unfairly fired from his Miller Brewing Company job
for sexually harassing a hot tart (Wench?
Chick? Broad? Whatever the appropriately sensitive word is
here). Oh-so-morally-superior government
forcibly extracts the big $$$$ from Miller (and, of course, their customer, Joe
Six-pack) to randomly award said big $$$$ to either miffed delicate young
harassed hot tarts, or falsely fired harassers, to be selected randomly by
capricious judges, lawyers, and juries.
These services the All-Mighty and
Righteous State provides at the same time as it falsely imprisons men for rape,
and hardly ever even slaps the wrists of falsely accusing women. Then Jerold Mackenzie gets his $26.6 million
from Joe Six-pack, forcibly extracted by Morally Superior Government. Yet when the State puts falsely accused
“rapist” Kevin Byrd in the slammer for 12 years, the most he can collect is
$50,000. Kevin was exonerated by DNA
tests.*11 Where is reason, common sense,
balance, and justice?
As in so many other cases of
government power being diverted to benefit well-connected sleazebags, the ADA
and other workplace laws actually do
help the rich and powerful more than the poor and oppressed. For thorough coverage of this, read the book The Excuse Factory, How Employment Law is
Paralyzing the American Workplace, by Walter K. Olson.
From the perspective of my own
personal experience, I must add that I’ve noticed that when I go to Mexican
restaurants, there’s this insidiously disproportionate percentage of Hispanic
employees. Conversely, when I go out to
chow down on chow mein, there’s an overabundance of people of far eastern-type
identity secreted about their staffs. This is clearly an extremely wicked case of
viciously conceived, deliberate and willful inappropriateness! This and all similar cases of malicious
misconduct must by all means be promptly rectified by Supremely Sensitive Types
such as the EEOC and I. Else we might
get pretty indignant, maybe even take all your licenses away. So y’all better shape up, or yo’ be in a heap
o’ trouble, boy!
We pass all these ridiculously vague
and contradictory laws, and then we’re surprised when the results are
ridiculous. Why? How much silliness and stupidity must we
endure, till we start tearing down stupid laws?
Businesses have to worry about firing the crazies before they kill
someone, because they’ll be sued for that.
But if they fire them, they’ll be sued for that, too. Such “victims” are, of course, mentally ill,
and therefore protected. Damned if you
do, damned if you don’t. How long till
some high-powered executive gets fired for making racist comments, then defends
himself on the basis that he’s “Racial Sensitivity Impaired?” Even when the business “wins”, it loses, because
it has to pay all the lawyers. Guess who
pays?! $20 beers and $30 cups of coffee,
here we come!
Then let’s move back to the deal
about new laws taking guns (and hence, jobs) from policemen (and now soldiers,
too) because they yelled at their wives a few decades ago, and wife abusers
shouldn’t be allowed to carry guns.
Funny, yes. A joke, no.*12 The biggest issue seems to be that our
protectors and masters forgot to exempt themselves as usual; they forgot the
clause making a special exception for employees of the State.
So comes the next war, and they need
cannon fodder, can I get my son out by having him yell at his girlfriend? And will this new law help encourage
policemen’s and soldiers’ wives to come forward for help, when their husbands
will then lose their jobs? If you don’t
believe that “domestic violence” laws have reached the point of being silly,
unjust, wasteful, and counterproductive, then read the feature article in the
Feb. ‘98 Reason magazine.
I didn’t see the media mention this,
but this new law is clearly unconstitutional for TWO reasons. Section 9 says “No Bill of Attainder or ex
post facto law shall be passed.” Then
there’s the Second Amendment, saying “...the right of the people to keep and
bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” Why
is the right to armed self-defense such a bastard child? All you lovers of wonderful, benevolent big
government creatively interpreting the Constitution envision this: You must have a PERMIT before you can have
your free speech. And we’ve just now
decided there’s a new restriction, you can’t have your permit if you yelled at
your wife a few decades back. Oh, yes,
and the First Amendment has been reworded: “A freely communicating electorate
being necessary for the security of a Free State, the right of the people to
speak freely, shall not be infringed.”
We’ve decided that this means that the right to speak freely shall be
reserved only for those who vote. Sound
good?
We’d not allow them get away with
it. Yet this is exactly what they’re
doing to the right of the people to use arms to defend themselves. All I’ve done above is to assign the wording
style of the Second Amendment (bastard child, right to armed self-defense) to
the First Amendment (liberal Golden-Haired Child, free speech, so long as your
speech is sensitive), then trashed
your free speech rights the same way the leftlimpers trash our gun rights.
You know, the usual song and
dance. Well, yes, they say, you have the
right to have a gun. If you’re part of a well-regulated State
militia. If you’re not mentally unstable¾so if you want to keep your gun, you’d better watch
out! Better be out sick the day they
round everyone up for grief counseling at work or school, after your
acquaintance dies, lest they see you seeing the counselor, and therefore decide
you’re too unstable to own a gun. Better
give up cigarettes before the FDA is allowed to call nicotine a drug, ‘cause
obviously, drug addicts shouldn’t have guns.
What’s next? Don’t get caught speeding (or, don’t let them
find out that you got a ticket 20 years ago), because, well, you’re a
lawbreaker. And armed lawbreakers are a
menace to society, so we’ll have to take your guns. On and on.
Yet we’re not violating the Constitution! No Sir!
People still have their right to be armed. But that’s only if-if-if-if.
Y’all who still can, and are stable,
sensible, and responsible, get your guns now, before it’s too late, ‘cause we
might need ‘em real bad, real soon! That
is, as soon as they finish up re-writing the Constitution to simply say
“Constitutional is whatever we say it is.”
Pray sincerely for peace, and vote and speak your mind, first, yes, by
all means, please do, but also keep your gunpowder dry!
And what other facts might I have
that correspond to my fiction? Oh, I don’t
know. I’m running out of steam, and my
brain has become comfortably numb today.
I guess I’ll just have to let you down on my promise to point out more
facts that correspond to my fiction.
So I’m opening my ears to Zanzer
today, and just spewing out some random stuff.
Zanzer tells me to randomly point way back to what I wrote in this
chapter, about Julie Peston saying she’s looking for a Church, like The Church
of Omnology, which will help her give the ladies’ magazines some good
scoop. Scoop which the readers want to
hear. Scoop about new and fascinating
beliefs. Beliefs about how you can buy
technology-based spiritual perfection just like you buy soap, perfume, cars, liquor,
and makeup, to make your life so much better.
Beliefs that aren’t boring and unpleasant, such as ideas about having to
seek, suffer, and struggle honestly for spiritual growth. Beliefs that fit in with the magazine’s
advertisements better.
Well, that was all very interesting
fiction, and thanks, Zanzer, for pointing that out to us. But what’s your point? Oh, nothing.
Just random stuff, like the totally unconnected factual stuff to follow. Zanzer tells me I’d better not write anything
down about these facts having anything to do with my fiction. After all, if I made any such insinuations, I
might get sued!
Well, Zanzer, go ahead. Access your data banks, and amuse us with some random facts. All vibe channels are open. Okay... Well, first off, there’s a 30 April
‘97 Wall St. Jrnl article called Magazine Advertisers Demand Prior Notice of
“Offensive” Articles. It seems
Chrysler’s advertising folks, among others, are pushing magazines like Esquire around, saying, if we don’t get
to put in a “thumbs up” or a “thumbs down” on your articles ahead of time, we
won’t advertise in your magazine.
“Chrysler must be notified in
writing before the magazine dares publish anything with ‘sexual, political,
social issues or any editorial that might be construed as provocative or
offensive.’”*13 Chrysler so commanded
more than 100 magazines, it seems. Well,
excuse me, but I construe it to be very offensive that corporate dimwits think
they should protect me from facts and opinions as disseminated by
magazines. So maybe they’d better stop
reporting what the corporate nitwits are doing, lest I take offense!
Anyway, what you say had better fit
in with what the advertisers want the reading public to think, or else! I’ll bet there’s lots of folks out there,
they’d be pretty offended to be told that there’s no painless, technological,
purchasable path to spiritual grace, or that one religion might be better than
another. So don’t be sayin’ no bad
things ‘bout no religions, mind you! Or
even, about any group that calls
itself a religious group, for that matter.
Such criticism might be construed as being offensive.
Then there’s an interview of Kelly
Preston, John Travolta’s actress-wife.*14
The article’s highlighted intro says that despite all the terrible
pressures of being an actress and being married to a famous actor and being a
mother, “...Preston manages to keep her cool.
How? Well, Scientology
helps...” Oh, yes, I’m sure it
does! And then, next, what else
helps? Their three private airplanes,
the intro says. In the body of the
story, we learn that “‘I had some [church] auditing done and just got clear on
everything,’ Preston says, referring to the process that functions much like
conventional psychoanalysis. ‘See, in
Scientology, there is technology for every relationship¾which is brilliant!’”
See, if you’ve got enough money, you
can buy the technology to solve any
problem you might have, even if the problem is of a mental, psychological, or
spiritual nature. No self-discipline or
painfully honest self-examination is required.
Just fork over the dough, and we’ll sell you some spiritual perfection
via our E-Meter and fancy talk of engrams and body thetans.
Bob Spitz, who wrote the article, it
says, “frequently covers the entertainment industry.” Well, gee, how swell! And how frequently would he get to interview
the stars if he asked them any pointed questions or wrote anything less than
properly breathlessly adoring? Who would
buy the magazines, after all the stars refused to be interviewed, and who would
pay Bob Spitz’s bills? He might have to
go and get himself an honest
job! Imagine that!
No, that is just speculation by an extremist author. One can’t realistically believe anything that
any magazine tells us, if that magazine puts pictures of Hollywood stars on its
cover on any regular basis at all. The
magazine gets to put the stars on its cover only if it sucks butt with those
stars, who call the shots. The stars
aren’t even content, any more, to just micromanage what the magazines say about
them¾they
are now sometimes writing the material themselves, directly telling us just how
wonderful they are!*15
The Feb. ‘97 Good Housekeeping cover says their interview of John Travolta and
Kelly Preston (shown on cover) tells “The untold story of how his faith saved
him....” Okay, so he personally might be
a good dude, I sure don’t know, but has he stopped to think about the example
he provides? Not all are as rich as he
is; some commit suicide because they can’t afford thousands of dollars to have
their engrams audited out of them, or whatever the correct magic words are.
For example, a desperate man,
Patrice Vic, threw himself from the 12th floor when he couldn’t rustle up
$6,000 for a “purification” course.*16
He left a widow and two small children behind in France. A French parliamentary report said
Scientology uses “defamation, calumnious denunciation and violations of private
life” to get its way. Scientology’s
former French leader, Jean-Jacques Mazier, got 1.5 years in prison, and 14
others were convicted of fraud-related charges.
One example isn’t enough for you? Okay, fine, I did make my claim in the
plural. Let’s make it plural. Noah Lottick “jumped from a Manhattan hotel
clutching $171, virtually the only money he had not yet turned over to
Scientology. His parents blame the
church and would like to sue but are frightened by the organization’s
reputation for ruthlessness.”*17
“As defectors have attested,
subjects become hysterical and psychotic in their auditing. Then they are locked in isolation. Not surprisingly, suicides occur. Last January in Clearwater, Fla., for
example, a Scientology member hurled herself into the bay and drowned.”*18
Then there’s the mysterious death of
Scientologist Lisa McPherson, held by Scientologists in the Fort Harrison
Hotel, Scientology’s “spiritual headquarters” in downtown Clearwater. More about that in the mother of all
endnotes, at the end of this book.
“Other deaths at the Scientologist-owned Fort Harrison Hotel since 1980
include several suicides and a man found dead in a bathtub.”*19
Do we still have free speech? Am I allowed to speak my mind without being
sued and harassed to extinction? Well,
let’s find out. If we have no more free
speech, then everyone needs to know about it.
Here’s my opinion, for all the world to see. For the Omnologists of the world to go into a
murderous rampage about it, if they see fit to do so. The Church of Scientology makes money at the
expense of working some followers into a desperate state of emotional/spiritual
bondage, sometimes to the point of suicide.
What we have here is nothing less than an unspeakably horrid evil¾trading souls down the river Styx
for money.
Do I approve of the French
governmental actions? You betcha! Yes, I can hear you now: I’m a
hypocrite. Patrice Vic and Patrice Vic
alone was responsible for his self-destructive act, according to what I said
earlier. Ditto Noah Lottick and all the
others. Yes, you’re right. But Jean-Jacques Mazier
and Jean-Jacques Mazier alone was responsible for
what he did, and he engaged in
deceptive, greedy practices pushing Patrice towards suicide. And we can say the same of the other 14. I walk two sides of the fence at once? So be it!
It helps develop my sense of balance.
Okay, so back to the Feb. ‘97 Good Housekeeping. I guess good housekeeping is far more
important than keeping your spiritual house free of harmful deception. Make sure your house is tastefully decorated,
but don’t worry about your soul. And God
forbid you should say anything harsh or judgmental about any particular set of
spiritual beliefs, because we all know that all beliefs are equally valid. The highlighted intro to this article, “Look Who’s Talking”, talks about “...how
their faith made them strong...” Here’s
sections of the interview. LS (Liz
Smith) interviews them; here’s the brief mention of Scientology:
“LS: Do you also credit Scientology
with the grounding you both seem to have?
“JT: I do, because through every
turmoil, I’ve been bailed out. I’ve
gotten help, relief, felt better, moved on...”
For these kinds of articles, New Woman and Good Housekeeping will doubtlessly attract many
celebrity-worshipping readers, and advertisers who pay to reach them with more
commercial messages. What happens to
magazines that have the courage to tell the truth about Scientology? Well, there’s The Thriving Cult of Greed and Power in Time magazine.*17 Time got sued for $416 million for
that. Fortunately, Time must have had the money and lawyers to fend them off; the
Church of Scientology’s lawsuit was finally thrown out.*20 However, “Another libel suit over the same
article brought by an individual church member is scheduled to go to trial in
November...”.
So, in a materialistic and
lawsuit-happy society like ours, can there be any surprise that most of the
media (with notable exceptions like Time,
and that was a number of years ago, before the latest excesses of lawyers
and advertisers) fears to speak out very strongly against Scientology? The Houston
Chronicle ran an editorial by the leader of the Houston Church of
Scientology, for example, bemoaning how these poor helpless Scientologists are
persecuted by those nasty Nazis in the German government. Yet they were too cowardly to run my letter
to the editor, or even a tiny bit of it.
For your reading pleasure, here it is, very slightly edited:
Dear
Editor:
I’m not surprised that the Reverend
Larry McDaniel, the leader of the Houston Church of Scientology, would so
vigorously and one-sidedly defend his faith against the heartlessly cruel,
fascist depredations of the modern German State. This is in reference to his 19 Feb ‘97
editorial. He obviously knows which side
his bread is buttered on. However, I’d
like to present the other side, here. I
feel fairly qualified to do so, because I’m writing a book concerning, among
other things, irrationality, the Church of Scientology, and Hollywood. I’ve collected a fair amount of research
materials already.
The good Reverend claims that
Germany’s “...vigilance [against extremist groups on its soil] has transmuted
into violence, violating the basic human rights of religious and ethnic
minorities¾Nazilike activities under the guise of
preventing Nazilike activities.” This is a tremendous reach, comparing the
“persecution” of the Church of Scientology to the Nazis, and he knows it. In his long editorial, he mentions not one
act of violence committed by the government of Germany against his church, and
for good reason¾he
knows of none. In an age in which a
substantial fraction of humanity suffers horrendously under the tyrannical rule
of despots, in Iran, Iraq, Sudan, Zaire, Libya, North Korea, Cuba, Afghanistan,
Syria, China, and so on, we could do far better than worry about a few
money-grubbing charlatans being prevented from ripping people off, in a fairly
free society. Governments and courts in
Greece, Italy, France, and Australia have ruled or moved against this “church”,
say my newspaper clippings. My mail from
the German Consulate adds the additional nations of Belgium, England, Ireland,
Spain, Israel, and Mexico, as nations not recognizing Scientology as a
religion. Are these countries then all
bastions of fascism?
Nor does the good Reverend write
about exactly what his church is or does¾again, with good reason. If you’d like more details, perhaps you’d
like to read a May 6 ‘91 feature article in Time
Magazine, titled “The Thriving Cult of
Greed and Power.” They cure people
of “engrams” by waving around pretty little toys called “E-meters”, and saying
all sorts of nice, impressive-sounding words.
For the right price. They deceive
gullible people with the trappings of science; just look at their name. Here’s a mental exercise for you: replace “engrams” with “psychoses” and
“E-meter” with “psycho-therapeutic device.”
If they renamed their practices and toys in this manner, guess how long
it would take the FDA to shut them down.
See what I mean?
So what did the Time article have to say? A
few samples: Many of their beginner to
intermediate courses cost $500 an hour or more.
“According to the church’s latest price list, recruits¾‘raw meat,’ as Hubbard called
them¾take auditing sessions that cost
as much as $1,000 an hour, or $12,500 for a 12.5-hour ‘intensive.’” Then there are many case histories of
gullible people taken to the cleaners by these quacks. Here’s just one: “Harriet Baker, 73, lost her house after
Scientologists learned it was debt free and arranged a $45,000 mortgage, which
they pressured her to tap to pay for auditing.
They had approached her after her husband died to help ‘cure’ her grief. When she couldn’t repay the mortgage, she had
to sell.”
This “church” is about greed, not
helping people. What reputable church
charges this kind of money for such brief, limited services? Governments regulate churches all the time,
if we look at things honestly. Native
Americans can eat peyote, and the government gives them eagle feathers. If I’m caught with either of these things,
I’m busted. A Muslim lady can wear her
veil in a high-crime area, but if I wear a mask there, I’m busted for
concealing my identity for nefarious purposes.
Amish are exempted from Social Security.
See how hard it will be for you to do that. And so on.
For good or bad, government “certifies” the validity of religions all
the time. The IRS made a mistake (under
a welter of never-ending lawsuits from this “church”) when it called this
outfit a “church.” We should pass a
simple, objective law: Any group
charging over $100 an hour, above and beyond costs of materials, for a service,
is a business, not a church, and should be taxed and regulated as such.
Finally, note that Time called attention to how this
“church” loves to use lawsuits to intimidate and harass opponents. So they harassed the Time article author, and sued Time
to the tune of $416 million. The suit
was dismissed in July ‘96. I guess Time has lots of lawyers and/or
money. And courage, too, frankly. Then in the 2 Dec ‘96 Hou Chron I read (Scientologists eat up group they’d opposed, by Laurie Goodstein
of the Washington Post) that the Cult
Awareness Network (CAN) answered more than 350 calls a week from anxious
friends and relatives of cult victims.
Next to Satanism, Scientology triggered more calls than any other
group. So Scientology “...fought CAN
with a barrage of lawsuits.” One jury
finally gave Scientology the jackpot.
$1.8 million. CAN went bankrupt,
and Scientology bought them out. So now
if an anxious parent is worried about their Scientology-snared child, gets a
library book to see where they can find help, they’ll call CAN, and get advice
from Scientology. Next on the auction
block? Files on those who’ve called
CAN. So has Scientology bought those
files yet by now? Somebody has to stand
up to these evil, pushy, greedy charlatans.
I hope the Chronicle has the
guts (and lawyers?) to publish this, for the public good. I’m not afraid to stand up for what’s
right. Are you?
So there’s my letter. The weenies at the Chronicle wimped out, like I said.
Courage sometimes doesn’t make money.
In a lawsuit-befestered nation, it can cost lots of money, regardless of all of our pretenses about “free
speech”. Besides, your advertisers, the
Chryslers of the world, might stop advertising in your rag if you get too
controversial, or report facts that people don’t want to hear. Time will tell about publishers and
booksellers, as far as Jurassic Horde
Whisperer of Madness County is concerned.
I did take the time to call CAN and
check it out for myself (at (773)-267-7777; they also can be reached at
(800)-556-3055). They still call
themselves CAN, which I think is at least slightly unethical. One might even compare it to calling a
listing for Heroin Awareness Network, thinking one was getting some help, and
finding that one was talking to a heroin dealer. As best as I understood the lady on the other
end of the line, if I call them with a problem concerning, say, Satanism,
they’ll have me talk to their staff Satanist (yes, she mentioned Satanism
several times... they’re an “interfaith” group; isn’t tolerance wonderful?)
about how Satanism isn’t really all that bad.
What if I told them my son was on
the verge of suicide, desperately scrounging for another $5,000 to get his
engrams audited away? Would they tell me
it’s all worth it? Or might they
actually intervene with greedy practitioners of Scientology? I don’t know.
I (thank God!) have no friends or family involved in destructive cults,
and haven’t the guile to lie to CAN, to check it out in more detail.
I can tell you that the CAN lady
politely and forthrightly told me she was a Scientologist. At least they don’t lie about that, it
seems. CAN may no longer provide any
real help in extricating oneself, friends, or family from cults, but at least
they tell us who they really are. I’ll
give them credit where credit is due.
And I’m proud to report that I was relieved to find this out, rather
than being disappointed in finding less than the maximum amount of possible
dirt. I don’t delight in discovering
evil, and I’m trying my best to be honest, accurate, and balanced. It’s just that finding many positives about
Scientology is quite difficult.
Chapter
17 Endnotes
Role-Playing
and “Satirical Social Commentary”
Now, I often rail against the
anti-freedom ways of government. I
regard Big Brother’s machinations as some pretty serious stuff. But there is another matter addressed in
chapter 17 which isn’t a proper concern for government at all, yet I regard it
as an even bigger threat than Big Brother, in our current space and time. This is a cultural, social, spiritual matter. A raised public awareness, and individual
consciences, not government, can and must solve this more vague and nebulous
problem.
I speak of the phenomenon of
cultural evil. One symptom of this is
when “sophisticated” artsy-fartsy types claim to make deep, satirical social
commentary, and literature and such, by playing certain roles. Yet they’re all about making money by lending
encouragement to deranged thinking. And
make money they do!
Yes, I’m talking about Marilyn
Manson and his band, among others.
Before I get started, let me straighten out an impression I may have
left at the introductory quotes to this last chapter. I may have left the impression that the 24
Feb. ‘97 Time magazine did nothing
other than praise Marilyn’s “scathing social critique”.
That isn’t the entire picture. The article was balanced and fair, I
think. I just left out some other
parts. I was just setting the mood for
the chapter, see, and balance would have detracted at the moment. Like any other writer’s works, you’ve got to
read my entire book to get the whole
picture. So don’t go dumping on me
because somebody could get the wrong idea, by just reading one part of my
book. That’s true of any book.
So let me give you some other
goodies from the article: He “...intentionally crafts his image to incite
maximum shock. He often performs clad in
jack-boots and trussed up in leather.
Onstage and off, he wears black lipstick and cakes his face in
morticians’ white, giving himself a deathly, freshly exhumed look.”
“Many of the band’s most
enthusiastic fans are Goths, members of a popular suburban youth cult drawn to
black garb and death-rock music.”
“...Manson’s act is shorn of all
humor. What’s left is lurid spectacle
that conveys little meaning beyond its shock value.”
Apparently two Goths arrested in a
Washington state thrill murder were big Marilyn Manson fans. Manson says “Parents should raise their kids
to listen to an album and know the difference between reality and
fantasy.” Time’s David Thigpen says, “True enough, but it wouldn’t hurt if
Manson lightened up his own scary, easily misunderstood message. After a Los Angeles concert, a fan (said
that) (w)ith most rock stars ‘the makeup comes off
when they go home. With Manson it’s
real.’”
Well, I’d say that Thigpen gets it
fairly well, but maybe not completely.
You see, in this complicated world, some people can be what they are by
pretending to be somebody else pretending to be who they really are. Or, we become
the role that we play. Either way, this
thing is too dangerous to play with.
Yes, one could get a good message out by briefly pretending to be the
Antichrist or the Devil or whatever, and making people realize what lies are
being told to us. But when we pretend
these kinds of things too long and too hard, all Hell can break loose. And this Hell breaking loose can get all too
literal.
Historian Alan Bullock, for example,
claims that Hitler was an “actor” who unfortunately came to believe in his
role.*21 He latched onto pretending to hate Jews, initially, just
as a cynical, insincere political ploy, perhaps. We all know what butchery eventually
resulted.
You become the role that you
play. To play a role, one has to imagine
that one is in that role. And as Norman
Vincent Peale said, “Be sure to imagine right, for we tend to become as we see
ourselves.” Beware!!!
Now I read that “Manson has said he
is a member of the Church of Satan and his group is known for lewd on-stage
acts and songs about murder, rape, sodomy and self-mutilation.”*22 So just how satirical are all his statements about society, anyway? Are murderous and suicidal young Goths really misunderstanding his
messages? Or is it that we old fogies
are deceived, as he is what he is, while pretending to be someone who is
pretending to be him? I don’t really
honestly know. All I can say is, I’m
quite troubled by this all. My
conscience requires me to speak out.
I’ll tell you what else troubles
me. That is that gothic novelist Anne
Rice makes the big bucks pushing vampire trash on us, and on impressionable
teenagers. She “...is one spooky woman. She goes on national TV to say not too long
ago she was dead for three days.”*23 “‘I
died recently,’ she said. ‘I wanted to
commit suicide, which was ridiculous, but I wanted to kill myself. I was real depressed. I decided I would die for a few days. So, I advised the staff. I said, ‘Tomorrow morning when you come, I’ll
be dead.’ I’m lying in bed. I’m dead.
I slept and slept and slept for three days, and then I felt refreshed
and I was alive again. I recommend
this.’ According to Rice, ‘The hardest
part about being dead is having to (go to the bathroom).’”*23
There, all you depressed people,
there’s words of wisdom from Anne Rice for you. If you listen to her, who knows what will happen to you?! Maybe you’ll even become a member of a teenage
vampire mini-cult, and go off and kill people, like Rod Ferrell & pals
did.*24 He and his buddies “...were
attracted to vampires by a best-selling role-playing game. They also drank their own blood and that of
mutilated animals.” And “Farrell had become
possessed with opening the gates to hell.”
He ended up killing Ferrell’s ex-girlfriend’s parents, and burning a “V”
(for Vampire?) onto the man’s body. So
let’s all have fun playing vampire roles.
Yes, indeed, Anne Rice really is
scary, I do believe!
So am I another wild-eyed conspiracy
theorist? Am I next going to propose
that perhaps all evil stems from Tamagotchi toys, which in turn are the result
of a conspiracy between Microsoft and El Nino?
No, I’m not.
I’m not calling on all true patriots to man the barricades and arm
themselves against all the Satanists and vampires who’ve infiltrated the
highest levels of our government, Hollywood, and the Big Media, and are no
doubt conducting evil spells to cast hexes on us as we so amiably discuss my
politics, theology, etc., here. The
evils that infect these places are the same evils that infect us all, and when
it lurks in all those places, it’s partly our own fault. And I’m talking little evil here; genuine
foam-at-the-mouth malice is relatively rare, thank God! Yes, evils lurk all amongst us! But, to use M. Scot Peck’s terms, some are
little evil with a little “e”, and some are Evil, with a BIG “E”.
What I am saying is that there are
clear potentials for Big “E” Evil to come about, out of role-playing. I consider this thing about “you become the
role you play” to be something vitally important. This is not just some fluffy psychobabble,
solely my ill-informed personal opinion, an attempt at sounding nobly,
theologically or philosophically wise, or any such silliness. Not vibosomatic happy-talk. It is, rather, a scientifically demonstrated
fact.
OK, so that may be some hyperbole,
just there. I’ll ‘fess up to that. Psychology is often a “soft” study, and we
must, in this field, speak of “scientifically demonstrated facts” with great
caution. But here’s a case where we can,
with important lessons.
Let’s briefly examine a study in
which normal, healthy young males (college students, all White, one Asian; they
were actually selected for being “...judged to be emotionally stable,
physically healthy, mature, law-abiding citizens”) were randomly selected to
play “prisoners” and “guards”.*25 See
“The Mind is a Formidable Jailer, A Pirandellian Prison,” from the NY Times Magazine, April 8, 1973, by
Phillip G. Zimbardo and colleagues.
Quotes here are from the NY Times
article.
And before you ask... Yes, I was stumped, too. “Pirandellian”, I suppose, must have to do
with the fiction of a certain “Pirandello..., Luigi 1867-1936... Italian writer
best known for his plays Six Characters
in Search of an Author (1921) and Tonight
We Improvise (1930). Pirandello won
the 1934 Nobel Prize for literature.” So
hints my “Bookshelf ‘94” CD-ROM, from all the microserfs at Microsoft. Does that help you much? Me neither!
But God bless all those microserfs, who’ve made all my work so much
easier!
Anyway, about those “prisoner”
studies. They advertised for college
student volunteers, and then paid them $15 a day, to be randomly selected to be
either “prisoners” or “guards”, and then to play their roles. The “prisoners” were actually “arrested”,
rounded up by the Palo Alto police, to make the experience complete! See if you could get the cops to play such a
role today, what with runaway lawyers!
Even back then, when, halfway through the experiment, the experimenters
grew worried about the security of their makeshift, college-campus-corridor
“prison yard”, they asked the Palo Alto police to “borrow” some “real” prison
space, “...the problem of insurance and liability for our prisoners was raised
by a city official.” Thanks, all you
rampant lawyersaurs, for ossifying our entire society!
Anyway, they randomly selected 10
prisoners and 11 guards. And they became
the roles they played! Role-playing
became reality!
The purpose of the study was to see
whether all the nastiness of prison life (prisoner hopelessness and
degradation, authoritarian behavior by guards) was the result of who was being
sent there, or just the situation that is created in prisons, by the nature of
the institution. By the roles people play. The idea was to create a prison of “normal”
guards and prisoners, have them play their roles, and therefore, be able to
say, “See, these things, but not these others, are the results just of the situation,
the institution, and not of the people who are in the situation.”
Now, most sensible people realize
that many prisoners (not all) are in prison, not for being saints, but for good
cause. But we should still pay attention
to the results of this study. What were
the results? Did all the normal
sicknesses associated with prisons evolve in just about no time flat? You betcha!
OK, so, out of ethical concerns, they excluded some of the worst aspects
of real prisons. “Racism, physical
brutality, indefinite confinement and enforced homosexuality were not features
of our mock prison.”
But all the other ugly features of
prison life rapidly evolved. Guards
enjoyed their power over fellow role-players, some sadistically, even though
real physical torture was off limits.
Prisoners become hopeless, dependent, whining, sometimes defiant, and
always dehumanized, or depersonalized.
Prisoners referred to themselves by their prisoner numbers, not their
names, when the “prison chaplain” came by to visit. Guards played mind games with prisoners,
turning them one against the other, and making them move boxes from here to
there, and then, from there to here.
There, you slime, see how truly worthless you and your efforts are, and
how I have all the power, and you have none!
All because we’re playing this role, see, and we’ve forgotten all about
real life (“reality”), and who we really are.
OK, so that’s all a bunch of fluff;
a glossy, glib overview by yours truly.
Fancy psychobabble? Wait! There is real substance here! We do
become the role we play, and there are real
dangers here! And that is the
somewhat-unexpected side benefit, side lesson, of this study. Yes, bad situations can make normally-good
people do bad things, and that’s a valuable lesson.
But also... We become the role we play.
What’s the difference between social “reality” and fiction, or
role-playing? Not much, entirely too
often! No, you can’t play the role of
the one who turns straw into genuine gold, nor the one who levitates, inexplicably,
in a gravity field. But pre-defined, or
other-defined, “real” social roles?
Those we can pick and choose, and then, play. So pick a good role for yourself; you might
get stuck playing it for a long, long time!
Different take: Don’t let anyone
else tell you who you are, if that’s not who you want to be!
Cut the fluff. OK, from the NY Times report: “In less than 36 hours, we were forced to release
prisoner 8612 because of extreme depression, disorganized thinking,
uncontrollable crying and fits of rage.
We did so reluctantly because we believed he was trying to “con” us¾it was unimaginable that a
volunteer prisoner in a mock prison could legitimately be suffering and
disturbed to that extent. But then on
each of the next three days another prisoner reacted with similar anxiety
symptoms, and we were forced to terminate them, too. In a fifth case, a prisoner was released
after developing a psychosomatic rash over his entire body (triggered by
rejection of his parole appeal by the mock parole board).” They were forced to terminate the experiment
after 6 days, not the planned 14.
So, as the authors of the experiment
and reports say, a number of disturbing questions arise. They call one problem “This dehumanizing
tendency to respond to other people according to socially determined labels and
often arbitrarily assigned roles...”
Yes, it does sound like
vibosomatic happy-talk, and it’s easy to protect real wrong-doers under this
kind of thinking. Yet there is also real
substance here, which we’d be wise to think about. Other studies (they refer to one) have shown
the same thing.
Where does our “role” end, and our
“identity” begin? What evils are even
the semi-saints among us capable of, in the wrong circumstances, where everyone
expects us to play a certain role that we’d be better off not playing? And in our daily lives, in family and work
situations, how many of us play “prisoner”, allowing ourselves to become
powerless and dependent on arbitrary rules and rulers? How many of us play “guard”, foisting
senseless rules upon the weak, congratulating ourselves about how we’re
whuppin’ ‘em into shape for their own good?
OK, one last example of this
often-vague danger of becoming the role you play... L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of Scientology,
by strong appearances at least (everything reeking of chaos and badness is, of
course, denied by The Church), went out and deliberately crafted a role, and an
entire religion, for the purposes of bringing riches and power to himself (see
intro quotes to Chapter 10).
So then he proceeded to play that
role, apparently quite successfully, as too many of us define success. He grew rich and powerful. As we might suspect, the Mighty Prophet began
to believe his own propaganda, as so many Mighty Prophets do. He played the role too long. His last days weren’t happy. So here’s the LA Times, in an article
subtitled “Aides indulged his eccentricities and egotism”:*26
“Gillham, formerly one of Hubbard’s
most loyal and trusted messengers, said his behavior became increasingly
erratic after he crashed a motorcycle in the Canary Islands in the early 1970s.
“‘He realized his own mortality,”
she said. “He was in agony for
months. He insisted, with a broken arm
and broken ribs, that he was going to heal himself and it didn’t work.’”
Other details of L. Ron’s life of
paranoia, spoiled-child-like temper tantrums, and being pampered by devotees,
with his later years spent in hiding, are spelled out in this series of
articles. Apparently L. Ron wasn’t
really very happy, in spite of all the wealth and power that he gained by
playing his role so well.
I obviously don’t know all the
details, and I don’t think I really want to.
But can you imagine? Most of us
realize that we’re going to get aches and pains as we age, and our bodies won’t
work quite as well as they used to. That
if we live long enough, we’ll start to fall apart, then die. Most of us come to accept this, sooner rather
than later. Some of us even gloriously
triumph over death in a sense, living with our pains, frailties, and certain
knowledge of our approaching death, but still finding plenty of reasons to
enjoy life.
But can you imagine not accepting this, believing in your
own magic so much that you think you can work literal miracles upon yourself?
Struggle to believe hard
enough, and I’ll be all-powerful? I’ll
never need to physically die? Whatever I
think, becomes true, if I think it hard enough?
Did L. Ron Hubbard go to his grave
cussing and swearing at his engrams?
These “engram” entities that he invented to play the roles of chaos and
badness, did he start to envision them as what prevented him from healing
himself? Was he ultimately audited by
his own engrams, fleeced by his own scamgrams, or some such, in some manner of
speaking? I don’t know; I’m just asking
these questions. I’m not sure of what
the exact nature of this beast is, which he apparently wrestled with, but I
quite frankly don’t want to
know. To truly understand, you have to be.
They say that when a flounder baby
fish (fishlet? kid? pup? fishling? kitten? fingerling? calf?) is young, it
swims like a normal fish. One eye on
each side of its head, swimming upright.
As it matures, however, it lays its body down, to swim along the bottom,
as adult flounder do. So as a juvenile
flounder matures, one eye migrates from
one side of its head to the other.
You thought your pimples were bad, when you were a teenager? Ha!
What of the growing pains of a flounder, as he glances in the mirror again
and again, watching his eyeball migrate?
To truly understand the growing pains of a juvenile flounder, you must become a juvenile flounder.
The founder of Scientology, I
believe, in many ways stayed a juvenile his whole life long, as he floundered
about, trying to find a role that would bring happiness to himself, but always
failing. I wonder about his pains,
sometimes. But not too hard. Because I know
that to truly understand, I have to be. And I don’t want to! I suspect I should
pray to God to protect me from such knowledge, as a matter of fact.
Well, let me conclude with the
following open letter to the Anne Rices of the world, and to the Marilyn
Mansons:
To All You Creative Artsy-Fartsy
Role-Playing Moneymakers:
Yes, I know you’ve got messages we
need to hear. When you send us the messages
we need to hear, I’m grateful for it.
Even when you tell us what bad lies are being told to us by the Horde
Whisperer, AKA the Evil One. You can
play devil’s advocate, and accomplish good things by doing so. But I ask you to ponder what happens when you
play these roles too long and too hard.
I ask you to ponder what happens when impressionable young people admire
you for just exactly how heartily and thoroughly you play these roles. I ask you to ask yourselves, “What are my
motives? Are they monetary, moral, or
morbid? Am I doing good for people, in the balance?”
I’m an artist, too. I know what it feels like to have my messages
misinterpreted. I haven’t read your
books, Anne, and I haven’t heard your albums, Marilyn, so I’ll try to keep my
judgmentalism on a leash. But I do have
some questions I’m asking you to ask of yourselves.
Ask yourselves whether you really
and sincerely believe that people will improve their lives after they’ve seen
or heard your art. Will they recognize
and avoid the Evil One’s lies better? Or
will they revel in role-playing? Do you
revel in role-playing? Is it a morbid
fascination of yours? Or is it the money
that drives you? Ask yourself some
probing question, for our sake, and for yours.
Yes, I know that even a good work,
which does good for the ninety-nine, will hurt (or be used as an excuse by) the
one. So I’m not asking you to trouble
yourselves over those who do evil in your name, if they’re misinterpreting your
messages. And I’m not threatening you
with force or violence, unless you, yourselves, should engage in such
things. This is not a matter for the
coercive arms of the law. This is a
moral and spiritual matter, between you and me, and all of my readers. I’m asking, not commanding, because I follow
a nameless entity who asks of me, rather than commands of me.
What I’m asking of you is of a
nature sublime. I’m asking of you that
you each go into a room all by yourself somewhere quiet and undisturbed, for as
long as it takes for you to get decent answers, and ask yourself the probing
questions that I’m asking you. Examine your motives. If they’re pure and noble, then may God bless
you as you continue on your merry way, content in the certain knowledge that
those who do anything, be it good or
bad, out of good motives will be
rewarded. This is right and true, and
applies to you, to those who admire and follow you, and to all of us.
But be informed that from those to
whom much is given, much is required. As
the obvious recipients of great creative talents, you must be possessed of keen
minds. Surely, then, you can see the ancient wisdom of which I speak! You have great abilities, rational and
intuitive both, to see, and to measure, effects good and bad, of your art. We all know it makes money for you. That’s OK.
Money isn’t evil. You can do a
lot of good things with money, including taking care of your own needs. If you take care of them, no one else will
need to. Valuing money too much, too far
above and beyond values that more properly reside above money, however, IS evil.
Nothing less than evil! I ask you to consider that.
I ask you to consider the many poor,
happy people, and the many rich, miserable people on our planet, and think long
and hard. Put your values, your heart,
and your efforts in one place, the place that brings the most happiness to you
and to us all. Woe to those whose values
are in the wrong place! I’m not saying
I’m getting ready to inflict woe upon you, I’m saying that’s the way the moral
universe is set up. What goes around,
comes around. Don’t be spreading bad
karma, ‘cause it’ll come back around and bite you on your heiney. Whatever.
However you want to say it. Just beware!
Now, I can’t put exact names to the
vague values of which I speak. I suppose
you’ve noticed. I’m not that great of a
writer, and certainly not that much of a speaker. If I had to try, I guess I’d mumble something
about valuing life, and Love, and conscience, balance, and simple decency. Even caution and prudence, because life is a
precious thing, to be jealously guarded with rational, responsible behavior,
and self-restraint, even, every day.
Okay, so those are these Supreme
Values I’m trying to speak of. These
Supremes don’t ask of you to wear sackcloth, to engage in hypocrisy, sanctimony,
self-righteousness, or self-denial. I’m
not asking you to mope around with a long face, telling everyone to “Let Jesus
into your life”, or anything like that.
I’m just asking you to ponder whether, in the balance, you’re doing
good, or bad. Are there acts, aspects of
your art, that are more negative than positive, net-net? If so, then, keeping these Supremes in mind,
I ask you to “Stop, in the Name of Love!”
Sincerely, and with Best Wishes,
Titus “RocketSlinger”
Stauffer
Chapter
18 Endnotes
A
National ID Card, and Governmental and Non-Governmental Snoops (Like
Scientologists, for Example)
Retina scans and a National ID card
for every citizen? Make sure we keep
them thar heinous alien scum (AKA illegal humans) out, who would (Gasp! Horror
of Horrors!) work without
permission? Produce goods and services
for us cheaper than welfare-state molly-coddled U.S. citizens? Can’t have that, now, come on! And, of course, your new National ID will
also Protect The Children from deadbeat dads.
And who could argue against that,
except for a children-hating ogre?
Yup, yo. A National ID card, with biometric data
encoded into it, so that we’ll have foolproof methods of identifying deadbeat
dads, people who would produce goods and services illegally, and people who
would evade taxes, for such pernicious and destructive purposes as making their
own charity choices, instead of having enlightened bureaucrats in D.C. (Den of
Crypto-fascists) make them for us. Other
noble purposes to be added later, as the situation may demand. That’s what’s coming our way. National ID cards. As if our de facto National ID number, Social
Security, wasn’t enough.
So now the cat’s out of the
bag. Your author is a raving loony, a
militiaman, a conspiracy theorist. Well,
now, hold your horses. As of 1 Oct. ‘97,
all U.S. employers must register their new hires, and report their pay every
three months.*27 All so that the
government can impose its family values, and chase deadbeat dads. Meanwhile, divorced dads get no financial
credit for buying clothes for the kids, taking them out to eat, and so on. Even if momma is in the habit of snorting her
child support check up her nose, and neglecting the kids. Unless we can invite Big Brother into our
homes, and document the child neglect, give her a weekly urine test, and get
lots of lawyers and judges to revamp child custody... What a mess!
Yes, it’s often partly dad’s fault,
for having made irresponsible choices in mating and reproducing, but
still. Let’s be fair to fathers. I recall Marcia Clark, O.J. Simpson
prosecutor, saying that her ex (making a third or so of what she was making)
needed to send her more child support, so that she could buy better dresses, to
better impress the judge, jury, media, and so on! And she said this for all the world to
hear! Something’s busted here,
folks. A National ID card ain’t gonna
fix it, either.
For those of you who are sick of
men’s interests getting trampled in zillions of ways, from false rape charges
to special laws that protect women but not men, and on and on, I’d recommend
that you read a well-written, well-documented book by Warren Farrell, Ph.D.,
called The Myth of Male Power. Some chapter titles alone say a lot: “Women Who Kill Too Much and the Courts That
Free Them: The Twelve ‘Female-Only’ Defenses” and “From Husband Sam to Uncle Sam: Government as Substitute Husband”
are examples. We’ve taken power away
from individuals, heads of households, families, civil society, and local
communities, and given it to coercive government social workers and
bureaucrats. The negative effects, from
child abuse witch-hunts to yet more irresponsible reproductive choices, should
be obvious for all but hide-bound ideologues to see.
Yes, I realize that there are
abusive men, and that the state does need to step in at times, to (Yuck! Here
it comes!) protect the children. Still, let’s find a balance, here. And let’s not set up a system for one
purpose, and find that it later gets used for another. Like giving Big Brother his National ID cards.
Despite badly bungling pilot
attempts at creating centralized government registries of those who are
authorized to work, the Clinton administration is now expanding a worker
registry. “The Illegal Immigration
Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act of 1996, a bill promoted by the
administration and enacted by congressional Republicans... requires the project
to clear citizens as well as non-citizens.
Accordingly, the administration is merging INS and Social Security
system databases to create a worker registry¾a list of all people who are authorized to work in
this country.”*28 Later, we are told,
“In September 2001, Congress will vote on whether the project should become a
mandatory nationwide program. Unimpeded
by the admission that INS databases are unreliable, the worker registry is
steadily expanding.”
Then we are told that Sen. Alan
Simpson, set to retire after this new law authorizing the pilot project had
passed, in boasting about his “legislative accomplishment”, “...candidly
predicted that the worker registry would lead to ‘a more secure identifier,’
such as ‘a slide-through card like you use with a Visa when you make a
purchase, perhaps some type of driver’s license photograph, retina examination
like they have done in California.’ Had
Simpson stated during the floor debate that his bill would hasten the day when
federal government will issue an identification card encoded with a ‘retina
examination,’ the law would have failed by a landslide.”*28
Some legislators like to sneak
things up on Congress. And Congress
likes to sneak things up on us. Do you
trust the government with vast databases about all of us? I
don’t, and for plenty of good reasons, none of which have anything to do with
me being a member of any militia. One
reason is that systems set up for one use, under one set of enlightened
despots, for one use, gets used for straightening out the benighted masses for
unanticipated transgressions later on.
So you liberals get to scan our
retinas today to “Protect The Children”.
After the next elections, are you ready for the conservatives to scan
your retinas, to “Protect Us All From Sin”?
Maybe match your retina patterns to your DNA, for example, and keep it
all on file, so we can do a DNA match to all the fetuses, and make sure nobody
thumbs their nose at the long arm of The Law, and goes and get himself cloned,
for example. Nip those monsters in the
bud, and forcibly abort all the clones.
God didn’t make them, man made them, so they don’t have souls. Killing monsters isn’t murder, right? Don’t laugh¾we’ve done stupider things. We’re still doing stupid things, and I see no
end in sight just yet.
And once a program is in place, you
can expect it to grow and grow, and never die.
I seem to recall reading that the current income tax started in about
1911, at a rate of about 3% on the very richest of fat cats. Ordinary Joes like you and me, they said,
we’d never have to worry about it. Yeah,
right!
Then there’s the matter of whether
or not government (the gang that can’t shoot straight, ‘cause their “customers”
are theirs by force, not by choice) can be trusted to keep the registries
honest, accurate, and fair. Do I have a
story for you! “Name-Theft Nightmare”,
26 Oct. ‘97 Hou Chron. Subtitled
Model citizen suffers because of law’s loophole. It seems that an underage stripper stole
Nicole Zatkin’s ID card. Nicole is deaf,
a young mother, a model citizen who has struggled with her disability, and a
contributing, law-abiding member of society.
Yet if you’re her prospective banker, landlord, employer, or volunteer
agency looking for help (and all these and more do check the records, these
days, to check you out, and they’re doing it ever more and more, as we let the
murderers and child molesters free to free up jail space for the drug fiends),
then you’ll find that “...a check of arrest records reveals a very different
Nicole Zatkin¾an under-aged topless dancer
arrested by vice officers for lewdness at an adult club.”
It all began when Nicole’s temporary
driver’s license got heisted by Anastacia Moonglow Alva. Although Nicole spent nearly $1,000 and two
years trying to straighten things out, and although the real perpetrator (that
heinous criminal, using her body as she saw fit, without the state’s approval)
‘fessed up to all her crimes (“After performing a risqué ‘lap dance,’ she was
charged with public lewdness and jailed,” the paper explains), including
heisting the card, Nicole can’t get her records cleaned up! The State of Texas doesn’t allow such lawlessness, chaos, and badness!
The State of Texas, and rigid-minded
whores thereof, can’t see fit to expunge her name, because she wasn’t the
person arrested! Their limp excuse is
something like, “Well, if a criminal uses a certain alias, we have to keep
track of that alias, lest they use it again.”
Harris County District Attorney John B. Holmes Jr. claims he sympathizes
with Nicole, but, well, ya know, the law is the law is the law. And what’s against the law is against the
law. God forbid we, who are sworn to
uphold the law, should break the law! So
no, of course we can’t expunge her
records!
Get this: “Holmes said the ruling
was proper, because the law allows for little discretion in granting
expunctions. He recalled an incident in
which one of his prosecutors was filling out a criminal charge form on a
computer screen, when she inadvertently typed in her name as the person
charged.
“‘There was nothing we could do at
that point, under the law,’ Holmes said. ‘We had her technically ‘arrested’¾so she could fulfill the requirement
of the expunction law. Then we took up a
collection for the $178 expunction filing fee.
I chipped in the first $20.’”
So there you have a good example of
the asinine, totally mindless nature of public “servants”. They’re completely incapable of giving a
common-sense answer to the following simple question: “Are the systems,
procedures, and computers our servants, or are we theirs?” I’d like to think that there’d be
freedom-loving, common-sense men and women out there in public service who’d
say, “In this case, the law obviously has its head so far up its patootie that
I’m just flat-out not going to do the wrong thing. Throw me out of office if you must. Then I’m going straight to the media.” And no sane person higher up the public
service food chain would dare to touch them, I’d bet.
But expecting common sense and
courage out of “public servants” often seems like expecting a pig to fly. It just ain’t in the nature of the
beast. What bureaucrat ever got fired
for exactly following a procedure, even though it was stupid? Hence, we must fight against the idea of a
National ID card, and anything that smells like it.
Still not convinced that I’m no
militia loony? That bit about having to
fear that non-government types might tap into government databases for
nefarious purposes (of a non-governmental nature) pushed you over the
edge? I’m a real conspiracy nut, now,
huh?
Well, the FBI in 1976 found that two
Scientology agents, equipped with forged credentials, were scrounging around a
Justice Department office at night.*18
This was the tip of the iceberg (“a widespread espionage operation”),
the feds found. One Scientology agent,
Michael Meisner, ending up working with the feds, after nearly a year on the
run. He and an accomplice broke into an
IRS photo-ID “...room and forged the credentials that they used to enter
various government buildings, steal and copy keys left carelessly on desks,
pick locks, and steal and copy government files.”
“Other Scientologists entered on
nights and weekends and ransacked offices, including the Deputy Attorney
General’s, stealing highly secret papers and copying them on government
copiers,” the Digest goes on to tell
us. After the October ‘79 conviction of
nine high Scientology officials (on charges “of theft or conspiracy charges
arising from their plot against the government”, with Hubbard himself, among
others, named as unindicted co-conspirators), Scientology remained
unbowed. “...they issued an appeal for
volunteers for the Guardian counterattack, ‘to ferret out those who want to
stop Scientology.’”*18 Guardian here refers to a member of
Hubbard’s then-budding non-governmental “dirty tricks” squad. More dirt on Scientology later, in the
endnotes concluding this whole book.
Stay tuned!
It seems to me that history has
lessons about charismatic, persuasively talented madmen who draw others into
their paranoid delusions of grandeur and persecution. Like one who whips them into blind obedience,
into following him and his insane ideas down into evil and destruction, all in
the name of “Only I can save you from
all of the rest of the world! They’re
all against us, and our special knowledge and power! Only I
can save you! You must obey! We must destroy them before they destroy us!”
We must guard against anyone who has
all the answers for us, and who would do
us good, whether we want to be done good unto, or not. A National ID card would play right into the
claws of such monsters. The government
has too much information for freedom-fearing thugs (of both the governmental
and non-governmental species) to steal and abuse already. We’d be fools to add yet more fuel to the
fire.
Chapter
19 Endnotes
Scientology
and The Level Beyond Stupid
So you like my tale from The Level
Beyond Stupid? But you think it’s pretty
stupid? Well, it is. But sadly, once again, my crazy fiction has
its counterparts in reality. Peer
pressure does make us “metans” do
some pretty darned stupid things! I’ll
try not to insult you intelligence and knowledge, but I suppose you recall at
least some of the history I’m familiar with.
A.D. 73, 1,000 or so members of a
Jewish sect called Zealots committed mass suicide rather than surrender to the
Romans, at Masada, by the Dead Sea. Two
women and five children escaped.
November 1978, 911 followers of Jim Jones drank poison in Jonestown,
Guyana; 32 escaped. 5 Oct. ‘94, 23 Solar
Temple worshippers dead, in yet another mass suicide. 22-23 March ‘97, 39 Heaven’s Gate members
dead; mass suicide yet again.
When will it stop? When we’re all smart enough to let God, and
not zealots, tell us Who God Is. When we
figure it out for ourselves, in our own individual ways, and become profoundly,
deeply skeptical of anyone who tells us that they know the One Truth and The
Way. We must obey our one True Leader
who relates to God (UFOs, Descamgramification, being Clear of engrams,
whatever) for us? And we must obey our
True Leader in every minute detail? Run
for your life and soul!
Anyway, here’s the one really big
reason why I had to put endnotes on this particular chapter: I wanted to tell
you where I got this ultimately, frightfully euphemistic talk about “ending
one’s cycle”. Steven Fishman, a former
Scientologist, began serving a five-year prison sentence in Florida in August
of ‘90.*17
He had worked at a brokerage, where
he stole blank stock-confirmation slips.
These, he used as proof to join dozens of class-action lawsuits as a
stockholder. He made about $1 million
between 1983 and 1988 by doing this.
These reparations for being supposedly so sorely abused as a
stockholder, he then took and spent for various good causes, to be sure. One of them (up to 30% of his take, or shall
we say, his grab) was books and tapes from Scientology. You might imagine that Fishman, upon being
arrested, was a bit of an embarrassment to The Church, and that they might have
preferred for him not to embarrass them any more. Here comes the good part:
“Scientology denies any tie to the
Fishman scam, a claim strongly disputed by both Fishman and his longtime psychiatrist,
Uwe Geertz, a prominent Florida hypnotist.
Both men claim that when arrested, Fishman was ordered by the church to
kill Geertz and then do an ‘EOC,’ or end of cycle, which is church jargon for
suicide.”*17
Chapter
20 Endnotes
Dianetics
Therapy, “Voluntary” Therapy, NAGPRA, NADGRAB, GRABBOIDS, and Sacred Hairs.
OK, readers, so how totally silly
and ridiculous do you think I’m being this
time? Am I holding a candle to reality
yet? Judge for yourselves!
Breast exams and practicing medicine
without a license? Howard Stern, radio shock jock, might get busted (ha-ha) for examining women’s breasts for lumps while on the air.*29 Not for being a juvenile, or for having bad
taste, but for practicing medicine
without a license. OK, so it’s not
something you or I would do, and we consider this to silly childishness,
but... Well, how many women would really
go see Howard Stern for a breast exam, thinking he was a doctor? And Howard even told them to get another
opinion!
Petty laws are often used by petty
people for petty reasons. The man who’s
pushing to have Howard charged is trying to squelch free speech; he’s not
worried about protecting women from bad doctors. That should be obvious for all to see. The more petty laws we put on the books, the more
weapons we put into the hands of petty people.
You told your neighbor to keep his dog from pooping on your yard? Better hide all your plastics quick; he
turned you in! The GRABBOIDS of NADGRAB
are coming to confiscate all your petroleum derivatives!
And the FDA stomping all over
medical advances? I could go on all
day! What I wrote about here is only a
minor extrapolation from the laws as they exist. Software is a “medical device”, and the FDA
thus uses its powers to regulate “medical devices” to reach into controlling
medical practice, which is far more than Congress ever meant to do. If the doctor uses a computer to assist him,
he’d better have the FDA sitting on his shoulder.
Atlanta eye surgeon Trevor Woodhams
had his eye laser “arrested” by the FDA, despite the fact that he was working
with the FDA in good faith.*30 He’d made
the mistake of trying to do advanced eye surgery as performed in other nations,
whose regulatory octopuses grab less power than the FDA grabs. Medical advances are regularly caught in the
bureaucrats’ power-hungry maws. Calling
software a “medical device” is one way the FDA expands its powers, without new
laws being passed.
“Because software evolves rapidly
and has 1,001 different uses, it is particularly easy to stifle through
regulations that are just a bit too inflexible.
And because software changes constantly, it is never perfect, though it
is often vastly superior to the manual, paper-based processes it is meant to
replace. Imperfection has never sat well
with the FDA, which gets a great deal of bad publicity if something it approves
hurts someone but none at all if someone dies because of regulatory delay. Accordingly, the FDA dreams, in the words of
T.S. Eliot, ‘of systems so perfect that no one will need to be good.’”*30
“Off-label” uses of drugs are a
major area of FDA excesses. Under new
federal policies, your pharmacist and the drug manufacturer might both get busted if your doctor
prescribes a drug for you for an unlisted application, and the pharmacist
(helpfully, in response to your questions) gives you a copy of an article from
a medical journal. Not only that, but
the FDA has already “...often prohibited the distribution of textbooks and
journal articles to health care professionals because they alluded to off-label
uses.”*31
So do you want to trust your doctor
and pharmacist, or bureaucrats at the FDA?
Do you have the money to travel overseas to a very few nations less
befestered by bureaucrats than ours, to get the latest, best medicine and medical
procedures? Maybe we should consider
starting the “Church of Zapping Eye Scamgrams With Lasers”, and the “Church of
Driving the Demons Away with Software-driven Automated Pill-dispensing
Machines”. If we did so, we might get
freedom from all regulations, and a tax break to boot! Because religious freedom is high, mighty,
and supreme, while the terms economic
freedom, personal freedom, and medical freedom are regarded as oxymorons.
See, for instance, one of the
apparent Bibles of Scientology, Dianetics,
by L. Ron Hubbard. My 1986-timeframe
paperback copy (my wife bought it second-hand, so don’t worry, we didn’t add
much in the way of fuel to Scientology’s fires) tells me right up front about
the “E-Meter”. “It is not intended or
effective for the diagnosis, treatment or prevention of any disease, or for the
improvement of health or any bodily function.”
That is, in the small print, way up front, before the body of the book.
Later, on page 122, we are told, as
I understand, that if you get your “demon circuits deleted from the engram
bank,” and do this that and the other, then your IQ will soar! Page 125 tells us about a long list of ills
that Dianetic therapy will cure for you.
“(And the word cured is used in its fullest sense.)” We are even told that “Clears do not get
colds.” “Clears” are those who’ve had
their “engrams” “audited” away by an expert with an “E-Meter”, or some such
hoo-ha. More details if you fork over
the big donations!
OK, so then we get to page 126,
where we are told that they’re working on curing cancer and diabetes. But all we’ve got to do, now, to keep the FDA
off of our backs, is to put a little disclaimer up front, declare ourselves to
be a religion, and sue the hell out of the IRS till we get a tax break. For those who don’t know, Scientology is a
tax-exempt church, at least in the U.S.
What a deal!
GRABBOIDS? NADGRAB?
Bureaucrats with billy clubs, running around and telling us how to
properly respect the dead? And
recruiting “volunteers” to donate time and money, to have their bad habits
“voluntarily” therapeutritrized away?
Using the long arms of the law?
Let me tell you a few tales!
First, there’s a 9 June ‘97 Hou Chron article bylined San Antonio,
“Report: D.A. drops charges for drug task donations.” If you’re a heinous scum bucket who travels
down to Mexico, to buy prescription drugs that cost a fraction of the U.S.
costs, down there, because you can bypass the Medi-Nanny state and its ten
zillion regulations on drug companies, and you get caught bringing them thar
heinous drugs across the border (shame
on you, believing that an ignorant slob like you can decide for yourself what
to pay for your drugs, without greasing the palms of doctors, pharmacists, the
FDA, the cops, their mothers, and the local Committee for the Eradication of
Sin¾whazzamatter wiff you, boy, you
believin’ you can just doctor yourself, huh?! You think that just ‘cause the government
graciously allows you to inhabit that body, that it belongs to you, and that an ignorant moron like you can decide for yourself what to put into it?!
You got some sort o’ attitude
problem or what, boy?!), then you’re busted!
But you can make “the felony charge disappear with a donation to a drug
task force.” Or you can get up to ten
years in the slammer for trying to save money, while unauthorized by the
Medi-Nanny state.
But we’re not selling forgiveness
for drug sins. No, Sir! Here’s the tap-dance double-speak from a law
geek: “‘If we think there is insufficient evidence (to prosecute a case), we
will ask them if they will make a charitable contribution,’ he said. The request is not part of a plea agreement,
he said. ‘If they don’t want to do it,
we just go ahead and prosecute. There is
no hard sell (on making the contribution),’ Ellison said.”
We might be tempted to dismiss such
sheer stupidity as being purely the fruits of demented law enforcement
imbeciles. But we’d be making a
mistake! Such idiots also reside at high-powered
think tanks.*32 The Rand Corporation got
the story partly straight by saying that long prison terms for low-level drug
offenders are a big mistake, and that treatment might be a better option. But how do we make sure the unfleeced metans
of the world are brought to the light?
Good question!
The report’s principal author is a
distinguished gentlemetan, Jonathan Caulkins, associate professor of public
policy at Carnegie Mellon University.
Quite the learned gentlemetan, as you can see. Surely
we could expect no moron-speak from one such as him! We’ll, we’d be
wrong. “After all, it often takes
enforcement to provide willing clients for treatment,” he says.*32 Come on,
boys, and let’s go an’ lasso up some willing
clients an’ shove ‘em into that thar therapeutritron thang, an’
therapeutritrize ‘em good an’ hard!
You’ve still got your
“freedom”. You’re free to choose jail,
or cough up a couple of thousand dollars for your voluntary therapy. Yup! And when I come home drunk as a skunk at
three in the morning, my wife tells me I’d best volunteer to allow her to offer
me some alcohol abuse therapy, or else I can volunteer to sleep on the patio
for a few nights.
Come on, people, is it voluntary treatment, or is it punishment? Recognizing one’s problems and listening to
the advice of a person who helps us in a mutually voluntary manner is therapy,
and it often works. Punishment is being
subjected to retribution; it causes resentment, and can often do more harm than
good. Especially when dished out to
people who don’t deserve it. And
preaching to unwilling listeners, otherwise known as “nagging therapy”, hardly ever works! Let’s reserve punishment for those that really deserve it, and then make the
punishment a real, effective
punishment! Then we can also stop
confusing therapy and punishment.
Boy, you’d better be respectin’ yo’
ancestors properly, or we’ll be takin’ ya in!
It’s a warning that anthropologist Rob Bonnichsen is all too familiar
with.*33 See the 14 Oct ‘96 Time magazine science article, “Bones of
Contention”, for example. I have a few
bones to pick with our society’s anti-knowledge bias these days. Rob is a scientist who wanted to study a
single hair found in an ancient Native American camp site (not a grave). The federal bureaucrats used the Native American Grave Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA, passed in 1990) to prevent him
from studying this hair, this Sacred piece of Human Body Remains.
They can’t protect us from the
neighborhood thugs, but hair-splitting bureaucrats can sure protect us from a
mad scientist who might study a hair!
Worse yet, think about the anti-knowledge bias here: Every day, no
doubt, hunters, campers, hikers, lumberjacks, and farmers are unknowingly
desecrating these precious hairs of Native American Ancestors, randomly strewn
about out in the great outdoors. It’s
only when we know what we’re doing
that we can be punished under these laws!
And woe even more to those who should be seeking yet more knowledge!
Under NAGPRA, museums which own
Native American grave artifacts, Holy Relics such as “corn pollen, ritual
stones and eagle feathers” in special “medicine bundles” and such, are required
to return them to Native American tribes.*34
However, if they appease the Native Americans by paying Native American
Medicine Men to come in and periodically pray over these artifacts, appeasing
the Ancestor Spirits that dwell in the corn silk, and such, then they can keep
their artifacts for a little while longer.
“...traditional Navajos believe the
bundles are living objects and can suffer if mistreated...”, so they “...must
be periodically allowed to breathe by having medicine men remove the items and
hold a special ceremony.” “Officials at
most Southwestern museums have budgets set aside to pay for these
ceremonies.”*34
All this, despite the fact that the
museums bought the medicine bundles fair and square, on the open market. Role reversal time! Can I sell you my old TV, then decide that my
Ancestor Spirits dwell therein, and get Congress to pass a law that requires
you to either give it back to me, or pay me to pray over your TV now and
then? Whatever happened to property
rights (economic freedom), common sense, separation of church and state, and
rationality, anyway? Prepare for NADGRAB
and the petroleum police, the GRABBOIDS!
Native Americans are far and away
today’s most “politically correct” minority, and “sensitive” people don’t ask
any questions whatsoever, with respect to policies regarding them. Certainly not questions like “Does this make
any sense? Is this really helping
anyone? What harms can result from
treating people differently, according to what group they belong to?”
We’re all in favor of everyone being
equal, we say. Then we turn around and
pass special policies for special people.
Native Americans are often exempt from paying taxes when they sell
cigarettes and gasoline!*35 And of
course they get special gambling permits.
Oh, but the law says they’re sovereign nations, so we can’t be making
them pay sales taxes. That would be
infringing on their sovereignty, unlike when the government gives them welfare
benefits. But don’t worry; they’re
supposed to pay sales taxes when they sell to non-Amerinds! What’s next, sales taxes proportional to the
customer’s Amerind bloodlines?! Talk
about unenforceable, crazy laws!
Then there’s also the Indian Arts
and Crafts Act of 1990. You may not sell
your arts or crafts in the U.S. if they’re labeled as Native American or
American Indian unless you’re a member of a state or federally recognized
tribe. Gotta protect those “genuine”
Indian artists and craftspersons from “impostors”!!! So even if you’re a full-blooded Native who
doesn’t want to affiliate with any tribe, or if you’re a Canadian Native, then,
tough luck! And once more, role reversal
time: Congress passes the Caucasian Arts
and Crafts Act of 2003, with similar provisions. Gotta protect the artists and consumers from
impostors. Reactions? What will the do-gooders say?
It really, truly is as bad as I portray it, sad to
say. Purchasing Native American artwork
is now yet another category of, you don’t really own it just because you bought it fair and square. You can only own something if you can afford several buckets full of slimy
lawyers. Steve Diamant spend 15 years
buying his collection of 200 Native American artifacts, buying them from museum
shops, reservation trading posts, Indian craftsmen, and so on.*36 He returned home one day to find lawmen,
including “Hopi Rangers”, rummaging through all of his belongings. They took his 200 items; he’s now got about
15 of them back, almost a year later, after spending $45,000 in legal fees!
It really was quite the comical
affair, if you can bring yourself to laugh at thugs stealing things from
people, with government assistance. One
confiscated item of “cultural patrimony” was a domestic turkey feather spray-painted
to look like an eagle feather. When the
time came for all the various sorts of certified Native Americans to split the
loot, they didn’t even know which things belonged to whom! “Navajos have claimed Rio Grande Pueblo
material as Navajo cultural patrimony,” Diamant said. “Jemez likewise have claimed Zia material,
and Hopi have claimed Jemez material.”*36
NAGPRA was deliberately written to be vague about what is and isn’t “cultural
patrimony”, because if the material was specifically described, collectors
would know was is then the very most precious, and target it! Nor will the tribes “certify” art for sale as
NOT being “cultural patrimony”. This would interfere with their ability to
sell things, decide that they’re “patrimony”, seize them back, and then re-sell
them again. There have been unproven
allegations that exactly this is happening.
A deliberately vague set of laws here is facilitating thievery by some small
subset of lazy, greedy scum among Native Americans. If you thought “Indian giver” was a
derogatory label, wait till “Indian seller” gets around!
Collecting Native American trinkets,
then, is a hazardous hobby. Even
contracting with the artist is no guarantee.
“...seized items included new kachinas commissioned and purchased
directly from Hopi carvers.”*36
Penalties for violating deliberately vaguely crafted laws? Up to a year in the slammer, a $100,000 fine,
and confiscation of artifacts. Second
offense, 5 years, $250,000. And that’s
not throwing in penalties for trafficking in endangered species, either¾remember, your Native Artisan
might have thrown a few Yellow-Bellied Slime-Tailed Greater Southern Turd Slug
eggs into his creation.
So you want to buy Native American
trinkets, now? Not I! See how counterproductive stupid government
meddling gets, when we allow Congressmen to have self-righteous snits with
other peoples’ affairs and property?
When will they deputize me as a “Caucasian Ranger”, so that I can go and
seize the art you contracted with blah-blah down the street to carve for
you? If my taste runs to Native
American-style art (I hope that’s allowed, even though I’m not a Certified
Native), then can I at least safely buy some Certified Genuine Imitation
Pseudo-Native Non-Art by a Certified Non-Native Non-Artisan? Would our masters allow this?
Wait, there’s more: a seemingly
Caucasian skeleton, 9,300 years old, is found in the state of Washington. An extremely rare, intriguing, and
irreplaceable find, it must be buried within 30 days, without further study, to
appease the Ancestor Spirits. We double
our population every forty years or so, placing great stress on a global
environment of unknown stability and dynamics.
Given a chance to gather precious information about human biological and
cultural adaptations to environmental stress and changes, the environment of
the past, genetics, population dynamics, and more, much of it very likely
bearing on what we need to do as a species to survive, what do we do? Do we try to gain knowledge and
understanding? Or do we Appease The
Ancestor Spirits? Should the Europeans
have just buried the 8,000 year old Ice Man that they found in the Italian
Alps? Will other nations leave U.S.
science behind? Shall we return to the
Middle Ages, when the study of bodies was forbidden?
It fills me with sorrow to
contemplate that a few million years from now, space aliens may discover the
burnt-out cinders of planet Earth, and study our remains and records. They may conclude that yes, indeed, we were a
willfully ignorant, superstitious, and knowledge-fearing bunch, but hey, at
least we paid proper respects to the intricacies of Ancestor Worship (Hallowed
Be Their Remains, Forever and Ever without End, Amen).
Well, OK, so those bones (of
“Kennewick Man”) haven’t been buried yet, as this is written. Some federal judge gave him a reprieve, it
seems. So the skeleton is being kept by
the bureaucrats till, who knows how many years later (and who knows in how
seriously a degraded shape, after years of being amateurishly kept by scientifically
illiterate bureaucrats), some judge decides what to do with him, for once and
for all. Maybe Kennewick Man can testify
to the U.S. Supreme Court!
It seems that the scientists can’t
study Kennewick Man, but Native Americans can have ceremonies over him, and put
cedar leaves in his coffin!*37 Not to be
outdone, members of a pagan sect worshipping Norse gods demanded that they,
too, should be allowed to hold a religious ceremony over the bones. After all, Kennewick Man looks Caucasian, so
he could be an ancestor of these members of the Asatru Folk Assembly! So they, too, get to do their deal! Can’t be discriminating, now, can we?! Now let’s all get in line, and apply for
permission from Hizzoner, to hold our religious ceremonies over Kennewick Man:
First in line: Professor Joe Blow
Scientist, Dude extraordinaire, beer drinker, learned fellow of the
middle-class suburb, the house mortgage note, the wife, 0.8 dogs, 1.2 cats, and
2.1 kids: “Your Honor, Sir, I’m a broad-minded Christian rationalist, and I
believe that if Jesus were here today, he’d want us all to love one another, no
matter what our race, religion, creed, and so on. But I also believe that Christ was being
serious when he told us that the truth will set us free. I believe that Christ wants me, as a rational
human being, to seek knowledge and truth, so that we can help people, and set
them free from ignorance and superstition.
So Sir, I’d like to do some carbon radioisotope dating and some anatomical
studies on Kennewick Man.”
“Get out of here, you clown!”
Hizzoner says. “You’re just a plain ol’
Joe Blow scientist, not a Noble Savage or a Deeply Religious Soul at all! Now scram!
Next!”
“Your Honor, Sir, I’m Dood B. Bad,
High Priest of the Ommanga Bewunga Church of the Almighty DNA Molecule. I’d like for you to allow me to get a small
bit of Kennewick Man’s bones, grind them up with mortar and pestle, dance and
sing around them, and then put them in the Sacred Gene Sequencer Machine That
Goes KaPwing!, and have it determine the Sacred Count of the Holy Trinucleotide
Sequence Repeats, so that we may Assign Our Ancestor into His Holy Genotype.”
Hizzoner scratches his chin, pauses,
and then announces, “Request on hold.
I’m not so sure you’re quite properly, upliftingly irrational enough to
qualify as a religious person. We’ll
study the matter for a few years, appoint many scholarly study committees, and
issue you a 5,000-page report on your request in due time. For a small fee from the taxpayers, who have
nothing better to do with their money anyway.
Next!”
“Your Honor, I’m Priestess Nooglybwimps, and this is my chief disciple, FuFu the Gnu. We’re
followers of the Great Green Glorbleworf Who Glimples Gauzy Glormglobbles in
Galaxies Far, Far Away. Simpletons who
have no idea about how truly Deep and Meaningful our Beliefs are, they call us
‘Glorbleworfers’.
I’d like to take my fifteen followers, and drink toad pee from green
crystal glasses under the full moon while riding our gnus in interleaved,
psychically heterogeneous triangles around the Sacred Bodily Remains of our
Fallen Ancestor, Hallowed Be His Name.”
Hizzoner
claps his hands, looking quite pleased.
“Now that’s more like it! Glorbleworfers make
no sense, like a real religion
should! Motion granted! Bailiff, help these good people out!”
Illustration
goes here … Partying with skeleton under
full moon
So how’s that for fiction embedded
into the middle of factual footnotes in a work of fiction? Need I comment as to what points I’m trying
to make? Why, on the brink of the twenty-first
century, are we pandering to irrationality so much? I’m not saying scientists should go around
digging up everyone’s grandma’s graves.
Couldn’t we at least exempt any corpses and artifacts over, say, 400
years old, when there is valuable information to be gleaned? Couldn’t we perhaps even trust scientists and public opinion to keep in place those few
scientists who might otherwise offend public sensibilities by, oh, whatever;
taking their precious bones and making them into kid’s Halloween
decorations? Must we legally mandate all
that is good, and prohibit all that is in bad taste? What freedom
is left in this scheme of things?
We morally superior voters feel
compelled to anoint politicians who will make sure, for us, that everyone else
lives up to our high moral standards.
They in turn pass vague but nice-sounding laws, and appoint “public
servants” to fill in the details. But
when is the last time you ever heard of a mindlessly rule-following “public
servant” being fired for violating the letter of the law? Rules win, common sense bites the dust. Also bitten, is the hind end of the
self-righteous voter, who deserves what he gets, in full-strength doses (except
for me!). Quit-yer-bitchin’,
and OBEY your “public servants”, you supposed “master” voter, you!
Couldn’t Congress, for once, try to envision
all the stupid ways that the bureaucrats will abuse their new laws? And try to prohibit such things when they
write the laws? When they passed NAGPRA,
they forgot to state that “bureaucrats shall not decree a hair to be a Sacred
Bodily Remnant.” Or is that an
impossible task? Are the potential
abuses of bureaucrats infinite? I
suspect so. And this is the ultimate
irrationality, perhaps, to think that we can change this. We can’t breed a better bureaucrat; we can
only cut their numbers.
2012 UPDATE: Chalk
one up for the good guys at long last!
Scientists got to study Kennewick Man, after Government Almighty spent
untold $gazillions fighting about it in court.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kennewick_Man
Concluding
Endnotes¾The
Meaning of Life
(Or
at the Very Least, of This Book)
Rationalists
are admirable beings, rationalism is a hideous monster when it claims for
itself omnipotence. Attribution of
omnipotence to reason is as bad a piece of idolatry as is worship of stock and
stone believing it to be God. I plead
not for the suppression of reason, but for a due recognition of that in us
which sanctifies reason. Mohandas K.
Gandhi (1869–1948)
So, just exactly what was I trying to
do with this book, other than amusing and irritating my readers, having a good
time, and just generally making trouble?
Yes, as you might have guessed, I did have a few ideas in mind, which
I’ve been trying to transmit. In case
your vibes detector node-mode arrays didn’t quite parse the messages clearly,
and you give a hoot, let’s have go at ‘em one more time.
Take a good look at Gandhi’s quote,
above. That says it fairly well. Without reason, or simple common sense, good
judgment, and believing the evidence of our senses, we (even those of us with
the most noble motives) rapidly start doing some pretty stupid, destructive
things. Justifying stupidity in the name
of religious beliefs is no excuse. I’m
all for religious freedom, so long as believers respect the freedoms of
others. Those freedoms that demand
respect, though, include the freedom to make fun of ideas, religious and
otherwise, that deserve to be made fun of.
I support making fun of stupid
ideas, including stupid/sacred religious beliefs? How could
I? What kind of intolerant, cruel Nazi am I?
Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. In many
ways, though, modern Western culture today actively promotes stupid forms of
irrationality. One should tolerate it,
yes, in the sense of not harming those who harm or threaten no one. But when one sees inappropriateness, speak
out against it, oppose it! Call it evil, even, if it deserves that label!
The Horde Whisperer is largely a
metaphor, yes. But he’s all too
real. Human evil is all too real. How many people talk about evil forthrightly
these days? How many religious leaders
even talk much about it? No, we can’t be
scaring the worshippers out of our churches, so we’ll avoid the difficult
subjects. Might arouse controversy and
divisiveness, and we all know that those things are bad. Don’t go and ruin people’s Sunday. Chaos is badness.
When we speak out in support of
reason, we’re doing a good thing. Make
no mistakes about that. Regard God (and
the Horde Whisperer) as literal or metaphorical, I don’t care. I can speak both languages, and judge no one
for their religious beliefs, or lack thereof, so long as they abide by the
Spirit of Love, of whatever particular name they should care to attach to this
vague and nebulous, but supremely important, entity.
God made the real world, so live in
it. God made the real world as He wants
it to be, so try as best as you can to understand it as it really is, and
accept it. If you don’t like that word
(“God”), then just put it this way: You’ll be better off, you’ll accomplish
your goals more effectively, if you accept the realities that you can’t change.
HOWEVER
(BIG HOWEVER!!!), don’t lose sight of the magic of the mind! You can
change some things, and you should try to!
The magic of the mind, too, is part of God’s “real world”. We can change the rules of baseball, and some
of the rules of the social world. We
can’t change the laws of physics. In
between lays a gray zone. In this gray
zone is where excessively relying on reason can get us less than optimal
results, and into trouble, even. This is
where “irrational” religious beliefs can be of tremendous value, if religion is
properly understood. Don’t throw the
baby out with the bath water.
By “properly understood” I don’t
mean that one has to adhere to some long list of silly rules, dogmas, and
rituals, as entirely too many simpletons believe. My list is short. I got it from a truly nice kind of a fella,
he lived a while back. Treat others the way you’d like to be
treated, if you were in their shoes. That’s it!
The rest is just a bunch of details.
Let me bring forth one simple point
to demonstrate the importance of “mental magic” such that even a devout atheist should be able to understand and
acknowledge my point. If we all pray sincerely for peace, there will
be peace, because no one can pray sincerely for peace, then turn around and
stab his neighbor in the back. There
you have it. We don’t even need God in
this equation. I just happen to define
“God” as that which answers these kinds of prayers. Prayers that get answered just because we ask
for the right, most valuable things, and because we pray for them sincerely
enough.
Praying for peace is supremely
important. When we do it sincerely,
though, we do it while living in the real world. That means that when we see Evil, we call it
by name, and denounce it firmly and unmistakably. We shouldn’t hate it, for hate corrodes the soul. But we should oppose it with all of our
might, and all of our mind. After
pondering carefully, we must do what our conscience tells us to do.
Class dismissed! That about sums it up. Those of you who want to stay, now, can stay
and dig into all the little details.
We’re done with the course; now for bonus material. My personal opinions about matters great and small,
and the facts and sources that I use to support them. We’ll touch quite a bit on the Church of
Scientology’s abuse of religion towards the end, here, for those of you
interested in more facts about this particular “church”.
Before we go any further, I have to
warn you of my particular irrationalities, if irrationalities they should
be. I acknowledge that some of my ideas
are irrational, but I try to put aside or change my irrational beliefs when
they seem to conflict with accomplishing good things in the real world. I may inflict my irrational beliefs on you,
so beware! If I do so, however, I ask
you to consider that I’m not trying to do harm.
If you misunderstand my particular
irrationalities as being in support of causing harm that isn’t justified for a
greater good (yes, Virginia, there really is
such a thing as a greater good¾just see to it that you interrogate your conscience
extremely forcefully before you use methods entailing much harm, in seeking
that greater good, and that when you choose harmful methods, you’re choosing
the least harm), if you think I’m in
support of the Horde Whisperer instead of the Spirit of Love, then by all
means, put this book down before I contaminate your thinking any further.
But the irrationalities I might foist
off on you, if you don’t stay on guard, might politically be called
Libertarian, and spiritually be called Christian. I’m sure my thoughts in both categories will
strike some as impure, heretical, and so on.
But here they are, to fend off accusations of pushing hidden agendas, if
anyone should wish to make such accusations.
While trying not to turn the exercise of writing into a version of the
daytime TV confessional talk shows, I plan to spill some guts to you. Writing on matters of any substance requires
honesty, as well as substance. You
deserve to know which particular brands of snake oil I might be pushing.
LIBERTARIANISM
My short take on Libertarianism
follows. It’s fairly “standard” for
libertarians, but it contains a few impurities here and there. Sadly, some libertarians spend more time
accusing other libertarians of being “statists” than they do persuading
non-libertarians that we’d all be better off if we seriously cut the size of
the government. Many libertarians would
take issue with a few of the things I’ll say.
I think Libertarianism is pretty
rational, principled, and reasonable. In
fact, one of my favorite magazines is called Reason, and it’s quite libertarian.
I recommend it highly. Simply
put, there is no historical, rational, or reasonable evidence to demonstrate
that we can take defective (greedy, selfishly short-sighted, irrational) human
nature, collectivize it through political or any other coercive means, and get
better results that way, than if we left each individual free to act
individually, in families, or in voluntary associations, as he or she freely
chooses.
The usual libertarian concepts are
simply that individual freedoms and property rights should be respected. Quite obviously, of course, my freedom to
swing my fist stops where your nose begins.
Libertarians generally believe that persuasion is far, far better than
coercion, and that the only clearly legitimate role for the government is to
protect freedom. I have the right to be
free from coercion, violence, and fraud, and the government should punish
(protect us from) those who violate the freedoms of others. So the government should maintain armed
services for national self-protection and police forces and courts to punish
evil-doers and resolve disputes. That’s
it!
Being an impure libertarian, I’d
argue that government in our modern era, on the basis of common sense and the
value of life, can get a bit involved in issues beyond the strictly limited
libertarian senses. Let’s spend some clearly limited tax dollars on
roads, public sanitation, health, and the environment, because this benefits
everyone, and is the most efficient way to get things done, in some cases. If cholera runs rampant, let’s stop it by
hook or by crook. Stop arguing about
property rights, and spend tax money if need be, to stop plagues, for the
common good. I’ll not begrudge my tax
money spent to put out your house fire, because that fire might easily spread
to my house.
“Pure” libertarians will argue all
day “on principles” that everything has to be done on the basis of freedom and
property rights. We’re overfishing the
seas? Sell property rights to fishing
grounds. Your smokestacks are polluting
my air? My recourse is to sue you for
the damage you’ve done to my property, my air.
So who is going to defend the rights
to those three hundred square miles of fishing grounds? Me and my guns, on my fishing boat? Or the government? And we’re going to have endless lawsuits by a
quarter billion citizens running around sticking carbon monoxide detectors up each
other’s tailpipes? And carbon dioxide
(hideous “greenhouse gas” that it is) detectors up each other’s nostrils? Don’t we have enough lawsuits, lawyers, and
“junk science” pushers already? Seems to
me that common sense, balanced, and limited regulation has its justified
place, justified in the name of efficiency and the common good.
Yes, we have way, way, way too much government right now, and
far too little common sense. Believe it
or not, though (libertarian extremists, are you listening?), there are such animals as people who want to
go into government to do good, to help all
the people, rather than helping some people (especially themselves) at the
expense of others. Such noble persons,
however, are far too scarce.
Non-libertarians, I must ask you, now, to listen carefully. Economics applies in human affairs. It’s part of God’s real world. Scarce
resources are scarce, so we’d better use them very, very carefully. On top of this list of scarce resources right
now are the human resources of those who want to enter government service for
good and noble reasons.
As soon as government spreads to
fill all the missions of being all things to all people, we find we ran out of
noble government servants long, long ago, and 85.29% of them are now hell-bent
on the missions of gathering more money, power, glory, adulation, and delusions
of moral superiority for themselves.
Surprise, surprise! We didn’t
make ourselves more noble than we were before, by collectivizing ourselves,
after all. All we did was to remove the
efficiently self-correcting forces of the freedoms, the spontaneous orders that
reside in the free market and in simply non-judgmentally
letting others be so long as they let us be. We’ve now replaced freedom with endless
fighting over moral superiority, over who should wield the big government stick
over which sets of moral inferiors. As
often as not, one government agency fights another, too.
CHRISTIANITY
& TOLERANCE
So there’s my libertarianism. Now my Christianity. I don’t think I can justify it rationally,
nearly to the extent that I can rationally defend my libertarianism. I can’t give you a rational reason why you
shouldn’t go and blow your brains out right now, or why you should prefer
pleasure over pain, creation over destruction, Love over hate, the long term
over the short term, freedom and happiness over guilt and fear, or God over
Satan. The reasons why I favor all these
things has little to do with reason.
These are my starting assumptions; I merely use reason AFTER I’ve made my starting
assumptions. Only after I’ve made my starting assumptions, only then does reason become of supreme importance.
Religion, or spirituality, speaks to
that-which-precedes-reason as nothing else can.
It (in various guises, ranging from very benevolent to very malevolent)
gives many their own “meanings of life” as they best or worst choose them. Perhaps I put Christ on the very top of my
stack of good, decent, and articulate human beings because I know so little about
some of the others. I do know a wee bit
about the Buddha, Mohandas Gandhi, Henry David Thoreau, Martin Luther King,
Kahlil Gibran, M. Scot Peck, Viktor Frankl, and a few other spiritually
advanced people. Then there’s many, many
more that I don’t know about. They all
said good things, and none of them contradicted Christ’s essential
messages. They all said the same things,
in many respects.
Christ is my Mighty Fleecer of All
Scamgrams, and my favorite Anti-Horde Whisperer, though. I can say that, now; I’m out of the
closet. Are you shocked? Can I get on the
daytime TV talk shows, now? Or are my
beliefs way too boring, too standard?
Maybe I should take up Omnology, instead, to be new and different,
worthy of media and public attention.
Maybe I could make a few bucks.
On second thought, maybe not. Ale
Run Hubba-Bubba simply won’t fit into that list of heroes I just spelled out.
I believe Christ’s words should be
examined carefully. Then they should
also be obeyed, when we think that we understand them correctly, and that they
make sense in the context in which we plan to use them. We’d all be better off that way. There is but one True North. Am I narrow-minded to say such a thing? No, because I admit that this one True North
can be called by many names. Its
essence, however, remains the same.
True North is Love, Conscience, and Reason. Without the first two, reason can’t lead you
anywhere. It can’t tell you where to go,
or which goals are worthy. But without
reason, the first two aren’t enough, either.
You want to live, love, and work in God’s real world? Maybe even make it a wee bit of a better
place? Then you’d better pay some
attention to reason, common sense, logic, the facts, the evidence of your
senses, and so on, or else you’re just spinnin’ your wheels, my friends. Traction requires contact with the real
world.
It’s a judgment call, quite
obviously. What one single person has
best shown that he or she has most thoroughly aligned his or her internal
compass to True North? Has exhibited the
most highly developed senses of Love, conscience, reason or reasonableness,
wisdom, balance, and so on? To me, that
one single person is Jesus Christ. To
me, his examples of dignity, self-restraint, humility, genuine compassion, and
a vague but powerful thing called spiritual strength make his light shine
brighter than anyone else’s.
That most emphatically does not mean I’m going to ignore or
dismiss what others have said, even if they don’t justify everything they say
with Chapter and Verse from The Bible.
If you’ve got no Love, no conscience, and no common sense, memorizing
all of God’s Word down to every last dot and squiggle won’t do you one speck of
good. If you do have the critical ingredients, then you’ve got God within you,
and you’re free to go out into the real world, and do God’s work. You don’t have to even bother to carry your
Bible, memorize any verses, or any of that. You can even use a different word for God than
other people use!!!
Yea, verily. Ask that speck of God which the Creator left
of Himself to reside in you, ask your conscience, whether or not what I say is
true. True North isn’t The Bible. The Bible can help give us directions, but so
can many other sources. I say again,
True North is Love, Conscience, and Reason.
The substance, not the
words. Not any particular set of words,
rituals, or magic spells. My Holy Words
or yours (Father, Son, & Holy Spirit; Earth, Wind, and Sky; The State of
Absolute Descamgramification, whatever), they only attain real validity and
benevolent power when we interpret and enact them in a benevolent manner. Else we can get stuck killing people for
working on Sunday, and justifying our bloody deeds out of God’s Word.*38
At some point, we as Christians have
to ask ourselves, are we Bible-worshippers, or are we Christians? Do we do whatever we please, and then go find
the verses to justify ourselves, or do we follow Christ’s examples of trying to
do common-sense good in the real world?
Put the “real magic” out of your
head. You’re not going to go out and
raise the dead, turn water into wine, or miraculously heal the sick, so give it
up. You can, however, work certain kinds of “mental magic” by praying
certain kinds of prayers, and by then working
for good. Stop fine-tuning your theology
about what, exactly, Christ’s miracles were, and what they meant, because none
of us really KNOW whether or not they happened, or how they happened. None of us were there to see them happen or
not happen. I mean for this comment to
apply to believers and unbelievers alike.
Admitting that we don’t know
is vitally essential in getting our internal compass needle unstuck, so that we
can feel the gentle touch of God.
What we can do, though, is to ponder Christ’s words. This is a worthwhile activity. I’ve done it, and concluded that his words
are worth even yet more pondering.
Ignore the miracles and ponder his words, because the words, not the
miracles, are all that we have left to examine, today.
Enough about Christianity, for
now. Let’s mix it up a bit. What do I cook up when I mix libertarianism
and Christianity? What themes run
through both, at least in my mind? What
criticisms need to be made about those who have a shallow or rigid
understanding of either or both? I’m so
glad you asked!
I’d like to write a whole book
called “Why Christians Should be Libertarians, and Why Libertarians Should be
Christians.” I’d have one heck of a
grand ol’ time, but I’ll bet I’d bore y’all to death sooner rather than
later. So I’ll give you the short course
today.
Christians should be libertarians
because Christ was a libertarian. Leave the judging up to God if you can.*39 If at all possible. If your conscience will put up with it, just
leave the other guy alone. If you think
he’s doing something so bad that you really must
do something about it, for the common good, then first make sure you’re not a
hypocrite, and then go talk to him nicely, in private, and try to correct him
if you can. Use persuasion, not coercion. Quite libertarian!
The classic “Christ-as-libertarian”
episode in my mind has to be the woman who the righteous ones were going to
stone for adultery.*40 Christ used words
(persuasion), not force, to get the crowd to cut her some slack, for her
consensual crime. Then he also used
words, not force, to privately tell the woman to go, and sin no more. Please notice that he didn’t confiscate her
property, sue her, harass her, call her a slut, put her in jail, or demand more
power and tax money to fuel a war on adultery.
He specifically even said he didn’t condemn her. Quite the libertarian, he was!
Parenthetically, I must add a few
more thoughts. One is that although I’m
deeply indebted to Peter McWilliams*41 in my understanding of the Bible, here’s
one place where I have to disagree with Mr. McWilliams. He spoke too highly of prostitution. Christ did, after all, tell her to “go, and
sin no more.” It’s important to belabor
the obvious, sometimes. Just because we don’t punish people for what
they do, doesn’t mean we approve, and it doesn’t mean we can’t strongly try to
get them to change, using non-violent methods.
Force should be used only when there are no better choices left at
all.
The other thought here is, I notice
Christ doodled some notes (or who knows what) in the dirt, as the righteous
ones questioned him about punishing this unholy woman. This is
the only time we ever hear of Christ having written anything down. I’ve got to ask myself, as one who believes
in the power of the written word, why didn’t Christ write down his views? Surely, obviously he was intelligent and
capable of doing so, had he so desired.
His followers later wrote down much of what he’d said, probably mostly
in the times during which he’d have lived, had he not been knocked off early
due to his (falsely often understood to be political) politico-religious
heresy. In other words, written language
was well established in Christ’s time, and was available to the common man.
I can’t help but to think that he
deliberately left his words strictly oral, because he knew that some of his
followers would micro-chisel on every last word, pouring wastefully excessive
energies into examining every last lousy little word choice. Too many of us do that already anyway, even
with things left as vague as they are.
After all, we’ve got four different Gospels by four different writers,
with many details left uncertain. Christ didn’t want his followers to argue all
day about fine nuances in his word choices, he wanted us to get the general
gist of what he was saying, and go with it.
It’s about the Spirit of the law, not the letter of the law. Christ
wanted many specific details left vague.
It’s not about being right about God, what kinds of shoes He wears and which foods He eats (and
hence, how you should dress and dine, which rituals you should conduct, and so
on), it’s about being right with God, who (among other things)
is your conscience. You fancy
nit-picking theologians and would-be theologians go stuff that in your pipe,
and smoke it.
To make that Biblical with a capital
“B” for those of you who aren’t sure if you can rightly allow me to stimulate
your thinking without justifying myself from strictly just this One High &
Holy Source (I should hope to doubt there are many such readers out there, but I’m
called upon to take you to task for it, you hopefully few whose compass
bearings ravenously thirst for just one tiny, tiny drop of WD-40ä), then I would ask you to
consider Luke 17:21 and on.
It says here that the Kingdom of God
is inside you, and that end-times theologizing is just a bunch of hot air. Yet we’ve got endless end-time theologizing
from the Faithfull! Obsessing over how
it’s all gonna end real soon, and all those heathens that don’t believe like we do are gonna get theirs¾hey,
wait a minute, couldn’t we be working on achieving God’s Will on Earth,
improving our world, instead? And so
much nit-picking! If there’s a spark of
God in us all, if we’re all made in His Image and He’s inside us all, then why can’t we learn to withhold judgment
whenever at all possible? Don’t we owe
each other that much respect? Can’t we
work on our tolerance, our ability to say “That’s not right, but I’ll let God be the judge?” Instead of rushing to condemn people (who
wear shoes we’ve never occupied, and who we don’t necessarily know in much
detail) and using force and coercion against them in anything other than the
situations that absolutely demand it,
well, couldn’t we, um, all just kinda sorta like get along together or something?
JUDGING
AND NOT JUDGING
There does come a time, though, when
we must judge. After we make sure we’re
not hypocrites, we need to judge
sometimes. What does Christ say on such
matters? See John 7:24. Judge not according to nit-picking standards,
but by right standards. Judging is not forbidden entirely. Then there’s Matt 23:24, in the middle of a
verbal scorcher in which Christ spews venom at the hypocrisy of the
Pharisees. He said that they strain at
the gnat and swallow the camel. That
seems to be a bit of Aramaic wordplay there.
A gamla is a camel and a galma is a gnat, apparently.*42
So don’t be dumping on anyone for
mixing humor and serious ideas. It helps
get the message across. I refuse to make
anything so serious that I can’t have some fun with it. If it’s so sacred that it can’t be talked
about, then maybe those ideas are so sacred in the first place just because
they can’t stand on their own. So go
ahead, tear into stupid ideas, just as Christ did. Even if those stupid ideas are “sacred”, they
should be torn down.
Anyway, how anyone can take Christ’s
non-judgmental, loving, common-sense, tolerant views, and turn them into
justification for self-righteous snits is beyond me. That includes more-compassionate-than-thou
leftlimpers who want Uncle Socialism to make my charity choices (with my money)
for me, because I’d otherwise be such a low-down selfish slob as to possibly discriminate for unrighteous reasons, as
I make my own charity choices. Only The Anointed (even if that should be The
Anointed Voter) may decide who is worthy of compassion, in whatever (especially
monetary) form.
Showing that Christ would have
opposed massive socialism is easy: He told us to keep our charity
private.*43 When all who work are called
“rich”, and all who are “rich” must have their paycheck docked by X amount for charity administered by an
all-knowing government, then we have few charity secrets to keep any more. So we’re not listening to Christ, who told us
to keep our charity secret. Especially
when the government starts taking so much that we have little left to give, and
the potential recipients are already partaking in goodies coercively extracted
from others.
I got my check in the mail, Praises
Be to Uncle Socialism! I got my
$120-pair of sneakers and my sports windbreaker already. Now get out of my face with your
self-righteous advice about getting a job and all, and I don’t want your humiliating offer of
half-worn-out old sneakers and a second-hand coat! I can do without you and your corny beliefs,
and your measly little token charity efforts!
But thanks for voting Demoblican or Republicrat or for whoever was most
compassionate with our forcibly collectivized money in the most recent
elections. All of us victims are
profoundly grateful, even if you think it’s hard to tell sometimes.
Anyone really claim that’s what Christ had in mind, when he was telling us
to be generous and compassionate? I’ll
go so far as to admit that some socialists have good motives. I’m not a totally belligerent ideologue. I hear you when you say people shouldn’t
starve in a rich nation. But this should
be accomplished through persuasion,
not coercion. Using Satan’s tools of force and coercion,
even when those tools are wielded by a democratic government, for the
accomplishment of God’s purposes of helping the poor, just doesn’t work in the
long run, given defective human nature.
There’s no real evidence to the contrary. Freedom and prosperity go hand in hand, as does
slavery and poverty. I’ll not persuade
hide-bound socialists, so I’ll let it go, just referring y’all to a wide body
of writings.*44
And I can’t see Christ’s compass
bearings rusted over, running around and telling everyone that fertilized egg
cells have souls, and that those doctors who help us “murder” such fertilized
eggs should be given the death penalty.
There’s plenty of room for disagreement among civilized folks about what
kinds of punishments should be given to what kinds of evil-doers, and where
life begins, and all, but to think that we should kill (or even imprison)
adults for killing certain special life forms that haven’t even developed a
nervous system yet, well... What shall I
say?
In our supposedly free U.S. of A.,
we have a million and more people imprisoned for not doing anything that’s even
closely related to seriously endangering the public, or their peace, quiet, and
safety. Certainly not for disturbing
those who mind their own business. This
represents families broken up, children without moms and dads, jobs lost,
economic productivity lost (yes, it isn’t the supreme value, but economics, work, is at least more than a bit Holy;
it’s about feeding, clothing, and sheltering our bodies, which are the abodes
of sparks of God), lives destroyed, taxes wasted, and victims of the public
left embittered by their unjust imprisonment.
And you want to add to this
load, by imprisoning those who “murder” fertilized egg cells?
Christ, in saying “I am the poor;
when you feed them, you feed me” and so on, also talked about visiting people
in jail.*45 So how many abortion
protesters are ready to visit blastocyst-murdering doctors and women in jail,
look them in the eye, and tell them we’re wishing the best for them, there, but
they deserve every bit of their punishment?
And how many are ready to console the surviving loved ones, after the
“murderers” have been “capitally punished”?
Your Biblical literalist will tell
you that yes, that was God telling the Old Testament
Israelites to kill people for being gay, for working on Sunday, and for not
being Israelites (“Go ye and slay everything that moves, and yes, you may rape,
pillage and plunder,” their God told them, at times). Try to tell them that the Eternal God remains
forever unchanging, forever loving, and that it is the Horde Whisperer, not
God, who would tell Abraham to sacrifice his half-grown son Isaac¾that the Horde Whisperer’s
whispers have, in varying degrees, contaminated all that man has ever wrought,
including the Bible¾now
you’re a Satanic heathen, because you’re questioning God’s Word!
Next, try to tell them that God is
telling you right now to kill people for working on Sunday, or to kill
everything that moves, or to sacrifice your half-grown son, and even most of
your rabid Bible-thumpers will have the sanity to recognize your insanity
(thank God!). Try to reason with them,
and explain this to them: by believing that God spoke such commands to the
ancient Israelites, you’re that much closer to believing that God could do so
again¾that much closer to evil
insanity. Go ahead, explain it to them¾I dare you to!
Now try a different tack: Tell them that God, through your common-sense
conscience, is telling you to abort that fertilized egg cell that has taken up
residence in your or your wife’s fallopian tube, endangering your or her life,
and watch them go ballistic! Your name
ain’t Abraham! Off to jail or to the
hangman with you, your doctor, and all you other heathens! God can tell Abraham to kill his half-grown
son, but He isn’t allowed to tell you to save your wife’s life! All Hail the Sacred Fertilized Egg!
Before any of you fundamentalists go
writing me angry letters, telling me that at least the ancient Israelites
didn’t actually go through with it
and actually, really murder their
children, like us modern blastocyst-butchering blasphemers, let me tell you to
go and actually read your Bible. Radical concept, that! See the 11th chapter of Judges. The Boss Barbarian
of God’s Chosen Barbarians, in setting out to slay the unbelieving Ammonites,
vowed to God that he’d sacrifice (“burn as an offering”) the first person to come out of his house to greet
him upon his return. So our Hero,
Jephthah, sacrificed his only child, his daughter who came out dancing and
playing tambourines, joyfully greeting him.
A promise to God is a promise to God, after all. Judges
says not one word condemning Jephthah’s actions, here. So to all you gay-bashing Southern Baptists,
I say, God’s Word tells you to boycott Disney and make all the wives submit to
their husbands, right? OK, fine! So when are you gonna start sacrificing your
children?! We’re not going to be LUKEWARM in obeying God’s commands, now,
are we?!
Make no mistakes about it: Many
followers of the rusted-over compass rigid-mindedly speak of Christ and
morality while actually worshipping the Bible.
They pay no heed to Christ’s words about the Kingdom of God being within
us. They know nothing of balance, common
sense, consistency, or even of love and conscience, at times, it seems.
We could follow Christ’s examples
and teachings, and we’d all be a great deal better off. Especially on matters of judging, which
Christ talked about a lot. “Real Christians” are more in need of
Christ’s teachings than anyone else, sometimes, it seems. Certainly he talked a lot more about
withholding judgment than, say, beating up gays (he didn’t leave us one bad
word about them). We should follow his
teachings on treating others as we want to be treated, especially in matters of
judging.
You want the other guy to try as
hard as he possibly can to resist the Horde Whisperer’s whispers of “You, my friend, You are quite righteous,
and others are just pond scum, and God wants You to make sure that everyone behaves and thinks as God has told You that they should?” You want the other guy to strain every cell
in his brain, making sure he’s right, before he judges you? And you want to be judged by sensible,
non-nit-picky criteria? Then do the same
for the other guy.
And you want the one who feels that
he must judge (for the common good, which is sometimes a valid idea) to speak to
you nicely before he goes and rats on you or otherwise harms you if he thinks
you’re doing bad? Then do the same for
him. And if you felt that you had no
other realistic choice but to pick a harmful action, such as stealing bread
when you’re sick and starving, would you want the other guy to try and remove
the pressures that cause you to sin, before judging you? Like, by feeding you? Then do the same for him.
So are the abortion protesters and
clinic bombers out there adopting unwanted babies, helping the poor,
overstressed single mother who already has two Down’s syndrome babies take care
of what she’s got already, so she won’t feel tempted to abort her third? Are they removing stumbling blocks from our
paths? No, they’d rather yell, scream,
hurt, maim, and kill, to show us all that they’re more righteous than we are.
And yes, there will come those times
when the truly Evil ignore everything except for violence. When this happens, pray as hard as you can
for peace. Then go and do what your Love,
Conscience, and Reason tell you to do.
Act for the common good, as a peacemaker. Christ told us to turn the other cheek,
yes.*46 So think about all factors, all
consequences, and all possibilities, before acting. But Christ also had much praise for the Roman
soldier, whose conscience obviously told him that a bit of violence now and
then was, sadly, required to keep the peace.*47
Judging when we don’t absolutely
have to judge, and judging from less than a firm basis (fully informed and
rooted in Love) is the root of a great deal of needless suffering. We’re putting people in jail for years for
growing pot plants, in many states even when they have valid medical reasons
use it to treat their own ailments with this horrid weed that doesn’t line the
pockets of doctors and pharmacists, who in turn have less money to contribute
to campaign funds.
Then we turn loose child molesters
for lack of jail space. But don’t feel
bad; we’ll protect you from these child molesters by creating databases of the
known residences of known child molesters.
So who’s stopping to ask some very simple questions? Couldn’t we keep the child molesters in jail,
and create a database about where those low-life drug fiends live? Would you rather worry about which neighbors
to steer clear of, lest your child be molested, or which ones you should steer
clear of, lest they should horrify you with the knowledge that they’re using
politically incorrect substances?
Hey, you! Don’t strain at the gnat and swallow the
camel! Ya think maybe he was
talking about you?! Nah! Couldn’t be! Right?!
If only we knew now what is needed
for peace! How wonderful a world it
could be, if we reserved coercive judgment strictly for those emergencies that
require it! If only we could just set
our sights on staying out of the other
guy’s face so long as the very stability and progress of society isn’t
threatened! If only we could reserve the
worst methods for the worst problems, in a balanced fashion. We could attain peace first. That alone is a priceless goal indeed!
Then, after we’ve achieved peace by exercising judgment in a strictly
limited and wise manner, then we can
work on making sure that the other guy’s quite as much a righteous kind of a
fella, especially in all the little details, as we, ourselves, are. Peace, first; perfection, much, much later,
if ever. In the meantime, we could
attain and preserve the peace through tolerance and wise judgments.
Make no mistakes about it; Christ
was absolutely right in strongly condemning excessive judgementalism. Self-righteousness was, is, and will remain a
root of much Evil, and its sources aren’t just crackpots and
fundamentalists. It pervades mainstream
society and the media. Big-shot pundit
Charles Krauthammer tells us (in Time
magazine, and without any rational reasons, other than that it gives him the
heebie-jeebies) that we should KILL anyone who dares to clone a headless human
for body parts!*48 Then, later, he’s
totally perplexed about why we should write off the sentiments of religious fanatics,
about why we should exclude from discussions of public policy, those who bring
us no rational arguments.*49 No need to
argue about which policies have which good and which bad effects, on a rational
basis; we need merely assert that God told us this, or God told us that.
I have just two questions for the
Krauthammers of the world, who feel that their religious rights are violated
when I’m so PETTY as to object when they MERELY want to fine, imprison, and kill me for not listening to their
God: Why is it that your God always
tells you, “Go ye and smite the unbelievers,” yet He never seems to say, “Shut
your self-righteous yapper up, until such time as you can learn to love your
fellow human beings enough to restrain your urges to judge and punish everyone
who offends you.” Millions tortured and
killed in the name of God, throughout the ages, aren’t enough for you? Enough already!
Well, there you have it, folks. Why Christians should be libertarians. Need more?
Go hit an excellent Home Page of libertarian Christians, at
www.geocities.com/CapitolHill/7093/index.html.
Now for the next installment... drum roll, please... Why libertarians should be Christians. A wee bit harder, I suppose. I can make my case, though, if you’ll let me
indulge in a little bit of what some of the rusty compass persuasion might call
sleight of hand. I believe it
whole-heartedly, though.
That is, I have to define as
“Christian” in a sense, in the only sense that really matters, all those of you
who believe in (and act on) the principles of treating the other guy as you’d
like to be treated. Be we real Christians, Buddhists, Muslims, or
even Omnologists, if we act on the right
inner principles, then we’re doing God’s work.
Christ told us again and again to
judge a tree by its fruit. You think
this means running around and telling everyone to “Let Jesus into your
life?” That’s your “fruit”? You really think so? You sure these aren’t just the words to a new
magic spell? Christ himself said that
not all that say “Lord, Lord” will enter Heaven.*50
And I’m afraid many of us have lost
sight of the fact that Jesus was human along with him having been
Divine. What is the value of all he has
taught us, if we’re the lowest toad slime and He Is God Far, Far, Unattainably
Far Above Us? If we can’t strive
mightily to be like him, with some real
hope of making progress in that direction, then what’s the use of it
all? If Christ existed anywhere at all
on the same spectrum as Gandhi, Gibran, Frankl, or whatever other heroes, then,
for every thousand times that we say “Let Jesus into your life”, shouldn’t we
also be saying “Let Gandhi into your life” once or twice? Christ told us that if we sincerely seek,
then we will find. We should believe
this, and recognize those among us who have sought and found. They have much to teach us.
Beware that you slip into your magic
spells, and forget the substance. Don’t
let magic words about Jesus (or anyone else) take the place of substance, of
doing good in the real world. I have to
agree with Jesus that our Father is “unseen”.*51 He doesn’t exist in just a few Holy Places,
or in some statue of wood, stone, silver, or gold. For us to fall down and worship some words,
phrases, and ceremonies is every bit as bad a case of idolatry as to fall down
and worship a golden calf.
Yes, for all my endless words in
praise of religious tolerance, I must say that idolatry is wrong, because it
sets our sights lower than they could be, should be. Only God Himself deserves our worship. None who seeks our worship is worthy of
it. Even Jesus didn’t come to seek the
praise of men; he wanted people to worship God, not himself (Christ didn’t even
want the label “good” applied to himself, reserving that for God).*52 We shouldn’t worship Christ; we should
worship the God that he (along with others) has revealed to us. A hair-splitting distinction? Hardly!
Stop trying to cast magic spells by invoking Christ’s Name, and start
trying to attain God’s Will on Earth, just as Christ demonstrated to us.
OK, so I said I was working towards
telling you why libertarians should be Christians. I’m still working on it! Bear with me for a few more moments while I
explain to you that it isn’t heresy to claim that all who aren’t against
Christ, all who try to do God’s Will, even if they use a different name for
God, that all these, too, are with us “Christians”, be we “real” Christians, or
not. All who aren’t against us, are for us,
Christ says.*53
Decent, balanced, life-loving,
common-sense libertarians, especially those who don’t fall for putting Reason
too high on the pedestal (as Ayn Rand did), those who believe in treating
others as they want to be treated, these are already “Christians”, whether they
profess Christianity or not. And I might
begrudgingly even suppose that the same might be said of a few Republicrats and
Demoblicans here and there as well. I’m
just saying from experience that Christ belongs to everyone, one and all. Don’t pretend that he belongs just to you, or
to your little group.
Even agnostics and atheists can
learn from and be inspired by Christ. I
can recall quite well a day during the middle of my agnostic years, when I sat
in a cadet’s chair in an ethics/philosophy class at the U.S. Air Force Academy,
where we were going on all day about this and that, ethics-wise. I just sat there wondering, well, didn’t some
dude a while back just say we should treat everyone as we want to be
treated? Why must we go on all day about
this? Is there really anything more that
we can add to that?
But here I am, doing that same
thing. Going on all day about it. It’s such a supremely important matter,
though, that we’re well advised to do just that. Maybe not so much that we can add to it;
maybe just that we need to think about it, and its many ramifications, as long
and as hard as we can.
Yeah, all you out there of the rusty
compass persuasion, I know of you and your quoting of Christ’s words about the
only way to Heaven being through him. He
is the way and the truth, and nobody’s gonna go and see Papa in His Sweet Bye
and Bye, except through Christ.*54 But
let me compare and contrast two different views on the identity of Christ, as
Christ meant it in this context. Let’s
put forth the Rusty Compass Theory and the Mush-Minded Heretic Theory.
Rusty Compass Theory holds that
“Christ” is defined in the above context as He Who Was Born of a Virgin Mother,
He Who Healed the Dead, Walked on the Water, Turned the Water to Grape Juice,
and so on. He who told us all to wear
blue trim on our clothes, not to gather firewood on Sunday, and never to shave
our chinchillas in an “R” month or eat uncircumcised mollusks or spud-chewing
arthropods on a plate having held both meat and dairy products without a ritual
cleansing in between. He who hears our
prayers because they’re long, and contain all the Right Magic Words. And all those who haven’t believed and
complied likewise need not apply at the Pearly Gates.
Mush-Minded Heretic Theory holds
that God is an often very vague but always awesomely imponderable and vast
mystery before the human consciousness.
He is far greater, spanning more of time, space, different views and
perspectives, and different forms of Love than the human consciousness can
conceive. So Mush-Minded Heretic Theory (MMHT) holds that
when Christ said that the only way to Heaven is through Him, He meant that He,
as a Spirit of Love, would welcome all those who obeyed the Spirit of Love, and
thus tried to treat others with decency and respect.
MMHT holds that we should open our
hearts and minds, so that God can
tell us who He is, rather than us trying
to tell Him who He is. MMHT holds that working on how we behave here
and now is far, far, infinitely more important right now than the afterlife,
dogma, and the fine points of theology.
And if we behave well, it doesn’t matter what name we give to God. The Spirit of Love, just like a good boss at
work, is concerned about whether we did His Work, serving His customers, rather
than whether we said the Right Buzzwords, or did the Right Rituals, or Kissed
Butt correctly.
Sure, faith, not work, saves
us. Sure! But real
faith manifests itself in work. And work
without Love, Conscience, and Reason is wasted.
It is true, though, that it’s hard to keep your compass needle
responding to that gentle external Force when your compass bearings are rusted
over with overly generous assessments of your own good works and good
nature. That much, MMHT theorists can
certainly concede.
The Jews sacrificed animals to
God. A big ritual for many years, it
seems. What did Christ say? “It is kindness that I want, not animal
sacrifices.”*55 What an un-lawyerlike
thing to say! Seems to me, we could much
more precisely define the correct way to sacrifice an animal than we could
objectively define kindness. Christ
must’ve been an MMHT theorist.
On the highest planes, vagueness is
a virtue. By allowing us to fill in the
details, the beauty and power of free will is unleashed. Here’s a few more thoughts from some other MMHT
theorists. “It is the nature of all greatness not to be
exact.” Edmund Burke “There
are trivial truths and there are great truths.
The opposite of a trivial truth is plainly false. The opposite of a great truth is also true.” Niels Bohr “Absolutely
speaking, Do unto others as you would that they should do unto you is by no
means a golden rule, but the best of current silver. An honest man would have but little occasion
for it. It is golden not to have any
rule at all in such a case.” Henry
David Thoreau.
One more from Henry David: “They
who know of no purer sources of truth, who have traced up its stream no higher,
stand, and wisely stand, by the Bible and the Constitution, and drink at it
there with reverence and humility; but they who behold where it comes trickling
into this lake or that pool, gird up their loins once more, and continue their
pilgrimage toward its fountainhead.”
Try as I may, I can’t say it as well as good ol’
Henry says it.
But as Henry says, there are those who know little of purer
sources of truth. Then let’s look to the
Bible to justify the Mush-Minded Heretic Theory. Though I cast a suspicious eye on some of
what Christ’s followers later said, suspecting that they were often just
voicing personal preferences, it does seem that some of them finally did pick up
the Spirit of what Christ was saying.
Romans 2:14 and on makes it perfectly clear that we can do right by good
instincts alone, by listening to the spark of God (conscience) that is inside
us. Your Holy Source here says that we
(with the aid of our consciences) can be our own law, and live correctly by it,
without some long lists of nit-picky Laws.
Why did God give me a conscience, rather than an embedded CD-ROM in my
brain with all the detailed Rules and Answers?
Why, simply because He wants me to develop and USE my conscience!
Christ told us more than once that
“loving one’s neighbor as one loves oneself” is second only to loving God, and
that everything else hangs onto these two forms of love.*56 Now try to imagine a set of circumstances in
which a person says, “Yes, I know that what I’m about to do is against the
long-term, sum total interests of humans and other living things, but I’m going
to do it anyway, and I’m going to do it out of love for and obedience to the
Loving God. Loving God, you see, is more
important than loving my neighbors.”
Can you imagine any way that this
person would be justified? I can’t! People who push such views serve the Horde
Whisperer, not God. Many of us who live
in the real world realize that we can’t know the mind of God well enough to
take those kinds of positions. We
acknowledge that the best we can do is to focus on loving our neighbors. It’s really pretty much the same as loving God
anyway, since loving God is such a vague, nebulous, subjective, and formless
thing. We’ll settle for “second best”,
and focus our actions (if not our
innermost thoughts, where “love of
God” might be a more valid concept) on loving our neighbors.
So then, having settled for “merely”
promoting the long-term interests of the human race, what is Christ’s advice to
us? Should we get all wrapped up in
customs, traditions, and theological dogma?
No! In Christ’s day, a prime
example of theological rigidity was the Sabbath. And Christ said that the Sabbath was made to
serve man; man was not made to serve the Sabbath.*57 Putting two and two together, then, we can
see that all things short of loving God and loving one’s neighbor as oneself,
then, all things (explicitly
including theological dogma) must be made subordinate. If it
gets in your way as you try to love your neighbor as you love yourself, then
that piece of theological dogma must be cast aside or changed. That’s the bottom line, and it comes from the
Master of making religion a servant to man.
It comes from Christ.
The Bible also tells us to talk to
others about Christianity with “gentleness and respect.”*58 How we can do this, believing that real Christianity is the only way to Heaven, is beyond me. How can I talk to this slob here who’s damned
to Hell unless he listens to ME, and
do this with gentleness and respect, baffles me to no end. Do I want the Buddhists down the street to
say that they’ve got an exclusive franchise on Heaven, and that all others are
just a bunch of literally damned fools, with no spiritual insights worth
listening to? Geezum,
I guess not! Maybe I’d better not be
saying that about them, either, then.
Maybe God might even feel, now and then, like exerting His Gentle Touch
upon our compass needles through the good ideas of those who aren’t “real”
Christians. Arrogance rusts your
bearings, and broad-minded tolerance oils them.
Oil can! Oil can what?! Oil can help you feel the Gentle Touch of
God. So oil your compass bearings every
day.
If we want to respect (and even
love) our neighbors to our fullest potentials, then we must completely
relinquish those satisfactions some of us evidently gain by thinking that we’re
hiking up Heaven’s narrow path, while those other guys are just a bunch of
damned fools, condemned for not thinking the correct narrow way. We act like the God whose image we hold in
our heads. As Thomas Paine said, “Belief
in a cruel God makes a cruel man.” So
I’ll invite as my God a Spirit of Love, not the Prune-Faced Sourpuss Shrew
Princess, and not the Great Rituals and Fashions Policeman in the Sky.
As soon as you give the preacher-man
a dollar a day, power, or any other worldly goodies for preaching, he’s tempted
to get more goodies by telling everyone that his church is right, and everyone else is wrong. Not all preachers succumb to this temptation;
many rise above it. But this IS a factor to keep in mind, to guard
against at all times. The only
legitimate use of religion or spirituality is to do good. Good, that is, far
above and beyond gaining wealth, power, sex, and so on, for oneself.
I admire Christ for not having given
in to these temptations in even the slightest way. I’d compare him to, say, L. Ron Hubbard,
founder of the Church of Scientology, in answer to those questions that I
suspect are building up in your head right now.
Why do I speak so tolerantly of other religions, then tear into
Scientology? Because it deserves to be torn into! We’ll get back to that shortly.
So why do I think libertarians
(everyone, really) should be “Christians” in at least the broadest sense? Simply because Christ was right. We do
reap what we have sown. Practice Love,
and we’ll receive it in turn. Ditto
forgiveness, tolerance, and helpfulness.
Sadly, too, ditto for hate, distrust, greed, violence, and
spitefulness. What comes around, goes
around. People catch on, and then they
treat us back the way we treated them.
Quite simple!
So practice a little altruism now
and then, and it’ll come back to you.
Tell Ayn Rand (with her praise of pure reason
and selfishness) to take a hike. Yes, I
know, economic selfishness is good, in the bountifully productive capitalistic
sense of economic freedom, and I also know that leftlimpers
bemoan my economic selfishness, then get greedy in the sanctimony department by
grabbing my money so that they can make my charity choices for me to show that
they’re more righteous than I am. Still,
all you Ayn Rand fans, I’m saying that freely chosen, informed, genuinely compassionate altruism is infinitely precious,
and never to be bad-mouthed.
Did I spill my guts enough for
you? Maybe not. OK, then, let me go yet further, and confess
how truly awfully, horridly irrational a creature I am. I believe in God. I’m not sure what that means, but I believe
in Him. He will answer my prayers and
yours, if we pray for the right, very most precious things, and pray for them
sincerely. I also believe in various
other, less relevant irrational things.
Things which have little to do with living decently every day, which is
what really matters. Things like
reincarnation. You see, you take some of what Christ said
literally, and I take other things literally, such as when he
said that we must be born again. Does
that mean we can’t learn from each other?
Obviously not!
My irrational beliefs? There is but one more I feel called upon to
share with you. That is that my
conscience requires me to warn you against suicide. I’m not sure about what exactly constitutes
deliberate, willful suicide, and I’m not asking for anyone to go and punish Dr.
Kevorkian. And though it pains me that I
might pain the survivors of suicides of loved ones, this is the price that must
be paid for issuing an unmistakable warning against this act. That others may choose more wisely, here it is. This is the one most deep and dark sin that
will not be forgiven. These are the
words that are given to me.
Think about whether this might be a
headstrong refusal to learn what we are to learn in our lives, a deliberate
rejection of our Mission. Go and ponder
what warnings Jesus gave to Judas, and how the lives of Judas, Hitler, and many
of Hitler’s followers ended. Read of the
terrors associated with suicides in the paper just about every day. Talk to the heartbroken survivors of a
suicide. Now resolve never to support or
commit this great Evil!
So there, folks, that wraps it
up. Christ, God, descamgramifiedness,
and all matters great and small. I’ll
bet I’ll never get so long-winded about this topic, ever again. I’ve said what I must say. Poogle-Bye (Hi,
Mary! Everyone, I’d like you to meet my
wife, also known as Poogle-Bye) says she gets tired
of my endlessly dark writings, with so much about the bad guys and how they
think, and hearing too little about the good guys, and what they think and do. I must say, it’s easy for me to paint
pictures of evil and of Evil. And I
think it’s extremely important that we look Evil in the face, and denounce,
renounce, and reject it in every way available to us.
It’s much harder to describe the
enormous, but enormously vague, thing called good, or God. It’s a mystery to me. So it’s taken me a long time to get around to
making a sustained attempt to describe the Force the moves our compass needles. But here is my very best attempt. I hope that the Spirit of Love has moved me
sufficiently to lubricate at least one compass bearing out there somewhere.
But from here on out I’ll refrain
from excessive preaching. I promise!
I really do feel many libertarians
need some compass-bearing lubrication now and then. See the poll in the July 1988 Liberty magazine, for example. Polling hard-core Libertarians, they asked
silly theoretical questions, such as, “Suppose that a parent of a new-born baby
places it in front of a picture window and sells tickets to anyone wishing to
observe the child starve to death. He
makes it clear that the child is free to leave at any time, but that anyone
crossing the lawn will be viewed as trespassing.”
Then, of course, the question: “Would you cross the lawn and help the
child?” Would you go with common
sense and the value of life, and help, or would you stick to your precious
“principles” about the baby’s parent’s property rights? 89% said yes, they’d help. Great!
Yet 11% have got their compass bearings all gummed up with rigid
“principles”. What about the principle
of the preciousness of life?
One analysis of this poll of
libertarians then goes on to show that those libertarians who are more
influenced by religion are less likely to give “nutty” responses. That’s right, this libertarian magazine split
the responses into “nut” and “non-nut”!
So, excluding the hopefully small and getting smaller whacko numbers of
religious types, we can imagine that large numbers of people actually get a
moderating, anti-nutty benefit out of sensible religious beliefs.
Christ was an anti-nut, I do
believe. We could use his words more
often, in more places. Yet if we quote
him at public school or in corporate America, publicly, we might get sued! We can quote Martin Luther King or Gandhi or
other religious leaders, that’s OK. But
not Christ! I sure wish we could quote
Christ more often! The public schools,
who teach “values clarification” and moral relativism but then persecute little
boys that kiss girls, or bring 1.5-inch-long plastic toy guns to school, or who
carry an Advil pill, or even a candy that looks
like a pill, and so on, they need
to hear quotes from Christ. Don’t strain at the gnat and swallow the
camel!
Maybe if most churches would just go
ahead and declare that all humans are
Holy, since they all carry a spark of
God, and start quoting everybody else along with Christ, then the lawyers would
have to stop letting us quote anyone,
since we’re all Holy. Or they might then even consider letting us
quote anyone and everyone, including
Christ, in public. Wouldn’t that be
cool?
Nah!
Won’t work! We’ll never get
enough churches to go along with it! But
here’s what we could do, without
needing to get quite so many people to get on our bandwagon. We could start the Church of Holy Sex
Education and Sacred Gang Awareness Training, complete with DARE Rituals and
Multicultural Magic Spells. Then, since
all these things would become religious and
therefore off bounds to public schools, we could get back to teaching reading,
writing, arithmetic, and reason.
And DARE doesn’t even work! All the studies say DARE doesn’t do what it’s
supposed to do. Since it’s quite clearly
irrational to believe in DARE, then it could clearly qualify as a religion,
especially if we spruce it up a bit.
Just a few more rituals and
magic phrases; just a very few more!
Certainly DARE doesn’t work for
anything besides getting kids to turn their parents in to The Law, so that The
Law can stick Mom and Pop in jail. For
their own good, of course! Just tell Junior, “See, we told you we’s a gonna help yer Ma and
Pa! Now quitcher bitchin’ ‘bout livin’
under the bridge! Ma and Pa’s a learnin’
‘bout not growin’ an’ smokin’ pot, taught by guvmint-certified helper-type folks. They be back out, all a healed a their
sickness, in ten, twenty years. Now pass
me another beer, there, sonny!”
Humph! So whose brains are fried,
here, anyway? DARE to be SMUG FREE, I say!
If you don’t believe that hypocrites
teaching moral relativism in the schools today is a big problem, then see an
editorial by John Leo.*59 Ten to twenty
of percent of a professor’s students can’t bring themselves to condemn the
Holocaust as morally wrong. After all,
who are we to judge members of another culture?
Oh, yes, they say, I don’t like Nazis, of course not. But who is to call another morally
wrong? I guess that the worst that the
Nazis can then be condemned for is poor taste!
Even years ago this “unwillingness
to say something is wrong” (Leo’s words) was colonizing our public
classrooms. I can still recall sitting
in Mr. Robert Hess’ 6th-grade classroom, in 1971/72, and hearing him explain
that yes, the pre-Columbian Aztecs did
practice human sacrifice, tearing the hearts out of their victims. But we mustn’t judge them, he said, because
they were of a society entirely different from our own, and they operated under
their own value system. In short, he
supported moral relativism. Well, I
think that’s dandy, for harmless matters of customs and traditions. Who should wear what color at weddings, how
to arrange the silverware, and so on.
But human sacrifice? I didn’t say anything at the time, but my
mind balked incredulously at this then, as it still does now.
Now we go a step further, though: If
we can’t condemn the Aztecs ‘cause they were of a different culture, then we can’t
condemn the Nazis either, even though their culture was a lot closer to our
own. So where does it all end? Where does one culture end, and another
begin? Much debate over whether we can
prosecute people from other countries here in the USA, for genital mutilation
of young girls, twenty-year-old men marrying 12-year-olds, etc. Do they bring their own culture and their own
standards with them, so that we may not judge them by our own standards? Does every individual carry their own
standards (“value systems”), so that no one may judge anyone? If there’s no human judgment of any other
human, all meanings of right and wrong must break down.
If we can’t judge, I guess you can’t
judge me, either, if I go round up a group of my buddies, and we go shoot some
jerk who runs around killing people for no good reason. On the other hand, you can’t judge us,
either, if we should go and kill people for selling cigarettes to
17-year-olds. Or for not turning in
their neighbors, who were doing the same.
But then, you can’t judge anyone else, for killing me and my buddies for
getting out of hand, either. Pretty soon
we’ll all have to get together and start some sort of organization to stop all
the senselessness, and then we’ll be right back where we started. Trying to judge evil-doers, and stopping
them, using force if need be, tempered hopefully with at least a tiny bit of
common sense and compassion.
These same people who refuse to
judge, though, often will go on all day about those horrible tobacco companies,
oil companies, unenlightened slobs who drive their cars instead of taking
public transportation, the environment, animal rights, and so on. And they have so little trouble judging that
they’re so much better at making my charity choices than I am, that they just
go ahead and do that by voting for Demoblicans, Republicrats, and other
socialists.
We must at one point get that log
out of our own eyes, and go ahead and judge.
I agree with John Leo that we must all work on some common consensus of
minimum standards that all are held to.
We must “...search... for a teachable consensus rooted in simple decency
and respect. As a spur to shaping it, we
might discuss a culture so morally confused that students are showing up at
colleges reluctant to say anything negative about mass slaughter.” Yea verily!!!
Let’s start the list of things we may safely condemn. Genocide definitely belongs on the list!
Now before I move on to nominate my
one item that I’d like to add to John Leo’s list, as deserving to sit right up
there exactly side-by-side with genocide, I’d like to nominate teacher Mary Kay
LeTourneau*60 for the First Annual Feel-Good Happy-Talk No Judging Allowed
Award. There she sits, holding her baby
(fathered by one of her sixth-grade boys) and looking at the newsman’s camera
so sweetly, so innocently. “There was a
respect, an insight, a spirit, an understanding between us that grew over
time,” she says. He “...was my best
friend. We just walked together in the
same rhythm.” Hmmm... “just
walked”? Or were there other things they
did together in the same rhythm? I can
hear her in my mind’s eye (ear?) going on to say that all feelings are valid,
and who are we to judge her? Words, by
what they stress and by what they ignore, can justify most anything. Maybe Bill Clinton should’ve taken lessons
from Mary Kay.
We’re better off “denying” or at
least working against some of our feelings, when our feelings aren’t helping
anyone. I’ll take Christ over
psychobabble any day. I’ll even say good
words about that Demoblican, Jimmy Carter, who took such grief for talking
about sinning (in his heart) with the lusty babes. No, I’m not into claiming that the more
things you can feel guilty about, the more Holy you are. I’m saying Christ was right; not all feelings
are “valid”. Don’t flog yourself over
them, but work on not having them, and always remember, no matter how Holy you
are, you always have thoughts you’d be better off squelching.
So Jimmy Carter, he’s my man! I even read of him giving some of his church
leaders (of the Southern Baptists as I recall) grief about saying that God
doesn’t hear the prayers of Jews! In any
case, I’d rather have Carter mentally sinning with the wild women, but fighting
off his impulses, than Bill Clinton turning all my newspapers and magazines
into lurid smut.
WARNING! JUDGMENTAL THEME STATEMENT APPROACHES!!! Right up there on top of the list of
guano-headedly wrong, immoral, wicked, and even outright inappropriate things one can do in life, besides indulge one’s
tastes for a little genocide now and then, is to abuse religion to gain money,
sex, power, or any other greedy, grabby goal we might be chasing. In spirituality properly understood, there
lies our biggest, best hope. People who
abuse spirituality pollute our moral environment. Maybe we could worry a bit less about having
the EPA spend six billion dollars per life saved by reducing involuntary
exposure to carcinogens, and worry a bit more about non-violently speaking up
against spirituality polluters.
Before I return to documenting what
a bunch of slime the leadership of the Church of Scientology is, let me
recommend a group I read about.*61 A
private organization investigates abusive religions; they even sift through the
trash of TV preachers. “‘These preachers
are turning people off God with their hypocrisy and greed.’ the detective
says. ‘By exposing that, we can turn
people toward true faith.’” See, there’s
no cause for despair. You and I aren’t
the only ones who refuse to silently stand by while greedy people pollute this
potentially world-saving thing called religion or spirituality.
There’s always plenty of negatives
to dwell on, and I’m sorry if I do too much of it. It’s so easy to do, at times. Just read the paper. “Christians” teachers and students in a
public school in Alabama harass their few Jewish students.*62 In Israel, Orthodox Jews spit on and throw
feces at Conservative Jews from the windows of their religious school, because
Conservative Jews defile the Wailing Wall by having men and women pray
together.*63 And Israeli policemen
support the Orthodox Jews!
But don’t let the guano heads get
you down. The Spirit of Love moves many
diverse people. “...one of the world’s
largest Muslim orders seeks to radiate tolerance and peace throughout the
world.”*64 Centered in Bukhara,
Uzbekistan, the Nakshbandi order of Islam teaches and practices a gentle and
all-embracing faith.
Only 30 years ago, official Catholic
theology taught that only Catholics could get to Heaven. In his 1994 book, On the Threshold of Hope, Pope John Paul II said that Heaven is
open to those who have lived a good life, whether they openly professed Jesus
or not. Those who do good are led by the
power of Jesus, whether they know it or not, he says. I can find plenty of cause to argue with the
Pope, but in the face of such tolerant broadmindedness, I must gladly stand
with him on his threshold of hope. Yes,
there is hope!
SCIENTOLOGY
One last word before I tear into
Scientology again: I have no real, serious bones to pick with the followers of this religion. I’m sure many of them are totally sincere,
and some of them are genuinely good people.
Being foolish, irrational, gullible, or sincerely silly is quite common,
and easily forgiven. The only offense
here is that one is wasting one’s energies that could be far better spent on
more worthwhile activities.
And some of my reading has even
convinced me that in benevolent hands, a device like Scientology’s E-meter
(basically a crude lie detector) can serve as a helpful tool in therapy. There have, in the past, been some good,
decent leaders in Scientology. The vast
majority of them, if not all of them, have (in my opinion) been driven out by
L. Ron Hubbard and his legacy of Evil, which includes the current (real)
leader, David Miscavige.
Who I do have the very most serious
bones to pick with, then, are the leaders of this “church”! Christ spoke extremely harsh words about the
hypocrisy of the Pharisees. My conscience
requires me, too, to speak extremely harsh words about the hypocrisy of greedy
religious leaders, who turn God’s houses into dens of thieves. The prime example of this Evil today
is the leaders of the Church of Scientology.
They are servants of, and apologists for, the Horde Whisperer. Woe to those who make excuses for the Horde
Whisperer!
See my comments sprinkled throughout
this book, in chapter endnotes, especially after Chapter 11, concerning the
moral bankruptcy of Scientology. Now
we’ll zip through some highlights from my other sources, footnoting them, so
that readers who want to learn more can do so.
Put government irrationality and
religious irrationality together, and you can come up with some wicked
concoctions. So the Germans are
“persecuting” Scientologists by not being stupid enough to give them church tax
exemptions for ripping people off? Let’s
give German Scientologists asylum, then, since they’re so severely
persecuted! That’s a precedent set by a
federal immigration judge.*65
So now, would-be immigrants have
incentives to join this “church”! Many
nations “discriminate” against Scientology.
Scientology will now be better equipped to gather recruits in these
nations. The U.S. will then
self-righteously protect them from “persecution”. This, while we put hundreds of thousands of
Americans in prisons for the political crimes of not agreeing with us when we
tell them what they may and may not put into their bodies. Who will give these victims political asylum from our own, American government
goons?
The N.Y. Times*66 tells us about the death of a Scientologist under the
Church’s care in Clearwater, Florida.
The county’s medical examiner said Lisa McPherson’s death (after being
held by Scientologists for 17 days) was brought on by severe dehydration,
estimating that she’d been deprived of water for 5 to 10 days leading up to her
death. Our source also tells us that
when Scientology first moved into Clearwater, they tried to do so in
secret. “...Scientology had come to
Clearwater with a written plan to take control of the city. Government and community organizations were
infiltrated by Scientology members.
Plans were undertaken to discredit and silence critics.” So 20 years later, Clearwater locals and government
still aren’t too fond of Scientologists.
Oh, yes: the front-page article here
shows a smiling Lisa M. getting a Scientology award, certifying her
Scientology-approved spiritual advancement.
Shades of Sensitivity Awards! And
we see them gadding about in their Navy-style uniforms. L. Ron apparently liked all things naval.
Our illustrious President Clinton’s
fame for schmoozing and being all things to all people has even become obvious
to the famous actor/Scientologist John Travolta. John reported how Clinton told him that he
(Clinton) used to have a Scientologist roommate, and how he respected his views
on it. Clinton also told John all about
how he was going to whip those cruel, discriminatory Germans into
shape.*67 Now maybe Clinton’s Hollyweird
friends will raise some more funds for him.
Maybe Hillary will even get another award from all the Beautiful People,
like the one she got for reading from The Book of Hillary Knows How to Best
Raise Our Children.
Now, yet more: The Wall St. Jrnl. tells us that John
Travolta got an audience with Clinton’s National Security Adviser, Sandy
Berger!*68 Never mind Saddamned Hussein,
Khadaffy Duck, Kim Il Dung, Fido Castro, and other murderously dictatorial
fiends who mean us ill; we’re going to have the Hollywood Experts help our
officials worry (on time bought by our tax dollars) about those cruel Germans,
who dare to treat Scientology so
badly, not giving them tax breaks, just like we did before 1993! Lights, camera, public policy from
Panderwood!
The Clinton Administration’s
policies of pandering to the Church of Scientology are actually well to the
left of the U.N.’s leftist policies, which is a pretty tough act to
follow! A U.N. special investigator
rejected claims that Germans “persecute” Scientologists.*69
The Wall St. editorial goes on to comment about the IRS’s 1993 decision
“...mysteriously upgrading the cult to the status of a tax-exempt religion...”,
in return for “...$12.5 million and a promise that the cult would drop its
numerous lawsuits against the IRS and its agents.”*68 We know this only because of a leak, which the
IRS is investigating. How horrible, that
we peons should know what the IRS and Scientology are up to!
The Wall St. ends its courageous editorial as follows: “Is there anyone
at the IRS who seriously thinks that the unbelievable sums of money Scientology
spends on lawsuits meets the agency’s requirement that a charity spend its
funds only on charitable purposes?”
Amen!!!
Paulette Cooper wrote The Scandal of Scientology, which was
published in 1971 by Tower Publications.*70
She was sued by Scientology some 14 times. She got death threats, and was indicted for
making bomb threats against the Church.
The letters were on her stationery, with her fingerprints on them. Evidence strongly indicates that her
stationery (which she’d already handled) was stolen by Scientologists, who then
wrote the letters. She and her publisher
were sued into silence.
The Wall St. Jrnl published a long editorial on “The Scientology
Problem” on 25 March ‘97. On 1 April
‘97, the Church took out a large ad in the same, trying to refute what the
editorial said. And the NY Times*71 questioned the tactics that
Scientology used to get its tax exemption.
So shortly afterwards, on 19 March ‘97, the church took out a full-page
ad in the NY Times! With any luck at
all, now, more newspapers will figure out that running anti-Scientology
articles will bring in lots of ad money from the Church, and we can all learn
more sordid truths about this “church”!
Anyway, my sources*66&71 tell me
that the Church got its tax exemption in 1993 by sending private investigators
to dig up dirt about IRS officials, and by suing them again and again. Then they said they’d stop, if they got a tax
exemption as a church (which they can now use to beat up on Germany, saying
things like, see here, you’re not as tolerant as the likes of those wise,
spiritually advanced Americans).
Now this may sound like a sudden and
total change of topic, but bear with me.
“Raymond Holcomb has muscular dystrophy and can barely speak. So when he won a concert by John Mellencamp
in his own backyard from music channel VH-1, it must have really made his
day. And when he got a bill from the
IRS, it must have really confused him.
The IRS considers the prize taxable income worth $11,700. The concert left Holcomb $2,496 in the hole
to Uncle Sam.”*72
I recall a scandal a few years back
(I don’t know if you can still get away with this easily, or not). All you had to do to get the IRS to harass
your enemies on your behalf was to send in a form (a 1099B) saying your enemy
had some income, and he’d be taxed, unless he could show otherwise. “Free” concerts count, here, too, apparently.
So my unsubstantiated conspiracy
theory here on just how, exactly, the Church got its tax exemption goes like
this: Scientologists whipped out their E-Meters and gave IRS officials
long-distance auditing services, or fleeced their scamgrams away, or something
like that. They sent 1099B forms (about
these “free” benefits) in to the IRS.
Being hide-bound bureaucrats, the IRS then had no choice but to bust its
own. So if you want to bludgeon the IRS
into getting a “church” tax exemption for your new scam, the first question you
must ask yourself is a very fundamental one: to 1099B, or not to 1099B.
A true treasure trove of information
about Scientology is to be found in a series of articles in the LA
Times.*26 Till further notice, all
quotes are from this source. Scientology
has had running battles with those who have left the Church, who go off and
audit their own engrams in their own way.
“‘We call them squirrels,’ Hubbard once wrote, ‘because they are so
nutty.’” A “Fair Game Law” written by
Hubbard in the mid-1960s states that anyone who gets in the way of Scientology
can “be deprived of property or injured by any means by any Scientologist without
any discipline of the Scientologist. May
be tricked, sued or lied to or destroyed.”
Schools, business, and science are
targets of often-anonymous Scientology influence. They even persuaded an EPA toxicologist to
tout Hubbard’s “purification run-down.”
Scientologists themselves are most often the biggest victims, though,
working for this outfit. “‘Slave labor’
is how Canadian authorities in 1984 described the Scientology work force.”
“Auditing”, of course, is the
solution to all your problems. It “...is
purchased in 12 1/2-hour chunks costing anywhere between $3,000 and $11,000
each...” How does the Church persuade
people to spend this money? By hinting
that calamities will befall those who stop getting audited, by various other
pressure tactics, and by, um, making promises that aren’t really promises. “Church members are required to write
testimonials... as they progress from one level to the next. The testimonials regularly appear in
Scientology publications. Usually
carrying only the authors’ initials, they are used to promote courses without
the church itself assuming legal liability for promising results that may not
occur...” They then provide an example
in which a woman was driving with her husband.
Encountering car troubles, the woman simply left her body in her seat,
spiritually journeyed under the hood, and fixed the problem! Scientologists call this “exteriorizing”.
Scientologists call
non-Scientologists “wogs”, the LA Times tells us. Buddhists, Catholics, Mormons, Shintoists, Animists,
atheists, Muslims; you name them; they’re all “wogs”. Just a bunch of slightly different kinds of wogs, I guess. Being the broad-minded kind of a polytheistic
guy that I am, I’m many different kinds
of wog, all wrapped up in one, because I believe in the Gods of all religions, except for Satanism and
Scientology. Most religions have at
least some sensible beliefs, that
is. So I guess I must be a pollywog, then. And proud of it! Pollywogs of the world, unite! We have nothing to lose, nothing to set
ourselves free from, except the chains of our own stupidity!
Here’s a good one: “The U.S.
government is constitutionally barred from determining what is and what is not
a religion.” Ha! Could’ve fooled me!
Here’s Scientology’s financial
philosophy, written by L. Ron Himself: “MAKE MONEY, MAKE MORE MONEY, MAKE
OTHERS PRODUCE SO AS TO MAKE MONEY.”
Inheriting the throne from L. Ron,
there was (is) Scientology leader David Miscavige. He is described by high-ranking former
Scientologists “...as a ruthless infighter with a volatile temper. They say he speaks in a gritty street
parlance, punctuated with expletives.”
The Church of Spiritual Technology
(a part of Scientology) had a staff but no congregation, and a fiscal 1987
income of “...$503 million, according to court documents filed by the
church.” Their job? Preserving Hubbard’s writings, tape-recorded
lectures, films, and so on, for the ages.
They dug a 670-foot tunnel to create nuclear-blast-resistant storage for
copies of Hubbard’s 500,000 pages of writing, 6,500 reels of tape, and 42
films.
From 1980 till his death in 1986,
Hubbard lived in hiding “...to avoid subpoenas and government tax agents
probing allegations that he was skimming church funds.” He apparently ran the Church remotely, from
hiding, using cloak-and-dagger methods, despite the Church’s denials.
The LA Times documents Hubbard’s lies about his background, especially
his military background. Hubbard said he
healed his non-existent military wounds using his own techniques, which later
formed parts of Scientology. Yet he
collected a “...40% disability check from the government through at least
1980.” In 1951, when examined by the VA,
he complained about eye and stomach problems.
This was after he’d published
“Dianetics”, “...which promised a cure for the very ailments that plagued the
author himself then and throughout his life, including allergies, arthritis,
ulcers and heart problems.”
Hubbard taught some truly amazingly
far-out theories, such as “...when a person dies, his or her thetan goes to a
‘landing station’ on Venus, where it is programmed with lies about its past
life and its next life.” The solution,
for those who’ve been enlightened by L. Ron?
Pay attention, now, this is important!
When you die, make sure you don’t go to Venus. Pick somewhere else!
“‘I have high hopes of smashing my
name into history so violently that it will take a legendary form, even if all
the books are destroyed,’ Hubbard wrote to the first of his three wives in
1938, more than a decade before he created Scientology. ‘That goal,’ he said, ‘is the real goal as
far as I am concerned.’”
John Whiteside Parsons was a
follower of British Satanist Aleister Crowley, and Hubbard, in turn, fell in
with Parsons. “Hubbard also admired
Crowley, and in a 1952 lecture described him as ‘my very good friend.’” Hubbard met his second wife, then Parsons’
lover, and married her before divorcing his first wife. “Crowley biographers have written that
Parsons and Hubbard practiced ‘sex magic.’”
“‘The neighbors began protesting when the rituals called for a naked
pregnant woman to jump nine times through fire in the yard,’ recalled science
fiction author L. Sprague de Camp, who knew both Hubbard and Parsons.”
His second wife later said Hubbard
beat her and suggested that she should commit suicide, because divorce would
hurt his reputation. And, in 1976, when
his son committed suicide, an aide said that Hubbard showed no remorse,
worrying only about the possibility of bad publicity.
Well, enough from that particular
source. Moving on to a later LA Times article (14 Feb ‘95), we find
that a former Scientologist who was posting Church-copyrighted material on the
Internet got busted. Scientologists,
under court orders, got to search through his house for 7 hours, with a
policeman there only for the beginning and end of the search! So here we’ve got a “church” using tax-exempt
money to preserve “sacred scriptures” by L. Ron. Give them our tax money, or give them an
exemption while they tax you and me; same difference. So we’re paying for these “sacred
scriptures”, then. Yet we can’t have
free access to them?! It’s just as if we
gave Bible preachers copyrights to the Bible and trademarks on “Christianity”
(Scientologists have trademarks on “Scientology” and “Dianetics”), along with
their church tax exemptions. Something
stinks here...
Then there was Lisa McPherson, who
died, by most appearances, as a result of the “care” she received from this
“church”.*73 She developed mental
problems, and fought to escape her captors at times, but they held onto her for
17 days, trying to audit her engrams away, till they finally gave up. “Ex-church members say such confinement is
used when a member has a ‘psychotic break’ or is threatening to flee the
church.” They finally took her to an
emergency room (apparently bypassing other hospitals to reach one with a
Scientologist on staff), but it was too late.
So now Lisa is dead, some
Scientologists have fled overseas, and all the lawyers (civil and criminal
both) are having a field day. This is
the same case where the medical examiner says she didn’t have any liquids for 5
to 10 days, and was covered with insect bites, or something like insect
bites. And despite Scientology’s strong
beliefs against mind-altering drugs and psychiatrists, they’d given Lisa
chloral hydrate, a sedative.*73
Enough evidence that Scientology
harbors some serious Evil here and there?
No? Well, then, here’s my final
push. Let’s briefly look at a few books
for yet more details. First, there’s “A Piece of Blue Sky, Scientology, Dianetics
and L. Ron Hubbard Exposed” by Jon Atack*74 (“Blue Sky” for short). Then there’s “L. Ron Hubbard, Messiah or
Madman?” by Bent Corydon*75 (“Madman”).
I read both of these accounts by former Scientologists cover to
cover. I couldn’t find a copy of a third
book*76 because Scientologists kept it out of distribution in the U.S. on a
legal technicality.*75
The two books, together, paint a
detailed picture of Scientology. Between
them and my other sources, I must say, I’m left gabberflasted. All my sources say the same things. The capabilities of human minds to practice
utterly blind idiocy and ideological madness are beyond my comprehension. These books describe a madness far more
frightening than any fiction. I guess
the only upside here is that great acts of “irrational” altruistic
self-sacrifice, like Christ’s, or even the smaller altruistic acts that decent
people perform every day, might not be possible without the influence of our
irrational nature. We’ve got to take the
good with the bad.
That’s part of the explanation for
Scientology. Sincere believers think
they really are trying to “Clear the Planet” of all its engrams. When you’re trying to make everything perfect
forever, a lot of transgressions can be tolerated along the route to The Big
Goal. Then when you’ve spent a year or
two, or a decade or two thinking one way, being taught that all your efforts
are Profoundly Good, it becomes next to impossible to consider that it was all
a huge waste, that one should stop, and do something totally different.
I know, I’m only nibbling around the
edges of explaining away ideological idiocy.
After you read and think about it long enough, it does become vaguely almost comprehensible. Really
explaining this effectively would take too long. “Madman” already does a fairly good job of
explaining it anyway. Curious? How does one create a “Rondroid”, for
example? Buy the book! Start with the chapter called “The
Brainwashing Manual” about some of L. Ron’s writings.
Both books document at length L.
Ron’s background, and his many lies about his checkered past. They also deal with how he used to praise
Aleister Crowley (1875-1947) before he figured out (surprise, surprise!) that this
was bad PR. Ever since then, L. Ron’s
admiration for Aleister seems to have gone underground, but not disappeared.
So who was Aleister Crowley? Let’s look at a few of his quotes. “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the
law.” I must insert an aside. At one and the same time, this is only a few
words shy of my own personal philosophy, yet light-years removed. Yes, do as you will. All is permitted. Just make sure your will is informed and
driven by Love, Conscience, and Reason.
If something is wrong 99.9999% of the time, yet a time comes when it is
the Loving thing to do, then do it! If
we must be ideologues, then we need ideological flexibility. It may very well be egg headed
hair-splitting, but, as M. Scott Peck wrote, there are categories of things
that he (we) should do, if he (we) could ever think of a love-driven reason to
do them. It’s just that he can’t think
of any such reasons! His example was
sleeping with someone other than his wife.
So yes, Aleisters of the world, do
as you will. But make sure your will is
properly driven and informed! Strive to
conform your will with a worthy cause or goal!
Sadly, I know not of him making any such amendments. Let’s look at some more of his quotes, and
Aleister’s nature will become more clear.
“Ordinary morality is only for ordinary people.” I didn’t see any amendment on this one saying
“And we are all ordinary people,” either, unfortunately. Then we have, “I was not content to believe
in a personal devil and serve him, in the ordinary sense of the word. I wanted
to get hold of him personally and become his chief of staff.”
This last one, now, this one you won’t hear me saying, with or without amendments! Crowley was a Satanist. The Horde Whisperer whispered in Crowley’s
ears, and Crowley whispered in L. Ron’s ears. L. Ron said “...the late Aleister Crowley¾my very good friend... He signs
himself ‘the Beast,’ mark of the Beast 666...”*75 L. Ron, in turn, whispered in the ears of the
current leadership of the Church of Scientology. The Evil lives on. In my opinion, of course... Forgive me these repeated “in my opinion”
clauses; I’m trying to fend off lawsuits from guess who... While I’m at it, all readers are hereby and
alwaysby notified that all things that aren’t labeled “fiction” or “according
to source XYZ” are then “in my opinion”, in all my writings... I’m still allowed to express my opinion,
yes? I sure hope so!
Yes, L. Ron denounced Christ and
Christians.*74 This isn’t why I call him
and his Church Evil. By now, since I
wrote at length about tolerance and broad-mindedness, I should hope that
readers will realize that I don’t accuse people of being Evil at the drop of a
hat. Certainly not just for being
“non-Christians”. I have friends and
acquaintances of many stripes. Jews,
Christians, Moslems, agnostics, atheists, Demoblicans, Republicrats, and
Libertarians. I might disagree with many
of them about many things, but it wouldn’t occur to me to call them Evil. “Evil” I reserve for the likes of the
leadership of the Church of Scientology.
If you want the full details, read
these books, please! I’ll limit myself
to selecting just a few informative highlights.
Both books note that the Church uses (and threatens to use) copyright
and trademark laws (and even RICO!) against those who would “steal” its ideas
(“theft of trade secrets”), or get in their way, in other ways, as they fleece
their followers. It seems to me that we
could end this madness in a hurry by simply passing a law that says churches
and charities may not use these kinds of laws.
If you’ve got trademarks, copyrights, and trade secrets, you’re a
business, not a church or a charity.
What with our supposed “Separation of Church and State”, what business
does the State have in deciding who “owns” Sacred Scriptures (which are
supported by tax-exempt money), or who can call themselves “Scientologists”,
any more than they can decide who can call themselves “Christians”?
Abuses abound! Scientology has been in the business of
telling its members and “auditors” that the results of their “auditing”
(counseling) will be kept strictly confidential, then using the resulting files
against defectors and would-be defectors.*75
Many examples are given where courts have handed down scathing
denouncements of Scientology and their methods.
Members have been held against their will, subjected to virtual slave
labor, and paid next to nothing. Men,
women, and even small children have been cruelly punished. L. Ron once proclaimed that shrinks (evil
psychiatrists who would try to help people by methods other than sending them
to the Scientologists to have their engrams audited away) invented sex to
problematize the universe, so some Scientology couples stopped making
love!*74 To be more precise, L. Ron
wrote that “Pain and sex were the INVENTED tools of degradation,” and that
psychiatrists “...are the sole cause of decline in this universe.”*74
“Blue Sky” digs into court records
and finds some real dirt! A sample
summary of part of what was read into court records: “Hubbard hypnotized
himself to believe that all of humanity and all discarnate beings were bound to
him in slavery.”*74
“Madman” makes some frightening
allegations, many of them passed down from L. Ron’s disenchanted son Ron
Jr. Ron Jr. (and others) say L. Ron was
often addicted to drugs. L. Ron Sr.
denounced abortion, but Ron Jr. tells us that he thinks that as a six-year-old,
he saw L. Ron performing an abortion on his then wife (Ron Jr.’s mother, who
later told Ron Jr. that she’d had two abortions forced upon her by L. Ron). A woman tells of being raped by what was
apparently L. Ron Sr. L. Ron Sr. worked
on subverting governments to his cause, and reportedly dreamed of being the
leader of a world government!*75 Welcome
to my nightmare! A world with a
conscienceless, charismatic egomaniac in charge of it all!
Make no mistakes about it, the Evil
persists. It’s not all just
history. These books go into the
continuing abuses of the Church of Scientology, but you can go and read them for
yourselves. Oh, yes: amusing trivia
follows: Scientologists have been known to tick off their calendar in years
“AD”, where “A. D.” stands for “After Dianetics”!*75 Let me wind this down with some frightening
passages from “Madman”: Ron Jr. tells how Pops apparently wanted him to inherit
the empire, but was worried that Jr. didn’t have what it took. “All you are is a fart in a hurricane, kid;
now read about the Real Power!”
Blather about books and secrets.
“‘To reveal them will cause you instant insanity; rip your mind apart; destroy
you.’ he says.” So he goes on to reveal
The Secrets to his son. I guess gods and
Hubbards must have special immunity to the destructive powers of these
secrets! “‘Secrets, techniques and
powers I alone have conquered and harnessed.
I alone have refined, improved on, applied my engineering principles
to. Science and logic. The
keys! My keys to the doorway of the
Magick; my magick! The power! Not Scientology power! My
power!’” Then more blather about new and
ancient Books about things like Sex Magic.
Ron Jr. continues the tale. “He is excited, fearful and cautious. He is tense.
Unimparted secrets, imparted for the first time. I open the books intending only to thumb
through. I am awed and amazed; I Know these books! How could I?
He answers, ‘They were used to conceive you, and birth you, too. I’ve read them to you while you were asleep¾while you were drugged and
hypnotized; for years. I’ve made the
Magick really work,’ he says. ‘No more foolish rituals. I’ve stripped the Magick to basics¾access without liability.’” (My, Titus’s, editorial comment; read, power
without conscience).
“‘Sex by will,’ he says. ‘Love by will¾no caring and no sharing¾no feelings. None,’ he says. ‘Love reversed,’ he says. ‘Love isn’t sex. Love is no good; puts you at effect. Sex is the route to power... Scarlet
women! They are the secret to the
doorway. Use and consume. Feast.
Drink the power through them.
Waste and discard them.’
“‘Scarlet?’ I ask.
“‘Yes Scarlet; the blood of their
bodies; the blood of their souls... Release your will from bondage. Bend their bodies; bend their minds; bend
their wills... The present is all there is.
No consequences and no guilt... The will is free¾totally free; no feelings; no
effort; pure thought¾separated. The Will postulating the Will... Will, Sex,
Love, Blood, Door, Power, Will.
Logical... The doorway of Plenty.
The Great Door of the Great Beast.’
“He repeats the incantation; invokes
the door opening to the realm of the Beast.”*75
These are words written by L. Ron’s
son, Ron Jr. If any would be tempted by
the powers that Scientology seems to offer, read and heed! These promises are lies (in my opinion). They lead ultimately to nothing but
disappointment and pain. Sometimes to
worse things¾things like death and
destruction. Scientology has seemingly
offered its followers paranormal powers for years and years. Bent (author of “Madman”) thinks L. Ron
designed Scientology as a trap. Perhaps
so. If this is a good analogy, then I
also think paranormal powers constitute a major part of the bait. Again and again, L. Ron would come up with
yet more and higher levels of studies, for yet more donations of either money
or quasi-slave labor, so that followers could finally attain quasi-godlike
powers (become “operating thetans”). Yet
no one, to the best of knowledge available to modern rational science, has ever
demonstrated such paranormal powers!
It’s not that I fear their silly
Magick; this part is simply pathetic.
Just plain pathetic. They may
find my ideas about prayer to be similarly silly and pathetic. If this is what they freely choose to think,
then alas, but so be it. Their “Magick”
bends their minds into self-deception, into illusions
of power, while sincere and benevolent prayer taps into a real Power. Especially if
more and more of us practice benevolent prayer, our resulting benevolence will
gain greater and greater power. So let’s
do some prayer, and let’s get benevolent.
Everybody must get benevolent.
But let’s not confuse benevolence with a wimpish refusal to honestly
address unpleasant truths.
What I do somewhat fear is the human Evil, the sick minds behind the
self-deceived practitioners of Magick in all its various forms. Sincerely silly ideologues will sometimes go
to great lengths to defend their foolishness. Yet even this fear has quite sharp
limits. They can hurt or even kill my
body, but they can’t take my soul! Yes,
there is a price to be paid for resisting Evil.
However, this is a far, far smaller price than what we must all pay if
Evil stalks about without opposition.
Pay now¾or
pay far, far more later! Yet lies can
only hurt us if we believe them. Beware
of the Horde Whisperer’s whispers!
Enough of the dark side. Let’s end this with some positive notes. Don’t despair, because Evil defeats itself. It hasn’t the self-discipline required to
restrain itself. It can’t keep itself
from committing the smaller evils now, so that it can commit the bigger Evils
later. A good example of this is that
when Joseph Yanny (a former full-time Scientology lawyer) had an attack of
conscience and quit, he promptly got sued.
Scientologists were worried that he’d “spill the beans” about them and
their dirty secrets. But they defeated
themselves! Before Yanny got sued, he
was legally obligated to keep his former clients’ secrets. After he got sued, he had the right to defend
himself. His resulting testimony was
originally sealed, but a judge released it.
Due ultimately to lack of self-restraint by Scientologists, Yanny’s
statements about them are now a matter of public record, and we have that many
more warnings against their Evils. He
concludes that “...The Cult¾who
the governments of this country have allowed to physically beat it (sic, their)
citizens, to betray their confidences, ignore their civil rights, and use the
judicial system to destroy them.”*75
More about the plus side... How do
we guard against charismatic charlatans?
Simply by using the common sense and the intuitive powers that God so
wisely gave us! If we’ve got our doubts
about whether the latest would-be Messiah might really be nothing but a Madman, then we must trust in and listen to those nagging doubts! Question
that “Messiah”! If he’s a real Messiah, he won’t mind at all! Christ, for example, patiently explained his
thoughts again and again, to all who cared to listen. I can’t recall ever reading about him telling
folks, “Never question ME!” One more
clue: A real Messiah WILL NOT tell us whatever it is that we
want to hear! A real Messiah is GUARANTEED to tell us things that grate on our
ears, because WE ARE DEFECTIVE!
So here’s your last positive ending
note: Gems of wisdom from (it is said) the Buddha, which I found in
“Madman”. This is exactly what I’ve been trying to say! Inoculations against the lies of so many
false prophets...
“Be not led by the authority of
religious texts, nor by the delight in speculative opinions, nor by seeming
possibilities, nor by the idea; ‘This is our teacher.’ But... when you know for yourselves that
certain things are unwholesome and wrong, and bad, then give them up... and
when you know for yourselves that certain things are wholesome and good, then
accept them and follow them. A disciple
should examine even the teacher himself, so that he might be fully convinced of
the true value of the teacher whom he followed.”*75 Amen!!!
Every now and then, I have a twinge
of sympathy for Scientology, because they say that they want mainstream society
to accept them. But then I notice that
they never, ever seem to clearly apologize for their past excesses, and they
keep on doing the same things. When
people say bad things about them, they sue the messengers, rather than fixing
their problems that cause the bad messages (in my opinion). So my sympathy passes away. But let’s sincerely pray that they’ll actually
really change one of these days.
Meanwhile, if you want to see their half-truths and whining for
yourself, you can hit their Web site at WWW.Scientology.org .
Having said that, let me add that
there’s quite the anti-Scientology war being fought out on the Internet these
days. Hit the anti-Scientology newsgroup
“alt.religion.scientology”, for example. Just type that into your search engine. If a web weenie like me can do it, you can,
too. Or hit these web sites: www.xenu.net , www.entheta.net , www.scientology-kills.net , www.lermanet.com , and www.factnet.org . Also fire up your search-engine with “Lisa
McPherson”, and hit the Lisa McPherson memorial page. Learn enough to turn your stomach!
What all did I learn, cruising the
Internet? Above and beyond what I
already knew, and have mentioned here?
Just that (they displayed a few L. Ron quotes) Hubbard said that only
trained Scientologists deserve civil rights.
And Scientologists apparently are given software by their “Church” that
blocks impure anti-Scientology materials.
Finally, I noticed that anti-$cientology netizens freely mention Scientology sites, while
Scientology NEVER mentions anti-$cientology
sites; an observation made by the anti-$cientology
sites themselves. We can only conclude
that truth never fears untruth, while untruth trembles at the thought of
tangling with truth. Let them struggle
freely, then!
2012 UPDATE:
In the years since I wrote JHWOMC, Scientology depredations have
continue unabated, for the most part.
Government Almighty (the courts), in Its Wisdom, has decreed that
Christian and Jewish religious schools aren’t sufficiently irrational to
qualify for tax deductions, like fleecing your scamgrams,
ooops, I mean, like auditing your engrams, is. In recent years, a Jewish Torah school sued, saying that they, too, just
like Scientology training, are at least partially irrational, so they, too,
want tax breaks, just like Scienfoology, ooops, I
mean, Scientology. Find more details at http://www.religionnewsblog.com/category/michael-and-marla-sklar ... Government Almighty has, de facto, decreed
that Jewish and Christian schools are WAY too rational, the schooling there is
WAY to beneficial, in the real world, to qualify for religious exemptions. Scientology “auditing” and Scientology
schools, now, THEY, though (through a SECRET agreement with the IRS), THEY are
sufficiently irrational enough to get you an 80% tax deductions for your
“contributions” to this “church” for your “auditing”, where they fleece, ooops, I mean audit, away your scamgrams,
ooops, I mean, your engrams. See also page 171 of “Inside Scientology”, a
recent book by Janet Reitman. CLEARLY,
this is a case where we need a Government Almighty Ministry of Measuring
Irrationality to spell out, in explicit legal detail, just HOW irrational we
have to be, to get church exemptions! http://www.religionnewsblog.com/6669/l-ron-hubbard-has-better-lobbyists-than-god is a good summary also… We DO have separation of Church and State
here in the USA, except for THE one “official” Church of the USA, which is
Scientology. All Hail Government
Almighty! (That’s our other, modern-day,
Officially Approved Church). (end of 2012 update).
IT’S
ONLY RELIGIOUS FREEDOM IF IT’S IRRATIONAL,
AND
IRRATIONALITY IS NOBLEST OF ALL
Scientology’s excesses are just one
manifestation of a larger problem, though.
That is that our society rewards irrationality with “religious freedom”,
especially if one can hire bunches of private investigators and lawyers. But if one acts on a simple desire for rational freedom, one is rewarded with
fines and prison sentences.
Hire somebody under the guise of
economic freedom, while letting him keep his apartment and some semblance of
independence, and you’ve got ten zillion government mandates to fill. Give him a good brainwashing, have him live
in your commune, make him pass out your flyers, and you can pay him a can of
dog food a day. The government won’t touch you. That’s religious
freedom, see?
But the religious freedom to make
people into ideological slaves only applies if you’re a really whacked-out,
commune-dwelling, totally authoritarian cult.
And it sure helps if you’re sue-happy!
But if you’re a harmless pacifistic non-suing group like the Amish
(parenthetically, in the interests of complete honesty, I will admit I’m
partial, because I was brought up as an Old Order Mennonite, which is highly
similar to being Amish), and you believe in living in families with some
independence from the group leader(s), then you’ll be sued, fined, or otherwise
busted if you should let anyone pay your kids to work, while they’re too young!*77 Don’t worry about gangs, violent youths,
social decay, and dangerous cults, worry about kids (even of other cultures who
believe differently, and don’t bother us) who might learn to work while they’re still too young!
Could we maybe start the Church of
Letting People Onto The First Rungs of The Job Ladder Through Combined Sacred
Work and Holy School? See, we pay money
to schools to learn, even though getting them to teach us anything useful for
getting a job is quite a struggle. Then
we can’t get a job, because the employer has to spend most of our time, and
half of his, teaching us that new job, for the first month, all while paying us
the minimum wage. We need to figure out
how to turn the right to get onto the job ladder (through the common-sense realization
that the first phases of a job are half school, half work, and so, shouldn’t
need to be paid as fully being “work”) into religious
freedom.
If you’ll investigate tax codes,
you’ll find that it’s more difficult to claim your privately-paid medical
expenses than it is to claim charitable contributions. Paying the Church of Scientology to have your
engrams audited away, then, is easier to claim, tax-wise, than your heart
surgery! Obviously, it’s high time to
start the Church of the Holy Heart Surgery!
But heart surgery is entirely too rational
is the big problem here. We’ll have to
dress it up with a whole bunch of nonsense jargon.
There are quite a few perverse
incentives at work, here, with regards to religious freedom and government
regulations and taxes. If you contribute
to your church, but get tangible benefits of rational value (clothing,
schooling, food, housing) in return, then you’re supposed to “back out” the
value of these goods and services you receive, when you calculate how much charity
you can write off. But when you get irrational benefits, like getting your
engrams audited or your scamgrams fleeced, then
you can write off the whole thing! Clearly, then, in the eyes of our owners,
it’s far, far better to be irrational!
So if you’re going to make
outrageous promises in order to rip people off, you’d better make sure your
promises are irrational as can
be! Take your lessons from Dianetics (or go see Chapter 20 endnotes
for the short course). Promise people
the moon and the stars. But be sure to
call yourself a religion, and hire hordes of lawyers!
Then compare and contrast
Scientology’s abuses with the fact that mainstream churches today are afraid to
counsel people. Why? Lawsuits!*78
Give people advice, even religion-based advice (so what happened to
religious freedom¾or
even just plain freedom¾anyway?),
and they’ll sue you if you don’t prevent them from doing something stupid! So only churches with deep pockets, and/or
oodles of lawyers (like guess who?), can afford to “counsel” people. When they do
provide counseling, then, many mainstream churches will only see you once or
twice, refer you to a shrink, and deliberately just talk about God and Holy
Things, without talking specifically about your personal problems! This, under the theory that they have more
grounds, then, to defend themselves under freedom of religion! It’s only real
religion if it’s totally irrelevant
to real life! Thank you, Uncle
Stupidity and slimy lawyers!
I’d really like to start the Church
of the Sacred Individual Rights, based on my sincere religious belief that
everyone will be better off when we give everyone freedom. You want your freedom? Then don’t take mine, under the Golden
Rule. But that’s entirely too rational,
I guess. Only if you take those
individual rights you’ve given up to the government, and give them to a cult
leader instead, only then will you
qualify as sufficiently irrational to deserve religious freedom.
Government mandated irrationality
ranks right up there with religious irrationality, and maybe even exceeds it,
these days. The two together are
lethal! Irrationality is
everywhere. Just pick up your newspaper,
and start reading. I could go on all day
about this! Let me just pick a few
examples, and we’ll go on.
Frozen fertilized egg cells are
accumulating in the U.S. at the rate of 10,000 a year. “One state, Louisiana, says a frozen embryo
is a person and cannot be discarded; such embryos must be kept in perpetuity. In Illinois, the attorney general said a
woman who had a frozen embryo was considered pregnant.”*79 So, let’s see, now. Fertilized egg cells are people, too. And pregnant women, these days, in some
places, get to use handicapped parking.
If you’re a woman in Illinois, then, you should go get fertility
treatments in Louisiana, store your embryo (at taxpayer expense?) there, and
then be entitled to use the multi-occupant-vehicle commuter lanes, and
handicapped parking, for the rest of your life!
Politicians these days appoint
panels of highly qualified experts to make recommendations. Then, when the recommendations don’t come out
to be politically correct, the politicians will dictate the facts, making the
experts recommend what the politicians recommend. Examples are “politically correct” diseases like
the largely (maybe not entirely, but certainly largely) imaginary “Gulf War
Syndrome”*80 and the real, but politically charged, disease of breast
cancer.*81 If you’ve exercised such poor
judgment as to catch a disease that doesn’t make you a favored victim (like
prostate cancer, which kills 16 times as many people in proportion to federal
research dollars spent on it, as does AIDS), then that’s your tough luck.
OK, so I’m a documenting fool. The source for my x16 statistic?*82 I had to do the math; they just gave the raw
statistics. The same source also tells
us that “AIDS activist throws lover’s ashes at White House.” We can only conclude that he who gets the
most media attention by throwing the biggest, showiest hissy fit gets to rob
the taxpayers the most. Then we wonder
why our political discourse gets so uncivil.
Then there’s the larger problem of
having politicians implement Hillary-care by fits and starts, thinking they can
change the laws of economics by decree.
Unlimited, quality medical care on the cheap, all things for all people,
all just by slapping mandates on insurance companies! What a deal!
Now let’s also issue food insurance, mansion insurance, fame insurance,
and everything insurance, slap some mandates on the insurance companies, and
we’ll all be fabulously rich, famous and happy, all without lifting a finger!
And finally, there’s the “technology
bad, nature good” mentality of the Unabomber (along with Al Gore and all his
other supporters). Global warming,
whether caused by human technology or by fluctuations in the sun’s rays, could
be alleviated by technology.*83 But
using technology is a grave sin against The Earth, so the only answer, if
global warming is to come, is for sinners to suffer. Pay penance now, all you who sin against The
Earth!
Bill Clinton is always happy to
expand the power of government to take care of those too motivationally
challenged (or too encumbered by licensing, regulations, and minimum wage) to
take care of themselves. Where government
is ill equipped to do much long-lasting good, in the field of charity, Bill
rushes in. But in a field where
government is far better suited to do good, in defending the Earth from
asteroids, he exercised his line-item veto.
Taking the first steps towards protecting Earth from utter devastation
(launching an asteroid-investigating spacecraft) isn’t worth $30 million, says
Bill.*84 Nature good, technology
bad. If Nature plans our destruction,
who are we to argue with Her? Proceed to
The Level Beyond Stupid. Accept your
Fate stoically, without unseemly protests.
Well, sure, politicians are guilty
of being irrational. It’s not just Bill
Clinton, though. In another case,
lawmakers turned down spending a mere $50 million to survey the heavens for
threatening near-Earth asteroids, yes.*85
But who elected them? And who
spends way too much money enriching all the Hollywood panderers? Collectively, all of us¾consumers and voters as well as
politicians and Hollyweird bigwigs¾have decided that we should spend more money being
amused by two tales of asteroids causing mass destruction (Deep Impact and Armageddon)
than we should spend on preventing such mass destruction.*85 So just how rational are we?
So irrationality, that’s where it’s
at. No rationality allowed, unless you
pay millions! Like, if you want to
market a non-intrusive little plastic bag full of silicon for women to use, to
touch the outsides of their breasts,
to let their fingers slide around real easily, while looking for breast cancer,
then you’ve got to suck up to the FDA, pay millions for fancy research, wait
for years for approval, and so on. But
don’t let me bad-mouth the FDA. Those
generous, magnanimous benefactors of ours, they’re now finally allowing us to
buy these things without a prescription,
even!
Now if you market some religious technology like an E-Meter
that’ll solve all your problems for you, including all your health problems,
well, now, that’s just fine and dandy.
No wait, no studies, no millions of dollars. And easy tax deductions for the buyers. Silly fools!
Those breast-cancer-detector-inventors, they should’ve had the good
sense to start the Church of Fleecing Breast Scamgrams!
THE
CHURCH OF HEMETROLOGY AND SHEMETROLOGY
Some people have bad
circulation. The blood pools in their
legs, especially when they spend all day on their feet, working to pay their
taxes. And some people (doctors, even)
claim that SIDS, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, is caused by infants’ sleep
being too undisturbed. Mother Nature may
intend for Baby to sleep with Mom and Pop, who stir often, disturbing Baby,
re-stimulating Baby’s breathing centers in Baby’s brain. At least, so goes one theory.
A lot of people might want to do
anything they can to fend off SIDS, but they might be afraid of rolling over
Baby in their sleep. Or they might be
afraid that Baby might suffocate, face-down in the waterbed. So maybe we could have the best of both
worlds. Put some motors with offset cams
(or other mechanical contraption) under the legs of Baby’s crib, and rattle
Baby around a bit, at timed intervals.
I’ve never heard of such a contraption for sale.
Then there’s pressurized-air
stockings (called “sequential compression” machines) that pressurize rings
around your legs, squishing the blood out like milk out of a cow’s tit. Like peristalsis in your gut. But these cost a fortune, and you’ve got to
have a prescription to get one, last time I checked. Yes, I, myself, suffer from poor circulation,
now and then.
I’m an electrical engineer. I could mess around with such toys as are
described here, and probably will. Maybe
even get a patent or two. But I’m not
one of those crude, vulgar heathens who mess around with mere material things
for monetary reasons. No, Sir! Economics, remember, is that dismal science
of valuing things more than people.
I’ll leave medicine to the doctors,
and economics to the economists. Since I
reside on a much higher, spiritual
plane, I’m starting the Church of Hemetrology and Shemetrology. Metrology is the science and religion
(“religious philosophy”) of measurement, see, and hemes and shemes are these
ethereal little spirits that circulate around in people’s blood. Hemes, of course, float around in men’s
blood, and shemes float around in women’s blood.
The Church of Hemetrology and
Shemetrology believes that effigies must be constructed of the human body, and
hemes and shemes that are forced (by demons of the underworld below our feet)
to collect in the lower appendages of the human body must be ritualistically
transferred to an effigy. There, they
must be forced by pneumatic peristalsis up towards the heart of the
effigy. The heart must measure all
things (“metrology”), including hemes and shemes, in order to alleviate
Hemetrological and Shemetrological imbalances.
The process of ritualistically
transferring the hemes or shemes to the effigy (a collection of pillows and
rags will do fine) ensures that pestifoggons won’t eat us, or our little hemes
or shemes. And detailed instructions
will be issued, including the wearing of safety glasses and standing behind a
yard-thick concrete wall while turning the spiritual peristalsis machine on,
and, of course, NEVER, EVER using the machine on anything other than an
effigy. These measures will ensure
safety for everyone. And I’ll bet I
could devise a spiritual peristalsis machine for fairly CHEAP.
Similarly, of course, the hemes or shemes in your little
male or female infant must be ritualistically transferred to a small
effigy. This small effigy is then placed
behind the concrete barrier, in a crib, and the heme/sheme shaker device then shakes the assembly of crib plus
effigy, allowing the hemes or shemes
to break loose and freely travel to the effigy’s heart, where they are
measured. This, then, in a nutshell, is
the Technology and Doctrine of The Church of Hemetrology
and Shemetrology.
Oh, yes: there’d be just one more
benefit to belonging to my church, besides taking good care of your hemes or shemes. That is, every member of the church would be
a minister (we’d be quite fashionably egalitarian). Thus, if your daughter has an affair with the
President, and you don’t want government goons to grill you for two days about
what all gossip she shares with you, you could both become ministers in the
Church of Hemetrology and Shemetrology,
and everything the two of you share with each other would become off limits to
prying government snoops. After all, the
minister/penitent relationship, just like lawyer/client, journalist/informant,
and shrink/patient relationships, is given special protection by our
masters. Parent/child just doesn’t rank,
not even in these days of government-defined “family values”.
If we had a government that
respected just plain old ordinary individual
freedom, and with sufficient humility to acknowledge that trying to
regulate different spheres of human activity according to radically different
standards is perverse and arrogant¾where, exactly, are
these lines between mind, body, and spirit, and between religion, economics,
and medicine, anyway?¾then
we’d not need to turn everything into a religion. But all-wise, all-knowing, omni-competent government has become our main religion
today. It acknowledges nothing as its
equal. At the very least, rational
individual freedom sure doesn’t rank!
Religion, though, does rank
right up there¾when
it’s sufficiently irrational. So be
it! That’s not the way I’d like it to
be, but I do try to live in, and adapt to, the real world.
I’ll not even plan on asking for a
tax exemption for our church. All I want
is the freedom to help people. And
before you say I’m every bit as bad as L. Ron, being a science fiction writer
and trying to make a buck, inventing a new religion, let me make a few
promises. I’ll never, ever tell people
that the medical establishment is just a bunch of quacks. I’ll never be telling you to come and see us Hemetrologists and Shemetrologists
instead of a mainstream doctor or psychiatrist.
Belief in hemes and shemes
is fully compatible with modern medicine, and with all sensible religions of
all sorts. Barring outrageous inflation,
I’ll never charge you hundreds or thousands of dollars for 1/2-hour training
courses. I’ll never make you write
testimonials about how I taught you to perform faith healing on your car. And I’ll never call anyone a “wog”, just for not belonging to my church.
No promises, now, but I’m seriously
thinking this over. How much interest is
there out there in the Church of Hemetrology and Shemetrology? A
$20/year bimonthly newsletter? A heme/sheme pump for adult
effigies? A heme/sheme shaker for smaller effigies? If I should want to pass this Church or any
of its interests on to someone else, would you want me to pass your name and
address on? Or do you want us to keep it
to ourselves?
If you’re interested, please indicate
your interests and desires, and send mail to:
The Church of Hemetrology
and Shemetrology
C/O Titus “RocketSlinger”
Stauffer
P. O. Box 692168
Houston, TX, 77269-2168
(Author’s
note, the above has been disbanded. So
sorry!)
And always remember, the Force is
with us, and we’re gonna kick some Horde Whisperer butt! So if you’re not there already, I suggest you
get on the right side. God bless you!
SOURCE
NOTES
1) Tracking-device
sellers cleared of fraud counts, by Richard Stewart, 30 Jan. ‘97 Houston Chronicle.
2)
Here’s an Oxymoron: All-Natural Smokes For
Health Nuts, by Ross Kerber, Wall St. Journal, 14 Apr. ‘97.
3) Two Associated Press articles both by Sue
Major Holmes, Eagle protection vs.
religious freedom and Tribal call for
eagle feathers can’t be matched by supply, Houston Chronicle, 9 Mar ‘97.
4) Sick of
It All, June ‘96 Reason magazine,
by Michael Fumento.
5) ‘Bridges’
author divorces, in
Newsmakers, Page 2A, 3 Oct. ‘97.
Houston Chronicle.
6) Page 67 of the Dec. 1996 Smithsonian, which in turn got these names from USDA zoologist
Arnold Menke.
7) The
hysteria over ‘Hystories’, by Wray Herbert, 19
May ‘97 U. S. News & World Report. Also see Author’s
theory on ‘hystories’ hits nerve with CFS sufferers,
by Richard O’Mara of the Baltimore Sun, as
reported in the 12 June ‘97 Hou Chron.
8) Page A16 Review
& Outlook column The Actively
Sick, 26 Aug. ‘97 Wall St. Journal.
9)
Defect cited in fatigue disorder, by
Richard A. Knox of the Boston Globe,
as reported in Houston Chron. of 26
July ‘97.
10) It Was
a Joke! by James L. Graff, 28 July ‘97 Time
magazine and other sources at around this time.
11) FREEDOM
BECKONS Cleared inmate calls prison time ‘a nightmare’, by John Makeig, 30 July ‘97 Hou
Chron.
12) Exception’s
removal may put some in law enforcement under the gun, by Roberto Suro and Philip P. Pan of the Washington Post, in the 28 Dec ‘96 Hou Chron; One Strike and You’re Out,
by Larry Reibstein and John Engen,
23 Dec ‘96 Newsweek magazine; and A Farewell To Arms, by Mark Thompson, 6
Oct. ‘97 Time magazine.
13) Advertiser’s
pull felt at magazines, by Greg Hassell in his Marketing column in the 23 July ‘97 Hou. Chron.
14) Jan. ‘97 New
Woman magazine.
15) Magazines
Bowing to Demands for Star Treatment, by Robin Pogrebin,
N. Y. Times, 18 May ‘98.
16) Scientology’s
ex-leader gets prison in death, by Anne Swardson
of the Washington Post, as reported
in the Hou Chron,
23 Nov. ‘96.
17) The
Thriving Cult of Greed and Power, 6 May ‘91 Time magazine, by Richard Behar.
18)
Scientology:
Anatomy of a Frightening Cult, by Eugene H. Methvin,
May 1980 Reader’s Digest.
19) Documents
detail woman’s final days, by Jeff Stidham and
William Yelverton, 10 July ‘97 Tampa Tribune.
20) Scientology
Libel Lawsuit Against Time Is Dismissed, 17 July ‘96 Wall St. Journal.
21) Explaining
Hitler by Ron Rosenbaum, Random House, 444 pages.
22)
Spitting image, in Newsmakers, page 2A, 6 Aug. ‘97 Houston
Chronicle.
23) She was
dying to die, in Newsmakers, page
2A, 27 Oct. ‘97 Hou Chron.
24) Vampire
victim had ‘V’ shape burn, police say, Tavares, Fla. (AP), 22 March ‘97 Houston Chronicle.
25) A Study
of Prisoners and Guards in a Simulated Prison by Craig Haney, Curtis Banks,
and Phillip Zimbardo, conducted at Stanford
University, and reported in the Sept. 1973 Naval
Research Reviews.
26) Many articles published in the Los Angeles Times, 24 through 29 June
1990. You can call the LA Times at
800-788-8804 and get these for a small fee...
27)
U.S. Inaugurating a Vast Database of All New Hires,
by Robert Pear, 22 Sept. ‘97 N. Y. Times.
28) Identity
Crisis, by Daniel W. Sutherland,
Reason magazine, Dec. ‘97.
29) Stern
Rebuke, in Newsmakers, Page 2A, Houston Chron
5 Nov ‘97.
30) Software
Pirates, by Alexander Volokh, Nov. ‘97 Reason magazine.
31) Why the
FDA wants to limit your freedom, by Henry I. Miller, 6 July ‘98 The Washingon
Times.
32) Houston
Chron, 13 May ‘97, Study criticizes long prison terms for low-level drug offenses, by
Robert L. Jackson, of the L.A. Times.
33) Splitting
Hairs, by Carlos Byars, 29 Jan ‘96 Hou Chron.
34) Tribe
overwhelmed by items’ return, by Bill Donovan of the Arizona Republic, in the 5 June ‘94 Hou Chron.
35) Resentment
rises over Native American tax exemption by Tony Freemantle, 18 April ‘98 Houston Chronicle.
36) Cultural
Divide by Mark Smith, 22 Feb. ‘98 Houston
Chronicle.
37)
Skeleton 93 centuries old is focal point of a three-sided tug-of-war,
by Nicholas K. Geranios of the Associated Press, 31
Aug. ‘97 Hou Chron,
is source here. For yet more details,
see also (same author) Kennewick Man
bogged down, 24 Aug. ‘97 Hou Chron, and Battle
over the past, by Timothy Egan of the N.
Y. Times, in 30 Sept. ‘96 Hou Chron.
38) Exodus 31:15 tells us that people who work on
Sundays should be put to death. Then in
Numbers 15:33, they punched some poor slob’s ticket for collecting firewood on
Sunday. Moses talked to God and that’s
what God said to do, so they did it.
Let’s kill the gays, too, says Leviticus 20:13. Need more details on Old Testament barbarity? Go read it!
There’s plenty there for everyone.
39) Matthew 7:1.
Read this stuff if you haven’t tried it.
It’s some pretty good stuff; it hasn’t gone stale with 2,000 years. I highly recommend it! Believers and unbelievers alike, but especially
you “believers” who haven’t even bothered to read it for yourselves. Now let’s strain our brains even more & read it with an open mind, with a
compass needle that ain’t rusted shut, whatever
direction it may be pointing to as it sits there immobile. Just a wee bit o’ oil on that bearing now,
and feel the gentle touch of God...
40) John 8:4.
41) Ain’t Nobody’s
Business If You Do, The Absurdity of Consensual Crimes in a Free Society,
by Peter McWilliams. A long book, but
highly recommended!
42)
May 1985 Science Digest magazine,
Mathematics and the Bible, by “Dr. Crypton”.
43) Matthew 6:1.
44) Liberty
magazine at PO Box 11811, Port Townsend, WA
98368, Reason magazine at 3415
S. Sepulveda Blvd. Suite 400, Los Angeles, CA
90034-6064, and Laissez Faire
Books (a book seller of course) at 938 Howard St. #202, San Francisco,
CA 94103; or (800)-326-0996. The Libertarian Party at WWW.LP.ORG . I recommend them all highly! 2012 update: Liberty
and Laissez Faire are toast now, sad to say.
Reason and the Libertarian Party still struggle on. A rump of the old Liberty hardcopy mag remains at the web site http://www.libertymagazine.org/ .
45) Matthew 25:36.
46) Matthew 5:39.
47) Matthew 8:10
48) Of
Headless Mice... and Men The ultimate
cloning horror: human organ farms, by Charles Krauthammer, 19 Jan ‘98 Time magazine.
49) Will it
be coffee, tea or He? Religion was once
a conviction. Now it is a taste, by
Charles Krauthammer, 15 June ‘98 Time
magazine.
50) Matthew 7:21.
51) Matthew 6:6.
52) Mark 10:18 and Luke 18:19; see also John
5:41.
53) Luke 9:50.
54) John 14:6.
55) Matthew 9:13.
56) Matthew 22:39 and Mark 12:31. OK, Luke 10:27 too.
57) Mark 2:27
58) 1 Peter 3:16.
59) John Leo’s On Society column titled A
no-fault Holocaust, U. S. News
& World Report, 21 July ‘97. He in
turn cites articles in the Chronicle of
Higher Education by Robert Simon (who teaches philosophy at Hamilton
College) and Kay Haugaard, a free-lance writer and
teacher of creative writing.
60) Teacher
pleads guilty to raping teen-age boy who fathered her baby, 8 Aug ‘97 Hou Chron.
61) Detectives
for Christ, by Art Levine, U.S. News & World Report, 8 Dec ‘97. “Trinity” publishes The Door, a humor magazine making fun of greedy, hypocritical TV
evangelists and such. See their Web site
www.the-door.org, or call their hot line to report abusive religions at
800-229-8428.
62) Jewish
parents suing Alabama school, by Sue Anne Pressley of the Washington Post, as reported in the 2
Sept. ‘97 Hou Chron.
63) Israeli
Melee as Women Pray With Men, by Joel Greenberg, N.Y. Times, 12 Aug. ‘97.
64) In This
Islam, Practices (Not beliefs) make Perfect, by Stephen Kinzer,
N.Y. Times, 4 Nov. ‘97.
65) U.S.
asylum granted to German member of Scientology church, by Douglas Frantz of
N.Y. Times as reported in 9 Nov ‘97 Hou Chron.
66) Two articles both by Douglas Frantz, Death of a Scientologist Heightens
Suspicions in a Florida Town, and Religion’s
Search for a Home Base, 1 Dec ‘97
N.Y. Times.
67) For
Bill, Another Satisfied Customer, by Jeffrey Ressner,
Time magazine, page 20, 22 Sept. ‘97.
68) The
Secrets of the Universe, Wall St. Jrnl editor’s
editorial (“Review & Outlook”),
24 Feb. ‘98.
69) U.N.
Derides Scientologists’ Charges About German ‘Persecution’, 2 April ‘98 N.Y. Times.
70) Author
of a Book on Scientology Tells of Her 8 Years of Torment, 22 Jan 1979 N.Y. Times.
71) Scientologists
went to unusual lengths to get favorable IRS ruling, by Douglas Frantz of
the N.Y. Times, as reported in the 9
March ‘97 Hou Chron.
72)
Reason magazine, page 12, Dec ‘97.
73) Tampa
Tribune, many articles. Many by
Cheryl Waldrip.
Call the Tribune at 813-259-7394.
Articles 15, 17, 22 Dec ‘96; 11, 23, 29 Jan ‘97; 11, 14, 20, 28 Feb.; 2,
9, 12 March, 15 May, 2 June, and 2 and 10 July ‘97.
74) A Piece
of Blue Sky, Scientology, Dianetics and L. Ron
Hubbard Exposed, by Jon Atack (1990, Carol
Publishing Group).
75) L. Ron
Hubbard, Messiah or Madman? by Bent Corydon (1996, Barricade Books).
76)
The Bare-Faced Messiah, by Russell Miller
(Michael Joseph, London, 1987).
77) Labor
Department vs. Amish Ways, by Hannah B. Lapp, 10 April ‘97 Wall St. Jrnl.
78) Clergy
shy away from counseling, Surge in lawsuits is scaring them off, by Lisa
Miller of the Wall St. Jrnl, as reported in 14 Feb. ‘98 Hou Chron.
79) Embryos
frozen in time represent perpetual youth, bring legal limbo, by Gina Kolata of the NY
Times, as reported in the 16 March ‘97 Hou
Chron.
80) A Sixth
Opinion Unimpeded by science, a presidential panel will declare that Gulf War
Syndrome is real, by Michael Fumento, Feb. ‘98 Reason magazine. To see just how bogus this “disease” is, and
how biased the media’s coverage has been here, see (same author) Gulf Lore Syndrome, March ‘97 Reason.
81) The
politics of breast cancer, by Traci Watson, 7 April ‘97 U.S. News & World Report. See also Member of mammogram panel blasts ‘political, legal interests’, by
Gene Emery of Reuters News Service, 17 April ‘97 Hou Chron.
82) AIDS
activist throws lover’s ashes at White House, Washington (AP), and National Agenda planned by prostate cancer
group, by Ruth SoRelle, both in the 14 Oct. ‘96 Houston Chronicle. Also see Which diseases are studied?
Report suggests vocal interest groups get funding, by Paul Recer, AP, 9 July ‘98
Hou Chron.
83) Cover (feature) article, Nov. ‘97 Reason magazine. Beating
The Heat, High-tech, Low-cost Cures for Global Warming, by Gregory Benford.
84) Dreadful
Sorry, Clementine Washington brushes off
the asteroid threat, by Leon Jaroff, Time magazine, 27 Oct ‘97.
85) Asteroid
Scare: What We Don’t Know Can Hurt, by Mark Carreau,
Houston Chronicle, 14 March ‘98. Want more scary details? If an asteroid hit the ocean,
waves would swamp coasts, By David L. Chandler of the Boston Globe, 8 Jan. ‘98 Hou
Chron.
From
the back cover and intro:
Jurassic
Horde Whisperer of Madness County is entirely too wacky for words, so
here’s some pictures instead. Well, OK,
if you want a summary blurb, go see page 1.
WELCOME TO MADNESS COUNTY!!!
Welcome to Madness County¾a place of myths and madness¾a place where the Horde Whisperer
reigns. A place where Tom Edisonosaurus
tries to invent things for the betterment of dinosaur society, but Lawyersaurs
constantly sue him, since a certain Whinasaurus is always getting hurt by his
latest inventions, like the wheel and fire.
Dinosaur society progresses only after Tom and his friends take drastic actions
against the Lawyersaurs. But then the
Horde Whisperer strikes, and brings all the dinosaurs to an end. The Horde Whisperer flees for millions of
years, returning to the Earth to stir up more trouble and weirdness only when
the ape-men come down out of the trees.
But it’s in modern times that the
Horde Whisperer does his worst. He
causes the mad scientists at the government’s THEMNOTUS agency to invent
Chewdychomper Chupacabras, a vicious beast who in turn whispers in the ears of
an ambitious man by the name of Ale Run Hubba-Bubba. Ale Run in turn invents his famous V-Meters
and Ping Things, and His Church of Omnology.
All troubles are caused by scamgrams, and only the Experts of His Church can fleece
them away, using their V-Meters and Ping Things! All manners of modern madness are manufactured
in Madness County, it seems. Far, far
too many to be anything but the wackiest of wacky fiction, we tell ourselves.
But then we get to the annotated
facts in the factual endnotes (almost 20% of this book), and we’re left with
disturbing knowledge. Jurassic Horde Whisperer of Madness County
is based on facts¾facts far too irrational, crazy, and
destructive to be pure fiction. The
Horde Whisperer is still with us, still Whispering his destructive, irrational
lies in far too many ears. Just look at
the government, media, Hollyweird, and
church-sponsored madness all around you.
Especially examine cults like $cientology, as
this book does. This book is some zany
fun, yes. But it’s also a warning about
the Horde Whisperer’s lies, about how destructive irrationality runs rampant in
our modern, supposedly enlightened age.
Also by Titus “RocketSlinger” Stauffer
Bats in the Belfry, By Design
During the past fifty years, in the
name of “science” or “military preparedness” or “proactive defense”, the
American government has injected or bathed its citizens, without their
knowledge or consent, with plutonium, LSD, clouds of simulated germ warfare
agents, and deadly levels of hot air.
During the next fifty years, we’ll
spend billions of dollars developing new uses for genetic engineering. To what ends?
Some have speculated that we’ll build an amusement park featuring
dinosaurs. But, as we look back to the
Manhattan Project, we remember that we didn’t spend billions to split the atom
because we wanted a place to play. No,
we wanted a big bang for our buck. Human
nature hasn’t changed; we still want that big bang. And, the lessons of history notwithstanding,
smart money says our energies will continue to be directed toward building
weapons of mass destruction.
Unfortunately, as the building and experimenting proceed, you won’t hear
about the mistakes, the failures, the dead ends. This is classified information, top secret.
Weapons devised in darkness and
tested in secrecy can bear monstrous fruit, and the desire to save American
lives can turn into genocide. This is a
major theme of Bats in the Belfry, By
Design.
This book isn’t for those who don’t
want their thinking challenged, who believe in “My country, right or
wrong.” Rather, it is for those who care
about the free exchange of information and ideas, freedom, and a future for the
human race, and who also want a few good chuckles and some chills and thrills.
Titus “RocketSlinger”
Stauffer sounds a warning in Bats in the
Belfry, By Design about the dangers of genetic engineering that may not be
revealed to the public for another fifty years... if we’re still here... if the secret schemes don’t go too haywire...
Also by Titus “RocketSlinger” Stauffer
Freedom From Freedom Froms
It’s
been decades since the civil rights movement, but race relations are
deteriorating. We still fail to judge
people by their character rather than by their skin color. We’ve made even less progress towards legally
recognizing, let alone socially accepting, the private lifestyle choices of our
fellow human beings. Yet we stand on the
brink of technological breakthroughs which could pose far tougher
problems. Genetically engineered human
and non-human beings and conscious computers are coming our way. Are we ready?
Will we allow them to vote? To
defend themselves? To own property? Or will we simply say that since they’re not
human, they have no rights? Slavery,
Part II?
We’ll face these and many other
vexing problems, equipped with two main ideologies. Welfare Statists on the left, coercive
busybody moralists on the right.
Socialists give us “freedom from
housing discrimination” by punishing us for advertising our houses as
having “walk-in closets”. By doing so, they say, we convey our intent
to discriminate against those in wheelchairs!
Witchburners give us “freedom from sin” by protecting us from “lewd” Calvin Klein ads.
Perhaps
genuine freedom and broad-mindedness could provide some solutions. Instead of sponsoring quarrels between the
NAACP, NAAWP, NAACC (National Associations for the Advancement of Colored
People, White People, and Conscious Computers), and so on, we’d be better off
with the NAACB (Non-exclusive Association for the Advancement of Conscious
Beings). Maybe. Or maybe not.
But we definitely need “Freedom
From Freedom Froms” when the “freedoms” that our
“leaders” foist on us are false ones.
Prepare your mind for a thought-provoking trip into the future. If you love REAL freedom, vicious political satire, and science fiction, this
book was written for YOU!
Illustration
goes here… Back cover of hardcopy