Monday, November 19, 2007
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Evidently Fearless Leader David Miscavige is no ball of fire on the dance floor. At the big recruitment, er . . . I mean welcome party for Becks and Old Spice hosted by Dr. Goebbels and his warbride, the Commodore evidently sat out most of the cupcake-fueled festivities . . . creepy indeed.
Monday, June 18, 2007
I really hope they write Goaty™ into the script to reflect the founding events of the Church of Xenu Ascendant of the Latter Day Thetans™ . . . no, really. . . I'm a prophet . . . I'm going to freekin' make MILLLIONS!!!
Friday, June 01, 2007
In the tradition of Prophets throughout time, I have received new scriptures for $cientology's canon. Muhammad got the Q'uran from the archangel Gabriel, Joseph Smith got his magic glasses and plates from the angel Moroni, but my new $cientology scriptures came from down below . . . they came from my dog, the holy pughuahua.
It began, as these things do, on an ordinary day . . . doing ordinary things. I was strolling through the 'hood last week and I noticed that my dog had picked up a strange object that he was guarding jealously, it was a small plastic figure I knew in a flash of blinding light represented Xenu of Marcab. I was stunned. Such revelations usually involve some burning shrubbery or at least a talking salamander, but mine came suddenly and and unexpectedly through my demi-pug prophet.
As the now holy dog released the precious statuette to my trembling hand, I noticed that he was already on the hunt for something else. Possessed, as if by some invisible force, he pulled mightily at the leash heading right for Mrs. Bordenaro's temptingly lush lawn. This usually means he's about to drop one of his nasty little acid-green steamers on the sidewalk . . . but not this time. Possessed by unseen forces, he lunged under a juniper bush and emerged proudly carrying a small, plastic farm animal, and suddenly, I knew who's awful visage I gazed upon . . . and I swear to you, this really happened, my little dog laid the figurine at my feet and spoke to me in a voice reminiscent of Mercedes McCambridge on helium, "Behold Goaty the Terrible, companion of Xenu and slayer of untold billions!" To be honest, I nearly shat my knickers.
Later that night, I was filled with an urgent, burning desire (to be honest, it may have been Mrs. Wu's totally flamin' Kung Pao chicken I had for lunch). I worked feverishly into the wee hours, scanning the holy action figures into Photoshop™, awakening the next morning to to discover that I had created the first portrait of Xenu and Goaty together in Xenu's electronic mountain trap.
Tremble mortals, tremble.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Imagine the world with only "happy" artists. Evidently the owner of London's A Gallery has. No Francis Bacon. No Pollock. No Van Gough. Now, don't get me wrong, I would not wish a miserable life on anyone, even if it was packed with creativity. Should someone seek help if they're addicted or depressed? Certainly. Great artists like Bacon and Pollock, had they sought help for their woes, might have created even greater masterpieces as a result of that process. At least they might have lived longer to produce more work.
My contempt for L. Ron Hubbard and his "work" is seemingly inexhaustible—but I reserve special contempt for his quack antidrug/anticrime "therapies" which are totally unproven by any peer-reviewed process. His insane paranoia of all things psychiatric certainly didn't stop him from stealing liberally from Freud, Jung and other pioneers of psychiatry. Unfortunately he was just a hack writer, so the ultimate effect of his cribbing functional therapeutic ideas was analogous to stealing a few parts of a 747 and expecting to ferry 400 people across the Atlantic with them. Your "plane" wouldn't fly, and neither do Narconon™ or Criminon™.
Monday, May 14, 2007
What are your crimes!
What are your crimes!
Your crime would be missing tonight's episode of the BBC show, Panorama on the "Church". Look for links to it on xenutv.com or on YouTube.
I just saw the show. The clams look like fucking lunatics, especially Ann Archer's maniac son. The $cienos are like tragic keystone cops with their detectives and minivans squealing away from the scene. Sweeny was incredibly patient with them in my opinion. They looked SO bad it was good. A veritable footbullet Uzi.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
There are several outright lies like . . .
"I do not know any Scientologist who believes Jesus Christ didn't exist. Each individual Scientologists (sic) belief in Christ is personal to them. There is no Church of Scientology doctrine instructing one how to view Christ."
We've all heard Hubbard say, in his own words, on Scientology's own tapes . . . "the man on the cross . . . there was no christ".
I notice that they do the usual dodge and feint around the whole Xenu question. Body Thetans are space cooties that you get rid of with Auditing. Period.
I almost feel sorry for them. Imagine watching your carefully crafted money machine slowly grinding to a halt as more and more people find out that it was all a big con created by a megalomaniac. Li'l Davy's Navy is taking on water fast.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
In his Super Duper Real Scientist™ lair (which looks suspiciously like the Jupiter 2), Ron hosts Episode 7 of his hit television show, "This Old Thetan" . . .
"As you can see, this yooman brain has billions and billions of cells. It is yooooge . . . and kinda gross. Somebody get me a towel . . . eeew, this is all gushy."
Once again, L. Ron "what's all the hubbub . . . bub" Hubbard is proven to be a genius, the greatest mind of all time and yoomankind's greatest friend.