Talking Out Of Turn

Well, I don’t know what to say. I can’t get no affinity, reality, or communication, apparently. At least not with my credit rating. I can’t believe those jerks at the local Church of Scientology ran my credit report. I promised them that I’d already decided to stop giving to those other churches, and indeed neither the FSM nor the Dalai Lama had yet required any sort of membership dues. But apparently we’re in a recession, and my house isn’t worth the second mortgage it would have required to even start to think about getting Clear. I suggested a course of self-study (I can manage some sort of galvanometer with soup cans, after all, I did take gifted electronics in the fourth grade — I can make a battery out of a potato, too), but they just laughed at me.

I am flabbergasted. Some of these people have, as their motto and stated goal, to “Clear the Planet.” I, of course, took that to mean “enable people to shuck those body thetans and become Operating Thetans, and gain control over MEST (Matter, Energy, Space, and Time),” but now I’m starting to wonder if it should have been “Clear the Planet’s Bank Accounts,” “Clear the Planet’s Court Dockets,” or (in my darkest moments of doubt, that Dear Old Elron steered me wrong) “Clear the Planet of Intelligent Life.” I even tried to enter Narconon in hopes that they would suck me in through their front organization at a reduced rate, but apparently I even fail at doing drugs. Apparently I was freebasing protein shake powder. I am pretty sure that there were things crawling under my skin, but the nice people at the facility were quite certain that they weren’t body thetans. I pointed out that I had lost a lot of weight recently, and maybe that Atkins doesn’t actually get rid of water weight, but thetan weight! I mean, the poor Thetans were trapped on volcanoes all along the Pacific Rim when they got themselves perished at the hands of Darth Xenu. They’re probably sick of water. Not as sick as they are of hydrogen bombs and painful jaw constriction in oysters, though. Anyway, to make a long story (but not as long as anything Hubbard ever wrote) short, I can’t afford to be Clear. Hopefully next reincarnation I’ll come back as a disco dancer or a replacement for Diane Chambers and have enough spondulicks to be able to overcome my victimization at the hands of George W. Xenu once and for all.

So, I’m a little sore at the Church of Scientology, for stringing me along and then not spotting me the $300,000 I need to get Clear. I thought they cared about me. When Tom Cruise fixes me with that penetrating glare, I think, man, he’s gotta be burning my thetans out just by doing that! But apparently he’s just mad because I’m not writing the checks.

I was really counting on using those superpowers when I needed to clean out my gutters this year, though.