Aggravating some cults.

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The next two days: a little less cult, a little more Foucault*

Posted by brainflossed on March 3, 2006

Friends, I started this blog because I feel like I have a special calling to feed the greasy drippings of my tabloid-fattened mind to the starving cyber-masses. But I have bad news for you, starving masses: 9 pages of bad news in the form of an as-of-yet-unwritten analysis of the role of the male gaze in the construction of sociological theory (working paper title: “Jesus Christ, Marx.. theorize about the proletariat to my face, not my tits!”). And that’s due in 5 hours. After that, I need to write two more papers and study for tomorrow’s midterm. This will wreak total havoc on your day, because it means you’re probably going to have to wait till the weekend to hear all the juicy details of my conversation with Sam** the Scientologist.

Juicy. Now that’s the kind of word that makes you feel like coming back. And speaking of coming… Have I got a treat for you! In lieu original content, I give you a link to someone else’s…

Scientology Hotties: off the e-meter!

Yeah, that’s right. You’re probably pathetic and totally deprived sexually, and so you’ve probably wacked off to heard about fine-lookin’ Scientologists like the Presley heiress and the lovely Katie Holmes (independent women, raise yo’ hands!). But have you ever considered temporarily allievating your sense of unending loneliness and total alienation*** with the assistance of tissues, lotion, and a cache of babelicious scientology bureaucrats in jpeg form? Yeah? Well, me too. Comrades, our dreams can be realized!**** Some kind soul has assembled an entire collection of images of the hardworking gals at Scientology’s Office of Special Affairs (OSA). Is this a case of pervitude, altruism, or some savory combination of the two? Check out the URL and decide for yourself.

* Note to all you elitist cultured snail-eating motherfuckers who try and pronounce “Foucault” all French and shit: I will have you know that the above title is too a play on words; my online rhyming dictionary claims that Foucault rhymes with cult. The internet does not lie, friends.
** Not his real name, and also not the name he told me was his name but which probably is in fact not.
*** I don’t know about you, but “temporarily allievating my sense of unending loneliness and total alienation” is definitely my favorite masturbation euphemism. Sam tells me it’s also a great reason to join the Church of Scientology, though I’m still not sure whether or not he was totally clear about what I meant when I said it.

**** For a nominal fee.

Addendum- a disclaimer clarification: None of this talk about me consuming copious amounts of drugs on a daily basis is actually true, of course. It’s just a narrative persona thing–my special way of injecting a little narcotics humor into your day. I would never engage in illegal activities, and I certainly would not post online if I did. That would be, like… incriminating.


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the dark and slippery road of celebrity gossip.

Posted by brainflossed on March 3, 2006

It began innocently enough.

No, that’s a lie, actually. It began with a bizarre and twisted saga involving a nannying spree, the creation of a Gawker parody, my compulsively IMing a cybermedia mogul, impetigo, and a brief courtship of some guy from the second season of Road Rules. There were fireworks, there were drugs, there were fruit snacks. I’ll spare you the details.

Luckily, if there’s one thing our society rewards, it’s debauchery and excess. Drunk on boredom and Welch’s grape juice, I impulsively responded to a ‘help wanted’ ad on a quite prominent gossip blog. I carefully considered how to present myself as a suitable and altogether desireable applicant. What could I say to prove that I was the girl for the job? I wondered. What would scream, “This girl is totally attuned the botoxed nerve of Hollywood?” I sat for a moment.

Hey, I wrote this blog that totally schooled your competitor site in the art of kick ass. If you give me money to fuel my drug habit, I’ll write for you. Love, Cherri.

And then–I shit you not–they offered me the job. Twice. After my explicitly stating that I really just wanted them to pay for my pot. Maybe they thought I was joking. Maybe they admired my honesty. Either way, I love the internet.

Six months later, they e-mailed me again with a job offer. I was at home and very poor, poor enough to consider answering my e-mail. Complicated negotiations followed, involving an actual contract and some other fancy things. Talks, however, soon came to a standstill–primarily because I forgot they were going on. I regret this, because I had been looking forward to trying to hard-bargain for a dimebag clause.

So there I was, already having begun to read 5 different celebrity gossip blogs several times daily in the name of journalism. I was addicted, sucking the figurative white powder of pop culture through the locus of my figurative rhinoplasty.

And then it got worse. I soon discovered my greatest love and my ultimate downfall: the TomKat phenomenon. Tom Cruise. Katie Holmes. Brainwashing. Couches. Some weird shit about Katie signing a contract agreeing to birth to BabyTom painkiller-free and in total silence, lest the screams of a writhing Katie scar the kid for life. Yes, if your average celebrity gossip is the media equivalent of coke, then TomKat news is indeed the fabled crack rock of the genre.

This is no joke, kids. There was no transition, no slow downward spiral of Reznorian self-destruction. I was instantly hooked. Before TomKat I was a sane, if slightly stoned college student. After, I would find myself reading complex theoretical speculations about exactly what kind of sinister techniques Scientologists used to zombify Ms. Holmes. I would have weird nightmares of poor Katie strapped into some chair Clockwork Orange-style, her eyes pried wide wide open as Elvis Presley’s daughter played Jerry Maguire on a giant screen in front of her. On loop.

With this kind of addiction, it’s only a matter of time before you find yourself up at 4 am, ironically taking Scientology personality tests online. And then it’s a matter of exactly 16 hours before your phone rings and some dude named Chris wants you to come down to the center and ‘discuss your results.’ And then figure on at least half an hour of fun while this guy defends Tom Cruise, recommends the consumption of toxic doses of niacin, and tries really hard to figure out if you’re serious about this whole ‘actually, I’ve had some very spiritual experiences on heroin’ thing. And next thing you know, you have an appointment with Chris and all sorts of devious plans about how you’re going to torture your friends with their pamphlets as soon as you get back to the dorm.
This blog, my friends, is a gigantic dose of cyber-niacin to clear out all those unfortunate e! online-generated toxins. If I am hooked on the antics of Tom Cruise, and Tom Cruise’s antics appear to be the result of Scientology, then I’m gonna have to go straight to the source and manufacture my own methadone. And if religion is the opiate of the masses and methadone is derived from opium and Scientology is the religion of Tom Cruise and probable cause of aforementioned antics, then, well. If you ignore for the moment the extended coke metaphor that is this post and pretend like I was using heroin as a metaphor instead, then it is OBVIOUS what must happen.

It is time for me to start writing about conning cults into thinking I’m a lost soul. This blog, this is my recovery–my AA, my 12 steps, a Harrison Ford clinic, if you will. That’s right, kids. I’m gonna start visiting cults. And then I’m gonna write about it.


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