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The Church Of Scientology... versus one man's swollen nuts.

Uncle Charlie

For fun, a friend and I have been sending videos of Charlie Manson's parole hearings to each other. He's better than Marlon Brando. At one parole hearing, they asked, "If you were released, would you murder anyone?" Charlie answered, "There'd be none of you left!" Parole granted!

In researching Mr Manson's comedic exploits, I learned that before the "summer of hate" he'd studied Scientology, even going so far as to buy an "E-Meter" to practice. But it wasn't the E-Meter that allowed him to accomplish what he did. It was thousands of hours of staring and being stared at, screaming and being screamed at, and being subjected to manipulative ways of dominating conversation that are part of anyone's initiation into Scientology. The thing is, for Charlie, it really worked.

As for tangible accomplishments, he should lead their church. Unlike Scientology's current leaders who spend their days building multi-million-dollar bomb shelters to protect themselves from evil space aliens, he actually got off his ass and did something. (Granted, it involved mass genocide, but hey - you can't fault the guy's enthusiasm). He's a more coherent speaker than Tom Cruise too. And a better singer.

Charlie's not the only one - I had a run-in with Scientology myself. About 18 months ago, my friend Chris hired this guy Frank to work for his landscaping company. (Chris is in prison now; Dude! If you're reading this, we'll party next August! Whoo!) Anyway, the thing about Frank was that he endlessly and openly complained about how much his balls hurt.

The "balls thing" happened when about fifteen years ago, Frank picked up a 40lbs bag of mulch. Somehow that tore the muscles above his scrotum and his intestines plopped down into his nut-sack, making it 50 times larger. The weird thing was that until about 8 months ago, he never sought treatment. I guess he just had a healthy self-image, so it didn't bother him (as long as he got to talk about it every God-damned day).

His own wife said he could have used them as a table at the flea market. Chris and I laughed about the fact that Frank has been married to her for ten years (all of them "big ball years"). Or as Chris would so gracefully put it, "Imagine that dirty, nasty little bitch, all those years fuckin' a guy and his balls are so huge they're up against her fuckin' tits?! Plus there's shit constantly moving through his nutsack!" Chris and I just couldn't stop laughing at the poor, swollen bastard.

The turning point for everyone was when we were sampling bites of chicken on toothpicks from six different Chinese restaurants in the Clearwater Mall. (We just keep going back and forth so it's free). But Frank complaining about his balls was the appetizer for every chunklet of General Tso's chicken. (He was bloodthirsty, but that chicken absolves him). Finally, Chris started staring at the little Scientology conventicle in the mall. Clearwater is, after all, the world headquarters for Scientology - and yeah I'm one of the lucky, lucky people who get to live there.

It's a circus. People go in there and while you watch them being interviewed, you can watch the "Freak-O-Meter" facing out of the window as it responds to the ghosts that live on people's backs while they repeat the word "Mother" 500 times. (Gimme' that old time religion!) Chris winked at me, interrupted Frank's lamentations and said, "Dude. Go over to that Scientology thing. They'll tell ya' what to do."

So Frank, who's sort of like the hero in "Slingblade" actually walked in there. He was only inside for about five seconds because he didn't have $10,000 for the initiation rites, but they did give him two words of advice. They told him to "wear sandals." Yes, you read that right. That's the very best the largest emergent religion in America could come up with. So just for the hell of it we stole a pair of pink, furry sandals for him and gave them to him in the car. When he put them on, Frank said, "maybe it's a little better."

Scientologists don't believe in going to doctors unless death is imminent. They refused to take a little girl to a hospital once, and she did die. Her name was Lisa McPherson, and anti-Scientologists rally against the church on her birthday every year.

Frank almost became another such victim of those weirdos. (No, they don't bother us because it's obvious that if we had a dollar, it wouldn't be going to any church). Still, that prescription was most definitely not AMA approved.

Frank continued to be very open about his balls, telling us when they hurt, or even when it was going to rain! He was always right. He could have been on the news, feeling his elephantine balls throb and accurately predicting the weather every day. (Yet for some reason that cruel bitch-goddess called show business rejected him. The injustice!)

Uncle Tom

Well, one day Frank's house of cards fell completely. The tear widened, and every vital organ in his body descended instantly into his balls. When he showed up for work the next day, he looked like an Auschwitz victim, but only because half his body was in his balls. No one could wait to hear another story.

So Frank re-told the epic tale of his balls. I'd type it the way he said it, but that would mean imitating his southern mispronunciations and spoken grammatical errors. So I'll just skip that and wrap it up with Frank saying, "And so, that's where I am today. Maybe I should get bigger sandals." Chris said, "No Frank. I found out what it really means when they want you to wear sandals. It's a secret Scientology code that means, go to the fucking hospital!"

So finally, we convinced Frank to overcome whatever obstacle he had in mind and go to the God-damn' hospital - I can only imagine the look on the doctor's faces when he got there. To this day he still talks about his balls a lot. He says the right one still hurts. Chris and I feel we've done our part.

We expected a little gratitude from Frank's wife, but instead she acted like we had taken away her puppy. Funny how it all circles around isn't it?

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