It’s been a while since I’ve heard from Herman Melville, my old correspondent at WTF. In fact, the last thing I remember was that he was resigning his post. His latest epistle is enlightening.
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Dear Mr. Menick:
How am I? You are fine. When I started typing this in Word, I had the “Dear M” part in when the program suggested that I wanted to type “Dear Mom and Dad.” But you are not my mother or father, as far as I know, so I don’t understand that. But there is so much in life, and Microsoft, that I don’t understand, that I won’t get hung up on it. Life is too short. Unlike Microsoft.
As you know, when we last communicated I had reached the end of my rope with my former employers at WTF. I don’t quite remember why, but it being WTF, who needs a reason? GP—General Principle—will do fine. Or is that General Principal? Actually, General Principal sounds like a school administrator who has gotten seriously out of hand, so I’ll stick to Principle for the time being.
Back when I was wondering in the wilderness, bereft of WTF and their wily ways, I was hoping that you would hire me, perhaps as an assistant coach or something. Although I know nothing about coaching, I feel that this should not have made a difference, as no one else seems to know anything about it either. I have to admit I was disappointed when an offer from you was not forthcoming. It didn’t have to be assistant coach. I would have accepted major domo, maitre d’, chief cook and bottle washer, one-armed paper hanger, animal trainer, anything you needed. But, need me you didn’t, as Yoda might say in Episode Seven: A New Cash Cow. So I had to find employment elsewhere.
You will be happy to learn, or maybe unhappy to learn, depending on what does or what doesn’t make you happy and/or unhappy, that I am now working as a part-time paladin for the Bronx Scientology team. Unlike your small potatoes operation at Hud Hendrickson, Bronx Scientology is both humongous and rather large, to boot. Their LD team alone has 1328 novices, few of whom have ever gotten an opportunity to debate outside of practice rounds and arguments with their parents over eating their vegetables. One or two have pushed to the front of the throng to touch the hem of Mr. O’C’s garments, but not very many. Most of them he won’t even befriend on Facebook. “It’s like a cowboy giving a name to his horse,” he claims. “You don’t want to get too friendly with something you might someday have to eat.” My responsibilities with the Scientology team are many and varied. In addition to running spellcheck to insure that their names are all correct on our many registrations, and working with their various embassies to pin down the proper pronunciations, I am in charge of making sure everyone is on the bus within an hour of the scheduled departure time and that the bus, if it is going to a tournament that is roughly north, actually heads roughly north. I am the—and I emphasize this—ONLY person allowed to delete the eighth contention, if any, on the first drafts of their negative cases. And Mr. O’C has put me completely in charge of the team’s Baudrillard evidence, although to be honest, all we have at the moment is simulated Baudrillard evidence and a Disney Princess waffle iron, but we’re working on improving that particular situation.
So, Dear Mr. Menick, or Mom and Dad, whichever the case may be, there you are. I could have been yours, at your beck and call, but oh, no, not you. I used to admire you, for some reason, but now that I have joined the Scientologists I have learned the truth about you, which Mr. O’C hides in a special vault marked “Soddy—KEEP OUT!” in the basement of the school building next to the crypt containing the mummy of the unknown declaimer. Your secrets are mine now, bubeleh. You’ll never get away with anything ever again.
Your friend,
Herman Melville
Amanuensis
Bronx Scientology
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