Cash on Deliverance
by Christian Walters
Recently, Brian castigated me on the podcast for not having written in too long. Maybe if I wasn't so busy fielding calls whenever he has three Red Bulls and rollerblades through town naked looking for "Romanian cootchie", I'd have more time to write. I have to maintain my day job just to keep him supplied with bail money and hand lotion.
It occurs to me if I were rich, I could lose the day job, write more often, and hire an assistant to pay the hush money to the Bucharest Daily Telegraph. It's foolproof, except for that one small hurdle of finding a giant pile of money. I need to start a cult.
Looking around at the current cults, there appear to be two types that would put me on the fast track to wealth:
Self-Help Bullshit Cults
This is appealing because you can claim absolutely anything is the path to enlightenment, or immortality, or gives you a window seat on the Holy Starship when it has defeated the Giant Space Weevil and comes to bring us home. The more insane your claims, the better. You'll get a few skeptics warning people that all they will get from my one-on-one services will be cold sores and a rash, but we don't truck with those Priests of Sciencism, those Popes of Proof.
First step is to get a wealthy, stupid celebrity to champion your cause. It's tempting to go for Oprah Winfrey, but she's far too diversified with her self-help bullshit. She lacks the laser focus we'd need.
My choice: Jessica Alba. Why Jessica? She's rich enough to afford to tithe. She's attractive enough that the media will listen to her. She's a shitty actress, so there aren't any non-porno roles written especially for her, giving her free time for church duties and making me sandwiches. Judging from her interviews, she's brick stupid. She's portrayed a woman with gonorrhea of the throat, so she is already familiar with the new church's rituals. And she's a mom, so she can claim that "mother's intuition" crap when cornered.
Unfortunately, I will declare mesh tops an abomination and confiscate them immediately.
Drawbacks: Just one. Starting up a cult this insane will get me sued by the Scientologists for copyright infringement. Together, Jessica and I are powerful, but not powerful enough to defeat Jenna Elfman and Chaka Khan when they start throwing lawyers at us. Two places I do not want to be are prison and Clearwater, Florida, and this scheme might get me in both at the same time.
Prosperity Cults
This is a little more like it. It's no less insane than the Self-Help Bullshit Cult, but the cash starts flowing immediately. It's a tasty blend of Christian fundamentalism and pyramid schemes, whipped into a giant cash mousse, waiting for someone to bring a nice long spoon. For those of you not familiar with how a prosperity cult works, let me describe the most famous example: World Changers Church International.
This hallowed institution is founded by the Rev. Creflo Dollar (no, really), right here in Atlanta. Their motto is "You can be rich, healthy and trouble free. Jesus was rich and God wants you to be rich." This is demonstrably true with one look at the Rev. Creflo Dollar (if you can spot him before he jumps into his Lear jet), but this truth is less obvious among the congregation, who are gently reminded to tithe with the friendly "be a shame if something happened to your grandma" approach you normally see from extortionists.
"The Lord has declared I need more champagne in my jacuzz--... what do you mean I'm being sued for fraud?"
I'm not sure where the health part comes in. After you've been getting all prosperous with Rev. Dollar for awhile, you spend your non-church time rooting in the dumpster behind a Red Lobster. I suppose that's the path to health in a sort of tangential, non-medical way?
I don't want to get away from the point here: LEAR JET.
These people are eating this shit up faster than a half-chewed crab cake. They might as well be stuffing bills into your pockets. The World Changers Church only has 15,000 members. I doubt that even scratches the gullibility surface in Atlanta. I have a venue picked out: Philips Arena.
Philips Arena is home to the Atlanta Hawks and the Atlanta Thrashers. So there are always PLENTY of empty seats to have a nice Prayer Shakedown. Thrashers season-ticket holders are right in my target demographic, too: disposable income, full of false hope, and comfortable with disappointment. Of course, there are concerts too, which could get crowded, but look at what's coming in the next few months: Sesame Street Live, Metallica, and Miley Cyrus. Cha-ching.
Drawbacks: There are a couple of big ones.
One is that prosperity cults are getting glared at by the government just now. Killjoys at the IRS are suspicious of Rev. Creflo zipping around in a Lear jet as the head of a tax-exempt non-profit religious institution.
Also, prosperity cults may have destroyed the world. These congregations were convinced the Lord wanted them to have big, expensive houses, and he cleared the way for them by helping them qualify for sub-prime mortgages. Five years later, the Lord decided he did not want them to have such a big house and cleared the way for them to default on their mortgages. Pretty soon they were fighting for a dishwasher box with the same ex-banker that gave them the mortgage to begin with. It's because of this that I have a Google alert set for "Creflo Dollar Drawn and Quartered."
Lastly, for this to work in America, you have to surround yourself with fundamentalist Christians. That's quite a sacrifice on my part just so Brian can get a job as a balance beam for some Romanian gymnasts.
In Conclusion
I have left out a couple of popular cults: death cults and suicide cults. These have their charms. The sense of power you get from standing in front of a room full of followers as they poison themselves while you chant your manifesto... that's got to be a rush. But it's not going to make you rich. Eyes on the prize, people. (It might be a good exit strategy when you get sick of running your prosperity cult, though. Remember which Holy Chalice contains the antidote!)
The more I think on it, the more I think I'll skip the cult idea. The downsides are too steep.
Sorry, Brian. I know you're tired of the endless visits from 60 Minutes. We'll move on to Plan B, but you're going to have to release those Cub Scouts.
Christian Walters lives, loves, and drives in the Atlanta area. He's a technical writer by training, and a Rock Band Adonis by nature. He has honed his reviewing skills on bad movies, which are as rare as pollen grains these days. He has always been a fan of science, and has studied it as much as he could by flinging a Frisbee around campus while getting a liberal arts degree. You can find his personal blog, The Man Version, right here.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Totally Overlapping Magisteria
Friday, April 10, 2009
Lorraine Day: Deadly Moonbat
by Christian Walters
Been awhile since I wrote here, but I've been fighting a medical issue that's sort of gripped my mind: thyroid cancer. It has a way of grabbing your attention by the head and giving it noogies until you don't have the energy to properly mock a prosperity cult.
So researching cancer led me to Lorraine Day. She was once an actual doctor, rising to seemingly distinguished posts, such as Vice Chairman of the Department of Orthopedics at UC San Francisco, and Chief of Orthopedic Surgery at San Francisco General Hospital. She also claims to be a world-renowned AIDS expert, which makes her claim that AIDS can be transmitted through kissing sort of interesting. Sounds like you become an AIDS expert if you learn medicine from Bill Frist.
Anyhow, she has a cure for cancer that would totally turn modern oncology on its head if any cancer victims who tried it ever lived long enough to be in a study. Let me compare and contrast:
- "Traditional" or "Real" medicine: Surgery and radiation
- Lorraine Day's cure: Prayer and beets*
*Cure not valid for Jews
*Also, cure only valid for cancers caused by beet deficiency
As you might guess, there are naysayers out there. Probably beet-hating Jews who think Lorraine is a seriously unbalanced crackpot that will drive innocent people into horrible, agonizing deaths. With bright pink tongues.
Not that surgery is any fun. I didn't find out about the beet option in time to skip surgery because my subscription to Batshit Weekly lapsed. When I was lying awake and immobile in my hospital bed at 2am watching Crocodile Dundee twice in a row, I realized that horrible, agonizing deaths get an unfair rap.
Big Beet vs. Big Medicine. No one wins, except Big Medicine.
Still, Lorraine has her detractors. No one of consequence, really:
- Dr. Dean Edell
- Dr. Stephen Barrett (from Quackwatch)
- The FDA
- The FTC
- The Seventh Day Adventists (you know how they are, with their fierce dedication to the scientific method)
Did Lorraine become a cowed, frothy, libelous, self-aggrandizing harridan? NO, she was NOT cowed! No, she is striking back with PRAYER! That will bring the FDA to its knees.
Lorraine's other website is a little unconventional for a woman of science. You can learn about the Jews, of course, but also the New World Order, how cola drinks are used in pesticides, why traditional cancer treatments drive people to suicide (damn you, Crocodile Dundee), and pretty much everything else you'd ever want to know. Except what makes an orthopedic surgeon a cancer expert, and why you would trust anything this weirdo says.
Oh wait. She allegedly got cancer, although even that is shrouded in mystery. As near as I can tell, she was holding a beet when she realized it had gone into remission. I sometimes wonder about Ted Nugent's book Self-Gratify Your Brain Damage Away.
My own treatment has gone well and it looks like I'll completely recover. I haven't licked a beet in decades, and I didn't have to become a Holocaust denier. Dean Edell still likes me, in the sense that he's never been mean to, or heard of, me.
Yet I can't help but wonder about Lorraine, being abused by Big Pharma, Big Scien, and... umm... Big Common Sen just because people who follow her advice will die. Just in case, though... go long in beet futures.
Christian Walters lives, loves, and drives in the Atlanta area. He's a technical writer by training, and a Rock Band Adonis by nature. He has honed his reviewing skills on bad movies, which are as rare as pollen grains these days. He has always been a fan of science, and has studied it as much as he could by flinging a Frisbee around campus while getting a liberal arts degree. You can find his personal blog, The Man Version, right here.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Merging with the Kingdom of Yahweh
by Christian Walters
I was hoping to have this space dedicated to a bitchin' interview with John Hodgman, who just came through Atlanta on a book tour. But he decided to get interviewed by Suchita Vadlamani instead, only because she's smoking hot and is also on TV every morning. She almost read his book!
Maybe later.
Instead, I want to warn you all about driving in Australia. Don't do it. The marmite-a-thol they use for fuel attracts sharks, and their spiders are strong enough to steal your hubcaps and smart enough to avoid jury duty. They have mutant cats you can't sneak up on, and cults that disregard traffic laws and have fugly websites.
I would take you on the tour of what this apocalyptic cult says, but it's basically summed up on their timeline. It's nothing you haven't heard anyway (although the red dragon might be new). But this fun bunch of guys* have interpreted scripture to say "you are not subject to the laws of the state of Victoria." So, no drivers licenses, no car registrations, no gun permits, and no steady source of income to pay their fines.
According to some Aussie News Sources, the Kingdom is ignoring traffic laws, making fake tags, and stockpiling weapons. Like it says in the Bible, I guess? The reason so many of us are unsure that Jesus ever existed was because he refused to get a government-issued I.D. and scraped the Mule Identification Number off. The weapons thing is... more of a stretch, but is an old cult favorite, so what the hell?
To continue with their disregard of Parliament, they claim they'll violate the law against booby trapping their license plates with rivets and razor blades. Another entry in the "Are you sure this is okay with God?" pile.
I've never been to Australia, so I can only guess what the net effect on traffic would be down there. If they tried that crap in Atlanta, it would be unimaginable. No one alternating their merges? No one using their turn signals? Ignoring the speed limit? It would be gridlo--... hmmmm.
Okay, so maybe this isn't the scariest cult around for those of us who live in large, poorly designed cities. If you ignore traffic laws in Atlanta, you will be mistaken for a native. Take it to extremes, and you will get capped. (Isn't that just like a cultist? Brings a booby trapped license plate to a gun fight.) But we're talking about Australia.
It took me awhile to look them up, but I found the Australian traffic laws. They are written on the desiccated skin of a dead Tasmanian who came to Canberra wanting to find where "that Hobbit movie" was made, so it took some work. These are the rules the Kingdom of Yahweh are too holy to follow:
1) no more than two dead aborigines strapped to your roof after 10pm except during hunting season
2) spiders larger than 4 meters in diameter have right-of-way at uncontrolled intersections
3) driving without a knife is strictly prohibited (Refer to the Paul Hogan Official Knife Identification Guide for a list of approved weapons)
4) do not ride your alligator on controlled-access roads if your blood-alcohol level is greater than 10.5%
5) a shark on the roof does not count towards your occupancy total for HOV lane access
6) when tracking something, move the animal droppings fully off the road before tasting
I do not know what life in Australia will be like if people cast these rules aside, and I do not want to know. Hell on Earth, and not just because of the vegemite and Fosters and unregulated Yahoo Serious. Yet this is exactly the kind of society in which the Kingdom of Yahweh wishes to live, at least until 2012 when we all die anyway.
After Australian society breaks down, Air Supply will be hunted for their pelts and the aphrodisiac properties of their powdered bones.
So far, the Australian authorities have vowed to persecute the Kingdom of Yahweh lawbreakers just like they would any other violator: strapping an electric eel to their giblets and playing non-stop Midnight Oil videos. (Many objective observers feel this to be overly harsh, at least on the eel.) I hope the Aussies mean it, but those freedom of religion types are always bitching about this kind of thing. Already there are legions of American snake-handlers planning a trip Down Under to show their support, as soon as they can figure out how to drive their El Camino there.
So we here at Totally Overlapping HQ will keep our eyes on this, unless we forget. In the meantime, if you have to drive in Australia, please take recommended precautions: park your car just outside the rental agency, and run screaming down the wrong side of the road.
Happy Holidays!
*I don't have the group's demographic breakdown, but come on. They're mostly guys.Christian Walters lives, loves, and drives in the Atlanta area. He's a technical writer by training, and a Rock Band Adonis by nature. He has honed his reviewing skills on bad movies, which are as rare as pollen grains these days. He has always been a fan of science, and has studied it as much as he could by flinging a Frisbee around campus while getting a liberal arts degree.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Cult Nuts Roasting on an Open Fire
by Christian Walters
One problem facing your modern cult is diversification. People today want one-stop psycho-sexual repression with a touch of religion. This is a huge hurdle for your small start-up cult: a shaggy beard and a dozen adolescent wives won't cut it anymore. If all you're bringing to your gibbering rants are demands to nuke Israel, summon Jesus, and start the Apocalypse, you might as well go back to poisoning squirrels and mailing their pelts to Benny Hinn.
Modern wish lists for cults are growing longer.
- I want to live on a different planet
- I want ties to ancient shady organizations
- I want to be able to call myself a Christian with a straight face
- I want to kill people, including myself
- I want to shock even the Scientologists with the audacity of my beliefs
Meet the Order of the Solar Temple! It's a GNC store for crazy pills.
Joseph Di Mambro was a member of the Rosicrucians from the mid '50s to the late '60s. After he left them (for reasons I can't verify, but I think they weren't Ren Faire enough), he started a couple of new groups you never heard of over the next fifteen years. But something was missing... something about not enough spittle covering the front few pews. He needed a charismatic leader with a moist, back-of-the-throat accent. Di Mambro himself was the Idea Man, and you don't want your Research and Development team doing your PR.
Along came Luc Jouret, a French physician. He oozed charisma, and got to be frontman while Di Mambro stayed behind the curtain. So was born the Order of the Solar Temple, dedicated to bringing around the Second Coming and restoring proper notions of authority. (I'm not sure what that last part means, but I bet it's not good news for the ladies.) Personal checks accepted at the door, but God help you if they bounce.
To be a member, you have to be not only paid up but you have to believe you are but a traveler on this planet, reincarnated to perform a specific task. (Di Mambro claimed to be a reincarnated Knight Templar, which is something he picked up by hanging with the Rosicrucians.) Solar Temple members thought they had to return their consciousness to the "source," which is the star Sirius. To quote one of them:
"26,000 years ago, the Blue Star [Sirius] left on the earth 'Sons of the One'; it appears in the sky every time it is needed and responds to magnetization when humanity lives its crises of transmutation."
Also, you have to have sex with the French guy before the sermon. Rules is rules.
That's a lot of crazy packed in there. Almost too much crazy to handle, which might be why they [SPOILER ALERT] killed themselves in 1994.
The group started to fray around the edges quickly, even before they killed themselves. The miraculous light show and accompanying gunpowder smell that would occur during the sermons were starting to make some members suspicious, including Di Mambro's son Elie. Perhaps some of them looked it up and saw that Sirius was a star, not a planet -- in fact, the brightest star in the night sky, and easily visible regularly, not just when it's responding to magnetization when humanity lives its crises of transmutation. Very pretty star, but not the best retirement home.
Lots of people started to ask for their money back. One ex-member began to speak out publicly against the group, until he was murdered in his home with his wife and infant son. (At least, that's the most likely reason they were murdered. It might also have been because the son's name was Emmanuel, and Di Mambo had already called dibs on the name Emmanuelle for his future "cosmic daughter.")
Then, on Oct. 4, 1994, fifty-three people were found dead after a fire in Chiery, France, including Di Mambro and Jouret. (Coincidentally, death by fire was necessary to make the trip to Sirius. But not all of those fifty-three people burned to death. The twelve people who died by suffocation and the twenty-one who were shot didn't go to Sirius. Isn't it sort of a dick move to kill them without fire, basically canceling their retirement plan? Are we the Order of the Enron Temple?) Sixteen more Cajun blackened each other in December of 1995, and five more in March of 1997.
OST's natural enemy for multiple reasons.
Oh, wouldn't it be embarrassing if they got their paths crossed with the Heaven's Gate people? All those poor Heaven's Gate folks standing on Sirius watching their sandals melt, and the OST guys squatting sourly on that comet, rubbing Bactine on each other?
You might wonder why I'm bothering with this some fourteen years later. It's because Brian has my sex tape, and I promised Shakira it wouldn't be made public. But also because this was just a temporary setback for the group. Like a rose bush that's been pruned in a massive fire after being smothered and shot, the Order came back healthier later. There are some 30 members living in Quebec, with another 200-500 still around the world. Seems odd, but there are still Branch Davidians in Waco, too. No doubt they're planning to visit Sirius by setting fire to their deathbeds when they're very old. Or perhaps an evolutionary quirk has made them flame retardant.
Just be careful, folks. If you flick a lighter open in Quebec, you could very well be dogpiled by two dozen French Canadians. ("Duh!" you are thinking, but this time they will be fiftyish, weeping, and smelling like aloe.)
Christian Walters lives, loves, and drives in the Atlanta area. He's a technical writer by training, and a Rock Band Adonis by nature. He has honed his reviewing skills on bad movies, which are as rare as pollen grains these days. He has always been a fan of science, and has studied it as much as he could by flinging a Frisbee around campus while getting a liberal arts degree.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Just Scraping By
by Christian Walters
I'm a fan of capitalism. Ask anyone about me, and they'll say, "Wow, that guy is sexier than Justin Timberlake in a hetero suit," followed quickly by "and he's clearly into capitalism, which is totally hot." Guilty as charged. But when faced with some of our modern purchasing options, I wonder if capitalism needs an image makeover. Maybe a spokesmodel, unless Paris Hilton already is one.
I was wondering about capitalism again as I was in line at Fry's holding a PedEgg. For those of you who don't watch late-night TV, a PedEgg is supposed to help you remove calluses and other horrific deformities from the bottom of your feet. I suffer from some calluses just below the balls of my feet that are severe enough to make me think I'm walking uphill all the time, so I might be in the target demographic. Plus... you know... capitalism.
The implement.
So I found myself clutching this thing as I walked uphill to the register. Either it worked and the nightmare would end, or it didn't and I would get a scathing article out of it until I passed out from the blood loss.
Let's go claim-by-claim from the website:
Claim #1: PedEgg gently removes calluses and dead skin from your feet.
Fact #1: It's obvious even without opening the package that it'll remove skin from your feet, or any other body part or pet you care to work over. Extreme Preventative Exfoliation. The PedEgg is basically a cheese grater, so it'll remove lots. But I shake my head sadly at the word "gently." Again, cheese grater. With an Emory board attachment.
This thing is not gentle. Not if you want to spend less than 30 minutes per callous. A little elbow grease speeds things up, which is okay because a callous doesn't have nerve endings. The problem is this: PedEgging without scraping against live skin is like brushing a single bicuspid with a toothbrush. Eventually, something else is gonna get touched. I might be alone in this, but the bottom of my feet is my second most sensitive area. (Someone else will have to review the Ronco Nut'N'Pummel.)
If you don't rub hard enough to reduce your shoe size, then you are discovering what erosion is like to a piece of granite. It might be gentle enough if you're an Olympic firewalker. For the rest of us, it's a teeth-gritting path to removing calluses in a haze of blood and giggling (it tickles!). You know what giggling through clenched teeth looks like? There's no coming back from that.
Claim #2: PedEgg gives your feet an incredible baby-soft look...
Fact #2: If your baby has this much scar tissue, you're parenting incorrectly. You're going to be on CNN.
I don't have a baby, so I don't have a lot of direct experience with that baby-soft look. The last time I sandpapered my niece, she looked a little red and puffy, which I guess is like a baby. But I think babies don't get that look by ablating any imperfections with a huggable Brillo pad.
However, this does come with an Emory board to help you finish it off. I managed to buff my foot down to a shine, remaining callous and all. Impressive, yes. Baby-like, no. If a foot you can see your reflection in is a goal, you are at the end of the rainbow.
Claim #3: ...that everyone loves.
Fact #3: I would be despondent to learn that "everyone" would love it if I used this thing as instructed. I hope I don't have that many enemies. Sure, Martin Sheen has that blood oath to collect on. And I was completely wrong to leave that thing under the seat before dropping my car off at the car wash, so I understand that guy's feelings. But everyone?
But even if the PedEgg worked, no one is going to admit they love the look of baby skin. There are sick people out there, you gotta watch what you say. Also, blind people with foot fetishes would all think they were shrunk really tiny and got put in a hospital nursery. I can't do that to them, after everything I've put them through.
Overall recommendation: If you have problem calluses, spend a couple of weeks working lotion into them morning and night. It's easier to wash out of your socks than cartilage and bone fragments, and you'll smell more like a pine tree, less like a Dexter-themed costume party.
Christian Walters lives, loves, and drives in the Atlanta area. He's a technical writer by training, and a Rock Band Adonis by nature. He has honed his reviewing skills on bad movies, which are as rare as pollen grains these days. He has always been a fan of science, and has studied it as much as he could by flinging a Frisbee around campus while getting a liberal arts degree.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Lying to Your Trainer for a Better Life
by Christian Walters
I joined a gym. I get motivated during the Summer Olympics, but I guess that's common. You see all the taut, athletic bodies, and you think "I wonder how many sit-ups I have to do to seduce that person." For this Olympics, it's Natalie Coughlin. I figure I'm one Avogadro's Number of sit-ups away from Natalie saying "Oh man, do I need a night of no-strings-attached debauching with that guy, or maybe a weekend. I hope he's sensitive, like a writer."
But it's hard to break in a new gym. You get all these personal trainer people in your face who say things like "try that with some weights" or "put the Baconator down." Like I have time to eat breakfast later. And these trainers talk like having big muscles gives you a degree in human physiology and nutrition. (They don't, but they do get you scholarships, especially if you go to an SEC school.) But I've come to realize that the wisdom of the personal trainer isn't always from higher education. No, much of it is an oral tradition. Like Beowulf.
I've been six or seven times now, Natalie hasn't called (although I had someone hang up when I answered -- coulda been her), and I'm already getting the same song from my trainer. Since I'm currently immobile anyway, let's set some things straight.
You Can't Fight Big Glucosamine
Ah, glucosamine. A lube job for your innards. Cures what ails ya, if what ails ya is osteoarthritis or hip dysplasia. (Are there other supplements that are used for both humans and dogs?) Active ingredients: desperation, fear of surgery.
I hear about glucosamine a lot, because I have a bad knee. My only souvenir from an epic beach volleyball game when I was in college.
Re-enactment
At the time, spiking the ball into my trash-talking friend Steve's crotch was worth it. Still is, really. Better to limp around as a stud than to skip freely as a wuss. But I am paying the price now in not being able to do a lot of lunges and squats in a gym, damn it all. And it's good that gymkata went out of style, despite the fortune I spent on lessons in the '80s. Of course, I tell every new trainer this, and every new trainer thinks I'm lying until I am face down on the mat, sobbing like an orphan over the sounds of crinkly noises in my knee.
"Let's get you started on glucosamine. That will re-grow the cartilage around your knee, and we'll work on strengthening the muscles. Also, ice it down and take a lot of ibuprofen." Uh huh. And Crunch Berries are a part of a nutritious breakfast that features two bran muffins, a bowl of cantaloupe, and a party ball of orange juice.
Funny thing about glucosamine, though: it doesn't work. According to the most recent studies, the differences between glucosamine and a placebo are statistically insignificant. But don't trust me; read it directly from the study:
At baseline, both groups were similar in demographic and clinical variables. Overall, WOMAC pain did not differ (mean difference [glucosamine sulfate minus placebo], –1.54 [95% CI, –5.43 to 2.36]), nor did WOMAC function (mean difference, –2.01 [CI, –5.38 to 1.36]). Joint space narrowing also did not differ after 24 months (mean difference, –0.029 [CI, –0.122 to 0.064]). Only 1 of the sensitivity analyses, based on extreme assumptions regarding missing assessments due to total hip replacement, provided results consistent with a glucosamine effect.
I totally can decode every word of that, assuming none of you have follow-up questions. It says that taking glucosamine is as effective as praying to Zeus (less effective, if you pray from a reclined position with your leg elevated and sporting an ice pack).
So why am I not blowing the lid off this? Why don't I run to my trainer, shout SEMPER SIC TYRANNUS and throw a handful of glucosamine pills in his face?
The reasons are legion, but chief among them is that I'm not an idiot. Ever sit with a devout Christian during the news, and see a report about a tornado that killed 13 people and knocked out everyone else's TV reception right before The Ghost Whisperer? Did you notice their faces when you say "good thing there's no God, or that would be a truly dick move on his part"? They get a little testy, don't they? Now imagine if that devout Christian were an ex-Special Forces guy who is holding an 18-pound medicine ball while you're doing pushups. I think you get my drift. (And it might not be just glucosamine. I'm looking at you, fish oil -- I'll be passively attacking you later...)
So I'll stick with my current plan: tell him I'm taking glucosamine, but take something that actually works. I'm thinking about a mix of chocolate coffee beans and uppers. It's actually legal here in Georgia, if you're straddling the Tennessee state line. Or have Natalie rub her glutes on my shins until the pain goes away.
So remember, folks. Don't let someone tell you what to do just because that person can fold you into a manila envelope and slide you under an aerobics mat during a Pilates marathon. All he really wants is your lunch money, or more specifically, $40/hr.
If you want to keep your defiance quiet, your secret is safe with me. From a distance, a glucosamine pill looks a lot like a peanut M&M.
Christian Walters lives, loves, and drives in the Atlanta area. He's a technical writer by training, and a Rock Band Adonis by nature. He has honed his reviewing skills on bad movies, which are as rare as pollen grains these days. He has always been a fan of science, and has studied it as much as he could by flinging a Frisbee around campus while getting a liberal arts degree.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Pre-emptive Detoxing: Not Just a Waste of Money
by Christian Walters
It's time for my car to get some major service. I'm sitting at the maintenance place right now, waiting for them to finish their inspections. I just know they are going to ask me why I have a dead barn owl taped to my oil pan, and I have no explanation that will satisfy them.
Most of what they are doing is replacing filters and fluids, since a car engine is known for accumulating gunk that hinders its performance. Everyone knows that, too. So it's not a surprise to me that doing the same thing to our own bodies holds some appeal. There are things in each of us more disgusting than dirty transmission fluid could ever be.
Being modern people (that is, idiots), we go about it the wrong way. Let's take a look at what we're doing to ourselves, and why we don't do analogous things to our rides. I'm not going to do the reverse (for example, shoving an air filter up your nose), because if people are too proud to think they share anything with chimpanzees, they're going to hate sharing things with Volvos.
Detox Foot Pads
Look like foot girdles, don't they?
These things, made by Kinoki and a few others, make all kinds of plausible-sounding claims:
1. They may remove toxins and heavy metals from your body, which naturally collect in your feet because, you know, gravity. But you wear those things while you sleep. Shouldn't you strap those pads on your butt? And I've never worn them -- by now, I should have so many toxins in my feet that my legs should have dissolved.
2. They may improve your sleep quality.
3. They may assist in the natural cleansing of the lymphatic system. If you don't believe this one, take a look at your lymph nodes and see how shiny they are.
4. They may keep your PC from getting a virus.
5. They may assist in lowering a testicle, unless you're a male.
6. They may ensure that your favorite sports team wins the next Stanley Cup, which will be cool if your favorite team plays baseball.
I could cynically point out that the word "may" effectively turns all those claims into non-lies. Some companies can afford either R&D or legal advice on how to prevent fraud, but not both.
Would you do this to your car? No, I would not wrap a mysterious substance around my tires overnight and expect it to clean my spark plugs or change my oil. I don't believe that car gunk settles into my tires just because those are what touch the ground. This is more of a prank for gullible friends. I would much rather sit at the mechanics for three hours and pay several hundr--- ...Maybe I should rethink this.
Car Update!
They finished their inspections! Turns out I have dirty power steering fluid as well, and a buildup of carbon-related goop in a hose. Damn. Dead owls are supposed to prevent exactly that sort of thing. Guess what pseudoscientific avian myth is hitting the grill tonight? I told them to replace the fluid (I like steering), but I'm using the stuff in the hose to eventually make a diamond.
But as long as we're talking about dirty hoses...
Colon Hydrotherapy Cleansing
I can understand how someone would think this would work, but I'm not going to volunteer myself. I would happily volunteer someone else if they were an obnoxious drunk at a party and fell asleep on my floor. (If you're reading this, Mona... yes, but it wasn't my idea.)
I first learned of this on an episode of Penn & Teller's Bullshit! Turns out it's exactly what you think it is: shoving a wet/dry vac into your anus, set it to "deep shag," and hope for the best. This has "fetishist" written all over it. And also "popular in California." When this process extracts something nasty, it's easy to say that it was a success. When it rinses out something that looks like a pool noodle, it's easier to say you need more bran. To me, if it didn't wash something out, I'd be worried.
Be careful if you Google this process. There are some truly gross pictures of the end result, so to speak. Let's find a friendlier analogy. Think about this instead:
Would you do this to your car? Not bloody likely. There may be some benefit in flushing out parts of my car (the cup holder, for example -- I had a Frappuccino Malfunction recently), but I'm not running a hose into my tailpipe to flush out the crud that will eventually get expelled through my tailpipe. Patience, people!
Conclusion
Neither of these things will do any good. In fact, they might do you some bad. The discoloration on the foot pad is a reaction from the iron in the pad to the sweat on your foot. So when you wake up, you have basically strapped your feet to a pile of rust. And this is supposed to remove heavy metals? Don't put these on open sores, folks.
And flushing your large intestine will remove a lot of the stuff that's in there, but why would you do that? The large intestine is already moving that stuff out. When you're reading your Entertainment Weekly in the bathroom, it's a success story for your colon. Rinsing all that out prematurely will also remove some bacteria that aids digestion. If you can't handle the idea of having proto-poop in you, check into getting an android body.
But is it all about the physical? For many of us, there's more to living than just the body. Is prayer a way to detox your soul? Wash away your sins? Do sins accumulate in your feet, too? When I'm old and having my last-second deathbed conversion, should I have my feet amputated, just in case? Will your sins go away if left alone, like your body, or does it need regular maintenance, like your car? Does wearing a religious icon work as well as strapping a dead owl to your engine? (My guess: yes.)
Either way, you do need to take care of your bodies, people. Eat the right things, get in some exercise every day, and get your eight hours of sleep. Most of what comes back out of you will be taken care of. Don't worry about the DIY stuff unless your doctor tells you otherwise. You do not want to be found dead with a water funnel in your pooper and rusty panty liners on your toes.
The car's done! I need some donuts...
Christian Walters lives, loves, and drives in the Atlanta area. He's a technical writer by training, and a Rock Band Adonis by nature. He has honed his reviewing skills on bad movies, which are as rare as pollen grains these days. He has always been a fan of science, and has studied it as much as he could by flinging a Frisbee around campus while getting a liberal arts degree.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Apocalyrt!
Our resident expert in Totally Overlapping Magisteria, Christian Walters, brings you this important announcement:
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
It's the End of the World and We Know It
by Christian Walters
I was talking politics with the guy at the security desk at my office. A stupid thing to do on my part, since he was armed. But it was going well, since we agreed the place had gone to Hell in a handbasket since Jennifer Connelly got married.
Then he said something that pretty much wrapped the conversation up: "I shouldn't be surprised, since we're living in the End Times. None of this will matter soon."
Dude. Harsh.
One off-putting thing about Christianity and some other religions is that it adds a silver lining to the end of the world. I tend to view the death of the entire human race, not to mention all the puppies, as a bad thing. I know it'll finally kill all the spiders, but I'd rather just stomp them than be martyred to the spider-killing cause. Still, if you think that Jesus' return trip heralds an endless trip to Six Flags Over Eternity, you can find the upside in your new lawn tractor becoming rapidly cooling particles. The grass doesn't get too long in Heaven anyway.
And, like my security guard friend implies, believing all this is happening soon doesn't encourage you to take the long view for things like dependency on foreign oil, global warming, the Israel-Palestine conflict, more Ben Affleck movies, etc. Sorry Dr. Gould, but there's nothing non-overlapping about those magisteria.
Typically, there are people who take it too far. In this case, those people coalesce into "doomsday cults." We're going to talk about one of them: Aum Shinrikyo. Aum Shinrikyo was part of the subset of doomsday cults that likes killing other people, as opposed to the pro-suicide cults like Heaven's Gate. Aum Shinrikyo is more Charles Mansony than Jim Jonesy.
Aum Shinrikyo is a Japanese group that cobbled together a hodgepodge of Christianity and Buddhism (to the dismay of Christians and Buddhists everywhere), smeared on a creamy yoga center. They are probably best known as the benevolent ministers of truth behind the Sarin gas attacks on the Tokyo subways in 1995, the city of Matsumoto in 1994, and at least half a dozen others, giving a bunch of people the chance to not wait any longer for doomsday, and sending thousands more to the hospital.
Anyway, this group's leader was Shoko Asahara (or, as he was known to his followers, "Christ"). Shoko cribbed heavily from Revelations and, oddly, Nostradamus. He preached that the end of the world was pretty friggin' NIGH. The love for Sarin comes because Shoko claimed to have traveled forward in time to 2006 (this was in the late 80s) and spoke to survivors of World War III. Those survivors convinced him to go back and start attacking Japan's enemies, including the United States. How Shoko decided that Japan's enemies all hung out in the Tokyo subway is anyone's guess.
However, this story has a happy ending. After the subway debacle earned the group some international scrutiny, things went downhill fast for them.
* World War III hasn't broken out, except in the minds of the more colorful conspiracy theorists.
* The group's membership, once estimated to between 20-40k, has shrunk to the 1-2k range. That's not enough for a low-budget martial arts movie.
* The group re-branded itself with the Aleph label and spends about half of its website pointing out the apologies made to its victims. The other half is an exercise routine. (Notice that the Research Center section doesn't actually have a link. Interesting.)
* Shoko went to trial and lost, and was denied an appeal. He has since taken a sort of vow of silence and spends all his time meditating. I guess he could still be the Christ, but he's a Christ without a contingency plan. He was sentenced to death in 2006, but it hasn't happened yet. Things were more swift and certain with the first Christ.
The new Aleph is a more warm Hello Kitty sort of group, compared to its Fritz the Cat predecessor. Apparently, they still believe Shoko is Christ and that we're living in the End Times. But they've turned away from biological weapons, or at least run out of them. They are under constant surveillance, since they still revere a condemned murderer.
So, rest easy in the knowledge that, if you've made it this long, you aren't going to be killed by Aum Shinrikyo any more than you are going to be eviscerated by the Manson Family. Aum Shinrikyo put all their homicidal eggs into one lunatic basket and even the most ravening of them has seen that their basic premise was flawed. When the people who brought us Hentai porn and Pokémon have decided you're full of crap, you have to know your Christ-picking skills are substandard. Gamera is more likely to be Christ than Shoko.
One last note: among the revered writings of this group were Isaac Asimov's Foundation trilogy. Isaac would have been annoyed. In addition to his other faults, Shoko doesn't read dust jackets.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Lest Ye Diet
by Christian Walters
Hello from sunnywindyfoggyhilly San Francisco! (City Motto: LOT FULL) I'm actually out here on a business trip. Atlanta is nice in its way, with its ample parking, but there's something about a 40-degree grade that draws me back to the Bay Area whenever I get the chance.
So welcome to the inauguration of Totally Overlapping Magisteria! We're going to explore the world of nutball cults and shady pseudoscience. (Or, in other words, cults and pseudoscience.) We're going to see how unsupportable religious twaddle gets along with nonsensical technological claims. Smart money is on "darn well." I hope to give complete reviews of these things, so you will know where to spend your credibility currency.
But for now, let's start with making fun of the li'l diet plan that could!
The Remnant Fellowship came to us in 1999 from Gwen Shamblin, a bizarre experiment involving Jane Fonda and Suzanne Somers.
Gwen was visited by God, who let her in on a secret: the only way through the Gates of Heaven is to be thin enough to shimmy through the bars. You have to say those prayers, watch those portions, and keep an eye on that sodium. You might be rolling your eyes, but that's not any weirder than a bris.It works like this. There are two types of hunger: physical and emotional. You feed the physical with food, but only when physically hungry and only until no longer hungry. You feed the emotional with prayer and Scripture, but only until you can't swallow any more.
No, I made that last part up. Emotional hunger is a bottomless pit, according to Gwen, and I think that tells you all you need to know about cult members. Overeating is another type of greed, which is, of course, one of the Seven Deadly. What a load of cra--...
Hold the phone. Overeating is a type of greed? What happened to my good buddy Gluttony? If overeating isn't a kind of gluttony, what is? Regicide?
To be fair, parts of her diet would work. When you feel a craving, picking up a Bible will help you keep the weight off more than picking up a Cheeto. (Turn to the stuff about Lot and his daughters, and it'll make you barf so much you'll get an eating disorder.) The same can be said of picking up any other book, of course. Or picking up an iPod. Or picking up a bike helmet. Or simply picking up a conversation where you left off with a loved one.
But the Bible is better. Getting people to watch their portions and read more Proust won't give you a tax break.
Ha ha! How dare me.
The Remnant Fellowship web site can give you details, including an inspirational photo album showing how some of its members have dropped 50-80 lbs of sin. You can also read more on Gwen Shamblin's Wikipedia page, although it looks like she boldly wrote it herself.
I'd give the Remnant Fellowship a grade of three shaking fists out of a possible 10. The diet plan appears to be solid: eat less and distract yourself with something else when you're feeling a craving. Equating overeating to sin is somewhat off-putting, and the religious ties are mighty thin, so to speak. If this movement ever took hold, we'd hate to see a bunch of thin zealots trying to persecute their more husky fellow citizens. And if you hear someone cry "I gained four goddamned pounds!" they may just mean it literally.
But it does seem efficient for people who want to lose weight and do more tithing. They are certainly less obnoxious than some more accepted groups out there (I'm looking at you, snake handlers). Suzanne Somers would be proud.
Christian Walters lives, loves, and drives in the Atlanta area. He's a technical writer by training, and a Rock Band Adonis by nature. He has honed his reviewing skills on bad movies, which are as rare as pollen grains these days. He has always been a fan of science, and has studied it as much as he could by flinging a Frisbee around campus while getting a liberal arts degree.
