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The most promising path to succor is:
Islam 37%
Judaism 12%
The Onion 25%
Manchester United 25%
The New York Yankees 0%

Votes: 8

 I am speechless.

 Author:  Topic:  Posted:
Oct 21, 2001
Even a full week after the events I have witnessed, I am at a loss for explanation, and am only now recovered sufficiently that I may begin to describe them.

Prior to the events that I am about to relate, I had been a simple atheist.


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It began, as with so much of the fantastic, in the mundane.

As a gentleperson of good breeding and diverse interest, I had, like so many others, made the rounds of the more fashionable salons and social clubs in search of intellectual discourse of compelling vigor, breadth, and civility (while also, of course, hoping against expectation to catch even so much as the slightest whiff of the scent of a potential spouse). Though I spent a few energetic years in various cosmopolitan centres engaged in this pursuit, I encountered continuous and surprising difficulty in locating an adequate company of well-mannered individuals possessed of sufficiently controversial idea and opinion.

Before I continue my tale, I will indulge in a brief description of the workings of a typical contemporary intellectual club. Though the governance of such clubs varies widely, most share a common operational scheme. Upon arriving at the site of the organization, the member or guest is presented with a board on which a number of papers or articles are posted. After a careful perusal of these offerings, the seeker of knowledge may select a particular essay, and discuss it amongst peers in the comfortable nooks and crannies jumbled together at the club's address. The articles on the board are selected and often authored by the club's officers (or, in some disagreeable instances, by the unwashed public), but members of the club may at times submit papers to the governing body for consideration.

Such was the occasion of the events which have shaken me to the very foundations of my soul.

I had, in a moment of some small audacity, prepared a paper, and submitted it to the governing board of a club that, after my long search, I had found, at last, to be adequate. I considered that to be the end of the matter, as the lofty standards of the board were known to me, and I did not consider my small effort, a cautionary critique of a common periodical, to be of sufficient substance to merit a wider audience.

It would appear, however, that my small piece tapped some hidden vein of intellectual conflict, for upon arrival at the address of the club one evening, I found, to my utter astonishment, that my trifle had been posted on the board! I do not know what the obscure purpose of the officers may have been in selecting the piece, but I can be certain that it was not accident, as the club officers are careful and discerning, possessed of insight, acumen, and taste beyond reproach. I expected some derision and mockery from my fellow members, and resolved to bear it as best as I might, while waiting for the article to work its slow way down the board, lower with every new article, until such time came for it to be removed from the bottom and placed in the obscurity of the club archives.

And then it happened.

The article vanished.

None saw it disappear, and the notion that it might have been stolen is absurd on its face, as security at the club is more than adequate. Equally unlikely is the notion that the officials of the club changed their mind and removed the piece; these are great minds, after all, and they simply do not change once they have made a decision. The notion that a rogue club officer might have disturbed the workings of the board is laughable, as well; this is a group united, and unswerving in its loyalties.

I am left with but a single conclusion, to wit, that I have witnessed a direct act of God. Like other recorded divine interventions, this one leaves behind no trace or evidence, but there is no doubt in my mind of what I have witnessed.

While this would be an occasion of great joy for many, it produces in me, a person of modern scientific outlook, with a tremendous crisis. I am no longer at liberty, you see, to profess atheism, either to the public or to my heart. I must now embark on a quest for God, but the path before me has many branches but no signposts. I anticipate that even the first few steps, i.e., a review of the writings of all the world's major religions, will require several years of strenuous effort.

I am in complete turmoil. I would like nothing more than to find the blasted trifle on the board the next time I journey to the club, so that I might interpret these events as no more than a delusional episode, and cast aside the bottle rather than the foundations of my being. The derision of my peers and the slow march of the article to the bottom of the board, and then to the oblivion of the archives, would be the sweetest balm for my soul. Failing that, my greatest desire is for a further apparition; if it can happen once, then surely it might happen again?

These are dark and troubling days, indeed.


well, (none / 0) (#1)
by Anonymous Reader on Sun Oct 21st, 2001 at 07:38:27 PM PST
have you ever considered the possibility that you may be schizophrenic and stole the papers yourself?

or perhaps the shame of having your ideas publicly shown caused you to remove them from view.

Thank you, (none / 0) (#2)
by RobotSlave on Sun Oct 21st, 2001 at 08:50:29 PM PST
for contributing to the internet's first troll-free site.

This is not a goddamned PK Dick novel. Thank you. --RobotSlave

© 2002, RobotSlave. You may not reproduce this material, in whole or in part, without written permission of the owner.

Erm... (none / 0) (#3)
by tkatchev on Sun Oct 21st, 2001 at 09:24:51 PM PST
I fell asleep after the second letter 'e'. Could someone please summirize? Thanks.

Peace and much love...

It's an English Lit thing. (none / 0) (#5)
by RobotSlave on Sun Oct 21st, 2001 at 10:55:49 PM PST
You wouldn't understand, Comrade.

© 2002, RobotSlave. You may not reproduce this material, in whole or in part, without written permission of the owner.

Divine Intervention Unlikely (none / 0) (#4)
by Logical Analysis on Sun Oct 21st, 2001 at 09:56:47 PM PST
What about the cleaning lady?

An excellent theory. (none / 0) (#6)
by RobotSlave on Sun Oct 21st, 2001 at 11:18:57 PM PST
But I'm afraid it doesn't stand up. The complete bloodline of the cleaning staff for five generations has been physically restricted to the confines of the club address, and never allowed near the board. They believe, with all fervor, that it would rupture their innards to touch the thing.

© 2002, RobotSlave. You may not reproduce this material, in whole or in part, without written permission of the owner.

ok (none / 0) (#7)
by perdida on Mon Oct 22nd, 2001 at 11:53:17 AM PST
where'd you get a comment/article removed?

k5, /., or

This is what democracy looks like

Dear lost one: (none / 0) (#8)
by RobotSlave on Mon Oct 22nd, 2001 at 12:46:20 PM PST
Has allusion lost all of its power to inform? This happened, of course, at the adequacy.

© 2002, RobotSlave. You may not reproduce this material, in whole or in part, without written permission of the owner.

perdida (none / 0) (#9)
by nathan on Mon Oct 22nd, 2001 at 01:27:30 PM PST

Zoomtard is the fastest!!!!


Li'l Sis: Yo, that's a real grey area. Even by my lax standards.

Your article was better as a diary entry (none / 0) (#10)
by Adam Rightmann on Tue Oct 23rd, 2001 at 09:38:09 AM PST
or perhaps some sort of post-modernist tone poem. It made little sense, and was hardly illuminating or controversial. While I was not the editor that hid it, I did encourage such an action. If it would make you feel better, I can copy the text of your unfocused rambling into this diary.

Please, gentlereaders, if you wish to submit an article, proof read it, make sure it has a point, and make it entertaining to read.

A. Rightmann

That would be great. (none / 0) (#11)
by RobotSlave on Tue Oct 23rd, 2001 at 10:33:39 AM PST
I don't have a copy, so a cut and paste would be most appreciated.

© 2002, RobotSlave. You may not reproduce this material, in whole or in part, without written permission of the owner.

Hate the onion (none / 0) (#12)
by Adam Rightmann on Wed Oct 24th, 2001 at 06:59:42 AM PST
Hate it.

Hate it for its humble origins. Hate its color scheme. Hate it for its success. Hate its
logo. Hate it for moving to New York. Hate its near-universal appeal.

Hate it.

Hate it for being funnier than you are. Hate its deft and highly polished technique. Hate New York,
while you're at it. Hate The Onion, for hatred is your only defense.

Hate it. Hate The Onion.

Hate its style of Mundane Observation, which robs you of your right to be alarmed at the ordinary.
Hate it for training you, and your children, to seek humor from a central authority, rather than
each other. Hate, in particular, the Yankees. Hate with your entire soul, even if you must poison
your mind with Envy to do so.

Hate, hate The Onion.

Hate its style of Crude, Vulgar Commentary, for it robs vulgarity of its power to shock. Hate it for
wrapping important politcal thought in irony, thus rendering it impotent. Hate its amusing obsession
with salty snack foods, which serves only to dull your awareness of a tremendous hazard to your
health. Hate The Onion, for it is trying to kill you.

Hate it.

Hate its style of High Dudgeon, for it insinuates that any attempt to combine erudition with
passion is laughable. Hate it for making you look a dolt when you try to explain the funny bit to
your attractive co-worker. Hate it, for if you ever do manage to write something funny, it will
surely be pointed out that The Onion wrote pretty much the same thing ten years ago, and did a
better job of it, too. Hate that bastard Roger Clemens. Hate The Onion, for it is surely the vilest
organ in the foul body of American Propaganda.

Hate The Onion.

Hate it for the accolades it has recieved from the New York Times and National Public Radio. Hate
its shiny new helicopter.

Hate it.

Hate it in the cold light of dawn. Hate it in the darkest hour of night. Hate it when you touch your
spouse, your potential spouse, or your self. Hate it more with every draught of sweet, nourishing
alcohol. Hate it more than you hate Hatred itself.

Hate, hate, hate The Onion.

Hate it.

[editor's note, by jsm] I quite like it.

A. Rightmann

Okay, but one thing I just don't get... (none / 0) (#13)
by Anonymous Reader on Thu Oct 25th, 2001 at 07:08:53 AM PST

I am ready to negotiate. (none / 0) (#14)
by RobotSlave on Fri Oct 26th, 2001 at 01:16:58 AM PST
First, you must cast off the shroud of the "Anonymous Reader." Then we can get down to business.

© 2002, RobotSlave. You may not reproduce this material, in whole or in part, without written permission of the owner.


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