Stuart Goldman is an investigative reporter, living in France. Visit his website, The Tongue.
Greetings, people. This is my first direct transmission to you. You may call me Mr. Otis, though this is only one of many names I’ve gone by throughout the course of time. Without burdening you with the details of my history, let us simply say that I have been in existence — in various forms — for approximately 26,000 years (give or take a few thousand). You can think of me as a spirit or a “soul” if you wish — one who resides in what your scientists refer to as another dimension. Those who have a bent towards the UFO model may want to think of me as an “extraterrestrial.” It matters not: it’s all one and the same.
I have been “channeling” (the currently fashionable term, at least amongst those who label yourselves “New Agers”) through the person known to you as S.L. Goldman for some time now. In point of fact, the rather abrasive quality that many of you attribute to Mr. Goldman has been at my, er, behest. Goldman himself is a rather quiet, bookish sort. A bit of a nebbish, actually.
The reason I have chosen to make my existence known at this point in time is that frankly, I’m appalled at the goings-on that are taking place on your planet. There is an extremely dangerous situation at hand, people! I’m not talking about nuclear destruction, or Y2K, or any of that nonsense. No, the real danger is that you are all in jeopardy of becoming what Mr. Goldman has — rather eloquently I must say — referred to as “Pod People.” (The reference comes from the classic sci-fi film, “The Invasion Of The Body Snatchers.”) I’m sure you get the idea.
Much of your world’s horrid situation, in this pre-millennial era, is due to the increased fervor with which my fellow-spirits are hawking their wares, so to speak. Friends, I’m here to tell you that nine-tenths of these beings are total and complete phonies! You see, in my dimension, as in yours, there are many lost souls floating around. These entities love nothing better than to get inside a nice, empty-headed human and start blabbering away about whatever comes into their heads. They’ll spout all kinds of gibberish — espousing the whys and wherefores of everything from astral projection to pyramid power to long-winded (and absolutely fictitious) testimonials on The Lost Continent Of Atlantis.
Typically however, their dialog revolves around love, peace, universal harmony, and other assorted tidbits of similar gibberish. What concerns me, dear ones, is that you’re buying it! Honestly, what’s wrong with you people? That stuff was boring in the ’60s, and it’s even more boring today!
Don’t you see — you’ve been brainwashed! But you’re all so preoccupied with pursuing your little goals or “getting in touch” with “true selves” (as if there were any such thing!) that you can’t see that you’re headed on a path to doom and destruction!
Do you really think that this is a free ride? Sorry, no dice. Call it karma, call it Judgement Day — I don’t care. But one way or another, people, you’re going to have to pay the piper for the reprobate lifestyles which you’re leading. Sorry, I didn’t make the rules.
I mean some of the things going on here … I just can’t believe my eyes! (I don’t, per se, “have” eyes. This is a euphemism.) Let’s start with the politicians — those lying, flesh-maggots who you’ve chosen to run your country. You feign surprise when your president — this low-life, terminally criminal hillbilly — is caught with his britches down. Come off it! Anyone with half a brain could have seen that one coming.
Or when the headlines shriek about some poor schlep who goes off his rocker and blows away a half-dozen of his co-workers, the neighbors all say, “But he seemed like such a nice guy.” Everyone is shocked. How could this happen? you say while finishing your morning coffee. It’s appalling! And you’re right … it is. But this is the world you’ve created! Actions beget reactions; there’s no great mystery to it.
Besides, the truth is, you’re not really shocked … or even truly interested. In fact, you enjoy it, in a rather perverse fashion. It makes you feel superior when you can talk about “those people.” It allows you to forget that all those same tendencies (the tendencies that made Clinton drop his drawers; the tendencies responsible for the actions of the poor guy who gunned down his workmates) — all those exact same tendencies are alive and well at this very moment … living inside you!
What about these disgusting swine you call “stars?” Those vain, immoral, narcissistic film, TV and rock and roll morons who you’ve elevated into cultural icons? Could you please enlighten me: what could anyone possibly find attractive in that ossified little twerp, Leonardo DiCaprio? Or that repulsive creature who calls herself Madonna? Why in God’s name would anyone in their right mind pay two cents to attend a concert by that noxious little Nellybelle, Elton John? Or an ancient group of ugly, musical no-talents like Aerosmith? That goes doubly for just about any of the current crop of rock “heroes” — whether it’s one of the multitude of ugly little body-pierced, tattooed mutants, or those fat, foul-mouthed, baggy pantsed hoodlums who are raking in millions of dollars selling illiteracy (quaintly referred to as “rap music”).
Why some God-fearing citizen hasn’t ripped the cojones off that sanctimonious wimp of a feminist sympathizer, Alan Alda, is a question that plagues me. Why nobody has put a stake through the heart of that hideous, child-molesting succubus, Michael Jackson, is a question that allows me no peace of mind!
Just look at the people you let into your living rooms via your TV sets. Howard Stern! Barbara Walters! Regis Philbin! Sinbad! Larry Franklin! Jerry Springer! Dennis Miller! Andy Rooney! Dr. Joyce Brothers!!
Monosyllabic action film stars like Chuck Norris and Sylvester Stallone have become icons to your children! Barbara Streisand and Elizabeth Taylor are actually considered to be role models (models of what … umpteen facelifts?). Have you ever taken a good look at these … I hesitate to even call them “people” … because they aren’t even human. They’re monsters! Long-since vacated bodies, inhabited by demons!
And when you’re not hypnotizing yourselves with empty-headed TV shows, idiotic movies, or foul, brain-deadening music, you’re busy getting in shape (what for?), or stuffing your fat little faces with nauseating, repugnant health foods. As if you could somehow stop the process of decay that is at this very minute rotting you away! Sorry, no matter what measures you take to stave off the Grim Reaper … you’re wasting your time, people. You’re history! (And probably much sooner than you think.)
But the problem is, when you have one of those moments when your routine gets interrupted and you happen to catch that sickening glimpse of your mortality, what do you do? You run off and dump your hard-earned savings into the hands of some money-grubbing charlatan (Dr. Deepak Chopra immediately comes to mind), who tells you that all have to do is learn how to “think positively” (and meanwhile send him $2,000 to take one of his idiotic courses).
Oh, I know you don’t like hearing all this. You’d much rather be told what a beautiful, wonderful, “special” person you are. That you’re really “one with the cosmos” and that all you need do is to learn to get in touch with your “real self.” You love that slop, because it keeps you from looking at the wretched, petty, frightened little thing that you actually are.
Oh, you’re not frightened? Really? You mean to tell me that you don’t wake up at 3:00 in the morning in the deep sweats? You never find yourself lying there, your eyes wide-open, with a horrible, nameless fear gnawing away at your guts? Come off it!
Ah yes, the night — that’s when it gets you. Sure, during the day, when you’re busy trying to impress everyone what a selfless, caring human being you are, you talk about the people you love. But when you’re alone — at night — you obsess about the people you hate.
Not me, you say. Really? How about the people at work? The ones who you imagine are talking about you when you’re not around. They do talk about you, you know; it’s not just your imagination. That’s right — the minute you leave, they talk about what a jerk you are. They laugh behind your back! They’re plotting to get rid of you, you know. You’re not paranoid. It’s true! Don’t you want to get back at those traitorous scum? Of course you do!
You can yammer about peace and nonviolence all you what, but what’s the point? Why talk bout non-violence when the truth is that you’re violent? You are violent, aren’t you? Aren’t you mean to people? Don’t you bully people whenever you get the chance — especially those people whom you (supposedly) “love.” People like your wife and children?
Yes, you can yammer about peace and nonviolence, but what you really want is revenge! Wouldn’t you love to get that jerk that just cut you off on the freeway? Run that ugly little Toyota of his with the cute little personalized plates right off the road, and watch it go careening over on the wrong side of the freeway, where it’d immediately get smacked head on (and magically transformed into a piece of scrap metal) by one of those big ol’ nasty 10-wheelers? Wouldn’t that just make your day? (Especially if you were assured you’d never get caught?) You bet your bippy it would!
So violence is the fact. Non-violence is fiction. As for “peace” … do you really think you can have peace by incessantly talking about it, or by joining hands and chanting, or singing songs of praise? Do you actually think you’re going to solve a (self-created) problem like AIDS (which is no “mystery” — it’s a result of the sick, immoral and utterly reprobate lifestyle of homosexuals) by going on an AIDS walk!? Oh people, for pity’s sake — grow up! Change your behavior. Give up your addictions (i.e. perversions) and things will change … naturally. All this other nonsense (AIDS Awareness Week; AIDS quilts) is nothing more than a sideshow. A shabby circus act. All that nonsense is just another way of avoiding looking at the actual problem, while making you “feel” good (your main preoccupation in life) at the same time.
But what about love, you say? What about it? You don’t know anything about love. Your wife or your “lover” is only there to stroke you — to make you feel good by bolstering your ugly little sense of pride. The fact that you “need” her is the only reason she stays with a wimp like you. She lives off you … sucks your energy … bleeds you dry, until you’re nothing but a useless shell of a man. She keeps you addicted to her (what you call “love” is essentially addiction); and when she’s finally sucked away all your precious lifeblood, she dumps you like a used up old pair of shoes and goes off in search of a new victim.
So let us talk about addiction, shall we? The experts blather on about drugs and how to kick them, but this is just the tip of the iceberg. After all, only a total ignoramus would stick some noxious substance up his nose, or smoke poisonous weeds that make him stupid … correct? Besides, there are so many drugs — some legal, some not.
Did you ever watch yourself smoke? Smoking is about as natural as eating garbage! But you like to suck on that thing, don’t you? Why? Why do you want to run around with earphones plastered on your heads, or with your car radios blasting hideous, offensive, mind-numbing music? Because it keeps you from thinking! Have you ever tried being quiet? No, you don’t like quiet … do you?
Why do you want to watch a bunch of cretins with no necks run around a field (inflicting incredible amounts of damage to their bodies in the process) so that they can kick a ball over a goal post, or stuff a ball through a hoop? Because it gets those adrenal glands of yours pumping. Because it gives you an excuse to jump up and down like a bunch of chimpanzees — that’s why! Distraction, distraction, distraction! Isn’t it wonderful? And it comes in so many different forms. There’s no end to it!
Take sex — your favorite form of distraction. What is so bloody wonderful about this silly little act? Why is it that the minute some brainless female shakes her rump, you start drooling all over yourself? Because you’ve been conditioned — in true Pavlovian fashion — so that you’re walking around in a constant state of sexual frenzy.
The fact is that sexual intercourse is the easiest way to avoid looking at your own inner poverty. It’s the ultimate high! Oh friends, don’t you see? You’re all addicts! You can’t go for one second without sticking something into yourself … food, a penis, a cigarette — it’s all the same. You’re always sucking at the environment, trying to fill up that horrible, gaping maw inside yourself.
But what about the other drugs? Drugs like ideas and opinions. Aren’t you addicted to ideas? Don’t you love your opinions? Don’t you like to be right? Haven’t you ever noticed how defensive you get when somebody attacks the ideas that you hold sacred? Having all these ideas — political, religious, whatever — makes you feel important, doesn’t it? Why? Because you are your ideas. Without them, there is no such thing as “you.”
Perhaps you have a job that gives you a sense of identity. It doesn’t matter whether you’re the president of a corporation, the author of some stupid book, or a postal clerk. Whatever it is you do — that becomes your “identity.” Now you’re somebody. Now you can bully a few people who are lower on the food chain. Now you can inflict your opinions on others.
Every day, you go to some meaningless little job that you hate. Probably you come home and bully your wife. Have a drink. Flip on the tube. As the years slip by it all becomes habit. (You call it a “routine.”) You’re numbed out. Then one day you start to feel “odd.” Pretty soon, you begin to think about weird things … things like pickup trucks full of dead frogs, or your grandmother’s tumor. Maybe you consult a shrink. But nothing helps. Most of the time you’re walking around in a total daze. You’ve become a walking zombie. Eventually, you begin to contemplate your death with great anticipation; perhaps you consider suicide … but you haven’t got the guts to do it. So you carry on … one dreary day after another.
And on it goes. Finally one day, you simply expire. Pfffffftt. Finished. End of story. Don’t laugh people! This is your life!!
The worst thing is that you act as if you were going to live forever. Well, guess what? Take a look around you, wherever you’re are at this very moment. All this is going to be gone! Right this very second your life is ebbing away. If you buy the reincarnation bit, you may think you’re going to come back and get another shot at it. Or else you fantasize about some beautiful, eternally peaceful place waiting for you on “the other side.” Give me a break! (And stop watching “Touched By An Angel” while you’re at it! The producers of that piece of cosmic hooey ought to be shot!)
Please, I’m not being cruel. These are not my facts. They are simply facts. Facts are facts regardless of who utters them. But for God’s sake, don’t believe anyone — including me. After all, I might simply be engaged in what you refer to as a “put on.” Then again, I might not. Your job is to find out.
What I am saying is simply this. Drop your guru. Get rid of your therapist. Good-bye! Throw out all your self-help books. Dump them in the trash! Next, stop listening to people. Let me correct that. Stop believing people … I don’t care how many degrees they have! And I’m not just talking about “the experts.” Don’t believe anybody. Subject everything and everyone to the fires of doubt!
Now is the time for action. No more talking. You say you hate your husband? Forget trying to “heal” the relationship. Dump the sucker! Get rid of those worthless energy suckers you call your “friends” — those boring creeps who feed off your vitality. Bye bye! Oh people, don’t you see? This is freedom!
Are you interested in all this? Probably not. Well, too bad. It’s your life. And to be perfectly honest, I don’t give a hoot in hell what you do. I’m telling you all this because, well — frankly because I’ve got a lot of “time” to kill. I’m bored, floating around out here in the ether. But occasionally, watching the way you people carry on gets to be too much … even for me.
So friends, my plan is this: I’ll continue to offer tidbits of my wisdom to you through the person of Mr. Goldman (I don’t “occupy” Mr. Goldman, per se — I simply make occasional use of him as a vehicle, because he has a certain way with words that I find entertaining). Perhaps — if and when the mood strikes — I’ll address you personally (in that case, I don’t have to be bothered dealing with Goldman’s “conditioning”) through these “transmissions.”
As for Goldman, don’t be too hard on him. He’s just a poor, struggling fool like the rest of you. Forget him! He’s not important. And for pity’s sake, don’t start making some kind of guru out of him! Sure, I let the little twit sign his name to these columns … but I tell you … without me, he’s nothing!
Well people, I’m afraid our time is about up. So until my next appearance (if indeed there be one) I bid you a fond farewell. I AM Otis — the great and terrible; I have come to obliterate, eliminate, destroy, eviscerate, decapitate, wipe out, and otherwise lay waste to all that is evil, horrible, wicked, pointless, disgusting, dreadful, depressing, idiotic, immoral, stupid and boring from the lives of all decent, God-fearing people inhabiting your planet.
So until next time, dear friends, may you be scourged in the fires of cynicism and doubt. May the truth of these words cause you to twist and squirm and sweat and moan until you finally get down on your knees and holler “Uncle.” For until you humble yourselves — until you “give up” — you are doomed to exist in a perpetual living Hell. Until you admit to your utter helplessness — until you forsake everything — you will never find that peace which you seek.
And with this last bit of harsh reality, dear friends, I give you my fondest regards.
Editors note: When Mr. Goldman was asked if he were aware of the presence of “Mr. Otis,” he replied with a succinct , “No comment.”