Life Decisions, Episode 58: To Bash Cyclists, or Encounter Scientologists?
June 11, 2002
Every evening on the cursed route I elect to walk home from work, I encounter the same greasy little balding offensive man whose penis undoubtedly resembles a fun-size Mars bar. I’ve attempted to navigate home via an alternative route, but this involves traversing around lots of eager cyclists.
I mean, sure; if we don’t drive cars then the petrol companies won’t make the profits necessary for the research into alternative forms of energy - I used to do my best to support the cause by pushing zooming cyclists off their bikes when I could. Cyclists and their idiotic bike pants and fluorescent helmets are the only barrier between environmental energy-related harmony.
Yet there’s only so much bicycle-battling I can take, so I am forced to walk home and attempt to avoid the greasy balding man.
‘Free personality and IQ test,’ he bellows at me every night, helpfully thrusting a slip of paper into my hand, which - as if to accentuate his statement - reads ‘Free Personality and IQ Test’.
‘You’ve given me this slip of paper every night for the past fortnight,’ I protested last week. ‘And it’s no use hiding behind this personality test crap, I know you’re a fucking scientologist, you simply have to be.’
‘Guilty as charged,’ he throws up his hands and chortles. ‘So the Church of Scientology is just up the road. You should go along - after all, your IQ and personality determine your future.’
I shift my backpack onto my other shoulder and frown at him. ‘Look, I think I’ve learnt all I need to know about my personality from being swamped with online tests on LiveJournal. I really am not interested in anything that scientology stands for - in fact, one of your lot put a curse on me a few years ago.’
This caused baldy to step back. ‘Oh, no, we’re nothing like that. I don’t know what that person was on about.’
‘He was a Satanist too, I think,’ I recalled, as Sydney’s central business district emptied itself around us. I was probably doing the entire postcode region a favour by distracting this guy from talking to anyone else.
‘Here, maybe you’ll be interested in this book which tells you how to improve your life infinitely,’ baldy noted, and handed me something which was not a book at all, but merely an advertisement for a book which cost $55 and was available from my local Church of Scientology, apparently.
‘Not interested in your religious literature,’ I dismissed.
‘But Scientology isn’t a religion, it’s a belief system,’ was the quick reply.
‘Insert trademark symbol,’ I nodded. This caused the bald man to shift around awkwardly, and I realised with horror that not only was this statement actually trademarked on the leaflet, but so was Church of Scientology™ - and even L. Ron Hubbard™.
‘Look, whatever you guys do, courses on emotional intelligence and fucking synchronised skipping, whatever, I’m just not interested; and I’d appreciate your cooperation in this statement as I pass you each night,’ I maintained. ‘Goodnight,’ I muttered, and began walking away.
‘I really do think Scientology is for you,’ insisted baldy, in a manner far louder than necessary.
‘LOOK!’ I spun around. ‘There is no fucking way in hell I am going to devote myself to a following created by the individual who is widely held responsible for Battlefield Earth.’ And with that, I strode away, never to be assaulted by him again.
