All blogs are works of gonzo journalism and should not be regarded as truth; they are but entertainment.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

The Epic Retardation of Big Mommas: Like Father, Like Son

In regards to its retardation, I was all set to proclaim this movie one of the greatest ever; the final chapter of a trilogy the likes of which will never be surpassed again.  The Back to The Future of retarded films--a real accomplishment.  And I say this because of its concept--a black man dressing up like a fat old woman and loving it so much that not only does he find reasons to don this costume under the guise of 'undercover work,' but also so much that he feels it necessary to pass on his old fat lady drag obsession to his step-son, like a torch passed on from father to son: "Here, the family legacy."  I was really ready to tell this story, really wax it on thick with the bullshit and slanderous tongue that is the M.O. of iR.

But then I saw the film.

This story was no pass of the baton to keep on a silly degrading drag race, it was a stumble short of epic fail.  It is the opinion of this writer that Big Mommas: Like Father, Like Son just may be the end of both Martin Lawrence and Brandon T. Jackson, at least in my eyes, and I say this with particular dread in regards to Mr. Jackson, for at such a young age, with an entire career ahead of him, he has effectively strapped three hundred plus pounds of dead weight to his ankles with this movie.  Get ready for the great sink.

Or maybe you won't drown, young lad--there's always a career in commercials.

And I condemn this poor upstart actor with such a rotten fate with good reason too, for this movie is an utter piece of shit.  Had they spun it my way--the symbolic passing of the torch (wig?), the family legacy to be upheld--this movie would have shined as the final gem on a wonderful project.  A wonderfully retarded one.  But to understand what I mean you must look at it all a certain way, like looking in a Kaleidescope clicking into place.  Stare not at the words themselves but between the lines.

Consider this:

In the original 'Big Momma's House,' Malcolm Turner (Martin Lawrence), is an FBI agent who's actually a master of disguise and has all sorts of prosthetics and movie quality make-up techniques that can help him turn into anybody he wants.  He's been assigned to track down this lifer who escaped prison named Lester Vesco.  Now, he heads out to Georgia and decides it would be best to stake out the house of Big Momma, who happens to be the Grandmother of Lester's ex-girlfriend named Sherry. . . Why this makes sense?  No one really knows.  Anyway, iso facto, Big Momma has to leave conveniently on some trip to see a friend, so Malcolm heads into her pad and stakes it out and shiiiiet, guess who calls?  Why Sherry of course.  He pretends to be Big Momma to lure her to the house and get information from her.  So she shows up the next day with her young son, and there you go, you've got Martin Lawrence in drag, pretending to be a fat old Southern woman.

And although strange, the disguise makes sense, in a way (considering you just forget the fact that he could have just as easily met her at the door the next day with his badge and gun and shit, and gotten all the information that way, but hey, thats no fun!).

But what of Big Momma's House 2?  This same agent finds that this guy, Tom Fuller who is the head of some private corporation is working with some evil douche looking to hack the FBI and commit other forms of cyber terrorism, so he decides the best way to get the dirt is to become his nanny. . . Did he really have to dress up like Big Momma this time? From the franchise stand point, yes, but from a character stand point it makes no fucking sense at all.  I mean he's a master of disguise!  He could have been anything. . . At this point, it just proves that he just loves dressing up like a fat old black lady--its like if Robin Williams' character in the end of Mrs. Doubtfire, after all the hub bub started going around playing nanny for other families, for fun or money, or sick pleasure, whatever.

I mean a nanny?  Martin could have just as easily dressed up like a fat Mexican woman and they could have called it Big Madre's House.


See?  When looking at it this way one can see why Big Momma's House 2 could be considered funny--ole Mister FBI has got a thing for drag--and furthermore how Big Mommas:  Like Father Like Son could have run with it, had they only had some damn artistic integrity for the character they created.  Nope, instead we've got a trilogy that doesn't even stick to its own shit: the boy Trent in the first one is a little boy, in the second film, years later, he's in middle school, and now in the third one he's entering college!  Furthermore, his brother--the baby they so heavily emphasized in the second movie (his wife Sherry was preggers, and he took a desk job to be with the wife: but then again, that itch started and he just had to put on his old lady drawers) is no where to be seen in this third film, and not even mentioned.  Sherry is also absent in this third film, but she's at least mentioned (apparently she was smart enough to turn this one down).  

They story goes like this, Malcolm's shit head step-son Trent The Amazing Aging Boy is an aspiring rapper, though his father doesn't share his same enthusiasm for his choice in a career.  Nope, like a true Dad Malcolm wants Trent to live his dream, to go to Duke University and be a Blue Devil.  Trent should follow daddy's advice, for he isn't the brightest of fellows: he follows his dad while he's doin' his FBI thing to get him to sign a contract for a rapping deal (cause he's 17, yah dig), and ends up witnessing this uber-dangerous dude killing this guy, so guess what? Now he's after Trent. So what does Dad do?

Puts on the fat suit and gets his kid to do the same, and they head out to an all-girls school to hide out and search for this flash drive with all the information on this evil douche: enough to put him away for life.  Never mind that all this time Trent should be finishing up high school and taking Finals, never mind that he'd never be able to get into this girls school because its like Juilliard, and the fool can't sing or dance: just rap. . . And whats worse is the fuckers throw in a love interest for Trent, who he eventually becomes friends with while dressed in his chick outfit, and of course, she finds out, and of course she's quite angry, and of course she forgives him in about a minute.  HATE THAT SHIT.

Include in the fact the movie isn't even funny; not at all, and you've got yourself some epic retardation.

The only thing funny about this movie is that it is even considered a comedy in the first place.  I really wanted to laugh, but often, I did not.  I did laugh once however, with only about 10 minutes left in the movie, and instead of validating the time wasted watching this steaming pile of retardation, it made me angry--angry for finding anything in this movie enjoyable or funny.


I don't understand why these movies are so popular, nor why black comedians have seemed to gravitate towards dressing in drag as old women.  But it seems to work.

Shit, Eddie Murphy, Tyler Perry, and Martin Lawrence should all get together and make a fat black old lady version of The Golden Girls minus a bitch.  That shit would sell like hot cakes!


In short.  F-this movie, and the entire franchise.  I'm sure they'll find some way to make a fourth and maybe even a fifth, what with all the money its been generating we'd be lucky if this doesn't turn into a whole Police Academy franchise. . . 

And it is for all these reasons that iR declares Big Momma:  Like Father, Like Son, epically retarded.


Brandon T. Jackson bobbing his head to his career outro. 

Saturday, February 19, 2011

The Tale of The Narconon Lady; Or Who Killed The Electric Car?

The hard bed in the corner, with posters overhead and the light by the wall; a place to sleep.  Somehow, you can sleep on it.  Somehow you can dream, and the first few images wading in through the emptiness and fog are nostalgic and fun:



I

The familiar section of woods was there alright, with stones set in a circle about a fire pit.  Although it was night, the moon gave plenty of light and made it easy to see everything.  It rained for a little bit.  But then it didn't, and one by one the gang came in, no wait, they were already there.  And no one was wet.  Nothing was wet.  It hadn't rained after all.

There was Kiki, in her usual set of boy clothes, looking as mean and twisted as ever, almost as if some man dared called her 'pretty' or something.


Gary sat by himself fumbling with his stupid glasses, his huge nose sticking out like a giant toucan's beak.  It was enormously huge and bothersome.  He seemed more putrid and weak than ever, and kept mumbling something I couldn't make out, some inaudible declaration of inferiority. 


And sitting next to him was Danny Devito:


And next to him a flamingo drank from a pond that appeared but did not seem to affect the overall scene.

And of course there was douchey Tucker, acting like his usual self: that is to say like a feminine cleaning device.  In fact in the dream he appeared to me as one, a draining bubbling douche and when he spoke his orange stomach gurgled and his black mouth wheezed when drawing in air and out would come a voice like sloshing water:

Also there was Frank, Sam, and the rest of the gang (not pictured.)

"So who's the new kid?"  Asked Gary, still playing with his glasses.  It was a wonder how they could move around so frequently on such a wide and spacious perch.

"They call him J. Wood."  Tucker, the douche sloshed out.

"I dunno about him. . . "  Kiki started. . . "I just don't. . ."

"I don't know about you."  I heard myself saying.  "With that get up and all.  Do you really expect to get boys dressing like a boy?  It seems to me you're playing for the other team."

"Hey now, this is a kids show."  Gary said.

"Shut it Canadian.  You know what I'm talkin' abooot?  Or I'll bust that nose of yours permanently.  Its such a big target it'll be awfully tough to miss, aye.  This may be a kid show, but firstly its my dream buckeroo."  

Gary sulked.  Defeated.  Specters of the REM can be easily defeated if you're forceful enough with them.  He sat at his stone and must of thought all sorts of sad things, for from his eyes a single tear was produced.  I'm the damn leader of the society, he must of thought.  Kiki was fuming. She didn't like being pegged either.

"Now is this a popularity contest or is this about telling a good story?"  I asked.

"Hey that was my line!"  Stig said. 

"I know.  I saw the episode.  So what?"

There was a silence.  And then Danny DeVito stood up straight, rather violently and suddenly, in such a nature that it appeared quite frightening. His eyes bulged, and the lump in his throat descended and returned to its peak as he swallowed hard. Then he spoke up, apparently caught in some sort of moral dilemma:


And then, he sat down.

We all sat pondering a moment, as the silence of the night came in through the protection of our circle, of our fire.  The crickets played their violins, the woods occasionally cracked with the sounds of some unseen moving beast.  A good question, a good question indeed.  Certainly too good to be answered now.  Though no doubt the answer is a simple one: ENTROPY my dear man.  ENTROPY.

"Alright."  Gary said.  "Tell your story, but don't think you're getting in."

I sat at the stump and gazed out at all of them sitting around me, lit up by the aching fire:  the jock, the twirp, the lesbian, the shy girl, the bookworm, the outcast, the silent but possibly violent, the sheep, the creep, Mr. DeVito with Mr. Flamingo. . .  Where do I fit in, in all of this? Which role can I play?

"There once was a giant pink dildo monster. . . radioactive of course. . ."

Smug asshole is always fun.

They looked at me hardly amused.  The Midnight Society was serious business.  An ancient tradition practiced in its most elementary of forms, despite the modern world heckling all about them.  And by God despite Gary's timidness his passion for the story had brought all these rather unlikely opposites together for the sake of a good story. . .  Can't let no riff raft in.  Even in my dreams.  OK.

I grabbed that magical bag, that one filled with space dust and some magical substance that produced a rather dramatic and staged explosion when thrown into the fire, complete with purple twirling smoke.  A wonderful concoction of mystery and magic.  But what was it?  

"Sometimes, people will do anything to look beautiful.  A foolish sot.  For though you may try so ravenously to fend off time, it is a losing battle. . . And sometimes, before you know it, death comes to take your hand, despite your efforts to delay it. . ."

Submitted for the Approval of the Midnight Society:

I tossed it in the fire and then immediately knew what it was: the powdery hallucinogen DMT.  I could tell by that familiar smell, like wax burning in a pot of incense.  Oh and the hallucinations.  No wonder everybody saw the story.  The Midnight Society, a bunch of fuckin space cakes.  Who would'a thunk it. . .


THE TALE OF THE NARCONON LADY

He had taken special care to make sure he had not been seen.  Even with his heavier and slower friend behind him like a ball and chain (sing it Janis) he was out into the yard and soon the far corner, under the shade and protection of a drooping elm.  He pulled the packet from his breast pocket, his eyes peering all about him.  Quiet, the trees and courts and jungle gyms were all silent observers of an act they had never seen anyone so young commit before.

Bobby Katchatorian and his cannon ball of a friend were only twelve years old, and aside from the package in Bobby's breast pocket, they had been simple boys, content with the adventures of childhood.  Like curious cats they had trampled every inch of the schoolyard.  They had played every game under the sun.  They had seen it all, and all in the shining glory of their innocence.  But after that fateful Saturday, Terry Daniel noticed his friend had stalked the yard with a much different purpose.  His eyes peered at the monuments of their childhood with much colder eyes that hinted at some heinous act he was planning.  The jungle gym was no longer stormed like a soldier, nor swung from like a baboon, but instead inspected, as if he were checking for leaks.  The slide was no longer for sliding, but for hiding, as he sat under it and eyed the administration buildings like some flower child protester.

Bobby... with his curly chestnut hair and his almond eyes was definitely up to something. . .

And now here they were with that ominous box in Bobby's breast pocket, and here he was pulling it out.  He had picked this spot for this evil deed, Terry knew the second that Bobby spotted the tree he knew he wasn't going to like what he wanted to do.  It was far from the comfort of the school, and if the sun hung just right its shadow could swallow up four square courts and sand pits with a hunger that was not only frightening but ominous.  When Bobby spotted the tree "Ah" was all he said. He clicked his tongued and nodded his head and just ran off in the other direction.  It was the sound of trouble.

Bobby pulled the colored box from his breast pocket and showed it to his fat friend.  Camel cigarettes.  That unmistakable camel raised against the carton.  Terry wished to touch it with his nubby fingers, but Bobby wouldn't let him touch it.

"Bobby. . . The Kirs. . . "

"The what?"  He huffed.  "The Kirstie is gonna get us?  You really believe that kiddie stuff?"

Bobby pulled out a cigarette, eying it curiously.  He lit it, took a drag, and exhaled, coughing.  He was upset with himself for losing his cool, and took another puff, although smaller, content to keep it together this time. He then handed it to his friend, who returned his devil-may-care look with one of anguish and fear.

"Just do it."  Bobby said.

Terry listened to his friend and choked on the cigarette.  He felt sick, his head felt light and dizzy.  He felt as if he was about to vomit. He handed it to his friend just as another hand reached out and took it.  A much larger hand, one belonging to a bigger arm with heavy shoulders, and between those shoulders a big mean angry face.  Terry glanced up into it, and he saw features that were as violent as they were dark, a veritable black hole of hatred looking to suck him in with a menacing glare.

"What are you boys doing?"  He boomed.  It was the physical education teacher who carried a reputation popular in middle school lore around the country: that Mr. Phys Ed was really nothing but a creep pedophile sneaking a look in the girls or boys locker room--or both--take your pick.

"You want The KIRSTIE to get you?"

They pulled away from him, with looks on their faces often seen in little children and sometimes in grown men when the shit gets really thick. Escaping, they ran off and did not stop until their lungs burned and their legs threatened to abandon them forever.  They stood catching their breaths, hearts beating loud in their pink ears.

"Bobby."  Terry said in between mouthfuls of air.  "Bobby. . . I. . . told. . . I told you.  She takes bad kids. . . took three from my block alone this year!"

"The Kirstie isn't real, it's all a lie Terry."

"Is so.  The Narconon building is where she lives."

"Is not."

"Is too.  Its some sort of factory.  You come out changed.  You come out different."

"Do not."

"DO TOO BOBBY KATCHATORIAN, and you made me smoke!  And now they're coming for me and you. . . bad kids."

"Well aint that rich.  I do you a favor like this and all you can do is talk about some boogey man that doesn't exist!"  Bobby shook his head and gathered his things.  He began a slow walk west down the street.  "And to think all I've done for you. . ."  He sounded remorseful, almost as if Terry had really wronged him, had wounded him so badly it was almost too much to bear.  "I guess we'll just have to stop being friends. . ."

Terry had been listening intently.  He had heard similar renditions of this same sort of thing whenever Bobby wanted something from him.  He knew in this particular case he wanted him to stop talking, and although it hurt his feels he knew having no friends at all was far worse than a temporarily wounded ego.

"No, no Bobby.  You're right, The Kirstie isn't real."  He said it but didn't mean it.

"Good."  Bobby perked up instantly.  He smiled.  "See you tomorrow then."

"So wait, 'The Kirstie?  How is that scary?  It doesn't even sound scary!"  Kiki blurted out.

"I am astounded that such a story teller as yourself would be so rude as to interrupt a fellow participant of the craft, but I suppose this portion of the story will serve as the annex to The Narconon Lady, as apparently it seems some do not have time to listen to the entire story and WAIT, so here, and now, Kiki my lass, is how The Kirstie is incredibly scary. . ."

Again Danny DeVito stood up, his eyes bulging, made to appear to bulge even more under his glasses, his throat working up yet another moral dilemma.  Silence descended once again upon the Midnight Society, but then Danny decided against it and sat back down, looking only slightly apologetic for his performance.

"Narconon is a digit of those gnarled fingers that make up the hand of Scientology.  For some, this hand is grasped tightly about their throats, for others, its straight up their own ass.  Now incidentally, all these fingers are crooked middle fingers--each a salute of vulgar disregard to the constituents of apparent reality and common sense.  Despite being said crooked finger of Scientology, despite using the ideals of L. Ron Hubbard, and despite funding from the very 'religion' itself, Narconon claims not to be affiliated with Scientology, but are still a 'secular group,' of the religion, meaning they teach its ideals and herd hopeless minds looking for answers to the factories where a good brain scrubbing can clean up even the dirtiest mind, or scramble it like eggs. . .

If you ask them they are a drug rehabilitation center with a high success rate that just so happens to preach the ideals of Scientology.  But really, they are a money making venture which lures in helpless people down in the lowest depths of the bottle and at the end of the dirtiest of syringes, looking for hope, by promising them it to them if they follow they're methods.  If you run your body ragged with 5 hour sauna sessions for months at a time and deprive your body of vitamins and nutrients, until the brain is starved with glucose deficiency and the body itself is mutilated its no wonder one sees visions and grasps on every idea easy like spoon fed babies.

A spoonful of 'religion' to help the medicine go down.

And what's worse, their spokeswoman is none other than Kirstie Alley. . . So yes Kiki, its quite scary. . . May I continue?"


Danny Devito stood, this time with a look on his face that this time he'd be able to bust it out.  This time everyone would hear his real dilemma, but with a wave of my hand he sat as quickly as he rose, almost grateful that I gave him an out.

"Not now Mr. Martini."

He smiled.  Which now upon reflection is even funnier.  His drunk stint on The View is common knowledge now, and of course Mr. Martini was the character he played in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, a less than sane man who seemed to act much like this dream apparition.  Martini the man, and martini the drink.  Yes yes.

"Now where was I?

II

"Good."  Bobby perked up instantly.  He smiled.  "See you tomorrow then."

But Terry did not see Bobby the next day, he was not at school.  Walking home that day was much lonelier, and without his tether to direct him, he rolled around the town aimlessly without any real desire to go anywhere or get anywhere.  He just walked along, farther than he had ever gone before.  When he saw buildings and streets he did not recognize, he kept going unconcerned though he knew he should be.  He turned a corner and headed down a street lined with trees, sunlight just barely trickling through the leaves.  He walked along, homes intermingled between the occasional business, but none as chilling nor as ominous as the Narconon building; struck through the spine he was, as if hit by a bolt of lightening at the mere sight of it.  It frosted him to the bone.  He peered up at it, and even the sun seemed to struggle with it: it was white but appeared a dull grey, and all the windows were dulled over and dark.  A dark tomb.  NARCONON.  The Narconon building.  The factory itself, the home of The Kirstie.  He stood for what felt like hours, for his feet felt numb.

A bum emerged from a nearby dumpster, the prophet of doom.

"You must keep away!  Away!"  He shook Terry with stringy bone fingers, his eyes set in dark circles, teeth like rotten candy corn.  He smelled like heartlessness.

He shook Terry furiously.

"Away!  Away!  Or the Kirstie will get you!"

Terry had never ran so fast in all his life, and it wasn't until he was in his home, up the stairs and under the covers in his room that he thought anything other than fleeing.

III

"See you tomorrow.then"  Bobby said.

He had gone home, amused with the fine trick he had played on Terry, still amused despite Terry's predictable gullibility.  Bobby had decided he was beginning to tire of Terry, especially after all that business with the cigarette and 'The Kirstie.'

"Hah, what a joke," he said aloud, and as he did the wind stirred the dead leaves underfoot and whispered a haunt he tried to ignore, but did so in vain.  It shook him, but he refused to accept it.  The next forty yards home were cold and in now way joyous, as he often found himself looking back to where he had been, and once while doing so he tripped over a crack in the sidewalk.  The cold whisper of Narconon had stuffed his ears with cotton and dried his throat with severe drought.  And even as he fucked around to avoid homework he felt its chill for even with all his proclamations of knowing no fear, he really was scared, and it seemed now more than ever that The Kirstie was no mere tale, but in fact very real.

At dinner he ate very little, and when his parents asked him about his day he said nothing of Narconon nor the cigarette.  He only muttered something about being tired and if he could be excused.

He didn't even like cigarettes, it was just all so stupid.

When he went to bed he could not sleep.  His room, in the darkness, seemed much more menacing than usual, as fear and adrenaline helped fuel his imagination into a cruel machine capable of producing beasts far more hideous and evil than any horror movie he had ever seen.  He fought these visions for hours until sleep came to heavy his eyes and temporarily end his imagination's assault on his sense.  It was then, when he finally drifted off to sleep that footsteps echoed through the hall outside, and it was coming straight. . .  towards. . . his room.  The door glowed from underneath, shadowed by two feet unseen but well heard.  It wasn't until the door crept open that he woke up; sitting up in bed he instantly felt terrified, though his eyes were still caught up in sleep and gave a nice blur to everything.

Rubbing his eyes he gazed at a monster only five feet, eight inches in height--but what a treacherous fight feet eight inches--it had a mouth stretched in a wicked smile, teeth and lips still laced with streaks of grease and bits of food from some previous just-finished meal, its eyes glowing with pure hatred, its hair like thorned weeds coming down about a face to poke and prod.

In short, he gazed at The Kirstie.


"I hear you've been smoking cigarettes. . ." she said, laughing an evil laugh.

And as she descended upon him, all that could be heard were his screams and the slight sound of sniffing. . .

IV

The following day Bobby was still not at school.  Terry was beginning to be quite worried, but it wasn't long before it was replaced by fear.  The second he heard the word it rose up his spine and shook his nerves all to a tingle.

"Today class, we're doing something a little different.  Today Narconon will be here to talk to us about drug abuse and prevention, and we are especially lucky in that their spokeswoman Kristie Alley will be giving the presentation herself!"

Kirstie walked in coldly.  Fear.  Terrible fear.  Where's Bobby?  . . . Where's?  As she spoke every word seemed to be directed towards him, and they were heavy, awfully heavy, to the point where he feared he'd ever have the strength to get out of his chair ever again.  He even caught her eyes a few times, and they seemed to look back at him mischievously as if to say I KNOW.  And when she spoke of cigarettes, those eyes seemed to dart at him, and him alone.

"Now cigarettes children,"  I KNOW "can be tempting, especially when friends are trying them and are pressuring them into doing them too," I KNOW "we all want to be cool, but it is not cool, its bad for your health." I KNOW "And has been proven to lead to cancer and health problems in the future," I KNOW "and yellows your teeth and stinks up your breath, and clothes, and fingers," I KNOW, etc. etc.

On and on until Terry felt bruised all over from every glancing blow of her eyes.  He felt sick.

He thought of it all day, at recess, in class, after school, on the way home, and even when he got there.  Like Bobby he didn't eat much, and when he tried to sleep he could not.  And just like Bobby, the steps came down the hallway towards his room.

The glow under the door.

It creeped open and into his room stepped The Kirstie, looking much more menacing than she did at school that day.  Something was different. 

She stood in the doorway.

"So I hear you've been smoking cigarettes."  She boomed.  She reached and grabbed Terry by the leg.  He woke up screaming.  "Oh don't be scared, you're going to like Narconon.  Just look at me, they took me in when I used to snort coke to keep the weight off, and they gave me a much better solution.  Now I snort children's ssssoooooouuuuulllllsss!"  She laughed as Terry kicked passed her.

He ran down the stairs and could hear her booming close behind him.  He thought of the front door.  No.  It was locked.  He headed into the kitchen where she corned him.

"Oh come now, Terry.  It won't hurt too much."

He threw a bowl of fruit at her, which she batted away, rather amused by his desperation, but then he threw cake at her which she devoured.  A ray of hope.  He smiled.  Something to slow her.  Then he opened the cabinet with the candy stash and threw candy at her, which she ate happily, one by one.  And then he emptied the fridge.  Turkey, devoured, bones and all.  Margarine, consumed, down to the last buttery dabble. Ham, last nights leftovers, it was all thrown to be eaten by the Kirstie, who grew bigger and bigger.

And bigger and bigger...

Candied walnuts.  Bigger, bigger.
Whipped Cream.  Bigger, bigger.
Apple pie.  Bigger, bigger.
Cereal of every variety.  Bigger, bigger.

Bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger. . .

Until a bite of coffee cake was consumed and Kirstie stopped eating, her eyes nearly rolling to the back of her head.  Shen then produced a burp that shook the house violently but not as violently as it shook poor Kirstie, for she exploded, all over the kitchen.

It took two weeks to get her out of every crevice in the kitchen, and Terry knew he'd never smoke another cigarette again.  

"The end."  I said.

"What?  That was lame!"  Kiki expounded.

"I agree," said Frank.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, but you're forgetting a very important fact.  That though Kirstie may be gone, Narconon is alive and well. . ."

"Yep yep."  Danny DeVito said, and was still saying as I slipped off to dream a different dream.


Narconon is dangerous.  Its methods for detox have in some cases been proven not only to be ineffective, but in some cases quite dangerous. Their methods are based on the works of L. Ron Hubbard, a man who proposed many ideas about the human body, many of which are entirely wrong.  Furthermore, he's not a real doctor, his doctorate he forged himself, for the sole purpose of giving him the ability to say he's a 'doctor.'  When not forging documents he was also quite the seller of 'snake oils' which were said to work better than modern conventional medicine but simply did not.

Its targeting of drug addicts wastes their money (15,000 flat rate for Narconon's services,) in that their methods do not work, taking away money that could have been well spent on detox methods that have been proven to have some bit of a success rate.  Even more dangerous is the thought that Narconon is nothing more than a cleverly designed recruitment center for Scientology--a religion based on science fiction--much like Jedi Temples, which are aware of their silliness and try not to convince people that Yoda will be able to help them with their heroin addiction... that is only if you join 'the force.'

Drugs, bad they are.

It is for this reason that iR declares Narconon, and its spokeswoman to be dangerously retarded.



Hey he was just a salesman, telling them whatever they wanted to hear so they'd buy the weed!  Now he's not a salesman, no not anymore. . . . Its different ok! And yes, this graph is used for every drug in the book. Same one for booze, same one for heroin, same one for LSD.  Oh my! Even mescaline!  Everything!

love, 

iR

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