Archive for the ‘UFOs’ Category

Raelian Compound Yard Sale

February 19, 2007

Pride, Groucho:18, 6006 YD

I’ve always wanted to own my own cult compoud, complete with its own UFO, so you’d think I was in luck when the Raelians decided to sell theirs, there’s only one thing . . . it’s in Quebec.

The Raelian movement was started in the 70s by former race-car driver “Claude Vorilhon” who claims to have had an encounter with a UFO in France who gave him a new name, “Rael”, and which led him to understand the “true” origins of humankind: Rael claims that every life form on Earth was created by advanced human scientists from another planet with 25,000 years of scientific advances who, according to Raelians were originally called Elohim or “those who came from the sky”, and that some forty prophets in Earth’s history were sent by Elohim whose messages were misunderstood and distorted by humans, largely because of the difference in the level of scientific understanding between the advanced race and our primitive one.

The Raelians reached a new level of notoriety (or infamy, depending on your politics) in 2002 when they claimed to have successfully cloned a human baby, a claim they have yet to prove publicly.

Now the group thinks they have worn out their welcome in Quebec, and are packing up to move to the USA, home of the “free”, and selling their $2.95-million compound to the highest bidder. “We’ve been in Quebec for 30 years and our membership is saturated. Our future is in the United States,” said group spokesman Jocelyn Chabot, a Raelian priest.

Cynics claim it’s a sign of decline for a sect that once piled up publicity with its beliefs in telepathy, aliens and free love; however, optimists wonder if perhaps the Raelian movement will gain notoriety with jaded celebrities south of the border and become an even bigger, more boffo, cult craze than Kabbalah, or even -gasp!- Scientology.

The Raelian property, which is already posted on one Internet site, sprawls over 500 hectares in Quebec’s Eastern Townships. It offers campgrounds, lakes, an amphitheatre, a small carnical and sideshow, a shopping mall, two dentist offices, a McDonalds, nine Starbucks, seven Tim Hortons, a wading pool, offices and — for those with otherworldly tastes — a condominium building in the shape of a spaceship. Also on site is a copy of the UFO that Rael says he encountered while hiking along a volcano in France in the 5970s.

The group’s listing on says the property covers 275 acres (500 hectares). The asking price, as stated earlier, is $2.95-million.

Men In Black: Discordian Agents?

November 13, 2006

Pride, Harpo:66, 6006 YD

The first alleged Men In Black contact was in 1947, following the infamous Maury Island Incident, when a Unidentified Flying Object reportedly dumped slag onto Harold Dahl’s boat, killing his dog and injuring his son. Shortly afterward, Dahl was visited by a tall man in a black suit who issued somewhat vague threats about the safety of Dahl’s family if he should choose to publicize the story, which he proceeded to do anyway, only to later retract it. The story was picked up and published by UFO enthusiast Alfred Bender, who -himself- was threatened by Men In Black.

Throughout UFO history the Men In Black have been one of the strangest aspects of the entire mystery, which is somewhat of an achievement in itself, considering the glut of wild and seemingly insane stories which have been reported (pancakes from outer-space anyone?) in fact, one need look no further than the strange case of Dr. Herbert Hopkins for proof that the MIB are indeed a strange case all their own.

Recently, however, I have been pondering a certain case in John Keel’s “The Mothman Prophesies” which has been leading me to suspect that there may be other motives for the high strangeness of these cases . . . something a littler closer to home . . . on page 89 of “The Mothman Prophesies” Keel reports that a tall man visited the family of one Edward Christiansen on January 9, 1967 CE, under the pretense that he was from the Missing Heirs Bureau. After being invited inside, the man, who was well over six feet tall, removed his coat revealing a gold badge – which he quickly covered, then removed and placed in a pocket.

pg90:“It looked like a gold or brass badge,” Connie told me later. “But it wasn’t an ordinary police badge or anything like that. We got a glimpse of it . . . but it seemed to have a big K on it . . .” – The Mothman Prophesies, John Keel.

The man introduced himself, but after he left none of the family members could remember the name, except that he said people called him “Tiny”. Tiny was exceedingly pale, spoke somewhat robotic, and had a wire running down his leg from inside his rather short trousers and into his sock. As he spoke to the family his face became redder and redder, until he finally asked for a glass of water. When he left the family’s home he gestured into the night and a black car pulled up, without any headlights on.

As I continue to ponder the badge that “Tiny” wore I am forced to wonder if all this madness is merely confusion for confusion’s sake . . . no true connection to UFO business at all, but simply some rogue Discordian deciding to do as the Goddess would do, and stir up the pot a little bit . . . but then I wonder, what could the “K” have stood for? Keel thinks the family mixed up the figure, and that it was really the Greek letter Sigma, but of all the figures in the world what made Keel decide on a Greek letter? And is it possible that whatever it was only looked like a badge? A golden apple on a shirt would certainly still be within the shape of a badge . . . could the “K” have stood for Kallisti? The world may never know.


October 16, 2006

Pride, Harpo:38, 6006 YD

“Po” was coined by psychologist Edward De Bono as a means of helping Lateral Thinking, which is what some people describe as ‘thinking outside the box’ but could be more accurately described as thinking beyond the normal Aristotelian Laws Of Thought. It is used as a method of changing perspectives and roads of thought.

Whereas a normal question such as “2 men dig a hole 5 feet deep in 3 hours, but how deep would it be if 23 men dug for 5 hours?” would be answered by simple mathematics De Bono’s “Po” would help jumpstart the thinking beyond the usual walls of imagination. For instance if you put the “hole” sandwiched with a ‘po’ and, say,”forest” like so:

hole po forest

. . . you might decide that 23 men digging a hole in a forest would be an unnecessarily complicated affair, and think about digging the hole elsewhere.

While Po might not be overly helpful in a standard math problem it would be extremely helpful in most arts, and in several other areas of life today.

Take some time to consider the following:

-flowers po murder

-children po UFOs

-rabbits po volcanoes

-war po homecooking

-death po comedy


March 22, 2006

I’ve been thinking about conspiracies lately. For years I loathed the notion of conspiracies . . . being fond of Forteana since birth I found I was always wading waist-deep through pools of conspiracy; probably the reason I avoided UFO literature for so long, it’s a genre hammered together piecemeal from hundreds of nutcases’ progressively more bizarre persecution fables. Give me ghosts and bigfoot any day of the week, was my former opinion.

Looking back, I would say that all changed when my interest in the Jack the Ripper case matured in my 20s. The case is rife with conspiracy. To avoid the notion in investigating that case is to ignore at least 75% of the information available. I had always been interested in the case for some morbid reason I still don’t fully understand, but around the age of 20 stumbled across the Diary Of Jack The Ripper, a fascinating bit of writing, fiction or otherwise . . . I won’t go into the case at length here, or I would be writing all day, suffice to say that from the Diary Of Jack The Ripper I stumbled onto The Final Solution which deals primarily with a HUGE Royal conspiracy. A conspiracy which is sniffed at by many Ripperologists, and I’m not certain I believe it myself, but nonetheless it is a fascinating read.

I was hooked.

The Watergate caper proved that large-scale conspiracy certainly did happen, which made me doubt my old doubts. When you start to doubt your doubts you can easily fall into infinite regression, which is the path to insanity, or perhaps enlightenment. If you’re lucky. For me it lead closer and closer to agnosticism. To believe anything fully was beginning to look like folly. 9/11 eventually happened, and the conspiracies followed snapping at its heels. The shock was so new that to doubt any of the standard stories was to be branded a paranoid conspiracy nutcase, but like Charles Manson pointed out “being totally paranoid is being totally aware”, which has some truth in it.

Recently I have been introduced to the concept of “zeteticism”, which could be described as being skeptical about everything, including your own skepticism. Insanity? Perhaps, but it seems to help me from being lulled into the somnambulism “they” want to keep us all in. You would imagine I live in state of constant fear, and yet, strangely, since beginning to hold this philosophy I have felt more at peace than I ever did before.

My point?

Paranoia is the key to inner peace.

Do you believe THAT?

The No-Prize

February 12, 2006

Anyone who read Marvel comics in the 1970s and 1980s is familiar with the concept of the No-Prize. In a nutshell the No-Prize was a fictitious award handed out to fans who noticed mistakes in the stories, but instead of admitting them as mistakes created clever reason why it wasn’t really a mistake at all.

An example might be Wolverine in an X-Men comic being drawn in the middle of a fight pounding someone without his claws, when in the panels before and after his claws had been extended. A suitable answer worthy of the No-Prize would have been that Wolverine’s claws periodically become dulled and need to be retracted and popped out again to regain sharpness.

Intelligent? No. Possible? Perhaps.

All around us these days you will find people answering No-Prizes without even getting an empty envelope in the mail for their troubles.

—–Fundie X-tians are foiled by dinosaur bones when believing the world to be only 6000 years old? No problem! Jews buried the bones in the 1920s!

—–Government documents about Roswell show that it was indeed bits and pieces of a top secret weather balloon aren’t as fun as believing in crashed UFO’s? No problem! The government forged the documents!

—–Someone crashed a couple planes into some big buildings, but we don’t know who? Forget it! It was Saddam, and he has WOMD!

I propose that Discordians revive the tradition of the No-Prize and send them out to all the people who use specious reasoning to satiate themselves.

That Man In Black

October 28, 2005

No, not Johnny Cash. This was some creep who was standing outside my building last night as I went out to pick up some roach motels. I feel bad for all the roaches living under my sink and think they have the right to watch softcore porn movies on lumpy mattresses too, so I like to pick up a few motels a week to keep them happy.

Anyway, I digress.

I walked out of my building and a small man wearing a black suit was walking around in circles. As I walked by him he stopped and touched my elbow. “Merry Christmas.” he said, then added: “What is your time?”

“My time?” I asked. “Well, it’s isn’t Christmas, I can tell you that. It isn’t even Halloween yet.”

“I’m looking for meat.” he said, which I have to admit caught me off guard.

“Oh.” I said. “Well, good luck with that.”

“Are Platypusses poisonous?” he asked as I walked away. Remembering my encounter with the large Platypussy the night before I stopped, and turned back to him. He was standing very still and had a large grin plastered across his face, like he knew something I didn’t. And what he knew was apparently very humourous.

“I’m not an expert on Platypusses.” I said, walking closer to him. “Are you?”

He kept smiling. “I’m looking for meat.” he repeated.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“You can call me Mr. Eye.”

“Is that your name, or just what I can call you?”

“What is your time?”

“It’s dark,” I said. “That’s all you need to know.”

“That’s all I need to know.” he repeated, still grinning like an idiot.

At this point I was beginning to become a tad unnerved by this gentleman. “Look, who are you?” I asked.

He said: “I’m one of you.” Then added, “Aren’t I?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.” I said, with all honesty. “Where are you from?”

He looked around, and then said, “I live between the cracks.”

“The cracks?”

“I’m looking for meat. For the others. They show up later. Or before. I don’t know. I don’t know the time. What is your time? They show up, but they need things. Sometimes we are light. Merry Christmas. At night it is easier. Please turn off cell phones. Am I falling apart? What do you talk about at night? Am I speaking to the correct person? What time is it? What is your time? Sometimes we float. It’s hard to know which way to go. They are coming. They are here. They have gone. Have they? What is good to eat? How long? How long until now? What is your time?”

I started to worry that he was autistic or drunk. “Do you need help?”

“No. I need to know the time.”

I made a time up. “It’s eight thirty.”

“You lie.” he said. “It is five o’clock.” and with that, he turned and walked down the street. I watched him cross to the other side, and crouch down to tie his shoe. It seemed to take a long time. After a couple minutes I shifted my position to see around the car he had crouched behind. He was gone.

Suddenly the roach motels didn’t seem so important. I went back inside and locked all my doors and windows.

I wonder if he found any meat?

The Baron’s UFO Encounter

October 26, 2005

Last night while tap-dancing on my balcony a bright purple light appeared in the sky. I watched it for a few seconds, wondering if the pollution in the air had altered the atmosphere so much that it could cause a star to appear purple, then continued tap-dancing.

As I entered into my seven hundredth step-ball-change the purple light grew into a huge ball of violet fire, and just as I marveled at it I found myself inside a dark room. The air was moist, and had the slight odour of cinnamon.

I hardly had a chance to wonder where I was before a chair near me turned around to reveal a seven foot tall Platypussy smoking a cigarette. “I suppose,” it said. “that you are wondering why I brought you here.”

I thought for a moment. “No, not really. I assume that you have some sort of cosmic warning about nuclear death and all that drab crap. Am I right?”

The Platypussy leveled a severe glare at me. “No.” it said. “That is not right. I do, in fact, have a warning for you, but it has nothing to do with nuclear death, as you so casually put it. What do I care if all you monkeys blow each other up? Do you realize how much agony your race has put the universe through . . . Celine Dion, Joe Piscopo . . . Donovon. I could go on and on. In fact, I hope you all do charbroil yourselves.”

I sighed. “The warning?”

“Yes.” the Platypussy said. “Yes. That warning. Well. I don’t know if you are aware but you rented a DVD about three weeks ago.”

“Did I?” I asked.

“Yes. The Village, by M. Night Schyamalamadingdong.”

“Oh god, right. I had blocked that out from my mind. Thanks for bringing all that back.” I shivered, recounting the two hours of my life which had been stolen from me. “So what’s the warning? Not to see anymore of his movies?”

“No.” the Platypussy said. “Take back the DVD. You don’t want it to effect your credit rating.”

I looked at it, smoking a cigarette and blowing smoke rings with it’s duck like bill. “That’s . . . it?”

“Yep.” it said. “Go home.”

And with a blink I was back on my balcony and the purple light was gone. My legs ached. Wearily, I wandered back inside and sat down on the couch. Looking up at the clock I realized that over twenty minutes had gone by . . . more time stolen from my life.

I still haven’t taken that DVD back. Fuck em.