HEAVEN’S GREAT (We Hope, For Their Sakes)

Today marks the tenth anniversary of the Heaven’s Gate cult mass suicide. When the Halley’s Bop comet appeared over American skies in 1997, the members of this fringe religion shocked the nation by chewing on jellied Chuckles candies poisoned with arsenic, believing that by leaving their human shells they would join the crew of the spaceship they claimed was hiding either inside or behind the comet (no one was ever terribly clear on that point). Now that a decade has passed, is there anything new to be learned from the cultists’ foolish example?

After being cruelly disappointed by a major film flop so severe that it changed the face of Hollywood bureaucracy, director Michael Cimino went into a period of self-imposed exile in the California desert. He emerged with a new name, Marshall Applewhite, and a vision far stranger than any mere three-and-a-half hour cinematic trifle. Convinced that human beings could join a superior race of interstellar beings by embracing technology and castrating themselves, Applewhite joined forces with Senator Al Gore to invent the Internet, without the Senator fully understanding his partner’s dark intent.

Applewhite used this new communication medium to attract various nerds interested in meeting aliens, much the way it is still used today. Additionally, inventing the Internet created a demand for web design, which allowed the Heaven’s Gate community to make money while not having to deal too directly with other people who might find their lack of genitals off-putting. (To throw people off the scent, they invented Internet porn for good measure.) When the comet appeared in Spring 1997, it seemed as good an omen as any. Breaking into their vast reserve of quarters (the only currency by which the cult would accept payment for their web design), they raided the nation’s vending machines to liberate the precious sugar-sprinkled confections that would be the vessels of their mortal coil-shedding.

We dated a member of the cult once, about a year or two before the incident. Accustomed to potential mates with a greater-than-average interest in extraterrestrials and self-immolation, we thought little of it at the time. Upon hearing of her community’s having gone all Jonestown on itself, we were retrospectively thankful that the action never progressed further than second base; if the cult’s male members were known for, well, removing their male members, we shudder to think what the women did in kind.

Perhaps, though, it is those of us who remain that missed our chance at graceful, satisfying lives. Perhaps the denizens of Heaven’s Gate are speeding around now in their souped-up, custom-fitted comet, making merry with a group of otherworldly beings far sexier and more awesome than anything our inadequate brains and hearts can currently visualize. If we are still alive when the comet returns in the year 4380, maybe we too will hop on and join the party for its next go-round.

IN WHICH WE FINALLY SUCCUMB TO THE INEVITABLE

This morning, Broward County Medical Examiner Josh Perper declared the death of golddigger, spokesmodel and sometime Avatar of Our Times Anna Nicole Smith to be “accidental.” We have refrained from joining the media circus surrounding Ms. Smith’s untimely demise out of delicacy and respect, but our long-held belief that there are no “accidents” in this world compels us to break our silence. Besides, her boobs were just so big!

There is very little about Ms. Smith’s life that has not already been said before, so we will merely skip to the details that nobody has ever heard. She had a deathly phobia of frogs. She was one of the few people on earth who learned how to ride a bicycle but then forgot. She offered to sleep with Count Dracula, but he was afraid he would accidentally bite her and make her immortal. Her favorite cheese was asiago. Her favorite book was Dune.

Speculations about the true cause of Ms. Smith’s death have been flying around like the prize pancakes of an acrobatic short-order cook. Was it murder? Was it suicide? Was it murder by somebody else? There was a lot of money at stake: $3.7 billion in gold bullion, millions of barrels of crude oil, about three-quarters of the planet Neptune, and an old treasure map. There are more motives afoot than Chinese people, and very few have been able to dodge suspicion. (Even the Apocryphist is a minor suspect, the result of an incident that will not be recounted unless we decide some night to post while very, very drunk.)

However, the disingenuousness of the Broward County Medical Examiner’s Office in declaring the death “accidental” is the most suspicious maneuver to date. It is worth noting that the Hard Rock Rock ‘n’ Roll Casino and Rockin’ Hotel where she died is located on tribal land, and that the case is being investigated by the Seminole Police Department. Is it not feasible that there is another angle to this incident? When the blond buxom, nigh-Teutonic symbol of postmodern America is killed on property owned by the aggrieved Native Americans who have been raped, pillaged and marginalized by the very nation Ms. Smith is purported to symbolize, could there not be graver sociopolitical issues at play? Could this be a sign that the Red Man is ready to rise again?

Also, we must remain wary of any Medical Examiner whose last name begins with “perp.”

We refrain from drawing conclusions at this time, other than to say that the Broward County Medical Examiner’s Office is either stupid or nefarious or some combination of the two. Let us hope that this case is resolved with swiftness and integrity, if for no other reason than for the sake of Ms. Smith’s sole survivor, the two-headed freak child Danielynn.

CONDOM NATION

We are not impressed with the recent decision by New York City to authorize the release of branded condoms free of charge to the populace.

In the first place, we believe that citizens need to EARN their right to birth control; if someone is wastrel enough that they either cannot or will not purchase their own contraceptives, being forced to raise a child is fit punishment. Besides which, certain cretins, upon hearing the phrase “city condoms,” will conjure a very different picture than that intended. But even beyond these quibbles, studies provide strong evidence that condoms just don’t work.

It’s not that we object to condoms in general – they have many exciting uses, but these have little to do with semen wrangling. Pregnancy and disease cannot be prevented with a condom, just as an oncoming asteroid cannot be deflected by covering the earth with gift wrap.

In the 18th Century, it was posited by Dutch reproductivologist Nicolas Suepersoeker that human sperm consisted of homunculi, tiny human beings that ran through the uterus with little pickaxes to break through the shell of the female egg to feast upon the yolky goodness within. The last surviving homunculus grew up to be the fetus. This hypothesis has proven to be not as far from the truth as modern medicine would have you believe. Human sperm are far more sharp and angular than current depictions imply, and they can break through a flimsy substance such as rubber with admirable ease. They also have minds of their own (albeit incredibly small ones), and well-suited to adapt to whatever rigors full-sized humans may put in their way.

How then, you ask, have condoms developed such a stalwart reputation as hygienic protectors? The answer is simple: television. The rise of condoms has coincided with the implementation of large, radioactive boxes in the homes of millions, entertaining hurdy-gurdies that, unbeknownst to most, are the cause of mass sterility. As men sit and enjoy their favorite programs, the waves coming from the screen are slowly murdering their homunculi, usually by stabbing or strangling. The condom is merely taking credit for the good work of the, ahem, boob tube.

This also goes a long way towards explaining the population boom and spread of disease prevalent in many third-world countries. Lacking TV, the sperm are bound to play havoc. Yes, a flat-screen, wall-mounted HD screen in every mud hut is an expensive foreign policy proposition, but every mass sterilization has to start somewhere. At the very least we should give all those poor Africans something truly useful, like vasectomies, or 60-hour work weeks and long, unstimulating marriages.

Of course, there is enough television in New York City to render an entire nation impotent. Handing out free condoms is at the very least redundant. For citizens too poor or busy to afford their own sets, Mayor Bloomberg should make it mandatory to spend one hour a week standing in the middle of Times Square – the concentrated rays of all those giant screens will make those little homunculi wish they were never born, and ensure that they’ll never be the cause of birth in others.