Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

6: A Case Of First Suppression

I no longer felt very safe, sane or secure around the wogs. The reactive bank was everywhere. Step out of the Org or the Mission, and you have entered a realm of madness. Can you imagine people who thought they were bodies and not thetans? What do you tell the inhabitants of a planet who live some seventy years with the purpose of accumulating everything except truth and knowingness, only to find that after they die, all they have to look forward to is losing their possessions, forgetting who they were in their most recent life, and picking up the new stolen body of a screaming baby infant, so that they can go through the mess all over again? I don't know. Have you tried communicating with ants in an ant hill lately? No, the ants know what's going on for themselves far better than we do.

Still, I just couldn't let Jaime go. You know how it is; you get used to having things like her around the house. She would have been so fabulous to live with if she were in a coma. I could sleep with her whenever I wanted to, and she would never be able to complain. But I don't want you to get the wrong idea. It wouldn't be like having sex with a dead person, because at least she would still be warm. And in that position, she could never mess up the house. Nurses would wipe her behind and wash her crotch, and I could handle all of that. There was no way I could ever hurt her physically, because I was in love with what she represented; and besides that, I'm the most compassionate guy that I ever met in my whole life. If only my postulates would work stronger! There had to be some very valid reasons why, with all my new abilities, I couldn't just wish Jaime into a catatonic state.

My confidante Denise said it was because I was not handling suppression in the environment effectively enough. She said that if I helped other Scientologists to go up the Bridge, a breakthrough no short of a miracle could open up for me in the theta, or spiritual universe.

When I sent in the claim forms for Harry Sebakovitch and Mylo Canderian, I took responsibility for raising my own level of confront by signing their names in the same way they would have written them if they were real. Peter was so proud of the way I had mocked up two uniquely different signatures, that he gave Kevin a copy of the new handwriting specimens. Kevin then wrote up a Knowledge Report and Federal Expressed it to Lyman Spurlock, who immediately responded by ordering Kevin to recruit me for a confidential Guardian's Office Operation known as the Student Assistance Project, or "SAP" as it was called. Since Denise had also informed Kevin of my desire to handle my own counter-intention in the theta universe, this appeared to be the ideal scene in which to do it.

The Hubbard College of Improvement is under the Department of Training. It supervises the Organization Executive Course, the Flag Executive Briefing Course, the Hubbard Professional Course Supervisor's Course, the Solo Auditor's Course, and various others.34

With a curriculum far more vital for the survival of the world than the garbage taught at Harvard, Yale, or Princeton, it was only natural for the Board of Directors of the Church of Scientology to expect the United States Federal Government would extend the same courtesies for the funding of student loans to the Hubbard College of Improvement as it did to the mediocre wog universities.

But alas, we are dealing with a world gone mad, and for some illogical reason, deeply buried in the collective reactive mind of the Federal Government, accreditation was denied, and the Hubbard College of Improvement, according to Kevin, "was summarily excluded from the benefits of the student loan program."

A wog college would have knuckled under and caved in. In Scientology Organizations, we "make things go right." That is the essential difference. As a grave injustice had been committed, the Guardian's Office was called in to ensure that worthy and upstat Scientologists received their well- deserved scholarship money.

Since I had exceptional talents in the area of handwriting mock-ups, which was borne out by my handling of the securities class action claim forms of my "valences", or synthetic personalities of Harry Sebakovitch and Mylo Canderian, Ph.D.; I was given the opportunity to handle the suppressive elements in the Federal Government who were out there actively stopping people within the Third Dynamic of Scientology from going up the Bridge.

How any whimpering bureaucrat could be that thoughtless, cruel and downright evil-purposed was beyond my comprehension.

Obviously, they had gone in league with the conspiratorial World Federation of Mental Health, who would stop at nothing to attack us.

My hat was to fill out the United States Government Student Loan Applications and see that they were letter perfect, and free from the wog disease known as human error. Kevin Bein supplied me with reference materials, including recent telephone directories of the yellow pages for every major city in the country, as well as a list of accredited wog colleges, and a zip code directory. Most important were about five or six sample forms of correctly filled out student loan applications, so that I could use the data within them as a model, as well as a list of addresses of safe houses all over the country where Kevin wanted me to have the money sent. Several hundred blank student loan applications were also initially dispatched by courier to the Guardian's Office of the Miami Org. Once an application was finished, it was sent "uplines" to upper level Guardians at Flag, in orde r to be forwarded to the Federal Government. Most of the applications were left blank, because despite the variations in my signatures, I could not be expected to sign all of them.

Within seventy-two hours, I became the Org's leading expert on this hat, and I soon became such a formidable authority on it, that I received a call from the Deputy Guardian of Orlando, who needed to know how much outstanding financial debt he should create on one of the applications that he himself was personally working on. All of a sudden I was a Federal loan specialist, trusted and depended upon by my superiors to make extremely critical decisions! I was finally beginning to recognize my very own potential as a human being.

My valor in handling suppression did not go without any personal reward. Each application was a request from the Government of between three and five thousand dollars. After I finished the two hundredth application, Kevin took me out to a Miami Beach landmark seafood restaurant called "Joe's Stone Crabs" for a lobster dinner.

As the butter sauce dripped down my chin, and the clawed beauty who had sacrificed his life for Scientology adorned my palate, I thanked my mentor in absentia, Lafayette Ron Hubbard, for the bounties he was providing for me that famous day. It was a solemn but nevertheless joyous religious experience.

Jaime, in the meantime, had been busy with her own project. She found a seventeen room mansion for four hundred thousand dollars which she insisted that I buy for her if I wanted to avoid a divorce.

And a divorce was unthinkable! Despite the fact that I no longer could control her, she was still my property, and short of having her re-educated in a Soviet labor camp, I had to appease the bitch. I could not suffer the indignities of a separation. That would be admitting some partial failure on my part as a perfect husband, and why should I take the blame for her lunacy, when nothing was ever truly my fault?

It was obviously much easier to buy her the house. All I had to do was to get a second mortgage on my present home until it was sold, in order that I could make the six thousand dollar per month mortgage payments until my share of the securities class action lawsuit settlement claims came rolling in. There was no doubt that the checks would arrive, because Peter said so. Scientology works, and that was all there was to it.

So I did all of that, and I bought the mansion, which was an English Tudor home located in the plush Grove Estates section of Davie, Florida. Jaime had picked out a nice room for me on the side of the house where the servant's quarters were located, and she took the master bedroom, in order to play the part of Princess of the Manor. In return, she promised to shower once a week and sleep with me twice per week for free, but only for a period of six months. After that, I would have to renegotiate the copulation fees. It seemed like a fabulous offer, so I jumped on it. Even the dogs and cats benefitted, because they each had their own bedrooms, and so did my daughter.

"The place might require a little more time for cleaning", I surmised, but our housekeeper Freddie would still be available, as long as I kept a fresh supply of Jack Daniels whiskey for her to drink on her hourly break.

But my old house did not sell very rapidly, since it stank from animal dung, and people had no imagination about how cozy it would be once the smell was out. I was forced to throw away the old carpeting and replace it, as well as repaint the whole house. The extra five thousand dollar expense made it impossible for Jaime to keep up her collection of porcelain frogs, because the credit cards were over their limits. This in turn made her very cranky during our semiweekly five minutes of passion. Pouring ice water on my back during intercourse was not so terrible, but when she started stabbing me with thumb tacks, I considered it very unfair, since it made me climax too fast, and I felt cheated and shortchanged.

My father, in the meantime, was getting more difficult to talk to in the shoe store, because he was angry that I had allowed Jaime to get me into debt, and was very antagonistic to the wonderful progress I was making in Scientology. At the New Years event at Flag on the eve of the Year AD30, which was also known in wogdom as 1980, Peter introduced me to Wolly Hooker, who was the Financial Planner for the Commodore's Messenger Organization.

Wolly, who was a strong, silent type, explained to me that only bodies can have mothers, fathers, wives and children. Thetans, on the other hand, are pure thought, soul or spirit.

"A spirit can't have a mother or a father!", Wolly correctly pointed out. "These relationships are illusions, foisted upon us by the lower intelligence of the body, or "genetic entity." They are merely biological ties, linking together lumps of meat from one generation of bodies to the next. The very idea of parents and children are the furthest thing from reality, because for thetans, they can't possibly exist."

"But I love them!", I protested.

"You can love whoever you want!", Wolly maintained, "but a soul cannot have a mother or a father. And don't forget, you don't have a soul, you are a soul. You have a body, because you are a thetan operating one. You are not a body."

You don't know what a large chunk of guilt had just peeled off my back and evaporated when Wolly spoke to me. Here I had been, feeling obligated to people that I thought I was actually related to! What an absolute shmuck I was! The relationship between a son or a daughter and his or her parents is just an illusion, conceived in fiction, in order to perpetuate the trap of being fooled into believing that you are a body instead of a thetan! What a suppressive act that was to make me think so stupidly during all of these trillions of lifetimes. I wondered what kind of a bastard ever did that to me!

And when you ponder on it, why are your present set of parents any more valuable to you than parents you have had in any former lives? Just because you can't remember your old sets of parents because you have forgotten all about your old identities, they have become unimportant to you now. Well, the cognition that I had is that they were all unimportant, because they were only connected to the body! They had nothing to do with me as a spiritual being!

"If your father is objecting to your betterment in Scientology, why don't you withdraw and disconnect from him?", Wolly Hooker asked quite logically.

"He can't do that!", Peter interrupted, "He's expecting the class action lawsuit settlements to be mailed to his father's shoe store!"

"Oh, I didn't know", Wolly apologized. "Well, if you can't disconnect from him, you better start handling him!"

"His whole family is nuts!", Peter remarked.

"My wife especially", I added.

"She must be good for something", Wolly suggested. "Otherwise, why keep her around?"

"That's it!", screamed Peter. "Let's get her to sign some claim forms!"

The New Years Event was so memorable for me. Pat Broeker, the Executive Director of the Commodore's Messenger Organization, spoke about what the second thirty years in Scientology would be like. No longer would we have to be persecuted by suppressive governments, because Scientology would be the government. Somewhere, in the corner of a remote, isolated section of the planet would be the Museum of Psychiatry and Barbaric Mental Health Antiquities, which will stand as a painful reminder that the brutality of man's darkest hour shall never be permitted to be repeated again.

"Never shall we Scientologists rest", Pat Broeker vowed, "until the very last asylum and the very last prison becomes the very next auditing room." Pat mesmerized the audience, and the standing ovation was the longest on record, a full seventeen minutes.

Privately, after the ceremonies, Wolly Hooker gave me a history lesson on my Financial Rescue hat. "Back in 1967,", he explained, "Ron isolated those suppressive industrialists and financiers who, by their evil acts, were dramatizing a catastrophe that had occurred in this sector of the universe some seventy-five million years ago."

"These individuals, who were intimately connected with most of the Fortune 500 companies, either owned, controlled or did business with the Rockerfeller Foundation, the Bank of England, the Trilateralist Commission, the Council on Foreign Relations, the Bilderberg Trust, and of course, the World Federation of Mental Health and its token subsidiary, the American Psychiatric Association."

"While Ron was on his naval vessel, the Royal Scotman, which was later called the Apollo, he cognited that recovering funds from corporations affiliated with these suppressive persons and groups would be an effective way to handle all of their out-ethics corporate theft and fraud, and return a portion of this to the Third Dynamic, in order to create a stable cause point from which all of this evil, or "entheta", could begin to be turned around. Financial Rescue was Ron's way of making things go right."

Peter, it turned out, had been trained in Financial Rescue while he did his interneship at the New York Org in 1974 and 1975.

"What was the catastrophe that occurred seventy-five million years ago?", I asked Wolly. "I thought the history of the thetan began seventy-six trillion years ago!"

Wolly started to laugh.

"You are confusing the time when we were trapped in human bodies with the date we were packaged and shipped to Earth as prisoners. Seventy six trillion years ago, we were tricked into occupying physical universe bodies, and we have been forced into accepting the false cycle of life and death of the body ever since, when in actual fact, none of it is real. A thetan cannot die. How can a spirit die? He just has amnesia, going from body to body, life after life, failing to remember anything."

"Wow!", I exclaimed.

"Now the other date, seventy-five million years ago was when the Suppressive Emperor Xenu sent in his armies and mercenaries to gather up unwanted segments of his populations, and he subsequently freeze-dried us by injecting a chemical solution of alcohol-glycol into our lungs, and shipped us to Earth on space ships that looked like commercial airline DC-9s."

"Maybe that's why I have such a fear of flying", I said.

"Possibly", Wolly agreed. "Earth had a different name back then. It was called Teegeeack."

"Teegeeack?", I asked. "What did it mean?"

"Oh, it just means "jail", he said.

"In what language?", I wondered curiously.

"Marcabian, of course!", Wolly chided. "Don't you know anything about the history of theta? The Marcab Confederacy was the planet in between Mars and Jupiter which exploded six years after Xenu did this to us, and is now known as the asteroid belt. It's completely devoid of life now."

"What happened to the freeze-dried people?", I queried.

"We're all here!", Wolly shouted. "That's the wog society we live in. You don't think they became that crazy from nothing, do you?"

"I suppose not", I said.

"Anyway", Wolly continued, "once Xenu transported all of the thetans over here, he blew them up with explosive hydrogen bombs, which were suspended over some of Earth's most active volcanoes. It was a real noisy mess!"

"How did we live through that?", I gasped.

"Well, it didn't end there", Wolly revealed. "After the volcanoes exploded, the thetans were captured by electronic force screens known as theta traps, which pulled them down toward Earth through several electromagnetic fields, and then the Emperor Xenu had the helpless beings packaged electronically at two automation plants into "Clusters", which were actually several thousand thetans stuck together as one."

"Where did all of this happen? Where were these packaging centers located?", I asked, glued and fixated on Wolly.

"Everybody knows that!', he scoffed. "It's all part of our Scientology history. One was in Pahala, Hawaii, near the Mauna Loa Volcano, and the other was in Las Palmas, in the Canary Islands. Ron visited Las Palmas in 1967. It was a gruesome site, even after so many millions of years. The place was run back then by the personal psychiatrists of Emperor Xenu, who conducted cruel experiments, such as dissecting bodies right down to the skeleton; and then photographing these sequences so that they could be implanted into the permanent memory or time tracks of the trapped thetans, in order that the ferocity of recalling any of these incidents at any subsequent time would kill them dead!"

"It sounds horrible", I said as I sipped a container of Kool Aid in the Flag canteen. "But how could just remembering an unpleasant incident kill you?"

"Well, if you started to "Free Wheel", or were unable to turn the mental image pictures off, you'd become trapped in the images, and in not being able or eat or sleep, you would simply catch pneumonia and die from exhaustion. The same phenomenon occurs if you get stuck in a nightmare and can't wake up, because a nightmare is nothing more than an effort to locate oneself.35 Obviously Xenu did not want his secret scam to be discovered and undone. This is, after all, a prison planet. And until Ron discovered it, no one had ever survived confronting this material before. No one, certainly, until Ron found this incident, which is known as the Wall of Fire."

"How did Ron survive it?", I wondered.

"Look, I can't tell you that!", Wolly grunted. "That's confidential material! That's what you audit on OT Three. I've told you too damn much already!"

"Just tell me what happened to Emperor Xenu", I begged. "Did he get punished for doing all of this to us?"

Wolly looked at me rather reluctantly, but since he had not finished his apricot nectar, he condescended to answer my question.

"Xenu was captured for a while, after some of the people's Loyal Officers revolted. Ron was the valiant leader of the counter-rebellion, of course. The Loyal Officers imprisoned Xenu on a mountain top on the island of Madeira, and for a short time he was forced to stay inside a wire cage that had an external battery. But Emperor Xenu had his own renegades and mercenaries, and a planetary war ensued. For years, Earth was a radioactive dump, and a complete desert that was known throughout the Galactic Confederation as "The Evil Place." It is for that reason that no other space ships ever come here, even to this day, except to drop off their criminals en route to saner planets."

"We couldn't have all been criminals", I protested. "What about Ron? You wouldn't ever dare call him a criminal!"

"No, certainly not!", Wolly complained with great annoyance, because I was not allowing him to end off the conversation. "Ron came here some years before Xenu started dumping his undesirables here. Ron's landing party touched down in what is now Elbert County, Georgia. In fact, last June, I went there with Ron to see the place, and he decided to construct a monument commemorating the original landing site. He wants it to be completed by his next birthday, this March 13th."

"Can I go see it?", I questioned.

"It's not finished yet", Wolly stated. "All I can tell you about it is that it's one of Ron's personal projects that he has become involved with. He is not planning it as a dissemination program for Scientology. The name of it will be the Georgia Guidestones, and he's planning to turn it over to the State of Georgia when it is completed, so that it can be preserved as a state landmark and never be torn down. Ron just wants to commemorate the first landing site on Earth, that's all. He is very sentimental and nostalgic when it comes to history, although few people know it."

"Where is this place located?", I asked.

"It's in the center of a farm on a hill on Route 77, between Elberton and Hartwell, Georgia", he disclosed. "Right in the middle of nowhere. Ron always liked to go to Stonehenge, In England, and it's going to look something like that, but more modern."

"Won't his name be on it as the sponsor?", I inquired.

"He doesn't want that!", Wolly sneered. "When we went there, he told everybody that he was a former concrete worker named Robert C. Christian whose great-grandmother was from Georgia. It was a marvelous mock-up. Of course, he did tell Joe Fendley, the man at the Elberton Granite Finishing Company who is building it, that he was a war hero in World War Two, which certainly is true."

"There is only one thing that puzzles me", I said. "Why did he select the name Robert C. Christian?"

"Ha, ha, ha!", Wolly laughed. "You're pretty smart, picking up on that, without having done OT Seven yet."

"Well, now that I asked, why did he?"

"It was just Ron's way of getting back at Emperor Xenu for what he did to all of us. Ron has a very good sense of humor, as well as the capacity to use a a little sarcasm whenever he has to make a point about something."

"I don't understand. What does Xenu have to do with the name Robert C. Christian?", I asked, very puzzled.

"Xenu, like all the rest of us, picked up other bodies in his subsequent life cycles, and is far better known for one of his more recent identities."

"Why?", I asked. "Was he Hitler?"

Wolly looked at me as if I had just arrived from another world and didn't know a fucking thing. He shook his head from side to side as he gulped down his drink.

"No, Xenu wasn't Hitler!", he answered. "He was Christ!"

One Sunday morning, while I was giving a bath to Reep-a-Cheep, who was one of our hamsters, Jaime barged into my bathroom, screaming at me.

"I want to know where you go all of the time!", she blurted. "There's a new disease out called AIDS which is worse than herpes, and if Steve Goldberg is fixing you up with his sluts, I want to know about it!"

"Steve Goldberg?", I exclaimed. "I haven't spoken to him since you refused to invite him to our wedding. I would never cheat on you, my precious fantasy. Who on Earth put strange thoughts like that into your little head?"

"You're never home!", she argued. "Not that I want you hanging around here cleaning up all the time. But there was no shoe show in Tampa. You lied to me!"

"It wasn't a shoe show!", I laughed. "I had an appointment with Perry DeLaney, the salesman from Enna Jettick Shoes, who lives in Tampa on North Dale Mabry."

"Well, I don't want you to give me a disease!", she warned. "I know what kind of sex maniac you are."

"I never even heard of this AIDS. Isn't that the name of some kind of diet pill?", I asked.

"No, it's a weird plague that affects Haitians in Miami", she explained, "and I don't want you to give it to me, 'cause they all die from it. It's incurable!"

"It probably comes from sleeping with cats, and I am at risk of catching it from you!", I yelled as I walked out of the room, putting the wet hamster in the middle of Jaime's plate of fudge brownies.

"Dry this smelly mouse off!", I ordered her, "and stop asking me stupid questions!"

"You still didn't tell me where you go all of the time!", she nagged.

An hour later, I charged into Peter's office. He was working on his statistics for the week, and he was in a very bad mood because both the NPI, or "New People In" Stat, and the NPRR, or "Number of New People Routed To the Registrar" Stat were both grotesquely down.

"Not now!", Peter cried. "The Mission is in Emergency! I have to write up a Slump Report, and Bruce is going to kick me in the teeth when he finds out about it."

"Listen, this is an emergency too", I underscored. "Just take a minute out to talk to me. Jaime is getting very suspicious about where I go every day, and she is on the verge of finding out that I am in Scientology. She called the hotel in Tampa where I said the shoe show was supposed to be, and --"

"Sit down and shut up!" Peter interrupted. "You are a Scientologist, not some namby pamby fruitcake! Think, why don't you! You're dealing with an SP, and you owe no loyalty to her as a thetan. SPs have two things in common. They can't confront anything, and they can never complete a cycle of action. They are parked on the time track in a condition where all they can do is try to stop things."

As I was seated, Peter glanced back on his desk of graphs and stat charts.

"Damn it! How can I get new people into this Mission?", he stammered. "We're a short walk from the Broward County Government Center, from the Court House, and from the bus station. How much closer to the heart of the city can we be, near all that human traffic? Yet our stats are down. How come?"

"Why don't you try something new?", I suggested, temporarily forgetting about my own problems.

"Like what?", Peter asked. "Should I drag them in here with a big fish net?"

"Well, you mentioned the Court House", I recalled. "Just one year ago, I was stuck there on jury duty for a week with nothing to do but wait around all the time for my name to be called. Why don't you send Corwin or Denise or one of the Registrars down to the jurors' waiting room with about two hundred personality tests, and give them out? The people will be thrilled to have something to keep themselves busy with, and you are bound to get a big percentage of them in here afterwards to get their results."

"That's a good idea!", he beamed. "I think that might work!"

"Now maybe you can help me with my problem", I hinted.

"Oh, yeah, about Jaime", Peter mumbled. "Just mock up some excuse that she cannot confront, or at least something that she can't prove or verify."

"Like what?", I originated, completely mystified.

"Just tell her you work for the head of the Jewish Mafia", Peter snickered, trying to dismiss me quickly so he could prepare the ability tests to give the jurors when the Court House opened up on Monday."

"What a great idea!", Peter kept saying as I left the room. "Oh, Steve!", he shouted, calling me back. "Don't forget the deadline on the Forest Laboratories class action lawsuit. Have that nut-case wife of yours sign it."

"What should I say about it?", I asked, clamoring for further instructions.

"Tell her its a raffle ticket for a pet frog!", he hollered. "When she hears that she'll sign anything. No, on second thought, tell her you work for that guy in Miami Beach... What's his name again?... Meyer Lansky. Tell her you work for Meyer Lansky, and these papers are for him! Say you're his financial planner. Ha! That's a good one. Meyer Lansky's financial planner. I love it!"

Neither Peter nor I realized how deeply we had helped one another. My idea to select out the prospective jurors for basic Dianetics services boomed the Mission of Fort Lauderdale for the weeks to come. And since it was a successful dissemination action, as a matter of policy, Peter wrote it up to share with other Missions and Orgs, so it could be repeated in other areas.

In fact, my suggestion was so well accepted, that within less than sixty days, Ron made it part of standard Scientology dissemination policy! Although my name was not mentioned in the Hubbard Communications Office Policy Letter since Ron deservedly took the credit for it, Peter honored me by giving me a five dollar Scientology car badge for free! Unfortunately, it was made with very cheap glue, and it stayed on my bumper for only two days. But as you can see, it was the principle of the thing that counted.

In the meantime, Jaime was very satisfied with my tall tale, or "shore story" of "working for Meyer Lansky." A white lie is euphemistically known as a "shore story" in Scientology, because when Ron commanded the Sea Org from his naval vessel, the Apollo, he mocked up a "shore story" whenever he was in port, so the wogs of the various countries where the Apollo was docked did not know about all of the confidential missions, projects and OT research that Ron was doing on board.

Jaime was very proud of my new "shore story", because in her devious, aberrated, and deeply twisted mind, I went from being an ordinary shoe salesman "shlepp" to a Mafia Tycoon's Administrative Assistant.

"You see!", Jaime said cheerfully. "Now that you're working for Meyer Lansky, we'll be able to afford our big new house after all!"

At the grand gala celebration in Miami for Ron's 69th birthday which he never attended, I was proud to tell Leah Abady that things were finally falling into place for me. I had sent out four more class action claims, so within the next two years, I would create enough flows to skyrocket up the Bridge. Meanwhile, I was paying for the mortgages, the maid, and for the whores with the cash that I was misdirecting from the shoe store, so that the finances were all handled. Jaime was starting to show respect for me by flushing her toilet without being reminded, and even my mother-in-law began to invite me over to her house to meet her friends. I had just sent out my three hundredth student loan application in the Guardian's Office Student Assistance Project, and I had the gratitude of Bruce and Peter at the Mission for booming their stats with the Jury Duty Dianetics Dissemination Campaign. What more could a thetan ask for? I had come into my own fruition as a person. I was finally somebody now.

If that wasn't enough to make life worth living, on the 11th of April, 1980, Kevin told me that Ron had put out a Guardian's Order of the Day, making it a permanent policy of the Guardian's Office to "Bingo the Psychs!" Kevin Bein assigned me the first Bingoing stat ever in Miami, in honor of my contribution. The stat was known as BBMO, or Bingoed Bulk Mail Out. And I did not disappoint Kevin, either. On my first day as the Bingoer of Miami In Charge, I set an all time record by flooding my own ex- psychologist, Dr. Geertz, with more junk mail than I sent anyone ever before. I knew his home address on Nassau Lane in the Lauderdale Isles section of Fort Lauderdale, and I really bombarded him with a ton of crap!

Can you imagine how wonderful I felt when Ron made my own idea part of Scientology Policy? He must have been thinking about me all of the time, which proved how much he truly loved me. If I were a gir l, I would have let my beloved Commodore seduce me in honor of that rare privilege. But as a man, all I could do is weep endlessly with happiness.

"If only my life could always stay this blissful and perfect forever", I whispered to myself in a deluge of bittersweet euphoric joy.

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