The notion of joining a cult precariously balances on the tip of my inflated ego. My irreverent responses to dubious proclamations expounded upon by our cult leader would not be appreciated by the other members.
Communal living is how God, or Zorgamex in our case, intended for us to exist. As one, our community would share in the weekly tasks of tending to the communal garden, feeding the cattle, and sacrificing second-born daughters. Following our gracious master's leadership, we would devote ourselves to the sharing and nurturing of each others' families. Our cult leader would place an emphasis on sharing our wives as well.
And the food? Imagine sitting next to His excellence at a 90 ft. cedar oak dining table eating only the finest meats and herbs. Scrumptious delectables would be plentiful. His excellence would also require us to refer to all food as "scrumptious delectables", even if the slosh steaming inside our handcrafted bowls resembled hardened body fluids transported in flasks from a Thai prison.
Residing in little tents with twirly-eyed flaxen minxes is certainly appealing. When I attended Burning Man for a month, I lived under similar circumstances. Later, I was told the festival only lasted a week. No recollection as to what transpired during the other 22 days, but I do recall angels draped in Persian rugs descending from an Aladdin-themed zeppelin.
Now obviously, I do not expect to be greeted with an elaborate stage show upon my arrival, but a multi-colored hot-air balloon carrying a banner with my name embroidered across the front in calligraphy would suffice.
Patience, dear reader, as I now lie down upon the mantle next to my computer and meditate on this. Silence, I beg.
11 minutes later.
Divine. I shall retire my ego and focus on revitalizing what little potential I have remaining. If by fortune, a cult leader scampers onto this lowly page and recognizes a curious soul seeking manifestation, I will entertain his solicitation. Bring me forth to the council and deliberate my acceptance.
I must warn the compassionate one, however, that before I submit to his teachings, I must be promised several ...edit... hundreds upon hundreds of brides. Whether it be during this life or the afterlife, show me the ladies. (Take notice that ladies is plural, Sir Enlightenment.) The opportunity to choose the 200 brides myself would serve as an enticement. But let's not diverge down the shallow stream of selfish non-entitlements.
Also, if you have gold, gold would be great. Together, we could manipulate the other sheep into creating a golden calf which we will later decimate using dynamite during a ritual honoring, Jesus, I don't know, togetherness or something. As soon as we set off the pyrotechnics, a trapdoor would open and the calf would fall into a secret chamber. My uncle rents a storage unit somewhere in Rankin County. We could probably store our treasure there if I ask permission.
Sorry. Clarity is evasive during these trying economic times. This is why the thought of 50+ adoring family members welcoming me into their 100+ arms is so alluring. Immaculate King, admit a new follower into your soon-to-expire cult, and allow me to grace your beautiful and spacious back taxes-laden property in peace. I give my faith. Solace.
quite clever, good for a chuckle or two