Written by EdHopper | 01 July 2009

Back in April I devoted an entry to four cult leaders with exceptional influence and barbarity. Among the profiles I did was one about David Miscavige, the de facto leader of the Church of Scientology. I believed then as I do now that Miscavige is probably the most successfuland powerful leader of any destructive organization out there. The man controls the intellectual licensing of the cult's "religious technology", brining in his church millions each year. He also has strong ties to entertainers, many of whom credit there success to this peculiar organization. Miscavige is very guarded, rarely speaking to the media at all. Instead, he has employed a series of spokespeople to carry water for him. For several years, Australian native Mike Rinder was the prime apologist for Scientology, appearing on television and in print defending everything from the church's teachings, to its tax exempt status as well as responding to allegations of brutality against members and ex-members alike.

Scientology sheds members quite a bit - often very bitter ex-adherents who have a lot to say. That's why it was strange when Rinder, Scientology's mouthpiece left the organization two years ago with very attention paid to it. He has largely been silent about his disillusion with the church until just recently. After all, Scientology has been known to extract a code of silence through fear. Forget the ACLU, It is the church is among the most litigious organizations out there.

Last week, Rinder, the long-time spin doctor for the movement begun by L. Ron Hubbard, went public with allegations against Miscavige. He said that the bizarre cult's head vicar routinely uses physical force against members of his staff, sometimes over very trivial matters. Rinder told the St. Petersburg Times says he endured as many as 50 beating himself while in Miscavige's employe.:

"It was random and whimsical. It could be the look on your face. Or not answering a question quickly. But it always was a punishment."

Rinder is not the only one claiming that Miscavige enforced church code through brutality. Several others have claimed so as well. Although these are allegations, they fit a general pattern in the cult's 60 year history, one of secrecy authoritarianism. Mike Rinder would of course not be the first person to allege abuse at the hands of Scientology. He was in fact the person the church paid for years to refute and discredit claims of financial coercion, psychological abuse and corporal punishment.

It's an interesting, although sad development. Since leaving Scientology, Rinder has lost more than just his faith in Xenu, but also his wife and contact with other family members who are in the church. It was certainly a dramatic reversal for a man who enthusiastically defended the church and its insanity, something perhaps akin to if Joseph Goebbels had suddenly in 1942 refuted the National Socialist Workers Party.

Perhaps with his admission that things weren't so lovely at the Church of Scientology and the revelation that the church is legally harassing him, Rinder will bring other disullusioned members with him. Until then, it's all in Xenu's hands.

Written by EdHopper | 29 June 2009

Within the last week the G-d has forsaken us with four terrible tragedies. First, He snatched from us Ed McMahon in the prime of his life. But before we could find solace in the Book of Job to understand His mysteries, the sneaky Almighty one went and took Farah Fawcett, causing humankind to quake from life's uncertainty. But just as soon as Fawcett's publicist twittered that the golden haired starlet had passed on after receiving the last rites, He Who Is clobbered all of existence by taking back to his bounty the King of Pop, Michael Jackson.

For two days straight, cable news networks, radio stations and social networking sites were abuzz with all sorts of questions of how it happened and perhaps who may have had a hand in Jackson's demise. But by Sunday we were starting to get  a grip on it. As painful as it was to have stolen from us a talk show sidekick, pin-up girl and slightly eccentric, possibly pedophillic pop-star, by Sunday it seemed that humanity could at least begin at some point to put it's plow to the ground and move on in a post McMahon/Fawcett/Jackson world. And then it happened. News broke on Sunday afternoon that Allah had thrown a bucket in front of a very famous cleaning product informercial huckster who unexpectadly kicked it. Billy Mays was also brought into the great unknown and it was just too much for us to handle. After all, old age could possibly explain for Ed McMahon, colon cancer for Fawcett and pills for Jackson. But what about Billy Mays? How could such an enthusiastic and jovial pitchman just die like that? LIfe's mysteries suddenly became too hard to handle and now it seems everyone is wondering how it is that four celebrities could die in one week. It's just too much of a coincidence. Perhaps there's something mankind missed in the great books of religion. Surely, somewhere between Genesis and Revelation something should explain for how this could happen. What about Nostradamus?

Written by EdHopper | 28 June 2009

Disclaimer: I write this post after having just eaten a chocolate chip muffin at night so I'd better watch my ass and make sure I'm not the potbelly calling the gut black.

A friend of mine and I have recently been thinking a lot about that cursed region of body fat that certain overweight people have. The region that extends from right directly above the genitals upwards, rather than above the belt. It's as if the fat is eager to get a start on ruining the person's self-esteem and so it begins downtown instead of midtown.

All of us know what it is an certainly all of us have stared in amazement at one bulging from a person's pants and thought to ourselves, "how the hell does that happen?" or "what the hell is that thing" or "certainly his junk isn't that big". We've all taken note of it, but not all of us are perhaps aware that it has a name. It's a F.U.PA., an acronym in which the components are debatable. To some people, it's a fat upper pubic or a fat upper pelvis area, though it's generally understood that the acronym stands for "fat upper pu**y" area. The latter designation, though certainly the most common understanding may be something of a misnomer because as we all know, men are perfectly capable of bearing the curse of ham, or pork or fried ice cream and themselves have a fupa.

It's just really strange to me becuase until recently, I'd never really pondered the fupa. I never quite understood how it works. Afterall, most fat people we see, most depictions of fat folks as well, their guts are hanging out above the bet. Even if they cascade over the waistline of a pair of pants or trousers, fupas are guts usually don't get their start south of the border.

My friend and I spent time trying to figure out how it worked. Was it something like a snowman configuration, a seperate deposit of fat around the genitals or one contiguous region of fat. This was something of a scientific debate and since neither of us have fupas (yet, at least) we couldn't quite have any evidence of how it works. Sure enough, I ended up finding out my answer with the above photograph, which I snapped last week. The fupa is indeed one contiguous region of fat, lard, lipids, whatever you want to call it.

Although having a fupa is probably considered by most to be more shameful than a simple gut, can we really assume that it's a person's fault that his or her fat begins below the belt and gives them the dimensions of humpty dumpty? Could it be that a person with an overhanging gut just eats a little less than a person with a pants bursting fupa? Or could it just be genetics. Maybe the fupa is just the result of a"> curse of genes that makes it hard to find a pair of jeans. Any thoughts?

Written by EdHopper | 11 June 2009

#3 Louiselle Moreau

Over the years I’ve come to the conclusion that a good percentage of Europeans who make their way across the pond to live and work are in a strange and delusional mode. So many of them profess to hate America and what she stands for and yet they benefit from what this country has to offer. Europeans have it easy in some ways because unless they are fleeing the nightmare conditions of a post-Soviet country like Romania, Lithuania or the Ukraine, their lives back at home are pretty good. Still, they can make better money over here for a few years and then go back home having taken full advantage of their time here and still get away with telling their fellow countrymen or American backpackers just how shitty the States are.

A lot of Americans worship Europe and Europeans and act as if life is much better there and if only we applied a European way of thinking. we’d be a lot better. They inadvertently treat the whole continent as one homogeneous society in which everyone gets along, is tolerant, appreciates good film, wine and eats delicious baguettes. Therefore, they are more than happy to have a visitor from France, Germany, Sweden, Austria, Denmark, Spain, etc. living in their apartment, if even for only a few months. It’s as if their visitor will bring peace and stability and rational thought to their living situation.

I strongly advise against a European roommate unless they are thoroughly vetted first. I say this because I’ve had a few and once you invite one in the door, you’re opening yourself up to constant criticisms of your culture, language, family and anything else only loosely associated to your life.

Written by EdHopper | 10 June 2009

#1 Jake Funterbick

I was tempted to actually use Jake’s full name and a current picture I was able to find of him for the site, but I decided that would be a little bit too far, so instead I pulled a photo I thought was appropriate given his pretentious, arrogant and snarky demeanor. I actually didn’t mind living with him too much. I was twenty and I didn’t expect much from the roommates I shared an apartment with while I was studying journalism at Emerson College and I’m sure they didn’t expect much from me. Jake could be a fun roommate, but within a week or two of living with him, I realized he had his head stuffed so far up his ass it was hard to relate with him. Jake was from San Francisco, the first Bay Area native I really got to know. And believe you me, he made it his job–along with talking about jazz, smoking cigarettes from a case and getting high–to let anyone and everyone know that he was from San Francisco. Everything with this guy seemed to go back to San Francisco. He was well-traveled, the kind of kid whose parents put him on a plane for Europe and Israel many times in his formative years, which is all good.