cientology is in the news again this week, and not just because some green reporter made the mistake of sticking a microphone in front of Tom Cruise again. In a shocking revelation that has rocked the media world, fourteen year old actress and Cruise arm candy Katie Holmes has converted to the oddball religion, leaving the pope speechless and the entire Roman Catholic Church in disarray. But she’s not the only one, and this time it’s not only some weirdly shallow celebrity joining the ranks. In a lesser-publicized footnote, America’s entire scientific community has jumped on the bandwagon, too.

“It’s a natural fit, really,� explained Ralf Menu of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. “Science? Scientology? I’m actually surprised this didn’t come up earlier. I mean, from all available evidence, it’s really quite obvious that we exist on the seventh ring of the Dunabi, concentric to the Twelfth Dimensional Scrobang. No one seriously debates this.�

“I have to admit, I’d been curious about Scientology ever since I saw that commercial they used to play for Diatnetics,� admitted American Association of Cereal Chemists head Dabney Thomas, because he had to. “You know, with the volcano that’s all erupting and shit and answering questions like ‘Will I see my dog in heaven? Page 47.’ Ever since I saw that I was pretty interested. Because I had a dog when I was a kid, but he was a real bastard so I’m really curious if he got into heaven or not.�

The announcement comes at a crucial time for the funky techno-religion, founded by science fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard in 1951 as a beautiful tax dodge. Scientology has been struggling for credibility after years of reports that it charges members tens of thousands of dollars to reveal its deepest spiritual secrets, all of which turn out to read like a really horrible John Travolta movie. But the concensus seems to be that a lack of credibility is the price one pays for following a religion founded by a man famous for making up implausible tales full of far-fetched ideas and fantasies designed to sell books.

“It’s sort of like having a weight loss program founded by Cookie Monster,� mused religious scholar Barnaby Told, who actually does botanical research but is also quite religious, thereby qualifying him for the title. “That’s a tough credibility gap to span.�

This latest conversion will likely change the way that millions think about Scientology, however, and the agreement of America’s scientists might help as well. But not everyone is thrilled with Holmes’ epic conversion from Catholicism, about which Vatican officials say the pope feels personally betrayed.

“The pope has been listless and non-responsive all week,� explained Vatican spokesperson Arnold Grubb. “He’s not even into mini-golf as much as usual. He seems kind of heartbroken, honestly. I hope she’s worth it, Tom.�

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Cancer's just not as funny as it used to be. I mean, seriously, remember when cancer used to be hilarious? Like dad would come home from work and you'd be like "How's your day, pops?" and he'd say "Just found out my liver's rotted through with cancer!" and you'd both laugh and laugh? Those were the days.

Nowadays you have to pretend like it's breaking your heart that somebody's going to start pooping out lungs soon and you can't even giggle when they're moaning "I'm dyin' here, I'm really dyin'!" It's a total drag. People just don't have any kind of sense of humor about themselves anymore, everything's all "Woe is me, I live out every moment in agonizing pain." Thanks a lot for bringing me down, asshole. I just spent four bucks on this ice cream for nothing.

When I was a kid, if one of your classmates had cancer you were allowed to push him down the stairs and say his dad's a fag; that made you popular. And I don't remember the kids with cancer complaining, they just appreciated the attention. That's all anybody who's got three months to live wants, anyway, is attention. It shouldn't matter if it's "pretending to listen to all your crybaby stories" attention or "pushing you in your wheelchair off a ski jump" attention, that's really splitting hairs. And hey, don't give me all that sore-loser bullshit about your wheelchair being all ruined now, if you hadn't bet on yourself you'd have plenty of money to buy another one. I know I do.

Don't forget that other cancer dude who smoked you on the ramp is living the good life over in the traction ward, and you know he's not complaining.

What really gets me though, are all these bleeding-heart liberals who don't even have cancer but still get their Volvos in a bunch when I think something's funny. Like when that commercial comes on in the theater, before the movie, with all the bald little kids talking about cancer research and blah blah blah. Now that's some funny shit! You see those kids? They're balder than my dad, and they're only like five! Where do they find those freaks? I'm telling you, I could watch that shit all day if I didn't have a theater full of Good Samaritans pelting me with popcorn and booing and shit. Please. Like any of them had cancer when they were kids.

I tell you, the world's full of people trying to ruin my good time. If it's not some pastel-colored killjoy petitioning to cancel a hilarious show like World's Greatest Police Chases, it's some other curmudgeon telling me I can't visit the fat camp unless I'm a family member. I tried telling that guy they should charge admission, because I know at least a dozen guys who would bust a nut watching those lard-assed little kids try to run an obstacle course and falling down and having asthma attacks and shit, but wouldn't you know he's one of those lost-cause fruits who puts a child's "dignity" ahead of profit. Like any of those little butterbutts wouldn't trade his or her dignity for a big slice of pie. He didn't think that was funny either, and the bastard confiscated my pie.

I tell you, it's a lonely life, being one of the only guys out there with a sense of humor. And hey, it's not like I fail to see the humor in my own misfortune. Just last week, some lady's little yappy dog ran out in front of my truck and just creamed the thing, made a real mess of the front end. And I had just washed the damn thing. But did I mope around, like the world had just crapped in my salad? No way, I laughed my ass off! Did you see how far that little dog flew? Jesus Christ, I thought that thing was some kind of rubber dog for a second there! Holy shit that was funny.

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One night several weeks ago, I got home after a grueling day of communing to find a strange-assed envelope in my mail box, wedged between the usual offer for Sea Monkeys and a Carmen Electra poster catalog. At first I thought I might have won a Harley or maybe my report card from the third grade had finally shown up. No such luck. When I studied the return-address more closely, I realized it was from the Jury Commissioner's Office, and that could only mean one thing.

The game was on.

Ever since the I was in shortpants, watching my dad do battle with unseenfoes over the telephone line, I'd waited for this day. The time had come to do what any honest, red-blooded American would do when they got the call: to match wits with the American justice system and try like hell to get out of jury duty. This is what our fathers have fought and died for time and time again, compadres: the right to outsmart The Man and avoid having to find parking downtown.

I decided to warm up by trying my old stand-by dodge. I called the number listed on the back of the summons and, in a bone-chilling facsimile of my mother's voice, told the jury duty operator that Omar would be unable to make it, because he had the measles or some shit. Looking back now, it was probably throwing that "or some shit" on the end that sunk my subterfuge, because the operator said I'd have to reschedule for another date. I thought fast and tried adding on that I had whiskey-dick as well, but she seemed pretty unimpressed by that improvisation.

I knew then that the old stand-by wasn't going to cut it this time, not by a long-shot. It was like trying to carve a jack-o-lantern with a piece of cooked spaghetti: damn useless. I was pretty surprised, too, because the exact same ploy worked wonders that time when I had to get out of a date with the ugly-assed daughter of one of my uncle's business partners. Shit, by the time I got to the whiskey-dick part I don't even think she wanted to go on the date any more, but these jury duty mugs had far tougher nuts to crack.

Several subsequent calls to the jury duty line proved equally unsuccessful: it turns out that swearing like a motherfucker, being a Communist or having a thick Mexican accent are all honky-dory if you want to be a juror these days. Go figure.

I went to the drawing board and read the pamphlet that came with my summons, figuring I had to beat these hard-asses at their own game. According to the pamphlet, there were only three excuses that would get you out of jury duty: you don't speak word uno of English, you're so damned old you scare little kids, or you've already been on a jury in the last two years. Now I know what you're thinking, and believe me I thought of it first: between that wet pajama contest I judged locally and being in the audience for that taping of Divorce Court last year, I should be good for another four years at least. Not so, claim the Jury Nazis.

Since they had to be such assholes about the whole two-year thing, I decided to play a little hardball and spent the next two weeks answering the phone in a made-up nonsense language that was like some kind of cross between German and the ingredients of a Snapple. Once again, those clever motherfuckers got the drop on your friend Omar by calling at eight in the morning when I was dead asleep and had momentarily forgotten about the whole "No English" ruse. So much for project "Nein Sorbate Verboten."

I briefly considered making some kind of old-man suit out of croissant mix and talcum powder, but after a particularly nasty talcum mishap I got pissed off and just called those uptight pigfuckers and told them that it's my constitutional whoozumwhatzit to have them kiss my pale white ass, with whipped topping if you please, and that in the mean time I hoped they all choked on a turd. It was a bold shift in strategy, I admit, but for a while I thought it might have worked and that I'd scared them off.

Then one day I received a notice in the mail saying that if I didn't show up for jury duty, I'd be held in contempt of court and fined $121. Woah. Now, I don't know how they arrived at that figure, I suspect they were peeking into the old Bricks Checking Account again, but suffice it to say they were now officially speaking my language. These were some stone-cold bastards.

After a rousing rental of "A Few Good Men", I decided that jury duty probably wouldn't be that bad, and that maybe I'd luck out and get some kind of case that involved a dude being smothered by fake boobs or something. Really, any case that involved topless testimony would've been cool by me, I'm flexible.

And to tell you the truth, in the end, I actually had a good time. And man was I glad that I'd thought to wear my judge costume from last Halloween, because they treat those regular jurors like assholes. I got a much better seat and even got to give some dude the chair for eating his neighbor's horse in some kind of funny-assed cultural misunderstanding. The rest of the day probably would have been a blast too if the real judge hadn't shown up and had me re-assigned to some boring damned murder trial. Since when does it take a whole friggin' week to figure out that the dude with the chain-saw did it? I'd planned on two hours tops, with maybe a break for a romantic interlude in the middle. Some fussy sacks of juror-scat might argue that it would have been over sooner if I hadn't been playing the "Do you have a verdict?/Your honor, we have a dickfour" game with the judge, but that only added twenty minutes, tops.

And the memories, as they say, will last a lifetime. I think the taser scars probably will too.

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