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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The situation has darkened, good people. Frequent readers of my column, and despite what everyone says I'm convinced they exist, will remember my recent revelation that I was a pro-wrestler briefly in the '80s. To my surprise, everyone has been extremely warm and receptive about it. I mean, I haven't heard anyone approving of my lifestyle or remarking how brave it was to come out and admit it, but it is pro-wrestling, a little resistance and unspoken prejudice can be expected. Either that or none of them have read any of my columns.

But not everyone has been so accepting. As I discovered Thursday night when I came home and found a note pinned to my door.

It was a hand-scrawled note with sloppy penmanship and spelling. But I knew all-too well who it was from and what it was about. It read:

"Finger! So yur the 4-Feet Nitemare. Yu turd. I new Id find yu sonir or laytir. Im a kill yu like I wud have kild yu then. Yu run away cowird. – MD"

At first I suspected my family physician, Dr. Scrudd. But then I remembered seeing his handwriting on countless prescriptions and it didn't match at all; Scrudd's pen is blue, this one is black. Finally, after hours of meditating, falling asleep, waking up again to start meditating once more, I realized who my anonymous adversary is.

The Masked Dude has come back for revenge.

When I discussed my pro-wrestling secret life, I left out a lot of details so as not to gross out the general public who is uncomfortable with such information. But one important bit that needed mentioning was my furious antagonist, The Masked Dude. He was five-foot tall, the second-shortest wrestler in the Dandies of America league I was part of, and had a severe complex about it. He was remarkable for many reasons: His glittering sequined spandex pants, his red glossy boots, his hairless, flabby mid-section, and his match record of never having won once.

Usually The Masked Dude was hopelessly overpowered by his opponents. Some of them reaching heights of up to 5'11", with vicious names like The Vicious Scrunch and Eddie "Pin Them Drunk" Vicious, The Masked Dude soon proved to be a laughingstock of the D.O.A., which was already the laughingstock of wrestling fans everywhere, who are the laughingstock of the rest of us, so you can imagine the shame. The Masked Dude was intent on gaining respect, and I soon provided the best possibility of winning a match.

I was a good wrestler. Good? Hell, I was possibly the best God ever created. Really? Thank you, that's sweet. But for all of my talent my winning record was frequently fifty-fifty, meaning I won half my matches and half of that was won by deceitful tendencies. I was merely making up for a game that was stacked against me, me being short and not that good at wrestling the way they wanted to do it. But actual statistical match records were the lowest in the league, next to The Masked Dude. He sought me out obsessively, and thus started our rivalry. I thought it ended when I hung up my tights, sniffed them curiously, then threw them away for good. But apparently not.

I have to admit I'm a little worried. I don't know when and from where and at what time The Masked Dude is coming after me. I assume he's reading this column, since he's the only one who's mentioned my former pro-wrestler status, and I hope to implore him to let bygones be bygones and blowguns be blowguns, to put the past behind us and start anew as friends who share a common history.

But don't mistake this as fear or cowardice, Masked Dude. I will put the smack down on you wicked if you want to get shitty with me.

º Last Column: My Past Life as a Pro-Wrestler Has Come Back to Haunt Me
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The mouse in my house
has the run of the land.
He pees in my porridge
and he shits in my hand
while I lie sleeping,
naively unaware
that the mouse in my house
is nibbling on my hair.
And eating my breadcrumbs!
And drinking my pop!
I have asked him nicely,
politely to stop.
But did this dissuade him,
persuade him to cease?
He just ate my cold pizza,
every last doughy piece.

And as if to taunt me
he loves to play
and roll in my bed sheets
while I am away.
He loves to go dipping
in my marinara sauce
and to leave marinara footprints
up, down and across,
and on up the stairs
to the top of my bedspread
where I sleep unawares.

He ate all my baloney!
Now this is no joke.
And he twice left the tops off
my toothpaste and Coke.
One went quite flat,
and the other went hard.
And this mouse in my house
left his bike in my yard!
It's not like it would kill him
to put the toilet seat down,
or wipe the mud off his feet
when he's been mousing around town.

There's just no reason he can't
put his playing cards away
or clean up his jigsaw puzzles
at the end of the day.
Or close the front door
when he's gone out to play.
Or whisper more quietly
when he kneels down to pray.
But the one mousey caper
I just cannot forgive
is when he got my sister pregnant.

I hope you like d-Con, mouse.

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