The Congregation of Unnatural Transcendence (often called the Congregation of Holiness or simply The Brotherhood) represents a great revelation of thought for modern peoples (even if, because of our overindulgence, we are slightly bulbous). We preoccupy
ourselves with the Great Questions often ill-pondered by other lesser organizations. Our proud methodology is sublime, manipulative, and, by the standards of most aeons, grossly unethical. Our nature is nothing new to organizations of similar dispositi
ons in the past. However, having the benefit of intelligence and hindsight, we have perfected the levels of sublimity and manipulation to an art. To be concise, we market our philosophy to the whims and fleeting trends of our society (obviously to our o
wn end). Though this may neither sound entirely new nor creative from the perspective of historical procedures for the perpetuation of entrenched special interests or ideologies, may I be the first to say -- without proof or justification, but simply out
of raw spite and arrogance -- that our organization is the most effective brainwashing machine in the history of our culture.
However, within our mireful and sheepish society, there seems to dwell a particular denizen which is entirely unfazed by our expertly sublime motivational techniques. Our culture has labeled them the Abstractionists for the obvious reason that they are
grossly preoccupied with highly silly and abstract things. For reasons which I cannot admit publicly, the Brotherhood generally acknowledges, within our own ranks, that the Abstractionists are on a direct and unstoppable path to uncovering many answers t
o our Great Questions! Now, because of their unsightly and vulgar views, as well as their grotesque, jargon laden and obtuse languages, we fear both their results and their exceedingly uncommunicative nature. In short, we are jealous and feel threatened
.
The Brotherhood now has no real choice but to both monitor the activities of the Abstractionists and to also understand (at least superficially) their views and secretly incorporate them into our own. In addition, we must also (while keeping at least a
publicly happy and unperturbed expression) generate the myth that the discoveries of the Abstractionists
(leading to the answers to some of our Great Questions) were the product of our Great and Ancient Philosophies and not due to their brilliant and expert analysis. Luckily, the Abstractionists are generally quite oblivious to such manipulations and certai
nly wouldn't notice such meanderings.
We've known the answers all along, we just forgot to fill in some minor details.
The crisis facing our Brotherhood prompted me (in a not uncommon flash of brilliance during an hourly staff meeting) to suggest that we generate a series of colloquia designed in the guise of pure interest and honest education. This weekly event would a
llow us to monitor the modern activities of the most dangerous and frightening of the Abstractionists while extending the open hand of a false truce (beginning the cultural merger of our ancient rivalry in the eyes of the public).
After thousands upon thousands of hours of boring, obtuse, vomitous, and obscure seminars by various prominent Abstractionists, a woman entered my life whose impact on me I shall not soon forget.
Hicilleetalia , an Abstractionist, didn't technically exist but I loved her anyway. Her company
was certainly unique. Wherever she went, there would be a distinct crackling sound as the air quickly dispersed and converged to compensate for her ever-questionable presence. As she once explained to me, she tended to flit in and out of the conversatio
n as
her own 'collective of quasi blahblahblah particles would continuously heebiejeebie blahblahblah dephase
themselves' for confidence. I never had the
slightest idea what she was talking about.
Indeed, her self-tailored description of her condition, as described above, seemed obtuse and highly codified. I have never determined which childhood trauma she may have experienced to lead her to the conclusion that collectives of quasi blahblahblah
particles had anything to do with her own existence! Since I am anthropocentric, I am quite certain that human perception, thought, and interpretation form the basis of everything. Besides, Abstractionists ultimately can be simply described as an elitis
t group of bright people that skew their data to support their ego-driven theories if only to receive funding to feed their socially inept and blasphemously portly faces. This would seem to explain much of her babbling.
That evening, during a particularly abstract and dull portion of her amusing final attempt to
address the Congregation, Brother Doo raised his hand in query, 'how do your theories relate to your
current...er...physical...um...condition?' he asked awkwardly --referring, of course to her constant state of buzzing and flickering (which was actually becoming somewhat irritating). The glaziness which formed in her eyes betrayed that the justification
of her own questionable state-of-being (at least in a language that could be understood by the mind of a 'simpleton' -- so her eyes said) was going to be
manifestly difficult.
Her answer was poor, jargon-laden, and rambling at best. The only concept which emerged during
her explanation in any remote state of clarity was that all 'things' exhibit this same existential
'flitting' behavior. Unfortunately for her, and for reasons not quite understood by anyone in the room
(possibly anyone in the known world) her personal
'flitting' was more noticeable because every part of her being was doing it at the same time, rather
than individually and randomly. Also, the amount of time between 'flits' was much more inconsistent than for ordinary objects, so it made her transformations
perhaps more obvious and chagrin-laden. She continued her explanation with an analogy: the situation was not unlike one propaganda projector moving inconsistently at various speeds while another moves smoothly and unquestioningly. The former will seem
like a weird, jerky slideshow, while the latter will appear natural and seamless. She claims to be more like the former while most everything else is like
the latter. Clearly, she created that moronic example to appease Doo's idiocy.
Towards the end of her talk, in fielding one of my many interesting and probing questions, she went on to deny any causal relationship between the timing of the creation of her theories with the upsurgence of this so-called Hicilleetalia Syndrome (the fl
ickering bit I mentioned before -- now having become somewhat of an epidemic amongst Abstractionists). She also scoffed at its obvious relation to the millions of highly coincident (thus correlated) sightings of the great deity Bingo the Mire Mouse (most
frequently seen in the patterns created by public washroom wallpaper in the eyes of common, poor, well-being deprived individuals). Being a Holiman who, as a vocation, invents and perpetuates dogma-saturated myths to scare both small children and emotio
nally evacuated adults, I vigorously disputed her lack of superstition.
We fell in love soon after her presentation. Frankly, I felt that her whole circumstance was quite tragic. Being a Holiman of good reputation and questionable divinity, a deep sense of pathos and sexual frustration welled within me. Not a man to deny
nor balk at questionable emotions, I rushed the podium. With a copy of her weighty book in hand (entitled something like The Abstraction of Blahblahblah), I stampeded ahead of the bright-eyed throng of my fellow brethren. Indeed, the reverberation follo
wing her resounding 'please have a pleasant evening, thank [CRACKFIZZZ] you for yo...[ZZZZCRACK]...ur
time,' had hardly died away. The thunder claps between her fuzzy states of existence had indeed become
quite violent towards the end of the presentation
.
My goal was to conversationally corner her for myself. Because of the intense anguish and strain placed upon my frail psyche, my own inner zealousy of the moment, and the details of the actions that resulted thereafter, are now deeply hidden from me. M
y assault across the Great Hall, wherein her presentation to the Congregation had been held, must have been extraordinary. Brother Jandrol never fails to show me his deep purple scar running from temple to temple across his forehead (though I secretly be
lieve it to be a rather pleasant addition to an otherwise bland and featureless scalp). Indeed, the nervous ticks of both Brothers Ejan and Andro (developed after my actions that evening) could not be totally uncorrelated. Nevertheless, after partitioni
ng her from the queues of shouting Holimen, my decent into gruesome bliss began.
As our private conversation sparkled, I skillfully veiled my lack of comprehension of her material in lauding platitudes and keywords of the popular literature of the Abstractionists. She seemed either amused or impressed or neither, I could not tell.
What was clear to me, however, was her deep state of arousal. My aura of Holiness clearly had a profound effect upon her libido as her womanhood came to a full yet spurious and uncertain bloom. I was quite flattered and, as my training and education dic
tated, I took complete advantage of her weakened state.
Her spittle was sour and her teeth had been brown from neglect, but her kisses were no less pleasant. Any other man of my similarly sane disposition might have considered her appearance grotesque. The shambling (though no less fondlable) mounds of jigg
ling critical flabbitude were considered dangerous, perhaps even toxic, by most cultures. However, to me, this concoction of spurious existence, basking in her sizzling anharmonic twisting torsionality, was distinctly a sexual being.
Sadly, a final sharp and reverberating 'fizzcrack' and she was gone forever. Only the
dizzyingly pungent smell of pheromones, burnt hair, and ozone remained to flood my senses in that ghastly moment. The searching eyes of the Congregation fell upon me
as I staggered from behind The Great Tapestry of the Picture of Yom Et Al., where I had earlier managed to seclude our conversation. As I dashed red-faced and semi-aroused towards the egress, I suddenly reeled and fell into a deep coma -- probably due to
the inhalation of huge quantities of toxic gases which had later been detected near the site where Hicilleetalia vanished.
As punishment for my behavior, my superiors deemed that a pilgrimage to the Lard Baths of Buxa would stand as proper reconciliation. I was to make the journey on my belly, using only my fingertips as locomotion (but, as usual, was allowed to skip and fr
olic at my discretion).
I do not regret the harsh penance I have had to serve for the selfish but elating deeds I performed that evening (that she technically didn't exist -- a matter debated at great length by my superiors -- prevented me from being expelled). However, now, whenever Brother Dondon recurls his hair or when Brother Bart reignites the Terawatt Spark G enerators in the cellar, the wafting stench always brings me back to that night in the Great Hall; the night I fell in love with Hicilleetalia the Abstractionist.