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Written by Brendan Flaherty Tuesday, 25 April 2006 09:06

An hour later, Charles Barkley and I went to become octopi.

 

 

If you’re like me and you drink to forget a war you didn’t fight in, a dog that didn’t love you, and a woman who didn’t leave you—on second thought, yeah, she did—hangover-free Saturday mornings are about as rare and precious as an albino tiger. With that in mind, I decided to become a Scientologist.

Two minutes after I made this decision, I realized the ridiculousness of it, considering how little I knew about science or tology. I decided to assemble what information I had.

1. Scientology is based on a science fiction book. I like Star Wars, which is a movie, but still. So far, so good.

2. Scientology has something to do with aliens. Again, I’m down with Chewbacca.

3. Because of it, Tom Cruise jumps on couches on television shows my mom watches. Whenever my roommates leave the house, jumping on the couch Macaulay Culkin–style is always the first thing I do. Clearly, Scientology and I were a perfect fit.

With my critical scientific analysis firmly in place, I realized I could move forward on becoming a Scientologist like a mature and responsible adult.

I called up one of my associates to see if he wanted to try out a new philosophy. My friend’s name is Samuel Aaron Levy, social security #00292929292, but in order to protect his identity, I will change his name to Charles Barkley. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hey, Charles Barkley, do you want to become a Scientologist today?

Charles Barkley: Sure.

Me: Good answer. Do you think it’s offensive to write an article about it? I mean, religious freedom is my amigo and I’ve got tons of beliefs that most people would think are weird.

Charles Barkley: Like what? That you are a good-looking person?

Me: Exactly.

Charles Barkley: Just try not to be offensive, then.

Me: That’s impossible. That’s like telling a fish not to swim, or a pterodactyl not to fly, or an albino tiger not to maul 50% of a German magic duo.

Charles Barkley: I have no idea what that is supposed to mean.

Me: I’ll tell you when you’re older and more mature.

Charles Barkley: Okay. If you’re worried about getting killed or offending someone, just change the name in your article. Rather than saying you are going to become a Scientologist, say you’re going to become, uhhhhh…an octopus.

Me: That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.

An hour later, Charles Barkley and I went to become octopi.

Charles Barkley and I filled out a 200-question questionaire that asked a bunch of different questions about ourselves and our personality. Would I kill an animal that was suffering in order to put it out of its misery? I wasn’t in the killing mood and I wasn’t feeling particularly compassionate, so I checked the “maybe” box. Jeffrey Dahmer would have certainly checked “yes,” so maybe he’s a more compassionate person than I am. He’d make a great octopus.

I closed my eyes and left the majority of my answers up to fate, my A.D.D. flaring up like Charles Barkley’s rampant hemorrhoids. (Don’t tell him I told you this, but he brings a donut cushion to the movie theater.) I did not question the fact that a computer-analyzed personality test was an important step in learning a new philosophy.

It turned out that I was critically depressed but that, as I was also a shiftless drifter with no real sense of identity, I had never realized it.

I had come in that day feeling pretty good. I had not spent the previous night kicking that worthless pile of electric jelly in my head with ski boots, so that was a plus. But after flipping through a picture book about communication, I found myself wondering if maybe I really was critically depressed and just hadn’t known it. The personality graph–analyzing gentleman was a nice guy, and he made a lot of sense. I wasn’t handling my responsibilities. I was spending too much time in bars. Becoming an octopus was only a mentality to help me achieve my goals—and of course I wanted to achieve goals. Forget the fact that the cast of Star Trek did not practice octopusology; I didn’t even like that show anyway.

And then it dawned on me, the reason I went to become an octopus to begin with: Risky Business. Because I was entertained by an actor playing a fictional character in a movie, I felt like I was supposed to care about the actor, and what couches he jumps on, and how he sends his photograph to be scientifically scanned to remove alien radiation. With celebrity endorsement, becoming an octopus was the cat’s pajamas.

I still had to admit to myself that Tom Cruise’s religious beliefs were dumb. This realization made me feel dumb. And then I felt depressed. And then I wanted to buy, buy, buy the book that the octopi kept telling me to buy, buy, buy.

Practicing Hinduism was so last year, and Kabala? Kab-over. Soon A.D.D. America will no longer be interested in even making fun of becoming an octopus, forcing a lot of people to get a day job. At this point, Jay Leno has probably already made his cracks on Scientology, and Lord knows he isn’t funny. Who’s next, Carrot Top? Carson Daly? Brendan Flaherty? The stock must be tanking.

I was half-expecting Charles Barkley to come out of his meeting looking like my Uncle Cornelius, who was hit in the head by a fly ball at a softball game, and now splits his time between sleeping standing up and buying samurai swords off QVC. When he did come out he looked like me: critically depressed. We walked out of there, heads down, silent, both knowing that buying a science fiction book was no cure for depression. There was only one real cure.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get a beer.” And we shielded ourselves from the brutal, depressing future.