Categories
LEARNING DAY

Trapping Day: The Bigfeets Design-A-Trap Contest 🌭

What’s this? The opportunity of your afternoon. In monster-hunting tradition, we’re taking an undercooked graphic and working backwards. This is
err


Sure, a template! Yes. And it’s for a contest! A creative one. We’re making, you know


Maybe later. The cryptid-seduction community’s pretty demanding. Anyone else?

Absolutely not! But we are making strong stuff. Stronger than any Devil Dog, or normal dog, or budget.

I don’t have a better idea! Welcome to the BIGFEETS Trap Contest. The internet’s second anti-sasquatch competition. The first was a ploy by web-savvy cryptids. We’re taking submissions at [email protected], until October 24th.

I’m sure it is. Instead of going down that road, let’s send our worst cryptid traps to [email protected], by October 24th. If you remember the Custom Van Contest, you get the idea. We’ll feature our favorites on the site, and crown one proud entrant Earth’s Worst Monster Hunter.

Ever caught a cryptid? We haven’t. The Mountain Monsters team definitely hasn’t. Let’s keep that streak going. The BIGFEETS Trap Contest challenges every inch of wilderness knowledge. Each gram of paranormal expertise. The less, the better. Remember: if a child can escape it, Bigfoot can’t.

As BIGFEETS listeners or cryptid-worshiping traitors, you know how important non-traps are to defending cows. One working trap would kill Wild Bill. He’d be gone. Mountain Monsters is one mail-order bear trap from tragedy. If you’ve seen an addict lose a leg, you know it’s hard to get a Spelling Bee back on track.

That man needs your help. Simply fill the form above with an ACME Bigfoot trap. I suggest a visual in the Schematic area and text elsewhere, but I’m not your producer. Go where your muse takes you. Just don’t capture, kill, or photograph a real cryptid. That insults Mountain Monsters’ soul.

It’s time to turn it all around. To finally win. To show the world just how little you know about traps. Come put your training in anything but engineering to work. Ideally, nothing. Mountain Monsters may star fake woodsmen hunting faker monsters, but it embraces real ignorance. (Note: Engineers are welcome to betray their craft. We might side-eye your extra syllables, but it won’t impact judging.)

Send your Wumpus Traps to [email protected], by October 24th. You might be the next Buck! The bandana is heavy, but your will is strong.

As a new podcast’s first contest, there are countless frequently asked questions. We’re happy to clear the air.

1900HOTDOG’s podcast recapping Mountain Monsters, an inept monster-hunting show with more episodes than the nightly news. Hosts Robert Brockway, Seanbaby, and Jason Pargin attempt to decipher how it exists. And find answers! Stupid, embarrassing answers. You’ll love it.

Alongside improvised cryptid lore, Mountain Monsters features hillbillies imitating broad outsider stereotypes of hillbillies, an act of triple-theater no one is qualified for. Everyone looks like a retired Yosemite Sam, and acts like a prime Yosemite Sam. Meth cameos.

In the wreckage of this almost-show, BIGFEETS finds inept traps, lazy lore, improv comedy, inept traps, crippling addiction, confused extras, inept traps, and transcendent human beauty. Transcendent human beauty is hard to draw, so this contest’s about traps.

Absolutely. BIGFEETS mocks and celebrates West Virginia monster hunters. Said hunters often present kindergarten-grade traps as foolproof. You’re invited to send the worst trap you can think of, by editing the template above. We’ll showcase our favorites, and crown one winner.

Yup.

I can’t explain how far ahead that puts you.

Confident! I like it.

Nice. Back up all this big talk, and you’ll be the Triple H of filling two-foot holes with water. You definitely won’t catch any cryptids.

You can do better than this. Or rather, worse. But here’s an example of a low-level Bigfoot snare.

Darius has a lot to learn about nontraps. Someone should show him how it’s done.

Intrigued? Of course you are. Submit your beautiful creations to [email protected], by October 24th. And LISTEN to BIGFEETS. Zero cryptids, guaranteed.

Categories
LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: Bunnykill 🌭

Don’t worry, Bunnykill isn’t some artless lunatic drawing rabbit murder on the asylum walls. It’s an inspired lunatic animating rabbit murder. That line separates The Matrix’s lobby from a national tragedy. And justifies Newgrounds.

If that rings a bell, I’m sorry about your arthritis. Comedy recaps have reached flash cartoons. You’re ancient, and dying. The dust in your once-vital veins has hardened into disdain for new music. These are the last punchlines before your knees and grandchildren betray you. Enjoy them.

As for infants/mummies: Newgrounds was the mothership for animated violence and pornography. But unlike Crunchyroll, all independent. Zero-Suit Samus vs. Normal Ayane was a labor of love, made with negative hope of ROI. A ruthless voting system trained creators for industries run by demons.

They also had an elite slogan:

Short, distinct, and true. Much too true. Today, we call their worst excesses “internet culture.” Skimming mobile game ideas from Newgrounds kept the laziest, most lootbox-friendly studios alive. Similarly, the flash portal showed how much free-floating talent existed, and how little you could pay them. Finally, low-wit and high-invective game parodies were a generous cultural warning.

In 2006, they picked up a friendlier motto:

Boo. Miss me with that. Alienation was a feature: Newgrounds had gamers attempting art films, art students attempting Mario jokes, and madmen landing art films about Mario. Other sites gave us “Everything, By Everyone” and killed the future. When the last Facebook clone dies, I’m dancing to the Ewok victory song, and posting it nowhere.

Over time, some people got good. The chosen evolved from detention stick figures to expulsion films. YouTube has hints of that, but tends to stunt creative growth at fourteen. And personal growth. And dating habits.

Today, Newgrounds echoes a pre-betrayal DeviantArt. Still a hub for violence and porn, but with blogs and no plans to feed you to SHODAN. We’ll focus on violence today, since my porn tastes are private.

That said, I have centuries of action movies saved in a folder called “Homework.” Newgrounds deserves some credit as a gateway drug for punching. Many of you were active users, the memories are just locked behind a trigger phrase. Let me help.

Recess. Computer Lab. Line Rider. Pop-up. Hentai. Suspension. Recess. Computer lab. Site blocked. Boredom. Facebook. Brain death. Cambridge Analytica. Imperial decline. Terminate Mark Z.

Anyway, Bunnykill.

On a mortal site, I’d recap Madness Combat, a crossover hit among guidance counselor regulars. But you’re Troom Troom survivors, so I have to cut deeper. Bunnykill took Madness Combat’s gimmick (side-scrolling mass murder) and replaced humans with rabbits.

Yes, rabbits.

Black-eyed, floppy-eared, bushy tailed rabbits.

I don’t know why, and I don’t have to. Grant Morrisson said kids are sharper audiences, since they take weirdness in stride. I see it. As a wordy class clown, I never asked why the endless assassins were rabbits. They just were. Now, as a taxpaying clown, I waste valuable rabbit-killing time with questions.

The author “Mottis” has no one to answer to or impress, so he could just like rabbits. Or despise them. Their shiny black eyes might inspire ageless hate, with animation alone keeping him off Greenpeace’s Most Wanted list.

Maybe it’s branding: plenty of artists remade the Crazy 88 fight without money or feet. Bunnykill bet that adding rabbits stood out enough for coverage twenty years later. Advantage, Bunnykill.

For my money, rabbits soften the genre. The taboos around pet-murder are strong, but flimsier than those for neighbors. Dogs are a likely exception, but I’ve never owned anything larger than a football. And after this article, I can only buy pets in international waters.

Now, Bunnykill’s a deep pull. I think only three other people saw-

Nevermind.

So far, I’ve played keep-away with my attitude towards Bunnykill. Is it finger-wagging time? Are we looking at our shoes and reflecting on animal cruelty? Pushing web culture’s nose in a carpet stain and saying “This is why you don’t get Beetleborgs?”

This kicks ass.

Or at least peaks high. We’ll walk through Bunnykill 3, the crowd favorite. The first Bunnykill is a bit of edgy fluff. You can see an unmedicated spark, but the creator’s still figuring out keyframes.

Bunnykill 2’s better, but it’s not in space. The visuals are smoother, the music’s almost listenable, and the fisticuffs pick up the rapid pace uniting Superfighters, Japanese Spider-Man, and pre-McMahon Nakamura. It’s just held down by gravity.

Bunnykill 3’s on the moon. I can’t waste your time elsewhere.

You’ll notice the same hero/survivor in each shot. This walking PETA shelter’s name is Snowball, which doesn’t matter. You’re better off memorizing Steven Seagal quotes. Just know that he’s the white rabbit, a color that stands out against chrome and gore.

How’d Snowball get from Nameless Karate Forest to Named Karate Moon? Also irrelevant. Bunnykill entries have negative continuity, which is correct. Retaining Bunnykill lore is a cry for help. Returning viewers should think “Ah, so I didn’t dream this.”

Granted, there’s an opening crawl.

Absolutely not. I refuse. We live in the future, with video timelines and streamlined rights. And Mottis misspelled “threat” twice. Only comedy writers will remember “Doctor Sludge,” while the sane world jumps ahead.

Bunnykill 3’s the first time I can tell Mottis likes rabbits, and not in the Lola Bunny sense. He finds this spin cute. Which is still wholly deranged, but a much nicer asylum. Take this guard napping through the local apocalypse:

Or Snowball’s reaction to peeling a gun off a fresh corpse stack:

That’s an “Oh boy, pellets!” face. Or at least intended as such. Snowball’s based on the animator’s pet, adding a hint of love to the Wuxia plot armor. I get that. My first manuscript was called Mr. Claws Goes to Congress, and parole won’t let me summarize it. Mr. Claws and Snowball had a lot in common.

Again, Bunnykill 3’s best asset is speed. Snowball’s lasered his next victim before your brain or conscience processed the last kill. I could crack wise about no one having arms or two character traits. But this is, again, basement cinema. Using Adobe software, which actively resists mankind.

By the time the cliffhanger comes around, we’ve beaten an NFL game’s body count:

As for events, Snowball covers a space sequel’s bases: find a lightsaber, riff on the Death Star infiltration, and try robot murder to keep things fresh. The robot murder doesn’t go too well.

In the first half, at least. Seven minutes were uploaded as Bunnykill 3, Part 1. Then the creator fucked off for two years.

Life gets in the way. That’s a risk anywhere, but particularly common in amateur animation, professional comics, and campaign promises. The alternative’s artistic prison, and that tends to break people.

Bunnykill 3, Vol. II hit in 2007, after earthbound terrorism’s defeat. But the threat persisted in space. We open with Snowball looking good and dicked:

Honestly? Nice breakthrough for a Flash rampage. Few things dilute action like invincible leads. Mercifully, Bunnykill 1’s final boss shows up to steal the kill.

I hear you: he resembles Snowball with sunglasses. But he’s actually Snowball with sunglasses and two guns. That’s two hedgehog’s worth of changes, or at least a half-Luigi.

The logic within the short? Jack-all. But RPG rules were a given on Newgrounds. You beat the boss, you got the summon. It’s the closest users came to understanding friendship. Naturally, the rest of this fever dream’s a tag match.

Bunnykill’s disturbing if your sanity fills a thimble. But I enjoy watching someone on the fringe grow, high art or otherwise. And violence. But mostly independent creativity. With beheadings.

Luckily, I only saw this during my most formative years. Bunnykill’s audience just aged into possible presidents, but it’s out of our systems now. Just hand over the nuclear codes and sleep well.

Conservative parenting must be tough, being human culture’s dead weight and all. Now imagine finding this on the kids’ devil-box. You’d pay an exorcist’s installment plan. The well-meaning amateurs at purity camp wouldn’t be enough.

Now Newgrounds animators have their own kids. The site turns thirty in two years. Which reminds me: I’ll die eventually. Maybe even soon! Time to get started on a pyramid. I was worried about all the whipping, but now I’m thoroughly desensitized. I just hope I reach as many minds and watchlists as Bunnykill.


This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Greg Cunningham, who died playing Line Rider. Some say if you put your ear to a Dell you can still hear Mrs. Tabbett give him detention.

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LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: The Professional Writers’ Phrase Book

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LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: Once I Was A… 🌭

Doris Sanford and Graci Evans create illustrated guides to childhood problems, and no one has ever done it worse. They solve abuse with insanity and foster care with racism. They solve divorce with Satan and AIDS with strangling. And in 1990, these passionate and dog-brained ladies published a series of four books called ONCE I WAS A ________… and You’ll Never Guess What Happened.

We’re going to start with ONCE I WAS A BULLY… because it’s the only one I have with all the accessories. Each book originally came with a paper doll of the main character you could slide into little slots in a way the most generous five-year-old would call “pointless.” I’m not even sure what they were going for. A weird boy peeking through an unrelated hole in the universe? It’s nonsense. It’s something an AI would generate if you asked it to write your seminary school paper. Anyway, this paper doll is a dick and he picks on a boy named Jason.

Honestly, Jason seems fine. “Fuck you and fuck this,” he says to our bully, and that’s it for the bullying part of the book. I want to be clear on this: after one page we are done with the exposition, character development, and plot. It’s time to learn our lesson.

The very next page, the bully goes to a monster movie and dissociates in fear. It has nothing to do with Jason because Doris and Graci don’t think like normal children’s book authors. They think more like a salmon getting slapped out of the air by a grizzly bear. If you put a human head in a dryer and asked it how to solve friendship, it would scream a Doris Sanford book. Like how our bully now imagines he is kayaking in a sewer and then gets swallowed by a shark.

What does this have to do with bullying or bullying consequences? Nothing. This is the world’s worst dad shrugging his way through a bedtime story. The shark spits him up in, fuck who cares… Japan, I guess?

The bully takes in a sumo match which Doris explains is sort of like a place where fat guys get together to make fun of girl haircuts. They could have called this “I’m Just Todd, And This is Just Some Dumb Dream I Had… A Just Nothing Book For Dull Idiots” and it would have been fine. But they sold this like it would teach us something. In fact, the back of the book specifically states how critical it is to not fail at this task they are carelessly fucking up.

This was supposed to teach children to treat others with respect? How? The boy went straight from bullying to the movies to a dreamscape of adventure. He is one page away from having toys magically come to life.

I wasn’t kidding. Our hero is learning his lesson by meeting a group of rad dinosaurs and hot ladies. Things could not be going better for him. If I know anything about bully dreams, and I think I do, things are about to get steamy.

That’s not what I meant, but okay. This is such a cute encapsulation of the broken wrongness of Doris Sanford and Graci Evans. Like, what is this? Forget how far we are from the stated goal of the book. This is a slot for a paper doll to make it look like he’s standing in his own back pocket while a dinosaur head is down his pants. This is how a ’90s movie would CGI a black hole appearing in a child’s brain– the final violent thoughts of Stephen King’s The Lawnmower Boy.

“So then, uh, robots attack… nutcrackers,” adds the very good writer looking around her apartment. If we’re being charitable I think our bully is supposed to be learning about the nature of fear, possibly to understand what it would have been like if he had frightened the child who dismissed him on page one. It’s a stretch, but the alternative –these crafty ladies are fucking stupid– is too predictable to consider.

As quickly and as pointlessly as it started, the adventure ends. Whew! Our bully almost had to see a nutcracker get torn apart by robots during a fun hallucination at the movies. Those couldn’t have been the stakes, yet they were. It’s the first book written entirely during a 20 minute electrocution and drawn during a 70 year virginity.

What? That’s it? Nothing here ever got related to a second thing. Are there even words to help understand what has been done here? This is like teaching children politeness by awarding a historic pizza “Best Fish.” The book failed every step of the way here and then blew it on the final lesson. Because, one, being scared is clearly super fun. And two, look at Jason. He’s got his own clothing line. Jason doesn’t give a fuck about you. Why would he? It seems outrageous I need to say this, Doris Sanford, but thinking about random things while watching a movie by yourself isn’t an apology. If a loaf of bread grew this, you’d say “wow, this mold almost looks like a story.”

Let’s see if they do better with the next one.

ONCE I TOLD A LIE… and You’ll Never Guess What Happened originally came with a paper doll of a little blonde liar, but someone in Mrs. McKinnon’s class tore her off and lost her. Again, every page has a hole for no coherent reason. Again, it’s like the dumbest caveman tried to invent a pop-up book. Again, it’s because the only real thing this series has to teach us is how books cannot defend against a chisel attack.

After an undisclosed lie, a daughter is sent to her room. To represent her, I’m using the bully from the last book– the grouchy bastard who learned nothing. This insufferable little shit.

The liar immediately jumps out the window…

… and goes on a wild adventure around the world. She goes to many disconnected places, learning nothing and doing less. Sometimes it’s fine. Other times it’s only okay. The liar ends up in a “deep cave,” “Africa,” and “Iowa.” She starts to have fun when she meets some friendly native North Polians because Doris is an elderly white woman in 1990…

… but gets mistaken for a small fish in Miami because most of Doris’s skull was hollowed out by parasites in 1989.

In a weird move for a little girl learning the dangers of lying, she takes thirty pounds of snacks up to the counter and tells the cashier, “I’m not paying for any of this.”

She’s arrested, and you can see this isn’t a good story. It’s a series of bland “and thens” ad-libbed by an amateur encyclopedia owner. I don’t care, and who would? It’d be like criticizing a cow for digesting grass in the wrong stomach compartment. Abomasum? Ha, nice fucking choice, cow. No, what’s frustrating to me is how much it absolutely isn’t a lesson about lying. It’s a story about an aimless girl wandering honestly, and yet here is the lesson it was leading to:

She’s decided to NEVER, NEVER, NEVER lie again? Why? She took a roadtrip to a failed candy negotiation, and it was either a magical adventure or an attic hallucination. None of it taught anyone anything. I’d say this was like teaching someone the power of honesty by blurting out “I went to Iowa before getting arrested for ice cream,” but that’s literally what happened here. That’s what we just read.

So, gasp, it was all a trick? The fictional child didn’t travel around the world and spend a weekend at the north pole in an afternoon? She was a liar, here are some more of her lies, the end? But wait, if none of it happened, why Iowa? Less importantly, why any of it? This is, with scientific precision, the least a book could teach you about the consequences of lying. If you think it’s easy to make a children’s book, ONCE I TOLD A LIE… and You’ll Never Guess What Happened will make you say, “My God, what else am I wrong about.” Reading it is like watching someone get out of a cab with most of a dog and whispering, “I trained this horse to count,” only for kids.

Our next book is called ONCE I WAS OBNOXIOUS… and You’ll Never Guess What Happened. It was supposed to come with an Asian school girl paper doll, but her pouch has long since been torn off. She was gone decades ago. We all know the terrible world we live in. No one has ever said, “This detachable Asian school girl paper doll will certainly be safe here: on this public library book.” So we’re going to have to use the bully prick again.

The obnoxious girl and her friend, Millicent Ann Louise, write mean notes like, and I quote, “ROTTEN ROBERT, I HATE YOU!” and “HA HA HA HA HA ON YOU.” She thinks these are devastating, so like the bully, our hero might be overestimating the effect of her cruelty. Seriously, obnoxious girl, the recipient of “HA HA HA HA HA ON YOU,” doesn’t need you to atone. There’s no victim here. “Rotten” Robert sees this like a chimpanzee accidentally giving him the middle finger.

Like the pattern we’ve established, we learn about the hero’s personality disorder and immediately follow them on some imaginary journey. But this time it’s at least related to the problem because she and Millicent travel around the world being very obnoxious. It’s a book about two girls being insufferable dicks in different locations, and it’s the clearest artistic vision Doris and Graci have had in years.

They go to the moon and Egypt, where the author forgets to make them obnoxious, but they make up for it by visiting the Great Wall of China and spitting on the locals. Next they take a caravan to the zoo, partly because nothing here means anything, partly because these worldly authors thought Chinese passenger vehicles were still donkeys in 1990.

At the zoo, the girls pelt a hippo with rocks until it agrees to take them to a sunken treasure boat. I’d argue this did not help them learn why being obnoxious is bad. They cut in line to get on a hang-glider and take it to the Natural History Museum where they really raise the stakes:

“What are the statues at the entrance to the Natural History Museum? Gerbils?” asked illustrator Graci. And writer Doris replied the same way she always did: “I tried to swallow a hot dog, and set the hospital record for longest time spent legally dead!”

The two girls finally go too far when they touch a “DO NOT TOUCH” sign. Not the thing it was telling viewers not to touch, but the sign itself. We can’t be sure if this is a cute joke or another fundamental chunk of brain missing from the author.

They are sentenced to four years of solitary confinement with a number of strange details written by a person trying to be silly and, like in all their other efforts, failing.

Because of their good behavior, the girls get to finish their prison time with adult criminals, singing in the choir and making license plates. It’s so goddamn weird. They’re locked up in prison for a third of this book. I guess the judge knew he couldn’t get a hippo stoning or China spitting conviction, so he came down on the girls hard for the sign touching charges.

I can’t imagine anyone or anything improving from any of this, but at least something bad is happening to shitheads. I’m American enough to call that a win for the justice system. This is a pretty decent effort, Doris and Graci! You even remembered to include a real moral:

“Hi, Robert. It’s been… wow, five years since I wrote HA HA HA HA HA ON YOU. Well, I’m out and I’ve had time to refl– what do you mean, who is this? This is Millicent Ann Louise, Snitch Killer of Cell Block D! I tormented you all through third gra– he hung up.”

So okay, we’ve now read about bullying, lying, and obnoxiousness with Doris and Graci almost making a case against the last one. But moral relativists could argue those concepts are too abstract to solve. Let’s see if Doris and Graci can teach children about something more objectively wrong. Let’s see how they handle stealing.

In a storytelling choice I personally wouldn’t have made, the star of ONCE I WAS A THIEF… and You’ll Never Guess What Happened is a young Latino immigrant. But this book has ironically been stripped of its thief doll, so we’ll have to use the bully again. The little paper son of a bitch.

The thief took $1.74 and some snail remains from Robert. I don’t know if all children in this universe choose Robert as their victim or if Doris is using her art to work through some things involving a treacherous Robert in her own life. Speaking of the author, can you see the mistake she made here? That’s right! In the very same paragraph we learn of the crime, we also see the solution and the aftermath. Doris accidentally finished the story on the first page! Whoops!

So with nothing left to do, the hero takes a nap.

It goes about as disastrously as a nap can go.

“What’s the deal with hospital food, am I right? Could there be a more wild assortment of various foods?” jokes Doris. “We won’t know the full extent of the brain damage until we get all the hot dog out of her lungs,” say her nearby doctors.

After stealing fourteen lunches from his nurses, the boy escapes to Brazil where Doris and Graci agree they speak Spanish. And the birds there can tell what he’s done. “Señor Thief! Señor Thief!” the parrots squawk, in perfect Spanish, the native tongue of Brazil. It’s like the Tell Tale Heart only with higher stakes.

He stays one step ahead of the police by fleeing to the sky, Australia, and Mayan Indian ruins before ending up in a Korean sweatshop. He works there for three weeks, but our hero, further referred to as Señor Thief, can’t resist stealing a paw squeaker from the assembly line. You know what happens next.

That’s right. Thirty two fucking years of hard labor filling tear buckets at a royal llama farm.

Señor Thief’s father is the king, and he’s here to see if the boy who learned his lesson on page one learned it again after all this nonsense bullshit.

Señor Thief’s dad, THE KING, comes up with precisely the same solution as when Señor Thief was awake. Yeah, we know, book. Give the stolen things back and apologize. Am I fucking crazy? You said it twenty pages ago. I guess the book’s lesson is yada yada, sure, don’t steal, but if you do you need to relive a more surreal version of the crime while you’re asleep. It’s the only way to free yourself from the guilt. Speaking of free…

“Oh fuck yeah,” is what Graci Evans says when you ask her if she can draw “FREE!”

“We forgive you,” shouts everyone! From the hungry, peach-headed nurses here in America to the owners of squeakless teddy bears deep in the mysterious Orient, all the lives shattered by Señor Thief are whole again. I can’t imagine a more wonderful ending. Stealing solved, five stars.


This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Joseph Searles, who once talked during a movie and went on a magical journey where he romanced a tiger and then died in prison.

Categories
LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: 9 Cats, 9 Lives 🌭

I’m furious at this book, because its cover is its first and last mention of cats.

It should discuss cats! Look at the title! The title is 9 Cats 9 Lives: Influential People & Their Past Lives: Karma, Reincarnation & You. Wow. A lot going on there. That word salad has some zesty dressing. But it is a lie. I want cat stuff. I love my cats! And I thought this book would be about cat reincarnation. Nope: this book is a human reincarnation book, dominated by boilerplate Wikipedia history, and ghost-co-written by a dead cult leader’s acolytes. All of that frustrates me on its own. Yet across 200+ pages, I got most angry about the total lack of cats. Cats brought me here. Cats purr beside me as I type this. But author Elizabeth Clare Prophet is such a megalomaniac, she forgot cats are a more interesting topic than herself.

I discovered this book while pursuing a noble goal (cat toys) on a horrible website (Amazon dot com). The listing did not meet my wonderful beautiful pets’ needs. But it proceeded to hook me with its immediate powerful question:

That non-haiku is a better title than the book title. And great news: they follow through on that question. It turned out this book lacks cat stuff because it is chock full of Atlantis stuff. You might’ve noticed the cover features famous dead 1900s Americans and Britons:

According to the book, most pictures of Anglo-Americans are pictures of Atlanteans.

I quoted that passage to a friend the other day. I laughed about it. They showed concern. They suggested that by reading this book, I’ve accidentally and hotdoggily versed myself in the entire belief system of a cult. Turns out they’re right. Whoops! I should’ve searched Amazon for something better-phrased than “cat toys for my darling angels who I worship with a fervence bordering on cultish cult Atlantis Reincarnation henryford”. Anyway, don’t worry. I entered and exited this book a-ok. I am not joining its “Summit Lighthouse” cult. Partly because both the leaders are dead. Two out of two dead leaders makes me feel like the party’s over. If I’m culting up, I want to touch the O.G. manipulator’s garment hem. I can’t fanboy an urn.

This book’s credited author is Elizabeth Clare Prophet. She gained that try-hard last name when she and cult leader Mark L. Prophet left their spouses to marry each other. A few years later, Mark died. Then she died. Then “The Summit Lighthouse, Inc.” published this book. The legal, official copyright page lists Elizabeth as the author of this book, published in 2021, even though she died in 2009. Huh? What? Don’t worry: a note at the very end clarifies this miracle.

Stunningly, that is not the only Good Research Practice carried out by this cult’s runnin’-on-fumes membership. The Summit Lighthouse Inc. peppers the book with a handy footnote every time its reincarnation claim is “as of 1992.”

Those footnotes thrilled me. They achieved total fidelity to the truth, in a situation where “The Truth” is a cult leader’s second wife spouting Atlantis Stuff during a Chicago Bulls three-peat. That devotion to Doing The Work brings the whole book together. Also, this is a book in desperate need of bringing together. It is all over the map. Maybe its wacky smorgasbord of beliefs is less surprising if you’re already in the cult? I hadn’t heard of “The Summit Lighthouse”, possibly because its name sounds more like a seafood joint in Colorado. Now that I’m versed in its [AS OF 1992] cosmology, I can tell you they practice at least six belief systems. The book dabbles in all of the following:

1. Reincarnation stuff

2. Karmic balance stuff

3. A loosey-goosey version of Christianity centered on “The Universal Christ”

4. Theosophy, via an alleged guru called Morya

5. “because Atlantis” stuff

6. The regional myth that “cats have nine lives”

6a. An implied corollary to that mythical belief, which is that many famous Americans of the early 1900s happened to be living their ninth life specifically. No reason is given why their ninth life happened to sync with “The American Century”.

6b. A variation on the “nine lives” myth, where some famous Americans proceeded to live a tenth life. In one chapter, an American lived fourteen significant lives and countless other minor ones. Nobody addresses whether these tenth-plus lives debunk the “nine lives” belief about cats.

I don’t know about you, but that list makes my head swim. Total swimmy-headedness, as if I ate a discount thin-air shrimp platter. It’s D-minus cult lore at best. I don’t know how The Prophets attracted a following of each other, much less a loyal cadre of Prophetettes. They’ve flooded Amazon with Elizabeth Clare Prophet’s speeches-turned-into-books. In this speech, Mrs. Prophet goes all in on the number nine. She attempts to document nine incredible lives, and their nine-plus reincarnations across the centuries. Basically all of the lives start in Atlantis. Did you know: Atlantis is a concept from history! Or at least from historical people! The book documents these roots in wordy non-detail. We receive insights like “Much of the speculation about Atlantis comes from Plato.” By cult standards, this is somebody trying hard. By reading standards, this is a photocopy of a photocopy of Wikipedia. It’s a snooze from jump. Then, Mrs. Prophet puts Henry Ford on blast for being an ancient mean guy and a modern moron.

The thrills build from there. Also, the humongous boredom. Every time a real person crops up in this book, the Prophetettes pad it out with page after page of accurate facts about their American life. Meanwhile, the non-American lives come in short bursts of vague fables. Mrs. Prophet uses these hastily-scribbled extra lives to build a throughline for each soul, where their mistakes thirty thousand years ago on Atlantis cause them to feel karmic pain. This karmic pain makes them sad, during the Jazz Age or whatever. You get it. It’s what you think. Everything is Atlantis, every American is Atlantis-driven, and there you have it. It’s Mrs. Prophet’s only idea. It’s even the context for a few filler photos. A few Americans who don’t get their own chapter get namechecked as important muckety-mucks of the Continent Lost In Seafloor Muck.

Each of the nine souls featured here gets its own chapter. Mrs. Prophet formats a few of them as Mystery Chapters, where we read along in suspense, wondering which Important American’s soul slummed it as a Greek Sailor or Russian Peasant before they got reborn and drank Coca-Cola. She does this “Mystery!!!” gambit as soon as the second chapter, because you want to make your audience solve riddles before they have enough familiarity with your whole deal. In Chapter Two, we read about a soul with anger management issues, who made several stops in Atlantis before becoming a Sicilian monk and a French merchant. Did you already solve the riddle yet???

Huge red flag there. Clear racism signal. Anybody using the full given name “Alphonse” is about to Um Actually you, about the underrated cultural significance of Cristoforo Columbus Day. On its own, “Alphonse” was fine. But the book reveals some curious blind spots when it comes to Mrs. Prophet’s abilities. For some past lives, she fills entire pages with that soul’s exact locations, organizations, loved ones, experiences, and Euro-American adventures. Yet in other past lives, her powers grow
Cliffs Notes-y, let’s say.

Oh shoot: I forgot to list “yada yada-ing non-white countries” in the Summit Lighthouse Trove O’ Theology. Whoops! I hope I don’t get a karmic payback for that in my next life, when I’m reincarnated as either a white American or an NPC. This book is so white, there’s a whole chapter about the astonishing reveal that Winston Churchill’s soul was previously the 1st Duke of Marlborough. That duke’s name was John Churchill. Winston and John were real-life relatives. The whole chapter is almost Ancestry dot com. Yet Mrs. Prophet knows more about this factoid than she knows about the entire life this soul lived between its Churchillizations. In between glorying in the minutiae of Winston Churchill’s nonfiction publishing career, she handwaves his soul’s eighth life as “unnamed Asian king.”

On the plus side, this book gets around to wild claims about souls achieving multi-fame. This is the author’s basic professional duty as a peddler of reincarnation hokum, and Mrs. Prophet sort of comes through. She says writer Anaïs Nin was artist Marie Bashkirtseff in a past life. She says Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s first life was on Atlantis, as the son of Joseph Stalin’s first life. She also says FDR spent a life as an Egyptian slave under the whips of both Stalin’s soul and Khrushchev’s soul. Awkward! And great! The book needed more of this. Elizabeth’s one job is to string dead celebri-figures together in pleasing patterns, like a Sid Meier version of an Oscars Night “In Memoriam”. It’s what we’re all here for! Other than cats! Again, I’m mad she lied about the cats. And Mrs. Prophet dishonors the famous cat-life myth by handing a lot of these folks a tenth life. The first bonus life goes to Al Capone, and her approach to it almost made me applaud.

BREAKING NEWS: Alphonse Capone is a poor child in Bangladesh City. SUBHEADLINE: that fact demonstrates the grace and mercy of the one true Christian God. NEXT CHAPTER: AnaĂŻs Nin is in Astral Jail for Sexy Selfishness Crimes.

As the book goes on, Mrs. Prophet throws more and more surprises at us, with that exact lack of warning. One minute you’re learning Winston Churchill reincarnated in the early 1990s. The next minute, you’re learning Margaret Thatcher’s soul originated on Knock-Off Pacific Atlantis.

Yeah! She throws in a whole ‘nother Lost Continent like it’s a ding dang “a wild [Pokemon] appears!” Terrific stuff. Life is short and I want its nonsense hot and fast. Speaking of which, this book’s best reveals come on Lives #7-#9. After six tall tales about Prime Ministers being from Lemur Land or wherever, Mrs. Prophet’s secret ghostwriter tackles the soul of Charles Lindbergh. It turns out Charles Lindbergh was also Abraham Lincoln, and also the Egyptian pharaoh Merneptah. However, our ghostwriter has tragic news about this life:

That’s amazing. That’s amazing! I thought this book was a lazy copy/paste/pad-out of a dead cult leader’s lecture. It’s more! It’s a document of somebody telling a full-on cult leader to cut their sermon short, and telling them that so persuasively, the cult leader complied. Somebody in that 1992 hotel conference room told this cult leader to [gesturing from the back] WRAP IT UP PLEASE
 and that worked! How did that work? Elizabeth Clare Prophet is a cult leader. As I understand it, cult leaders do not comply with anything short of a federal raid. Who is this event space’s magic employee? How did they silvertongue Mrs. Prophet into skipping the announcement that Charles Lindbergh is Abraham Lincoln is The Pharaoh?

This situation causes thrilling ripples throughout the rest of the book. In stand-up comedy parlance, Mrs. Prophet tried and failed to run the light. She’d planned nine lives, but she had to cut two of them for time. Then she told somebody Charles Lindbergh and Babe Ruth were next on her list. But she did not tell the Prophetettes any further information about their souls. That forced her modern adherents to finish this book by indexing her other past mentions of Lindbergh and Ruth. Luckily for Lindy, she’d freestyled a couple other lives for him in her other jam sessions. Luckily for us, Mr. and Mrs. Prophet never mentioned Babe Ruth in any other situation. If she prepped anything about him, it’s gone. Can you guess how this book’s authors handled that gap? Do they step up and invent some Babe Ruth stuff themselves? Do they simply not include Babe Ruth in the book? Or do they do the third and by far funniest option?

That’s right: they wrote a middle school “learn to read!” book of basic facts about a dead baseball player. Just when I thought I was done covering baseball’s alienating inhuman madness, I bonked into a dozen pages of snorifying real facts – and somehow no sex facts – compiled by an anonymous flunky in a declining cult. My dear Hotdogger, this chapter was worse than boring. It was a dark night for my soul. I wondered if the book would ever get interesting again. I wondered if the ninth and final chapter could redeem this reading experience. When she skipped Lindbergh/Lincoln/Pharaoh and Babe Ruth, whose life did Elizabeth Clare Prophet make time to cover in full? What final astounding American did Elizabeth Clare Prophet deem to be her perfect lecture closer? I wonder who, to Elizabeth Clare Prophet, was the most important soul to Elizabeth Clare Prophet? Not to be an Elizabeth Clare Prophet spinning out mysteries here, but can you guess where this is going?

Heck yes. There is nothing more CULT LEADER than giving a lecture, learning you are running short on time, and skipping the topics of several world-famous humans so you can talk more about yourself. Er, talk more about yourselves. Elizabeth Clare Prophet has so much Elizabeth Clare Prophet material, she trims her auto-mega-biography down to her fourteen *most significant* lives.

This chapter honestly increases my level of belief in Atlantis. Why? No ordinary continent could support the weight of this gal’s ego. The closest she comes to humility is her account of Life #13, where she admits she merely might have been Marie Antoinette or King Louis XVI.

After that, she declares herself the greatest queen in the history of Atlantis. Then she deftly pre-debates anyone who’d raise the mildest possible criticism of her life story.

So there you have it: Abraham Lincoln was a pharaoh and an aviator and ultimately kind of bleh. He’s nothing compared to the most self-centered cult leader ever to over-stay a conference center room rental. It fills me with awe. It fills me with astonishment. In a twisted way, it’s the sort of transcendent experience a lot of folks seek from faiths. So great job, Elizabeth Clare Prophet. You astounded me even more than I thought an Internet publishing nut could. You’re also allowing me to say “I’m glad you’re dead” without that being a mean thing to say, technically, because you claim death is a brief pause before you start life number one billion. And when you return for your next life as Queen Of The Galaxy, I encourage you to look into your heart, think about what’s important, and focus on spreading The Good News about cats for a change.


This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Chance McDermott, the reincarnation of Bernard Slopely, mid-level draftsman for train bathrooms. Not all reincarnation is sexy.

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