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Ask the Medium
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Skiatatuk Speaks Again
Communiqué No. 27,103

Warning!
Skiatatuk is the world's only foul-mouthed spirit guide. At least he's the only one we know of. The following communications thus contain words which some readers will find offensive.

Background:
One of our staffers, who chooses to remain anonymous, has for several decades (long before the channeling fad) been able to alter his/her consciousness (he/she refuses to use the term, "go into a trance") and then speak with a different voice and a different personality. His/her partner has dutifully recorded all sessions. As you will note from the number above, this has been going on for a while. The personality who speaks long ago announced that it wished to be addressed as "Skiatatuk," with--please note--the accents on the second and fourth syllables. Thus: skee-AH-tah-TOOK. Pretentious? Who's to say.

Readers are invited to submit questions. Because of the volume of submissions, Skiatatuk will respond only to queries which we publish.

 

Query
Given such turbulent events (9-11, Enron, Paula Zahn’s big move), I’m having a lot of trouble seeing meaning in anything. Maxed out on Prozac, I move through my days knowing despair is just around the next corner. Can you, from your higher-planes perspective, offer succor? Please.
                                      Downered and Out in Des Moines

Response
What the fuck. Who promised you a rose garden? Beelzebub’s balls! Go read Doris Lessing (Briefing for a Descent into Hell). Stop watching re-runs of the X-Files every night. Yes, yes, it is a time of chaos. Even we way up here were shaken by the lovely Paula’s venal expediency. But remember: her path is not your path, you pill-popping muff-diving cocksucker. You could do worse than model your own drugged-out behavior on that of your much-put-upon prez: Relief is just a bag of pretzels away.

Query
I don’t smoke, drink, or do any kind of drugs, legal or otherwise. My only escape is driving my 6,000-pound Ford Excursion. Nights, after my family is tucked away, I get in my three-ton security blanket, pop Springsteen in the CD player, and drive the freeways for hours. I return home rejuvenated, certain that the world is not such a bad place after all. My only problem is my sixth-grader daughter, who’s lately taken to remonstrating with me about pollution and gas consumption. I don’t know where she’s getting such commie ideas. She goes to church with us every week at Lakewood Baptist, "the Community of Love." Lately I’ve started feeling small twinges of guilt when I hop in and fire up my 7-liter V-8. What can I do?
                                      Pedal to the Metal

Response
What the fuck. Three things, you metaphysical dingle-berry:

1. Fix the TV in your daughter’s room so it receives ONLY the Fox Channel.

2. You must start spending more quality time with her. Promise her that every time she beats you at Quake you’ll put 100 shares of Microsoft in her trust account.

3. We elevated ones are aware of the efforts of your church, you gonorrheal ooze you. You need to start reciting the Lakewood mantra AT LEAST 1,000 times a day. All together now: "Hate the sin, love the sinner." Do that a couple of weeks and you’ll find that your new LOVING vibes will begin to have a beneficial, calming effect on your contumacious offspring.

Query
I am a tenured, widely published post-structuralist at a prominent mid-west university. I teach only three hours per week and have the summers off. Because of my reputation, my salary is in the low-mid-six-figure range. My opinions are sought on cultural topics far afield from my area of specialty (canonic bias in medieval Lower Saxony) by print and electronic media. Though I am happily married and have been consistently heterosexual, I am totally obsessed by Rush Limbaugh, who to me is the sexiest human being I’ve ever encountered. Night and day, fantasies of the two of us in various gyrations fill my mind. Both my professional and personal lives are becoming a shambles as, no matter the situation, I’m likely to drift off into another fantasy. Is this karmic? Did he and I spend a past life together?
                                      Calamitous Chicagoan

Response
What the fuck. No, you silly S.O.B., you didn’t spend a past life together, and no, it’s not karmic. All it is, you sober-sided shit-kicker, is a symptom of all your years of INTELLECTUAL DISHONESTY AND PRETENTIOUSNESS finally trying to KILL YOUR HEART. How anyone of intelligence can fall for the claptrap you get big bucks for spouting is beyond all of us on this elevated plane as well as on several planes above us. Truth be told, you absurd asshole-licker, this life is a write-off. The chains you’ve made for yourself are so heavy and thick, none of us here can say any way out for you. Enjoy your self-made prison. Just don’t bend over when you drop the soap in the post-structural shower.

END

 

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