I wrote this in April, 1994. It was inspired by (1) an infomercial for the Philips CD-I (written, apparently, by someone who hated the product), (2) an infomercial for Scientology, and (3) a couple dreams I had. In other words, this is all true...

SPOT BUYS A CD-I®

by
James "Kibo" Parry

Poor Spot! He was desperate for entertainment. He'd already watched all six hundred of his videotapes again this week, and he'd worn out all the ROMs in his Nintendo cartridges. He wanted something new.

He wanted to know... how to handle life.

"How can I handle life?" he idly wondered aloud.

Instantly, one of the three little walls of his tiny sliver of a triangular apartment rolled up to reveal a vast matte painting of an awesomely technological computer-factory-like thingie. Spot recognized this from his dreams--this was no ordinary bleak and futuristic expanse of machinery, this was his destiny! Spot hopped into the matte painting, crossing the thick blue line at the edge and instantly blending in with the fat NTSC rasters that traced paths lazily across the air.

"Welcome, Spot. So, you've come to learn the secret of life, eh?" said the Wall Of Knowledge. This expanse of machinery was so huge that it had only one wall, and that wall was so vast that it had attained sentience eons ago. This very wall was over one billion times smarter than Spot, or one hundred times as smart as you or I!

Spot gasped in awe. "Uh, hello, Mr. Wall, sir. I come in peace, for your perls, I mean your pearls, of wisdom."

The Wall scowled. "Dear, oh dear, Spot. I'm afraid I'm not a wisdom dispenser. At least, I would not be able to state the answer to any problem in terms simple enough for your little brain to appreciate. All I can do is recommend that you buy a Swillips CD-i(R) interactive videodisc player with genuine simulated virtual reality and faux woodgrain veneer-like melamine bannisters."

"Waah!" whined Spot. "Now I'll never learn the secret of life!"

"Hold your horses, silly little puppy. Of course you will. Everyone figures it out sooner or later. Probably a lot later, in your case. If you just follow these simple directions, I'll tell you how to learn to handle life."

"Gosh oh joy oh boy a roonie! Mr. Talking Wall, I can hardly wait!" Spot began to chase his tail in little circles in the middle of the enormous space from satisfaction. (Dogs are stupid that way.) "Sure, Mr. Wall, tell me how to learn the ultimate secret--I really appreciate the--"

"NO! DON'T SAY HELP!" screamed the Wall.

"--help!" blurted Spot. Immediately the Wall lit up with:

THANK YOU FOR SAYING THE WORLD 'HELP'!

WELCOME TO THE SWILLIPS CD-i(R) ON-LINE EASY HELP SYSTEM.

PLEASE READ THE EASY MANUAL NOW OR YOU WILL RECEIVE ANOTHER SHOCK LIKE THIS ONE.

Six thousand volts coursed through Spot's body as a lightning bolt struck his floppy left ear and came out the tip of his tail, which burst open like a flower to reveal the tiny pear-shaped bone at the tip. It fell off and rolled into a nearby sewer grating, where a mouse ate it. "WAAAAAH!" squalled Spot. "I didn't mean to bring up this evil so-called 'help'!"

THANK YOU FOR SAYING THE WORLD 'HELP' AGAIN!

WELCOME TO THE SWILLIPS CD-i(R) ON-LINE EASY HELP SYSTEM.

PLEASE READ THE EASY MANUAL NOW OR YOU WILL RECEIVE ANOTHER SHOCK LIKE THIS ONE.

This time, the lightning bolt struck Spot in the eyeball, and it came out his belly button, changing it from an "innie" to a "toroidie" in the process. Spot whimpered while the convenient easy help system explained what a toroid was and forced him to learn all the relevant topology. After a while, the help screen dissolved into static and the Wall of Knowledge abruptly came back online, displaying various things beginning with "p": puppy, pain, purple, pelicans, pickle, plotz.

"There, Spot," it said, "I've finally managed to override that darn 'help' system. Notice how, unlike you, I can say 'help' all I want. Help help help help I don't need any help la la la la la help-a-doo-dah. Well, Spot, think you can pull yourself together long enough to stroll on over to the Red Elevator?"

"Yep," gasped Spot though the galaxy of stars that orbited the black hole that was his head. "Thanks, Mr. Wall. I'd better get the heck out of here before I say 'help' again."

Fortunately, the blast of electricity knocked Spot in the general direction of the Red Elevator. The operator, a handsome guy with a Joe Stalin handlebar mustache, asked Spot which floor he wanted.

"Oh, gee, I don't know. I just want to find out how to handle life!"

The operator smiled. "You want the bottom floor, then. Hold on to your stomach!" He yanked a handle and the elevator descended so fast it made a sonic boom.

Seconds later, Spot and his newly-emptied stomach arrived at the bottom floor. Because this was the Red Elevator which went all the way down, Spot found himself in Hell!

"Hi," said Satan. "You're early. Still, never too soon to start working off those thousands of ants you've stepped on over the years. Pick a booth and strap yourself into the language lab."

"Sorry, I can't stay," chirped Spot with the most bravado he could muster, which is to say none at all. "I'm just here to find out the secret of life."

"Oh, damn me to here," complained the Dark Lord. "That means you're in the wrong place. I'm evil, you see, so I'm afraid I can't tell you the secret of life. Terribly sorry about the whole evil business, but it's what I do and who I am. Ripper of souls and all that. To understand life, why don't you try the world's greatest psychologist? He's right up those stairs."

Spot started trotting up the stairs past the sign which read STAIRWAY HALFWAY TO HEAVEN, accompanied by some easy-listening music. After a few hundred flights, passing the Ponzi Pyramid of Pain, he came to a door marked WORLD'S GREATEST PSYCHOLOGIST. Spot went in.

A short man with white hair, a beard, a cigar, and round black glasses was making a mouse run through a maze shaped like a toddler named Little Albert who was keeping a dozen grad students prisoner in the basement where the wardens forced them to give electric shocks to people pretending to have heart conditions who owned dogs who liked to drool a lot. The man looked at Spot. "Ach vey, you muzt be zee new drooler I zent for. I am Doktor Wiktor Brrrronstein, zee vorlt's gleatest bsychorogizt."

Spot, confused by the man's culturally-diverse but poorly-acted multi-ethnic accent, stuck his head into the Dr. Bronstein's psychological testing machine, which resembled a language lab only the tapes were labelled DANGER instead of ESPERANTO. The machine determined his IQ by sucking it out of his brain, leaving him a drooling moron, but who would notice? The machine released him. "Dr. Bronstein, how can I handle life?"

"Vell, you zee, Shpot, rife is rike zee big rrred elewator you prrrrobababably rode in to gggggget here. It as-hay its ups and owns-day."

"Stop with the accent already," moaned Spot.

"Okay," said Dr. Bronstein, pulling off his fake beard and glasses, as he swallowed his chocolate cigar. "Anyway, Spot, to make it all perfectly clear, see that mouse in the maze? Because I, like all psychologists, am evil, and I work for an evil conspiracy which works for the evil government, I'm making that mouse run the maze over and over because I want all people to be just like that mouse in the maze: frantically searching for the cheese but only finding little dried-up black pellets in dead ends which you visit over and over in your pathetic little repetitious existence. Makes perfect sense, right?"

"No," said Spot.

"THEN DIE, DIE, DIE, FILTHY PUPPY!" Dr. Bronstein held up a fifty-nine inch long knife with many notches on the blade and finely-crafted blood gutters. He began to hack and slash frantically, like all evil psychologists do. Fortunately, Spot was on the other side of the table holding the giant maze, and by the time Dr. Bronstein had climbed onto the table and started across it, Spot out the door, leaving an exhausted mad scientist standing in the middle of his own evil creation. Dr. Bronstein was trapped forever in a maze more evil than even he!

"Says you," said Spot to Dr. Bronstein for no reason in particular. "Watch that first step--and have a nice flight!" With this witty Lazenby-ish repartee, Spot trotted out into the stairwell that ran through the Earth from end to end. Unfortunately, due to Spot's short attention span, he'd forgotten whether he was on his way up or down.

A pickle whizzed past. So did a pelican. It swallowed the falling pickle and vanished in the general direction of Hell. Spot decided that whoever dropped the pickle could probably tell him where the exit was, so he headed up the long staircase.

After a few moments, he came to a landing where there was a corridor stretching off into the infinite distance. The floor was wooden, in little strips, and very highly waxed. Far away, Spot could see what looked like ten penguins--

No, he realized, they were just harmless bowling pins. He looked around the stairway landing but couldn't find a bowling ball or a hand-drier, so he wondered why anyone would want to go bowling here in this crappy underfurnished lane in Purgatory. He looked at the pins again. That was odd--they seemed to be closer now.

He blinked and suddenly the pins were closer still. Every time he took his eyes off them for even a millisecond the pins moved up on him! "Help!" screamed Spot as he ran for the staircase. "THE PINS THINK I'M A BALL!"

Dozens of bowling balls came cascading down the stairs. He ducked back into the alley just in time for the avalanche to go rumbling past him. He looked at the pins and they were only a foot away!

Spot turned to run, and the pins jumped him. WHAM! Spot was knocked into the stairwell. Suddenly, the bowling balls came back up the stairs, running him over. Then the pelican spit a pickle at him.

Spot was feeling slightly confused, although maybe that was just due to his concussion. to his concussion. ussion. n. He whacked his head on the wall to clear it and saw six or seven Yuppies on their lunch break walking down the stairs.

"Maypo!" said the first one, setting a bowl of it on the bannister, where it whizzed past Spot into the Earth's core.

"Jello!" said the second, letting her wiggly cherry parfait go down the rail too.

"Formaggio!"

"Espresso!"

"Rolo!"

They had all released their various foods down the bannister, except for one stern-looking Yuppie standing with his hands on his hips high above Spot. The major Yuppie looked at all the "o" foods sliding away and, with a pained expression, said--

"BLAAAAHUUUUURRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!" A big glob of bright purple vomit leapt from his mouth onto the bannister, shooting down it to stain the entire length a disgusting shade of lavender.

"Uh oh, better use the quicker picker-upper!" said the Maypo Yuppie, holding up a brand-new roll of Bounty.

The Jello Yuppie snatched the Bounty from his hand and hurled it into oblivion. "No! Now there's something new! It's the BETTER PICKER-UPPER!"

"What's the better picker-upper?"

"WAX PAPER!"

They all pulled out rolls of it and tore off sheets. A musical dance number ensued as they attempted to wipe up purple vomit with wax paper. Spot passed out from the excitement.

When he woke up, he found himself sealed inside a transparent plastic sphere about a foot in diameter. It was sitting on a short pedestal. Tiny people were driving little toy cars around on the floor below. One pulled his Jeep up to Spot's bubble with the tires making little flapping noises. "I am He Who Does Not Keep His Tires Properly Inflated!"

"You moron!" shouted another man. "If you know they're not properly inflated, why do you keep them that way?"

"Because I am only fulfilling my role in life as best I can--for I am He Who Does Not Keep His Tires Properly Inflated."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard, you dipstick!"

He Who Does Not Keep His Tires Properly Inflated burst into tears. "Why are you always so critical of me?"

"Because I am He Who Is Overly Critical Of Others!"

"YAY!" cheered all the little people. "HOORAY FOR HE WHO IS OVERLY CRITICAL OF OTHERS! HE IS FULFILLING HIS STATION IN LIFE AS ONLY HE CAN! NOW LET'S GO KILL HE WHO IT IS OKAY TO MURDER!"

They all did a little dance, and then pushed Spot's bubble off the pedestal, and rolled it towards some giant purple bowling pins which were eating pickle-flavored Maypo...

There was a sound of screeching brakes somewhere, and time stopped. Everything became two-dimensional except Spot. He stepped out of the plastic hoop which had formerly been a bubble and looked around at the little stick figures and the cardboard cutouts of bowling pins. The world had changed to a diorama!

It fell over on him. Then it did it again. And again, and again, and again...

Spot woke up facing the Wall of Knowledge. "I CAN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE!" he yapped. "HELP!"

A lightning bolt blew his lips off. "Waah!" Not only did Spot still not know how to handle life, but he'd already lost his, except he thought it was just a hallucination or something. "Or am I really dead? Am I dreaming all this?" he asked the Wall.

"No, Spot, you're not dreaming. Actually, yes, you are dreaming, but a moment ago you dreamed I told you that you weren't dreaming."

"Oh," Spot dreamed he said. "It was all one of those 'It was all a dream. Or was it?' Twilight Zone cliches--OR WAS IT?"

"And, little Spot, in just a minute, you'll dream--"

"Yes? Yes?"

"--that you know how to handle life!"

"I will? I mean, I do? How do I handle life?"

"Beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable..." burbled the Wall.

Spot was perplexed. Sure, he knew that "be" was a meaningful word, and so was "able", but somehow when they were combined they became meaningless, and when the new word was repeated it became less than meaningless. Spot felt like dirt, and all because he didn't know how to handle life!

The wall lit up with a picture of a volcano spewing forth some gloppy purple substance that went sliding down its bannisters. Bold yet firm lettering appeared.

HOW DO I HANDLE LIFE?
                              PAGE 666

DIANETICS, BY L. RON HUBBARD

GET IT WHEREVER PAPERBACK BOOKS ARE SOLD. NOW.

"Wow!" yapped Spot. "Thank you for the ultimate pearl of wisdom, Mr. Wall! Be groovy, and always keep your tires properly inflated! Thanks again for the help!"

The lightning bolt struck Spot in the back of his uvula and made his fur stand on end. On the wrong end. He turned himself right-side out and gingerly trotted towards a doorway which had a sign reading THIS WAY TO A BOOKSTORE.

"No dogs allowed," said the bouncer at the bookstore. "Beat it!" He drop-kicked Spot in the general direction of a competing bookstore.

"Come on in, little puppy," said the other bookstore's cheerful doorman, "This bookstore is just for dogs!" Spot went in and looked around. It had nothing but hardcover books! Spot screamed and ran out of The World's Best Hardcover Book Store And It's Just For Dogs Inc.

He found a third bookstore, whose sign said DOGS ONLY and WE ONLY SELL PAPERBACK BOOKS. Hot diggity dog! Just what Spot needed! He trotted in and asked the clerk for a copy of Dianetics.

She went to a shelf to look and came back with a thick, almost cubical, paperback book. "I'm terribly sorry, sir, but we don't have regular Dianetics here, just Dog Dianetics."

"I'll take it!" barked Spot, forking over all the money he had hidden in his money collar. He took the book outside, sat his little butt down, and opened the book to page 666. It said:

yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap

yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap

yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap

yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap

yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap

Spot cried! He didn't want Dianetics for dogs, he wanted the version for people! You see, as the saying goes, Spot thought he was people.

"Don't cry, friend," said a passing Scientologist. "Scientology is here to paper-train you!" Spot looked into the man's face and sobbed. Sure, he looked friendly enough, maybe he'd listen...

"OH PLEASE SCIENTOLOGY GUY MY LIFE IS MISERABLE AND I NEED TO KNOW HOW CAN I HANDLE LIFE BUT I CAN'T FIND OUT BECAUSE I'M NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE A COPY OF THE REAL Dianetics BECAUSE I'M JUST A DOG WAAAAAAAAAH!!!!"

The man smiled and held out a paperback copy of Dianetics For Everyone But Dogs, By L. Ron Hubbard (Not A Dog). "Here, Spot, have this as a gift of the Non-Dog Org. We hope that some day you'll attend one of our seminars and learn what a joy it can be to be a Scientologist who is not a dog! Read this book and as far as handling life goes--you'll be able!"

Spot flipped the book open and it said:

Beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable,

beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable,

beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable,

beable, beable, beable, beable, beable, beable...

Spot felt nauseous with anxiety and disappointment. All the boluses in his gastrointestinal tract fused into a gigantic bezoar. His adrenal glands welled up with bile from his pancreas. He was on the verge of barfing his guts out! "What's the matter, doggie?" asked the nice man. "Would you like some of my grape yogurt?" He held out a cup of bright purple glop and Spot's stomach exploded. Spot died instantly. His spirit, of course, went to Hell--but because of Spot's newfound religion, it went to Scientology Hell. Poor Spot!

THE END

Copyright © 1994 James "Kibo" Parry