Mother Teegeeack
Patron
When discussing the High School Dwarf-Out in his blog posts, Mike Rinder frequently concludes his narratives with the phrase “It sucks to be Miscavige.”
But is this true, particularly relative to other Scientologists?
Sea Orgers and Staff live in a cesspool of squalor and stress, and even public Scientologists face a nonstop assault on their wallets and the ever present threats of KR’s, ethics, and disconnection.
I would certainly agree that Miscavige’s halcyon days are over. I think these were the 1990’s and early 2000’s, after the IRS victory and when criticism and lawsuit exposure against the Cult were largely muzzled, and when the abusive little cretin could really vent his megalomania and innate cruelty.
These were the years of the beatings, both those meted out by the Dwarf himself and those he encouraged others to inflict, a notable example being the occasion when Rathbun strangled Rinder.
These were the years of the musical chairs, the overboardings in the pond at Gold, of Miscavige forcing his subordinates to salute his dog.
These were the years when the abuses in the Hole reached their apex, with inmates thrown in garbage cans and forced to clean the bathroom floor with their tongues.
And these were the years when he was both responsible for the death of a 36-year-old woman and instrumental in Scientology’s subsequent efforts to weasel out of all responsibility for this crime. Scientology pissed on the grave of Lisa McPherson, and David Miscavige celebrated his victory.
Certainly the torrent of criticism, defections, and lawsuits the Cult has faced the past seven years or so has forced Miscavige to partially rein in his abusive behavior.
Even still, here in 2015, one could argue Miscavige enjoys an entitled, pampered, and comfortable life. He lives in luxury, be it his mansion at Gold, penthouse in Hollywood, or suite at the Fort Homicide. He dines on the finest cuisine, foods fedexed overnight to his chefs and prepared to his whims. His lap of luxury extends to his travels, where he moves about in chauffeured, armored SUV’s and private jets. He has a virtually inexhaustible pile of money at his disposal and a full stable of $500 an hour attorneys at his beck and call. His desires (sexual and otherwise) are met daily by a submissive Lou Stuckenbrock who showers him with a dog-like devotion.
So when does it suck to be Miscavige? Is it perhaps those last moments each night before sleep, after he has sent Lou back to her own room and before the parishoner-funded Macallan Scotch sends him off to slumber, when a wave of self-reflection hits him?
Does he take stock of the immeasurable suffering he has inflicted on others over the past three decades ( and all this misery parceled out under the guise of a “religion”) ?
Does he realize that if there is a hell, he most certainly has earned a privileged seat in it?
I for one think not. I suspect that for Miscavige to feel any regret or contrition for his actions, such emotions will only be induced by a criminal court in the United States forcing Miscavige to take residence in a 6’x8’ prison cell and trade his Armani suit, John Lobbs, and Ducati motorcycle for an orange boy-sized jumpsuit, slippers, and a push broom.
Only then will it truly suck to be Miscavige.
But is this true, particularly relative to other Scientologists?
Sea Orgers and Staff live in a cesspool of squalor and stress, and even public Scientologists face a nonstop assault on their wallets and the ever present threats of KR’s, ethics, and disconnection.
I would certainly agree that Miscavige’s halcyon days are over. I think these were the 1990’s and early 2000’s, after the IRS victory and when criticism and lawsuit exposure against the Cult were largely muzzled, and when the abusive little cretin could really vent his megalomania and innate cruelty.
These were the years of the beatings, both those meted out by the Dwarf himself and those he encouraged others to inflict, a notable example being the occasion when Rathbun strangled Rinder.
These were the years of the musical chairs, the overboardings in the pond at Gold, of Miscavige forcing his subordinates to salute his dog.
These were the years when the abuses in the Hole reached their apex, with inmates thrown in garbage cans and forced to clean the bathroom floor with their tongues.
And these were the years when he was both responsible for the death of a 36-year-old woman and instrumental in Scientology’s subsequent efforts to weasel out of all responsibility for this crime. Scientology pissed on the grave of Lisa McPherson, and David Miscavige celebrated his victory.
Certainly the torrent of criticism, defections, and lawsuits the Cult has faced the past seven years or so has forced Miscavige to partially rein in his abusive behavior.
Even still, here in 2015, one could argue Miscavige enjoys an entitled, pampered, and comfortable life. He lives in luxury, be it his mansion at Gold, penthouse in Hollywood, or suite at the Fort Homicide. He dines on the finest cuisine, foods fedexed overnight to his chefs and prepared to his whims. His lap of luxury extends to his travels, where he moves about in chauffeured, armored SUV’s and private jets. He has a virtually inexhaustible pile of money at his disposal and a full stable of $500 an hour attorneys at his beck and call. His desires (sexual and otherwise) are met daily by a submissive Lou Stuckenbrock who showers him with a dog-like devotion.
So when does it suck to be Miscavige? Is it perhaps those last moments each night before sleep, after he has sent Lou back to her own room and before the parishoner-funded Macallan Scotch sends him off to slumber, when a wave of self-reflection hits him?
Does he take stock of the immeasurable suffering he has inflicted on others over the past three decades ( and all this misery parceled out under the guise of a “religion”) ?
Does he realize that if there is a hell, he most certainly has earned a privileged seat in it?
I for one think not. I suspect that for Miscavige to feel any regret or contrition for his actions, such emotions will only be induced by a criminal court in the United States forcing Miscavige to take residence in a 6’x8’ prison cell and trade his Armani suit, John Lobbs, and Ducati motorcycle for an orange boy-sized jumpsuit, slippers, and a push broom.
Only then will it truly suck to be Miscavige.
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nite y'all
