WUnderground WashU's Premier (only) Satirical Newspaper Est. 2004
Authors note: I actually did go. And missed a WUnderground meeting because it took 3 hours :( Names and identifying details have been fictionalized, but this article is about 74% true.
Have you ever been joyriding on the shuttle, dreamily gazing out the window, and noticed something strange at the roundabout on the Loop? Have you ever joked that you’re the type to join a cult? If Punisher by Phoebe Bridgers is on your Spotify Wrapped, I’ve got great news for you. I went WUndercover at the Delmar Church of Scientology so you don’t have to.
When I walked in, a young man with a vapid stare asked if I would like a tour or personality test, sliding me a form to fill out. In the interest of safety, I’d been advised to give a fake name and address, so I provided the contact information of my College Writing sneaky link (fuck you, Alex).
The TV behind him declared that children in Mexico weren’t learning math, but a donation to the L. Ron Hubbard Foundation could remedy this. I was given a brief 286 question personality test. Inquiries such as “Do you enjoy killing small animals?,” “Are you good at doing accents?,” and “Are you willing to blindly take orders?” determined that I am “sometimes happy, sometimes not,” and in critical need of engram auditing. I was impressed.
Afterwards, a little old woman named Debbie appeared to serve as my guide. Despite the grandiose exterior, the ambiance of the two story building was serving low budget office, spare the inexplicable Tiffany lamps.
In the next room, there was a small machine with a dial and a meter. “This is what we call our stress test.” Debbie handed me two metal cylinders, attached with wires. When I wrapped my hands around them, the meter flew from left to right. “That means you’re stressed.”
As we shuffled down the hallway, I asked Debbie about her role as the local director of dianetics. She told me she used to be a nurse practitioner, and during the height of the pandemic, she found herself often having to strap people down in order to administer the nasal swab. However, after implementing amateur dianetic techniques, many of her patients were able to source their discomfort back to earlier memories, such as accidentally inhaling a mini M&M when tipping back the tube as a child. Addressing these episodes resolved the issue, and she was able to start leaving the bondage to the bedroom.
I was inspired by her story, and wanted to see more. She led me to a room they call the purification chamber. “Normally, this is a paid service” she said, “but since most of our congregation is in Clearwater, Florida, trying to reach OT VIII, we could do a session.” With this act of generosity, I knew the world was wrong about the Scientologists; they weren’t after me for my money. When Debbie perked up after hearing I was a WashU student, it was because she admired my academic prowess, not because she anticipated the trust fund paying my tuition.
Debbie gave me a cocktail of what she called “vitamins,” then had me hop on an elliptical for a little while. As I began to break a sweat, my grasp on reality fractured, too. Debbie slowed me down, then guided me into the sauna to the right. “It’s okay, honey. Soon, things will be Clear.”
She closed the door, but I was not alone for long. Only a moment passed before the air began to shimmer, and- was that? Could it be? L. Ron Hubbard Himself appeared next to me.
“Hi, Alex,” He said with a wink. “You don’t know me, but I know you. You don’t think you need me, you have your sixteen Habif free sessions with a PhD student. But if those sessions were working, would you really be here? Why would you be wasting your time impersonating someone who seemed to like doing readings more than doing you?”
I shut my eyes to make Him go away, but He appeared inside my eyelids. “It’s okay. I can save you. But only once you decide to save yourself. By buying a $25 book.”
Friends, stay on the shuttle. Save your bad trip for your dorm room. And if you want to join a cult that bad, spring Rush is coming up.
