All chips down prophecy flop turns the table on Chiappalone

It was supposed to be an edge-of-your-seat month in August 2016 if you took any notice of Chiappalone’s latest doomsday prophecy, a month by the end of which humanity would be completely wiped out, that no one would survive, still shown on, a month in which you might have been tempted to quickly drop everything and join his church.  Perhaps in not too dissimilar a fashion to a fire sale, ‘Hurry folks, don’t miss the bargain, last chance, ENDING SOON!!’.  With the flashing membership sign.  Well, even the judge of all souls has to make some kind of a living.

Included in the prophecy’s declaration, before its expedient removal, was the bit, “OF THIS I’M 100% CERTAIN”, a very strong assurance of Chiappalone’s prophetic word, especially given earlier repeated failure. The outcome of such a wager any man would know would utterly make or break his reputation, and, being an impossible prediction to make correctly, the latter would be certain. Who would bring this upon himself but a madman or a shyster? And you might ask, if humanity were certain to end on a given month, would there really be much point in saying so?  Apart from for an attention-seeking pulp fiction sales drive for his hemoragging sideshow.  Perhaps it was a desperate last ditch attempt to prove, to himself and to others, his long missing but critical prophetic mojo.  Regardless, its’s reasonable to assume his published prophetic word was meant.

Now at year’s end, as this is written, there’s at least one person still alive fortunately, months after there should be none. By his own hand then Chiappalone has exposed himself, once and for all, to be powerless in prophecy. This destroys his claim to heavenly authority or to possess special powers. Without which, considerable doubt must be cast on the credibility of all he has said and written. What authority does Chiappalone have to make the claims he’s made? What of it can now be believed? It’s fair to conclude, not being who he’s claimed to be, or that the source of his published information is what it was claimed to be, that he’s mislead his followers, for some decades.  None too soon then that Chiappalone should have crucified himself.   Of his motto, in typical black or white form, “take it or leave it”, the choice is clear, as has been made by those close to him it would appear.

In memoriam, eyes welling no doubt for the tragic end of Chiappalone’s reputation and particularly long and unsuccessful career as a doomsday prophet, some credit could be given for his recognition of suffering and imperfection in the world (demonstrated himself rather aptly), sponsoring his pursuit of the spirit, the path of spirituality, in the hope of climbing to higher ground where things might be better, indeed from which an end to suffering might be found.  As well, in his penchant for sword-wielding exposure of corrupt or evil individuals and institutions, and conspiracies and conspirators, seen to contribute to the fabric of falsehood, exploitation and suffering in the world, of which the media for one was an obvious and worthy target. But not without the dogmatism, fanatacism and obsessive, slightly rabid fervor of a crusade, while offering on the other hand no realistic alternative.

Unfortunately, Chiappalone’s concocted religious brew hit a sour note with the diagnosis of overwhelming evil everywhere that was beyond redemption, and for which prescription, a mighty destruction of everything and a brutal judgement day. It became poison, with the view that the vast majority of people were of evil ontology or merely robotic shells lacking what it is to be human, people to be denied humanity fully in regard or cut off from completely, including members of family. Further that he was convinced he was the judge and god the father himself, succumbing to the condition known as god-complex with concomitant megalomania. And further still, enacting messiah and pied pipering a following of responders to his call, to play out the mission of the coming final days of earth based in remote isolation. Discernible religious sect territory no less, which can become very wobbly in the control exerted over its members and its affect on them and their lives. Inevitably sects unravel with negative net effect measured by any metric other than that of serving the interests of its leaders or its misguided or unsuccessful belief system.

Carrying on the philosophy baton, ‘The Centre of Knowledge and Supremacy’ stock, Amitakh has adapted it to her style of church and revised its content that risky prophecy be no more explicit than shifting opaque twirls of smoke exhaled and expelled in incantation and riddle, and to include an eclectic selection of spiritual fetish and enchanting hallucinatory gnostibabble, sure to satisfy any appetite for the mystical and meaningless, a bubbling cauldron of exotic ingredients, a lizard tail here and mistletoe there, a throw of light imagined here and random sound-words chanted there, the really low sounds and really high ones work best, mantra, mantra, mantra, and dancing, dancing around in feverish corroboree to the spirits, ape juxtaposed with alien high on crude, crows and buffalos circling overhead, evil’s dark feather in helix descent against full moon, spacecraft parked at rear in hazed cloaks, but a cauldron which has barely been stirred for a year now, Amitakh having found herself unexpectedly widowed, and it remains to be seen whether the divine mother resumes tending her flock, her valued “all that are mine”, or in comfortable country retirement puts them, and the warriorship mission, expediently up for adoption.


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