Cut the C.R.A.P.: The Risks of Fringe-Dabbling

In his fresher year at uni, Stoddard enjoyed dabbling in the more esoteric group gatherings around campus, mostly for kicks and giggles rather than the sheltered burghers’ Search for Meaning so common in his cohort. To name a few were Fundies Against Raucous Music, the Friends of Keith (ΦΟΚ), and the Transcendent Punditoids (of which, mate “Punk” Mike ruined their hoity-zen seminar with psilocybic fits of laughter).
  But one group that had amused Stoddard enough with its empty platitudes and fortune cookie wisdom was the Collegium for Researching Associative Principles, a uni front group for the Unity Tabernacle of Goguria. (Alas, their unfortunate acronym was never amended.)
  The C.R.A.P. workshops were usually led by an Aussie bloke fond of gesticulating to emphasize his choice of two-dollar words. “Educating hearts, raising awareness, and training global loving citizens are key to personal development,” he assured everyone with the studied banality of a Jedi Master.
  Whilst stifling laughter during one session, Stoddard was approached by Miss Topo, a soft-spoken, timid woman with a glazed expression.
  “Are you growing your heart to become a global citizen?”
  “I’m still in first semester German, so I think I have a ways to go.”
  “Bringing a smile to someone is an act of service.”
  ‘I’m smiling just to keep from busting out laughing,’ Stoddard thought to himself.
  He was intrigued by this tiny woman in her drab, baggy clothes. She spoke in a high, squeaky tone, every syllable drawn and measured like it was being transmitted from afar.
  “Our clench will be having a fellowship meal tonight. Would you like to come?”
  “—Gotta go, thanks!”

  Several weeks later Stoddard was strolling through Memorial Hall plaza one grey day when he was again approached by Miss Topo.
  “Greetings, Mr Stoddard! How are your studies?”
  “I’m getting by, thank you.”
  A nondescript man emerged from behind the diminutive woman to stand by her side.
  “This is Mr Giman, an associate of our clench. Would you let him read your palm?”
  “Erm... sure.” Stoddard offered his hand.
  The gentleman peered into his palm and murmured in an inscrutable tongue.
  “Ah, he says ‘Long life, two children, happy life.’ You are blessed,” Miss Topo explained.
  “Wow, can’t wait,” Stoddard mumbled, feigning interest.
  And then, as if on cue, a long rumble of thunder rolled from the clouds above. Rain began to spatter. Were the gods displeased?
  A plain, windowless van screeched to a halt at the end of the plaza. A side door flung open and several men stepped out, all dressed identically to the palm reader. They appeared to be of Gogurian descent.
  “Oh no, it’s raining!” Miss Topo cried out. “Quick, get in the van! You can come to our clench repast tonight!”
  “Nahh... I’ll be alright,” Stoddard said with a step backward.
  “But you’re getting wet! Please, come with us!”
  Stoddard strode off in the opposite direction through the increasing downpour.

  Armchair shrinks are quick to point out the obvious no-no’s that draw people to cultic thinking — the desire for absolute answers, the illusion of comfort, designating the mandatory Emmanuel Goldstein, etc. But we live in a time when the tyranny of feelings in a society awash in infotoxins leads to a narcissistic result of those same pitfalls.
  Similar means, same ends.
  Who needs a cult leader when an ideology itself will do?