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The Society for Creative Assholes, or the S.C.A., for short.

You know, one would think that an organization dedicated to the re-creation of the middle ages and prides itself on the chivalric attributes of its members would be populated by some of the finest people on earth. You'd believe that an organization that re-creates the middle ages as they should have been, rather than how they are, would be populated with gentlemen and ladies of the highest calibre. You'd believe, at least, that the geeks who infest the ranks of the S.C.A., knowing what it's like to be socially retarded, would do their best to behave in a manner in which they themselves would like the world at large to behave.

Well, you'd better get your believer fixed.

Instead, what you get is a bunch of convenience store clerks who, having no power in the outside world greater than that required to roll a twenty-sided die, turn their hostility and impotence and neo-pagan sensibilities loose on whomever they can. It's full of self-serving, power-hungry, syncophantic sewer sludge that wouldn't be willing to listen to a word of wisdom if it wasn't prefaced with a litany to their greatness. I swear, the place is more full of, "Let's talk about me," conversation than Pink's Hot Dog's in L.A. on a Saturday night.

I just don't get it. These people go schlepping around, sucking whatever orifice of those-in-power required, just so that someone will give them a piece of paper with shitty caligraphy and the right to place the title, "Lord," or "Lady," before their self-chosen nom de guere. Even their choice in names is pretentious. For an organization that prides itself on historical accuracy, I've never met so many people named after characters from bad fantasy novels in my entire life. (Either that, or you're having a bad acid flashback and Moondancer and Sunchild are dancing round the campfire, making you A) thank god for the man who invented bras and B)wishing Moondancer and Sunchild knew what bras were.)

As for the big boys with sticks who pretend to be Knights? The less said about them the better. You see, if you've got a quick enough arm, if you choose to ignore the rules and play by your own, if you want to do a grown up version of "Bang-bang, got you no you didn't," and you are the biggest asshole the world has ever seen, then, and only then, do you get to be King and make up all the rules. Needless to say, it makes as much sense as Jesse Ventura as govenor.

But the evenings are better. Then, you get to listen to self-proclaimed artists either bore you with inarticulate, long-winded stories or you listen to songs which remind you of why you refuse to watch the first seven episodes of "American Idol."

Now, it all honesty, I've been a little unfair here. Not everyone in the S.C.A. is like this. There are some genuinely compassionate, intelligent people there. Some understand the virtues of which they speak. Some truly have talent and their voices are a joy to hear.

But for fuck's sake, the others are SO FUCKING BAD that it's very difficult to pick the roses from the top of a mountain of shit and expect me to enjoy the smell.

So, for every one of you who has to puff up your chest while your working gate; for everyone of you who has to see how hard you can hit the guy your fighting against; for every one of you "HummingBards" out there who can't sing a note and probably received your award for the singing you do on your back, go enjoy yourselves at the S.C.A. You're never going to amount to anything anywhere else, so you might as well amount to something where it doesn't matter a stitch.

I'll still be there, because I enjoy the few good people I know.

But I'll be laughing at you while I'm at it.

Out loud.

Joseph Haines, signing off from The Edge of The Abyss.

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