Foreword: The following column was recovered after being published in a number of national newspapers (for a full list, see Document 1626-1678-B) and raising suspicion in the Foundation monitoring service due to its subject matter. When questioned, none of the editors of said newspapers could explain how this column came to to published.
Friends, readers, true believers, and other assorted assholes,
Welcome to what, you may ask. Well, I'll tell you. You, dear readers, are about to experience the event of a lifetime. Everything you've been through so far, every lie you were taught by your school, or your parents, or your priest, you can just forget all that garbage right now. Tonight, you see, you'll read the words… of a prophet.
FOR I AM SATURN DEER, PROPHET, MASTER OF WORDS, TEACHER OF MAN, AND CARING LOVER, AND I WILL ROCK YOUR WORLD, SON.
But first, a few letters from my loyal readers. See, I am nothing if not magnanimous in my wisdom, and lo, I am willing to answer even the most moronic of questions for your sake. You can't say I never do anything for you, now can you? Let us begin:
I have heard of your mighty prophetic powers, and so I write to you, seeking your advice. I have been afflicted with a terrible illness, which deformed my once beautiful body into a grotesque monstrosity, a vile parody of what it once was. Especially my nether regions, which are now tainted beyond recognition, and cannot be looked upon without risking one's sanity. This happened after I besmirched the name of the High Shaman of Trlybon, which might not have been the wisest decision in retrospect.
I beg of you, deliver me from my woes! A cure, dear prophet, is all I ask of you. That, and that you keep this missive private, else my shame will be endless.
Balgorath, Knight of the Holy Order of the Most Venerable Ferret, London
Well, Balgorath, the solution for your problem is rather simple, believe it or not. You see, what you're dealing with here is a simple, if effective, Curse of the Bloated Snake. It might seem very frightening (especially under a UV light), but do not be alarmed. All you need to do is to…remove your Seventh Seal while listening to the music of the Spheres, just as they perfectly align themselves under the Sign of Aphrodite. But Saturn, you may ask, how will I know the right time? Well, have no fear, for I just so happen to possess a recorded version of exactly the type you require, and shall be more than happy to deliver it to you.
For only fourteen easy payments of 19.95$, plus taxes, plus shipment.
Dear Mr. Deer,
A friend of mine went to one of your seminars, and she was really impressed with that you said. I don't usually do this, but I've been feeling really lost these last couple of months, and I figured some advice from someone like you might be the thing I needed to get myself back on track. I'm an artist, you see, what some people call an anartist, but I don't think I'm very good. I've been hanging out with this group lately, and there's this guy there, Tony. He's amazing at everything: he looks like an underwear modal, has charisma practically pouring out of him, he's smart, successful, and his art… man, his art just comes to life. Literally. Not to mention the women. Seeing him, I've been feeling really inadequate. I mean, the best I ever did was that flaming tower of goat skulls, and hardly anyone even noticed that. What should I do?
BackdoorSoHo, New York
Nathan, my lad, you're looking at this from entirely the wrong perspective. You should be glad you're a pathetic, worthless loser whose failure as an artist is only rivaled by his utter incompetence with women. You see, people like Tony and me, successful, competent people, we have so much responsibility on our shoulders; we have an image to maintain, a reputation, friends to keep happy. People expect us to do great things. You? People know you'll never amount to anything. Being a waste of space and oxygen like you is the ultimate form of freedom, my friend! I mean, you could kill yourself right now, just stick a gun in your mouth and blow your fucking brains out, and no one would even care! How liberating!
Truly, you are fortunate.
Seriously though, no one would care. Not even a little bit.
Don't you ever learn? Look, Saturn, every time you try this whole prophet spiel, you end up dead. This is the fifth time in the last two hundred years alone. How about you just retire to Fiji or something, so we can skip over the whole “killing you for your crimes against humanity” thing? It’s all more trouble than it’s worth, for both you and us. Or you could duke it out with the guys who like burning things. Again.
Think about it,
Bitch, please. I'm not afraid of you, your tinderbox of a husband, or you merry band of multicultural prudes. You say you stopped me before? Well, fact is, I'm still here now, aren't I, spreading the good word to all willing, those smart enough to think outside of the boxes you put around their heads. Threaten me? Do you lift? I seriously doubt you even lift.
Me heard you have horns. Me need horns for charms and hat. You give me horns, give me stars, me don't bash you on head with rock. Me could bash you on head with rock if you into that sort of thing, me not judge, but me prefers to use diplomacy. Me gentleman. Got monocle, got hat, need horns, said before. Me need someone to distinguish me from other big guy, phony with swords. Me far better looking anyway, got classic movie charms. Similar names, people get confused.
Give your horns, me and you no problem. If not, rocks.
Wrong Saturn Deer there, buddy. You're looking for the four-legged furry bloke that hangs around that gas giant over there. Easy mistake to make, I understand.
God, where do I find those guys?
I come to you with a proposal. You do not know me, but I believe we share common goals. You have been trapped in this cycle for a long, long time, and it has left you a jaded shadow of what you used to be. Where you once led legions of followers down uncertain paths, now you scam and insult the tiny handful of fools still willing to listen to you. Soon, they too will be gone. I can help. I know of your… unique talents, and I can put them to good use. I am very good at that, trust me. With my resources and your skills, we could become something…more.
We shall talk,
Um. Er. Let me get back to you on that, eh? It's not like I don't appreciate the offer, it's just that I'm kinda doing this open letter column thing right now, and I don't think this is the place to discuss this. I wish I could stop, but we both know that's not the way things work. Also, say hi to your sister for me. She'll know why. "Don't know him" my ass.
Alright, folks, that's all the time we have today. I know I promised to dispense some of my ultimate wisdom, but unfortunately those mouth breathers with the letters took all the space I had. But, tune in next time, and I shall show you such marvels and wonders, even my sexual prowess shall almost pale in comparison. Or, you could order the DVDs, a thirteen-disk Collector's Edition, for only 49.99$. Whatever rocks your boat.
Till next time, I was Saturn Deer, and I bid ye adieu.