Though it is 2:00 p.m. on a Tuesday, the Church of Scientology visitors center I am exploring is bustling with activity. It’s so full of people that I have to serpentine my way around bodies to get to my test-taking station. Still, it is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

The test-taking stations are spartan, just a row of desks agains the wall, each with a small electronic timer and a jar of #2 pencils. Surrounding these desks are a myriad of sales displays, offering hundreds if not thousands of books and videos by Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard — any of which, I have been assured by the nice woman at the front desk, would make a great gift. As I said, it’s mid-afternoon on a workday, but all of the test stations are filled will people who, like me, are busy filling out scantron sheets.

The test we are all taking is the Oxford Capacity Analysis™, the proprietary “free personality test” Scientologists use to both rate and entice new members. (If you have ever passed a Scientology Church, you’ve likely seen a sandwich board inviting you to take this test.) When I signed up to take the test an hour prior I asked about the name, and the nice woman at the front desk explained to me that the test was developed by a team of scientists at “the university.”

From: In Which I Take the Free Scientology Personality Test and Become Even More Insuferable – Blinded Trials II

“That’s it!” My Campaign Manager screamed, “But first, we’ll need the supplies.” Yes! The supplies. And so we gassed up the helicopter and zoomed off like a pair of Martians on steroids, frenziedly gathering all of the dangerous drugs we’d need to make it to the White House: six keys of Colombia’s finest; a pharmacist’s hernia-load of reds, blues, and yellowjackets; twenty pounds of Panamanian Red; the whitest heroin from the Harz Mountains of Germany; a gallon jug of angel dust; two briefcases loaded with mescaline; twelve blotters of Florida sunshine acid; and an aquarium full of Bolivian arrow toads. Plus a hogshead of Budweiser and a big inheritance from our Old Granddad.

The Fur Flies In Jupiter — Popehat