A Visit from the Who Cult

[THRH79B@prodigy.com (MS KELLY D GILES I)]

(Mr. Smith is sitting at home, drinking beer and watching television. 
 Suddenly, a knock is heard upon the front door.  Mr. Smith rises, 
lumbers over to the door, and opens it.  Standing on the front steps 
are a man and a woman, wearing identical white boiler suits, and 
sporting identical mod-style haircuts.  They are smiling in a creepy 
manner.)

MR. SMITH <shouting over his shoulder>: Honey, the painters are 
here!
FEMALE CULT MEMBER: Oh no sir, we are not the painters!
MALE CULT MEMBER: No indeed.  We have come here to talk to you, sir.  
May we step inside?
MR. SMITH: Uh, well, okay...but just for a minute...you know, you 
shouldn't go around wearing those things if you aren't painters.  
It's damn confusing.
FMC: We apologize for any confusion, sir.  We do not wish to be 
mistaken for painters, mechanics, or stock car drivers, it is just 
that we have found that this manner of dress is quite comfortable and 
is most conductive to our spiritual well-being.
MR. SMITH: Conductive to your WHAT?  Uh oh, you're not from one of 
those weird-
MCM: Please sir!  Do not call us a cult!  We wish to think of 
ourselves as merely very avid fans of the greatest band on earth.
MR. SMITH: You guys like the Peanut Butter Conspiracy too?  I can't 
believe it!  I thought I was the only one!
FMC: No no no sir, we do not mean the Peanut Butter Conspiracy!
MR. SMITH: Who, then?
MCM: Yes sir, exactly so.
MR. SMITH: What?
FMC: The Who, sir.
MR. SMITH: Who?
MCM: The band that is called the Who, sir.
MR. SMITH: Oh!  They did that...pinball thing, right?
<MCM and FCM exchange pained looks>
FCM: Yes sir, that's the Who that we mean.
MCM: The very Who that we have come to talk with you about, sir.
FCM: You see sir, hard times are coming.  The peoples of the earth 
will be crushed beneath the iron fist of a fascist dictatorship, and 
only we, the chosen few, will be welcomed to the Lifehouse where we 
may be led to the next level.
MCM: All this in accordance with the Ancient Lifehouse Prophecies, 
copyright 1971, Fabulous Music Ltd.
MR. SMITH: Ah, well, that sounds very nice and all, but I don't think 
I'm...
FCM: But sir, you haven't even heard the part about how the 
nonbelievers will be left to languish and eventually die in virtual 
reality suits!
MR. SMITH: Well you see, I'm sort of busy today, so perhaps you could 
just...
MCM: Perhaps, sir, you would like to read some of our fanzines, or 
better still, listen to some of our records.
MR. SMITH: No, I really don't think I'm interested.
FCM: Are you sure, sir?
MR. SMITH: Quite positive.
MCM: Then I'm afraid you leave us no choice, sir.
FCM: We're sorry sir, but we're going to have to call upon our 
beloved, ascended Moonie to try and change your mind.
MR. SMITH: What, you guys are Moonies too?  I can't believes this...
<MCM and FCM clasp hands, close their eyes, and start to hum "My 
Generation".  MR. SMITH's beer bottle levitates out of his hand and 
is mysteriously drained.  A potted plant on the other side of the 
room flies through a closed window, while a table lamp falls over and 
shatters.  The now-empty beer bottle smashes into the television 
screen, breaking it.  Objects fly all around the room, and several 
chairs are reduced to splinters.>
MR. SMITH: Stop, stop!  No, not my golf trophy!  STOP, PLEASE STOP!
<MCM and FCM stop humming and open their eyes.>
MCM: Would you care to read our fanzines NOW, sir?
FCM: And listen to our records?
MR. SMITH: Yes, please, anything!
MCM: Good sir, I had hoped that you would "See My Way".
<MCM and FCM laugh and slap each other on the back.  FCM pulls out a 
copy of "Who's Next".>
FCM: Now sir, if you could please direct us to your record player...

- -Yellow "We don't take no collections" Ledbetter