The sign said, “All life on Earth, including human beings, was originally created scientifically in laboratories by the Elohim—an advanced people from space!”
“Tell me more!” I said to the sexy French Canadian woman boasting ample cleavage. She was running the Raelian booth at “A Gathering of Light,” a new age convention. “The only person the Elohim communicate with is Rael,” she explained, with sincere conviction and a cute French accent.
Glancing at the back of his best-selling book, Message Given By Extraterrestrials, I noted that Rael himself is an older French man with a ponytail. And he used to be a racecar driver! Now Rael is the head of the Raelian religion. According to the person I took to be one of Rael’s terrestrial girlfriends, the main mission of the Raelian religion is to build a $20 million dollar space embassy so the aliens will return. It’s not clear why a $10 million dollar space embassy wouldn’t work. There was a way to find out, though: Travel through time and space to their headquarters in Montreal. I booked a flight.
Through the Raelian website, I located their headquarters on Earth, and planned to attend one of their weekly organization meetings. I pictured myself sitting in a large room filled with dozens of new Raelian recruits. I was excited to learn more about a religion that performs the minor miracle of making Scientology look reasonable.
Once I got to Montreal, an evil acquaintance of mine planted some very bad information in my head, which would not come out: He said the Raelians hold wild sex parties filled with beautiful single women. Though I might not fully believe humans were created in a laboratory by aliens, I can always appreciate French-speaking hotties who like having unattached sex. A little paranoid, I made sure others knew where I’d be for the next hour and a half.
I went to the second floor of a warehouse off St. Laurent Street that also housed a discount futon outlet. A door with a picture of a large alien head swung invitingly open. The turnout for the informational meeting was less than I expected. Inside, two sad men on couches looked surprised at the appearance of a willing human being for the 7:30 weekly meeting. So, where were the hot French chicks?
One of them appeared to be the leader. He had a mullet a lot like Michael Bolton’s, and he was wearing a vest with no shirt (maybe the Raelian uniform?). He signaled for me to sit down. I made my way to the farthest couch. Michael Bolton signaled for me to sit snuggly next to him. I got the uneasy feeling he might try to touch me. I tightly held onto my Dr. Pepper can, in case I needed it as a makeshift weapon.
The other Raelian looked like an elf-alien hybrid. He remained silent, staring straight ahead. Then began the heavy talk, the unblinking eye contact. “Did you come all the way to Montreal to meet with the Raelians?” Michael Bolton asked. He too had a thick French accent. I mentioned that I’d seen a few UFOs, had a few encounters. “This is not a group for spotting UFOs,” Michael Bolton explained. In Montreal, he said, the organization is 5,000 strong.
Both he and the elf wore a symbol around their necks that resembled a Star of David, with outer space stuff in the middle.“It’s the Symbol of Infinity,” Bolton said. It once had a swastika in the middle, but for some reason, people didn’t respond favorably to that. “In 1975, Rael was taken back to the Elohim planet,” Michael Bolton said in a way that invaded my personal space.
“Wow, how long did it take to do that?” I said.
“Two hours!”
“That’s amazing!” I said. I decided to improvise: “When aliens took me back to their home planet, it took over three days.” Michael Bolton was unimpressed by this. The elf stared straight ahead.
“In all religions, there’s one prophet who returns to earth. We believe it is Rael.”
“So what you’re saying is, all the prophets of each religion have been agents of the Elohim?”
“Yes!”
“And the reason Rael was visited by UFOs is because he is a prophet?”
“YES!”
Now, I turned the tables. “Maybe I had an encounter with a UFO because they came special to see me!” I puffed out my chest, insinuating that I, too, might be a prophet—perhaps their new Messiah. Michael Bolton looked aghast. Even the elf looked over. “NO! Rael is the only prophet on Earth. Rael is the last prophet!”
“You never know,” I said, giving my best I-might-be-your-new-Messiah smile. With distaste, Michael Bolton quickly wrapped things up. But not before inviting me, in a perfunctory way, to their weekly Raelian bowling night. “You’ll have fun,” Bolton said. “We’re a little crazy.” He made little circles with his finger at his temple. That was the understatement of the millennium.
I was excited about the prospect of bowling with Raelians. I went to a place called Jillian’s, which turned out to be the coolest bowling alley I’ve ever seen, with large music video screens at the end of each alley, and multi-colored balls under disco lights. French-speaking people can even make bowling seem chic. There were a few groups of happy bowlers. None of them wore the Symbol of Infinity. “Raelians?!” I yelled, to see if this would get anyone’s attention.
Gathering courage, I approached an attractive woman just lining up her sights for an easy spare.“Excuse me, but are you a Raelian?” She looked at me like I had poohed in my pants. I went to the payphones and dialed. “You have reached the Raelian religion. Stay on the line. Someone will answer to you.” Moments later, someone picked up. It was a French Canadian woman who couldn’t speak English very well. I told her Michael Bolton and the elf told me to be here for Raelian bowling night; I was wondering where everyone was. She said the Raelians should be there. “I don’t see the Symbol of Infinity.” She told me to call back in ten minutes. In the background, I thought I heard giggling. I called back in ten minutes. No one answered. Suddenly, I realized they must be having a wild sex orgy for the recruits who had made the cut.
There’s nothing lonelier in the world than being stood up at a bowling alley by Raelians. Couldn’t they have cloned some attractive, low-ranking members and gotten their asses down here and into bowling shoes? Would Jesus or Muhammad abandon one of their disciples, crushed, with pins still in formation and shoes unrented, on their prospective bowling nights? I looked toward the heavens, unto the next solar system, and I spit with disgust.—Harmon Leon
Harmon Leon is a comedian, actor, and writer living in San Francisco. He recently published “The Harmon Chronicles” (ECW Press).
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