The Strange Case of John Beresford Tipton’s Wormhole

The amazing thing is that, upon becoming conscious of Rin-Tin-Tin, I was immediately shunted into an alternative reality, a rather ornately appointed anteroom inhabited by a short, greasy-haired man in a tuxedo, who bowed and smiled obsequiously. I should mention, however, that although he bowed, he did not scrape.

“Greetings. My name is Michael Anthony, and until his death just a few years ago, I was the executive secretary to the late John Beresford Tipton, a wealthy gazillionaire, who left his entire estate toward the provision of a tax-free wormhole, each week, to persons finding themselves in dire straits, such as yourself.”

“Each week?”

 

“Well, at least until they can the series.”

 

”And what do I have to do to warrant said wormhole?” I queried, suspiciously.

 

“You have to promise not to mention the name of Mr. Tipton, nor his heirs or dependents, nor the provision of the wormhole, nor the real identity of Charles Butterfat…”

 

“Aha!” I said, knowing inwardly that I was entering an esoteric realm. “Aha!”

Rest assured, there are very few things in life that happen just by coincidence. Sure, you can tell yourself that I just "happened" to mention the name of Rin Tin Tin, or that I "happened" to know Rin Tin Tin’s secret identity. You may be surprised to learn, in fact, that this entire web site is simply a cleverly disguised subterfuge to harvest the few who have been chosen for a grand cosmic adventure. That's right. You heard me correctly. By accessing this site, you are one of the elect who have been chosen to evolve in the true path of Rin Tin Tin consciousness.

Consider, for a moment, the many people who have passed through this site, most of them to fill a hole in an otherwise boring Saturday afternoon. Then consider the chances of any of these web surfers actually reading so far as to stumble on this secret Rin Tin Tin reference, and actually making their way to this wormhole. The odds must be at least a million to one. And then consider still once more the likelihood of Aardvark Al wasting an incredible amount of time to create this page on the slim chance that someone would click on the link or even the possibility that the whole thing was just a maniacal and tasteless joke. No, rather, you were foreordained to reach this page, and you are now on a journey that will change your life forever.

The Real Rinty Emerges

But first a bit of information about Rin Tin Tin. Not the handsome and dashing Rin Tin Tin well loved by millions of aging movie goers and TV watchers. No, we mean the very secret Rin Tin Tin, the spiritual center of one of the most powerful global esoteric circles yet unknown to mankind.

Rin Tin Tin was born under the name of Charles Butterfat on 11 January, 1910, at South Bandicoot, a small village in western Alberta. Soon after moving to Calgary with his family in 1919, the young Charles Butterfat was adopted by Mrs. Mable Vera, President of the Canadian Occult and Mumbledepeg Society. She was convinced that he was to become a great spiritual teacher. This was, of course, before Charles had discovered his inner dog, and still had the material appearance of a human being.

The Importance of Being Furry

Three years later, Mrs. Vera took him to England to be educated for his future role. An organization was set up to promote this role, but in 1929, after many years of self-questioning, Charles Butterfat disbanded this organization, turning away all followers. Unknown to his disciples, Charles had been growing fur in various places for several years, and claws were becoming obvious. He was tired of wearing gloves all the time. Instead, he secluded himself in a trailer park just outside of Wickham on Rye and, after three months of intense introspection, emerged as Rin Tin Tin. He immediately headed for Hollywood to cash in on his new identity.

We won't bore the seeker with stories about Rinty's many exploits in Hollywood. Suffice it to say that he retired in 1957 and moved to Burbank. From then until the present, he has travelled around the world speaking as a private dog, teaching and giving talks. Rin Tin Tin has evolved his unique teaching from his own being and living, for he has read no religious or philosophical literature. His aim is to set people psychologically free so that they might be in harmony with themselves, with nature and with others. 

During his later life, Rinty has established several esoteric schools in different parts of the world where young people and adults can come together and explore reality. We would tell you where they are, but — hey, they're esoteric schools. If we told you, we'd give the whole enchilada away.

The Five Pieces of Spiritual Armor 

But enough of this biography crap. It's time for you to take the first steps on your way to Rin Tin Tin consciousness. Before we embark, however, you'll need to bring along a few supplies:

• A brass compass,
• One million dollars in fives and tens,
• A first edition of the Old Testament, signed by the author,
• A stuffed Passenger Pigeon, and
• Pupi Campo's baton.

(As you delve deeper into the wisdom of Rin Tin Tin, you'll learn how important Pupi Campo is to cosmic reality.)

If you do not have all of the aforementioned supplies, you can't go on this journey. Sorry, but it's as simple as that. We can't let just anyone in to bask in our spiritual reality. The million dollars is really important because, well, Rin Tin Tin does have some expenses in maintaining these schools, not to mention his barn full of antique cars. So don't mention them. Besides, Rin Tin Tin feels that spiritual consciousness is of no use unless the seeker makes some sort of initial sacrifice to prove he or she is detached from the material world. Once you've gone through the whole enchilada, well, Bob's your uncle. You can have anything you want.

The Eighth Way, Step One

Now that we’ve got the money thing out of the way, and assuming you have your full set of armor, you're ready to step into the first plateau of the Eighth Way. You've heard of the Fourth Way. Well, this is twice as good. Trust us.

On the first plateau of the Eighth Way, the seeker must learn to disabuse himself of the primary delusion in life — that is, that he can do anything. We go through life on the assumption that we are causing things to happen, but in reality we are simply reacting to external stimuli. In truth, things happen to us. For example, our mother-in-law came to visit ten years ago, and she's still there in the back bedroom. I mean, who knew? And she keeps going on and on about how our wife could have married a guy from back home who is now president of a bank. But I digress.

Step Two: A Little Oil on the Fanbelt

The second plateau is a corollary of the first. One has to realize that despite our illusions of causation, one is really just a machine that processes external stimuli. In our case, not exactly a 2014 Porshe turbo. More like a 1932 Johnson outboard motor. But with an extra long cord, mind you.

And as machines, we cannot do anything. We can just run external thoughts and events and ideas through our brain — which in itself is a vast machine, a network of nerves and synapses capable of looping back on itself for years. Whew! I'm feeling a bit tired after all this looping. I think I'll lie down.

One's only hope (yawn!) in this endless mechanized slavery is to step back, as it were, and observe the process (snore...).

Step Three: The Higher Mind

Once we are capable of detaching ourselves from the thought-processing machine, we begin to be aware of a higher mind, which convinces us that in order to do, it is first necessary to be. For example, the other day we were engaged in one of Rin Tin Tin's mind-altering exercises, and we became aware that we were suffering under the delusion that we were a large economy-sized box of breakfast cereal being pursued down endless dimly-lit streets by a small child brandishing a spoon. The mind altering exercise we used, which caused us to radically jump from one plane of reality to another, is to imagine a small rabbit, standing on the sidewalk holding a small yellow and purple basket of eggs.

“Hello, rabbit,” I said. “What’s up?”

 

“Not much,” said the rabbit. “I’m just standing here, hoping not to get hit by any flying particles.”

As soon as he said the words “flying particles”, all hell broke loose. Yellow and purple Easter eggs flew every which way, a mighty maelstrom spun me skyward, then just as rapidly thrust me down again into the Gorge.

I was again hurtling earthward at 32 feet per second squared.

I looked back, noting that the East Germans had given me a 3.8, which I thought I didn't deserve. Mind you, that was for artistic merit. Technical was 4.3. Thirty seconds before I hit the water, a smile crossed my face as I remembered that the East Germans didn't exist.

One second before I hit the water, I had an overweening desire to know what had happened to Britney Spears after her mother ran their car over a paparazzo’s foot outside a Santa Monica pet shop.

But to no avail. I had a date with destiny. My date with Madge Slaf-Kabnecier would have to wait until I returned from Aardvark Heaven.

Then everything went black.