Spawned within a cauldron of rotting flesh, these scorched demons that once hid under the great stone of the past crawled onto the Arizona landscape ready to devour every soul in sight. They threaten the sanctity of all of our lady Arizona’s accomplishments like copper mining and reservation casinos.
This incarnation of hatred and pain self-identifies as The Cult of the Yellow Sign. These walking and talking undercover agents are perceived as human men while taking their daughters to the trampoline park and building an army of weak-minded and lost souls. They lure innocent boys and girls in with hip and fun hand numbered limited edition “indie-zines.” Under the cult’s voodoo spell when presented with this “merch” I could not stop myself from purchasing additional copies while ultimately assisting this organization.
Perhaps, the most confusing aspect of the Yellow Sign is that it would seem prospective members pay a higher premium for cult “schwag” to be inducted into the club only to be sacrificed like deer of Palin weekend rituals. Despite the cruelty that this Cult of the Yellow Sign inflicted upon humanity while attending an event at Lawn Gnome Publishing, I was instantly enamored by the presence of a lord of the Yellow Sign that called himself simply #138.
|Cult Leader #138|
This cloaked devil was not only a stand-up comedy act but also a gift basket of poetic-performance-art, humor, philosophy, violence, and madness.
One cannot help but wonder what the purpose of the Yellow Sign may be.
Could it be to devour every living soul? May it possibly be to amass a small fortune selling t-shirts and hand-made zines? These questions I cannot answer. Either way, whether the purpose is simply to suck out our souls, chew them up, and spit them back out or merely to entertain the sad masses of mediocrity, The Cult of the Yellow Sign guarantees to turn any bland or otherwise uninteresting event up to eleven.
The darkest depths of cult following have never sounded so sweet. Consider me, not merely a follower, but a life-long groupie of The Cult of the Yellow Sign (minus the blowies, of course.) This is not some sissy Manson family cult. These brutes of laughter and mockery have the kind of teddy bear quality that may be huggable but will surely rip out your heart. While I would not allow either #138 or #808 to babysit my children, I certainly would not be opposed to having them over for dinner and possibly a round of catch with the kids.
Originally published: June 15, 2012 (unedited).