A Statement Concerning the So-Called
“Neuroplastic Prank War”

by the Honourable Reverend Goss, as dictated, under protest, on a Wednesday

It has come to my attention — through no effort of my own, for I do not snoop; I overhear, which Scripture treats differently — that certain members of a musical collective of my close acquaintance have compiled, and are actively executing, a ledger of one hundred so-called “gentle experiments,” perpetrated upon one another's persons, instruments, beverages, and brains.

I publish the following exhibits not in the spirit of gossip, but in the older and more respectable spirit of shame. Let the perpetrators see their works listed plainly, and repent.

EXHIBIT A. A doctor of medicine — a neurosurgeon, mind you — had his espresso replaced with a brew labeled “mnemetic control solution, batch 11.” He drank it. They counted this a victory. I count it a sacrament profaned.

EXHIBIT B. A twenty-two-minute “vagal hum” was piped through the ventilation system of a moving vehicle at three o'clock in the morning, causing every soul aboard to awaken reporting — and I quote the perpetrator's own notes — “strangely secure attachment styles.” Security of attachment is the Lord's work and shall not be induced by ductwork.

EXHIBIT C. A gentleman's upright bass was fitted with a concealed apparatus rendering every note exactly four one-hundredths of a semitone flat — the very interval, I am told with misplaced pride, “at which the sisters converge.” Flatness is not a love language.

EXHIBIT D. The honey was relabeled. All of it. With neurological terminology. The tea ritual of two minor children has become, in the perpetrators' own words, “noticeably more phonological.” The children appear to be thriving, which is no thanks to anyone.

I am advised by persons who claim to understand “publicity” that publishing this ledger will not end the war but escalate it; that attention is, to these people, a kind of oxygen; and that I am, in the words of one bass-playing offender, “doing the marketing.” I reject this counsel utterly. I do not believe the human spirit is so fallen. The shame will land. Any day now.

For the record: when the question of this station's call sign was put to a vote, I voted for W-GOD. I was alone in this. The minutes reflect a period of laughter I do not care to describe. The congregation is invited to imagine my face.

That the reader may judge the offenders for themselves, their broadcasts may be found at sisukiroradio.com. I am told one should “like and subscribe.” I instruct the reader to do neither, slowly.

— The Hon. Rev. Goss
Officiant, dissenter, the only adult on the tour bus