Tractatus Interruptus: Bubba Addresses his Mutant Flock

Thus far, the techniques of Instant Nirvana have been rendered in the abstract, as a set of instructions. From now on I, Bubba Free Rain, will render them in person. Which is to say, I'll tell you how I, Eagle Bubba, enacted each technique in situ. Never let it be said that I preach what I don't practice or vice versa. Be it known that I, Free Rain, successfully performed every one of the six thousand ritual acts I've started to present here. That's really what the techniques are: simple rituals shaped to a purpose. What purpose? Instant Nirvana, of course.

I, Sun Lotus Sky Eagle Bubba Free Rain, successfully enacted all six thousand techniques. Which is to say I achieved Instant Nirvana six thousand times, a feat unmatched in the annals of trismagist hagiography, divine sortilege and alchemical transmogrification. All YOU have to do is perform one or more of these ritual acts in a spirit of votive mimesis. In other words do what I did devotedly and diligently with your eyes wide shut, your head sunk low, your man-teats drooped morose, your gut swagged in grotesque distension and your pecker hung from your zipless fly like a corpse from a window.

You don't have to work all six thousand techniques as I've already said. A single technique will suffice for most. Aspirants afflicted with congenital dullness, intractable stupidity and extreme coarseness of temperament will require a dozen enactments, give or take a hundred. Piltdown proto-humanoids from Australia, South Africa and the state of Texas may require a few hundred or even a thousand ritual enactments. Not to worry though. All you slap happy dong-drubbers out there WILL achieve enlightenment no matter what. Instant Nirvana will, like the fabled candiru, lodge itself in your favorite orifice and do its worst.

Human females may dispense with these techniques altogether. As already stated, chicks of every species on spaceship Earth will become spontaneously enlightened on December 21, 2012, the date that marks the end of the Mayan calendar and the start of a rare planetary syzygy. Spontaneous enlightenment is an evolutionary privilege. Females occupy an exalted position on the Akashic Scale, the barometer of choice in the spirit world. By contrast, males wallow in their own filth near the foot of the Scale with farm hogs, field rats and titmice for company.

A parcel of inveterate assholes (male and female) will, however, fail to make the transition to unitive awareness and supernal gnosis in the Age of Aquarius. This parcel includes slag spawned turd-chompers like Bush, Cheney et al, not to mention bloated war-sluts like Albright and Merkel. Biped vermin of their ilk will perish in a seething farrago of leprosy, gas-gangrene and bubonic plague. Their demise will be a violent, gore-sodden spectacle broadcast on every cable channel known to man. Y'all gather around for the show now, hear? I, Sun Lotus Sky Eagle Bubba Free Rain, have spoken.

Technique SEVEN: Birth a Homunculus

Homunculus: a little man (miniature) like the little dead guy hanging between your legs.

You'll need a condom for this one. A condom used and discarded by a 300 pound bisexual taxidermist with an extruded navel that resembles a pagoda if you get up close with a microscope and a pair of rusted pliers.

You can order the used condom off the net. Cyberspace bristles with condom and taxidermy websites in case you didn't know. I used to think taxidermy had something to do with taxis. Turns out I was right. Taxicabs around the world are now being replaced (at gunpoint) with stuffed mooseheads on wheels.

Order that used condom off the net. Chances are, it'll be delivered by a four foot albino in a clown suit, a guy named Willard Poteet. Pay Willard in drachmas. Then paste a yellow rose to his forehead and stick a Marlboro cigarette up his left nostril. He'll leave with a smile on his face. A sinister, serial-killer smile you'll see over and over in your recurring nudist beach nightmares.

Bark out random phrases in Serbo-Croatian as you carry the condom to your kitchen on a small silver platter. Set the platter on the counter, strip down to your underwear and reproduce the mating call of a Bhutanese mountain goat with your mouth gaped wide. Now grab the condom and carefully fit it over an overripe Chiquita banana (unpeeled). The condom should cover half the banana, give or take a mile.

Mix a quart of maple syrup and chocolate sauce in a glass bowl and sprinkle the mixture with cayenne pepper and powdered goat milk. Smear the resulting paste over your hirsute and sagging udders while humming a Scottish coronach in a low-pitched drone. Now grab your condom-sheathed banana, peel the uncovered half and devour it with obscene relish.

Hold still a while with syrup and chocolate sauce dripping off your man-teats. Then drop to the kitchen floor and lie face up with your slathered dugs and distended gut aimed at the ceiling. Pull back your lips in a simian grimace and breathe through clenched teeth. Picture an iron-pumped Mother Teresa kicking the crap out of a bikini-clad Prince Charles.

You'll notice something in a few minutes. You'll feel a growing warmth around your bellybutton. If you hold a piece of broken glass to your gut you'll see your navel gaping open as a four inch manikin squeezes out into the open. This is you giving birth. This is you birthing a homunculus.

If you're lucky your homunculus will resemble Popeye. He'll be bald, tattooed and heavily muscled, with hypertrophic forearms. He'll be stark naked save for a dead piranha glued to his pecker and a tinted monocle taped to his pubes.

Your homunculus will tap-dance on your gut for a minute while crooning an old tune by The Inkspots. Then he'll put out a bull-ape victory cry and cartwheel out of sight. INSTANT NIRVANA WILL ENSUE SECONDS AFTER YOUR HOMUNCULUS DISAPPEARS FROM VIEW.

Commentary:

This technique is described with breathless reverence in the Mayan Popul Vuh and in The Egyptian Book of the Dead (Abyssinian Addendum: The Howling Marsupial Birth of Bubba Ho Tep). The technique awakens an acupressure point located three inches above your crudded omphalos (navel). I don't know what this point is called in Chinese or Sanskrit but I'm certain spavined Lutherans from Oklahoma refer to it often as that Lickety Split Yeeeehawww.

The point can be holographically mapped to the left buttock of any country club Republican living or dead using Maxwell's Equations, the Zeroeth Law of Thermodynamics and a healthy dose of Fractal Geometry with an emphasis on the Mandelbrot Set. Remember always to heed the wise counsel of the Elder Homunculi and don't forget to jam a honey-dipped drumstick up your Lickety Split Yeeeehawwwww!!!

Technique SIX: Breastfeed a Stoat

Stoat: a black-tailed weasel closely related to former British Prime Minister and American Prison Bitch Tony Blair.

Another short and simple one as promised. Wear a sombrero on a fine summer morning in Wyoming. You don't have to be in Wyoming and it doesn't have to be a fine summer morning in your offal-strewn hometown. But it does have to be a fine summer morning in Wyoming, the state where lesbian preachers show a marked sexual preference for Great Danes.

A sombrero is a Mexican hat worn by gun-toting Texans trying to lull Mexican immigrants into a false sense of security. Hey, I'm one of you...I can help...yeah that's right come closer... BANG...har har another dead wetback...God Bless America.

Stick a sombrero on your pear-shaped cretin skull. Then strip naked and clip a red clothes peg to your right nipple. The peg will hurt (all praise to the Most High) but you'll laugh through the pain in a prolonged staccato whinny.

Use a length of red twine to bind six strips of corn husk to your moth-eaten pecker. Then squat over a bowl of japanese rice wine and dip your nutsack in the fluid. Now you're ready to make two critically important phone calls.

Grab your sperm-caked cell phone and call Dial-a-Stoat. Ask for an adolescent male stoat in the prime of its weasel youth. Next, call your local nuclear power plant and ask for a gallon of heavy water tinctured with radioactive buffalo urine.

The stoat and the heavy water should arrive at your door precisely eighteen minutes after the second call. In fact, they'll make sure the stoat delivers the water in person.

Establish to your satisfaction that there's a water-bearing stoat at your door. Then jam a pair of police whistles up your nose and exhale hard with your mouth sealed shut.

When I say mouth sealed shut I mean your lips are stuck together with highly adhesive cerumen (earwax) extracted from a naked Bavarian spreadeagled on a bed of congealed hog fat.

When I say extracted I mean shaken loose with a single blow to the head delivered by a mallet-wielding Oriental midget with a startlingly formidable schlong.

The two police whistles should do the trick. You'll find the stoat in your room seconds later, a gallon jug tied to its tail. This gallon jug should contain heavy water tinctured with radioactive buffalo urine (most likely the bladder-swill of a South African cape buffalo once married to apartheid-era killer honcho Pieter Botha).

Now you're squatting naked with your nuts dipped in rice wine and your pecker cocooned in corn husk. You have a sombrero on your skull and a red clothes peg at your right nipple. There's also a black-tail weasel in your room, a young stoat bearing a gallon jug of heavy water tinctured with radioactive buffalo piss.

What does it all mean? It means you're all set for a soaring vault into the moist and inviting bosom of Instant Nirvana. It also means you're an even bigger moron than your toothless octogenarian gay lover says you are.

Grab the gallon jug and empty it in a single epic swallow. Then grab the stoat and french-kiss it into submission before fastening its weasel mouth to your left tit. Hold the pose and wait. Before you know it you'll be lactating like a sonofabitch. You'll have unpasteurized colostrum dribbling into the stoat's captive gullet.

Let the stoat suck on your tumescent man-teat for twelve seconds. Then put out a husking moan that soars to a piercing shriek. INSTANT NIRVANA WILL KICK IN THE MOMENT YOU HIT THAT HIGH NOTE.

Commentary:

The technique awakens an acupressure point located on your sternum (breastbone). The point is called Nien Tze in Chinese and Bindu Prakash in Sanskrit. It's also referred to as that dang weasel tit needle point by redneck mystics who stand neck deep in swamp water drinking gasoline and wood varnish with electric eels writhing in their born-again assholes.

The point occurs at the nexus of two Chi meridians that can be plotted on a spherical coordinate system with a quill dipped in superheated guar gum. Happy Diwali to all you desi swinging dicks out there. Remember to hump a confection of your choice with sparklers jammed up your mocha butts and rockets firing off your hooded boners.

Technique FIVE: BISMARCK!!!

You'll be relieved to know this one's short and simple. You'll also relieve yourself once you know you're short and simple. The techniques will get shorter and simpler as we move along on crutches with our nuts in harness and our tongues cleaving our palates.

Wake up at dawn on a Monday and eat three pounds of garbanzo beans (chickpeas) while kneeling naked on your kitchen counter in full view of the neighbor's massively obese wife. This hugely corpulent spouse should be named Hildegaard. Make sure Hildegaard won a gilded ox-tongue at the recent hog-calling contest in your local house of worship.

Glom those chickpeas like they're going out of style (they usually are) and wash them down with a gallon of cream milk stored in an outsize plastic teat. The cream milk should be spoiled and yellowish. It should also be tinctured with spoonful of liquid coal tar and sprinkled with a handful of volcanic ash. Gently rub your bare gut with a loofah mitt as you guzzle that milk.

When you're done guzzling, slap the sides of your gut with both hands and put out a sonant yawp. By 'sonant yawp', I mean a worded shout. Slap the sides of your gut and yell BATTLE SHIP POTEMKIN as loudly as you can. Then gobble half a pound of anchovies and a quart of kimchee (pickled cabbage). Now you're pretty much set for Instant Nirvana.

Head out to your bedroom on all fours with the chickpeas, the spoiled milk, the kimchee and the anchovies roiling in your gut. Make weird yowling sounds on your way there, the kind female cats put out when they're in heat. Enter your bedroom, drag that narcotized Belgian out from under your bed and begin undressing him while singing a Kirghiz funeral lament in a full-throated squeal.

You forced the Belgian to wear a nun's habit last week and that's what he's wearing now. Divest him of that habit and wear it yourself. Then grab a rusted bullhorn from your refrigerator and walk to work in a rapid, pigeon-toed shamble.

A bullhorn is a megaphone in case you didn't know. The megaphone amplifies your voice at midnight during bouts of screaming sex with that inflatable dummy you mail-ordered from Texas. The fact that the dummy resembles a senile Ronald Reagan has never worried you and never will.

Shamble to work in your nun's habit with the bullhorn in your right hand. Enter a crowded elevator at your workplace with your innards seething. The stuff you ate and drank has created an enormous pocket of rancid air in your crudded colon. Only your clenched and puckered asshole stands between it and freedom.

Wait till the elevator is full and in steady ascent. Then put the bullhorn to your mouth and yell BISMARCK!!! while simultaneously venting your gut-gas in an explosive fartburst. INSTANT NIRVANA WILL ENSUE IMMEDIATELY AFTERWARDS.

Commentary:

As always, enact the technique precisely, leaving no room for innovation or interpretation. The techniques of Instant Nirvana put to good use your most noxious and rebarbative habits (pun intended). In this case your penchant for pestilential flatulence is exploited to your supernal and sempiternal advantage. Your elevator fart will vitiate and/or kill everyone on the elevator (except of course your enlightened self). It may even kill everyone in the building but not to worry. One man's mass murder is another man's Instant Nirvana.

This technique awakens an acupressure point on your upper lip just under your right nostril. The point is called Wuen Yi in Chinese and Pratitya Paramanu in Sanskrit. It occurs at the nexus of two Chi meridians plotted on a Cartesian Grid via the equation y = Pi*x (squared) + log(Gamma). BISMAAAARCK!!!

Technique FOUR: Send a Smoke Signal

You'll need a goat for this one. You'll also need a hubcap, an eggbeater, a handful of sawdust, an Australian flag, a milking stool, split-crotch leather briefs, a boiled oyster, a can of used crank case oil and six raw green peas.

Bounce out into the boonies on your grandad's rusted pogo stick and locate a ricket-legged farmer named Clem. Old Clem should have a missing eye and a snot nose that periodically vents moss-green bubbles.

Buy a goat from Clem on a sunny afternoon in spring. Make sure the goat is an attractive female with outsize udders and long, fluttering lashes. Christen the goat in Clem's presence. Which is to say, name the goat in a short, formal ceremony involving a miniature Bible, a used earbud and a pair of dentures.

It is imperative that you name the goat Salma. No other name will do. Bounce home on your pogo stick with Salma trotting in tow. Leave Salma in your front yard with her udders swaddled in an Australian flag. No other flag will do.

Go to your bedroom, strip naked and wear split-crotch, black-leather briefs studded with fake emeralds. Then grab your knapsack off the comatose Belgian in your closet and bounce out to a church yard located within shooting distance of a crack house.

The knapsack should contain a milking stool, an eggbeater, a hubcap, a handful of sawdust, a boiled oyster, six raw green peas and a can of used crank case oil. Salma will follow quiet and dutiful with her udders still wrapped in that Australian flag.

The church yard must have at least twelve gravestones. Make sure one of the mutants buried there died of SHC (Spontaneous Human Combustion). Make sure a second mutant died from swallowing a frisbee at a Sunday picnic.

Set your stool in the middle of the church yard and begin milking Salma. While milking, belt out the Baywatch theme song in a prolonged operatic shriek. Collect the milk in a condom you picked out of the church trash bin.

You'll find the condom accommodates at least a gallon of fresh goat's milk (man, that latex sure does stretch). Empty half that amount into your ravening maw. Which is to say, drink at least half a gallon of condom-stored goat milk.

With all that milk sloshing around in your gut, pour the sawdust from your knapsack into the can of used crank case oil. Stir the mixture to form a thick, dark paste and smear the paste on the insides of your thighs.

Return to the milking stool with your legs wide apart and jam that boiled oyster up your left nostril with your right hand. With the same hand, glue those six raw peas to your upper lip while squealing in tremolo.

Now you're ready to rock. Grab the eggbeater and squeeze it between your pasted thighs. Sit still a minute as Salma looks on in bewilderment and arousal. Then start working that eggbeater like there's no tomorrow (there probably isn't).

Crank that beater with demented intensity till your thighs start to smoke. Keep cranking till a thick spire rises from between your thighs. Then grab the hub cap, hold it over the spire and begin shaping small, dung-colored clouds that send a coded message for miles around.

The message must read: I left my wife for a zoo ostrich. If you're in the mood you can add: I married my zoo ostrich in Vegas and laid an egg the next day. INSTANT NIRVANA WILL BE YOURS RIGHT AFTER YOU'RE DONE SENDING THE MESSAGE.

Commentary:

Make sure farmer Clem really is ricket-legged and azygous (has one eye). Also make sure you see moss-green bubbles erupt from his nose at regular intervals. If a bubble doesn't pop on its own you'll have to reach out and pop it with your index finger or head-butt that bad boy out to tarnation.

These little details are important. Ignore them at your own peril. The devil is in the details as the devil once said (with the details milling about in confusion). But the devil is also in hell, so details are hell, quod erat demons-trandum. When you're done achieving Instant Nirvana eat that oyster and those six green peas. Use your mixture of sawdust and crank case oil as a condiment, if not a condom. Waste not, want not as single-buttock Baptists often say.

What we have here is an unusually poweful technique. Reason being, it awakens not one but TWO acupressure points located in the creases of your much-coddled nad pouch. The points are known as Wang Zhui and Shieh Wu in Chinese. In Sanskrit they're called Vayu Bindu and Anirvachaniya Bindu. The points are located at the intersections of two curves described on a Cartesian grid via the equation: y = PI*x (squared) + log(e).

Technique THREE: Torch a Dildo

Wade through the trash at your local landfill and locate a discarded jockstrap. The jockstrap should be stained yellow with crotch-sweat but should, otherwise, be largely intact. Bake the strap in a red clay oven on a fine Saturday afternoon while humming Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.

Hum the Fugue in a high-pitched whine inaudible to all but the neighbor's Rottweiler. Your whine should send the dog into a homicidal frenzy that results in a high-profile, media-friendly bloodbath.

Wait for the hubbub to die down. Then pull the baked jockstrap from your red clay oven and wear while still hot. The strap will char your foreskin and iron out the creases on your nadbag but no matter. It'll all be worth it in the end.

Now you're in your backyard wearing nothing but a baked jockstrap recently discarded by a decorticated and crab-loused quarterback who happens to have a one-inch penis and a grapefruit-size wart on his skull.

Your nuts feel like they're caught in a superheated vise and you have tears running down your oven-singed mug. You are, nevertheless, in a state of incipient beatitude, your discolored teats buzzing with anticipation.

Wade across the creek behind your house and hobble into the woods with a blue china bowl, a can of cheap booze and a box of matches. Find a grassy clearing in the woods, set aside your paraphernalia and get down on all fours while muttering the phrase: doohickey dingle big dick doofus.

Remain on all fours for twelve minutes while repeating the phrase in a soaring trill. Your trill should enrage the woodland birds perched all around and induce them to swoop down and crap all over your bare back.

Rise to your feet while muttering the phrase: big boob bucolic bratwurst barbecue bungee. Repeat the phrase nine times in a mute squeal while rhythmically slapping your crotch with your right hand.

Now stand knock-kneed with your toes touching and your tongue partially extruded. Hold the pose for a minute while breathing in short gasps. Then purse your lips and begin to strain like you're trying to deject a recalcitrant bull-turd.

Keep straining till you feel an itch in your navel. The itch means your navel is about to bloom like a diseased tulip. It also means you're about to secrete a pink, translucent sap from that blooming navel.

Lower your head and watch it happen. Your navel has yawned open this fine Saturday afternoon in the woods. Your efflorescent bellybutton is leaking a pink, translucent fluid that smells like cabbage cooked in a hobo's armpit.

Let that sap drain into the blue china bowl you filched from the neighbor's outhouse. Fill the bowl and straighten with a loud, rasping howl that raises your own hackles and frightens the birds that crapped on you not a minute back.

Hold up the bowl a while in votive offering. You'll notice the sap is healing over and starting to thicken. Scoop the sap out of the bowl and shape it into a phallic totem six inches long and three inches wide.

You now have a pink, translucent dildo lovingly fashioned with your own hands, from your own navel sap. Position the dildo in the middle of the clearing while mumbling the phrase: hogball hunks for ham-fed hooterpumps.

Repeat the phrase fifteen times in crescendo, letting your voice rise to a choking scream. Then empty that can of cheap booze over your phallic totem, strike a match and set the dildo ablaze. INSTANT NIRVANA WILL KICK IN THE MOMENT YOUR DILDO CATCHES FIRE.


Commentary:

Try singing a Beach Boys song as you wade through that landfill looking for your discarded jockstrap. If possible wear a brassiere made by stapling bits of cardboard to swatches of bubble plastic. Pad the brassiere with damp pubic hair and mashed orange peels.

Make sure you repeat those phrases precisely and clearly. Failure to do so will result in scrotal hypertrophe. That's a fancy way of saying your nutsack will swell to the size of a watermelon or a genetically modified pumpkin.

This technique awakens an acupressure point located an inch above your navel. This point is called Huang Zhu in Chinese (Mandarin) and Gandharva Paramanu in Sanskrit. The point occurs at the intersection of two Chi meridians mapped on a Cartesian Grid via the equations y = 9x(cubed) + Alpha. Y'all come back now, hear?

Commentary on Technique TWO

Some aspects of Technique TWO may bring to mind Hollywood actor Richard Gere and his gerbil. Gerbils are desert rodents with long hind legs adapted for leaping and butt-surfing. Rumor has it that Dickie Gere used to jam gerbils up his bunghole for purposes of autoerotic stimulation. The rumor is only half true. Dickie did jam gerbils up his nether foramen but not with erotic intent. He did it strictly for spiritual reasons.

Gere happens to be the inventor of Tantric Gerbil Yoga, an esoteric practice designed to awaken the Kundalini or serpent power coiled at the base of the spine. The gerbils used in this practice are enlightened bodhisattvas who know precisely what to do once they've been ritually jammed up a celebrity Buddhist croup-hole. They squirm around in lightless redolence down where the sun never shines, moving in precise adjustments till they stress the prostate gland and quicken the aspirant's Kundalini.

Tantric Gerbil Yoga can be employed for more quotidian purposes. That beauty mark on Cindy Crawford's upper lip isn't a spot of pigment. It's a gerbil embryo surgically implanted by single-testicle Bhutanese surgeons using superheated chopsticks and lengths of copper wire twisted into bizarre, trans-topological shapes. A strategically implanted gerbil embryo keeps you looking youthful well into your eighties. When you hit ninety though, your face slides off your skull and pools around your feet in a foul-smelling, effervescent puddle.

Gerbil Yoga may be a bold and innovative approach to enlightenment but it belongs to an age when the path to nirvana was slow and painstaking. Gere's method requires long and careful preparation. You have to be mentally and anally primed. Also, don't bother jamming some random pet-store gerbil up your reeking posterior. You have to have access to those hypersapient bodhisattva gerbils that Gere himself made use of. Best not to mess with all that. Best to use the Instant Nirvana technique described above.

The technique awakens an acupressure point on your perineum (the perineum being that mossy area between your nuts and your anus). This point on the perineum is known as Xuan Tze in Chinese and Mulabindu in Sanskrit. It is located at the intersection of two Chi meridians plotted on a Cartesian grid via the equation y = x(cubed) +log9. Letting that fully clothed gecko storm up your butthole will prove to be the best thing you ever did (apart from winning that bloody and near-fatal game of touch football you played with your grand-uncle's prosthetic skull over Thanksgiving).

Technique TWO: Insert a Gecko

Gecko: a small, harmless, chiefly tropical and nocturnal insectivorous lizard.

You're going to need underwear for this technique. You're going to need a pair of briefs several sizes too small. I recommend the toddler's section in your local Walmart. Better yet, buy a Ken and Barbie doll and strip off Ken's underpants. Even better, pull off Barbie's panties with your teeth, yank off Ken's briefs with your lips and work a short, gasping porno scene with the two dolls (call me if you need a salacious soundtrack featuring animal sounds from a teeming barnyard). Now you have TWO pairs of extra-small underwear to choose from.

You'll need to strip naked before pulling on Barbie's panties. Repair to your bedroom and strip slowly to the sound of running water. Gyrate, undulate and caress yourself as you strip but make sure you don't sprout a boner. Boners invariably ruin everything. Just ask the reigning boner-king Bubba Clinton, former president of the Benighted States. To prevent an erection (or forestall ejaculation) think of notorious war criminal Henry Kissinger squatting naked over a can of kidney beans. Imagine him singing Madonna's Papa Don't Preach in a high-pitched warble. Nothing kills a hardon faster than a naked, singing Kissinger.

After you're done stripping proceed, without further ado, to pull Barbie's panties over your pockmarked and verrucose buttocks. This is going to be hard work but I know you can pull it off, or rather, pull it on. Getting into those panties will be hard enough. Staying in them will be harder still. Your nads are going to feel like they're being chomped by the neighbor's Dachschund. Those Barbie panties may cut off or impede circulation and cause you to fall in a dead faint. All the better. You'll feel like a real man when you come around. You'll also feel worthy of your impending foray into Instant Nirvana.

With your panties still on, prepare a Sitz Bath of blue seltzer water. Which is to say, fill a porcelain basin with blue seltzer water, the kind that fizzes and bubbles like it's trying to think. Set the basin on the floor, squat over it and lower your pantied and rebarbative rump into the seltzer water. Soak those panties while humming an old Pat Boone song. Think of Pat's badly circumcized pecker hanging from a pudendal cloud in an azure sky. Pat (for those who're interested) was circumcized with a nail clipper on his thirtieth birthday as he lay inebriated in a brothel outhouse somewhere south of the border. Or so I've heard, for schmuck's sake don't quote me.

When your Barbie panties are good and soaked, put out a short, deafening bellow. The bellow should be loud enough to shatter glass and raise welts on the tuberous skull of an emu farmer in the Australian Outback. Your bellow, if properly vented, will split your panties right down the middle and expose your twitching bunghole to the fizzing warmth of the seltzer water. Savor the sensation for a minute with your thumb jammed in your navel. Then call American Express toll free. Any toll free American Express number will do. When the operator comes on, say: I want one of them gecko lizards YeeEEEEEEP! Make sure you say precisely that and nothing else. The YeeEEEEEEP should be sustained and high-pitched, high enough for a transvestite bungee jump.

Something rather unexpected will occur ten minutes after you make the call. The pane of your window will shatter and a box will come sailing into your bedroom. The box will land close to where you're squatting. It might even land at your feet. You'll find it's a box of clear plastic dibbled with holes. The box will contain a single adult male albino gecko with pink beady eyes. Prise open the lid of the box and allow the gecko to perch on the back of your hand. You'll notice that the gecko is clothed. You'll see it's wearing a tiny black bowler hat and a red satin waistcoat. Don't let that worry you. Raise your hand to your bruised snout and sing to the gecko in a lilting croon. It doesn't matter what you sing but I strongly recommend one of the arias Pavarotti sang as he lay naked in a tub of guava jelly at a truck stop in Nevada.

When you're done singing, lower the gecko into the basin of seltzer water. Don't be concerned about the critter sinking and drowning and you having to french-kiss it back to life. It knows what it's doing. It's been exhaustively prepared for its task by the renegade Rosicrucians working in clandestine obscurity for American Express. The gecko will circle the basin three times with its bowler hat cleaving the water like a prow. It will then dart up your bunghole noiseless and fully clothed. Start counting down from twenty the instant you feel the critter's head in your much-loved orifice. INSTANT NIRVANA WILL MANIFEST SPONTANEOUSLY WHEN YOU HIT THE NUMBER EIGHT.

(Commentary on Technique Two in my next post).

Technique ONE: Adopt a Noodle

Locate a fartknocker flophouse near you. Which is to say, find a 'retirement home' in or near your neighborhood. Chances are, if you live in one the world's civilized nations (cough, cough) there'll be plenty of those on offer not far from where you live. I'm talking about one of those glorified warehouses where old people are left to rot and die in a prolonged denouement of drooling senescence.

Locate a retirement home near you (preferably in a northwesterly direction on an overcast day in autumn) and drive out there in that hideously polluting pile of rust-metal you call your car. Better yet, bounce all the way there on a motorized pogo stick with your jaws glued shut and your nuts in a raw silk harness.

Enter the retirement home with a dowser's wand slathered with swamp gunk sanctified by the pedophile priest in your local church. A dowser's wand is nothing more than a forked stick that you hold porrect (pointing straight out). Wander around the retirement home till your dowser's wand dips in the direction of an old gal in her eighties (plenty of eighty year old gals around there you bet, never a dearth of those).

Adopt the old gal and name her Noodle. I repeat: adopt the eighty year old dame you located with your dowser's wand, take her home and name her Noodle. If you insist, you may name her Noodlebear but I strongly recommend Noodle. It is very easy, these days, to adopt senior citizens of your choice. The adoptions can be temporary or permanent.

In many of the world's civilized nations old people are adopted over the holiday season, painted in garish colors and used as Christmas decorations or art nouveau conversation pieces. The old folks are also used as mobile snack-food dispensers. Hors d'oeuvres are pasted on their naked whitewashed bodies. They are then asked to mingle with party guests who pluck the food off them as they dodder past.

All this to say you won't have a problem adopting your old gal, taking her home and naming her Noodle. if your mother finds out about the adoption and calls from the crapulous roach motel you unceremoniously dumped her in, just pick up the phone and yell: WE DID DECIDE WE WERE GOING TO DATE OTHER PEOPLE DIDN'T WE? HUH? Then you slam the phone down and start setting up your enactment. What enactment? The one that'll flip you up and out into Instant Nirvana.

Take good care of Noodle for a week. Feed her well at regular intervals, bathe her with warm rosewater and rub her down with fragrant aniseed oil. At dusk on Saturday rouse her from her smoke-induced stupor (you will have smoked high grade chronic in her immediate vicinity for six hours straight), swaddle her in a newly purchased shower curtain, stick a blonde pageboy wig on her head and fix a green plastic lens (monocle) over her right eye.

Now carefully strip down to your underwear and squat on your haunches six feet from where she's sitting. The squat will most likely force a half pint of rancid air from your gut. Not a problem. Fart long and loud if you have to, but make sure you torch that methane with your cigarette lighter the moment it escapes your body (the methane, not the lighter).

Now you're all set. Noodle is seated in her wheelchair swathed in a shower curtain with a blonde wig on her head and a green monocle over her right eye. You're squatting six feet off in your underwear breathing burned fartsmoke. The sun is about to sink below the horizon and there's a twilit hush in the air.

Hold your position in silence for a minute. Then ask Noodle to shut her left eye and focus on your right toe through her green monocle. I repeat: Noodle must shut her LEFT eye and focus on your RIGHT toe with her RIGHT eye through her green mononcle. Confirm to your satisfaction that your right toe is her sole focus. Then call out her name in six prolonged shrieks.

Immediately following the sixth shriek, give your left nipple a good pinch with your right hand and whack the left side of your head with the palm of your left hand. I repeat: shriek out NoooOOOOODLE six times, pinch your left nipple with your right hand and slap your self upside the head (left side) with your left hand.

The shrieks, the nipple pinch and the skull slap should be delivered with maximum intensity, with all the gusto you can summon. If your vision darkens and silver spots boil in front of your eyes don't worry. INSTANT NIRVANA WILL ENSUE SECONDS AFTER YOU'RE DONE SLAPPING YOURSELF UPSIDE THE HEAD.

Commentary

Instant Nirvana is all about creating a confluence of events or circumstances. The confluence above should be clear enough. You have Noodle and yourself in fixed positions in a specific situation. You also have sounds emitted and actions performed in conjunction. Together, these produce the desideratum, to wit, Instant Nirvana.

The minutest details are important in creating the confluence or Nirvana Nexus. For instance, it is critically important that you name the old gal Noodle or at worst, Noodlebear. The name should appear in blood on the adoption form you fill out at the retirement home under the hateful gaze of the brutish and sneering staff.

It is also critically important that Noodle be in her eighties. If you enact the above sequence with, say, a seventy nine year old, you will fall into a nightmare coma instead of soaring to the summit of Instant Nirvana. Similarly, if you pinch your right nipple instead of pinching the stipulated (and obscenely turgid) left nipple, you may suffer a spectacular form of brain death with your cranial contents erupting out the top of your head in a hot, bloody spume. Such unpleasant eventualities should be avoided by following instructions diligently.

It is important, furthermore, that Noodle focus on your right toe as best she can. This first technique is designed to awaken an acupressure point on your right toe, a point named Hsih Xue in Chinese and Bindupada in Sanskrit. This point is located at the intersection of two Chi meridians that can be plotted on a Cartesian grid via the equation y = 3x(cubed) + Alpha, where Alpha is a logarithmic value of variable dimension. If adopting a Noodle isn't your thing, wait for technique TWO coming up next.

Note on Presentation

Traditional religious treatises (usually Eastern) are often presented in a specific manner. Shlokas or aphorisms or short statements are followed by commentary or exegesis. I, Sun Lotus Sky Eagle Bubba Free Rain intend to follow suit without actually wearing a suit or any kind of clothing for that matter.

I always write naked by moonlight, though 'writing' isn't the word strictly speaking. I dictate my thoughts into a portable tape machine as I wander naked around this trailer park with a thick smear of molasses, pork-spam and fresh cat-flux on my buttocks.

The smear attracts critters and varmints of every description, from field rats and possum to vampire bats and junkyard dogs (not to mention storms of bioluminescent bugs from the woods). These critters and varmints follow me in motley horde as I perambulate in slow shuffle, talking into my tape machine, though 'talking' isn't the word, strictly speaking.

I tend to croon, mutter, perorate, gibber and yodel in hallucinatory afflatus, my voice sinking to growls of deep mentation and soaring to shrieks of coruscant inspiration. My treatise on Instant Nirvana was recorded in precisely this fashion over the summer months of two thousand and three, those dank and oppressive days when the sinus-scorching redolence of our toxic landfill had become nigh-impossible to bear.

This trailer park is located near a toxic landfill that resembles a matte-black marsh in slow boil. The residents of this park were paid a paltry sum (by agents of the federal government) for agreeing to live near the landfill. The agreement is part of a clandestine genetic experiment of some sort, with government scientists attempting to determine the effects of radioactivity and toxic vapor on a random sample of dirt poor and disenfranchised plebeians.

But I digress. I will now, without further ado, launch into my long-promised and much-touted techniques of Instant Nirvana. As stated above, the presentation will follow traditional methods as seen in, say, the Zen Comments on the Mumonkan or Lustig Dummerheit's exegeses of Martin Luther's post-dejective outhouse epiphanies as seen in Dang, That's the Best Crap I've Taken in Months (translated from the original German by me, Sun Lotus Sky Eagle Bubba Free Rain).

The techinique itself will be presented first. A commentary will then follow in brilliant elucidation. It is more than likely that aspirants who faithfully enact the technique will achieve Instant Nirvana in a single burst of neuroplasmic illumination. Your brain will appear to you as a blazing mushroom cloud, or as a complex and incandescent dendrite like one of those phosphorescent marine plants with innumerable tentacular branches.

Believe me, this shit is a whole lot better than Satori, the traditional 'sudden enlightenment' lauded and extolled by practitioners of Rinzai Zen, not to be confused with the militant Banzai Zen of imperial Japan or the Karzai Zen of present day Afghanistan. But enough said already. Time to pull on that jockstrap, straddle that razorback hog, put out a bull ape victory cry and ride out into Nirvanaville.

The Techniques: Turning a Sack of Crap into a Radiant Pleasure Dome

Your body is a sack of crap with a foramen at either end. That holds true at any given time, at any given moment of your dreary, grindingly pointless existence. It's a truth you can't avoid, no matter how many laxative pills you cram down your plover's gullet or how many steaming enema shots you squirt up your moss-grown fundament or how many fulminating, foot-long suppositories you blast up your bunghole with that bazooka you mail-ordered for your infant daughter at Christmas.

It's a truth you can't run from. Running just makes it worse. All it does is turn you into a sack of running shit, something you just don't want. Does that mean you're condemned forever? Does that mean you have to remain a purulent dung-bag all your life? Not if I can help it. Not if you give ear and listen for a change. Not if you hearken in quivering abjection, on bended knee, to the sage advice of Sun Lotus Sky Eagle Bubba Free Rain, your big bad voodoo daddy.

If you took time out from laminating the shaft of your dong and stapling bits of prosthetic foreskin to your peckerhead you'd know that a significant number of religious and philosophical systems disparage the body in one form or another. The prophets of old really had it in for the body (goddamn reactionary martinets, why'd they have to harangue us in tirades of flaming spit and phosphorescent catarrh, why couldn't they just deep-throat a tuber, mount a marsupial and leave us the hell alone).

The Semitic religions place Flesh or the body at the bottom of a hierarchy that has Pater Priapicus right at the top, presiding on his throne at empyrean summits. Your body wallows in slop with the much reviled hog while Grand Old Dad squats at the zenith pinching celestial loaves that fall from on high (to the swelling chorus of the Heavenly Host) and bust open the skulls of mortals cowering below.

That rump-riding, ephebe-humping, catamite-porking windbag Plato puts Form or Spirit at a high antipodal remove from Matter or Flesh. The soul must ascend from the feculent bogs of matter to achieve pure form, spirit purged of fleshly taint. The ascent is hastened and abetted by erotic congress with willing young lads spreading their butt-cheeks for Plato's invert geometers (vide: The Phaedrus).

Turning East, we find in early Buddhism (Theravada) a pervasive and deep-seated aversion for the Flesh and the world in general. There is no fire like passion, avers the venerable author of the Dhammapada, there is no evil like hatred, there is no pain like bodily existence, there is no happiness higher than peace. So there's another barrel of laughs, as Vonnegut might've put it if he were still around, which he isn't sad to say.

No happiness higher than peace? Has this dude ever tried jug-humping an anatomically correct crash test dummy in the back seat of a junkyard station wagon? I doubt it. If he had, he wouldn't be talking crazy like he does in the Dhammapada. What the old guy needs is a good old-fashioned barnyard blowout, a down home country hoedown with poodles and midgets and naked Baptists burying themselves in barbecue pits for the cannibal delectation of the rutting, hog-humping faithful.

The Hindu philosopher saint Shankara succumbs to the corrosive influence of Buddhist pessimism in shaping the template of Mayavada or Advaita Vedanta. Other Hindu thinkers, cognizant of the taint in Shankara's system, accuse him of being a covert Buddhist. Mayavadam asachhastram prachhannam Bauddham, they cry out, employing to good effect their knowledge of Sanskrit, the language of the gods. But Shankara, unperturbed, retains his Buddhist rejectionism and advises his followers not to ogle the tumescent cleavages of water-bearing maidens returning damp and moist-lipped from the banks of the river.

In the Jnana Yoga of his Vivekachudamani, Shankara recommends a progressive withdrawal from the flesh and the senses via negativa (neti, neti: not this, not that). Consciousness must be withdrawn from the body in a steady inward movement that culminates in a taintless selfhood of pure consciousness. This means that Paris Hilton's boudoir porn and Pamela Anderson's houseboat fuckfest are both strictly out of bounds. I knew there had to be a catch somewhere.

This antiquarian revulsion for the flesh may be unjustified but it's completely understandable. It cannot be denied that the adult human body in the present age is a site of hell plagues, seething suppurations and pestilential horrors beyond name and description. My body was a roiling cesspool before I attained INSTANT NIRVANA in an efflorescent fireball of Kundalini Shakti. You can be certain that YOUR sorry excuse for a body is a source of unspeakable revulsion for billions of sentient beings observing you through the lenses of their wormscopes.

Wormscopes are wormholes fitted with giant lenses or specula held in place by an aggregation of gravity waves and superstrings. Wormscopes have been in existence for millennia and have been used as observation devices by aliens who have nothing better to do than play with themselves while watching the ultimate lowbrow gutter-spawned reality show, to wit: human life on planet earth. If you suddenly feel like you're being watched as you jam your pecker in that Venus Fly Trap you stole from your neighbor's greenhouse, you'd best respect that feeling. You ARE being watched with a mixture of mirth, pity and loathing by billions of superintelligent but hideously morphed aliens confederated in the Intergalactic Sederunt of Proterus.

Wormscopes are described in clairvoyant detail in the concluding chapter of Nikolas Tesla's final and most secretive work. Tesla called his book Moldy Testicles to throw off inquisitive admirers and pesky researchers intent on debunking his theories and holding him up to public ridicule. No one knows about Tesla's final treatise except myself and some members of the hypersentient Sasquatch Council that convenes once a year in a secret recess of the Rocky Mountains. When I say 'sasquatch' I'm referring to the so-called Missing Link, the Bigfoot of rural legend.

Guess what: Bigfoot exists and he's about a hundred times smarter than you are. Offbeat and prescient scientists like Nikolas Tesla, Jagadish Chandra Bose and Rupert Sheldrake derived many of their ideas from the wilderness solilquys of adolescent Yetis in the Himalayas, Sasquatch females in the woods of the Pacific Northwest and middle-aged Orang Pendeks in the jungles of Borneo. All you dumb fucks out there who think Bigfoot doesn't exist are in for a rude shock. You're going to see platoons of Yetis in your neighborhood when the Reticulans try to take over with the full cooperation of the U.S. government. The Sasquatch Council is the first and last line of defense against fascist aliens and bone-evil genetic hybrids like Genocide George and Dicksuck Cheney.

But I digress. I was speaking of the BODY and why those fartknocking prophets of old were so opposed to it. Truth be told, I can see it from their perspective. At times I wholeheartedly share that persepective. For instance, I find it incredible that people actually desire physical contact with one another. They don't just seek each other out. They MERGE in rebarbative colloids of sarxial humus and fleshly secretion. They slap torsos, mingle humors and fuse pudenda with a relish that I can't hope to summon in a vat of hot Viagra at the Playboy Mansion.

Still, that's no cause to disavow the corporal and corporeal at a philosophical or practical level. Who cares if your corpus is a rancid and misshapen horror? If it's a stepping stone to Instant Nirvana, it must be embraced even if that embrace induces paroxysms of projectile vomiting and explosive diarrhea at the General Assembly of the United Nations or during your acceptance speech at the Oscars. I, Sun Lotus Sky Eagle Bubba Free Rain insist, in spite of everything, that you embrace your own inclement body, your own unsalubrious flesh if Instant Nirvana is a goal you take seriously. I insist that you reverse the traditional hierarchy and fearlessly place your body at the top, where it belongs.

In one form or another, thinkers of the ancien regime call for a WITHDRAWAL of consciousness from the body. Whereas I, Sun Lotus Sky Eagle Bubba Free Rain, call for an INFUSION of consciousness into the body. The sentience imprisoned in your brain must be released, that it may storm your body and reclaim your pale and vitiated flesh. I invoke a new pantheism of the flesh, a polymorphous perversity of pure consciousness that unites body and soul, that FUSES soma and psyche in a single quivering and incandescent plenum. In the old days, such a fusion was impossible. The structure of the universe and the alignment of the stars did not permit it. But now, in the Age of Instant Nirvana, such a fusion is both possible and necessary. The future of our despoiled planet may depend on it.

Instant Nirvana, then, is nothing more than the successful fusion of flesh and spirit. It is achieved when cranial consciousness expands free and fluent to embrace the body. The techniques presented below are means to that end. There are six thousand techniques as I have already stated. Why six thousand? Simple. The six thousand techniques correspond to six thousand acupressure points distributed over the reeking and pustular expanse of your body. A chosen technique successfully enacted will awaken its corresponding Prana Node or Chi Nexus or Acupressure Point on your body.

The awakening of one point will awaken all six thousand points, thus resulting in total corporal sentience or polymorphous perversity of consciousness. That's the beauty and power of the Age of Instant Nirvana. One awakened point awakens all six thousand points. Most aspirants will need to enact just one technique. Only the crudest and stupidest among you will require twenty or perhaps fifty techniques. You do have to pay the price for dropping down the Akashic Scale and consorting with musk rats and razorback hogs. But no matter. It's still worth it. Anything to turn that sack of crap you call your body into a fastness of perennial pleasure and radiant delight.

Bubba: Trailerpark Moron to Aquarian Magus

It behooves me, now that I've grown a pair of large cleft behooves, to say a few words about myself. Nirvana or supreme enlightenment is said to be beyond words. The Hindu sage Shankara speaks of Brahman, the neuter immensity, as that from which 'all words recoil'. I really dig that. I dig it with my spatular hands, my webbed feet and the partially atrophied appendage growing out of my chest.

Before I became enlightened people used to recoil from my own neuter immensity. Their words recoiled too, words of demented fury generously spiced with disgust, nausea and loathing. Incidentally, the idiot triplets who live next door are named Disgust, Nausea and Loathing. They were whelped via artificial insemination by a former professor of philosophy, a ham-fisted bull dyke who gave them up for adoption before travelling to the Vatican and attempting to eviscerate a cabal of novice priests with a modified nail-clipper. She was the one who named the triplets, no wonder they ended up here.

There's another set of triplets at the far corner of this trailerpark. They're named Ape, Dog and Crap. Ape has thick tussocks of russet horse-hair on his eyelids. Dog has a prognathic mouth with sabered canines. He slavers when he sees me in garters and high heels. He also scampers about in circles and urinates copiously. Crap has a large open fontanelle that fails to conceal and protect. That's a fancy way of saying he has a gaping hole at the top of his skull. His brain sprouts out of it like a diseased mushroom.

There's a teeming ruck of mutants in this trailerpark but he's the only guy with his brain on the outside. I've seen crows peck at it. I've seen neighbors filching finely sliced fillets of it. I've seen his brothers gorge on it when their supply of toad & possum gumbo runs out. But somehow that brain of his always grows back, or seems to. But I digress. I was talking about words. Enlightenment is said to transcend words. More important, it is said to transcend the mephitic confines of personal identity. I will, nevertheless, make bold to speak of myself here.

I transcended language radically and fundamentally when those planes hit the Twin Towers. Not just language. I transcended all symbolic systems known and unknown, except a mutant variety of the Morse Code that some, in their supernal wisdom refer to as the Norse Code. The Norse Code consists of a series of yips and howls emitted by naked Scandinavians sledding out of superheated saunas on large floats of blood sausage. They emerge in a storm of coded sonance and proceed to bury their heads in tubs of ambergris and elk guts under the midnight shimmer of the Northern Lights. All you Scandinavians out there take note. I want to frolic with your blonde Norse goddesses in seething mead-hall orgies of raw meat and hot wassail while Odin thumps a seal-skin drum with the cyclopean head of his Viking schlong.

But again, I digress. I have transcended words, no question about it. And yet, I keep seeing words all over the place. Words appearing luminous under the blue vault of the sky, or on the green bicuspid tongue of the genetic mutant at the Greek consulate in Kabul, or in the unshaved armpit of the overwrought Bavarian tour guide who goes berserk with a pair of garden shears during a routine bus ride through the Schwarzwald (six tourists slaughtered outright, ten critically wounded but recovering in the fragrant, nurturing cleavage of a German nurse). Words appear and disappear as on a magical palimpsest. Sometimes I see individual or hyphenated words in fleeting radiance. Words like: slop, pustule and nipple-rouge. Other times I see phrases like: plasma buttocks on sale. Or: get your tonsils out of my clam chowder. Entire verses appear on occasion. Verses like:

Slipstream hogpike slammer peekaboo
Dickweed dog-prong stroke a kangaroo
Don't keep diddling that drool-slick cockatoo
Or you'll end up spewing all your sticky foghorn stew


The point being, words continue to play a role in my life even though I have transcended them or at least mapped them to a different dimension via the Helmholtz Transform. Helmholtz was a mathematician who lost out to his bitter rival Laplace in a naked wrestling match fought in vat of pink resin. Following the defeat, the Helmholtz Transform was replaced by the Laplace Transform. Do the laws of physics remain invariant under the Laplace Transform? They do, ever since Einstein worked his first Gedanken Experiment in a red g-string and yellow pasties on a moving train. I have transcended language and identity while remaining entirely myself in a swirling mist of words. That's why I am making bold to speak of myself here.

Truth is, there's not a great deal to say. My life has, for the most part, been thoroughly unexceptional. I was a below-average trailerpark bumpkin before those planes hit the Twin Towers. As I've said, the impact transformed me, in a single blazing instant, from a salivating retard to a haloed illuminatus. I was born right here in this trailerpark to a gargantuan woman named Polly Dingus Pantagruel. I'm not sure who my father was. Polly got around a fair bit, sowed her wild oats around the trailerpark. Actually she didn't sow her oats per se. She shot them out of a jerrybuilt trebuchet, carefully aiming at the gonads of every knock-kneed halfwit who happened to shamble by. Almost every razorback hog-dong in this trailerpark has a grainy encrustation of wild oats around his parched nutsack. The few guys that aren't encrusted have ingrown peckers shaped like grapnel hooks, the result of Polly's salacious zeal.

I did have a step-father though, a scrawny guy with a wedge-shaped skull, splayed feet, charred hammertoes and a dripping barracuda mouth. He bit through my umbilical cord after I was born and tossed me in the kitchen sink with a guttural curse. That's just one of my numerous birth memories. I actually remember sliding through Polly's birth passage and shrieking out a song by Barry Manilow as the facets of my skull fused in white hot torment. I pretty much lived in that kitchen sink for the first two years of my life, which explains why I have a faucet-shaped indentation on my brow. It also explains why I have a galvanized ring around my anus and a persistent reek of rancid dishwater in my armpits.

Some of my earliest memories are prenatal. Which is to say, I remember stuff I saw before I was born or even conceived. This is consistent with research conducted by Carl Gustav Jung in his mature period and with the Tibetan Book of the Dead which describes the soul's pre-conceptional experience in the cloacal depths of the Sidpa Bardo (not to be confused with the equally nasty and unpleasant Brigitte Bardo). One of my preconceptional memories features Polly in red leather cornholing Gabe Gumption with a strap-on made from vulcanized rubber. Gabe was my stepfather and Polly made the strap-on dildo by fusing strips torn off the wheels of junkyard pickup trucks. She fused those strips in the moist, unyielding vise-grip of her thighs as she plucked at her teflon banjo and sang Tahitian nocturnes in a croaking monotone.

A remarkable woman for sure, Polly. She earned her keep by wrestling rodeo bulls in floodlit arenas slathered with scented horse dung. She'd wrestle those bulls to the ground as cheering midgets circled on unicycles, juggling soggy pork rinds. She was also the breastfeeder of choice at the trailpark. For a small fee she pretended to breastfeed grown men who liked to dress up as babies and fall belly-up in a cradle of soiled brassieres and kudzu leaves. Polly ran off soon after my twelfth birthday and joined a cult of renegade Rosicrucians who worshipped a pertrified tree stump and a chipped mason jar that the Reverend Billy Graham used to micturate in during his long bus trips around the Deep South. Billy had a weak bladder that he compensated for by growing a grapefruit-sized prostate.

Polly eventually died from a bout of spontaneous REM sleep exsanguination. In other words she bled from her nose as she lay in a drunken stupor and kept bleeding till she ran dry. She was buried in the bed of a dump truck that, for reasons unknown, was used to transport outsize pumpkins hydroponically grown in vats of warm camomile tea under the watchful gaze of trained rhesus monkeys. I hung around the trailerpark after Polly left, glad to see the back of her. She'd done almost nothing to win my affection. Once, in a rare spasm of maternal love, she had crammed a handful of sweetened carrot-mulch in my mouth as I slept. That was pretty much the extent of it.

I remained at the trailer park for the next ten years, living on scraps of partially rotten dogfood tossed through my bedroom window by concerned neighbors. In return, I sought to entertain them with stunts I dreamed up while watching a pirated film that showed a corpulent William Shatner soaping his own crotch in a tub of rose petals and pureed avocado. William Shatner played Captain Kirk on Star Trek for those who've been comatose in a limestone cave for the last fifty years. One of my stunts involved knotting my foreskin around an iron bedstead and dragging it down a gravel pathway in a single backward surge. Another stunt involved gluing my tongue to the awning of a double wide trailer and hanging from it for an entire minute. These stunts helped me earn a steady if meagre income.

In my eleventh year at the trailerpark I discovered I was losing fragments of my brain in the prolonged sneezing fits that had begun to afflict me. I would sneeze for hours, watching helplessly as tiny chunks of brain matter spritzed from my nose and ears in bloody and rhythmic ejection. It was a case of slow brain-death by explosive attrition and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it except visit the local quack, an option I couldnt afford. My intelligence quotient declined by nearly half over a three month period and I took to wandering snot-nosed with a droolcup nailed to my chin and my pecker hanging bare and forlorn like a failed proboscis.

I would've ended up a quaking and incontinent tuber if fate hadn't intervened in the form of an attack on the Twin Towers. I came awake in a coruscant blaze of vital ascension at the very instant those planes struck the Towers. Why and how this occurred I cannot with certainty explain. But it did happen. My enlightenment was neither brief nor instantaneous. The process spanned several weeks and even months. Indeed, the mutations provoked on september eleventh two thousand and one continue in one form or another to the present day. I am still mutating, still ascending. To some extent, my ascension bears comparison with the eldritch and deliriously occult experiences of the Kashmiri adept Gopi Krishna as described in his book Kundalini. But it is safe to say that my transitions have been, and continue to be far more bizarre than his.

For one thing, I have mutated visibly, unlike Gopi Krishna who changed primarily on the inside so to speak. Intercostal appendages have grown out of my chest, through the spaces between my ribs. For a while, my adam's apple actually was an apple, a firm red fruit that I painlessly plucked and ate. Deliciously sweet grape clusters have appeared in the flaxen bed of my pubic hair. Breasts have grown in my armpits, nipples have sprouted all over my body. Eyeballs have appeared in dense cluster down the length of my back, in the cleft of my anointed buttocks and in the spaces between my toes. I have, as a result, developed a form of compound vision that I won't even try to describe. A golden penis grew out of my forehead a few weeks back, a proud, uncircumcized schlong with ponderous nuts that covered my eyes like a healing poultice and rendered me effectively blind for a whole month.

My bodywide rash of polychrome nipples have not been inactive, thank yutz. They have lactated profusely, dribbling a luminous blue fluid that, as far as I can ascertain, is identical in every respect to Somarasa, the esteemed spiritual narcotic of the ancient Hindus. The ingestion of Somarasa has a devastating effect on the average brain, causing it to flare in a prolonged supernova of heightened awareness. I, Sun Lotus Sky Eagle Bubba Free Rain will soon begin storing and marketing my ambrosial nipple-juice in capsules that can be swallowed like pills. Somarasa has almost no side effects. Some consumers may experience an overwhelming urge to copulate with a palm tree or with a gas station attendant who reminds them of a palm tree. Others may develop temporary erotic fixations on common household objects like vacuum cleaners, eggbeaters, toilet seats or pogo sticks.

But that's a small price to pay for the fulgurant ecstasies that await the consumer. I think that about covers it. I've said all I wanted to say about myself and more. I do hope this brief autobiographical note has helped allay the doubts and concerns of the reader. With any luck, this self-revelation will cheer the reader and extricate him from congenital dolor and inveterate despair. If a trailerpark moron like me can turn into a shining magus for the new Aquarian Age, there's hope for you. There's more than hope. There's the certainty that the techniques listed below will propel you to empyrean summits of Instant Nirvana. Anyone can do it, even ineffably dull and wretched trolls like you.

The Polymorphous Perversity of Pure Consciousness

What is polymorphous perversity? I'll tell you what it ISN'T first. It isn't a penis-enlarging device made with toxic slag, thumb-tacks, tea leaves and eggs dug out from under a leatherback turtle. It isn't a customized butt-plug made from a painstakingly carved hunk of sandalwood rubbed down with illegally purchased whale blubber. Polymorphous perversity refers to your body's erotic response. If you're polymorphously perverse, your entire body is one enormous, unwaveringly repulsive erogenous zone.

A polymorphously perverse mutant like yourself will respond sexually to stimulation applied ANYWHERE on your malformed corpus. You will, for instance, experience arousal if I accidentally lick one of your double-jointed elbows with my coated tongue. Or if I absent-mindedly caress the roof of your halitosal mouth with the bulbous stump of my forefinger. Or if I dig my knee in the small of your back and vigorously scratch your occiput with steel wool or a serrated knuckle-duster.

Your average peckerhead on the street is NOT polymorphously perverse. His erogenous zone is rigidly confined by genetic fiat to his tiny, bent wiener flayed pink by excessive masturbation. Your average schmuck will NOT be aroused if you rip open his shirt and run your chin-stubble across his flabby, worm-white gut. This schmuck will NOT be aroused if you jam your hog snout in his left armpit and work that snout around. Why? Because his body as a whole is NOT an erogenous zone. Only his sad, raddled pecker is.

The founder and grand patriarch of psychoanalysis Sigmund "Bite Me" Freud made polymorphous perversity the subject of his geriatric scribblings. Old Sigmund discovered PP (polymorphous perversity) while psychoanalyzing a duck-billed platypus named Werther. The platypus belonged to a friend, a recently lobotomized trapeze artist with a missing septum and a single, cavernous nostril. The trapeze artist was concerned because young Werther had quit eating his daily meal of beef-enriched tapioca pudding mixed with honey-fried truffles.

While analyzing Werther, Freud discovered that he, Werther, was fiercely pan-sexual. Touching his bill, or his webbed feet or the fleshy curve of his back induced an explosive cluster-orgasm. A cluster-orgasm results when several orgasms occur at once, in parallel, and not sequentially as in a standard, workaday multiple orgasm. Freud was stunned and impressed by Werther's cluster-orgasms. Werther in turn was stunned and impressed by the size of Freud's partially desiccated Sigmund. Love stirred in their hearts and they eloped after burning down Freud's Vienna clinic and hurling the trapeze artist off a nearby precipice ("trapeze THIS, bitch", said Sigmund as he sent his old friend plunging a hundred feet to his death).

But why am I going on about polymorphous perversity? I'll tell you why if you pull up your pants and get my third teat out of your mouth. What concerns me solely and entirely is the polymorphous perversity of pure consciousness. Polymorphous perversity per se refers to your body as an EROGENOUS zone. Your body as a large, malodorous, two-legged penis. The polymorphous perversity of consciousness refers to your body as an EIDETIC zone. Your body as a large, two-legged BRAIN.

If you have acquired a polymorphous perversity of pure consciousness (PPPC), you are no longer thinking with your head alone. Which is to say, your thoughts are no longer confined to that quivering lump of bicameral bull-slop lodged in your cranium. Your entire body has become a thinking organ, a reeking, ambulatory cerebrum. But most of you have NOT acquired PPPC. How do you go about acquiring PPPC if you haven't already? Easy. You achieve INSTANT NIRVANA by putting into practice one or more of the six thousand techniques featured below.

In my next post I'll talk about my own PPPC and some of its many symptoms. Symptoms that involve nipples, eyeballs and profuse lactation of a dense, luminous, colostral fluid called Somarasa. I'll also begin listing, at long last, the techniques that'll have you soaring up fully clothed into the pink, fragrant, thousand-petal orifice of Instant Nirvana. Till then, sit naked in your front yard, rub apple preserves on your gut, point to your neighbor's poodle and yell: HIPPO ALERT!!!

Why Instant Nirvana Matters

I’ve been thinking about something. I’ve been thinking about it with portions of my body, the most enlightened and communicative parts. Most people think with their brains or rather, with a small fungoid, partially rotted, putrescent and festering area of their brains. More often than not, the area in question is dead or otiose, a cheesy caseated turd consumed by medullar maggots and cerebral adipocere. Trying to think with a moribund brain-turd is a limitation. A huge limitation. You have to remember that your brain is just one part of your body and a pretty small part at that. The logocentric and noetically biased West has elevated the brain to a position of outrageous importance.

The brain has been reified and enshrined as the sacerdotal seat of thought and intelligence. I, Sun Lotus Sky Eagle Bubba Free Rain spit at the legion of nameless assholes who have elevated the brain (your dung-brain in particular) to its present status of undeserved eminence. These unmonickered butt-plugs have done you and the rest of humanity a terrible disservice. They have conditioned you to think with that quaking feculent mass you call your brain. They have, in effect, imprisoned you in your misshapen, tuberous skull.

I, Bubba Free Rain, used to be imprisoned in my liberally trepanned kumquat skull. Most of the time I’d cower at the back of my cranium with my lids twitching, my jaw slack, my spit ducts pumping tsunamis of viscous drool, my thick, fibrous tongue pushing out between my chapped and bleeding lips. Sometimes I’d leap to the front of my cranium and hump my cortical cleavage in a shrieking, catarrhine frenzy. But front or back, humping or cowering, I was resolutely and irrefragably trapped inside my skull.

All of that changed the moment those planes hit the Twin Towers. The barred and heavily padlocked doors of my skull burst open in that moment, my thoughts storming forth like inmates unleashed in a prison break. My thoughts surged like exiles from a gulag, quickly reclaiming every necrotic nook of my body, the body they'd been banished from by the tyranny of the brain. My thoughts spread through my flesh, situating themselves once more in their old redoubts and pretty soon I found myself thinking with my entire body and realized with delight that I had achieved a polymorphous perversity of pure consciousness. You’re going to start thinking with your body too, when you apply the techniques of Instant Nirvana soon to be featured in this space.

So yeah, I’ve been thinking about something like I said. I’ve been thinking about the Bible and what it says about loving your neighbor. It’s good to love your neighbor, no problem there, I’m down with that. But then you have that thing about not coveting your neighbor’s wife. Love your neighbor but don’t covet his wife. Is what the book says. But therein lies the rub, and it's not the kind of slow, panting, hot-wax crotch-rub you're thinking of. It's the kind of rub that shaves off your nipples and eyebrows, that shears your much-cosseted, myrrh-anointed dong to a twitching stump.

There's a contradiction here is what I'm trying to say. An oxymoron with an emphasis on the moron. If you love your neighbor you have to love his wife too, because she's your neighbor as much as he is. And you can't love her without coveting her. You can't love another man's woman without coveting her. It's just not in the cards, the system doesn't swing that way. Hell, even I don't swing that way even though my giant, hammer-pulse blue buddha does on occasion.

So is there a point being made here? You better believe there is, and it's aimed at the hole in your head, the one you made with that rusted crowbar. The point is, you’re screwed no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try to uphold your values. You’re fucked at the best of times, even if you’re glued to your Bible, even if it’s fixed to your torso with staples and nipple pegs. But we’re not living in the best of times, brothers. Far from it. In fact, the poop is about to hit the propeller pretty soon, courtesy of Genocide George. Everything’s going to get blown to boogershit with bombs and earthquakes and floods and pestilences and so forth.

End times, brothers, end times is what we got and there’s no place to run and hide. You can’t even turn away and distract yourself with booze and porn and sports and TV like you used to. The old specifics, bromides and anodynes no longer work because it’s end times as predicted in the Book of Revelations and the tomes of Nostradamus and the etchings of the notorious, knuckle-dragging idiot-savant Bruno Helgenslut.

There’s only one way out of the bind, brothers. Only one way you can escape the horrors of our looming apocalypse. What’s that one way? INSTANT NIRVANA. Instant Nirvana’s your only option given the way things are and it’s a damn good option if you ask me. With Instant Nirvana you can dodge the dogcrap that’s about to slam into you like a tidal wave. You can kick back, bliss out and grow a halo while the world falls apart and goes to hell in a hansom cab. And you have six thousand easy ways to choose from, six thousand direct routes to swift and sudden enlightenment. What more could you ask for aside from a legion of wind-girt wahines to share your wisdom with? I’ve got the best deal in the biz is what I’m trying to say and you’re going to find that out for yourself in my next post. Till then, strap on a hubcap brassiere, jam your jimweed in a door hinge and howl as you juggle jelly donuts.

When and How it Began

Stuff begins. Stuff remains in effect. Stuff ends. That's how the system works, how it's been from the beginning which also began when it did. That's one thing you have to remember. Even beginnings begin and the beginnings of beginnings also, in their turn, begin. Keep that in mind and you might get somewhere.

The Age of Instant Nirvana had a beginning. It is now in effect. It will end. What you need to do while it's in effect is, quit diddling your doohickey, get your ass off that air freshener you use as a bidet and take full advantage. There's a window of opportunity here. Okay, its not a window, its more like a tiny porthole or an orifice, but it's still an opportunity. If you jam your head up that orifice and use the techniques I aim to list here you'll be spooning with Ms Nirvana sooner than you think. Spooning with her and a dozen naked Ms Nirvana clones in a holographic recreation of the Playboy Mansion under that new geodesic dome they just built in the Sea of Fertility up on the moon. And that's not something to sneeze at or squirt your fluids at in paroxysms of sheer disdain. I'm the Santa Claus of satori, the Tooth Fairy of radical transcendence and I'm dropping a package in your chapped and bloody hands. All you have to do is open it before it self-destructs and blows your microcephalic skull straight into the neighbor's den.

The Age of Instant Nirvana didn't begin way back in Biblical times when guys were being stoned shitless for nursing boners on the sabbath. It didn't begin in the medieval period when wolves were being coaxed into benign oblivion and when beans were being cooked in people's armpits because fire was hard to come by and because spontaneous human combustion was an hourly occurrence. The Age of Instant Nirvana began very recently, just six years ago if you can remember that far back (I doubt you can, you need more than three unfused synapses and more than twelve uncharred neurons to sport something resembling a memory). To be precise, the Age of Instant Nirvana began on September 11, 2001, the moment those planes smashed into the Twin Towers. It was a defining moment in more ways than one. You're aware, or should be aware of what followed politically and militarily and socially and culturally. But the change that occurred in that moment was more far-reaching and more fundamental than you can possibly know.

Incidentally, folks who buy the government's line on 9/11 have shit for brains and should goose themselves with large and potent suppositories so they can crap those brains out post haste for the rapid edification of humanity. Genocide George and his cronies were in on it from the start. They made it happen so they'd have an excuse for unleashing hell, for spurting giant dollops of flaming napalm in planetary orgies of blood-soaked war-porn. This isn't speculation. I saw it with my Orbis Tertius, through the incandescent lens of my Third Eye. I grew a Third Eye on my forehead the moment those planes hit the towers. A Fourth Eye soon appeared in my navel, followed by a Fifth Eye on the throbbing tip of my Oppenheimer.

9/11 was a tragedy needless to say, but sometimes tragedies have bizarre, contradictory effects. Sometimes the worst tragedies create entirely unexpected opportunities. This is not to minimize or rationalize the event. It's just a fact. Something very odd happened when those planes hit. A very basic shift occurred, a tectonic shift as it were. The Twin Towers weren't just a pair of tall buildings. They were the prongs or tines of a giant tuning fork that sustained a global paradigm. The global system resonated to the frequency of that giant tuning fork.

The Twin Towers were the 'ursprung' or foundation of the old global order. They were the alpha and omega, the ganz andere and mysterium tremendum, the quiddity and quintessence, the tweedledum and tweedledee of the global order in much the same way as the Old Testicle and the New Testicle form the basis of Biblical Christianity. The strike on the towers caused a failure of resonance and provoked a weird and jagged paradigm shift, a sudden remorphing of the global gestalt, a spectacular alteration of the aggregor. The axes that link the earth chakras of our Gaia planet changed their configuration, the contour lines of the morphogenetic field changed shape, the vibrational frequency of the earth's prana energies rose at least half an octave.

These fundamental changes ushered in an era of strange effects. Most of those strange effects have been nocent and malefic, but some are potentially of great benefit to humanity, to everything that crawls or hops or lopes or slithers and I'm still talking about humans here. Possibly the most momentous and extraordinary strange-effect is what I'm referring to as the Opening. I'm not sure exactly what it was that opened on 9/11 but something opened. In a big way. A door or window or porthole or portcullis that had remained firmly shut for millennia creaked open on its hinges or rose silent, without ceremony. And with that remarkable and unlikely Opening began the Age of Instant Nirvana.

The Opening altered the rules radically and fundamentally. All of a sudden, the old ways were no longer valid, the old torturous and tortuous paths to enlightenment no longer significant. What we had as a result was a whole new ballgame. Not a ballgame per se, because it's not a game and the only balls involved are the ones you once owned, the grapes you once displayed with pride at the local mall and now hide in shame and abjection because all you have left is a pair of discolored raisins.

Let's be perfectly clear about this. All the stuff you learned about enlightenment no longer applies. It is useless, more useless than a dildo in the mouth of a dinosaur, more useless than breasts on a rodeo bull. But that's not bad news, no it isn't, don't even begin to think it. It is fabulous news, awesome news. The Opening has placed Nirvana within a stone's throw of every cheese dick on the planet, the kind of stone-throw that used to brain you senseless but now leaves you just slightly stunned, wondering why you aren't scuttling around on all fours like you usually do with your pants off and a scrap of raw flesh in your mouth. All that's needed now for a burst of sudden enlightenment is a technique, one or more of the six thousand techniques I'm going to list here.

The techniques are all, without exception, short and simple, shorter and simpler than a demented midget. Chances are, you won't need more than one technique to push your bony, spavined rump into Nirvana's warm grip. Most guys can make it with just one technique chosen at random. Freckle dicks from South Africa, Australia and the Southern United States may have to use up to twenty or even fifty techniques. Reason being, a lot of those pink-snout porkers rank lower on the Akashic Scale than your average wildebeest or Cape buffalo. The Akashic Scale measures the spiritual evolution of sentient beings everywhere in the universe except Texas, where sentience is rare and almost always malformed if not unequivocally homicidal.

That pretty much covers the When and the How. When the Age of Instant Nirvana began and How it began. Next time I'll talk about how long the Age will last and why Instant Nirvana or any kind of nirvana matters. I'll also talk about how the fall of the Twin Towers changed me and how I went from being a drooling trailerpark cretin to being a radiant magus with iridescent and visionary eyeballs erupting all over my anointed, generously nippled body. I still live in that old Dixie trailerpark but I'm certainly not the ricket-legged roustabout I used to be before the Opening.

Why the Opening changed me the way it did I'll never know. I'm just glad it did. Nowadays I belch luminous volcanic ash and my frequent and reverberate flatulence brings tears of mirth to the eyes of children and wafts a jasmine-scented effluvium all around the countryside, a fragrance that erases years of bitterness and brings joy to the souls of people who happened to buy those souls on sale at the local Walmart a week before the expiration date. Till next time remember to bend low, raise your soiled croup to the heavens and fartknock the firmament.