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.

Age of Instant Nirvana

I have claimed or averred or asseverated (take your pick, the choice here in this space is entirely yours so long as you know who's boss and so long as you continue, without pause, to kowtow and genuflect before me like a housebroken cur and acknowledge my eminence in utter abjection and supreme unction) that we have now officially entered the Age of Instant Nirvana.
This means that enlightenment or cosmic consciousness or satori or nirvikalpa samadhi or maha-pari-nirvana (drop to your callused plebeian knees, bow deep and take your pick) is now available on the cheap for a mere consideration.

But available to whom? Does every swinging dick and puckered asshole on this raped, vitiated, despoiled and doomed planet qualify for sudden enlightenment on the cheap? Amazingly, disturbingly, the answer is YES. Instant Nirvana is now within reach not just for the pure, the compassionate, the well-intentioned and the noble. Instant Nirvana has swung within humping distance for the scum of the earth, for the evil, vicious, rot-gutted, pig-buggering trolls who run our governments and corporations. This means that dung-spawned maggots like Rupert "Ratpecker" Murdoch or Tony "Prison Bitch" Blair or Arnold "Fuhrerfuck" Schwarzenegger or George "Genocide Jerkoff" Bush can, if they so desire, achieve sudden enlightenment via one or more of the techniques soon to be presented here. But let's not get too dejected about that. Chances are, these schlong-chompers either won't opt for Instant Nirvana or they won't be in a position to try.

Good news, in this regard, for the women of the world. You gals out there don't really need to read this shit (though I'd be flattered if you did). You don't need to bother with the Instant Nirvana techniques soon to be presented here. Why? Because all human females on planet earth (with a handful of exceptions) will become spontaneously enlightened on December 21st 2012. If I'm not mistaken, that's the day the Mayan Calendar comes to a screeching halt much as the Mayans themselves did after all them Spanish "explorers" showed up. In any event, all human females, hermaphrodites, epicenes, androgynes, trans-sexuals, dedicated trans-vestites and anyone in garters, stockings or split-crotch, cherry-flavored edible panties WILL achieve Nirvana at the stroke of noon on December 21st, 2012. The handful of women who WON'T make it on that date include: Margaret Thatcher, Condoleeza Rice, Angela Merkel, Hillary Clinton, Nancy Pelosi and Madeleine Albright. Other ghastly and purulent hags of their ilk will likewise fail.

When, precisely, did the Age of Instant Nirvana begin? How did it begin? How long will it last? And why, in the name of the pope's holy putz, does it matter? These questions may have taken shape in the reeking bogs of your primitive reptile hindbrain. They ought to have taken shape. They WOULD have taken shape if you hadn't spent half the night emptying that mason jar of corn whiskey you purchased from Hooter the hammer-toed hillbilly, if you hadn't spent the rest of the night ravishing your inflatable foam-rubber sex doll, the one that looks and smells like Henry Kissinger. But no matter, rest easy, all is forgiven. I aim to answer these and other questions with or without your consent, right after I'm done frying up the roadkill I filched from my neighbor's trailer. I live in a trailerpark, for those who give a crap. I used to be a halfwit bumpkin wandering around with a rusted droolcup nailed to my chin and my flyblown, moth-eaten dong hanging from a flap in my overalls. Then those planes smashed into the Twin Towers and changed everything forever, radically altered my brain chemistry, flipped my chakra axis, reshaped my morphogenetic field. More about that and related matters in my next post. Till then, keep your nose to the ground and fart-knock the stars.

Introduction: Age of Instant Nirvana by Sun-Lotus Sky-Eagle Bubba Free Rain

Greetings. My name is Sun Lotus Sky Eagle Bubba Free Rain and I bring glad tidings. Which is to say, I have some pretty good news. The news is: the old rules no longer apply. What old rules? I mean the old rules governing the path to enlightenment.

In the old days achieving enlightenment was difficult as all hell. It was harder than pulling a gator’s tooth with a greased glove, harder than butt-probing an enraged biker with a dry dispstick. You really had to bust your nuts and sweat fluorescent pinballs. You had to shut yourself off, turn your back on the world. You had to quit chowing down on the flesh of animals only slightly stupider than yourself and you had to quit humping everything that looked like it might own an orifice.

You had to quit guzzling gallons of dimestore rotgut and frying your neurons with tainted chronic. You had to cloister yourself and learn to meditate. You had to learn to focus what was left of your mind after years of barbarous self-abuse (check out those rodent eidolons, those phosphorescent brain-rats gnawing at the tattered remnants of your identity). In essence, you had to renounce everything you ever really gave a shit about.

Even then it wasn’t enough. Your years of agonized penance got you nowhere. You ended up with a set of brilliantly colored hemorrhoids from having squatted in one place for too long. You ended up with a terrific ache in your gonads from all that unused sperm clotting in your withered nutsack. You ended up with an empty bank account and a corpulent, crab-loused landlord threatening to evict your sorry ass unless you dropped to your knees and played ‘chickenhead’ with a loaded gullet.

In short, enlightenment or Nirvana was about as likely as a steaming spew of liquid gold from your hamster’s ass. But no more. I’m here to tell you that those teeth-gnashing, scrotum-crushing travails are a thing of the past. The old ways are no longer in effect, the old rules no longer hold sway. We have officially entered the Age of Instant Nirvana and that’s the good news I’m talking about.