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.