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.