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.