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.