Tractatus Interruptus: Bubba Addresses his Mutant Flock

Thus far, the techniques of Instant Nirvana have been rendered in the abstract, as a set of instructions. From now on I, Bubba Free Rain, will render them in person. Which is to say, I'll tell you how I, Eagle Bubba, enacted each technique in situ. Never let it be said that I preach what I don't practice or vice versa. Be it known that I, Free Rain, successfully performed every one of the six thousand ritual acts I've started to present here. That's really what the techniques are: simple rituals shaped to a purpose. What purpose? Instant Nirvana, of course.

I, Sun Lotus Sky Eagle Bubba Free Rain, successfully enacted all six thousand techniques. Which is to say I achieved Instant Nirvana six thousand times, a feat unmatched in the annals of trismagist hagiography, divine sortilege and alchemical transmogrification. All YOU have to do is perform one or more of these ritual acts in a spirit of votive mimesis. In other words do what I did devotedly and diligently with your eyes wide shut, your head sunk low, your man-teats drooped morose, your gut swagged in grotesque distension and your pecker hung from your zipless fly like a corpse from a window.

You don't have to work all six thousand techniques as I've already said. A single technique will suffice for most. Aspirants afflicted with congenital dullness, intractable stupidity and extreme coarseness of temperament will require a dozen enactments, give or take a hundred. Piltdown proto-humanoids from Australia, South Africa and the state of Texas may require a few hundred or even a thousand ritual enactments. Not to worry though. All you slap happy dong-drubbers out there WILL achieve enlightenment no matter what. Instant Nirvana will, like the fabled candiru, lodge itself in your favorite orifice and do its worst.

Human females may dispense with these techniques altogether. As already stated, chicks of every species on spaceship Earth will become spontaneously enlightened on December 21, 2012, the date that marks the end of the Mayan calendar and the start of a rare planetary syzygy. Spontaneous enlightenment is an evolutionary privilege. Females occupy an exalted position on the Akashic Scale, the barometer of choice in the spirit world. By contrast, males wallow in their own filth near the foot of the Scale with farm hogs, field rats and titmice for company.

A parcel of inveterate assholes (male and female) will, however, fail to make the transition to unitive awareness and supernal gnosis in the Age of Aquarius. This parcel includes slag spawned turd-chompers like Bush, Cheney et al, not to mention bloated war-sluts like Albright and Merkel. Biped vermin of their ilk will perish in a seething farrago of leprosy, gas-gangrene and bubonic plague. Their demise will be a violent, gore-sodden spectacle broadcast on every cable channel known to man. Y'all gather around for the show now, hear? I, Sun Lotus Sky Eagle Bubba Free Rain, have spoken.

Technique SEVEN: Birth a Homunculus

Homunculus: a little man (miniature) like the little dead guy hanging between your legs.

You'll need a condom for this one. A condom used and discarded by a 300 pound bisexual taxidermist with an extruded navel that resembles a pagoda if you get up close with a microscope and a pair of rusted pliers.

You can order the used condom off the net. Cyberspace bristles with condom and taxidermy websites in case you didn't know. I used to think taxidermy had something to do with taxis. Turns out I was right. Taxicabs around the world are now being replaced (at gunpoint) with stuffed mooseheads on wheels.

Order that used condom off the net. Chances are, it'll be delivered by a four foot albino in a clown suit, a guy named Willard Poteet. Pay Willard in drachmas. Then paste a yellow rose to his forehead and stick a Marlboro cigarette up his left nostril. He'll leave with a smile on his face. A sinister, serial-killer smile you'll see over and over in your recurring nudist beach nightmares.

Bark out random phrases in Serbo-Croatian as you carry the condom to your kitchen on a small silver platter. Set the platter on the counter, strip down to your underwear and reproduce the mating call of a Bhutanese mountain goat with your mouth gaped wide. Now grab the condom and carefully fit it over an overripe Chiquita banana (unpeeled). The condom should cover half the banana, give or take a mile.

Mix a quart of maple syrup and chocolate sauce in a glass bowl and sprinkle the mixture with cayenne pepper and powdered goat milk. Smear the resulting paste over your hirsute and sagging udders while humming a Scottish coronach in a low-pitched drone. Now grab your condom-sheathed banana, peel the uncovered half and devour it with obscene relish.

Hold still a while with syrup and chocolate sauce dripping off your man-teats. Then drop to the kitchen floor and lie face up with your slathered dugs and distended gut aimed at the ceiling. Pull back your lips in a simian grimace and breathe through clenched teeth. Picture an iron-pumped Mother Teresa kicking the crap out of a bikini-clad Prince Charles.

You'll notice something in a few minutes. You'll feel a growing warmth around your bellybutton. If you hold a piece of broken glass to your gut you'll see your navel gaping open as a four inch manikin squeezes out into the open. This is you giving birth. This is you birthing a homunculus.

If you're lucky your homunculus will resemble Popeye. He'll be bald, tattooed and heavily muscled, with hypertrophic forearms. He'll be stark naked save for a dead piranha glued to his pecker and a tinted monocle taped to his pubes.

Your homunculus will tap-dance on your gut for a minute while crooning an old tune by The Inkspots. Then he'll put out a bull-ape victory cry and cartwheel out of sight. INSTANT NIRVANA WILL ENSUE SECONDS AFTER YOUR HOMUNCULUS DISAPPEARS FROM VIEW.

Commentary:

This technique is described with breathless reverence in the Mayan Popul Vuh and in The Egyptian Book of the Dead (Abyssinian Addendum: The Howling Marsupial Birth of Bubba Ho Tep). The technique awakens an acupressure point located three inches above your crudded omphalos (navel). I don't know what this point is called in Chinese or Sanskrit but I'm certain spavined Lutherans from Oklahoma refer to it often as that Lickety Split Yeeeehawww.

The point can be holographically mapped to the left buttock of any country club Republican living or dead using Maxwell's Equations, the Zeroeth Law of Thermodynamics and a healthy dose of Fractal Geometry with an emphasis on the Mandelbrot Set. Remember always to heed the wise counsel of the Elder Homunculi and don't forget to jam a honey-dipped drumstick up your Lickety Split Yeeeehawwwww!!!

Technique SIX: Breastfeed a Stoat

Stoat: a black-tailed weasel closely related to former British Prime Minister and American Prison Bitch Tony Blair.

Another short and simple one as promised. Wear a sombrero on a fine summer morning in Wyoming. You don't have to be in Wyoming and it doesn't have to be a fine summer morning in your offal-strewn hometown. But it does have to be a fine summer morning in Wyoming, the state where lesbian preachers show a marked sexual preference for Great Danes.

A sombrero is a Mexican hat worn by gun-toting Texans trying to lull Mexican immigrants into a false sense of security. Hey, I'm one of you...I can help...yeah that's right come closer... BANG...har har another dead wetback...God Bless America.

Stick a sombrero on your pear-shaped cretin skull. Then strip naked and clip a red clothes peg to your right nipple. The peg will hurt (all praise to the Most High) but you'll laugh through the pain in a prolonged staccato whinny.

Use a length of red twine to bind six strips of corn husk to your moth-eaten pecker. Then squat over a bowl of japanese rice wine and dip your nutsack in the fluid. Now you're ready to make two critically important phone calls.

Grab your sperm-caked cell phone and call Dial-a-Stoat. Ask for an adolescent male stoat in the prime of its weasel youth. Next, call your local nuclear power plant and ask for a gallon of heavy water tinctured with radioactive buffalo urine.

The stoat and the heavy water should arrive at your door precisely eighteen minutes after the second call. In fact, they'll make sure the stoat delivers the water in person.

Establish to your satisfaction that there's a water-bearing stoat at your door. Then jam a pair of police whistles up your nose and exhale hard with your mouth sealed shut.

When I say mouth sealed shut I mean your lips are stuck together with highly adhesive cerumen (earwax) extracted from a naked Bavarian spreadeagled on a bed of congealed hog fat.

When I say extracted I mean shaken loose with a single blow to the head delivered by a mallet-wielding Oriental midget with a startlingly formidable schlong.

The two police whistles should do the trick. You'll find the stoat in your room seconds later, a gallon jug tied to its tail. This gallon jug should contain heavy water tinctured with radioactive buffalo urine (most likely the bladder-swill of a South African cape buffalo once married to apartheid-era killer honcho Pieter Botha).

Now you're squatting naked with your nuts dipped in rice wine and your pecker cocooned in corn husk. You have a sombrero on your skull and a red clothes peg at your right nipple. There's also a black-tail weasel in your room, a young stoat bearing a gallon jug of heavy water tinctured with radioactive buffalo piss.

What does it all mean? It means you're all set for a soaring vault into the moist and inviting bosom of Instant Nirvana. It also means you're an even bigger moron than your toothless octogenarian gay lover says you are.

Grab the gallon jug and empty it in a single epic swallow. Then grab the stoat and french-kiss it into submission before fastening its weasel mouth to your left tit. Hold the pose and wait. Before you know it you'll be lactating like a sonofabitch. You'll have unpasteurized colostrum dribbling into the stoat's captive gullet.

Let the stoat suck on your tumescent man-teat for twelve seconds. Then put out a husking moan that soars to a piercing shriek. INSTANT NIRVANA WILL KICK IN THE MOMENT YOU HIT THAT HIGH NOTE.

Commentary:

The technique awakens an acupressure point located on your sternum (breastbone). The point is called Nien Tze in Chinese and Bindu Prakash in Sanskrit. It's also referred to as that dang weasel tit needle point by redneck mystics who stand neck deep in swamp water drinking gasoline and wood varnish with electric eels writhing in their born-again assholes.

The point occurs at the nexus of two Chi meridians that can be plotted on a spherical coordinate system with a quill dipped in superheated guar gum. Happy Diwali to all you desi swinging dicks out there. Remember to hump a confection of your choice with sparklers jammed up your mocha butts and rockets firing off your hooded boners.