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.

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).