Enlightening Nonsense

Every time I see one of those douchebags typing into their Crackberry or their cell phone with a smile, I feel like shouting out, “It says WALK,” even though it doesn’t and they’ll be walking into oncoming traffic. This is the pathetic form of communication we’ve chosen to put forward as our highest expression of humanity and if the aliens come down from outer space and not Mexico, they’ll probably give us a well-deserved scolding, “After the UFO crash and alien recovery at Roswell in 1947 and all the alien technology we helped you acquire, THIS is what you’ve done with it?? I think we should destroy the planet.”

If it comes to that, I won’t make the Abraham argument to save Sodom and Gomorrah. I’ll say in my best James Bond imitation, “Roasted and not burned,” to which case the aliens will probably respond, “What the fuck does that mean?” in which case I’ll probably respond, “It may not be funny, per say, but I would think with heads as big as a Monsanto genetically modified watermelon on growth hormones that you two nimrods would at least be able to figure it out,” in which case they’d probably respond, “You are much smarter than us, human. We leave the planet in your hands to bring these morons up to speed,” in which case I’d probably respond, “No thanks, nothing here but a bunch of douchebags; you have my full support on destroying earth,” in which case they’d probably respond, “Okay. Roasted not burned,” in which case we’d all probably share a good laugh.

My phone service is on a pre-pay plan, meaning I pay a certain wad of dough each month so that they can give me the privilege of radiating my brain while I use it and sterilizing my nutsack when it resides in my pocket. The reason I chose this plan is because I prefer my information be kept private and don’t want it given to the telephone companies who all except Qwest sold out and helped the government violate the Constitution with their illegal wiretapping just because the government said, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.”

I remember once my friends dared me to eat a whole roll of Ritz Crackers, which amounted to about twenty, that they found in Nussy’s cabinet that were at least a year past their prime and when we crushed one and threw it to the ants even they said, “We’d prefer to inhale Raid than eat that shit!” Finally the pot got up to about $70 and I ate them. Besides a violent case of diarrhea the next morning, it was the easiest $70 I’ve ever made, well, besides the time I saw Tom Cruise blow some guy and then he said, “Here’s $70 to keep your mouth shut about this.” For the record, my mouth is shut while I’m typing this now.

Because I don’t have a text plan, each text message costs me 20 cents—which means not only am I charged when I send one, but also when I receive one. 20 cents may sound like a penny on the ground, not even worth bending down for unless you’re a Jew, but the money can add up pretty quick. Here’s an example from my logs to illustrate this point:

“Hey Swami” (20 cents)

“Hey Roach” (40 cents)

“What you up to, X?” (60 cents)

“Proper grammar would be to write ‘What are you up to?” (80 cents)

“That’s what I meant” ($1)

“I’m up to my eyeballs in work, as you know I am always working because I’ve made earning money a top priority” ($1.20)

“Are you serious?” ($1.40)

“Of course not! I’m sitting around jerking-off to Family Guy” ($1.60)

“Are you serious?” ($1.80)

“Did you hit resend by mistake or was that a new thought?” ($2.00)

“A new thought.” ($2.20)

“No, I’m not serious. I mean I am watching Family Guy but I’m not jerking-off. But Lois is pretty hot for a cartoon character. Much hotter in my opinion than Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble—well maybe not ‘hotter’, per se, but you can tell that Lois is wild in the bedroom” ($2.60, as I went over 160 characters and so I am charged for two messages)

“Oh, LOL!” ($2.80)

“What does that mean?” ($3.00)

“You don’t know?” ($3.20)

“No, I do but I thought I’d waste another 40 cents just for fun” ($3.40)

“I’m not sure if you’re serious. Just in case, it means ‘Laughing Out Loud’” ($3.60)

“How delightfully cute” ($3.80)

“I knew you’d think that was cute!” ($4.00)

“I was being sarcastic. I think it is completely gay” ($4.20)

“Oh, I thought you were serious” ($4.40)

“Because you can’t read tone in a text message and I’m not complete fag enough to put a ‘winky’ semi-colon/closed-paragraph sign” ($4.60)

“Well just wanted to say hi” ($4.80)

“Uh, you said that with your first text” ($5.00)

“I know” ($5.20)

“Okay, so I’ll see you sometime.” ($5.40)

“Definitely! I love you, Swami” ($5.60)

[At this point I was so distraught about the drainage of money these texts were costing me that I paused to think whether I had to write those three words back or whether she'd just know]

“Swami, did you hear me?” ($5.80)

["Jesus fuckin’ Christ!”] “Yes, I heard you” ($6.00)—and as I am typing those three words—

“So, do you love me, too??” ($6.20)

["Mother fucking shit!”] “YES, I was just typing it! I love you.” ($6.40)

“I love you, too” ($6.60)

“Goodnight, Swami” ($6.80)

“Jees, why didn’t you just combine those last two short texts?” ($7.00)

“The ‘goodnight’ was an afterthought” ($7.20)

“At 10 cents a word, keep your ‘afterthoughts’ to yourself!” ($7.40)

“Okay” ($7.60)

[“Now she’s up to 20 cents a word!” Well, at least it stayed below $8.00”]

“I miss you already!” ($7.80)

“What part of ’shut the fuck up already’ didn’t you get ($8.00) ["Damn it!"]

“I don’t remember you writing that” ($8.20)

“SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY!” ($8.40)

“Okay.” ($8.60)

“THAT’S NOT SHUTTING THE FUCK UP. THAT’S YOU STILL TYPING AND COSTING ME MORE MONEY!” ($8.80)

“I got it. You don’t have to yell.” ($9.00)

After this exchange, I immediately traded my cell phone to a street thug for a cheap, unmarked gun, which I planned to use to kill not only Roach but also everyone at Verizon…just because. The next day on my way to plug Roach, I bumped into the street thug who insisted I give him his gun back, that “Some crazy bitch just keeps text messaging me!” So my plans for mass murder and the after-rampage peace of mind I’d get going to jail, knowing that I was supporting the greatest growing industry in our country—the prison system—was foiled by text messages!

This black hole gravitation to text message reflects not just that people’s lives are so miserable that if they can take any opportunity to play on their little pocket toy they will (growing up in the impoverished town of Scarsdale, when I asked my Dad if I could have a pocket toy in which to play with, he responded, “Play with your pecker, bitch!” My Dad had a speech impediment and so “X” often came out sounding like “bitch”), but the sad state of our communication.

I once had a girl I was trying to connect with, and by “connect” I mean fuck, who I met only online through craigslist. After a dozen of these back and forth emails that were not serving my penis in any way, I invited her to a class I was teaching and said how face-to-face is much better communication than email. She actually disagreed with me and defended a position that email communication is actually better communication, that “you get to think a little more and—“ This girl was a moron and not even the possession of a vagina could keep me interested in her.

It also reflects how lonely people are. Someone can no longer go shopping without either calling or texting a friend or lover because, god forbid they should keep both hands on their shopping cart instead of risking a total pile up…Are we really that needy to share with another everything we’re doing. “Hey Joe. I’m taking a shit now…Pretty smooth…I had to push a little and my stomach muscles cramped up a bit but it came out in one plop…What?…No, I don’t think you can get a hernia that way.”

The other thing our dependence on cell phones indicates is that we have allowed our lifestyles to become so hectic that the only way we can survive in our business, or keep in touch with our friends and loved ones, is by filling the “empty” time with “productivity.” And that is a big reason that our consciousness level is remaining below the threshold of full awareness, because we look at certain moments as a “waste” of time and others as “a good use” of our time.

I was in the park with my dog one night and this couple asked me how to get to some lake, as they had “time to kill.” I pointed out how sad it is that we want to throw away time and how on our deathbeds we most probably will be begging for just a little more time (well, not me—I’ll be killed suddenly by a Muslim extremist who has no idea about love or God and will kill me because of a future piece I will write that I’ll entitle “Fuck Muhammad.”) They agreed with me and I then told them that the moment for them to beg for more time was now and beat them to death with a rock. I don’t believe in killing time—only humans.

A client of mine checks his Crackberry after every set of exercise we do. I told him he was a douche and he said that he receives about 200 emails a day and this is the only way he can keep up. He failed to mention his complete insecurity about himself and how he thinks if he misses even one “important” email that just might help him to bring in more business to his law firm that he will be fired because his self-worth is only measured by the number of hours he can bill.

Most people are texting others either because their life has lost all excitement and they are a loser with no better toys, they are so lonely that they can’t even fathom taking a piss without letting someone know about it, their schedule is as tight as a nun’s vagina and this is the only way they can hope to even touch base with anyone they know, or they are a communicational dysfunct and like the feeling of safety that typing in fragments with douchy things like “LOL” and little character smiley or frowny faces gives them, in the same way that I use the Internet to pick-up 10-year olds who I’m too nervous to approach at the schoolyard. So which type of douche are you?

One would think that with all the douchebags out there that every vagina would be spic n’ span and the smell of vinegar would float in the air like the aroma of fresh bread from a bakery. But vaginal hygiene alone is irrelevant when you have a bunch of ridiculous pricks out there that prefer to spend time text messaging a vagina instead of entering one in person.

Text messaging is fine if you’re going to meet someone at a restaurant and you type in, “Where is it located?” and they type in “860 9^th Avenue, between 50^th & 51^st ” but other than that—stop all the annoying text messaging, douchebags!

If I told you that I didn’t care if you lived or died, you would probably think me heartless. I am heartless, but my statement would probably be my one anomalic exception to the typical lump-of-coal-in-the-center-of-my-chest ways. You would probably think because I didn’t care about your physical body that I didn’t care about you. You’d be wrong. You’d probably think that because I walk around in public with my dick hanging out of my fly that this makes me a pervert. Alright, maybe you’d be right on that one.

Parakeet’s soulmate has cancer. Since Parakeet is a sister in a healing tradition and talks story with many people in the alternative health field, it seemed a no-brainer for her that her partner would consider alternative medicine to help himself come back into health. He didn’t. And besides a few “appease the wife” visits to well-respected healers she knew who told him that they could heal him, he chose the Western model of injecting poison into the system with the old adage “What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger” in mind. Unfortunately, chemotherapy kills you and it is anomalic when it doesn’t. [Editor’s Note: For homework use the made-up word “anomalic” with everyone you see this week!] Needless to say, this is hard on Parakeet, who just wants her man to say, “Polly want a cracker” and for her to respond lovingly, “Who is Polly and are you fucking her?”

Besides the obvious difference in philosophies, it is hard for Parakeet to see the one to which she is most bonded walk down an alley of muggers and murderers (“drugs” and “doctors”) and be forced to stand on the outside, hoping that he will survive the treachery and come back to share union with her in body and soul, not having to wait until they both cross over to the other side—where the rest of us can watch of their Heavenly re-Union by tuning in to “Crossing Over with John Edward,” that is if we can put up with having to sit through an hour of John fishing for suckers with, “Does anyone know someone who has crossed over with the first initial A? B? C through L? N through Z? N through Z, okay. N? O? P? P! Okay, P. Male? No. Female? Yes!”

All these healing “experts,” while not necessarily “muggers and murderers” of the body, often inadvertently slay the soul when they seek to impose the result they desire to see as a healer, while not acknowledging and respecting the soul with whom they are working as being on its own path to consciousness. This is like saying, “I’m not a racist. I don’t hate black people—just Chinks, Kikes and Wops.”

As a side note to keep the record straight: I hate black people. This is not because I consider you spearchuckers inferior in any way but solely because I am an equal-opportunity hater. For all you black dummies out there who are now planning to burn a cross on my lawn, I hate white people just as much as you darkies and if you fire a cross on my lawn I will dance in glee that a symbol of perhaps the most repressive religion on the planet is being destroyed in my presence, probably with the same joy that the German people felt when the Berlin Wall came down, which was only secondary to the feeling of elation they had after killing six million Jews. Oh, my bad, I forgot that I read on one of my conspiracy websites that The Holocaust was a myth.

We in the New-Age world seem to talk so hip about “chakras” and “different dimensions” and “If you tantra me in the ass, I’ll tantra you in the ass,” when push comes to shove, while we may wear different costumes on the outside (which seem to usually involve flowing robes and crystal necklaces) most of us haven’t fully donned our inner “muggers and murderers” yet, the only real useful purpose of all the ridiculous rituals in which we participate on a bi-weekly basis. I attend them not with any lofty spiritual goal in mind but just because I like dancing around in robes and crystals.

If the soul doesn’t die and, in effect, Who We Are can’t die, then in the word’s of the prophet Eric Cartman in the Newest Testament called “South Park: The Movie,” “What’s the big fuckin’ deal, bitch?” The “big fuckin’ deal” is that we are still human beings with human frailty and often our emotional sensitivities obstruct us from just letting go and letting God. And to clarify, by “letting God,” I don’t mean, “It’s in the hands of the Divine Creator now,” I mean living fully in our love and joy and creativity—whether with a partner or not. How can you do that if you are living in fear or are constantly trying to force an outcome? You can’t.

The well-meaning alternative healers are generally still “muggers and murderers” of the soul, looking at their mission as saving the body, albeit with food or herbs or healing energy, and the soul as a carry-on bag that the body is stoking overhead on it’s slow journey to the grave. For unless they replace their talk of “health” with talk of “wholeness,” they are still just quacks and hacks who have donned the white coat, poisons and instruments of death for a robe and plants and “tools” that some vender at the last New Life Expo suckered them into thinking was the cure for all the problems in the world, when the only real “tool” is them for shelling out hundreds of dollars for some piece of crap made out of cheap metal and crystals “infused” with healing energy of an ascended being who no one’s ever seen but the inventor of this crap.

I never understood why “good Christians,” if that isn’t the biggest oxymoron there is—well, second to “smart Italian,” I suppose—don’t rejoice when their infant child dies saying, “I am so happy, now he is with Jesus!” Instead they seem to be crying for the loss of life and besides their own view that the soul doesn’t die, you can’t really lose anything that is only a borrowed gift.

I think we should cry not for the child but for our own difficulties. “Jesus, because my vision is not fully opened, I cannot fully embrace the passing of my child without a heavy heart. Please help me to understand and accept, to remain full of love instead of full of anger, to praise God at every opportunity and not just when things seems to ‘work out’ for me. Amen.” This prayer provided to you from the sacrilegious jackass who has a First Class ticket and prime imaginary real estate right by the pool of fiery lava waiting for me in Hell.

If I were to talk to Parakeet’s soulmate, I would tell him flat out that I didn’t give a crap if he lived or died but rather his consciousness. I would challenge him to explore his deeper truths and challenges, and not just the shallow facts about “a physical body in difficulty and what is the most logical way to treat that body for its preservation.”

Perhaps I’d challenge him to explore his issue with trust and how that may be affecting not just his decisions to ignore the alternative medical doctors and healers who have tried and true track records of successful body healings but to think about how that may impact the way he sees the world—and the way he expresses love for his soulmate. I would ask him to think about how he wanted to live—or die—playing his piano joyfully for hours or having to stop after 20-minutes because the chemotherapy treatments are making his fingers numb, having more of an opportunity to share more natural foods and living with his love or spending that time lying in a hospital bed hooked up to a chemo drip?

And I wouldn’t hope for any specific decision to come from his mouth regarding treatments and modalities—only one that reflected consciousness and his connection to Inner Truth. If he told me that he knows that eating raw foods for two years would cure him of cancer but that he rather die than give up Big Macs, that would be a step closer to Truth and Self-Discovery than just poo-pooing this eating plan as “unhealthy.” Maybe then I’d challenge him to explore his attachment to Big Macs and ask him if his taste buds have more value to him than expressing and sharing his love and creativity and, if not, to stop bullshitting himself sitting on the sidelines and figure out how to get back into the game and do what he came here to do. If he answered “yes” to valuing Big Macs over life, I would ask him to explore how he can return to his heart and not his head and emotions and get better in touch with Inner Truth, as this is the same answer a crack whore gives who claims to “know” herself and states that she values crack more than love. (In my defense, I only fucked her because I had overdone a Taoist “don’t blow your load” sexual practice and had a serious case of blue balls.)

I don’t envy Parakeet or her soulmate for the great difficulty they must be going through, as while we can all bullshit as much as we want about “God this” and “eternal soul” that, when it comes right down to it, most of us are pretty scared of the unknown and have a tremendous difficulty in accepting and residing in this space of “Letting go and letting God.” It’s the very basis of all the childish afterlife stories we hear involving playing the harp or unlimited virgins in Heaven. When we finally realize that there is no AFTER life, that we were never born and will never die and that life will always BE, then we will stop spending our time trying to “fix” the body…and spend our time living the soul.

A man with a fatal disease was brought to a sacred healing space. The shaman came and shook his rattle and invoked his chants to Spirit. The whole community gathered around the sick man and showered him with their love through song and dance and drumming nonstop for three straight days and nights. And after the three days, the man died.

A top Western medical doctor met with the shaman and said, “You see, your feather-waving medicine didn’t work.”

The shaman looked at the Western doctor and said, “We are concerned about the man’s soul and not his body. The dis-ease, the dis-comfort, lied in his soul and we provided a safe space for his soul to come back to comfort—which, in this case, involved dropping the body. When your medicine starts to treat the soul, you will see that you will no longer need all your chemicals. And when you see that each being is a soul, you will no longer fear death, but embrace it. You will not mourn the death of the body…but celebrate the life of the soul.”