Enlightening Nonsense

After spending several hours passing a butter knife across my wrist, I decided that I just didn’t have the patience for suicide. One might ask why I didn’t use my expensive ceramic knife but I was told that if you twist the handle while cutting something you risk snapping the blade and being I spent a pretty penny on that knife, I decided I didn’t want to risk an artery-spurting convulsion that would have me jerk my open wrist and leave a great knife broken and no longer usable for my offspring.

After my 6-page “A Suicide Note” [http://rebelyogi.com/the-suicide-note], I received notice that three of my readers were concerned. To the rest of you heartless bastards: fuck you. I would think if you weren’t concerned for me, at least you would worry for the death of good comedy. How many people have fought and died for the preservation of comedy so you pantywaists can sit in the comfort of your own home and watch it on the television? You bastards make me sick!

I listened to seven hours of The Mystical Kabbalah by Rabbi David A. Cooper. The last time I had listened to a Jew for seven hours straight was when I tuned in to the weekend forum on C-SPAN discussing whether the Holocaust or the birth of Barbra Streisand was a more important event for the Jewish people hosted by “The Three Jews Not Involved In The Plan To Take Over The World Committee.” Needless to say, the conclusion that was while the Holocaust put Jews on the map, Barbra was what colored that map.

In The Mystical Kabbalah, Dr. Cooper discussed the various ways that Kabbalists used to explore the Bible. I think he mentioned five different approaches they used to fully flesh out and explore all the teachings it contained. One approach was to look at the literal interpretation. Another was to take a metaphoric read. I think one was to use it as a cover for a dirty magazine so that you could read porn in public while still looking pious. The fourth way was to search for quotes so that you can parrot and pretend you are not only “spiritual” but also better than everyone else around you. The fifth exploration was to cultivate a list like the boring “And so-and-so begot so-and-so and so-and-so begot so-and-so—and then baby Jesus was born!” tedium of the New Testament to construct a list that reads, “And so-and-so oppressed the Jews and so-and-so oppressed the Jews—and so that is why we have plotted to take over the world.”

Dr. Cooper emphasized that if you only focused on one aspect of the explorations, you really missed quite a gamut of possibilities. Just look at all the Biblists who read the Bible as a literal history that is 100% the word of God and there is no deviancy—or rather “deviating”—from anything written in the Bible if you want to be in God’s favor and you will see a skull that contains a brain that hasn’t developed to a size larger than a single pea—which would be called the “Pea Salad” at a raw food restaurant and for which a charge of $10.95 would be added to your bill.

I remember once asking my Orthodox Jewish clients, “If Adam and Eve had two sons, how did they continue to ‘be fruitful and multiply’ unless Eve was fucking her own sons?” One said he never thought about that and all I could think was “How could you not?” if you were an intelligent thinking person. Unlike with Christians, I have found that Jews are at least smart enough to carry on a discussion about something that may stray outside of their understanding.

The Christian argument doesn’t go beyond, “THE BIBLE SAYS IT IS SO AND THAT IS GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME!” which is about as rational as the “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” defense used in the Supreme Court case of Baby James vs. The Kindergarten Class of St. Joseph’s and forces me to remind them how the Bible prescribes that if someone plants two different crops in a field that they should be stoned to death. This usually results in them telling me that I should pray to our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ that they don’t catch me planting two different crops in my field, in which case I tell the Jesus freak that I live in the fuckin’ city and my “crops” consist of plants on my windowsill and, to date, each different plant is in a different pot under the warming light of my Satan sunlamp.

So when I write a suicide note, the literalists recite like a robot their conditioning that, “When someone discusses suicide this is never to be taken lightly; it is often a cry for help” and are not only predictably boring in their response, they’ll never even discuss what ten live sheep were doing in my apartment at the time of my death because “it wasn’t mentioned in the note” (to clear up any confusion, I was fucking them.)

One of those concerned is a therapist and was just using my note as a way to bolster her modus operandi on focusing on how everyone is so screwed up in order that she doesn’t have to face the fact that she is more wack than all her patients and perhaps a ceramic knife dragged across her wrist would be the best thing she could do for her clients.

Another was really just checking to see if my apartment would be listed with or without a broker and requested that I use carbon monoxide as my form of checking out, as this could be easily cleared by opening a window and if I put a bullet through my head it would probably cause damage in the wall that would delay the date that the apartment would be listed and if I used a ceramic knife across my wrist I risked twisting in convulsion and snapping a perfectly good cutting tool and wouldn’t that be a waste.

The third person voiced that she really cared but she’s a pervert and I think she just wanted to fuck my dead body and see if it felt the same as how it usually feels when she fucks me and I just sit there like a decomposing log until I cum and then go to sleep, leaving her feeling unsatisfied and unloved. After seeing what happened to Michael Jackson after he said in his “Say, Say, Say” video with Paul McCartney, “I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I took up the fighting game and gave up any desire to ever be a lover. I did still retain the hope that one day I could head a charity that would send doctors across the world to give black children in starving countries skin bleaches and nose jobs; “Clorox Without Borders” or “Hate Yourself Because You’re Black” are the current names I am debating between.

So, let’s be Kabbalists for a minute—and not the Madonna types who use it as just an adornment for her lace panty and thigh-high leather boot costume—and analyze my suicide note.

(1) LITERALLY – Maybe there are aspects of my current situation and understanding that feel overwhelming to me and I am at my wits end. That’s not too likely, as I am very “witty” and have a feeling that even as they’re lowering me into the ground I will make a quip or two about how the worm FDA has declared that organic human is considered dangerous to eat and that it has to be soaked in nuclear waste before they will declare it safe for the welfare of the worm community.

Einstein said that you couldn’t solve a problem using the same reasoning that created the problem in the first place. If I were literally ready to off myself, I doubt your tired arguments about the joys of living would serve to convince me to stick around. “Oh gee, I never considered that it would be such a blessing to one day walk with my own child through a zoo and observe enslaved animals for our entertainment. And as he starts to scream on the top of his lungs that he wants a Gorilla Gop ice-cream right then and there and not a moment later, making me think that while using a condom might not only have prevented me from contracting these infectious genital warts that have been the bane of my existence for the past 28-years but would have also blotted out the existence of this spoiled, whining little brat, who if he just leans a little farther over the edge of the rhino exhibit I will give his irritating self a helpful shove to send him plunging, so that if the 20 foot fall doesn’t kill him, those silly looking hippos with a concentrated aphrodisiac pointing out of their foreheads will and suddenly I wouldn’t care so much that every time I stuff my shorts with a wooden dowel, the bumpy red pustules file it down to sawdust—because I have you to thank for giving me the elation of killing this headache-inducing, pain-in-the-ass which would have never happened if you hadn’t convinced me that being a father was a ‘blessing’ I just couldn’t pass up!”

If I actually plan to kill myself and your dumb ass actually wants to help me, provide me with either the rope or the gun or the knife or the garage and the car (make sure you put gas in it, jerky!) or the set of cement shoes—don’t provide me with more unwanted advice on the virtues of living or how I’ll burn for eternity in some made-up Hell that you believe because either your parents or your priest were either stupid or manipulative.

I won’t leave this plane of existence a loser but a Master, which means that I won’t be killing myself unless with my explosive vest I can also destroy all religion and stupidity. I will most probably die by the hands of some moronic Muslim who interprets the Koran to justify murdering someone if they call the pedophile prophet Muhammad a pervert who at the age of 53 married a girl who was 5 or 6 and “consummated” the marriage, meaning he fucked her, when she was 9.

And if there is actually a suicide note by my body, it is probably the work of the New World Order Scum who didn’t like the fact that I was exposing them as manipulative death cultists, who in between poisoning our air with chem trails and our water with fluoride and our food with genetically modified organisms and our vaccines with mercury, are gathering at The Bohemian Grove and sucking each other off while performing mock sacrifices of an effigy—and I’m the sociopathic pervert because I like to bang a sheep once in awhile! Just read the suicide note: if it’s not funny as fuck you’ll know it wasn’t from my hand. But you gullible dummies will probably believe it to true, like you did that non-birth certificate that “proved” that Obama the Kenyan was born in Hawaii.

(2) METAPHORICALLY – Perhaps death could mean the termination of certain old belief systems or understandings or attachments. Rather than being so common and fearing everything that has the D-word attached to it (by the way, Showtime considered making a spin-off to their hugely popular The L Word, where “L” stands for “lesbian,” called The D Word, where “D” would stand for “Dyke” but because of the overwhelming fear of death, the executives decided to make it The Double-D Word, not only standing for “Diesel Dyke” but also giving men the added pull that perhaps some big-tittied women would be on the show), maybe you could interpret this death as something useful and support it.

My Dad doesn’t understand metaphor or simile. If I say something as clear cut as, “My feeling of angst is like the anger a rhino has for having some corporate Chink for filing his horn off to sell to stupid Americans because they think it will keep their dick hard longer and make the girl whose drink they sneak it into less disturbed by the fact that she needs a pair of tweezers to hold his pecker when she blows it like she does to smoke the tiny roach because she arrived late to the pot circle,” he usually responds, “Rhino horns are not aphrodisiacs and while they may be ‘confused’ by why a Chink may be filing their horn down, I don’t know if they feel ‘angst,’ per se, and a woman with a roach would be inhaling for the effects the marijuana smoke would give her and not ‘blowing’ like she would a penis in the case of performing oral sex—which really doesn’t involve any air current at all, for that matter, as your mother can attest to,” which only leaves me annoyed at our lack of understanding on any front other than that Chinks are devious little bastards and a little disgusted to have the image of my mother blowing him stuck in my mind.

(3) TO COVER PORN. Perhaps I wrote “The Suicide Note” to elicit sympathy from the many outspoken readers who take offense to words that I sprinkle in my writings such as “pussy,” “prick,” “pedophile priests,” “ass-bangers,” “cum-catching cunts” and the like and to overlook my transgresses from writing like a New-Age pussy with “We are all One” and other hand-holding Kumbaya-singing crap that they could better find in the writings of the boney-assed, diaper-wearing Gandhi.

(4) SPIRITUAL PARROTING TO MAKE UP FOR A SMALL DICK. Perhaps I meant for you to read some of the “deep” thoughts and this would penetrate you in a depth that my small dick could never, leaving you thinking me not only “spiritual,” but also one packing a monster cock that is ready to fuck any pussy, prick, pedophile priest, ass-banger or cum-catching cunt, or diaper-wearing bald Indian for that matter.

(5) TO CREATE ONE MORE USELESS LIST. Each day I make a “To Do” list that sits on my desk for weeks and only results in my next “To Do” list including the item, “Throw away the last ‘To Do’ list.” As a society obsessed with lists—whether it be a list of why America is the best country in the world or why Derek Jeter was the best baseball player to ever play in the post-steroid history of the game or who is the hottest women in the world or top 10 things you can do for a flatter stomach or to keep your man or to attract a woman like a pile of poo does flies—I thought besides one more reality show, what this world really needs is one more list.

Reading through “The Suicide Note,” I’m sure you can come up with a list of more judgments about me, about how inconsiderate I am to write something like this when it may concern three people who will use it to justify their own psychosis, want my apartment or want to do a scientific experiment to see if fucking me is like fucking a corpse by fucking my corpse—and for my Dad who doesn’t understand simile, someone please help him with “like fucking a corpse” as it seems beyond me at this point.

“The Suicide Note” reveals understandings I have come to, whether written or implied, that have changed my worldview, or “spiritual view” as it may be. It is not a depressing tale of a troubled youth, as I am way too old to be categorized a youth by anyone besides someone who is so old he has to powder his balls each night because they are sore from the day’s dragging on the ground behind him, but a story of freedom from attachment.

Why does anyone fear death, besides the obvious reason that you will be sucking Satan’s cock for eternity in the fires of Hell? It is because of attachment. Attachment to your children, attachment to your life, attachment to ideas and principles and dogmas that you believe will not be served if you become worm food. If you drop those attachments, you don’t walk around like a zombie, enjoying nothing that life has to offer. Instead, for the first time, you start living.

I told Roach that I was no longer attached to sex and she doubted me, not just because I’m a “guy” but because she knows I like to wield my dick like a conductor does his stick, in a to and fro patterns that look important to the audience but doesn’t help the musicians any, who aren’t even looking up from their sheet music to witness his conducting stick acrobatics (good luck getting that one, Dad!)

This is one of the points about sex that I have never seen mentioned in any book or discussion on Tantra, probably because even Tantra is talked about like the Holy Grail of lovemaking and this concept would be hard to understand in any way other than, “It’s good but does cut out some of the magic of sex”—which is not what I mean here.

While Tantra involves not just good “techniques” to help you have better sex, it also involves connecting to something beyond just your dick or pussy and by this I am not just widening the circle to include membership into your exclusive sex club that not even Elliot Spitzer could get into, your nipples, lips and ass. Tantra involves a death of the ego, the identity of yourself as just a collection of definitions of “Me” and helps you not just to please your partner physically, emotionally, spiritually, but to connect with him or her in union that is beyond the limited understanding of an egoic “Me, mine and I.”

But what also happens when you destroy this egoic connection to sex is you destroy your attachment to sex. In intellectual “spiritual” circles we open our Dogma Bibles and recite, “Ego is Satan and attachment is his tool of influence,” Sri Bananananda from the Book of Ego, Chapter 3, verse 7.

But what we don’t acknowledge is while we consider ourselves beyond the grasp of the youthful entrapments of puppy love, where you are thinking about that girl or boy every waking moment, where you have the uncanny ability to jump from excitement to nervousness in a matter of a second: ”I’m so excited, I’m going to see him in an hour—wait, he may hate this dress!” or “Hurray, I’m going to lose my virginity—wait, it may only last a second and she may then want nothing to do with me!” where love has not yet been spoiled by the “realities” of “I don’t have time now as I have a To Do list that, while unimportant, is on my desk awaiting attention” or “I can’t come over to see you now, as it’s 2:00 in the morning and I have to work early in the morning”—we would trade all our newfound awareness in to capture just a taste of, “It’s 3:00 a.m. and it will take me an hour to get to you and I have to get up at 7:30 to get ready for work—I’ll be over as quickly as I can!”

If I told you that whether I have sex ever again or not is about as relevant as to whether I see my family ever again or not is about as relevant as whether my writing is ever published anywhere other than an un-blog where only three people voice concern if I am planning to snuff myself or not, you would call me a liar—the same way you do when I LIST all the facts that don’t add up regarding our government’s story about 9/11—because it is just too painful for you to accept that you may just be living not only a limited perspective but maybe even a lie or that members of our government killed their own citizens because they care more about power and money than they do human life.

“You’re depressed,” “You’re just going through a tough time,” “You’ve got a condition we can cure with a mercury-laden vaccine that will relieve your sorrows through the mechanism of brain death.” No. Maybe. Get away from me!

I would say I am more “nostalgic” than I am depressed. I miss those innocent times when I was in the play of life and forgot all about the audience and acting and how I was going to get home after the show, where I was so immersed in the show that I was that character I was portraying and it was all play. Now I am aware of the script, that I am an actor, that by the time I get out of the show the subways will be running so slowly that I might as well curl up under a park bench with a newspaper blanket than hope to get home at any reasonable hour. I still enjoy reciting my lines—if I didn’t then I would say, “Yes, I am depressed”—but some of the juice is taken away when you realize, “Even if I kill King Duncan, he will just out of site in the dressing room during the rest of the show” and then you start to wonder what the hell is the purpose of killing or birthing or fucking someone in their vagina or in business.

The last stage before The Grand Finale is to realize that you are the Director, the Writer, the Actors, the Audience and even the Play itself and to rediscover the youthful joy of playing make-believe—but from a point of adult child-like consciousness and not youthful child-ish consciousness.

The shortcoming of the “Be the Witness” teaching in spirituality is that besides helping people to realize that the play is not to be taken too seriously, it tends to take them out of the play and make them just an audience member, paying to watch others play while you sit on your ass and pray that there’s no intermission, so that you can get home in time for the 11:00 news and watch from the safe distance of your Easy Boy a world at play.

I have my moments where it all seem gloriously Play-full but they are not sustaining and when they fade I am left thinking, “$87.50 for a seat with no leg room, an obstructed left side of the stage and a lead singer who if I asked her to stay on tone, would sit on her cell phone!” Which reminds me of the old joke:

When God was handing out brains, you thought he said “train” and you took a bus.”

I knew he said “brains,” I was just like, “Fuck God. He’s not the boss of me!” I already waited on the “heart” line and I waited on another line where I picked up a little dangler with which to pee; we were told that this line was optional but if we didn’t pick up one of those we’d come down as a woman and while I didn’t really know what that entailed, I knew it wasn’t for me. I’d be damned if I was going to wait on another long line—I wanted get the hell out of there and start living! But not too quickly…that’s why I chose the bus.