Alexander The Weak
Unlike this statue, Alex The Weak is also spineless
I received a call from Alex, a referral from The School of Natural Healing, where I received my Master’s degree in Herbology. We scheduled a consultation and as per his suggestion we arranged to meet in the Devil’s lair, the Time-Warner Building, where when they’re not making people wait all day for the cable guy, they’re hatching up schemes to kill all the “bottom feeders,” which means anyone without a billion dollar bank account or, like the Federal Reserve, access to print money out of thin air and not be held accountable.
My consultations are a half-hour long. Alex showed up 15-minutes later than we had scheduled. I would have been in my right to say, “My man, I’m happy to talk to you for the remaining 15-minutes of your booked session. Anything after that will be an additional fee.” But it was our first meeting and I didn’t want the mood to be soured before I even suggested him to add lemon juice to his water, nor did I want him to make some anti-Semitic comment like, “Don’t Jew me on this, man,” where I would then make a racial comment like, “Man, your heart is as black as your skin” and then it would be West Side Story only Tony would instead be Hymie leading the Gefilte Fish Gang and Bernardo would be Blackardo leading the Jet Magazine Gang.
As is typical of someone who has done a little “research” into their own particular issue, Alex was popping a bunch of random herbs that he heard were good for his area of concern but didn’t seem to have a holistic understanding that the body isn’t a bunch of component parts but a whole unit. While we can target different body parts or systems, the way a masturbator may target his penis, if you don’t deal with the whole body, you are bound to not only miss the cause of the problem but you will probably contribute to throwing the body off-kilter as well.
Alex handed me a sheet of the herbs he was taking and I shit you not, it contained a list of about 30 herbs. “You take all of these?” I asked incredulously. He told me that he makes a tea with them. This is the typical “Apocalypse Now” mindset of the drug industry—blast the body with a chemical Russian roulette cocktail and hope that you don’t find your patient on the floor in a puddle of his own blood while some Vietnamese gook is shouting “MOW!” to your next patient who was just taken out of the wooden water cage where he was attacked by big-ass rats—at least not before acquiring payment for your iatrogenic services.
With that much of a cocktail, herbal or not, how do you know if the constituents will provide assistance or interference with each other? You don’t. I’ve made herbal cocktails myself, with everything thrown in including the kitchen sink and it just tasted metallic; I think that was because of the kitchen sink. Sometimes even a single herb is enough to help the system move towards balance. Why not explore this possibility before stressing your finances and your digestive system?
There was a story I read in a Sam Biser health newsletter about a guy who was chain-sawing barrels, equivalent to the mindless pastime of Cow Tipping to his neck of the inbred woods, and he cut into a barrel that was filled with gasoline. Apparently, it blew up and a tremor was felt in the whole town. Needless to say, this three-generation incest spawn was pretty fried; his skin had essentially melted over most of his body.
Because his kidneys were not functioning well, his creatinine levels were starting to climb. When the level hits 10 milligrams per deciliter, it’s time to call the mortician. Regardless of the drugs the doctors gave him through his I.V., it climbed…5, 6, 7, 8…The doctors finally told the family, “Look, this guy’s a corpse. Why don’t we cut him up and sell him for parts?” They took him off his feeding tube and were essentially resigned to let him die.
A member of his family bought parsley and put it in a coffee filter and made a strong brew of parsley tea. She brought the parsley tea to the hospital and when no one was looking (she was probably aware that if you give herbal tea to someone who is sick that this can be considered “practicing medicine without a license” by the controlling medical elite and you may find yourself practicing sodomy without a license in a prison cell—especially if it works!) she put it in his I.V.
Lo and behold, the chainsaw dude’s creatinine levels dropped and soon the doctors came out of retirement and were like, “We’re putting him back on the feeding tube.” Well he lived and through the miracles of skin grafts and surgery became known as “The King of Pop.”
I once helped a guy who had uncontrollable hiccups for weeks. It’s like Tourette’s Syndrome in that it’s funny until they call your mother a big, fat bitch—and then it’s hilarious! The doctors released him telling him they couldn’t’ help him. I did some energy healing work and wanted to give him an anti-spasmodic herbal combination but didn’t have the formula in stock and so I gave him just the single powerful herb, Lobelia. In only a day or two his hiccups stopped!
There is a phrase whose acronym is “K.I.S.S.”: Keep It Simple, Stupid.” Apparently the guy who came up with that phrase was beaten to death by a sociopathic simple dyslexic who thought he said, “Keep it stupid, simple” and he didn’t like being called “simple.”
Along with general health advice, I had brought a couple of supplements to the consultation that I thought might be useful for his condition. He told me that he was interested in the prostate formula. I had one bottle there and told him that he could take it and pay me later if he’d like, that I rather him be able to start on the program as soon as he could. He said he would wait until he got paid, as he wanted to buy four bottles. I told him that he didn’t have to buy anything, that I gave him a handful of ideas to put into his daily routine that would cost him nothing and could pay in dividends, as opposed to that down-the-toilet stock that I lost $2000 buying on the advice of hack psychic Jill Dahne. He said he wanted the prostate formula. And so I went to my lab, which is my unsterile dog-haired apartment, and prepared his order.
I know what you’re thinking, “Swami X, this story is lame! Where’s the drama?” But alas, my brothers and sisters, here comes the dramatic element. I left a message for Alex…then another…then another—and he would not answer his phone or call me back. I sent an email to the address he gave me, mista_al24@yahoo.com—and it bounced back. FINALLY, he picked up the phone with a “Hello?” that made it clear he didn’t know who the heck was on the other end of the line.
I asked him what was up, that I had to take a mortgage out on my dog to pay for the phone bill from all the unanswered calls I made to him. I asked him flat out, “What’s up, is money tight or do you just not want the stuff anymore?” He assured me that he did still want the stuff, that he was just busy. He said he specifically picked up the phone because he recognized the number and he had wanted to talk with me. I knew this was bullshit but at this point I just wanted to get paid.
He then told me that he never said he wanted any particular amount of bottles, to which I had to say, “Uh, you did. You specifically said you wanted four bottles.” It was Friday. He told me to call him on Monday and we’d meet that night for the exchange. I called him on Monday and—now that he recognized my number—he didn’t pick up or get back to me.
It’s been about a month now and I usually call several times a day. At this point I only call for ball busting and not because I actually think he will answer. I had always been polite, often leaving a message like, “Alex, it’s Swami X. Brother, I need you to get back to me—even if you don’t want the stuff. Just let me know.”
Finally I tired of being polite. I left one message that said he was acting like a pussy and that he should be a man and get back to me. In a deep state of meditation, I met with Socrates and when I told him about the “pussy” message, he responded, “What the fuck were you thinking? You’ll never attract bees with vinegar!”
Inspired by his vinegar lesson, I left Alexander The Weak a text message that said: Make sure you douche today, pussy. Fuck Alex and fuck Socrates.
I know I’m going to sound like a gay man here, but I really hate pussies. I specifically gave Alex an out, I said, “It’s alright if you changed your mind, just tell me,” and he was too much of a coward to say, “You know, I have.” Pussy. Look, one has to be borderline psychotic to actually enjoy telling another person something like, “I’m going back on my word” or “I was wrong” but that is what being an adult requires on occasion. In the adult world, we don’t have mommy to kiss our skinned knees and “make it all better.” In this tough economy, she’s too busy blowing the neighbors so your Dad can still afford his beer.
I would like to kick the shit out of Alex The Pussy. Not because I think it will get me my money. Not because it will make me feel any better. Well maybe a little. And not because it will teach him a lesson. I just think the role of a pussy is to get fucked or spit blood once a month. As Mr. Garrison from South Park said, “I don’t trust anything that bleeds for three days and doesn’t die.” By kicking his ass, I would allow him to actualize as an enlightened pussy.
Just last night I received a text message from Alex on my cell phone that said:
Ted pick up the designs at my job. Ask for al 350 w 29th. I will come downstairs. I am working tonight. Call me.
He had seemed to send me a misplaced text message a couple of weeks back that said, “Call spanky now!” which is probably his gay sex slave name and I thought that I might have hit the motherload here, as opposed to the fatherload which is usually covering the mother’s face. Granted it was Saturday night at around 8:00 p.m. but I know several workaholics who work weekends at odd hours, had nothing really doing and thought, “Finally, I can nail this avoiding pussy down!”
I had just eaten and thought that if one is punched in the stomach after eating, this could lead to puking. I figured Alex The Weak’s hands were only strong enough to type text messages and not throw punches, so I was alright here. I made sure I didn’t have my knife on me, as I imagined the police coming and after countless dealings with egotistical cops, I figured a knife would just lead me to be the latest, “Don’t taze me, bro! AAAAHHHHH!” victim. I also worried that Alex The Weak would be such a pussy that I would be forced to take out the knife and I would be forced to stab his cowardly ass. I wouldn’t mind this so much but being separated from my dog for 20-to-Life might be more than I was willing to bargain for.
It took me about 10-minutes to roll to the location. On the way I thought about if there was a concierge and maybe telling him that I’d give him half of the $100 if he just shut up and didn’t remember anything. As I arrived, I soon discovered that there was no 350 West 29th. I couldn’t believe it. He had played me. On some level, like a back alley hooker, I appreciated the good screwage he gave me and had to think, “Well played, pussy. Well played.” On the other hand, he had already wasted my time, energy and money and seemed not to care any about wasting more of it. I made a note to myself that 20-to-Life would be worth offing this prick, er, pussy.
Continuing the game, I couldn’t let him know that I had been had, so I sent him a text message:
Alex, you texted the wrong person. Wanted to let you know so you could get the designs where you need them. Would appreciate if we could arrange a meet. Swami X.
I wrote an additional text message that said: Alex, what do you say? Your order cost me time and money. Do the right thing. (I got a little “Spike Lee” there.)
Alex The Weak mustered up all the strength in his body to type into his phone the text message: Your trying to rob me.
While there would be nothing physically that Alex The Weak could do to me that would feel anything more than like a miniscule mosquito bite, his five-word text almost knocked me on my ass. Now he wasn’t just being a pussy—he was accusing me of being unethical. Not to mention he was too lazy to be grammatically correct and type, “You’re.”
The following text messages did not happen immediately but because Alex The Weak needed hours to come up with his five-word text messages, over the course of the next few hours, the last one by him being sent on Sunday morning:
What are you talking about? I told you that each bottle would cost $25 and you said you wanted 4 of them. I am not TwinLab—I BUY, soak, strain by hand myself. I also asked you flat out if you changed your mind & YOU said no & gave me a day to met you and never got back to me. Seriously Alex, why didn’t you just call me back? You cost me time, energy AND money. I’m asking you to do the right thing now.
I knew you were crazy dude!
That’s it? I say this not to be “street” or gangsta, but it seems like such a pussy way of non-dealing 2 just ignore all my attempts 4 communication. Cowardly.
Your crazy and you tried to scam me.
My word is worth more to me than your money. Yours is worth nothing. At MINIMUM I would have had the guts 2 say I changed my mind. I rather b crazy than a pussy. (10:33 p.m.)
You’re a serious pussy who is too scared to pick up the phone. That’s pathetic. Your actions are not of a man and you have to know that. (10:44 p.m.)
Stop calling me you nut! (10:46 p.m.)
Y did u send me the text “designs”? Surely you have my number memorized in order to ignore it. Didn’t want mistake 2 hurt u up but now thinking u messing w/me? (12:11 a.m.)
Ok so then stop calling me! Nut! (10:48 a.m. the next morning)
People have gone to Coney Island to see the Freak Show, to glimpse at the Clam Woman or the Man Who Eats Glass or the Bearded Fat Lady or the Rubber Man or the Woman Who Shoots Ping-Pong Balls From Her Vagina (oh wait, that freak is at Private Eyes!) If you’d like to talk to The Living Pussy, you can call or text Alex The Weak on his cell phone at 212-365-4546 and his home number is 718-538-8184. You will probably have to call and text at least thirty times before receiving a response but, as our parents and priests and professors and politicians have taught in order to infuse fear and guilt into us, nothing in life is easy. But wouldn’t it be worth the effort to have an actual pussy speak to you beyond the mere fartatious sounds of a queef? Even the laziest among you could send a simple one-word text message like “PUSSY!”
I would never put out an action call like MoveOn.org to “Make your voice heard!” as that might be considered harassment and the last think I want to do with a pussy is harass it. The last time I harassed a pussy, I pulled out all the stops. “You dirty pussy! You have an ungroomed bush! You smell like dead fish!” She spit in my face and, like a scene from Ghostbusters, I was slimed and smelly and I was so turned off of pussy that it was the second longest stretch I took from actually seeking it out, the longest stretch being right after I was born where it took me years and bottle upon bottle of baby powder to get the smell of dead fish out of me before I could even get myself to be put on my mother’s lap without screaming and crying.
To leave you with some clarification regarding the definition of a pussy, there is nothing innately wrong with feeling uncomfortable telling someone that you changed your mind and are going back on your word if you were uninformed at the time or it no longer serves you like “Read my lips—no new taxes!” served George Bush, Sr. to get elected when he knew that you would never keep that promise. It is being a pussy if you don’t show the respect not only to the other but also to yourself to brave through the difficulty and inform the other that things have changed.
This cowardice is one of the main reasons why people stay in relationships and/or married for years past when the “situation” has changed. The other reasons are believing that a good relationship doesn’t have to be worked on, unnatural societal concepts on marriage and relationship and creating some snot-nosed little offspring and trying to avoid dealing with the constant droning whine of, “Mommy, why don’t I have a father?”
I know how this piece be interpreted. The New-Agers will say, “Let it go” and think me a bit nutty, not realizing that a lot of this was me telling not only Alex The Weak but the Universe, “Alright, if you are putting me in a farce then I will start majorly improvising my lines!” The New-Agers live in denial that they are mere bad actors in a boring play of their choice that they pretend Clive Barnes would review as “THE HIT OF THE CENTURY!” when really, “SO-SO” is the best review they’ll ever get. Of course those New-Agers would reserve their negative talk about me for talk in the shadows, as they are only Positive Polly’s in the light.
The people who might care more about me then saving the world and their diagnosis of me may say, “Brother, why waste your time on this pussy. The best way to fuck this pussy is to ignore him and let him dry up.”
I guess the real frustration I had goes even beyond the fact that I invested my time, energy and money into someone and I was shown no appreciation or respect in return. I don’t want to give 15-minute sessions to the late-arrivals. I don’t want to collect money upfront or have people sign some type of agreement contract before I go to the unsterile lab. That is like a prenuptial agreement, it may make sense for Donald Trump who has nothing appealing about him but his money and the balls to wear his hair the way he does, but it guts the romance out of any type of union.
What is any healing session but a union of the two people in order to help the person in dis-ease to come to a union within himself? If we take that out, we might as well be just another whoring corporation trying to squeeze as much blood from whoever will fill our coffers with total disregard for their feelings, needs, health or the possibility that our prickish way of dealing will dim their soul just a bit.
The great Zen teacher and author Alan Watts is one of my favorites in the spiritual game, mostly because he didn’t talk about “chakras” and “auras” and lose his great sense of humor in the process. He said you have a choice to either trust the world or distrust the world. If you distrust the world, you will be constantly looking over your shoulder. You will lock your doors and your bicycle and hire security guards and bodyguards and use Right Guard. And your “stuff,” be it your trinkets or your body, will stay protected.
On the other hand if you stay in Trust, you will occasionally get screwed, cheated, ripped off. But the world will look so magical through your trusting eyes that those little mishaps will pale to its luster.
In life, how many of us have been hurt in relationship or physically? How many of us have been screwed in business or in the ass, and if you enjoyed the ass screwing, can you please send me your number? What we do for “survival” is to shut down in order to “protect” ourselves. In the moment it seems to make sense. We have terrible sunburn and need to cover ourselves up in order to avoid allowing us to be harmed beyond the point of no return. We don’t know how else to deal with the marauders and so we build a stone wall all around us for protection.
Until we learn a new way of fearlessness, this survival mechanism is not so terrible in and of itself. The problem lies when our sunburn has long gone away and yet we don’t leave the home without full coverage of our skin with clothes and gloves and zinc oxide, even more covered up than an Islamic woman in her beekeeper’s outfit. Or when the marauders have long ridden off on their horses and we find ourselves too afraid to come from behind our walls and soon even deceive ourselves that this is not a wall of poverty but a castle of wealth.
We don’t realize that by protecting our physical bodies, our emotions, our feelings, our “stuff,” that while we may preserve our life, we have made our life lifeless. We have polished the body and souped-up the engine of our car and yet we never really allowed ourselves to learn how to drive. We have preserved the body and killed the spirit.
I don’t want to live in a world without trust. Distrust is a tumor in your head that always analyzes everything based on your past and your fears and your future and keeps your head so noisy as to miss the beautiful silence in the presence, a place where you can be fully open to thrive or be destroyed without reflection.
Alex The Weak took a lot more than my time, energy and money. With his disrespect he took a piece of my soul as well. But a soul, just like love, cannot be possessed and it will quickly pass through the fingers of anyone who tries to grasp onto it. Like water, one can only cup one’s hand and allow it to sit upon you while you enjoy the gift of its presence. Perhaps that is the best gift we can give anyone: to keep our palms open and allow the Universe and all her inhabitants to take respite in our openness, giving them the support to pool for awhile before they need to return to the air or the earth in evaporation or condensation and not missing their presence but being thankful that our palms are not open to receive more of the Universe’s gifts. Distrust is a closed fist that only results in hurt.
REFLECTION:
Do you view the world overall in a trusting way or in a distrusting way? Do you immediately judge people with, “But what do they want? What’s their angle? What’s in it for them?” How do you want to view the world? It is your attachments—whether to possessions, Truth, or even to life itself—that is clouding your eyes from viewing the world with TRUST.
MEDITATION:
Imagine being in a situation (maybe one that already occurred) where you allowed yourself to be open to TRUST, whether in business or in love, and you got taken advantage of. Notice energetically what happens to your being in your imagination; probably a contraction, a closing off, a shutting down. Change your being to be open regardless of the potential to be overwhelmed by hurt. Feel the hurt build inside and then allow it to pass out of your being. Now see yourself still standing there and notice how through TRUST the pain has not accumulated inside but has been fully felt, experienced and then let go. Now look around you and see how through TRUST your eyes are open and unveiled to all the beauty that surrounds you.