Enlightening Nonsense

‘Twas the night before I was to teach a yoga class in Central Park followed by a vegan potluck and so it was time to prepare the food I was going to bring. I had bought some organic red-tipped lettuce, organic tomatoes, a chemical drip avocado from one of the Hispanicos in my area and a partridge in a pear tree, as they wouldn’t just sell me the damn pear without that annoying bird stuffed in a plastic bag.

I washed the lettuce in a poison cocktail of fluoride, chlorine, some inorganic minerals bathing in water. I started to use my ceramic knife, which is supposedly less oxidizing although now half the knife he used to be after I dropped him on the floor, to cut up the lettuce but then switched over to the old “tear and toss” method, used for centuries in salad preparation and to get out of your clothes in a hurry when one is overcome by the sex urge. The lettuce was now in a big wooden bowl. This only took about three minutes but then involved another ten minutes as I fished out hairs that had fallen into the salad.

NOTE TO SELF: next time wear a hairnet over my balls, or at least put on some pants and don’t allow Abandon to lick the bowl while there is still food in it.

I then cut up an organic cucumber into thin half-slices that I picked up at a flower shop. It was only after I was fifty blocks away with a drooping lapel that I thought to myself, “This doesn’t look like a carnation!” I also threw in a bag of assorted nuts and raisins (the raisins weren’t really “assorted”) that I got from a client’s office after training him. Perhaps I should have asked before taking them—and his wallet.

I was going to cut in organic tomatoes as well but their skin was looking as pocked and discolored as Edward Olmos’ face and I didn’t think they would “Stand and Deliver.” So I decided to blend them into the avocado, lemon, dates, coconut milk, Himalayan sea salt and cayenne pepper dressing I was preparing in my VitaMix $400 blender.

As I dropped the nasty tomato in the blender the Band-Aid on my thumb from the aftermath of my umbrella accident that day at Bed, Bath & Beyond, where I had stopped in for a little “Beyond,” fell into the blender. I hadn’t turned on the power yet and the Band-Aid was sitting there like a dog waiting for a treat on top of the pile of ingredients, somewhat looking like a pile of Abandon’s poo after I feed her sprouted mung beans, beets, cucumbers, ground sunflower seeds and the partridge from the pear tree.

I didn’t really feel like risking getting my hands dirty and thought I heard the guy in the VitaMix demonstration say something like, “Blend the whole apple, core and seeds, to add a little Vitamin B-15 which is good to fight cancer. And if you happen to get blood in the blender—not to worry—the high-powered VitaMix destroys the AIDS virus as well.” So I just flipped the switch and watched my Band-Aid turn a slurry.

Is there anything a VitaMix can’t do? Actually, I wouldn’t recommend using it as a sex toy. Let’s just say, while blowing a load into the whirring blades may sound like a good idea, the half-horsepower engine will spit it right back at you with a force of that will nearly blind you! I suppose if you wear swimming goggles it can be done safely; I’ll report back in my next posting.

I also prepared concentrated natural lemonade that could be added to the attendees’ water, which I made from several coneflowers that I picked from nature. While I didn’t wash them, I can assure you there were no bugs on the flowers, as the park sprays something equivalent to DDT that hasn’t killed enough children yet to be banned. Sure, Abandon always pulls her leash in the other direction as we approach the park but after I drag her through she’s usually fine, aside from a few minor blood clots that she coughs out of her lungs. I blended the flowers with more of the poison cocktail water, as I wouldn’t waste my distilled then Roxtracted then vortexed on a quantum healing energy plate then flower essenced then prayed upon water on those losers in my meet-up group.

I put the Band-Aid Dressing in a plastic container that was manufactured with extra Bisphenol A (BPA) to sterilize not only the dressing but also anyone who would thereafter eat it. I put it in the fridge so I wouldn’t have to breathe any of the outgassing, as with Abandon and my gas, there really wasn’t room in my cluttered apartment for anymore noxious gas.

The day of the event I put the big salad bowl in a cheap keep-it-cool bag that didn’t really do shit besides make me look like a homo as I carried the “lime green” faggery. Since I filled the bowl so high, half its contents fell on the floor as I klutzily transported it to my fruity bag. I just grabbed it and chucked it back in the bowl, ignoring the multitude of dog hairs that accompanied the greens into the bowl.

I decided to bring some of my fancy “disposable” bamboo plates that I bought as a compulsive purchase from Westerly Health Foods as they mesmerized me hanging by the door that only one strong enough not to grab a pack of Tic-Tacs at the supermarket check-out line could resist. I was not so strong. At about $10 for four plates, there was no way I was going to make these Rolls Royce paper plates landfill until they dissolved from overuse, no surprise from someone who wears single-use contact lenses for at least a month straight.

As I pulled the bamboo plates down from the cabinet, a clinging cockroach parachuted to the floor. Unlucky for him, his parachute didn’t open. Lucky for him, he survived the plunge and scurried off to crawl on and defecate over my kitchen countertop. I threw them into Faggy Lime the bag (featured as a recurring role on Sponge Bob Square Pants.)

Because I had only allotted 30-minutes to roll about 100 blocks while dragging Abandon on her leash, which would require me to have the gigantic glutes of an Olympic speed skater instead of the dimply, cottage cheese-looking, flat, dumpy ass I have and scratch often during food preparation, I raced out of the house and left the Band-Aid Dressing on the kitchen counter and forgot to put it into Faggy Lime!

The meet-up went well. I taught a kick-ass yoga class and no was too distracted by me constantly looking at my watch as I repeated my mantra, “When will this be over? When will this be over?” Master food preparer, Feast Full of Paul, was in attendance and made a variety of delicacies. I didn’t eat anyone else’s food, as I don’t really trust the sanitation of their preparation.

When I got home I noticed the Band-Aid Dressing had eaten through the container I had put it in and was surrounded by about fifteen dead cockroaches, which can apparently survive a nuclear holocaust but not Band-Aid Dressing.

I never thought golf was anything more than a nuisance I had to flip through when I was channel surfing until Tiger Woods came on the scene. He was not only the best golfer out there but also considered comparatively above and beyond the best athlete in any sport. He had a blonde model wife, was making millions of dollars and was world-famous. I hated this man.

The one thing I did have on him was that he was black and Asian, which would give me a lot of racist material to cull from. I would take the worst stereotypes from each race and heckle him mercilessly as I followed him on tour and shouted my epitaphs.

“HEY TIGER, CLEARLY YOUR HOT WIFE IS ONLY WITH YOU BECAUSE OF YOUR MONEY, WHAT WITH THAT ASIAN RICE PECKER OF YOURS!”

“WATCH THAT TIGER—IF HE DOESN’T STEAL YOUR GOLF BALL, HE’S LIABLE TO SUCK YOUR FLESH BALL FROM HIS PRISON DAYS AS A BLACK BITCH!”

“TIGER, GO BACK TO CHINA AND MAKE SOME KUNG FU MOVIES—AT LEAST THEN I COULD WATCH YOU AND NOT BE BORED STIFF!”

“HEY TIGER, GET A GRIP—THAT IS IF YOU CAN WITH YOUR KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN GREASY FINGERS!”

“I HEAR YOU FRAT HOUSE’S MOST POPULAR SAYING WAS, ‘FILL UP YOUR ‘ASS’ TANK WITH A TIGER!’”

“DID YOU SHARE A CRIB WITH OBAMA IN KENYA, BITCH?”

I had to give it to him, that slant-eyed spook was cool as a cucumber. While my comments were about his skin, I still couldn’t manage to get under his. And then God dropped into my lap both a gift and a curse, which made me remember that I hated God even more than Tiger Woods. It came out in the papers that Tiger was fucking around big-time on his hot wife. I eagerly awaited his next showing on the PGA tour where I was going to let him have it with a combination of how his infidelity was in typical black men fashion and how as a Chinaman if any of his mistresses got pregnant and gave birth to a female child that he could drown it in the river and fit in just fine with his yellow countrymen.

I brought my sleeping bag and slept over the night before at the golf course on hole 8, prepared for Tiger to comment on this and for me to come back with:

“THERE’S A DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SLEEPING ON HOLE 8 AND SLEEPING WITH 8 HOLES!”

When Tiger saw me he called me over privately. My face was hurting because of the shit-eating grin I had plastered on my face like Batman’s Joker.

“I suppose you wanted to say something to me,” said Tiger.

“Where do I begin…?” I said as smug as Al “Manbearpig” Gore pulling out his index cards full of manipulated data and false facts to give a big presentation that’s not supported by science but is highly supported by his own carbon credit company that will personally bank him billions upon billions of dollars if his “inconvenient lie” is hoisted on the American people.

“Before you do,” he interrupted, “Let me just share something with you and then you can hurl at me whatever you have prepared.”

“Uh, okay,” I said, wondering how long it was going to be before it would be my turn to bring out the filthiest, most disgusting, tasteless and rude material that would make even “South Park,” which featured one episode where Mr. Garrison inserted Lemmiwinks the gerbil up Mr. Slave’s ass, look like a Disney film.

[http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoID=2020634973]

“Marriage is a made-up construct that society has designed which not only goes against the very nature of man as an animal to spread his seed but which also relegates both men and women into property instead of souls. There are societies where polygamy is acceptable and others where there is no marriage. The very moral ethic established in a fidelitatious relationship is merely a construct of this society in which we find ourselves. Now, Swami X, you consider yourself a rebel yogi, don’t you?”

I barely stammered in the affirmative.

“How could you support a made-up, conditioned, societal ‘norm’? I didn’t think that you baah’ed with the rest of the sheep.”

“I don’t. I just—“

“If I committed anything of shame, it was in contracting myself into a marriage when I didn’t really believe in the institution. As you know, Swami X, contract law is the only legal way that a citizen can give up their God-given rights. Most of the rights we haven’t ‘lost’ but have given away. So if anyone is going to judge me—including all the supposed ‘Christians’ who say that only God can judge a person while they are busy judging me—be it for my failure to live up to my word when I signed the marriage license and not because I failed to follow a contrived system that is not based on natural law.”

“Uh, those Christians are hypocrites,” I said, really trying just to regain my footing.

“What does a Marriage License provide besides a tax break and a future addition to some divorce lawyer’s vacation home? Does it increase the love between two people? Does it make them better parents? It does absolutely nothing except newly define a family as a husband, wife, two-and-a-half kids, a dog—and the government. You could call what I’ve done ‘civil disobedience,’ that I have taken a non-violent stand against an institution that has stood for nothing more than oppression.

“I am going to take a little break from the game of golf that I love so much to really reassess whether it is worth it for me to make the sacrifice of my beliefs to keep harmony with the woman I love. I am not sure what decision I will come to—or she will come to—but it will be between the two of us and the media and the society will have no bearing on our decision. Now… do you have something you wanted to say?”

“Um, I think I was the ‘half-kid’ in my family,” was the best I could come up with.

“Abortions apparently weren’t 100% effective back then,” he came back and I decided to keep my mouth shut, seeing that Tiger not only kicked ass on the golf course but with abortion jokes as well.

“So if it’s alright with you, I’m going to go home now and see how my wife and kids are holding up from not only my actions but all the judgments that the good Christians have pelted us with.”

“I thought you were going to play in this tournament?” I asked.

“No, I just came here to have a face-to-face with you.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“And one final thing…” at this Tiger unzipped his fly and let unroll a mammoth of a club—at least a 14 iron—that not only showed me which side of his heritage contributed to his manhood but also a reason besides fame and money why so many women were spreading their girlhoods for him. “I don’t expect to hear any more rice dick jokes from you, bitch,” he said firmly.

“No, sir,” I said as he walked off the golf course, leaving me in silence on the green of the 8^th hole, alone except for a family of sparrows that had taken up residence in the divot his 14 iron put in the ground when he unzipped.

“Man is polygamous by nature; he cannot remain tied to one woman. Living with one woman, a man is invariably bored; living with one man a woman is not so bored… Every wife wants that her husband should not be interested in any other woman. This desire, which is natural for a woman, runs counter to the male nature which is basically polygamous. The problem is that if social laws and conventions are laid in obedience to the male nature, women will suffer, and if they are laid to conform to feminine nature, men will be unhappy. And the core of the problem is that neither can be happy if one of them is miserable… We made laws according to the needs of our society, not according to needs of human nature… and as a result the whole of mankind has perpetually been in misery and anguish.”

—Osho from Krishna: The Man And His Philosophy (pp. 773-776)

I hate to disappoint all you yoga posers, but yoga is not anything “deep” and “spiritual”; it’s just exercise. You stretch, you breathe, you lunge. Stop trying to apply principles of yoga outside of the classroom. Focus only on the physical and never look beyond your nose. If you’re a Jew, that will still give you plenty to view.

There is a lot of talk about “being an individual” and “finding one’s own path.” That is just baby talk by people who don’t know shit about spirituality. Stop whining like a little bitch and join the group, any group. I don’t care whether it is the church, the Glee Club, the Neo-Nazis (Nazis who were big fans of “The Matrix”) or whatever. If you really care about the world, your highest mission should be to give up any thoughts of discovering your individual expression and join the group-mind.

You should always sacrifice your own personal needs for those of others, that is, if you are a real yogi. Most pursue their own selfish desires of “discovering their authentic self” when what they should be doing is discovering a shovel and a pick-ax and getting to work in the field, getting their hands dirty and building something real.

Whether you wanted him as President or not, now that Obama is the top dog, if we want a unified country we need to stand by him no matter what he proposes. Give him your support by giving him your unwavering loyalty.

You want to make the world a better place, then let’s focus on global warming and let Al Gore’s plan for a global carbon tax based on solid science carry the torch, or rather the cooling ball of ice, to a cooler planet, in both the temperature respect and the “West Side Story” sense of “cool.”

Christianity as taught and practiced by the church today is the only valid religion. Only by submitting to Jesus can one save themselves from an eternity of burning in Hell.

Oh, and April Fools (except for the Jews have big noses line, of course.)

There was a boy who grew up to be a young man. He donned not only a small stub of a moustache under his nose but also a set of paintbrushes and an assortment of paints and canvasses. He put his heart into his painting, feeling a connection to a place inside of himself that he knew was not his alone, but part of a greater whole.

And as he tried to pan his wares, like a ragman pushing his cart in Beverly Hills, he was met with constant rejection. Soon he painted less and angered more. And soon the spark of light inside him was buried so deep under the darkness of his anger that he forgot all about it; now life was not something to join in loving harmony but something to conquer and crush, for how could anyone feel the spark that he was not allowed to possess himself?

And soon he realized that if you covered enough sparks with anger and fear, you could not only make people forget that there was a sun behind the clouds but you could make them think that there was no sun at all and that the only hope for any sense of triumph would be to exert control over the clouds themselves.

And he was a great spark extinguisher. He scared people by tightening the screws on the economy. He created enemies who he convinced were trying to take control of the people’s clouds, having them so conditioned as to forget that no one really wanted a cloud in the first place. And he took lands from others, convincing his dampened army that possessions and pieces of dirt and marching in synch would somehow fill the empty space which their inner flame used to occupy. Instead of joining their sparks together to light up the world, they joined their clouds together and covered it with darkness and tears.

And soon not only hopes and dreams were extinguished, but millions and millions of people as well, all because one man wasn’t supported in turning his spark into a roaring bonfire.

I mourn the death of Adolph Hitler. I mourn for every man–living or dead–who is filled with a cloud, separating him from the bright sun above and within. A great man like Adolph Hitler could have united all the sparks and burned this world brighter than it had ever shone. Instead he burned it down with the gasoline of fear and hate, leaving black stains on white pants of generation after generation who sit down on the charred earth that has yet to fully heal…and share her spark once again with all who reside on her.

REFLECTION:

When did you lose your song? When did you lose your dance? When did you lose your story? When did you give up on creating your art? When did you lose your spark?

A spark is never extinguished; even damp matches can be reignited with enough heat.