Enlightening Nonsense

It was approaching midnight and I was off for one of my nightly walks with my dog through Central Park. To recite mindless conditioning from a Passover past which involved me asking the Four Questions up until I was 33, because I was either the youngest or the nieces and nephews were too embarrassed to be made a fool of and somehow, me being older, I was supposed to be impervious to humiliation: “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

Because on this night I had just downed a green shake consisting of about eight bananas, a whole bunch of cilantro, green powder, ka-cow powder, acerola berry powder and another herbal combination and in addition I ate a whole container of cashew nuts mixed with a whole container of dried dates and Himalayan sea salt. The shake itself came out to around eight cups of a greenish-brown liquid–that’s two quarts for those of you on the Metric system–and combined with the nutty date mix (sounds like the name of a mix tape–that’s “burned CD” to you young hipsters–that would be given to anyone who went on a date with me), this was way more than any human stomach could contain, well, minus the star of Best Of Gang Bangs 2008 who swallowed so much–

Not to worry, I took my Ritalin, so besides seeing dancing cows around my head telling me to kill my mother and the inevitable killing spree in my future, I am also able to stay focused and so there will be no unnecessary discussion about a girl who swallowed three gallons of semen in one sitting without spilling a drop. I think that was what impressed me the most, the not spilling thing, as most people would–oh wait, focus. What’s that, cows? Yeah, my mother’s a nag. True, I would be happier without her bugging me. No, I won’t kill her! Okay, I’m good. Thank god the drug insert warned me about this “minor” side-effect (#155 of 483) or else I might have freaked out during this little cow chat!

As I started out the door my mental mantra was, “Oh, my aching stomach!” My dog didn’t seem to care, the insensitive bitch. I told her maybe we should do a smaller walk instead of our usual hour-long and she said, “Stop being such a pussy and let’s go.” Like all females I’ve ever known, all she cared about was running around, shitting and pissing. If I may be so bold, women are a real Nutty Date Mix (nice!) [Editor's note: I'm guessing the feminist who was offended by use of the words "pussy" and "prostitute" (see "CD Review: 10 Minutes To Relax") is loading her shotgun at the moment, that is, before Obama makes all guns illegal for those of us who run to our "guns and religion" in times of crisis.]

When we got into the park, I took my girl off her leash and she was off like a shot. “Don’t worry about me and my aching stomach!” I shouted after her but, even if she did hear, it didn’t register that she gave a shit.

We got to the area where the sand volleyball court is and I usually run around and chase her. I blew off our chase game and my throbbing stomach said to me, “Dude, we’re definitely cutting this walk short.” I wasn’t sure if my stomach was really talking to me or if I was experiencing #257 of the Ritalin side-effects, “Hearing your stomach talk to you.”

It was then that I had a brainstorm: I will use Mindful Meditation to get through this. “Yes,” I thought, “What a great opportunity. We’re definitely doing the full walk! Let’s see…is it steady or is it–” PANG-PANG. “Screw this, let’s get the heck out of here!” We cut through the path by Sheep’s Meadow and I committed to puking myself when I got home. Hopefully that commitment, unlike the Mindful Meditation fiasco, I would keep.

We continued to walk and my PANG-PANGing wasn’t getting any easier, despite the beautiful image in my head of me kneeling in front of my toilet and shitting from my mouth for a change. On my right was a garbage bin and that is where brainstorm number two happened: I can puke myself here! I wasn’t sure if this was a brainstorm or minor side-effect #325 of the Ritalin, “Joyful delusions about vomiting.” I didn’t care.

The one issue was that there was a woman with her dog farther up the path and I wasn’t sure how she’d take to my decision. I figured she was far enough away not to really see too clearly. Maybe she would think I was just dropping a bag of my girl’s poo in the garbage and obsessing if it spilled or not at the bottom of the bin.

From the countless emails I receive each day, I know there are many bulimics out there who have cured their disorder with the help of Gang Bang Porn and already know the procedure to induce vomiting. But for those young girls out there who want to shed some pounds but can’t seem to push away the chocolate cake, I will tell you how you do it.

You basically stick your finger to the back of your tongue near the throat and wiggle it, just you jiggle it–that’s a song, right? What happens is you start to salivate a lot and soon you feel a build-up, kind of like the 300 guys felt before blowing their loads into the gallon container for–focus, focus! Soon you start to retch a little. “Retching” is just like the word sounds. RETCH. It’s the nasty dry heave, gagging that usually happens the first time you give head, uh, so I’m told. You keep the finger action going and soon the time between retches are less and less, kind of like the contractions of a pregnant lady before she is about to blow a baby out of her vagina. Finally, glory be, you puke.

As a side note, I wouldn’t recommend you use silverware to induce the expulsion. This caution is not for personal safe concerns but because you will always wonder whenever you have a guest over and they shovel that vegan ice-cream into their mouth with your spoon and say, “This is delicious!” if the spoon they are using was the puker. Trust me, I’ve had many sleepless nights pondering this. I’m guessing most of my future guests who are reading this will be traveling with their own spoons the next time they come to my apartment.

A trick of the trade is to ride the first upchuck so that you can have, what we call in the bulimia trade, a “multiple orgasm.” I got a couple of pukes out but then that damn nosey parker with the dog started walking my way and I decided that I didn’t want to be the source of a new urban legend involving “The man who had his arm up to the elbow down his throat,” and so I stopped. I felt a little better, but still PANG-PANG. It made matters worse, as I now had the taste in my mouth of what I knew was, like a shaken soda can, wanting to project itself out of me.

The woman with the dog cut across the field. I don’t want to read into anything, perhaps she was going to make an irregular cut over icy terrain with poor lighting anyway. But I did think that my retching and heaving probably didn’t hurt her decision. I thought of myself approaching a beautiful girl sitting by herself at the end of a bar. “Man, that girl is a perfect ten! Her body is fit…Her breasts are buxom…Her lips are like Angelina Jolie’s only a little less Botox…Holy cow, she just smiled at me!” And then she blows chunks on the bartender who subsequently cuts her off. I about face and think, “Man, what a horrendous beast at the end of the bar!”

So now the path is clear. I could go back to the garbage dump but I’m more of an “au natural” type of guy. It was this reason, and the fact that we thought we were helping the environment by “saving a flush,” that my older brother and I used to always pee off our back porch when we were younger; for the record, yesterday I was younger than I am today. Finally there was a “Dear Abby” where a woman wrote in horror that, “My neighbor’s boys urinate in their back yard” and my brother and I thought our 15-minutes of fame had finally come!

I think Abby replied something like, “Clearly the older one is trying to be responsible to the environment but the younger one is a sick individual who, without proper supervision and medication, will most probably end up corrupting society by writing perversion.” Ah, it probably wasn’t even about us. That didn’t stop me from starting a letter campaign where I had 500 letters sent to the newspaper that led to her being fired. Don’t worry about her–she was the lead in Best Of Gang Bangs 2008! All that to say that I thought I’d puke in the woods and not have the unnatural rectangular metal object taking away from the beauty of the moment. 

I went to an area where my dog usually explores off the beaten trail and knelt down and did the Wiggle-Jiggle (you watch, this may just become the next “Mashed Potato”!) I got my rhythm going, felt the build-up and WOOSH! It didn’t taste half bad. I was reminded of two things: first, I had added some cinnamon powder to the shake, and second, of a line from a movie or interview I once heard where a guy was going to fly for the first time with some crazy jet fighter mavericks because he was writing something about them and he asked, “Is there something special I should eat before flying?” and one guy, I think his name was Iceman, responded, “Bananas.” He asked, “Why bananas? Is it the potassium?” And Iceman responded, “They taste the same going down as they do coming up.” I thought, you know, that really is fairly accurate.

After clearing most of the shake–oh, sorry young hipsters, “smoothie”–from my belly, I was lying there like a woman who had just given birth: nose running, tears coming down my face, bare from the waist down with my legs spread (it’s too long to get into now, let’s just say I loosened my belt for comfort and the next thing I knew, some pervert from the bushes was blowing me.) The only difference between me and a pregnant lady was that my “creation” was a greenish-brown mess that looked more like Clumpy Stern, the name that Howard Stern called his wife’s toilet miscarriage in the movie “Private Parts,” than the beautiful, blood-covered, distorted-head, fat-faced, wrinkly baby in a new mother’s arms.

My dog came over to explore and the cheapskate in me thought, “Eat up, girl, you’re saving Daddy a few bucks on your dinner tonight.” She was like, “Fuck that, you cheap Jew bastard.” I made a note to have a sit-down with her on her language; I didn’t really care about the anti-Semitism. Regardless, I did feel better. 

I know you’re all thinking, “Sure, I picked up a nice way to shed a few pounds but where’s the spiritual lesson?” I suppose I could force one but I really only had the idea for a piece featuring Best Of Gang Bangs 2008 and worked all the other crap around it. I got nothing.

On the way home I was reminded of once seeing a woman, I think she might have been pregnant, hurl on the side of the street. Everyone was walking by in disgust, as if, “How dare she!” I probably thought it just as gross as anyone else, but I was touched by the embarrassment she had to feel for feeling sick and not being “proper” enough to do so on schedule, you know, when she was home alone. Did I ask her if she was alright? I don’t remember now. I was younger and probably influenced by Dear Abby’s comment that I would never amount to anything useful and, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, probably didn’t.

I’ll tell you, if Dear Abby wasn’t so good in Best Of Gang Bangs 2008, I would still hold a grudge. To me, her performance was like confession: “You killed 50 small children…go on…you poisoned 20 dogs…yes…you starred in Best of Gang Bang 2007?? Hail Mary, you’re forgiven, my child! Uh, would you mind signing my copy for me? No, I don’t have to get it, I’ll send one of my naked altar boys to get it for me. No Jimmy, not 2006 or 2007–I said 2008!”

When I got home, I considered making another shake but when my dog looked at me and said, “You’re fuckin’ kidding, right?” even I felt her language choice was appropriate.

REFLECTION:

Why are we embarrassed to throw-up, fart, burp, have an erection, crap our pants on that fartly case of mistaken identity or express any other natural bodily function? How does us being human and expressing human function reflect on Who We Are? Why are we embarrassed to express human emotion in public? Would you be brave enough to “take care of business” in public if your body needed to or would the “shame” of being human be too much for you? Funny how dogs aren’t embarrassed by being dog.

MEDITATION:

Imagine yourself crying and a stranger, or someone you know, looks at you and you don’t cover your face in embarrassment but own up to having feelings and expressing them–without shame. Imagine you find something funny and you laugh at it and you realize you seem to be the only one who finds this situation amusing by all the stares you are getting. Is it ever wrong to laugh when the urge hits? Granted, a few funeral participants may have some difficulty with it, but that’s their issue. Imagine you not looking your best because you are feeling crappy and you see someone to whom you are attracted. Instead of covering yourself up, you say hello to him or her. You explain to him/her that you are under the weather but were more interested in connecting with him/her than hiding yourself. After this meeting you never see him or her again. You lost the guy/girl, but you gained something more important: pride in owning up to being YOU. 

(Good save, no?)

Imagine Dear Abby in Best Of Gang Bangs 2008. What a whore!