Enlightening Nonsense

Way back when, I sent my mother the link to one of my early un-blog entries, “You Say ‘Tomato,’ I Say ‘Ka-ców’” [http://rebelyogi.com/you-say-tomato-i-say-cacao.html], her first introduction to “Enlightening Nonsense.” Here is an an excerpt of her email back to me:

“…You seem anally obsessed and as I told you before, for me, any important points you make are obscured by “dry as a nun’s vagina” “cheap Jews” and “suck my balls”.  I find it vulgar and not cleverly witty in any way…Your obscenities and vulgar references don’t present you as a person to be respected or taken seriously.”

I told her she was a cheap Jew with a dry vagina and could suck my balls.

Growing up my bedroom was adjacent to my parent’s bedroom and I spent many nights burying my head in my pillow trying not to hear what was happening next door. I didn’t mind so much that my parents were getting laid, as I wasn’t as foolish as a Christian who thinks that babies don’t require a strategically placed shot of goo. It was the dirty talk that freaked me out, one night in particular.

“Jesus, bitch! You’re pussy’s as dry as the Sahara Desert! Stop saving pennies on that cheap lube and buy the fuckin’ Astroglide already—I’m starting to get friction burns on my dick!”

“With that small prick of yours I’m surprised you even notice, you bastard! Maybe I should bend you over and fuck you like the bitch you are!”

I was a good church-going lover of Jesus until that day and I attribute hearing this exchange to my conversion to Satanism and my subsequent demise into total tasteless perversion.

It reminds me of the first fight competition my martial arts school ran. The rules were that you could punch and kick anywhere to the body except the groin, you could throw, choke, apply submission holds and pretty much pull down your opponent’s pants and sodomize him if you saw fit.

I was billed as the last of 18 fights on the card. For many fighters, it is all the waiting around that is the most stressful part of a fight night and while I liked being billed as the “main event,” so to speak, I would have liked to have been able to bash in a skull and then sit back and relax and enjoy the rest of the carnage.

Grappling is like wrestling, only there are more available techniques, such as chokes and arm bars and ankle locks. While it is somewhat scientific, almost like a flow chart—“If he does this, then I need to do this or that. And if I do this, he will do either this or that…”—to the audience it can look almost like you’re watching two tortoises make love. “Is he in her or not?” “I think he’s penetrated.” “He could at least move his hips a little.” “Yeah, and she could smile or something, make some indication that this is better than just hanging around in the mud.”

My private audience consisted of my parents with another couple, a bunch of friends, coworkers, and the local grade school, as I had spent most of my afternoons waiting around the playground asking the little boys and girls, “Do you want a lollypop, little girl?” Usually the boys would say, “I’m not a girl,” to which I’d lick my lips like a priest on arrival of the new altar boys and say something creepy like, “Well then, maybe you have a lollypop for me.” As the night went on, my parents started to relax, as most of the fights went to the ground and became tortoise sex.

My style of training was lama kung fu, which incorporated strikes, throws, grappling and chokes—the whole arsenal. My opponent was a shootfighter and the scouting report was that he was more trained in the ground fighting than I was. Our strategy was that rather than fight with him on the ground, I would focus on the stand-up and if the fight went to the ground, which is hard to avoid, I would so something called “stacking him up,” which entailed squashing him into a little ball, as if I were trying to assist him to give himself head and break free and go back to stand up.

It was a bloody fight and I was more exhausted at the end than I was when I had mistook the instructions in my swami test and instead of drinking the gallon of wine, fucking the beautiful seductress and extracting the infected tooth from the wild lion—let’s just say if you see a beautiful seductress and she smiles and is missing a tooth, you know that Swami X has been there.

Everyone on my fight team had lost their fights and after this event the attendance at team practice went from about 30 to about 12. I won my fight and while showering and watching the water run pink as my blood joined it in a romantic swirl down the drain, I thought to myself, “I’m not sure I’m really into this.” By “this” I meant the fight game; I kinda dug being bloody and this is one of the reasons why I tend to go down on girls when they are menstruating. Seven years later I hung up my gloves. I continued to fight; I just now hung up my gloves instead of throwing them on the floor when I was done with them.

I almost forgot my point going down Nostalgia Lane, and by the way, in case you are driving down Nostalgia Lane, there is alternate side of the street parking on Sundays. After my fight, my parents came up to me and said, “Congratulations. We’re never coming to another fight of yours!” They were supportive of me but even they had their limits of what they could tolerate.

Mommy X’s email response to my un-blog piece was similar to her reaction after that first fight competition: anything that would cause her to involuntarily excavate her stomach contents was not something she was willing to put up with. This also explained to me why Daddy X has hypertension—she hasn’t given him head in decades on account of her hair-trigger gag reflex!

I was planning to save Mommy X’s quote for the back-cover “reviews” of my first book but after her email yesterday, which I’ll share with you in a minute, I thought I’d let it out of the bag. Incidentally, I found my boxing gloves stored in that same bag.

Periodically I will send my family a link to one of my pieces that doesn’t contain reference to pedophile priests, me shoving something up my ass or feces. Because I make an effort to include these references in all of my pieces, needless to say, they don’t receive much notice. But a couple of days ago I sent them the link to “The Baseball Mitt In The Garbage Can” [http://rebelyogi.com/the-baseball-mitt-in-the-garbage-can.html]. It’s a short piece so read it if you haven’t.

You could imagine my surprise when yesterday I saw that Mommy X registered for Enlightening Nonsense! After seeing the notification in my email box, I immediately called up my drug dealer and said, “Dude, the brown acid you sold me is totally wack!” He told me the acid was good, that I wasn’t hallucinating, as Mommy X had also signed up for his Tripping With Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds blog and perhaps she was the one who was “wack.” So I calmed down, smiled at the birds with frog heads that were flying around my head and sat down to read what Mommy X had written.

I found out that the only reason she registered for my un-blog was to post her comment, thinking that her fucking Daddy X in the ass next door to me wasn’t already enough torment to put on a child for one lifetime. Luckily, she couldn’t figure out how to log in and so she just sent her comment to me in an email. This is what she wrote:

In response to your piece.  Many of us got no support or encouragement from our parents but still pursued our goals.  The blame game runs thin at some point.

Like a joke, you somewhat kill a creative piece when you have to explain it. But because I still have implanted in me the “misunderstood” button and the fact that not only is it placed right on my surface but that I am also surrounded by a bunch of idiots, it seems to be pressed as much as Bill Clinton’s prostate. So, I wrote this piece, if for no other reason than to talk about my mother’s vagina in a derogatory manner.

“Mommy X’s vagina is so dry…”

“HOW DRY IS IT?”

“It’s so dry that even nun’s sit around the convent and say, ‘I wish Father Childfucker would let us order more Vagisil, as my pussy is as dry as Mommy X’s vagina!”

This joke is formed in a way that makes it seem like I am doing “old school” stand-up. Since we all know that nun’s vagina’s are drier and dustier than an Ethiopians bowels, for them to place Mommy X’s vagina as the Everest of dry vagina’s makes it that much more comical. “Father Childfucker” is named aptly because only a demented individual would become a priest and therefore all priests fuck little children. “Vagisil” is the actual name of a vaginal lubricant. I know this from going into Mommy X’s cabinets when I was little. Even the name itself is kind of funny. And to think of nun’s sitting around and talking about their snatches and using the word “pussy” is more comic element. How’s that for killing a joke?

When I write, I pull things from my experience, from my reading and from my imagination and my connection to the Universe. When I told Daddy X that I wanted to publish my writing he did say a line like the father in “The Baseball Mitt In The Garbage Can” piece, that getting a book published is like becoming a professional athlete, that “Only 1 in a 100,000 become professional baseball players.” What he didn’t seem to grasp in his statistical analysis is that if you are the one talent, your chances are pretty good—-as there are 99,999 others who don’t have a chance! How’s that for cup half-full thinking?

But the piece was not about how my parents destroyed my dreams and that is why I am such a fuck up now. For the most part, they supported me in the best way they were able. Sometimes they didn’t give me what I was really asking for in the silence of either a shy or stubborn child, but overall they did pretty well. They would see all the plays I was in, they funded most of my schooling and dinners and most certainly put up with a lot of my shit. When I once asked Mommy X if I was a difficult child she said, “Let’s just say, you were never boring!” That’s a little like an ugly girl asking, “Mom, am I pretty?” and her mother responding, “You’re very interesting looking, dear.” I was a sharp kid and told my mother that she could shove her “never boring” up Daddy X’s ass the next time she was banging him.

Mommy X grew up in a family where her mother went wack and killed herself; my drug dealer was cleared of any connection. Because her family didn’t have much money, her and her sister were sent to an orphanage. Unlike the fantasy worlds of childish religions’ Heaven and the Broadway stage, no Daddy Warbucks came to take Mommy X and her sister to Disneyworld. My mother had to step up and essentially became a 9-year old mother to her sister.

Eventually Grandpa X remarried and they brought the kids home. Step-Granny X was abusive to my mother, never showed any affection towards her and was mean to her friends as well. The fact that my mother didn’t beat my delinquent ass for my crimes of youth is a testament to her strong will and desire to give her kids something that she wasn’t given. That and the fact that she left Daddy X to handle the physical abuse.

There was a bonding moment in the past between Mommy X and me, where I had sent Step-Granny X a letter telling her that she was no different than Hitler, that while he had harmed six million Jews, she had harmed only one—but it was my mother and fuck her. (Now I know I lost a few of you conspiracy clowns who have dedicated the last seven years of your life researching the Holocaust to prove that the six million Jews number may be a little off. You losers might as well just take a break from reading and polish your swastika belt buckle; you won’t be able to focus for at least another hour or two.)

While my mother was a little angry that I sent the letter without telling her about it, she saw that this was my way of saying that I loved her and that “If you fuck with Mommy X, you fuck with Swami X!” As a safety precaution, they hid away all the cutlery whenever Step-Granny X came to visit.

So you can see the history that inspired my mother’s response. She was raised with not enough love to grow and yet she was a survivor and reached her roots deeper into the dry soil and reached her leaves higher to the sun that doesn’t withhold its love from anyone…and flowered. Sure I’m a screw up but my brother and sister turned out pretty well. Two out of three—in baseball that would give you a .600 batting average, double what is considered even good. Perhaps my mom is that “1 in a 100,000.”

As Anais Nin said, “We don’t see things as they are, we see things as we are.” So how can we really see or hear or feel anything or anyone in their true sense, when we are functioning through all of our hurt and anger and fear and preconceptions and conditioning? My writing can be used as a Rorschach’s test for you. If you find something offensive, for instance, “Joking about a mother’s vagina is wrong,” it indicates that you came in reading with a preconceived belief pattern. Where did that come from? Do you think if aliens came down and instead of sticking probes in our asses they read one of my pieces they would say, “This is highly offensive, even on planet Xenu we don’t joke about our mothers like that!” That wouldn’t happen of course, because Xenu is made-up, despite the founder of Scientology writing that this is the very basis of Scientology. So that means that your perception is less about what “is” and more about how your mind interprets what is and that mothers’ vaginas are just as valid to joke about as farts.

If you read something and say with your intellect, “I agree with that,” you will be able to see where you are already crystallized into a belief or worldview and if you want to grow in awareness, you can explore how you came to that view. “Everyone knows that love is the only answer!” Says who? Some New-Age cult where all its leaders put on a big cheery smile as they talk to you about “bliss” and “Oneness,” as they leave their miserable lives behind the closed doors of their ego personalities? I know many of these people personally, from celebrity psychics to headliners at expos, and I will tell you that just about every one of them is miserable—and if they claim not to be, either they are selling their form of bottled Soma or their misery is stuffed so deep because it is easier to focus on “spreading your mission” than dealing with your own shit. Focusing on the misery of others can help us forget our own misery. This may be useful if you are in a funk but it is useless if you want to wake up.

I actually agree with Mommy X’s point that many have had suboptimal upbringing and support and have still managed to pull themselves up by their own strength of will. And I agree that if you were raped, beaten, abused, underfed, under-loved, saw your loved ones killed, whether that sucks or not is less relevant than What are you going to do now? Your choice is either to live as a victim or live as a warrior. Most choose victimhood because, like the New-Age pussy “leaders,” it is easier to blame the world for your misery than yourself. When you stop blaming anyone or anything outside of you, suddenly you become responsible for everything. Most claim to want “freedom” but like a teenager if given it they suddenly are like, “Wait, I have to pay the bills and buy the food and wipe my own ass?”

The “Glove” piece wasn’t even inspired by my parents. It was inspired by an interaction I had with Duck where I felt her practicality was gutting her ability to dream and all this talk about the “practical” was starting to kill my dreams as well. In a line I would say “Glove” was talking about how a life without dreams may be considered “successful” but without the magic of dreaming, of living with inspiration, it will always feel empty. Perhaps it’s a reminder for all of us to not only support the dreams of other people but to not forget about our own as well.

REFLECTION:

What beliefs to you hold that you “know” are true? How do you know they’re true? Even the fact that you “know” that you are alive and walking around could be wrong if this is like The Matrix and you were really only a battery in a container somewhere else. How do your views, opinions, beliefs affect how you view the world and others? Would you be able to see the God in a Skinhead who greeted you with, “While you don’t have tattoos covering your neck, at least you’re not a nigger”? If you can’t, then you have not yet fully arrived. By “arrived” I don’t mean to some fantasy that you think is “enlightenment” but to your True Self, which is not a judgmental, opinionated, self-righteous jackass.

MEDITATION:

This is a living, breathing meditation, as opposed to a “sit on a pad, light some incense and ignore the world” variation. Choose a day where you take an “opinion” fast. If someone brings up a topic that you are passionate about, whether you agree with their opinion on the matter or not or have something to say about the topic—just listen to them, be there for them.

If you are one of the New-Age pussies, you will lock yourself in your apartment and proudly declare, “I did it. I didn’t offer my opinion to anyone!” If you are a rebel warrior you will put yourself in the eye of the storm, in the middle of the battlefield: if you consider yourself an animal rights advocate, you will go to a hunter’s meeting; if you are a gay basher, you will go to a gay and lesbian Bobbing For Anal Beads party.

The one rule is to keep your mouth shut and your heart open. I know you don’t believe it, but the world will still revolve without you adding your two cents. If someone asks you for your opinion say something like, “You know I’d really like to think about that a little more. But in the meantime, I’d love to hear more what you think on the matter.” Just about everyone likes to talk about themselves and their thoughts and their opinions. The sad thing is, they don’t realize that these aren’t even really their own.