While I wish I could tell you that my Biggest Button is an outie that freakishly extends three inches from my abdomen like the bottom lip of one of those African women who pierce them after stretching them below their chins, I am cursed with a fairly average innie. I am also hesitant to share with you my Biggest Button, for there are a lot of douchebags out there who once they know what it is, will devote the rest of their lives to pressing it and thus turn me into one of Delgado’s bulls who will snap into a rage at a push of a button.
But since I seek to end my life of struggle, what better way to do so by sharing with you one of my vulnerabilities so that you can exploit it and I can then murder you in an O.J.-ian coke rage and have a jury find me innocent because it is composed of a bunch of racist, sexist, anti-Semitic homophobes who think, “That there Swami X is good people.” And so I share with you how to turn Swami X red without having him stand on his head or by strapping a belt around his balls.
My Biggest Button is to be misunderstood and misrepresented. Funny for a guy who writes in hieroglyphs, no? I’m guessing Jesus had the same problem when he spoke in parables and one of the reasons why more people have been killed in his name than over any other reason other than crossing O.J.
When someone thinks they can make claim to know me or what I think based on a single piece or a series of pieces I have written, or a single action or a series of actions I have, uh, acted, I become like Mount Vesuvius—shit brown with a burning hole ready to spew liquid. Or is that like Obama as he turns to flaming shit the very Constitution that he taught at Harvard Law School?
This button extends to others being misunderstood and misrepresented as well. To say for instance Hitler was a “bad” person because he just so happened to systematically kill about twelve million people—did you ever have wienershnitzel with him? Have you ever tossed rocks off a bridge onto a Jew’s head together? Have you ever goose-stepped over a bunch of gays wearing velour? Then how the heck could you judge a man based on a little thing called World War II and the Holocaust? I knew Hitler. He not only had a little prick but was one as well and not just because he liked the smell of char-roasted Jew.
I was once at a family event and my Dad said to my nephews that Alex Rodriguez, the Yankee baseball superstar, was a “bad man” because of some indiscretions he had involving saying or doing something stupid. I don’t even follow baseball and I came to A-Rod’s defense. “What kind of stupid statement is that, that he’s a ‘bad man’? Who the fuck are you to judge his ‘goodness’ or ‘badness’ based on what, a few actions?”
“I think he’s a bad man and I have the right to my opinion,” he said.
“You can think whatever the fuck you want, whether it is right or not,” I said, “But to tell your grandchildren definitively that he is a ‘bad man’ is teaching them that the worth of a man is based on a few actions as interpreted through some old man’s feeble mind.”
My Dad stormed off annoyed and I told my nephews that he had to change his diaper because he is a “bad man” that after years of taking it in the ass from Mommy X he can no longer control his poo. Later in the party, my Dad, to his credit, came up to me and said, “I shouldn’t have said that he was a bad man. Maybe I should have said that I didn’t consider him a good role model.” I told him that I thought that would have been fair and apologized myself for saying “fuck” in front of the kids and telling them that he was going off to change his diaper when clearly he was just going to sit in his own shit all day.
This button of mine developed over many lifetimes where I, or people I cared about, were misrepresented. When my friend Jesus was blasphemed, I lost my shit and every lifetime thereafter I have had a proverbial chip on my shoulder regarding this issue, by which I mean a potato chip that has a proverb written on it.
I even balled Jesus out about this, telling him that he took the easy way out, dying and all, while I had to remain here and listen to all these misinterpretations of his words by people who pretend to know him or what he meant. He told me to chill out, that at least they were devoting themselves to something and that it is their faith that would bring them to a better place, regardless of whether it was directed to a false idol or not. He explained that he represented the Highest Truth and, indirectly, their worship of him was worship of the Highest. It’s hard to argue with Jesus and so I just said, “Fuck you, carpenter’s son—and by that I mean ‘Karen’,” because I known he hates that song “Close To You” and then went off to a corner and masturbated.
So when Yogini Pea wrote me an email saying that she doesn’t like to see me abused by some shurikan insult-throwing Ninja and seemed to have formed a conclusive opinion about Ninja, I told her that she didn’t know the Ninja and that she should shut her hairy-armpitted ass up. Now Yogini Pea was clearly writing out of care for me and my wellbeing but as she pressed my Biggest Button, I had no choice but to become bullish.
Would Yogini Pea’s negative opinion of Ninja adjust any if she knew that Ninja has experienced so much frustration of late that she has felt as if she is a disappointment to herself and that when she told me that I could live with her only to take that offer off the table about a week before move day, she felt a disappointment to me and it was this which overwhelmed her into a week of silence? I’m not justifying the behavior, which most certainly doesn’t have any place in a mature relationship. But perhaps more of that “compassion” we hear so much about in the pseudo-spiritual world would be expressed if we didn’t claim to “know” all that has gone into bringing any person to where they are today and weren’t so quick to judge them.
I write only select portions of life, usually situations where I exaggerate, stretch the truth and downright lie to make a point. To assume you know about anyone I write about—let alone me—based on fictions I use to represent slices of Truth, is to deceive yourself that you are anything more than a fool.
If you were to read my pieces “Fake Swami” [http://rebelyogi.com/fake-swami.html] and “Curry-Colored Horse” [http://rebelyogi.com/the-curry-colored-high-horse.html] literally, you would think that I hated the antagonist Lina and that I would rather use the rice dicks of six Asian fags as dental floss than to ever have to be in her presence again. This is just not true—I find a strong load shot by a gargantuan black cock to act as a water-pik that clears any debris from my teeth. And also, for the most part, I enjoyed talking with Lina. Her blowjob was a bit, shall we say, “toothy,” but as a conversationalist she was all gums.
I write about drama—or nonsense in dramatic form—so I am not going to write about how I was walking holding Ninja’s hand and feeling like Kate Winslet in Titanic when she was at the bow of the boat with her hands outstretched with Leonardo rubbing his boner against her ass. It’s just boring and gay. I leave that tedium for the mind-numbing blogs that write entrees like, “I was at the bank today. There was a long line. I was frustrated to have to wait so long. When I got up to the front window, I realized I had grabbed a withdrawal slip instead of a deposit slip. And so I left, feeling very embarrassed.” Or that great invention called Twitter, named because only “twits” would use it, where the former post would be abbreviated to something like, “Long line at bank. Grabbed wrong slip. Left embarrassed.”
But the problem is that rather than seeing that I am only taking a slice of reality to represent a greater Truth similar to Plato’s “forms,” you take the few crumbs I throw to you and, like a starving Ethiopian, you claim it to be a 7-course meal. What I share with you is not even an appetizer. Enjoy it. Dismiss it. But don’t claim you know anything based on it.
When I met Toad in person after some email banter and her reading my un-blog, she told me that I was very different in person than I was in the electronic world of webpages and emails. When I hung out with Yogini Pea in Florida, in between feeding frenzies with my folks, she said that she liked the Swami X in body much more than she liked the Swami X in electronic signals and pixels, only partly because she preferred fucking a real dick as opposed to a cucumber while gazing at a picture of me on the wall. Both of these women only tasted a little of Swami X, partly because I was dehydrated when I met them and only shot a small load that even the sperm bank would only pay half for, and what they could still clearly see was that Swami X the fiction is different than Swami X the man.
Sure we share some similarities, like our hatred for blacks, Jews, gays, women and everyone else, but there is something so distinctly different from the real-life Swami X from the monster that I capture in the cage of my un-blog, which when released off the confines of the page and breathed life into only creates a Frankenstein in the mind of the reader. “Monster X.”
I share with you my trials and tribulations, and by “trials” only the non-felony ones, and you think my life is nothing but trials and tribulations. Yes, there is a lot of drama in my life. But there is also a lot of time where I am by myself, watching movies on DVD or VHS, or reading, or walking my dog and nothing earth shattering happens.
Why would you choose to be so arrogant that you think you can understand Who I Am or judge anyone I write about without even knowing Who You Are? When you do this you seem like boring housewives who have gotten so caught up in your soap operas that you would swear on a stack of flushed Korans that Susan Lucci is Erica Lane.
Can you understand this or are you too busy rubbing your own feces over your body to take in anything but the smell of your own shit? I represent greater Truths through the thin slices I share, but the measly slivers I offer themselves are too little to fully taste the pies of which they are representative, and by “pies” I mean vagina.
Yes, my Biggest Button—and all my buttons—is my mind’s own creation and it is my responsibility to extricate it on my own. That being said, it is still there. Many of my buttons have rusted locked from me drying out the lubricant that allows them to depress; either that or the BP oil spill took away their supply. But some definitely still exist.
Whenever you push my buttons you are doing me a service, you are reminding me that it is not time for me to put my scalpel away just yet and that until I gouge these things out of me, I’m subject to “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” and “The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to,” to quote Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” soliloquy.
My issue. My responsibility. My Hell.
But I warn you, if you choose to press my buttons, I will hurl fire and brimstone at you and extend my Hell to encompass you in its ravenous appetite for douchebags and all the praying to Jesus won’t save you from my wrath. Press at your own risk. I would much prefer a finger up my ass to a finger on my button but I know you can’t help yourselves, can you? You hurl shit with your assumptions and conclusions and then you complain that what comes out of me is crappy. Remember the old adage:
Hurling shit only leaves your own hands smelly.
Why do you need to pretend you “know” and that you can capture a 5th dimensional person off a two-dimensional page, the same way you capture images from Google? Who I Am is too vast for your simplistic brain to grasp in its entirety and if you were to admit that, you would have to admit that you don’t know shit. But you sure like throwing it.
And so you judge and declare adamantly how much of the world you “know” and how “certain” you are on topics you know nothing about, like when life begins or if a finger up one’s ass during orgasm really increases the distance of the ejaculate, when the only way to know anything is to know it from your own experience. And the only way to know anyone is to know your Self.
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REFLECTION:
Explore your “beliefs” to discover what are your Biggest Buttons. It could be a topic like animal rights or abortion, or maybe a political belief like Obama is not a Socialist, regardless of that belief being factually incorrect. Maybe it comes from the defense mechanisms you used to survive emotionally growing up that turned into conditioning, such as that you don’t have enough, or that all people who “have” are undeserving, or that no one can be trusted, or that if you allow yourself to become vulnerable you will only be hurt. Think about anything that if contradicted would put your panties in a bunch that not even O.J.’s cellmate could unwind. These are your own self-created buttons. Yes, circumstance helped dictate them, but you were the scribe who put them down on paper and the factory worker who molded the buttons and the installer who put them in.
You can justify all you want that, “But this is an important issue!” or “This is not a button but a Truth!” Bullshit. I don’t get up in arms that a tree exists, despite it being a “truth.” Nor does Jesus give a shit whether you pray to him as a savior or pray to a rock as your Lord and Master. The questions to ask yourself are:
- Do you want to give so much power away from yourself to others?
- Do you want to allow others, be it people or circumstances, to be able to control your mood, your emotions, your outlook solely by pushing one of your buttons?
- Do you want to find the unchanging place inside where peace of mind is not traded like a cheap commodity?
- Then what are you waiting for?
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MEDITATION:
Imagine that you have a tumor, a cancer you have created out of your own unconsciousness. Figure out what pattern of thought or action created this cancer. Now get out your scalpel of awareness and start cutting away this malignant growth. When you are free from this mass of dis-ease, think back to when you first started to develop this sickness, and change the pattern to a healthier one. This is the only way to remove all the remaining tentacles of this cancer. Now it is up to you to fill in the remaining hole with love and life.