Enlightening Nonsense

It was a long day where nothing seemed to go without a hitch. It started with Ogre and myself following bad car directions to get to Connecticut for a hike with my brother and all of our dogs. This was the first time she was meeting anyone in my family. I started feeling tense, not because I was nervous about any “impression” my brother would leave on her, other than a crusty dried patch of semen from blowing a load in her face. Nor was my tension based on me being Germanly devoted to order and structure and killing Jews at the expense of happiness.

It was more because I started to feel the tension of my brother and Ogre who are Germanly devoted to order and structure—which would be fine if they also enjoyed a good Jew roasting here and there. When Abandon started to whine in the car like she is prone to and Ogre barked at me, “Will you shut that dog the fuck up?” I was ready to open the passenger side door and tuck and roll the fuck out of there.

Hiking in snowy-covered nature with your dog companion is always nice, well, unless you’re running from a bear or something, and even my Nazi hiking companions couldn’t take that entirely away from me and soon I started to forget the misery of Ogre’s advice on how to appease Abandon’s nerves with, “Cut out her vocal cords or at least smack her across the fuckin’ face!”

When we finished the hike and arrived back at the parking lot, only the faint smell of burning Jew was in the air. It soon became revealed that Ogre had dropped the rental car’s key on the hike and suddenly a whole temple of Jews was thrown in the oven. This led to her shedding tears of frustration. My brother, ever the nice guy, felt bad about her upset. Me on the other hand was feeling pretty chipper about it all, thinking this would give me some good material to exploit for my un-blog, as well as to bring up as a trump card in the future when she starts to feel all high and mighty about what a moron I am in order to remind her that she is also a rider of the Short Bus.

We backtracked over the hike like German guards searching for an escaped Jew; only the Jew in this case was the set of car keys. I wanted to say, “Uh guys, I’m a little tired from the hike, so I’ll just wait for you two douches in the parking lot,” but thought that one asshole is plenty efficient with which to defecate and having Ogre rip me a new one would just be superfluous, so I goose-stepped along with the others. And miracle of miracles—we found the keys! To me this was certain proof in the existence of God, only equal in verifiable proof of God as when the one day’s supply of oil for the eternal light for the temple lasted for eight days giving us the holiday of Chanukah, providing a fairytale equal to the Christian myth so that little Jewish children wouldn’t have to cry themselves to sleep like little bitches while all the Christian kids got spoiled with toys from their parents and handjobs from their priests.

When we got back to the house my sister-in-law greeted us in a pair of dirty sweats and glasses, a look that has been responsible for my brother’s flaccid penis for the past several years and has now made it that I, too, have been cursed with a semi-permanent limp biscuit [For more on my soft pecker see “My Limp Biscuit” at http://rebelyogi.com/amy-rachelle-and-my-limp-biscuit.html].

On the ride home, Ogre had to pee terribly and got into a minor freak-out if she were going to make it to a pisser or piss her pants. We raced to the city and through the help of the breathing techniques I learned in Lamaze class from when I got a girl pregnant but after seeing what an idiot I was she decided to just use a hanger and abort our child, I helped her through her crisis and we made it to a Target where she hit the bull’s-eye (agreed, totally lame) and emptied her bladder. I’ve been in that situation myself and once just whipped it out and peed on the floor; needless to say, the restaurant never welcomed me back.

If that wasn’t enough, after dropping me off at my apartment, I soon got a call from Ogre, where she informed me that the men in blue were in the process of giving her a ticket for driving while talking on her iPhone. Apparently it is perfectly legal to talk on any phone while driving with the exception of the iPhone because screw Bill Gates!

It seemed the day couldn’t get any worse but just in case I remained prepared for a call from Ogre saying, “I stopped at the clinic on the way home on account of blood coming out of my ass and discovered that I have a mild case of AIDS. Should I pick up anything for dinner?” to which I would reply, sensitive to the situation, “It seems you’ve picked up enough, whore.” I was so prepared for the AIDS call that I found myself almost disappointed when it didn’t come, like an actor who after preparing his lines so well finds out that there is in fact no play and that he slept with the director for nothing.

When not swallowing down semen, is almost always either eating or doing food preparation for her next meal, and by “food preparation” I mean checking the menu on her iPhone for the next restaurant where she is planning to engorge herself. Ogre’s favorite restaurant is the vegan restaurant Angelica’s in the East Village and after calling them with her surgically attached iPhone, we found out their kitchen didn’t close until 10:30. It was almost 10:00 at night and so we raced downtown like Doc in his time-traveling Lamborghini and made it to Angelica’s in time for Ogre’s 10:30 feeding.

There were no private tables available—because this is New York City and everyone goes out to dinner at 10:30 at night—we were seated at a communal table which seemed to have no one but geriatrics sucking down their meals through a straw while on the other end they filled up their adult diapers. To our right was an old man peering through a jeweler’s magnifier that was an inch away from his newspaper, apparently catching up on the latest of his friends to get their name in print in the Obituary section. To our left was a silver-haired woman who either was in complete bliss from the green soup in front of her or so brain dead that was equivalent to being human furniture waiting to be wheeled out to the lumberyard and broken into scrap material.

I ordered for Ogre because, while I don’t wear a tuxedo except for on those occasions when I am being lowered into the ground in my casket or order drinks “shaken not stirred,” I am a classy guy and would go into more detail about this if I weren’t too busy right now combing my itchy balls with a lice comb. Normally I would never risk guessing what Ogre would want, as she has already removed my testicles and put them in a jar in a high cabinet out of reach and I would fear the meal would arrive, the waiter would lift the metal serving cover and there on the platter would be sitting my head. But Ogre eats at Angelica’s about five times a week and always orders the same thing and, being a risk-taker, I thought I was up for the challenge.

“The lady will have the four combination with three greens and one three-grain. She would also like not one but two black sesame seed dressings on the side. To drink she’ll have your lemonade and when it comes time for dessert she’ll have the cookie of the day. I’ll have the linguini in clam sauce.” She was impressed and, at least for the moment, the day’s drama seemed to fade into a forgotten haze.

The old fogy next to us asked, “Do you come here often?” revealing that she was not, in fact, comatose.

“I don’t, as I am a broke hobo, but she comes here almost every day,” I answered, indicating Ogre.

“The food here is great,” said the hag with green soup dripping down her chin and spinach stuck in her teeth.

When the food came, both the serving staff and myself were mindful to keep our hands and feet away from Ogre’s mouth as she shoved down her gullet anything that wasn’t nailed to the table. She was feeling better about things and felt relaxed enough to share a couple of stories about her two favorite pastimes: biking and eating.

“So I was riding my bike in the city and this cab driver cut me off and I was like, ‘DUDE, ARE YOU FUCKIN’ SERIOUS?’” I looked over at old droopy skin to see her gasp as a result of Ogre’s cursy mouth and drop her dentures into her soup.

For desert we had the cookie of the day, which was similar in taste to all raw cookies that have been spending the past 48 hours in a dehydrator—a mix of cardboard and small stones that is a full-body massage for the section on your tongue that processes tastelessness. I said, “I like this cookie,” for it did taste like a better grade of cardboard than the last one I had there.

“The best cookie they have here is the orange-ginger supreme. The shit is dope!” said Ogre. At this point the old bag of bones next to me went into cardiac arrest and had to be rushed to the hospital by paramedics; perhaps she was a Mormon. Either way, I was glad to have a little more breathing room.

Now I am not against the occasional sprinkling of profanity or a reference to a pedophile priest or a nun’s dry vagina. On rare occasions even I season my writing with these spices. But spices overused start making everything taste like every meal in an Indian restaurant that smells the same going in as coming out.

Believe it or not, while I spend the majority of my writing swimming in the cesspool of profanity with a snorkel to see what tasty morsels of chunky corn poo I can come up with, in person I don’t really curse that much. I mean, on occasion I might but only in the most justified situation, like if I ask my mother to pass me the salt and she by mistake handed me the pepper I might say, “You cum-catching cunt! What part of ‘salt’ sounded remotely like ‘pepper’!”

I find cursing similar to when black people speak in Ebonics—low class. “I axed him if he had change for a dollar” usually leads me to respond, “I assumed being black that you were a criminal but I had no idea that you were an axe murderer as well.” When people speak constantly using curses, as in the common phrase, “Shit, I’d a fucked him up if he wasn’t such a pussy!” I usually want to respond, “Get some class. You’re sounding like a black person,” but ever since Obama became President, referring to a black person as a stupid monkey has fallen out of fashion.

Being a hippie doesn’t just mean I smoke a lot of weed and pay little or no attention to personal hygiene (despite this describing me pretty accurately.) I am all for free love, free food and free expression. But just because we can say anything we want, should we? Are our loose-lips an expression of freedom, or lack of control? If I were to be the keynote speaker at the Mormon Church of Latter Day Saints, or whatever those fools are called, my speech would probably refrain from calling them all “fuckin’ freaks” and “fairytale fucks.” Okay, that might have been a bad example as I am guessing that I would refer to them with those labels—but I guess my point is that if you are not a foul-mouthed swami with no regard for those around you, why would you speak like trailer park trash? Unless you are trailer park trash, like Ninja, that is.

I can see Ogre saying to me, “I want to be able to speak freely. If I have to monitor everything I say for you, that would be a fuckin’ headache.” I don’t necessarily think that one should monitor anything for anyone else. Just last week I was walking down the cancer ward at Sloan Kettering and saw some little boy dying of leukemia and said, “Man, I was going to make a pedophile joke about bending you over and fucking you in the ass but you look so horrid that not even that tight ass of yours could get me hard.” But I didn’t. I didn’t do it for him. I did it for me.

This filthy swami has been enjoying playing around in the mud but when I grow tired of it, I come out of the dirt and take a friggin’ bath. How many of you are ready to wash away the stink of old definitions? Are you ready to drop your false beliefs that freedom means saying any inane thing that pops into your head at any time, whether what comes off as music to you is heard as noise pollution to everyone else? When are you going to see that Who You Are is not your ideas, or your philosophies, or your political party affiliations, or your hairstyle, or the friends you hang out with, or how long you can fuck without blowing a load (I’m up to 16 seconds!), or your job, or your self-created categorization as someone who is “spiritual” or “cool” or “smart” or “fun”? What will it take? Do you have to lose your job, lose your partner, read a book with a different philosophy and become a born-again whatever-ist?  Does your child have to die before you stop defining yourself as a “mother” or “father” or “parent”?

Unlike Abraham, I don’t need some “God” to tell me to bring my son to the mountain and sacrifice him in the name of God. I would gladly cut the little bastard’s throat without the need of some psychotic “God’s” test—because I want to be free, not to serve God but to serve my Self. And after my son’s throat, I would cut God’s throat next, for if serving him meant that I was to live confined inside a newly defined role as “server,” that bitch would have to die as well.

As comedian Buddy Hackett has said, cursing may be the natural response when you are cleaning in the garage and an anvil falls on your head. I am also partial to the word “bullshit” and if someone is trying to pass themselves off as an expert because they memorized a passage in some book they just read, it is more than proper to look them in the eye and say, “Bullshit!” Other than that, one should show some fuckin’ class and mind their curses so they don’t sound like some dumb, ass-fucked cunt or a cum-dripping cock.

In addition, you masochists have chosen to subject yourself to my potty fingers and their typing and so fuck you and any complaints you may make regarding my cursing. But some old geriatric just trying to eat her green soup in peace before she dies, which may be at any minute, doesn’t deserve to be bathed with a sponge soaked in your dirty dialogue. So mind your P’s and Q’s and keep your ear to the grindstone. Because you’re all suspect!

REFLECTION:

What are you willing to drop in order to reside in your Self? “But I like being a feminist/a fighter/a sewer mouth!” Then you have answered the question: being a feminist/a fighter/a sewer mouth is more important than being your Self. It will be disorienting and scary to drop all you take as yourself. And if you don’t desire to reside in this over everything else, I would strongly recommend against it, as most will leave the battle in a body bag. Then there are some who choose to plunge head first into battle, desiring more to have their heads cut off than to kill others in defense of their ideals and definitions and personified gods and imaginary borders. To those people I say, “It’s a great day to die!”

MEDITATION:

Imagine you were hit on the head with a falling anvil, just like in the cartoons, and after exclaiming, “FUCK, WHAT DUMB MOTHER FUCKER LEFT THAT THERE?” you couldn’t remember anything about who you are. You forgot your job, your philosophies—even your shoe size! Imagine walking in your world and interacting with people without having preconceived ideas and notions about who they are, what defines someone as smart or stupid, with a sense of child-like trust without the adult mind grabbing your wrist and pulling you away and warning you—for your safety—not to play with strangers.

Imagine walking in nature and seeing the trees and hearing the birds and feeling the cool water of a mountain stream on your feet and watching the sky change colors as the sun sets. What would this feel like? If you answer rapidly, “That would be awesome!” you are kidding yourself that you are free from the trappings of your mind’s grasp. Perhaps you would feel tiny and insignificant in the huge canopy of nature. Perhaps the bird’s songs would be like fingernails on chalkboards to you. Perhaps the cold water would feel icy and painful to your feet. Perhaps the colorful sky would bring you fear…or awe.

Like imagining a color that you have never seen, none of these imaginings can prepare you for life. They can only show you the only thing you really know: “I don’t know.” And perhaps this will start the stripping away process and leave you alone with only our Self. I’m guessing that when that happens you will be alone but not feel lonely. But then again, I don’t know.