Enlightening Nonsense

“As Gurdjieff asserted, we are in a prison but we can only escape from it if in fact we realize we are imprisoned.”

—The Three Dangerous Magi: Osho, GurdJieff, Crowley

by P.T. Mistlberger (p. 128)

My first apartment was in The Whitby on 4^5th Street, half a block from the Japanese restaurant Kodama. As a result of its proximity, my parents and I used to frequent it quite a bit whenever they came in to the city to share a dinner and an argument. Now that I am living in Washington Heights, by the time we dodge bullet shots and knife stabs and get to one of the two restaurants in the entire area that doesn’t have a rack of slaughtered animals hanging attractively in the window, I am usually too tired for an argument. I still manage to dig down deep to provide one, as I wouldn’t let a simple thing like an arterial bleed keep me from serving my parents in the capacity of the douchebag son they never wanted.

We were going to see the Broadway show Lysistrata Jones with Ace in that area and so we met at Kodama for a pre-Broadway meal. I came a bit late, as I was busy making sure the nails of my home-done pedicure were perfectly rounded, as I heard that flat nails are for girls and fags and I am certainly not a girl!

When I arrived at the restaurant, it was pretty crowded. They do a pretty good business, as apparently mercury-loaded fish is still a popular delicacy among the fluoride water drinking dumb-downed locals. I cut past the long waiting line voicing loudly, “I am not going to wait with these peasants and so I’ll just find myself a seat—even if it means kicking an already sitting patron out.” The peasants didn’t like this but, strangely enough, one pheasant that was in line didn’t seem to mind. I think she was just stoked she wasn’t hanging upside down and skinned in a Washington Heights restaurant window.

As I approached my table, Ace was engaged in conversation with my parents. I thought that was cool, that she isn’t such a wallflower dud that I would be forced to make my grand entrance over:

“Um. So what do you do for a living, Ace?”

“Um. Work.”

“Work. Nice. Do you know what you’re going to order?”

“Food.”

“Yes, food. Good choice.”

I also hoped that Ace would sap out some of the energy they keep on reserve for vocalizing their nags and stories that I couldn’t give a rat’s ass to hear—not even a rat’s ass that doesn’t work reliably—such as old folk talk about the weather and what I should do to make my business more lucrative, hoping for some silence when I sat down so I wouldn’t have to wait for their death in order for them to shut the fuck up.

I ordered three rolls of avocado and cucumber sushi, a staple that is good to satisfy me but not so good to put into a stapler. Our waiter was an older Japanese man and when I made my order he repeated back, “Three?” and I gave him the affirmation. So you don’t confuse me to be a birdseed eater, each roll contains six pieces, so I had ordered eighteen pieces, knowing full well that my mother would hand over a few of the same from her bento box, and by “bento box” I don’t mean her pussy, which as much as I miss the days of ordering tuna and salmon sushi, after age 60 it became way too fishy and salty for me to even consider eating from.

When our orders arrived, the waiter put down one roll of the sushi—6 pieces. I said, “Yo Slappy, where are the other rolls I ordered?”

He said, “How many did you want?”

I said, “Three, bitch.” I then added out of curiosity and not just prickiness, “What did you hear me say? As when I ordered and you repeated back ‘Three’ and I said, ‘Yes,’ I kind of thought you got it?” He didn’t really respond more than in that little Asian subversive manner that nods with acquiescent eyes to the floor subservient like a slave, all the while plotting the master’s subsequent murder. (Did I use too many “sub” words in that last sentence?)

The sushi had some sweet sauce on it today, which has never been the way it has been served to me before, and I thought that while the waiter was brainless, at least the presentation was good. I also figured that, as fast an eater as I am, I probably wouldn’t be forced to wait around empty-plated for too long, having to pause from my chow down to answer stupid questions from my father like, “So what do you think of this weather?” before Slappy came back with my other two rolls.

I bit in to the sushi and was like, “Shit, negro! That’s one tasty roll!” Maybe it was the added sauce. Maybe it was my excitement to see a Broadway show. Maybe it was my hope that after three months of dating Ace she would finally give me some more action than a kiss on the cheek and by “cheek” I mean my face cheek; at this point if she kissed one of my ass cheeks I’d probably blow a load.

The other two rolls arrived and I was like, “Now this is Heaven! If there were only 71 more virgins…with Ace here to round out the quorum—that would make me in Muslim Heaven!” I ate five of the six pieces and then a realization came to my dumb ass. The revelation travelled from aforementioned dumb ass up to my brain. The delicious taste of these pieces of sushi wasn’t coming from the special sauce, no matter how much semen the sushi chef might have added to it; it wasn’t due to my excitement to spend my parents’ money on overpriced theater tickets to see some dykes and homos prance around on stage; and who was I kidding, Ace wasn’t going to give me anything and unless I could “Jiz In My Pants” at the blow of the wind (as that was the only “blowing” going to take place tonight), it was another night of blue balls that might be enjoyable if they are the 2-ball in pool but dangling beneath one’s pecker it is no sweet fruit. The sushi roll was my favorite roll…from back in my carnivorous days—eel/avocado.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VLnWf1sQkjY

["Jizz In My Pants" from Lonely Island]

It was lucky that Slappy caught me in a stage of my life when I have outgrown my militant vegancy or else the tofu shit would have hit the fan. I would have raised my voice to a mild shout and had every patron looking over as the managers rushed to my table and the maitre d’ got on her knees and swallowed a fresh load of my meat-tainted sperm. I would refuse to pay for my meal and insist that all of our meals—heck, everyone in the restaurants meal—was on the house. But I’ve come to a place where I see any dogma—even for so-called Truth—to be nothing more than a membership card into a cult…and a bore.

Kodama was a-thriving, as none of the once pregnant dummies took notice of the collective 64 birth-defected autistic babies running around and smearing their feces on the wall resulting from them eating a diet high in mercury-laced raw fish, so I had to get up and track our waiter down.

When I found Slappy, I nearly had to grab him from his kamikaze dive bomb into his next table. I told him the situation and he seemed to react that this is the first time I ordered avocado/cucumber sushi. He was so dumbfounded that for a second I thought, “Did I actually slip into a distant past and order eel/avocado—and no one at the table thought that it was a little particular that my animal-loving ass ordered a slaughtered animal corpse?” I realized that this was impossible…right? No, it was!

I said, “Listen, Slappy, you already had your head up your ass when you brought only one order instead of three. Now I’m a vegan—I don’t eat meat. This fuck up of yours could have resulted in you getting punched in the fuckin’ nose if I wasn’t such a mellow motherfucker. Now bring me what I fuckin’ ordered or I will pop a cap in your ass!” My heart-to-heart with Slappy reminded me that when two people connect in union, all thoughts of one of them being a slant-eyed irradiated Jap fade to the background. If this isn’t yoga I don’t know what is!

The blissful union I felt quickly dissipated when Slappy arrived at our table with two rolls of avocado/cucumber rolls. “Where the fuck is the other roll, bitch?”

“You ate the other roll,” Slappy said and I nearly shit myself and started to smear my stinky waste on the walls.

“What the fu—? Listen, you prick…I am already regretting that we didn’t drop more bombs on you yellow bastards in World War II…first of all, I left one piece of that last WRONG ORDER roll on the plate. But, and listen carefully—I AM A VEGAN. I DON’T EAT MEAT. This is like you serving an Orthodox Jew pork. You have violated me like a Penn State football coach. Now do the right thing, if not for business than to protect your slant eyes from being blackened, and bring me another fuckin’ roll of avocado/cucumber! And Slappy—THERE IS NO EEL IN AN AVOCADO/CUCUMBER ROLL! You got that, tough guy??”

My parents tried to chime in to “help” the situation. I told them to shut the fuck up and they did. I had a nostalgic moment to when I was a kid and was constantly told to shut the fuck up by my parents and how now the roles were reversed. The circle of life, my friends. The circle of life.

Slappy brought my fuckin’ other roll and all was forgiven—after I excused myself to the bathroom and wrote in capital letters on the wall:

FUKUSHIMA NUCLEAR POWER PLANT:

IRRADIATING JAPS SINCE HIROSHIMA

As I had left my crayon home, I had to use shit. Dude, don’t be gross—it was my own.

I used to have a pattern of taking everything to extremes. While others were becoming vegetarian, I was looking into how to become a breathearian. “Enjoying your carrot sticks? Yeah, that is a bit heavy for me. But I must say, this air in here is just delightful!” When my friends started to shave their faces, I would shave my whole body. “If you saw the movie ‘Powder’ you’d friggin’ get it.” While others were seeking to get laid, I sought to be laid from a chicken. After rupturing a few hens’ rectums with a shoehorn, I gave up on this dream and relegated my shoehorn solely for tongue depressing. And it’s worked, my tongue, once happy and carefree, has every since been depressed.

My vegan dogmatism resulted in me not having a winter coat for a couple of years because the huge and heavy warm coat my Dad handed me down had a few tiny strips of leather around the sleeves. It resulted in me throwing out or donating anything that had a touch of animal on or in it, including my detachable Rollerblades that were totally convenient for me to convert to boots and go into stores that don’t allow you to roll down their aisles—which is most—and then pop on my wheels and roll to my next destination with ease because one day rolling I looked down and realized the boot was made out of suede and while I never ate suede, I would be damned if I would support the slaughter of a flock of suede with my rolling advertisement. By the time I realized the error of my ways these Rollerblades were discontinued.

Not to mention it slightly inhibited my ability to enjoy a time out with friends, as I was constantly “boycotting” that restaurant for serving foie gras and protesting that store because they sold fur. I even dropped wearing my 9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB T-shirts and sweatshirt and talking about this obvious FACT as I grew tired of ruining dinners.

Whether you are committed to a job or justice, a cause or country, and sometimes even a person, usually you are just one step from being committed to an asylum. I rather cut out the middleman and just submit myself to a loony bin where I can blow spittle bubbles and smear my shit on the walls with reckless abandon.

I have come to a point where I have questioned if following anything—be it a religion or eating pattern—in a fundamentalist way does not make you free…but only a douche. Forgetting what it does to others—from burka’ed beaten Islamic women, to pedophile priests, from book burning bastards to President I’madoucheandfag of Iran proudly declaring that there are no gays in Iran after his gay burning Bonfire of the Faggeties—what does it do to the individual?

The individual soul is already trapped by it’s jailer—the Ego’s identification with the body’s shape and sex, religion, means of employment and thoughts and beliefs—to add one more steel-tipped Doc Martin wearing guard at the gates of the jail cell is not going to help one liberate himself from the jail of self-identity. I made the declaration that I would extricate myself from my jail cell at all costs—even if that meant leaving it in a body bag—as even with the pleasant curtains and Hindu goddess wall hangings of the New Age, living in a jail cell is no life for a free soul but just another trick of the Ego to keep you from seeing that the prison guards and walls and bars are INTOLERABLE.

What is harder for most to see is that the prison guards and walls and bars are not outside obstructions to freedom but are built and maintained by one’s own continually fed identification system with his small self. The only hope for freedom is to abandon your inheritance of a religion, a belief system, a moral code based on dead men printed in dead books and to be born again, coming out of the Universe’s beautiful womb and realizing that you are the Lord and “there is no other.”

“I am the LORD, and there is no other; apart from me there is no God. I will strengthen you, though you have not acknowledged me.”

—Isaiah 45:5, New International Version

"And let me declare my one Law: Only Mormons are getting into Heaven."