Enlightening Nonsense

A man walks into a restaurant bathroom needing to take a piss. While relieving himself, a 2-foot man goes to the lower children’s urinal next to him and pulls out a schlong that would make even legendary porn star Long Dong Silver gasp. The man considered himself predominantly straight, but he couldn’t help but stare with his mouth agape at the small man’s cock.

He took a little longer to wash his hands and when the small man finished his piss, he finally couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m not gay or anything but that is the biggest cock I’ve ever seen!”

In full Irish brogue the little man said, “Yes, that is one of the benefits of being a leprechaun.”

The man asked, “Is there anyway that I could get a cock that big?”

“There is one way,” said the little man, “But I doubt you are willing enough to do it.”

“Tell me, I’ll do anything!” blurted out the man.

“Well, to get a wang this big, you have to get fucked up the ass by a leprechaun,” said the small man.

“Damn, that is harsh. But okay, I’ll do it! I mean, a dick that big…!”

The man dropped his drawers and bent over the sink. The little man plowed the man’s ass like a power drill penetrating cement. After the little man blew his load, he zipped up and started to walk out of the bathroom. The man looked down at his pecker and said, “Wait, my dick’s still the same size.”

The little man looked over his shoulder and said, “Aren’t you a little old to be believing in leprechauns?”

Manipulation comes in many forms and often the goal of it is to fuck someone in the ass. With regards to Duck, I was straight up, making it clear that’s where I was heading [see “The Anal Sex Debate” http://rebelyogi.com/the-anal-sex-debate.html and “The Anal Sex Debate: Take 2” http://rebelyogi.com/the-anal-sex-debate-take-2.html] But most people are not so straight, in a non-leprechaun-fucking-you-up-the-ass form of the word.

I went to Chunk’s house for dinner. She had dropped out of my meet-up group, “Yoga Without Walls” [http://yoga.meetup.com/758/] and back then when people would bail out, I would send them an email asking why they left the group. Now I don’t give a shit, in fact I’m usually happy that my group contains one less deadbeat who never RSVPs or one less yoga poser who needs to lecture me on how “un-yogic” I am because I have a sense of humor, don’t take yoga or myself too seriously and make leprechaun jokes.

She had just come from a yoga class and I was waiting in her lobby for about 15-minutes for her to arrive at our scheduled time. I didn’t really care. I sat on some phone books and let my ass do the walking. Now she had shown an obvious interest in me and I had told her that I didn’t want her to be anything more than a friend who occasionally blew me and took a load in her face and gives me an occasional free meal.

After settling in her apartment, she told me she was going to take a shower. She turned on the television and I told her to turn it off, that I don’t need any mindless entertainment to keep me occupied; sitting on the couch was fine for me. She then said, “So, I’m going to be naked in there.” I considered that this was a comment to my poor hygiene and the suggestion that if I took my clothes off during my once a month shower that it might be more effective at cleaning the funky fromunda cheese smell from my balls. But that wasn’t it.

She was doing the old, “Don’t think of purple elephants” Jedi mind trick. By placing the image in my head of her naked and only separated by a door, she was subtly trying to manipulate me. And it worked. I puked in my mouth and out of courtesy swallowed it instead of walking over to her sink and spitting chunks.

Quiche at the bank loved my writing and would always ask when I was going to write something about her. The first piece that I introduced Quiche to my growing audience of sicko-phants, was “A Second-Hand Emotion” [http://rebelyogi.com/a-second-hand-emotion] I included the line, “I’m guessing she was being facetious but it was also possible that all my talk about taking her in the vault and banging her had finally worn down her defenses.”

The next time I went into the bank, I asked in the loving way that I express myself, “So are you happy now, bitch?” I told the other customers who looked at me in horror for calling Quiche a bitch to mind their own fuckin’ business.

Quiche told me that she smiled when she read the piece. If she shut up there, that would have been fine. But instead she had to be like a pain-in-the-ass girl who you just fucked who now wants to cuddle and talk about “emotions.”

“I’m a very visual person and so I could really had an image of what you wrote.” She was referring to banging her in the vault. She basically was saying, “I was imagining you fucking me,” which might be flattering to some but I don’t really need to hear your masturbation practices. What’s next, telling me how you rubbed your clit with the index finger while penetrating your puss with the middle and ring finger? It’s the same subtle manipulation that Chunk pulled.

Just tell me you want to fuck me. While I still may pull a “puke and swallow,” at least I’ll respect you more for the directness. Otherwise you become like the Passive-Aggressive Pussies (PAPs) who are “too enlightened” to voice their anger with you so instead will disguise it by speaking in a soft voice as if what they are sharing with you is care and guidance, when all they really “care” for is you dying a painful death and the only “guidance” they would like to give you is into an oncoming truck.

I’ve known Loriya for about four years. She’s a popular yoga teacher and the main teacher that I assisted in order to receive my yoga teacher’s certification. I have also taken about 100 classes with her, more than with any other teacher. She teaches a crappy class but she guests me in for free and while I have purged myself of any of the Jewish poison in which I was raised, I still like free shit.

A Jewish dilemma: FREE HAM.

She was at the start of some break-up way back and after non-stop whining every time I saw her, I finally had to say, “Look, I come to you just for free crappy yoga. I don’t really care about your personal problems.” I think she slit her wrist that night. The next time I took free crappy yoga, which she taught with bandaged wrists, I waited for her after class. Seeing me there, she came up to me and gave me a hug. I whispered in her ear, “If you want to do it right, you make the cuts vertical,” and left. I mean, seriously, if you fail at killing yourself, you have no chance of succeeding at living!

When Loriya told me that she had a new boyfriend I was very happy. Not for her so much but so I didn’t have to hear anymore sobbing about how, “Sure, he beats me with a pipe, but I still think we have something special.” She told me how, like me, he is into Osho and that she thinks I’d like him.

I’m into Jesus but just about everyone who claims to dig Jesus is a douchebag in my mind. And if I based my “like” for people solely on what hobbies they do or whom they like, I’d probably join the KKK based on my hatred for blacks and Jews.

Finally Loriya was teaching a benefit class for some world tragedy like Haiti where we all pretend to give a shit about AIDS-ridden Voodoos. I actually had to pay for this class but, on occasion, I like to support my friends by sharing in what they are passionate about, kind of like how my ex-friend Dizzy fits into her busy schedule attending all her actor friends shows and yet never makes it anymore to any of my “shows,” in the form of yoga classes.

Her boyfriend, E. Van Douche, was there. After the class, we talked and, yes, he said he liked Osho and he was into conspiracy theories and for a minute I became weak-kneed and considered fucking him. He was a nice guy and I liked him yet even then I could detect an heir of yuppie privileged prick in him. But as much of a dick as I admittedly am, I was happy to see Loriya happy and treated with a Coke and a smile instead of a pipe to the face. It was only later that it became evident that E. Van Douche’s pipe came in the form of anger and dominant manipulation, instead of the way a real man expresses his pipe—with a big hard-on that pleasures his woman. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xffOCZYX6F8]

So after I took my 112^th free crappy yoga class and just finished going through my after-class inner dialogue of, “I friggin’ hate that class!” “Yes, but it’s free.” “But what is the point, it is boring, stupid and filled with yoga poser clichés?” “Yes, but it’s free.” “Alright, good point.” “Hey, what are you doing later?” I’ll probably be right here in Swami X’s head.” “Do you think I could join you?” “Sure.” “Nice,” when I saw Loriya was not her usual Buddha-quoting self.

“What’s wrong with you, bitch?”

“E. Van Douche and I are taking a break,” she said through down-gazing eyes.

She was vulnerable and this was a time for sensitivity. “Does that mean I can tap that ass?” I said. In hindsight, I think she thought I meant her ass but what I really wanted to do was go all leprechaun on his ass.

We went to the Hummus Hut where she ordered a variety of hummus and beets and tahini to dip your bread into and I stood there like my dog, drooling and waiting for her to throw me the scraps. I also pretended to care about her feelings.

It seemed that E. Van Douche was giving her the old, “I love you but I am feeling that perhaps I am not honoring my own freedom” bullshit speech which is given by a guy when he wants to keep the girl but fuck other women, knowing full well that if he just came out and said, “How about an open relationship where I can dunk my dipstick in every hole I see and still be able to come home to a home-cooked meal prepared by you who is barefoot and pregnant—only not pregnant because that would not only require me to be responsible but would also make you fat.”

I listened to the heartbroken Loriya and even gave some thoughts on the matter but I realized that there was nothing I could do to speed up or slow down another’s process, that only by going through the fire can you come out and say, “Damn that was hot!” and no amount of lectures on fire or reading about fire or attending a 3-day weekend with a panel of experts on fire will prepare you for the heat.

But what was even freakier to me was that I had gone through an almost identical passageway as E. Van Douche. I was with TCT for five years. I loved her. I felt a deep soul connection with her. She was beautiful and creative and “up to speed,” meaning even if she didn’t fully agree with some of my “out there” thoughts and concepts—like protesting circuses by sticking M-80s in the elephants asses and when they go through the hoop of fire they would blow their asses off—she could easily come to an understanding of what I was talking about. You don’t know how many people react to what I say with either a look of confusion or an interpretation that is simplistic and has nothing to do with what I meant.

Jesus had just finished the parable of the mustard seed, sharing with his listeners that the Kingdom of God is like a grain of mustard seed, which may be smaller than all the rest but when sown in the Earth it will become greater than any other and it will provide food and shade and comfort to all who choose to make shelter by it.

After weeks of his disciples going off on “missions,” like the Mormons do, they each came back and approached their Lord and Savior. One by one they opened their palms and released the handfuls of mustard seeds they had brought. “We brought mustard seeds just like you wanted, Lord,” said Peter.

Jesus’ brow crinkled and he looked at Peter. “Not only will you deny me three times, but you’re a friggin’ idiot on top of that! Is that all you fools got from that great speech I gave—that you should go out and collect mustard seeds??”

“Yes, Lord.” “Yes, mustard seeds, Lord.” “Yes, that’s what we understood,” came the consensus.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” said Jesus. “I thought I was powerful enough to pick twelve deadbeats and transform them by filling them with my glory but I was clearly wrong. Is there not one of you who is not a complete moron here?”

Luke raised his bowed head and said, “By ‘filling us with your glory,’ did you mean your semen? If so, I’d like to be the first to volunteer.”

It was then that Jesus turned himself in and begged Pontus Pilate to crucify him.

E. Van Douche was in the, “love her but my dick wants other pussy” stage. He was also into the, “I am so obsessed with conspiracy theory that I will ruin every dinner or event I go to by shoving it down everyone’s throat” stage. Loriya told me how they went to a New Year’s party at a Jewish friend of hers’ place and how her friend came up to her looking totally disturbed as she reported how E. Van Douche was in the other room preaching to everyone that the numbers of Jews killed in the Holocaust was manipulated by the New World Order and totally inaccurate and that perhaps they should go. Loriya told me that her friend was going to be getting married and might not even invite them to the wedding now for fear that when the rabbi said, “If anyone objects to this marriage, let them speak now or forever hold their peace,” that E. Van Douche would stand up and start a long rant about how the Holocaust was a sham.

I’ve been there, too. I ruined many a family dinner by standing on the table and shouting at the top of my lungs, “9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB!” My family was also banned from many restaurants because of these outbursts. I finally grew up. Not that I don’t know 9/11 to be an inside job and not that I don’t care about it or won’t share this information to others, but—maybe I’m just a tired old sap, but I prefer to enjoy myself rather than be in misery about what a manipulated shithole the world is.

I had actually sold E. Van Douche most of my Conspiracy Collection for $300, which amounted to about 50 documentaries and many CDs and a partridge in a pear tree. I gave him the partridge because her singing was starting to fuckin’ bug me, always singing the same Tori Amos song over and over. I gave him the tree because the partridge wouldn’t leave without it.

I told him that I had a 5-dvd set that I couldn’t find but that I hoped to give to him when I did. After piling in more items than I had originally listed, I think my word choice was somewhat intentional. “I hope” is not the same as “I will” and to add a $150 set that is not available anywhere for less than that started to make me feel like I was ripping myself off.

When I found it I told him that I would sell it to him for $100. He wanted to negotiate the price down and I said that I thought $50 off was fair. Later after some back and forth emails, he shared how he thought I was Jewing him on the price because I said I was going to give him and how he wished Hitler had finished the job.

Like I said, if I said, “I will give you the set,” I would have, as I am a man of my word. But even I would have felt dicked by that. I ended up dropping them off to his concierge. His concierge said, “Thanks!” and I think he thought it was a gift for him.

Now I don’t have a problem with him being mad about that and expressing this because, unlike most New-Age flakes, I don’t think anger is anything more than one of our emotions with equal value to the others. The only problem with anger is when we hold onto it longer than we should and eat ourselves up from the inside or when we use it to manipulate or dominate another.

But in the emails, E. Van Douche, would write things like how “no one else would have given you the money I gave you” and how, “Most are available online for free and had I know, I wouldn’t have bought them from you.” These is manipulation tactics and Homey don’t play that. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QhuBIkPXn0] You buy a Cadillac from me, if you want to try and Jew me before hand, which means pull my wiener out and cut off its foreskin, you do so at the time of sale, not afterwards. If you discover a trunk of free videos in a Swiss bank stored there with all the Jew gold collected by the Nazis from the prisoners’ teeth—whether it was 6 million who perished or “only” 4.5 million—you can cry about your previous purchase by yourself; that’s not my affair. If you cry about it afterwards, you are trying to make me feel guilty or wrong and I have a lump of coal in my heart and don’t feel anything, especially when it comes from an E. Van Douche.

Loriya told me and even shared emails they had back and forth at the end—and I saw it the three times we were together—how he had a need for being the center of attention and how he controlled her, which was especially easy because she was a pussy he didn’t put a boot in his ass.

She told me how she went back to his apartment to pick up some of her stuff that she had there when they were living together and she walked in on him in his bedroom with a girl. He wasn’t banging her but just “talking.” In the emails he shifted the blame onto her, with an, “I am so hurt you would accuse me of that.” A serious manipulator won’t sink below playing the victim for a power struggle and playing the victim is always being a pussy. Even if you are the victim, just shut up and cut off his dick and throw it out the window into a field like a Bobbitt.

I’ve done it. In high school, my friend Cutsdin’s father worked for the airlines and had these excellent walkie-talkies. I stole them. When Cutsdin confronted me and asked if I took them, I gave him the same old pussy victim game that E. Van Douche gave Loriya. “I can’t believe you would accuse me of stealing them!” Needless to say, when guilt had finally gotten the best of me and I gave him back the talkies, I not only was a confirmed thief and liar but a victim-pretending douchebag as well.

I no longer think or act like the majority of men out there but I am telling you, E. Van Douche was macking on that girl and if Loriya showed up 10-minutes later, he would have been playing the victim with, “How dare you make me out to be the bad guy! She had an irritation in her vagina and I was just applying some healing cream with my penis.” He wasn’t mad at her for accusing him of being a snake, he was mad at her for messing up his action.

I don’t judge his actions. I’ve been there. I’ve done that. I’ve stolen, cheated, burned a bee hive with a lighter and a can of aerosol, broken into a movie theater after hours, pushed a nerd into a thorn bush, tripped my friend Nussy’s old dog when he was walking up the stairs—you name it, I did it. I don’t list these as anything I am proud of, although the tripped dog did limp around for a few hours and the smell of burnt bee is almost as delightful of the smell of burnt Jew. I list them to say that I am far from anyone who can judge anyone else for their actions.

But I have grown to the point where I still do judge something—consciousness. In truth, one shouldn’t judge anything. Everyone is where they are at “on the path” and to get mad at someone for being in kindergarten when you are in graduate school is just ridiculous. But I don’t like bullshit and what I see more often than not is people who are in kindergarten deluded themselves that they are in grad school. And that’s bullshit.

Back when I didn’t think E. Van Douche was a total douche, I offered to talk with him during the separation. I told him that I don’t care if he gets back with Loriya or not, that all I wanted to discuss with him was about consciousness—what he was going through, what patterns in him led to this point and is this a pattern he wants to keep, etc. He thanked me but took a pass.

When I offered him some awareness about his issues regarding dominance and anger he got pissed and told me that he need any unsolicited advice, “especially from you,” and told me not to email him anymore. He quickly followed that with another email that apologized and said that he is in a difficult place and feeling very hurt and alone. I apologized back to him for stepping into his house unannounced and uninvited. I did say that I was curious about what he meant by “especially from you.”

After I found the 5-dvd set and pitched him on buying them, I mentioned that I was still curious what he meant when he wrote, “especially from you.” I told him that perhaps he had something to teach me on how I come across to others. That last part was a lie, as I have already graduated from playing with blocks and a kindergarten douchebag like him has nothing to teach me. I told him that I figured it was just him feeling attacked/judged and slapping back, which was fine.

He told me that all that he meant by that comment that he feels I don’t know him well enough and for no other reason. Now that’s just bullshit. “Especially” implied a specific defect I might contain. While I contain many defects, including forgetting to flush the toilet after taking a dump in people’s homes, partly because I don’t see how that would do anything, being I take the dump on their floors, I don’t contain the defect of not being able to decipher a slapback when I see one.

But what I found especially pussiated by his lack of owning up to his action is that I gave him an out and said it was okay. I mean, if Cutsdin said to me, “Look, I’m guessing you took the walkie-talkies because you thought they are cool and I totally understand that, but my dad needs them so can you give them back?” how could I refuse his grace. Okay, I would have but that is just another one of my defects.

I’m reminded of when Alex came to me for a health consultation and said he would buy four bottles of my prostate formula. I told him that would be $100. He agreed and after I prepared his bottles, using resources and spending my own money to make it have even more of a kick, he just never responded to my calls. Finally I got through to him and I specifically asked, “Dude, do you no longer want them or is it about the money? Just let me know.” He responded, “No, no,” and told me he was still in. Months later after a campaign of mine to call him daily, he finally sent me a text message that said, “You try to rip me off.” I consulted my Ebonics translator and asked him, “Why didn’t you just tell me you thought it was too much when I specifically asked you?” His language was so poor that even my Ebonics translator said, “I cant’s understand nuthin’ this nigger be speakin’!” [See “Alexander The Weak" http://rebelyogi.com/alexander-the-weak]

One piece of advice I did sent Loriya awhile back during the break and before the official break-up, was a vision I had of one possible, and likely, future. I shared this with her not to act “deep” or “spiritual” or “gifted” but because I saw this as the possible future that could fuck her up even more than she was now.

I saw E. Van Douche coming back after many months of fucking around (I didn’t tell her about the fucking around part) and giving her a sob story about how, “I realized I was wrong and that I want to be with you more than anything in the world!” once again playing the victim and using it to manipulate (didn’t share that either.) They would get back together and for a little it would seem like everything was hunky-dory. Soon she would start to become aware of his old pattern of abuse rearing its ugly head again. She would try to justify this away with, “Maybe it is just me being hypersensitive,” in the way that a beaten wife justifies her husband’s beatings as anything other than he’s a bastard. Eventually she would see that nothing had changed, only now she would be more invested in the fiction of the relationship, maybe even with a ring on her finger. She assured me that this would not happen.

I took a free crappy yoga class with Loriya last week. Afterwards we were walking together and she told me that her and E. Van Douche started to see each other again. I had nothing to say, nor because I was shocked, not because I had no thoughts on the matter. I just didn’t care.

People have to walk their own walk and no amount of advice you can offer will be of any use. At worse it will be taken as a nagging annoyance. At best it will help prevent them from experiencing pain—temporarily—but because the lesson was not experienced and only memorized, the same situation will occur again, only this time probably harder.

I would say I hope things work out for them but I don’t really care. It is not my affair and I don’t want to waste even an iota of my energy thinking about it. After the last email that E. Van Douche sent me which continued to deny his manipulation with me and which included a few digs to boot, instead of feeling the need to respond point by point and show him where he erred, I just wrote a single line back, commenting on a word he created describing how our “relationship” has unfolded:

“I liked the word ‘frictitious’.”

I don’t believe in leprechauns.