Among the many religious warriors waking up this morning wearing hand-me-down big-boy pants featuring reinforced pockets for hauling loads of heavy ammunition, none were followers of any incarnation of any Buddha. None had hanging doubts that gnawed at raw ugly innards. None recognized the likeness of Elmer Fudd appearing in their distorted mirrors. None were caught wiping illicitly with the one incorrect hand. No blinding light penetrated inside sun-bleached skulls to wash away dark wet dreams.
Doesn’t admissible evidence show that the same drab olive pants worn year after year tend to become tattered and frayed in the crotch area like the concentric three-ring-circus tents that used to spotlight captured mental slaves in monkey suits and chains? That’s when the little head lurking in the folds and shadows starts to sneak around with impunity and jerk the big head’s chain. The side pockets get reinforced for strength but not flexibility. The frontal pockets get filled with the dead weight of desires, attachments, and expectations. Like other mirages in the desert, they appear to be important. It turns our that too much sand in the pockets leads to a chronic sinking feeling.
Buddha had no pockets. Not much in the way of pants, either. What he had hung loose and dangled easy. He did not accept tax deductible contributions. He did not secretly haul his heavy sand around with him. He required no special beanies, no diets, no beards, no stiff bending at the knees leading to chronic jerking injuries. Nor were there any tidy gun belts to strap on in any army of fake Buddha wannabes to enforce their self-serving laws. No concrete erections with pointed shafts were built from his sand, either. Less, though, was not to be confused with more. His opposable thumbs did not need to clash to compensate for an inadequate penis. Pain is real enough. Why suffer, too?
In a parable inspired by what turned out to be just one too many meetings in an endless series booked by his agents with mindless true believers, and which was subsequently squelched by a self-appointed conclave of uptight censors, the Buddha was quoted as saying in an aside, “No organization is spiritual. Nothing spiritual is organized.”
One of his suffering handlers responded, “Is that really politic right now?’
Buddha said, “Huh?”
“Given the current situation of unrest.”
Buddha said, “Say what?”
“Why can’t we just leave it at, Don’t ask, don’t tell?”
Buddha hissed, “What do you think I am, some kind of cockamamie new brand of fucking dilettante?”
The branding iron burned then and burns now. As it turns out, the searing pain from burned flesh never stops. That howl, hiss, and sizzle you hear leaves unholy tracks and scars.
What if the warriors from every two-bit start-up religion that sprouted like a rampaging weed from the same parched sand, all certain in the sacred belief that the visible center of the universe, the obviously flat Earth, around which the small Sun revolved, admitted how silly the reruns of the same old cartoon reels look in faded black and white? Good comedy needs to at least have one foot on solid ground to make its own sense and connect. Authentic drama, too. Otherwise it’s just so pat, so boring, so passe. None of these so-called messianic holy bozos can even leap a tall building in a single bound. Who’s going to get amped by that? Or walking on water? Been there, done that. Where’s the action? What’s more sad and lame than all of the same collateral murder when it becomes just so so cliche?
Why not wake up in the morning to living color and put on no pants at all? Balance those hips and let your balls hang out with nowhere special to go. Sway to the complex rhythms emanating from the spiral galaxies NGC3314 and NGC3314a. Did any of your one true gods mention that far out there is where it’s at? Why not? Does the convoluted message passed down from the dude hallucinating in the desert to a bunch of dolts require a speech teacher to get across, a therapist, a sycophant, or just help with memorizing basic lines? A better script couldn’t hurt, either. Why not concentrate on character development this time more than explosive special effects that cost an arm and a leg? None of the animals attaining the higher levels of consciousness need to wear pants while soaring. It’s when Micky Mouse started to wear pants that he turned into such a huge rat. Not even Marvin the Martian traveling in space gets strapped like a crash dummy into pants. Elmer Fudd wore pants with pockets, and a regimental tie to boot attached to his throat, and look how he always ended choked up in the final scene, babbling in tongues, foiled again. The cwazy wabbit, meanwhile, goes hopping on down the bunny trail, digging it while it’s happening. No attachment to pants, no desire, no problem.
The giant kokopu, a dimwit fish found only in New Zealand, although not very giant, likes to wriggle into tight mud holes in the clear streams leading to the ocean and feed on juicy worms until it gets too big to wriggle out. When the surf is washed out on Hokitika Beach, many of the impressionable Buddshist surfers, who do not embrace jealousy and competition as dictates to obey, like to hike up the gorge and take bets on when the bloated kokopu are going to pop. It usually doesn’t take long. It’s a process, not an event. On the way, which is off the beaten path, because who wants to go where constant beating occurs, they trespass on private property, pick berries, smoke weed, drink fresh water from the stream by shrinking to its level after removing extraneous pants to keep them dry. While one hand claps, the other rolls the dice.
The payoff may not amount to very much in megabucks but is always preferred to explosive self-immolation inside a sand filled hole when not adding negative numbers.