SOS Gab & Eti 1.41

"I had to pee, but couldn't even stand because everything was God. I
crawled out of the room on my hands and knees... Once outside I peed out
the whole universe. My urine was totally holy, and the ground was holy.
I started drinking my urine and rubbing it all over my hands and
knees... After being in this state for two weeks, I snapped back into my
body and there was the room. And it was just a room. And there was my
body. And it was just a body. It was a terrible let-down, not to be God
anymore!" Bhagavan Das (former all-star used car salesman)

Each sailing alone around the room Gabriel and Annalee, worked the
congregated in tandem, handed out pamphlets advertising the Flatulator
Biofeedback Learning System. A newly acquired franchise Altuna had come
across from an independent wholesaler on Long Island offering a panoply
of added value to the personal toilet experience. I admit that at first
I found their pitch disgusting but the recycling consciousness that
comes over one like a stagnant perspiration when seated in the concrete
bunker of the Bullamanka Community Center, along with the curious aroma
of my fellow citizens, particularly Jan Olaafson who seems to be smiling
a lot more these days since his third lobotomy, got to me. It had never
previously occurred to me that gas could not only be an aesthetic cause
of trauma but also a mind expanding experience.

Very simply put, you ingest this little sausage of masticated material,
some sort of asparagus agaric bush bean curdle pre-chewed by a lonely
widowed grizzled non-English speaking illiterate underpaid Koryak woman
in a Siberian yurt, a cottage industry, and you sit in the loo and wait.
Not before long there is this sickly feeling of wanting to regurgitate a
cocoon of giant mutant arachnids, but it passes quickly with a mild
gurgle noise followed by a loud roaring boom of sound from an
undisclosed vicinity behind that nearly rips your head off with the
reverberations against the fiberglass walls of the sensory enhancement
chamber and you are off.

The choreography of a hundred Porto-potty doors suddenly screaming
forward from a state of static anticipation in a harmony of unison and
accord on their rusty hinges and stressing the expansion of their
retaining springs and the flap-a-doodles on the springs bounding
upwards, then downwards and the doors as suddenly slamming with a
crashing sound shut on the brain blitzed and butt cheeked occupants of
the theme park is truly worth the cost of admission to the timber frame
observation tower that Gabriel has erected with the original purpose to
monitor the vastness of his historical holdings. Beneath the awning of
palm fronds and oak shake shingles I ate my complimentary coffee and
took turns, well into the evening contrail sunset, with Etidorpha
looking through her telescope at the naughty recreants of Bullamanka.
 From such a high and lofty perch of solid mortise and tendons I was
reminded with nostalgia of Mount Analogue and took the liberty of an
altudinous whizz.

--
To terminate puerile preservation prattling among pals and the
uncoffee-ed, or to change your settings, go to:
<http://maelstrom.stjohns.edu/archives/bullamanka-pinheads.html>