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Friday, December 15, 2006
The Brief Life of the Dalai Lama as a SquirrelTo the public eye the Dalai Lama was a compassionate and wise person. He held up his end of the role well and didn't dip into earthly pleasures it seemed. He fasted and meditated, even on camera sometimes, and the world could see that he was truly enlightened.
In his time away from the temple however he often held up in a shack drinking whisky and shooting at squirrels with a .22 caliber rifle. When he died of a heart attack while fucking a Taiwanese prostitute--they had the prostitute executed and the body hidden almost immediately--he followed the traditional steps of the afterlife, drinking the forgetting tea that would take him to his next form, but for some reason he still remembered who he had been.
He looked around at the dead leaves and stubble of brown grass. He looked down at his hands, but something was wrong, they were small and furry and from them sprung tiny black claws. Was he not supposed to be always reincarnated as himself, the Dalai Lama? Was he not supposed to know this until picking out an item of his former self? What were the rules of this life anyway?
Still retaining a grasp of the way he could use reality he stared up at an acorn in a tree, blinked his eye and it fell into his paws. He took a nibble; it tasted horrible; this would take some getting used to. He wandered around, searching for other squirrels, perhaps he would mate, but they all looked so repulsive. In his younger years he had fucked a goat on a dare from his school chums, but they all had, and that was before he'd been told he was the Buddha reincarnated anyway. He considered all wrong done before that to be null and void, and those afterward, well, they all had their mitigating circumstances. A man couldn't live lonely, and he obviously couldn't have a relationship with a woman in the public light, so prostitution had always held him over.
The Dalai Lama approached a fellow squirrel with the intention of engaging it--he could not tell the sexes apart--in conversation, but it ran off, up a tree. What would he have to say to a squirrel anyway? What would he have to say to anyone, now that he was a squirrel?
He ran over the essentials: reality was a construct of the imagination and therefore what he wanted he could have. Why had he been so concerned about appearances after they'd told him he was God essentially? Perhaps it was pride, perhaps he was so convinced of the system he'd lived in his whole life. Perhaps... it was cowardice. So much easier to buy a hooker than to walk right up to the girl you wanted and take her in your arms.
Across the road he saw a candy wrapper, he could take the last of the chocolate from it, he thought. He darted across, for the cars were not real anyway, but then in a a sudden crash, he was flattened, his brains splattering across the road. He now feared terribly the forgetting tea.
Both you and the Dalai Lama are strange little critters. Sex, sex, sex, death.Post a Comment
I am warming up to the rapidness of these stories. When was the last time you wrote a prosepoem?