Hi there, I’m the Level 9 Eminently Mindful Dolt Guru Sadhu Juju-Master Sandwich-Artist Masai-Harmer, but you can call me Kevin. Welcome to the Temple of the Shadow of the Dyslexic Monkey and to this ancient, proto-pagan, pre-Zoroastrian healing sacrament that I made up in February 2006.
I’m real new to Portsmouth and I’m hoping you guys will sniff the Gatorade and grok on to my thing just like my 11 million other disciples – mostly young, beautiful and emotionally disturbed young women. The majority live in the dumber parts of the United States… and in Southampton, of course.
Sorry I’m a little late arriving, but I just had a high-profile disagreement with the manager of a Christian rock band. I was telling him how our foundation was funding a Hollywood movie that rewrites the Old Testament to give Sodom a happy ending. Some people just don’t have a sense of humour, right?
Before we proceedify, I’ll say this: we are a sincere operation and we do not tolerate time-wasters, peace-fakers, corked Priscillas or people who puke on their own self-portraits.
This is no mung bean college for ascetics, it’s a convex cult-fit gone all trance-silly in a mystical wafer lounge stained with the turmeric tears of the post-animistic Godhead Herself. In the spirit world she has a thousand names, though here in the temple we may call her Ethel.
Now, people, if you’d like to take all your clothes off and step into the mandala. That’s great, thanks. In order for me to reach Level 10 by lunchtime, The Book says I have to give myself aerosol enablement in a ham-fisted lucky zip parade.
My apologies if any of you suffer from collateral homage, so to speak.
We’ve had a lot of big-deal celebrities come and join us for zenthogenic innerspatial voyaging. Terence McKenna dropped by once. Two minutes later he told us what we were doing in the Temple was total horse shit. Can’t understand why.
Terence wasn’t prepared to leave his brain in the bucket full of soul-wax over there and really believe. He, sadly, will always be trapped in the Tetraphysical Domain of the Impotent Cranberry.
John Leslie came to us after that thingamy-jig where he did or didn’t do horror to what’s-her-name and his life had turned into a slalom of android crap and self-hating puff adders. We helped him through all that, we really did.
OK, are you humming through your spines yet?
Can you feel Buddha’s bitch tits?
Have you shrunk down to scale-model shamen yet?
Have some more of this barely legal jasmine tea. That’ll smooth the quest for self-regarding de-pollutification.
I should tell you, people, that once you walk backward out of this building you’re going to cop a lot of prejudicial energy from the non-enlightened multitude.
How you gonna handle these anti-vibes? Take my own experience as a lesson: I started out as an entry-level crystal meth chai-mentor and got hounded out of Tibet on poorly-fitting rollerskates. Why? I was only trying to help people.
Then I got de-bagged for cram-slapping at a Javanese plumbing festival. I had to go straight back to California where people, ha ha, take me seriously.
Right, that’s it for today. We’ll loop the loop of our meat and two vegetable consciousness once again tomorrow. Be sure to leave your credit card details with Shimong on the way out. Don’t worry about encryption; together we’ll crack it.
Fare thee well Cap’n Crunch’s own immortal soulmonauts and repeat this little benediction after me 38 times:
© TS Evinrude and Gorgeous Cretin
Photo by Moshe Tasky.