Wednesday, April 29, 2020

Happiness in the Mouth


HAPPINESS IN THE MOUTH

The Chinese characters for "Coca Cola" 
spell "happiness in the mouth"
which we Americans find quaint
and a bit risque'.

We say: all day my legs, my back, 
                                     my shoulders hurt
We never say: all night my knees, my neck, 
                                      my wrists were blissful.

We suffer head aches, ear aches and belly aches.
And how many heartaches have we felt? A lot.

But seldom are we gladdened by head joy, 
                                       by ear joy or belly joy.
And how often do we feel heart joy? 
Not often enough.

We are a nation of whiners!
Our language gives us away:

You make me sick
You hurt my feelings
You are a pain in the neck
You are a thorn in my side
You are a royal pain in the ass.

I say: get off my aching back!
Your constant bitching makes me sick!

You make me wonderfully well
You gladden my feelings
You are a happiness in my throat, 
             a merriment in my bones
You are a delight in my pancreas
You are my blissful urethra
You are a royal joy in the ass

You are my body's felicity
You are my heart's delight
You are the bliss in my juices
You are a pleasure in every vertebrae
You are a happiness in the mouth.

5 comments:

conrad said...

Bravo!

Diana Troxell said...

Big warm laugh in my belly.

Bellybetty said...

So much AMEN to this!! I love joy! I enjoy love! Happy makes me kinder and more patient. Bliss makes me more compassionate and laughter amplifies good health!

bb said...

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Marky Mark said...

Yesterday I was downtown Los Angeles pulling CRV from the trash receptacles and doing quite well. In my backpack I had a pair of size 11 1/2 black leather KSwiss tennis shoes, barely worn, a pair of perfectly sized Nike, red and blue flip flops, barely worn, a big bag full of chocolate candy (small snicker bars and such), two small bags of chips, and a nice ball of 6 gauge copper wire. Over my shoulder was my contractor bag half filled with smashed flat CRV. I was heading up Figueroa towards 7th street and it was still early. I thought I'd just go down 7th straight to the river, take a bath, and call it a day (well, study a bit on this Ideal Theory/Number Theory subject).

So right before 7th there's this bus stop with a trash receptacle beside it. Sitting on the bus bench is this Hispanic gentleman drinking a 25 ounce Modelo in a can and listening, full blast from a tubular BOOM box, to what sounds like Mexican opera sung by a German lady with a chihuahua stuck in her ass. I look in the receptacle and there's two aluminum cans in there; I pull them out, set them on the ground, smash them and throw them in the bag. The Hispanic guy looks over at me and shouts, "Here, man, you can't be doing that; the sound bothers my ears!" I'm like, "Ah, I can't hear you, your music is too loud!" He says, "F#$K you, you white punk, faggot; I'm PTSD and I'll f#@k you up!" I'm like, "In you wettest fantasy bitch boy!"

By now the guy is up off the bench and coming at me and I'm just laughing my ass off! He's telling me what all he's going to do to me, the white punk faggot and every nonsensical statement he throws at me I reply with, "Puto Pendejo!," all the while staying out of his reach. We're about 50 feet from the bus stop; I'm looking at the bus stop and his back is to it. All of a sudden this meth head sees an opportunity and snags the guys BOOM box and hauls ass. I'm like, "Yo, that cat just took your BOOM box!" He stops, turns around, and starts "running," screaming, "Hey, f#$ker, blah, blah, blah . . . " and I casually cross to the other side of Figueroa!

Just another day among the angels . . .

I don't normally smoke weed because it messes with my pranayama practice and I much prefer pranayama. But a couple of weeks ago I was down picking up cans from this area where these young drifters do their drifting and I found 3/4 of an El Blunto laying in the gutter, still in the glass case. I took a look and thought I better have a sample toke. I pull out my lighter, torch it up, inhale, and immediately start coughing; this thing was unsuspectedly smooth, so smooth this huuuuuge cloud of smoke exits while I cough. Thinking that's quite enough, I dab out the cherry in a small puddle of beer and slide it back in the case. By the time I make it over the 7th street viaduct I am WOW high. I gave the rest to this homeless black guy who stays by the Bread factory, telling him it's really good stuff. Man, I was high all damn day off that one toke! And it wasn't a dumbass kinda high, it was just real mellow and chill. The only weed I've had better than that was this kind bud I got from a young local down in St. Lucia back in the 90s. I still don't smoke, but I thought I'd pass it on . . .