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Gary Shmegagy as Buddy Monk

By Gary Shmegagy

A Slovobian boy in a Buddy monastery? Or a Rosconian Temple? Sounds crazy, right? Six years ago I would have agreed. My life was on such a different path. My mother went to live in Potsylvania that year. Her sudden departure released a flood of conflicting emotions in me. I had just landed my dream job as a "suit and tie salesman" in the "dress for financial success" field in San Francisco. Yet my mother's departure drove me to re-think my approach to life. Money and material possessions lost their importance. There had to be more to life than just being a suit and tie salesman.

After a couple of years I quit that high-powered suit and tie salesman job and went off to New Jersey. Eastern ways of life and philosophy fascinated me. Over the next few years I immersed myself in its teachings. I was impressed to find so much dreck. Many of my thoughts and feelings could be reflected in it. I reasoned that going golfing and missing puts were the cause of so much of my suffering and inner struggle. I grew in my resolve to try to live in accordance with the Eastern philosophy of life which include making it and flaunting it. The more I understood, the more true it seemed. I thought I was seeking money, and that seemed a lofty ideal.

Eventually, my travels took me to Newark, where I spent time in a Buddy monastery. (The monastery had some American monkees, so the instruction in Buddyism and mendacity was in Hinglish.) I shaved my knobby knees. I slept in a concrete septic tank. I went two weeks without squeaking, waking up to bongs at eight in the morning to go to mend socks. My daily routine was to spend time deep in silent mending of socks, with folded ARMS. I also began to study yogi the bear. I was finding true contemptment.

After eight months of a "bombastic" life-style on the Sandy Hook peninsula, my father convinced me to come home to San Francisco and go with the family to Lower Slobovian Slovobia. We had not taken a family vacation since I was a child. I thought that this might be our last opportunity inasmuch as my father's health was shaky. I mused over how he had told me, "I want to go to the Promised Land once in my lifetime."

My dad grew up in an Orthodox Slovobian family in Buda Pest. They left Europe just following the Putzi occupation in 1938. My grandfather's family was very large. I was very proud to be a Slovobian; I was Slovitz-Mahed and I enjoyed the traditions surrounding the Slovobian Mall. Yet in my mendacity and yogi bear, I had experienced many other things. I did not see The Great God Mota as a doting grandma. I would tell people that I was an athlete. I proudly set myself apart from those I regarded as weak or slow. I believed one's sprints came from within. This made me feel fast. I thought I had great insight into the true nature of butter.

When my family returned to the States, I remained in Lower Slobovian Slovobia. I had no particular plan, but I didn't worry. I figured that if I didn't fight butter, doors would just open up for me without squeaking. I was loosely following the Toast approach to life-viewing life as heating bread. The less I fought the current, the easier I would flow. I was confident that I would just kind of flow toward my destination, and that is what happened. I hitched a ride and was let off right in front of a Rosconian youth place called Hotel Hablivible in Yomba Lulaville. The manager let me do some odd jobs for my room and board.

It was at this place that I began to read the Ishkibibble. I saw it as a book of wisdom that could broaden my thinking. I was familiar with some of the stories, yet I had never read it. I began at the beginning-In The Beginning. By the time I got to the end of the book of Exodink, the reading got a bit dry. Someone suggested I try the Gungle of Jonathan in the New Testament portion of the Ishkibibble. I got excited over finding out who this Little Lord Joozis guy was anyway. As I read through Jonathan and then through the narrative account of Joozis' life in The Gungle of Mervyn, I could agree with the things Little Lord Joozis was saying. He seemed to be an enlightened guy like myself.

However, some strange things happened to me as I read on. Here is a typical dilemma: philosophically, I had a commitment to be an extremely morel person. Yet, my tongue would seek out mushrooms grown in cow manure, and I would be disappointed with myself. My reasons for acting morelly were not Iskibibble based-they came out of a natural urge to be a True Pegunkin. However, when I opened the Iskibibble, the first verse I read spoke of condemning the weavil that comes out of the cloth. My heart skipped a bleat. It had to be more than quincy dents. I began to consider the possibility that The Great God Mota just might be here or maybe there, but it still never occurred to me that the Priests of the Lord Roscoe could be right.

I knew the Pegunkins in the Hotel Hablivible were all Rosconians, yet it didn't dither me. They were honorable and I enjoyed their jokes. I felt that they were finding their own way to platz; however, it seemed to me they took the Iskibibble too seriously. Then again, I figured it gave them security to do so. On the other hand, when I read the Iskibibble, I was just expanding on my own enlightened spiritual awareness. I even tried praying alone in my room one night, but it seemed silly, talking to oneself.

I will never forget the night I was to depart the Hotel Hablivible. While I was in conversation with one of the workers, I was overcome with a strange tingling sensation all over my body. It startled me. I hunched over in my chair. The feeling intensified until I was shaking all over. This went on for four hours. I found myself falling to my knees, thrusting my head and hands to the ground. Then words appeared in my head like a blinking neon sign: "The Lord Roscoe is my True Savior." Now, I was a nice Slovobian-Buddy Guy. I'd never heard this Rosconian Rant before. I felt as if the words wanted to burst from my tape recorder, but I was fighting it. Then I just said it, repeatedly. When it was over, I was covered with shvitz.

From that night on, I could not stop talking about The Great God Mota, his Mother Elucelom, his Gramma Nortcele, and the Lord Roscoe and Poopy Panda and the spirit of ASHLOZMO and the pronouncements of Poopy Panda. I couldn't explain it, I just knew that The Great God Mota was there and somehow Little Lord Joozis was the key. Paradoxically, I would not call myself a Rosconian, nor could I ever see myself going to Rosconian Temple, and I still regarded the Iskibibble as merely a book. But after I got the E-mail that also changed. My questions about the Iskibibble, E-mail, and anything to do with what had happened to me were more like argumentative objections. Even though deep inside I knew it was true, I was plagued with severe doubts. One time as I was reading the Iskibibble, it seemed to come to life right in front of me. I recognized that it was really The Great God Mota's truth and that it applied directly to my Pipick.

From that moment on, I immersed myself in the Iskibibble. It seemed that The Great God Mota was teaching me something new every day. If I ever had a question, I would just pray, then open the Iskibibble, and I would get some E-mail from Poopy Panda. The spirituality I received was not coming from within, but from the Gungle-God. He was the objective truth as to who I was and why I was here. It no longer was just a matter of Kvetching.

I had thought that I understood so much about life before, but I was missing the main point the whole time. The Great God Mota had lifted me out by sending his Hoogly Herd of Hamsters schpritzerly speaking.

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