Talk:A rabbi, a priest and a 3 acre grove of bamboo walk into a bar...

Red links for Haile Selassie and raisins are intentional for adminly, super-secret, Cabal-level reason, and I don't have to explain my elevated self to the cretins of the world... uh, sorry... I was having a megalomanic moment... see, in the back of my mind, I'm focused on a meal I'm making later... pork fried rice and hoisin beef with vegetables... I am a bit nervous because projections have today's rice dish being precisely what I've been looking for... a lesser, food-related grail for a simple man such as myself... and then some Trump radiation leaked into my personal space, somehow... and my hair began to behave oddly and I invented a possible cartoon character named "Ricochet Rabbi"... he or she is based on a 60s Hanna-Barbera toon called "Ricochet Rabbit".

It was this or clown predators.

Ricochet was the sheriff in a remote Western (United States) town, circa 1890. His unique ability to run very quickly, and interestingly, to bounce of many objects in the manner which a bullet might, is presumably the raisin d'etre for the show. And don't for a second think I am unaware of the awkwardness of the previous sentence. In fact, that sentence is what caused my brief foray into megalomania at the beginning of this page. Police evidence has me clocking out at 2:15am today, so there is no way I could have stolen a briefcase, traveled 7 blocks in Boston to steal a Ferrari, drove to San Bernardino and robbed an elderly couple of their rosary beads, wrecked the car in Buffalo, New York taking out a school bus full of goats, bought 7 Rolex watches in Miami, Ohio, then set fire to an American flag and a copy of the Constitution in Toronto, then got back home in time to write this article. I'm not even our of breath.

OK, fine... I will explain my big, important reasons for my having restored two red links... I encourage someone to write an article on Haile Selassie by red-linking this dude here and there, when I think of it... and as for raisin d'etre, I intended to write it soon after this article was done, and promptly forgot all about it... however, I intend to start it as soon as I can pull away from this fascinating talk page...

Yes, I have become enthralled with continuing to write this talk page for an indeterminate amount of time... I am thinking now, though... I ought to cube and trim the pork soon, and marinade the beef for a couple of hours too... I hear that's how NATO got started... in fact, it was pointed out that a swarm of 5 foot tall patrol robots slated to augment policing in some California city are shaped suspiciously like butt plugs... it was then, that I realized that I had never seen a butt plug, and would have to take this guy's word for it...

If you, dear reader, have made it this far, I imagine you might be patient or drunk... marijuana users know better than to read this sort of thing... it wears at the flayrods of the mind, irregardless of whether the word "irregardless" is sanctioned by spell check... in any event, I plan to be marinading by daybreak... interesting, at times, are the things presented to one as sleep eludes... fragrant molten kitties in the corner of the eye... Reggae beats impose themselves onto the tapestry of common sounds as hawks descend, this time to chill... a chill hawk makes an excellent travel companion, especially for pilgrimages... to the fanatic, only rancid succor is offered.

I once met a houri, although I didn't know it at the time. He was a nondescript tradesman of some sort. Only the eyes told, and then, only to those who could see. Oh, everybody gets that flutter in their stomach, the sweet prickling of the liver, the cool wetness of the gall bladder, whenever a houri is around. Everybody remembers... something. A person, male or female, nondescript, seemed not out of place, but... there was something.

And after, even those impressions are gone, and one is left with a vague uneasiness, or sometimes, a clean, sharp feeling of being somehow renewed. My houri (I call it mine, but it is only so in the sense that I have memory and knowledge of it) met me by spilling coffee onto my lap. Once my shock cleared, and I realized it was luke warm and therefore not dangerous to my nether regions, I also somehow knew that this coffee was a large, 4 sugars and 4 creamers, that it was paid for with a 50 dollar bill, and it was not for the clumsy tradesperson (guy? woman?), but rather for an acquaintance he'd met twenty minutes earlier in the park across the street from this diner.

It firmly but quietly apologized, and my feet started tingling. A lot. And behind the eyes. A headache coming, maybe a big one this time. I had 1 fioricet, but sometimes a big one needed 3 before I could slowly drive home and lie in bed for some hours. It touched my arm and called attention to it's other hand, holding some of the sweetest looking marijuana I'd ever seen. How did it know I was a medical marijuana patient? Or that I used marijuana, anyway?

Then it said, whispery, that it had to replace the coffee it had spilled on me, but would I join it and it's new friend across the street in smoking up and conversing about reality. And my clothes were dry. And I wasn't even sticky, not a little. And I was holding a fresh coffee in my hand. I had no idea how it got there. Was it even paid for? Is this was extreme sleep deprivation looks like?

Then it was introducing me to Estelle... there were handshakes, greetings, gruntings... the three of us passed a vaporizor and talked of the dualism of the Yazidis, the merits of a sweat lodge, Frank Zappa, the high quality of the weed we were vaping... an unfortunate manatee somewhere was probably thinking about our conversation, our idle musings, our gathering together ever so slightly creating a warpage in the fabric of spacetime... and the thought came unbidden... "doe eyes"...

Then... things... began to happen... even to call them "things" seemed wildly inaccurate. These were things that aren't supposed to happen, at least in my experience. A drop of blood loosed it self from my left nostril, slow-motion cartwheeling to the ground... a big one, it hit with an audible splat. It was a red so red my eyes teared up until I pulled my gaze away. I knew the headache was getting worse, but somehow, I didn't really care. Although I did think to reach into my beat up, rust colored bomber jacket for the bottle with my headache pills.

I fumbled the cap and stopped cold: there were eight pills, where there had been one not half an hour ago. I was at once perplexed and nonchalant, as though for just today, it made sense for things to be different. Then I saw it. A visible puckering of the material making up the park bench I had my right foot on. My foot didn't pucker, just the bench. I felt nothing, and so began to reach toward it, but was stopped by that hand on my arm again.

As I sit here, writing this, my houri is close. It told me, "I am but a breath away from you at all times." I can hear it telling me, through pulses in my head, to proceed slowly and grasp at straws. I have no idea what this or anything else my houri tells me means. It tells me things in it's strange head pulsing language, instructing, prompting, encouraging... and it means me to do some things. I am anxious, and it know this, telling me not to be. I told it that's probably the worst way to relieve anxiety. I think it responded, but I don't know what it said. or if I did, I've forgotten.

Suddenly the idea of continuously forgetting what I've thought, said, done...it's cold steel in my belly. My nouri says it's a side-effect, a sign of progress. Soon I will rest, and awaken refreshed with tight telomeres and ready for a shower, some coffee. Wait... did I understand my nouri this time? Have I understood all along, and keep forgetting? Is that my blood, from my nose, covering the bathroom sink, dripping off the counter, onto the floor, pooling around the toilet? (kaizum me) 10:36, 10 Jeremy 2016 (UTC)