The tiny Buddhas are wailing in full force tonight. I can hear them in the jungle, calling for Ganesha their master. But Ganesha is busy. He’s making goo-goo eyes at a pretty, young dibbler in the McDonalds next door. He’s ordering two McBuddhas® and some ghee in milk. I think he’s hoping to score.
Meanwhile, I’m laying here with a pillow over my head, trying to sleep. The tiny Buddhas are fucking deafening. The pairing of incessant wailing with that rusty sound from my neighbors’ bedroom window has become a serious contender for ‘Best Worst Lullaby’ at this year’s Grammys.
The bed was rocking hard. It wasn’t, however, for the usual reasons.
Sure, the springs were making that tell-tale rusty sound—the kind that typically accompanies sex—but the neighbours weren’t having sex.
Are you curious as to how I know about their private life? Do you fancy me a pervert who sneaks into people’s homes, poking a hungry eye through bedroom keyholes? Please! I’m not so unsophisticated. I have tiny Buddhas embedded everywhere, and that’s why I’m able to track my neighbours’ every movement.
Anyway, they weren’t having sex, and I’m sure my publisher will find this information useful.
Of course, the first thing is waking up. Whoever invented the alarm clock needs to be spit roasted in hell while listening to an eternal loop of alarm clock buzzers.
The second thing is making a tiny Buddha sandwich. Have you tried to catch a tiny Buddha? If he’s not making tiny copies of himself, he’s walking through walls or levitating up chimneys to make good his escape. Bastard.
The last one is calling my publisher. He’s like a tiny Budda with an alarm clock… but without the alarm clock.