SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCES
I Went on a Vision Quest By Accident
Peyote has nothing on Knittel’s water
PLEASE PLAY THIS SOUNDTRACK AS YOU READ
Now BEGIN
I didn’t mean to be there
It‘s not like I signed up for some vision quest from a guy named Rodriguez Jones, whose email was rjdreams@aol.com. Australia is just the kind of place where you can end up in the middle of the desert by accident.
I’d missed the turnoff for the M270. I should have been sitting on my friend Chris’s brand new patio eating sausages and drinking the latest blueberry custard pale ale or whatever. Instead, I was driving along a road as hot as yo Mama’s testicles with literally no exit for six hundred thousand million miles.
When I finally took an exit, I found myself driving down into a valley that seemed like a brand new housing estate for snakes. There was a big sign on the edge of the valley that said,
$165,000 large acreage. Houssse and land packagess available *sssubject to approval.
I was thirsty as fuck but had no water except an old plastic Gatorade bottle in the back, half-filled with water. I thought about Mike Knittel sticking his cock into Gatorade bottles in the classic text, ‘The God of Travel’, and I decided I would rather die of thirst than drink out of it. Also, the water was six months old, and I read on Healthline that old water could have undesired consequences.
Drinking water that is more than three months old from plastic bottles that have been in the heat can seriously mimic the effects of hallucinogenic drugs. (Healthline)
My throat was drier than Dr Drydry’s seriously Dry Gin. So I changed my mind and decided to sip the water but lost control and drank the lot.
I came across a solitary white house
I wondered who the fuck would want to live in this valley of snakes. As I slowed down to take a look, the car sounded like it was chanting.
OOTHAFOOKAYUA OOTHAFUCKA OOTHAFUCKAYUA
Then the bastard just stopped. I knew something was afoot. What kind of witchcraft was this? I looked at my phone, but, conveniently for this story, it was completely dead. It was incinerated by the belting sun in this dreadful place.
I’m not usually in the business of knocking on strangers’ doors. My fear of it came from one night when I drank too much vodka and got spiked with ketamine by a policeman in Mcdonald's.
After the incident, I went ‘home’ and watched some David Attenborough show about monkeys raping each other. But, the couple that lived in the house came back out of the bedroom where they had been fucking loudly. They asked me nicely what I was doing sitting in their home, and I told them it was a documentary about monkeys raping each other.
They kindly explained that the show was Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and I had become confused by the couple’s loud sex.
They called me a taxi.
Back in the desert, I went up to the white house.
A man answered the door with big saucer eyes smoking a pipe, wearing seven-foot-long trousers even though he was only five foot three. Apart from that, he looked pretty normal, like the love child of Martin Scorcese and He Who Shall Not be Named — you know — (*Whispering*) — Saddam Hussein.
“And WHAT shall be the reason for waking me up at such a GHASTLY hour?” the saucer man said, dribbling what looked like cherry lemonade from the corners of his gaping mouth hole.
I looked at my watch. It was twelve-thirty in the afternoon. I took a step and said, “Kind Sir, it’s twelve-thirty in the afternoon, and I wondered if I could use your fone and if you happen to have any fresh H20 that I may partake in.”
The man’s saucer eyes went black, and a sun-like halo started turning around his head like a deranged merry-go-round.
I looked closer, and hundreds of golden monkeys were on each blade of the sunflower ride. They were dancing and proclaiming their innocence in song.
We, the Monkeys, do not rape.
We promise you by the code of Ape
And don’t go drinking Knittel’s Water
Or you’ll end up as Satan’s Daughter
They danced like those celebrities on Strictly Come Dancing, and I began to panic. I felt liquid shit pouring into my pants like a courteous host pours delicious hot chocolate for their guests. There was nothing courteous about this situation.
“Cum INSIDE!” said the saucer man, leading me into his house.
I sat waiting for him in the strangest of loungerooms
Old bookshelves lined the wall, and there were thousands of books of various colours but seemingly different volumes of the same book. I grabbed the first title,
‘Smoking HOT tantra Volume 63 by Professor Jesus Jones’
I jumped in shock and let go of the book immediately. The feel of it was surprising. It felt like I was grabbing an unsheathed penis. I composed myself, took the soft, smooth book off the shelf, and opened it to a random page.
Madness is only undesirable if you want it to make sense. What the earth man calls madness is not madness, but a state of limbo between the madness of truth and the madness of sanity. Like the dust of flour and burning fire together make mouth-watering bread, the madness of truth and the madness of sanity, baked in the oven of compassion, make mouth-watering wisdom.
I was contemplating the verse when the saucer-eyed man came bursting through the door humming like an angry wasp. He was carrying a large metal bowl filled with slightly yellow looking water.
‘Freshwater for you, Your Honour’, he said. Then he stood by the window looking out with his hands behind his back like a distinguished gentleman.
“My name is Professor Jones”, he announced. I nodded.
“DRINK,” he said suddenly in a voice that punched me hard in the perineum. His voice was so charismatic and commanding that I leaned over to the bowl and lapped it up like a dog.
I stopped for a breath.
“DRINK,” he said, louder. This time his voice felt almost blissful — transcendent.
I lapped up the water again.
“DRINK MY PISS,” he shouted. My body was overwhelmed with orgasm.
“OH FUCK ME — OH GOD— OH GOD!” I couldn’t stop saying the words. They were pouring out of the bliss. The golden nectar flowed forth from my sacred arsehole, and it felt WONDERFUL.
“NOW STOP,” he said.
He pulled down his seven-foot trousers and laid his penis on the rug.
It must have been nine feet long, and it looked like a peach coloured cobra. Correction, it WAS a peach coloured cobra. Its head came to life, hissing at me and trying to bite me.
The peach colour cobra had big saucer eyes. I was transfixed as they turned red with a moon-like grey halo with beams of light that started turning around his head like a deranged merry-go-round. I looked closer and saw hundreds of silver monkeys on each blade of the sunflower ride. They were all dancing and singing.
We, the Monkeys, are your mind.
The stinking ego of humankind
Don’t destroy us. We can serve you well
We are the makers of heaven and hell.
“Now, LISSSSTEN”, the snake said.
“Please do the gravest task for me.”
“Anything,” I said as the bliss overwhelmed me again.
“GOOD GOOD,” said the peach-coloured Cobra.
“Shall I SUCK YOUR SNAKE DICK Professor Jones?” I said.
It felt jarring as it came out. I should have chosen my words better.
But it was the bliss. I just lost control.
The peach coloured cobra held its body up straight.
“I beg your pardon. That’s rather inappropriate. I just wanted you to go down to Seven-Eleven and get me some Salt n Vinegar Kettle chips.”
“Oh, okay. I can do that”
“You know what?” he said. “Don’t bother. I think you should leave.”
The peach-coloured Cobra held up a sign with an arm on it pointing to the door.
TINK TINK TINK
I rolled down the car window.
NOT THIS AGAIN.
‘Good afternoon, Officer.’
‘Good afternoon. Is everything okay here?
Let me see. I’m sitting:
- In the car
- With my cock out
- In a pool of my own diarrhea
- In the middle of a construction site
- Next to the temporary white site office
- And an empty Gatorade bottle on the chair next to me.
I knew I was in trouble. It was only weeks since I got busted ejaculating on the window at Flappers.
I shook my fist in the air
KNITTTELLLL!!!!!!!!
This story was inspired by a classic tale by Mike Knittel:
