And Now, Kids, Here's ALL You Need To Know About Aum Mani Padme Hun, Or How to Find THE JEWEL In DIVINE COITUS

Hi there, all MY beautiful, Rock-n-Roll kids,


Here is YOUR Daddy Cool once again, on a beautiful Sunday morning, with perhaps what should be considered the MOST IMPORTANT LESSON IN LIFE: which is, how to "make love," or what we call "rock-n-roll."


And it's gotta be rock-n-roll music,
If you wanna dance with me.


This lesson of today is mainly for the boys, but I'll begin with something about girls that I learnt from a HUGE FRENCHWOMAN I once met at a dinner to which I had been invited by an old friend, in the Garden Restaurant in Delhi's Lodi Gardens. They were assholes, these LOWDIS. Babur had Ibrahim Lodi's HEAD delivered to him on a PLATTER.


Anyway, there were some ten or twelve of us at that dinner, and plenty of GOOD WINE was drunk, very little food was eaten, and we wound it up with lots of VSOP cognac. Thus, the conversation was excellent.


All I remember of this conversation is something this HUGE FRENCHWOMAN said. She MUST be from Normandy, a direct descendant of the Norsemen and Norsewomen like Hagar and Helga The Horrible who settled there aeons ago. William, The CONQUEROR, was one such Norman. I think human history will begin and end with Hagar the Horrible (and Helga the Even More Horrible, of course), and we will NEVER EVER be "civilised."


While discussing lovemaking, this HUGE FRENCHWOMAN said, looking DIRECTLY at me:


"You men feel lovemaking on the OUTSIDE, while we women feel it INSIDE."


So, now I am addressing all you little boys.


The first question you need to ask yourselves is:


HOW DO I FIND MYSELF A WOMAN?


Well, the thing to do is look around and find yourself a GIRLFRIEND, with special emphasis on the word "friend." You must first enjoy each other's COMPANY. You must have intelligent and enjoyable CONVERSATION. You must LAUGH TOGETHER. And, only after all this, does the ACTION begin.


Now, when the ACTION begins, the thing to know is that a WOMAN'S POWER is all in her BUTT.


The most UNINTELLIGENT song ever composed by Pete Townshend and sung by Roger Daltrey is about the "mama with a squeeze box on her chest." If you SQUEEZE her chest, she will yelp in PAIN. The breasts are to be GENTLY FONDLED. Even kissing her nipples is no turn on; they just get big and hard, and nothing much happens after that.


Now, the BUTT is something else. Do read Desmond Morris' Manwatching: A Field Guide to Human Behaviour. It has thousands of excellent photos, too. Morris advances the thesis that, before we learnt to walk upright, it was the BUTT that attracted men to women. And, when we finally could walk straight, women developed these PERMANENT BREASTS, which appear at puberty and have nothing to do with lactation, in order to MIMIC the BUTT. What the French call "decolletage" is nothing but MIMICING THE BUTT.


Now, a woman's BUTT can and must be squeezed, firmly as well as gently, it must be caressed, and this will surely turn her on. There is LOTS OF FAT on the butt, so she will never feel any pain, no matter how hard you squeeze.


Just keep in mind one thing: Never try and unfold her butt to even take a peek at the orifice God has carefully hidden within. It is not even worth a look. That is why it is hidden, and the architecture God has made to hide it is TRULY DIVINE.


So, to sum up the discussions so far, you befriend her, you laugh together, exchange books and music and stuff, visit museums and art galleries together, take long walks in the beauty of Nature together - and then, one day, or perhaps one night, you get naked together, and the ACTION begins. Kissing, with mouths wide open - "shake, rattle and roll" -  fondling the stuff on her chest, kissing the nipples, and then, finally, going gung-ho for her BUTT. After that, you turn her over. On the other side, she has a BOX. It is a far more beautiful box than all the boxes in all of Roger Waters' 110 guitars. And then you GO FOR IT.


Now, there is only ONE POSITION I recommend - and that is called, very rightly, the "missionary position." I was schooled by missionaries, I hope you remember, though they were celibate. But the missionary position is what PROTESTANT MISSIONARIES discovered, and this is how these very holy men made love to their wholly holy women. It is the most COMFORTABLE - for both. And it has GRAVITY on its side. The Law of Gravity says that "what goes up must come down" - so when you make love in the missionary position, your MIGHTY PHALLUS, which goes UP, then goes DOWN, down down down into her  TUNNEL OF LOVE, and then it COMES - down. Your MIGHTY PHALLUS is NOT Mount Vesuvius, and it is NOT meant to COME UPWARDS. Further, putting the woman on top can be EXTREMELY DANGEROUS - for Helga is much bigger than Hagar. Jim Morrison sang a song that went, "Build me a woman, make her 10 feet tall." Now, suppose someone from Amazon.com heard Jim's "American Prayer" and built such a woman for him - and she got on TOP of Jimmy Boy. I am sure Jim Morrison would have DIED LONG BEFORE he reached the age of 27.


Lovemaking is NOT YOGA. Never do HATHA YOGA, anyway. Lovemaking is NOT about physical contortions. It is to be done in COMFORT - mutual comfort. It is also to be done slowly; indeed, very, very slowly. Mr. Jim Morrison also sang, "Take it easy, baby, Take it as it comes, Don't move too fast, If you want your love to last, Hey! You're moving much too faaaaaaaast."


Read The Tao Of Sex.


Yes, the CHINKS know all about it - which is why China's population is far more than ours. The Kamasutra is a fuck-all book. Rather than reading it, you ought to read about the AGE in which the Kamasutra was written. The book for that is AL Basham's The Wonder That WAS India. Note the word "WAS." It means "past tense."


Today, in chacha's india, there is no chudai, there is only khudai. You pick up the State's phawra and dig holes in the EARTH. You forget all about your LAURA - and what that is meant to DIG.


I hope you DIG my language.


Now, I MUST ADD that you rock-n-roll boys must NEVER use a fuckin' condom. It is like wearing a CONTACT LENS on your Mighty Phallus. You don't FEEL anything when you wear this shit - none of the "warm wetness" that lies INSIDE a woman, inside her TUNNEL OF LOVE.


The Divine Coitus has NOTHING to do with SAFE SEX. It is to do with REAL SEX. It is also NOT called "sex." It is called "making love." We rockers call it "rock-n-roll."


Then, you will surely find THE JEWEL that is only to be found in DIVINE COITUS.


And you will have lots and lots of children, who are the PHYSICAL JEWELS that emerge from your woman after the Metaphysical Jewel is found.


So, be forever happy, be always in love, make tender love to your woman regularly, to keep her satisfied, and multiply, so that the Planet Earth is always populated with people like us, all direct descendants of Hagar the Horrible and Helga, the Even More Horrible.


To conclude, I would like to add something about my boarding school in Kurseong, Darjeeling, that I forgot to mention yesterday - and that is, most of my classmates there were GURKHAS. All Gurungs and Thapas, all very fierce and very bloodthirsty WARRIORS. As kids, we were sent on long walks in the mountains once a week - and when we returned, there were invariably a hundred or more leeches sticking to our legs. We got them off with salt, of course, but then these bloodthirsty Gurkha boys would SQUASH all their leeches in the palms of their hands - and run around rubbing BLOOD on all the faces of all the other boys, like me. I learnt to do the same to them. 


When a GURKHA unsheaths his khukri, it is his RELIGION that he CANNOT put it back in its scabbard until the blade has tasted BLOOD. The khukri is never unsheathed just for the heck of it. If the blade does not get someone else's blood, the GURKHA must cut his own finger and feed his khukri his OWN BLOOD. When Margaret Thatcher went to WAR to recover the Fuckland Islands, it was the GURKHAS of the BRITISH ARMY who went to do the KILLING for her.


And I am always a very welcome guest at the GURKHA BAR in the Everest Hotel & Casino in Kathmandu, where I am always permitted to smoke ganja and charas.


Yes, I am Hagar the Horrible.


And as for my Helga, the Even More Horrible, do hear out the rest of my story, all about my LOVE LIFE so far.


In my boarding school, when we kids went to bed in our massive dormitories, always tucked under two blankets AND a quilt, because it was ALWAYS fucking cold, the good Irish priests who were our teachers PLAYED MUSIC on the speakers to lull us to sleep. All very English music, of course. There was Cliff Richards, a Madras boy, there were The Beatles, of course, and so much more. Indeed, I knew all the songs of The Sound of Music much before the film was released in Calcutta's Globe Theatre. Our "hills were alive with the sound of music." And "high on a hill was a lonely goatherd." And, of course, "Edelweiss, Bless My Homeland Forever." I began my musical indoctrination with this "Austrian School of Music." 


Now, in our boarding school, we were all boys - but once in a while, we had what were known as "socials." Then, the pretty girls from the girls school nearby were invited over. We were all dressed in suits and ties, wearing our "dancing shoes," which were polished and gleaming. Music was played. And we had to approach these girls and invite them to a dance. As my divine luck would have it, most of these pretty girls were CHINKY. I think this explains my fatal fascination for CHINKY WOMEN, which went on and on - until I found my Helga, the Even More Horrible, about whom more, later.


My first CHINKY WOMAN was an AHOM - and their tribe were the first Kings of Assam, an area that was once known as Kamroop, which means "sexy." If you watch Assamese women shake their butts in their Bihu Dance, you will know what "sexy" means. My AHOM WOMAN was extremely sexy. Naked, she looked exactly like Botticelli's "Venus," with LOTS OF FAT, in all the right places. Whenever we made love, she always broke out into a rash - she was so satisfied. But then, as George W Bush famously said, "Shit happens." And we broke up. Her father was a WARRIOR. A Commodore in the Indian Navy.


Then, I had this Bhutanese woman, who taught me all about Drukpa Kuenley and Aum Mani Padme Hun. She was a very Senior Officer of the Royal Bhutan Police. A Warrior Woman. She was extremely loyal to her King. And no corrupt word ever crossed her lips. She was a roly-poly bundle of joy, if ever there was one, always smiling; "cherubic" is the word to best describe her. But we had to part - for our nations were different.


I then married a CHINKY WOMAN - with half her blood from the Garo Tribe of Meghalaya. They are all WARRIORS, too. She had the most divine boobs, and the most incredible butt, and her lips were meant for nothing but kissing. We have a son, though he does not look chinky at all. We are divorced, but we remain, as in the Neil Young song, "Already one, our little son, won't let us forget." We both love our little son, now a big, grown man, and in him, our "affections are united."


And now we come to the tragic bit - how I ended up with Helga, the Even More Horrible, who is NOT chinky at all, but a MARATTHA. These Maratthas are all WARRIORS, too, and they were always predatory raiders upon civilised folk. The Gaekwads, the Scindias, the Holkars - these learnt about "good government" only because of the British. As Lord Wellesley, the "little great man," put it: "Let our strong moral influence pervade the whole." Thus, the British in India had a "Political Service" - and these extremely exceptional men advised all the rulers of all the 650 "princely states." Read about this aspect of our history in Charles Allen and Sharada Trivedi's great book.


As I have earlier confessed, with this Marattha woman, I discovered Aum Mani Padme Hun to the Power of n, with n tending towards infinity. I became SERIOUSLY ADDICTED to her Divine Butt. Some strange magnetic force always drew my hand at night, as we lay together in  bed, to this Divine Butt. Yes, women can be DANGEROUSLY ADDICTIVE. I guess you can call it LOVE.


Now, while all my CHINKY WOMEN have been pleasant and even docile, accepting me for what I was, a Don Juan, a Casanova, a "heartbreaker," I do believe that Providence had decreed that I would finally be set right - and thus, this Marattha Woman was sent to me. If you look at her, she looks like what French people call "petite." She speaks very, very softly. She sings softly too, and in tune. She even looks "demure." But perish the thought. This is all a "thin disguise." It is as "metaphysical" as anything can be. Above all that, she is indeed Helga, the Even More Horrible. She towers ten feet above my Hagar - and, sure enough, there are Great Big Horns on her Head. Her metaphysical BUTT is so fucking BIG, that even a Hindu God with Ten Hands would not be able to cover the entire territory.


And as for me, "I got accustomed to her face."


Sweet, pretty face it is, too. Now with a little grey hair around it. She never wears lipstick. Never any "make up." She never wears any perfume. She never even wears the pearl ear-rings I once gifted her. Sometimes, when she feels like, she puts some kajal in her eyes - and I "see the lovelight."


And I have never ever met a tougher woman. During all these years in Goa, she ran the show. I was placed under STRICT DISCIPLINE. I had my nose stuck to the GRINDSTONE. I WORKED HARD - and that is how I have "growed" into something far, far bigger than I ever was before. I studied, and studied, and studied. And I also wrote, a little. This Antidote Blog began in Goa - over three years ago.


So that is me - a GURKHA - and that is my Helga, a MARATTHA.


It must have all been foreordained.


It was "written in the stars."


Wanna take me on, chacha?