Johan Johansson was your average Scandinavian – straight out of Hitler’s masturbatory bedside catalogue of mythical Aryans, with his polar-bear-peroxide-blond hair and his cerulean-blue-whale eyes.
Unfortunately, Johan was depressed – mainly because he had oodles of time on his hand and had a knobbly knee, an Achilles heel, and a Thetis toe from hopping over and over again onto the gravy train.
His occidental alarm-clock life and big Mac existence began to tire and took a heavy sledgehammer and tong toll on his fatuous and shallow being. He had reached the end of his corporate-life tether and was nibbling on the last keratin flakes of his manicured nails.
Not content with playing with himself, he had the unmitigated chutzpah to want to find himself. He kept his eyes peeled and his foreskin rolled in anticipation of something happening that would help him find himself.
He thanked his lucky Adromedan stars, a few propitious pulsars, and an auspicious asteroid or two when he saw an ad inviting him to discover the mystery of Moksha and the enigma of Nirvana in India.
“Etcetera!” he cried jubilantly – or was it “Eureka”? – He wasn’t sure of these antediluvian languages – they were all the same to him. So he reverted to English and tried again: “I have it!” he cried exultantly, with all the thrill of a demented dervish in the middle of a rapturous refrain, “I shall go to find Nirvana in India.”
He then bade a fond song and dance farewell to his beloved antipodal land of Quisling, Nokia and the midnight sun. He made a hop skip and somersault onto the next flight to India bidding goodbye to all his Tom, Dick and Abdul friends.
He landed in India hoping to bump into a crash of rhinos, or happen upon an ambush of elephants. He arrived in India hoping to be greeted by fasting Fakirs, sagacious Sages, and gregarious gurus. He arrived in India expecting to see Moksha dripping from the walls and Nirvana falling off the trees.
Instead he found Big-Mac beggars, Kentucky fried cow dung, Pizza shanty huts, and Starbucks potholes.
Johansson was down in the dumps and surrounded by the rubble of the castles he had built in the air.
In this state of sixes and sevens he almost gave up and decided to go back to his hearth and home and household gods, when fortuitously he bumped into a shamble of alcohol-addled teenagers armed to the teeth with paintbrushes, all geared up to paint the town red.
Johansson summoned up the courage and accosted them. “Do you know where I can find Nirvana?” he asked, meekly.
“Under the Bodh tree,” came their enigmatic reply.
Johansson contemplated his navel and wandered far and wide in search of the Bodh tree until he reached the halcyon beaches of Goa.
There in the midst of the Mecca of madness stood the Bodh tree, bathed in a glow of fractals and halloed with the strains of hippy trance. Its hallucinogenic leaves were glittering in the refulgent moonlight; its magic mushroom fruit were ripe with Ecstasy; its vibrant, psychedelic branches offered uncanny disassociative glimpses into the unconscious; its roots were overgrown with the weed of catatonia.
Johansson joined the revelry and carousing, adopted the lotus position, and popped the pill of pleasure passed the hymen of his quivering virgin mouth.
Johansson had finally found the Nirvana he sought.
