Written for Scott Bradley's one-man cabaret

The Buddha: A Dharmalogue

by Jeff Goode

copyright © 2003
The Buddha by Jeff Goode (copyright © 2003)
All rights reserved. This script may not be performed, printed, downloaded or re-transmitted without the author's consent.

(BUDDHA enters rubbing his belly)

Hey, whussup.
I'm Siddhartha Gautama.
My buddies call me Buddha. Long story.
Buddh. Buddher. Buddha-khan.
Bodhisattva. Bodhi. Bo.
Boba Fett. Boo-Baby. Buddha-licious.
Or just, The Buddha.

You don't believe me?
Here, rub my belly.
(rubs his belly)
You don't want some o' this?
Seriously, you don't know what you're missing.
I'm tellin' you, I've done it all, and this is the shiznit.
(rubs his belly)
I mean it. You name it, I've done it.
(if anybody says something:)
Yes! But never again. You couldn't pay me.
It used to be I would try anything once.
But then I did everything once.
And the second time around, you kinda start to go:
"Mmmmmyeah, maybe I don't need my nuts waxed, thank you."
I was lucky to get through it the first time.

But then I was born lucky.
Born rich anyway. Excessively rich.
Like Rockefeller rich.
My dad was the crown prince.
So I was second or third in line to whatever he was first or second in line for.
And if you've read any British tabloids, you know what that means:
Lots of free time. No responsibilities.
And an assload of money.
And that's a powerful animal.
One ass can carry - I don't know - a shitload of money.
So I had everything. I had it all.
The castles, the camels, the yacht.
And this was in Nepal.
You know how hard it is to get a 30-foot sloop up a mountain?
Me neither, 'cause I just had the Sherpas do it.

Beautiful wife? I had three.
One to cook, one to clean, and one to just be hot.
And she was. Smokin'.
5 kids. No, 3. Or maybe just one. I don't remember.
I wasn't really into the kid thing.
That's why we had a nanny, right?
And sound-proofing on the guest house.

Anything I wanted, I got:
Chinese mangos out of season. Bam!
Fresh squeezed milk from the teat of a dozen virgins. You got it!
Move the yacht to the other side of the court yard so I can tan some more in the afternoon. Yes, your majesty!

My wife was not happy about the virgin milk.
She told me so.
And I realized: "Hey, I'm not happy either!"
I've got all the stuff.
I got everything everybody wants, and has to have, and tries to get, so they can be as happy and contented as someone like me. But I'm still just as grumpy and irritable as the guy next door with the small mansion and no yacht.
Why is that? I had no idea.
But something in my gut was telling me I didn't belong there and I had to get out.
So I said: "You got it, gut" and left.
I left everything.
The wife, the kids, the money, the hot tub.
And just walked away.
I took off all my fancy clothes, stripped down to my nut sac and walked out of there.

I went out the door, down the hall, through the gate, and out into the world - naked as the wind - and just kept going.
First monastery I came to, I went inside and became a monk.
Vow of poverty. Vow of silence. The whole deal.
Abstinence. Temperance.
Yoga and meditation 24/7.
And fasting.
I totally got off on the fasting.
Not for everyone. But this was definitely my thing.
I could starve circles around most people.
I had what we called "the knack".
But we didn't actually call it that, because it sounds like "snack" and you don't even want to think about food.
I was division champ 3 years running and I felt like I'd finally found my niche.
I could've gone professional, but - y'know - vow o' poverty.
I think I still hold the world record in singles fasting.
234 days straight.
And not this modern "juice-only" fasting.
Or the "Double meat, double cheese, small fries, Diet Coke" kind of fasting.
This was old school: No food, no drink. No sudden movements.
You just sit very quietly. And meditate.
Purifies the body and mind.
After 234 days, I was so pure my ribs were sticking out of my chest.
Elbows bigger than my thighs.
Killer cheekbones.
I looked like a skeleton.
Except for my little bloated starvation belly.
Finally, on day 234, I hit zero percent body fat.
I had purged my body of all its impurities.
But the funny thing is... I didn't feel pure.
I felt hungry, and achy. And bored.
God, I was bored out of my mind.
You can sit perfectly still for 16 hours a day,
But your brain is still gonna be twitchin' around up in here.
And my brain was jumpin' out of my skull.
It was fucking torture.
So next day, I'm sittin' by the road fasting and meditating. Again.
Trying not to pass out.
And a little girl came up to me and offered me a bowl of rice.

And I said: "Fuck that! Go get me a hamburger!"
And while she was off looking for hamburger
I ate that rice anyway.
And it was the most delicious thing I ever tasted in my life.
Oh my God.
Juicy, succulent.
Have you ever had rice that was succulent?
My mouth would have been watering, if I wasn't so dehydrated.
And I thought: "This is it!"
This is what life is about!
Eating. Feeding. Sustenance.
Replenishing your body and your soul.
And I just kept eating.
Turnips and kumquats and waffles and stew.
I went to culinary school. Became a chef.
Cheese soufflé. Creme brulee. Truffle cake.
And that's all I did was eat.
I put on 300 pounds in about 6 months.
God, I was a pig.
And even then I didn't stop.
I would eat till I made myself sick.
And drink.
And not, like, cheap local wines.
The good stuff.
Imported. Beaujolais. Chardonnay. German beer. Cognac. Ouzo.
6 or 8 bottles a day, at least.
I would eat myself sick, then drink till I puked, and then I could eat some more.

Until one day I was lying there in a pool of my own vomit, so hungover that I couldn't remember whether I was supposed to be eating next, or more drinking.
And I thought: "Wait a minute... I still don't feel happy!"
I feel fat. And nauseous.
I feel disgusting.
Because I am disgusting. Look at me.
I've got rolls of fat comin' off my eyebrows.
What was I thinking?
Food isn't the answer.
If it was, there'd be a lot more jolly fat people.
And I got up and walked right out of that restaurant.
Well, the waiter had to help me up.
Then I walked out.

And I went straight to the gym and started working out.
Cardio, free weights, Pilates. The whole boat.
I dropped 150 pounds in 5 months.
And everything else was solid muscle.
Washboard abs. Rock hard.
Bis and tris and delts so tight it hurt.
If I forgot to oil up before a workout, I could flex and my skin would split open.
I was in fantastic shape. The best shape of my life.
Not that I had a life, because I practically lived at that gym.
In the sense that I had no home, and I never left the gym.
Until the day they took me out of it on a stretcher, of course.
I was doing squats at 3 in the morning - 400 pound reps with no spotter - and I pulled a hammy, and I just kept going.
"No pain, no gain" is what my trainer used to say.
By the time I got done with that workout,
I was in so much pain I had to be sedated.
Endorphins may be the greatest natural high in the world.
But try shredding a ligament and you'll want the real thing real fast.

So they put me on painkillers.

So of course I became addicted to those.
Demerol. Nembutal. Ibuterol. I was even abusing Anbesol.
Talk about feeling no pain, I couldn't feel anything.
Opium. Dopamine. Cocaine.
Then I moved on to the hard stuff.
I think the only reason I'm alive today is that I went at it so hard core that I hit rock bottom before my body even knew it was time to overdose.
My first clear memory was waking up 3 months later on the floor of a crack house.
With a needle in my hand.
Covered in track marks.
Trying to figure out how to inject heroin into my navel.
I think it was heroin. It could've been detergent for all I knew.
Because I didn't remember anything.
I might have achieved a state of true and perfect bliss during my blackout period,
But I couldn't tell you. Because I was out.
I do remember the withdrawal, though.
(sarcastic) Yeah! Totally worth it!

So I went into rehab - which is it's own special kind of addiction.

But that's where I met Michael, my roommate.
He had a tiny little apartment.
And was looking for someone to split the rent.
So I moved in.

I never thought of myself as gay.
But I don't know what else you'd call it.
Two guys. One bed. Box of condoms.
It was like that old joke:
How can you tell if your roommate is gay?
When his ass tastes like cock.
But I had to admit, that guy knew more about giving head than any woman I'd ever been with. Then he introduced me to some friends. And I found out that every guy knows more about giving head than any woman I've ever been with.

I was experiencing my first - and second - multiple orgasm, when it hit me:
This is it! This is what it's all about.
The human procreative urge.
Not the procreation. Because I'd been there, done that.
But the urge itself.
That momentary cataclysmic surge of pure orgasmic fuck.

So I did.
I fucked everything.

I fucked two guys at once. (thrusts his pelvis back and forth)
Three guys at once. (demonstrates)
Four guys. (puts out his right hand)
Five guys. (puts out his left hand)
One time I fucked 9 guys all at the same time. (does a special double-grip with each hand and bobs his head back and forth and left and right to get the ears)
And then 9 more, because the other team saw us and wondered what was going on in that dugout.

I fucked a llama.
Or it could have been alpaca.
And even as I was doing it, I was thinking: "What am I doing?"
Y'know, maybe I've taken things a little too far.
Maybe I crossed a line somewhere back there and it's time to turn around and go back.
But then I thought: "Hell, no! This llama is the best fuck I've ever had!"

And then a couple days later, I got this incredible rash.
All over my body. Well, the front of my body.
My crotch was on fire. My hands.
My stomach felt like it was crawling with termites.
All I could do for 3 days was lie on my back and try not to scratch.
So I was lying there - not scratching - staring at the ceiling.
Which was covered in dried semen.
Coulda been mine.
Coulda been the llama.
And I kept thinking:
(angst) "What the fuck was I fucking thinking fucking every fucking thing that moves?"
Although that's more a figure of speech, because it was only the things that slowed down or came to a complete stop that really got my juices flowing.

So I became a vegetarian.
And then a Vegan.
Then I was a pirate for a while.
But that was just more sex, only with a boat.
Sumo wrestler. Snake charmer. Poet. Accountant.
Like I said, I've done it all.

And then one day, it finally happened...

I became One with the Universe.
I don't even know how I did it.
I was just sitting under a tree, taking it all in.
And - whoomp - there I was:
One with the Universe.
It was this total out-of-body experience.
No body, no belly.
Just a big floating brain.
But not even a brain.
Just pure essence of being-ness. --essitude.
For the first time in my life... I understood... everything.
It all made perfect sense....

(breathes in, breathes out)

I probably would have stayed One with the Universe if it weren't for one thing:
The Universe.
(a little creeped out:)
It's always there.
"Hey, Universe."
"Hey, Buddha." Which is what it started calling me after I asked it to please stop calling me "little buddy".

And don't get me wrong.
The Universe is great.
Nothing against the Universe.
But let's face it... It doesn't get out much. If you know what I mean.

So there I am, One with the Universe, right?
And it comes up to me: "Hey, Buddha. ... Whussup?"

And I'm like: "Oh, you know. ...This."

And the Universe is like: "So you doing anything tonight?"

And I'm thinking: "Oh, shit, I know where this is going."
The Universe wants to hang out and chill again and watch videos or something.
And I was really looking forward to being One with the Universe by myself for a change.
So I was like: "Oh, you know, I don't know. Maybe go out."

And the Universe is like: "Really? That's great, well, listen...
If you see anybody, can you give them a message?"

And I was like... "Give them a message? From you? From the Universe?"
And now I'm starting to feel bad about not wanting to hang with the U.
"Yeah, okay. What's the message?"

And the Universe kinda leans in and says: "This is what I want you to tell them...
Hey! I'm sick of your shit! If you don't straighten up and start acting right, so help me, I am going to fuck you up!"

And I'm like: "Harsh. ...And this message is for who?"

And the Universe is like: "For everybody. They're all a bunch of fuck-ups and I'm tired of hearing their shit. Sick and fuckin' tired of it. I've had it! Who do they think they are?"

And I'm like: "Okay, wow. Look at the time."

And the Universe is like, "Oh, you gotta go?"
As if nothing had happened!

And I'm like: "Uh yeah, I gotta, yeah, get going."

And the Universe turns all serious again, and says:
"...But you'll deliver the message, right?"

And I'm like: "Shuuhh!"

...And so that's the message:
Stop being such a whiny little piss-ant.
There are more important things
Than whatever you're bitching about
And if you don't shut up and get your act together,
The Universe is going to personally fuck you up.

Now that's not from me, that's the Universe talking.
So: message delivered.
But just between you and me...

I think the Universe it full of shit.

Because I tried acting right.
I tried acting wrong.
I tried everything.
And you know what I figured out?

You can climb the highest mountain. And reach the highest peak. Get that big promotion. Reach your ideal weight. The perfect score. The loudest accolades. Or the most satisfying fart. But eventually, you're going to have to come back down off that mountaintop, and unless you make your descent as exhilarating as the climb up, you're probably going to find that, on the whole, life is kind of a let down.

Because happiness isn't supposed to be your destination.
It's the journey.

It's not something out there for you to find.
It's right here for you to be.

And not up here. (taps his head)
Right here. (rubs his belly)
Oh yeah. Right there.
(rubs his belly)
That's it.
That's the shiznit.
(to his belly:)
You miss me, buddy?
(rubs his belly)
Yeah, me too. Me, too...

(Fade to black.)