Bardo of Buffalo: Why No One From Buffalo Goes To Hell

by Richard May

Loosely bonded quark gluon plasma rained down for twenty-four hours with thunder and lightening upon the eternal City of Darkness, nestled in the heart of the Nigerian sewer system; snowed down upon the autumn trees, sticking to their still-unfallen October leaves, collapsing sturdy branches and entire trees, along with power and phone lines into more than ten million tons of living wood debris. This event was a record two-foot lake-effect-snow storm of a predicted mild El Nino winter. Days followed of seeing one's breath indoors at 48 degrees F, only candle light and flash light by night, day after day without heat, electrical power or internet access for more than 260 thousand denizens of what is called Western New York. Actually, as explained previously but known to only few, the city of Buffalo is in fact a part of the Nigerian sewer system, connected to the real Western New York area by a wormhole in 11-dimensional hyperspace.

In the past I had always imagined that I would eventually attain the release of death by sheer ontological eccentricity, however invisible, or from the unbearable shame of once having imagined that I had a name, certainly not by sampling the heat death of the universe from within a sewer. But seeking to enter the clear light of the void through the internet, removing a sewer grating from over head, I ventured out above ground through a wormhole, walking along a road that appeared bombed out by Nature, to the Café Lagos locally owned and operated by enterprising Nigerian sewer rats.

Feeling in an especially convivial mood and suffering extreme internet-withdrawal symptoms I opened the door to the Café Lagos, finding to my terror and disgust that it was not empty but inhabited by my fellows. Nevertheless bravely stepping up to the counter, a radiant being appeared before me, apparently some sort of deva, asking me what I would like. Was I having a classic "near-life experience" brought on by stress?

She was in her early twenties, encapsulated in flesh, smiling seductively, repeatedly calling me honey, calling everyone and everything honey. What would I like? Remembering Plato's definition of philosopher as that most royal king who drools over himself, I drooled. But maybe Plato said rules.

Somehow I managed to ask her with an almost straight face if she had any muffins. Smiling her unending wonderful ben wa smile, she responded, "No", her muffins had all been eaten.

She wore a difficult-to-decipher name tag. "You're Lesley?" I asked. "No, Loosely … Loosely Plasma," she radiated! I said "Aha!", as though it all made sense to me, because I was so hip.

Once I was able to get online at the Café Lagos I went to Matt Drudge's web site only to learn that a spontaneous exodus of the cockroach population from Buffalo had been observed and that F.E.M.A. is considering providing assistance to the fleeing roaches. Perhaps tiring of talk of football games and chicken wings, one fine spring morning years ago the lofty slugs left Buffalo en masse, leaving behind only their slime trails on the sidewalks as a reminder of their wisdom. Hence, you will readily understand why there is no one from Buffalo in hell. Satan refuses to admit Buffalonians to hell, regardless of their otherwise superb qualifications. He can't stand seeing the boundless joy of the damned upon learning that they're in hell, not Buffalo anymore.

May-Tzu, without internet access except at the Café Lagos, Bardo of Information Death.