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Meditation Secrets the Gurus Do Not Want You to Know

A baby curiously touching a man's face while he lies on grass.
“Inner peace, outer wobble … and now I smell like brisket.”

You will need three things: a bathrobe with no belt, year-old flip-flops, and the  remains of last weekend’s barbecue ribs. Those are all the meditation secrets a devoted student requires. Forget the pristine yoga mat or the imported zafu. Real transcendence begins with sitting on a laundry basket turned upside-down, wobbling gently like a buoy of questionable faith.

Posture or Something Like It

Sit with your back as straight as a slightly wilted daffodil. Cross your legs if you must, though we recommend one leg crossed and the other searching for loose change. Keep your hands in the sacred Mudra of Remote Control: thumb poised as if scrolling channels, forefinger extended in mild accusation. The head should tilt forward just enough to suggest you’re about to apologize to the carpet.

The Sacred Flame and Chants

Light the barbecue bone. Watch as sweet hickory smoke fills the room, summoning the aroma of failed cookouts past. This is your incense. Waft it solemnly toward your forehead, then regret it instantly. Lose the ancient Sanskrit syllables. True awakening responds to nonsense. Begin with “Fibber de-floo fa-la-la moo,” draw out the vowels until your neighbor knocks on the wall. Each repetition should grow softer, stranger, and more self-congratulatory until you are humming like a confused refrigerator.

Meditation Thought Management

When thoughts intrude–about unpaid bills or the smell of burnt ribs–release them with a mighty snort  loud enough to startle the cat. Should serenity descend, chase it away with another round of chanting. Enlightenment, like a fruitcake at Christmas, is best kept at arm’s length.

Concluding the Meditation Secrets Session

Rise slowly, allowing your legs to resume circulation. Bow to the barbecue bone; it has given all it could. Announce to the room that you feel centered, lighter, and ready to vacuum the ashes. Congratulations: you have turned meditation on its head, and your neighbors on their toes.

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The preceding is satire. Straight up, Skippy. No warranties are expressed or implied. For life advice, try a professional. For investment tips, try a dart board. For salvation, the gentleman in the robe has been handling that portfolio for 2,000 years.