The Buddha Needed a Burger

by Regis Boff

The Buddha needed a burger.
He felt bad for wanting it, what with his having rejected the physical universe and all, but he was always the kid who ate when he was sad.
It was the run-in with that skinny little girl. She pointed at him in front of everyone during levitation and screeched, “Momma, why is the Gautama Buddha so fat? My teacher says it is bad to be fat.”
“Fat, she thinks I’m fat?” he said to his mind’s eye that was orbiting Neptune.
Cracking his flawless eyelids, Siddhartha peeked at himself and his huge stomach. Then, as predictably as wisdom follows knowledge and knowledge supplants misery, the craving re-entered, stage left. For that burger.
He blamed the women and their “Church of the Emaciated”.
They had made short work of his old buddy Confucius, who had a few extra pounds tacked on as well. His “Analects” were no match for their daytime, self-help television programs for “moms” like “Chopstick Atkins” and “The Church’s Biggest Loser.” The ladies dominated TV.
The Buddha did have a show in Nepal for a couple of months, but that black dot in the center of a white screen with a chorus of humming never caught on. He got thumped into late-night with all the level nine alcoholics.
He had learned that even Jesus, who just a couple of years ago, was playing twenty-thousand seaters across the country while dominating Sunday morning programming, was being shoved into syndication with no points.
So here he sat, just a shit-can kick away from “Parinirvana.” He reached under his robe for the ketchup then drifted, with a smile, into Enlightenment.

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