The FUCKING ORANGE EATING CONTEST isn't an explicit rebellion against the BIP, but I can definitely see how it can work that way. You definitely have to mute your own aversions in order to place in the finals. When I was eating my sixth orange, a wave of nausea washed over me. I told myself, "Mmm, this orange is delicious" --- and lo, it was delicious.
from Illuminatus----
Two months thereafter, the stock market crashed and New York millionaires began leaping from high windows onto hard streets. Old Drake, the next day, ran into his son begging on the street near the Old Granary cemetery. The boy was wearing old clothes from a secondhand store.
"It's not that bad, son. We'll pull through."
"Oh, I know that. You'll come out ahead, in fact, if I'm any judge of character."
"Then what the hell is this disgraceful damned foolishness?"
"Experience. I'm breaking out of a trap."
The old man fumed all the way back to the bank. That evening he decided it was time for another open and honest discussion; when he went to Robert's room, however, he found the boy thoroughly trussed up in chains and quite purple in the face.
"God! Damn! Son! What is this?"
The boy— who was twenty-seven and, in some respects, more sophisticated than his father— grinned and relaxed.
The purple faded from his face. "One of Houdini's escapes," he explained simply.
"You intend to become a stage magician? My God!"
"Not at all. I'm breaking out of another trap— the one that says nobody but Houdini can do these things."
Old Drake, to do him justice, hadn't acquired his wealth without some shrewdness concerning human peculiarities. "I begin to see," he said heavily. "Pain is a trap. That was why you put the broken glass in your shoes that time. Fear of poverty is a trap. That's why you tried begging on the streets. You're trying to become a Superman, like those crazy boys in Chicago, the 'thrill killers.' What you did to that whore last year was part of all this. What else have you done?"
"A lot." Robert shrugged. "Enough to be canonized as a saint, or to be burnt as a diabolist. None of it seems to add up, though. I still haven't found the way." He suddenly made a new effort, and the chains slipped to the floor. "Simple yoga and muscle control," he said without pride. "The chains in the mind are much harder. I wish there were a chemical, a key to the nervous system . . ."
