The Land of Gross National Happiness
In my countless pilgrimages and wanderings, spreading the joy and knowledge of Solubility, I have felt not so much like the dolphin, but his prey, the sprightly mullet, for time and circumstance ever stalk all men. Though we may contemplate this profundity, and while away the moist and tepid hours of indecision so consolate and yet incisive, we cannot began to accumulate the wisdom our scorpion, our soul, so desperately craves and habitually denies. What then? Shall we go forth as mullets, atremble in fin and gill, bemused and governed by current and tide, afraid under moon, daunted by sun or orbed star? Shall we school in silvery platoons, never daring the open sea alone, our fearful tears but increasing the briny deep? Yet life has her victims, though unawares they may be. Never have I found this, the Second Law of Solubility, more true than on a now long ago visit to Bhutan.
   I had been serving in India as loremaster to Rajah Abu Singh, and as a matter of destiny had healed his great toe of a particularly evil affliction, one that had caused him to be not only derelict in his satrapies, but had forced him to abandon Kama Sutra position number 73 with all but 2 of his concubines. Restored to health and vigor he praised me regally and trumpeted my skills throughout his Raj.
   News of my powers came to the monks at a dzong, a temple, in Bhutan, in Tongsa. It seems they were facing a terrible dilemma that only one with my gifts could remedy and bestill. I set off therefore with all haste for the mountain kingdom, passed through the colorful markets of Thimpu and so weeks later reached my destination, weary but resolute.
  What I found on my arrival filled my spleen with a rancid and palpitating horror that swelled and festered with every step I took. The faces of the people, known for their perpetual smiles, had been stricken grim and dolorous. Not one toothless grin was there to be seen. This great melancholy was reflected in the sky itself, which had grown grey and leaden. I made my way to the lhakhang, the chapel of the monastery, a great loathing boiling and churning in my bowels, fearful of what I would there encounter. Alas that my fear was not groundless, for the monks had suffered the same disfiguring affliction. There was not one smile in all the land. Above all was the slate grey sky.
  "The Buddha be increased in measureless nothingness!" cried the chief arhat from the noisome alcove in which he reposed. "You have come, Master Akiryon! We had but given up hope, and we never had that in abundance to begin with. Now is the hour when all your powers must reach their apex. We must be freed of these frowns, these masks of blighting sadness. Know you not that Bhutan is named far and wide as 'the Land of Gross National Happiness'? We are famous for our smiles. Compounding our deep misery is the darkened sky, once blue and cheerful. We are left but with frowns and grey, cloud filled skies." 
  "I am torturously aware of that," I replied. "That is why I have been so bloated with with this gaseous horror since my arrival. But fear not! I believe even now I have comprehended the solution to your troubles. It is evident from the atmosphere in this room that yak cheese is a main staple of your diets, as it is with all Bhutanese. You, and all your people, must eliminate this subtle and devious food at once if you are to forever lose these frowns. I pledge to you in this solemn assembly that if you heed my counsel your smiles shall be regained and never more fade."
  "We shall do all that you command, Master," replied the mournful-visaged monk.
  "Next, you and all your citizens shall ascend the forbidden slopes of Gangkar Punsum," I continued sternly, "bringing your ritual libations and prayer flags. There you shall drink to Padmasambhava and await the results of my shamanship."
  So it was that the people of Bhutan, lead by their holy men bearing colorful prayer flags, made the arduous ascent up Gangkar Punsum. Here they sat as one and began their ritual libations, which consisted of drinking a very potent and heady liquor distilled from the trumpet flower. Thus they sat and thus they drank and drank until the fall of night.
  When the morning dawned I arose quickly and headed up the mountain. Already a change was obvious. The sun was climbing slowly into a clear and bright blue sky. The grey and dreary clouds had flown. Moved with emotion, I hurried up the trail made by the thousands of feet that had passed there just the day before until I came to a wide expanse where sat the entire population of Bhutan. Every face that greeted me was smiling irrepressively. Young and old, male and female, monk and laity, all had wide and toothy grins, unnatural in their extreme rigidity and size. They were all quite dead.
  Apparently, unbeknownst to me, the yak cheese that made up 90% of their diet had shielded their digestive tracts from the deadly strychnine that completely pervaded their ritual liquor. Deprived of this buffer, they had succumbed to the poisonous effects in but a few hours, their risus sardonici the unforseen, but decidedly cheerful looking result.
  Lesser men might have viewed this outcome as a mixed blessing. I of course took it philosophically. Their frowns were gone, never to return. Even the sky was smiling and blue. I had been as good as my word. And so I left Bhutan with a smile in my scorpion and a light heart.
  It wasn't many years later that my deeds were enshrined in song by people throughout the neighboring countries. Whenever they were saddened or grim of face, whenever the clouds were dark and forbidding, whenever they considered beseeching my assistance, they would sing of my aid to the people of Bhutan.

Grey skies are gonna to clear up
Bhutan a happy face
Brush off the clouds and cheer up
Bhutan a happy face
And spread sunshine all over the place
Just, Bhutan a happy face
  

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