The C in Christmas: Santa comes more than once a year

It's been a while. I know. My asana practice has been scaled back to an all time low so my recent inspiration has been heavy on sarcasm but light on yoga (pun intended). It was partly because of the many piles of fecal matter dropped in the yoga community in the last few years. Google these words to find out more: john friend bikram lululemon yoga scandal

But don't worry, I plan on making a comeback in the yoga world next year. Yeah, bitches!

Anyway, this blog is brought to you by my latest Facebook profile photo:

Not sure how it happened but it did: I update my Facebook profile photo on an almost-daily basis. It is meant to be funny and provoke conversations at the same time. If you are one of the three followers of my blog, you will have seen my collections of Jesus and bacon art photos.

Fast forward a little...

There are many reasons why I am not a fan of this thing called "Christmas".

Obviously it's not really about the birth of Jesus. Trust me, Jesus and I have talked about it many times and we couldn't figure out the exact date of his birthday, particularly because we're not sure if we count twelve days of Christmas as twelve or as one. I mean, on the eighth day we have eight maids a-milking. Eight! That's sixteen breasts, seventeen if one of them came from Chernobyl. Goodness gracious me, that's a lot of breast milk! Oh, I can't wait for the eleventh day of Christmas while eleven pipers a-piping... that's gonna be one hell of an orgy.

Light on Sarcastic Yoga

Yes, I know. It's been a while since I posted a blog. A lot of yoga drama to be had in the last little while, I mean steamy stinky scandalous shit. Then I began a 28-day fitness challenge which distracted me from my usual yoga practice. It's not a bad thing though, because it felt like I needed a break from yoga, if that's even possible. I do miss the good ol’ days of yoga when it simply involved asana practice, kirtan and unassuming philosophy discussions, and none of the ridiculous drama, gold digging hidden agenda, or sex scandals.

Rewind a little...

There's a ton of goodness in the yoga world, so don't get your panties in a bunch and say "oh, you are just mean and negative". But the steamy stinky scandalous shit can't be simply ignored. Speaking of steamy stinky shit, once again I was honoured to have the opportunity to exchange blessings with Crusty Nono Myass, who did a great job in representing steamy stinky shit. Her high horse is seriously dead and she really needs to get off it. It's no longer fun to make fun of her. I hope she gets help for her obvious anger and self-hate problems.

Fast forward a bit...

Two big piles of steamy fecal matter were dropped in the western yoga world recently. There were a few more piles dropped elsewhere, but my plate is just not big enough for so much chocolate pudding.

Bikram Choudhury, the founder of Bikram yoga, was once again getting sued for failing to keep his little Dickram in his short shorts. You can find out more here. This isn't the first time his little Dickram got him into some hot water and will unlikely be the last. I'll say this though: this guy is a serious douchebag.

Another pile of steamy fecal matter was excreted by YogaGlo. In the name of "I own this shit", YogaGlo attempted to obtain a patent on the placement of a camera in an online yoga class and tried to shut down any online yoga class that put the camera in the back of the classroom. They even tried to stop any patent application to have "glo" in the applicant's name, like "Globox" which is a DVD rental company, or "Glow Hockey" which is a game on mobile devices. A few notes to self:

• Cancel YogaGlo subscription. I cannot support its non-sense bullying tactic to snub out competitions because it goes against all teachings of yoga.
• Sign the petition to stop YogaGlo's bullshit here.
• Get patents on these words: yoga, om, Surya Namaskar, namaste.
• Get patent on placement of toilet paper within 2 feet of any toilet bowl. If YogaGlo can get a patent on where to put a camera in a classroom, why can't I get a patent on where to put your shit tickets? Imagine you have to get a license to put toilet paper within 2 feet of your toilet bowl. Every time you wipe, I become richer. 

In case you wonder, the long-standing pile of tired old fecal matter called John Sans Testicles is still churning out load after load of poop with his coven angels and pole dancers. But that's nothing you don't already know.

Fast forward...

Are you ready? *drum roll*... this is Chapter 1 of the teacher training manual of Sarcastic Hatha Institute of Tantrika Yoga or S.H.I.T. Yoga! Yup, y'all been voluntarily enrolled in the most beautifulest transformatively avant garde hatha yoga system paradigm... just kidding.

Best of my Facebook profile pictures: Jesus, dino and other awesome stuff edition

Y'all know Jesus is awesome! Thanks to those Creationism folks like Kirk Cameron, whose drag name is Anita Dayly Bukkake, for their unconditionally selfless non-stop divine immaculate inspiration, I present to you another Best of my Facebook profile pictures, the Jesus, dino and other awesome stuff edition!

Y'all welcome!

Jesus riding his favourite teacup T-Rex, allegedly created by Leonardo DiCaprio da Vinci! 

The epic battle between Jesus and the evil unicorns, this is also the real story behind the seriously marvellous Avengers.

Check out my badass tats! Team Jesus and teacup T-Rex FTW, bitches!

Jesus makes love, not war, with a unicorn. 

Jesus living everyone's fantasy: doing it with twins!

This is like total Sridaiva!

It takes three to tango: knowledge, truth and lie

[DISCLAIMER: this blog will likely be more thought-provoking and philosophical than you expect. Be warned. And yup, these are all my very own random and unsexy thoughts. If you don't agree with them, bite me.]

Give 'em the old Razzle Dazzle 

Razzle dazzle 'em 

Show 'em the first rate sorcerer you are 

Long as you keep 'em way off balance 

How can they spot you've got no talents? 

Razzle Dazzle 'em - Billy Flynn

When I started this blog, there were (and still are) many wars of epic proportion. The people of Egypt are passionately fighting over what democracy really is. Then there's the acquittal of George Zimmerman in the Trayvon Martin case which is one of the most divisive cases in the American history. And the object of my stalking affection J engaged in a debate on Facebook with some douchebag named Mike over addiction and suffering. I have not met either of them. J is yummy so naturally I am on his side. Mike is a douchebag because he literally emptied the content of his own douche bag when he couldn't keep up with the argument. Perhaps Mike should change his last name to Hunt... just a thought. Speaking of douchebag, there was my very own "exchange of blessings" with none other than Crusty Nono Myass. It ended with me calling out her snake oil salesman dirty tricks and her trying to twirl her way out of the fact that she slept with her employer. You know what, it ain't beautiful or auspicious or a blessing to sleep with your boss, especially when the (female) employee is 30 and the (male) employer is 44 while not entirely single. It! Is! Not! Okay!

So there, I said it! For all of you bitches! You are welcome! But I digress...

How about a story? It goes something like this:

A group of blind men was asked by the king to determine what an elephant looked like. The first one touched its ear and claimed an elephant looked a fan. The second one touched its leg and claimed an elephant looked a pillar. The third one touched its tusk and claimed an elephant looked like a dildo... so on and so forth... the blind men began arguing and tried to sodomize each other to validate his perceived truth... well, you get the gist of the story. It's an oldie but a goodie like VHS or Joan Rivers.

You know what, Ganesha, a well known Hindu deity who looks like a dude with an elephant head, is a symbol of knowledge and removal of obstacles, go figure... but I digress again... hmm... I really have a digression problem. May be I was born a digresser, but I digress... arggh! Dang it!

Anyway...we love to argue. We love to prove the other side wrong. We love to put each other down, although the thoughts may not manifest into actions. We, unfortunately, love to tell stories based on a mixture of knowledge, truth and lie, which the purposes of telling these stories can be good, evil and everything in between. I think it is our innate nature to prove our dominance over [insert subject] by doing all kinds of queer stuff: winning an argument, demo-ing a crazy ass yoga pose, singing louder than the rest of the choir, toppling a government, having the most dramatic personal catastrophe, killing innocent people, collecting pubes from your coven angels, etc. Or perhaps "proving" our dominance over [insert subject] means survival and I suppose it is not a bad thing... like if I can own a bad situation, I may turn out okay.

For whatever reasons, we... and that's a collective WE, meaning myself included... all seek approval and acknowledgement from some perceived authority. I did share my 2.5 cents in one of my previous blogs, but of course it runs much deeper than just the discussion of the role of a "teacher".

So how about this: I am here (on this earth) for a reason. It is the bare minimum answer to the question "why am I here?". Most of us probably do not have a definitive reason to "why am I here?", but our instincts tell us "since I am here, I must have a definitive reason to be here". We, therefore, do all those peculiar things to establish and validate our own "self" based on what we "know", i.e. our knowledge.

Here's the first act of this mad dance of three-way tango: we establish "stuff" to validate our own "self", and validate "stuff" to establish our own "self".

To establish/validate our own stuff/self, we consciously and subconsciously:
- seek approval and acknowledgement from some perceived authority, e.g. a teacher or a newspaper.
- seek approval and acknowledgement from our peers, e.g. friends or members of interest groups who are supposedly significant in our self worth and identity.
- seek approval and acknowledgement from ourselves. We are our worst critics.

Yes, I am going somewhere with this crazy philosophical dildo. So re-apply lubricant and continue...

...we always (consciously and subconsciously) try to prove the dominance of our knowledge over others'... because that somehow validates and establishes our own "self" and "stuff". In this story the proof of dominance comes in the form of "winning an argument", and it may shed some light on the question "why am I here?". In other words, "I am here for a reason. I won an argument. That might be indicative of the reason of me being here"... or something like that.

... so the blind men began arguing with each other:
"Bitch, an elephant looks like pillar!"
"An elephant looks like a dildo, you asshole!"
"Your mother hates you. I win!"

You get the picture.

Here's the deal: never put an equal sign between "knowledge" and "truth" because they are not the same thing. "We know something" is not "we know everything". What you know may very well be half truth. Preaching (i.e. proving the dominance of our knowledge over others') based on half truth is dangerous. Some of my favourite objects of affection are those organized religions nutjobs like the members of the Westboro Baptist Church. They go all out to preach what they believe to be the truth based on what they know. Yet these  half truths (at best) were also created by the same people who thought the earth was flat. They had unforgiving conviction in what they knew: the earth was flat. In their eyes, that was the whole and only truth because that's what they knew. Anyone who dared question the false truth (what an oxymoron) either got barbequed or were simply chopped to pieces.

Basically, these religious nuts are saying "my knowledge of the partial truth is the whole truth and it is truer than yours, therefore I am denying your knowledge of your truth". They are not about inclusion of differences but denial of others rights, because the "different" people don't fit into their half truth and contradict what they know. How lovely.

Rewind a bit, and perhaps this is a good time to read the disclaimer again...

Nobody knows when we began to drizzle truth with honey or present half truth as the whole truth. In court, someone who's been found "not guilty" is not necessarily "innocent".

Best of my Facebook profile pictures (part 1)

Well, I'll be heading to my parents' for TWO WEEKS, not by choice but my mom's demand. It'll be a while before I can finish editing my next blog... and just imagine how inspired I'd be after TWO WEEKS with my parents AND my sister AND her husband AND their kid... oh, I'll be driving a minivan with a handicap thingy. Lord, have mercy on me, please!

To find out how special my family is, click here.

In the meantime, enjoy some of my favourite Facebook profile pictures of yours truly.

Avant Garde bacon fashion

Deadliest bacon

Bacon is a fetish

Repent, bitches!

Sex sells and he knows it

"Victoria does not have a clue what to do with it"

Princess Syndrome: Terms of Endearment of Entitlement

I totally unleashed the power of Kali on a local yoga teacher in my last blog. As expected it received very polarized feedback. On one hand I was accused of being mean, yet I received thanks for being brave and speaking up on another. That single dose of 4+ years of accumulated discontentment of Miss No-forehead (click here for details) and the inaction of my ex-peers was evidently potent like hell.

Strong emotions evoke strong emotions.

I do not hold back when it comes to assholes. I'm nasty and mean to people who are nasty and mean. They don't deserve tender loving care from Sarcastic Yogi or even their own mother. We've already established that unconditional love, from a mother or whatever, simply doesn't exist. Admit it, y'all secretly love it when I'm nasty and mean, even though y'all gasping, cringing and biting your nails. I'm awesome when I'm nasty and mean. I'm sexy when I'm nasty and mean. But lets not turn this into a pervy blog, regardless how much y'all want it.

In short, could I have used a softer tone? Yes. Do I regret telling the truth? No.

I consider this blog somewhat the continuation of my last one, except I will not shit on Miss No-forehead or some asshole guru named John who has no testicles... ok, well, I shall try, but fecal matter is part of nature and I can't fight mother nature. We all burp, fart and shit. Does Hugh Jackman burp, fart and shit? Hell yeah! Did Marilyn Monroe burp, fart and shit? Of course she did! Does Mariah Carey burp, fart and shit? Well, not as much as she should, considering she always looks so bloated and constipated while posing with butterflies and rainbows and some other crazy shit. When mother nature wants me to burp, fart and shit on the object of my affection... I can't help it as I am simply a weak little man. I'll spew out what comes naturally.

My point is, we all prefer things "endearing" and think we are entitled to (fill in the blank).

Rewind...

The first time I read about "Princess Syndrome" was in an article about dating in some Asian magazine, which it described some common traits in un-date-able women's personality. A woman who has "Princess Syndrome" typically sees herself as the best thing since the opening of MacDonald's and she is the center of the universe. She is deluded in thinking she's a princess and she has every right to poo poo on everyone else. She claims all credits but no responsibility. She is high-maintenance but highly dependent on others to maintain for her. She is never wrong. More importantly, everyone else is subservient to her and must focus on her unconditionally. Everyone must cater to her wants and needs, regardless of their level of absurdity. "Princess Syndrome" can be best described by these three words: me, me, me.

Sounds familiar?

Some even suggest "Princess Syndrome" is the manifestation of some reverse sexism and relevant to certain gender-based characteristics. For the sake's of my safety and my disagreement with such an argument, I'll leave out the gender-based arguments, sexism and all the fun stuff. "Princess" will be a hermaphrodite in this blog. Let's face it, we all know men can act like princesses... actually, we all know at least one person, male or female, who acts like he/she is a princess. My nephew is a princess in the making and he's probably the most high-maintenance 4 year-old on this planet. I don't have the heart to make him a feature on my blog, but I surely hope my sister will do something about it soon.

There are a lot of princesses around you.

Ex-lax of yoga

"It is not acceptable to not talk to the people you don't want to talk to." - some idiot in my office

My last blog was a Johnspeak overload. I promise this blog will not mention some asshole guru named John who has no testicles. No, I will not mention, not even once, some asshole guru named John who has no testicles. This blog will be free of some asshole guru named John who has no testicles.

I haven't talked much about my own yoga journey, like the real deal, like trying to touch my toes or to stand on my head. As an introvert, my practice has always been personal. (Yes, bitches, I'm an introvert, chew on that!) I know many of you are curious. Bitch please, don't even pretend. Y'all curious. And all men are curious, but that's a different conversation.

If you've been reading my blog, you'll know I have stopped taking public classes all together since December 2012. This blog may contain clues as in why I stopped, and it's not entirely because of some asshole guru named John who has no testicles. He might have started it but definitely not the sole reason why I made the decision. But I've never stopped my asana practice. In fact, I now have a much clearer picture of what my practice should be. I joined Spicy Hello Kitty's asana junkie club back in January, and the timing was more perfect than perfect as I decided to focus on personal practice rather than going to public classes. I also went to her workshop in Denver in April and I just did Super Noah's about two weeks ago. Yes, my ass was sore for almost a week.

In the workshop Super Noah talked about many things, which a few really struck a chord in my funny bone. He mentioned deception and false connection, which was ironic because it was the first time I saw a few tired old farts since I stopped taking public classes. Even more ironic was I talked to a few people whom I barely did in the past, and even found common ground with a couple. The tired old farts remain tired and old, and they reminded me of what I wanted to leave behind. So fuck them... gently and respectfully of course.

Super Noah is an awesome yoga and asana (note the distinction) teacher and he always marvelously delivers. I really hope that one day Spicy Hello Kitty and Super Noah will co-teach again. It'll be so amazing! If you are "in the know of yoga", you may ask "what about Poster Boy Dee"? Great question, especially I did that crazy ass new year intensive with the three of them a couple years ago in Tucson. The three of them co-teach again will be EPIC, like the perfect storm or an explosive orgasm that lasts for minutes. They are great on their own and they are just total badass together. They will eventually work out their own dynamics.

A side note to Poster Boy Dee: sometimes you just need to travel beyond the 10-mile radius of Tucson for your fans. It is your dharma, and because you are awesome. Just saying!

Anyway, like I said, I saw a number of tired old farts at Super Noah's workshop. One of them in particular ... well, let's say... did not act appropriately. Ironically, she was the assistant at the workshop and in my opinion, she did everyone a disservice and left a poor taste in my mouth.

Let's give her a name: Miss No-forehead. I suppose I could name her "that ditzy, overly peroxided, self-serving, narcissistic, doughy strawhead named Dandeline Shitstinka". But that would be too unapologetically obvious and of course, I am just too sensitive and kind to overtly reveal her identity. Nope, that ain't me. "Dandeline Shitstinka" does not rhyme with her real name. It does not! Goodness gracious me, I'd never ever call out anyone like that. Never ever! Not even some asshole guru named John who has no testicles. I'm all about shri, compassion, forgetfulness forgiveness and some other shit. And you know what, she is as invasive as dandelion but without the virtues... I don't want to give the plant the bad name.

But I digress... brace yourself, I have a lot of dirt to dish.

Rewind...

A New Paradigm: Pelvic Ventilation Pole Dance Yoga

A New Hatha Yoga Paradigm!

Blessings schmessings to y'all shritesses and angels!

I have something very auspiciously exciting to share with you. Synchronistically, as I just returned to full-time hatha yoga blogging, the new independent, teacher-owned and managed, global new paradigm was launched by Shridaiva Yoga School! And get this: it was co-founded by the dynamically shri-filled the roots yoga guru team, John Sans Testicles and Gasi Sphincter.

Asshole Guru John Sans Testicles is back with rainbow

I was auspiciously blessed with the opportunity to speak with the gurus who invented this adverbfully descriptive and upliftingly transformative hatha yoga paradigm, at their vitally yogic coven in Denver, Colorados.

"Guru John Sans Testicles, how did it all begin?" I asked.

"Guess how many hatha yoga teachers in the US had migraine headache related hip replacing operations last year in 2012?", John replied. I sat down on his bearskin rug next to him and Gasi, watching him taking puffs from that brightly beautifully splendid and vibrant doobie.

Years ago John Sans Testicles first heard of long-time hatha yoga teachers and pole dancers having hip replacements as young as in their 40’s. This was generally accepted as a normal result of individualistically genetic propensities or a natural wearing of the hip socket due to a lot of physical activity within regular yoga or pole dance. However, today the numbers of hip replacements within yoga, pole dance and all of the US society today is alarmingly high and highly alarming, in John's correctly right estimation, and far from what John thinks is a naturally joint degenerative degeneration.

"In Shridaiva yoga, Gasi Sphincter and I have been exploring each other's pelvis and teaching a newly avant garde alignment definition of ‘neutral’ position for the pelvis and nipples. This luminousingly paradigm-shifting alignment hatha yoga pole dance system has already clearly demonstrated an astonishing improvement in the health of students’ hips. All are transformatively showing their moose knuckles and camel toes with pride and shri! Our cuttingly edgy alignment technology includes learning how to isometrically engage all the main muscles of the vaginas, hips, and tongues, then creating an optimal energetically ‘neutral’ shri alignment at your junk. In general, our conceptual idea of neutral hip and lower nipples alignment is to actively create a pulsationally thrusting pelvic alignment in which the pelvic floor is level and aligned with optimal airflow right at your crotch." 

The Power of T-12 and Pelvic Ventilation

John Sans Testicles also discovered the mysterious secret of T-12 and how pranically vital it helps maintain maximum airflow in your crotch. Right a way immediately John phoned a couple of gynecologists to confirm the power of T-12 and the vital yoga auspicity and shrinormous effulgenceness of airing out your crotch. This was a newly avant garde discovery, especially in particular of that the power of T-12 which nobody in the hatha yoga community has never not yet ever not tapped into.

To incorporate this adverbfully descriptive and transformative new hatha yoga alignment paradigm, John Sans Testicles and Gasi Sphincter needed to develop a superly new amazing yoga regime sequence. So John went on a sabbatical, with Gasi by his side on the beach in Barbados, for some much needed reflection and internet porn. For inspiration, they went straightly right back to their roots: pole dance.

"Holy shri!", said John Sans Testicles, blissfully sucking on the doobie. "Both Gasi and I love pole dance. In fact, we have a pole right in our bedroom for Gasi's practice. So it was a no-brainer to copy the moves of pole dance and call it The Pubes. Upon developing this shiftingly transformative hatha yoga sequence, The Pubes, I have brightly returned to teaching as an independent hatha yoga instructor still offering very powerfully awesome alignment technologies."

'"Through regular practice of the complete 108-pose Pubes routine, smoking pranic-filled doobies out of the garden, and daily urethra massage over the last year, I had a profound change in my life, which will be clearly evident when I give you a personally free dharmic pelvis alignment adjustment."

One might ask, what really is this new blissfully blessed new yoga paradigm and sexily transformative yoga sequence called The Pubes? How's it different from another awesomely avant garde trademark pending paradigm, namely Chafed by Ironwoman Jony Stark?

Just a quick note

My auspiciously divine readers (all four of you), I have not abandoned my blog. In fact, I have been contemplating a lot, especially after meeting the Yogi Muse last week in Denver.

Yeah, I met THE Yogi Muse, envy me, bitches! Oh and envy me even more, 'cause I went to Spicy Hello Kitty yoga workshop. She kicked butt as always, but too bad she got sick. Three local teachers jumped in and led a great practice, which got my brain going since they were all very different. More on that soon.

Anyway, it's been a year since I started this crazy blog and right now I'm evaluating what crazy shit I should be writing on. I can continue to skewer some asshole guru named John who has no testicles, but it does get boring.

Btw, I didn't run into him in Denver. Wouldn't that be epic?

More to come, I promise!

Yes, always funny, always the truth. That will never change.

Love and light,

SY

Breaking up is hard to do

And I swear you're just like a pill

Instead of making me better

You keep making me ill
 You keep making me ill

- Alecia Moore

The title originally was It takes three to tango (Part 3): unconditional love, blind devotion, codependency. But it's just ridiculously long and who knows how much rambling I'd end up doing. So I circumsized it. If the title scares you, you probably should stick around because you know I'm onto something. Whether you agree or not... well, that's a different conversation.

2012 was a year of revelation, reflection and awakening for many, particularly for us who were caught in the Chernobyl of yoga aka the meltdown of the 3A yoga Inc. Many assholes were exposed (I love the imagery) and many of the cool crowd turned out not so cool after all. Who knew some womanizing pretentious doughy manipulative abusive cult-loving lying cheating asshole guru named John modeled the 3A yoga inc. after a polygamist cult: an unattractive creepy sexual predator as the leader with a tight group of blind followers, all in the name of serving the highest and the divine. What the leader says is gospel even though it has an auspicious amount of self-serving bullshit. Of course the leader has his own little coven with his hand picked angels, and he has a whole lot of them to pick and choose from. If you are in bed with the leader figuratively and literally, congratulations, you are in on the gravy train. You don't have to worry a thing because the other non-favourable wives will take care of the undesirable chores. And if the leader feels threatened by you, off you go because you are excommunicated. Lets not forget about the bickering and hair-pulling amongst the wives because they want to the top wives. Look at that sexy face of some womanizing pretentious doughy manipulative abusive cult-loving lying cheating asshole guru named John, who doesn't want to bang him?

By the way, rumour says he has no testicles and his actions totally support that. But you'd have to ask one of his coven angels to find out.

More random and unsexy thoughts

"I feel bad that I don't feel bad enough." - Darlene Conner

Rewind...

So this overly friendly person from work, Ms. Goody Poopoo, talked about her husband's dad having terminal cancer, only two weeks before Christmas 2012. In case you are as obtuse as those ASHY shri-mongering assholes, Christmas 2012 (or shortly before that precisely) was purported to be the end of the world, and we were all supposed to have already cleaned our houses and to always have clean underpants on just in case. Anyway...

Ms. Goody Poopoo's husband was not close to his own father. Naturally I, Sarcastic Yogi, had the answer to everything. Really, I had the "perfect" response. I gave the speech about having no regret... you know, I went through the same firgging thing with my parents... I looked after my mom after her surgery but I did it for myself... I achieved all that shit from a place of "no regret"... fluff, fluff and more fluff... I, Sarcastic Yogi, was an international sex symbol that dwarfed David Hasselhoff in speedos while licking a cucumber... add more fluff... well, you get my drift.

For a brief moment I thought I had it all figured out, and of course that's nowhere near the truth.

Shortly after my conversation with Ms. Goody Poopoo, an dastard opened fire in an elementary school in Connecticut killing many innocent lives. There is no word to describe my feelings towards this repulsive act of a fucktard... actually, I am not sure if "repulsive act of a fucktard" is the right description of the shooting or if the guy was a true fucktard. But I do know what the assholes from Westboro Baptist Church threatened to do was a repulsive act of a bunch true fucktards: those evolution rejects actually wanted to picket at the funerals of those children who were killed at Sandy Hook Elementary.

Succumbing to herd mentality and the almost unanimous outcry over the senseless violence, I immediately jumped on the "say a prayer" bandwagon before I got on the train of "gun control".

But it's never truly unanimous when it comes to human emotions.

In the beginning I thought I felt anger and sadness. On the surface it was not untrue (oh yeah! double negative!) that I was angry and sad. But what is the object of my emotions? What am I angry at? I don't know these people. So why am I sad? Or am I? Or are we trying to collectively project our own demons on others tragedy to have our own emotion blowout?

Fast forward a little...

Human nature never fails to entertain me. Some people's responses to the terrible incident in Connecticut were outlandishly fascinating.

Someone deduced how pharmaceutical companies were worse than gun, or something like that, because she has a beef with those companies and the doctors and lawyers hired by them... hmm... okay.

Some white dude, who insists to be addressed by his hand picked Hindu name, unleashed his repulsive mental diarrhea and went on about "everything is fine, all is well, the Whole is awesome, my hole is itchy, hare hare krishna...". According to this asshole, we just don't get it because we are not as awakened as he is. To be as awakened as he is, we need to buy his book. Bitch please!

Of course the fucktards from Westboro Baptist Church were a class act all the way.

Let's not forget Crusty Nono Myass never misses an opportunity as such to sell ASHY membership and to preach for her cheesy brand of forgiveness and compassion.

I guess it is fair to say there will always be opportunistic vultures who push their own agendas or sell their stupid book, even at the expense of someone's suffering.

Fast forward some more...