Best of my Facebook profile pictures: random and sexy

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Sarcastic Yogi, the messiah of yoga, fashion and stuff!

[DISCLAIMER: if you think you're mentioned in this blog... you're wrong. Don't be so vain... you're so vain... you think this blog is about you, don't you? don't you?]

I know. It's been a long time. Sorry to have deprived y'all of tinglingly and politically incorrect Sarcastic Yogi goodness.

The world has not been a particularly pretty place for quite some time. I know, we should all think the glass is half-full, blah blah blah... well, in this case, the glass might be broken and will cut your mouth... wait, yes, Sarcastic Yogi is not angry and will refrain from the use of fluffy and violent words... yeah, right.

Rewind a little...

Back in June there was the shooting incident... one of too many... in Moncton, New Brunswick. A despicable wacko decided to kill innocent people because he's angry with the world and that it's his right to bear arms. I'm not opposed to owning a small firearm for protection. But anyone who thinks it's his/her right to prance around with a loaded semi-automatic rifle is IMO a little fucked in the head. Unless you live in a war torn or zombie infested country, why do you think it's your right to own a semi-automatic rifle? To shoot beer cans at Thanksgiving dinner? To massage your prostate gland? To impregnate your stepmother?

Even wiping your ass with toilet paper is not a right. There are people in the world who have never sat on a ceramic American Delta Standard Kohler toilet to do number one or number two. How about we fix problems as such before you bitch about your right to bear arms? Thank you.

Then there's ongoing madness in the Middle East, while people are fighting for democracy in Hong Kong and Ebola is trying to eat everyone alive... Oh man, where do I begin?

Rewind 2.67 kilograms...

I cannot remember how or when exactly I met Nicki NotMinaj. I can only remember at some yoga workshop this woman with a strange accent started talking to me. At first I thought "hey, Sarcastic Yogi is gonna get some!", but then I realized A) I wasn't a vegetarian and B) Madam Donatella at Dionne Warwick and Psychic Friends had warned me to avoid any lesbianic encounter, unless it's with Ms. Dionne Warwick and we must both face the third ascension of rising Labia Libra while wearing crotchless panties.

Obviously Nicki NotMinaj and I never got it on because that'd be gross... and getting it on with Ms. Dionne Warwick facing the third ascension of rising Labia Libra while wearing crotchless panties would also be so so so gross. Yeah, just gross. Yuck!

We never crossed path again until the 3A Yoga Inc. meltdown in 2012. I still cannot remember how we re-started communicating, or even how we became "friends" on Facebook. At the time Nicki NotMinaj already went back to Germany (thus the accent) and had to deal with the aftershock of the meltdown in Germany. I guess it's fair to say yoga drama reintroduced us to each other. We tried to hook up a few times, in a non-lesbianic fashion, free of Ms. Dionne Warwick and her crotchless panties, after she moved back to Calgary. It never happened because somehow life always got in the way.

Then I found out Nicki NotMinaj had breast cancer, the night before her surgery. I was at a loss for words. What the fuck? How's that possible? Me with no eye-popping, life-saving, thigh-perspiring advice?

I felt useless and vulnerable... I hate it.

Rewind a whole bunch...

In case you aren't aware, my Aunt Miranda is very special and smart. You can read some of the pearls came out of her mouth and fell on her neck here. Both Aunt Miranda and her husband, Uncle Sam, are special in all kinds of right and wrong ways. They had it good for a very long time, and I mean like really good... like Donald Trump good and equally as tacky. It's always strange to trash talk Aunt Miranda and Uncle Sam because they aren't bad people. Tacky but not bad. In fact back when they had it so so so good, they would force people to borrow money from them without any kind of written proof. Yup, all on faith and trust and shit. They figured they had the solution to everyone's problem: cash.

Like I said, Aunt Miranda and Uncle Sam are tacky but not bad people. They sincerely thought they could save the world... until they realized they no longer had cash to throw away the way they had been. They became close friends with Black Jack and Poker in Vegas. They were so close that not only themselves, but also their guests had complimentary flights and hotels to the casinos in Vegas.

You can imagine how high rolling they were, and I don't need to tell you casinos are not charity. Bellagio and MGM are in the business of getting money from you.

At the end of the day, their money didn't solve anyone's problems. Nobody has anything tangible to prove the existence of such an obscene amount of cash. In fact their money became their problem, to the point where a payment to their debt was in the order of $250K. I don't even know anyone who has $250K in cash, let alone throwing it all away.

I know some of you cannot wait to eagerly turn on your Alcoholic Anonymous 10-step program mode, and cannot wait to stand on the soapbox to talk about addiction, something is missing in their lives, they need to face their demon... you cannot wait to give advice to the problems YOU think THEY have.

Fast forward a bit...

The Stepford Wives of Yoga

[This blog is brought to you by the coy and awesome Ginger from San Francisco. Trust me, she is awesome.]

Originally I was going to write about imaginary drunk calls from a few figureheads and wannabes in the yoga community. As I was rambling on, I went off on a tangent and landed on something different. So I'm saving those juicy imaginary drunk calls from the yoga figureheads for later.

Rewind a little...

At the time of writing, the supposedly greatest outdoor show on earth had just finished. Thank you Jeebus! The smell of pancake, beer and vomit is finally gone. People are no longer drunk and horny, but rather hungover and worried about STDs. Princess Madgelover and I went down to the venue to check out the latest weird deep fried garbage carnival food. To my utter disappointment, I didn't see any chocolate covered bacon wrapped deep fried bull testicles... but I digress. I did, however, notice 99% of the ladies... and I do use that term loosely, pun intended... anyway, it appeared that the must-have item of the loose lady uniform for the supposedly greatest outdoor show on earth was a pair of extremely short jean shorts. Think daisy dukes but half the length minus two inches. I could literally read their lips. Ick!

But what struck me the most was they all dressed and acted exactly the same: shorts short enough to be called a belt with body language that says "I wanna ride some cowboys!"

You might as well call the supposedly greatest outdoor show on earth the mating season of horndogs.

Rewind a whole lot...

I have always been an outcast of sort. What a shocker.

In part it's because of my introvertiousnessity, but largely because I get turned off by the imposed expectations of fitting in a shape or form that I... well, don't fit in. This has nothing to do with me trying to cause trouble or be a rebel, although I often come across as a trouble maker and seriously, I have no interest in trying to revolutionize anything. People close to me know that I am disciplined and focused. Boundaries are critical. But at the same time, I am always intrigued by things that are outside the box. When I go shopping, I'm always drawn to the underdog or one-of-a-kind (aka "different") type of items even when they don't fit. To this day I have yet to own an Apple product, capisce?

I love being the somewhat nonconforming yet creative oddball in the herd.

Btw, why do all nonconformists look alike?

Can you see Sarcastic Yogi?

Before Sarcastic Yogi, there was Horny Teenage Boy

We have all heard it: be careful what you put on the interwildwildwest because once it's out there, it stays there forever.

So I came across a few pieces I posted on the interwildwildwest many moons ago, under my previous secret identity Horny Teenage Boy. They were about Mariah Carey and had nothing to do with yoga or life... I guess I have always disliked self-absorbed princesses.

Who knew I once was a horny teenage boy. Ha!

[WARNING] If you are a Mariah fan, have no sense of humour, or if you are looking for a grand lesson on light of yoga, stop reading now. Horny Teenage Boy was even more offensive than Sarcastic Yogi. You have been warned.

******
EXCLUSIVE - Mariah got new breasts and they don't look like anything you have ever seen before. The 30 year-old trailer park princess revealed in an interview that she got yet again a new pair of breasts.

"These babies ain't nothing y'all ever seen!", said Mariah as she proceeded to remove her clothes. Right under her old pair of fake breasts, there was another pair of fake breasts. Now Mariah has four breasts.

"I feel so much better now. I figured most of my clients like my fake boobs. I have twice the confidence now. Now I can proudly say I have four tits just like a real cow does. My clients love the fact that for the price of one, they can play with two sets of tits! My pimp told me my booking is so full that I practically have to be on my back with my legs up for the next five years!"

When asked about her music career since she'd be on her back with her legs up in the next five years, the four-breasted singer simply shrugged.

"No sweat there. They buy my CDs ain't cos of my shit music. They buy'em cos of my fake boobs! As long as I keep showing them and sell my singles for less than a dollar, I'll have more hits. Besides, I have two more tits now. Can you imagine? I'll be on the top of the chart forever!"

- Horny Teenage Boy

******
(Daily Trailer Park News)

Mariah Carey was admitted to the hospital after a horse riding accident.

The Fine Print of Compassion

At the time of writing... more precisely when I started this blog... Fred Phelps, one of the most revolting pieces of shit ever lived, was on his way to meet his maker and be judged accordingly. In case you don't know, Fred Phelps was the founder of the hate mongering cult Westboro Baptist Church. They are a group of abominations who picket at funerals of soldiers and victims of high-profile tragedies, with their infamous "God hates fags" and other equally despicable signs. In fact, they are so obsessed with homosexuals that makes me wonder if behind those closed Westboro Baptist Church's doors is non-stop gay sex amongst their male members, while their female members bake cookies or something in between their tasks of making ugly hateful signs.

Naturally there were calls for picketing at this asshole's funeral. It only makes sense, right?

Take the high road or go for the thrill of revenge? Is compassion free for all, even those who seemingly don't deserve it? Are you a better person because you are compassionate unconditionally?

Rewind a whole bunch...

I had a lengthy chat with my buddy Jesus about compassion and forgiveness. Jesus has been a long-time advocate for compassion, even for those who literally killed him... yes, I know, Jesus came back three days after his brutal murder, talked to his bros, flew to heaven, yadayadayada, but that's a different story... anyway, you can imagine how traumatized Jesus was when he heard about the Fred Phelps and his rabid preaching of hate... all is done in the name of Jesus.

"That ain't what I said, Fred!", said Jesus. "I don't hate! I hate people who hate! I love everyone! Take my name off your bullshit! Baaaaaaah!"

When I asked Jesus about compassion and forgiveness, he said "don't mix those up and don't ever freely dispense them."

"Buddy... I mean Jesus... could you be more specific?"

"Naaaa, the sarcastic one, you'll figure it out... hey Peter! Stop sniffing my dirty athletic supporters!..."

Fast forward slightly...

My parents are special in the wrong ways, particularly my dad. It's a miracle that I turned out to be such a sweet, loving person. But this blog isn't a rant on child abuse or bad parenting, so let's just say my dad is an asshole. Naturally I had the kind of upbringing that induces resentment and anger, which has become the force behind my acidic devotion to love and compassion, particular for assholes. Yeah, right.

My dad had a stroke a few years ago, so he has trouble with his speech and sometimes drools uncontrollably. One day he went on his typical yelling tirade on some unknown shit. That was my queue to have a shouting match with him. But I couldn't understand a word he was spitting out. I was distracted by his drool flying uncontrollably in all directions.

At that moment, my resentment and anger towards my dad had strangely disappeared. I didn't say anything and simply let him blow off his steam... mostly vapour from his drool.

Fast forward some more...

Yoga has been an important part of my life for the last 800 years. I'd fly all over the place to do workshops and immersions. I even completed a 200-hour teacher training while I had no intention of becoming a yoga teacher, though I eventually became one. It's fair to say I have spent a few pretty dollars on learning from our dear friend John the asshole guru sans testicles. When our dear friend John turned out to be such an asshole, the nuclear explosions and meltdowns that followed were of epic proportion. His new vital coven angels are relentlessly preaching for compassion and love, while spewing out fecal matter on anyone who challenges his latest recycled gimmick "bow spring yoga", or whatever shit he's calling it now.

I wonder... if our dear friend John the asshole guru sans testicles or any of his coven angels were on fire, would I piss on them?

The goddess of compassion, our dear friend John Sans Testicles

Fast forward a whole lot...

Do you have Ex-girlfriend Syndrome?

Back in my yoga teaching days I used to keep a journal specifically for my class. I'd write down anything from sequencing to heart theme, to alignment focus, and to self reminders such as "don't look at that woman who wears white spandex to a yoga class"... my journal was full of gems like that. Since I retired from teaching yoga, my journal was swept under the door mat like an ex-girlfriend. And like an ex-girlfriend, my journal shows up every now and then just to remind me of that period of my life.

Rewind so slightly...

Uncle Bob wasn't my real uncle. He was actually my friend's friend's uncle. I don't even know how it started but it did: he would visit us from Toronto in the summer and we'd all go for brunch with him. He was a frail little man who was full of sparks. He always ordered a glass of white wine with his breakfast which was always barely touched. It was a running joke in our annual outing.

Uncle Bob's health deteriorated in the following years, to a point where he could no longer fly because he needed an oxygen tank to breath. So my friend and I would meet for brunch with Uncle Bob's family here, and we'd literally talk and joke with him via Skype.

2011 February 28 was Uncle Bob's 80th birthday. It was also the same week of the 3A Yoga Inc. advanced intensive in Miami.

Oh shit! I mean, I really wanted to go to that advanced intensive thingy and study with the asshole guru John Sans Testicles. AND the host was none other than the princess of tasteless Crusty Nono Myass. Like seriously! How auspicious would that be, the asshole guru and the princess of tasteless in the same room!

I didn't have to make a Sophie's choice because there was only one option: I'd go to both. 

Make the choice that allows you to say "I'm glad I did", instead of "I wish I did". That's my motto. Too often you are given only one chance. Miss it and regret it.

The trip to visit Uncle Bob in Toronto did cost me extra arms and legs, but at the end it was worth it. Uncle Bob passed away shortly after. I'm glad I was part of his 80th birthday celebration.

In case you wonder, the trip to Miami turned out to be that epic trip with a local yoga teacher Miss No-forehead. You can read about it here. WARNING: I had some unkind words to say about Miss No-forehead. Some yogis are just assholes.

Fast forward...

It's been two years since the meltdown of 3A Yoga Inc. As expected the ex-girlfriends and the Vital coven angels are coming out of yin yang to make their PR rounds, and to remind the world what a bunch of boorish classy ladies they are. The asshole guru named John Sans Testicles also did an interview with some online site that nobody gives a shit about. He auspiciously told us how great his newly avant garde yoga system thing is, his bastard child 3A Yoga Inc. is really old news, his addiction to drugs and anal beads is nobody's business, it wasn't his fault that those women forced their vaginas onto him... he literally dumped 3A Yoga Inc. like he dumped the princess of tasteless Crusty Nono Myass. Ironically, Crusty is now the champion of 3A Yoga Inc, oh that poor thing...

These people are still loud and repulsive, but nobody seems to look their way any more. They have become day-old bread, a cup of lukewarm coffee filled with cigarette butts, or that dried up piece of parsley left on the dinner plate in a truck stop diner.

Fast forward...

I am saying NO to 2014 winter Olympics in Russia

I will NOT support or watch the 2014 winter Olympics, which is hosted by the asshole Vladimir Putin government in Russia, and this is why:



Best wishes to the athletes though! Have a great game and a safe trip! If you have the chance, please respectfully tell Vladimir Putin that he's an ignorant, self-hating, likely a closeted homophobic homosexual diva princess... respectfully, please.

Clairvoyance of reality: do you see what I see?

At the time of writing, that annoying thing called Christmas was still going on. But I am no Grinch! First of all, I wish I were a mean or lean one like Grinch. Second, I do not have disorderly eyebrows like he does. Third and most importantly, I don't sneak around people's houses without my pants. Seriously, why doesn't Grinch ever wear pants, even when he dresses as Satan Santa? Imagine sitting on the lap of a fat bearded guy who has no pants on, and he tells you that you've been naughty... that's just a little too kinky.

And to further prove that I'm not some skinny green man with no pants on, I will lovingly start this blog with a quote of a song generally perceived as about the birth of Jesus:
  

"Said the night wind to the little lamb 

Do you see what I see? 

Way up in the sky little lamb 

Do you see what I see? 

A star, a star dancing in the night 

With a tail as big as a kite" - Noël Regney

Seriously, you have to be on acid to think that you're the night wind and ask a lamb if it sees what you see. A kite as big as the tail a comet? That's just trippy. And unless you're high on something, who would fly a kite in the middle of the night while talking to a lamb?

The reality is: this song is about LSD. I can only speculate why people want to do LSD around Christmas time.

Rewind a whole bunch...

I joined a mentoring program at work a while back. I asked my mentor to give me constructive feedback without sugarcoating, and boy oh boy did he ever. He even picked on my clothes because I dressed "too casual" for work. Before I unleashed the sarcastic beast on his bitch ass, he explained that perception was everything. I should be cognizant of others' perception because their perception becomes their reality.

Instead of making fun of his choice of wearing white sports socks with ugly black shoes, I decided to do a little experiment and teach him a lesson later on the detrimental results of making fun of my avant garde fashion sense.

I bought a bunch of shirts, pants and skirts for business women from Victoria's Secret. Oh, I bought some power suits, too, designed for business women of course. I began dressing like a sexy, sophisticated, serious, strong business woman... I think I was actually reenacting the movie "Romy and Michele's High School Reunion", or perhaps I was trying to imitate Karen Walker from "Will and Grace"... anyway, I noticed the tone of my cowokers' voices began to change. They also responded to my emails faster. When I needed something done, they never missed a deadline. My new look as a sexy, sophisticated, serious, strong business woman seemingly had made an impact on my coworkers.

Note to self: I need to get more miniskirts and blazers with huge shoulder pads.

Sarcastic Yogi in his wondrously sexy, sophisticated, serious, strong business woman attire

Fast forward a little...