I am what I am

Well, well, well... life has a funny way of sneaking upon ya when ya think everything's ok and everything's going right... thank you, Alanis. I was not thinking of you when I fucked her.

How's that for a sensical and obscure blog opener? If you know the references, you have just dated yourself. Those bits happened 20 years ago. And yes, it's been a long time since I posted my last blog, which was about that chunk of a Scientology gay hunk Tom Cruise. Life threw a couple minor curveball my way in the last few months, nothing major and nothing bad really. Sometimes ya oughta get out of your comfort zone, like me doing my first ever mud race. Getting mud in your junk and asshole is just so refreshing that everyone should try it at least once. Towards the end of the race I reignited the fire of a recent injury in my leg but I refused to give up. There's no way I would pass up the chance of sliding down a muddy slide and feeling the dirty water caressing my anus! Hmm... is there such a thing as muddy water fetish? I may have it.

My point is: I was just being my stubborn (or determined?) self. Screw the ability to do virasana ever again. I want my anus in dirty, muddy water!

[Rewind a little]

There's been a lot of talk about Caitlyn Jenner, formerly known as Kim and Kris Kadarshian's bitch... I joke! I joke! Put away your pitchforks and fire torch, please.

Honestly, I knew next to nothing about Bruce Jenner except he won a bunch of Olympic medals many moons ago, and that he's a sideshow on that trashy Kadarshian trashy trash trash reality trash show. Did I mention that it's a trashy reality show? Yes, it is trashy, you know, like really trashy except it's even trashier, like a big pile of steamy fecal matter with a cherry on top. I admit I did watch almost a full episode of that trashy show on a plane. It was about Kim Kadarshian having a shitty day because her hair didn't look right or something. Nothing against the Kadarshians, but please kindly go away, buy yourself a landfill and throw yourself and your kula in it. Trash belongs to landfills.

My point is that I paid them no mind until Bruce, or Caitlyn's transformation. This is not a blog about whether the term "tranny" is derogatory or insensitive. Though I do think the outcry of the use of the term "tranny" is a little much. Stop victimizing yourself and own it. But I digress. It is obviously a big decision for Caitlyn and it is more than a publicity stunt. No man would wake up one day and decide to chop off his junk to get some press. If he happens to make some money along the way, bonus!

Caitlyn wanted to be Caitlyn and she finally did it. Kudos to her.

[Rewind a whole bunch]

I was always told by my parents to socialize and mingle and have a gazillion friends, while I just wanted to stay in and read a book, or masturbate, or something people do alone. In my parents' eyes, I was defective because I wasn't a "normal" kid like my cousins or our neighbours' kids. I was too short, too fat and had no hair on my legs. I wasn't interested in buzzing around people like flies around shit. I needed corrective spectacles and loved to masturbate. I was never permitted to be me, the introverted me, the insightful and intelligent me, the sexy me, the sarcastic me. Shit, I got in trouble so many times because I didn't address my grandmas as elders properly. They were assholes. When I did address them, it was never in a beautiful and poetic manner as they expected. Eventually I realized I would never get my parents' or their mothers' approval because I am not what they want me to be. Now I am trying and doing things (mostly) according to my own agenda... things that my parents frown on like running a mud race, yoga, a nice haircut, video games, excessive masturbation or shaving my pubes.

I gotta be me.

In the last few years I did a lot of psychocharacterwhatiswrongwithyou type of analysis. The yoga meltdown in 2012 made me examine ME a lot. For the longest time I didn't even realize I was an introvert. By the way, introverts rule the universe!

I never fully embraced my sense of humour and cuntiness until I gave myself permission to express myself. The fact is we too often seek approval from the wrong people, AND the other fact is we need to find out who we are and accept ourselves for who we are. But this does not mean some of you sickos should run to a grocery store and start humping a pack of ground beef or start peeing in your granny's coffee... hmm... well, I would totally piss in my grannies' coffee but that's beside my point. The important thing, which is also something I'm still working on, is to accept who you are and be comfortable with it. If who you are needs help, then by all means get help and don't deny it. Don't deny who you are.

Once you have found and accepted who you are, clarity comes. You can smell and see bullshit, grow as a person, your anus blossoms, unicorns humping, so on and so forth.

All is well and everything is hunky-dory, right?

What if, your true innate self is an asshole? Do you still want to acknowledge and accept your true innate self as an asshole? Do you even know your true and innate self is an asshole? Would you or should you embrace your assholeness and be an asshole?

Exhibit 1: There's a lot of ass here, and not just Kim's.

CASE #1
Without a doubt his true innate self is a perverted misogynist asshole. He even admitted to drugging his victims... 35 of them and counting. He still denies any "legal" transgression, claiming either everything was consensual or he has never met these women, though his actions prove that he is a perverted misogynist asshole. He is being his true innate self as a perverted misogynist asshole but he doesn't see himself as perverted or misogynist. His logic is: they didn't say no (because they were drugged so they couldn't), therefore, it's consensual and nothing illegal. Since it's consensual and not illegal, he is not a perverted misogynist asshole and everyone should shut up about it. In his eyes, he is practically the defender of morals.

Exhibit 2: SUUUUPAAAHHHH SAIYAAAAN 超サイヤ人ゴッド!!!!!

CASE #2
Need I say more? That hair is clearly the manifestation of his inner racist egotistic assholeness. Look at it! His hair demands your attention on all runways and red carpets! In fact, I think 80% of his blood circulates in his hair while the rest is split between his mouth and his penis. None for his brain though... obviously he doesn't use it or need it. He surely knows he is a racist egotistic asshole. Not only does he embrace his assholeness, but also he capitalizes on it. For that, I say "well done, Mr. Future President of USA!"

Exhibit 3: Asshole Guru John Sans Testicles

Exhibit 4: Bikram Speedon't

CASE #3 & #4
These two yoga guru fine specimen of integrity require no introduction. I would love to see them in some bareback scat fisting porn. In fact, I think I have... I think the film was called "bareback scat play with asshole yoga guru" or something Sridaiva like that. Pig out on your innate perverted misogynist assholeness? Check! Deny any legal transgression? Check! Blame everyone else? Check! Slimy as fuck? Check! Gi-normous ego? Check! Have your own cult? Check! Inappropriate sexual relations with students? Check!

Wait a sec... if accepting and embracing yourself is a good thing, what has gone wrong with these assholes? They are just accepting and embracing their asshole selves, right?

I am glad you asked, my children!

My other buddy Buddha says it best: nothing you can bring except your own deeds.

Don't get your panties in a bunch and hear me out. Y'all have heard of a variation of it, you know, like "you are what you eat", "you reap what you sow", Newton's third law of physics and of course "karma". What Buddha means, in simple terms, is that your own deeds are the only thing you can bring with you when you pass. They are the only thing matters at the end of the day. It goes beyond "being yourself" or "embracing yourself", because if by being yourself is hurting others, that is a bad deed you'll carry with you even when there's no apparent repercussion. A bad deed is a bad deed, legal or otherwise. Ya hear, Mr. Cosby?

Remember an asshole named Hitler who really believed in himself and started a thing called World War II? Or that boy who embraces his inner child and cries wolf too many times? Things didn't turn out too well for him. But in Caitlyn Jenner's case, being herself has given her a voice to speak out for many who face the same challenge. That's a good deed in my book.

Like the notches on your bedposts... they may turn out to be genital warts, or you can still wear white when you walk down the aisle. The notches will always be on your bedposts.

A virgin bride with genital warts... that's quite a juxtaposition.

Only you carry your deeds, dead or alive. Capisce?

I wonder how yoga gurus John Sans Testicles and Bikram Speedon't would answer the question "do you love and embrace yourself as a perverted misogynist asshole?".

At the time of writing, Guru Purnima had just passed. GP is a festival in India and Nepal dedicated to (spiritual) teachers. I want to thank those who have shown me the paths. Those who act, look and smell like a dirty asshole, I want to thank you for showing me what not to do as a person with integrity. If I stopped coming your class, or if I make a point of erasing your existence in social media, it's time you looked in the mirror, or urinated on the floor and looked in the puddle. Your self, your action, your karma, your deed.

Time to wash that mud off my anus.

12 years a yoga slave

Some people come in our life as blessings. 

Others come in our life as lessons. 

- Mother Teresa

[Rewind a stroke and a half]

"Uranus will be sweetly angled, showering you with surprises"... yes, that was indeed my horoscope for the month of December in 2014. I felt so lucky. Uranus sweetly angled? At me? Bring on the showers with golden surprises!

That would've been a great start to a blog... but it didn't happen. Yes, I know. It's been a long time since I posted a blog. Sorry for depriving y'all of my auspiciously sinful wisdom. Mind you, not that I was short on inspiration... it's more like life got in the way, you know, like porn, masturbation, alcohol... and not in that order. But honestly, I think I am addicted to procrastination. It's delicious and I don't care if it's not conducive to my well being. Screw healthy living! I embrace my vices and porn, thank you very much.

Or perhaps procrastination has its place in the universe?

[Rewind 2.54cm]

I was just in YVR for a short visit. It was a nice break with good food and prearranged booty calls. The weather was surprisingly beautiful. I got to hang out with Wray Wray and we chatted about yoga and boys. I met Wray Wray many moons ago at a 3A yoga wicca grand gathering, and somehow we stayed in touch. And yes, we talked about all of you... well, mostly me badmouthing all of you. I am just awful and hateful that way, but do y'all expect anything less?

After we parted, I kept wondering why it took many of us so long to speak out about the asshole guru John Sans Testicles, and why so many stayed in that pile of steaming fecal matter, knowing they're in a pile of steaming fecal matter. Worse yet, why do some voluntarily keep going back for more, knowing it is a pile of steaming fecal matter?

[Rewind a whole bunch]

I went to my first yoga class 178 years ago, around the same time when Madonna went all spiritual and virginal. The class was in a gym somewhere and led by a lady who looked like Jesus with hairy pits... ok, I can't remember if she looked like Jesus or had hairy pits, but let's just go with that controversial description. Someone gave me a couple of free passes to some yoga intro thing and surely I was determined to learn how to put my legs behind my head for ventilation purposes. The "class" turned out to be a Mysore-style vinyasa inspired practice but led by a lady who looked like Jesus with hairy pits, in a corner somewhere in a gym while there was constant yapping and grunting from other people lifting weights and shit. I had no clue what a down dog was or how to float like Richard Freeman. The lady who looked like Jesus with hairy pits just walked around spewing out "up dog! down dog! jump!" and paid no attention to me who was clearly struggling. Needless to say it was an awful experience and I realized even a lady who looked like Jesus with hairy pits can be a shitty yoga teacher.

I never set foot in another yoga studio until a few years later when I met The Divine Miss N. The rest is history. I finally stopped going to her class in 2013. Before her fans, newly recruited followers, "peers" (I use that term loosely and with a ton of reservation) and such calling me angry, ungrateful, need-to-let-go and other stuff... I am not angry or ungrateful. In fact, I should've stopped going to her class a long time ago, because our relationship never was what I thought it was.

Sorry, I am not going to air any dirty laundry. I have my reasons and let's just leave it at that. But it's more interesting to explore why it took so long than why I did it. That's the real lesson here.

[Fast forward a couple of pounds]

Wow, shit just got really real for Bill Cosby. To the survivors of the 3A yoga inc. meltdown, it sounds awfully familiar. A prominent public figure who allegedly used his status to get into the pants of many. Last I checked at least 18 women came forward. You know what they say: it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, shits like a duck... I wonder if Cosby collected pubes from these women and put them in jars. Allegedly.

Similar to the 3A yoga inc. meltdown, it took the victims years before they finally spoke out. I start to see a pattern here... do you?

[Fast forward two inches]

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?

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...

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.

Eventually y'all have to rip off the band-aid

I know it's been a while. The last couple of months have been mad. And the madness ended with me getting into a car accident. So much to contemplate and distill.

At the time of writing, I was slightly pissed. Actually, I was quite pissed. After I just accidentally deleted a blog that I had worked on for quite some time, I got a lovingly lovely email from none other than some womanizing pretentious doughy manipulative abusive cult-loving lying cheating asshole guru named John, warmly inviting me to study with him again. I so wish I could walk into a Mikasa store and just smash and break every overpriced plate and bowl with no consequence. In reality there wasn't much I could do other than screaming uncontrollably. But of course I didn't. I have manner, ya know. Instead I went to the elevator and let one rip. It most certainly didn't help the situation, but the thought of someone unknowingly walking into the pungent product of my angry tush somehow eased the pain a little... how insensitive of me.

Right when I was blowing off some stinky steam, I had an epiphany: I want to start a revolution. I think we should reclaim the word "sensitive" and not misuse it the way Lindsay Lohan with vodka.

Sensitive reclamation!

Rewind...

One of my closest friends Pinky Bombmaker met this dude whom I lovingly name Anal Douche. If you've been reading my blog, you'll have a pretty good idea how much stress I was under in October because of my mother's surgery. You can read all about it here. So right before my epic journey back to my parents' to care for my mother, Princess Madgelover and I went for dinner. Pinky Bombmaker joined us later and he brought Anal Douche with him. Totally understandable. Pink Bombmaker wanted his two favourite bitches to meet his potential husband, kinda like the final interview. 

Here's the situation: on the cusp of my epic journey, I spent a whole afternoon at a landfill because of my real job and I barely made it home for the time when Princess Madgelover came to pick me up. I did manage to change clothes and cover my mad hair with a bandana. After the intro, the first thing Anal Douche said to me was "I didn't know you were a maid", referring to my bandana and my fashionably homely look. The hello kitty jokes came immediately after. You see, obviously I can take a joke. It's only fair to take one when you dish one. But it's a RIGHT that you earn when you engage in any kind of interaction with Sarcastic Yogi. I ain't picky, but I do have boundaries. It suffices to say hello kitty jokes are off-limit the first time you meet Sarcastic Yogi, unless you are Joan Rivers or Betty White.

So the night went on with more Anal Douche's neverending stories and opinions on just about anything, and it ended with his recommendation of my Halloween costume as a "slutty hello kitty maid", and that he loved "West Side Story"... in short, Anal Douche is the type of person I loathe: a self-absorbed narcissist.

As you can imagine, I lost almost a quart of blood from biting my tongue so hard. That was the only sensible thing to do.

Fast forward...

Moolah bandha and yoga zombies

At the time of writing, I thought I'd offer a little bit of humour to distract people from the chaos of Sandy or the US election. My heart goes out to those affected by the crazy storm. Please look after yourselves and others. And to those who don't know which party to vote for, think about remarks such as "47%" and "legitimate rape". Anyway... I channeled Joan Rivers and imagined what she'd say if there ever were an Academy Award of Yoga Drama and she gave a speech on the red carpet. Oh the auspiciousness...

My last blog was the most groundbreaking to date and seemingly hit a sensitive spot on how sexy yoga was these days. Lets do a quick recap:

• Joan Rivers is the wisest and kindest person on this planet.
• I do not have anger management issues, but I do have a very low tolerance of some womanizing pretentious doughy manipulative abusive cult-loving lying cheating asshole guru named John.
• I also have a very low tolerance of those so-called yogic assholes who talk like they are the second coming of Jesus while shooting rainbow-coloured gerbils out of their asses.
• We discovered the new energy lock called Moolah Bandha. It's madly powerful, not even Mr. Iyengar can fully control it. 

Rewind...

I want to try something different, something that I never do. I'll share a disturbing story with y'all. I guess you can say this story is partially the inspiration of this blog. A couple of weeks ago while at work... yes, many thanks to my actual paying job that enables me to speak the truth... anyway, a co-worker named One-eye Gord followed me to the washroom while yammering and nattering about his yeast infection or something. Once inside the washroom, One-eye Gord proceeded to the cubicle on the right as he seemingly preferred, and began the epic movement of his innards without stopping his monolog that he thought I was listening to. Yes, he was talking to me the entire time while dislodging his logs into the ceramic bowl. You see, I'm just old-fashioned that way. I don't talk to anyone who is taking a piss or shit in a public washroom, or less than 10-ft away even behind a bush of juniper. Seriously, engaging me in conversations while I'm *releasing* in a public washroom suggests that 1) you might be into anonymous sex in public places, and 2) you are a socially inept idiot. I consider the 42 seconds of urination or 17 minutes of defecation my very own intimate moment, when bonding with anyone or of any kind is neither allowed nor appropriate. This includes texting your friends while you are doing number 2, unless you are sending them photos with a caption that says "Look What I Just Made".

While I was trying to escape the washroom, something extremely nauseating dawned on me: some people are like zombies. They don't ever seem to go away, or let you be, and always try to be part of a pack by infecting others, or be infected by others. They fail to understand that sometimes people just want to do their own thing without interference from others. Really! I don't need to be part of a pack to do something that's personal and sacred to me, or perhaps I only want to share it with only a few people... like really!

I hate everyone... starting with anger management fascists

"Psychologists tell us that depression is just anger turned inward, but I say, why waste your time? It is what it is and quite frankly I'd rather be angry than depressed. Why? Because antidepressants like Prozac, Wellbutrin and Zoloft can cause bloating... and I hate bloating!!!" - Joan Rivers

Gotta hand it to Joan. She tells like it is, no fluff, no shri, no sugarcoated shit sandwiches. I wonder what she'd say to some womanizing pretentious doughy manipulative abusive cult-loving lying cheating asshole guru named John.

Recently two well known yoga teachers, Spicy Hello Kitty and The Yogi Muse, wrote about anger but from two different perspectives. I, Sarcastic Yogi, figured I'd throw in my two cents, not that what I say carries as much weight, nor would I put myself in the same league as they are... shit, I'm like a dung beetle compared to Spicy Hello Kitty and The Yogi Muse. I love shit. I embrace shit. I am the embodiment of shit. I can't live without shit. But that's a different conversation.

A while back I taught a little show-n-tell about yoga at work and got gently reamed out by a local teacher because of it. You can read about it here. Not to open an old wound... trust me, I'm going somewhere with this blog. I don't shoot blanks.

So yes, I was angry when I wrote it. If yoga were meant to get rid of anger, it certainly wasn't working. Hmm... I must be doing it wrong! I was supposed to be all zen and compassionate and lovey dovey like a hippie high on love and marijuana... Oh my loin! Bless me, guru, for I have sinned! I failed to repress my anger! Hot damn, I am not yogic because I was angry! I failed yoga! Baaaaah!

Rewind...

What's yoga? What is yoga in the Western world? What is yoga in the Western world now? Yoga in the Western world 20, 30 years ago was a very different thing. Back then "inspired" was not a designation that required a licensing agreement. There was no "Yoga Journal conference" or "Wanderlust". There was no Manduka super black mat or Evolution jar of pubes. "Yoga for golfer" or "something something yoga dot com inc." was practically unheard of.

Today yoga is sexy. It's where people go to hook up or recruit coven angels. It's about a room full of sweaty tight toned bodies in skimpy tight Lululemon shorts. It's being groomed to be a competition event in the next Olympics. It's about branding, franchising and selling your pubes in jars. It's about getting a title like "Swami Springer Sisters", or "Guru Lickmyonion", or "Crusty Nono Myass". It's about showing off some crazy postures that put the Cirque du Soleil dancers to shame. It's a luxurious vacation in some all-inclusive resort in Barbados with hot mermaids. It's some white dude demanding to be addressed by the Hindu name he picked. Shit, if all fail, create your own cult religion, or copyright your ass movement sequence and call it "the roots" "the vomit".

Hmm... that doesn't sound very sexy at all.

Fast forward...

Some of us have been labeled as non-yogic because we have the ability to feel anger.

In memoriam: 3A Not-a-cult Yoga Inc. (1997 - 2012)

[WARNING: not suitable to those with no sense of humour or faint of heart, you know, the usual stuff]

Wassup? Wassup? I was away on vacation and came back to the newest transformation of the coven! Yup, the final nail of the coffin of 3A Not-a-cult Yoga Inc was nailed by none other than the GM himself! Please note I make no references to nailing or urethra massaging of any kind.

Anyway, even more great news: the GM is starting his own new yoga gig after completely ditching his die-hard 3A shri-mongers!

A very bold move. Bravo, Clifford! It is indeed time to replace the old lambs with fresh ones. Why be loyal when you can cheat, on your girlfriends and others?

In memory of the death of 3A Not-a-cult Yoga Inc, and of course in celebration of the GM's new gig, I present to you a collage of photos that captured some of the most inspiring moments in its short shri-filled life. There are things that should not be forgotten. Of course, whatever emotions or memories they dig up, yes, they are your own responsibility and projection of your own shit. Please don't point fingers.

A picture is worth a thousand words. Body language can be quite telling.

PS: Suggestions of captions are most definitely welcome!

Caption 1) "I am just adorable! Don't you want me?"

Caption 2) "Who could resist such a pretty face?"

Caption 3) _______

 Caption 1) "I <3 big melons."

Caption 2) "You need to be at least a D-cup to be my coven angel."

Caption 3) _______

 Caption 1) "This is how you hold the auspicious jugs in your hands."

Caption 2) "Yes, you still need to be at least a D-cup to be my coven angel."

Caption 3) _______

 Caption 1) "Yeah man, those boobs were this big!"

Caption 2) "Look, I already told you, minimum D-cup!"

Caption 3) _______

 Caption 1) "Sorry, there is a minimum D-cup requirement to be my coven angel."

Caption 2) "I'll still do you."

Caption 3) _______

 Caption 1) "Ok, you will feel my hands pushing you down. I need to know how good you are at waking up my one-eyed snake kundalini energy. That's part of the coven angel entry exam."

Caption 2) "You still need to be a D-cup to be my coven angel."

Caption 3) _______

Caption 1) "Her boobs were huge! I had to hold one with both hands."

Caption 2) "Then I just held her head with both hands and pushed her down to meet my root chakra."

Caption 3) _______

 Caption 1) "I was like WTF, I am the Grand Magus! I am supposed to get sensual massages from the angels! What is their problem?"

Caption 2) "I just don't understand what the big deal is. Ok, I screwed my students and staff. So what? I'll change the code of ethics. Whatever. Sheesh!"

 Caption 3) _______

Caption 1) "Holy shit! This is like the XXX version of Disneyland!"

Caption 2) "I didn't grab your boob. I was just checking your shoulder loop."

 Caption 3) _______

 

 Caption 1) "This is how you perform urethra massage when she's upside down."

Caption 2) "Put your fingers here. She'll thank you later for curing her migraine."

Caption 3) _______

 

 Caption 1) "Ok, you are going to feel my kundalini energy poking between your shoulder blades while I'm holding your pelvis. That's normal, I am the Grand Magus."

Caption 2) "She's probably just a A-cup... but I'll still do her."

 Caption 3) _______

 Caption 1) "I don't care that you look like a horse. I'm horny. I'll do your whole family."

Caption 2) "Come on! Kiss me! Nobody can resist the sexiness of the Grand Magus!"

 Caption 3) _______

 

 Caption 1) "Those anal beads feel so good!"

Caption 2) "Explosive orgasmic bliss. So shri."

 Caption 3) _______

 Caption 1) "I can still taste her in my mouth..."

Caption 2) "hmmm... yummy sexy coven angels..."

 Caption 3) _______

 

 Caption 1) "Oh puleeese, girlfriend! I have the perfect yogi body! I do an asana practice once a month. I am the guru! I am the shit!"

Caption 2) "No worries at all. I'll just change the code of ethics as I see fit."

 Caption 3) _______

 Caption 1) "Dear Shiva, please save me from this mess, please keep the shri-mongers blind and stupid, please shut up those damn Expats... oh dear Shakti, call me when you are single."

Caption 2) "If I pray hard enough, may be they will forget all the shit I've done."

 Caption 3) _______

 Caption 1) "Can you see my auspicious jar of pubes?"

Caption 2) "Yes, I worship anything that will bring me cash and sexy young angels. I'll even get on my knees and do whatever it takes."

 Caption 3) _______

 Caption 1) "OMG! The mermaids want me!"

Caption 2) "So horny right now..."

 Caption 3) _______

 

 Caption 1) "Yeah, half a million worth of flowers and shit!"

Caption 2) "I am so stoned... who's Kelly Haas?"

 Caption 3) _______

 Caption 1) "Dude, I once smoked a doobie this long!"

Caption 2) "Yes, I do pray that one day I'd be this hung."

 Caption 3) _______

 Caption 1) "So sexy..."

Caption 2) "So shri..."

 Caption 3) _______

 

Caption 1) "Whatever dude, I'm stoned and don't give a shit!"

Caption 2) "Whatever dude, I own the trademark and company! I'll do whatever I want. Screw those Expats!"

 Caption 3) _______

BONUS vintage clip from the GM. So shri. Enjoy.

John Friend Rants from Pierre on Vimeo.

Open to grace and shri, you'll find peace, or a piece of something.