Scientologist Tom Cruise Speaks Out Against Arkansas Discriminatory Bill

Scientology's Freedom Medal of Valor winner Tom Cruise

| Daily SY News | 04.01.2015 |

Scientology's Freedom Medal of Valor winner and High Heels For Men advocate Tom Cruise held a news conference today to publicly denounce the Arkansas religious bill, which many viewed as discrimination against gays and lesbians. Cruise urged Arkansas Gov. Asa Hutchinson to send the Religious Freedom Restoration Act back to the Republican-controlled state legislature for a rewrite.

With fellow Scientologist and life partner John Travolta by his side, Cruise fought back tears while speaking to the crowd.

"As a Scientologist with a short stature, I experience discrimination everyday", said Cruise. "Just this morning Richard Gere and I went to the SPCA to... hmm... rescue some gerbils... you know, for leisure and stuff... Richard got his no problem but I was denied because my belief in Xenu burdened SPCA's policy on common sense. That's what they said. They called me... an abuse-enabling shorty."

"How can this still happen in this day and age? I am denied of the leisure of gerbil because I'm a Scientologist. Don't they know I am a level 8 Operating Thetan, the highest there is in Scientology? Level 8! A level that brings about a resurgence of power and native abilities for myself? Y'all Suppressive Peeps just don't get it! That means I have superpowers. I can talk to Xenu and Ronnie H [note: this is how Scientologists address founder L. Ron Hubbard] any time via telepathy. Don't get me started on how much money I spent to get to OT8. Good thing I got millions from making movies and stuff."

Cruise recalled a disturbing incident at Disneyland with his ex-wife Nicole Kidman. He was not allowed to go on a ride because he did not meet the minimum height requirement.

"Same thing happened again when I went to Chucky Cheese with my daughter Sushi... err... Suri. She had to go on the little roller coaster by herself because she made the minimum height requirement... well... I didn't."

"Frankly, right now, I am having doubts about having our commitment ceremony in Arkansas", he said while still tightly holding the hand of life partner John Travolta. Cruise and Travolta have always intended to have their commitment ceremony in the headquarters of Walmart in Arkansas. They both have been the winners of People of Walmart.

"What if I can't find a florist who accepts my belief in Xenu and Ronnie H? What if I can't find a band that embraces our practice of blackmailing and brainwashing? What if Nicole or Katie came forward and told the truth? Oh Jeebus, just the thought of it makes me gag!"

Cruise said he even considered giving up his Scientology's Free Medal of Valor. At the end of the day, he just couldn't do it. The thought of disconnecting with the giant shiny medal, or no longer having access to slaves to do chores for free would be too much for the frail short man.

In closing, Cruise had this one final message to Arkansas Gov. Asa Hutchinson.

"Asa... remember the good times we had together? Those secret camping trips that neither of us wanted to tell others? The sleepover nights in your basement while your wife pretended to be asleep? The showers we shared after our massages? The naked workouts? Please! I beg you. Please don't support discrimination by passing this discriminatory bill. You are a big man... and I know it. Please do the right thing."

- Sarcastic Yogi is a writer for Daily SY News. Follow him on Twitter @sarcastic_yogi

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?

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...

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".