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.

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

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]

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".

Princess Syndrome: Terms of Endearment of Entitlement

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

Strong emotions evoke strong emotions.

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

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

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

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

Rewind...

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

Sounds familiar?

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

There are a lot of princesses around you.

Ex-lax of yoga

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rewind...

Breaking up is hard to do

And I swear you're just like a pill

Instead of making me better

You keep making me ill
 You keep making me ill

- Alecia Moore

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

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

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

More random and unsexy thoughts

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

Rewind...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fast forward a little...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fast forward some more...

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...