Princess Syndrome: Terms of Endearment of Entitlement

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

Strong emotions evoke strong emotions.

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

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

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

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

Rewind...

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

Sounds familiar?

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

There are a lot of princesses around you.

Ex-lax of yoga

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rewind...

A New Paradigm: Pelvic Ventilation Pole Dance Yoga

A New Hatha Yoga Paradigm!

Blessings schmessings to y'all shritesses and angels!

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

Asshole Guru John Sans Testicles is back with rainbow

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

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

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

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

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

The Power of T-12 and Pelvic Ventilation

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

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

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

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

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

Just a quick note

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

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

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

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

More to come, I promise!

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

Love and light,

SY

Breaking up is hard to do

And I swear you're just like a pill

Instead of making me better

You keep making me ill
 You keep making me ill

- Alecia Moore

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

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

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

More random and unsexy thoughts

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

Rewind...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fast forward a little...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fast forward some more...

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...