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...

Moolah bandha and yoga zombies

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

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

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

Rewind...

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

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

I hate everyone... starting with anger management fascists

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

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

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

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

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

Rewind...

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

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

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

Fast forward...

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

Random and unsexy thoughts

Here it goes... I'm turning 21 today. Yeah, I know, it's hard to believe Sarcastic Yogi is already in his 20s and is such an international sensation shit. On this auspicious shri grace-filled day, I invite you to ask yourself these questions:

1. Would you date "you", as in, if you were a third-person in the conversation, would you date "you" in an non-narcissistic, non-masturbatory way?
2. If yes, why?
3. If no, why?
4. Who would attend your funeral? Who wouldn't? Why?
5. Those who would attend your funeral, what'd be in their eulogy?

Time for some more cake.