Friday, 13 June 2014

Before Sarcastic Yogi, there was Horny Teenage Boy

We have all heard it: be careful what you put on the interwildwildwest because once it's out there, it stays there forever.

So I came across a few pieces I posted on the interwildwildwest many moons ago, under my previous secret identity Horny Teenage Boy. They were about Mariah Carey and had nothing to do with yoga or life... I guess I have always disliked self-absorbed princesses.

Who knew I once was a horny teenage boy. Ha!

[WARNING] If you are a Mariah fan, have no sense of humour, or if you are looking for a grand lesson on light of yoga, stop reading now. Horny Teenage Boy was even more offensive than Sarcastic Yogi. You have been warned.

EXCLUSIVE - Mariah got new breasts and they don't look like anything you have ever seen before. The 30 year-old trailer park princess revealed in an interview that she got yet again a new pair of breasts.

"These babies ain't nothing y'all ever seen!", said Mariah as she proceeded to remove her clothes. Right under her old pair of fake breasts, there was another pair of fake breasts. Now Mariah has four breasts.

"I feel so much better now. I figured most of my clients like my fake boobs. I have twice the confidence now. Now I can proudly say I have four tits just like a real cow does. My clients love the fact that for the price of one, they can play with two sets of tits! My pimp told me my booking is so full that I practically have to be on my back with my legs up for the next five years!"

When asked about her music career since she'd be on her back with her legs up in the next five years, the four-breasted singer simply shrugged.

"No sweat there. They buy my CDs ain't cos of my shit music. They buy'em cos of my fake boobs! As long as I keep showing them and sell my singles for less than a dollar, I'll have more hits. Besides, I have two more tits now. Can you imagine? I'll be on the top of the chart forever!"

- Horny Teenage Boy

(Daily Trailer Park News)

Mariah Carey was admitted to the hospital after a horse riding accident.

"It was scary... she was screaming and yelling while riding that thing," said of the witnesses. According to a close source, Mariah had no lessons of horse riding except in bed. But as soon as she saw it, Mariah mounted the horse unassisted and the horse immediately sprang into motion. It galloped along at a steady and rhythmic pace, but suddenly the 30 year-old singer slipped from the saddle. In terror, she grabbed for the horse's mane, but couldn't seem to get a firm grip. Several people tried to help but failed because of the foul odour Mariah was emitting. She tried to throw her arms around the horse's neck, but she kept sliding down the side of the horse. The horse galloped along, seemingly impervious to its slipping rider. Finally, giving up her frail grip, she leaped away from the horse and tried to throw herself to safety. Unfortunately, her foot was entangled in the stirrup and her head was struck against the ground again and again. As she was only moments away from unconsciousness, the Wal-Mart manager ran out and shut the horse off.

This was Mariah's second horse riding accident. The first one happened when she was filming the video of "Butterfly", which the 500-lbs singer crushed the horse to death while attempting to get on it.

- Horny Teenage Boy

(Daily Trailer Park News)

Mariah was arrested for stealing at a local bingo hall.

Ever since the 30 year-old fat cow crawled back to her ex-husband Tommy Mottola, who is the CEO of Mariah's record company, the couple are frequently spotted at the bingo hall. Mariah's ugly face is usually full of red and blue dots as she often mistakes the bingo dabbers for her ex-husband's penis.

Yesterday an employee at the bingo hall noticed that Mariah would walk to the bar, sit her fat ass on a bar stool and mysterioulsy the stool would disappear while Mariah would end up sitting on the floor. Then Mariah stood up, sat her fat ass on another stool and it disappeared as well. Within five minutes all ten stools were gone. The employee immediately notified the security and they managed to stop the ugly hippo from leaving the scene. Local police arrived and conducted a cavity search on Mariah. They found ten bar stools, a juke box, two vending machines and a pick-up truck inside Mariah's vagina. Two of the officers were poisoned by the foul odour of the singer and had to be transported to the hospital.

Mariah Carey is charged with theft and emitting foul odour in public, and will appear in court next Tuesday.

EXCLUSIVE - Mariah was spotted in a local bingo hall with her ex-husband, the CEO of her record company, Tommy Motola. They appeared to be very much in love and Mariah even went down on him four times during a game of bingo. Most people believe this is her latest attempt to save her nearly dead music career.

"There have been many signs", said a close friend of the fat ugly singer. "Lets face it, her music career is practically over. She knows that people buy her shit because she is showing her fake tits and fat ass and she can't do that forever! Eventually her implants will explode and they are already sagging. When it comes to her career, whether it's hooking or singing, the fat whore knows what's best for her. She married her boss once and she'll do it again."

Given her promiscuous past, Mariah is very likely to go back to Tommy Motola. Her 99 cents single "Thank God I Blew You" also shows how much Tommy Motola means to Mariah.

"What gives better boost to her dead music career than screwing the CEO of her record company?", said Mariah's pimp.

Several people also witnessed Mariah mistook the bingo dabbers for her ex-husband's penis and had blue and red dots all over her face.

The publicist of Tommy Motola denied the rumours. "How stupid do you think Mr. Motola is? He just got rid of the crabs the fat whore gave him!"

(Daily Trailer Park News)

The judge ruled today that Mariah Carey is responsible for the loss of business of Fatso Buffet and is ordered to stay away from any Fatso Buffet restrauant. Last month Mariah Scarey and her pimps went to the Fatso Buffet on their "All you can eat deep fried banana" night. Witnesses at the trial testified how Mariah stormed into the restaurant, pushed her way through the line-up while screaming "get the hell away from the deep fried banana, they are mine!". One of the witnesses said "I was with my kid when this fat ugly thing, who turned out to be that Mariah Scarey, pushed her way in. My 8 year-old son was so scared that he shit in his pants. *sob* The pyschiatrist said he'd need therapy for the rest of his life..."

Another witness said in court "I've never smelt such an aweful smell! That fat ugly thing reeks of foul odour and leaves a trail of slime whereever she goes! It was obscene and my friends and I just puked because she looked and smelt so bad!"

"I almost passed out when I saw her put a whole tray of spring rolls up her private part", said the waitress of the restaurant in court.

The owner of Fatso Buffet also testified that "it was just hopeless. When she started douching with the won ton soup I thought to myself there goes my family business."

Mariah Carey and her pimps were not present at the ruling and could not be reached for comments.

- Horny Teenage Boy

PS: Sarcastic Yogi is going on vacation. See y'all later, alligator!

Sunday, 27 April 2014

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...

We had the worst mass murder in our city's history. You can read about it here. Five young people with a promising future ahead of them were stabbed to death for seemingly no reason, by another young person who also had a promising future ahead of him. It was particularly hard to watch the suspect's father read his statement to the media.

I can't help but feel sorry for the families and the suspect. Is it possible to have compassion for someone who's done such a horrible thing?

Fast forward even more...

I find it absurd that "I urge compassion" has been thrown around as if it's a catch phrase that has the healing power for all or the moral thing to do.

Like anger or happiness, compassion is a feeling. Imagine your cat just died and someone comes up to you and say, "I urge you to feel happy". Or better yet, when you are constipated and someone comes up to you and say, "I urge you to feel less constipated". If someone did that to me while I was trying to pinch a loaf, I'd tell him/her to get a cactus and go fuck him/herself.

You simply cannot urge someone to feel in any way because that's manipulation of someone else's feeling. Frankly people who force others to be compassionate unconditionally should A) look up what "compassion" really means, or B) get a cactus... and they know what to do with it without anal lubricant... for attempting to manipulate and dismiss others' feelings.

Let's deal with group B) first: your feelings are not better or more valid than mine. That means "compassion" is neither a tool one can use to judge others, nor a get-out-of-jail-free card. You are a not better person than I am simply because you "claim to have compassion" for whoever when I don't. This is particularly true for those who try to hide their true intentions behind their campaign for compassion. The fact is no matter how they sugarcoat their judgmental sentiment, their passive-aggressive nature has not gone unnoticed. I am well versed with anger management fascists so they can just respectfully shut the fuck up. I will feel compassion when I feel compassion. Thank you very much.

*Phew*... there, I'm done with my angry rant. Ha!

Simply put: my feelings and emotions are my responsibility and mine to experience. Don't talk like you are the authority of my feelings and "suggest" how I should feel based on my own experience. Criticizing others for feeling their feelings, or invalidating others' emotions, is just another form of manipulation laced with arrogance, regardless of the amount of flowery language you use. Stop being an emotion bully.

In regards to the misguided group A), perhaps what those people advocate is kindness rather than control of someone else's feelings, or specifically to choose a course of action that's less hostile or destructive. Being kind is a choice to behave in a way deemed to be gentle, pleasant and show concern for others. You can still be angry, but you can take a kind approach to deal with the situation. You can choose to be kind to yourself, to others, or both.

A kind approach is not necessarily the right approach. But I'm not going to get into that now. The subject of this blog is already complicated enough.

In the case of Fred Phelps, I have no compassion for him. But I feel sorry for him for being such a hateful and hated person. The kind thing to do is not picketing at his funeral, even though it is so tempting to piss on his grave.

I have no idea what my feelings are towards my dad since they change as frequently as Lady Gaga's wigs. Our relationship is a big clutter of fucks. It is what it is.

I do have compassion for all the families in that mass murder case, including the suspect's family and the suspect himself. It's tragedy all around.

As for our dear friend John the asshole guru sans testicles... I'll kindly give him a cactus and he knows what to do with it.

You own your compassion. Save it for those who truly deserve it.

Tuesday, 25 February 2014

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...

Saturday, 1 February 2014

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.

Thursday, 2 January 2014

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...

Wednesday, 18 December 2013

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.

Wednesday, 30 October 2013

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.