Wednesday, 1 April 2015

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

Friday, 20 March 2015

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]

Thursday, 16 October 2014

Best of my Facebook profile pictures: random and sexy

Yes, yes, I know. My last few blogs have been a tad too serious and tame. But worry no more! Sarcastic Yogi listens and does not disappoint... well actually I am feeling a little lazy and under the influence of cold medicine... here's a bunch of random and sexy pictures I found on the internet and used as my Facebook profile picture. Of course I may have stuck in one or two yoga related photos in there. Ya gotta get some yoga in no matter what, ya know, 'cos the asshole guru John Sans Testicles, the creator of Sridaiva Shitdaiva Yoga and 3A Yoga Inc. is back! Since we just had our Thanksgiving in Canada, I want to say, under the influence of cold medicine, that I am thankful for... hmm... cold medicine of course! I don't smoke marijuana like the asshole guru John Sans Testicles, ya know!

Just want to start this blog off with a hot guy with a hot fashion sense and a bottle of mayonnaise.
I can totally relate. Sometimes I get confused and don't know if the cups go in the front or back.
Fuck yeah! Murderous Barbie, what's not to love? Courtesy of Mariel Clayton
Caption 1) some weird straight guy's lesbian fantasy
Caption 2) some weird home made redneck amusement park ride
Caption 3) some weird love triangle featured on Jerry Springer
You either get it or you don't, it's just that simiple.
That's right, woman! Know your place!
A classic beauty featured on People of Walmart, I simple can't take my eyes off that belt!
This is how male homosapien determines if the female is ready to mate. In this case, the female is all warm and moist, providing that his fingers aren't in her diaper.
And speaking of diaper... hmm...
She said:  ちょっとまってよ!!!
He said: Oh just pee, lady!
No other way to put it, a man's best friend is a pervert who loves Scrabble.
Speaking of pervert... perversion knows no boundary, even when you are old and need a scooter to move around. You are still a walking hard-on.
PS: be proud of your hard-on if you are over 60, just don't show it to your neighbours or their kids.
Nothing to see here, just some dude drinking his own urine in a survival situation. Move along!
Sensible, fashionable and practical. #WhatWouldJoanSay #WWJS 
For the sanctity of their marriage, I hope he has a large penis. 
It's hard to be objectified as a piece of meat on a daily basis. It's hard!
It's a beautiful picture depicting a bonding moment between a father and his daughter through ice-cream and piss.
Hot sexy hairy guy with guns and shit... I am in love!
"You dress like a whore!"
"No! YOU dress like a whore!"
"NO! YOU DO!"
"YOU DO!"
Crack or thong? I can't decide.
The prostate-exam grapple... "while you're in there, can you check my tonsils, too?"
Caption 1) the fountain of youth in jizz-cuzzi
Caption 2) some men do enjoy getting facials
LOVE <3 <3 <3
I don't think that's coffee.
Young girls curious about what a blowjob feels like
My act when I worked for Cirque du Soleil... don't try this at home without parental supervision.
The dingleberry of yoga! The goddess of compassion! The inventor of gimmicky Sridaiva Shitdaiva Yoga, Mr. John Friend Sans Testicles! You can learn all about John and his coven angels at The Daily Beast and The Huffington Post. Here's the link to my very intimate interview with John and Gasi.
Guruji Jois helping his students engage their mula bandha and vulva bandha
My neighbour's daughter helping her dog engage its mula bandha
I love you, too, cunt!
Nope. And don't hang your shit on me.
Something borrowed, something blue
I think his balls are the something blue.
I know pronounce you Mister and Missus PleasePutSomeFuckingClothesOnFFS. 
Of course, it's party time at the reception!

Namafuckingste Peace out.
SY

Saturday, 4 October 2014

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...

Tuesday, 29 July 2014

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?

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.

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...