Wednesday, November 19, 2008


I am probably the last person on Earth that you’d expect to be taking a class in yoga...but, then again, I am full of surprises.

I blame the Missus, who takes yoga classes after school...and I blame my friend Barry, who has been taking morning classes once or twice a week. The combined Moral Suasion of both of them was too strong to resist.

Yoga is, simply, a school of discipline for the mind and body. Ask me for a better definition, and I can’t help you. All that Sanskrit makes me want to pound nails into my skull, and you’re not allowed to do that until you have mastered the eight chakras of Kundalini Kackabini.

Basically, the class is an hour-long period in which I listen to brain-numbing Relaxation Music (thank Gawd it doesn’t relax my sphincters!) and, following the dictates of the instructor, contort my body into a series of increasingly painful postures while looking at the tight buns and toned musculature of my female classmates.

I’m really not sure what the ultimate objective is. I think that when you get fairly good at this stuff, you can lick your own nutsack (Q: Why do dogs lick their own balls? A: Because they can.)...and if you get really good, you can climb into your own asshole.

I don’t plan to get that good. But at least it gets me out of the house.

Besides, my idea of nirvana is Taking a Good, Long, Crap (an idea I share with at least one other Online Journalist). If one were to use Yogic Discipline in the process, could you call that process “Groga”? And would the resulting Steaming Output be a “Yogan”?

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