Yoga is all the rage.
My rage, that is.
I am sick to death of yoga people.
The reason for this is the fact that yoga becomes their reason for living.
Add to that the lack of actual knowledge they possess and you have a recipe for annoyance that goes above and beyond.
Except maybe for little kick-em dogs. Nothing is more annoying that that.
Actual line heard in Starbuck’s by latte-swilling, yoga-mat carrying, new age maggots:
“Since I started taking yoga, I can actually see how my ancestors stayed fit.”
Are you retarded?
It was all I could do not to go off on this moron.
First of all, he was Irish by the look of him.
I hate to break the news to you, Sluggo, but your ancestors stayed fit but living a brutal existence that was a combination of surviving genocide by the English and taking part in various wars usually as conscripts against their will.
Think of Braveheart with malnutrition and the plague.
No one who survived the Potato Famine knew the first few postures in Pilates.
Second of all, dumbass, Yoga came from India.
So, unless Mr. O’Dumbshit is descended from a Irish clan who immigrated to Mumbai in the mid 18th century, he’s shit out of luck.
Its stretching, dude. No, really. Stretching.
Different stretches work you in different ways, but its still stretching.
I am thinking that, in part, my dislike of yoga comes from the yoga studio that shares my office building.
They have a thing about incense.
I realized how happy I was to have a yoga studio in the building about a week after my company moved in.
I walked in the front door and my sinuses and asthma-ridden lungs were filled with the sickly sweet stink of Nagchampa.
As my tortured bronchial tubes began to swell shut, and my eyes watered, I began to think about the term Carbonized Particulate.
Needless to say, running like a refugee to my office while holding my breath is hardly dignified.
In a word, it sucks.
I happen to find myself in the lobby with the Yoga Studio’s receptionist a week later and mentioned it to her.
Her reply was hardly reassuring.
“Oh, that won’t happen again, we are going to start opening the back door. The wind will blow it right out.”
This is the equivalence of a smoker smoking in your car, but hanging it out the window.
Makes it all better, right?
Also, I found out that the Yoga Studio charges a wretched fortune for a monthly membership.
And thats fine, charge what the market will bear. I am quite a fan of capitalism.
I used to be in sales, so there is an element of my soul that is a rotten whore for cash.
But it just seems like a silly scam.
And before you all start barking at me, I have tried it.
I took a free class that a friend told me would be so awesome, I would eat my negative words and probably buy a membership at the end of the class.
I spent a solid hour in a room that was 110 degrees, stretching my body into more sick positions than the new girl on a porn film.
Well, trying to, anyway.
A lot of the class was getting halfway there and having to stop and mutter “I can’t do that”.
Over and over.
Meanwhile, the skinny metro-sexual running the class, who stank of hand lotion and shook hands with his thumb straight out, managed to twist his body into every position with speed and finesse.
And he seemed like he would have been thrilled to be the new girl on the porn film.
You’re God damned right I said it.