The Final Word on Yoga
It has come to my attention that yoga, which I had hoped was only a passing interest that would go the way of snap bracelets, metrosexuals, and safe sex, seems to be growing in popularity rather than dissipating into forgotten obscurity like Lana del Rey.
This is why I feel it necessary to make a few things clear to anyone reading this who may harbor either an open or secret affection for yoga, beginning with this: Please stop trying to call yoga a fucking exercise. Yoga is as much an exercise as jerking off in the shower to the memory of an ex girlfriend is making love to Scarlett Johansen, which is to say, not that much. You work up about as much of a sweat doing yoga as Donald Sterling does when changing the channel every time a Spike Lee movie comes on TV.
The point is that you get to call yoga an exercise about as much Casey Anthony gets to call the trunk of her car a child’s bouncy castle. Mind you, I imagine that that dead weight does have a tendency to bounce every time she goes over a speed bump, but I still maintain that the comparison to a bouncy castle is a bit of a stretch.
Because when you participate in yoga, you are not so much getting in touch with your spiritual core as you are advertising your willingness to pay some desiccated hippie forty dollars an hour to talk through her acid flashbacks while describing moonbeams and sun prayers, all of which is about as satisfying and rewarding as a threesome with Helen Keller.
That’s right, because you can imagine what that would be like: just a lot of flailing limbs and confusing poses because that’s all yoga really is—it’s torn straight from the pages of the Kama Sutra and I know this because I walk past those yoga classes at my gym and near as I can tell, yoga is all about the best way to receive anal.
It is called the “downward dog” pose, and little known fact: that is precisely why Woody Allen is an advocate for yoga instruction to preschoolers. That way by the time they’re in third grade those chicks will be ready for sleepovers in his attic …
And please, if you happen to be one of these noxious strip-mall studio yogis, please do not convince yourself that your enthusiasm for yoga entitles you to talk to me about how great and life-affirming it is. I happen to think that Jack Daniels, Vicodin, and sex with black women is life-affirming, but you don’t see me accosting you in the break room to tell you how I spent my evening after work.
Because chasing the latest fad does not entitle you to look down your nose at others. Today’s yoga enthusiasts are the same assholes who ran out to buy Pet Rocks in the 1970s and they’re the same assholes who rounded up Jews in the 1930s. And that is my point, dear readers: yoga is just the new National Socialism with an even haughtier sense of itself than anything ever imagined by Goebbels. Aryan supremacy is tame by comparison and even Himmler would regard today’s yoga enthusiasts as “a little over the top.”
And that is why yoga sucks: it’s just Nazism with shittier fashions with one very important exception: yoga pants for women.
Correction: yoga pants for women who maintain the figure commensurate with wearing skin-tight elastic fabrics because too many women who shouldn’t wear yoga pants believe that they can, which brings me to my final point: Ladies (myself included), if your yoga pants tend to outline the craterous cellulite of your inner and outer thighs while squeezing your gut like some lumpy tube of Fresh Mint Crest, then please forgo the shopping trip to Lululemon.
Like those signs just outside the entrance to the rides at Six Flags measuring minimum height requirements, Lululemon should have a body fat analysis test posted just outside its entrance, and if your body fat percentage reads something more like the label to a bottle of Everclear, then you cannot go inside. This store is not for you.
And yoga is, of course, for no one.
Unless you you’re cool with all of the above observations, in which case you should probably apologize to your parents for the failure your life has become.