I was actually proud of myself for not engaging my emotions in his full frontal assault when in the past I might have found myself getting drawn into an argument and lobbing some of my own bombs in his direction, weapons designed to maim the other as much as win the battle. The HeartMath Institute has research that shows that any angry outburst, even if one believes it to be “justified,” is harmful to a person’s immune system (the system they tested) and takes him out of heart/mind coherence where better health resides as well as an ability to access your full intuitive nature to solve your problems. My recent reading of this has not yet made me immune to getting angry but has started to help me see anger from others in the same way that a scientist gazes into a Petri dish, wondering if I added a loogie to the mess if the bacteria I was studying would thrive or die.

The truth is that Austin cares much more about money than I do. He has enough money now to retire and still pay for his three kids to go through college and grad school and to the moon and still have some left over to join the circle-jerk with Hugh Hefner and yet he still focuses on making mo’ money, mo’ money, mo’ money.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jukQX2pl2Q 

This is in large part due to the fact that not only his salary but also his self-worth is based on his billable hours. This has resulted in him being on various medications and going through two weeks of shock treatment that erased some of his memory to deal with his depression and anxiety that seems entirely based on his earnings and what that means to him.

I donate 10% of anything I make to charity and to others. I seriously doubt he donates the equivalent ratio, which would be around $150,000 for him to charity. And I am next to certain his vote for President has little to do with protecting the environment or foreign policy or who’s been the most creative in their cigar placement, but with which candidate will let him keep most of his money via tax breaks.

He's either Hitler or J. Jonah Jameson from "Spiderman"

While I value my freedom to move around without Big Brother tracking every financial interaction I make, my being under the radar has probably cost me more in comforts than it has gained me in untaxed dollars. I lost a good job that I had and liked for ten years at a health club. I lost two more yoga teaching jobs, one at a gym and another at a yoga studio, where “paperwork issues” were the main contributing factor to my termination. One involved a fruity Fitness Coordinator named Blake that wanted me to get on my knees in front of him in submission and I pretty much told him, “I’d get down on my knees to suck your dick before I did so to Kowtow to you,” but that’s another story.

Just about every job is run by people who have been conditioned into a system that preaches a false religion that you cannot work unless you fill out government forms that declare you are a “taxpayer,” which means one liable to the Income Tax—which you most probably are not—and that the company has the right to withhold money from your paycheck because they are acting as unpaid agents for the Internal Revenue Service. As a result, I have not been able to get any work at any institution that requires this, which are basically all institutions. I went through a financial rock bottom where I couldn’t pay my bills and my eating suffered in variety and quality; where I once ate only organic food, now this word became an otherworldly fantasy like Heaven.

And more recently, I have discovered that my cloaked status is a big wedge in my relationship with Ace, who desires a “normal” life with an abnormal man and I am seriously considering plugging back into the Matrix for love. I’m starting not to care if the Federal Mafia takes their cut anymore. I’m so tired that at this point even the pursuit of Truth has become exhausting.

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THE FOLLOWING IS AN EXCERPT FROM THE PAGE “LET THE DEAD BURY THE DEAD.” FOR THE FULL PIECE, PLEASE GO TO:

http://rebelyogi.com/let-the-dead-bury-the-dead

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“Jesus said unto him, Let the dead bury their dead: but go thou and preach the kingdom of God.”

—Luke 9:60, King James Bible (Cambridge Edition)

Why is it so important that we “make our mark,” that our legacy lives on, that we achieve some form of fame, even if it is only on a local level as the girl who had the biggest North Star zit? When I showed my mother the short poem I wrote called “When The Day Comes” [http://rebelyogi.com/when-the-day-comes.html] about leaving no trace of yourself when you depart from this world, she responded with something like, “That’s not what we want—we want to leave an impression.” Why?

My sister-in-law’s father has said to his grandkids such things as,“Remember this about me when I am no longer here”; I assume he meant when he is dead and not just out of the room. Why? Why should you influence what these independent souls think in the future? It’s bad enough that you try to nag and control them into obedience as a mini-you while you are alive, perhaps sickly inspired by the Austin Power: The Spy Who Shagged Me, but after your dead as well?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tkmi_UTsjtE&feature=fvst

It’s because you fear death and have given up any hope of finding Ponce de Leon’s fountain of youth but instead think you can have a touch of immortality by planting tumors of memories in the younger generation. Just leave the little bastards alone and die!

[AS OPPOSED TO HOW I USUALLY POST HERE WHEN I HAVE A LONGER PIECE TO SHARE, GIVING YOU THE BEGINNING OF THE PIECE AS A TEASER AND THEN SENDING YOU TO THE "PAGES" TO READ THE REST, THIS IS THE END OF THE PIECE. I'VE BYPASSED MOST OF THE "NONSENSE" AND WENT RIGHT TO THE "ENLIGHTENING." MAYBE THIS WILL MAKE YOU TO READ IT TWICE--OR NOT AT ALL.]

FOR THE FULL PIECE GO TO:

http://rebelyogi.com/swami-x-eats-the-meat

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I used to have a pattern of taking everything to extremes. While others were becoming vegetarian, I was looking into how to become a breathearian. “Enjoying your carrot sticks? Yeah, that is a bit heavy for me. But I must say, this air in here is just delightful!” When my friends started to shave their faces, I would shave my whole body. “If you saw the movie ‘Powder’ you’d friggin’ get it.” While others were seeking to get laid, I sought to be laid from a chicken. After rupturing a few hens’ rectums with a shoehorn, I gave up on this dream and relegated my shoehorn solely for tongue depressing. And it’s worked, my tongue, once happy and carefree, has every since been depressed.

My vegan dogmatism resulted in me not having a winter coat for a couple of years because the huge and heavy warm coat my Dad handed me down had a few tiny strips of leather around the sleeves. It resulted in me throwing out or donating anything that had a touch of animal on or in it, including my detachable Rollerblades that were totally convenient for me to convert to boots and go into stores that don’t allow you to roll down their aisles—which is most—and then pop on my wheels and roll to my next destination with ease because one day rolling I looked down and realized the boot was made out of suede and while I never ate suede, I would be damned if I would support the slaughter of a flock of suede with my rolling advertisement. By the time I realized the error of my ways these Rollerblades were discontinued.

Not to mention it slightly inhibited my ability to enjoy a time out with friends, as I was constantly “boycotting” that restaurant for serving foie gras and protesting that store because they sold fur. I even dropped wearing my 9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB T-shirts and sweatshirt and talking about this obvious FACT as I grew tired of ruining dinners.

Whether you are committed to a job or justice, a cause or country, and sometimes even a person, usually you are just one step from being committed to an asylum. I rather cut out the middleman and just submit myself to a loony bin where I can blow spittle bubbles and smear my shit on the walls with reckless abandon.

I have come to a point where I have questioned if following anything—be it a religion or eating pattern—in a fundamentalist way does not make you free…but only a douche. Forgetting what it does to others—from burka’ed beaten Islamic women, to pedophile priests, from book burning bastards to President I’madoucheandfag of Iran proudly declaring that there are no gays in Iran after his gay burning Bonfire of the Faggeties—what does it do to the individual?

The individual soul is already trapped by it’s jailer—the Ego’s identification with the body’s shape and sex, religion, means of employment and thoughts and beliefs—to add one more steel-tipped Doc Martin wearing guard at the gates of the jail cell is not going to help one liberate himself from the jail of self-identity. I made the declaration that I would extricate myself from my jail cell at all costs—even if that meant leaving it in a body bag—as even with the pleasant curtains and Hindu goddess wall hangings of the New Age, living in a jail cell is no life for a free soul but just another trick of the Ego to keep you from seeing that the prison guards and walls and bars are INTOLERABLE.

What is harder for most to see is that the prison guards and walls and bars are not outside obstructions to freedom but are built and maintained by one’s own continually fed identification system with his small self. The only hope for freedom is to abandon your inheritance of a religion, a belief system, a moral code based on dead men printed in dead books and to be born again, coming out of the Universe’s beautiful womb and realizing that you are the Lord and “there is no other.”

“I am the LORD, and there is no other; apart from me there is no God. I will strengthen you, though you have not acknowledged me.”

—Isaiah 45:5, New International Version

“And let me declare my one Law: Only Mormons are getting into Heaven.”

Mongo from "Blazing Saddles"

I got off the subway at 6:35 this morning, with plenty of time to get to the studio to teach the 7:00 A.M. kickboxing class, only to realize that I had left the keys to the studio at home. I did this once before in the last seven months and taking a cab back and forth cost me about $40 and still had me arrive 10-minutes late to the class. So I decided to take the subway, a decision arrived as a combination of cheapness and not being in the mood to smell the body odor of an Indian cabby for the next forty minutes or so.

The subway took forever to arrive at the station, which sent my blood pressure to levels akin to as if I had just eaten a Heart Attack Burger at McDonald’s washed down with a Chocolate Frosted Diabetes Shake at Burger King and then went to Wendy’s to fuck that freckled little redhead. The subway finally arrived and I got on.

Wendy. I fucked her. She gave me chlamydia.

Across from me and a little to the left was a mongoloid-looking Jew. I am sure of the Jew angle, not because he was reading a book entitled 29 Ways To Prepare Dead Palestinian (which offers a few vegan alternatives) but because he was wearing a yarmulke, the same way that if I saw a woman in a birka I would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was a moron.

Regarding the mongoloid thing, I couldn’t be certain. He had the typical disproportioned head, with the mouth just a tad too close to his nose and a forehead that stretched from here to forever but that might have just been the result of being birthed through an extremely tight vagina and not a wide stretched out one like that of Ogre’s. But once he put on his headphones and started repeating a line that if it came from a song would inspire me to give up music forever, I knew this man who was wearing an ass for a face was demented. As if for the sole purpose of alleviating any doubt I had to his sanity, he would alternate his horrid bellowing with sticking his tongue out as far as Gene Simmons and make goofy sounds like, “DOO-DUH-DOH-DING!” Yep, certifiable!

Micky from The Monkees.

His bellowing vocal style sounded like a cross between a baby seal being clubbed for her fur and a man who had just been sodomized without lube—or like Alanis Morissette. I tried not to stare but it was like driving by a car crash and involuntarily stepping on the breaks and rubbernecking, despite the fact that you know this will contribute to a near standstill in traffic that will result in people missing appointments and small children pissing their pants and just a general malaise of the traffic motestrians.

When my stop was the next one, I got up and stood in front of a set of doors. It was already 7:00 and I thought about all the students waiting in the hallway locked out of the studio and pondered whether I should make an appointment with a psychiatrist to discuss why I didn’t seem to care in the least.

I looked over at Mongo, who was now about 15 feet away from me, and sensing my stare he turned towards me and we locked eyes. If this were some retard version of Brokeback Mountain this might have been the start of a beautiful, albeit dim-witted, relationship. I couldn’t look away, only in part due to the fact that I had been frightened at a young age by the story of Sodom and Gomorrah and since then once I look at something I have an OCD time of looking away for fear of turning into a pillar of salt. And finally the goofy little bastard did something that I have never seen on a subway. No, I’ve seen a penis doing the helicopter, but good guess! He waved.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7RAPc2vg-A

I waved back and then we both turned away and resumed our business, him croaking his best Alanis imitation and me preparing to sprint out of the soon to be opening subway car, run into my apartment, grabbing my keys all the while ignoring my whining dog happy to see me and race right back to the subway to, hopefully, reach a bunch of disgruntled kickboxing students who have boxing gloves and want to beat something silly.

Now on the subway, occasionally I have made eye contact with another person and smiled and they smiled back. If he were a guy, he was a homo and we would exit the next stop and have man sex. If she were a woman, she would nonchalantly reach inside of her handbag and flip off the safety to her can of Mace.

A smile doesn’t require much more of an effort than slightly lifting the sides of your mouth while one hand gently strokes your penis on the outside of your pants. I’ve been told the stroking of the penis is not necessary to create a smile but, as of this date, I have not figured out to do the two separately.

This is actually scarily close to how Mongo looked waving at me!

But a wave? That involves twenty-six different muscle groups all working in sink to raise the arm above your head and that requires a Herculean effort. But more than just the effort, the wave seemed so genuine that if I didn’t have a strict “No Retards As Friends” policy I might have said, “Hey tubby, you want to crush some beer cans on your enormously overgrown forehead?”

There is something about children, animals and retards that make them so innocent in their actions. Mind you, this doesn’t mean that they aren’t little bastards. One of my nieces said to my sister once, “That woman is so ugly!” in a voice that was loud enough to destroy the self-esteem of the pig in question; my dog has chewed up more electronic items, books and nick backs then I care to remember; and there have been at least twelve incidences of retards hurling their feces at their caretakers like a monkey at the zoo “shooting the shit” as they call it.

That being said, there usually isn’t an ounce of maliciousness or calculation to their behaviors. The child is in awe how grotesque the ugly woman is and, not yet having developed any sense of social graces imposed upon her by society, she just blurts out what she is thinking. As many times as I have told my dog to stop chewing on my fuckin’ stuff, when I leave the apartment she innocently goes, “Man, look at that plug attached to that fan. I wonder what that would feel like being destroyed by my teeth!” And a retard with a pile of poo in his hand is the happiest go luckiest guy you can find. Lord knows when I am holding a heap of shit in my hand I’m feeling on top of the world—provided it is my own and didn’t come out of another’s ass.

I see young kids now already becoming calculating little manipulators trying to get over and I wonder when the age of disconsent was lowered so significantly. I know I turned rotten in my mother’s womb but that was on account of eating some bad placenta. What about the rest of you? When was the last time you raised your hand over your head to a stranger, not giving them the finger or trying to indicate that sexual deviancy is on your mind, but just to say hello? How would you react if someone did that to you? You would probably be so stunned that either you would freeze like a deer in the headlights or high tail it as fast as you can in the opposite direction.

"It's a staring contest and I'd rather be venison burger before I give up and lose!"

By the time I got back to the kickboxing studio it was 7:26 a.m. and no one was still there. I had some time before my 8:00 private client came in to reflect on what God had wanted to show me by clouding my mind into leaving my keys at home. And suddenly a booming voice entered my head with the following catchphrase:

“Live your life as innocently as a retard. Just wash your hands after playing with your own shit.”

And suddenly all of the world’s madness made complete sense to me—God is a retard!

God The Retard

"Only a dunce would have faith in a man wearing a diaper!"

My subway arrived at the 34^th Street stop at about 6:30 a.m., giving me time to arrive early to my 7:00 kickboxing class where I would guide people in using kicks, punches, knees and elbows to solve all their domestic issues. My heart melts a little every time I receive a testimonial like the following:

“My wife and I got into an argument over dishes being left in the sink. I threw the jab-cross-knee combination we worked on in class and after she got up off the ground, she washed not only the dishes but also the puddle of her blood. Thank you not only for your kickboxing instruction but also for helping me maintain my marriage!”

As I was rounded the corner to the final stairwell up to the street, I jarred into a freeze as I saw a black man standing on the stairs with his erect penis sticking out of his pants and finishing what looked like his morning toss-off. I saw a few drops of liquid fall from his penis to the ground and in my innocence I thought he must have just finished up urinating. Looking at the steps, I didn’t see any puddle of piss and thought to myself, “If it wasn’t urine what in God’s name could it possibly—Jesus Christ!”

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross talks about The Five Stages of Grief that one goes through when experiencing a grief-inducing event, such as the death of a loved one. The five stages include Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. I discovered that when witnessing a penis at 6:30 in the morning one also undergoes various stages leading, but not ending in, acceptance. And thus was born The Five Stages Of Seeing A Penis, soon to be released in book form.

The first stage is Shock, where you are startled to a point where you are like a deer caught in the headlights. There have been many cases of people who have been sodomized while completely catatonic. I myself have woken up from the dentist’s chair to a facefull of semen. Needless to say, I insisted that I would not pay any extra for the facial.

The second stage is Justification. You can’t accept that a man would just have his meat hanging out there blowing in the wind, to use Bob Dylanian terms. “He must have had to urinate really badly” or “Perhaps his zipper is broken and he needs to do laundry and was forced to go commando and the combination of broken zipper and no drawers has led to this unfortunate situation,” are common responses.

Unlike the five stages of grief, Acceptance is not the last stage of The Five Stages Of Seeing A Penis.” After the initial shock of seeing the penis and the subsequent desperate attempt to justify why the penis is making an appearance in order to maintain your current worldview that in this world men keep their penises in their pants, especially in public places, you have to accept the fact that in front of you stands a man and protruding out of his pants stands a penis. If by this point you can’t accept this as a reality, you might have gone into complete cognitive dissonance and the following stages may not occur until much later.

After Acceptance comes Anger. “Why the hell should I be subject to witnessing this man’s penis—especially before 9:00 a.m.?” A subtle aspect often denied in the penile viewer is the anger that this man has his cock exposed and you would also like to pull out your pud but are too afraid of the consequences, from legal to laughter.

The final stage of The Five Stages Of Seeing A Penis is Desire, where you have gotten through your initial shock and anger and now want to experience that schlong firsthand. This often expresses itself in reaching out to the appendage or dropping to your knees and opening your mouth or the spontaneous dropping of your panties and spreading of your legs. In the incident in question I experienced all of these common manifestations of desire.

There were two things I took out of this incident, besides the development of The Five Stages Of Seeing A Penis. The first is that I will most probably refrain my barefoot walking to places that are not hotspots for the morning wank, such as subways and Starbuck’s restrooms. Secondly, I have committed myself to cover my penis from view until at least 9:00 a.m., realizing a sighting of this sort could result in a traumatization of the viewing victim.

With having a penis comes a tremendous responsibility. One must wield his organ with this awareness, especially if you plan to use your penis as a tool for Self-discovery.

I have been accused of being a racist—which is totally not true. While I find blacks to be mentally inferior, I acknowledge that they are superior athletes. While I find Chinese to have small penises, I acknowledge them to excel in math. While I find Jews just plain annoying, I acknowledge that they’re great in matters involving money and plots to control the world. And regarding Dominicans, I don’t consider them human, so the fact that I think that every last one of them is scum is not racism—they’re not a race, they’re vermin.

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http://rebelyogi.com/ace-of-hearts

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Perhaps I am a little cocky. “No!” you shout in the same way the fellow recruits called out in unison to John Candy’s character Dewey “Ox” Oxberger in the movie Stripes when he said, “Perhaps some of you noticed that I got a slight weight problem.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bD4xwK13lGk

I never think that anything bad can happen to me. I’ll walk through bad areas, alone in nature, confront seedy people…“What’s the worst that can happen to me?” I think, “That they’ll kill me and I’ll be done with this miserable life? Big whoop.” But while I don’t necessarily care about my own personal safety, I do care about the safety of my beloved Abandon, mostly because I love her but also because I am responsible for her well being and I take that responsibility seriously.

I’ve studied dog training via books and DVD’s and in practice with my girl to the point where something just seemed to click and I was like Keanu Reeves in one of his typical poor acting moments in “The Matrix” when after he was plugged into the martial arts training program he snaps out of it and says, “I know kung fu.” When Morpheus responds, “Show me,” I am not sure if he is saying, “Show me your kung fu skills” or perhaps, “Show me your credentials as an actor because judging from your piss poor acting skills it is hard for me to believe you’ve ever taken a single acting class in your life.”

“I know dog training.” And if Morpheus told me to “Show me” I would bring his black ass to the many clients I’ve had who have raved over the changes not just in their dogs’ behavior but in their understanding of how to best communicate with their dogs to foster a better relationship with which I have helped them.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vMO3XmNXe4

With this confidence, I also thought that I was in control of any situation that may put Abandon at risk, minus starvation from my broke, animal compassionist ways that has resulted in me feeding her nothing but twigs and berries. I found out last week that I was wrong. I am not sure whether this happened because I was not in control, I used poor judgment in assessing the situation or if, as the phrase goes, sometimes “shit happens.”

Between working 1-on-1 sessions, teaching a class and taking an advanced class, it was a busy Tuesday night at New York San Da for me. Seafood had just paid me in greenbacks and I put the money in the Velcro enclosed pocket of my street shorts and put them in my locker and changed into my faggy, flowy “san da” shorts. Just then Fagstone popped his head into the changing room and asked, “Do you have a 7:30?”

“Yeah,” I replied, ignoring his lingering look at my Johnson and hussled my butt out of the dressing room, inadvertently not locking up my locker. Now I am pretty much the only one on staff who puts a lock on his locker. Well, Spandex does but he never locks his lock so I’m not really sure if that counts. I’m guessing even the most moronic reader at this point knows where the story is going—and it ain’t Kansas, Dorothy.

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I had enjoyed a long ride of free wireless access in both my last apartment and this one but just like at an amusement park, the ride came to an end. Also like at an amusement park, it wasn’t all fun and games but included the occasional man in a trench coat who would tell you he’d like to share a “hotdog” with you, that would break up the monotony of good times; often the connection was spotty and I would find myself unable to connect or the connection so slow that it was chemotherapy painful. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this seemed to parallel my connection with Ogre—at times high-speed but often no signal.

So the other day I took my laptop during my walk with Abandon and went to McDonald’s where they have free wireless connection. I prefer to go to the bench outside and connect but did not get a signal there and so I had to venture inland. I told Abandon to sit outside and she said, “I wouldn’t go in there even if you offered me transfat fries!”

As I started to go through the double doors, some shady looking character started eyeing Abandon, mostly admiring that she was sitting there obediently waiting for me. He said to me, “I’m going to test her” to which I responded, “Please don’t. Just leave her alone.” It was my polite way of saying, “Kindly fuck off.” But he didn’t kindly fuck off.

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Last month I joined Facebook and in so doing apparently joined the 21^st Century. Well, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t exactly join it—my martial arts teacher signed me up for it. Was he concerned about my hermetic social life as the New York City equivalent of a cave-sitter? No, he’s just a money-grubbing Jew and wanted me to post announcements and items about his martial arts school so he can fill the bag of gold around his neck.

“Why,” you ask, “did I you wait so long?” Is it because Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg turned me down when in a fit of excitement over the legalization of gay marriage in New York I asked him to be my lawfully wedded fag? Is it because I am a paranoid conspiracy theorist who wears tinfoil on my head and didn’t want the government knowing who I poke? Or maybe it’s because I just don’t give enough of a shit to reconnect with high school losers I tried to avoid 25 years ago. The answer: all of the above and a few things more.

I filled out the requisite information—where I went to high school, which teachers in college allowed me to add a half a letter to my grade by jerking them off in the bathroom, twenty-five different ways I have masturbated with a sock—to which I received a personal note from Mark Zuckerberg when I listed #18, “rolled in a ball stimulating my prostate,” asking whether I would suggest he use a natural or synthetic fiber sock. And when I thought I was pretty much done, I hit Enter or Return or Accept or Done and angels sung “Hallelujah” and I was officially indoctrinated into the Flock of Facebook.

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http://rebelyogi.com/sit-on-my-facebook

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