Enlightening Nonsense

Last year when I went to Florida to see my Jewants (Jew parents), I arranged with Yogini Pea to share a teaching out there in the hopes that I could offend people not only in New York City but also in the “Steal The Election For George Bush” State. It went pretty well, not so much in the sense of the teaching—as that was shit—but I was able to sleep with at least six of the students who came to class, I think one of which was a woman. Oh wait, no, it was a dude with long hair.

Last year Yogini Pea had a little email hissy fit after she kept bugging me with “Would you like to hold it outside on the beach or in a studio with a Buddha tapestry or one with the Hindu goddess…” and I responded with a straight up “I don’t really give a shit. You decide.” Apparently she took this as dismissive for all the energy she was putting into hosting rebel yogi Swami X. She was wrong and I was right but I learned an ancient adage that was recently uncovered from a Mystery School in Egypt that said: “There are two ways to argue with a woman. Both don’t work,” and so I just called her a cunt and everything was squared away.

Yogini Pea had come back from a 10-Day Bhakti immersion in New Orleans, which basically means she sat around and smoked pot and chanted, “Dude, I love like everyone!” with a bunch of other potheads while someone banged a drum which signified it was time to run around naked and chant “OM.” She had a great time, as who wouldn’t under those conditions.

And she needed it, as she and her somewhat boyfriend had just come to the conclusion that him never wanting to hang out with her was the final straw in the scarecrow’s ass—especially since she had let him move in with her. That combined with her constant struggle to market her 6’, hairy-armpitted, dreadlocked Amazon self had made her a little frustrated with things in general. Perhaps not the best time to deal with a rebel yogi like myself.

One thing which was my fault was that I didn’t set my dates and book my flight until late in the game and so we didn’t have as much lead time for her to publicize my by yoga class and meditation workshop. I had read that due to the Gulf oil spill, Jet Blue was temporarily out of their signature blue chips and I refused to go through airport security and have some TSA pervert manhandle my Johnson without a pot of blue chips at the end of the molestation rainbow.

The day of my “by donation” special yoga class/workshop, which ended up lasting almost two hours, Yogini Pea and I went to the beach. It was considered a shitty day for Florida, being an overcast day with strong wind gusts, but coming from a New York winter that seemed to never stop snowing and being friggin’ cold, I felt like I was on a tropical island somewhere before the tsunami.

Looking at Yogini Pea through my third eye, which is not a New Age term but an actual eye that is on my forehead due to Great Grandfather Zelman fucking a Cyclops and me being the expresser of this recessive gene, I could see an emptiness in her heart area, as if she were hollowed out there. I spontaneously did energy healing work on her where I guided her through her imagination and my channeling of energy to fill up her heart center with the excited creative energy she feels when she is teaching Thai yoga or therapeutic yoga or riding her bicycle or braiding her armpit hair. I must have worked on her for 45-minutes and then nudged her and said, “It is 3:15. We probably should get going to get to my 4:00 class, huh?” And we left the beach.

She checked her phone and there was a message on it that she should have checked awhile back. As a result of her last-minute check, one girl who otherwise would have made the class was not going to be coming. I suppose that’s what you get when you have a stoner handling your arrangements.

Walking back to the car, she forgot which road she parked her jeep on and we wandered a little, which wasn’t so bad until the downpour started and we had to throw a towel over both of our heads and peer through a small opening to see where the hell we were walking. I had a newfound appreciation for Muslim women who wear burkas after this experience. I suppose that’s what you get when you have a stoner handling your arrangements.
Driving to the yoga studio, Yogini Pea called one women who was interested in coming and hearing only one end of the conversation, it sounded like this woman was more interested in soaking her panties thinking about me than moistening her awareness (vaginal metaphor has always been my forte.) “How old is he? I’m not really sure,” said Yogini Pea. “I don’t know how old his picture is. I do know he’s been using it for a few years.” I was thinking of saying, “Tell her I’ll rub her boobs during the final corpse pose,” but remembered that was how I lost my last three yoga teaching jobs and have been given a gag order until these last pending case is terminated. The yoga whore was too far away and said she didn’t think she would make it on time and wished Yogini Pea got back to her earlier. I suppose that’s what you get when you have a stoner handling your arrangements.

The last gag order I got involved a judge bringing me into his chambers, lifting up his robe and having me gag on his huge cock. It was Justice Clarence Thomas and while his dick was quite a specimen, his conversation centered around nothing but pubic hairs on Coke cans and by the third load I took in my face, I found this topic of discussion a little played out. Apparently, right after I told him that he was a bore, he took a vow of silence and hasn’t offered any comments in a decade on the Supreme Court. Go figure.

By the time we got to the yoga studio where I was going to be teaching my class, it was about five minutes to four. I am laid back in some regards, such as personal hygiene and social etiquette, but when it comes to my personal professionalism, I try to put my best foot forward, which is my right foot. I generally show up on time and give it my all (in sex I sometimes show up late and let the woman start on her own so that she is fifteen seconds away from sex so that we can both climax at the same time.) I do this not just for the students but also to honor myself. I have shared this with students. When you show up late to a class, you not only disrespect the teacher and the class, but you disrespect yourself as well.

So showing up five minutes before the scheduled START time of the class/workshop was a little horrifying for me. But this was the story and, as they say, there was no use crying over spilt milk. Although, in the X family household if any of the kids spilt milk that would lead to being sodomized by my father, so I suppose crying was an appropriate response. I suppose that’s what you get when you have a stoner handling your arrangements.

It didn’t seem to matter, as no one had shown up. Finally one girl pulled up and I ended up giving the class to her and Yogini Pea. The girl threw in $20 for her donation, 30% or $6 of which I had to give to the studio. Yogini Pea didn’t throw in shit. So I basically made Mexican wages.

The class was on a Sunday and we had scheduled the meditation workshop, which had an exchange of $75, on Tuesday. Apple Jax, a girl who came to last year’s Swami X experience and who over the year I had talked to on the phone when I got tired of jerking-off to pictures on my wall of Osho, said she couldn’t afford $75 at the moment but that she would pay $30. I had considered negotiating with her but she is a Jew and if their big noses don’t poke you in the eye, their business skills will surely poke you in the ass. I didn’t get back to her but figured I would see if others were interested and then let her know whether I would let her cheap Jew ass in.

It was Monday night and the workshop was scheduled for Tuesday from 6:00-8:00 p.m. I asked Yogini Pea how many people had signed-up for the workshop. Of course I did this via text message, as ever since I got a text plan I never call anyone with whom I don’t want to speak. She wrote me back, “No one yet.” Yet? When were these Florida dufuses, or is that “dufi,” planning to voice their commitment? I wrote her that if we didn’t receive any interest by 12:00 on Tuesday, I was cancelling the workshop.

The next day I received some scolding text from Yogini Pea that said, “You need to commit to showing up for the event if u want me to promote it.” I told her to unwind her knotted panties, that while I had hoped to share the mastery and madness that comes through me via yoga, I was also here on vacation visiting my parents and that if none of the Florida yoga douches were interested in experiencing something different and cutting edge, fuck ‘em, that I was going to make plans with my folks to eat a 4:00 early bird dinner and go out shopping with my Mom where she could buy me a gay shirt [See “Let’s Go Shopping” at http://rebelyogi.com/lets-go-shopping.html].

She gave me some whine and cheese about how she would have to contact people and let them know and how it sucked being my secretary. I was like, “Whoa, whoa! How many people actually contacted you showing some interest?” The answer was two. I went on, “Seriously, what exactly did you think would be your responsibilities besides posting an announcement on your Facebook page? Does contacting two people really “suck”? I know your supposed boyfriend checked out and you’re moving soon, so I understand you are a little frazzled but, really, you need to get a grip. You can’t handle texting two people? Do you need me to wipe your ass for you as well?”

She gave me the two people and I texted them. One didn’t get back to me and the other had shared in my offering last year and said she would like to come but she was broke. I asked her how much she could afford.

“A lot less than u are worth.” I asked her what that translated into in dollars and cents. “I’d be bringing a friend. Between us both it would be $25.”

I told her that $12.50 was not enough to get you into a regular yoga class, let alone a special Guest Artist class with a rebel yogi who only visited Florida once a year. As much as I like to offer my front door for nothing, I am certainly not giving away the house for a lame song like, I’m a cheap Jew, which was originally presented in the musical by the same name at the Auschwitz Theater by a group of S.S. thespians.

She wrote, “Much respect always. You are a powerful teacher and if I could I would pay you what you deserve. Last year your yoga class changed me. It was amazing.” I told her Jew ass to put away a quarter a day for next year and she would not only be able to pay for my workshop but buy me dinner afterwards as well.

I’m not here to tell anyone what their priorities should be or how they should spend their money but what exactly is “Powerful,” “Amazing,” “Your yoga class changed me” worth? Not much more than a few words to throw up on the marquis of a Broadway show apparently. So I texted Yogini Pea and told her the workshop was cancelled and that I had to spend the rest of the evening detoxing from all the stress I had experienced in the two minutes I spent text messaging the two girls.

At times I feel like Jesus wandering around aimlessly and giving sermons in empty fields. I stand on my mount and all I see is sandy desert for miles around with no one to hear my “Blessed are…’s.” At this rate, I’m thinking I’m going to have to hang my self up on the cross!

Bennie Miller of the highly successful Miller’s Nails decided it was time to give his only son more responsibility in the business. “Son, we have a prime space on the side of the highway to put up a billboard. I want you to design a campaign however you see fit.”

The next day, Bennie was horrified to see the billboard showing a huge picture of Jesus on the cross with the slogan underneath it “USE MILLER’S NAILS.”

“What the hell? You can’t do that! This will offend a lot of people. Change that immediately!”

The next day he came to the billboard and now it showed a picture of an empty cross with bloodstains on it and the new phrase “NEXT TIME USE MILLER’S NAILS.” The father had a heart attack and died. Miller’s Nails were used to hammer his coffin shut.