There is a video on YouTube called “Inappropriate Yoga Guy” where this cheesy yoga poser uses the yoga studio as his bar and the hip lingo of the yoga world as his pick-up line. I find his spandex short-wearing, “I can touch you–I’m in the Teacher Training program!” antics hilarious, and everyone I know who lives on Planet Yoga finds it equally bone-tickling [as a quick aside: although scientists have recently stripped Yoga's "planet" status, it will always be a world unto itself to me.]
I was rudely awakened, as if by flatulence by a bare bottom pressed against my forehead, when I showed a non-yogi friend of mine the video. When the Inappropriate Yoga Guy, reflecting on a annoyed yoga girl’s recent arrival back from a retreat in Nepal, said in a yogically blissful way, “Tell me that you ate fresh goji berries at Base Camp One. Go-ji BER-ries!” while I had to excuse myself to change my freshly soiled undergarments, he was not amused.
In the raw food world [as an aside: I do consider Planet Raw more of an asteroidal complex than a planet, but if David Wolfe says it is a planet, pack my bags and put my dog in storage--I'm a Rawling!] most are completely obsessed with cocoa, so much so that they don’t even pronounce it how we all used to, as in “Mummy, could you make me a cup of hot cocoa? What do you mean my ass is getting rotund from all the cocoa I’m drinking? Mummy?” Instead they pronounce it like “Ka-ców”, to be Websterian, and God forbid you pronounce it like my little English nimsy and you’ll never be invited into another rawfood VIP room for as long as you live, which may be a long time considering your healthy raw lifestyle.
I’ve asked many a rawfooder what the difference between “ka-ców” and “cocoa” is, to which they reply in the same manner as my English nimsy’s father would answer the question, “Why do you dinkle your pinky in the air when drinking from your tea cup?”: “Don’t know, mate, just know my da-dá used to drink his Earl Grey like a pansy too.”
In case you’re wondering why I am writing a whole piece about chocolate–I mean, “kakólate”–it is because I care so much about you, my beloved readers, that I have made it a new rule of my writing to take at least a half-hour of my precious time to explain trivial information to you in order to better facilitate your understanding of my humor in general.
The rawfood readers could skip over this piece much like a commercial break, in the sense of a time to take a piss and put some raw spinach leaves in a bowl to snack on when the feature presentation returns and not in the sense of corporate brainwashing to make you feel incomplete, ugly, worthless, and that being annoyed by people who poke you in the arm twenty times in a row is a “syndrome” and that the only way out of your miserable life–that you were not even remotely aware was miserable until some manipulative, soulless suits sitting around a conference table who care about their wealth and not your health and are expert in nothing but bullshit, premature ejaculation and frigidity–decided to graciously interrupt your lame television version of “Animal House” where the girls having the pillow fight are not topless but wearing bras and they substitute “Leave It To Beaver” phrases like “Golly Gee, Wally” for phrases we’ve all grown up with and feel perfectly comfortable using like, “Take the gerbil out of your ass, Mr. Gere,” to share with you–for “your benefit”–that is, if you could put up with the side-effects of their “solution” such as pissing blood or going on a shooting spree, their miracle cure to being emotionally affected by life. ["Hello, Guinness? I think I've written the longest run-on sentence in the world. Do I what? Have a gerbil up my ass? Well, not yet but the night is still young!"] But for those of you to whom the language of planet Rawfood sounds like Klingon (unless you’re a Star Trek geek who actually speaks fluent Klingon), this raw Bud’s for you.
I’ve been told that not everyone will get my sense of humor and because, like Mother Teresa, I care to devote myself to helping the poor (of humor, in my case), I’m willing to go the extra mile, take a vow of celibacy, burn my bra, so that perhaps even just one humorless dolt somewhere in a hut in Papa New Guinea checking out this site on his high-speed Internet connection, will say, “I don’t understand why no one seems to care to help feed our starving community but I do understand this man’s humor.”
Only unlike “Ma T,” if I win the Nobel Peace Prize and the million bucks that come with it, I’m not giving it all to those who wouldn’t know a funny joke if it farted on their forehead, but will offer it in its entirety as a prize to anyone who can prove the Income Tax is required to be paid by most Americans–besides citizens of the District of Columbia and Guam–and is not just another scam developed by New World Order game players who aren’t satisfied with hotels on both Broadway and Park Place which costs you all of your Monopoly money (known today as “Federal Reserve Notes”) every time your little metal terrier stops and sniffs on their self-proclaimed squares and instead, like the catfish bottom-feeders they are, need to feed off of others suffering in order to feel good about themselves.
As selfless as you feel me to be, part of my humanitarian comedy work is also for my own benefit. Ever since I performed my 2-hour stand-up comedy bit in Texas on how people with 10-gallon hats are just using their big hats to cover their small brains, I’m still picking threads from my Fruit of the Looms out of my ass, although I must say the view of the Texan skyline hanging from a flagpole is really quite spectacular. By the time morning came and the local sheriff cut me down on the provision that neither me nor any possible future spawns of mine ever step foot in Amarillo again, I did learn a big lesson: that maybe “You know what they say, ‘Big hat, small dick’” was not my strongest closing line.
What’s this piece about again? Oh yeah, “ka-ców.” I’ve definitely been watching way too much “Family Guy” online, which would explain my constant straying into tangents that have no relevance to the main storyline. [Note to self: take a "Family Guy" fast and replace it with eight full glasses of "South Park" a day.]
I’m on my flight back from a rawsome (I’m so raw hip!) weekend in Sedona, Arizona where I went to “The Rawspirit Festival.” Incidentally, United Scareways charges $5 for a cheap headset, $15 for your first checked bag and $50 for the second; I pack light now that I only have one pair of underwear after the Amarillo Incident. The cabin air is as dry as a nun’s vagina and when the beverage cart comes around and like a man on the edge of death in the desert, through cracked lips and parched throat you manage to croak out in a barely audible tone that only dogs specially trained to lick the peanut butter off your balls could hear, “…water…”, the flight attendant smiles and says, “Two dollars, please.”
I asked her if the smile cost anything and she said, “No, do you want another one?” and I said, “No, I don’t need another fake smile. I just wanted to know if I was being charged for it.” Not even cracked lips and a parched throat could keep me from calling bullshit, bullshit. I once called a spade a spade but he beat my ass pretty good and so now I only refer to “those” people as niggers.
Wait, so what was I–airplanes…Family Guy…flying wedgies…bra and panty pillow fights–oh yeah, chocolate!
The Rawspirit Festival is an annual gathering of raw foodists, people who are interested in the raw food lifestyle, speakers, musicians, and venders who want to make a buck selling lotions, potions and clothes, knowing that any fanatic–raw or not–makes a good sucker. And on the Delta flight to Arizona, while my starving swami butt was eating pack after free pack of processed, sugar-entrenched, ginger cookies, which I would bet my bottom dollar, which is also my top dollar as I only have one dollar to my name, didn’t contain a spec of ginger in them–and free water, fuck you very much, United Scareways–vowing I was smarter than the average cultish raw-fooder, my bag on the way back to New York contained three music CDs, a DVD and a long-sleeved button-up patchwork shirt that weren’t there before. In my defense, I left some money–and my cel phone–in Arizona so that my load would be about the same going both ways. Speaking of loads and going both ways, usually when I am with a man I shoot a heavier load than when I am with a woman, but I think this is due to prostate stimulation and not attention to luggage, attention to what goes in my ass and not what goes in my bags. That’s still somewhat on topic, no?
[Note to self: seriously, no more "Family Guy" for awhile!]
Just about every other vender’s booth at the festival had a free sampling of raw chocolate and by the time evening rolled around, I swore I would never have another ounce of chocolate again–at least until tomorrow. The next day, during my morning visit to the crapper, I wasn’t sure whether what was on the toilet paper was shit or chocolate; I do know it didn’t taste good.
Call it what you will, “cocoa,” “ka-ców.” As Francis Bacon and his group of elite controllers wrote and passed the credit to the dim-witted Shakespeare, “A rose by any other name…,” but alas, that is the title of my previous piece. Just do know that, unlike bananas, it definitely tastes different going in than coming out.
REFLECTION:
What things do you do or say that make you a part of an “elite” group of phonies? Why are you such a prick?
MEDITATION:
Imagine yourself thinking everyone around you is a moron because they pronounce “ka-ców” as “cocoa.” Imagine yourself getting into arguments over this, giving presentations about how the pod that the beans come from grows on the “cacao” tree and so etymologically the correct pronunciation is “ka-ców.” Imagine yourself declaring that you deserve a Nobel Peace Prize for your work in clarifying this distinction. Do this with anything you take “seriously,” be it animal rights or the environment or politics. Using animal rights as an example, you can imagine yourself going into a restaurant and shouting, “All of you eating animals are cruel and heartless murderers! How can you enjoy the blood on your plate when surely there is a tofu dish that with enough seasoning and imagination, while tasting nothing remotely like what you ordered, would still be palatable!” Carry it to the point of ridicularity. If you’re not smiling by the end of this and you still take yourself seriously, I will mention you in my Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech
as one of the humorless idiots to which I have devoted my life’s work.