bikram yoga

Sorry about the last post of utmost boringness. The short version of the story is that Matt of the $7000 was a drug dealing loser probably with erectile dysfunction issues. NEXT!!!

Bikram yoga. That is the copyrighted/patented/trade secret nickname of hot sweaty yoga, where a carpeted room - important detail! more on this later - is heated to the temperature of a nice cool bag of testicles and then filled with sixty foolish yupsters with income to spare. They are led in a 90-minute cartilage ripping routine by a glistening, sadistic hipster Adonis whose religion is apparent through the very, very thin fabric of his tiny shorts. Some pass out! Some lay on their towels in immobile protest! Others open and close their mouths slowly, like dying fish, awaiting the end.

I blame fucking GROUPON. This shit needs a warning label. The first few days after you sign on DON'T BUY SHIT. Because you're like, "Oh! $14 of meat for only $7. Great deal!" And all it takes is a little *click* sound and you are down seven dollars in real cash form and up fourteen dollars in meat form. What the fuck? How many of you fools bought $6 tickets to see Meathew Meatconaughey's new meatvie last week? STUPID!!

So the Groupon for San Francisco posted a sale at a Bikram yoga studio on Polk Street, $39 for two months of unlimited classes. Which would be a great deal if it were anything other than armpit donkey heat yoga! Unlucky for K. I convinced her to buy one also, so we could share these experiences together:

• A room the size of my bedroom for forty women to change in. I put my buttocks right on somebody.


• I'm going to write that again in case you missed it. I put my ass. On a person's shoulder. By accident. I was bending over to swap business casual for shorts. She was bending over to do the same. There was no room to maneuver. Like ships passing in the night, I sat right on her. My apology was very awkward. "Oh my God, I sat on you. I'm so sorry. [Namaste!!]"


• A carpeted room that hundreds of people sweat into day after day. It smelled like a family of wild dogs. No wait . . . just picture - really try to imagine the visual - 40,000 disembodied, unwiped anuses. From dudes who watch hentai eighteen hours a day. For sale at the butcher counter. In a heap with a "$7 for $14 of meat!" flag stuck into the topmost anus. That's what the studio smelled like. I saw the cleaning people dry vacuuming the carpet after my class - hmmm how is a dry vac going to suck your sweaty anus smell out of a carpet??


• The actual yoga would not have been terribly difficult if not for the balls-like temperature. That was enough to send my heart rate skyrocketing even for moderately engaged poses. At times I simply lay on my borrowed towel and panted. This must be very good for the skin.


• Body anxiety. The regulars are lithe, ropey creatures with tight bunz. Proper attire is as little attire as possible. And there are mirrors on all walls, so you see everything from all angles, including the flaccid body of the tubby Chinese miser who can't pass up a good deal! Some poses gave my rolls rolls.

But lucky for me, there's no better person than K. to do this with. K. has an uncontrollable giggling problem, triggered by things like a David Koresh figure announcing pavana mukta asana ("Everybody get into wind-releasing pose!"). After the class, K. told me a story about how she could not stop laughing at a trial when she saw that the stenographer had accidentally ascribed to the judge the words "Now is a good time to take a dump" rather than "Now is a good time to take a break."

I felt full body torpor for about twelve hours after the class.

I'm going back tomorrow!