I'm a Ho

If you look here you'll perhaps be as surprised as I was today to learn that I am a yoga instructor.

I wasn't sure how I became a yoga instructor, so I dedicated 15 minutes to figuring it out.  Probably last summer I was walking around Longmont with my braided mustache at clavicle length, and probably I was wearing not just dirty shorts, but dirty, torn shorts.  I must have passed a coffee shop with two women inside, serious of course about fitness results, sipping soy chai lattes and asking each other about the hardcore yoga studios.

I'm not really in tune with the Lululemon crowd, but reasonably only one thing could happen when they saw me.

One pointed at me and said to the other, "that motherfucker must have spent some serious time on a Nepalese mountain top."

They followed me, at a safe distance, to TwinFreaks CrossFit and were scared to go inside while still on contract to their current studio but got me a listing.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do when my disciples start showing up.  I do have a world class pigeon pose, but I got that from Brazilian jiu-jitsu, not yoga.  In BJJ, I like to play guard, the bottom position which is by definition defensive but from which an array of submission attacks can be launched.  This, I learned during my time in San Fransisco, is called "topping from bottom," and aside from the applications it has in grappling, it's probably a good skill to have if you're a ho.



Don't ask me why, but recently I've been in a commercial gym.  Among other things, I saw a spherical woman doing seated calf raises.  I recognized this as a spot reduction strategy; I thought spot reduction would be fine for her as long as the spot was her body, and I realized this could only be the work of a personal trainer.

Clearly in this foreign place money was changing hands for questionable physical services and I felt debased.  I wondered, though, what a ho would do, and I decided to display my wares.  With my whorish instincts apparently intact, I approached the weakest prey, two inexperienced underweight high school boys who will be underweight until they go to college, drink beer seven days a week instead of two, and begin a lifelong journey of being overweight.  I pulled up my shirt, flexed my abs and said, "what do you think? Is this okay?"

I had to run the hell out of there before anything could be consummated.



So when the disciples show up, I'm going to rip the "$135 a month" sign off the wall.  I'll tell them I can see they're serious about results, and that I can infallibly deliver for $50 an hour.

I'll show them the pigeon pose, and for $50 an hour, especially if I get a group, I'm whorish enough to tell them I got like this by eating tofu.