Day 72 Crack Me Up

So as I continue my education in all things yoga, my reading has extended to a book called Stretch: The Unlikely Making of a Yoga Dude, by Neal Pollack.

Very, ahem, different from my other recent readings. His catch-phrase is “Namaste, mother&*%$ers!” How can ya resist?

Here’s the bit I’ve been making everyone read, with full attribution to NEAL POLLACK. (I do not want this guy mad at me.) (Also, don’t judge me. Farts are just funny.)

“… One night,” writes NEAL POLLACK,  “finally, I went to Tanya’s class. She had a degree in yoga therapy from the excellent program at Loyola Marymount. Her alignments were precise and invigorating. I could feel my warrior two improving markedly under her watch. We held our poses for a long time and it hurt; if your teacher makes your quadriceps hurt, you’re in good hands. Oh, how my yoga was evolving! My body and my mind were changing, becoming something grander and higher!

During the cool down, Tanya told us to draw our knees by our ears. We grabbed our feet with our hands and rocked gently from side to side. This was happy baby pose. My body felt free and loose, totally relaxed in every way.

A murmur emanated from my guts, and an airy whoosh moved through my intestines.

I then uncorked the sloppiest, wettest fart of my life, a desperate five-second bleat of sweet relief. The sound seemed to bounce around the walls of the studio like a rubber ball thrown at maximum velocity. I followed this with a series of three little toots, duckling farts chasing after their mother. It was like the campfire scene in Blazing Saddles except that, instead of cowboys, hot chicks in Spandex surrounded me, and I was the only one farting.

“Oh, yeah,” Tanya said. “That’s it.”

My fart had been so strong that even my teacher felt relief. I quaked with humiliation and self-hatred.

“Oh my God,” I said. “I’m such a Jew.”

The class roared in appreciative laughter, which made me even more nervous. Really, what did Judaism have to do with farting? My coment could be explained away by self-loathing, but what was their excuse? Were all yogis secret anti-Semites?

Regardless, from then on, whenever I went to Tanya’s class I couldn’t contain my flatulence. I ripped and hissed and tooted. There were silent deadlies and noisy, odorless farts. I farted while standing, sitting, and lying down. The sorrowful people next to me tried to stare stoically ahead and focus on their practice, but I knew they were thinking: Who is this hairy, ass-blowing Heeb next to me, and how can I prevent him from ever coming to class again?”