The Bride is Trying to Kill Me

This is a cry for help.
The Bride is trying to kill me, and I need you to have my back.
I sustained a bad back injury that led to a near death experience.
No, not running or lifting weights or rock climbing or doing something else manly.
No, this 45 year old with 24 pieces of surgical metal in his body hurt his back in the middle of the night trying to get up out of bed to pee. I moved wrong, my back went out, and I went down hard. I went down to the floor in agony, crying for help. The Bride sits up and starts sleep talking, or pretending to sleep talk, “Stop making noise and put underwear on! Your sister is in the living room!”
Then this criminal mastermind lays back down and fakes sleep.
My sister is not in the living room. She’s in Pennsylvania. Also, she has four older brothers with no sense of humility, so it wouldn’t phase her even if I had walked out into the living room with a middle of the night urination boner.
I mean, my poor sister has been through it all. Once, while sharing a bed with her drunken one passed out drunken brother at a wedding, she sits up in the middle of the night and declares in a very emphatic tone that, “if you touch my butt one more time, I’m going to break your arm!”
In his defense, our sister strongly resembles his wife, but that’s another story for another time.
Anyway, point being, if my sister was in our living room and had seen my pee boner, it would not be the worst thing to happen to her. But what might actually be the worst thing ever is that I may die, on my bedroom floor, after having peed all over myself, because The Bride chose to let me suffer and die instead of trying to save me.
Now, you may ask, why would The Bride want to kill off her wonderful husband?
Well, I just sold my business and made The Bride the beneficiary on my bank account. So, for all I know, she was awake, hearing my agonizing cries for help, and she’s just trying to ride it out, hoping I die, while dreaming of herself riding along the coast in her new convertible Corvette, air blowing through her hair, while some dickhead 22 year old dude enjoyed the fruits of my lifetime of labor.
Anyway, after half and hour or so, I gathered myself, got back in bed, and was able to bravely make it through the night and fend off the Grim Reaper. In the morning, I was so jacked up with pain that that I could not bend at the hips.  I took a handful of pain pills, and when it was time for my morning poo, I had three options.
1- Stand over the toilet like a B17 bomber plane and hope for the best.
OR
2- Put together a make-shift bed pan out of The Bride’s cake pan.
OR
3- Shit myself
I went with option #2.
The Bride was driving the kids to tennis camp, so I’d be able to pull it off and get rid of the evidence and she’d never know.
Until now.
So, I survived the ordeal, not because I wanted to, but to spite The Bride, and I want everyone here to know that if something happens to me in the next few months, it was her.
I’m trusting you guys to get me justice.

The Dad Needs Your Help

Today’s Advice Request FROM The Dad-

Sometimes, I get on here and doll out advice that is thinly veiled behind some crass humor. This is my clever little way of acting out my agenda on the world. It’s the first step in my 72 step process of achieving world domination (muwahahahahahaha).

At any rate, I’m mostly bull-shitting and my advice is garbage. I don’t know too many things about too much stuff. Today, I’m tucking the bull-shitting skill in my back pocket for a minute to reach out to you guys, with an open mind, to ask for some advice from the rest of you. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the process of running this page is that ALL of my fans?followers? (whatever) are beautiful people with high IQs, infinite life experiences, and the ability to tackle sensitive world issues in a rationale, logical, calm, and considerate manner. You are better humans than me.

You’ve taught me so much. And now, like Scott Staff from Creed, I’m reaching out, with arms wide open, asking for you to wrap your big strong arms around me to keep myself, The Bride, and the boys on the straight and narrow.

These are important life questions. So-

At what age is it considered to be no longer appropriate for my boys to spend time together, in the bathroom, laughing and giggling, while one of them is pooping?

If I hate it when people eat off my plate, and The Bride has known this for ten years, and we are out for an expensive dinner, and when I’m in the bathroom she eats off my plate, and I know she ate off my plate because I calibrated my plate before I went to the bathroom, then is it too much to ask the prosecuting attorney to go for the death penalty?

If I’m stuck in traffic, and a cute girl catches me picking my nose, is it okay to roll down my window to tell her that ‘I had an itch?’

If we’re having dinner with friends that happen to be people with a higher concentration of melanin than us, and the 5 year old asks their young son, “at night time, when the lights are out, do you become invisible” what is the appropriate way for a parent to handle this situation?

If my son is good friends with a kid from school and that kid’s parents are constantly wanting to have “play-dates” but that kid’s parents are the most annoying people in the history of the Universe and I’ll probably have to kill them if we have to hang out with them even one more time, then did I not ‘save a life’ when I made my child change schools?
Is a BJ and some ‘butt-stuff’ not a fair trade for saving lives?
Would it be better to state this case to The Bride in an emoji? An Instagram story? Or an old fashioned letter?

If The Bride refuses to engage in a threesome for about eleven different reasons, and I go out and find a working girl to pretend to be a civilian and to approach The Bride and woo her and seduce her, am I breaking any rules?

If Filipinos are considered to be the **ggers of the Asian community (and I’ve been told by various black people and Asians that this is the case), then is it acceptable for my Filipino sons to sing all the words to Kanye’s “Gold Digger” out loud, in mixed company?
Since I’m their Dad, is the same okay for me?

If I’m using a restroom at a McDonalds and after I stand up to put my pants on (before I flush) I drop a twenty in the toilet, is it okay to fish it out?
And if so, it okay to then give that twenty to the pimple faced cashier for some lunch?

If I haven’t had a “release” in a week because The Bride is a liar and has had a cold all week, and I have to use my memory and imagination, while in the shower to resolve the situation, and I go all the way back in time to high school, do I have to do my best to age the classmates in my imagination (even though I haven’t seen them in twenty years) or is it acceptable for them to still be juniors, if I too am a still a junior?

If one of the boys makes a tragic mess and I’m the first to come across it and I pretend not to see it, and The Bride later sees it and gets mad at me for not noticing it first, is it a lie to just shrug my shoulders?

If my boys think I’m the strongest man in the world, but, in reality, I’m only like second or third strongest, is it lying to allow them to this think?

If, at Christmas, I go out for bagels early in the morning, and while I’m out for bagels, Santa shows up with a sack full of presents for my boys, and by the time I get back Santa is gone, and this has now happened five years in a row, am I an absentee parent?
Also, do you think Santa is fucking The Bride?

If our niece is at our house and she poops in her diaper and The Bride isn’t home, and I have no experience changing little girl’s diapers, and I’ve read some things about infections and such, and I decide to be a good uncle and go for it, but when I get her diaper off there are all kinds of folds and crevices and nooks and crannies that I’m unprepared for, should I:
A- hose her off in the backyard
B- ask our elderly neighbor to come over and help
C- wipe her as best as I can and hope for the best
D- Put her in a basket and drop her off at the police station?

If The Bride is lactose intolerant (she is), and she eats ice cream for the one millionth time in a row despite my suggesting that she shouldn’t, and then she farts in public and it smells incredibly bad, and then I tell everyone it was me, then am I being hyperbolic by suggesting to her, that night, that I was a hero?
Is it ridiculous for me to try to parlay that into a threesome?
If she says no, is it not bigoted for her to say, “I’m not attracted to women.”?

If I’m playing laser tag with my boys, and I reset my vest (when nobody’s looking) to give myself more lives, and it’s done as part of teaching the children a lesson, and that lesson is that their Dad is better than them at laser tag, am I a bad dad?

If The Bride comes into the living room, at 1230am, while I’m in the final five minutes of an episode of my favorite show, and she proceeds to ask exactly 17 questions, and she insists that I answer every single one, and I do this, and then she falls asleep with four and a half minutes remaining in the show, only to wake up when it’s over to ask me exactly 14 more questions, and she miraculously does this 100% of the time that I ever watch anything on TV, then, should I not get custody of the children in a divorce?

Thank you all for your love and support, and thank you for taking the time to answer these very pressing questions.
I love you.
And this has been Today’s Advice FROM The Dad.

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Bird Flu/Hepatitis Face all Over my Baby

As a physical therapist who visits people in their homes, I’ve seen some crazy things. I had a patient who was a hoarder that saved all her bowel movements in dated mason jars for over a decade, taking up her entire basement. I had a patient who collected exotic pets like alligators, snakes and even a lion cub. I had a “preacher” with a twenty million dollar house and a wife and girlfriend that both lived in that house. I had an uber-rich, retired Hollywood A-list celebrity who became an agoraphobic hermit with zero regard for personal hygiene and b.o that could be smelled from the bottom of Laurel Canyon Drive. I’ve seen a patient who lived in downtown hotel with 15-20 junkies living in his place. I had an 85-year-old female patient make a pass at me, and I had a 92-year-old male patient do the same. I’ve had patients punch me, offer me drugs, and steal from me. I’ve seen it all.
When I became a father, my son became my No. 1 responsibility, and I had to learn to show more discretion in which patients I chose to take on. I learned this lesson from Bird Woman.
My boy was 3-months-old when I got a new patient in an area of Long Beach that was unfamiliar to me. Her home was in such a remote area that I felt like Christopher Columbus upon finding it. After parking, I considered planting an American flag to claim the seemingly undiscovered land.
I approached her front door with caution. She had the kind of giant door knocker you’d find on the front door of a haunted house in a Hitchcock film. I lifted it and banged it against the big wooden door.
“Come in, quickly,” she said, opening the door a crack.
Upon entering, I felt like I’d walked into an episode of “Animal Planet.” Bird Woman put a raincoat around my shoulders to ‘keep me clean’ (her words). Birds were flying, swooping, gawking and pooping. My first instinct was to turn and run, but I feared sudden movement could be dangerous. There were so many birds in her house that it would be easiest to tell you what kind of birds were not there, so, here goes:
There were no bald eagles.
There were no vultures…
And that about covers it. Unless you count pterodactyls ─ there were none of them, but I think pterodactyls are actually flying reptiles rather than birds. I dunno, maybe not. I’ll just play it safe ─
There were no pterodactyls.
But every other kind of bird on planet Earth ─ Bird Woman had it in her home.
Yes, there was an ostrich. Yes, there was a turkey. There was every kind of parrot I’d ever seen, a couple pelicans, storks, and three flamingos.
For a moment, I considered checking the closet for Ashton Kutcher because I was sure I was being “Punk’d.” But then I remembered that only famous people get “Punk’d.”
Bird Woman had just gotten a total hip replacement, but I don’t think we spent more than five minutes on her hip. We spent most of the appointment talking birds. While she talked, she fed them bird seed out of her hand, before eating some herself from that same dirty hand, surely giving herself bird flu and mouth herpes all in one shot.
Bird Woman was so many degrees of crazy that I couldn’t tear myself away. I was fascinated and certain I could get away with asking just about anything. “Do you breed your own birds?” I asked. “You could probably cross-breed a new species. You could be, like, the first person to ever breed an ostra-parrot.”
“It’s hard to cross-breed birds,” she said. “But I did invent a “sparrow-saurus… Half sparrow and half bald eagle.”
“Seriously? Wow. Can I see it?”
“No, it’s dead. The vet said its heart was too small to support its body size.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“How do you keep this place clean…ish?”

“I open the basement door, throw food down there, the birds chase it, and then I hose down the upstairs while they’re down there. But I don’t like to keep them there too long, I get lonely without my babies.”
“Doesn’t hosing down the inside of your home ruin everything in your apartment?”
“That’s why everything is covered in plastic.”

To be honest, I hadn’t even noticed the plastic. And typically, when I enter some old ladies home where they have the furniture covered in protective plastic, it’s the first thing I notice. There was just too much going on here for that to be even in the top 10 of odd things about her home.
My next question was totally inappropriate, but Bird Woman seemed to be lacking normal people boundaries, so I just went ahead asked, “Are you attracted to your birds?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said.
To be honest, I was a little disappointed by her answer. But then she elaborated—
“People aren’t anatomically compatible with birds,” she said.
This caused me to simultaneously choke back a satisfied smile and throw up in my mouth at the same time.
Meeting someone of this extreme caliber of crazy is a rare treat, and I was going to fully indulge myself.
As I was reveling in the brilliance of her last answer, a baby chick began pecking at my foot, which got me to wondering, “Do you eat chicken?”
“No! What’s wrong with you? Would you eat your babies? Gross!”
Yeah, I’m the gross one, lady.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I picked up and held the baby chick; this caused my parental instincts to kick in.
Keller!
I thought of my 3-month-old baby and panicked. What kind of exotic bird diseases was I about to bring home to my young son?
I left immediately. Outside, I wasn’t about to get into my car, the car that Keller rides around in, with bird-parrot flu and other diseases all over me. Since there wasn’t another house within shouting distance, and nobody but crazy Bird Lady around to see me, I took all my clothes off and threw them in her outdoor trash can. I put on some dirty clothes from my trunk, drove back to Hermosa Beach, and went to my gym where I showered for an hour in nearly scalding water, trying to kill the AIDS and cancer and hepatitis and every other exotic disease that was probably incubating on my skin.
At the very least, my gym membership had finally been used.
Back home, I vowed not to lay a finger on Keller for at least three days so I could make sure I hadn’t caught anything. Two months later, I learned that Bird Woman died from a bacterial infection. Not surprisingly, it was traced back to one of her birds. After this, I was paranoid, for weeks. I realized I’d put myself in a position that a new father shouldn’t. The risk taking lifestyle I’d always lived doesn’t jell with fatherhood. If something happened to me, what would become of The Bride and Keller? I realized I needed to make more responsible life decisions.
Now, as a grizzled veteran father, I’m more discerning about what kind of patient’s homes I’ll go into. However, I go rock climbing regularly and experiment with drugs whenever the kids are away for the night, so maybe I haven’t learned anything.
Point being… well, no point—just trying to entertain you with a good story.
I am here for your amusement.

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The Kiddie Kage

The Kiddie Kage-

I saw a very attractive mother walking down The Strand, in Manhattan Beach, with her kid on a leash.

This kid was especially hideous, so I get why she might have confused him with a dog, but, alas, he wasn’t a dog, he was a hideous child.

If you are going to put your hideous child on a leash, you might as well just take the next logical step and keep him locked in a cage.

We can call it the “Kiddie Kage.”
We can make a ton of cash on this idea. Who’s with me?

The “Kiddie Kage” (patent now pending) is exactly what it sounds like, only a 1,000 times cooler. It’s a cage on wheels designed for taking your kid to places that require for him or her to sit still: churches, restaurants, weddings, etc. Though it may sound like some kind of child prison, the “Kiddie Kage” is anything but that. It has a top of the line bottle feeder attached to the side of the cage so that your hideous kid can get milk or water or coconut water with a dash of relaxing Valium, or whatever else you typically give your hideous child, whenever the child needs it. There are spill proof food containers fastened to the bottom of the Kiddie Kage in the event you want to give it solids. All the bars of the Kiddie Kage are covered in Nerf so that your hideous idiotic child can’t give itself a head injury when it tries to throw a fit, and the floor of the Kiddie Kage is lined with fine linens by Yves Delorme or Sferra to keep your Kage stylish. There’s a 16” HD flat screen and DVD player to ensure that you can keep that hideous child entertained, and there is an iPad so that your child can ask Siri whatever it wants, thus ensuring that you never have to talk to your hideous child. The Kiddie Kage will come equipped with a helmet for double protection against head injuries, and this helmet will have blue tooth headphone technology built into it, so that you don’t have to be annoyed by listening to “Frozen” for the one-millionth time.

The Kiddie Kage will be the perfect Christmas gift for the Manhattan Beach Hottie Mommy, so I think we should release it sometime in late October.
We’ll make it in dozens of fashionable colors to match their shoes and purses, and we will offer optional add-ons such as color coordinated doggie sweaters for their purse puppies, and baby monitor systems so that The Manhattan Beach Hottie Mommy can keep one eye on her hideous child while she is in the bedroom getting a “work-out” from her personal trainer while her fat, rich husband is at work making their next million because she wants to bedazzle her new iPhone with real diamonds.

Some women have babies because there is a burning, inherent need deep within them to procreate and nurture that baby.
These women, like The Bride, are terrific mothers and society collapses without them.
Some women have a baby because they think this is what they are supposed to do.
Some women have a baby because all their friends have them.
Some women have a baby because they need a new accessory.

You can have a baby, or you can not have a baby. Either choice is fine.
But you should only have a baby if you have a burning desire to have a baby, love it, and nurture it.

But if you’re having a baby for one of those other reasons, please check back in October.
You will love The Kiddie Kage.

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Naked Yoga

I’m of the life philosophy that if I have an opportunity to do something new and different, and that it isn’t likely to cause me harm or harm anyone else, then I should probably take that opportunity and live that experience.
That’s why, when I saw something online about naked yoga in Venice, I had to jump at it. I’m not much into yoga, but I am into weird, so this had my name all over it.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I had big hopes.
Warning: before reading further, please know that this story is about to get weird. I don’t want complaints…

You’ve been warned…

There were eleven students in all. There were six girls, and including myself, five guys. The first thing I noticed was our teacher was exactly what you’d want out of a naked yoga instructor. I mean, when Jesus invented naked yoga in the hot desserts of Israel, this was the woman he knew he’d chosen to build his naked yoga church upon. I was completely prepared to quit my job, leave my family, and embark on a life-long commitment of praying to her beautiful temples.
Too much?
Sorry.
Let me dial back the sexual innuendo a bit, because, if I’m being honest, it turns out that naked yoga is pretty fucking far from sexual.
After the fit teacher, the second thing I noticed was that, for a 44-year-old man, my testicles were in much better shape than most. Well, at least in better shape than this group of naked misfits. Looking at naked dudes doesn’t bother me. Naked dudes looking at me doesn’t bother me. I’m very comfortable with nudity and have never really understood why people get so hung up on it. That said, no man should ever have to see another man’s testicles splayed out on the floor below him when he’s aggressively attempting a deep haunuman split.
Also, I wouldn’t have believed you if you suggested it before this class, but I learned that it’s very possible to see too much of a girl’s vagina.
More about that later… Moving on.
Our brave yogi leader started the class by acknowledging the awkwardness of the nudity and explained how the class was designed to help us get comfortable and confident with our naked bodies.
Then she mentioned how, very often, someone in the class will become aroused and that, when that happens, we should just go on about our practice and not make an issue with it.
Okay then. I knew random boner guy wouldn’t be me. The mere suggestion of the phenomina and subsequent humiliation that would come along with sporting wood in front of everyone was so embarrasing to me that my penis immediately tried to crawl back up into my body to hide.
Shrinkage.
I guess I wasn’t as body confident and comfortable as I had thought.
I’m a married man, so it’s not like I was in there trying to make some magic happen, but I really hoped nobody noticed the fact that my penis was turtle shelling and my face was as pink as the… well, let’s just move on.
We went into some deep breathing and then began some sun salutations. A sun salutation starts with a breath, then mountain pose, then uttansana flat back, moving on into a plank, into a chaturanga dandasanda, into a cobra, then downward facing dog, a step into a forward bend, and then return to start position to start over.

If you aren’t familiar with those names, don’t feel bad, I’m not either. Basically, you reach for the sky, then touch the ground, move into a serpent pose, and then you present your butt high in the air while keeping your feet and hands on the ground. Anyone with a Pornhub account knows exactly what this looks lik. They call that downward facing dog. In my home, we call that Saturday night with the kids away at a sleep-over.
Anyway, It’s a nice way to get warmed up… when you have clothes on.
But when your dingle dangle is jangling all out and free, as you move from a low plank into a serpent position, you get some quality friction on the ribbed yoga mat, which, combined with the blood flow thats going through your warming body, combined with the nearly perfect tokus of the sun-stained surf hippie who’s in downward dog about 36 inches from your 3 o’lock, and you have pretty much the right ingredients to get your shy little turtle guy to come out of his shell.
At any rate, we did the sun salutations for about ten or fifteen minutes and it achieved exactly what it was supposed to do; it completely emptied my head and put me into my own little yoga zen mode. I might as well been in that room alone, I was immersed in my practice, and completely lost in the buzz of euphoric serotonin blasts.
Baloney.
Not for one second did I lose myself in that class. I was doing naked yoga with ten other naked people, and that, along with the stench of sweaty naked bits, was overpowering whatever it is that yoga is supposed to accomplish for ones peace of mind.
I don’t know what the rest of the poses were that we did in the class. I honestly can’t remember. The situation was so odd that I wasn’t really able to pay attention to the instruction, and instead I tried to use most of my powers of concentration to not stare at the other people.
Or at least to not get caught staring at them.
So, about the other people; the class was a mixed bag. As mentioned, there was the teacher, hand-picked by Jesus himself. There was the sun-stained surfer/hippie girl, whom I noticed had very long and very blonde armpit hairs.
That was probably the least unusual thing about anyone in the class. If I’m being honest, she was the most normal of all the students. Myself included.
One of the girls wasn’t really a girl at all, but more like an old-lady… probably sixty-five or seventy, but maybe ninety; hard to say. Her skin was a rich leathery brown, her old lady boobs looked like the kind of old worn-out sweatsocks that Larry Bird would’ve worn in 1985, except that these sweatsocks were being stretched to their limits by two gigantic softballs that were hanging in the ends of them. Actually, one sock had a softball and one had only a baseball.
There was a pregnant lady, and she wasn’t, like, two months pregnant, we’re talking 3rd trimester pregnant, deep into it, possibly in class with the hope of giving birth to her weird hippie baby right in the middle of naked yoga in Venice. There was a guy that looked to also be in his third trimester that appeared to be with her, but it’s possible that he was just a fat guy that was flirting with her. It’s also possible that he was actually in his 3rd trimester. I mean, we are talking about Venice California here.
There was a black girl who was legitimately the darkest person I’d ever seen. She stood at least 6’5” and had to be 200 pounds. If we lost power in that room, she would be invisible and she could take us all out in mere seconds. I wondered if that was her master plan. She’d been sent by the Westboro Baptist Church to assassinate the sinners. That said, she didn’t have an ounce of fat on her. She looked like a vampire from Blade that had come up against Wesley Snipes, killed him, sucked out all his blood, absorbing his skin pigment, and doubling her size in the process. In this day and age of political correctness, I don’t want to use the descriptor “Amazonian,” but I honestly can’t think of a better descriptive word for her. I dunno… maybe we could go with intergalactic superhero from planet SRC-32. Other than our teacher (hand-picked by Jesus) she was the most attractive person in the class.
There was a beautiful Asian girl with skin that looked like she had had been bathing herself in coco butter since birth, she had soft subtle breasts, and long flowing perfect Asian hair that almost always angers black and white girls. It angers them so much that they eventually run out and buy it for their own heads. Then, next to her, by contrast, another beautiful Asian girl, but this one with dreadlocks, and armpit hair. Exactly thirty-three percent of the female students of this class had armpit hair.
Not surprising at all.
The surfer/hippie blonde with armpit hair didn’t surprise me one bit, but the Asian with the armpit hair threw me off. She was more awkward than the pregnant woman and the pregnant dude that was hitting on her.
And it got worse than that.
While sitting in sukasana, with her bare buttocks on her sweaty rubbery yoga mat, this pitted Asian girl farted.
And it was loud.
And wet.
This fart sounded exactly like it sounds when my 7-year-old tries to fake a gross fart noise with his mouth.
And it smelled.
It smelled the way you would expect a fart to smell coming from a girl with armpit hair.
Like old dates and boiled asparagus with a subtle hint of patchouli.
Now, the teacher had warned us how to behave if anyone happened to get “excited” (and someone did; I’ll get to that later); however, she didn’t give us advanced instructions on how to handle it when an attractive Asian with armpit hair and dreadlocks farts out of her bare buttocks onto her moist rubbery yoga mat when she’s three feet away from you on your left side.
So, not being properly educated on the do’s and don’t’s of naked yoga farts, I did what I always do when someone farts in public. First, I laughed, and then I said “not it.”
There was an old man with a giant, dense gray man bush that completely hid what was most likely a micro-penis and he also caught the giggles. I felt the entire class was about to share a special moment and bond over this beautiful fart when Jesus’ little helper stepped in to ruin our fun.
“Making air is normal and natural and healthy. It’s the body trying to cleanse itself of toxins.”
“Yeah, and now we all might have toxic shock,” I thought to myself.
The old man to my right with the giant gray old man bush stood up at this point and said, “this is weird. I’m leaving.”
And then he left.
He was right, it was weird. If you came to see some sexy naked girls, you’d be better off going to Bare Elegance or something like that. If you came for the exercise, you’d be better off going to clothed yoga, or, as the rest of the world calls it- yoga. The only reason in the world to come to naked yoga was to experience of the complete weirdness of it, so I don’t know why he stated this in such a way as to suggest that the weirdness had surprised him. I mean, what was this old man thinking? He’d come to naked yoga, impress some young 22-year-old Asian with armpit hair by the amount of bend in his hips during his downward dog? That she’d be wowed by his micro penis, leave with him, and they’d spend the rest of his short life making love in his dirty studio apartment in Venice?
Yes brother, it’s weird! That’s the whole point.
At any rate, I thank that old man for laughing with me so that I wasn’t the only one, and I also thank him for his micro-penis. It made me feel much better about my situation. I mean, I think he had a micro-penis buried somewhere in that gray fur disaster, but I couldn’t actually see anything through that dense forrest of depression and I didn’t have a weed whacker handy, so I’ll never know for sure.
The forth guy in our class obviously came just to show off, during halasana (a pose in which you lie on your back and put your legs up over your head) he was not too shy about the fact that his little buddy was kissing his collar bone. The fifth guy, who, unfortunately had his yoga mat right next to halasana man barely had enough penis weight for it to even hang in the downward position when doing halasana. One of them was black and one was Asian, but I’m not going to say who was who because we don’t do racial stereotypes here; it’s not that kind of story.
During the final sequence of the class is when I made the executive decision that it is possible to see too much of a vagina. I mean, with third trimester lady directly in front of me, I saw more than I’ve seen of a woman’s vagina since The Bride gave birth to our second son.
The guy with the pregnancy fetish started getting wood. He had a solid 50% boner and was on his way to 75%. It was way more awkward than was armpit hair farter. If he gained another 10% in volume, he was going to eclipse me.
That shouldn’t have mattered to me, but shit, I’m competitive, so I couldn’t let that happen. I tried working up a twenty percenter. I didn’t want to sport anything serious; I just wanted one of those first stagers that sort of takes the wrinkles out of the little fella. I mean, there was nothing erotic about this class, but my competitive inner male monkey was starting to surface and take over. I knew I stood no chance against halasana collar-bone dick dude, but I was clearly the favorite to come in second place, and I had to think that counted for something. Anyway, I just couldn’t get anything working, nothing. And pregnancy perv totally got to about 75%, which put me in 3rd place, and now that micro-peni old man was gone, I was 3rd out of 4. I would’ve expected that to bum me out, but honestly, it didn’t. I was too busy being completely creeped out by the fact that this dude was getting erect, right in front of all of us, at the sight of 3rd trimester bent over in a downward dog, and he didn’t even seem to care in the slightest that we were all clearly judging him for his weird pregnancy fetish boner. I’ll never know for sure if the girl was with him or not, but I’m guessing not because when she caught a glimpse of his 75%er, she picked up her mat and left the class.
I won’t criticize her like I did the old man. I mean, there is such a thing as “too weird” and this guy went there.
I’m just wondering what the hell would lead a pregnant woman to go to a naked yoga class in the first place?
I won’t speculate. That only ever gets me in trouble. Let’s just say I found it odd.
Anyway, look, The Dad is here to do naked yoga and other kinds of things for your entertainment purposes. I do things, much of the time, just for the sake of doing them, living life, and coming out of it with a story. Some of the time, these things are amazing and I highly recommend them.
And some of the time, these things aren’t worth much. They turn out to be nothing more than an Asian hippie dropping a wet fart bomb followed by a pervo with a pregnancy fetish sporting wood, and I’ve taken the bullet for you.
I do not recommend naked yoga. Unless you really want to see a real life micro-penis or you have the desire to see what a baby’s head looks like while it’s still in utero, or unless you just want the experience for the experience, there’s not much to be gained from naked yoga. If nudity is your thing, skip it, grab some beers, spend a day on a nude beach playing volleyball. If your not into nudity, then skip the nude beach and just go play some volleyball.
Either way, thumbs down on naked yoga.
But it does get a 9.5 out of 10 on the weird scale, and that’s worth something.

 

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