Full Cotton-Lycra Jacket

I’m Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, your senior yoga instructor. From now on, you will not speak unless spoken to—not a single chakra will open until I say so—and when commanded you will bring your focus back gently to your breathing, the sole object of your attention. Do you maggots understand that?

If you complete my yoga class, you will have transcended the material world, which you will see as maya, illusion. Until then, you’re that material world’s lowest form of life: human beings burdened by tension, negative energy, and disorganized thoughts!

Today, you have been issued a yoga mat. You and your mat will be incapable of non-attachment. Now pray with me: “This is my yoga mat. There are many like it with a thin top layer of polyurethane or natural sustainable rubber to wick away sweat, and a super-cushiony textured grippy side for safety and performance, but this one is mine. Before my deity or deities and/or secular value system, I swear this creed. My mat and myself are defenders of prana, the life giving force.”

Get dressed and be seated. Make sure your attire has a relaxed fit and appropriate construction. Between your mats and assholes will be nothing but organic cotton, hemp, or recycled poly fiber. If I see a non-eco-friendly fabric, god forbid one stitched in inhumane working conditions, without even the courtesy of a living wage, you’ll be wearing this as an accessory: my foot, ankle deep in your ass. The only sweatshop I like is the one here in my studio, as it has a temperature of 105 degrees Fahrenheit with 40% humidity, to facilitate injury prevention and deeper stretching.

Atten-hut! The junior yogis will now instruct you on the correct form for your first asana. Hold it and center yourself. You are not to lose balance or mindfulness without permission.

Private, do you have a name? What? Bullshit! Look at your posture. You call that a Crow pose? You look like a constipated pigeon! Your name is Private Pigeon from now on. Realign your spine. I want fresh oxygenated blood moving to your every organ and fiber! I want to see proper muscle tone and a vibrant glow!

No! Not like that, you disgusting sack of synthetic chemicals! Stand back up. If there’s one thing I hate it’s a pose executed so poorly it completely destroys the healing vibe!

Everyone stand up with your arms in extension upward above your head, like a shooting stem, and feel your spirit growing roots downward. Place your finger on your right nostril. Hut! Now slowly—wait! Private Pigeon, do you not know your right from the side energetically linked to your body’s cooling lunar flow? Drop down and give me five minutes of Downward Dog. Everyone join Private Pigeon. From now on, when someone disrupts the free flow of creative energy, I will punish all of you, because obviously you pukes have failed to float off enough harmonious positivity.

Alright, everyone sound off to my cadence:

I don’t know, but I’ve been told

Bhujangasana is the Cobra pose.

Your head and rib cage elevate

Your viscera won’t constipate!

Breathe in, cleansing breath

Breathe out—three, two…

feel that tension leave your neck…

your shoulders…

picture it leaving through your fingers…

just let it go…

and one.

Let’s return to the Crow pose. Private Pigeon will lead. Build a solid core—align your abdomen, your solar plexus, your sacrum. Stay connected to the sensations, find wisdom in your— Private Pigeon, you’re drooping! Tap into your core more fully. Be ultra-present! Build an emotional rock, and stoke your inner fire, you worthless little shit!

Private Pigeon, get back here, did I say you could leave your yoga mat? Cease all movements toward the civilian gear! Private Pigeon, I said cease—goddamnit, get your disgusting hands out of that bag—and—what the… Private Pigeon, in my studio we embrace an ethos of understanding and non-violence. In the name of all that is worth cherishing in this earthly existence, I invite you to mindfully and intentionally put down your weapon, now!