Once a Sanskrit whisper of serenity, yoga is now a suburban flex-off with poses like “Smugasana,” “Social Media Savasana,” and “Downward-Facing Mortgage.” Yogis chant “om” while secretly eyeing the Lululemon sale rack. Still seeking true enlightenment? How about discovering that your instructor’s a part-time vape dealer named Brett. Namaste, indeed.
She bloomed in a crack of concrete, defiantly. Commuters passed, blind to her grace, but one man paused. He knelt, wept, and whispered her name—forgotten until that moment. The rose listened, then wilted, her purpose fulfilled. By morning, only petals remained, scattered like secrets no longer needing to hide.
Barack Obama, former Choom Gang member, told ESPN’s Michael Wilbon that he wishes his daughters had his street cred. “They don’t hoop any more, they’ve got no roll in their stroll. Hell, they were into the Jonas Freaking Brothers. Some days I worry that they take after my white half.”
“Bless me father for I have sinned.” “And who hasn’t?” “It’s been four months since my last confession.” “Did you break a leg?” “Uh, no father …” “Is this going to take long?” “Well …” “Look, whatever you’ve done, I’ve heard it all. Your sins are forgiven. Now get lost.”