YOGA FOR KNUCKLEHEDS #19 "YOGA IN THE AGE OF TRUMP II"
I wonder if any of the super aggressive, lying, spinning, greed-ridden, poor-people-hating members of President Trump's White House staff, cabinet and immediate family have suggested that, instead of his roaming around in the wee hours sending out toxic attack tweets over his imagined persecution, he might begin a program of self realization and introspection while indulging in very early morning yoga sessions to achieve some measure of emotional discipline and Zen-like peace of mind.
I'm sure he would shun any attempt at group yoga; obviously, like me, not wanting to be observed as succumbing to embarrassing ineptitude in front of peers. What he could do, while locked in the Lincoln room (where Bill Clinton once got a blow job), and isolated from all staff and family, is execute his yoga poses in front of a television instructor, even if there is great possibility of his cheating or taking short cuts with nobody watching, especially when the pain becomes too extreme. So it makes sense he hire a personal yoga guru with conservative credentials (a good fit would be that Malibu Indian guy who wears Speedos and is being sued by female disciples for sexual harassment), though it might be difficult to find such a person in a field where disciples and gurus appear tolerant of others, are usually liberal minded if not politically so, as well as kind and gentle and given to meditative practices bent on improving themselves and not above self correction in their daily behavior patterns.
I know from experience that yoga has calmed me down a trifle and stopped me at times from lashing out at perceived enemies or those I run across who do not agree with me. Yoga has helped me from becoming impatient and enraged in traffic, and I also believe that there is a humility factor in continuing yoga over a period of time that has helped me become more tolerant, though it has not curbed my opinionated self one iota.
I also think that if Trump is somehow coerced into taking on yoga he should hire his own photographer to show him indulging in photogenic poses of humility, like squatting Indian style, hands formed in prayer at his chest, eyes closed in profound meditative state, Trump no longer clad in those awful suits and overcoats or his golfing attire, but instead in knee-high loose-fitting flimsy shorts and an expansive thigh-reaching T shirt with “I LUV YOGA” on the front. This humble posture might acquire Trump new supporters and votes, though I doubt it does much for his ego.
Another perfect pose to further Trump's new found propensity to humble himself would be “child's pose,” which would have the President hunched completely down on his knees, feet rested on their upsides, large square bulky shapeless ass protruded outward, arms extended as far as possible before him indicating worship, forehead resting upon mat (possibly mussing his golden locks) while his instructor urges him quietly to “practice your breathing, Mr. President, your heart is your drum, your breathing your music...and, if you want, raise your hands in the prayer position behind your ears to open up your shoulders and chest and relieve tension and, sir, to open your heart, so you don't get all scroatumed up and gorged with anger and launch vengeful tweets against all those women who hate you and try to rile and distract you from fucking over the poorest American people on Planned Parenthood, health care and taxes, your majesty.”
One of the easier poses Trump might like is “Cat and Cow,” which involves Donald on his hands and knees in somewhat of a supplicant's position, if that position is of a begging dog, and told by his guru to inhale, which would show the Donald lifting his face while gulping in air and revealing his wattled, scrofulous turkey neck usually hidden behind designer ties, and then slowly dropping his head in obedience while humping up his back as he exhales, and repeating this maneuver until he has unleashed all the stale, putrid air in his lungs and perhaps spewed all the accumulated toxicity of his daily White house experience so he doesn't again excoriate the press—his gnawing, relentless, unfair enemy.
Another pose that seems appropriate but possibly should not be photographed for the public is Trump's version of “Happy Baby,” and especially “Floating Happy Baby,” where he might have to balance himself on his sacrum or ass-bone and hoist his legs and grip his toes and wag around and giggle like a one year old still trying to make the transition from crawling to walking. These poses relieve tension in the thighs and groin and force one to tighten their cores as they try and keep from falling backward like a giggling happy baby not aware of its ineptitude and thinking it is all funny and fun.
There are many poses in over an hour's session of yoga that might enhance Mr. President's demeanor and slowly dissolve the constant accusatory frown on his mottled mug, for yoga participants from my observation of over a year of partaking seem to possess serene expressions of benevolence on their faces, as if exalted by something “bigger than themselves.”
The next to final pose and culmination of his practice, though, would be for Mr. trump to succeed in Warrior 3 and Tree, where standing on one foot displays a person's grit and balance and grace. I, an athlete, and proud of this identity, have not succeeded whatsoever at these poses after more than a year of yoga and purposely take my practice beside a partition that keeps me from careening about and crashing onto people on their mats, all of which forces me to swallow my pride and come to terms with my shortcomings as old ladies stand unwavering at these difficult poses.
I'm sure the President, who values himself an athlete and likes to hobnob with superstars like Tom Brady, and belligerent, like-minded coaches like Bobby knight and Bill Parcells, would feel embarrassed and even ashamed of being shown up by a bunch of old white-haired women, but perhaps this would be a good lesson: that often old retired school teachers, nurses and other professional middle-class women possess just as much if not more character than trophy wives and daughters hocking luxury items to those fools who can afford it.
Perhaps the final and most fitting pose would be one of my favorites, Cobra, which is easier and involves laying on your stomach with the upsides of your feet pressing on the mat while raising your chest and neck and at the same time keeping your hands up but facing down, therefore tensing your core and, as Reggie exclaims, moving your head back man forth like a “cobra preparing to strike a prey.”
The vulpine components of such a pose, with the Donald's big square billowy blond head and reddening scowling rumpled face and beady eyes rotating back and forth, scanning the environs for something to snap up and devour out of sheer will to dominate and win, just because it is in his DNA and he knows no other way to live, is a perfect ending for his yoga session and would possibly send him to his tweet box refreshed, relaxed and content, anxious to go on the attack and ignore the final minutes of rest and “surrendering” to absolute peace and giving of ones soul.
And oh yes, I forgot—some deeply spiritual ommmming while squatting might finish the job.
Namaste.
I'm sure he would shun any attempt at group yoga; obviously, like me, not wanting to be observed as succumbing to embarrassing ineptitude in front of peers. What he could do, while locked in the Lincoln room (where Bill Clinton once got a blow job), and isolated from all staff and family, is execute his yoga poses in front of a television instructor, even if there is great possibility of his cheating or taking short cuts with nobody watching, especially when the pain becomes too extreme. So it makes sense he hire a personal yoga guru with conservative credentials (a good fit would be that Malibu Indian guy who wears Speedos and is being sued by female disciples for sexual harassment), though it might be difficult to find such a person in a field where disciples and gurus appear tolerant of others, are usually liberal minded if not politically so, as well as kind and gentle and given to meditative practices bent on improving themselves and not above self correction in their daily behavior patterns.
I know from experience that yoga has calmed me down a trifle and stopped me at times from lashing out at perceived enemies or those I run across who do not agree with me. Yoga has helped me from becoming impatient and enraged in traffic, and I also believe that there is a humility factor in continuing yoga over a period of time that has helped me become more tolerant, though it has not curbed my opinionated self one iota.
I also think that if Trump is somehow coerced into taking on yoga he should hire his own photographer to show him indulging in photogenic poses of humility, like squatting Indian style, hands formed in prayer at his chest, eyes closed in profound meditative state, Trump no longer clad in those awful suits and overcoats or his golfing attire, but instead in knee-high loose-fitting flimsy shorts and an expansive thigh-reaching T shirt with “I LUV YOGA” on the front. This humble posture might acquire Trump new supporters and votes, though I doubt it does much for his ego.
Another perfect pose to further Trump's new found propensity to humble himself would be “child's pose,” which would have the President hunched completely down on his knees, feet rested on their upsides, large square bulky shapeless ass protruded outward, arms extended as far as possible before him indicating worship, forehead resting upon mat (possibly mussing his golden locks) while his instructor urges him quietly to “practice your breathing, Mr. President, your heart is your drum, your breathing your music...and, if you want, raise your hands in the prayer position behind your ears to open up your shoulders and chest and relieve tension and, sir, to open your heart, so you don't get all scroatumed up and gorged with anger and launch vengeful tweets against all those women who hate you and try to rile and distract you from fucking over the poorest American people on Planned Parenthood, health care and taxes, your majesty.”
One of the easier poses Trump might like is “Cat and Cow,” which involves Donald on his hands and knees in somewhat of a supplicant's position, if that position is of a begging dog, and told by his guru to inhale, which would show the Donald lifting his face while gulping in air and revealing his wattled, scrofulous turkey neck usually hidden behind designer ties, and then slowly dropping his head in obedience while humping up his back as he exhales, and repeating this maneuver until he has unleashed all the stale, putrid air in his lungs and perhaps spewed all the accumulated toxicity of his daily White house experience so he doesn't again excoriate the press—his gnawing, relentless, unfair enemy.
Another pose that seems appropriate but possibly should not be photographed for the public is Trump's version of “Happy Baby,” and especially “Floating Happy Baby,” where he might have to balance himself on his sacrum or ass-bone and hoist his legs and grip his toes and wag around and giggle like a one year old still trying to make the transition from crawling to walking. These poses relieve tension in the thighs and groin and force one to tighten their cores as they try and keep from falling backward like a giggling happy baby not aware of its ineptitude and thinking it is all funny and fun.
There are many poses in over an hour's session of yoga that might enhance Mr. President's demeanor and slowly dissolve the constant accusatory frown on his mottled mug, for yoga participants from my observation of over a year of partaking seem to possess serene expressions of benevolence on their faces, as if exalted by something “bigger than themselves.”
The next to final pose and culmination of his practice, though, would be for Mr. trump to succeed in Warrior 3 and Tree, where standing on one foot displays a person's grit and balance and grace. I, an athlete, and proud of this identity, have not succeeded whatsoever at these poses after more than a year of yoga and purposely take my practice beside a partition that keeps me from careening about and crashing onto people on their mats, all of which forces me to swallow my pride and come to terms with my shortcomings as old ladies stand unwavering at these difficult poses.
I'm sure the President, who values himself an athlete and likes to hobnob with superstars like Tom Brady, and belligerent, like-minded coaches like Bobby knight and Bill Parcells, would feel embarrassed and even ashamed of being shown up by a bunch of old white-haired women, but perhaps this would be a good lesson: that often old retired school teachers, nurses and other professional middle-class women possess just as much if not more character than trophy wives and daughters hocking luxury items to those fools who can afford it.
Perhaps the final and most fitting pose would be one of my favorites, Cobra, which is easier and involves laying on your stomach with the upsides of your feet pressing on the mat while raising your chest and neck and at the same time keeping your hands up but facing down, therefore tensing your core and, as Reggie exclaims, moving your head back man forth like a “cobra preparing to strike a prey.”
The vulpine components of such a pose, with the Donald's big square billowy blond head and reddening scowling rumpled face and beady eyes rotating back and forth, scanning the environs for something to snap up and devour out of sheer will to dominate and win, just because it is in his DNA and he knows no other way to live, is a perfect ending for his yoga session and would possibly send him to his tweet box refreshed, relaxed and content, anxious to go on the attack and ignore the final minutes of rest and “surrendering” to absolute peace and giving of ones soul.
And oh yes, I forgot—some deeply spiritual ommmming while squatting might finish the job.
Namaste.
