Man’s Insane Response To A Yoga Questionnaire


I work at a hot yoga studio and we got this insane response to our medical screening questionnaire. The applicant’s name, phone, address, email, and date of birth have been redacted.

How did you hear about us?

A friend.

What is your primary goal?

Get in shape.

Have you done Yoga in class before?


What aspects of Yoga are you most interested in, such as stress reduction, centering, strength or flexibility in an area?

All of the above.

Do you have any physical injuries, recent surgery or medical conditions we should watch out for?


Do you have any family history we should know about?

So I have this stepcunt named Joy. When I was eight, my dad introduced her to me for the first time at some Chinese restaurant. Before the soup arrived, she had already flipped her dimply legs over my father’s, and in what seemed like 3D, a wide patch of thick, black, yarn-like pubic curls crawled out of her jogging shorts. It jumped at me. My family history begins with her Medusa Muff, but there’s more. My new stepcunt’s troops had seized my home in a Shitzkreig. My dad Larry’s role had rapidly become nothing more than second-in-command ‘yes’ man within her puppet government. Like Machiavelli, the woman fully understood that when it came to maintaining an iron-fisted rule, it was far better to be feared by your subjects than to be loved. She may have read this somewhere, but my guess is that it was instinctual. Her soldiers were strong and unbeaten. Roddy, my new stepbrother, the same age as me, was her powerful manboy, owner of a raw, super-brutish strength. His power generated from his enormous slabs of leg, trunks of muscle that were barbaric weapons. He often smelled of fire. Stay with me, stretch with me, you calm, meditated fuckers. My new stepsister Mimi easily adapted to her new surroundings. She spoke with a head-rattling, skull-jarring, tone-deaf nasal screak. A voice where everything! Has! An! exclamation! A yammer that pierced through and got right in. Soon the enemy flags were everywhere. In every corner, there were blatant reminders of the new ruling party—the framed photographs of my stepcunt pictured together with her minions at different ages and stages of her illustrious rise to power. What the new governing authority deemed to be culture became the official culture of the state. Hitler was a Wagner devotee, but Joy preferred sad clown paintings. And just what was her point with these sad clown paintings? Where there used to be a rather clever and insightful framed poster of the famous New Yorker cartoon that depicts Manhattan as the center of the universe from a New Yorker’s point of view, I now look squarely into the face of a sobbing, pink-haired Bozo with streaked white makeup. Was this some kind of message she was sending to her oppressed, downtrodden people–more specifically, my sister,Jill, my dog, Clyde and I– that all hope was gone? Was that what her crying clowns meant? I was step-surgically attached to my new step-brother, Roddy, so we had the pleasure of sharing a cell. Lady Fuhrer had decreed that we would live the rest of our lives as one. Our bodies seemingly sewn together, our skulls glued and connected. Since we are attached, we must look at each other all day and night, take baths together, sleep together, poop together, play together, go to school together, go to our rooms together. At nights there we lay, side by side, in our matching tighty-whities, our matching single beds, our matching set of blue striped sheets. Tell me, hot yogis, can your fancy mystic Eastern ways fix this level of anxiety? I walked through the door of what used to be my TV room, and was hit with this: “Oh my gawwwd! Knock next time!” Mimi’s piercing, penetrating whine sliced through my skull like a rusty hatchet. I was reeling, wobbling, wounded, cupping my ears. If the pounding in my head wasn’t damaging enough…what has become of my eyes? My eyes! Cover my eyes from this horrific image before me. Mimi was sprawled on the floor, on her back, in her bra and panties. She was doing what I would soon come to know as her “stretches.” And not only did Mimi have her mother’s stabbing voice, but she also inherited Joy’s ample vegetation down you know where. But was it her fault? How could she possibly understand proper grooming when her own mother was the Jungle Queen. I didn’t want to look, but it caught me completely off guard. Her pink cotton panties appeared to be concealing a fat package of meat. MY GOD WOULD YOU PLEASE stop lifting your leg over your head like that? Now why couldn’t my new stepsisterbe some kind of Goddess? Instead of a nightmare, I’d be living a child’s fantasy. Or why can’t she at least be shy? But it is I who has scared her? She frightened by me? By merely entering what was once my TV room, I am the rude one? I remember a day when I threw a dime into a water fountain and made a wish. When I got back home, I found Larry rubbing the wench’s feet on the couch as they watched NYPD Blue. That was the day that I realized wishing wells were a load of shit. … So that is my family history.

Are you taking any medications, pills, or drugs?


Is there anything else we should know in order to work best with you?