By Bidat Azitmay (2007)*

*Bidat Azitmay is the 109 year-old founder and grand master of Neoga (“What anti-matter is to matter, so Neoga is to Yoga.”) Azitmay’s world-famous philosophy can be summarized, and indeed has been summed up brilliantly by none other than himself as: “Live outside the moment.” Unlike Yoga, where practitioners merely pose themselves, Azitmay recommends that its practitioners go for the gold and X-pose themselves. This is an excerpt from his new autobiography: “What I Choose To Remember.”

The other day, I was reading an article about Romaine Lotus, the yoga supermodel who was a recent cover-girl for Yoga Urinal Monthly™. She was describing a recent shopping trip to Bolsters, Blankets and Beyond™, where she had scored a weave print Nike Guru™ Sports Top, black Kembali™ yoga shoes, and earth tone Prana Sutra™ pants. There was a picture of her carrying a lime-green, sticky-mat bag slung over her shoulder. Her long blond hair reached the drawstrings on her Chi™ pants. She was hyping Baba Lou’s Artichokasana™ diet. It made me shiva so badly I nearly spilled my double decaf latte Grande™ onto my Crocs™.

So I was well-prepared when my Shar-Pei™ puppy, Feng Shui, (who was reading and drooling over my shoulder) dropped her Gourmet™ Doggie Bone and asked me the question that is surely on the mind of every downward facing dog: “What is Yoga turning into?”

I explained, in her native Mandarin — she’s not that fluent in English; she’s only a puppy. — I saw this coming in 1899 when, at fourteen months of age, I was doing a headstand in my crib. A traveling Yoga supply salesman dropped by and sold my mother, Jess Azuare, a non-stick, Teflon™ mat, a Yoga Bustle™ and a year’s supply of Power-Cocaine Lum-Bars™.

Right then and there, I came out of my headstand and gave up Yoga all together. It had no entrepreneurial future for a fourteen-month old. It was evident that it was going commercial; complete with designer products, glossy magazines, TV specials, celebrity practitioners and Yoga-themed vacations and that all the stalls would be occupied before I got old enough to use that men’s room alone. I mean, what’s the point of becoming a wanna-be participant in a fad? It’s like being the last investor in a pyramid scheme. I decided that I’d need to get hopping and start something new, and fresh — something where I could own all the ™S.

Subsequent empirical observation only confirmed my infantile prescience. For example, just the other day, I went to our local deli and asked for a turkey on rye. The waitress told me that they no longer sold that kind of food and suggested a hamstring sanscritwich. I left and went over to McDonalds™. That’s when I found out that their marketing department had retired the old Golden Arches™ logo description and was now claiming it was actually an abstraction of a pair of Yogis in back-bends. I told them they ought to rename the place “Golden Genitalia.” They said that I had a lot of Nirvana.

So I decided to try the Colonel™. When I walked in, an old guy in a white suit and spats strutted up and said “Vishnu?” “Not much,” I replied. Everything was going fine until I asked for fried chicken and he said that now all he served was chickenasana.

They had me up against a wall. The only places to eat in town were these fast food joints so I headed for the train station. I figured I’d get more choices in the big city. There was only one train running that afternoon and it was going to Chataranga and the stationmaster persisted in calling it the Chataranga Choo Choo, even though it ran on electricity.

I headed over to the bus terminal looking for a Greyhound™, but they had renamed the company Downward-facing hound.

Disgusted, I hitched a ride to the airport. The only flight I could book was on Inner Peace Airlines. At airport security TSA (Which now stands for TadaSanA) took away my shoes, saying that they were no longer allowed on airplanes, but not to worry, the floors were covered with sticky mats. When I got on the plane, I saw that they had removed all the seats. The stewardess handed me a bolster, four blankets, an eye bag and a belt and then set me up in Queen pose for the entire flight. When we landed and I was leaving the plane she told me to have a Namaste.

I needed to rent a Karma so I tried to find Hertz™. I was sent over to the Informeditation Booth. “We don’t have Hertz™ here,” said the woman behind the counter. “Not if you properly warm up and don’t attempt something beyond your skill level. But we do have Burns.” I had no choice but to rent from Burns. They offered me two choices, a stretch limo or a Mazda™ Vanyata, which came with floor mats that rolled up.

By this time, I was totally exhausted and went looking for a hotel. I was able to get a room in the Shivasana Inn. (You know; the place where they leave the enlightenment on for you.) But there was no bed in my room. Just a plank. The only other furniture was a headstand.

It was really hot in the room so I tried to turn on the air conditioner. It took a long slow breath in; then started sputtering. I called maintenance. Two yogis came to my room. The older one told me his name was I.N. Gar and then said “I’d like to introduce you to my son, Salutations.” They suggested that I try OOOMing. It didn’t work. Mr. Gar handed me a Bik-ram™ and told me to hit the machine with it, but that didn’t work either. “Try saying a sutra,” his son, Salutations urged. “That’s our last chants.”

I couldn’t sleep so I rolled over onto my side, pushed myself up and went looking for a place to eat. The only thing close was a place called Rodney’s Yee Olde Brew Pub. What they brewed was Chai™ tea. I asked the guy next to me how he liked the food and he started complaining that he couldn’t touch his tofus. The waiter suggested he try calf muscles or a hamstring. I stuck with the tea.

After a pot of Chai™, I needed to take a leak and was directed to a wall lined with Yoga Urinals™. A sign proudly informed me that they’d just installed a brand new pelvic floor and suggested that this was a good place to X-pose oneself. I had to say, I was delighted to find that the proprietor of this restroom was a Neogi. But before I went into my first X- posé, I looked around for undercover Yoga cops. (They’re easy to spot because they are always in a wide stance, barefoot and seem to want to bend over until they can stick their head in a toilet bowl.) Seeing none, I went for it. It’s called Ground Sloth X-pose and requires a sink with hot and cold running water, two hot air blowing hand driers and a soap dispenser. I can’t say anymore until you take an oath and sign a confidentiality agreement.

The X- posé made me feel very restored so I went for a walk. The sidewalk was crowded. A panhandler asked me for money. I could see his problem. He was strapped. Down the way, at a photo studio, proud parents were trying to stand their kids into poses but it didn’t seem like the children wanted their pictures taken. They were heavily invested in their tantrum yoga.

I was getting a little bored so I went into Back Bend Bookstore™ and picked up a copy of the latest best seller. Be Proudayomama! By Vera B. Drasana. I thought it was a little over the top. But it did strike home. My own mother, Jess Azuare was a pretty good mom to me, except when she put on her damn Yoga Bustle™ and did backbends while trying to feed me. (I was still too young, she claimed, to cervical myself.) I remember tearing off her eye bag and screaming “Enough with the Yoga already!” But the Power-Cocaine Lum-Bars™ were pretty neat.