Yoga in the park! I love to get my down dog on with a bunch of motivated moms who can do anything from start a home business to fight a weight class up at a pro MMA bout to in extremis hostage rescue! These modern-day Spartans can dismantle ordnance faster than Macgyver, hit harder than Chuck Liddell, and outmaneuver Gordon Gekko on a big cap merger even when they’re drunk, sleep-deprived, or missing a limb.
It is an honor and a privilege to join them for yoga.
We’re hitting some tricky poses. So far, I’ve managed to match the moms without falling or using modifications. It’s not like I’m good at this; it’s just that some days, I hit my stride and get in the zone.
The lead yoga mom, Tiffany, isn’t having it. I’m conscious of her furious eyes boring in on me, willing me to fall, but it doesn’t matter—I continue to emanate Zen, going deep into a state of mind-body harmony.
The class has followed her lead; they’re all mad-dogging me. I can FEEL their hate; if any of them were in front of Palpatine right now, they’d say “Fuck my rebel-friends on Endor, teach me the ways of the Dark Side.”
And then it happens: we’re doing tree pose, and they start falling over.
“That is IT!” Tiffany scrambles over to her purse. “ICE THIS FUCKER!”
A dozen moms snap out pistols from purses; most are 9 mils with extended mags, but there’s a few tried and true .45s. I snap-roll right and take cover behind a tree, flinching as rounds chew the bark and rattle the trunk. They make a line and start aggressing, denying me cover and moving to my flanks.
No options left. I reach into my booty shorts and withdraw my eReader, opening it to Echo and activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Suddenly I’m holding fistfuls of gift cards to Pier One Imports, Old Navy, Target, and Pottery Barn.
“I’VE GOT GIFT CARDS!” I scream over the guns. “STOP SHOOTING—I’VE GOT GIFT CARDS!”
Calls of “Cease fire!” resonate up and down their line.
Tiffany shouts, “Step out from the tree! Hands high, gift cards up! You try anything funny and I will FUCKING DUST YOU. Clear?”
I step out from the tree, hands and gift cards high above my head. “Clear.”
Like the professional killers/businesswomen/polymaths they are, they set up a perimeter with 360 degree security, while a few of them assume the role of capture team. They move toward me, ordering me onto my knees. Three of them dial their sights on my skull as Tiffany steps closer.
She examines the gift cards with suspicious eyes, then holsters her gun. She cups my chin with her left hand, and looks me straight in the eyes.
“Nothing hotter than a Man Whore with gift cards,” she breathes.
The world goes topsy-turvy, and I realize she’s spear-tackled me like the Dark freakin’ Knight. The rest safe and holster their weapons and begin molesting the shit out of me, handling my prodigious manhood like it was a turbo-boosted shake-weight.
“Take it easy!” I gasp. “TAKE IT EASY!”
They don’t. And that’s why I love crazy-ass yoga moms.
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