One of the more respectable filthy hacks at one of the more respectable scumbag publications just forwarded to Katie an email he got from a yoga entrepreneur named Balachandran Pillai who runs a Web site about yoga. Email goes like this:

Dear [redacted],

I understand that Mr. SteveJobs,CEO of Apple is suffering from weight loss because of some pancreas problem. Tell him, if you could, to look at our website www.balushyoga.com, for yoga is the best tool for weight management with zero side effects and contact us if interested
Regards
BALACHANDRAN PILLAI

As longtime readers know, I have a few issues with Indians. In fact the only people in the world that I dislike more than Indians are Finns and Roman Catholics. But this guy really gets to me. For one thing, I’ve forgotten more about yoga than Mr. Pillai will ever know — which is evidenced by the photo above, from the Balush Yoga Web site. Apparently it is presented as an example of a proper yoga pose. But any beginner could tell you it’s all wrong. Look at the feet. Are they symmetrical? Not even close. The guy looks like he’s being kidnapped and hogtied and put into the trunk of a car. (Also, look at the fucking hair on that dude’s shoulders. Buddy, it’s called waxing. Have you heard of it?) The other thing I’d like to address is this notion (repeated here on the Balush site) that yoga can cure all sorts of diseases and add years to your life. Oh really? You mean like this guy? Yeah, the picture of health. He looks like me, circa January 2009.

Friends, forgive me for ranting, but I need to get this off my chest. Yoga is an ancient art form and one that I have practiced for decades, along with the study of Zen Buddhism. But now, in its current incarnation, yoga has been turned into just another consumer fad — it’s the aerobics for this decade, and it makes me sick. Especially because most of the people who are going around raving about yoga don’t have a fucking clue what they’re talking about. They’re doing everything wrong. There’s no discipline. No structure. Do you hear me, dipshits? Yes, you know who you are. Everywhere you go there are these dopey fat-assed women running around with their yoga mats, dressed in stretchy black pants designed to show off their front butts and saddle bags and camel toes (yoga toes?), deluding themselves into thinking they’re fit just because they can get down all fours and moan. Good Lord! Enough is enough! Last week I was in a coffee shop listening to some dame go on about her “workout” and I was like, Lady, you do realize that “yoga” is not a Hindi word meaning “exercise that fat people can do,” right? Turns out she owns the coffee shop. I was asked to leave. Fine by me. Wasn’t the first time, won’t be the last. It’s the price of speaking the truth.

See here. All I can say is, Henry, it’s better than being the new Jason Calacanis.

See here. Woz is so excited he’s pissing himself. He just called and wants to know if he I can introduce him to The Incredible Hulk. I told him sure, no problem. Sigh.

First it was options backdating. Then it was the FCC giving us shit about Google Voice. Now the dicks at the SEC are sniffing around about insider trading. Of course these inquiries are all just Borg-funded fishing expeditions designed to slow us down. They’ll never actually catch us on any of this. But it does get tedious, I have to admit. And it does waste precious time and resources that we could be devoting to more important things. BTW, I benched 215 in the iGym this morning. Not bad for an old guy.

It’s early Monday morning. You’re fourteen years old and hungry and dirty and tired and wet. You’ve been tripping on Orange Sunshine, straight from Owsley’s lab, since Friday. Most of the audience went home last night. But you’ve stayed. You don’t know why, but you have. You took your last dose two hours ago, as the sun was coming up, and now you’re sweating and you feel that electricity running up the back of your neck and your eyes are on fire and everything is melting and bending and you feel like something is going to happen. There’s an energy in the air that seems to bind you all together. The sky has pulled down tight and you wonder if it will rain again and you feel that there is some huge idea that is trying to present itself to you, some idea that you keep chasing, but you never reach it, but maybe if you just stopped racing after it and sat still for while then the idea would stop running away, and then you would know something that you don’t know now. Like what? Maybe you would know who you are, or why you are here, or what life is, or why things happen the way they do, or whether someday, in your lifetime, you will be able to carry a small handheld device, about the size of a pack of cigarettes, that can make phone calls and hold thousands of songs and even play videos, including maybe a video of the moment that you’re living in right now, which means that the tomorrow version of you will be looking at the today version of you. And then, when you think about that, you realize that it’s as if the today version of you can see the tomorrow version of you — it’s as if both versions of you are alive at the same time, and looking at each other across this big expanse of time, as if time were something physical, like a big field, which you have to admit is a pretty mind-blowing idea.

And then this happens. Hendrix comes on stage and tears a hole in the sky. He rips open the fabric of time. He puts a dent in the universe.

Friends, to say that Woodstock changed my life — to say that there would be no Apple without Woodstock — well, yeah. Look close over Jimi’s shoulder, and you can catch a glimpse of me in the crowd, about ten rows back. Namaste, Jimi Hendrix. I wish you were alive today. I also wish we could use your image in our advertising, but for reasons I don’t completely understand, this has never been possible. Well, someday the copyrights will expire, and then we will get you. Peace.

Seriously, this is beyond belief. I almost wonder sometimes if Obama and his team created Glenn Beck, just to make them look better. Could he be a plant?

Much love to Werner for cracking this riddle. You got us, buddy. Free fake iTablet is on its way.

Mosspuppet is really hitting his stride here. Our favorite line: “Cock! Cock! Cock!” Someone should make a T-shirt of that.

Turns out the iPhone 3GS with video has unleashed a new scourge upon the world: frigtards uploading zigabytes of bad video to YouTube and other sites. We thought we were doing something good for the world by making it so easy to shoot, edit and upload video. We were wrong. To celebrate this horror, Iulia and Natasha have replaced iJustine (yay!) with a new feature we’re calling “Stupid iPhone Videos.” First one is off to the right — a lame-ass “interview” with a zaftig Midwestern lady sitting in a library. Who made this video? Who is this woman? What is the fucking point of this video, and why did you inflict it upon the rest of us?

Friends, we’re now on a mission. If you’ve seen any of these terrible iPhone videos, please send them in. Better yet, if you or someone you know is making really bad iPhone videos, send those too. Exposing these fuckwits and shaming them may be the only way to cure them. Sunshine is the best disinfectant, as Shakespeare once wrote.