The Shroud of Turin

shroudDisclaimer:  I am not making fun of religion, crucifixion, defenders of Christ, Romans, Jews, or their countrymen or anyone who sweats in a profuse and horrifying manner.

This isn’t about Jesus.

This is about yoga.

Hot yoga…and my warped sense of visual association.

An epiphany struck me yesterday during my Bikram yoga practice which, by the by,  I both love and despise with every fiber of my being.

Just before I lifted myself out of that resting pose…shinfeinayana or whatever and just before…parasinvania-something or another, I looked down…

There beneath me in stunning sweat-stained glory was a perfect outline of myself.  My soaked, stringy hair, my shoulders (damn, they’re a little wide for my frame), my waist (need to work on the love-handles) and my short, circus-clown legs.

All I could think of in my heat-stroked delirium was that it looked like my own private Shroud of Turin.

Somebody roll that boulder away and let me out of this hot box.


I‘m into signs. Especially those quasi-clever religious billboards that presumptuous humans make up and then sign off with….Love, God.  I don’t think The Almighty really said stuff like “Don’t Make Me Come Down There!” or “Let’s Meet At My House Sunday Before The Game”, do you?  Maybe “Let’s Meet At My House Sunday Before The Stoning” but definitely not the one about the game. Come on Bible Thumpers!  I know you’re all trying to get customers but what’s next? “S’up, Homey…Imma Wash Y’all Sins Away, Yo! Love, God”???

In my humble paganistic view, these pithy signs are quite sacrilegious and even fly in the face of one of those commandments good Christian folk like John Edwards espouse but  don’t really live by like don’t lie or commit adultery.  But what I’m referring to here is the one about taking the Lord’s name in vain.  Maybe it’s just me but I think signing God’s name to a billboard that says “Big Bang Theory? You Got To Be Kidding!” is a blatant example… but I’m not going to judge. There is enough of that being flung from all y’all’s direction already.

But I always try to be open-minded until, of course, my cynical nature slams it and nails it shut.  Like the other day when I was driving along mindin’ my own, and WHAM a sign on a light pole caught my eye:  It read: followed by a phone number and the promise of a quick five minute recorded message.

Will I Get In Heaven?  I must find out.

So I called the number.

They must have known it was me because it went directly to a recording that said The Party You Are Trying To Reach Is Not Available.

Being the tenacious sort, I got home and went to the web-site instead. You bastards aren’t going to keep ME from finding out if I’m getting into heaven, that’s for damn sure!

I’ll cut to the chase. There was page after page after page of How To Get In Heaven instructions and I’m really bad at following directions. I just learned to do my Google Calendar for cryin’ out loud!  I’m never going to get through this Sin No More Manifesto. I read enough to know that I’d have to do a shitload of penance and fling my burdens onto God’s head and throw myself on his mercy and, by the way, I have probably underestimated the depths of my sinful condition so I guess I won’t be going.

Oh, yeah. I forgot. There was this list of 8 things you should never do or they’ll give your Heaven reservation away to someone like that gay-bashing, North Carolina freak-show-of-a-preacher, Charles Worley.

#3: Do not misuse God’s name.

Too bad, Love, God sign-makers.  What an ugly twist of fate.