A Message to Mr.Bikram: Thanks for creating HELL on earth

Somethings don't mix. Like fish sauce and mayo. Like beer and wine. Like Flava Flav and weird big clocks. Like a fatass in the middle of a Michigan winter and Bikram yoga.

Imagine: It's the middle of winter and it's 30 degrees outside and your scarf is keeping you toasty. You're body's 3 months into this weather. Recently, your sweat glands have been nicely massaged by Netflix Instant Watch aerobics with "Marie," You're used to just enough bending where the next morning you feel a tinge of muscle sore.

Then imagine opening the door to: HELL.

It is 105 degrees inside, humidity level probably 110%. Breathing makes you want to choke. Then, you are introduced to the instructor- a cross between Madonna's grandmother and a leprechaun: wicked ripped for her 60+ age, with a face of a beat-up hooker (way too much make-up), and curly red hair that fell all over the place.

And it gets worse. The room is packed. There's a yoga mat every 8". I am the last student. I can barely fit between two old-timers. "Bend, breathe in, breathe out, put this here, put that leg there, stretch, stretch..."

I...Am...GOING...TO...(water)...DIE!!!!!!!!! This thought occurs about every other minute. 90 minutes of this, that makes it 180 minutes of, SHII, I AM IN THE MIDDLE OF HELL ON EARTH. And I paid $15 bucks for it.

But I survived it. Right now I am in my bathrobe, 4 hours later, doing absolutely shit, trying to recuperate. Bitter. Body confused. Internal organs still cooking but toes cold. My sweat glands are in shock. All this makes me want to smack a leprecaun then kick it up Bikram's butt. And I would tell him, "Thanks for creating HELL on earth. And having it curated by a Madonna' leprechaun grandmother."