I was attacked by a volatile Yogi a couple of nights ago.

I assassinated his faux-global conscience, his falseness and his sense of self righteousness, as he commenced entering into yoga posture in the smoking piazza in Whelan’s.

He pushed me over a railing and my leg, back, foot and hip are paining me.

Behind the veneer of hemp tote bags, falafel and beaded dreadlocks there growls an intensely disturbed beast.

These Yogi’s are not chill merchants but in fact must live this lifestyle lest they go completely mental.

So you don’t like falafel then is it?

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