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John Nampion Vs. The Hot, Sexy Yoga Hustlers

In the two years since my separation and ultimate divorce, I have learned exactly one thing per annum:

  1. You can't count on nobody. (Mr. Editor: Please leave intact.)
  2. Everyone's got an angle -- and it's an angle that directly benefits them.

Let me give you an example.

My buddy (and employee -- watch out for the angle) Begunga Mike strolls into my office one day and sits down directly across from me. [For the story of how Mike got his Begunga moniker see my blog here.] He eyes me appraisingly, then crosses his humongous, sandled right foot over his left thigh. (No, we don't have a dress code.)

This is a bad sign. It means he's trying to enlist me in some sort of scheme, and of course the scheme addresses his needs as well as (allegedly) mine.

Mike is a tall and well-built guy, mid 30s, with an almost psychopathic self-confidence. He might be a Bosnian or Russian or maybe even German soldier in one of those cheesy Army flicks that play at 1 AM on the local infomercial station. High Slavic cheekbones, prominent and bumpy nose, direct and unflinching grey eyes, short, sometimes shaven scalp, and long, well-groomed digits above and below (the girls like his feet -- that's why he wears sandals) -- all contribute to his air of supreme mastery of and dominion over all that he comes into contact with.

He thinks he's funny, too.

He begins with his usual loaded question:

I haven't ever steered you wrong, have I?

(Hint: "No" is not an acceptable answer.)