Contributed by Jessica McGann

Like many an alternative news weekly reader across Canada, I got a jolt and a giggle this morning when I flipped through Now Magazine and came across a full-page ad for Lululemon's new men's workout outfit called The Mansy.

An aptly named onesy for men, the red leotard rides high up on the hips and leaves only a thin strip of undercarriage fabric to hammock the banana in. The model - Derrick Belcham - Men's Naked Yoga Guru - is striking a blissfully suggestive Warrior 1 on Vancouver's Kitsilano Beach, while presumably mooning swimmers in the water behind him in this only mildly more respectable version of Borat's famous bathing suit.

Not once did it occur to me that this might be a joke. I scoffed at the Mansy's impractical fit - the abundance of material covering the torso, combined with the not-so-inconspicuous budgie-smuggling going on down below - and reflected on how the unrelenting market demand for lifestyle clothing, with its attendant statements about the wearer's beliefs and social class, had truly reached an absurb fever pitch.

I wondered if Lululemon was actually brilliantly devious enough to be poking fun at its loyal clientele by marketing something so patently ridiculous to them. It wasn't until I looked it up on the Internet, to see if anyone else's eyes were bulging out of their heads at the sight of the Mansy, that I was clued into the fact that it might be a joke. "The Mansy available in limited quantities, April 1", reads the ad, and bloggers everywhere, with their superior brains, immediately intuited that Lululemon was having us on. Which I guess means they actually might be devious enough to poke fun at their loyal clientele, after all.

I suppose "Men's Naked Yoga Guru" was meant to be a tip-off, too, but that aspect of the ad completely unfazed me. I, myself, have always thought that naked was the way yoga was meant to be practiced. You know, in tune with your own body and all that. I even researched naked yoga classes in Toronto at one time and tried to cajole a friend into joining me (doing yoga naked is one thing, but showing up alone to a room full of naked strangers? That needs backup).

"No thank you," she replied curtly, "I may need reminders to engage Mula Bandha, but I certainly don't need the instructor to actually be able to see if I'm doing it." You must admit she has a point. There is a certain intimacy to naked yoga that supercedes not only sex but also, say, gynecological exams. If that in itself weren't enough to deter me, my ambitions would've been further thwarted by the dearth of naked yoga classes available in this city. Like all good things involving nudity, the few paltry options (church basements, private homes), were made strictly available to gay men.

Naked yoga, I suppose, is a bit advanced for a society with such recent Puritan roots. And so, too, I would wager, is the titillatingly petite Mansy. But there's only one way to find out for sure: visit your local Lululemon on April 1st. If they're not selling the revealing slug-hugging man-leotard, then at least you'll come away with the peace of mind knowing that the Mansy doesn't really exist - yet - and that budgies everywhere are still safe.