Here's What Happened

For some odd reason, the Sandman had invited me to go to his function....or rather to SamaBhava's function.

For some even odder reason, and despite many odds like Bhao-guzzling, brittle bones, stoopid bus serivce, extortionist auto-wallahs and Great Indian Chunkubaaz, I went.


Now, being the weirdest and most awesome looking individual at the venue, it was no wonder that the good people wanted to my identity. It also goes without saying that, with the same degree of inevitability as the Great Indian Chunkubaaz's baldness, they all stumbled on my name. After several rounds of parley, they decided on Biswajitji.


Well, I had no problems on Biswajit, but I drew the line at Ji. I complained. I said "Good people, don't call me Ji, I am, after all, the Sandman's classmate."


Looks of utter and complete bewilderment soon descended on the multitude.


So, I had no other option than to explain "You see, good people, I look old, I feel older, but..and this is an important but...the Esteemed Nutters of the Parental Persuasion claim that I am actually not "that old". However, it would be remiss of me not to point out the fact that I am pretty sure that they are liars. I base my theory upon the fact that they claim that I am their son, though all evidence suggests that I was probably exchanged while I was a wee fat baby. There is no other earthly justification to my presence in this family of loonies."


After several minutes of silence, probably to break said silence, one of the multitude enquired about my neck.


"I am glad you asked. You see, good people, over in JaiTelenganaland, there is this Lady whose name is She Who Must Be Obeyed. One day, while discussing the metaphysics of potato, I happened to call her a bourgeois.

So, she threw a chair at me.


Though writhing in pain on the floor, I couldn't help but add that this was the precisely the sort of behaviour that hastened the onset of that Revolution with its ideals of Truth! Justice! Freedom! Reasonable Priced Love! and a Hard Boiled Egg!!


So she hit me with a pressure cooker - and this is the result."


They felt so sorry for me that I got invitations to a swimming pool.

FUCK OFF

Good people, rejoice! exuberate!! jubilate!!! billow!!!! have an ice cream!!!!!


Coz what you have been waiting for a long long loong time is finally coming true.



This fucking blog is coming to an end.



You see I am past caring. And I can't write if I can't care. Right now, the only feeling I have towards humans (and that includes most of you lot) is extreme bitterness and resentment.



I am just sick and tired of you lot.



It speaks volumes for a laddie's mental condition when the only time he has been happy/content/at peace was when he was sitting all alone in a spartan room with only a puppy and a dying dog for company. But that's precisely what happened.


Coz, you know what, that puppy and dying dog were the only ones in a long looong time who genuinely seemed happy to be with me. They didn't care about who I am or what I am, didn't care about how I looked or what I said or how I smelt. They were content and at peace with me, and I was content and finally at peace with them.



And it was then that I realized just how out of fucking place I am in so-called human society. Though am as lonely as that directionally-challenged penguin who ended up in New Zealand, I feel genuinely uncomfortable around people. Its one of the reasons that I felt like an alien in the SamaBhava function (another reason being that I couldn't find sugar for my coffee). I am anyway uncomfortable around rich, upper-class la-di-dah people (and that function was full of them....a few of them might have been nice or pretending to be nice...but they were all fucking rich and fucking la-di-dah).



It was precisely for this reason that I didn't turn up for a party I was recently invited to.....as it would have been full of la-di-dahs (not to mention bhao-guzzling la-di-dahs)



But lately I have been uncomfortable not only around that lot but around everybody....one of the reasons that has led me to realize that talking or interacting with humans is just notworth it...you lot are all fucking selfish hypocritical bastards.


And oh feel free to swear back at me if you feel like it.


I don't give a rat's ass anymore.




But since you should never leave on a sour note, this ain't my last blog. That fucker is coming up in a few hours time, and its funny...at least its funny to me.


Don't give a fuck whether u like it or not.


(A few people are exempted from this rant...you know who you are and thank you for being you)

My Barrel List

For some reason, a list of things to do before you become a memory is called a bucket list. Now since, I am already a highly unpleasant memory for so many people, a bucket list would just not be appropriate.


So here is my barrel list of things I wanna do before someone somewhere does me a favour and helps me to kick the proverbial bucket...coz frankly living my life is pointless, futile and defo not worth it.


Anyway, I decided to break my barrel into 2 - 1 part comprises the things I will try defo to do...the other comprises dreams that probably will remain as dreams

To do

• Wanna learn German
• Wanna wear a Top hat
• Wanna turn vegetarian (but not vegan...the very idea of black coffee shivers me timbers if u know what I mean)
• Wanna visit Syria+Jordan+Israel
• Wanna visit Stamford Bridge and watch a match at Allianz Arena
• Wanna go scuba diving 

Dreams

• Wanna play a didgeridoo or one of them giant trumpets that the Buddhist monks use
• Wanna see a you know who
• Wanna learn fencing
• Wanna play football one last time, preferably against geriatrics (or the Arsenal defense) coz that is the only way I will look Lothar Mattheusesqe.
• Wanna drink alcohol from all around the world
• Wanna get eaten by vultures (preferably after death....the whole Prometheus thingy is not my scene) 

So there you go. Lets see how many of that 1st 6 I can mange withing the next few years before conking.

Going Nuts

Well, can somebody tell me what the fuck dreams are for?


Of course, I am keeping daydreams out of the equation here. Daydreaming about ice creams and football are one of the extremely few rare joys left in my life.


I am talking about the Guusdamn dreams that come to a person once he/she is in the gentle embrace of Morpheus. Dunno about other people, but my dreams are as weird as Arsa players' hairs or Sanchettti's latest Bhao-Gobbling Avatar.



Now bear in mind that usually, when I take pain killers (and I do take quite a lot of them and quite frequently...a Heath Ledgeresque fate probably awaits....without the posthumous Oscar of course...the only things I will receive posthumously would be lots and lots of galis and curses from various peops) I usually get knocked out for arnd 10-12 hours. Critics opine that such a sleep can be described as sleeping like a log (though what research has been done to determine just when and how logs sleep is a matter worth pondering).


But lately (last couple of weeks), and despite guzzling 16 tablets a day (a significant amount of which are painkillers) I have been assailed by some seriously bat-shit crazy dreams.


For example,


One night I dreamt that I have somehow gone to this town where I don't see anyone but see a whole plethora of garishly multi-coloured buildings - all locked. So I went around taking pics and trying to enter but couldn't. So I was stranded on the roads in an empty city.



Next I dreamt that I was in a restaurant eating. But once food was consumed (thankfully there was no bhindi) and bill was paid, I found out that my footwear has gone awol. So I was stuck inside the place with people giving me funny looks.


My next dream took a definite morbid and macabre turn. It involved looking at a ram which has been skinned alive. The ram was grunting in pain and I tried to help it but was as usual completely useless.


Just to complete the weirdness spectrum, my next dream involved a fight between a wee laddie and a camel /llama (the woolly Andean spitting variety, not the bald Himalayan maroon-robed ones) /bull.


The next one is a bona-fide nightmare. In this one I found myself back in college (there were rumours that home-works are back...though I dunno why that worried me, have never done them in my adult life anyway). And then when I went to collect the routines/schedules, the friend accompanying me ran away and I got lost.


So many dreams, and not one of them about football!!!!


So all ye amateur wannabe psychos out there, what do all these dreams mean eh? Am i going nuts...or rather nuttier than ususal?


Analyze away

Jyodessey

You thought that epics are dead didn't you?




Well we still have epic failures like the Indian police, the Indian cricket team, the Arsenal defence, me etc but there is a marked absence of epic tales of heroism.




Not any more.




Here is the tale of our heroic heroine Jyotikus Khullerius (had to be Romanized, making that name Ionian or Hellenic is beyond my limited capabilities) in her epic quest to reach the fabled land of McDonaldland - a beautiful land full of mountains of burgers, valleys of meaty patties and rivers of mustard and ketchup not to mention golden fields of french fries.



So one bright sunny day, with vim, vigour and vanity bag, our heroic heroine left her home and flagged won a passing chariot. She had originally thought of using the ferryman to cross the river but decided against it due to its slowness.



The ferryman was not pleased. He complained to the gods.



The gods in turn got pissed about the complaint since it interrupted their attempt to get pissed while doing the bacchanalia.



They decided to teach our heroic heroine a lesson.



To that end, Hephaestus destroyed her chariot.



But Jyotikus escaped unscathed and undeterred, which pissed off the gods even more. Zeus decided that a spot of thunderstorms and hails would be the correct medicine for the puny human.



So he unleashed a severe hailstorm, and deciding that it is never too much, unleashed a tornado as well.



The sky darkened, the wind blew like a gale, hails the size of olives pounded the earth mercilessly trying to cower our heroine into submission. But our heroine was not to be denied. 



Seeing another passing chariot a little distance away, she braved the hail, thunder etc and ran towards it and hopped on it. Zeus got angrier and increased the pounding.



 The roof of the chariot started cracking in a few places but the chariot kept moving.



Seeing that her husband has gone apoplectic, Hera decided to intervene. She decided to scare and frustrate our heroine in a different manner.



She weaved her magic so that our heroine faced the greatest enemy of mankind - mankind itself. Hera got a particularly annoying ignoramus to interrupt, impede and irritate our heroine with inane and incessant chatter.  Our heroine got distracted, disturbed and dismayed...but only for a little bit. After all she was determined to reach her destination and she was not to be denied.



So she hopped onto another chariot. Seeing both Zeus and Hera fail in stopping Jyotikus, Apollo and Dionysus decided to act together. They hatched a cunning plan and changed all the other occupants of the bus into mighty feral beasts.



But not the driver.



Oh no, it was something much worse.



They turned the driver of the chariot into a luj character Indian.



Our heroine could barely escape the clutches of said creature. She jumped down from the bus and ignoring the hails, tornado etc started running as she could see the fabled land only a wee way away. The beasts pursued with gnashing teeth and barks and howls.



But she kept on running.




And then the Gods turned to Hades. And Hades made the very earth shake.


Panic and pandemonium ensued. Whole buildings started to crumble. It was a scene straight from a Ronald Emmerich/Micheal Bay movie. The religious nutters thought apocalypse was upon them.



Battered, bruised and bleeding, our heroine stumbled on. She could hear the sounds of joy, see the rivers and hills and fields, smell the delicious nectar. And thus she was more determined than ever to not stop.



The gods became worried. They huddled and came up with the master-plan.



From the deepest pits of Tartarus, they released the beast.



The same beast which was responsible for the fall of Troy, for the disappearance of Atlantis, for the eruption of Vesuvius...the beast responsible for the deaths of umpteen men and for turning Hercules mad, the beast responsible for turning Medusa into a Gorgon, the one who made Leonidas commit suicide and the one who turned Darius III and Mark Antony into fucking idiots........all through a constant, incessant, never-ending whine......none other than the harbinger of death, the doomer of civilization - Fat Uncle Cheapo.



Legend has it that the beast first came into this world whining about bhindi and pillows when Pandora opened her box.



Once unleashed, there is no end to the suffering that the beast can cause. And that is why the Gods keep it bound in chains in the deepest pits of Tartarus. But desperate times call for desperate measures.



So they unleashed it.



And immediately our heroine felt the pain. The same Jyotikus who had endured hails, tornadoes, earthquakes, imbeciles, beasts and luj character Indians started quivering with fright and unbearable agony.



But the beast continued whining.



Our heroine was about to become mad and pass out from the pain, when she had a revelation. The spirit of her mentor She Who Must Be Obeyed appeared to her in a vision and gave her strength.



Clutching on the last vestiges of strength and drawing on hitherto untapped determination, she somehow crawled and crawled and crawled........



.....and finally managed to enter the magical realm of the fabled land.















And them la-di-dah post-modernists said that the epics are dead. Well to quote the greatest anti-hero of our era "Eat My Shorts"

Immobility, Incerceration, Injections and Epic Irk

Hullo people

As some of you may know, and some of you may even care, I was in hospital for the last couple of days. Apparently, one of the disks in my spinal cord decided that it wanted to become inflamed or something. Result, humongous pain and more or less complete immobility.


Parts of this post was originally written from the hospital bed on Sunday night, when I was all alone with noone to talk to and nothing to do. I had begged, bugged and cajoled the nurses into giving me a couple of sheets and this post was written on those.


Since the caller switch beside my bed was not working, I had to crotter (between a crawl and a totter) to the nurse's station to do the cajoling etc, and apparently they took bets on who is slower - a decapitated zombie, a snail or Fat Uncle Cheapo.


Here's what happened. Pain started on Wednesday. By Saturday evening I was crawling. By Sunday morning I was immobile. I couldn't move right, left, up down, couldn't get up, couldn't get down... and so it became apparent that I couldn't survive alone. I needed help. But whom to call, was the question. Runa and Abhijit were in Delhi; Sandy and Chunkubaaz in Bangalore; Bera in Calcutta; Biggani Kaka too busy in genocide; Midas in Mumbai; Crybaby too tired 'coz of national issue thing; Sanchetti evolving into an epic la-de-da bhao-eater and as for She Who Must Be Obeyed, well she had already ordered me not to disturb her whenever I felt like it, so I was too scared to call her (well truthfully, the poor girl has way too many probs already without having to worry abt me..and anyway she is always unreachable on the phn).


So Shailaja once again had to be the rescuer. It's funny. Any time anything happens to any of the ex-Quislexians, it's Shailaja and Minakshi to the rescue.


Talking of Quislexians, it's all Shahir's fault. You see, every year he falls sick in August and we take him to the hospital. This year, he didn't. The bugger transferred it to me! So I ended up with fever, leg pain, stroke and now this.

So anyway, I called Shailaja and she immediately came over and carried me to the hospital where somehow I managed to lose my phone. So then, first there was wheelchair, then the emergency ward, then injection, then doctor, then doctor thinking Shailaja was my wife, then transfer from wheelchair to stretcher, admission, more injections, some more injections, MRI and all the nurses in the ward calling me 'uncle'.



Now during the MRI, some nasty pervert starting pulling off my pants.

"Oye, hands off! I'll take off me own pants!"


Suffice to say that there wasn't a single good-looking nurse around at this epochal moment. I was surrounded by pug ugly male orderlies. MRI done, more injections ahoy!


By this time, I became as hungry as a polar bear in May. So I asked them for food. And what do they give me? Fucking idly. So I begged Shailaja and Minakshi to get me something to eat. The sweet, kind people got me chicken sandwich and aloo bonda. Nyum nyum nyum nyum.


Just when I finished my meal, fucking IV. They puncture my hand and pump me full of antibiotics and steroids.


One thing should be mentioned at this point. They don't have hospital gowns of my size. And my ass is pay-per-view. So I kept on wearing my trouser and T-shirt.


Legions of doctors then started coming over and asking me impertinent questions about my height, weight and sexual status. Upon getting the answers, they called me obese and then pointed at me and in a Nelson Muntzesque way said "You are a 30 year old virgin!! You are such a loser!!Haha!"


Then they put me on IV steroids for some reason. But sinister forces were afoot. There were bubbles in the fluid!!! The dark hands of the secret society of heinosity (who must remain unnamed coz of threats of GBH received from She Who Must Be Obeyed) that is hell bent on the extermination and annihilation,not to mention the complete ruination of Fat Uncle Cheapo's reputation (apparently there is a rumour going around that he is a  womanbeater!!!!!


Anyway, to come back to the story, due to the timely intervention of the winsome 2some, crisis was averted and I am still alive (dammit, I can't catch a break). They soon had to leave though.


And crisis for nurses ahoy.


You see, the rule says 1 patient has to be accompanied by1 attendant (the laddie occupying the other cabin in my room had 2 [mom n bro]....plus he had abt 7 diff visitors). I had none. (Shailaja had volunteered but come on I couldn't accept with a clear conscience). So the nurses started pestering me. I told them that look I don't have anyone who can spend the night i na hospital with me so whatcha goona do?


Well, they took their revenge by injecting me with...well 16 injections.


The other laddie tentatively asked me whether the AC could be switched off.  A look of utter disdain soon took care of that...although it prompted the mother to recite the names of about a score of major gods in the Hindu pantheon.


But to come to the main problemo.


You have already heard of idly. Guess what the ygave me for dinner.


Rice, dal, loki, curd and boiled papaya. They also had the impertinence to ask if I wanted a glass of milk!!!!


Next day breakfast...guess what


More fucking idly!!!!!


But what broke the Cheapo's back (apart from the periodic thrashings by She Who Must Be Obeyed) was lunch.

There was bhindi good people.


This is inhumane treatment. Them Geneva convention people need to know of this torture.


I decided there and then that I need to discharge myself.


Epic pain I can live with. It is more or less a constant companion.


But bhindi cannot be tolerated.

What you gonna do?

What you gonna do?

What you goona do?

In the following situation




You get fever.


You come out of fever and immediately go away to a trip (where u get a stroke)


You come back and start recuperating.


And it rains more or less incessantly.


You know what it means.





Yep, it means that you run out of clean underwear.



All of them are either dirty or still wet after washing.



So whatchu gonna do?



Well, Fat Uncle Cheapo weighed up his options.


He could wear a dirty one.......but that's unhygienic...and itchy


He could wear a wet one.....but after the family pebbles suffered pneumonia while trying to attend the summons of She Who Must be Obeyed, it is prudent not to take a chance; not that losing the family pebbles would in any way hamper his procreational abilities...for let's face it, he has as much chance of procreation as a poached egg. However, them scientific nerdy types opine that having pebbles is somewhat related to having beard......and as all you lot know......hands off the merchandise...so no wet stuff.


He could go out and buy new ones.....but what with the recuperation from stroke, and the rain, and the piled up office work...not to mention extreme laziness....there is no way that is going to take place....and anyway due to the circumferential awesomeness of his arse, not many Hyd shops stock underwear that fits Fat Uncle Cheapo.


So there really is only 1 option left.


And that's what Fat Uncle Cheapo had to take up.



Yep, he has gone commando.



And let me tell you folks, riding a bike..well Baldrick... on a bumpy, pot-holed road whilst being muy commando is no joking matter....things tend to flap around and get squashed.


There is another problem.



Due to the neurons which move in a ninjaesque speed and lazy fat blood vessels which refuse to do their work, Fat Uncle Cheapo's super-processor (head) is always hot.


Result - AC on full blast.


You see where I am going with this don't you?




Head or pebbles......the most difficult toss a human being had to ever go through.

EPIC FAILURE

The term was first used to describe Duryadhan, Ravana, Priam et all.


But over the years, the list has been filled with other distinguished luminaries like the French Army of the last 4000 years, the Inca kings Huascar and Atahualpa, the Bong King Laxman Sen, anyone in the path of Genzhis Khan, Guy of Lusignan (King of Jersusalem who got spanked by Saladin), Louis XVI, the Japanese numbnut who ordered the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Arsenal defence etc.


But now, an addition has made made in this creme-de-la-creme of awfulness.


I am talking of Potter8, the undisputed king, nay emperor of  horrible series endings.


Make no mistake about it, there have always been bad series endings: Spiderman 3, Jurassic Park 3, Indy 4 and of course the last one of the Matrix.


But forget the cake, HP8 takes the whole bakery when it comes to sucking.


For some mysterious reason, they (the movie people) decided that the story wasn't cool enough.


So they cut out the best 2 scenes of the whole series from their movie (am talking abt Potter coming out when Prof McGonagell gets slapped...and Neville's grandmother coming and declaring how proud she is of him)


They leave out Fred's death, completely mess up Snape's death, totally ignore Hagrid's giant brother and Kreacher....but somehow find time to create a totally ridiculous scene involving Neville on that bridge.


The emotion you got while reading about Molly Weasley's battle with Bellatrix was one of jaw-dropping surprise and pleasure. The feeling you got from watching the same scene in the movie was one of meh.



And the less said about Ron Weasley's expression at the epilogus (yes I made up the word, live with it) scene of the movie, the better.



The movie had 1 positive though.


It ended.

Riots my arse

England's burning.


It all started in North London and now have spread to Nottingham, Wolverhampton, Birmingham, Manchester and for some odd reason Gloucester as well.  There had been widespread looting, burning, mugging etc. One particular poor sap got badly beaten up by the police, and then got mugged by the looters. Strangely, or well not so strangely if you think about it, the only shops which haven't been touched at all are the book stores.


Apparently, now the Sikhs, the Turkish Kurds and the Nazis from English Defence League have taken it upon themselves to protect their respective neighbourhoods.


Yep, this has all the potential of turning into the Battle of Five Armies (strangely I know that my non-literature studying readership has a greater chance of understanding the reference than the literature students)


But what precipitated this crisis?
What lit the spark for this kaboom of doom?


Well, the pseudo-lefties are spouting all kinds of theories regarding poverty, hopelessness, race, sense of discrimination.

Want discrimination? Try being an obese, ugly, bald, black Brahmin (upper-class) midget in India.


But seeing as it is the wold's first riots organized through Blackberry, and that the looters are looting flat screen tvs, one has to surmise that the lefties are, as usual, sprouting utter bollocks.


No, the causes are deeper...and much much more sinister.


Well, 1 plausible theory going around is a rumour that the riots were started by the Spurs fans when they heard that Redknapp is buying Emile Heskey.

Apparently Heskey was sighted in North London.

Meanwhile upon their own club being linked with Mr. Em, the Arsa fans apparently tut-tutted and put down their cups of tea in indignation and exclaimed "By Jove, I say that's not cricket!!"


Well, another theory that is going around is that it started after the police found a secret underground hall full of young children under the Emirates Stadium.


But they are all wrong.


What prompted this anger was actually the sight of Gary fucking Neville punditting on Sky over the weekend.


p.s. 1 week of rioting and only 4 dead????


You call that rioting????


This lot really need to take lessons from Bongs.

Only in India Department

3 o Clock in the night/early morning/late evening (based on if you are normal/insomniac/college grad student).

That's when it started.

The grandmother of all cacophony.



Apparently, it signaled the onset of Bonalu - a festival celebrating whiskey and pot.


Yep, you read that right, the men get drunk and the women become potheads.


Honest.


Seriously.



You still don't believe me? Just go out and see.


You will witness hordes and hordes of women all loitering with big ass pots on their heads.


Anyway, to come to the point, 3 AM Sat night it started and continued continuously till 1130 PM Monday.


From what I have figured, its something to do with either Shiva or one of his wives.


Now from what I know of Hindu mythology, Shiva is the original pothead, and he sure as fuck would not have liked blaring music continuously for more than 40 hours. It might safely be assumed that an ass-kicking of epic proportions would have been forthcoming.


It can also safely be assumed Shiva never did, does not and will never give a shit about Jai Telengana, so playing Jai Telengana songs every 5 minutes does not help anybody.


And talking of Jai Telengana, purely judging by the way they organise and conduct their religious festivals, this lot won't be able to organise an orgy in brothel.


And they want to run a state.

I am NOT CRAZY; My Shrink had me Tested

Yes people

Its Esteemed Nutter of the Maternal Persuasion 0 Fat Uncle Cheapo 1


You see, the Esteemed One has always claimed that I am crazy, and that I should see a psychodoc, who will give me electric shocks and all. 


Having been enormously depressed lately due to the, amongst other things, the continued absence of a top hat or a viking helmet in my life, I finally decided to go bug a shrink.


So, it was time for mano y shrinko.



He asked me why I am bugging him. I told him because everybody is mean to me and that girls keep saying ewwwwwwwww. So he told me, "well you are spectacularly ugly, so what do you expect".

So I told him I am a decent, kind, generous, honourable, honest person.

And so he told me "so what, you are still stupendously ugly, and that's all that matters". He then asked me "whether I have ever considered using Fair and Handsome".

I replied saying am I a man or am I the Great Indian Chunkubaaz or Bhanu Pratap Pritam.


He then diverted the discussion towards my work. I said I am quite successful and respected and appreciated at my workplace. Then he adviced me to work 24/7 365 and my problems will be solved.


So I told him, am I human or am I a QuisLex employee?


Then he asked me about my relationship with family. I said they love me but dislike me since I am a loser. he said that he can empathize with my parents. He stated that had I been his progeny, he would have disinherited me long ago, since a loser like me cannot be good for the family name.

I agreed.


Then he asked me about my friends.


I said that since I am totally useless, I only have a handful of friends and that they pity me. He said "how you have even 1 is astonishing!"


Then he picked up a card and asked me to describe it.


I said that's a kangaroo pummeling Gary fucking Neville.


He picked another. I said that's a menage-a-5 involving Moby Dick, Moby Hump, Crybaby, Wellbeloved and a Tripod.


He picked another. I said that is an ice cream.


He said hmmm.


He then asked me about my likes and dislikes. I said I am a supporter of Chelsea during the Champions League.



He prescribed me 2 anti-depressants.


So, in conclusion, now I have a medicine which, amongst other things, is used to cure
premenstrual dysphoric disorder

And whose side effects include difficulty becoming aroused, erectile dysfunction, lack of interest in sex, and anorgasmia (inability to achieve orgasm), genital anesthesia, loss of or decreased response to sexual stimuli, and ejaculatory anhedonia. It seems that although usually reversible, these sexual side effects can last for months, years, or permanence after the drug has been completely withdrawn


Yep, that's exactly what I needed.

Mirror Mirron on the Wall, who is the greatest Roman of them all?

Lets face it, that damn Eternal City has been producing great individuals like a BMW production line. But amongst this plethora of greats, who can be crowned the greatest of them all?


We can start off with Horatio (not the drunk lackey of Hamlet nor the highly irritating cop from Miami)...the lad who stood on a bridge and said "Vos volo nonnullus , adveho adepto nonnullus" [You want some, come get some]. Mucho testicular fortitude of course, but he can't be the greatest on account of being an utter nutter and complete bananas.


Then we have old Julius and his bosom buddy Pompey.


Well Pompey is disqualified for  choosing the wrong side.


Julius on the other hand cannot be considered because...well let's face it...all that he did was

a. Beat some Celts (everybody does)
b. Make the Cheese Eating Surrender Monkeys..well...surrender (more or less on par with some dude claiming to raise the sun....lets face it, its one of them rules of nature like:

what goes up must come down, 

the sun rises in the east, 

women say ewwww to Fat Uncle Cheapo

and the Cheese Eating Surrender Monkeys surrender)

and c. Bonk Cleopatra (everybody did)

So, in conclusion, nothing special really ...and so Julius is disqualified.


Octavian is more complex case. The man founded the bloody Roman empire. Immortality is guaranteed. But then he did betray his ally Cicero. Betrayal of an ally is a heinous crime. It separates the men from the Kingshuk Ukils. And so Augustus Ceaser is disqualified.



Nero - Setting fire to Rome - ok, burning Christians for light - well it was the favourite pasttime then, so ok......but playing the violin??!!!! nopes, that's just not right, so disqualified

Caligula - On the plus side, he made his horse a priest (and it is alleged that the horse was perhaps the best priest the world has ever seen...certainly the least corrupt and hypocritical)...on the minus side, he prostituted his sisters, that's as wrong as the existence of A of the B...so disqualified


Ovid - He was kicked out of his own city/country and ended up in Romania.....can't really be treated as the greatest Roman.


So, at this point you might be asking who? Who is it that is the greatest Roman of them all?


Well, it is pretty evident isn't it?



He used to sell rubber ducks from his apartment. Now he is one of the richest men in the planet.


He is friends with one of the most, if not the most, bad ass politicians of all time.


And he is the owner of the greatest and most carefree and the sheckshiest club of all time.


Ladies and gentlemen (who am I kidding, I have 1 regular reader)...so Pooja Sancheti, I give you


Roman Abramovitch.

The Mysterious Affair at Arihant Ashray

or

The Curious case of the Multitude in the Night Time


Well, a couple of weeks ago, Fat Uncle Cheapo and the Esteemed Nutter of the Maternal Persuasion were watching some quality television, late in the night, when all of a sudden there was a multitudinal shout of "Reshu!!!"

Now, being a Nutter, the Esteemed One naturally and obviously inferred that somehow someone was looking for Fat Uncle Cheapo. Now, just how the word Reshu in any way, shape or form resembles either Fat or Uncle or Cheapo is anybody's guess. 


Anyway, when the cacophony refused to die down, the Esteemed went to investigate.


And came back and informed Cheapo that apparently some lass called Reshmi has locked the door and is refusing to open it, thus preventing aforementioned multitude entry into their domain.


Speculations ahoy!!!!


The Esteemed One set the ball rolling by proclaiming that it is a clear case of suicide.

Cheapo argued that it might be a case of alien abduction, and that it was a governmental conspiracy to hide the story. "The truth is out there mum" he was heard to mutter.


The Nutter countered by saying "Aliens, smeliens! If not suicide, then an African tsetse might be involved."



Cheapo argued that maybe the lass was a victim of murder, and since all the doors are locked from the inside, it possibly involved a monkey and a blowpipe.


Nutter refuted by claiming that if it was murder, then rather than a monkey and a blowpipe, it might have involved a ninja and a raygun which when pointed towards the heart, stops it from pumping.


Further theories discussed included the possible use of arsenic, pygmy poison, cobra venom, hypnotism (thereby forcing victim to take her own life), coconut oil, mime artists and the spontaneous combustion of both mind and body due to the incoherent ramblings of that non-sentient blathering fool A of the B.  


Suffice to say that this entire discussion was taking place just in front of the agitated multitude, with the winsome twosome sitting on chairs only a couple of feet away from the action, happily gulping down copious quantities of ice cream . For some reason, the multitude kept giving them awfully dirty looks. 


Having failed to elicit any response from 'Reshu', multitude then decided to procure a ladder from somewhere. Now far be it for the Cheapo to accuse other personnel of being slightly on the rotund side or their actions as being chuckleworthy (the words chimney, pot, kettle etc would be flung around by the critical intelligentsia) ..........but one of the few universally constant joys of life involve fat people trying to climb a tottering ladder.


Well as it turns out it was neither murder, nor suicide, nor alien abduction. It wasn't even a case of exposure to A of the B.


It was, put simply, a case of Singhanapallitis...a disease where even the fucking Armageddon would fail to wake a person up from slumber.


The earliest known patient was Kumbhakarna. Other famous patients include the men who had slept through

• Kurukshetra
• Hannibal's invasion of Italy with pachyderms
• Porus's dimwitted defence strategy of using pachyderms against Alexander
• Alexander's destruction of Babylon
• Genghis Khan's destruction of everything
• Alaric's sacking of Rome
• Battle of Hastings
• Battle of Agincourt
• Saladin's capture of Jerusalem
• Austerlitz
• Nelson kicking Bonny's arse in Trafalgar
• Wellington kicking Bonny's arse in Waterloo
• Gettysburg
• Pearl Harbour
• the Blitzkrieg
• St Petersburg

The disease has been named by scientists to honour Midas, who once slept through an hour of Fat Uncle Cheapo calling, knocking, pounding and bellowing at the top of his lungs.

Lucky Bastards

All ye lot who know me know that in the annals of luck, you can't beat A of the B.



But its not only him, there are some other entities who have been as lucky as..well...Fat Uncle Cheapo's alter-ego.



All Cheapo wants is to get reborn as one of the following



A pet pig in a vegetarian community/farm - No bathing ever and continuously eating as much as I can!!!! Can you imagine the "great success"?



A half-hippo half-chupacabra in the LH of CIEFL during the late 90s, early noughties...you know why


Hugh Hefner



A conquistador with Cortez...seriously, how many times do you get to be worshiped as gods?


The Army Chief of Staff of Switzerland


One of the Indomitable Gauls


The Foreign Minister of Canada or New Zealand or Bhutan


Vladimir Putin


Gimli, son of Gloin


George Washington



Phineas Fogg


Chewbacca


Any of the Louis - from I to XV




But this being Fat Uncle Cheapo, he will probably end up as



A chicken...anywhere


A half-hippo half-chupacabra in the LH of CIEFL during 2010


Reincarnated again as Fat Uncle Cheapo


An Inca warrior a couple of years after Cortez's arrival


The Army Chief of Staff of Poland (during early 20th century)


A legionary in one of the camps


The Home Minister of Lebanon or Afghanistan or Somalia


Whoever is going to stand against Vladimir Putin in the elections


Balin, Lord of Moria


Robert Lee


Quasimodo


Jar Jar Binks


Louis XVI

How to Get Women

Well after a lot of observations and profound cogitations, Fat Uncle Cheapo is pleased to announce that he has discovered the surefire guaranteed way to get girls to get gaga over you (a guy).


A point to remember is that this survival guide is only for those who aren't fortunate enough to be born rich, powerful or handsome/cute/hot.


For ease of ..well...for general easeness, lets divide it into DOs and DONT's


DOs

1. Be a lying cheating scumbag and overall despicable human being
2. Beat women up and generally treat them as garbage
3. Be a coward


If you diligently perform these two activities, women will que to:

• Give you money
• Sleep with you
• Defend you in the face of the whole world

Now there are some activities you should never ever do if you want to have any chance of ever having a girlfriend.

1. Be a nice, honest, kind, generous human being [nothing turns women off faster than these traits]
2. Have enough courage and willpower to follow your beliefs (for example, give up your job and stare at bankruptcy to take care of those in need) [that's just wrong as far as women are concerned]
3. Be respectful towards women [that's fucking kryptonite for your chances]


If you are any of the 3 above, then rest assured that women will rather commit suicide by jumping off the Sears Tower after consuming poison, alighting themselves all the while decapitating themselves with a chainsaw than go out with you.


So come on guys, be heinous, be douche-bags, be the scum of the humanity...and look out of the window to see the que.

WANKERS

Well, in today's Telegraph's there was an entry requesting the name of a Biblical dancer. Its Salome btw.

However, this particular clue posed two interesting observations in the mind of Fat Uncle Cheapo.


The 1st observation was that whoever makes crosswords are either geniuses or wankers...or probably both.


And this being Fat Uncle Cheapo, the thoughts soon permeated into identifying who all were Biblical Wankers.


We start with our man Adam.
He was a man.
Ergo he was a wanker.
All men are, no point pretending otherwise.

Next.

We come to the angels. Well, there seems to be way too many of them. In fact, there were so mnay of them that they had to establish an underground colony called hell. There is no way to determine the penchant for wanking in all of them. So we have to contend with a few superstars. (And its not my fault that all the superstars are from hell)

Apparently Asmodeus is a very lusty fellow; he fell in love with Sarah but never got to do it with her; so yes a wanker.

Baal on the other hand is a spider with 3 heads - so not a wanker.

Beelzebub is an insect...there is no proof whatsoever of any insect ever wanking, so.

Belphegor apparently "originated as the Assyrian Baal-Peor, the Moabitish god to whom the Israelites became attached in Shittim (Numbers 25:3), which was associated with licentiousness and orgies. It was worshipped in the form of a phallus."....comments or speculations are unnecessary


Leviathan is a whale (how in hell's name a whale ever came to symbolize evil etc is something noone will ever understand). Nuff said.


And finally, it seems that Moloch was a bit of a Wellbeloved. He went around asking people to sacrifice their children to him. Well, we all know what type of people like children in such a disturbing manner.

There seems to be some confusion about Archangels. It seems the religious types can't make up their mind about how many there are...some say 3, some say 4, some say 7. I will restrict myself to 3 - Michael, Gabriel and Rafael.


Rafael, being a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, is definitely not a wanker.


As far as Michael is concerned, reports indicate that he is a dude but all images, illustrations portray him as a feminine......no conclusion can be arrive at at this juncture but the words hermaphrodite, eunuch etc are roaming around.

Gabriel is apparently a man with superpowers - so basically a mutant. He is horny (has a horn) and loves children. I am not saying anything, but based on those facts, you draw your conclusions.





When has an Authority or Ruler or Power or Principal ever been a wanker? Since they exploit everybody so it is safe to say that they are not wankers.




According to Dionysius the Areopagite
 
"The name of the holy Virtues signifies a certain powerful and unshakable virility welling forth into all their Godlike energies; not being weak and feeble for any reception of the divine Illuminations granted to it; mounting upwards in fullness of power to an assimilation with God; never falling away from the Divine Life through its own weakness, but ascending unwaveringly to the superessential Virtue which is the Source of virtue: fashioning itself, as far as it may, in virtue; perfectly turned towards the Source of virtue, and flowing forth providentially to those below it, abundantly filling them with virtue."

If that's not a description of an erection, nothing is. And if they are continuously erect, they have to wank.




From all accounts, the Dominions are Jedis...and Jedis aren't wankers.




An Ophan/Throne, mainly because it is either a wheel or a throne, is not.




The Hoi Polloi might think that Cherubs are fat kids. Deep research (3 mins in Wikipedia) suggests that that's bollocks. According to the lad Ezekiel, Cherubs are 'a tetrad of living creatures, each having four faces: of a man, a lion, an ox, and an eagle. They are said to have the stature and hands of a man, feet of a calf, and four wings each.'
Why do you think they had hands of a man?
Exactly.




The Seraphim most definitely are. Think about it, they are incredibly hot but so hot that they can't do it with others. So....




Next we come to the masochist carpenter. There is a difference of opinion amongst the theosophical types regarding this contentious issue. Well, to save the readers' (who am I kidding, reader's [sigh]) time, let me summarize it. Its a simple either-or scenario.


Either
JC went around doing prostitutes
Or
He was a wanker
Or
He married Magdalene and they had offsprings etc and there is a long line of descendants ending in

Now coming to the big man

a. There is no Mrs. God
b. He liked to look at naked women (can't blame him) and kicked out Eve when she nagged him for clothes


Well, do I have to spell it out people?



GOD is a Wanker.

Revelation

29 years, 2 months and about 20 odd days.


That's what it took for the Fat Uncle Cheapo to find his true calling.


All this time he was waddling about pissing away his time dabbling in grammar, literature, mathematics, biology, logic (for some extremely illogical reason), geography, statistics, economics, history, political science, syntax, phonology, semantics, sociolinguistics, Russian, applied linguistics, Spanish, American law, banking, insurance etc etc.......but none of them attracted him enough.


But now he has found it, he finally has an ambition.


He now knows what to do.


You see he always thought that there are 2 types of people who actually get paid to mess around with women's you know whats - gigolos and plastic surgeons.


Now Cheapo can never become a surgeon because the training process involves dissecting frogs, rabbits etc. Deliberately killing and mutilating innocent animals when there are millions of Manchester United supporters roaming around is abhorrent and repulsive, not to mention repugnant.

So that's out.


Now since it has been established that women would rather drink poison, set themselves on fire and then jump out of a very tall building all the while hacking themselves with a HIV and tetanus coated chainsaw rather than take off their clothes in front of Fat Uncle Cheapo, being a gigoglo is also out.


Ergo Cheapo was ambling around procrastinating like no tomorrow.




But it has recently come to his attention that there is a 3rd type of profession which involves said activity - women's blouse making.


Apparently, women have no problems getting their you know whats measured and groped by these individuals.


Upon hearing of this, Cheapo's first reaction was "Eh??" followed by "Are you serious?" and "WTF!!".



But upon pondering about this he has come to the conclusion that this is in fact perfectly logical and reasonable behavior from a species that regularly pluck their own eyebrows out with a tweezer and then draw those eyebrows with a pen.



So, now that he has an ambition and a zest for life, the only thing left for Cheapo to do is to learn how to put a thread through a needle.







Ohhhhhhhhhh dear 

A grave injustice has been done in which Fat Uncle cheapo has somehow managed to infuriate and insult 2 ancient civilizations, millions of human beings as well as cats.


 Now Cheapo is not really bothered about the cats, those lying, scheming, stealing, mouse hunting, milk drinking, brainwashing, meow shouting, aspiring world dominators are the enemy anyway. You see, the cats have made extensive treaties with the aliens (for the benefits of people from USAUSAUSA, let me clarify that by aliens, I DO NOT mean Mexicans, but rather Venusians and those buggers from Uranus), the giraffes, the seagulls (led by the brothers Eric and Steven) and of course the octopuses.


It is of course a plan to raise Cthulhu.



Fat Uncle Cheapo, whose innate awesomeness allows him to see the future has, well, seen the future and has already made preparations for the impending battle. Treating with the dogs and the orangs have been made. The dolphins and the ravens will come on board anytime.


The only problem is that the damn cats have so successfully managed to penetrate the human brain and brainwash them that most people don't even realise the peril they are in.

We will see what happens.



Anyway, to come back to the point, Fat Uncle Cheapo's favorite niece - the mommy missing, Uber following, McDonald working, media studying, orgy hating, Missisauga living, Ayush supporting, Abhas baiting, perennially crying about EFLU (even Adam did not cry this much after getting bumrushed out of Eden) - Kiddo has adopted a cat.


Having no imagination, she started calling it Jacks (it would have made much more since if it was in Montreal and the cat was called Jacques). Cheapo rightfully called it a lame name and decided to rename it.


He called the cat Nebuchadnezzar. Unfortunately, there were protests from various quarters.


So Gilgamesh was chosen.



The problem is that the cat is Persian.....as it turns out Gilgamesh most definitely wasn't....if anything he was Babylonian.



For those not historically inclined, this is tantamount to calling George Washington a royalist, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin a capitalist, Montogomery Burns an environmentalist, Pat Rice alive, Twilight literature, Mamata Banerjee a communist, Wellbeloved heterosexual or post-modernists as anything apart from a complete waste of time.


You see, the Babylonians and Persians, have, with grim determination and concentration, continuously been fighting each other for close to 4 or 5000 years now.


So, see renaming the damn cat, has once again become a bit of a necessity.


And here are the options.


Silulumesh Inimabakesh
Untash-Napirisha
Shutruk-Nahhunte 

Ashurbanipal
Nabopolassar
Artaxerxes

What's with the Leprechauns

Note: I am only taking literature in mother tongues.


I have been reading this set of stories by this Irishman called Michael Scott. quite decent enjoyable stuff with lots of history and mythology chucked in for good measure.


However, it got me thinking.


What is it about those Guiness drinking, potato eating, green wearing, rainbow chasing, English hating, begorrah shouting, St Patty worshiping bunch of leprechauns that make them good authors??


Some of them are really bloody good. What is even more interesting (well mainly to jobless people like me) is that they are not restricted to any 1 particular field (unlike say the comrades). These nutters are/were good in:


poetry n stuff - Yeats
adventure stories to far away lands - Jonathan Swift
horror/supernatural - Bram Stroker,
taking the piss - Oscar Wilde (one of the greatest piss takers the world has ever seen)
soul-crushing despair akin to watching paint dry - J M Synge
religious stuff - C S Lewis (though I still have no idea why he was against lip-stick; I mean I am against lipstick ads, esp in the middle of matches; but I just don't give a damn about the product per se, why he was so indignant about it only he knows)
postmodernism la-di-dah stuff - Beckett (forever destined to be mistaken for that English archbishop)
killer and mutilator of ancient classics - Joyce
the 2nd most mis-quoted playwright/dramatist in English language (after William the Bald) - Congreve
founder of malapropism - Sheridan
the other play write and perennial late comer - Goldsmith
thriller writer - Jack Higgins, Declan Hughes, Bateman, Alex Barclay, Declan Burke, Arlene Hunt et all


and then there is the guy who wrote (in his own words, "Die hard - with fairies") and created the 3rd richest fictional character in history [http://www.forbes.com/lists/fictional15/2011/forbes-fictional-15.html] and a series 2nd only to Pottermania


and the guy who won both the Noble Prize [back when it meant something, before they completely fucking ruined it by giving Henry Kissinger the Peace Prize (more or less akin to giving me the Don Juan de Casanova award for Services towards Women's Orgasms) and then by awarding Obama for being black] and the Academy Award [before they ruined it by giving the Best Pic gongs to Titanic over Good will Hunting, Shakespeare in Love over Saving Private Ryan  and then Chicago over Gangs of New York]



See the diversity?


In comparison:


Let's look at the Comrades.

They have great legendary authors, no doubt. However, those vodka drinking, proletariat loving, aristocrat killing, Mongol fearing, Rasputin obsessing, Siberia holidaying Ivans have successfully and with complete and utter determination and confidence managed to churn out masterpieces with just 1 template - 


Ch 1 - The suffering
Ch 2 - Oh the suffering
Ch 3 - Why so much suffering
Ch 4 - Is there no end to this suffering
Ch 5 - The misery

and so on an so forth


The only times they go away from this template, they either end up with pedophilia (a certain Wellbeloved's favourite book of all time) or go complete bananas with the excitement and end up with cats, choir-masters, Mephistopheles, witches, Pontius Pilate and the world's biggest masochist.



Let's now look at the Cheese Eating Surrender Monkeys


The more or less continuous thrashings and subsequent and inevitable surrenders to the Romans, the Goths, The Huns, the Normans (or in other words their own expats), the Germans (repeatedly), the Italians and the Vietcong have given rise to a bunch of authors who more or less can't see anything positive anywhere. They end up writing stories where everybody dies (exception being Count of Monte Christo where almost everybody dies)


On the other hand, the more less continuous drinking of fine wine, eating of good food (and snails), keeping of mistresses and basically not working at all (35 hour workweek) have also shaped the psyche so much that they have managed to churn out stories where people travel around the world, or go to the moon or to the centre of the earth (and harass dinosaurs) or go off to fight krakens or solve awesome mysteries.


They have also managed to give rise to without a doubt the world's most famous village.


I am not taking any of the philosophers into account because..well they are philosophers and thus not to be taken seriously at all...and anyway Camus was a goalkeeper, and we all know keepers are a little bit odd.



Let's look at the Senors.


Those tapas eating, siesta loving, castanet clacking, flamenco dancing, bull-fighting, god fearing, India searching, ole shouting, constantly moaning and whining, Inquisitional, genocidal, perennial whipping boys of just about anybody and everybody (they couldn't even win a civil war) have never managed to get around to the idea of joy and fun.



Being more or less mightily busy massacring ancient blood thirsty civilizations and getting their own arses handed over to them over and over and over again by the Romans, the Vandals, the Muslims, the British, Bonny etc have had such a profound effect on the collective psyche that they can't even think beyond

• Pessimism
• Disillusion
• Worries about the passing of time
• Loss of confidence
• Windmills

I am not even considering those hemlock drinking, Alexander teaching, robe wearing, eureka shouting, Spartan/Persian hating, democracy (true democracy you know, for only the ones who matter, not for undesirables like slaves, poor people, and women) inventing, perennially fighting, Zeus and Poseidon fearing, "History" creating, theorem sprouting, Academy founding, Colossus building bearded omnisexual baldies.


Any lot who have within them the means of writing both the story of Odysseus as well as the story of that wanker Oedipus while creating western philosophy, history and geometry have to be left well alone....those buggers are dangerous, no ass is safe.




And finally, we come to the Hypochondriac Hypocrites


Compared to some of the other languages, written Bong is awfully wee....it is only about 600-700 hundred years old. And the first 500 hundred years of that time was spent on writing religious stuff. And then came the Britishers and a whole new world. And so came a whole new plethora of writers (Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay, Manik Bandyopadhyay, Tarashankar Bandyopadhyay, Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay) and stories based on the template


Boy meets girl
Option A - boy falls in love with girl
                  girl reciprocates
                  they elope/get married
                  they starve to death
Option B - girl falls in love with boy
                  boy reciprocates
                  they elope/get married
                  they starve to death
Option C - boy falls in love with girl
                  girl does not reciprocate
                  boy goes bananas or drinks himself to death
Option D - girl falls in love with boy
                  boy does not reciprocate
                  girl commits suicide or becomes a nun/female sadhu etc
                  

Thankfully these atrocities were later redeemed.

Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay first moved away from the template and wrote some war stories.
Michael Madhusudhan Dutta wrote an epic poem

Sharadindu Bandyopadhyay introduced the Bong people to one of the best detectives ever in any literature anywhere in the world
And then the Roy clan took over. Sukumar decided to take the piss off everybody everywhere, Lila Majumder wrote awesome kiddy stories and Satyajit redefined science-fiction, fantasy and mystery stories forever.
Sunil Gangopadhyay (mystery), Shirshedu Mukhopadhaya (comedy), Bimol Kar (mystery), Moti Nandi (awesome sports stories), Samaresh Basu (mustery) and Majumdar (mystery and adventure), Syed Mujtaba Siraj etc have further redeemed the Bong literature.



Though nowadays, it seems people are only writing about extra-marital affairs for some reason. So, its only a matter of time before the original template is readopted. SIGH.


Based on the fact that a little knowledge is a dangerous thingy and that I have no wish to look a fool in my own fucking blog, I am staying clear of German and Hindi/Urdu literature. I also have absolutely no fucking clue about Chinese, Japanese, Dravidian, Balkan, Portuguese, Scandinavian and Persian literature. And Arabian literature is beyond criticism after that awesome book of porn spanning 1001 nights. And I am not taking South American and African literature coz, well, all the good stuff (ye know the ancient tribal lores etc) is gone forever anyway. Fuck, sadly even their languages are dying. Its all in French, English or Spanish.


So I come back to the original question. What is it that makes the bloody Irish so much fun?

The Circus

No am not talking of the Charlie Chaplin film, nor am I talking about those tented spectacles involving clowns, acrobats and trapeze artists.


What I am talking about is my office.


In fact, truth be told, it is more of a museum or even a freak-show.


You wanna know why?


Well, to star off, the boss is gay....and a sexually frustrated one at that. All day he goes around touching the backs of various men.



Doesn't bother me since, with me, he uses different tactics.


He keeps touching my shoulder, that too the one injured by She Who Must Be Obeyed.



Next we have a marketing lad who confuses women with chicken and persists in calling the former as chicks.



Then we have a 3D animation guy who openly has both a wife and a girlfriend and spends all day trying to sell his land to businessmen.



Then there is the graphic designer who operates under an alias.



Then there is the female dwarf.



Talking of females, there are 2 relatively hot looking ones in office. Unfortunately, one of them has the voice of a donkey with bronchitis and the other is so shrill that an emotional Sanchetttttti is Darth Vader by comparison. There is another female whose voice is so low that probably only dogs are able to hear her properly.


We also have a Muslim lad who is becoming a disciple of Brahmakumaris and keeps chanting 'om shanti'


Then we have the hermaphrodite.


How do I know he/she is a hermaphrodite you ask?


Well, to begin with he pretends to be a guy though he/she has not facial hair. Plus he never uses the urinal.  She/he may be shy you say. Of course he may be but then again I might understand if he shies away from using one of the urinals when the others are occupied but not using them even when all of them are free, hell even when the whole rest room area is empty?? I think not. He/she does not have boobies, so he can't be one of them cross-dressers, so hermaphrodite he is.



We also have a commie hating HR guy, an alcoholic driver, a failed lawyer, a lad who only eats at KFC, an aspiring MBA who bursts into palpitations when asked her name in English,  an office boy obsessed with Farmville, an office amma who keeps pestering me for biriyani recipes and a finance guy who haven't got around to the concepts of basic mathematics.


Then there is my deaf mute friend who has decided to fall in love - but only after inquiring about the marital status of the object of his affection.



And then - like the big ass tip of a humongous iceberg, like the chocolate chips in a chocolate ice cream, like the bling on Mr. T,  like Anduril in the hands of Aragorn - there is me.

Pissed Off - An Ode (sorta) to an Unsung Hero

Let's take literature


And I mean proper literature, with actual stories, not the namby pamby Guus awful post-modern bullshit.


Somewhere somehow some la-di-dah decided that he or she will start writing books with no stories but with lots of adjectives and just like a herd of buffoons, the other la-di-dahs agreed.


So, when talking of proper literature, remember that it is supposed to be a reflection of real life.


And in real life, people get pissed off.


So, that being said, tell me who should be the most pissed off man in the world of literature?


Note: 1. I flat out refuse to talk about depressing stories or characters - so no Russians, no Woolf, no Hardy, no Joyce etc etc.
2. Gollum/Smeagol is disqualified [for being too human]. So is Wolverine [for being super-human].



We have to start with Adam (try living with the knowledge that you gave up a rib to get kicked out from heaven)

We have to take into account Odysseus (he fights a 10 year war and then he just wants to go home...and btw I firmly believe he will still do all of that rather than read James Joyce's story about him)

As well as Arjuna (try sharing your wife with 4 other wankers (unless you are into swapping)....and then get lectured on morality by the greatest luj character in history)

Sancho Panza can be a good candidate (try living with a mad man)

So can be Dr. James Watson (try living with a drug addict)

MacBeth can be considered (try living with Lady MacBeth)

So can be the members of the Reform Club who lost the wager to Phineas Fogg (what were the odds eh)

Captain Ahab is a definite candidate (try living with 1 leg)

So is the Man in the Iron Mask (well try living with an iron mask)

Romeo's father (can't be arsed to find out his name) was one pissed off man (try living every day with the knowledge that you have given birth to a numpty so extraordinaire he can't even differentiate between a living and a dead person)

So was Malvolio (no explanations necessary)

Spare a thought for Pongo Twistleton (try living with Frederick Altamont Cornwallis Twistleton as an uncle)


And for Batman (you save their ass, they call you an outlaw)

If we are considering women, then Impedimenta is worth a shout (try living in a village of madmen)

Also worth lots of shouts is Lady Constance Keeble (try living with Clarence and Galahad as your brothers)



But none of them come even close to our winner. He is a simple man. He has no wish to be a hero or a protagonist. He just want to sell some meat.



Ladies, gentlemen and those of the hermaphrodeic persuasion


I give you


Cutts the Butcher


(and each and every one of you who have ever received a call from a wrong number during an important meeting/event/occasion will agree with me)

What would Wayne Rooney Say

When all hope seems gone
When everything seems dark

When life seems to have lost all meaning
When the very act of breathing seems a chore
When the present seems unbearable and the future looks bleak
When it seems that you have nothing but a lifetime of despair and misery to look forward to



Just ask yourself one question




What would Wayne Rooney say?






Who? Who is this paragon of wit and intelligence that can beguile the masses with his sermonizing skills? Who is this most eloquent of all orators that carries on the tradition of Aristotle, Plato, Socrates, Marcus Antonius, Buddha, Jesus, Vladimir, Adolf and Chairman Mao??




I shall tell you.




In Scouserland in the late 80s of the previous century was born a wee lad who looked like the illegitimate offspring of an ogre and a potato.



Those who were with him at the moment of his birth became convinced of his future greatness when, unlike any other baby in the world, upon spanked in the bottom by the doctor, the 1st sounds that came out of his mouth wasn't waaaahhh but


"What? Fucking What?"



A few years later, the wee orcito was put in a school where they tried to teach him the Scouse alphabet.



A is for apple
B is for banana

et etc



It is at W that the trouble usually started. The only sound that used to come out of the wee ogrito's mouth upon hearing W was


What? Fucking What?





The poor lad never managed to learn the joys of X, Y and Z (and failed geometry as a result).



Seeing that the little ogre was to studies was Oedipus was to healthy family relationships, his parents decided to teach him footy.


They took them to the Toffee Footy Academy where they met the Tracksuited Glasgewian, who asked the young fella, "So do ye want to play footy all yer life?"


the response



What? Fucking what?



Years passed. The little orc grew up to be a massively ugly orc and fell in love with a nurse.



He went and got down on one knee and opened up a box of ring and said



What? Fucking What?

Gorging

1 plate chicken biriyani, 1 plate reshmi kebab, 1 shahi nawabi chicken curry followed by chocolate chip ice cream, all washed down with a bottle of Pepsi.


If you are wondering, that was my dinner yesterday, and before anyone asks, no i am not not supposed to  have 4 of the 5 items mentioned above.

So why then did I have them?


Here is why.

Reason Uno

I woke up in the morning and realised that in my infinite wisdom, I had not only forgotten to keep my food in the fridge the night before but had also forgotten to give Baldrick his nightly dose of electricity - he spent the whole night with a half-empty stomach.


So after packing semi-stale food and with a half-hearted Baldrick, I set forth.


Soon, however, I realised that it is not going to work. There was no way in GaryfuckingNevilleLand that Baldrick was going to take me all the way to the office.

Extreme calculations followed.

I figured that I had to park him somewhere and travel the remaining distance in one of the vehicles from GaryfuckingNevilleLand, or in other words, an auto.


But where to park?


In the parking lot of a hospital zone of course!!!


Think about it, what is the 1 place for vehicles where parking is not only free but also safe?


Exactly.


And before anyone starts complaining about the ethics or morality of it, well I was ethical, moral and honest for 29 years - did it help? 


So that problem was over.


I boarded an auto...and then...and only then...realised that I am going through a temporary cashruptcy problem.

Make no mistake, I literally have hundreds of thousands stashed away in the banks. However, in my infinitely marvelous wisdom, I have forgotten my ATM PIN. So, I am currently in a situation where I can book a flight easily, but can't pay for an auto.


Anyway, thankfully I had the bare minimum cash that day to avoid embarrassment and a possible beating.


And then I got vindicated.You see, for years, I have been saying that 'feminists' were created to destroy the world. In all probability the Great Indian Chunkubaaz had something to do with it. 

And its not even something I cooked up. A respected professor (though there are allegations that she is a vampire from Vancouver) of a respected university had told all her students to read this theory and to write papers on it.

This paper, written by a feminist herself, finally revels the truth - that all feminists are cyborgs!!!!!! [Those arguing that all cyborgs can be feminists just need to see the Terminator films {The 1st 2, not the shower of shite that was the 3rd]}]

If you don't believe me, read this - http://gendermediatechnology.weebly.com/uploads/5/2/8/6/5286294/cyborg_manifesto.pdf

So, once I stopped reading that (couldn't finish...man I know you literary philosophical types demand to be taken seriously, but there is no excuse to write something so forking boring....even watching paint dry would be more exciting....come on people, a wee bit of razz-muh-tazz never hurts anyone) I had to do something to get the gray cells active again.

And so I started doing the crossword puzzle.

45 minutes!!! That's how long it took me to finish it. One of my best performances to date. And the only word to have stumped me was egresses. And I never even checked a dictionary. I swear on Branislav Ivanovich's oddly shaped head.









45 minutes!!! That's how long it took me to finish it. One of my best performances to date. And the only word to have stumped me was egresses.

And I never even checked a dictionary.

I swear on Branislav Ivanovich's marvelously oddly shaped head.



All this demanded a celebration.



And there is only 1 kind of celebration you can do when you are all alone - eat.



Reason Dos



Well now that I have been more or less disqualified from the human race (possibly for farting anywhere and everywhere), as a reason of which I have been depressed, dejected, miserable (blah blah blah) for weeks, it was high time I treated myself.


No one else does.



Reason Tres


Some of you already know that I have recently taken up an interest, hobby, cause.


My target - 5 kilograms (11 pounds for citizens of USAUSAUSA) of weight in 2 weeks.


And achieving such a target needs not only dedication but lots of chewing and digesting.

Thank Sod for Religion eh

Yep, I am thanking religion, you know the thing that is the first and last excuse of one group of people who want to kill another group of people.


All of you who know me, really know me know that I can fall under either of three categories - Pastafarian or Agnostic or Jedi.


Basically, I have no time for a mass murdering sadist/masochist with existential dilemma or a mass murdering pedophile with delusions of grandeur or a mass murdering mass seducing stealer of women's clothes or a mass murdering mass destroying wife killing pothead or even someone who for all practical purposes just ran away.


I would rather eat pasta and worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster.


Unfortunately, or rather for comedic relief fortunately, my fellow Indians have a very narrow list of possibilities when it comes to religions.


As a result of which I have become the most secular person in history.


This is how.


All the maids, guards, watchmen think I am Muslim.


All those who have passed high school think I am a Christian.


All those who can associate my surname with the Bong naming conventions think I am a Hindu.


All those who have asked me what I am have usually gotten the answer "a fat buddha (geriatric)". Naturally, they have taken it up as meaning that I am a Buddhist.


So that's 4 of the top 5 religions in the pocket then. The 5th is probably missing only because the average Indian has no clue what the Jewish religion is.

Coconomics

Ever since our ancestors decided that getting off the trees might be a good career move, we, that is human beings, have been fascinated by wealth.

However, what constitutes wealth has changed from time to time.


At the beginning, a man's wealth was judged by the number of women he owned.


Then it turned into land or cows. Make no mistake, men's desire for women in wholesale amounts continued for a long time, and let's face it, some silly sods still have it.  Thankfully, wome are the not the basis of currency any more.


[Seriously, think about it, instead of cash, u get paid with the currency of women. 1 Uber, and that too only as a friend, is enough to terrify, petrify, horrify and scare the living heebiejeebies out of me, just imagine say 10 of her species as payment at the end of every month.

Nightmares ahoy!@!!!!!


Kill me, kill me now!!!!! ]



And then there was gold. I don't really know when gold first became important (some nerd somewhere must have done research on it......and sigh :-( i would really like to read it), but boy did it become important. It still is and till Armageddon, probably will remain as such.


Gold, or money, became the true mover and shaker of wealth. Its still pretty damn heavy to carry around though.


Then came liquid gold, or petrol.


Nowadays, gold and liquid gold take pride of place as the top movers and shakers of world economy.


Well, at least it used to, till the modern economists came into the fore. Modern economy now runs on air, on promises and future speculations.


And the worst aspect is that the only people who can have a slice of the wealth pie are the already wealthy. For us, poor plebs, there is nothing to look forward to but a lifetime of misery and hard work.


Which brings me to one of my inferences - never evvvvver allow an economist to run anything, not a football club, not a country, not anything important. (There will be a different blog about who should be allowed to run countries and who should be deported to Pakistan)



Well, if you chart the progress of wealth, you will see that wealth has steadily become more and more abstract.

Think about it.


First, we have women - definitely concrete.


Then there were lands and cows - still concrete.


Then gold - less concrete only due to the fact that most people never see an ounce of gold in thier lifetimes anyway.


Petrol will be an abstract thing, to be found only in museums, in about 50-100 years of time.



But false promises, hoodwinks, speculations and downright lies are as abstract as you can get.


Sadly, the whole world has fallen prey to this disease.

No, I tell a lie.



There is a group of people who still cling on to the old ways - so to speak. They don't believe in land, in gold, in petrol, in promises, in air - what they do believe in is Coconomics, the economy of coconuts.


Yep, am talking about the Mallus.


You see, the Mallu people are intricately conjoined with coconuts.



Let me present to you some evidence to support that hypothesis.


Look at their mythology. Irrespective of religious affiliation, all Mallus celebrate Onam.

But what is Onam?


You see, in those ancient times, when luj character gods used to loiter around the country, there was this Mallu king called Mahavali. He had millions of acres of land where he grew billions of coconut trees.



One day, a dwarf came to his kingdom.

He said, "Yo king, I hear you are like all generous and stuff. Give me some coconut trees."

The king said, "Ok dwarf, here is a coconut. Throw it. I'll give you all the coconut trees in the area you can cover with the throw."

The dwarf said cool and then turned into a Yeti or Bigfoot. He then threw the coconut as high as possible and it fell on the king with such force that the king got buried.


So the dwarf took over the whole kingdom.


Look at Mallu history.


Do you know that Christopher Columbus actually reached the Mallu shores?


Oh yes, he did. Historians often ignore this but he he did come. He never landed though.

You wanna know why?


Well the day he tried to land, the Mallus were celebrating something. They were dressed in their kathakali finery and were cooking banana chips with coconut oil. The smell was so atrociously, horribly bad and the dresses of the Mallus so weird that it made Columbus went:"Mio Dio! Abbiamo raggiunto l'inferno! Si prega di Dio salvaci salvaci" and sailed away in the opposite direction as far as possible.



Just think, them Americans owe their existence to coconuts!!!!


Let's look at Mallu society then


When Mallu girls get married, they take dozens/hundreds/thousands/millions of coconuts along with them as dowry.


Look at the buffet menu at the weddings/birthdays/whatever else they celebrate


Coconut Sherbet
Coconut Soup
Coconut Salad
Coconut Fry
Banana Chips (in coconut oil)
Cocount Dal
Coconut Rice
Coconut Achar
Coconut Chutney
Chicken/Mutton/Beaf in Coconut Gravy
Fish in Coconut Gravy
Coconut Chutney
Coconut Payasam

and of course

Coconut Water


A typical scene in a Mallu market would be

Man 1: I like this shirt.

Man 2: It costs 25 coconuts.

Man 1: 25!!! Man Alive. Are you crazy? I will give you 10 coconuts


You get the picture.



Now you all must be wondering "What in the name of ectoplasm do the Mallus do with all these coconuts?"


The answer is - EVERYTHING


According to anthropologists, sociologists etc etc,


the Mallus:


Eat Coconuts
Drink Coconut water
Sleep on mattresses made of Coconuts
Use Coconut Oil for:

1. Cooking
2. Garnishing alcohol
3. Anti-dandruff, anti-lice Shampoo
4. Body massages
5. Make up
6. Putting on cuts (you knows Anti-septic; instead of Dettol, they use Parachute)
7. Washing powder
8. Toothpaste

The all time 'hittest' tv show in Mallu land is one about the Life of a Coconut Tree

They also allegedly coconuts as sex toys (don't ask, the mind boggles)

Land of the Lost

aka

How Cheapo stole the show

aka

The Curious Case of the Missing Chappals

Here it is


Chronicling the chronicles of our very own Fat Uncle Cheapo in the land 
so confused they can't even figure out what their name is. Sometimes 
they claim it is Tatanagar, sometimes they claim it is Jamshedpur.

As you might have become aware, Cheapo's oldest friend Merriaduck 
Brandybuck (they have been buddies since the Jurassic Age........Cheapo 
has even forgotten the number of times ole Brandy had saved Cheapo from 
them triceratops and velociraptors) fell in luw with a Leonardo da Vinci 
painting and decided to get married.

Being the 21st century, there was no problemo in an inter-special (man 
and painting) marriage. The only problem, the marriage was scheduled in 
the aforementioned land of the lost.

Naturally, Brandy invited Cheapo. Naturally, Cheapo accepted. Naturally, 
the Maoists got to know of Cheapo's impending arrival and made threats 
to kidnap him. They allegedly made preparations also; for example, they 
bought a crane. But the Cheapo is no coward (except in front of Uber). 
After the amount of thrashings and beatings and pulverisings that he had 
received at the hands and feet of Uber, Maoist threats induced no fear 
in him.

Anyway, the mere mention of the name of Uber made them go back into hiding.


Next problem - the train was scheduled at 6 in the fing morning. Yes 
that's right 6. So, Cheapo had to wake up at 4 (this after he had flown 
all the way from Hyd to Kol the night before, he had reached home only 
around 1130 in the night). He reached the appointed pick up spot even 
before the groom could arrive.

Anyway, they proceeded towards the station (with only a small break for 
buying garlands - people completely ignored Cheapo's suggestion of 
buying garlands made of hibiscus [traditionally worn by goats just 
before they are sacrificed] - and they reached the station) The rest of 
the party soon arrived and there was much confusion regarding Cheapo's 
identity (there was intense speculation [more than even Wolverine's 
origins]0 - There were rumours about Cheapo being a Caribbean 
drug-dealer, a Nigerian scamster, a murderer on the run {metaphorically 
of course}, an Al Qaeda suicide bomber or even the worst of them all, an 
amateur poet.


Well, at least the train was AC. Having bagged a window seat, Cheapo 
then proceeded to pursue some intellectual activity. namely reading the 
newspaper.


And then there was cake.

But, but, but. but alas sniff, sigh, sob, sorrow, misery, despondency - Cheapo couldn't eat the cake. You see, he was scared of the looish arrangements available in the land of the lost; so he didn't want to put pressure on the stomach.

So, with a heavy heavy heart (ironic that, due to the medical condition of said organ) he, and the rest of the populace, reached the land of the lost.

Consternation ensued.

You see, Grandma Uncle Cheapo had repeatedly informed Fat Uncle Cheapo that Land of the Lost will be bloody cold. Fat Uncle Cheapo being a cold blooded clackalackadackdack, really looked forward to it. But alas, it was not to be.

The place was as hot as Uber.

So, the moment, nay the minute, nay the second Cheapo got out of the train, he started sweating. 

Well, after some last minute calculations involving which vehicle would be able to hold Cheapo without breaking down, they all proceeded towards the destination.

[Aside nice wee town, lots of greenery, lots of cows]

They reached the place and lo and behold

NYUM NYUM NYUM 

Luchi, potato curry, rosogollas

I reiterate NYUM NYUM NYUM 

However, the heat kept on rising. And looking at the sleeping arrangements, Cheapo realised that there is no way in Pakistan he would be able to sleep if he stayed there the night.

Anyway, chronologically speaking, after the NYUM NYUM NYUM, it was time to throw turmeric mixed with mustard oil (Bong wedding what do u expect) at the groom.

Mutiny!@!! Revolt!!!!Rebellion!!!!Insubordination!!!!!!

They put the evil concoction on Cheapo's face, and more heinously in his beard too. (one disadvantage of being a toddler is that when u grow up, you still can't shout at people who have seen u as a toddler - the groom's aunt being the person committing the atrocities on Cheapo's beard)

Cheapo felt like a fish fry.

Anyway such indignities aside, the afternoon passed off more or less peacefully. Well, Cheapo had to carry wimmin's make up kit (as part of gifts from groom's family to bride's family - its a Bong thing......gifts which also strangely and weirdly included a big ass fish with a 'pan' stuck inside its mouth) and because of the heat he lost more or less 10-12 litres of sweat.

Also, having seen the facilities for the groom's entourage and knowing the condition of his most excellent health, Cheapo declared that for him to stay in a non-ac room without dying, hell has to first freeze over or Arsenal needs to win something - whichever came first. So, the groom, on the day of his wedding, had to think about accommodation for the fat disturbing element. 

Cheapo got an AC room in a hotel in the city. Coz of scarcity of rooms, he had to share it with the groom's aunt. 

And she snores

Boy does she snore. 

Anyway on came evening, and just coz this is Cheapo, the heat increased. 

After toying with the idea of dressing up for exactly 2 and a half minutes, Cheapo decided, for the sake of his health and the sanity of others, to preserve normalcy - result shorts and t-shirt. 

Suffice to say it was a sort of surprise to say the least for the assembled plebs at the wedding venue. Rumour has it that the ladies especially cursed the hell out of Cheapo - all their finery and jewellery and the kilos of lipstick and face powder/cream all went in vain.

No one looked at them, hell no one even looked at the bride or groom. 

Guess who the centre of attention was?

That's right

Well, realising that Cheapo is useless and more or less a 'dharti ka bojh' the assembled intelligentsia decided to use his one quality - his ability to sit at the same place with negligible movement and no locomotion for hours at an end.  They handed the groom's wedding footwear to Cheapo for safekeeping. Apparently people steal those and then extort the groom for money.

Yes people, nothing is more religious and honest and sacred in an Indian wedding than a spot of theft, blackmail, extortion etc. 

Strange people, us Indians.  

Cheapo sat on it.

But he made a mistake.  

People, a word of advice, never underestimate the tenacity, determination, guts,  bloody-mindedness and sheer suicidal nature of Bong aunties.   

All of a sudden, while Cheapo was dreaming of naked women playing football while Cheapo was eating ice-cream,  one member of that suicidal species of Bong aunties and crawled under Cheapo's chair and abducted the chappals. 

Cheapo decided that pondering about the Bong people is as futile an exercise as keeping Zlatan in a team playing the Champs League and went off in search of food.

And it was good, really nyum nyum nyum (despite the presence of copious quantities of salad and Ganeshas curved out of cucumbers and brinjals)

Oh one final thing, some of ye are married, some of ye want to be married, but all of you will agree that having in-laws is a headache right?

Now, in normal  circumstances, you have 1 pair of in-laws, if you are unlucky you end up with 2 or 3 pairs or even 4 pairs. 

Guess how many, our lad Merriaduck Brandybuck ended up with...

Come on come on guess

12 pairs