How To Win The US Presidential Elections And The Nobel Peace Prize In 5 Easy Steps.

A little update before we begin: just last week, my mailbox was flooded with over 3 emails enquiring why I’ve been away for so long. Well, actually just 2. The other was a penis enlargement cream commercial, but that’s not the point. The point is that people care – if not about my blog, then at least about my health and well-being.

Real life has been tricky lately, leaving very little time to do things I really love. For instance, I barely get enough time to catch all the episodes of my favourite entertainment show – Rehna Hai Teri Palkhon Ki Chaaon Mein. I was heartbroken when I found out that Kanchan’s mother wants Suman to marry Kartik, not Karan. In the name of God, how could you do that to the poor orphan girl?

Will Kanchan’s mother have a change of heart? Can Karan convince his brother to stop acting like a douche bag? Will the viewers ever figure out how the family, who sit around all day long either drawing Rangolis or bitching behind each other’s backs, pay the electricity bills and the house rent? What if we find out that Ramu kaka is an undercover Ninja Assassin hired to kill the entire family? Will true love emerge victorious in the end or will Kanchan’s mother’s rotund ass crush it under its massive weight?

All your answers in the next riveting episode. Keep watching.

And now, back to the post.

Let’s start with a few words of wisdom from Paulo Coelho:

When you really want something, the entire Nobel Selection Committee conspires against the rest of the nominees of the universe and gives it to you instead.

I agree with Mr. Coelho. If it is the Nobel Committee that you want to tuck away in your back pocket, then Urim and Thummim are of no use my friend. You have to devise your own strategy to win. If you can’t think of one on your own, just follow my five-fold success plan free of cost:

1. Be heard

Start your quest by understanding the importance of an appealing voice. Please note that you’re going to need a great voice to bullshit people about selected issues from a wide range of choices handed down to us by our forefathers. Just to help you begin, here are some free themes that you may use. Kindly grab a pencil and paper and note these down.

A. World peace.
B. Moon peace.
C. Sun peace.
D. Nuclear disarmament is countries that can’t even spell disarmament.
E. Nuclear empowerment in the USA only, so that item A. can be accomplished peacefully.
F. Tax relief for the multi-millionaires and the unemployed – to show that you care about both “extremes” of society. This little exercise can be more effective if you can make a nice PowerPoint presentation showing how you’re going to fund item E. by heavily taxing the middle class. Please use bright colours and attractive fonts in your slides so that they will be taken in the right spirit.
G. Organizing belly dancing nights and providing free booze-on-tap at every old age home and orphanage.

Now that you have your very own agenda, start your vocal training. No one would ever take you seriously if you repeated the above in an Anu Malik voice or a Farhan Akhtar voice. You would sell many albums, yes, but as I said, people will not take you seriously.

For a candidate to sound really impressive, their voice must have 4 mandatory tones: rich, deep, crisp and honest.

The rich tone signifies your credibility. It should not be arrogant, but instead very down-to-earth and humble. The I’m-a-billionaire-but-I-give-a-dime-about-you-people-living-on-the-streets kind.
The deep tone marks your masculinity, which you will use to politely threaten poor countries. This deep tone is mainly used to attract ladies across all age brackets, hence it is very important.
The crisp tone indicates clarity. It highlights your single minded focus on world domination.
And the fourth tone, the honest tone. This tone is used to carry off all the other tones smoothly. It is the gulp of water that will make swallowing shards of metal much easier.

The resultant voice should be flawless. It will not only strengthen diplomatic relations between countries, but also gives channels like CNN something to talk about.

2. No Teething Problems.

The second absolutely vital requirement for winning a Nobel peace prize is dental hygiene. Maintaining a set of flawless, pearly white teeth is yet another filling in the Nobel cavity. Please note that it is easier for people to accept a man with a perfect smile as the new face of hope than some toothless oldie who wears dentures. Please take this subject very seriously and start flossing at least twice daily.

3. What’s Your Age Again?

The third indispensable point is the need to appear youthful. You can’t achieve world peace if you delivered all your speeches from a wheel chair or had to take frequent breaks to change the incontinence diapers. To avoid this scenario and to show that you still got it, please follow these simple instructions:

1. Get photographed “playing” basketball with a group of African American youths. Playing may imply either holding a basketball in your hand and smiling, or appearing to have a serious discussion with the aforementioned youths, while still holding the ball in your hand.

2. Use youth oriented colloquialisms like “dude”, “yo”, “what’s up”, “rock the house” and “keep it real” to show that you are still a boy fresh out of college. Keep referring the urbandictionary.com to keep your “youth vocab” updated, but kindly avoid accidental usage of slang terms for genitalia.

3. Aside from wearing business suits, also wear “sporty” attire to show your extra-curricular side. Get photographed at a golf course so that your attire goes well with the background. This step could be avoided if you bear any resemblance to Tiger Woods.

4. Whenever you get a chance, please visit some broke neighbourhood to show your concern. Talk to the locals there and keep nodding your head as they narrate their list of problems. DO NOT FORGET to get photographed holding someone’s baby in your arms and playing with its hair. Also, try to get photographed patting a handicapped person’s back/ making a sandwich in someone’s kitchen/ helping an old lady cross a street. Remember to wear the same full monty smile in all photographs.

4. Verbal Stimulation Package.

The fourth step – touching people. No, not in the Bill Clinton way, silly. You must choose words that touch people deep, deep inside. For these purposes, you must consult the good people from Hollywood. Ask them to write some powerful, emotionally stirring speeches for you. They should be impressive enough to make the average redneck go, “wow, that was impersiveful…some!” and vague enough to be interpreted in at least a 100 ways. Add a touch of humour to keep your audience awake. Basically, the speech should leave people confused, but happy.

Since you are new at this, allow me to provide a few sample lines that you may use. Kindly note these down.

1. “Over centuries we have evolved as a race known for our benevolence, our love, our tolerance. Be it Martin Luther King who dedicated his life to eliminating the fallacies of capitalism, or Adolf Hitler who inspired another classic from Quentin Tarantino, we have always been known for our values. Please hand over your nuclear reserves.”

2. “As the first rays of the sun break over the horizon tomorrow, America will wake up to a new country, a new hope, a new era. I promise you all I will make very good use of the unlimited power that you have vested in me. You guys rock!”

3. “I want to thank each and every single one of you for your love and support. This is the beginning of the trust to the change we choose to put our belief in. God bless America!”

4. “What did the Pakistani tourist ask the Indian guide? ‘Which way to Kashmir?’ Bwahahahahahahahahahaha. Hahahhahahahahaha.”

5. Follow The Instructions, Not Your Heart.

And finally, step number five. Sit at home with your lovely wife and your wonderful kids and wait till you get the next set of instructions. Just do as you are told and don’t ask any questions.

And don’t forget to floss tonight.

—-

As always, it’s now time to answer the weekly question from one of our excited readers:

Ramesh McCain from Malabar Hill writes:
I want to be a Nobel laureate. Will this 5 point strategy really work?

Sachin answers:
YES IT HAS and YES IT WILL! What are you waiting for motherfucker? Start your own campaign and rule the world!

?

Sometimes, some of the most mundane and the most seemingly inconsequential of activities can leave you thoroughly spooked by the end of it. Is it that you put too much thought where you shouldn’t and try to find a meaning when there really isn’t?

I was home for the festive weekend. The place needed serious clean-up, and there was no better place to start than my drawers, the now defunct study table and storage cabinets.

I was a little shocked at the diverse array of things that had accumulated in those drawers over the years. Things that I saved because I thought they were cool at that time, or were treasured for their sentimental value. Things I never really paid any attention to; usually dismissed as garbage that the ever accommodating wooden cabinets always welcomed with gracious hospitality. The same cabinets had also taken a liking to a group of spiders who were interior decorators by profession, and had embellished every single corner with tastefully designed webs to appease any connoisseur’s sensibilities.

Sifting through heaps and heaps of yellowing paper, unbelievably kitschy trinkets and forgotten, discarded memorabilia, I felt overcome with this strange mixture of emotions; a mixture as varied as the miscellany that lay in front of me.

A major chunk of the supposed ‘waste’ was proudly occupied by the remnants of Engineering: tons of books, Xeroxed notes, sheets and sheets of formulae dangling loosely from rusted staples, incomplete assignments, bills of books I never read, a thick sheaf of lewd doodles, lyrics and caricatures created to survive boring lectures, posters of hot chicks secretly stashed away in some of those books, silly football trivia, statistics and team formations that formed the bulk of all my practicals, ‘rough’ books that I used to practice Math problems, formulae, figures and also keep track of Manchester United’s projected points tally, a stack of youth magazines that I used to read during the lectures, and the ultimate reflection of all of these activities – the grand crowning glory – my less-than-flattering marksheets.

Obviously, letting go of all these things did make me cringe. After all, it was not trash – it was four years spent with some of the most wonderful people I’ll ever meet; memories so deeply anchored within that they always found their way back to me. As I started arranging the books and sheets in a tidy stack, all these lost, buried memories came alive. Sinha, for instance, used to write ‘Jai Saraswati Mata’ on all his notes. In one place, he had written it so close to the question that it looked as if it were a part of the answer! I also found GJ’s habit of trying to fit all his answers in one page really funny. It was almost as if he were saying to the examiner, “Ek page mein itna hi aayega. Chal check kar abhi!” Then there was this presentation that my project partner AK had lifted off some obscure site. I still remember the expression on the poor teacher’s face as AK rattled on about some vague technology that wasn’t even remotely related to the presentation topic. Post presentation, he duped the thoroughly confused teacher in giving as an A for our “original research”. And she did!

A little over four years of such silly memories stood in two neat stacks, each around 3 feet tall. Both the stacks gave a wobbling salute to the glory days of last minute studies and hurried presentations. I saluted them too – they were the real martyrs who made me who I am today – an IT professional with as much interest in IT as the local raddiwalla who they would be sold to eventually. (The raddiwalla later estimated that 4 years of education are worth 75 rupees, at 6.5 rupees per kilo.)

The stuff that remained buried underneath all of this, however, was the most unsettling. A collection of items I never thought I would see again, but there they were – suddenly jumping out and yelling “surprise!” from around the unknown corner.

The thing that disoriented me about these objects was the unordered order of randomness in which they resurfaced – a strange concoction of the past staring at you in the eye after so many years: Nearly decayed petals of a flower offered to God before a crucial examination, a few notes and coins given to me as “blessing” by some relatives, “prasad” that I was supposed to keep with my writing materials. A greeting card from a sister I haven’t spoken to in the last 5 years, a greeting card from another sister who was just learning to draw, a greeting card from a friend just before he left the city. A bunch of friendship bands that covered my wrists during Friendship day celebrations in college. One of them had a heart symbol next to my name. I had never noticed that before. Did that mean she liked me back then? 8 years too late to find the answer, I’m afraid.

There were a couple of “ghost masks” that I had won at some competition. Over half of those cardboard masks were devoured by termites and moths that made them look even more grotesque. Issues of a MBA magazine gathered dust in a far corner, just like my aspirations have, over time. A tattered paper with a silly motivational poem written on it – the only remaining relic from the days of optimism. A poster of Kurt Cobain – probably a sign of the changing times. An incredibly depressing letter that I had written to 2 people some time ago. I think I had written it because I didn’t have the guts to speak out the words. One of them read only half of it before handing it back to me. A toy gun I used to shoot birds with. I had used the gun to deliberately hurt a person on more than one occasion. It made me feel terribly guilty, and I had to get rid of it. There were a few hazy pictures of an old birthday party – the birthday boy, flanked by his parents, had a wide grin on his face. He was wearing his favourite Godzilla T-shirt, which was the coolest thing back then. The onslaught never stopped. A Winnie the Pooh comb given to me by the kid next door, a deflated football, pieces of paper with something scribbled on them. Finally, a couple of watches that I had stopped wearing a long time ago. The hands had permanently frozen at one point of time, perhaps indicating that it was time to move on.

Hours had gone by, and I was still rummaging through the remainder of the pile. I could have never imagined that cleaning out old cabinets would imply walking through the murky by-lanes of my mind and bumping into vaguely familiar strangers. Fortunately, I was nearly out.

I sorted the items into 3 large plastic bags. It’s astonishing to think that you can stuff almost a decade-worth of your life into just 3 large bags. The bags felt awfully heavy as I carried them out and left them outside the door. Something still felt heavy as I closed the door on them. Were they knocking at my door, pleading to let them in again?

It is funny how times change you as a person.

It is amusing how you don’t remember any of the several people you were over the years. People who prayed to God everyday, people who wore stupid colour-changing wrist watches, people who sucked at flirting, people who were expected to do well in future. People whose life can be neatly squeezed into 3 large bags.

It is tragic how the guy who collects garbage will come in the morning, pick up all those people and dump them along with the rest of the city’s trash.

It is terrifying that after all these years, the only thing that you really know about yourself is a “?”.

Come to think of it, a lot of people meet the fate of the trash bags in due course. Lost, unknown, faceless, the summation of an entire lifetime neatly packed in a bag and tossed into a common dump outside the city. The identity that took so many years to create would be so indistinguishable from the rest of the heap that no one would even notice something has gone missing. No one would even know that a person existed.

I had an interesting dream a couple of days later. In the dream, I was walking home from school. A little boy was walking alongside me. He asked me to race him. I agreed and we started running. Halfway through the race, I realized that I had forgotten the way home. The little boy was running away into the distance, but there was no way to catch up. I ran around frantically, but there were no roads in sight. Not once did the boy turn to look if I was following or not. So I just stood there, watching him run and disappear behind a large tree.

A blink of the eye and the dream was over.

Shhh! Did You Hear Something?

Well, hello.

Today, I want all of you to meet a bunch of failures – the worst in their field. Please take a moment to feel sad about them, okay?

Luciano Pavarotti – Italian tenor – Fail.

Andrea Bocelli – Italian tenor – Bigger fail.

Placido Domingo – Spanish tenor – El failure.

Jose Carreras – - Spanish tenor – El epico failure.

Bruce Dickinson, Rob Halford, Robert Plant, Ronnie Dio, Ozzy Osbourne – Heavy metal vocalists – Embarrassing high pitched fails.

John Lennon, Paul McCartney – The Beatles – Beaterrible fails.

Eric Clapton, Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen – Rock vocalists -
Grammy winning failures.

S.D Burman, R.D Burman, Kishore Kumar, Mohammad Rafi – Indian singers – Some more award winning, critically acclaimed failures.

Lata Mangeshkar, Asha Bhosale – Indian singers – nightin-fails of India.

You ask me, why do all these people fail? What do they have in common that results in their failure?

Answer: their voice. They have just one voice. Can you believe that? Just one stupid, lame, boring voice.

In today’s music industry, only losers work with just one voice. The more talented folk develop a second voice to add an extra dimension to their already dynamic range. Case in point – read this to believe your ears. Some more links here and here.

This story has spread like a wild forest fire and has got the Indian blogosphere abuzz with posts. Suddenly, swine flu doesn’t seem like a threat anymore.

I dropped everything and double-checked the article just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating or something. It’s as if one voice wasn’t enough to enthrall the audiences to the point of aural orgasms, the Nasal Whiner goes ahead with a surgery to get a SECOND voice. Wrong surgery, mate.

The article also mentions something about the new voice having a “base middle octave”. Now I have very poor understanding of music, notes, types of voices etc., so I just Googled this term and found this -

A base middle octave is powerful enough to match the resonance frequency of large buildings, trigger destructive oscillations and cause absolute mayhem.

Click here to watch Himesh testing his new voice atop a bridge.

Shit happens a lot more frequently these days, it seems. Before you even know it, His Capped Suckiness is going to unleash his second voice on the world. Do yourselves a favour and pierce your respective eardrums.

Cause

Effect

Cursed Luck.

Irony.

Pronunciation: ‘I-r&-nE also ‘I(-&)r-nE

Function: noun

Inflected Form(s): plural -nies

Etymology: Latin ironia, from Greek eirOnia, from eirOn dissembler

(1) Incongruity between the actual result of a sequence of events and the normal or expected result

(2) An event or result marked by such incongruity – incongruity between a situation developed in a drama and the accompanying words or actions that is understood by the audience but not by the characters in the play — called also dramatic irony, tragic irony.

Source: Merriam-Webster.

—

I’ve been itching to watch something ridiculous/hilarious for a long time, so I watched the epic classic, Luck. Here’s the review.

The Cast:

You would have to kindly bear with me on this because I couldn’t recognize most of the cast properly. Perhaps there was something wrong with my eyes, perhaps I was too overwhelmed due to all the mega awesomeness around me… I really can’t put my finger on it. Consequently, I request you to use your own judgment, which I believe is much more reliable than mine. Think about it – I WATCHED the movie, didn’t I?

Sanjay Dutt

The veteran actor plays Karim Moosa, the luckiest gambler in the universe. The opening scene features a blindfolded Dutt racing across multiple train tracks (when the trains are running, of course) but escaping without a scratch. The movie then takes us back to his childhood and shows how he survived a mosque collapse when he was a 9 month baby, a 4 storey drop when he was 7, a destructive flood when he was 13. This is justified by saying, “he’s just incredibly lucky.”

A deleted scene from the movie particularly caught my fancy:

A blindfolded Dutt is asked to pick a blue ball from a box containing 10 balls, all of different colours. Probability says his chances of picking up the correct ball is just 1/10. But as we all know, Mathematics is just a superstition that means nothing in real life. So, when Dutt puts his hand inside the box, he not only picks up the correct ball, but also an AK-56, ammo and drugs along with it! TADA! Not so lucky after all, huh?

Imran Khan

Another extremely lucky character in the movie. He rivals Dutt with his list of “lucky survivals.”

What he doesn’t realize is that the list also includes his previous movie, Kidnap. The fact that his career actually survived the cataclysmic catastrophe is a testament to the sheer power of good luck. So I guess his character makes a lot of sense. Good casting decision fellas!

Shruthi Haasan

Luck can be cruel sometimes, or so seems to be the case with Shruthi Haasan. After all, she is the daughter of the legendary actor Kamal Haasan and the mythical actress Sarika, so we should have expected acting to be in her genes, right?

Right?

*long, uncomfortable, embarrassing silence*

Cough. As I said, luck can be extremely cruel sometimes.

But hey, I loved her single note robotic voice though – it brought back memories of an engrossing Stephen Hawking presentation. Although I must say that Hawking, even with his condition, is more expressive than this lump of wood.

Luckily, it is only her voice that is as flat as an ironing board. The rest of her isn’t… so I guess that somehow makes up for her presence.

Ravi Kissan

Fortune favours the brave, they say. And the brave favour Bollywood. Apparently, limiting himself to the boundaries of highly acclaimed Bhojpuri films wasn’t enough for a man of Ravi Kissan’s caliber, which explains why he graced this movie with his impeccable elegance.

He plays a perverted psychopath in the film. Sources say that it took him over 10 seconds of untiring effort to get into character. The same sources also say that he hasn’t been able to come out of it since.

Chitrashi Rawat

The attempted comic relief. She wasn’t really required as the plot easily accomplished comedy of the greatest degree of hilarity all by itself.

In one of the most intelligently plotted and cleverly directed moments in the movie, a shark bites off Chitrashi’s leg. This also wasn’t really required because she is already lame to begin with.

This movie could have much been better without the odd redundancy here and there, you know.

Danny Denzongpa

There’s nothing wrong with his role/acting. He looks remarkably fit for his age, and his performance was the only thing worth watching in the entire movie. My respect, Mr Denzongpa.

Mithun Chakraborty

Let me get this straight once and for all: no one, and I mean NO ONE mocks Mithunda. He is a legend, and shame on you if you dare make fun of him ever. EVER.

The Climax:

(Spoiler alert – but you will be glad I saved your time and money.)

Obviously, there can’t be TWO lucky people alive at the same time, so they decide to settle it by playing a little game of chance. There are two guns to choose from – one has 5 blanks and just 1 bullet and other has all 6 intact. They have to choose one and shoot each other. Clearly, the guy picking up the first gun has only 1/6 chance of survival, correct? Well, think again.

Both of them pick up a random gun and shoot each other. As luck would have it, the guy who picks the gun with just one bullet does not shoot a blank. You almost begin to celebrate their deaths, when BAM! Story mein twist.

Dutt survives because he’s hit on the arm. Imran survives because (and I’m not making this up. This is how the movie really ended.) HE IS BORN WITH A RARE MEDICAL CONDITION WHEREIN HIS HEART IS LOCATED ON THE RIGHT HAND SIDE INSTEAD OF THE LEFT, AND THUS WHEN DUTT AIMED AND SHOT AT HIS HEART, THE BULLET MISSED IT.

The ‘Doctor’ then explains that this rare condition occurs in only 1 in 50,000 cases. What luck.

Incidentally, the guy who wrote the script was also born with a similar condition: he was born with his braincells located inside his ass instead of his skull. That’s not rare, is it?

Sanjay Dutt pushes his luck yet again by trying to sound all philosophical : “I’ve been really lucky all my life, but you know what? Luck only graces those who have the desire to win.” Fair enough, but this is nowhere to be seen in the movie. All of them are shown succeeding or failing only because of chance. And Dutt is depicted as this Mafia Lord who makes his living off bets, so I’m not sure why they would even attempt to rationalize such a lame plot with a philosophical statement. Just unbelievably epic chutyagiri.

To sum it up…

It may be writer/director Soham Shah’s second movie, but we don’t see Beginner’s luck favouring him. Beginner’s luck, get it? Hahahaha. Hahaha. Hmm.

And if you are one of those people who really believe that wearing a horse shoe pendant around your neck will bring you good luck, I propose tying an entire horse around yours and the entire cast’s neck and dumping all of you in the ocean. If you come out alive, you are indeed lucky and deserve to watch many more such intellectually stimulating movies. If not, well, hard luck.

Which brings us back to irony. All members of the cast think that they are luckier than the others without realizing what massive misfortune they have collectively wreaked upon the poor audience. Move over Shakespeare, your tragic ironies just got owned!

And finally, the question arises…

When I know that the movie is going to suck, why do I still go to a theater and watch it?

Good question.

You see, I’m a staunch follower of teh internets. On teh internets, there is a popular Rule that goes,

1. Do whatever it takes to get lulz.

2. Make sure the lulz is widely distributed. This will allow for more lulz to be made.

3. The game is never over until all the lulz have been had.

That is what I do. I purposely watch shitty movies such as this just for the lulz. And I must say, I wasn’t disappointed. Luckily.

Coffee, Tea Or Sodomy? Tee Hee Hee.

A country weeps in agony.

A country wades through rivers of grief.

A country stands in disbelief and outrage, shame and humiliation.

The country needs hope and strength to get back on its feet again.

My country.

‘BACKGROUND’

As a polite citizen of this splendid society, I humbly yell in anger, “what the bloody fuck is wrong with the Indian Judicial System, huh?”

3 years ago, it was Afzal.

“Let’s hang him.”

“No, don’t hang him.”

“Let’s hang him.”

“No, don’t hang him.”

“Oh look, he’s running away.”

“Don’t bother. We have much more important matters to deal with – like banning violent cartoon shows such as Tom and Jerry that could possibly corrupt little kids.”

“Ok.”

Last year, it was Kasab.

“I want lawyer.”

(was given a lawyer)

“I want newspaper.”

(was offered Midday – only for the Midday Mate)

“I want high fibre Marie biscuit and tea.”

(Served in finest silverware)

“I want 1 Happy Meal, free toy, warm chocolate sauce and 72 virgin lesbians.”

(Free toy offer was no longer available, but other items were delivered with sincere apologies)

This year, it is the magnum opus of all travesty: Homosexuality is no longer a crime.

Seriously, what were they thinking? What the hell would the High Court think of next? Legalizing bestiality? Legalizing paedophilia? Legalizing necrophilia? Legalizing romantic comedies starring Reese Witherspoon?

On the same note, why don’t they just go ahead and legalize public screening of gay porn in malls, hotels and railway stations? It would be delightful to watch, wouldn’t it? “A ‘fairy’ tale come alive!”

Thanks to your highly unbiased judgment and your ‘make-everyone-happy-and-gay’ rationale, all fruit cakes have come out of their neatly arranged closets and are now infesting the land, nearly blinding the entire country with the multi-coloured attire, like a sea of brightly coloured chunky gay vomit flowing in the streets. Complete with feathers, frills and fur.

I turn on the T.V, and the Whiners are celebrating the court’s decision. They can’t even complete a fucking sentence without moving their hands and touching their shampooed and conditioned hair 50 times/minute, for fuck’s sake.

I walk out of the house and it’s horrifying. It very closely resembles one of those zombie movies where the entire city is taken over by radiation afflicted dead people. “The Night of the Living Gay.”

A couple of men look at me, smile and wave. I can taste the bile in my throat. Ugh, I get the same icky feeling when I see cockroaches, lizards and Shoaib Akhtar.

I can’t even begin to imagine the scenes inside a Fashion Design college hostel. Dear Lord, be our saviour.

They call this shit Gay Pride. Where’s the pride in that, I wonder. It’s almost as stupid as saying “B.M.C. sweeper pride” or “U.A.E. cricket team pride.”

In my humble opinion…

…all this is utterly ridiculous because I do not understand the *concept* or *logic* behind homosexuality. When God created Adam and Eve, He gave them parts that are supposed to fit for a reason. It takes just the minimum amount of common sense to figure that out. Now what part of “your thing goes here AND NOT IN THAT CAVEMAN DUDE’S ASS” is so complex for homo sapiens to understand? Do they want this tattooed on the woman’s belly with an arrow pointing to the appropriate location? Why else would they go after illegal holes? Why can’t they just follow the Indian “Penal” Code? So many questions, but so few answers.

We can’t let this go on, can we? As I see it, this is going to strongly affect both straight men and women –

1. Men would have to deal with other men making passes at them
2. Women, who used to worry about their boyfriends having affairs with other women, now have an additional issue to bother about.

The time is now. This is the straight man’s hour of need. Let us all join hands, while strictly maintaining a distance of 3 feet of course, and pledge to put an end to this pestilence.

The solution is simple.

Men: always keep your spiked baseball bats handy. If bothered, aim for their pretty heads. Swing till you can’t hear their whiny voices no more. I call this a “homo run.”

Women: wear skimpy clothing. Shower your love and attention on your boyfriends. Act horny all the time. Show these fuckfaces what they are missing. That will surely de-homogenize them.

Pharmac companies: find an antidote, morons!

God: Kill ‘em all. Please.

The onus lies on every individual’s effort to contribute as much as we can to this noble cause. As John F. Kennedy once famously said, “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do to a country that’s doing each other up the ass.”

The fag end of this blog post:

Think I’m a prejudiced asshole? Tell me, what is life without prejudice? Prejudice gives us a fresh new perspective. We would have been one large, happy, loving family if it wasn’t for the gift of prejudice – and that, in my opinion, would have been just very gay.

For you see, a certain amount of bigotry, a dash of close mindedness, a sprinkling of intolerance and a pinch of hate crimes all contribute to the well being of the society. Else, these people would do to India what Ekta Kapoor has done to television.

***

If the High Court’s verdict wasn’t funny enough, here are some more fag jokes – extremely offensive, but that’s the point:

Did you know that only 10% of the homo population was born that way?
The other 90% were sucked into it!

How can you tell if a novel is homosexual?
The hero always gets his man at the end.

Did you hear about the two queers who had an argument in a gay bar?
They went outside and exchanged blows.

How can you tell if a bank robber is gay?
He ties up the safe and blows the Security Guard.

What do you call a gay Japanese woman?
Yoko Homo.

What has hit more balls than Ronaldinho’s foot?
Elton John’s chin.

How do you know if you’re in a tough Lesbian Bar?
Even the pool tables don’t have balls.

***

***

Kindly read with your eyes:

1. Please, do not leave your pricelessly accurate insights such as “r u a closet fag????” or “were u sexually abused as a child??” as comments. The answer to both is no. I did not spend my childhood playing with dolls or prancing around in skirts, thank you.
2. Well done, HC. They call you the ‘High’ Court for a reason… you were clearly high when you banged your hammer on the table. And no, that’s not a gay metaphor for crying out loud.

EX-Men Origins: Breakups Before Beginnings.

Every superhero has a past. A past that speaks not just of the days they’ve saved, the bad guys they’ve slain and the sequels they’ve made, but also about their failed relationships.

This summer, superheroes from all around the world will unite to face their past… and take on humanity’s biggest nemesis ever : love. For there doth not exists a burden heavier than a lovesick heart, a crisis bigger than a fucked up relationship, and a Kryptonite deadlier than an estranged lover’s fury.

In an age where nuclear warfare threatens the annihilation of mankind, 6 superheroes find a bigger problem on their hands. This is their journey – from X-Men to Ex-Men.

Only in expensive theaters.

Professor Charles Francis Xavier | Professor X

Professor Charles Xavier is the founder and the dean of the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. Not the Churchgate one, silly – that’s for Lower Learning. This one’s for mutants, and there are no SC/ST/OBC reservations here.

Powers: World’s most powerful telepath, capable of astral projection, mind control, illusion casting, memory manipulation, psychic blasts, as well as sensing the presence of other mutants in a limited radius.

Breakup story:

Xavier is blessed with a power that every guy on the planet would kill for – he can READ, CONTROL AND MANIPULATE thoughts. Just think! He is the only man on Earth who’s capable of figuring out what his girlfriend is really thinking, and actually dictating her thoughts.

Imagine:

Prof X: Evening honey!

Girl: Hey, love. I was thinking that maybe today…

(Prof immediately reads her thoughts)

Prof X: ..that you want to watch Notting Hill with me?

Girl (amazed) : Oooh, it was like you read my mind there!

Prof X: Yes, and I can change it too.

(Telepathically erases her memory and derails her train of thought.)

Girl: Oh Proffie, chuck Notting Hill. Let’s watch football instead. Wait, I’ll get you masala sing dana and beer. And how about having wild, raunchy sex after the match?

Girl (scratching head): Did I just say that? Funny, I don’t remember…

(Prof X zaps her memory again.)

Prof X: Much better. Make sure the beer’s cold.

**
However, this didn’t last for too long. Just when Prof. X was beginning to think that he had it all under control, prime time T.V. shows came in to ruin his party. To his pleasant horror, he discovered that : a confused woman + even more confused woman on Star World + retarded self-help advise = catastrophe.

Girl: Xavier, you lying controlling freak!

Prof X (telepathically sensing a rebellion): What’s wrong, babe?

Girl: Don’t babe me, asshole. I know that you’ve been messing with my head all this time.

(Prof X tries to quickly change her thoughts.)

Girl: Ha! That won’t work anymore, bastard! I took expert tips from Oprah and Dr. Phil, and now you no longer control me. I’m a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need a man like you. I’m a strong, independent woman…

(Prof. X attempts mind control and psychic sabotage.)

Prof X: Oh shit, I – I can’t..damn I – I. It’s like a force field inside her head.

Girl: I’m a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need…

Prof X: Aaah stop it.. my head.. aaarrggh I can’t take it anymore…

Girl: Now you know how I felt. I’m a strong, independent woman…

Prof. X has begun frothing at the mouth.

Girl : That’s right. I’m breaking up with you. And this is for everything you did to me.

*picks up a chappati rolling pin and starts hitting him on the head with it*

Now you know why Xavier uncle is bald, permanently confined to a wheelchair and always carries an indignant expression on his face.

Scott Summers | Cyclops

Scott Summers is one of the veterans in the X-men line-up, but has had his share of relationships woes. Mostly due to his impaired vision.

Powers: Cyclops possesses the mutant ability to project a beam of heatless ruby-colored concussive force from his eyes, which act as inter-dimensional apertures between this universe and another.

Breakup story:

Scott met his then girlfriend, Rupali Gajanan Bhavathankar, at a college DJ party. It was truly love at first…’sight’ for them. As he fell head over heels in love with her, his friends cracked sly jokes about “love being blind”. However, that did not deter them and their relationship blossomed faster than plants in a greenhouse.

Until that one fateful day, when he accompanied her to a shopping mall.

“How do you like this top, sweetie?”

“I dunno. I’m blind.”

“Do you think these bangles go well with the colour of my eyes?”

“I dunno. I’m blind.”

“Ah hey! See this? Garnier’s new under-eye-over-eyelid-beneath-earlobes highlighting cream. I’ve been looking for this for days!”

“B-L-I-N-D. Get it? No?”

“Ooooh look! This beautiful Chinese porcelain vase is on sale for just Rs. 10,000! And they’re giving away free peanuts too.”

“Oh crap. I wish I was fucking deaf too.”

“What’s that sweetie? You said something?”

“Yes, I did. I hate this relationship and I want out! I’m the leader and headmaster of X-Men, not some Pappu Chutya who tags his chamiya to shopping malls. You hear me? I fucking hate you, you piece of trash!”

“I understand, love. But do you think these earrings make my ass look fat?”

“Alright. That’s enough of this shit. I’ll no longer look at the world through my ‘rose tainted glasses’. Die, bitch!”

*Scott takes off his glasses and incinerates her to ashes with his laser beam vision*

“Chapter closed. I’m moving on, man.”

James “Logan” Howlett | Wolverine

Logan a.k.a. Wolverine is the team’s most senior and probably the most unshaven member. He’s arguably the toughest guy on the team, but when it comes to relationships, he’s more of a bheegi billi than a wolf.

Powers: Healing factor, enhanced senses, and retractable bone claws. Has the indestructible metal Adamantium bonded to his skeleton, allowing for enhanced physical attributes and razor sharp metal claws.

Breakup story:

Mr. Wolverine is sitting at the table one Sunday morning, reading page 3 of Mutant Mirror and sipping on his adrak tea. His girlfriend, Parminder Kaur from Patiala, strides in.

Wolverine, who has extremely well developed senses, smells trouble.

Wolverine (to himself): *sniff sniff* Strong perfume…a hint of anger in the her walk…PMS vibes… man, I’m in deep shit!

He hides behind the newspaper and pretends he’s completely absorbed in reading.

“Wolfy, we need to talk.”

“Fuck it. Here we go.”

“What’s that?” (glares at him)

“Nothing, nothing! You were saying?”

“Listen.. I want to talk about our relationship. I think we need to work few things out.”

(mutters under breath) “Deeper shit. Logan, tu toh gaya.”

“Wolfy, I think you need to take a little more responsibility around the house. I can’t do all the chores on my own. No bai would dare to work for us because they are shit scared of your anger management issues, and I can’t devote time to my career if I keep running around the house all day.”

“So what do you want me to do? Should I stop saving the world, sit at home and chop vegetables with my metal claws?”

“It wouldn’t kill you to help me, Wolfy. I have a very important meeting coming up this week.”

“Stop pissing me off with your bullshit. And quit calling me Wolfy – it sounds like a dog’s name.”

“And you stop trying to dominate me. It’s annoying me as well.”

“You know what? I -”

Wolverine gets up and advances towards her. She grabs him by the collar and shoves him back in the chair.

“Oye baith itthe tu, wolf de aulaad. If you’re a wolf, remember, I AM A BITCH! Tujhse sau guna badi kuttiya hoon main. Samajh gaya tu?

Wolverine gulps.

(rolling up sleeves) “Khasman khaneya, khotteya… nikamma na hove toh… tenu main dassni haan! Tu mere kol khade reh – pakad ke dho davaangi, haddi pasli ek na kitti taa mera naam vi Parminder nahi. Sau kutte mare hovenge, je tu paida hoya!”

Wolfy curls into a ball. His eyes have welled up.

(Showing her nails) “Aye tusi inn nakhuno nu vekheya? Tere saare waalaan nu noch davaangi main!”

Next morning, Wolfy packed his bags and ran away back to the wilderness, singing “Mahi menu nahi karna pyaar“.

It’s much safer in the wilderness anyway.

Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin | Colossus

Colossus is the Casanova among X-men. Despite having a name like Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin, he has always been a hit with the ladies. That’s because he has a power that no other mutant has – his massive, gigantic, Colossal organ that keeps throbbing and thumping all day long. I’m talking about his heart, of course. Ladies swoon and go weak in the knees when they hear it go dhak dhak. Score!

Powers: Able to convert into living organic metal form, granting vast superhuman strength and near-invulnerability. Can survive for long periods without oxygen or sustenance while in this form.

Breakup story:

All you need to know is here : Colossus: A Stud’s Story.

At this rate, he could easily qualify as a Bollywood hero.

Dr. Henry Philip “Hank” McCoy | Dark Beast

Hank is the scientist on the team. Some say he is the animal on the team. He presently works with all the X-Men, also is the team’s doctor.

Powers: Superhuman strength, speed, stamina, agility, reflexes, enhanced senses, ambidexterity with hands and feet, ape-like form, blue fur.

Breakup story:

Dr. McCoy was going steady with his crush, Jigna C. Patel. All was fine in paradise, until Jigna started suspecting him of having an affair with one of his patients.

Their relationship hit the rocks when one day Dr. McCoy returned home late from work.

“Hmm… you’re late today.”

“Yeah, a patient had come in at the last minute, so I had stay back.”

“You seem to be getting a lot of last minute patients lately…”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me. Was this patient…a girl?”

“What? What are you trying to say?”

“Don’t play games with me. This is the fourth time this week that you’re late because of these ‘last minute patients’ of yours.”

“I am doctor, for Christ’s sake! They’re just my patients!”

“Yeah yeah yell at me.. you’re a lion at home, but you turn into a little kittenpussy in front of women.”

“I can’t help it. I’m a mutant, jeez!”

“Mutant AND a cheap flirt.”

“Sigh. Can we talk about this tomorrow? I’m really tired.”

“Of course. Your patient seems to have sapped most of your superhuman power.”

“Merciful heavens! Give it a rest already.”

“No, you give IT a rest. I know what you’ve been doing with your ambidextrous hands and feet.”

At this point, he jumped out of the window and ran way.

Mr. McCoy didn’t report to the hospital the next day. His whereabouts are still unknown, although sources suspect that he and Wolverine are sharing a room somewhere.

Ororo Iqadi Munroe-Wakandas | Storm:

Powers: Weather manipulation (lighting bolts, wind, rain, etc.), flight by ‘riding’ wind currents.

Breakup story:

Storm was the only superhero to have had a perfect relationship. She had fallen in love with and married a local T.V. channel weatherman. Everything seemed just perfect, as if it were the script of yet another extremely intelligent Yashraj movie.

Unfortunately, Storm had no idea that the guy she had married was actually a one-of-a-kind scheming bastard.

He persuaded Storm into running a massive money-for-weather scam with him. Allegedly, he coaxed her into manipulating the weather and informing him beforehand, so that his predictions would always be correct. He would also sell this rigged weather information to other T.V. channels for dirty cash. On many occasions, he would force her to use her powers to change the weather during matches and win bets.

The worse was yet to come. One morning, without any warning, the weatherman sold the house, emptied their joint accounts, took all the money and escaped in a weather balloon.

As expected, Storm was angry beyond words, and that led to many cyclones, hurricanes and tsunamis in her locality for many days.

Moral of the story: never trust weathermen. They are all lying bastards. Use your own judgment and carry an umbrella.

Moral of the story (2): never trust men in general. They are all lying bastards too. Use your own judgment and carry a gun.

—-

Do you have an interesting breakup story too? Mail me your stories at sachin.spce AT rediffmail DOT com. The best stories win a box of tissues and my shoulder for an entire evening.

My Conversation With God.

Who do you go to in your darkest moments?

How do you explain to the world what you’re going through?

What would you do when there’s no light in sight?

I turned to the source that everyone eventually turn to when they’ve lost all hope – Providence.

It was early in the evening when I reached the local Shiva temple. Still around 3 hours until the evening puja, so there were not too many people there – just about 20-30 – scattered in small groups across the vast marble floor in front of the Shiva idol.

I walked in gingerly and scurried away to the furthest corner of the temple, careful not to attract any attention. After all, atheists are not the kind of people welcome at places of worship. Thankfully, nobody noticed.

I sat there, resting against a pillar, dissolving into the temple’s serene aura. There was something about the place that seemed to have a sedative effect on you. People sitting around were completely absorbed in meditation. They spoke, if ever, only in barely audible whispers. The entire place was absolutely quiet, save the occasional gusts of wind rustling the leaves outside – the perfect setting to listen to your thoughts, reflect and contemplate.

I took a few deep breathes and went over the horrors that had tormented me for so long…and I felt so much better. The positive energies had such profound influence on me that the past didn’t seem to matter at all.

I turned to look at Shiva. He sat in His usual meditative stance, eyes half closed, trident in one hand and a damru in the other.

Suddenly, He opened his eyes and looked at me.

Shiva: “What the? Hahahahahahahahahaha!”

Me: “?”

Shiva: “Oooh what happened there, my little non-believer friend?”

Me: “Yeah, right. As if you can’t see.”

Shiva: “Are you kidding me? I see everything! I have 20-20 vision in all 3 of my eyes!”

Me: “So you know, huh. I came here because I need your help.”

Shiva: “Suuure. I’ll be more than happy to help you out. You poor Manchester United supporter! Bwahahahahahahahaha!”

Me: (mutters under breath)

Shiva: “I heard that!”

Me: “Sorry. Anyway, give me some answers now, please?”

Shiva: “Wait a second, my eager beaver. Let me savour this wonderful moment. Hey Parvati, check out who’ve we got here today!”

Parvati: “ROFL. This is funnier than the time Ganesha stumbled and fell down after eating too much.”

Ganesha: “Mooom! Stop embarrassing me!”

Parvati: “Oh come on, boy. Grow up!”

Ganesha was so annoyed that he plugged in his iPod earphones with two hands while simultaneously deleting his parents’ wedding pictures from Picasa with the other two.

Me: “Erm, family issues later, if you please.”

Shiva: “Aah, right. So United lost. What’s the big deal? Get over it, man.”

Me: “It’s not so simple, God. The pain refuses to go away. I had so much hope riding on them…”

Shiva: “And you think it’s easy for me?”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Shiva: “I am a Manchester United fan too. So are my wife and kids.”

Me: “Whaaaat?!!”

Shiva: “That’s right. Don’t go by my blue colour; I’m NOT a City or Chelsea supporter. Just a bad case of food poisoning…”

Me: “Wow. This is news. So tell me, what happened? Why did United lose?”

Shiva: “Hmm, it’s complicated. You see, it was after a long, fiery debate that all Gods arrived at this decision – United HAD to lose.”

Me: “But why?”

Shiva: “Uhh, alright, I’ll tell you. See, the final was in Rome.”

Me: “So?”

Shiva: “What is Rome famous for?”

Me: “Pizza? Fashion? Women? Francesco Totti?”

Shiva: *facepalm* “No, idiot. Rome is home to the Vatican – The Roman Catholic HQ headed by the Pope.”

Me: “I don’t see where this is going…”

Shiva: “Oh don’t you get it? How could we let a team named ‘The Red Devils’ triumph in Jesus’ city? It would have been so utterly humiliating for Him. In the times of modern science and technology, religion is already losing popularity. Such an added insult would have completely ruined His PR and stuff. And imagine, if people would have started worshipping Sir Alex instead.”

Me: “Well, that’s true…”

Shiva: “Damn right it is. I, for one, didn’t agree with it. I love United.”

Me: “You do?”

Shiva: “Yeah. But they had a poll and most supported Jesus. They couldn’t afford to let go of the strong Catholic base in Barcelona.”

Me: “Wow, so twisted and manipulative of Him. It’s so much like pre-election political tactics. And I thought only Congress were good at it…”

Shiva: “I’m afraid so. Getting votes isn’t hard. Not when you have the power to convert water to wine, if you know what I mean.”

Me: “Yes, I do.”

Shiva: “So there.”

Me: “But… but… aren’t you going to do something about it?”

Shiva: “I am, actually. I’m planning to change next year’s venue to somewhere in the Middle East. Devils winning there would look appropriate, if you know what I mean.”

Me: “Yes, I do know what you mean! Stop saying that!”

Shiva: “Don’t give me that attitude, boy. I’ll take away Ronaldo this instance if I want to.”

Me: “No no no no, chill mate, chill. Your anger management issues are well known. I apologize.”

Shiva: “Hmm ok.”

Me: “So United are going to win next year, right?”

Shiva: “The night is the darkest before the dawn, and I assure you, the dawn is coming…”

Me: “Oh sweet! Promise?”

Shiva: “Promise.”

Me: “God promise?”

Shiva: “Dude, that’s redundant.”

Me: “Err, right. My bad. Anywho, thanks a lot for the inside info. Glory glory Man United!”

Unfortunately, I uttered the last sentence a little too loudly. People who were sitting there turned around and glared at me.

Me: “Oops, sorry.”

Crowd: (menacingly) “What was that again?”

Me: “Nothing.. I just got a little carried away…”

Crowd: “Stop with the excuses. Just tell us what you said.”

Me: “Uhh…Shiva promised me that United will win next year.”

Crowd: “What?”

Me: “I know, I’m sorry. I should have never come here in the first place. I’ll leave right away.”

Crowd: “No no no, hold on. We’re all United supporters too!”

Me: “WTF?!!”

Crowd: “Obviously. All of us had come here for the same reason you did. Who else would come here?”

Me: “Ouch!”

Shiva: “Touché. Sigh.”

Pulitzer Prize Winner : 2009

A long time ago, a gentleman named Joseph Pulitzer – a journalist by profession – decided to leave a significant portion of his fortune to Columbia University for the purpose of development of its journalism school. The University has since then given out prizes named after this great man, recognizing and appreciating talent in the field of journalism, photography and literature.

Normally, the winner can belong to just one category, say National Reporting or International Reporting but not both at once; however this year saw a rare exception. An absolutely groundbreaking article published in India’s leading newspaper The Times of India made the judges bend the rules. This phenomenal piece of journalistic excellence impressed the judges so much that it was chosen as the winner in not one, but THREE categories:

Local Reporting – for a distinguished example of local newspaper reporting that illuminates significant issues or concerns.
National Reporting – for a distinguished example of newspaper reporting on national affairs.
Feature Writing – for a distinguished example of newspaper feature writing giving prime consideration to high literary quality and originality.

Do read this brilliant article and you’ll get to know the true power of press:

Link: http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/articleshow/2509637.cms

Salute!

The 25 Things Thing.

Some time back, a really cute rabbit tagged me with the 25 things about yourself thing. The objective of this game is simple: you write 25 things about yourself and tag others and they, in turn, tag others and this goes on till the whole world knows 25 useless things about everyone else. Then we all realize how completely pointless our existence is and mutally agree that Pakistan and North Korea should jointly blow up the entire planet and erase our miserable 25 point history forever.

So here goes.

1. Right at the top : Metal and Manchester United are the only strings that loosely hold the remaining pieces of my sanity together. Without them, I would have been a world famous spiritual leader who spews pearls of wisdom like these. No, I’m not that right now.

But pray tell me, what is that thing he’s wearing on his head? It seems ribbed for extra pleasure too. Pope-at saala.

2. Books that I read recently : Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams and Famous Five – Five go to Demon’s Rocks by Enid Blyton.

3. Oh yeah, Famous Five totally kick ass.

4. I am 100% sure that Georgina grows up to become a lesbian. Short haired, tomboy, not attracted even to a guy named Dick(!) – think about it. Better yet, imagine it.

Eww, you’re freaking sick, aren’t you?!

5. Five songs that instantly lift me up (in ascending order):

• Cry of the black birds – Amon Amarth
• Comfortably numb – Pink Floyd
• Fade to black – Metallica
• Rime of the Ancient Mariner – Iron Maiden
• Hallowed be thy name – Iron Maiden

6. I hate food. All my taste buds have died a brave but violent death.

7. The last time I embarrassed myself :

I was in the lift alone, earphones blasting Metallica’s The Four Horsemen in my ears. As there was no one else around, I got a little carried away and started headbanging and playing the riffs on my air guitar.

Guess what happened next, will you?

The door opened ever so slowly, revealing around 8-10 shellshocked people who looked as though they had seen a headless horseman themselves. Sheepishly, I wrapped up the air guitar and hurried out of the lift.

I will never forget that explosion of laughter behind me.

8. While referring to me, people have used words like “pagal“, “irritating creature”, “psycho”, “I hope you die”, “goddamn pervert”, “sicko”, “weirdo” and very recently, “stupid fuck”.

As you can see, I’m not one of those well-mannered-Reid-and-Taylor-suit-wearing-polished-gentlemen-from-an-English-county, generally referred to as “His Nobility Sir Suckingham from Herfuckshire”; the ones who always bow before women and say things like, “Top of the morning to you, Mrs. Deshpande! Don’t you look like a bouquet of fresh daisies today morn!” and “That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing Miss Chandiramani. The fitting distinctly brings to my mind the beauty of Ludwig van Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 in 34 Double D major.”

Also, I do not own a stable full of purebred horses that I race at the Sunday Derby or a cellar that boasts of fancy vintage French wine imported from Bordeaux, Burgundy or Bhayandar.

And I certainly do not give a shit about Renaissance art or twisted poetry or the power of democracy or faggot rights.

In short, I’m a purposeless soul.

9. What, asleep already?

10. Ok, think about Georgina and Anne again. What “adventure” would they go on next?

11. Move over Holocaust survivors, I’m a Kerala meals survivor (So far, so bad).

12. I love watching bad movies. Relishing the assault on senses has become an enjoyable hobby for me.

13. Clarification : Bad movies mean movies like Kidnap, Ghajini, Karzzzz, Quantum of Solace and any movie with SRK in it. Not the ones “starring” Georgina and Anne as the lead “actresses”.

14. The last act of craziness:

It was election time in Kerala and the entire city was plastered in posters depicting candidates with varying degrees of ugliness.

But this one candidate particularly stood out. She’s this grotesquely ugly, morbidly obese lady who smiled out of gaudily coloured posters pasted across the entire city. Curse my luck, I couldn’t avoid them as the walls of the lane leading to my home were covered in her face.

At one point, I felt something snap inside me. It was as if her ugliness had touched me at a deep, spiritual level and made my soul vomit out in disgust. I lost it and ripped out every poster I could and stamped the rest with my shoes.

Onlookers might have mistaken me for an opposition party supporter. But no political motive behind it, I swear.

15. I love Mumbai for its soul. I hate Mumbai for having sold it a long time ago.

16. Big fan of Duck Tales, Talespin, Flintstones, Jetsons, Scooby Doo, Johnny Quest and 2 Stupid Dogs.

17. Sapiosexual.

19. Weak at Math.

20. The following list will give you an idea about the categories of people who activate my gag-reflex, the severity level and a brief description:

• Category – Hopeless romantics : Severity – Medium : Description – The kind of people who always smell roses, look towards the sky and smile like retards. The kind who fantasize about meeting their soulmate on a wondrous fairy tale night – complete with lovemaking on a secluded beach – under a starry sky, a full moon and a 93 piece symphony orchestra playing Micheal Bublé songs in the background.

  Erm, 2 things, pal – 1. Shiv Sena 2. That guy in the orchestra isn’t exactly blowing his trumpet, if you know what I mean.

• Category – Kewl peoples : Severity – High : Description – Fake accents and hip hop culture. Hideous accessories and ridiculous slangs. Inflated egos and diminished IQs. Puppets of commercialism and victims of marketing. All of them and their mothers.
• Category – Faggots : Severity – OutOfBoundsError : Description – There’s a reason why spiked baseball bats were invented.

  This is the only right they deserve.

21. There’s nothing wrong with guys who sing in a whiny, pansy-like voice. It’s totally acceptable and arouses wild desires in the hearts of men.

That is why guys like Enrique Iglesias, James Blunt, Chris Martin and Moron 5 turn me on.

But still, I pray to God to grant them some balls one day and make them sing like men.1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 or even 7.

22. That was my age last year.

23. My updated age this year.

24. I love THIS woman! Her sense of humour + intelligence + childlike innocence + unabashed goofiness + dropdead gorgeous looks = my dreams.

Love you, love you, love you!

25. Every morning when the day begins, I thank the Lord for all He has done. Every day is a new opportunity to go out and live, with a new hope and a new purpose.

In the wise words of Dr. Cox,

Molly: Perry, no one’s pure evil! I mean, yeah, some people have a hard outer shell, but inside, everybody has a creamy center.
Dr. Cox: There are plenty of people here on this particular planet who are hard on the outside and hard on the inside.
Molly: So they’d have more of a nougaty center?
Dr. Cox: Lady, people aren’t chocolates. D’you know what they are mostly? Bastards. Bastard-coated bastards with bastard filling. But I don’t find them half as annoying as I find naive bubble-headed optimists who walk around vomiting sunshine.

Cynical, who me? I’m as positive as a healthy 1.673 × 10−27 kg proton.

So let’s all scatter flowers from our baskets and sing the songs of summer and celebrate life in all its glory! Whoop de doo, was that the Lazarus phenomenon I just felt?

—-

As a rule, I have to tag someone.

I tag Sir Winston Churchill. You’re damn right, Sir! We’ll never surrender!

EDIT : My bad, I didn’t know that I had to tag someone who’s ALIVE.
In that case, I would like to tag Uday Singh, my building watchman. All we have to do is to wait for him to become literate, buy a computer and a net connection, discover my blog and then create a blog for himself.

The optimist that I am, I believe it isn’t impossible. After all, impossible means “I M possible”. Ugh.

Crouching Tigers, Hidden Morons.

Ladies and gentlemen, introducing one of the most feared terror groups ever. Nope, not talking about A Band of Boyz. This is much, much less serious.

Formative Years.

The El T T E was founded by Vellapillu Prybhakiran, a disgruntled college student, who thought to himself one fine day, “Hey. I’m friggin’ bored here. All of my friends have jobs, but I don’t. I have no future and I’m a certified loser. So how do I pass the time? Hmm. I know! I’ll go to the Government and demand a separate state for me and mah frenz! Ayyoo waat an idea, saarjee!“

The Showdown

(With Dolby digital surround sound effects in brackets)

An auto drops off a really ugly man (in ridiculously loud clothes) outside the Sansad Bhavan. He steps out in a manner that makes you believe He has polio-quadriplegia-epilepsy.

He takes a good look around, then reaches His back pocket and takes out a comb. As He moves His hand to comb His hair, a violent storm begins to pick up in the background – clouds swirl overhead, thunder cracks ferociously , lightning flashes in blinding streaks, wind wails in a high pitched scream, trees struggle to hold on to their roots. Anna has arrived.

He makes His way towards the Sansad Bhavan. With each step, the concrete beneath His feet cracks due to the immense Force. Men who were talking and laughing suddenly go quiet and lower their heads. Women quickly cover their faces with their pallu. Dogs start barking. A sense of dread hangs thick in the air.

Everyone’s been… thunderstruck.

Vellupillu reaches the President’s office and stares at the door. The door gets so scared that it opens up by itself. (thud thud thud!)

The Prez looks up, surprised. Vellupillu swaggers into the room, sits on the chair and rests His feet on a bunch of government documents. (flwoooouufff clang bloosh!)

Delicately, He lowers His large sunglasses and stares at the Prez. (whip whoosh whoosh)

Next, He reaches into His pocket and takes out a paper, tobacco and a matchbox. Carelessly, He tosses them in the air. (tatetatetateatetateate fwah fwah fwah)

In mid air,

• The paper wraps itself around the tobacco and tranforms into a Cuban cigar
• The matchbox opens by itself, Scarlett Johansson comes out of it with a lighter and lights the cigar
• Lands in His lap and places the lit cigar in His mouth.

Isko kehte hai tashan, mind it! (dhik chick dhik chick dhik chick tyaoon tyaoon tyaoon tooo!)

Prez: (WTF?) “Yes?”

Him: “I is wants separate state” (thunder crack boom)

Prez: “LOL, what?”

(Furiously takes off His glasses (whack whack whack))
(Stands up and bangs His palms on the table (dhoom dhoom dhoom))
(raises His finger (ppppeerrrffffff))

Him: “Aaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyeeeee!!!”

(Silence)

Him: “I want separate state and that’s that. Nan ooru thadavai sonnal, nooru thadavi sonna mathivi!*” (loud applause)

Prez: [straightface] Ooh k… anything else? [/straightface]

Him: “No. That would be all.” (twirls his glasses 1750 times/sec and puts them back on (swishswishswishswish))

Prez: [snicker] You sure? Just a separate state? Nothing else? Say for instance, a separate continent or a separate planet in the Milky Way? [/snicker]

Him : (flattered) “Hehe, no dhanks da. I have zimble tastes.” [takes out a knife and combs his hair (swick swick swick)]

Prez: [wicked smile] “Why don’t you go home and relax? I’ll have it arranged, alright? Now kindly poda.” [/wicked smile]

Him: (Ecstatic) “Yesssss! Aye have da poweraa”

Suddenly fat,ugly sari clad women and fat,ugly lungi clad men appear out of nowhere and start dancing with him. (thika thikar thikar thik pe pe pe pe pe pe thikhar thikhar). Check out da moves da, it so sexy it make you sweat!

The collapse.

When our hero reached home, the police were waiting for him. But not for the reasons he anticipated. They beat the living shit out of him, put him on a boat and sent him to Sri Lanka.

Extremely embarrassed and depressed, Vellupillu decided that he would never return. And thus, he stayed – in some remote village outside Colombo where he ran a chai stall named L.T.T.E. (Lankan Thambi Tea Enterprise)- with revenge still burning in his mind.

He remained an unnoticed chaiwalla for many years, until that one fateful day…

The Rise To Notorietea.

The organization’s first case of violence was reported when they got into a gory clash with a group of Sri Lankan military men who had stopped over at their stall for chai, sutta and biscoot. Allegedly, the military men refused to pay up Vellupillu and his thambis for their order (20 cutting elaichi chais malai maarke, 10 packs of Goldflake ciggies, 2 packs of Haathichaap bidis and 25 packets of Parle G biscuits.) This pissed Vellupillu so much that he and his men picked up large kettles of hot, boiling tea and splashed it on the military men. The military men, skin scalded and all, ran away yelling “Ayyayo yenga appa kaal Raama El Tea Tea Eeeeeeeeeee! Hot tea hot tea hot tea!”

Nearby, a bunch of despo youths (the ones who watch Sun TV after midnight) overheard them screaming, and mistook “hot tea” for “hottie”. Expecting Silk Smitha/Velvet Vandana/Cotton Chandrika/Khadi Kadambari/Latex Latika, they ran in the direction of screams. However, the sight of burnt Lankan army men (who were already very ugly) shocked them so much that they lost their sanity.

The villagers who happened to witness this mass mayhem were shocked beyond words.

Slowly, the word started spreading. People were afraid to leave their homes. Things were taking on a political turn. Brooke Bond and Taj suffered massive losses.

This was just the beginning of the notorietea.

As time passed, the group established its roots firmly in Sri Lanka and continued to tighten its stranglehold. In under 4 years, the LTTE had grown from just a handful of jobless losers to this mega empire of over 2 handfuls of jobless losers.

Thus began the era of brutal, barbaric terror reminiscent of movies starring Kadar Khan, Govinda and Shakti Kapoor. The symphony of destruction, if you like.

Acts of Terror.

1. They once carried out the infamous suicide tea attack on the Sri Lankan government, fondly remembered as the Colombo Tea Party.
2. They begin all their terror strikes with the famous catch-phrase “Chalo yaaron, ek chai ho jaye!” and taunt their victims with the lethal line, “Would you like some more tea, saar?”
3. Fiercely dedicated and prepared for any sacrifice for the cause of their brothers, these men have been known to wear necklaces with heart-shaped cyanide pill pendants, which they consume if caught. The pills turned out to extremely handy when 50 men swallowed them after watching the first 10 minutes of Sivaji – The Boss. Rajinikanth’s nauseating make up, ROTFLWTFBBQ dressing and pathetic direction made them take their own lives. Now that’s a good cause right there.
4. Their weapon cache is supposed to contain stuff like AK-47s, grenades, swords, land mines, Darjeeling tea, Mumbai Masala tea and even South Indian Filter kaapi.
5. To get any idea of how brutal they can be, watch the following videos.
   WARNING: These videos are extremely graphic. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT watch them if you are above 60/ have a weak heart/an invertebrate wuss/a faggot/a chaiwalla/pregnant because of your neighbour’s son/an autorickshaw driver.

   Atrocity!

   Horror!

   Waatdafaack!

   Br00tal!

   Le assault on ze senses!

6. Their preferred modus operandi of getting their message across is self-immolation, or pouring hot tea over themselves.

   Sample scenarios:

   LTTE kid : Mommy, I want Kandy!
   Mom : Absolutely not, it’ll ruin your teeth.
   LTTE kid: I want I want I want I want!
   Mom : *slap slap slap*
   LTTE kid : *immolates self*

   I-T Dept : Sir, we are from the income tax department. We found some discrepancy–
   LTTE guy : *immolates self*

   Girl: Honey, I have to do some shopping. Give me your credit card please.
   LTTE guy : *immolates self*

   Girl: Honey, I have two VIP passes to Akon’s concert next week. Will you–
   LTTE guy : Akon?!! *consumes cynadine pill necklace, immolates self twice and blows up self*

   Man: Dude! Liverpool lost again!
   LTTE guy : So?

L.T.T.E. soundtrack

Cashing in on the unexpected rise in popularity, the L.T.T.E. even came out with an official soundtrack of hit songs that go remarkably well with their agenda:

Come on baby light my fire – The Doors
I’m just a hunka hunka burning love – Elvis Presley
Ek garam chai ki pyaali ho – Anu Malik
Bidi jalayle jigar se piya – Omkara
We didn’t start the fire – Billy Joel
Chingari koi bhadke, isse kaun bujhaye? – Who cares?
Jiya jale jaan jale nainon tale dhuaan chale (kundiri mundiri pundirikyo something) – A.R. Rahman
Fight fire with fire – Metallica
Tann ki jwaala thandi ho jaye aise gale laga jaa – Some guy in funny clothes

Bonus track : Tandoori Nights – God Himesh

L.T.T.E. – The Album brought to you by Waghbakri chai in association with Ship carborized matches. All songs have been remixed by A.R. Rahman. Jai ho!

People I accidentally mistook as members or supporters of the L337 Gang, but in fact are not even remotely related to them, but then again who can really tell? Pfft, this is turning out to be a testimony to my callous apathy and blissful ignorance, but then who really cares?

PS: As usual, I’m not serious. Andava solrai, Sachin pandra**. Capiche?

* If I’ve said it once, it’s like saying it a 100 times.
** God tells, Sachin does.