Friday, December 26, 2008
Saturday, May 3, 2008
A- Alhambra. Something to do with pigs and pokers. Ron suggested the marriage of Islam with Lingerie.
B - Byakaron. Grammar in Bengali. Twisted Ron more like it.
C - Caantinue. Something my Mallu friends say. Some of them are slightly ahem oriented. Some of them are likesized.
D - Dodell. Making mouse marks on laptops..
E - Ellefaint. You know, those size zero models on that magazine cover.
F - Fushkuri. Fokla. Fishfish.
G - Globspot. Hmm.. frozen limbs dot glob spot.
H - Heh. The only response to heart cancer. This does not include frantic responses inquiring about Ron's health.
I - Ishkabon. Calling a spade a spade. Nothing to do with Issssh's sister, jungle or the both thereof.
J - Jibanu. Bong for microbes. Sounds like Anu's tongue.
K- Khunti. Khichuri. Khisti. I claim parentage of Khisti. You can't take that away from me.
L - Lebu. French ghosts. Sometimes seen playing water football in Lebur Pool.
M - Monsieur. My pig. Hmm.. sounds a bit like Mamata Banerjee.
N - Negro Nishidaak. Donald's and Daffy's nocturnal counterpart. Has a problem with his 31,000 knees growing ununiformly.
O - Orkut. Brazilian for genius programmer. Reverse bong for piece. Finnish for orgasm.
P - Padre. Please fart. Precedes PPP. PPP stands for Pre Poop Pee.
Q - Quetzalcoatl. The missing bit from ikir mikir cham chikir's dowar.
R - Rondhon. Cooking something that belongs to Ron, without which Ron would not be Ron. Or perhaps Rochonaboli.. literary sacrifices. Gee.. He wondered why my dhon is stuck on Ron...
S - Sheikh's Pear. The real reason English speaking nations are well lubricated.
T - Tora tora tora. Broke broke broke.
U - Umbilical cord. Comes linked amniotic fluid.
V - Vidya. She'll kill me when she reads this. Or die laughing.
W - Wonky. A lonely house key.
X - a residual current that still sends sparks flying.
Y - Yahweh. Heh's divine creator.
Z - Zarathustra. Pushing a little harder.
I tag my semi existent reader base. Especially Ron, Riju and Gaurav.
Friday, April 25, 2008
We leave bits of us behind. Our thoughts, words and actions. Leaving a mark on the world immediately around us. No, I’m not talking about shedded skin and nail trimmings.
There are a variety of roles to play and a number of masks to wear. You never quite know which mask you are wearing until it becomes a part of your regular face. Then it becomes difficult to actually open up. Tell anybody, “You are wearing a mask. This is not the real you” and chances are you are on your way to roadside astrology fame and fortune. Either that or some sluggish stagehand superglued your current expression – wood, paint et al.
Many of us walk with smiles so frozen it’s a wonder the temperature doesn’t drop to sub arctic levels. Or with tempers so flaring, your goose is cooked for the next few weeks. Then there are the lifestylists, radiating more joy than a lampshade will cover. Hmm… I can imagine quite a few people who’d look better with a lampshade on.
Sometimes it’s easier to wear a mask than to actually be yourself. Of course, it’s easier to talk to strangers than to real life people. Now you know the reason behind the success of gossip columns. Only now they are called “Survival strategies”, “Life’s lessons”, or “How to freeze your mother in law with a K look”. No, seriously, it’s much easier to open up to a random person imagining your anonymity preserved than to pour your heart out to the people who truly can make a difference. What difference can a few bits of advice or concern make? Pun intended.
So we discuss everything under the sun with our netizens. Those cyberians who “connect” to life with their yard long wires dangling out of their hardware. Some of them are wireless. In real life too.
And then one fine day you realize that your online existence has crawled into your offline one. Some of us just log in to the net. Most of us live there. We spend our time chatting up folks, talking into the wee hours of the morning or the pee hours of the night, playing games and hearing tales of woe until you realize your own life has become nothing more than the page of a gossip column. Your every move discussed threadbare. Your every thought processed by a billion minds, or worse, stored in a search engine server. And a malicious pleasure in trying to get inside someone’s mindspace. Whatever happened to trying to get into somebody’s pants in real life?!
We are so empty of true human contact that we resort to emptying our already depleted bowels of emotion over these wireless lines, not realizing that the person or persons to whom we are venting to get affected. They absorb our personalities to such an extent that they can almost predict our next thought. Then we get scared and move back. And find some other pot to put our steam into.
Life needs the milk of human kindness. Too bad it’s processed and packaged these days. Fat free.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Many years later, WulffMorgenthaler came up with this strip.
So after a main course of despair and sarcasm, side dish of hopelessness and a drink of disappointment (on the rocks, stoned), it's time to say thank you. This effectively means you grimace like a rabid dog, hiss like a viper, squeal "thanks" in a Justin Timberlakish octave and try not to throttle anyone in the next nine yards. The nine yards is a reference to sarees. Chances are if you are already squeaking you have been possessed by the spirit of Duh-shasana. Make that Krishna - he could give Hefner stiff competition. Oh God.
So thank you God.
Our father who smarts in Heaven
Helloed be thy name
Thy kingdom come, thy Will be done
As you continue screwing the heathen..
Give us this day our daily mead,
Forgive us our long tresses
As we furtively make passes to those around us.
And lead us not into umkemptation
Butt make deliveries really painless.
For thine is the bureaucracy, democracy and CBI queries for ever and ever.
With lots of women.
Come to think of it (no pun intended), we've given God a pretty hard time (pun intended). For those that don't believe in monotheism, we've given the gods, goddesses, godlets, nymphs, fauns and pole dancers (I mean apsaras) a tough deal. Right from drawing contorted figures of them on rocks to writing leg-ends about their powers and prowess.
Take the deal about Gods not blinking because they are ever watchful over the earth. Protecting us with their benevolent gaze. Thanks very much, but blinkers on when I'm in the loo please. Also when playacting in the bedroom. Those are really private moments. And God, (goddess, godlet, etc) You need to sleep a bit. Think of those strained rods and cones. Think of the bloodshot eyes. Think of the cataract problems you might develop later on. Those windows to the soul need to have shutters down a little bit. No offense if anyone's been saying God's blind. They should realize that You've given them that privacy.
If You created us in Your own image then there's something really wonky about the ten hands and four heads business. If babies are born like that today, then they are possibly:
a) constantly exposed to radiation
b) a US government project
Many of the marwaris I know have two bellies, four ears, no eyes, a dewlap and immortal. (They lie like heck about their age. Men AND women.) Hmmm.. this means the marus are God. No wonder people say "Good heavens!" while dealing with them.
Moving on to divine strength and speed. Balancing mountains on little fingers and walking on water is all very fine, but You realize how badly the physicists' happiness is getting screwed? Forget center of gravity and fluid dynamics, You need a chiropractor. Gods have the guts to do lots of things (not accounting for digestive systems) but their backs are most likely busted. Think of engineers, accountants and managers. Poor blokes wind up their backsides flipping numberburgers and oiling up the boss stove.
No, we humans have given the Gods a really bad deal. We take googillions of things for granted, but never thought of according them to the divine. And we won't even take the initiative to help them out. Life insurance for instance. "Sir, you are all powerful and all knowing and all that.. but you're immortal. We can't sell you a policy because you'll never die. There's no provision in the rule book." Speaking of rule books, we mortals have our wrongs and rights written down somewhere. The god in charge of this library has to work around the clock, take no breaks, and keep scribbling. You do realize that this means God doesn't get a chance to have coffee, pee, flirt with colleagues or belong to a union.
Being God must be pretty thankless. Now I know what Holy Shit means Goddammit.