Tagged by Macavity. I'd hyperlink her name, but can't remember the tags, so she gets a lovely hue of red instead.
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.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Spikeology
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
Pounce upon a time
Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there lived many happy people. They worked hard for survival, hunted in packs, ate together - always watching each others' backs. They had each other for company. They lived on whatever Nature provided them with. And then Jamie Uys made a movie on them and called it "The Gods Must be Crazy".
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.
Amen.
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
c) marwaris.
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.
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.
Amen.
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
c) marwaris.
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.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
A knell in the coughing
No story is more bitter than the story never told. Some stories cannot be told - literature doesn't have the equipment. Besides, words are grunts we use to confuse ourselves. Any idea why "sentences" mean both communication and punishment?
Some sentences are spoken by little voices hawking "fresh" strawberries in jammed traffic. This jam comes in carbon dioxide flavour...not your usual razzberry. Other, older voices silence those squeaky voices with their gruff admonishing. There are other carefree voices that enjoy the casual banter of camaraderie. Some hushed voices professing a fearful love. The same voices later cursing telecom companies in not-so-hushed tinklings. Some speaking because they need the exorcise.
In far more silent auditoriums the only speech is that of instruments. No questions have been asked, no answers have been offered - only two instruments speaking to each other. A flute and a sitar. No lyrics here, no words to confound us with their innuendo or suggestiveness. A rippling river of strings over which the stone of a note skips across. The punctuation of percussions marking the query. A few teary eyes that reflect a very dusty inner mirror. Questions without answers. We've stopped questioning ourselves long ago. But others are answerable to us...?
Long after all the voices have faded away. Long after sticks and stones have broken our bones and words have hurt us. Long after one of those little voices stop their feeble whispers of a happy new year...there will still be voices too frozen to tell tales.
The warrior at dusk. Or the worrier?
Creations that make voices go "oooh"
And crowds that say "aah"..
..especially after instruments have rendered everyone speechless
The sound of bleating horns in thigh deep water
Sights which make you silent
Unless silence is natural.
Or if you are too scared to blow your own trumpet.
Perhaps simply scared...
You raised a voice in protest as others zoomed by
Although it needn't take only voices to scream out for attention
Because certain colours speak of hunger
Until the only sound you hear are chomps
There isn't much sound in whisperings of sweet nothings.
That's when you speak silently to someone higher Above
Apologize for the mistakes you will commit again
And hear the voices within.
Some sentences are spoken by little voices hawking "fresh" strawberries in jammed traffic. This jam comes in carbon dioxide flavour...not your usual razzberry. Other, older voices silence those squeaky voices with their gruff admonishing. There are other carefree voices that enjoy the casual banter of camaraderie. Some hushed voices professing a fearful love. The same voices later cursing telecom companies in not-so-hushed tinklings. Some speaking because they need the exorcise.
In far more silent auditoriums the only speech is that of instruments. No questions have been asked, no answers have been offered - only two instruments speaking to each other. A flute and a sitar. No lyrics here, no words to confound us with their innuendo or suggestiveness. A rippling river of strings over which the stone of a note skips across. The punctuation of percussions marking the query. A few teary eyes that reflect a very dusty inner mirror. Questions without answers. We've stopped questioning ourselves long ago. But others are answerable to us...?
Long after all the voices have faded away. Long after sticks and stones have broken our bones and words have hurt us. Long after one of those little voices stop their feeble whispers of a happy new year...there will still be voices too frozen to tell tales.
The warrior at dusk. Or the worrier?
Creations that make voices go "oooh"
And crowds that say "aah"..
..especially after instruments have rendered everyone speechless
The sound of bleating horns in thigh deep water
Sights which make you silent
Unless silence is natural.
Or if you are too scared to blow your own trumpet.
Perhaps simply scared...
You raised a voice in protest as others zoomed by
Although it needn't take only voices to scream out for attention
Because certain colours speak of hunger
Until the only sound you hear are chomps
There isn't much sound in whisperings of sweet nothings.
That's when you speak silently to someone higher Above
Apologize for the mistakes you will commit again
And hear the voices within.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Tagged
My big toe is not blue, frozen or dead. The nail has grown a bit, but that's ignorable. Why is there a tag dangling from it? And it's not even carrying vital statistics. All this tag says is:
1. Put your MP3 player/Media player on shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write the name of the song no matter what.
It also carries the name of the tagger.
Tan-da-da-tra-da-da-da-trickychowchowchowchow
* Game show host voice *
>If someone says "Is this okay?" you say:
Impossible [Kanye West]
>What do you like in a guy/girl?
Kaun [Indian Ocean]
>How do you feel today?
Becoming insane [Infected Mushrooms]
>What is your life's purpose?
Death whispered a lullaby [Opeth]
>What is your motto?
Piano smasher [Blue Man Group]
>How do you feel today?
Oil and water [Incubus]
>What do your friends think of you?
Supermassive black hole [Muse]
>What do you think of your parents?
Indian flute [Timbaland]
>What do you think about very often?
Aquatic dance [Vangelis]
>What is "2+2"?
Send me an angel [Gregorian]
>Do you think of your best friend?
Different names for the same thing [Death cab for cutie]
>What do you think of the person you like?
Hotel costes [Buddha bar]
>What is your life story?
Conquest of paradise [Vangelis]
>What do you want to be when you grow up?
Song pong [Infected mushrooms]
>What do you think when you see the person you like?
Concerto No. 3 in F "L'autun [Vivaldi]
>What do your parents think of you?
Vampires [Godsmack]
>What will you dance to at your wedding?
Hawaiian guitar [Jesse Cook]
>What will they play at your funeral?
Aaja Mahiya [Udit Narayan]
>What is your hobby/ interest?
Braveheart [John Williams]
>What is your biggest secret?
Blashphemous rumours [Gregorian]
>What do you think of your friends?
Desert Rose [Sting w. Cheb Mami]
>What should you post this as?
Shut your mouth [Pain and prodigy]
So that was the tagged post. No commercial breaks. No audience applause. No sponsorships. No celebrity host. Just pure mindless boggling blogging. Too bad my Hindustani Classical music collection didn't figure. Oh well, let the fingering commence anyway...
1. Put your MP3 player/Media player on shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write the name of the song no matter what.
It also carries the name of the tagger.
Tan-da-da-tra-da-da-da-trickychowchowchowchow
* Game show host voice *
>If someone says "Is this okay?" you say:
Impossible [Kanye West]
>What do you like in a guy/girl?
Kaun [Indian Ocean]
>How do you feel today?
Becoming insane [Infected Mushrooms]
>What is your life's purpose?
Death whispered a lullaby [Opeth]
>What is your motto?
Piano smasher [Blue Man Group]
>How do you feel today?
Oil and water [Incubus]
>What do your friends think of you?
Supermassive black hole [Muse]
>What do you think of your parents?
Indian flute [Timbaland]
>What do you think about very often?
Aquatic dance [Vangelis]
>What is "2+2"?
Send me an angel [Gregorian]
>Do you think of your best friend?
Different names for the same thing [Death cab for cutie]
>What do you think of the person you like?
Hotel costes [Buddha bar]
>What is your life story?
Conquest of paradise [Vangelis]
>What do you want to be when you grow up?
Song pong [Infected mushrooms]
>What do you think when you see the person you like?
Concerto No. 3 in F "L'autun [Vivaldi]
>What do your parents think of you?
Vampires [Godsmack]
>What will you dance to at your wedding?
Hawaiian guitar [Jesse Cook]
>What will they play at your funeral?
Aaja Mahiya [Udit Narayan]
>What is your hobby/ interest?
Braveheart [John Williams]
>What is your biggest secret?
Blashphemous rumours [Gregorian]
>What do you think of your friends?
Desert Rose [Sting w. Cheb Mami]
>What should you post this as?
Shut your mouth [Pain and prodigy]
So that was the tagged post. No commercial breaks. No audience applause. No sponsorships. No celebrity host. Just pure mindless boggling blogging. Too bad my Hindustani Classical music collection didn't figure. Oh well, let the fingering commence anyway...
Monday, November 26, 2007
Who you gonna call?
And I'm back in the waiting room again. This particular hospital smells of phenyl and mothballs. The smell might have something to do with the 4pm visiting time - evening cleaning hour. Either that or it's my jacket which I've pulled out after 9 months of being stuffed. The receptionist is pretty. They must be pretty for a reason. The hospital temple (yeah it's kinda mandatory) houses a grinning Lord Krishna and a gleeful Radha draped on his arm. They both have Marwari features. They are carved out of marble. Hmmmm.......
So there are Bongs and Gujjus and Sindhis and Biharis and Oriyas all rushing into a Maru hospital. Maybe not the Sindhis. They are a class apart. They outdo the Marus too. Loads of stereotypes. Loads of differences. Something you'd see everyday in real life. Something you wouldn't think thrice about if you were in front of a PC (or a Laptop/Mac/Macbook/PDA/Cellphone). The internet has its own share of friends (frandz?) and stereotypes. So here's a tribute to those millions who make being online everyday worthwhile.
And free from hospital smells too..
The Agony Aunt - She's your best friend. It's a bit one sided though. You don't think twice about buzzing her and engulfing her with your tale of woe. If you're more of a beast, you engulf her with your tail of whoa! The knocking on her chat handle and spewing all venom is a (self imposed) given. The knocking her up you can't imagine. She's the shoulder you lean upon, disagree with, and can't do without. Over a period of time she is known to ask you to go to bed if you are up late.
The Agony Uncle - The male version of the aunt. Not necessarily married to her. In fact, this is highly undesirable. The agony uncles have a wild side of their own. You come to agony uncles for advice on friends, love, matters of the heart, matters of the fart - if you are close enough emotionally and far apart geographically. Agony uncles write out excellent reality checks. You lose your bounce a bit, but that's what he is good for. Their sentences are liberally interspersed with profanities which walk the range between mildly creative to boss-abuseworthy. They generally hate their day jobs.
The Sighnature - This is probably you. Even agony auntcles turn into sighnatures. Every other sentence is marked with a mental sigh. Your job isn't good enough, your parents are stifling, your significant other is a bother, your siblings are successful and you probably haven't gotten laid yet. Sighnaturists have dark circles (under their eyes) and puffy cheeks.
The EMA - This is the Extra Marital Affair. Enough said? Not really. They know you inside out. No pun intended. This is mostly your doing since you choose to regale your EMA with the nitty gritties of everyday life. While the agony couple gets the bad parts, your EMA gets all the highlights of the day. EMAs have tremendous control over your mood being able to make you happy in an instant or Sighnaturist in another. Known to be emotional and fond of ascribing animal names to mundane issues. Hugging emoticons, anybody?
The Emotivator - You've been smiley bombed. A chat window will pop up at any point of the day with a smiley. Oh grin, wink, smile, stick your tongue out, cry, thpbbbbt - the emotivator is guaranteed to cheer you up. That's probably because they have an emoticon for every mood. They also motivate you to hit the ~x( keys on your instant messenger if you are busy. They motivate you to learn creative new ways of expressing yourself. Social networking sites have received numerous complaints from the emotivators about not having enough emotiis. Known to cause potentially embarrassing situations with the kiss smiley. Especially if you are at work.
The Exclaim Artist - WTF!! Generally female, the exclaim artist *hold your breath* exclaims! The shift and 1 keys are overused! Very useful for sharing gossip! Equally useful for spreading rumours! Doesn't like being spoken about! LOL! A bit shifty too!!!!111
The LOLita - the grandmother of internet lingo, the LOLita laughs his/her/its way in and out of any position. You can judge the funniness of your statement by the capitalization, exclamation marks and delay in appearance of next chat. This may be due to slow reactions or a wonky internet connection too, but LOLitas have a very cheerful disposition. A word of warning though - most of them appear to be dumb blondes. Most of them are.
The CaPiTalISt - Yeah teenagers. Not only is it difficult to understand what you are reading, but after you have attained your diploma in hieroglyphics it turns out that the message wasn't meant for you in the first place. OpsSS SoRReeY seNt 2 dA WrngPerSN bY MisTKK LOL! Teenage girls usually type this way. Some middle aged men exhibit this trait too.
The Hmmbug - Usually always busy, the Hmmbug will politely hear you out and forget about your existence. Note the use of exactly two M's in the hmm. If unusually moved or free, you might elicit a Mmmmm. Curiosity and excitement is represented by a Hmm? and Hmm! respectively. A Capitalist will never chat with a Hmmbug. ReAlLyY!
The Blogged Nose - Ah yes! The blogger spends time by roaming blogspots around IP addresses. This is a good person to chat with. Life turns into a Shakesperean drama with the computer a stage and us doing our bits. Pun intended. You glean a lot of knowledge, come across different points of view. You also decide that your own vocabulary skills are inadequate and contemplate various means of ending your life. You are also strongly influenced to download obscure softwares, blogroll random people and quote their writings in parties. (And as a blogger buddy pointed out: software ka plural, is software.) See what I mean by vocabullying?
The Techie - Smart, full of enthusiasm and your guru for troubleshooting. Gives fast solutions to any and all problems. The one drawback is you can never get them online for more than 5 minutes. The other drawback is you can't understand their rapid-action techtips. Never ask the techie his/her salary. You might end up with permanent greenback damage or a badly messed up computer. Usually possesses a 12th dimensional sense of humour.
The Bathroom Humorist - You'll talk shit with this one. And feel just as refreshed after you are done. Don't wash your hands off this one in a hurry. His/her one-liners earn you brownie points during chats. Either that or it's no donut for you. Things take a turd for the better if your face is flushed. Enjoy your afternoons taking pot-shots at each other. Go on a date if you can. You'll be exclaiming "goodness gaseous me!" in no time.
The Inslut - A glutton for punishment. The Inslut loves making off topic remarks. Any comebacks get hastily deleted. Return comebacks are targeted at your background, upbringing and length of nasal hair. Insluts think many things are overrated. They are best handled by Pwndits.
The Pwndit - Brash, rude and has an opinion about everything. Could be your long lost brother/sister/other at some Kumbh Mela. Could also be your boss in disguise. The pwndit has good command over the queen's language. You might find your head shoved up your rear entry just to get to know yourself from deep within. Making an ass of yourself is inevitable. Chances are you are viewing your own after your head has been twisted around and jammed into place.
The Mystery Cat - Lurks in cavities. You'll never find out what this person really knows. His/ her name, location, even sex is hard to find. Hell, you won't even know it exists until it makes itself visible to you. Unless you are a lurker.
The Lurker - The lurker knows almost everything about you. You also end up knowing a lot about the Lurker because he/she cannot keep his/her trap shut. A lurker buddy will find out whatever you ask. The cons involve emotional blackmail because they fall really badly for tricks and privacy attempts.
The Sex Kitten - Puns intended to stun, the Sex Kitten has an amorous reference in humour. You'll never get to bed with her, but the chat is quite stimulating. Your ROFL might be a ROBL and you'll realize that your nursery rhymes were actually attempts at perverting your innocent minds. Don't get too hooked to the Sex Kitten. The chance to unhook will, alas, be out of reach you C.
The Envirowmentalist - Frustrated species. You need them to understand how lucky you really are. If you see one, run/ignore/block/permanently invisible like hell! Identifying strains are questions about Man's purpose and existence, responsibilities and how your near and dear ones are. They normally don't have a Danger sign written on their forehead. If you are searching for one it was nice knowing you.
The Librarunian - Library knowledge about all things Linda Goodman. Has a psychic connection with all things unbalanced. Offers solid advice, is modest and talks a bit too much. Talks a lot actually. Calls at weird hours. Will hear you out patiently and recommend patent advice. Known to be Harry Potter fanatics.
The Dock - Quack quack! This particular one echoes even in valleys. Tremendously accident prone and a potential donour to the Smithsonian, the good doctor believes in an eye for an eye and a tooth for a foot. You'll find the doc in the hospital. Being studied. Well grounded, the doc is usually in the dock too, staying close to his/her roots.
The Best Friend - He/ she is always around. A phone call away, this person knows your nickname when you were three. They know why you don't like being teased about something. They will stay online for hours just to give you a wake up call at 5am. You feel uneasy if the best friend isn't online. Sometimes, it's a group of friends who collectively becomes a single best friend. Be it calling to ask how your father is or to bash a sighnaturist, they are just there. And when you pronounce a sentence, you have their word.
There are more.. some less said the better. Some for whom you can't say enough. And some are alphabets in an online existence proving just how crazy the damned gods are. Now who sculpted that maru Krishna I wonder.
So there are Bongs and Gujjus and Sindhis and Biharis and Oriyas all rushing into a Maru hospital. Maybe not the Sindhis. They are a class apart. They outdo the Marus too. Loads of stereotypes. Loads of differences. Something you'd see everyday in real life. Something you wouldn't think thrice about if you were in front of a PC (or a Laptop/Mac/Macbook/PDA/Cellphone). The internet has its own share of friends (frandz?) and stereotypes. So here's a tribute to those millions who make being online everyday worthwhile.
And free from hospital smells too..
The Agony Aunt - She's your best friend. It's a bit one sided though. You don't think twice about buzzing her and engulfing her with your tale of woe. If you're more of a beast, you engulf her with your tail of whoa! The knocking on her chat handle and spewing all venom is a (self imposed) given. The knocking her up you can't imagine. She's the shoulder you lean upon, disagree with, and can't do without. Over a period of time she is known to ask you to go to bed if you are up late.
The Agony Uncle - The male version of the aunt. Not necessarily married to her. In fact, this is highly undesirable. The agony uncles have a wild side of their own. You come to agony uncles for advice on friends, love, matters of the heart, matters of the fart - if you are close enough emotionally and far apart geographically. Agony uncles write out excellent reality checks. You lose your bounce a bit, but that's what he is good for. Their sentences are liberally interspersed with profanities which walk the range between mildly creative to boss-abuseworthy. They generally hate their day jobs.
The Sighnature - This is probably you. Even agony auntcles turn into sighnatures. Every other sentence is marked with a mental sigh. Your job isn't good enough, your parents are stifling, your significant other is a bother, your siblings are successful and you probably haven't gotten laid yet. Sighnaturists have dark circles (under their eyes) and puffy cheeks.
The EMA - This is the Extra Marital Affair. Enough said? Not really. They know you inside out. No pun intended. This is mostly your doing since you choose to regale your EMA with the nitty gritties of everyday life. While the agony couple gets the bad parts, your EMA gets all the highlights of the day. EMAs have tremendous control over your mood being able to make you happy in an instant or Sighnaturist in another. Known to be emotional and fond of ascribing animal names to mundane issues. Hugging emoticons, anybody?
The Emotivator - You've been smiley bombed. A chat window will pop up at any point of the day with a smiley. Oh grin, wink, smile, stick your tongue out, cry, thpbbbbt - the emotivator is guaranteed to cheer you up. That's probably because they have an emoticon for every mood. They also motivate you to hit the ~x( keys on your instant messenger if you are busy. They motivate you to learn creative new ways of expressing yourself. Social networking sites have received numerous complaints from the emotivators about not having enough emotiis. Known to cause potentially embarrassing situations with the kiss smiley. Especially if you are at work.
The Exclaim Artist - WTF!! Generally female, the exclaim artist *hold your breath* exclaims! The shift and 1 keys are overused! Very useful for sharing gossip! Equally useful for spreading rumours! Doesn't like being spoken about! LOL! A bit shifty too!!!!111
The LOLita - the grandmother of internet lingo, the LOLita laughs his/her/its way in and out of any position. You can judge the funniness of your statement by the capitalization, exclamation marks and delay in appearance of next chat. This may be due to slow reactions or a wonky internet connection too, but LOLitas have a very cheerful disposition. A word of warning though - most of them appear to be dumb blondes. Most of them are.
The CaPiTalISt - Yeah teenagers. Not only is it difficult to understand what you are reading, but after you have attained your diploma in hieroglyphics it turns out that the message wasn't meant for you in the first place. OpsSS SoRReeY seNt 2 dA WrngPerSN bY MisTKK LOL! Teenage girls usually type this way. Some middle aged men exhibit this trait too.
The Hmmbug - Usually always busy, the Hmmbug will politely hear you out and forget about your existence. Note the use of exactly two M's in the hmm. If unusually moved or free, you might elicit a Mmmmm. Curiosity and excitement is represented by a Hmm? and Hmm! respectively. A Capitalist will never chat with a Hmmbug. ReAlLyY!
The Blogged Nose - Ah yes! The blogger spends time by roaming blogspots around IP addresses. This is a good person to chat with. Life turns into a Shakesperean drama with the computer a stage and us doing our bits. Pun intended. You glean a lot of knowledge, come across different points of view. You also decide that your own vocabulary skills are inadequate and contemplate various means of ending your life. You are also strongly influenced to download obscure softwares, blogroll random people and quote their writings in parties. (And as a blogger buddy pointed out: software ka plural, is software.) See what I mean by vocabullying?
The Techie - Smart, full of enthusiasm and your guru for troubleshooting. Gives fast solutions to any and all problems. The one drawback is you can never get them online for more than 5 minutes. The other drawback is you can't understand their rapid-action techtips. Never ask the techie his/her salary. You might end up with permanent greenback damage or a badly messed up computer. Usually possesses a 12th dimensional sense of humour.
The Bathroom Humorist - You'll talk shit with this one. And feel just as refreshed after you are done. Don't wash your hands off this one in a hurry. His/her one-liners earn you brownie points during chats. Either that or it's no donut for you. Things take a turd for the better if your face is flushed. Enjoy your afternoons taking pot-shots at each other. Go on a date if you can. You'll be exclaiming "goodness gaseous me!" in no time.
The Inslut - A glutton for punishment. The Inslut loves making off topic remarks. Any comebacks get hastily deleted. Return comebacks are targeted at your background, upbringing and length of nasal hair. Insluts think many things are overrated. They are best handled by Pwndits.
The Pwndit - Brash, rude and has an opinion about everything. Could be your long lost brother/sister/other at some Kumbh Mela. Could also be your boss in disguise. The pwndit has good command over the queen's language. You might find your head shoved up your rear entry just to get to know yourself from deep within. Making an ass of yourself is inevitable. Chances are you are viewing your own after your head has been twisted around and jammed into place.
The Mystery Cat - Lurks in cavities. You'll never find out what this person really knows. His/ her name, location, even sex is hard to find. Hell, you won't even know it exists until it makes itself visible to you. Unless you are a lurker.
The Lurker - The lurker knows almost everything about you. You also end up knowing a lot about the Lurker because he/she cannot keep his/her trap shut. A lurker buddy will find out whatever you ask. The cons involve emotional blackmail because they fall really badly for tricks and privacy attempts.
The Sex Kitten - Puns intended to stun, the Sex Kitten has an amorous reference in humour. You'll never get to bed with her, but the chat is quite stimulating. Your ROFL might be a ROBL and you'll realize that your nursery rhymes were actually attempts at perverting your innocent minds. Don't get too hooked to the Sex Kitten. The chance to unhook will, alas, be out of reach you C.
The Envirowmentalist - Frustrated species. You need them to understand how lucky you really are. If you see one, run/ignore/block/permanently invisible like hell! Identifying strains are questions about Man's purpose and existence, responsibilities and how your near and dear ones are. They normally don't have a Danger sign written on their forehead. If you are searching for one it was nice knowing you.
The Librarunian - Library knowledge about all things Linda Goodman. Has a psychic connection with all things unbalanced. Offers solid advice, is modest and talks a bit too much. Talks a lot actually. Calls at weird hours. Will hear you out patiently and recommend patent advice. Known to be Harry Potter fanatics.
The Dock - Quack quack! This particular one echoes even in valleys. Tremendously accident prone and a potential donour to the Smithsonian, the good doctor believes in an eye for an eye and a tooth for a foot. You'll find the doc in the hospital. Being studied. Well grounded, the doc is usually in the dock too, staying close to his/her roots.
The Best Friend - He/ she is always around. A phone call away, this person knows your nickname when you were three. They know why you don't like being teased about something. They will stay online for hours just to give you a wake up call at 5am. You feel uneasy if the best friend isn't online. Sometimes, it's a group of friends who collectively becomes a single best friend. Be it calling to ask how your father is or to bash a sighnaturist, they are just there. And when you pronounce a sentence, you have their word.
There are more.. some less said the better. Some for whom you can't say enough. And some are alphabets in an online existence proving just how crazy the damned gods are. Now who sculpted that maru Krishna I wonder.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Frenetic filosophy and foam
Life doesn't have an orchestra playing in the background. If it did, every event would have resembled the movies. Life doesn't have action replays either. If it did, we would've relived very many moments a la soap operas.
Life is fired upon us point blank. Life is one day at a time.
Life stops. Randomly.
Suppose you were on your way to a bookstore. You'd just gotten off the subway. Let's say the map was something like this:
Life is fired upon us point blank. Life is one day at a time.
Life stops. Randomly.
Suppose you were on your way to a bookstore. You'd just gotten off the subway. Let's say the map was something like this:
Subway > Hospital > Mall > Bookstore
We need a setting, say, dusk. There aren't many people in this set. Only you, a few cabbies idling their Sunday dusk away, and a guy lying on the road. For dramatic effect, he's having a fit, there's foam frothing from his mouth. And he's convulsing just outside the hospital gates.
Let's now say that you've spotted this chap. No one else has seen him. You run to the cabbies. You ask them for help in carrying him to the hospital. Smart world-wise people that they are, they ask you to bring a stretcher from the hospital. Naturally, you rush in. Then what? Then you spot an ambulance and two attendants. You ask them for their empty stretcher and assistance, right? What do you do when they tell you that they don't have any? You look at them in disbelief, don't you?
But you need to do something. There's a foamy chap writhing in the dust. So you rush into the hospital. You see two burly guards massaging their bellies. You ask them for help. They're from the police, they are meant to help. But they politely tell you that it's not their job to pick up people from the street. You scream at them for increasing their fat bellies perhaps? Maybe you shout at their callousness. But there's a man outside in the grip of a seizure.
So you rush in to the emergency ward. There are three doctors filling prescriptions. A few patients paying bills. You're excited. You're angry. You're stammering. You ask the doctor to please send two boys with stretchers. You're expecting help. You get a polite refusal. It's a
Sunday evening after all. People have more important things to do other than saving lives. They need to increase their wallets, don't they? The doctors are here to do their job. You know, the saving lives bit. You might have had the orchestra playing high beats and a rapid violin piece at this point. But this is life. There's no music. It's just you screaming your lungs out asking for life savers to save lives. You are not pleasant to hear. You are screeching like a banshee.
This means you rush outside again. You need help to bring this chap in. He looks like he's having an epileptic fit. Yes, his limbs are rigid and shaking and the froth is flowing fast. You convince one of those previous cabbies to help you save a life. The both of you hoist the chap up. You are supporting his spine and cradling his head. The froth dribbles over your shirt. The cabbie holds his legs. You two jog into the emergency ward. Remember the ambulance attendants and guards? They are looking bemusedly at you. But you don't care. You need to get this chap to the doctors so that they can save his life.
But the doctors are earning money. They grunt at you to set the patient down in a corner. You do that. Then you ask them to conduct their miracles. You pant at them. There's not much breath left in your lungs. Of course, you're sounding like a dog now. Who listens to dogs? Not doctors, oh no.... they've got money to make, prescriptions to fill. Who wants to attend to a dusty, dirty ragamuffin having a fit on the road. He probably won't have any money. Let him be.
You're also a hot-headed idiot prone to violent anger. You want to see some action. You scream at the doctors to stop and come do something. All you get is a young intern who wags his stethoscope in your face and asks you what's wrong with the bloke. You yell at him for being an idiot. You have another intern. A female who tells you that they have handled far worse cases than an ordinary epileptic patient. Now remember, these are just doctors. You shouldn't be angry with them. They're just supposed to make money while saving lives. The female intern receives an earful from you along the lines of being a pathetic show of idiocy. The male is standing stock still, unsure of what to do. He probably has never had a stranger from the street tell him he's incompetent and inhuman for not saving lives. He saves lives on a daily basis. How dare you tell him that he's a sick fag who doesn't have basic humanity and ethics?
That's when the politerefusal doctor brings his toolkit out. Toolkit? That's supposed to be a first aid box. Just ignore the rust. Yes, he wipes the foam away. The patient has stopped convulsing. Maybe he's dead. You didn't notice. You were too busy yelling. Oh, the interns have started reanimating his hands. The female is massaging his feet. The male is checking the blood pressure. Someone grabs your shoulder and requests you to stop yelling. You rudely inform him that as long as doctors refuse to save lives and policemen refuse to take risks you will keep raving. Everyone is looking at you. Maybe it's you who need help. Is there an insane asylum nearby? No... people are just money mad. There's no asylum for that. Everyone's got this disease.
You stumble out. It's become darker. The cabbie just drives off, away from the whole scene. There's a drama unfolding inside the emergency room. You hope that the chap makes it. He didn't look more than 25 when you lifted him off the dirt.
The orchestra stopped playing long ago. The only sound I heard was my heart thumping as I walked to the bookstore.
We need a setting, say, dusk. There aren't many people in this set. Only you, a few cabbies idling their Sunday dusk away, and a guy lying on the road. For dramatic effect, he's having a fit, there's foam frothing from his mouth. And he's convulsing just outside the hospital gates.
Let's now say that you've spotted this chap. No one else has seen him. You run to the cabbies. You ask them for help in carrying him to the hospital. Smart world-wise people that they are, they ask you to bring a stretcher from the hospital. Naturally, you rush in. Then what? Then you spot an ambulance and two attendants. You ask them for their empty stretcher and assistance, right? What do you do when they tell you that they don't have any? You look at them in disbelief, don't you?
But you need to do something. There's a foamy chap writhing in the dust. So you rush into the hospital. You see two burly guards massaging their bellies. You ask them for help. They're from the police, they are meant to help. But they politely tell you that it's not their job to pick up people from the street. You scream at them for increasing their fat bellies perhaps? Maybe you shout at their callousness. But there's a man outside in the grip of a seizure.
So you rush in to the emergency ward. There are three doctors filling prescriptions. A few patients paying bills. You're excited. You're angry. You're stammering. You ask the doctor to please send two boys with stretchers. You're expecting help. You get a polite refusal. It's a
Sunday evening after all. People have more important things to do other than saving lives. They need to increase their wallets, don't they? The doctors are here to do their job. You know, the saving lives bit. You might have had the orchestra playing high beats and a rapid violin piece at this point. But this is life. There's no music. It's just you screaming your lungs out asking for life savers to save lives. You are not pleasant to hear. You are screeching like a banshee.
This means you rush outside again. You need help to bring this chap in. He looks like he's having an epileptic fit. Yes, his limbs are rigid and shaking and the froth is flowing fast. You convince one of those previous cabbies to help you save a life. The both of you hoist the chap up. You are supporting his spine and cradling his head. The froth dribbles over your shirt. The cabbie holds his legs. You two jog into the emergency ward. Remember the ambulance attendants and guards? They are looking bemusedly at you. But you don't care. You need to get this chap to the doctors so that they can save his life.
But the doctors are earning money. They grunt at you to set the patient down in a corner. You do that. Then you ask them to conduct their miracles. You pant at them. There's not much breath left in your lungs. Of course, you're sounding like a dog now. Who listens to dogs? Not doctors, oh no.... they've got money to make, prescriptions to fill. Who wants to attend to a dusty, dirty ragamuffin having a fit on the road. He probably won't have any money. Let him be.
You're also a hot-headed idiot prone to violent anger. You want to see some action. You scream at the doctors to stop and come do something. All you get is a young intern who wags his stethoscope in your face and asks you what's wrong with the bloke. You yell at him for being an idiot. You have another intern. A female who tells you that they have handled far worse cases than an ordinary epileptic patient. Now remember, these are just doctors. You shouldn't be angry with them. They're just supposed to make money while saving lives. The female intern receives an earful from you along the lines of being a pathetic show of idiocy. The male is standing stock still, unsure of what to do. He probably has never had a stranger from the street tell him he's incompetent and inhuman for not saving lives. He saves lives on a daily basis. How dare you tell him that he's a sick fag who doesn't have basic humanity and ethics?
That's when the politerefusal doctor brings his toolkit out. Toolkit? That's supposed to be a first aid box. Just ignore the rust. Yes, he wipes the foam away. The patient has stopped convulsing. Maybe he's dead. You didn't notice. You were too busy yelling. Oh, the interns have started reanimating his hands. The female is massaging his feet. The male is checking the blood pressure. Someone grabs your shoulder and requests you to stop yelling. You rudely inform him that as long as doctors refuse to save lives and policemen refuse to take risks you will keep raving. Everyone is looking at you. Maybe it's you who need help. Is there an insane asylum nearby? No... people are just money mad. There's no asylum for that. Everyone's got this disease.
You stumble out. It's become darker. The cabbie just drives off, away from the whole scene. There's a drama unfolding inside the emergency room. You hope that the chap makes it. He didn't look more than 25 when you lifted him off the dirt.
The orchestra stopped playing long ago. The only sound I heard was my heart thumping as I walked to the bookstore.
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