One of the side effects of being liked for your virtual scribbles in the cyberspace is that you attract attention. Apart from the usual comments like,
'Nice.ROFL.Now visit mine and say the same thing.'
'you &$##**&% , who do you think you are?'
'I named by dog tys and then I kicked him to death. Die motherfucker die.'
, you also tend to get some readers who will mail you and try to get to know you.
This is very flattering.
I am that guy who in college would do the bidding of a girl for a long time, only to be told, while she hooks up with my best friend, how she has always seen me as a brother.
In girl code, that means you are ugly as hell and she won’t be seen dead going around with you.
Why is that no man has ever said to a girl who throws herself at him that he sees her as a sister? If he has ever said that to you, either you really are his sister or you are just plain ugly. I mean really ugly because men, trust me, are not very picky in certain of their requirements.
Or he could possibly be gay.
Either way it doesn’t flatter you, nor does it improve your self esteem.
So having a stray admirer, who is a woman, who thinks that you are worth getting to know does a lot for your deflated ego. You also know that this person has seen your profile picture which looks as I am lighting fire to my beard, and did not report it to BlogSpot.
For a guy who has, perhaps a handful of friends who I can treat like shit and still count on, I seem to have made some good friends through my blogging. I have met some of them and they are not the weirdoes I thought one normally meets in the cyber world. They are, in fact, really nice.
And they all prefer my wife to me, once they meet us.
I have no idea why, but apart from one male blogger, all the rest who have contacted me are women. They later on tell me that their husbands are my biggest fans.
Bastards.
I take the plunge and spend about 90% of my married life sleeping on the sofa and these guys probably download my site and leave it accidently on for the wifeys to 'discover'. Women being women will always sympathize with a man who is probably going through the same things her husband is going through, as long as it’s not her husband.
You don’t believe me? Let me see how you react when your husband says that he think pms is just a monthly get out of jail free card for a woman.
Now, please drop that knife and give the poor man his balls back. And, do call for the ambulance.
It’s easier when there’s a fall guy.
That’s me.
I still don’t get it when women say they like me and my writing. There must be something seriously wrong somewhere. I am a bloke.
But I aint complaining.
It’s not every day; someone contacts you and says that she admires your writing. Who doesn’t like that?
So this must be how Brad Pitt feels.
Wonder if this ever made Angelina Jolie feel insecure?
Now my marriage is based on trust. She trusts me not to do anything to jeopardize our relationship and I trust her not to take me up on that.
But being an idiot, I end up telling her everything.
Word of advice to all men who are on the threshold of marriage. Do not discuss your past with your soon to be wife. When she asks you if you have been with other women, trust me, she’s not asking you to confirm. You pulling out your sexual conquest souvenir book to give her an exact figure is not going to help your case either.
Ask yourself first; if you were in her shoes, would you have liked to know? And now that you know, do you sleep better at night?.Knowing that in today’s world, all the exs can be found in one place, called the face book or the orkut or some such flocking area. Nowadays old flames are like those trick candles, it just keeps lighting up no matter how hard you try to blow it out. So you can’t blame her insecurity.
That’s one of the reason I don’t do face book. It makes life too complicated and crowded.
Now I am one of those possessive kinds. But I am also that kind who doesn’t notice anything until my wife comes and tells me about it.
While we drive home after a party, me drunk and happy, wife, cold and distant, I turn and ask her the question which men asks that takes them down the rabbit hole: What’s wrong?
What’s wrong with you? She will retort
I try to surface my consciousness from the lake of alcoholic lanquidity, where it had been peacefully swimming in, to find a reason for that question or the answer to it (if it really requires one).
The sound that comes out from me while it’s being coaxed ashore is a perplexedly spluttered:
What did I do?
'It’s what you didn't do, you big oaf,' she says, ' you didn't even notice that guy who was hitting on me. What’s wrong with you? Do you even love me?'
Now, folks, this is tricky area.
You didn't notice. That much is true. But if you had and had reacted like a gorilla on a war path, which I had done once, things will not change much for you. The question will still be asked.
What’s wrong with you?
So I continue driving. Quietly. My chin hardened. With a grim look on my face. This is my fierce some look. It also looks a lot like my constipated look. This forces her to ask again.
What’s wrong with you?
So I reply. Each word measured. I had seen this being done with convincing effect in Terminator by the governer who has helped himself to the help.
I.will.kill.him.
I continue looking ahead. I can almost feel that smile on her face.
Yeah. They don't want us to fight for them, but they just like to be told we will, and when the shit does hit the ceiling, most of us actually will.
Trust me on that.
Can somebody tell why the women like that song : Hold a grenade?
" To give me all your love is all I ever asked cause
what you don’t understand, is id catch a grenade for ya.
Throw my hand on the blade for ya,
Id jump in front of a train for ya.
You know I’d do anything for ya.
See I would go through all this pain take a bullet straight through my brain.
Yes I would die for ya baby, but you won’t do the same."
This is not romantic man, its macabre. Not only do you want to kill yourself, you want the poor girl to do that for you. Shes probably right now getting a restraining order against you. Go find a small corner, curl up and die you fool. Let me not hear you giving my girl any more stupid ideas.
Hold a grenade. Really.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Bring it Home
I must be the oldest Indian man staying with his parents now.
Age: 42.
Domicile: With Amma and Achan.
Now, I might as well chop my balls off and feed it to a camel.
As you might have noticed, I have not been very regular here for the last month. I am of course assuming that there are millions around the world, who finds my absence disturbing. There must be a whole bunch of twitters, twitting around desperately asking: whatever happened to tys?
One can dream in a self inflicted delusion of one’s own importance.
Anyhow.
Truth is my wife and children have gone back to India for good.
Now those who have been regulars here, (yep, you two), this is a regular occurrence in my house hold. My wife leaves me once in every 3 years. The reasons are mostly to do with children's education, illness in her family etc...
Truth is , anyone who has had the misfortune to be with me on a continuous basis will understand the desire for a long, really long vacation. Why do you think my parents put me in a boarding school when I was 4?
But I am kind of addictive like a bad habit, so she always comes back.
During the few days that she’s away, I run around like R.K.Laxman's dog. I walk around in my boxer shorts, eating directly from the fridge, peeing in the sink ...well, behaving more or less like a bloke.
3 days later it gets boring. There’s no fun in being undisciplined if there’s no one to thwack you on the head.
But this time she’s really gone for good. To make the point clear we have even shipped off everything from our apartment back to India. This time it’s really about the children's education.
Most Indians like salmons, return to their country of birth for education, marriage and death. Well, not entirely like salmons, since they just come back home to lay their eggs and to perhaps shop for banana chips.
That left me in an empty apartment with a mattress on a pallet, a table lamp, a table for the lamp, 15 books, one bottle of Jack Daniel, 1 glass ,a cat and a turtle called , wait for it, Shelly.
Paradise.
Living in an empty flat is like being a squatter. You occupy a tiny corner in a large place. When the night falls, with the curtain drawn, you feel almost like Robert Neville of I am Legend. Tanked up with enough booze, one can feel truly alone. As if you are the last man on the planet.
I have the flat till the end of the month.
The plan was to move in with my parents after that. Being parents, they couldn’t resist the idea of having their errant middle child back home, even though he now sports grey chin brush and a humongous beer belly. So I was forced to move in earlier than I thought. My lil bachelor pad remained there as a place of refuge if things got outta hand.
Outta hand it did.
You know what’s the scariest thing to happen to you when you are middle aged? No, it’s not waking up to find Angelina Jolie sleeping next to you.
It’s waking up one day to realize that you have turned into your father/mother.
Somewhere between 5 and 14, most parents would have already fallen from their children’s pedestal. From super mums and my daddy the strongest, they tend to become a bothersome necessity, then an embarressment, that slowly evolves into everything wrong the society stands for and finally a liability.
By the time, we reach adulthood and have our own family, our parents become the vacation place, or they in their bid to cling on to the only life they by now know, (you), will become your children’s nanny. This is how it is. It’s not a sad state of affairs; it’s just a kink in the wheel. There was a reason why in ancient times, the old , after having dispensed with their responsibilities as parents , retired to the jungles to spend the last of their days immersed in self enquiry.
Which probably would have been repeatedly asking themselves: Why?
Now, in absence of jungles, we have retirement homes.
Now, in my case, things were different. We never did spend too much time with our parents. My brothers and I lived a major part of our lives in boarding schools and spending most of our vacations shuttling from relatives to relatives. It was by no means a deprived childhood. In fact it was a rich experience. We were loved and parented by so many people. So it was pretty cool. Moreover it gave us a perfect weapon to hurt our parents with our so called abandonment issues. Yeah right.
Spending time with parents was the high light of our lives. For short periods. After having spent a lifetime being independent, there’s only so much one is willing to bear in the name of love. We were probably, that minority, who could not wait for the schools to open after 20 days of being with our parents. It’s not we that we were not enjoying the time we had with them. It’s just that we were not used to it.
So you grow up watching your parents and promising yourself that you will never become like them. It’s not meant in a mean way. It’s like knowing that there are only 26 letters in the English alphabet and you can become a limerick if you want, even if your parents are novels. It’s like you are aware what you are dealt with, by just observing your parents.
And you may be proud of them, you may love them to bits, but whatever happens you do not want to become like them.
I didn’t too.
So my first day in my parents’ house, brought the weirdest news home to me. I am my father's twin.
This is scary. I had spent 42 years consciously trying not to end up like him. He’s a great father, but he looks like a silverback on a good day. He overindulges himself on every habit he has. When he drinks, he drains the bar. When he had a heart attack, he lit up the moment he was out of the ICU. He feels that his life has to be lived according to his own yardstick. He is self centered, arrogant, given to sudden flare ups that can make you run a mile, and can surprise you with great acts of kindness and sacrifices when he’s in the mood for it.
The worst part is he even looks like me.
And to clinch the deal, we can’t spend 15 minutes in the same room together. This man is me. I totally can’t stand me.
That bachelor pad of mine is beginning to look more and more attractive.
Even that stupid cat.
Probably Shelly too.
Age: 42.
Domicile: With Amma and Achan.
Now, I might as well chop my balls off and feed it to a camel.
As you might have noticed, I have not been very regular here for the last month. I am of course assuming that there are millions around the world, who finds my absence disturbing. There must be a whole bunch of twitters, twitting around desperately asking: whatever happened to tys?
One can dream in a self inflicted delusion of one’s own importance.
Anyhow.
Truth is my wife and children have gone back to India for good.
Now those who have been regulars here, (yep, you two), this is a regular occurrence in my house hold. My wife leaves me once in every 3 years. The reasons are mostly to do with children's education, illness in her family etc...
Truth is , anyone who has had the misfortune to be with me on a continuous basis will understand the desire for a long, really long vacation. Why do you think my parents put me in a boarding school when I was 4?
But I am kind of addictive like a bad habit, so she always comes back.
During the few days that she’s away, I run around like R.K.Laxman's dog. I walk around in my boxer shorts, eating directly from the fridge, peeing in the sink ...well, behaving more or less like a bloke.
3 days later it gets boring. There’s no fun in being undisciplined if there’s no one to thwack you on the head.
But this time she’s really gone for good. To make the point clear we have even shipped off everything from our apartment back to India. This time it’s really about the children's education.
Most Indians like salmons, return to their country of birth for education, marriage and death. Well, not entirely like salmons, since they just come back home to lay their eggs and to perhaps shop for banana chips.
That left me in an empty apartment with a mattress on a pallet, a table lamp, a table for the lamp, 15 books, one bottle of Jack Daniel, 1 glass ,a cat and a turtle called , wait for it, Shelly.
Paradise.
Living in an empty flat is like being a squatter. You occupy a tiny corner in a large place. When the night falls, with the curtain drawn, you feel almost like Robert Neville of I am Legend. Tanked up with enough booze, one can feel truly alone. As if you are the last man on the planet.
I have the flat till the end of the month.
The plan was to move in with my parents after that. Being parents, they couldn’t resist the idea of having their errant middle child back home, even though he now sports grey chin brush and a humongous beer belly. So I was forced to move in earlier than I thought. My lil bachelor pad remained there as a place of refuge if things got outta hand.
Outta hand it did.
You know what’s the scariest thing to happen to you when you are middle aged? No, it’s not waking up to find Angelina Jolie sleeping next to you.
It’s waking up one day to realize that you have turned into your father/mother.
Somewhere between 5 and 14, most parents would have already fallen from their children’s pedestal. From super mums and my daddy the strongest, they tend to become a bothersome necessity, then an embarressment, that slowly evolves into everything wrong the society stands for and finally a liability.
By the time, we reach adulthood and have our own family, our parents become the vacation place, or they in their bid to cling on to the only life they by now know, (you), will become your children’s nanny. This is how it is. It’s not a sad state of affairs; it’s just a kink in the wheel. There was a reason why in ancient times, the old , after having dispensed with their responsibilities as parents , retired to the jungles to spend the last of their days immersed in self enquiry.
Which probably would have been repeatedly asking themselves: Why?
Now, in absence of jungles, we have retirement homes.
Now, in my case, things were different. We never did spend too much time with our parents. My brothers and I lived a major part of our lives in boarding schools and spending most of our vacations shuttling from relatives to relatives. It was by no means a deprived childhood. In fact it was a rich experience. We were loved and parented by so many people. So it was pretty cool. Moreover it gave us a perfect weapon to hurt our parents with our so called abandonment issues. Yeah right.
Spending time with parents was the high light of our lives. For short periods. After having spent a lifetime being independent, there’s only so much one is willing to bear in the name of love. We were probably, that minority, who could not wait for the schools to open after 20 days of being with our parents. It’s not we that we were not enjoying the time we had with them. It’s just that we were not used to it.
So you grow up watching your parents and promising yourself that you will never become like them. It’s not meant in a mean way. It’s like knowing that there are only 26 letters in the English alphabet and you can become a limerick if you want, even if your parents are novels. It’s like you are aware what you are dealt with, by just observing your parents.
And you may be proud of them, you may love them to bits, but whatever happens you do not want to become like them.
I didn’t too.
So my first day in my parents’ house, brought the weirdest news home to me. I am my father's twin.
This is scary. I had spent 42 years consciously trying not to end up like him. He’s a great father, but he looks like a silverback on a good day. He overindulges himself on every habit he has. When he drinks, he drains the bar. When he had a heart attack, he lit up the moment he was out of the ICU. He feels that his life has to be lived according to his own yardstick. He is self centered, arrogant, given to sudden flare ups that can make you run a mile, and can surprise you with great acts of kindness and sacrifices when he’s in the mood for it.
The worst part is he even looks like me.
And to clinch the deal, we can’t spend 15 minutes in the same room together. This man is me. I totally can’t stand me.
That bachelor pad of mine is beginning to look more and more attractive.
Even that stupid cat.
Probably Shelly too.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Killer gadgets and other things ..
Normally I am a very calm guy.
Ask my wife.
No much can ruffle my feathers apart from the usual. Which is everything that involves others. Then there are those everyday thingies that irritates the shit out of me.
Metal Hangers : Who is the sadistic freak that thought up a way to bend a piece of wire with a hook and say we can hang our clothes on it? Why is this implement a favorite of the laundry guys? I hate those things. It makes a racket in the wardrobe when it’s denuded of its garments. It pokes me when I try to take them out. It tangles with its fellow compatriots making itself into one of those irritating puzzles that is sold in the Global Village.
My day starts with dealing with one of these and then my day goes steadily downhill from there.
Toothpaste cap : Why are manufactures still insisting on sealing something with a cap that when opened is separate from the body? This is the era of can tabs that stay on the beer can after it’s opened. I have seen those click open and closing toothpaste which I think is marvelous. It rekindles your hope in mankind.
Then wife brings home those stupid toothpastes that have those fucking screwy caps which always fall and roll under the sink, which upon attempts at retrievals will ensure a close encounter of my head on the bottom of the sink, which will make me belt out a stream of expletives that results in my kids making a poem out of it. The next thing you know, the wife is calling the lawyers.
Hands free sets : I can’t use those blue tooth thingies. I handle a lot of calls in a day. The last one I had heated up and gave my ear a third degree burn. So I use that headphone stuff with wires.
I hate it.
Half my work is done from my car. So I have my phone held onto the windshield with a sort of clasp that came along with the phone. There’s a name for it but it’s probably an acronym TTTIBGFTTIWBTPSTHWTHHGHAB (The Thing That Is Being Given Free To The Idiot Who Bought This Phone So That He Will Think He Has Got Himself A Bargain).
To the thus suspended phone I stick the hand free in from one end and the car charger, which has those coiled wires, to the other end. Thus totally gang raped, my phone stares at me mournfully as I drive.
All hell breaks loose when I actually do get a call. This is when the phone, the charger and the handset conspire to kill me.
The hanging wires of the handset will get caught up on the steering wheel, pulling itself out of the phone. The yank of the wire will dislodge the phone to make it fall near my feet. I will then try to retrieve the phone by fishing it out with the phone charger that is still lodged in its orifice. While all this is going on I can hear the metallic 'hello!, hello!' of the caller. Around then, the charger dislodges itself, hurling the phone under the foot brake pedal of my moving car.
After hand breaking the car to a stop at the nearest parking area, I will proceed to rip the wires apart, throw the errant phone on the floor and kick it for good measure.
I do not take lightly my gadgets trying to kill me.
Sales person in clothing stores : Why do these guys stalk you? It’s not like she is going to help me try on my pants. No, that you will have to do by yourself. So why do they follow me? Last time, I wanted to see how far this can go. So I decided to do a Rambo on her. I pretended as if I am going to the pant section but quickly turned and disappeared into the women’s' section. From there I did a belly roll into the shirt section and hid among the racks. I could hear her breath as she came closer, where upon I jumped out of my hiding place with a g string in my hand to garrote her.
I am not allowed there anymore. I buy my clothes online. It’s more private and I get to browse the lingerie section without being labeled a perv.
So what about you? What gets your goat? Tell me the things that can make you go from Dr. Bruce Banner to the Incredible Hulk?
Ask my wife.
No much can ruffle my feathers apart from the usual. Which is everything that involves others. Then there are those everyday thingies that irritates the shit out of me.
Metal Hangers : Who is the sadistic freak that thought up a way to bend a piece of wire with a hook and say we can hang our clothes on it? Why is this implement a favorite of the laundry guys? I hate those things. It makes a racket in the wardrobe when it’s denuded of its garments. It pokes me when I try to take them out. It tangles with its fellow compatriots making itself into one of those irritating puzzles that is sold in the Global Village.
My day starts with dealing with one of these and then my day goes steadily downhill from there.
Toothpaste cap : Why are manufactures still insisting on sealing something with a cap that when opened is separate from the body? This is the era of can tabs that stay on the beer can after it’s opened. I have seen those click open and closing toothpaste which I think is marvelous. It rekindles your hope in mankind.
Then wife brings home those stupid toothpastes that have those fucking screwy caps which always fall and roll under the sink, which upon attempts at retrievals will ensure a close encounter of my head on the bottom of the sink, which will make me belt out a stream of expletives that results in my kids making a poem out of it. The next thing you know, the wife is calling the lawyers.
Hands free sets : I can’t use those blue tooth thingies. I handle a lot of calls in a day. The last one I had heated up and gave my ear a third degree burn. So I use that headphone stuff with wires.
I hate it.
Half my work is done from my car. So I have my phone held onto the windshield with a sort of clasp that came along with the phone. There’s a name for it but it’s probably an acronym TTTIBGFTTIWBTPSTHWTHHGHAB (The Thing That Is Being Given Free To The Idiot Who Bought This Phone So That He Will Think He Has Got Himself A Bargain).
To the thus suspended phone I stick the hand free in from one end and the car charger, which has those coiled wires, to the other end. Thus totally gang raped, my phone stares at me mournfully as I drive.
All hell breaks loose when I actually do get a call. This is when the phone, the charger and the handset conspire to kill me.
The hanging wires of the handset will get caught up on the steering wheel, pulling itself out of the phone. The yank of the wire will dislodge the phone to make it fall near my feet. I will then try to retrieve the phone by fishing it out with the phone charger that is still lodged in its orifice. While all this is going on I can hear the metallic 'hello!, hello!' of the caller. Around then, the charger dislodges itself, hurling the phone under the foot brake pedal of my moving car.
After hand breaking the car to a stop at the nearest parking area, I will proceed to rip the wires apart, throw the errant phone on the floor and kick it for good measure.
I do not take lightly my gadgets trying to kill me.
Sales person in clothing stores : Why do these guys stalk you? It’s not like she is going to help me try on my pants. No, that you will have to do by yourself. So why do they follow me? Last time, I wanted to see how far this can go. So I decided to do a Rambo on her. I pretended as if I am going to the pant section but quickly turned and disappeared into the women’s' section. From there I did a belly roll into the shirt section and hid among the racks. I could hear her breath as she came closer, where upon I jumped out of my hiding place with a g string in my hand to garrote her.
I am not allowed there anymore. I buy my clothes online. It’s more private and I get to browse the lingerie section without being labeled a perv.
So what about you? What gets your goat? Tell me the things that can make you go from Dr. Bruce Banner to the Incredible Hulk?
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Tom Foolery.
Isnt it grand being a man?
I mean the standing up to pee bit and scratching what we want when we want, are just fantastic perks. The way we can laugh off a fart or a loud burp. After all we are men and thats our birth right.
Isnt it great being a man, in a world, of our making, expecting everything around us to revolve around our fears and thoughts? Sun does shine from the great male butt.
We cover our woman up to protect her from people like us. We are truly the best of gods creation.
Sometimes , I look at myself in the mirror and get a hard on. Its hard not to when you are a man.
Look Iam not for the women.
Hell, I dont even understand them. I dont think Iam required to.
Personally I think pms is an overrated thing. If I had to inevitably deal with a particular issue every month for a period of approximately 40 years, I would learn to deal with it instead of treating 4 days of a month as some sort of get out of jail free card.
But of course this comes from a guy whose understanding of pain was a year with piles and a life time of hangovers. I think that qualifies. Why? Iam a man and I say so.
Pregnancy? Dont even go there. I wouldnt be expected to understand something that I have no way of knowing. But carrying a baby inside your stomach isnt a big deal, neither, I believe ,is being able to stand up while peeing .So this great man - woman divide based on who is better is a bit of joke for me. I just dont get it.
Look, my take is this. None of us can claim credit or discredit for what we are born as. It just is.
But I do have to admire the way man ruled the roost.
The guy totally rocks!
Throw in a train compartment labelled women only, allote them 4 seats in a 75 seater bus, give them some representation in the government, put up an extra counter and call it women only and there you have it; our version of equality.
If this is nothing sort of genius , I dont know what is.
Throw them some bones. Then pay them lesser for the same type of work. Create a society where a woman has to struggle to reach anywhere where we can stride in.
A society where a woman chooses to kill her own infant daughters because we have made her accept the belief that man child is somehow better. Brilliance.
A society where the mother in law, assists her son to kill her daughter in law , a role she herself once adorned. Her fault? Hardly.Look closer, you will see a man's hand.
If she is raped, it must be her fault. If she is harassed, she must have asked for it. If she succeeds, she must have slept her way there. If her children fails, it must be her fault. If the husband strays, its because she didnt know how to keep her man. If she is left with an unborn child by a spineless lover, shes a whore. If she aborts, shes a killer. If she keeps the child, shes the mother of a bastard.
The smartest thing we did was when we pitted them against each other and then invented the coolest saying : A woman is a woman's worst enemy.
We even got them believing it. Can I just shake my own hands?
I dont get it. Why such complexities? why dont we just call her god and blame the whole thing on her?
Lets face the truth, if the world affairs where left to women, I think the maximum we will have to worry about will be about putting down the toilet seat.
Have you noticed something strange around you?
Where are all the tom boys gone?
You recall the time when we were kids, there used to be atleast one girl who did everything we did, sometimes better than us? That was the times when it was cool to be a man. Being a man meant somehow better.
Look around you. No tom boys. Just a lot of metro sexual men.
Nature is turning the tables boys, better make the effort to treat them like equals and put a fucking lid on understanding them. You cant. You are a man and the only reason you say that is to get inside their pants. Treat them like you would like to be treated, just dont be a man about it.
Iam onto me.
I mean the standing up to pee bit and scratching what we want when we want, are just fantastic perks. The way we can laugh off a fart or a loud burp. After all we are men and thats our birth right.
Isnt it great being a man, in a world, of our making, expecting everything around us to revolve around our fears and thoughts? Sun does shine from the great male butt.
We cover our woman up to protect her from people like us. We are truly the best of gods creation.
Sometimes , I look at myself in the mirror and get a hard on. Its hard not to when you are a man.
Look Iam not for the women.
Hell, I dont even understand them. I dont think Iam required to.
Personally I think pms is an overrated thing. If I had to inevitably deal with a particular issue every month for a period of approximately 40 years, I would learn to deal with it instead of treating 4 days of a month as some sort of get out of jail free card.
But of course this comes from a guy whose understanding of pain was a year with piles and a life time of hangovers. I think that qualifies. Why? Iam a man and I say so.
Pregnancy? Dont even go there. I wouldnt be expected to understand something that I have no way of knowing. But carrying a baby inside your stomach isnt a big deal, neither, I believe ,is being able to stand up while peeing .So this great man - woman divide based on who is better is a bit of joke for me. I just dont get it.
Look, my take is this. None of us can claim credit or discredit for what we are born as. It just is.
But I do have to admire the way man ruled the roost.
The guy totally rocks!
Throw in a train compartment labelled women only, allote them 4 seats in a 75 seater bus, give them some representation in the government, put up an extra counter and call it women only and there you have it; our version of equality.
If this is nothing sort of genius , I dont know what is.
Throw them some bones. Then pay them lesser for the same type of work. Create a society where a woman has to struggle to reach anywhere where we can stride in.
A society where a woman chooses to kill her own infant daughters because we have made her accept the belief that man child is somehow better. Brilliance.
A society where the mother in law, assists her son to kill her daughter in law , a role she herself once adorned. Her fault? Hardly.Look closer, you will see a man's hand.
If she is raped, it must be her fault. If she is harassed, she must have asked for it. If she succeeds, she must have slept her way there. If her children fails, it must be her fault. If the husband strays, its because she didnt know how to keep her man. If she is left with an unborn child by a spineless lover, shes a whore. If she aborts, shes a killer. If she keeps the child, shes the mother of a bastard.
The smartest thing we did was when we pitted them against each other and then invented the coolest saying : A woman is a woman's worst enemy.
We even got them believing it. Can I just shake my own hands?
I dont get it. Why such complexities? why dont we just call her god and blame the whole thing on her?
Lets face the truth, if the world affairs where left to women, I think the maximum we will have to worry about will be about putting down the toilet seat.
Have you noticed something strange around you?
Where are all the tom boys gone?
You recall the time when we were kids, there used to be atleast one girl who did everything we did, sometimes better than us? That was the times when it was cool to be a man. Being a man meant somehow better.
Look around you. No tom boys. Just a lot of metro sexual men.
Nature is turning the tables boys, better make the effort to treat them like equals and put a fucking lid on understanding them. You cant. You are a man and the only reason you say that is to get inside their pants. Treat them like you would like to be treated, just dont be a man about it.
Iam onto me.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Kneaded Here.
There are things that can totally shake the ground that you stand up on. Like finding out one day that Gandhi was a foul mouthed Nazi or Jesus finding out that Joseph really was his father.
For me, it was when Soumya told me that Shakeela chechi is actually from Tamilnadu.
Thats like saying the peacock is the national bird of Great Britan.
People should not play with other people's faith. Its bad manners. I bet she was punishing me for being rude to her. Jerk.
I have nothing against Tamils. If I do, you will not find me saying it here. Never mess with a population who takes their cinemas seriously. The last time I said something about a certain actor whose name starts with R and ends with t, my girl child became a boy. Now unless I want my marraige to become a lesbian alliance, I should probably stop this paragraph here.
There.
But Shakeela chechi?
Tamil?
How could this small detail of birth have been missed by her mallu fans? There is a whole generation of men from that prawn state whose epitome of sexual adventures were performed by others on the celluloid and the object of that lust was always this woman with a remarkably small head on top of gigantic assets. Shes the only woman I know, who could make a sexual congress ( my vote is on that) look like a piglet trying to suckle its mama. Its like the joke where the fly makes love to a Rhino and then asks her, did it hurt?
Mallu men who acts in mallu porns are elisted from the Kerala Tattukadas. I think this must be the day job. I came upon this revelation when I was sitting, sipping my black tea one night, waiting for my order of Parata and beef curry, watching the parata maker at his finest. He was kneading the dough. And I was going :
Wait a minute, I know that movement.
It was deja vu.
Images flickered by in my head like Amir Khan's in Gagani.Memories streamed out like a freshly squeezed Colgate toothpaste. I opened my shirt and looked at my tattoo. Shakeela chechi and the Kerala kamasutra number 79.
The boob kneading.
I had spoken about this earlier. The copyrighted sexual move of all mallu porn movie, which is followed by the nosing of the pleasuring womans body who lies supine like a fell oak, where only sign of life is the constant rubbing of her two feet like shes got a case of athletes foot.
And who can forget the visible display of a mallu girl in the throes of passion? The self biting of her lower lip with the eyes rolling back like a person suffering from an epileptic fit.
This was education to a generation whose daily lust fix was watching discreetly the women taking their bath at the temple pond from a distance of 1 kilometer.
There is a reason why we rank high in imagination. This is also the reason why mallu men hold hands. With each other.
This is also why we sport a moustache.
Its to brush away any dust while we do the nosing of our women.We have no idea what we are supposed to be sniffing for but if thats how it should be done , then thats how it will be. We are afterall a nation known for following the leader.
Sex is an important factor in Kerala.
Its like food in Ethiopia. Or health for a sick person. We dont get enough.
The result shows itself in public transports, bus stops, any crowded place, with embaressing regularity. This is why we need great individuals like Shakeela chechi. She will ensure that the horny mallu men will stay inside a theatre, like the sex trade in Amsterdam, where it can be controlled and dissipated in a healthy , socialy acceptable way.
Considering that Kerala gave Tamilnadu one of their most loved politician,MGR, its only fair we adopt Shakeela chechi as our own.
Its a fair trade.
I would like to leave you with a lovely picture of chechi in a pensive mood. ( If you are reading this at work and your boss is a mallu, make sure he is standing behind you while you scroll down; sure fire method to get into his good book)
For me, it was when Soumya told me that Shakeela chechi is actually from Tamilnadu.
Thats like saying the peacock is the national bird of Great Britan.
People should not play with other people's faith. Its bad manners. I bet she was punishing me for being rude to her. Jerk.
I have nothing against Tamils. If I do, you will not find me saying it here. Never mess with a population who takes their cinemas seriously. The last time I said something about a certain actor whose name starts with R and ends with t, my girl child became a boy. Now unless I want my marraige to become a lesbian alliance, I should probably stop this paragraph here.
There.
But Shakeela chechi?
Tamil?
How could this small detail of birth have been missed by her mallu fans? There is a whole generation of men from that prawn state whose epitome of sexual adventures were performed by others on the celluloid and the object of that lust was always this woman with a remarkably small head on top of gigantic assets. Shes the only woman I know, who could make a sexual congress ( my vote is on that) look like a piglet trying to suckle its mama. Its like the joke where the fly makes love to a Rhino and then asks her, did it hurt?
Mallu men who acts in mallu porns are elisted from the Kerala Tattukadas. I think this must be the day job. I came upon this revelation when I was sitting, sipping my black tea one night, waiting for my order of Parata and beef curry, watching the parata maker at his finest. He was kneading the dough. And I was going :
Wait a minute, I know that movement.
It was deja vu.
Images flickered by in my head like Amir Khan's in Gagani.Memories streamed out like a freshly squeezed Colgate toothpaste. I opened my shirt and looked at my tattoo. Shakeela chechi and the Kerala kamasutra number 79.
The boob kneading.
I had spoken about this earlier. The copyrighted sexual move of all mallu porn movie, which is followed by the nosing of the pleasuring womans body who lies supine like a fell oak, where only sign of life is the constant rubbing of her two feet like shes got a case of athletes foot.
And who can forget the visible display of a mallu girl in the throes of passion? The self biting of her lower lip with the eyes rolling back like a person suffering from an epileptic fit.
This was education to a generation whose daily lust fix was watching discreetly the women taking their bath at the temple pond from a distance of 1 kilometer.
There is a reason why we rank high in imagination. This is also the reason why mallu men hold hands. With each other.
This is also why we sport a moustache.
Its to brush away any dust while we do the nosing of our women.We have no idea what we are supposed to be sniffing for but if thats how it should be done , then thats how it will be. We are afterall a nation known for following the leader.
Sex is an important factor in Kerala.
Its like food in Ethiopia. Or health for a sick person. We dont get enough.
The result shows itself in public transports, bus stops, any crowded place, with embaressing regularity. This is why we need great individuals like Shakeela chechi. She will ensure that the horny mallu men will stay inside a theatre, like the sex trade in Amsterdam, where it can be controlled and dissipated in a healthy , socialy acceptable way.
Considering that Kerala gave Tamilnadu one of their most loved politician,MGR, its only fair we adopt Shakeela chechi as our own.
Its a fair trade.
I would like to leave you with a lovely picture of chechi in a pensive mood. ( If you are reading this at work and your boss is a mallu, make sure he is standing behind you while you scroll down; sure fire method to get into his good book)
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Pussy Galore
Its not like I hate cats.
I dont. I just find living with something which has an expression on its face as if it knows my inner most secrets, a lot like being married to the damn thing.
Its unsettling.
Iam a man. Atleast I think Iam. After hitting 40, there has been a tendency to cry in movies, have temper tantrums and a penchant to behave like , god forbid, a woman. This , I have read, is due to the reduction in the production of testosterone, which is the chemical within us, that makes men men. Funny when you think of it. That the only thing stopping men from becoming a woman is a chemical.
Anywho. Now that my boobs are bigger than my wife's and my stomach eclipses the only identifiable male part that I may no longer have, since I have taken to sitting down when I pee, Iam not very sure when I claim that Iam what Iam because Iam a man.
But I find any man who likes cats a little strange.
Iam currently residing in the Sand City. Here , unlike , in the home country, when one takes a pet, its for life or untill it is release onto the concrete jungle where they become part of the road reenforcement plan or gets taken in by some misguided do gooder who then gives it to an animal shelter like Feline Friends or K9 Friends etc, where they are recycled to live their potential road kill destiny all over again.
Life sucks if you are a human but its double suck for an animal that is not a horse or a camel here.
Iam proud to say that I belong to that breed of men who has made the ostrich approach to life a lifestyle. When Anna Hazare fasted, I was rooting for him with beer and pizza. When Japan quaked , I expressed my sympathy with 5 pegs of JD. Iam like that Nero. You will find me fiddling while the world burns around me and it will be easier because I will be watching it on TV.
But all that was spoiled when wife went out and came back with an animal that was animated only when you open a can.
Now I need to live with this fur ball for its life time which can be around 15 years. Being a cat, you will also need to multiply that by 9. So Iam not liking this one bit. My conscious and the fear of my wife prevents me from releasing the object of my wrath to play dodgeball with hurtling metal coffins on wheels.
Cats are useless as pets. It doesnt fetch. It doesnt roll. It doesnt save you from fire and robbers. It doesnt act like a 4 year old boy on speed when it sees you after you have stepped out for 5 minutes.
Men need that. We like knowing that we are missed. We like thinking that we somehow makes a difference to someone or something.
Cats dont give a fuck.
What it does is sleep 18 hours of a day in your wardrobe , snuggled amidst your black clothes covering it in unremovable cat fur, waking up only to shit or when you open a can. Then they spend the next 1 hour walking around the house at 3 in the morning making noises that sounds like Lady gaga being strangled.
I have always felt that the amusement in the eyes of a cat is it wondering how on earth it managed to have a human as its pet.
Therefore its a mystery what still makes these buggers a welcome addition in some houses.
I think theres a reason why the Egyptians used to worship these feline spongers. Any animal that makes you clean up its shit is worth worshipping.
Theres an old saying :
Women and cats will do as they please and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea.
I think I will just pour myself a drink.
I dont. I just find living with something which has an expression on its face as if it knows my inner most secrets, a lot like being married to the damn thing.
Its unsettling.
Iam a man. Atleast I think Iam. After hitting 40, there has been a tendency to cry in movies, have temper tantrums and a penchant to behave like , god forbid, a woman. This , I have read, is due to the reduction in the production of testosterone, which is the chemical within us, that makes men men. Funny when you think of it. That the only thing stopping men from becoming a woman is a chemical.
Anywho. Now that my boobs are bigger than my wife's and my stomach eclipses the only identifiable male part that I may no longer have, since I have taken to sitting down when I pee, Iam not very sure when I claim that Iam what Iam because Iam a man.
But I find any man who likes cats a little strange.
Iam currently residing in the Sand City. Here , unlike , in the home country, when one takes a pet, its for life or untill it is release onto the concrete jungle where they become part of the road reenforcement plan or gets taken in by some misguided do gooder who then gives it to an animal shelter like Feline Friends or K9 Friends etc, where they are recycled to live their potential road kill destiny all over again.
Life sucks if you are a human but its double suck for an animal that is not a horse or a camel here.
Iam proud to say that I belong to that breed of men who has made the ostrich approach to life a lifestyle. When Anna Hazare fasted, I was rooting for him with beer and pizza. When Japan quaked , I expressed my sympathy with 5 pegs of JD. Iam like that Nero. You will find me fiddling while the world burns around me and it will be easier because I will be watching it on TV.
But all that was spoiled when wife went out and came back with an animal that was animated only when you open a can.
Now I need to live with this fur ball for its life time which can be around 15 years. Being a cat, you will also need to multiply that by 9. So Iam not liking this one bit. My conscious and the fear of my wife prevents me from releasing the object of my wrath to play dodgeball with hurtling metal coffins on wheels.
Cats are useless as pets. It doesnt fetch. It doesnt roll. It doesnt save you from fire and robbers. It doesnt act like a 4 year old boy on speed when it sees you after you have stepped out for 5 minutes.
Men need that. We like knowing that we are missed. We like thinking that we somehow makes a difference to someone or something.
Cats dont give a fuck.
What it does is sleep 18 hours of a day in your wardrobe , snuggled amidst your black clothes covering it in unremovable cat fur, waking up only to shit or when you open a can. Then they spend the next 1 hour walking around the house at 3 in the morning making noises that sounds like Lady gaga being strangled.
I have always felt that the amusement in the eyes of a cat is it wondering how on earth it managed to have a human as its pet.
Therefore its a mystery what still makes these buggers a welcome addition in some houses.
I think theres a reason why the Egyptians used to worship these feline spongers. Any animal that makes you clean up its shit is worth worshipping.
Theres an old saying :
Women and cats will do as they please and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea.
I think I will just pour myself a drink.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Naked Games
I don't understand cricket.
Could never get the unnecessary passion behind 2 guys wacking a ball with a piece of wood and 11 guys running around trying to catch it. It seemed as stupid as that other game where 22 morons run after one ball.
All that changed with the promise made by one Miss Poonam Pandey.
Any game that promises to have a naked woman at the end of it, is a great game in my book. That was all the motivation I needed.
I was cheering myself stupid for India all day yesterday.
My eyes are however yet to be rewarded for the effort.
I like naked women.
I cant really explain why.
Its one of those things that defies logic.
I like women but naked ones are better. Somehow better. Beats me why. Naked men dont hit the right note but naked women are another story all together.
Anyhow. The important lesson here is that it got me watching cricket.
I still dont get it but the anticipation for the rewards of sitting through it is just great.
Its my opinion that there should be a naked woman at the end of every effort.
Women are great motivaters.
Every one might think that it was dedication, patriotism and team work that won the day for India but we men know the truth.
It was Poonam.
Shes our Evita.Our lady of liberty. The shining Icon of everything great about a woman. Her body.
Of course the Indian middle class morality might be offended because according to us, naked women are a myth. They dont exist. Its a western propaganda. Any woman comfortable in her own skin is answerable to the society of fat holy cows who dictates her fate.
Indian woman. Symbol of purity and chasity.
What does nakedness have to do with that? Purity then must be dependent on the layers of clothes that cover it. Hmmm doesnt strike you as correct does it?
If a girl wants to strip, I feel the Indian society should stand back and let her.
After all shes doing it for her country. Others blow themselves up among others for the same reasons. This is a far better option.
Wars could have been ended this way.
What if George Bush said that he will strip himself naked if Osama Bin Laden was'nt found in a weeks time?
History might have been different.
I think this Poonam girl is onto something.
She could be the answer to world hunger.
Mamta Banerjee promises to strip naked if the hungry Indian mass are not fed.
Religious intolerance.
Manmohan Singh threatens full monty if the one thousand religions of India doesnt bury the hatchet and promises to live in peace and let others live in peace.
World peace.
Abdul J Kalam decides to get into the picture by baring it all if the world leaders dont get into one room and come out with a solution.
Poonam could be the new age Gandhi. Her idea could get results for age old problems. Fast.
I say let her do what she wants to do. Lets cheer her on instead of judging her.
From my side, I promise to strip naked in public if India ever loses another world cup.
There! that should solve that problem.
Could never get the unnecessary passion behind 2 guys wacking a ball with a piece of wood and 11 guys running around trying to catch it. It seemed as stupid as that other game where 22 morons run after one ball.
All that changed with the promise made by one Miss Poonam Pandey.
Any game that promises to have a naked woman at the end of it, is a great game in my book. That was all the motivation I needed.
I was cheering myself stupid for India all day yesterday.
My eyes are however yet to be rewarded for the effort.
I like naked women.
I cant really explain why.
Its one of those things that defies logic.
I like women but naked ones are better. Somehow better. Beats me why. Naked men dont hit the right note but naked women are another story all together.
Anyhow. The important lesson here is that it got me watching cricket.
I still dont get it but the anticipation for the rewards of sitting through it is just great.
Its my opinion that there should be a naked woman at the end of every effort.
Women are great motivaters.
Every one might think that it was dedication, patriotism and team work that won the day for India but we men know the truth.
It was Poonam.
Shes our Evita.Our lady of liberty. The shining Icon of everything great about a woman. Her body.
Of course the Indian middle class morality might be offended because according to us, naked women are a myth. They dont exist. Its a western propaganda. Any woman comfortable in her own skin is answerable to the society of fat holy cows who dictates her fate.
Indian woman. Symbol of purity and chasity.
What does nakedness have to do with that? Purity then must be dependent on the layers of clothes that cover it. Hmmm doesnt strike you as correct does it?
If a girl wants to strip, I feel the Indian society should stand back and let her.
After all shes doing it for her country. Others blow themselves up among others for the same reasons. This is a far better option.
Wars could have been ended this way.
What if George Bush said that he will strip himself naked if Osama Bin Laden was'nt found in a weeks time?
History might have been different.
I think this Poonam girl is onto something.
She could be the answer to world hunger.
Mamta Banerjee promises to strip naked if the hungry Indian mass are not fed.
Religious intolerance.
Manmohan Singh threatens full monty if the one thousand religions of India doesnt bury the hatchet and promises to live in peace and let others live in peace.
World peace.
Abdul J Kalam decides to get into the picture by baring it all if the world leaders dont get into one room and come out with a solution.
Poonam could be the new age Gandhi. Her idea could get results for age old problems. Fast.
I say let her do what she wants to do. Lets cheer her on instead of judging her.
From my side, I promise to strip naked in public if India ever loses another world cup.
There! that should solve that problem.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
