a passing thought...

Perusing my blog, thinking about just exactly why I whine about my shit, sparked a realization. Most of lifes little pains are always more complained about that actual serious problems. Deep pains, true pains, life threatening conditions...all of these you never hear anyone complaining about. The terminally ill don't wake up every day and go "Oh how harshly I've been fucked!", they just go on with the day and try to take what they can before their end. Not that I'm saying us "normal people" are any luckier, I mean hell, we're all gonna die one day. It's just a matter of when, where, and how. Sadly enough though, even these things don't matter. In a few generations, even the greatest of us are forgotten. Realizing this, I wondered why I bitch about my problems and discuss hopes and dreams at all. I think searching for truth is far too taxing. Searching for purpose, pointless. Just forge your own, make it work, do what you must. Nothing will matter a few years from now, and through it all, our lives are just blinks of an eye. They seem so important to us but they're really not significant at all. We claim to have a sanctity and quality of life. Nothing but bullshit. The only reason our lives have "value" is because we say they do, and anything not worth having around isn't deemed worthy of life. Now mind you I'm not saying this out of anger, nor am I whining about this. This is just one of those things that you always know, just never think about or bring up so you feel a little better each day when you wake up. To conclude: am i a manic dreamer, or just a complete psychopath aren't I? (I'm actually very very happy while I'm writing this. Despite what the tone may seem to be.)

Project FeVeR....

There are just some days where you're absolutely wildly enthusiastic to do project work and kick some hard ass, and present the best project you possibly can.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Sorry, couldn't keep a straight face any longer. Ok, maybe there ARE days like that...

Just not for me.

Now... this project that i have... i was reasonably interested in it, reasonably enthusiastic about it, reasonably reasonable about it even. Ready to work at it...

Until we got the survey questionnaire...

Now, for those who don't know what a "survey questionnaire" is, it's a "survey questionnaire". This is basically a little piece of paper invented by Satan on the day she had her period.

So now that we've established that surveys are horrible and Satan is female, coming back to the project.

I don't know WHO came up with this survey, but it is the single most unbelievably badly structured survey in the universe. It must have been some severly socially retarded piece of hellspawn that came up with this survey. How else do you explain my having to ask people questions like

"What are your aspirations and fears about the latest technology?"

And my favorite

"Do u believe that E-transactions are easier early in the morning?"

By the time Monday rolled around i was Officially Disenchanted with this project...

I am now Officially in a state of Full Blooming Hatred.

Don't be surprised if you find something in day after tomorrow's newspaper headlines that reads like this:

STUDENTS FORCE TEACHER TO EAT 100 QUESTIONNAIRES AT GUNPOINT.
Lady recovers but still claims to "have a bad case of acidity."

Sigh

Edit: Above-mentioned project has now been scrapped completely. All knowledge of its existence will be denied.

a lil boyz thoughts....

when eve brought woe to all mankind
Old Adam called her Wo-man
But when wooed with love so kind
He then pronounced her Woo-Man
But now,with folly and with pride
Their husbands pockets trimming
The women are so full of whims
That men pronounce them Wimmen.


What i learnt about women in my 22 years:

No means no, yes means no...maybe means no.

This is how they think:

"Man, i REALLY dont want to go for that party tomorrow. ITS GOING TO SUCK! It'll be AWFUL! I dont feel like going!"

"Umm, so dont go"

"Ooohhh! But i have something REALLLY nice that i can wear! So i'll go!"

When they scream, they go ultrasonic... glass shatters, heart patients fall dead on the spot and dogs go rabid.

One shouldn't try understanding them. Its a fundamentally impossible task... think about it...the basis for understand something is Logic. When there is a fundamental logic to something, you understand it... but women have ZERO logic, hence the question of understanding does not arise...

They hinder drinking sessions with ridiculous utopian notions and ideas like "responsibility" and "sobriety"...

They don't appreciate the effort that goes into cultivating the perfect beer belly. They frown upon it...little do they know how much Men pride themselves on the fact that it has been nurtured using only the finest in beer technology. Non believers...

Some of them don't like The Matrix. Kill em all.

They are incredibly bad drivers. I personally know one who (simultaeneously) spoke on her cellphone, cut lanes, broke a signal, got flagged down by the cops and when asked, didnt have her license.

They do silly things. For example, abovementioned bad driver, on being stopped by the cop made the mistake of calling him "uncle"... this almost landed her in jail... luckily she back pedalled in time to call him "brother"

They leak. They are prone to suddenly getting extremely emotional and suddenly leaking on your shoulder... they call this "crying". It scares the pants off me when they do that to me. They suddenly start soggying your shoulder, leaking and you dont have the faintest idea about what you're sposed to do! Its like...help... err...anyone? errr...shes leaking! help?

Some of em can't stop talking about their ex boyfriends even when they're out with you. If not the ex boyfriend, then they talk about all the guys that are making a pass at em...way to go...nice way to make a guy feel special...

Most of em have longer hair than guys.

They are extremely easy to piss off. This makes me happy. Its great fun winding people up.

All girls hate other girls. This fascinates me.

They expect guys to be "sensitive" and they want guys to "listen"...we do listen... to the television!

Melodrama is not a character trait... it is a genetic one.

99 percent of them hate me.

I wonder why?

EDIT : Gals there is something called EUPHEMISM remember that.

A Band of BrOtHeR's....

What a time to get inspired, 2:22 a.m. Might as well make use of it I guess....!!!


Just looking around youself and observing the dynamics of relationships people around you have afforded you some of the simplest vicarious pleasures available to us as a race.

It is, of course fantastic to be a part of any kind of special relationship, but you can never just objectively observe any relationship you're in simply because you're too busy enjoying it. But when you look at a similar relationship from a distance you can't help but grin and marvel at the way six billion of us have been programmed. We've been programmed, every one of us, to be able to get along on different levels with SO many different people. It speaks wonders for the fabric of our existence, be it at a genetic or cultural level, that every single one of us just SOMEHOW develops characteristics that allow us to find common ground with other people, leading to long-lasting, touching, devoted friendships.

I had this semi-epiphany/philosophical wondering the other day when I hitched a ride with two friends of mine. The two of them have sort of grown up together and are REALLY close. It was an incredible feeling just sitting there and listening to them, listening to the subtle differences in tone of voice when they're speaking to each other as opposed to speaking with me. The easy intimacy, the feeling of just KNOWING each other, cracking little insider jokes, talking of common friends...

You listen to all that and you grin and think about how that happens with you and your closest friends as well, and how it must seem exactly like that to an outsider keenly observing you...

Its one of those "Damn it's good to be alive!" things...

Calling All Creatures of The Night....

Nightclubs...

Nightclubs are very dangerous places. All sorts of unseemly creatures roam these "clubs" (as they are known in common parlance), often hand in hand, often hand in, well, other areas...

Now a lot of these people have a certain affliction; one that is extremely dangerous, horrifying and potentially life-threatening...

This is the Evil of The Dance...

"Lets Dance" they say...

How does one explain to them that one's understanding of "rhythm" ends at the viewing of a pendulum swing back and forth on its never ending cycle?

How does one explain to them that one's knowledge of this ancient form of witchcraft, this acient form of The Dance, comes from watching the Ketchup Sisters on a random music channel at some random hour of the night?

How does one explain that he came factory fitted with two left feet instead of the usual pattern of right and left...

Of course... one simply doesnt...

Instead, one meekly says "Ok"

And lives to regret those very words...

For the night that you choose to be at that "club" happens to be the Celebrated Night of All Things Evil... the night that many at the "club" call HIP-HOP NIGHT...

What this basically means that a lot of songs sung by a lot of people from different areas of New York get played. Some of these songs are "HIP" and some are rather "HOP"

That's rather "phot" I'm told...

These songs seek to trip both your left feet and pile them into misery even further and deeper than normal... for their "rhythm" is erratic at best, and the lyrics are punctuated randomly by assorted members of the monkey family suddenly yelling "FUCK" and "BLING BLING!" (the sounds of elevator doors opening and closing inspire these people i'm told) and "MAH BOO!", the last of which i believe is a Dolphin mating call.

The members of the Evil Clan of Dance grab you and take you to the dance floor, insisting that they will "teach you" followed by this simple advice, "Watch Me"

Ummm, ok, but can't i do that from that quiet little corner with my quiet little drink?

BHUMP BHUMP goes the beat, louder than the average Concorde, re-arranging every single internal organ (BHUMP BHUMP!!)

So one takes a tentative step and slowly sticks one arm out...

"BLING BLING!" says random monkey in the song...

Hey this isn't so bad, you figure...

until dancing partner begins moving legs as well, patting your leg as if to say "Ambulate and set in motion this set of muscles"

Arms and legs... both?! Together?! Like at once?!

I AM JUST ONE MAN!!! NOT A MACHINE!!! I CAN EITHER MOVE MY HANDS OR MY LEGS!!! I AM NOT ONE OF YOU VILE PEOPLE WITH GREATER ABILITIES OF PHYSICAL CONTORTION FOOLS!

BHUMPH BHUMPH!

No that wasnt a beat, that was the sound of my last ounce of dignity and self respect hitting the floor as every single hot woman in a twenty inch radius realizes that I am incapable of graceful physical movement... Hmph... they should see me brush my teeth... I'm a God...

So i spend the rest of the evening doing the Mutated Ketchup Dance, waiting for terrorists or someone to fling the door open and take us all hostage so the evening can finally become "cool" and i'm not the only one afraid to be there anymore...

Hmph

One day a club will be opened, where all those dancing well will have their legs blown off by snipers with sawed-off shotguns...

And on that day, shall i bask in my righteous glory of retribution and revenge...

does it or doesn't it....

Anti Cola Advertisment:

Scene #1:

A man stands facing a Coca Cola stall. Dressed casually (jeans, grey shirt, sneakers), sipping his cola. Cold bottle of cola. Sipping it, minding his own business, saying nothing. He's towards the extreme right of the frame. A man walks in from the left side of the frame, grabs his bottle and starts hitting the cola drinker over the head. Over and over and over and over and over again. The drinker twitches, twitches, twitches and finally lies still. The other man walks away. Fade to black.

Words appear on screen.

COLA KILLS.

Pro-Cola Advertisment:

Scene #1:

A man stands facing a Coca Cola stall. Dressed casually (jeans, grey shirt, sneakers), sipping his cola. Cold bottle of cola. Sipping it, minding his own business, saying nothing. He's towards the extreme right of the frame. A man walks in from the left side of the frame, grabs his bottle and starts hitting the cola drinker over the head. Over and over and over and over and over again. The drinker twitches, twitches, twitches and finally lies still. The other man walks away. Fade to black.

Words appear on the screen.

COLA DOESN'T KILL PEOPLE.

PEOPLE KILL PEOPLE.

Single and Ready to Mingle,Jingle and Bingle...!!!

Does anybody else, guys and girls get the sense that there's some sort of official law against single people?

"It is required by law that any person that you, as a single person (irrespective of your gender), are interested in must, at any given time, posess
a. A spouse
b. A boyfriend
c. A girlfriend
d. The quality of not even realizing that you exist...
e. A venereal disease"

Its the sorta thing that makes you take up masturbation as a religion and form of daily exercise... also the sorta thing that makes you a lil money, once in a while...

KRISHNA's EXPERT GULTI MONEY MAKING TACTIC #14839

Step 1: See a girl you're mildly interested in.
Step 2: Fuck step 1, see a girl you think is even mildly cute...
Step 3: Casually mention to friend seated next to you, "Hey, that girl is really pretty and has such a nice smile"
Step 4: Wait for friend to walk into well-sprung trap. The sound of the trap being sprung is something like this, "So, why don't you go speak to her and ask her out or something?"
Step 5: Revel in the knowledge of the fact that you now own his ass and will soon also own some of his money
Step 6: Since you of course, know the law of Destiny and Nature, you shake your head and say, "Nah, she probably has a boyfriend..."
Step 7: Feign interest as your friend encourages you... then utter the words, "Wanna bet?"
Step 8: "Yes ok"
Step 9: Allow friend to make discrete inquiries, allow him to return crestfallen, allow him to give you money.
Step 10: Find another friend, another cafe/pub/hotel. Repeat above steps.

If you're going to be single, wanking and lonely, may as well make some money off it...

P.S: Stray thoughts are dangerous. Mentioned to a person that i thought another person was "kind of cute and fun to talk to"... Found out next day from friends that i was, apparently, madly in love with said person and would soon be married with nine children and a dog named Pappu...
Mentioning random thoughts to friends is inviting shit for your health.

When GULTI Mania strikes.....

Once there was a boy. He had a house. He lived in that house. It was a nice little house, with nice little rooms and a nice little living room and a nice little quiet atmosphere...

But the boy who lived in the house with the rooms with the atmosphere could not escape his past...

he could not escape who he was

He was a true blue Gulti...

There's no running away from that... nowhere...nohow...

What this meant was that he was related to half the world...

What this means is that thats a lot of people

Now, one day, half of the half of the world that he was related to, decided to come to Hyderabad...

That very day, they decided (after tea and a toilet break), they would stay at the Gulti boy's house with the little rooms with the atmosphere

Thus the true blue Gulti Boy found himself in a home which was swamped with relatives of all shapes (triangles, circles, trapeziums) and sizes (S, M, L, XL, XXL)

Thus the Gulti Boy found himself asleep on the living room floor one night, as opposed to one of the little rooms with the atmosphere...

While he thought that this was quite a spiffy little adventure (to match with the little rooms with the little atmosphere), his pleasure only lasted until early the next morning, when ALLLLL the relatives decided to hold The Great Congregation Of Breakfast With The Masala Chai... Loudly they sang, " CHAI SUPER GA VUNDI I!!"

The Gulti Boy could take no more and his sleep was forever destroyed...

However, the invasion was not without its benefits...no not at all, said the Gulti Boy... he discovered that while large in number, his relatives were quite a lot of fun...

Even though they smoke enough cigarettes to destroy the lungs of a herd of oxen in heat...

So, when the Gulti boy made this discovery, there was much rejoicing...

There was going to be a sunset and violins here...but the Gulti's decided GULT Rap would suit the occasion more...

When half of the half of the half of the world that had visited the Gulti Boy left for their home shores, he got the room with his Gulti Computer back...

And felt that it was extremely important that you hear his tale...

The King Of Bollywood......

As little kids we all were swept away by the Glitz and Glamour of bollywood,and many heroines became our sweethearts at one oint of time or the other. I have done a lil thinking(yes, i do think),and finally revelled in the knowledge that i know myself a lil better now.....an enlightened sould when it comes to bollywood!!!

Reasons I can't join Bollywood

1. The sheer number of award shows. I'm a lazy bum, i couldn't be bothered to step out of the house for ONE award show a year, forget the one that is now held every hour, on the hour by every single magazine, channel, company etc etc

2. The incestuous cesspools... I don't know Karan Johar, Shah Rukh Khan, Kajol, Priety Zinta, Manish Malhotra, Farah Khan...OHMIGOD!!! I'll never make it! Because everyone knows that these guys are like this All-Stars Club, with no one allowed entry... get a room you inbreeding freaks

3. Im not a star-son...

4. I don't run over people in my Land Cruiser, thus i don't generate enough column inches with my name splattered all over them in stupid tabloids

5. I don't go to random launch parties and functions where the above-mentioned column inches can be filled up by linking me to random women, all of whom probably look uglier than a pickled pig's arse when they take their makeup off.

6. I can't suck up to random producers and directors and call them great and awesome when, in fact, the films they make aren't worth shit

7. I can't just "perform". I can't truthfully be who i am and still prance around on stage, lip-syncing a song and dancing like a fool in heat to some random steps, with some random Babe Of The Week chick

8. I don't understand the need for item numbers

9. Watching everyone in this narcissistic, self-congratulatory industry give each other and themselves pretentious blowjobs makes the bile rise in my throat

10. I'd never understand the heirarchy... At award shows, i'd never know if it was just "Shabana" or "Shabanaji" or "Fardeen" or "Fardeenji" or "Pappu" or "Pappuji". I would never know whose hand im supposed to shake, whose feet im supposed to touch and whose ass im supposed to kick...

11. I don't understand how Shah Rukh Khan can say his wife will "kick the shit" out of him, on stage, to a huge audience watching. Therein lies the difference between our crass, tasteless award shows and the Oscars... so yeah the Oscars are lobbied for, often downright bought...but at least on awards night they let you believe in the magic of the movies... i bet there's tons of people in Hollywood that would say things similar to what SRK said, but "shit"... on stage? Dude...

12. I'd ordinarily list "I CAN'T ACT" here, but given some of the chumps we've got, acting clearly isn't a pre-requisite for the job. Salman Khan, this means you...

When Glory Beckons....

TROY: SPECIAL EDITION CRITICS CUT

[Guy named Paris meets chick named Helen at a party]

Paris: Ssup?
Helen: Hey cutie...
Paris: Wanna boink?
Helen: Cool, but just so you know, even though I'm married, I'm not easy and i think this is a huge mistake, but lets boink anyway, because my husband is a fat, impotent movie cliche
Paris: Wanna boink?

[Paris and his brother Hector chill on deck of their ship on their way home to Troy]
Hector: Dude, you look guilty. Actually, no you don't because you can't act. But it says so in the script. Fess up...
Paris: So i was at this party last night...
Hector: Uh-oh
Paris: But dude, we're like soul-mates man! I felt this instant connection... i mean, what are the odds... she can't act either! It must be love!
Hector: Logic demands that we return her to Sparta, so i suggest we sail on home instead.
Paris: My niggah!!

[Big bronze man named Achilles shows up at the gates of Troy because he's high on a combination of crack and testosterone]
Achilles: Ssup puny man... The poster tells me i'm in this "For Glory" so I'm going to kick your ass
Hector: You don't know it yet, but by the time the credits roll i'm going to blow both you and Peter O Toole off the screen with my phenomenal acting.
Achilles: We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't.
Hector: Ummm, right line, wrong movie... where'd you get that chest waxed?
Achilles: Listen Hulk-guy, like gimme the chick so my buds and i can just go get some glory...
Hector: You're making me angry, you wouldn't like me when i'm angry.
Achilles: I challenge you to a duel... DRAW!!
Hector: OOoooh, i love Pictionary!
Achilles: Shut up, bitch... lets fight.
Paris: Yeah Hector dude, fight my battles for me man... I've got a lot on my plate... I mean, you only have a kid and a wife and the defence of your country to think of...
Hector and Achilles (in chorus): Shut up pappu... take your bow and arrows and go play in the corner...
Paris: Hmph... i miss Gimli... i miss my pointy ears...

[Everyone fights everyone, everyone dies]
Helen: Hey cool Paris, we lived!
Paris: Wanna boink?
Helen: I knew I'd always have Paris!