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~N!kh!L $H@rD@~i visited hell and came back to heaven...
9月29日 Master of FireGod is the devil, he burns us alive Made fuckin impossible rules for us to abide God himself misleads us and makes us sin here Forces us to wear masks, fuck our veneers He watched over me tearin myself apart As i crawled to the shore he lacerated my heart You’re giving me the worst kind of pain, God, Each one of my loved ones you find and maim, God, I would never have fuckin complained even if you slit my throat, You’re the fuckin storm which splits the boats You split her life up, you ignored my prayers You broke her methodically, layer by layer What did she do wrong, God? She is Purity But you put her through hell, you fuckin destroyed her security Let motherfuckers trample over her pure heart and soul Her role of an angel you reduced to a prisoner’s role Her heart is paradise but you filled it with dark clouds Her smile gave me light but you covered it with black shrouds I did my fuckin best to be good I did it for her sake All my interests for her I was ready to forsake But that’s not what you want, is it God?, you are a perv You’re unfair, you never give people what they deserve You fucked our lives, I feel destroyed What I thought I had is now null and void I trusted you God, in you I sincerely believed But now I feel dead, I’m my own bereaved I always told myself that you’d set things straight You didn’t, you never do, you enjoy hurting and call it fate Do what you wish to me God, I fuckin don’t care But don’t hurt her anymore, she’s a gem,a stone rare, Love isn’t real, there that’s the truth right there, Life isn’t divine, it’s a motherfuckin nightmare. 9月8日 FBnomicsHere's a Recent post on one of the communities in facebook.
Title: What should I do to marry a rich guy?
I'm going to be honest of what I'm going to say here. I'm 25 this year. I'm very pretty, have style and good taste. I wish to marry a guy with $500k annual salary or above. You might say that I'm greedy, but an annual salary of $1M is considered only as middle class in New York . My requirement is not high. Is there anyone in this forum who has an income of $500k annual salary? Are you all married? I wanted to ask: what should I do to marry rich persons like you? Among those I've dated, the richest is $250k annual income, and it seems that this is my upper limit. If someone is going to move into high cost residential area on the west of New York City Garden ( ? ) , $250k annual income is not enough. I'm here humbly to ask a few questions: 1) Where do most rich bachelors hang out? (Please list down the names and addresses of bars, restaurant, gym) 2) Which age group should I target? 3) Why most wives of the riches is only average-looking? I've met a few girls who doesn't have looks and are not interesting, but they are able to marry rich guys 4) How do you decide who can be your wife, and who can only be your girlfriend? (my target now is to get married) Here's the reply to her question (sorry): Dear Ms.. Pretty, I have read your post with great interest. Guess there are lots of girls out there who have similar questions like yours. Please allow me to analyze your situation as a professional investor. My annual income is more than $500k, which meets your requirement, so I hope everyone believes that I'm not wasting time here. From the standpoint of a business person, it is a bad decision to marry you.. The answer is very simple, so let me explain. Put the details aside, what you're trying to do is an exchange of 'beauty' and 'money': Person A provides beauty, and Person B pays for it, fair and square. However, there's a deadly problem here, your beauty will fade, but my money will not be gone without any good reason. The fact is, my income might increase from year to year, but you can't be prettier year after year.. Hence from the viewpoint of economics, I am an appreciation asset, and you are a depreciation asset. It's not just normal depreciation, but exponential depreciation. If that is your only asset, your value will be much worried 10 years later. By the terms we use in Wall Street, every trading has a position, dating with you is also a 'trading position'. If the trade value dropped we will sell it and it is not a good idea to keep it for long term - same goes with the marriage that you wanted. It might be cruel to say this, but in order to make a wiser decision any assets with great depreciation value will be sold or 'leased'. Anyone with over $500k annual income is not a fool; we would only date you, but will not marry you. I would advice that you forget looking for any clues to marry a rich guy. And by the way, you could make yourself to become a rich person with $500k annual income. This has better chance than finding a rich fool. Hope this reply helps. If you are interested in 'leasing' services, do contact me... 9月3日 Sneekpeek 1It’s exciting, at first. You think at first that you’re different, that you have something special to offer, and that can even be true. Then you remember you’re the same person you’ve always been; the only change is that suddenly your picture is every where and columns are being written about who you are and what you’ve said and where you’re going next and people are stopping to look at you. And you’re a celebrity. More accurately, you’re a curiosity. And you say to yourself, I don’t deserve all this attention!” She thought carefully. “It isn’t you that matters to people when they turn you into a celebrity. It’s something else. It’s what you stand for, to them.” There’s a ripple of excitement when a conversation turns valuable to us, the feel of new powers growing fast. Listen care fully, Nikhil, she’s right! “Other people think they know what you are: glamour, sex, money, power, love. It may be a press agent’s dream which has nothing to do with you, maybe it’s something you don’t even like, but that’s what they think you are. People rush at you from all sides, they think they’re going to get these things if they touch you. It’s scary, so you build walls around yourself, thick glass walls while you’re trying to think, trying to catch your breath. You know who you are inside, but people outside see something different. You can choose to become the image, and let go of who you are, or continue as you are and feel phony when you play the image. “Or you can quit. I thought if being a theatrestar is so wonderful, why are there so many drunks and addicts and divorces and suicides in Celebrityville?” She looked at me, unguarded, unprotected. “I decided it wasn’t worth it. I’ve mostly quit.” I wanted to pick her up and hug her for being so honest with me. “You’re going to a famous writer or filmmaker one day,” she said. “Does it feel that way to you: does this make sense to you?” “A lot of sense. There’s so much I need to know about this stuff. In the newspapers, have they done this to you? Print things you’ve never said?” She laughed, “Things you’ve not only never said, but never thought, never believed, wouldn’t think of doing. A story published about you, with quotes, word for word, made-up. Fiction. You’ve never seen the reporter . . . not even a phone call, and there you are in print! You pray readers won’t believe what they see in some of those papers.” “I’m new at this, but I have a theory.” “What’s your theory?” she said. I told her about celebrities being examples that the rest of us watch while the world puts tests to them. It didn’t sound as clear as what she had said. She tilted her head up to me and smiled. When the sun went down, I noticed, her eyes changed color, to sea-and-moon-light. “That’s a nice theory, examples,” she said. “But every body’s an example, aren’t they? Isn’t everybody a picture of what they think, of all the decisions they’ve made so far?” “True. I don’t know everybody, though: they don’t matter to me unless I’ve met them in person or read about them or seen them on some screen. There was a thing on television a while ago, a scientist researching what it is that makes a violin sound the way it does, I thought what does the world need with that? Millions of people starving, who needs violin research? “Then I thought no. The world needs models, people living interesting lives, learning things, changing the music of our time. What do people do with their lives who are not struck down with poverty, crime, war? We need to know people who have made choices that we can make, too, to turn us into human beings. Otherwise, we can have all the food in the world, and so what? Models! We love ‘em! Don’t you think?” “I suppose,” she said. “But I don’t like that word, model.” “Why not?” I said, and knew the answer at once. “Were you a model?” “In Mumbai,” she said, as though it were a shameful secret. “What’s wrong with that? A model is a public example of special beauty!” “That’s what’s wrong with it. It’s hard to live up to. It frightens Miss Moviestar.” “Why? What’s she afraid of?” “Miss M got to be an actress because the studio thought she was so pretty, and she’s been afraid ever since that the world is going to find out she isn’t that pretty and she never was. Being a model was bad enough. When you call her a public example of being beautiful, it makes it worse for her.” “But Shilpa, you are beautiful!” I blushed. “I mean, there’s certainly no question that you’re… that you’re… extremely appealing....” “Thank you, but it doesn’t matter what you say. No matter what you tell her, Miss M thinks beauty is an image someone else created for her. And she’s a prisoner of the image. Even when she goes to the grocery store, she should be all done up, just so. If not, somebody is sure to recognize her and they’ll say to their friends, ‘You ought to see her in person! She’s not half as pretty as she’s supposed to be!’ and Miss M’s disappointed them.” She smiled again, a little sad. “Every actress in the world, every beautiful woman I know is pretending to be beautiful, she’s afraid the world will find out the truth about her sooner or later. Me, too,” I shook my head. “Crazy. You’re all crazy.” “The world’s crazy, when it comes to beauty.” “I think you’re beautiful.” “I think you’re crazy.” We laughed, but she wasn’t kidding. “Is it true,” I asked her, “that beautiful women lead tragic lives?” It was what I had concluded from my Perfect Woman, with her many bodies. Perhaps not quite tragic, but difficult. Unenviable. Painful. She considered that. “If they think their beauty is them,’ she said, “they’re asking for an empty life. When everything depends on looks, you get lost gazing in mirrors and you never find yourself.” 2月19日 mohabaat zindabad“Sin some, win some, Use some, lose some, Bet some, get some, But never let an ad-bum End up so bent-some.” -Popular Jojo4 song-
People often ask me if I know the saga of the old bent man that roams the streets of our historical city, each as decrepit as the other, each retaining vestiges of the imposing figures they once had been. IM Singh was how he introduced himself; ‘I am King’ was what he meant. Perhaps the best few words to describe him would be “Much Admired” despite it being light years away from the truth. That’s because no matter which way you examined him, he had been much mired in the field of advertising for decades, and that’s all that mattered to him.
IM truly epitomized the front page solus ad; stand alone, unarguable, persuasive, assertive. Any lesser being was considered no more than a four page pullout or feature, neither controlling nor intrinsically part of the main stream, but merely a parasitic addenda sharing the same media vehicle. In his mind he was second to none, uninvincible, irrefutably supreme and unparalleled. Unquestionably not only was his word law, he also took vicarious pleasure in coming up with unpopular decisions and rulings in establishing them. He could retain usable information for years on someone without using it. Additionally, he had no qualms about manouvering other people to achieve his objectives; to wit, he was an opportunist, not an impulsive but a calculated one.
While on wit, he was rich and well endowed in that department. He could endear himself to the most suspecting and be a popular epicenter at any gathering with the greatest of ease. He could influence people to go out of their way to prove their loyalty, allegiance and gratitude to him, however hesitantly, just for having touched their lives. A masterful manipulator, a tactical planner and adept executor, he was happiest and most secure in his opulent trappings both at home and away, surrounded by his familiar transparent sycophants and opaque critics. When the time came for him to seriously consider starting his own family, IM had planned his gambit many squares earlier.
He had an industrialist friend RRM with a massive budget (organized, people say, by the father-in-law ) that IM did not initially pursue to enhance his social image. What the industrialist did not know was that the adman was in on his gaining sexual favours from the his plain jane’s wife’s sister (who was fed up of RRMs flaccid advances in any ‘case’). The socialite adman harboured no more delays, dropped anchor, distributed the ornate cards and, using his newly found wife Kiran’s influence waltzed off with the account as a bonus. For a while, Kiran was the light of his life, a popular hostess and an able supporter of his schemes. Alas, she was able to bear him just one son Jojo though one dare says IK’s overbearing personality hoped to be borne more !
Over the years, his interest in Kiran waned, overtaken by his resolve to make Jojo an echo of his own personality. Not much was heard of Kiran thereafter, though one is sure she continued to lurk in IM’s shadows. Perhaps she was relegated to the “womb-to-tomb” syndrome adopted by any vibrant society to anyone that does not contribute sizeably to its activities. What misadventure it was for the adman to realize that Jojo could never be as malleable and ductile (like mallards and ducks !?!) as his adheart desired ? IM spared no funds or efforts to afford Jojo the best of education and exposure, but could not shake the romantic core off the latter. Naturally endowed with good looks, Jojo was infinitely more comfortable with literature, poetry, art and music than IM’s commercial world of punch-lines, adfilms, catchy jingles and misleading statistics; more at home with the occasional pink champagne than a seasonal print campaign. Despite threatening strictures from his father, Jojo’s passion honed in on being quite an accomplished lead guitarist who wrote his own songs, even more so when he organized (reminiscent of his father’s skill) a young group of talented musicians to complete his quartet. Their aspirations to be a successful rock group continued to meet IM’s stony disapproval, but there was scant little the father could do about it. Social pressure detracted him from outright disowning Jojo or evicting him from his house without further provocation; Jojo soft exterior as a contrast to his father enjoyed a more acceptable public persona.
Meanwhile, Jojo4 music gained rapid popularity in the city, playing live at many leading watering holes and gaining commercial success that IM tried fervently to distance himself from. Unpreturbed, Jojo soon inducted Nisha, an intelligent, attractive young dancer as part of his music act. The young musician had known her family from earlier days; Nisha’s mother began her secretarial career at IM’s adshop. Jojo and Nisha’s combination on stage was so electric that they brought down the house (IM’s included !) wherever and whenever they performed. After this there was no looking back for Jojo4 – though as time had it, there was not too much to look ahead for, either. The affinity between Jojo and Nisha cemented, nay, became concrete. Sadly, IM viewed this constant albeit melodic display of union of minds and body on a daily basis as a veritable spurning of his ‘superior’ values by his son. Unwittingly goaded to a fitting reaction, he publicly joshed Jojo to join him in a debate on the morality of latter day art at the local Country Club, of which he was secretary. Equally fed up of the scathing asides delivered directly at home everyday, Jojo readily agreed. Its often said, in matters of the court, its not the mover or the defendant but only the lawyers that benefit. Setting up this bout was pre-destined, therefore, to entertain society at large rather than settle any issues per se. An evening of interesting banter of great minds therefore ended up as a landmark battle that spawned only losers.
IM opened the debate with describing Jojo’s passions as wasteful pursuits encouraging wayward youth to more wayward ways; Jojo countered with accusing his father of befooling consumers and overcharging clients for years, gathering the wrong kind of notes. What’s more, Jojo divulged instances of rip-offs architected by IM. Visibly embarrassed, the adman became excessively personal, straying from the issue, bringing out details of his son’s more laid back life style and lecherous skits of the guitarist’s amorous tryst with Nisha. Inevitably, the atmosphere became explosive with Jojo crucifying IM’s personal and commercial morals, and his shameless misuse and disuse of people. The crowd cheered silently in their heart of hearts, but the die had been cast; IM announced Jojo’s expulsion from his house, the club and resolve to have his contracts stricken from whatever bars and restaurants under IM’s influence. His ire enveloped Nisha whose dancing licence he vowed to revoke with the administration’s collusion. With an illogical vendetta yet unslaked, the rumour spread like wildfire that the adman may well have his son bumped off - he couldn’t afford to have such a strident voice of dissension in circulation, even if it was a son. Another die was cast – Debt Wish 1. Society remained mute in their disapproval, even though they had secretly admired the fearlessness with which Jojo had lampooned his father. It was unfortunate that many were slated to lose much.
Nisha was no less resolute than Jojo, on hearing the rumour she boldly quick-stepped to her beau’s ad-dad with as fearless a Debt Wish 2 alternative; “kill me if you will, I love him still, but won’t love him more, if you let him go” ( a Jojo4 number). Nisha’s mother took up the chorus with “you-owe-me-one” from her halcyon days at the ad-venture, and beseeched the boss she once had beached to spare the lass; she may well be his “Sin some, win some”.Now IM was an astute man not wanting blood on his hands; he was more than familiar with most publications and their owners. Knowing the owner of Walled City News in the next town for being the perverse (and worse) martinet he was, IM made Nisha take a pledge never to contact Jojo or be seen dancing in exchange for a hellish life and employment under the WCN management.
Meanwhile, Jojo4 lost music contracts in the city, and considered migrating elsewhere. His pecuniary reserves dwindled. Gyrating Nisha was nowhere to be (scene) located, dyeing his music to a deeper shade of blue. He often sought comfort in the company of his mother, herself a flickering flame, confused twixt the morals and morales of her life. “Use some, lose some”. Branding his father as Nisha’s assassin, he voodoo-dolled the adman, pricking him with needles of barbed lyrics at every chance. He can still be seen love lorn at seedy bars, now reduced to a trio, bleary eyed as a man denied, a single that never cut a single, a living slipped disc. “Bet some, get some, kiss some, miss some”. He lives in a seedy shack and feeds at seedy snacks, hoping to meet Nisha again. Debt Wish 3.
And there’s IM. Debt Wish 4. Now a bit bent and gnarled, too aware of his exposure in the War of Words many years ago, but stiffened with ages of self-deception, ages of grandeur – some deserved – some not. A body reinforced with promises, but a mind deflowered – a fervour displayed but an audience unswayed , a wife dismayed and later mislaid and a son more bound with musical chords than familial cords, festooned with notes of wispy melody rather than crispy currency. An iron ad-venturer that went out to conquer and control what ihe could not control, an “event sum that ended up so bent some”. Had he not tried to control destiny, destiny would not have controlled him. Burdened by the debt of a royal spouse for whom he scarcely cared; stooped by the debt of a dancer whose life he snared; smitten by a son he never spared and weighed down by animosities he himself had reared, he continues a broken man – an adman so bentsome. 7月24日 Are you smarter than your grandpa’s turd?You’re not if: You are if: 5月30日 Save MothsI owe a lot to TV. Over the years it has given me new ideas, new philosophies, and new women to fantasize when I’m interrogating my penis in bed. It has given me laughs, thoughts, ecstasy, and visions into worlds I never knew existed; it enables me to have cute newsreaders who give the headlines transformed into cute cheerleaders who’re lining up to give me head in my sound, unperturbed sleep. But most of all, I’m grateful to TV for the number of heinous acts it has prevented me from doing. The other day, I was sitting home, polishing my gun (not a masturbation metaphor this time), dusting my hunting clothes, lighting my cigar, ready to go shoot a tiger-much like any other sane, common person in India would do sometime during their daily schedule- when suddenly I saw Rahul Dravid on TV asking me to “save the tiger”. At first, I ignored it like the small lump that men find near their balls which they mistake for a third testicle. Then, after a few minutes, I saw Kareena Kapoor, who was probably wearing tiger-skin bra and panties, request me- and every other person in their hunting clothes watching TV at that moment- to not go and kill tigers; she, too, wanted me to “save the tiger”. I felt my heart sink; it was at that moment the scrotal lump became cancerous. I felt disoriented by a moral conflict. Hunting tigers was, after all, something that I, and every other ordinary Indian watching TV most of their time, did from childhood onwards; it was, practically, part of our lives, our Indian tradition. But here was Rahul Dravid- who couldn’t save his place in the one day cricket team let alone a big striped cat- and Kareena Kapoor -a bitch, who in a sudden attack of consciousness, wanted to protect a feline warning all of us that if we- sitting home with a remote in one hand and a gun in the other- continue shooting tigers and killing them- like we’ve been doing for so long- the tigers were soon going to be extinct. At that moment it hit me like a big bag of feces at a rock concert, we’ve all been striving and caring for the wrong things. Fuck world peace! Fuck religious harmony! Fuck protesting against fake-piety! Fuck fighting against police brutality! Fuck the safety of children! Fuck the safety of common women! Fuck protecting rape victims (to be fair they’ve been fucked already)! Fuck fighting against dirty politics! Fuck freedom of speech! Fuck poor people! Fuck the unemployed! Fuck the illiterate! Fuck the ill! Fuck fighting against terrorism! Fuck resisting fake-patriotism! And fuck life all together! The only thing that matters in the world is saving a fierce carnivorous smelly animal- who would by the way rip you into shreds if you get too close to it- that some guy in a wasted moment named as our national animal. I exercised my brain a great deal to figure out the kind of things I could do to help “save the tiger”. I was initially confused when the TV channels went on about saving “the tiger”. Clearly, they were just talking about one specific tiger. Rahul Dravid said, “Save the tiger.” Kareena said, “Save the tiger”. Which one you crazy cunts? Which is the tiger we’re supposed to save? It would have been a lot of help if they said something like, “Save the tiger- the one named Billu.” But then I decided, perhaps, I shouldn’t focus on that one tiger everybody was talking about; if I’m intending to save tigers I should, ideally, make an effort to save all of them. On doing research I discovered that one of the first steps that needed to be taken to ensure the protection of tigers was building in them a strong sense of morality and a desire to survive. To be honest, I kind of get the feeling tigers are not really keen on surviving. So we killed a whole lot of tigers and brought their numbers down to about 5000. Big fucking deal! So what? I’m sure they’re aware of a little thing called “banging”. When Hitler murdered six million Jews they didn’t become endangered in the next four years, and then move on to complete extinction, did they? No, they fornicated like crazy and are back stronger than ever. That’s in fact the story of mankind in general. I’m pretty sure that humans kill more humans than tigers every day but that hasn’t brought down the staggering rise in population, has it? You don’t see any celebrities on TV pleading with the world to “Save the mankind”, do you? So, I say teach the tigers that if you want population then you got to have copulation. That’s when another thought crossed my mind. What if the tigers are in fact banging but just not having cubs? Whenever you switch on nature channels there are tigers fucking each other. If they are horny enough to have sex on video, then having sex is probably not their big hurdle. It could be hesitancy in conception. And there could be two reasons for that: a) the tigers are into family planning or b) they are faggots. If the tigers are into family planning all you have to do is either make an animal version of the movie “Cheaper by the Dozen” or get them to have a talk with Lalu Prasad. Meanwhile, if the tigers are homosexually inclined, a completely different route of penetrating the issue has to be taken up (no pun intended. Who am I kidding! Of course, pun intended). Get a celebrity gay icon like George Michael or Harsha Bhogle and have them speak to these fudge-packing tigers. Convince these ass-mining tigers that after spooging into their partner’s anus they should insert their fists into the rectum, swipe all the tiger semen using one of their paws, and carefully place it inside a girl tiger’s vagina (stir if necessary). That should knock them up. If the tiger is a lesbian convince her that tiger cum can be used as a lubricant during dyke sex and she’s bound to fall for it. If the cubs turn out to be little fags, educate them about this procedure as well, thereby instilling this paw-cum-pussy ritual as part of the tiger culture. As I ponder about saving tigers, another startling revelation comes to me. Sure, the numbers are dwindling when it comes to tigers but what about other creatures. Are we not being a little specie-ist by only wanting to save tigers? I don’t know about you but I haven’t been seeing as many moths as I used to a few years ago? Where are they? What’s happening to all the moths? I’m leaving the lights on outside my home, not using clothes and books for months at a time but I still don’t see any sign of them. Could it be that the unattractive, wannabe butterfly-like creature is disappearing right in front of our eyes without our knowledge? Would we have to satisfy our future generations by showing a color picture of a moth when they cry “show us the moth, show us the moth”? Well, not if I can help it. I’m not going to waste one more moment worrying about the stupid tigers who just don’t want to fuck each other heterosexually. Instead, I’m going to focus my energy on saving the creatures who really need our help. The moths. I mean, I don’t even think they have penises. Have you ever seen a moth with a penis? How on earth are they supposed to procreate without penises? So let’s all forget about the tigers and devise plans to help save the moths. Whatever we can do: not swat them, not smash them with newspapers, donate sperm, whatever it takes. So, I’m pleading with you: Fuck the tiger! Save the moths! 2月12日 My countryWhen I first started getting memory loss and mixing up things I feared if I had vascular dementia. I couldn’t tell the difference between news channels and sewage tanks; I suffered from the inability to discriminate between film actresses with loud mouths and prostitutes with gaping assholes; I was unable to distinguish between Rakhi Sawant and a used condom; I lost the capacity to tell apart a politician from a bag of feces mixed with toxic venom; I found no contrast between democracy and fascism; I failed to differentiate between a man on the street and a rapist on the prowl; I lost the faculty to identify a stupid dumb bitch and a girl who uploads her photos on social networking sites; I didn’t have the power to list any dissimilarities when I juxtaposed doctors with ruthless cunts who would do anything for money; I had trouble discerning businessmen from ruthless pricks who would do anything for money; I tried my best to separate religion from science fiction but I failed pathetically; I saw film critic Anupama Chopra and a chortling baboon and couldn’t tell them apart; I struggled to get a clue about how teachers were different from diarrheic donkeys with their heads shoved up their rectums; I could no longer discern an activist from an attention whore; I failed to see any difference between the Government and an acute case of fistula; I made an unsuccessful attempt to distinguish between tomorrow and an imminent apocalypse. And then, suddenly, I realized I wasn’t suffering from vascular dementia; I was just experiencing the side effects of being a citizen in modern day India. Sometimes, when you’re under the constant watch of the public it’s easy to be misinterpreted and portrayed in the wrong light regardless of your intention; I know that because I had my share of negative publicity during my time as a South Indian pornstar (I went by the name Mountmaster Mohanlal). Good people can be represented as bad, bad as good, tall as short, fat as moderately overweight, Shekhar Suman as talented, MTV Roadies as cool, and call centre zombies or pampered sons of rich business freaks as the prototypical Indian youth. Raj Thackeray is being portrayed as a manipulative fascist; Amitabh Bachchan is accused of being more close to Amar Singh than one married man should be to another; and Rajnikanth, winner of the HENDTV-Indian of the Year (or was it CNN-IBUM? Whichever it was, he got it during an exclusive and grandiose ceremony where only whoever showed up with a bag of money got a useless award) is being unjustly accused by his detractors as being unrealistic in his acting roles. And the “news” channel Headlines Today (HT), promoters of healthy discussion that they are, decided to hold a debate between the three main men currently courting controversy, the topic of the discussion, of course, whether each individual should stick to the state they are born in. Headlines Today also brought in a special guest, whom they locked inside an opaque box which would be opened only at the end of the debate. RT: If this very blog on which this idiotic post appears is not translated into Marathi I will have my workers burn wordpress down. 2月6日 Modus MolestationImagine this. A huge statue of a tall dark handsome Indian man. Located in a central spot somewhere in our country, a place where our countrywomen, tourists, foreigners, and visitors to India can have a deep long look at it. The statue stands tall towering well above the monuments around it. Safe in the man’s right hand raised high into the air almost touching the clouds hovering over it is a tablet with the inscription “Woman is God” on it. Below the man’s waist wrapped in his left hand is a huge concrete erection that’s pointing up towards the blue skies and two gigantic balls, which have inscribed on their vast surface the words: It’s been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that two out of every three Indian men (the third is a eunuch) find it physiologically impossible to refrain from molesting at least four women every week. So, we might as well have a statue announcing to the whole world that east or west, we’ll do our best to molest. 2月2日 RacismRacism is like UFO sightings. It might happen anywhere else in the whole world but it just doesn’t happen in India. Accusing an Indian of being racist is as ludicrous as accusing George Bush of being eloquent or Britney Spears of covering her pole-vault. Perhaps it’s a genetic trait, but we Indians just aren’t inclined to be racist. We do not discriminate any human being on the basis of his/her skin color. In fact, there’s a large part of the Indian Advertising Industry which has dedicated itself to making sure that all dark-skinned people overcome their obscure condition and become healthy, normal fair-skinned members of the society. And it’s an incontrovertible fact that we embrace people of all skin colors. In fact, some of our most revered Gods, if we are to go by the evidence seen in various illustrations, were blue in color. Now, you show me any other nation who would embrace blue individuals and venerate them like we do. Not only are we accepting of all races, including horse races, but we are also a nation who strongly supports the new wave of political correctness that is imperative in today’s troubled and hostile world. In fact, a recent episode that I had in a café enlightened me of my own latent prejudices and completely changed the way I think and speak. It all began with the well-mannered, unassuming waiter who came to get my order. “Hello, sir, are you ready to order?” “Yes, I’d like a black coffee please.” “Sir, we do not tolerate that kind of language in our café.” “Huh?” “Kindly refer to it as ‘African-American coffee’, sir. We have a very strict policy against racism in our cafe.” “Umm…ok. I apologize. I’ll have one ‘African-American coffee’ and a plate of chicken breasts.” “Sir, I repeat that we do not practice any form of discrimination in our café and I’m going to have to ask you to follow our norms. Your language is quite unacceptable.” “I can’t say chicken breasts?” “I’m afraid not. The first half of the compound word you used suggests a baseless allegation of cowardice and the latter half is blatantly sexist. The appropriate term is the ‘thorax of the fowl that has a pox named after it‘.” “Ok, alright, my mistake again. So, I’ll have one African-American coffee and a plate of the ‘thorax of the fowl that has a pox named after it’. If you can please make it fast, it would be helpful. I have an insane work schedule that I have to get back to.” “Do you think it’s funny, sir?” “Huh?” “Do you think you can pick on anyone merely because they act differently? The word you used to describe your work schedule is highly derogatory and demeaning. If you have to, resort to the socially accepted substitute of that word- ‘differently sane’.” “Look, it’s just words. You’re making it sound as if I’m some kind of a criminal.” “Sir, you are absolutely crossing the line with your disrespect for our rules and humanity in general. You cannot, under any circumstances, use the C-word in a civilized society like ours.” “The C-word? You mean criminal?” “Sir, please, mind your language. You have no right to outcast the ‘alternately employed members of the society’.” “Look, stop making a scene here. There are people at other tables who are looking at me and giving me these weird sniggers.” “What did you just call me?” “What?” “Did you just-?” “Oh, for heaven’s sake, are you deaf?” “How dare you, sir? I do not possess a ‘permanently switched off biological audibility device’, if that’s what you meant.” “Look, I’ve had enough of this ‘metabolic waste produced by a male member of the bovine community‘ from you. Forget the food, I’m out of here. If you have a problem with what I said, you can go to ‘the monosyllabic place with an extremely tropical climate and trying living conditions run by a very demanding dictator’“ “Well, at least you had the courtesy to portray your disagreement in such polite words. I respect that.” 11月24日 Jesus Loves UsIf I were Jesus I’d make sure I have with me a big fat hydrogen bomb when I make my second coming so that I can drop that motherfucker square on top of the Vatican. There’s only one thing worse than getting crucified in front of your own mother and disciples for shit that some other motherfuckers did and that’s getting to know that two thousand years later creepy, robe-wearing, bible-wielding, lazy-headed, rich-assed pedophiles are sticking their flesh-crosses into the holy grails of preteen altar boys and girls and are using your name to perpetrate that shit. The moment somebody starts violently preaching against sexual morality or premarital sex or homosexuality or sodomy or pedophilia or anything even remotely sexual you can bet your entire life savings that that preacher is one horny-assed pervert with a boner the size of a scepter just dying to rape the shit out of the first piece of ass he can get his hands on. Even if it’s a kid barely out of preschool. And that’s no exception for Hindus, Muslims, Christians, and Jews. But the Catholic Priests seem to be taking sodomy and pedophilia to a whole new level that even Michael Jackson’s going “These guys make me look like Mother Fucking Teresa”. A New York Times survey in 2003 showed that over 4,200 sexual abuse claims were made against 1,200 Catholic Priests since 1940. Now, I’m all for the idea of innocent until proven guilty but when you have 4,200 children saying you fucked them in the ass, you are pretty much guilty. (Google New York Times Survey Catholic Sex Scandal if you think I’m making this shit up). Those numbers must have shot up faster than Keith Richards with a bag of cocaine in the last four years. As always I opt for the civilized way to deal with such issues. A good old-fashioned debate. There’s nothing more fair and civilized than talking things out. Here’s a Catholic Priest, Father Faggot (FF), and a twelve year old sex abuse victim, Josephucked in the ass (JF), sorting out their differences through the medium of verbal debate with special convener SpongeBob SquarePants (SBSP) overseeing the talk. SBSP: Now, Father Faggot, allow me to quote something verbatim from a news report. “The Jesuit order of the Roman Catholic Church has agreed to pay 50 million dollars to 110 Alaska Natives to settle claims of sexual abuse by priests and missionaries in some of the world’s most remote villages. Earlier this year the Los Angeles diocese agreed a record 660-million-dollar settlement abuse victims while the San Diego Catholic Church later paid 198 million dollars to victims. Since the beginning of the nationwide scandal five years ago, Catholic authorities in the United States have paid out around 2.8 billion dollars in damages to victims.” What do you have to say about that? 11月20日 Doggy LoveI’m as xenophobic and jingoistic about India as the next guy brandishing a sword to kill his fellow Indian just because he kneels down a different way. My fury is as perfervid as any other Indian’s when I hear foreign dickheads make untrue statements about Indians like the rumor that we bury our heads in a pile of holy cow dung to attain nirvana. My blood boils as fast as my fellow countrymen’s when westerners mock our time-tested customs and beliefs. And as I’m swelling with pride over my country’s superiority some guy in Tamil Nadu goes and gets married to a dog wearing a sari. That’s when I feel like burying my head in a big pile of holy cow dung.
The wedding ceremony was bitchin’ to say the least. Attendees said that the groom, Mr. Selvakumar, a virgin with canines and real women, looked anxious and excited on the big day. Some claim that they saw him foaming at the mouth with anticipation. The bride, Lassie Kumari, adorned with all kinds of flowers, appeared small, beautiful, and highly uncomfortable in a silky orange sari. Her fur was fashionably trimmed and the infection in her ears was neatly bandaged which complimented her trendy sari. In other words, she brought a whole new meaning to the phrase doggie style. The groom’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Kumar, beamed with pride as their 33 yr old little boy was bringing home a partner who would finally instil some discipline into his adventurous bachelor life, which involved philandering with several stray cats and a couple of immoral beavers. They were extremely relieved to see that their son had finally decided to settle down with a nice, traditional, middle-class dog. Mr. and Mrs. Kumar had only one piece of valuable marital advice to impart to their son, “Son, always remember to clean up after her. That’s the foundation of every successful marriage.” 11月12日 Best Possible Orgy (BPO)BPOs have become as integral to modern India as boob-jobs to Bollywood actresses. A lot more Indians are crossing the streets listening to their IPods now; more Indians have become efficient at slavishly reading nonsensical printed material off the papers given to them by their bosses; and the number of Indians, and this might be the most heartening outcome of them all, who can speak in a freakish American or a British accent that’s so accurate that it just makes u want to start speaking Konkani have risen higher than ever thanks to the advent of Business Process Outsourcing. However, for those of us who can’t quite pull off an accent as American as that of Babu a.k.a Bob or as English as that of Jeevan a.k.a Jeeves there’s always a way to get a piece of the BPO action. We can easily get a job as a cabdriver for BPO companies, drive the employees back and forth, and while we’re at it, rape and murder a few women workers during the course of our career. The only glitch in the aforementioned scheme is that the level of sexual freedom in India is not as liberal as it once was during the days of the Kamasutra, when you could forcibly suspend your brother’s wife from a running fan and fuck her in the armpit till she died of vertigo. If you do that now you are labeled a deviant but back then you were merely a gentle, sensuous man executing position # 89 (the Rotating Pit). So, no longer will you be applauded if you engage yourself in rape and murder, unless of course you work for Narendra Modi. Your actions will merely be described as “not adhering to the company rules”. Due to excessive protests from human rights groups, women’s groups, and Maneka Gandhi a meeting between the Chairman of BPOs (COB), Chairman of Cabbies/Rapists (COCR), and the Chairwoman of Women (COW) was set up to discuss and resolve the issue of the increasing threat to the security of women workers at BPOs. However, at the last minute Maneka Gandhi backed out in indignation when she learned that it was only a human being and not a stray dog that was raped and murdered. The discussion broadcast on NDTV’s sister channel NDTV-GOOD TIMES, SHIT PROGRAMS turned out to be rather fruitful especially with celebrity moderator Navjot Singh Sidhu (NSS) overseeing the debate. NSS: Let me tell you something, Sonali, a discussion is like an orgy. It’s no fun unless we all take part in it. COCR: First of all, your little concubine Sonali isn’t here so stop addressing every goddamn thing to her. Secondly, I would like to raise the point that while orgies are necessary for the proper functioning of a society, it is the concentrated act of rape that demands more from an individual’s character and consequently churns a better man out of him. COW: You assholes sicken- COCR (interrupting): I know, I know. You will ask me now what the difference between a gang-rape and an orgy is. Well, let me break it down to you. When you gang-rape someone you stuff two or more… COW: This is not a discussion celebrating the heinous act of rape. This is a discussion condemning it and demanding nothing short of capital punishment for anyone committing rape. NSS: Rape is like a horror movie- COW (thinking Sidhu had completed his sentence): Thank you, Mr. Sidhu. NSS: -the more the screams the better it gets. COW: Shut up, you hairy spit bag. I blame the greedy, exploitative BPO companies who demand unreasonable working hours from women and do not provide them enough security. COB: Now, look here, you Cow- COW (angrily): What did you call me? COB: I meant Chairwoman of Women. Now, you look here, I understand where you’re coming from. But even an autistic child would understand that we’re not to blame for the crimes committed by the drivers we employ to transport our workers to and from our offices. COW: Now, you look here dickhead- COB (offended): What did you call me? COW: I meant greedy dickhead. You listen to me, if you had a security guard compulsorily accompany every car-ride this would never have happened. COB: We do give our women employees that option. COW: It shouldn’t be an option, it should be a rule. If a security guard was there in the car the latest case, and several others before it, could have been avoided. But, of course, that would mean one less person in the car and more guards for you to employ, doesn’t it? And it wouldn’t be such a profitable decision for you greedy billionaire bastards, would it? COCR: To be fair to the BPO guy, our premier society, the RA or the Rape Academy, has been fairly successful in recruiting several security guards as well. So, I’m not really sure how much protection they would have given even if they were present in the car. It would have probably meant an extra cock violating the helpless cunt. NSS: A cock in a cunt is like a candidate at an interview. He enters with all the energy and zest in the world but comes out deflated and perspiring. COW: So, that’s it, then? Cabbies will rape women; security guards will rape women; politicians will rape women; filmmakers will rape women; in short all men will keep raping women and nobody’s going to do anything about it? COCR: Now, let’s be honest, women don’t really object to getting raped, do they? On some level, it’s guaranteed that they enjoy it. COW (disgusted): You sick piece of psycho shit, why don’t you go rape the women in your family and see how much of it they enjoy? COCR: Well, that’s where the women in my family and the rest of the Indian women differ. The women in my family are traditional, wonderful, dignified women who cover themselves up in long opaque saris. But you slutty whores, with your sleeveless tops and your tight jeans, you want us to rape you, you want us to take notice of your goods, you want us to enjoy you, you want us to give you that wonderful feeling of pleasurable pain. Damn, I’m getting a hard on just talking about it. COW (speechless with anger): You vile repulsive motherfucker, you mentally ill scum of the planet, fuck you and your inherent chauvinistic outlook. You base venomous bastard! NSS: A bastard is like AIDS. Nobody really knows who fucked it into existence. COW (shaking with anger and desperation): It’s never going to change, is it? This despicable perception of women as objects for men to relieve their sexual frustrations upon. And a patriarchal society like India where all men are closet rapists will never really respect women, will it? COCR: That’s like asking if Ellen DeGeneres will start fucking men. NSS: Lesbians are like male homosexuals who like penises. Except they are female and like pussies. COCR (surprised): That wasn’t an analogy, that was just a definition. NSS (sadly): I miss Sonali. COB (feeling bad for the COW): Look, chairwoman, I think I may have been a little insensitive to your arguments. I’m sorry. I think I will be making additional efforts in providing enhanced security to our women employees. COW (still emotional but allayed slightly): Do you mean it? COB: Yes, in fact, I’ve already thought up a few security measures. I’m thinking from now onwards one of the qualifications to be a driver working for BPOs is for the candidate to be a eunuch. COW: Ok… NSS: A eunuch is like a car without an engine…and no testicles. COB: And we shall also make sure that all our women employees are given electrically charged chastity belts to protect their…femininity. COW: Ok… COB (thinking): And perhaps a bra that would make their breasts look smaller than they actually are. COW: I appreciate your good intentions, chairman. Thank you. But maybe you can also supply your women employees with bottles of pepper spray and maybe tasers. You could also install tracking devices in your vehicles, which can be done, and have someone monitor it on a computer. If the vehicle goes off the prescribed route or stops for more than five minutes, you can call the driver. And if he doesn’t answer your call you can inform the police. COB: Come on now, that’s a bit silly and impractical. COCR (bored): Now if you airbags have finished chattering I would like to leave. There are more unsuspecting women out there for me to go and rape. (Both the COW and COB look at him with disgust and shock) NSS: Actually, there’s one thing left to do. (Sidhu goes to the side of the room, opens a kit, and takes out three thick cricket bats. He hands one to the COW, one to the COB, and keeps the third one for himself) COCR: I don’t have to time to play. Some little girl or nubile woman is out there with her fresh cherry ready to be popped by me. NSS: Now as you know, I haven’t done this in a while. (Sidhu signals to the COW and the COB. They step out from behind their podiums and approach the COCR. He starts protesting but the thick willows land against his teeth and balls, crippling him to the ground. Sidhu square cuts his dick; the COW cover drives his skull; the COB straight drives his nose. After a few minutes of some industrious batting and a good partnership, the Chairman of Cabbies/Rapists breathes his last. His bloody carcass lies in a hot pool of blood) COW (looking at the corpse): Go to hell. NSS: Hell is like Pakistan. Except there are more Hindus and Christians. 9月28日 Balls Stick 4 LongIf there’s one thing that’s predhonimating every Indian’s mind right now it’s cricket. Our swashbuckling team established its undisputed dhonimation in the arena of fast-paced cricket by winning the Irfantastic 20-20 world cup. Our team ran through an impressive list of formidable opponents inducing more fear in them than Sreesanthrax. Uthapparently, the enormity of this great win was the only thing the whole of India had agreed upon unanimously since calling Preity Zinta “that slag who doesn’t stop talking even while giving a blowjob”. Joginteristingly, the fan-fervor was so overwhelming during the motorcade that it caused a high degree of Yuvragitation in the streets. Fans, including millions of dhoniacs, celebrated by drinking whisky, vodka, and barrels of Gambeer. Unfortunately, every great thing will have something nasty wrecking it from being perfect. Like Aishwarya Rai with her hairy nipples. Or Kareena Kapoor who sings the Flintstones theme during sexual intercourse. The smear on the Indian Cricket Team’s most beautiful day was a bunch of whiny pussies who claimed to be the neglected representatives of some make-believe sport called Hockey. These attention-craving mother-puckers, like the jealous whores that they were, accused the Indian Government of not giving them their due for their exploits. They demanded that this so called game of “Hockey”, which is as appealing as a turban, be given as much importance as Cricket. In an effort to settle the issue of Cricket versus Hockey, an open debate was organized between the Cricket Team, the Hockey Team, and celebrity guest Shah Rukh Khan. Mediating the debate was the founder of NDTV, Prannoy Roy, also known as “the annoying old snob who doesn’t open his mouth while talking”. HT: We want recognition too; we want free travelling benefits too; we want bigger cash awards too; we want more advertising contracts too; we want more respect too; we want to boast of rags to riches stories too. CT: Well, judging from all the bickering you’ve been doing it sounds more like rags to bitches. You lot are whinier than Sushma Swaraj when she heard Sonia Gandhi had more ovaries than her. HT: We’re not whining. We’re fighting for what’s rightfully ours. Why is that we didn’t receive an ovation so grand when we returned to India after winning the Asia Cup? CT: Well, let’s see, for starters, it could be because we won the WORLD cup, not some retarded Asia Cup. The world is a little bigger than Asia, in case you aren’t aware. Secondly, hockey is for losers. HT: We beat a strong Korean team in the finals to lift the cup. Don’t call us losers. CT: Ooh! You beat the Koreans. Kudos on beating a bunch of guys who squint so much that they can’t even tell the difference between Britney Spears’s vagina and a water melon. PR (mouth closed): To be honest, our NDTV cunt survey showed that a lot of people have trouble telling them apart. CT: It’s easy. You sink your teeth into a watermelon and spit out the seeds after eating it completely. (pauses). No wait… SRK (a little irked that his time is being wasted): Let’s move this along to the part where I have to talk about ‘Chak De’. I’m not interested in vaginas. CT: Tell us something we don’t know. SRK: Hey, if you’re talking about the thing that poked you in the thighs when I hugged you fellas after the finals it really was my cell phone. (pauses) For the umpteenth time, I do not find myself daydreaming about rubbing oil on Karan Johar’s love handles. CT: Sure, we believe you. And we suppose your phone was set on vibrate as well with someone calling you like crazy. SRK: Yes. It was Farah Khan calling me to ask if I had any spare time when she could come over and kiss my ass. HT: Actually, we have a bone to pick with you as well, Shah Rukh. CT: Oh, he’ll be more than happy to let you pick his bone. HT: Was it so much trouble for you to show up at the Asia Cup finals and cheer us on? Did you forget what ‘Chak De’ was all about? SRK: Of course, I didn’t forget. It was about me taking the credit of being the inspiration behind every triumph in sports that came towards India in the next few years. HT: What about the game of Hockey that has been part of India’s history for decades? SRK: Are you telling me it’s a real game? I thought it was just a ridiculous game that the filmmakers came up with. HT (angry): Yes, it’s a real game. It’s the national game of India. CT: Yeah right, and Kajol is not ugly as shit. The only reason why people started calling it the national game of India is because that was the first thing we managed to win after getting independence. It doesn’t mean that it’s an interesting sport and that people like watching it. HT: People from all communities and walks of life play hockey. CT: Get real, clowns. Hockey is a game played only by smelly Punjabis. HT: Just because you have money coming out of your piss-holes doesn’t mean that you can be racist. CT: How many of you have Singh as your last name? (All the hockey players raise their hands and on realizing they had just been had put their hands down tetchily) HT: We represent all religions and communities. Unlike Shoaib Malik. (Suddenly, Prannoy Roy takes centre stage and speaks in a deep baritone, his mouth still shut tight) PR: This is a message from NDTV to Shoaib Malik. You do not represent all the Muslims in the world. You are only the captain of the defeated Pakistan Team. You are nothing, do you understand? Nothing. NDTV loves Muslims. And Hindus. And Christians. You are an overzealous Muslim, Shoaib Malik. You cannot just speak shit and say you’re doing it on behalf of billions of others. Only diseased bastards would do something like that. This announcement, by the way, is being made by me as the universal representative of media, old people, snobs, and those with their heads tucked up their asses. CT: Relax, you old fart. He was just being emotional. Stop blowing shit out of proportion. All he said he was he thanked all the Muslims in the world. You’re a rotten piece of shit to be ballooning that up when you have other important things on your channel to talk about. PR (pouting): I will complain to Barkha Dutt and he will shout at you. CT: Don’t you mean ‘she’? PR: Who do you think knows him better? The stupid audience who sit in front of the TV or me, the head of NDTV- Nicely Disguised Transvestite Vixens? (Suddenly, everyone stops talking because they hear a moaning sound. It’s SRK seemingly in the middle of a day dream) SRK: Yeah…you like that, K-Jo? Hmm…Always stay under me…ok?…Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna…hmmm…your flab is so sexy…I’d like to drink your hot brown frothy coffee…yeah… PR: Shah Rukh, wake up! I think you’re having a gay-dream! (SRK wakes up and sees everyone staring at him) SRK: What? CT: You were gay-dreaming again, bum-boy. SRK: No, I wasn’t. I was just thinking about my new movie Om Shanti Om. CT: Don’t you mean ‘hOMo Shanti hOMo’? HT: This is exactly what we’re talking about. This whole debate was supposed to be about us. But now it has turned into a dialogue between Cricket and Bollywood. We deserve attention too. We want all the luxury they get. We want more and more and more and more… CT (smirking): Unless you’re talking about Kiran More I don’t think you have much of a chance. HT: Up yours, you undeserving shit balls. We will kick your ass. CT: Go suck on a puck, you whiny little pussies. PR (mouth closed): I’m more powerful than God. SRK: I miss Karan. (Pandemonium breaks out. Everyone starts screaming and bickering. The Cricketers fight with the Hockey players. Prannoy Roy claws at SRK who’s groaning with pleasure. The debate gets so boisterous that the noise reaches the heavens and wakes up God himself. Fed up with this mysterious ruckus, God comes down to the scene of the scuffle) GOD: Just what the fuck is going on here? Some of us are trying to get some sleep up there. I’ve had a very rough week what with the culmination of the 50 cent- Kanye West battle and all. I did all I could do to boost 50’s record sales but what can I say, that nigger keeps putting out some of the worst beats ever. PR (mouth closed): I’m sorry, Mr. God, but as the supreme leader of the media world I need to warn you about your dirty mouth. You’re not supposed to use that term unless you are one. And clearly, you’ve more a greenish beige hue. GOD: Hellooo! I’m God. I created the world. I can say whatever I want. And what’s with the closed mouth? Do you have any breath issues? Or are you trying to be a ventriloquist? PR (mouth still closed): Well, if you should know… GOD (interrupting): Shut the fuck up. (Prannoy Roy is flustered. God turns to the others). Now, why don’t you biatches get me up to speed? What’s all this fuss about? HT: You’re the perfect person to settle this dispute, lord. The Indian Government and the people alike have been giving the sport of cricket an unjust pedestal even though the rest of the sports are just as great as cricket. But no matter how many trophies the rest of us win, it’s always the cricketers who get the true respect, the maximum benefits and all the acclaim. The rest of are left with nothing. GOD (turning to the cricketers): How much money are you boys likely to get in the coming month alone owing to your recent victory? CT: Hmm…maybe more than a few billion bucks… GOD: Oh my fucking self! You’ve got to be fucking shitting me! Even I don’t have that much cash. And I’m the almighty! CT: Well, it won’t seem like much because it’ll all be in thousand rupee notes… GOD: I don’t want to hear anything further. I’ve been trying to bring about fairness and justice in this world of mine. But greedy beings like you keep making my job harder. All your earnings will be halved and distributed amongst these players. It’s settled. (The cricketers are upset with the decision. They demand the case be referred to the third umpire but God reminds them that he’s the only umpire. The Hockey Players are ecstatic and start celebrating) PR: Well, it looks like the Hockey Players have achieved what they set out to do. GOD (taken aback): Whoa! Whoa! Hold your horses. What did you say? PR: The Hockey Players have… GOD: Hockey? That’s what you people play? Oh, well, that changes everything… HT: What do you mean? GOD: I’m sorry but I take back everything I said. No redistribution of the cricketer’s income, no benefits, no nothing. I had no idea you guys played hockey. HT: Why, what’s wrong with hockey? GOD: Well, firstly, it isn’t half as exciting as Cricket. And obviously, the cricketers have a much more perilous tenure than you biatches. HT: Perilous? Cricketers in India get billions of rupees when they win. GOD: That’s if they win. I don’t think people kick down your houses, blacken your property walls, molest your sisters, finger your mothers, and fist your fathers if you lose. That’s what the cricketers have to go through if they lose. Besides, people get dealt bad cards all the time. That’s just the way I run the world. You don’t hear mute people shouting that they deserve the same benefits as people who can talk, do you? HT: God, you’re clearly exaggerating about the dangers cricketers have to face if they lose. GOD: Well, that’s not all. There’s another very important reason why Hockey can never get the respect and richness that cricket does. HT: What’s that? GOD: Hockey is for losers. (The Hockey Team leaves the scene with their heads hung low out of humiliation like the way they were meant to be) CT: God, you’re just the bomb. There’s no other way to put it. PR (mouth closed): I think you’re all forgetting that I’m more powerful than Mr. Party Mouth. I run NDTV. That’s harder than running the world. SRK: In your dreams. Your channel thrives on news about me. Haven’t you heard Karan introduce me on his show? More people on this world know me than Tom Cruise. That means I’m the most powerful gay…I mean guy in this world. And Insha Allah, I’ll be more powerful than you, God. (The cricketers look at God and shrug. God shrugs back) GOD: Well, I guess there’s only thing left to do. (God waves his hands around and turns SRK into Dev Anand’s dick; he then turns Prannoy Roy into Lata Mangeshkar’s vocal cords) CT: They are definitely not going to enjoy their new lives. I guess they learned never to mess with you, God. GOD: They sure did. Let’s just hope they never run into each other. (The Cricketers are back to being filthy rich. The fans are still poor and in awe. God goes back to sleep. Everything’s the way it should be) 9月23日 Brief Story PollicaHe couldn’t possibly be ignorant because they say ‘Ignorance is bliss’ and he knew what he was at that point was anything but blissful. He felt like “an ant in the eddy created by a toilet flush” (from one of Lipjo’s poems on life).
Mankind with their unique purposes and of course nature (which seldom proved to be a topic for Lipjo’s poetry) flipped past his seemingly observant eyes like the slides before the start of a movie and they were only just as interesting to Lipjo. Lipjo hoped that his vapid glances to his left and right would somehow give her the cue that he was in need of company and that he would not at all mind if she got up from her seat (which was almost at the very end of the college bus) and placed herself where she rightfully belonged—by his side. He furtively threw a glance over his medium-frame shoulders. The seat behind his was Unoccupied. Only if his mind could swap places with the seat! The bus made its ultimate turn that would lead it inside the gates of its destination—of his destination—of her destination—of their destination. Students descended that “secret madhouse ” (description of a bus from one of Lipjo’s poems on that very same vehicle) in ones, twos and threes. Both Lipjo and Pollicia (for that was her name) made their solitary journeys to the front of their locked classroom as the rest of the students slowly disappeared from the precincts—almost as if they heard the desperate pleas from Lipjo’s heart. There was nothing but passable ground and air between Lipjo and Pollicia. And Lipjo traversed them both to reach her.
‘Hi, Pollicia,’ he smiled as she carefully dusted the bench outside. She had missed his smile but, notwithstanding, returned the smile and the greeting. She talked about how inefficient their teachers were (the usual topic for their rare conversations) to which he had had his mind predetermined to react with a perceptive nod of his head but his heart stopped—his brain stopped—his mind stopped—the world stopped—when Pollicia parted her sweet, pink lips to emanate that very familiar smile (they frequented a major portion of Lipjo’s dreams) and all he could do was foolishly join her in her amusement. But he didn’t agree with her. He didn’t think the teachers were as bad as Pollicia made them out to be. But he didn’t argue. He just nodded. Was he sinning? Nineteen years of existence had made him aware that letting his contemplations regarding right and wrong wander would be as destructive as letting a bull go wild inside a kindergarten. It would murder the slightest hopes left in a very dark place. He started to ask her something but saw her break into an even wider grin, waving her hands at somebody behind him. He turned to find a group of three boys and a girl waving back—Pollicia’s boisterous gang. He was caught between waves. He quickly excused himself. He knew he would see them deriding him if he turned back. So he didn’t. Soon he broke into a run. He felt like his skull was about to crack. He ran for miles, ran and ran until he covered the distance the college bus did in the morning after it had picked him up. He stormed into his house and locked himself up in his room. He leaned against the back of his door, slowly slipping down to the floor, catching his breath. He took out his pen and paper and wrote another poem. 9月17日 Fight of the GODSWe Hindus have taken a lot of shit from all the non-Hindus residing in our country. They have taken our jobs, our land, our women, our wealth, and even a few rolls of our toilet paper. We made an attempt to stick to the honorable technique of preaching non-violence and then murdering them- they responded with the same. We demolished their churches and mosques and covered it up saying that Parvati Melton’s boobs crashed into them- they didn’t buy that. We sent anthrax-infected deer as part of a bio-warfare scheme to kill the Indian Muslims- but Salman Khan shot all of them dead. Finally, we genetically engineered a battalion of stand-alone monster cocks, in our laboratory in Los Angeles, to attack the Indian Christians but they were intercepted by a hungry Britney Spears after her MTV VMA performance. And just when we were about to announce a truce, the anti-Hindu Government goes ahead and does something so insulting and offensive as suggesting that the Lord Rama didn’t even exist; they want to demolish the Rama Setu, the bridge that Lord Rama built thousands of years ago so that they can build a shitty canal for the economic growth of India. Now, it’s war.
Thankfully, the official spokes-group for Hindus, the BJP, has taken matters into their own hands. That is after all what Lord Krishna said to Arjun in the Bhagwad Gita: “Ahead of you lies a pool of shit, trust the BJP to push you into it.” Apparently, Lord Krishna rhymed. Urged by the BJP, Hindus from all across India march through the streets protesting against this overt lack of respect for Hindu beliefs by the Congress Government. Interestingly, they are met halfway by a vociferous group of Muslims. Hindus: This is Hindustan. ‘Hindu’-stan. Figure it out. If you think that you can hurt our religious sentiments and still keep all your internal organs in tact, you better get a new doctor. Christians: Praise the Lord! How are you Ramaholics and Muhammadophiles? Hindus and Muslims (in unison): It’s Hindus and Muslims. DeathWhen I leave this bless'ed place I don't want you to cry. When I pass from this old earth, I will do it on the sly. Don't fall over in the casket and slob all over me. When I go to see my savior, I sure want to be free. No you can't go with me, Don't even pull that stunt. You didn't like me when I was alive, So please don't put up a front. When I die, the way I do it, Will be so slick and sweet. When I die I want to look nice From my head down to my feet. I want to have a dress Of silk, black and white. As you can see I'm a big girl, So make sure it ain't tight. I want my bestfriend To sing that Amazing Grace. Make sure you do it well, That tears come down my face. When I die, I don't want The service to be o' so long. Have my loved ones speak, And end it with that song. Make sure that minister knew me, I don't want no strangers around. Cause where I'm going there will Only be smiles, got no time to frown. For real, don't cry, I can't see why, I'm in a better place than you. Don't be jealouus you'll get a turn To die and go there too. 8月26日 Friends at LASTI’ve got to tell you something. There’s as good a chance of you not agreeing to it as there is a chance of the ICL and the BCCI walking together hand in hand at a beach, the gentle waves kissing the sides of their really expensive shoes. I don’t understand the compulsive need of almost everyone to pile up as many friends as possible. They put desperate, pathetic ads in the paper, they join every online community in the world, and some even make up imaginary people just so that others would think they have a bucketful of friends. I’m nonplussed, to be honest. And that’s saying a lot because I never thought I would actually use the word ‘nonplussed’ in a sentence ever. Now, if I could only use the word ‘glomerulonephritis’ somewhere.
It’s easy to misinterpret my statement about friends as one made by a misanthropist. I admit, I’m no Father Teresa but I don’t hate people. I do love hot single women; that has to be an indication of the presence of a loving heart inside me. However, I do have a serious problem with friends, especially my friends. It’s just that more often than not friends seem to act more like a PIP (Pain in the Posterior) rather than a HIP (Helpful Intelligent Person). Sure nobody’s perfect but the least your friends should be able to do is not piss you off all the time. And there are different kinds of annoying friends who do different things to piss you off.
There’s always that one friend who just doesn’t know when to hang up the phone. He’s the friend who’s not very close to you but does you enough favors that it would make you feel guilty if you don’t consider him as your friend. It’s one thing calling up and talking if there’s actually something to talk about. And it’s another thing calling up merely to chitchat and kill time. But it’s a whole different thing if your friend calls you up everyday and talks about nothing but himself. It’s almost like he thinks he’s running a radio station and you’re the only listener he has. Unfortunately, all the programs on the radio station is about what he did, who he hates, who he thinks is gay, which actor looks more like him, and how much better he is than everybody else including you. And you can do just about everything that you could think of to try and send him the message that you don’t want to talk to him but narcissistic phrases keep flowing out of his mouth like mediocre movies out of Bollywood. You can fake headaches, you can fake call waiting, you can fake having to hide the corpse of the door to door salesman you just murdered, hell you can even fake your own death but he would neatly sideline all of those by uttering four simple pitiful words, “Just five more minutes.”
Then there’s the friend who’s up for any plans any time. As long as you take care of all expenses. He’s the one who, when the bill comes, gets the inevitable call from his sick mother, his dying uncle, his dead grandpa, or nature herself. At times, his seventh sense informs him about the imminent bill and he just takes off from the coffee shop or the restaurant. After you chalk out all your money, you meet him outside with a frown, and he explains to you that he got this unprecedented urge to break wind and that he respects you too much to let it rip in front of you. And you think to yourself, that’s worth the money! But, of course, you’re damn fool who doesn’t realize that your friend is a big fat liar who just used flatulence to make you pay his share of the bill. Going to the movies with the moocher is no different. He’s always sly enough to ask you to “book the tickets”, or “reserve the seats”. But after the movie, when you ask him to reimburse the ticket money, he behaves like the victim of a combined Alzheimer’s- Amnesia attack. He blinks and stares like he’s Mr. Magoo on valium. At the end, he parts with the concrete promise that the next movie is on him. Few weeks later, he’ll probably show up at your place with a pirated CD that you both can watch on your CD player and call it even.
The third one in the list is the friend who opens up too quickly to you. Call me a sexist but this one is bound to be a girl. She’s the one with whom you share a comfortable rapport from the time you meet. You too even have the same opinion about Espresso: that it sucks. But all that changes on the second day when she calls you up and lets you in on her deepest, darkest secret that she says she has never shared with anyone else in the whole world. It could be some torrid love affair that she had with a teacher, or it could be about some overly friendly uncle of hers, or even her disturbingly bizarre sexual perversions that’s got something to do with Chihuahuas. And the next day, when she meets you in front of other people you know, she takes you to a corner and thanks you for fifteen minutes for being a “good friend” and “being there” for her. You would like to tell her “I was just holding the phone to my ear. I didn’t do anything. I could have put a bowl of pudding there by the phone and the pudding would have been there for you.” But you don’t. Then things get worse when she starts weeping. And the people around you look at you like you’re this insensitive jerk who made a girl cry. Which, of course, ruins the rest of the evening for you. And when she leaves she subtly nods at you that only you see and moments later you get the ominous SMS which says, “I’ll call you tonight.” And that’s when you feel like drowning to death in a pool of Espresso
Another one who really pisses me off is the friend who talks incessantly about politics. Scattering it here and there in a conversation is fine; at least you can ignore it. But when everything that he says is connected to politics you’ve got a serious issue. After a sip of his coffee he says, “This coffee is really strong. By the way, you know who else needs to be really strong, the United Nations in their involvement in the Middle East problem.” Or he’s playing video game with you when he comments, “You need stealth to excel at this game. You know what rhymes with stealth? Health. You know who has a bad health plan: the Americans. Their last Government…” Or the time when nobody’s talking and everyone’s just lazing around he decides to conduct an elaborate tutorial on the plan that he has to inculcate Socialism in a Capitalistic environment. It becomes obvious to you that the only plan he doesn’t have is the one that would make him not bore the living hell out of everyone around him.
Those are just a few reasons why I find friends really annoying. There are still several types that I haven’t talked about: the friend who always shares your lunch, the one who borrows your T-shirt and gives it back stained, the one who asks for more than five favors per month, the one who’s always late for everything, the one who keeps a picture of the Elephant Man in his wallet, the one who turns both the blowers of the AC in your car to his side, the friend who steals your jokes, the friend who advises you to listen to rap music after listening to the Eminem CD that he borrowed from you a week before, the friend who has a look at the book you’re reading and tells you how it ends after going through the last chapter, the friend who shows up at your place without calling up, the friend who just can’t figure out why your father is a Hindu and your mother’s a Christian, the one who tells you after you get out of a restaurant that he had switched plates with you because he found a hair stuck to his, and a whole lot of other kinds of annoying friends. You may love your friends too much to relate to anything that I’ve said so far. That means you’re lucky. Or it means that you’re in denial. Or, more likely, it means that you are an annoying friend yourself. In case, you share my views and feel like being friends with me, I just want to let you know that I’m feeling a little under the weather and therefore can’t talk on the phone or mail you or meet you. Doctors say I’m suffering from a bad case of ‘glomerulonephritis’.
8月8日 Put DUTT in a HUTTIf anyone out there has been harboring a desire to get cozy with Sanjay Dutt’s daughter, this is the time to act on it. She’s sad; she’s vulnerable; her dad’s in the slammer; and from what her photos suggest she has all the qualities of a compulsive eater. And as scientists have proven, fat chicks are the easiest ones to trick into taking their panties off, provided you don’t count aspiring actresses, feminists, chambermaids, teenage Catholic girls, and, of course, Nayanthara. And while considerate individuals like you and I are plotting how to get some Dutt poon, the rest of India have been doing what they have been doing best for the last few centuries- arguing with each other about what and who is right and wrong. Only this time, Bollywood is in the picture as well.
The pro-verdict Indians and the pro-Dutt Indians debated hard on the topic of whether or not the sentence Dutt got was fair. A grammarian, also a member of the pro-Dutt campaign criticized the judge’s sentence, accusing it of being structurally imperfect and lacking any kind of punctuation whatsoever. He was later asked by his fellow campaigners to refer the dictionary and look up the second meaning of the word “sentence”. The humiliated grammarian then returned to his classroom and took it out on his students by chaining them to their desks and beating the shit out of them. The pro-verdict Indians, consisting of self-loathing middle class people (excluding the middle class boy John Abraham), raised the important point that all rich people are crooks and that such rich people, especially if they are famous also, should be punished severely without any clemency. Bollywood stars who heard this decided that they wouldn’t take this lying down; so they bent over and took it in the doggie position. And when they realized that it hurt their assholes too much they decided to voice their protests. A gamut of emotions flooded the television screens. Anger, sadness, speechlessness, dejection, resilience, and eroticism flowed out of the expressive faces of our country’s finest cine artists. Frankly speaking, it was some of the best work they had done. The pro-verdict Indians, although sensitive and intelligent, did not feel a smidgeon of sympathy for the multi-millionaire Bollywood actor Sanjay Dutt and felt that he shouldn’t have done the crime if he wasn’t prepared to do the time. They held their heads high and supported the legal system of our country which was true enough to not spare a rich brat like Dutt who was guilty of possessing a gun without a license; the same legal system who gives instant bail to Shiv Sena activists after they torture and harass random people without giving them a trial of any kind; the same legal system which salvaged the innocence of the two accused in the Nithari killings, who, in all probability, sodomized and chopped up over twenty children purely unintentionally. The system was just enough to realize the innocuous thought that went behind the two dozen murders. Much like how the system foresaw the potential carnage that Sanjay Dutt would’ve caused with the weapon he possessed, allegedly to protect his family. The pro-Dutt Indians claimed that sentencing the man who brought the spirit of Gandhi back to our hearts to six years in prison was like slapping the cheek of the Mahatma himself. The pro-Dutt Indians, including actors from Bollywood, demanded that taking into consideration the impact and the theme of Dutt’s hit movie, he ought to receive special consideration from the court. Dawood Ibrahim seconded this demand and also announced that his debut movie titled “Dawood loves Gandhi” would be releasing later this year. Meanwhile, Sanjay Dutt sat alone inside his cell drenched in sadness wishing he could go back in time and correct his mistakes. Especially the mistake of spending millions in visiting temples and shrines praying to God when he should actually have got into a plane and hid in some exotic island. He put his head down and shed a drop of sincere tear; as soon as the teardrop hit the dank floor of his prison he felt a strange energy enter his cell. He lifted his head and encountered the most amazing sight he had seen in his entire life- even more amazing than Urmila’s bulging titties in Daud. Sitting next to him inside his cell was Mahatma Gandhi himself. Dutt bowed his head before the Mahatma and asked pleadingly, “Tell me Bapu, why me? I suffered so much already in my life but it never seems to stop. I lost both my parents; I lost my wife; I’ve already been in prison once for over a year; and now, after I’ve been so righteous in my actions, I’m back to prison. And that too for possibly the six most significant years of my life. What is the meaning of all this?” The Mahatma looked straight into Dutt’s teary eyes and said, with a warm, caring smile on his lips, “I got fucking assassinated right after I achieved the single greatest feat in the history of mankind and you’re whining to me about getting some jail time for a crime you actually committed? Grow some balls, man. I understand you deserve a lot better than this but don’t we all? At least, you don’t have to watch your own children starve to death right in front of you; nor do you have to worry about when your child is going to get raped when she walks alone from school because you can’t afford a fucking vehicle. Sure you got it bad, but there are more miserable bastards out there. Unfortunately, life’s a giant ass that won’t stop shitting on you. And the people who run your country, no matter which nation you’re from, will always act as laxatives. So suck it up.” Dutt watched, with bulging eyes and an open mouth, the spectral figure of Gandhi get up and leave his cell. Before Gandhi completely disappeared he turned back and said, “I almost forgot, could you do me a favor?” Dutt jolted from his shocked stupor and replied, “Of course, Bapu, anything.” Gandhi looked at Dutt and said in a slightly irked tone, “If you ever run into Anil Kapoor or Akshaye Khanna tell those hairy-ass fags to fuck off and go to hell. I gave those pricks their independence. The least that they can do is not commercialize my personal life.” And then the Father of our Nation disappeared. 7月28日 E! NewsMother Teresa was rumored to have expressed only one wish before she died. That one day this world which was afflicted with so many illnesses would be lucky enough to see a reality television show starring Snoop Dogg. Snoop Dogg’s reality show, it was announced, would be featured on the home of top quality entertainment programs- E! Entertainment Television, which has gifted to the world shows like Let’s Take Boring Retarded Stuff About Self-Obsessed Celebrities and Talk About them as if they’re Divine Things, Let’s show How Fucking Rich Movie Stars and Teenage Singers Are so You at home can feel like Total Losers, and, of course, who can forget their biggest crowd-puller Ryan Seacrest and a Thin Bitch Standing Around muttering Incoherent Shit. The reality show, tentatively titled “Pot, Pussy, and Prayers with Snoop and his players”, would have the traditional reality show format where Snoop Dogg and his homies will be given scripts and made up family emergencies and scenarios in an attempt to make them look like ordinary human beings despite being multi-millionaires. Guest starring in the reality show making minor appearances would also be some relatively unimportant people from Snoop Dogg’s life like his kids, his ex-wife, and his mother. Other starring roles belong to Snoop’s fellow pimps n’ hoes, the LAPD, Snoop’s drug dealing cuz, Jacob the Jeweler, the NYPD, and Martha Stewart. E! Entertainment Television was initially a bit concerned about the potentially offensive nature of the content on the show since Snoop Dogg’s average day consisted of getting drunk, smoking pot, popping pills, banging bitches, shooting other rappers, and reading the Bible. After several weeks of discussions and brainstorming the network and Snoop agreed to proceed with the show after editing out the controversial bits on Snoop’s schedule namely reading the Bible. Comic relief would come in the form of Martha Stewart who was slated to appear occasionally on the show to demonstrate the many number of ways in which Snoop’s hair can be redecorated. After the hair redecoration Snoop would proceed to videotape him hitting Martha’s “white round thang”. When E! interviewed Snoop and talked about his new reality show he was conspicuously stoked. In the middle of the interviewed he ordered one of his tricks to go down on him and suck him dry as part of the celebration. Regarding the show he had this to say: “Yo, my niggers, this is S- N-Double O-P, talking to you L-I-V-E! “Pot, Pussy, and Prayers with Snoop and his players” which, by far, looks to be the most promising of any reality show that has ever hit television will give Snoop Dogg the kind of opportunities that “Hogan Knows Best” gave for Hulk Hogan namely the opportunity to parade to the world Brooke Hogan’s tight sexy ass since she’s also one of Snoop’s favorite hoes. With the predicted success of “Pot, Pussy, and Prayers with Snoop and his players” bringing up the revenue of E! Entertainment Television to an all time high, the network is already planning for new shows with various other celebrities. At present, they’re planning to rope in Madonna for new adventure/reality show where she would visit orphanages all across the world and try and stuff as many kids up her craggy old womb as possible. The show will be called “I’m a Desperate Bitch, I’m Unholy, I’m Madonna, But I want to be Jolie”. 7月24日 THE SEVEN WONDERS OF INDIAUntil sometime back my nighttime schedule was short and simple. I watched Shakira videos, beat my meat, and then went to sleep dreaming of impregnating her. However, I was, recently, forced to make a slight change in my nighttime schedule. The altered agenda was: watch Shakira videos, massage my Mt. Everest, say a ten-minute prayer, and then go to sleep dreaming of impregnating Shakira. Unlike in my childhood days, the prayer wasn’t aimed at having my school bombed or my teachers buried alive or my relatives skewered. I had matured a lot since those days. I knew all I had to do was search the Internet for ultra cool ways to murder people. The reason I prayed after rubbing my rhombus and before going to sleep was something totally different. I yearned to uphold our country’s pride and rich cultural heritage in front of the rest of the world. I desired to make India appear tourism-worthy to stupid retarded white-ass foreigners. I prayed in order to make sure the Taj Mahal wouldn’t get voted out of the new seven wonders list.
The whole nation is getting jittery because the Taj Mahal was the one thing that had always made India appealing to the rest of the universe. Even when some countries couldn’t agree to our strict moral code of banning and condemning everything that even slightly referred to the authenticity of religions or historical figures while secretly promoting prostitution, sex rackets, communal riots, bigotry, pornography, and violence against women they all openly welcomed the fact that the Taj Mahal was a wondrous monument and an unequivocal symbol of love. Without the Taj Mahal being officially one of the seven wonders India would be just a smelly country with a handful of filthy rich millionaires, billions of sick, depressed call center employees and software engineers, and a seriously “we’ve-got-our-heads-so-far-up-our-asses-that-we-can-lick-our-tonsils” family called the Bachchans whom everybody knows they’re supposed to say they like but aren’t quite sure why.
Some Indians were of the opinion that India was paying too much attention to get accepted into the New Seven Wonders List. They believed that when hundreds and thousands of Indians were dying every month of various reasons like poverty, diseases, and border violence the value that was being ascribed to the Taj Mahal was undeserved. Afterwards, when they ran out of things to say and do the group randomly assaulted college professors and assailed artists and writers. It was then that everybody realized that it was merely the Shiv Sena and the RSS trying to not have a Muslim monument as the biggest attraction in a purely Hindu country. They demanded that, instead, a Hindu monument should be named as the country’s biggest treasure. Maybe something like the Imax theatre in Mumbai. Or Bal Thackeray’s house.
Even if the New Seven Wonders Committee excludes the Taj from their list we have to learn to value our national possessions and talk about them at every single occasion so that people get so sick of it they’ll visit the Taj Mahal just to jump from the top of it. What most of us don’t realize is that the Taj Mahal is just one of the brilliant wonders that exist in our country. There are innumerous wonders that overwhelm different parts of our country that it’s hard to make a list of them. However, I have managed to narrow down seven of our country’s greatest wonders.
THE SEVEN WONDERS OF INDIA
Wonder # 7: Bollywood
Possibly the most popular movie industry in the world next to Hollywood. But the reason why it’s included in the seven wonders of India list is because not a single living breathing Indian knows why it’s so popular. Overflowing with untalented actors, directors, and scriptwriters Bollywood is equivalent to a group of monkeys imitating what they see Hollywood do, and that too imitate it really badly. It’s nothing short of a wonder how actors like Fardeen Khan, Suniel Shetty, Amisha Patel, John Abraham, Shahid Kapoor, and Bipasha Basu to name a few are still thriving in the industry. It’s nothing short of a wonder that people would pay money to see these spoiled assfaces put on pathetic displays of what they call acting.
Wonder # 6: Dowry
The wondrous procedure by which a woman is sold to a man by her family where the money is paid by the woman’s family to the man. Now that’s what you call a bad bargain when you part with valuable pussy and end up paying for it. Still, the wonder is that even in the twenty first century it exists and continues to grow stronger.
Wonder # 5: Hansika Motwani
With tits that can give you a cardiac arrest, an ass that can bring world peace, and a face that can keep a sperm bank going for years, Hansika Motwani is just sixteen years old. Now, salivating after a sixteen-year-old girl is obviously an inappropriate thing to do but she’s a living breathing sex-oozing monument of beauty who deserves to be described as a true hormonal wonder.
Wonder # 4: Himesh Reshammiya
One of the very few singers in the country who gets paid to make sounds similar to a giraffe getting a cordless phone shoved up its ass. Others like Lata Mangeshkar and Asha Bhosle have had to strain for centuries before they reached where the capped-wonder Himesh has reached in a matter of few months.
Wonder # 3: Ayesha Takia’s boobs
Are they two planets trapped inside her blouse? Is it God’s way of letting us take a sneak preview of what heaven is like? Are they not the two most essential things a man needs for his survival other than food and water? Filled with the power to raise the genitals of even a dead man, Ayesha Takia’s boobs are undoubtedly the greatest twin towers ever into which anyone would love to fly their airplane into.
Wonder # 2: Indian Politics
Filled with both educated and uneducated cock-squeezers, the Indian Political Arena is awe-inspiring both for its complete refusal to give a shit about the welfare of the people and the absolute desire to pile up as much money as possible while promising people whatever they want to hear. Although Indian Politics resemble other countries in those aspects they hold their own when it comes to crime, corruption, and intolerance. In all which way possible, the field of Indian Politics is truly a wonder.
Wonder # 1: Kashmir
A piece of shit-ass unproductive land that is perpetually filled with snow and does not mean crap to any thinking individual in either India or Pakistan. No matter how many billions of bullets are fired and how many thousands liters of blood are spilled Kashmir will forever remain an infected cork up the asses of both India and Pakistan. The wonder of Kashmir lies in the fact that everyone hears about how much India wants it to be ours but frankly speaking who would want to acquire a piece of shit like that which has cost our country so much, both in money and lives? Kashmir is the greatest shared wonder in our country that is often called the paradise on Earth but is actually nothing but a fucking graveyard where your nipples get pointy faster than a stranger can guess Karan Johar’s sexuality. 7月22日 Dude looks like a Lady India has just gone one step up in the ladder of women empowerment with the wonderful news of the bestowal of one of the most prestigious titles upon arguably the most important and underrated Indian woman ever. As you may have already guessed I’m talking about the fact that Shilpa Slutty is now Dr. Shilpa Slutty thanks to the overwhelming benevolence of our old colonial masters who’re nowhere near done giving the crybaby enough candy for making her bawl like a fucking bitch a few months back. However, another lesser meaningful title of India’s President was ascribed to some tiny old lady called Pratibha Patil who isn’t even half as sexy as Shilpa Slutty.
CNN-IBN’s slightly lesser known sister channel CNN-SOB rose to the occasion and covered the story of India getting only its second woman president. The first was, as all of us Indians remember, Lord Mountbatten’s perverted little daughter who used to spy on Jawaharlal Nehru making sweet love to her own mother when her father went “hunting” with the stable boy. That story was covered by yet another sister channel of CNN-IBN called CNN-STD. They also reported that the flower tucked into Nehru’s coat pocket was symbolic of the neat deflowering job he had done on Lord Mountbatten’s bitch. CNN-SOB reported that unlike the first woman President of India, Pratibha Patil had no sexual perversions of any sort. In fact, except for the time she spoke to a dead guy on Mount Abu she could be said to have lead a completely normal life. However, India’s primary political party, the BJP, who treated all Indians with equal respect and dignity unless they were Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists and non-upper class Hindus, claimed that the new Indian President was not worthy of heading our country. They threatened that they possessed highly scandalous information regarding the new President and unless she quit her post they would reveal those details, which could very well bring the whole country into disrepute. Another sister channel of CNN-IBN, called CNN-HIV which specialized in sting operations managed to solicit the BJP leaders and obtain the shameful facts concerning our new President. The charge sheet leaked out of the BJP HQ, which was neatly typed and bulleted accused Pratibha Patil of two very serious charges:
CNN-HIV later reported that President Pratibha denied both these charges leveled against her by the BJP. However, the entire operation was canned by the BJP after they received an anonymous tip-off about an M.F Hussain painting that displayed a three-headed rabbit sexually pleasuring a castrated tiger, which blatantly blasphemed the national pride of India by insulting our national animal and also the Trimurti. Apart from that, President Pratibha enjoyed the unanimous support of the Indian people and also the Indian women who would soon, Insha’Allah and also Insha’Pratibha, be granted the status of “peoplehood”. On the very first day in office, President Pratibha brought about some radical reformations to our country’s laws, rules, and regulations. Apart from that, President Pratibha enjoyed the unanimous support of the Indian people and also the Indian women who would soon, Insha’Allah and also Insha’Pratibha, be granted the status of “peoplehood”. On the very first day in office, President Pratibha brought about some radical reformations to our country’s laws, rules, and regulations. Firstly, she demanded that Union Woman and Child Welfare Minister Renuka Chowdhary should slim down so that people can view her using only a single television set. Secondly, she made gay marriages legal in India. And thirdly, she made having sex in public illegal. As soon as the third law was passed, she received an intelligence report from India’s most vocal Defense Minister A.K. Anthony who made hand gestures to her which conveyed that two men had been caught having wild butt-sex in an open land in the middle of Uttar Pradesh. Aerial cameras inside the Rashtrapati Bhavan telecast the tiny live images of two figures lustily rubbing against each other. On zooming in the two men were identified to be Amitabh Bachchan and Amar Singh celebrating the legalization of gay marriages. Madam President ordered both men to be arrested and sent immediately to Himesh Reshmmiya’s recording studio. 7月20日 GlitterattiThe scene resembled that of a pre-independent era, set in the Indian territory of Puducherry, where the French were trying to infiltrate India and inflict pain upon us with their advanced weapons. Except that it was mid-May 2007 in the French town of Cannes and it was the Indians trying to infiltrate France and inflict pain upon them with our Bollywood movies.
One of the stars who made her presence felt at the Cannes Fest was Preity Zinta who was there to promote her theory that she did not have an affair with Louis the XVI that caused a rift between him and Marie Antoinette. The French media responded by asking her, “Qui l’enfer vous est?” (Who the hell are you?). She screamed a flurry of obscenities in Hindi at them and asked them to pardon her French.
Rumors floated that Hrithik Roshan was seen flying around the area with his right hand up in the air screaming, “The double-thumb is here.”John Abraham, covered in designer wear, was seen talking to the French reporters about how he would never part with his middle class upbringing. Holding his hand throughout the fest was girlfriend Bipasha, dressed in a formal bikini, complaining about how her boyfriend would never part with his middle class upbringing.
Another major attraction at Cannes was Shilpa Shetty who was patently having a good time posing and smiling for the paparazzi who mistook her for the French independent director Pierre Packi Currie. And when they started calling out “Packi! Packi! Currie! Currie!” to get her attention she broke down into tears and whined about how they weren’t even trying to see her for who she truly was¾just a really bad actress.
A curious incident transpired in the middle of the festival where the French Police managed to capture an Indian born stalker who was, apparently, studying each and every move of Angelina Jolie. The police later revealed the stalker to be Sushmita Sen who confessed that she was merely stalking Angelina Jolie to get tips on how to adopt more successfully. Conspicuous by his absence was Shah Rukh Khan who was not invited to Cannes this year after the demented humor sense he exhibited last year where he made puns like “King Cannes” and “Khan/Cannes Banega Crorepati”. He was given a memo that read “Khan canned from Cannes.”
The focus of attention, although, was, unsurprisingly, the Bachchans who finally gained access to the Cannes portal through the latest addition to their family, Aishwarya Rai. The entire Bachchan family was present including Amitabh, Abishek, Aishwarya, and the motherly figure of Amar Singh. A slight scuffle occurred between Amitabh and the security guards when Amar Singh’s name was found missing from the guest list. However, Amar Singh was allowed to enter after Amitabh explained that they were actually Siamese twins who had very recently been surgically separated by chief surgeon Dr. Mayavati.
The Cannes Film Festival 2007, with its booming success, marked a new high for Indian snobbery and a new low for filmmaking. This year’s fest was described as the most smoothly run event in all of the sixty years of Cannes. There was, however, some panic created when the entire event was put on hold for about twenty minutes; men in uniform cordoned off the entire area and circled the guests. Things calmed down, later, when it was revealed that the security issue arose as the Bachchans had to take a bathroom break. And as everyone knows that is a strictly family affair. |
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