How is it that you only find things at the last place you looked for them?

Tuesday, November 18, 2008


India's #1 independent music blog.


Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Check Out The Nu-Music



Thursday, March 08, 2007




Friday, March 02, 2007

Boredom At 3 AM


It's a well known fact that lack of sleep, coupled with expected periods of little or no sleep, leads humans to turn into werewolves. Now now, don't laugh. It's the truth. Try it. Stay up two whole days, and on the night of the third day at 3am, look at the moon, and you'll automatically start making "Oooooo!" noises. I did, and now that I'm out of jail (thanks Sana for posting bail), I can tell you about prison.

It's a decent place.

The lighting is bad, and it could do with a room freshener. Food is not exactly great but they make great mutton goop on Sunday nights when all the inmates gather around the black and white television and watch Chitrahaar. Oh iPod! How I missed you!

But jail isn't all bad. There's a lot to look forward to in prison. Like the conversation is fantastic. Nobody talks about mundane stuff like music and movies. Oh no! It's all murders and rapings here coupled with the usual who's-seeing-who gossip and who's-gonna-snuff-it-tonight updates.

Also to add to the excitement is the whole conjugal visit scene. Given that all the inmates are men and ironically, have no mates, there's a French midget whore who has been assigned the duty of 'fulfilling' a daily conjugal visit. You know, to keep spirits up and everything.

There's also a completely different underground music scene there. Since inmates aren't allowed to keep any items of entertainment in their possession, they are forced to bury these smuggled items under their beds. I was surprised to find an old Hum Log - The OST tape under my bed. That show went off the air so, so long ago.

Good times, good times.

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Wednesday, November 01, 2006

The Vagina Dialogues.


Ladies and genital men, presenting to you in all his titan glory… the one, the only Exhibit A *heavy drumrolls, all totally off beat and noisy*

Aah aah, please maintain a safe distance of 3 mm from the screen, this one is for real. Believe it and save us some time. He (we know IT is a he because WE KNOW ALL ABOUT SEX, its about time you gave in and stopped disputing certain basic facts of life. Hmph.) is found in the jungles of concrete often trying to get off a flying bat. Yes, he is dumb and he knows it. That is what makes him ‘oh fo fpecial’. Its all about crickets and bats for Mr. Taketake. Repeat in your head, taketake, taketake taketake *to fade*

Now that I have you hypnotized I shall talk about, rather give you a rather lame excuse at being away for so long. Mental constipation can last longer than you thing and the joke is that at the end of it, all you will get is smelly crap. But then again we can do with some 'odour' here in this uncivilized and unnineteeneightyfoury blogspace!

On another track that I can derail to, thanks to my super hypnotizing powers or the infinitenumbnessofthebrain syndrome that you all suffer from, getting a first job can be fun. Reasons for the aforementioned blasphemic, super cheeky statement are as follows:

1. You get paid… a ransom if you kidnap the boss’s mystery mistress (don’t count on it though)
2. You get job satisfaction… when you spit in people’s coffee and switch notes just like you did in class which is probably the reason why you are where you are *muffled smirks*
3. You get to be part of office politics since bitchiness comes naturally to you, you biyaatch… to sate your K serial Kravving that you miss everyday thanks to your shitty job
4. You get to think of reasons just so you don’t feel very bad for growing up because you after all you always did want to be a Management trainee for the first 8 yrs with ‘SomeGodForsakenCompany’/associate vice regional for the south east of east of west region for tampons for obese ladies/ media programming consultant’s left toe’s right sided muck as a child.

You can stop clinging onto the chair now, you might spoil it. It was nice serving you as always, please come back in 2012 maybe and it will be a pleasure to serve you again… NOOOOT!

Yes, we have seen BORAT and love it. Like duh.


You may be wondering why this blog has seen such tremendous amounts of inactivity, and why, apparently, owners of real estate websites and cialis vendors love our website. Well ladies and gentlemans, the answer is 42.

Over the last few days... okay weeks... okay months, we've been up to our necks in two things - laziness and more laziness. Now obviously the former cannot be helped. I mean, we never updated even when we weren't more lazy. But the latter is a function of the economy. Essentially, it's inflation. We just don't dig it. And some days, we even end up paying 100, that's right folks, one hundred rupees to the auto rickshaw guy who moans like a midget whore with appendicitis and takes us to "the city" (it's more a collection of varied size shops) under the assumption that listening to Gujarati music on a sucky tape deck at a volume that would make most dogs hearing impaired, is what we really meant when we said "Please turn the music down", and mumbled "you bitch" under our breath. See, the thing is, we really really want to update this thing, but we find staring at dogs fornicating and betting on which one's the bitch a better use of our time.

And now, a public service message from our sponsors.

Sometimes one wonders. Other times, two wonder. Teheh. *shoots self in head with blank round*

We have initiated a defaulter payment scheme via which said person who defaults in updating the blog contributes to the other's waist line. If you see two obese people walking towards you shoveling heaps of chicken kebabs in their respective mouths, fear not, it's just Sana.

If you're nice, he'll give you a bite. However, if you're really lucky, you may even get a french kiss.

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Friday, October 20, 2006

The Mighty Disease Post


The recent increase in the visits to the local quacks posing to be doctors has exposed me to a new genre of medicines and diseases. I am going to elaborate upon these right about now.No, actually this whole goddamn post is going to be dedicated to one such disease.

Appenisitis... the disease. *punk rock music on loud in the background*

Appenisitis is a disease that afflicts a) only males, b) only males with increased desires and decreased *ahem* means to fulfil these spending way too much time on the evil evil medium - the internet

It happened one night to a dear and close friend. No, not Jun... it is no longer funny when he plays the lead role in all our brilliant stories ok. Besides Jun has had a lil too much sand in his vagina lately *nursing a shiner in the left eye and the premonition that she is in for another one*

Freaks and others all gathered to help lil (muahahahaha) non Jun with his condition but alas, they couldnt do much. He was stuck with the disease and wouldn't come back, all because the night before while 'talking' to a friend online (he could never do better than that, tsk tsk tsk), he was struck with the disease. The conversation goes something like this

Non Jun: Hey sexy
Online Chick: Whatever
NJ: a/s/l please
OC: Loser
NJ: Ya , I wish we were closer too.
NJ: I think you have a faulty internet connection.
NJ: Did you know that the human brain weighs 670 grams.
NJ: You there, honey????
NJ: Honey?????
NJ: Faaine. Hmph! Go talk to the other boys. I will spring upon you my extremely useful knowledge when you least expect it... and then... and then... you will appreciate true lurve!
NJ: I have my headfones on now, talk to me OC . OC please see! I'll bring out another fact only for your ears! Did you know that the headfone is the singlehandedly responsible for increasing your chances of having an ear infection by 700 times. And all this while I went to get felt up by almost nude chicks in public swimming pools to get the damn infection... urgh!
OC: Dude you are extremely annoying. Just like the nagging appenisitis ache. I mean appendicitis.

But our dear NJ had already been cut to size by then, if you know what I mean ;), come on work those perverted brains of yours, sick nancies! End of another day, another story. Tune in again soon enough, to have another exciting round of trivial trivia, right here as you smell my filthy undies, you jackass!


Hello boys and girls. Gather round now. Uncle Jun's gonna tell you a story. It's called, "Why Jun the Lazy Frog Does Not Update This Blog On Time". It's an interesting story children, about a man who was dashingly handsome and ate lots of chocolat. He also liked the French language, French. Here goes children, listen carefully now.

He is lazy.

Now what's the moral of the story kids? No little Patwardhan, it's not "Shut it old man or I'll burn your testicles." The moral of the story is, one must not pretend like one is too busy so one can procrastinate. The other moral of the story is, The Unlike No Ones rule.

Hours of deep thought have brought out from the deepest recesses of my mind (four inches away from any point on my skull), the realisation that 42 hours of inter-state bus travel isn't something you should look forward with the same glee as say, sausages. Really. I mean if I had the choice I wouldn't do it. You wouldn't either. It's like paying a tonne for a buffet dinner only to find that the food was vegetarian. And three days old. Cooked by the watchman of the mortuary who moonlights as the Mexican version of Yan from Yan Can Cook. He doesn't make very good sausages by the way.

And then one would imagine that one would be fed up with just the sight of travel. But when one is forced to use a rickety auto-rickshaw in the darkness of five in the morning, on a road traversed weavingly by drunk truck drivers in a dry state, one knows that one has hit shit creek and the smell is beginning to overcome the dank state of affairs that presently cloud one's mind. Therefore, it is my esteemed opinion that all dogs be labradors and all meat be either chicken or beef. Whoopedeedoodda!
*are we there yet, are we there yet*
*is it the smell, or is that just you*
*how much wood can a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood*
*are we there yet, are we there yet*
The rhetoric gets to you like the inevitability of the rickshaw driver getting into a fight with aforementioned truck driver who, in his state of inebriation, crossed the thin line between just a stupid drunk jackass and a stupid drunk jackass who threatens a rickshaw driver.

Life is good when one knows how rubbish it can be for somebody else.
*deep thought*
*like the four inches between your skull and your brain*

Monday, September 18, 2006

Still Standing


On post number 15, you really start to believe you have something important to say or maybe it is the lack of life in your... er... life?!

Other girls are busy flashing Jun with lightbulbs coz he needs to be beamed up.

Us MBA people have too much time on our hands, thanks to the amounts of work that comes our way screaming to be shirked. Hence, another post, another attempt to avoid the ninny's fan mail who believes that someday we will spew something intelligent on him and he will fit in with his homies whose idea of intelligence just comes to a 'stand' still at trying to expand the acronym IQ. I like his spirit.

There are standards and then there are sub standards. We believe in none.

Did you ever have to go through the trauma of not knowing what Icecream is as a four year old? I didn't either ok, stop staring at me, I didn't. *shifting glances*

So the following are rules you need to follow to the tee when out to please a chick on a casual date.

1) Don't talk about that temper of yours that compelled you to shoot the breeze so you no longer are capable of enjoying a good blow.

2) Don't ever mention your love for explosive bosoms and don't order them for starters. Ever.
3) Don't order chicken for main course. She might not take too well to the idea of having one of the parents for dinner.

4) Don't fart. Period. Farts are off limits, even the silent deadly types. There is a high chance she might find out who farted between the two of you, inspite of the sub zero IQ she is blessed with. I mean she is out with you. You. Yes, you with a face that looks like a roller coaster just ran over it.

5) Don't talk about your fixation with nuclear physics and Schoppenuer. You lost her at "explosive bosoms". (Some habits die hard, Mr Juve N. Ile)

6) Whatever it is never refer to the lasagne stuck on her tooth as sexy. She might never leave you then. And then you will have to behave all your life. Loser, think of the consequences. Of having a real live chick by your side with rotten teeth to nag you forever. What fun!

Now I shall go, contribute to the greater good of mankind by making a power point presentation on 'Below the line advertising and its effect on the economy of Timbaktoo and other Afro American nations'. Ya, shoot me now, why don't you?!


They say a good story always has a hero. And a villain. Here's a story of two villains.

Long, long ago when the lights were low and people were looking out for a place to go, where they played the right music and everything was fine, there lived two Wholesome individuals. They were so Wholesome it was difficult to fit them into a small car without having to take out the seats. Wholey Cow and Wholey Shit were best pals and nothing could seperate them except for the surgeon who split them from the head when they were born. And in this story of evil, there was the innocent lamb who would be slaughtered. This innocent lamb was called San Ity. San Ity was a sweet cow that had nothing to do with the Wholesome Twins apart from the fact that it was stupid enough to stand stock still, eyes wide open in the bewilderment of standing in the middle of the road stupidly, not expecting two fat guys on motorcycles to come by, and run it over. Of course it wouldn't think of moving; San Ity was stupid, dumb even, to the point that you could slap it in the face with an dove called Brayns and it would just stare at you and say something like "We love you India, we love you." So essentially, our story begins a whole thirty seconds before a lamb called San Ity is run over by the Wholesome Twins, and ends fifteen seconds after it is. The bloodshed that two fat men on motorcycles caused that night will be remembered forever as the night that chicken was not the meat of choice at Chotte's Kebab Corner near the bus stop at Colaba Post Office.

The End

PS. All characters in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to man, beast and obese pornstars living or dead is purely coincidental, and a topic for some interesting cocktail conversation.

After that heartwarming tale of how McDonalds runs its business, we must move on to graver things. Like the vestigial organ sticking out of the daughters bum. Okay, not her bum, but really, with her you never know. Our wishes and condolences go out to the poor mutton tikka that was the cause of such expansions.

And you can never really trust Middle Eastern food anyways, what with their money and smuggling and everything.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

Blackbirds Are Racist


Today is story telling night, so here goes:
This is a story about a black bird named Jun.(The name's Jun coz our dear protaganist is attention seeking and can't take any other name for the bird!)

Now Jun was a very special person( like will you bring down your raised eyebrows, you finicky old perverted nancy, with sand and other things in your vagina... hmph..person... bird... potato...potaaahtoe!)

Jun was a blackbird singing in the dead of night. Dead of night because when he sang, birds started to die and some of them charred to a color closer to the night. Like birds were dying when he sang man. He used his voice (baritone, as he would like us to believe) as a weapon to get back at all the pretty white birds who Kaula Lumpur Police Departmented him.

So then the anti-protaganist (antagonist?) jumped onto the scene because she was the saviour of the world and could never mind her own business, coming from a small island on Mars. Mars because Venus people, being the racial bitches that they were, weren't very supportive of the extremely active hormones she was endowed with. So our lady, Menrfrombrasnwomenrfrompenis (she did have a long name!) did not have a happy childhood, thanks to her resemblance to all the 43 yr old Mr Uglyanymouses and with a name like that, you wouldn't be expected to have a jibe free existence,would you?! This led her to be very frustrated. Like 'smash the skulls of animals' frustrated. And she had a best friend called Mary Jane in whose company she would achieve what she couldn't otherwise. She would go to trips with her very often. And on one such trip she decided to stay back on Mars.

Now onto the showdown between our hero R.D Jun (Red Diamond Jun, Racist Doofus Jun) and Miss Long Name. On one of her skull smashing sprees, she happened to chance upon a tree shaking to its death when she realised that R.D. was trying to sing the hit song 'The Call is Songed' which was causing all the commotion. So madam decided to take prompt action and shot him down. He died. That's it. End of story

Go shoot yourself now, for subjecting yourself to this inanity. We will go finish our unfinished assignments and put to test our pathbreaking memory erasing device on the 7 yr old who heard our story.

Tatah, less noise and more music awaits you in the next post. *ya right!*


After that educating, inspiring and oft tremendously urine inducing talk on how NOT to wear dirty underpants backwards, we must now move on to further matters that may or may not wet your pants.
At this point I must warn you that what you are about to read is a secret of national, nay international, nay inter-galactic proportions.

You are not cool.

That's right. And very soon, you may die of a fart attack. Similar to a heart attack in that your body goes into arrest. Only, here it is due to paralysis caused by inhalation of your pungent flatulence.

"But then", you may ask "who is cool?" Now, now young nibbler. If we were to tell you that, you may take the intiative to be cool yourself. And that certainly wouldn't be cool. The world has enough people trying to be cool as it is (read smellmyundies).

In my endeavour to make the English language more descriptive, secular and thoroughly shameless parseltongue, I have invented a new word - kuhboob. A kuhboob is a kebab (likely to be either chicken tikka, garlic chicken tikka or banjara kebab) that is so savoury, so spectacularly luscious, so brilliantly exploding with favour that you will eat at least enough to ensure that the next day will be spent solely in the pursuit of making it out of the potty in time for a particularly boring Media Strategy lecture, or in escaping a fatal fart attack. It could also be used to describe an exploding bosom.
usage: "Man, those tits just blew up, like KUHBOOB!"

The enlightenment will continue, same time, same channel, aapke mann pasand underwear ki smell waali show par. Good night, shubh ratri, tumhara kutta mere private parts smell kar raha hain.

Friday, July 28, 2006

Only Because We Have Promises To Keep And Vaginas To Bleed


The Jun is fond of oneginas, well who isn't. And he has priapism to worry about! Now onto the sexual innuendo route that I shall take to make this blog an interesting read for you sick minds, this happens to be our 13th time and let me assure you the sex is still good. We still have fun *twinkle in the eye*

Blogging is just like a marriage, you need nurture it (oh wipe those tears off, Oprah!), you need to adjust and fine tune and work your way through to a happy and fulfilling relationship!

You also need to bribe the worse half with obscene amounts of chocolate to write and you dare not have mindless issues (psst, Women's lib, someone needs help!) in getting bullied into shamelessly plugging the blog. Ya, we have been the 'ok tata (w)hore please' variety!

Now a quick and spritely jump onto the next topic to appease the annoying thought germ crawling in my pinky, or was it brain?

So I am going to ask another one of those useless rhetorical questions: What is that one thing that makes you behave the way you do (crotch itch doesn't count here)? As in, is it the sand or is it weather or is it just your sad existance in this vast cosmos where all you can look forward to is reading a few thoughts on pathology, scatology and world piss (overdone joke and yet funnay as hell!) dished out to you crassly by 2 retarded imbeciles with the mental faculties of an evil genius trapped in his laboratory for seven, that's right seven long minutes.

I've run enough for my pinky today, time for the Jun to hypnotise you into believing plugging our blog is the best use you can put your worthless life to.


What is this picture really about?

If you look at it carefully, you will realise that it's about much more than four hungry, deprived SEC A1+ children at McDonalds. Oh no, it's about much more than that. It's about cruelty to animal(e)s. And world peace. "Why?" you dare to ask. After reprimanding you for your impudence, I direct your flailing attention to the happy meanl toy lying carefully wrapped in a semi-ball like plastic holding device. "Where?! Where?!" Next to the fifth Coke from the left, or the first Coke from the right you ninny. See it now? It's a lizard like creature. Wrapped in plastic. Can you even begin to understand what that means? It means that while you're shaving the hair off your schlong to make it look bigger, you aren't realising the damage that huge corporations are causing to endangered animals like the iguanamadeupbullcrapnomenclature smooshedupwordus lizard. You're no better than the four uncaring boys in the photograph. Just look at the face of the boy on the right. Look at the anticipation on his face as he waits to sink his teeth into his third juicy, tender, Mayonaissey McChicken burger.

It's about world peace because I say so.

But what is really the problem with the world today, is the total, and I mean completely up-to-the-brim-can't-take-anymore-can't-breathe-help-someone-beeeep-ECG-stops total lack of interest shown by certain professors in improving the grades of obviously revolutionary Dissertation Concept Notes. I mean, what the eff! Screw the world, I'll make it on my own as a travelling circus monkey. Or I'll just be content with a goddamn B-. Die devil bird.

(etymology - "to the loo". Commonly used by energetic youth who suddenly have to stop interesting conversation because of the urgency ensured by wetting their undergarments. For no fault of their own of course.)

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Everybody Farts


When the meal is huge and the dessert,
the dessert is yours alone,
When you're sure you've had enough of the beef,
Well hang on
Don't let yourself go,
'cause everybody farts and everybody poops sometimes
Well, everybody farts sometimes,
Everybody poops.
And everybody hurts sometimes
And everybody (also) constipates sometimes.
So, hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on, hold on,
hold on, hold on, hold on,
Everybody farts. You are not alone.

So this ladies and gentlemen is the post which celebates *glint in eye for brilliant typo* the return of the champions of the cause of the poor souls who live their life hoping that one day would come when the hot chick in office would lose her top in a fit of rage against irritating co-workers who keep staring at their LCDs with mouth agape at the audacious literature they come across in useless blogs!

The sand in the vagina (refer to my own personal blog for more details on this... *shameless pushing of personal agendas*) of few corrupt beaurocrats has been sent to the beach and life in the happy land of blogs is back on track. Yippee.

And now we (that would be me and the conscientious alterego dying of immense boredom it gets subjected to by not so little evil me... muahahahahah) present to you in all his guts and glory... THE JUN A.K.A THE (woo)MAN A.K.A THE FARTSALOT A.K.A ITSNOTFUNNYNOMOREBIYAATCH


The thing with Women is, they're weird. There's women and then there's women. There's those who look at you like you just stepped on their little toe and splashed mucky water all over their brand new pink polka dot dress. Then there's those who'd punch you in the face for it. And then there's those who'd frisk your motionless body and flick your wallet.

What I'm trying to say is (apart from "GET OFF THE EFFING CAPS LOCK") that men should really put their foot down and make it known that just because you bleed from your onegina, you don't have the right to demand attention, chocolate and people who understand poor grammer. Especially the last one.

On a wholly unrelated but related note, we've been lazy okay. It's not easy typing so much, so fast, without care for man, beast or the feelings of those poor African children your parents keep ranting about when you don't eat stupid bhindi. It's an ugly vegetable okay!

However, as with all stupid promises (like "I'll donate my eyes after I die"... I mean, what the f*** dude!) there will be updates sooner, better and with further inaccurate references to fictitious professors you want to kill (one tiny little finger at a time) because they gave you a B- for your goddamn Dissertation Concept Note.

The world is always to blame.
And stale bread pudding is always to be avoided.
Trust me.