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

Saturday, March 25, 2006

Bullshit Smells


Flatulence is a common ailment among life forms lower than us. On the other hand, Jun and July (my alter ego's/evil twin's name) just fart from their mouth. The following is a conversation between them I happened to overhear. The evil twin and Jun were talking the other day and here ladies and gentlemen is the totally fabricated account of the same:

Evil twin July: Oh 'Month before me and shameless copier of names', lately, a common observation has been that our abodes have been infested with mosquitoes, but funnily they just attack some people's necks. (My comments):
1) Oooooh! *dirtaaay*,
2) July is a lil complicated ever since she returned from Turkemenistan with a funny British accent.

Jun: Die bitch!

July: I love you too honey. Would you like sugar in your tea and crumpets to go with it.

Jun: Die bitch!

July: Oh dear God! I am a little woozy in the knees now. Oblimey! The affection.

Jun: You are wierd.

So there, life has never been the same for the two.
But coming back to more pressing matters, I think we need to allow crotch scratching in public. (How can a post be complete without juvenile sexual innuendo, however direct it may be!). Come on, think about it. Living would be so much easier. And while we are at it, I say ban the stupid rules the British left behind in the name of civilising us. I say be filthy. Filth is the way to be. Yay!

Are you listening, my countrymen and frustated 'no sex is good for me' feminists? If you are, get a life people! But before that read the bit written with so much effort (who are we kidding!) by my able friend and compatriot Jun. Tata.


Here is what all HLL sales representatives selling possibly soap, detergent or their souls (soles... in case they are also selling footwear), are carrying in their 'kitbag' today, according to acclaimed marketing guru, insight miner and slow bather (hey, being clean never killed anyone... except Mr.Jhunjhunwala who, in a record attempt to clean all ten toe nails with one stroke of the Guiness approved toothbrush, died in an unfortunate incident when a toothbrush accidently lodged itself in his brain through his left ear - experts blame it on poor sweeping action combined with the untimely entrance of a rabid German Shepherd who also sunk four very sharp canines into his crotch. The brain damage killed him before the rabies.) The Jun:

"Picture of mother/father/Gandhi/Sai Baba/etc. for inspiration."

We all need it ladies and gentlemen. No, not a toe-nail. Inspiration. We need it like we need that little piece of icing from the birthday cake that fell on the floor which you picked up with your finger after making sure that no one was looking. And licked off with glee. Before spitting out what was actually the remains of a squashed piece of doggy poo. Nice.

And as this great crescendo of an academic year comes to an end, it is a time for reflection. Take a mirror. Hold it at an angle where the sunlight can be rebounded off into some unsuspecting Jaikishen Rathore's eye. Do that for a while. Go ahead, knock yourself out.

Here are some important decisions you may have to make in the coming two minutes:
1. Do you continue to display your bottom to your boss who's just caught you reading this blog?
2. Or do you blame it on schizophrenia? *it wasn't me, it was me*
3. Should you check out The Unlike No Ones now, or should you wait for someone to kick you in the nads?
4. Should you continue the draft of that fan mail letter thing you were writing to Sana before you realised that Sana was a girl who looked like a male chemistry professor? On drugs.
5. Should you stare out your cubicle to look at that hot new chick in HR who's just about curving her bum provocatively enough to make you feel like maybe it was a better idea to wear boxers today?

Think young Champu, think. Your nads could be in danger!

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Living The Dangerous Life


3 42 in the night.

Finished all projects much before the usual 15 minutes to the actual submission.

'Jun irritated' 28 times through the day.(number 29) *sheepish grin*
Ignored the earthquake... Life can be just that dangerous.
Have you ever, like ever wondered how you are that zit on the face of mankind that was forgotten to be healed by nature. It sure looks like you haven't because if you had then you wouldn't be wasting your time here, you mother's eye (hindi translation for the unitiated: maa ki aankh, a popular euphemism in the hindi language)! *evil resounding laughter of a schizo*

Well now that my ability to flirt shamelessly is so evident, boys call me on Jun's phone, girls wait. I may soon go the Jun way.

Coming back to life, Floyd once said that everything is yellow. Or was that Chrissy boy?
Just on the random trip that I am on, someone also said "Arre, main se, meena se na saaqi se, dil behelta hai mera, aapke aa jaane se" *pelvic thrust*

For all the elitist bitches other than Sir Yankee Doodle himself the above lines translate to something like this: "Exclamation of joy! Not by myself or by liquor, not by some ugly fat woman named Meena nor from the bartender, my heart is pacified only by your coming"
So keep coming back, someday we will reveal the chemical equations involved in obtaining cold fusion.

Till then toodles (because we try that hard!)


And then there was the "atom bum"...

Here's some interesting questions one must ask oneself. Read slowly as these are cause for great introspection, nail-biting and one hand shoe lace tying.

Question 1. What am I doing with my liver?
Question 2. Have I stopped beating my wife?
Question 3. Kya aap close-up karte hain?
Question 4. Why is three a five letter word and five a four letter word?

So it is quite likely that often, especially when you're in a position where you're underwear is on the OUTSIDE, you may find that the chafing on the inside of your thighs is not because of the five whole squats you did at the gym three weeks ago. You wiil realise that you can pinpoint the existence of all your problems to a scraping sound that you hear when you shift the elastic of your Jockeys because its been turning your skin red, and angry. Like the time when you realised that your girlfriend left you because she was a man. You were angry then too. Before it became evident that it was pointless. Like the freshly sharpened pencil that you just dropped on the ground in an attempt to flick the crusted ear wax out of your ear. You have a knack for dropping things don't you?

In the ineffectiveness that I display in completing an entry on time, and the pursuant angst that the daughter displays, combined with her displeasure of my apparent (but truthfully not meant) lack of quality time spending, I have learnt something. I have learnt that good grammar is not just about punctuation, sentence construction, etc. It is also about sex. You must get it right for things to go on. Like this blog.

So memorise your goddamn Wren & Martin. NOW!