Bullshit Smells

Sana

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.

Jun

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!