No Name Post

Sana

In Dharamshala, (where I haven't gone but know so much about it, just like a lot of things in my life), there is a cafe named No Name. And this post, my friends, Roamans(those are the species who DO go out on weekends!) and countrymen is not dedicated to that stupid cafe. It is dedicated to the nothingness which compels people into dedicating precious(hahahah) time to activities which numb the minds of others.

Did you know that the human brain looks pretty obscene when you smash someone's skull? If you do, don't ever get near us, you psychopath! But onto some more useless facts ripped(that's the new tech savvy term for plagiarism) right from a science journal, did you know that the liver regenerates itself so in case you lose a part of your liver in a freak accident where your younger brother is experimenting with the bullets in your house, rest assured you will only die of a splattered spleen and the good wishes your enemies send you and not because of the aforementioned cause.

And since I am in that mode where I have an opinion about everything I ever knew or did not, I will now talk about the stance that the world has taken against budding 17 year olds going on 54 writing about loser American children getting wild... Got over the mode, so you shall be spared. Read on, it always gets better from here on... hmph!

Jun

Or not.

...

And then there was the uncomfortable silence...

Somehow everyone driving on Marine Drive this evening was totally potty in the head. Children on cycles were screaming Marathi stuff, cabs were screeching past without a care for man, beast or traffic lights, people were jogging at 9pm... fat people, like with flesh dropping all over the place, I mean, you could start a soap factory with any single one of 'em. And then there was the insane honking. On and on and on like an Energizer bunny who wouldn't stop humping the leg of a pomeranian. I could almost make out a tune. I could almost make out. But that's a story for another day, and another crazy time by the seaside.

There is an art in pretending to look busy in an overcrowded office that the daughter and myself have mastered to such levels of perfection, sometimes we even manage to fool ourselves. Heck, the other day, I was actually reading the newspaper, and not just drawing mustaches on the women politicians faces (take that you Italian swine!).

The daughter and I had "the talk" a few days ago. It was interesting. Several pressing and pertinent issues were discussed. Here are the minutes of the meeting:

1. Size is not everything. But for reasonable satisfaction a pre-decided average length must be, at least, a minimum requirement. If this is not met, plans must be dropped. The instrument will probably follow suit.

2. Protection is a must. So I gave her a can of pepper spray.

3. If he smells bad, its probably not a good idea to do 'stuff' at his place. In fact, its probably a bad idea to do 'stuff' at all. If you really want to, however, pay him at the end of the 'session'. Then hold your nose and tell him it was bad. He should get the hint. Proceed to the bathroom and do not emerge for 45 minutes. Leave. And replace his KY Jelly with a bottle of that Hand Sanitizer crap that doesn't need water or towels.

Now go. And do something interesting. Hopefully, whatever you do will not involve use of KY Jelly. Or, for that matter, Hand Sanitizer.

I on the other hand have Uma Bharti's vacant upper lip to take care of.