Bloggers Attack!

Sana

When you are about to get interviewed by a magazine world famous in Bhatinda I guess you certainly have arrived. (And by that I mean we love you Delhi’s premiere magazine which is read by the farteratti and the who’s who of the ‘First city’, Please don’t hate us. You are good, seriously. Come back I say… please… on my knees licking the words back, just like the heart is garden garden with joy at the prospect of being young, restless and famous all in two!)

So what if Jun had to sleep his way through to get the frikkin interview fixed, what are we complaining about? We are going to be famous and then we can bully our way into getting us economy class tickets to go to Bangladesh or maybe Zaire or better still, Nice.(No, can’t go to places we can’t pronounce properly… personal joke again morons, don’t stress.)

Now comes the all important life changing question.*Hindi film background music, the kind that plays when our Mithun has a revelation*

Why wasn’t I entrusted upon the all important job of providing the *beep* favours?
The answer my friend is in blowing the wind, the answer is blowing (now that is funnay, honnay!)
Continuing, it’s because I suffer from a disease called ‘havingus no lifus andus you would be kiddingus if you thoughtus that someone would be actually wanting youas’! Oh I am very sick!

On a more reflective note, I was just thinking about how some readers must think that we suffer from a deep-set psychosexual disorder, the one that is a result of our childhood insecurities, the one that causes us to direct the much generated angst towards the lesser mortals that read our constipated versions of saving the world!

Our answer to that is DIE MOTHERF!@#$@! DIE. Hmm hmm hmm(those are deep sighs of rage, by the way)

Now I feel good to go. Tata and return, that is, if you live the life of a masochistic moron who takes pleasure in being insulted. I only have one thing to say to your kind, prepare to orgasm next time around!

(The other side of my schizo self would like to offer a garland of marigolds as a peace offering…sorry, thanks and much love!)

Jun

There are many things that I
Would like
To say
To you
Like "You big fat cow"

I said oh-bese
You're eating too much
Of cheese
And don't you stall
Your stomach will make you fall
*over*

I shall explain now why, if you value your personal hygiene and your personal genitals, it is not the best idea to get into a local train in Mumbai, headed towards the suburbs, at 6.30 in the evening.

1. First of all, everyone travelling home at this point of time is frustrated, sexually and otherwise. Poorly paying jobs, long hours, bosses who think today's work needs to be completed yesterday and you spend too much time in the loo, hot secretaries who wouldn't notice you if you ran around the office yelling "Here! Here! I'm Here!" with a huge poster saying "Notice Me!" attached to your forehead, office toilets that stink worse than the refuse of a skunk who hasn't bathed for six long years and ate beans for dinner last night, are the simple things that one can possibly deal with in the so-so of the day. What really starts pulling at one's weiner, is the intense nagging of the heat? Now one may think that the heat may have a possible opposite effect on the aforementioned weiner, but I was speaking metaphorically of course. The temperature in Mumbai these days is a gazillion point nine degrees centigrades, and it drops down to a gazillion point five these nights. So by the time the rank and file have made it to the railway station, you'd better not mention how the air-conditioning in your office was so effective, you spent the whole afternoon cutting diamonds with your nipples.

2. You don't want to be inside the train as it pulls up to the station. Avoid it, like measles and bad breath. For the love of God, if you value your nads, you wont do it. The massacre is imminent. The ones inside the compartments want to and don't want to get out at the same time. It's like the frighened, cute little bunny rabbit stuck in the middle of the road as the glaring lights on the oncoming truck cast reflections in its innocent eyes. Before it gets squashed, and there's bunny flesh remains stuck in the grooves of the Goodyears.

3. Brut, Sure, Axe. Just some of the brands of deodorants local train travellers have NEVER heard of. Some of the more popular brands, however, are Notbathedforsixmonths, Iateonionsandgarlicforlunch and Didyousayskunk?.

Apparently, our fame precedes us. They tell me people (that’s right, not just quadrupeds with the mental capacity of a dead snail) actually read this blog. Damn! I think the daughter and I will go now, and get our nads squashed in a local train.

Tatah! Say hi to your retarded, one legged donkey for me.