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

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.