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.

Sweet Luuuurve

Sana

What do you get when you cross a chinese orangutan and a chemistry professor? *refer to footnote*

A rockstar who thinks he has the nicest band aids! No pun intended.

For the people who got that, congratulations on your realisation (which has indeed come a little late in life for you to care, or more importantly and sadly, to make amends!) that you are a loser since you stalk one or both of 2 really sad people and for those who didn't, don't fret, you will be loser too and soon as you are not cool enough to join the league of extraordinary gentlemen and gentle women who get our jokes.

Since Jun's and my brains work faster than a computer just like Chacha Choudhary's I will now be randomly switching topics through the post.

Switch.

Ladies and gentlemen, a volcano has erupted in some obscure part of the world (and by that I don't mean Jun just farted!), since I just offended Sabu (the tall dude who has come to earth from Jupiter in the Chacha Chaudhary comics, you firang dudes) for making such a sad joke.

Having talked about classic Indian literature that shapes the Indian youth, I will now go drown myself in a glass of water while Jun sleeps merrily (with his mouth open ofcourse!) in his mansion!

Sigh!

Goodnight and God bless.

Footnote: Confucius says, you are the president of the losers who like to be anonymous club... actually waited for a footnote, cheese, but what the hell, Jun got new Peter Parker glasses AND THE JOKE WAS ON HIM YIIIIIDIOT!

Footnote's footnote: This is probably the most boring post I have ever written, buck up Jun, we are still competing!

Jun

Seeing the daughter's apparent lack of humor, combined with a blatant disregard for the feelings of Nepali Gorkhas, I have taken it upon myself to shave her eyebrows. Now the thing is, this morning I came to office with 6 minor shaving wounds. So it is likely that Sana may lose whatever little eyesight her frail body hastens to provide her.

And in other related news, we are making preparations for a Bharat Darshan tour that will take us all across the small towns and villages of our great, and often smelly, country. It promises to be fun, and profitable for deodorant companies.

Have you ever wondered why sometimes you want to potty, but you don't want to at the same time? It's like the potty is stuck in your bum, and you know it wants to get out, but its shy. So no matter how much you cajole it, talk to it gently, whisper sweet nothings in its ear, it just wont come out. And then, just when you want to urgently do something really exciting like watch porn or something, Mr. Potty decides to make an Irish beggar's exit. The ungrateful whore decides to depart just at the very moment the busty blonde is flicking back her hair as she begins to approach Australia.

Goddamn crap.

Somehow if you spend some time with the venerable daughter, and then with the doting father, it will come to your notice that all that remained of frivolous sanity will soon take your leave. Just like your reticent turd.

So make sure you don't get too excited.

Under Pressure

Sana

What do you do when you are about 2000 miles away from Jun?

Get pressured into writing 300 words of mediocrity. Since we were never that good anyway, this doesn’t matter! (stop smiling you jackass, that joke wasn’t for you, you are the one who keeps returning to read more, so for you WE ARE GOOD OKAY!)

Ever since we came up with this super cool template, we actually have started to get visitors (stop being in denial, you didn’t just find your way here, you CAME here!)

Hmm.

So the train of thought gets derailed from here on…

The world needs more creative ways to deal with anger. One way could just be to make the only 3 people who read your blog feel miserable and never return to read stuff history is made of (loooooooosers!). That could be one.

*Sniff ‘please be back’ Sniff*.

The other way could be to lick the jam off your gangrened toenail and poison yourself but before that write a suicide note to your dog who is dying of cancer due to excessive smoking maybe. You are the ones on drugs, you imagine while I continue not writing what I am writing.

Have you ever wondered how the hair in your nose grows 8 inches outside the frikkin nose just before an interview for an HLL job? We haven’t either. This is due to the following three reasons:

1. We are clean people.

2. We used to carry photos of ourselves for inspiration in our kitbags before we were thrown out from our jobs on grounds of being ‘ungroomed’. (I still believe they were plain jealous of us)

3. They lacked sense of humour

4. We didn’t know how to count. (Like that is a bad thing?!)

So then one more thought so my 300 words are up and I make up for lost time.

Since my able compatriot and fellow nose hair person(that’ll be Jun, slow joe!) is obsessed with writing to distract him from mosquitoes which bite him on the neck areas, I shall give him company for another 36.5 words. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…29.5.

We love you India, We love you.

PS: We still love you India and that is way more than 300. Thank you Jun. I miss you!

Jun

What happens when a swarm of bees decide to attack an unsuspecting crowd of happy family members waiting to see their precious 21+ year old 'children' receive their Post Graduate Diploma degree? Here's picture by picture highlights:

1. A lone bee is heard buzzing near someone's chair. It is assumed to be a stray incident. All is calm. A long, droning, and perhaps wholly unappreciated Chief Guest continues his long, droning and so highly academic speech, one could possibly get a Ph.D. just listening to that crap.

2. The lone bee is suddenly a scout formation of five divers. Ears have perked up, though unfortunately there is absolutely no buzz in the Chief Guest's speech. One wonders if even eight shots of tequila and a beer IV could help. The bees however, need no such encouragement. The affected individuals pretend not to care. The fake look of indifference that they show towards the flying buzztards reminds one of the frightened rat brandishing its claws to the big fat house cat as feline canine prepares to make an interesting meal of the ridiculous rodent. Yeah, they're just waiting to be stung.

3. "Scout commander to Squadron leader. The humans are juicy, unaware, pretentious and just waiting for chaos to happen. I recommend an all out swoop kamikaze attack."

4. And on come the bees. Frantic flapping of the convocation invitation is followed by muted shrieks of surprise, and possibly pain; from both the Chief Guests seemingly never-ending discourse on everything boring on Earth, and B-squadron attacks.

5. The speech continues. As hordes of people and bees leave the main lawns.

6. Somewhere in Delhi University, someone's orgasmed because the Sensex crossed 11,000. That's whats called a business peak. Ah, the pleasure of unprotected Sensex.

While the daughter causes havoc in the nation's capital my mother has taken it upon herself to fatten me up. Its an interesting exercise involving a constant shovelling of food of all kinds into my mouth. This is the life.

Sana dear, methinks the world needs more chocolate, more perky cheerleaders, less Ph.Ds and more crazy, crazy love!

*missing the daughter*