Bald Eagle Family Planning

Aren't forwards the most delightful pests? When you are lonely, bored, sitting on a pile of unused bandwidth, sick of checking Orkut or Gmail, a blessed piece of useless trivia pops into your mailbox.

This one was slightly sane, and didn't curse me, cast me to hell or breach candy, warn me of dire consequences of never getting laid, if I didn't forward to 200 other hapless god-fearing souls who are afraid of impotence.

So, is a condom a better representative of American hegemony than the bald eagle? For the moment, disregard that and take a look at the text copy. How can a single 'condom' without an ‘s’, 'protect a bunch of dicks'? Which makes me wonder if this is either written in India or Pakistan by an enterprising businessman hoping to start a new trend in multi-use condoms that enable sharing?

Also, how does a condom destroy the next generation? There is definitely a hole in the entire scheme of progenization (if a term so exists), without a pun being intended. I wonder if this guy has heard of abortion? Or this really thought provoking and perhaps disturbing movie: Three Extremes. One of the 3 episodes, directed by a leading HK cinematographer, called 'Dumpling' explores human obsession with beauty and the lengths we are willing to sink to keep us bathing in the fountain of youth. The protagonist, a leading actress who is graying, visits a miracle healer who can make her younger, and the recipe, is dumplings. But these are no ordinary dumplings, they are made of fetuses. When the healer is arrested, our actress in a final twist, of desperation and human selfishness, aborts her own unborn baby in a bathtub and eats his tender but rich flesh for extending her youth.

That my dear reader, is human nature. Dog eat dog? Many of us have used cosmetics that contain the guilt of death of several animals. And if I may dare ask the fine folks at their ‘labaratoires’, pray tell me why? Why are we so drawn to superficiality? Are we that desperate for a unique identity? I know a dear friend who turns to kids for support and has had facial reconstruction studies. Sir Michael of Neverland.

On this note, my pooch Mr. Oxford wants me to take him for a walk, his daily workout, so he may preen in front of the mirror in admiration. Woof!

Quack Quack, Death Cab For Cutie PMS

What is with women and PMS?

If I were a warrior, I'm sure I'd prefer handling a Uzi sub-machine gun with a 'I love my mommy' sticker, a scud missle launcher with a built in mobile phone charger and cozy heater or perhaps a nuclear bomb with a 'do not touch' switch that has a picture of michael jackson's fake nose.

To be fairer to the fairer sex, men also go through a PMS-like stage. Esp, one that involves bitching, lusting after every gadget, being seduced by expensive cars and the slight hint of leg on any decently dressed chicalita.

Okay, so if both the sexes get moody and irrational for no reason, is there hope for mankind and britney spears and kevin whatever his name is?

I vote for Nostradamus, apparently he predicted a great war, between good and evil, black and white, colgate and pepsodent, maggi and top ramen. We will all die, two sun's will shine and a few cockroaches and pakistanis will survive, written in no order of prejudice or importance.

Which takes me to generals who preach democrasy after coming into power on a coup without grace. To repeat an opt repeated cliche, democrasy is a subtle blend of demoncrasy. Sometimes I toy with the idea of a communist society, where everyone is equal and drinks the same shitty coffee as the president of erstwhile China.

Imagine, getting coupons to buy such necessities as nutella, lindt 80% cocoa, extra-soft tampons, flavored condoms and playboy-like magazines? That would be a society of people who are not embaressed by anything, where kids know which birds did which bees, before their parents can lament a silent please!

Coming back to our topic, of PMS, and how mankind and womankind has suffered at the hand of hormones, I have one solution. Iced tea!

Relationships, a shipwreck waiting to happen

Picture this, you are riding a lovely wave, on a speed boat, crusing at 150 MPH, salt water in your hair. You look back, and your lady smiles. Her hair is open, she looks gorgeous, offcourse any woman would, in a bikini, but thats not the point. Let's not ruin my illusion.

The air is warm, but when it picks up a breeze, it makes you shiver. Suddenly, the bitch smiles and asks me in a monotonous voice: 'Do you know the price of gas?

Why do men and women ruin a perfectly fine happy moment? Why do we have the gift of gab turning sour into the gift of gap? Why do so many people feel the need to express their ordinary thoughts at extraordinary moments?

Is it selfishness? Well, sell fish, it stinks if you stock up, but why why why? Anguish, 2 bourbon bottles and kicking some sand, which ends up seeping into your moccasin.

Why are girls so dumb? Why are boys so dumb? Why am i talking like a 13 year old?

Anger, they say, can make you lose 15 years. Too bad, it doesn't come packaged as botox or viagra.

Would you like to buy some Anger? A little bit of anger for your soul. Shut up!

Potato Head Vs. Miss Timeless Tasteless

Ms. Timelessly Tasteless: well i didnt like it (………she’s talking about my blog, let’s get mature and throw English scrambled eggs at her?)

that much (…….look at how she writes, fragmented sentences, I bet her momma never told her why, they dropped her on the way from Dubai. I also bet, she cried and passed English 101 coz ‘her dog ate her Cliff Notes.’

me: okay, so its not your style (….I’m trying not to lose my cool, notice, how I can act mature.)

Ms. Timelessly Tasteless: lol i dunno to be honest (…….what? she doesn’t know how to be honest? Well, that’s quite contradictory, it’s an honest admission, no?)

me: why?

Ms. Timelessly Tasteless: i feel its not ur style (…..what? style? Coming from someone who refuses to punctuate and talks part sms’ease?)

it seems stifled in some weird way (…..yea, it does seem in some weird way, how did you pass your English 101?)

me: wow, Ms. Psychoanalyst (….there you go Missy, notice I was mature, and didn’t resort to blatant name-calling?)

stifled (….i think she’s having this ‘weird’ effect on me, I’m like losing my punctuation?)

Ms. Timelessly Tasteless: you know you are MAD (….you know, its easy to blame the white guy for all your issues? And this lady claims to be Ms. Prim & Proper. Name caller!)

me: your adorable darling? (….Mouthwash, cliché police, come get me.)

there is a fine line between genius and madness (….Source: Strong Imagination, Dr. Nettle)

Ms. Timelessly Tasteless: lol (…*&*#*(@&*@#&)

you've crossed that line mad man (….there’s a line? I guess you didn’t realize, I was standing in a queue, behind you madam?)

me: every artist was called a mad woman (….geezus, I’m a cross dresser. Slip of thong?)

since when did society ever appreciate the occult, junk food, britney spears, sex and the city and udipi for dinner? (…yea, rebuttal Ms. Eagerly Blonde)

….Okay, enough of this brouhaha. I’m pissed, the brush is dripping, Simi Garewal is faking a smile with Vidya Ballan. She’s kinda cute. Bah, Oxford my dog is puking. I think he thinks this Simi is a fake, he prefer Cyrus anyways. Pooches! Until the next exciting episode of…..yawn.

Free, Freak Falling...Tom is so Petty men

I'm alarmed, surprised, smiling like a mouse in a crack hole with a pound of swiss cheese wrapped in an Amul wrapper. Why? The minute I mention my blog to any man, woman or cockroach, I'm besieged by requests for the URL, esp. when I mention its secret, humanity 'needs', wait, as Kavya's friends would say, 'like absolutely', needs to know it.

Cold Pillai blares on VH1, something about his clocks, or is it cocks, farm boys I tell you. If you wonder why am I perverting my english with a reverse twang, its the 'goan' style, when you get drunk, passed out by a shack, and your wife asks you to come home, you utter some misarranged English words that sound like the snore of the Beluga whale. Incidentally the beluga is the most expensive Caviar any russian hooker, mafia boss or Indian politician can buy. Not many know, its just the eggs of fish, a very delicious fish, but eggs nontheless.

Which reminds me of this post, which so far has been about absolutely nothing. It started off with Tom getting Petty on VH1, and some farm boys singing about cock-a-doodle clocks.

Which reminds me also of reservations, and why our politicians want to reserve everything but their own seats. Hey, what happened to women's reservations? I guess giving up your seat to a woman is unfair you say? I agree, so unfair, how dare we give it to the fairer sex right. We prefer them as hookers in our hotel rooms, for every star noose or aaj talk to catch us in the act.

I wonder if there is a school for politicking? Those dark clocks again, seems like Cold Pillai knows everything about how the world ticks, damnit, can the clocks mind their own time, and let their cuckoos stay in their pants on the hour? Thank you. And Mr. Oxford, you too, 1.50 am is not the time to demand a scooby snack. Who the hell lets you watch cartoon network anyways? In Hindi even? Zaapppp, there you go cartoon network, spoiling my dog with your branded dog food crap. Pay Degree my foot, Mr. Oxford, I've grown up on peanuts, I'll offer you some absolutely hideous English cuisine if you don't stop with the Woofling!

I'm sorry folks, my pooch seems to get excited every time he sees Goo Goo Dolls, he thinks it's the Goo Goo Dogs, I guess he must be Skandinavian, confusing his ll's with g. Adios for now, please click my google ad if you find anything interesting, I'll donate half of the proceeds to my dog's dental treatment. Yes, fine, you may leave a comment!

Sugar Free Diabetes

She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not...okay so I came.

This blog is about nothing, I've decided to not let the pressure of writing good blogs come in the way of expressing mundane abstractions and screaming bitches of the zoloft galaxy.

VH1 blares, a beautiful song after another beautifully packaged song. What do we like about this music? The flashy graphics and the color-coded outfits, or the music, would be like the music if it were bereft of half naked models and black guys screaming murder, or calling out to their ho's or referring to their bling, which gets some action for their thing, or thang. Bloody Murder, screams Oxford my pet poodle. He thinks these brothaz from the hood are perverting every sylabble of his canine english dream. He barks, Woof, thats a proper queen's woof, 'Why does every rapper delve into the doggy dog world, all dem bitches are mine dawg.'

Hmm, I'm thinking of calling Mr. Oxford, Mr. Bling G Dogg. Is that bestiality? When rappers call each other dawg's and think of doing each others bitches, with some ice factory being responsible for a lot of the glitter, that blinds these otherwise intelligent females into submission to these dawgs. Why would any woman want to be degraded? Who takes this shit? Except on TV? I bet back home, these dawg's moan doggy style, and comply to their 'bitches' orders, serves em right? (I apologize for the inordinate amount of profanity and bad grammer that accompanies some of my vh1-induced posts.)

Now readers, I'm sure you'd expect me to refer something about Diabetes, Sugar Or freedom from castor. Okay maybe next post, I won't lie about sexual relations with Monica Blewinsky. Adios for now, alter-trash-talking-ego appears in another exciting mindless post, much sooner than you can say O-shoo-be-doo.