Let me just start with a solid strong fact
This is not one of those stolid wrong stats
At least twelve times a day they say I’m just too fat
What the hell am I to do? Even my pals shout out ‘Who’s that?’
I’ve tried it all, all the books and the fast diets,
It’s all lies and now it looks like I’m past light,
I’m the heaviest thing and when I worry I get doubly hungry,
I’ll drink the gravy or curry or my tongue just runs dry,
The other day I almost swallowed a plastic orange,
My brother, Jay, stopped me with a drastic low punch,
People find it funny they laugh at my ecstatic slow munch,
Call me names when I’m consuming my fantastic-four lunch,
Burgers, Pizzas, Sandwiches and hot dogs with extra cheese,
These four items I cannot hog but with textbook ease,
Next one please, it’s all I can ever think of, I want to eat it all up,
But in the process I’ve messed it all up,
My friends, they don’t even meet or call up,
They think I’m happier to eat meat or a dollop
Of cream, I just want to scream, trapped in a bad dream,
I thought that they were always in my team,
But it seems like they feel I lack self-esteem,
Please help me, send me at least a single light beam,
Is it such a nasty black spot to be too obese?
Why are they swarming on me like a pack o’ bees?
It’s not my fault that I’ll die for a Mac n Cheese,
I cannot vault my feelings; they come back n tease,
So what do you suggest? Any exercise or diet plans?
Anyway I need some rest, all this text and cries, now I have tight hands,
Hope you reply me by post as soon as possible,
Right now there’s a lamb roast on which I must nibble.

Bucket of Lard, Ohio



Pachas Paisa Replies

At first I was a bit confused what you wanted my help for,
What your bemused friends taunted you to hell for?
Then I saw your concern for your obesity,
Do you take long walks or is it only sitting?
I can understand why you act like a mad-eater,
All the pressure circles you in a yard with no diameter,
Soon I got to know that the matter was a tad serious,
Eating plastic is no better than drinking things bad and spurious,
The solution is not reading books or watching diet programs,
Take a resolution to cut down on your batch of nighttime hams,
Walk everyday for an hour or so, it helps you from head to toe,
You can do it fast or slow, be dedicated and you need to do no more,
Do it now, for long you’ve already waited, no more of woes,
You say you’ll die for a Mac n Cheese, good to see some passion,
Seems to me like you’ll die of a Mac n Cheese, sorry for that slashing,
Losing weight is no magic trick; the excess weight will end you up aging sick,
You’ll always be paging shrinks, paying bills, envisaging greener hills,
And it’ll be harder to stop your friends repeating all the meaner things,
So get it clear that it doesn’t help to eat relentlessly,
You need to sweat it here; you mustn’t accept defeat endlessly,
Keep your mind on it, reduce your grub and stop being a lazy bum,
Don’t just smile this off, Go use a health club or join a gymnasium,
Give it some time, don’t agonize or you’ll be in some coma,
Don’t lose sleep and get bags under eyes like the Simpsons’ Homer,
Remember that the people who hurt are not your friends,
They’re just a worthless bunch who blots your sense,
A friend is one who sees in you the sage and dunce,
A friend is one who stays and not one who runs,
I think you’ll be fine and that’s not a mere hunch,
If all this doesn’t work then I’ll buy you a year’s lunch

Dilemma or Emma..Aak Pachas Paisa #1

I’m faced with what you can call a pet quandary,

Let me also mention that my house is not the best sanctuary,
I saw in a pet shop a cute bird that sang to me,
It repeated a few words then turned its back to me,
I’m confused as to what pet I wish to own,
I need something for company when I’m bushed and alone,
I would buy a puppy but I find dogs a little too bumpy,
Once he grows up he will get all clumpy,
And that is something that gets me all jumpy,
More preference I’d attach to owning some kittens,
But they’ll attack with claws leave me running for mittens,
I even know cases where cat lovers have been cunningly bitten,
I still possess those letters that they have in running hand written,
My pet should be cuddly so I can give it hugs,
Should be clean too, free of fleas and bugs,
I would like to know if I could buy a panda cub,
Will it grab your hand away when you hand the grub?
Fishes are too tiny to be hugged and played with,
I once bought some which my pocket money I paid with,
Soon they kicked the bucket; I sold them to a guy named David,
He was this blind boy that my gay neighbor stayed with,
Are there any other choices that I can fix my focus on?
Perhaps I should search for the joys of a locust zone,
One of my friends suggested I get a plump snake,
I’m afraid I’ll get digested by it like a plum cake,
Another woe if I get pets is all the pee and poop,
I want to hug my pet I don’t want to kneel and scoop,
That’s a level to which I don’t need to stoop,
Maybe I should get some chicks and make me some chicken soup,
Help me fix this; I know this whole thing sounds flaky like chicken poop.


Total Loser, New Delhi.



Pachas Paisa Says


Had to read your letter twice, your dilemma is unique,
I got melted by your cries so I’mma tell you what you need,
If you didn’t fear dogs I’d have suggested getting a pup,
When you sleep off it’ll even help in getting you up,
Size of the dogs seems to bother you,
You despise the fact that they may be all over you,
That’s the price you pay if you want to hug,
Hugs should be given and taken, the dogs don’t intend to bug,
Let’s let the dogs lie, let’s talk now of cats,
You seem to think they are like ghoulish bats,
Waiting for the moment to wave its claws at you,
Hiding in your home so it can closet you,
Most of the cats I’ve seen are harmless creatures,
But the ones you’ve described have some harmful features,
That could very well end you up armless in wheelchairs,
Forget them too if they make you nervous,
Pets are to love us and not to unnerve us,
It won’t work if we feel they don’t deserve us,
Also unlike dogs cats do nothing to serve us,
I’m not sure if you can keep as a pet a panda,
The animal control may suspect a scandal,
And accuse you of being a wildlife vandal,
Totally avoid as pets snakes and insects,
They are things that tend to infect and infest,
Besides I gather you’re looking for something cuddly,
Not something that moves as fast as Jet Li,
Something you can hug but won’t be dying of caresses,
I’m not talking about a group of rhinoceroses,
What you’re missing in your life is a girlfriend,
Assuming it’s not for David that your heart bends,
A sweet girl who’s all fun and party-brained,
And hopefully she’ll be entirely potty-trained

Game Review: Resident Evil 5

Voice acting can decide whether or not a fantasy game-universe can be made believable to the incredulous kind of person who is not so inclined to dive face first into a japanese color-orgy filled to the brim with over-exaggerated dialogue and gay retards with stupid hair. For example, Blood Omen: Legacy of Kain has a great story, we all know it does. But the game play can be pretty frustratingly bad at times, and I some times felt like I was aching my self through a never-ending series of slaughters, just to see some progression in the storyline. But every so often, Kain would give me a smart remark, an item description of an exceptionally vivid nature, or a comment on the foul stench that surrounded him in every city. Had this not been delivered in a good way, I would probably not have immersed myself as much in the story and potentially not realized how fucking awesome it was.

Then you get games like Baten Kaitos, which for the 15 minutes I played it, was like drilling a hole in my ears and then putting it next to a sandblaster, and then having Alanis Morisette do any of her songs on SUNN O)))’s stage sound gear. It was fucking horrendous. I don’t know how else to describe the voices, but they were really. fucking. bad.

There’s also the entire Resident Evil series, suspending that everything about it screams “you’re either a 12 year old girl or a fucking retard if you like this”, and also the fact that I love Yahtzee Croshaw, I was very disappointed by the fact that he never once mentioned how fucking bad the voice acting is in those games. Except maybe with the Villain-With-Throat-Cancer bit. I some times wake up in a cold sweat, the sounds still ringing in my ears, the flat and monotonous “cry” for help: “Leon!” It might as well have been performed by text-to-speech software from the late 90′s.

“Zombies.” She said, as if she was ordering them from a fucking drive through. And I’ve heard more convincing grunts of agony on 8mm amateur pornographic movies. That were fake.

Though I’m pretty sure everything will still suck about Resident Evil, they could at least make the actors sound like they didn’t have to pay to have their names billed on the fucking thing.

Voice acting can mean everything for a cynical realist bastard like me, because I don’t care about flashy swords that much, or the camera angle swooping in to catch a close-up of a particularly sneaky or bloody murder, or the way the bodies drop to the ground after running penis first into hail of birdshot. And I especially don’t give a shit about the fake tension between

teenage-protagonist-with-gay-hair #1 and
teenage-protagonist-named-after-a-German-Nazi-Philosopher-to-better-feign-pseudo-intellectualism-
but-ultimately-just-look-infantile-and-fucking-retarded.

I really don’t care about anything other than PLOT, CHARACTERS AND THEIR DEVELOPMENT, NARRATIVE AND DIALOGUE, unless the game is Crysis or COD4, in which case it might be worth catching that the first looks better than real life and the latter is written by a cynical bastard like myself, and in any case both Crysis and COD4 look great, and have redeeming features beyond eye-candy. And because the narrative and the dialogue should really make up a pretty big bulk of any modern video-game, it’s all the more important that it’s not done by flatulent egos and failed porn actresses who couldn’t make ends meet (harr) just being a fluffer.

Basically what I’m trying to say is, unless Capcom has found a way to perform a miracle, I’ll still hate the Resident Evil Franchise (can anyone say EA strategy) after 5 is released. Even if the voice acting has improved, which I doubt it will have

Fables from Underground

Sensas De Funct, the French (who else would have a two-letter middle name? ) serial killer caught the local bus home and returned to his comparatively (compared to the others who did not cut off people’s heads for the heck of it) cleaner single apartment. He was not empty-handed. But this time it was just the grocery.                 
                 He was a tenant under a landlord who did not tolerate his tenants keeping pets in their apartments. Sensas De Funct, who was not as keen on following the laws as some other people (ones who did not, on Christmas Eve, make Snowmen with actual heads), did more than be insolent to these rigid directives of the landlord. He kept a cat, a salamander and a platypus in his apartment. These animals, much like the heads De Funct collected (he lost interest in stamps very early in his life) and stuffed inside his refrigerator, stayed close to each other (but the animals had better eye contact). But the two groups never met. What Sensas De Funct meant when he said he was having a tête-à-tête or what did he did for divertissement was kept very discreet from his quadrupedal roommates. They were unaware of the fact that their master was a man who did not put roofs over heads but rather heads under their roof.
                 A momentous day arrived when Sensas De Funct’s refrigerator couldn’t accommodate any more heads (be it of humans or cabbage). He decided to proceed and do what any ordinary serial killer faced with such a situation would normally do. He went out shopping for a new refrigerator.
                 Granted a cat, a salamander and a platypus, by no means, made a formidable intelligentsia but inquisitive nature was given by the almighty to all things breathing. Nevertheless, the need for a second refrigerator in the same apartment would awaken the interest of almost anything and anybody. The cat talked to the salamander who talked to the platypus who concurred with the cat’s idea of opening the refrigerator and taking a peep inside.
               After minutes of speculation, calculation and determination (which would bring pride to any creature who defecates in public) the trio joined paws, claws and what else and advanced with their plan. With a degree of teamwork that would put international sportsmen to shame, the odd trinity accomplished their objective. And when they saw what they saw they were shocked out of their furs, scales and everything else. However, very little time did they have to let this “heady” sight sink in as the shock of the quadrupeds were quadrupled on seeing their master stand in front of the door alongside a tall box. He looked at his pets with a wry smile and said, ‘Bonjour Mes amis’. The new refrigerator was very quickly inaugurated.

Moral:¾Curiosity killed the cat and also the salamander and the platypus.

Yea Right :P

Lately I've been wondering what is going go wrong in my life, because everything has just been too fucking perfect. It's not supposed to be like this. If it was, things would be even better. But lately, they have been remarkably above average, and this is more than enough to set off warning signals in my head.

Things are progressing smoothly, I have a new computer, prospects of my own internet connection, a girl I love who understands without saying, money to buy all the necessities and still have enough for a weekend alcohol binge. I don't know, that pretty much covers all the things I need to lead a perfect life. Maybe others see it differently.

Nevertheless, this has been going on for... well too long now, and I'm starting to build up some sensation of suspence as I wait for the inevitable collapse of perfect state. It is bound to happen. Everyone knows this. Perfection can and will collapse on itself, from its inability to evolve. We'll see. When it happens though, I don't want to be around.

Winsome Losesome

“Sin some, win some,
Use some, lose some,
Bet some, get some,
But never let an ad-bum
End up so bent-some.”
                      -Popular Jojo4 song-
 
People often ask me if I know the saga of the old bent man that roams the streets of our historical city, each as decrepit as the other, each retaining vestiges of the imposing figures they once had been. IM Singh was how he introduced himself; ‘I am King’ was what he meant. Perhaps the best few words to describe him would be “Much Admired” despite it being light years away from the truth. That’s because no matter which way you examined him, he had been much mired in the field of advertising for decades, and that’s all that mattered to him.
 
IM  truly epitomized the front page solus ad; stand alone, unarguable, persuasive, assertive. Any lesser being was considered no more than a four page pullout or feature, neither controlling nor intrinsically part of the main stream, but merely a parasitic addenda sharing the same media vehicle. In his mind he was second to none, uninvincible, irrefutably supreme and unparalleled. Unquestionably not only was his word law, he also took vicarious pleasure in coming up with unpopular decisions and rulings in establishing them. He could retain usable information for years on someone without using it. Additionally, he had no qualms about manouvering other people to achieve his objectives; to wit, he was an opportunist, not an impulsive but a calculated one.
 
While on wit, he was rich and well endowed in that department. He could endear himself to the most suspecting and be a  popular epicenter at any gathering with the greatest of ease. He could influence people to go out of their way to prove their loyalty, allegiance and gratitude to him, however hesitantly, just for having touched their lives. A masterful manipulator, a tactical planner and adept executor, he was happiest and most secure in his opulent trappings both at home and away, surrounded by his familiar transparent sycophants and opaque critics. When the time came for him to seriously consider starting his own family, IM had planned his gambit many squares earlier.
 
He had an industrialist friend RRM with a massive budget (organized, people say, by the father-in-law ) that IM did not initially pursue to enhance his social image. What the industrialist did not know was that the adman was in on his gaining sexual favours from the his plain jane’s wife’s sister (who was fed up of RRMs flaccid advances in any ‘case’). The socialite adman harboured no more delays, dropped anchor, distributed the ornate cards and, using his newly found wife Kiran’s influence waltzed off with the account as a bonus. For a while, Kiran was the light of his life, a popular hostess and an able supporter of his schemes. Alas, she was able to bear him just one son Jojo though one dare says IK’s overbearing personality hoped to be borne more !  
 
Over the years, his interest in Kiran waned, overtaken by his resolve to make Jojo an echo of his own personality. Not much was heard of Kiran thereafter, though one is sure she continued to lurk in IM’s shadows. Perhaps she was relegated to the “womb-to-tomb” syndrome adopted by any vibrant society to anyone that does not contribute sizeably to its activities. What misadventure it was for the adman to realize that Jojo could never be as malleable and ductile (like mallards and ducks !?!) as his adheart desired ? IM spared no funds or efforts to afford Jojo the best of education and exposure, but could not shake the romantic core off the latter.  Naturally endowed with good looks, Jojo was infinitely more comfortable with literature, poetry, art and music than IM’s commercial world of punch-lines, adfilms, catchy jingles and misleading statistics; more at home with the occasional pink champagne than a seasonal print campaign. Despite threatening strictures from his father, Jojo’s passion honed in on being quite an accomplished lead guitarist who wrote his own songs, even more so when he organized (reminiscent of his father’s skill) a young group of talented musicians to complete his quartet. Their aspirations to be a successful rock group continued to meet IM’s stony disapproval, but there was scant little the father could do about it. Social pressure detracted him from outright disowning Jojo or evicting him from his house without further provocation; Jojo soft exterior as a contrast to his father enjoyed a more acceptable public persona.
 
Meanwhile, Jojo4 music gained rapid popularity in the city, playing live at many leading watering holes and gaining commercial success that IM tried fervently to distance himself from. Unpreturbed, Jojo soon inducted Nisha, an intelligent, attractive young dancer as part of his music act. The young musician had known her family from earlier days; Nisha’s mother began her secretarial career at IM’s adshop. Jojo and Nisha’s combination on stage was so electric that they brought down the house (IM’s included !) wherever and whenever they performed. After this there was no looking back for Jojo4 – though as time had it, there was not too much to look ahead for, either. The affinity between Jojo and Nisha cemented, nay, became concrete. Sadly, IM viewed this constant albeit melodic display of union of minds and body on a daily basis as a veritable spurning of his ‘superior’ values by his son. Unwittingly goaded to a fitting reaction, he publicly  joshed Jojo to join him in a debate on the morality of  latter day art at the local Country Club, of which he was secretary. Equally fed up of the scathing asides delivered directly at home everyday, Jojo readily agreed. Its often said, in matters of the court, its not the mover or the defendant but only the lawyers that benefit. Setting up this bout was pre-destined, therefore, to entertain society at large rather than settle any issues per se. An evening of interesting banter of great minds therefore ended up as a landmark battle that spawned only losers.
 
IM opened the debate with describing Jojo’s passions as wasteful pursuits encouraging wayward youth to more wayward ways; Jojo countered with accusing his father of befooling consumers and overcharging clients for years, gathering the wrong kind of notes. What’s more, Jojo divulged instances of rip-offs architected by IM. Visibly embarrassed, the adman became excessively personal, straying from the issue, bringing out details of his son’s more laid back life style and lecherous skits of the guitarist’s amorous tryst with Nisha. Inevitably, the atmosphere became explosive with Jojo crucifying IM’s personal and commercial morals, and his shameless misuse and disuse of people. The crowd cheered silently in their heart of hearts, but the die had been cast; IM announced Jojo’s expulsion from his house, the club and resolve to have his contracts stricken from whatever bars and restaurants under IM’s influence. His ire enveloped Nisha whose dancing licence he vowed to revoke with the administration’s collusion. With an illogical vendetta yet unslaked, the rumour spread like wildfire that the adman may well have his son bumped off  - he couldn’t afford to have such a strident voice of dissension in circulation, even if it was a son. Another die was cast – Debt Wish 1. Society remained mute in their disapproval, even though they had secretly admired the fearlessness with which Jojo had lampooned his father. It was unfortunate that many were slated to lose much.
 
Nisha was no less resolute than Jojo, on hearing the rumour she boldly quick-stepped to her beau’s ad-dad with as fearless a Debt Wish 2 alternative; “kill me if you will, I love him still, but won’t love him more, if you let him go” ( a Jojo4 number). Nisha’s mother took up the chorus with “you-owe-me-one” from her halcyon days at the ad-venture, and beseeched the boss she once had beached to spare the lass; she may well be his “Sin some, win some”.Now IM was an astute man not wanting blood on his hands; he was more than familiar with most publications and their owners. Knowing the owner of Walled City News in the next town for being the perverse (and worse) martinet he was, IM made Nisha take a pledge never to contact Jojo or be seen dancing in exchange for a hellish life and employment under the WCN management.
 
Meanwhile, Jojo4 lost music contracts in the city, and considered migrating elsewhere. His pecuniary reserves dwindled. Gyrating Nisha was nowhere to be (scene) located, dyeing his music to a deeper shade of blue. He often sought comfort in the company of his mother, herself a flickering flame, confused twixt the morals and morales of her life. “Use some, lose some”. Branding his father as Nisha’s assassin, he voodoo-dolled the adman, pricking him with needles of barbed lyrics at every chance. He can still be seen love lorn at seedy bars, now reduced to a trio, bleary eyed as a man denied, a single that never cut a single, a living slipped disc. “Bet some, get some, kiss some, miss some”. He lives in a seedy shack and feeds at seedy snacks, hoping to meet Nisha again. Debt Wish 3.
 
And there’s IM. Debt Wish 4. Now a bit bent and gnarled, too aware of his exposure in the War of Words many years ago, but stiffened with ages of self-deception, ages of grandeur – some deserved – some not. A body reinforced with promises, but a mind deflowered – a fervour displayed but an audience unswayed , a wife dismayed and later mislaid and a son more bound with musical chords than familial cords, festooned with notes of wispy melody rather than crispy currency. An iron ad-venturer that went out to conquer and control what ihe could not control, an “event sum that ended up so bent some”. Had he not tried to control destiny, destiny would not have controlled him. Burdened by the debt of a royal spouse for whom he scarcely cared; stooped by the debt of a dancer whose life he snared; smitten by a son he never spared and weighed down by animosities he himself had reared, he continues a broken man – an adman so bentsome.

Balls Stick 4 Long

If there’s one thing that’s predhonimating every Indian’s mind right now it’s cricket. Bollywood stars have heaped praises on Sachin Tendulkar for smashing first-ever double century in history of ODIs, describing him as the "god of cricket" who has made Indians proud. Our swashbuckling team established its undisputed dhonimation in the arena of fast-paced cricket. Our team ran through an impressive list of formidable opponents inducing more fear in them than Sreesanthrax. Uthapparently, the enormity of this great win was the only thing the whole of India had agreed upon unanimously since calling Preity Zinta “that slag who doesn’t stop talking even while giving a blowjob”. Joginteristingly, the fan-fervor was so overwhelming during the motorcade that it caused a high degree of Yuvragitation in the streets. Fans, including millions of dhoniacs, celebrated by drinking whisky, vodka, and barrels of Gambeer.
               Unfortunately, every great thing will have something nasty wrecking it from being perfect. Like Aishwarya Rai with her hairy nipples. Or Kareena Kapoor who sings the Flintstones theme during sexual intercourse. The smear on the Indian Cricket Team’s most beautiful day was a bunch of whiny pussies who claimed to be the neglected representatives of some make-believe sport called Hockey. These attention-craving mother-puckers, like the jealous whores that they were, accused the Indian Government of not giving them their due for their exploits. They demanded that this so called game of “Hockey”, which is as appealing as a turban, be given as much importance as Cricket.
                In an effort to settle the issue of Cricket versus Hockey, an open debate was organized between the Cricket Team, the Hockey Team, and celebrity guest Shah Rukh Khan. Mediating the debate was the founder of NDTV, Prannoy Roy, also known as “the annoying old snob who doesn’t open his mouth while talking”.
HT: We want recognition too; we want free travelling benefits too; we want bigger cash awards too; we want more advertising contracts too; we want more respect too; we want to boast of rags to riches stories too.
CT: Well, judging from all the bickering you’ve been doing it sounds more like rags to bitches. You lot are whinier than Sushma Swaraj when she heard Sonia Gandhi had more ovaries than her.
HT: We’re not whining. We’re fighting for what’s rightfully ours. Why is that we didn’t receive an ovation so grand when we returned to India after winning the Asia Cup?
CT: Well, let’s see, for starters, it could be because we won the WORLD cup, not some retarded Asia Cup. The world is a little bigger than Asia, in case you aren’t aware. Secondly, hockey is for losers.
HT: We beat a strong Korean team in the finals to lift the cup. Don’t call us losers.
CT: Ooh! You beat the Koreans. Kudos on beating a bunch of guys who squint so much that they can’t even tell the difference between Britney Spears’s vagina and a water melon.
PR (mouth closed): To be honest, our NDTV cunt survey showed that a lot of people have trouble telling them apart.
CT: It’s easy. You sink your teeth into a watermelon and spit out the seeds after eating it completely. (pauses). No wait…
SRK (a little irked that his time is being wasted): Let’s move this along to the part where I have to talk about ‘Chak De’. I’m not interested in vaginas.
CT: Tell us something we don’t know.
SRK: Hey, if you’re talking about the thing that poked you in the thighs when I hugged you fellas after the finals it really was my cell phone. (pauses) For the umpteenth time, I do not find myself daydreaming about rubbing oil on Karan Johar’s love handles.
CT: Sure, we believe you. And we suppose your phone was set on vibrate as well with someone calling you like crazy.
SRK: Yes. It was Farah Khan calling me to ask if I had any spare time when she could come over and kiss my ass.
HT: Actually, we have a bone to pick with you as well, Shah Rukh.
CT: Oh, he’ll be more than happy to let you pick his bone.
HT: Was it so much trouble for you to show up at the Asia Cup finals and cheer us on? Did you forget what ‘Chak De’ was all about?
SRK: Of course, I didn’t forget. It was about me taking the credit of being the inspiration behind every triumph in sports that came towards India in the next few years.
HT: What about the game of Hockey that has been part of India’s history for decades?
SRK: Are you telling me it’s a real game? I thought it was just a ridiculous game that the filmmakers came up with.
HT (angry): Yes, it’s a real game. It’s the national game of India.
CT: Yeah right, and Kajol is not ugly as shit. The only reason why people started calling it the national game of India is because that was the first thing we managed to win after getting independence. It doesn’t mean that it’s an interesting sport and that people like watching it.
HT: People from all communities and walks of life play hockey.
CT: Get real, clowns. Hockey is a game played only by smelly Punjabis.
HT: Just because you have money coming out of your piss-holes doesn’t mean that you can be racist.
CT: How many of you have Singh as your last name?
(All the hockey players raise their hands and on realizing they had just been had put their hands down tetchily)
HT: We represent all religions and communities. Unlike Shoaib Malik.
(Suddenly, Prannoy Roy takes centre stage and speaks in a deep baritone, his mouth still shut tight)
PR: This is a message from NDTV to Shoaib Malik. You do not represent all the Muslims in the world. You are only the captain of the defeated Pakistan Team. You are nothing, do you understand? Nothing. NDTV loves Muslims. And Hindus. And Christians. You are an overzealous Muslim, Shoaib Malik. You cannot just speak shit and say you’re doing it on behalf of billions of others. Only diseased bastards would do something like that. This announcement, by the way, is being made by me as the universal representative of media, old people, snobs, and those with their heads tucked up their asses.
CT: Relax, you old fart. He was just being emotional. Stop blowing shit out of proportion. All he said he was he thanked all the Muslims in the world. You’re a rotten piece of shit to be ballooning that up when you have other important things on your channel to talk about.
PR (pouting): I will complain to Barkha Dutt and he will shout at you.
CT: Don’t you mean ‘she’?
PR: Who do you think knows him better? The stupid audience who sit in front of the TV or me, the head of NDTV- Nicely Disguised Transvestite Vixens?
(Suddenly, everyone stops talking because they hear a moaning sound. It’s SRK seemingly in the middle of a day dream)
SRK: Yeah…you like that, K-Jo? Hmm…Always stay under me…ok?…Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna…hmmm…your flab is so sexy…I’d like to drink your hot brown frothy coffee…yeah…
PR: Shah Rukh, wake up! I think you’re having a gay-dream!
(SRK wakes up and sees everyone staring at him)
SRK: What?
CT: You were gay-dreaming again, bum-boy.
SRK: No, I wasn’t. I was just thinking about my new movie Om Shanti Om.
CT: Don’t you mean ‘hOMo Shanti hOMo’?
HT: This is exactly what we’re talking about. This whole debate was supposed to be about us. But now it has turned into a dialogue between Cricket and Bollywood. We deserve attention too. We want all the luxury they get. We want more and more and more and more…
CT (smirking): Unless you’re talking about Kiran More I don’t think you have much of a chance.
HT: Up yours, you undeserving shit balls. We will kick your ass.
CT: Go suck on a puck, you whiny little pussies.
PR (mouth closed): I’m more powerful than God.
SRK: I miss Karan.
(Pandemonium breaks out. Everyone starts screaming and bickering. The Cricketers fight with the Hockey players. Prannoy Roy claws at SRK who’s groaning with pleasure. The debate gets so boisterous that the noise reaches the heavens and wakes up God himself. Fed up with this mysterious ruckus, God comes down to the scene of the scuffle)
GOD: Just what the fuck is going on here? Some of us are trying to get some sleep up there. I’ve had a very rough week what with the culmination of the 50 cent- Kanye West battle and all. I did all I could do to boost 50’s record sales but what can I say, that nigger keeps putting out some of the worst beats ever.
PR (mouth closed): I’m sorry, Mr. God, but as the supreme leader of the media world I need to warn you about your dirty mouth. You’re not supposed to use that term unless you are one. And clearly, you’ve more a greenish beige hue.
GOD: Hellooo! I’m God. I created the world. I can say whatever I want. And what’s with the closed mouth? Do you have any breath issues? Or are you trying to be a ventriloquist?
PR (mouth still closed): Well, if you should know…
GOD (interrupting): Shut the fuck up. (Prannoy Roy is flustered. God turns to the others). Now, why don’t you biatches get me up to speed? What’s all this fuss about?
HT: You’re the perfect person to settle this dispute, lord. The Indian Government and the people alike have been giving the sport of cricket an unjust pedestal even though the rest of the sports are just as great as cricket. But no matter how many trophies the rest of us win, it’s always the cricketers who get the true respect, the maximum benefits and all the acclaim. The rest of are left with nothing.
GOD (turning to the cricketers): How much money are you boys likely to get in the coming month alone owing to your recent victory?
CT: Hmm…maybe more than a few billion bucks…
GOD: Oh my fucking self! You’ve got to be fucking shitting me! Even I don’t have that much cash. And I’m the almighty!
CT: Well, it won’t seem like much because it’ll all be in thousand rupee notes…
GOD: I don’t want to hear anything further. I’ve been trying to bring about fairness and justice in this world of mine. But greedy beings like you keep making my job harder. All your earnings will be halved and distributed amongst these players. It’s settled.
(The cricketers are upset with the decision. They demand the case be referred to the third umpire but God reminds them that he’s the only umpire. The Hockey Players are ecstatic and start celebrating)
PR: Well, it looks like the Hockey Players have achieved what they set out to do.
GOD (taken aback): Whoa! Whoa! Hold your horses. What did you say?
PR: The Hockey Players have…
GOD: Hockey? That’s what you people play? Oh, well, that changes everything…
HT: What do you mean?
GOD: I’m sorry but I take back everything I said. No redistribution of the cricketer’s income, no benefits, no nothing. I had no idea you guys played hockey.
HT: Why, what’s wrong with hockey?
GOD: Well, firstly, it isn’t half as exciting as Cricket. And obviously, the cricketers have a much more perilous tenure than you biatches.
HT: Perilous? Cricketers in India get billions of rupees when they win.
GOD: That’s if they win. I don’t think people kick down your houses, blacken your property walls, molest your sisters, finger your mothers, and fist your fathers if you lose. That’s what the cricketers have to go through if they lose. Besides, people get dealt bad cards all the time. That’s just the way I run the world. You don’t hear mute people shouting that they deserve the same benefits as people who can talk, do you?
HT: God, you’re clearly exaggerating about the dangers cricketers have to face if they lose.
GOD: Well, that’s not all. There’s another very important reason why Hockey can never get the respect and richness that cricket does.
HT: What’s that?
GOD: Hockey is for losers.
(The Hockey Team leaves the scene with their heads hung low out of humiliation like the way they were meant to be)
CT: God, you’re just the bomb. There’s no other way to put it.
PR (mouth closed): I think you’re all forgetting that I’m more powerful than Mr. Party Mouth. I run NDTV. That’s harder than running the world.
SRK: In your dreams. Your channel thrives on news about me. Haven’t you heard Karan introduce me on his show? More people on this world know me than Tom Cruise. That means I’m the most powerful gay…I mean guy in this world. And Insha Allah, I’ll be more powerful than you, God.
(The cricketers look at God and shrug. God shrugs back)
GOD: Well, I guess there’s only thing left to do.
(God waves his hands around and turns SRK into Dev Anand’s dick; he then turns Prannoy Roy into Lata Mangeshkar’s vocal cords)
CT: They are definitely not going to enjoy their new lives. I guess they learned never to mess with you, God.
GOD: They sure did. Let’s just hope they never run into each other.
(The Cricketers are back to being filthy rich. The fans are still poor and in awe. God goes back to sleep. Everything’s the way it should be)

Aircell to you!!!

I owe a lot to TV. Over the years it has given me new ideas, new philosophies, and new women to fantasize when I’m interrogating my penis in bed. It has given me laughs, thoughts, ecstasy, and visions into worlds I never knew existed; it enables me to have cute newsreaders who give the headlines transformed into cute cheerleaders who’re lining up to give me head in my sound, unperturbed sleep. But most of all, I’m grateful to TV for the number of heinous acts it has prevented me from doing.
            The other day, I was sitting home, polishing my gun (not a masturbation metaphor this time), dusting my hunting clothes, lighting my cigar, ready to go shoot a tiger-much like any other sane, common person in India would do sometime during their daily schedule- when suddenly I saw Rahul Dravid on TV asking me to “save the tiger”. At first, I ignored it like the small lump that men find near their balls which they mistake for a third testicle. Then, after a few minutes, I saw Kareena Kapoor, who was probably wearing tiger-skin bra and panties, request me- and every other person in their hunting clothes watching TV at that moment- to not go and kill tigers; she, too, wanted me to “save the tiger”. I felt my heart sink; it was at that moment the scrotal lump became cancerous. I felt disoriented by a moral conflict. Hunting tigers was, after all, something that I, and every other ordinary Indian watching TV most of their time, did from childhood onwards; it was, practically, part of our lives, our Indian tradition. But here was Rahul Dravid- who couldn’t save his place in the one day cricket team let alone a big striped cat- and Kareena Kapoor -a bitch, who in a sudden attack of consciousness, wanted to protect a feline warning all of us that if we- sitting home with a remote in one hand and a gun in the other- continue shooting tigers and killing them- like we’ve been doing for so long- the tigers were soon going to be extinct. At that moment it hit me like a big bag of feces at a rock concert, we’ve all been striving and caring for the wrong things. Fuck world peace! Fuck religious harmony! Fuck protesting against fake-piety! Fuck fighting against police brutality! Fuck the safety of children! Fuck the safety of common women! Fuck protecting rape victims (to be fair they’ve been fucked already)! Fuck fighting against dirty politics! Fuck freedom of speech! Fuck poor people! Fuck the unemployed! Fuck the illiterate! Fuck the ill! Fuck fighting against terrorism! Fuck resisting fake-patriotism! And fuck life all together! The only thing that matters in the world is saving a fierce carnivorous smelly animal- who would by the way rip you into shreds if you get too close to it- that some guy in a wasted moment named as our national animal.
            I exercised my brain a great deal to figure out the kind of things I could do to help “save the tiger”. I was initially confused when the TV channels went on about saving “the tiger”. Clearly, they were just talking about one specific tiger. Rahul Dravid said, “Save the tiger.” Kareena said, “Save the tiger”. Which one you crazy cunts? Which is the tiger we’re supposed to save? It would have been a lot of help if they said something like, “Save the tiger- the one named Billu.”
            But then I decided, perhaps, I shouldn’t focus on that one tiger everybody was talking about; if I’m intending to save tigers I should, ideally, make an effort to save all of them. On doing research I discovered that one of the first steps that needed to be taken to ensure the protection of tigers was building in them a strong sense of morality and a desire to survive. To be honest, I kind of get the feeling tigers are not really keen on surviving. So we killed a whole lot of tigers and brought their numbers down to about 5000. Big fucking deal! So what? I’m sure they’re aware of a little thing called “banging”. When Hitler murdered six million Jews they didn’t become endangered in the next four years, and then move on to complete extinction, did they? No, they fornicated like crazy and are back stronger than ever. That’s in fact the story of mankind in general. I’m pretty sure that humans kill more humans than tigers every day but that hasn’t brought down the staggering rise in population, has it? You don’t see any celebrities on TV pleading with the world to “Save the mankind”, do you? So, I say teach the tigers that if you want population then you got to have copulation.
             That’s when another thought crossed my mind. What if the tigers are in fact banging but just not having cubs? Whenever you switch on nature channels there are tigers fucking each other. If they are horny enough to have sex on video, then having sex is probably not their big hurdle. It could be hesitancy in conception. And there could be two reasons for that: a) the tigers are into family planning or b) they are faggots. If the tigers are into family planning all you have to do is either make an animal version of the movie “Cheaper by the Dozen” or get them to have a talk with Lalu Prasad. Meanwhile, if the tigers are homosexually inclined, a completely different route of penetrating the issue has to be taken up (no pun intended. Who am I kidding! Of course, pun intended). Get a celebrity gay icon like George Michael or Harsha Bhogle and have them speak to these fudge-packing tigers. Convince these ass-mining tigers that after spooging into their partner’s anus they should insert their fists into the rectum, swipe all the tiger semen using one of their paws, and carefully place it inside a girl tiger’s vagina (stir if necessary). That should knock them up. If the tiger is a lesbian convince her that tiger cum can be used as a lubricant during dyke sex and she’s bound to fall for it. If the cubs turn out to be little fags, educate them about this procedure as well, thereby instilling this paw-cum-pussy ritual as part of the tiger culture.
             As I ponder about saving tigers, another startling revelation comes to me. Sure, the numbers are dwindling when it comes to tigers but what about other creatures. Are we not being a little specie-ist by only wanting to save tigers? I don’t know about you but I haven’t been seeing as many moths as I used to a few years ago? Where are they? What’s happening to all the moths? I’m leaving the lights on outside my home, not using clothes and books for months at a time but I still don’t see any sign of them. Could it be that the unattractive, wannabe butterfly-like creature is disappearing right in front of our eyes without our knowledge? Would we have to satisfy our future generations by showing a color picture of a moth when they cry “show us the moth, show us the moth”? Well, not if I can help it. I’m not going to waste one more moment worrying about the stupid tigers who just don’t want to fuck each other heterosexually. Instead, I’m going to focus my energy on saving the creatures who really need our help. The moths. I mean, I don’t even think they have penises. Have you ever seen a moth with a penis? How on earth are they supposed to procreate without penises? So let’s all forget about the tigers and devise plans to help save the moths. Whatever we can do: not swat them, not smash them with newspapers, donate sperm, whatever it takes. So, I’m pleading with you: Fuck the tiger! Save the moths!

Babble Wabble Babble !!!!!

And the Lord has yet again failed to shed some light on my misery considering the weather conditions in the city. The increasing power cuts, receiving bills from unknown sources, never ending work hours, and my increasing ability to do absolutely nothing and get tired of the same. I thought I was the most miserable person till Kaushik sent his experiences from the other side of the green grass through youtube. Hehehe!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mQlGZFnEulk

I have been engrossed in demonology and possession cause I just needed to convince myself that I need not be exorcised and it is just me..possessed with a increasing desire to be possessed. :)

To my critics, I have finally compiled my E-book cause I thought why should I suffer alone. All the articles have been edited by my Fiancé.

Nikhil E-book

More when I have more

Fashion Ka Jalwa

They are out on the streets; they are in your homes; they are inside airports; they have organisations fighting for their rights; they have special clothes and toys designed for them. And in some uber-affluent places, they have even hotels exclusively for them. It's very evident that a dog is man's best friend for a good reason. If my best friend fed me, clothed me, pampered me, and picked up after me, i would stay loyal to him forever too. And if you read sarcasm into this, it's not driven by any kind of hostility towards dogs. Canines and i have had an understanding for the last two decades. I don't mess around with them and they don't mess around with me. However, what boggles my mind is people's obsession with making dogs more like humans. Recently, a good friend of mine took her dog, Pebble, to a dog show. Pebble, whom she loves and treats like a sibling, participated in a number of 'athletic' events. He won gold medals in two events he had no idea he was in and lost the coveted crown due to one tiny mistake: he flinched and let out a bark when the judge examined his genitals.

Now, i'm not quite sure how beauty pageants for humans operate across the world. But if winning involves staying still while the judge gropes you, i'd much rather not know. Despite finding my views about mankind's perverted dog obsession abhorrent, my friend did agree that her dog was very confused as to what was happening around him. He merely did as he had been trained to do. As i was pondering this, i saw something on TV that shed some light on the situation. It was a talent hunt for children, where kids as young as seven or eight were dressed up in ridiculous outfits and tonnes of make-up. They hopped around and did what they had been trained to do while their owners sorry, parents sat in the crowd smiling proudly. It was then i realised that using other creatures to gain fame and money for ourselves is part of human nature. There was no reason for me to feel awkward about it. What i had to do was embrace this trait. And that's why i have signed up my pet snail for the 100-metre dash in the upcoming Commonwealth Games.

Paisa Paisa Karti hai....

I was heading towards my flat about a week ago, and got the strange feeling that someone was following me. I kept going, blaming my paranoia on last night's X-files rerun. Suddenly, a strong "Sir" from behind stopped me in my tracks. It took me a few moments to recognize the speaker as the obsequious waiter who works at a restaurant one frequents. Without a preamble, he made a semi-demand, "Please give me 100 rupees." I eloquently responded, after a three-second shocked pause, "What?" He identified himself as the waiter from the particular restaurant as he thought that was the cause for my surprise. I decided to go with "Why?" the next time. He responded that he was going on vacation. The more disturbing element wasn't the fact that he was treating me like his holiday fund but the creepy smile on his face that refused to fade. I attempted to extricate myself from this awkward situation by promising to pay him the money next time i visited the restaurant. But, he proved to be someone who staunchly believed in the adage 'try, try until you succeed'. With that smile on his face getting wider, he said, in the same polite tone, "I want the money now, sir." I wondered for an instant if this was actually the world's mildest daylight robbery in progress. I reiterated my previous statement, finding no other way out, turned around and sped forward to my destination without waiting for a response.

That incident called to mind another experience when a professional mendicant approached me and demanded 50 bucks. The episode had left me nonplussed. I had always assumed that there was a 10-rupee cut-off limit when it came to alms. This man, however, had no intention of adhering to the unwritten laws of begging; he was a revolutionary of sorts. I refused to part with my money both times. It wasn't the traditional 'he's healthy, let him earn his money' justification for me; it was more the 'I'm so broke i can't spare a penny' truth that prevented me from helping them out monetarily. Every one of us have, at one point or the other, swallowed our pride and asked for money from our friends or family. It's an agonising feeling refusing to give money to someone in need. Money is, indeed, the root cause of terrible social awkwardness.

Chillax :)

Winter makes blimps out of people. If you step out onto the streets of Delhi, you'll see that everyone's walking around like they're in fat suits. When a person puts on three to four layers of sweaters, a pair of thick woollen gloves and a cap pulled so far down his face that he's at a risk of asphyxiating himself, you can't really blame him for looking like Eddie Murphy from The Nutty Professor. This is my first winter in Delhi and my teeth have done a lot more chattering this year than it ever did in Mussoorie. Experience definitely is not a useful weapon in your arsenal when it comes to combating Delhi winters. More often than not, multiple layers of clothing end up not achieving the desired effect. A couple of days ago while travelling by auto, my exposed face got such a ruthless dose of biting cold that i was, for the first time in my life, able to empathise with refrigerated meat. The auto driver, whose black eyes were the only thing revealed to the outer world, were fixed on me as if to suggest that i was dumber than a lobotomised chipmunk.

I encountered, however, more daring winter-rebels on the streets: the homeless people of Delhi clad in their usual torn T-shirts and pants begging for alms. Sure, their working conditions and hours weren't as bad as what some of the A-list Bollywood actors have to deal with 'oh shooting in Switzerland was so tiring. I had to wake up at 4 a.m. from my luxurious trailer and parrot lines for a few hours for a measly sum of Rs 50 lakh' but it was an unenviable sight nevertheless. I have created a list for the benefit of those lacking the skills to combat the piercing cold after barely surviving this merciless Delhi winters. First, when you get a cup of coffee or tea don't drink it. Instead, move it all over the exposed parts of your body in an effort to thaw them. Second, if you're travelling by auto, always have two naive friends with you and seat yourself in between them. Third, always sleep with your shoes on, preferably large cowboy boots. Four, if you have a big furry dog or an oddly hairy relative, hug him like there's no tomorrow. And finally, move to the Caribbean islands.