Category Archives: marriage

WOMEN ARE CHASTE, MEN ARE ROGUES, AND OTHER FAIRY TALES

The suggestively titled magazine More has found in a survey that “one in four young women has slept with more than 10 people, compared with one in five men who had done the same”. The poll was held in the UK, as you can read from this article. The new article was mistakenly printed in the New Cars section.

The article does not say how many of these ‘people’ are themselves or their pets, but that will be the contents of another one with 5000 Diggs.

Critics of the survey are quick to point out that while the article says “half of those questioned admitted they had been unfaithful, whereas only a quarter said they had been cheated on by a boyfriend”, it does not specifically say whether the respondents felt they had cheated on themselves by bonking their neighbors’ pets.

The survey also found that most young women would rather sleep with their MacBooks than with the men they married, because they did not believe in sex within marriage and sex with love. For that, they had themselves or their cheat-shits.

Scientists estimate that the average British woman surrenders her virginity as soon as she gets her first iPhone or iPod, which is around infancy, but say that these other events are “mere epiphenomena”. A venerable journal of social science, the Son Sun, recently reported that men with condoms stuck on the outside of their shirts were more potent and fertile than men who were more conservative, as deduced from their “wearing underwear over their trousers while catching the Tube.”

A spokesperson for the British Sluttistical Institute claimed that, by the yardstick of the More survey, most people in Britain have had sex with every other. The Secretary of the Institute, Mr. Bansi Lal, stated that the survey needed follow up to prove an exciting new hipothesis that “Indians in UK are the only Indians really getting laid.”

When questioned about the hipothesis being contradicted by the high birth rates in India, Mr. Lal said, “Arrey, that is because we are getting [bleep]ed by those Pakistani [bleep]ers!”

(Indian) Union Health Emperor Mr. Ambumani Ramadoss could not be contacted. His office said he is busy on a mission in the UK.

Ex-Home Minister Shivraj Patil was also unavailable, as he was busy generally [bleep]ing around.

A FAMILY DISASTER

Today, I had to admit my wife to hospital.

She suddenly started laughing hysterically.

Nothing I could say or do could change her state.

I tried tickling her to distract her, tried to draw her attention by stuffing a big cucumber into my mouth, and dancing around in underwear.

She just would not stop.

Sad.

The timing was coincidental to my asking her, during an earnest discussion of our marriage:

“Do I have any downside, any negative, at all?”

Poor thing! No one knows why she is still laughing. The psychs have no answer.

Oh, the limits of medical science!

TWELVE THINGS I HATE ABOUT WOMEN

I have this incredible tectonic, platonic love for women, as readers of this blog must have sensed by now. However, there are certain things about certain women that put me off.

1. Women with dirty navels: The ultimate revulsion. This hatred must be something I got from the time I was attached to an umbilical cord! As a laparoscopic surgeon, I am, um, bilious about the unclean umbilicus, one that strikes a chord in me.

2. Women with garlic or onion in their breath: this is a real no-brainer. Who likes ‘em? If a girl smells leek this, I spring away: my light bulb movement. As far as these women are concerned, I know my onions.

3. Women with male genitals: I somehow can’t seem to gonad gomad about their confusing plumbing system.

4. Bad English: call me snobbish, but I like women who speak good English, and have long been a lingo-raj for the Queen, her English, I mean! I have no problems with women who don’t speak English at all.

5. Women who can get hysterical: Hysteria is, etymologically, a disease which springs from the woman’s uterus (hysteros). I believe it. A hysterical woman is bad all the way inside. Avoid, dude!

6. Obsessively clean women: Married to one myself, I can speak on this with messive authority. They have a reason to find fault with you for every little thing you do:
“Why have you kept the chocolate wrappers and the orange peels on the bed? There are ants all over the place!” Well, idiotic, won’t you say? As if I invited all the ants over for dessert or something!

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“Why are you eating here? Look how much of sauce you have spilt here. Oh, my Gawd, you have kept the banana peel and the apple core on the table, like this? How horribly dirty you are! Get up, get up right now, that glass of water is just going to fall!”

You get the idea. She could drive me up the wall. Only that I can’t climb it because a bowl of soup landed on it last night as I was showing my son how to hit an extra-cover drive, forgetting that the bat was a bowl of soup, and a large one at that. She asked me, as the tallest member of the family, to clean it, but I told her, “Are you kiddin’ me? With Yuvraj batting like this?! Tomorrow is a Sunday, and tell me then.” This morning, she has been after my ass to complete the job, but it’s amazing how inconsiderate and lacking in understanding some women can be, isn’t it? Sourav Ganguly is batting now, I have three newspapers to read (with their supplements), I have so many blogs to visit, so many comments to defend, so many mails to read. Sigh. It will take me till lunchtime to get free. After which I will do it. Only if there is no movie I am forced to watch….

7. Organised women: Yes, once again, as one married to an organised woman, I can tell you they are serious risk factors for one’s healthy heart rate and rhythm. You keep a very hot phone number, flavored with a wee hint of lipstick, which you have jotted down on the reverse of a bill for the petrol you bought last week, and when you want to find it next week, it is not there. Why? The obsessive organiser has thrown it into the trash! How much injustice does a man have to suffer, tell me?! One can’t live life if one’s important phone numbers are trashed as if they have no importance in one’s own house. I have decided not to take this lying down. From now on, I am going to start writing the numbers on the wall with my son’s crayons. Let’s see what she does about that!

Are you actually thinking of asking me to get an organiser or diary? Huh. Silly things don’t work, and diaries are for sissies, anyways. No man with baseline levels of testosterone will ever stop writing on chits of paper, leaving them in the organised free market of his study table.

8. Jewelry-obsessed women: I am fine with a woman wearing a single pendant on a silk or leather thread. But never trust a woman who buys gold and diamonds on the specious plea that they are investments for the future. Never. If ever you get to the future and wish to redeem your investment, said woman and attached mother will rain on you like popcorn from a fat man choking on a mouthful when sitting behind you at a movie. Sell off jewelry?! Dhishhum, dhishhum! Bang! Crrash!!

9. Young women with BO: I have, over the years, learned to distinguish the various types of body odor in women and men. I will, perhaps, classify them one day for posterity. Readers may recall my earlier olfactory ordeals.
The typical BO is one of honest sweat, accentuated by local global warming. It is redolent of acidic, even rancid flavors (like French Blue Cheese), and goes well with crackers and wine, or even as a dressing. I meant the cheese, not the girl. Talking of which, these girls seem to be fond of fish, and avoid vegetables, too, for balance. Any woman who leaves an elevator before I enter it has it, somehow. Medical representatives, girls working in malls, girls assisting dentists, etc. are some of the brand ambassadors of BO.

10. The Delhi Police type of woman:
Imagine me sitting in the bedroom with my Mac, and WonderWoman comes in and asks me to shift because it needs dusting and cleaning. Once I shift to the den and start watching the cricket match, she comes in and says that the curtains and sheets are going to be changed, and I need to shift somewhere else. How inconsiderate can a woman be! A man can’t rest in peace without being treated like a hawker on the streets of Kolkata driven from road to road by a corrupt cop?!

11. The dirty, unorganised woman: A woman with chipped nails or one that throws things around carelessly, is just not my type. An irritating thing about her is her cell phone. She gets a call, and it rings inside her large handbag. One can then see, while the strains of a Hindi song call-her tune fill the room increasingly threateningly, the entire contents of the handbag: comb, papers, a coin purse, lipstick, compact case, migraine pills, spare sanitary pad, keys with extra-large keychain of Popeye (or Garfield or Mickey or Jerry), before the cellphone is dug out by its bejewelled chain. Why can’t these ladies keep the phone where they can always find them before driving others crazy with their bad taste in music? Where would they keep it, you ask? Why, they could hang it around the neck, so that the phone rests in the inter-mammary fold, always accessible….

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(pic: http://femailcreations.com/products/sku-51402.html)

12. A submissive woman: A woman of character should make up her own mind. She doesn’t act as a Yes-girl for her husband or her father. Supposed to be an endangered species in urban India. I have, somehow, never met this species of womanhood. All the women who have loved me have been on top of their relationship, nice, submissive guy that I am!

If I have missed out, tell me about it, guys! Ladies, what are your reactions?

A SPASM OF TRUTH

POOJA

“I am married. I have a wonderful man as a husband. And two little beauties as kids. I am a wife and a mother”. For the uncountable-th time, Pooja spoke silently to her self. Not to herself, but to her self. A self she had not allowed to prevail over her values.
Pooja was what a college brat would have called a ‘one-piece’. As Indian a product as a reincarnating hero in a Hindi flick. She was unclear about God, but a value-driven middle class Indian woman. For her, loyalty, honesty, duty, responsibility and happiness were all one. There were no conflicts in her values. She was very clear about that. In her life, she was doing everything her conservative parents would have expected her to, and she was proud she was living up to their expectations.
A few years back, Pooja’s life had suddenly undergone a change. She had left her old, small town of Cuttack and moved on to the capital city of the Indian money and movie market, Mumbai. Here she had got married to Raja, a man who made wildlife documentaries for a living.
Busy with her working life (Pooja was a busy research fellow at a ‘me-too’ generic drug production lab) and with her unforgiving domestic pulls, she did not have time for frivolity, except when she was with her children.
She had many men looking her over every morning at work and in places she was seen, like the schools, the local restaurants and the markets. Men were taken by her incomplete beauty, and could not but keep staring at her honeyed eyes, trying to read some hope in them. Her body and her face had a common appeal, an unfailingly provoking femininity. However, she never encouraged a soul. Fidelity always figured high in her list of values.
One Tuesday, her boss called her over to his room. She would have to meet a Mr. Jay over lunch. Bummer, she thought. Jay was a representative of a US company intending to market the drug which Pooja was working on. “Just see that he has a clear idea of what we are looking to do in the coming year, so that they don’t have false expectations from us”, her boss, Dr. Krishnan, said.

MEETING JAY

Lunch was to be at the Hyatt, a hotel that had universal appeal for its hospitality and class.

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Pooja went over to the restaurant called M, expecting Mr. Jay to be a young, dashing American executive with ‘brand’ screaming from every accessory. She was shown to a lonely table where she found a middle aged man examining a glass of water. Jayendra Ramaswamy was Jay to most of his American colleagues, and indifferent to it. In fact, Jay seemed to be indifferent to most things on earth. People who knew him called him an impractical dreamer, one who would never give an immediate and practical solution to a burning problem. Instead, they would say, he would rubbish the whole concept or premise that had led to the problem being discussed and offer utopian solutions that would never be possible. However, he was a hard man to argue with across the table, and had remained steady at his job as Head, International Marketing.

“Hi, I am Pooja”.

“Hmmn. Jay. Hi.”

“I hope you didn’t have to wait too long?”

“Well, actually I did, but now I think it was worth it.”

Pooja could not respond. She was transfixed with the look on Jay’s eyes. Sharp, penetrating to the entrails, and, in one word, sexy. The man himself was not impressive to look at, with a wide stubble of recently shaved hair on his head, and rimless glasses on a largish, broad nose. But the moment he started talking, he created an image of a man who was too big for the present, a concept rather than a being. His words were crisp and witty, and there was an unplanned insolence about him that captivated Pooja. She realised quickly that she was trespassing her own set limits when she noticed herself leaning towards the table, getting enticed in the joyous network of Jay’s words.

Jay was smiling and saying, “All these truths are derivative truths, like the fact that this Fried Chicken carries 800 calories as the sum of its constituents, is covered up with egg batter, and will cause intense thirst an hour after this is eaten. However, the basic truth is that if this did not have the egg or the 800 calories in it, it would not be fit to be called a Fried Chicken. So, we might then ask, ‘what gave thirst: the chicken or the egg?’ “

THE THRILL OF TOGETHERNESS

As surreal as the lunch was, it opened up a new dimension to Pooja’s life. She swam willingly in the currents of her conscious attraction for Jay, and would spend hours each day talking to him, or texting him.
It was one of those ‘Art of Living’ type lectures that opened her eyes. It is all ‘Maya’, she heard the guru say: “Grasp the conscious, and shut the door of the imagination. Thereby you shut the door of temptation, and look through the window of duty, of love, of selflessness into the material world.”

Pooja tried, but failed to resist the charm of Jay’s utopia, his careless egoism, his nonchalant attitude towards how the world saw him. It seemed that he was clear and right about most things (though he was never righteous in his attitude), and did not give a damn to anyone who thought otherwise.

Over a period of time, it became clear that she loved him, and he seemed to know it, but he did not seem to want to capitalise on that.
“How could you not love me?”, his smile seemed to say. He did reciprocate at times, like when he held her hand while laughing at his own joke, or dropping his left hand briefly on her thigh while driving with his right.

THE PREDICTABLE TURMOIL

At home, Pooja found it difficult to reciprocate to her husband when he loved her, though she played her part without trying to excuse herself. The more she thought about it, the more impractical her situation seemed to get. She felt physical pain thinking of her love and the reality of her marriage with someone else. “No, this has to stop”, she told herself.

She consciously stopped calling him. He did not ask why. He did not violate the space she had created between herself and Jay. He seemed to have accepted her sudden turning back.
Pooja, since that day, gave every waking moment to her work and to her children, subduing that part of her that seemed to want nothing more than a few moments of laughter, a few minutes of that magic that encapsulated what she felt with Jay. Strong-willed that she was, she managed to crush her love, and focus on her family values.
Till tonight.

TONIGHT

She was alone at home, when Jay appeared at her door.
She remembered nothing else, except that it seemed that they closed all physical space between them in just a heartbeat.

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Jay said nothing. Neither did she. They simply kept the embrace on till they fell on the bed. She had never experienced such intensity in sexual intercourse. It was so much more than a physical orgasm. It was like a spiritual experience, a bhakti for her man, a love that washed out her long held values.
As she lay, clad in a thick layer of sweat, her pulse throbbing wildly, she had a flash of light, a realisation of her self, a nirvana. She was a fool not to have realised the value of her love, she thought.

“ I have wanted you since the time I saw you first. I can’t live my life without you. Don’t leave me, jaan”, she whispered out aloud.

“Uh, what, honey? I’ll never leave you!”, said Raja, her sated husband. Drained out at the unexpected pre-dawn sex , he lay over her, pleased to have made her happy, finally.

WATER SPORTS IN BALI

I have told you the story of how my holiday to Bali was almost torn asunder by the fact that I have not done well enough in life to buy Raffles Class tickets.

Well, on reaching, I took up water activities with a deep breath and a steely resolve. I will tell you why later. When it comes to swimming, I have always preferred the sea of words. I always felt H2O was two parts Hell, and one part Oxygen mask. Swimming was way too advanced for me, and I weaned it out by taking to the jacuzzi. Though I have always avoided water activities beyond the shower, this was my first experience with jacuzzis.

As soon as I sat at the edge of a Jacuzzi, I felt the pleasant sensation of the water bubbling with energy and enthusiasm.

“Ah, this is life!”, I exulted and leaned back.

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I looked beside me and found a young South American woman who was built the way you would imagine young South American women to be built. Think Shakira, and you get the general idea.

“Hi”, my smile said.

“I am yours forever. Take me with you right now”, her’s replied.

Soon, smiles flew around everywhere. Shy and sensitive man that I am, I take my time opening out to a complete stranger, even Shakira. Just when global warming seemed like it was a personal experience rather than a scientific scam, I found bubbles of water exploding beneath me, with a million and a half bubbles, large and extra-large, zooming in like heat-seeking missiles to the South Pole of my testicles. My smile widened as long forgotten sensations re-awakened, and things got hotter.

I had briefly forgotten my part of the smile-exchange program. Soon, the intensity of the bubble attack increased so that I was virtually thrown up to the surface of the water, while my elbows were still resting on the edges of the tub. It was instantly obvious that the energy had rubbed off on parts of me. The Latina smiled even more widely. However, it disappeared before you could say “Your face or mine?” or whatever it is you are supposed to say in these unfamiliar situations. Her smile, as I was saying, went like money into a politician. Like an ozone hole in the stratosphere. Like free booze. You get the idea, right?

My wife had appeared behind me and, glaring pointedly at my missed opportunity, was saying, “Let’s go, we’re getting late”. Late? I felt a hole, new unexplored world slipping out of reach, as I lamely got up and followed my wife. For good measure, she gave the bimbo one of those looks that must have started the California fires.

“Do come back soon. I will miss you forever”, said the girl’s eyes.

Now, let me tell you about eyes. A sensitive sod like Mahendra has expressed some thoughts on them. If you are one of the lazy, decadent sort who, when provided every modern remote-controlled amenity in a house (remote-controlled fridge, microwave, TV, AC, bed, etc.), complains “Lekin remote dabaayegaa kaun?” (who will press the remote, but?), then let me indulge you. Don’t bother clicking that link. Save calories. Don’t heat up the globe no more.

Mahendra wrote:

If I were a tear in your eyes
I would lie on your cheeks and die on your lips

Some rascal commented:

If I were a tear in your panteyes
I would lie on your cheeks and die on your hips;

So, you know, eyes are very sensitive things. It takes a lot for a man to read the eyes of those whose every intimate thought is fleetingly reflected on them, like you can transiently see your face on the water of the toilet bowl when you just sit on the can. If your pot-belly doesn’t come in the way, that is.

The situation aforesaid and described was, people will tell you, just the thing to tell me to blow my fuse. In other words, defuse the situation. Forget about coming, I was going. If one expression could sum up the experience, it is the Indian “Dhatterigee (pooh-bah)!”

Ever since my mother was warned (by an astrologer) not to let me into water for fear of death, I have always been kept away from it. I would prefer going to mountain resorts rather than beaches. I even became allergic to sea food. My favorite girl friend quit eating prawns as a mark of devotion to me. At least, that is what she had me think, till she married a man who made millions selling prawns.

Anyways, I have ensured that my son does not suffer from his father’s handicaps. He learns swimming and loves it. I joined him at the pool, a ring around my torso, head precariously above water. Don’t you just admire the fatherly commitment of a man who can’t swim, but still dons a ring and endangers his valued life just so that his son feels happy? If there a few freebies in the form of unclad women strewn about in the pool, does it really detract from this sacrifice?

I wanted him to do more than just try to teach me to swim. I suspected it was just a ploy of his not to exercise, and I would have none of it.

When I saw him (urban telly-belly and all) make a couple of sluggish moves to swim just two paces away and then float in relieved surrender, my hackles got up. I admonished him and exhorted him to be more energetic.

I said, “Do you know, an eight year old Indian girl swam hundreds of miles across the English Channel in twenty four hours? Just imagine doing that!”

An admiring, wondering look crossed his eyes. “Daddy…”

“Ah, it’s working, Dad!” I congratulated myself.

“Daddeee?!”

“Yes, son?”

“Daddy, how did she do potty during that time?

Things rapidly deteriorated after that with jokes coming up of a tidal wave throwing back her potty on her head, among others. Enough! I will not write on this crap any more.

Postscript: The young girl, Swapnali Yadav, had actually taken less than twelve hours in a swimming marathon in Kalamata, Greece, a distance of some thirty kilometers. Trust me to get my facts muddled after the electric shocks and other tortures I was subjected to after the jacuzzi fiasco. My mom’s astrologer was right after all. Water is dangerous for me.

PURE EVIL!

So it was my long-due holiday with my first, official wife and my only official son.
The destination was, as not decided by me, Bali.
If you were on the same plane, you could have found me. Don’t believe me?

First things first, where would you not find me? In the Business or First Class. Or Raffle or Waffle Classes, neither.

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Next thing: where would you look for me? You would find me in the rear half of the plane, seated by the window. You want to find me, just ask the air hostess which passenger they have NOT served in any way, in spite of fifteen red alert SOS messages sent. Yup, that would be your man!

Other passengers, especially in the Kolkata-Bangkok or Kolkata-Singapore sector, keep pestering the air hostesses for beer and whisky. Now, you will never see me do such things. I have class, you know. I always ask for Cognac, or if I am feeling particularly proletarian at a given point in life, Jack Daniels.

You must envy me for the memorable views of the seas and the city-lights-by-night that are included in my window-seat economy fare ticket. Well, the answer is: yes, the views are breast-taking breathtaking (as in a sigh), but only in those instances where the plane’s wings are made of glass. When the plane is made out of metal, I can’t even see my own nuts because, you see, I always get a seat bang where the wing is at its most expansive and braggadocious.

So, midway through the flight, the lunch was served and all….

Soon, everyone fell into a slumber, aided by the dim lights. You know how it is.

Suddenly, a guy (the brother of a man who is known both to me and Oemar) in front of me let out a silent stinker. A brief latent period later, a satellite fart was emitted by this gas-bag.

I know, you are going to ask me how I knew it was him. Do I have a GPS For Gas? No, but my glasses fogged up at the very center, and so it had to be he, the one in front of me.

Soon, by a physical process my class VIII teacher had caned me into learning as diffusion occurred, and the stench wafted invisibly, just as would a deadly poison released by a sect of differently sane people, like Aum Shinrikyo.

I believe this is the real WMD that Saddam Hussein had managed to mass produce before the good US President got a whiff of it. When Saddam got rid of it, the Kurds died in silence, and Bush was too embarrassed to tell the world what the real biological WMD was. The subsequent rise in global temperatures was ascribed to carbon emissions from modern society. Ha, the irony of Al Gore getting the Nobel Peace Prize for what has been Bush’s signal contribution to mankind!

If you ever need to explain the term ‘pure evil’, this is precisely the stuff what would need to be bottled and marketed to the world. You know what, those bearded scientists (with traces of the morning’s scrambled eggs on their beards), who clamor against deodorants and vaporizers because they burn holes in the ozone layer, could do with a few of these. A mere whiff is enough to depress the respiratory center in the medulla oblongata of the brain for several seconds. Persistent exposure to this noxious agent is, I am certain, responsible for many cases of unexplained sudden deaths in public places. If, on one fine day, you hear that I have been deservedly conferred the Nobel, like Gore, you know now it will be for my research on this subject. Anyways, let us get back to the episode on the plane.

My wife woke up and looked here, there, and soonest, at me, instinctly wanting to identify the culprit. When my eyes met hers’, my expression was ‘It’s that guy again!’ You know, now that I am bloggin’ and all, I don’t talk much with her; I merely express smileys. Faster and more effective: why waste words? In this case, I used the roll-eyes smiley.

In spite of many years of marriage, or perhaps because of it, she misunderstood me. With her iPod rocking on her ears, she said, “How could you do this?”
Her voice, normally quieter than a jockey whispering endearments to his horse in the hope of hitting the top spot in the race, boomed out from her lips, and ricocheted off the white walls of the plane. The neighborhood and I were jolted, in unison. Damn the iPod! Damn Steve Jobs!!

I closed my eyes in disbelief, thinking how she could do this to me. When I opened my eyes, I saw her waving a handkerchief furiously in my direction. As if on cue, the tourist class of humanity from 34 ABC to 52 DEF were all waving white handkerchieves in my direction, like a bunch of Chinese children lining the streets of Beijing, greeting a visiting General of Myanmar. Only that no smiles improved their ugly faces.

In the meanwhile the culprit got up to go to the toilet.
It was all I could do to restrain myself from throwing an airline specialty, the rolled piece of dough they call a bun or roll, on the back of his head. Good I didn’t. It would probably have killed him and gotten me in jail.

As if this was not enough, my son chimed in with a typical smartass chorus, like a qawwal follows the indignant query of the hero. You know, when the Bollywood hero asks the heroine ‘tuh kab milegi?’ (when will I get you?), the flunkey with the funny cap follows with ‘kab milegi tuh?’, all the while clapping his dirty hands….?

This boy asked, just in case anyone had not heard his mom, “Daddy, how could you do this?”

My holiday, even before it started, was completely ruined in public calumny. Initiated by my own family. Now, how could I not retaliate? I decided to disown this thumb-sucking rat, and divorce the wife….

However, considering that my family has stood by me through thin and thick (mostly speaking in waist-hip ratio terms), I decided to forgive them. Besides, after sulking for one hour, it kinda gets boring in an airplane. Not to say how difficult it is to assume an injured and morally upright posture when the neighborhood treats you like you carry the H5N1 virus.

And the air hostesses think the guy asking for the cognac is a maniac. Little do these insensitive women know he wants to drown his sorrows, and wash away his bad olfactory memories, in the nectar.

(pic: http://www.slenders.be)

THE POLYGAMIST: PART DEUX

If nowhere else, you must have read in this blog about Warren Jeffs and his particular method of attaining closeness to God: having multiple wives, and using them as engines of reproduction, with multiple brats spewing out from the silencers (freely advertising their parentage and religion) and contributing to global warming, along with, and separate from, the fornicating and flatulent meese (make that moose), cows and sundry other quadrupeds (just so you know that Jeffs and his 10,000 followers aren’t zoophilic perverts).

I have always maintained, or have I not, that I agree wholeheartedly with this approach (not to digress into my views on bestiality- don’t mistake the prepositions here)? Having a communal union with an oppressed, endangered and protected species* as Hetero sapiens and shouting “Oh, my God!” several times a day or night (Midnight M’ass?) is clearly every man’s only means of washing himself from his Original Sin of being born of non-Muslim parents.

*Check out the seventh definition of the word ‘species’.

Well, here is an update.

Polygamist sect leader Warren Steen Jeffs was found guilty Tuesday of being an accomplice to rape for using his religious authority to push a 14-year-old girl into a marriage she did not want.

Jeffs stood with his hands folded and didn’t appear to react as the verdict was read.

The counts carry a maximum sentence of life in prison. His sentencing date was not immediately set.

And will this story end as “… and all his wives lived happily ever after?”