Category Archives: tags

BLOG BAZAAR CHAOS (BBC)

In one of those infinitely crazy moments that have always exemplified His Non-existence, the Great God overseeing the Virtual World (Webramha) decided to amuse himself by putting together a bunch of virtual people and getting them to interact with each other, with each taking up the last thread of a mad conversation. Some of these folk may resemble familiar people, but you alone are responsible for assuming any resemblance. The following is the excerpt from the BBC WordPress Report.

Dirtymindoc: Hi, gays, I mean guys! How are you feelin’? Heh, heh, if you know what I mean? My old girlfriends always had hard feelings for me, you know?
Pal’s Coughing Phallus: I had a late night thought: do feelings go through your hands and mind at the same time? And if my Hand’s feelings are due to Hormones, are my Mind’s feelings due of Mormones?
Dirtymindoc: Yes, more moans, Pal! That is our religion.
Kool Karni Nita: In India, according to the last Special Committee on Religions Report, there are more than 743 of them. Of this, there are 733 variations of Hinduism.
Flabbydoc: There are 733 variations of the push-up. Would you like to see one where I keep the scapula protracted?
Dirtymindoc: Interesting. Can you keep your scapula protracted when you are, you know, pushed up? Heh, heh!
Pal’s Coughing Phallus: I had a late night thought: Can Don do push-ups?
Kreema: I saw Don 23 times and blogged about it 24 times. Did you read them, ki na?
Litterabuse: I have don something akin to it 42 times. :-p
Shefolly: Why did Michelle Obama smiley at the Queen? Read my latest blog post over at my other blog. Just make sure you are wearing a tie. And please don’t go beyond smiling.
Flabbydoc: Smiling is an aerobic exercise. As research has shown us again and again, it is anerobic exercise which can burn fat in 7 days. I challenge you to smile intensely for 7 days and see the difference.
See-smut: It was the difference that caught her eye. He was so strikingly unsmiling. She thought, a warm summer breeze would freeze near him. The river stood silently beside her. Brooding. Grim. Cold.
Shefolly: It is cold in London today, as brilliantly shown in Penniless Dope’s latest blog post. However, many (less intelligent, hélas!) deny this, while the Pope….
Pal’s Coughing Phallus: The Pope is (according to the Authority on Authoritarians) God’s Weapon of Mass Distortion. I had a late night thought: is Distortion of Reality part of Reality or a part of Distortion?
Cracked Nippil: You get Distortion of Reality if you drink too little beer. I would normally drink real fucking beer back home, not the kind of donkey piss that I am forced to have now that I am stranded in Mumbai with a stacked chick and that I am suffering from what my fucking doctor calls as ‘Nippil Distortion, that perverted jerk!
Kreema: Distortion was one of my exam questions this year. As you know, I am one of the most awarded bloggers in here. I even did an award-winning tag on ” Eighty Distorted Things in My Life” where I had 127 smileys in the main post and 289 of them in the 66 comments that followed.
Kool Karni Nita: Me too don’t like too many comments. That is why I have made a limit of 15,000 comments for each post. That way, I don’t have to answer too many comments, and I get more time to devote to my hubby and my freelance work.
Dirtymindoc: Yeah, I like ‘free lance‘. Heh, heh!
Rada: He…he… he was actually trying to touch my feet, imagine that!! Thinking he could get pubbed in Dishypundit, but am so not into all this, you know?! I was with my daughter when this…
Danish Bobby : You know, my daughter asked me, “If you get free speech in the US, where do you get a free lunch?”
Shocki: It was a free lunch where Kavita met him. His manly looks instantly got her attention, but it was when he smiled that her heart went fluttering. Subconsciously, she fingered her wedding ring, while the baby in her belly gave her a smart kick. Choking her tears, she looked away.
Flabbydoc: Looking away is a great way of exercising the sternomastoid muscle. If you really want to develop six packs in the neck, you must look away and up, and hold it for ten seconds. Repeat a hundred times in one set, and four sets of this will give you great results in a few years. But you will look different (though in a weird direction)!
God: I am the One giving Directions here. Cut (the freakin’ crap)!

A COGNAC OF A POST, NO LESS!

I am known to be nimble with a bra and undies but, somehow, Shefaly forgot to press the space bar, and it so happens that I have to talk on, no, not even brandies, but brands.
I might have married a branded wife (handsome young stud that I was am), but I did not. The one I did nearly branded me with a hot pressing iron for lateral winking, following which I signed off my right to liberty and pursuit of happiness. Whatever is left is called life, at least as per the pieces of paper written by Father figures like James Madison and Benji Franklin.
As for material objects that rule our lives, I am ambivalent about brands. Some are awesome and to-kill-for, while others are overrated, and many unbranded things are outstanding.
I will take this meme my way. Because it is my brand of blogging.

At daybreak, I get into the standard Nike/Reebok gym gear and drive my car to my gym, which is not Gold’s Gym. International gym gear is outstandingly high class. It allows one to stretch one’s limbs so far away from each other that it seems inconceivable how they manage to come back to status quo ante. My shoes create no ecco when I move, because I wear quiet, red shoes, which means they scream “I am sexy, look up!” However, it is alleged in certain quarters that only street dogs hear that particular scream. Jealousy has its own brand, doesn’t it?

ON return, I scan The Times, both Economic and Indian. Stardom Levis its own price, depending on the sign of your Zodiac, I think as I dress up, looking at the Flor sheimfully. I exit for work, leaving a trail of sarcastic exclamations: “Dior me! He is going Higher, a Huge Boss. Will you return by 212?”
At work, I see the unbranded and unwashed poor who come to me. At surgery, it is important to Image One self as a medical Stryker, though not in the Indian communist sense. I Proceed through a mesh of cases in Harmonic motion. Thank God, I am spared a pile of trouble in the hospital bathrooms.
Back home, I am the Apple of my own iSight, and get Bourdeaux watching the Sam sungs on MTV in my den. In no time, I sleep. Unlike the Citi which I don’t bank on.
You can be happy alone, but misery is contagious. I propose to inflict this meme on Bikerdude and Marc.

NOVA SAY NO TO NOVA

I bow to her meme (such girly things, I tell you!).
Please consider this as my virtual autobiography. If I write any more, I risk being Pulitzered.
Answers have been deliberately toned down and made to sound banal to reduce the excitement levels of certain young and nubile female readers. Readers are advised to laugh at the serious comments, and ignore the dirty dainty ones, much like the Finance Minister looking askance at the Government’s oil companies’ impending bankruptcy.

I am: a Jack-off-all-traits.
I think: on my knees.

I know: that I know little, but can live with it.
I want: to stop responding to memes.
I have: holistic desire.

I wish: I had more muscle in my brain, and more brain in my muscles.

I hate: politicians, unethical people, exhibitionist belchers, and men with women I have the hots for.

I miss: Miss Mississippi sipping misty pee tea. Distasteful, depraved, disgusting and divine, this wordplay, is it not?
I fear: losing my professional independence.

I feel: with my hands. I have eyes on my fingertips. One of my strengths as a surgeon.

I hear: the silence of sound. Profound, I know!
I smell: do I? Nah! If there is something classy about me, it must be my body odor, always trailing a fancy name on a bottle. I smell things too (like food and women) before I, well, have a free intercourse with them. I am using the words in a very innocent, broad context, of course.

I crave: for Manuka honey, deliciously spread on the hot, juicy thighs of roast duck.
I search: for my intelligence.

I wonder: “how does the computer know so much, and I don’t?” I have been around longer than it has, after all.

I regret: not having seen much of the world.
I love: smart women and honest men.
I ache: dip inside.

I care: I am a hard core care giver. And I get paid for it.

I am not: 
a womaniser. Neither am I a layer liar.
I believe: in free willy.
I dance: 
when everyone is too drunk to realize I am dancing.
I sing: when bitten in the butt.

I cry: “Free this country of cuntrols!”
I don’t always: feel funny. Just ridiculous. 

I fight: addiction,
mostly to respond to impossible memes.
I write: No, I just imagine, and my keyboard responds like a woman with sensitive earlobes. What do you think?
I win: heads. And tails.
I lose: my way at night.

I never: say always.
I always: say never.

I confuse: myself, sometimes. Others, never.

I listen: to my wife.

I can usually be found: in, on, or by, a bed.
I am scared: of lung cancer. Not really. I am pretty much fearless, I realise.

I need: ten million dollars. A few years back, it was one. With inflation and the dollar going in different directions, I am not being greedy, am I?
I am happy about: being an honest man. Though I could do with some wits about me.
Oh, I forget! I have to do my duty to spread this obnoxious virus. Very well. Usha, Prerna, Nita and Shefaly, of course, are immediate candidates. Poor girls!

ME, ME, TURNING THE TABLE TALK

In a previous tag, Usha had accused me of twisting things beyond recognition, and masochistically, then got me into this meme on table talk. Tells you something about women in general, as her husband might care to testify, if we could get his jaws unwired and surgically separate his tongue from the palate.
Now, bozos and bazookas, this is about as straight as I can talk. It doesn’t get easier or simpler than this. Be warned. Mind it!

What’s your favourite table?
My operating table, but that is where I make my bread and butter. That is different. Like how one of my old girlfriends used to have sex on her kitchen table. This gave a different twist, if not aroma, to food. I gave her up for her awesome oweful table manners, believe me.

What would you have for your last supper?
If I am able to eat: Indian sweets, chocolate cake; if I cannot swallow but liquids, then Milkmaid.

What’s your poison?
Sugar. I have a strong addiction to it. It is only recently that I am controlling it. Rather like how Mr. Chidambaram is doing such a splendid job controlling our inflation with his poisons.

Name your three desert island ingredients.
Nicotine, wine, and chocolates.
All to be served by cheerleaders, or Kingfisher Airline hostesses. Do notice the class it took not to scream “I want Penthouse centerfolds” when it came to choosing.

What would you put in Room 101?
Cheerleaders carrying the above.

Which book gets you cooking?
Pasta: author?

What’s your dream dinner party line-up?
Usha, Lakshmi, Shefaly, Nita, Prerna, Maami, The Rational Fool and Paul.
The rest of you: stop shouting “Liar! Flatterer!”

What was your childhood teatime treat?
Nice biscuits. White bread, thickly layered with Amul butter and coated uniformly with sugar. This, future historians will attest, has affected my psyche on a permanent basis.

What was your most memorable meal?
Too many, and too painfully in the past to revisit. I, Indian accent in tow, have many fond mammaries of people I have shared dinner with.

What was your biggest food disaster?
Cooking an Italian dinner (lemon pasta, spaghetti carbonara, Moussaka-not Italian, really, etc.) for a group of elderly women (friends of a MIL) who, horrors, loved it to the extent that they invited themselves over for their next meeting! It almost led to a divorce, I tell you.

What’s the worst meal you’ve ever had?
I don’t eat what I don’t like. It is rather similar to how ladies don’t do it with men they don’t like. Except their husbands, of course. Husbands cannot be similarly accused, as we know.

Who’s your food hero/food villain?
For every man, it is his mother. For me, too, but if you think of a hero as a person who snatches the heroine in victory, then ME.

Nigella or Delia?
Do I need to eat them? Are they names of cheese? What exactly, I wonder, am I supposed to do with them?

Vegetarians: genius or madness?
Madness is an old cow-eaters’ disease. Vegetarians are genial asses. Ass far as generalisations go.

Fast food or fresh food?
Who’s treating?

Who would you most like to cook for?
You.
(Background noises: “Liar! Flatterer!!”)

What would you cook to impress a date?
Starters: gnocchi, fried cheesy potatoes with Italian herbs, insalata caprese.
Soup: Cream of mushroom.
Entree: Fusilli with walnuts, Fettuccini Alfredo, mushroom risotto, roasted veal with olive, lemon and sage relish.
(Pun-lovers: try my take on pasta.)
Dessert: Walnut cake with butterscotch ice cream, double truffle chocolate cake.
Alcohol: mostly a variety of wines.

Make a wish.
And risk it coming true: are you normal-crazy or a Minister?

A CRUSHING MOVE IN BLOGGING HISTORY

I have watched with a certain degree of perplexity this tagging business in Blogsville. I have previously been tagged by Shefaly, Nita, Mahendra and Prerna, but I escaped most of the time by procrastinating. If you notice, most of them are ladies. We men are trapped in a world that is controlled by women. Publish or perish. Well, I tried and tried, but I got cornered by another one by Purnima, a delightfully candid girl whose moods fluctuate slightly according to the lunar cycle.
I decided to quash this tagging phenomenon forever. By writing one so crushingly odious and torturous that people will sputter (or is it splutter?) into their pink champagnes whenever they think of tagging me.
So, ladies and laddas, here is the ultimate tag-crusher.
No takers, mind it!!

1. Last movie you saw in a theater?
Race.

2. What book are you currently reading?
None. After my failed efforts to read the Holy Koran (seriously), The Kike Runner, The Shamesake and sundry dirty books, and after my successful entry into modern gym-toned studhood, I am more looker than booker.

3. Favorite board game?
Overboard. Especially when it comes to favorite women and favorite food.

4. Favorite magazine?
Mad.

5. Favorite smells?
Babies after their bath and powder. Food and ovulating women in heat cooking in the kitchen. Please forgive me if my pun tuation is not up to the mark here.

6. Favorite sounds?
Purnima: Baby laughter.
Me: Ditto. Babes laughing, too.

7. Worst feeling in the world?
P: Being deprived from internet and having to choose between loved ones.
Me: Being deprived of love and a clean bathroom, not necessarily in the same order, and having to choose between love and internet.

8. What is the first thing you think of when you wake up?
P: I need to pee.
Me: I check my mail. Which makes me want to P.

9. Favorite fast food place?
She: Don’t really like fast food. Call me a snob!
Me: I treat food and sex in the same platform: the preparation must be fast, the consumption must be slow. And the place: anyplace that is unaffordable.

10. Future child’s name?
She: girl- Raja, Rajinder, Rukhsana.
Me: I am generally not informed by the mothers, for some reason.

11. Finish this statement. “If I had lot of money I’d….?”
She: Invest it. Seems logic right?
Me: Use hundred-rupee bills to freak out in vests made out of them.
Not of much better use these days with inflation and taxation taking off most of my marginal income.

12. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal?
She: He’s an animal alright … the stuffed part is what troubles me.
Me: Some like being staffed before being stuffed. Not me. The only stuffed animals I know are for eating, not sleeping with.

13. Storms: cool or scary?
She: If we have to believe Ella, neither. I stick with Jazzy!
Me: See, I told you she was a little, you know? I don’t even know if that was Inglees, our official language.

14. Favorite drinks?
The nectar of earned love. A drop of honest sweat (mostly my own). A chilled glass of ON. A 21 year-old, unearned single malt.

15. Finish this statement, “If I had the time I would….”?

She: Write all the novels I have dancing around in my head, cut my toenails, clean my room, answer all my emails, update my blog, tell Lallopallo one more time I adore him, save the world, solve world famine, paint my room, finish the books I still have to read, go to the barber.
Me: I would settle for the barber: it takes a lot of time to grow hair these days.

16. Do you eat the stems on broccoli?
I am not sure if this is a loaded question that actually means “Do you eat the stem on Brocco Lee?”
To which my answer would be in the negative.

17. If you could dye your hair any color, what would be your choice?
First, you grow the hair. If that miracle actually happens, you love any color you get.

18. Name all the different cities you have lived in?
Sin City, Perspica City, Menda City, Tena City.

19. Favorite sport to watch?
She: Chess.
He: I agree. Provided the contestants are Communist Party leaders and the audience is allowed to throw eggs at the contestants for every wrong move.

20. One nice thing about the person who sent this to you?

She: What I say? They are horrible, horrible people! Horrible I tell you!
Me: She was dropped on the head when she was so little, so it’s not her fault. And she paints well, too.

21. What’s under your bed?
I believe that a bed defines a man: some have baggage with them. Mine is solid. The only thing beneath is the floor, which is a trifle slippery, though.

22. Would you like to be born as yourself again?

She: Yes, again again and again.
Me: Here I disagree. Never again will I be born thus. I would like to be reborn as an American President. That way, you don’t need to get things right all the time. People will still treat you as the last word in success and want to be reborn internally and eternally as you.

23. Favorite place to relax?
She: Beach, next to, under or on top of a loved one.
Me: I couldn’t better that answer. Mountain. As also a good city moment of success.

24. Over easy, or sunny side up?
She: Ugh I don’t even know what that means… I think it’s not good for a girl to say she’s easy let alone over easy so I stick with Sunny side up!
Me: Whether in the stock market, the bed or the kitchen, a roll-over is crucial to a successful climax. The upside is sunny, but there clearly are no downsides to getting it hot both ways. I am talking about eggs, of course, as others know.

25. Favorite pie?
Pie-in-the-sky. The American Pie.

26. Favorite ice cream flavor?
Sultry Siren, Longing Looks, Butter Lick.
There are really no flavors I know of with these names, but if there were, I would make them my favorites.

27. Of all the people you tagged this to, who’s most likely to respond first?

Let’s see: I tag Maami, Paul and Usha. And one highly deserving candidate to crush this phenomenon: Naren.
No, I don’t have any idea which of them will come fast first.

WRITER’S CAMP

Nita, the Meme Sahib of our blogging community, has tagged me. For some reason, indubitably related to a chronic intake of the toxin-laden waters of Mumbai, she has this delusion (or hallucination, whichever is whatever) that I can write, and things like that.

Well, one must not disrespectfully treat a lady these days, unless one is an Indian policeman.

So here I am, deliberating on a subject I know little about. Therefore I shall proceed to write with the utmost confidence on it. As always.

A writer should have many qualities, but let me say what qualities I have always considered necessary for me to develop or nourish. Pardon me for sounding tastelessly didactic, pompous and verbose. Use the comments section freely for abuse, none of which will ever be deleted.

TEN TIPS FOR BITTER REWORDS IN WRITING:

1. Write in short sentences, or use long ones only when sure your long sentence is unavoidable, tantalising, magnetically mesmerizing in its complexity. Then you delete it.

2. Write because you love to. Write on things that you care about. Or don’t.

3. Never be afraid of writing on anything. Even if the article is as scary as committing to posterity your limited mono-neuronic understanding of the art of writing.

4. For humorous writing, you must possess an abundance of imagination. The wilder the better. But the zany figures of speech should strike a chord in the reader. Or you will sound like a broken cord.

5. Just when one starts to take one’s writing seriously, one realises that one is committing a multitude of blunders in the structure. In other words (especially if you are a smartass officially numbered in the last Census), reassess your prose.
It is quite a useful experience to have worked with an editor-type in a newspaper. Aeons back, I had a girlfriend who used to edit stuff, and I learned some valuable things from her. At that time, I did not even know that it was a given to press the spacebar after a full stop or comma, for example. Once you know what the newspaperwallahs want you not to do, then you get out of it and start blogging.

6. Write on a regular basis. Writing is like potty training. Unless you sit every day and go through the motions, the smoothness in flow is never going to be achieved, even if you burst a blood vessel trying. A lot of such efforts are unfit for human consumption (to stretch the pungent figure of speech), but it will all count later. And did I say that one thing not to do is to torture figures of speech just so that they can fit in your sentence?

7. While those who write do know that it is necessary to spend time on your creation, it is important to know what those minutes and hours are to be used for.
So, use time for:
*reading
*research
*re-doing
Actually, this is well known to everyone. But I just wrote this up to complete point number seven. I wish to underline how important it is to use a round figure (like the ten points here) to impress on your readership how scientific and thorough you are.

8. Control of language. This is one thing I feel so deficient of (Another point: never let a preposition end a sentence with). There are writers who are capable of notable fluency and flow ( like an infant peeing just when you have changed the bedsheets and nappies, and barely closed your eyes to the cruel, wet world). And they can do it again and again. Did you notice how I never use ‘And’ to start a sentence?

9. Take your writing and your diction seriously. If you are not careful of your spilling, your metaphors, and those other thingies that are called adverbs, punctuations, etc., chances are your readers will treat it the same. And never preach to your readership. Also, when you feel that insane urge to highlight, underline or italicise what you think are particularly clever passages, just do one of the things that can save the world from a population explosion: desist, withdraw, and, if you didn’t get this particular message, abstain. Readers don’t consider this in good taste, and think you are a loud, tasteless fool. Not me, but you.

10. More imagination: use your mind to bring in analogies between the most bizarre or the most logical, depending on if you think a donkey looks better in tails or in pajamas.

I end this Foolitzer-nominated post by tagging Ergo and Krishashok to tell us, if you can, a thing or two about your particular impression of the art of writing. Ergo brings a philosophical depth and clarity in his deliberations on abstract profundities. Ashok, though not a professional writer, can bring a levity to even a pan pizza. He is seriously funny and creative, though his particular genre of language is a sort of Tamil-English hybrid.
Here is to you, guys!

TAG-A-MET

When brilliant Madrasi blogger Krish Ashok tagged me in his list of the blogs he thinks think, I had no idea this tagging thing was a contagious disease. Apart from my pestilential patients (pests, still essential, geddit?), here was one man who thought I thought. ‘Snot a rotten thought, ‘sit not? Incidentally, my PPs (pestilential patients) think I am always thoughtful and carefully listening to their detailed descriptions of their last week’s bowel movements and an unblinded comparative study with yesterday’s downloaded contents (more like they think it is a national treasure or something) , while I am mentally holidaying in Peru with a pretty Indian girl with a sharp nose, thick lips and big hips…aaah, the tragedies of life!
Anyway, let me cut to the chase again. Another brilliant man, Mahendra, has done something very un-brilliant: he has tagged me. I have to speak at random about myself, and tag some others. Ok, let me be merciful and quick.

Eight random things about myself:

1. I am not judgmental: in other words, I never manage to hide a lack of judgment.

2. I am unkind: I prefer cash.

3. Physical anomaly: Head down, I am really hot. Head up, the view is cooler.

4. I love kids: mostly as kebabs, but with gravy, this veal be even better! Just getting the goat of the veggie thayir vadai brigade!

5. I am a habitual leg-shaker. Pity the disease doesn’t spread.

6. My favorite watch brand is Tag Hore, whichever way you spell it.

7. If I were an Indian batsman of Sunny Days, I would be caught not, bald old.

8. I never use a driver. I screw up (driving) in my car, all by myself. Actually, Indian drivers stink, and I like going solow.

As far as tagging three others, I think there is nobody left. Let us, therefore, re-tag Sree, Mel, and Bernard Chan

Incidentally, Tagamet is a drug for heartburn.