Haunches!

It was may be a bad idea on my part to start reading Richard Branson's biography. The bugger just keeps showing off about the amount of times he had sex when he was a juvenile delinquent. And I keep getting a boner. Mr. Branson's never hovered near an IIT, in all likelihood, doesn't bother what the full-form of IIM or for that matter, IIN is, but nevertheless, doesn't boast about his three mistakes, or even three hundred mistakes. Yet, in his life, there was Pussy Galore, and no sir, he wasn't dreaming, at least apparently.

Holy Virgin olive oil! How do you get out of a dilemma? Sleep? Now there's a scarce commodity. Coffee? Nope! Definitely not if you have been thriving on the black liquid for the last four days. I'll tell you what. If the lady is slightly reluctant, and you just happen to feel like a pussy at the same time, a good jerk-off is the best solution. Basically, a classic situation where the phrase "Go, fuck yourself!" actually makes a lot of sense.

Here's what I do for a living, at least for now. I go to places, all expenses paid, watch things, write about them, come back, try and get someone to fix the grammatical errors in what I write, and get payed. Simple, easy and fun. Somewhere in the middle, I also get to fly around a racetrack at 220kph. Problem is, I still don't know how to hold a conversation. You see, that's the whole point. Things that give you existential issues may be as related to what you do or don't do as much as a giraffe is related to the tree you got your chair made out of. That is excatly how much I understand of what I write when I go about reading what I write. For a change, I won't be the only one facing that problem.

But there's one more problem I am confronted with. I can actually see when things are not in a sequence or an order. Not that one would give a hoot about sequence or order, unless you're one of those OCD infected types, who faints at the sight of strewn paper all around. Let your new found eye for orderliness set in and you will be appalled by another fact, that you are actually conforming to the norm, that of organisation, that you abhorred.

Yeah, I'm losing my creativity. It feels like a balloon with the air leaking out of it. I started with writing about ladies, intricately detailing every curve on the luscious bodies. And now, there's one figurine I want to detail to the point of making the woman a holographic projection in the reader's head. The issue now is that there is a good chance that my dad will read it.

Anyway, here's the deal with the lady. Things are a bit pear shaped. That said, have you ever eaten pears that are just a bit post their firm ripeness? They are just that perfect bit soft to bite into, the skin happy to yield to the teeth's pressure, and all you want is another bite, then another and another. Now, I have a weakness for haunches. Yes, that's a new word I picked up from a car review, which also happened to be my word for the day, actually my favorite word for the day. Don't know what 'haunch' means? Look it up, you lousy human! And the haunches on this woman just kill me. Though, I think I'll die if this holographic image in your head right now ever happens to sit on me, a) out of happiness, b) out of asphyxiation. If the woman reads this, I'm dead for sure. That's what happens when you don't communicate a lot and one of the sides goes about being a bit too in-depth with the details. But if I were to describe this 'Eve' in the least amount of words, I'd call her 'unconventionally sexy'. The only thing I can hope for from here on is that I don't fall for the trap this time as hard as I did last time, because at the end of it all, "It's a TRAP!!"

Blast away!

Have you ever notices adults around babies? Specially the toddler kinds? The adults look and seem like they have gone bonkers. All those facial contortionists come rushing into the room to please the baby, and some bugger in the room wonders... "What the hell is going on?". Perhaps, even the baby must be under the impression of  being in circus, and hence, finally decides to make some sound, just to put all the eager spectators at ease. Alas, that little sound emanating from the kid's mouth just fuels the madness in the room and now, everyone wants to individually make the baby chirp. How awesome! And just in case the baby pukes, farts, shits or pisses, there will still be a female in the room who says "Aww, how cute!". Of course, the chaps in the room would have reached Mars before anyone noticed.  

Let's go off on a tangent. We humans are more than ready to drive a nail through anyone's skull to prove or even state a point. True, that sounds harsh, but strangely, that's the way it is. In today's time, needless to say, a nail is too small an instrument to voice our opinion. And so, the smart ones among us just strap a bomb to themselves in the name of the message they intend to convey and blow themselves along with a few others and then some. Message conveyed, damage done, case closed. Oh wait, then there is a parent body that comes about, taking responsibility for having conducted the whole tear-inducing drama, which is actually very neat. At least then, you know who to look for, which, in actuality, you don't. Are you kidding? It is a little frivolous to even state that the owning up happens not out of some form of guilt for the doings, but is in fact a taunt to our collective incompetence to counter, let alone save the situation. Yes, by saying that alone, I do belittle a lot many brave sons and daughters of our nations, who are forever ready to take a bullet for our safety. Sadly, there is little we can do to prevent man's actions in a free world. Then again, as precisely pointed out in the book "The lord of the Flies", it's what we do; give man freedom to do anything and he will wage war. 

And given that 47 human lives will be replaced in a matter of, well less than a few minutes, thanks to the rate at which we replicate, you don't exactly feel the remorse for having killed whatever number of people who happened to have the misfortune of being around you when you, well, blew up. If protest is the big motto, might as well push people away, make some space and then demonstrate your act of sacrifice. But no! That's just spectator sport, so let's take some of them along for the ride!

Have you ever seen a crater created by an asteroid? Try standing at the edge of a deep canyon and you shall realize how puny man is. All these inventions, explosions, egos and other rods up our arses, just give them 100 years. A good number of them won't matter any more than a grain of sand on the beach. Well, in 100 years, humanity itself will remain little like what we witness it as today. We are very near a brink called AI, which will make anything we've seen before quite honestly redundant, even ourselves for that matter. If we happen to be smart enough to not pointlessly fight a soon to be insurmountable machine intelligence, and also if the machine lets us live, we will quite inevitably become some synergistic form of life, man and machine as one. After that comes a highly probable invasion from somewhere outside of our planet. And we shall be like "Damn! We weren't the only ones out there! A pale blue dot in free-floating space, that's what we've always been." Just hope that the invasion comes after we bind with the machines, because, we are sitting ducks, unless characters from the Marvel and DC comic book universe plan on bringing themselves to life, of course. 

Right now, the sun is setting here, as in many places. Some blokes are busy caressing their newborns, some are busy in the process of making newborns while a few are plotting to keep a bunch of people from making newborns by simply blasting themselves near this above mentioned unfortunate bunch before they get home to their shot at copulation. As usual, countless will pointlessly shed tears at their loss; pointlessly because we still haven't figured out time travel in 2015. Not to forget the chaps will be relentless at blasting away things to make a point, til the time there is no more a point to make.

At the same time, what we shall also be relentless at is being all sentimental about the blasts by writing anywhere between 20 to 2000 words on them, disfiguring our ever so painstakingly selected photos with hues of the French flag, just to show how much we condemn this barbaric act. That's what we do. We "Condemn" such acts, because obviously, what else can we do? In reality, all this support we go around showing to victims, is just a glimpse into our fears of falling prey to such mindlessness. But nevertheless, we live on, the world, despite not being enough, keeps spinning, and still, no one feels giddy. 

Writing vain

I'll tell you about a dream I had. It's quite personal, and needles to day, it will feel like you were on psychedelics by the time you are done reading. And the trip could go bad. But before the dream, a little bit of starter as to how I think I had the dream that I had. 

My parents watch old Hindi songs at night. From where I see, there's not much of a disparity in what the songs meant back then and what they mean today. They either mean "Let's have sex", or "I miss having sex with you", or "I'm horny!! I'm horny!! I'm HORNY!!!!!!" Here's an example...

Just that today, we need Sunny Leone to fill the void caused by lack of intelligent lyricists. Now, why did I not think of that before?

Back to the dream, during the late-night song session on the idiot box, which I usually refrain to be a part of, save for yesterday of course, my sister was listening Manali trance. Amazing! I doubt she can pronounce or even spell Marijuana properly. Either way, the song was so annoying that I implored her to change the channel. Remember, I implored. I never do that on regular days. Thankfully, she changed the channel. But trouble was right around the bend. She tuned into a channel playing old songs, which at the time that we tuned into, played a song which featured an actress who looked a tad bit too much like a female I was bonkers about. Maybe, I shouldn't have said that. And maybe, I should also not have said that I get panic attacks when I see any woman who bears the remotest resemblance to this female. But I suppose I just did exactly that. I shouldn't reveal such intimate details to strangers, I suppose. Anyway, who gives bollocks to females who give you panic attacks?

So after seeing this ugly song, I freaked out, and probably lunged into my own room; probably because the intervening five seconds are a bit of a blur. I got up to fast, I guess. Back in my room, life came back to normal. I watched a movie, drifted around a digitally generated race-track in an AE-86, oftentimes ramming the car straight into street-lights. The crow booed every time I did that, making me feel like I should have rammed into the stands instead. After a little reading session, I dozed off like the world wouldn't exist tomorrow. That's when the dream started. 

I was driving quite fast around some road like the Sierra Nevada track in the game Road Rash. Remember that one? I don't remember the car I was driving. All I knew was that there were two cars ahead of me that were moving a lot slower than I wanted them to. I just wasn't sure if there was enough room to overtake them both, because it was a blind left-handed turn up ahead. But I jammed the throttle and sped past the two buffoons. In the next bit, I only remember a steep climb that I needed to endure and all of a sudden, I'm not in my car any more. The ordeal this time was on foot. Even in the dream, I was thinking about a cute female who seldom puts her own photo on whats-app. 

The aforementioned female I was bonkers about, was trouble from day one. I knew that in the head, but perverse little me never heeds advice from head-quarters. Mind you, this strategy usually works beautifully; the one of not listening to the head. Alas, not with this female.

After this little climb that was up ahead of me, little did I know that I was to run from this tyrannous woman, or at least that's how the game was planned. I don't know why it was like that. But I ran for deal little life as hard as I could. Thankfully, my attire had transformed into Flash's costume, which of course only meant one thing.. Light Speed!! And a thing about being able to run fast, or even being able to fly in a dream is this. It feels AWESOME! Yeah, I have bouts of lucid dreaming. There were two things going on in my head as I warped through space at Flash-ish speeds.

#1: Why not run back in time and just not meet the troublesome female?

#2: Why is the sound of her voice still lingering around? It's against the laws of physics isn't it? Light being much, much faster than sound, meaning, at the speeds I was running at, I should technically not be able to hear the woman's voice if she said anything. And yet, I could hear her voice looming around, telling me some indecipherable gibberish. 

Next thing I know, the Flash-costume is gone and I am standing at a door with those see-through wire-mesh nets on them. It's a dingy little house of sorts, the place I am in. I distinctly remember how a free spirit I was at the start of the dream. And now, I was a prisoner of my own imagination. And that ruddy female's face kept popping all around the place. This was around 3 in the morning. I know that for a fact because that was about the time when a colleague from work pinged me to inform of the changes I need to make on our website's home-page. Phew! What a bloody relief from an ugly dream! More so, how I want to thank this chap from work for having chosen that time in the morning to wake me up for something work related. That last line is both an honest compliment and a sarcastic remark rolled into one.

I'd also like to thank my cell-phone for surprisingly being audible last night. For had it been otherwise, I'd have been screwed. Other people I want to acknowledge include the female I used to be bonkers about, the cute female who is quite bonkers herself, my parents, teachers, friends and all those jobless people who will go through the painful task of reading this absolutely frivolous piece of literature, which shall add no value to your life whatsoever, To the last set of people mentioned, please get a life.
By the way, moral of the story is this...
If you want to sleep in peace, please don't listen to songs that have actresses in them who even remotely look like some woman who almost drove you nuts. 

Dusted away

There's something inherently dissatisfying about a morning if you sleep before 2 in the morning, the night before. Now why does that line sound so grammatically off?

But yes, wake up, read around, get the blood pumping with some weights and squats and you're good to go. Oh yes! Before that, some coffee would be splendid. Next, you call up a car dealership and ask if there's a vehicle for test driving. Actually, you could do the calling part on the evening before so that you don't need to wait next morning for the dealership to get ready and clean his bottoms. Either way, what a fantastic idea; the whole bit about car dealers bringing their test car to your doorstep! You don't need to get out of your place and go hunting for the showrooms. What a bloody relief, specially when you want to test-drive a Renault. These folks churn out solid cars and then retail them through their sparsely located showrooms. What a shame. Then again, when I talk about solid cars from Renault, the list doesn't include their Scala and the... umm.. what's the smaller, fancier looking Micra called? Aha! The Pulse. What bollocks! I don't know if it is any good, but not that I honestly care.

Phew! It's alleviating to not think about the opposite gender for over an hour. Anyway, moving on... No, actually wait! Why can't you understand these creatures? See, cars are so simple as long as you know how to use the clutch. And in case of automatics, you don't even need to know that. Is there an automatic transmission on ladies too? So that all you need to do is prod the throttle. To many, I might already be getting too graphic. And besides, automatics are no fun, specially since in the manuals, the stick is purely in your control. That again, is not purely metaphorical, mind you.

So yeah, finally, I'm getting a hang of driving. But now, a bit on test-drive vehicles,

It's usually customary to test a car on your potential purchase list, unless of course, you plan on buying a Rs. 2 crore limousine, which in all probability, will be driven a lot more by your chauffeur than by yourself. In that case, you can waltz into a high-end car manufacturer's showroom, do eenie-meenie-minie-mo, pay the jaw-dropping amount on the car's price-tag, and tango out in your fancy new set of wheels.

But just in case you happen to go up the rungs of life like normal people do, you go to the car showroom, pester the salesman about how many kilometers to a litre of petrol or diesel the car in contention will take you before displaying an empty fuel tank. If the above mentioned distance is anywhere below 15 kilometers, you'll outright tick the car off your list and move on.

I learned that trick from my dad, well almost. But  here's the deal. Your car is an extension of yourself. it's like an oversized pet, if one may. It can be a beast when you want it to be, while also being happily sedate when you want it to. So please don't judge it on Miles per gallon.

Today's car was the Duster. I like as well as dislike the way the backside of the car looks like a baby's bottoms. Smooth, but a bit frog-like. Even the eyes look a bit frog-ish.. Something like this... Oo<>oO

Rrrrrribbit...

See? The "<>" is obviously the Renault badge, or the best I could make of it with the keyboard. So yeah, on the outside, it's a little excessively round. But nevertheless, it feels tank-like to look at. Another thing... I don't know why I am writing all of this. Chaps from my workplace have already put the car through its paces, and have also come out with a verdict. To that, I say... Big deal.

(Damn, I hope my boss doesn't read this. And I'm not going to tell you his name.)

So that was the outsides. It's a progeny of a frog and a battle tank. Or to be a little unsubtle, the Duster's exteriors are what you get when a frog has sex with a battle tank; a crossover in the truest of senses. Goodness! That line was a weight on my chest. So since that's off, I shall move onto the interiors, which are staid-looking at best. All functional and everything, but it is built like the car is on sale for the year 2000.

Okay, what the hell am I doing? Am I reviewing a car or something? Well, actually, the seating position is bloody amazing. Big seats, slightly hard to the touch, but in a very reassuring way.

Hold on, the best bit about the car remains. And it is the drive. Save for the slightly notchy gear lever, it drives like a dream. I am reiterating the fact that as a driver, I am a beginner at best. And hence, if I say it's easy to drive, there's hardly a moron out there who couldn't drive the Duster. It is proportionally up on a big chunk of cars out there on the road, but strangely, it doesn't let you feel so, except for maybe its wheel-arches that extend a mile on each side; something worth paying attention to if you are to wade through a lot of traffic. But give it a clean stretch of terra firma, or for that matter, even an undulating one, and this one will seldom fail to make you smile. Just that all its grunt surges out in a bit of a hurry post 2000rpm on the rev meter.

Summing up the car in about two lines is actually simple. If you like to drive and have a penchant for straight forward, uncomplicated things, the Duster is your baby. It's not fancy like the Creta from Hyundai. But it is safe and comes with everything that you will need on the road, or even sometimes off it, just in case push comes to shove.

I'll try describing a woman in such detail next time. I'll maybe try to be a little succinct.

From behind the wheel

I just hate fellow drivers. Specially those stinky ones who think that it's their moral right to cut you when your speedo reads over 60. Kilometers per hour, I mean. I know, I could have written 60kph, or 60km/h, but why not waste words for a change? Coming back to fellow drivers, every time I get onto the road, I wonder who created them. And yes, I have also come to the conclusion that pondering over the issue is a purely fruitless waste of time. 

Ever been on Mumbai roads within a 20 meter radius of a Mahindra Scorpio? Here are a few things guaranteed. It will mostly be white. It will be a base variant, as the driver wants the car only for its monstrous proportions. It will most certainly have something written in saffron on it. I won't get into any further specifics as I shall surely be killed if I do. I have seen people coming in harm's way through very inconspicuous blog posts. And so, hail freedom of speech. 

Either way, these above described cars look ugly, just like their Ray-Ban wearing, betel chewing chaps behind their wheels. Now do I actually have to tell you that it is a pain to drive next to them? The blokes drive like the road belongs to them, and I am fully confident that if you go to confront them, they will run you over, and even escape charges for murdering you because..... because..... because..... as always, you don't know who their father is. That comes from the dialogue from Delhi folks... "तू जानता नहीं की मेरा बाप कौन है? (Tu jaanta nahi mera baap kaun hai?)", which means "You don't know who my father is?", which in turn means that the chap who asked you the question during the conflict(Which most likely was caused by the bloke) knows some corrupt little politician who is nowhere related to his father, and hence wants to warn you of potentially dire consequences, should you chose to take the argument any further. 

I just don't understand the logic of this "Fatherly" question. Why would anyone ask you if you know his father? 

No buddy, I don't know your father. Could you please get your pissy little face out of my bloody sight?

The sad part is that the Scorpio driver never asks you this futile question. He has surpassed the Delhi bugger in terms of intelligence on this front. You do though, get to know who this fellow's father or godfather is after you are done being pulverized. But then again, this piece of information is as useful to you as a visiting card of a Datsun salesman when you drive a BMW. And no, I don't drive a BMW... Not right now at least.  

So all is hunky dory and the lord is supposed to be on the last day of creating the world, since tomorrow is a Sunday. Amazing! That's one more thing I hate. Sundays. What dreadful time of the week. Saturday is over. Monday morning blues are less than 24 hours away and the day zips by like a glass of fresh lemonade. Anyone seen those sensitive ladies who sip on their lemonades through a straw? Why, poor women? What has a shot of Vitamin C ever done to you? Besides, these ladies call everything "tacky". What a set of pretentious little wusses!

And tonight's the night. No, the cute lady isn't coming over. Alas. But Saturday nights are when you feel that you can conquer the world! Okay, you end up watching 5 movies in a row, and reach halfway through a book if it's funny. But the feeling of empowerment, specially after having driven your car for quite a bit is uplifting at the very least. 

Another thing about driving cars that I just noticed today is this. We generally shift up to the next gear when the engine runs at about 2000-3000RPM. For a change, just hold onto that gear a while longer. Your perceptions about your car are most likely to change. But that again is when you factor in quite a bit of things. For starters, you need to nail the right pedal to see anything awe inspiring. Secondly, you need to have a clean patch of tarmac ahead of you. It is best if you don't have fellow passengers in the car, specially not your mother; unless of course your mom is a petrolhead.

Mind you, I am still discovering how decent a driver can be, Becoming good, in all honesty, seems a long way ahead. Why is it that I can only thing about cars or women? Cars and women together are fine as long as the lady is not using her pretty smile to lure you into her showroom. 

Deep.. err Stuff

Ah, the sight of my beautiful keyboard without the thoughts of quality controlling words! It is a blissful moment in time, completely worth savoring.

So since that bit is over with, let's proceed with thoughts of the day.

#1: If it's a beautiful Tuesday morning when you find yourself waiting for the weekend to arrive, you're in deep shit.

#2: If you think of shit, or something shitty and don't feel like laughing, then you are in deep shit. Or that you are constipated. Or both.

#3: If you get your paycheck and are still not happy, then again... you are in deep shit. Or actually, the guy who made your cheque was stupid to not include your middle name while writing it. So now, you can't get the money you painstakingly did not work for. Either way, you're still in deep shit.

Okay, the next one's easy.

#4: If you get into a train and cannot get out on your stop, you are in....... err.. Mumbai during peak rush hour. Or you are thinking about some mental female. And of course, you are in deep shit!

#5: If you can only think about work even in your sleep, and in the process, you can't sleep, again, the shit pit gets deeper. Because

a) Your bloody creativity is gone for a good old toss, bugger!

b) You begin to stutter in front of the cute female.

And while all this is happening, the mind is secretly knowing exactly what's going on. You're taking life too seriously, specially when no one seems to be coming out of the other end alive. So the grey fellow behind the forehead whispers... "You chut, you're losing your Vitamin C!" And you're like "What??"

You know the worst bit? The worst bit is when parents send you weird pictures with quotes in it, which, according to them, will perk you up. Parents, oh so naive these creatures are. For a change, I won't go into evolutionary biology of why parents are overprotective of their offsprings. Because to be honest, I have no clue of why they are the way they are. I'd rather listen to Justin Bieber than try to dig deeper into the issue. And this is the point where I was supposed to run out of ideas to type down. But I'm now wondering if the movie "Inherent Vice" make any sense without pot. Because strangely enough, Ant-Man did. Mind you, such issues, when brought up in mind while driving behind an utterly incompetent driver is quite obviously an obnoxiously bad idea. Now, I feel I should add more words to my repertoire. How about the word 'Negligee'? It's what ladies usually wear when at home. You've seen it in the movies, and wondered how wonderful it would be if ladies actually wear such things at home. But a little bit of prudent introspection would help you realize that the negligee isn't made for all. I wouldn't go into the specifics of why so, as I ain't no Shallow Hal. But it's funny what our ladies here wear. It's funnier what it is called. Maxi. Err... Again, why? I'll leave the etymology to you.

Disturbing the train of thought again, it's not a good thing to be told that your thought process just doesn't follow a sequence. Specially when you're told so at work by your boss. What hat does is only strengthen your belief in the fact that you are probably autistic, dyslexic, or have some disorder you cannot spell. I even got the spelling of spelling wrong. You see, any place with the remotest probability of double letters, and the brain just over-fires; or actually does not fire at all. What the hel.

Mind you, despite that the mind minds its own business with a mind of its own, it is actually very mindful. You may not be, but don't say that about your grey matter. You see, just because you decided to wag your dick over fire, turning it into an inedible sausage instead of a useful appendage, don't blame the brain. It just stood by to numb your pain after you were done with business as usual. All this is metaphorical, absolutely! But you never know. With us humans, you NEVER know.

If you notice, there's a voice in your head that tells you a lot of things. When that voice screams "Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! Get your arse out of here", don't listen to it. That's your reptilian cortex(the most rudimentary bit of your brain) speaking.

By the way, in the quest of hilarious novels, I ran into a title called "The sex lives of Cannibals". Nice! Very graphic, very gory and very, very sexy indeed! Not to forget, very painful too. I am yet to read the book, but I am sure it has little to do with sexual habits of the female Preying Mantis. Tempting book title anyway.

And another thing... In Hindi there's a phrase that goes by "हर मर्ज़ की दवा"(Har Marz ki dava), which means 'A cure for everything'. It's surprising how the English speaking population ingeniously circumvented all the anyway incomprehensible Urdu. They just mixed sugar, fat and cocoa in a wide variety of proportions and shut everyone up with good old chocolate. Lesser beings added milk powder to the concoction and gave the world Milk chocolate. And yes, it cures everything. Well, almost.