Things that annoy me the most (wow do i love to rant and bitch):
* Rajdeep Sardesai
* Wannabe metalheads who insist on dropping trivia to prove they're truly "metchul"
* People who call other people wannabes
* Accoustic guitars and Hotel California (what is it about darkness, moonlight and a fire that makes anything with a schlong and a guitar want to sing this accursed number, i thoroughly fail to understand. Oh and the stupid chicks who beg for this song)
* Homophobes
* People who say things like "S. M. Krishna was the best thing to happen to Karnataka."
* My building watchman, who, inspite of all my attempts to be really nice to him and keep him stocked with food and occasional booze, still insists on telling tales to The Upstairs Aunty about my late night wanderings.
* My OCD flatmate sorting my cupboard out( how the fuck does she expect me to find anything!)
* My OCD roommate insisting on spraying disinfectant all over my car before she hops in for road trips (The stuff stinks! imagine this- rose-scented disinfectant+ chips+ smoke+ beer+ deodarant+ stale chutney from breakfast+ eggpuff crumbs= sheer sulphurous hell.)
* The Boss.
* The Boss's wife. Bitch. She thinks I'm having it off with the man, jesus christ almighty, has she taken a serious look at him lately?!
* The aunt that keeps trying to marry me off to random strangers with IT/ Bank jobs, and American accents. (The first specimen she brought me to see crashed his cart in fright when i met him at the supermarket months later- hmmm, i shouldn't have told him all those details about my then last trip to goa)
* Goa
* Stupid White People who come to India and behave as if they were in some Spiritual Supermarket, all the while cursing the heat, the flies, the beggars and Us. If you wanted Bliss, you should have stayed at home, you lilly-livered idiots, atleast you have Central Air Conditioning and a Public Transport System that works.
* Microsoft. Die, Bill Gates, Die! (...er...metaphorically of course)
* Guys who wear Dark Glasses indoors in clubs.
* Hrithik Roshan.
* Students who think "After Rang De Basanti We Are All Going To Turn Into Conscientious Citizens And Work For The Benefit Of The Country."
* The Bajrang Dal
* Al Qaeda
* People who take 2000 year old manuscripts seriously word- for- word.
* Christian groups that pretend to not be Christian but then sneak up on you with their pal Jesus when you're busy pouring your heart out to one of Them about your miserable break- up with your ex- boyfriend. Me turn Christian because Ramapithecus Man broke my heart? Haw Haw- what the fuck do you have female friends and beer for then??!
* Gits who ride bikes with modified silencers.
* Gits who think Hostel and Cannibal Holocaust are "cool". I watched it in the company of Neanderthal Man and Tibetan food and had to spend most part of the evening holding his head over the potty as he regurgitated bits of momo and thukpa.
* My brother's girlfriends. The last one he brought along thought the Kyoto Protocol was Japanese Dining Etiquette and asked if Germain Greer was some sort of vegetable. *sigh* where have all the rabble- rousing Feminists gone??
* Chiranjeevi
*Madonna- the gap between her teeth and the gap between her ears where her brain used to be.
* Marylin Manson ("Marylin! Kisses darling *mwa mwa* have you tried those new Max Factor Foundations- they're absolutely smashing, i tell you!")
* George Bush (total Fuckwad. Cannot locate China on a map. Or Washington, for that matter.)
* Americans who drive SUV's and have wives with boob jobs and botox
* Communists (Let it go already man, your wall fell down ages ago.)
* Royal Enfields. (the old bikes fall apart and the new bikes suck. Surely, SURELY, Enfield can come up with better?!)
To Be Contd....(there's plenty more where that came from.)
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Half an orange life
Owing to the regrettable fact that, as of now, my hopeless excuse for an existence revolves chiefly around Neanderthal Man, my mother, a boring job and a flat devoid of furniture with an irritating doorbell, a pothead and an obsessive compulsive maniac for flatmates (well best friends anyway), oh and a Maruti 800 that doesn't know its arse from its nose, my blogging habits may reflect the same.
Take for example Neanderthal Man (NM): When i first saw the guy sitting across the room all alone at a mutual friend's party, i hadn't the faintest inkling that i would end up falling haplessly in love with him only to find myself three years down the line practically engaged and practically gagging at the thought of waking up to his cheerful smile for the rest of my waking life *ugh*- man spare me the hope and pass me the booze- we're all going to die like rats when the global warming shit hits the fan anyway. He is everything I'm not- enthusiastic, cheerful and stupid. It's taken me three long years to figure that one out but hey, i love the morbidly cheerful bastard inspite of having serious homicidal feelings for him that are getting more frequent as the wretched weather gets hotter. Here's what he does on an intolerably hot summer day: he wakes up early, runs 3 kilometres, buys breakfast and insists on waiting patiently outside my front door until i'm awake enough to let him in (the pothead is stoned-asleep and the OC maniac refuses to answer morning rings); then he sits in his shorts on the terrace and smiles at all the aunties as they come upstairs to hang out their washing- "tanning" he calls it- i call it "a recipe for skin cancer". Then he gets sun burnt, comes downstairs, i panic and put aloe on the burns, scold him for his stupidity and then stalk off to watch the football highlights on the telly as flatmates curse loudly from respective rooms.
He sulks because i don't pay any attention to him after the aloe medication and the scolding. too bad i say- he's a grown man, he should know better than to flash his upper torso at aunties upstairs using that flimsy excuse of sunbathing. If he were to die from cancer i would put his remains in a bottle and remain single and celibate forever. Now that would be a terrible thing to happen. So, i keep reminding him, that while he may be very tempted to try things like bungee jumping and heavy metal concerts, i would much rather curse him alive than dead. As much as i would be disgusted at the thought of admitting it, i do love the stupid bastard.
Neanderthal man is a constant source of entertainment and Darshini breakfast (Note to self: must teach NM to cook. I can't take this oily vada crap any longer) I'm the simplest girlfriend he could ever have; i don't ask for presents or expect him to remember important dates (Hell i can't remember them myself)- the most i will ask for is a tenner pack of Kings from the neighbouring paanwalla. I even wear his discarded clothes, can tell the difference between a three-plate and four-plate clutch and coherently explain the meaning of the phrase "pedal to the metal."
Neanderthal Man still expects me to open the door at seven in the morning on weekends, inspite of past experience involving curses on his unborn children, threats to never see him again if he didn't go home and calling his Mom to tell her where he had disappeared to that early in the morning.
But the man will still insist on ringing the doorbell at seven in the morning on a saturday- now what in the name of Beelzebub, do i do about that!
Take for example Neanderthal Man (NM): When i first saw the guy sitting across the room all alone at a mutual friend's party, i hadn't the faintest inkling that i would end up falling haplessly in love with him only to find myself three years down the line practically engaged and practically gagging at the thought of waking up to his cheerful smile for the rest of my waking life *ugh*- man spare me the hope and pass me the booze- we're all going to die like rats when the global warming shit hits the fan anyway. He is everything I'm not- enthusiastic, cheerful and stupid. It's taken me three long years to figure that one out but hey, i love the morbidly cheerful bastard inspite of having serious homicidal feelings for him that are getting more frequent as the wretched weather gets hotter. Here's what he does on an intolerably hot summer day: he wakes up early, runs 3 kilometres, buys breakfast and insists on waiting patiently outside my front door until i'm awake enough to let him in (the pothead is stoned-asleep and the OC maniac refuses to answer morning rings); then he sits in his shorts on the terrace and smiles at all the aunties as they come upstairs to hang out their washing- "tanning" he calls it- i call it "a recipe for skin cancer". Then he gets sun burnt, comes downstairs, i panic and put aloe on the burns, scold him for his stupidity and then stalk off to watch the football highlights on the telly as flatmates curse loudly from respective rooms.
He sulks because i don't pay any attention to him after the aloe medication and the scolding. too bad i say- he's a grown man, he should know better than to flash his upper torso at aunties upstairs using that flimsy excuse of sunbathing. If he were to die from cancer i would put his remains in a bottle and remain single and celibate forever. Now that would be a terrible thing to happen. So, i keep reminding him, that while he may be very tempted to try things like bungee jumping and heavy metal concerts, i would much rather curse him alive than dead. As much as i would be disgusted at the thought of admitting it, i do love the stupid bastard.
Neanderthal man is a constant source of entertainment and Darshini breakfast (Note to self: must teach NM to cook. I can't take this oily vada crap any longer) I'm the simplest girlfriend he could ever have; i don't ask for presents or expect him to remember important dates (Hell i can't remember them myself)- the most i will ask for is a tenner pack of Kings from the neighbouring paanwalla. I even wear his discarded clothes, can tell the difference between a three-plate and four-plate clutch and coherently explain the meaning of the phrase "pedal to the metal."
Neanderthal Man still expects me to open the door at seven in the morning on weekends, inspite of past experience involving curses on his unborn children, threats to never see him again if he didn't go home and calling his Mom to tell her where he had disappeared to that early in the morning.
But the man will still insist on ringing the doorbell at seven in the morning on a saturday- now what in the name of Beelzebub, do i do about that!
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Neandarthal man and The Pink Shirt
Neandarthal man, to start with, is colourblind. He owns a monochromatic wardrobe (black) and claims he wears it in mourning for the world and to assert his identity as being deviant.
Deviant? Alright, if thats what you want to call wearing a piercing in your left eyebrow.
I am most certainly NOT a morning person. Ideally my day would begin at five thirty in the evening and end at seven the next morning. However, i do not work the nightshift at the local sweatshop, so my attempts at turning completely into a nocturnal being are constantly rebuffed by threats of being fired the next time i walk into work late, looking like I've been up and at it all night.
Neanderthal man jars me out of slumber with a phone call on Saturday morning (Ah that blissful reprieve), jabbering cheerfully about a 'new look'. I mumble incoherently into the phone about calling him back. Neanderthal man does not stop but insists on listing out the day's activities even as i contemplate homicide. Finally i make growling noises and curse his unborn children after which NM decides to summarise conversation and threatens to come around and bring breakfast. I hang up, gratefully, only to be woken again an hour later by the annoyingly cheerful doorbell (note to self: must change current chattering-bird type doorbell into something more sombre- Frankenstein piano intro perhaps).
Neanderthal man has brought upma for breakfast- oh joy. And to think I used to curse my mother's cooking and dream of endless gastronomic pleasure once i moved into my own place.
NM jabbers on as i struggle to keep awake and not cut his nose off with the kitchen scissors:
We are going shopping.
As i blunder through my room looking for something non- creased and washed to wear, NM chats happily about his new found love for colour. Wait a minute. Colour?
Since when have you decided to explore colour, i ask NM. Apparently, it was a late night National Geographic show on reptiles of the Amazon jungle that brought it on.
Colours are good, he says. Alright then.
Shopping we go.
What does the man buy?
Two pairs Hanes underwear, black; two t-shirts, navy blue and military green, one pair grey trousers- and- the crowning glory-a Pink Shirt.
Man picks Pink Shirt off rack and holds it on self, staring at self in mirror and looking to me for approving nod.
I nod. Come to think of it, I could do little but nod, since i had only had three cups of coffee before we left and had run out of ciggarettes- if he had held up a baby blue tutu, i would have nodded my approval without even blinking.
Man tries Pink Shirt on. I nod.
Man takes Pink Shirt home.
Man shows Pink Shirt to MOM. She nods. The old bat calls me in a panic. I reassure her, testifying to NM's orientation and explaining that it was just brought on by a late night Nat Geo show and anyway, everything else he bought was dull and boring. NM's feminine side? Doesn't exist Aunty, i insist.
Neanderthal Man then insists on going out in Pink Shirt to Koshy's. Honestly cannot understand NM's obsession with the place- its noisy and crowded and badly lit. And the food reminds me of the stuff we used to get in boarding school. Everytime i eat there, i instinctively look around furtively for matron/prefect type characters who could possibly catch me secretly shovelling food into NM's plate or the lady-at-the-next-table's handbag (whichever s more convenient).
Neandarthal Man insists everyone's staring at him.
I mistakenly reasure him that no one is looking at him, that it's all in his imagination- at which he gets sorely offended and then thinks he's not noticeably unique at all.
NM blames Pink Shirt. Labels it 'Ordinary'.
OK.
NM spends all Sunday trying to bum shirt off onto ex- roommate, rowdy friends and finally ex- military father who threatens to chase him all the way to Vellore with it.
NM broods over wasted purchase and potential new owner- looks up from his tea with diabolical glimmer in eyes.
I wore the shirt to work next morning.
Floated into the office with rolled- up sleeves and a psychedelic tie- new age funky formals, i claim. Boss looks at me with serious doubts written all over face. Haven't seen him stare like that since the last time i wore a skirt to work without shaving my legs- the bastard!
Pink Shirt is getting to me. Have not worn it since then but it hangs menacingly in wardrobe, threatening to unleash it's bubblegum horror onto the world.
I have threatened Neanderthal Man with dire consequences if he brings up Pink Shirt or Shopping again. As for his efforts towards 'bringing colour into his life'- the MOM has told him I'm 'colourful enough for the both of us'.
Neanderthal Man has gone into mourning once more. It has even bought a black toothbrush.
Deviant? Alright, if thats what you want to call wearing a piercing in your left eyebrow.
I am most certainly NOT a morning person. Ideally my day would begin at five thirty in the evening and end at seven the next morning. However, i do not work the nightshift at the local sweatshop, so my attempts at turning completely into a nocturnal being are constantly rebuffed by threats of being fired the next time i walk into work late, looking like I've been up and at it all night.
Neanderthal man jars me out of slumber with a phone call on Saturday morning (Ah that blissful reprieve), jabbering cheerfully about a 'new look'. I mumble incoherently into the phone about calling him back. Neanderthal man does not stop but insists on listing out the day's activities even as i contemplate homicide. Finally i make growling noises and curse his unborn children after which NM decides to summarise conversation and threatens to come around and bring breakfast. I hang up, gratefully, only to be woken again an hour later by the annoyingly cheerful doorbell (note to self: must change current chattering-bird type doorbell into something more sombre- Frankenstein piano intro perhaps).
Neanderthal man has brought upma for breakfast- oh joy. And to think I used to curse my mother's cooking and dream of endless gastronomic pleasure once i moved into my own place.
NM jabbers on as i struggle to keep awake and not cut his nose off with the kitchen scissors:
We are going shopping.
As i blunder through my room looking for something non- creased and washed to wear, NM chats happily about his new found love for colour. Wait a minute. Colour?
Since when have you decided to explore colour, i ask NM. Apparently, it was a late night National Geographic show on reptiles of the Amazon jungle that brought it on.
Colours are good, he says. Alright then.
Shopping we go.
What does the man buy?
Two pairs Hanes underwear, black; two t-shirts, navy blue and military green, one pair grey trousers- and- the crowning glory-a Pink Shirt.
Man picks Pink Shirt off rack and holds it on self, staring at self in mirror and looking to me for approving nod.
I nod. Come to think of it, I could do little but nod, since i had only had three cups of coffee before we left and had run out of ciggarettes- if he had held up a baby blue tutu, i would have nodded my approval without even blinking.
Man tries Pink Shirt on. I nod.
Man takes Pink Shirt home.
Man shows Pink Shirt to MOM. She nods. The old bat calls me in a panic. I reassure her, testifying to NM's orientation and explaining that it was just brought on by a late night Nat Geo show and anyway, everything else he bought was dull and boring. NM's feminine side? Doesn't exist Aunty, i insist.
Neanderthal Man then insists on going out in Pink Shirt to Koshy's. Honestly cannot understand NM's obsession with the place- its noisy and crowded and badly lit. And the food reminds me of the stuff we used to get in boarding school. Everytime i eat there, i instinctively look around furtively for matron/prefect type characters who could possibly catch me secretly shovelling food into NM's plate or the lady-at-the-next-table's handbag (whichever s more convenient).
Neandarthal Man insists everyone's staring at him.
I mistakenly reasure him that no one is looking at him, that it's all in his imagination- at which he gets sorely offended and then thinks he's not noticeably unique at all.
NM blames Pink Shirt. Labels it 'Ordinary'.
OK.
NM spends all Sunday trying to bum shirt off onto ex- roommate, rowdy friends and finally ex- military father who threatens to chase him all the way to Vellore with it.
NM broods over wasted purchase and potential new owner- looks up from his tea with diabolical glimmer in eyes.
I wore the shirt to work next morning.
Floated into the office with rolled- up sleeves and a psychedelic tie- new age funky formals, i claim. Boss looks at me with serious doubts written all over face. Haven't seen him stare like that since the last time i wore a skirt to work without shaving my legs- the bastard!
Pink Shirt is getting to me. Have not worn it since then but it hangs menacingly in wardrobe, threatening to unleash it's bubblegum horror onto the world.
I have threatened Neanderthal Man with dire consequences if he brings up Pink Shirt or Shopping again. As for his efforts towards 'bringing colour into his life'- the MOM has told him I'm 'colourful enough for the both of us'.
Neanderthal Man has gone into mourning once more. It has even bought a black toothbrush.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
An ordinary life- so!
Boredom is such an extraordinary thing- it prompts you to do things like knit, smoke pot, get drunk in the afternoon, attempt playing a musical instrument, or worse, contest your local municipality elections/ start a band.
As an annoyingly cheerful lady once told me, 'there's no such thing as bored'- i'm not quite sure what she was high on.
Try this- you wake up, most of the time on an ordinary day, you get dressed in your very ordinary clothes and get into your very ordinary car and you get to work- there you faff around, trying to look busy and kill time until your coffe break where you crowd onto a precarious ledge to have a smoke and attempt intelligent conversation with the office hottie, who, unfortunately, can't actually count till ten or say the alphabet backward. These aren't exactly necassary skills but hey, what wouldn't one do for a little amusement.
Then you eat your ordinary, greasy office lunch and fight back the nausea as you choke on the soupy shit they call tea.
Finally, the clock strikes five and, hey, it's parole time!
whoopee.
If its a weekday, you go home like a good girl and try and cook yourself some dinner without blowing the place up or burning it down (whichever one's easier)
If its a weekend, the boyfriend insists on taking you out to yet another boring, aesthetically retarded, stuffy, noisy place full of teenagers in little sleeveless tunic tops.
the music is completely, mind- numbingly boring and very very loud- but hey no one would notice if you farted!
Then you go home or his place
and you pretend to have had a wonderful time- all the while gently pushing him away with "not tonight darling, my mother is coming to visit tomorrow"
then you go home and eat toast for breakfast.
toast.
ah, what a wonderful life- you could almost cry- or learn to knit.
As an annoyingly cheerful lady once told me, 'there's no such thing as bored'- i'm not quite sure what she was high on.
Try this- you wake up, most of the time on an ordinary day, you get dressed in your very ordinary clothes and get into your very ordinary car and you get to work- there you faff around, trying to look busy and kill time until your coffe break where you crowd onto a precarious ledge to have a smoke and attempt intelligent conversation with the office hottie, who, unfortunately, can't actually count till ten or say the alphabet backward. These aren't exactly necassary skills but hey, what wouldn't one do for a little amusement.
Then you eat your ordinary, greasy office lunch and fight back the nausea as you choke on the soupy shit they call tea.
Finally, the clock strikes five and, hey, it's parole time!
whoopee.
If its a weekday, you go home like a good girl and try and cook yourself some dinner without blowing the place up or burning it down (whichever one's easier)
If its a weekend, the boyfriend insists on taking you out to yet another boring, aesthetically retarded, stuffy, noisy place full of teenagers in little sleeveless tunic tops.
the music is completely, mind- numbingly boring and very very loud- but hey no one would notice if you farted!
Then you go home or his place
and you pretend to have had a wonderful time- all the while gently pushing him away with "not tonight darling, my mother is coming to visit tomorrow"
then you go home and eat toast for breakfast.
toast.
ah, what a wonderful life- you could almost cry- or learn to knit.
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