Tuesday, March 15, 2011


(If only I received emails like this more often :))

Hello and thank you for calling The State Mental Hospital.

Please select from the following options menu:

If you are obsessive-compulsive, press 1 repeatedly.

If you are co-dependent, please ask someone to press 2 for you.

If you have multiple personalities, press 3, 4, 5 and 6.

If you are paranoid, we know who you are and what you want, stay on
the line so we can trace your call.

If you are delusional, press 7 and your call will be forwarded to the
Mother Ship.

If you are schizophrenic, listen carefully and a little voice will
tell you which number to press.

If you are manic-depressive, it doesn’t matter which number you press,
nothing will make you happy anyway.

If you are dyslexic, press 9696969696969696.

If you are bipolar, please leave a message after the beep or before
the beep or after the beep. Please wait for the beep.

If you have short-term memory loss, press 9. If you have short-term
memory loss, press 9. If you have short-term memory loss, press 9.

If you have low self-esteem, please hang up our operators are too busy
to talk with you.

If you are menopausal, put the gun down, hang up, turn on the fan, lie
down and cry. You won’t be crazy forever.

If you are blonde, don’t press any buttons, you’ll just mess it up.

This coming week is National Mental Health Care week. You can do your
part by remembering to contact at least one unstable person to show
you care.

Charlie Sheen for instance... Or Lindsay Lohan...

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Rangaswamy and Tiger

This is a poem by one creative guy from my old school... No clue who the
nutty bugger is :)

Rangaswamy and Tiger

Deep in jungle I am went,
On shooting Tiger I am bent.
Bugger Tiger has eaten wife,
No doubt I avenge poor darling's life.
Too much quite, snakes and leeches,
But am not feared these sons of beeches.
Hearing loud noise I am jump with start,
But noise is coming from damn fool heart.
Taking care not to be fright,
I am clutching rifle with eye to sight.
Should Tiger come I will fall him down,
Then like hero return to native town.
Then through trees I am espying one cave,
I am telling self: "Rangaswamy be brave".
I now proceed with too much care,
From nonsense smell this Tiger's lair.
My leg is shake, I start to pray,
I think I shoot Tiger some other day.
Turning round I am going to go,
But Tiger giving bloody roar.
He bounding from cave like shooting star,
I commend my soul to Kali Ma.
Through the jungle I am went,
Like bullet with Tiger hot on scent.
Mighty Tiger rave and rant,
Rangaswamy shit in pant.
Must to therefore leave the jungle,
Killing Tiger one big bungle!
I am telling that never in life
I will risk again for damn fool wife.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

When you are Old and Grey

Thanks to a good friend of mine here is a very special poem that was recited in her class by one of her professors...

The most popular type of popular song is of course the love song, and I'd like to illustrate several subspecies of this form during the evening. First of all, the type of love song where the fellow tells the girl that although the years ahead will almost certainly destroy every vestige of her already dubious charms, that nonetheless his love for her will shine on forever through the years, you know. Another example of stark realism in the popular song. This particular example is called When You Are Old And Grey, and I'd like to dedicate it to anyone in the audience who is still in love with each other.

Since I still appreciate you,
Let's find love while we may.
Because I know I'll hate you
When you are old and grey.

So say you love me here and now,
I'll make the most of that.
Say you love and trust me,
For I know you'll disgust me
When you're old and getting fat.

An awful debility,
A lessened utility,
A loss of mobility
Is a strong possibility.
In all probability
I'll lose my virility
And you your fertility
And desirability,
And this liability
Of total sterility
Will lead to hostility
And a sense of futility,
So let's act with agility
While we still have facility,
For we'll soon reach senility
And lose the ability.

Your teeth will start to go, dear,
Your waist will start to spread.
In twenty years or so, dear,
I'll wish that you were dead.

I'll never love you then at all
The way I do today.
So please remember,
When I leave in December,
I told you so in May.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Pussyfooting in the gardens of Blunderland

Once upon a clichéd moral lesson ago we were treated to the existence of the jackalope – the self-styled sage of Pixar’s short animated feature Boundin’ who specialized in teaching us to smile even in the face of Hurricane Who-defecated-in-the-mortar-used-to-build-the-collapsible-bridge-at-the-CWG. The medal haul aside we can now look forward to “Harold and Kumar go to the CWG” being in production seeing as Kal Penn now has better things to do than aid President Obama put a stake through the hopes of the BPO Juggernaut across the globe. And if the average Indian seeks to holler for a little credibility amidst the circus the world has constructed out of our identity he would do well to remember that we are now into Season 4 of BIG BOSS, Season 2 of Emotional Atyachaar... eagerly awaiting Rakhi ka Insaaf – the inevitable return of Rakhi Sawant ... And we have paid ` 140 crores to watch Dabangg (Rajnikant’s latest however is a MASTERPIECE and questioning its sanctity could only result in gravity and many other physical forces (such as the ones that ensure the necessity for the harmonious co-existence of baby poop and diapers) ceasing to exist altogether).

For starters I’d like to admit to being unabashedly Hindu... something I started embracing about a year ago before which I was comfortable being labelled a lily-livered atheist with an utter disregard for anything that tried to impress the importance of my identity as a Hindu. The Shri Ram Sene did not exactly help my case when they decided to redefine the night scene for a few Mangaloreans around two years ago. Casanova Nityananda with a penchant for practicing none of what he preaches wasn’t exactly helping me justify the ongoing transformation to friends who believe that it is a lot cooler to have no religious identity whatsoever. How does one enunciate the magnificence of the eternal principles of the Hindu way of life to the average Atheist? Especially when you’ve got to constantly nod your head in depression due to variants of the “Pink Chaddi” retribution scheme and the extensive media coverage that accompanies such circuses?

On the bright side however when the Hindus are finally a minority in their own country media vilification of Hinduism will hopefully cease... Hey what the bleep – the ones that remain can forcibly convert to the “YOU ARE GENETICALLY BORN A SINNER AND ONLY CHRIST CAN SAVE YOU” clan so as to avail jobs and other opportunities besides taking time out to read your neighbourhood Evangelist’s public interest issue (sponsored by an American weapons firm that specializes in building tiny spy planes that can blow an average village in Afghanistan to oblivion with a warhead the size of Justin Bieber’s non-existent manhood) of “A brief history of homosexuality and sexual deviancies in the Church and how to spot the signs in your local priest”. That is if you – yes the minority Hindus in what was once known as Hindustan – have not already met a much happier fate being the yearly “infidel” sacrifice (Goats will by then hopefully be either extinct or passé) to Allah via what will soon be introduced as the annual blanket bomb festival in the years to come. Aircraft provided specially by Lockheed Martin and their ilk at special festival discounts.

Now moving on from sounding a lot like that RSS guy you’d rather castrate... After having sat through a viewing of Ram “Karan Johar is the reason I’m on Twitter!” Gopal Varma’s latest offering, Rakht Charitra – I, I’ve realized that most Gangster flicks work on the notion that requires some ignorant imbecile to pump a few slugs of lead into daddy, mommy or whoever it was that was fated to link pinkie fingers with the little critter. For example if somebody had directed all that wasted firepower on Lady Gaga’s folks she would be dressing up as a human wasp with a point to make but instead she’s been doing a bang-up job of setting human evolution a few millenniums behind.

Even as I neglect my regular trajectory of condensing yesterday’s news to today’s toilet humour let me instead reminisce upon all things Mumbai – the city that taught me to exist in the smallest space available in its most popular mode of transport, the suburban railways. The insane peak hour traffic, the extraordinarily resilient and unique people who live there (love them or hate them you can’t change the fact that you are either going to be smothered under their armpits or they will be smothered under yours in the local train, depending on how tall you are); South Mumbai syndrome (Andheri? Powai? Borivalli? Are they a part of Mumbai too?); Marine Drive; overpriced South Indian restaurants; amiable taxi drivers and autorickshawallahs who, when they are not striking, take the time out to chat you up in Marathi even if you don’t understand a word; An obsession with Vada Pav... It’s an exercise in futility trying to list out ALL the unforgettable facets of Mumbai...

Where is thy media sting oh funky financial capital, now that I’m relegated to suffering expressively rendered, melodious sari ads back here in Chennai with actresses who either burnt their fingers trying to launch themselves in Kollywood or are too old to be offered anything but mommy roles in Rajnikanth’s next venture? Not a day went by reading your newspapers without some interesting food for thought. Embezzlements, cases of DUI, ditzy women with little to nothing on them on page 3 (and this from a recluse who’s idea of fun is a lot less appealing than the average page 3 bimbo’s), Shobha De’s art of living the high road to brain death, dubious real estate transactions, exploding water pipes, “Extremely” affordable living space, vada pav contests, the possibility that the Big B might endorse Adult Diapers one day, hoardings of intellectually stimulating entertainment on the telly (Big Boss with the Great Khali for instance)... The list is endless. And so is the nostalgia... But I guess it was the friends I made there – the people who made the experience more than just ordinarily worthwhile. Well I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have fun... The most I’ve ever had in my years on this planet :)

Wednesday, August 4, 2010


What do Warren Andersen, B. Ramalinga Raju and more recently one Mr. Suresh Kalmadi have in common? Well... they couldn’t have picked a prettier spot on the planet to attempt pooping all over and actually look forward to getting away with it! Train wrecks, the merry state of India’s plans for the upcoming Commonwealth Games, sex-starved women’s hockey coaches, limited copies of autobiographies carrying a blood sample of arguably the greatest cricketer costing a measly Rs. 35 lakhs, a legal system that’s any criminal’s wet dream... Yep Rahul Gandhi’s stunt of hopping on to a local train is most definitely a thing of the past. And guess what the best part is? Getting to see the people who govern you fight amongst themselves and almost achieve that singular feat of making the Opposition seem non-existent. Well at least when we’ve been nuked ten times over under the able guidance of General Ashfaq Parvez Kayani, survivor’s can claim we lived in a nation that truly exemplified the meaning of DEMOCRACY.

Mata Soniaji’s merry Congressmen are indulging in a degree of infighting that could only be undermined by what will become a regular CRPF butchering session by the Naxalites. Yep, stuck in the midst of an impending civil war the average hapless CRPF jawan is perhaps just as unaware as you or I about what he’s fighting against – only you and I get to check out the phenomenon that is INCEPTION while the average CRPF jawan gets charged with inefficiency and the option to look forward to dismembering by landmine. Not to mention the brighter prospect of having your reputation dragged into the dirt with a few wayward brothers merrily raping the local women at gunpoint. But didn’t they have Sameera Reddy play a naxalite in RED ALERT – the war within? Silver linings in the cloud abound!

Over the years Bollywood has never delivered an unkind cut to one Mr. Karan Johar. Going by the success of his recent billion-hued feature presentation populated by extremely interchangeable live mannequins the man has obviously understood the general audience for what it is – a bunch of suckers for the saccharine sweet notion of getting away with the violation of Khap Panchayat rules! And hey since you could lose anything from your throat to your testicles to a badly sharpened knife, home-made bombs or to a variety of guns available to the trigger-happy nutjobs we live amidst steer clear of taking a jab at Islam or Jesus Christ. There’s always the Ramayan, the Mahabharat and other Hindu scriptures to distort, plagiarize and vilify all in the name of greater artistic conquest. (Mani Sir... You sure did get away with raping the Ramayan but surely you didn’t think Mr. And Mrs. Bachan Jr’s freak-and-shriek act and utterly inane dialogue would go unrewarded did you?)

Lady Gaga, Justin Beiber, Rihanna and that band that sang something on the lines of the importance of your girlfriend having a well-rounded behind are the ones defining music today and for the generations to come. And thus we are on track to seeing a rise in what may eventually come to be called “the self-destructive foetus syndrome”. Yes, rather than suffer permanent brain damage over a period of nine months and many more years on earth most sensible foetuses are going to be saving their prospective mommies a world of trouble. If all goes well posterity will cease to exist. But hey look on the bright side –we’ve got Lady Gaga in her plastic bubble frock, mammoth-penis boots, and D-cup-sized bra goggles saving a lot of reluctant terrorists a ton of C-4 and all other modes of ammunition usually required in a population downsizing exercise. Killer French mommies now have alternative options too!

Know who David Warren is? You obviously don’t. To those too busy casting bets on whether Lindsay Lohan will become the highest paid pornstar or just choke on a prison meal he is the man who invented the Blackbox that is an integral part of any air crash enquiry. He passed away on the 19th of July and it was heartening to notice that he had been reduced to a tiny footnote on the international section of the daily newspaper. Oh not to worry you’re never going to get that far... Sherlyn Chopra’s put up links of her boobjob on twitter and yes you read it on the section of the newspaper that sometimes gets preference over the Sports page – Three rupees well spent “dontcha” think???

Oil spills, Wikileaks helping us realize our worst fears, Pope Benedict’s new children’s book on Jesus and his apostles (Do you have a better idea on how to curb the church’s long and healthy tradition of paedophilia?), the execution of cabinet ministers in N. Korea by firing squads... All said and done the world couldn’t have been a happier place to live in. What’s not to envy? Tomorrow you could walk down a street and see the mayhem live – all you need is that tiny little buttonhole on your fantastically well-equipped phone to satisfy your attention needs on facebook, youtube and Twitter (As is quite evident... I do it through a blog and inexplicably posting the same as a note on facebook). Here’s to life brothers, sisters!... and of course those with questionable gender manifestations.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010


When you derive a generous degree of satisfaction reading about the breast implant bruises one Amy Winehouse incurred after a fall nobody would blame you for harbouring such malevolent joy. It needn’t just be injured silicon implants – Discovering that Lindsay Lohan is one step away from committing suicide, post portraying Linda Lovelace in an upcoming biopic on that stalwart of the porn industry, could do the trick too. Nobody’s ever going to censure you for your insistence on a little humour at the expense of the colourful lives of the brain dead that litter your daily paper. It’s no longer the heyday of Charles Chaplin, The three Stooges, The Marx Brothers or Laurel and Hardy – Where a little slapstick was all it took to generate a laugh. In an age where the majority of the world is on a social networking tool that goes by the name of “Twitter” what could possibly go wrong? All you need do is “tweet” when in doubt!

It is said that the workings of the Maoist movement are based on eight theses it’s founder Charu Mazumdar had written to provide a strategy to the movement that is, needless to say, our biggest internal security threat (Quoting a few facts can lessen the impact of reading an essay that is otherwise essentially a lot of noise by a prick who quite obviously has an opinion on everything – and like most of his educated self-centred brethren takes very little joy in doing anything beyond the achievement of selfish motives). One Mr. Rahul Gandhi is currently busy denying the one square meal some unfortunate villager has to forego so you can sit back and rest assured the Maoists are not going to stick around for long if Mr. Gandhi chooses to get serious. While that is a work in progress you can choose not to live in Andhra Pradesh, Orissa and Bihar and the rest of India when the time comes for the Maoists to ensure we no longer have railway tracks to have our impeccable railway system transport you to your little village that has surprisingly withstood a flash flood but whose inhabitants died of excessive food poisoning at a wedding celebration that was most definitely not a task in curbing the burgeoning national population.

Sometime back quite a few women came together in a show of solidarity – in a movement quite appropriately titled… Boobquake (It’s still quite the rage on facebook – all you need do is perform a search and shoo yourself into a ringside view to one of the few reasons as to why you may want to rethink that surging need to commit social networking suicide). At the heart of the matter it was an intellectual expression against a very insightful Islamic cleric, one Mr. Hojatoleslam Kazem Siddiqi, more popularly known now as “that Boobquake cleric”. In his landmark proclamation on how excessive cleavage display has caused devastating earthquakes - corroborated by recent studies that say 50% of the world’s men can’t resist peering down many a forbidden passage (apparently the remaining 50% are either impotent, brain-dead or quite obviously figments of the imagination of the few virgins left on this AIDS-infested planet of ours) – he stated this was because men are distracted by the inadvertent display of what essentially belongs well within a bra. This causes irregular mobility whether in a vehicle or on foot which on a statistical scale leads to a lot of irregular tectonic plate shifting on the earth’s surface. This should surely help you shell out a lot more money the next time you’re asked to contribute to earthquake victims on the other side of the globe.

In the best news prospective child abuse victims could get from priests across the world these men of God are coming out in solidarity to curb excessive child molestation. If they can’t stop your kids from being exploited they at least intend to ensure your kids don’t remember a damn thing – a lot of interesting ideas will surely come about as to how to achieve this win-win situation. Should this interesting new (scientific even?) system fail, by standard procedure the disgraced priest will apologise in public, be “defrocked” and a substantial amount of the taxpayer’s money will be given to the victim. Not only is this an incentive for you to pay your taxes more sincerely but this will also help you categorically analyse neighbourhood priests you don’t want your children having a little harmless fun with.

I’m guessing that new reality TV show “Desi Girls” intends to break into a hitherto untapped market – Sexually repressed rural bhaiyyas who it would seem need more than the tantalizing display of feminine midriff Indian cinema dishes out in the average item song. That aside ever wondered what a reality show would be these days without a has-been celebrity reminding us of his or her continued existence? If Anu Malik’s thunder has long since ceased to be that because of a certain A. R. Rahman shouldn’t he have just bled to death listening to the musical cancer he’s been inflicting on us for so many years? No no no. There will be an Indian idol this year and in the years to come. When Himesh Reshammiya finally realizes that nothing on this planet can save his disastrous foray into Bollywood – you’ll probably have the joy of seeing Mr. Malik and Mr. Reshammiya even do a little jig on the umpteenth season aptly titled,”Indian Idol – Kyunki ratings bhi kabhi brain damage ka maamla thi … Aur, Surprise! Surprise! Abhi bhi hai!” – with a bevy of “Desi Girls” thrown in for a little more entertainment. There’s no dearth of actresses who’ve had miserable Bollywood careers anyway.

Leave it to the magnanimous folk who decide which fairness cream you’ll be resorting to treat the five different types of black spots they would have you believe you surely have (even if you don’t) – to fuel your imagination regarding what’s best for you. I mean what use is your cultural identity when the whole world is too busy buying into a common identity of wasted potential? If we’re all travelling down that downward spiral of endless revelry everyone seems to be so enamored with…Who better to guide us than the ones who bank on you to have your pockets go dry as often as possible? Smoke it up, and down those pegs brothers and sisters… The party has only just begun. We’ve got miles to go before we self-destruct and leave very little for those damned Naxalites to hack into.

Saturday, April 10, 2010


Friends, Behenji, countrymen, sexually deviant athletes and the rest of us glued to all that which matters least… this is an ode to all those people who are and will always be the reason misanthropy has become essential - Folks who might actually be perfectly harmless human beings with incredible aspirations, goals and with little to no clue about how much we’d like to shoot them dead if it were not for the sheer entertainment value they generate, elevating misanthropy to almost fashionably necessary levels.

Climb onto a local Mumbai train and you can smell the misanthropy in the air – Peak hour travel is best advised to feel the love. You barely know the fool whose elbows are occupying the exact same coordinates a section of your ribs are occupying too but you lose no time fostering a deep hatred rivalling that of your hatred for having once liked Kuch Kuch Hota Hai and Backstreet Boys. Once you’re off the train it’s time to get your hands on a copy of the newspaper. There’s death, murder, rape, earthquakes, Mayawati, a distant clamour to ensure reservations for dispossessed eunuchs, increased taxes and everything in between to keep you depressed that the asteroid on a collision course missed the earth once again by a few inches.

What is with farmer suicides and the amount of news space they get in the newspaper (relegated to a section of the newspaper that is generally not preferred over the supplement that asks all the tinsel town eye candy on what they would do if they were in a certain Sania Mirza’s shoes). When the last farmer is done consuming what little pesticide that a loan afforded him we’ll just have to make do with Bt Baigan and Bt-everything else – Coming soon to a market near you shortly after Science decides to show the monsoons the finger. So after the farmers are wiped out we can look forward to mass hunger-related deaths of those who can’t afford everything Bt. The rest of us can sit within our four walls and appreciate the new feature they’ve just added in Farmville – Commit suicide if you can’t milk that cow!

And yes M.F. Hussain’s migration to Qatar really was a loss to us… It’s getting increasingly difficult to find 95-year old artists with their genitals firmly where a semblance of a brain ought to have been. Self-imposed exiles don’t entail playing hard to get – especially not if all the fuss was because a vastly ignored group of “religious fundamentalists” made a little noise. Karan Johar and Ram Gopal Varma should consider taking up a Qatari passport too. And so should any film star who spends a little too much time talking about how life was never a bed of roses. Yeah we get it – It’s quite fashionable these days to say you were abused as a child. It’s no surprise really considering how you can now locate your very own personal paedophile priest quite conveniently in your neighbourhood.

Sometimes however you meet certain special children of God. People on whom you’d be wasting your time trying to explain what makes us human scum tick and stay together. They provide sheer entertainment through their bumbling inability to see how perfectly suited they are to being the butt end of all jokes. Endowed with inhuman levels of enthusiasm these very jewels of human creation can cause more pain than your average dose of Lady Gaga. Like I said there’s nothing wrong with these good folk. They just induce an ability to bring forth our morbid tendencies – Why else would audiences clamour for a SAW 7 (Soon playing at a theatre near you in 3-D!) ?

The “need for personal space” has always been hovering over all the collective brain damage ever since the word “demography” came to mean more than it should have. If you’re feeling particularly antisocial you needn’t worry – you just can’t fight your biology. When the world’s paying too much attention to musicians coming out of the closet and scientific studies are focused on what implants best suit mammary amplification it’s only natural to want to set all those misguided suicide bombers in the right direction. Fashion festivals, the sets of any movie Paris Hilton is producing and acting in, the homes of the creators of Farmville, Mafia wars, Fishville, Zooville, and whateverelseville and so many other such blemishes on this desecrated dump could use the elevated levels of misanthropy infused into the average quantity of C-4 today’s terrorists are packing.

When all the ideological frustrations have peaked and found expression, when all the deliberations on climate control can’t prevent impending environmental catastrophes, when all the botox, Viagra, silicone implants, reality dance contests, saas-bahu soap operas, fraudulent Godmen, ensure there’s no love lost amongst people it will be time to welcome a new era for the world at large (the tigers might be giving this party a miss) – An Age of undiluted MISANTHROPY… (No Jake Sully you get to stay on as paraplegic freak in this edition of the world as you always knew it…)