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Volume One (101 columns) (May 2007-June 2008)
Original Source: http://thedailycolumns.wordpress.com
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Disclaimer: This e-book has mature humor and is not suitable for children. Nothing mentioned in this book is based on any kind of facts whatsoever. The columns aren't written with the intention to offend anyone. They are meant to be nonsensical satirical pieces that usually only makes the writer laugh and no one else. All stories about celebrities, news channels, religion, and other eminent personalities are completely made up and have no element of truth attached to them. The writer is just a bitter asshole so please don't pay any attention to what he's saying.
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Fasci-Nation The Prince and the Faux-Pas Canne-demonium Error Attack Seacrest’s Angels Spoilsport The Bone Identity Big Brother, Stiff Father The COSB Ja’Mon Let’s Auction Visual Aids I’ll Have The Grilled Bitch Please Two Heads Make One BJ For Kids: How to Save Your Ass The Mystery of the Dead Coach Premature Education Adopted: The Angelina Jolie Story Boxing in Bollywood Motho Fucs: Part One Motho Fucs: Part Two Motho Fucs: Part Three Al Qaeda Fan Mail To Pope Goes the Weasel Men of Honor Scare Hostess “F”: Part One “F”: Part Two “F”: Part Three Oh, Have Mercy An Inconvenient Stink Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 1 The Prestigious Silver Dildo Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 2 Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 3 The Adventures of Space Bitch Sunita Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 4 50 Paise vs Britney Spears 50 Paise vs George W. Bush 50 Paise vs F.R.I.E.N.D.S The Wrestlemaniac
6 7 8-9 10-11 12-13 14 15-16 17-18 19-20 21-22 23-24 25-26 27-28 29-30 31-32 33-34 35-36 37-38 39 40 41 42-43 44-45 46-47 48-49 50-51 52-53 54-55 56-57 58-59 60-61 62-63 64-66 67-68 69-70 71-73 74 75 76 77-78
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The Seven Wonders of India 79-81 Paris Hilton Saves the Bald Eagles 82-83 God Fan Mail 84-85 50 Paise vs. A Corporate Homo 86 Alan Johnston and the Panty Wearing Potter Fans 87 The Transforming Killer Holes 88-89 A Muslim Extremist Visits a Catholic Confessional 90-93 Kalpana Chawla is a Lying Little Bitch 94-95 The Drunk Postman: A Bombastically Lame Story 96-97 The Big Flip: A Dramatically Lame Story 98-102 Whassup Nigar…Khan? 103-104 From the Chomsky-Saussure Filth Archives 105-106 Life or Something of that Sort 107-108 Hate Comics 109 Pot, Pussy, and Prayers with Snoop and his Players 110 50 Paise vs. Harry Potter 111 50 Paise vs. Education 112 Bend it like What’s-His-Name 113-114 50 Paise vs. The Oscars 115 50 Paise vs. Will and Grace 116 Aesop’s Slightly Looney Brother’s Fables # 1 117 Indian President Looks Like a Lady 118-119 50 Paise vs. God 120 50 Paise’s Love Note 121 India Shining Like Hell 122 Aesop’s Slightly Looney Brother’s Fables # 2 123 India Poised Like Hell 124-126 From the Chomsky-Saussure Filth Archives Part 2 127-128 Dutt’s the Way it is 129-130 60 Years 131-132 Why can’t we be not Friends? 133-134 It’s tougher to be a Man 135 The Sock Murder Mystery 136-139 Di, Dogs, and Dev 140-141 The Bridge of RAM-ifications 142-144 Sticks N Balls 145-148 High School Musical: Deleted Scenes 149-150 Overflowing Closet 151-152 BPO: Best Possible Orifice 153-155 When a Man Loves a Dog 156-157 And then there was Pedophilia 158-160 Suicide Bomber Fan Mail 161-162 Extreme Kamasutra Part One 163-166 Extreme Kamasutra Part Two 167-169 Crying, Waiting, Hoping 170
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Lynne Spears’s Parenting Book: Chapter One A Message from Jesus Sweetest Assassinations of All Time Welcome to India, Nice to Molest You Bite that tongue India is MY Country, Not YOURS Spread the VD Message Fuck the Tiger! Save the Moths! Untake my Kidney The Makerighter Paradise Fucked Up The Life of Karkodian: A Timeline Admissions Open to the Rape Academy The 2008 Motherfucker Awards Kids Special: Nursery Rhymes Anichiated Butterscotchism
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-6(21st May 2007)
It is infuriating to see how a few rotten apples can pose a threat to a perfectly healthy tree. Our nation exemplifies unpolluted democracy and it perturbs me when I see certain people trying to pollute it. We all know the part that religious passion and enthusiastic nationalism have played in helping India reach the glorious heights it has reached today. So, I decided to conduct an investigation of sorts into the blatant acts of blasphemy that these antinational elements have been committing. As a result of keen observation on my part, and perfectly productive use of my time, I found out the subliminal messages of hate that a certain female anchor on a sports show was emitting. Mandira, as I shall refer to her, was shamelessly drinking orange juice from a white glass using a blue straw. The very sight of it wounded the national pride within me that I held (and will always hold) higher than everything else. After days of stoning her residence, burning her effigies and downloading her hot semi-naked photos off the Internet, my fellow patriots and I filed a case against her that resulted in a just court verdict; for the crime of insulting our national colors, she was made to stand completely nude in front of us with nothing but a book to cover herself. This, inadvertently, led me to the second villainous figure in this vicious antinational circlean artist, with questionable initials, whom I shall call M.F Hussain. Aided by his perversely heretical mind, he dared to paint the nude picture of Mandira having nothing but a book to cover herself. Clearly, his desire was to abuse the Hindu religion and insult the source of divine knowledge, which was epitomized by the book in her hand. After days of stoning his residence, burning his effigies, and urinating on his property walls, my fellow believers and I filed a case against him that finally managed to serve justice; for offending the religious sentiments of one billion people Mr. Hussain was made to repeatedly watch the movies he directed for three consecutive days followed by a session of Amitabh Bachchan narrating penguin sex. As I was celebrating the contributions I had made to our country’s overall progress by going to a Chinese Restaurant, my eyes fell on the deplorable act of a renowned sportsperson committing sacrilege against our nation’s father. Sachin, I shall call him, was brazenly using chopsticks to consume his Chinese Food when clearly the chopsticks resembled the walking stick that our Mahatma once used. I knew I owed it to Bappuji to inflict proper punishment on blasphemers like Sachin. After breaking his bats, crushing his balls, and burning his effigies, my fellow Indians and I once again approached the judiciary and were given a fair verdict; for the crime of insulting the Father of Our Nation Sachin was made to take dancing lessons from S. Sreesanth. I’m, unfortunately, forced to report all this from an undisclosed location as Maneka Gandhi is stoning my house assisted a group of effigy-burning chimps. She apparently felt that the inclusion of penguins in this report was discriminatory and insensitive on my part. But I don’t blame her since, as Indians, we do have the right to stone other people’s houses and cause them physical harm while protesting. If that is not freedom of expression, then I don’t know what is.
-7(22nd May 2007)
The Prince and the Faux Pas
A fierce familial spat happened within the Buckingham Palace sometime back when Prince Harry let his father and grandmother know that he was planning to pick up a job after graduation. An irate Prince Charles severely admonished Harry for planning to break the royal tradition of not lifting up even a tiny finger to do anything in life. The Queen, angered by the news, wished to scream at her grandson but since she was too lazy to do that she hired comedian Michael Richards to do the job. However, Michael Richards was soon fired from the task when he was found guilty of racially abusing the royal steed. After a lot of persuasion Prince Harry finally revealed that he intended to pick up a job for the purpose of knowing what ordinary people lived like, how life would be if one had to work to sustain it, and what sleeping under an ordinary non-golden roof felt like. Prince Charles grabbed this opportunity and used the latter part of the same argument to justify his affair with Camilla Parker. The Queen, ultimately, suggested that rather than pick up a job Harry should set himself upon a bunch of demanding, sophisticated missions which would help him get a break from the life of luxury, instill in him a sense of achievement and which would protect the royal heritage of never having worked a single day in life. Prince Harry’s first mission was to milk a cow. He embarked on the mission armed with nothing but a heart full of hope and a glass tumbler. Prince Harry held the glass tumbler under the cow’s udder and requested her to donate some milk; when that failed he promised the cow that he would build her a nice luxurious shed if she complied; and when that too didn’t go as planned Prince Harry told the cow in a soft, cold voice, “Those are two very nice calves you have. It would be a shame if something were to happen to them, especially since you are a single mother.” Still no luck, still no milk. After fourteen minutes of trying he finally gave up and returned to the palace. His second mission, that was meant to inculcate some normalcy into his life, was to repaint his home. This, Harry thought, was something he could dorunning a paintbrush up and down walls couldn’t be that hard. However, after three minutes into the task he quit when he realized that repainting one’s home was quite a difficult job especially when you lived in the Buckingham Palace. His next missionto clean up his room was also abandoned after he was confused as to which of his three hundred and seventy two rooms he should start out with. After various other failed missions the royal family broke the big news to Prince Harryhe was going to Iraq to fight with the rest of the British soldiers. On hearing this he responded, keeping in tact the royal dignity, “Are you both bloody crazy?” However, the Queen and her son explained to Harry that he wouldn’t actually be going to Iraq; they would only be telling the world that he was dying to go there. Later, a security analysis would reveal a shocking finding that there was a chance Prince Harry could die if he went there. Thus, it would seem to everybody as if Harry was a patriot like the other soldiers but would still keep himself unharmed unlike the other soldiers. Prince Harry was impressed by the plan and promised his father and grandmother that he would never express an interest to toil again in his life. The Queen looked at her grandson, with tears in her eyes, and said, “We’re so proud of you, Harry.”
-8(23rd May 2007)
The scene resembled that of a pre-independent era, set in the Indian territory of Puducherry, where the French were trying to infiltrate India and inflict pain upon us with their advanced weapons. Except that it was mid-May 2007 in the French town of Cannes and it was the Indians trying to infiltrate France and inflict pain upon them with our Bollywood movies. One of the stars who made her presence felt at the Cannes Fest was Preity Zinta who was there to promote her theory that she did not have an affair with Louis the XVI that caused a rift between him and Marie Antoinette. The French media responded by asking her, “Qui l’enfer vous est?” (Who the hell are you?). She screamed a flurry of obscenities in Hindi at them and asked them to pardon her French. Rumors floated that Hrithik Roshan was seen flying around the area with his right hand up in the air screaming, “The double-thumb is here.” John Abraham, covered in designer wear, was seen talking to the French reporters about how he would never part with his middle class upbringing. Holding his hand throughout the fest was girlfriend Bipasha, dressed in a formal bikini, complaining about how her boyfriend would never part with his middle class upbringing. Another major attraction at Cannes was Shilpa Shetty who was patently having a good time posing and smiling for the paparazzi who mistook her for the French independent director Pierre Packi Currie. And when they started calling out “Packi! Packi! Currie! Currie!” to get her attention she broke down into tears and whined about how they weren’t even trying to see her for who she truly wasjust a really bad actress. A curious incident transpired in the middle of the festival where the French Police managed to capture an Indian born stalker who was, apparently, studying each and every move of Angelina Jolie. The police later revealed the stalker to be Sushmita Sen who confessed that she was merely stalking Angelina Jolie to get tips on how to adopt more successfully. Conspicuous by his absence was Shah Rukh Khan who was not invited to Cannes this year after the demented humor sense he exhibited last year where he made puns like “King Cannes” and “Khan/Cannes Banega Crorepati”. He was given a memo that read “Khan canned from Cannes.” The focus of attention, although, was, unsurprisingly, the Bachchans who finally gained access to the Cannes portal through the latest addition to their family, Aishwarya Rai. The entire Bachchan family was present including Amitabh, Abishek, Aishwarya, and the motherly figure of Amar Singh. A slight scuffle occurred between Amitabh and the security guards when Amar Singh’s name was found missing from the guest list. However, Amar Singh was allowed to enter after Amitabh explained that they were actually Siamese twins who had very recently been surgically separated by chief surgeon Dr. Mayavati.
-9The Cannes Film Festival 2007, with its booming success, marked a new high for Indian snobbery and a new low for filmmaking. This year’s fest was described as the most smoothly run event in all of the sixty years of Cannes. There was, however, some panic created when the entire event was put on hold for about twenty minutes; men in uniform cordoned off the entire area and circled the guests. Things calmed down, later, when it was revealed that the security issue arose as the Bachchans had to take a bathroom break. And as everyone knows that is a strictly family affair.
- 10 (24th May 2007)
One of my lifelong dreams has been to one day visit the city of Paris, take in the beauty of Eiffel Tower, interact with the French people, and put to good use the only sentence that I know in the French language: Je veux faire l’amour à votre femme. I think it means “I love life” or something poetic like that. So, the first thing I decide to do is gather information on Paris so I can have a comprehensive idea about what to expect there. I take my trusty Oxford Dictionary of World Place Names and look it up: Paris: A land inhabited by Parsis. The city was named after its first queen, Paris Hilton the First who was also the first Parsi Hilton. I didn’t want to go all the way to Paris just to meet a bunch of Parsis. So, I make up my mind and can the idea of going to Paris. I open up the Oxford Dictionary and scan the glossary and focus on the dream destination entries. Now, that looks like a list of places where I can go and relax: Dream Destinations The Republic of Iraq: One of the hottest tourist spots in the Middle East that’s buzzing with life day and night. Thousands of Americans and British vacation in the sandy beaches of Iraq under the warm, crackling sun every year; some even find it difficult to leave the place. Even if it’s only to shoot some hoops, do some hunting, or to, simply, have a blast Iraq is the place to be. Pakistan: Might very well turn out to be the next Iraq as the Government sponsored entertainments in the country are slowly capturing the attention of international tourists. Shopping in open market places and taking bus rides in Pakistan are two activities that are just to die for. China: A country filled with Japanese people, this is the place for shopping if you are interested in getting top quality authentic gadgets and equipments. Japan:One of the largest English speaking countries in the world, Japan is the home of some very famous global celebrities like Jackie Chan, Charlie Chan, and Amitabh Bach Chan. All the places that I see in the Oxford Dictionary Dream Destination list hold great promise especially some African nations like Korea and Hong Kong. However, I still do not feel overwhelmed by an urge to just pack my bags and go to any of these heavenly locations. I want to vacation some place where luxury is commonplace, where pleasure is embraced, and love is all around. All of a sudden, my eyes, which were scanning the open Dictionary, fall on the one place that epitomizes serenity, pleasantness, and comfort more than any other place on this earth.
- 11 Hell:Renowned for its great historic significance, this is one place that will appeal to your mind, body, and soul. Marked by a uniquely tropical climate, Hell is the one place where cultural coexistence has been stable for a very long time. Accommodating residents from virtually every nation in the world, Hell can be appropriately named the official melting pot of the world. So lose your inhibitions, carry your summer clothes, and come down to the real land down under. Hot, happening, and rich with cultural heritageall the things that I’m seeking for in my perfect holiday spot. Finally, I make up my mind. To give myself a break from all the tension that’s been happening around in our world, I’m going to the one place that will be much more peaceful than home. I’m going to Hell.
- 12 (25th May 2007)
The anticipation was so intense that the Palestinians and Israelis refrained from killing each other for one night; Iraqis rested their debate on whether or not Saddam Hussein was gay; Bill Clinton once again put off having sex with Hillary; Osama Bin Laden was finally watching something other than his own videos; George Bush, at last, stopped doing the African boogie. It was a night when they all chimed in one singular voice, “This is it; this is the moment; this…is American Idol.” Of course, the Palestinians, Israelis, and Iraqis were hugely disappointed with the result. They were all rooting for Blake Lewis since the sounds he produced were very similar to what they heard around them most of the time. Crestfallen at the outcome, they went back to killing each other. The rest of the world swallowed their personal prejudices and joined the 17 year-old buxom, Jordin Sparks, in the moment of her crowning glory. In fact, Ryan Seacrest was so excited that he pulled down his pants and mooned the judges. They responded like this: Randy Jackson: Yo, dawg, this is what we liked about you when we first saw you. You seemed a bit itchy in middle but you scratched it out man. That was hot baby! Paula Abdul: Ryan…you’re just…you know…you come out here…you… you…you do your thing…you make me…ohhh…I’m just so freakin’ proud of you! Simon Cowell: Pale, saggy, forgettable. The pleasantly plump Jordin declared her undying gratitude towards the American public and promised them that she would remain loyal to her integrity and virginal image until she turned nineteen, when, of course, she would transform herself into a total whore like the pop music tradition goes. She then proceeded to thank the three judges after which she knelt down, looked Ryan Seacrest in his face, and told him that he was a very special gay guy. The runner up, or the loser, Blake Lewis, when asked about his reaction regarding the voters’ choice very eloquently replied, “Boom-chik-chik-boom bam bam-chik-chik-bam”. His father was seen crying yet again but this time it was because the little girl in the seat next to him teased him about his loser son. A touching scene arose when Ryan Seacrest tried to comfort the heartbroken Blake. But the touching stopped when Blake threatened to call the security on Ryan. Despite earning an immense viewership for this year’s final episode, some were of the opinion that last year’s Idol finale, which showcased the amazing ass voice of Katherine Mcphee going up against the spastic antics of some vanilla head Taylor Hicks was the best ever in the history of the show. However, no one could predict the manner in which 2007’s finale came to an end. As Jordin Sparks filled the stage, taking in the sweet scent of success, she was suddenly jolted out of her magical reality by a loud shriek. As the millions of eyes searched around for the origin of the cacophonic shriek, the source made itself appear. In an almost
- 13 gay army SWAT like entrance, from the roof, dropped Sanjaya who was suspended from the ceiling with the help of nothing but his silky locks. Right by his side was his sister who was known to the world only as “cleavage girl”. Sanjaya slid across the stage over to Jordin, grabbed the microphone from her hand, and issued a threat. If the title was not forfeited by Jordin and consequently conferred upon him he would unleash a three-hour performance on stage with tracks by Stevie Wonder, Maxi Priest, and Slipknot. The entire audience shuddered in fear knowing very well the unfathomable intensity of havoc Sanjaya could wreak. No one knew what to doexcept one fairy man, Ryan Seacrest. All of a sudden he spoke into his collar microphone, “Angels, are you ready?” He was met with knowing nods from the three judges seated in front of the stage. Suddenly, all three jumped from behind their desk and landed on the stage taking up a very, very gay poselegs astride, hands in the air, and crotches strained. Simon landed a flying breast slam on Sanjaya knocking the microphone right out of his hand as Paula and Randy started making out on stage. Grossed out by this sight, Sanjaya retreated with his sister, screaming, “You haven’t seen the last of me, Simon.” Then, suddenly, as the world watched Sanjaya jumped into his sister’s cleavage and disappeared out of everyone’s sight. Seacrest maintained his composure, looked right into the audience’s eyes and said, “This is messed up. This is bizarre. This…is American Idol.”
- 14 (26th May 2007)
The Indian Soccer Team plays with the faith of a terminally ill pessimist; the achievements of the Indian Hockey Team are as impressive as George Bush’s grammar; and our beloved Indian Cricket Team has more injuries under its belt than wins. These statistics might bring a sense of hopelessness to ordinary youngsters but the young population in India is anything but ordinary. That is exactly why, when faced with this situation where the popularity of the traditional sports is declining, they have regenerated the seeds of a sport that just might see India placed amongst the top athletic nations in the world. This sport has been around since time immemorial and adult Indians have always been very competitive in this particular sport, especially when playing against our own domestic teams. However, the indefatigable enthusiasm that Indian children, both teens and preteens, have been showing recently towards this sport has got to be the most encouraging factor of them all. I’m, of course, referring to the emerging sport of manslaughter. The amazing thing about this sport is that it can be played as singles or doubles; it is also often played in teams with each team consisting of varying number of players; it can be an indoor as well as an outdoor sport; and most of the people playing the sport, especially the youngsters, are often driven by passion, although there are some who play just for the money, the fame or the window seat in a school bus. The fascinating aspect about manslaughter is that there is no specific training that one can get to learn how to play it; the children, in particular, develop interest in the sport by emulating the legendary names in the sport, which one can look up in the members-list of the Indian Parliament; some also get inspired by watching television programs that bear striking resemblances to the sport of manslaughter like the debates on NDTV and CNN-IBN. Recent accomplishments in the sport have shown that our country has great young potential that could help us build a strong, very formidable Under-19 and Under-13 team which could even challenge the established teams of USA and Germany. They are, of course, in possession of much sophisticated sporting equipments when compared to the culinary knives and clenched up fists that our players play with; however, the rate at which the sport is being played all around our country injects us with the hope that it’s only a matter of time before our young players, too, get their hands, more frequently, on similar sophisticated equipments. However, what some players getting into the sport fail to realize is that with fame comes its burdens. If you’re labeled as a star player your fame is most likely to isolate you from your friends and family and you could end up spending most of your life with other star players in your locker rooms. Although, for children, growing up in our country absorbing the scenes that they see around them where their elders turn into fanatics when it comes to this unique sport, it’s hard not to indulge in it. However, I just have one request to all the players of this game, children and adults—don’t ever invite me to one of your games; nothing personal, I guess I’m just a spoilsport.
- 15 (27th May 2007)
The Bone Identity
I’ve made up my mind to buy myself a pack of cigarettes every day starting from June. Not because I smoke but I’m just addicted to pictures of skull and crossbones. However, that is not quite what the Indian Government hopes to achieve with their decision to have all tobacco products bear that deadly, all destructive symbol. The anti-smoking campaignconsisting of wives whose husbands put out cigarettes on their butts, guys who hate ashtrays, and English cricketers who loathe the Ashesapproached the Indian Government with state of the art software that analyzed and calculated the huge impact the pictorial warning would have on people taking up smoking. It was a Word Document with the words “PICTORIAL WARNING ON CIGARETTES IS NEAT” blown up to a font size of 78. Of course, when faced with such solid scientific evidence, the Government had no other option but to give in to their demand. One key reason for making pictorial warnings mandatory for tobacco products is to get the message across to a large section of bidi-smokers who’re mostly illiterate rural people like bankrupt suicidal farmers and unemployed hobos who will, of course, suddenly ascribe new meaning to their lives owing to graphic depictions of mouth ulcer, cerebral strokes, and damaged hearts. And, surely, the symbolic significance of the limp cigarette is not likely to elude their hugely poetic, interpretive intellects. Seeing that the Government was favorably negotiating with the anti-smoking campaign, two other committees decided to voice their demandsthe Anti-Fat-Ass committee and the Anti-Ayn Rand Committee. The Anti-Fat-Ass campaigners insisted that all snacks, chocolates, and ice cream should have a picture of a huge fat kid getting stoned by bullies in school and a picture of a big bloated girl getting cheated on by her partner; meanwhile, the Anti-Ayn Rand campaigners demanded that every book of Ayn Rand especially Atlas Shrugged should compulsorily carry a picture of a man putting a gun up to his head. The Government, however, found these demands highly retarded and told them to just stop their despicable habits of eating and reading. The milestone reached by the anti-smoking campaigners, unsurprisingly, did not sit well with the owners of the tobacco companies and the people involved in selling tobacco products. They argued that having such graphic images on the covers of tobacco products would instill a sense of violence in the people who come across them. And, also, there was this small glitch of them losing a lot of money, but obviously that wasn’t as important as protecting the people from the potentially traumatic pictures. Finally, they suggested that if the anti-smokers so badly wanted a pictorial warning they could perhaps content themselves with the picture of a normal man looking kind of sadbuyers would, of course, be able to interpret that the reason for his sadness was lung cancer, impotence, mouth ulcer, chapped lips, and children who were victims of passive smoking. Unfortunately for the pro-tobacco crusaders, the Government proved to be inflexible on their decision. In anger, the pro-tobacco crusaders remarked that the Government should have a huge logo where a donkey with a broken leg would be shown, which would translate to “lame Ass.” The Government said that they would think about it.
- 16 I’m often dumbfounded when two parties with contrasting opinions just cannot find a common ground. And since the Indian Government, the anti-smoking campaigners and the pro-tobacco activists do not seem to have the foresight and astuteness to understand the psyche of the people in our nation I consider it my responsibility to put forth an amicable solution to the smoking predicament. If one is able to develop an image that wouldn’t severely traumatize the customers but would still put the fear of God in them and would make them think thrice before smoking; that is the key to solving the issue. Thankfully, that is exactly what I have done.
- 17 (28th May 2007)
Big Brother, Stiff Father
A retired cricketer addicted to animal porn, a wannabe model, an unusually large homosexual, and a foul mouthed kangaroo, all staying together under the same roof for four weeks: that is the kind of picture that materialized in my mind when I tried to imagine the Australian version of the reality television series Big Brother. But as it turns out the original thing is a lot less commonplace than what my imagination was able to concoct. The Big Brother House, customarily, is an isolated territory where nothing from the outside intrudes and everything from the inside, except sewage, goes out. It’s true, the sewage is forced to stay inside the Big Brother Bathroom, which is why most of the contestants get pissed off and end up harassing the ones around them. The only person who managed to shield herself from the wrath of the smelly sewage was Shilpa Shetty but that was chiefly because she barely ate anything and didn’t have to use the bathroom at all. However, in the more advanced Australian version, Big Brother has gone from withholding drainage facilities, which they felt was not very humanitarian on their part, to withholding information about a contestant’s father’s death. Emma Cornell, an Australian model, hoping to tread in Shilpa Shetty’s shoes, might just be the chosen one who’s next in line to start up with global anonymity and end up with international pity. Even though it’s been over a week since Emma’s father died of cancer, Big Brother still hasn’t broken the news to her. When asked about their decision to not disclose the news about Emma’s father’s death to her, one of the officials commented that in the Australian family system the Brother always takes a more prominent position when compared to the father. Later, Big Brother revealed that it was Emma’s own family who wanted to keep the news hidden from her. Emma Cornell’s blood brother declared that it was a family decision and Emma would understand missing her father’s funeral. He also mentioned that after she returned if she badly wanted to attend her parent’s funeral he would happily cut their mother’s throat and throw her a brand new funeral, just to prove that family was the most important thing in the whole world. But, come what may, he would never let the label of ‘quitter’ be associated with his sister’s name. All the members of Emma’s family acquiesced with Emma’s brother’s statements and echoed that this is what her father had wanted. Her dead father, however, refused to comment on the issue. Meanwhile, when news about Emma Cornell’s possible rise to fame reached Shilpa’s ears she realized that Emma was a creeper that had to be nipped in the bud. Shilpa Shetty currently holds the number one position in the list of people who are hated by half the world and pitied by the other half. Behind her, in a close second, is Saddam Hussein. Shilpa knew that if she let the situation escalate further her number one spot would be taken away from her. So she decided to break into the Australian Big Brother House and reveal the news to Emma. Since stealth was of utmost importance Shilpa made up her mind to dig a hole outside the Big Brother House compound and shovel her way inside. Things progressed smoothly but shit happened when Shilpa accidentally thrust the shovel into one of the drainage pipes coming from the House. But her experience as a Bollywood actress assisted her to thrive in shit. She finally emerged out of the hole and got into the house.
- 18 Emma Cornell was sitting down when Shilpa broke her the news. For a while she spoke nothing, but after she came back from her room her cheeks were glistening with tears. Though Shilpa instinctively felt a pang of guilt on seeing her cry she suddenly noticed something familiarsomething trademark of her own self. Looking into Emma’s face Shilpa realized that the tears moistening Emma’s cheeks were fake just like hers during the contrived racial row. However, when Shilpa accused Emma of being a phony, Emma replied by saying that it was not so and that she truly loved her father, Geoffrey. But when Shilpa told Emma that her dead father’s name was Raymond, Emma finally gave up the act. EC: I’m here to win and nobody can stop me. I’ll soon be the most pitied, most hated person in the whole world. SS: Look, you don’t understand. You can’t take that away from me. That is all I have. Isn’t there anything I can do for you that might change your mind? EC: Well, there is one thing but there is no way you can make it happen. SS: What is it? EC: One of my biggest dreams has always been to get a hot kiss from the Hollywood star, Richard Gere in front of thousands of truck drivers. You wouldn’t know how to make that happen, would you? SS: Hmm…I think I might be able to help you with that.
- 19 (29th May 2007)
One of the least understood concepts in our world is the concept of cults. When we usually talk about cults we refer to the more popular, more routine groups where likeminded people gather and share their various interests. Some of the common cults are the Goat Cultwhere the members make use of goat testicles to adorn their faces, the Thursday Cultwhere the cult members gather every Thursday to drink the heated urine of komodo dragons, and the Engineer Cultwhere people who like having sex with automatic paper shredders meet up. However, all cults do not have their fundamentals rooted in normalcy like the aforementioned ones. A shocking discovery that I made as part of an investigation exposed me to a cult that is more dangerous, more damaging, and more bizarre than anything I have ever seen in my life; a cult which is centuries old and has successfully managed to shield the knowledge of its existence from the outside world; a cult which mercilessly recruits young children to strengthen their foundation; a cult where the nature of the activities that take place is nothing short of excruciating; a set of people who call themselves the members of the COSBor the Cult of the Spelling Bee. My first knowledge of the COSB’s existence came via an ancient scroll that was slid neatly into the deepest recesses of the anal cavity of a librarian who recently passed away. (One of my uncles is a mortician so he keeps giving his relatives stuff he finds in defunct rectums). Anyway, the scroll was the official three-rule constitution of the Cult of the Spelling Bee. This is how it looked: THE CONSTITUTION OF THE CULT OF THE SPELLING BEE a) All members should strictly have zero athletic abilities
b) New members can only be the children of existing cult membersit does not matter if the children are legitimate or bastards c) All members should have shitty hairstyles
Intrigued by this finding, I conducted further investigation that shed light on the internal mechanism of the COSB. The cult members gather every year and try to spell out words that no human being would ever use in his lifenever…ever…I mean it…not even once. They recruit young childrenmostly their own like the scroll readand brainwash their minds to get them to inject their brains with the spelling of painfully useless words. The cult members aren’t concerned with what the words signify which is why the participants are allowed to ask, during the spelling ritual, to the Elders, what the word means and how it is used in a sentence. The members of the Cult of the Spelling Bee seems to enjoy some kind of perverse pleasure in voicing and taking apart words like ‘absquatulate’, ‘houghmagandy’, ‘mallemaroking’, and ‘syzygy’. After I typed in these words for this exposé, I tried to use the dictionary in my computer to find out their meanings. I punched the words in and waited for
- 20 their meanings to appear. After a while, a message popped up on screen, “Are ye kidding me? Sod off, ya bugger”. I learned that there was only so much a computer could do; and, also, that my computer was, apparently, Scottish. The frightening aspect of all this is that the Cult is growing at an alarming rate with sister cults all across the world. It is only a matter of time before these ruthless maniacs let loose pure terror upon the unsuspecting humanity. But if we, the others, can stick together there might be a way for us to stop them. We have to gather our friends and family, educate them about the dangers of the COSB and urge them to do the only thing that can possibly save usmake more speling mistaikes.
- 21 (30th May 2007)
Ja’Mon Let’s Auction
You’d have to be seriously messed up in the head if you ever volunteer yourself to become a suicide bomber; you’d have to be even dumber if you believe celebrities mean it when they say they love their fans above all; but you need to be suffering from mental retardation of a cataclysmic intensity if you aren’t even considering buying anything from the ultimate Michael Jackson memorabilia auction. After all he’s someone who has been entertaining you for years, and, if given the chance, I’m sure he would love to entertain your children, and their childrenand their friendsas well. At the auction are some of the most priceless belongings of the “King of Plastic surgery”, which he’s willing to give you if you have about twenty dollars and the documents to all the property that you ownand yeah, also exclusive babysitting rights to any young boy under thirteen that you might be around for the rest of your lives. I decide to attend the function in order to get a firsthand experience of what the auction will be like. The first item up for auction is a wrinkly dark cloth-like material, for which the bidding starts at $5000. Me (picking up the dark wrinkly material with my right hand): Hey, Michael, how come this crumpled gummy thing costs so much? What is it? MJ (smiling creepily): That’s my precious foreskin that was circumcised way back when I was black. After I amputate my right hand, I proceed to the rest of the stuff that Jackson is auctioning off. The second item is a wrinkly white cloth-like material, which has a starting bid of $ 10, 000. Me: Let me guess, that is your foreskin after you became white? MJ: No, you silly squirrel. Foreskin can only be removed once. That’s a sliver of my ass after I became white. I walk around further trying to find something that hasn’t either been sliced off his ass or chopped off his dong. I stop when I see a collection of men’s innerwear. Since they appear really small, I naturally assume that I’m looking at them from a great distance, and I try to walk closer towards it. After two steps, I go crashing into the wall on which they are hung. Then I realize why they look so small, they are all children’s underwear. Me: As sick as it might sound, please tell me those are yours from when you were a kid. MJ: No, you silly parrot, those belong to my favorite young friends who constantly visit me at my home Me: That’s what I was afraid of.
- 22 MJ (pointing): That blue one’s Macaulay Culkin’s from when he was ten; that tight red one’s Haley Joel Osment’s from when he was eight; the polka dotted pink one belonged to Fred Savage when he was eleven; and that cute little golden thong belongs to Chris Tucker. Me: You mean Chris Tucker’s from when he was a kid. MJ: No, he left it here yesterday night Two used soap collections, three pube packets, a couple of stained teddy bears, and five life size Peter Pan figures with torn out behinds later I begin to get the feeling that there’s a certain theme to this entire auction. Desperately seeking to find something that doesn’t stay with the theme I scan the area until my eyes fall on a bottle of hand cream. Me: I’m guessing the hand cream is also part of the past you shared with your young friends. MJ: Actually, no. That’s something that connects me with my son in a deep and profound way. Me (guilty that I misunderstood him): Really, what do you mean? MJ: That’s the hand cream that I had on when I was dangling my son from the window of my hotel room on the 15th floor. Hours later, I end my time at the auction and head back home. As I’m walking down the street, I ruminate on the unusual experience that I had at the auction. The things I saw, the stories I heard, and the African-American foreskin I touched. Suddenly I realize the futility of my journey back home; I no longer have a home. My twenty dollars and the deed, along with the key, to my home are with Michael Jackson; I gave it all to him after the purchase he persuaded me to make at the auction. But I’m not worried because I’m a survivor; I can make it out in the mean streets as long as nobody thinks I’m some lily assed pansy. Even though I miss my right hand, at least I won’t feel alone since I have Peter Pan in a golden thong for company.
- 23 (31st May 2007)
India is developing at such an astonishing rate that if Anna Nicole Smith were alive her tits would have exclaimed, “Jeez! And we thought we were developed!” Technology, entertainment, literature, lovemaking positions, morality, tolerance, you name it we top it. If there was anything that was holding us down it was probably the fact that we hadn’t done anything extraordinary in the field of medicine; some discovery, some cure, or, perhaps, the shattering of some mistaken theory that the world of medicine all over had been embracing as true all this time. But, thanks to the Government Medical College Hospital (MCH) in Kolkata (Calcutta) we have finally broken that jinx. The hospital made the groundbreaking discovery that a certain type of AIDS is, in fact, transmitted by the patient breathing on or by just looking at another person continuously, without blinking, for seven minutes and twenty-two seconds. And it was because of that reason that they threw an AIDS patient, named Kno Mani, out of their hospital and refused to even go near him, finally catalyzing his death. Kno Mani, after he was diagnosed as HIV +, first went to a place called the School Of Tropical Medicine (STM) in Kolkata, where he was asked to go to MCH instead since, apparently, that was the day STM staff members had kept apart to hand-clean each other’s bowels. So the AIDS patient, Kno Mani, and his wife, without any consideration to the people on the streets, walkedexhaling their contaminated air frequentlytowards MCH. The employees at MCH, thanks to their trained eyes, were able to intuit that the patient had to be dealt with delicately. Kno Mani and his wife went straight to the Emergency Ward and requested to get hospitalized. The authorities screamed at Kno Mani to keep his distance and not come any closer. After wearing their spacesuits, welding masks, and their virus-reflecting pink panties they approached Kno Mani and told him there was no bed available for him. Kno Mani: But I saw a man in an executive suit arriving with a sprained little finger, accompanied by his seven relatives. They all seem to have got their own beds. MCH (bravely maintaining their stance): I’m sorry, Kno Mani, No Bed. Kno Mani and his wife, once again, without any sense of social responsibility, walked back to STM with the selfish desire to receive some sort of medical treatment or at least a free glass of water (Oh, the human greed!). However, by the time they reached STM it was already the next day and that was, incidentally, STM’s eat-your-neighbor’s-puke day. So, Kno Mani and his wife, the opportunists that they were, returned to MCHbreathing out into the normal people’s atmosphere while they trundled along. By this time MCH had called for backup and their expert doctors were already waiting for Kno Mani’s return. Kno Mani and his wife, shamelessly, repeated their plea. But the strong will and the indestructible conviction of the doctors shone through. Kno Mani: Why can’t you help me, please? I can barely breathe. Please, help me. MCH: I’m sorry, Kno Mani, No Treatment. Unfortunately, after being pressurized by a group of no good ogres (NGO) the hospital had to finally give in and find a discarded corner to accommodate Kno Mani and his wife. However, the combined plan of MCH and STM to make Kno Mani walk back and
- 24 forth, and thus deprive him of his already weak breathing, slowly began showing its effect. Thankfully, they retrieved the corner quite soon as Kno Mani died a couple of days later. However, the extensive research that MCH had done, with the assistance of the bowelgroping, puke-eating STM showed that it was from the corpse of an AIDS patient that one was most likely to contract the disease. So, as a quarantine measure, every single one of them refused to even go near the body let alone remove it from its spot. Instead, the authorities felt it was more advisable if they hired a bunch of homeless kids to move the body. Later, at a press conference, MCH authorities talked about the strange case of AIDS that Kno Mani had. MCH: This isn’t the first time that we have had someone with this particular condition. There have been reports of similar cases in the past. And at all times, we have strictly followed the official hospital code of not giving a shit. What common people fail to understand is that there are two types of AIDSType R and Type P. Type R stands for Rich AIDS and Type P stands for Poor AIDS. Unfortunately, Kno Mani was suffering from a severe case of Type P AIDS. There was nothing that we could do for him except keep him as far away from us as possible. The doctors also talked about their latest project where they would do extensive study to try and prove that cancer can be contracted through forwarding email attachments. Suddenly, I feel a lot safer living in our nation.
- 25 (1st June 2007)
I’ll have the Grilled Bitch Please
I love how smart people are. When we wanted heat and light, we invented fire. When we wanted to bullshit about life, we produced philosophy. When we wanted to get around, we invented the car. When we wanted to torture kids, we created math. And when a man, named Mark McGowan wanted to protest against animal cruelty, he cooked a dog and ate it with apples and onions. Like I said, I love how smart people are. A few days back Prince Philip of Britain killed a fox during one of his hunting trips which set off the code purple alarm at the NOBODY-GIVES-A-SHIT-ABOUT-MESO-I’LL-JUST-PRETEND-TO-LOVE-ANIMALS ASSOCIATION Headquarters in the meat section of Wal-Mart in North Yemen. Since they realized that traditional methods of protest like holding signs, shouting slogans, and mooning people weren’t effective anymore when dealing with such seasoned animal offenders like the Royal Family, they heeded to the suggestion made by one of their veteran activists, Mark McGowan. He explained that a few months ago when somebody killed a duck, he used a similar way of protesting and ate a swan. And since then, statistics have shown that most of the people who used to eat ducks have also begun eating swans. The world watched in shock as Mark McGowan sliced the dog meat into smaller chunks, bit the flesh off neatly, spat out the bones, and downed the meal with a glass of mongoose spunk. The hunters who were watching this sickening sight, from all across the world, thought in unison, “I never realized what I was doing. I went hunting with my dogs to kill foxes and rabbits thinking that it was a good thing that I was doing. I can’t believe I didn’t realize I should have just shot those bloody dogs as well.” The show of protest didn’t mark a new milestone for animal lovers alone; it paved a new route of expression for people all over the world who have been biting down their feelings about the injustice happening globally to those who can’t speak up for themselves. As a show of protest against the rising number of pedophilic Catholic Priests, thousands of creepy old men from all across the world molested their nephews. Millions of parents expressed their views against drug use amongst teens by shooting up sizeable amounts of the good stuff. Billions of sensitive men, concerned with the oppressed state of the opposite sex, protested against the victimization of women by visiting brothels and forcing random women to play their skin flutes. Some celebrities also took the opportunity to clear up certain misunderstandings that have been associated with them. R. Kelly: I peed on the underage girl only to show the world that it was wrong to…well…pee on underage girls. O.J Simpson: I wanted to protest against the shocking instances of domestic violence that is ruining our great country. George Bush: I’m deploying more troops to Iraq to teach them that killing innocent people is wrong and that a human life is to be valued above everything else.
- 26 Bill Clinton: Marriage is a beautiful thing. You shouldn’t dishonor it. Elton John: I engage in gay sex to show the world that it’s sinful and ungodly…Oh, heck! Who am I kidding? I love getting a good fudge pack. So, what are we waiting for? Let’s get out there and fight for our causes. Let’s kill, rape, plunder, torture, sodomize, steal, and raise hell. Let’s make the world a better place to live in.
- 27 (2nd June 2007)
Two Heads Make One BJ
It almost matched, in its historic significance and intensity, the confrontation scene between Leonidas and Xerxes except in this case both the parties looked super gay. The news about King Bill and King Jobs sharing the battlefield after such a long gap created murmurs of such epic proportions that there was even talk about demoting the position of Christmas to the second place and declaring the BJ day as the single most important and celebrated day in the whole world. On hearing the rumors even Jesus said in exasperation, “Christ! I wasn’t kidding when I said the geeks shall inherit the earth, was I? I mean, damn!” People thronged up in millions to see the two legends sharing the same stage. Most of them had received emails from both Microsoft and Apple, which had promised them free bytes. However, the spokespersons for both the companies clarified that they had done no such thing and it was all the work of frustrated spammers. They, however, mentioned that they appreciated the people showing up and added that if they left before the meeting got over all their motherboards would be destroyed. And after guaranteeing an audience the two stalwarts made their entrance. On the chair that was shaped like an arrangement of windows, weighing in at 97 lbs, sporting a one million dollar shirt that still looked like crap was King Bill. On a blow up couch in the form of an apple, weighing in at 114 lbs, wearing a look of imminent bathroom visit, was King Jobs. For about an hour, both the Kings exchanged the memories of their times together and how each was an inevitable part to the rise of the other. After some more minutes of kissing each other’s Recycle Bins they moved on to reveal to the world the new weapons that would be coming out from their respective artilleries. Microsoft announced that they were coming up with a new updated version of XBOX 360, which wouldn’t blow up if used for more than two hours. They also mentioned that current XBOX 360 users would not be able to enjoy all the super cool luxuries that the new XBOX 360 updated version users would have, like not dying in an explosion caused by the console. Apple matched Microsoft’s bombshell by announcing their brand new state of the art phone called the “uPhone”. It would be very similar to their previous product, the iPhone, but it would cost much much more. King Jobs personally explained the difference between the iPhone and the uPhone: King Jobs: With iPhone I’ll have to take the trouble of taking the money from you. But with uPhone you’ll be sucked into giving me the money yourself. It wasn’t all business that transpired between the two kings. There were several moments of pure natural humor that shone through during the fluent conversation that took place between the two. Here’s a transcript of one such hilarious piece of conversation that took place between King Bill and King Jobs. King Bill: <li style=”border-bottom: 1px solid #ececec;”><b>IE5+:</b> IE 5 and above</li> <li style=”border-bottom: 1px solid #ececec;”><b>Opr7+:</b> Opera 7 and above.</li> <div id=”scriptheader”><span class=”compatlist”>FF1+ IE5+ Opr7+</span>.
- 28 Hearing this comment made by King Bill, King Jobs retorted with a quick and witty comeback. King Jobs: <div class=”virtualpage4″> <img src=”castle.gif” /> <img src=”http://img201.imageshack.us/img201/6923/countryxb6.gif” /> <a href=”#” rel=”previous”>Prev</a> <span class=”flatview”></span> <a href=”#”. Whatever was expected of the event was happening as expected until the unexpected happened at the expected moment unexpectedly surpassing all expectations. In the middle of a conversation King Bill’s eyes began glowing and subsequently turned orange. Making strange robotic noises, he began to twirl in circles. Then suddenly, with one swift movement of his arm, he ripped of his Velcro pants to reveal a blinking microchip in his abdominal area (a really really micro chip). He then turned around and bent over displaying his posterior to his rival who was too stunned to move. As millions watched, something brown, something smelly, something pasty slid out of his orificeit was the Microsoft Zune mp3 player. The Zune crawled out his ass and shot straight ahead to hit King Jobs in his nuts with the precision of a homing missile. King Jobs dropped dead instantly as the world realized that it wasn’t King Bill whom they were looking at but a robotic duplicate sent to destroy King Jobs. As the fake King Bill stood tall in his glory his eyes fell on the dead king’s pants; there was movement inside. At first the robot mistook it for a posthumous boner, but by the time he realized the truth it was a bit too late. Two apple shaped metallic balls rolled out of the dead king’s pants and began going berserk around the fake King Bill. Suddenly a mechanical voice came from the corpse of King Jobs which said, “These testicles will self-destruct in 5…4…3…2…1”. A loud explosion followed, engulfing and completely melting the robot King Bill in the testicle flame of the robot King Jobs. The millions of everyday computer users stared speechlessly at the carnage that was laid out before them. After about four more minutes of staring they all went back to their PCs and Macs to download porn and play pinball.
- 29 (3rd June 2007)
For Kids: How to Save Your Ass
Call me psychic but years ago when I used to spend close to twenty hours a day watching TV, and my parents called me a lazy-ass who wouldn’t exercise his brain, I told them that I was doing it for my own safety and well-being. I specifically remember giving them the portentous warning that all parents who forced their kids to stop watching TV and engage in brainy activities like spending time with computers or developing a skill or reading books would have their words come back in the future and bite them in their asses so bad that it would cause a severe infection around their anuses. Anyway, anal infections aside, I’m referring to the grave dangers that can be brought upon a child’s life when he fails to spend an abnormal amount of time in front of the TV. Since the ill effects of reading books, and developing a skill, have been researched extensively by experts from the rap industry I’ll be focusing on the third and the most perilous substitute for TVthe Internet. And today, I shall dedicate my intelligence to provide a list of safety tips for children, which would guarantee 98% protection from the innumerous sexual predators who are perpetually roaming the world of Internet. Obviously, there’s a 2% chance that even after reading my safety tips children could still be dumb enough to go on and get the shit molested out of them. INTERNET SAFETY TIPS FOR CHILDREN I) Ideally, chatting on the Internet, being a member of online communities, and trying to find friends online should be avoided, as those are the activities of losers with no lives who beat themselves off more than eighteen times a day. However, if you are a kid, who beats himself off more than eighteen times a day, and cannot help but chat online make sure you choose your screen name wisely. I would not recommend using your real name, your original birth date, or the extent of your cuteness. Using sophisticated research methods I have come up with a list of screen names that should keep you safe from online child molesters. a) SmellyLady_just turned76 b) Herpes_Harry_54 c) KilledHusband_currentlyavailable d) Gonorrhea_George_1947 e) Gayatri_Chakravorty_Spivak f) Telemarketer4U_4ever g) Chris_Hansen h) Al_Gore_Enthusiast61 i) Syphilis_Simon j) Freelance_Castrator II)While chatting online to strangers, friends, or relatives, remember never to divulge any of your personal details. If at all you feel compelled to answer the persuasive questions of the chatter at the other end, use my standard info-key to respond. 1) Name: Cho Seung Hui 2) Ethnicity: Retarded 3) Looks: Retarded 4) Interests: Murder, torture, and speaking about globalization. 5) Age: Retarded 6) Father’s Occupation: Catholic Priest 7) Mother’s Occupation: NASA Astronaut 8 ) Siblings: Killed them 9) Pets: Killed them 10) Ambitions: Killed them 11) Sexual Orientation: TV Evangelist III) If anybody or any site asks for your photograph do not show them any photo of yourself or your family. Instead upload the photo that I’ve digitally mastered below.
- 30 -
IV) If the person you are chatting to tries to get you to meet him, whether it’s for going to Disneyland, to give you a Playstation 3, or to make u blow his bonogram, do not ever agree to it. If at all he manages to persuade you to meet him convince him to meet you at the nearest Economics Association Meet. Chances are that he won’t take the risk of getting killed by the boring speeches made at such venues. If he’s still persistent, make sure that you’re strapped before going to meet him and that you blow his head open when you meet him. At least, he’ll think you didn’t lie about your name. V)Online chatters are pathological liars. They’ll lie about their names, ages, and professions just like I have advised you to do. However, there’s a test you can do to see if they are genuine. If you are ten and the other person says he’s ten as well you ask him if he thinks Harry Potter is gay. If he says no, then you can be assured that he’s a sex offender. And if he says yes, it is certified that he wants to put his wiener inside your ass and move it around. VI) Tell your parents about everything that you do and talk about online. Except porn. That’s personal. So, all you kids and parents out there, I hope you’ll utilize my pointers to their full capacity and create a safer, more pleasant atmosphere around you. I would stay and lecture you further on Internet safety but I have to go rendezvous with this cute girl that I met online a month ago. She’s really sweet. I feel she could be the one. Although, I wonder why she wants me to meet her at the abandoned warehouse near the locked up sawmill. Oh, well.
- 31 (4th June 2007)
The Mystery of the Dead Coach
If you ever decide to pray to God for an untimely death make sure you specify that the venue should be, in all probability, Jamaica; sure, you might get your decomposing corpse violated by a bunch of Bob Marley fans-which, let’s face the facts, could happen anywhere in the world-but, at least you’ll be send off to the netherworld with the best possible police investigation that you could ever get. And that’s a fact, goddamnit! About three months ago, when Bob Woolmer, the Cricket coach of the 2007 Pakistani World Cup team, was found dead in his hotel room the first thought that came running to the minds of cricket fans all over the world, especially Indians, was: “This is a direct repercussion of what happens when players get too many endorsement deals. Goddamnit, it’s sickening.” Bob Woolmer’s friends and family naturally assumed that it was either the pressure of losing to a shitty team like Ireland or eating the Jamaican Jerk Chicken that did the Pakistani coach in. After almost forty minutes of mourning, the world crutched forward to resume its normalcy by watching more TV. However, the Jamaican Police Team headed by top Detective Mark Shields had other ideas. After rigorous rounds of crime scene investigation-that included eating a lot of fried chicken, which was the Jamaican equivalent of doughnuts, and making a bunch of blatantly obvious statements like “Goddamnit, he has no breath!” and “Goddamnit, he’s chubby!”-the Jamaican Police released their finding in big bold letters: Bob Woolmer was murdered. The first concrete clue was the dream that Detective Mark Shields had one afternoon, while he was on duty, where he saw an African man dressed in nothing but a leaf thong. In his dream the man said to the Detective: “Makaakka, pookaka, oorr, bong” which translated into English meant, “Lick my African ass, you stupid white boy.” Years of experience as a detective told Mark Shields that the dream could only mean two things. Either Bob Woolmer was murdered or that must have been some really twisted gay porn that he watched the previous night when he was drunk. He decided to go with the former. The first lead that the Jamaican Police received was a pen that they found from Bob Woolmer’s hotel room. After days of forensic tests, the Jamaican lab concluded that the pen was made in China. Immediately, Detective Mark Shields called a press conference. With weighed words, and pouted lips, he said at the press conference: “We have got some major clues regarding Bob’s murder. The pen that we found from his apartment is a significant lead in the case. We now know two things about the killer. One: he is from China. Two: he likes to write.” However, once the toxicology report came, the entire scenario changed. The report, which showed that Bob Woolmer was actually poisoned by a rare mixture of donkey semen and pig blood, completely altered the path of the investigation. Detective Mark Shields called another press conference. He said: “The latest developments in the case have shown that the murderer is not a Chinese writer. Just think about it: donkeys and pigs. Now, which country has both these animals? That’s right, Pakistan. Now, I’m not suggesting anything until we get more conclusive evidence but seriously, donkeys and pigs, and Pakistanis hate pigs, strange coincidence, isn’t it?”
- 32 But the case took yet another twist when the Jamaican Police Team acquired the CCTV footage from the hotel. The video, which was, actually, secret footage from the hotel’s honeymoon suite got the Detective’s brain to start working again. It wasn’t long before he put the pieces together. Immediately, he called a press conference: “The video footage has completely turned around the case. Bob Woolmer was not just murdered. He was raped and then murdered. I’ll find whoever is responsible for this heinous yet strangely erotic crime. Goddamnit, I will!” The investigation was already into its third month and Detective Shields was being pressured by higher authorities to settle the case once and for all. Everyone wanted an answer; everyone wanted the truth, goddamnit! One day, as Detective Shields slid into a deep sleep watching yet another gay porn video, the African man in the leaf thong appeared in his dream again. This time he had conclusive proof to give the Detective. As soon as the African man stopped talking, the Detective exploded into consciousness. “Of course, how could I not see that!” he told himself as he hurried to call another press conference. Media from all over the world was there; cricketers were watching, fans were watching, Woolmer’s friends and family were watching; the Jamaican Police had the biggest breakthrough yet in the case. Detective Shields took the microphone again: “All this time we were being mislead by red herrings that was planted to divert us from the real killer. The pen, the donkey semen, the pig blood, the video footage, everything; they were all meant to divert us from the real culprit. Just think about it: the killer is nowhere to be found, almost like he’s extinct; he had to have been much bigger in size than Bob to overpower him; he definitely raped Bob for pure pleasure above anything else; and the biggest clue was that the killer had to have been someone from Bob’s deepest past.” The whole world held their breath as Detective Mark Shields revealed the truth: “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Pakistani Coach Bob Woolmer, who was born in India, and who lived in South Africa and played for the same country was murdered by none other than…a sexually deviant dinosaur.” Goddamnit!
- 33 (5th June 2007)
Up until a few years ago some of the stock phrases that were thrown around during Parent Teacher Conferences were: “Your son really needs to improve on his math” or “He has been performing consistently in all the science subjects” or “With a bit more hard work he can be up amongst the best of them” or “He should be advised to located his weak spots first and then work on it”. But things have changed ever since high school teachers decided to move away from the prescribed syllabuses and bring in some extracurricular activities. And now, at PTA meetings, parents get a lot more in depth feedback than they’d like from their children’s mentors: “Your son really needs to improve on his foreplay” or “With a bit more work he can be as hard as the best of them” or “He should be advised to locate my Gspot first and then jerk on it.” The closest I ever got to having sex with a teacher when I was in high school was when my Geography teacher flunked me for an exam and for some reason the wrongly marked map of Africa attached to my answer sheet gave me a stiffy. But since I was too young to know what an erection was I just went to the library and kept trying to balance my pocket dictionary on my boner. I know what you are thinking and I completely agree with you; I was crazy to carry a pocket dictionary around with me. Even when we had the occasional hot teacher our lust for her was of an impalpable nature. It was like the second coming of Christwe talked about it, we thought about it, some of us even fantasized about it in our sleep but we all knew it was never going to happen. And I believe there was a similar unspoken understanding from the hot teachers as well. It was like the US Dept. of Defense’s stand on UFOs and aliens. They knew they had it, they knew we wanted it, but we all knew it was never going to happen. However, the unspoken pact has been breached. The unfortunate thingfor the horny students at leastis that it’s not the hot teachers who have breached the pact. More often than not it’s the teachers who look like the first noodle of shit that comes out a bulldog’s ass after its one-week stretch of constipation who break the pact and lure the misdirected underage penises and guide them into their bat-infested cavernous skin grottos. And, horny kids, let’s face it, if that train wreck is so desperate for a shag that she has to solicit youthe guy who can’t even spell intercourse, when the world is full of horny adult guys ready to screw even a treethen it’s guaranteed that she has something sick brewing down there in that bat cave of hers. It’s a tricky situation if one looks to reprimand the kids who end up having sex with their teachers because all the teacher-banging kids, when caught, would say that they were naïve, vulnerable, and didn’t know what they were doing. I’m sure there would be a bunch of little punters who mean it but the rest, who know perfectly well what they are doing, will be clever enough to categorize themselves under the group of the naïve punters. It’s like trying your girlfriend’s panties on and getting caught red handed. Some do it out of curiosity, the rest do it because they are sickos but they all say that it was an accident.
- 34 When the math teacher from South Carolina, who was recently sentenced to ten years in prison for having sex with her 11 yr old black student, was interrogated about why she made hot monkey love to her student she blamed men and Mathematics. She disparaged the outdated educational system that was designed by men to objectify women by using subliminal sex terms in Mathematics. She went on to explain that it is hard for a woman like her to not have sexual feelings towards her students when she’s teaching them how to insert a rhombus into a hemisphere or to calculate how long the hypotenuse is or how to unhook an Algebra. Before going to prison, she screamed at the people around her to open their eyes and realize that this epidemic could only be stopped if Math was stopped; Math had to be banned. Amen to that, ma’am. People force-feed us the notion that without proper schooling one can never be complete in life. Maybe so, I don’t really know. All I want to say if you’re thinking of ever going back to school keep in mind the supreme golden rule: make sure you carry enough condoms.
- 35 (6th June 2007)
Adopted: The Angelina Jolie Story
I wasn’t going to say anything about it because she’s crazy-hot and he’s…well, he’s Tyler Durden. And I figured they deserved their share of eccentricities. But when I heard that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt were planning to adopt for the fourth time, something within me-I think it was the pasta that I ate-told me that there was more to this than what met the eye. Couples who were as rich as them didn’t just adopt children to raise them as their own; they weren’t crows, for crying out loud (you see, crows sometimes raise baby cuckoos thinking that they gave birth to them). Anyway, I had to get to the bottom of this; and I decided to do the only sane thing that would help me expose what was really happening hereI decided to go undercover as a Chinese baby, get adopted by Angelina Jolie, and, consequently gain access to the innards of their scheme. After rubbing enough chili powder in my eyes, learning to walk on my knees, and mastering how to talk like I had a bunch of live kittens inside my stomach I was ready to take up the mission. I crawled into one of Angelina’s shooting sets and succeeded in getting her attention. I immediately intrigued her since I was naked and it was a proven fact that anything naked intrigued Angelina Jolie; she approached me, picked me up, and checked my authenticity by turning me over and examining my ass. After she saw the “Made in China” seal that was neatly labeled over my ass cheeks she was satisfied and before I knew it I was the newest member of the Jolie-Pitt household. I was named Chitty-chitty-bang-bang-Pitt. One of the perks that I hoped to get when I took up this dangerous mission was the opportunity to suck on my adopted mother’s gorgeous titties. I began to bawl in Chinese with the intention of letting Mama Jolie know that it was time to feed me. As she approached me I prepared myself for the most beautiful sight that I would, without a doubt, ever see in my life. However, instead of taking out her titties and sticking them in my mouth she pressed a button on the wall as if to summon someone. Then I realized what was happening-she was summoning a pair of stand-in titties; Mama Jolie had hired surrogate boobs that matched the nationality of each of her adopted children. At that moment I understood that the only tiny creature that crapped his pants all the time with the fortune to suckle Angelina Jolie’s titties was her own blood child-and also Billy Bob Thornton. I thought to myself, ‘what the hell, at least, I’ll get to suck on some Chinese knockers.’ But I realized I had thought too soon. Since the only pair of legitimate Chinese titties were busy on the sets of Grey’s Anatomy Mama Jolie had summoned the next most popular set of mammaries with a Chinese origin-Chow Yung Fat’s fat hung boobs. I had to think fast-my life, and my heterosexuality, was at stake here. As I racked my brains to plot an escape strategy I saw Chow Yung Fat taking a bow, which was apparently something all Chinese people did before shoving their breasts into someone’s mouth; my time was running out. However, thanks to my spastic hand gestures and hostile baby behavior I communicated to Mama Jolie that I didn’t want any breast milk and I would, instead, settle for a can of Pepsi. I was safe, for now. I grasped the hazards of staying in the Pitt-Jolie household and realized I had to find the truth about the rapid adoption operation that was in effect without further protraction. One day, after making sure that nobody was home I began checking all the rooms to look for clues. I checked everywhere and everything-Angelina’s panty drawers, her bra shelves, her bathroom, her gym, her laundry, and did I mention her panty drawers? But I couldn’t find anything. Maybe she genuinely cared; maybe she and Brad were actually the only two
- 36 Hollywood stars who honestly had some compassion for other people. That’s when I noticed a huge nude portrait of Angelina in one room; I paced over to that room and lovingly ran my one hand over the painting. Then, suddenly, with an eerie sound the wall began to split, revealing what seemed to be a secret room filled with computers, maps, and other sophisticated equipments. After spending about one hour studying the room I finally comprehended what was happening; I was right all along; they had ulterior motives behind their unstoppable adopting spree. Their intention was sinister and true to Hollywood: they desired world domination. Angelina and Brad Pitt were adopting babies from all around the world in order to start a new United Nations Organization, which would one day rule over the entire world; they were gradually building up the most vicious army in the world. They had already conquered Cambodia, Ethiopia, Vietnam, and America. I couldn’t let them fool the world any longer; I had to tell the world. But when I turned around I realized I was too late. I was met with the cold, malicious smirks of Angelina, Brad, and their thug/jugs-provider, Chow Yung Fat. Before I could even start to react I felt a flying fist making contact with my temple as I blacked out. Fifteen months later, I’m still imprisoned in that dark, uninhabited place where they locked me up after they captured me. The outside world is nothing more than a surreal concept for me now; human contact, an improbable dream. I wonder if I’ll ever enjoy the blueness of the sky again; I wonder if I’ll ever see the twinkling of the stars again. Well, that sounds next to impossible when I’m trapped here inside Chow Yung Fat’s murky vagina.
- 37 (7th June 2007)
Boxing in Bollywood
When Hitler topped himself and went to hell, Satan apparently exclaimed, “No way, not this sonofabitch”; when George Bush met a piece of cabbage, the cabbage reportedly said, “You’re telling me that he’s got fewer brain cells than me?”; when crap fell on puke, the latter screamed in horror, “Now that stinks”; but when Mike Tyson stepped into Bollywood, he was welcomed with open arms and covered ears. That’s not much of a surprise since Bollywood is, after all, a little more progressive and receptive when compared to Lucifer, vegetables, and vomit. Actors like Suniel Shetty, Fardeen Khan, Dino Morea, and John Abraham expressed their excitement on Tyson’s entry into Bollywood; they were relieved that, finally, there was a living creature in Bollywood who was capable of emoting lesser than them. Director Madhur Bhandarkar sounded ecstatic when he said that he has already made plans to hang out with Tyson and they would both soon become the best of rape-buddies. Amitabh Bachchan put forth a request to Mike Tyson asking if he could be his lawyer in the land allotment case. Salman Khan, slightly displeased that a new shirtless hero was in town, sent a clear message across by delivering one of his original paintings to Mike Tyson. Following Richard Gere’s plight, the Bollywood team who roped in Tyson was cautious enough to give him a comprehensive coaching in Indian Culture and customs. The team explained to Tyson that unlike in America he couldn’t refer to Indian women as “biatches”, “hoes”, “sluts”, “tricks”, or “rides”. Instead he had to allude to them as “bold”, “open-minded”, “independent”, “actresses”, or “feminists”. The Bollywood team also advised Tyson to keep in check his highly pugnacious behavior; they made him understand that fighting in public was not an option in the great nation of India, unless, of course, he was a member of the Parliament. The retired boxer has already been flooded with several offers from some of Bollywood’s top directors; Priyadarshan has approached him with juicy roles for three of his next movies, all of which will be strictly plagiarized versions of Malayalam flicks; David Dhawan has requested Tyson to do the leading role in his next movie “Lady Assaulter Number 1”; and Mahesh Bhatt, working on a new autobiographical movie, has offered Tyson the chance to be the Bhatt double in his younger days when he was more buffed and slurred lesser. Tyson is also slated to play a negative role in the sequel to Krrish, where he’ll appear as Krrish’s arch nemesis Miiike. On the other side of the world, Tyson’s fans and friends expressed dissent over his relatively effeminate move of climbing aboard the Bollywood ship. Tyson, however, assured Indian movie buffs that he would not be perturbed by any negative comments from America or anywhere else in the world. He also said that his friends and fans in the west would stop calling him emasculating names and stop casting doubts over his sexuality once he comes out with his new Karan Johar movie. Tyson’s addition to Bollywood is definitely a blessing in disguisea very ugly disguise but a disguise nevertheless. With scripts lifted shamelessly from Hollywood movies and Tyson’s brawny acting skills there’s no telling how far Hindi Cinema will go. Tyson is guaranteed to be a knockout as long as he takes care to not get himself involved in any
- 38 scandals. On a totally different issue, Mahima Chowdhury’s advanced sonogram reports have arrived and apparently her baby is half black and is reported by doctors to be packing one hell of a left hook.
- 39 (8th June 2007)
Motho Fucs: Part One
A lot of people run their mouths more than they need to; they talk about how unsafe the world is and how we should all hold our hands-like a bunch of emos-and make the world more harmonious so that our future generations can have really convenient lives. Well, I say screw those ungrateful nostril-shitters who are unsatisfied with the world. I love the world as it is- great violence, highly talented mass murderers, higher rate of monetary greed than ever, non-existent family values, marvelous incidents of racial hate, super cool wars over reasons sillier than a fart, self-centered celebrities thrusting their ugly faces on television every single minute, capitalistic hypnotism of middleclass people, and religious fervor manifesting into terrorism at its highest. That said, I do have one problem with our world- the painfully boring sports that are prevalent in our world today and the equally gay sports channels that broadcast them. How much longer is one supposed to sit back and let travesties like soccer, cricket, baseball, football, hockey, wrestling, tennis, and basketball numb our minds into tiny pieces of rat droppings? Even the extreme sports that exist today aren’t extreme enough anymore; they’re nothing but lesbian crap thrown at us to waste our precious time. That’s why I’ve put my foot down and chalked up a plan to create a brand new sports channel, which would broadcast original sports the likes of which have never been seen before; a sports channel that despite its predominantly masculine tone is suitable for children and adults alike, one that would bring back the excitement and thrill that our ancestors intended to bring when they initially instituted the concept of sports. I shall name the channel MOTHO FUCSMarvelously Original Televised Host Of Future Centered Sports. You can never underestimate the power of sports and its ability to bring people together. Guys get a lot of flack from women for dedicating too much time to sports. Well, MOTHO FUCS has the perfect solution to that sort of shitty problems with their familyoriented sport called Fetal Suction. Now, I know some of you judgmental folks out there would be frowning already hearing the name, mistakenly assuming that Fetal Suction is some insensitive sport where a fetus is made to suck something. The sport of Fetal Suction is, in reality, a well thought out future centered sport that involves the usage of a superpowered suction device- anything ranging from vacuum cleaners to handheld batteryoperated dust busters- to suck out the fetus from the uterus of its mother. The object of the sport is obviously to find which team can suck out the fetus the fastest with the least amount of damage done to the suction device and if possible the fetus too. Each team consists of two members- the sucker and the suckee. The person whose sperm led to the formation of the fetus is the sucker who is also the team member in possession of the suction device; and the uterus owner is called the suckee, which almost always turns out to be the woman. Not only is Fetal Suction a sport that breaks down the barriers of sexual discrimination by letting both men and women participate at the same time but it is also the only sport that enables men to actually understand what fresh placenta feels like. One key thing to note is that during the game if more than one team attains the best time, the suction device is made to operate in reverse shooting the fetus right back into the uterus. And afterwards, the fetuses are sucked out again in the ultimate tiebreaker round. Thus, the first sport featured on the MOTHO FUCS channel will definitely enrich the world of sports by allowing people to suck fetuses out of uteruses using vacuum cleaners.
- 40 (9th June 2007)
Motho Fucs: Part Two
One of the main things that piss me off about our human community’s current roster of sports is the lack of logic involved in each one of them. Their objectives suck, their rules suck, and their sensibilities suck. Thankfully, Channel MOTHO FUCS caters to every sporty need that stems inside you. And with today’s featured sport, Chameleon Clobbering, it’s guaranteed to reach a new high in the world of action sports broadcasting. Some of you brainy buggers out there must be assuming that the name Chameleon Clobbering is a metaphor which actually stands for something else. Like how when you hear the word ‘Golf’ for the first time you’d either assume it has something to do with dogs or Saddam Hussein but later you find out it’s way gayer than both. Chameleon Clobbering, on the other hand, is not such a sport; it’s exactly what it sounds like. The purpose of the sport is to clobber chameleons. For those of you who are unfamiliar with chameleons and their lifestyle they are a very difficult thick-skinned bunch to be clobbered and that is where the sense of daring and challenge involved in this astonishing sport comes into play. However, when it’s channel MOTHO FUCS that’s featuring the sport you know that there is more to it than just the excitement and thrill of smashing up chameleons. The participants and the healthy chameleons assigned to them are locked up inside claustrophobic multicolored rooms, where it all goes down; each room will be monitored by seven CCTVs of which two will be working. A limited period of time is given to each competitor to get inside the room, seek out his chameleon, and then smash the shit out of it. The admissible sporting equipments for Chameleon Clobbering are hammers, jackhammers, sledgehammers, club hammers, claw hammers, nail hammers, and mallets. Each contestant will be allowed ten swings using the hammer of their choice.Winners would be decided on the basis of the internal injuries suffered by the clobbered chameleons (total annihilation of the chameleon’s kidneys automatically earns the player two bonus points). Paramedics will naturally be waiting on the spot to appraise the magnitude of the internal injuries suffered by the chameleons and subsequently help determine the winner. More the mess, merrier the score. Hardware men, too, will be present on the spot to administer tourniquets to hammers that might end up having severe blood loss. Certain players march into the game of Chameleon Clobbering cockily assuming that they can just clobber chameleons using their natural skills. Contrarily, it’s a game that needs a lot of practice and perseverance. So, as the founder of channel MOTHO FUCS I’d advise all of you CC aspirants to constantly practice the game at home using chameleon substitutes like your puppies or kittens or birds and stuff. Of course, smashing live puppies is a lot less intense than clobbering chameleons but it’s a good starting place. And I know this sport might cast some doubt in the minds of some of you hypersensitive fools out there. I would like to assure you that only real animals would be hurt in the sport of Chameleon Clobbering; no dolls, soft toys, or action figures are damaged. So there, relax.
- 41 (10th June 2007)
Motho Fucs: Part Three
After the introduction of such fiercely competitive sports like Fetal Suction and Chameleon Clobbering, I thought it would be a welcome change for our potential MOTHO FUCS viewers to get a taste of the lighter, more fun side of their new supreme sports channel. That was exactly the kind of thinking that went into the creation of today’s featured sport- Jedi Pee Fight. In spite of the presence of the term Jedi, Jedi Pee Fight is not a sport that is aimed at a bunch of George Lucas groupies- it’s a sport meant for pure athletes; it’s a sport meant for fun lovers; it’s a sport meant for the most agile; and it’s a sport meant for those who like to get themselves involved in urinary brawls. Jedi Pee Fight is also, arguably, the most spirited sport ever since swimming that involves whizzing on other people. Before every Jedi Pee Fight the two fighters are each made to drink fifteen liters of a special fluorescent drink prepared by our highly qualified team of totally wasted bartenders. The players are then put inside a room that’s pitch-black and has innumerous cameras (about four) placed at the most innovative angles (up, down, left, and right). The aim of the game is for each player to assault the other with their fluorescent pee by controlling and maneuvering their urine flow and direction, much like how Jedis would battle using their light sabers. The players cannot expect to just lash out at each other brashly with their glowing urine as the winner is judged by the quantity of their piss that’s present on the opponent’s body, so, like the water conservation people says, every drop counts. Motorized bamboo sticks will be given to women who wish to compete in Jedi Pee Fight; the motorized bamboo sticks will add the force that women need to match the advantage men have with their extra reach. The same procedure will be followed in the case of guys with tiny wee-wees. The motive behind having the fighters compete in dark unlit rooms is to ensure that Jedi Pee Fight not only improves their piddle-combat skills but also sharpens the players’ minds. Besides what’s funnier than having two virtually blind guys fighting each other with piss? When broadcast on MOTHO FUCS, the sport is bound to be a visual treat, much like Lord of the Rings, what with all the sparkling lemonade and everything. The sport also requires the participants to be dressed in the traditional Jedi outfit- a pair of white shorts and no face protection. A picture of Albert Einstein will be sewn onto the shorts in an effort to add more sophistication to the sport of Jedi Pee Fight. Armed with such high-caliber sports like Fetal Suction, Chameleon Clobbering and Jedi Pee Fight, it’s only a matter of time before channel MOTHO FUCS ousts the rest of the sports channels and attains ultimate supremacy. I’ll be back soon, whenever I feel like it, with updates on the rest of the truly original sports that will feature exclusively on channel MOTHO FUCS. So bid goodbye to the current list of sports that trash our television sets day in and day out and tune in for more news from channel MOTHO FUCS. Until then, may the force be with you…and your bladder.
- 42 (11th June 2007)
Al Qaeda Fan Mail
Dear Al Qaeda, I know you must get this at least a thousand times every day but I’m like your biggest fan ever. I got posters of Osama (the Big Oz) all over my room and even that playgirl centrefold that he did, which is on my bathroom wall. I totally loved the 9/11 work you did about six years ago although I have to say I was a little surprised that you guys performed at the World Trade Center instead of the Wal-Mart Headquarters where you could’ve made so much more difference. I hear that you guys are planning to tour India soon. That’s like so cool; in fact, that’s the best piece of news I’ve heard since the one about Tyson planning to settle down in Bollywood. I know India has the potential of becoming the favorite hunting ground of you guys because, like, you know, we have a whole lot of Hindus, Christians, and Muslims. And since God tells you guys to, like, you know, hate them all equally it’ll be super easy to bomb one place and get a few from each religion. But I just want to say that I’m neither a Hindu, a Christian, nor a Muslim. I recently converted to Scientology and I know that you guys have nothing against us because we are like super dumb and all; so I hope you guys will, like, not kill me and stuff. I know you guys are not like other terrorist groups where they get pissed off if their fans make any constructive criticism. So, I’m just going to, like, go ahead and say something here. I know that you guys are planning to bomb the shit out of common Indian people because the Indian Government and the American Government have some kind of nuclear relationship or something even though you guys are like dragging in Kashmir as a cover. But I just want to tell you guys that more than half of India, possibly the ones which are going to be, like, victims of your attack, can’t even spell America and can’t even imagine ever seeing America in their lifetime. So, I, like, kind of think that it’s uncool for you guys to target people like that who have got nothing to do with anything American. You guys kind of made the same mistake with 9/11 too, although it was so cool nobody really noticed it; you see, common American people are the ones who are most critical of the American Government, and what you guys did was go ahead and blow up the people who were doing what you wanted to do in the first place. ‘American people’ doesn’t mean Bush, you guys. I know that not a lot of people dig what you guys do and I think those people are like really retarded and stuff. I totally get the fact that God really speaks to you guys or at least to your leaders and tells them in person to pick up guns, make bombs, hijack planes, run them into tall buildings, and murder innocent people; and I think that’s so not like what the American Government is doing in Iraq and other places. You both are like totally different and stuff. And I think that what you guys really want to do is kill a lot of people and make the Governments take notice of how super cool you are but, seriously, guys are you telling me that you still haven’t figured out that no Governments actually give a shit about their people? They don’t give a damn about the people you kill; they just pretend to mourn for like a bunch
- 43 of days and get over it. If you guys really want people to care you should, like, stop killing ordinary people and bomb celebrities and movie award shows. But somehow you guys think that just because you live in caves and we, commoners, live in houses we got it easy. Do you guys know how nerve-racking it is to get a job in today’s world? Do you know how tough it is to get laid these days? Or at least get some good quality lesbian porn? Come on, guys, if you really want to punish people you should be just letting us live our lives. I hope you guys aren’t like mad at me and all for saying all these stuff. I was, like, you know, just talking to you guys, that’s all. I’m still, like, you know, your biggest fan forever. That reminds me guys, recently I had this dream where God- I don’t know if it was Jesus, Allah, Vishnu, or just L. Ron Hubbard- came to me and told me that I should, like, you know, seek out and kill all the infidels in my neighborhood kindergarten. So I was hoping you guys would, like, tell the Big Oz (the Bin Man) that, since, you know, Christmas is coming, and I’ve been like a good boy and all, he could, perhaps, like, bring me some weapons of mass destruction and stuff. I pinky swear that I won’t try them at home. Your hugest fan, Me
- 44 (12th June 2007)
To Pope goes the Weasel
Godzilla facing Mecha-Godzilla is amazing; Superman meeting the Eradicator is divine; Bugs Bunny encountering Buster Bunny would be kick ass; but George Bush meeting the Pope- now, that’s some good shit. Bush lost his Vatican virginity for the fourth time a few days ago when he met Pope Benedict XVI amidst innumerous protests in the streets of Rome; the protests had nothing to do with the American President’s visit though, people were just voicing complaints against the Church after they noticed that all their sons were having severe constipation the next day after choir practice; a head priest dismissed the protest rally after he concluded that it was probably something the boys ate. An awkward moment took place when Bush did not bow when he met the Pope; he did, however, in all fairness, offer the Pope one of his prized pretzels. Bush also made the error of not addressing the Pope as “his holiness”. Bush’s first words to the Pope were, “what’s up, man?” Pope Benedict cleared his throat, in an attempt to express his displeasure, and raised his eyebrows at Bush. The gesture worked and Bush realized his folly. He apologized several times and rephrased his greeting, “what’s up, old man?” In his conversation with the American President, the Pope expressed a deep concern for the Christians in Iraq; he also added, “screw the rest”. The two supreme authorities also talked about various other issues like defense of human life, religious freedom, and marriage. Bush advocated that human lives should be defended at all costs even if it meant people had to be murdered for that, Pope agreed; Pope stated that every individual had his/her own right to follow whatever religion they wanted as long as it was Roman Catholicism, Bush agreed. Regarding marriage, both were in agreement that it was too complex for them to explain and had to be left to the Almighty, Bill Clinton. Afterwards, they moved onto topics like world politics, Middle East, and the true meaning of Christianity. There was a long stretch of silence for about two hours after these topics were brought up. Then they moved onto heavier issues like chocolate fudge, Sopranos, and Paris Hilton. Pope Benedict and Bush also pointed out how similar each other’s responsibilities were: they both had to try their best to scare their people into believing that if they didn’t do as they were told the Lord of Darkness, Saddam Hussein, would come back from beyond and eat their souls. Pope also pointed out how both he and Bush had the same tenure, which was as long as they freakin’ wanted. The Pope also mentioned that he was highly impressed with the strong fight against AIDS that Bush was putting up in Africa; the Pope said that AIDS was one of the worst killer diseases ever. On hearing this Bush spoke up and clarified that he was indeed on a mission to kill AIDS but not the kind of AIDS the Pope was talking about. Bush explained that his mission was to eradicate AIDS (Africans in Desperate Situation). Both Bush and Pope Benedict then talked about the one person whom they would ask God to kill if they got the chance. The Pope thought for a few minutes and
- 45 answered, “Dan Brown.” Bush didn’t need more than a few seconds to say, “Michael Moore.” The meeting between George Bush and Pope Benedict ended amicably when Bush asked the Pope if the Holy Grail was real. The Pope replied that the Holy Grail was as real as the weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. Sources say that both Bush and the Pope have vowed to never meet each other ever again.
- 46 (13th June 2007)
Men of Honor
You shouldn’t probably be reading this if you don’t have an all-consuming penis dangling between your legs. Because only if you have one of those can you understand the concept of what it is to be a man; only then will you be capable of realizing why a man has been established, historically, as the head of every family; only then will you be bestowed with the sense to fully fathom the concept of honor and its extreme significance in the life of a man; then, and only then, will you be able to comprehend why, in order to save the honor of a family or a tribe or a caste, we men are willing to go to the strenuous lengths of stabbing a woman forty six times or shooting her twice in the head. It’s tough living around women, whether they are mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, nieces, girlfriends, or wives. And I’m not talking about constantly having to worry about the toilet seats; I’m talking about how these women assume that they can just go ahead and think on their own and do stuff that they like without considering the ramifications their actions would have on their families, especially the men in their families. I blame it on the immoral culture of today’s world where certain miscreants are trying to spread a propaganda stating that women are actually equal to men. That’s just stupid. Pakistan seems to be harboring a lot of these audacious women who think, ludicrous as it may sound, that they can just act on their own will. I know, it shocks me as well. There was one case where a woman’s audacity transcended boundaries of consciousness to bring shame upon her husband and her family. Her husband had a dream in which she was having an affair with a strange man who was half robot half accountant. Clearly, his wife was cheating on him with some mutated creature from the future. The husband immediately dressed up, left the brothel and headed back home to his infidel wife. Since he didn’t want to wake up his wife who went to bed on an empty stomach after she had waited till late night for her husband to arrive, he decided that it would be appropriate if he just poured some kerosene on her and set her ablaze. After she was charred to death, my fellow man was able to breathe a sigh of relief. His honor had been restored. Another major problem is the whores found all over the world including India who think they have the right to feel attracted towards a man of their choice, and even go on and marry him. Marrying a person who is not the smelly old guy, who has already been “married” five to seven times, that her family chooses for her? Can you believe the nerve of that slut? How hard is it for her to understand that her life is not hers to be lived? Traditionally, in such cases a family’s honor is rehabilitated by hurling some acid on the girl’s face, disfiguring her for life so she’ll be reminded of the ugly whore that she is. But if the bitch goes over the line and has sex, or gets alleged of having had sex, before she gets married to the man of her family’s choice then she would have to be either stabbed in her throat till she can’t spit any more blood or shot in the back of her head in front of her entire community. At least then they ought to learn that there is no greater shame than a broken hymen. Besides, such shame associated with a family will make it much harder for the men in the family to get into the pants of other virgin girls. There’s yet another type who brings shame to her family, and these bitches are probably the most irresponsible ones of the lot. I’m talking about those shameless sluts who let themselves get raped by decent god-fearing men. You would think that the least these
- 47 tramps could do to not shame their families is avoid getting raped, but, no, they just walk around tempting good men with their tits and their asses and they get raped. Any community that would be willing to not reward such careless behavior with a blade through the rape victim’s neck or kicks to her face and crotch till she bleeds to death is, I’m sorry to say, uncouth and uncultured. Maybe it’s fine for the morally scanty women in America to go around shaming their families as they please by doing what they want with their lives but at least in India we have to do whatever we can to protect the honor of men and to preserve our rich cultural heritage of being assholes to the women around us. And, so, the next time you notice that a woman- be it your mother who has raised you with all her love and strength or your sister who would do anything to protect you or your wife who yearns for your love every seconddoes something that she wishes to do, you don’t even need to think twice before capping that bitch. And since in India we are all brothers and sisters we men have the inherent right to kill any woman- that means I can shoot your mother- in order to protect our honor and then term it an ‘honor killing’. Reputation, not relationship, is what matters to us men the most. Women just need to accept the truth that we men are the ones who keep the sanity and morality of this world in tact. And if we weren’t special then God wouldn’t have given us the uniquely remarkable ability to pee standing up.
- 48 (14th June 2007)
I first developed my fear of flying when I learned that airplanes have a habit of randomly bursting into flames when they are a million feet above the ground. The fear sunk deeper after I discovered that most airplane pilots were more wasted than Lindsay Lohan on a Saturday night. However, the last four to five trips that I took by air made me feel like I was being choked by my intestines and punched in my nuts. The reason wasn’t any technical glitches nor was it the excessive inebriation of the pilots. It was the shocking abundance of appallingly ugly airhostesses aboard commercial aircrafts. I find it idiotic that people still love telling their friends and others that they are “taking a flight” to whichever hellhole it is that they are going. About a decade and a half ago, flying may have been a luxury that only the medium rich to the super rich could afford. But let’s face it, with low cost airlines and discount offers and stuff everybody flies these days and consequently airplanes suck- they suck like a hungry leech on a sumo wrestler’s ass. I don’t have to enlighten anybody on the quality of the food that passengers receive during flights, which is basically a piece of cucumber that tastes like wet socks, a slice of bread that tastes like dirty cushions, a spread of butter that tastes like muddy sidewalks, a puny plastic container having jam which tastes like shoe soles, and a cup of yogurt I wouldn’t consume even if I was held at gunpoint, a situation not very uncommon these days aboard airplanes. The sole reason why passengers endure this hellish treatment is because they expect the creatures who serve this trash to look, at least, like breathtaking angels. But apparently airline companies have deemed their customers undeserving of the one benefit that they truly want. Every time I step aboard an airplane I do so hoping to be greeted by someone that looks like the female adult offspring of Charlize Theron and Elisha Cuthbert. But, almost, always, what I see is just the opposite- an ogre, wrapped by a sari that can barely contain her gigantic, ugly ogre boobs, bearing an expression on her face that could only be described as constipated. I don’t refer to the creature as an ogress only because I’m not even sure if it’s a woman. I gulp down the initial shock and head towards my seat, which, thanks to my dumbass luck, inevitably turns out to be the sandwich seat- the one in the middle that has to bear the stink of two passengers. I’m confident that there are at least three stewardesses for one airplane and I tell myself there’s no way the other two would be looking like ogres. Needless to say, I’m right on the money; the other two don’t look like ogres; one bears a striking resemblance to an emaciated rhino and the other can pass any day for a toothless ape. I sit nervously wondering how difficult survival in the next couple of hours is going to be. The pre-take-off flight instruction session commences. And believe you me—the image of a toothless ape standing in front of you gesturing wildly with an oxygen mask in her hand, in an effort to give you safety tips, is not a very reassuring one. Not surprisingly, the intestinal choke/nut punch pain surfaces. Soon, the dreaded food carts arrive. And it’s the ogre who’s in charge of that duty. As she is serving hell’s cuisine to the other terrified souls aboard I notice something that literally makes me want to jump off the plane. The ogre, I observe, is chewing tobacco while serving food to the passengers. So, now, the situation worsens. Instead of having to look at just a normal ogre, I have to stare at one that appears to have blood dripping from her mouth. Finally, the moment of trepidation arrives as she reaches my seat. She gives the guy on my left his food plate and then places another one on my unfolded table. At this point, I make the
- 49 mistake of looking up at her. It’s like staring at one of those tooth decay posters that you see stuck outside the office of a dentist that has no other purpose but to traumatize patients. I abruptly refocus my eyes onto the wonderful sight of the back of the seat in front of me. I hold my breath hoping the monster would go away now. But, I forget that her job isn’t completed yet. She still has to serve the guy on my left. And then it happens. With a heave that sounds like a flatulent wild boar she leans over for what seems like an eternity and a half, her rotten ogre boobs brushing my face and rendering me sightless for about a minute. I have never experienced crashing into a mountain but at that moment I realize what it feels like. I’m unsure as to why this problem of ugly airhostesses still persists. I just want all the airlines in the entire world to know that nobody gives a shit about the posture or the gait or even the manners of the airhostesses. I’d rather have an ill-mannered sex bomb than an etiquette-queen who looks like buffalo scrotum. Hiring ugly air stewardesses is like employing a eunuch to give you sex tips. I’ve decided that I’ve had enough of this crappy service. For my next trip by air, I’ll be traveling with a parachute strapped to my back; and if I don’t see an air hostess oozing with sex appeal walking around inside the plane, I’m kicking down the emergency exit and I’m jumping out. Hopefully, I won’t crash into a mountain.
- 50 (15th June 2007)
“F”: Part One
Note from Aniche- You won’t be hearing from me for sometime. And that’s not because I’ve run out of topics to talk about after twenty-five consecutive columns on various socially relevant issues like Angelina Jolie’s tits or Michael Jackson’s foreskin. It’s because I’m a magnanimous person. And I want to give an opportunity to somebody else to talk about a story that they have, an issue that they want to bring to your attention. So, ladies and gentleman, and that really smart beaver who reads my columns, I present to you Phyllis. My name is Phyllis Reily Gudinbed. I’m an archaeologist—which basically means that I like going through trash. It’s not a very lucrative profession barring the occasional discovery of oddly shaped chicken bones which I pass of as dinosaur fossils consequently earning a cool fortune. Recently I got married. And not surprisingly I came across my husband, Fred, on one of my archaeological trips. No, I didn’t run into him or casually bump into him; I actually came across him buried half-alive underneath a pile of ruins. To date, I’d have to say, he has been my most profitable archaeological find. He’s 75 and barely breathing but the important thing is that I love him and he’s in possession of a much healthier bank account that I love even more. Not more than a couple of days ago I made a startling discovery. Funnily, it was neither near the inverted pyramids in Egypt nor the dancing forests of Africa that I made this discovery; it was right up in my attic. My seeking hands came across an old, dusty, moth eaten book—a book that held the life of a woman that very few people in my family dared to talk about; it was my Aunt Polly’s Personal Journal. Even the bones of the most ridiculously disfigured chickens wouldn’t have aroused the kind of excitement in me that Aunt Polly’s Journal did. Five hours of unperturbed reading found me happy, sad, angry, violent, sympathetic, empathetic, guilty, and, at times, even highly aroused; however, this unprecedented mood swing had more to do with the fact that I was pregnant —and am still—than with the content of the journal. But that is not to say it didn’t have some of the weirdest stuff ever. Now for the first time I’m divulging to the world a few of the most disturbing excerpts from my Aunt Polly’s Journal; it tells the sad story of a woman broken down by the slow but steady assault of the incurable affliction that is known to the world only as ‘feminism’. April 20th 1902- Dear Journal, Polly cried a little bit today because Polly’s brother was bad. He tore Barbie’s head off and put it on Action Man. Now Polly’s Barbie has 24 inch biceps, a hairy chest, and thighs the size of canoes. Polly wonders if all girls should look that way. April 27th 1902-Dear Journal, today Polly saw Polly’s mom kick Polly’s dad’s behind because he didn’t cook our dinner properly. Polly wonders if all marriages should be this way. April 30th 1902-Dear Journal, Polly has realized that referring to herself in the third person is really lame so she’s going to stop it. August 19th 1903-Dear Journal, today was my first day in third grade. I don’t like my class. The girls there are horrible and ugly. They have smooth silky hair, they are not out of shape, they have rosy cheeks, they have blue eyes, they dress in expensive beautiful dresses, and they all have great personality. I hate them all.
- 51 P.S- I wish I was like them February 13th 1905-Dear Journal, it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. I have my eyes on a number of boys in my class. I’m hoping I get lots of valentines because I’m class topper with incredible scores. February 14th 1905-Dear Journal, I got one Valentine’s Day card. It was kept inside one of my notebooks. It’s a wonderful card. I love it. I don’t care about the rest of the class; the girls can go to hell and the boys can accompany them. P.S- I was the one who gave me the card January 29th 1906-Dear Journal, a boy talked to me today. I love him. January 30th 1906-Dear Journal, he talked to another girl. He’s cheating on me. All men are cheaters and I hate them all. October 5th 1908-Dear Journal, the girls in my class have all blossomed into gorgeous women. I, on the other hand, am looking like a train wreck, with no noticeable knockers. July 18th 1909-Dear Journal, I have come across a few poor pathetic souls who think that I’m a big deal because their faces look like the underneath of mud-stained boots as opposed to mine that has no mud. Also my grade is A++ compared to their A+. I feel superior and powerful. June 14th 1910-Dear Journal, the other losers and I have formulated a technique to deal with our unattractiveness. We are going to label all the pretty girls vain and mean and dumb. We are not ugly; we merely have depth of character. November 25th 1912-Dear Journal, all the hunks are after the pretty girls. The losers and I feel bad. November 26th 1912-Dear Journal, all the nerds are after the pretty girls too. The losers and I feel even worse. March 10th 1913-Dear Journal, I have convinced myself and my gang that the pretty girls are more popular only because they have loose moral values. It’s got nothing to do with their positive attitudes, confidence, or their beauty. P.S-The truth is that my moral values are looser than a lasso around a pencil. I just am not presented with the opportunities. June 10th 1914-Dear Journal, I think I have a mustache. June 11th 1914-Dear Journal, it’s true, I do. Continued…
- 52 (16th June 2007)
“F”: Part Two
June 17th 1914-Dear Journal, since the conspicuously repulsive facial hair is getting me a lot of attention I’m going to let it stay and merely attribute it to my being a “real natural woman”. P.S- And it’s not like I’ll be kissing anyone anytime. September 2nd 1916-Dear Journal, I have begun reading a lot of books that probably were written with the intention of boring people to death. I feel that mindlessly barfing the things that I read in front of others will make me appear to be more intelligent than I really am, which actually is no more intelligent than a thong. May 4th 1917-Dear Journal, wherever I turn there are pretty girls. Even the ones that looked like the underneath of mud-stained shoes have taken care of themselves and become like the upper surface of sandals. I feel bitter and alone. July 25th 1918-Dear Journal, I have decided to pretend to protest the objectification and deindividualization (words that mean naught to me) of women by burning bras tomorrow. July 26th 1918-Dear Journal, I realize that I don’t have any bras in my closet as I have never had to use them*. * -alludes to the lack of sizeable knockers. July 27th 1918-Dear Journal, I bought some bras and I burned them as a false symbol of the false character that I falsely shout only I have. February 1st 1920-Dear Journal, the lack of attention that men are giving me is driving me crazy. I wore a low cut dress today with a pair of low waist jeans; the men looked away as if I was the goddamn solar eclipse. October 11th 1924-Dear Journal, I’m thirty years old. Most women around me are either married or at least hitched. The result of the bitterness and latent discontent that I have been harboring all these years stare at me starkly. October 12th 1925-Dear Journal, I have decided to marry a buffalo which is quite common among some cultures. October 13th 1926-Dear Journal, I visited my uncle’s farm today and I have found myself a wonderful black, horny (as in having horns), bushy-tailed buffalo. We are going to get married tomorrow. P.S- I’m so excited. The walk down the aisle is going to be so special. October 14th 1927-Dear Journal, my uncle called today and broke me the horrible news. My fiancé jumped off a cliff and killed himself.
- 53 P.S- I had him with some rice for dinner. He was a bit overcooked. April 8th 1930-Dear Journal, I have thrust upon myself the idiotic notion that marriage is legalized prostitution and that it’s society’s way of controlling women further. This way, I have something to say when my mom bugs me about not getting married. May 28th 1932-Dear Journal, I stumbled upon the concept of lesbianism. By completely avoiding men from my life perhaps I can find at least a smidgeon of happiness. Also, I can tell the world that men are crazy jerks and I’d rather stick with my own kind. June 6th 1932-Dear Journal, a lesbian talked to me today. I think she likes me. We are going to a Chinese Restaurant tomorrow to have dinner. June 7th 1933-Dear Journal, the lesbian dumped me today in the middle of our date for the Chinese waitress who had much larger chopsticks*. -synonym of knockers.
- 54 (17th June 2007)
“F”: Part Three
March 30th 1936-Dear Journal, I badly needed to make myself feel wanted and important so I went to a group of homeless men and talked about Carl Jung in an effort to intimidate them and prove that women have bigger brains than men. They actually reciprocated with some Freudian and Dostoevsky-ian theories and I ended up feeling even worse. August 9th 1939-Are you a man or a woman, Journal? I need to know. Tell me now. Tell me. Answer me, damn it! If I find out that you are a man I swear that I’ll rip you into pieces. P.S- My parents divulged this crazy idea that they think I might be going a little paranoid. August 10th 1939-Dear Journal, I’m frightened if my parents’ diagnosis might hold some truth. I was reading some classic novels and whatever I read appeared to be having subliminal chauvinistic connotations. I even found the character Oliver Twist to be a rabid chauvinist. P.S- Ever noticed the underlying motive of establishing phallic superiority in the name Charles Dickens? November 17th 1943-Dear Journal, I blame my father for everything that has gone wrong with my life though I don’t know why I blame him. He’s the only man who ever loved me. But it feels nice to shirk away from accepting my own flaws and burden others-possibly men-with my failure. December 11th 1949-Dear Journal, I think a miracle may have happened. I suspect that I’m pregnant. P.S- The gods have smiled on me. December 12th 1949-Dear Journal, miracle shmiracle!! I found out I’m not pregnant, I’m just fat. P.S- Why gods, why? March 1st 1953-Nevada pumpkin allows pipe bursting gargoyle reminding world barracuda hospital devastation in the name of hairy my mind lips of genuine underskirts. P.S- I wonder when senility is going to strike me. January 1st 1954-Dear Journal, I’m in my deathbed. It’s astonishing how one’s perspective can change while death is imminent. I look at the world and I see a wonderful place filled with people who love, love, and only love; a world where beauty abounds in nature, humans, and animals; a world where everyone is loved unconditionally; a world that is so colorful and vibrant that it breaks my heart to bid it goodbye. P.S- Not really. Life sucks! The world sucks! Humans suck! Everything sucks!
- 55 And on that day my Aunt Polly kicked the bucket. While kicking the bucket she slipped, fell, and hit her head on the bathroom floor and, minutes later, died. It fills me with such inexpressible feelings when I think of the gruesome life that my Aunt Polly lived. I realize why everyone in my family restrained from speaking more than three words about my Aunt Polly (it was always “She is dead”). The darkness and anguish that permeated her life fills me with a chill; it also serves as a reminder of the fact that I’m a fortunate woman. I’m fortunate that I have a successful and meaningful job where I dig up garbage and make a lot of money; I’m fortunate that I possess a loving and lovable husband who possesses an even more lovable bank account; I’m fortunate that I’m carrying his child (I think!) inside me right now; most of all, Aunt Polly’s life has taught me that I’m fortunate that I have a pair of humongous knockers.
- 56 (18th June 2007)
Oh, Have Mercy
A friend of a friend of mine hit rock bottom a few weeks back when he was diagnosed with testicular cancer. The medical advice he received was to have his nuts removed but he felt it was better to kill himself than to walk around with no cojones. The problem was that he didn’t have the balls, cancerous or not, to pull a Kurt Cobain. Instead, he asked his friend to whack him. However, his friend was a pussy who chickened out and asked my friend to help Mr. Rotting Scrotum out. And my friend was an even bigger pussy who, in turn, asked me to remedy the problem. And I, being the biggest pussy of them all, decided it would be best if I got some advice regarding the situation. After all, this was a guy’s life that we were talking about. So, I drove over to the one person whom I thought could assess the situation with an unbiased mind- Doctor Jack Kevorkian. After hearing out the story of the guy with the ding-dong cancer Dr. Kevorkian explained to me that had I come to him a decade ago he could have helped me out without a moment’s hesitation. But, his imprisonment in 1999 and his release a few weeks ago, under the understanding that he would no longer deal with cases like the one at hand, had made him change his mind against assisting any more suicides. So, I spent about fifteen seconds trying to convince him otherwise. I explained to him that he wouldn’t, exactly, be assisting suicide. He would just be assisting me in assisting my friend assist his friend assist the suicide of his friend. That wasn’t technically assisting suicide. Dr. Kevorkian pondered over this for about three seconds before he said, “Cool. Let’s euthanize some ass.” The nature of things had slightly altered by the time Dr. Kevorkian and I reached Mr. Jewels-in-jeopardy. He was beginning to have second thoughts about knocking himself off. Apparently somebody gave him the misinformation that a man is more than his balls. Dr. Kevorkian wasn’t pleased, “You’re being silly. We aren’t talking about your throat or your lungs. This is your sperm marbles that we’re talking about. Leading a life as a castrated man is like living as Calista Flockhart after Ally Mcbeal got pulled off the air. You’re just an unwanted piece of vagina.” This definitely managed to break the spirits of Mr. Cojones-inCrisis. He struggled to be optimistic, “But I can still do something meaningful with my life. I can focus on my creative side and contribute something to society; I can make a difference.” Dr. Kevorkian looked at him like he was looking at a dark-skinned leading man in Bollywood, “You’re kidding yourself, son. Once you lose your nuts you’re no longer a man. It’s better to die now with your dignity and your balls in place. I promise you it’ll be an extremely painless experience for you.” Dr. Kevorkian was almost salivating; the cancer guy was in tears; I had a serious craving for some deep fried chicken wings. Dr. Kevorkian, encouraged by the reinforcements, took a step forward towards the guy with the dying nutsack. “Don’t you dare take a step forward you inhuman, insensitive, devilish, murderous bastard,” shrieked the anti-euthanasia jerkoffs. “Watch your mouth, you ignorant ass-pimples. Do you have any idea what it feels like when you’re disfigured or severely disabled? Do you have any idea the sense of futility a person diagnosed with a terminal illness feels? Do you have any idea the physical and mental pain he has to suffer?” Dr. Kevorkian began to get aroused hearing this; one of the anti-euthanasia jerkoffs asked, “Do you?” The Church of Euthanasia leader replied, “No but we’ve got a pretty good imagination. We are able to empathize with them. Dying a dignified death is far better than living life as a liability.” The anti-euthanasia jerkoffs leader interjected, “Liability for who?
- 57 The supposed family of the patient who can’t look after one of their own in a time of distress? The society who sees these patients as economical parasites?” The Church of Euthanasia replied, “Look at the world’s population exploding by the million every minute. If an individual feels the need to end his existence without causing any more misery to himself that is his choice. It’s in fact his contribution to the world. It’s his life and it’s his right to end it.” One of the anti-euthanasia poofs suggested, “Then why don’t you all start by killing each other. Why work so hard to get others killed?” The pro-euthanasia poofs replied, “Somebody has to speak up for those poor bastards who want to top themselves.” This time the antieuthanasia asswipes moved two steps towards Dr. Kevorkian and then one of them said, “Speak up all you want but this Doctor Death that you have here, he ain’t gonna be practicing no more.” Not five seconds passed before it broke out- the ultimate jerkoff fistfight. The two groups hit, kicked, bit, fingered, and fondled each other like crazy. By this time I was down to my last chicken wing. Suddenly out of nowhere, I felt someone grab the final piece from my grasp- it was Mr. Cancer Nuts. “I’ve decided not to kill myself by committing suicide. I’ll just live my life doing all the things that I was afraid of doing. I’m going to eat all the high cholesterol food I can get my hands on; I’m going to have unprotected sex with blind amputees; I’m going to drive into herds of sheep; I’m going to urinate on limos; I’m going to defecate on George Clooney. By God, I’m going to start living my life. First, I’m going to enjoy this chicken wing.” Now, I was pissed. I threw myself on the newly reformed chicken stealer trying to take back what was rightfully mine. Dr. Kevorkian, who was still standing there with his death-talk-induced boner, decided it was time for him to climax. He headed slowly towards the meat burglar and me. “I don’t care who dies but I need to get rid of my erection,” he chanted. However, in that convulsive brawl my right leg caught Dr. Kevorkian in his globes sending him flying onto the electric chair. On his way, he lost balance and landed right on the syringe having the lethal injection, sending the poison straight up his asshole. But the chicken was in the possession of Mr. Killer Knackers; I had to think fast. I grabbed one of the chewed out chicken bones from the bucket and hurled it straight at the chicken filcher. It found its target but it found it too well sending the last chicken wing flying towards the switch that activated the electric chair. The fight between the two groups of jerkoffs halted; everyone watched Dr. Kevorkian get electrocuted and turn into a lifeless pile of scraggly flesh within seconds. The entire room fell silent. The testicle guy ran out of the room with the chicken wing in his hand. The antieuthanasia jerkoffs left the room to show respect to the departed soul, and also to have a celebratory orgy. The Church of Euthanasia gathered around him, stared at their savior and said, “Here lies a man who died for a true cause.” And then they left too. “Amen to that,” I said, seeing that Dr. Kevorkian’s erection was finally gone.
- 58 (19th June 2007)
An Inconvenient Stink
Until about a year back Al Gore was a douche merely to millions of Americans. But, after his documentary on global warming came out he became the public douche of billions of people all over the world. “An Inconvenient Truth” opened the eyes of countless number of selfish human beings who, in their frantic pursuit to make a living, had forgotten all about watching the back of their fellow human beings. It encouraged the struggling middle class people to stop driving their cars for every little errand, like going to work or rushing to the hospital or going to college. It urged people against using air-conditioning in summer or heaters during winter, or for that matter using anything in any season. After the documentary’s thumping success Al Gore and some of his closest super rich white friends celebrated by burning stuff, leaving all the lights on in their penthouses, and driving around in circles in their monster trucks. It was about a month ago that Al Gore’s latest project was announced. After waking up the drowsy human souls to the perils of global warming, Al Gore, now, had turned his attention to a new, and equally disconcerting world phenomenon- global farting. The documentary titled “An Inconvenient Stink” would, Gore said, focus on how human beings, in their frantic pursuit to stay alive, ate more than they actually needed to eat causing a gradual increase in their rectal temperatures, which is followed by the emission of various stinky farts. When critics expressed skepticism Al Gore drew up a chart that had the picture of Jennifer Lopez’s ass. He explained that a few years ago JLO’s ass was perfectly full and round and therefore on TV more often. Now, thanks to global farting JLO’s left ass cheek is becoming smaller than her right, the reason why she doesn’t strut it on TV as much as she used to. Gore described this as the gradual depletion of the “ass-zone” layer that would ultimately spell doom for all of humanity. He encouraged all women to wear tighter jeans in order to ensure that no part of their ass gets depleted; he advised men all over the world to photograph and post on the internet any female ass that they see on the road in an effort to document evidences of “asszone” depletion. He then proved with the help of statistics that a decade ago only two out of every eleven people said that they farted. Now, in 2007, the same poll showed that ten out of eleven people said they farted. There could only be one answer to this: either people were more honest now or global farting was true. The answer was obvious. Al Gore enlisted the different types of farts that human beings usually engaged in like the wet fart, dry fart, squeaky fart, nuclear fart, melody fart, smooth fart, whispering fart, angry fart, atomic fart, rebellious fart, fart with shit, light fart, heavy fart, fart with pee, skunk fart, church fart, carnival fart, elevator fart, conference fart, car fart, family fart, theatre fart, breezy fart, cyclone fart, communicational fart, recreational fart, post coital fart, and emotional fart amongst many others. Al Gore revealed that global farting was so far-reaching that even unsuspecting animals had become victims of the phenomenon. He explained that he spent almost a year burying his nose in various animal assholes before he discovered that animals too had been affected. Some of the leading animal farters were cats, horses, crocodiles, elephants, salamanders, pandas, penguins, and unicorns. Al Gore stated that global farting was the third largest producer of hot air next to United Nations and the Bachchans. And if not stopped in time, global farting could become as devastating to normal human beings as those two.
- 59 Al Gore expounded that if global farting were to be stopped only rich white kids ought to be allowed to eat as much as they wanted; he even pondered about the paradoxical existence of poor obese kids. After an impressive three-day lecture on what his new documentary would contain, Al Gore concluded by requesting all human beings to start their crusade against global farting right here right now. He promised them that within the next year or so he would have more concrete tips on how to combat global farting; until then, he had just one tip to give mankind in their battle against global farting- buy DVDs of his documentary and shove it up their asses.
- 60 (20th June 2007)
Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 1
I’m faced with what you can call a pet quandary, Let me also mention that my house is not the best sanctuary, I saw in a pet shop a cute bird that sang to me, It repeated a few words then turned its back to me, I’m confused as to what pet I wish to own, I need something for company when I’m bushed and alone, I would buy a puppy but I find dogs a little too bumpy, Once he grows up he will get all clumpy, And that is something that gets me all jumpy, More preference I’d attach to owning some kittens, But they’ll attack with claws leave me running for mittens, I even know cases where cat lovers have been cunningly bitten, I still possess those letters that they have in running hand written, My pet should be cuddly so I can give it hugs, Should be clean too, free of fleas and bugs, I would like to know if I could buy a panda cub, Will it grab your hand away when you hand the grub? Fishes are too tiny to be hugged and played with, I once bought some which my pocket money I paid with, Soon they kicked the bucket; I sold them to a guy named David, He was this blind boy that my gay neighbor stayed with, Are there any other choices that I can fix my focus on? Perhaps I should search for the joys of a locust zone, One of my friends suggested I get a plump snake, I’m afraid I’ll get digested by it like a plum cake, Another woe if I get pets is all the pee and poop, I want to hug my pet I don’t want to kneel and scoop, That’s a level to which I don’t need to stoop, Maybe I should get some chicks and make me some chicken soup, Help me fix this; I know this whole thing sounds flaky like chicken poop. Total Loser, New Delhi. Dr. 50 paise replies: Had to read your letter twice, your dilemma is unique, I got melted by your cries so I’mma tell you what you need, If you didn’t fear dogs I’d have suggested getting a pup, When you sleep off it’ll even help in getting you up, Size of the dogs seems to bother you, You despise the fact that they may be all over you, That’s the price you pay if you want to hug, Hugs should be given and taken, the dogs don’t intend to bug, Let’s let the dogs lie, let’s talk now of cats, You seem to think they are like ghoulish bats, Waiting for the moment to wave its claws at you,
- 61 Hiding in your home so it can closet you, Most of the cats I’ve seen are harmless creatures, But the ones you’ve described have some harmful features, That could very well end you up armless in wheelchairs, Forget them too if they make you nervous, Pets are to love us and not to unnerve us, It won’t work if we feel they don’t deserve us, Also unlike dogs cats do nothing to serve us, I’m not sure if you can keep as a pet a panda, The animal control may suspect a scandal, And accuse you of being a wildlife vandal, Totally avoid as pets snakes and insects, They are things that tend to infect and infest, Besides I gather you’re looking for something cuddly, Not something that moves as fast as Jet Li, Something you can hug but won’t be dying of caresses, I’m not talking about a group of rhinoceroses, What you’re missing in your life is a girlfriend, Assuming it’s not for David that your heart bends, A sweet girl who’s all fun and party-brained, And hopefully she’ll be entirely potty-trained
- 62 (21st June 2007)
The Prestigious Silver Dildo
The sun rose yet again to the familiar sight of a large chunk of the Islamic community super pissed at the blatant blasphemies perpetrated by the entire non-Islamic universe against their religion and their Prophet. It seemed as if the rest of the world just refused to show Islam the proper respect and fear that it deserved. One of the greatest enemies of the religion of Islam, apparently, had regained strength. The formidable figure of Salman Rushdie was back and he was sending waves of anger and concern through the Islamic world. And for good reason too; he was balder, he was fatter, he had more of a party mouth than ever, and he still wrote books that people loved to say they enjoyed repeatedly but actually just used to store falling pubic hairs. However, the latest move that the Muhammad-hating rest of the world made against Islam was the bestowal of the prestigious British honor of dildohood upon Salman Rushdie, despite all the sacrilege that he had committed against Islam. By dildoing Rushdie the British Government officially recognized him as one of their most celebrated transvestites. The Queen, on her one hundred and thirtieth birthday, acknowledged Rushdie for successfully being both a dick and a pussy. The dildoing ceremony saw her strap the prestigious silver dildo around the renowned writer’s waist. The four or five self-proclaimed Muslim leaders, spoke, as always, for all the Muslims in the entire world and expressed the deep sense of hurt and disgust that the Islamic sphere was feeling over this calculated move by the British- and the rest of the world- against Islam. After quoting from the Koran they agreed the only noble way to salvage the Prophet’s honor from the fat Rushdie’s clutches was to sever his head and suck the blood out of it. The top Muslim leaders once again delegated the heaven/prison worthy task of beheading Salman Rushdie to their fellow Muslims for whom even reading Tintin took three years. Predominantly Muslim countries like Pakistan, Iran, and Bollywood staged elaborately civil protests- burning stuff and screaming obscenities- condemning the strapping of the prestigious silver dildo around Rushdie’s waist. Apparently, they weren’t having enough problems already. Pakistan demanded that that the dildo be withdrawn immediately and warned that if not withdrawn all pretences of cordial relations with Britain would be dropped. They also mentioned that they thought the Queen was just a no good useless old wrinkly slut. After a couple of days of silence the British Government released a statement where they mentioned that while they completely agreed with the Muslims on the queen being a wrinkly slut, they wouldn’t de-dildo Salman Rushdie as that would be taking a step back in the progress of the transvestite rights. The Muslim community was enraged by the audacity of the British Government in directly dishonoring their beloved Prophet. They analyzed that since Prophet Muhammad had been a straight man, this move by the British Government of endorsing transvestites was a direct insult to their religion and tradition. There was only one logical mode of resistance left in their disposal- suicide bombing. Support, however, grew incrementally for Rushdie as each hour passed. Asian writers, not living in Asia, voiced their strong support for Salman who taught them that all they had to do to make a lot of money was write a pussy-ass novel on dislocation and other immigrant woes. The Asian Diaspora community then proceeded to crawl up Salman Rushdie’s pale ass and hibernate there until they all received forewords from him for their latest books. The Vatican, too, lent its strong support to Salman Rushdie urging him to keep
- 63 writing about Islamic orthodoxies. The Vatican, also, lent its support to the Muslim community applauding their passion to give up their own lives to uphold their honor and tradition. They said that most Christians were stupid to continue living happy, satisfied lives without paying much attention to Christ-bashers. The Vatican also extended an offer to protect all young Muslim boys if such a need arose. The Hindu community refused to make any comments on the issue; they were still occupied with hunting down M.F (-ing) Hussain. Inevitably, the situation escalated and the British Government went on an all out war with the entire Muslim population of the world. Thousands of Islamic supporters blew themselves up killing almost thirty-five English men and a chipmunk. The British retaliated by releasing more Hugh Grant-starring romantic comedies into the Islamic world. The second week of the British-Islam war saw the body count rise meteorically. And by the third week both parties were wiped off completely from the phase of the earth. Probably this was what happened to the dinosaurs too. The carnage was catastrophic, the sight horrific. Nothing moved except a few roaches…and a ghostly rotund mass of blubber. It was Salman Rushdie. He had survived the war. He stood in the middle of the ruins, looked around regretfully at what was around him, what was done in his name, and screamed out loud in perfect English, “I wants me some pussy.” As if in response to his cry a figure crawled out from underneath the ruins. It was the Queen. Both Salman and the Queen stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity before Rushdie proceeded to mount the queen and repeatedly stuff her one hundred and thirty year old vagina with his silver dildo. As the two love pigs lay there humping on the rubble, amidst thousands of corpses, their passionate cries echoed through the rest of the free world, “Oh! Your majesty! Oh your majesty!”, “Oh! Sir Salman! Oh! Sir Salman”.
- 64 (22nd June 2007)
Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 2
People despise me saying I got a perverted filthy mind Believe you me this verse is gonna be an unhealthy find I spend my time snapping pictures of women with healthy behinds I was fourteen when I started exhibiting these signs I promise there’s no exaggeration in these lines Used to carry my camera to my auntie’s gym And click every time I saw this one blondie’s bum But butts were plenty in that gym it seemed like a bum symposium To me it felt like those women were actually posing them So my trusted camera could capture those round cushions To me this is an art, one that provides me sound visions And it ain’t like I expose these ladies’ faces All I do is take photos of their amazing bases I knew I was made for this and I started branching out I stared making money using this enchanting route People really loved the photos I was handing out Haunted coffee shops for girls sitting in or standing out Sneaked into fashion shows to click the cheeky models Doors or security couldn’t stop me from seeking more belles I have even snapped a few secret celebrity pictures When it comes to my work I lay down no strictures The only golden rule I care is customer satisfaction But that doesn’t mean I take clients like Michael Jackson My camera doesn’t capture children or even the male race I won’t compromise on that even if it means I won’t be able to save face Amongst my best sales are the butts of JLO and Britney Spears I don’t have to mention those aren’t a pair of itsy bitsy rears I caught them both at a bar trying to drink free beers They were both dressed in dresses whiter than the head of Richard Gere Nothing’s more ironic than Britney Spears in white And ain’t nothing more erotic than Jen Lopez in tights Then there’s Anna who’s hot as long as it’s no tennis fight Her pictures sell great even on her most heinous night Her butt’s clearer in my pix than the ones on any website You must be thinking I wrote just to advertise my collection That’s not true; I have another reason for this method selection Let me fast forward to my worry; let me tell you all about it I hope you’re in no hurry; you’re a writer so I doubt it The problem has everything to do with my latest client He’s a good customer and I’ve always been reliant But his latest need has totally wrecked my peace He wants a photo of the butt of my girlfriend, Denise, I’m left stumped, can’t figure out how I’m to act Never say no to my clients is my primal business pact This situation has landed me in a very tough spot
- 65 Even a word against my girl is a bad enough thought But backing out of my job isn’t one of my functions, At the same time I’m being overwhelmed with compunction To do or not to do that is the question I want you to answer that with a good suggestion And don’t think me stupid I do know the obvious answer Forget about asking me to hire some helping hands, sir, I know I could just employ someone and give him the task But I work alone and don’t take help from any wimpy ass If anybody’s snapping my girl then I’m the one to do it The issue is whether or not I will afterwards rue it Also there’s a chance that Denise will finally find out Don’t want things to change, they’re perfectly fine now All I’ve told her is that I work as a photographer She is unaware that I’m really a buttock sniffer I so damn wish this client would get off of her This guy is more obstinate than Adolph Hitler I could turn him down, say no to the horny chump But he’s loaded almost as much as Donald Trump Nobody knows about this world in which I exist Mother nor sister know this is how I bought our Lexus So reply fast I need a way out this mess Make sure it’s one where I suffer least distress Some plan where I’ll end up with the girl and cash Not some stupid one which will make me whirl and crash Help me out I’ll definitely make it your time’s worth I’ll send you photos of any bum you want on this earth. Huge Pervert, Los Angeles Dr. 50 paise replies: I’m not suited to judge your mind’s condition Although I think your brain’s out of commission Your job definitely isn’t for the weak-hearted It stinks like the air when a dead sheep farted At first I imagined someone was pulling a prank The more I read the more it stank You’re nothing but the lowest form of paparazzi You wanna be a hero, go slap a Nazi You’re only fooling yourself sounding artsy-fartsy Taking pictures of women with their asses half seen You’re the biggest Jack of all the asses I’ve seen I’m very much shocked that you’re still alive and clicking But listen real close your clock is ticking Now or later you’re going to end up hurt Sorry for the tone generally I’m not this curt But I’m telling you man you’ve almost reached the brink
- 66 You better call it quits and bleach your kink Best thing would be for you go see a shrink The storm will hit you and your ship will sink And stop calling what you do as work It just proves you’re a humongous jerk What you’re doing is a punishable offence The price you might pay could be very immense You’re hurting people’s families in a sense You’re preying on unsuspecting women having innocence Your habits seem to have eroded that aspect of inner sense Now when your girl could be the victim you feel the sting For the women whom you victimize it’s pain you bring But I see the issue for you is an entirely different thing I first got the wrong idea from your marks of ink I pictured you had finally learned your lesson Figured your perverseness would finally lessen It isn’t love or anything close that leaves you distraught Your heart holds nothing but various sleazy thoughts Concern for your girl isn’t what is upsetting you You just don’t want her to be suspecting you You don’t care if someone treats her badly You’re willing to make money off her gladly As long as you’re in the clear and not involved directly You’re playing up to a false image you’ve erected Just by delegating the task you think you’re free from blame You’ve pawned your morals for attaining money and fame The matter at hand is not about being true to your clients What you’re doing is against God and an act of defiance You belong with rats though you might dream of lions Exploiting innocents is what you judge as triumph You cannot cross bridges until and unless you try ‘em If you loved your girl you wouldn’t have needed my help You would have told your client to go straight to red hell And you wouldn’t have lied and side-lived a secret life Your personality sucks, it’s worse than being a stereotype You have wasted your life lusting after fame and money You adopted vulgar means and that’s the same as demonic However God is one who forgives even the worst Don’t you want a clear mind before you’re in your hearse? Death can capture everything but it can’t capture hope God can save your neck even if the devil latches on it with rope All that advice is under assumption you have plans to become changed Although from your letter you sounded more than deranged So if you’re planning to stick to your lifestyle then I have a request I know you find it proper in you what others find grotesque So be the proper professional and make good your promise You promised that my time will bring me photographic profits I think I know just what would please my most common sense Naked pictures of buttocks that belong to your mom and sis.
- 67 (23rd June 2007)
Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 3
Let me just start with a solid strong fact This is not one of those stolid wrong stats At least twelve times a day they say I’m just too fat What the hell am I to do? Even my pals shout out ‘Who’s that?’ I’ve tried it all, all the books and the fast diets, It’s all lies and now it looks like I’m past light, I’m the heaviest thing and when I worry I get doubly hungry, I’ll drink the gravy or curry or my tongue just runs dry, The other day I almost swallowed a plastic orange, My brother, Jay, stopped me with a drastic low punch, People find it funny they laugh at my ecstatic slow munch, Call me names when I’m consuming my fantastic-four lunch, Burgers, Pizzas, Sandwiches and hot dogs with extra cheese, These four items I cannot hog but with textbook ease, Next one please, it’s all I can ever think of, I want to eat it all up, But in the process I’ve messed it all up, My friends, they don’t even meet or call up, They think I’m happier to eat meat or a dollop Of cream, I just want to scream, trapped in a bad dream, I thought that they were always in my team, But it seems like they feel I lack self-esteem, Please help me, send me at least a single light beam, Is it such a nasty black spot to be too obese? Why are they swarming on me like a pack o’ bees? It’s not my fault that I’ll die for a Mac n Cheese, I cannot vault my feelings; they come back n tease, So what do you suggest? Any exercise or diet plans? Anyway I need some rest, all this text and cries, now I have tight hands, Hope you reply me by post as soon as possible, Right now there’s a lamb roast on which I must nibble. Bucket of Lard, Ohio Dr. 50 Paise replies: At first I was a bit confused what you wanted my help for, What your bemused friends taunted you to hell for? Then I saw your concern for your obesity, Do you take long walks or is it only sitting? I can understand why you act like a mad-eater, All the pressure circles you in a yard with no diameter, Soon I got to know that the matter was a tad serious, Eating plastic is no better than drinking things bad and spurious, The solution is not reading books or watching diet programs, Take a resolution to cut down on your batch of nighttime hams, Walk everyday for an hour or so, it helps you from head to toe,
- 68 You can do it fast or slow, be dedicated and you need to do no more, Do it now, for long you’ve already waited, no more of woes, You say you’ll die for a Mac n Cheese, good to see some passion, Seems to me like you’ll die of a Mac n Cheese, sorry for that slashing, Losing weight is no magic trick; the excess weight will end you up aging sick, You’ll always be paging shrinks, paying bills, envisaging greener hills, And it’ll be harder to stop your friends repeating all the meaner things, So get it clear that it doesn’t help to eat relentlessly, You need to sweat it here; you mustn’t accept defeat endlessly, Keep your mind on it, reduce your grub and stop being a lazy bum, Don’t just smile this off, Go use a health club or join a gymnasium, Give it some time, don’t agonize or you’ll be in some coma, Don’t lose sleep and get bags under eyes like the Simpsons’ Homer, Remember that the people who hurt are not your friends, They’re just a worthless bunch who blots your sense, A friend is one who sees in you the sage and dunce, A friend is one who stays and not one who runs, I think you’ll be fine and that’s not a mere hunch, If all this doesn’t work then I’ll buy you a year’s lunch
- 69 (24th June 2007)
The Adventures of Space Bitch Sunita
Americans say she’s one of their own; Indians claim she’s their most treasured sister; women all over the world, regardless of their geographical differences, accept her as their shiniest star; ugly people hail her name as the greatest source of inspiration to come out of their community since Whoopi Goldberg. Regardless of where she really belongs Sunita Williams is definitely considered out of this world right now. A lot of people, especially some of us patriotic Indians, prayed till we bled out of our urinary tracts so that this hitherto unheard of space bitch could make it back to earth safely. And God, who knew that prayer-induced internal bleeding occurred only when the supplication was sincere, made sure Sunita Williams returned to her planet unscathed except for the bite marks on her labia majora, which were self inflicted owing to the shortage of fish n chips towards the fag end of her journey. The Indian President, Abdul Kalam, welcomed Sunita by personally entering the Atlantis and greeting her. The missile man spent about an hour inside Sunita’s cockpit and wondered at the capaciousness of the region. He also proposed the idea of one day having Sunita take control of his missiles and raising it to an altitude of at least seven inches, let alone outer space. Sunita responded by stating that she was starving and attempted to perform more acts of self-cannibalization on her vulva before NASA stopped her in time by feeding her some penis kebabs. Hearing the media extol the courage and determination of Sunita in surviving trying conditions and living inside an air-conditioned space craft with treadmill, refrigerator, computers, scrabble, dildos, and Charlie Chaplin tapes, some fishermen and soldiers requested that their stories of staring death in its face every moment of their lives be reported on television as well. The leading news channels promised the soldiers and fishermen that they would definitely run their stories. However, they would first have to bring three things to the media: the beating heart of a Stegosaurus, the blood of a two hundred year old Chinese prostitute, and a picture of Paris Hilton wearing any form of underwear. The number of jobless kiss-ass interviewers smothering Sunita Williams was so overwhelming that the Bachchans actually considered calling in a professional killer to wipe her out for stealing their fountainhead of life. The interviewers questioned Sunita on what her most exhilarating outer space experience was. Whether it was the rush of being so far away from a place accepted as home for all of mankind since the beginning of life or the anticipation of the future of space travel or the chance to learn of the possibilities of life on other planets. Sunita Williams pondered over the question for about ten seconds before she replied confidently, “Zero gravity pooping.” She explained in very scientific terms how when she went poo poo in outer space she only had to give the initial gentle push to bring out the doo doo and the rest was taken care of by zero gravity. She stated that it felt almost as if an invisible magician was pulling out a long ribbon of shit out of her craphole. She also admitted that despite all the strain she endured while she was out of earth the technology that NASA offered her did make things slightly better in outer space. One of the most invaluable technological innovations, Sunita said, was the NASA-designed FD chip that was inserted deep into her rectal cavity. The FD chip or the Fart Divert chip operated much like the Call Divert function in a cell phone. Whenever Sunita felt like letting one rip it would get diverted to the bum of another person whose data would be stored in the chip. This
- 70 technology, NASA explained, helped divert outer space farts to earth consequently reducing space pollution. Another problem that was resolved by NASA’s state of the art science was Sunita’s grooming. Since NASA knew it would tough for Sunita to handle a razor or use wax in outer space they provided her with a scientific grooming equipment known as a diamond saw blade. Using the DSB Sunita, while in outer space, was able to not only successfully remove body hair but also a few layers of skin and tissues thereby putting an end to any further hair growth. Sunita also supplied the salivating media with exclusive photographs of the galaxy as viewed from the Atlantis. One of the channels expressed their concern over the authenticity of one outer space photograph which they said looked like an enlarged version of Sunita’s left nipple, which incidentally was pretty damn popular. Sunita also corroborated the fact there were only three things on earth that could be seen from near the moon and other parts of space- the Great Wall of China, Jennifer Lopez’s ass, and Abishek Bachchan’s ego. Sunita Williams promised that this was only the start of her adventures. She would yet again tread bravely into the regions where no ordinary woman would dare go- like the streets of Bangalore after ten o clock, Jack Kevorkian’s bedroom, and George Bush’s head. Before she could answer further questions she was once again struck by a surge of hunger. She twisted her body and buried her head between her legs and began chewing on her clit. Thankfully, the NASA team swooped in to save the day yet again by serving her some cock cutlets.
- 71 (25th June 2007)
Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 4
Just a few weeks ago my life seemed perfect Loved to live, never wanted to forfeit Never thought about death or about my coffin But I’m popping pills and spending my time coughin’ In my twenty five years I’ve never felt like I lacked an answer Until the moment when I was told I’m being attacked by cancer My family’s devastated and my life has come to a halt Am I to blame God? With who am I supposed to find fault All that I ever lived for has suddenly just slipped out I’ve been reduced to nothing; I’m totally insane and flipped out I wish God would just tell me what I did to deserve this fate I have only loved and never ever worked to serve hate It feels like hell when I’m awake and hell when I’m sleeping All the people I love are either pitiful or weeping Screw all the morals and principles I lived by I’m through with abhorring sins; I’m left with no alibi There is nothing in front except a void I’m filled with a disrespect I can’t avoid Will God tell me what I did to receive this? I look around and see happy cheats and deceivers Walking around enjoying life with no diseases I’m left with a crying wife whose life is split into pieces My heart is bleeding and my pain never ceases Thwarted breathing, why can’t you save me oh Jesus? My treatment is just for some time, say all of the doctors I’ll be soon rendered helpless, why does death have to mock us? An unhindered life needs only very little time to shock us We can never predict what is there in store for us But I know for a fact that life is indeed torturous Could be even tomorrow that I end up in a mortuary When I was young I thought there was a burning torch for me But now it’s been put out yet the infernal heat is scorching me All this undeserved pain and shattered dreams I could have endured Why is my family too being battered and deeply injured? If only God had let me know this two years ago My lovely wife wouldn’t have been fated to shed tears alone My heart breaks further when I think of my mother and father Two people who thought I’d reach greatness and even farther Here I am now sobbing and counting my days The cancer in me robbing the sun’s rays I’m now convinced destiny has nothing to do with one’s ways It doesn’t matter if you’re into peace or into gunplay Some are forced to leave and some to just stay Life will slip from you whether you cuss or pray Nothing’s left for me except pain and dismay I wish I was never born in the first place
- 72 I’m going to die clueless in this deathly maze Death awaits me around the corner with a cold gaze As a child I never thought I’d never see old age I’m about to leave this book of life like a torn page I placed in God all my trust to ensure my safety Not knowing in my case he would be so hasty He didn’t even let me know of my purpose Instead left me to suffer like a rotten carcass My heart beats no more and there remains a cold sore People like fishes swimming to the ocean’s roars I’ll soon be buried unnoticed in the depths of the muddy shores. No Hope, Bombay. Dr. 50 paise replies: I won’t try to sound absurd by saying I know what you’re feeling We all have experienced hard times when our lives were reeling But what you’re going through right now is far too personal For anybody to demand that you be calm and act rational Cancer is doubtlessly one of the world’s biggest curses Into dejection and misery its victims it immerses Life suddenly twists contrary to what one rehearses Shattering dreams and the lives that each person nurses But God is not unfair and he’s not a punisher He’s the loving father and not a cruel admonisher Difficulties come our way as little tests of faith Life for everyone is a fierce struggle with fate Cancer however can’t be termed as just another hurdle It scars one’s vision with pits and blurred hills It’s unknown to this world the plans that the Lord makes But he has a reason for every single life that he takes Everything around may seem it has changed for the worst But a strong heart filled with faith should replace the outbursts Prayers have been proved to create great miracles Sincere pleas will help break manacles Easy it is to have faith when the sky is clear But the test really is when the dark night is here Your life has not become a symbol of insignificance Life becomes death when your interior thickens They could have all the money in the world Bathe in gold, rubies, diamonds, and pearls But you’re surrounded by people who care for you Ones who’d die for you and be there for you Don’t think the time till now has been wasted hours Life is a tree that grows through dry days and days of showers Filled with fruits so sweet and some that tastes so sour
- 73 Bliss and agony goes together like the fate of lovers Beliefs and strength are never to be let go of God is capable of wonders one can never know of Do not treat these lines as if they’re lines of false hope God is your balance when you’re walking life’s tight rope The heights you wanted you say haven’t been reached The promises you made yourself you say have been breached Greatness isn’t measured by your riches or fame Nor does it matter how many people recognize your name What’s real are the hearts and lives you touch The tears that you catch which you deem not much The broken lives you support by being their crutch Give yourself up to God and he’ll take away your pains An honest man always suffers more than one who feigns Clean hands are fewer than ones with bloodstains Goodness sustains life and not merely food grains Clear your mind and focus on all that you have done You’ll realize your real journey has just begun It’s leaving God’s Earth with a clear conscience that’s the purpose Spreading love and joy that can never be surplus Leaving other people’s lives better urges God to help us To the rich and famous life is nothing but a circus Fire and noise adorned with moments of fake sparkles Meaningless existence living out your flesh Meanwhile real life exists outside this mesh Finding your self and finding the almighty Lord Resort to the feather and abandon the sword Pray your heart out and search for the answer Your soul and spirit will never succumb to the cancer Leave your worries and submit to prayers For those who trust have a place up the heavenly stairs.
- 74 (26th June 2007)
50 Paise vs. Britney Spears
(Created by 50 Paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible doctor with his very own advice column):
This is a lyric celebrating a woman’s beauty, Elaborating on a cutie’s boobs and bootie, There maybe a million round tits and rears, But ain’t none tighter than those of Britney Spears, Oh! Just saying her name leaves me with an erection, Download a picture of her, my dick loses direction, Even impotent guys jackoff to her,she causes resurrection, She has a place in my heart, in the ‘wanna-screw-you’ section’, If there’s anybody’s ass I’d suck it’s surely Britney’s, Let me chew your nipples, here’s 20bucks,consider it tit-fees, Don’t get me wrong, I dig her songs, voice and all, I thought she did a nice job in that video rock and roll, Only she’d do a better job swallowing my cock and balls, She’s reached the point where she need sing no more, Let the music run, drop the top and spin like a whore, She’s ever the same, it don’t matter if she’s rich, She was never so tame, she was always a bitch, Sometimes I wanna get mean behind her and hit that baby one more time, Would’ve screwed her ass when she was sixteen if it had not been a crime, She messes with our minds exposing those abs, I’ve run out of money, now websites are taking my tabs, That bitch should just quit this posing, stop making us gape, Either go kill herself or release her sex-tape, If she ever lets me our relationship will move on to rape, Since she’s letting me rape, the law cant catch me, I’ll easily escape, When she closes her eyes and bites her lips, My cock loses it all and emerges despite flops and flips, Just take into your mouth Britney, yeah just drink it, Imagine it’s a microphone, suck it and lip sync it, Dance away and come to me, let me smell your sweat, Hop around on my dick let me make you wet, I’m telling you babe, I’m good, in fact the best you’ll ever get, My dick is bigger than your Grammies, come on let’s make a bet, If I lose I’ll come to your toilet and watch you piss, If u lose you’ll let me have a threesome with you and your sis!!
- 75 (27th June 2007)
50 Paise vs. George W. Bush
(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible doctor with his very own advice column):
There’s nothing worth talkin or knowin ‘bot George Bush Except one of his daughters who i know has got a large tush How can such a fuckin moron be the President? He’s so dumb he fucked his wife in the nose thinkin it was her pussy end I hate his very sight and the sound of his voice That motherfucker is more gay than Jacko with all his boys Are the Americans so fuckin stupid that they can’t see it? Fuck I can make better speeches than him even if I pee it Bush’s just a bitchass fag waging wars for his dear ol dad A bitter fucker who got fucked in the rear so bad He let a bunch of lame motherfuckers burn the twin towers Instead of takin care of his people he and Blair were in the shower On 9/11 he wanted to say Oh God but he mispronounced and said damn! Osama fucked his country but that stupid fuck went after Saddam He could care less ‘bot what happens to all his fuckin people He would have been kicked out if the Americans weren’t so fuckin feeble Bill Clinton blew his load with a whore and he got impeached Bush is blowing up countries and look where he’s reached That dicksucker don’t even know how to eat a fuckin pretzel His shrivelled up brain is smaller than a fuckin nutshell That motherfuckin prick sucks KKK dick, he’s a fuckin racist He’s screwed over minorities more times than Cher’s got facelifts He should resign, marry Blair, be his wife, and choose the right blouse He’s fucked so many blacks in the ass he’s turnin the whole country into a White House I hope he fuckin dies and burns to ashes in hell Or trip and fall over into a motherfuckin well ‘Cuz of his stupid fuckin ego thousands of soldiers are being killed If he wants a war let him go fight it himself and get drilled He’s sending his army to screw over innocent victims If he wants Saddam’s dick he should go and hit him Leave the people alone you motherfuckin pussy What’s your compulsive need to blow up everything you see? Fuck you, Bush! Fuck you to hell get the fuck out of this world with ur Texan dick You make the Blacks, Whites, Spanish, Asians, and the Mexicans sick Everybody wants you dead you’re nothing but a fuckin phoney 50 Paise will slit your throat so go home while you can homie!!
- 76 (28th June 2007)
50 Paise vs. F.R.I.E.N.D.S
(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible doctor with his very own advice column):
Six people who are everything to each other, Hi we’re friends Fuck that shit homie, that show ain’t even worth four cents That fuckin series made it big for four reasons Courtney and Aniston’s perky tits in the first four seasons Friends is nothing but an audience screwer You can find better humor in a fuckin sewer Ain’t no friends like that in real life All that forgivness and love is just mere hype I hate that bitch Kudrow, the one who plays Phoebe That slut is so horny she gave her chair a freebie Her pussy craves dicks screaming come feel me And her tits throbbing inside her bra yelling come free me Monica the sexy bitch played by Courtney Cox She’s no actress she just likes throating cocks Fuck that lame Ross N Rachel on-off love storyline Hell with that nerd Rach he’s just a sorry guy Come over to my place and spend a night with da paise Aniston I’ll fuck you so good, then let you lick my megasize piston Die Matt le Blanc along with your bitch Matthew Perry They are so flamin they plucked each other’s cherry These motherfuckers and bitches waste our fuckin time They earn millions, we’re left without a dime Split your dough with us you wrinkled fuckers for making you famous You cocksuckers ain’t nothin but half a dozen jerkoffs who’re lameass You bastards think that I want you to be there for me? Unload your wallets homies let’s see if you got some spare for me And you three bitches, all I want you to do is just bare for me I’m glad that stupid shit show is off the air Only thing worse than FRIENDS would be watchin Tony Blair fuck Cher All you motherfuckers are gone though it took you ten years I couldn’t enjoy a moment of the show even if i had had ten beers So Fuck all friends TV show and real ones I’mma shoot everyone up with my dear guns!!
- 77 (29th June 2007)
The shroud of sadness that was spread last Sunday over billions of people has not yet been lifted. The world saw the passing of a truly heroic individual who had captured the hearts of everyone around him. That dark Sunday marked the end of the significant life of one of the greatest fighters ever, both in professional and personal life: World Wrestling Entertainment star, Chris Benoit. Everyone who knew him described him as a thorough professional, but above all Benoit was etched in the hearts of his friends and family as a good human being. His wife, Nancy, and his seven-year-old mentally challenged son, Daniel, however, were unavailable to make comments on Chris Benoit’s death. Mainly because the compassionate wrestling hero had murdered them both with his bare hands before killing himself. The most distressing fact although is the number of morbidly perverse people out there who’re trying to tarnish this solemn Benoit family occasion of double homicide suicide by bringing up accusations of Chris Benoit being a victim of “roid rage”. Our society has become so addicted to stereotyping people that every time a person having abnormally large muscles with veins the size of portable computers comes on screen, they naturally assume he’s buffed up with the assistance of steroids. The World Wrestling Entertainment and other athletes in the wrestling business are of the opinion that the very theory of “roid rage” is baseless even though they deny furiously taking steroids at any point in their lives. They strongly believe that the linking of this crazy theory and the perfectly natural double homicide suicide story of Benoit is part of a much larger controversy propagated by the SNL team in yet another attempt to tarnish the respectability of the wrestling business. The SNL team, or the Scrawny Nerds League, according to the WWE, is a group of skinny douchebags who, try as hard as they might, can never put on body mass at the same rate as the professional wrestlers. Hence, they develop a feeling of jealously which generate in them a need to make up shitty stuff connecting wrestlers and steroids. Regarding Chris Benoit’s general disposition both the WWE and its chairman, Vince McMahon, maintained that he was a mild-mannered individual who never showed signs of any kind of violence. Well, except for beating up people to pulp, hitting them with chairs, jumping off ladders and head butting them on their sternums, and twisting their heads so far behind their back that they would pass out of pain. But then again, which professional sportsman didn’t do that these days? Benoit’s toothless smile, resulting from a bloody brutal brawl, was something that brought warmth and enthusiasm to others, reported some of Benoit’s colleagues namely the Animal and the Dead Man. There was no way anyone could have known that Chris Benoit, nicknamed the Rabid Wolverine, had any element of aggression residing in him. The WWE also stated that Benoit, though melancholic most of the time, could not be described as suicidal since this was the first and only time that he had committed suicide. Police reports said that Chris Benoit may have used his trademark finishing maneuver, “the Crippler Cross face”, on his son to stifle him to death. Wrestling enthusiasts remarked that it only served to prove how much passion Benoit had for the wrestling business. Some even speculated that knowing Benoit’s resilient gene pool, his seven-year-old son who suffered from Fragile X syndrome, might not have tapped out to his father’s submission maneuver. After all he was the son of a man who was all heart. Benoit’s wife,
- 78 who was obviously weaker owing to her sex, submitted to “the Crippler Cross face” as soon as her neck broke. Benoit then proceed to kill himself by swallowing a dumbbell and watching recorded episodes of Crumbs. Placed next to the corpses of his wife and son were two copies of the Bible, which was technically the only possible loophole for Benoit to get into heaven. The Pope, on hearing this, stated that he talked Jesus out of taking Benoit in since this act of Benoit was a desecration of the Holy Bible and that for his sins, Benoit would be reborn in his next life as a call center employee in India. Several wrestlers expressed their shock on the mind-boggling incident. They all felt bewildered on learning that Chris Benoit had copies of the Bible. As far as they knew, the only thing he could read was names of painkillers. Hulk Hogan, a few days back, made a bold statement when he supported controlled steroid use. According to Hogan, his entire family used steroids and they all did just fine. Except for the small side effect that happened with his daughter Brooke where she grew testicles in the side of her neck. And his son who developed pussy lips on his forehead. Hogan, much like the rest of the wrestling world, supported WWE and said that the increasing number of early deaths in the business was not due to drug use of any kind. He would be a hundred and thirty three next year. Hogan instead believed the early deaths to be an aftermath of global warming. As bizarrely discomforting as Benoit’s death was and as large a part of the business as he was, the WWE should not be burdened with the sins of this monstrous man, exclaimed Vince McMahon. There was even speculation that Benoit’s ex-friend Eddie Guerrero may have been behind Benoit’s death, creating the double homicide suicide scenario as a set up for something way more sinister. However, the speculation was abandoned after people remembered that Eddie Guerrero had died a couple of years back owing to a steroid related heart failure. The WWE used to and, still do sometimes, show clips of wrestlers telling viewers at home not to imitate at home the moves that they do. Chris Benoit, too, was in a similar video explaining to viewers how much pain it was to actually do what he and his colleagues did. He advised WWE fans to never imitate at home what they saw on TV. In a touching tribute to Chris Benoit, the WWE fans from all around the world chanted in unison in an attempt to summarize Benoit’s life and career, “Practice what you preach, motherfucker.”
- 79 (30th June 2007)
The Seven Wonders of India
Until sometime back my nighttime schedule was short and simple. I watched Shakira videos, beat my meat, and then went to sleep dreaming of impregnating her. However, I was, recently, forced to make a slight change in my nighttime schedule. The altered agenda was: watch Shakira videos, massage my Mt. Everest, say a ten-minute prayer, and then go to sleep dreaming of impregnating Shakira. Unlike in my childhood days, the prayer wasn’t aimed at having my school bombed or my teachers buried alive or my relatives skewered. I had matured a lot since those days. I knew all I had to do was search the Internet for ultra cool ways to murder people. The reason I prayed after rubbing my rhombus and before going to sleep was something totally different. I yearned to uphold our country’s pride and rich cultural heritage in front of the rest of the world. I desired to make India appear tourism-worthy to stupid retarded white-ass foreigners. I prayed in order to make sure the Taj Mahal wouldn’t get voted out of the new seven wonders list. The whole nation is getting jittery because the Taj Mahal was the one thing that had always made India appealing to the rest of the universe. Even when some countries couldn’t agree to our strict moral code of banning and condemning everything that even slightly referred to the authenticity of religions or historical figures while secretly promoting prostitution, sex rackets, communal riots, bigotry, pornography, and violence against women they all openly welcomed the fact that the Taj Mahal was a wondrous monument and an unequivocal symbol of love. Without the Taj Mahal being officially one of the seven wonders India would be just a smelly country with a handful of filthy rich millionaires, billions of sick, depressed call center employees and software engineers, and a seriously “we’ve-got-our-heads-so-far-up-our-asses-that-we-can-lick-our-tonsils” family called the Bachchans whom everybody knows they’re supposed to say they like but aren’t quite sure why. Some Indians were of the opinion that India was paying too much attention to get accepted into the New Seven Wonders List. They believed that when hundreds and thousands of Indians were dying every month of various reasons like poverty, diseases, and border violence the value that was being ascribed to the Taj Mahal was undeserved. Afterwards, when they ran out of things to say and do the group randomly assaulted college professors and assailed artists and writers. It was then that everybody realized that it was merely the Shiv Sena and the RSS trying to not have a Muslim monument as the biggest attraction in a purely Hindu country. They demanded that, instead, a Hindu monument should be named as the country’s biggest treasure. Maybe something like the IMAX theatre in Mumbai. Or Bal Thackeray’s house. Even if the New Seven Wonders Committee excludes the Taj from their list we have to learn to value our national possessions and talk about them at every single occasion so that people get so sick of it they’ll visit the Taj Mahal just to jump from the top of it. What most of us don’t realize is that the Taj Mahal is just one of the brilliant wonders that exist in our country. There are innumerous wonders that overwhelm different parts of our country that it’s hard to make a list of them. However, I have managed to narrow down seven of our country’s greatest wonders.
- 80 THE SEVEN WONDERS OF INDIA
Wonder # 7: Bollywood Possibly the most popular movie industry in the world next to Hollywood. But the reason why it’s included in the seven wonders of India list is because not a single living breathing Indian knows why it’s so popular. Overflowing with untalented actors, directors, and scriptwriters Bollywood is equivalent to a group of monkeys imitating what they see Hollywood do, and that too imitate it really badly. It’s nothing short of a wonder how actors like Fardeen Khan, Suniel Shetty, Amisha Patel, John Abraham, Shahid Kapoor, and Bipasha Basu to name a few are still thriving in the industry. It’s nothing short of a wonder that people would pay money to see these spoiled assfaces put on pathetic displays of what they call acting. Wonder # 6: Dowry The wondrous procedure by which a woman is sold to a man by her family where the money is paid by the woman’s family to the man. Now that’s what you call a bad bargain when you part with valuable pussy and end up paying for it. Still, the wonder is that even in the twenty first century it exists and continues to grow stronger. Wonder # 5: Hansika Motwani With tits that can give you a cardiac arrest, an ass that can bring world peace, and a face that can keep a sperm bank going for years, Hansika Motwani is just sixteen years old. Now, salivating after a sixteen-year-old girl is obviously an inappropriate thing to do but she’s a living breathing sex-oozing monument of beauty who deserves to be described as a true hormonal wonder. Wonder # 4: Himesh Reshammiya One of the very few singers in the country who gets paid to make sounds similar to a giraffe getting a cordless phone shoved up its ass. Others like Lata Mangeshkar and Asha Bhosle have had to strain for centuries before they reached where the capped-wonder Himesh has reached in a matter of few months. Wonder # 3: Ayesha Takia’s boobs Are they two planets trapped inside her blouse? Is it God’s way of letting us take a sneak preview of what heaven is like? Are they not the two most essential things a man needs for his survival other than food and water? Filled with the power to raise the genitals of even a dead man, Ayesha Takia’s boobs are undoubtedly the greatest twin towers ever into which anyone would love to fly their airplane into. Wonder # 2: Indian Politics Filled with both educated and uneducated cock-squeezers, the Indian Political Arena is awe-inspiring both for its complete refusal to give a shit about the welfare of the
- 81 people and the absolute desire to pile up as much money as possible while promising people whatever they want to hear. Although Indian Politics resemble other countries in those aspects they hold their own when it comes to crime, corruption, and intolerance. In all which way possible, the field of Indian Politics is truly a wonder. Wonder # 1: Kashmir A piece of shit-ass unproductive land that is perpetually filled with snow and does not mean crap to any thinking individual in either India or Pakistan. No matter how many billions of bullets are fired and how many thousands liters of blood are spilled Kashmir will forever remain an infected cork up the asses of both India and Pakistan. The wonder of Kashmir lies in the fact that everyone hears about how much India wants it to be ours but frankly speaking who would want to acquire a piece of shit like that which has cost our country so much, both in money and lives? Kashmir is the greatest shared wonder in our country that is often called the paradise on Earth but is actually nothing but a fucking graveyard where your nipples get pointy faster than a stranger can guess Karan Johar’s sexuality.
- 82 (1st July 2007)
Paris Hilton Saves the Bald Eagles
Animal activist freaks are on top of the world because the bald Eagle has been officially removed from the endangered species list. We all know what that means. Eagle hunting time! Now, eagle hunters can decapitate these bald eagles, stick a knife through their hearts, and eat them without that tug on their conscience, which used to tell them to preserve bald Eagles for posterity to hunt and kill. Now, both they and their future generations can hunt and kill these bald eagles as much as they want since they are once again back in circulation. The bald Eagle was put on the endangered species list some years back when what started as a fad amongst these eagles turned into something really serious. The female bald eagles watched an episode of Oprah where she said withholding sex could give them anything they wanted from their men. Driven by this advice the female bald eagles just refused to part their legs when their horny bald men came home at night. However, the plan didn’t quite come to fruition as Oprah and the female bald eagles expected. The bald males, as much as they wanted home grown pussy, wasn’t too bothered about not getting it at home. They just resorted to what every bird did when it couldn’t get laid at home. The male bald Eagles visited the Bird Brothel and got themselves some parrot pussy instead. Sure, it was lot wider and greener than eagle pussy but they were guys for God’s sake; any pussy was good pussy. The domestic friction became so intense that many bald Eagle couples even went for therapy to their official counselor. But after three days of marriage counseling they realized that Dr. Phil wasn’t a bald eagle, he was just a bald bitch. And years passed, the birth rate amongst the bald Eagles dropped alarmingly. The male bald Eagles had gotten so used to parrot pussy that the thought of even a random eagle pussy never crossed their minds. They didn’t even crave for a casual blowjob from their eagle wives. As far as they were concerned their wives were there to cook, clean, and do the laundry. Besides, there was no way the female bald Eagles could compete against the super kinky parrot sluts. Rumor was that during intercourse the parrots stuffed crackers and chili powder up the male eagles’ asses, which kept them going for at least an hour more. All the female bald eagles knew was to lie in bed, part their legs, take in the eagle dick, and moan, “Yeah, yeah give it to me baldie, give it to me.” They wouldn’t even get on top because Oprah had taught them that it was not ladylike to ride an eagle cock. While that may have been sexy to the male bald Eagles at one time, it seemed like geometry classes to them after getting a taste of parrot pussy. Soon, pregnancy was an unheard phenomenon in the bald Eagle community. The vaginas of the female bald Eagles saw so little action that a situation arose where the eagle vaginas sealed themselves up naturally not even giving access to the females to finger their depression away. And they did what any stupid, homebound woman who couldn’t get cock did- they became more addicted to Oprah who kept giving them stories about all men being rapists, molesters, cheaters, and pricks. Oprah also taught them that life wasn’t all about sex and that they could utilize their time productively by engaging in social activities like redecorating their homes and sniffing their pets’ rectums. Meanwhile, the birth rate kept plummeting. Then one day it happened. A group of female bald Eagles who were tuning into watch Oprah accidentally tuned into VH1 and saw a creature doing things that no one else dared to do, living life the way that it was to be lived. At that point the female bald Eagles
- 83 knew they had found their savior, Paris Hilton. Unlike the women on Oprah who talked about the dignity of being feminine and the propriety of living in a society, Paris Hilton was all about whorishness, all about freedom. That was exactly the kind of role model they were looking for. She never wore underwear, didn’t care what she had to do to please men, toiled day and night to get those cocks pumping inside her, and did it all with a proud smile on her cum-stained lips. The female bald Eagles immediately rushed home, pulled their husbands from bed and began stroking their eagle balls. Although the husbands resisted at first, once those sharp beaks engulfed their eagle wieners there was nothing they could do but submit to their reformed wives. The wives didn’t straightaway force the husbands to enter their pussies. They weren’t stupid cunts, for God’s sake. They knew that in order to enslave men they had to give them the one thing that all men wanted: butt sex. And the female bald Eagles bent over and let themselves get pounded like the fate of the world depended on it. The male bald Eagles were stunned; they hadn’t seen this much horniness in even a parrot. Soon, they realized that east pussy or west pussy, home pussy was the best pussy. And eventually, all the female bald Eagles were knocked up. And the bald Eagle community was saved from extinction. Recently, when Paris Hilton was jailed, the bald Eagles were one of her strongest supporters. They kept writing to her when she was in jail, rooted for her all throughout the ordeal, prayed for her well being, and even held tribute orgies in secluded parts of forests. After the Larry King interview Paris was generous enough to stop and talk to the bald Eagles whom she had unknowingly helped repopulate. The bald Eagles stated that they were forever indebted to Paris and the valuable lesson of being a total slut she had taught them. But they all agreed on the fact that there was one thing that was left to do; they had to take care of someone who had misguided them and almost ruined their lives. So, the bald Eagles and Paris Hilton flew over to Oprah’s mansion and lacerated Oprah’s black cunt.
- 84 (2nd July 2007)
God Fan Mail
Dear God, I’m like really psyched to write a letter to you because you’re like super amazing and totally my all time favorite hero alongside Birdman and Snoopy. I hope I called you by the right name ‘cuz I know you got like a bunch of names such as the Lord, the Almighty, the Omnipotent, G to the O.D et al. My family and my friends are all mega fans of you. We all think that you are the man, God. Is it true that you see everything, God? People keep telling me stuff like that and sometimes it creeps me out a little. If it’s true I have a small request, God. Please don’t look when I go to the bathroom to take a crap. I really can’t do it if I know someone’s watching me. I haven’t crapped in the last twelve days ever since my mom told me that you watch everything that I do. And also I’m like totally sorry for jizzing into my English teacher’s handbag when she wasn’t looking. It was an accident, God; I was actually aiming for her shoes so that when she put it on it would be all gooey and sticky. I think you’re like the coolest dude around, God, ‘cuz every person that I know are like super scared of you even though nobody has really seen you in person. I can only scare my little cousin brother and that too ‘cuz I tell him that if he doesn’t give me his candy you would make his buttocks turn into mustard. That’s what one of my aunts used to say when I was eight so that I’d let her suck on my wee wee. I think it’s mega sweet that you have the power to turn people’s buttocks into anything that you want. You’re totally the man, God. I know that you get angry really fast, God, ‘cuz all of your representatives down here on Earth say so but I’m like really itching to ask you something if you don’t mind. Which religion do you belong to, God? I’m like super confused ‘cuz Christians say that I’ve got to totally submit myself to Jesus, who they say is your son, if I’m to get to heaven. And also I have to go to church every Sunday and not say dirty words and stuff. I’m like massively into getting into heaven but I just want to make sure that if I suck up to Jesus I’ll get a spot. Christians also say that once I get into heaven I have to spend the rest of my life serving you, cleaning your rooms and stuff. Are you so messy God that you need so many people to clean after you? Did you really father Jesus, God? And why did you just stop with the one kid, God? Are you like so into family planning and stuff? And if you are a Christian I’m really sorry that that sonofabitch Adam stole that apple from your garden. Don’t hold that against the rest of us, God. In retrospect you should’ve had like an electric fence around that tree or something if you liked it that much. Or are you a Muslim, God? Muslims say that if I, like, completely agree to what their Prophet says getting into heaven is, like, a total breeze. But it’s super hard to pray five times a day and also my back really hurts when I bow down like that. But I totally dig the fact that I get seventy virgins when I get to heaven. If that’s true I wish to do sixty-nine with all seventy of them. That’s like super sweet, God. But I also think that it would make heaven a really bloody place if people just get to penetrate virgins. Some Muslims also say that girls should, like, totally take a back seat and let men make decisions for them. I think that’s like way too smashing.
- 85 Or are you a Hindu, God? But there are, like, a thousand different versions of you in Hinduism. Some Hindus say that you’re, like, a cow or rat or an elephant and stuff. If that’s the case then you really need to get potty-trained, God. And I get like ultra messed up trying to figure out how to pronounce all the sacred words and stuff. If you’re a Hindu you must be, like, having awesome skills in phonetics. That’s mega sweet, God. And is it true that you only talk to Brahmans and not to other Hindus because Brahmans smell like curd? I have trouble pronouncing that word also, God. Is it like bra-man? Also, why does it take so many tries to get into heaven, God? Some Hindus say that I’ll keep getting born as different weird things like rabbits and dogs and ass pimples. That’s totally weak, God. Why can’t you just let me get into heaven after the first try? Come on, God, be a dude. I know that you don’t belong to any other religions like Buddhism, Judaism and others ‘cuz they’re all, like, totally gay so I just hope that you’ll write back and let me know what religion I should really follow. I also hope you’ll let the rest of the people know ‘cuz they’re all, like, always bitching and groaning about which one’s the better one. I’m surprised you’re taking this long to clear this out, God, ‘cuz it’s a total mess down here. You should try visiting it at least once and definitely sort it out. And if you do decide to come down, I recommend you fly Kingfisher; they’re the only airlines with hot airhostesses. There’s so much I want to ask you, God, but I don’t want to take a lot of your time. I totally want to know about Satan and if he’s really a cross dresser as the rumors have it and also about life and its purpose and shit like that. But I’ll do that another time. I know that it’s time for you to watch your Seinfeld reruns. I don’t want to keep you from that but I really hope you’ll definitely clear up all the mess that we guys have created down here in your name. Also, God, just in case you didn’t know murderers, cheaters, fraudsters, assholes, and megalomaniacs are the bad guys. Not the poor, the devout, the meek, and the lazy. So when you do want to kill people please try and get it straight. Before I end the letter I just have one question to ask you, God. I know that you’re all knowing and all powerful but I’m not completely sure if you’ll be able to answer this question. Anyways, you’re the only person I can think of who would at least have, like, an inkling of what the answer to this question would be like. So here goes. God, what’s the deal with Paula Abdul? Your hugest fan, Me.
- 86 (3rd July 2007)
50 Paise vs. A Corporate Homo
(Created by 50 Paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible doctor with his very own advice column): I’m like slowly headin towards my college Deep profound thoughts of Britney’s ass and cleavage I’m so guessin this’s gon be just a normal day Then on the road I see a fag in a tux, talk ‘bot being a formal gay Corporate Homo! Fuck that cocksuckin flamin CEO We went to the same fuckin school, hope that bitch don’t see me go I hated him in school itself when he was runnin around suckin dicks Tall bastard used to think he was IT, that wretched fuckin prick Swindling people up and down to become motherfuckin rich He ain’t got no skill, he’s just another lucky bitch Devil’s a pussy if I’m spittin this cuz I’m bitter He’s got a slutty wife but it’s been ages since he’s hit her Just lookin at his face can make you go badly sick He may be a bizness man but his only agenda’s straddlin dicks That’s why I had to pay visits to his wife and rouse her clit Even if he catches me in the act he still wudnt do lousy shit Cuz he’s a motherfuckin coward and a bitchass hypocrite Right from the time he fell out of his momma’s hippo clit I bet that fag is right now on his way to assfuck his boyfriend Look at that Mo, carrying his briefcase like a fuckin toytrunk Must be loaded with vaseline and dildos, disgusting bastard Hoping to get constipated beyond the help of oil of castor Shit! He’s crossing the road now, Man, I gotta hide now I need to escape now, can’t fuckin decide how And as I freak out, I hear a loud motherfuckin scream I see his buttfuckin ass fly across the road drippin red cream That fag’s been hit to hell by a badass monster truck Oh, well, I’m late for college and I don’t give a roasted FUCK!!!
- 87 (4th July 2007)
Alan Johnston and the Panty Wearing Potter Fans
Alan Johnston, the kidnapped BBC journalist, was released today after 114 days in the captivity of a group of men who call themselves the PWPF, or the Panty Wearing Potter Fans. At a press conference following his release, Johnston stated that there were very few things that he had gone through in his life that topped his kidnapping in being the worst experience ever- like waxing his pubic hair, immersing his head into a man’s torso during open heart surgery and blowing, and watching Evan Almighty. The PWPF, Johnston explained, were a group of really pansy men who wore panties and enjoyed Harry Potter books and movies. The BBC reporter recalled some of the most chilling episodes from his traumatic kidnapping where the PWPF sat around in a circle and discussed the potential twists and turns in the last installment of the Harry Potter series of books. And on some really horrific days they wore cardboard masks of Harry and Ron and fudge-packed each other like crazy. The sight was almost as horrendous as watching even five minutes of According to Jim, recalled Alan Johnston. The Panty Wearing Potter Fans had apparently kidnapped him because they wanted the British Government to force J.K Rowling to keep writing new Harry Potter books, giving bigger boobs to Hermione and transforming Harry from being Lance Bass gay to Ryan Seacrest gay. However, the British Government, having always held morality above everything else refused to grant their demands. Britain held the view that they had already contaminated the world with Hugh Grant and James Bond and they couldn’t live with the guilt of inflicting yet another Harry Potter book upon the world. So they told the cross-dressing homos to bugger off. Johnston also relived the painful memories of the times the fairies played quidditch with his balls. It was also at the occasion of quidditch that one of the PWPF leaders named Lord Voldemort blindfolded him and inserted something into his mouth and then took it away, and kept repeating it until his throat burned. Johnston maintained he didn’t know what the object Lord Voldemort put in and out of his mouth after blindfolding him was. He did, however, say that it could have been a slippery eel that smelled like a man’s penis. The BBC family welcomed Johnston with open arms to his old office and the Queen of Britain welcomed him with open buttcheeks to her old orifice. Johnston was met with a strong musky smell and thick cobwebs at both places. Johnston thanked his wife and kids for supporting him and writing him letters without ever giving up hope; he explained that the letters came in handy since the place where he was had absolutely no toilet paper. He also thanked his wife’s sister for regularly sending him photos of her going potty. Alan Johnston claimed that there was a point where he thought he would never be released from captivity. That only changed after he was able to negotiate with the PWPF and strike an agreeable deal. He explained that as he was speaking at the press conference, the PWPF, wearing the disguise of panty washing laundry men, were kidnapping J.K Rowling from her zillion-dollar mansion. When asked about why he would put another person’s life at risk to save his own he replied by saying that he wasn’t a fucking moron to not do that if the chance was there. He also let Potter fans all over the world know that J.K Rowling would be, at no point, harmed. Lord Voldemort, apparently, just wanted to repeatedly insert his slippery eel that smelled like a man’s penis in and out of Rowling’s head until her brain burned.
- 88 (5th July 2007)
The Transforming Killer Holes
India has always been a safe home for children even with all the murderous child molesters, aggressively demanding parents, addictive video games, child labor, violent television programs, and obscene fucking blogs. However, no longer is the average Indian child safe because there’s a new enemy in our country that, almost exclusively, targets kids with as much venom and hatred as a white trash guy in England who sees a slightly better off Asian guy. Parents all across the country are dumbstruck by this perilous phenomenon. The Indian Government, too, are left clueless when it comes to devising a strategy to combat this terribly powerful enemy. I’m, obviously, talking about holes. Deep narrow killer holes. Top Indian scientists utilized millions of taxpayers’ money in conducting research on the behavioral patters of these holes and why these holes seemed to prefer children as opposed to adults or even animals. After extensive study they came to the conclusion that the average Indian kid was retarded. Their secondary observations included the fact that these deep holes had the ability to transform themselves into different shapes and measurements. The scientists believed that the transforming holes could have been planted in India by either Pakistani spies or space aliens. According to the scientists the holes took the form of uncovered borewells, hidden ditches, open manholes, and Rakhi Sawant’s flesh conch. The transformed holes would then stay still playing the waiting game until an average retarded Indian kid hopped along. Once the retarded kid came within at least ten centimeters of its mouth, the hole would grow wider abruptly and swallow the poor bastard. After lying low for a few months the enemy struck again a couple of days back. Top news channels like CNN-IBN, NDTV, and Cartoon Network used state of the art cameras and cranes that were designed to explore the deepest of ditches or the tallest of trees to get every possible shot of the suffocated child. Other news channels like Headlines Today, who couldn’t afford such expensive equipment, used innovative methods to cover the story like going around asking strangers and previous pit-victims what they thought of the little boy who fell in the borewell. The parents of the boy who was stuck in the well expressed their deep gratitude to the news channels for the invaluable help they were lending their son in between reporting about Amitabh Bachchan, sports, and Amitabh Bachchan. The rescue operations were so intense and efficient that at one point the JCB machine used in the rescue made an attempt to fit itself down the narrow hole where the boy was trapped. It was later found out that the driver of the machine was drunk and also a complete Transformers buff. The local authorities sought help from the much richer central authorities who explained that they were short on assistance for the time being but would definitely send bags of prayers and hope to the family of the boy. The rescue operation came to a standstill when all possible methods were tried and found wanting. There was nothing that was left to do. Well, except one thing. Every single soul at the scene gathered together, put their palms together, and called out to the only force, which could rescue the boy. And after about forty-five minutes he arrived. Superhero Krrish burst into the scene in a yellow taxi and apologized for his delay. He explained that he couldn’t fly over since the exhaust pipes attached to his asshole had gone rusty and had to be greased before it started working again. Unlike the authorities, Krrish wasted no time in assessing the situation. With his hands resting at his hips, he
- 89 exclaimed, “The boy is in trouble.” The parents of the boy stuck in the well stared at Krrish and replied, “You think?” Krrish quickly scanned the area for something long, strong, and flexible. He demanded the crowd to hand him something that was long, strong, and flexible. None of the people had anything with them that was long, strong, and flexible. Krrish demanded yet again for something that was long, strong, and flexible. Finally, somebody from the crowd asked the obvious question which was, after all the purpose of repeating the phrase long, strong, and flexible, “Why don’t you just insert your penis into the borewell?” Krrish stared at the guy who made the remark and answered, “Nah. That won’t even fit a thimble. But, I do have some of the long pubic hair that I grew for Dhoom 3. That’s it. Krrish to the rescue.” After about two hours of trying to entwine the boy using his pubic hair Krrish finally succeeded in getting the boy out of the well. The crowd gathered there applauded loudly, the news channels began covering Krrish, and Rakesh Roshan planned yet another sequel. The boy, however, was in a state of unconsciousness and had only a 5 % chance of survival. But that didn’t matter. What was important was that the enemy was defeated, and that too by our very own superhero. The media celebrated the event and put the video feed in their archives to use the next time something like this happened. And Krrish, after letting himself get embraced by all his fans, bid goodbye. Unfortunately, on his way back, he tripped, lost his balance, and fell into the deep dark chasm of Rakhi Sawant’s flesh conch.
- 90 (6th July 2007)
A Muslim Extremist Visits a Catholic Confessional
Muslim Extremist: I have sinned, old man in a white robe. Catholic Priest: Call me father. Muslim Extremist: Papa. Catholic Priest: Not Papa, Father. Muslim Extremist: Dear Father, I have sinned. Catholic Priest: What are your sins, my son? Confess and be forgiven. Muslim Extremist: I’m not sure where to begin. Catholic Priest: Let’s see, have you ever indulged in any kind of incestuous activities? Muslim Extremist: Not at all. My family frowns on such things. If my dad knew I even touched my sister he would make me suck his dick as punishment. Catholic Priest: Ok, what about rapes? Done any of those? Muslim Extremist: Just girls. Catholic Priest: Well, that’s no sin then. How about cursing? Are you a frequent user of curse words? Muslim Extremist: Fuck No! I’m not a foulmouthed cunt like some modern Muslims out there. I stick to every word of the Koran and completely refrain from swearing. Catholic Priest: Well then, have you taken the life of another man? Muslim Extremist (hesitant): Quite a few, actually. I’m sure you must remember those beheadings that was all over the news and Internet some years back. I did five of those. Catholic Priest: I thought I recognized your accent. So you have killed five people? Muslim Extremist: Well, beheaded five. I have skewered seven, bombed eighty four, shot dead nineteen, tortured to death twenty two, strangled six, poisoned three, pushed off the cliff two, farted to death eight, and bored to non-existence twelve. Catholic Priest: Damn, boy. That’s a big-ass sin list you have there.
- 91 Muslim Extremist: But I did it all to uphold the honor of Islam and the Prophet. I did it so I can force others to believe what I believe consequently enslaving them. I was merely using fear to get people to do what I want. Catholic Priest (thinks for a few seconds): Well, that’s cool then. We do similar stuff to gays, Jews, Protestants, women seeking abortion, and pro-stem cell research people and then blame it on black people. Muslim Extremist: I guess the blacks are really useful to you guys in that sense. Catholic Priest: They also make good punching bags. Muslim Extremist: Umm…don’t you think that’s kind of racist? Catholic Priest: When I said they also make good punching bags, I meant they produce good punching bags. I didn’t mean that it felt good to punch them. I mean, I don’t know for sure. Maybe they do. But that’s not what I meant. Muslim Extremist: Ok. Catholic Priest: Coming back to you, I really don’t think all that you have confessed so far are really that big a deal. A lot of people do it and still mange to lead very productive, successful lives. Muslim Extremist: But I’m not done. Catholic Priest: Ok. What else have you done? Have you stolen any babies and then torn them apart to sell their kidneys? Muslim Extremist: No. Catholic Priest: Have you tried pleasuring your pet cat using your index finger and succeeded? Muslim Extremist: No. Catholic Priest: You mean you haven’t succeeded? Muslim Extremist: No, I meant I haven’t tried pleasuring my pet cat using my index finger. Catholic Priest: Do you get turned on while reading your Holy Book? Muslim Extremist: Is that a sin? Catholic Priest: No, but that definitely makes Sunday mass a lot more exciting. Forget it, have you treated a woman with equality?
- 92 Muslim Extremist: Oh, God, no! I would never do something like that. Catholic Priest: Good, because that would really ensure damnation for you. Muslim Extremist: Duh! You don’t think I know that? Catholic Priest: Have you ever preached about love, peace, and harmony and actually meant it? Muslim Extremist: Father, please, I’m not an animal. I have always been hypocritical in my life and set double standards to everything that I’ve said and done. Catholic Priest: You appear to be a gem of a man to me. Have you ever thought of converting? Muslim Extremist: Never. My religion is sacred to me and I shall never abandon it. Catholic Priest: Well, that’s fine, I guess. We do need someone to bitch and groan about. Frankly, speaking fighting the Hindus is no fun. They are either too busy fighting amongst themselves or breaking windows and burning stuff. Muslim Extremist: Yeah, I know. What’s up with that? Catholic Priest: Well, that’s it. I have officially run out of sins to list. I’m even considering canonizing you. Muslim Extremist: I don’t know how to say it. Catholic Priest: What is it? What is this big sin that you feel you have done? Go ahead and confess. Be not afraid, thou will be rescued from thine mistakes, by ere Lord shalt doth would or some shit like that. Muslim Extremist: I bought Paris Hilton’s music CD. Catholic Priest (goes silent for about a minute and speaks in a cold voice): You did what? Muslim Extremist: I don’t know what I was thinking. I was scanning the location of a music store to plan a suicide attack and then my eyes fell on her slutty album cover and…and I …I just did it. It was an impulse buy and I regret it every single second. I am a bad person. I am a horrible, terrible person. Catholic Priest: Damn, right, you are. You bought Paris Hilton’s music CD? If at least you had downloaded it, there was a chance the Lord would have forgiven you. But to buy that piece of crap… Muslim Extremist: I know the heavens have scorned me because every time I listen to the CD my ears feel like they are bleeding and my brain goes cold trying to figure out what a spoiled, untalented little cocksucker this bitch is.
- 93 Catholic Priest: I’m afraid your soul has already been lost to the dark… Muslim Extremist (interrupts): Please, father, don’t say that. Help me out. One religious extremist to another. Get me some providential pardon. Would it help if I destroyed the CD in front of you? I have my little brother outside waiting with it. Catholic Priest (suddenly sits up): Your little brother? Muslim Extremist: Yeah, he’s waiting outside with the CD. Please, figure out some way to help me get providential pardon. Catholic Priest (licking his lips): How old is your little brother? Muslim Extremist: He’s eight. Catholic Priest: That’s perfect. Muslim Extremist: What are you talking about? Catholic Priest: You see, there’s one way the Lord will forgive you for the ultimate sin of buying Paris Hilton’s music CD. All you have to do is let your little brother be alone with me inside this detachable confessional booth for about three hours. I’ll try really hard to convince the Lord to forgive you. Muslim Extremist: Oh, thank you father. Thank you so much. I promise I’ll never buy anything that’s even remotely related to Paris Hilton. I’ll go get my brother now. (The Muslim Extremist returns with his brother. The Catholic Priest, by now, has rehashed the Confessional Booth in such a way that the intermediate separation is no longer there. The scared little boy enters the Confessional Booth as the Catholic Priest bids goodbye to the Muslim Extremist. The Catholic Priest, then, hangs a sign outside the door before closing it. The sign reads, “DON’T COME KNOCKIN’ IF YOU SEE THE CONFESSIONAL BOOTH ROCKIN’”) Catholic Priest: Oh, God. Yeah. Oh, God!
- 94 (7th July 2007)
Kalpana Chawla is a Lying Little Bitch
For all those disbelieving assholes and cynics of the Hindu religion’s belief of reincarnation, the news of Kalpana Chawla’s rebirth was like a slap in the balls with a hot iron. Only two months after her tragic death up in space where her panties caught on fire and burned down the entire spaceship, Kalpana Chawla was reborn as a lying little bitch in a village in Uttar Pradesh, India. The lying little bitch, now four years old, had apparently exhibited signs of being special as soon as she was born. Doctors who delivered her stated that they had never seen a baby bitch so pissed off at being born an ugly girl in rural India. Scientific studies, which mapped the little baby bitch’s brain activities, showed that she had, in fact, been hoping to be born as the male version of Daniel Radcliffe. However, thanks to her dumb luck she was once again born in India, and that too as a little bitch. According to the lying little bitch’s parents the first hint that they received which showed that their daughter was the reincarnated Kalpana Chawla was when she uttered her first words -“ambipolar diffusion”. The second sign was when the lying little bitch stopped in the middle of her breastfeeding and said to her mother “Get me to NASA, you cunt.” The third piece of evidence that showed that the lying little bitch was the reloaded version of Kalpana Chawla was when the anal swabs taken from her four-year-old rectum showed the presence of semen that matched the semen of the NASA Head Astronaut and the rest of the employees there. The fourth sign was the fact that the lying little bitch’s favorite pastime was playing rocket science with her grandfather’s half erect cock. The fifth and final piece of proof which confirmed that the news about Kalpana Chawla’s return in a new form was more real than people were willing to admit was the fact that the NDTV Managing Editor Barkha Dutt was keen on covering the story. Barkha Dutt visited the lying little bitch several times at her home and shared their common disappointment of not having been born a man and told her that in her own inconspicuous ways she did sometimes try and act like a man. The rest of the world, however, disagreed and said that it was as conspicuous as the fact that movie actresses were just prostitutes with scripted lines. The lying little bitch’s parents told Barkha Dutt and the rest of the media including CNN-IBN and Pogo that their daughter pointed at airplanes in the sky and said that they were coming to kill her. They also claimed that their elder daughter was the reincarnation of Britney Spears because she had a habit of pointing at underwear and trembling in fear. The lying little bitch, about two months back named the parents of Kalpana Chawla and called them her own. The lying little bitch, apparently, also talked ceaselessly about how much money and property she had in America and how she wanted them all back. The parents of the lying little bitch stressed the fact that they were illiterate assholes and could not have taught her to say all this. They also mentioned that at no point did they visit a cyber café and google all the details of Kalpana Chawla and force-feed them to their daughter. Their aim now was to somehow arrange a meeting between their lying little bitch of a daughter and the family of Kalpana Chawla in an effort to explore the truth further and also to exploit their emotions and bag some easy dough. Barkha Dutt assured the parents of the lying little bitch that she would do her best to make that scam happen. She then went on to mumble some unintelligible socio-political shit, which no one gave a fuck about anyway.
- 95 The lying little bitch also picked out photographs of Kalpana Chawla from several others and insisted that those were her images. The parents of the lying little bitch insisted that this was not the result of some constant training she was put through for two years and thirty-five days in order to pull off this scam. At last, the story was so ballooned up that President Kalam decided to present the lying little bitch with the bravery award that ought to have gone to the real Kalpana Chawla had she not kicked the space bucket. The lying little bitch, her parents, and Barkha Dutt were all on their way to the Rashtrapati Bhavan when suddenly Barkha Dutt became all spastic, began tearing off her clothes, and danced naked in the middle of the road. Eyewitnesses claimed that never had they witnessed a sight so horrific since the Tsunami. All of a sudden Barkha Dutt turned towards the reincarnated Kalpana Chawla and pounced on her. After pinning down the lying little bitch with one hand, Barkha Dutt used the other hand to ram her long, hard, black microphone down the throat of the lying little bitch until she choked to death. Barkha Dutt then fell unconscious on to the ground. Later when she recovered in the hospital she stated that it was not her who had murdered the reincarnated Kalpana Chawla. She was in fact possessed by Hitler who thought that he was putting an end to Daniel Radcliffe who was a Jew.
- 96 (8th July 2007)
The Drunk Postman: A Bombastically Lame Story
The human mind is addling enough when in possession of a sober user but when the owner of that brittle property, if intoxicated or just plain drunk-out-his-senses, could become the inflictor of major chaos. Kliffman was a drunk. Though his profession was in the postal service, he dedicated more than ample time, to an extent of calling it a non-paying career, to getting hammered. The community of the unemployed would have had the pleasure of Kliffman’s company years ago but for the fact that the village where this little story took place occupied, for mysterious reasons, inhabitants with an inexplicable scorn towards being a postman. A whole village’s poison thus became Kliffman’s food. Displeasure of any sort was nonexistent when the selfsame scorners were at the receiving end of the postman; for who doesn’t love getting mail! Perhaps it was vapidity or just pure playfulness on his part that made Lady Luck’s uncle, Mr. Fate, enter the placid, little village. Kliffman, on that eventful day, was, though it would’ve seemed a losing bet, more drunk than he had ever been. But the committed postman that he was (or maybe the extreme state of drunkenness inculcated values into his demeanor) Kliffman still delivered mail on that day. Kliffman’s cranium conveyed to him that encumbering himself with the mail bag was a rotten idea which would only serve to retard his work. After stuffing some letters inside his pockets, some inside his pants (God bless the recipients of those!) and rolling some inside his socks, Kliffman went about his business. After a miraculously flawless performance of delivering mail, Kliffman fell victim to the power of Mr. Fate (or Mr. Gin). It rained. Three letters, all addressed to men sharing the same name, Polblum, which were amongst the last of the mail Kliffman had to deliver, got drenched like a cloth. Kliffman, however, since he had clustered the three letters for his comfort (because they all carried the similar name) knew that they were for the three Polblums. He knew all three of them. Kliffman delivered but so did Mr. Fate. Constable Polblum, on hearing the disturbing news that his daughter (who had only been living for ten years) was being visited by her fiancé and his family, rushed to the address mentioned in the letter. Dr. Polblum received the news that his mother who, a month ago, he had left hale and hearty, was on her deathbed suffering from a strange and unexplained ailment which had left her lying comatose. Purloiner Polblum was the recipient of an official letter from the Constabulary honoring him with an accolade for his untiring service. The news that each received were so stupor-laden that all three rushed, without a taking a minute to speculate, to the various addresses in the letters they received.
- 97 The marriage of Dr. Polblum’s daughter was wholly cancelled as Constable Polblum, though in a befuddled state, recognized the girl’s fiancé to be a knave whose craft was hoodwinking others by pretending to be a medical practitioner. Purloiner Polblum’s mother was restored to her previous health when the good doctor, who took no money for curing the old woman, removed the silver coin (actually belonging to her neighbor) discovered lodged in the woman’s throat but which, fortunately, had allowed the entry of sufficient air for her subsistence. Purloiner Polblum, who demanded his reward, was given just that by the Constabulary. He was also found guilty of having filched a silver coin from his neighbor’s house. Mr. Fate exited the village. Dr. Polblum still practiced. Constable Polblum still policed. Purloiner Polblum, after his release, still thieved. Kliffman still got drunk; Kliffman still delivered mail.
- 98 (9th July 2007)
The Big Flip: A Dramatically Lame Story
The man sat at the table his steady gaze never leaving the door. To his right, flickering moronically, atop a metallic stand, was the television set which seemed to be watching him rather than the other way around. He switched it on in an attempt to mollify the growing unease that had crept into him from the time Nurse Nancy stormed into his office (which was not more than ten minutes ago) and told him in a panicky tone:-Dr. Malone, you have to rush to the emergency room. Dr. Kruger has just fainted in the middle of the heart surgery he was performing. We tried reviving him but he seems to have just blacked out. You have to rush in and proceed with the operation. He, being the Head Administrator of the Hunn Teamer Hospital, of course, had to tell her that he would be there “in a jiffy” and that she and the others should, meanwhile, try their best to “bring back Dr. Kruger”. “In a jiffy”, by now, had become ten solid minutes. And since that ominous office door hadn’t yet been shouldered in a second time by that mountainous Nurse Nancy he felt tempted to believe that Dr. Kruger had been ‘brought back’ or at least some other doctor had been ‘brought in’. He thought angrily to himself: -Passing out during a heart surgery?? What kind of a lily-livered dweeb is that Dr. Kruger anyway? And besides, the inexplicable blackout was supposed to be his secret weapon in the event of any unprecedented uncompromising situations, much like the present one. He turned away from the door and fixed his eyes vacantly on the television, still dreading the ‘second coming’ of Nurse Nancy. He had known being “Dr. Malone” would not be as untroubled as being, perhaps, “Pierre the Real Estate Broker” or “Larry the Painfully Rich Tycoon Who Just Happened to Be Looking for a Partner” or even “Terry the Talent Agent”. To pass off as a doctor it wasn’t just enough that you had a wily tongue and a magnetic disposition; you had to possess what the cons alluded to as “the E factor” which basically stood for elusiveness. He had been very strong on “the E factor” for the last four months now; but the current reading on the ‘E-Factor-o-Meter’ was very close to hitting empty. Getting into the coat of Dr. Malone was facile; he and his “colleagues” had made sure that he would be going into the post of Head Administrator with an impeccable doctoral history-authentic certificates with exemplary accolades, authentic recommendations made by the most renowned surgeons from all over the world, authentic photographs of Dr. Malone receiving honors from the highest of dignitaries, and even a bottled appendix that he had removed from Richard Nixon during his presidential years which he kept as a souvenir. All in all, the birth of Dr. Malone had been practically foolproof.
- 99 Survival during the last four months, meanwhile, had been a matter of hard work. Whatever potential hazard that came his way Dr. Malone dealt with vagueness and ambiguity. Like the time when a few doctors approached him with a medical query that he resolved with a “My mom’s on the phone”, or the time when a few nurses accosted him with a harassment complaint against one of the senior doctors which Dr. Malone settled with a “My mom’s still on the phone”. Excluding such occasional impediments, life as Dr. Malone, was quite enviable. All the dirty work- like curing patients, performing surgeries, making sure they don’t kick the bucket et al-was done by others while Dr. Malone spent his time enjoying the various social benefits his status came with and, of course, by intermittently engaging in furtive acts of embezzlement. But the present predicament disconcerted him. It wasn’t a harassment complaint that he was dealing with here; it was a man’s life. And that was a terrifying thought. However, he tried to calm himself down by forcibly convincing his mind that everything was going to turn out well, because he had, after all, chosen to don the coat of Dr. Malone only after his lucky coin had given him the go-ahead. And in all his years of being a part of the conning industry his lucky coin had never let him down. On the television screen, a bearded man dressed in white was sitting in a thronelike chair surrounded by a huge assemblage of blank looking people who appeared to be his disciples. Dr. Malone heard the man’s words flying out through the television: -Believe in me and you shall earn your deliverance. Don’t worry, be happy. Dr. Malone stared at the “swami” and thought bitterly to himself: -Easy for you to say! I’m freaking out here! He then reached into the inner pocket of his coat and took out his lucky coin. He looked at both sides of the coin pleadingly: -I need to know right now if this situation is going to go away or not. ‘Heads’ it’ll go away, ‘tails’ it won’t. He tossed the coin into the air. And almost simultaneous to the moment his hands clapped close, tucking the coin between them, the door to his office burst open. An impatient disoriented Nurse Nancy said: -Dr. Malone, why are you still here? Please hurry to the emergency room. We are losing the patient. He thought his tongue had jumped back down his throat because neither could he utter a word nor could he swallow a single breath. Staring at Nurse Nancy, he said feebly: -I just wanted to gather myself and…my favorite pair of surgical gloves.
- 100 Nurse Nancy gave Dr. Malone the same look which butchers probably give really stubborn chickens-that just refuse to die-before they break their neck for good. However, Nurse Nancy’s purpose being quite the opposite and time being of essence she retained her position near the door and said coldly: -Doctor, there is no time for you to find your favorite pair of gloves or your lucky scalpel. We have all the surgical equipments necessary in the emergency room. All we lack is a surgeon. So, please, come with me right now. Even as he got off his chair and timidly followed Nurse Nancy he knew that this was the moment that he had dreaded all his adult life-the instant when his game would finally be up. But it was going to be far more torturous than he had ever imagined-he was going to have the blood of another man on his hands to haunt him till he died, and probably after that too. He opened his folded hand and examined his lucky coin to see how the previous toss had turned out. It showed ‘tails’. The walk to the emergency room felt more like the walk to a death chamber. The lump in his throat seemed to be getting bigger and bigger. And there it was-the ghastly door with the letters ER written across it. Nurse Nancy pushed the door open and slid past it; he followed. The first sight which received him in that frighteningly lit room made him feel like he was being held up. There was a band of masked figures wielding tiny weapons meant to bring slow death. Suddenly, one of them which he recognized as Nurse Nancy (from the double chin hanging below the blue mask) handed him a mask along with a pair of gloves. He noticed the surreal motionless body that lay helplessly on the surface of the operating table surrounded by these strange masked beings. He warily inched closer towards the body. What he saw made him actually want to call up his mother and be told by her that this was just a bad dream that he was having. Inside the cut up chest of the motionless body was a throbbing ticking red bomb which was the man’s heart. As he stared into the crimson chest cavity, mesmerized and appalled by what he saw, he heard a voice ask: -Doctor, we have detected a totally unexplainable internal bleeding. We doubt if Dr. Kruger accidentally grazed against the chest tissues when he fainted. What are we to do now? Dr. Malone wanted to scream out: -I don’t know a damn thing. I’m a fraud, a big fat fraud. My name isn’t even Dr. Malone. I don’t even have a real name. Go get a real doctor and save this man’s life before you lose all chances of saving him. But he said: -Make the bleeding stop somehow. Another voice said:
- 101 -If we could, Doctor, we would have already. Dr. Malone gulped: -Don’t you have those blood absorbing sponges? Yet another new voice entered the scene: -Yes. It has been used but we cannot attain any sort of permanent effect. His pulse is going weak, Doctor. He’s slipping away. We have to do something. Dr. Malone said, his lips quivering: -Try it again! Fast! The masked figures promptly obeyed and procured the sponge. Nurse Nancy then began to dab the spreading redness inside the horizontal man’s chest. Dr. Malone saw the bleeding reduce momentarily but then again commence. The man’s heart was bleeding with a vengeance. There was absolutely nothing he could do. He knew he had to confess-before all possibilities of saving the patient faded away. However, he had to be sure that confessing was the right move. He turned to the rest and said: -I want you all to leave the room for a minute. I need to be alone. One of the voices, clearly shocked, asked: -You are joking, aren’t you, Doctor? Why on earth do you want us to leave the room? The others just looked on in consternation. Dr. Malone repeated: -Look, I don’t have time to argue with you. I can’t save this man’s life unless all of you depart for a minute. Shaking his head in disbelief the masked figure left the room followed by the rest of them, including Nurse Nancy. Dr. Malone reached into his pants pocket and came out with the only decision maker he trusted: -‘Heads’ I don’t tell them and let fate take over; ‘tails’ I tell them and go to prison. And he flipped. The coin rose into the air, ceaselessly turning, and was about to make its return journey downwards when suddenly, with a clink, it hit the big lamp overhead and ricocheted right into the scarlet cavity below with a dull plop. Dr. Malone’s instinctive impulse was to reach into the man’s body and retrieve his coin but the others made their way back in completely eliminating that idea. Dr. Malone stood there speechless; the end had finally arrived. The others dabbed the blood and checked the man’s pulse. Dr. Malone
- 102 decided to do the inevitable. He began in a weak voice: -I am not… An astonished voice suddenly interrupted: -Doctor Malone, what did you do? The bleeding seems to have stopped!! His pulse is strengthening. Oh my god! You just brought this man back from the dead. It took him a few moments to comprehend what must have happened. His lucky coin-it had sacrificed itself to save his life and the patient’s life. Dr. Malone felt stunned and bewildered by the drama of life. He teetered backwards, but quickly found his balance, and saw the masked figures busily nursing the man back to life. Without exchanging a word with any of them he made his way out of the ER and headed straight to his office, in an unreal haze. He looked around and said softly: -No more… His life had been changed. Reformation was in order. The shameless existence he led conning people was over. He was going to divorce deception; evict fraud; befriend honesty. He knew what he was going to do with his life. Something true; something real; something rewarding. He decided he was going to become a spiritual guru.
- 103 (10th July 2007)
The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) held a melodramatic funeral a couple of days back where they had a silver casket adorned with wreaths inside which was, apparently, laid to rest the “N” word. They had even planned on inviting a priest named Fr. Kramer to give a eulogy at the funeral but later canned the idea when they realized Fr. Kramer was the pseudonym Michael Richards used ever since his comedy career went down the drain. The members of the NAACP wanted to metaphorically announce to the world that no longer would the “N” world haunt them and taunt them like it used to during the period when white people categorized black people as inferior to them, which was actually last week. Since people all over the world were much better at internalizing their prejudices nowadays everyone unanimously applauded the gesture of the burial of the “N” word. Everyone except one furious Nigar…Khan. Neither the African American community, the white community, nor even the Asian community knew much about this pugnacious Nigar…Khan until she came on television and opposed the NAACP’s gesture of burying the “N” word. This bad-ass Nigar…Khan, a washed up never-has-been model, claimed that her first name spelled N-i-ga-r or N-e-g-a-r, she moved out before her parents could clarify the spelling, was pronounced the same way the “N” word was pronounced. She filed a complaint to the NAACP demanding them to dig up the “N” word once again lest she be thrust into anonymity. She said that as of now there were three people who knew who she was and once the “N” word was buried forever she would lose that growing fan base of hers she had built over a span of eight years. Irate race-relations specialists from America, also known as race-ins, called up their Indian counterparts and asked them who the hell this crazy Nigar…Khan was. Their Indian counterparts replied that they had seen this annoying Nigar…Khan in a couple of ads and a bunch of topless paparazzi photos but had never expected her to pose such a terrible threat to the racial harmony of the world. The Indian race-relations specialists, again race-ins, said that they had even put this Nigar…Khan in a lame suit commercial with India’s biggest washed up piece of crap, Jackie Shroff, in an attempt to eradicate this Nigar…Khan once and for all. And it seemed to have worked then. Everyone assumed they got rid of this shameless Nigar…Khan once and for all until this NAACP thing happened. The Indian race-ins, however, warned the American race-ins that tact was most necessary in dealing with this Nigar…Khan because she was, by birth, one dangerous Nigar…Khan. At first, the NAACP tried to negotiate with the problematic Nigar…Khan. They explained to her that things could be settled very amicably if she agreed to have at least the pronunciation of her first name changed if not her entire first name. They suggested that pronouncing Nigar the same way the second word of River Niger was pronounced would eliminate all confusions and problems. However, the NAACP had underestimated their nemesis; they weren’t just dealing with any person, this was one adamant Nigar…Khan that they had to negotiate with. The NAACP suggested to the angry Nigar…Khan that there were other alternatives that she could use in place of her first name. The NAACP said that “African American Khan”, “Black Khan”, “Colored Khan”, or even “Home girl Khan” were more beautiful, and
- 104 more politically correct, substitutes for her first name. However, this Khan was one pure and proud Nigar. She would have nothing to do with forsaking her culture and heritage. Her ancestors had slaved and toiled out of their skin to make her the Nigar…Khan that she was today. The NAACP expressed their fear that letting one Nigar…Khan be would lead to the spawning of a million more Nigar…Khans. However, this Nigar…Khan guaranteed that that was unlikely to happen since she liked taking it up the ass. Surprisingly, the tenacity of this one Nigar…Khan drove some others to step up against the imminent ban of the “N” word. Comedians like Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle were for the existence of the “N” word in the language because without it their material would be narrowed down to just ripping on Michael Jackson and talking about oral sex. Rappers like Snoop Dogg, 50 Cent, and Ludacris argued that without the “N” word their songs would be just a scattering of “hoes”, “bitches”, “pimps”, and “pussy juice” which they said limited their artistic possibilities. The rappers also complained that the use of the word “colored people” ought to be banned as well since they found it rather offensive. They said it was a phrase that was meant for the Blue Man Group or soccer fans. Finally, the NAACP and the mad Nigar…Khan decided to consult the one person whom they both respected and adored and whose word they would consider final. They agreed to do the logical thing and made arrangements to bring back from the dead none other than Martin Luther King. After a few séances and a couple of Celine Dion tracks the world of the dead was awakened. And it wasn’t soon before MLK answered their call. He heard out both sides and went into a kind of meditation for about ten minutes. Afterwards, he opened his eyes and said, “I had a dream. And it was to see everyone get along.” The NAACP and the quarrelsome Nigar…Khan leaned in to listen more carefully. MLK continued, “But apparently you motherfuckers can’t do that, can you? So eat this.” He then took out his gun and open fired on both the uncompromising NAACP and the stubborn Nigar…Khan killing every single one of them. He blew at the smoke coming out of his gun and said, “I need to get Gandhi one of these.”
- 105 (11th July 2007)
From the Chomsky-Saussure Filth Archives
Two men who have contributed more to the English Language than anybody else are Noam Chomsky and Ferdinand De Saussure. They were both top linguists during their time and known for their aggressive ways of tackling the perils of the language. To the academic world their greatest contributions were the theories that they propounded on the English grammar and language structure. However, there was a side to both these grammarians that very few of their admirers knew about. Noam Chomsky and Ferdinand De Saussure were also avid curse word experimentalists. And even though Chomsky was born years after Saussure’s death they still remained the best of friends. They belonged to that school of linguists who felt stunted by the limited and redundant curse words that existed in the English language at their time. What I’ve managed to achieve is procure the transcript of a curse word experimentation session that transpired between Chomsky and Saussure decades ago. Now, it’s important to note that this is just one of the many transcripts that I’ve acquired after meeting with and talking to many of the closest friends and colleagues of both these celebrated linguists. It’s also important to note that both Chomsky and Saussure were completely hammered out of their heads during all of these curse word experimentations that they did. I present to you now the first document from what is known as the “ChomskySaussure Filth Archives”. FROM THE CHOMSKY-SAUSSURE FILTH ARCHIVES NC: Pass me another bottle of beer, you sperm-covered tapeworm that’s living inside the anal cavity of a salamander that’s just been sodomized by a giraffe! FDS: Go get it yourself, you piece of used condom that is lodged in between Karl Marx’s small intestine! NC: Shut your pus leaking mouth or I’ll go shove a flaming torch up your grandmother’s vagina and then serve you her roasted uterus for dinner with some rye bread! FDS: Oh please, you have a better chance of cutting a hole in your uncle’s throat and then humping his tonsils until they come out his nostrils! NC: Just close your placenta puking mouth and pass me a beer before I line up all your seven sisters, bent them over and simultaneously penetrate their assholes with a lit up Jewish candelabrum! FDS: Talk about my sisters again and I’ll amputate your mother’s boobs and put them on your grandmother’s abdomen so I’ll be eating your grandma’s pussy and drinking your mother’s milk at the same time! NC: Leave my mother out of this you drop of Mussolini semen that’s stuck to Hitler’s upper palate! FDS: Then stop asking me to get you beer you single grey hair that’s sticking out of George Washington’s shrunken shaven testicles!
- 106 NC: Stop running your mouth or else I’ll get Lacan to join me in gang raping your father in his nose and ears till both his nasal bridge and ear drums are broken! FDS: Oh yeah, if you do that then I’m going to plug your mother’s ears, nostrils, and eyes with corks, summon Kafka from the dead, and then we’ll urinate into her mouth until our piss comes out through the pores on her head. NC: Don’t even think of something like that or I’ll stretch your wife’s hole wide enough to stick your head in it and then hold you in until you suffocate to death from the stink. FDS: Sadly for you that won’t be happening because I’ll seal your asshole, mouth, eyes, ears, and piss hole with wax until you start excreting through your navel. NC: Go to hell you environment friendly bubble of infection that’s on a syphilis-afflicted Orangutan’s left ass cheek. FDS (surprised): Environment friendly bubble? Who are you- Al Gore? NC (deeply hurt and offended): Hey, man, that was uncalled for. You didn’t need to go there. FDS (sincerely apologetic for his grave mistake): I’m sorry. Look, I didn’t mean to say that. It just came out wrong. I would never… NC (still hurt): That was completely over the line. FDS (embarrassed at himself): I don’t know what I can say that would make it go away. But I truly am sorry. I would never knowingly insult you like that. Here, have my beer. NC (hesitant in the beginning but then forthcoming): Thanks buddy. I forgive you.
- 107 (12th July 2007)
Life or Something of that Sort
Britain was unusually bright a couple of days ago. No, it wasn’t because the sun was shining extra brilliantly over them. Neither was the reason the photograph of Emma Watson holding a pair of panties. It was because the yellow teeth of a thousand British Astronomers were displayed more proudly than the time they saw Elton John trip and fall into Princess Diana’s grave. The dirty smile of the British Astronomy Community was explained by the fact that they had discovered the presence of water, albeit contaminated, on a distant earth-like planet. They also discovered empty packets of Cheetos lying around on the planet’s surface. And that, they believed, could only mean one thing- the new planet was potentially the home of Elvis Presley. The British Astronomers revealed the information that they had been speculating the presence of Elvis on the planet for the last two decades. They first felt suspicious twenty years ago when they observed a giant planet in the form of a bloated ass. And eight years back they observed that the side of the planet had suffered a huge burn of some sort. After intricate scientific analyses, they felt that this “side burn” might also be a sign of Elvis inhabitation on the strange planet. And now with the discovery of the empty packet of Cheetos they were closer than ever to establishing the presence of Elvis on the distant buttock-shaped planet. The British Astronomers then celebrated this potentially groundbreaking discovery of theirs by meeting up in their Laboratory Headquarters and having tea and scones. One of the many peculiar characteristics the scientists believed Elvis on the new planet could have was the ability to produce visible farts. The British Astronomers made a press statement where they explained that the high rate of consumption and low rate of metabolism in Elvis, combined with his still persistent drug use, might have lead to the production of visible farts. Elvis’s condition was also related to the presence of a gas in the atmosphere of the planet called “fartogen” which gave form and shape to the usually shapeless fart. They also explained that this was probably why the planet had the appearance of a giant bum. The visible farts, they believed, took the shape of various Westlife members and at times of constipation even looked like Madonna. Earlier in the day matters took a completely new twist as the British Astronomers decided to send a remote-controlled space bulldog to investigate the goings on in the weird arse planet. The camera, which was strategically placed in the bulldog’s bollocks, would capture close up images of the planet, its surface, and hopefully Elvis. The bulldog landed safely on the planet owing to the fact that I can pretty much cook up anything that I want in this awfully fucked up piece. The British Astronomers, meanwhile, watched with attentive eyes on their gigantic screen the images that were being picked up by the bulldog’s bollocks. Suddenly, a flurry of images came up on the screen that sent them into waves of shock. The astronomers and scientists all looked at each other in pure disbelief and horror. They decided that this was information that had to be shared with the rest of the world as soon as possible. After having tea and scones, of course. Later in the day, the British Astronomers Community released the press statement where they explained that the images captured by the space bulldog’s testicular camera showed not Elvis Presley walking around but in fact an alien dressed up as Elvis Presley
- 108 walking around leaving trails of visible farts. The astronomers concluded that this could only mean one thing- that Elvis never even really existed. Elvis had been an alien all along sent down to Earth to study us and brainwash us. And after completing his task the alien had flown back to its home planet and resumed its normal life. The astronomers also said that the bulldog’s bollocks had captured video proof that would confirm that even people like Drew Barrymore and Charlize Theron were in fact aliens dressed up as hot babes sent to Earth in an elaborate plan to take over Earth and frustrate normal horny men. The Astronomers assured the world that there was no need to panic since they would no longer be wasting their time and money on such useless missions anymore. Instead, they would utilize their resources to try and figure out how deep Lindsay Lohan’s minge was.
- 109 (13th July 2007)
Of course, it all makes sense now. The venom that poisons the minds of several millions of people in the world, causing immutable segregation isn’t the bigoted, orthodox religious scriptures that people are taught to revere and live by. Nor is it the fact that a billion people are labeled terrorists because they have a beard or speak in Arabic or like lobsters. It’s not even the horny-for-power community leaders who brainwash their destitute vulnerable followers into believing that God wants everybody else but them to crawl into the ass of the Grim Reaper. None of these things ever influenced the dangerous narrow-mindedness and intolerance that we see rampant in our world. The reason behind all this racial hate is and has always been Tintin. Copies of Tintin in Congo, the book that depicted tribal Africans in a way that made them look like autistic monkeys- the same way that National Geographic portrays tribal Africanswere, thankfully, taken off the children’s shelves where they could have proved highly dangerous to our society. They were replaced by copies of the novelization of The Passion of Christ which was in fact three hundred pages of “CRACK!” “MMMMPHH!” “CRACK!” “MMMMPHHH” “CRACK! OWWW!” It however taught children that Christ was their only savior and that Jews killed him. After successfully exposing the racist elements present in Tintin, race relations expertsalso known as race-ins- focused on other possibly discriminatory works aimed at corrupting the innocent minds of children- nursery rhymes like “ba ba black sheep” which patently was formulated by a KKK member, “London bridge is falling down” which was penned by an Islamic fundamentalist that clearly sought to evoke feelings of terrorism, and “humpty dumpty sat on all” which was wrong in so many different ways. The concerned parents, aided by the support of the race-ins, also demanded that comics like Spiderman and Superman be banned as such comics propagated potentially character-corrupting ideas of helping people in need and being a hero. They, however, agreed to let their children read Batman and Robin since it was well in tune with today’s culture of pretending to tolerate and appreciate homosexuals who liked dressing up in body suits. The African community were infuriated by the demeaning and insulting manner in which the African tribesmen were sketched in the accused book, Tintin in Congo. They claimed that it stereotyped all Africans as uneducated and barbaric. They also demanded that the book be remade with the African tribesmen dressed in the traditionally appropriate African outfit:- which was tracksuits, diamond chains, golden rings, and some penis bling bling. And instead of the tribesmen hailing Tintin as the “great white god” in the book the African community wanted Tintin to be referred to as the “great fucking cracker”. There is but one solution to eliminate the flurry of such hate-comics flooding our world. It’s a decision that we as responsible social creatures need to make together if we are to put an end to this discrimination. And that solution is for each community to have their own collection of comics which shouldn’t mention anything about anyone else but them- white people making their own white comics having nothing but ivory and black people making their own comics with nothing but ebony. It shouldn’t end with that: Christians should create comics exclusively with Christian characters and which are meant only for Christian readers (who’re again subcategorized according to their skin color), and similarly Hindus and Muslims as well. And hopefully with such preventive measures we shall one day be able to fully eradicate segregation.
- 110 (14th July 2007)
Pot, Pussy, and Prayers with Snoop and his Players
Mother Teresa was rumored to have expressed only one wish before she died. That one day this world which was afflicted with so many illnesses would be lucky enough to see a reality television show starring Snoop Dogg. Snoop Dogg’s reality show, it was announced, would be featured on the home of top quality entertainment programs- E! Entertainment Television, which has gifted to the world shows like Let’s Take Boring Retarded Stuff About Self-Obsessed Celebrities and Talk About them as if they’re Divine Things, Let’s show How Fucking Rich Movie Stars and Teenage Singers Are so You at home can feel like Total Losers, and, of course, who can forget their biggest crowd-puller Ryan Seacrest and a Thin Bitch Standing Around muttering Incoherent Shit. The reality show, tentatively titled “Pot, Pussy, and Prayers with Snoop and his players”, would have the traditional reality show format where Snoop Dogg and his homies will be given scripts and made up family emergencies and scenarios in an attempt to make them look like ordinary human beings despite being multi-millionaires. Guest starring in the reality show making minor appearances would also be some relatively unimportant people from Snoop Dogg’s life like his kids, his ex-wife, and his mother. Other starring roles belong to Snoop’s fellow pimps n’ hoes, the LAPD, Snoop’s drug dealing cuz, Jacob the Jeweler, the NYPD, and Martha Stewart. E! Entertainment Television was initially a bit concerned about the potentially offensive nature of the content on the show since Snoop Dogg’s average day consisted of getting drunk, smoking pot, popping pills, banging bitches, shooting other rappers, and reading the Bible. After several weeks of discussions and brainstorming the network and Snoop agreed to proceed with the show after editing out the controversial bits on Snoop’s schedule namely reading the Bible. Comic relief would come in the form of Martha Stewart who was slated to appear occasionally on the show to demonstrate the many number of ways in which Snoop’s hair can be redecorated. After the hair redecoration Snoop would proceed to videotape him hitting Martha’s “white round thang”. When E! interviewed Snoop and talked about his new reality show he was conspicuously stoked. In the middle of the interviewed he ordered one of his tricks to go down on him and suck him dry as part of the celebration. Regarding the show he had this to say: “Yo, my niggers, this is S- N-Double O-P, talking to you L-I-V-E! I’mma come and burn your TV, fuck your mama and giver her VD! I’ll shoot niggers who’re greedy, my TV show’s G-Double O-D! And my favorite Harry Potter character is Hermion-E! Eyyuuhh!!!” “Pot, Pussy, and Prayers with Snoop and his players” which, by far, looks to be the most promising of any reality show that has ever hit television will give Snoop Dogg the kind of opportunities that “Hogan Knows Best” gave for Hulk Hogan namely the opportunity to parade to the world Brooke Hogan’s tight sexy ass since she’s also one of Snoop’s favorite hoes. With the predicted success of “Pot, Pussy, and Prayers with Snoop and his players” bringing up the revenue of E! Entertainment Television to an all time high, the network is already planning for new shows with various other celebrities. At present, they’re planning to rope in Madonna for new adventure/reality show where she would visit orphanages all across the world and try and stuff as many kids up her craggy old womb as possible. The show will be called “I’m a Desperate Bitch, I’m Unholy, I’m Madonna, But I want to be Jolie”.
- 111 (15th July 2007)
50 Paise vs. Harry Potter
(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible doctor with his very own advice column): Yo parents, if you got a gay kid or a slutty hairy daughter Then the perfect idol for them is that fuckin Harry Potter I can’t fuckin believe people buy that shit Fuck you Rowling, I’mma stop her and then spite that bitch You stupid kids, instead of readin it you should go and hide that shit The whole motherfuckin world must be full of retards Rowling’s a trans, she’s a psycho,she has balls and pulls her dick hard Harry Potter ain’t cool dawgs or slightly exciting That fat bitch Kirstie Alley is more inviting Rowling’s rich ‘cuz she writes ‘bot wizards?? Fuckin fake, I’ll fuck her numb in a fuckin blizzard It’s ludicrous how people can read all that crap There’s more adventure in a single line of my rap Fuck wizard school and their pussy-ass game of quidditch Fuckin Hermione’s ass makes more sense, she’s a kidbitch It’s the new age, bitch, nobody goes and comes by brooms I’ll fuck Hermy’s cunt so hard she’ll come all over my room Harry Potter books sucked more than enough dick Now the fuckin shit is spreadin with his every flick Wanna know how Harry really got that mark on his forehead? He was fuckin his mom stark naked and fell off her whorebed Who the fuck is impressed by all that wizadry shit?? Only faggots! Die Rowling! For her funeral I’ll spit her this diss!
- 112 (16th July 2007)
50 Paise vs. Education
(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible doctor with his very own advice column): It’s fuckin dumb to try and secure our future through education That shit is way worse than premature ejaculation School don’t ensure a foolproof livin You don’t get nothin back but you gotta keep on givin Fuck school, fuck college I repent havin done both I learned fuckin squat and my life I now loathe Motherfuckin authorities confine us like slaves Tryin to break us and change how one behaves School’s a fuckin controversy, it destroys our greatness It curbs our freedom and our right to say “Fuck! I hate this” They teach us to fear all and to distrust our own minds Kick us into ditches and call swamps gold mines The fuckers who control all try their best to brainwash us Takes us for morons and tells us things obnoxious We like fuckin idiots follow every rule they make Fuck them dawgs do things for your own sake Our dreams and desires are replaced by new ones Created by them which fucks up our endurance What we do is labelled as a motherfuckin let down What they say is hailed as the acts of uptown I fuckin wasted my whole life tryin to live their life Fuck the universe I ain’t lookin down I’mma stare high If they don’t like what I do I dare them to stop me Fuck them all I won’t go down even if they try to top me My life is for me to live whether I come up or I fuck up But I won’t be their slave no I won’t fuckin succumb They can shove all their rules and ideas up their cocksuckin asses I don’t want nothin to do with those dogfuckin masses So if any of u readin up got a shattered fuckin dream You against the authority then you in my fuckin team!!
- 113 (17th July 2007)
Bend it like what’s-his-Name
Once upon a time there happened a union between two people that brought as much joy to the world as getting a double blowjob from a pair of redheaded twin sisters. God must have moved the pieces himself for such a liaison between two mortals had never occurred. He lived his life amongst sweaty Englishmen who hugged and kissed each other when they found success with their balls and she enthralled the world as the most posh slut in the muffeating girl-band of the millennium. For years the cock-adoring Englishman and the cunthunting lady from London lived their separate lives unaware of the remarkable future that destiny held for them. But, on one beautiful heartwarmingly divine day, during a gay/lesbian orgy their eyes met, their hearts melted, and their pubic hairs stood up. The Englishman, whilst getting his tiny ass stuffed by Elton John’s multicolored dong, saw before him the most elegant, magnificent dick he had ever seen. And she had tits as well. Meanwhile, the lady from London, whilst getting her clit bit majestically by the Queen of England, came across at the other end of the room, straining under Sir Elton’s intense fudge-packing, the most handsome pussy she had ever laid eyes upon. The dick and the pussy stared at each other as the world moved around them, and as their genitals were being pummeled by wrinkly old sex-beasts. But one thing was certain; it was true love at first sight. The wedding, as per the words of the filthy rich pricks and holes who were the only ones invited, was the most magical romantic evening they had ever been to. Many were close to tears, and some farted loudly, when the priest told the pussy to kiss the dick. The years that passed only served to strengthen the bond between the pussy and the dick. The Englishman donned the role of the perfect husband by signing multi-billion dollar commercial deals, and having intercourse with random people, while the lady from London epitomized wifehood by dressing up, buying expensive stuff, and paying off paparazzi to take photos of her in action. And after her husband came home, she made sensuous love to him for over two minutes. After coitus they resumed their usual sleeping positions- the wife with her foot inside the husband’s mouth and the husband with his ass on her face. However, on that fateful day it appeared as though all the jealously and bitterness of the rest of the world had caught up with them. As the lady from London struggled to breathe with her husband’s asshole covering up her nose, she noticed a scarlet word that was tattooed across his cheeks. It said “Rooney was here. So were Michael Owen and Thierry Henry.” That was the day the pussy and the dick had their first oral spat. The ass-tattoo crippled the celestial image that the world had ascribed to the pussy and the dick. But the love that the lady from London had for her pussy and the feelings that the Englishman had for his dick were still true and deep. They watched Hugh Grant movies for hours before they finally agreed that they had to leave the country in order to save their marriage. Besides, nobody gave a fuck about them anyway ever since that little gay boy Harry Potter took over the English minds. They decided they needed to move to a place where painfully rich dicks and pussies like them could live without the disturbing stares of the medium rich; a place where infidelity was treated as part of a marriage and not a flaw; a place where people were free to tattoo anything they wanted anywhere they wanted; a place where people were so full of themselves that they even put up pictures of their excreta. They decided to move to Los Angeles, California.
- 114 Their love returned; their happiness was reinstated; and their divine marital life was on the clouds once again. The whole of America, despite not knowing who the fuck this pussy and dick were, was bowled over the warmth, gentleness, wealth, and self-indulgence exhibited by these fair-skinned Brits. The official representatives of America- Tom Cruise and Jay Leno- welcomed the Englishman and the lady from London by taking out their penises and waving it at them. Tom Cruise even made a playful remark about how the only big thin Leno had was his chin. Leno, the quick-witted comedian retorted by calling Katie Holmes a bitch. The Englishman and the lady from London felt right at home in Los Angeles. They did however make a polite request to all the black guys in the neighborhood to have no shooting and killing after ten in the night since their babies needed complete silence to sleep. The Englishman found a group of American men who loved to sweat, embrace, kiss and play with balls. The lady from London saw potential in reviving her lesbian music career after she listened to Paris Hilton’s music CD. After days of self-paid publicity and strutting around, the lady from London and the Englishman made exquisite love that lasted for over three minutes. Things were already getting better. Then they resumed their usual sleeping position. As the wife was planting her nose into her husband’s rectum she noticed a new batch of scarlet words tattooed across his buttocks. It read: “Victoria and David Beckham move to America.” The wife poked her husband’s face with her foot and said, “Who’s Victoria and David Beckham?” The husband, with his wife’s other foot inside his mouth sputtered, “Who the fuck knows? Now stop talking and bury your face in my anus.”
- 115 (18th July 2007)
50 Paise vs. The Oscars
(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible doctor with his very own advice column):
I’mma make it short, go straight to the point, The biggest show where bitches show even their groins, I ain’t mad at that but why do they pretend? Like they respect each other and are happy to attend, I’m talkin’ ’bout the motherfucking Oscars, Where shitlickers come and read things off gross-cards, Fuck those pussies!Who do they think they’re foolin’? They just rollin’ with guys in whose movies they can get a role in, The whole thing aint nothin’ but a damn hoax, To fool y’all cheerin’,full of fan-hopes, Dawg!Look at it,the bitch who fucks the most gets the win, Halle Berry won when Billy Bob popped her cherry with his pin, Nicole got her award cuz she’s a demonic pussy, Using her cunthorns to sleep with all except Tom Cruise the hussy, I hate to diss u honey but Charlize, U think you got the Oscar for talent?Oh Pleez!, Them horny judges seen ur previous nude movies, Where ur talent is fuckin’ guys thin and obese, She’s had more hot sex in her movies before, Than in the one she won where she plays a whore! And I saw that plump bitch Liv Tyler, Hate her so much wanna have her tits eaten off by a Rotweiler, That fuckin’ wench talks like she’s a goody-2-shoes, Her mouth’s got cum-stench,from sucking woody dudes, And Lord of the Rings?Screw it!Fuck the Hobbit! Nobody wants to see that crap,Shut it and drop it! Julia Roberts’s pussy hair has grown,time she cropped it! Erin BrockaBITCH!Pompous hag,here’s a needle take ur ego and pop it, She’s just a testosteronic whore licking dicks to control the men, She should start taking pills and stop drinking semen, Burn ‘em all!Renee,Halle,Nicole and even Uma Thurman, I ain’t even wastin’ ma words talkin’ about the males’ tales, Scrotumsmelling fags are so old even their kidneys fail, I don’t give a shitdrop ’bout these bastards, I hope they all rot and go to hell faster, Before I finish I’d like to thank Charlize for fuckin’ me good, Fuck the movies! Fuck the Oscar!Fuck all and fuck Hollywood!!!!
- 116 (19th July 2007)
50 Paise vs. Will and Grace
(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible doctor with his very own advice column):
I’m fucking the whole cast of Sex and the city at a rapid pace, Afterwards, I switch on TV, check for something which is not for gays, What do I see? Fuckin’ Homo Will and his bitch Grace, When I first saw it’s promo, thought it was just fillin’ space, Can’t fuckin believe someone put it on air, I’d rather watch Hillary Clinton bitchslap Tony Blair, Aww! Will and Gracey are the best of chums! And Gracey’s so crazy she even knows when he cums, They never hide secrets,here let me tell you one, you both SUCK, U want a hit show?Bend Grace over and tell Will to fuck, Hate that show, the cast, crew, set, diction and plot, hope it doesn’t last but grows an infection and rot, Every time they fight and make up, I’m pissed off, I feel like kicking their ass, Here’s a story line ,kill Will, then guest star Kill Bill star Lucy, let her lick Gracey, now that is real class, Then there’s that fag jack in the box, Hope he dies of AIDS or some pox, A barren whore named Karen, Starin’ at dicks like they’re Mclaren, If you don’t like what i’m sayin’, Will’s ass u can munch, While you’re at it, kiss his asshole, it’s closed and is clenched, While I’ll be lickin ur girls’ tongues, authentic french!, Will, U stupid homo, get a life, get a home, ‘Homo sweet homo’, Oops! U cant you still got Grace stapled to your pants, Here’s the show finale, Will murders Jack and eats his cock and sack, Then he dies of suffocation, leaving Grace with Karen’s rack, Bring ur ass bitches, let da Paise give u a smack, I’m coming to eat your nifty pussies, make some space, But wait! before I eat them I just need to say Grace!!!
- 117 (20th July 2007)
Aesop’s Slightly Looney Brother’s Fables # 1
Sensas De Funct, the French (who else would have a two-letter middle name?) serial killer caught the local bus home and returned to his comparatively (compared to the others who did not cut off people’s heads for the heck of it) cleaner single apartment. He was not empty-handed. But this time it was just the grocery. He was a tenant under a landlord who did not tolerate his tenants keeping pets in their apartments. Sensas De Funct, who was not as keen on following the laws as some other people (ones who did not, on Christmas Eve, make Snowmen with actual heads), did more than be insolent to these rigid directives of the landlord. He kept a cat, a salamander and a platypus in his apartment. These animals, much like the heads De Funct collected (he lost interest in stamps very early in his life) and stuffed inside his refrigerator, stayed close to each other (but the animals had better eye contact). But the two groups never met. What Sensas De Funct meant when he said he was having a tête-à-tête or what did he did for divertissement was kept very discreet from his quadrupedal roommates. They were unaware of the fact that their master was a man who did not put roofs over heads but rather heads under their roof. A momentous day arrived when Sensas De Funct’s refrigerator couldn’t accommodate any more heads (be it of humans or cabbage). He decided to proceed and do what any ordinary serial killer faced with such a situation would normally do. He went out shopping for a new refrigerator. Granted a cat, a salamander and a platypus, by no means, made a formidable intelligentsia but inquisitive nature was given by the almighty to all things breathing. Nevertheless, the need for a second refrigerator in the same apartment would awaken the interest of almost anything and anybody. The cat talked to the salamander who talked to the platypus who concurred with the cat’s idea of opening the refrigerator and taking a peep inside. After minutes of speculation, calculation and determination (which would bring pride to any creature who defecates in public) the trio joined paws, claws and what else and advanced with their plan. With a degree of teamwork that would put international sportsmen to shame, the odd trinity accomplished their objective. And when they saw what they saw they were shocked out of their furs, scales and everything else. However, very little time did they have to let this “heady” sight sink in as the shock of the quadrupeds were quadrupled on seeing their master stand in front of the door alongside a tall box. He looked at his pets with a wry smile and said, ‘Bonjour Mes amis’. The new refrigerator was very quickly inaugurated. Moral: Curiosity killed the cat and also the salamander and the platypus.
- 118 (21st July 2007)
Indian President Looks like a Lady
India has just gone one step up in the ladder of women empowerment with the wonderful news of the bestowal of one of the most prestigious titles upon arguably the most important and underrated Indian woman ever. As you may have already guessed I’m talking about the fact that Shilpa Slutty is now Dr. Shilpa Slutty thanks to the overwhelming benevolence of our old colonial masters who’re nowhere near done giving the crybaby enough candy for making her bawl like a fucking bitch a few months back. However, another lesser meaningful title of India’s President was ascribed to some tiny old lady called Pratibha Patil who isn’t even half as sexy as Shilpa Slutty. CNN-IBN’s slightly lesser known sister channel CNN-SOB rose to the occasion and covered the story of India getting only its second woman president. The first was, as all of us Indians remember, Lord Mountbatten’s perverted little daughter who used to spy on Jawaharlal Nehru making sweet love to her own mother when her father went “hunting” with the stable boy. That story was covered by yet another sister channel of CNN-IBN called CNNSTD. They also reported that the flower tucked into Nehru’s coat pocket was symbolic of the neat deflowering job he had done on Lord Mountbatten’s bitch. CNN-SOB reported that unlike the first woman President of India, Pratibha Patil had no sexual perversions of any sort. In fact, except for the time she spoke to a dead guy on Mount Abu she could be said to have lead a completely normal life. However, India’s primary political party, the BJP, who treated all Indians with equal respect and dignity unless they were Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists and nonupper class Hindus, claimed that the new Indian President was not worthy of heading our country. They threatened that they possessed highly scandalous information regarding the new President and unless she quit her post they would reveal those details, which could very well bring the whole country into disrepute. Another sister channel of CNN-IBN, called CNNHIV which specialized in sting operations managed to solicit the BJP leaders and obtain the shameful facts concerning our new President. The charge sheet leaked out of the BJP HQ, which was neatly typed and bulleted accused Pratibha Patil of two very serious charges:
Pratibha Patil is a woman Pratibha Patil is not a man
CNN-HIV later reported that President Pratibha denied both these allegations raised against her by the BJP. However, the entire operation was canned by the BJP after they received an anonymous tip-off about an M.F Hussain painting that displayed a three-headed rabbit sexually pleasuring a castrated tiger, which blatantly blasphemed the national pride of India by insulting our national animal and also the Trimurti. Apart from that, President Pratibha enjoyed the unanimous support of the Indian people and also the Indian women who would soon, Insha’Allah and also Insha’Pratibha, be granted the status of “peoplehood”. On the very first day in office, President Pratibha brought about some radical reformations to our country’s laws, rules, and regulations. Firstly, she demanded that Union Woman and Child Welfare Minister Renuka Chowdhary should slim down so that people can view her using only a single television set. Secondly, she made gay marriages legal in India. And thirdly, she made having sex in public illegal. As soon as the
- 119 third law was passed, she received an intelligence report from India’s most vocal Defense Minister A.K. Anthony who made hand gestures to her which conveyed that two men had been caught having wild butt-sex in an open land in the middle of Uttar Pradesh. Aerial cameras inside the Rashtrapati Bhavan telecast the tiny live images of two figures lustily rubbing against each other. On zooming in the two men were identified to be Amitabh Bachchan and Amar Singh celebrating the legalization of gay marriages. Madam President ordered both men to be arrested and sent immediately to Himesh Reshmmiya’s recording studio.
- 120 (22nd July 2007)
50 Paise vs. God
(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible doctor with his very own advice column): God is the devil, he burns us alive Made fuckin impossible rules for us to abide God himself misleads us and makes us sin here Forces us to wear masks, fuck our veneers He watched over me tearin myself apart As i crawled to the shore he lacerated my heart You’re giving me the worst kind of pain, God, Each one of my loved ones you find and maim, God, I would never have fuckin complained even if you slit my throat, You’re the fuckin storm which splits the boats You split her life up, you ignored my prayers You broke her methodically, layer by layer What did she do wrong, God? She is Purity But you put her through hell, you fuckin destroyed her security Let motherfuckers trample over her pure heart and soul Her role of an angel you reduced to a prisoner’s role Her heart is paradise but you filled it with dark clouds Her smile gave me light but you covered it with black shrouds I did my fuckin best to be good I did it for her sake All my interests for her I was ready to forsake But that’s not what you want, is it God?, you are a perv You’re unfair, you never give people what they deserve You fucked our lives, I feel destroyed What I thought I had is now null and void I trusted you God, in you I sincerely believed But now I feel dead, I’m my own bereaved I always told myself that you’d set things straight You didn’t, you never do, you enjoy hurting and call it fate Do what you wish to me God, I fuckin don’t care But don’t hurt her anymore, she’s a gem,a stone rare, Love isn’t real, there that’s the truth right there, Life isn’t divine, it’s a motherfuckin nightmare.
- 121 (23rd July 2007)
50 Paise’s Love Note
A woman is nice if fine and fit, Good firm tits and an ass to hit, One tight pussy that’ll pop like a zit, And a mouth that’ll swallow and not just spit.
- 122 (24th July 2007)
India Shining Like Hell
(Video link to the story: http://www.ibnlive.com/videos/45521/accused-denieseveteasing-10yrold--reporters-blog.html )
Paint a Hindu goddess with her boobs hanging out and you will be targeted as an anti-national; merely think about sketching a picture of Prophet Muhammad and you automatically become worthy of having your blasphemous little head rolling around the ground looking at your severed windpipe and vocal cords hanging off your neck; miss a Sunday mass and you’ll be pushed up in the list of those eternally damned; accidentally drop the Indian flag on the ground and the whole damn army will be invading your ass; wear an outfit that you like and you’re in direct violation of India’s moral code; celebrate Valentine’s Day with someone you’re fond of and you get the piss slapped out of your nuts by the cops for buying into the “western way of living”; but taunt and harass a ten-year-old girl, then run over her arm with your vehicle leaving her in a possible state of permanent trauma, and you shall find yourself sitting home-not the same as a jail-watching television and farting like a dirty motherfucker. I think it’s a moment when we should all stand up before our national flag- one that’s well above the ground- put our hands across our chest and roar our national pledge. And mean it, of course. Not this one: India is my country. All Indians are my brothers and sisters. I love my country. I am proud of its rich and varied culture. I shall always strive to be worthy of it. I shall love and respect my parents, teachers and elders. To my country and my people I pledge my devotion. But this one: India is not my country. I was just fucking born here. All Indians are not my brothers, just the ones with rich dads. No Indian is my sister, not even the ugly ones or the newborn ones. They’re all just walking pussies and tits for me to try and grab at. I don’t give a fuck about my parents, anybody else’s parents, teachers and elders. Fuck them all. I shall strive to dedicate all my time to molesting helpless little girls and leaving them scarred for life. To my country and my people I pledge my horny dick.
- 123 (25th July 2007)
Aesop’s Slightly Looney Brother’s Fables # 2
Keeping in mind the importance of political correctness and honesty, only this could be said about Dan Bo: He was the dumbest creature in the whole wide world. Mentally retarded donkeys (or is it donkii?) had a better chance of passing a test than Dan Bo. Braindead sheep (why not sheeps?) thought faster than Dan Bo. Comatose hippos (or is it hippii?) had more cerebral action than Dan Bo. Apoplectic weasels (Ugh! Who cares about plurals-or is it plurii?) comprehended… (I think you get the drift). Dumbness did not necessarily co-exist with lack of popularity. In fact dumbness was directly proportional to the number of friends you had (now you know why you’re so popular). The dumber you were the more mistakes you made and hence the more entertainment you created for the ones around you (for nothing is as entertaining to another as your mistakes). Although when it came to commanding respect Dan Bo was not exactly topping the chart. When the ones around him didn’t regard him with derision and mockery, they regarded him with jeers and sneers and when they were short of jeers and sneers they used gibes and taunts and so ran the list. It was just another ordinary day except for the arrival of an alien spaceship filled with ultra-intelligent aliens who threatened to invade the Earth. Unless, they said, an Earthling could defeat them with superior intelligence and powers of comprehension. Professors, scientists, biotechnologists, Presidents (huh?)-almost everybody tried to leave the aliens hanging but they ended up hanging in the prison at the back of the colossal spaceship with their legs split and their heads shoved up their backsides. Finally, Dan Bo- who was resting in his long low seat-was zapped and made to appear in front of the B.O.A (the Board of Aliens as the alien intelligentsia called themselves). Maybe it was “divan intervention” or maybe it was just plain ol’ irony-whatever it was, after four hours of conversation with Dan Bo, the aliens emancipated the captives and got their out-of-the-world-blue-posteriors the hell out of Earth. Dan Bo thus saved the world and gained the love and respect of one and all (except that of the aliens). Due to the extremely graphic nature of the intensely nonsensical conversation that transpired between the B.O.A and Dan Bo only a very small part of it is printed below which would be sufficient to show why the aliens scrammed: Dan Bo(shrugging):You know what they say: “Curiosity spilled the milk”. The B.O.A(gritting their teeth):What? Dan Bo(surprised):It didn’t? The B.O.A(with an incredulous look in their eyes):What? Dan Bo (nervous and embarrassed):I mean the dead cat spilled the milk. The B.O.A(their eyes widening further):What? Dan Bo (flabbergasted):It didn’t? The B.O.A(irate at the illogic digression):What? Dan Bo(thinking hard):No…no…wait…What was the deal with the cat again? The B.O.A(sighing deeply trying to retain their sanity):Curiosity killed the cat. Dan Bo(with a relieved smile):Oh, ok. Curiosity killed the cat. The B.O.A (their anger alleviated on finally sensing an end to this):Yes, that’s correct. Dan Bo (with a quizzical stare):So then who spilled the milk? The B.O.A (stunned):…. MORAL: EVERY CLOD HAS A SILVER LINING
- 124 (26th July 2007)
India Poised Like Hell
At the Headquarters of the Ministry of Baby-killers in Mumbai, a bunch of babykillers were toasting their latest achievement: that of stabbing a two day old baby twenty six times and leaving it in a pile of garbage. They raised their glasses filled with their favorite drink- liquefied fetus - and yelled “to infanticide”. They all drank to it and proceeded to take bites of their favorite dishes: mashed placenta and grilled umbilical cords. The Ministry had been in existence since forever although they received organizational status only after the day they were able to attain an all time best performance of killing twenty-seven babies in one day. It was masterminded by a couple who figured that setting a maternity ward on fire was the smartest way to fight the epidemic known as childbirth. That was also the standard answer that every member of the Ministry was required to give if ever questioned about their actions; they had to say “I did it for my country. I did it to control our population explosion.” And it was certain that if not everyone at least some fellow citizens would be fucked up enough to share their perspective and lend them support. As the celebrations were proceeding with all prams blazing, one of the trusted informants of the Ministry rushed in, gasping for breath, with a very crucial piece of information. The members of the Ministry of Baby-killers shuddered on hearing the news. The Indian people were apparently protesting in anger after some loser rummaged through the garbage dump and encountered the most horrific sight. The Ministry couldn’t believe what they were hearing. They expected a small disparaging piece in the third page of all the leading newspapers and maybe a short pitiful segment on NDTV but that was about it. However, in an unprecedented turn of events, the proud sons of India had generated an angry uprising. The matter was placed before the management board of the ministry and thoroughly discussed. Baby Killer #1: This is outrageous. We’ve been killing babies all our lives and the rest of the Indians have never given a shit. But we stab a little twerp twenty-six times and leave him to die in a dumpster and they are pissed. That doesn’t make any sense. Baby Killer #2: Something does seem to be amiss. I mean, what’s up these people’s asses that’s making them butt their noses into our business. Especially at a time like this when Shilpa Shetty is back in the news again. They should be in front of their television sets not giving a shit about other stuff that’s happening around them. Baby Killer #1: Could it be that they have gained an outlook on life that’s not selfish? Could it be that the rest of the Indians have finally realized what stuff to get mad at and what stuff to let go? Baby Killer #2 (thinks for few seconds): I strongly suspect that they’re all just really high. Baby Killer #1: So, I guess the best thing for us to do for the time being is to lay low and let things settle down on their own. Baby Killer #2: Yeah, that and murdering babies and devouring their intestines. Baby Killer #1: Of course, that goes without saying. However, the ruckus didn’t subside; it only seemed to get worse with every passing day. The brave sons of India, apparently, showed no signs of retreating. Roads were blocked, windows broken, candles lit, effigies burned, and assholes fingered. The aggression reached such frustrating levels that the Ministry of Baby-killers decided that it was best to surrender themselves before the angry mob and plead with them to not hurt them.
- 125 Therefore, the next day, while a screaming throng was making their way down the road, the Ministry confronted them. It was the showdown between the Ministry of Babykillers and the patriots. The Patriots: Who are you people? Get out of our way. The Ministry: We’re here to negotiate with you. The Patriots: We’re patriots, negotiation is not in our repertoire. On the other hand, doing retarded stuff based purely on impulse is. The Ministry: We’re sorry to tell you that we are actually the people you’re protesting against. The Patriots (silent for a second): You traitors did that? That despicable act was your work? The Ministry: Well, yeah. But you have to understand that we had our reasons. And they seemed quite reasonable at the time. The Patriots: We don’t care what reasons you had, you sick anti-social freaks. The fact of the matter is you committed one of the most heinous acts a human being could ever do. The Ministry: Oh, come on. At least, it wasn’t as bad as Jhoom Barabar Jhoom. The Patriots: That may be but that doesn’t give you the right to do something like that. Perhaps you thought the rest of India would just sit back and not do anything about it. The Ministry: Actually, yeah, we were under that impression. That is after all what we have been used to. The Patriots: Get ready to feel the power of the new generation. The Ministry (apologetic): We swear we didn’t mean to kill that baby. We were just teaching it self-defense. The Patriots (confused): Baby? What baby? What the heck are you talking about? The Ministry (puzzled as well): We’re talking about the baby we stabbed twenty-six times and dumped into a pile of garbage. Isn’t that why you’re protesting? We heard you shouting in the news stuff about the garbage dump and the irreprehensible act of hatred that was committed. The Patriots: That’s true but we weren’t talking about any stupid baby’s death. The Ministry: You weren’t? The Patriots: Heck, no. We were talking about an offensive piece of writing that we found in the dump disrespecting our national pledge and in turn our nation. The Ministry: And the dead baby? The Patriots (pissed): To hell with the dead baby. We have more important matters to deal with here. Someone actually used the words “fuck” “dick” and “pussy” and made fun of our national pledge. We will not rest until we burn that sonofabitch up on a fucking cross. The Ministry (softly): So you don’t mind us murdering babies and ditching their half dead bodies on the streets? The Patriots: Look, wise guys, we don’t care what you do as long as you don’t criticize our history, our historical figures, and our legacy. You can whack all the newborns you want provided you don’t disrespect, by means of words or art, the national flag, the national pledge or the national anthem. You can rape as many women as you want as long as you don’t refer to them as “pussies” or “hoes” or “bitches”. You can even molest as many kids as you feel like because that’s not a crime that’s limited to our country alone. No country is crime free so that makes it alright for us to rape and molest and kill and torture. But if you talk about it in an obscene manner we’re not going to just stand by and let it happen. If some smart-ass hopes to write some vulgar shit about our nation, our religion, or our history and get away
- 126 with it, by God, he better think twice about it! According to us writing “horny dick” is way worse than taking one out and slapping a girl with it. The Ministry (pauses for a moment): So we’re good? The Patriots: Yeah, we’re fine. Look, you people might have a fetish for killing babies but as far as we can see you communicate using decent language and you say nothing against our nation. And you are all men. So we got no problem. Now, we have to continue with our protests. Take Care. The Ministry (still a bit stunned): You too…we guess. The ecstatic Ministry of Baby-killers thanked God for averting a potential danger and promised the almighty that they would change their ways. They gave their word to the Lord to never kill a baby again and dump it in a pile of garbage. They vowed to always get rid of the body by hurling it into the ocean. But right now, they had to celebrate this great close shave. They called a nationwide meeting of the Ministry and threw a grand buffet having dishes ranging from fried-rice, uterus curry, newborn’s heart roast, and stuffed infant with a side of baby pancreas.
- 127 (3rd August 2007)
From the Chomsky-Saussure Filth Archives Part 2
Any individual with the slightest bit of passion for researching the intricate structure of the wonderful English Language would drop to his knees in reverence when he hears the two most important names associated with it- Noam Chomsky and Ferdinand De Saussure. These two unbeatable grammarians, unbeknownst to the outside world, were the ultimate curse word experimentalists of their times. Dipping their elbows in cooking butter for five hours straight interested them as well. Sometime back I revealed to you a documentation of one of the dissing sessions that took place between these two great minds. The transcript showed the ingenuity and sharpness of their minds as well as the obvious camaraderie that existed between the two grammarians. It also showed how fucked up the two motherfuckers were. Today, I present to you the second of the many documents that I tediously acquired through a process as meticulous and as precise as the Parliamentary Elections. As always, both Saussure and Chomsky were sloshed to their skulls when they were delivering the priceless cursing seminars to each other. Ladies, Gentlemen, and that one transvestite in New Delhi- the “Chomsky-Saussure Filth Archives” Part II. FROM THE CHOMSKY-SAUSSURE FILTH ARCHIVES PART II NC: I don’t understand why I need to be here when you’re getting your wife maternity clothes, you hamburger filled with spit, erectile tissues, and liquid hemorrhoids! FDS: Let’s see. Maybe it’s because you got her pregnant you menstrual blood drinking piece of dried up shit stuck to George Bernard Shaw’s hairy right buttock! NC: She was the one who stood outside my door with her legs as wide as Barack Obama’s smile. What was I supposed to do? Not insert my giant penis into her salivating hole and thrust it so deep that when I ejaculated I could see my sperm floating around her epiglottis? FDS: I have half a mind to go to your house right now, pull your wife off her bed, throw some steaming hot water onto her ass, wait for two days, and then have intercourse with the boils on her ass till it pops spraying bloody pus all over your bedroom! NC: You have a better chance of embedding your genitals with Kellogg’s Cornflakes and then getting it sucked by Marie Antoinette’s severed head! FDS: Stop running your mouth and help me choose some maternity clothes before I bend you into two, flip you upside down, stick a Mont Blanc pen between your ass cheeks widening your asshole, and puke into your anal cavity so heavily that it’ll come out through your nose and eyes! NC: Not if I cut off the penises of your father and your uncle, stick them up your nostrils, fly you off to the North Pole, trick some polar bears into thinking you’re a walrus, and then get them to gang-sodomize you!
- 128 FDS: Give it a rest, or else I’ll abduct your mother, take her to the forest, staple her nipples twenty three times each, and then get Phantom (the Walking Ghost) to fist her so deep that his ring impression will be left on her lungs! NC: You wouldn’t dare, you smelly fart that accompanied Queen Elizabeth’s first ever shit in a Scottish public toilet! FDS: That’s what you think, you pungent phlegm mixed with antelope sperm that’s stuck inside the third head from the right of Lord Ravana. NC: That’s what I know, you nonstop drinker of Coca Cola mixed with the milk squeezed out of Reverend Jesse Jackson’s tits. FDS: Go to hell, you sterile queen bee that’s living in a hive built underneath Lord Xenu’s gigantic red balls. NC (surprised): Lord Xenu? Who are you- Tom Cruise? FDS (dropping the dress that he was holding): What did you call me? NC (suddenly realizing what he had just done): Look, Ferdie…I… FDS (angry): WHAT did you call me? NC (fumbling): You know I would never… FDS (wounded): But you did. Ugh! I can’t even look at you right now. NC (guilty): I made a mistake…believe me I feel terrible… FDS (almost teary-eyed): You know I’m already under a lot of stress what with you impregnating my wife and all. This is the last thing I wanted to hear. I’m hurt, Noam. I’m really hurt. NC (completely guilty and ashamed): I give you my word it’ll never happen again. FDS (turning away): There’s nothing you can do that’ll heal the wound. NC (silent for a while): What if we go to the changing room and I massage your inner thighs? FDS (instantly): Ok. Yeah, that might heal the wound. NC: So you forgive me…? FDS (smiling warmly): I forgive you buddy. Now let’s go get it on.
- 129 (8th August 2007)
Dutt’s the Way it is
If anyone out there has been harboring a desire to get cozy with Sanjay Dutt’s daughter, this is the time to act on it. She’s sad; she’s vulnerable; her dad’s in the slammer; and from what her photos suggest she has all the qualities of a compulsive eater. And as scientists have proven, fat chicks are the easiest ones to trick into taking their panties off, provided you don’t count aspiring actresses, feminists, chambermaids, teenage Catholic girls, and, of course, Nayanthara. And while considerate individuals like you and I are plotting how to get some Dutt poon, the rest of India have been doing what they have been doing best for the last few centuries- arguing with each other about what and who is right and wrong. Only this time, Bollywood is in the picture as well. The pro-verdict Indians and the pro-Dutt Indians debated hard on the topic of whether or not the sentence Dutt got was fair. A grammarian, also a member of the pro-Dutt campaign criticized the judge’s sentence, accusing it of being structurally imperfect and lacking any kind of punctuation whatsoever. He was later asked by his fellow campaigners to refer the dictionary and look up the second meaning of the word “sentence”. The humiliated grammarian then returned to his classroom and took it out on his students by chaining them to their desks and beating the shit out of them. The pro-verdict Indians, consisting of selfloathing middle class people (excluding the middle class boy John Abraham), raised the important point that all rich people are crooks and that such rich people, especially if they are famous also, should be punished severely without any clemency. Bollywood stars who heard this decided that they wouldn’t take this lying down; so they bent over and took it in the doggie position. And when they realized that it hurt their assholes too much they decided to voice their protests. A gamut of emotions flooded the television screens. Anger, sadness, speechlessness, dejection, resilience, and eroticism flowed out of the expressive faces of our country’s finest cine artists. Frankly speaking, it was some of the best work they had done. The pro-verdict Indians, although sensitive and intelligent, did not feel a smidgeon of sympathy for the multi-millionaire Bollywood actor Sanjay Dutt and felt that he shouldn’t have done the crime if he wasn’t prepared to do the time. They held their heads high and supported the legal system of our country which was true enough to not spare a rich brat like Dutt who was guilty of possessing a gun without a license; the same legal system who gives instant bail to Shiv Sena activists after they torture and harass random people without giving them a trial of any kind; the same legal system which salvaged the innocence of the two accused in the Nithari killings, who, in all probability, sodomized and chopped up over twenty children purely unintentionally. The system was just enough to realize the innocuous thought that went behind the two dozen murders. Much like how the system foresaw the potential carnage that Sanjay Dutt would’ve caused with the weapon he possessed, allegedly to protect his family. The pro-Dutt Indians claimed that sentencing the man who brought the spirit of Gandhi back to our hearts to six years in prison was like slapping the cheek of the Mahatma himself. The pro-Dutt Indians, including actors from Bollywood, demanded that taking into consideration the impact and the theme of Dutt’s hit movie, he ought to receive special consideration from the court. Dawood Ibrahim seconded this demand and also announced that his debut movie titled “Dawood loves Gandhi” would be releasing later this year.
- 130 Meanwhile, Sanjay Dutt sat alone inside his cell drenched in sadness wishing he could go back in time and correct his mistakes. Especially the mistake of spending millions in visiting temples and shrines praying to God when he should actually have got into a plane and hid in some exotic island. He put his head down and shed a drop of sincere tear; as soon as the teardrop hit the dank floor of his prison he felt a strange energy enter his cell. He lifted his head and encountered the most amazing sight he had seen in his entire life- even more amazing than Urmila’s bulging titties in Daud. Sitting next to him inside his cell was Mahatma Gandhi himself. Dutt bowed his head before the Mahatma and asked pleadingly, “Tell me Bapu, why me? I suffered so much already in my life but it never seems to stop. I lost both my parents; I lost my wife; I’ve already been in prison once for over a year; and now, after I’ve been so righteous in my actions, I’m back in prison. And that too for possibly the six most significant years of my life. What is the meaning of all this?” The Mahatma looked straight into Dutt’s teary eyes and said, with a warm, caring smile on his lips, “I got fucking assassinated right after I achieved the single greatest feat in the history of mankind and you’re whining to me about getting some jail time for a crime you actually committed? Grow some balls, man. I understand you deserve a lot better than this but don’t we all? At least, you don’t have to watch your own children starve to death right in front of you; nor do you have to worry about when your child is going to get raped when she walks alone from school because you can’t afford a fucking vehicle. Sure you got it bad, but there are more miserable bastards out there. Unfortunately, life’s a giant ass that won’t stop shitting on you. And the people who run your country, no matter which nation you’re from, will always act as laxatives. So suck it up.” Dutt watched, with bulging eyes and an open mouth, the spectral figure of Gandhi get up and leave his cell. Before Gandhi completely disappeared he turned back and said, “I almost forgot, could you do me a favor?” Dutt jolted from his shocked stupor and replied, “Of course, Bapu, anything.” Gandhi looked at Dutt and said in a slightly irked tone, “If you ever run into Anil Kapoor or Akshaye Khanna tell those hairy-ass fags to fuck off and go to hell. I gave those pricks their independence. The least that they can do is not commercialize my personal life.” And then the Father of our Nation disappeared.
- 131 (15th August 2007)
Sixty years. That’s as old as Hema Malini, the super-intelligent lone crusader of pure water for thirsty Indians all across the country. Sixty years. That’s how long Neha Dupia will have to keep acting like an absolute whore, while simultaneously bashing actresses who shed clothes and kiss on screen “without the script demanding it”, before anyone takes notice of her and finally fucks her to death using a spiked shoe. Sixty years. That’s half the number of years for which Lata Mangeshkar has been singing without realizing that she’s just a female version of Himesh Reshammiya. Sixty years. That’s how long it has been since the British colonizers in India ultimately got homesick and went back to their native land of Argentina. Commemorating our sixtieth year of Independence, India’s top news channel Jetix went around asking random Indians what they thought were the ten most significant moments in the last sixty years of Indian History. After talking to about a thousand gazillion Indians (approximately one eighth of India’s total population), Jetix managed to compile an undisputable list of India’s ten greatest moments and achievements in the last sixty years. There were a few moments in the list that had completely escaped the collective memory of us Indians until the colorfully dressed Japanese midgets of Jetix recaptured it for us. TOP TEN GOLDEN MOMENTS OF FREE INDIA No: 10 - In 1959, the 14th Dalai Lama seeks refuge in India and tries out Indian food for the first time. He spends the next seven days shooting Tibetan turds out of his Rinpoche and is not able to meditate in complete silence. A year later, the 14th Dalai Lama tries out denim jeans for the first time and grows particularly fond of the fabric. No: 9 - In 1967, a lewd MMS clip of a young Salman Rushdie eating spaghetti using both hands spreads all across India. The next day Ayatollah Noodles issues a “pastwa” against Rushdie for corrupting the sanctity of spaghetti by eating it without the use of a fork. A week later, Rushdie flees India and seeks asylum in Queen Elizabeth’s knickers. After seeking for three days straight, he not only finds asylum in the Queen’s knickers but also a half eaten carrot and a copy of Jane Austen’s Pried and Pussy Juice. No: 8 - In 1975, Nelson Mandela has a one-night stand with President Indira Gandhi and doesn’t call her back. Indira Gandhi is super pissed and goes on a castration spree which stops only after two years and seven hundred and fifty seven pairs of skewered testicles. No: 7 - In 1979, Mother Teresa wins the coveted Nobel Prize for Peace in honor of her great humanitarian work in the poorer parts of India. At the award ceremony, Mother Teresa asks only one question to the entire world: “Why the fuck didn’t anybody tell me leprosy was contagious?” No: 6 - In 1983, the West Indies Cricket team forfeits the World Cup to India after Captain Kapil Dev threatens to take a one hour long class in spoken English for everyone attending the match. He then raises the cup and says the words that inspire millions of Indians: “I has done it. We is the only team who know how to game cricket. All future teams is bad.”
- 132 No: 5 - On May 21, 1991 Rajiv Gandhi has a really bad hair day. No: 4 - In 1994, a young teenage girl shows how to insert a whole banana into her mouth and then swallow it on a global platform. A few days later, she is awarded the Ms. Universe title. The world takes notice of Indian women’s ability to swallow entire bananas and decide to keep giving them similar awards every four or five years. No: 3 - In 1999, Hindus and Muslims unite to fight against a common enemy, the Y2K virus. But when squat happens on Jan 1, 2000 they go back to killing each other and their own. Later, the Indian Intelligence reveals that the Y2K virus had indeed planned on attacking India but got arrested by the Mumbai Police after a complaint of forced sexual act lodged by an ugly skunk/skank named Rakhi Sawant. After one week, the Y2K virus installs Norton and commits suicide out of shame. No: 2 - On July 11, 2006 terrorists detonate eight consecutive bombs at all movie theatres playing Amitabh Bachchan’s Black. Miraculously, not a single living soul is hurt. No: 1 - In 2007, Shilpa Slutty cries in front of the whole world because she’s called a Paki by an ignorant ugly fat man-bitch named Jade Goody. India considers breaking off its ties with England based on the event. The English get shit scared of a curry attack and give a whole lot of money to Shilpa Slutty. She and her annoying mother shifts residence from India to London. Shilpa Slutty appears in a hundred television interviews and shows major cleavage. Few months later, she returns to India in order to gift her sister, Shamita, a pair of panties. Richard Gere tries to bend Shilpa Slutty into half in front of a thousand people. Hours later, both Richard and Shilpa confirm to the media that he was merely trying to protect her from Lord Voldemort. Shilpa breaks up a filthy rich guy’s marriage. She’s awarded an honorary doctorate degree by the University of Over-the-top Pretentious Political Correctness. Jai Hind!
- 133 (22nd August 2007)
Why can’t we be not Friends?
I’ve got to tell you something. There’s as good a chance of you not agreeing to it as there is a chance of the ICL and the BCCI walking together hand in hand at a beach, the gentle waves kissing the sides of their really expensive shoes. I don’t understand the compulsive need of almost everyone to pile up as many friends as possible. They put desperate, pathetic ads in the paper, they join every online community in the world, and some even make up imaginary people just so that others would think they have a bucketful of friends. I’m nonplussed, to be honest. And that’s saying a lot because I never thought I would actually use the word ‘nonplussed’ in a sentence ever. Now, if I could only use the word ‘glomerulonephritis’ somewhere. It’s easy to misinterpret my statement about friends as one made by a misanthropist. I admit, I’m no Father Teresa but I don’t hate people. I do love hot single women; that has to be an indication of the presence of a loving heart inside me. However, I do have a serious problem with friends, especially my friends. It’s just that more often than not friends seem to act more like a PIP (Pain in the Posterior) rather than a HIP (Helpful Intelligent Person). Sure nobody’s perfect but the least your friends should be able to do is not piss you off all the time. And there are different kinds of annoying friends who do different things to piss you off. There’s always that one friend who just doesn’t know when to hang up the phone. He’s the friend who’s not very close to you but does you enough favors that it would make you feel guilty if you don’t consider him as your friend. It’s one thing calling up and talking if there’s actually something to talk about. And it’s another thing calling up merely to chitchat and kill time. But it’s a whole different thing if your friend calls you up everyday and talks about nothing but himself. It’s almost like he thinks he’s running a radio station and you’re the only listener he has. Unfortunately, all the programs on the radio station is about what he did, who he hates, who he thinks is gay, which actor looks more like him, and how much better he is than everybody else including you. And you can do just about everything that you could think of to try and send him the message that you don’t want to talk to him but narcissistic phrases keep flowing out of his mouth like mediocre movies out of Bollywood. You can fake headaches, you can fake call waiting, you can fake having to hide the corpse of the door to door salesman you just murdered, hell you can even fake your own death but he would neatly sideline all of those by uttering four simple pitiful words, “Just five more minutes.” Then there’s the friend who’s up for any plans any time. As long as you take care of all expenses. He’s the one who, when the bill comes, gets the inevitable call from his sick mother, his dying uncle, his dead grandpa, or nature herself. At times, his seventh sense informs him about the imminent bill and he just takes off from the coffee shop or the restaurant. After you chalk out all your money, you meet him outside with a frown, and he explains to you that he got this unprecedented urge to break wind and that he respects you too much to let it rip in front of you. And you think to yourself, that’s worth the money! But, of course, you’re damn fool who doesn’t realize that your friend is a big fat liar who just used flatulence to make you pay his share of the bill. Going to the movies with the moocher is no different. He’s always sly enough to ask you to “book the tickets”, or “reserve the seats”. But after the movie, when you ask him to reimburse the ticket money, he behaves like the victim of a combined Alzheimer’s- Amnesia attack. He blinks and stares like he’s Mr. Magoo on valium. At the end, he parts with the concrete promise that the next movie is on him. Few
- 134 weeks later, he’ll probably show up at your place with a pirated CD that you both can watch on your CD player and call it even. The third one in the list is the friend who opens up too quickly to you. Call me a sexist but this one is bound to be a girl. She’s the one with whom you share a comfortable rapport from the time you meet. You too even have the same opinion about Espresso: that it sucks. But all that changes on the second day when she calls you up and lets you in on her deepest, darkest secret that she says she has never shared with anyone else in the whole world. It could be some torrid love affair that she had with a teacher, or it could be about some overly friendly uncle of hers, or even her disturbingly bizarre sexual perversions that’s got something to do with Chihuahuas. And the next day, when she meets you in front of other people you know, she takes you to a corner and thanks you for fifteen minutes for being a “good friend” and “being there” for her. You would like to tell her “I was just holding the phone to my ear. I didn’t do anything. I could have put a bowl of pudding there by the phone and the pudding would have been there for you.” But you don’t. Then things get worse when she starts weeping. And the people around you look at you like you’re this insensitive jerk who made a girl cry. Which, of course, ruins the rest of the evening for you. And when she leaves she subtly nods at you that only you see and moments later you get the ominous SMS which says, “I’ll call you tonight.” And that’s when you feel like drowning to death in a pool of Espresso Another one who really pisses me off is the friend who talks incessantly about politics. Scattering it here and there in a conversation is fine; at least you can ignore it. But when everything that he says is connected to politics you’ve got a serious issue. After a sip of his coffee he says, “This coffee is really strong. By the way, you know who else needs to be really strong, the United Nations in their involvement in the Middle East problem.” Or he’s playing video game with you when he comments, “You need stealth to excel at this game. You know what rhymes with stealth? Health. You know who has a bad health plan: the Americans. Their last Government…” Or the time when nobody’s talking and everyone’s just lazing around he decides to conduct an elaborate tutorial on the plan that he has to inculcate Socialism in a Capitalistic environment. It becomes obvious to you that the only plan he doesn’t have is the one that would make him not bore the living hell out of everyone around him. Those are just a few reasons why I find friends really annoying. There are still several types that I haven’t talked about: the friend who always shares your lunch, the one who borrows your T-shirt and gives it back stained, the one who asks for more than five favors per month, the one who’s always late for everything, the one who keeps a picture of the Elephant Man in his wallet, the one who turns both the blowers of the AC in your car to his side, the friend who steals your jokes, the friend who advises you to listen to rap music after listening to the Eminem CD that he borrowed from you a week before, the friend who has a look at the book you’re reading and tells you how it ends after going through the last chapter, the friend who shows up at your place without calling up, the friend who just can’t figure out why your father is a Hindu and your mother’s a Christian, the one who tells you after you get out of a restaurant that he had switched plates with you because he found a hair stuck to his, and a whole lot of other kinds of annoying friends. You may love your friends too much to relate to anything that I’ve said so far. That means you’re lucky. Or it means that you’re in denial. Or, more likely, it means that you are an annoying friend yourself. In case, you share my views and feel like being friends with me, I just want to let you know that I’m feeling a little under the weather and therefore can’t talk on the phone or mail you or meet you. Doctors say I’m suffering from a bad case of ‘glomerulonephritis’.
- 135 (23rd August 2007)
It’s Tougher to be a Man
It’s very possible that after the public revelation of this article I would be ambushed by a frightening group of women in their mid-thirties, possessing mediocre grooming habits, and lethargic husbands: a group that calls itself the Feminist Mafia. But, I don’t care. It’s more important to me that the truth is divulged; the truth that has been kept a secret for centuries by generations of trained fighters known as WO-Men (Warriors Obliterating Men); the truth which, when revealed, would change the course of life as we know it today; the truth that men’s lives are so much worse than women’s lives. Boyhood is not just about being stupid and breaking stuff. It also involves the very traumatic experience of trying to negotiate with the baggage of gender guilt that’s thrust upon you by the women around you. The thrusting of the gender guilt, at such an early age, is, of course, the primary psychological weapon in the artillery of the Warriors Obliterating Men. Mothers, grandmothers, aunts, sisters-they all seem to mutter the same guilt-inducing line when faced with any problem: “Oh, why should you bother? You’re a male. We’re the ones who have to endure it.” It’s not so much the words as it’s the tone of their voice that fills you, the little boy, with a gnawing feeling of culpability. There starts the journey of the demoralized man who’s forcibly made a part of a generalization that he doesn’t care much about. However, the contrast between the truth and the generalization is as stark as the difference between a car and a car salesman. Men do not have better lives than women just because women say we do. One example that all women cite is the man’s gift to pee standing up. Let me tell you something, it’s not all that it’s hyped up to be. In fact, it could be downright harrowing on certain occasions. Men do not enjoy the privacy of a separate stall when they go to a public restroom like women do. All we get are half a dozen contraptions mounted on the wall that to someone with a reasonably active imagination would look like the beaks of really large pelicans. But the really disturbing part lies in how close the half a dozen pelican beaks are to each other. And the only thing that separates you and the ‘peer’ next to you is a thin rectangular partition that’s nowhere near as tall as it should be. Can you imagine the trauma of having to pray for a guy who’s shorter than you pee next to you every time you visit the restroom to relieve yourself? We’d much rather spend a few extra seconds pulling down our pants than having to be on surveillance mode every time nature calls. But, of course, women will never understand because “we’re the ones who have to endure it.” Another bane of being a woman, they say, is having to deal with that time of the month which makes her cranky, emotional, and depressed. Well, let me inform you women that we men undergo similar phases as well, but on a level way more intense than you could fathom. A woman couldn’t possibly comprehend how cranky, vulnerable, and suicidal a man can get for a stretch of time as long as even a year whenever the Indian Cricket Team goes and makes a mess of a match that they should have won blindfolded. Forget the monthly mess, ladies, this one bugs us every minute of every hour of every day we live. Therefore, women have their women’s problems and we guys have the Indian Cricket Team. You tell me which is worse. What I’ve revealed so far is merely the tip of the iceberg. Although, I feel it’s safe to assume that men all over the world are wising up to the real truth. Never again should we drop our heads in shame and walk away tongue-tied when a woman tells us that we have it good. We should stand up and bravely put ourselves down. Don’t let any woman tell you that you’re happier than them; stand your ground and prove to them that you’re more depressed than Vincent Van Gogh’s optician. And if they corner you and pull out their trump card- the labor pain card- smile back confidently at them, take your cap off and show them the huge bald spot that’s staring back with a vengeance.
- 136 (25thAugust 2007)
The Sock Murder Mystery: A Detective Yvette Pans Case
It was the most chilling murder of the century. Alright, maybe that was an exaggeration but, hey, a guy was killed, which wasn’t something that exuded a great deal of warmth. It happened on the eve of the eve of Christmas Eve’s eve, which was December 23rd – no wait, December 21st, no, no, I meant December 24th or is it 22nd? Wait a second, when was Christmas again? Anyway, the fact remained that a man was murdered. The victim was the sixty-five-year old millionaire, Mr. Stephen McStiffie, who was found strangled to death with the assistance of a really old sock. His family members, who were thankfully too shocked and stunned to do anything stupid like move the body or give it a bath, did what any helpless soul would have done when faced with a similar ordeal. They called me, Detective Yvette Pans. The sight that greeted me as I reached the McStiffie’s mansion disturbed me intensely. I saw that despite their filthy richness, they still drove a Nissan. And that point I knew, things would only get tougher, even for a veteran detective like me. I was led to Mr. McStiffie’s bedroom where the macabre sight of the corpse, with a sock around its neck, glared at me like a python wrapped around a tree trunk. It was then I realized that I had come up with a pretty good analogy, albeit an inflated one. The stench that emanated from the old, wrinkly, stretched out thing was unbearable. And, oh yeah, the sock smelled bad too. Second in my list of “top two things to do in case of a murder” was interrogation. After I executed the first one on my list, which was making sure that the victim was dead, I proceeded to interrogate the possible suspects that I had already lined up in my mind. My method of interrogation was a bit erratic, as the minds of certified geniuses so often were. The questions I asked weren’t like the ones you got for SATs or GMATs – the ones I put across were super hard. I sat down first with the victim’s wife, Mrs. Looksy McStiffie. Me: ‘Did you kill your husband, Mrs. Looksy?’ Mrs. Looksy: ‘No’. Me: ‘Ok, cool. Next.’ I followed the same pattern of questioning with the rest of the lot – the daughter, the butler, the chef, the gardener, the dog keeper, the cat keeper, the plumber, the chauffeur, and the nubile French maid. I came to the conclusion that they were a very negative bunch who stuck with the same “no” to the query I put forth save the French maid who uttered a very nasal “Non” and the teenage daughter who said “Like whatever”. I was in for a real rough roaring risky ride and I realized that, for the first time in my life, I had used alliteration. A loud screech outside of the mansion jolted me out of the reverie spawned by my literary achievement. The victim’s only son, Mr. Junky McStiffie or “The Junkster”, who was a celebrated rock star, had arrived. The moment I laid eyes on him I got a feeling that he was the man that I had been looking for all this time. Then I realized how gay that sounded. I had meant the right man in relation to the murder. One reason I strongly suspected him was because he was the only one who hadn’t said “no” to my question. But then I realized that could be because I hadn’t yet asked him. So, I wasted no time and proceeded to do just that.
- 137 Me: ‘Did you kill your father?’ Junky: ‘Are you flippin’ crazy?’ Me: ‘You’re sure you didn’t kill him?’ Junky: ‘Yeah, I’m sure.” The first time I had received an answer in the affirmative. I realized I was on the right track. I felt like slapping him with a pair of handcuffs, taking him to prison, and giving it to him real good. Why the hell was everything that I said about him coming out so gay? Damn. The expert sleuthing that I did in the next two weeks provided with some very interesting leads. I learned that Mrs. Looksy was having an affair with the chauffeur. I also learned that Mrs. Looksy was having an affair with the plumber. And the pool boy, and the butler, and the chef. However, an unfaithful wife, who was sleeping around with half her employees, whose husband had turned up dead a couple of weeks back, didn’t really come across as suspicious to me. It wasn’t like she had a motive or anything. As days passed, the tension became more palpable. The bereaved became uneasy, mainly because I was charging by the hour. I was also convinced, owing to the presence of overwhelming evidence, that the nubile French maid was immensely attractive. The entire mansion seemed to be growling in an ominous, sinister voice. After exactly three and a half weeks of snooping around, I called the McStiffie’s mansion and asked Mrs. Looksy to make sure everyone I had questioned was present. After I reached the place, I made everyone present there sit in a circle. And then I began unfurling how I had solved the case. Me: ‘Never have I had a case like this before.’ The Butler: ‘Some say you have never had a case at all.” Me: ‘What did you want to be when you were little?’ The Butler: ‘A pilot.’ Me: ‘What’re you now?’ The Butler: ‘A butler.’ Me: ‘Alright so shut up and keep your underachieving butt rooted to your chair.’ The humiliated butler stayed put and didn’t speak a word. He learned that nobody acted smart with Detective Yvette Pans and got away with it without getting seriously demoralized. I continued: Me: ‘The reason I have asked you all to be present here is because, as you may have guessed, I have solved the case. And the reason why I’ve asked you to sit in a circle is because, frankly, that’s always been my favorite geometrical figure. I mean, seriously, rhombuses, parallelograms, trapeziums? They’re all plain ugly. But a circle, what completion, what circularity!’ Mrs. Looksy: ‘You were saying something about who killed my husband.”
- 138 Me: ‘Yes, yes, of course. THE BUTLER DID IT!!!’ The Butler: ‘No, I didn’t.’ Me: ‘Yeah, I know. But I really scared you, didn’t I?” Mrs. Looksy: ‘Detective, please.” Me: ‘That’s Detective Yvette Pans to you. Anyway, as I was attempting to say, this case was an interesting one right from the start. From day one, I observed various paradoxes and contradictions and other big words like that. But my mind still kept going back to one personMr. Junky. And no, I’m not gay. If you go back a few paragraphs you’ll find out that I had a hunch about his guilt the moment I saw him. But what was really unsettling about this rock star, “The Junkster”, were his feet. Contrary to other rock stars, his feet were covered.’ At that point, I stopped my narration, so that it would attain some dramatic effect. Then, when I realized nothing happened, I proceeded. Me: ‘You were wearing socks, Mr. Junky. That’s right! Socks! Your hidden obscure fetish which was revealed to me when I snooped around your room and came across a box that said “Junky’s Sock Collection: My Hidden Obscure Fetish”. But that still doesn’t explain how Mr. Stephen ended up dead, does it? You see, Mr. Stephen McStiffie’s wealth had earned him friends all around the world: America, Australia, Asia, Europe, and even Antarctica. And one of Mr. Stephen’s closest friends, who lived in Antarctica, was diagnosed with cold feet. To remedy the predicament, Mr. Stephen’s friend set out to make a pair of socks that turned out to be the world’s most protective and rarest pair. His feet never went cold again. Unfortunately, one day, Mr. Stephen’s friend was killed and eaten by a wandering polar bear, which turned out to be the illegitimate son of the walrus whose skin was used to make the protective socks. The Antarctica Police, after searching for the corpse of the man, could only retrieve a single sock. The other one was lost forever. But, now, the remaining sock was all the more rare because of the great story behind it. The Antarctica Government decided that the rare single sock belonged to Mr. Stephen McStiffie, as per the will of the dead man that was written on ice. Mr. Stephen treasured the sock with all his heart like the loyal and dedicated friend that he was. But, then you came into the picture, didn’t you, Mr. Junky? By the way, I hope nobody’s bothered by the fact that I’m frequently adding question tags to the end of my sentences. It adds to the tension, doesn’t it? Moving right along, you knew when you saw that sock that you had to add it to your collection, didn’t you, Mr. Junky? And when you expressed your selfish desire to your father he bluntly refused knowing very well that one day, when your rock career hit the rocks, you would resort to selling your sock collection. And he didn’t want the only remaining memory of his friend to be auctioned off by a bankrupt rock star like you. And you just couldn’t deal with the rejection, could you, Mr. Junky? That very night, you crept into your father’s bedroom, stole one of his socks, and ruthlessly strangled him to death with it. But instead of taking the sock along and destroying it, you left it around his neck. Rookie mistake on the part of all rock stars who don’t finish high school. The truth shall not set you free this time, my friend. It shall have you locked up in a stinky cell for a really long time. There you have it, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Junky killed his own father for a sock. Oh, the repugnant animal that is man! Take him away!”
- 139 Two officers, who conveniently appeared at the right time, led the culprit away. The Junkster’s fiery red eyes fixed themselves upon me as he screamed at me: “We’ll meet again, Detective Yvette Pans.” A ruckus erupted in the McStiffie household following the revelation. But that was none of my business. My job was done. Well, almost done. I headed to my last stop of the day – the French maid’s cozy little house nearby. She was already there, looking exquisite as always, seated at the table, shocked on hearing the gruesome details I had divulged just minutes back. I approached her and told her that it was all going to be alright. The French Maid: ‘Zou are really zmart to have figured all zat out.’ Me: ‘True. But the one lesson to be learned from all this is that when you have just committed a cold-blooded murder, it’s best not to keep a personal journal inside which you have written down every single detail about what you did and why you did it. But if you hadn’t sneaked me into Junky’s room I would never have been able to find his journal and solve this case.’ She smiled coquettishly at me as I walked up to her front window, which had its blinds open, and stared out at nothing in particular. She then told me in her soft voice that she had another case for me to solve. I smiled, panache and smoothness radiating from my face like crazy, and replied that I only dealt with homicides and not petty cases of pretty girls like her. She then walked up to me and whispered something in my ears. I gulped. She had made an offer that I couldn’t refuse. Then I turned and shut the blinds.
- 140 (9th September 2007)
Di, Dogs, and Dev
It’s customary that if you’re a slut you need to be dumb. However, every now and then a slut arises who breaks the custom and proves to be a smart slut. Diana, who married the freak-eared Prince Charles, got the money, got the fame, dumped his ass, fucked around, was a smart slut. Well, until the moment she went and got herself killed, of course. Then again, if a million people are shouting “Lady Di! Lady Di!” at you, it’s bound to catch up sooner or later. Ultimately, the lady did die. The same happened with Bruce Lee; people kept screaming “Bruce! Bruce!” at him and finally he bruised…to death. I’m cool with that. But what I don’t understand is the sudden surge of respect and adoration for this dead whore Diana (DWD) who’s being treated like she’s a martyr or a saint of some sort. All she did was fuck around and get into a car accident. And if that is the prerequisite for earning respect we should all be respecting the hell out of Anna Nicole Smith (May her hole rest in peace) who wasn’t even clumsy enough to die in a car crash. She, at least, stayed married to her husband till the old pervert kicked the bucket. That, in my book, deserves more respect than living royally riding rich cocks outside the palace. People adoring Diana for no reason is almost as retarded as people hating American football star Michael Vick for being involved in dog fighting. People seem to be just appalled at the idea of training two living things to bite and claw at each other for the pleasure of a bunch of depraved spectators. Some viewers, it was reported, were so repulsed by this news on television that they changed the channel immediately and went back to watching boxing and ice hockey. It was interesting that the people who were most offended by the Michael Vick issue were white people. Apparently, they couldn’t digest the idea that people would chain other living creatures and use them for their own selfish purposes. That was almost like slavery, which was just unpardonable. Since when did furry, flea-infested, shit-where-it’s standing, stinking dogs become more important than humans? You would never see people get this ballistic if a human being was tortured or murdered. If that happens the only thing everyone does is “condemn it” and at the most “strongly condemn it”. But throw in a fucking dog in the midst of all the action and you got the entire world ready to judge and execute. It’s great to see how Americans are looking at everything that’s happening around them in the right perspective. Bomb to death dozens of Iraqi civilians, including kids, and it’s part of fighting terrorism and Al-Qaeda but coax a pit-bull to sink its teeth into the neck of another, the whole damn country acts like it’s got a lit up dynamite shoved up its ass. If it were up to me, I’d round up all the dogs in the entire world and exterminate them in a gas chamber. That’s right, I admit it, I’m anti-canine. I’m the Dog Nazi; the fur Fuhrer. In fact, the only reason why Koreans are so low down in my hate list is because they chop up these furry-assed motherfuckers and eat them as snacks. I wish I could contact Michael Vick because I feel the urgent need to buy myself a pit-bull. No, it’s not so that I can arrange dogfights of my own. I want a pit-bull so that I can unleash it upon Kapil Dev and get his fucking balls ripped off. This buck-toothed, has been, match-fixing, gibberish blabbering, greedy-ass cup of monkey shit is probably the most annoying figure in the world of Indian sports after Harsha Bhogle’s homosexual partner Gautam Bhimani. Fine, so he wants to start to a fucking rebel cricket group. Go ahead and start it. Why in the name of flying red balls does he have to come on television every day and whine and groan about what he’s doing? Either he’s moaning like a pig in heat about how he’s only an “ordinary worker who wants to work” or a “true lover of cricket” or he’s crying
- 141 like a little pussy about how he wasn’t involved in match fixing. This cunt-face Kapil Dev is making more money out of sucking the dick of ICL than anyone could ever possibly imagine. And this piece of decomposed horseshit had the nerve to come on television and say that Sachin has never really won matches for India. So, on behalf of every cricket fan, Kapil Dev should shut his fucking mouth and go fuck himself. And, in conclusion, I’d like to say “Fuck Diana! Fuck animal lovers! And fuck Kapil Dev!” They can all just swallow a fucking blade and die. Except Diana, of course. That whore is already dead.
- 142 (15th September 2007)
The Bridge of RAM-ifications
We Hindus have taken a lot of shit from all the non-Hindus residing in our country. They have taken our jobs, our land, our women, our wealth, and even a few rolls of our toilet paper. We made an attempt to stick to the honorable technique of preaching nonviolence and then murdering them- they responded with the same. We demolished their churches and mosques and covered it up saying that Parvati Melton’s boobs crashed into them- they didn’t buy that. We sent anthrax-infected deer as part of a bio-warfare scheme to kill the Indian Muslims- but Salman Khan shot all of them dead. Finally, we genetically engineered a battalion of stand-alone monster cocks, in our laboratory in Los Angeles, to attack the Indian Christians but they were intercepted by a hungry Britney Spears after her MTV VMA performance. And just when we were about to announce a truce, the anti-Hindu Government goes ahead and does something so insulting and offensive as suggesting that the Lord Rama didn’t even exist; they want to demolish the Rama Setu, the bridge that Lord Rama built thousands of years ago so that they can build a shitty canal for the economic growth of India. Now, it’s war. Thankfully, the official spokes-group for Hindus, the BJP, has taken matters into their own hands. That is after all what Lord Krishna said to Arjun in the Bhagwad Gita: “Ahead of you lies a pool of shit, trust the BJP to push you into it.” Apparently, Lord Krishna rhymed. Urged by the BJP, Hindus from all across India march through the streets protesting against this overt lack of respect for Hindu beliefs by the Congress Government. Interestingly, they are met halfway by a vociferous group of Muslims. Hindus: This is Hindustan. ‘Hindu’-stan. Figure it out. If you think that you can hurt our religious sentiments and still keep all your internal organs in tact, you better get a new doctor. Muslims: When are your religious sentiments ever unhurt? Let a lady enter a temple, you go berserk. Give birth to a female child, you flip out. Draw nude paintings, and your whole world is on fire. You people should learn to not be so touchy. Hindus: Ha, look who’s talking! Strike out all the days in a calendar when you Muslims haven’t issued a fatwa against some loser or the other, and you couldn’t even make a week. Muslims: That’s different. Those shitheads insulted our holy Prophet. That’s blasphemy of a different kind. Hindus: Well, our Lord Rama has been insulted and to us, that’s the biggest blasphemy possible. He is the Hindu religion’s highest power. Muslims: Oh, ok. So does that mean it’s alright to mock Krishna? Hindus: No, he’s up there with Rama too. Muslims: So, mocking Vishnu is fine, right? Hindus: Umm…not really. The three of them are like a team. Muslims: Then Siva, Ganesha, Durga, Laksmi, Hanuman, Saraswathy, and the others are open to criticism? Hindus: Look, you bearded wise-cracks, all our three billion, five thousand, six hundred and twenty seven gods and goddesses are important. Neither can you say anything about them nor can you even slightly imply that they are just figments of imagination that popped out of some guy who was really, really stoned. Muslims: But seriously, how can anyone refrain from making a comment when they see thousands of people queuing to get blessings from the idol of an obese elephant sitting on a rat?
- 143 Hindus: In the same way you refrain from making comments on someone who gets so delusional walking through the desert that he claims to have talked to God; in the very same way you do not make comments on how this certain God’s messenger deemed it alright for old, paunchy guys to have sex with girls who were seven or eight years old; in the same manner you back out of criticizing this messenger’s claim that God wants every man to marry and impregnate more than a dozen women like they were tube socks. Muslims: We have no idea who you’re talking about. Hindus: Just what the hell are you doing stopping us anyway? The Ram Setu issue has got nothing to do with you. So why don’t you just buzz off? Isn’t it time for you fellas to go have your seventeenth prayer of the day? Muslims: Well, we thought you’d never ask. You see, this bridge that you so conveniently designated Rama’s Bridge is in fact the creation of our Prophet Muhammad. He built it with his own hands so that he could go talk to God who was standing on the other end. Hindus (mocking): Oh, that’s about the funniest thing we’ve heard in a long time. Your Prophet built this entire bridge all by himself? Ha, that’s rich! That’s so far removed from reality. Muslims: Oh, yeah, how do you claim your Lord Rama built it? Hindus: Lord Rama got the help of his army of talking monkeys to help him build the bridge. Muslims (sarcastically): Why, what happened? The steroid guzzling hawk was on strike? Hindus: Well, for your information, Lord Garuda was injured trying to stop Ravana’s flying chariot. Muslims: Damn, who directed your religion? Michael Bay? Hindus: Who designed your costumes? Stevie Wonder? Muslims (angry): Do not mock our traditions, infidels! Hindus: Hey, calm down. Why are you guys always so pissed off? Is it because all of you were circumcised when you were kids? We agree, that’s got to sting. In fact, there’s every chance that Osama would not have turned into a terrorist if he still had his foreskin. Messing with a man’s penis can really piss him off for life. Muslims (offended): It helps us last longer! Hindus: Then why didn’t you just slice the whole thing off? You could have kept going all night long. (Before the angry horde of Muslims can respond a large throng of Christians arrive. The Christians have condescending smiles on their faces as they shift their glances between the Muslims and the Hindus) Christians: Praise the Lord! How are you Ramaholics and Muhammadophiles? Hindus and Muslims (in unison): It’s Hindus and Muslims. Christians: Sure, sure, Praise the Lord! Muslims: Why don’t you take your cross-bearing asses back home and praise the lord? What the heck are you doing here? Christians: We’re here to inform you barbarians that you are arguing over a moot point. The bridge in question isn’t Rama’s Bridge nor is it Allah’s Bridge or Muhammad’s Bridge. It’s in fact, Christ’s Bridge. Hindus and Muslims (taken aback): Jesus Christ! Christians: That’s right. The same guy. If you verify the facts you’ll see that Jesus was in fact a carpenter. And if anyone was skilled enough to build that bridge it was Jesus. Not
- 144 Rama and the monkeys, not Muhammad and the camels. Hindus: Carpenters don’t build bridges. Architects do. Christians: Jesus graduated a part-time course in Architecture as well. The only thing you heathens need to know is that the issue is now ours. You guys can just pack up and go home. The matter of Christ’s Bridge will be dealt with by Christians. Muslims: Who do you think you’re talking to? You think we’ll just buy into whatever you’re saying? You think we’re as gullible as your GOD TV audience? Your Jesus couldn’t even carry a cross for a few miles and you’re telling us that he built this entire bridge by himself. Let’s face the facts, maybe he spoke persuasively but he wasn’t cut out for physical work. Hindus: Both of you should just leave when you can. This is a matter between the Hindus and the Government. They expect to get away with saying that Lord Rama didn’t build the bridge. What are they going to say next? That his skin was not actually blue? So, leave us alone, it’s a Hindu issue. Christians and Muslims should just scram the scene. Muslims: You would love to play the victims, wouldn’t you? Well, guess what? It’s Muhammad’s Bridge and it’s our sentiments that are hurt. We are the ones against the demolition of that long pile of rocks. Christians: If anyone’s a victim, it’s us. You Hindus and Muslims have been hogging the spotlight for years with all your communal riots and shit. This is our time. We are the victims. We deserve all the attention. Hindus: No, we deserve all the attention. Muslims: No, we do. (Suddenly, a fourth group arrives. The group has a number of bald, half-naked monks with plastered smiles on all the faces) Hindus, Muslims and Christians: And who the hell you are you baldies? Baldies: We’re the Buddhists. We have come here to ask you to not resort to violence. Hindus: You have no business here, monkeys…or monks or whatever you people are. Buddhists: Buddha says nobody really has any business anywhere. Just love each other. Muslims: Seriously, you fellows need to take it elsewhere. We’re having a serious discussion here. Buddhists: Buddha says nothing in the world is really serious. Just love each other. Christians: If you’ve come to claim the bridge you better wait in line, eggheads. Buddhists: Buddha says that the bridge isn’t real. Nor are eggs real. Or heads. Let’s all just love each other. (The Hindus, Muslims, and Christians look at each other, nod in agreement and simultaneously launch an all out attack on the Buddhists. The Buddhists are battered to pulp within a matter of minutes. The bloodlust of the other three groups simmer down. They sneer at the Buddhist carnage before them) Hindus: They’re so gay. Muslims: Total fudge-packers. Christians: They put the homo in Homo sapiens. Praise the Lord! (The three groups hold hands, walk away into the sunset, world peace and harmony ahead of them and a bloody pile of fucked up monks behind them)
- 145 (28th September 2007)
Sticks N Balls
If there’s one thing that’s predhonimating every Indian’s mind right now it’s cricket. Our swashbuckling team established its undisputed dhonimation in the arena of fastpaced cricket by winning the Irfantastic 20-20 world cup. Our team ran through an impressive list of formidable opponents inducing more fear in them than Sreesanthrax. Uthapparently, the enormity of this great win was the only thing the whole of India had agreed upon unanimously since calling Preity Zinta “that slag who doesn’t stop talking even while giving a blowjob”. Joginteristingly, the fan-fervor was so overwhelming during the motorcade that it caused a high degree of Yuvragitation in the streets. Fans, including millions of dhoniacs, celebrated by drinking whisky, vodka, and barrels of Gambeer. Unfortunately, every great thing will have something nasty wrecking it from being perfect. Like Aishwarya Rai with her hairy nipples. Or Kareena Kapoor who sings the Flintstones theme during sexual intercourse. The smear on the Indian Cricket Team’s most beautiful day was a bunch of whiny pussies who claimed to be the neglected representatives of some make-believe sport called Hockey. These attention-craving mother-puckers, like the jealous whores that they were, accused the Indian Government of not giving them their due for their exploits. They demanded that this so called game of “Hockey”, which is as appealing as a turban, be given as much importance as Cricket. In an effort to settle the issue of Cricket versus Hockey, an open debate was organized between the Cricket Team, the Hockey Team, and celebrity guest Shah Rukh Khan. Mediating the debate was the founder of NDTV, Prannoy Roy, also known as “the annoying old snob who doesn’t open his mouth while talking”. HT: We want recognition too; we want free travelling benefits too; we want bigger cash awards too; we want more advertising contracts too; we want more respect too; we want to boast of rags to riches stories too. CT: Well, judging from all the bickering you’ve been doing it sounds more like rags to bitches. You lot are whinier than Sushma Swaraj when she heard Sonia Gandhi had more ovaries than her. HT: We’re not whining. We’re fighting for what’s rightfully ours. Why is that we didn’t receive an ovation so grand when we returned to India after winning the Asia Cup? CT: Well, let’s see, for starters, it could be because we won the WORLD cup, not some retarded Asia Cup. The world is a little bigger than Asia, in case you aren’t aware. Secondly, hockey is for losers. HT: We beat a strong Korean team in the finals to lift the cup. Don’t call us losers. CT: Ooh! You beat the Koreans. Kudos on beating a bunch of guys who squint so much that they can’t even tell the difference between Britney Spears’s vagina and a water melon. PR (mouth closed): To be honest, our NDTV cunt survey showed that a lot of people have trouble telling them apart. CT: It’s easy. You sink your teeth into a watermelon and spit out the seeds after eating it completely. (pauses). No wait… SRK (a little irked that his time is being wasted): Let’s move this along to the part where I have to talk about ‘Chak De’. I’m not interested in vaginas. CT: Tell us something we don’t know. SRK: Hey, if you’re talking about the thing that poked you in the thighs when I hugged you fellas after the finals it really was my cell phone. (pauses) For the umpteenth time, I do not find myself daydreaming about rubbing oil on Karan Johar’s love handles.
- 146 CT: Sure, we believe you. And we suppose your phone was set on vibrate as well with someone calling you like crazy. SRK: Yes. It was Farah Khan calling me to ask if I had any spare time when she could come over and kiss my ass. HT: Actually, we have a bone to pick with you as well, Shah Rukh. CT: Oh, he’ll be more than happy to let you pick his bone. HT: Was it so much trouble for you to show up at the Asia Cup finals and cheer us on? Did you forget what ‘Chak De’ was all about? SRK: Of course, I didn’t forget. It was about me taking the credit of being the inspiration behind every triumph in sports that came towards India in the next few years. HT: What about the game of Hockey that has been part of India’s history for decades? SRK: Are you telling me it’s a real game? I thought it was just a ridiculous game that the filmmakers came up with. HT (angry): Yes, it’s a real game. It’s the national game of India. CT: Yeah right, and Kajol is not ugly as shit. The only reason why people started calling it the national game of India is because that was the first thing we managed to win after getting independence. It doesn’t mean that it’s an interesting sport and that people like watching it. HT: People from all communities and walks of life play hockey. CT: Get real, clowns. Hockey is a game played only by smelly Punjabis. HT: Just because you have money coming out of your piss-holes doesn’t mean that you can be racist. CT: How many of you have Singh as your last name? (All the hockey players raise their hands and on realizing they had just been had put their hands down tetchily) HT: We represent all religions and communities. Unlike Shoaib Malik. (Suddenly, Prannoy Roy takes centre stage and speaks in a deep baritone, his mouth still shut tight) PR: This is a message from NDTV to Shoaib Malik. You do not represent all the Muslims in the world. You are only the captain of the defeated Pakistan Team. You are nothing, do you understand? Nothing. NDTV loves Muslims. And Hindus. And Christians. You are an overzealous Muslim, Shoaib Malik. You cannot just speak shit and say you’re doing it on behalf of billions of others. Only diseased bastards would do something like that. This announcement, by the way, is being made by me as the universal representative of media, old people, snobs, and those with their heads tucked up their asses. CT: Relax, you old fart. He was just being emotional. Stop blowing shit out of proportion. All he said he was he thanked all the Muslims in the world. You’re a rotten piece of shit to be ballooning that up when you have other important things on your channel to talk about. PR (pouting): I will complain to Barkha Dutt and he will shout at you. CT: Don’t you mean ‘she’? PR: Who do you think knows him better? The stupid audience who sit in front of the TV or me, the head of NDTV- Nicely Disguised Transvestite Vixens? (Suddenly, everyone stops talking because they hear a moaning sound. It’s SRK seemingly in the middle of a day dream) SRK: Yeah…you like that, K-Jo? Hmm…Always stay under me…ok?…Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna…hmmm…your flab is so sexy…I’d like to drink your hot brown frothy coffee…yeah… PR: Shah Rukh, wake up! I think you’re having a gay-dream! (SRK wakes up and sees everyone staring at him) SRK: What?
- 147 CT: You were gay-dreaming again, bum-boy. SRK: No, I wasn’t. I was just thinking about my new movie Om Shanti Om. CT: Don’t you mean ‘hOMo Shanti hOMo’? HT: This is exactly what we’re talking about. This whole debate was supposed to be about us. But now it has turned into a dialogue between Cricket and Bollywood. We deserve attention too. We want all the luxury they get. We want more and more and more and more… CT (smirking): Unless you’re talking about Kiran More I don’t think you have much of a chance. HT: Up yours, you undeserving shit balls. We will kick your ass. CT: Go suck on a puck, you whiny little pussies. PR (mouth closed): I’m more powerful than God. SRK: I miss Karan. (Pandemonium breaks out. Everyone starts screaming and bickering. The Cricketers fight with the Hockey players. Prannoy Roy claws at SRK who’s groaning with pleasure. The debate gets so boisterous that the noise reaches the heavens and wakes up God himself. Fed up with this mysterious ruckus, God comes down to the scene of the scuffle) GOD: Just what the fuck is going on here? Some of us are trying to get some sleep up there. I’ve had a very rough week what with the culmination of the 50 cent- Kanye West battle and all. I did all I could do to boost 50’s record sales but what can I say, that nigger keeps putting out some of the worst beats ever. PR (mouth closed): I’m sorry, Mr. God, but as the supreme leader of the media world I need to warn you about your dirty mouth. You’re not supposed to use that term unless you are one. And clearly, you’ve more of a greenish beige hue. GOD: Hellooo! I’m God. I created the world. I can say whatever I want. And what’s with the closed mouth? Do you have any breath issues? Or are you trying to be a ventriloquist? PR (mouth still closed): Well, if you should know… GOD (interrupting): Shut the fuck up. (Prannoy Roy is flustered. God turns to the others). Now, why don’t you biatches get me up to speed? What’s all this fuss about? HT: You’re the perfect person to settle this dispute, lord. The Indian Government and the people alike have been giving the sport of cricket an unjust pedestal even though the rest of the sports are just as great as cricket. But no matter how many trophies the rest of us win, it’s always the cricketers who get the true respect, the maximum benefits and all the acclaim. The rest of are left with nothing. GOD (turning to the cricketers): How much money are you boys likely to get in the coming month alone owing to your recent victory? CT: Hmm…maybe more than a few billion bucks… GOD: Oh my fucking self! You’ve got to be fucking shitting me! Even I don’t have that much cash. And I’m the almighty! CT: Well, it won’t seem like much because it’ll all be in thousand rupee notes… GOD: I don’t want to hear anything further. I’ve been trying to bring about fairness and justice in this world of mine. But greedy beings like you keep making my job harder. All your earnings will be halved and distributed amongst these players. It’s settled. (The cricketers are upset with the decision. They demand the case be referred to the third umpire but God reminds them that he’s the only umpire. The Hockey Players are ecstatic and start celebrating) PR: Well, it looks like the Hockey Players have achieved what they set out to do. GOD (taken aback): Whoa! Whoa! Hold your horses. What did you say? PR: The Hockey Players have… GOD: Hockey? That’s what you people play? Oh, well, that changes everything…
- 148 HT: What do you mean? GOD: I’m sorry but I take back everything I said. No redistribution of the cricketer’s income, no benefits, no nothing. I had no idea you guys played hockey. HT: Why, what’s wrong with hockey? GOD: Well, firstly, it isn’t half as exciting as Cricket. And obviously, the cricketers have a much more perilous tenure than you biatches. HT: Perilous? Cricketers in India get billions of rupees when they win. GOD: That’s if they win. I don’t think people kick down your houses, blacken your property walls, molest your sisters, finger your mothers, and fist your fathers if you lose. That’s what the cricketers have to go through if they lose. Besides, people get dealt bad cards all the time. That’s just the way I run the world. You don’t hear mute people shouting that they deserve the same benefits as people who can talk, do you? HT: God, you’re clearly exaggerating about the dangers cricketers have to face if they lose. GOD: Well, that’s not all. There’s another very important reason why Hockey can never get the respect and richness that cricket does. HT: What’s that? GOD: Hockey is for losers. (The Hockey Team leaves the scene with their heads hung low out of humiliation like the way they were meant to be) CT: God, you’re just the bomb. There’s no other way to put it. PR (mouth closed): I think you’re all forgetting that I’m more powerful than Mr. Party Mouth. I run NDTV. That’s harder than running the world. SRK: In your dreams. Your channel thrives on news about me. Haven’t you heard Karan introduce me on his show? More people on this world know me than Tom Cruise. That means I’m the most powerful gay…I mean guy in this world. And Insha Allah, I’ll be more powerful than you, God. (The cricketers look at God and shrug. God shrugs back) GOD: Well, I guess there’s only thing left to do. (God waves his hands around and turns SRK into Dev Anand’s dick; he then turns Prannoy Roy into Lata Mangeshkar’s vocal cords) CT: They are definitely not going to enjoy their new lives. I guess they learned never to mess with you, God. GOD: They sure did. Let’s just hope they never run into each other. (The Cricketers are back to being filthy rich. The fans are still poor and in awe. God goes back to sleep. Everything’s the way it should be)
- 149 (14th October 2007)
High School Musical: Deleted Scenes
In 1988, I used to keep myself entertained by trapping flies inside a bottle and shaking them as hard as I could until they nearly puked themselves in a dizzy fit of sickness. The reasons for me doing so were twofold. Firstly, I liked hurting things. Secondly, my parents just wouldn’t give in to buying me whatever the latest, most expensive toy in the market was. They just wouldn’t understand when I told them that there were only so many battles you could fight with G.I. Joe figures before things turned really gay. Almost twenty years later, I’m keeping myself entertained by jacking my Cobra Ferret looking at an enlarged picture of Hayden Panettiere sticking her tongue out. I blame my present state on the unadventurous, unexciting childhood I had, growing up in the eighties and early nineties. I strongly feel that I should have been born after 1996 so that eleven years later, when I’m at that most exciting period of childhood, my parents wouldn’t be gifting me shitty-ass action figures for Christmas. Instead, my dad would gift me a box of grenades and my mom would surprise me with a 9mm semi automatic. Alas! If only I could be a kid in the 21st century…ideally in America. I can picture what it would be like. I wake up in the morning next to my 28-year-old Math teacher, her sweaty sex-smelling face resting on my scrawny ten-year-old hairless chest. I press my knee against her pubes and rouse her from her sleep. I look at my teacher’s mathematical face and say, “What’s the expansion of (a + b) whole squared, bitch?”. She goes down on me. I reply, “That’s right.” I look at her and ask, “Now tell me the truth, is high school math actually useful at any point in real life?” She stops giving me head for an instant and answers, “As useful as underwear for Britney Spears; as useful as a seminar on self-esteem by Owen Wilson; as useful as an SUV in Al Gore’s garage; as useful as rational thinking in India.” I interrupt my math teacher, point to my boner, and say, “That’s enough. Now get back to solving this problem.” I tell my calculus whore to stop at two places on the way to school. First, I pay a visit to my crack-whores to collect my pimp dough. Next, I rob a liquor store, get pissed out of my mind, and take the wheel. I don’t drive unless I’m drunk. Meanwhile, my math ho decides to analyze the probability of sucking me off before we reach school. After about fifteen minutes, she works out that the probability is really high. I walk into school, slap my Mexican teacher’s ass and remind her of our interracial teacher-student group orgy on Friday night. Then suddenly I hear shots being fired. I quickly dive behind the Ecstasy-vending machine in the hallway and take cover. I unzip my backpack, arm myself with my .357 Magnum and get ready for the first hour of school. I gun down a couple of Koreans, a bunch of white trash, two black guys, five Arabs, and pistol-whip my principal’s balls. When the bell rings I proceed upstairs where a second session of open firing commences. Lunchtime arrives. I enter the canteen and stuff myself with mushrooms, LSD, and PCP. I wash it down with a glassful of Bourbon. Afterwards, I rape the entire cheerleading team and spooge into their ears. Then they do a wonderful routine honoring me: “Give me an R. Give me an A. Give me a P. Give me an E. What do you get? - That’s right, a lifetime of trauma and a psychopathic bastard child.” In gym class, I persecute Jews and Muslims. Then I unleash the angry Jews upon the black students under the false pretext that they stole their lunch money. I provide the Muslim students with some guns and a couple of airplanes and convince them that the Christians masturbate on the Koran just for the heck of it. I drop 40 lb barbells on the spines of Asian students and turn them all into paraplegics. I chain my gym teacher’s two legs onto two poles and keep dropping bowling balls on his testicles till they are squashed to a bloody
- 150 pulp. Then I take my exit but not before spitting on his face. After school I hijack an old lady’s car by smacking her in the head with a sledgehammer. After pulling her out and hurling her into the middle of the road I assault her further with a taser till she starts foaming at her crinkly old ass. I reach home, park the old lady’s car next to the horse carriage I stole from an Amish priest. I play with my XBOX 360 for 3 hours, my PS3 for 4 hours, my Wii for 3.5 hours, and my dick for 20 minutes. I cuss my parents, throw chicken soup on my sister, and go to my room. I spend two hours on the Internet keeping track of my multimillion dollar worth software company, hack into the Vatican website, draw a pair of tits on the Pope, and show holy water dripping out of it. Before sleeping, I visit my three-year-old younger brother, chokeslam him onto a bed of nails and hurl his punctured body out of the window. I get back to my room, read the Bible, and sleep with a baby, and then like one. I’ve got a long day tomorrow what with the big Math test and all. But I have a feeling I’ll do alright.
- 151 (31st October 2007)
We all do stupid things. Like wearing yellow pants with a blue shirt, putting a new born rabbit in a blender and switching it on, sucking fire with a vacuum cleaner, faking farting noises during a funeral, actually farting out loud during a funeral, professing unrestrained lust for your best friend’s bride during the exchange of their wedding vows, and downloading the Kim Kardashian sex tape and watching it, even if it was for free. However, in the wake of committing stupid actions, the one thing that automatically becomes the sole prerogative of the committer is the choice of announcing their stupidity when they want and on the platform they desire. Unfortunately, that was the privilege that was taken away from Professor Dumbledore when he was outed by- in his own, rather redundant, words- “that rich British bitch”- J.K. Rowling. Dumbledore, in a Hogwart’s press release that appeared in the Wizard’s Chronicle stated that he’s not gay, he never was gay, and he never will be gay. He also alluded to the bathroom incident with fellow wizard Gandalf that took place eons ago as merely a folly of youth. He was not being gay, he said, but merely confused. He mentioned that at some point or the other all high standing officers of wizardry are bound to be involved in some kind of public restroom fiasco or the other. He reiterated however that he was not gay and that he was as straight as his wand, which for some reason he liked keeping in his back pocket. Dumbledore may have put an end to all the speculations regarding his sexuality but the aftermath of his coming out, forced or not, true or false, has been nothing short of super fabulous. More fictional characters, from all walks of make believe life, have been coming out driven by the strength of the Dumbledore issue. The first one, surprisingly, was everyone’s most beloved waif, Oliver Twist. In a shocking revelation, Oliver Twist, now over 160 years old, admitted that he has been, and will continue to be, to the best of his ability, a fornicator utilizing the insertion of his substantially sizeable phallus into the excretory orifices of his male compatriots and vice versa. He divulged that the first spark of homosexuality was aroused in him while playing tag with the Artful Dodger. When the Dodger inadvertently tagged his balls, Oliver had remarked, with a guileless twinkle in his eyes, “Please, I want more.” And a handjob he had received. Mr. Twist stated with a lascivious smile that there were a few things his first partner wasn’t artful at dodging. Coming out next was none other than the Godfather, Don Corleone. Hailed by many as the ultimate epitome of manliness, the Don shocked the entire world with his confession. He admitted that being Italian helped in disguising his homosexuality since he could kiss men on the mouth as much as he wanted without giving away his sexual preference. He also added that in his many years in the Mafia he had come across many poofers he couldn’t refuse. As the bibliophiles were reeling from this unprecedented shocker, the next bomb was dropped on the comic book lovers. Daredevil, the world’s only handicapped superhero, came out announcing his affinity for the male genitalia. The blind-as-a-bat superhero, who called together a press conference, faced the reporters- although the wrong way- and admitted that he was one amongst those who parked their hot rods in other men’s backyards. He recounted, as per the request of the reporters, that when he was young he was offered a lowsugar lollypop by his high school principal. Impaired by his blindness, he relied on the veracity of his principal’s word. It was only when the low-sugar lollypop began tasting a little too salty for candy that he considered the possibility that he may have been misinformed. Although he renounced homosexuality for about three weeks, he noticed that every time he
- 152 ate real candy, or even brushed his teeth, he got a hard on. That was, he said, when he accepted that he was indeed a faggot. Foreseeing further such revelations from other comic book heroes, the train of reporters rushed to the one place that had often been speculated as a fudgepacking haven- the Bat Cave. Batman, a bit taken aback by the sudden surge of media personnel into his most secret hideout, however, agreed to answer their queries. He lay down his bat-whip on the nearby table and assured the world that no matter who turned out to be a fairy he would, forever, uphold the shining scepter of heterosexuality for the whole world to be proud of. And when the same question about sexuality was posed to Robin, he struggled onto his feet from his kneeling position, shook loose his tied up hands, removed the ball gag from his mouth, and remarked that he agreed wholeheartedly to whatever Batman, his master, said. The next set of feet that walked out of the closet belonged to the feisty Catwoman. Unfortunately, her attempt at stealing some of the spotlight didn’t pay off as expected. The world had already figured out that she was a dyke since as Catwoman, it was only natural that she was attracted to other pussies. Black crime fighter Shaft, too, announced the fact that he was coming out of the closet. He sighed that with a name like Shaft he wasn’t left with much of a choice. He also mentioned that he was currently going out with Barack Obama and that he thought Hillary Clinton’s dress sense was “crass”. But perhaps the news that absolutely stunned the conservative section of the comic book lovers was the scandalous statement by Green Lantern that the entire Justice League, of which Batman too was a member, was merely a front for extreme gay activities that included water sports, pearl diving, handballing, and eating jam. In spite of accepting his gayness, the Lantern accused the Justice League leader, Superman of forcibly engaging some of the members into certain scatological games like “hunting for the chocolate eel” and “searching for Kryptonite up my ass”. Superman, however, was unavailable for comments since he was yet to return from his business trip with Aquaman to the Fortress of Solitude. Spiderman, however, was the only superhero who held a press conference to announce that he was not in fact gay. Sure, he wasn’t getting laid enough because Mary Jane was so fucking frigid, but he was not gay. He said that he although understood why people might feel so. He explained that it was all Tobey Macguire’s fault. Following this barrage of disclosures, the globe’s most revered detective, Sherlock Holmes, came out with one of his own. He let the world know that he, for the last seventy years or so, has been involved in a secret, civil partnership with his Scottish counterpart, Detective John Rebus. Holmes described that cupid, with the help of a serial-killer, had brought the two detectives onto the same crime scene. He admitted that when he saw Rebus, in his traditional Scottish skirt, he was more interested in inspecting his body rather than the mangled dead body. And when Rebus had asked him how he read his gayness so perfectly, Sherlock Holmes had replied in his trademark tone, “Really wide asshole, my dear Rebus.” He added that Rebus’s skirt had made it easier to view the goods closely before taking it home for good. The homosexuals of the world celebrated by accepting these monumental fictional characters into their midst. They stood proud and shouted their slogan “Pound ass in harmony.” The heterosexuals, meanwhile, looked to the skies and questioned the loss of such esteemed figures to the other side. Suddenly, the skies opened and out of nothingness appeared the grey, wise face of God. He looked down upon his heterosexual children and said sheepishly, “Actually, I’ve got an announcement to make as well.”
- 153 (4th November 2007)
BPO: Best Possible Orifice
BPOs have become as integral to modern India as boob-jobs to Bollywood actresses. A lot more Indians are crossing the streets listening to their iPods now; more Indians have become efficient at slavishly reading nonsensical printed material off the papers given to them by their bosses; and the number of Indians, and this might be the most heartening outcome of them all, who can speak in a freakish American or a British accent that’s so accurate that it just makes u want to start speaking Konkani have risen higher than ever thanks to the advent of Business Process Outsourcing. However, for those of us who can’t quite pull off an accent as American as that of Babu a.k.a Bob or as English as that of Jeevan a.k.a Jeeves there’s always a way to get a piece of the BPO action. We can easily get a job as a cabdriver for BPO companies, drive the employees back and forth, and while we’re at it, rape and murder a few women workers during the course of our career. The only glitch in the aforementioned scheme is that the level of sexual freedom in India is not as liberal as it once was during the days of the Kamasutra, when you could forcibly suspend your brother’s wife from a running fan and fuck her in the armpit till she died of vertigo. If you do that now you are labeled a deviant but back then you were merely a gentle, sensuous man executing position # 89 (the Rotating Pit). So, no longer will you be applauded if you engage yourself in rape and murder, unless of course you work for Narendra Modi. Your actions will merely be described as “not adhering to the company rules”. Due to excessive protests from human rights groups, women’s groups, and Maneka Gandhi a meeting between the Chairman of BPOs (COB), Chairman of Cabbies/Rapists (COCR), and the Chairwoman of Women (COW) was set up to discuss and resolve the issue of the increasing threat to the security of women workers at BPOs. However, at the last minute Maneka Gandhi backed out in indignation when she learned that it was only a human being and not a stray dog that was raped and murdered. The discussion broadcast on NDTV’s sister channel NDTV-GOOD TIMES, SHIT PROGRAMS turned out to be rather fruitful especially with celebrity moderator Navjot Singh Sidhu (NSS) overseeing the debate. NSS: Let me tell you something, Sonali, a discussion is like an orgy. It’s no fun unless we all take part in it. COCR: First of all, your little concubine Sonali isn’t here so stop addressing every goddamn thing to her. Secondly, I would like to raise the point that while orgies are necessary for the proper functioning of a society, it is the concentrated act of rape that demands more from an individual’s character and consequently churns a better man out of him. COW: You assholes sickenCOCR (interrupting): I know, I know. You will ask me now what the difference between a gang-rape and an orgy is. Well, let me break it down to you. When you gang-rape someone you stuff two or more… COW: This is not a discussion celebrating the heinous act of rape. This is a discussion condemning it and demanding nothing short of capital punishment for anyone committing rape. NSS: Rape is like a horror movieCOW (thinking Sidhu had completed his sentence): Thank you, Mr. Sidhu. NSS: -the more the screams the better it gets. COW: Shut up, you hairy spit bag. I blame the greedy, exploitative BPO companies who demand unreasonable working hours from women and do not provide them enough security. COB: Now, look here, you Cow-
- 154 COW (angrily): What did you call me? COB: I meant Chairwoman of Women. Now, you look here, I understand where you’re coming from. But even an autistic child would understand that we’re not to blame for the crimes committed by the drivers we employ to transport our workers to and from our offices. COW: Now, you look here dickheadCOB (offended): What did you call me? COW: I meant greedy dickhead. You listen to me, if you had a security guard compulsorily accompany every car-ride this would never have happened. COB: We do give our women employees that option. COW: It shouldn’t be an option, it should be a rule. If a security guard was there in the car the latest case, and several others before it, could have been avoided. But, of course, that would mean one less person in the car and more guards for you to employ, doesn’t it? And it wouldn’t be such a profitable decision for you greedy billionaire bastards, would it? COCR: To be fair to the BPO guy, our premier society, the RA or the Rape Academy, has been fairly successful in recruiting several security guards as well. So, I’m not really sure how much protection they would have given even if they were present in the car. It would have probably meant an extra cock violating the helpless cunt. NSS: A cock in a cunt is like a candidate at an interview. He enters with all the energy and zest in the world but comes out deflated and perspiring. COW: So, that’s it, then? Cabbies will rape women; security guards will rape women; politicians will rape women; filmmakers will rape women; in short all men will keep raping women and nobody’s going to do anything about it? COCR: Now, let’s be honest, women don’t really object to getting raped, do they? On some level, it’s guaranteed that they enjoy it. COW (disgusted): You sick piece of psycho shit, why don’t you go rape the women in your family and see how much of it they enjoy? COCR: Well, that’s where the women in my family and the rest of the Indian women differ. The women in my family are traditional, wonderful, dignified women who cover themselves up in long opaque saris. But you slutty whores, with your sleeveless tops and your tight jeans, you want us to rape you, you want us to take notice of your goods, you want us to enjoy you, you want us to give you that wonderful feeling of pleasurable pain. Damn, I’m getting a hard on just talking about it. COW (speechless with anger): You vile repulsive motherfucker, you mentally ill scum of the planet, fuck you and your inherent chauvinistic outlook. You base venomous bastard! NSS: A bastard is like AIDS. Nobody really knows who fucked it into existence. COW (shaking with anger and desperation): It’s never going to change, is it? This despicable perception of women as objects for men to relieve their sexual frustrations upon. And a patriarchal society like India where all men are closet rapists will never really respect women, will it? COCR: That’s like asking if Ellen DeGeneres will start fucking men. NSS: Lesbians are like male homosexuals who like penises. Except they are female and like pussies. COCR (surprised): That wasn’t an analogy, that was just a definition. NSS (sadly): I miss Sonali. COB (feeling bad for the COW): Look, chairwoman, I think I may have been a little insensitive to your arguments. I’m sorry. I think I will be making additional efforts in providing enhanced security to our women employees. COW (still emotional but allayed slightly): Do you mean it? COB: Yes, in fact, I’ve already thought up a few security measures. I’m thinking from now
- 155 onwards one of the qualifications to be a driver working for BPOs is for the candidate to be a eunuch. COW: Ok… NSS: A eunuch is like a car without an engine…and no testicles. COB: And we shall also make sure that all our women employees are given electrically charged chastity belts to protect their…femininity. COW: Ok… COB (thinking): And perhaps a bra that would make their breasts look smaller than they actually are. COW: I appreciate your good intentions, chairman. Thank you. But maybe you can also supply your women employees with bottles of pepper spray and maybe tasers. You could also install tracking devices in your vehicles, which can be done, and have someone monitor it on a computer. If the vehicle goes off the prescribed route or stops for more than five minutes, you can call the driver. And if he doesn’t answer your call you can inform the police. COB: Come on now, that’s a bit silly and impractical. COCR (bored): Now if you airbags have finished chattering I would like to leave. There are more unsuspecting women out there for me to go and rape. (Both the COW and COB look at him with disgust and shock) NSS: Actually, there’s one thing left to do. (Sidhu goes to the side of the room, opens a kit, and takes out three thick cricket bats. He hands one to the COW, one to the COB, and keeps the third one for himself) COCR: I don’t have to time to play. Some little girl or nubile woman is out there with her fresh cherry ready to be popped by me. NSS: Now as you know, I haven’t done this in a while. (Sidhu signals to the COW and the COB. They step out from behind their podiums and approach the COCR. He starts protesting but the thick willows land against his teeth and balls, crippling him to the ground. Sidhu square cuts his dick; the COW cover drives his skull; the COB straight drives his nose. After a few minutes of some industrious batting and a good partnership, the Chairman of Cabbies/Rapists breathes his last. His bloody carcass lies in a hot pool of blood) COW (looking at the corpse): Go to hell. NSS: Hell is like Pakistan. Except there are more Hindus and Christians.
- 156 (15th November 2007)
When a Man Loves a Dog
I’m as xenophobic and jingoistic about India as the next guy brandishing a sword to kill his fellow Indian just because he kneels down a different way. My fury is as perfervid as any other Indian’s when I hear foreign dickheads make untrue statements about Indians like the rumor that we bury our heads in a pile of holy cow dung to attain nirvana. My blood boils as fast as my fellow countrymen’s when westerners mock our time-tested customs and beliefs. And as I’m swelling with pride over my country’s superiority some guy in Tamil Nadu goes and gets married to a dog wearing a sari. That’s when I feel like burying my head in a big pile of holy cow dung. The wedding ceremony was bitchin’ to say the least. Attendees said that the groom, Mr. Selvakumar, a virgin with canines and real women, looked anxious and excited on the big day. Some claim that they saw him foaming at the mouth with anticipation. The bride, Lassie Kumari, adorned with all kinds of flowers, appeared small, beautiful, and highly uncomfortable in a silky orange sari. Her fur was fashionably trimmed and the infection in her ears was neatly bandaged which complimented her trendy sari. In other words, she brought a whole new meaning to the phrase doggie style.
The groom’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Kumar, beamed with pride as their 33 yr old little boy was bringing home a partner who would finally instil some discipline into his adventurous bachelor life, which involved philandering with several stray cats and a couple of immoral beavers. They were extremely relieved to see that their son had finally decided to settle down with a nice, traditional, middle-class dog. Mr. and Mrs. Kumar had only one piece of valuable marital advice to impart to their son, “Son, always remember to clean up after her. That’s the foundation of every successful marriage.” The bride’s parents, too, were present at the ceremony. The bride’s mother looked graceful and elegant with all her seven nipples exposed. The bride’s fathers, which included seven dogs, three mongooses, and one BJP worker, attended the ceremony as well and spent their time smelling each other’s assholes. Friends and family members from the groom’s side
- 157 presented the couple with leashes, collars, dog biscuits, and pooper-scoopers. Those from the bride’s side gifted half-chewed bones, kitten carcasses, fleas, and a fresh batch of rabies. One of the most romantic moments of the wedding came when the priest asked the bride if she took the groom in his sickness, which would most likely be hydrophobia, and in health. The young, shy bride looked up coquettishly at her man and barked, “Woof! Woof!” Following that the priest announced, “You may now pee on the groom.” At which point, the bride lifted her sari, then her leg, and proceeded to urinate all over her new husband. Men present at this momentous occasion of an inter-species marriage shrugged and remarked that they didn’t find anything unusual about a human being marrying a dog. For them, it was just another guy getting married to a bitch. The feast that followed was sumptuous and filling. The humans present contented themselves with several servings of hotdogs while the dogs, and the BJP worker, attending the ceremony filled themselves with the leftovers. After the wedding, the newly fed newly weds mounted a rickshaw, adorned with a placard that said “With blessings from Maneka Gandhi.” The couple spent their two-week honeymoon in a warm, sunny, exotic dog pound in Chennai. Interestingly, it was reported that their favorite sex position was the missionary position and not, as expected, the doggie position. Mr. Selvakumar, apparently, confided to his male buddies that there was nothing like getting a blowjob from a real bitch. Those close to Mrs. Lassie Kumari revealed that she was currently focused on completely enjoying her married life and not even thinking of starting a family anytime soon. Let’s hope that at least this marriage doesn’t end in a divorce. Because there’s nothing more vicious than a lawyer representing a dog in a divorce case.
- 158 (22nd November 2007)
And then there was Pedophilia
If I were Jesus I’d make sure I have with me a big fat hydrogen bomb when I make my second coming so that I can drop that motherfucker square on top of the Vatican. There’s only one thing worse than getting crucified in front of your own mother and disciples for shit that some other motherfuckers did and that’s getting to know that two thousand years later creepy, robe-wearing, bible-wielding, lazy-headed, rich-assed pedophiles are sticking their flesh-crosses into the holy grails of preteen altar boys and girls and are using your name to perpetrate that shit. The moment somebody starts violently preaching against sexual morality or premarital sex or homosexuality or sodomy or pedophilia or anything even remotely sexual you can bet your entire life savings that that preacher is one horny-assed pervert with a boner the size of a scepter just dying to rape the shit out of the first piece of ass he can get his hands on. Even if it’s a kid barely out of preschool. And that’s no exception for Hindus, Muslims, Christians, and Jews. But the Catholic Priests seem to be taking sodomy and pedophilia to a whole new level that even Michael Jackson’s going “These guys make me look like Mother Fucking Teresa”. A New York Times survey in 2003 showed that over 4,200 sexual abuse claims were made against 1,200 Catholic Priests since 1940. Now, I’m all for the idea of innocent until proven guilty but when you have 4,200 children saying you fucked them in the ass, you are pretty much guilty. (Google New York Times Survey Catholic Sex Scandal if you think I’m making this shit up). Those numbers must have shot up faster than Keith Richards with a bag of cocaine in the last four years. As always I opt for the civilized way to deal with such issues. A good oldfashioned debate. There’s nothing more fair and civilized than talking things out. Here’s a Catholic Priest, Father Faggot (FF), and a twelve year old sex abuse victim, Josephucked in the ass (JF), sorting out their differences through the medium of verbal debate with special convener SpongeBob SquarePants (SBSP) overseeing the talk. SBSP: Now, Father Faggot, allow me to quote something verbatim from a news report. “The Jesuit order of the Roman Catholic Church has agreed to pay 50 million dollars to 110 Alaska Natives to settle claims of sexual abuse by priests and missionaries in some of the world’s most remote villages. Earlier this year the Los Angeles diocese agreed a record 660-milliondollar settlement abuse victims while the San Diego Catholic Church later paid 198 million dollars to victims. Since the beginning of the nationwide scandal five years ago, Catholic authorities in the United States have paid out around 2.8 billion dollars in damages to victims.” What do you have to say about that? FF: I don’t understand why you’re killing this debate with such dull inconsequential information. Those are nothing but facts. And I fail to understand the importance of facts in a matter of religion. JF (hurt expression): I trusted you. My whole belief system was based on everything you taught. You betrayed me. You have defiled the teachings of the Bible. FF: Look, young man, I’ve been studying the Bible a lot longer than you have. And there’s nothing in there about not sodomizing your altar boys. Let’s go over the commandments again, shall we? Do you see a number eleven that says, “Thou shall not butt-fuck children”? That’s right, there’s no number eleven. So grow up, rub some Bengay where it hurts and let’s all just praise the Lord. SBSP: But, Father, do you think that as a clergyman what you’re doing under the guise of
- 159 Christianity is right? In a way, you’re not only betraying these poor bastards but also demeaning the true ideology of Christianity all across the world. FF (hurt expression): Why don’t you attempt to hear my side before hurling such painful accusations at me? Why can’t people just trust the clergy instead of questioning us? JF: Then why don’t you explain yourself now? I’d like to know the justification behind your actions. FF (thinking): Well, I…I was merely trying to find the presence of Jesus. JF (pissed): Up my anus? FF: I don’t believe in taking second chances. Better to conduct a through search than come back later and do a shoddy job. JF: You sick animal. You ruined my entire life. I can never experience true happiness. I can’t even sit on a fucking toilet without fearing you’re going to swim through the sewers up the drainage pipes into the toilet bowl and violate me again. FF (beaming): That is one hell of a plan boy. I’m going to talk to the plumber about it first thing today evening. I like the way you think. SBSP: Father Faggot… FF (smiling affably): Call me Fag please. SBSP: Alright, so Father Faggot, don’t you find it rather hypocritical that you Catholic Priests are always protesting things like sexual freedom and abortion and homosexuality when you’re in fact committing the very things you are against and that too in a much worse way? FF: That accusation is completely baseless. I’ve never had an abortion in my life. SBSP (slightly irritated): I was talking about homosexuality and your stand on it. FF (incensed): Homosexuality is the unholy union of two grown men. The physical love a clergyman shares with a young supple boy is not homosexuality. It’s called having a damn good time. We will always been anti-abortion and anti-gay. There are no two ways about it. JF (trying to get a word in): Are you pro anything? FF: Sure. We are pro-sodomy, pro-pedophilia, pro-nipple piercing. In fact, I’m pro-coming over there and sticking my cock in your mouth right now. JF (agonized by the past memories FF’s words broughto his mind): Please, take him away from here. Please, I can’t take this anymore. My mind is so weighed down with all the pain. SBSP (concerned): Is there anything your parents have told you to do when you feel tense? JF: They always told me to go to the confessional and confess. SBSP: And did that ever help? JF: There was never any confessionals. He transformed it into a glory hole and fucked my ear off. FF: Hey, I was only trying to purge his sins. SBSP: Is it true that you sexually abused Alaskan people? FF: I’m afraid I can’t answer that. SBSP: Can you say anything on it? FF: All I can say is that it felt like having intercourse with a piece of refrigerated steak. It felt heavenly. SBSP: But isn’t your task healing their spiritual wounds? Isn’t it abominable that you’re causing more grief to these people? FF: I did try and heal their spiritual wounds. It’s just unfortunate that in the event of my doing that they ended up with a few rectal wounds. But hey that’s the deal with religion. No pain, no gain. JF: But why does the pain have to be in the ass?
- 160 FF: Hey, I don’t make the rules. As you know God works in mysterious ways. SBSP: Alright, it’s time to wrap up the debate. I just have one final question to ask you, Father Faggot. FF: Shoot. SBSP: Do you recall coming to an island near the Pacific Ocean a few years ago as a missionary? A little city called Bikini Bottom. FF (unsure): I don’t quite remember… SBSP (interrupting): You did. You spent almost a year there trying to convert the fish there to Catholicism. And do you recall that one drunken night when you stumbled into a yellow brick road and laid your eyes on a pineapple? FF: Yes, but I just have a vague memory of what happened. What happened to the pineapple? SBSP: Well, I thought you’d never ask. You fucked the pineapple. That’s what happened. You fucked it. You fucked the fucking pineapple till there was nothing left of it. FF (surprised): Ok, so I fucked a pineapple. Why are you getting so worked up over it? SBSP: Because, Father Faggot, I was in it when you were fucking it like an insane psychopath. Do you see these innumerous holes in my yellow exterior, Father? What do you think they are? Those are the cock dents you caused in my body. FF (realizing that SpongeBob was beginning to lose it): Hold on, young man. That was completely unintentional. I had no idea you were inside that pineapple. I mean, come on, who lives in a pineapple? SBSP: Your molesting days are over motherfucker. Patrick Star- NOW! (Suddenly from nowhere a pink fleshy mass flies down and attaches itself onto Father Faggot’s face blocking his air supply) JF (invigorated by the turn of events): Die motherfucker! Stifle him Patrick Star! Stifle him till he drops fucking dead! SBSP: I’ve waited a long time for this. (Father Faggot tries to fight off Patrick Star but the pink starfish is too persistent. Soon the resistance flounders and Father Faggot weakens. Patrick Star applies more pressure and soon Father Faggot breathes his last) JF: Now I believe in Jesus, motherfucker! SBSP: Nobody rapes SpongeBob and gets away with it. (A minute or two of silence ensues. Nobody moves, no one speaks) JF: What do we do now? SBSP: I don’t know. Do you want to go back to my pineapple? Maybe come up for a glass of seawater? JF (shyly): Yeah, I’d like that. (SpongeBob and the sex abuse victim walk away into the sunset with Patrick Star in tow)
- 161 (2nd December 2007)
Suicide Bomber Fan Mail
(Video link: http://www.ibnlive.com/videos/53388/caught-on-camera-lanka-bra-bombersblast.html ) Dear Suicide Bomber, Mama always said you weren’t real. She said you were like Santa Claus, or Harry Potter, or Kim Kardashian’s ass. But after seeing your work caught on video she’s like so without speech and stuff. And I’m like so squeaking thankful to all our TV channels for showing such graphic and kick-ass violence without any kind of restraint whatsoever. My little nephew was lucky enough to catch it and now he wants to be just like you- the belt bombs, splattered brains and everything. I would specially like to thank Times Now who just the other day was thrashing the rest of the channels for not being sensitive enough to pixellate a naked assaulted adivasi woman’s face. I think they are so not pretentious and hypocritical. I’ve always been like super-curious about how you make up your mind to take up such a smart career choice. I mean like I understand it may not be as adventurous or stimulating as being an English teacher in Sudan or a BPO worker in India but I would so like to know what inspired you to be who you are today. Was it the availability of a platform to get across to a lot of people at the same time? Or the chance to play Holi with your intestines? Perhaps, it was just the obvious glamour that came with the job. Anyways, you’ve always managed to totally blow my mind off. The other day a close friend of mine, she’s like my soul mate and all, made a joke about you. She asked me: “What happened to the failed suicide bomber?” And when I said I didn’t know she said like: “He didn’t bomb”. Then another day she asked me: “Why would it really stink for Abishek Bachchan to be a suicide bomber?” And again I didn’t like know what the answer was and stuff so I told her that I didn’t like know the answer and stuff. So she replied: “Cuz he’s so full of shit”. That really was all I could take so I inserted a Nokia phone up her ass and recharged it until she blew up. I know you’re a faint-hearted person and I’m sorry I had to like say that to you but I just can’t take it when anybody defiles your name. Although, I was made an honorary Muslim fundamentalist after my actions. My extremist name is Sheikh Yost Uf. One Sunday I was just doing what I always do on a Sunday, which is watch Homicide Homies on DD-1 (Daily Death 1). And I heard someone say all your relationships are extremely short-lived. Is that true? I think it’s cool that you’re into playing the field. It’s better than getting into some relationship that just makes you want to kill yourself. I also heard on Homicide Homies that you are like super good in bed. Is it because you know how to explode at the most appropriate time? Anyways, you’re a rock star in my book. Like Kurt Cobain. I won’t lie to you, I’m a little sad. Because one of my buddies said like the other day that you’re not like a good person and all. And that you do what you do to hurt other innocent people. I mean like I didn’t believe him or nothing because I know that’s like untrue. If you wanted to hurt innocent unsuspecting people you would have like just become a politician or a model turned actor. I’m super sorry if I intruded into your personal time and stuff. But I just couldn’t like resist writing to you. I know your apartment must be like totally messy with all my previous letters and stuff. You know I like totally admire you and everything but there’s something that just keeps nagging at the back of my head and stuff. Something that even
- 162 made me think if I should like send you a letter bomb or something. I mean like I won’t. But I just feel so mad and everything, you know. Alright, I’m just gonna go ahead and say it. Here goes. I’ve sent so many letters to you but I’ve never ever gotten a single reply . I mean, like, seriously, would it kill you to write me back? Your hugest fan Me.
- 163 (14th December 2007)
Love is like Jesus. You look into your beloved’s eyes and see all your personal dreams reveal their insignificance when compared to what you would do to keep her happy. You are willing to stomp, for her, on every principle and ideology that you once swore you would never relinquish. Her cherubic smile stirs inside of you something real, something magical, something about 8 inches long. Then you take her to the nearest room and fuck the living daylights out of her. And that’s why love is like Jesus. And a good fuck is like the Jewish/Roman partnership. It beats the crap out of love. Afterwards, your beloved opens up her heart about the depth of love she feels for you while you scratch your shriveled up balls in the middle of a sleep much deeper than her love. She looks at your face lovingly, picks up her bra from the ground, and proceeds to strangle you to a very humiliating size 32B death. Such a degrading strangulation by a 100 % cotton elastic innerwear would never happen to a man who is well versed in the sensual chapters of Extreme Kamasutra. She would have been too exhausted to even close her legs, let alone arm herself with a bra and murder you, if you had proficiency in the vast erotic knowledge contained in Extreme Kamasutra. The sexually illiterate might always resort to the mundane, dull, unadventurous, everyday list of moves like “the G-spot jiggy” or “the Boston Brute” or “the Dirty Sanchez” or “the Fire Hydrant”. Those wishing to learn might instinctively go to the nearest children’s library and pick up a copy of the original Kamasutra. However, in the 21st century, the Kamasutra is as outdated as fidelity. In today’s age, there’s only one manual that can guarantee complete satiation and bliss and that is Extreme Kamasutra. Given below are the some of the most successful and pleasurable moves and positions detailed in Extreme Kamasutra that would guarantee complete exhaustion of, and total satisfaction for, your partner by the time you’re done. In fact, at the end of your love session she would be groggier than a room full of people watching the Indian Cricket League matches. Now, let us start the education. The enlightenment. The Extreme Kamasutra. The Empire State Lovers’ Union In this lovemaking position the man and the woman stand in front of the Empire State building and start snogging until mutual arousal is achieved. With the help of the security guard present there both the man and the woman manage to strip down to their bare minimum. The lovers proceed to rub against each other further. Now with assistance of the hotdog vendor both the male and the female get completely naked. It is important that the hotdog vendor gets absolutely no mustard on either of the lovers. The woman then stands on her two hands and splits her legs exposing her open minge. At this point, the man has to sprint towards the elevator and get to the roof of the Empire State Building before he loses his wood. After reaching the roof the male lover approaches the edge of the roof and begins masturbating like a rabid monkey. When the man successfully deposits his semen without spilling a single drop from a height of above 102 stories into the vagina of the woman standing on her hand, the sexual congress is pronounced complete.
- 164 -
The Criss Angel Banana Split In this particular mode of sexual congress the man and the woman place themselves horizontally on a bed made of banana skins. They then proceed to consume two bananas each. Ensure that neither the man nor the woman have banana between their teeth making it seem as if they just brushed their teeth with baby shit. The man now mounts the woman and begins to kiss her gently all over her face. After slobbering her face with more spit than a hoard of hungry retards, the man turns the woman on her back. The male lover then mounts the female from behind. At this point, the man reaches out for the battery operated chainsaw resting near the banana bed and saws his lover into half. Immediately, the man starts humping the dissected lower body while simultaneously trying to put back the severed torso. The sexual union is only complete when the man is successfully able to put the woman back together. If he fails to achieve sexual climax with his first female partner he can proceed to engage in the same act of love with other female members of the severed woman’s family.
- 165 The Al Gore Sexual Congress The male and female partner must travel to the North Pole by foot. On reaching the North Pole they strip naked and cry out “Goooore!” four times which will attract horny polar bears. Once the polar bears make themselves appear both the male and female lovers are supposed to take turns jerking and fingering the bears according to the respective genitalia. Neither the male nor the female or the polar bear for that matter are supposed to eat any kinds of food except their own feces that will again be reused the next day as meals. After jerking and fingering the polar bears the man and the woman approach each other and stand a few inches apart. The male then rubs the Nobel Peace Prize medal on his penis until he ejaculates whereas the female shoves the Nobel Peace Prize diploma up her pussy and fakes an orgasm. Both the male and the female partners are to stay away from showers, baths, or water for the rest of their lives. If the male desires to use a condom while jacking off use only recycled condoms.
The Catholic Priest Position The male partner holds the female partner gently and embraces. He then clubs the woman into a state of unconsciousness using a Bible. Following that, he approaches the younger male relatives of the woman and engages in sodomy.
- 166 The Hillary Clinton Sex Position The female partner lies on the left side of the bed and goes to sleep.
- 167 (15th December 2007)
Extreme Kamasutra Part 2
The Scientology Hop Position The lovers engage in public display of affection by sucking on each other’s kneecaps for an extended period of time. After the foreplay session the couple then returns home on their private spaceship. The male partner attaches long electrical antennae to the skull of his sexual partner and buries her under the living room floor. He then mounts the sofa and hops on it fervently screaming “Hubba! Hubba! Hubbard!” four times in Italian, Spanish, and Indian accents. At which point he blows his load all over the couch. In this position, the male often attains climax prior to the female who is buried alive under the floor.
The General Musharraf Maneuver The female partner, dressed in only a see through hijab, is confined to the kitchen making armpit-flavored pretzels. The male partner, dressed in complete army outfit, including the silk cap, sits in front of the television watching M.S. Dhoni while simultaneously engaging in fervent self-pleasuring. Even after the female lover finishes
- 168 preparing the armpit-pretzels the male refuses to shed his uniform. The detractors of this mode of sexual union tend to refer to the act also as the Perverse Musharraf Maneuver.
The Poultry Farm Embrace The Poultry Farm Embrace is a highly potent erotic move that can often lead to the swelling up of several parts of the human anatomy that are generally not supposed to do that. Half past midnight the lovers stealthily enter a poultry farm and gain access to a chicken coop. After stepping inside, the man and the woman disrobe each other. After sensually licking each other’s nose hair the man and the woman proceed to sing “Glamorous” by Fergie. As soon as the song gets into the first chorus, the sleeping chickens will wake up and angrily begin to peck the fuck out of the lovers who are caught in the tightest of hugs. The painful pecking serves to enrich the pleasurable experience of physical intimacy inside the smelly coop. After about half an hour of pecking the chickens are likely to go back to their original state of being stupid. Bodily fluids, mostly blood, will be flowing in buckets from both the male and the female lover.
- 169 The Reverse Beowulf Position In the Reverse Beowulf Position the man and the woman engage in a ménage a trios with a fire-breathing dragon. The male performs cunnilingus on the woman while simultaneously receiving a fiery fellatio from the dragon. The positions are then switched as the woman eats out the dragon pussy while the man plays Halo on his Playstation 3. When he attains maximum body count, the man orgasms screaming, “I am Beowulf” a hundred thousand times. The woman stops licking out the dragon muff and mounts the man. Then the woman, assisted by the dragon, proceeds to rip off the man’s heart and also his balls and throws them inside the nearby laundry basket. The woman then goes onto fist the dragon’s anus eventually giving the dragon severe constipation.
The Seventy One Style It’s 69 plus number 2.
- 170 (20th December 2007)
Crying, Waiting, Hoping
(Source: Trivandrum City Express, The New Indian Express- 19/12/2007) Zombies walk around in torn clothes with half-ripped pages sticking out of their mouths and pockets; crumpled rectangular laminated cards with letters and numbers are wedged clumsily into the back of their skulls; the zombies have their hands frozen in a strange position, almost as if they are holding a couple of invisible bricks close to their chest; on listening close to their monotonous mumblings it becomes clear that half of them are chanting “issue” and the other half “return”. That’s the kind of existence that the current members of the British Library, Trivandrum are worried of leading post February 2008. True lovers of the Library deal with their imminent loss in different ways. Some have completely given up their social lives and decided to spend the last couple of months wistfully smelling the insides of the books they have presently borrowed not even caring if there are fossils of bugs stamped onto the pages; others consume a year’s supply of coffee in an attempt to read as many books as they can before their world ends; certain more driven members have taken it upon themselves to reverse the decision of the British Council to shut down the library fully believing in Napoleon’s quote about nothing being impossible.. Literature aficionados in Trivandrum fear if names like Shakespeare, Dickens, Woolf, Hardy, and Joyce amongst many others would not have the same impact in their children’s world of knowledge as it did in theirs and be reduced to mere screen names used in role playing computer games, not because it means anything to them but for the fact that they sound strange and catchy. Academicians feel more cheated than they would if they found out their spouses are unfaithful. The kids who had somehow managed to tear themselves away from their computers and found a unique pleasure in spending time at the Library now feel disillusioned and disenchanted. The situation is quite amusing and on some levels even strangely ironic. For about a century or more, a strong majority of our entire country headed by the most persuasive individuals we had to offer tried to get the British to leave our land. And now, sixty years later, in the most literate state in India, large groups of people are trying even harder to get the British, or at least a part of them, to stay on. It would undoubtedly be a strong blow to the booklovers of Trivandrum if the fate of the British Library cannot be reversed. However, that doesn’t have to necessarily spell the end of our love for reading. There are other fish in the sea. Perhaps not as big and culturally rich, but fish nevertheless. Besides, if push comes to shove we can always resort to putting forth a threat to the generous country of Britain. If the British Library doesn’t stay on, we take back Shilpa Shetty. Well, maybe not.
- 171 (21st December 2007)
Lynne Spears’s Parenting Book: Chapter One
In an age where the moral fabric of America directly influences that of the other top countries of the world, it’s tough for American men and women, especially the ones known globally, to live a free, uninhibited, unbiased, morally upright life. The pressure to not drink and drive, not racially abuse blacks, nerdy whites, and foreigners, not have more than two of your sex tapes leaked on to the Internet, not release “fuck Islam” videos on youtube every three hours, not overdose on heroin, not have shootouts in the middle of the streets, and not encourage Adam Sandler to keep making movies amongst several other austere demands take severe toll on the impressionable, vulnerable minds of goodhearted Americans. Especially on the young kids who might grow up to be tomorrow’s Bill O Reilly or Michael Savage or even Dick Cheney. And that’s why, I, Lynne Spears, a mother of two girls, have decided to pen this book on parenting which includes all that I know about raising good, morally sound, responsible, socially committed children who would in time transform into rich, famous adults who would then in turn make their parents rich, famous, and really full of themselves as well. In this first chapter, I would like to enlist a few of the dos and don’ts of parenting kids at different phases of their lives. Once that scarlet little blob squeezes its way out of your hairy plug point, the first thoughts that cross your mind shouldn’t be about whether that little ham is alive or not, boy or girl, retarded or mentally challenged. It should be to get your worst half- the same guy who spooged inside you while picturing your younger more attractive sister bent over- to go out to the nearest bookstore and grab (not take, not pick, not choose but grab) a copy of my book on parenting which is entitled “Parent second, Pimp First”.
First 12 months Don’ts
Absolutely no alcohol for the baby in the first one-year of its birth. Beer, although, can be, in fact it should be administered to the little hungry toddler in buckets whenever it reaches for your reddish nipples fresh from the weekly boob job No staying out after midnight. I’m talking about the kid, of course Never leave the baby alone with coins or credit cards or currency notes that might cause respiratory blockage if swallowed. There’s a good chance they might steal it. Never leave the baby alone in a room with sharp pointed objects. The baby might get hold of it and stick you up to get to your money. No drugs
Have strange men come over to shovel your butt dirt as soon as your husband leaves home. Or falls asleep. That way the presence of a father is never absent from the little munchkin’s life.
- 172 -
Age 1-5 Don’ts
Do not give the kid beer anymore. Upgrade the kid’s beverages to vodka, gin, rum, whisky, piss, loose shit, menstrual blood, melted ass, a cup of cum and just about anything that you drink yourself Do not hesitate to have the “talk” with your child. Remind your children that having a kid when you’re a kid means extra poop around the house. If it’s a boy always advise him to insert his cock and shake it around in the ass of a girl so that he won’t knock her up. Plus she won’t shit for a while too. If it’s a girl encourage her to offer her tiny pair of buttocks to her college going broke-ass boyfriend. As a parent, you should let your child, who’s between one to five years old, know that the cunt is out of the question Do not let your kid make friends. Cut your child completely off from their social lives and send them off to movie auditions, reality television auditions, be Internet models. It is important to make them understand that they cannot just mooch around, they need to become earning members of the family. And if things go well, the only earning members of the family Never ever let your kid know who their real father is. Each week throw a different name at them. Keep them guessing. It helps activate their brain cells like hell during Christmas. Plus they develop a crappy self-image, which translates to a tighter leash on them by you No drugs
If your kid starts making mistakes or doing crazy stuff blame it all on them. Keep in mind to always act like the struggling helpless mother cursed with the demon seed.
Age 5-10 Don’ts
Do not nestle your child’s pussy from the public view, absolutely no pussy-nestling. Never let your daughters get out of the house wearing underwear. Whenever they go out to get drunk or boned shove your hands down their pants or up their skirt and check for any presence of fabric. If they are wearing panties rip them off instantly and ground your daughters for three days. If it’s a boy his dick is probably all over the Internet already Don’t counsel your kids about publicly revealing information about their virginity. Let the public work that out when the sex tapes hit the market No reading No writing except rehashing corny pop shit from the Neanderthal era
No taking personal breaks for playing or relaxing. It’s between the age of 5-10 that responsible children work their hardest to pay back the loving parents who gave them life. Work their asses off.
You may now advise them to begin doing drugs Sell your children totally, completely, absolutely and hand their lives and personal decisions over to multi billion dollar studio executives
Age 10 and above Don’ts
Don’t give a fuck
Write a book on parenting
By Lynne Spears (Professional Mother) P.S- THIS JUST IN (ha! Justin): Jamie Lynn Spears, who is 12 weeks pregnant, announced to OK! NOT REALLY! Magazine that her fetus is 4 weeks pregnant and planning to keep the baby. Reportedly, the fetus was impregnated by its long time boyfriend, the liver.
- 174 (24th December 2007)
A Message from Jesus
Pretty clever, eh?) And Rest,
Dear Me-ians (think about it
I’ve got quite a few things on my list that I have to go over with you. Firstly, tragedy struck us today morning at ten o clock when Santa Claus died of an extreme syphilisgonorrhea combination affliction. He caught it from Rudolph the red assed reindeer. PSYCH!! I was just messing around. Santa is still alive. I love that red fat bastard. He does have the syphilis-gonorrhea combination affliction though. That has been known to happen when you slide down too many chimneys in the same night if you get my drift. And as a result, I’ll be couriering everybody’s gifts to their homes this time. So, if you don’t get the useless shit you asked for this year, don’t whine to Santa or me, whine to FedEx. I don’t particularly like celebrating my birthday. One of the reasons is because the parties in heaven suck. I mean, shit, what’s a birthday party with just eleven people?! And Gandhi won’t even let anybody eat meat. Talking about thrusting your beliefs upon somebody else. I’m glad none of my followers are like that. So, anyway, that’s why if I ever feel like partying hard I just hop down to hell and hang out a little while. Say what you want about Hitler but that Nazi motherfucker knows how to throw one hell of a fucking party. “Ich liebe Hackfleisch”. Yeah! Another reason I don’t want to be reminded of my birthday is because of my age. I mean, shit, you humans freak out when you hit thirty; imagine what it is to be over two thousand years old. Although, the popular opinion up here is that I don’t look a day over one thousand and seventy. To be honest, I owe it to all to healthy food and dedicated working out. Plus an occasional facelift doesn’t hurt anyone. PSYCH!! Just kidding. I’m in heaven, not Holly-fucking-wood. Birthdays are often occasions to reflect on and reminisce about things past. I was never someone who looked out for the future. I tried to make each day as useful as possible and better as many people as possible. In retrospect, I feel like such a douchebag for being so reckless in my behavior. When I gave up my life for the rest of you, I did it so that you’ll learn the significance of selflessness, love, and sacrifice; I even foolishly hoped you would all become better people. Instead, some of you assholes got together and devised a big fat hoax (in my name!) to control the lives of others and exploit it to your advantage; and the rest of you suckers let them get away with it. The aforementioned lines are not just true for me but some of my other comrades up here in heaven. In fact, both Krishna and Muhammad helped me write those lines because they feel the same way about those who run around chanting their names. You morons down there have no idea how pissed off we three are because of your stupid ignorant behavior since forever. Fuck! I promised myself I wouldn’t get too emotional on my birthday. Damn it! But it’s ok. It’s all right. I’m not angry; I’m just a little dented, cardiac wise. Speaking of things you people down there are doing wrong, I’d like a few things about the way you celebrate my birthday changed. I mean, don’t take this personally or anything but frankly speaking I’m kind of bored with the whole Christmas tree idea. Hell, it’s just a fucking tree for Christ’s My sake! With some glittery shit on it. It doesn’t really say anything about me. I would much rather prefer if you guys put up something bold, something adventurous, maybe some midget skeletons. Yeah, that’s right, midget skeletons. I think I’m onto something truly groundbreaking here. Just stay with me here! Get some midget skeletons, hang it in your front yard, inside your home, wherever you want to bring that holiday mood, and decorate it with some buffalo balls. Yeah, that’s right, buffalo balls. Or
- 175 even bull balls. I don’t really care about that. Just make sure those midget skeletons look really Christmassy. But it has to be either buffalos or bulls. No bison balls. I hate bison balls. So remember, yes to buffalo balls and bull balls. But a big fat no to bison balls. And one more thing, when you are doing skits and stuff about my birth make sure you choose a cute baby to play me. I have seen some ugly-ass babies play me over the years. I don’t want that. If you can’t get a cute baby that’s human get one of those animatronic babies, I don’t care. But don’t rope in some shit-ass baby who looks like something that came out of Paula Abdul’s ass. Well, that’s it then, I guess. Hopefully you’ll have a great new year as well. Unless you get blown up by some psycho with an underwear bomb, or slain by some preschooler, or screwed over by your friends, family, and lovers. Or get plain depressed and end your lives. Anyways, Merry Me-Mas (think about it Pretty clever, eh?) to all of you. I’ve got a Fuhrer Partay to attend. Now, where did I leave my swastika?! PSYCH!! From, Christ.
- 176 (30th December 2007)
Sweetest Assassinations of All Time
From the guy who designs chains out of used dental floss to the girl who’s allergic to cancer, from the optimistic crippled guy who’s hell bent on becoming a tap dancer to the girl who can accommodate an entire village inside her vagina, from the guy who claims he caught AIDS from a grandfather clock (although he may have meant grandfather cock) to the girl who takes naps with sexually stimulated sheep, from the guy who wants to masturbate alongside Osama Bin Laden to the girl who wants to get fingered by Hrithik Roshan’s double thumb, I know a lot of interesting people. Plus I know this completely bizarre guy- and I mean an absolutely mental motherfucker- who thinks Abishek Bachchan has talent. Although, the most complex cunt of them all, I’d have to say, is this guy who calls himself an assassination critic (Or an ass-crit). He critiques assassinations for a living. Now I don’t know who the fuck pays him to do that stuff but that’s what he does. About a thousand minutes back I sat down and had a talk with him, opened up a decent discussion. On the five sweetest assassinations since time immemorial. As always I like to document the stuff that I do. Even if it’s just taking a crap, I document that shit (10:00 pm- I clench my ass. 10:02 pma sizeable piece of turd dives into the bowl. Smells like beef, sounds like a Republic Day parade). Therefore, in the interest of the public, I’m releasing the documentation of the spiel that my ass-crit friend launched into about the five sweetest assassinations that has ever taken place. # 5: John Lennon (2 stars) If there’s an assassination that you can broach holding your girlfriend’s hand it’s that of John Lennon’s. Romance, suspense, intrigue, and a subtle vein of humor that consistently amuses the audience from the start to the finish all come together in this formulaic yet well-shot assassination. Starring the rock legend John Lennon cast opposite a practically unknown yet undeniably talented negative hero, Mark David Chapman, the assassination flows with the heartwarming ease of a Beatles song. Enough action to keep the male audiences happy fused with a romantic angle, provided by Yoko Ono, to satisfy the female audiences the John Lennon assassination satiates everyone unanimously. # 4: Rajiv Gandhi (2 stars + 1 grenade) Few assassinations dare to break the mould and offer something different. Even fewer assassinations are capable of starting a trend that would branch out into something truly groundbreaking. This is where the Rajiv Gandhi assassination proves to be a cut above the rest. Armed with a tightly woven plot and backed up by a stalwart production banner, the Tamil Tigers, the assassination keeps you on the edge of your seat right from the beginning. The director of the assassination boldly breaks the tradition of casting a macho assassin and goes with an ugly female assassin, a move that pays off immensely. The high profile target, the unobtrusive assassin, the bomb hidden in the basket of flowers, and the deadly deafening explosion are just few of the highlights of the Rajiv Gandhi assassination. All in all, it’s a thorough entertainer.
- 177 # 3: John F. Kennedy (3 stars + 3 bullets) Considered by many as the sweetest assassination to have ever taken place the JFK assassination is truly ahead of its time. With a stellar cast and a riveting storyline, the JFK assassination is laden with twists, turns, dark humor and mystery. The assassination proceeds flawlessly with the most talked about President of the USA gunned down in the middle of the road with hundreds of people watching. The alleged assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, in true Hollywood style, and arguably in the best role of his career, maintains complete innocence, which is when the story accelerates into fourth gear. Right from the FBI, CIA, NYPD, UNICEF, and the Teletubbies, everyone’s a suspect. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that the JFK assassination is one of the greatest stylistic and cerebral achievements of the USA. # 2 Mahatma Gandhi (4 stars + 3 bullets + 1 walking stick) Ever so rarely comes the kind of assassination that everyone deems as an instant classic. And the Mahatma Gandhi assassination is one of those instant classics, and for good reason too. With one of 20th century’s greatest underdog stories as background, the Gandhi assassination unfolds like a magical tale of ambition, struggle, victory, deceit, and tragedy. Strong on possibly every aspect the Gandhi assassination succeeds in entertaining everyone from kids to adults to red-assed baboons. Nathuram Godse delivers his strongest performance as the ruthless assassin while Gandhi, as always, captivates the entire audience with his pure charisma and crowd appeal. Despite not offering anything out of the ordinary the assassination works perfectly owing to the cast, the story, and undeniable universality of the theme. It is one of those assassinations that gets fresher each time you mention it. # 1 Jesus Christ (5 stars + 1 Mean Cross + 3 Dreidels) The assassination of Christ is undoubtedly the most widely received and critically acclaimed assassination of all time. The assassination, which took place almost two thousand years back, still remains one of the most stylish, most efficiently achieved assassinations to date. The sheer budget of the assassination, what with the huge cross, all the nails, the thousands watching, the hundreds taunting, and an ocean of other extras, is purely staggering. It is a visually stunning creative masterpiece that transcends the boundaries of time and remains as one of the sweetest assassinations ever known to humanity. It is one thing assassinating a President or a Prime Minister but the assassination of the Savior of all mankind is clearly on another level all together. The very fact that the assassination has sprouted off several cults and sects and shows the lasting impact that this truly phenomenal magnum opus has on audiences all across the world. And frankly speaking, there were no other targets during that time or even now who could have fit the bill as perfectly as Jesus in a truly mesmerizing assassination. While my ass-crit friend had complied an impressive, hard-to-contest list of the sweetest assassinations of all time I was surprised to see certain assassinations left out, certain glaring omissions. He clarified that Abraham Lincoln failed to make the list because he was just too damn ugly. I asked him about the assassinations of great black leaders like Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. and inquired why they hadn’t made it into the list. To which the ass-crit replied: “Black guys are always getting shot and killed. That’s no news.”
- 178 And when I asked him about the assassination of the first Indian Woman Prime Minister Indira Gandhi and the barely-a-week-old assassination of Pakistani leader Benazir Bhutto he had this to say: “Fuck! How hard is it to kill a couple of birds? Even O.J Simpson can do that shit”.
- 179 (14th January 2008)
Welcome to India, Nice to Molest You
Imagine this. A huge statue of a tall dark handsome Indian man. Located in a central spot somewhere in our country, a place where our countrywomen, tourists, foreigners, and visitors to India can have a deep long look at it. The statue stands tall towering well above the monuments around it. Safe in the man’s right hand raised high into the air almost touching the clouds hovering over it is a tablet with the inscription “Woman is God” on it. Below the man’s waist wrapped in his left hand is a huge concrete erection that’s pointing up towards the blue skies and two gigantic balls, which have inscribed on their vast surface the words: “Give me your blonde, your brunette, Your unsuspecting bitches yearning to get raped, The wretched sluts whose pussies I’ll forcibly make wet, Send these, the innocent, the underage, the elderly, regardless of how they are shaped I lift my horny chauvinistic cock and rape every single cunt I can get.” It’s been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that two out of every three Indian men (the third is a eunuch) find it physiologically impossible to refrain from molesting at least four women every week. So, we might as well have a statue announcing to the whole world that east or west, we’ll do our best to molest. Much like everything else in this world our modus molestation has also evolved. A decade or so ago, our best men toiled in harsh working conditions (like crowded buses, jampacked queues, markets, poorly chaperoned nieces’ houses, movie theatres, and churches) using simple techniques (like the ass-graze, the sleep-grope, the accidental boob jab, the inadvertent thigh caress, the trip and grab for support bit, and the misguided peck on the cheek) that often gave the desired result but in a degree lesser than expected. With the passage of time, things have changed, sexual repression has increased, carnal depravity has grown, and we, the Indian men, have developed far more impressive and efficacious methods of molesting women. We’ve become way more adept at what we do, much more meticulous, and thorough professionals. The Mumbai Molestation event that transpired in the wee hours of Jan 1, 2008 (http://www.ibnlive.com/videos/55468/mumbai-shamed-2-girls-molested-on-new-yearseve.html) marks a new milestone in the Indian Men’s molestation track record. Never have so many men joined together for such an extraordinary cause ever before in the history of our country since the release of Mallika Sherawat’s Murder or the Gujarat riots in 2001. We hear all the time about corporate tycoons making a mark outside their own country using their business acumen and their grandfathers’ fortunes. Indian men, too, have begun expanding their activities to non-Indian pussies. There was a time, when due to social constraints and a narrow outlook, we were restricted to molesting only the women in our country. Now, thanks to globalization and exaggerated advertising about Indian tourism, we are presented with several opportunities to forcibly extend our cocks to unwilling foreign cunts. Be it the smooth molestation of a Swedish teenager in Cochin by a few dozen of our compatriots (http://www.ibnlive.com/videos/55436/local-revelers-in-kochi-molest-swedishgirl.html) or the molestation of an American woman by a messenger of God (http://www.ibnlive.com/news/american-tourist-alleges-molestation-at-pushkartemple/55960-3-1.html) the quality of work and the ease with which the cases are swept under the carpet to brighten the tricolor surface of our nation are nothing short of stupendous.
- 180 A lot of people feel that molesting a woman is different from raping her. If you ask a true hardcore Indian man you would realize that the two are as different as a Bollywood actress and a Red-Street prostitute, or horseshit and donkeyshit, or a poor wife with great tits and a rich wife with no ass. When you rape a woman, you complete the job; you finish what you started; there is closure. Molesting someone, on the other hand, is more of an initiation course before you perform in the big league of rape. It’s like the chicken broth before a threecourse dinner. Often, several men have a taste of the soup and take a rain-check on the main course. But you know that sooner or later those soup tasters will come back to bite into the main dinner. It is undeniably true that none of the commendable progress of the Indian molesters and rapists would have been possible if it weren’t for the police, the court, and the various state governments. And, undoubtedly, the biggest token of gratitude goes to the word “alleged” that the media and the officials efficiently throw around when it comes to sex offences. Thanks to that word a giant beast with big ears, tusks, a trunk and pillar-like legs will remain an “alleged” elephant unless proven by a court of law. For some reason women don’t quite enjoy getting molested and raped as much as the men who commit those acts do. I’m personally quite baffled by this lukewarm response from the ladies. But hey, to each their own. However, one thing you ladies need to know about Indian men is that we never say no (except when the wives ask us if we’re having an affair). Regardless of the mediocre level of enjoyment you derive from our manly acts, we will strive to molest and rape all women, Indian, non-Indian, alien, and feminist until the end of time. If you don’t want to be involved in it, then keep your ass inside your home. Might seem a little regressive but that’s our best offer. Get out and get molested. Stay home and save your ass. Well, unless your male relatives at home wish to rape you. Allegedly, of course.
- 181 (25th January 2008)
Bite that Tongue
Racism is like UFO sightings. It might happen anywhere else in the whole world but it just doesn’t happen in India. Accusing an Indian of being racist is as ludicrous as accusing George Bush of being eloquent or Britney Spears of covering her pole-vault. Perhaps it’s a genetic trait, but we Indians just aren’t inclined to be racist. We do not discriminate any human being on the basis of his/her skin color. In fact, there’s a large part of the Indian Advertising Industry which has dedicated itself to making sure that all darkskinned people overcome their obscure condition and become healthy, normal fair-skinned members of the society. And it’s an incontrovertible fact that we embrace people of all skin colors. In fact, some of our most revered Gods, if we are to go by the evidence seen in various illustrations, were blue in color. Now, you show me any other nation who would embrace blue individuals and venerate them like we do. Not only are we accepting of all races, including horse races, but we are also a nation who strongly supports the new wave of political correctness that is imperative in today’s troubled and hostile world. In fact, a recent episode that I had in a café enlightened me of my own latent prejudices and completely changed the way I think and speak. It all began with the well-mannered, unassuming waiter who came to get my order. “Hello, sir, are you ready to order?” “Yes, I’d like a black coffee please.” “Sir, we do not tolerate that kind of language in our café.” “Huh?” “Kindly refer to it as ‘African-American coffee’, sir. We have a very strict policy against racism in our cafe.” “Umm…ok. I apologize. I’ll have one ‘African-American coffee’ and a plate of chicken breasts.” “Sir, I repeat that we do not practice any form of discrimination in our café and I’m going to have to ask you to follow our norms. Your language is quite unacceptable.” “I can’t say chicken breasts?” “I’m afraid not. The first half of the compound word you used suggests a baseless allegation of cowardice and the latter half is blatantly sexist. The appropriate term is the ‘thorax of the fowl that has a pox named after it‘.” “Ok, alright, my mistake again. So, I’ll have one African-American coffee and a plate of the ‘thorax of the fowl that has a pox named after it’. If you can please make it fast, it would be helpful. I have an insane work schedule that I have to get back to.” “Do you think it’s funny, sir?” “Huh?” “Do you think you can pick on anyone merely because they act differently? The word you used to describe your work schedule is highly derogatory and demeaning. If you have to, resort to the socially accepted substitute of that word- ‘differently sane’.” “Look, it’s just words. You’re making it sound as if I’m some kind of a criminal.” “Sir, you are absolutely crossing the line with your disrespect for our rules and humanity in general. You cannot, under any circumstances, use the C-word in a civilized society like ours.” “The C-word? You mean criminal?” “Sir, please, mind your language. You have no right to outcast the ‘alternately employed members of the society’.” “Look, stop making a scene here. There are people at other tables who are looking at me and
- 182 giving me these weird sniggers.” “What did you just call me?” “What?” “Did you just-?” “Oh, for heaven’s sake, are you deaf?” “How dare you, sir? I do not possess a ‘permanently switched off biological audibility device’, if that’s what you meant.” “Look, I’ve had enough of this ‘metabolic waste produced by a male member of the bovine community’ from you. Forget the food, I’m out of here. If you have a problem with what I said, you can go to ‘the monosyllabic place with an extremely tropical climate and trying living conditions run by a very demanding dictator’“ “Well, at least you had the courtesy to portray your disagreement in such polite words. I respect that.”
- 183 (10th February 2008)
India is MY Country, Not YOURS
When I first started getting memory loss and mixing up things I feared if I had vascular dementia. I couldn’t tell the difference between news channels and sewage tanks; I suffered from the inability to discriminate between film actresses with loud mouths and prostitutes with gaping assholes; I was unable to distinguish between Rakhi Sawant and a used condom; I lost the capacity to tell apart a politician from a bag of feces mixed with toxic venom; I found no contrast between democracy and fascism; I failed to differentiate between a man on the street and a rapist on the prowl; I lost the faculty to identify a stupid dumb bitch and a girl who uploads her photos on social networking sites; I didn’t have the power to list any dissimilarities when I juxtaposed doctors with ruthless cunts who would do anything for money; I had trouble discerning businessmen from ruthless pricks who would do anything for money; I tried my best to separate religion from science fiction but I failed pathetically; I saw film critic Anupama Chopra and a chortling baboon and couldn’t tell them apart; I struggled to get a clue about how teachers were different from diarrheic donkeys with their heads shoved up their rectums; I could no longer discern an activist from an attention whore; I failed to see any difference between the Government and an acute case of fistula; I made an unsuccessful attempt to distinguish between tomorrow and an imminent apocalypse. And then, suddenly, I realized I wasn’t suffering from vascular dementia; I was just experiencing the side effects of being a citizen in modern day India. Sometimes, when you’re under the constant watch of the public it’s easy to be misinterpreted and portrayed in the wrong light regardless of your intention; I know that because I had my share of negative publicity during my time as a South Indian pornstar (I went by the name Mountmaster Mohanlal). Good people can be represented as bad, bad as good, tall as short, fat as moderately overweight, Shekhar Suman as talented, MTV Roadies as cool, and call centre zombies or pampered sons of rich business freaks as the prototypical Indian youth. Raj Thackeray is being portrayed as a manipulative fascist; Amitabh Bachchan is accused of being more close to Amar Singh than one married man should be to another; and Rajnikanth, winner of the HENDTV-Indian of the Year (or was it CNN-IBUM? Whichever it was, he got it during an exclusive and grandiose ceremony where only whoever showed up with a bag of money got a useless award) is being unjustly accused by his detractors as being unrealistic in his acting roles. And the “news” channel Headlines Today (HT), promoters of healthy discussion that they are, decided to hold a debate between the three main men currently courting controversy, the topic of the discussion, of course, whether each individual should stick to the state they are born in. Headlines Today also brought in a special guest, whom they locked inside an opaque box which would be opened only at the end of the debate. RT: If this very blog on which this idiotic post appears is not translated into Marathi I will have my workers burn wordpress down. AB: Can we just get this over with? I’ve to go found a brothel in the name of my hot daughter in law. HT: Where’s Rajnikanth? We can’t really start this debate without all participants present. He has to argue that whatever he does is real and believable… (Suddenly fourteen choppers appear and line up overhead the Headlines Today studio where the debate is taking place. Rajnikanth pops out of the last one and swings from one chopper to the other like Tarzan and on reaching right above his seat in the studio lets go. He glides through the air and lands on his seat perfectly)
- 184 RK: Sorry I’m a little late. I was attacked by a T-Rex on my way to the studio and I had to kill him with my belt buckle. RT: Do you understand now why I say Maharashtra is for Maharashtrians only? Do you want something like this infecting the good people of Maharashtra? RK: You’re probably right. The so called good Maharashtrians are fit to watch shameless sluts like Mallika Sherawat shaking her tits for money. RT: At least, it’s real. RK: Not really. Trust me, I know. AB: Perhaps, I need to remind everyone who was voted as the superstar of the millennium. In case, you feel a little thick, let me reiterate that that honor makes me much bigger than you, you, or Maharashtra. HT: Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Bachchan but we have an exclusive Headlines Today breaking news to report. “Kareena Kapoor who was attending a major Bollywood function today evening was found to have calluses on her right hand. Reports suggest that she received it from giving Saif Ali Khan a rough handjob.” Back to the debate now. RT: Did you become the superstar of the millennium acting in Konkani films? No, Maharashtra gave you your status, Maharashtra gave you your wealth, and Maharashtra gave you your life. AB: But UP gave me my Amar Singh. RK: The Thackeray boy has a point there. Can you imagine me endorsing some place like, say, Madras after everything that Tamil Nadu has given me? HT: But Madras is in Tamil Nadu. RK: Get your facts straight, news boy. Madras is in Brazil. AB: You ignoramus, that’s Mardi Gras. It’s a festival like day. Amar and I go to Brazil dressed in platinum thongs every year to celebrate it. RK: Where the hell is your wife anyway? How come she’s never seen with you? AB: She’s always there with me. You just can’t see her because she’s only as tall as my thigh bone. RT: You immoral greedy South Indians and North Indians come to our serene Maharashtra and contaminate the sanctity of the place. You exploit my state and then you have the gall to steal our jobs and not speak in Marathi. RK: I speak great Marathi, for your information. The young chicks of today dig Tamil more, that’s all. HT: Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but we have a cracking Headlines Today exclusive news item to report. “Our Headlines Today camera caught a glimpse of bad boy Salman Khan in one of his usual deer-kebab restaurants. Images showed a red circular mark around Salman’s waist which has sparked off a huge controversy. Is he wearing tighter underwear? Or does he try on Katrina’s panties when she isn’t looking? Keep watching Headlines Today for updates.” Back to the debate. RT: What was so inappropriate in what I said anyway? I pointed out the ingratitude of India’s supposed superstar to Maharashtra which is fully true in every which way possible. Last time I checked India is a free country. Every citizen has the freedom of speech, especially if he’s a Thackeray. My words will not be curbed. HT: Do you then own up to the riots that broke out in the wake of your contentious statement? RT: That’s not my fault. I can’t be held responsible if some loons misread me exercising my freedom of speech. By that logic, would you arrest Mickey Mouse if a thief told you he stole cheese because he was inspired by him? AB: I’m a much bigger star than Mickey Mouse. And my daughter in law nibbles a lot better
- 185 than him as well. RT: Haven’t you nibbled away enough of my Maharashtra? Leave my homeland and go shack up with your fat slimy buddy. Maharashtra is for Maharashtrians. RK: Anyone want to see me flip 35 cigarettes into the air and light them with my fart? HT: Once again, I have to butt in as we’re bringing you a super exclusive Headlines Today breaking cracking smashing news item. “Shahid Kapoor is a lonely boy on this Valentine’s Day. Shahid was spotted moping at his best friend Amrita Rao’s flat yesterday night by our intrepid reporter who was hiding in the bushes. Headlines Today asks its viewers to SMS in what you think Shahid should do on Valentine’s. SMS A for MASTURBATE, SMS B for WATCH PORNO, SMS C for MASTURBATE WATCHING PORNO.” Back to the debate. AB (to RT): Just like you have your freedom of speech, I have mine as well. And if I want to endorse UP, I will. If I want to endorse a unicorn I will do that as well. RT: Well, perhaps you should. It has a better chance of winning something than your Amar Singh. AB (profoundly): He’s more like a unicorn than any of you will ever know. RK: Do you know what the problem with the two of you is? You’re hungry for more power. Be satisfied with what God has given you. Money and power aren’t important in a man’s life, integrity, honesty, and love is. AB: How much do you charge for a movie? RK: About 250 million rupees. And I’ll fucking kill anyone who stands in my way of earning that. AB: So much for integrity and love. RT: Everywhere you look around in my Mumbai there’s either some North Indian or South Indian dickhead not knowing Marathi driving a taxi and stealing a job. Mumbai is not open to the world; it’s my home and I will not let anyone assfuck my Mumbai. HT: I have to stop you right there, Mr. Thackeray, for we have a super duper exclusive mega cracking back breaking ground shattering Headlines Today news report from one of our reporters. “Pathetic actor turned mediocre MP Govinda accidentally consumed some stale bhelpuri and as a result shat in his pants. Headlines Today has exclusive sample of the shit that dripped out of Govinda’s pants. We will be bringing you a close up of the crap very soon.” Back to the debate. RT: There’s nothing more to debate. I’m done. I will not stop until I’ve vanquished each and every non-Maharashtrian from my homeland. And no one can stop me. RK: Step into my world if you really want to know how powerful Tamil Nadu is. Mumbai will shiver in the sheer energy of Tamil Nadu. Just like North Indians and Maharashtrians shiver in the brilliance of South Indians. AB: I shiver only for UP and my Amar Singh. RT: Each land for its own people! Jai Hind! Jai Maharashtra! HT: Don’t be so sure, dear panel members. I believe we can change your outlooks. There’s one final phase to the debate. Let us now introduce the surprise special guest who has been close to getting asphyxiated in our big black box, the back from the dead Ms. Helen Keller. Hold the applause because she’s deaf as fuck and it doesn’t matter to her. RK: If only she had been half a dozen years younger, I could have made her my heroine. I’ve never acted with a handicapped chick. AB (to HT in a sad tone): She’s the special guest? I thought it would have been…Amar… HT: Look at her; she’s deaf, she’s blind, she’s unattractive. That makes her ultra special, in the Special Olympics kind of way. AB: She’s not that eloquent either. HT: Well, actually, that would make this whole lengthy tirade kind of meet a premature end. So, for the interest of finishing this bizarre blog post we will have to give her the gift of perfect eloquent speech.
- 186 RT: Well, as long as she speaks in Marathi, I don’t mind. (Helen Keller warily moves forward and addresses the debaters present. Sadly, she’s facing the wrong way) HK: Let me tell you about my story. I was born blind, deaf, and mute. Still I grew up, wrote books, and… AB: Save the story bitch. I trained you in Black, remember? HK (turns around on hearing the voice, which makes her occasionally deaf, apparently): Ok, fine. What I’m trying to tell you is that it is ridiculous and inhuman to discriminate each other on the basis of geographical locations. Skin color, religious beliefs, and sexual preferences, maybe. But regions? That’s crazy! You’re all from the same nation. Why are you cutting down that big nation into smaller pieces? Don’t you understand that if, God forbid, terrorists attack South India, North Indians and Maharashtrians will be affected as well? And vice versa. Do you want a repeat of Pakistan? And if the states in India are so obstinate about your fellow countrymen from other states subscribing to your local language and ideology how can you blame the Americans, the Singaporeans, the Malaysians, the Kenyans, and the British who shoot up Indians because they feel they are a threat to their culture; Indians go abroad and build temples, build mosques, community centers, Indian clubs, all kinds of things. And not just Indians from one state: Maharashtrians, South Indians, North Indians, everyone. So, understand that fraternity begins at home. Treat your fellowmen right and the world will treat you right. Now, I will demonstrate via a strong example why geographical discriminations are stupid and unreal. (Helen Keller approaches the debate table. She touches each panel member using her hand for about a minute or two and then goes back to her previous position) Do you see what I did now? I touched the faces of all three of you. And I cannot tell which one of you came from South India, North India, or Maharashtra. To me, you all felt the same. Well, one of you needs a shave but I could not tell anything about where you are from. So you see, my fellow humans, it’s pointless to have this entire debate on whether Mumbai is for Maharashtrians only, and whether South is for South Indians only. India is one big painting. Don’t cut it up and destroy its singular beauty. (Raj Thackeray, Amitabh Bachchan, and Rajnikanth look at each other guiltily. They appear as though they have understood the folly of their ways and the insignificance of their argument. Suddenly, their eyes uniformly fall on Helen Keller’s cleavage. Each one looks at the other and nods) AB: Well, Helen, we appreciate your help and we do want to believe you. RT: Although, if we receive a bit more convincing we might just become model citizens. RK: I’ll second that. AB: We will all hump you one after the other. You try and tell which dick is from UP, which one is from Mumbai, and which one from the South. If you feel absolutely no difference then we’ll believe you, Helen. (Helen Keller is petrified. She takes a few steps back. Amitabh and Raj surround her. Suddenly, Rajnikanth inserts his hand into his pants and pulls out a big dick. He detaches it from his body and throws it at Helen Keller. The dick flies through the air and chases Helen Keller around the studio in order to hump her. It’s only a matter of time before she is felled by the dick. After screwing her it returns to Rajnikanth’s hand. He blows at the smoke coming out of the dick hole and puts it back in his pants. Amitabh and Raj get to work) RK: Nothing like molesting a woman to get the men of India to forget regional differences and stick together. HT: Sorry to interrupt you, sir. Headlines Today Breaking News time! “In what appears to be the newest controversy hitting the country, the Headlines Today investigative journalists have uncovered what experts call the Helen Keller gangbang sex tape which shows the disabled bitch getting it on with two men and one detached penis like there’s no tomorrow. Keep watching Headlines Today for exclusive footage.”
- 187 (14th February 2008)
Spread the VD Message
Love can be infectious. And that’s why if you’ve got a loved one I suggest you make sure that he/she is infected with a good dose of VD fun today. And I don’t necessarily mean VD as in rotting dick stinking cunt VD, I’m talking about cheap chocolates, cards with typos, retarded mixed tape, fucking in the back of the car Valentine’s Day (VD). Although I wouldn’t be surprised if the two VDs had some kind of connection initially before time took them in completely opposite directions. There’s a good chance that it was a miscommunication or a misinterpretation that gave an unpleasant incident romantic connotations. Hundreds of years ago, on a February 14th, a man was seen unusually perturbed. He wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t take a shit, and he wouldn’t sleep. But there’s a likelihood that the three things were correlated and had nothing to do with his primary cause of misery. It even looked like he had temporarily quit his job of being a veterinarian. Finally, one of his buddies managed to break through and got him talking. It turned out he had syphilis. That’s why he was disturbed. That’s why he didn’t even go to work. Understandable. If I learned I had syphilis, checking dogs for fleas and sticking my finger up their hairy butts would be the last thing on my list (on second thoughts, even if I didn’t have syphilis that would be the last thing on my to-do list, right after respecting Paris Hilton). What worried the man most was that he had infected his new girlfriend, Valentine, as well and she didn’t know about it. She was a very conservative, unadventurous kind of girl who would be devastated if she knew her man had not only been sleeping around but infected her too. Taking his friend’s advice, he bought a box of chocolates, nicked some flowers from the neighbor’s garden, and went to see his girlfriend in order to break the terrible news to her. The girlfriend, surprised on seeing the normally hard-assed guy carrying loads of sweet gifts for her, was clearly over excited. Girl: You’re so sweet. Chocolates and flowers for me? Guy: Yes, they are for you. But I…I’ve got something to tell you. Girl: And it’s dark chocolate as well. And roses. Just the way I like it. Guy: The thing is I…I’ve got…and I gave you… Girl: Why, honey? Why have you given me all these gifts? Guy: VD Girl: You gave me gifts because it’s VD? What’s VD? Wait…V for Valentine…my name…D for day…Valentine’s Day? Guy: I think you mis… Girl: Oh, I love you so much. I know I always said no to it, but I want you to take me up the ass. I want it so much. Just for today. Guy: I wanted to tell you I had infec…up the ass? Did you say you want it up the ass? Girl: You meant Valentine’s Day, right? VD. Guy: Sure, that’s what I meant. Now bend down and spread your cheeks. And then the guy went and told all the other men that if there was anything their girlfriend didn’t want to do in bed all they had to do was wait till February 14th, get her some flashy, mushy shit and bam! she would turn into a slut faster than a Hyundai would turn into a Decepticon. Some men, even now, just to keep the tradition alive perform the ritual of passing on a venereal disease to their girlfriends and wives on every February 14th. Certain women, too, are keen on doing their part on this special day. So if you have a sore on your mouth, ass, cunt or dick, and it burns when you pee don’t get mad, don’t get paranoid. It just means that somebody out there really loves you.
- 188 (27th February 2008)
Fuck the Tiger! Save the Moths!
I owe a lot to TV. Over the years it has given me new ideas, new philosophies, and new women to fantasize when I’m interrogating my penis in bed. It has given me laughs, thoughts, ecstasy, and visions into worlds I never knew existed; it enables me to have cute newsreaders who give the headlines transformed into cute cheerleaders who’re lining up to give me head in my sound, unperturbed sleep. But most of all, I’m grateful to TV for the number of heinous acts it has prevented me from doing. The other day, I was sitting home, polishing my gun (not a masturbation metaphor this time), dusting my hunting clothes, lighting my cigar, ready to go shoot a tiger-much like any other sane, common person in India would do sometime during their daily schedulewhen suddenly I saw Rahul Dravid on TV asking me to “save the tiger”. At first, I ignored it like the small lump that men find near their balls which they mistake for a third testicle. Then, after a few minutes, I saw Kareena Kapoor, who was probably wearing tiger-skin bra and panties, request me- and every other person in their hunting clothes watching TV at that moment- to not go and kill tigers; she, too, wanted me to “save the tiger”. I felt my heart sink; it was at that moment the scrotal lump became cancerous. I felt disoriented by a moral conflict. Hunting tigers was, after all, something that I, and every other ordinary Indian watching TV most of their time, did from childhood onwards; it was, practically, part of our lives, our Indian tradition. But here was Rahul Dravid- who couldn’t save his place in the one day cricket team let alone a big striped cat- and Kareena Kapoor -a bitch, who in a sudden attack of consciousness, wanted to protect a feline warning all of us that if we- sitting home with a remote in one hand and a gun in the other- continue shooting tigers and killing themlike we’ve been doing for so long- the tigers were soon going to be extinct. At that moment it hit me like a big bag of feces at a rock concert, we’ve all been striving and caring for the wrong things. Fuck world peace! Fuck religious harmony! Fuck protesting against fake-piety! Fuck fighting against police brutality! Fuck the safety of children! Fuck the safety of common women! Fuck protecting rape victims (to be fair they’ve been fucked already)! Fuck fighting against dirty politics! Fuck freedom of speech! Fuck poor people! Fuck the unemployed! Fuck the illiterate! Fuck the ill! Fuck fighting against terrorism! Fuck resisting fake-patriotism! And fuck life all together! The only thing that matters in the world is saving a fierce carnivorous smelly animal- who would by the way rip you into shreds if you get too close to it- that some guy in a wasted moment named as our national animal. I exercised my brain a great deal to figure out the kind of things I could do to help “save the tiger”. I was initially confused when the TV channels went on about saving “the tiger”. Clearly, they were just talking about one specific tiger. Rahul Dravid said, “Save the tiger.” Kareena said, “Save the tiger”. Which one you crazy cunts? Which is the tiger we’re supposed to save? It would have been a lot of help if they said something like, “Save the tiger- the one named Billu.” But then I decided, perhaps, I shouldn’t focus on that one tiger everybody was talking about; if I’m intending to save tigers I should, ideally, make an effort to save all of them. On doing research I discovered that one of the first steps that needed to be taken to ensure the protection of tigers was building in them a strong sense of morality and a desire to survive. To be honest, I kind of get the feeling tigers are not really keen on surviving. So we killed a whole lot of tigers and brought their numbers down to about 5000. Big fucking deal! So what? I’m sure they’re aware of a little thing called “banging”. When Hitler murdered six million Jews they didn’t become endangered in the next four years, and then move on to complete extinction, did they? No, they fornicated like crazy and are back stronger than ever.
- 189 That’s in fact the story of mankind in general. I’m pretty sure that humans kill more humans than tigers every day but that hasn’t brought down the staggering rise in population, has it? You don’t see any celebrities on TV pleading with the world to “Save the mankind”, do you? So, I say teach the tigers that if you want population then you got to have copulation. That’s when another thought crossed my mind. What if the tigers are in fact banging but just not having cubs? Whenever you switch on nature channels there are tigers fucking each other. If they are horny enough to have sex on video, then having sex is probably not their big hurdle. It could be hesitancy in conception. And there could be two reasons for that: a) the tigers are into family planning or b) they are faggots. If the tigers are into family planning all you have to do is either make an animal version of the movie “Cheaper by the Dozen” or get them to have a talk with Lalu Prasad. Meanwhile, if the tigers are homosexually inclined, a completely different route of penetrating the issue has to be taken up (no pun intended. Who am I kidding! Of course, pun intended). Get a celebrity gay icon like George Michael or Harsha Bhogle and have them speak to these fudge-packing tigers. Convince these ass-mining tigers that after spooging into their partner’s anus they should insert their fists into the rectum, swipe all the tiger semen using one of their paws, and carefully place it inside a girl tiger’s vagina (stir if necessary). That should knock them up. If the tiger is a lesbian convince her that tiger cum can be used as a lubricant during dyke sex and she’s bound to fall for it. If the cubs turn out to be little fags, educate them about this procedure as well, thereby instilling this paw-cum-pussy ritual as part of the tiger culture. As I ponder about saving tigers, another startling revelation comes to me. Sure, the numbers are dwindling when it comes to tigers but what about other creatures. Are we not being a little specie-ist by only wanting to save tigers? I don’t know about you but I haven’t been seeing as many moths as I used to a few years ago? Where are they? What’s happening to all the moths? I’m leaving the lights on outside my home, not using clothes and books for months at a time but I still don’t see any sign of them. Could it be that the unattractive, wannabe butterfly-like creature is disappearing right in front of our eyes without our knowledge? Would we have to satisfy our future generations by showing a color picture of a moth when they cry “show us the moth, show us the moth”? Well, not if I can help it. I’m not going to waste one more moment worrying about the stupid tigers who just don’t want to fuck each other heterosexually. Instead, I’m going to focus my energy on saving the creatures who really need our help. The moths. I mean, I don’t even think they have penises. Have you ever seen a moth with a penis? How on earth are they supposed to procreate without penises? So let’s all forget about the tigers and devise plans to help save the moths. Whatever we can do: not swat them, not smash them with newspapers, donate sperm, whatever it takes. So, I’m pleading with you: Fuck the tiger! Save the moths!
- 190 (13th March 2008)
Untake My Kidney
I respect nurses. In fact, legend has it that I tit-fucked the nurse who wiped me clean just a few minutes after I was born. Initially, she had tried to inject me with a tranquilizer but after I impaled her with my baby-syringe she was quite hospitable. Sadly, I fucked her jugs so hard that she ended up getting breast cancer and came to be known, amongst friends and family, as the Lady with the Lump. Doctors, I don’t care much for. For starters, everyone knows they are actually shape-shifting skunks in human disguises. Secondly, I don’t trust anyone who sticks a finger up your ass and calls it part of “routine checkup”. Thirdly, what’s with the white uniforms? When you’re feeling under the weather and you go to a doctor the least you expect is some cheery colors. Give me some green, some red, some purple! But no, they have to stand there looking like the KKK or Catholic priests. And frankly speaking I would be very uncomfortable standing in front of either with my pants down to my ankles. Another thing that annoys me about doctors is the number of paperweights they have on their little table or desk or whatever they want to call it. They shower their little faggot-ass desks with so many paperweights you’d think a fucking hurricane was going to try and blow the goddamn thing away. Then there’s the poking. Oh, the fucking poking. Even if you walk in with a broken nose the doctor makes you lie down on his creepy little bed which you can only get to if you climb a pair of retarded steps. Who makes these steps anyway? It’s just two steps. Did someone walk up to a staircase and nick just a couple of steps while no one was looking? It’s absolutely retarded. And once you bite down your nervousness and lie down on the creepy cot with sheets worse than the ones you would find on a brothel-bed, the doctor lifts your shirt up and starts with the poking. Seriously, has any doctor diagnosed any illness just by poking a patient all over their torso? It’s fucking insane. The doctor jabs his stupid finger into your ribcage and asks you like a crackhead if it hurts. Of course, it hurts you crazy piece of dick, you just poked your goddamn finger into my ribcage!! Does he expect the patient to go: No, doc, it feels good, could you put one more finger into my ribcage and jab harder? After a while, the doctor leaves your ribs alone and moves to your tummy and starts poking at all these really ticklish areas. What does he think you’re there for-a fucking laugh? But you laugh, of course, and end up looking completely mental. Another occasion when I find doctors to be total pricks is when you walk in with an illness, say an attack of super-dysentery, and you walk out without one of your vital organs. I don’t know about others but something like that would really mess my day up. And the really annoying part is the excuses they come up with when you find out you’re running on just a single kidney or half a spinal chord. They would say something like: “I didn’t steal it. It probably came down during one of your heavy shitting sessions. Did you check your toilet?” or “It’s possibly the work of a succubus. It’s been medically proven that succubi sometimes tend to steal organs when you’re asleep.” Perhaps, that’s why when the kidney-stealing bastard from India, who did over five hundred illegal kidney operations, fondly called by the media as “Doctor Horror” or “Doctor Kidney” or “Kidney Kingpin” or merely “Doctor Amit Kumar” was finally caught by the police there was such a ruckus to know what he had to say. First and foremost, I think it’s swell that everybody still addresses him as doctor. In spite of stealing over a few hundred kidneys and doing so for the last decade or longer, it’s great we respect his academic qualifications. I’m sure if Osama Bin Laden gets his masters in business administration the media would start referring to him as “wanted Islamic fundamentalist terrorist Osama Bin Laden MBA”.
- 191 But unlike Osama Bin Laden MBA, who’s probably sucking off a grizzly bear inside some smelly cave in the Middle East, the kidney-stealing motherfucker, “Dr. Amit”, is in the safe, slimy, hairy, hands of the CBI. That’s a relief, innit? And judging from the progress they’ve made with some of the other high profile cases like the child-killers from Nithari, it’s safe to assume the kidney case will be cracked wide open at least a few minutes after Jesus’ second coming. I do have a short transcript of an interrogation session that took place between the “alleged” culprit “Dr. Amit” and the CBI. Figure it out for yourself. (Seated across either side of the table are “Dr. Amit”, the kidney-robbing cunt (KRC), and two grim-looking CBI officials) CBI#1: State your name and profession. KRC: Name-Dr. Amit Kumar. Profession- belly dancer. CBI#1: I’m sorry, what? KRC: A belly dancer. I’m a qualified belly dancer and I do gigs regularly in front of hammered sheikhs in Dubai. CBI#2: What about the fact that you’re a doctor who steals kidneys? KRC: Well, I wouldn’t really call that a profession. It’s…more like a hobby, a passion. You know like gardening, or killing kittens. CBI#1: Killing kittens? I’ve never heard that before. Massaging crabs, fingering turtles, frenching weasels sure. But killing kittens, that’s a bit peculiar. KRC: Hobbies are meant to be peculiar. To each their own, eh? CBI#2: Is that why unlike other doctors who use their skills to relieve patients of their pain you choose to exploit them and make profits for yourself? KRC: I don’t think it’s fair you’re slagging off other doctors like that. I don’t think they would appreciate you spreading insubstantial rumors about them. As soon as we get our MBBS we all make a pledge to ourselves that we will, in all capacity, for as long as we can and as much as we can, exploit people and make good money out of them. CBI#1: I thought that pledge was just applicable to the members of the parliament. CBI#2: How did you lure some of these uneducated poor people into getting on your operating table? KRC: That was easy. Free liquor and naked pictures of Sonia Gandhi. CBI#1: You mean they were actually lured by naked pictures of Sonia Gandhi? KRC: Not exactly. I ran after them with naked pictures of Sonia Gandhi and chased them into the operating room. Easiest thing in the world. CBI#2: Aren’t you ashamed of deceiving so many innocent people? Do you know what kind of mental trauma a person goes through when he’s duped out of one of his internal organs? Do you know how difficult it is to mend that broken trust in humanity he will foster forever? KRC: I’m sure it’s nothing a bottle of free booze can’t take care of. I’m a lifesaver not a people-pleaser. It’s not like I killed anyone. Using the kidneys of your so-called innocent victims I saved the lives of hundreds of rich, powerful, and influential people. To be honest, we all know rich people are more useful to society than poor people. So as far as I can see, no harm done. (looks at CBI#1’s crotch). Actually, I don’t just deal in kidneys. Sometimes, poorly-endowed men contact me and ask me get them something bigger. A snip there, a cut here, and voila! You go from Ajay Jadeja to a giant stallion. CBI#1 (embarrassed): I don’t have a small penis. What the hell are you looking at me for? KRC: I’m just saying. CBI#2: Why don’t you leave your mind games for the state police? We’re the CBI. You don’t want to fuck with us. KRC: You can’t blame me. CBI#1: I don’t have a small penis, ok?
- 192 CBI#2: Enough with the banter. Why don’t you just tell us why you got into this business of kidney trade in the first place? You must have a motive. KRC: So you want the truth? CBI#2: That’s right. I want the truth. CBI#1: I did tell the truth. I don’t have a small penis. Swear to god! Ask my poolboy…err…my wife…I meant my wife. ..ask my wife. CBI#2: Oh, for Holmes’s sake, shut the fuck up! Now, Dr. Amit… KRC: Fine, then you shall have the truth. Have you ever been discriminated against, Mr. CBI#2? I’m sure you haven’t. Have you ever felt ignored even when you know you deserve better? Have you ever experienced the agony caused when fame and recognition go to those less-deserving than you merely because they sound like they’re more important? CBI#2: Are you saying you had a rough childhood? KRC: Not at all. I had a great childhood; cricket, video games, the full package. I was talking about the fate of kidneys. Can you even comprehend what the kidneys feel like when other organs are always out there in the news while they just sit there smelling like piss? Look at Valentine’s Day. It’s practically a day for the heart. People treat the heart with so much respect and adoration that you would almost think one wouldn’t be able to live without the heart. Have you ever heard of anyone giving a box of chocolates shaped like a kidney to someone they love? No! Since time immemorial they have been persecuted against by humans and other organs alike. CBI#2: Ok… KRC: Or just observe the subliminal discrimination embedded in our language. You hear people compliment each other saying “wow! He’s got brains!” or “he’s got real guts” or “damn nigger! Look at the ass on that fine bitch”. But you don’t ever hear people go “there goes the man with the best damn kidneys in the whole of North India”. Are you following me, Mr. CBI#2? And that’s where I come in. I have fought, and will forever fight, for the right of the kidneys and keep them in the news as much as I can. I will steal from the haves and give it to the have-nots. I will eliminate any kind of class-struggle that might exist within the human body. I’m the anatomical Robin Hood, the nephrological Che Guevara! My message, my battle, my vision cannot ever be curbed! (The CBI officials look at the kidney-robbing cunt and remain silent for a few moments) CBI#2: What a load of crock! KRC: Alright, alright, you want the real truth? Fine, but you better brace yourself for it. All you have to do is come behind me, raise my shirt and look at the big scar across my lower back. Once you see that scar you’ll know everything you need to know about why I did what I did. (The two CBI officials look at each other, shrug their shoulders and come up behind the kidney-robbing cunt. CBI#1 lifts up the cunt’s shirt as CBI#2 leans down to examine his lower back. Suddenly, with a loud fart, a terribly stinking liquid sprays out of the kidneyrobbing cunt’s ass. The CBI officials fall back in shock and clutch at their faces. “Dr. Horror” gets to his feet and smirks at the two fallen officers. Then suddenly he shifts his shape and turns into a large skunk.) So long, suckers! (Transcript ends) Now, don’t start clutching at your kidneys fearing that the Nephrological Che Guevara is still at large. He was missing for about a week after he escaped from the custody of the CBI. But he’s back in the claws of the law now. A breathless, beaten, knackered Dr. Amit came crawling back to the CBI seeking refuge and apologizing for trying to escape. Apparently, Sreesanth is after him with some kind of a proposition.
- 193 (29th March 2008)
In a world where trivial news reports like an effort by law-keepers and authorities to make the merciless rape and murder of a 15-year-old girl appear like a druginduced drowning accident, or a woman, accused of being a witch, tied to a tree beaten to a pulp by a group of villagers, or kids committing suicide out of stress and depression mar the television viewing of common people who, after an invigorating day of meaningless work in front of a computer screen, are sitting with a bowl of popcorn eagerly waiting to see which celebrity is going out with who, or what new ridiculously expensive gadget is out in the market that only rich people can afford, or the contestants of reality shows begging and pleading, like a gay, crippled Jew on his way to the extermination chamber, to vote for them and keep them on the show, or the latest steaming cauldron of bollocks and shit that’s promoted as “a different, entertaining, funny movie”, there’s just one man who genuinely cares for the interests of the common people; in a world where uneducated, illiterate hobos with no money are nothing more than eyesores there’s just one man who stands tall and vows to make things change; in a world where some find it wrong that young girls who’re in their early teens are lured into “the entertainment industry” and sexualized prematurely, there’s just one man who stands up and does the right thing; in a world where so many things are wrong, there’s just one man who’s prepared to make them right. He is THE MAKERIGHTER! Following is an interview with The Makerighter (TM) conducted by a young Citizen Journalist named Vatty Regina (RV). RV: Firstly, Mr. Makerighter, I would like to thank you for agreeing to do this interview. TM: That’s quite alright, Ms. Vatty Regina. I’m only pleased to be given the opportunity to voice my opinions. RV: Let’s get straight to some of the biggest problems that people all across the world are facing. And then you can tell the world how you plan to make them right. TM: I think I know what you’re going to start with. It’s the same in all interviews. So here you go: the solution is gently insert a very thin needle, bait it, and then pull it out. RV: Oh, is that some kind of sewing tip? TM: No, that’s the solution to getting out a tapeworm that has crawled up your piss-hole. RV (shocked): Is that a common problem that people request a solution for? TM: Yes. That and mysterious bunny semen found on pillow covers. Which is not a big problem as it can be easily washed off with a mug of boiled bear shit. RV (unsettled): Good to know. Anyway, that’s not the question I intended to start the interview with. I wanted to bring your attention to a recent incident where a woman in Bihar, in India, was tied to a tree, subjected to having her hair cut off, and then paraded through a village all because the villagers believed that she was a witch. Mr. Makerighter, how would you make sure that terrifyingly appalling incidents like this don’t happen again? (Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fEI6qeOk0pY ) TM: I agree with you, it is appalling. This is yet another case of what can happen when dangerous and misleading superstitions survive in rural areas. Someone has to educate these villagers about certain facts. Fact number one: there are two kinds of witches- good witches and evil witches. RV: Huh?
- 194 TM: That’s right. Good witches are generally super sexy and give you an erection within ten seconds after seeing them. For e.g. Hermione from Harry Potter or Wendy the Good Little Witch. Evil witches on the other hand are ugly, have considerable facial hair, and smell like giraffe fart. For e.g. The Wicked Witch of the West or Hillary Clinton. RV: Ok… TM: Now, clearly, as we saw in the video, the woman who was beaten up is an evil witch. And the villagers are trying to rid her off her powers by tying her to a tree, beating her, and cutting her hair off. That’s where the lack of education comes in. Anyone who has been to a good university knows that the best and only way to disable an evil witch is by burning her nipples with an oxy-acetylene torch and then rubbing phlegm on them. And that’s how I would make it right. RV (disturbed): That’s…interesting, Mr. Makerighter. Let’s move onto another grave issue troubling humanity: Global Warming. How can we combat the big GW? TM: As we’re all aware, most of our problems are self-created. And once they get out of hand, like global warming has, it is each person’s responsibility to make amends and do what our previous generations failed to do. RV (surprised): You’re right. TM: And that’s why the only way to end global warming is to sodomize Al Gore. RV: I’m sorry, what? TM: Sodomize him. You know, get in there through the back door of Gore, pulverize it, leave some remnants, make it wider… RV: I get the point but how in the world would ass-raping the world’s most potent force against global warming prevent global warming? TM: I shall explain. Bear with me because I’m about to get a bit scientific. You see, when Al Gore’s rectum is torn apart, and contact is made with his colon, a green colored anti-toxic vapor, called goreboxide, is released through his nostrils. These vapors combine with the atmosphere and gradually begin to repair the damaged ozone layer. Pretty soon, before you know it, you got the glaciers back, you have your SUVs out on the road again, and Elvis comes out of hiding. And that’s how I would make it right. RV (stunned): I…think we better move on. Do you have any remedies for the growing unrest in Tibet and the friction between the Dalai Lama and China? TM: You know, Nelson Mandela once said “If people want freedom… RV (interrupts): Give it to them? They’ll take it no matter what? It’s a sign of growth? TM (puzzled): No, he said “If people want freedom, all you have to do is get a bloke to ride on a horse bare-naked.” And in this case, it’s the Dalai Lama who has to take up that task. RV (getting annoyed): So your solution to the Tibet-China face-off is to have… TM: The Dalai Lama ride bare-naked on a horse, that’s right. And that’s how I would make it right. RV: I’ll try and pass the message. Why don’t I ask you something about the young people of today? How would you help those youngsters who are bogged down by the pressure and stress of today’s world where they look around and see millionaires and billionaires who’re younger than them? How would you help those youngsters who consider suicide when the stress of daily life becomes too much to handle? TM: Well, that would completely depend on how they plan to top themselves off. RV: I don’t follow. TM (quizzical smile): I can’t help them unless I know what method they are planning to adopt, can I? If a kid is planning to hang himself, I can maybe help him out by getting some rope, maybe kicking the stool away from under his feet. Or, if slitting wrists is their passion, I can help them out by finding a strong vein or even get them really, really sharp stuff.
- 195 Swallowing blades, meanwhile, requires… RV (butts in): I think that’s more than enough help to last for sometime. Let’s talk about a longstanding predicament afflicting humanity: poverty. How would you eliminate a formidable affliction like poverty? TM: I think it’s very important to improve common people’s attitude towards their less fortunate fellow beings. Poor people are not to be pitied or felt sorry for. That’s not the treatment they deserve from their own fellow humans. You have to treat them with utter contempt and pure disgust. RV (upset): What are you talking about? TM: Clearly, the world would be a better place without poor people in it. We’re all thinking it. I wouldn’t administer a method as grave as executing people stricken with poverty but I would suggest chopping the poor men’s balls off and severely damaging poor women’s uteruses with a monkey-wrench. They just don’t learn that if you’re poor you’re not supposed to fuck. All they’re supposed to do is wait for death and not reproduce more problems for the rich people of the world, the people we really need. And that’s how I would make it right. RV (controlling her temper): Ok, Mr. Makerighter, we’ve almost come to the end of this very…intriguing…interview. I have one final problem to pose before you. A recent dreadful incident of a British teenage girl’s rape and murder, that took place in India, curled the skin of the Indian women, and women all over the world, and has once again sparked off a debate on the issue of how men perceive and treat women. The police’s attempt to cover up the rape and murder, in order to safeguard the “Goa is Paradise” myth, added to the issue of chauvinism, patriarchy, and the safety of girls and women convey a chilling message to young girls like me who would like to believe the world has become a more civilized place at least when it comes to gender equality. (Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yIHt6m31p4&eurl=http://thedailycolumns.wordpress.com/ ) TM (looks pained): Frankly speaking, when certain men commit such despicable acts, it fills me with shame as well. In fact, it’s a shame that all men, all over the world, have to share. There are certain things that need to be taught to young boys who are growing up to become the men of tomorrow. RV (impressed by TM’s concern): I believe you’re absolutely right. They need to be taught that all women deserve respect and… TM (nonplussed): Respect? What’re you talking about? RV: What do you mean what am I talking about? What are you talking about? What did you mean when you said there are things the boys of today need to be taught? TM: I was talking about the perfect way to dispose of a girl’s corpse after raping her thoroughly. That’s something young boys have to be taught and educated about so that when they grow up and start raping, they don’t get caught. It fills me with shame when I see rapists getting caught. One of the biggest reasons for the rising rape-and-murder-rate across the world is the discovery of the bodies of these brutally-raped girls. If the body is not found, it just adds to the missing-person-rate and that’s not that bad. RV (rising from her seat, completely pissed off): Ok, that’s it, Mr. Makerighter, enough is enough. This is completely inappropriate behavior on your part and I have to say I’m deeply offended by your remarks. Being a strong, self-respecting fifteen-year-old girl myself, I’m totally insulted by your comments. TM (leers at RV, licks his lips): Oh, you’re only fifteen. You know, you look a lot older
- 196 when you’re angry and screaming. I like a feisty girl. RV: That’s it. This interview is over. (Vatty Regina turns around to leave when suddenly, like a leopard pouncing on a gazelle, Makerighter lunges himself onto Vatty Regina. He pins her down using his strong arms and mounts her. Shaking one hand free, he tears open her skirt, unzips his pants, and commences the rape. After two minutes, he gets off the weeping Regina, pulls his pants up again, and gives an accomplished stretch of his arms. He then takes out a small bag marked “paint thinner” from his pocket and pours it on the helpless Regina’s tattered body. He then produces a matchbox out of his shirt pocket and lights a flame. He steps back, drops the lit match and watches the young body of Regina burn wildly into a pile of ashes. He waits until the fire goes out and then, using a dust-sweeper he takes out of his back pocket, brushes all the ashes into a plate he produces out of his side pocket. With a deep sigh, he lifts his head and pours the ashes into his mouth, guzzling the fleshy, charred remains of Vatty Regina. When every speck of her burned body is inside his stomach, he takes out a small bottle marked “bunny semen” from his shoulder pocket and downs it. He burps.) TM: And that’s how I would make it right.
- 197 (10th April 2008)
Paradise Fucked Up
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And Hooters. Unfortunately, on the second day, one of the Hooters girls caught a nasty pussy rash (God knows from where!) that turned her twat bluer than an Eskimo’s testicles. This upset the Almighty and filled his mind with a dread blacker than Beyonce’s asshole. He realized he had to eradicate the genital warts and all the blackness from the pure white paradise. So God created Africa. And the Lord of the Worlds, who after twenty minutes got tired of looking at girls with big tankers, felt like he needed more to satisfy his sybaritic inclinations. So, he the merciful, the compassionate created a few beasts to torture and kill. And God called the cow a mongoose and the rabbit an orangutan. Later, when he checked the encyclopedia he felt a bit daft and corrected himself. And God furiously declared, “Let no man ever actually use an encyclopedia except to act as firmaments hiding snogging lesbians in dusty libraries.” And the anachronistic Lord thought unto himself, “Now that I have mentioned the word man I better create a figure out of flesh to go with it.” At first God considered creating Man in his own image and after his likeness but when he really gave it some thought he found it a bit gay. And so, God walked up to a nearby bison, broke off its lengthy genitalia and created Man out of it. And the Lord, yet again speaking to himself loudly, solely for the purpose of narration in case textual records of his actions were ever going to be created in the times to come, bellowed into the atmosphere, “My creation, the Man, will have dominion over everything on earth including fish, fowl, foal, and fungi. Everything except his penis size. That’s pure destiny.” And God assigned the Man with the task of maintaining his gardens, his accounts, and getting a new couch. On the fourth day God detected inexplicable movements behind the green bushes he created. On parting the foliage, God discovered his favorite creation, the Man, tapping a chimpanzee’s red ripe ass. Fearing the wrath of the furious Lord, the chimp ran off holding its swollen anus while the Man stood guiltily before his heavenly father with a boner the size of a stillborn baby. And God said, “Man Alive! That’s mental. Even I’m an inch shorter!” And God pulled out a photograph of Michael Jackson and held it before the Man which deflated the Man’s engorgement. With a paternal chide and an attack of pox, God dismissed the Man from his sight warning him to focus on his duties rather than engaging in carnal sins. On the fifth day, after a good time at Hooters, the Almighty walked into his backyard to witness a sight that gnawed at his eyes like Paris Hilton on a scrotal sac. The vertically placed Man had before him a doubled over St. Gabriel choking on a ball-gag. Fearing the infernal rage of the compassionate Lord, St. Gabriel ran off, his wings stuck together, holding his swollen halo while the Man stood guiltily before the Supreme Creator with a spiked ring around his tumescence. And God said, in unbridled anger, “I assigned you specific tasks to complete. Why are you acting like a dick?” And the Man, hesitantly, spoke, “You’re the one who created me from a bison penis.” The Lord snarled at his most superior creation, struck him with a temporary attack of plague, and returned to his heavenly den. On the sixth day, God summoned his most intelligent creation, the Man, and announced that he had decided to present him with a mate. Apparently, many beasts, saints, and angels, including St. Peter had lodged a complaint that the Man was forcibly trying to gain access through their “Pearly Gates”. And God produced from a nearby cup a pair of beaver balls which he raised into the air and proclaimed, “These balls are really squishy.” And Lo, there was a hot naked ho with tits that stood up like a pedophile’s knob at a Harry Potter convention. And God said, “Take your mate into your bedroom and bonk her as you
- 198 please. And by the way that lamp by your bed is just a plain old lamp. It doesn’t have a hidden camera or anything. Now, go, bonk.” And the Man took his mate whom he named Wo-man (Whore of Man) and followed the word of God. The weeds in the garden began to grow, and the beasts went hungry as the Man, preoccupied with getting his hole, failed to meet the daily duties the Lord had demanded of him. God, receiving the news of his greatest creation’s negligence, even after providing him with a knockout chick created out of beaver balls, fumed like a Muslim fundamentalist who misheard a Math teacher saying “Profit and Loss” as “Prophet doesn’t floss”. The Almighty admonished the Man and banned him from engaging in any further exercises of his genitals for the day. The Lord reminded the Man that his new couch was coming in today and he required the Man to be highly alert and keep even a speck of dust off the brand new couch. As the seventh day approached its end, the merciful Lordy Lord returned after an agonizing and painstaking passage of time he spent at the Theater in Heaven watching the movie 10,000 B.C. The Almighty trundled into his bedroom in the cool of the night and witnessed a sight more shocking than an x-ray of Jay Leno’s head. There the Man was spreading the sweaty legs of his Whore and thrusting hard like a Celibate Hindu Swami on his deathbed. But what stopped God in his tracks was where the Man was boning the Woman: right on top of God’s brand new couch. The Man pumped away furiously as the Woman’s legs went higher in the air. Suddenly, the angry Lord’s voice rumbled through the room, “You are fucking on my couch even though I commanded you to take utmost care of it. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to sit on that couch?” And then the Man and his whore jumped off the stained couch and cowered in fear. The Man, in a quavering voice, said, “My dick beguiled me.” The enraged Almighty gave a scornful look at the Man and said unto him, “For directly disobeying me I curse you with premature ejaculation and early baldness.” The Lord turned to face the Woman and said unto her, “I shall greatly multiply your sorrows and your predicaments. You will not even get a proper desk job until you put a slimy smelly cock in your mouth and suck on it like a hungry vampire bat on Oprah Winfrey’s black tits.” The Man and the Woman glared at God before being officially banished from God’s sight. After he kicked them out, the Lord burned the couch to ashes using an inflammable mixture of goat urine and salamander cum. The next day God woke up to an ever-increasing din outside his palatial palace in Heaven. He walked over to his balcony and saw a large group of assorted media personnel lined outside his residence with huge cameras pointed at him. One of the reporters screamed through all the boisterousness, “What do you have to say against the charges of sexual harassment leveled against you by the Man and the Woman? Did you really harass them? What is your side of the story?” The Almighty shuddered in fear and ran back into his den, confused and conflicted by a flurry of queries. He knew there was only one thing he could do. The Almighty spoke into the phone, “I don’t know what to do. You have to help me out. Those ruthless carnivores are asking for an explanation from my side. What do I do? I can’t just tell them I banished those two horny freaks because they had sex on my couch. I’m the Almighty, for crying out loud.” On the other end of the line was God’s long time best buddy, Satan, an acclaimed writer of such TV shows as “I Love Lucifer”, “Everybody Loves Hot Lava”, and “The Ellen DeGeneres Show.” Satan thought for a while and responded with nothing but a soft hum. God, nervous like hell, said, “Satan, are you listening to me? I’m under siege here. What do I tell the damn press?” Satan pondered for a few more minutes before he said, “Well, I’m currently working on something for FOX Network. But I suppose I can let you use it to extricate yourself from this mess.” God, eager for a solution, exclaimed, “That’s great. Let me hear it.” Satan exhaled gently and said, “Ok, there’s this forbidden tree and a talking snake, right…”
- 199 (19th April 2008)
The Life of Karkodian: A Timeline
“Karkodian is you, Karkodian is me Karkodian is the man we all are, but pretend not to be”
(quote by Nelson Mandela’s bastard white child, Milky Mandela, 1991) August 27th 1950 -A lady notices a slight irritation between her legs and sees a puny, scarlet, icky figure lying upside down. She, her husband, and strangely, their plumber, decide to wash the scarlet, icky figure and raise it together. After raising it together a few feet above the ground it slips and falls onto the ground with only a little head injury (mainly because it had only a little head). The scarlet, icky thing is named Karkodian. January 11th 1952-Karkodian (or K) shows early signs of baldness on his tiny injurysustained head. April 23rd 1953-K falls into the toilet while attempting to get potty trained. October 12th 1957-K stops breastfeeding and changes to bottled milk. January 28th 1958-K goes back to breastfeeding when he finds bottled milk requires constant manual replenishment. February 10th 1958-K’s mother dies. Doctors diagnose it as a result of total lack of lactose and calcium in her body. K decides to write a poem as a tribute to his mother. March 5th 1959-K finishes the poem. It goes: “Mama, you’re dead.” June 19th 1959-K falls into the toilet again while going potty. December 25th 1959-K celebrates Halloween for the first and last time by dressing up as an overweight Jesus Christ. May 18th 1961-K’s father and the plumber officially get married. K is the best man and mysteriously finds himself next morning in bed with the minister who did the wedding. May 19th 1961-K doesn’t return the minister’s calls. July 27th 1963-K learns to read and write thereby causing a factual error in this piece where it was said earlier that he wrote an elegy for his dead mother when he was 9. September 13th 1964-K is chucked out of primary school when he misspells the word “Hello” as “P-A-R-A-P-S-Y-C-H-O-L-O-G-I-S-T”.
- 200 January 8th 1965-K looks to break into the business of peddling drugs on the street. He’s fired within 10 minutes after he started yelling, “Drugs! Get your hot hallucinatory drugs and cocaine here!” June 14th 1966-K has his first crush. It’s apple flavored. July 12th 1966-K joins the “Sodomy Survivors Support Group” and finds out that the head counselor is the minister whose calls he hadn’t returned. K gets the hell out of there. February 6th 1967-K finishes reading his first ever English book. He can’t stop talking about what a great novel “Mary had a little lamb” is. April 7th 1968-K joins the army but he quits when he finds out that the drill Sergeant is the minister whose calls he hadn’t returned. November 14th 1969-K participates actively in the protest and rallies of the Second Wave Feminists against the demeaning attitude of men towards women. November 15th 1969-K is beaten and thrown out from the group after he looks up the skirt of the President of the Protest group. March 22nd 1970-K learns how to pee standing up. August 16th 1970-K lands a job as one of the actors in a pantomime. August 18th 1970-K is fired from the job for being too taciturn. October 11th 1970-K watches his first porno flick. He can’t stop talking about how hot “The Powerpuff Girls” are. February 10th 1971-K writes a second poem in tribute to his mother’s memory. It goes : “Mama, you’re still dead.” July 14th 1971-K’s father and the plumber die in an unfortunate plumbing accident when his father’s pipe got stuck in the plumber’s basement. K is heartbroken. July 15th 1971-K gets over the heartbreak after he watches another round of “The Powerpuff Girls”. August 30th 1973-K gets a job as a ranger in a petting zoo. September 1st 1973-K quits when he finds out the place wasn’t exactly what he thought the name suggested. December 17th 1973-K’s excited about shopping for Christmas gifts but drops the idea when he realizes he has no friends or family or money.
- 201 March 25th 1974-K moves to Cali hoping to land a spot in some movie and make it big in Hollywood. April 19th 1974-A director promises K a chance to act alongside Woody Allen. April 20th 1974-K runs from the sets of the movie screaming when he finds out that Woody Allen is actually the screen name of a gay porn actor and the movie a porno entitled “The Powerbuff Boys”. February 16th 1975-K loses his virginity. February 18th 1975-K finds it under his couch. January 9th 1976-K takes a staunch decision to become a spiritualist. He takes a vow to strive for complete celibacy and holiness. January 30th 1976-K sacks the whole spiritualist thing when he finds out the word “celibacy” does not have anything to do with “celebrity”. February 10th 1977-K accidentally knocks down a blind girl, pretends it’s somebody else who knocked her down, helps her to her feet and manages to get his first ever date. February 11th 1977-K has a not so impressive first date when he takes the blind girl to an art museum. February 12th 1977-K gets the blind girl a looking glass as a gift to make up for the terrible first date. February 14th 1977-K gets dumped by the blind girl who’s freaked out after he gifts her a card written in Braille saying “Share a special VD with me.” July 16th 1980-K wakes up questioning his sexuality and sexual preferences after he finds Clint Eastwood steaming hot. August 4th 1980-K is still worried about it. September 11th 1980-Ditto. October 21st 1980-K stops worrying about it when he understands that every breathing thing in California finds Clint Eastwood steaming hot. June 13th 1981-K manages to get a job as a cabdriver. June 14th 1981-K relinquishes the job after he remembers he doesn’t know how to drive. November 28th 1982-K attains semi-baldness.
- 202 September 23rd 1983-K becomes so desperate for money he decides to mug somebody. K has a humiliating experience when the two people whom he mugs turn out to be nothing more than a pair of mannequins. March 5th 1984-K thinks he’s Hispanic. March 8th 1984-K realizes he’s neither exotic looking nor can he speak Hispanic. July 28th 1984-K thinks he’s black. August 2nd 1984-K realizes he can neither pull off an anorak nor does he have a big dick. October 17th 1986-K decides to take a sabbatical from his unemployed, misery-stricken life and joins a monastery. November 19th 1986-K attains completion of the process of balding. January 1st 1987-K comes out of the monastery a reformed man with newly defined goals and ambitions. He decides his sole ambition in life is to one day be able to pronounce the word ‘tsk’. April 4th 1987-K believes that he has attained the power to levitate. June 19th 1987-K becomes conscious of the real meaning of levitation and how it involves raising material objects using mental powers and not lifting stuff using only one hand. July 27th 1987-K tries to pronounce ‘tsk’ but cannot go beyond ‘t’. September 5th 1987-K tries to pronounce ‘tsk’ and ends up mispronouncing it as ‘parapsychologist’. January 1st 1988-K abandons the spiritual way of living after realizing that being a monk is not so different from being a monkey except monkeys get to eat a lot more bananas and do a lot more humping. May 7th 1989-K has a yearning to become a father. August 12th 1989-K runs out of adoption agencies to beg for a chance for him to be a father after the last one in the city rejects him for being a total loser. October 14th 1989-K decides to stop being a total loser and goes around the streets asking women if they want to get impregnated by him. March 29th 1990-K finally gets somebody who acquiesces to his request of helping him father a child. March 30th 1990-K runs out of the motel screaming when, on the night of the impending impregnation, he realizes that the willing candidate is the selfsame minister who had married
- 203 his father and the plumber and whose calls he hadn’t returned. K discards desires of fatherhood. February 1st 1991-K decides to cease his life of anonymity and force his way into the world of the famous. K makes up his mind to enter the Guinness Book of World Records. May 3rd 1991-K tries to produce the world’s longest fart but falls a good thirty minutes behind the record. September 17th 1991-K tries to generate the world’s loudest fart but falls short of the record by a dozen decibels. April 30th 1992-K competes for the title of the world’s baldest man but is disqualified when the judges adjudicate the single hair behind K’s ear as a head-hair. January 31st 1993-K builds the world’s largest toilet. K is informed by the Guinness Book authorities that the adjudication will be done in less than three weeks. February 9th 1993-K dies a tragic death when he falls into the toilet while going potty. February 19th 1993-K’s body is found floating on the toilet water alongside blackened pieces of K’s own turd when the Guinness Book people pay a visit to his apartment. February 23rd 1993 (Morning)-K is given a decent funeral by the Guinness Book authorities. K’s toilet, though found to be the biggest in the world, fails to make it into the Guinness Book as the judges have no proof that it was in fact made by K. February 23rd 1993 (Afternoon)-K’s ghost comes from the other side of the world to haunt the guests at the funeral party but flees with all its ghostly might when he finds out that the funeral is being conducted by the minister whose calls he hadn’t returned.
- 204 (25th April 2008)
Admissions Open to The Rape Academy
The Rape Academy of India (RAI), in coalition with its brother branch, the Indian Institute of Molestation (IIM), invites applications for Diploma Courses in Rape and Molestation, Sodomy and Murder, and also a 3 month certificate course in Hypocrisy. Applicants are requested to forcibly collect a pair of white panties from the assaulted body of a strange helpless girl and affix on it, using fresh semen, three attested copies of passport size nude photos of the helpless girl’s pubis and sent it to the address given below: To, Mr. Horny Man, The Rape Academy of India, Any street, Any city, Any where, All the time- 247365
About The Rape Academy of India The Rape Academy of India is an autonomous rape institution recognized by the Government of India. It comprises the Indian Institute of Molestation (IIM) and the Centre for Sodomy (CFS), two institutions highly regarded for their major contributions in the fields of physical harm and sexual violation of women. The Rape Academy of India is a professional rape centre which offers a variety of services in forced sex and assault of women and young girls. It is also the only institution in India that does not follow the regressive idea of affirmative action and gives an equal chance to rapists from all walks of life based purely on the merit of their raping. Courses 1) Diploma in Rape and Molestation: The R&M Course is a full time, post-graduate diploma programme. It aims at giving young and aspiring rapists a professional outlook on the highly competitive field of harming women. The Rape Academy arms the young dicks with the expertise and skills needed to break into the pussy of unsuspecting bitches and smoothly leave the scene without getting caught. Students will also be educated on the history of rape, some of the great names in the field of rape, and also the latest innovations that has made itself inevitable in the arena of rape. Many renowned politicians, police officers, and various media personnel will visit the Rape Academy from time to time and conduct various rape workshops and educational seminars on pussy-bashing. Electives: Amputee rape, Relative Rape, Date Rape, Moving Car Rape, Preteen Rape, and Gang Rape. Eligibility: Anyone with a dick can apply. Career Opportunities: Unemployed bum, Horny Loner, BPO Cab Driver, Pervert Neighbor, Lecherous Servant, Police Officer, Politician, Bollywood, Tourist Guide, Shack Owner, Teacher, etc.
- 205 2) Diploma in Sodomy and Murder: The S&M Course is a specific course meant for students that are strictly into ass ramming. It is designed to give a thorough knowledge in the field of ass raping and the subsequent slaughter of the victim. There is a strong emphasis on student performance evaluation through projects and practical assignments and on research work by the students themselves. The first semester provides a comprehensive perspective of asshole ripping and butt cumming; the second semester is project-based with hands-on production and execution to provide knowledge that is essential in the field of sodomy and murder. Highly esteemed members of several rape organizations like the ‘Blow Job Pirates’ and the ‘Salacious Indians Violating SExy North Americans’ visit the Academy to give lectures and narrate dick raising stories of real sodomy and murder. Electives: Tourist Sodomy, Roadside Sodomy, Public Sodomy, Workspace Sodomy, Backseat Sodomy, Dead body Sodomy, Bludgeoning, Stabbing, and Drowning to Death after Sodomy. Eligibility: Anyone with a dick or a sharp object can apply. Career Opportunities: Member of the Parliament, Government Official, Minister’s Son, Bollywood, Political Kingpins etc. 3) Certificate Course in Hypocrisy: A three month short-term course in saying one thing and doing another. Students will be taught to engage in several hypocritical activities like salivating after and secretly harassing secretaries and interns while publicly denouncing women who dress in anything other than a ten-layered sari and a full-sleeved blouse. Students will also be given training in lying through their teeth and acting like a complete shameless retarded motherfucker. They will also be given training to appear on news channels and compare cheerleaders to bargirls while jacking off on the side leering at the reporter’s cleavage. Motto of the Rape Academy: An unraped bitch is a terrible thing to waste. Some Useful links http://www.ibnlive.com/news/mentally-challenged-girl-raped-culprit-absconding/632363.html http://www.ibnlive.com/news/another-minor-raped-in-delhi-police-tightlipped/63291-3.html http://www.ibnlive.com/news/constable-friend-held-for-raping-minor-in-delhi/63914-3.html
- 206 (12th May 2008)
The 2008 Motherfucker Awards
Retards, fuckballs, and auto-fellators welcome to the most highly anticipated event of this decade- no this century, fuck it, this millennium- the 2008 Motherfucker Awards where the MFG (Motherfuckers Guild) honor the year’s most noted and celebrated motherfuckers. Now, without further ado, your host for the evening: Dyke Queen Ellen DeGeneres. (Muff Digger Ellen walks onto the stage wearing a man’s shirt and man’s trousers. She’s also sporting a lobster in her pants just to accentuate the bulge. Her fifty-year old crinkly face glows in the dimly lit hall like ET’s vagina) Ellen: Hey folks! Did I tell you why I hate the navy? (The desperate, lonely, brainless women in the audience go nuts and start applauding) Ellen (smiles annoyingly): Because I’m allergic to semen. (The audience falls silent) Ellen: Ladies, do you know what genre of music appeals to me the most? (The worthless bitches in the audience howl and scream again) Ellen (smiles annoyingly): I love Cuntry Music! By the way, did I tell you guys that my favorite band is the Dixie Chicks?! (The audience falls silent again) Ellen: I was walking my adopted dog the other day when I saw this old lady being mugged…and let’s DANCE!!! (Some gay pop song starts playing and Ellen dances her awkward irritating self into the crowd. She gets real close to the women in the audience, rubs on their boobs, takes whiffs of their scent, leers at them, and finally returns to the stage) Ellen: Dang, you girls smell real nice (smiles annoyingly). Guy in the Audience: For Christ’s sake! Stop trying to be funny you useless cunt! Get on with the fucking show you boring piece of clit! Ellen: Sir, you are a hater. You persecute me because I’m gay. You have no idea about the hardships I have to endure daily because I’m different. Guy in the Audience: No you fucking bitch, I hate you because you are annoying and your jokes are as funny as a paraplegic baby. And, fuck your hardships you cunt, you’re fucking Portia De Rossi. I wouldn’t mind getting brain tumor if it meant I could hit that bitch all night
- 207 till I fucking died. So shut the fuck up and get on with the fucking show before I shove my cock into your throat and choke you to death, you ass-eating dyke-bitch. Ellen (introspecting): I needed that. Now, fags, ladies and gentlemen to present the first award of the evening let me welcome the President of the United States, Mr. George Bush. (Bush walks onto the stage escorted by two well-oiled men wearing thongs) George Bush: Before I proceed with the announcement of the winner I would just like to make a few public service announcements. The global economy is being affected adversely by the greed and selfishness of all the people in India and China. It is because they eat like fat hogs that a food crisis exists in this world today. Some of them should just stop eating so our fat little tubs of shit, our bloated-ass children, can get a fourth helping. I would also like to state that the cause of the cyclones in Myanmar is the staggering number of farts that the Burmese people are producing. The little farts have coalesced into a big wind which subsequently became the cyclone. When you live in a global village you always have to think of other people as well. Anyhow, let me get down to business. For his role in sheltering his offspring from the predatory males of the world and for showering his child with so much love that it manifested itself into the unification of his spermatozoa with her ovum producing a bunch of zygotes over a period of twenty four years, the MFG is proud to present the 2008 Motherfucker Father of the Year award to the second most famous Austrian in the world after Hitler, narrowly pushing Arnold Schwarzenegger into third place, let’s give it up for, Mr. Josef Frtizl.
Mr. Fritzl could not make it to the show so Mr. Billy Ray Cyrus will be accepting the award on his behalf. Billy Ray Cyrus: All I want to say is that he truly deserves this award and I hope one day I can at least be half as good a dad as he is to his daughter/grand-daughter/wife/lover.
- 208 -
Ellen: Hey folks, do you know what my favorite holiday spot in the world is? (The people in the crowd yawn) Ellen: Va-China. (smiles her irritating smile) (The guy in the audience motions to his dick and suggests that he’s going to choke Ellen with it. Ellen quickly drops the idea to tell more jokes and moves on to the next award) To present the next award coming all the way from his own rectum, let’s welcome Abhishek Bachchan. (Abhishek walks onto the stage escorted by his wifey Aishwarya Rai Bitchan) Abhishek: Hello people. I was born rich but I pretend to be self-made. I act like shit but pretend to be the best. I beat my wife but pretend like I don’t. I have my head up my ass but pretend it’s just a hemorrhoid. But enough about me and my family, I’m here with my lovely wifey to present the 2008 Most Boring Blogger Motherfucker of the Year award. And the award goes to (reads the toilet paper in his hand) Mr. Amitabh Bachchan, my Pa!! I love you dad! You deserve it.
- 209 -
Even though my dad couldn’t be here because of a last minute business trip he had to take with Uncle Amar Singh he is however going to talk to us live via satellite. Go ahead dad. Amitabh: Thank you, Abhishek. I dedicate the award to you sonny. You’re the best. Abhishek: No, pa, you’re the best! Amitabh: No, sonny, you’re the best! Abhishek: No, pa, you’re the best! Guy in the Audience: Why don’t you guys get a room, you rich boring ass-clowns? Abhishek: That’s a good idea, pa. Let’s get a room, pa. (Suddenly Amar Singh appears on the screen dressed in just a towel) Amar Singh: Fuck off, sonny! Your papa’s pee-pee is only for me-me. (The screen goes off. Aishwarya Rai Bitchan leads a weeping Abhishek off the stage) Ellen: That shit was crazier than an episode of The Bold and the Beautiful. Anyway, so does anyone know what my two most favorite words in Hindi are? (Some members of the crowd begin slitting their own wrists) Ellen: ‘Dil’ ‘do’. Ha! Ha! Guy in the Audience: Die you cunt-eating bitch! Ellen: Hey, you’re not my family! Anyhow, to present the final award of the evening let me welcome wholeheartedly, Mr. Ajay Jadeja. Jadeja: I don’t beat around the bush. I’m as straightforward as they come. So, instead of wasting time I’m getting straight to the next award. (Reads off the teleprompter) This motherfucker sold out his country, his team and the game of cricket by fixing matches. Then, after hiding in a pit of shit for some time, he came back claiming innocence. He then dragged his miserable, bitter ass to Bollywood and tried to act in movies but came out looking worse than Madonna’s rotten old pussy after a gang-bang. He then took his faggot-ass to prancing competitions and embarrassed himself yet again. Finally, he drags his bribe-taking ass over to television, tries to be funny, salivates like a rabid dog after cute television presenters, and cusses players like Sachin Tendulkar and Shane Warne. Ladies and Gentlemen, the 2008 Motherfucker Jerkoff of the Year award goes to Ajay Jadeja…wait a minute…that’s me…what’s going on… Ellen: Now!
- 210 (A group of lesbians appear on the stage from several hideout spots and pin down Jadeja. They tie his hands and legs and let him cringe and groan on the ground) Jadeja: Who are you people? What do you want? Ellen: Don’t you understand motherfucker? This whole awards ceremony was just a ploy to capture your bitch-ass. Everyday you come on TV on one channel or the other running your shit-ass mouth fumbling and stumbling like a retarded motherfucker. You sit on your shitstained, match-fixing ass and pass judgments on other cricketers and their behavior like a fucking prude. TV viewers had enough and that’s why they hired me, the Dyke Queen to get rid of your shameless ass off TV forever. Now hold him up girls. (The lesbian thugs hold up a scared Jadeja who wets his pants. The dykes get him closer to Ellen. When he’s inches away from Ellen’s crotch Ellen pulls her trousers down.) Now push that motherfucker inside me, the whole of him. I’m going to swallow this jerkoff once and for all. Jadeja (screaming like a bitch): Let me go please. I want to go rub against Lekha Washington. Please, Ellen, your cunt smells like sour milk. I want to live. Let me go. I’ll fix India’s next match for you, please. (Ellen opens her legs wide, exposing her grand canyon like pussy as the lesbian thugs push Jadeja inside deeper and deeper. First his head disappears, then his arms, then his ass. Finally just his feet stick out of Ellen’s vagina and within seconds they too are pushed in. Ellen sticks her hand out and one of the lesbian thugs puke into it. Ellen smears the puke across her pussy and seals it shut. Muffled screams and groans are heard from within Ellen) Ellen (to the captivated audience before her): You might ask me if what I did was right. You might question if he really deserved a death by pussy. All I have to say to you is one thing: let’s DANCE!!!! (smiles her irritating smile and starts dancing)
- 211 (18th June 2008)
Kids Special: Nursery Rhymes Anichiated
johhny johnny yes papa. watching porn? no papa. hiding boner? no papa. telling lies? oh just fuck off you old bastard!
twinkle twinkle little scar how i wonder what you are right between the thighs you are almost like someone raped me in my sleep.
ba ba black slut have you any cunt? yes sir yes sir 10 bucks an hour once in your pussy, once in your mouth, and one time in that little hole right between your ass.
pussyrash pussyrash where have you been? I’ve been to your rectum to cause an infection pussyrash pussyrash what did you there? I gave some poor assfucker a good dose of herpes.
- 212 -
suck suck suck my cock gently down your throat merrily merrily merrily merrily give my balls a squeeze.
humped her dumped her shat on her face humped her dumped her gave her a taste all of her therapists and all of her family couldn’t stop the bitch from killing herself.
one two suck my dick three four lick my balls five six finger my ass seven eight open your mouth nine ten swallow my load eleven twelve now fuck off bitch.
Aids Aids go away little Johnny wants to fuck Aids Aids go away Go mess with some old fuck who’s going to die anyway.
- 213 (22nd June 2008)
I’ve heard from reliable sources that when Lord Rama went on exile he received dozens of emails and voicemails inquiring about his sudden absence from the epicenter of action. Now, I’m not boasting but when I stopped writing my blog - which many consider the gospel for journalists, news-enthusiasts, and frog-fuckers - for about a month I received about hundreds of emails. Admittedly, most of the mails had “enlarge your toothpick dick and drill your lover till she’s in a coma” as the subject but I knew they were personal emails sent by my fan(s) requesting me to live up to the title of my blog (it’s all about reading between the lines). I want my fan(s) to know that I do write daily but just not daily everyday. And the reasons for that are manifold. I could tell you about the time I dived in front of a speeding eighteen-wheeler to save a puppy who was crossing the road carrying nuclear weapons; or the time I had to deliver the five babies of a pair of conjoined twin sisters (who weren’t even pregnant) joined at the pussy; or even that time when I jacked off so hard that I was transported into a parallel universe where women vacuumed with their vaginas and wrote with their nipples. It’s true that all those things have, in part, eaten up the time I would have, otherwise, set aside to write my ‘poetry-like’ pieces to detoxify the minds of kids, adults, and necrophiliacs alike. However, the one thing that has preoccupied my mind for sometime, and stolen most of my time, is what happened on that one fine Wednesday a few months ago when I was in the toilet taking a shit. That day has been etched into the deeper layers of my consciousness for mainly two reasons. Number One: my crap smelled like butterscotch ice-cream on that day. And Number Two: God talked to me when I was doing number two. “Wipe thy ass for I have bestowed upon thou the task of beginning a new religion,” were his exact words. I spent ages interpreting God’s words and communicating with him. It took two days to be more precise, which was about twenty four hours more than what it took to start the other religions existing in this world today. I knew I was ready to show the billions of sinners in the world a brand new road to reach God. After having been assigned the task to save humanity, I was christened by the Lord himself as Prophet Butterscotch (I’m sure he had his reasons). And it was decided by the Almighty and seconded by me that the new religion of the world would be known as ‘Butterscotchism’. I, Prophet Butterscotch, shall now expound to the believers the salient features of the religion of ‘Butterscotchism’ which were narrated to me by the truly omnipresent Lord, while I was on the shitpot. Those who offer their lives entirely to the enrichment of the religion of Butterscotchism: 1) Must not have sex with women, men, she-males, he-females, dogs, cats, frogs, rabbits, birds, fish, reptiles, worms, or iPod nanos. 2) Can only engage in intercourse with iPod classics. 3) Must not waste even a single drop of semen. The surplus spooge should be saved using iTunes. 4) Must never depict through pictures, videos, or holograms the image of Prophet Butterscotch for he’s not very photogenic. 5) Are forbidden from eating beef, pork, mutton, roasted giraffes, or poultry for such meats house the devilish spirits of the world. 6) Are allowed to consume freshly cut tits of virgins and prostitutes. 7) Are disallowed from the act of self-pleasuring using the left hand or the right foot.
- 214 8 ) Must believe with immaculate conviction that if anything is in print then it’s true even if it’s the story of a ten-headed man fighting flying monkeys. 9) Must whole-heartedly accept that ending the lives of people whom you don’t even know for the sake of ‘Butterscotchism’ will get you a box-seat right next to God. 10) Are forbidden from any kind of relations, physical, meta-physical or emotional, with people outside the butterscotch-community. 11) Are to look upon those of vanilla, chocolate, mango, and pistachio origins as infidels who deserve a brutal death in the name of Prophet Butterscotch. Unless they are insanely rich. 12) Must convince themselves that talking filth is far worse than perpetrating rape, murder, or manipulation of laws. 13) Must give up the faculty of rational and independent thought. 14) Are banned from taking a joke. 15) Must keep circumcising their brains every five years. 16) Must tickle the testicles of a squirrel two times a day every Saturday and Sunday. 17) Must respect all women emotionally and physically. a) Not really. 18 ) Are forbidden from whistling or humming while taking a piss. 19) Are forbidden from letting out more than two farts during excretion. 20) Must, after their passing from this physical world, be strapped to a scooter and and rolled down a hill while relatives watch with their hands down their pants. It is highly pertinent that our world today which is corrupted by so many false religions and awful reality shows is cleansed quickly and effectively by the compassionate and only truthful religion of ‘Butterscotchism’. As the ultimate authority on ‘Butterscotchism’, I, Prophet Butterscotch, implore you to act now and think never. Spread the word of ‘Butterscotchism’ as much as you can and as far as you can. ‘Butterscotchism’ is a religion that feeds not on folklores or fiction but on the people of this world. Remember, Butterscotch is just not butterscotch without the nuts. Hail Hershey’s!
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Copyright © Aneesh 2007
Also visit: http://saddamshangover.blogspot.com to have a look at the only book that has managed to capture with surgical accuracy what really happened between George Bush and Saddam Hussein on the day of Saddam’s execution, what Shakespeare’s Hamlet was really all about, whether husbands and wives can ever co-exist peacefully, if Muslim women should really wear veils in Western Countries. The book introduces some of the world’s most annoying fictional characters like Forge Bush, Phoney Blair, Saddam Wussein and many others. For more details about the book contact the writer at firstname.lastname@example.org or email@example.com . Click below to read New Mystery Reader’s Review of the Book “Saddam’s Hangover + 3 other equally insane skits”. http://www.newmysteryreader.com/small_press_reviews.htm
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