Wednesday, January 31, 2007

DRUNKEN CONVERSATION Part- I


My journalism background has endowed my blog with certain editorial standards, which are going to be temporarily suspended. What follows is an intellectually creative enterprise, devoid of everything I stand for: Freedom, liberty, equality... ok fine political corrected-ness, intellect, rock n ' roll, humour, Italian food, sober sanity, depth and so on.....


Before all of you start flagging my blog, the song refers to PP - who is racist to the core and is extremely distrustful of Parsee men; and not Miss Jane Goody, though I have to admit she was the true inspiration... and you too Snoop Dogg...
I so wanna fuck you... (you already know)


me: main jaa raha tha sabzi mandi
raste me mili Shilpa Shetty
PP: usne mujhe pakadai ek peti
me: peti me thi Jane Goody
PP: jiski hai kismet footi
me: all the people say
racist moti
PP: ho gayi thi woh thodi bhoody
me: racist moti
all my doggie say
PP: akal hai iski K.H.O.T.I
me: racist moti
Anki feat sleepy PP
PP: uh uh
me: sonotic records
all u hot mamas n mamis
racist moti
chachas love racist moti
she got a black booty
PP: bum chiki bum bum piki piki
jispe padegi mero jootii
me: gappa bas
PP: gheun takkkkkkkkk
ohhh mikeee tum kyaa keh rahe ho... mujhe samajh nahin aa raha


(The rights to this song are reserved by "My Shrink Died", eventhough we forgot to inform the rest of the band members about our existence two years ago. All litigations and fuck offs should be addressed to PP as she is the racist moti and hence solely liable for all damages.)

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

THE MONSTERS ARE COMING


Laziness and eternal love for your own mattress can make life extremely comfortable or add your name to the list of Delhi’s road accident causalities. I wished to catch some sleep at 5 am and decided its better I head home rather than sleep in Pamposh Enclave. The moon was orange and empty Delhi roads were an open invitation to the sleepy girl.

I can’t stand to fly... I am not that naive
skip
I had a job... I had a gurlll
skip
She's my girl... she’s my Supergirl
skip
When you try your best... but you don’t succeed
skip
So long ago, I don't remember when... that's when they say I lost my only friend
Well they said she died easy of a broken heart disease...


Perfect song for this cold-cold morning and the nice white smoke; it’s almost heaven.

And now, the little white disfigured casper-like foggy spirits started flying towards my headlight - a little too frequently.

But me and Cinderella... we put it all together
wecan drive it home... with one headlight


Now a mob of fog-ghosts started colliding with the car and I knew it was time to inaugurate the fog lamps, which were the sole difference between a Zen VX and LX.

If only I knew where the switches were.

I swear on swear words, I will never dare to drive through a million quintals of cotton.

Another ghostly white creature appeared - a confident Mother Dairy milk truck. I decided to follow it, hoping it will hit someone or something before I do. Mother was always right - milk is good for the bones.

And she'd say... It's all right... I got home late last night
but I'm a Supergirl... and Supergirls just fly.

Skip.

Epilogue

I started running towards the car parked at the end of the dark road. It really was raining. But, these drops from heaven were unable to drench me in smiles and careless whistling. Today, they were stinging spines, invisible to my eyes,
crystal orbs sticking precariously to the panes. The bigger ones were fated to roll down and disappear in a rubbery mass, but not before taking the smaller drops with them.
Why must I hate the rains when I love it so much?

Saturday, January 27, 2007

THINGS IN MY ROOM I HAVE NEVER USED

A pair of purple rimmed spectacles, green bathing tub, brown wooden clock, sun-screen in a blue-capped tube, gorgeous pink designer shoes, the silver home-theatre and a red heart.

Thursday, January 25, 2007

FREEDOM TO THINK

I wrote a massive commentary on a misadventure called Iraq, but then I thought...instead...

"Let me add some quality humour to this webpage."

Ta---daaaaa

Read this
editorial from Times of India ... it was funny four years ago... and it just gets better with each passing day.

Trusting in the sanity and restraint of Saddam Hussein is not an option; he is evil
Date :31 Jan, 2003

One last thing... next time you read about an Afzal going to the gallows... think.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Just say you’ll wait… you’ll wait for me…

While eating Senor Pepito without any salsa, I realised, Coldplay are the Backstreet Boys of this millennium and Indie rock has become fashionable.Lemon tree always made me take a long over-due shower and so I deleted it and somehow I love everything that is Irish. There really was something I had to say when I started writing this post.

17 minutes have passed… can’t remember… so will continue this monologue…

Fuckin’ blogger won’t let me change my blog ‘header’… me… the software-retard designed a brilliant new header 33 days ago to replace that silly as hell werewolfish moon… but nooooooooooo…first I must get a diploma in JAVA and html and then my blog can get rid of the “UNDER CONSTRUCTION” stigma... F5- F5- F5!!!

Umm… an opportunity to be a production assistant for a short film has presented itself and so this girl is hoping things work out... How…

“Baujeeee… sirf 15 din… don’t worry the wilderness of Chattisgarh is as safe as… a condom… or not.”

“Jaa beta jaa… jee le apni zindagi… or not”

Yipeee… my red back-pack, cheeseballs and a pen… here I come.

or not

Fuck… this is not a journal… back to work… or not

Monday, January 22, 2007

SLUMBER TALES

So she ran up the stairs and kept running… running… running… scaling… crawling…
It was an unending flight and she hoped it would lead to heaven, but her home being hell on earth, could not be the chosen gate to paradise, or else, all humanity will die of god’s treachery and the crusader will be the sole Samaritan alive.

Ok, maybe she is insanity but the gypsy said lunacy was far more prevalent than the survey showed. So let’s leave her in peace while she chases the end of an infinite vertical and we watch Angelo snuggle in another’s arms. This must be a dream or else motherhood is overrated, but then again, a dog’s life is better than yours.

Once again she was a little girl with idle afternoons spent conjuring a bloody rivalry between the left and right hand’s fingers. Dexterity and pity for the underdog demonised the right fingers; palm included, to be the epitome of evil, and the left one’s simply hid beneath the white quilt, waiting for yet another battle. For dramatic variety, the rest of the body was often invited to be a neutral beast, pretending to sleep, but waiting to feast on its own fingers.

Charity begins at home, but that includes the bathroom as well, so the cracked plastic mug transformed into a watering hole, quenching thirsty pebbles encrusted in the cemented floor. Often the water supply was deliberately plugged by the municipality of her sadistic index finger and soon the feudal stage would be drowned in the pleas of static grey, cream and white pebbles, till the liquid pressure directly proportional to height, forced the finger away and our stoned mortals were drenched in holy water.

Red corridors and dark rainy afternoons were the only times education was attractive, as scholars were driven away by the howls of enthusiastic slaves, who ran towards a growing muddy squelch. The fairer ones contemplated if the white bras will give away their transparent secrets, only to be corrupted by hormonal interference and they cheered the worthless locker room rejects.

Alas, the innocent tales of freedom and potato chips replaced themselves with wet, sultry encounters of the forbidden kind, and yes, the stairway ended into a blast of chrome.

Storm caught in her hair
All her rocks were exposed
He did not wait long enough
As twilight claimed another hero
Heaven was but the empty lighthouse

Saturday, January 20, 2007

LAST DANCE WITH MARY JANE

“Some embrace death to sprout again
But most forever in dust remain”

- Ghalib

A woman does not know the art of love, she only knows deceit.
Someone said nine angels breathed their last, such was Sahibaan’s beauty.
So did Mirza.
If their love was intense; was jealousy, wrath and obsession far behind?
As he rested his eyes, she broke the arrows in his quiver.
When they came for him, he died unarmed.
She’ll come back to him.
Slaughtered by a sword in her own hands.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

IT'S NICE TO KNOW YOU WERE THERE

( http://angelreich.deviantart.com/)

a lifetime of impossible affairs
will not be enough to learn

when I am everything you want
the reason for you to breathe

should I wait for you to come

the mistakes were made before
love was just a song you sang

I will never be free to leave
and break your heart again

bear me scream your name tonight

(In the memory of dysfunctional lovers)