So its that time of the week when I spout nonsense on this page. And todays little nugget of a rant is about idiotic friends who used to be normal till they hooked up with random people you cannot get along with. These worse halves, or significantly bad others, so to speak, come in different flavors. Since some of these are unique to genders, they will be presented as such:
1. Mrs. "You never visit us"
Typically female, this is the ever so unpopular chick who manages to snag a popular guy, and then proceeds to assume that all his friends are her friends. The trouble: there is a *reason* why she was unpopular. Maybe she was just a whiny annoying snitch, maybe she didn't like to hang out with all the bad guys because they drink, maybe she's just plain hideously ugly. For whatever reason, she will proceed to take liberties with his friends making statements like, "you are such a good friend of ours. Why do you never visit?". The cause, my lady, is you. With these types, things are okay, till the mysterious process of marriagification eventually causes your friend to behave like her.
2. Mr. "I'm better than you"
This is a male type. Typically, a loser who is married to your cool female friend - the one whose panties you won in a wager at a bar. The guy suffers from perpetual insecurity caused by a belief that he's not good enough for her. Which he is not. To make it worse, your cool friend, instead of cursing her utter lack of judgement about the fool, actually gushes about him in his absence. Socializing with these dudes is a traumatic affair where you are constantly challenged to drink more, talk louder, drive faster/better. If this happens to be a loser who also makes lot of money, incomes will be discussed and cool addresses will be flaunted. And all the while your friend gazes adoringly at him as if he is a Greek God.
3. Mrs "Look at me i'm so pretty"
Female. Attention seeking. Attention seeking behavior not restricted to the husband. She will openly flirt with you, while the husband, your friend looks on. Things can get very embarassing. The other day, one of these types kept commenting that the mole on the tip of my nose was very cute. Reason: "I have a mole on the tip of my nose too, and I'm cute". These ones will accompany their hubbies to the pub where you and the bloke used to hang out before he terminated his effective life by marrying the chick. They will proceed to hog the attention of all the males around. It gets worse when he looks at her adoringly even as she manages to completely disgrace herself. You can only drown your annoyance in pints of beer.
4. Mr. "Perfect as an antique book-case"
An overachieving male, very successful. Cloyingly nice, and he treats your female friend like a princess. The only problem: the guy is about as interesting as the antique book case that he and your friend lovingly imported from italy. Interesting in a "Oh, here's an antique book case" kind of a way, but dead as far as conversations go.
5. Mr. Hawk
Male chauvinist pig. Expects your friend to manage her career and the house at the same time. And heaven forbid if she makes more money than him. Basically an idiot. Should be shot. Gets worse when your female friend rationalizes it by uttering the dreaded "C" word: Compromise.
6. Mrs. woolly mammoth
Female. Ugly. Fat. Hairy. To make it worse, she is not even a nice person. Tried to convince your buddy - a very decent bloke, that you are the root of all evil in the world. Later, when he was sufficiently domesticated, prohibited him from meeting up with the buddies. Eventually succeeded in sucking all the life force out of the guy. Proceeded to dance on his lifeless body.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Friday, November 25, 2005
Radha
Disclaimer: This is based on a true story. If you do not believe in ghosts, it is not my problem.
Deep inside a national park in Central India is the tribal village of Belkund. Belkund means the pond of the Bel tree, named so for obvious reasons. The pond itself is located at the base of a cliff: it is a watering hole frequented by tigers, deer and other big game. at the edge of the cliff is a dak bungalow that has seen better days. big verandahs, high ceilings, faded black and white photographs of british officers proudly posing with their trophies. electricity is yet to come to these parts.
A small path leaves the dak-bungalow and switches back and forth down the face of the cliff, leading to a wildlife observation platform disguised amongst the branches of a bel tree. a brief note on the bel tree is in order here. Its leaves are believed to have healing properties, and find use in both hindu religious practice, and in traditional medicine. It is also the preferred abode of ghosts.
Late one summer night, he sits up, ghost-like, hoping to catch a glimpse of a tiger that is known to frequent the pond. Its a warm night and he dozes off. He is woken up by the soft clinking of anklets. ordinary anklets of the kind that are frequently worn by tribal women in india.
It's too late for any of the villagers to come down to the pond, and walking around at night is unadvisable. Unable to see well enough in the light of the half moon, he scrabbles down the rungs of the ladder, only to hear footsteps up in the tree. Scared and disturbed, he heads back to the bungalow. He turns around the first switchback and realizes that the footsteps are following him. He runs. All 500 or so feet up the cliff face, chased by the unseen sound.
Gasping, he reaches the bungalow. The door to their room opens into the verandah, and he knocks on it, as he hears the approaching sound of footsteps across the stone floor. Thankfully S, his hiking companion groggily opens the door just in time; he shuts the door and bolts it.
"What happened?"
"Shhhh..."
For he can hear the footsteps in his room. S turns and looks around, wide-eyed, terrified. As they cower under the blankets, she walks the room, unseen, given away only by the sound of her anklets, and the occasional self-satisfied soft laugh.
The next morning, they relate the incident to the caretaker of the dak-bungalow, a wizened old man of seventy years. His father had been the caretaker of the bungalow, and before him, his grandfather. It is a familiar occurence for him, he says, happening only to single males who stay in the dak-bungalow. In any case, he knows her.
She would have been his great-aunt. In nineteen twenty six, she was a girl of eighteen. His name was wilson, an englishman five thousand miles away from home, in the sweltering jungles of the Central Provinces. He had raped her, and she had jumped off the cliff to hide her shame.
They stay away from people, the undead do. They prefer the wild, and in cities, the back alleys and the hidden nooks and crannies. But they will occasionally drop by and make their presence felt, as a gentle reminder that there is more to the world than meets the eye.
Little did he realize that fateful night that she would fall in love and, unknown to him, decide to be with him. She menaces the women he wants to be with and he wonders why he remains single. Little does he realize on the lonely nights when he is woken up by the sound of her footsteps and her laughter, that he has an unseen lover.
Deep inside a national park in Central India is the tribal village of Belkund. Belkund means the pond of the Bel tree, named so for obvious reasons. The pond itself is located at the base of a cliff: it is a watering hole frequented by tigers, deer and other big game. at the edge of the cliff is a dak bungalow that has seen better days. big verandahs, high ceilings, faded black and white photographs of british officers proudly posing with their trophies. electricity is yet to come to these parts.
A small path leaves the dak-bungalow and switches back and forth down the face of the cliff, leading to a wildlife observation platform disguised amongst the branches of a bel tree. a brief note on the bel tree is in order here. Its leaves are believed to have healing properties, and find use in both hindu religious practice, and in traditional medicine. It is also the preferred abode of ghosts.
Late one summer night, he sits up, ghost-like, hoping to catch a glimpse of a tiger that is known to frequent the pond. Its a warm night and he dozes off. He is woken up by the soft clinking of anklets. ordinary anklets of the kind that are frequently worn by tribal women in india.
It's too late for any of the villagers to come down to the pond, and walking around at night is unadvisable. Unable to see well enough in the light of the half moon, he scrabbles down the rungs of the ladder, only to hear footsteps up in the tree. Scared and disturbed, he heads back to the bungalow. He turns around the first switchback and realizes that the footsteps are following him. He runs. All 500 or so feet up the cliff face, chased by the unseen sound.
Gasping, he reaches the bungalow. The door to their room opens into the verandah, and he knocks on it, as he hears the approaching sound of footsteps across the stone floor. Thankfully S, his hiking companion groggily opens the door just in time; he shuts the door and bolts it.
"What happened?"
"Shhhh..."
For he can hear the footsteps in his room. S turns and looks around, wide-eyed, terrified. As they cower under the blankets, she walks the room, unseen, given away only by the sound of her anklets, and the occasional self-satisfied soft laugh.
The next morning, they relate the incident to the caretaker of the dak-bungalow, a wizened old man of seventy years. His father had been the caretaker of the bungalow, and before him, his grandfather. It is a familiar occurence for him, he says, happening only to single males who stay in the dak-bungalow. In any case, he knows her.
She would have been his great-aunt. In nineteen twenty six, she was a girl of eighteen. His name was wilson, an englishman five thousand miles away from home, in the sweltering jungles of the Central Provinces. He had raped her, and she had jumped off the cliff to hide her shame.
They stay away from people, the undead do. They prefer the wild, and in cities, the back alleys and the hidden nooks and crannies. But they will occasionally drop by and make their presence felt, as a gentle reminder that there is more to the world than meets the eye.
Little did he realize that fateful night that she would fall in love and, unknown to him, decide to be with him. She menaces the women he wants to be with and he wonders why he remains single. Little does he realize on the lonely nights when he is woken up by the sound of her footsteps and her laughter, that he has an unseen lover.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Oooo Oooooo!
I'm scared. Scared of those of you who threaten me with bodily harm for not putting up posts. Besides i like to keep my dear readers happy. So here's a new one on how you can have fun at interviews. This is for all those of you who have a fire in their belly (no, not the kind that comes from eating too much spicy food) and are ambitious and motivated and other such things.
Oh, and don't feel too proud. You may have your zeal for life, but we have our own private rain-cloud that follows us where-ever we go, and continually dumps water on our heads. Occasionally we also have little private flashes of lightning that singe our hair and peals of thunder that perforate our eardrums.
So here is the secret to successful (depending on your definition of the word) interviews:
a. Go for the cute seeing-eye doggie angle. Nothing makes an interview more successful than being imaginarily blind and having an imaginary seeing-eye dog. Make sure the dog is large, friendly and enthusiastic, you know the kind of dog that goes and immediately licks people's faces? Walk into the room with your dog. Don't let him get overly friendly, though! We don't want to annoy the interview panel, do we?
If the dog gets too excited, reassure them that it's friendly. And make sure the damn beast sits down when you start talking. Curb the dog if he gets fidgety. "Down Boy!" and "I *told* you to *sit*" are two commands that work remarkably well on imaginary seeing eye dogs. Trust me. I know.
b. Yeee-haww! Interview panels like cowboys. Not just when they are gay, but even otherwise. Wear your favorite ten-gallon hat, hip-hugging wranglers and cowboy boots with spurs. Gallop into the room, Monty python style (making clip-clop sounds with your mouth while hopping into the room). Make sure your horse is tied up and fed before the interview. Fuss over him. Horsies like being fussed over.
c. If you are a bloke, aim to seduce. Wear a dress. A Sharon-Stone-in-Basic-instinct kind of dress. Move your chair away from the table so that your panel has a good view and then repeatedly cross and uncross your legs. From time to time, keep mouthing the "You know I'm not wearing panties" line.
d. If you are a chick, try the 'Happy Kielbasa' trick.
It works wonders, but requires a bit of preparation. First look at this picture. Get the point? The sausage is taped to your thigh at one end, the other end is free and tied to a string. The string goes behind your back over the shoulders, down your sleeve and into your hand. A tug on the string, and there is a distinct bulge in your trousers/skirt. All you need to do now is to think of a suitable target in your interview panel. Preferably choose an old geezer. Everytime you look at him, pull the string, and let the bulge show. When ever you look away, let go. It works trust me. A friend of mine tried this and they made her a spot offer. Apparently the head guy had a thing for alternately- gendered individuals. I swear I am not making this up.
Or maybe I am.
e. If you sense negative energy in the room, tell the panel you want to hold a communion. Hold hands. Make everyone hold hands. Then recite this prayer, "I can see that the presence of the dark lord has touched the people in this room. May the power of Satan be with me. *Behold* his servant cometh in all his glory!!", as you turn into a demon with horns and a forked tail. Proceed to tear their hearts out and leave them as sacrificial offerings at the altar of your dark master.
Dude, that's really f***ed up!!
Oh, and don't feel too proud. You may have your zeal for life, but we have our own private rain-cloud that follows us where-ever we go, and continually dumps water on our heads. Occasionally we also have little private flashes of lightning that singe our hair and peals of thunder that perforate our eardrums.
So here is the secret to successful (depending on your definition of the word) interviews:
a. Go for the cute seeing-eye doggie angle. Nothing makes an interview more successful than being imaginarily blind and having an imaginary seeing-eye dog. Make sure the dog is large, friendly and enthusiastic, you know the kind of dog that goes and immediately licks people's faces? Walk into the room with your dog. Don't let him get overly friendly, though! We don't want to annoy the interview panel, do we?
If the dog gets too excited, reassure them that it's friendly. And make sure the damn beast sits down when you start talking. Curb the dog if he gets fidgety. "Down Boy!" and "I *told* you to *sit*" are two commands that work remarkably well on imaginary seeing eye dogs. Trust me. I know.
b. Yeee-haww! Interview panels like cowboys. Not just when they are gay, but even otherwise. Wear your favorite ten-gallon hat, hip-hugging wranglers and cowboy boots with spurs. Gallop into the room, Monty python style (making clip-clop sounds with your mouth while hopping into the room). Make sure your horse is tied up and fed before the interview. Fuss over him. Horsies like being fussed over.
c. If you are a bloke, aim to seduce. Wear a dress. A Sharon-Stone-in-Basic-instinct kind of dress. Move your chair away from the table so that your panel has a good view and then repeatedly cross and uncross your legs. From time to time, keep mouthing the "You know I'm not wearing panties" line.
d. If you are a chick, try the 'Happy Kielbasa' trick.
It works wonders, but requires a bit of preparation. First look at this picture. Get the point? The sausage is taped to your thigh at one end, the other end is free and tied to a string. The string goes behind your back over the shoulders, down your sleeve and into your hand. A tug on the string, and there is a distinct bulge in your trousers/skirt. All you need to do now is to think of a suitable target in your interview panel. Preferably choose an old geezer. Everytime you look at him, pull the string, and let the bulge show. When ever you look away, let go. It works trust me. A friend of mine tried this and they made her a spot offer. Apparently the head guy had a thing for alternately- gendered individuals. I swear I am not making this up.Or maybe I am.
e. If you sense negative energy in the room, tell the panel you want to hold a communion. Hold hands. Make everyone hold hands. Then recite this prayer, "I can see that the presence of the dark lord has touched the people in this room. May the power of Satan be with me. *Behold* his servant cometh in all his glory!!", as you turn into a demon with horns and a forked tail. Proceed to tear their hearts out and leave them as sacrificial offerings at the altar of your dark master.
Dude, that's really f***ed up!!
Sunday, November 13, 2005
How to make effective presentations
Here's an almost foolproof plan for making excellent presentations:
1. Go in with a sheep and a goat. For effect, have pens ready to hold them, one to the left of the audience and the other to the right. If someone asks a question, say:
"All questions will be directed to.."
>gesture towards the sheep< "My sacrificial Lamb or.." >gesture towards the goat<
"My scapegoat"
2. Go in carrying two baskets: One full of deadly cobras, and another with a couple of mongooses (point of debate: is it mongooses or mongii?), and a troupe of dancers. At the start, release your cobras into the audience till they bite them and half the audience is dead. Once this is accomplished, release the mongooses (or mongii, if you please). They will kill and eat up the snakes. In the end you are left with half the audience and a couple of mongooses (or mongii, if you please) scurrying about the room.
How does one get rid of the mongooses, you ask?
Hmm. Thats where the dancers come in.
Why dancers, you ask?
To seduce the mongooses back into their baskets, what else?
acknowledgements to friend W for contributing to this madness. Coming up: Tips on interviewing in style
1. Go in with a sheep and a goat. For effect, have pens ready to hold them, one to the left of the audience and the other to the right. If someone asks a question, say:
"All questions will be directed to.."
>gesture towards the sheep< "My sacrificial Lamb or.." >gesture towards the goat<
"My scapegoat"
2. Go in carrying two baskets: One full of deadly cobras, and another with a couple of mongooses (point of debate: is it mongooses or mongii?), and a troupe of dancers. At the start, release your cobras into the audience till they bite them and half the audience is dead. Once this is accomplished, release the mongooses (or mongii, if you please). They will kill and eat up the snakes. In the end you are left with half the audience and a couple of mongooses (or mongii, if you please) scurrying about the room.
How does one get rid of the mongooses, you ask?
Hmm. Thats where the dancers come in.
Why dancers, you ask?
To seduce the mongooses back into their baskets, what else?
acknowledgements to friend W for contributing to this madness. Coming up: Tips on interviewing in style
Friday, November 04, 2005
on being reality-challenged
A gloomy evening, grey skies and people burrowed deep into their Manhattan-black overcoats and jackets make my heart sing with schadenfreude. Happiness is relative. In a world where everyone was sad, a chronic depressive grump like me would be the happiest person around.
There are seventeen of us who share this body. It is a singularly warm feeling, in a very "Let us all hold hands and sing Kumbayah" kind of a way. In a world whose sole purpose seems to be to betray, we have found the perfect solution to loneliness. Even when there is no other human being to talk to, you can talk to the voices in your head. Or laugh. Like I just did. The voices - they said something funny. You will find out what, eventually. Or maybe not.
I find the word "insane" offensive, for it has connotations of something being wrong. I'm not insane, I'm just reality-challenged. Don't you think it strange that society considers "sane" to be normal and "insane" to be abnormal? I mean, just look around you. Do you think there is any semblance of sanity in what's happening around this place?
Yanyway, welcome, all of you. Those of you who know me from my previous avatar can expect some more of the madness here. To those of you who are new, all of us welcome all of you and are pleased to make your acquaintance. And rest assured, over time, you will get know who we are.
ps: Many thanks to Megha, the template queen, for all the help.
There are seventeen of us who share this body. It is a singularly warm feeling, in a very "Let us all hold hands and sing Kumbayah" kind of a way. In a world whose sole purpose seems to be to betray, we have found the perfect solution to loneliness. Even when there is no other human being to talk to, you can talk to the voices in your head. Or laugh. Like I just did. The voices - they said something funny. You will find out what, eventually. Or maybe not.
I find the word "insane" offensive, for it has connotations of something being wrong. I'm not insane, I'm just reality-challenged. Don't you think it strange that society considers "sane" to be normal and "insane" to be abnormal? I mean, just look around you. Do you think there is any semblance of sanity in what's happening around this place?
Yanyway, welcome, all of you. Those of you who know me from my previous avatar can expect some more of the madness here. To those of you who are new, all of us welcome all of you and are pleased to make your acquaintance. And rest assured, over time, you will get know who we are.
ps: Many thanks to Megha, the template queen, for all the help.
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