Hi there readers!
We decided to buy a domain and move :) I now blog here
All my old posts have moved there as well, in case you wish to browse the archives. Do bookmark the new URL!
Thanks for visiting and as always, your opinions are welcome.
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Thursday, March 4, 2010
Hi there readers!
Sunday, February 7, 2010
You don't stop pumping,
It's a fair way to the peak,
That violent climax, the perfect carrot,
Dangling in front of your beaded brow,
You grip her harder, she whimpers,
You smirk, such is our love,
Your thighs scream for mercy,
Your heart reminds you of all that metal,
She knows you're inching closer,
The anticipation grows,
A little more, a little harder,
More intense than ever before,
That last drop of sweat drops off of your chin,
Onto her shimmying body,
And as that final gust wind greets you at the top,
You know nothing can wipe that grin off your face,
There are few things as orgasmic,
As a well earned downhill,
And fewer things I love more than Mother Gravity.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Note: Well mannered drivers please excuse.
I'm no swanky motorist, no gutsy over-speeder,
I just stick to the pavement, I'm the bottom feeder,
But when my butt is off that saddle and safely on my bed,
I curse and scream and choke your memory till it is cold and dead.
You know who you are, on your zippy bike,
Of all the torture in my head, you know what I'd really like?
To take your scruffy, grinning face and feed it to a ravaging mutt,
Take your charred exhaust pipe and stick it up you butt.
And you know who you are, Mr. Classy IT guy in a sedan,
Oh how many poseurs I've seen from your mighty clan,
How I'd like to pick you apart in debugger mode,
Parse you through a paper shredder into a million bits of code.
And you know who you are, SUV metro boy with a chick,
(By the way, we know you bought that Pajero to make up for the tiny dick)
If only your driving was half as good as your dressing sense,
I'd spare your manhood of the excessive violence.
And as you ignore my obscene rebel yell,
I know for sure that, with me, you too will burn in hell,
Just that your oh-so-pretty broads and better halves,
Will be ogling at my bulging quads and feeling up my calves.
Monday, January 4, 2010
With global warming and Copenhagen and white versus brown,
When I felt this squishy nose poking my butt,
And turned around to see this ecstatic mutt.
No, seriously, this was the happiest dog I ever saw,
And he began to jump and shove and lick and paw,
In canine worship he pranced around,
Till I grabbed his ears and held him to the ground.
But that tail wagged on, it only got faster,
With eyes that adored his new found master,
And a tongue that darted at his closest skin,
Love that I love remembering.
It took me some time to notice his unstable walk,
How he rocked and swayed like a sunflower's stalk,
In a gloomy, windy, monsoon mess,
That cheerfully shone nonetheless.
Turns out the dog as happy as a college kid with a beer keg,
Was actually missing his right fore leg,
What joy it gives me when I recall,
The 3 legged dog, who was blessed after all.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Spoiler: This blog entry does not rhyme.
I recently saw a trailer for a Bollywood movie called Pyaar Impossible. It has a generic beauty falls for the geek plot. I'm as interested in the movie as Berlusconi is in keeping a clean image. What caught my eye was the portrayal of the geek.
Now before I start cussing and ranting, you need to know that this story seems to be set in the US.
Ok, now to get things off my chest.
What is wrong with Indian geeks? Aren't we just as inadequate? Aren't we socially inept, sexually inactive, hormonally deprived, visually challenged, romantically maimed and uncool enough?
Because what ticked me off is that the protagonist in the Bollywood movie is the common American teen movie geek. He wears braces, own light sabers, quotes Darth Vader, reads comic books, can't get laid and shows all the symptoms of Asperger's. He isn't white, he's brown, just like his muse, the movie's target audience and the entire crew.
I can take all the American decadent filth these Bollywood nitwits throw at me, but this time they've touched something far, far more sacred than the billions of Gods we have in India. They've crossed the line. And I take great offence.
You don't touch the geek. We go watch your movies. We blog about them. We re-tweet reviews. We buy poster of Uday Cho...oh wait no one buys posters of Uday Chopra. And you find some no brain, gora cloned, teen movie stolen POS to take our place.
They obviously believe that the Indian geek isn't worth the on-screen attention. He has pubescent facial hair and smells of Lifebuoy. He wears Bata leather sandals and checked shirts from Erode. He wakes up early and takes a bus to IIT class. If he's lucky he gets a scooter. He mentally adds the digits on every vehicle's number plate because its fun. He graduates to head million dollar firms or start his own little revolution. He quits his job in a mid life crisis to teach poor children. He grows old to be opinionated, proud, even arrogant.
He is you, he is me, but he fails to capture the imagination of our film-makers.
I understand the movie isn't half as profound as a psychopath serial killer with schizophasia, but you pea brained directors need to understand that America has her stereotypes. We have ours. Dattani exploits the riots and communal tensions in his plays. He doesn't create them, he sees them. You don't need to force feed the junta with borrowed stereotypes. Look around.
And don't you ever, ever even touch the geeks. There will be blood.
Because one day, we will inherit the Earth.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
And the emperor's new values that I knit,
Supposedly with threads of silver and gold,
Is leaving my morality on a cryogenic hold.
I support equality for every gender,
As long as the women are submissive and tender,
And those that lie in between,
Wait! What? I'm sure there's no such gene.
I've saved the earth since I was 2 feet high,
With plays and concerts and such hue and cry,
And being the pampered beta or beti,
I have a carbon footprint of a super-sized yeti.
Oh but I've done so much for the little ones!
I've bought books and pencils for daughters and sons,
Of the poor and homeless and despondent and unpaid,
While my mom overworked our 14-year-old maid.
I'll grow up to be great and save my land,
In 20 years it'll be clean, shiny, honest and grand,
But since I'm a fucking hypocrite,
I'll steal for now and trash it just a little bit.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Figuring out what the boss means by deliverable,
Dazed and confused you don't keep him in the loop,
Because he asks you for agenda and a focus group,
You want more money, holidays and you're pissed,
But you shut up because you're the product evangelist,
They keep telling you "We will downsize",
So you get back to work and prioritize,
And every new client's brief in your luck,
Leaves you saying what the fuck?
If only they'd put it in simple words,
And not in literal versions of recurring decimal imaginary surds,
You'd probably have a clue of the work to be done,
But then how would the MBAs have some fun?
No, you must stick to the vague business lingo,
And in the process suck your boss' dingo*.
Then in the bar you meet this lovely blue eyed lady,
And tell her you market satisfaction solutions which are consumer ready,
Till your jaw is viciously attacked by her daddy's boot,
Because he thought you were a male prostitute,
So you retreat to a corner, speechless and weak,
But promise to master this alien corporate speak,
Because the better butt and sweeter titty,
Prefer Six Sigma men with enhanced productivity.