When E! makes a list of the 101 most shocking moments in entertainment and chooses to place Michael Jackson's burning hair ahead of the day the music died you know that the world is no more a safe place to live in. Well, when you start watching E! you know that, safe or unsafe, you are no longer sane enough to live in the world.
Good for me then that I have neither been sane nor been alive. But more about that later. Partly because I like keeping people guessing. Mostly because I have no idea how to go about reasoning that. As a friend of mine once told me after he made a grotesquely unbelievable statement, "I have said it. I will think and tell you how it can be." And voila what do you know! He actually managed to give me a plausible explanation. Don't expect that of me, though.
Whoa! That was my first non-woman quote on this blog outside of the person being Douglas Adams. That really does not mean that I have oodles of respect for him. I have called him non-woman after all. Just that quoting him felt like a good idea at the time, and I don't like using the backspace key. I would much rather go back on what I say. There is a certain charm in doing that.
The same way there is no charm in feeling exilarated during a world cup cricket game not because the underdog is winning but because the team you hate is losing. But there is not much else that charmless people do. Either way, do they have to take it to the extreme by strutting around the house in flaming red tracks and a white vest? And that when they happen to be men? Hyuk! Not satisfied with that they keep up with their endless chatter. Blah blah blah blah blah.
What do you do when you come across the matrimonial ad for someone you know? Probably no different than making such extremely disconnected statements. No, seriously. Do you tell the guy she was dating that her parents have put her on the marriage market? Or do you hold back for reasons of preserving personal dignity? Who would want to be known as the kind of person who reads matrimonial advertisements? Especially when they appear in the Sunday papers! More importantly, what are you supposed to do if the ad is for the girl you want to spend the rest of your life with? Obviously she is willing to go through the pains of screening three million guys just so she does not end up with you. Does it mean you are really pathetic or is she being plain stupid? Questions. Questions. Questions.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Tom, Dick, and Harry
I make no attempt to mask my absolute dislike for corporate gyan. Nay, make that abhorrence. I could never understand for the life of me why anyone would ever spew away so many hours of their lives penning down literature on the subject. More than that, it completely boggles me why anyone should choose to read those books. Ever! I mean, did your mom drop you on the head or something?
Talking of kid-dropping parents, what really goes through their minds when they come up with names for their offspring? Goldie. Dick. Chandi. Shanna. Seriously. The kid has to go through her entire life with that name. What were they thinking? Perhaps the same thing that they were while conceiving the baby - nothing, for had they put that cranium through its paces they would have used birth control.
Not everyone is born with the intellect of Einstein. That said, not everyone needs the intellect of Einstein. You would not want someone rattling on about the Schroedinger Wave Equation when you are on a date. Unless you are in the habit of dating people like that in which case you must re-evaluate your lifestyle choices. Either way, with all the technology of internet search engines at our disposal is 'Guy' the best we can come up with for a boy's name? Jeez!
The most famous bard could say 'What's in a name' and get away with it. Writers tend to get away with a lot. Besides, 400 years ago there was not much in anything let alone a name. Except in the gunpowder treason. That had an idea behind it, an idea so strong that it became the foundation of modern day democracy. And please! Not those mutilated versions that US presidents have passed down through generations.
We live in very shallow times. What you can pass off as your own is of the essence. Basically it makes more sense to own the keys to a Ferrari and not the Ferrari itself. Kinda hard to flash the car inside a restaurant. Oh my God! I finally got it - the true depth of the message of 'The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari'. Sell the Ferrari, but as long as you still have a set of its keys you can remain a part of that pseudo intellectual socialite crowd.
See what I mean? I never had to read the book to understand its message. In a nutshell, that is what corporate gyan is all about. No one understands it, not even the CEO who spreads it around.
Talking of kid-dropping parents, what really goes through their minds when they come up with names for their offspring? Goldie. Dick. Chandi. Shanna. Seriously. The kid has to go through her entire life with that name. What were they thinking? Perhaps the same thing that they were while conceiving the baby - nothing, for had they put that cranium through its paces they would have used birth control.
Not everyone is born with the intellect of Einstein. That said, not everyone needs the intellect of Einstein. You would not want someone rattling on about the Schroedinger Wave Equation when you are on a date. Unless you are in the habit of dating people like that in which case you must re-evaluate your lifestyle choices. Either way, with all the technology of internet search engines at our disposal is 'Guy' the best we can come up with for a boy's name? Jeez!
The most famous bard could say 'What's in a name' and get away with it. Writers tend to get away with a lot. Besides, 400 years ago there was not much in anything let alone a name. Except in the gunpowder treason. That had an idea behind it, an idea so strong that it became the foundation of modern day democracy. And please! Not those mutilated versions that US presidents have passed down through generations.
We live in very shallow times. What you can pass off as your own is of the essence. Basically it makes more sense to own the keys to a Ferrari and not the Ferrari itself. Kinda hard to flash the car inside a restaurant. Oh my God! I finally got it - the true depth of the message of 'The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari'. Sell the Ferrari, but as long as you still have a set of its keys you can remain a part of that pseudo intellectual socialite crowd.
See what I mean? I never had to read the book to understand its message. In a nutshell, that is what corporate gyan is all about. No one understands it, not even the CEO who spreads it around.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Of wit and the people who don't get it
It gets a little unnerving when even someone you have slept with for over a year does not get your witty remarks. Ordinary mortals would begin to question the very genesis of their sense of humour. It is one thing to have your wit bounce over those you work with - they usually have the IQ of a Microsoft Windows computer and it is quite acceptable to look down upon them. Quite another, however, when that happens with someone who is aware of how many moles you have in those regions of your body that you never saw yourself.
Thank the devil for life's small favours then that I am neither ordinary nor a mortal. So what if I choose to work the numbers on my laptop in a Salsa club teeming with hot women tapping their feet to some lovely music? Could any ordinary mortal resist the lure of giving in to the temptation? That I don't know Salsa from Dirty Dancing (not much difference, or is there?) notwithstanding.
I have made it abundantly clear that I don't discriminate on the basis of race, colour or marital status. Up until yesterday I did not know if I actually believed in it or if it was an illusion I had built up around me. Anyway. The woman in reference called me at what can be described as the best time of the day - the 15 minutes before wake up time. We are still on good terms though now there is nothing between us. Not even a sheet! He he he. Could not pass up making an innuendo. My bad.
So we get talking about this woman I meet at the club. Not like I want to grow old with her or something. I have an eye that tends to appreciate the finer aspects of life, and let us leave it at that. She is married. In fact, that was the first thing that I noticed about her. Did not make an iota of a difference. But that is all supporting information. Here is the part about the wit.
I tell the woman who called that the woman who does the Salsa is exactly my type. She knows what my type is - any woman who knows what she wants and is not afraid to get it. She asked nonetheless. That was all the invitation I needed. The conversation went something like this:
Woman on phone: "So what is your type? Tall, beautiful, demure?"
Me: "Married."
C'mon. That was a good one. But it sailed right over her head. Or may be that is what happens to women post me. Withdrawal symptoms perhaps? Whatever it is, let me not try to analyse it lest I should get a thump on my skull.
Since I have never bothered with order on my blogs, let me continue with the tradition and digress. I think I am falling in love all over again. With my feet. I was giving myself a foot massage, and the skin was oh so soft! Like I was touching a baby. If there is ever such a thing as masturbating your vanity, then feeling your smooth feet would be it.
Thank the devil for life's small favours then that I am neither ordinary nor a mortal. So what if I choose to work the numbers on my laptop in a Salsa club teeming with hot women tapping their feet to some lovely music? Could any ordinary mortal resist the lure of giving in to the temptation? That I don't know Salsa from Dirty Dancing (not much difference, or is there?) notwithstanding.
I have made it abundantly clear that I don't discriminate on the basis of race, colour or marital status. Up until yesterday I did not know if I actually believed in it or if it was an illusion I had built up around me. Anyway. The woman in reference called me at what can be described as the best time of the day - the 15 minutes before wake up time. We are still on good terms though now there is nothing between us. Not even a sheet! He he he. Could not pass up making an innuendo. My bad.
So we get talking about this woman I meet at the club. Not like I want to grow old with her or something. I have an eye that tends to appreciate the finer aspects of life, and let us leave it at that. She is married. In fact, that was the first thing that I noticed about her. Did not make an iota of a difference. But that is all supporting information. Here is the part about the wit.
I tell the woman who called that the woman who does the Salsa is exactly my type. She knows what my type is - any woman who knows what she wants and is not afraid to get it. She asked nonetheless. That was all the invitation I needed. The conversation went something like this:
Woman on phone: "So what is your type? Tall, beautiful, demure?"
Me: "Married."
C'mon. That was a good one. But it sailed right over her head. Or may be that is what happens to women post me. Withdrawal symptoms perhaps? Whatever it is, let me not try to analyse it lest I should get a thump on my skull.
Since I have never bothered with order on my blogs, let me continue with the tradition and digress. I think I am falling in love all over again. With my feet. I was giving myself a foot massage, and the skin was oh so soft! Like I was touching a baby. If there is ever such a thing as masturbating your vanity, then feeling your smooth feet would be it.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Leaving on a jet plane
It is no secret that I was meant for a different era. I have learnt to accept it with time. It is not easy to come to terms with it. Not effortless at all to finally make peace with the fact that you skipped a generation or two. In fact, quite demanding. Only more painful than writing a whole paragraph saying the same thing over and over again.
I love the old world, the world of the 60s and the 70s, the world of free sex, rock and roll, Ursula Andress and Sophia Loren, and no airport security. Anyone who has spent more time getting through baggage screening, metal detectors, and frisk searches than in flight would have the good sense to concur. Whether it is all for "our security" is questioning, especially since I did manage to 'sneak in' a can of deo in my cabin baggage just for the thrill of it. This woman I know has been carrying a cigarette lighter in her hand bag with elan.
Anyway. This is not about airport security. It is about the absence of it. For a good part of last week I have been travelling. Nigeria has no baggage screening in any of its airports. No aero-bridges, either. You just walk on the tarmac! Fantastic, isn't it? To still find the old world. I especially loved the Owerri airport. Well, it is a cargo airport doubling up as a passenger one since the Port Harcourt airport has been closed for what seems like forever. It is green all around. Lovely.
Abuja is the perfect example for lopsided development. In a country where three-fourths of the population lives below the poverty line, is a capital city of broad expressways, glittering hotels, and magnificent landscaping. It is the bride of Nigeria - all decked up as if she walked straight out of the bandbox.
We went to Dome, the only bowling alley in Nigeria. I don't know if bowling is a silly game or if it was the five double shots of vodka but I managed to score three strikes without ever having played the game before. Nah, it must be a silly game. I have consciously kept off bowling. I believe it is a game for the superficial snobs.
Flew down to Owerri the next day. The drive from Owerri to Port Harcourt is beautiful. Green everywhere, and a smooth stretch of the road too. Just try not to get involved with the booming business of the region - kidnapping for ransom - since you would mostly be on the wrong side of it. When you are not unnerved by the sight of burnt vehicles dotting the road, the sight of highway police greets you - they stop you virtually every two kilometres or so.
Port Harcourt is called the Garden City. Make no mistake, it is not like the garden city of India. The gardens here refer to the natural growth. It is gorgeous, nonetheless. Went to Choba the following evening. One of our instant noodles plants is in Choba. Basically did not do much there except have a jolly good time. Went to the plant sometime after midnight where I was quite the bundle of joy to discover that I still can recognise a shell and tube heat exchanger when I see one. Yes Dad, all that money you spent on my education did not go down the drain.
Chaand sifaarish jo karta hamaari deta woh tumko bataa
Sharmo haya ke parde giraake karni hai humko khata
Zid hai ab to hai khudko mitaana
Hona hai tujhmein fanaa
Humse door jaaoge kaise
Dil se hamein bhulaaoge kaise
Hum woh khushboo hain jo saanson mein baste hain
Khud ki saanson ko rok paaoge kaise
Saw Fanaa. Finally! I was wrong, and it is not often when that happens. They still know how to pen lyrics. And they still know how to write good Urdu shaayari. As the song goes, 'Subhaan Allah'!
I love the old world, the world of the 60s and the 70s, the world of free sex, rock and roll, Ursula Andress and Sophia Loren, and no airport security. Anyone who has spent more time getting through baggage screening, metal detectors, and frisk searches than in flight would have the good sense to concur. Whether it is all for "our security" is questioning, especially since I did manage to 'sneak in' a can of deo in my cabin baggage just for the thrill of it. This woman I know has been carrying a cigarette lighter in her hand bag with elan.
Anyway. This is not about airport security. It is about the absence of it. For a good part of last week I have been travelling. Nigeria has no baggage screening in any of its airports. No aero-bridges, either. You just walk on the tarmac! Fantastic, isn't it? To still find the old world. I especially loved the Owerri airport. Well, it is a cargo airport doubling up as a passenger one since the Port Harcourt airport has been closed for what seems like forever. It is green all around. Lovely.
Abuja is the perfect example for lopsided development. In a country where three-fourths of the population lives below the poverty line, is a capital city of broad expressways, glittering hotels, and magnificent landscaping. It is the bride of Nigeria - all decked up as if she walked straight out of the bandbox.
We went to Dome, the only bowling alley in Nigeria. I don't know if bowling is a silly game or if it was the five double shots of vodka but I managed to score three strikes without ever having played the game before. Nah, it must be a silly game. I have consciously kept off bowling. I believe it is a game for the superficial snobs.
Flew down to Owerri the next day. The drive from Owerri to Port Harcourt is beautiful. Green everywhere, and a smooth stretch of the road too. Just try not to get involved with the booming business of the region - kidnapping for ransom - since you would mostly be on the wrong side of it. When you are not unnerved by the sight of burnt vehicles dotting the road, the sight of highway police greets you - they stop you virtually every two kilometres or so.
Port Harcourt is called the Garden City. Make no mistake, it is not like the garden city of India. The gardens here refer to the natural growth. It is gorgeous, nonetheless. Went to Choba the following evening. One of our instant noodles plants is in Choba. Basically did not do much there except have a jolly good time. Went to the plant sometime after midnight where I was quite the bundle of joy to discover that I still can recognise a shell and tube heat exchanger when I see one. Yes Dad, all that money you spent on my education did not go down the drain.
Chaand sifaarish jo karta hamaari deta woh tumko bataa
Sharmo haya ke parde giraake karni hai humko khata
Zid hai ab to hai khudko mitaana
Hona hai tujhmein fanaa
Humse door jaaoge kaise
Dil se hamein bhulaaoge kaise
Hum woh khushboo hain jo saanson mein baste hain
Khud ki saanson ko rok paaoge kaise
Saw Fanaa. Finally! I was wrong, and it is not often when that happens. They still know how to pen lyrics. And they still know how to write good Urdu shaayari. As the song goes, 'Subhaan Allah'!
Monday, February 05, 2007
Kan o!
I have had my fingers in a few pies - both the metaphorical and the American variety, if you get my drift. This post is not about the latter. Partly, because my sister reads my blog. Mostly, because I really really really wish to avoid being run over by a mob of pissed women should I choose to discuss their pies or my fingers in them out in the open. Also, that would be crass. I like to maintain the delusion of class, not only as far as others are concerned.
That is important to me. For instance. You won't catch me dead with an unattractive woman. So what if I don't go out with women at all, or rather they choose to not go out with me. The point is you won't catch me dead with an unattractive one. In fact, that statement is oxymoronic. I have not come across any woman who is unattractive, though there are those with unattractive feet and those with unattractive minds.
May be that is a delusion too. No matter. The charm of delusion lies in that with time you do not know if you are deluded or if reality has moulded itself to fall in line with your delusion. That does not mean you are not able to differentiate fantasy from life. There is no difference, save that fiction makes sense. Besides, nothing exists except atoms and empty space. Everything else is an opionion.
But this is definitely real. I have the plane tickets to prove it. I was in Kano last week. Beautiful place. As different from Lagos as the colour of Jenna Jameson's hair on her head is from that between her legs. It is a medieval kind of place, one frozen in time. It was the biggest centre of commerce in Nigeria. The political power and the money still wrests with the people here. The weather was lovely - cool and breezy like Pilani in late October. The atmosphere of the city is laid back, and it has a very welcoming air to it.
I realised something this Saturday. I have very strong thighs. I have lovely feet too, and I am not the only one to say it. I know a gorgeous woman who concurs. Anyway. About the thighs. I did not take a moment to sit from 10 in the morning to 7 in the evening on Saturday. There was the year end customer party we threw. Huge guest list. 1200 people. Kept moving around all the time, talking to customers, doing the PR, things of that sort. Took a few shots of flaming B-52s at the end of the day to feel the blood running through my legs again. But it was all worth it.
I need to invest in a mosquito net. Nothing else keeps these blood suckers at bay. I have slept with LGMFs (Little Green Motherfuckers). They were bad, very very bad. But African mosquitoes are goddamn fantastic. Usually Indian mosquitoes respect air-conditioning. The bitches here laugh in the face of it, even when my room is cold enough to keep meat fresh for weeks.
All whores are bitches but all bitches are not whores. Interesting aside I came up with today while I was in that wonderful period of drifting in and out of sleep. A whore is a bitch because she does not care which dog rams her for she gets what she wants when it is done. A bitch is not a whore because she gets what she wants before it is all done. However, the act is always done. It is the chronology that differs.
Aside bonus: Why is love so hard to get once you find it?
That is important to me. For instance. You won't catch me dead with an unattractive woman. So what if I don't go out with women at all, or rather they choose to not go out with me. The point is you won't catch me dead with an unattractive one. In fact, that statement is oxymoronic. I have not come across any woman who is unattractive, though there are those with unattractive feet and those with unattractive minds.
May be that is a delusion too. No matter. The charm of delusion lies in that with time you do not know if you are deluded or if reality has moulded itself to fall in line with your delusion. That does not mean you are not able to differentiate fantasy from life. There is no difference, save that fiction makes sense. Besides, nothing exists except atoms and empty space. Everything else is an opionion.
But this is definitely real. I have the plane tickets to prove it. I was in Kano last week. Beautiful place. As different from Lagos as the colour of Jenna Jameson's hair on her head is from that between her legs. It is a medieval kind of place, one frozen in time. It was the biggest centre of commerce in Nigeria. The political power and the money still wrests with the people here. The weather was lovely - cool and breezy like Pilani in late October. The atmosphere of the city is laid back, and it has a very welcoming air to it.
I realised something this Saturday. I have very strong thighs. I have lovely feet too, and I am not the only one to say it. I know a gorgeous woman who concurs. Anyway. About the thighs. I did not take a moment to sit from 10 in the morning to 7 in the evening on Saturday. There was the year end customer party we threw. Huge guest list. 1200 people. Kept moving around all the time, talking to customers, doing the PR, things of that sort. Took a few shots of flaming B-52s at the end of the day to feel the blood running through my legs again. But it was all worth it.
I need to invest in a mosquito net. Nothing else keeps these blood suckers at bay. I have slept with LGMFs (Little Green Motherfuckers). They were bad, very very bad. But African mosquitoes are goddamn fantastic. Usually Indian mosquitoes respect air-conditioning. The bitches here laugh in the face of it, even when my room is cold enough to keep meat fresh for weeks.
All whores are bitches but all bitches are not whores. Interesting aside I came up with today while I was in that wonderful period of drifting in and out of sleep. A whore is a bitch because she does not care which dog rams her for she gets what she wants when it is done. A bitch is not a whore because she gets what she wants before it is all done. However, the act is always done. It is the chronology that differs.
Aside bonus: Why is love so hard to get once you find it?
Monday, January 29, 2007
Hyuk! There goes the chomu...
The blank page! I never thought I would admit that the blank page staring back at me could be intimidating. And thank whoever controls the universe that I never did because it is not going to happen. The admittance, of course. I have spewed enough gut on this blog. Why add to the gore?
There are chomu (Chomu: 1. Anyone whose parents should have had the good sense to abstain since their ten minutes of pleasure produced nothing but an annoying irritance. 2. Anyone who is lesser than you, more specifically in their fashion sense, personal hygiene, eating habits. 3. Anyone with intellect limited to the extent that you risk spontaneous head implosion everytime you ask them a question.) people everywhere. I don't think very highly of chomu people. I believe they should be exterminated, a la ethnic cleansing.
Everytime I see this male (yes, yes I mean that as a highly derogatory reference) my anal hair stand on their end almost jutting out of my pants through my underwear. Whether I have very coarse hair or I wear silk underwear I shall let the women who read my posts decide. But that male is the quintessentially real chomu. Pardonable chomus are those who have no qualms of being otherwise. The anal-hair raising kinds think that sliced bread is the next best thing since they happened.
Personally, I don't know why sliced bread is accorded an exalted status. Trust the yanks to come up with something this banal. I don't approve of many things as it is but if the yanks were the last things (things only - they are an accident that happened to the human race and let us leave it at that) left in this cosmos I still would not approve of them. The same way I would not approve of chomu people using face creams or people sharing bathrooms/loos. Who does that?
That brings us to something very tragic. I have had to share my housemate's bathroom the last few days because the drain of my bath has become a Centre for Study in Transport Phenomenon. It has re-engineered itself to work the reverse way. So what if I am all for personal toilets? I am not very approving of casual sex either. The point being?
It was not very long ago when this woman ran her hands all over my tight ass. A near repeat occured two days ago at a bar. I say a near repeat because this woman went a step ahead. She actually felt me up. I don't know how drunk she was, which is not to say that I don't have the stuff that deserves feeling up even if at that moment in time it very much preferred to be by itself. What happened next? I can't say for my sister reads my blog. What I will state, however, is that I don't have in me what it takes to take advantage of a drunk woman, unless she is that former colleague of mine. For her, ethical issues are good for only one thing - to be flung out the window. At the same time, I am not saying that the woman who felt me up was drunk or even that she was not.
I put two and two together the other day. And voila! I realised that during the first half of business about 300 people walk in and out of my office. The abrasion on the tiling mocks the manufacturer's claims of 'scratch resistance' like Neha Dhupia mocked the Miss India contest when she entered it with those atrocious teeth of hers. That she won it quantifies the foul odour there would have been due to the collective bad breath of all the contestants. In some cultures, France for instance, bad breath may be a turn on (come on, show me a French with good teeth) but good sense prevails elsewhere.
Thank you and goodnight.
There are chomu (Chomu: 1. Anyone whose parents should have had the good sense to abstain since their ten minutes of pleasure produced nothing but an annoying irritance. 2. Anyone who is lesser than you, more specifically in their fashion sense, personal hygiene, eating habits. 3. Anyone with intellect limited to the extent that you risk spontaneous head implosion everytime you ask them a question.) people everywhere. I don't think very highly of chomu people. I believe they should be exterminated, a la ethnic cleansing.
Everytime I see this male (yes, yes I mean that as a highly derogatory reference) my anal hair stand on their end almost jutting out of my pants through my underwear. Whether I have very coarse hair or I wear silk underwear I shall let the women who read my posts decide. But that male is the quintessentially real chomu. Pardonable chomus are those who have no qualms of being otherwise. The anal-hair raising kinds think that sliced bread is the next best thing since they happened.
Personally, I don't know why sliced bread is accorded an exalted status. Trust the yanks to come up with something this banal. I don't approve of many things as it is but if the yanks were the last things (things only - they are an accident that happened to the human race and let us leave it at that) left in this cosmos I still would not approve of them. The same way I would not approve of chomu people using face creams or people sharing bathrooms/loos. Who does that?
That brings us to something very tragic. I have had to share my housemate's bathroom the last few days because the drain of my bath has become a Centre for Study in Transport Phenomenon. It has re-engineered itself to work the reverse way. So what if I am all for personal toilets? I am not very approving of casual sex either. The point being?
It was not very long ago when this woman ran her hands all over my tight ass. A near repeat occured two days ago at a bar. I say a near repeat because this woman went a step ahead. She actually felt me up. I don't know how drunk she was, which is not to say that I don't have the stuff that deserves feeling up even if at that moment in time it very much preferred to be by itself. What happened next? I can't say for my sister reads my blog. What I will state, however, is that I don't have in me what it takes to take advantage of a drunk woman, unless she is that former colleague of mine. For her, ethical issues are good for only one thing - to be flung out the window. At the same time, I am not saying that the woman who felt me up was drunk or even that she was not.
I put two and two together the other day. And voila! I realised that during the first half of business about 300 people walk in and out of my office. The abrasion on the tiling mocks the manufacturer's claims of 'scratch resistance' like Neha Dhupia mocked the Miss India contest when she entered it with those atrocious teeth of hers. That she won it quantifies the foul odour there would have been due to the collective bad breath of all the contestants. In some cultures, France for instance, bad breath may be a turn on (come on, show me a French with good teeth) but good sense prevails elsewhere.
Thank you and goodnight.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
Momentary enlightenment
There are moments in my life. Of course, there are moments in all our lives. Just that I am more interested in my moments. I am self-centred that way. Actually, I am self-centred in every way but that is not the point of this post. Come to think of it, I have suddenly started making points in my posts. From having a natural flair for being completely pointless, I am at a place where I cannot but make points. What a fall! Let me not harp on a point again. Sigh!
Speaking of my moments, today for instance, I was in conversation with an intelligent woman. Well, okay. That statement is laced with redundancy. You can only have a conversation with those who are intelligent. Anyway. I tend to have better conversations with women. The more I talk to them, the more my conviction grows - any woman who aims to be equal to a man lacks ambition. That gyan too was given to me by a woman.
So. During the conversation in question, I started to wonder about the true depth of the phrase 'scare the shit out of someone'. What does it mean? I proposed that you scare someone to the extent that you constipate them. The woman came up with an alternative reasoning - you scare them so much that you give them the runs. See, I could never have thought of that in a thousand years. The same way I could never have thought that intelligent conversations could be more a survival necessity than food. Or even good green tea.
In my two months in Lagos, I have sorely missed my survival tonic. I have searched and searched. I cannot locate green tea for the life of me. If someone knows where I need to look, please pass on the information. It will be your good deed for the year. The thing is I am not a frequent tea-drinker. I am the avid variety. The tea has to be just right. I am more accomodating with coffee. It is not even a real drink. You cannot expect from artificiality an experience that transcends living.
Whiskey and tea are like that. They have more in common than Johnny Walker. Legend has it that Johnny Walker never had a sip of alcohol. His movies, however, are replete with his drunk idiosyncracies - scenes of him holding a bottle while he is doing his thing have made us laugh and cry. He filled the bottle with tea. I don't know if he got high on tea or not, but tea can have that effect. Green tea more so. If water is the whiskey of life, then tea is certainly the Absinth of it.
Aside: Woman without her man is incomplete.
Woman. Without her, man is incomplete.
The difference punctuation makes!
Speaking of my moments, today for instance, I was in conversation with an intelligent woman. Well, okay. That statement is laced with redundancy. You can only have a conversation with those who are intelligent. Anyway. I tend to have better conversations with women. The more I talk to them, the more my conviction grows - any woman who aims to be equal to a man lacks ambition. That gyan too was given to me by a woman.
So. During the conversation in question, I started to wonder about the true depth of the phrase 'scare the shit out of someone'. What does it mean? I proposed that you scare someone to the extent that you constipate them. The woman came up with an alternative reasoning - you scare them so much that you give them the runs. See, I could never have thought of that in a thousand years. The same way I could never have thought that intelligent conversations could be more a survival necessity than food. Or even good green tea.
In my two months in Lagos, I have sorely missed my survival tonic. I have searched and searched. I cannot locate green tea for the life of me. If someone knows where I need to look, please pass on the information. It will be your good deed for the year. The thing is I am not a frequent tea-drinker. I am the avid variety. The tea has to be just right. I am more accomodating with coffee. It is not even a real drink. You cannot expect from artificiality an experience that transcends living.
Whiskey and tea are like that. They have more in common than Johnny Walker. Legend has it that Johnny Walker never had a sip of alcohol. His movies, however, are replete with his drunk idiosyncracies - scenes of him holding a bottle while he is doing his thing have made us laugh and cry. He filled the bottle with tea. I don't know if he got high on tea or not, but tea can have that effect. Green tea more so. If water is the whiskey of life, then tea is certainly the Absinth of it.
Aside: Woman without her man is incomplete.
Woman. Without her, man is incomplete.
The difference punctuation makes!
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The ass of all things
Single guys don’t need much to survive – food, clothing, shelter, house-help, and sex. Ah well. If you are a guy you need sex, preferably with another person. That is not to imply that women don’t need sex. They are just prudish about it. Also, they don’t have an appendage dangling between their legs raising its point periodically.
No wonder chauvinists tend to believe men have more brains than women. I am not one to concur with people for I believe concurrence exhibits a weakness of character. The fact remains, however, that men do have two centres of thought, though the one between our ears has atrophied due to eons of disuse. To make up for it, we think from our balls. We keep it simple too. We think only two things – sex, and ways to think of sex.
I don’t know what women think. I don’t wish to get into a woman’s mind. I would rather get into her bed, thank you very much. It took me 19 of my 25 years on this planet to realise the obviousness of the truth first distilled and sublimed by Harold Robbins. Tits and ass – they make the world go round. Of course, pear-shaped tits like those of Cindy Crawford, Sharon Stone and Elizabeth Hurley, and heart-shaped asses like those of Kim Basinger, Kylie Minogue, and Naomi Campbell do a far better job.
More than the blatant sexual connotation, there is a deeper significance to that statement. It is simply another way to word the ‘carrot and stick policy’. Obviously, tits are the carrots. They are usually all the motivation men ever need, and usually cause for all the self-esteem, or the lack of it, in women. And nothing works more beautifully than a bamboo up the ass – the deeper the bamboo the louder the moan.
The super boss is in town. The asses of all the other bosses are collectively on fire. It is great fun! It is not sadistic pleasure, mind you. It transcends sadism and reaches a plain hitherto unknown. What’s more, there is good whiskey – Royal Salute 21 years. Smooth, like wiping your arse with silk. Chivas Regal 18 years is bird vomit compared to it.
Have been in meetings with the MAN (Money, Authority, Need) the last two days. Good fun. He rams your ass in such a way that the only thing you can say once you have recouped sufficiently from your orgasmic spasms is ‘thank you’. I had more than my fair share of humping. There is more in the offing for he does not leave till next week. Yoo hoo!
No wonder chauvinists tend to believe men have more brains than women. I am not one to concur with people for I believe concurrence exhibits a weakness of character. The fact remains, however, that men do have two centres of thought, though the one between our ears has atrophied due to eons of disuse. To make up for it, we think from our balls. We keep it simple too. We think only two things – sex, and ways to think of sex.
I don’t know what women think. I don’t wish to get into a woman’s mind. I would rather get into her bed, thank you very much. It took me 19 of my 25 years on this planet to realise the obviousness of the truth first distilled and sublimed by Harold Robbins. Tits and ass – they make the world go round. Of course, pear-shaped tits like those of Cindy Crawford, Sharon Stone and Elizabeth Hurley, and heart-shaped asses like those of Kim Basinger, Kylie Minogue, and Naomi Campbell do a far better job.
More than the blatant sexual connotation, there is a deeper significance to that statement. It is simply another way to word the ‘carrot and stick policy’. Obviously, tits are the carrots. They are usually all the motivation men ever need, and usually cause for all the self-esteem, or the lack of it, in women. And nothing works more beautifully than a bamboo up the ass – the deeper the bamboo the louder the moan.
The super boss is in town. The asses of all the other bosses are collectively on fire. It is great fun! It is not sadistic pleasure, mind you. It transcends sadism and reaches a plain hitherto unknown. What’s more, there is good whiskey – Royal Salute 21 years. Smooth, like wiping your arse with silk. Chivas Regal 18 years is bird vomit compared to it.
Have been in meetings with the MAN (Money, Authority, Need) the last two days. Good fun. He rams your ass in such a way that the only thing you can say once you have recouped sufficiently from your orgasmic spasms is ‘thank you’. I had more than my fair share of humping. There is more in the offing for he does not leave till next week. Yoo hoo!
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