Genesis 30:1 – MirrorCracked Labs Kicks Off!

Yup. You read it right. It’s now active! Go ahead, support the Labs and get yourself enlightened! Click the logo below to visit the Labs!

mcl_logo1

Spread the word far and wide. Thanks for waiting patiently!

Advertisements

The Airport Taxi From Hell

airport-taxiThere is mystery in the air. Stop whatever you’re doing and sniff the air around you. If you can ignore the fish and the next guy’s sweat, I think you can smell the mystery in the air. I know I can. I think I am being followed by an airport taxi. Everywhere I go and everywhere I turn, there’s an airport taxi lurking near by. I think there is a conspiracy afoot and yesterday, I thought about it long and hard and I have a feeling that I’ve hit upon the truth.

Once upon a time, I was in love with a strange girl from Hawaii. Her name was Yu Suk, and she was perhaps the third most beautiful woman in the world. We loved each other very mush much and though we were separated by more than 5000 miles of ocean, we believed that one fine day we would be together and live happily every after. The long distance relationship proved to be arduous and drained the both of us completely, and I decided to end it. That’s when she decided to fly down to Bangalore and meet me and show me just how much she loved me. I was over the moon!

I dressed up in my favorite yellow T-shirt and blue jeans and drove all the way to the airport on the day. I reached an hour early and paced up and down, waiting for Yu Suk to arrive. I could hardly stand still in my excitement. I was nervous and feeling a bit horny at the same time! I guess it’s natural.

Finally, the flight monitor indicated that the flight from Hawaii had landed and that passengers were at the customs line. I was waiting right in front of the exit gate, standing behind the ubiquitous group of white-uniformed taxi drivers who were holding up cardboard placards with names of their guests written. Slowly, one by one, the passengers from Hawaii walked out into the bright Bangalore sun, shielded their eyes from the glare and searched for their respective receptions.

The taxi driver in front of me was chatting with his colleague next to him about his wife. He was saying, “What can I do, brother? She just cannot be satisfied every night. I feel she’s draining me out!”

To this, his colleague replied, “You want some help, brother?” and winked and they both burst out laughing. I cringed at the crassness of their conversation, but couldn’t help overhearing it. The first driver continued, “If anyone, ANYONE, mentions the S-word again, I’ll kill them personally!” and they both started guffawing heartily. I just figured that the guy was totally and completely asexual and pitied his wife.

Just then, in the throng of the crowd, I saw her! There she was! Graceful and beautiful and as sexy as ever – wearing her favorite yellow tank top over a flowery knee-length skirt that flowed all around her. Her face was the embodiment of all the love and lust in the world – the high cheekbones, the sexy blue-green eyes, the straight black hair that fell in small fluffy curls just below her shoulder, those petite hips, those firm breasts, those long beautiful eyelashes, oh, I was so much in love!

She looked around her, scanning my waiting crowd from her moving crowd, looking for me, searching for the face of her lover. I waved my hand frantically and called her name out, “Yuuuuuuuuu Suuuuuuuuuuuuk!”

I started running towards her in slow motion. The crowd around me dissolved into fields of poppies, with butterflies fluttering around, the sun shining down with it’s golden rays dripping with love, drenching the two of us in that moment of ecstasy. Her face broke into a beautiful smile as she saw me and she ran towards me in slow motion, through our very own field of poppies. I held out my arms to embrace her, and she held out her arms to run into mine. At that moment, I felt something hard hit me on the back of my head and I tripped over myself and fell face-down on the hard concrete floor of the airport. The field of poppies and the butterflies disappeared and I could just see dazed stars all around me for a few moments.

I was aware of distinct voices – one angry and one concerned – around me. I looked up and saw Yu suk arguing with a taxi driver. It was the guy who was standing in front of me, discussing his wife. I sat up and rubbed the back of my head and saw an old but heavy boot lying next to me. He had thrown a boot at me! That bastard!

“Hey!” I cried standing up. “What the fuck were you thinking throwing shoes at people?” I geared up for a fight.

“You bastard!” he cried. “You abused me verbally!”

I was confused. “Eh, what? When did I do that? Stop talking nonsense!”

“Shut up, you punk! You said, ‘You Suck!’ so loudly that the whole bloody airport heard it!”

So, thus began a hatred, rooted in mis-communication, that spanned the better half of the next decade – a decade that involved a lot of stalking, prank calls, threatening calls and three trips to the police station and one to the hospital. It got so bad that the cops finally had to request me to stop beating him up every time I saw him. I reluctantly agreed and made a deal with the bastard – I’d leave him alone if he accepted that it wasn’t my fault to begin with. He was lying with three broken bones in the hospital bed, covered in bandages from head to toe, when he agreed. I could see hatred in his eyes.

It’s been four years since I’ve heard from him or seen him, and recently, I think I scratched his car by mistake while I was parking my bike near my office. I did not notice the number of the car, but I am damn sure it was him, because when I came back after work, my bike wouldn’t start – there were sugar lumps in the petrol tank and both my tires were flat.

I began noticing his car everywhere I went – the bastard is stalking me! I think it’s time I remind him who the better man is. I think it’s time for him to visit the hospital again. πŸ˜€

Moral of the story: Do not believe everything you read on MirrorCracked.

Open Question: If a love bite is calledΒ  ‘hickey,’ what’s a love scratch called?

Buses, Bloggers, Booze, Biryani, Bangalore Mirror…

"Special" Buses Are Late.
"Special" Buses Are Late.

…or anything else that matter, I had an awesome weekend to say the least. I reached Chennai Saturday morning after a particularly disconcerting bus ride. The bus was supposed to be a “special” bus from KSRTC (Karnataka State Road Transport Corporation) and the fare was 800 instead of the usual 500. It was supposed to be a Volvo bus with air-conditioning and was supposed to reach Chennai an hour early than the other buses. The bus was supposed to depart at 10:43 pm. There were 60 people scheduled to travel in the bus, and we were waiting with our tickets in hand at the designated platform, watching the 10:30 pm bus arrive and depart, the 10:45 pm bus arrive and depart and finally, even the 11:45 bus arrive. There was no sign of the “special” 10:43 bus.

Someone got agitated; someone else called the cops and brought a couple of constables to the spot and started accosting everyone sporting a KSRTC uniform. The cops were pleading helplessness and the KSRTC men were pleading ignorance. I was standing there among the crowd, feeling an unrealistic sense of amusement creep over me.Β  “This isn’t happening,” I said to myself. “I must be dreaming.”Β  I pinched myself quite hard and let out a surprised yelp of pain, drawing strange looks from the angry mob.

Finally, the “special” bus did arrive and we all got in, praying that no one beats the driver to death. An uneventful journey later, I stepped out in Chennai. I was scheduled to attend a workshop on visions and entrepreneurship on Saturday and Sunday, catch the Opeth concert at the IIT Madras fest – Saarang ’09 – meet bloggers from Chennai briefly on Monday, catch an early bus back to Bangalore and meet Shefaly who was in town, and finally, go home and catch up on some much-needed sleep before heading back to work on Tuesday. That was the plan.

Uthandi Ashram
Uthandi Ashram

The workshop was quite fascinating and enlightened me on a lot of things. A residential workshop held in the quaint Uthandi Ashram in Chennai, I can’t decide if the peace and quiet were more enthralling than the peacocks and the private beach.

The Opeth concert was mind-blowing, and that’s an understatement. More than 5000 people thronged to the Open Air Theater at IIT Madras – a campus known for it’s sheer size and natural beauty – and were entertained by some out-of-this-world music by Demonic Resurrection and Motherjane, who opened for Opeth. After an agonizing wait, Opeth finally kicked off, and for the next three hours, it was a sound fest.

I Was There! Long Live Rock!
I Was There! Long Live Rock!

When 5000+ people scream and sing along with an absolutely heavy death metal band, the world stands still and joins in the chaotic mayhem. I came out with a sore throat and a star-struck look in my eye. I became one of the few lucky human beings alive to have witnessed Opeth live in concert! πŸ™‚

Monday morning proved to be undoing of my well-laid plans and I just did not get a bus ticket back to Bangalore. All the buses were filled and I was too broke to afford a flight. I controlled my rising panic and went to meet all the bloggers from Chennai, whom I’d ditched once for a meet.

It was an amazing afternoon, where I demonstrated my culinary skills with some mouth-watering Biryani that would put the greatest chefs to shame. I met Vimal, Aaarti, Archie, Aparna, Apar, Bhar, Praddy, Sharada, Nautankey and three non-bloggers – Vikram, Arvind MN and Guha. I got tipsy with some fine Jack Daniels and realized that it was too late for me to reach Bangalore in time to meet Shefaly. I owe her an apology.

I caught a late night “special” bus back to Bangalore after walking around the bus stand for more than 40 minutes trying in vain to obtain a seat. I paid 800 bucks again for a ticket that cost 720 bucks and forgot to get the balance money back. I got fleeced for 80 bucks by a government employee! πŸ˜€

blog-talk-jan-27-2009

I reached Bangalore this morning at 4:30 and slept for a coupe of hours and returned to the monotony of my professional life. I got a pleasant surprise, when I realized that Bangalore Mirror had featured MirrorCracked again! So, I’d say that it has been a good weekend which could’ve been great if everything on my list went according to the plan. But, that’s life.

*HUGS*, *KISSES*, *ASSHOLES*…

flying-assholesSome people are born losers. In my book, they fall into the category of assholes. I’ve written letters to them and ranted about them before, but they never fail to come back and harass me for more. Let me spend a few sentences defining these unique class of people.

Assholes are all around us, living normal lives in the guise of normal people. They will smile with you, laugh with you, hang out with you for a few beers, and when the time is right, ask you for a lot of money. Well, it’s not usually the money, but more often than not, they’ll ask you for money when you’re broke and when you’d rather kill someone for some excitement in life. Assholes are those people you’d much rather block in your chats and social network sites. Assholes are those people who are stored as “Moron” or “That Guy” in your phone, whose call you’d much rather ignore than receive. Assholes are people who have a stupid look in their eyes all the time and they never fail to annoy everyone around them with their constant stream of daft moments. Assholes are men, women and children who have either been dropped on their heads as kids or have been at the receiving end of scandalous posts like these. Assholes have been written about in books and sung about in songs and pushed around on the streets.

assholesAssholes are God’s way of giving us the much-needed confidence in ourselves and our stupidity, which is always overshadowed by theirs. We tend to live our lives in the happy conclusion that we’re geniuses and that people like Einstein and Edison were but an anomaly. We become over-confident in our subtlety and never fail to obfuscate our decisions with our doubts when we’re around assholes. They scream into our ear for a pittance of importance and usually are pity-sponges. Oh, I’ve known a lot of assholes in my life. Too many, in fact.

I bumped into perhaps the two hundredth asshole this month yesterday, when he pinged me on Gtalk and typed this:

*HUGS*

The homophobic part of me immediately blocked this guy from my chats and my Facebook/Orkut profiles and I changed his name to “Stink” in my phone. I have no idea why men tend to cross the line and do/say things that are specifically meant for women. I don’t mind if women do that, but men saying *HUGS* and *KISSES* is just too freaky. Sue me, but I don’t think it’s right! πŸ˜€

gtalk_profileThis guy was a classmate of a friend of mine, and I had met him just twice or thrice before in my life. He has absolutely no business giving me virtual Hugs when he hasn’t spoken to me or chatted with me for well over two years. Maybe he just realized that he wasn’t straight and since my Gtalk profile picture is so cute/hot/sexy, he probably thought he’d hit on me. The price one has to pay for being handsome, I tell you! (Gee, I’m so full of myself, aren’t I? πŸ˜€ )

So anyway, this guy does not stop there. He goes on to mail me some bullshit about how he’s in Sydney right now and how he’s working in a bank there and how he finds it lonely there and misses all of us. What really freaked me out was that his email was in different colors – the first paragraph was pink, the second was orange and so on. There were animated bells ringing on the edges of the email and the whole thing looked like a hideously distorted rainbow.

I deleted the mail immediately and looked out the window to the bright blue skies with the rolling white clouds and said, “Why me, God?” πŸ˜€

Cartoon Courtesy: Cartoonstock.com

The Dummy’s Guide To Pissing People Off!

piss_off_guide

Of course! It has to be true! Damn right! You need to piss people off all the time! It’s much like the song ‘Iris’ by Goo Goo Dolls, where he croons, “…yeah you bleed just to know you’re alive!” We need to irritate people around us all the time to feel alive. What’s the point of living if you don’t piss someone off? Huh? Tell me!

The scientists at the MirrorCracked Labs are quite busy these days with the grand opening just round the corner. (Oh, you have to watch the video if you haven’t already! It’s pretty neat! A lovely teaser for the MirrorCracked Labs’ grand opening!)Β  I use the term ‘grand opening’ quite a lot, don’t I?

Sorry, I digress. As I was saying, the scientists are quite busy plotting planning the grand opening, and have relegated this particular Dummy’s Guide to me and me alone. I hope I do justice.

Pissing people off – the heart and soul of our existence. We wouldn’t be here doing what we are doing if someone a hundred thousand years ago hadn’t pissed someone off and started a war. We wouldn’t be here if someone hadn’t pissed on someone else’s joy! You wouldn’t be reading this if someone hadn’t pissed me off and made me write this. So, you have to agree with me that it’s quite important to piss people off all the time. It’s our god-given right. It’s why we were given a voice. It’s why were given the ability to ridicule and irritate and point fingers and laugh. It’s our duty! πŸ™‚

So, how do we do it? How do we achieve the perfect balance between pissing someone off and not getting slapped, shot, kicked in the nuts, stabbed in the back, kicked in the nuts, slapped, slapped, punched in the face, kicked in the nuts again or pushed off a cliff? It takes great care and patience to achieve this feat, and it’s not easy. You need to pay attention.

Pissing Men Off

arnold_angryQuite easy – take a dig at their manhood. Tell them they’re virgins and even if they are, they’ll vehemently deny it. Watching their face go from a normal beige to various shades of red, blue and orange is quite fun. Men are strange in this issue – I don’t know why but they always overplay their sexual exploits and this is the best way to piss a man off.

Of course, the only two other things that matter to a guy is either beer or sports. Ridicule his favorite beer and you might end up on the wrong end of a well-placed kick to the nuts. Ridicule the guy and call him a sissy for watching cricket or golf, and he’ll go stark raving mad.

I’ll let you in on a secret. If you know a guy who is straight and want to piss him off, accuse him of being gay. Oh, he’ll hate you for the rest of his life, and he’ll stay away from cosmetics and watch each of his words carefully whenever you’re around! πŸ˜€

PS: I don’t want to dig my own grave in this postscript by saying something about homosexual tendencies that I’ll regret, so I’ll just construct a totally useless sentence.

Pissing Women Off

woman_attackGiven that sex, booze and sports are the only three things that can effectively piss a man off, you’ll find it hard to piss a woman off with these three topics. Women are usually very secure about their sexuality/sex lives and taking a dig at their alcoholic tastes will be like throwing grains of sand at a hurtling train hoping to derail it. And women and sports, well, let me not be a spoilsport, but you know how it goes. (My mom thought F1 cars were battery controlled toys and unmanned!)

So, how do we piss women off? Easy – take a dig at her age. It always works, no exceptions. Tell her, “Oh, you look so much younger in your photographs!” and she’ll hate you with a vehemence second only to a supernova.

Horizontal attacks are also effective. “You seem to have gained some weight,” “Is that an extra-large top?” and “How many months due are you?” are the three most effective way to piss a woman off about her weight. Never fails.

But I am duty bound to warn you – Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Be careful.

Go ahead! Piss someone off today! Live a little! πŸ™‚

Images Courtesy: Arnoldspeaks.com and Randommovieclub.blogspot.com

The Eternal Hotness Of The Coffee Cup! :)

Vijay was right – I should get back to serious posts now that I’m out of my holiday mood. So, I decided to tackle the most serious issue plaguing mankind at present – The Eternal Hotness Of The Coffee Cup.

I know many of you will empathize with my situation with reference to the cup of coffee. My cubicle is quite some distance away from the pantry, and by the time I make the trip back with a cup of hot coffee, the beverage would have become lukewarm, thus ruining my dreams of writing a book, dreaming up characters and plots and themes and story lines while sipping hot coffee.

It’s quite frustrating, especially when you’re a writer. And especially when you have two books in the pipeline and the deadline fast approaching. I tried running with the coffee back to my cubicle and ended up scalding my crotch. Next, I tried to take longer strides to reach my cubicle faster and ended up pulling a crotch muscle. I tried skateboarding back to my cubicle, but I ended up with a bad knee and the wise thought that I needed a skateboard to accomplish that feat. I tried placing the cup on the floor and pushing it with all my strength and running behind it and pushing it again as soon as it stopped, but I skidded on the coffee spill and fell head over heels, literally.

I had visions of myself, sitting at my desk, pecking away at the keyboard and occasionally reaching out for the cup of hot coffee. I had dreams of raising my cup in a toast to the screen whenever a character in the book gets lucky with a girl or other such happy moments. I had dreams of licking the rim of the cup while thinking (Um, did I just say that out loud?). I had dreams of being the caffeine-nicotine writer dude. I saw all these dreams vaporizing in thin air, much like the elusive latent heat…

I almost gave up with frustration pretty soon, when I had a brainwave.

)
If Hot Coffee Does Not Come To Me, I'll Go To The Hot Coffee

I am clever, no? πŸ˜€