Why Marriage Is A Bad idea

Don't Get MarriedRelax, ladies. I’m not getting married anytime soon. I’m still single.

I was having a very interesting conversation with my business partner the other day in KFC over Zingers, Fries, Coke and Mojitos. We discussed business for about twenty seconds and the remainder of our ‘meeting’ we spent in discussing the pros and cons of marriage. We studied and grew up together, along with a few other weirdos, and now when we looked back, most of those weirdos are either married or engaged to someone. We wondered if we were in the process of missing the wedding bus, figuratively speaking, and realized that we are not.

Nowadays, I don’t think its a wise idea to marry someone. There are so many things that can go wrong and so many people that can get killed, that its definitely not a good idea. Let me tick the reasons off one by one.

  1. Show Me The Money: Women these days are not marrying for love. No sir. Gone are the days where women would fall for a guy head over heels and say, “I’ll be with you through thick and thin. I don’t care if we are poor, we’ll have each other.” Laughable thought, isn’t it? Men need to submit a resume, a statement of purpose, financial statements and visa status to the potential in-laws before getting shortlisted for a stress-test interview. If he passes these levels, then he gets to meet the girl and woo her. If she doesn’t like him, then the whole exercise would have been in vain.
  2. Show Me A Good Time: A qualifying criteria for a man to be given the green light for marriage these days is his idea of a ‘good honeymoon’. If he is planning to take her abroad, then he’s suitable. If he says Ooty, Kerala or Darjeeling, then he can go there himself, thank you very much.
  3. Flexible Auspicious Times: More often than not, the booking of a marriage hall becomes more a pragmatic thing than anything. These days, marriage halls in the country follow the 12-noon check-in and check-out times, and it becomes impossible to people to get an auspicious time to tie the knot in the evenings. Palms are greased and pundits are coerced into finding a right time in accordance with the marriage hall timings. If you’re a pundit / astrologer, then your reputation depends on your ability to provide flexible timings.
  4. The Ex-Factor: Men and women are required to completely disassociate themselves with their ex-lovers. If, for any reason, men or women are found fraternizing with their ex-es in the run-up to the wedding, then the whole thing has a high probability of ending up in someone’s death.

These and a lot of other factors (which are 18+ and I can’t mention them here, for the benefit of those readers who aren’t mature enough), contribute to a highly volatile situation where people are not advised to get married. If you’re lucky enough to find a girl who’s got no hang-ups about a live-in, then go for it. Else, make sure you have a grave site marked out for you before you enter wedlock.

All the best.

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Calvin And Hobbes: The Last One

He opened his eyes to darkness. He felt around with his hands and found the wall to his right, along which his bed lay. He groped around until he found a switch and flipped it on. Harsh white fluorescent light filled the room and hurt his eyes. Reflexively, he closed them and groaned. His head hurt – no, pounded from within, and it felt like a million sledgehammers threatening to break open his skull. He turned on to his side and winced as sharp points of pain pricked his joints and when he couldn’t take it anymore, he sat up. Still dressed in his clothes from the night before, he looked down at his hands and feet, wondering how he ever got home. The last thing he remembered was his tenth beer. There had been a lot of shouting, a lot of music, loud music, and a lot of dancing. He vaguely remembered throwing up somewhere, and sure enough, he saw the dirty yellow stains on his white shirt and blue jeans.”Shit,” he muttered, and swung his legs off the bed.

Standing in the middle of the room, he stretched himself and took a step towards the bathroom when he stepped on something soft and furry. He looked down at the old stuffed tiger he used to play with as a kid, and kicked it under the bed in anger. He had suffered enough because of it, and he had no intention of ruining his life further.

“Twenty years,” he said to the bit of furry tail still visible from under the bed. “Twenty years of my life ruined because I thought you were real. They stuck me in a nut house and asked me to swallow pills every two hours. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Then, calming himself, he took a few deep breaths and said, almost chanted, “You’re not real. You’re not real.”

He walked into the bathroom, showered, shaved and came out feeling refreshed. As he stood looking at his thirty-year old beaten, worn-out, pot-bellied frame, he thought back to the day in his youth when he had burned his parents alive. The tiger had asked him to do it. The tiger had said it would be a good idea. He had listened to the tiger and killed his parents. Pain wracked through his mind and he shut his eyes tight as tears rolled down his wet cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said to no one in particular.He was different then, before the medication, before the doctors, before the black-outs…

When he turned away from the mirror, he was about to reach down to grab a shirt from the floor, when he stopped dead in his tracks. The stuffed tiger that he had kicked under the bed was now back where it had been. The single remaining beady eye and the empty socket where the other bead had been looked up at him in a cold stare, unflinching, as if daring him to talk. As if daring him to scream, to shout, to say something. He stared at the tiger, frozen in mid-step and too scared to do anything. He swallowed a large gulp of fear and said, “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real.”

He turned away closing his eyes and shut both his ears with his hands, still chanting his mantra. When he stopped to catch a breath, he heard someone call his name from behind him.

“Calvin,” the voice said. “Why won’t you talk to me anymore?”

“No!” he screamed. “Don’t talk to me! You’re not real!” He still was turned away, now crouching near the wall, his head resting against the corner. “Shut up!”

“You think I don’t miss you, Calvin?” the voice asked.

“You’re not real. You’re not real…” he continued in monotone, rocking back and forth, drowning out the tiger’s voice.

“Of course I’m real. I’m right here. Turn around, Calvin.”

And he didn’t know why he did it, but he did. He turned, opened his eyes and saw the tiger standing there in the middle of the room. The tiger was smiling at him, standing on its hind legs, holding out its hands as if waiting for an embrace. Calvin took a tentative step towards the tiger, still confused and the madness showing on his face with no inhibition. “NO…!!” he screamed. “You are NOT real!” and he ran towards the bed-side drawer, pulled out a gun from inside and put it in his mouth.

He looked at the tiger’s eye and saw the tears rolling down to its cheek and forming tiny puddles on the floor. He was crying himself. He couldn’t stop the tears.

“Don’t do it, Calvin,” said the tiger, stifling a sob.

“I’m sorry, Hobbes,” he said and pulled the trigger. As the last shard of life left his body, he thought he saw a stuffed tiger lying at his feet. He tried to smile and tried to tell himself that the tiger was not real. He tried, in vain.

If You Hate Someone

Warning: This might turn out to be quite a nasty post. I realized that I haven’t slandered anyone on the blog for the longest time. It’s time to introduce another asshole to the readers of MirrorCracked.

Of all the things I hate the most, I think I hate being talked about behind my back. Well, I know I can’t escape it, but when things that are said without being thought out and without consideration to the consequences, it irks me to no end. Oh, I’m not angry right now, as I write this. I am just wondering about the two¬† fundamentals of human emotion – love and hate. Isn’t it strange how you can love a person one instant and hate them the next? Of course, it’s a well-known dichotomy that people live with, but when it hits you in the face, you can’t help but wonder about the fragility about everything that was and everything that could have been.

Why the hell am I ranting so much? Does the asshole I’m referring to even realize that I’m ranting about him? I don’t know if the asshole even reads this blog, so I think I’ll have to email the link to the him.

Anyhoo, here’s the situation – I met an asshole in Bombay, who single-handedly made my week miserable and got away with it. I’m not a revenge-guy and I don’t really care about what happens to the asshole from now on. For all I care, the asshole can stand in the middle of the road butt-naked and punch a speeding bus in the face. But, interestingly enough, I realized that the asshole was just doing his job.

Most assholes are just doing their jobs, and in the process, they piss you off. From the goodness of my heart, I will excuse the bastard and let him lead his miserable excuse of a life. But here’s an open invitation to anyone who reads this: If you hate someone, and you want me to slander that person in my own fantastic way, then leave your comment here with a pseudonym of the person, his/her gender and the reason why you hate him/her. I will not disappoint you.