The Inner Workings Of The Female Brain

Hey there.

Its been a while since I’ve posted anything new. This atrocity on by part is partly due to my hectic schedule of lazing around and partly due to my utter disregard for other people’s schedules. Today, I’ve decided to take a walk down memory lane and remove the cobwebs from my stiff joints.

This one’s called ‘The Inner Workings of the Female Brain’, a piece I’d written a few years ago, before attaining maturity. Hope you enjoy it.

Eve-olutionPromiscuous as the mind is – constantly searching for newer avenues and doors to sow its seeds of maliciousness – the female brain was, and remains to this day, the holy grail of understanding. Many a honest man has lost his sanity, sometimes his identity and his life, questing for the unattainable. What makes these creatures, which share such similarity with men, so different? The answer, if known, would make me a rich man. Alas, I do not. But, I did take the time to painfully assess these creatures, sometimes probing perilously close to losing my life, and have finally managed to make my observations known to the world. I warn you, dear reader, this is not for the faint of heart.

Lets begin with the most obvious thing that anyone notices with these creatures – their gait. These sapiens have a peculiar kind of a rambling walk, bordering on a strut, that makes them easier to identify in a crowded room. (Of course, the other thing that identifies them in a crowded room is their habit of dousing themselves with strange smelling fluids! But, we’ll get to that later.) The walk is their one sure way to get attention – they gyrate their body in an unearthly fashion while walking! – and they do get it, no doubt. We men being as we are, can’t keep ourselves from looking at them. The female has realized this. So, the female’s brain – which is one hundred time more advanced than ours’ – immediately latched on to this weakness of ours and the story of Pied Piper repeats itself….
Let me remind you of an interesting remark that was made by the Shah of Persia, a few hundred years ago. He said that the single, surest way of attaining salvation – both physically and mentally – is never to trust a female. Well, over time, this aphorism has lost its charm as more and more trustworthy females graced the world and drove the Shah to exile. But then, the present day situation demands more caution on the part of the male. The female brain has quickly analyzed the greatest weakness that the Y-chromosome accords to us. It is that, while the man has to spend his time, money and efforts to woo the girl, she on the other hand just has to smile, and the guy’s hers! No one has been able to satisfactorily explain this phenomenon, but it doesn’t matter, because now there is a new wave of deception tiding the planet. The female has acquired from somewhere the tools to successfully make the man abide by her whims and fancies – so much, so that if Sigmund Freud were alive today, he would have called the male populace of the planet as a “sad bunch of toilet-tissue-emulators”! Though we must be ashamed of ourselves, not to mention cautious, we’re neither, and end up being the receiving end of nitrogenous treatments meted out to us by the female.

More than everything, the female brain has evolved so quickly, that when we were still trying to make faces at ourselves by looking at our reflection in the river, the female was busy creating masks! This disturbing fact has revealed atrocious allegations against what really went on in the Garden of Eden.  She has learned to mask her true emotions so well, that we really feel baffled when she can smile so sweetly at us, hold our hand so warmly, look into our eyes with her lovely eyes and say, “Get lost, you jerk!”

Ever seen women slap a man? Well, I have, and trust me; it’s not a pretty sight. (I have been on the receiving end of many a slap, though that’s not important to the story right now!) Every time she walks away after slapping the jerk, he holds his bruised cheek in his hands and dreamily stares after the departing female and sighs. He says, “I think she likes me…” We men will never improve.

Coming to the gewgaw that these creatures allow themselves to be part of, the smelling fluids I talked about earlier. Neither countless like-minded fools nor me have ever understood the reasons behind this strange phenotypic character. The female bathes in what are known to be “perfumes” – the very word should have made her shy away from it, because in Greek, “per-“ means toxic and “fume-“ means stench. Well, please try to explain this phenomenon. Something really smells fishy, doesn’t it?

The day the mystery of the female brain is solved, it’ll be Genesis: Chapter 1 all over again! But, lets be honest to ourselves. The day is never going to come. We men will remain the scum of the planet for at least another millennium. Feminism is indeed significant, but it should never border on chauvinism.

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4 Minutes, 400 Steps

Being a smoker is hard work, especially these days when we can’t smoke wherever we sit and work. I envy those people born a few decades before me, who enjoyed the freedom of smoking at their desks wherever they worked. They could also smoke in restaurants, public transport vehicles, pubs, coffee shops, anywhere without the fear of being fined, fired or shot.

Today, its a whole different story. The place where I work believes in a lot of green initiatives and one surefire way of discouraging employees from smoking is to place the smoking zone in a galaxy far, far away.

Now, I’m one of those people who possess a prosperous horizontal growth, and for me to walk so far to have a smoke is just too painful. I counted the time and distance it took me to reach the smoking zone – 4 minutes and 400 steps. One way. So, add another 7 minutes for an average cigarette and we get a good 15 minutes of a work-day wasted for one smoke. The stress sometimes makes me chain another smoke, so add 7 more, and we get 22 minutes. Four cigarettes in a day makes it 60 minutes and a maximum of 67 minutes in a day. Phew. Talk about losing productivity.

Maybe this is a sign that I need to quit.

Facial Hair Stereotypes :)

stereotypeNo one wants to be a stereotype. Even if we are, then we try hard to keep a low profile. Everyone hates stereotypes. Stereotypes suck. Stereotypes are perhaps, the scum of the earth. They have no business being alive because all they can do is be a stereotype. Stereotypes are often categorized as desperate individuals seeking attention, and in most cases, it’s right. Stereotypical people piss me off beyond imagination – they make my blood boil and I’d much rather ignore their existence than rant about them, but unfortunately, last night I discovered a horrible truth about myself. I’m a stereotype.

I was on my way home, riding my disgustingly rickety bike (which is going to fall apart any day now), and I rode slowly. Very slowly, waiting for the rain to pour down. Its been close to seven months without a rain in Bangalore, so when the skies became dark and overcast at 5 in the evening, and when the wind picked up, bringing with it the familiar feeling that comes before a downpour, I hurried to finish my work and rode back slowly.

The drizzle started ten minutes into the drive, and it felt so good. For once, I was looking forward to a heavy downpour. When the first drops of the cold rain fell on my skin, my thoughts went to something the bastard from the cigarette shop across the street from my office had told me: “You South Indians are all alike – you grow a beard without a mustache and before it begins to look good, you shave it off! You have no self-control when it comes to facial hair! Look at my father,” he said pointing to an old, withered creature sleeping on the sidewalk next to the cart, “He hasn’t shaved for ten years now. His beard is longer than him!”

“Hey!” I said, getting slightly offended. “I shaved my beard-without-mustache off because a special woman told me I looked better with a complete French beard. That’s why I shaved it off. Don’t stereotype me!”

“If I knew typing,” he said, “I wouldn’t be here selling cigarettes, saar.”

Futile as it were, the argument ended with him short-changing me by half a rupee. So, as I drove back, I couldn’t help but notice the men around me and in particular, the general area around their mouths. As I re-read the last sentence, I feel so horribly disgusted with myself. Most people had a french beard. Some of them had a beard but no mustache. Some were clean shaven. Some were women, whom I’d mistaken for men. Anyway, I realized that the cigarette guy was right – South Indians have absolutely no self-control when it comes to facial hair maintenance.  We constantly waver between worrying whether having a mustache will get in the way of kissing a beautiful woman or whether having a beard will spoil the fun of slurping sambar.

I’m such a stereotype. I’m not gonna shave for the next ten years.

Five Questions And A Domain

mirrorcrackedA week ago, after a heavy meal, I was sitting on the pot and contemplating the evolution of snowmen, when I had a thought – I decided to take the plunge and get my own domain. With Joel guiding me every step of the way, literally telling me where to click and what to type, I purchased MirrorCracked and set up a hosting on SurpassHosting. I was so excited yesterday that I printed out the URL in big bold letters and stuck it in my cubicle! I plan to migrate to that domain pretty soon, once I get the hang of it.  It’s quite a pain to install themes and plugins and all that shit.

It’s funny how I started and ended the last paragraph on a shitty note.

Anyway, back to the main purpose of this post. I’m a well-known tag killer, as many people have realized the hard way over the past months. I frown upon being tagged and I hardly do any tags, because I usually have a backlog of posts going up to 10 to even 15 drafts at times – posts waiting to get published. On busy days, I log in, go to my drafts, pick a post and hit the publish button. In the midst of all this, Apar came up and requested an interview.

Ok, ok. I literally begged for it. She was grateful enough to spend a lot of time in thinking of questions for me, and today, at 7:19 pm, just like a Nadal forehand, slapped the questions on to me. I felt obligated to answer them immediately lest I forget.

1. Do you always choose matchboxes which are larger than your cigarette boxes?

Bigger Matches

Interesting history to this question. I think the image would explain better. I was desperate for a smoke and I did not have a matchbox/lighter on me. It’s very frustrating to be stuck with a lot of cigarettes and nothing to light them with. And a ridiculously huge pack of Home Lites matches was the best that Spencers was able to offer me. Sigh.

So, to answer the question, I’d have to say anything goes for me. Big or small, as long as the thing burns, I’m happy. But, of course, I prefer hot women to larger matches.

2. Where do you get your sense of humor from?

I wish I knew. I don’t even know if I have one. There was a time in my life when I was strung up by my underwear, from a rusty nail on the wall, and slapped around by my headmistress for calling her a fat moron. I guess that traumatized me enough to treat everything around me with a sense of awe-struck indifference.

3. How many personalities do you possess apart from the “God” persona?!

Ah, this is an interesting one. No one believes me when I say that I’m God. They think it’s either just a phase in life that people go through believing they’re divine or that I’m plain crazy. Denial will only fuel the fire, so I’ll refrain from making any sort of comment. I’m God. Period.

4. Since you claim to be God, what does nirvana mean to you?

Something that smells like teen spirit and tastes like beer. You know what I mean?

5. Beer on the dance floor or wine on the beach? (options do not include “both”)

Beer. Any day. Anywhere. Any time. Any mode of consumption. Any amount. I hate wine.

Frogs And I :)

sexy_nurseWho hasn’t heard the ridiculous fairy tale of the frog prince, where a beautiful princess kisses a frog (on the lips!!) and the frog miraculously turns into a handsome prince and they get married and live happily ever after. Well, I’d be lying if I said that I had a fascination towards frogs. I don’t. They freak me out, much as penguins give me nightmares.

But of late, I can’t help but feel a little sympathy towards the slimy, hopping amphibians, because their croak kind of resembles my voice for the past three days. Being held up with some work and trying to get out of sticky situations in the course of researching the second topic for the MirrorCracked Labs, I somehow picked up a dormant virus that’s been playing havoc with my nose and throat since Sunday.

It began with a nosebleed on Sunday morning, when the Bangalore weather changed from a pleasant winter to a harsh summer, and my body got confused. It was caught between shivering like a twig in a zephyr or burning up like an omlette on a hot stove, and it chose the most logical way out of the dilemma – it bled from the nose for a day, during which time, the cold was waiting patiently.

Once the nose bleed stopped, the cold kicked in. My throat started feeling heavy, the nose ran in rivulets (not with blood, but with snot) and the fever took all but an hour to set in. I felt weak and my mind felt drained. Within three hours, I started croaking like a frog. I actually sound more like a cross between a frog and a steam engine’s whistle. 😀

God is sick ill, folks. I need my sexy nurse to take care of me!

Weird Hair Days…

weird-hairI have stubborn hair. I’m not kidding and I’m not making things up. My hair – though considered to be the sexiest thing ever by women all over the world – does have it’s weird days, and today happens to be one of the weirdest. As a rule, I don’t use cosmetics like hair gels, hair sprays and hair wears and other strange inventions. I am quite proud of the fact that my hair, most of the times, does not need much coaxing to fall in place and look presentable. Today, it decided to revolt.

I tried all of the following methods:

  1. Hot water soak
  2. Cold water soak
  3. Jumping up and down
  4. Shaking my head from side to side, vigorously, trying to make it fall in place
  5. Talking to the hair softly, while running my fingers through it, trying to make them sit
  6. Screaming at them and fingering them violently (Fingering them?)
  7. Pulling a few out from the roots in order to threaten the rest
  8. Wearing a cap for ten minutes, hoping they’d sit properly

again-weird-harrWell, none of these techniques worked, and I had to resort to the most primitive of methods – I soaked them in water and while they were recovering from the shock and before they could spring right up, I put my helmet on and drove to work.

No luck. Any ideas, anyone? I don’t use a comb, by the way. Never have. So, if you have any ideas, then make sure a comb isn’t involved. 😀

SOAP SUDS

Got this below visual in my email a few days ago.  It’s just too hilarious – something to lighten up your Sunday. Cheers! 🙂

It was Friday morning, and that  meant it was time for an activity that the teacher called “add to the  picture”.   The teacher would call students to the chalkboard one at a  time. The first student would draw an object on the chalkboard, and each  following student would add something to the picture to make it a new picture.

The teacher called on James to start things off.

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James returned to his seat.

The teacher called on  Ernie next.

2

Ernie returned to his seat.

Now it was Suzy’s turn.

3

Suzy returned to her seat.

Next, the teacher called  Jerry to the board.

4

Jerry returned to his seat.

Kim was called to the board.

5

Kim returned to her seat.

About this time, little Johnny began waving his arm hysterically. Little  Johnny was well known for being off center, so the teacher was reluctant to call  on him for anything. But as the teacher looked at the picture on the chalkboard,  she thought that there was no way that little Johnny could possibly do anything  to make this picture dirty. So she called on little Johnny, and he ran to the  chalkboard.

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