Letter To Cupid, 2012

Statutory Warning: The following post contains words and imagery that some people may deem as inappropriate. I have used the word ‘fuck’ twice and I talk about raising my middle fingers to someone, giving that someone the message to go fornicate with themselves. I have used a photograph of a winged child-thing found dead, face down, with an arrow in its back, lying in a pool of its own filth. If you or anyone around you find(s) my language and mannerisms offensive, please click here. Else, continue reading. 

Cupid is Dead

Dear Cupid Asshole

Here we are again, in 2012. I’m still here, single as fuck, and you’re still there, dancing around with your gay wings and your gay arrows. I wrote to you earlier, around 4 years ago and you promised me that the next time would be different. You are a filthy liar and nothing more. If I look back on this year, all you’ve given me is hope, despair and embarrassment. What the hell is the matter with you, jackass? Can’t you just do your job right?

So, in the light of all that you’ve done for me this year and for the past so many years before, I raise both my fingers to you. Go suck an orange, kid.

Do you remember how I signed off my last letter to you? You don’t? Drop Dead.

In all sincerity,

Go Fuck Yourself.

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When Ponies Ruled The World

It was a time of peace and tranquility. The world turned ever so gracefully with nothing to worry about and nothing to frown upon. The citizens of the planet led a peaceful life with no complications. Ponies and unicorns, roses and posies, rainbows and pots of gold were abundant in every corner of the globe. The sky was bright blue without a hint of gray. The houses were pink and gold and yellow and blue – the colors of peace, love and happiness.

There was not a single diseased thought in the world. There were no deaths, no tears, no sadness and no pain. There was no swearing, no abuses, nothing that would make someone cringe. There were no bad odors, no killers, no thieves, no rapists, no thugs, no criminals. Courts and justice were unheard of. Police forces, armies and mercenaries were non-existent. The countries and cities were happy places, peacefully co-existing with each other with no jealousy or fear.

Then I woke up, looked around me, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and said to myself, “Oh fuck, I’m late for work.”

Going through the motions of a normal day with Stephen King’s legendary motto running in my head – SSDD (Same Shit, Different Day) – I realized with a jolt that something from that dream had seeped through into the real world. Something strange and unnatural had happened and something from that dream world of peace and tranquility had managed to worm its way into my world. I didn’t know how it happened, but I started seeing signs everywhere I went. I thought I saw a unicorn glide past my window – I did a double-take and checked again, but all I could see was normality. People arguing, shouting, smoking and drinking. No unicorns.

Sometime late last night, I thought I saw a rainbow and a pony waltzing under it. On closer look, it turned out to be an abnormally colorful advertizing hoarding. I actually thought some asshole smiled at me as I walked past him. For no apparent reason, he smiled at me. I stopped in my tracks, ran back to him and saw that it wasn’t a smile. His face was permanently contorted into a sinister grin.

I couldn’t help but think that these weren’t just coincidences and signs that something pure and pristine had escaped into this world through my dream. Something that was making my life miserable by just being. Something that was tainting me, something that was trying its best to make me aware of its existence. I couldn’t help but be a bit afraid. I tried to put these thoughts out of my head, but then I read this.

“Fuck-a-doodle-doo,” I said to myself. “I feel sorry for them.”

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.

Cooking With Love

Someone said that the food I cook tastes nice because I cook with love. I started wondering about that comment ant this is what I imagined myself doing:

It was a hot, sultry afternoon and the sweat trickled down my skin in thin rivulets as I stood in front of the stove and watched as the oil in the pressure cooker heated. In slow gracious movements, I reached out and grabbed the packet of jeera. The plastic cover felt tingly in my sweaty palms, like a frail body waiting to be loved delicately. I added a bit of the seeds into the hot oil, just a bit, and watched as they turned brown and started sizzling, giving out the most heavenly aroma, wafting up slowly up to my nostrils and tickling my most sensitive senses.

I grabbed a pair of onions, one with each hand, and ran my fingers all over them, caressing and squeezing the soft mounds, and kissed them softly at first, and the nibbled hard at the ends, biting them off. I slowly peeled away the thin outer covering of skin and ran them both under a stream of warm water. The steam rising off the onions and my hands as I washed them was a feeling so sensual that it brought tears to my eyes. I picked up a clean, sharp knife and sliced the first onion cleanly in half. It was like cutting butter with a hot knife, as I made the gentle motions of dicing the onions, with some of its juice oozing out with each cut, in and out, in and out, in… and out…

I added the sliced onions to the oil in the cooker, and immediately, they started sizzling, moaning in pleasure as their cold bodies touched the hot oil, jumping in ecstasy and turning brown with pleasure. I gently poked at them with a ladle and began stirring them, softly, thoroughly, ensuring that no stray piece of onion sticks to the side, clockwise first and then, counter, feeling them sautee in the warmth of the fiery stove.They soaked up the oil and were dripping wet after a few minutes, completely fried and waiting to explode all our senses as they touched our wet, hungry lips.

I spiced up the whole affair with a bit of MTR Pulao Masala, gently sprinkling the powdered essence onto the wet, oily core of heaven, and watched as the onions hungrily ate it up, soaking in the taste and the color and spewing out the amazing aroma of the spicy mixture. The smell gushed out in torrents and filled me up, filled up the whole room, the whole house, and it seemed, the whole world stopped and wafted in the fragrance. I continued my gentle stirring motions and after what seemed an eternity compressed into two minutes, I added a bowl of fresh, green peas.

The little balls of green flavor ran and hid amidst the forest of hot wetness and sizzled where they stood, adding their own little sensuality to the fragrance. The onions, the spices and the green peas danced together in a carnal dance, a threesome made to last, enticing my every sense and oozing with fragrant pleasure and moans of sizzling heat, fulfilling their destiny, filling each other up, completing each other…

After a few minutes of watching them play out their desires and the moans and sizzles settled down, I added two cups of wet rice, washed and cleaned. The Basmati, angry at being left out of the party, took over the gastronomic orgy with a vengeance, and orchestrated the most breathtaking display of fragrance and it seemed to show the other three lovers just how it is done. The onions, the spices and the peas gave in to Basmati’s superiority and embraced the millions of tiny specks of lust and didn’t want to let go.

Four cups of water, three table spoons of salt, three whistles on the cooker, and one of the best man-made slices of pleasurable heaven was complete. Completely sated and thoroughly exhausted after the incredible display of kama, I had peas pulao for lunch.

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. 😀

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

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