THE WORD ON THE STREET
January 3rd, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Pakistan is, as usual, divided. This time over the latest phenomena to hit the urban streets of our nation since Junoon. Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the last 6 months, yes, I’m talking about Imran Khan. After a long time the educated masses have something to dissect over a glass of imported wine at one of many private parties that dot the social landscape. For a change they’re not discussing what Mrs Agha spent on her son’s Mehndi or how someone they know got robbed at gun point.
Instead there’s a healthy debate raging about the future of Pakistan and who’s capable hands it should fall in. As an active participant at many a discourse and sometimes as a fly on the wall at a few I’ve come to recognize the different individuals that fuel this discussion. Allow me to introduce you to a few of them.
The Demoralized Sceptic : He’s suffered the most at the hands of Pakistan. He started his journey as a Pakistani full of hopes and dreams. But along the way has lost the will to be patriotic. He’s been held up at gunpoint and had his life threatened. He’s been harassed by extortionists and has had to ultimately pay up. When he went to file a report he was told by the cops that the racket had too many high-ups involved for them to take any real action. He’s had his children threatened with kidnapping. His daily existence is a constant struggle against the the elements out to bleed him dry. And now he doesn’t care any more. He doesn’t care who comes into power because the criminal rabbit hole runs too deep and there’s nothing any one can do about it. He refuses to be drawn into this debate and retires into the corner to sulk. And he’s not going to vote.
The Indifferent Neutral : He doesn’t care who comes into power. He’s made his riches independent from the daily turmoils of Pakistan. Chances are he’s employed at a very senior level at a multi-national company and spends most of his time traveling. He comes from old money and has two kids both off to college some where in the US. HIs wife spends her mornings at the spa and her evenings playing bridge with aunties of similar stead. They have armed guards at the house and one in the backseat of their E class and they have not a care in the world. For them politics is a minor irritation in their otherwise perfect lives. And, no, they’ve never voted and probably never will.
The Party Inheritor : He’s a staunch and fiercely loyal supporter of one of many parties that have dominated Pakistani politics for the last three decades. The two notables being the PPP (The Bhuttos) or PML-N (The Sharif Brothers). The problem is he has no idea why he supports his party. You see he’s been conditioned by years of blind faith that his father and uncles displayed for their chosen leader. And once they passed on they handed him the torch to carry that tradition. He has never questioned the party’s mandate nor his leader’s actions, no matter how foul. His families’ loyalties are built upon a foundation of ethnicity rather than an agreement on party policies. The MQM have the Urdu speaking, the PPP the Sindhis, The PML-N the Punjabis and the ANP the Pathans. There is the occasional overlap but it’s scarce. You can speak to him but he’s stuck in his ways and chances are he will refuse to change.
The Guarded Pessimist : He thinks he is the voice of reason in a sea of indecision and blind adulation. He considers him self much too savvy to succumb to the wily charms of the average politician; even one as charming as Imran Khan. He takes pride in not blindly following the herd and gets increasingly exasperated when he sees lesser intellects around him doing just that. He is the most vocal of the lot and makes compelling arguments against. But always against. His wisdom lies in pointing out the flaws rather than the virtues. His sceptic blinders keep him on the one-track road to Faultsville for he feels that only by identifying and dissecting what’s wrong can he prove him self as a worthy political analyst. No one has any idea what he’s going to do.
The Hopeless Romantic : The eternal optimist. He is the mirror opposite of the Guarded Pessimist for he finds the good in everything. Growing up he probably fell in love with a new girl every week only to have his heart broken. Yet he stubbornly kept getting back on the same horse only to get knocked down again. His relationship with Pakistan’s politicians is pretty much the same. And his current crush is a man by the name of Imran Khan. He hangs on to his every word and gushes every time he mentions his name. He defends him against the Guarded Pessimist and the Party Inheritor with passion and offers all sorts of illogical arguments to defend his latest love affair. He dismisses his past affairs as mistakes and proffers brand new arguments in favor of his man. He will vote for Imran Khan.
The Newborn : The first timer. The twenty something that suddenly wakes up one morning and discovers he has a choice. That he actually has a chance to make a difference. That he has a part to play in shaping the future of his country. He has come to the startling realization that it was in large parts the fault of his parents that the country is where it is today. He does not want to make the same mistakes and have his children suffer. Like he did. He is taking these turn of events very seriously. He is sizing up the situation and making a serious decision based on policies and objectives. Once he’s made up his mind he’s going to stick to it. He is the new face of Pakistan. A more aware Pakistan. And it looks like he’s voting for Imran Khan.
And that’s the category I fall in. I’m The Newborn. I will vote for Imran Khan. Not because I have always adored him as all Pakistani boys and girls who grew up in the 80s and 90s do but because he has come with a single minded focus of trying to save the country. Granted he has not laid out his mandate yet but I trust it will be a logical and reasonable one. One that the entire nation can throw it’s weight behind. He might not have all the answers but the answers are out there and they need to be found and we should help him find those answers rather than demand them from him. Isn’t that, after all, the true nature of a healthy democracy? Ask the people?
The true test will be how Imran Khan manages to convert the Demoralized Sceptic and the Indifferent Neutral to change their mind and vote for his party, Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaaf or PTI as it’s commonly referred to. The other test is how will he convince the rural voter to change his vote. Because as of today votes are collected in a very simple manner. Eligible villagers are piled into buses by the party workers, taken to polling booths and told who to vote for. In return they get a fee of Rs 100 and a hot plate of biryani. How PTI can manage to provide their own plate of biryani is another thing I’ll be very interested in finding out.
Finally a word to The Guarded Pessimist. I will leave you with an old Chinese proverb which is a personal favorite of mine : “The person who says its cannot be done should not interrupt the person doing it”
Good luck Pakistan. You need it.
Like this:
EID MUBARAK BITCHES!
August 23rd, 2011 § 6 Comments
Eid. The revered day after 30 long days of fasting. The celebration of the end of Ramadan. To put it in context it’s like Christmas following Lent. It’s the culmination of an entire month’s worth of abstinence and prayer. However, the biggest thing during Ramadan is almost every Muslim will give up booze. Even the die-hard party freak takes some time to detox in the name of Islam.
A non-Muslim friend once asked me how we, as Muslims, celebrated Eid.
Johnny, my curious friend, this is how it goes down. Every year.
Eid Pre-party: Eid is announced a night before and it’s usually absolutely last minute. This is because 12 guys in Saudi sporting turbans are sitting on top of a tall building arguing over whether that tiny wisp of a white curve in the sky is lunar cheese or not. When they’re done arguing they let the rest of the Mullahs around the region know.
And that’s when we find out.
And that’s precisely when we start hitting our BBMs like no one’s business – letting all our friends know about Eid the following day. Because we like to get a head-start on the religious festivities (and by festivities I mean making a bee-line to the nearest bottle of Scotch). A massive call goes out letting your friends know it’s now kosher to start slamming Tequilas at the bar and gyrating in front of massive speakers spewing house music.
Like a migrating herd of wilderbeast we run across open plains in search of the next watering hole. And we drink. Oh boy, do we drink. We drink like haven’t had a drink in a month (which is kind of true) and we keep drinking into the early hours of the morning. However, we choose to ignore what lies ahead. That’s right. Early morning Eid prayers. But like that famous bunny we keep going and going.
Eid Morning: I don’t care how old you are or if you’re married because the only person who can wake your ass up on Eid morning is your Mom. I don’t give a shit what time you slept or how bad-ass you are, your Mom will make sure you’re out of bed and ready for Eid prayers. Because, if you’re Pakistani and have a Mom like mine (which we all do), then you’re going to be at Eid prayers with your bright-eyed Dad and equally grumpy brothers. Guaranteed.
Now you’re stumbling around the room, all fuzzy in your head, sincerely wishing you had refused that last shot of flaming Sambuca. Because. Believe me. Before that you were fine. Just. Fine.
Your quest to get into your starched Shalwaar Kameez is getting harder by the minute and you keep asking yourself ‘Who the fuck created the goddamn azaarband and why the fuck is the damn knot so tight? How the fuck am I supposed to open this?’
Your phone is ringing incessantly. It’s your Dad waiting downstairs. You decide to skip brushing your teeth and pop an Extra (sugar free, of course) in your mouth hoping that’s enough to keep Senõr Jose Guervo’s fumes at bay. You run down to see your Dad impatiently waiting at the wheel while your brothers look on with suppressed grins.
You arrive at the mosque and in commando style leap out from the running car with your prayer mat. Not that you’re in a hurry to start praying. It’s just that your supreme motive is to be able to get a spot inside the cool mosque or if you’re late (like we always were) then under some shade. Because even if you stay in Siberia you can be sure of one thing; Eid day is going to be hot as hell. That’s just the way it is.
After prayers you head back and, with growing excitement, await the highlight of your entire year.
Eid Lunch: This is the reason why people from other religions convert to Islam. It’s not because Islam is a great religion. It’s not that Islam made them see the light. It’s not because Islam made them at peace with themselves. Islam is all of that, mind you. But it’s not why they chose Islam.
Oh no.
They convert to Islam because on Eid day there will be Biryani. And not just any ordinary Biryani.
Oh no.
But a Biryani that that will go down in legend as the greatest Biryani ever made. It could be chicken or mutton or what ever live stock your Mom decided was going to pay the ultimate sacrifice for your greedy stomach but for some reason Eid Biryani is the greatest thing you will ever eat in your life. And I agree. It’s a damned fine reason to embrace Islam.
You spend the remainder of the afternoon stuffing unholy amounts of Biryani and sweets down your protesting gullet. And when you’re done you decide to have a little more. Because that is the way God intended. Burp.
Eid Nap: The only thing that can stop you from eating is your body starting to shut down from sleep depravation. This is when you drag your starch infused belly across the house and plonk it on your bed. The room is dimly lit and cool. Your eyes are getting heavy and you’re burping Biryani essence. The post Eid-lunch nap is one of the greatest traditions of all.
Eid Guests: As you reluctantly get out of bed for the second time that day you prepare for an evening spent receiving Uncles and Aunties from across town. Uncles and Aunties you see only once a year. You listen to them sheepishly as they chastise you for not keeping in touch. You say sorry and promise to make a better effort this time around. The house is awash with kids of all shapes and sizes running around as bloody kids do. Your Mom and Dad are entertaining all the guests as the help scurry back and forth from the kitchen armed with trays of Roohafza. In the mean time all you’re doing is looking for excuses to step out for a quick smoke with your friends.
Pretty soon the Uncles and Aunties tire out from socializing and start heading out. Everyone’s too full from that awesome late lunch so dinner is out of the question. Your Mom & Dad decide to retire and catch that evenings drama on TV. And you have only one thing on your mind.
Eid Night Party: Your friend calls. What’s the scene? he asks. Images of Grey Goose, B52s, Jack Daniels and desi house music start flashing before your eye. What do you think? I reply. See you in twenty minutes!
Eid Mubarak, guys!
Like this:
A CRY FOR HELP (Or I how I stopped worrying and learnt to love the scam)
July 25th, 2011 § 1 Comment
Everyone loves a good revolution!
A time when the opinionated and strong-headed youth of the nation take to the streets and drive out the authoritarian despots that were bleeding their Motherland dry.
And with a successful revolution comes hope and a yearning for a brighter tomorrow. A tomorrow that has no boundaries. A tomorrow that promises to forever change your life and the lives of the children you are going to bear.
And with a successful revolution, too, comes despair and despondency. This is the despair and despondency of the authoritarian despot who was so unceremoniously removed from his seat of power. And now not only has his super glued ass been pried from the throne of supremacy his entire legacy, along with his blood-sucking blood relatives, also comes crashing down.
And it is for times exactly like these that the opportunistic scamster waits to lure unsuspecting people, like my self, into total financial ruin. What follows below is an actual email correspondence between my self and the honorable ex-First Lady of Egypt, Mrs. Suzanne Hosni Mubarak:
—
From: Suzanne Hosni Mubarak [suzannehosnimubarak1@arabmail.org]
Reply-To: [susanhosnimubarak737@e-mail.cz]
Sent: Wed, March 30, 2011
Subject: A CRY FOR HELP…PLEASE READ THE ATTACHMENT.
I am Mrs. Suzanne Hosni Mubarak, the wife of the Former President of Egypt Hosni Mubarak. I got your information from the list of world philanthropist willing to assist the oppressed for any kind of help and I felt that you could be of helpful to my family on this vital issue. As you may be aware that my husband is presently facing trial on maladministration charges in Egypt and we his family members had moved to the estate in Sharm El Sheikh and all our documents have be ceased to prevent us from traveling.
Please, presently I and my entire family have what I will called “MY FAMILY LAST RESORT to the tune of $U.S50M (Fifty million United States Dollars) TO TRANSFER to you with the hope that you will invest this funds into any good business in your country, pending when the political turmoil is over. Please if you are interested in helping me to receive this money that is presently in an escrow account in one of the West African country.
After a successful process and transfer of this said money into your bank account, 20% of the total funds will go to you and my son Alaa will come to your country immediately to start up a business with your assistance so we will be able save for raining day. you can found out some of the story on this web below: http://finance.yahoo.com/news/How-Ho…-Filthy-usnews3723955512.html?x=0.
I shall give you the contact information of my Account officer in the bank when you indicated interest and he will assist you on any legal issues to change the necessary Documents / Documentation to your NAME and Power of Attorney to secure this fund.
I guarantee that this will be executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law as it is a 100% risk free venture.
Kindly indicate your interest in assisting my family by providing the basic information such as Full name, Address, Age, occupation and cell number.
Thanks for your service in advance.
Sincerely yours
Suzanne Hosni Mubarak
—
From : Tabarak Razvi [xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com]
Reply-To : [xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com
Sent : Wed, March 30, 2011
Subject: A CRY FOR HELP...PLEASE READ THE ATTACHMENT.
Dear Honorable First Lady of Egypt - Mrs Mubarak
It is with honor and pride that I receive your letter and thank Mighty Allah that it is I that you have chosen to undertake this glorious task of assisting the Grand Supreme Leader of Egypt His Highness Mr. Hosni Mubarak and his family.
I wish to let you know that I will do what ever is in my power to assist your Holiness. I now await further instructions on the transfer of funds at the earliest.
Your Humble Servant
Thakur Tabarak Singh bin Ghabbar Al Ram Garh
(My full name)
---
From: Suzanne Hosni Mubarak [suzannehosnimubarak1@arabmail.org]
Reply-To: [susanhosnimubarak737@e-mail.cz]
Sent: Thu, March 31, 2011
Subject: A CRY FOR HELP…PLEASE READ THE ATTACHMENT.
Hello,,
Assalamu Alaikum.
I am very grateful to your kind reply and the support give to my husband, I know i can count on you.
To enable me transfer this funds into your home bank account, you have to furnish me with the necessary information Your Full Name, Age, Occupation, E-MAIL, Telephone and Fax number.
I have legally completed the arrangement and processing of this fund transaction before contacting you to be the beneficiary to this total sum.
A copy of CERTIFICATE OF DEPOSIT will be forward to you, was process in my husband name the Former President of Egypt Hosni Mubarak, was send to my husband by SNS FINANCE BV AMSTERDAM – NETHERLANDS . Immediately the fund was transferred into there bank by the Former President of Egypt Hosni Mubarak. I will also forward the CERTIFICATE OF DEPOSIT to you bearing the Former President of Egypt Hosni Mubarak name as owner of the fund in SNS FINANCE BV AMSTERDAM – NETHERLANDS. By e-mail scanning attachment, as soon as you forward the information I requested from you, I will forward the information to the SNS FINANCE BV AMSTERDAM – NETHERLANDS, to contact you for onward transaction.
I want to assure you that this transaction has been made 100% risk free if only you can keep sealed lips without disclosing anything about this transaction to any one. Ones more, i want to assure and promise you that at the end of this transaction you will be happy.
Sir, I do not need to remind you of the absolute secrecy and confidentiality that this transaction demands. Since me and my entire family is placed on house arrest on protective custody for further investigation, I count on you and would not want any exposure or compromise my position for anything until the end of this transaction.
Inshallah, I will be waiting your urgent respond to complete this fund transaction.
BEST REGARDS
Mrs. Suzanne Hosni Mubarak
—
From : Tabarak Razvi [xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com]
Reply-To : [xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com
Sent : Thu, March 31, 2011
Subject: A CRY FOR HELP...PLEASE READ THE ATTACHMENT.
Dear Madam
I fully understand the instructions you wish me to carry out. I will now apply for a visa to Amsterdam and travel to Amsterdam at the earliest.
Once in Amsterdam I will go straight to SNS FINANCE BV and wait there to collect the money. I will have my Al Mansoor Video Library Card as photo identification when they hand over the money to me.
Your Humble Servant
Thakur Tabarak Singh bin Ghabbar Al Ram Garh
(My full name)
---
From: Suzanne Hosni Mubarak [suzannehosnimubarak1@arabmail.org]
Reply-To: [susanhosnimubarak737@e-mail.cz]
Sent: Thu, March 31, 2011
Subject: A CRY FOR HELP…PLEASE READ THE ATTACHMENT.
Dear Sir
No please. There is no reason for you to go to Amsterdam. All we require are your identification papers (scanned in an email) so that we can forward that information to FINANCE BV AMSTERDAM – NETHERLANDS and they will contact you for onward transaction.
BEST REGARDS
Mrs Suzanne Hosni Mubarak
—
From : Tabarak Razvi [xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com]
Reply-To : [xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com
Sent : Sun, April 3, 2011
Subject: A CRY FOR HELP...PLEASE READ THE ATTACHMENT.
Dear Madam
A thousand apologies for the confusion. I will now apply for a visa to the NETHERLANDS instead and contact SNS FINANCE and collect the funds.
Please advise if my travel costs will be reimbursed by your Holiness. I plan to fly Business Class on Kingfisher Airlines since I believe it is a 18 hour flight from Ram Ghar, District Sonapur in UP to the Netherlands.
Awaiting your instructions.
Thakur Tabarak Singh bin Ghabbar Al Ram Garh
(My full name)
---
From: Suzanne Hosni Mubarak [suzannehosnimubarak1@arabmail.org]
Reply-To: [susanhosnimubarak737@e-mail.cz]
Sent: Sun, April 3, 2011
Subject: A CRY FOR HELP…PLEASE READ THE ATTACHMENT.
Dear Sir
For the last time. There is no reason for you to go to Amsterdam (which is in NETHERLANDS by the way). If you are interested in helping me all I want are your ID papers scanned in an email so that I can send them to SNS FINANCE and start the transfer.
Best Regards
Mrs. Suzanne Hosni Mubarak
—
From : Tabarak Razvi [xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com]
Reply-To : [xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com
Sent : Wed, April 6, 2011
Subject: A CRY FOR HELP...PLEASE READ THE ATTACHMENT.
Dear Madam
After traveling for over two days on bullock cart and then by local train I am now in the busy city of Patna. However, I have been told that in order to obtain a visa for the NETHERLANDS I must travel to the capital of India which is New Delhi. There I will have to furnish all documents necessary to obtain relevant visa at the concerned embassy.
There is one problem, though. My meagre funds are now all but exhausted due to my extensive travels and I have not much funds left over to travel onwards and pay for visa fees and onwards ticket to NETHERLANDS.
Please advise if you can send US Dollars 300 to Western Union in Patna for the kind attention of Mrs Basanti Veeru (my cousin sister who has travelled with me). She is the only one in our family with a Ration Card and will, therefore, be able to collect money on my behalf enabling further travel plans.
Please advise earliest course of delivery of funds in Patna.
Till then I remain humbly yours
Thakur Tabarak Singh bin Ghabbar Al Ram Garh
(My full name)
---
From: Suzanne Hosni Mubarak [suzannehosnimubarak1@arabmail.org]
Reply-To: [susanhosnimubarak737@e-mail.cz]
Sent: Wed, April 6, 2011
Subject: A CRY FOR HELP…PLEASE READ THE ATTACHMENT.
It seems you are not serious about helping my husband with his problems. No body asked you to travel any where or do anything. All I wanted were your ID papers scanned in order for us to proceed with the transfer.
If you can send those papers then fine. Otherwise please stop what ever it is you are up to.
Mrs. Suzanne Hosni Mubarak
—
From : Tabarak Razvi [xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com]
Reply-To : [xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com
Sent : Fri, April 8, 2011
Subject: A CRY FOR HELP...PLEASE READ THE ATTACHMENT.
Dear Honorable First Lady
It seems our arduous journey has been cursed by yet another stumbling road block. For in the middle of last night all our worldly possessions have seemed to be stolen by miscreants who entered our room as Basanti (my cousin sister) and I were sleeping on SEPARATE beds peacefully.
Not only have our remaining funds been lost but also two clean shirts, one cotton pant and two night lungis are also missing. That was the only wardrobe I was planning to carry to the NETHERLANDS to complete our mission.
Basanti (my cousin sister) has also faced tremendous losses. Luckily she still has her Ration Card which was kept safe on her body while she slept.
We will now require at least US Dollar 2,000 if we are to complete our journey.
Please action immediate deliver of funds to a Western Union in Patna and notify us at once.
In much trouble,
Thakur Tabarak Singh bin Ghabbar Al Ram Garh
(My full name)
---
From: Suzanne Hosni Mubarak [suzannehosnimubarak1@arabmail.org]
Reply-To: [susanhosnimubarak737@e-mail.cz]
Sent: Fri, April 8, 2011
Subject: A CRY FOR HELP…PLEASE READ THE ATTACHMENT.
Please stop sending me emails.
Regards
—
HOW TO KILL YOUR SPOUSE (AND OTHER ANNOYING FRIENDS) WITHOUT GETTING CAUGHT
February 21st, 2011 § 5 Comments
How many of you lay awake at night plotting and scheming the brutal murder of the person lying next to you in bed? Do you some times resist the urge to stuff a used sock down their blowhole and smother them with the same pillow you got as a present from your meddlesome mother-in-law?
Or are you prone to suddenly stare intently at the sharp side of your stainless steel kitchen knife as you cut wafer thin slices of mozzarella for your midnight cheese and toast?
The only reason you don’t dare act out your wild fantasies is the deep and lurking fear of getting nabbed by the proverbial long arm of the law. Because, let’s face it, our desire to rid ourselves of that infuriating someone is less than our desire to avoid being penetrated by Bubba’s enormous manhood in the boiler room.
So to repay my debt to society I will share with you my vast knowledge on how to do away with your loved one without the authorities ever being the wiser.
Infecting her with the Ebola virus: The Ebola virus was first discovered in 1976 when it wreaked havoc on a mission hospital run by Flemish nuns in Zaire (now known as The Democratic Republic of Congo). It’s mortality rate is 90% which means only 1 person out of ten may actually survive the infection. Now hoping that your loved one is not part of that 10% here’s what you have to do.
Fly to the Democratic Republic of Congo and locate your self one White-headed Capuchin monkey. If you don’t know what a White-headed Capuchin monkey looks like I suggest you rent out Outbreak and watch it on your laptop aboard the plane.
You might have to catch many White-headed Capuchin monkeys to find one with the Ebola virus so keep a minimum-wage lab technician with you out in the field. His job will be to constantly test the cute critters for your virus. Upon finding your chosen monkey wrap him up in an airtight plastic carrier and bring him back home. You can arrange for customs by simply bribing the airport staff with Vanilla Twinkies.
Upon your return present your sweetheart with the most exotic gift a girl could ever receive. Because believe me! Those White-headed Capuchin monkeys are fucking cute.
Make sure you’re wearing a surgical mask at all times to prevent catching the virus your self. If she asks you just say you have the flu and you don’t want her to get it.
Now that you’ve planted your weapon it’s time for you to beat a hasty retreat out of the country. She’ll be so enamored by your thoughtfulness she won’t even notice your absence.
Make sure you get your passport stamped by immigration to confirm your alibi. The rest is just a pleasant waiting game. While you give your bloated, hairy belly a much needed tan by the pool your sweetheart will be suffering from the following symptoms:
The inability to clot blood. This means she will bleed from everywhere including her ass. The linings of her intestines and tongue will fall off. As she vomits black blood her organs will start to liquify and turn putrid. And as a cherry on top her brain will turn into mush and she will go mad.
Your local health authority will have to take care of cleaning up the mess since this is going to be a Level 1 BIOHAZARD incident and they wouldn’t want you to simply Windex your way to sterility. The cops won’t come near a mile of this case for fear of contracting the disease them selves. And you can come across as the absentee grieving husband who, for some reason, now has a lot of spare time to play golf.
Radiation Poisoning: While not the easiest means to dispose of anybody this method still has a 100% success rate. However, given the glam nature of this approach it requires meticulous preparation.
Your first order of business will be to initiate contact with a former Chechen Warlord or General who is on the run from the Russians. If the last season of 24 is any thing to go by then more often than not they seem to have access to forgotten nuclear stockpiles abandoned by the Russian army at the end of the Cold War.
Use Wikileaks to locate a rogue undercover agent who had infiltrated the Kremlin in the 1980s and have him populate the terrorist grapevine that you’re in the market for some U-235 Weapons Grade Uranium. Since he’s been out of a job since the Cold War ended he’ll happily take on this assignment for a brand new iPod Shuffle.
The plus side is you don’t need a lot of Uranium to see off a woman that weighs 99lbs. This should help you keep your costs down since good quality Uranium can be almost as expensive as onions in India.
Once you are in contact with one genocidal Chechen General you will have to meet him and his buff cohorts at an obligatory Nu Metal club complete with Nine Inch Nails blaring from the loud speakers. Expect to spend your evening in a haze of scantily clad women wearing leather and chains, Finnish vodka shots, impassioned references to the Motherland and grade-A cocaine.
When you have made the transaction insist on getting delivery of your shipment in your home town because, let’s face it, no body wants U-235 Uranium on their shirt.
As soon as you have delivery of said Uranium let her know you’ll be leaving town for a few days. Then while she’s in the bathroom place a folder in her laptop titled ‘DEATH TO AMERICA AND THE ZIONIST PIGS’. In there put as many documents as you can about building portable nuclear warheads, videos of rebels training in a remote forest and a suicide note which claims that her real name is Mariam Zagayev and her sole purpose in life is to avenge the deaths of Muslims around the world at the hands of Western forces.
Leave the Uranium under her bed while you beat a hasty retreat to sun-kissed Sharm-El-Sheikh. Stay tuned to CNN because pretty soon you’ll hear the news of a major terrorist plot foiled by the terrorists’ own stupidity. Analysts will laugh at how the terrorist lady left a jar full of Uranium open and caused her own death. The world will be glad that a major catastrophe was averted.
You, on the other hand, will be the ignorant husband who is shocked at the double identity of his wife. Break down at appropriate moments on TV and the world will condole this tragedy in your life.
Die Hard With A Vengeance: This method, by far, is the easiest and the least suspicious way of ridding yourself of that special someone. All it requires is a subscription to the local movie library, a white sandwich board, one permanent black marker and some Rohypnol.
Invite your victim to join you for an evening of movies and wine (after all who can resist that?). For artistic irony rent out Die Hard: With A Vengeance and settle down to watch Jeremy Irons own Bruce Willis for the better part of the movie. Now in that movie is a scene which you can successfully re-create using your hapless victim as a stand-in for the equally hapless Bruce Willis.
Here’s what you have to do.
During the course of the movie slip your unsuspecting friend a couple of the roofies you managed to get your hands on earlier. As she slowly slips into a comatose condition whip out your advertising sandwich board and scrawl the following words on it using your permanent black marker :
DEATH TO THE BLACK MAN
Then on the other side write this down:
GOD LOVES THE KKK
Load up your, now unconscious, friend in the back of your car. Your aim is to drop her off in a high-crime neighborhood densely populated by African-Americans. Some place like Harlem or South Central Los Angeles should work perfectly. Be careful not to slow down too much as you kick her out of the moving car. After all you don’t want to be a victim of your own plan, now do you?
As you speed off triumphantly yelling Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker! from the window make sure you make a quick stop at the local movie store and pick up the Special Edition Box Set of the Die Hard Trilogy. After all, increasing DVD sales is your only way of saying thanks to Bruce Willis.
Like this:
OF FAIRY TALES AND NURSERY RHYMES – PART II
September 30th, 2010 § Leave a Comment
This is Part II of a previous post. If you haven’t read that one yet then you can read it here : OF FAIRY TALES AND NURSERY RHYMES – PART I
I spent the better part of my childhood being fed enchanting fairy tales about beautiful princesses, wooden boys and ugly toads that magically transformed in to Brad Pitt-esque men if you played a bit of tonsil tennis with them.
My mother started this trend even before I began going to school as a means of putting me to bed. Once we entered the education system we were told these stories by pretty young teachers as we sat around in a circle on colorful play mats. Our unadulterated minds accepted these stories with a sense of wonderment and awe because they took us to a magical land far far away.
Disney, the giant capitalist machine that exploits children’s taste for fantasy, dressed up these characters and brought them to beautiful life. Both on screen and on paper and we, like an eager litter of cute puppies around the milk bowl lapped it all up greedily.
But what I fail to understand is how in God’s name did our seemingly responsible parents allow these sordid tales of hate, jealousy and murder to enter our beautiful unmarred minds. But they did. And when I look back I can only shudder at the thought and give thanks to a higher power that I did not end up like Bundy or Dahmer. But then again I know this one kid from my fourth grade who went on to bludgeon his sleeping family to death. I swear I’m not lying. So maybe in some twisted way we all pave the way for our children to become serial killers.
You’ll see why.
Snowhite & The Seven Dwarves : This is the story of a beautiful girl who grows up in a dark, brooding castle in the care of the proverbial ‘wicked’ Queen who, brace yourself, is also her stepmother. If there ever were a shortage of cliches anywhere in the world you could trust Disney to serve up so many in one sentence it would send your head spinning. Anyway, so this ‘wicked’ Queen not only makes Snowhite work as a scullery maid (child abuse?) she’s now super-pissed that her ‘magic’ mirror thinks Snowhite is prettier than her (schizophrenia? hate? jealousy? You take your pick). So as a final solution the Queen instructs her woodsman to lure the child out to the forest, stab her in the chest with his enormous hunting knife and, as if we weren’t grossed out enough, to carve her living, breathing heart out of her frail chest as proof of murder in the first degree.
I guess there was a reason the brothers were called Grimm.
Her miraculous escape then lands her in the lap of seven dwarves, all men by the way, who have stupid names like Farty and Burpy (or some adjective with a ‘y’ in the end to make them sound cute). The fact that she lived unsupervised with seven adult men for so long is another crime just screaming to be investigated.
Her life of gay abandon is short-lived as the wicked Queen now finds her way back to poor old unsuspecting Snowhite. Except this time she’s armed with poisonous apples which our heroine promptly devours. The dwarves upon finding out their (sex?) slave has been poisoned battle the Queen and manage to push her from atop a cliff to her much anticipated death.
The newly deceased Snowhite is then encased in a glass case and the dwarves huddle around her with long droopy faces. That is until a necrophiliac prince decides to perform oral erotica on her and breathe life into her lifeless body. They of course live happily ever after but that’s just like slapping a Loony Tunes logo after an Al Qaeda execution video.
The damage has already been done.
Hansel and Gretel : If there ever was a tale more sordid and blindingly terrifying than Hansel & Gretel I still have to come across it. The premise of this little tale alone is enough to turn the blood in your veins into ice.
In a remote forest, somewhere in Germany, lived a family of four. A woodsman father, one wicked step-mother (yup, you read that right) and their two adorable children Hansel & Gretel. Now due to an economic meltdown in the region the family find themselves facing a shortage of food. Apparently the only logical thing for the loving parents to do is to take their children deep into the forest and abandon them there. Once the kids had died of starvation there would be enough food for the husband and wife to gorge on.
I remember quite vividly my Mom reading this story to me as a child and, to this day, remember the cold sweats that formed on my stiffening six year old trembling body. It was fifteen years before I was brave enough to go anywhere alone with her.
Sorry, I need a moment here (pause for dramatic effect).
OK back to the story.
After having failed a couple of times (the pesky kids kept finding their way back) this time the parents go really deep into the forest and finally manage to rid themselves of their offsprings. The two terrified children are now alone in the dark forest waiting for their untimely death brought on by a severe case of malnutrition.
But things were about to take a turn for the worst. For in their confusion to get back home to their parents (why, I’ll never understand – haven’t they been trying to kill them?) they happen across a cottage made of candy in which lives (oh, God) A WITCH THAT EATS LITTLE CHILDREN!
This is a child’s fairy tale in case you had forgotten.
The children are now prisoners of this cannibalistic witch. She puts one child (Gretel) to work as her slave and the other in a cage where he is routinely fed foods high in calories so that he may become plump. He is being turned into a fatty because the witch wants to make sure there’s enough meat on his bones when she’s finally ready to slaughter him and eat him.
As fate would have it the children use some form of childish trickery to push the cannibal into her own oven and burn her alive. In the ensuing escape scene they are re-united with their lamenting father, who has been mysteriously absolved of his near murderous deed. The step-mother has conveniently disappeared leaving the shaken trio to live out the rest of their lives happily ever after.
Now I don’t know what you make out of this particular offering from the Brothers Grimm but it’s left an indelible scar on my psyche. Because, even to this day, when Mom & Dad are visiting, I sleep with one eye open.
Little Red Riding Hood : Once again we have front-row seats to a child’s life being put into danger. Not at the hands of a human who might have a change of heart but a vicious, ravenous wolf who is hell-bent on not just savaging Little Red but does not think twice about sinking his fangs into her other family members as well.
The story opens on cute Little Red skipping through the forest (seems like the forest was the way go to if you wanted to introduce tragedy and mayhem into your stories) on her way to Grandmas’. As she scampers along she comes face to face with Mr. Wolf who has a serious case of the munchies. And as luck would have it his favorite food is cute little girls sporting red capes.
Deciding that viciously tearing her body apart in public might be a bit much he tricks her into taking a different route to Grandmas’. As gullible Red wanders off our crafty canine races over to Granny’s and without much fuss swallows the old lady whole. Now dressed in her clothes, complete with bright red lipstick, our cross-dressing, double-crossing murderous villain sits in anticipation of his next meal.
As Little Red comes face to face with the wolf she can’t seem to see past the odd features that Granny now seems to possess. Red was either suffering from acute short-sightedness or Grandma was a dog. However, her suspicions are aroused when cute old Granny suddenly springs out of her bed and, fangs bare, charges at her jugular.
In the ensuing melee Little Red is also consumed and slides down Wolfies throat to be finally reunited with her dear old Grandmother. However, a woodcutter, not too far away, is witness to this savage animal attack and takes it upon his vigilante self to extract some revenge.
With an axe he bludgeons the wolf to death and tears open the animals’ stomach where, among the entrails, he finds the mangled bodies of a naked old woman and a little girl with a red cape. Of course the story says they came out alive but even a six year old knows that if you get eaten by an animal your chances of survival are very slim. That’s like eating a chicken sandwich and then regurgitating a hen. Doesn’t happen.
So there ends the story of vicious animal attacks, brutal vigilante justice and a brand new season of CSI FOREST.
—
I’d write more but my repressed childhood memories are threatening to come roaring back into terrifying life if I don’t stop. But stay tuned. There will be more.
QUESTIONS ANSWERED
September 27th, 2010 § 1 Comment
We have our roles defined for us. Man and woman each know what to do and when to do it to keep the other happy. At the same time we make sure that we keep the other on their toes lest they start to slack and spoil all the fun.
Now you’re probably thinking I’m going to give you a lop-sided and immensely macho opinion on the subject. While I AM THAT (IMMENSELY MACHO!) I am not afraid to occasionally get in touch with my feminine side to better understand the fairer sex (side note : ‘fairer’ here means better looking and not ‘just’ as I had mistakenly assumed for the better part of my post-pubescent macho existence). And for a second here let’s be honest with ourselves. ‘Fairer sex’ is also a bit of a stretch because if you’ve seen Brad Pitt in Fight Club and Snatch then you know that title is up for grabs.
Fuck.
Did I say just that out loud? It must have been me getting in touch with my feminine side. But only fleetingly.
Anyway.
Most of us who are in relationships are sincere enough to try and make it work because, let’s face it, the age old adage of ‘All you need is love’ is fast showing signs of waning. Kinda obvious with divorce at epidemic proportions and single Mums being cooler than the next Apple product. So for those hard working individuals who give a shit about the one they’re with here are a few ready-made answers for you to shout out when you’re asked those ‘impossible to answer honestly without getting in a fist fight’ questions.
—
For the ladies.
Q : Uh, honey. I was going out with the boys to play some pool. You OK with that?
Honest Answer : At what point in your miserable life did you think it was OK to leave me alone and fuck off with your boys? You think I don’t know what the fuck it is you get up to after a few drinks? You honestly expect me to cry my self to sleep while you’re out doing Tequila shots off the barmaid’s belly button? You think I don’t know about your secret massages at 3AM? Fuck you, you insensitive prick!
Relationship Saving Answer : Of course it is, honey. You don’t have to me ask me that. Make sure you take a cab if you’re drinking. And say ‘Hi’ to Tabs.
Finally, follow this up with a warm smile and a hug.
Now you don’t have to do this every time, mind you. A couple nights a week with the boys means he still thinks he’s in control of his life without realizing you’re in control the other five nights. He doesn’t mind those odds. Honestly. Give him an extra night off if an old friend pops by unexpectedly. If he gets greedy and asks for more tell him to choose between Tabs and yourself. I promise he’ll always choose you.
*
Q : Do you think we could have a threesome? You know, just to spice things up a little.
Honest Answer : With who? It’s that slut from Finance we met at your office party last year, isn’t it? That whore was all over you. And now you want to bring her into MY bed? Do you think I’m your sex slave who’ll do anything for you? Fuck you, you insensitive prick!
Relationship Saving Answer : Sure, honey. That sounds like a great idea. And once we’re done with that I was thinking of inviting Tabs over for next time. You know, just to spice things up a little.
The thought of his friend doing it with his very significant other will cause all his troops to race back into the dark crevices of his groin, curl up in a fetal position and start sucking their thumbs. The downside of this answer is you can forget about bumping uglies for at least two weeks as he tries to shake off that very vivid image you just planted in his head. The upside is he’ll never ask for a threesome again.
Of course if you already swing that way then there’s no reason for you to be reading this. He’s your slave for life anyway.
*
Q : Do we HAVE to watch that stupid chick flick with J Lo and that dude who always has his shirt off? Can’t we watch something else?
Honest Answer : For once in my miserable life I want to watch something that I enjoy. Something that makes me feel warm inside. But NO! It’s just too much for you to grant me that simple pleasure. Instead I have to watch some steroid fueled, double digit IQ ape take apart a hapless 3rd World Country using all the pyrotechnics Hollywood can muster. Fuck you, you insensitive prick!
Relationship Saving Answer : Sure, honey. Why don’t you get the popcorn and I’ll get a movie that you like.
Now here’s the trick. There are a million chick flicks out there masquerading as guy movies (my friend emailed me a link the other day) which you can put on. I promise, his puny brain will never know the difference. So while you get your dose of warm and fuzzy he thinks his testosterone is actually rising. Idiot.
Here’s a quick glance at some guy movies which are actually chick flicks :
Slumdog Millionaire, Coyote Ugly, Top Gun (yes, TOP GUN), Pearl Harbour, Jerry Maguire & Cocktail. All movies designed as guy movies but really chick flicks indeed. Enjoy.
—
Now something for the dudes.
Q : Do I look fat in this dress?
Honest Answer : What the fuck does in this dress mean? You’re either fat or you’re not. And, frankly, if I were you I’d avoid that slice of cheese cake you’ve started having after dinner and definitely take it easy on those vanilla frappuccinos you’ve been busting at Starbucks every morning. And, honestly, stop flattering yourself. No body really gives a fuck whether you’re fat or not. Now stop whining and go make me a sandwich.
Relationship Saving Answer : No.
*
Q : Do you love me?
Honest Answer : What the fuck do you think? Do you think if I didn’t I would give up my carefree, dating triplets, getting hammered with my friends and not having to answer to anybody bachelor life? Are you really that insecure that you have to hear it from me every waking minute of my God forsaken life with you? You make me sick. Now stop whining and go make me a sandwich.
Relationship Saving Answer : Yes.
*
Q : Do you think she’s prettier than me?
Honest Answer : Have you seen the ass on that body? Prettier? She’s so fucking hot I want to scoop my heart out with a dull spoon just so that I don’t run over and try and jump her bones. Maybe if you did some of the stuff Cosmo tells you to do we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Go put some cucumbers on your eyes or what ever it is you chicks do to look half decent. Now stop whining and go make me a sandwich.
Relationship Saving Answer : No.
—
Of course maintaining relationships is not an exact science and there will be times when you’ll have to improvise. For example I’ve learnt that gentle spanking can go a long way. Or that leather need not only be confined to the closet. Anyway, hope that helped. Now off to save orphans in Africa.
YOU ARE NOT PERFECT
September 22nd, 2010 § Leave a Comment
The Christian belief states that God made Man in his own image. Islam assures us that Man is the greatest of all Allah’s creations and I suspect Jews & Hindus have similar beliefs. I say suspect because I can’t be bothered to do any research into that. Besides all my cold hard facts on this blog are pulled out of my ass at opportune moments anyway so why stop now.
But I digress.
Man is supposed to be a perfect rendition of the divine form and will and we have been indoctrinated with this theory for so long that we fail to see our short comings. We have too much of an ego to accept that we are far from perfect.
Well, since I’ve been carved from different wood, I will take it upon my self to bring my ego-maniacal brethren down to earthly levels. Here’s just some of the reasons why you should stop thinking you’re anything but perfect.
Ear Lobes: Who the hell needs ear lobes? What did an ear lobe ever do to warrant a place on man’s oh so perfect form. While I respect the awesome power of hearing I do take offense to a totally useless fleshy appendage dangling from the side of my face. Does it get cancer? Is there an Ear Lobe Awareness day celebrated by women wearing purple ribbons? Does it help me even hear better? Seems like the answer is a resounding ‘NO’. So if it doesn’t even meet the basic requirements of being useful for ANYTHING then I think it should go.
Perfect Form : 0 — Useless Shit My Body Doesn’t Need : 1
Nails: Like I needed something to finish off the end of my fingers and toes. They look complete and are fully functional with out them. The only things nails are good for are being pulled out with pliers during torture. So why am I even allowing dead cells to grow on the ends of my digits? And how the fuck can DEAD cells GROW? Isn’t that the zombie philosophy? Frankly that freaks the shit out of me. Now not only am I allowing organically dead material to have a life of it’s own I have to spend millions over a lifespan on mani/pedis just so that I don’t accidently impale my brain while picking my nose.
Perfect Form : 0 — Useless Shit My Body Doesn’t Need : 2
Hair: Not just on your head but anywhere. I’m opposed to it. The only good thing I can see coming out of hair is the ongoing success of professional wrestling. Only because I cannot imagine a hairless Ultimate Warrior. Apart from that is there a reason to have hair on your knuckles? Or your chest? Or your privates? OR ON YOUR FUCKING EAR LOBES????? NO! Once again something so utterly useless demands that we spend billions annually either trimming it, styling it or waxing it off. Now some may argue that luxurious head hair (especially on woman) looks hot. Yes, but that’s because we’ve been conditioned to find that hot. Vogue & Cosmo have made sure of that. I’m sure if we were born in a world where glossy scalps were in Yul Brynner would be every girl’s fantasy and no body would have made fun of Britney when she had that little episode with a beard trimmer set at Zero.
Perfect Form : 0 — Useless Shit My Body Doesn’t Need : 3
Eyebrows: I would have readily classified this in the previous category but since it has a name of it’s own it is individually worthy of my ridicule. Two bushy streaks of hair running over my eyes for no apparent reason. Do they shield me from the sun’s glare? Did the vast expanse of my forehead really need to be broken with hairy relief? Can they be used in some bizarre mating ritual to attract the opposite (or same if you swing that way) sex? No. No. No. So other than collecting dropping flakes of dandruff during the dry winter months eyebrows are just about as useful as, uhm, ear lobes, I guess.
Perfect Form : 0 — Useless Shit My Body Doesn’t Need : 4
Man Nipples: How can something be so revered in one sex and be so totally useless in the other is beyond me. And our brains are so puny that we have accepted this anomaly unconditionally. Well, I say it’s time to stop! I will not accept my man nipples any more. Unless science can come up with a way of using them for the betterment of mankind I say boycott your man nipples. The only way I’m accepting them is if they help me find stuff around the house. Lost your car keys? Swivel around slowly. The minute they get hard and pointy just follow their lead. But I suspect that will take a while and till then cars might be obsolete.
Perfect Form : 0 — Useless Shit My Body Doesn’t Need : 5
As I was writing this piece I stumbled upon, what you might call, an epiphany. All the body parts that I’ve mentioned, and which I deem thoroughly useless, are either pierced, painted or styled by us in the name of fashion. Hair is styled and trimmed, ear lobes, nipples and eyebrows are pierced and nails are painted.
It is as if our primitive intellect realized they are no good and, hence, needed vibrant embellishments in order to be represented. Have you ever heard of any one piercing their elbow or painting their knee? No, because those body parts have a function and don’t need an artificial dress up. Everything I’ve mentioned does.
Or it could be an elaborate plan by the right-wing capitalist free masons who realized much earlier on the inadequacies of the human form and used it to leverage our insecurities into a multi-billion dollar industry that can never be satiated.
Or it could be God doodling on Human Auto Cad 1.0 and then being too lazy to hit undo.
I guess we’ll never know.
I PROBABLY HATE YOU
August 16th, 2010 § 8 Comments
I hate a lot of things. Not because I am consumed by hate but because I don’t possess the necessary patience to deal with things that don’t fall within my parameters of acceptance. Or even vague tolerance.
And why not?
We are after all judged by the choices we make so why can’t I judge you? And judging people is kind of fun. It alleviates you from the responsibility of judging your self which, I must admit, is quite distasteful. Especially if you’re honest about it. I try and lie to my self sometimes but I eventually see right through it so the relevance of the exercise sort of motors out of steam and eventually falls in to the realms of procrastination.
And speaking of procrastination here’s a not-at-all-comprehensive list of things that piss me off. I promise you, you’re in there some where.
People that drape their cell phone hands-free across their face so that the mic part sits right under their mouth and the other end is looped over one of the ears. And then they walk around malls like that. And engage in live conversations with you. With the thing still wrapped across their face.
OK. Where do I begin?
Lesson #1 : Physics. You know the 3.8 cms of audio advantage that you’re trying to get by face strangling yourself with a wire? Let me tell you it’s no advantage to the guy on the other end of that call. Believe me when I talk to you over the phone and you think you’re doing me a huge favor by giving your self sleep lines, think again. You’re not. Because I’ve spoken to people who let it naturally dangle on the side of their faces (as it was meant to) and they sound fine.
Because if it was meant to be draped around your fat face don’t you think Nokia would have installed a fish hook in it so that you could pierce the inside of your cheek and keep that mic in place? No, right?
And, frankly, if you’re going to resemble a half-hearted attempt at a cellular bondage game gone wrong at least have the decency to avoid contact with humans. Because when I’m talking to you I don’t want to be distracted by a piece of wire strung tightly across the entire length of your face. There’s just something oddly unsettling about it. So stop doing that. Because I fucking hate it.
People that walk around with the Bluetooth cell phone hands-free ear plug. You are another one. Who told you it was OK to have a piece of plastic embedded in your ear while you go about your daily nerd-ridden activities? A piece of plastic that transmits radio frequencies while sporting a bright blue blinking light?
Did you see it in the store and go “If I squeeze this piece of shiny grey plastic with the blinking light in my ear maybe that zit-faced chick in accounting will notice me?”
Well, if that’s why you did it then fine. I forgive you. Because everyone needs to get laid, right?
But if you did it because it was convenient then, you, my Star Trek loving friend, are worthy of my disgust. You would rather collect bacteria in one of your ears than raise your phone to your ear and have a normal conversation. Like normal people.
“But it’s for the car! I use it when I’m driving!” You scream.
Shut up. Get a Bluetooth speaker phone. It costs the same. It’s unobtrusive. And it doesn’t make you look like you’ve come to kill Sarah Connor.
People who don’t raise their hand in thanks when you let them in traffic. You are the lowest of the low. You rank up their with dust mites and dog fleas in my list of ‘Things that will least affect my life if incinerated by a Klingon Death Ray’.
At what point did you think I was obligated to let you cut ahead in front of me? The only logical reason that springs to mind is your mommy got jiggy with the dude who’s name’s on the road sign and that you were the result of that unholy union. Oh how I wish you had drowned in that fallopian tube instead of tiredly swimming your way to your mother’s ovaries.
And now you’re sitting behind the wheel of that second-hand Punto thinking that the world owes you a free pass into a busy intersection.
So the next time a kindred spirit decides to be nice to you have the courtesy to extend a thank you. Because if you don’t I swear to God I will find you. And kill you.
People who use YOUTUBE to carry out political/religious debates that more often than not end up with one accusing the other of bestiality. If ever there was a medium that encouraged the double digit IQ fraternity from venting their bad grammar and even worse logic it has to be greatest invention of the 21st Century: YOUTUBE
Never have I seen such putrid hate spewing from the mouths of neanderthals as I have seen on those public forums. As an active participant of the social networking and new media explosion I felt it was my duty to play a part in shaping this phenomena and, hence, I thought it best to partake in the spirit of community and opinion building by sharing my thoughts and views. Had I known that within a nano-second of me hitting ‘Post’ I would be subject to the most vile and utterly distasteful slurs imagineable I would have bottled up my feelings and transferred them to my secret journal instead.
What is up with people on YOUTUBE? There must be some link between watching pixelated videos with out-of-sync audio that triggers such violent rage in people. There is a video of Barney singing ‘I Love You, You Love Me’ and there’s a comment at the bottom that says ‘Barney is a sand-nigger and he loves dune-coons’. As God is my witness I kid you not.
People who will post even the slightest shift in their bowels as an event on Twitter. This bunch is the EXACT opposite of the trolls that troll YOUTUBE. If ever there was a more sickeningly sweet bunch of people ever brought together by the virtues of social networking it has to be the Tweeps.
The Tweeps live in a saccharine world of their own where even the most miniscule event is worthy of the 160 character update. I’m convinced they were totally and completely ignored as children which would then explain their almost obsessive desire to share anything and everything with a million other faceless usernames and avatars.
This is done solely to get reactions from other people thus confirming the fact that they are alive and being noticed.
To add to the nausea Tweeps also have special names for special things inspired by their little birdie diety.
Tweetup is a meeting of people who use Twitter. A Twestival (*snicker) is a festival attended by Tweeps. Twalking is to walk and Tweet at the same time. A Tweetsult is an insult sent using Twitter. A Tweetaholic is… OK I won’t insult your intelligence.
There are more but I won’t get into them. Frankly, all this makes me wanna Tweet up in my toilet bowl.
People that want to share the drinks bill down to the EXACT amount they have consumed or are liable for. Just divide the bill by the number of people and get it over with will you? The Law of Averages promises that by the time someone pulls the plug on your ventilator you will not have paid more than your fair share.
But no. We must now stand under black light and decipher math more complicated than Quantum Physics with nothing other than the glow emitting from your enamel covered teeth as company. Had known I was going to flashback to Grade V math I would have stopped after my 14th Margarita.
Now, not only are your other carefree friends getting restless to get a move on you’ve also pissed off the waitress who is fantasizing about dropping a lugie in your B52 next time you grace the bar. So stop being an anal retentive prick because, I swear, no matter how charming you are in real life your friends hate you a little more each time they have to add up 67 items while under the influence.
There are more of you but I will write about you another time. Till then fuck off.
5 WAYS TO GET HIGH
July 19th, 2010 § 2 Comments
I was reading the newspaper the other day when I was greeted with a rather large and sensational headline :
“Teenage boy dies after inhaling butane”
As I delved deeper into the details it emerged that alternative forms of drug abuse are quite rampant amongst kids that age and, shockingly, not just recently. Apparently even when I was seventeen (and that was a while ago, I promise) there were kids doing all they could to get high using simple household products.
Some methods involved emptying an entire bottle of Correction Fluid (Tipp-Ex) in a polythene bag and placing the bag over your head to inhale all the fumes. What that does to anybody is a mystery to me. Sniffing markers or industrial glue is another favorite amongst thrill-seeking teenagers out to look cool at all costs. Again I am not aware of the effects of sniffing markers or glue other than it fucks you up, man.
If I thought this was far out I was in for another very rude (and extremely surprising) shock. Ever heard of i-Dosing? No? Well, neither had I till last week. This is completely legal and the rage with all the kids. Can you guess how it works? If you don’t know about it already I promise you are soon going to be Jack’s Sense of Total Shock.
i-Dosing is listening to monotonous layered sounds on headphones while lying down in a dark room in order to induce mood changes that rival the highs of different types of drugs. i-Dose MP3s are available for download from i-doser.com and promise you a variety of highs ranging from Cocaine, Marijuana, Peyote and Opium. Yup that’s right. Kids are now downloading MP3s and listening to them to get high.
Click here to listen to what i-Dosing sounds like.
I mean what the fuck is this world coming to? As a seventeen year old in liberal Karachi we could get bombed on easily available hashish and didn’t have to earn a PHD in chemistry to get a little fucked up. So maybe my perspective is a little different.
Which draws me to the eventual and logical conclusion that kids will get high no matter what. Take away the weed and they’ll invent some concoction sitting in the basement which makes you dizzy for about 5 seconds. Give them weed and they’ll try growing a super strain that fucks your shit up for a week straight. There’s nothing you can really do. So if you can’t beat ‘em then I suggest we give ‘em a list of ways to get high.
1. Yellow Demon: Did you know that lemon juice if absorbed into the nasal membrane has extremely high hallucinogenic properties? For this to work you will need a strong friend to assist you. Lie down on your back and have your arms tied up so that they are pretty much immobilized. Have your friend squeeze the juice of half a lemon in each nostril and then hold you down. Your first impulse will be to squirm and try and get the juice out of your nose. But believe me if you hold on for just one minute you will be transported into the land of the Chocolate Unicorn. Trust me.
2. Green C Lightning: For this awesome mind fuck you will need 6 green chillies. Make sure they’re the really really spicy kind. Take a sharp knife and slit them down the middle and collect all the seeds. Once you have the seeds place them in both your ears and use the skin of the chillies to plug in the holes. It may tingle a bit at first but if you let it be for a minute the sense of euphoria that envelops you is out of this world. Trust me.
3. Wasabi Whack-OUT: This personal favorite of mine was invented by Chef Harimoto in the 12th Century while meditating near the Pool of Sacred Tears on Mount Unagi. Saunter down to your local sushi joint and pick up a bowl of their best wasabi. Take a nostril sized amount and roll two pellets out of it. Next take a short straw placing one end over the wasabi pellet and the other deep in the crevices of your right nostril. Holding the left nostril shut inhale as sharply as you can. Repeat with left nostril. The heightened sense of awareness and elevated confidence that you feel almost immediately are well worth this oriental gem. Trust me.
4. Salty Surprise: Notwithstanding the glaring pornographic image that springs to mind here is another beauty made possible simply through the use of every day table salt. Take two eye-sized bottle caps and fill them up halfway with table salt. Next add tap water to fill up the caps. The deeper the cap the better the high. Put your head down and bring both the caps over your eyes. Keeping both eyes wide open throw your head back sharply and let all that beautiful drug enter your receptive eyes. The ensuing hallucinogenic stupor you find your self in will guarantee that you give this one another shot very soon. Trust me.
5. Turbo Tobasco: This extremely advanced form of drug use is a combination of Salty Surprise and Wasabi Whack-OUT except that the ingredient used is actually the highly hallucinogenic red Tobasco. Take one eye-sized bottle cap and fill it half-way with Tobasco. Next take a shot glass and fill it up half-way with, yup you guessed it, Tobasco. Place a short straw in the shot glass with the other end in your right nostril. Keep your head down and place the bottle cap over your left eye. Now inhale sharply. As the Tobasco enters your nasal membrane throw your head back and let the Tobasco run into your eyes. This double dose of sweet sweet narcotic will not only make you hallucinate but give you an elevated sense of euphoria as well. Trust me.
While there are many more ways of getting high using simple household items these are just a few firm favorites of mine. And if there are any aspiring teenage junkies reading this please go ahead and sample some of these alternative mind fucks.
I promise you they will change your life.
A MEAL WELL DONE
July 11th, 2010 § Leave a Comment
“I’ll have another glass of the Shiraz, please.” Our server nodded politely and headed off to the back where, I’m guessing, they stocked all the booze.
As he snaked his way through the throng of patrons I noticed a man sitting all by himself staring intently at the menu. He was so engrossed in it he may as well have been trying to decipher some alien hieroglyphics found inside Tut’s tomb. He kept pursing his lips and whispering things to himself.
Thinking nothing of it I turned back to my wife sitting across the table and resumed our adrenalin infused conversation about who was going to take our daughter to her ballet class the next morning. It was simply a matter of time before I lost that argument and we went back to shoveling medium rare steak into our mouths.
I couldn’t but help sneak another glance over at my loner friend to see how he was faring. I wondered when his date would join him or if he was by himself. As he motioned to a server to take his order I realized the latter was true.
“One Beef Stroganoff.” he said, barely taking his nose out of his menu. “And a small bottle of Perrier.”
He slammed the leather-bound menu shut and handed it back to his server dismissing him without the courtesy of eye contact.
“No tip for you, Mr Waiter Man.” I whispered loudly to my self. But only loud enough for my wife to hear. She looked up quizzically and I simply shook my head as if to say You’ll never understand.
The server came back shortly with a small bottle of Perrier and a glass filled with ice. As he served the man his sparkling water he was asked rather gruffly:
“How long before my food gets here? I need it soon.”
“As soon as it’s ready I’ll bring it over, sir.”
“Well, I’m in a hurry so check with the Chef and let him know he has to hurry it up. Alright?”
Bowing ever so curtly the server turned around and headed straight into the kitchen; no doubt ready to unleash a string of expletives any pirate in the 19th Century would have been proud of. The impatient patron snorted in disgust and settled back to wait for his Stroganoff.
Barely five minutes later the server, now with a triumphant look on his face, came gliding out through the swinging kitchen doors carrying in one hand a silver tray atop which rested said Stroganoff. With great aplomb he planted it on the table and stood by proudly, almost expecting a pat on the back.
The impatient patron looked down into the Stroganoff and shook his head.
“This has mushrooms. I distinctly said NO MUSHROOMS. I need this dish to be changed.”
“There must be some misunderstanding, sir, because I never heard you say NO MUSHROOMS. And besides an authentic Beef Stroganoff must have mushrooms.”
“Well, I don’t care. I’m the customer and I insist there be no mushrooms in my Stroganoff. Can you see to it your Chef doesn’t make the same mistake again?”
Taking a deep breath the waiter turned on his heel and stomped back in to the kitchen, no doubt, about to get a tongue lashing from the Chef as well.
I watched this from a vantage point of one table, now quite interested in this little altercation that was brewing.
Five minutes later the server returned holding the modified Stroganoff.
“Beef Stroganoff. NO MUSHROOMS.” He said before placing it under the man’s nose. With that he turned around and started walking off.
The man nodded, picked up his fork and put some of the brown gravy in his mouth.
“Excuse me!” He said rather loudly. “There’s not enough garlic in this. I need more garlic.”
The waiter turned around, extremely annoyed, and walked back to the table.
“What do you mean there’s not enough garlic? I assure you there is exactly the right amount of garlic in this dish.”
“Well, I don’t care. I like a lot of garlic in my food. Your dish does not have enough garlic. Can you take it back and get some more garlic put in it?”
“Exactly how much garlic would you like?” The server inquired sarcastically.
“Two medium sized cloves should be enough.”
The server picked up the Stroganoff and with a huff headed back in to the kitchen. By this time most of the patrons were staring at the man yet he seemed quite oblivious to the attention he was drawing to himself.
I, personally, couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen next.
This time the server returned with, not one but, two dishes.
“This one has an additional two cloves of garlic,” placing one of the dishes on the table, “and this one has an additional FOUR cloves. You know, in case you want more garlic.” After dropping the other dish on the table he waited expectantly for the man to make his choice.
The patron dipped his fork in both the dishes and gave each one a thorough tour of his palette. By this time most of the guests in proximity were anxiously awaiting the outcome of this Round.
“I prefer the one with two cloves.”
The server picked up the other dish and turned around to leave.
“However.”
The waiter froze and then turned around in disbelief.
“It seems you’ve neglected to use Burgundy wine when making this stew. If you knew how to make a good Stroganoff you would know that good Burgundy wine is essential to the taste.”
The server stood as if slapped.
“Please take this back and have the Chef re-do this with a healthy dose of burgundy wine.”
With that he held up the plate and thrust it into the server’s hand. By this time the restaurant’s Maitre d’ had noticed some of the commotion and was looking over. The pissed off server looked over in his direction for help but he all got from him was an almost imperceptible nod.
Quivering with anger he turned around with both the dishes in his hand and stomped back into the kitchen.
Though we were quite far from the kitchen we could all hear the Chef go “What the fuck?” and then come into the round window to see his tormentor for himself.
As I was busy smirking, thinking of the various unimaginable things the kitchen staff must be doing with that Stroganoff, the server came barging out of the kitchen, his eyes ablaze with fury. But before he could get to his difficult guest the Maitre d’ quickly intercepted his charging subordinate and gently relieved him off the controversial Stroganoff. The crimson faced server glared angrily at the guest and huffed and puffed out the back door, no doubt for a much deserved cigarette break.
The confident and smiling Maitre d’ continued towards the blissfuly ignorant patron and presented to him his version of the Stroganoff.
“I trust this one will be in order, sir.” Purred the hospitality expert.
“We’ll see.” Said the patron noncommittally.
All eyes were on the patron as he scooped a heap of the Stroganoff into his mouth and began chewing. As he began to nod in agreement a smile broke out on to the face of the Maitre d’ and he turned to leave.
“There is one thing, though.” Said the patron. “I think it needs a bit more sour cream. I’d like to see what it tastes like with more sour cream.”
The Maitre d’ looked at the patron with disgust. But intent on keeping his establishment’s reputation for serving its customers well he choked back a vulgar comeback and took the dish back to add in some more sour cream.
This was now getting ridiculous. I half expected Ashton Kutcher to jump out of the kitchen and yell “PUNK’D!!” thus earning everyone a good laugh. But no one from MTV was there and it was just us witnessing this rather comic performance.
The Maitre d’ returned from the kitchen with the extremely modified Stroganoff and set it in front the patron who dished out a healthy forkful in his mouth.
“It’s not the best but I guess I’ll have to have it.” He remarked with his mouth full.
The now very angry Maitre d’ turned on his heels and glided away to the cashier’s desk. All eyes were on the patron as he stuffed his face with his version of the Stroganoff. Once done he signaled for the bill which was immediately handed over to him. Surely as a means of getting him out as soon as possible.
“Seventy five Dirhams for a Stroganoff!” He exclaimed. “This Stroganoff is not worth seventy five Dirhams. Why, I was the one who showed you how to make it in the first place! I demand a hefty discount.”
The Maitre d’ returned eager to see an end to this issue.
“I assure you, sir, we are reasonably priced and all our prices are final. We cannot offer any discounts.”
“I don’t care. The Stroganoff at Jam Base is so much better and so much cheaper. Why are you charging me this much for a mediocre dish?”
Well, then you should have gone to Jam Base, you idiot. I thought to myself.
“Sir, I assure you, the best we can do is give you a 10% discount but that’s it.” Said the Maitre d’.
“I’m taking 30% – take it or leave it.”
With that he threw the money on the table and began walking out the door.
It was then that I saw something written on the back of his T-Shirt:
Welcome to Advertising in the Middle East
