Wasted Weekend of Wheezing

A sinus, whilst still retaining its reputation as a 'sensory minus' may be the most olfactorily disturbing cavity that has ever occurred to my nasal tract.
Sure, we sneeze a gesundheit now and then, but that doesn't mean we should squander away precious money to sedate ourselves with 'great expectorants'.
I've been down with one of those seasonal fevers again for the standard 4-day duration. My head was locked voraciously in 'cold' war with my nose, but they've both s(n)orted out their differences now.
And to speak no less of my voice. The vocals threatened a serious vacationing but came back after complaining of a 'congestion' in throats...err...the roads!

No panni, therefore only bullshit here

Connaught Place.
A prominent Delhi street? I dunno. I just connaught place my finger on it.
I'm sorry, I needed a way to start off this piece.
I'm breaking off from the regular blogarithmic rules of blatant banality of bratty bflubbertyblfgpludigabbafella.
So this blog is not really a blog in itself but more of an understanding. An understanding that I make when I blog. Did that make sense? Answers need not be posted as comments for this one.
Write a story long enough to keep the story going and short enough to keep it sweet. That's one of those melodic lines that imitate fraud fakirs.
So this one time...at office...I was getting an ip address assigned to my desktop and the technician needed to spell out the computer name to his counterpart on the other end of the telephone,
'L...aww??? L forrrr Lyun.
B. B for...uhh... Boi.
T! T-T. Aishu...T...ah for Thendi.
C-Rrow, Two. Ah...LBT02.'

Speaking of C-Rrows. Do you know I'm from a C-rrow malabar catholic sabha? I knew. The technicality of the topic always created a confusion as to why would anyone name a religious sect Zero for any particular reason unless its doctrines prescribe it to be a community full of people with a strong inferiority complex.
Then I learned. I'm Syro-Malabar. Now try and pronounce Syro any other way you possibly can. 'Sigh-row' does sound cool in some elitist manner. Makes me feel like the evil cousin of gyro. But when you postfix a 'Malabar' immediately after, it kinda loosens the ends.

So anyways, getting back to more plausible conversation, I've just come to realise that bankers really aren't smart folks. They just like to think such extremities. They'd rather confuse poor banking consumers into believing that a banker's job isn't an easy one. People that sit in banks just don't know how to converse clearly and effectively.

So there I am, sitting, one week into the job and I've been approached upon to create an FS - Functional Specs for a new development that's going to be happening to the Vectus application wherein we would be assigning new scoring procedures as per policy lab rules (oh my God, its catching on). I type out the whole piece of lit with atleast 4 paragraphs causing the word 'tenure' to occur thrice in each para. I check it-double check it-proof read-fool-proof read it-edit-cut-copy-check-version it-print it and give it to policy managers for approval.

The Head of Credit Risk Management smiles, asks me of the peculiarity of my name and any possible meaning that it may denote and at the same time reads through the FS, when he suddenly scratches out something on the paper and writes below it and twists his face before passing its comment.

'You've misspelt tenor.'

I'm quite certain I haven't, considering I ran the spellchecker over the whole damned thing twice you crazy butcher of documentation.
'Ok sir, I'll get that corrected.'

I take back the FS, go back to my desk, read it over again. 'Tenure', yes that's it, it's correct. I think about it it in my mind over and over again. A particular term of or period of time - Tenure. There are two spellings to the same thing? I look for past documentation, rummage through old worn out box files of yore that lie at the back of the archive chamber of the retail banking office.

TENOR????

Holy Mary, Mother of God, they've been mispelling 'tenure' as tenor for years now. I go to the policy managers just to find out what I can do. And precious advice has deemed me to be quiet about the whole thing.
'Luciano Pavarotti is a tenor and we definitely ain't referring to him when we're making policy rules'
'It's what's been used for years and it'll remain like that. Its correct. That's how we spell it here.'

I go back to my desk and can't help but sit and sob silently as I see myself murder the English language.

Patent is a virtue...and nothing more.

Jin Tao Ling and Rishab Afaq, both opulent members of the Ludovico En' Dante Metaphysical Forum of Grand Fenwick, sit at the coffee table of the reform club trying to decide on a new topic of discussion.
Little are they aware of how they are soon to revolutionise standard procedures of a very commonly executed activity of everyday life.
Jin and Rishab are also thoughtfully executing fluent gaming tactics in their heads whilst also playing Oware - a known variant of the famous Mancala games. The heat of Beirut does not cause the illustrious pair to turn their undaunted focus from the stone tablet before them.
Jin looks up from the game and mutters out loudly, "I am going to lose and you know it, so stop this and let us go into the reading room for some cockscomb and some cornsmut, I do believe I'm starving something furious."
Rishab nods his approval, takes the tablet back to the gaming cupboard and parks it back into its alloted space.
They both walk towards the teak sanctuary at the end of the foyer, now prestigiously titled 'Durban'.
Inside are slothful seniors sitting around, sipping - some on cuban coffee, some on clay oven whisky, while some touching base with some mild opiates.
The gentlemen walk over to Butrus, the host of the saloon, who immediately guides them to a modest space wherein they are taken care of with port, succulent hors d'oeuvres, pipes, tobacco, opium and colombian cocaine. The pair thank their patron and sit down to enjoy the remaining of the evening.
"What should the topic for tomorrow be?" inquires Jin.
"Cows"
"Cows?"
"Cows"
"By cows, you surely do not mean the mature female of domestic cattle of which the male is called `bull'"
"I most certainly do"
"You have been smoking some very expensive hashish my dear friend and I think the price for such savoury herbs is finally rendered you daft? I daresay...cows?"
"Cows are essential to our life on this planet"
"Certainly so, without much doubt, but it surely isn't the appropriate topic for the crowd at the the forum."
"Do you use pegs at home?"
"Pegs?"
"Pegs"
"Clothes pegs?"
"Yes."
"Of course, I do."
"We shall combine pegs and cows and have this discussion."
"Pegs and cows, you are most certainly joking sir. How are we to bring together the correlation of two such disparate variants?"
Rishab picks up the pipe lying beside him and ushers the attendant to his side to help him with the task of filling the opium and lighting it. The attendant performs his task in a most impeccable manner and leaves Rishab with a nicely lit pipe.
Standard smoking room etiquette dictates the smoker to avoid expiring smoke in short stiff winds into the air, but rather to let the fume creep itself out from between the lips and let it hover and cloud above oneself.
Rishab smokes and smiles at Jin Tao, as if he is going to reveal something that no one had ever heard of before.
"The possibilities of combining the two concepts are endless and the patents that may be provided will be very rewarding."
"I don't believe I understand," asks Jin Tao pleasantly puzzled by now.
"Allow me to clarify. Are you aware of the painstaking labour that is assigned into the task of extracting the milk for your early morning coffee?"
"I've never thought it a necessity, although now you make it seem quite a phenomenon."
"It is, no doubt. In fact, the government secretly plans to provide gracious subsidies to the institution or individual who manages to come out with a widely operative and efficient manner to milking cows."
"How strange, although I'm still dubious about its viability. Have you considered a solution?"
"Therein is felt the presence of the inimitable peg."
"My ears are yours as long as this conversation extends."
"If one manages to agitate the udders of the cow via the clamping of a clothes peg then we have in our hand, a solution."
"Maybe so, but then udders require significant amount of constant stimulus to allow for the milk to eject the tracts."
"I've thought of that as well, a thin string tied to the peg can very well solve this purpose."
"I don't see the particular advantage in this procedure. It isn't very different from the one that is being widely followed all over the world now."
"Aha! This procedure significantly reduces the risk of the dairyman being attacked by a vindictive cow. It is also a great way to avoid being the bureau for cattle defecation while milking."
"Hmmm, I see. But, we need more substantial benefits if we are to honestly have our discovery approved by the notary."
"The procedure also allows for multiple cows to be milked at a single point in time."
"How so?"
"Have all the cows fitted with pegs having strings attached to them and extend the strings to the corner where the dairyman sits, milking the cows. All he needs to do is keep pulling on the string for as long as the process requires it.
"Hmmm, interesting , although the pulling need not necessarily be manual. It may be automated via the use of a pulley, a crank shaft and some coal. I have the design lying in my office. I can do the necessary modifications."
"Excellent! I don't think there's a better way to approach this."
"There exists something called a V-belt. It was designed by a colleague of mine from Portmouth - Bartley Colemn. It's a belt that rests on a contraption, that when wired by electricity and allows for one to place one's buttocks on it, allows for a relaxing way to chisel and sculpt a rear, close to that of Adonis."
"Okay, but does this add to our ideas?"
"In a simple way, yes."
"How so?"
"Well if we sit a cow onto an extended machine of sorts and switch on the equipment, and keep milking him at the same time, we should be able to procure ourselves a healthy flow of milk shake, don't you think?"

An Ode to Hector Hugh Munro

Let us dedicate this tune to 106 years of satire and witty homosexual remarks.
Please click on the 2nd track for the pleasurable ode.

This apparently refers to him being in a state of intoxication from the satanic brew.

Love for Land

Was it the big money, the big cars, the big city? Was it the women? Was it the love for papa dear? No, you just wanted to have a kick out of a new unpredictable move. But are you satisfied?

Are you ready to take on the new city with a vengeance?

Are you ready to face reality on a 90mm screen with celluloid scissors and a piece of dried toast?

Are you fed up with the turbo speed, the growl of 250 horsepower and snarling torque heating up the tar on a blistering hot noon already?

Has the technicality eaten your mind away like a spawning wretch - the perfect squares, the alternating flush beds of pink and maroon bougainvillea on the 8 way crossroads?

Are you still reeling from the kosher air, the iron clad monkeys and the extreme air conditioning?

Has the bustle of downtown hassled the rusticity of a once-gifted boy?

Are you in control of a situation that leaves no room for doubt of the oncoming retort?

Have you gotten used to the choking regulations that are constantly released by incumbent ministerial bodies waiting to scratch out the entry applications of yearning Tajikstanis, Afghanis, Turkish, Romanian and other Balkan populace.

Have you given thought to the numerous expatriates who leave families just to toil for you in the scorch of morn and make a couple of thousands while you sit and devise and revise resource allocations and Greedy Knapsack methodologies to make the fullest use of each labourer's calloused malleus blistered palms?

Do you even care about the numerous ones that you left behind, some crying, some smiling mockingly, some recalcitrating, some congratulating, some loving, some holding back...some missing you?

Will you ever return back to that filthy, smug, feckless soil from which rises the odorous reek of sweat, incompetency, illicitness, outlawish behaviour, dreadful coveting that fills your senses with a sudden blast of thin cold dew, a federal rush of warm, calculative and cosmic mix of sunshine and belonging leaving you feel like you've just been born here everyday?

Would you?

Eclectic Epistle

Concuberius Flash Poetry
Stainless Rib Locks of Grandeur
Frippa Tappa loses her virginity by the age of 3
Rastafarians in Melting Cheese Pots

Follicles of Man Desire
Rest assured is he to bring justice
Ay, says the needy man suffering from tuber
shall we continue with the ceremonies

Armed with biryani for Taliban
Shukhran Habibi says the brahman priest
Washing cars fall down the spotted Lazzaro mall,
Lost in a Tamarind seed full of elks

Shall we punch our way through
Bring on light of coined breads
Milk Bars making 20 quid a pop
Ananasia spread out over the Euro Union

The Epicurean's Epifocus

Thus it came to pass that a young man maybe of a tender youthful age of a respectable twenty five left his home in Almodovar and hiked his way for days towards the City of Syphilis.

The young chaffinches escorted him to Novartis and then migrated north as they sensed impending wet draughts in the air pockets en route.

Tchocky was his name of identity - he would call himself many names though - Cross Lion, Calloused Cheetah, Hyadac Hyena.

His belt hung loosely around his waist only to further emphasis the class of impoverishment within which he travelled.

He would show them all his knack at doing what he set out to do.

He would never give pappy and mima a chance to scourge his dreams.

As he passed by the corn rich town of Psepania, he met Ivan the Gallant. They greeted each other with exchange of rings and sugar. Ivan invited Tchocky home to recuperate from his heavy journey.

Brianna prepared wonderful dishes consisting of lamb and corned potatoes, peppered rabbits, fruit cabanas, hen and hammous. The exoticity of each dish was tasted and approved by Tchocky as indicated by the tummy rub he had instructed he would need after the meal.

Spica the Fluent ran around the house trying to look for his bathing flute. This most interested Tchocky as it reminded him of the days when he would run in blue muffin fields where his parents grew boisonberries. The climate throughout the year in Almodovar allowed for the cultivation of such a fruit.

As soon as Tchocky realised that he had fulfilled his hunger and his rest, he strapped on his dusty sandals and left Ivan's home to continue on his journey.

The sun beat down on his brow as he followed the direction of the Synian line. He traversed the wilderness for thirteen moons and he came to the tent of Caleb.

Caleb and Campiana married when they were learning to write at the pedagogue. They sat each day drawing and listening to the sound of the sun going down and the sun rising. Now two hundred and ninety years later they also grew mangoes, large sweet mangoes and reared rare deer. Tchocky met with the two and they immediately invited him into their home for some food.

Caleb helped Campiana roast the venison in the kiln and Campiana set the table to place the cold cranberry and mango short cake. She took some liberties and added a handful of raisins this time in the recipe, which she acquired from her trip to Iran.

Tchocky tied his bib at the table and sat down with the couple and began to eat. They talked about leaving the wilderness to look for a place where they could grow large amount of kiefer. Kiefer was a dry yet palatable by product of the pink oranges that Yarbon was famous for. The fruit splashed a sweet citric ale as soon as the peel was punctured. Citizens of its consumption claim that when such a drink falls upon one, he/she loses their breath for a fraction of a moment and they see Solomon the Besotted and marital bliss is all that is destined for such a person. But they also claimed that whenever the juice would make its way onto someone and the recipient of such an unfamiliar effusion disapproved with a scowl then he\she would lose two days of their life on earth.

Tchocky loved the fruit.

Tchocky talked about his journey and how he needed to reach Syphilis well in time before the Mauryan clout could consume the rich princely image of Copernicum. They all talked and quietly finished their food pausing occasionally for breaks.

Tchocky and Caleb sat after the meal to smoke on some barberra. Tchocky then left the tent intoxicated by the smoke, but not after bidding farewell to the couple.

He trekked his way out of the wilderness and into the virgin forest of Canania where he stopped at the foot of a waterfall that closed the entrance to the waiting mouth of Onan's hiberatorium. He swam the lake. His sharp strokes across the water made it easy for him to cross significantly large expanses of water body. He reached the mouth and dropped himself into the cold hollow air.

He was moving fast. So fast that he could hear his heart slow down then beat faster and faster and faster.

As he was moving Onan joined him. They greeted each other and shouted out well wishes. They needed to shout since the speed at which they went drowned out the air pockets for earth beyond and somewhere in Cruperham there was a heavy downpour of sweet spring water.

Onan apologised for having to be a terrible host since his wife and his mistress were trying to get things ready for the coming of the Mauryans.

Tchocky reassured him of his affirmation and dreamt of the kaavalam near the cobble path to get out of the waterfall. That was the only way anyone was able to go out of Onan's home. Onan built his home in such a way primarily so that he could keep away young steinbecks that disguised theselves as travellers and consumed all the kosher of the resident's house before leaving.

Steinbecks could not dream.

Tchocky walked the road near the kaavalam and reached the gate to the city. Passing through the streets he met pawns, globetrotters, young women without clothes, young men without clothes, bone munchers, spin bottlers, bread bonders, carpetbaggers, tea tenors and many of the cultural inhabitants of the Zion of Carpathia.

As he spiralled his way around the city, he finally made it to the inner cloister of the Cintana Cathedral. As he passed the several big muscled imperial warriors, he noticed the large number of rooms that the cathedral had. He was beginning to get scared as the vortex coned down closer and closer until he was the only thing that was between the wall. He stood on the edge of the last step he would take before he would take the fall. He looked up and the vortex got bigger, he looked down and he saw nothing except for the darkness. He touched the cold wall. It was convincing enough. He stopped all sound and closed his ears while he dreamt the times he enjoyed snacking at his mother's lap on the cream bakes that she made for him when he would come home from school.

Tchocky then jumped two seconds after his tear made the jump.

V for Vanity

Huddled up in front of the fireplace, I set the logs poised for the burning, while at the same time curse my uncanny stupidity at having agreed to a marriage. It was so much better just living in. We aren't made for this 'forever' rubbish. The taking the other for granted, the constant whining on who needs to clean up afterhours, who needs to watch which show and the likes. It seems like all of a sudden someone just gave the both of us a violent shove into 'dreadlock'.

Now even the party mood's all severed because of her sardonic comments. She always makes me out to be the peculiar nut in the house. Well, I let her have it this time too.
I place the wood appropriately and set it alight. Huddled up in front of the fireplace, I listen to conversation ensuing in the dining room.

I think I only married her because of the great sex we had and oh...I forget to mention...she looks extremely beautiful (did I mention great sex?). At 32, she still has shapely legs, delicate skin, a flute glass structure. But what's really aesthetic about her is the kind of enamor she contains within her every bodily nook and orifice. She has this ritzy charm that makes you want to take her out for an expensive dinner and see her face reflect off every silverware and crystal tier. Her long straight hair is a dream for fingers. Running your hands down her locks almost makes you feel that your trying to immortalise warm milk in your palms. (Sigh) But right now she was acting like an ass.

Faint murmurs though articulate tickled my hearing, "...and what I say or do after that usually tends to be un...unnoticed...and in...irr...err...inapplicable."

Aha! I quickly arise, spruce up a bit and head to the dining room where she's setting the china right back where it belongs.

"I think the word you're looking for is - irrelevant."

She stares at me while the rest of the guests look on at the both of us, all of them in grave anticipation of the upcoming retort.

She lets the plates fall into place and says in a loud tone "Could you...excuse us for a moment?"
She pushes herself towards me and pokes me into the living room muttering "...you..."
"What is your problem you nut? Why do you...."

I grin profusely and come closer to her, slowly and grab her by the waist. Pulling her closer to me. The suggestive scent of her conditioner and her apple-cinnamon moisturiser streams the air. I nuzzle her neck while she continues to push me back while also muttering her disapproval.

Her small waist fits perfectly into my grasp.

The room is bathed in dark chiffon pastel. My left hand draws an imaginary line down her spine in a most taunting manner. Her eyes close quietly in a ripple of placidity and her flesh quivers her consummation as she drapes her hands carelessly from my shoulders.

Her fingers trace a map to my cheek while I pull the thing-that-hot-women-stick-in-their hair-to-keep-it-out-of-trouble stick out of her updone hairdo. As soon as the supplement leaves the steadfast setting, her dark auburn locks unwrap like the hypnotic illusion you find riveting on the peppermint candies that the crazy fat man at the Rizotto Carnival hands over to you.

She arches her head back to allow me access to her chin.
The ridge of her jawbone is excruciatingly perfect. I trace its outline with the blunt of my nose. She smells pungent - mistress of spices.
Her slender waist now nestles extravagantly in my custody, while she still maintains indisputable ascendency over my sanity. Her eyes - the luminous orbs are uncovered by the parting of the lids and transfigure the scene into an impression painting.
We stagger to our knees in an amorous pile on the floor.
The dim lights are doing their job.
Silent conversations with her nape.
Caleb enters the room, tongue out, waits a while and trots back out after exuding a whimper.
The home fire is frenzied as ever and as the last of the giggles transpire, the front door shuts with a silent click.
"They've all left" she whispers gasping.

What you can't get, makes you love it a lot more.

I ask her, "Now that you're over me, want to get back...under me?"

She moves back, startling me. "No!"

"Well then I guess we can only finish what we started."

"I'd prefer not", she mumbles as she rises up to tie her hair, smiles at me and walks away into the kitchen.

"You're evil!" I cry.

"Save it for the next set of guests darling" comes the reckless reply as she waves her palm towards me, carelessly, to indicate her callousness.