Stochastic Moment...

I've got an absolutely fantasmic and smashing idea...

Let's do bhaang-da!!!

Apology to an Anglophile - II

Gone Chopin, got Lizt, be Bach in a Minuet!

The Silicon Implant of Psychonomic Virtues

"No we can't use MAST...MAST is not to be used for our project.
MAST is a song from Mohra"

A masochist loves pain
A sadist loves to see a person in pain
therefore a sadist can never commit sadism to a masochist

Reason:
Though a sadist inflicts pain on the masochist
The masochist won't be in pain
He would be in pleasure
Therefore, a sadist cannot perform sadistic activities on the masochist,
The masochist will never know pain
He will only know pleasure
The sadist will know nothing but to inflict
But pleasure will inflict him
He should shy away from all doubt about pleasure
He should kill the masochist with pain
The masochist should lose all confidence of the pleasure
He should reek in the doubt and be in pain

*I am as boned as a chuth and stoned as a biblical whore*

Wired Questionnaire

Jugular Bean asked me questions. I gave answers. And ever since then historical events have taken place.

1. Who was the donor of the very first boner?

• Dick Prances from 20th Century Cocks

2. If you were locked in a room with a monkey and three jumping beans, and no way to get out, how would you spend your time?

• Teach the monkey to jugular bean

3. Cunnilingus or Anal? Explain (Good reasons only!).

• Cunnilingus (miaoww)- I hate working like a dog.

4. Given that only 3 movies can exist at any given point of time, which three?

• Blast from the Past, Clear and Present Danger, Future Cop

5. John and Paul leave home at the same time, travelling at 30mph and 60 mph respectively. What would you change your name to given the circumstances?

• Lord Archibald Cromwell the IIIrd - Duke of Pussy Willow - Sovereign Keeper of Vagina Folds

Wanna play? These are the rules:

1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying “interview me.”

2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person’s will be different.

3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Schizophrenic Monkey on a Caffeine High

There is a mathematical explanation to attain extra ice-cream in your Cafe Frappe' at the subsidised 'Cafe Coffee Day' outlet at Infosys.
I'm sure of it.
I can vouch for this, considering that I have traversed through months of angst at the coffee bar outside office.
Each time I go to the counter at exactly 4:00 PM, there is atleast one assembly of chatter-union who are constantly laughing and yakety-yak-yakking away while there exists one proactive individual who walks around receiving and consolidating orders for the group for generation of beverages and chomps.
Now the interesting thing to notice here is that, in a group of approximately 10 people there are bound to exist atleast 2.7 people who favour cafe frappe as an invigorating drink and one that strips the birthday\promoted\confirmed etc. employee off a sizable amount of liquidity.

Here goes the algorithm:
1. Leave my cube at anytime between 4:00 PM and 4:20 PM and head for Coffee Day
2. Look around for the blabber-bunch and wait till they submit their order.

Ideally I would be lucky to have more than 3 people ordering the same thing. The heuristic rule explaining the ratio of frappe ordering individuals to others is beyond the scope of this formula.

3. Push in my order for a cafe frappe and make sure I say "...with extra ice-cream...please" (with a phenomenal smile).

4. Make sure I stand first in line at the service counter to receive the first glass of frappe.

Now what happens here is that since the fellow making the frappe is not aware of the ratio in which the ice cream should be distributed among so many customers (this by the way is the result of cognitive reasoning - it may be further challenged by freudian and jung cultists) he fills up the blender to the brim with scoops of ice cream thus exponentially increasing the volume of dairy with each scoop. He then proceeds to add the coffee flavor to the mix.

After the blender does its whisking on the large consignment of ice-cream, the human dynamo will thus transfuse the delicious concoction into a plastic vessel. Now the reason for being first in line is because after the churning of ice-cream a large part of the cream resides at the top of the mixture, while the more fluid mixture lies at the bottom. As he pours, the liquid at the bottom pushes the froth at the top in great gobs into the glass and in turn allows a lot of runny ice cream to pour itself into the glass and flow through the pores of the froth to reside at the bottom of the glass, therefore creating more content of ice-cream and a more happier coffee experience.

Voila!

Spindle of Reminiscence

She wasn't one with an enthralling visage or a callipygian rondure.
She remained sportive when it came to performing some loony kooked up act of imbecility. I knew her well, for she was a present day manifestation of my juvenile self in yester-years. She touched a psyche that remains queer and freaky even now. What was it that made her singularly exotic?
I can't say...
Maybe if I hadn't hung onto the presumption that she would forever be lurking around to advocate our crude but hilarious wit. Maybe if she was not so good.
She could have been a recluse who refused to fraternise with the crowd, but she was there...irrespective of her constant cognitive torture. She was there to be the subject of a never-ending comedy central.
I felt her presence like a child's, who would remain like a bad habit for time immortal.
Her proposal instructed a pallid refusal. Why was I not consenting? That's another story.
But now she leaves, leaving behind an even bigger void that would probably never be absolute.
She leaves now, to soar higher than distinguished eminents. She goes to attain that, what she never would acheive while out here.

She reaches out for solace...for it is her only guardian

Apology to an Anglophile

Sorry for not taking out the time to update my blog. As Hannibal Lector so deftly puts it, "I was in a state of hibernation".

But...worry not. I shall return very soon with more dim-witted, comically saturated artifacts of redaction.

I actually thought of publishing "A whiff of camel pussy..." but it got strong critique, was condemned by Zikurat leaders and invited threats of 'beating my balls with a wooden paddle until it gets swollen and becomes the size of a tomato and then they would tie up the penis with string and feed me beer till my intestines almost pop and wait till I feel like peeing real bad and then yank the string and let the excrement burst open my sac and see my gonads fall out...one after the other".

Ouch...I say!

The Gum and I are One

The silken packet crackles underneath coarse fingers
The taut end gives way and the unzip takes course
My cartridge of spear~ "chicklies" lies...awaiting...
Mentholization
Unload a bullet and slip it between my incisors
Channelising it immediately to my molars
One pinch..the shell cracks..the chicle releases flavour
Camphor swoon
The chew..the gnaw...the petting of the resin...
The vehement consumating orgasm of pepper~ verve
Arctic ice immortalised in sugar-free
Plosion
The chew - but a mere evidence of swagger
The freshness - minified to a sticky pulp
The flavour - undiminished
The Gum and I are now One

Next up: Deodorization - A whiff of camel pussy and Uranal matter for dummies

Hound for Viles

Stuttering the credo of heresy
I live here, calm and disposed of all chance
Denizen to a sepia incarceration - splintered knee-caps
Renunciation for the causality of stigma
Malefactor, barbed to stone
I am truth in its most sinister manifestation
The hound - theophany to the greatest deity,
Together, we embody urth with the yoke of despair
Such is the plight, marry I will not, fear
Wrenched to the mortar of the executioner
I will envision the coming of great disaster and smile...
For it is the demi that will prophesy my failure
Whimper to none - Spartan to denial
It will force-feed lesson and render it efficacious by grace...


Three ticks too tardy...

Costly Candles and Cheap Cake

Birthdays are absolutely fantasmically Wyrd. I love the sheer lunacy of reviving the birth affair per annum. All year long everyone makes an accented effort to make you feel imbecilic, moronic, nitwitted, obtuse, and slow.

Then along comes a day in the year when all of a sudden a semi-forseen alteration happens in humanity. You begin to feel like God.

I have a friend who's forever declaiming the banality of my lamentable humor, claims my Sunday Best is as modish as 2Pac Shakur covered in lamb fleece and ended up waking me up at 7 am (the gall(bladder)) to hand me my birthday present. She insists its a shirt, but I don't compromise on its uncanny resemblance to my mom's bedspread.

Yet on another occasion I had to attend a call from a 'long lost lover' who claimed that I had deviated from my sexual orientation and had turned out effiminately homo. She revealed herself with a dirty word at the end of the gag. Aunty Angel, sorry to admit, but you are screamingly nutty.

The sops are unending and often singularly amusing. My favorite would be the poster of Mamta Kulkarni striking a pose close to that of Dr. B. R. Ambedkar.

Another birthday, another year closer to the tombstone and I'm forced to treat the chums. If that isn't insane then I think I just celebrated calloused feet, Alzheimer's, urinary sugar, crabby days and a sagging ball sac.

Can't wait till I die!

Ennui ~ Ho...humm...

Here I sit in my cubicle, reading through destructive literature.

Counting the minutes tick away until 2 dongs and I don't have to think about that interview anymore for the day. Feel the stripes of sunlight on my hand tempting me to warmth, in this staged sub-zero chamber.

Pulled up the blinds to wash myself in tepidity. And what do I see? Cracks of the golfer's paradise enshrouded by bamboos.

Ever wonder how lots of bamboo in sunlight tend to resemble a large patch of marijuana?

Copious amounts of ganja waiting to be consumed and here I sit in my cubicle reading through destructive material.

Book Meme

As seen on Purdy Pitchers

1. Grab the nearest book.

2. Open the book to page 123.

3. Find the fifth sentence.

4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.

5. Don’t search around and look for the “coolest” book you can find. Do what’s actually next to you.

There are no books next to me except for one in my office drawer collecting dust, which is "Baudolino". I got the following from the algorithm provided

"...Every two minutes the whole thing collapsed"

Stone Temple Violet

The headless spectre parades the glory streets of Saqqara. Her bony framework propped upon the only medium of mobility on gravel carpet. She travels and yet does not move. Her hand desperately clutches the tablet upon which is etched the thousand virtuous deeds of her lover. This is 'her' story.

They pranced about in desert fields all day. He lay her down in one of the many beds on the plain. Hands traced her soft and luscious contours.
"Would you like to watch the ceremony tonight?"
"You said you'd leave the sect just so that we would wed in handfasting"
"Tonight is the last night. I will conclude my reverence after one final ministerial"
"No one leaves the sect until death."
"I will and I will leave it alive, to be with you."

They depart but only after he whispers his loyalty in her ear and plants its proof on her nape. They both leave after a solemn promise to meet each other that nocturne, to leave the village and move away from the undeterred condemners, of the sect.

She goes home and prepares for her last night here. She remained austere too long for her parents, her family, her religion, herself.

The community sleeps as if in quietus.

The covenant entrusted to the supreme pontiff states the regulations and the forbidden.
What he had done, was forbidden...
That is all they want to know. They see treachery in his words, his deeds and his thinking. He should be castigated in front of the sect and its congregation.

She races toward the apsis in the sanctuary. His decapitated head lay grotesquely lorn. Not a drop of blood was evident within proximity of him and his body. Beside him lay the covenant of the sect - now closed shut.

She turns to look in the direction of the beheaded's gaze and now she knows what is to be done. If they were to remain each other's, this would be the only riposte. His words seem infallible now. Afterlife is forever...would make love eternal.

She picks up the ivory tablet, walks to the instrument of execution and lays herself down as he would have. All around her expanses the lush sandscape and stars of black night.

She now traverses the glory streets of Saqqara. She embraces the covenant. She sobs for an answer...for she is one short of a key to her amnesty. Can anyone hear her tears and take heed? She wants to leave Sheol...she wants to open the covenant...

Fatal Fascination...

I love sex.
I love everything about sex.
I love reading about the raunchy sideline accounts in Penthouse Letters.
I love the sex-starved nymphomaniacs that lay 'splashed' all over the covers of magazines, poster titles, dossiers in porno treasure troves and the walls of snatch-land.
I go insane over women when they involve themselves in lewd but tasteful acts of flesh violation.
I go gaga over women's googoos.
In short - I'm 'horny'

But ever since puberty took its toll on my good-boy image and my libido began to stir violently, I made an undaunting effort to understand more about the carnality of coition.

And it was then I came across something that appeared uncannily disorienting.
I began to learn that there survived rutty men and women who indulged in severe 'necrophilic' - if ever there exists a word like that - activities.
And I chewed over this concept for days and I finally thought of penning what I thought was just plain weird.

Take this particular situation where the subject comes home after a long exhaustive day of work and he cleanses his soul temple. He sits down to his movie and somewhere in between he begins to feel his testosterone filled heat-seeker doing jumpin jay-joops. He's flung wildly into the throes of a morbid sexual desire for the rotting. So he gathers his carriage and you'd think he was heading for the nearest porno cruiser store for his anonymous oral tryst. Instead he makes a detour and heads off past a clearing into a cold and nocturnal necropolis. He drives around his smorgasbord of dead meat and stops at a particularly fleshy patch of earth and begins to exhume his golliwog.

And now it lies there, awaiting coitus for after'life'.

He's there...it's there, and now what? Does he stick his ramrod into its waiting slit, right away or does he grease it first, say a few prayers for the dead - may their bowl rest in puss, does he exorcise the demon within the vicinity before he takes the 'plunge'? And if during this assignation he wants to get a little cocky with the deceased he may just try and give it a hickey and want some domination in return. But he's not going to get any of it considering he's doing it with Zombie-woman. If the night isn't too cold he'd be lucky enough to make it out of there with his pecker safe from cryogenifying into a micro stalactite.

Its even more an effort for her. While he just has to stick it in she would have to look for one who passed away with a stiffy and wait till rigor mortis sets in. Of course, that would be a complete refinement to the lexical meaning of 'boner'. And if she considers performing a round of fellatio and ends up treating the dipstick to a stronger than usual suction she could end up with a mouthful. Absolute caution is to be adhered to if she needs to avoid breaking any muscle - else she's never going to be needing a diaphragm...ever.

(Please excuse me, while I barf my guts out, Blech!)

Introspection in Villainy

There is a man who lives in a room. This room is situated in a manor wherein only he, along with the services of his domestic help resides. He leaves not his room during the day and more so at night.

He does so for a simple reason. That reason by far, is me.

He hates me. His abhorrence towards me shakes the very fortress of my identity.

I do not take kindly to him either. It is only during my madcap and adventurous trysts with the 'unbleached' kind that I find solace in my existence. I revel in the sight of the damned. I wallow in my unclean acts. I am by far a pestilence upon the race of man.

Man? What man is he if he cannot accept his alter? Does he acquire the unwavering satisfaction that every living creature upon this macrocosm strains to attain, by curtaining himself from his ownself? If so, then I am happy that I am accused of ruthless and un-gentlemanly behaviour. I feel glad that I am not part of a sinister world that calls itself civilised when it is rightfully wrong.

But the further I try to make amends with my paradox, the more severe the pain that is inflicted on me. And I go out and fulfill all that my savage self desires. The debauchery of a dreadfully vile beast flashes through my pulsating veins and I ravage and devastate all that is considered chaste and virtuous.

I stand here now 'in this room' where he once stood...this man I speak so disdainfully of.

I look at the reflection of a quiet yet disturbed, a tired yet resilient soul and I weep for his loss. I dread the moment this toxin seeps through my marrow... the moment the zephyr of my life starts to suffocate and choke.

I weep silently and alone 'in this room' now, knowing modestly that there is no life in the creature without the creator.

For I was once him...and now he is me.

Cleanse the Devil Incarnate in the Myrrh of Sentience - Jinwin 3:10

For Better..or for Verse?

The moon...

The moon, is like fatty Monterey Cheese

Why cheese, you ask

Because aspirin makes me fart something fierce, I say

The stars...

Bagels taste better when wrought alike

Pieces of christmas candy strewn over mom's moquette

Oh...the in(candy)sence of them all

The sun...

Crepe turns the week long wet wash-cloth

Disc of the omnipresent having masonic reference

Advertisements for orange juice in summer

Me very first poem. I think I outdid myself.

Sun Kissed Biscotti Inn

Aye' purdy missus, I see you wuz starin at me across the hall. You wanna tell me why?

Well you knaow kind sir I wiz just traayin to grab hold onto yaw attention. You look so strawng and maynly. Nothing like the ol' coots out here.

Well I'll be damned. You one faa'in looking damsel y'self. What's your na'im?

It's Amy..Amy Wallace. And what name do you go bah sir?

They call me Xane Cooper. I'm due for draw in another few minutes. I don't gawt much time on mah hands.

OH! Are you the Marshall the papers talk about everyday?

*Tipping his hat* At your service ma'am.

And you're draw'n against Slick Sam?

Th's right. *tapping his gun and I don't mean his member* I shaane'd the ol' spitter out here reel good.

The whole town's waiting to play cards on his corpse.

Well he's destined to come in the way of my silver...and he gonna wish he'd remained in dat forsaken ol' barn of his before he breathes his layst.

Mmmmm...you go there and teach him a good enough lesson. Yessr, you do dat.

I most certainly will young lady. *Taking one good long stare at the map overhead - reality struck him like his dead missus' sorry flower patch* Y'know, I ma'it not come out all frisky out of this predicament luv so just to keep the ghost of ol' Billy in me would you be so kaaind as to explain as to why you got the map o' Terrence O'Donald out here???? Thats the route to mah gold mine you snotty little maggot!!!! Who sent you..you stupid ol' crab????

*Standing up with all the forcefulness of all outlaw-ish gait, she extracts a 'Pepperbox' out of her stocking* Awrighty then, bubba!! I'm gonna waste you like some reeal durrty vermin. You been winnin' way too long for your own good. I'm gonna make you wish you ne'er entered this town.

*Vigilant* Why you...

Shuddup. You ain't fah'ting mah man, y'hear?? And as for the map well lets just say...I've got a boot for you.

And it was then that then that Xane could kiss his treacherous mates for taking off with the loot a week ago. He'd rather have been victim to betrayal from thieving bandits than lose his ingots to a scheming vixen (heehee, I crack myself up so.)

My Tryst with '15 minutes in Vermeer'.

The image didn't strike a literary chord anywhere in my osteoporosis ridden body. Though I took an eon and a half to post this piece, I took 35 minutes for writing and editing. Don't hate me, I didn't know Vermeer!!!

Porcelain Talisman

Mäh-JoNg sitting alongside his angel Wei-Ping. Dew freeze dancing on tip-toe around frosted bench.
Collar crisp paradisiac of ether.
Touch once and you've raped perpetually.

"Will Ming Po drop her pin of conscience on the silver stream?"
"No.................shen-lung will guard her daughter............"

Crystal falling on white foam. Shoe crushing...slushing from behind.

"Father will be pleased with me tonight"
When blood spills, crimson turns everything into sweet warmth.

I touched my heart and heaven breathed into my ears.

The singing wind zinged with the force of gleaming blade. Silence screamed throughout Pangu and Mäh-JoNg sighed as his angel left his side and walked in silence to greet him again below the Sleeping Valley where he was to frolic with the emperors and gods of yore...

Work you darn blog address!

I've opened a blog spot too, and this first post is to allow the opening of my silly blog address.