(Bus)thi Mein Gusthi.

Buses that hail their route from tamil nadu have a very typical way of creeping through your skin. But they still manage to evoke the rustic within you. We missed the 7:15 Infosys fleet and realised that we need to be in town in another 45 minutes. So we saddled our satchels and boarded this odorous omnibus en route from Polachi. *Dekha hai pehli baar, ninde ammachi'de randaam kalyanum - dinkichikidi dinkichikidi dinkichikidi*.
Saar, two tickets to Madiwala saar.
Sushtin dupis!!
We take out two 10 rupee notes and grace his podgy palms with them.
Transalated - *Daye, mou you're kundi, laydis coming. Mou mou!!!!!*
*Yenna ponnu kannu munnu tinki tinki shutty blah!*
*Daye daye, vayi moodadraa thiretu rhaaskhal!!!!*
I spy with my eye two vacant seats. *O mereeeeeeeee saaaaaaaaaajaaaaannnnnaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!*
All's well for five hundred metres and then jump on two ammas with big bommas!!!
*Kishi pishi kishi pishi oota poota witi witi poo poo, hee hee (giggle - ellow tith).*
One bomma right in my face. I resist the urge to lay a punchatantra on one of the colossal gundamanis' kundis and just start talking to Jitu.
Long ride back home!!

Hardees - The Search for the Universal Black Hole

Here's an insight into a theory that could pass as a probablity enigma.

If I go to Hardees and order the Monster Thickburger, the lady behind the register would advertantly put across the universal fast food question "Would you like fries to go with that sir?"

Take now that I go ahead order a large box of fatty fries alone!

Question: Will I still be faced with a repercussion of the same concord or will there come to pass that the universe inverts itself and causes a concentration of mass within itself therefore preventing the release of any atomic matter by causing a distortion of the antimatter, rendering its inability to sufficiently prove the existence of extragalactic jets ergo proving that existentialism is nothing but a full blown fallacy of the doctrines followed by non theistic members, eventually warping time and space in an infinite implosive-explosive sub atomic nuclei detonation?

Faithfully...Yours!

To perpetuate Bean's thoughts on his beliefs.

"Belief implies faith, and faith needs no proof. " Though the latter half of this statement holds good for me I need a moment with my senses of what secernates belief and faith.

Therefore we now have to present the incompatibility between belief and faith.
Belief as I know it, is a trust placed in a vague entity or a hypothesis. I believe in God, his omniscience and I believe in his supremacy. But it cannot be proven with collateral of his existence. Therefore my belief can probably never be substantiated. Thus my belief remains a belief and nothing more than that. While at the same time, I have a faith. I have a faith in the judicial system because it has helped thwart malice and injustice many a time. Thus faith for me would indicate a 'stronger than oak' belief. "My compatriates placed utmost faith in me and I betrayed the very same." The reason for them to have placed such a faith in me was because of prior certification of my ability to maintain their trust. But now I've betrayed a truth not a hypothesis. I was dependable, but now it seems that I am not. Belief isn't a confidence, its an intuition, that you're quite aware can turn onto you. While in faith, I lend myself completely into the element in question but then again I can still say I am assured that my faith will not prove wrong. While a zealot is purely a proponent of a belief, he does so because of his faith in factors that are proven and can be assured as thematic to such a belief.

The belief I hold in a supernaturality is purely because that I have faith in the concept of creationism. This may or may not have been proven but, creation did not happen to conceive itself. Just as the big bang happened and may be backed faithfully by scientific reckoning so too is my belief in God although this belief does not stem my faith in him. Though his existence forms the crux of my belief I have no faith in his abilities as almighty. I have no faith in his actions upon humanity. He holds a position that I feel affects my abilities in no way thus summing up his omniscence as just a belief without sufficient circumstance.

Ergo it maybe said that belief maybe a subserviant rank of faith, because I believe that faith is belief backed by faithful evidence.

Sparky Tune under Cosmic Conquest

I kill, thrill and will pill you
I stand forth and twiddle my thumbs
Here now lying around are bloodshot chums
I still will chill you

Succour me when time arrives
Spill vice on my rice and it will burn
My loom will spin finest fur
My totem cries of generation gone

Fried eggs on winter dew
Sprained ankle and blood spew
Caustic sting is scorpion dance tune
Whistling tunes we dance in the dunes

Leave the cattle to graze in peace
Horn and Bell shine in accordance
Speak not of cries of yore but scream
till silence drips down wet paint

Body Talk

The locksmith spins gold to kiss her
cheeks with fur of arabesque timbre

Iris Ayatollah speaks very divnely of
the way her lids nestled her optics

Nostradamien was especially proud of
her olfactory modality and her taut cartilage

Sir John Lipton graced her speech orifice
with the finality of a supreme pontiff

Earnest Babenburg displayed no end of praise
to her aural aesthetics and her soft lobe

The necromancer smite his malleus
in tribute to that chewable throat

Titjana Perizkova swore to the tenderness
of her velvet bosom that purged her fullness

And while the naval officer appreciated her soft abdominal
the hippy swooned to the intoxication of her callipygian rondure

And all along whilst Raveena Tendon did pout
Our lady's heel did convulse to suggest the endowment

Punderous Pundulating Pink Punther - Line #218, Page 9328, Volume 1700

I once met a physical, Lee, this abled man.

You've seen one store, you've seen a mall.

Pork Chop

In the olden days butchers weren't really given the name "Butcher". Thats something that resided in people's minds as the perfect name after what had come to pass.
Prior to being called butchers, all edible meat dissectors maintained a common reference as "Pork Chop".
Through time, women entered the political coast and greater attention was given to what was deemed as socially acceptable and unacceptable.
On a fine Tuesday morning when fresh goats, lamb and swine came in to Habibullah St. women swarmed the market looking for a part of the best cuts. One woman, named Imamma Heyn Packa walked around the market place looking for one particular meat dicing storage but didn't find it. In the end she sent a notice to her close friend, Ms. Veystal Virginia who worked as president of the Mescaline party in parliament. The notice was brought up in council meetings and party summits and was finally heard and heeded 3 months after it made circulation rampant throughout the parliament.
An ordinance was passed thereafter where every meat trader was to trade under a term other than that of 'Pork Chop'. Apparently the name ''Pork Chop' tended to evoke thoughts of heinous acts of slaughter upon domestic fowl. The ordinance didn't go down too well with the masses but they agreed to it upon the condition that they get to come up with their own conjured reference. This permission was duly granted and the meat cutters called themselves 'Pork Shop'.
The con worked for a little while, until another woman by the name of Rosemary Time sent a notice regarding the gimmick and how the new name provided no sense of relief as against the one prior to it.
Once again the ordinance released anywhere between 3 and 4 months later and this time the panel consisted of strong women politico that finally considered placing the nomenclature to bare minimal and shifting the focus from animal cruelty to the inhumanity of man ergo naming the butcher - The Butcher.

And they say women are still to be liberated. First they take my cold cuts, now they call the poor guy a butcher.

Family discovers that Titty Boben Jacob Elias Kuruvilla turned *ssshhh* (whispers) gay.

Mone', mon'ke nalle vayis ayitundullo
Kalyannum pollum kazichitilla idhuvere.
Oru nalle cherukanne nammil kandu vechitu ondu.
Vellya manas aa avande, vellya kakoos'um.

Son, you're getting old,
and you're not even married.
We've found a good match for you.
He's got a big heart and big closet.

The Gardener's Curse

The vile gardner sits on the lawn shearing the pansies. Tomorrow is Bloomingday at Three Stone Pier town. All the women sitting vain with their bonnets embellished smartly with fake fruits. All, tending away at their flower patches proudly.
Large moustached bobbies parading the street making it clear that truancy will not be tolerated. Tiny men in their Sunday best jacket looking out of their windows at the early morning flutter taking place below their balconies.
'If man didn't bring home the bacon, we'd end eating daisies for dinner.'
"Edward, stop staring at my tomatoes so. They're beginning to shrivel. Now come down and help Mr. Griffith here with the shears and the weeding."
"Why? We pay him to prim the patch."
The dark crusty face of Griffith left the flower bed. He stood up and looked sullenly at the couple.
"I'm done for the day Mrs. Basil...", he rasped, "...now if I could just be paid my dues so that I may be on my way to celebrate my young 'uns birthday."
Edward snapped,, "What, he's just been here an hour and a half and you're supposed to pay him?"
"Oh pay the man Edward. I really need my flower patch looking the way it is if I'm to win this Bloomingday."
Edward stared at the gardner and produced a wicked smile. "Oh forgive me, but I seem to be down to my last 30 shillings. Why don't you come next month when I'm in a more generoous quantity of cash?"
The gardner smiled, reached into his pocket and took out what seemed like a rose. It petals were close to withering but it smelled a strong pungent aroma of cinnamon whetted with brandy and coal. He handed it over to Edward who accepted it graciously, still smiling.
"Why, thank you Mr. Griffith. This is quite unassuming."
"Consider it a gift for times to come." spoke Griffith and turned to leave. He picked up the sickle and the bag of weed and strolled off.

I walked down the street and crossed the Parkinsons' lawn. It looked good, though there was evidence of thistles sprouting in due course if they didn't plough out the roots from the last bunch. As I walked I also crossed the Smiths, Birlings and...
"MR. GRIFFITH!!!" shouted a voice from behind.
I didn't need to turn back but slowed my pace to almost a halt.
As the fellow appproached me, I could hear his panting and wheezing.
"I believe you have my 55 shillngs in your possession Mr. Edward."
"Yes, please forgive me for any kind of inconvenience caused."
"None whatsoever. Do not fret sir. But please bear in mind, starting today every month your last 55 shillings need to be wired to my account without fail. Is that clear?"
"Crystal sir. As you please.".
"Good, have a wonderful day Mr. Edward. Please wish your wife the very best of luck for the flower war from my end."

Spine Wrenched

The gelatinous bulk stealthily disconnected himself from the wet frosty dampness of urban Strasbourg and entered 'The Citadel'. 'The Citadel' - a strong euphemism for the underbelly of the painfully horny bunch of french goths who deem it absolutely imperative that they vent the midday restraint they uphold upon their turbo charged itchy pants lifestyle. Dimitry - our man of infinitesimal quantities of cellulite tissue hanging grotesquely from every expansive portion of his structure - now makes his way forward through the thug crowd head banging to Anthrax.
"DIMITRY!!!" screamed a voice in the near distance.
Dimitry turned around in search of the source of the outcry. If it was ever a wonder how he heard someone calling out to him amidst all that audio violence, the fact that he made his way through the crowd all this way was quite incredulous in itself.
There was Chavo, flailing his arms about recklessly trying to grab Dimitry's attention.
A wave of acknowledgement responded back and the abdominus gluttonamous moved faster through the sea of long hair, black lipsticks - black as hell, cocaine, codeine, ginseng, extacy, kava, and finally made it past the floor, upon the altar, through the frosted glass cell to the lounge sofa that played divan to an uninhibited raunchy scene consisting of Chavo and 4 other buxom chéris locked together in a uncomprehensible kind of amour.
"Why am I here?"
Chavo looked up at Dimitry slowly and produced a grin that led Dimitry to realise that he wasn't going to get his answer anytime in the near future.
"Your life is the sum of a remainder of an unbalanced equation inherent to the programming of the matrix. You are the eventuality of an anomaly, which despite my sincerest efforts I have been unable to eliminate from what is otherwise a harmony of mathematical precision. While it remains a burden assiduously avoided, it is not unexpected, and thus not beyond a measure of control. Which has led you, inexorably, here" retorted Chavo straight faced.
"Fuck you, you nut"
A chuckle escaped Chavo's mouth. "Where's your sense of humor?"
"In your jacket pocket you stupid bumblefuck", hissed Dimitry. "Its what you used to buy all these cock dumpsters all the booze that they're downing like skimmed milk."
"Come now, don't talk like that to Carolina. She's a darling, aren't you, bell...ll...ll...lla?"
The women giggled loudly and then started chattering amongst themselves while Chavo reached out with his free hand to pick up his packet of snort powder.
Dimitry scowled in irritation and collapsed on the rugged chaise longue that served as the respository of handbags, scarves and coats.
The dance floor thundered and the music exploded into a higher decibel detonation while the scene all over the netherealm got more suggestive and lewd.
As soon as Chavo was done with his line, he whispered something into the ear of one of his disciples upon which she got up from the couch and came towards Dimitry.
"May I suck on thy hyssop stick?" cooed the slut.
"Bah!!!" gruffed Dimitry.
The lady did a frolic dance around Dimitry, tushie bouncing and the nylons making it clear to see one's face in them.
Dimitry sat her on his lap and she proceeded to pop open each one of his shirt buttons.
Dimitry shuffled in his seat uncomfortably.
"Take it easy pappilein, I'm not going to bite."
The last of the buttons came undone, skin burst forth, fat immortalised in the gut.
The strumpet discontinued strutting her coy demeanour when she, all of a sudden, felt a strange feeling of disgust, awe, and fear all fused together.
She let out a scream which was drowned out by the pumping music but was heard by the group within the room.
She jumped off Dimitry and all the women in the room affixed their gazes on his chest.
There in the center of his chest was the diabolical and demonic figure embossed into the flesh.
Chavo chuckled and said aloud, "Oh ladies, pardon me for not mentioning it earlier but I invited Dimitry over for some brain-damage."

Dr. Lecter, may I introduce...

May I Suck You???

May I suck you???

'That Superfine Powder' and other chapters

I finally managed to interpolate my 3 month recess from any kind of book-reading. And to say I started it off well would be quite unsavoury to the conscience. "The Best Thing That Can Happen to a Croissant" was the best thing that could happen to me after such a long stint.
There's no better story that appeals to me more than spliff smoking fat men who spend the better part of their day at their local bar and get piss drunk on cheap vodka.
Pablo Miralles is one such faineant waste who is the black sheep of an immodestly wealthy household with a penchant for philosophy and prostitutes. While his brother, the Magnificent First takes care of the emminently flourishing family business, Pablo squanders his share of the company on cheap alcohol, cheap narcotics and wanton night outs with a sexually deprived woman whose negligent husband leads her to spend her evenings with a fat slob gallivanting around town.
Pablo's otiose lifestyle is given a violent shove into overdrive one day when he gets news that his impeccable brother Highness is missing. His mysterious sister-in-law assigns him the duty to investigate into the case. As the story uncoils out, we along with Pablo, begin to learn some eerie secrets and make some queer discoveries in the lives of the people that surround Pablo's deplorable lifestyle and give it the well rewarded zest it so rightfully deserves.
Give me a night out with myself and I'd emulate this fellow's life to a T. The comedy is killer. I never laugh when reading a book, even if its a MAD comic but this one takes the cake. I was on the floor with this one waiting for someone to revive the human back in me.

Bumbling Mutant or the Priapismic Philosopher?

A fried up morning, set in cold Valhalla. This is not a story but a comicography of one lean individual.

The slothful chauvinist philosopher has arranged himself into a cozy embrace with the sandman underneath the covers. A snarl, a grunt and a honk escape the olfactory organs of the sleeper. He's dreaming of tits!

I walk in and out of rooms eying my fellow mate at inconsistent intervals trying desperately to examine minor traces of study burn out - praying hopefully that he'll sometime somehow succumb to the weariness and eventually head off to the laxation site to discharge his fecal waste.

Each man spanning his designated territory within the accommodation does his best to focus on the literature he holds for immaculate knowledge, disappearing and again reappearing in and out of rooms like veritable dead anomalies.

No sooner have both of us crossed Rubicon, words of the enlightened cry out from underneath the comfort covers – “BehnChod*!!!”

Facial features twist – pupils dilate. We tread softly, approaching the philosopher, cautious, fearing another effusion. The sheets lay victim to a silent but severe rape treatment beneath it. The philosopher, mumbling a string of curse words, appears to awaken at a deadening pace.

The eyelids pop open and we are introduced to a revived monster. His face resembles the arsehole of a baby goat. Sitting upright in a yogic bearing, he gets ready to unlock his osseous tissue for another day of pronounced work grind. The philosopher starts off near the cranium where he wiggles his ears and a crack is heard at the back of his head. He then cricks his head from left to right and the painful snaps occur once again. This practise continues till he finally ends up twisting his toes in an attempt to let us wonder why we don’t spray synovial fluid for door hinges.

The philosopher stands up slowly revealing his enormous protuberance from beneath his jockeys. What was he trying to do? Create an allegory for ‘Yank my Crank'? This man has a definite visa for Bangkok. We give him enough room to pass through without causing us loathsome dread to have to come in contact with his stone shank.

I look at my companion in absolute horror while he stays fixated to the ‘blech’ sight walking in his boxers towards the dining table where another set of our mates lie seated in their chairs distorting their face in distaste. As the philosopher sits down, he slowly muffles a snuff and grunt again and reaches for the early morning gazette to engage himself for a few minutes. As he skims through the sheets, nodding disapprovingly at all the bigotry characterised by the several campaigns and summits, he proceeds to inform us all about the uncanny resemblance in the pugilistic mentality of our neighbouring Muslim territory and a certain Afghan terrorist organisation. He further goes on to rattle a string of curses in their name. Typical.

Our hero is one but a healthy being. His body consists of pores, revolting pores that stand home to a thousand lesions that have started a colony within them. The philosopher feels the need to scratch one of the wounds behind his neck and as he does so, the bruise is severed and the gross abrasion now spews out inflammatory fluid of varying colours – white, red and yellow. The pore tears itself open wider with the increasing pressure of bodily fluid. People sitting beside the philosopher are covered with a gooey substance that stinks of dead larvae.

Suddenly the table begins to rock – up, down, sideways and all over. A clear case of Sergeant NocWorst doing push-ups for the day under the table. A huge pandemonium erupts amongst the ones sitting down beside the philosopher. A barrage of complaints are headed the philosophers way. He replies with a crackling roar, ‘Sh…sh…sh…sh…shut up you f…f…f...f…ools. Do not k…k…k…create such ruck…k…k…k…k...us and get back to your books. Imbeciles!’

Then…it happens. She enters the accommodation. Her presence causing instant transfiguration. Ever watched ‘The Matrix – Reloaded’ in which Seraph, the divine carries golden code to form his construct? You could relate her to that. She’s the epitome of divinity. Her aural protuberances – the ‘Aupros’** glowed to render evidence of her purity. As she steps in, silence reigns supreme and everyone in the room looks on - coveting her, for she's an ethereal being who floats on gossamer wings. She floats towards the philosopher and plants a kiss on his cheek.

Like most aural protuberances, Lappu and Teelu...**

*BehnChod: Meaning - Hindustani slang vernacular for 'One who has intercourse with one's feminine sibling'.

**See article: "Lappu and Teelu: The Tale of Two Aural Protuberances" at www.purdypitchers.blogspot.com.

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!