The Three Pimping Warlocks of Albany

I read somewhere that six kids from M.I.T. had recently won four million dollars at various Vegas casinos simply using laws of probability. This weekend some of us decided to put that theory to test.

Location: Roulette Table 6, Turning Stone Casino, Oneida County, New York.
Time: Midnight, Saturday.
Participants: Shraddha Shah (financial officer), Pragyan Pradhan (mathematician extraordinaire!), Amit Desai (El Dhanno) and myself (lurking variable).
Initial capital: $100
Result: Hell yeah! Probability rocks!

After making a heavy kill at the roulette table after two hours, we decided to cash in our chips before we lost it all at the Hold'em tables. It was time to celebrate.

On the way back to college, 2 a.m. in the morning, we suddenly decided that we wanted to eat at Denny's at Albany, a town 90 miles west of where we were. So we did just that.

After an hour and a half of driving, with loud music and ghost stories and a video-taped karoake session, we rolled into Dunkin Donuts at Albany for some coffee.

We walk inside and two of us pretend we can't speak English too well and Pragyan acts as chief translator.

Random Dunkin Donuts dude (DD): What can I get for you guys?
Me (pointing at croissant sandwich picture): What kroi-ssanntts thing?

DD elaborately explains what a croissant is...

Me: No English.
Pragyan: They no understand English. Ve vant four cups of kaafee, please.

Shraddha takes us aside and we start chatting randomly in vernacular.

DD: Will that be all?
Pragyan: Please sir, give us another minute, eh, please, sir.
DD: Yeah dude, whatever, man.

We go back to the service counter.

Pragyan: Ok, that will be all. We've come all the way from Nepal (AN: Pragyan is from Katmandu, Nepal) yeah, to eat here, please make this good, yeah?

DD gives us weird looks as Shraddha, Amit and I talk in vernacular, seemingly fascinated by an automatic ketchup dispenser, and goes to get our coffee. A couple of minutes later our coffee arrive in these cups with special lids which can be opened like soda cans. We all pretend we have no fucking idea how to drink the coffee. So I walk up to the Dunkin Donuts dude.

Me (gesturing): How, drink?

DD very kindly opens the lid for me. I give him fancy smile. He shudders.

We take a center table and begin slurrping our coffee as loudly as we can and talk animatedly in vernacular scandalising the other late night patrons of DD, including a bunch of Union College students! Shraddha dares me to stand on a table and seduce her. I do it atanding on a chair instead, 'cause the tables were too wobbly. People start leaving.

After finishing our coffees we get back into our car and drive around looking for Denny's. We find PriceChopper's, a 24 hour supermarket. We walk in. It's 3:30 in the morning.

Shraddha walks up to random people shelving shampoo.

Shraddha: Do you know where I can get the croysaanuts?

Random guys look at each other in confusion.

1st Random Guy: Could you repeat that a little slowly please?

Shraddha: CROIY-SAA-NUTS?

2nd Random Guy: Ano... could you describe what you want?

Shraddha: gesturing It's the bread that goes round and round...

Both Random Guys: Ahh... croissants. At the bakery section in the back.

Pragyan walks to a some dude carrying a huge hunk of beef and stops him. I'm standing behind him.

Pragyan: Excuj me, excuj me, sir, can I ask a question, eh?

Beef Dude: Yeah man, sure.

Pragyan: gesturing Do I look physically capable of doing hard labour?

Beef Dude: looking confused What kind of labour?

Pragyan: You know, the hard kind...

Beef Dude: Yeah man, sure why not...

Beef dude slinks away when Pragyan is about to ask another question. We look around for another bakra. I find a lady stocking shelves in the toys department.

Maity: Do you know where I can get some paaaint?
Lady: Yes, come I'll show you.

I follow the lady to the other end of the store to the hardware section. She spends sometime showing me the different paints and textures. I pretend to listen carefully.

Lady: So what kind of paint would you like?
Maity: No, no, I just wanted to look, thank you.

Saying so I walked away.

MORE TO COME...

The Locking of Amod, Teaser Trailer

Yeah, that's Superman - the mother of all roller-coasters...

Some of us are still wondering, why the fuck do people enjoy sitting on a cart that's going to be tossed about at 2Gs on a flimsy metallic track.

But it was one heck of a ride!

To top the evening off... Amod was locked in the bathroom for half an hour!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DANIELLE.

2 Parts Hypnotic + 1 Part Absolut

There are times when I feel really pissed off with Hamilton College and the U.S. of A in general. Yesterday was one of those times. One of my friends here threw an awesome party last night - a la Stephanian format - complete with contraband and UV lights et al.

The party peaked two hours into binging and after a round of ol' Jane in the bathroom, things were nice and mellow, which explains why the extremely loud, smashing asteroids kind of loud, music totally evaded my senses.

Campus Police came knocking on the door. We asked them to join us - they decided they were better off hosting their own party with our confiscated booze. Why? We ask. 'Cause it's an unauthorised party you schmucks they reply. If that wasn't bad enough, they wrote up everyone who was under-21 and drinking. Seriously sometimes I really wish I was anywhere, even China, anywhere except for this god-forsaken country.

This morning is like one of those where you wake up and you walk around and you feel that you've committed some horrible crime and everyone except for you knows about it. It's not helping. So here I am sitting at my desk job on a bright Sunday afternoon feeling like shit. Such is the irony.

Tenma Warau [1]

After much deliberation, the name for my Bearded Desert Dragon was put to vote to my fellow dorm members. Incidentally he has been accepted as the dorm mascot and is also the symbol for our unofficial fraternity (which is funny since we have women as part of our troupe!) Chi Lambda Omega. The names up for vote were Notiggy, Fafner, Tonton and Quincy (by popular demand!). The public voted for Tonton (I dare say we have too many Star Wars and Naruto fans around...)

For me, with stories true and apocryphal the semester has begun with a rather overwhelming force. Training workshops, jobs, classes, and the usual crestfall of the mundane college life. At the rate at I'm going L.S.E. looks like a distant dream.

The new freshman batch has come in bringing with itself, the usual, the good and the bad. Perhaps as compensation for being in America, this year the international crop was very interesting. Among others there are a few nice freshman girls and Nelson Mandela's grandson . While the girls have attitudes that say "I desperately wanna be white", Mandela Jr. is well he's like Naseruddin Shah's son back in School. Ah well I guess people said the same things about us when we were freshmen.

Sometimes I get the feeling that I am like a crazy ball who doesn't really identify with any group on campus. For instance, I have many Asian (read: Chinese, Koreans, Japanese et al) friends and I am a part of the Asian Cultural Society and often "chill" with the Asian kids. But somehow, everytime, these Asians break into their vernacular diatribe, I don't feel that sense of belonging, or lack of it thereof. Then there are the rich white kids, my buddies, like James... I spend a lot of time with them. Maybe drink on weekends, smoke, or just play chess and listen to the Grateful Dead, but here too my sense of belonging is lost, for obvious reasons. For the black people, I ain't black enough. Then there are the geeks; movie watching, anime loving, book reading, trivia loving, "I never touch alcohol or any other bad things" geeks. I spend time with those types too, I enjoy their sense of humour - witty and referential and aren't always related to sex or drugs. But since I drink and smoke and party once a while I don't get enough credibility to join their ranks either. As for the Indians, well there are more Nepalis on campus than Indians at the moment. So where does that leave me in this compartmentalized mixed fruit jam? The International Students Union - the group of people caught in no-man's land? Honestly, I don't know, I think I'll just let it pass and not think about it too much. Is it really that important to have a concrete identity?

[1] Japanese Buddha's Laughing.

Not Iggy...

Yesterday in a spur of the moment decision, I bought a really awesome Bearded Desert Dragon. They're like Iguanas, only a lot more active. Right now he lives in my room in a 29 by 10 feet glass case, complete with carpetting, fake bonzai (he loves to climb), watering pools and rock formations. He loves hunting live crickets which I keep for him in a special habitat of their own and treat him to on Sundays. Other days of the week, he eats lettuce, grans and dead crickets. Right now he's only a month old and six inches long. He's supposed to grow to almost 2 feet if well taken care of.

His Highness' habitat needs to be vacuumed thrice a month and his water changed everyday and fed a healthy diet.

However, he is still unchristened. If you guys have good ideas for a name (which is not Iggy) I'd like to know.

Cheers!

Hazaar F*cked

The last one week has been exciting, not just in terms of events, what with the Mumbai floods and fires and NASA shuttle launch, but at a personal level as well.

Perhaps it’s just my naivety speaking, but I feel I would have enjoyed the 80s more than the present. Yeah, sure, not all was right with the world then either, but for some reason Upamanyu Chaterjee made me feel that I’d be very much at home.

I first read Chaterjee’s debut novel English, August in school and shelved it as a ho-hum fun read book. Last week I reread it and also managed to watch the movie. I sincerely recommend both. The sequel Mamaries of the Welfare State and Chatterjee’s other novel The Last Burden both, for the lack of a better word, sucked. But I digress…

In many ways I relate very well and empathize with Agastya, the protagonist. We’re both Bengalis who spent their formative years in boarding school, lost a parent very early, and went to college in Delhi (partially in my case) and then were lost; with no idea what to do except fantasize our ideal world with no actual inclination to try and reach there.

Agastya, who spends most of his time smoking marijuana and masturbating while training as an IAS officer in a small, hot town called Madna, does not want much from life. He just wants to bask in the Delhi sun in the winter, read, listen to some music, smoke and drink. Not quite the American Dream, but close enough for me.

So where do we go from here? We get hazaar f*cked. But I’m sure it’ll be fun. You see there in lies the rub. I’m unable to break away from my societal obligations of actually amounting to a normal Bengali man and take a chance.

Last week I also went to IS-CON, Mayapur. Shady is perhaps the first word that comes to mind. All around were clean shaven (all the way round!), saffron clad, stoned foreigners, tripping on acid and religion. To the non-discerning eye nothing seems suspect. Dad never caught anything! But one can clearly see that the euphoria on the young devotees’ faces are artificially induced. I, of course, had my little adventures during my little stay at Mayapur which I won’t delve into. Let it suffice to say that it was a welcome trip for me. It wasn’t easy. The first guy I asked gave me a look as if I had asked if we could shit together.

“Saddam Hussein is a lawyer! I feel sorry for the first guy who told him a lawyer joke.” – Jon Stewart, The Daily Show.

Row Row Row Your Boat

Oye, Bombay boys, how’s the water logging in B’Bay?

Backstroke of the West

Funnier than flushing Pickachu down the toilet in an aeroplane...

http://www.winterson.com.nyud.net:8090/2005/06/episode-iii-backstroke-of-west.html

Sixth Seduction of the Papal Kind

Seriously there’s no news like bad news is there? These days the news is filled with a blast here, a kill there, a Mamta Banerjee here, and more detonations in London. It could be the handiwork of enraged Aussie fans, considering their dismal Day 1 performance at the London test, but I’m skeptical.

But instead of tripping over the pitfalls of tragedy, we should focus on the lighter-side of things…

Well it appears that like Ms. V, there are a lot of Harry Potter haters out there. One of the more hardcore ones is a German, Gabriele Kuby; who hates HP enough to actually write a book about it. Get a job lady. Wait sorry, I forgot Germany was in recession.

The Pope happens to be another aggrieved anti-HP activist. In fact he was quoted as saying that the HP books are “…subtle seductions of children which act unnoticed and by this, deeply distort Christianity in the soul, before it can grow properly.”[1]. Subtle seduction of children, eh? Who better to know about that than the clerics, right?

Apart from boring stuff like China re-evaluating its currency and Francis Fanthome being asked to “take a holiday” (never liked that guy, he really screwed my ICSE!), I picked up two rather interesting stories. Three, actually:

Bulletproofing the Ayodhya shrine? Come on mate, surely the good people at DRDO are not that vella.

“Dear terrorists, new firman issued. Kill 10, take a branded T-shirt and be the best terrorist in the group. Jihad begins from July 18-20. – Osama.”
ICICI Prudential actually used this to motivate their insurance salesmen. One wonders why they didn’t dress them up like black bucks, paint a large bulls-eye on them and send them to Pataudi’s home.

On a graver note, a girl was molested in Presidency College at 11:30 am on a staircase after a sociology class by some “outsiders”. What I don’t understand is how this girl was all alone after class on a staircase in the middle of the day in a college with five thousand students? Either Presidency has a serious attendance problem, or this girl lacks friends. But who cares really, it was after all a legitimate reason to call a student strike! Disappointing world we live in, isn't it?

[1] Courtesy "The Daily Show".

Run Rabbit Junk

I had to get out of the Harry Potter groove…

It’s been an exciting few days even without Harry P. What with PM Manmohan Singh visiting the US to a red carpet reception and speaking to a joint session of the Congress and President George Bush not goofing up for the first time in a long time while introducing Manmohan Singh. So, India, US nuclear chaddi-buddies eh? But the funniest part is definitely the Pakistani PM canceling his US visit…and the Left... oh the Left.

Kaur gets thrown out accused of messing around with funds…says she’ll go to court. Face it woman, you’re screwed! I hope you have a couple of million stacked away somewhere safe.

Aishwarya Rai now claims that it’s not her voice either on the tape! Somebody call Oliver Stone.

The Hurriyat meets the Kashmiri Pandit leaders in a conference for the first time in sixteen years. I hope you’re happy now, Athar.

Dada has to play under Rahul Dravid, provided, of course, he gets to play. Is this the end of Saurav Ganguly? With a multi-crore deal with the Nimbus Group, it’s hardly relevant, is it?

Disneyland celebrates its 50th birthday with Arnie, the Gu-von-er of Kali-for-nia. Europe is over ridden with tension – everyone’s crapping their pants. Musharraf blames the Madrasas. British tabloids are making Blair look like a lollipop in Bush’s hands which is being stolen by a big bad bully.

It’s a shame that with so many things happening all around, when I go back to college, conversations as usual will steer into sex, drugs and alcohol. Come to think of it, maybe it’s me who’s got the priorities wrong!

If Dumbledore was a Mumbai Godfather…

Yesterday I managed to watch Sarkar and finish Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince.

It’s clear that Sarkar has been heavily influenced by The Godfather, but that doesn’t take away the fact that Sarkar is still a brilliantly well made movie. Stellar performances, excellent background score (though very reminiscent of Company) and some rather smart dialogues and camera angles made Sarkar a very worthy watch.

Half Blood Prince on the other hand was a bit of a let down after all the hype, much like Order of the Phoenix. One was hoping that the Harry Potter franchise would not become another Star Wars. Alas, it’s too late now. I still don’t understand that if the potions book was fifty years old, how could it belong to Snape? [Edit: It was originally his mother's] Interestingly enough, the contents of HBP and what is to be expected bear a remarkable similarity to a brilliantly well written fan fiction that Nisha had once showed me.

I noticed a bunch of printing errors and typos in the Bloomsbury edition. They forgot to add Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, in the list of previously published HP books in the back dust cover. There was a lot to be wanted from HBP, but in the end I agree with one review I read in ToI (forgive me!), HP6 is nothing more than a tie up of loose ends before embarking on a grand finale that is to be HP7.

However, HP6 has sparked a lot of speculation, particularly about the mysterious R.A.B. and Snape. Snape of course remains the most enigmatic character and after the movies (cheers Alan Rickman) he's become my favorite!

The HP news on television has been very irritating. It’s like the Beatle mania all over again.

I wonder if HP will become another Sherlock Holmes, to be brought back from the dead by an enraged readership?

Because You Touch Yourself At Night

A couple of days ago, by sheer coincidence, I found an old notice amongst my books, don't know how many of you remember this:

Studants' Union Society

St. Stephen's College

Cordially invite all students to a special dinner.

Venue: Mess Hall

Date: 22nd March, 2004

Time: 7:30pm

(P.S.: Please do not break down the doors this time)

Ah, those were the days when there was little to life than tormenting Tawakley and the SUS...

These days I envy Vaks to a certain extent. At twenty two, he's got it all. A job that pays him to flirt on his blog's chatterbox. Lovable little nephews and nieces who see SUS people and pink sweatshirts and like cracking perverted Santa-Banta jokes, cats to welcome him home and "Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince"...sigh, one should be so lucky.

So, here's wishing a very Happy Birthday to Vaibhav Tawakley, without whom I'd be living a boring and pointless life. May he find happiness, and a woman 7000 ks away with a penchant for Brayan Adams, oh wait he already has...

Gone Fishing

Didn't catch shit...

Selling the Drama with Cool Blue Reason [1]

The Japanese actually made a cartoon on spinning tops (Bey Blade) [2]. Suddenly understanding life has become unworthy like a made-in-China Holy Grail.

The summer holidays are nearly drawing to a close. Although, at a personal level, this period has been rather uneventful (just the way I like it), the world it appears has spared no quarter to be as random as ever. If the world is hit by a giant chocolate ice-cream cone, the book can be sent for publishing.

Dad had applied for a US visa and I spent three hours outside the embassy in the pouring Calcutta rain waiting for him. I killed time talking to mothers who's kids were going to Princeton or UCLA or *insert fancy school name here*. There was one rather pretty girl who was happily dispensing advice and gyan to the nail biting mothers outside. She was a returning student to some shady university... I first overheard one of her conversations with a hoity-toity English aunty waiting for her daughter. The accent, the swirl of the skirt, the talk of parties and the gyan, was a hilariously fascinating combination and we struck up a conversation. Soon we were drawing crowds of over anxious mothers desperately trying to keep themselves dry with newspapers… it was like working for the study abroad consultancy company I used to work for while in St. Stephen's. Dad got a 10 year visa.

I did manage several trips to my ancestral village in Midnapore over summer. I couldn’t exactly chill considering the temperature was in the late thirties, but the fishing and soaking in the ponds was fun till someone told me that a crocodile had been spotted in the vicinity. I tried tracing back my lineage.

Among interesting things in the world were the Live 8 concerts and the Floyd reunion and some Japanese dude reciting the value of Pi to 85,000 decimal places (take that Ramola)! It was then that I realized that it was far better vellaing than subjecting myself to such mind-numbing activities…I’d rather smoke pot if I wanted that.

L.K. Advani acts out “The Importance of Being Earnest”, the RSS are pissed. The 2012 Olympics go to London for the third time, ze French are le pissed. Some obscure terrorist group blows up buses and tubes in London in celebration, suicide bombers have a blast in Ayodhya. CPM wins election in West Bengal, again (big surprise there), Bangladesh beat Australia in England (definitely big surprise there). Six cars racing at Indianapolis, Venus Williams acting the monkey, Whacko Jacko gets acquitted, Harry Potter posters gracing flyovers across Calcutta. The absconding IIM-C dhobi makes news in local newspapers. St. Stephen’s has a reunion at the Raj Bhavan in Calcutta. The government wants 25% quota for underprivileged students at private schools; CPI threatens to topple the government. A pauper makes one of the largest companies in the country, his Wharton and Stanford educated sons attempt to undo it. Singapore Airlines is flying you to Singapore and back for Rs. 4000. A friend in college commits suicide.

And here I am writing about Kaiser Blewzew feasting on stuffed peacocks on a blog.

Although, I guess, there is no need to be realistic since Abhishek Gupta is in Calcutta en route to his HLL job posting in Jharkhand [3].

“They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our underpants” – Beau Peep.

[1] “Selling the Drama” – Live! and “Cool Blue Reason” – Cake
[2] Courtesy Jug Suraiya
[3] Courtesy Amit Chandra

"Joie de Vivre"

Joie de Vivre will be a short film for the 24 hour film contest chronicling the effect that the contemplation of one’s mortality has on action. In it, the troubled protagonist, sits as a drone at a computer screen, typing. He begins to think of his life, and what he will reflect upon in the future, when he grows near death. Upon the realization that he might, in theory, have only 24 hours to live, the film bursts into an explosive creative energy that leading film critics have heralded as “magnificent,” “brilliant,” “makes you want to run stark-naked through the dormitory hallways of a small liberal arts college.”

SCENE 1:Protagonist sits in chair in front of a computer, typing. Suddenly he stops.

Various shots of protagonist sitting in front of computer, thinking.
Narration:It is said that “No man on his deathbed wishes that he had spent more time in the office.” What will I, on my deathbed, think? Will I feel satisfied after a long, fulfilling life? Will I feel unsatisfied after having realized that my time was spent unwisely? Will I even have time to reflect upon my experiences? What if I am lying on my deathbed tomorrow? What if I only have 24 hours to live?

Cue music(Possible songs: “Pipeline” The Ventures, “BDNB” Cowboy Bebop, “Winter: Allegro non Molto” Vivaldi or even “Block Rocking Beats” Chemical Brothers).

The protagonist gets up and walks away from the computer.

Montage of the following during music:
• Protagonist frolicking through the woods.
• Protagonist running around, humping people’s legs.
• Protagonist emptying his wallet of all his cards, credit cards, debit cards, phone cards, IDs, laying them out in a row and setting them on fire, a la Jimi Hendrix.
• Protagonist using a fake hand to grope random people, then throwing the hand aside and actually groping people.
• Protagonist getting out of bed in undergarments followed by three girls then a guy getting out of his bed one at a time, also wearing undergarments.
• Protagonist taking his CDs out of their cases and breaking them.
• Protagonist taking a baseball-bat to his printer a la “Office Space”.
• Protagonist running through dorm halls naked, screaming.
• Protagonist planting a charge of C4 on a random car.
• Jamming.
(Anything else we get at the spur of the moment, suggestions are welcome…)

FINAL SCENE:The Protagonist leaps off of the bridge, and frozen in midair, the following is narrated:
Never take leave, of your joie de vivre.

The camera follows his leap as he lands on the bridge, rather than in the ravine as camera would have led you to believe. (Though I would rather leave it frozen and fade out…with the narration slowly coming into focus, white on black)
The End
Idea Conceived By: Noah D. Wright, Hamilton College 2008 ©(Cite your source. Otherwise there is no difference between you and Bollywood.)

Presently working on another idea for the same contest titled "Tamim's Brother Is Bald"

Kaiser Blewzew, Mongoloid, Esq. Chapter 2: The Unassuming Assasin

A long time before The YG or the Boka Gang had taken control of the Stephen’s underground, a man, nay an evil wind known as Blewzew was blowing through the corridors of college. Every clandestine activity, every subtle crime, had his stamp on it. Not only were the authorities helpless, they thanked him for it. Even the college president was too petrified to stop his tyranny.

Blewzew’s penchant for business and his shrewd analytical mind is what made him so successful. In 2003, as the rest of college was distracted by the rigors and tribulations of elections, Harmony and St. Vitus’ Trust, Blewzew, like always, sought an opportunity. In the shadows of ANGA, and shady places in Daryaganj, Blewzew formulated a plan.

In those days I used to live in Blewzew’s neighborhood in ANGA. In those days I also did a lot of gyp work for the SUS. One night, close to the eve of Harmony, as I was going back to my room I happened to stumble upon a Family meeting in the Kaiser’s room. From the reflection off the glass on the door, I could see the Kaiser seated at one end of a low Japanese table. On his right was sitting The Other Guy and on his left sat Hari Om Dahiya. Someone else was sitting at the other end with his back to me, so I couldn’t see his face. Something big was going down. Risking my life I pressed my ear against the door and tried to hear what was being discussed. Suddenly I felt a thick hand on my shoulder and a sharp object probing the bottom of my spine. I turned around to see a scowling face of The Renu. The Renu smiled and I almost soiled myself.

“Bahar kyu kade ho, ander ao…” The Renu said politely waving his kodachi in front of my face. I acquiesced and slowly walked into the Kaiser’s room. Kaiser Blewzew looked up at me and smiled.

“Arrey Maity, ao, ao, baito, yaha baito.” the Kaiser said, pointing to the empty cushion next to Hari Om. Nervously I took of my chappals and walked towards the table. The plush Persian carpeting felt ticklish and the entire room was swamped in the fragrance of French perfume. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone and I could feel four sets of eyes studying me.

“Kuchh khaoge?” The Kaiser asked, forcing me to look at him. No one refused the Kaiser. I smiled politely. The Renu who was leaning against the bookshelf against the wall opposite me, threw a pack of biscuits at me and resumed sharpening a stake with his kodachi. Just for a second there was an uneasy silence. Then Hari Om spoke in his lucid New York accent “Maity, we understand that you are a relatively smart individual. The Family has uses for intelligent people. For now, we don’t expect much. For now, you just keep your mouth sealed and we won’t erase your existence, savvy?” I could hear The Renu chuckle. I nodded.

“Tum ek dusre ko jaante ho?” The Kaiser asked pointing at the person opposite the table. I turned and saw Abhishek Panda desperately trying to smile at me. I nodded. “Accha huya, phir tum jao.” I was puzzled at first but decided to get out before the Kaiser changed his mind. As I was leaving the room, after a quick bow at the Kaiser, I could hear him shout “Arrey tumne to kuch khaya hi nahi!” I ran back to my room and locked the door. What the hell was Panda doing there? I fell into an uneasy asleep. And the next morning I forced myself to forget the whole incident.

Three days later Panda tried to kill me with a pair of scissors.

(Coming Soon: Chapter 3: The Salil Incident)

Kaiser Blewzew, Mongoloid, Esq. Chapter 1: Beginnings

This is a story about change. This is a story about the cruel Delhi culture that brings out the worst in us. This is the story about one man who decided to rise against the tide of apathy and protect those who were close to him. This is a story about Kaiser Blewzew who created one of the most ruthless crime syndicates St. Stephen’s has ever seen. Even Wency Mendes was powerless to stop his rise to power.

In its first few years itself, the Family had grown from a handful of vellas into an organization of massive proportions. By the time I came into college, Blewzew already had a faithful following, loyal and fearsome; men of honor who had sworn oaths of fealty when they had kissed the machwara anguti.

Among the most notable ones were Rahul Renu. The Renu as he was known in the Family was Blewzew’s right hand man. The Renu had grown up in a rough neighborhood and was as tough as dining hall chapatis. His battle-scarred face and the six inch kodachi he kept hidden in his socks kept people at bay and made sure the local dhabas paid up at the end of every month.

On Blewzew’s left hand was The Other Guy. No one knew his real name. He always worked in the shadows. Assassinations and espionage was his forte. He always had a crumpled bidi stuck in his right ear and never wore shoes.

And last but not the least; Hari Om Dahiya, the brains of the organization. Born in the suburbs of New York, Hari Om attended the Wharton School of Business before joining the Family. While The Renu and The Other Guy made sure no one was muscling in on the Family’s territory, Hari Om’s job was to make sure the Family’s money was clean and the IRS was happy and he did his job well.

In the lower echelons of the family there was a myriad crowd all eager to help the Family and keep their ears. Among the more notable members were Nikhilesh S. Chand and Arkoprobho Ray. At the height of its power, the Family boasted a membership of over thirty members including Joe Peschi.

For years Kaiser Blewzew held the campus at ransom. The fastest cars, the prettiest girls, the largest higher education posters, Swaziland…all were his. But it hadn’t been easy.

Coming soon: Chapter 2: The Unassuming Assassin

Left Foot Trapped in a Sensual Seduction

This post has nothing to do with the title. It's random.

A couple of days ago I was speaking to Dinkim and I inquired about my old friend Blewzew. I was disappointed to learn that Blewzew had not made it to an Ivy League, but was setting himself up for a career in politics in Uttar Pradesh. So ends the reign of one of the most God fearing dons at St. Stephen’s College.

So I decided to pay tribute to the glory days of Kaiser Blewzew and the Family and write:
Blewzew, Mongoloid, Esq.

(Coming soon: Chapter 1: Blewzew Begins.)

"Help! I'm A Rock!"

More music angle...

This week, I returned to the roots of rock and roll with "Mr. Rock and Roll: The Alan Freed Story" with a surpisingly brilliant Judd Nelson as Alan Freed (way better than the crappy jobs he's done before!) and the documentary "Rock and Roll" along with the 1971 Frank Zappa movie "200 Motels".

I first heard about Frank Zappa when Griffin Dune starred in the movie "Parental Advisory" as Zappa. The ending credits of the movie claimed that none of Zappa's albums ever received the "Parental Advisory" label, however, Zappa's "Jazz From Hell", which is an instrumental album, did receive such a label! Anyway, at that time there wasn't any Zappa readily available and School wasn't much of a help... it was ATB and trance all the way there. And so my interest in Zappa slowly faded away.

It was only after I watched a recording of a 1978 Zappa concert at California State University in college that I was interested in Zappa again. Fortunately, James, like most other stoners is a big Zappa fan and leant me most of his collection. With more than 60 albums to his name, there's a lot to go through!

Zappa may not suit everyone's tastes, specially those who prefer coherent, romantic and mushy lyrics of say Backstreet Boys (I was going to put Bryan Adams here but decided against it). Most of my favourite Zappa songs, including the title of this post, have strange undecipherable chants and blabber that remind you of Candarian demonic worship but are undeniably catchy.

Speaking of catchy and undecipherable, nothing beats Tom Waits' "Telephone Call From Istanbul".

Black humor and social satire is another intricate aspect of Zappa's music as is evident from "Why Does it Hurt When I Pee", "My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama", "Take Your Clothes of When You Dance", "Help I'm A Rock" and "Uncle Remus" (to name a few).

One of Zappa's songs "Watermelon In Easter Hay" was used for the brilliant 2001 Mexican movie "Y Tu Mama Tambien" (which stars Gael Garcia Bernal of "The Motorcycle Diaries", another good movie), although Zappa had requested that three of his songs, including the one in question, be never used in any other media except in an album. However, his widow (Zappa died in 1993) allowed this exception because she was so moved by the film.

LEARN CHINESE IN 3 MINUTES

Read out loud...

1) That's not right ----- Sum Ting Wong

2) Are you harbouring a fugitive? ----- Hu Yu Hai Ding

3) See me ASAP ----- Kum Hia Nao

4) Stupid Man ----- Dum Fuk

5) Small Horse ----- Tai Ni Po Ni

6) Did you go to the beach? ----- Wai Yu So Tan

7) I bumped into a coffee table ----- Ai Bang Mai Fa Kin Ni

8) I think you need a face lift ----- Chin Tu Fat

9) It's very dark in here ----- Wao So Dim

10) I thought you were on a diet ----- Wai Yu Mun Ching?

11) This is a tow away zone ----- No Pah King

12) Our meeting is scheduled for next week ----- Wai Yu Kum Nao?

13) Staying out of sight ----- Lei Ying Lo

14) He's cleaning his automobile ----- Wa Shing Ka

15) Your body odour is offensive ----- Yu Stin Ki Pu

16) Great ----- Fa Kin Su Pah

Sounds more like Arnold Swarchenegger's accent in Predator doesn't it?

“Got 13 Channels of Shit on the T.V. to Choose From”

Edited: May 2011
Apart from the news (actually, even the news is shit these days) and sport, there’s little on television that is not an insult to intelligence. So here’s my own compilation of what’s worth watching these days…

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart:
A show that demonstrates how the ridiculous thrive in our very attention deficit society and politics. Stewart and his cronies are brilliant, and approach the world with a vicious yet sophisticated mind. It's amazing that a comedian has become the most trusted man in news, a post the late great Walter Cronkite used to hold.

South Park:
These guys keep getting better and better every week. Satire at it's best.

The Simpsons:
Everyone’s familiar with America’s favourite dysfunctional family…

Whose Line Is It Anyway?:
Although these days we only get to watch re-runs of the American version of the show, Ryan Stiles, Colin Mochrie, Wayne Brady are still as hilarious as ever.

Boston Legal:
A daring show that satirizes some of the most pressing social issues of our time with courtroom antics. Fantastic performances by William Shatner, James Spader, and the rest of the cast.

Top Gear:
Hardly a pragmatic show about cars anymore. It's more like playtime for three middle aged Englishmen being racist, angry, loud, obnoxious, adventurous, and very, very fast. My dream job.

Off the top of my head I can’t think of anything else that I can safely watch without Quincy the iguana throwing up over the sofa.

The Adventures of Glufsvon Zanzibar

After I started visualizing my International Relations professor feeding alligators in a white and scarlet toga, I knew I had had too much to drink. Picking up another vegetable egg roll that we had stolen from the dining hall I tried to tune in on what my roommate James Head, a Connecticut Yankee, was saying across the coffee table we were drinking at. It was something about a man called Glufsvon Zanzibar he had met in Paris a couple of years ago. Apparently this Mr. Zanzibar ran a kenjitsu (samurai sword techniques) school in Paris and believed in the recreational and medicinal qualities of hemp. Of all the places in Paris, James met Glufsvon, who according to James looked like a pirate in his twenties, on the second floor of the Eiffel Tower. Tracking the wafting fragrance of marijuana led James to his first meeting with Glufsvon who, leaning against the railings, was sharing a spliff with a certain gentleman who introduced himself as Ntokozo Xaba (pronounced: Toe-ko-zo Chka-aba). According to James, this Glufsvon Zanzibar was the most wholly remarkable person he had ever met. Of course, I only half believed what James said. After all, it was James who had come up the idea of assassinating Salman Rushdie when he had come to speak in college and picking up the bounty he had on his head. It was all too late when we realized that the fatwa on Mr. Rushdie’s head had long been removed. (Note: If you’re interested or know anyone who might be interested in buying a second hand Remington 700 sniper rifle in mint condition, give me a call.)

I’m writing this on the airplane back from Addis Ababa trying to distract myself from the air hostess with sweaty armpits. The last twenty days have been absolutely brilliant. The most fun I’ve had in a long time. I had landed a voluntary research internship at the University of Addis Ababa with a professor of anthropology and once that was over I managed short trips to Egypt and Tanzania to meet a couple of my friends from college who live there. What happened in Cairo was perhaps one of the funniest and most uncanny experiences of my life…

After two weeks of traversing through disease ridden backward Ethiopia and Tanzania, I decided to visit my friend Ngoda in Cairo and spend a week relaxing before flying back home. If you’ve been to Cairo recently you’ll remember that there’s an oasis not far from the pyramids of Giza. Twenty minutes as the camel runs, it’s usually a fairly desolate place, perfect for hanging out on a lazy Sunday evening. Ngoda and I reached the Oasis at six in the evening, just in time to watch the sun set over the dunes. There weren’t many people at the oasis, so Ngoda and I popped open a couple of chilled beers we had brought along and spread ourselves on the sand enjoying the sweet evening air. As I was getting bored with the scenery, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulders. I turned to see a smiling shabby face of bearded Arab. In perfect English he asked me if I had a light. I threw him a box of matches and watched him as he walked back to his friends under a clump of date trees. Catching my eye, the fellow walked back to us and asked us if we wanted to join them.

The next thing I know, Ngoda and I are sitting in a circle drinking thick Turkish coffee (note: never, ever add camel’s milk to coffee) with three other Arabs smoking a hookah and laughing at the stories they were telling us. I was relieved to find that they all spoke English quite fluently. Ngoda and I swapped a few of our own escapades in return. When the first Arab found out that Ngoda was a local kid, he lowered his tone to a whisper and asked him if he wanted to buy a camel real cheap and he whistled and a beautiful camel came and sat on its knees next to him. Ngoda, who I’m guessing knew his camels, asked him how much he was selling her for. I couldn’t quite catch what his reply was, but whatever it was made Ngoda laugh out like crazy. At first I thought it was the effect of the alcohol, but the Arab looked extremely serious.
“How’re you selling her so cheap?” Ngoda asked.
Flushing with a mixture of pride and alcohol the Arab whispered, “It’s stolen. I’m a camel smuggler, it’s what I do. And she’s a fine one as my name is Glufsvon Zanzibar.”
I was stunned. Like a scratched CD I kept muttering “No way”, for the next minute much to the surprise of our other companions.
I quickly narrated James’ story and Glufsvon’s eyes grew in wonder. I don’t know if he actually remembered James, but at least he pretended to. And I have to agree with James, Glufsvon is definitely the most wholly remarkable man I’ve ever met. Kenjitsu sensei, camel smuggler, tour guide, pearl diver, fragrance explorer and come to think of it, he did look like a pirate, minus the polly and the scimitar! The rest of the evenings events are irrelevant but oh so interesting. Even as I’m about to land in Bombay, I’m still in shock. I mean what are the odds that two people from two different parts of the world will meet the same person in two different countries in completely uncanny circumstances? Suddenly the universe seems so simple.

Ways Of Will

I was born in the hot and humid slums of lower Limpopo. Although we spent all day working hard producing our primary export of sweat, Limpopo had failed to make a mark in the international economic scene. Limpopons, however, are always jovial and the poverty of the nation never seemed to bog down their spirit. What we lacked in formal education we made up with innovativeness. In fact, it was this innovativeness that would make Limpopo a global player in the 20th century.

Between 1912 and 1916, while the rest of the world was busy in their petty squabbles, Limpopo was researching some of the most advanced technology known to man - jugaad. So powerful was this new technology that anyone remotely accustomed with its finer aspects could escape from any adverse situation and with a little training could probably turn it to his own advantage. In fact, till 1924 jugaad was considered and protected as a national secret.

In the early 1940s Limpopo decided to start exporting this unique technology and by 1947, jugaad had replaced sweat as Limpopo’s primary export. By 1958 jugaad had taken the world by storm as it was cheaper and better than Chinese imports like the yin-yang, which have a high exchange duty in many parts of the world. In this manner Limpopo grew as an international powerhouse in the 1960s.

The United States, who often forget that a world exists outside North America, had not yet warmed up to jugaad. It was only in the 1990s that the US actually discovered the unique properties of jugaad. Immediately they tried to patent it and threatened to sue Limpopo for stealing their idea.

The Taliban on the other hand decided to rise against this act of American oppression and decided to launch an attack on the US in the middle of a Dallas Cowboys and Florida Dolphins football game. A rattled President Bush spilled his pretzels and ordered the CIA to deal with the matter. The CIA happily obliged by vaporizing the entire country and also capturing a few tons of weapons grade plutonium from a goatherd in Northern Afghanistan. Unfortunately, the plutonium had become unstable and exploded somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic while it was being transported to the US. In a brilliant move Bush accused Green Peace for the mishap and managed to get re-elected marking one of the greatest triumphs of jugaad.

The latest issue of Limpopo Today voted jugaad to be one of the “Top 5 Things the World Can’t Do Without” along with toilet paper and Mexican yo-yos (aren’t those awesome?). The Forbes magazine rated jugaad as the “greatest invention ever”. At the present more than half the world unconsciously runs on jugaad, including the Indian and the US governments. Today Limpopo has a lot to be proud about.

So the next time you use cog-chits to pass a test, or the next time the government cheats you, or you cheat the government, or if you ever do anything as smart as using a broken umbrella as a TV antenna, think of jugaad : Limpopo’s greatest contribution to the civilized world.

Chinese Shower Cabinets

Dad finally got his "O.K. Tested" label on his insanity claim.

I was awakening from my siesta when dad walked in and said "Guess what I bought today?"

"What?" I ask.

"A shower cabinet."

"Ho hum, one of those ones eh? How much did it cost?"

"*insert exorbitant amount of money here*, I'm too embarrased to specify"

I choke on my own spit for a moment. "What the...Is it made of gold or something?"

"No it's really nice, it's got a sauna, steam bath, zaccuzi, radio and even a telephone."

"A sauna, in summer, in Calcutta." I went back to sleep, hoping it was all a bad dream, but deep inside I understood why dad said he could not afford to send me to college...

There goes the excuse, "sorry he can't come to the phone right now, he's in the shower" because now there's a freakin phone in the shower!

Puzzles

Just in case,
If you're the queen of California, baby,
LittlePrince, wat a nite,
Screw aristophanes.

What's there to do in Champaign?
Smoke pot, listen to floyd and phish,
They say if you love something let it go...
If it comes back it's yous...if it doesn't...shoot it!

Tu Me Queries,
Planning to take the world by storm, watch out!
Anger is a gift,
Because i am a devil without a cause.

Franky just thinks he's Irish,
God...I love you
Israfel is gone,
*insert wise crack here*.

La belle dame sams merci,
Life is a waste of time,
Only fools rush in... sigh,
So, it's over?

I have a black-hole where my creativity should be,
Some people say I'm insane, so I kill them.
Still goin on...and will never stop,
Tally ho what, what?

The world is a blister but i'm ok with it.
All my bags are packed,
I'm ready to go,
Time to fade in black.

What The Hell Is Wrong With This Site

It fucking does what the fuck it feels like!

Dodging .45 Caps in NYC, Part Deux

Unlike Lucas' much awaited Star Wars III, hopefully this second and final installment of "New York Minute" won't be sorely disappointing and riddled with corny dialogues.

When we last met our unassuming hero, he was caught in a crossfire of .45 caps at the basement of NYC's hell-hole - the Port Authority Bus Station...

a short recap to bring you back to the scene:

4 am: A massive caucasian male, standing roughly at around 6ft with dirty salt and pepper dreadlocks and a overworn moss green trenchcoat walks into the cafe. No one except for a few people take notice of him or the 9mm pistol he's holding in his right hand. Almost in a whisper he says "I'm so fucking pissed off, I'm going to shoot every one of you mother fuckers overhere". No one really responds. Needless to say, I was shit scared - I didn't really want to die in a cafeteria in a shady NYC bus station, there had to be a better way. With most eyes on him now, this maniac marches upto an old chinese (he could be Korean or Japanese or Thai, I couldn't really tell) guy who was eating a hotdog, picked him by the collar and askedhim "how much money you got huh, how much money you got?"

...END RECAP

The poor Asian gentleman was too scared to react and kept staring at Mr. Dreadlocks. Dreadlocks says, "so you dont have any money huh? I'll show you what money is." and saying so he opens the tote bag he was carrying and starts taking out wads of ten dollar bills (well they looked like $10 bills anyway) and starts placing them on the table. "See, this is what you call money, asshole" He then pushes the Asian gentleman back into his seat, slumps into the closest chair and starts crying. In between sobs he bawls out "What the fuck am I doing here? I'm supposed to in fucking Florida, what the fuck am I doing in NYC surrounded by you assholes!" In the mean time the transit guards have come back and try to appease this dude. For some reason, as if on cue, some dude's 2-in-1 starts playing that oldie Rick Springfield song "Jessie's Girl".

The cops start sweet talking Dreadlocks (interestingly the radio starts playing "Wake me up before you go go"!). The cops tell him "Sir, just take it easy, throw the gun away, stay calm, we'll put u on a bus to florida pronto, just don't do anything rash and all..." Dreadlocks, fortunately decides to acquisce and slides his gun across the table, and the moment he does that, these two cops come in and beat the crap out of the dude with their night sticks...all to the tune of "wake me up before u go go"! It was a pretty insane scene. then they (the cops) take the gun and the money, put it back into the tote bag and took Dreadlocks away...that's the last I got to see these guys.

Then after a while, after all th excitement and adrenalin has subsided, I order some breakfast and try to get back to my book, when this fairly old gentleman, in a gaudy yellowing jacket and and brown sunglasses came and sat opposite me at my table and started dinking my coffee. I noticed that the entire left side of this guys face was burnt and scarred. Before I could react, the man spoke first.

"So you think New York is a dangerous place, huh?" Slightly taken aback, I manage a shrug. "Obviously, you've never been to New Jersey" he continued. "You see these scars on my face? I didn't have these last weekend. I had just come out from a bar last friday night after enjoying a good evening of drinking and I was walking back home when these two muggers cam from behind, stabbed me in the back and threw acid on my face before making off with my wallet." (insert appropriate face of shock) "but these muggers, these muggers I can deal with, the real bastards are the ones who work in government hospitals. When I woke up, i was in this hospital and a couple of days later when they were ready to discharge me, i got my clothes and all back, and guess what, they'd cleaned out my little waist pouch which had all my credit cards and some cash...gone...all empty. but the worst part was, wait, check this..." (he opens the bag he was carrying and takes out a tweed jacket and holds it up and it's been cut quite neatly in two) "...they cut my brand new tweed jacket in half! So i go to the doctor and ask him, why the fuck did he cut my jacket in half? and he says that when i came in i was bleeding profusely and that they had to get the jacket off so he cut it. and i tell him, well if u can't fucking take three buttons off, you shouldn't call yourself a fucking doctor in the first place!" and saying so he picks up what was left of my coffee and bids me good morning and goes off...

I won't describe my reaction. I just quickly finished breakfast and spent the next hour till my bus cam in, in the toilet, trying to get some sleep and generally being safe. Well needless to say I came back to college "shaken but not stirred" and in my unshaven and unclean condition went directly to work (I was still an hour late, but my employeer decided not to dock my pay after she heard my story...)

I know there weren't any lightsabers or starfighters but I'm still working on creating my own brand of merchandise and licensed characters that i can market...

Cleaning the Room

By the end of the year, our room had become the largest landfill in a twenty mile radius. T-shirts, jackets, jeans, soiled panties (yes, we had frequent guests in our room), shoes, socks, fluff, large packets of cereal stolen from the dining hall kitchens, several empty bottles of Jack Daniels, junk mail, midterm papers, we had everything in our closet. Only regular sprays of room freshener had kept the room livable. Then on the eve of our departure as James and I began cleaning the room, we found Jeremiah.

After clearing of the top layer of junk and clothing with nostalgia, we found a bearded face amidst our clothing. In the bad light I thought it was probably a left over mask from Halloween, but as we dug deeper we found a couple of hands, a torso and even two legs and lo, there was Jeremiah!

James was the first to recover from the shock as he tried, much to Jeremiah’s dismay, to pull Jeremiah out of the closet. He looked like a chipped version of John Cleese on crack with a crazy thick beard and unkempt hair and a tattered jacket that smelt like sewage pipes. The worst part was we had never met this person before.

“Who the fuck are you? What the fuck are you doing in our closet?” James asked.

Still shielding his eyes from the light of our bedroom, the man managed to murmur “Jeremiah”. That’s how we got to know his name.

Jeremiah had been living in our closet for the past three months without our knowledge, underneath our heap of clothes and junk. He had been feeding off all the food that’s usually strewn about the room after a good raid at the dining hall kitchens…I don’t have anything to say, nothing, I’m still recovering. Gives a whole new meaning to ‘what lies beneath’ doesn’t it?

4/20

There are many urban legends surrounding 4/20, none of which are true, which is why they are urban legends. Some claim that 420 is the police code for marijuana use, others claim other stuff. Bottom line is, the 20th of April is still International World Smokers Day (although no one apart from a handful of Americans are aware of this) and it is celebrated by smoking at 4:20 am on 4/20 in the Glen beside the bubbling brook and the crayfish pond.

The amount of pot that was floating around college that week was unfathomable. It was unbelievable, I saw at least sixty odd people at a party, all smoking in groups ranging from three to twelve. Personally I  killed "Medium Middle Age", "Reborn" and "Excaliber". I don't quite remember why they were named as such though.

For dessert there was a six feet bong that was shared between the remains of the day...

Dodging .45 Caps in NYC, Part 1

Well the semester has seen a fair amount of snow storms, sloth and other vices that go with extreme cold. Apart from a remarkable night in New York City, the details of which I have stated below, and a rather arbitrary weekend at Tufts University at Boston, the semester has been pretty straight forward, actually not that straight-forward, but not as crazy as Stephanian times.

On the first day (a saturday) of Spring Break, dad called and told me that one of his friends would be flying to San Francisco via New York and that I should meet this gentleman at JFK on Thursday night. come Wednesday I'm all set to go to the city, when my dad calls in the evening and informs me that the above mentioned gentleman would now be flying in on the following Sunday instead.

Saturday night I find out that there is a certain chap on campus who was going to be driving down to NYC on Sunday morning. Naturally I decided to hitch a ridewith him. This guy tells me that we'll leave at 11 am on Sunday. I was fine with that since the before mentioned gentleman's flight was supposed to come in at 5:30 and NYC is only about 4 hours away from college.

Sunday: (I'll do the rest in an itenary format tospeed things up, this keyboard sucks!)
As asked, I show up at my ride's room at 11, only to be told that it was in fact his brother who would becoming in from Yale to pick us up and drive us to the city and that his brother was not here yet.

12 pm: his brother turns up in a spanking new fuel guzzling Nissan SUV and we set off and I promtly fall asleep in the back seat.

2 pm: I wake up and look around and notice a rather large board saying "Welcome to Whitestown, Pennsylvania". I panic. "Dude, aren't we going to the city?" I inquire. "Yeah we are but my parents just called and they want me to return the SUV to them, so we'll take my truck from home and then go to the city." my friend replies.

3 pm: I am cramped in the tiny utility seat in the back of a Chevy Truck and we're headed towards NYC. They smoke a joint en route.

6 pm: We reach the outskirts of NYC in a a place called Beacon and my friend stops the truck outside the railway station and tells me to take the train from here to the city since he was not going to drive any further since he was going to go to a friend's place here.

7:30 pm: the freaking train takes an hour and a half to reach grnd central. I get onto a bus for JFK

8:00 pm: I'm in JFK. Obviously the fore mentioned gentleman is no longer waiting for me. I call dad and find out which hotel he's staying in and go there. I've never met this guy before in my life, but it turns out that he was pretty chilled and all. He gave me some money dad had sent and my plane tickets to fly back home. He asks me if I wanted to spend the night here or go back to college. Since I was working the next day, I decided to go back and took the West bound subway to the bus station at Port Authority.

9:45 pm; I reach Port Authority in time to miss the last bus to Utica by 15 minutes. The next bus is at 7 in the morning. I have from 10pm at night till 6 in the morning to kill. I decide to go to Broadway.

I'm at Broadway, outside a theatre playing "The Lion King". They're sold out. Fortunately or unfortunately, I find a shady dude scalping ticketsfor the show close-by. I pay an exorbitant amount towatch the show, which was awesome (the show that is, not the exorbitant amount)!

1 am: I wander into the Laughter House to watch comedian Kathie Lee perform. She's terrible...house-wife humour. I walk out an hour later. I wonder why I stayed so long.

2am: the only kind of people on NYC at this time were drunks, black chain gangs and 24 hour chinese food delivery people. I decide to head back to the bus station.

3 am: I'm sitting at the cafeteria downstairs of the bus station, trying to read "Brighter Than a Thousand Suns" when I and some other people in the cafe realize that the woman sitting next to me was trying to commit suicide. This lady was a diabetic in her late 50s or early 60s I would guess and her preferred method of dying was tearing open sugar sachets and pouring the contents into her mouth. How did we find out? Well, we noticed that there was a rather unusually large heap of empty sugar satchets on her table, maybe about forty or fifty and when one of the cafe staff guys tried to ask her what she was upto, something flipped in her head and she started cursing, flailing her arms about and screaming "let me fucking die the way I want to, what the fuck is your problem?" Finally the transit guards showed up and managed to take her away.

3:30 am: The earlier events well behind us, the cafe is back into it's lethargic late night mode. there are a few homeless drunks sleeping on the floor, or Hispanic labourers with their families curiously looking at the shoes on display at one of the closed shops. Things were pretty quiet.

4 am: A massive caucasian male, standing roughly at around 6ft with dirty salt and pepper dreadlocks and an over worn moss green trenchcoat walks into the cafe. No one, except for a few people take notice of him or the 9mm pistol he's holding in his right hand. Almost in a whisper he says "I'm so fucking pissed off, I'm going to shoot every one of you mother fuckers overhere". No one really responds. Needless to say, I was shit scared - I didn't really want to die in a cafeteria in a shady NYC bus station, there had to be a better way. With most eyes on him now, this maniac marches upto an old chinese (he could be Korean or Japanese, I couldn't really tell) guy who was eating a hotdog, picked him by the collar and asked him "how much money you got huh, how much money you got?"...

[I'll leave it at this cliffhanger...will Maity escape with his life or will he succumb and become just another New York crime statistic, find out in the next episode of "Days of Our Lives"]

End Of The World

Must watch flash:
http://www.ebaumsworld.com/flash/endofworld.html

For Four Hours Only

The slippers were very irritating. The dusts and spits of water from the road formed miniature, muddy and uncomfortable puddles in the slipper’s undulations.

A beggar sat cross-legged by the roadside. His feet were covered in a funeral blanket. His eyes stared unfalteringly at a distant arbitrary object. His hands moved in a systematic and rhythmic motion; the ends of the cymbals hitting each other in perfect synchronization. I passed him nonchalantly.

Weighing machines, sleeping kids, the stolen watches vendor, the trinket seller all set themselves in a manner organized to cause the maximum hindrance to pedestrians. As if the jagged rocks, bricks and man-holes scattered all over the pavement were not enough.

Shuffling feet, heavy breathing, sweltering faces; they all gave me a second look as I passed. Their eyes shone with fear and hunger. I tried to ignore it but I couldn’t. A young boy of about six ran and grasped my trouser leg with all he was worth. I resisted the temptation to kick him and pushed him away as gently as possible. The child ran off to hide behind a fruit-juice stand. A few black patches of dirt now covered my otherwise sparkling white trouser right where that kid had held me. I cursed the little beggar boy.
Dodging the heavy rush hour traffic near, Suicide Alley, I managed to barge into Kumars’ sweet shop. The singeing sun, the reckless drivers and the obstacle course I had just completed had made me unbearably thirsty. I ordered a mango shake.

I sat by the window allowing my eyes to observe. Then they fell to rest on that young beggar boy. He was being beaten by his mother. “Bainchod, bas itna paisa laya aaj?” She screamed at him. The boy retreated, tears rolling down his dark cheek. Without waiting for the milk shake I walked out of the shop.

I headed back towards school not really knowing what to think; only aware that I should have a profound thought. I was deep in introspection and retrospection and all those other big-words when suddenly a hand fell on my shoulder. I turned to find Hamid. I wasn’t particularly fond of him. I wanted to shout at him, probably say an obscene word or two, but before I could, he flashed two tickets for the latest movie, waving it in front of my face. I literally fell at his feet and grabbed his leg.

The incidents of the day well forgotten, I became his best friend for the next four hours...

How To Maintain A Healthy Level of Insanity

1. Sit in your parked car with sunglasses on and point a hair dryer at passing cars. See if they slow down.

2. Page yourself over the intercom. Don't disguise your voice.

3. Every time someone asks you to do something, ask if they want fries with that.

4. Put your garbage can on your desk and label it "in".

5. Put decaf in the coffee maker for 3 weeks. Once everyone has gotten over their caffeine addictions, switch to espresso.

6. In the memo field of all your checks, write "for sexual favours".

7. Finish all your sentences with "in accordance with the prophecy."

8. Dont use any punctuation marks.

9. As often as possible, skip rather than walk.

10. Ask people what sex they are. Laugh hysterically after they answer.

11. Specify that your drive-through order is "to go".

12. Sing along at the opera.

13. Go to a poetry recital and ask why the poems don't rhyme.

14. Put mosquito netting around your work area. Play a tape of jungle sounds all day.

15. Five days in advance, tell your friends you can't attend their party because you're not in the mood.

16. Have your co-workers address you by your wrestling name, Rock Hard.

17. When the money comes out the ATM, scream, "I won! "I won!" "3rd time this week!!!!!"

18. When leaving the zoo, start running towards the parking lot, yelling, "run for your lives, they're loose!!"

19. Tell your children over dinner. "Due to the economy, we are going to have to let one of you go."

21. Pee into bottles and then empty them into the pot.

22. Jump out of ATMs/Public Bathrooms naked and say "don't go in there".

23. When someone pulls out his hand to shake yours, try and dodge it, Matrix style.

24. When someone wishes you, sneer viscously and say "fools, you're all gonna die" and walk away laughing hysterically.

25. When someone says "dude, I haven't seen you for sometime", claim that you were in "stealth mode" or hug him/her and say "it's all over between us".

26. Wear a bow tie with your T-Shirt. (Is that too gay?)

27. Walk around with a blunt sword.

Raju Be Happy

Nana Pillai’s only son Raju was studying in the United States, at Franklin and Marshall. He wasn’t offered a scholarship when he had gone, but Raju had assured his dad that he was a cinch to get a full tuition grant by his sophomore year. With that hope (and a bit a pressure from his wife), Nana pumped all he could into his son’s education. Raju had left for the US as the devoted son, with eyes that said, “I’ll do you proud” as he touched his father’s feet at the airport.

Three years had passed and Raju had not even received a partial scholarship. Nana’s bank balance was depleted. Savitri, his wife, had succumbed to terminal cancer. She could have been saved, he knew it, but it would take away the very last penny they had. That would be the end of Raju’s education. Savitri wouldn’t want that, would she? Nana’s wife died happy. Her mission on earth was complete. Her little Raju was a man now!

Nana didn’t inform Raju about his mother’s death. He didn’t want to disturb his son’s happiness. He was happy, wasn’t he? After all, those initial loving, home sick letters, longing for his mother’s cooking had stopped a long time ago. They were now replaced by short and curt demands for more money, each time outlined by some excuse. Nana, however, was not one to ask questions. He duly obliged, sending words of caution and advice, but he never complained…

Times were hard. The Pillai family home had been sold. His factory was sick and he had absolutely no security. Yesterday, Nana had received another telegram from Raju. Raju always used the post. The telephone was too expensive, he said, and they had to be economical. Raju needed money and he needed it quickly.

Friday, the 26th, three days after Raju’s telegram, Nana and his dilapidated scooter were found eighty-three feet below Bandel Bridge. The police report said that Nana, blinded by an oncoming truck’s headlamps, had lost control and smashed through the guard railing. The scooter’s petrol tank had burst, charring what was left of Nana’s mutilated body. Nana’s life insurance company, after a lot of debate with Nana’s lawyers, reluctantly handed over one hundred and thirteen thousand rupees to Raju Pillai’s account.

It was a sacrifice worth the Pillai name. A sacrifice for that little Raju who used to say, “When I grow up, I’ll buy you a big car daddy.” And Nana would say, ruffling his hair, “I know son, I know.” All Nana knew as he drove his scooter off the bridge was that he could not fail Raju.
A few days later, seven thousand kilometers away, Raju Pillai died of a cocaine overdose.

The Crucifiction of Scooby Doo

Recently I had the pleasure of visiting Delhi running an errand for my father.
11:00 pm I am on the AC deluxe night bus to Delhi, with a drunk guy sitting next to me."wanna know why I'm drunk" he drawls, showering me with stray drops of alcohol that he had not swallowed and clouding the immediate vicinity with the stench of booze... "My son, he flunked his CBSE hahahahaha, so I'm going to Delhi to fuck him!" (of course the entire conversation transpired in Hindi.)
2:00 am Still on the bus, freezing cold because of the AC but I manage to fall asleep by covering myself with a towel. (now I know why Douglas Adams said never leave home without a towel.)
2:10 am Rudely awakened by some noise. I find that some dude has started an arguement with the conductor. He wanted the AC to be put off, but the conductor was arguing that the bus would have to be stopped for that and it would spoil the AC if he kept putting it on and off. the bugger got pissed off and started abusing the conductor. The conductor abused back and naturally a fight broke out. At Midway Hotel (midway between Delhi-Dehra Dun as the name implies), some of the passengers throw the conductor off the bus. The conductor agrees to acquiesce (go SAT word list!) for the rest of the trip...
5:30 am The bus drops me off at Lal Quila. i have no idea what to do...
5:45 am I reach Amit Chandra's flat (formerly Tanaya's flat) in Indravihar. i knock on the door till 6:00 am. No response.
6:00 am I fall asleep outside the flat.
7:00 am I decide it's too uncomfortable and go to college. Fall asleep under the Buddha statue in University lawns with some guys practising karate nearby and the whole world out on a morning walk looking at me as if I was a freak show (no smart comment on this please)
9:00 am Wake up...lawns are empty. I walk to Mukh East and see fancy tiled toilets and showers...take a crap and a shower...didn't have a brush...
10:00 am I meet Wilson in main corr. I smile at him.
10:10 am Out on the work I was meant to do.
11:45 am work done. Sit at Cafe Coffee Day watching music videos with Uttam Mukherjee (I Chem) and his girlfriend. eat breakfast.
12:50 pm In CP booking tickets for the journey back home. Go window shopping in CP, piss off shopkeepers.
2:30 pm In PVR Naraina (stoned) watching "The Passion Of The Christ". There were some deaf people who had come too. I didn't know then that the entire movie was in Hebrew with subtitles. In the end they distributed "Love Jesus, Love God" booklets and left. I went to watch Scooby Doo 2.
7:00 pm back in CP. got stuck in dirty Delhi rain, had a subway dinner while reading MAD. Chatted up some arbit tourist who had just visited Doon (I was carrying a Doon School bag with me.)
9:00 pm on the bus back home.
10:00 pm the conductor tells me the bus is going to Nainital, not Dehra Dun. i panic. Don't worry he tells me, I'll put u in another bus.
11:00 pm I wait for the "another bus" to come in the rain at Fatehpuri.
11:30 pm bus comes. I fall asleep.
6:30 am I reach home.
I love this world....

The River

The shadow of the thick-leaved tree seemed to float on the rays of the smooth and intense light of the morning sun. It sailed past the open meadow, over the jagged rocks and finally rolled down to the River where it broke into a thousand glimmering wavelets.

The River was always mysteriously beautiful. Calm, with small ripples and undulations, yet deadly and forbidding.

No one crossed the river, for fear of the other side. The woods were dark and deep there. The sun could not penetrate through the gigantic evergreens. They say the woods hide riches. Riches, beyond our wildest dreams, but there was no path to it. The river ate the path years ago.

The River. One now said that name with a God-like reverence. It had no name. It never required one. God doesn't need one. The water was sweet and had a flavour that could tantalize even the most morose of men. Its cleanliness rivaled by nothing in this world. Its power, its might, raised its ego. It was not the sustenance of life. It was life.

The river and its two banks have existed for eternity, its diversions caused by human intervention. It still marks the light and darkness. A few foolish, greedy yet courageous men ventured to step into these waters to cross over. They succeeded, but no one knows if they found gold, for they never returned.

This balance will always remain.
There is life and there is death.
There are things understood and things left misunderstood.
And in between them all runs the River.
This is how creation works.
This is how God works.

Bart Simpson's Lessons

A burp is not an answer.
All work and no play makes Bart a dull boy.
Bart Bucks are not legal tender.
Coffee is not for kids.
Five days is not too long to wait for a gun.
Funny noises are not funny.
Garlic gum is not funny.
Goldfish don't bounce.
High explosives and school don't mix.
I am not a 32 year old woman.
I am not a dentist.
I am not authorized to fire substitute teachers.
I am not deliciously saucy.
I did not see Elvis.
I do not have diplomatic immunity.
I saw nothing unusual in the teacher's lounge.
I will finish what I sta
I will never win an emmy.
I will not aim for the head.
I will not barf unless I'm sick.
I will not belch the National Anthem.
I will not bribe Principal Skinner.
I will not bring sheep to class.
I will not burp in class.
I will not bury the new kid.
I will not call my teacher Hot Cakes.
I will not call the principal Spud Head.
I will not carve gods.
I will not celebrate meaningless milestones.
I will not charge admission to the bathroom.
I will not conduct my own fire drills.
I will not cut corners.
I will not defame New Orleans.
I will not do anything bad ever again.
I will not do that thing with my tongue.
I will not draw naked ladies in class.
I will not drive the principal's car.
I will not eat things for money.
I will not encourage others to fly.
I will not expose the ignorance of the faculty.
I will not fake my way through life.
I will not fake seizures.
I will not get very far with this attitude.
I will not go near the kindergarten turtle.
I will not grease the monkey bars.
I will not hide behind the Fifth Amendment.
I will not instigate revolution.
I will not pledge allegiance to Bart.
I will not prescribe medication.
I will not re-transmit without the express permission of Major League Baseball.
I will not say Springfield just to get applause.
I will not sell land in Florida.
I will not sell miracle cures.
I will not sell school property.
I will not show off.
I will not skateboard in the halls.
I will not sleep through my education.
I will not snap bras.
I will not spank others.
I will not squeak chalk.
I will not teach others to fly.
I will not torment the emotionally frail.
I will not trade pants with others.
I will not waste chalk.
I will not Xerox my butt.
I will not yell Fire in a crowded classroom.
I will not yell She's Dead at roll call.
I will return the seeing-eye dog.
It's potato, not potatoe.
Mud is not one of the 4 food groups.
My homework was not stolen by a one-armed man.
My name is not Dr. Death.
No one is interested in my underpants.
Nobody likes sunburn slappers.
Organ transplants are best left to professionals.
Spitwads are not free speech.
Tar is not a plaything.
Teacher is not a leper.
The cafeteria deep fryer is not a toy.
The Christmas Pageant does not stink.
The Pledge of Allegiance does not end with Hail Satan.
The principal's toupee is not a Frisbee.
There are plenty of businesses like show business.
They are laughing at me, not with me.
This punishment is not boring and pointless. Underwear should be worn on the inside.

Three Bad Poems

Stephanian Winter
In the concrete Serengeti, the meeting season had begun.
The day was marked by raucous calls of prospective meets.
They fell on deaf years.
At night, little Timmy relieved himself by the lamppost
And sniffed a stray burning Navy Cut butt.
He had to be fast, the dew would extinguish it soon.
The Ritz at one end of town, bustled.
There were no seats left – you had to book yours.
The Oberoi had lost a lot of business lately.
Ski-masked terrorists lurked in dark corners.
The cold had taken a toll on them.
Their heaters blew the fuses. Darkness. Time to strike.
Lazy men sat in wasted old-age homes
Drinking vodka without caviar.
That was the thrill of it…
Jokers in dark suits, boots and ties were laughed at.
The jokers laughed when the act was over.
They stopped laughing when they had to pay the taxi bill.
A white Esteem rolled out of the gate at night.
The crowd screamed in delight:
Elvis had left the building!



Rickshaws in Europe
Rickshaws in Europe
Is that too much to ask for?
Their frail axle is susceptible
In the moon surface of Kamla Nagar:
You bounce, jump and jiggle in your seat.
Suspension, non-existent…
The roads of Europe are smooth and clean –
Smooth as a Basu’s head.
You don’t need a fishbone suspension
Rickshaws are perfect for Europe.


Sad Boredom
Sitting alone in a stupid stall selling ‘study abroad’ advice
When there’s hot music to chill to on the dance floor.
Sitting alone in a room sulking and hearing
Heavy rock emanating through your window.
Sitting alone in a rave party stone cold sober
Watching others dance to the DJ’s bad Punjabi music.
Feeling guilty to have fun because you’re worried about the future.
It’s sad…

Are These Actually True?

Shortest Essay:
An English university creative writing class was asked to write a concise essay containing the following elements:
1) Religion 2) Royalty 3) Sex 4) Mystery
The prize-winner wrote:
"My God," said the queen, "I'm pregnant. I wonder who did it?"

Another one says that a class was asked to write a two thousand word essay on "Courage" and the prize-winner handed in a blank sheet with only one line on it:
"This is courage"...

Of Love And Scooters In The Ditch

One summer holiday I had stayed back in Dehra Dun to study. It was my last year in school and I didn’t want to waste it by going home and loaf around all day. My father arranged for a house in an obscure place called Indira Nagar. He knew that in a colony for retired people I wouldn’t find any items of distraction. Unfortunately in his quest for peace and serenity, my father had set me up 14km away from the main town!
My tuition timings were fixed; right from 6.20 a.m. in the morning till twelve noon. Each morning I caught a Vikram and took a three rupee and thirty-minute roller coaster ride, downtown. First up was Physics, followed by Math, English and finally Chemistry. Between math and physics I always kept an hour and a half free for breakfast, which I usually had at Barista. I became quite friendly with the staff there and by the end of my holidays I knew all their wives’ birthdays!
Carrying my doggy bag of a ‘Brrrista’ and a grilled sandwich, I usually parked myself in the cyber café next door. Each day I would type ‘mighty_180’ on Yahoo! Chat and expect to find a virtual ladylove, like those thousands of hopefuls who place their ads with Yahoo! Personals and expect their true love to be delivered to their doorstep on Saturday night.
However, I did meet quite a few interesting people. For instance there was this Austrian who shared similar literary tastes and an American teenager who believed Fred Durst is Jesus reincarnated. Love, however, was something that escaped me.
Before I could get bored of the devotional songs playing on the café stereo, I had to take a walk down Rajpur Road, survive the traffic of Suicide Alley and arrive at my math tutor’s doorstep. I always found Rahul “Bhappa” Singh and Anshul Wasu (couple of my school mates) hanging around his house, waiting for his previous batch to finish. They would come early to watch the chicks come out and drive away in their scooters.
We usually sat under the fiber glass shade of a video library, discussing Doscos and Welhamites (who said girls were the only ones who gossip), licking an occasional ice-cream and trying to puncture scooter tyres (So we could act chivalrous and help the girls change wheels, but that plan never worked out!).
Math tuition usually passed by in a breeze. We either discussed whether Devdas was a loser or Haseena Maan Jayegi was a better movie than Analyze This! By the time we actually opened our registers it was already time to leave.
Bhappa had an ancient crackpot contraption which only passed as a scooter because a dilapidated ‘TVS-Scooty’ sticker was pasted on one side. He lovingly called it Dhobal, after a classmate, because according to him they both ran on jugaad. We would ride down together to English tuition from Math and thus Dhobal became an intricate part of my daily life. The adventures of Dhobal are another story itself which I shan’t delve into.
Without fail, Bhappa, Dhobal and I were always ten minutes late for English. Not that it really mattered for the class always started fifteen minutes into time. Ganging outside the classroom we would spend time breaking litchis and bitching. To make matters more interesting there were a bevy of pretty girls in our batch and one fatally smote poor Bhappa. A real cutie who went by the name Piya. Bhappa was always falling in and out of love; he could never hold a relationship for more than a week – that was his record.
For the next few days Bhappa followed her scooter (hell, everyone had a scooter, except me!) in a feeble attempt to find out where she lived. However, when all the jugaad failed, Bhappa decided to adopt the good old fashioned lover boy style. The next day he came along with a single stem of a red rose wrapped in an aluminium foil like a tandoori chicken leg. The rest of us guys obviously couldn’t help but burst out laughing, and were then as useful as a toothpick in the Amazons. I couldn't stand all this juvenile mushy, mushy crap so I promptly fled the scene and walked all the way to the Vikram stand without waiting for anyone to give me a ride. I don't know what happened that day, but I guess it turned out quite well since the next day Bhappa and Piya stuck together like the 12th and 13th page of a book.
There were the evenings at Barista, the romantic walks, hand in hand, through Paltan Bazaar, gifts of expensive perfumes stolen from mummy's closet, chocolates and the like. Then it all fell apart.
It was a Wednesday. As I walked into the path leading to my math teacher's house, I saw a bent and forlorn Bhappa throwing pebbles at a bewildered dog. The end of another relationship, his longest yet – a whole fifteen days! Damn, the guy was getting better.
That day Math and English passed unceremoniously. I didn't bother to ask Bhappa what was wrong and surprisingly he didn’t say a word either. As soon as English class was over Bhappa stormed out and stood under the litchi tree with his hands on his hips. Soon another chap called Thoothoo came and joined him in the shade. The rest of us quietly slinked away. Something big was up and we decided to watch from a safe distance. Then Piya came and stood beside Thoothoo. A three way face off. It reminded me of some lines from the merchant of Venice…
A heated argument followed, but I was least interested. I would rather watch my dog fall asleep. But from what I could gather, it was a love triangle feud. Apparently Piya had been two-timing both Bhappa and Thoothoo. I don’t blame her. After all, who wouldn’t want to mufti twice at Barista in one day? I mean, c’mon she’s only human. Hell! If I was getting two free meals a day, even I would have done the same. Unfortunately Bhappa and Thoothoo didn’t quite grasp this simple logic. They spoke about truth and commitment and all that other horse manure you usually hear women say in TV soaps. Then they asked her to choose. Well let’s see, Thoothoo had a sexy new Hyundai and owned most of Rishikesh and Bhappa had… Dhobal.
Poor Bhappa in his grief stricken stupor could only murmur, “…well in that case, remember the perfume I had given you, could I have that back?”
I was really bored by now and my stomach was beginning to growl. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and I wanted to go home and have a nice lunch. Unfortunately, my ride was stuck up in a seemingly stupid argument. What was more pissing off was that they had been at it for an hour and still showed no signs of letting up!
I quickly checked my wallet and figured that I didn’t have enough money to buy a ride to the Vikram stand. Then my guardian angel came in the shape of Sakhlani.
“I don’t think they’ll manage to sort this out before nightfall, man, come, I’ll drop you off at the stand.” With a wry smile I jumped onto his scooter and thanked god for letting me out of this mess. As Sakhlani revved the engine I looked back and saw Piya bored to the teeth. I knew exactly what was going through her mind… “Guys could we sort this out at Barista, please?”
I smiled at the thought and turned my head. I felt the sweet summer breeze on my lips as the scooter raced down EC Road. We were doing seventy. I didn’t want the ride to end. I just felt like singing, so I started singing “Sun is shining”. Suddenly Sakhlani turned around and gave me a dirty look. I guess he didn’t like my singing. Well, hey, not everyone’s Elvis!
“Dude, girls are pure poison, bloody hundred percent cyanide, man. Arre, Bhappa and Thoothoo were such great pals and now look what the weaker sex has done to them!”
Sakhlani was sore about the incident. I nodded my head in agreement. He took it is as encouragement.
“Bloody hell yaar, I’ve seen it in every Hindi movie. It’s always the girls who breaks up friendships and get brothers separated. What the hell yaar, I mean…”
It was too late when we saw it coming. In all his excitement Sakhlani had forgotten the road and missed the white Gypsy heading right at us. In my absolute state of shock all I could do was poke Sakhlani in his ribs. Sakhlani turned around after he saw my white face and what followed was a scene The Matrix fans would have paid to see. Sakhlani braked hard and skid the scooter to one side. We hit the road at fifty and slid down, the rough asphalt cutting into our jeans causing internal injuries which would trouble me for the next couple of weeks. We were headed right for the ditch and before we knew what had happened, we were waist deep in the dirtiest and murkiest Dehra Dun water. Sakhlani looked at me and shrugged.
I finally got to the Vikram stand; wet and stinking. Seeing my condition several Vikrams simply refused to take me! Somehow I reached home – hungry, but smarter than I had started. I had learnt a lesson: having anything to do with love is a dangerous proposition. But don’t let that take your mind off Dehra Dun roads, lest you end up in a ditch.

Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?

Teacher: To get to the other side.

Plato: For the greater good.

Aristotle: It is the nature of chickens to cross roads.

Karl Marx: It was a historical inevitability.

Saddam Hussein: This was an unprovoked act of rebellion and we were justified in dropping 50 tons of nerve gas on it.

Martin Luther King, Jr.: I envision a world where all chickens will be free to cross roads without having their motives being called into question.

Richard M. Nixon: The chicken did not cross the road. I repeat, the chicken did NOT cross the road.

Freud: The fact that you are at all concerned that the chicken crossed the road, shows your underlying sexual insecurity.

Bill Gates: I have just released the new Chicken Office 2000, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, balance your cheque-book and eat your neighbours.

Oliver Stone: The question is not, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” Rather, it is, “Who was crossing the road at the same time, whom we overlooked in our haste to observe the chickens crossing?”

Charles Darwin: Chickens, over great periods of time, have been naturally selected in such a way that they are now genetically disposed to cross roads.

Albert Einstein: Whether the chicken crossed the road or the road moved beneath the chicken depends upon your frame of reference.

Buddha: Asking this question denies your own chicken nature.

Ernest Hemmingway: To die, in the rain.