Here I am writing part 2. It feels emotionally rich and so versatile to have a story to tell that takes more than one part to express. I feel a little like George Lucas, honest. But unfortunately this story does not take place in a galaxy far far away, though there were times where I did talk like Yoda.
Stumbling home on Thursday, the next morning did not promise rays of sunlight and exuberance. Trundling in was a hangover. The hangover was what I compared to as a pesky urchin, constantly craving attention and little change action. While I smoked my fifth cigarette I decided, this celebration will be highly subdued. I could feel the distinct flavour of screwdrivers creeping into my throat. The clock starts six hours and twenty minutes till my next drink.
Oh sweet mother of god, there is the attractive girl from last night, lower the cap, she must not see. A man is not hungover! She looks hungover.
Does this very chauvinist world allow for women to be hungover? The entire concept of chauvinism emerged—and I believe—from a few who respected the women and stormed forward to protect them from all those who wished harm. Animals, maybe another tribe salivating at the robust waist line. Yes, robust.
After a war of words, grunts and clubs, the man walks back, his jaws set almost in stone, soaking in sweat at the peak of his masculinity, showing off his rippling muscles to the other women, hormone raging amongst other things. He decides to look around, who amongst them challenge him?
The women ran forward, in excitement, “my hero” did they scream? One very carefully lifted the leaf. She chose him.
Women empowerment!
Thus followed the agenda of protection and rewards. Somewhere along the way, the rewards were taken for granted. The barter was lost. Alcohol was introduced! Fighting was reduced to slurred words and shaky feet. The strong jaws faded into loose hanging jowls, the stone hard abs were replaced by a pot bellied. Flatus rotund stomachs. The men were lost, who is to blame? Alcohol!
Oh sweet alcohol I mean no harm to you, after all bottled orange juice was meant for Vodka. Did some one not say that?
While heading to the scene of where an important event unfolded, I was driven in a soon to be a socialist country’s prime enterprise. The conversation veered from public policy to price of petrol. A lot of small talk—hot air. (Flatus again!)
People very adamantly spoke about various aspects of life before I was very rudely shoved in. Insider information. Lowest attrition rate was the tall claim. In this process that has lasted over a year and was dangerously topped with uncertainty, the claim would be impressive if true. But the worst information that could ever be gotten of was the very painfully obvious christening of a brand which was to be piped in no other way but one. Oh stop it. Now, you rub it in.
Amongst probably the longest thank you speech, very politically correct and five screwdrivers some one joined me on the chair next to mine. I have since maintained a board- stay away. And it has certainly worked. But not on this one. She reminded me of a past which had to be forgotten in a hurry. Looking around, my companion from last night was resembling in her polka dotted shirt of some one I left far behind. Too much booze, I told myself. Leave. Let the women bicker. Let the men drink. Let the others smoke. Smoke?
Temptation and I yielded.
Adam and Eve when stood in the Garden of Eden, debating the delicious fruit, the tree was called the tree of knowledge and evil. Would you allow evil to walk in if there was knowledge? What defines knowledge? If there was knowledge of a life of hardship and victories, does it not mean the choice was consensual? The apple was never ground and mixed in their drink. No one distracts, no one can ever evangelize either. Screw you spiritual healing!
The windows of the trains seemed to be turning smaller. How did I get in the train? Did I have a ticket? Yes. The letters danced, the music spoke about blue grass.
What was that again? Was I talking to the phone or on the phone? I heard a familiar voice. I was confused. Did I hear the sea? Rushing sound of the waves on the rocks. The spray, the foam, who was I talking to now? The stations floated in and out. I like fast trains. There were those eerie visions of the past. Why do those faces still haunt me?
Is it really her? Should I call out? What is the etiquette? You still alive? She is on a boat standing upside down. Ha ha, the fool.
Oh these torrential tears. Years since we met. Nice to see you,finally.
Drive me home.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
I know what you did last weekend. Told in two, maybe three parts. Better than the movies, not as funny as others. A self deprecatory tale of excess
This is simple. It’s either something I want to remember or something I want to forget. In a few ways this weekend was oddly liberating. To dwell into the untold would be revealing secrets. Would it be not?
Thursday was not all the way through. I had left home, dreading, not considering what lay ahead. I almost turned back, to step into a something unknown, not very friendly, nervous and anxious. I wandered along the harbour, staring at the trains. It’s amazing how irony just jumps out when you least expect it. When you entertain confusion over ambitions or mentally debate a path of the right or wrong in life. It leaps out, knocks you in the head. Peals of laughter or cries of anguish, it is what a professor of mine would call, in her very nasal twang- “ It is an either or situation, no and. It is that easy.”
“No it is not,” I always wished I could say. But I was either trying to ward off sleep or staring at this particular girl’s pretty neck, and visualized- my hand on the slopes of her shoulders. Gently turning her towards me, eyes moist, looking at me enquiringly accompanied by that lingering flashy smile, the lips so inviting…
Snapping out.
King’s circle.
Visions of a decorated, sworn-to-be-protected-by-generations-of-strong-muscular-guards, diamond encrusted sphere made of a mysterious metal, in the depths of which lie the secret of human life, the mission and how to avoid throwing up even after drinking 10 bloody Mary’s and not making a complete ass of yourself in public by peeing in what you think is an isolated corner of the railway station. King’s circle, however contained almost no visions of grandeur, finding grandeur would be as difficult as talking to a socialist in a fiercely capitalist organizations, let us say a magazine with international repute. Hypothetically.
The train hooted on a bridge, looking down at King’s Circle.
A few scattered stalls, selling fish, spices, vegetables and a very well concealed stall, covered by white sheets on almost all sides. The stall had a dealer and what I suspected also the house, he dealt cards and a lonely roulette wheel.
White and Black spinning in its devilish recesses was a dark red ball.
Three men stood opposite the wheel, nursing a glass full of what I would assume a local brew. I suspect some Ether would be an integral part of the process. A burly man stood guard.
The location of the tent was either brand new or the dealer/house was not too bright. The guard warded off all the vagabonds in the markets, but no one considered looking up to analyze. Not the heavens, there was some one else watching and not the flying angles of Zeus, with wings so strong that they melt in the heat. Wrong story? Different conversation?
The train stopped right above this very portable Casino. King’s Circle’s very own Las Vegas. Sin and pleasure took a front seat. Morals and intelligence obviously were too drunk on the back seat.
They spun the wheel, I screamed 13! The men looked up and scrambled to run, but the train left as well.
I tumbled to my destination. A luxurious inn, still recovering from the scars of yesterday.
Often before I reach to what I have to say, is when I run out of breath or lose touch something which also happened this particular day, while I tried to balance myself on a chair after a few too many bloody marys and wines. I even tried to have this conversation with a reasonably attractive woman. I do not remember why I said what I said or even what I said. I remember making the poor female uncomfortable talking to completely drunk man. The evening ended with me trying to charge my phone with my laptop’s battery, not before telling a friend about a certain act of lust I had indulged in a few months ago.
Drunken dialing should be outlawed.
Thursday was not all the way through. I had left home, dreading, not considering what lay ahead. I almost turned back, to step into a something unknown, not very friendly, nervous and anxious. I wandered along the harbour, staring at the trains. It’s amazing how irony just jumps out when you least expect it. When you entertain confusion over ambitions or mentally debate a path of the right or wrong in life. It leaps out, knocks you in the head. Peals of laughter or cries of anguish, it is what a professor of mine would call, in her very nasal twang- “ It is an either or situation, no and. It is that easy.”
“No it is not,” I always wished I could say. But I was either trying to ward off sleep or staring at this particular girl’s pretty neck, and visualized- my hand on the slopes of her shoulders. Gently turning her towards me, eyes moist, looking at me enquiringly accompanied by that lingering flashy smile, the lips so inviting…
Snapping out.
King’s circle.
Visions of a decorated, sworn-to-be-protected-by-generations-of-strong-muscular-guards, diamond encrusted sphere made of a mysterious metal, in the depths of which lie the secret of human life, the mission and how to avoid throwing up even after drinking 10 bloody Mary’s and not making a complete ass of yourself in public by peeing in what you think is an isolated corner of the railway station. King’s circle, however contained almost no visions of grandeur, finding grandeur would be as difficult as talking to a socialist in a fiercely capitalist organizations, let us say a magazine with international repute. Hypothetically.
The train hooted on a bridge, looking down at King’s Circle.
A few scattered stalls, selling fish, spices, vegetables and a very well concealed stall, covered by white sheets on almost all sides. The stall had a dealer and what I suspected also the house, he dealt cards and a lonely roulette wheel.
White and Black spinning in its devilish recesses was a dark red ball.
Three men stood opposite the wheel, nursing a glass full of what I would assume a local brew. I suspect some Ether would be an integral part of the process. A burly man stood guard.
The location of the tent was either brand new or the dealer/house was not too bright. The guard warded off all the vagabonds in the markets, but no one considered looking up to analyze. Not the heavens, there was some one else watching and not the flying angles of Zeus, with wings so strong that they melt in the heat. Wrong story? Different conversation?
The train stopped right above this very portable Casino. King’s Circle’s very own Las Vegas. Sin and pleasure took a front seat. Morals and intelligence obviously were too drunk on the back seat.
They spun the wheel, I screamed 13! The men looked up and scrambled to run, but the train left as well.
I tumbled to my destination. A luxurious inn, still recovering from the scars of yesterday.
Often before I reach to what I have to say, is when I run out of breath or lose touch something which also happened this particular day, while I tried to balance myself on a chair after a few too many bloody marys and wines. I even tried to have this conversation with a reasonably attractive woman. I do not remember why I said what I said or even what I said. I remember making the poor female uncomfortable talking to completely drunk man. The evening ended with me trying to charge my phone with my laptop’s battery, not before telling a friend about a certain act of lust I had indulged in a few months ago.
Drunken dialing should be outlawed.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
It's nice to be back home
It has been funny. I have oft tried (in vain, I might add) to salvage a little pride in me from all the faux passes I very unknowingly indulge in. This insignificant situation almost forced me to leap frog from the train to any piece of solid ground (while carefully avoiding what a friend describes as shit cookies) in absolute agony.
First to present a case with all the relevant background.
Traveling in the second class in one of Mumbai’s most popular trains, during the rush hour is no mean feat. An armpit pushed into your face. Farts. Grinding. If you are lucky, it might be one of the fishing days, when a woman laden with smells (that will cause the olfactory glands to squeal in protest ) will push a saree right in your face. But its funny how that simple shove starts an entertaining conversation which lasts through many words hurled at the men around in Marathi, which would be best kept out of conversation.
She will smile with pride. The hard working community of fishermen. I even encouraged one of these very beautiful people in conversation. The dark eyes looked at me with mistrust.
In a society so erroneously dominated by perverted men, the trust levels usually stay in deep red.
Though her name should be kept secret, she belonged to a family of fishermen, fishing tirelessly, extracting those slimy “macchis” from the sea. A task which woke her up at 4. While her husband fished, she cleaned the house and headed out into the market on her man’s return to sell those very noxious fishes in the market. Those fishes were never my friends. On a plate served with some spices, we then have a different chemistry.
Well Mrs. Fisherwoman here, was heading home to tend to her children. Even though it was not too late in the day. But by fishermen standards, afternoon was upon us. I was on the other hand still fantasizing over a few more minutes of sleep and a thankless job. A melodic death metal band screamed into my ear. The lyrics usually sound a little more immature in the morning. A man, who kills mermaids, is called Mermaider. The elegant mystical sirens would have drowned laughing, but considering they can breathe under water, the entire situation would have been redundant. I drift from my topic.
It was 9.30 am.
One of her children, a girl, named after a very popular yesteryear Indian stunner, who could well have been a very tempting mermaid before she drank her self to death, was heading to school. First day. Mrs Fisherwoman was sending her kid to one of the better ones, she claims. I, however, not an expert on schools, could only nod and smile. The language barrier usually caused the conversations to veer off the track. But madam was doing what mothers have to do on the first day. Take the kids to school, kicking, screaming and tears streaming down their delicate faces, not prepared to let go of the hand which taught them to walk.
After a few minutes of her talking about her precious daughter did I realize how little we find time to look around even during the rush hour, a little peek out of the armpit you are forced to smell would probably even convince him to buy a deodorant. After the waves at Bandra, the embarrassment very painfully surfaced. The mob stared at me as a leper, some even gave me quizzical stares. I was at that point the man who speaks to women without lunging at her chest or gripping her ass. I must be super human or maybe even a prophet, devoid of such emotions.
A man however, nudged me with his elbow and asked me a very simple question.
“Will you talk to my wife? I will pay you.”
Speechless, I stared back. My throat dried up. I have been propositioned a few times before. I usually shake my head and with a nervous laugh often evade these positions by walking away hastily. There was no escape. He stared. I stared back. He even started counting numbers, describing his wife in very colourful terms. It felt like hours before the wheels gently started moving and I shook my head. I looked around for help. Stony stares described me as now an escort. From a prophet to an escort, in a few seconds, the fall from grace was not unnoticed. Then is when his arm snaked around and well… I got groped and then I screamed. I pushed this middle aged man away and got off a station earlier than my expected stop. I got into the next hurtling mob carrier. This crowd was ignorant of my heroic adventures. It felt easier being ignored. I am home again.
First to present a case with all the relevant background.
Traveling in the second class in one of Mumbai’s most popular trains, during the rush hour is no mean feat. An armpit pushed into your face. Farts. Grinding. If you are lucky, it might be one of the fishing days, when a woman laden with smells (that will cause the olfactory glands to squeal in protest ) will push a saree right in your face. But its funny how that simple shove starts an entertaining conversation which lasts through many words hurled at the men around in Marathi, which would be best kept out of conversation.
She will smile with pride. The hard working community of fishermen. I even encouraged one of these very beautiful people in conversation. The dark eyes looked at me with mistrust.
In a society so erroneously dominated by perverted men, the trust levels usually stay in deep red.
Though her name should be kept secret, she belonged to a family of fishermen, fishing tirelessly, extracting those slimy “macchis” from the sea. A task which woke her up at 4. While her husband fished, she cleaned the house and headed out into the market on her man’s return to sell those very noxious fishes in the market. Those fishes were never my friends. On a plate served with some spices, we then have a different chemistry.
Well Mrs. Fisherwoman here, was heading home to tend to her children. Even though it was not too late in the day. But by fishermen standards, afternoon was upon us. I was on the other hand still fantasizing over a few more minutes of sleep and a thankless job. A melodic death metal band screamed into my ear. The lyrics usually sound a little more immature in the morning. A man, who kills mermaids, is called Mermaider. The elegant mystical sirens would have drowned laughing, but considering they can breathe under water, the entire situation would have been redundant. I drift from my topic.
It was 9.30 am.
One of her children, a girl, named after a very popular yesteryear Indian stunner, who could well have been a very tempting mermaid before she drank her self to death, was heading to school. First day. Mrs Fisherwoman was sending her kid to one of the better ones, she claims. I, however, not an expert on schools, could only nod and smile. The language barrier usually caused the conversations to veer off the track. But madam was doing what mothers have to do on the first day. Take the kids to school, kicking, screaming and tears streaming down their delicate faces, not prepared to let go of the hand which taught them to walk.
After a few minutes of her talking about her precious daughter did I realize how little we find time to look around even during the rush hour, a little peek out of the armpit you are forced to smell would probably even convince him to buy a deodorant. After the waves at Bandra, the embarrassment very painfully surfaced. The mob stared at me as a leper, some even gave me quizzical stares. I was at that point the man who speaks to women without lunging at her chest or gripping her ass. I must be super human or maybe even a prophet, devoid of such emotions.
A man however, nudged me with his elbow and asked me a very simple question.
“Will you talk to my wife? I will pay you.”
Speechless, I stared back. My throat dried up. I have been propositioned a few times before. I usually shake my head and with a nervous laugh often evade these positions by walking away hastily. There was no escape. He stared. I stared back. He even started counting numbers, describing his wife in very colourful terms. It felt like hours before the wheels gently started moving and I shook my head. I looked around for help. Stony stares described me as now an escort. From a prophet to an escort, in a few seconds, the fall from grace was not unnoticed. Then is when his arm snaked around and well… I got groped and then I screamed. I pushed this middle aged man away and got off a station earlier than my expected stop. I got into the next hurtling mob carrier. This crowd was ignorant of my heroic adventures. It felt easier being ignored. I am home again.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Can we smoke here? I promise to be discreet.
Oh how I imagined this week. A fateful sigh left my lips when I first walked in, dreading, intimidated, excited and alone. It was perfect. Almost. A week past and I was anticipating spending these hours trying to sleep off a mammoth amount of beer and screaming over football or maybe even cricket. I had expected it to be a very satisfying end to a very fruitful week. Can we play another hand please? Maybe this time I win it all. Smile contently.
Wishful thinking. A week spent injecting into blood that there are a few unpaid bills which will remain due for a few more months or even years before I can lay my dirty, bloody and soiled hands on the creative satisfaction which is desperately craved. An imagination in vivid colours, brush strokes of excellence, carefully brought out contrasts of images being conceived on a black background along with some anticipation. What was I talking about? Hope? A dream about a roving eye on paid sportsmen and their activities on the field or was it the unpaid politicians and their antics off the field languishing on my other arm while words passed under my fingers or am I looking at it from the wrong end of the bottle?
The city is out of synch. Vibrating on a different frequency, I have desperately strived to achieve the resonance which I felt with this land of heritage when I last bade a teary goodbye. A new being, the traveler, has surfaced. A manic and fanatic emotion to start a run. To look, to wander. But I wonder how a faint hope of that glimmer which I anticipate time and time again will present itself to me, to banish all the clouds (An umbrella?) will steer a very heavy ship to port.
Did I read that somewhere? Is it possible to lose intelligence progressively in a few hours? It feels like a steady process of mental degradation. Oh fiction, why do you desert me so? Unknown reader any bet when it all snaps?
Wishful thinking. A week spent injecting into blood that there are a few unpaid bills which will remain due for a few more months or even years before I can lay my dirty, bloody and soiled hands on the creative satisfaction which is desperately craved. An imagination in vivid colours, brush strokes of excellence, carefully brought out contrasts of images being conceived on a black background along with some anticipation. What was I talking about? Hope? A dream about a roving eye on paid sportsmen and their activities on the field or was it the unpaid politicians and their antics off the field languishing on my other arm while words passed under my fingers or am I looking at it from the wrong end of the bottle?
The city is out of synch. Vibrating on a different frequency, I have desperately strived to achieve the resonance which I felt with this land of heritage when I last bade a teary goodbye. A new being, the traveler, has surfaced. A manic and fanatic emotion to start a run. To look, to wander. But I wonder how a faint hope of that glimmer which I anticipate time and time again will present itself to me, to banish all the clouds (An umbrella?) will steer a very heavy ship to port.
Did I read that somewhere? Is it possible to lose intelligence progressively in a few hours? It feels like a steady process of mental degradation. Oh fiction, why do you desert me so? Unknown reader any bet when it all snaps?
Thursday, February 12, 2009
An Attempt, a little effort and lots of smoke
It has truly been long. How have you been? A certain silence on the other end would echo thoughts that have been sounding loud- a little too loud. The volume, turn it down?
After vain attempts to revitalize a fallen soldier, fought, lost and defeated, a strong desire to create a civilization has once again seen new light. An inane and stoic fancy to destroy. Can I be God for one day? Life has been a brisk breeze and to stumble upon various incidents, which the woman who calls herself destiny has shoveled so faithfully. Destiny such a pretty name, but a figment of imagination, a needless supplement to a defenseless mind.
The connection with the past falls rapidly and quickly but a free fall never lasts. Oh the free fall, the sense of liberation, the illusion of flight. You can try to fly, tell me when you do. No, Serious. It has now become a challenge to write beyond the obvious, another attempt to don the visage. You see the creases? Do you? It looks real doesn’t it? The adorning jewels of fancy, the sparkling, sensitive and sexy wounds of mistakes, another vice added. Are you counting?
The other end still echoes. Volume… turn it up this time. Silence was never my forte.
After vain attempts to revitalize a fallen soldier, fought, lost and defeated, a strong desire to create a civilization has once again seen new light. An inane and stoic fancy to destroy. Can I be God for one day? Life has been a brisk breeze and to stumble upon various incidents, which the woman who calls herself destiny has shoveled so faithfully. Destiny such a pretty name, but a figment of imagination, a needless supplement to a defenseless mind.
The connection with the past falls rapidly and quickly but a free fall never lasts. Oh the free fall, the sense of liberation, the illusion of flight. You can try to fly, tell me when you do. No, Serious. It has now become a challenge to write beyond the obvious, another attempt to don the visage. You see the creases? Do you? It looks real doesn’t it? The adorning jewels of fancy, the sparkling, sensitive and sexy wounds of mistakes, another vice added. Are you counting?
The other end still echoes. Volume… turn it up this time. Silence was never my forte.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Idle musings of a distracted intellect
The time to care and give has finally befallen the mortals of this earth. Apparently Christmas is here, with Santa Claus and his minions chasing the millions into shopping marts and discount stores.
“Buy a kettle for your grand mother sir, it will do her good, when you forget her the next day, it will make her hot tea to push into another day”
The question arises if these things actually matter to anyone? I have often put my self through absolute agony in my quest of considering an answer to this question. A ridiculous procession of events forced down our throats by burger eating, beer guzzling obese oil freaks just to celebrate the birth of a very popular prophet- I forget his name.
In a very obtuse attempt to make myself considered and not discluded in a group indulging in absolute nothingness, has forced me to sway from my usual uncommitted self to start participating in a rather unrewarding custom of spending on utter mindless and useless gifts that will only be discarded the following morning. The only respite would be the rewarding and selfless gifts I have received, a few smokes and a pack of biscuits, which I am reasonably sure will be consumed by the rather uncaring pack of wolves in the room. (Living with four uncommitted-distracted people, who are searching for a fix- female company, a smoke, a fuck and attention- oh these fools!!)
A little bout of introspection hits (oh no, these times to think are utter moronic endeavors), I might even fall into the category of people following customs and attention seeking lost soul, searching for a pack to belong to. Allowing myself to believe that I am in the wrong part of town, and my pack, is waiting, knowing very well that I might belong only in a world of imagination and fantasies (which are a product of an imagination of another man, old and withering belong to another generation.)
Incessant invitations to throw myself into a path of mindless clicking and fiddling with the keyboards, where the language however critical I must be of it, I shall throw myself- a little distraction goes a long way!
“Buy a kettle for your grand mother sir, it will do her good, when you forget her the next day, it will make her hot tea to push into another day”
The question arises if these things actually matter to anyone? I have often put my self through absolute agony in my quest of considering an answer to this question. A ridiculous procession of events forced down our throats by burger eating, beer guzzling obese oil freaks just to celebrate the birth of a very popular prophet- I forget his name.
In a very obtuse attempt to make myself considered and not discluded in a group indulging in absolute nothingness, has forced me to sway from my usual uncommitted self to start participating in a rather unrewarding custom of spending on utter mindless and useless gifts that will only be discarded the following morning. The only respite would be the rewarding and selfless gifts I have received, a few smokes and a pack of biscuits, which I am reasonably sure will be consumed by the rather uncaring pack of wolves in the room. (Living with four uncommitted-distracted people, who are searching for a fix- female company, a smoke, a fuck and attention- oh these fools!!)
A little bout of introspection hits (oh no, these times to think are utter moronic endeavors), I might even fall into the category of people following customs and attention seeking lost soul, searching for a pack to belong to. Allowing myself to believe that I am in the wrong part of town, and my pack, is waiting, knowing very well that I might belong only in a world of imagination and fantasies (which are a product of an imagination of another man, old and withering belong to another generation.)
Incessant invitations to throw myself into a path of mindless clicking and fiddling with the keyboards, where the language however critical I must be of it, I shall throw myself- a little distraction goes a long way!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Success- Certainly not by Martin Amiss
As the sunset in a distant horizon of an entirely parallel universe, something rose in my life, (my parallel life self, but for ease in the complexity, I shall call it me, it is always about me right?) yes an interesting time indeed.
Surrounded by a million people (and I mean million, no exaggeration my friend) I saw an epic mail brought forth by the Water Jackal monster (for all you illiterate to reality, it is what you might call, an internet browser, yes, we still have Internet Explorer, and it still doesn’t work, damn! I was counting on something out of the Microsoft Assembly Line to work. And yes, Bill Gates has managed to package it in a way that Windows seems to sell even here.)
The epic mail brought news of success and manic impromptu celebrations, a huge brand in Public Relations and advertising (who also dabble in News occasionally,) vaguely resembling the name of an organ- was it the heart or the liver… oh yes… It was the Bladder had sent in another request or plead for me to join them (It is difficult to remember with the flood of congratulations from all the planets, yes we have discovered mole men and packed them off to Jupiter, we couriered the Mormons to Mars and Tom Cruise was respectfully asked to leave for Pluto… Bon Voyage… If you ask me what happened to all the Boy Bands, we killed them!!)
I hurriedly made plans to organize a OH-GOD-YOU-SUCK party for all those losers who could not make the short list (how tough is it to get hired, tell me? Is it so difficult?) Just throw out a couple of thousand words on a tireless exercise, about excursions from the valleys and gorges and bang! They are on their knees, begging for me (ideally I would not allow any one to get on their knees unless they are hailing my tough stance on pre-marital sex or offering something precious or it’s a swell woman wanting to offer… something precious, and more than often it’s a neat combination of all three.)
Enough of the tongue and cheek, I realize it get tiny bit exhausting to read through my Success and this futile endeavor of mine and how it brings absolute “joy to your life” (just to quote this little woman with an over inflated ego)
Moving on from the obvious, I managed to squeeze some valuable time, hurriedly put together a few words, while the world’s sirens beckoned me back into their arms (they dig me, my guitaring skills, my swanky black car and that huge tent… in my front yard… yes I have a front yard), I decided to tread along onto another room, another life.
Surrounded by a million people (and I mean million, no exaggeration my friend) I saw an epic mail brought forth by the Water Jackal monster (for all you illiterate to reality, it is what you might call, an internet browser, yes, we still have Internet Explorer, and it still doesn’t work, damn! I was counting on something out of the Microsoft Assembly Line to work. And yes, Bill Gates has managed to package it in a way that Windows seems to sell even here.)
The epic mail brought news of success and manic impromptu celebrations, a huge brand in Public Relations and advertising (who also dabble in News occasionally,) vaguely resembling the name of an organ- was it the heart or the liver… oh yes… It was the Bladder had sent in another request or plead for me to join them (It is difficult to remember with the flood of congratulations from all the planets, yes we have discovered mole men and packed them off to Jupiter, we couriered the Mormons to Mars and Tom Cruise was respectfully asked to leave for Pluto… Bon Voyage… If you ask me what happened to all the Boy Bands, we killed them!!)
I hurriedly made plans to organize a OH-GOD-YOU-SUCK party for all those losers who could not make the short list (how tough is it to get hired, tell me? Is it so difficult?) Just throw out a couple of thousand words on a tireless exercise, about excursions from the valleys and gorges and bang! They are on their knees, begging for me (ideally I would not allow any one to get on their knees unless they are hailing my tough stance on pre-marital sex or offering something precious or it’s a swell woman wanting to offer… something precious, and more than often it’s a neat combination of all three.)
Enough of the tongue and cheek, I realize it get tiny bit exhausting to read through my Success and this futile endeavor of mine and how it brings absolute “joy to your life” (just to quote this little woman with an over inflated ego)
Moving on from the obvious, I managed to squeeze some valuable time, hurriedly put together a few words, while the world’s sirens beckoned me back into their arms (they dig me, my guitaring skills, my swanky black car and that huge tent… in my front yard… yes I have a front yard), I decided to tread along onto another room, another life.
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