Finally, after procrastinating for like 5 years, I logged on to the Wiki to find out what the hell "Sic" meant. It is apparently used to make fun of the person being quoted by informing the reader that seriously, this is what the guy said, I'm not making a typo here.
Look forward to "Sic" being used liberally on this blog henceforth.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Voldemort is a snivelling bitch who needs to go back to wizard school
I refuse to call him Lord Voldemort anymore. No, I hereby divest him of that title and confer upon him my own, "Sir Pussy-Ass Bitch". How does that sound, Sir Pussy-Ass Bitch? You like it? No? Well, get used to it 'cause that's whatcho momma gonna call you from now on.
So what in the name of death-dealing Hungarian Horntails is wrong with Voldemort, man? His career began with such promise, such pomp and pageantry. "He whose name we shall not take" was how the villagers described him in hushed whispers as they went about their business, which consisted of walking around as if they were going about their business. And great fucking jeepers, you remember how indiscriminately you shat your pants in the first Harry Potter movie as Voldemort emerged out of the gay teacher's turban in the form of a walking talking back of a head? And what happened? When push came to shove, the bastard just didn't have it in him. His face crumbled before your very eyes as he was defeated by a bespectacled geek still in his first year at wizard school. And the reason was .... love? THE Voldemort defeated by a mother's love? That is just disgusting. I hope your momma sent you to bed without dinner that day, Sir Pussy-Ass Bitch, it cannot have been one of her proudest moments. It was a bad day for evil, it sure was.
Then, in "The Chamber of Secrets", he was a slave to a fucking diary. What is with that? Harry might be a geek, but even he wasn't so into books as was his nemesis, the great Voldemort. And this time he was again vanquished by doing what? Destroying the diary, hah who could have seen that coming? The very least he could have done was take back the diary after Harry was done with it and keep it in a safe deposit box. What, do I have to spell out everything? What a sad little worm, a bookworm, even.
And then, in "The Prisoner of Azkaban", he just didn't make an appearance. Where the fuck were you, man? Licking your wounds, or hanging out in sunny Jamaica drinking shit out of a hollowed out pineapple? You should have utilized the time to polish your moves, what in the name of hell were you thinking?
But yesterday it was the final straw that opened my eyes to the collosal loser that he is. "The Goblet of Fire" saw his ultimate humiliation, it was just a sorry sight. Even when surrounded by, like, ten of his masked minions, in a graveyard located in who the fuck knows where, probably Alabama, with stone crypt-keepers and shit of that sort, even with the scary-ass slit-nosed Ralph Fiennes playing him with demonic precision, Voldemort couldn't defeat the young wizard who was, in fact, still traumatized by the loss of his good-looking classmate. I mean, what the fuck? Sure, you could say that Harry's mom and dad jumped out of their graves and helped their son escape but still, jeez louis, he's supposed to be the greatest evil wizard of all time, surely he could see it coming? After all, he knew they were buried in that graveyard, yeah? And this incompetent third-grade waste of netherworld slime is supposed to be Good Wizardry's ultimate nightmare? Well, fuck you and I hope you don't mind if I sound a bit skeptical.
In fact, you know what, Voldemort is kinda like that gangsta rapper who introduces his song about the dangers awaiting a nigga who chooses to live his life in the ghetto with the statement "Dis goes out to my niggaz on da West-Side dat was down from day one." And then, after giving out a clarion call for all his homiez to get into their sixty-fo's and congregate along with their glocks in LBC to beat the stuffing out of Nasty Old Whitey cop who's been keeping dem down from day one, begins to sing a sad old ditty of love and loneliness and weeping and a heart broken by his bitch's philandering, the ho who turned a trick by leaving him for someone with bigger, blacker man-meat. I mean, what the fuck?
So Voldemort, all I gotta say to you is you ain't all dat, pardner. If youse want to be feared, youse got to be fearsome. And right now, you're just a two-bit bitch-ass nigga who gets slammed by a punk-ass schoolkid everyday at work. You gotta go back to school, boy, you gotta brush up on some of that magic that you seem to have forgotten. But more than that, you gotta work on your confidence. 'Cause magic is all in the head. If you KNOW you can make a broom fly by clicking your heels and staring at the sky, then god dang it, it will fly and how.
And making a broom fly would be a good first step in, you know, killing a goddamn 13 year old kid with glasses.
So what in the name of death-dealing Hungarian Horntails is wrong with Voldemort, man? His career began with such promise, such pomp and pageantry. "He whose name we shall not take" was how the villagers described him in hushed whispers as they went about their business, which consisted of walking around as if they were going about their business. And great fucking jeepers, you remember how indiscriminately you shat your pants in the first Harry Potter movie as Voldemort emerged out of the gay teacher's turban in the form of a walking talking back of a head? And what happened? When push came to shove, the bastard just didn't have it in him. His face crumbled before your very eyes as he was defeated by a bespectacled geek still in his first year at wizard school. And the reason was .... love? THE Voldemort defeated by a mother's love? That is just disgusting. I hope your momma sent you to bed without dinner that day, Sir Pussy-Ass Bitch, it cannot have been one of her proudest moments. It was a bad day for evil, it sure was.
Then, in "The Chamber of Secrets", he was a slave to a fucking diary. What is with that? Harry might be a geek, but even he wasn't so into books as was his nemesis, the great Voldemort. And this time he was again vanquished by doing what? Destroying the diary, hah who could have seen that coming? The very least he could have done was take back the diary after Harry was done with it and keep it in a safe deposit box. What, do I have to spell out everything? What a sad little worm, a bookworm, even.
And then, in "The Prisoner of Azkaban", he just didn't make an appearance. Where the fuck were you, man? Licking your wounds, or hanging out in sunny Jamaica drinking shit out of a hollowed out pineapple? You should have utilized the time to polish your moves, what in the name of hell were you thinking?
But yesterday it was the final straw that opened my eyes to the collosal loser that he is. "The Goblet of Fire" saw his ultimate humiliation, it was just a sorry sight. Even when surrounded by, like, ten of his masked minions, in a graveyard located in who the fuck knows where, probably Alabama, with stone crypt-keepers and shit of that sort, even with the scary-ass slit-nosed Ralph Fiennes playing him with demonic precision, Voldemort couldn't defeat the young wizard who was, in fact, still traumatized by the loss of his good-looking classmate. I mean, what the fuck? Sure, you could say that Harry's mom and dad jumped out of their graves and helped their son escape but still, jeez louis, he's supposed to be the greatest evil wizard of all time, surely he could see it coming? After all, he knew they were buried in that graveyard, yeah? And this incompetent third-grade waste of netherworld slime is supposed to be Good Wizardry's ultimate nightmare? Well, fuck you and I hope you don't mind if I sound a bit skeptical.
In fact, you know what, Voldemort is kinda like that gangsta rapper who introduces his song about the dangers awaiting a nigga who chooses to live his life in the ghetto with the statement "Dis goes out to my niggaz on da West-Side dat was down from day one." And then, after giving out a clarion call for all his homiez to get into their sixty-fo's and congregate along with their glocks in LBC to beat the stuffing out of Nasty Old Whitey cop who's been keeping dem down from day one, begins to sing a sad old ditty of love and loneliness and weeping and a heart broken by his bitch's philandering, the ho who turned a trick by leaving him for someone with bigger, blacker man-meat. I mean, what the fuck?
So Voldemort, all I gotta say to you is you ain't all dat, pardner. If youse want to be feared, youse got to be fearsome. And right now, you're just a two-bit bitch-ass nigga who gets slammed by a punk-ass schoolkid everyday at work. You gotta go back to school, boy, you gotta brush up on some of that magic that you seem to have forgotten. But more than that, you gotta work on your confidence. 'Cause magic is all in the head. If you KNOW you can make a broom fly by clicking your heels and staring at the sky, then god dang it, it will fly and how.
And making a broom fly would be a good first step in, you know, killing a goddamn 13 year old kid with glasses.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Next Blog
There are quite a few people who land here via the "Next Blog" button in Blogger, that is, the button on your top right which takes you to a random blog. And from their outclicks, I noticed that many of them continue to click on the "Next Blog" button even after arriving here. To them, I would like to ask, what exactly is it that you are looking for, man? Weren't the contents of this blog scintillating enough for your highly exacting standards? What do you want me to do, put up a sign saying "This is the best blog out there, no need to look any further?"
You know, most of us, we go clicking through the "Next Blog" button in life, thinking there's another, better, more interesting website right around the corner, but there never is. But you still keep clicking and clicking and your browser turns into a bloggy blur of websites, some laughing, some smiling, some happy, some sad, some waving at you, asking you in for a drink, some trying to get you to buy into the theory of free markets and the rest shedding precious light on the daily ablutions of the citizenry. But you don't quit, you just keep running from blog to blog, to the next blog, and to the next, till you are finally out of breath, your mouse runs out of batteries and your fingers are covered with sores.
But let me tell you something. What you are looking for doesn't exist. There is no magical blog that's gonna satisfy all your cravings, tell you the meaning of life and make you feel like you are king, all in a single Douglas Bowman Blogger template no.897. Live in the blog of the moment, man, get to know the wisdom lurking behind all the bullshit life observations. The "Next Blog" button's only gonna get you so far. Now it's time to stop clicking, settle down and start reading.
Or just close the fucking browser.
PS : Right after I wrote this post, I clicked on "Next Blog" and landed here. Someone please tell me why South Indian railway stations are so goddamn clean while everyone else in India treats their stations as if they were public toilets?
You know, most of us, we go clicking through the "Next Blog" button in life, thinking there's another, better, more interesting website right around the corner, but there never is. But you still keep clicking and clicking and your browser turns into a bloggy blur of websites, some laughing, some smiling, some happy, some sad, some waving at you, asking you in for a drink, some trying to get you to buy into the theory of free markets and the rest shedding precious light on the daily ablutions of the citizenry. But you don't quit, you just keep running from blog to blog, to the next blog, and to the next, till you are finally out of breath, your mouse runs out of batteries and your fingers are covered with sores.
But let me tell you something. What you are looking for doesn't exist. There is no magical blog that's gonna satisfy all your cravings, tell you the meaning of life and make you feel like you are king, all in a single Douglas Bowman Blogger template no.897. Live in the blog of the moment, man, get to know the wisdom lurking behind all the bullshit life observations. The "Next Blog" button's only gonna get you so far. Now it's time to stop clicking, settle down and start reading.
Or just close the fucking browser.
PS : Right after I wrote this post, I clicked on "Next Blog" and landed here. Someone please tell me why South Indian railway stations are so goddamn clean while everyone else in India treats their stations as if they were public toilets?
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
More on Acadia
Since a couple of my readers are travelling to Acadia National Park next week for a vacation, I will do my part as the honorary unappointed director of the Maine Tourism Bureau by posting a couple of my pictures from the time I spent there. I will also provide mostly useless commentary.
Those are boats floating outside of Bar Harbor (pronounced Baa Haabaa in New Englandese), one of the three or four harbor towns in the park. It is one of the few places in the USA that has an exclusively vegetarian restaurant right in the town square with a view of the ocean. I don't remember the food but I do remember that I had organic beer. Organic beer has a much better taste than regular beer because it is much more expensive. Bar Harbor is always crowded in the evenings with hungry hikers and restaurants are pretty much full so remember to bring your machette along when you go out to eat. Fish is a good choice, especially lobster which is not really a fish but a bug and a close relative of the cockroach family as Alton Brown helpfully reminds us, thereby making us lose our appetites.
The other harbor in the park is Bass Harbor, which has the most photographed lighthouse in Maine (or so I have heard) and also the lighthouse most linked to by this blog. In fact, you know what, lets just designate the Bass Harbor Lighthouse as the official lighthouse of this blog.
This is Echo Lake. It is accessible via a short hike from the road or a long hike from the road depending upon whether you are also being accompanied by one or more women. Its name originates from the fact that if you face those hills in the distance and yell out your name, you will fail to hear an echo.
This is a place called Thunder Hole. Or as the native tribes who lived there long before the White Man made an appearance called it, "Place Where Man Stand For Long Time In Hope Of Hearing Thunder But Hear Wind Rustling Through Pubic Hair Instead".
That is Tom and with him is Dick. A few seconds later, Tom pushes Dick off the cliff due to his everlasting love for Dick's wife. To a bystander, Evil Tom doesn't go well with the serene innocence of the surrounding landscape.
This is the innovatively named Sand Beach, which nestles on Acadia's east side. You know how most beaches have the problem of being too warm, thus forcing you to stay in the water and then you lose track of time and the tide comes in, sweeps you out to sea and feeds you to the fishes? Well, fret no more, 'cause this beach doesn't have any such issues. The water is so fucking cold that it is used by the US Department of Corrections to cryogenically freeze convicted murderers so that they can break out in the year 2075 and terrorize your grandchildren.
This is not Acadia. But this is where you feel you are, as you stand on that beach shivering like a just-escaped cryogenically frozen murderer.
This is what you should be wearing on Sand Beach.
And this is where it should have come from.
On a final note, remember, if you are camping out in one of Acadia's numerous campgrounds, it is illegal to harvest campfire wood from the trees surrounding your tent. Instead, it is much more convenient to steal it from your neighbouring tent along with all the food and alcohol you'll need.
Those are boats floating outside of Bar Harbor (pronounced Baa Haabaa in New Englandese), one of the three or four harbor towns in the park. It is one of the few places in the USA that has an exclusively vegetarian restaurant right in the town square with a view of the ocean. I don't remember the food but I do remember that I had organic beer. Organic beer has a much better taste than regular beer because it is much more expensive. Bar Harbor is always crowded in the evenings with hungry hikers and restaurants are pretty much full so remember to bring your machette along when you go out to eat. Fish is a good choice, especially lobster which is not really a fish but a bug and a close relative of the cockroach family as Alton Brown helpfully reminds us, thereby making us lose our appetites.
The other harbor in the park is Bass Harbor, which has the most photographed lighthouse in Maine (or so I have heard) and also the lighthouse most linked to by this blog. In fact, you know what, lets just designate the Bass Harbor Lighthouse as the official lighthouse of this blog.
This is Echo Lake. It is accessible via a short hike from the road or a long hike from the road depending upon whether you are also being accompanied by one or more women. Its name originates from the fact that if you face those hills in the distance and yell out your name, you will fail to hear an echo.
This is a place called Thunder Hole. Or as the native tribes who lived there long before the White Man made an appearance called it, "Place Where Man Stand For Long Time In Hope Of Hearing Thunder But Hear Wind Rustling Through Pubic Hair Instead".
This is the innovatively named Sand Beach, which nestles on Acadia's east side. You know how most beaches have the problem of being too warm, thus forcing you to stay in the water and then you lose track of time and the tide comes in, sweeps you out to sea and feeds you to the fishes? Well, fret no more, 'cause this beach doesn't have any such issues. The water is so fucking cold that it is used by the US Department of Corrections to cryogenically freeze convicted murderers so that they can break out in the year 2075 and terrorize your grandchildren.
This is not Acadia. But this is where you feel you are, as you stand on that beach shivering like a just-escaped cryogenically frozen murderer.
This is what you should be wearing on Sand Beach.
And this is where it should have come from.
On a final note, remember, if you are camping out in one of Acadia's numerous campgrounds, it is illegal to harvest campfire wood from the trees surrounding your tent. Instead, it is much more convenient to steal it from your neighbouring tent along with all the food and alcohol you'll need.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Acadia
CNN has an article today on Acadia National Park in Maine. Check out their picture of the Bass Harbor lighthouse that accompanies the article and compare it with the one I took myself when I was there.
Although I didn't realize it at the time, I guess I was standing on top of the CNN reporter as I snapped the picture. And now that I think about it, yeah, I do remember a kind of squealing noise emanating from underneath my feet, although at the time I believed it was coming from the trunk of my car so I didn't really bother locating its source.
I really like my picture more than CNN's though. You can see a number of instances where I display my innate instinct for photography, which is far superior to that of the store-bought CNN guy. For example, my stubborn insistence on including the ugly signpost and barbed wire fencing into the picture whereas the CNN photographer seems to have conveniently omitted it. It's all about showing both sides of the story, man, that's what professional reporters do. Anyone can just indulge in aesthetics and click cute pretty things to capture them for posterity. But it takes a trained eye to isolate the ugliness in society and immortalize it for future enjoyment.
Although I didn't realize it at the time, I guess I was standing on top of the CNN reporter as I snapped the picture. And now that I think about it, yeah, I do remember a kind of squealing noise emanating from underneath my feet, although at the time I believed it was coming from the trunk of my car so I didn't really bother locating its source.
I really like my picture more than CNN's though. You can see a number of instances where I display my innate instinct for photography, which is far superior to that of the store-bought CNN guy. For example, my stubborn insistence on including the ugly signpost and barbed wire fencing into the picture whereas the CNN photographer seems to have conveniently omitted it. It's all about showing both sides of the story, man, that's what professional reporters do. Anyone can just indulge in aesthetics and click cute pretty things to capture them for posterity. But it takes a trained eye to isolate the ugliness in society and immortalize it for future enjoyment.
Monday, April 24, 2006
An obligatory post for anyone who arrived here looking for goose stuff
Since this blog is titled "A Goose Egg", there have been a number of websurfers who have happened upon it via search engines, looking for, among other things, facts pertaining to geese, eggs, goose eggs and things of a similar nature. The most common search engine term that has led (or rather, misled) people up this path has been "goose egg pictures". I have no idea if goose eggs are more photogenic than those of other birds (I'm guessing proud geese parents would vehemently agree) and if I would greatly increase my hit count if I renamed the blog "An Ostrich Egg" (just 'cause I think ostriches are cooler).
Then there are people hunting for "king point goose eggs", whatever they are. One fortunate individual interested in "geese and abandoning eggs" apparently found what he / she was looking for since he / she returned back for a second visit. I however can't recall writing anything on that topic except, perhaps, this post which, due to its generic arbitrariness, could be construed to pertain to any topic in the world.
Since this blog really has nothing to do with geese or eggs except for that one post containing a picture of some geese along with (pardon me if you're a geese lover) a number of choice epithets directed towards their kind due to their general demeanour and outlook towards life, I would like to thank the goose-egg aficionados who ventured upon this blog by taking a moment to answer some of their search engine queries that brought me into their life.
"what does a goose egg look like"
Answer : This is what a goose egg looks like in the earliest stage of its development.
The vivid likeness a goose fetus bears to a human one is probably the reason why goose eggs never became popular as a breakfast food item outside of the Ann Coulter fan community.
"I found a goose egg how do I care for it"
or
"How do I raise a goose egg"
Answer : Just like you would raise the egg of any other creature of God. Hold it against your naked breast when it is feeding time and smack it against the wall if it doesn't stop bawling.
"How do I know if my goose egg is dead"
Answer : This is kind of awkward. First of all, I'm extremely sorry for your loss. Before I reply to your query, let me just say that this does not, in any way reflect upon your parenting skills. Even the most obsessively caring among us have frequently lost our shelled progeny to the random machinations of nature. But to answer your question, your goose egg is probably dead if it looks like this :
"What temperature do goose eggs cook at"
Answer : Isn't there some kind of mourning period during which you are forbidden from cooking the same egg you were grieving for a minute ago? You know, I now feel sorry for that twinge of compassion I just experienced when I learnt about your loss. I didn't know you were such a callous bastard. But to answer your question, it is the very same temperature as that of the pitchfork Lucifer is currently forging in the fires of hell to mow your bush with after you pass on to the next life.
"How often do you turn goose eggs"
Answer : Turn them as often as you wish. Just keep a paper bag handy in case they get nauseous and need to vomit.
"What are the stages of development in a goose egg"
Answer :
Stage 1 : Two geese meet on a meadow. Mr. Goose tells Ms Goose she is so pretty she could get a thousand grown men shot in the face by mistake. Love blossoms, they get married and vow to waddle through life attacking shoppers together.
Stage 2 : Nine months later, the egg is born.
Stage 3 : Mama and papa goose have a fight. They get divorced and the egg custody battle turns ugly.
Stage 4 : Mama goose wins custody and being a single parent, is unable to care for her offspring.
Stage 5 : The egg dies, is devoured by a rattlesnake, which in turn is hunted for its skin and ends up on George W. Bush's watergun holster.
Stage 6 : George W. Bush has nightmares of fundamentalist geese strapping on home-made bombs and flying into the White House.
"How do I find goose genitals"
Answer : Wait for a sleeping goose to wake up. The first thing it will do is scratch its balls.
Then there are people hunting for "king point goose eggs", whatever they are. One fortunate individual interested in "geese and abandoning eggs" apparently found what he / she was looking for since he / she returned back for a second visit. I however can't recall writing anything on that topic except, perhaps, this post which, due to its generic arbitrariness, could be construed to pertain to any topic in the world.
Since this blog really has nothing to do with geese or eggs except for that one post containing a picture of some geese along with (pardon me if you're a geese lover) a number of choice epithets directed towards their kind due to their general demeanour and outlook towards life, I would like to thank the goose-egg aficionados who ventured upon this blog by taking a moment to answer some of their search engine queries that brought me into their life.
"what does a goose egg look like"
Answer : This is what a goose egg looks like in the earliest stage of its development.
The vivid likeness a goose fetus bears to a human one is probably the reason why goose eggs never became popular as a breakfast food item outside of the Ann Coulter fan community.
"I found a goose egg how do I care for it"
or
"How do I raise a goose egg"
Answer : Just like you would raise the egg of any other creature of God. Hold it against your naked breast when it is feeding time and smack it against the wall if it doesn't stop bawling.
"How do I know if my goose egg is dead"
Answer : This is kind of awkward. First of all, I'm extremely sorry for your loss. Before I reply to your query, let me just say that this does not, in any way reflect upon your parenting skills. Even the most obsessively caring among us have frequently lost our shelled progeny to the random machinations of nature. But to answer your question, your goose egg is probably dead if it looks like this :
"What temperature do goose eggs cook at"
Answer : Isn't there some kind of mourning period during which you are forbidden from cooking the same egg you were grieving for a minute ago? You know, I now feel sorry for that twinge of compassion I just experienced when I learnt about your loss. I didn't know you were such a callous bastard. But to answer your question, it is the very same temperature as that of the pitchfork Lucifer is currently forging in the fires of hell to mow your bush with after you pass on to the next life.
"How often do you turn goose eggs"
Answer : Turn them as often as you wish. Just keep a paper bag handy in case they get nauseous and need to vomit.
"What are the stages of development in a goose egg"
Answer :
Stage 1 : Two geese meet on a meadow. Mr. Goose tells Ms Goose she is so pretty she could get a thousand grown men shot in the face by mistake. Love blossoms, they get married and vow to waddle through life attacking shoppers together.
Stage 2 : Nine months later, the egg is born.
Stage 3 : Mama and papa goose have a fight. They get divorced and the egg custody battle turns ugly.
Stage 4 : Mama goose wins custody and being a single parent, is unable to care for her offspring.
Stage 5 : The egg dies, is devoured by a rattlesnake, which in turn is hunted for its skin and ends up on George W. Bush's watergun holster.
Stage 6 : George W. Bush has nightmares of fundamentalist geese strapping on home-made bombs and flying into the White House.
"How do I find goose genitals"
Answer : Wait for a sleeping goose to wake up. The first thing it will do is scratch its balls.
Friday, April 21, 2006
The long road back to a semi-flabby existence
To anyone who used to work out religiously every single day, then had a breakdown of schedule due to various reasons and then, for the next few months, didn't flex a single muscle except when the tv remote needed procuring or an especially formidable bout of constipation needed overcoming, I gotta tell you, it's high time you did something about it. This is that time of year, man, the time when you renounce your lifestyle of slothful decadence and return your body back to it's semi-flabby state that has worked so well for you in the past.
However, I should warn you that the long road back to fair health and a reasonably above average BMI is a hard one. In fact, if I were your gym instructor, this is the advice I would offer you. Starting immediately, embark on a diet consisting exclusively of weapons grade cocaine. Heroin will do as well. Whether you choose to freebase it, shove it in your veins or apply it on your penis for a nightlong erection, I leave the choice to your own discretion. Continue your abuse of the stuff till you are heavily addicted. Then, stop. Spend a few days in agony as you suffer from withdrawal symptoms. Only if you happen to possess the willpower and strength of character to see yourself successfully through the process of drug rehabilitation, will you have proven your mettle for attempting the arduous task ahead. Hardened by your experience, you will now be man enough to Go Back To The Gym.
This is what the timeline of your transition from muscular atrophy to a semi-flaccid physique will look like.
Day 1. While playing Unreal Tournament 2004, you will suddenly come to realize that the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach wasn't caused by your falling off the castle tower and dying in disgrace. It's because the pit of your stomach is actually hanging a few inches below your belt. That's how most people discover beer bellies. Although it's not likely to withstand the scrutiny of logical reasoning, I still maintain my belief in the theory that beer bellies sprout overnight, just like the colorful blossoms of spring.
Day 2. You will stumble upon photos of a strangely skinny individual while looking for a long-lost cd in the closet. After spending an hour trying to remember who it is, you will then spend another hour in denial after realizing it's a picture of you from graduate school. You will marvel at the excess baggage you've accumulated in your trunk in a mere 5 years.
Day 3. You will spend most of this day weighing yourself on the bathroom scale, then taking it apart and putting it back together in order to determine what's wrong with it.
Day 4. While watching an episode of Lost, you will jump up from the couch in an animated manner, trying to describe the philosophical significance of that episode to your wife. You will get your feet entangled in your laptop cables and fall down, breaking your big toe. The throbbing pain in your toe will be far surpassed by the agonized realization that the number of buttresses propping up the weight of your humongous body just got reduced by one. You vow to yourself that you will start working out right away, beginning tomorrow.
Day 5. Your toe will hurt so bad you will let the couch do all the propping up.
Day 6. Since the week is almost over, you will promise yourself that you will start working out next monday.
Day 1. You will go to the gym. You will change into your gym clothes. You will smile at the people working out. They will all look different to you. Probably 'cause they are healthy. You will touch every piece of equipment in the room, hoping to have expended some calories in the process. The sight of all those people working out will cause you acute mental and physical fatigue. You will go back home without lifting a finger.
Day 2. Somehow, the fact that you didn't work out yesterday will mean that it destroyed the work-out schedule for the entire week, thus rendering it useless. It will also mean that any attempt at working out during the remainder of the week will be meaningless. You will not go to the gym.
Day 3. You will stay home.
Day 4. You will almost feel yourself getting fatter by the minute. But you still stay home.
Day 5. You will continue to stay home. You will write a blogpost denouncing people who make fun of fat people.
Day 1. You will go to the gym. You will work out like a maniac. After you return back home, you will feel happy, refreshed and contented with life. You will go to sleep, armed with the knowledge of having overcome the final barrier between you and good health.
Day 2. You will wake up, unable to lift up your left hand. You will realize that working out like a maniac on the first day of gym was probably not the smartest thing to do. You will spend all day nursing your hand. The mere thought of working out will cause a bolt of lightning to rip through it. You will not go to the gym.
Day 3. Your hand will still feel the same. You will wonder if you've broken something. You will not go to the gym.
Day 4. Your hand will feel better. But your schedule will be screwed. You will decide to restart your schedule beginning next week.
Day 5. It's the weekend and you will wish to go biking. You will try to determine if biking will help you gain enough stamina for working out or the other way round. You will ponder on chickens, eggs and which came first. You will give up and make an omlet.
Day 1. You will go to the gym. You will work out more carefully. You will work on your chest and back. While performing bench presses, you will realize that your stomach doesn't fit between the bar and the bench anymore. This observation will firm your resolve of working out every day of this week.
Day 2. You will work on your shoulders and legs. A faint hope will dawn.
Day 3. You will continue to attend gym. You will work on your arms. The sweet pain of yesterday's strained muscles will egg you on.
Day 4. You've completed a full cycle of work-outs. You are now confident that you will make it through this week
Day 5. You've made it. You will write a post celebrating your triumph over inertia. You will hope that others follow in your footsteps.
And thus will you finally settle down into your old work-out schedule again. It will take 4 weeks, not including the cocaine addiction and rehabilitation. So I suggest you start now because it will soon be summer and who the fuck starts anything in summer.
However, I should warn you that the long road back to fair health and a reasonably above average BMI is a hard one. In fact, if I were your gym instructor, this is the advice I would offer you. Starting immediately, embark on a diet consisting exclusively of weapons grade cocaine. Heroin will do as well. Whether you choose to freebase it, shove it in your veins or apply it on your penis for a nightlong erection, I leave the choice to your own discretion. Continue your abuse of the stuff till you are heavily addicted. Then, stop. Spend a few days in agony as you suffer from withdrawal symptoms. Only if you happen to possess the willpower and strength of character to see yourself successfully through the process of drug rehabilitation, will you have proven your mettle for attempting the arduous task ahead. Hardened by your experience, you will now be man enough to Go Back To The Gym.
This is what the timeline of your transition from muscular atrophy to a semi-flaccid physique will look like.
Week 1 : The Dawn of Realization
Day 1. While playing Unreal Tournament 2004, you will suddenly come to realize that the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach wasn't caused by your falling off the castle tower and dying in disgrace. It's because the pit of your stomach is actually hanging a few inches below your belt. That's how most people discover beer bellies. Although it's not likely to withstand the scrutiny of logical reasoning, I still maintain my belief in the theory that beer bellies sprout overnight, just like the colorful blossoms of spring.
Day 2. You will stumble upon photos of a strangely skinny individual while looking for a long-lost cd in the closet. After spending an hour trying to remember who it is, you will then spend another hour in denial after realizing it's a picture of you from graduate school. You will marvel at the excess baggage you've accumulated in your trunk in a mere 5 years.
Day 3. You will spend most of this day weighing yourself on the bathroom scale, then taking it apart and putting it back together in order to determine what's wrong with it.
Day 4. While watching an episode of Lost, you will jump up from the couch in an animated manner, trying to describe the philosophical significance of that episode to your wife. You will get your feet entangled in your laptop cables and fall down, breaking your big toe. The throbbing pain in your toe will be far surpassed by the agonized realization that the number of buttresses propping up the weight of your humongous body just got reduced by one. You vow to yourself that you will start working out right away, beginning tomorrow.
Day 5. Your toe will hurt so bad you will let the couch do all the propping up.
Day 6. Since the week is almost over, you will promise yourself that you will start working out next monday.
Week 2 : The Beginning.
Day 1. You will go to the gym. You will change into your gym clothes. You will smile at the people working out. They will all look different to you. Probably 'cause they are healthy. You will touch every piece of equipment in the room, hoping to have expended some calories in the process. The sight of all those people working out will cause you acute mental and physical fatigue. You will go back home without lifting a finger.
Day 2. Somehow, the fact that you didn't work out yesterday will mean that it destroyed the work-out schedule for the entire week, thus rendering it useless. It will also mean that any attempt at working out during the remainder of the week will be meaningless. You will not go to the gym.
Day 3. You will stay home.
Day 4. You will almost feel yourself getting fatter by the minute. But you still stay home.
Day 5. You will continue to stay home. You will write a blogpost denouncing people who make fun of fat people.
Week 3: There, but not quite.
Day 1. You will go to the gym. You will work out like a maniac. After you return back home, you will feel happy, refreshed and contented with life. You will go to sleep, armed with the knowledge of having overcome the final barrier between you and good health.
Day 2. You will wake up, unable to lift up your left hand. You will realize that working out like a maniac on the first day of gym was probably not the smartest thing to do. You will spend all day nursing your hand. The mere thought of working out will cause a bolt of lightning to rip through it. You will not go to the gym.
Day 3. Your hand will still feel the same. You will wonder if you've broken something. You will not go to the gym.
Day 4. Your hand will feel better. But your schedule will be screwed. You will decide to restart your schedule beginning next week.
Day 5. It's the weekend and you will wish to go biking. You will try to determine if biking will help you gain enough stamina for working out or the other way round. You will ponder on chickens, eggs and which came first. You will give up and make an omlet.
Week 4: Victory.
Day 1. You will go to the gym. You will work out more carefully. You will work on your chest and back. While performing bench presses, you will realize that your stomach doesn't fit between the bar and the bench anymore. This observation will firm your resolve of working out every day of this week.
Day 2. You will work on your shoulders and legs. A faint hope will dawn.
Day 3. You will continue to attend gym. You will work on your arms. The sweet pain of yesterday's strained muscles will egg you on.
Day 4. You've completed a full cycle of work-outs. You are now confident that you will make it through this week
Day 5. You've made it. You will write a post celebrating your triumph over inertia. You will hope that others follow in your footsteps.
And thus will you finally settle down into your old work-out schedule again. It will take 4 weeks, not including the cocaine addiction and rehabilitation. So I suggest you start now because it will soon be summer and who the fuck starts anything in summer.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
How to keep hair from falling out
To formulate an answer to this question, it is necessary to get to the root of the problem. Why does hair fall out in the first place? There have been a number of hypotheses that attempt to explain away this behavior. However, I disagree with them all. Heredity? No. Improper hair care? Rubbish. Stress? Nonsense. Hard water? Just an attempt to fling sand into the eyes of people accusing you of reason 2 which, anyways, is still incorrect. The following is what is really behind the all-too frequent departure of this highly valued protein strand from our lives.
Hairs are human after all, and require nutrition. Nutrition from the brain. Hair roots go deep down through the skull, through the meninx, that is the outer membrane of the brain, and right into the cerebrum. The cerebrum is rich with the vitamins and minerals essential for the mental and physical development of your hair. Now, imagine your scalp to be a suburban community of happy and contented hair citizens. Early on in your life, living conditions are good and plentiful with every hair having access to enough brain resources for it to live a rich and productive existence spent in adorning your pate.
However, later on in life, when you enter your stupid phase through the normal process of aging or the incessant playing of Unreal Tournament 2004 online, your brain undergoes a severe reduction in size, thus depleting the levels of nourishment necessary for maintaining your hair citizenry in the comfortable lifestyle it's been accustomed to. Once that happens, famine conditions begin to take shape. It's every hair for itself. And then, individual hair strands, in the manner of refugees waiting for a UN supply truck to unload, begin to fight amongst themselves for the appropriation of any food packages that are expected to make an appearance.
It gets ugly. Soon your scalp turns into a gnashing mass of hair warriors, who battle it out by coiling around their neighbour's body and pulling it out of its follicle. And after that, it's just a matter of time before the winter moon shines somberly down on a graveyard littered with rotting hair carcasses, the casualties of internecine warfare, waiting for that whiff of breeze to carry them away from the battlefield and into the mashed potatoes and gravy of the guy sitting next to you in Chili's.
In order to avoid this conflagration and the subsequent massacre of innocent hairs, a two-step program is needed. First of all, you need to keep your brain in tip-top shape. Think a lot about things, no matter how irrelevant or salacious. Ruminate. Ponder. Maintain your mental machinery in a constant state of lubrication. Ground left fallow will soon become incapable of supporting life. It's the same with your brain. Stop playing UT2004. You aren't that good at it anyways and it's killing your brain cells. And you would have noticed it too, except you've become too stupid to notice things.
Secondly, if stupidity appears to be ultimately unavoidable, it is still possible to curtail its deadly consequences. Trim your hair short. Cut it often and close to the scalp. Dominate over it. Terrorize it. Bully it to tears. Chop off its limbs, electrocute its genitals and maintain it in a constant state of humiliation. A population of hair brought up in an environment of totalitarianism will never rise against its master or against each other, even during times of hardship (think Iraq under Saddam as opposed to Iraq without Saddam). Not to mention the fact that a hair, devoid of its length and sinuosity, loses its ability to murder its companions through twining and constriction.
Consider a forest full of trees and contrast it with a grassy meadow. Imagine how many more blades of grass can co-exist peacefully in the meadow than trees in the forest. That's because grass is a relatively docile organism. And the reason behind that is its short stature. Its midgety appearance causes it to be physically feeble and spiritually submissive, thus making it a model citizen of society. A blade of grass would never resort to violence and uprootment against members of its own community, even under extreme provocation. Grass swallows its pride and turns the other cheek. Its motto is to live and let live. And that is the attitude we would like to see in our hair.
In summation, to keep your hair from falling out, maintain your brain cells. And subjugate your hair through frequent bitchslappery. This will lead to a full head of hair that will exult in a continued existence throughout your lifetime and quite possibly, through that of your progeny.
Hairs are human after all, and require nutrition. Nutrition from the brain. Hair roots go deep down through the skull, through the meninx, that is the outer membrane of the brain, and right into the cerebrum. The cerebrum is rich with the vitamins and minerals essential for the mental and physical development of your hair. Now, imagine your scalp to be a suburban community of happy and contented hair citizens. Early on in your life, living conditions are good and plentiful with every hair having access to enough brain resources for it to live a rich and productive existence spent in adorning your pate.
However, later on in life, when you enter your stupid phase through the normal process of aging or the incessant playing of Unreal Tournament 2004 online, your brain undergoes a severe reduction in size, thus depleting the levels of nourishment necessary for maintaining your hair citizenry in the comfortable lifestyle it's been accustomed to. Once that happens, famine conditions begin to take shape. It's every hair for itself. And then, individual hair strands, in the manner of refugees waiting for a UN supply truck to unload, begin to fight amongst themselves for the appropriation of any food packages that are expected to make an appearance.
It gets ugly. Soon your scalp turns into a gnashing mass of hair warriors, who battle it out by coiling around their neighbour's body and pulling it out of its follicle. And after that, it's just a matter of time before the winter moon shines somberly down on a graveyard littered with rotting hair carcasses, the casualties of internecine warfare, waiting for that whiff of breeze to carry them away from the battlefield and into the mashed potatoes and gravy of the guy sitting next to you in Chili's.
In order to avoid this conflagration and the subsequent massacre of innocent hairs, a two-step program is needed. First of all, you need to keep your brain in tip-top shape. Think a lot about things, no matter how irrelevant or salacious. Ruminate. Ponder. Maintain your mental machinery in a constant state of lubrication. Ground left fallow will soon become incapable of supporting life. It's the same with your brain. Stop playing UT2004. You aren't that good at it anyways and it's killing your brain cells. And you would have noticed it too, except you've become too stupid to notice things.
Secondly, if stupidity appears to be ultimately unavoidable, it is still possible to curtail its deadly consequences. Trim your hair short. Cut it often and close to the scalp. Dominate over it. Terrorize it. Bully it to tears. Chop off its limbs, electrocute its genitals and maintain it in a constant state of humiliation. A population of hair brought up in an environment of totalitarianism will never rise against its master or against each other, even during times of hardship (think Iraq under Saddam as opposed to Iraq without Saddam). Not to mention the fact that a hair, devoid of its length and sinuosity, loses its ability to murder its companions through twining and constriction.
Consider a forest full of trees and contrast it with a grassy meadow. Imagine how many more blades of grass can co-exist peacefully in the meadow than trees in the forest. That's because grass is a relatively docile organism. And the reason behind that is its short stature. Its midgety appearance causes it to be physically feeble and spiritually submissive, thus making it a model citizen of society. A blade of grass would never resort to violence and uprootment against members of its own community, even under extreme provocation. Grass swallows its pride and turns the other cheek. Its motto is to live and let live. And that is the attitude we would like to see in our hair.
In summation, to keep your hair from falling out, maintain your brain cells. And subjugate your hair through frequent bitchslappery. This will lead to a full head of hair that will exult in a continued existence throughout your lifetime and quite possibly, through that of your progeny.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Thumbs
Thumbs up to the West Wing for ending its 7 year run on NBC, but not before giving us a democratic president for the next 4 years. Sometimes, when you want to drown out the George W. Bullshit happening around you, its best to live in a television fantasy world where the Democrats are in power and the Republicans don't walk around eating people's brains.
Thumbs down to Southpark. Southpark has officially bottomed out. Once upon a time it used to be funny, intelligent, crass comedy, you know, hilarity for the sake of being hilarious. Now we have Trey and Matt the creators of Southpark, taking on the role of political commentators. In their attempt to make the show relevant and a "commentary on our times", they have begun to destroy the wholesome raunchy nature of Southpark which uptil now used to consist of nothing but fart jokes and redneck bashing, by infecting it with the virus of reality.
This tactic, in my opinion, has failed. Let's say you go to a doctor 'cause you have genital herpes. When you inform him that your balls are itching like crazy and it hurts like hell when you urinate, the doctor, instead of prescribing you some anti-itching and anti-urination-pain drugs, takes out a couple of sock puppets out of his desk drawer and uses them to graphically demonstrate the dangers of unsafe sex. That's how one feels when one watches Southpark nowadays. A feeling of being patronized, followed by acute ball-itch.
Is it really necessary for everybody in the whole wide fucking world to try and make a statement about every burning issue of the day? Am I asking for too much if I just want someone to make me snicker without trying to cram a rolled up life-lesson up my butt during the process? This attempt at increasing its own self-importance in the scheme of things has taken all the humor out of the show. Southpark is no more a bunch of cute kids with deliciously filthy mouths. Now it's a bunch of adults making an educational cartoon and imposing their so-called "politically incorrect" (or as it's colloquially known, indefensible) worldview on you with a supercilious condescension.
Gah Southpark, you shouldn't have tried to all grow up n shit. You were goddamn hilarious when you were a little kid who used to die a horrible death every week and get eaten by rats. Now you're just a fuckin' preachy-ass pain in the sphincter who's just not funny anymore.
Thumbs down to Lost. Fuck you for even daring to raise the possibility of the entire show being nothing but a lunatic's daydream. I haven't spent 48 hours of my life and more than 50 bucks in dvd rentals just to be told that there are no Others and that the Island is a giant psychiatric ward. And I'm not too sold on the entire thing turning out to be a reality show either. Get more creative, people, surprise me. In return I promise not to fast forward through the commercials.
Thumbs down to Southpark. Southpark has officially bottomed out. Once upon a time it used to be funny, intelligent, crass comedy, you know, hilarity for the sake of being hilarious. Now we have Trey and Matt the creators of Southpark, taking on the role of political commentators. In their attempt to make the show relevant and a "commentary on our times", they have begun to destroy the wholesome raunchy nature of Southpark which uptil now used to consist of nothing but fart jokes and redneck bashing, by infecting it with the virus of reality.
This tactic, in my opinion, has failed. Let's say you go to a doctor 'cause you have genital herpes. When you inform him that your balls are itching like crazy and it hurts like hell when you urinate, the doctor, instead of prescribing you some anti-itching and anti-urination-pain drugs, takes out a couple of sock puppets out of his desk drawer and uses them to graphically demonstrate the dangers of unsafe sex. That's how one feels when one watches Southpark nowadays. A feeling of being patronized, followed by acute ball-itch.
Is it really necessary for everybody in the whole wide fucking world to try and make a statement about every burning issue of the day? Am I asking for too much if I just want someone to make me snicker without trying to cram a rolled up life-lesson up my butt during the process? This attempt at increasing its own self-importance in the scheme of things has taken all the humor out of the show. Southpark is no more a bunch of cute kids with deliciously filthy mouths. Now it's a bunch of adults making an educational cartoon and imposing their so-called "politically incorrect" (or as it's colloquially known, indefensible) worldview on you with a supercilious condescension.
Gah Southpark, you shouldn't have tried to all grow up n shit. You were goddamn hilarious when you were a little kid who used to die a horrible death every week and get eaten by rats. Now you're just a fuckin' preachy-ass pain in the sphincter who's just not funny anymore.
Thumbs down to Lost. Fuck you for even daring to raise the possibility of the entire show being nothing but a lunatic's daydream. I haven't spent 48 hours of my life and more than 50 bucks in dvd rentals just to be told that there are no Others and that the Island is a giant psychiatric ward. And I'm not too sold on the entire thing turning out to be a reality show either. Get more creative, people, surprise me. In return I promise not to fast forward through the commercials.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Bollywood for Salman
I wouldn't have been able to write a funnier blogpost if I had tried. This is an actual report on Bollywood's reaction to the Salman Khan verdict.
Salman Khan's five year jail term has come as a shock to the entire film industry. Many believe that the celebrity tag is hanging like an albatross around Salman's neck (Or the alcohol sacks around his eyes).
Ravi Chopra, who had directed Salman Khan in Baghban and was currently busy shooting Babul with the actor, said, "I strongly feel that the celebrity tag that Salman carries with him has made him into a scapegoat."
via Dictionary.com :
scape·goatP Pronunciation Key (sk
p
g
t
)
n.(not applicable when one is made to bear the blame of one.)
- One that is made to bear the blame of others.
"His crime, which is smaller and not all that severe as compared to Jessica Lall’s murder, has been made look like as if it is the crime of the decade (woah woah, hold your horses, this is just the deer shooting case. Pavement dweller murder case is still to come. Don't throw away your popcorn yet).
"While the murderer of Jessica Lall is roaming freely, here is our actor who is facing all the brunt of the law."
(Let us, for the purpose of civilized discourse, disregard the argument that could be made for prosecuting Salman solely for his acting. But coming back to the point you've made, you know what, lets set every captured criminal loose just because Jessica Lall's murderer is roaming freely. 'Cause fuck it, punishing this guy because he committed a crime other than killing Jessica Lal doesn't mean he should be subjected to more rigorous penalties than someone who did kill Jessica Lal. We owe every criminal in this country the same shoddy standards of justice we bestowed upon Jessica Lal's murderer.)
"We all have to stand by him and give him support. It is a tough time not only for him and his family but also trying times for everyone in Bollywood. It is true that I, as his producer director of Babul, will be affected along with other filmmakers (I knew you would be a bigger person than one who would merely think about his own monetary losses).
"However, the question of prime importance is how soon can he be released from the jail. (5 years. Pay closer attention) It is really a trying time. (you already said that) Honestly, I am not worried about my losses. (of course, not. You are more worried about the Middle Eastern goons who lent you the money to make your film) Rather, I stand by him and am praying hard for his early release. (While you are at it, also pray for world peace)"
Producers and directors, who have put in crores in their projects with the superstar, have been left dumbfounded. (Yeah, I guess the criminal justice system in India actually worked. It IS pretty dumbfounding.)
Films like Marigold, God tussi great ho (I guess this film will be renamed to something more appropriate under the circumstances), Babul, Salaam-e-Ishq, Partner and many others, which are in various stages of completion, will be badly affected. (Are you fucking kidding me, I am more worried about how badly his lip syncing Rockstars tour in New Jersey will be affected. After all, I had been eagerly anticipating it for all these months. God, this was my only chance to see Salman brandish an electric guitar and pretend to play it.)
According to trade analyst Taran Adarsh, "More than 200 crores is on the actor under various production houses. The loss is not only emotional but monetary as well. (lets interchange the order of those losses) It is a loss that we will have to face due to this callous judgement. (Those damn judgemental judges in those dastardly justice-administering courts. No one cares for the criminal's feelings anymore.)
"Bollywood is silent and quiet and no one is ready to say anything at this particular time. (you are saying a lot for someone not ready to say anything) Some are so sad that they have choked during our telephone conversation."
We have seen celebrities commit crime and then get away with it due to their status. It is just the opposite in Salman's case. (Yes, in this case, we saw a celebrity not get away with a crime in spite of his status. Johnny Cochran would have rolled over in his grave.)
"Law is to be respected, whether one is a celebrity or a common man. It is a professional hazard if you are a celebrity," Adarsh said. (Well said. The law IS a professional hazard. If you're a criminal.)
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Making fun of fat people isn't funny
Rummaging through my drafts today, I found one I had written some 4 months ago but never published. The post was about how it's difficult to find anything that isn't low-fat here in the US and how low-fat food items in the grocery store irritate me to no end. They will take the fat out of anything that never even had fat to begin with. For example, fat-free vegetable broth. As if the broth available earlier had chunks of fat floating around in it. The post also made fun of fat people. It ridiculed the notion of inadvertant weight gain, pooh-poohing the very possibility that one didn't need to be a lazy slob for one to turn into a bouncing lardball. It also touched on the fact that in an ideal world, similar to low fat foodstuffs, one should also be able to selectively choose only low fat people to reside within one's field of vision.
The way I have been brought up, I considered fat to be responsible for the good taste of everything delicious I have ever eaten. Which is why it took me a long time to come to terms with this unholy trend of eating low-fat crap here in the US. Whenever I saw anything with low-fat written on it, that inevitably turned me off. Low fat hamburger meat. Low fat yoghurt. Low fat butter. And I used to think butter was 100% fat. I scoured the shelves looking for something that proudly proclaimed "bursting with fat and lots of it". In my opinion, low fat, along with low-calorie and low-salt foods have stripped life of its essence and innocence.
But that was 4 months ago. That was a time in my life when my body was in great shape. I was working out everyday for an hour, lifting weights. I felt good, I was slim and "low-fat" was a mere twinkle in my eye. Then, I travelled to India in december. My work-out schedule got screwed and 3 months after returning back, I still have to lift anything heavier than a case of beer. Meanwhile, lots of weight gain has occurred.
Which is why my earlier post ridiculing low-fat things sudenly doesn't seem as funny anymore. It seems out of context and a frivolous waste of space. In fact, looking back, I'm amazed at how callous I used to be. Looking at fat people merely as objects of caricature. How could I have been so insensitive? And who was I to cast aspersions upon a low-fat diet? Why shouldn't people be able to curb their intake of fatty foods if they wished to? What right did I have to impose an unhealthy lifestyle of indiscriminate fat consumption upon these people who, as I now know, are more to be sympathized with, than being mocked?
Naturally, I deleted the post. I do not agree with its central thesis anymore. And now I probably should go through all my posts and check to see if I have ever spoken of the obese in an unbecoming manner and delete any that I find. It is not nice to make fun of fat people. You could turn into one someday.
The way I have been brought up, I considered fat to be responsible for the good taste of everything delicious I have ever eaten. Which is why it took me a long time to come to terms with this unholy trend of eating low-fat crap here in the US. Whenever I saw anything with low-fat written on it, that inevitably turned me off. Low fat hamburger meat. Low fat yoghurt. Low fat butter. And I used to think butter was 100% fat. I scoured the shelves looking for something that proudly proclaimed "bursting with fat and lots of it". In my opinion, low fat, along with low-calorie and low-salt foods have stripped life of its essence and innocence.
But that was 4 months ago. That was a time in my life when my body was in great shape. I was working out everyday for an hour, lifting weights. I felt good, I was slim and "low-fat" was a mere twinkle in my eye. Then, I travelled to India in december. My work-out schedule got screwed and 3 months after returning back, I still have to lift anything heavier than a case of beer. Meanwhile, lots of weight gain has occurred.
Which is why my earlier post ridiculing low-fat things sudenly doesn't seem as funny anymore. It seems out of context and a frivolous waste of space. In fact, looking back, I'm amazed at how callous I used to be. Looking at fat people merely as objects of caricature. How could I have been so insensitive? And who was I to cast aspersions upon a low-fat diet? Why shouldn't people be able to curb their intake of fatty foods if they wished to? What right did I have to impose an unhealthy lifestyle of indiscriminate fat consumption upon these people who, as I now know, are more to be sympathized with, than being mocked?
Naturally, I deleted the post. I do not agree with its central thesis anymore. And now I probably should go through all my posts and check to see if I have ever spoken of the obese in an unbecoming manner and delete any that I find. It is not nice to make fun of fat people. You could turn into one someday.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Synchronization
I walk back to my office building, having just returned from lunch. My building has two pairs of doors at the entrance, about 6 feet apart. As I open the outer door, I step inside and watch as another guy opens the inner door and steps outside. We both are now occupying the buffer zone between those two doors. This buffer zone is that part of the building that smells extraordinarily like a construction worker at the end of a particularly hot summer day. Our eyes meet, each sensing the other's uncertainty.
He holds the inner door open for me while I hold the outer door open for him. Both of us continue to hold our respective doors open. Beyond these doors lies freedom. But neither of us wants to let go of his own door before the other guy passes through. We both have impeccable manners, you see. The doors are too far apart for someone to hold both of them open at the same time. Someone has to let go first.
The situation is getting tense. It is a battle of etiquette. Who will be the first to blink? Who will relinquish his hold on the door and accept defeat, thus abandoning his obligation to uphold societal mores of decorous conduct? Time passes by as we mull over the perplexity of the situation. Finally, I nod at him, having arrived at a decision. He reads my mind and responds with grim acquiescence. We perform a wordless countdown, our muscles flexing in anticipation. The clock winds down. And then we leap.
The next few moments occur as if in slow motion. We each let go of our respective doors, fly past each other and grab the door the other was holding just before it slams shut. We screech to a halt and stare back at each other with triumphant grins. We've managed to make it through without either of us being shunned by society and having to bear the ignominous title of "He Who doesn't Keep Doors Open For Others".
"Good job", the guy says to me as he steps out of the building. "Thank you, you too", I respond as I walk to the staircase that will take me back to my hole in the wall. Both of us go our separate ways.
He holds the inner door open for me while I hold the outer door open for him. Both of us continue to hold our respective doors open. Beyond these doors lies freedom. But neither of us wants to let go of his own door before the other guy passes through. We both have impeccable manners, you see. The doors are too far apart for someone to hold both of them open at the same time. Someone has to let go first.
The situation is getting tense. It is a battle of etiquette. Who will be the first to blink? Who will relinquish his hold on the door and accept defeat, thus abandoning his obligation to uphold societal mores of decorous conduct? Time passes by as we mull over the perplexity of the situation. Finally, I nod at him, having arrived at a decision. He reads my mind and responds with grim acquiescence. We perform a wordless countdown, our muscles flexing in anticipation. The clock winds down. And then we leap.
The next few moments occur as if in slow motion. We each let go of our respective doors, fly past each other and grab the door the other was holding just before it slams shut. We screech to a halt and stare back at each other with triumphant grins. We've managed to make it through without either of us being shunned by society and having to bear the ignominous title of "He Who doesn't Keep Doors Open For Others".
"Good job", the guy says to me as he steps out of the building. "Thank you, you too", I respond as I walk to the staircase that will take me back to my hole in the wall. Both of us go our separate ways.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Subway
I saw something bizarre today in the Subway restaurant near my workplace. Most days I go to that Subway restaurant to get my lunch. In case there's anyone in my audience who just emerged from a coma, just to update you, Subway is a chain of fast food joints in the US and India (I think) that sells sandwiches. And also, hey buddy, you made it! Welcome back to the world. You really need to take a shower.
But coming back to the point, there's this Subway I go to everyday. And if my ethicity-sniffing senses are right, it used to be manned by a Punjabi couple. In case you are a Desi who is thinking of opening an eating joint in the US of A, let me give you a word of advice on behalf of all food-lovers. Please don't. Desis and eating joints don't go well together. This couple was mean, man. First of all, they had this sign dangling very conspiciously on the counter that said "No Subway coupons will be accepted here. Coupon holders will be incinerated and their ashes scattered into the Schuylkill river". See, the problem with a Subway restaurant not accepting coupons is that you basically eliminate 50% of your prospective clientele right there. 'Cause correct me if I'm wrong, but most people who go to a Subway for lunch are those (like me) who have spent all of yesterday evening tearing up every newspaper from last week hunting for a "free 21 Oz drink with every footlong Sub" coupon.
Secondly, the couple was extremely stingy with the veggies. Once there was a guy ahead of me in the queue and he inquired if he could have extra onions on his meat. Paji snapped, "Yes, but it will cost you extra". "C'mon Paji", I told him through telepathic channels, "he's just asking for extra onions, not the crushed diamond dressing. Don't be such a cheapskate".
Plus, the Subway didn't have any employees other than those two. So it took a hell of a long time to get your sandwich. Not surprisingly, the damn thing didn't do a lot of business and pretty soon it was taken over by new management. Now, with the current owners, who are American by the way, you can have as many onions as your breath can withstand. All coupons are welcomed, even those that are a product of your own artistry. Sometimes the owner even offers you a free drink if you're a regular customer. And I'm sure, someday, if you were to request the crushed diamond dressing, they'd bring you a bucketful to dip your face into. As a result, business is now booming and even though the lines are still long, the extra employees they've hired make sure that you get your sandwich in a matter of minutes. Moral of the story : The customer really is king.
Anyways. That was all tangential and not really pertinent to the issue. The strange thing I saw there today was this : a newspaper review of the restaurant hanging on its wall. That's it, that's what I saw. The reason I find this bizarre is because, see, Subways are not really known for their high-end gourmet meals. In fact, one of the basic tenets of a fast food chain such as Subway is that every restaurant in the chain should serve food that is virtually indistinguishable from that served in any other franchise of that chain. So what is the fucking use of a review? And what's it gonna look like anyways?
"The bread .... lets see.. Looked and tasted like Subway bread - 5 stars. The tuna ..... yes, pretty much smelt like Subway tuna - 5 stars. The cheesesteak .. hmmm... much better than what it should have tasted like. Not conforming with Subway standards - 2 stars."
And that's why it was kinda strange. But you know what, if the guy really needed to review an inexpensive fast food chain, 'cause he was too cheap to do a decent restaurant, he should have reviewed McDonalds. 'Cause I often eat there and I really want to know if the McD's near my workplace serves severed fingers with their burgers. Or human blood. That's all the information I really need to know. Screw the taste or how many pickles they put on the bun. Just tell me if there are human organs in my fries or not. Now that's a review I can use.
But coming back to the point, there's this Subway I go to everyday. And if my ethicity-sniffing senses are right, it used to be manned by a Punjabi couple. In case you are a Desi who is thinking of opening an eating joint in the US of A, let me give you a word of advice on behalf of all food-lovers. Please don't. Desis and eating joints don't go well together. This couple was mean, man. First of all, they had this sign dangling very conspiciously on the counter that said "No Subway coupons will be accepted here. Coupon holders will be incinerated and their ashes scattered into the Schuylkill river". See, the problem with a Subway restaurant not accepting coupons is that you basically eliminate 50% of your prospective clientele right there. 'Cause correct me if I'm wrong, but most people who go to a Subway for lunch are those (like me) who have spent all of yesterday evening tearing up every newspaper from last week hunting for a "free 21 Oz drink with every footlong Sub" coupon.
Secondly, the couple was extremely stingy with the veggies. Once there was a guy ahead of me in the queue and he inquired if he could have extra onions on his meat. Paji snapped, "Yes, but it will cost you extra". "C'mon Paji", I told him through telepathic channels, "he's just asking for extra onions, not the crushed diamond dressing. Don't be such a cheapskate".
Plus, the Subway didn't have any employees other than those two. So it took a hell of a long time to get your sandwich. Not surprisingly, the damn thing didn't do a lot of business and pretty soon it was taken over by new management. Now, with the current owners, who are American by the way, you can have as many onions as your breath can withstand. All coupons are welcomed, even those that are a product of your own artistry. Sometimes the owner even offers you a free drink if you're a regular customer. And I'm sure, someday, if you were to request the crushed diamond dressing, they'd bring you a bucketful to dip your face into. As a result, business is now booming and even though the lines are still long, the extra employees they've hired make sure that you get your sandwich in a matter of minutes. Moral of the story : The customer really is king.
Anyways. That was all tangential and not really pertinent to the issue. The strange thing I saw there today was this : a newspaper review of the restaurant hanging on its wall. That's it, that's what I saw. The reason I find this bizarre is because, see, Subways are not really known for their high-end gourmet meals. In fact, one of the basic tenets of a fast food chain such as Subway is that every restaurant in the chain should serve food that is virtually indistinguishable from that served in any other franchise of that chain. So what is the fucking use of a review? And what's it gonna look like anyways?
"The bread .... lets see.. Looked and tasted like Subway bread - 5 stars. The tuna ..... yes, pretty much smelt like Subway tuna - 5 stars. The cheesesteak .. hmmm... much better than what it should have tasted like. Not conforming with Subway standards - 2 stars."
And that's why it was kinda strange. But you know what, if the guy really needed to review an inexpensive fast food chain, 'cause he was too cheap to do a decent restaurant, he should have reviewed McDonalds. 'Cause I often eat there and I really want to know if the McD's near my workplace serves severed fingers with their burgers. Or human blood. That's all the information I really need to know. Screw the taste or how many pickles they put on the bun. Just tell me if there are human organs in my fries or not. Now that's a review I can use.
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