Thursday, April 30, 2009

Hither, fox

Lately, I've been seeing a fox hanging around in my neighborhood. The other day it was loitering around the creek and today I saw it in a neighbor's yard. It's a largish animal and I don't know, it could quite possibly even be a wolf. Sure, the idea of a wolf lurking around these parts appears to be somewhat implausible, but so was the idea of a black man in the White House. But I'm hoping it's not a wolf. See, I know foxes. I am relatively well-versed in human-fox interaction protocol. If I were to encounter a fox while traveling through the countryside, I'm relatively sure how the rendezvous would go. Probably like this.

Human sees fox, is pleasantly surprised. Fox sees human, is mildly disgusted.

Human : What a gorgeous animal, what a perfectly marvelous example of God's brilliant craftsmanship skills.
Fox : What an ugly hideous creature, either God doesn't exist, or He was trying to make his ten year old niece laugh.
Human : He hasn't spotted me yet. Boy, I really should have pursued a career in the undercover arts.
Fox : Hello assface I see you, you are not invisible. Quit hiding behind that tree, you haven't got the physique for it.
Human : I wonder if the cute little bugger will allow me to touch him.
Fox : Why is the creature looking at me all creepy-like and...wait... oh no you don't, don't you even think about it.
Human : Here doggy doggy doggy, I have a bone for you.
Fox : Are you fucking kidding me? You ain't got no bone in your pants, nor are you happy to see me. Plus, what makes you think I'm hankering for some shitty old bone? Go try your lame-ass shtick on a stupid deer.
Human : Yes, I think he finally trusts me, I shall attempt to initiate contact.
Fox : I knew it motherfucker, this bastard wants to get inside my skin. Time to skedaddle. Good bye you ugly fuck, I hope you lose your way and starve to death.

And the fox bolts.

I can't see a wolf following a similar train of thought. I'm also not sure whether a wolf would tolerate an intrusion on his privacy in the same good-natured spirit as a fox would. Wolves are unpredictable. I wouldn't know whether to approach a wolf, back off or throw out a casual "Whatup, fox" to try and confuse him into an identity crisis. So I hope it's a fox and not a wolf.

I wonder how these animals breed though. You don't see many of them around. When they're in the mood, lady vixens must be finding it hard to locate a mate. I guess that's why they leave their scent on trees and stuff. It's the vulpine equivalent of writing your phone number on the back of a card. Fox goes sniff sniff, alright, my gal's asking me to meet her at Lover's Rock. Son of a bitch, I'm gonna get lucky tonight.

With human females, the situation is the exact opposite. Too many goddamn men around. Why would you even want to attach your scent to things when all you gotta do is say, "Excuse me, it is now time for me to breed, perhaps one of you kind gentlemen would be willing to offer some assistance"? In fact, that's why women use deodorant. To hide their scent and keep the men away when they're not needed.

So as I was saying, I'm gonna go read up on wolves because that thing is just too fucking huge to be a fox.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

We had more bloodthirsty Gods

So it seems that somebody, let's call him "Genius" with air quotes, decided to go ahead and create an online computer game, involving Jesus and Mohammed slugging it out in hand-to-hand combat. Now, following an outcry from the "Islamophobia Observatory of the Organisation of the Islamic Conference" (try saying that fast while getting beheaded), the Italian company that developed the game is now withdrawing it.

It's actually a pity because the game itself is quite good fun. Along with a scrawny Jesus and a scrappy Mohammed, you can also fight as generic Old Man God, Buddha (which is historically inaccurate since he was an adherent of non-violence), or Lord Ganesha. Now speaking as a fundamentalist Hindu computer gamer, that last part really pissed me off. With the entire pantheon of one billion Hindu Gods at their disposal, why did this company choose Lord Ganesha to represent us Hindus in combat? That's like sending fucking Corporal Radar O'Reilly to represent the M*A*S*H 4077 in a drinking competition.

Look, I'm a Ganesha devotee. Huge, huge devotee. But let's be honest, the Guy's obviously ill-equipped for battle. True, a few of His biographers do claim that He's vanquished numerous demons in his lifetime, for example, the twin brothers Narantak and Devantak, and the hideously ruddy Sindoora (What, forgot your sunscreen? Again?). But you've got to take anything that comes out of His PR department with a grain of salt. Look at the evidence on the ground. Every picture of Ganesha in the press has him holding a lotus and a golden axe, which, by the way appears to be more endowed with aesthetic appeal than utilitarian value. In the age of the atom, what kinds of weapons are these? He might as well be holding a white flag. And in some highly incriminating photographs obtained through secret back channels, He is actually seen to be holding a plateful of fucking sweets and administering benevolence with His remaining hand. What kind of message does this send to enemy combatants? That ain't neither proper combat attire nor attitude, Homeslice.

But in my opinion, where Ganesha's battle-readiness suffers the most is in the area of transportation. When you are at war, your ability to mobilize quickly and reliably is paramount. That requirement goes largely unfulfilled if your preferred mode of transportation is on ratback. Come on now, how can My Man possibly compete in this area? You have Jesus, who can fucking walk on water, Mohammed, who surely owns a horse, or at least a mule, that's in all likelihood equipped with winged feet, Buddha who can fucking levitate in mid-air and then there's our Man Ganesha, crouching beside the hole in his wall with a piece of cheese in his hand, waiting for his battle-rat to get hungry and come out.

This is what bugs me. We have one billion Gods, out of which probably nine hundred and ninety-nine million are experienced demon-war-veterans with a well-documented history of bloodshed and violence. Why choose someone out of the remaining one million? You have Goddess Durga on her ferocious lion. Indra, the bloodthirsty redneck with his flying eight-trunked elephant. Or how about Kali? The mere sight of Kali, and those demon skulls flopping around on her neck and arms would have Jesus calling out his own name and Mohammed peeing vapor into the hot desert air. Buddha would stay calm, though. That's why he's the Buddha.

Look, our ancient Hindu holy-book writers had tremendous foresight. They designed most of our Gods, bearing in mind that at some point in the distant future, They would be called upon by the geeks of the world to duke it out in online fighting competitions and smartly, equipped Them with the requisite skills and gadgetry towards that purpose.

But Lord Ganesha wasn't one of them. He just wasn't.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

We are finally

Great news, folks! We are now available on . I'm not really sure how it all works, but apparently, you pay 1.99 USD a month (or 20,000 Canadian dollars) and then you can read this blog all day long. Even when you are in the bathtub and I know you're a clean freak so that's like most of your day. The alternative, of course, is to read this blog for free, but you wouldn't want to be taking food out my baby's mouth now, would you? No, I don't have a baby, why do you ask?

It seems you need something called a "Kindle" to read the paid version of this blog. My literary agent (and manager) asked me to try and get people to purchase it, because that will help him feed his own baby, which also currently doesn't exist. I said to him, "But bhad, it don't feel right, asking people I don't really know to purchase things I don't really know". Bhad means pimp or fucker or something similar in Marathi. You're probably saying, what that how you treat your agent? But it's okay because he is also my best friend. Also, he does some pimping in his spare time. But anyways, he replied, "Look, these people who read your blog, they've been following the painfully mundane narratives of a complete stranger for a while now, so there is a significant possibility that they will also make a purchase based on his recommendation." That made a lot of sense to me even though it didn't answer my question.

So let me give you a little insight about Kindle and you can be sure this is an unbiased review because I don't own, nor have I ever used one.

1.> A Kindle is very light and as thin as a magazine. If you've ever screamed out in a dentist's waiting room, "God, this magazine is so fucking heavy it's making my wrists fall off my arm", you should probably be visiting a different doctor.

2.> It has a crisp display, reads like paper and has 16 shades of grey. It's like they made this product specifically for you! You adore grey, remember how you were telling me it is the color of your life? And how you said no you weren't crying, those were tears of happiness and wails of joy?

3.> If you are blind, illiterate or somehow managed to superglue your eyelids together, this thing can read out loud to you. It's got a bit of a Southern accent, so as long as you manage to suppress your laughter, your relationship with your Kindle should be free of all awkwardness.

4.> 20% faster page turns! Remember that one time when you were taking forever to turn that page and we waited and waited and finally we took you to the ER and it turned out you had just suffered a massive coronary? You never paid me for the cab ride.

5.> Check out how pretty you look, using a Kindle. You could use the extra help, really.

(Above : You, using a Kindle to look pretty)

So folks, get an expensive Kindle and follow this blog from wherever you are for $ 1.99 a month. In fact, I have been informed that the subscription might even drop down to $ 0.99 in case someone at Amazon were to find the time to read this blog and correctly determine that it is way overpriced. On the other hand, you could also pay nothing and "log on" to your "computer" everyday in order to read this blog. But that would be so January 2009. It's already April now.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Your lawn sucks. But there is hope.

In the single year that I have been a home-owner, I have come to realize that an American home-owner's life is basically one characterized by constant suckerhood. After purchasing a home, at some point, you correctly determine that the human race at a molecular level can be classified into two fundamental categories : a> Home-owners and b> People who make money off home-owners. In fact, if you take a close look at all the major US stock indices, you will notice that for the most part, they are comprised of companies engaged solely in the business of trying to separate a home-owner from his cash. Initially, when the recession made its presence felt in this country, I was surprised to know that it was caused by home-owners. Now that I am aware of the huge role my fellow home-owners and I play in propping up the American economy, it all finally makes sense.

A prime player in the home-owner-milking industry is Scotts. Scotts, of course, is the company most renowned for its lawn maintenance products. Now if you are of Indian origin and used to a life bereft of anything green within a 20 km radius around your house, you'll probably say to me, but gawker, I am Indian and therefore, quite used to a life bereft of anything green within a 20 km radius around my house. Why would I even consider buying a Scotts lawncare product? I am quite satisfied with the Saharan ecosystem currently flourishing in my backyard. My wife and kids have already managed to evolve camel-like humps, padded feet and flapped nostrils in order to cope with the parched sandy environment. I don't need Scotts, gawker, please go away.

I will go away, but let me say this, don't underestimate Scotts, my friend. Scotts has a widespread network of undercover lawn spies. The moment they track down a Desi brown-thumbed lawn anarchist such as you, Scotts will quickly purchase the home next to yours and landscape the holy heck out of it. Soon, you will be spending long mournful hours comparing your terrible weed infested yard to the dazzling state-of-the-art lushness that is your neighbor's property. Don't forget, a large part of being Indian involves coveting your neighbor's lungi, his wife and yes, also his yard. It won't be long before you find yourself loitering around in Home Depot or Lowes and buying up everything that has the word "lawn" or "garden" on it.

And Scotts will be more than happy to help. Scotts has a hundred different types of lawn-care products and you are mandated by law to purchase each and every one of them. In early Spring, you will need to use Scott's fertilizer with Halts. It gets rid of something called crabgrass. Crabgrass is not as delicious as it sounds so you need to remove it as soon as possible. This will give you adequate time to prepare yourself for the next tragedy that is about to befall your lawn, which is weeds. Late spring is weed season. This is when you need to use Scotts fertilizer with Plus-2 weed control. That will get rid of dandelions and thistles. Sometimes it also gets rid of the lawn. But hey, don't worry, Scotts is already on it. Here my friend, meet Scotts grass seed. It will grow you a new lawn. But don't forget, grass seed is quite useless by itself. To grow a new lawn in an ISO 9001 certified manner, you also need Scotts starter fertilizer. You see, grass seeds are like babies. They need water, love and their own expensive baby food. They don't cry and keep you awake all night, but not to worry, Scotts is already working on it.

Alright, so your lawn is back up and running but what d'ya know, it is now summer. Summertime has its own problems. Summer is apparently when grubs take over our planet. As always, Scotts is by your side, eager to provide moral and chemical support. Which is in the form of Scotts fertilizer with Summerguard. You don't know what a grub is or what it looks like or why it shouldn't be on your lawn, but isn't it reassuring to know that Scotts is protecting you from that sucker? It sure is!

Finally, when September comes around, you allow yourself to breathe a sigh of relief. You're probably thinking okay, it will soon be winter, my lawn will stop growing and get covered with snow and I can finally quit the second job I had to take in order to pay for all that fertilizer. But you sigh too soon. For fall is the perfect time to make plans for a lush spring lawn. Hey, you can't be too careful, right? It just makes no sense at all, not to use Scotts Winterguard with Plus-2 weed control. It protects your lawn from spring weeds. Yes indeed, Scotts has invented a fertilizer that is so powerful, it will even kill weeds that don't yet exist. If that doesn't qualify for Alfred Nobel's inheritance, I don't know what does. Also, please don't confuse it with regular Scotts fertilizer with Plus-2 weed control. They are totally different. One has the word Winterguard in it, and the other doesn't.

Sometimes, when I have some time to myself between two fertilizer applications, I sit down and ponder. Ask myself questions. Like, why doesn't Scotts add weed killer, crabgrass killer and grub killer to the same fertilizer? Is it because Scotts weed killer is actually an army of grubs that march forth and devour the weeds? Also questions like, how did grass manage to grow before there was Scotts? Why crabgrass? And why do they call pubic lice "crabs"?

But before I can answer any of these questions, it's already time for the next fertilization.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Happy birthday, John

Bill celebrates his birthday today. As is the custom in my office, first thing in the morning, they passed a birthday card around that everybody was supposed to sign. Ross gave me the card, telling me it was Bill's birthday. I wrote "Happy Birthday" and signed my name underneath. Then, I gave the card to Jim to sign. I did not tell Jim that it was Bill's birthday because making casual conversation with Jim at 8:00 am is a surefire way to develop a brain aneurysm at 9:00 am.

But Jim is an inquisitive type. He fancies himself to be quite a sleuth. Jim scanned the birthday card for clues as to whose birthday it was. He saw the words "Happy Birthday" and underneath it, the underlined name, John. John always underlines his name when he signs it on a birthday card. Jim did not know that. So Jim, having no sleuthing abilities whatsoever, naturally opted to believe that it read "Happy Birthday, John". He added his own wishes to the card by writing "Happy Birthday, John". Then, he passed on the card to Ronny, helpfully informing him that it was John's birthday. Ronny signed the card as well, adding his hope that John would experience an abundance of joy on this wonderful day. And so, like a tragic rolling stone, the card continued to make its way downhill, gathering birthday wishes for John.

At some point today, Bill will be signing his own birthday card, wishing John the very best and quite possibly, also adding a humorous side-note because he is that kind of a guy. Bill will feel just a hint of bemusement over the fact that this is the first time in all these years that he has shared his birthday with John. Bill will also wonder whether John is a closet Hindu and has been following the lunar calendar. And later on in the afternoon, we will be having a surprise birthday party for John. John will be really really surprised, seeing that it isn't his birthday. Also, John is seventy. I don't think he would like a premature birthday or a surprise.

But there will be cake. And that's all that matters.

Monday, April 13, 2009

RIP Harry

Philadelphia Phillies broadcaster Harry Kalas has passed away. If you ever watched HBO's (and later Showtime's) "Inside the NFL" series, Harry was also the voice behind the game highlights. I, personally, will miss him as I am sure will countless Philly fans.

Why are birds such assholes?

You may not have realized this, probably due to the sheltered nature of your lifestyle, but not every asshole who's ever descended to earth from Planet Asshole was human. In fact, there are quite a few birds whose assholistic tendencies can rival even the finest mankind has to offer.

Take for instance, the Canadian goose. What an asshole. It's not just that this dipshit is an illegal immigrant from Canada, but also that it regularly fails to realize that it is a bird and would get its ass handed back to it, were it to ever engage in hand-to-hand combat with a human foe. Regardless of that fact, when this asshole is not shitting gigantic human-sized turds all over the path leading from your office building to your car, it is standing over them with the menacing demeanor of a mother guarding her newborn babies, prepared to fight to the death anybody who would dare crush them en route to home and hearth. Get over it, asshole. To you, they might be priceless nuggets of your body and soul, but the rest of us don't give a birdshit. And if I'm walking towards my car, better get the fuck out of my face because you're a goddamn bird and I don't know if you watch Animal Planet but you're supposed to be instinctively apprehensive (read scared shitless) of my species.

And what's with all the road-crossings? Watching these fuckers jay-walk all over our major arteries during rush hour would make one wonder, where are all these wankers off to? Meetings? Presentations? You're probably saying to yourself, "Dear God, am I doing as much with my life as these geese are with theirs"? To which the answer is, yes, because they are just being assholes. Only an asshole would deliberately cross a road on foot during rush hour despite being endowed with actual working wings.

Now you probably wouldn't believe a sparrow to be a bird subscribing to the asshole mindset. After all, it's just a tiny soul, keeps to itself and gets bullied by the larger birds. But then, you don't know assholes. Assholes come in all sizes and innocence. And the sparrow is a tiny asshole, but an asshole nevertheless. Look, you purchased a bird feeder for thirty bucks. You've been keeping it well-stocked with bird feed, spending about fifteen bucks twice every month. It is food fit for a king, delicious and you know that for a fact because you've taste-tested it yourself. So when it is time to patch the bare spots in your lawn with grass seed, it would be perfectly reasonable for you to assume that the sweet innocent sparrow that regularly dines in your feeder would leave your grass seed alone and in peace. But you would be wrong because the sweet innocent sparrow is an asshole. A human would say, I have eaten this man's salt, perhaps I should keep my grubby paws off his lawn. But not the sparrow. The sparrow will eat your salt, have your grass seed for dessert and then return it back to your deck in dropping form. That's how big an asshole the sparrow is.

But there is a feathered asshole that puts all other assholes to shame. Even human asshole heavyweights such as Axl Rose, Bill O'Reilly and Terrell Owens' agent. This is an asshole extraordinaire, one who reigns uncontested at the top of the asshole pyramid. Meet the common grackle. It is not a crow and it is not a blackbird. It is a grackle. Let's call it for what it is, a grackhole.

The grackhole loves to dine at your feeder. That's not necessarily a bad thing since that was the precise intent behind your purchase of the feeder, namely, to allow destitute birds access to adequate nutrition, while maintaining their dignity. But the grackhole is an asshole. The grackhole will keep other birds out of the feeder. And you know why other birds hate it and keep out of its way? Because apparently, the grackhole is in the habit of devouring the other birds that eat at your feeder. Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of an asshole does that? Let's say, you're at a restaurant and you decide there's nothing you like on the menu. Do you then say to the waiter, "Hey, I'll have the guy sitting at that table over there, grilled medium rare with mashed potatoes on the side. By the way, what's the soup of the day?" Not even Dick Cheney would commit such an act of blatant assholery. At least not until you're done with dinner and you go back home and wake up in the middle of the night to find Dick Cheney squatting on his haunches at your bedside, gnawing on your exposed fibula. But at least Dick Cheney will let you eat in peace. Not the grackhole, however. Because the grackhole is an asshole.

A few facts appear to support the hypothesis that the grackle is a world-class asshole. For example, the Cornell Lab of Ornithology says that the grackle has actually benefited from deforestation. Yes, you heard me right. How fucked up does a bird have to be in the head to actually hate trees and rejoice in their destruction? Another fun fact about the grackle is that it allows ants to crawl onto its body in order to destroy the rest of the parasites that live there. I do not even wish to know what it is that the ants are supposedly destroying. Hopefully it is not cancer. I would like cancer to remain on the grackle's body.

But the grackle is not just an asshole to its own kind. It's also an asshole to you. You, who installed the bird feeder on your deck in the first place. You, who are responsible for the healthy radiant rainbow-colored penumbra around the grackle's neck. Yes, you. The grackle doesn't care about you. For the grackle, you are nothing but a pair of hands hovering in mid-air that refill the feeder every couple of weeks. As far as the grackle is concerned, when you're not replenishing its food supply, you are just a fat lazy slob who lolls around on the deck wasting his life, gaping at the scenery and more importantly, keeping the mighty grackle away from its food and preventing it from achieving its daily masticatory goals.

And so, realizing that you are not going to budge from your seat without some external encouragement, the grackle alights on a nearby tree branch along with a couple of its thuggish buddies and kicks things up a notch by firing up the karaoke machine. The grackle's grating "chack chack" is the avian equivalent of fingernails dragging across a chalkboard. In the beginning, you are loathe to admit defeat because by God, you purchased this townhouse in large part due to its wonderful deck and the nice view it has of the woods and the stream and there is no way you're gonna let this filthy cockatoo keep you from getting your money's worth. But after ten minutes of nonstop chacking, you finally admit defeat and make a dignified retreat into the keep, whenceforth you watch as the gleeful little fuck leaps onto your feeder and celebrates its victory by defecating into the flower basket you've just populated today with fresh pansies.

What. An. Asshole.

Thursday, April 09, 2009

Shirtless Stupid

I am considerably gladdened by the realization that criminals in my neighborhood appear to be mental midgets. Apparently there was this guy who robbed and assaulted a cab driver and then, in order to elude the cops, fled into an apartment building where he was arrested in about an hour. Evidence of his sub-par mental faculties:

1.> The building he ran into was unoccupied. Thus making him the sole occupant of that building.

2.> The building he ran into was less than 100 yards from the scene of the crime. Really, criminal? You couldn't be bothered to run, say, 200 yards? You did have an hour to kill before the police showed up. So in the meantime, couldn't you have run to the train station? Where you could have caught the Septa R5 to 30th street? Where you could have boarded the Amtrak to Whitefish, Montana? Instead, you chose to run 100 yards. Good call, man.

3.> Finally, in a brilliant move whereby he clinched the 2009 "Evasive maneuver least likely to succeed but mad props for trying" award, the guy removed his shirt in an attempt to fool the cops. I suppose he was thinking, "Hey, if no one could tell Clark Kent was actually Superman merely because of his glasses, I'm sure I'll be made virtually unrecognizable by the sheer lack of garment on my upper torso". I'm sure he even called up his own mother in order to test his disguise and said, "Hey mom, I'm not wearing any clothes, can you tell it's me on the phone?"

So to recap, in order to escape the long arm of the law, this guy ran into an unoccupied empty apartment building within a stone's throw of where he knew cops would be arriving, stayed there for an hour and removed his shirt in 30 degree weather, hoping to meld into the crowd, of which there was none.

The cops explained how they caught the guy. "He was not dressed for the weather".

With geniuses of such outstanding cerebral caliber trying to rob me, I can now sleep soundly at night. All I have to do is post a sign on my door that reads, "After picking lock, please pull to open" when it actually needs to be pushed.

Tuesday, April 07, 2009


Don't you think calling a second earthquake an "aftershock" kind of absolves the Earth of all responsibility? Why this euphemism? Just call 'em like they are, earthquake 1 and earthquake 2. Calling it an aftershock is like saying, alright Earth, you fucked our shit up with an earthquake but guess what, you get to do it again without additional penalty or infamy. We will just call it an aftershock. Don't do that, man, don't spoil her. You give Mama Earth an inch and she will take a mile.

It's like allowing someone to get away with a second murder as long as the guy commits it within a day or two of the first one. We would just call it an aftermurder. No one gets prosecuted for an aftermurder. After all, it's just a part of the entire murder experience.

Friday, April 03, 2009

Link(s) of the day

Human : Fuck you, animal.

Animal : Fuck me? No, fuck you, loser.

Thursday, April 02, 2009


Last fall, I was driving my parents through Vermont on a foliage-hunting trip, and during a conversation initiated by the sheer overpowering beauty of the place, I randomly mentioned that someday I would like to hang up my keyboard and mouse, buy a house in Vermont and run a bed and breakfast.

The moment I said that, my mom began to look at every subsequent house that we passed on the road in a new light, as the future dwelling and business establishment of her beloved son. She would quickly analyze its advantages and shortcomings with regard to structural integrity, aesthetic appeal, picturesque location, proximity to essential services and the condition of its indoor plumbing fixtures. This was all achieved through a cursory half second inspection of the passing blur. Then, following a fifteen second conference with my dad, she would tender her final recommendation on a possible purchase. She carried on in this vein until finally I had to tell her, mom, I don't know if this will ever happen, I have no money, no green card, I can barely afford my current mortgage and I don't know diddly squat about the hospitality sector. She replied, okay then, we'll do this again later when you're ready. My mom's funny.

I am not sure if I will ever be such a devoted parent to my kids. I can picture my son or daughter telling me that he or she would like to buy a house in Vermont and me replying, "Excellent, I'll come visit you when you're done. Make sure there's beer in the fridge." Are there any good parenting courses one can take online?

Tip of the day

I learnt this one way back during my graduate school days. If all your friends hail from a particular region in India and insist on conversing in their native dialect while in your presence, keep yelling out in a sporadic manner, "Hey quit talking about my mother", till conversation either dies out completely or transitions into a more comprehensible format.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009

Breaking in

We have a new guy in our office who's been temporarily assigned to us from India. He will be with us for the next four months. He's Maharashtrian and coincidentally, from Pune. My American colleague G is in charge of supervising the new guy. G wandered into my cubicle yesterday.

gawker : What's up G? How's the new guy doing?

G : Habeeb is in training class.

gawker : Habeeb?

(The new guy isn't Muslim and his name isn't Habeeb.)

gawker : Listen G, don't try your "all brown people are terrorists" jokes on the new guy just yet, okay?

G : What brown terrorist jokes?

gawker : You remember, when I didn't shave for a month and when I finally did, you asked me if I had graduated from terror camp?

G : Oh, that.

gawker : And when we were in the Indian restaurant, you complained they weren't playing your favorite song, and when asked which one, you put your palm on your mouth and yelled "ulululululululu"?

G : So when can I start making terrorist jokes?

gawker : I will break him in gradually. Start him off on some mild Mahashtrian mother-sister stuff. Gauge his reaction. I will let you know if and when he is ready for your overtly racist material.

G : Alright then, you do that. And don't cross any borders illegally in the meantime.

gawker : Oh, and no "Mexicans, Indians, what's the difference" jokes either.

G : You're running a pretty tight ship, Osama.

gawker : Just trying to keep the office safe from suicide bombings.