Horse-riding

I was hiking the other day along the Skippack creek and suddenly found myself face to face with a horse. Actually, it was face to giant dong and testicles, but I digress. The person atop the horse smiled at me. I smiled and waved at him until I realized that his smile was actually an invitation for me to get the fuck off the trail and let him pass. So I did.

But as he was passing me by on the trail, the horse gave me a look filled with such pathos and horsey misery that I went ahead and connected with him telepathically to find out what was wrong.

"What do you mean, what's wrong", said the horse, "I've got a fucking asshole on my back. Get him the fuck off me".

"I would if I could, my equine friend", said I, "For I commiserate with your plight. But the asshole you refer to has some sort of leather-bound weapon of mass destruction in his hands that I fear he won't hesitate to use on me."

"So what you're saying is, you're a pussy", said the horse. "Here, pussy, should I set out a bowl of Purina pussy-food for you, little pussy?"

I felt wounded. "Look, it's not just that I'm a pussy", I said. "I also respect the strategic height advantage that the asshole enjoys by virtue of being aboard your back. One doesn't fight a war one knows one can't win. Sorry dude, hope you have a pleasant life."

And then I continued on my way. It was mighty callous of me, I realized. So I repented. And as I was repenting, I began to think about horses, assholes and why assholes continue to ride horses even in this day and age.

Seriously, what is with horse-riders? I can understand children riding a horse. Children like to do a lot of weird lame shit. Like sit on a vertically oscillating wooden platform. Or climb up a ladder, only to slide back down. Or excavate massive amounts of sand from a beach without first developing a viable business plan to extract valuable minerals from it. Or ride on dad's back.

Riding on dad's back. That's when the seeds of this insanity are first sown. From the back of a dad as a child to the back of a horse as an adult to the backs of random strangers in the mall as a senile old fuck are but logical steps of progression.

My neighborhood is rife with horse-owners. Everywhere you drive you see signs saying, "Caution : horse-crossing", depicting an asshole on a horse crossing a road without first checking to see if a vehicle is approaching. Fucking guy, did you already forget your road-crossing lessons from elementary school? Let me refresh your memory :
1.> Look to the fucking left
2.> Look to the fucking right
3.> Cross the fucking road
4.> Follow these same fucking instructions even if you're on a fucking horse.

Even deer aren't this goddamn stupid and they didn't even go to school. What's your excuse, asshole?

But returning to my original point, why are people still riding horses anyways?

Some people might say, why are you so bloody concerned about horses when you stuff your face with cow every day? Trust me, when the day arrives that they manage to create cow from cardboard, I will happily stuff my face with that. Because as of now, I do not have an alternative. But in your case, hey, it's already been 80 years since the internal combustion engine was invented. Can we upgrade already? And don't talk to me about riding a bicycle. Bicycles burn calories. That's their purpose. What does horse-riding burn, except your inner thigh, and that too, only if you're doing it naked? (Which, for the record, I am all for. Not the thigh-burning but the naked riding. Because it serves a purpose)

Some people pretend to look at it from the horse's point of view. They say horses like to be ridden. Fuck you. Your horse hates you. If it could speak, it would recite a little haiku for you. It would go like this :

Fuck you,
Asshole.
Ride me?
I'll ride
You
To death.

What the fuck does a horse know about haiku?

Look, I can understand horse-racing. For it is a sport. The world has all kinds of weird sports that don't necessarily have to make any sense. Like cock-fighting. And basketball. Even as we speak, somebody somewhere is inventing a sport where you slide a rock along an icy surface towards a target as you run behind it with broom in hand. What's that, it's already been invented? Just serves to illustrate my point.

I can also understand descending into the Grand Canyon on the back of a horse. Okay, a mule, if you want to be an anal SOB. Because the fact is, you're too much of a wimp to do it on foot, and yet you harbor a desire to immerse yourself in the cooling waterfalls of the Havasu. A mule is your only option. And it breaks your fall if you lose your footing and crash into the abyss.

But I just cannot understand the need or the desire to ride a horse into the woods. Why are you not walking? Were you born without knee-caps? Why are you wearing that stupid cap? And is that a cup of tea in your hands? You disgust me. On multiple levels. As a human being, and as someone who wears a stupid cap while drinking tea.

Stop riding horses, Mankind. It is time to quit this barbaric practice.

New

Out in the parking lot, I unlocked my car but tried to open the door of a different car. It's because I am currently driving a rental. I wonder if this kind of thing also happens to newly married people.

Gated

Apparently Bill Gates unleashed a swarm of biting mosquitoes at a technology conference, in order to create awareness about the deadly nature of malaria in third world countries.

This gives me a great idea on how to spread AIDS awareness in the next technology conference. Why yes, it does involve a swarm of prostitutes armed with used hypodermic needles.

Also, just to clarify, I consider the perpetuation of "Bill Gates released more bugs into the world" or "the conference being abuzz" jokes to be beneath the dignity of this office.

Poorhouse

Today I kept seeing the news of the stock market crash on CNN on my way to the sports section. Don't judge me, the Phillies begin their seven game journey to the World Series today. So they say that the stock market has crashed and burned. Today the DOW Jones fell below 9000, whatever that means. I remember those days of above 10,000 DOW with sad nostalgia as if it were yesterday. But what does this mean for the average person? Am I gonna lose my job? Am I gonna be poor? What will I eat? I decided to test the edibility of various things I might have to eat when I am poor. I found a packet of Burger King onion ring sauce on my bookshelf. It's been here for a while. I tore it open and sucked it down. It tasted of stale oil but when you got past the taste, it was quite filling. Ten of those per day should provide me with the necessary vitamins and folic acid to lead a relatively non-toxic life.

I checked my 401K balance yesterday. The pretty lady on CNN advised me not to because she said she was concerned about my cardiac health. But it's like watching a car wreck on the highway, I had to do it regardless of the warnings. After checking the numbers and doing some calculations, I discovered that I am getting a 401K personal return of -47% on my investments. I guess what it means is that for each dollar I invest, I get to keep 53 cents. It seems like a good deal until you consider the fact that if I had kept that money under the mattress instead, I could have kept the entire dollar for myself. Plus it would have removed the wrinkles from those bills.

But there is a silver lining to the ominous clouds of terror gathering on the economic horizon. My new home has apparently increased in value. After dropping like a stone from the moment I bought it, my home value has not only regained its original loss but also climbed up an additional two thousand dollars in the past two months. Hopefully it means that my walls are slowly turning into gold or something. In which case, I will probably tear them down, melt them into gold bullion (which is easier to hoard) and plant new walls. It is indeed a blessing that walls are a sustainable natural resource.

Irregardless

Not a word. Deal with it.

Man servant

Let's say that as I go about my daily routine of being valuable to the world, some guy I didn't know from Adam were to approach me and say to me, hello gawker, how is it going, I heard the good news about your PS3 and your TV, and by the way, for some unfathomable reason, I would like to be your man servant for the duration of your lifetime and so, please to let me know what you would like me to do.

Now, let's assume, for the purpose of discussion, that this guy were to have the softest of skin, the tenderest of lips and muscular arms, capable of vigorous to and fro action for at least five consecutive minutes. For many of you, the choice of chore for this man-servant would be an obvious one to make.

I would beg to differ, though. For a long time, I have wished to hire a man-servant to perform one daily task for me and just that one task. And that is the assignment of every morning, walking into my closet and picking out my attire for the day.

For I hate my wardrobe with a joyless passion. Some day, after I have moved into a new house or a retirement community or homeless shelter, I would like to burn it down. It's because I have the worst taste in clothes. My taste in clothes is so awful that after I purchase an article of clothing, I do not buy anything else for a long time in the fear that it will be even worse than what I had previously purchased. And that is why at least ten minutes of every single morning of my life are spent in mulling over which one of my clothes I hate the least on that particular day. Ten minutes of time that would be better spent smelling the roses, watching morning mist unfurl from dew-covered grass or pouring concrete into a foundation.

I am sick of deciding what to wear each day. I want someone to make my choice for me. I need someone to decide if I should wear a coffee stain or deodorant residue. If I should be loud of color, bright of stripe or carry around with me the rank odor of two unwashed weeks. These are tough decisions and someone has to make them. I've been in this game for a while now and now I think it is time for me to retire. My constitution cannot handle it anymore. Life is short and I feel it should not be spent trying to decide what to wear. Some people are made for it while some aren't. I am not. If you ordered me to wear a potato sack to work, I would do it happily, no questions asked. But if it were left to me, I would waste half the morning trying to decide between Idaho and Russet potatoes. It is a sad state of affairs.

So that's what I need someone to do for me. However, I do not wish to impose this thankless burden on a member of the fairer sex. Which is why I need a man-servant.

Are there any about? Soft skin and tender lips would be a definite plus.

Endorsements

This blog partially endorses Circuit City who have agreed to replace my big screen tv that was struck down by an act of God who, honestly, is kind of a douchebag. The second half of my endorsement will take effect once the replacement television set is actually on my property.

This blog also endorses Best Buy who unquestioningly replaced my PS3 that also got douchebagged.

Finally, this blog endorses this Desi guy who has ably demonstrated the least feasible way of staying alive for more than 60 consecutive seconds.

(via FailBlog)

Maadi

My sister, while signing off from an email conversation, called me a maadi. I am aware that in marathi, this word translates to "child-bearing female". Hopefully it means something else in Bangalore.

Is everybody asleep?

How come in my absence, I did not receive a single request to blog, if for the only reason that it would be the first step towards taking towelguy off the main screen? It appears to me that all you people must be closet towelguy fans. Anyways here's to the few among you who did wish for towelguy to be removed, but were hesitant to openly request it due to peer pressure.

Bye bye towelguy, your moment in the limelight is over.

Medical announcement of the day

It's probably a bit late to call it breaking news, but here it is. This goes out to all men. Offered without comment.

Woo-freaking-hoo. I mean, achoo. I have a bad cold.

Okay, no comment, starting NOW.

By the way, the article is from 2003, so I don't know if there's been any new research that contradicts the findings in that one. I am guessing not. Research doesn't carry itself out and I am sure the team did not have a lot of time in the period between 2003 and 2008 to do it.

Stocks

I learnt today that the stock market in the US will be diving along its nose in the next three days. I heard this from a reliable source. Some Indian guy who was sitting in the table next to mine in the restaurant. He looked like a stockbroker because he had hair parted in the middle even though he was bald. That takes a devil-may care attitude which embodies a typical stockbroker. Perhaps you should heed his advice and start selling off your portfolio starting today afternoon like he was and no, I don't want any stocks. But don't do it all at once. We do not want the market to collapse. At least, not yet. I will let you know when it is the proper time. The tandoori chicken was delicious.

Vitamins

The question isn't why Diet Coke came up with Diet Coke Plus which contains vitamins and minerals, but why it took Coke or anyone else such a long time to come up with this idea. I say put vitamins in everything, why not? They already have this thing called vitamin water for people who were reluctant to drink water and needed an incentive other than the certain onset of acute dehydration and cessation of all bodily functions. So my question is, why is everything else in life still vitamin-free?

How about vitamin fries? Vitamin-infused McDonald's double cheeseburger value meals? If you are going to eat and drink crap anyways, wouldn't you eat and drink more crap if you knew that there was at least some crap in all that crap that wasn't as crappy as the rest of it? Put more vitamins in crap and people will buy more of your crap. Which part of "selling more crap" do you big corporations not understand?

It's not like vitamins are expensive. I have a bottle of One-a-Day which costs 25 bucks and contains 200 tablets. Grind half a tablet in a food processor, mix it in your product and you will be vitaminizing it with 50% required daily intake for just 6 cents. I just don't see what is wrong with this business model, people.

But that's just the beginning. I want vitamins to be in everything I ever come in contact with in my life. That's the only way I can be sure I'm living a healthy vitaminelicious life. I like the idea of vitamin-infused soap. I would buy it. Who wouldn't want to live in a world where getting soap in your eyes is actually healthy for you? Nothing could be more logical. And also vitamin-infused underwear for the Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohans of this world. No mother, I have a premiere to attend and I don't want to wear my undergarments. Wear them sweetheart, then you won't need to put soap in your eyes today.

Off to Vegas

For a week. Or maybe not. Who the hell knows.

Regularity and the I-485

I need to keep blogging regularly. I feel that I am losing touch with the English language. I keep forgetting all these words that I use in my daily interaction with people and it is very frustrating. Lately, my conversations have been fraught with long pauses during which I try to remember the exact word I need to use on that occasion because I am such a perfectionist. Also because if I meant to say "user interface specifications", but actually said "Adolf Hitler" instead, it might remove a few rungs from my corporate ladder. But I think it's getting better with time because nowadays when people see me walking down the corridor in their general direction, they bring out Vikram Seth's "A Suitable Boy" to read during the forthcoming conversation. And that is fine with me. This way, America gets reacquainted with the printed word and I don't feel guilty for wasting a large chunk of her youth.

Some time ago there was this news article which said that regular blogging reduces the possibility of getting some disease. I wish I could remember what that disease was. Parkinson's, I think. Or was it Alzheimer's? I just went and google-checked and it turned out to be Alzheimer's. I think it is somewhat ironic that I forgot which disease can be prevented by blogging and that disease turned out to be Alzheimer's.

I finally sent out my I-485 application yesterday. It puts me in line for an American green card. It has been a long and frustrating journey which commenced in May this year when the US Senate decided to table this piece of legislation that they called the "Comprehensive Immigration Reform Bill" just because the name "Turd Milkshake" was already taken. This bill intended to replace the current employment-based green card system with one that would be based upon merit. As you can imagine, merit-based systems are not very useful for people like me who are largely lacking in that department. Therefore, the period from May to June was a time of fearful apprehension and constant Senate-activity monitoring.

And then, just when all seemed to be lost, Republicans in the Senate rose to the occasion and defeated this bill. Twice. Man, I never thought I would say this, but Thank You, GOP, XOXOXOXO. But the respite was only temporary. The USCIS then piled on by coaxing all wanna-be immigrants into a state of quivering tumescence by making immigrant visa dates current for July and then applying danda to aforementioned KLs by rescinding the visa bulletin on July 2nd and disallowing anyone from filing for the final stage of the green card process.

This, of course, as history has documented, led to the Gandhigiri protests and the USCIS rescinding its previous rescindment and allowing everyone and their uncle to file for the final stage of the green card process, the highly-anticipated I-485.

In the meantime, immigration forums went wild. Clueless people began to ask other even more clueless people for help with complex I-485 filing details. "Birth certificate not have, family astrologer handwritten note will do?" "Medical certificate doctor asked to undress and touched in private portion, anyone else this happen to?" "Previously arrested for selling tobacco to minors, will this affect application or cause cancer?" "Filled out native script version of wife's name on her application, will USCIS find out it was me?" Correct answers turned out to be no, yes why God why, yes and are you fucking kidding me in that order.

And then there were those paranoid souls who dispatched their applications to the USCIS and then, for the next few days, sat in their darkened bedrooms surrounded by piles of their own hair, jumping at sudden sounds and wondering if their packages reached safely. "Who signed for your package at the USCIS Service Center? R. Williams? Mine was signed by C. Waterbury. Did I send it to the right place? Damn you, C. Waterbury!" How the fuck does it matter who signed for your goddamned package? Do you even know Senor Williams, I typed on my keyboard, pressed enter and watched my profile get flagged with a "rude commenter" tag.

I am not ashamed to say that I was an intrinsic part of this cowering fear-ridden pack until yesterday. But now that my package is well on its way to the USCIS, sitting inside a Fedex delivery truck the last time I checked, I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulder. Although I still wonder if I signed all my checks. Or if my 6 photographs will be acceptable. And that there are no distracting shadows on my face. And that the white background against which my face rests is milky enough to satisfy even the most hardcore dairy-connoisseur on the USCIS payroll.

Also, I hope Mr. R. Williams signs for my package. He appears to be more trustworthy than this C. Waterbury fellow, at least within the immigrant community.

Wax

I don't know if someone has already been through what I am about to narrate, or if someone has already pretended to have been through what I am about to narrate, just because what I am about to narrate is such an obvious thing to have happened and if it hasn't yet happened to anyone, I would be extremely surprised, but I will still narrate it regardless. So I was sitting on a bench in Madame Tussaud's wax museum in New York resting my back on which the weight of the world rests. And I saw this woman walk up to me and she stood there subjecting me to intense scrutiny for a while and then got startled out of her wits when I looked up at her and she said, "Wow, you had me fooled there".

If this story had not actually happened to me, I would have made it up anyways so basically, I don't know if other people have already made it up and recited it to other people, thus reducing the humor content of it, but in this case, it actually did happen to me so in my opinion, keeping that in mind, I feel that this episode certainly merits a few chuckles from you.

Thank you in advance.

Thank you, Munnabhai

Thank you, Munnabhai. I take back every nasty thing I've said till now about Bollywood.

Also, thank you Mohandas. I think this thing definitively proved your continued relevance in today's world.

Finally, thank you lawyers and your class action lawsuits. I wish I could find a suitable way to repay you. What's that you say? Oh ok, cash it is then. Although personally, I would have gone with gratitude.

Beating people up

One reason I began to work out in the gym is because people took undue advantage of my frail physique and kept beating me up. For example, I had an acquaintance in high school who had a habit of picking on me for one reason or another. One day it would be for criticizing the peculiar walk of his lady friend, the next day it would be because he didn't like the peculiarity of my walk after being beaten up the previous day. It was always something with this guy.

When you are thin and weak as I was and your body is devoid of any substantial muscular tissue, your only recourse is to defend yourself using your wit. I did just that. Those days, the hot new craze in school was to slap the air with a wet handkerchief akin to cracking a whip. The point of this exercise was to derive pleasure from the loud sound it produced. Usually this slapping was not directed towards a human being because early on in the game, someone had come to realize through excruciating personal experience that in addition to the high decibels, this slap also produced a severe welt if applied to the human body.

So anyways, after having been beaten up by this acquaintance for a couple of days in a row, I decided to exact vengeance. I said to him, "I bet if I were to slap you with this wet handkerchief, you would cry like a newborn, notwithstanding the formidable bulge in your biceps". Now because this guy had an ego the size of Mt Kilimanjaro back when it was still covered in glaciers, and also an irresistible urge to disagree with everything I said, replied, "Ha, you think so? Here, take a crack at me, and I'll prove you wrong."

The ensuing moments were quite possibly the most exciting and enjoyable of my entire life. I lovingly bathed a handkerchief in ice cold tap water, positioned myself for the assault and then proceeded to inflict wave upon wave of violence on his forearm, the likes of which would have made Hannibal proud.

I whipped him. I whipped him good. The air was thick with loud cracking noises and flying skin. After the initial maniacal desire for retribution within me had subsided, I then relaxed enough to enjoy the experience and even took the opportunity to hone my handkerchief whipping technique on him. In order to prevent my subject from quitting midway, I kept speaking to him in a soothing manner, saying things like, "I see blood on your arm, are you sure it's not hurting?" And this only made him more determined to withstand the pain and he stiffened his lips some more and allowed me to keep going at him. Finally, I had to stop due to sheer physical exhaustion but by that time, I had inflicted enough mayhem on his arm to last me a lifetime.

Later on in life, I made some more violent friends, for example, zambezi, who, every time I met him, would always beat the crap out of me, although in a friendly manner. It was his way of expressing joy at the meeting. And even though with zambezi it was easier to ward off violence by threatening to do bad things to his face (he is someone who takes inordinate pride in the beauty of the contents of his face), I was still relatively vulnerable to assault. And as time went by, my brain eventually began to weary of this constant responsibility of defending the rest of my body from attack and pleaded with it to do something about it. Therefore, at some point, I began to work out and have been periodically doing so ever since.

Now my body is stronger and better equipped to launch a credible defense against bullies. But now I have a different problem and I don't know if this is a common one, but whenever I go out looking for trouble, I realize that if and when trouble arrives, my muscles will be so tired from today's workout or aching from the previous day's workout that there is no way they will rise up to the occasion. Thereby, defeating the very purpose of working out. Some days I can barely summon enough strength to lift even a mere grocery bag. This leads me to ask the question, how is it that those well-toned people you see kicking all that ass on-screen manage to do it?

My solution to this is the following. I have modified my schedule to work out on alternate days, lets say monday, wednesday and friday, leaving tuesday and thursday free to engage in street combat. I realize that the reduction of gym time will probably retard my muscular growth, but what use are muscles if they never get a chance to engage in battle?

Don't go

Don't go anywhere. I am still here. I will be back. Life has been unfunny lately. Hopefully it will get better soon. Yesterday morning on the road I saw a long-haired guy sitting in a Mini-cooper, driving with one hand and lifting a dumbbell with the other. So as you can see, things are looking up. On the other hand, America is getting ready to kick out its Indian software engineers. So the scales of funny continue to rise and fall depending on whether you are watching long-haired guys exercising their biceps in a Mini-cooper or reading about comprehensive immigration reform legislation.

My friend slime is getting married in India. It's his second wedding. Luckily, to the same woman. He had one here in the US and now he will have one in India. He has decided to go against Indian orthodoxy and refused to wear a turban or ride on a horse during the wedding. Or brandish a sword like I did. He will, however, still have to smile all day when he is being photographed with you so there's still that. I wish him all the best.

We are thinking of going on a long drive for the next few days on the long weekend. Drive to where there are trees and grasses and lakes or similar other bodies of water. I forgot mountains. Mountains too. Maryland? New Hampshire? New York? I don't know. Maybe all. Maybe none. What about a tent? I'll have to buy one. Even though I already own a tent. It is lying at the bottom of the Delaware river. I bought it long ago when I was still in grad school and we decided to go camping in the Adirondacks. We all chipped in to buy a tent except I had not realized that the concept of chipping meant that I would be paying for it in full now and everyone would pay me later. Which they never did. So essentially, I bought a tent. I never used it after that. I never even had it in my possession. My friend S remained the custodian of my tent, loaning it out to everybody's uncle and every once in a while he would call me up and give me periodic briefings on its health and whereabouts. I am glad to say that my tent has seen more of the world than I have. One day he called me up and started telling me this tale about his voyage up the Delaware river on a canoe with his office friends. And how it became dark and his canoe began to fill with water and how they all had to carry their belongings through the river to the shore. And then I felt a tightness in my stomach and I anticipated his next words which were, "I am sorry but your tent didn't make it". And I said no way, it was made of waterproof material, how could it drown, and he said, well, skin is waterproof too and yet we dare not walk on water and then I resigned myself to its demise. Look at it this way : I now own a part of the Delaware river.

So anyways, I have to go buy a new tent and I will go have a vacation and I will be back. So don't go anywhere.

Here, pull

In the gym. Wife had just left the room to get a drink of water or admire the wallpaper in the ladies room or something of that nature. Strange old guy doing biceps next to me asked, "Is that your wife or girlfriend?"

"Wife", I replied.

"She's pretty".

"Thanks", I said, although I don't know why I thanked him, the correct response would have been to say wokay, I will go tell her you find her pretty and she may come thank you if she feels complimented.

"Does she wear glasses?", asked the admirer.

My wife was wearing contacts that day so I was impressed. Wow, I thought to myself, how did the fucker figure it out? Did he spot spectacle marks on her nose from this far? He must have awesome eyesight for a man his age. Or maybe it is that we glasses-wearers have a peculiar way of looking at things? Do we squint unintentionally? Are our eyes extra-large? Do our tired retinas give off some kind of bio-luminescence only visible to old people? Impressive.

"Why, yes, how did you figure that out man?", I asked, reverence dripping from my words.

"Well, she married you, didn't she?"

"You didn't see that coming?", asked strange guy number 2 on exercycle. "Thank you for the entertainment".

PS : By the way, I don't know if this was apparent enough because it wasn't to me at the time but what the old guy was saying was that the only possible reason behind my wife marrying me must be her bad eyesight, hence his guess. Also, the sky is blue and water is wet.

Please bear

Please bear with me as I sort out some changes happening in my life that continue to pose an obstacle to its unfettered contemplation and subsequent documenting.

Also, I decided to learn a new musical instrument and settled on a flute. When I went to buy one, it turned out that a Western flute costs about seven hundred dollars and looks like the cockpit of an Airbus A320. So instead of buying a new flute, I rented one on a trial basis. The fact that no matter how hard I blow into it, no matter from which direction, I still am not able to produce any sound is weighing on my nerves. And it doesn't help that the rental agreement says, "Thank you for giving your child the musical advantage", thereby implying that the activity of flute learning usually does not lie within an adult's domain.

So please bear with me.