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ANICHE
UNLEASHED

Volume One
(101 columns)
(May 2007-June 2008)

Original Source:
http://thedailycolumns.wordpress.com

Written by Aniche
(Contact: get.aniche@gmail.com or thedailycolumns@gmail.com )
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Disclaimer:

This e-book has mature humor and is

not suitable for children. Nothing
mentioned in this book is based on any
kind of facts whatsoever. The
columns aren't written with the
intention to offend anyone. They are
meant to be nonsensical satirical
pieces that usually only makes the
writer laugh and no one else. All
stories about celebrities, news
channels, religion, and other
eminent personalities are completely
made up and have no element of truth
attached to them. The writer is just a
bitter asshole so please don't pay
any attention to what he's saying.
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CONTENTS
(Title) (Pgs)

1) Fasci-Nation 6
2) The Prince and the Faux-Pas 7
3) Canne-demonium 8-9
4) Error Attack 10-11
5) Seacrest’s Angels 12-13
6) Spoilsport 14
7) The Bone Identity 15-16
8) Big Brother, Stiff Father 17-18
9) The COSB 19-20
10) Ja’Mon Let’s Auction 21-22
11) Visual Aids 23-24
12) I’ll Have The Grilled Bitch Please 25-26
13) Two Heads Make One BJ 27-28
14) For Kids: How to Save Your Ass 29-30
15) The Mystery of the Dead Coach 31-32
16) Premature Education 33-34
17) Adopted: The Angelina Jolie Story 35-36
18) Boxing in Bollywood 37-38
19) Motho Fucs: Part One 39
20) Motho Fucs: Part Two 40
21) Motho Fucs: Part Three 41
22) Al Qaeda Fan Mail 42-43
23) To Pope Goes the Weasel 44-45
24) Men of Honor 46-47
25) Scare Hostess 48-49
26) “F”: Part One 50-51
27) “F”: Part Two 52-53
28) “F”: Part Three 54-55
29) Oh, Have Mercy 56-57
30) An Inconvenient Stink 58-59
31) Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 1 60-61
32) The Prestigious Silver Dildo 62-63
33) Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 2 64-66
34) Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 3 67-68
35) The Adventures of Space Bitch Sunita 69-70
36) Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 4 71-73
37) 50 Paise vs Britney Spears 74
38) 50 Paise vs George W. Bush 75
39) 50 Paise vs F.R.I.E.N.D.S 76
40) The Wrestlemaniac 77-78
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41) The Seven Wonders of India 79-81

42) Paris Hilton Saves the Bald Eagles 82-83
43) God Fan Mail 84-85
44) 50 Paise vs. A Corporate Homo 86
45) Alan Johnston and the Panty Wearing Potter Fans 87
46) The Transforming Killer Holes 88-89
47) A Muslim Extremist Visits a Catholic Confessional 90-93
48) Kalpana Chawla is a Lying Little Bitch 94-95
49) The Drunk Postman: A Bombastically Lame Story 96-97
50) The Big Flip: A Dramatically Lame Story 98-102
51) Whassup Nigar…Khan? 103-104
52) From the Chomsky-Saussure Filth Archives 105-106
53) Life or Something of that Sort 107-108
54) Hate Comics 109
55) Pot, Pussy, and Prayers with Snoop and his Players 110
56) 50 Paise vs. Harry Potter 111
57) 50 Paise vs. Education 112
58) Bend it like What’s-His-Name 113-114
59) 50 Paise vs. The Oscars 115
60) 50 Paise vs. Will and Grace 116
61) Aesop’s Slightly Looney Brother’s Fables # 1 117
62) Indian President Looks Like a Lady 118-119
63) 50 Paise vs. God 120
64) 50 Paise’s Love Note 121
65) India Shining Like Hell 122
66) Aesop’s Slightly Looney Brother’s Fables # 2 123
67) India Poised Like Hell 124-126
68) From the Chomsky-Saussure Filth Archives Part 2 127-128
69) Dutt’s the Way it is 129-130
70) 60 Years 131-132
71) Why can’t we be not Friends? 133-134
72) It’s tougher to be a Man 135
73) The Sock Murder Mystery 136-139
74) Di, Dogs, and Dev 140-141
75) The Bridge of RAM-ifications 142-144
76) Sticks N Balls 145-148
77) High School Musical: Deleted Scenes 149-150
78) Overflowing Closet 151-152
79) BPO: Best Possible Orifice 153-155
80) When a Man Loves a Dog 156-157
81) And then there was Pedophilia 158-160
82) Suicide Bomber Fan Mail 161-162
83) Extreme Kamasutra Part One 163-166
84) Extreme Kamasutra Part Two 167-169
85) Crying, Waiting, Hoping 170
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86) Lynne Spears’s Parenting Book: Chapter One 171-173

87) A Message from Jesus 174-175
88) Sweetest Assassinations of All Time 176-178
89) Welcome to India, Nice to Molest You 179-180
90) Bite that tongue 181-182
91) India is MY Country, Not YOURS 183-186
92) Spread the VD Message 187
93) Fuck the Tiger! Save the Moths! 188-189
94) Untake my Kidney 190-192
95) The Makerighter 193-196
96) Paradise Fucked Up 197-198
97) The Life of Karkodian: A Timeline 199-203
98) Admissions Open to the Rape Academy 204-205
99) The 2008 Motherfucker Awards 206-210
100) Kids Special: Nursery Rhymes Anichiated 211-212
101) Butterscotchism 213-214
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(21st May 2007) Fasci-nation

It is infuriating to see how a few rotten apples can pose a threat to a perfectly
healthy tree. Our nation exemplifies unpolluted democracy and it perturbs me when I see
certain people trying to pollute it. We all know the part that religious passion and enthusiastic
nationalism have played in helping India reach the glorious heights it has reached today. So, I
decided to conduct an investigation of sorts into the blatant acts of blasphemy that these anti-
national elements have been committing.

As a result of keen observation on my part, and perfectly productive use of my

time, I found out the subliminal messages of hate that a certain female anchor on a sports
show was emitting. Mandira, as I shall refer to her, was shamelessly drinking orange juice
from a white glass using a blue straw. The very sight of it wounded the national pride within
me that I held (and will always hold) higher than everything else. After days of stoning her
residence, burning her effigies and downloading her hot semi-naked photos off the Internet,
my fellow patriots and I filed a case against her that resulted in a just court verdict; for the
crime of insulting our national colors, she was made to stand completely nude in front of us
with nothing but a book to cover herself.

This, inadvertently, led me to the second villainous figure in this vicious anti-
national circlean artist, with questionable initials, whom I shall call M.F Hussain. Aided by
his perversely heretical mind, he dared to paint the nude picture of Mandira having nothing
but a book to cover herself. Clearly, his desire was to abuse the Hindu religion and insult the
source of divine knowledge, which was epitomized by the book in her hand. After days of
stoning his residence, burning his effigies, and urinating on his property walls, my fellow
believers and I filed a case against him that finally managed to serve justice; for offending the
religious sentiments of one billion people Mr. Hussain was made to repeatedly watch the
movies he directed for three consecutive days followed by a session of Amitabh Bachchan
narrating penguin sex.

As I was celebrating the contributions I had made to our country’s overall

progress by going to a Chinese Restaurant, my eyes fell on the deplorable act of a renowned
sportsperson committing sacrilege against our nation’s father. Sachin, I shall call him, was
brazenly using chopsticks to consume his Chinese Food when clearly the chopsticks
resembled the walking stick that our Mahatma once used. I knew I owed it to Bappuji to
inflict proper punishment on blasphemers like Sachin. After breaking his bats, crushing his
balls, and burning his effigies, my fellow Indians and I once again approached the judiciary
and were given a fair verdict; for the crime of insulting the Father of Our Nation Sachin was
made to take dancing lessons from S. Sreesanth.

I’m, unfortunately, forced to report all this from an undisclosed location as

Maneka Gandhi is stoning my house assisted a group of effigy-burning chimps. She
apparently felt that the inclusion of penguins in this report was discriminatory and insensitive
on my part. But I don’t blame her since, as Indians, we do have the right to stone other
people’s houses and cause them physical harm while protesting. If that is not freedom of
expression, then I don’t know what is.
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(22nd May 2007) The Prince and the Faux Pas

A fierce familial spat happened within the Buckingham Palace sometime back
when Prince Harry let his father and grandmother know that he was planning to pick up a job
after graduation. An irate Prince Charles severely admonished Harry for planning to break
the royal tradition of not lifting up even a tiny finger to do anything in life. The Queen,
angered by the news, wished to scream at her grandson but since she was too lazy to do that
she hired comedian Michael Richards to do the job. However, Michael Richards was soon
fired from the task when he was found guilty of racially abusing the royal steed.

After a lot of persuasion Prince Harry finally revealed that he intended to pick up a
job for the purpose of knowing what ordinary people lived like, how life would be if one had
to work to sustain it, and what sleeping under an ordinary non-golden roof felt like. Prince
Charles grabbed this opportunity and used the latter part of the same argument to justify his
affair with Camilla Parker. The Queen, ultimately, suggested that rather than pick up a job
Harry should set himself upon a bunch of demanding, sophisticated missions which would
help him get a break from the life of luxury, instill in him a sense of achievement and which
would protect the royal heritage of never having worked a single day in life.

Prince Harry’s first mission was to milk a cow. He embarked on the mission
armed with nothing but a heart full of hope and a glass tumbler. Prince Harry held the glass
tumbler under the cow’s udder and requested her to donate some milk; when that failed he
promised the cow that he would build her a nice luxurious shed if she complied; and when
that too didn’t go as planned Prince Harry told the cow in a soft, cold voice, “Those are two
very nice calves you have. It would be a shame if something were to happen to them,
especially since you are a single mother.” Still no luck, still no milk. After fourteen minutes
of trying he finally gave up and returned to the palace.

His second mission, that was meant to inculcate some normalcy into his life, was
to repaint his home. This, Harry thought, was something he could dorunning a paintbrush
up and down walls couldn’t be that hard. However, after three minutes into the task he quit
when he realized that repainting one’s home was quite a difficult job especially when you
lived in the Buckingham Palace. His next missionto clean up his room was also abandoned
after he was confused as to which of his three hundred and seventy two rooms he should start
out with.

After various other failed missions the royal family broke the big news to Prince
Harryhe was going to Iraq to fight with the rest of the British soldiers. On hearing this he
responded, keeping in tact the royal dignity, “Are you both bloody crazy?” However, the
Queen and her son explained to Harry that he wouldn’t actually be going to Iraq; they would
only be telling the world that he was dying to go there. Later, a security analysis would reveal
a shocking finding that there was a chance Prince Harry could die if he went there. Thus, it
would seem to everybody as if Harry was a patriot like the other soldiers but would still keep
himself unharmed unlike the other soldiers. Prince Harry was impressed by the plan and
promised his father and grandmother that he would never express an interest to toil again in
his life. The Queen looked at her grandson, with tears in her eyes, and said, “We’re so proud
of you, Harry.”
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(23rd May 2007) Canne-demonium

The scene resembled that of a pre-independent era, set in the Indian territory of
Puducherry, where the French were trying to infiltrate India and inflict pain upon us with
their advanced weapons. Except that it was mid-May 2007 in the French town of Cannes and
it was the Indians trying to infiltrate France and inflict pain upon them with our Bollywood
movies.

One of the stars who made her presence felt at the Cannes Fest was Preity Zinta
who was there to promote her theory that she did not have an affair with Louis the XVI that
caused a rift between him and Marie Antoinette. The French media responded by asking her,
“Qui l’enfer vous est?” (Who the hell are you?). She screamed a flurry of obscenities in
Hindi at them and asked them to pardon her French.

Rumors floated that Hrithik Roshan was seen flying around the area with his right
hand up in the air screaming, “The double-thumb is here.” John Abraham, covered in
designer wear, was seen talking to the French reporters about how he would never part with
his middle class upbringing. Holding his hand throughout the fest was girlfriend Bipasha,
dressed in a formal bikini, complaining about how her boyfriend would never part with his
middle class upbringing.

Another major attraction at Cannes was Shilpa Shetty who was patently having a
good time posing and smiling for the paparazzi who mistook her for the French independent
director Pierre Packi Currie. And when they started calling out “Packi! Packi! Currie!
Currie!” to get her attention she broke down into tears and whined about how they weren’t
even trying to see her for who she truly wasjust a really bad actress.

A curious incident transpired in the middle of the festival where the French Police
managed to capture an Indian born stalker who was, apparently, studying each and every
move of Angelina Jolie. The police later revealed the stalker to be Sushmita Sen who
confessed that she was merely stalking Angelina Jolie to get tips on how to adopt more
successfully. Conspicuous by his absence was Shah Rukh Khan who was not invited to
Cannes this year after the demented humor sense he exhibited last year where he made puns
like “King Cannes” and “Khan/Cannes Banega Crorepati”. He was given a memo that read
“Khan canned from Cannes.”

The focus of attention, although, was, unsurprisingly, the Bachchans who finally
gained access to the Cannes portal through the latest addition to their family, Aishwarya Rai.
The entire Bachchan family was present including Amitabh, Abishek, Aishwarya, and the
motherly figure of Amar Singh. A slight scuffle occurred between Amitabh and the security
guards when Amar Singh’s name was found missing from the guest list. However, Amar
Singh was allowed to enter after Amitabh explained that they were actually Siamese twins
who had very recently been surgically separated by chief surgeon Dr.
Mayavati.
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The Cannes Film Festival 2007, with its booming success, marked a new high for
Indian snobbery and a new low for filmmaking. This year’s fest was described as the most
smoothly run event in all of the sixty years of Cannes. There was, however, some panic
created when the entire event was put on hold for about twenty minutes; men in uniform
cordoned off the entire area and circled the guests. Things calmed down, later, when it was
revealed that the security issue arose as the Bachchans had to take a bathroom break. And as
everyone knows that is a strictly family affair.
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(24th May 2007) Error Attack

One of my lifelong dreams has been to one day visit the city of Paris, take in the
beauty of Eiffel Tower, interact with the French people, and put to good use the only
sentence that I know in the French language: Je veux faire l’amour à votre femme. I think it
means “I love life” or something poetic like that. So, the first thing I decide to do is gather
information on Paris so I can have a comprehensive idea about what to expect there. I take
my trusty Oxford Dictionary of World Place Names and look it up:

Paris: A land inhabited by Parsis. The city was named after its first queen, Paris Hilton the
First who was also the first Parsi Hilton.

I didn’t want to go all the way to Paris just to meet a bunch of Parsis. So, I make
up my mind and can the idea of going to Paris. I open up the Oxford Dictionary and scan the
glossary and focus on the dream destination entries. Now, that looks like a list of places
where I can go and relax:

Dream Destinations

The Republic of Iraq: One of the hottest tourist spots in the Middle East that’s buzzing with
life day and night. Thousands of Americans and British vacation in the sandy beaches of Iraq
under the warm, crackling sun every year; some even find it difficult to leave the place. Even
if it’s only to shoot some hoops, do some hunting, or to, simply, have a blast Iraq is the place
to be.

Pakistan: Might very well turn out to be the next Iraq as the Government sponsored
entertainments in the country are slowly capturing the attention of international tourists.
Shopping in open market places and taking bus rides in Pakistan are two activities that are
just to die for.

China: A country filled with Japanese people, this is the place for shopping if you are
interested in getting top quality authentic gadgets and equipments.

Japan:One of the largest English speaking countries in the world, Japan is the home of
some very famous global celebrities like Jackie Chan, Charlie Chan, and Amitabh Bach
Chan.

All the places that I see in the Oxford Dictionary Dream Destination list hold
great promise especially some African nations like Korea and Hong Kong. However, I still
do not feel overwhelmed by an urge to just pack my bags and go to any of these heavenly
locations. I want to vacation some place where luxury is commonplace, where pleasure is
embraced, and love is all around. All of a sudden, my eyes, which were scanning the open
Dictionary, fall on the one place that epitomizes serenity, pleasantness, and comfort more
than any other place on this earth.
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Hell:Renowned for its great historic significance, this is one place that will appeal to your
mind, body, and soul. Marked by a uniquely tropical climate, Hell is the one place where
cultural coexistence has been stable for a very long time. Accommodating residents from
virtually every nation in the world, Hell can be appropriately named the official melting pot
of the world. So lose your inhibitions, carry your summer clothes, and come down to the real
land down under.

Hot, happening, and rich with cultural heritageall the things that I’m seeking for
in my perfect holiday spot. Finally, I make up my mind. To give myself a break from all the
tension that’s been happening around in our world, I’m going to the one place that will be
much more peaceful than home. I’m going to Hell.
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(25th May 2007) Seacrest’s Angels

The anticipation was so intense that the Palestinians and Israelis refrained from
killing each other for one night; Iraqis rested their debate on whether or not Saddam Hussein
was gay; Bill Clinton once again put off having sex with Hillary; Osama Bin Laden was
finally watching something other than his own videos; George Bush, at last, stopped doing
the African boogie. It was a night when they all chimed in one singular voice, “This is it; this
is the moment; this…is American Idol.”

Of course, the Palestinians, Israelis, and Iraqis were hugely disappointed with the
result. They were all rooting for Blake Lewis since the sounds he produced were very similar
to what they heard around them most of the time. Crestfallen at the outcome, they went back
to killing each other. The rest of the world swallowed their personal prejudices and joined the
17 year-old buxom, Jordin Sparks, in the moment of her crowning glory. In fact, Ryan
Seacrest was so excited that he pulled down his pants and mooned the judges. They
responded like this:

Randy Jackson: Yo, dawg, this is what we liked about you when we first saw you. You
seemed a bit itchy in middle but you scratched it out man. That was hot baby!

Paula Abdul: Ryan…you’re just…you know…you come out here…you… you…you do your
thing…you make me…ohhh…I’m just so freakin’ proud of you!

Simon Cowell: Pale, saggy, forgettable.

The pleasantly plump Jordin declared her undying gratitude towards the American
public and promised them that she would remain loyal to her integrity and virginal image
until she turned nineteen, when, of course, she would transform herself into a total whore like
the pop music tradition goes. She then proceeded to thank the three judges after which she
knelt down, looked Ryan Seacrest in his face, and told him that he was a very special gay
guy.

The runner up, or the loser, Blake Lewis, when asked about his reaction regarding
the voters’ choice very eloquently replied, “Boom-chik-chik-boom bam bam-chik-chik-bam”.
His father was seen crying yet again but this time it was because the little girl in the seat next
to him teased him about his loser son. A touching scene arose when Ryan Seacrest tried to
comfort the heartbroken Blake. But the touching stopped when Blake threatened to call the
security on Ryan.

Despite earning an immense viewership for this year’s final episode, some were of
the opinion that last year’s Idol finale, which showcased the amazing ass voice of Katherine
Mcphee going up against the spastic antics of some vanilla head Taylor Hicks was the best
ever in the history of the show. However, no one could predict the manner in which 2007’s
finale came to an end.

As Jordin Sparks filled the stage, taking in the sweet scent of success, she was
suddenly jolted out of her magical reality by a loud shriek. As the millions of eyes searched
around for the origin of the cacophonic shriek, the source made itself appear. In an almost
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gay army SWAT like entrance, from the roof, dropped Sanjaya who was suspended from the
ceiling with the help of nothing but his silky locks. Right by his side was his sister who was
known to the world only as “cleavage girl”.

Sanjaya slid across the stage over to Jordin, grabbed the microphone from her
hand, and issued a threat. If the title was not forfeited by Jordin and consequently conferred
upon him he would unleash a three-hour performance on stage with tracks by Stevie Wonder,
Maxi Priest, and Slipknot. The entire audience shuddered in fear knowing very well the
unfathomable intensity of havoc Sanjaya could wreak.

No one knew what to doexcept one fairy man, Ryan Seacrest. All of a sudden he
spoke into his collar microphone, “Angels, are you ready?” He was met with knowing nods
from the three judges seated in front of the stage. Suddenly, all three jumped from behind
their desk and landed on the stage taking up a very, very gay poselegs astride, hands in the
air, and crotches strained. Simon landed a flying breast slam on Sanjaya knocking the
microphone right out of his hand as Paula and Randy started making out on stage. Grossed
out by this sight, Sanjaya retreated with his sister, screaming, “You haven’t seen the last of
me, Simon.” Then, suddenly, as the world watched Sanjaya jumped into his sister’s cleavage
and disappeared out of everyone’s sight.

Seacrest maintained his composure, looked right into the audience’s eyes and said,
“This is messed up. This is bizarre. This…is American Idol.”
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(26th May 2007) Spoilsport

The Indian Soccer Team plays with the faith of a terminally ill pessimist; the
achievements of the Indian Hockey Team are as impressive as George Bush’s grammar; and
our beloved Indian Cricket Team has more injuries under its belt than wins. These statistics
might bring a sense of hopelessness to ordinary youngsters but the young population in India
is anything but ordinary. That is exactly why, when faced with this situation where the
popularity of the traditional sports is declining, they have regenerated the seeds of a sport that
just might see India placed amongst the top athletic nations in the world.

This sport has been around since time immemorial and adult Indians have always
been very competitive in this particular sport, especially when playing against our own
domestic teams. However, the indefatigable enthusiasm that Indian children, both teens and
preteens, have been showing recently towards this sport has got to be the most encouraging
factor of them all. I’m, of course, referring to the emerging sport of manslaughter.

The amazing thing about this sport is that it can be played as singles or doubles; it
is also often played in teams with each team consisting of varying number of players; it can
be an indoor as well as an outdoor sport; and most of the people playing the sport, especially
the youngsters, are often driven by passion, although there are some who play just for the
money, the fame or the window seat in a school bus. The fascinating aspect about
manslaughter is that there is no specific training that one can get to learn how to play it; the
children, in particular, develop interest in the sport by emulating the legendary names in the
sport, which one can look up in the members-list of the Indian Parliament; some also get
inspired by watching television programs that bear striking resemblances to the sport of
manslaughter like the debates on NDTV and CNN-IBN.

Recent accomplishments in the sport have shown that our country has great
young potential that could help us build a strong, very formidable Under-19 and Under-13
team which could even challenge the established teams of USA and Germany. They are, of
course, in possession of much sophisticated sporting equipments when compared to the
culinary knives and clenched up fists that our players play with; however, the rate at which
the sport is being played all around our country injects us with the hope that it’s only a matter
of time before our young players, too, get their hands, more frequently, on similar
sophisticated equipments.

However, what some players getting into the sport fail to realize is that with fame
comes its burdens. If you’re labeled as a star player your fame is most likely to isolate you
from your friends and family and you could end up spending most of your life with other star
players in your locker rooms. Although, for children, growing up in our country absorbing
the scenes that they see around them where their elders turn into fanatics when it comes to
this unique sport, it’s hard not to indulge in it. However, I just have one request to all the
players of this game, children and adults—don’t ever invite me to one of your games; nothing
personal, I guess I’m just a spoilsport.
 - 15 -

(27th May 2007) The Bone Identity

I’ve made up my mind to buy myself a pack of cigarettes every day starting from
June. Not because I smoke but I’m just addicted to pictures of skull and crossbones.
However, that is not quite what the Indian Government hopes to achieve with their decision
to have all tobacco products bear that deadly, all destructive symbol.

The anti-smoking campaignconsisting of wives whose husbands put out cigarettes

on their butts, guys who hate ashtrays, and English cricketers who loathe the
Ashesapproached the Indian Government with state of the art software that analyzed and
calculated the huge impact the pictorial warning would have on people taking up smoking. It
was a Word Document with the words “PICTORIAL WARNING ON CIGARETTES IS
NEAT” blown up to a font size of 78. Of course, when faced with such solid scientific
evidence, the Government had no other option but to give in to their demand.

One key reason for making pictorial warnings mandatory for tobacco products is to
get the message across to a large section of bidi-smokers who’re mostly illiterate rural people
like bankrupt suicidal farmers and unemployed hobos who will, of course, suddenly ascribe
new meaning to their lives owing to graphic depictions of mouth ulcer, cerebral strokes, and
damaged hearts. And, surely, the symbolic significance of the limp cigarette is not likely to
elude their hugely poetic, interpretive intellects.

Seeing that the Government was favorably negotiating with the anti-smoking
campaign, two other committees decided to voice their demandsthe Anti-Fat-Ass committee
and the Anti-Ayn Rand Committee. The Anti-Fat-Ass campaigners insisted that all snacks,
chocolates, and ice cream should have a picture of a huge fat kid getting stoned by bullies in
school and a picture of a big bloated girl getting cheated on by her partner; meanwhile, the
Anti-Ayn Rand campaigners demanded that every book of Ayn Rand especially Atlas
Shrugged should compulsorily carry a picture of a man putting a gun up to his head. The
Government, however, found these demands highly retarded and told them to just stop their
despicable habits of eating and reading.

The milestone reached by the anti-smoking campaigners, unsurprisingly, did not

sit well with the owners of the tobacco companies and the people involved in selling tobacco
products. They argued that having such graphic images on the covers of tobacco products
would instill a sense of violence in the people who come across them. And, also, there was
this small glitch of them losing a lot of money, but obviously that wasn’t as important as
protecting the people from the potentially traumatic pictures. Finally, they suggested that if
the anti-smokers so badly wanted a pictorial warning they could perhaps content themselves
with the picture of a normal man looking kind of sadbuyers would, of course, be able to
interpret that the reason for his sadness was lung cancer, impotence, mouth ulcer, chapped
lips, and children who were victims of passive smoking. Unfortunately for the pro-tobacco
crusaders, the Government proved to be inflexible on their decision. In anger, the pro-tobacco
crusaders remarked that the Government should have a huge logo where a donkey with a
broken leg would be shown, which would translate to “lame Ass.” The Government said that
they would think about it.
 - 16 -

I’m often dumbfounded when two parties with contrasting opinions just cannot find
a common ground. And since the Indian Government, the anti-smoking campaigners and the
pro-tobacco activists do not seem to have the foresight and astuteness to understand the
psyche of the people in our nation I consider it my responsibility to put forth an amicable
solution to the smoking predicament. If one is able to develop an image that wouldn’t
severely traumatize the customers but would still put the fear of God in them and would
make them think thrice before smoking; that is the key to solving the issue. Thankfully, that
is exactly what I have done.
 - 17 -

(28th May 2007) Big Brother, Stiff Father

A retired cricketer addicted to animal porn, a wannabe model, an
unusually large homosexual, and a foul mouthed kangaroo, all staying together under the
same roof for four weeks: that is the kind of picture that materialized in my mind when I tried
to imagine the Australian version of the reality television series Big Brother. But as it turns
out the original thing is a lot less commonplace than what my imagination was able to
concoct.

The Big Brother House, customarily, is an isolated territory where nothing from
the outside intrudes and everything from the inside, except sewage, goes out. It’s true, the
sewage is forced to stay inside the Big Brother Bathroom, which is why most of the
contestants get pissed off and end up harassing the ones around them. The only person who
managed to shield herself from the wrath of the smelly sewage was Shilpa Shetty but that
was chiefly because she barely ate anything and didn’t have to use the bathroom at all.

However, in the more advanced Australian version, Big Brother has gone from
withholding drainage facilities, which they felt was not very humanitarian on their part, to
withholding information about a contestant’s father’s death. Emma Cornell, an Australian
model, hoping to tread in Shilpa Shetty’s shoes, might just be the chosen one who’s next in
line to start up with global anonymity and end up with international pity. Even though it’s
been over a week since Emma’s father died of cancer, Big Brother still hasn’t broken the
news to her. When asked about their decision to not disclose the news about Emma’s father’s
death to her, one of the officials commented that in the Australian family system the Brother
always takes a more prominent position when compared to the father.

Later, Big Brother revealed that it was Emma’s own family who wanted to keep
the news hidden from her. Emma Cornell’s blood brother declared that it was a family
decision and Emma would understand missing her father’s funeral. He also mentioned that
after she returned if she badly wanted to attend her parent’s funeral he would happily cut
their mother’s throat and throw her a brand new funeral, just to prove that family was the
most important thing in the whole world. But, come what may, he would never let the label
of ‘quitter’ be associated with his sister’s name. All the members of Emma’s family
acquiesced with Emma’s brother’s statements and echoed that this is what her father had
wanted. Her dead father, however, refused to comment on the issue.

Meanwhile, when news about Emma Cornell’s possible rise to fame reached
Shilpa’s ears she realized that Emma was a creeper that had to be nipped in the bud. Shilpa
Shetty currently holds the number one position in the list of people who are hated by half the
world and pitied by the other half. Behind her, in a close second, is Saddam Hussein. Shilpa
knew that if she let the situation escalate further her number one spot would be taken away
from her. So she decided to break into the Australian Big Brother House and reveal the news
to Emma. Since stealth was of utmost importance Shilpa made up her mind to dig a hole
outside the Big Brother House compound and shovel her way inside. Things progressed
smoothly but shit happened when Shilpa accidentally thrust the shovel into one of the
drainage pipes coming from the House. But her experience as a Bollywood actress assisted
her to thrive in shit. She finally emerged out of the hole and got into the house.
 - 18 -

Emma Cornell was sitting down when Shilpa broke her the news. For a while she
spoke nothing, but after she came back from her room her cheeks were glistening with tears.
Though Shilpa instinctively felt a pang of guilt on seeing her cry she suddenly noticed
something familiarsomething trademark of her own self. Looking into Emma’s face Shilpa
realized that the tears moistening Emma’s cheeks were fake just like hers during the
contrived racial row. However, when Shilpa accused Emma of being a phony, Emma replied
by saying that it was not so and that she truly loved her father, Geoffrey. But when Shilpa
told Emma that her dead father’s name was Raymond, Emma finally gave up the act.

EC: I’m here to win and nobody can stop me. I’ll soon be the most pitied, most hated person
in the whole world.

SS: Look, you don’t understand. You can’t take that away from me. That is all I have. Isn’t
there anything I can do for you that might change your mind?

EC: Well, there is one thing but there is no way you can make it happen.

SS: What is it?

EC: One of my biggest dreams has always been to get a hot kiss from the Hollywood star,
Richard Gere in front of thousands of truck drivers. You wouldn’t know how to make that
happen, would you?

SS: Hmm…I think I might be able to help you with that.

 - 19 -

(29th May 2007) The COSB

One of the least understood concepts in our world is the concept of cults. When we
usually talk about cults we refer to the more popular, more routine groups where likeminded
people gather and share their various interests. Some of the common cults are the Goat
Cultwhere the members make use of goat testicles to adorn their faces, the Thursday
Cultwhere the cult members gather every Thursday to drink the heated urine of komodo
dragons, and the Engineer Cultwhere people who like having sex with automatic paper
shredders meet up. However, all cults do not have their fundamentals rooted in normalcy like
the aforementioned ones.

A shocking discovery that I made as part of an investigation exposed me to a cult

that is more dangerous, more damaging, and more bizarre than anything I have ever seen in
my life; a cult which is centuries old and has successfully managed to shield the knowledge
of its existence from the outside world; a cult which mercilessly recruits young children to
strengthen their foundation; a cult where the nature of the activities that take place is nothing
short of excruciating; a set of people who call themselves the members of the COSBor the
Cult of the Spelling Bee.

My first knowledge of the COSB’s existence came via an ancient scroll that was
slid neatly into the deepest recesses of the anal cavity of a librarian who recently passed
away. (One of my uncles is a mortician so he keeps giving his relatives stuff he finds in
defunct rectums). Anyway, the scroll was the official three-rule constitution of the Cult of the
Spelling Bee. This is how it looked:

THE CONSTITUTION OF THE CULT OF THE SPELLING BEE

a) All members should strictly have zero athletic abilities

b) New members can only be the children of existing cult membersit does not matter if
the children are legitimate or bastards

c) All members should have shitty hairstyles

Intrigued by this finding, I conducted further investigation that shed light on the
internal mechanism of the COSB. The cult members gather every year and try to spell out
words that no human being would ever use in his lifenever…ever…I mean it…not even
once. They recruit young childrenmostly their own like the scroll readand brainwash their
minds to get them to inject their brains with the spelling of painfully useless words. The cult
members aren’t concerned with what the words signify which is why the participants are
allowed to ask, during the spelling ritual, to the Elders, what the word means and how it is
used in a sentence.

The members of the Cult of the Spelling Bee seems to enjoy some kind of perverse
pleasure in voicing and taking apart words like ‘absquatulate’, ‘houghmagandy’,
‘mallemaroking’, and ‘syzygy’. After I typed in these words for this exposé, I tried to use the
dictionary in my computer to find out their meanings. I punched the words in and waited for
 - 20 -

their meanings to appear. After a while, a message popped up on screen, “Are ye kidding
me? Sod off, ya bugger”. I learned that there was only so much a computer could do; and,
also, that my computer was, apparently, Scottish.

The frightening aspect of all this is that the Cult is growing at an alarming rate
with sister cults all across the world. It is only a matter of time before these ruthless maniacs
let loose pure terror upon the unsuspecting humanity. But if we, the others, can stick together
there might be a way for us to stop them. We have to gather our friends and family, educate
them about the dangers of the COSB and urge them to do the only thing that can possibly
save usmake more speling mistaikes.
 - 21 -

(30th May 2007) Ja’Mon Let’s Auction

You’d have to be seriously messed up in the head if you ever volunteer yourself to
become a suicide bomber; you’d have to be even dumber if you believe celebrities mean it
when they say they love their fans above all; but you need to be suffering from mental
retardation of a cataclysmic intensity if you aren’t even considering buying anything from the
ultimate Michael Jackson memorabilia auction. After all he’s someone who has been
entertaining you for years, and, if given the chance, I’m sure he would love to entertain your
children, and their childrenand their friendsas well.

At the auction are some of the most priceless belongings of the “King of Plastic
surgery”, which he’s willing to give you if you have about twenty dollars and the documents
to all the property that you ownand yeah, also exclusive babysitting rights to any young boy
under thirteen that you might be around for the rest of your lives.

I decide to attend the function in order to get a firsthand experience of what the
auction will be like. The first item up for auction is a wrinkly dark cloth-like material, for
which the bidding starts at $5000.

Me (picking up the dark wrinkly material with my right hand): Hey, Michael, how come
this crumpled gummy thing costs so much? What is it?

MJ (smiling creepily): That’s my precious foreskin that was circumcised way back when I
was black.

After I amputate my right hand, I proceed to the rest of the stuff that Jackson is
auctioning off. The second item is a wrinkly white cloth-like material, which has a starting
bid of $ 10, 000.

Me: Let me guess, that is your foreskin after you became white?

MJ: No, you silly squirrel. Foreskin can only be removed once. That’s a sliver of my ass
after I became white.

I walk around further trying to find something that hasn’t either been sliced off his
ass or chopped off his dong. I stop when I see a collection of men’s innerwear. Since they
appear really small, I naturally assume that I’m looking at them from a great distance, and I
try to walk closer towards it. After two steps, I go crashing into the wall on which they are
hung. Then I realize why they look so small, they are all children’s underwear.

Me: As sick as it might sound, please tell me those are yours from when you were a kid.

MJ: No, you silly parrot, those belong to my favorite young friends who constantly visit me
at my home

Me: That’s what I was afraid of.

 - 22 -

MJ (pointing): That blue one’s Macaulay Culkin’s from when he was ten; that tight red
one’s Haley Joel Osment’s from when he was eight; the polka dotted pink one belonged to
Fred Savage when he was eleven; and that cute little golden thong belongs to Chris Tucker.

Me: You mean Chris Tucker’s from when he was a kid.

MJ: No, he left it here yesterday night

Two used soap collections, three pube packets, a couple of stained teddy bears,
and five life size Peter Pan figures with torn out behinds later I begin to get the feeling that
there’s a certain theme to this entire auction. Desperately seeking to find something that
doesn’t stay with the theme I scan the area until my eyes fall on a bottle of hand cream.

Me: I’m guessing the hand cream is also part of the past you shared with your young
friends.

MJ: Actually, no. That’s something that connects me with my son in a deep and profound
way.

Me (guilty that I misunderstood him): Really, what do you mean?

MJ: That’s the hand cream that I had on when I was dangling my son from the window of my
hotel room on the 15th floor.

Hours later, I end my time at the auction and head back home. As I’m walking
down the street, I ruminate on the unusual experience that I had at the auction. The things I
saw, the stories I heard, and the African-American foreskin I touched. Suddenly I realize the
futility of my journey back home; I no longer have a home. My twenty dollars and the deed,
along with the key, to my home are with Michael Jackson; I gave it all to him after the
purchase he persuaded me to make at the auction. But I’m not worried because I’m a
survivor; I can make it out in the mean streets as long as nobody thinks I’m some lily assed
pansy. Even though I miss my right hand, at least I won’t feel alone since I have Peter Pan in
a golden thong for company.
 - 23 -

(31st May 2007) Visual Aids

India is developing at such an astonishing rate that if Anna Nicole Smith were alive
her tits would have exclaimed, “Jeez! And we thought we were developed!” Technology,
entertainment, literature, lovemaking positions, morality, tolerance, you name it we top it. If
there was anything that was holding us down it was probably the fact that we hadn’t done
anything extraordinary in the field of medicine; some discovery, some cure, or, perhaps, the
shattering of some mistaken theory that the world of medicine all over had been embracing as
true all this time. But, thanks to the Government Medical College Hospital (MCH) in Kolkata
(Calcutta) we have finally broken that jinx. The hospital made the groundbreaking discovery
that a certain type of AIDS is, in fact, transmitted by the patient breathing on or by just
looking at another person continuously, without blinking, for seven minutes and twenty-two
seconds. And it was because of that reason that they threw an AIDS patient, named Kno
Mani, out of their hospital and refused to even go near him, finally catalyzing his death.

Kno Mani, after he was diagnosed as HIV +, first went to a place called the
School Of Tropical Medicine (STM) in Kolkata, where he was asked to go to MCH instead
since, apparently, that was the day STM staff members had kept apart to hand-clean each
other’s bowels. So the AIDS patient, Kno Mani, and his wife, without any consideration to
the people on the streets, walkedexhaling their contaminated air frequentlytowards MCH.
The employees at MCH, thanks to their trained eyes, were able to intuit that the patient had to
be dealt with delicately. Kno Mani and his wife went straight to the Emergency Ward and
requested to get hospitalized. The authorities screamed at Kno Mani to keep his distance and
not come any closer. After wearing their spacesuits, welding masks, and their virus-reflecting
pink panties they approached Kno Mani and told him there was no bed available for him.

Kno Mani: But I saw a man in an executive suit arriving with a sprained little finger,
accompanied by his seven relatives. They all seem to have got their own beds.

MCH (bravely maintaining their stance): I’m sorry, Kno Mani, No Bed.

Kno Mani and his wife, once again, without any sense of social responsibility,
walked back to STM with the selfish desire to receive some sort of medical treatment or at
least a free glass of water (Oh, the human greed!). However, by the time they reached STM it
was already the next day and that was, incidentally, STM’s eat-your-neighbor’s-puke day.
So, Kno Mani and his wife, the opportunists that they were, returned to MCHbreathing out
into the normal people’s atmosphere while they trundled along. By this time MCH had called
for backup and their expert doctors were already waiting for Kno Mani’s return. Kno Mani
and his wife, shamelessly, repeated their plea. But the strong will and the indestructible
conviction of the doctors shone through.

Kno Mani: Why can’t you help me, please? I can barely breathe. Please, help me.

MCH: I’m sorry, Kno Mani, No Treatment.

Unfortunately, after being pressurized by a group of no good ogres (NGO) the

hospital had to finally give in and find a discarded corner to accommodate Kno Mani and his
wife. However, the combined plan of MCH and STM to make Kno Mani walk back and
 - 24 -

forth, and thus deprive him of his already weak breathing, slowly began showing its effect.
Thankfully, they retrieved the corner quite soon as Kno Mani died a couple of days later.
However, the extensive research that MCH had done, with the assistance of the bowel-
groping, puke-eating STM showed that it was from the corpse of an AIDS patient that one
was most likely to contract the disease. So, as a quarantine measure, every single one of them
refused to even go near the body let alone remove it from its spot. Instead, the authorities felt
it was more advisable if they hired a bunch of homeless kids to move the body.

Later, at a press conference, MCH authorities talked about the strange case of
AIDS that Kno Mani had.

MCH: This isn’t the first time that we have had someone with this particular condition.
There have been reports of similar cases in the past. And at all times, we have strictly
followed the official hospital code of not giving a shit. What common people fail to
understand is that there are two types of AIDSType R and Type P. Type R stands for Rich
AIDS and Type P stands for Poor AIDS. Unfortunately, Kno Mani was suffering from a
severe case of Type P AIDS. There was nothing that we could do for him except keep him as
far away from us as possible.

The doctors also talked about their latest project where they would do extensive
study to try and prove that cancer can be contracted through forwarding email attachments.
Suddenly, I feel a lot safer living in our nation.
 - 25 -

(1st June 2007) I’ll have the Grilled Bitch Please

I love how smart people are. When we wanted heat and light, we invented fire.
When we wanted to bullshit about life, we produced philosophy. When we wanted to get
around, we invented the car. When we wanted to torture kids, we created math. And when a
man, named Mark McGowan wanted to protest against animal cruelty, he cooked a dog and
ate it with apples and onions. Like I said, I love how smart people are.

A few days back Prince Philip of Britain killed a fox during one of his hunting
trips which set off the code purple alarm at the NOBODY-GIVES-A-SHIT-ABOUT-ME-
SO-I’LL-JUST-PRETEND-TO-LOVE-ANIMALS ASSOCIATION Headquarters in the
meat section of Wal-Mart in North Yemen. Since they realized that traditional methods of
protest like holding signs, shouting slogans, and mooning people weren’t effective anymore
when dealing with such seasoned animal offenders like the Royal Family, they heeded to the
suggestion made by one of their veteran activists, Mark McGowan. He explained that a few
months ago when somebody killed a duck, he used a similar way of protesting and ate a
swan. And since then, statistics have shown that most of the people who used to eat ducks
have also begun eating swans.

The world watched in shock as Mark McGowan sliced the dog meat into smaller
chunks, bit the flesh off neatly, spat out the bones, and downed the meal with a glass of
mongoose spunk. The hunters who were watching this sickening sight, from all across the
world, thought in unison, “I never realized what I was doing. I went hunting with my dogs to
kill foxes and rabbits thinking that it was a good thing that I was doing. I can’t believe I
didn’t realize I should have just shot those bloody dogs as well.”

The show of protest didn’t mark a new milestone for animal lovers alone; it paved
a new route of expression for people all over the world who have been biting down their
feelings about the injustice happening globally to those who can’t speak up for themselves.

As a show of protest against the rising number of pedophilic Catholic Priests,

thousands of creepy old men from all across the world molested their nephews. Millions of
parents expressed their views against drug use amongst teens by shooting up sizeable
amounts of the good stuff. Billions of sensitive men, concerned with the oppressed state of
the opposite sex, protested against the victimization of women by visiting brothels and
forcing random women to play their skin flutes.

Some celebrities also took the opportunity to clear up certain misunderstandings

that have been associated with them.

R. Kelly: I peed on the underage girl only to show the world that it was wrong to…well…pee
on underage girls.

O.J Simpson: I wanted to protest against the shocking instances of domestic violence that is
ruining our great country.

George Bush: I’m deploying more troops to Iraq to teach them that killing innocent people
is wrong and that a human life is to be valued above everything else.
 - 26 -

Bill Clinton: Marriage is a beautiful thing. You shouldn’t dishonor it.

Elton John: I engage in gay sex to show the world that it’s sinful and ungodly…Oh, heck!
Who am I kidding? I love getting a good fudge pack.

So, what are we waiting for? Let’s get out there and fight for our causes. Let’s kill,
rape, plunder, torture, sodomize, steal, and raise hell. Let’s make the world a better place to
live in.
 - 27 -

(2nd June 2007) Two Heads Make One BJ

It almost matched, in its historic significance and intensity, the confrontation scene
between Leonidas and Xerxes except in this case both the parties looked super gay. The news
about King Bill and King Jobs sharing the battlefield after such a long gap created murmurs
of such epic proportions that there was even talk about demoting the position of Christmas to
the second place and declaring the BJ day as the single most important and celebrated day in
the whole world. On hearing the rumors even Jesus said in exasperation, “Christ! I wasn’t
kidding when I said the geeks shall inherit the earth, was I? I mean, damn!”

People thronged up in millions to see the two legends sharing the same stage. Most
of them had received emails from both Microsoft and Apple, which had promised them free
bytes. However, the spokespersons for both the companies clarified that they had done no
such thing and it was all the work of frustrated spammers. They, however, mentioned that
they appreciated the people showing up and added that if they left before the meeting got
over all their motherboards would be destroyed. And after guaranteeing an audience the two
stalwarts made their entrance.

On the chair that was shaped like an arrangement of windows, weighing in at 97

lbs, sporting a one million dollar shirt that still looked like crap was King Bill. On a blow up
couch in the form of an apple, weighing in at 114 lbs, wearing a look of imminent bathroom
visit, was King Jobs. For about an hour, both the Kings exchanged the memories of their
times together and how each was an inevitable part to the rise of the other. After some more
minutes of kissing each other’s Recycle Bins they moved on to reveal to the world the new
weapons that would be coming out from their respective artilleries.

Microsoft announced that they were coming up with a new updated version of
XBOX 360, which wouldn’t blow up if used for more than two hours. They also mentioned
that current XBOX 360 users would not be able to enjoy all the super cool luxuries that the
new XBOX 360 updated version users would have, like not dying in an explosion caused by
the console. Apple matched Microsoft’s bombshell by announcing their brand new state of
the art phone called the “uPhone”. It would be very similar to their previous product, the
iPhone, but it would cost much much more. King Jobs personally explained the difference
between the iPhone and the uPhone:

King Jobs: With iPhone I’ll have to take the trouble of taking the money from you. But with
uPhone you’ll be sucked into giving me the money yourself.

It wasn’t all business that transpired between the two kings. There were several
moments of pure natural humor that shone through during the fluent conversation that took
place between the two. Here’s a transcript of one such hilarious piece of conversation that
took place between King Bill and King Jobs.

King Bill: <li style=”border-bottom: 1px solid #ececec;”><b>IE5+:</b> IE 5 and

above</li> <li style=”border-bottom: 1px solid #ececec;”><b>Opr7+:</b> Opera 7 and
above.</li> <div id=”scriptheader”><span class=”compatlist”>FF1+ IE5+
Opr7+</span>.
 - 28 -

Hearing this comment made by King Bill, King Jobs retorted with a quick and
witty comeback.

King Jobs: <div class=”virtualpage4″> <img src=”castle.gif” /> <img

src=”http://img201.imageshack.us/img201/6923/countryxb6.gif” /> <a href=”#”
rel=”previous”>Prev</a> <span class=”flatview”></span> <a href=”#”.

Whatever was expected of the event was happening as expected until the
unexpected happened at the expected moment unexpectedly surpassing all expectations. In
the middle of a conversation King Bill’s eyes began glowing and subsequently turned orange.
Making strange robotic noises, he began to twirl in circles. Then suddenly, with one swift
movement of his arm, he ripped of his Velcro pants to reveal a blinking microchip in his
abdominal area (a really really micro chip). He then turned around and bent over displaying
his posterior to his rival who was too stunned to move. As millions watched, something
brown, something smelly, something pasty slid out of his orificeit was the Microsoft Zune
mp3 player. The Zune crawled out his ass and shot straight ahead to hit King Jobs in his nuts
with the precision of a homing missile. King Jobs dropped dead instantly as the world
realized that it wasn’t King Bill whom they were looking at but a robotic duplicate sent to
destroy King Jobs. As the fake King Bill stood tall in his glory his eyes fell on the dead
king’s pants; there was movement inside. At first the robot mistook it for a posthumous
boner, but by the time he realized the truth it was a bit too late. Two apple shaped metallic
balls rolled out of the dead king’s pants and began going berserk around the fake King Bill.
Suddenly a mechanical voice came from the corpse of King Jobs which said, “These testicles
will self-destruct in 5…4…3…2…1”. A loud explosion followed, engulfing and completely
melting the robot King Bill in the testicle flame of the robot King Jobs.

The millions of everyday computer users stared speechlessly at the carnage that
was laid out before them. After about four more minutes of staring they all went back to their
PCs and Macs to download porn and play pinball.
 - 29 -

(3rd June 2007) For Kids: How to Save Your Ass

Call me psychic but years ago when I used to spend close to twenty hours a
day watching TV, and my parents called me a lazy-ass who wouldn’t exercise his brain, I told
them that I was doing it for my own safety and well-being. I specifically remember giving
them the portentous warning that all parents who forced their kids to stop watching TV and
engage in brainy activities like spending time with computers or developing a skill or reading
books would have their words come back in the future and bite them in their asses so bad that
it would cause a severe infection around their anuses. Anyway, anal infections aside, I’m
referring to the grave dangers that can be brought upon a child’s life when he fails to spend
an abnormal amount of time in front of the TV. Since the ill effects of reading books, and
developing a skill, have been researched extensively by experts from the rap industry I’ll be
focusing on the third and the most perilous substitute for TVthe Internet. And today, I shall
dedicate my intelligence to provide a list of safety tips for children, which would guarantee
98% protection from the innumerous sexual predators who are perpetually roaming the world
of Internet. Obviously, there’s a 2% chance that even after reading my safety tips children
could still be dumb enough to go on and get the shit molested out of them.

INTERNET SAFETY TIPS FOR CHILDREN

I) Ideally, chatting on the Internet, being a member of online communities, and trying to find
friends online should be avoided, as those are the activities of losers with no lives who beat
themselves off more than eighteen times a day. However, if you are a kid, who beats himself
off more than eighteen times a day, and cannot help but chat online make sure you choose
your screen name wisely. I would not recommend using your real name, your original birth
date, or the extent of your cuteness. Using sophisticated research methods I have come up
with a list of screen names that should keep you safe from online child molesters.

a) SmellyLady_just turned76 b) Herpes_Harry_54 c) KilledHusband_currentlyavailable d)

Gonorrhea_George_1947 e) Gayatri_Chakravorty_Spivak f) Telemarketer4U_4ever g)
Chris_Hansen h) Al_Gore_Enthusiast61 i) Syphilis_Simon j) Freelance_Castrator

II)While chatting online to strangers, friends, or relatives, remember never to divulge any of
your personal details. If at all you feel compelled to answer the persuasive questions of the
chatter at the other end, use my standard info-key to respond.

1) Name: Cho Seung Hui 2) Ethnicity: Retarded 3) Looks: Retarded 4) Interests: Murder,
torture, and speaking about globalization. 5) Age: Retarded 6) Father’s Occupation: Catholic
Priest 7) Mother’s Occupation: NASA Astronaut 8 ) Siblings: Killed them 9) Pets: Killed
them 10) Ambitions: Killed them 11) Sexual Orientation: TV Evangelist

III) If anybody or any site asks for your photograph do not show them any photo of yourself
or your family. Instead upload the photo that I’ve digitally mastered below.
 - 30 -

IV) If the person you are chatting to tries to get you to meet him, whether it’s for going to
Disneyland, to give you a Playstation 3, or to make u blow his bonogram, do not ever agree
to it. If at all he manages to persuade you to meet him convince him to meet you at the
nearest Economics Association Meet. Chances are that he won’t take the risk of getting killed
by the boring speeches made at such venues. If he’s still persistent, make sure that you’re
strapped before going to meet him and that you blow his head open when you meet him. At
least, he’ll think you didn’t lie about your name.

V)Online chatters are pathological liars. They’ll lie about their names, ages, and professions
just like I have advised you to do. However, there’s a test you can do to see if they are
genuine. If you are ten and the other person says he’s ten as well you ask him if he thinks
Harry Potter is gay. If he says no, then you can be assured that he’s a sex offender. And if he
says yes, it is certified that he wants to put his wiener inside your ass and move it around.

VI) Tell your parents about everything that you do and talk about online. Except porn. That’s
personal.

So, all you kids and parents out there, I hope you’ll utilize my pointers to their full
capacity and create a safer, more pleasant atmosphere around you. I would stay and lecture
you further on Internet safety but I have to go rendezvous with this cute girl that I met online
a month ago. She’s really sweet. I feel she could be the one. Although, I wonder why she
wants me to meet her at the abandoned warehouse near the locked up sawmill. Oh, well.
 - 31 -

(4th June 2007) The Mystery of the Dead Coach

If you ever decide to pray to God for an untimely death make sure you specify that
the venue should be, in all probability, Jamaica; sure, you might get your decomposing
corpse violated by a bunch of Bob Marley fans-which, let’s face the facts, could happen
anywhere in the world-but, at least you’ll be send off to the netherworld with the best
possible police investigation that you could ever get. And that’s a fact, goddamnit!

About three months ago, when Bob Woolmer, the Cricket coach of the 2007
Pakistani World Cup team, was found dead in his hotel room the first thought that came
running to the minds of cricket fans all over the world, especially Indians, was: “This is a
direct repercussion of what happens when players get too many endorsement deals.
Goddamnit, it’s sickening.” Bob Woolmer’s friends and family naturally assumed that it was
either the pressure of losing to a shitty team like Ireland or eating the Jamaican Jerk Chicken
that did the Pakistani coach in. After almost forty minutes of mourning, the world crutched
forward to resume its normalcy by watching more TV. However, the Jamaican Police Team
headed by top Detective Mark Shields had other ideas. After rigorous rounds of crime scene
investigation-that included eating a lot of fried chicken, which was the Jamaican equivalent
of doughnuts, and making a bunch of blatantly obvious statements like “Goddamnit, he has
no breath!” and “Goddamnit, he’s chubby!”-the Jamaican Police released their finding in big
bold letters: Bob Woolmer was murdered.

The first concrete clue was the dream that Detective Mark Shields had one
afternoon, while he was on duty, where he saw an African man dressed in nothing but a leaf
thong. In his dream the man said to the Detective: “Makaakka, pookaka, oorr, bong” which
translated into English meant, “Lick my African ass, you stupid white boy.” Years of
experience as a detective told Mark Shields that the dream could only mean two things.
Either Bob Woolmer was murdered or that must have been some really twisted gay porn that
he watched the previous night when he was drunk. He decided to go with the former.

The first lead that the Jamaican Police received was a pen that they found from
Bob Woolmer’s hotel room. After days of forensic tests, the Jamaican lab concluded that the
pen was made in China. Immediately, Detective Mark Shields called a press conference.
With weighed words, and pouted lips, he said at the press conference: “We have got some
major clues regarding Bob’s murder. The pen that we found from his apartment is a
significant lead in the case. We now know two things about the killer. One: he is from China.
Two: he likes to write.”

However, once the toxicology report came, the entire scenario changed. The
report, which showed that Bob Woolmer was actually poisoned by a rare mixture of donkey
semen and pig blood, completely altered the path of the investigation. Detective Mark
Shields called another press conference. He said: “The latest developments in the case have
shown that the murderer is not a Chinese writer. Just think about it: donkeys and pigs. Now,
which country has both these animals? That’s right, Pakistan. Now, I’m not suggesting
anything until we get more conclusive evidence but seriously, donkeys and pigs, and
Pakistanis hate pigs, strange coincidence, isn’t it?”
 - 32 -

But the case took yet another twist when the Jamaican Police Team acquired the
CCTV footage from the hotel. The video, which was, actually, secret footage from the hotel’s
honeymoon suite got the Detective’s brain to start working again. It wasn’t long before he put
the pieces together. Immediately, he called a press conference: “The video footage has
completely turned around the case. Bob Woolmer was not just murdered. He was raped and
then murdered. I’ll find whoever is responsible for this heinous yet strangely erotic crime.
Goddamnit, I will!”

The investigation was already into its third month and Detective Shields was being
pressured by higher authorities to settle the case once and for all. Everyone wanted an
answer; everyone wanted the truth, goddamnit! One day, as Detective Shields slid into a deep
sleep watching yet another gay porn video, the African man in the leaf thong appeared in his
dream again. This time he had conclusive proof to give the Detective. As soon as the African
man stopped talking, the Detective exploded into consciousness. “Of course, how could I not
see that!” he told himself as he hurried to call another press conference. Media from all over
the world was there; cricketers were watching, fans were watching, Woolmer’s friends and
family were watching; the Jamaican Police had the biggest breakthrough yet in the case.
Detective Shields took the microphone again: “All this time we were being mislead by red
herrings that was planted to divert us from the real killer. The pen, the donkey semen, the pig
blood, the video footage, everything; they were all meant to divert us from the real culprit.
Just think about it: the killer is nowhere to be found, almost like he’s extinct; he had to have
been much bigger in size than Bob to overpower him; he definitely raped Bob for pure
pleasure above anything else; and the biggest clue was that the killer had to have been
someone from Bob’s deepest past.”

The whole world held their breath as Detective Mark Shields revealed the truth:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the Pakistani Coach Bob Woolmer, who was born in India, and who
lived in South Africa and played for the same country was murdered by none other than…a
sexually deviant dinosaur.”

Goddamnit!
 - 33 -

(5th June 2007) Premature Education

Up until a few years ago some of the stock phrases that were thrown around during
Parent Teacher Conferences were: “Your son really needs to improve on his math” or “He
has been performing consistently in all the science subjects” or “With a bit more hard work
he can be up amongst the best of them” or “He should be advised to located his weak spots
first and then work on it”. But things have changed ever since high school teachers decided
to move away from the prescribed syllabuses and bring in some extracurricular activities.
And now, at PTA meetings, parents get a lot more in depth feedback than they’d like from
their children’s mentors: “Your son really needs to improve on his foreplay” or “With a bit
more work he can be as hard as the best of them” or “He should be advised to locate my G-
spot first and then jerk on it.”

The closest I ever got to having sex with a teacher when I was in high school was
when my Geography teacher flunked me for an exam and for some reason the wrongly
marked map of Africa attached to my answer sheet gave me a stiffy. But since I was too
young to know what an erection was I just went to the library and kept trying to balance my
pocket dictionary on my boner. I know what you are thinking and I completely agree with
you; I was crazy to carry a pocket dictionary around with me.

Even when we had the occasional hot teacher our lust for her was of an impalpable
nature. It was like the second coming of Christwe talked about it, we thought about it, some
of us even fantasized about it in our sleep but we all knew it was never going to happen. And
I believe there was a similar unspoken understanding from the hot teachers as well. It was
like the US Dept. of Defense’s stand on UFOs and aliens. They knew they had it, they knew
we wanted it, but we all knew it was never going to happen.

However, the unspoken pact has been breached. The unfortunate thingfor the
horny students at leastis that it’s not the hot teachers who have breached the pact. More
often than not it’s the teachers who look like the first noodle of shit that comes out a
bulldog’s ass after its one-week stretch of constipation who break the pact and lure the
misdirected underage penises and guide them into their bat-infested cavernous skin grottos.
And, horny kids, let’s face it, if that train wreck is so desperate for a shag that she has to
solicit youthe guy who can’t even spell intercourse, when the world is full of horny adult
guys ready to screw even a treethen it’s guaranteed that she has something sick brewing
down there in that bat cave of hers.

It’s a tricky situation if one looks to reprimand the kids who end up having sex
with their teachers because all the teacher-banging kids, when caught, would say that they
were naïve, vulnerable, and didn’t know what they were doing. I’m sure there would be a
bunch of little punters who mean it but the rest, who know perfectly well what they are
doing, will be clever enough to categorize themselves under the group of the naïve punters.
It’s like trying your girlfriend’s panties on and getting caught red handed. Some do it out of
curiosity, the rest do it because they are sickos but they all say that it was an accident.
 - 34 -

When the math teacher from South Carolina, who was recently sentenced to ten
years in prison for having sex with her 11 yr old black student, was interrogated about why
she made hot monkey love to her student she blamed men and Mathematics. She disparaged
the outdated educational system that was designed by men to objectify women by using
subliminal sex terms in Mathematics. She went on to explain that it is hard for a woman like
her to not have sexual feelings towards her students when she’s teaching them how to insert a
rhombus into a hemisphere or to calculate how long the hypotenuse is or how to unhook an
Algebra. Before going to prison, she screamed at the people around her to open their eyes and
realize that this epidemic could only be stopped if Math was stopped; Math had to be banned.
Amen to that, ma’am.

People force-feed us the notion that without proper schooling one can never be
complete in life. Maybe so, I don’t really know. All I want to say if you’re thinking of ever
going back to school keep in mind the supreme golden rule: make sure you carry enough
condoms.
 - 35 -

(6th June 2007) Adopted: The Angelina Jolie Story

I wasn’t going to say anything about it because she’s crazy-hot and he’s…well,
he’s Tyler Durden. And I figured they deserved their share of eccentricities. But when I heard
that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt were planning to adopt for the fourth time, something
within me-I think it was the pasta that I ate-told me that there was more to this than what met
the eye. Couples who were as rich as them didn’t just adopt children to raise them as their
own; they weren’t crows, for crying out loud (you see, crows sometimes raise baby cuckoos
thinking that they gave birth to them). Anyway, I had to get to the bottom of this; and I
decided to do the only sane thing that would help me expose what was really happening here-
I decided to go undercover as a Chinese baby, get adopted by Angelina Jolie, and,
consequently gain access to the innards of their scheme.

After rubbing enough chili powder in my eyes, learning to walk on my knees, and
mastering how to talk like I had a bunch of live kittens inside my stomach I was ready to take
up the mission. I crawled into one of Angelina’s shooting sets and succeeded in getting her
attention. I immediately intrigued her since I was naked and it was a proven fact that
anything naked intrigued Angelina Jolie; she approached me, picked me up, and checked my
authenticity by turning me over and examining my ass. After she saw the “Made in China”
seal that was neatly labeled over my ass cheeks she was satisfied and before I knew it I was
the newest member of the Jolie-Pitt household. I was named Chitty-chitty-bang-bang-Pitt.

One of the perks that I hoped to get when I took up this dangerous mission was the
opportunity to suck on my adopted mother’s gorgeous titties. I began to bawl in Chinese with
the intention of letting Mama Jolie know that it was time to feed me. As she approached me I
prepared myself for the most beautiful sight that I would, without a doubt, ever see in my life.
However, instead of taking out her titties and sticking them in my mouth she pressed a button
on the wall as if to summon someone. Then I realized what was happening-she was
summoning a pair of stand-in titties; Mama Jolie had hired surrogate boobs that matched the
nationality of each of her adopted children. At that moment I understood that the only tiny
creature that crapped his pants all the time with the fortune to suckle Angelina Jolie’s titties
was her own blood child-and also Billy Bob Thornton. I thought to myself, ‘what the hell, at
least, I’ll get to suck on some Chinese knockers.’ But I realized I had thought too soon. Since
the only pair of legitimate Chinese titties were busy on the sets of Grey’s Anatomy Mama
Jolie had summoned the next most popular set of mammaries with a Chinese origin-Chow
Yung Fat’s fat hung boobs. I had to think fast-my life, and my heterosexuality, was at stake
here. As I racked my brains to plot an escape strategy I saw Chow Yung Fat taking a bow,
which was apparently something all Chinese people did before shoving their breasts into
someone’s mouth; my time was running out. However, thanks to my spastic hand gestures
and hostile baby behavior I communicated to Mama Jolie that I didn’t want any breast milk
and I would, instead, settle for a can of Pepsi. I was safe, for now.

I grasped the hazards of staying in the Pitt-Jolie household and realized I had to
find the truth about the rapid adoption operation that was in effect without further protraction.
One day, after making sure that nobody was home I began checking all the rooms to look for
clues. I checked everywhere and everything-Angelina’s panty drawers, her bra shelves, her
bathroom, her gym, her laundry, and did I mention her panty drawers? But I couldn’t find
anything. Maybe she genuinely cared; maybe she and Brad were actually the only two
 - 36 -

Hollywood stars who honestly had some compassion for other people. That’s when I noticed
a huge nude portrait of Angelina in one room; I paced over to that room and lovingly ran my
one hand over the painting. Then, suddenly, with an eerie sound the wall began to split,
revealing what seemed to be a secret room filled with computers, maps, and other
sophisticated equipments.

After spending about one hour studying the room I finally comprehended what was
happening; I was right all along; they had ulterior motives behind their unstoppable adopting
spree. Their intention was sinister and true to Hollywood: they desired world domination.
Angelina and Brad Pitt were adopting babies from all around the world in order to start a new
United Nations Organization, which would one day rule over the entire world; they were
gradually building up the most vicious army in the world. They had already conquered
Cambodia, Ethiopia, Vietnam, and America. I couldn’t let them fool the world any longer; I
had to tell the world. But when I turned around I realized I was too late. I was met with the
cold, malicious smirks of Angelina, Brad, and their thug/jugs-provider, Chow Yung Fat.
Before I could even start to react I felt a flying fist making contact with my temple as I
blacked out.

Fifteen months later, I’m still imprisoned in that dark, uninhabited place where they
locked me up after they captured me. The outside world is nothing more than a surreal
concept for me now; human contact, an improbable dream. I wonder if I’ll ever enjoy the
blueness of the sky again; I wonder if I’ll ever see the twinkling of the stars again. Well, that
sounds next to impossible when I’m trapped here inside Chow Yung Fat’s murky vagina.
 - 37 -

(7th June 2007) Boxing in Bollywood

When Hitler topped himself and went to hell, Satan apparently exclaimed, “No
way, not this sonofabitch”; when George Bush met a piece of cabbage, the cabbage
reportedly said, “You’re telling me that he’s got fewer brain cells than me?”; when crap fell
on puke, the latter screamed in horror, “Now that stinks”; but when Mike Tyson stepped into
Bollywood, he was welcomed with open arms and covered ears. That’s not much of a
surprise since Bollywood is, after all, a little more progressive and receptive when compared
to Lucifer, vegetables, and vomit.

Actors like Suniel Shetty, Fardeen Khan, Dino Morea, and John Abraham
expressed their excitement on Tyson’s entry into Bollywood; they were relieved that, finally,
there was a living creature in Bollywood who was capable of emoting lesser than them.
Director Madhur Bhandarkar sounded ecstatic when he said that he has already made plans to
hang out with Tyson and they would both soon become the best of rape-buddies. Amitabh
Bachchan put forth a request to Mike Tyson asking if he could be his lawyer in the land
allotment case. Salman Khan, slightly displeased that a new shirtless hero was in town, sent a
clear message across by delivering one of his original paintings to Mike Tyson.

Following Richard Gere’s plight, the Bollywood team who roped in Tyson was
cautious enough to give him a comprehensive coaching in Indian Culture and customs. The
team explained to Tyson that unlike in America he couldn’t refer to Indian women as
“biatches”, “hoes”, “sluts”, “tricks”, or “rides”. Instead he had to allude to them as “bold”,
“open-minded”, “independent”, “actresses”, or “feminists”. The Bollywood team also
advised Tyson to keep in check his highly pugnacious behavior; they made him understand
that fighting in public was not an option in the great nation of India, unless, of course, he was
a member of the Parliament.

The retired boxer has already been flooded with several offers from some of
Bollywood’s top directors; Priyadarshan has approached him with juicy roles for three of his
next movies, all of which will be strictly plagiarized versions of Malayalam flicks; David
Dhawan has requested Tyson to do the leading role in his next movie “Lady Assaulter
Number 1”; and Mahesh Bhatt, working on a new autobiographical movie, has offered Tyson
the chance to be the Bhatt double in his younger days when he was more buffed and slurred
lesser. Tyson is also slated to play a negative role in the sequel to Krrish, where he’ll appear
as Krrish’s arch nemesis Miiike.

On the other side of the world, Tyson’s fans and friends expressed dissent over his
relatively effeminate move of climbing aboard the Bollywood ship. Tyson, however, assured
Indian movie buffs that he would not be perturbed by any negative comments from America
or anywhere else in the world. He also said that his friends and fans in the west would stop
calling him emasculating names and stop casting doubts over his sexuality once he comes out
with his new Karan Johar movie.

Tyson’s addition to Bollywood is definitely a blessing in disguisea very ugly

disguise but a disguise nevertheless. With scripts lifted shamelessly from Hollywood movies
and Tyson’s brawny acting skills there’s no telling how far Hindi Cinema will go. Tyson is
guaranteed to be a knockout as long as he takes care to not get himself involved in any
 - 38 -

scandals. On a totally different issue, Mahima Chowdhury’s advanced sonogram reports have
arrived and apparently her baby is half black and is reported by doctors to be packing one
hell of a left hook.
 - 39 -

(8th June 2007) Motho Fucs: Part One

A lot of people run their mouths more than they need to; they talk about how unsafe
the world is and how we should all hold our hands-like a bunch of emos-and make the world
more harmonious so that our future generations can have really convenient lives. Well, I say
screw those ungrateful nostril-shitters who are unsatisfied with the world. I love the world as
it is- great violence, highly talented mass murderers, higher rate of monetary greed than ever,
non-existent family values, marvelous incidents of racial hate, super cool wars over reasons
sillier than a fart, self-centered celebrities thrusting their ugly faces on television every single
minute, capitalistic hypnotism of middleclass people, and religious fervor manifesting into
terrorism at its highest. That said, I do have one problem with our world- the painfully boring
sports that are prevalent in our world today and the equally gay sports channels that broadcast
them.

How much longer is one supposed to sit back and let travesties like soccer, cricket,
baseball, football, hockey, wrestling, tennis, and basketball numb our minds into tiny pieces
of rat droppings? Even the extreme sports that exist today aren’t extreme enough anymore;
they’re nothing but lesbian crap thrown at us to waste our precious time. That’s why I’ve put
my foot down and chalked up a plan to create a brand new sports channel, which would
broadcast original sports the likes of which have never been seen before; a sports channel that
despite its predominantly masculine tone is suitable for children and adults alike, one that
would bring back the excitement and thrill that our ancestors intended to bring when they
initially instituted the concept of sports. I shall name the channel MOTHO FUCS-
Marvelously Original Televised Host Of Future Centered Sports.

You can never underestimate the power of sports and its ability to bring people
together. Guys get a lot of flack from women for dedicating too much time to sports. Well,
MOTHO FUCS has the perfect solution to that sort of shitty problems with their family-
oriented sport called Fetal Suction. Now, I know some of you judgmental folks out there
would be frowning already hearing the name, mistakenly assuming that Fetal Suction is
some insensitive sport where a fetus is made to suck something. The sport of Fetal Suction
is, in reality, a well thought out future centered sport that involves the usage of a super-
powered suction device- anything ranging from vacuum cleaners to handheld battery-
operated dust busters- to suck out the fetus from the uterus of its mother. The object of the
sport is obviously to find which team can suck out the fetus the fastest with the least amount
of damage done to the suction device and if possible the fetus too. Each team consists of two
members- the sucker and the suckee. The person whose sperm led to the formation of the
fetus is the sucker who is also the team member in possession of the suction device; and the
uterus owner is called the suckee, which almost always turns out to be the woman. Not only
is Fetal Suction a sport that breaks down the barriers of sexual discrimination by letting both
men and women participate at the same time but it is also the only sport that enables men to
actually understand what fresh placenta feels like. One key thing to note is that during the
game if more than one team attains the best time, the suction device is made to operate in
reverse shooting the fetus right back into the uterus. And afterwards, the fetuses are sucked
out again in the ultimate tiebreaker round. Thus, the first sport featured on the MOTHO
FUCS channel will definitely enrich the world of sports by allowing people to suck fetuses
out of uteruses using vacuum cleaners.
 - 40 -

(9th June 2007) Motho Fucs: Part Two

One of the main things that piss me off about our human community’s current
roster of sports is the lack of logic involved in each one of them. Their objectives suck, their
rules suck, and their sensibilities suck. Thankfully, Channel MOTHO FUCS caters to every
sporty need that stems inside you. And with today’s featured sport, Chameleon Clobbering,
it’s guaranteed to reach a new high in the world of action sports broadcasting.

Some of you brainy buggers out there must be assuming that the name Chameleon
Clobbering is a metaphor which actually stands for something else. Like how when you hear
the word ‘Golf’ for the first time you’d either assume it has something to do with dogs or
Saddam Hussein but later you find out it’s way gayer than both. Chameleon Clobbering, on
the other hand, is not such a sport; it’s exactly what it sounds like. The purpose of the sport is
to clobber chameleons. For those of you who are unfamiliar with chameleons and their
lifestyle they are a very difficult thick-skinned bunch to be clobbered and that is where the
sense of daring and challenge involved in this astonishing sport comes into play. However,
when it’s channel MOTHO FUCS that’s featuring the sport you know that there is more to it
than just the excitement and thrill of smashing up chameleons.

The participants and the healthy chameleons assigned to them are locked up inside
claustrophobic multicolored rooms, where it all goes down; each room will be monitored by
seven CCTVs of which two will be working. A limited period of time is given to each
competitor to get inside the room, seek out his chameleon, and then smash the shit out of it.
The admissible sporting equipments for Chameleon Clobbering are hammers, jackhammers,
sledgehammers, club hammers, claw hammers, nail hammers, and mallets. Each contestant
will be allowed ten swings using the hammer of their choice.Winners would be decided on
the basis of the internal injuries suffered by the clobbered chameleons (total annihilation of
the chameleon’s kidneys automatically earns the player two bonus points). Paramedics will
naturally be waiting on the spot to appraise the magnitude of the internal injuries suffered by
the chameleons and subsequently help determine the winner. More the mess, merrier the
score. Hardware men, too, will be present on the spot to administer tourniquets to hammers
that might end up having severe blood loss.

Certain players march into the game of Chameleon Clobbering cockily assuming
that they can just clobber chameleons using their natural skills. Contrarily, it’s a game that
needs a lot of practice and perseverance. So, as the founder of channel MOTHO FUCS I’d
advise all of you CC aspirants to constantly practice the game at home using chameleon
substitutes like your puppies or kittens or birds and stuff. Of course, smashing live puppies is
a lot less intense than clobbering chameleons but it’s a good starting place.

And I know this sport might cast some doubt in the minds of some of you
hypersensitive fools out there. I would like to assure you that only real animals would be hurt
in the sport of Chameleon Clobbering; no dolls, soft toys, or action figures are damaged. So
there, relax.
 - 41 -

(10th June 2007) Motho Fucs: Part Three

After the introduction of such fiercely competitive sports like Fetal Suction and
Chameleon Clobbering, I thought it would be a welcome change for our potential MOTHO
FUCS viewers to get a taste of the lighter, more fun side of their new supreme sports
channel. That was exactly the kind of thinking that went into the creation of today’s featured
sport- Jedi Pee Fight.

In spite of the presence of the term Jedi, Jedi Pee Fight is not a sport that is aimed
at a bunch of George Lucas groupies- it’s a sport meant for pure athletes; it’s a sport meant
for fun lovers; it’s a sport meant for the most agile; and it’s a sport meant for those who like
to get themselves involved in urinary brawls. Jedi Pee Fight is also, arguably, the most
spirited sport ever since swimming that involves whizzing on other people.

Before every Jedi Pee Fight the two fighters are each made to drink fifteen liters
of a special fluorescent drink prepared by our highly qualified team of totally wasted
bartenders. The players are then put inside a room that’s pitch-black and has innumerous
cameras (about four) placed at the most innovative angles (up, down, left, and right). The aim
of the game is for each player to assault the other with their fluorescent pee by controlling
and maneuvering their urine flow and direction, much like how Jedis would battle using their
light sabers. The players cannot expect to just lash out at each other brashly with their
glowing urine as the winner is judged by the quantity of their piss that’s present on the
opponent’s body, so, like the water conservation people says, every drop counts. Motorized
bamboo sticks will be given to women who wish to compete in Jedi Pee Fight; the
motorized bamboo sticks will add the force that women need to match the advantage men
have with their extra reach. The same procedure will be followed in the case of guys with
tiny wee-wees.

The motive behind having the fighters compete in dark unlit rooms is to ensure that
Jedi Pee Fight not only improves their piddle-combat skills but also sharpens the players’
minds. Besides what’s funnier than having two virtually blind guys fighting each other with
piss? When broadcast on MOTHO FUCS, the sport is bound to be a visual treat, much like
Lord of the Rings, what with all the sparkling lemonade and everything. The sport also
requires the participants to be dressed in the traditional Jedi outfit- a pair of white shorts and
no face protection. A picture of Albert Einstein will be sewn onto the shorts in an effort to
add more sophistication to the sport of Jedi Pee Fight.

Armed with such high-caliber sports like Fetal Suction, Chameleon Clobbering
and Jedi Pee Fight, it’s only a matter of time before channel MOTHO FUCS ousts the rest
of the sports channels and attains ultimate supremacy. I’ll be back soon, whenever I feel like
it, with updates on the rest of the truly original sports that will feature exclusively on channel
MOTHO FUCS. So bid goodbye to the current list of sports that trash our television sets day
in and day out and tune in for more news from channel MOTHO FUCS. Until then, may the
force be with you…and your bladder.
 - 42 -

(11th June 2007) Al Qaeda Fan Mail

Dear Al Qaeda,

I know you must get this at least a thousand times every day but I’m like your
biggest fan ever. I got posters of Osama (the Big Oz) all over my room and even that playgirl
centrefold that he did, which is on my bathroom wall. I totally loved the 9/11 work you did
about six years ago although I have to say I was a little surprised that you guys performed at
the World Trade Center instead of the Wal-Mart Headquarters where you could’ve made so
much more difference. I hear that you guys are planning to tour India soon. That’s like so
cool; in fact, that’s the best piece of news I’ve heard since the one about Tyson planning to
settle down in Bollywood.

I know India has the potential of becoming the favorite hunting ground of you guys
because, like, you know, we have a whole lot of Hindus, Christians, and Muslims. And since
God tells you guys to, like, you know, hate them all equally it’ll be super easy to bomb one
place and get a few from each religion. But I just want to say that I’m neither a Hindu, a
Christian, nor a Muslim. I recently converted to Scientology and I know that you guys have
nothing against us because we are like super dumb and all; so I hope you guys will, like, not
kill me and stuff.

I know you guys are not like other terrorist groups where they get pissed off if
their fans make any constructive criticism. So, I’m just going to, like, go ahead and say
something here. I know that you guys are planning to bomb the shit out of common Indian
people because the Indian Government and the American Government have some kind of
nuclear relationship or something even though you guys are like dragging in Kashmir as a
cover. But I just want to tell you guys that more than half of India, possibly the ones which
are going to be, like, victims of your attack, can’t even spell America and can’t even imagine
ever seeing America in their lifetime. So, I, like, kind of think that it’s uncool for you guys to
target people like that who have got nothing to do with anything American. You guys kind of
made the same mistake with 9/11 too, although it was so cool nobody really noticed it; you
see, common American people are the ones who are most critical of the American
Government, and what you guys did was go ahead and blow up the people who were doing
what you wanted to do in the first place. ‘American people’ doesn’t mean Bush, you guys.

I know that not a lot of people dig what you guys do and I think those people are
like really retarded and stuff. I totally get the fact that God really speaks to you guys or at
least to your leaders and tells them in person to pick up guns, make bombs, hijack planes, run
them into tall buildings, and murder innocent people; and I think that’s so not like what the
American Government is doing in Iraq and other places. You both are like totally different
and stuff.

And I think that what you guys really want to do is kill a lot of people and make the
Governments take notice of how super cool you are but, seriously, guys are you telling me
that you still haven’t figured out that no Governments actually give a shit about their people?
They don’t give a damn about the people you kill; they just pretend to mourn for like a bunch
 - 43 -

of days and get over it. If you guys really want people to care you should, like, stop killing
ordinary people and bomb celebrities and movie award shows. But somehow you guys think
that just because you live in caves and we, commoners, live in houses we got it easy. Do you
guys know how nerve-racking it is to get a job in today’s world? Do you know how tough it
is to get laid these days? Or at least get some good quality lesbian porn? Come on, guys, if
you really want to punish people you should be just letting us live our lives.

I hope you guys aren’t like mad at me and all for saying all these stuff. I was, like,
you know, just talking to you guys, that’s all. I’m still, like, you know, your biggest fan
forever. That reminds me guys, recently I had this dream where God- I don’t know if it was
Jesus, Allah, Vishnu, or just L. Ron Hubbard- came to me and told me that I should, like, you
know, seek out and kill all the infidels in my neighborhood kindergarten. So I was hoping
you guys would, like, tell the Big Oz (the Bin Man) that, since, you know, Christmas is
coming, and I’ve been like a good boy and all, he could, perhaps, like, bring me some
weapons of mass destruction and stuff. I pinky swear that I won’t try them at home.

Your hugest fan,

Me
 - 44 -

(12th June 2007) To Pope goes the Weasel

Godzilla facing Mecha-Godzilla is amazing; Superman meeting the
Eradicator is divine; Bugs Bunny encountering Buster Bunny would be kick ass; but George
Bush meeting the Pope- now, that’s some good shit.

Bush lost his Vatican virginity for the fourth time a few days ago when he
met Pope Benedict XVI amidst innumerous protests in the streets of Rome; the protests had
nothing to do with the American President’s visit though, people were just voicing
complaints against the Church after they noticed that all their sons were having severe
constipation the next day after choir practice; a head priest dismissed the protest rally after he
concluded that it was probably something the boys ate.

An awkward moment took place when Bush did not bow when he met the
Pope; he did, however, in all fairness, offer the Pope one of his prized pretzels. Bush also
made the error of not addressing the Pope as “his holiness”. Bush’s first words to the Pope
were, “what’s up, man?” Pope Benedict cleared his throat, in an attempt to express his
displeasure, and raised his eyebrows at Bush. The gesture worked and Bush realized his folly.
He apologized several times and rephrased his greeting, “what’s up, old man?”

In his conversation with the American President, the Pope expressed a

deep concern for the Christians in Iraq; he also added, “screw the rest”. The two supreme
authorities also talked about various other issues like defense of human life, religious
freedom, and marriage. Bush advocated that human lives should be defended at all costs even
if it meant people had to be murdered for that, Pope agreed; Pope stated that every individual
had his/her own right to follow whatever religion they wanted as long as it was Roman
Catholicism, Bush agreed. Regarding marriage, both were in agreement that it was too
complex for them to explain and had to be left to the Almighty, Bill Clinton.

Afterwards, they moved onto topics like world politics, Middle East, and
the true meaning of Christianity. There was a long stretch of silence for about two hours after
these topics were brought up. Then they moved onto heavier issues like chocolate fudge,
Sopranos, and Paris Hilton.

Pope Benedict and Bush also pointed out how similar each other’s
responsibilities were: they both had to try their best to scare their people into believing that if
they didn’t do as they were told the Lord of Darkness, Saddam Hussein, would come back
from beyond and eat their souls. Pope also pointed out how both he and Bush had the same
tenure, which was as long as they freakin’ wanted.

The Pope also mentioned that he was highly impressed with the strong
fight against AIDS that Bush was putting up in Africa; the Pope said that AIDS was one of
the worst killer diseases ever. On hearing this Bush spoke up and clarified that he was indeed
on a mission to kill AIDS but not the kind of AIDS the Pope was talking about. Bush
explained that his mission was to eradicate AIDS (Africans in Desperate Situation).

Both Bush and Pope Benedict then talked about the one person whom they
would ask God to kill if they got the chance. The Pope thought for a few minutes and
 - 45 -

answered, “Dan Brown.” Bush didn’t need more than a few seconds to say, “Michael
Moore.” The meeting between George Bush and Pope Benedict ended amicably when Bush
asked the Pope if the Holy Grail was real. The Pope replied that the Holy Grail was as real as
the weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.

Sources say that both Bush and the Pope have vowed to never meet each
other ever again.
 - 46 -

(13th June 2007) Men of Honor

You shouldn’t probably be reading this if you don’t have an all-consuming penis
dangling between your legs. Because only if you have one of those can you understand the
concept of what it is to be a man; only then will you be capable of realizing why a man has
been established, historically, as the head of every family; only then will you be bestowed
with the sense to fully fathom the concept of honor and its extreme significance in the life of
a man; then, and only then, will you be able to comprehend why, in order to save the honor of
a family or a tribe or a caste, we men are willing to go to the strenuous lengths of stabbing a
woman forty six times or shooting her twice in the head.

It’s tough living around women, whether they are mothers, daughters, sisters,
aunts, nieces, girlfriends, or wives. And I’m not talking about constantly having to worry
about the toilet seats; I’m talking about how these women assume that they can just go ahead
and think on their own and do stuff that they like without considering the ramifications their
actions would have on their families, especially the men in their families. I blame it on the
immoral culture of today’s world where certain miscreants are trying to spread a propaganda
stating that women are actually equal to men. That’s just stupid.

Pakistan seems to be harboring a lot of these audacious women who think,

ludicrous as it may sound, that they can just act on their own will. I know, it shocks me as
well. There was one case where a woman’s audacity transcended boundaries of
consciousness to bring shame upon her husband and her family. Her husband had a dream in
which she was having an affair with a strange man who was half robot half accountant.
Clearly, his wife was cheating on him with some mutated creature from the future. The
husband immediately dressed up, left the brothel and headed back home to his infidel wife.
Since he didn’t want to wake up his wife who went to bed on an empty stomach after she had
waited till late night for her husband to arrive, he decided that it would be appropriate if he
just poured some kerosene on her and set her ablaze. After she was charred to death, my
fellow man was able to breathe a sigh of relief. His honor had been restored.

Another major problem is the whores found all over the world including India who
think they have the right to feel attracted towards a man of their choice, and even go on and
marry him. Marrying a person who is not the smelly old guy, who has already been “married”
five to seven times, that her family chooses for her? Can you believe the nerve of that slut?
How hard is it for her to understand that her life is not hers to be lived? Traditionally, in such
cases a family’s honor is rehabilitated by hurling some acid on the girl’s face, disfiguring her
for life so she’ll be reminded of the ugly whore that she is. But if the bitch goes over the line
and has sex, or gets alleged of having had sex, before she gets married to the man of her
family’s choice then she would have to be either stabbed in her throat till she can’t spit any
more blood or shot in the back of her head in front of her entire community. At least then
they ought to learn that there is no greater shame than a broken hymen. Besides, such shame
associated with a family will make it much harder for the men in the family to get into the
pants of other virgin girls.

There’s yet another type who brings shame to her family, and these bitches are
probably the most irresponsible ones of the lot. I’m talking about those shameless sluts who
let themselves get raped by decent god-fearing men. You would think that the least these
 - 47 -

tramps could do to not shame their families is avoid getting raped, but, no, they just walk
around tempting good men with their tits and their asses and they get raped. Any community
that would be willing to not reward such careless behavior with a blade through the rape
victim’s neck or kicks to her face and crotch till she bleeds to death is, I’m sorry to say,
uncouth and uncultured.

Maybe it’s fine for the morally scanty women in America to go around shaming
their families as they please by doing what they want with their lives but at least in India we
have to do whatever we can to protect the honor of men and to preserve our rich cultural
heritage of being assholes to the women around us. And, so, the next time you notice that a
woman- be it your mother who has raised you with all her love and strength or your sister
who would do anything to protect you or your wife who yearns for your love every second-
does something that she wishes to do, you don’t even need to think twice before capping that
bitch. And since in India we are all brothers and sisters we men have the inherent right to kill
any woman- that means I can shoot your mother- in order to protect our honor and then term
it an ‘honor killing’. Reputation, not relationship, is what matters to us men the most. Women
just need to accept the truth that we men are the ones who keep the sanity and morality of this
world in tact. And if we weren’t special then God wouldn’t have given us the uniquely
remarkable ability to pee standing up.
 - 48 -

(14th June 2007) Scare Hostess

I first developed my fear of flying when I learned that airplanes have a habit of
randomly bursting into flames when they are a million feet above the ground. The fear sunk
deeper after I discovered that most airplane pilots were more wasted than Lindsay Lohan on a
Saturday night. However, the last four to five trips that I took by air made me feel like I was
being choked by my intestines and punched in my nuts. The reason wasn’t any technical
glitches nor was it the excessive inebriation of the pilots. It was the shocking abundance of
appallingly ugly airhostesses aboard commercial aircrafts.

I find it idiotic that people still love telling their friends and others that they are
“taking a flight” to whichever hellhole it is that they are going. About a decade and a half
ago, flying may have been a luxury that only the medium rich to the super rich could afford.
But let’s face it, with low cost airlines and discount offers and stuff everybody flies these
days and consequently airplanes suck- they suck like a hungry leech on a sumo wrestler’s ass.
I don’t have to enlighten anybody on the quality of the food that passengers receive during
flights, which is basically a piece of cucumber that tastes like wet socks, a slice of bread that
tastes like dirty cushions, a spread of butter that tastes like muddy sidewalks, a puny plastic
container having jam which tastes like shoe soles, and a cup of yogurt I wouldn’t consume
even if I was held at gunpoint, a situation not very uncommon these days aboard airplanes.
The sole reason why passengers endure this hellish treatment is because they expect the
creatures who serve this trash to look, at least, like breathtaking angels. But apparently airline
companies have deemed their customers undeserving of the one benefit that they truly want.

Every time I step aboard an airplane I do so hoping to be greeted by someone that

looks like the female adult offspring of Charlize Theron and Elisha Cuthbert. But, almost,
always, what I see is just the opposite- an ogre, wrapped by a sari that can barely contain her
gigantic, ugly ogre boobs, bearing an expression on her face that could only be described as
constipated. I don’t refer to the creature as an ogress only because I’m not even sure if it’s a
woman. I gulp down the initial shock and head towards my seat, which, thanks to my
dumbass luck, inevitably turns out to be the sandwich seat- the one in the middle that has to
bear the stink of two passengers. I’m confident that there are at least three stewardesses for
one airplane and I tell myself there’s no way the other two would be looking like ogres.
Needless to say, I’m right on the money; the other two don’t look like ogres; one bears a
striking resemblance to an emaciated rhino and the other can pass any day for a toothless ape.
I sit nervously wondering how difficult survival in the next couple of hours is going to be.
The pre-take-off flight instruction session commences. And believe you me—the image of a
toothless ape standing in front of you gesturing wildly with an oxygen mask in her hand, in
an effort to give you safety tips, is not a very reassuring one. Not surprisingly, the intestinal
choke/nut punch pain surfaces.

Soon, the dreaded food carts arrive. And it’s the ogre who’s in charge of that duty.
As she is serving hell’s cuisine to the other terrified souls aboard I notice something that
literally makes me want to jump off the plane. The ogre, I observe, is chewing tobacco while
serving food to the passengers. So, now, the situation worsens. Instead of having to look at
just a normal ogre, I have to stare at one that appears to have blood dripping from her mouth.
Finally, the moment of trepidation arrives as she reaches my seat. She gives the guy on my
left his food plate and then places another one on my unfolded table. At this point, I make the
 - 49 -

mistake of looking up at her. It’s like staring at one of those tooth decay posters that you see
stuck outside the office of a dentist that has no other purpose but to traumatize patients. I
abruptly refocus my eyes onto the wonderful sight of the back of the seat in front of me. I
hold my breath hoping the monster would go away now. But, I forget that her job isn’t
completed yet. She still has to serve the guy on my left. And then it happens. With a heave
that sounds like a flatulent wild boar she leans over for what seems like an eternity and a half,
her rotten ogre boobs brushing my face and rendering me sightless for about a minute. I have
never experienced crashing into a mountain but at that moment I realize what it feels like.

I’m unsure as to why this problem of ugly airhostesses still persists. I just want all
the airlines in the entire world to know that nobody gives a shit about the posture or the gait
or even the manners of the airhostesses. I’d rather have an ill-mannered sex bomb than an
etiquette-queen who looks like buffalo scrotum. Hiring ugly air stewardesses is like
employing a eunuch to give you sex tips. I’ve decided that I’ve had enough of this crappy
service. For my next trip by air, I’ll be traveling with a parachute strapped to my back; and if
I don’t see an air hostess oozing with sex appeal walking around inside the plane, I’m kicking
down the emergency exit and I’m jumping out. Hopefully, I won’t crash into a mountain.
 - 50 -

(15th June 2007) “F”: Part One

Note from Aniche- You won’t be hearing from me for sometime. And that’s not because I’ve
run out of topics to talk about after twenty-five consecutive columns on various socially
relevant issues like Angelina Jolie’s tits or Michael Jackson’s foreskin. It’s because I’m a
magnanimous person. And I want to give an opportunity to somebody else to talk about a
story that they have, an issue that they want to bring to your attention. So, ladies and
gentleman, and that really smart beaver who reads my columns, I present to you Phyllis.

My name is Phyllis Reily Gudinbed. I’m an archaeologist—which basically means

that I like going through trash. It’s not a very lucrative profession barring the occasional
discovery of oddly shaped chicken bones which I pass of as dinosaur fossils consequently
earning a cool fortune. Recently I got married. And not surprisingly I came across my
husband, Fred, on one of my archaeological trips. No, I didn’t run into him or casually bump
into him; I actually came across him buried half-alive underneath a pile of ruins. To date, I’d
have to say, he has been my most profitable archaeological find. He’s 75 and barely
breathing but the important thing is that I love him and he’s in possession of a much healthier
bank account that I love even more. Not more than a couple of days ago I made a startling
discovery. Funnily, it was neither near the inverted pyramids in Egypt nor the dancing forests
of Africa that I made this discovery; it was right up in my attic. My seeking hands came
across an old, dusty, moth eaten book—a book that held the life of a woman that very few
people in my family dared to talk about; it was my Aunt Polly’s Personal Journal. Even the
bones of the most ridiculously disfigured chickens wouldn’t have aroused the kind of
excitement in me that Aunt Polly’s Journal did. Five hours of unperturbed reading found me
happy, sad, angry, violent, sympathetic, empathetic, guilty, and, at times, even highly
aroused; however, this unprecedented mood swing had more to do with the fact that I was
pregnant —and am still—than with the content of the journal. But that is not to say it didn’t
have some of the weirdest stuff ever. Now for the first time I’m divulging to the world a few
of the most disturbing excerpts from my Aunt Polly’s Journal; it tells the sad story of a
woman broken down by the slow but steady assault of the incurable affliction that is known
to the world only as ‘feminism’.

April 20th 1902- Dear Journal, Polly cried a little bit today because Polly’s brother was bad.
He tore Barbie’s head off and put it on Action Man. Now Polly’s Barbie has 24 inch biceps, a
hairy chest, and thighs the size of canoes. Polly wonders if all girls should look that way.

April 27th 1902-Dear Journal, today Polly saw Polly’s mom kick Polly’s dad’s behind
because he didn’t cook our dinner properly. Polly wonders if all marriages should be this
way.

April 30th 1902-Dear Journal, Polly has realized that referring to herself in the third person
is really lame so she’s going to stop it.

August 19th 1903-Dear Journal, today was my first day in third grade. I don’t like my class.
The girls there are horrible and ugly. They have smooth silky hair, they are not out of shape,
they have rosy cheeks, they have blue eyes, they dress in expensive beautiful dresses, and they
all have great personality. I hate them all.
 - 51 -

P.S- I wish I was like them

February 13th 1905-Dear Journal, it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. I have my eyes on a
number of boys in my class. I’m hoping I get lots of valentines because I’m class topper with
incredible scores.

February 14th 1905-Dear Journal, I got one Valentine’s Day card. It was kept inside one of
my notebooks. It’s a wonderful card. I love it. I don’t care about the rest of the class; the
girls can go to hell and the boys can accompany them.

P.S- I was the one who gave me the card

January 29th 1906-Dear Journal, a boy talked to me today. I love him.

January 30th 1906-Dear Journal, he talked to another girl. He’s cheating on me. All men are
cheaters and I hate them all.

October 5th 1908-Dear Journal, the girls in my class have all blossomed into gorgeous
women. I, on the other hand, am looking like a train wreck, with no noticeable knockers.

July 18th 1909-Dear Journal, I have come across a few poor pathetic souls who think that I’m
a big deal because their faces look like the underneath of mud-stained boots as opposed to
mine that has no mud. Also my grade is A++ compared to their A+. I feel superior and
powerful.

June 14th 1910-Dear Journal, the other losers and I have formulated a technique to deal with
our unattractiveness. We are going to label all the pretty girls vain and mean and dumb. We
are not ugly; we merely have depth of character.

November 25th 1912-Dear Journal, all the hunks are after the pretty girls. The losers and I
feel bad.

November 26th 1912-Dear Journal, all the nerds are after the pretty girls too. The losers and
I feel even worse.

March 10th 1913-Dear Journal, I have convinced myself and my gang that the pretty girls are
more popular only because they have loose moral values. It’s got nothing to do with their
positive attitudes, confidence, or their beauty.

P.S-The truth is that my moral values are looser than a lasso around a pencil. I just am not
presented with the opportunities.

June 10th 1914-Dear Journal, I think I have a mustache.

June 11th 1914-Dear Journal, it’s true, I do.

Continued…
 - 52 -

(16th June 2007) “F”: Part Two

June 17th 1914-Dear Journal, since the conspicuously repulsive facial hair is getting me a lot
of attention I’m going to let it stay and merely attribute it to my being a “real natural
woman”.

P.S- And it’s not like I’ll be kissing anyone anytime.

September 2nd 1916-Dear Journal, I have begun reading a lot of books that probably were
written with the intention of boring people to death. I feel that mindlessly barfing the things
that I read in front of others will make me appear to be more intelligent than I really am,
which actually is no more intelligent than a thong.

May 4th 1917-Dear Journal, wherever I turn there are pretty girls. Even the ones that looked
like the underneath of mud-stained shoes have taken care of themselves and become like the
upper surface of sandals. I feel bitter and alone.

July 25th 1918-Dear Journal, I have decided to pretend to protest the objectification and de-
individualization (words that mean naught to me) of women by burning bras tomorrow.

July 26th 1918-Dear Journal, I realize that I don’t have any bras in my closet as I have never
had to use them*.

* -alludes to the lack of sizeable knockers.

July 27th 1918-Dear Journal, I bought some bras and I burned them as a false symbol of the
false character that I falsely shout only I have.

February 1st 1920-Dear Journal, the lack of attention that men are giving me is driving me
crazy. I wore a low cut dress today with a pair of low waist jeans; the men looked away as if
I was the goddamn solar eclipse.

October 11th 1924-Dear Journal, I’m thirty years old. Most women around me are either
married or at least hitched. The result of the bitterness and latent discontent that I have been
harboring all these years stare at me starkly.

October 12th 1925-Dear Journal, I have decided to marry a buffalo which is quite common
among some cultures.

October 13th 1926-Dear Journal, I visited my uncle’s farm today and I have found myself a
wonderful black, horny (as in having horns), bushy-tailed buffalo. We are going to get
married tomorrow.

P.S- I’m so excited. The walk down the aisle is going to be so special.

October 14th 1927-Dear Journal, my uncle called today and broke me the horrible news. My
fiancé jumped off a cliff and killed himself.
 - 53 -

P.S- I had him with some rice for dinner. He was a bit overcooked.

April 8th 1930-Dear Journal, I have thrust upon myself the idiotic notion that marriage is
legalized prostitution and that it’s society’s way of controlling women further. This way, I
have something to say when my mom bugs me about not getting married.

May 28th 1932-Dear Journal, I stumbled upon the concept of lesbianism. By completely
avoiding men from my life perhaps I can find at least a smidgeon of happiness. Also, I can
tell the world that men are crazy jerks and I’d rather stick with my own kind.

June 6th 1932-Dear Journal, a lesbian talked to me today. I think she likes me. We are going
to a Chinese Restaurant tomorrow to have dinner.

June 7th 1933-Dear Journal, the lesbian dumped me today in the middle of our date for the
Chinese waitress who had much larger chopsticks*.

 -synonym of knockers.

Continued…
 - 54 -

(17th June 2007) “F”: Part Three

March 30th 1936-Dear Journal, I badly needed to make myself feel wanted and important so I
went to a group of homeless men and talked about Carl Jung in an effort to intimidate them
and prove that women have bigger brains than men. They actually reciprocated with some
Freudian and Dostoevsky-ian theories and I ended up feeling even worse.

August 9th 1939-Are you a man or a woman, Journal? I need to know. Tell me now. Tell me.
Answer me, damn it! If I find out that you are a man I swear that I’ll rip you into pieces.

P.S- My parents divulged this crazy idea that they think I might be going a little paranoid.

August 10th 1939-Dear Journal, I’m frightened if my parents’ diagnosis might hold some
truth. I was reading some classic novels and whatever I read appeared to be having
subliminal chauvinistic connotations. I even found the character Oliver Twist to be a rabid
chauvinist.

P.S- Ever noticed the underlying motive of establishing phallic superiority in the name
Charles Dickens?

November 17th 1943-Dear Journal, I blame my father for everything that has gone wrong
with my life though I don’t know why I blame him. He’s the only man who ever loved me. But
it feels nice to shirk away from accepting my own flaws and burden others-possibly men-with
my failure.

December 11th 1949-Dear Journal, I think a miracle may have happened. I suspect that I’m
pregnant.

P.S- The gods have smiled on me.

December 12th 1949-Dear Journal, miracle shmiracle!! I found out I’m not pregnant, I’m just
fat.

P.S- Why gods, why?

March 1st 1953-Nevada pumpkin allows pipe bursting gargoyle reminding world barracuda
hospital devastation in the name of hairy my mind lips of genuine underskirts.

P.S- I wonder when senility is going to strike me.

January 1st 1954-Dear Journal, I’m in my deathbed. It’s astonishing how one’s perspective
can change while death is imminent. I look at the world and I see a wonderful place filled
with people who love, love, and only love; a world where beauty abounds in nature, humans,
and animals; a world where everyone is loved unconditionally; a world that is so colorful
and vibrant that it breaks my heart to bid it goodbye.

P.S- Not really. Life sucks! The world sucks! Humans suck! Everything sucks!
 - 55 -

And on that day my Aunt Polly kicked the bucket. While kicking the bucket she
slipped, fell, and hit her head on the bathroom floor and, minutes later, died. It fills me with
such inexpressible feelings when I think of the gruesome life that my Aunt Polly lived. I
realize why everyone in my family restrained from speaking more than three words about my
Aunt Polly (it was always “She is dead”). The darkness and anguish that permeated her life
fills me with a chill; it also serves as a reminder of the fact that I’m a fortunate woman. I’m
fortunate that I have a successful and meaningful job where I dig up garbage and make a lot
of money; I’m fortunate that I possess a loving and lovable husband who possesses an even
more lovable bank account; I’m fortunate that I’m carrying his child (I think!) inside me right
now; most of all, Aunt Polly’s life has taught me that I’m fortunate that I have a pair of
humongous knockers.
 - 56 -

(18th June 2007) Oh, Have Mercy

A friend of a friend of mine hit rock bottom a few weeks back when he was
diagnosed with testicular cancer. The medical advice he received was to have his nuts
removed but he felt it was better to kill himself than to walk around with no cojones. The
problem was that he didn’t have the balls, cancerous or not, to pull a Kurt Cobain. Instead, he
asked his friend to whack him. However, his friend was a pussy who chickened out and asked
my friend to help Mr. Rotting Scrotum out. And my friend was an even bigger pussy who, in
turn, asked me to remedy the problem. And I, being the biggest pussy of them all, decided it
would be best if I got some advice regarding the situation. After all, this was a guy’s life that
we were talking about. So, I drove over to the one person whom I thought could assess the
situation with an unbiased mind- Doctor Jack Kevorkian.

After hearing out the story of the guy with the ding-dong cancer Dr. Kevorkian
explained to me that had I come to him a decade ago he could have helped me out without a
moment’s hesitation. But, his imprisonment in 1999 and his release a few weeks ago, under
the understanding that he would no longer deal with cases like the one at hand, had made him
change his mind against assisting any more suicides. So, I spent about fifteen seconds trying
to convince him otherwise. I explained to him that he wouldn’t, exactly, be assisting suicide.
He would just be assisting me in assisting my friend assist his friend assist the suicide of his
friend. That wasn’t technically assisting suicide. Dr. Kevorkian pondered over this for about
three seconds before he said, “Cool. Let’s euthanize some ass.”

The nature of things had slightly altered by the time Dr. Kevorkian and I reached
Mr. Jewels-in-jeopardy. He was beginning to have second thoughts about knocking himself
off. Apparently somebody gave him the misinformation that a man is more than his balls. Dr.
Kevorkian wasn’t pleased, “You’re being silly. We aren’t talking about your throat or your
lungs. This is your sperm marbles that we’re talking about. Leading a life as a castrated man
is like living as Calista Flockhart after Ally Mcbeal got pulled off the air. You’re just an
unwanted piece of vagina.” This definitely managed to break the spirits of Mr. Cojones-in-
Crisis. He struggled to be optimistic, “But I can still do something meaningful with my life. I
can focus on my creative side and contribute something to society; I can make a difference.”
Dr. Kevorkian looked at him like he was looking at a dark-skinned leading man in
Bollywood, “You’re kidding yourself, son. Once you lose your nuts you’re no longer a man.
It’s better to die now with your dignity and your balls in place. I promise you it’ll be an
extremely painless experience for you.” Dr. Kevorkian was almost salivating; the cancer guy
was in tears; I had a serious craving for some deep fried chicken wings.

Dr. Kevorkian, encouraged by the reinforcements, took a step forward towards the
guy with the dying nutsack. “Don’t you dare take a step forward you inhuman, insensitive,
devilish, murderous bastard,” shrieked the anti-euthanasia jerkoffs. “Watch your mouth, you
ignorant ass-pimples. Do you have any idea what it feels like when you’re disfigured or
severely disabled? Do you have any idea the sense of futility a person diagnosed with a
terminal illness feels? Do you have any idea the physical and mental pain he has to suffer?”
Dr. Kevorkian began to get aroused hearing this; one of the anti-euthanasia jerkoffs asked,
“Do you?” The Church of Euthanasia leader replied, “No but we’ve got a pretty good
imagination. We are able to empathize with them. Dying a dignified death is far better than
living life as a liability.” The anti-euthanasia jerkoffs leader interjected, “Liability for who?
 - 57 -

The supposed family of the patient who can’t look after one of their own in a time of
distress? The society who sees these patients as economical parasites?” The Church of
Euthanasia replied, “Look at the world’s population exploding by the million every minute. If
an individual feels the need to end his existence without causing any more misery to himself
that is his choice. It’s in fact his contribution to the world. It’s his life and it’s his right to end
it.” One of the anti-euthanasia poofs suggested, “Then why don’t you all start by killing each
other. Why work so hard to get others killed?” The pro-euthanasia poofs replied, “Somebody
has to speak up for those poor bastards who want to top themselves.” This time the anti-
euthanasia asswipes moved two steps towards Dr. Kevorkian and then one of them said,
“Speak up all you want but this Doctor Death that you have here, he ain’t gonna be practicing
no more.” Not five seconds passed before it broke out- the ultimate jerkoff fistfight.

The two groups hit, kicked, bit, fingered, and fondled each other like crazy. By this
time I was down to my last chicken wing. Suddenly out of nowhere, I felt someone grab the
final piece from my grasp- it was Mr. Cancer Nuts. “I’ve decided not to kill myself by
committing suicide. I’ll just live my life doing all the things that I was afraid of doing. I’m
going to eat all the high cholesterol food I can get my hands on; I’m going to have
unprotected sex with blind amputees; I’m going to drive into herds of sheep; I’m going to
urinate on limos; I’m going to defecate on George Clooney. By God, I’m going to start living
my life. First, I’m going to enjoy this chicken wing.” Now, I was pissed. I threw myself on
the newly reformed chicken stealer trying to take back what was rightfully mine. Dr.
Kevorkian, who was still standing there with his death-talk-induced boner, decided it was
time for him to climax. He headed slowly towards the meat burglar and me. “I don’t care
who dies but I need to get rid of my erection,” he chanted. However, in that convulsive brawl
my right leg caught Dr. Kevorkian in his globes sending him flying onto the electric chair.
On his way, he lost balance and landed right on the syringe having the lethal injection,
sending the poison straight up his asshole. But the chicken was in the possession of Mr.
Killer Knackers; I had to think fast. I grabbed one of the chewed out chicken bones from the
bucket and hurled it straight at the chicken filcher. It found its target but it found it too well
sending the last chicken wing flying towards the switch that activated the electric chair. The
fight between the two groups of jerkoffs halted; everyone watched Dr. Kevorkian get
electrocuted and turn into a lifeless pile of scraggly flesh within seconds. The entire room fell
silent. The testicle guy ran out of the room with the chicken wing in his hand. The anti-
euthanasia jerkoffs left the room to show respect to the departed soul, and also to have a
celebratory orgy. The Church of Euthanasia gathered around him, stared at their savior and
said, “Here lies a man who died for a true cause.” And then they left too. “Amen to that,” I
said, seeing that Dr. Kevorkian’s erection was finally gone.
 - 58 -

(19th June 2007) An Inconvenient Stink

Until about a year back Al Gore was a douche merely to millions of Americans. But,
after his documentary on global warming came out he became the public douche of billions
of people all over the world. “An Inconvenient Truth” opened the eyes of countless number
of selfish human beings who, in their frantic pursuit to make a living, had forgotten all about
watching the back of their fellow human beings. It encouraged the struggling middle class
people to stop driving their cars for every little errand, like going to work or rushing to the
hospital or going to college. It urged people against using air-conditioning in summer or
heaters during winter, or for that matter using anything in any season. After the
documentary’s thumping success Al Gore and some of his closest super rich white friends
celebrated by burning stuff, leaving all the lights on in their penthouses, and driving around
in circles in their monster trucks.

It was about a month ago that Al Gore’s latest project was announced. After
waking up the drowsy human souls to the perils of global warming, Al Gore, now, had turned
his attention to a new, and equally disconcerting world phenomenon- global farting. The
documentary titled “An Inconvenient Stink” would, Gore said, focus on how human beings,
in their frantic pursuit to stay alive, ate more than they actually needed to eat causing a
gradual increase in their rectal temperatures, which is followed by the emission of various
stinky farts. When critics expressed skepticism Al Gore drew up a chart that had the picture
of Jennifer Lopez’s ass. He explained that a few years ago JLO’s ass was perfectly full and
round and therefore on TV more often. Now, thanks to global farting JLO’s left ass cheek is
becoming smaller than her right, the reason why she doesn’t strut it on TV as much as she
used to. Gore described this as the gradual depletion of the “ass-zone” layer that would
ultimately spell doom for all of humanity.

He encouraged all women to wear tighter jeans in order to ensure that no part of
their ass gets depleted; he advised men all over the world to photograph and post on the
internet any female ass that they see on the road in an effort to document evidences of “ass-
zone” depletion. He then proved with the help of statistics that a decade ago only two out of
every eleven people said that they farted. Now, in 2007, the same poll showed that ten out of
eleven people said they farted. There could only be one answer to this: either people were
more honest now or global farting was true. The answer was obvious. Al Gore enlisted the
different types of farts that human beings usually engaged in like the wet fart, dry fart,
squeaky fart, nuclear fart, melody fart, smooth fart, whispering fart, angry fart, atomic fart,
rebellious fart, fart with shit, light fart, heavy fart, fart with pee, skunk fart, church fart,
carnival fart, elevator fart, conference fart, car fart, family fart, theatre fart, breezy fart,
cyclone fart, communicational fart, recreational fart, post coital fart, and emotional fart
amongst many others.

Al Gore revealed that global farting was so far-reaching that even unsuspecting
animals had become victims of the phenomenon. He explained that he spent almost a year
burying his nose in various animal assholes before he discovered that animals too had been
affected. Some of the leading animal farters were cats, horses, crocodiles, elephants,
salamanders, pandas, penguins, and unicorns. Al Gore stated that global farting was the third
largest producer of hot air next to United Nations and the Bachchans. And if not stopped in
time, global farting could become as devastating to normal human beings as those two.
 - 59 -

Al Gore expounded that if global farting were to be stopped only rich white kids
ought to be allowed to eat as much as they wanted; he even pondered about the paradoxical
existence of poor obese kids. After an impressive three-day lecture on what his new
documentary would contain, Al Gore concluded by requesting all human beings to start their
crusade against global farting right here right now. He promised them that within the next
year or so he would have more concrete tips on how to combat global farting; until then, he
had just one tip to give mankind in their battle against global farting- buy DVDs of his
documentary and shove it up their asses.
 - 60 -

(20th June 2007) Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 1

I’m faced with what you can call a pet quandary,
Let me also mention that my house is not the best sanctuary,
I saw in a pet shop a cute bird that sang to me,
It repeated a few words then turned its back to me,
I’m confused as to what pet I wish to own,
I need something for company when I’m bushed and alone,
I would buy a puppy but I find dogs a little too bumpy,
Once he grows up he will get all clumpy,
And that is something that gets me all jumpy,
More preference I’d attach to owning some kittens,
But they’ll attack with claws leave me running for mittens,
I even know cases where cat lovers have been cunningly bitten,
I still possess those letters that they have in running hand written,
My pet should be cuddly so I can give it hugs,
Should be clean too, free of fleas and bugs,
I would like to know if I could buy a panda cub,
Will it grab your hand away when you hand the grub?
Fishes are too tiny to be hugged and played with,
I once bought some which my pocket money I paid with,
Soon they kicked the bucket; I sold them to a guy named David,
He was this blind boy that my gay neighbor stayed with,
Are there any other choices that I can fix my focus on?
Perhaps I should search for the joys of a locust zone,
One of my friends suggested I get a plump snake,
I’m afraid I’ll get digested by it like a plum cake,
Another woe if I get pets is all the pee and poop,
I want to hug my pet I don’t want to kneel and scoop,
That’s a level to which I don’t need to stoop,
Maybe I should get some chicks and make me some chicken soup,
Help me fix this; I know this whole thing sounds flaky like chicken poop.

Total Loser, New Delhi.

Dr. 50 paise replies:

Had to read your letter twice, your dilemma is unique,

I got melted by your cries so I’mma tell you what you need,
If you didn’t fear dogs I’d have suggested getting a pup,
When you sleep off it’ll even help in getting you up,
Size of the dogs seems to bother you,
You despise the fact that they may be all over you,
That’s the price you pay if you want to hug,
Hugs should be given and taken, the dogs don’t intend to bug,
Let’s let the dogs lie, let’s talk now of cats,
You seem to think they are like ghoulish bats,
Waiting for the moment to wave its claws at you,
 - 61 -

Hiding in your home so it can closet you,

Most of the cats I’ve seen are harmless creatures,
But the ones you’ve described have some harmful features,
That could very well end you up armless in wheelchairs,
Forget them too if they make you nervous,
Pets are to love us and not to unnerve us,
It won’t work if we feel they don’t deserve us,
Also unlike dogs cats do nothing to serve us,
I’m not sure if you can keep as a pet a panda,
The animal control may suspect a scandal,
And accuse you of being a wildlife vandal,
Totally avoid as pets snakes and insects,
They are things that tend to infect and infest,
Besides I gather you’re looking for something cuddly,
Not something that moves as fast as Jet Li,
Something you can hug but won’t be dying of caresses,
I’m not talking about a group of rhinoceroses,
What you’re missing in your life is a girlfriend,
Assuming it’s not for David that your heart bends,
A sweet girl who’s all fun and party-brained,
And hopefully she’ll be entirely potty-trained
 - 62 -

(21st June 2007) The Prestigious Silver Dildo

The sun rose yet again to the familiar sight of a large chunk of the Islamic
community super pissed at the blatant blasphemies perpetrated by the entire non-Islamic
universe against their religion and their Prophet. It seemed as if the rest of the world just
refused to show Islam the proper respect and fear that it deserved. One of the greatest
enemies of the religion of Islam, apparently, had regained strength. The formidable figure of
Salman Rushdie was back and he was sending waves of anger and concern through the
Islamic world. And for good reason too; he was balder, he was fatter, he had more of a party
mouth than ever, and he still wrote books that people loved to say they enjoyed repeatedly
but actually just used to store falling pubic hairs.

However, the latest move that the Muhammad-hating rest of the world made
against Islam was the bestowal of the prestigious British honor of dildohood upon Salman
Rushdie, despite all the sacrilege that he had committed against Islam. By dildoing Rushdie
the British Government officially recognized him as one of their most celebrated
transvestites. The Queen, on her one hundred and thirtieth birthday, acknowledged Rushdie
for successfully being both a dick and a pussy. The dildoing ceremony saw her strap the
prestigious silver dildo around the renowned writer’s waist. The four or five self-proclaimed
Muslim leaders, spoke, as always, for all the Muslims in the entire world and expressed the
deep sense of hurt and disgust that the Islamic sphere was feeling over this calculated move
by the British- and the rest of the world- against Islam. After quoting from the Koran they
agreed the only noble way to salvage the Prophet’s honor from the fat Rushdie’s clutches was
to sever his head and suck the blood out of it. The top Muslim leaders once again delegated
the heaven/prison worthy task of beheading Salman Rushdie to their fellow Muslims for
whom even reading Tintin took three years.

Predominantly Muslim countries like Pakistan, Iran, and Bollywood staged

elaborately civil protests- burning stuff and screaming obscenities- condemning the strapping
of the prestigious silver dildo around Rushdie’s waist. Apparently, they weren’t having
enough problems already. Pakistan demanded that that the dildo be withdrawn immediately
and warned that if not withdrawn all pretences of cordial relations with Britain would be
dropped. They also mentioned that they thought the Queen was just a no good useless old
wrinkly slut. After a couple of days of silence the British Government released a statement
where they mentioned that while they completely agreed with the Muslims on the queen
being a wrinkly slut, they wouldn’t de-dildo Salman Rushdie as that would be taking a step
back in the progress of the transvestite rights. The Muslim community was enraged by the
audacity of the British Government in directly dishonoring their beloved Prophet. They
analyzed that since Prophet Muhammad had been a straight man, this move by the British
Government of endorsing transvestites was a direct insult to their religion and tradition.
There was only one logical mode of resistance left in their disposal- suicide bombing.

Support, however, grew incrementally for Rushdie as each hour passed. Asian
writers, not living in Asia, voiced their strong support for Salman who taught them that all
they had to do to make a lot of money was write a pussy-ass novel on dislocation and other
immigrant woes. The Asian Diaspora community then proceeded to crawl up Salman
Rushdie’s pale ass and hibernate there until they all received forewords from him for their
latest books. The Vatican, too, lent its strong support to Salman Rushdie urging him to keep
 - 63 -

writing about Islamic orthodoxies. The Vatican, also, lent its support to the Muslim
community applauding their passion to give up their own lives to uphold their honor and
tradition. They said that most Christians were stupid to continue living happy, satisfied lives
without paying much attention to Christ-bashers. The Vatican also extended an offer to
protect all young Muslim boys if such a need arose. The Hindu community refused to make
any comments on the issue; they were still occupied with hunting down M.F (-ing) Hussain.

Inevitably, the situation escalated and the British Government went on an all out
war with the entire Muslim population of the world. Thousands of Islamic supporters blew
themselves up killing almost thirty-five English men and a chipmunk. The British retaliated
by releasing more Hugh Grant-starring romantic comedies into the Islamic world. The second
week of the British-Islam war saw the body count rise meteorically. And by the third week
both parties were wiped off completely from the phase of the earth. Probably this was what
happened to the dinosaurs too. The carnage was catastrophic, the sight horrific. Nothing
moved except a few roaches…and a ghostly rotund mass of blubber. It was Salman Rushdie.
He had survived the war. He stood in the middle of the ruins, looked around regretfully at
what was around him, what was done in his name, and screamed out loud in perfect English,
“I wants me some pussy.” As if in response to his cry a figure crawled out from underneath
the ruins. It was the Queen. Both Salman and the Queen stared into each other’s eyes for
what seemed like an eternity before Rushdie proceeded to mount the queen and repeatedly
stuff her one hundred and thirty year old vagina with his silver dildo. As the two love pigs lay
there humping on the rubble, amidst thousands of corpses, their passionate cries echoed
through the rest of the free world, “Oh! Your majesty! Oh your majesty!”, “Oh! Sir Salman!
Oh! Sir Salman”.
 - 64 -

(22nd June 2007) Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 2

People despise me saying I got a perverted filthy mind

Believe you me this verse is gonna be an unhealthy find
I spend my time snapping pictures of women with healthy behinds
I was fourteen when I started exhibiting these signs
I promise there’s no exaggeration in these lines
Used to carry my camera to my auntie’s gym
And click every time I saw this one blondie’s bum
But butts were plenty in that gym it seemed like a bum symposium
To me it felt like those women were actually posing them
So my trusted camera could capture those round cushions
To me this is an art, one that provides me sound visions
And it ain’t like I expose these ladies’ faces
All I do is take photos of their amazing bases
I knew I was made for this and I started branching out
I stared making money using this enchanting route
People really loved the photos I was handing out
Haunted coffee shops for girls sitting in or standing out
Sneaked into fashion shows to click the cheeky models
Doors or security couldn’t stop me from seeking more belles
I have even snapped a few secret celebrity pictures
When it comes to my work I lay down no strictures
The only golden rule I care is customer satisfaction
But that doesn’t mean I take clients like Michael Jackson
My camera doesn’t capture children or even the male race
I won’t compromise on that even if it means I won’t be able to save face
Amongst my best sales are the butts of JLO and Britney Spears
I don’t have to mention those aren’t a pair of itsy bitsy rears
I caught them both at a bar trying to drink free beers
They were both dressed in dresses whiter than the head of Richard Gere
Nothing’s more ironic than Britney Spears in white
And ain’t nothing more erotic than Jen Lopez in tights
Then there’s Anna who’s hot as long as it’s no tennis fight
Her pictures sell great even on her most heinous night
Her butt’s clearer in my pix than the ones on any website
You must be thinking I wrote just to advertise my collection
That’s not true; I have another reason for this method selection
Let me fast forward to my worry; let me tell you all about it
I hope you’re in no hurry; you’re a writer so I doubt it
The problem has everything to do with my latest client
He’s a good customer and I’ve always been reliant
But his latest need has totally wrecked my peace
He wants a photo of the butt of my girlfriend, Denise,
I’m left stumped, can’t figure out how I’m to act
Never say no to my clients is my primal business pact
This situation has landed me in a very tough spot
 - 65 -

Even a word against my girl is a bad enough thought

But backing out of my job isn’t one of my functions,
At the same time I’m being overwhelmed with compunction
To do or not to do that is the question
I want you to answer that with a good suggestion
And don’t think me stupid I do know the obvious answer
Forget about asking me to hire some helping hands, sir,
I know I could just employ someone and give him the task
But I work alone and don’t take help from any wimpy ass
If anybody’s snapping my girl then I’m the one to do it
The issue is whether or not I will afterwards rue it
Also there’s a chance that Denise will finally find out
Don’t want things to change, they’re perfectly fine now
All I’ve told her is that I work as a photographer
She is unaware that I’m really a buttock sniffer
I so damn wish this client would get off of her
This guy is more obstinate than Adolph Hitler
I could turn him down, say no to the horny chump
But he’s loaded almost as much as Donald Trump
Nobody knows about this world in which I exist
Mother nor sister know this is how I bought our Lexus
So reply fast I need a way out this mess
Make sure it’s one where I suffer least distress
Some plan where I’ll end up with the girl and cash
Not some stupid one which will make me whirl and crash
Help me out I’ll definitely make it your time’s worth
I’ll send you photos of any bum you want on this earth.

Huge Pervert, Los Angeles

Dr. 50 paise replies:

I’m not suited to judge your mind’s condition

Although I think your brain’s out of commission
Your job definitely isn’t for the weak-hearted
It stinks like the air when a dead sheep farted
At first I imagined someone was pulling a prank
The more I read the more it stank
You’re nothing but the lowest form of paparazzi
You wanna be a hero, go slap a Nazi
You’re only fooling yourself sounding artsy-fartsy
Taking pictures of women with their asses half seen
You’re the biggest Jack of all the asses I’ve seen
I’m very much shocked that you’re still alive and clicking
But listen real close your clock is ticking
Now or later you’re going to end up hurt
Sorry for the tone generally I’m not this curt
But I’m telling you man you’ve almost reached the brink
 - 66 -

You better call it quits and bleach your kink

Best thing would be for you go see a shrink
The storm will hit you and your ship will sink
And stop calling what you do as work
It just proves you’re a humongous jerk
What you’re doing is a punishable offence
The price you might pay could be very immense
You’re hurting people’s families in a sense
You’re preying on unsuspecting women having innocence
Your habits seem to have eroded that aspect of inner sense
Now when your girl could be the victim you feel the sting
For the women whom you victimize it’s pain you bring
But I see the issue for you is an entirely different thing
I first got the wrong idea from your marks of ink
I pictured you had finally learned your lesson
Figured your perverseness would finally lessen
It isn’t love or anything close that leaves you distraught
Your heart holds nothing but various sleazy thoughts
Concern for your girl isn’t what is upsetting you
You just don’t want her to be suspecting you
You don’t care if someone treats her badly
You’re willing to make money off her gladly
As long as you’re in the clear and not involved directly
You’re playing up to a false image you’ve erected
Just by delegating the task you think you’re free from blame
You’ve pawned your morals for attaining money and fame
The matter at hand is not about being true to your clients
What you’re doing is against God and an act of defiance
You belong with rats though you might dream of lions
Exploiting innocents is what you judge as triumph
You cannot cross bridges until and unless you try ‘em
If you loved your girl you wouldn’t have needed my help
You would have told your client to go straight to red hell
And you wouldn’t have lied and side-lived a secret life
Your personality sucks, it’s worse than being a stereotype
You have wasted your life lusting after fame and money
You adopted vulgar means and that’s the same as demonic
However God is one who forgives even the worst
Don’t you want a clear mind before you’re in your hearse?
Death can capture everything but it can’t capture hope
God can save your neck even if the devil latches on it with rope
All that advice is under assumption you have plans to become changed
Although from your letter you sounded more than deranged
So if you’re planning to stick to your lifestyle then I have a request
I know you find it proper in you what others find grotesque
So be the proper professional and make good your promise
You promised that my time will bring me photographic profits
I think I know just what would please my most common sense
Naked pictures of buttocks that belong to your mom and sis.
 - 67 -

(23rd June 2007) Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 3

Let me just start with a solid strong fact
This is not one of those stolid wrong stats
At least twelve times a day they say I’m just too fat
What the hell am I to do? Even my pals shout out ‘Who’s that?’
I’ve tried it all, all the books and the fast diets,
It’s all lies and now it looks like I’m past light,
I’m the heaviest thing and when I worry I get doubly hungry,
I’ll drink the gravy or curry or my tongue just runs dry,
The other day I almost swallowed a plastic orange,
My brother, Jay, stopped me with a drastic low punch,
People find it funny they laugh at my ecstatic slow munch,
Call me names when I’m consuming my fantastic-four lunch,
Burgers, Pizzas, Sandwiches and hot dogs with extra cheese,
These four items I cannot hog but with textbook ease,
Next one please, it’s all I can ever think of, I want to eat it all up,
But in the process I’ve messed it all up,
My friends, they don’t even meet or call up,
They think I’m happier to eat meat or a dollop
Of cream, I just want to scream, trapped in a bad dream,
I thought that they were always in my team,
But it seems like they feel I lack self-esteem,
Please help me, send me at least a single light beam,
Is it such a nasty black spot to be too obese?
Why are they swarming on me like a pack o’ bees?
It’s not my fault that I’ll die for a Mac n Cheese,
I cannot vault my feelings; they come back n tease,
So what do you suggest? Any exercise or diet plans?
Anyway I need some rest, all this text and cries, now I have tight hands,
Hope you reply me by post as soon as possible,
Right now there’s a lamb roast on which I must nibble.

Bucket of Lard, Ohio

Dr. 50 Paise replies:

At first I was a bit confused what you wanted my help for,

What your bemused friends taunted you to hell for?
Then I saw your concern for your obesity,
Do you take long walks or is it only sitting?
I can understand why you act like a mad-eater,
All the pressure circles you in a yard with no diameter,
Soon I got to know that the matter was a tad serious,
Eating plastic is no better than drinking things bad and spurious,
The solution is not reading books or watching diet programs,
Take a resolution to cut down on your batch of nighttime hams,
Walk everyday for an hour or so, it helps you from head to toe,
 - 68 -

You can do it fast or slow, be dedicated and you need to do no more,

Do it now, for long you’ve already waited, no more of woes,
You say you’ll die for a Mac n Cheese, good to see some passion,
Seems to me like you’ll die of a Mac n Cheese, sorry for that slashing,
Losing weight is no magic trick; the excess weight will end you up aging sick,
You’ll always be paging shrinks, paying bills, envisaging greener hills,
And it’ll be harder to stop your friends repeating all the meaner things,
So get it clear that it doesn’t help to eat relentlessly,
You need to sweat it here; you mustn’t accept defeat endlessly,
Keep your mind on it, reduce your grub and stop being a lazy bum,
Don’t just smile this off, Go use a health club or join a gymnasium,
Give it some time, don’t agonize or you’ll be in some coma,
Don’t lose sleep and get bags under eyes like the Simpsons’ Homer,
Remember that the people who hurt are not your friends,
They’re just a worthless bunch who blots your sense,
A friend is one who sees in you the sage and dunce,
A friend is one who stays and not one who runs,
I think you’ll be fine and that’s not a mere hunch,
If all this doesn’t work then I’ll buy you a year’s lunch
 - 69 -

(24th June 2007) The Adventures of Space Bitch Sunita

Americans say she’s one of their own; Indians claim she’s their most treasured
sister; women all over the world, regardless of their geographical differences, accept her as
their shiniest star; ugly people hail her name as the greatest source of inspiration to come out
of their community since Whoopi Goldberg. Regardless of where she really belongs Sunita
Williams is definitely considered out of this world right now.

A lot of people, especially some of us patriotic Indians, prayed till we bled out of
our urinary tracts so that this hitherto unheard of space bitch could make it back to earth
safely. And God, who knew that prayer-induced internal bleeding occurred only when the
supplication was sincere, made sure Sunita Williams returned to her planet unscathed except
for the bite marks on her labia majora, which were self inflicted owing to the shortage of fish
n chips towards the fag end of her journey. The Indian President, Abdul Kalam, welcomed
Sunita by personally entering the Atlantis and greeting her. The missile man spent about an
hour inside Sunita’s cockpit and wondered at the capaciousness of the region. He also
proposed the idea of one day having Sunita take control of his missiles and raising it to an
altitude of at least seven inches, let alone outer space. Sunita responded by stating that she
was starving and attempted to perform more acts of self-cannibalization on her vulva before
NASA stopped her in time by feeding her some penis kebabs.

Hearing the media extol the courage and determination of Sunita in surviving
trying conditions and living inside an air-conditioned space craft with treadmill, refrigerator,
computers, scrabble, dildos, and Charlie Chaplin tapes, some fishermen and soldiers
requested that their stories of staring death in its face every moment of their lives be reported
on television as well. The leading news channels promised the soldiers and fishermen that
they would definitely run their stories. However, they would first have to bring three things
to the media: the beating heart of a Stegosaurus, the blood of a two hundred year old Chinese
prostitute, and a picture of Paris Hilton wearing any form of underwear.

The number of jobless kiss-ass interviewers smothering Sunita Williams was so

overwhelming that the Bachchans actually considered calling in a professional killer to wipe
her out for stealing their fountainhead of life. The interviewers questioned Sunita on what her
most exhilarating outer space experience was. Whether it was the rush of being so far away
from a place accepted as home for all of mankind since the beginning of life or the
anticipation of the future of space travel or the chance to learn of the possibilities of life on
other planets. Sunita Williams pondered over the question for about ten seconds before she
replied confidently, “Zero gravity pooping.” She explained in very scientific terms how when
she went poo poo in outer space she only had to give the initial gentle push to bring out the
doo doo and the rest was taken care of by zero gravity. She stated that it felt almost as if an
invisible magician was pulling out a long ribbon of shit out of her craphole.

She also admitted that despite all the strain she endured while she was out of earth
the technology that NASA offered her did make things slightly better in outer space. One of
the most invaluable technological innovations, Sunita said, was the NASA-designed FD chip
that was inserted deep into her rectal cavity. The FD chip or the Fart Divert chip operated
much like the Call Divert function in a cell phone. Whenever Sunita felt like letting one rip it
would get diverted to the bum of another person whose data would be stored in the chip. This
 - 70 -

technology, NASA explained, helped divert outer space farts to earth consequently reducing
space pollution. Another problem that was resolved by NASA’s state of the art science was
Sunita’s grooming. Since NASA knew it would tough for Sunita to handle a razor or use wax
in outer space they provided her with a scientific grooming equipment known as a diamond
saw blade. Using the DSB Sunita, while in outer space, was able to not only successfully
remove body hair but also a few layers of skin and tissues thereby putting an end to any
further hair growth.

Sunita also supplied the salivating media with exclusive photographs of the galaxy
as viewed from the Atlantis. One of the channels expressed their concern over the
authenticity of one outer space photograph which they said looked like an enlarged version of
Sunita’s left nipple, which incidentally was pretty damn popular. Sunita also corroborated the
fact there were only three things on earth that could be seen from near the moon and other
parts of space- the Great Wall of China, Jennifer Lopez’s ass, and Abishek Bachchan’s ego.
Sunita Williams promised that this was only the start of her adventures. She would yet again
tread bravely into the regions where no ordinary woman would dare go- like the streets of
Bangalore after ten o clock, Jack Kevorkian’s bedroom, and George Bush’s head. Before she
could answer further questions she was once again struck by a surge of hunger. She twisted
her body and buried her head between her legs and began chewing on her clit. Thankfully,
the NASA team swooped in to save the day yet again by serving her some cock cutlets.
 - 71 -

(25th June 2007) Ask Dr. 50 Paise # 4

Just a few weeks ago my life seemed perfect
Loved to live, never wanted to forfeit
Never thought about death or about my coffin
But I’m popping pills and spending my time coughin’
In my twenty five years I’ve never felt like I lacked an answer
Until the moment when I was told I’m being attacked by cancer
My family’s devastated and my life has come to a halt
Am I to blame God? With who am I supposed to find fault
All that I ever lived for has suddenly just slipped out
I’ve been reduced to nothing; I’m totally insane and flipped out
I wish God would just tell me what I did to deserve this fate
I have only loved and never ever worked to serve hate
It feels like hell when I’m awake and hell when I’m sleeping
All the people I love are either pitiful or weeping
Screw all the morals and principles I lived by
I’m through with abhorring sins; I’m left with no alibi
There is nothing in front except a void
I’m filled with a disrespect I can’t avoid
Will God tell me what I did to receive this?
I look around and see happy cheats and deceivers
Walking around enjoying life with no diseases
I’m left with a crying wife whose life is split into pieces
My heart is bleeding and my pain never ceases
Thwarted breathing, why can’t you save me oh Jesus?
My treatment is just for some time, say all of the doctors
I’ll be soon rendered helpless, why does death have to mock us?
An unhindered life needs only very little time to shock us
We can never predict what is there in store for us
But I know for a fact that life is indeed torturous
Could be even tomorrow that I end up in a mortuary
When I was young I thought there was a burning torch for me
But now it’s been put out yet the infernal heat is scorching me
All this undeserved pain and shattered dreams I could have endured
Why is my family too being battered and deeply injured?
If only God had let me know this two years ago
My lovely wife wouldn’t have been fated to shed tears alone
My heart breaks further when I think of my mother and father
Two people who thought I’d reach greatness and even farther
Here I am now sobbing and counting my days
The cancer in me robbing the sun’s rays
I’m now convinced destiny has nothing to do with one’s ways
It doesn’t matter if you’re into peace or into gunplay
Some are forced to leave and some to just stay
Life will slip from you whether you cuss or pray
Nothing’s left for me except pain and dismay
I wish I was never born in the first place
 - 72 -

I’m going to die clueless in this deathly maze

Death awaits me around the corner with a cold gaze
As a child I never thought I’d never see old age
I’m about to leave this book of life like a torn page
I placed in God all my trust to ensure my safety
Not knowing in my case he would be so hasty
He didn’t even let me know of my purpose
Instead left me to suffer like a rotten carcass
My heart beats no more and there remains a cold sore
People like fishes swimming to the ocean’s roars
I’ll soon be buried unnoticed in the depths of the muddy
shores.

No Hope, Bombay.

Dr. 50 paise replies:

I won’t try to sound absurd by saying I know what you’re feeling

We all have experienced hard times when our lives were reeling
But what you’re going through right now is far too personal
For anybody to demand that you be calm and act rational
Cancer is doubtlessly one of the world’s biggest curses
Into dejection and misery its victims it immerses
Life suddenly twists contrary to what one rehearses
Shattering dreams and the lives that each person nurses
But God is not unfair and he’s not a punisher
He’s the loving father and not a cruel admonisher
Difficulties come our way as little tests of faith
Life for everyone is a fierce struggle with fate
Cancer however can’t be termed as just another hurdle
It scars one’s vision with pits and blurred hills
It’s unknown to this world the plans that the Lord makes
But he has a reason for every single life that he takes
Everything around may seem it has changed for the worst
But a strong heart filled with faith should replace the outbursts
Prayers have been proved to create great miracles
Sincere pleas will help break manacles
Easy it is to have faith when the sky is clear
But the test really is when the dark night is here
Your life has not become a symbol of insignificance
Life becomes death when your interior thickens
They could have all the money in the world
Bathe in gold, rubies, diamonds, and pearls
But you’re surrounded by people who care for you
Ones who’d die for you and be there for you
Don’t think the time till now has been wasted hours
Life is a tree that grows through dry days and days of showers
Filled with fruits so sweet and some that tastes so sour
 - 73 -

Bliss and agony goes together like the fate of lovers

Beliefs and strength are never to be let go of
God is capable of wonders one can never know of
Do not treat these lines as if they’re lines of false hope
God is your balance when you’re walking life’s tight rope
The heights you wanted you say haven’t been reached
The promises you made yourself you say have been breached
Greatness isn’t measured by your riches or fame
Nor does it matter how many people recognize your name
What’s real are the hearts and lives you touch
The tears that you catch which you deem not much
The broken lives you support by being their crutch
Give yourself up to God and he’ll take away your pains
An honest man always suffers more than one who feigns
Clean hands are fewer than ones with bloodstains
Goodness sustains life and not merely food grains
Clear your mind and focus on all that you have done
You’ll realize your real journey has just begun
It’s leaving God’s Earth with a clear conscience that’s the purpose
Spreading love and joy that can never be surplus
Leaving other people’s lives better urges God to help us
To the rich and famous life is nothing but a circus
Fire and noise adorned with moments of fake sparkles
Meaningless existence living out your flesh
Meanwhile real life exists outside this mesh
Finding your self and finding the almighty Lord
Resort to the feather and abandon the sword
Pray your heart out and search for the answer
Your soul and spirit will never succumb to the cancer
Leave your worries and submit to prayers
For those who trust have a place up the heavenly stairs.
 - 74 -

(26th June 2007) 50 Paise vs. Britney Spears

(Created by 50 Paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible
doctor with his very own advice column):

This is a lyric celebrating a woman’s beauty,

Elaborating on a cutie’s boobs and bootie,
There maybe a million round tits and rears,
But ain’t none tighter than those of Britney Spears,
Oh! Just saying her name leaves me with an erection,
Download a picture of her, my dick loses direction,
Even impotent guys jackoff to her,she causes resurrection,
She has a place in my heart, in the ‘wanna-screw-you’ section’,
If there’s anybody’s ass I’d suck it’s surely Britney’s,
Let me chew your nipples, here’s 20bucks,consider it tit-fees,
Don’t get me wrong, I dig her songs, voice and all,
I thought she did a nice job in that video rock and roll,
Only she’d do a better job swallowing my cock and balls,
She’s reached the point where she need sing no more,
Let the music run, drop the top and spin like a whore,
She’s ever the same, it don’t matter if she’s rich,
She was never so tame, she was always a bitch,
Sometimes I wanna get mean behind her and hit that baby one more time,
Would’ve screwed her ass when she was sixteen if it had not been a crime,
She messes with our minds exposing those abs,
I’ve run out of money, now websites are taking my tabs,
That bitch should just quit this posing, stop making us gape,
Either go kill herself or release her sex-tape,
If she ever lets me our relationship will move on to rape,
Since she’s letting me rape, the law cant catch me, I’ll easily escape,
When she closes her eyes and bites her lips,
My cock loses it all and emerges despite flops and flips,
Just take into your mouth Britney, yeah just drink it,
Imagine it’s a microphone, suck it and lip sync it,
Dance away and come to me, let me smell your sweat,
Hop around on my dick let me make you wet,
I’m telling you babe, I’m good, in fact the best you’ll ever get,
My dick is bigger than your Grammies, come on let’s make a bet,
If I lose I’ll come to your toilet and watch you piss,
If u lose you’ll let me have a threesome with you and your sis!!
 - 75 -

(27th June 2007) 50 Paise vs. George W. Bush

(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible
doctor with his very own advice column):

There’s nothing worth talkin or knowin ‘bot George Bush

Except one of his daughters who i know has got a large tush
How can such a fuckin moron be the President?
He’s so dumb he fucked his wife in the nose thinkin it was her pussy end
I hate his very sight and the sound of his voice
That motherfucker is more gay than Jacko with all his boys
Are the Americans so fuckin stupid that they can’t see it?
Fuck I can make better speeches than him even if I pee it
Bush’s just a bitchass fag waging wars for his dear ol dad
A bitter fucker who got fucked in the rear so bad
He let a bunch of lame motherfuckers burn the twin towers
Instead of takin care of his people he and Blair were in the shower
On 9/11 he wanted to say Oh God but he mispronounced and said damn!
Osama fucked his country but that stupid fuck went after Saddam
He could care less ‘bot what happens to all his fuckin people
He would have been kicked out if the Americans weren’t so fuckin feeble
Bill Clinton blew his load with a whore and he got impeached
Bush is blowing up countries and look where he’s reached
That dicksucker don’t even know how to eat a fuckin pretzel
His shrivelled up brain is smaller than a fuckin nutshell
That motherfuckin prick sucks KKK dick, he’s a fuckin racist
He’s screwed over minorities more times than Cher’s got facelifts
He should resign, marry Blair, be his wife, and choose the right blouse
He’s fucked so many blacks in the ass he’s turnin the whole country into a White House
I hope he fuckin dies and burns to ashes in hell
Or trip and fall over into a motherfuckin well
‘Cuz of his stupid fuckin ego thousands of soldiers are being killed
If he wants a war let him go fight it himself and get drilled
He’s sending his army to screw over innocent victims
If he wants Saddam’s dick he should go and hit him
Leave the people alone you motherfuckin pussy
What’s your compulsive need to blow up everything you see?
Fuck you, Bush! Fuck you to hell get the fuck out of this world with ur Texan dick
You make the Blacks, Whites, Spanish, Asians, and the Mexicans sick
Everybody wants you dead you’re nothing but a fuckin phoney
50 Paise will slit your throat so go home while you can homie!!
 - 76 -

(28th June 2007) 50 Paise vs. F.R.I.E.N.D.S

(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible
doctor with his very own advice column):

Six people who are everything to each other, Hi we’re friends

Fuck that shit homie, that show ain’t even worth four cents
That fuckin series made it big for four reasons
Courtney and Aniston’s perky tits in the first four seasons
Friends is nothing but an audience screwer
You can find better humor in a fuckin sewer
Ain’t no friends like that in real life
All that forgivness and love is just mere hype
I hate that bitch Kudrow, the one who plays Phoebe
That slut is so horny she gave her chair a freebie
Her pussy craves dicks screaming come feel me
And her tits throbbing inside her bra yelling come free me
Monica the sexy bitch played by Courtney Cox
She’s no actress she just likes throating cocks
Fuck that lame Ross N Rachel on-off love storyline
Hell with that nerd Rach he’s just a sorry guy
Come over to my place and spend a night with da paise Aniston
I’ll fuck you so good, then let you lick my megasize piston
Die Matt le Blanc along with your bitch Matthew Perry
They are so flamin they plucked each other’s cherry
These motherfuckers and bitches waste our fuckin time
They earn millions, we’re left without a dime
Split your dough with us you wrinkled fuckers for making you famous
You cocksuckers ain’t nothin but half a dozen jerkoffs who’re lameass
You bastards think that I want you to be there for me?
Unload your wallets homies let’s see if you got some spare for me
And you three bitches, all I want you to do is just bare for me
I’m glad that stupid shit show is off the air
Only thing worse than FRIENDS would be watchin Tony Blair fuck Cher
All you motherfuckers are gone though it took you ten years
I couldn’t enjoy a moment of the show even if i had had ten beers
So Fuck all friends TV show and real ones
I’mma shoot everyone up with my dear guns!!
 - 77 -

(29th June 2007) The Wrestlemaniac

The shroud of sadness that was spread last Sunday over billions of people has not
yet been lifted. The world saw the passing of a truly heroic individual who had captured the
hearts of everyone around him. That dark Sunday marked the end of the significant life of
one of the greatest fighters ever, both in professional and personal life: World Wrestling
Entertainment star, Chris Benoit. Everyone who knew him described him as a thorough
professional, but above all Benoit was etched in the hearts of his friends and family as a good
human being. His wife, Nancy, and his seven-year-old mentally challenged son, Daniel,
however, were unavailable to make comments on Chris Benoit’s death. Mainly because the
compassionate wrestling hero had murdered them both with his bare hands before killing
himself.

The most distressing fact although is the number of morbidly perverse people out
there who’re trying to tarnish this solemn Benoit family occasion of double homicide suicide
by bringing up accusations of Chris Benoit being a victim of “roid rage”. Our society has
become so addicted to stereotyping people that every time a person having abnormally large
muscles with veins the size of portable computers comes on screen, they naturally assume
he’s buffed up with the assistance of steroids. The World Wrestling Entertainment and other
athletes in the wrestling business are of the opinion that the very theory of “roid rage” is
baseless even though they deny furiously taking steroids at any point in their lives. They
strongly believe that the linking of this crazy theory and the perfectly natural double
homicide suicide story of Benoit is part of a much larger controversy propagated by the SNL
team in yet another attempt to tarnish the respectability of the wrestling business. The SNL
team, or the Scrawny Nerds League, according to the WWE, is a group of skinny douchebags
who, try as hard as they might, can never put on body mass at the same rate as the
professional wrestlers. Hence, they develop a feeling of jealously which generate in them a
need to make up shitty stuff connecting wrestlers and steroids.

Regarding Chris Benoit’s general disposition both the WWE and its chairman,
Vince McMahon, maintained that he was a mild-mannered individual who never showed
signs of any kind of violence. Well, except for beating up people to pulp, hitting them with
chairs, jumping off ladders and head butting them on their sternums, and twisting their heads
so far behind their back that they would pass out of pain. But then again, which professional
sportsman didn’t do that these days? Benoit’s toothless smile, resulting from a bloody brutal
brawl, was something that brought warmth and enthusiasm to others, reported some of
Benoit’s colleagues namely the Animal and the Dead Man. There was no way anyone could
have known that Chris Benoit, nicknamed the Rabid Wolverine, had any element of
aggression residing in him. The WWE also stated that Benoit, though melancholic most of
the time, could not be described as suicidal since this was the first and only time that he had
committed suicide.

Police reports said that Chris Benoit may have used his trademark finishing
maneuver, “the Crippler Cross face”, on his son to stifle him to death. Wrestling enthusiasts
remarked that it only served to prove how much passion Benoit had for the wrestling
business. Some even speculated that knowing Benoit’s resilient gene pool, his seven-year-old
son who suffered from Fragile X syndrome, might not have tapped out to his father’s
submission maneuver. After all he was the son of a man who was all heart. Benoit’s wife,
 - 78 -

who was obviously weaker owing to her sex, submitted to “the Crippler Cross face” as soon
as her neck broke. Benoit then proceed to kill himself by swallowing a dumbbell and
watching recorded episodes of Crumbs. Placed next to the corpses of his wife and son were
two copies of the Bible, which was technically the only possible loophole for Benoit to get
into heaven. The Pope, on hearing this, stated that he talked Jesus out of taking Benoit in
since this act of Benoit was a desecration of the Holy Bible and that for his sins, Benoit
would be reborn in his next life as a call center employee in India.

Several wrestlers expressed their shock on the mind-boggling incident. They all felt
bewildered on learning that Chris Benoit had copies of the Bible. As far as they knew, the
only thing he could read was names of painkillers. Hulk Hogan, a few days back, made a
bold statement when he supported controlled steroid use. According to Hogan, his entire
family used steroids and they all did just fine. Except for the small side effect that happened
with his daughter Brooke where she grew testicles in the side of her neck. And his son who
developed pussy lips on his forehead. Hogan, much like the rest of the wrestling world,
supported WWE and said that the increasing number of early deaths in the business was not
due to drug use of any kind. He would be a hundred and thirty three next year. Hogan instead
believed the early deaths to be an aftermath of global warming.

As bizarrely discomforting as Benoit’s death was and as large a part of the business
as he was, the WWE should not be burdened with the sins of this monstrous man, exclaimed
Vince McMahon. There was even speculation that Benoit’s ex-friend Eddie Guerrero may
have been behind Benoit’s death, creating the double homicide suicide scenario as a set up
for something way more sinister. However, the speculation was abandoned after people
remembered that Eddie Guerrero had died a couple of years back owing to a steroid related
heart failure.

The WWE used to and, still do sometimes, show clips of wrestlers telling viewers
at home not to imitate at home the moves that they do. Chris Benoit, too, was in a similar
video explaining to viewers how much pain it was to actually do what he and his colleagues
did. He advised WWE fans to never imitate at home what they saw on TV. In a touching
tribute to Chris Benoit, the WWE fans from all around the world chanted in unison in an
attempt to summarize Benoit’s life and career, “Practice what you preach, motherfucker.”
 - 79 -

(30th June 2007) The Seven Wonders of India

Until sometime back my nighttime schedule was short and simple. I watched
Shakira videos, beat my meat, and then went to sleep dreaming of impregnating her.
However, I was, recently, forced to make a slight change in my nighttime schedule. The
altered agenda was: watch Shakira videos, massage my Mt. Everest, say a ten-minute prayer,
and then go to sleep dreaming of impregnating Shakira. Unlike in my childhood days, the
prayer wasn’t aimed at having my school bombed or my teachers buried alive or my relatives
skewered. I had matured a lot since those days. I knew all I had to do was search the Internet
for ultra cool ways to murder people. The reason I prayed after rubbing my rhombus and
before going to sleep was something totally different. I yearned to uphold our country’s pride
and rich cultural heritage in front of the rest of the world. I desired to make India appear
tourism-worthy to stupid retarded white-ass foreigners. I prayed in order to make sure the Taj
Mahal wouldn’t get voted out of the new seven wonders list.

The whole nation is getting jittery because the Taj Mahal was the one thing that
had always made India appealing to the rest of the universe. Even when some countries
couldn’t agree to our strict moral code of banning and condemning everything that even
slightly referred to the authenticity of religions or historical figures while secretly promoting
prostitution, sex rackets, communal riots, bigotry, pornography, and violence against women
they all openly welcomed the fact that the Taj Mahal was a wondrous monument and an
unequivocal symbol of love. Without the Taj Mahal being officially one of the seven
wonders India would be just a smelly country with a handful of filthy rich millionaires,
billions of sick, depressed call center employees and software engineers, and a seriously
“we’ve-got-our-heads-so-far-up-our-asses-that-we-can-lick-our-tonsils” family called the
Bachchans whom everybody knows they’re supposed to say they like but aren’t quite sure
why.

Some Indians were of the opinion that India was paying too much attention to get
accepted into the New Seven Wonders List. They believed that when hundreds and thousands
of Indians were dying every month of various reasons like poverty, diseases, and border
violence the value that was being ascribed to the Taj Mahal was undeserved. Afterwards,
when they ran out of things to say and do the group randomly assaulted college professors
and assailed artists and writers. It was then that everybody realized that it was merely the
Shiv Sena and the RSS trying to not have a Muslim monument as the biggest attraction in a
purely Hindu country. They demanded that, instead, a Hindu monument should be named as
the country’s biggest treasure. Maybe something like the IMAX theatre in Mumbai. Or Bal
Thackeray’s house.

Even if the New Seven Wonders Committee excludes the Taj from their list we
have to learn to value our national possessions and talk about them at every single occasion
so that people get so sick of it they’ll visit the Taj Mahal just to jump from the top of it. What
most of us don’t realize is that the Taj Mahal is just one of the brilliant wonders that exist in
our country. There are innumerous wonders that overwhelm different parts of our country
that it’s hard to make a list of them. However, I have managed to narrow down seven of our
country’s greatest wonders.
 - 80 -

THE SEVEN WONDERS OF INDIA

Wonder # 7: Bollywood

Possibly the most popular movie industry in the world next to Hollywood. But the
reason why it’s included in the seven wonders of India list is because not a single living
breathing Indian knows why it’s so popular. Overflowing with untalented actors, directors,
and scriptwriters Bollywood is equivalent to a group of monkeys imitating what they see
Hollywood do, and that too imitate it really badly. It’s nothing short of a wonder how actors
like Fardeen Khan, Suniel Shetty, Amisha Patel, John Abraham, Shahid Kapoor, and Bipasha
Basu to name a few are still thriving in the industry. It’s nothing short of a wonder that
people would pay money to see these spoiled assfaces put on pathetic displays of what they
call acting.

Wonder # 6: Dowry

The wondrous procedure by which a woman is sold to a man by her family where
the money is paid by the woman’s family to the man. Now that’s what you call a bad bargain
when you part with valuable pussy and end up paying for it. Still, the wonder is that even in
the twenty first century it exists and continues to grow stronger.

Wonder # 5: Hansika Motwani

With tits that can give you a cardiac arrest, an ass that can bring world peace, and a
face that can keep a sperm bank going for years, Hansika Motwani is just sixteen years old.
Now, salivating after a sixteen-year-old girl is obviously an inappropriate thing to do but
she’s a living breathing sex-oozing monument of beauty who deserves to be described as a
true hormonal wonder.

Wonder # 4: Himesh Reshammiya

One of the very few singers in the country who gets paid to make sounds similar to
a giraffe getting a cordless phone shoved up its ass. Others like Lata Mangeshkar and Asha
Bhosle have had to strain for centuries before they reached where the capped-wonder Himesh
has reached in a matter of few months.

Wonder # 3: Ayesha Takia’s boobs

Are they two planets trapped inside her blouse? Is it God’s way of letting us take a
sneak preview of what heaven is like? Are they not the two most essential things a man needs
for his survival other than food and water? Filled with the power to raise the genitals of even
a dead man, Ayesha Takia’s boobs are undoubtedly the greatest twin towers ever into which
anyone would love to fly their airplane into.

Wonder # 2: Indian Politics

Filled with both educated and uneducated cock-squeezers, the Indian Political
Arena is awe-inspiring both for its complete refusal to give a shit about the welfare of the
 - 81 -

people and the absolute desire to pile up as much money as possible while promising people
whatever they want to hear. Although Indian Politics resemble other countries in those
aspects they hold their own when it comes to crime, corruption, and intolerance. In all which
way possible, the field of Indian Politics is truly a wonder.

Wonder # 1: Kashmir

A piece of shit-ass unproductive land that is perpetually filled with snow and does
not mean crap to any thinking individual in either India or Pakistan. No matter how many
billions of bullets are fired and how many thousands liters of blood are spilled Kashmir will
forever remain an infected cork up the asses of both India and Pakistan. The wonder of
Kashmir lies in the fact that everyone hears about how much India wants it to be ours but
frankly speaking who would want to acquire a piece of shit like that which has cost our
country so much, both in money and lives? Kashmir is the greatest shared wonder in our
country that is often called the paradise on Earth but is actually nothing but a fucking
graveyard where your nipples get pointy faster than a stranger can guess Karan Johar’s
sexuality.
 - 82 -

(1st July 2007) Paris Hilton Saves the Bald Eagles

Animal activist freaks are on top of the world because the bald Eagle has been
officially removed from the endangered species list. We all know what that means. Eagle
hunting time! Now, eagle hunters can decapitate these bald eagles, stick a knife through their
hearts, and eat them without that tug on their conscience, which used to tell them to preserve
bald Eagles for posterity to hunt and kill. Now, both they and their future generations can
hunt and kill these bald eagles as much as they want since they are once again back in
circulation.

The bald Eagle was put on the endangered species list some years back when what
started as a fad amongst these eagles turned into something really serious. The female bald
eagles watched an episode of Oprah where she said withholding sex could give them
anything they wanted from their men. Driven by this advice the female bald eagles just
refused to part their legs when their horny bald men came home at night. However, the plan
didn’t quite come to fruition as Oprah and the female bald eagles expected. The bald males,
as much as they wanted home grown pussy, wasn’t too bothered about not getting it at home.
They just resorted to what every bird did when it couldn’t get laid at home. The male bald
Eagles visited the Bird Brothel and got themselves some parrot pussy instead. Sure, it was lot
wider and greener than eagle pussy but they were guys for God’s sake; any pussy was good
pussy. The domestic friction became so intense that many bald Eagle couples even went for
therapy to their official counselor. But after three days of marriage counseling they realized
that Dr. Phil wasn’t a bald eagle, he was just a bald bitch.

And years passed, the birth rate amongst the bald Eagles dropped alarmingly. The
male bald Eagles had gotten so used to parrot pussy that the thought of even a random eagle
pussy never crossed their minds. They didn’t even crave for a casual blowjob from their eagle
wives. As far as they were concerned their wives were there to cook, clean, and do the
laundry. Besides, there was no way the female bald Eagles could compete against the super
kinky parrot sluts. Rumor was that during intercourse the parrots stuffed crackers and chili
powder up the male eagles’ asses, which kept them going for at least an hour more. All the
female bald eagles knew was to lie in bed, part their legs, take in the eagle dick, and moan,
“Yeah, yeah give it to me baldie, give it to me.” They wouldn’t even get on top because
Oprah had taught them that it was not ladylike to ride an eagle cock. While that may have
been sexy to the male bald Eagles at one time, it seemed like geometry classes to them after
getting a taste of parrot pussy. Soon, pregnancy was an unheard phenomenon in the bald
Eagle community. The vaginas of the female bald Eagles saw so little action that a situation
arose where the eagle vaginas sealed themselves up naturally not even giving access to the
females to finger their depression away. And they did what any stupid, homebound woman
who couldn’t get cock did- they became more addicted to Oprah who kept giving them
stories about all men being rapists, molesters, cheaters, and pricks. Oprah also taught them
that life wasn’t all about sex and that they could utilize their time productively by engaging in
social activities like redecorating their homes and sniffing their pets’ rectums. Meanwhile,
the birth rate kept plummeting.

Then one day it happened. A group of female bald Eagles who were tuning into
watch Oprah accidentally tuned into VH1 and saw a creature doing things that no one else
dared to do, living life the way that it was to be lived. At that point the female bald Eagles
 - 83 -

knew they had found their savior, Paris Hilton. Unlike the women on Oprah who talked about
the dignity of being feminine and the propriety of living in a society, Paris Hilton was all
about whorishness, all about freedom. That was exactly the kind of role model they were
looking for. She never wore underwear, didn’t care what she had to do to please men, toiled
day and night to get those cocks pumping inside her, and did it all with a proud smile on her
cum-stained lips. The female bald Eagles immediately rushed home, pulled their husbands
from bed and began stroking their eagle balls. Although the husbands resisted at first, once
those sharp beaks engulfed their eagle wieners there was nothing they could do but submit to
their reformed wives. The wives didn’t straightaway force the husbands to enter their pussies.
They weren’t stupid cunts, for God’s sake. They knew that in order to enslave men they had
to give them the one thing that all men wanted: butt sex. And the female bald Eagles bent
over and let themselves get pounded like the fate of the world depended on it. The male bald
Eagles were stunned; they hadn’t seen this much horniness in even a parrot. Soon, they
realized that east pussy or west pussy, home pussy was the best pussy. And eventually, all the
female bald Eagles were knocked up. And the bald Eagle community was saved from
extinction.

Recently, when Paris Hilton was jailed, the bald Eagles were one of her strongest
supporters. They kept writing to her when she was in jail, rooted for her all throughout the
ordeal, prayed for her well being, and even held tribute orgies in secluded parts of forests.
After the Larry King interview Paris was generous enough to stop and talk to the bald Eagles
whom she had unknowingly helped repopulate. The bald Eagles stated that they were forever
indebted to Paris and the valuable lesson of being a total slut she had taught them. But they
all agreed on the fact that there was one thing that was left to do; they had to take care of
someone who had misguided them and almost ruined their lives. So, the bald Eagles and
Paris Hilton flew over to Oprah’s mansion and lacerated Oprah’s black cunt.
 - 84 -

(2nd July 2007) God Fan Mail

Dear God,

I’m like really psyched to write a letter to you because you’re like super amazing
and totally my all time favorite hero alongside Birdman and Snoopy. I hope I called you by
the right name ‘cuz I know you got like a bunch of names such as the Lord, the Almighty, the
Omnipotent, G to the O.D et al. My family and my friends are all mega fans of you. We all
think that you are the man, God.

Is it true that you see everything, God? People keep telling me stuff like that and
sometimes it creeps me out a little. If it’s true I have a small request, God. Please don’t look
when I go to the bathroom to take a crap. I really can’t do it if I know someone’s watching
me. I haven’t crapped in the last twelve days ever since my mom told me that you watch
everything that I do. And also I’m like totally sorry for jizzing into my English teacher’s
handbag when she wasn’t looking. It was an accident, God; I was actually aiming for her
shoes so that when she put it on it would be all gooey and sticky.

I think you’re like the coolest dude around, God, ‘cuz every person that I know are
like super scared of you even though nobody has really seen you in person. I can only scare
my little cousin brother and that too ‘cuz I tell him that if he doesn’t give me his candy you
would make his buttocks turn into mustard. That’s what one of my aunts used to say when I
was eight so that I’d let her suck on my wee wee. I think it’s mega sweet that you have the
power to turn people’s buttocks into anything that you want. You’re totally the man, God.

I know that you get angry really fast, God, ‘cuz all of your representatives down
here on Earth say so but I’m like really itching to ask you something if you don’t mind.
Which religion do you belong to, God? I’m like super confused ‘cuz Christians say that I’ve
got to totally submit myself to Jesus, who they say is your son, if I’m to get to heaven. And
also I have to go to church every Sunday and not say dirty words and stuff. I’m like
massively into getting into heaven but I just want to make sure that if I suck up to Jesus I’ll
get a spot. Christians also say that once I get into heaven I have to spend the rest of my life
serving you, cleaning your rooms and stuff. Are you so messy God that you need so many
people to clean after you? Did you really father Jesus, God? And why did you just stop with
the one kid, God? Are you like so into family planning and stuff? And if you are a Christian
I’m really sorry that that sonofabitch Adam stole that apple from your garden. Don’t hold that
against the rest of us, God. In retrospect you should’ve had like an electric fence around that
tree or something if you liked it that much.

Or are you a Muslim, God? Muslims say that if I, like, completely agree to what
their Prophet says getting into heaven is, like, a total breeze. But it’s super hard to pray five
times a day and also my back really hurts when I bow down like that. But I totally dig the
fact that I get seventy virgins when I get to heaven. If that’s true I wish to do sixty-nine with
all seventy of them. That’s like super sweet, God. But I also think that it would make heaven
a really bloody place if people just get to penetrate virgins. Some Muslims also say that girls
should, like, totally take a back seat and let men make decisions for them. I think that’s like
way too smashing.
 - 85 -

Or are you a Hindu, God? But there are, like, a thousand different versions of you
in Hinduism. Some Hindus say that you’re, like, a cow or rat or an elephant and stuff. If
that’s the case then you really need to get potty-trained, God. And I get like ultra messed up
trying to figure out how to pronounce all the sacred words and stuff. If you’re a Hindu you
must be, like, having awesome skills in phonetics. That’s mega sweet, God. And is it true that
you only talk to Brahmans and not to other Hindus because Brahmans smell like curd? I have
trouble pronouncing that word also, God. Is it like bra-man? Also, why does it take so many
tries to get into heaven, God? Some Hindus say that I’ll keep getting born as different weird
things like rabbits and dogs and ass pimples. That’s totally weak, God. Why can’t you just let
me get into heaven after the first try? Come on, God, be a dude.

I know that you don’t belong to any other religions like Buddhism, Judaism and
others ‘cuz they’re all, like, totally gay so I just hope that you’ll write back and let me know
what religion I should really follow. I also hope you’ll let the rest of the people know ‘cuz
they’re all, like, always bitching and groaning about which one’s the better one. I’m surprised
you’re taking this long to clear this out, God, ‘cuz it’s a total mess down here. You should try
visiting it at least once and definitely sort it out. And if you do decide to come down, I
recommend you fly Kingfisher; they’re the only airlines with hot airhostesses.

There’s so much I want to ask you, God, but I don’t want to take a lot of your
time. I totally want to know about Satan and if he’s really a cross dresser as the rumors have
it and also about life and its purpose and shit like that. But I’ll do that another time. I know
that it’s time for you to watch your Seinfeld reruns. I don’t want to keep you from that but I
really hope you’ll definitely clear up all the mess that we guys have created down here in
your name. Also, God, just in case you didn’t know murderers, cheaters, fraudsters, assholes,
and megalomaniacs are the bad guys. Not the poor, the devout, the meek, and the lazy. So
when you do want to kill people please try and get it straight. Before I end the letter I just
have one question to ask you, God. I know that you’re all knowing and all powerful but I’m
not completely sure if you’ll be able to answer this question. Anyways, you’re the only
person I can think of who would at least have, like, an inkling of what the answer to this
question would be like. So here goes. God, what’s the deal with Paula Abdul?

Your hugest fan,

Me.
 - 86 -

(3rd July 2007) 50 Paise vs. A Corporate Homo

(Created by 50 Paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible doctor
with his very own advice column):

I’m like slowly headin towards my college

Deep profound thoughts of Britney’s ass and cleavage
I’m so guessin this’s gon be just a normal day
Then on the road I see a fag in a tux, talk ‘bot being a formal gay
Corporate Homo! Fuck that cocksuckin flamin CEO
We went to the same fuckin school, hope that bitch don’t see me go
I hated him in school itself when he was runnin around suckin dicks
Tall bastard used to think he was IT, that wretched fuckin prick
Swindling people up and down to become motherfuckin rich
He ain’t got no skill, he’s just another lucky bitch
Devil’s a pussy if I’m spittin this cuz I’m bitter
He’s got a slutty wife but it’s been ages since he’s hit her
Just lookin at his face can make you go badly sick
He may be a bizness man but his only agenda’s straddlin dicks
That’s why I had to pay visits to his wife and rouse her clit
Even if he catches me in the act he still wudnt do lousy shit
Cuz he’s a motherfuckin coward and a bitchass hypocrite
Right from the time he fell out of his momma’s hippo clit
I bet that fag is right now on his way to assfuck his boyfriend
Look at that Mo, carrying his briefcase like a fuckin toytrunk
Must be loaded with vaseline and dildos, disgusting bastard
Hoping to get constipated beyond the help of oil of castor
Shit! He’s crossing the road now, Man, I gotta hide now
I need to escape now, can’t fuckin decide how
And as I freak out, I hear a loud motherfuckin scream
I see his buttfuckin ass fly across the road drippin red cream
That fag’s been hit to hell by a badass monster truck
Oh, well, I’m late for college and I don’t give a roasted FUCK!!!
 - 87 -

(4th July 2007) Alan Johnston and the Panty Wearing Potter Fans
Alan Johnston, the kidnapped BBC journalist, was released today after 114 days in the
captivity of a group of men who call themselves the PWPF, or the Panty Wearing Potter Fans. At a
press conference following his release, Johnston stated that there were very few things that he had
gone through in his life that topped his kidnapping in being the worst experience ever- like waxing his
pubic hair, immersing his head into a man’s torso during open heart surgery and blowing, and
watching Evan Almighty.

The PWPF, Johnston explained, were a group of really pansy men who wore panties and
enjoyed Harry Potter books and movies. The BBC reporter recalled some of the most chilling episodes
from his traumatic kidnapping where the PWPF sat around in a circle and discussed the potential
twists and turns in the last installment of the Harry Potter series of books. And on some really horrific
days they wore cardboard masks of Harry and Ron and fudge-packed each other like crazy. The sight
was almost as horrendous as watching even five minutes of According to Jim, recalled Alan Johnston.

The Panty Wearing Potter Fans had apparently kidnapped him because they wanted the
British Government to force J.K Rowling to keep writing new Harry Potter books, giving bigger
boobs to Hermione and transforming Harry from being Lance Bass gay to Ryan Seacrest gay.
However, the British Government, having always held morality above everything else refused to grant
their demands. Britain held the view that they had already contaminated the world with Hugh Grant
and James Bond and they couldn’t live with the guilt of inflicting yet another Harry Potter book upon
the world. So they told the cross-dressing homos to bugger off.

Johnston also relived the painful memories of the times the fairies played quidditch with his
balls. It was also at the occasion of quidditch that one of the PWPF leaders named Lord Voldemort
blindfolded him and inserted something into his mouth and then took it away, and kept repeating it
until his throat burned. Johnston maintained he didn’t know what the object Lord Voldemort put in
and out of his mouth after blindfolding him was. He did, however, say that it could have been a
slippery eel that smelled like a man’s penis.

The BBC family welcomed Johnston with open arms to his old office and the Queen of
Britain welcomed him with open buttcheeks to her old orifice. Johnston was met with a strong musky
smell and thick cobwebs at both places. Johnston thanked his wife and kids for supporting him and
writing him letters without ever giving up hope; he explained that the letters came in handy since the
place where he was had absolutely no toilet paper. He also thanked his wife’s sister for regularly
sending him photos of her going potty.

Alan Johnston claimed that there was a point where he thought he would never be released
from captivity. That only changed after he was able to negotiate with the PWPF and strike an
agreeable deal. He explained that as he was speaking at the press conference, the PWPF, wearing the
disguise of panty washing laundry men, were kidnapping J.K Rowling from her zillion-dollar
mansion. When asked about why he would put another person’s life at risk to save his own he replied
by saying that he wasn’t a fucking moron to not do that if the chance was there. He also let Potter fans
all over the world know that J.K Rowling would be, at no point, harmed. Lord Voldemort, apparently,
just wanted to repeatedly insert his slippery eel that smelled like a man’s penis in and out of
Rowling’s head until her brain burned.
 - 88 -

(5th July 2007) The Transforming Killer Holes

India has always been a safe home for children even with all the murderous child
molesters, aggressively demanding parents, addictive video games, child labor, violent
television programs, and obscene fucking blogs. However, no longer is the average Indian
child safe because there’s a new enemy in our country that, almost exclusively, targets kids
with as much venom and hatred as a white trash guy in England who sees a slightly better off
Asian guy. Parents all across the country are dumbstruck by this perilous phenomenon. The
Indian Government, too, are left clueless when it comes to devising a strategy to combat this
terribly powerful enemy. I’m, obviously, talking about holes. Deep narrow killer holes.

Top Indian scientists utilized millions of taxpayers’ money in conducting research

on the behavioral patters of these holes and why these holes seemed to prefer children as
opposed to adults or even animals. After extensive study they came to the conclusion that the
average Indian kid was retarded. Their secondary observations included the fact that these
deep holes had the ability to transform themselves into different shapes and measurements.
The scientists believed that the transforming holes could have been planted in India by either
Pakistani spies or space aliens. According to the scientists the holes took the form of
uncovered borewells, hidden ditches, open manholes, and Rakhi Sawant’s flesh conch. The
transformed holes would then stay still playing the waiting game until an average retarded
Indian kid hopped along. Once the retarded kid came within at least ten centimeters of its
mouth, the hole would grow wider abruptly and swallow the poor bastard.

After lying low for a few months the enemy struck again a couple of days back. Top
news channels like CNN-IBN, NDTV, and Cartoon Network used state of the art cameras and
cranes that were designed to explore the deepest of ditches or the tallest of trees to get every
possible shot of the suffocated child. Other news channels like Headlines Today, who
couldn’t afford such expensive equipment, used innovative methods to cover the story like
going around asking strangers and previous pit-victims what they thought of the little boy
who fell in the borewell. The parents of the boy who was stuck in the well expressed their
deep gratitude to the news channels for the invaluable help they were lending their son in
between reporting about Amitabh Bachchan, sports, and Amitabh Bachchan.

The rescue operations were so intense and efficient that at one point the JCB
machine used in the rescue made an attempt to fit itself down the narrow hole where the boy
was trapped. It was later found out that the driver of the machine was drunk and also a
complete Transformers buff. The local authorities sought help from the much richer central
authorities who explained that they were short on assistance for the time being but would
definitely send bags of prayers and hope to the family of the boy. The rescue operation came
to a standstill when all possible methods were tried and found wanting. There was nothing
that was left to do. Well, except one thing. Every single soul at the scene gathered together,
put their palms together, and called out to the only force, which could rescue the boy. And
after about forty-five minutes he arrived.

Superhero Krrish burst into the scene in a yellow taxi and apologized for his delay.
He explained that he couldn’t fly over since the exhaust pipes attached to his asshole had
gone rusty and had to be greased before it started working again. Unlike the authorities,
Krrish wasted no time in assessing the situation. With his hands resting at his hips, he
 - 89 -

exclaimed, “The boy is in trouble.” The parents of the boy stuck in the well stared at Krrish
and replied, “You think?” Krrish quickly scanned the area for something long, strong, and
flexible. He demanded the crowd to hand him something that was long, strong, and flexible.
None of the people had anything with them that was long, strong, and flexible. Krrish
demanded yet again for something that was long, strong, and flexible. Finally, somebody
from the crowd asked the obvious question which was, after all the purpose of repeating the
phrase long, strong, and flexible, “Why don’t you just insert your penis into the borewell?”
Krrish stared at the guy who made the remark and answered, “Nah. That won’t even fit a
thimble. But, I do have some of the long pubic hair that I grew for Dhoom 3. That’s it. Krrish
to the rescue.”

After about two hours of trying to entwine the boy using his pubic hair Krrish
finally succeeded in getting the boy out of the well. The crowd gathered there applauded
loudly, the news channels began covering Krrish, and Rakesh Roshan planned yet another
sequel. The boy, however, was in a state of unconsciousness and had only a 5 % chance of
survival. But that didn’t matter. What was important was that the enemy was defeated, and
that too by our very own superhero. The media celebrated the event and put the video feed in
their archives to use the next time something like this happened. And Krrish, after letting
himself get embraced by all his fans, bid goodbye. Unfortunately, on his way back, he
tripped, lost his balance, and fell into the deep dark chasm of Rakhi Sawant’s flesh conch.
 - 90 -

(6th July 2007) A Muslim Extremist Visits a Catholic Confessional

Muslim Extremist: I have sinned, old man in a white robe.

Catholic Priest: Call me father.

Muslim Extremist: Papa.

Catholic Priest: Not Papa, Father.

Muslim Extremist: Dear Father, I have sinned.

Catholic Priest: What are your sins, my son? Confess and be forgiven.

Muslim Extremist: I’m not sure where to begin.

Catholic Priest: Let’s see, have you ever indulged in any kind of incestuous activities?

Muslim Extremist: Not at all. My family frowns on such things. If my dad knew I even
touched my sister he would make me suck his dick as punishment.

Catholic Priest: Ok, what about rapes? Done any of those?

Muslim Extremist: Just girls.

Catholic Priest: Well, that’s no sin then. How about cursing? Are you a frequent user of
curse words?

Muslim Extremist: Fuck No! I’m not a foulmouthed cunt like some modern Muslims out
there. I stick to every word of the Koran and completely refrain from swearing.

Catholic Priest: Well then, have you taken the life of another man?

Muslim Extremist (hesitant): Quite a few, actually. I’m sure you must remember those
beheadings that was all over the news and Internet some years back. I did five of those.

Catholic Priest: I thought I recognized your accent. So you have killed five people?

Muslim Extremist: Well, beheaded five. I have skewered seven, bombed eighty four, shot
dead nineteen, tortured to death twenty two, strangled six, poisoned three, pushed off the cliff
two, farted to death eight, and bored to non-existence twelve.

Catholic Priest: Damn, boy. That’s a big-ass sin list you have there.
 - 91 -

Muslim Extremist: But I did it all to uphold the honor of Islam and the Prophet. I did it so I
can force others to believe what I believe consequently enslaving them. I was merely using
fear to get people to do what I want.

Catholic Priest (thinks for a few seconds): Well, that’s cool then. We do similar stuff to
gays, Jews, Protestants, women seeking abortion, and pro-stem cell research people and then
blame it on black people.

Muslim Extremist: I guess the blacks are really useful to you guys in that sense.

Catholic Priest: They also make good punching bags.

Muslim Extremist: Umm…don’t you think that’s kind of racist?

Catholic Priest: When I said they also make good punching bags, I meant they produce
good punching bags. I didn’t mean that it felt good to punch them. I mean, I don’t know for
sure. Maybe they do. But that’s not what I meant.

Muslim Extremist: Ok.

Catholic Priest: Coming back to you, I really don’t think all that you have confessed so far
are really that big a deal. A lot of people do it and still mange to lead very productive,
successful lives.

Muslim Extremist: But I’m not done.

Catholic Priest: Ok. What else have you done? Have you stolen any babies and then torn
them apart to sell their kidneys?

Muslim Extremist: No.

Catholic Priest: Have you tried pleasuring your pet cat using your index finger and
succeeded?

Muslim Extremist: No.

Catholic Priest: You mean you haven’t succeeded?

Muslim Extremist: No, I meant I haven’t tried pleasuring my pet cat using my index finger.

Catholic Priest: Do you get turned on while reading your Holy Book?

Muslim Extremist: Is that a sin?

Catholic Priest: No, but that definitely makes Sunday mass a lot more exciting. Forget it,
have you treated a woman with equality?
 - 92 -

Muslim Extremist: Oh, God, no! I would never do something like that.

Catholic Priest: Good, because that would really ensure damnation for you.

Muslim Extremist: Duh! You don’t think I know that?

Catholic Priest: Have you ever preached about love, peace, and harmony and actually meant
it?

Muslim Extremist: Father, please, I’m not an animal. I have always been hypocritical in my
life and set double standards to everything that I’ve said and done.

Catholic Priest: You appear to be a gem of a man to me. Have you ever thought of
converting?

Muslim Extremist: Never. My religion is sacred to me and I shall never abandon it.

Catholic Priest: Well, that’s fine, I guess. We do need someone to bitch and groan about.
Frankly, speaking fighting the Hindus is no fun. They are either too busy fighting amongst
themselves or breaking windows and burning stuff.

Muslim Extremist: Yeah, I know. What’s up with that?

Catholic Priest: Well, that’s it. I have officially run out of sins to list. I’m even considering
canonizing you.

Muslim Extremist: I don’t know how to say it.

Catholic Priest: What is it? What is this big sin that you feel you have done? Go ahead and
confess. Be not afraid, thou will be rescued from thine mistakes, by ere Lord shalt doth
would or some shit like that.

Muslim Extremist: I bought Paris Hilton’s music CD.

Catholic Priest (goes silent for about a minute and speaks in a cold voice): You did what?

Muslim Extremist: I don’t know what I was thinking. I was scanning the location of a music
store to plan a suicide attack and then my eyes fell on her slutty album cover and…and I …I
just did it. It was an impulse buy and I regret it every single second. I am a bad person. I am a
horrible, terrible person.

Catholic Priest: Damn, right, you are. You bought Paris Hilton’s music CD? If at least you
had downloaded it, there was a chance the Lord would have forgiven you. But to buy that
piece of crap…

Muslim Extremist: I know the heavens have scorned me because every time I listen to the
CD my ears feel like they are bleeding and my brain goes cold trying to figure out what a
spoiled, untalented little cocksucker this bitch is.
 - 93 -

Catholic Priest: I’m afraid your soul has already been lost to the dark…

Muslim Extremist (interrupts): Please, father, don’t say that. Help me out. One religious
extremist to another. Get me some providential pardon. Would it help if I destroyed the CD
in front of you? I have my little brother outside waiting with it.

Catholic Priest (suddenly sits up): Your little brother?

Muslim Extremist: Yeah, he’s waiting outside with the CD. Please, figure out some way to
help me get providential pardon.

Catholic Priest (licking his lips): How old is your little brother?

Muslim Extremist: He’s eight.

Catholic Priest: That’s perfect.

Muslim Extremist: What are you talking about?

Catholic Priest: You see, there’s one way the Lord will forgive you for the ultimate sin of
buying Paris Hilton’s music CD. All you have to do is let your little brother be alone with me
inside this detachable confessional booth for about three hours. I’ll try really hard to convince
the Lord to forgive you.

Muslim Extremist: Oh, thank you father. Thank you so much. I promise I’ll never buy
anything that’s even remotely related to Paris Hilton. I’ll go get my brother now.

(The Muslim Extremist returns with his brother. The Catholic Priest, by now, has rehashed
the Confessional Booth in such a way that the intermediate separation is no longer there. The
scared little boy enters the Confessional Booth as the Catholic Priest bids goodbye to the
Muslim Extremist. The Catholic Priest, then, hangs a sign outside the door before closing it.
The sign reads, “DON’T COME KNOCKIN’ IF YOU SEE THE CONFESSIONAL BOOTH
ROCKIN’”)

Catholic Priest: Oh, God. Yeah. Oh, God!

 - 94 -

(7th July 2007) Kalpana Chawla is a Lying Little Bitch

For all those disbelieving assholes and cynics of the Hindu religion’s belief of
reincarnation, the news of Kalpana Chawla’s rebirth was like a slap in the balls with a hot
iron. Only two months after her tragic death up in space where her panties caught on fire and
burned down the entire spaceship, Kalpana Chawla was reborn as a lying little bitch in a
village in Uttar Pradesh, India. The lying little bitch, now four years old, had apparently
exhibited signs of being special as soon as she was born. Doctors who delivered her stated
that they had never seen a baby bitch so pissed off at being born an ugly girl in rural India.
Scientific studies, which mapped the little baby bitch’s brain activities, showed that she had,
in fact, been hoping to be born as the male version of Daniel Radcliffe. However, thanks to
her dumb luck she was once again born in India, and that too as a little bitch.

According to the lying little bitch’s parents the first hint that they received which
showed that their daughter was the reincarnated Kalpana Chawla was when she uttered her
first words -“ambipolar diffusion”. The second sign was when the lying little bitch stopped in
the middle of her breastfeeding and said to her mother “Get me to NASA, you cunt.” The
third piece of evidence that showed that the lying little bitch was the reloaded version of
Kalpana Chawla was when the anal swabs taken from her four-year-old rectum showed the
presence of semen that matched the semen of the NASA Head Astronaut and the rest of the
employees there. The fourth sign was the fact that the lying little bitch’s favorite pastime was
playing rocket science with her grandfather’s half erect cock. The fifth and final piece of
proof which confirmed that the news about Kalpana Chawla’s return in a new form was more
real than people were willing to admit was the fact that the NDTV Managing Editor Barkha
Dutt was keen on covering the story.

Barkha Dutt visited the lying little bitch several times at her home and shared their
common disappointment of not having been born a man and told her that in her own
inconspicuous ways she did sometimes try and act like a man. The rest of the world,
however, disagreed and said that it was as conspicuous as the fact that movie actresses were
just prostitutes with scripted lines. The lying little bitch’s parents told Barkha Dutt and the
rest of the media including CNN-IBN and Pogo that their daughter pointed at airplanes in the
sky and said that they were coming to kill her. They also claimed that their elder daughter
was the reincarnation of Britney Spears because she had a habit of pointing at underwear and
trembling in fear.

The lying little bitch, about two months back named the parents of Kalpana
Chawla and called them her own. The lying little bitch, apparently, also talked ceaselessly
about how much money and property she had in America and how she wanted them all back.
The parents of the lying little bitch stressed the fact that they were illiterate assholes and
could not have taught her to say all this. They also mentioned that at no point did they visit a
cyber café and google all the details of Kalpana Chawla and force-feed them to their
daughter. Their aim now was to somehow arrange a meeting between their lying little bitch
of a daughter and the family of Kalpana Chawla in an effort to explore the truth further and
also to exploit their emotions and bag some easy dough. Barkha Dutt assured the parents of
the lying little bitch that she would do her best to make that scam happen. She then went on
to mumble some unintelligible socio-political shit, which no one gave a fuck about anyway.
 - 95 -

The lying little bitch also picked out photographs of Kalpana Chawla from several
others and insisted that those were her images. The parents of the lying little bitch insisted
that this was not the result of some constant training she was put through for two years and
thirty-five days in order to pull off this scam. At last, the story was so ballooned up that
President Kalam decided to present the lying little bitch with the bravery award that ought to
have gone to the real Kalpana Chawla had she not kicked the space bucket.

The lying little bitch, her parents, and Barkha Dutt were all on their way to the
Rashtrapati Bhavan when suddenly Barkha Dutt became all spastic, began tearing off her
clothes, and danced naked in the middle of the road. Eyewitnesses claimed that never had
they witnessed a sight so horrific since the Tsunami. All of a sudden Barkha Dutt turned
towards the reincarnated Kalpana Chawla and pounced on her. After pinning down the lying
little bitch with one hand, Barkha Dutt used the other hand to ram her long, hard, black
microphone down the throat of the lying little bitch until she choked to death. Barkha Dutt
then fell unconscious on to the ground.

Later when she recovered in the hospital she stated that it was not her who had
murdered the reincarnated Kalpana Chawla. She was in fact possessed by Hitler who thought
that he was putting an end to Daniel Radcliffe who was a Jew.
 - 96 -

(8th July 2007) The Drunk Postman: A Bombastically Lame Story

The human mind is addling enough when in possession of a sober user but when
the owner of that brittle property, if intoxicated or just plain drunk-out-his-senses, could
become the inflictor of major chaos.

Kliffman was a drunk. Though his profession was in the postal service, he
dedicated more than ample time, to an extent of calling it a non-paying career, to getting
hammered. The community of the unemployed would have had the pleasure of Kliffman’s
company years ago but for the fact that the village where this little story took place occupied,
for mysterious reasons, inhabitants with an inexplicable scorn towards being a postman. A
whole village’s poison thus became Kliffman’s food. Displeasure of any sort was nonexistent
when the selfsame scorners were at the receiving end of the postman; for who doesn’t love
getting mail!

Perhaps it was vapidity or just pure playfulness on his part that made Lady Luck’s
uncle, Mr. Fate, enter the placid, little village.

Kliffman, on that eventful day, was, though it would’ve seemed a losing bet, more
drunk than he had ever been. But the committed postman that he was (or maybe the extreme
state of drunkenness inculcated values into his demeanor) Kliffman still delivered mail on
that day. Kliffman’s cranium conveyed to him that encumbering himself with the mail bag
was a rotten idea which would only serve to retard his work. After stuffing some letters
inside his pockets, some inside his pants (God bless the recipients of those!) and rolling some
inside his socks, Kliffman went about his business. After a miraculously flawless
performance of delivering mail, Kliffman fell victim to the power of Mr. Fate (or Mr. Gin). It
rained. Three letters, all addressed to men sharing the same name, Polblum, which were
amongst the last of the mail Kliffman had to deliver, got drenched like a cloth. Kliffman,
however, since he had clustered the three letters for his comfort (because they all carried the
similar name) knew that they were for the three Polblums. He knew all three of them.
Kliffman delivered but so did Mr. Fate.

Constable Polblum, on hearing the disturbing news that his daughter (who had
only been living for ten years) was being visited by her fiancé and his family, rushed to the
address mentioned in the letter.

Dr. Polblum received the news that his mother who, a month ago, he had left hale
and hearty, was on her deathbed suffering from a strange and unexplained ailment which had
left her lying comatose.

Purloiner Polblum was the recipient of an official letter from the Constabulary
honoring him with an accolade for his untiring service.

The news that each received were so stupor-laden that all three rushed, without a
taking a minute to speculate, to the various addresses in the letters they received.
 - 97 -

The marriage of Dr. Polblum’s daughter was wholly cancelled as Constable

Polblum, though in a befuddled state, recognized the girl’s fiancé to be a knave whose craft
was hoodwinking others by pretending to be a medical practitioner.

Purloiner Polblum’s mother was restored to her previous health when the good
doctor, who took no money for curing the old woman, removed the silver coin (actually
belonging to her neighbor) discovered lodged in the woman’s throat but which, fortunately,
had allowed the entry of sufficient air for her subsistence.

Purloiner Polblum, who demanded his reward, was given just that by the
Constabulary. He was also found guilty of having filched a silver coin from his neighbor’s
house.

Mr. Fate exited the village. Dr. Polblum still practiced. Constable Polblum still
policed. Purloiner Polblum, after his release, still thieved. Kliffman still got drunk; Kliffman
still delivered mail.
 - 98 -

(9th July 2007) The Big Flip: A Dramatically Lame Story

The man sat at the table his steady gaze never leaving the door. To his right,
flickering moronically, atop a metallic stand, was the television set which seemed to be
watching him rather than the other way around. He switched it on in an attempt to mollify the
growing unease that had crept into him from the time Nurse Nancy stormed into his office
(which was not more than ten minutes ago) and told him in a panicky tone:-Dr. Malone, you
have to rush to the emergency room. Dr. Kruger has just fainted in the middle of the heart
surgery he was performing. We tried reviving him but he seems to have just blacked out. You
have to rush in and proceed with the operation.

He, being the Head Administrator of the Hunn Teamer Hospital, of course, had to
tell her that he would be there “in a jiffy” and that she and the others should, meanwhile, try
their best to “bring back Dr. Kruger”.

“In a jiffy”, by now, had become ten solid minutes. And since that ominous office
door hadn’t yet been shouldered in a second time by that mountainous Nurse Nancy he felt
tempted to believe that Dr. Kruger had been ‘brought back’ or at least some other doctor had
been ‘brought in’.

He thought angrily to himself:

-Passing out during a heart surgery?? What kind of a lily-livered dweeb is that Dr. Kruger
anyway?

And besides, the inexplicable blackout was supposed to be his secret weapon in the
event of any unprecedented uncompromising situations, much like the present one.

He turned away from the door and fixed his eyes vacantly on the television, still
dreading the ‘second coming’ of Nurse Nancy.

He had known being “Dr. Malone” would not be as untroubled as being, perhaps,
“Pierre the Real Estate Broker” or “Larry the Painfully Rich Tycoon Who Just Happened to
Be Looking for a Partner” or even “Terry the Talent Agent”. To pass off as a doctor it wasn’t
just enough that you had a wily tongue and a magnetic disposition; you had to possess what
the cons alluded to as “the E factor” which basically stood for elusiveness.

He had been very strong on “the E factor” for the last four months now; but the
current reading on the ‘E-Factor-o-Meter’ was very close to hitting empty.

Getting into the coat of Dr. Malone was facile; he and his “colleagues” had made
sure that he would be going into the post of Head Administrator with an impeccable doctoral
history-authentic certificates with exemplary accolades, authentic recommendations made by
the most renowned surgeons from all over the world, authentic photographs of Dr. Malone
receiving honors from the highest of dignitaries, and even a bottled appendix that he had
removed from Richard Nixon during his presidential years which he kept as a souvenir. All in
all, the birth of Dr. Malone had been practically foolproof.
 - 99 -

Survival during the last four months, meanwhile, had been a matter of hard work.
Whatever potential hazard that came his way Dr. Malone dealt with vagueness and
ambiguity. Like the time when a few doctors approached him with a medical query that he
resolved with a “My mom’s on the phone”, or the time when a few nurses accosted him with
a harassment complaint against one of the senior doctors which Dr. Malone settled with a
“My mom’s still on the phone”.

Excluding such occasional impediments, life as Dr. Malone, was quite enviable.
All the dirty work- like curing patients, performing surgeries, making sure they don’t kick the
bucket et al-was done by others while Dr. Malone spent his time enjoying the various social
benefits his status came with and, of course, by intermittently engaging in furtive acts of
embezzlement.

But the present predicament disconcerted him. It wasn’t a harassment complaint

that he was dealing with here; it was a man’s life. And that was a terrifying thought.
However, he tried to calm himself down by forcibly convincing his mind that everything was
going to turn out well, because he had, after all, chosen to don the coat of Dr. Malone only
after his lucky coin had given him the go-ahead. And in all his years of being a part of the
conning industry his lucky coin had never let him down.

On the television screen, a bearded man dressed in white was sitting in a throne-
like chair surrounded by a huge assemblage of blank looking people who appeared to be his
disciples. Dr. Malone heard the man’s words flying out through the television:

-Believe in me and you shall earn your deliverance. Don’t worry, be happy.

Dr. Malone stared at the “swami” and thought bitterly to himself:

-Easy for you to say! I’m freaking out here!

He then reached into the inner pocket of his coat and took out his lucky coin. He looked at
both sides of the coin pleadingly:

-I need to know right now if this situation is going to go away or not. ‘Heads’ it’ll go away,
‘tails’ it won’t.

He tossed the coin into the air. And almost simultaneous to the moment his hands clapped
close, tucking the coin between them, the door to his office burst open. An impatient
disoriented Nurse Nancy said:

-Dr. Malone, why are you still here? Please hurry to the emergency room. We are losing the
patient.

He thought his tongue had jumped back down his throat because neither could he utter a
word nor could he swallow a single breath. Staring at Nurse Nancy, he said feebly:

-I just wanted to gather myself and…my favorite pair of surgical gloves.

 - 100 -

Nurse Nancy gave Dr. Malone the same look which butchers probably give really stubborn
chickens-that just refuse to die-before they break their neck for good. However, Nurse
Nancy’s purpose being quite the opposite and time being of essence she retained her position
near the door and said coldly:

-Doctor, there is no time for you to find your favorite pair of gloves or your lucky scalpel. We
have all the surgical equipments necessary in the emergency room. All we lack is a surgeon.
So, please, come with me right now.

Even as he got off his chair and timidly followed Nurse Nancy he knew that this
was the moment that he had dreaded all his adult life-the instant when his game would finally
be up. But it was going to be far more torturous than he had ever imagined-he was going to
have the blood of another man on his hands to haunt him till he died, and probably after that
too. He opened his folded hand and examined his lucky coin to see how the previous toss had
turned out. It showed ‘tails’.

The walk to the emergency room felt more like the walk to a death chamber. The
lump in his throat seemed to be getting bigger and bigger. And there it was-the ghastly door
with the letters ER written across it. Nurse Nancy pushed the door open and slid past it; he
followed.

The first sight which received him in that frighteningly lit room made him feel like
he was being held up. There was a band of masked figures wielding tiny weapons meant to
bring slow death. Suddenly, one of them which he recognized as Nurse Nancy (from the
double chin hanging below the blue mask) handed him a mask along with a pair of gloves.
He noticed the surreal motionless body that lay helplessly on the surface of the operating
table surrounded by these strange masked beings. He warily inched closer towards the body.

What he saw made him actually want to call up his mother and be told by her that
this was just a bad dream that he was having. Inside the cut up chest of the motionless body
was a throbbing ticking red bomb which was the man’s heart. As he stared into the crimson
chest cavity, mesmerized and appalled by what he saw, he heard a voice ask:

-Doctor, we have detected a totally unexplainable internal bleeding. We doubt if Dr. Kruger
accidentally grazed against the chest tissues when he fainted. What are we to do now?

Dr. Malone wanted to scream out:

-I don’t know a damn thing. I’m a fraud, a big fat fraud. My name isn’t even Dr. Malone. I
don’t even have a real name. Go get a real doctor and save this man’s life before you lose all
chances of saving him.

But he said:

-Make the bleeding stop somehow.

Another voice said:

 - 101 -

-If we could, Doctor, we would have already.

Dr. Malone gulped:

-Don’t you have those blood absorbing sponges?

Yet another new voice entered the scene:

-Yes. It has been used but we cannot attain any sort of permanent effect. His pulse is going
weak, Doctor. He’s slipping away. We have to do something.

Dr. Malone said, his lips quivering:

-Try it again! Fast!

The masked figures promptly obeyed and procured the sponge. Nurse Nancy then
began to dab the spreading redness inside the horizontal man’s chest. Dr. Malone saw the
bleeding reduce momentarily but then again commence. The man’s heart was bleeding with a
vengeance. There was absolutely nothing he could do. He knew he had to confess-before all
possibilities of saving the patient faded away. However, he had to be sure that confessing was
the right move. He turned to the rest and said:

-I want you all to leave the room for a minute. I need to be alone.

One of the voices, clearly shocked, asked:

-You are joking, aren’t you, Doctor? Why on earth do you want us to leave the room?

The others just looked on in consternation.

Dr. Malone repeated:

-Look, I don’t have time to argue with you. I can’t save this man’s life unless all of you
depart for a minute.

Shaking his head in disbelief the masked figure left the room followed by the rest of them,
including Nurse Nancy.
Dr. Malone reached into his pants pocket and came out with the only decision maker he
trusted:

-‘Heads’ I don’t tell them and let fate take over; ‘tails’ I tell them and go to prison.

And he flipped. The coin rose into the air, ceaselessly turning, and was about to
make its return journey downwards when suddenly, with a clink, it hit the big lamp overhead
and ricocheted right into the scarlet cavity below with a dull plop. Dr. Malone’s instinctive
impulse was to reach into the man’s body and retrieve his coin but the others made their way
back in completely eliminating that idea. Dr. Malone stood there speechless; the end had
finally arrived. The others dabbed the blood and checked the man’s pulse. Dr. Malone
 - 102 -

decided to do the inevitable.

He began in a weak voice:

-I am not…

An astonished voice suddenly interrupted:

-Doctor Malone, what did you do? The bleeding seems to have stopped!! His pulse is
strengthening. Oh my god! You just brought this man back from the dead.

It took him a few moments to comprehend what must have happened. His lucky
coin-it had sacrificed itself to save his life and the patient’s life. Dr. Malone felt stunned and
bewildered by the drama of life. He teetered backwards, but quickly found his balance, and
saw the masked figures busily nursing the man back to life.

Without exchanging a word with any of them he made his way out of the ER and headed
straight to his office, in an unreal haze.

He looked around and said softly:

-No more…

His life had been changed. Reformation was in order. The shameless existence he
led conning people was over. He was going to divorce deception; evict fraud; befriend
honesty. He knew what he was going to do with his life. Something true; something real;
something rewarding.

He decided he was going to become a spiritual guru.

 - 103 -

(10th July 2007) Whassup Nigar…Khan?

The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) held a
melodramatic funeral a couple of days back where they had a silver casket adorned with
wreaths inside which was, apparently, laid to rest the “N” word. They had even planned on
inviting a priest named Fr. Kramer to give a eulogy at the funeral but later canned the idea
when they realized Fr. Kramer was the pseudonym Michael Richards used ever since his
comedy career went down the drain. The members of the NAACP wanted to metaphorically
announce to the world that no longer would the “N” world haunt them and taunt them like it
used to during the period when white people categorized black people as inferior to them,
which was actually last week. Since people all over the world were much better at
internalizing their prejudices nowadays everyone unanimously applauded the gesture of the
burial of the “N” word. Everyone except one furious Nigar…Khan.

Neither the African American community, the white community, nor even the
Asian community knew much about this pugnacious Nigar…Khan until she came on
television and opposed the NAACP’s gesture of burying the “N” word. This bad-ass
Nigar…Khan, a washed up never-has-been model, claimed that her first name spelled N-i-g-
a-r or N-e-g-a-r, she moved out before her parents could clarify the spelling, was pronounced
the same way the “N” word was pronounced. She filed a complaint to the NAACP
demanding them to dig up the “N” word once again lest she be thrust into anonymity. She
said that as of now there were three people who knew who she was and once the “N” word
was buried forever she would lose that growing fan base of hers she had built over a span of
eight years.

Irate race-relations specialists from America, also known as race-ins, called up their
Indian counterparts and asked them who the hell this crazy Nigar…Khan was. Their Indian
counterparts replied that they had seen this annoying Nigar…Khan in a couple of ads and a
bunch of topless paparazzi photos but had never expected her to pose such a terrible threat to
the racial harmony of the world. The Indian race-relations specialists, again race-ins, said that
they had even put this Nigar…Khan in a lame suit commercial with India’s biggest washed
up piece of crap, Jackie Shroff, in an attempt to eradicate this Nigar…Khan once and for all.
And it seemed to have worked then. Everyone assumed they got rid of this shameless
Nigar…Khan once and for all until this NAACP thing happened. The Indian race-ins,
however, warned the American race-ins that tact was most necessary in dealing with this
Nigar…Khan because she was, by birth, one dangerous Nigar…Khan.

At first, the NAACP tried to negotiate with the problematic Nigar…Khan. They
explained to her that things could be settled very amicably if she agreed to have at least the
pronunciation of her first name changed if not her entire first name. They suggested that
pronouncing Nigar the same way the second word of River Niger was pronounced would
eliminate all confusions and problems. However, the NAACP had underestimated their
nemesis; they weren’t just dealing with any person, this was one adamant Nigar…Khan that
they had to negotiate with.

The NAACP suggested to the angry Nigar…Khan that there were other alternatives
that she could use in place of her first name. The NAACP said that “African American
Khan”, “Black Khan”, “Colored Khan”, or even “Home girl Khan” were more beautiful, and
 - 104 -

more politically correct, substitutes for her first name. However, this Khan was one pure and
proud Nigar. She would have nothing to do with forsaking her culture and heritage. Her
ancestors had slaved and toiled out of their skin to make her the Nigar…Khan that she was
today. The NAACP expressed their fear that letting one Nigar…Khan be would lead to the
spawning of a million more Nigar…Khans. However, this Nigar…Khan guaranteed that that
was unlikely to happen since she liked taking it up the ass.

Surprisingly, the tenacity of this one Nigar…Khan drove some others to step up
against the imminent ban of the “N” word. Comedians like Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle
were for the existence of the “N” word in the language because without it their material
would be narrowed down to just ripping on Michael Jackson and talking about oral sex.
Rappers like Snoop Dogg, 50 Cent, and Ludacris argued that without the “N” word their
songs would be just a scattering of “hoes”, “bitches”, “pimps”, and “pussy juice” which they
said limited their artistic possibilities. The rappers also complained that the use of the word
“colored people” ought to be banned as well since they found it rather offensive. They said it
was a phrase that was meant for the Blue Man Group or soccer fans.

Finally, the NAACP and the mad Nigar…Khan decided to consult the one person
whom they both respected and adored and whose word they would consider final. They
agreed to do the logical thing and made arrangements to bring back from the dead none other
than Martin Luther King. After a few séances and a couple of Celine Dion tracks the world of
the dead was awakened. And it wasn’t soon before MLK answered their call. He heard out
both sides and went into a kind of meditation for about ten minutes. Afterwards, he opened
his eyes and said, “I had a dream. And it was to see everyone get along.” The NAACP and
the quarrelsome Nigar…Khan leaned in to listen more carefully. MLK continued, “But
apparently you motherfuckers can’t do that, can you? So eat this.” He then took out his gun
and open fired on both the uncompromising NAACP and the stubborn Nigar…Khan killing
every single one of them. He blew at the smoke coming out of his gun and said, “I need to get
Gandhi one of these.”
 - 105 -

(11th July 2007) From the Chomsky-Saussure Filth Archives

Two men who have contributed more to the English Language than anybody else
are Noam Chomsky and Ferdinand De Saussure. They were both top linguists during their
time and known for their aggressive ways of tackling the perils of the language. To the
academic world their greatest contributions were the theories that they propounded on the
English grammar and language structure. However, there was a side to both these
grammarians that very few of their admirers knew about. Noam Chomsky and Ferdinand De
Saussure were also avid curse word experimentalists. And even though Chomsky was born
years after Saussure’s death they still remained the best of friends. They belonged to that
school of linguists who felt stunted by the limited and redundant curse words that existed in
the English language at their time.

What I’ve managed to achieve is procure the transcript of a curse word

experimentation session that transpired between Chomsky and Saussure decades ago. Now,
it’s important to note that this is just one of the many transcripts that I’ve acquired after
meeting with and talking to many of the closest friends and colleagues of both these
celebrated linguists. It’s also important to note that both Chomsky and Saussure were
completely hammered out of their heads during all of these curse word experimentations that
they did. I present to you now the first document from what is known as the “Chomsky-
Saussure Filth Archives”.

FROM THE CHOMSKY-SAUSSURE FILTH ARCHIVES

NC: Pass me another bottle of beer, you sperm-covered tapeworm that’s living inside the
anal cavity of a salamander that’s just been sodomized by a giraffe!

FDS: Go get it yourself, you piece of used condom that is lodged in between Karl Marx’s
small intestine!

NC: Shut your pus leaking mouth or I’ll go shove a flaming torch up your grandmother’s
vagina and then serve you her roasted uterus for dinner with some rye bread!

FDS: Oh please, you have a better chance of cutting a hole in your uncle’s throat and then
humping his tonsils until they come out his nostrils!

NC: Just close your placenta puking mouth and pass me a beer before I line up all your seven
sisters, bent them over and simultaneously penetrate their assholes with a lit up Jewish
candelabrum!

FDS: Talk about my sisters again and I’ll amputate your mother’s boobs and put them on
your grandmother’s abdomen so I’ll be eating your grandma’s pussy and drinking your
mother’s milk at the same time!

NC: Leave my mother out of this you drop of Mussolini semen that’s stuck to Hitler’s upper
palate!

FDS: Then stop asking me to get you beer you single grey hair that’s sticking out of George
Washington’s shrunken shaven testicles!
 - 106 -

NC: Stop running your mouth or else I’ll get Lacan to join me in gang raping your father in
his nose and ears till both his nasal bridge and ear drums are broken!

FDS: Oh yeah, if you do that then I’m going to plug your mother’s ears, nostrils, and eyes
with corks, summon Kafka from the dead, and then we’ll urinate into her mouth until our piss
comes out through the pores on her head.

NC: Don’t even think of something like that or I’ll stretch your wife’s hole wide enough to
stick your head in it and then hold you in until you suffocate to death from the stink.

FDS: Sadly for you that won’t be happening because I’ll seal your asshole, mouth, eyes, ears,
and piss hole with wax until you start excreting through your navel.

NC: Go to hell you environment friendly bubble of infection that’s on a syphilis-afflicted

Orangutan’s left ass cheek.

FDS (surprised): Environment friendly bubble? Who are you- Al Gore?

NC (deeply hurt and offended): Hey, man, that was uncalled for. You didn’t need to go there.

FDS (sincerely apologetic for his grave mistake): I’m sorry. Look, I didn’t mean to say that.
It just came out wrong. I would never…

NC (still hurt): That was completely over the line.

FDS (embarrassed at himself): I don’t know what I can say that would make it go away. But
I truly am sorry. I would never knowingly insult you like that. Here, have my beer.

NC (hesitant in the beginning but then forthcoming): Thanks buddy. I forgive you.
 - 107 -

(12th July 2007) Life or Something of that Sort

Britain was unusually bright a couple of days ago. No, it wasn’t because the sun
was shining extra brilliantly over them. Neither was the reason the photograph of Emma
Watson holding a pair of panties. It was because the yellow teeth of a thousand British
Astronomers were displayed more proudly than the time they saw Elton John trip and fall
into Princess Diana’s grave. The dirty smile of the British Astronomy Community was
explained by the fact that they had discovered the presence of water, albeit contaminated, on
a distant earth-like planet. They also discovered empty packets of Cheetos lying around on
the planet’s surface. And that, they believed, could only mean one thing- the new planet was
potentially the home of Elvis Presley.

The British Astronomers revealed the information that they had been speculating
the presence of Elvis on the planet for the last two decades. They first felt suspicious twenty
years ago when they observed a giant planet in the form of a bloated ass. And eight years
back they observed that the side of the planet had suffered a huge burn of some sort. After
intricate scientific analyses, they felt that this “side burn” might also be a sign of Elvis
inhabitation on the strange planet. And now with the discovery of the empty packet of
Cheetos they were closer than ever to establishing the presence of Elvis on the distant
buttock-shaped planet. The British Astronomers then celebrated this potentially
groundbreaking discovery of theirs by meeting up in their Laboratory Headquarters and
having tea and scones.

One of the many peculiar characteristics the scientists believed Elvis on the new
planet could have was the ability to produce visible farts. The British Astronomers made a
press statement where they explained that the high rate of consumption and low rate of
metabolism in Elvis, combined with his still persistent drug use, might have lead to the
production of visible farts. Elvis’s condition was also related to the presence of a gas in the
atmosphere of the planet called “fartogen” which gave form and shape to the usually
shapeless fart. They also explained that this was probably why the planet had the appearance
of a giant bum. The visible farts, they believed, took the shape of various Westlife members
and at times of constipation even looked like Madonna.

Earlier in the day matters took a completely new twist as the British Astronomers
decided to send a remote-controlled space bulldog to investigate the goings on in the weird
arse planet. The camera, which was strategically placed in the bulldog’s bollocks, would
capture close up images of the planet, its surface, and hopefully Elvis. The bulldog landed
safely on the planet owing to the fact that I can pretty much cook up anything that I want in
this awfully fucked up piece. The British Astronomers, meanwhile, watched with attentive
eyes on their gigantic screen the images that were being picked up by the bulldog’s bollocks.
Suddenly, a flurry of images came up on the screen that sent them into waves of shock. The
astronomers and scientists all looked at each other in pure disbelief and horror. They decided
that this was information that had to be shared with the rest of the world as soon as possible.
After having tea and scones, of course.

Later in the day, the British Astronomers Community released the press statement
where they explained that the images captured by the space bulldog’s testicular camera
showed not Elvis Presley walking around but in fact an alien dressed up as Elvis Presley
 - 108 -

walking around leaving trails of visible farts. The astronomers concluded that this could only
mean one thing- that Elvis never even really existed. Elvis had been an alien all along sent
down to Earth to study us and brainwash us. And after completing his task the alien had
flown back to its home planet and resumed its normal life. The astronomers also said that the
bulldog’s bollocks had captured video proof that would confirm that even people like Drew
Barrymore and Charlize Theron were in fact aliens dressed up as hot babes sent to Earth in an
elaborate plan to take over Earth and frustrate normal horny men.

The Astronomers assured the world that there was no need to panic since they
would no longer be wasting their time and money on such useless missions anymore. Instead,
they would utilize their resources to try and figure out how deep Lindsay Lohan’s minge
was.
 - 109 -

(13th July 2007) Hate Comics

Of course, it all makes sense now. The venom that poisons the minds of several
millions of people in the world, causing immutable segregation isn’t the bigoted, orthodox
religious scriptures that people are taught to revere and live by. Nor is it the fact that a billion
people are labeled terrorists because they have a beard or speak in Arabic or like lobsters. It’s not
even the horny-for-power community leaders who brainwash their destitute vulnerable followers
into believing that God wants everybody else but them to crawl into the ass of the Grim Reaper.
None of these things ever influenced the dangerous narrow-mindedness and intolerance that we
see rampant in our world. The reason behind all this racial hate is and has always been Tintin.

Copies of Tintin in Congo, the book that depicted tribal Africans in a way that made
them look like autistic monkeys- the same way that National Geographic portrays tribal Africans-
were, thankfully, taken off the children’s shelves where they could have proved highly dangerous
to our society. They were replaced by copies of the novelization of The Passion of Christ which
was in fact three hundred pages of “CRACK!” “MMMMPHH!” “CRACK!” “MMMMPHHH”
“CRACK! OWWW!” It however taught children that Christ was their only savior and that Jews
killed him.

After successfully exposing the racist elements present in Tintin, race relations experts-
also known as race-ins- focused on other possibly discriminatory works aimed at corrupting the
innocent minds of children- nursery rhymes like “ba ba black sheep” which patently was
formulated by a KKK member, “London bridge is falling down” which was penned by an Islamic
fundamentalist that clearly sought to evoke feelings of terrorism, and “humpty dumpty sat on all”
which was wrong in so many different ways. The concerned parents, aided by the support of the
race-ins, also demanded that comics like Spiderman and Superman be banned as such comics
propagated potentially character-corrupting ideas of helping people in need and being a hero.
They, however, agreed to let their children read Batman and Robin since it was well in tune with
today’s culture of pretending to tolerate and appreciate homosexuals who liked dressing up in
body suits.

The African community were infuriated by the demeaning and insulting manner in
which the African tribesmen were sketched in the accused book, Tintin in Congo. They claimed
that it stereotyped all Africans as uneducated and barbaric. They also demanded that the book be
remade with the African tribesmen dressed in the traditionally appropriate African outfit:- which
was tracksuits, diamond chains, golden rings, and some penis bling bling. And instead of the
tribesmen hailing Tintin as the “great white god” in the book the African community wanted
Tintin to be referred to as the “great fucking cracker”.

There is but one solution to eliminate the flurry of such hate-comics flooding our
world. It’s a decision that we as responsible social creatures need to make together if we are to
put an end to this discrimination. And that solution is for each community to have their own
collection of comics which shouldn’t mention anything about anyone else but them- white people
making their own white comics having nothing but ivory and black people making their own
comics with nothing but ebony. It shouldn’t end with that: Christians should create comics
exclusively with Christian characters and which are meant only for Christian readers (who’re
again subcategorized according to their skin color), and similarly Hindus and Muslims as well.
And hopefully with such preventive measures we shall one day be able to fully eradicate
segregation.
 - 110 -

(14th July 2007) Pot, Pussy, and Prayers with Snoop and his Players
Mother Teresa was rumored to have expressed only one wish before she died. That one
day this world which was afflicted with so many illnesses would be lucky enough to see a reality
television show starring Snoop Dogg. Snoop Dogg’s reality show, it was announced, would be
featured on the home of top quality entertainment programs- E! Entertainment Television, which
has gifted to the world shows like Let’s Take Boring Retarded Stuff About Self-Obsessed
Celebrities and Talk About them as if they’re Divine Things, Let’s show How Fucking Rich
Movie Stars and Teenage Singers Are so You at home can feel like Total Losers, and, of course,
who can forget their biggest crowd-puller Ryan Seacrest and a Thin Bitch Standing Around
muttering Incoherent Shit.

The reality show, tentatively titled “Pot, Pussy, and Prayers with Snoop and his
players”, would have the traditional reality show format where Snoop Dogg and his homies will
be given scripts and made up family emergencies and scenarios in an attempt to make them look
like ordinary human beings despite being multi-millionaires. Guest starring in the reality show
making minor appearances would also be some relatively unimportant people from Snoop Dogg’s
life like his kids, his ex-wife, and his mother. Other starring roles belong to Snoop’s fellow pimps
n’ hoes, the LAPD, Snoop’s drug dealing cuz, Jacob the Jeweler, the NYPD, and Martha Stewart.

E! Entertainment Television was initially a bit concerned about the potentially offensive
nature of the content on the show since Snoop Dogg’s average day consisted of getting drunk,
smoking pot, popping pills, banging bitches, shooting other rappers, and reading the Bible. After
several weeks of discussions and brainstorming the network and Snoop agreed to proceed with
the show after editing out the controversial bits on Snoop’s schedule namely reading the Bible.
Comic relief would come in the form of Martha Stewart who was slated to appear occasionally on
the show to demonstrate the many number of ways in which Snoop’s hair can be redecorated.
After the hair redecoration Snoop would proceed to videotape him hitting Martha’s “white round
thang”.

When E! interviewed Snoop and talked about his new reality show he was
conspicuously stoked. In the middle of the interviewed he ordered one of his tricks to go down on
him and suck him dry as part of the celebration. Regarding the show he had this to say:

“Yo, my niggers, this is S- N-Double O-P, talking to you L-I-V-E!

I’mma come and burn your TV, fuck your mama and giver her VD!
I’ll shoot niggers who’re greedy, my TV show’s G-Double O-D!
And my favorite Harry Potter character is Hermion-E!
Eyyuuhh!!!”

“Pot, Pussy, and Prayers with Snoop and his players” which, by far, looks to be the
most promising of any reality show that has ever hit television will give Snoop Dogg the kind of
opportunities that “Hogan Knows Best” gave for Hulk Hogan namely the opportunity to parade
to the world Brooke Hogan’s tight sexy ass since she’s also one of Snoop’s favorite hoes. With
the predicted success of “Pot, Pussy, and Prayers with Snoop and his players” bringing up the
revenue of E! Entertainment Television to an all time high, the network is already planning for
new shows with various other celebrities. At present, they’re planning to rope in Madonna for
new adventure/reality show where she would visit orphanages all across the world and try and
stuff as many kids up her craggy old womb as possible. The show will be called “I’m a
Desperate Bitch, I’m Unholy, I’m Madonna, But I want to be Jolie”.
 - 111 -

(15th July 2007) 50 Paise vs. Harry Potter

(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible doctor
with his very own advice column):

Yo parents, if you got a gay kid or a slutty hairy daughter

Then the perfect idol for them is that fuckin Harry Potter
I can’t fuckin believe people buy that shit
Fuck you Rowling, I’mma stop her and then spite that bitch
You stupid kids, instead of readin it you should go and hide that shit
The whole motherfuckin world must be full of retards
Rowling’s a trans, she’s a psycho,she has balls and pulls her dick hard
Harry Potter ain’t cool dawgs or slightly exciting
That fat bitch Kirstie Alley is more inviting
Rowling’s rich ‘cuz she writes ‘bot wizards??
Fuckin fake, I’ll fuck her numb in a fuckin blizzard
It’s ludicrous how people can read all that crap
There’s more adventure in a single line of my rap
Fuck wizard school and their pussy-ass game of quidditch
Fuckin Hermione’s ass makes more sense, she’s a kidbitch
It’s the new age, bitch, nobody goes and comes by brooms
I’ll fuck Hermy’s cunt so hard she’ll come all over my room
Harry Potter books sucked more than enough dick
Now the fuckin shit is spreadin with his every flick
Wanna know how Harry really got that mark on his forehead?
He was fuckin his mom stark naked and fell off her whorebed
Who the fuck is impressed by all that wizadry shit??
Only faggots! Die Rowling! For her funeral I’ll spit her this diss!
 - 112 -

(16th July 2007) 50 Paise vs. Education

(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible doctor
with his very own advice column):

It’s fuckin dumb to try and secure our future through education
That shit is way worse than premature ejaculation
School don’t ensure a foolproof livin
You don’t get nothin back but you gotta keep on givin
Fuck school, fuck college I repent havin done both
I learned fuckin squat and my life I now loathe
Motherfuckin authorities confine us like slaves
Tryin to break us and change how one behaves
School’s a fuckin controversy, it destroys our greatness
It curbs our freedom and our right to say “Fuck! I hate this”
They teach us to fear all and to distrust our own minds
Kick us into ditches and call swamps gold mines
The fuckers who control all try their best to brainwash us
Takes us for morons and tells us things obnoxious
We like fuckin idiots follow every rule they make
Fuck them dawgs do things for your own sake
Our dreams and desires are replaced by new ones
Created by them which fucks up our endurance
What we do is labelled as a motherfuckin let down
What they say is hailed as the acts of uptown
I fuckin wasted my whole life tryin to live their life
Fuck the universe I ain’t lookin down I’mma stare high
If they don’t like what I do I dare them to stop me
Fuck them all I won’t go down even if they try to top me
My life is for me to live whether I come up or I fuck up
But I won’t be their slave no I won’t fuckin succumb
They can shove all their rules and ideas up their cocksuckin asses
I don’t want nothin to do with those dogfuckin masses
So if any of u readin up got a shattered fuckin dream
You against the authority then you in my fuckin team!!
 - 113 -

(17th July 2007) Bend it like what’s-his-Name

Once upon a time there happened a union between two people that brought as much
joy to the world as getting a double blowjob from a pair of redheaded twin sisters. God must
have moved the pieces himself for such a liaison between two mortals had never occurred.
He lived his life amongst sweaty Englishmen who hugged and kissed each other when they
found success with their balls and she enthralled the world as the most posh slut in the muff-
eating girl-band of the millennium. For years the cock-adoring Englishman and the cunt-
hunting lady from London lived their separate lives unaware of the remarkable future that
destiny held for them. But, on one beautiful heartwarmingly divine day, during a gay/lesbian
orgy their eyes met, their hearts melted, and their pubic hairs stood up. The Englishman,
whilst getting his tiny ass stuffed by Elton John’s multicolored dong, saw before him the
most elegant, magnificent dick he had ever seen. And she had tits as well. Meanwhile, the
lady from London, whilst getting her clit bit majestically by the Queen of England, came
across at the other end of the room, straining under Sir Elton’s intense fudge-packing, the
most handsome pussy she had ever laid eyes upon. The dick and the pussy stared at each
other as the world moved around them, and as their genitals were being pummeled by
wrinkly old sex-beasts. But one thing was certain; it was true love at first sight.

The wedding, as per the words of the filthy rich pricks and holes who were the only
ones invited, was the most magical romantic evening they had ever been to. Many were close
to tears, and some farted loudly, when the priest told the pussy to kiss the dick. The years that
passed only served to strengthen the bond between the pussy and the dick. The Englishman
donned the role of the perfect husband by signing multi-billion dollar commercial deals, and
having intercourse with random people, while the lady from London epitomized wifehood by
dressing up, buying expensive stuff, and paying off paparazzi to take photos of her in action.
And after her husband came home, she made sensuous love to him for over two minutes.
After coitus they resumed their usual sleeping positions- the wife with her foot inside the
husband’s mouth and the husband with his ass on her face. However, on that fateful day it
appeared as though all the jealously and bitterness of the rest of the world had caught up with
them. As the lady from London struggled to breathe with her husband’s asshole covering up
her nose, she noticed a scarlet word that was tattooed across his cheeks. It said “Rooney was
here. So were Michael Owen and Thierry Henry.” That was the day the pussy and the dick
had their first oral spat.

The ass-tattoo crippled the celestial image that the world had ascribed to the pussy
and the dick. But the love that the lady from London had for her pussy and the feelings that
the Englishman had for his dick were still true and deep. They watched Hugh Grant movies
for hours before they finally agreed that they had to leave the country in order to save their
marriage. Besides, nobody gave a fuck about them anyway ever since that little gay boy
Harry Potter took over the English minds. They decided they needed to move to a place
where painfully rich dicks and pussies like them could live without the disturbing stares of
the medium rich; a place where infidelity was treated as part of a marriage and not a flaw; a
place where people were free to tattoo anything they wanted anywhere they wanted; a place
where people were so full of themselves that they even put up pictures of their excreta. They
decided to move to Los Angeles, California.
 - 114 -

Their love returned; their happiness was reinstated; and their divine marital life was
on the clouds once again. The whole of America, despite not knowing who the fuck this
pussy and dick were, was bowled over the warmth, gentleness, wealth, and self-indulgence
exhibited by these fair-skinned Brits. The official representatives of America- Tom Cruise
and Jay Leno- welcomed the Englishman and the lady from London by taking out their
penises and waving it at them. Tom Cruise even made a playful remark about how the only
big thin Leno had was his chin. Leno, the quick-witted comedian retorted by calling Katie
Holmes a bitch. The Englishman and the lady from London felt right at home in Los Angeles.
They did however make a polite request to all the black guys in the neighborhood to have no
shooting and killing after ten in the night since their babies needed complete silence to sleep.
The Englishman found a group of American men who loved to sweat, embrace, kiss and play
with balls. The lady from London saw potential in reviving her lesbian music career after she
listened to Paris Hilton’s music CD.

After days of self-paid publicity and strutting around, the lady from London and the
Englishman made exquisite love that lasted for over three minutes. Things were already
getting better. Then they resumed their usual sleeping position. As the wife was planting her
nose into her husband’s rectum she noticed a new batch of scarlet words tattooed across his
buttocks. It read: “Victoria and David Beckham move to America.” The wife poked her
husband’s face with her foot and said, “Who’s Victoria and David Beckham?” The husband,
with his wife’s other foot inside his mouth sputtered, “Who the fuck knows? Now stop
talking and bury your face in my anus.”
 - 115 -

(18th July 2007) 50 Paise vs. The Oscars

(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible
doctor with his very own advice column):

I’mma make it short, go straight to the point,

The biggest show where bitches show even their groins,
I ain’t mad at that but why do they pretend?
Like they respect each other and are happy to attend,
I’m talkin’ ’bout the motherfucking Oscars,
Where shitlickers come and read things off gross-cards,
Fuck those pussies!Who do they think they’re foolin’?
They just rollin’ with guys in whose movies they can get a role in,
The whole thing aint nothin’ but a damn hoax,
To fool y’all cheerin’,full of fan-hopes,
Dawg!Look at it,the bitch who fucks the most gets the win,
Halle Berry won when Billy Bob popped her cherry with his pin,
Nicole got her award cuz she’s a demonic pussy,
Using her cunthorns to sleep with all except Tom Cruise the hussy,
I hate to diss u honey but Charlize,
U think you got the Oscar for talent?Oh Pleez!,
Them horny judges seen ur previous nude movies,
Where ur talent is fuckin’ guys thin and obese,
She’s had more hot sex in her movies before,
Than in the one she won where she plays a whore!
And I saw that plump bitch Liv Tyler,
Hate her so much wanna have her tits eaten off by a Rotweiler,
That fuckin’ wench talks like she’s a goody-2-shoes,
Her mouth’s got cum-stench,from sucking woody dudes,
And Lord of the Rings?Screw it!Fuck the Hobbit!
Nobody wants to see that crap,Shut it and drop it!
Julia Roberts’s pussy hair has grown,time she cropped it!
Erin BrockaBITCH!Pompous hag,here’s a needle take ur ego and pop it,
She’s just a testosteronic whore licking dicks to control the men,
She should start taking pills and stop drinking semen,
Burn ‘em all!Renee,Halle,Nicole and even Uma Thurman,
I ain’t even wastin’ ma words talkin’ about the males’ tales,
Scrotumsmelling fags are so old even their kidneys fail,
I don’t give a shitdrop ’bout these bastards,
I hope they all rot and go to hell faster,
Before I finish I’d like to thank Charlize for fuckin’ me good,
Fuck the movies! Fuck the Oscar!Fuck all and fuck Hollywood!!!!
 - 116 -

(19th July 2007) 50 Paise vs. Will and Grace

(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible
doctor with his very own advice column):

I’m fucking the whole cast of Sex and the city at a rapid pace,
Afterwards, I switch on TV, check for something which is not for gays,
What do I see? Fuckin’ Homo Will and his bitch Grace,
When I first saw it’s promo, thought it was just fillin’ space,
Can’t fuckin believe someone put it on air,
I’d rather watch Hillary Clinton bitchslap Tony Blair,
Aww! Will and Gracey are the best of chums!
And Gracey’s so crazy she even knows when he cums,
They never hide secrets,here let me tell you one, you both SUCK,
U want a hit show?Bend Grace over and tell Will to fuck,
Hate that show, the cast, crew, set, diction and plot,
hope it doesn’t last but grows an infection and rot,
Every time they fight and make up, I’m pissed off, I feel like kicking their ass,
Here’s a story line ,kill Will, then guest star Kill Bill star Lucy, let her lick Gracey, now that
is real class,
Then there’s that fag jack in the box,
Hope he dies of AIDS or some pox,
A barren whore named Karen,
Starin’ at dicks like they’re Mclaren,
If you don’t like what i’m sayin’, Will’s ass u can munch,
While you’re at it, kiss his asshole, it’s closed and is clenched,
While I’ll be lickin ur girls’ tongues, authentic french!,
Will, U stupid homo, get a life, get a home,
‘Homo sweet homo’,
Oops! U cant you still got Grace stapled to your pants,
Here’s the show finale, Will murders Jack and eats his cock and sack,
Then he dies of suffocation, leaving Grace with Karen’s rack,
Bring ur ass bitches, let da Paise give u a smack,
I’m coming to eat your nifty pussies, make some space,
But wait! before I eat them I just need to say Grace!!!
 - 117 -

(20th July 2007) Aesop’s Slightly Looney Brother’s Fables # 1

Sensas De Funct, the French (who else would have a two-letter middle name?)
serial killer caught the local bus home and returned to his comparatively (compared to the
others who did not cut off people’s heads for the heck of it) cleaner single apartment. He was
not empty-handed. But this time it was just the grocery.

He was a tenant under a landlord who did not tolerate his tenants keeping pets in
their apartments. Sensas De Funct, who was not as keen on following the laws as some other
people (ones who did not, on Christmas Eve, make Snowmen with actual heads), did more
than be insolent to these rigid directives of the landlord. He kept a cat, a salamander and a
platypus in his apartment. These animals, much like the heads De Funct collected (he lost
interest in stamps very early in his life) and stuffed inside his refrigerator, stayed close to
each other (but the animals had better eye contact). But the two groups never met. What
Sensas De Funct meant when he said he was having a tête-à-tête or what did he did for
divertissement was kept very discreet from his quadrupedal roommates. They were unaware
of the fact that their master was a man who did not put roofs over heads but rather heads
under their roof.

A momentous day arrived when Sensas De Funct’s refrigerator couldn’t

accommodate any more heads (be it of humans or cabbage). He decided to proceed and do
what any ordinary serial killer faced with such a situation would normally do. He went out
shopping for a new refrigerator.

Granted a cat, a salamander and a platypus, by no means, made a formidable

intelligentsia but inquisitive nature was given by the almighty to all things breathing.
Nevertheless, the need for a second refrigerator in the same apartment would awaken the
interest of almost anything and anybody. The cat talked to the salamander who talked to the
platypus who concurred with the cat’s idea of opening the refrigerator and taking a peep
inside.

After minutes of speculation, calculation and determination (which would bring

pride to any creature who defecates in public) the trio joined paws, claws and what else and
advanced with their plan. With a degree of teamwork that would put international sportsmen
to shame, the odd trinity accomplished their objective. And when they saw what they saw
they were shocked out of their furs, scales and everything else. However, very little time did
they have to let this “heady” sight sink in as the shock of the quadrupeds were quadrupled on
seeing their master stand in front of the door alongside a tall box. He looked at his pets with a
wry smile and said, ‘Bonjour Mes amis’. The new refrigerator was very quickly inaugurated.

Moral: Curiosity killed the cat and also the salamander and the platypus.
 - 118 -

(21st July 2007) Indian President Looks like a Lady

India has just gone one step up in the ladder of women empowerment with the
wonderful news of the bestowal of one of the most prestigious titles upon arguably the most
important and underrated Indian woman ever. As you may have already guessed I’m talking
about the fact that Shilpa Slutty is now Dr. Shilpa Slutty thanks to the overwhelming
benevolence of our old colonial masters who’re nowhere near done giving the crybaby
enough candy for making her bawl like a fucking bitch a few months back. However, another
lesser meaningful title of India’s President was ascribed to some tiny old lady called Pratibha
Patil who isn’t even half as sexy as Shilpa Slutty.

CNN-IBN’s slightly lesser known sister channel CNN-SOB rose to the occasion and
covered the story of India getting only its second woman president. The first was, as all of us
Indians remember, Lord Mountbatten’s perverted little daughter who used to spy on
Jawaharlal Nehru making sweet love to her own mother when her father went “hunting” with
the stable boy. That story was covered by yet another sister channel of CNN-IBN called CNN-
STD. They also reported that the flower tucked into Nehru’s coat pocket was symbolic of the
neat deflowering job he had done on Lord Mountbatten’s bitch. CNN-SOB reported that
unlike the first woman President of India, Pratibha Patil had no sexual perversions of any
sort. In fact, except for the time she spoke to a dead guy on Mount Abu she could be said to
have lead a completely normal life.

However, India’s primary political party, the BJP, who treated all Indians with
equal respect and dignity unless they were Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists and non-
upper class Hindus, claimed that the new Indian President was not worthy of heading our
country. They threatened that they possessed highly scandalous information regarding the
new President and unless she quit her post they would reveal those details, which could very
well bring the whole country into disrepute. Another sister channel of CNN-IBN, called CNN-
HIV which specialized in sting operations managed to solicit the BJP leaders and obtain the
shameful facts concerning our new President. The charge sheet leaked out of the BJP HQ,
which was neatly typed and bulleted accused Pratibha Patil of two very serious charges:

 Pratibha Patil is a woman

 Pratibha Patil is not a man

CNN-HIV later reported that President Pratibha denied both these allegations raised
against her by the BJP. However, the entire operation was canned by the BJP after they
received an anonymous tip-off about an M.F Hussain painting that displayed a three-headed
rabbit sexually pleasuring a castrated tiger, which blatantly blasphemed the national pride of
India by insulting our national animal and also the Trimurti.

Apart from that, President Pratibha enjoyed the unanimous support of the Indian
people and also the Indian women who would soon, Insha’Allah and also Insha’Pratibha, be
granted the status of “peoplehood”. On the very first day in office, President Pratibha brought
about some radical reformations to our country’s laws, rules, and regulations. Firstly, she
demanded that Union Woman and Child Welfare Minister Renuka Chowdhary should slim
down so that people can view her using only a single television set. Secondly, she made gay
marriages legal in India. And thirdly, she made having sex in public illegal. As soon as the
 - 119 -

third law was passed, she received an intelligence report from India’s most vocal Defense
Minister A.K. Anthony who made hand gestures to her which conveyed that two men had
been caught having wild butt-sex in an open land in the middle of Uttar Pradesh. Aerial
cameras inside the Rashtrapati Bhavan telecast the tiny live images of two figures lustily
rubbing against each other. On zooming in the two men were identified to be Amitabh
Bachchan and Amar Singh celebrating the legalization of gay marriages. Madam President
ordered both men to be arrested and sent immediately to Himesh Reshmmiya’s recording
studio.
 - 120 -

(22nd July 2007) 50 Paise vs. God

(Created by 50 paise in his younger, immature days before he became a responsible doctor
with his very own advice column):

God is the devil, he burns us alive

Made fuckin impossible rules for us to abide
God himself misleads us and makes us sin here
Forces us to wear masks, fuck our veneers
He watched over me tearin myself apart
As i crawled to the shore he lacerated my heart
You’re giving me the worst kind of pain, God,
Each one of my loved ones you find and maim, God,
I would never have fuckin complained even if you slit my throat,
You’re the fuckin storm which splits the boats
You split her life up, you ignored my prayers
You broke her methodically, layer by layer
What did she do wrong, God? She is Purity
But you put her through hell, you fuckin destroyed her security
Let motherfuckers trample over her pure heart and soul
Her role of an angel you reduced to a prisoner’s role
Her heart is paradise but you filled it with dark clouds
Her smile gave me light but you covered it with black shrouds
I did my fuckin best to be good I did it for her sake
All my interests for her I was ready to forsake
But that’s not what you want, is it God?, you are a perv
You’re unfair, you never give people what they deserve
You fucked our lives, I feel destroyed
What I thought I had is now null and void
I trusted you God, in you I sincerely believed
But now I feel dead, I’m my own bereaved
I always told myself that you’d set things straight
You didn’t, you never do, you enjoy hurting and call it fate
Do what you wish to me God, I fuckin don’t care
But don’t hurt her anymore, she’s a gem,a stone rare,
Love isn’t real, there that’s the truth right there,
Life isn’t divine, it’s a motherfuckin nightmare.
 - 121 -

(23rd July 2007) 50 Paise’s Love Note

A woman is nice if fine and fit,

Good firm tits and an ass to hit,
One tight pussy that’ll pop like a zit,
And a mouth that’ll swallow and not just spit.
 - 122 -

(24th July 2007) India Shining Like Hell

(Video link to the story: http://www.ibnlive.com/videos/45521/accused-denies-
eveteasing-10yrold--reporters-blog.html )

Paint a Hindu goddess with her boobs hanging out and you will be targeted as
an anti-national; merely think about sketching a picture of Prophet Muhammad and you
automatically become worthy of having your blasphemous little head rolling around the
ground looking at your severed windpipe and vocal cords hanging off your neck; miss a
Sunday mass and you’ll be pushed up in the list of those eternally damned; accidentally drop
the Indian flag on the ground and the whole damn army will be invading your ass; wear an
outfit that you like and you’re in direct violation of India’s moral code; celebrate Valentine’s
Day with someone you’re fond of and you get the piss slapped out of your nuts by the cops
for buying into the “western way of living”; but taunt and harass a ten-year-old girl, then run
over her arm with your vehicle leaving her in a possible state of permanent trauma, and you
shall find yourself sitting home-not the same as a jail-watching television and farting like a
dirty motherfucker. I think it’s a moment when we should all stand up before our national
flag- one that’s well above the ground- put our hands across our chest and roar our national
pledge. And mean it, of course.

Not this one:

India is my country. All Indians are my brothers and sisters. I love my country. I am
proud of its rich and varied culture. I shall always strive to be worthy of it. I shall love
and respect my parents, teachers and elders. To my country and my people I pledge my
devotion.

But this one:

India is not my country. I was just fucking born here. All Indians are not my brothers,
just the ones with rich dads. No Indian is my sister, not even the ugly ones or the
newborn ones. They’re all just walking pussies and tits for me to try and grab at. I
don’t give a fuck about my parents, anybody else’s parents, teachers and elders. Fuck
them all. I shall strive to dedicate all my time to molesting helpless little girls and
leaving them scarred for life. To my country and my people I pledge my horny dick.
 - 123 -

(25th July 2007) Aesop’s Slightly Looney Brother’s Fables # 2

Keeping in mind the importance of political correctness and honesty, only this
could be said about Dan Bo: He was the dumbest creature in the whole wide world. Mentally
retarded donkeys (or is it donkii?) had a better chance of passing a test than Dan Bo. Brain-
dead sheep (why not sheeps?) thought faster than Dan Bo. Comatose hippos (or is it hippii?)
had more cerebral action than Dan Bo. Apoplectic weasels (Ugh! Who cares about plurals-or
is it plurii?) comprehended… (I think you get the drift).
Dumbness did not necessarily co-exist with lack of popularity. In fact dumbness
was directly proportional to the number of friends you had (now you know why you’re so
popular). The dumber you were the more mistakes you made and hence the more
entertainment you created for the ones around you (for nothing is as entertaining to another
as your mistakes). Although when it came to commanding respect Dan Bo was not exactly
topping the chart. When the ones around him didn’t regard him with derision and mockery,
they regarded him with jeers and sneers and when they were short of jeers and sneers they
used gibes and taunts and so ran the list.
It was just another ordinary day except for the arrival of an alien spaceship filled
with ultra-intelligent aliens who threatened to invade the Earth. Unless, they said, an
Earthling could defeat them with superior intelligence and powers of comprehension.
Professors, scientists, biotechnologists, Presidents (huh?)-almost everybody tried to leave the
aliens hanging but they ended up hanging in the prison at the back of the colossal spaceship
with their legs split and their heads shoved up their backsides. Finally, Dan Bo- who was
resting in his long low seat-was zapped and made to appear in front of the B.O.A (the Board
of Aliens as the alien intelligentsia called themselves). Maybe it was “divan intervention” or
maybe it was just plain ol’ irony-whatever it was, after four hours of conversation with Dan
Bo, the aliens emancipated the captives and got their out-of-the-world-blue-posteriors the hell
out of Earth. Dan Bo thus saved the world and gained the love and respect of one and all
(except that of the aliens).

Due to the extremely graphic nature of the intensely nonsensical conversation that
transpired between the B.O.A and Dan Bo only a very small part of it is printed below
which would be sufficient to show why the aliens scrammed:
Dan Bo(shrugging):You know what they say: “Curiosity spilled the milk”.
The B.O.A(gritting their teeth):What?
Dan Bo(surprised):It didn’t?
The B.O.A(with an incredulous look in their eyes):What?
Dan Bo (nervous and embarrassed):I mean the dead cat spilled the milk.
The B.O.A(their eyes widening further):What?
Dan Bo (flabbergasted):It didn’t?
The B.O.A(irate at the illogic digression):What?
Dan Bo(thinking hard):No…no…wait…What was the deal with the cat again?
The B.O.A(sighing deeply trying to retain their sanity):Curiosity killed the cat.
Dan Bo(with a relieved smile):Oh, ok. Curiosity killed the cat.
The B.O.A (their anger alleviated on finally sensing an end to this):Yes, that’s correct.
Dan Bo (with a quizzical stare):So then who spilled the milk?
The B.O.A (stunned):….

MORAL: EVERY CLOD HAS A SILVER LINING

 - 124 -

(26th July 2007) India Poised Like Hell

At the Headquarters of the Ministry of Baby-killers in Mumbai, a bunch of baby-
killers were toasting their latest achievement: that of stabbing a two day old baby twenty six
times and leaving it in a pile of garbage. They raised their glasses filled with their favorite
drink- liquefied fetus - and yelled “to infanticide”. They all drank to it and proceeded to take
bites of their favorite dishes: mashed placenta and grilled umbilical cords. The Ministry had
been in existence since forever although they received organizational status only after the day
they were able to attain an all time best performance of killing twenty-seven babies in one
day. It was masterminded by a couple who figured that setting a maternity ward on fire was
the smartest way to fight the epidemic known as childbirth. That was also the standard
answer that every member of the Ministry was required to give if ever questioned about their
actions; they had to say “I did it for my country. I did it to control our population explosion.”
And it was certain that if not everyone at least some fellow citizens would be fucked up
enough to share their perspective and lend them support.

As the celebrations were proceeding with all prams blazing, one of the trusted
informants of the Ministry rushed in, gasping for breath, with a very crucial piece of
information. The members of the Ministry of Baby-killers shuddered on hearing the news.
The Indian people were apparently protesting in anger after some loser rummaged
through the garbage dump and encountered the most horrific sight. The Ministry couldn’t
believe what they were hearing. They expected a small disparaging piece in the third page of
all the leading newspapers and maybe a short pitiful segment on NDTV but that was about it.
However, in an unprecedented turn of events, the proud sons of India had generated an angry
uprising. The matter was placed before the management board of the ministry and thoroughly
discussed.

Baby Killer #1: This is outrageous. We’ve been killing babies all our lives and the rest of the
Indians have never given a shit. But we stab a little twerp twenty-six times and leave him to
die in a dumpster and they are pissed. That doesn’t make any sense.
Baby Killer #2: Something does seem to be amiss. I mean, what’s up these people’s asses
that’s making them butt their noses into our business. Especially at a time like this when
Shilpa Shetty is back in the news again. They should be in front of their television sets not
giving a shit about other stuff that’s happening around them.
Baby Killer #1: Could it be that they have gained an outlook on life that’s not selfish? Could
it be that the rest of the Indians have finally realized what stuff to get mad at and what stuff to
let go?
Baby Killer #2 (thinks for few seconds): I strongly suspect that they’re all just really high.
Baby Killer #1: So, I guess the best thing for us to do for the time being is to lay low and let
things settle down on their own.
Baby Killer #2: Yeah, that and murdering babies and devouring their intestines.
Baby Killer #1: Of course, that goes without saying.

However, the ruckus didn’t subside; it only seemed to get worse with every passing
day. The brave sons of India, apparently, showed no signs of retreating. Roads were blocked,
windows broken, candles lit, effigies burned, and assholes fingered. The aggression reached
such frustrating levels that the Ministry of Baby-killers decided that it was best to surrender
themselves before the angry mob and plead with them to not hurt them.
 - 125 -

Therefore, the next day, while a screaming throng was making their way down the
road, the Ministry confronted them. It was the showdown between the Ministry of Baby-
killers and the patriots.

The Patriots: Who are you people? Get out of our way.
The Ministry: We’re here to negotiate with you.
The Patriots: We’re patriots, negotiation is not in our repertoire. On the other hand, doing
retarded stuff based purely on impulse is.
The Ministry: We’re sorry to tell you that we are actually the people you’re protesting
against.
The Patriots (silent for a second): You traitors did that? That despicable act was your
work?
The Ministry: Well, yeah. But you have to understand that we had our reasons. And they
seemed quite reasonable at the time.
The Patriots: We don’t care what reasons you had, you sick anti-social freaks. The fact of
the matter is you committed one of the most heinous acts a human being could ever do.
The Ministry: Oh, come on. At least, it wasn’t as bad as Jhoom Barabar Jhoom.
The Patriots: That may be but that doesn’t give you the right to do something like that.
Perhaps you thought the rest of India would just sit back and not do anything about it.
The Ministry: Actually, yeah, we were under that impression. That is after all what we have
been used to.
The Patriots: Get ready to feel the power of the new generation.
The Ministry (apologetic): We swear we didn’t mean to kill that baby. We were just
teaching it self-defense.
The Patriots (confused): Baby? What baby? What the heck are you talking about?
The Ministry (puzzled as well): We’re talking about the baby we stabbed twenty-six times
and dumped into a pile of garbage. Isn’t that why you’re protesting? We heard you shouting
in the news stuff about the garbage dump and the irreprehensible act of hatred that was
committed.
The Patriots: That’s true but we weren’t talking about any stupid baby’s death.
The Ministry: You weren’t?
The Patriots: Heck, no. We were talking about an offensive piece of writing that we found
in the dump disrespecting our national pledge and in turn our nation.
The Ministry: And the dead baby?
The Patriots (pissed): To hell with the dead baby. We have more important matters to deal
with here. Someone actually used the words “fuck” “dick” and “pussy” and made fun of our
national pledge. We will not rest until we burn that sonofabitch up on a fucking cross.
The Ministry (softly): So you don’t mind us murdering babies and ditching their half dead
bodies on the streets?
The Patriots: Look, wise guys, we don’t care what you do as long as you don’t criticize our
history, our historical figures, and our legacy. You can whack all the newborns you want
provided you don’t disrespect, by means of words or art, the national flag, the national pledge
or the national anthem. You can rape as many women as you want as long as you don’t refer
to them as “pussies” or “hoes” or “bitches”. You can even molest as many kids as you feel
like because that’s not a crime that’s limited to our country alone. No country is crime free so
that makes it alright for us to rape and molest and kill and torture. But if you talk about it in
an obscene manner we’re not going to just stand by and let it happen. If some smart-ass
hopes to write some vulgar shit about our nation, our religion, or our history and get away
 - 126 -

with it, by God, he better think twice about it! According to us writing “horny dick” is way
worse than taking one out and slapping a girl with it.
The Ministry (pauses for a moment): So we’re good?
The Patriots: Yeah, we’re fine. Look, you people might have a fetish for killing babies but
as far as we can see you communicate using decent language and you say nothing against our
nation. And you are all men. So we got no problem. Now, we have to continue with our
protests. Take Care.
The Ministry (still a bit stunned): You too…we guess.

The ecstatic Ministry of Baby-killers thanked God for averting a potential danger
and promised the almighty that they would change their ways. They gave their word to the
Lord to never kill a baby again and dump it in a pile of garbage. They vowed to always get
rid of the body by hurling it into the ocean. But right now, they had to celebrate this great
close shave. They called a nationwide meeting of the Ministry and threw a grand buffet
having dishes ranging from fried-rice, uterus curry, newborn’s heart roast, and stuffed infant
with a side of baby pancreas.
 - 127 -

(3rd August 2007) From the Chomsky-Saussure Filth Archives Part 2

Any individual with the slightest bit of passion for researching the intricate structure
of the wonderful English Language would drop to his knees in reverence when he hears the
two most important names associated with it- Noam Chomsky and Ferdinand De Saussure.
These two unbeatable grammarians, unbeknownst to the outside world, were the ultimate
curse word experimentalists of their times. Dipping their elbows in cooking butter for five
hours straight interested them as well.

Sometime back I revealed to you a documentation of one of the dissing sessions

that took place between these two great minds. The transcript showed the ingenuity and
sharpness of their minds as well as the obvious camaraderie that existed between the two
grammarians. It also showed how fucked up the two motherfuckers were. Today, I present to
you the second of the many documents that I tediously acquired through a process as
meticulous and as precise as the Parliamentary Elections. As always, both Saussure and
Chomsky were sloshed to their skulls when they were delivering the priceless cursing
seminars to each other. Ladies, Gentlemen, and that one transvestite in New Delhi- the
“Chomsky-Saussure Filth Archives” Part II.

FROM THE CHOMSKY-SAUSSURE FILTH ARCHIVES PART II

NC: I don’t understand why I need to be here when you’re getting your wife maternity
clothes, you hamburger filled with spit, erectile tissues, and liquid hemorrhoids!

FDS: Let’s see. Maybe it’s because you got her pregnant you menstrual blood drinking piece
of dried up shit stuck to George Bernard Shaw’s hairy right buttock!

NC: She was the one who stood outside my door with her legs as wide as Barack Obama’s
smile. What was I supposed to do? Not insert my giant penis into her salivating hole and
thrust it so deep that when I ejaculated I could see my sperm floating around her epiglottis?

FDS: I have half a mind to go to your house right now, pull your wife off her bed, throw
some steaming hot water onto her ass, wait for two days, and then have intercourse with the
boils on her ass till it pops spraying bloody pus all over your bedroom!

NC: You have a better chance of embedding your genitals with Kellogg’s Cornflakes and
then getting it sucked by Marie Antoinette’s severed head!

FDS: Stop running your mouth and help me choose some maternity clothes before I bend
you into two, flip you upside down, stick a Mont Blanc pen between your ass cheeks
widening your asshole, and puke into your anal cavity so heavily that it’ll come out through
your nose and eyes!

NC: Not if I cut off the penises of your father and your uncle, stick them up your nostrils, fly
you off to the North Pole, trick some polar bears into thinking you’re a walrus, and then get
them to gang-sodomize you!
 - 128 -

FDS: Give it a rest, or else I’ll abduct your mother, take her to the forest, staple her nipples
twenty three times each, and then get Phantom (the Walking Ghost) to fist her so deep that
his ring impression will be left on her lungs!

NC: You wouldn’t dare, you smelly fart that accompanied Queen Elizabeth’s first ever shit
in a Scottish public toilet!

FDS: That’s what you think, you pungent phlegm mixed with antelope sperm that’s stuck
inside the third head from the right of Lord Ravana.

NC: That’s what I know, you nonstop drinker of Coca Cola mixed with the milk squeezed
out of Reverend Jesse Jackson’s tits.

FDS: Go to hell, you sterile queen bee that’s living in a hive built underneath Lord Xenu’s
gigantic red balls.

NC (surprised): Lord Xenu? Who are you- Tom Cruise?

FDS (dropping the dress that he was holding): What did you call me?

NC (suddenly realizing what he had just done): Look, Ferdie…I…

FDS (angry): WHAT did you call me?

NC (fumbling): You know I would never…

FDS (wounded): But you did. Ugh! I can’t even look at you right now.

NC (guilty): I made a mistake…believe me I feel terrible…

FDS (almost teary-eyed): You know I’m already under a lot of stress what with you
impregnating my wife and all. This is the last thing I wanted to hear. I’m hurt, Noam. I’m
really hurt.

NC (completely guilty and ashamed): I give you my word it’ll never happen again.

FDS (turning away): There’s nothing you can do that’ll heal the wound.

NC (silent for a while): What if we go to the changing room and I massage your inner thighs?

FDS (instantly): Ok. Yeah, that might heal the wound.

NC: So you forgive me…?

FDS (smiling warmly): I forgive you buddy. Now let’s go get it on.
 - 129 -

(8th August 2007) Dutt’s the Way it is

If anyone out there has been harboring a desire to get cozy with Sanjay Dutt’s
daughter, this is the time to act on it. She’s sad; she’s vulnerable; her dad’s in the slammer;
and from what her photos suggest she has all the qualities of a compulsive eater. And as
scientists have proven, fat chicks are the easiest ones to trick into taking their panties off,
provided you don’t count aspiring actresses, feminists, chambermaids, teenage Catholic girls,
and, of course, Nayanthara. And while considerate individuals like you and I are plotting how
to get some Dutt poon, the rest of India have been doing what they have been doing best for
the last few centuries- arguing with each other about what and who is right and wrong. Only
this time, Bollywood is in the picture as well.

The pro-verdict Indians and the pro-Dutt Indians debated hard on the topic of
whether or not the sentence Dutt got was fair. A grammarian, also a member of the pro-Dutt
campaign criticized the judge’s sentence, accusing it of being structurally imperfect and
lacking any kind of punctuation whatsoever. He was later asked by his fellow campaigners to
refer the dictionary and look up the second meaning of the word “sentence”. The humiliated
grammarian then returned to his classroom and took it out on his students by chaining them
to their desks and beating the shit out of them. The pro-verdict Indians, consisting of self-
loathing middle class people (excluding the middle class boy John Abraham), raised the
important point that all rich people are crooks and that such rich people, especially if they are
famous also, should be punished severely without any clemency. Bollywood stars who heard
this decided that they wouldn’t take this lying down; so they bent over and took it in the
doggie position. And when they realized that it hurt their assholes too much they decided to
voice their protests. A gamut of emotions flooded the television screens. Anger, sadness,
speechlessness, dejection, resilience, and eroticism flowed out of the expressive faces of our
country’s finest cine artists. Frankly speaking, it was some of the best work they had done.

The pro-verdict Indians, although sensitive and intelligent, did not feel a smidgeon
of sympathy for the multi-millionaire Bollywood actor Sanjay Dutt and felt that he shouldn’t
have done the crime if he wasn’t prepared to do the time. They held their heads high and
supported the legal system of our country which was true enough to not spare a rich brat like
Dutt who was guilty of possessing a gun without a license; the same legal system who gives
instant bail to Shiv Sena activists after they torture and harass random people without giving
them a trial of any kind; the same legal system which salvaged the innocence of the two
accused in the Nithari killings, who, in all probability, sodomized and chopped up over
twenty children purely unintentionally. The system was just enough to realize the innocuous
thought that went behind the two dozen murders. Much like how the system foresaw the
potential carnage that Sanjay Dutt would’ve caused with the weapon he possessed, allegedly
to protect his family.

The pro-Dutt Indians claimed that sentencing the man who brought the spirit of
Gandhi back to our hearts to six years in prison was like slapping the cheek of the Mahatma
himself. The pro-Dutt Indians, including actors from Bollywood, demanded that taking into
consideration the impact and the theme of Dutt’s hit movie, he ought to receive special
consideration from the court. Dawood Ibrahim seconded this demand and also announced
that his debut movie titled “Dawood loves Gandhi” would be releasing later this
year.
 - 130 -

Meanwhile, Sanjay Dutt sat alone inside his cell drenched in sadness wishing he
could go back in time and correct his mistakes. Especially the mistake of spending millions in
visiting temples and shrines praying to God when he should actually have got into a plane
and hid in some exotic island. He put his head down and shed a drop of sincere tear; as soon
as the teardrop hit the dank floor of his prison he felt a strange energy enter his cell. He lifted
his head and encountered the most amazing sight he had seen in his entire life- even more
amazing than Urmila’s bulging titties in Daud. Sitting next to him inside his cell was
Mahatma Gandhi himself. Dutt bowed his head before the Mahatma and asked pleadingly,
“Tell me Bapu, why me? I suffered so much already in my life but it never seems to stop. I
lost both my parents; I lost my wife; I’ve already been in prison once for over a year; and
now, after I’ve been so righteous in my actions, I’m back in prison. And that too for possibly
the six most significant years of my life. What is the meaning of all this?” The Mahatma
looked straight into Dutt’s teary eyes and said, with a warm, caring smile on his lips, “I got
fucking assassinated right after I achieved the single greatest feat in the history of mankind
and you’re whining to me about getting some jail time for a crime you actually committed?
Grow some balls, man. I understand you deserve a lot better than this but don’t we all? At
least, you don’t have to watch your own children starve to death right in front of you; nor do
you have to worry about when your child is going to get raped when she walks alone from
school because you can’t afford a fucking vehicle. Sure you got it bad, but there are more
miserable bastards out there. Unfortunately, life’s a giant ass that won’t stop shitting on you.
And the people who run your country, no matter which nation you’re from, will always act as
laxatives. So suck it up.” Dutt watched, with bulging eyes and an open mouth, the spectral
figure of Gandhi get up and leave his cell. Before Gandhi completely disappeared he turned
back and said, “I almost forgot, could you do me a favor?” Dutt jolted from his shocked
stupor and replied, “Of course, Bapu, anything.” Gandhi looked at Dutt and said in a slightly
irked tone, “If you ever run into Anil Kapoor or Akshaye Khanna tell those hairy-ass fags to
fuck off and go to hell. I gave those pricks their independence. The least that they can do is
not commercialize my personal life.” And then the Father of our Nation disappeared.
 - 131 -

(15th August 2007) 60 Years

Sixty years. That’s as old as Hema Malini, the super-intelligent lone crusader of
pure water for thirsty Indians all across the country. Sixty years. That’s how long Neha Dupia
will have to keep acting like an absolute whore, while simultaneously bashing actresses who
shed clothes and kiss on screen “without the script demanding it”, before anyone takes notice
of her and finally fucks her to death using a spiked shoe. Sixty years. That’s half the number
of years for which Lata Mangeshkar has been singing without realizing that she’s just a
female version of Himesh Reshammiya. Sixty years. That’s how long it has been since the
British colonizers in India ultimately got homesick and went back to their native land of
Argentina.

Commemorating our sixtieth year of Independence, India’s top news channel Jetix
went around asking random Indians what they thought were the ten most significant moments
in the last sixty years of Indian History. After talking to about a thousand gazillion Indians
(approximately one eighth of India’s total population), Jetix managed to compile an
undisputable list of India’s ten greatest moments and achievements in the last sixty years.
There were a few moments in the list that had completely escaped the collective memory of
us Indians until the colorfully dressed Japanese midgets of Jetix recaptured it for us.

TOP TEN GOLDEN MOMENTS OF FREE INDIA

No: 10 - In 1959, the 14th Dalai Lama seeks refuge in India and tries out Indian food for the
first time. He spends the next seven days shooting Tibetan turds out of his Rinpoche and is
not able to meditate in complete silence. A year later, the 14th Dalai Lama tries out denim
jeans for the first time and grows particularly fond of the fabric.

No: 9 - In 1967, a lewd MMS clip of a young Salman Rushdie eating spaghetti using both
hands spreads all across India. The next day Ayatollah Noodles issues a “pastwa” against
Rushdie for corrupting the sanctity of spaghetti by eating it without the use of a fork. A week
later, Rushdie flees India and seeks asylum in Queen Elizabeth’s knickers. After seeking for
three days straight, he not only finds asylum in the Queen’s knickers but also a half eaten
carrot and a copy of Jane Austen’s Pried and Pussy Juice.

No: 8 - In 1975, Nelson Mandela has a one-night stand with President Indira Gandhi and
doesn’t call her back. Indira Gandhi is super pissed and goes on a castration spree
which stops only after two years and seven hundred and fifty seven pairs of skewered
testicles.

No: 7 - In 1979, Mother Teresa wins the coveted Nobel Prize for Peace in honor of her great
humanitarian work in the poorer parts of India. At the award ceremony, Mother Teresa asks
only one question to the entire world: “Why the fuck didn’t anybody tell me leprosy was
contagious?”

No: 6 - In 1983, the West Indies Cricket team forfeits the World Cup to India after Captain
Kapil Dev threatens to take a one hour long class in spoken English for everyone attending
the match. He then raises the cup and says the words that inspire millions of Indians: “I has
done it. We is the only team who know how to game cricket. All future teams is bad.”
 - 132 -

No: 5 - On May 21, 1991 Rajiv Gandhi has a really bad hair day.

No: 4 - In 1994, a young teenage girl shows how to insert a whole banana into her mouth and
then swallow it on a global platform. A few days later, she is awarded the Ms. Universe title.
The world takes notice of Indian women’s ability to swallow entire bananas and decide to
keep giving them similar awards every four or five years.

No: 3 - In 1999, Hindus and Muslims unite to fight against a common enemy, the Y2K virus.
But when squat happens on Jan 1, 2000 they go back to killing each other and their own.
Later, the Indian Intelligence reveals that the Y2K virus had indeed planned on attacking
India but got arrested by the Mumbai Police after a complaint of forced sexual act lodged by
an ugly skunk/skank named Rakhi Sawant. After one week, the Y2K virus installs Norton
and commits suicide out of shame.

No: 2 - On July 11, 2006 terrorists detonate eight consecutive bombs at all movie theatres
playing Amitabh Bachchan’s Black. Miraculously, not a single living soul is hurt.

No: 1 - In 2007, Shilpa Slutty cries in front of the whole world because she’s called a Paki by
an ignorant ugly fat man-bitch named Jade Goody. India considers breaking off its ties with
England based on the event. The English get shit scared of a curry attack and give a whole lot
of money to Shilpa Slutty. She and her annoying mother shifts residence from India to
London. Shilpa Slutty appears in a hundred television interviews and shows major cleavage.
Few months later, she returns to India in order to gift her sister, Shamita, a pair of panties.
Richard Gere tries to bend Shilpa Slutty into half in front of a thousand people. Hours later,
both Richard and Shilpa confirm to the media that he was merely trying to protect her from
Lord Voldemort. Shilpa breaks up a filthy rich guy’s marriage. She’s awarded an honorary
doctorate degree by the University of Over-the-top Pretentious Political Correctness.

Jai Hind!
 - 133 -

(22nd August 2007) Why can’t we be not Friends?

I’ve got to tell you something. There’s as good a chance of you not agreeing
to it as there is a chance of the ICL and the BCCI walking together hand in hand at a beach,
the gentle waves kissing the sides of their really expensive shoes. I don’t understand the
compulsive need of almost everyone to pile up as many friends as possible. They put
desperate, pathetic ads in the paper, they join every online community in the world, and some
even make up imaginary people just so that others would think they have a bucketful of
friends. I’m nonplussed, to be honest. And that’s saying a lot because I never thought I would
actually use the word ‘nonplussed’ in a sentence ever. Now, if I could only use the word
‘glomerulonephritis’ somewhere.
It’s easy to misinterpret my statement about friends as one made by a
misanthropist. I admit, I’m no Father Teresa but I don’t hate people. I do love hot single
women; that has to be an indication of the presence of a loving heart inside me. However, I
do have a serious problem with friends, especially my friends. It’s just that more often than
not friends seem to act more like a PIP (Pain in the Posterior) rather than a HIP (Helpful
Intelligent Person). Sure nobody’s perfect but the least your friends should be able to do is
not piss you off all the time. And there are different kinds of annoying friends who do
different things to piss you off.
There’s always that one friend who just doesn’t know when to hang up
the phone. He’s the friend who’s not very close to you but does you enough favors that it
would make you feel guilty if you don’t consider him as your friend. It’s one thing calling up
and talking if there’s actually something to talk about. And it’s another thing calling up
merely to chitchat and kill time. But it’s a whole different thing if your friend calls you up
everyday and talks about nothing but himself. It’s almost like he thinks he’s running a radio
station and you’re the only listener he has. Unfortunately, all the programs on the radio
station is about what he did, who he hates, who he thinks is gay, which actor looks more like
him, and how much better he is than everybody else including you. And you can do just
about everything that you could think of to try and send him the message that you don’t want
to talk to him but narcissistic phrases keep flowing out of his mouth like mediocre movies out
of Bollywood. You can fake headaches, you can fake call waiting, you can fake having to
hide the corpse of the door to door salesman you just murdered, hell you can even fake your
own death but he would neatly sideline all of those by uttering four simple pitiful words,
“Just five more minutes.”
Then there’s the friend who’s up for any plans any time. As long as you
take care of all expenses. He’s the one who, when the bill comes, gets the inevitable call from
his sick mother, his dying uncle, his dead grandpa, or nature herself. At times, his seventh
sense informs him about the imminent bill and he just takes off from the coffee shop or the
restaurant. After you chalk out all your money, you meet him outside with a frown, and he
explains to you that he got this unprecedented urge to break wind and that he respects you too
much to let it rip in front of you. And you think to yourself, that’s worth the money! But, of
course, you’re damn fool who doesn’t realize that your friend is a big fat liar who just used
flatulence to make you pay his share of the bill. Going to the movies with the moocher is no
different. He’s always sly enough to ask you to “book the tickets”, or “reserve the seats”. But
after the movie, when you ask him to reimburse the ticket money, he behaves like the victim
of a combined Alzheimer’s- Amnesia attack. He blinks and stares like he’s Mr. Magoo on
valium. At the end, he parts with the concrete promise that the next movie is on him. Few
 - 134 -

weeks later, he’ll probably show up at your place with a pirated CD that you both can watch
on your CD player and call it even.
The third one in the list is the friend who opens up too quickly to you. Call
me a sexist but this one is bound to be a girl. She’s the one with whom you share a
comfortable rapport from the time you meet. You too even have the same opinion about
Espresso: that it sucks. But all that changes on the second day when she calls you up and lets
you in on her deepest, darkest secret that she says she has never shared with anyone else in
the whole world. It could be some torrid love affair that she had with a teacher, or it could be
about some overly friendly uncle of hers, or even her disturbingly bizarre sexual perversions
that’s got something to do with Chihuahuas. And the next day, when she meets you in front
of other people you know, she takes you to a corner and thanks you for fifteen minutes for
being a “good friend” and “being there” for her. You would like to tell her “I was just
holding the phone to my ear. I didn’t do anything. I could have put a bowl of pudding there
by the phone and the pudding would have been there for you.” But you don’t. Then things get
worse when she starts weeping. And the people around you look at you like you’re this
insensitive jerk who made a girl cry. Which, of course, ruins the rest of the evening for you.
And when she leaves she subtly nods at you that only you see and moments later you get the
ominous SMS which says, “I’ll call you tonight.” And that’s when you feel like drowning to
death in a pool of Espresso
Another one who really pisses me off is the friend who talks incessantly
about politics. Scattering it here and there in a conversation is fine; at least you can ignore it.
But when everything that he says is connected to politics you’ve got a serious issue. After a
sip of his coffee he says, “This coffee is really strong. By the way, you know who else needs
to be really strong, the United Nations in their involvement in the Middle East problem.” Or
he’s playing video game with you when he comments, “You need stealth to excel at this
game. You know what rhymes with stealth? Health. You know who has a bad health plan: the
Americans. Their last Government…” Or the time when nobody’s talking and everyone’s
just lazing around he decides to conduct an elaborate tutorial on the plan that he has to
inculcate Socialism in a Capitalistic environment. It becomes obvious to you that the only
plan he doesn’t have is the one that would make him not bore the living hell out of everyone
around him.
Those are just a few reasons why I find friends really annoying. There are
still several types that I haven’t talked about: the friend who always shares your lunch, the
one who borrows your T-shirt and gives it back stained, the one who asks for more than five
favors per month, the one who’s always late for everything, the one who keeps a picture of
the Elephant Man in his wallet, the one who turns both the blowers of the AC in your car to
his side, the friend who steals your jokes, the friend who advises you to listen to rap music
after listening to the Eminem CD that he borrowed from you a week before, the friend who
has a look at the book you’re reading and tells you how it ends after going through the last
chapter, the friend who shows up at your place without calling up, the friend who just can’t
figure out why your father is a Hindu and your mother’s a Christian, the one who tells you
after you get out of a restaurant that he had switched plates with you because he found a hair
stuck to his, and a whole lot of other kinds of annoying friends. You may love your friends
too much to relate to anything that I’ve said so far. That means you’re lucky. Or it means that
you’re in denial. Or, more likely, it means that you are an annoying friend yourself. In case,
you share my views and feel like being friends with me, I just want to let you know that I’m
feeling a little under the weather and therefore can’t talk on the phone or mail you or meet
you. Doctors say I’m suffering from a bad case of ‘glomerulonephritis’.
 - 135 -

(23rd August 2007) It’s Tougher to be a Man

It’s very possible that after the public revelation of this article I would be
ambushed by a frightening group of women in their mid-thirties, possessing mediocre grooming
habits, and lethargic husbands: a group that calls itself the Feminist Mafia. But, I don’t care. It’s
more important to me that the truth is divulged; the truth that has been kept a secret for centuries
by generations of trained fighters known as WO-Men (Warriors Obliterating Men); the truth
which, when revealed, would change the course of life as we know it today; the truth that men’s
lives are so much worse than women’s lives.
Boyhood is not just about being stupid and breaking stuff. It also involves the
very traumatic experience of trying to negotiate with the baggage of gender guilt that’s thrust
upon you by the women around you. The thrusting of the gender guilt, at such an early age, is, of
course, the primary psychological weapon in the artillery of the Warriors Obliterating Men.
Mothers, grandmothers, aunts, sisters-they all seem to mutter the same guilt-inducing line when
faced with any problem: “Oh, why should you bother? You’re a male. We’re the ones who have
to endure it.” It’s not so much the words as it’s the tone of their voice that fills you, the little boy,
with a gnawing feeling of culpability. There starts the journey of the demoralized man who’s
forcibly made a part of a generalization that he doesn’t care much about.
However, the contrast between the truth and the generalization is as stark as
the difference between a car and a car salesman. Men do not have better lives than women just
because women say we do. One example that all women cite is the man’s gift to pee standing up.
Let me tell you something, it’s not all that it’s hyped up to be. In fact, it could be downright
harrowing on certain occasions. Men do not enjoy the privacy of a separate stall when they go to
a public restroom like women do. All we get are half a dozen contraptions mounted on the wall
that to someone with a reasonably active imagination would look like the beaks of really large
pelicans. But the really disturbing part lies in how close the half a dozen pelican beaks are to each
other. And the only thing that separates you and the ‘peer’ next to you is a thin rectangular
partition that’s nowhere near as tall as it should be. Can you imagine the trauma of having to pray
for a guy who’s shorter than you pee next to you every time you visit the restroom to relieve
yourself? We’d much rather spend a few extra seconds pulling down our pants than having to be
on surveillance mode every time nature calls. But, of course, women will never understand
because “we’re the ones who have to endure it.”
Another bane of being a woman, they say, is having to deal with that time of
the month which makes her cranky, emotional, and depressed. Well, let me inform you women
that we men undergo similar phases as well, but on a level way more intense than you could
fathom. A woman couldn’t possibly comprehend how cranky, vulnerable, and suicidal a man can
get for a stretch of time as long as even a year whenever the Indian Cricket Team goes and makes
a mess of a match that they should have won blindfolded. Forget the monthly mess, ladies, this
one bugs us every minute of every hour of every day we live. Therefore, women have their
women’s problems and we guys have the Indian Cricket Team. You tell me which is worse.
What I’ve revealed so far is merely the tip of the iceberg. Although, I feel
it’s safe to assume that men all over the world are wising up to the real truth. Never again should
we drop our heads in shame and walk away tongue-tied when a woman tells us that we have it
good. We should stand up and bravely put ourselves down. Don’t let any woman tell you that
you’re happier than them; stand your ground and prove to them that you’re more depressed than
Vincent Van Gogh’s optician. And if they corner you and pull out their trump card- the labor pain
card- smile back confidently at them, take your cap off and show them the huge bald spot that’s
staring back with a vengeance.
 - 136 -

(25thAugust 2007) The Sock Murder Mystery: A Detective Yvette Pans Case

It was the most chilling murder of the century. Alright, maybe that was an
exaggeration but, hey, a guy was killed, which wasn’t something that exuded a great deal of
warmth. It happened on the eve of the eve of Christmas Eve’s eve, which was December 23rd
– no wait, December 21st, no, no, I meant December 24th or is it 22nd? Wait a second, when
was Christmas again? Anyway, the fact remained that a man was murdered. The victim was
the sixty-five-year old millionaire, Mr. Stephen McStiffie, who was found strangled to death
with the assistance of a really old sock. His family members, who were thankfully too
shocked and stunned to do anything stupid like move the body or give it a bath, did what any
helpless soul would have done when faced with a similar ordeal. They called me, Detective
Yvette Pans.
The sight that greeted me as I reached the McStiffie’s mansion disturbed me
intensely. I saw that despite their filthy richness, they still drove a Nissan. And that point I
knew, things would only get tougher, even for a veteran detective like me. I was led to Mr.
McStiffie’s bedroom where the macabre sight of the corpse, with a sock around its neck,
glared at me like a python wrapped around a tree trunk. It was then I realized that I had come
up with a pretty good analogy, albeit an inflated one. The stench that emanated from the old,
wrinkly, stretched out thing was unbearable. And, oh yeah, the sock smelled bad too.
Second in my list of “top two things to do in case of a murder” was
interrogation. After I executed the first one on my list, which was making sure that the victim
was dead, I proceeded to interrogate the possible suspects that I had already lined up in my
mind. My method of interrogation was a bit erratic, as the minds of certified geniuses so
often were. The questions I asked weren’t like the ones you got for SATs or GMATs – the
ones I put across were super hard. I sat down first with the victim’s wife, Mrs. Looksy
McStiffie.

Me: ‘Did you kill your husband, Mrs. Looksy?’

Mrs. Looksy: ‘No’.

Me: ‘Ok, cool. Next.’

I followed the same pattern of questioning with the rest of the lot – the
daughter, the butler, the chef, the gardener, the dog keeper, the cat keeper, the plumber, the
chauffeur, and the nubile French maid. I came to the conclusion that they were a very
negative bunch who stuck with the same “no” to the query I put forth save the French maid
who uttered a very nasal “Non” and the teenage daughter who said “Like whatever”. I was in
for a real rough roaring risky ride and I realized that, for the first time in my life, I had used
alliteration. A loud screech outside of the mansion jolted me out of the reverie spawned by
my literary achievement. The victim’s only son, Mr. Junky McStiffie or “The Junkster”, who
was a celebrated rock star, had arrived.
The moment I laid eyes on him I got a feeling that he was the man that I had
been looking for all this time. Then I realized how gay that sounded. I had meant the right
man in relation to the murder. One reason I strongly suspected him was because he was the
only one who hadn’t said “no” to my question. But then I realized that could be because I
hadn’t yet asked him. So, I wasted no time and proceeded to do just that.
 - 137 -

Me: ‘Did you kill your father?’

Junky: ‘Are you flippin’ crazy?’

Me: ‘You’re sure you didn’t kill him?’

Junky: ‘Yeah, I’m sure.”

The first time I had received an answer in the affirmative. I realized I was
on the right track. I felt like slapping him with a pair of handcuffs, taking him to prison, and
giving it to him real good. Why the hell was everything that I said about him coming out so
gay? Damn.
The expert sleuthing that I did in the next two weeks provided with some
very interesting leads. I learned that Mrs. Looksy was having an affair with the chauffeur. I
also learned that Mrs. Looksy was having an affair with the plumber. And the pool boy, and
the butler, and the chef. However, an unfaithful wife, who was sleeping around with half her
employees, whose husband had turned up dead a couple of weeks back, didn’t really come
across as suspicious to me. It wasn’t like she had a motive or anything.
As days passed, the tension became more palpable. The bereaved became
uneasy, mainly because I was charging by the hour. I was also convinced, owing to the
presence of overwhelming evidence, that the nubile French maid was immensely attractive.
The entire mansion seemed to be growling in an ominous, sinister voice. After exactly three
and a half weeks of snooping around, I called the McStiffie’s mansion and asked Mrs.
Looksy to make sure everyone I had questioned was present. After I reached the place, I
made everyone present there sit in a circle. And then I began unfurling how I had solved the
case.
Me: ‘Never have I had a case like this before.’
The Butler: ‘Some say you have never had a case at all.”

Me: ‘What did you want to be when you were little?’

The Butler: ‘A pilot.’

Me: ‘What’re you now?’

The Butler: ‘A butler.’

Me: ‘Alright so shut up and keep your underachieving butt rooted to your chair.’

The humiliated butler stayed put and didn’t speak a word. He learned that
nobody acted smart with Detective Yvette Pans and got away with it without getting
seriously demoralized. I continued:

Me: ‘The reason I have asked you all to be present here is because, as you may have guessed,
I have solved the case. And the reason why I’ve asked you to sit in a circle is because,
frankly, that’s always been my favorite geometrical figure. I mean, seriously, rhombuses,
parallelograms, trapeziums? They’re all plain ugly. But a circle, what completion, what
circularity!’

Mrs. Looksy: ‘You were saying something about who killed my husband.”
 - 138 -

Me: ‘Yes, yes, of course. THE BUTLER DID IT!!!’

The Butler: ‘No, I didn’t.’

Me: ‘Yeah, I know. But I really scared you, didn’t I?”

Mrs. Looksy: ‘Detective, please.”

Me: ‘That’s Detective Yvette Pans to you. Anyway, as I was attempting to say, this case was
an interesting one right from the start. From day one, I observed various paradoxes and
contradictions and other big words like that. But my mind still kept going back to one person-
Mr. Junky. And no, I’m not gay. If you go back a few paragraphs you’ll find out that I had a
hunch about his guilt the moment I saw him. But what was really unsettling about this rock
star, “The Junkster”, were his feet. Contrary to other rock stars, his feet were covered.’

At that point, I stopped my narration, so that it would attain some dramatic effect. Then,
when I realized nothing happened, I proceeded.

Me: ‘You were wearing socks, Mr. Junky. That’s right! Socks! Your hidden obscure fetish
which was revealed to me when I snooped around your room and came across a box that said
“Junky’s Sock Collection: My Hidden Obscure Fetish”. But that still doesn’t explain how
Mr. Stephen ended up dead, does it? You see, Mr. Stephen McStiffie’s wealth had earned
him friends all around the world: America, Australia, Asia, Europe, and even Antarctica. And
one of Mr. Stephen’s closest friends, who lived in Antarctica, was diagnosed with cold feet.
To remedy the predicament, Mr. Stephen’s friend set out to make a pair of socks that turned
out to be the world’s most protective and rarest pair. His feet never went cold again.
Unfortunately, one day, Mr. Stephen’s friend was killed and eaten by a wandering polar bear,
which turned out to be the illegitimate son of the walrus whose skin was used to make the
protective socks. The Antarctica Police, after searching for the corpse of the man, could only
retrieve a single sock. The other one was lost forever. But, now, the remaining sock was all
the more rare because of the great story behind it. The Antarctica Government decided that
the rare single sock belonged to Mr. Stephen McStiffie, as per the will of the dead man that
was written on ice. Mr. Stephen treasured the sock with all his heart like the loyal and
dedicated friend that he was. But, then you came into the picture, didn’t you, Mr. Junky? By
the way, I hope nobody’s bothered by the fact that I’m frequently adding question tags to the
end of my sentences. It adds to the tension, doesn’t it? Moving right along, you knew when
you saw that sock that you had to add it to your collection, didn’t you, Mr. Junky? And when
you expressed your selfish desire to your father he bluntly refused knowing very well that
one day, when your rock career hit the rocks, you would resort to selling your sock
collection. And he didn’t want the only remaining memory of his friend to be auctioned off
by a bankrupt rock star like you. And you just couldn’t deal with the rejection, could you,
Mr. Junky? That very night, you crept into your father’s bedroom, stole one of his socks, and
ruthlessly strangled him to death with it. But instead of taking the sock along and destroying
it, you left it around his neck. Rookie mistake on the part of all rock stars who don’t finish
high school. The truth shall not set you free this time, my friend. It shall have you locked up
in a stinky cell for a really long time. There you have it, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Junky
killed his own father for a sock. Oh, the repugnant animal that is man! Take him away!”
 - 139 -

Two officers, who conveniently appeared at the right time, led the culprit
away. The Junkster’s fiery red eyes fixed themselves upon me as he screamed at me: “We’ll
meet again, Detective Yvette Pans.”

A ruckus erupted in the McStiffie household following the revelation.

But that was none of my business. My job was done. Well, almost done.

I headed to my last stop of the day – the French maid’s cozy little house
nearby. She was already there, looking exquisite as always, seated at the table, shocked on
hearing the gruesome details I had divulged just minutes back. I approached her and told her
that it was all going to be alright.

The French Maid: ‘Zou are really zmart to have figured all zat out.’

Me: ‘True. But the one lesson to be learned from all this is that when you have just
committed a cold-blooded murder, it’s best not to keep a personal journal inside which you
have written down every single detail about what you did and why you did it. But if you
hadn’t sneaked me into Junky’s room I would never have been able to find his journal and
solve this case.’

She smiled coquettishly at me as I walked up to her front window, which

had its blinds open, and stared out at nothing in particular. She then told me in her soft voice
that she had another case for me to solve. I smiled, panache and smoothness radiating from
my face like crazy, and replied that I only dealt with homicides and not petty cases of pretty
girls like her. She then walked up to me and whispered something in my ears. I gulped. She
had made an offer that I couldn’t refuse. Then I turned and shut the blinds.
 - 140 -

(9th September 2007) Di, Dogs, and Dev

It’s customary that if you’re a slut you need to be dumb. However, every now and
then a slut arises who breaks the custom and proves to be a smart slut. Diana, who married
the freak-eared Prince Charles, got the money, got the fame, dumped his ass, fucked around,
was a smart slut. Well, until the moment she went and got herself killed, of course. Then
again, if a million people are shouting “Lady Di! Lady Di!” at you, it’s bound to catch up
sooner or later. Ultimately, the lady did die. The same happened with Bruce Lee; people kept
screaming “Bruce! Bruce!” at him and finally he bruised…to death. I’m cool with that. But
what I don’t understand is the sudden surge of respect and adoration for this dead whore
Diana (DWD) who’s being treated like she’s a martyr or a saint of some sort. All she did was
fuck around and get into a car accident. And if that is the prerequisite for earning respect we
should all be respecting the hell out of Anna Nicole Smith (May her hole rest in peace) who
wasn’t even clumsy enough to die in a car crash. She, at least, stayed married to her husband
till the old pervert kicked the bucket. That, in my book, deserves more respect than living
royally riding rich cocks outside the palace.

People adoring Diana for no reason is almost as retarded as people hating

American football star Michael Vick for being involved in dog fighting. People seem to be
just appalled at the idea of training two living things to bite and claw at each other for the
pleasure of a bunch of depraved spectators. Some viewers, it was reported, were so repulsed
by this news on television that they changed the channel immediately and went back to
watching boxing and ice hockey. It was interesting that the people who were most offended
by the Michael Vick issue were white people. Apparently, they couldn’t digest the idea that
people would chain other living creatures and use them for their own selfish purposes. That
was almost like slavery, which was just unpardonable. Since when did furry, flea-infested,
shit-where-it’s standing, stinking dogs become more important than humans? You would
never see people get this ballistic if a human being was tortured or murdered. If that happens
the only thing everyone does is “condemn it” and at the most “strongly condemn it”. But
throw in a fucking dog in the midst of all the action and you got the entire world ready to
judge and execute. It’s great to see how Americans are looking at everything that’s
happening around them in the right perspective. Bomb to death dozens of Iraqi civilians,
including kids, and it’s part of fighting terrorism and Al-Qaeda but coax a pit-bull to sink its
teeth into the neck of another, the whole damn country acts like it’s got a lit up dynamite
shoved up its ass. If it were up to me, I’d round up all the dogs in the entire world and
exterminate them in a gas chamber. That’s right, I admit it, I’m anti-canine. I’m the Dog
Nazi; the fur Fuhrer. In fact, the only reason why Koreans are so low down in my hate list is
because they chop up these furry-assed motherfuckers and eat them as snacks.

I wish I could contact Michael Vick because I feel the urgent need to buy myself a
pit-bull. No, it’s not so that I can arrange dogfights of my own. I want a pit-bull so that I can
unleash it upon Kapil Dev and get his fucking balls ripped off. This buck-toothed, has been,
match-fixing, gibberish blabbering, greedy-ass cup of monkey shit is probably the most
annoying figure in the world of Indian sports after Harsha Bhogle’s homosexual partner
Gautam Bhimani. Fine, so he wants to start to a fucking rebel cricket group. Go ahead and
start it. Why in the name of flying red balls does he have to come on television every day and
whine and groan about what he’s doing? Either he’s moaning like a pig in heat about how
he’s only an “ordinary worker who wants to work” or a “true lover of cricket” or he’s crying
 - 141 -

like a little pussy about how he wasn’t involved in match fixing. This cunt-face Kapil Dev is
making more money out of sucking the dick of ICL than anyone could ever possibly imagine.
And this piece of decomposed horseshit had the nerve to come on television and say that
Sachin has never really won matches for India. So, on behalf of every cricket fan, Kapil Dev
should shut his fucking mouth and go fuck himself.

And, in conclusion, I’d like to say “Fuck Diana! Fuck animal lovers! And fuck
Kapil Dev!” They can all just swallow a fucking blade and die. Except Diana, of course. That
whore is already dead.
 - 142 -

(15th September 2007) The Bridge of RAM-ifications

We Hindus have taken a lot of shit from all the non-Hindus residing in our
country. They have taken our jobs, our land, our women, our wealth, and even a few rolls of
our toilet paper. We made an attempt to stick to the honorable technique of preaching non-
violence and then murdering them- they responded with the same. We demolished their
churches and mosques and covered it up saying that Parvati Melton’s boobs crashed into
them- they didn’t buy that. We sent anthrax-infected deer as part of a bio-warfare scheme to
kill the Indian Muslims- but Salman Khan shot all of them dead. Finally, we genetically
engineered a battalion of stand-alone monster cocks, in our laboratory in Los Angeles, to
attack the Indian Christians but they were intercepted by a hungry Britney Spears after her
MTV VMA performance. And just when we were about to announce a truce, the anti-Hindu
Government goes ahead and does something so insulting and offensive as suggesting that the
Lord Rama didn’t even exist; they want to demolish the Rama Setu, the bridge that Lord
Rama built thousands of years ago so that they can build a shitty canal for the economic
growth of India. Now, it’s war.

Thankfully, the official spokes-group for Hindus, the BJP, has taken matters into
their own hands. That is after all what Lord Krishna said to Arjun in the Bhagwad Gita:
“Ahead of you lies a pool of shit, trust the BJP to push you into it.” Apparently, Lord Krishna
rhymed. Urged by the BJP, Hindus from all across India march through the streets protesting
against this overt lack of respect for Hindu beliefs by the Congress Government.
Interestingly, they are met halfway by a vociferous group of Muslims.

Hindus: This is Hindustan. ‘Hindu’-stan. Figure it out. If you think that you can hurt our
religious sentiments and still keep all your internal organs in tact, you better get a new doctor.
Muslims: When are your religious sentiments ever unhurt? Let a lady enter a temple, you go
berserk. Give birth to a female child, you flip out. Draw nude paintings, and your whole
world is on fire. You people should learn to not be so touchy.
Hindus: Ha, look who’s talking! Strike out all the days in a calendar when you Muslims
haven’t issued a fatwa against some loser or the other, and you couldn’t even make a week.
Muslims: That’s different. Those shitheads insulted our holy Prophet. That’s blasphemy of a
different kind.
Hindus: Well, our Lord Rama has been insulted and to us, that’s the biggest blasphemy
possible. He is the Hindu religion’s highest power.
Muslims: Oh, ok. So does that mean it’s alright to mock Krishna?
Hindus: No, he’s up there with Rama too.
Muslims: So, mocking Vishnu is fine, right?
Hindus: Umm…not really. The three of them are like a team.
Muslims: Then Siva, Ganesha, Durga, Laksmi, Hanuman, Saraswathy, and the others are
open to criticism?
Hindus: Look, you bearded wise-cracks, all our three billion, five thousand, six hundred and
twenty seven gods and goddesses are important. Neither can you say anything about them nor
can you even slightly imply that they are just figments of imagination that popped out of
some guy who was really, really stoned.
Muslims: But seriously, how can anyone refrain from making a comment when they see
thousands of people queuing to get blessings from the idol of an obese elephant sitting on a
rat?
 - 143 -

Hindus: In the same way you refrain from making comments on someone who gets so
delusional walking through the desert that he claims to have talked to God; in the very same
way you do not make comments on how this certain God’s messenger deemed it alright for
old, paunchy guys to have sex with girls who were seven or eight years old; in the same
manner you back out of criticizing this messenger’s claim that God wants every man to
marry and impregnate more than a dozen women like they were tube socks.
Muslims: We have no idea who you’re talking about.
Hindus: Just what the hell are you doing stopping us anyway? The Ram Setu issue has got
nothing to do with you. So why don’t you just buzz off? Isn’t it time for you fellas to go have
your seventeenth prayer of the day?
Muslims: Well, we thought you’d never ask. You see, this bridge that you so conveniently
designated Rama’s Bridge is in fact the creation of our Prophet Muhammad. He built it with
his own hands so that he could go talk to God who was standing on the other end.
Hindus (mocking): Oh, that’s about the funniest thing we’ve heard in a long time. Your
Prophet built this entire bridge all by himself? Ha, that’s rich! That’s so far removed from
reality.
Muslims: Oh, yeah, how do you claim your Lord Rama built it?
Hindus: Lord Rama got the help of his army of talking monkeys to help him build the
bridge.
Muslims (sarcastically): Why, what happened? The steroid guzzling hawk was on strike?
Hindus: Well, for your information, Lord Garuda was injured trying to stop Ravana’s flying
chariot.
Muslims: Damn, who directed your religion? Michael Bay?
Hindus: Who designed your costumes? Stevie Wonder?
Muslims (angry): Do not mock our traditions, infidels!
Hindus: Hey, calm down. Why are you guys always so pissed off? Is it because all of you
were circumcised when you were kids? We agree, that’s got to sting. In fact, there’s every
chance that Osama would not have turned into a terrorist if he still had his foreskin. Messing
with a man’s penis can really piss him off for life.
Muslims (offended): It helps us last longer!
Hindus: Then why didn’t you just slice the whole thing off? You could have kept going all
night long.
(Before the angry horde of Muslims can respond a large throng of Christians arrive. The
Christians have condescending smiles on their faces as they shift their glances between the
Muslims and the Hindus)

Christians: Praise the Lord! How are you Ramaholics and Muhammadophiles?

Hindus and Muslims (in unison): It’s Hindus and Muslims.

Christians: Sure, sure, Praise the Lord!
Muslims: Why don’t you take your cross-bearing asses back home and praise the lord? What
the heck are you doing here?
Christians: We’re here to inform you barbarians that you are arguing over a moot point. The
bridge in question isn’t Rama’s Bridge nor is it Allah’s Bridge or Muhammad’s Bridge. It’s
in fact, Christ’s Bridge.
Hindus and Muslims (taken aback): Jesus Christ!
Christians: That’s right. The same guy. If you verify the facts you’ll see that Jesus was in
fact a carpenter. And if anyone was skilled enough to build that bridge it was Jesus. Not
 - 144 -

Rama and the monkeys, not Muhammad and the camels.

Hindus: Carpenters don’t build bridges. Architects do.
Christians: Jesus graduated a part-time course in Architecture as well. The only thing you
heathens need to know is that the issue is now ours. You guys can just pack up and go home.
The matter of Christ’s Bridge will be dealt with by Christians.
Muslims: Who do you think you’re talking to? You think we’ll just buy into whatever you’re
saying? You think we’re as gullible as your GOD TV audience? Your Jesus couldn’t even
carry a cross for a few miles and you’re telling us that he built this entire bridge by himself.
Let’s face the facts, maybe he spoke persuasively but he wasn’t cut out for physical work.
Hindus: Both of you should just leave when you can. This is a matter between the Hindus
and the Government. They expect to get away with saying that Lord Rama didn’t build the
bridge. What are they going to say next? That his skin was not actually blue? So, leave us
alone, it’s a Hindu issue. Christians and Muslims should just scram the scene.
Muslims: You would love to play the victims, wouldn’t you? Well, guess what? It’s
Muhammad’s Bridge and it’s our sentiments that are hurt. We are the ones against the
demolition of that long pile of rocks.
Christians: If anyone’s a victim, it’s us. You Hindus and Muslims have been hogging the
spotlight for years with all your communal riots and shit. This is our time. We are the
victims. We deserve all the attention.
Hindus: No, we deserve all the attention.
Muslims: No, we do.
(Suddenly, a fourth group arrives. The group has a number of bald, half-naked monks with
plastered smiles on all the faces)
Hindus, Muslims and Christians: And who the hell you are you baldies?
Baldies: We’re the Buddhists. We have come here to ask you to not resort to violence.
Hindus: You have no business here, monkeys…or monks or whatever you people are.
Buddhists: Buddha says nobody really has any business anywhere. Just love each other.
Muslims: Seriously, you fellows need to take it elsewhere. We’re having a serious discussion
here.
Buddhists: Buddha says nothing in the world is really serious. Just love each other.
Christians: If you’ve come to claim the bridge you better wait in line, eggheads.
Buddhists: Buddha says that the bridge isn’t real. Nor are eggs real. Or heads. Let’s all just
love each other.
(The Hindus, Muslims, and Christians look at each other, nod in agreement and
simultaneously launch an all out attack on the Buddhists. The Buddhists are battered to pulp
within a matter of minutes. The bloodlust of the other three groups simmer down. They sneer
at the Buddhist carnage before them)
Hindus: They’re so gay.
Muslims: Total fudge-packers.
Christians: They put the homo in Homo sapiens. Praise the Lord!
(The three groups hold hands, walk away into the sunset, world peace and harmony ahead of
them and a bloody pile of fucked up monks behind them)
 - 145 -

(28th September 2007) Sticks N Balls

If there’s one thing that’s predhonimating every Indian’s mind right now it’s
cricket. Our swashbuckling team established its undisputed dhonimation in the arena of fast-
paced cricket by winning the Irfantastic 20-20 world cup. Our team ran through an
impressive list of formidable opponents inducing more fear in them than Sreesanthrax.
Uthapparently, the enormity of this great win was the only thing the whole of India had
agreed upon unanimously since calling Preity Zinta “that slag who doesn’t stop talking even
while giving a blowjob”. Joginteristingly, the fan-fervor was so overwhelming during the
motorcade that it caused a high degree of Yuvragitation in the streets. Fans,
including millions of dhoniacs, celebrated by drinking whisky, vodka, and barrels of
Gambeer.
Unfortunately, every great thing will have something nasty wrecking it from being
perfect. Like Aishwarya Rai with her hairy nipples. Or Kareena Kapoor who sings the
Flintstones theme during sexual intercourse. The smear on the Indian Cricket Team’s most
beautiful day was a bunch of whiny pussies who claimed to be the neglected representatives
of some make-believe sport called Hockey. These attention-craving mother-puckers, like the
jealous whores that they were, accused the Indian Government of not giving them their due
for their exploits. They demanded that this so called game of “Hockey”, which is as
appealing as a turban, be given as much importance as Cricket.
In an effort to settle the issue of Cricket versus Hockey, an open debate was
organized between the Cricket Team, the Hockey Team, and celebrity guest Shah Rukh
Khan. Mediating the debate was the founder of NDTV, Prannoy Roy, also known as “the
annoying old snob who doesn’t open his mouth while talking”.
HT: We want recognition too; we want free travelling benefits too; we want bigger cash
awards too; we want more advertising contracts too; we want more respect too; we want to
boast of rags to riches stories too.
CT: Well, judging from all the bickering you’ve been doing it sounds more like rags to
bitches. You lot are whinier than Sushma Swaraj when she heard Sonia Gandhi had more
ovaries than her.
HT: We’re not whining. We’re fighting for what’s rightfully ours. Why is that we didn’t
receive an ovation so grand when we returned to India after winning the Asia Cup?
CT: Well, let’s see, for starters, it could be because we won the WORLD cup, not some
retarded Asia Cup. The world is a little bigger than Asia, in case you aren’t aware. Secondly,
hockey is for losers.
HT: We beat a strong Korean team in the finals to lift the cup. Don’t call us losers.
CT: Ooh! You beat the Koreans. Kudos on beating a bunch of guys who squint so much that
they can’t even tell the difference between Britney Spears’s vagina and a water melon.
PR (mouth closed): To be honest, our NDTV cunt survey showed that a lot of people have
trouble telling them apart.
CT: It’s easy. You sink your teeth into a watermelon and spit out the seeds after eating it
completely. (pauses). No wait…
SRK (a little irked that his time is being wasted): Let’s move this along to the part where I
have to talk about ‘Chak De’. I’m not interested in vaginas.
CT: Tell us something we don’t know.
SRK: Hey, if you’re talking about the thing that poked you in the thighs when I hugged you
fellas after the finals it really was my cell phone. (pauses) For the umpteenth time, I do not
find myself daydreaming about rubbing oil on Karan Johar’s love handles.
 - 146 -

CT: Sure, we believe you. And we suppose your phone was set on vibrate as well with
someone calling you like crazy.
SRK: Yes. It was Farah Khan calling me to ask if I had any spare time when she could come
over and kiss my ass.
HT: Actually, we have a bone to pick with you as well, Shah Rukh.
CT: Oh, he’ll be more than happy to let you pick his bone.
HT: Was it so much trouble for you to show up at the Asia Cup finals and cheer us on? Did
you forget what ‘Chak De’ was all about?
SRK: Of course, I didn’t forget. It was about me taking the credit of being the inspiration
behind every triumph in sports that came towards India in the next few years.
HT: What about the game of Hockey that has been part of India’s history for decades?
SRK: Are you telling me it’s a real game? I thought it was just a ridiculous game that the
filmmakers came up with.
HT (angry): Yes, it’s a real game. It’s the national game of India.
CT: Yeah right, and Kajol is not ugly as shit. The only reason why people started calling it
the national game of India is because that was the first thing we managed to win after getting
independence. It doesn’t mean that it’s an interesting sport and that people like watching it.
HT: People from all communities and walks of life play hockey.
CT: Get real, clowns. Hockey is a game played only by smelly Punjabis.
HT: Just because you have money coming out of your piss-holes doesn’t mean that you can
be racist.
CT: How many of you have Singh as your last name?
(All the hockey players raise their hands and on realizing they had just been had put their
hands down tetchily)
HT: We represent all religions and communities. Unlike Shoaib Malik.
(Suddenly, Prannoy Roy takes centre stage and speaks in a deep baritone, his mouth still shut
tight)
PR: This is a message from NDTV to Shoaib Malik. You do not represent all the Muslims in
the world. You are only the captain of the defeated Pakistan Team. You are nothing, do you
understand? Nothing. NDTV loves Muslims. And Hindus. And Christians. You are an
overzealous Muslim, Shoaib Malik. You cannot just speak shit and say you’re doing it on
behalf of billions of others. Only diseased bastards would do something like that. This
announcement, by the way, is being made by me as the universal representative of media, old
people, snobs, and those with their heads tucked up their asses.
CT: Relax, you old fart. He was just being emotional. Stop blowing shit out of proportion.
All he said he was he thanked all the Muslims in the world. You’re a rotten piece of shit to be
ballooning that up when you have other important things on your channel to talk about.
PR (pouting): I will complain to Barkha Dutt and he will shout at you.
CT: Don’t you mean ‘she’?
PR: Who do you think knows him better? The stupid audience who sit in front of the TV or
me, the head of NDTV- Nicely Disguised Transvestite Vixens?
(Suddenly, everyone stops talking because they hear a moaning sound. It’s SRK seemingly in
the middle of a day dream)
SRK: Yeah…you like that, K-Jo? Hmm…Always stay under me…ok?…Kabhi Alvida Na
Kehna…hmmm…your flab is so sexy…I’d like to drink your hot brown frothy
coffee…yeah…
PR: Shah Rukh, wake up! I think you’re having a gay-dream!
(SRK wakes up and sees everyone staring at him)
SRK: What?
 - 147 -

CT: You were gay-dreaming again, bum-boy.

SRK: No, I wasn’t. I was just thinking about my new movie Om Shanti Om.
CT: Don’t you mean ‘hOMo Shanti hOMo’?
HT: This is exactly what we’re talking about. This whole debate was supposed to be about
us. But now it has turned into a dialogue between Cricket and Bollywood. We deserve
attention too. We want all the luxury they get. We want more and more and more and more…
CT (smirking): Unless you’re talking about Kiran More I don’t think you have much of a
chance.
HT: Up yours, you undeserving shit balls. We will kick your ass.
CT: Go suck on a puck, you whiny little pussies.
PR (mouth closed): I’m more powerful than God.
SRK: I miss Karan.
(Pandemonium breaks out. Everyone starts screaming and bickering. The Cricketers fight
with the Hockey players. Prannoy Roy claws at SRK who’s groaning with pleasure. The
debate gets so boisterous that the noise reaches the heavens and wakes up God himself. Fed
up with this mysterious ruckus, God comes down to the scene of the scuffle)
GOD: Just what the fuck is going on here? Some of us are trying to get some sleep up there.
I’ve had a very rough week what with the culmination of the 50 cent- Kanye West battle and
all. I did all I could do to boost 50’s record sales but what can I say, that nigger keeps putting
out some of the worst beats ever.
PR (mouth closed): I’m sorry, Mr. God, but as the supreme leader of the media world I need
to warn you about your dirty mouth. You’re not supposed to use that term unless you are one.
And clearly, you’ve more of a greenish beige hue.
GOD: Hellooo! I’m God. I created the world. I can say whatever I want. And what’s with the
closed mouth? Do you have any breath issues? Or are you trying to be a ventriloquist?
PR (mouth still closed): Well, if you should know…
GOD (interrupting): Shut the fuck up. (Prannoy Roy is flustered. God turns to the others).
Now, why don’t you biatches get me up to speed? What’s all this fuss about?
HT: You’re the perfect person to settle this dispute, lord. The Indian Government and the
people alike have been giving the sport of cricket an unjust pedestal even though the rest of
the sports are just as great as cricket. But no matter how many trophies the rest of us win, it’s
always the cricketers who get the true respect, the maximum benefits and all the acclaim. The
rest of are left with nothing.
GOD (turning to the cricketers): How much money are you boys likely to get in the
coming month alone owing to your recent victory?
CT: Hmm…maybe more than a few billion bucks…
GOD: Oh my fucking self! You’ve got to be fucking shitting me! Even I don’t have that
much cash. And I’m the almighty!
CT: Well, it won’t seem like much because it’ll all be in thousand rupee notes…
GOD: I don’t want to hear anything further. I’ve been trying to bring about fairness and
justice in this world of mine. But greedy beings like you keep making my job harder. All
your earnings will be halved and distributed amongst these players. It’s settled.
(The cricketers are upset with the decision. They demand the case be referred to the third
umpire but God reminds them that he’s the only umpire. The Hockey Players are ecstatic and
start celebrating)
PR: Well, it looks like the Hockey Players have achieved what they set out to do.
GOD (taken aback): Whoa! Whoa! Hold your horses. What did you say?
PR: The Hockey Players have…
GOD: Hockey? That’s what you people play? Oh, well, that changes everything…
 - 148 -

HT: What do you mean?

GOD: I’m sorry but I take back everything I said. No redistribution of the cricketer’s
income, no benefits, no nothing. I had no idea you guys played hockey.
HT: Why, what’s wrong with hockey?
GOD: Well, firstly, it isn’t half as exciting as Cricket. And obviously, the cricketers have a
much more perilous tenure than you biatches.
HT: Perilous? Cricketers in India get billions of rupees when they win.
GOD: That’s if they win. I don’t think people kick down your houses, blacken your property
walls, molest your sisters, finger your mothers, and fist your fathers if you lose. That’s what
the cricketers have to go through if they lose. Besides, people get dealt bad cards all the time.
That’s just the way I run the world. You don’t hear mute people shouting that they deserve
the same benefits as people who can talk, do you?
HT: God, you’re clearly exaggerating about the dangers cricketers have to face if they lose.
GOD: Well, that’s not all. There’s another very important reason why Hockey can never get
the respect and richness that cricket does.
HT: What’s that?
GOD: Hockey is for losers.
(The Hockey Team leaves the scene with their heads hung low out of humiliation like the way
they were meant to be)
CT: God, you’re just the bomb. There’s no other way to put it.
PR (mouth closed): I think you’re all forgetting that I’m more powerful than Mr. Party
Mouth. I run NDTV. That’s harder than running the world.
SRK: In your dreams. Your channel thrives on news about me. Haven’t you heard Karan
introduce me on his show? More people on this world know me than Tom Cruise. That
means I’m the most powerful gay…I mean guy in this world. And Insha Allah, I’ll be more
powerful than you, God.
(The cricketers look at God and shrug. God shrugs back)
GOD: Well, I guess there’s only thing left to do.
(God waves his hands around and turns SRK into Dev Anand’s dick; he then turns Prannoy
Roy into Lata Mangeshkar’s vocal cords)
CT: They are definitely not going to enjoy their new lives. I guess they learned never to mess
with you, God.
GOD: They sure did. Let’s just hope they never run into each other.
(The Cricketers are back to being filthy rich. The fans are still poor and in awe. God goes
back to sleep. Everything’s the way it should be)
 - 149 -

(14th October 2007) High School Musical: Deleted Scenes

In 1988, I used to keep myself entertained by trapping flies inside a bottle and
shaking them as hard as I could until they nearly puked themselves in a dizzy fit of sickness.
The reasons for me doing so were twofold. Firstly, I liked hurting things. Secondly, my
parents just wouldn’t give in to buying me whatever the latest, most expensive toy in the
market was. They just wouldn’t understand when I told them that there were only so many
battles you could fight with G.I. Joe figures before things turned really gay. Almost twenty
years later, I’m keeping myself entertained by jacking my Cobra Ferret looking at an
enlarged picture of Hayden Panettiere sticking her tongue out. I blame my present state on
the unadventurous, unexciting childhood I had, growing up in the eighties and early nineties.
I strongly feel that I should have been born after 1996 so that eleven years later, when I’m at
that most exciting period of childhood, my parents wouldn’t be gifting me shitty-ass action
figures for Christmas. Instead, my dad would gift me a box of grenades and my mom would
surprise me with a 9mm semi automatic. Alas! If only I could be a kid in the 21st
century…ideally in America.
I can picture what it would be like. I wake up in the morning next to my 28-year-old
Math teacher, her sweaty sex-smelling face resting on my scrawny ten-year-old hairless
chest. I press my knee against her pubes and rouse her from her sleep. I look at my teacher’s
mathematical face and say, “What’s the expansion of (a + b) whole squared, bitch?”. She
goes down on me. I reply, “That’s right.” I look at her and ask, “Now tell me the truth, is
high school math actually useful at any point in real life?” She stops giving me head for an
instant and answers, “As useful as underwear for Britney Spears; as useful as a seminar on
self-esteem by Owen Wilson; as useful as an SUV in Al Gore’s garage; as useful as rational
thinking in India.” I interrupt my math teacher, point to my boner, and say, “That’s enough.
Now get back to solving this problem.”
I tell my calculus whore to stop at two places on the way to school. First, I pay a
visit to my crack-whores to collect my pimp dough. Next, I rob a liquor store, get pissed out
of my mind, and take the wheel. I don’t drive unless I’m drunk. Meanwhile, my math ho
decides to analyze the probability of sucking me off before we reach school. After about
fifteen minutes, she works out that the probability is really high. I walk into school, slap my
Mexican teacher’s ass and remind her of our interracial teacher-student group orgy on Friday
night. Then suddenly I hear shots being fired. I quickly dive behind the Ecstasy-vending
machine in the hallway and take cover. I unzip my backpack, arm myself with my .357
Magnum and get ready for the first hour of school. I gun down a couple of Koreans, a bunch
of white trash, two black guys, five Arabs, and pistol-whip my principal’s balls. When the
bell rings I proceed upstairs where a second session of open firing commences.
Lunchtime arrives. I enter the canteen and stuff myself with mushrooms, LSD, and
PCP. I wash it down with a glassful of Bourbon. Afterwards, I rape the entire cheerleading
team and spooge into their ears. Then they do a wonderful routine honoring me: “Give me an
R. Give me an A. Give me a P. Give me an E. What do you get? - That’s right, a lifetime of
trauma and a psychopathic bastard child.”
In gym class, I persecute Jews and Muslims. Then I unleash the angry Jews upon
the black students under the false pretext that they stole their lunch money. I provide the
Muslim students with some guns and a couple of airplanes and convince them that the
Christians masturbate on the Koran just for the heck of it. I drop 40 lb barbells on the spines
of Asian students and turn them all into paraplegics. I chain my gym teacher’s two legs onto
two poles and keep dropping bowling balls on his testicles till they are squashed to a bloody
 - 150 -

pulp. Then I take my exit but not before spitting on his face.
After school I hijack an old lady’s car by smacking her in the head with a
sledgehammer. After pulling her out and hurling her into the middle of the road I assault her
further with a taser till she starts foaming at her crinkly old ass. I reach home, park the old
lady’s car next to the horse carriage I stole from an Amish priest. I play with my XBOX 360
for 3 hours, my PS3 for 4 hours, my Wii for 3.5 hours, and my dick for 20 minutes. I cuss my
parents, throw chicken soup on my sister, and go to my room. I spend two hours on the
Internet keeping track of my multimillion dollar worth software company, hack into the
Vatican website, draw a pair of tits on the Pope, and show holy water dripping out of it.
Before sleeping, I visit my three-year-old younger brother, chokeslam him onto a bed of nails
and hurl his punctured body out of the window. I get back to my room, read the Bible, and
sleep with a baby, and then like one. I’ve got a long day tomorrow what with the big Math
test and all. But I have a feeling I’ll do alright.
 - 151 -

(31st October 2007) Overflowing Closet

We all do stupid things. Like wearing yellow pants with a blue shirt, putting a new
born rabbit in a blender and switching it on, sucking fire with a vacuum cleaner, faking
farting noises during a funeral, actually farting out loud during a funeral, professing
unrestrained lust for your best friend’s bride during the exchange of their wedding vows, and
downloading the Kim Kardashian sex tape and watching it, even if it was for free. However,
in the wake of committing stupid actions, the one thing that automatically becomes the sole
prerogative of the committer is the choice of announcing their stupidity when they want and
on the platform they desire. Unfortunately, that was the privilege that was taken away from
Professor Dumbledore when he was outed by- in his own, rather redundant, words- “that rich
British bitch”- J.K. Rowling. Dumbledore, in a Hogwart’s press release that appeared in the
Wizard’s Chronicle stated that he’s not gay, he never was gay, and he never will be gay. He
also alluded to the bathroom incident with fellow wizard Gandalf that took place eons ago as
merely a folly of youth. He was not being gay, he said, but merely confused. He
mentioned that at some point or the other all high standing officers of wizardry are bound to
be involved in some kind of public restroom fiasco or the other. He reiterated however that
he was not gay and that he was as straight as his wand, which for some reason he liked
keeping in his back pocket.
Dumbledore may have put an end to all the speculations regarding his sexuality but
the aftermath of his coming out, forced or not, true or false, has been nothing short of super
fabulous. More fictional characters, from all walks of make believe life, have been coming
out driven by the strength of the Dumbledore issue.
The first one, surprisingly, was everyone’s most beloved waif, Oliver Twist. In a
shocking revelation, Oliver Twist, now over 160 years old, admitted that he has been, and
will continue to be, to the best of his ability, a fornicator utilizing the insertion of his
substantially sizeable phallus into the excretory orifices of his male compatriots and vice
versa. He divulged that the first spark of homosexuality was aroused in him while playing tag
with the Artful Dodger. When the Dodger inadvertently tagged his balls, Oliver had
remarked, with a guileless twinkle in his eyes, “Please, I want more.” And a handjob he had
received. Mr. Twist stated with a lascivious smile that there were a few things his first partner
wasn’t artful at dodging.
Coming out next was none other than the Godfather, Don Corleone. Hailed by many
as the ultimate epitome of manliness, the Don shocked the entire world with his confession.
He admitted that being Italian helped in disguising his homosexuality since he could kiss men
on the mouth as much as he wanted without giving away his sexual preference. He also
added that in his many years in the Mafia he had come across many poofers he couldn’t
refuse.
As the bibliophiles were reeling from this unprecedented shocker, the next bomb
was dropped on the comic book lovers. Daredevil, the world’s only handicapped superhero,
came out announcing his affinity for the male genitalia. The blind-as-a-bat superhero, who
called together a press conference, faced the reporters- although the wrong way- and admitted
that he was one amongst those who parked their hot rods in other men’s backyards. He
recounted, as per the request of the reporters, that when he was young he was offered a low-
sugar lollypop by his high school principal. Impaired by his blindness, he relied on the
veracity of his principal’s word. It was only when the low-sugar lollypop began tasting a little
too salty for candy that he considered the possibility that he may have been misinformed.
Although he renounced homosexuality for about three weeks, he noticed that every time he
 - 152 -

ate real candy, or even brushed his teeth, he got a hard on. That was, he said, when he
accepted that he was indeed a faggot.
Foreseeing further such revelations from other comic book heroes, the train of
reporters rushed to the one place that had often been speculated as a fudgepacking haven- the
Bat Cave. Batman, a bit taken aback by the sudden surge of media personnel into his most
secret hideout, however, agreed to answer their queries. He lay down his bat-whip on the
nearby table and assured the world that no matter who turned out to be a fairy he would,
forever, uphold the shining scepter of heterosexuality for the whole world to be proud of.
And when the same question about sexuality was posed to Robin, he struggled onto his feet
from his kneeling position, shook loose his tied up hands, removed the ball gag from his
mouth, and remarked that he agreed wholeheartedly to whatever Batman, his master, said.
The next set of feet that walked out of the closet belonged to the feisty Catwoman.
Unfortunately, her attempt at stealing some of the spotlight didn’t pay off as expected. The
world had already figured out that she was a dyke since as Catwoman, it was only natural that
she was attracted to other pussies.
Black crime fighter Shaft, too, announced the fact that he was coming out of the
closet. He sighed that with a name like Shaft he wasn’t left with much of a choice. He also
mentioned that he was currently going out with Barack Obama and that he thought Hillary
Clinton’s dress sense was “crass”.
But perhaps the news that absolutely stunned the conservative section of the comic
book lovers was the scandalous statement by Green Lantern that the entire Justice League, of
which Batman too was a member, was merely a front for extreme gay activities that included
water sports, pearl diving, handballing, and eating jam. In spite of accepting his gayness, the
Lantern accused the Justice League leader, Superman of forcibly engaging some of the
members into certain scatological games like “hunting for the chocolate eel” and “searching
for Kryptonite up my ass”. Superman, however, was unavailable for comments since he was
yet to return from his business trip with Aquaman to the Fortress of Solitude.
Spiderman, however, was the only superhero who held a press conference to
announce that he was not in fact gay. Sure, he wasn’t getting laid enough because Mary Jane
was so fucking frigid, but he was not gay. He said that he although understood why people
might feel so. He explained that it was all Tobey Macguire’s fault.
Following this barrage of disclosures, the globe’s most revered detective, Sherlock
Holmes, came out with one of his own. He let the world know that he, for the last seventy
years or so, has been involved in a secret, civil partnership with his Scottish counterpart,
Detective John Rebus. Holmes described that cupid, with the help of a serial-killer, had
brought the two detectives onto the same crime scene. He admitted that when he saw Rebus,
in his traditional Scottish skirt, he was more interested in inspecting his body rather than the
mangled dead body. And when Rebus had asked him how he read his gayness so perfectly,
Sherlock Holmes had replied in his trademark tone, “Really wide asshole, my dear Rebus.”
He added that Rebus’s skirt had made it easier to view the goods closely before taking it
home for good.
The homosexuals of the world celebrated by accepting these monumental fictional
characters into their midst. They stood proud and shouted their slogan “Pound ass in
harmony.” The heterosexuals, meanwhile, looked to the skies and questioned the loss of such
esteemed figures to the other side. Suddenly, the skies opened and out of nothingness
appeared the grey, wise face of God. He looked down upon his heterosexual children and
said sheepishly, “Actually, I’ve got an announcement to make as well.”
 - 153 -

(4th November 2007) BPO: Best Possible Orifice

BPOs have become as integral to modern India as boob-jobs to Bollywood

actresses. A lot more Indians are crossing the streets listening to their iPods now; more
Indians have become efficient at slavishly reading nonsensical printed material off the papers
given to them by their bosses; and the number of Indians, and this might be the most
heartening outcome of them all, who can speak in a freakish American or a British accent
that’s so accurate that it just makes u want to start speaking Konkani have risen higher than
ever thanks to the advent of Business Process Outsourcing. However, for those of us who
can’t quite pull off an accent as American as that of Babu a.k.a Bob or as English as that of
Jeevan a.k.a Jeeves there’s always a way to get a piece of the BPO action. We can easily get
a job as a cabdriver for BPO companies, drive the employees back and forth, and while we’re
at it, rape and murder a few women workers during the course of our career.
The only glitch in the aforementioned scheme is that the level of sexual freedom in
India is not as liberal as it once was during the days of the Kamasutra, when you could
forcibly suspend your brother’s wife from a running fan and fuck her in the armpit till she
died of vertigo. If you do that now you are labeled a deviant but back then you were merely a
gentle, sensuous man executing position # 89 (the Rotating Pit). So, no longer will you be
applauded if you engage yourself in rape and murder, unless of course you work for Narendra
Modi. Your actions will merely be described as “not adhering to the company rules”.
Due to excessive protests from human rights groups, women’s groups, and
Maneka Gandhi a meeting between the Chairman of BPOs (COB), Chairman of
Cabbies/Rapists (COCR), and the Chairwoman of Women (COW) was set up to discuss and
resolve the issue of the increasing threat to the security of women workers at BPOs.
However, at the last minute Maneka Gandhi backed out in indignation when she learned that
it was only a human being and not a stray dog that was raped and murdered.
The discussion broadcast on NDTV’s sister channel NDTV-GOOD TIMES, SHIT
PROGRAMS turned out to be rather fruitful especially with celebrity moderator Navjot Singh
Sidhu (NSS) overseeing the debate.
NSS: Let me tell you something, Sonali, a discussion is like an orgy. It’s no fun unless we all
take part in it.
COCR: First of all, your little concubine Sonali isn’t here so stop addressing every goddamn
thing to her. Secondly, I would like to raise the point that while orgies are necessary for the
proper functioning of a society, it is the concentrated act of rape that demands more from an
individual’s character and consequently churns a better man out of him.
COW: You assholes sicken-
COCR (interrupting): I know, I know. You will ask me now what the difference between a
gang-rape and an orgy is. Well, let me break it down to you. When you gang-rape someone
you stuff two or more…
COW: This is not a discussion celebrating the heinous act of rape. This is a discussion
condemning it and demanding nothing short of capital punishment for anyone committing
rape.
NSS: Rape is like a horror movie-
COW (thinking Sidhu had completed his sentence): Thank you, Mr. Sidhu.
NSS: -the more the screams the better it gets.
COW: Shut up, you hairy spit bag. I blame the greedy, exploitative BPO companies who
demand unreasonable working hours from women and do not provide them enough security.
COB: Now, look here, you Cow-
 - 154 -

COW (angrily): What did you call me?

COB: I meant Chairwoman of Women. Now, you look here, I understand where you’re
coming from. But even an autistic child would understand that we’re not to blame for the
crimes committed by the drivers we employ to transport our workers to and from our offices.
COW: Now, you look here dickhead-
COB (offended): What did you call me?
COW: I meant greedy dickhead. You listen to me, if you had a security guard compulsorily
accompany every car-ride this would never have happened.
COB: We do give our women employees that option.
COW: It shouldn’t be an option, it should be a rule. If a security guard was there in the car
the latest case, and several others before it, could have been avoided. But, of course, that
would mean one less person in the car and more guards for you to employ, doesn’t it? And it
wouldn’t be such a profitable decision for you greedy billionaire bastards, would it?
COCR: To be fair to the BPO guy, our premier society, the RA or the Rape Academy, has
been fairly successful in recruiting several security guards as well. So, I’m not really sure
how much protection they would have given even if they were present in the car. It would
have probably meant an extra cock violating the helpless cunt.
NSS: A cock in a cunt is like a candidate at an interview. He enters with all the energy and
zest in the world but comes out deflated and perspiring.
COW: So, that’s it, then? Cabbies will rape women; security guards will rape women;
politicians will rape women; filmmakers will rape women; in short all men will keep raping
women and nobody’s going to do anything about it?
COCR: Now, let’s be honest, women don’t really object to getting raped, do they? On some
level, it’s guaranteed that they enjoy it.
COW (disgusted): You sick piece of psycho shit, why don’t you go rape the women in your
family and see how much of it they enjoy?
COCR: Well, that’s where the women in my family and the rest of the Indian women differ.
The women in my family are traditional, wonderful, dignified women who cover themselves
up in long opaque saris. But you slutty whores, with your sleeveless tops and your tight jeans,
you want us to rape you, you want us to take notice of your goods, you want us to enjoy you,
you want us to give you that wonderful feeling of pleasurable pain. Damn, I’m getting a hard
on just talking about it.
COW (speechless with anger): You vile repulsive motherfucker, you mentally ill scum of
the planet, fuck you and your inherent chauvinistic outlook. You base venomous bastard!
NSS: A bastard is like AIDS. Nobody really knows who fucked it into existence.
COW (shaking with anger and desperation): It’s never going to change, is it? This
despicable perception of women as objects for men to relieve their sexual frustrations upon.
And a patriarchal society like India where all men are closet rapists will never really respect
women, will it?
COCR: That’s like asking if Ellen DeGeneres will start fucking men.
NSS: Lesbians are like male homosexuals who like penises. Except they are female and like
pussies.
COCR (surprised): That wasn’t an analogy, that was just a definition.
NSS (sadly): I miss Sonali.
COB (feeling bad for the COW): Look, chairwoman, I think I may have been a little
insensitive to your arguments. I’m sorry. I think I will be making additional efforts in
providing enhanced security to our women employees.
COW (still emotional but allayed slightly): Do you mean it?
COB: Yes, in fact, I’ve already thought up a few security measures. I’m thinking from now
 - 155 -

onwards one of the qualifications to be a driver working for BPOs is for the candidate to be a
eunuch.
COW: Ok…
NSS: A eunuch is like a car without an engine…and no testicles.
COB: And we shall also make sure that all our women employees are given electrically
charged chastity belts to protect their…femininity.
COW: Ok…
COB (thinking): And perhaps a bra that would make their breasts look smaller than they
actually are.
COW: I appreciate your good intentions, chairman. Thank you. But maybe you can also
supply your women employees with bottles of pepper spray and maybe tasers. You could
also install tracking devices in your vehicles, which can be done, and have someone monitor
it on a computer. If the vehicle goes off the prescribed route or stops for more than five
minutes, you can call the driver. And if he doesn’t answer your call you can inform the
police.
COB: Come on now, that’s a bit silly and impractical.
COCR (bored): Now if you airbags have finished chattering I would like to leave. There are
more unsuspecting women out there for me to go and rape.
(Both the COW and COB look at him with disgust and shock)
NSS: Actually, there’s one thing left to do.
(Sidhu goes to the side of the room, opens a kit, and takes out three thick cricket bats. He
hands one to the COW, one to the COB, and keeps the third one for himself)
COCR: I don’t have to time to play. Some little girl or nubile woman is out there with her
fresh cherry ready to be popped by me.
NSS: Now as you know, I haven’t done this in a while.
(Sidhu signals to the COW and the COB. They step out from behind their podiums and
approach the COCR. He starts protesting but the thick willows land against his teeth and
balls, crippling him to the ground. Sidhu square cuts his dick; the COW cover drives his
skull; the COB straight drives his nose. After a few minutes of some industrious batting and a
good partnership, the Chairman of Cabbies/Rapists breathes his last. His bloody carcass lies
in a hot pool of blood)
COW (looking at the corpse): Go to hell.
NSS: Hell is like Pakistan. Except there are more Hindus and Christians.
 - 156 -

(15th November 2007) When a Man Loves a Dog

I’m as xenophobic and jingoistic about India as the next guy brandishing a sword to
kill his fellow Indian just because he kneels down a different way. My fury is as perfervid as
any other Indian’s when I hear foreign dickheads make untrue statements about Indians like
the rumor that we bury our heads in a pile of holy cow dung to attain nirvana. My blood boils
as fast as my fellow countrymen’s when westerners mock our time-tested customs and
beliefs. And as I’m swelling with pride over my country’s superiority some guy in Tamil
Nadu goes and gets married to a dog wearing a sari. That’s when I feel like burying my head
in a big pile of holy cow dung.
The wedding ceremony was bitchin’ to say the least. Attendees said that the groom,
Mr. Selvakumar, a virgin with canines and real women, looked anxious and excited on the
big day. Some claim that they saw him foaming at the mouth with anticipation. The bride,
Lassie Kumari, adorned with all kinds of flowers, appeared small, beautiful, and highly
uncomfortable in a silky orange sari. Her fur was fashionably trimmed and the infection in
her ears was neatly bandaged which complimented her trendy sari. In other words, she
brought a whole new meaning to the phrase doggie style.

The groom’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Kumar, beamed with pride as their 33 yr old little
boy was bringing home a partner who would finally instil some discipline into his
adventurous bachelor life, which involved philandering with several stray cats and a couple
of immoral beavers. They were extremely relieved to see that their son had finally decided to
settle down with a nice, traditional, middle-class dog. Mr. and Mrs. Kumar had only one
piece of valuable marital advice to impart to their son, “Son, always remember to clean up
after her. That’s the foundation of every successful marriage.”
The bride’s parents, too, were present at the ceremony. The bride’s mother looked
graceful and elegant with all her seven nipples exposed. The bride’s fathers, which included
seven dogs, three mongooses, and one BJP worker, attended the ceremony as well and spent
their time smelling each other’s assholes. Friends and family members from the groom’s side
 - 157 -

presented the couple with leashes, collars, dog biscuits, and pooper-scoopers. Those from the
bride’s side gifted half-chewed bones, kitten carcasses, fleas, and a fresh batch of rabies.
One of the most romantic moments of the wedding came when the priest asked the
bride if she took the groom in his sickness, which would most likely be hydrophobia, and in
health. The young, shy bride looked up coquettishly at her man and barked, “Woof! Woof!”
Following that the priest announced, “You may now pee on the groom.” At which point, the
bride lifted her sari, then her leg, and proceeded to urinate all over her new husband. Men
present at this momentous occasion of an inter-species marriage shrugged and remarked that
they didn’t find anything unusual about a human being marrying a dog. For them, it was just
another guy getting married to a bitch.
The feast that followed was sumptuous and filling. The humans present contented
themselves with several servings of hotdogs while the dogs, and the BJP worker, attending
the ceremony filled themselves with the leftovers. After the wedding, the newly fed newly
weds mounted a rickshaw, adorned with a placard that said “With blessings from Maneka
Gandhi.” The couple spent their two-week honeymoon in a warm, sunny, exotic dog pound
in Chennai. Interestingly, it was reported that their favorite sex position was the missionary
position and not, as expected, the doggie position. Mr. Selvakumar, apparently, confided to
his male buddies that there was nothing like getting a blowjob from a real bitch. Those close
to Mrs. Lassie Kumari revealed that she was currently focused on completely enjoying her
married life and not even thinking of starting a family anytime soon.
Let’s hope that at least this marriage doesn’t end in a divorce. Because there’s
nothing more vicious than a lawyer representing a dog in a divorce case.
 - 158 -

(22nd November 2007) And then there was Pedophilia

If I were Jesus I’d make sure I have with me a big fat hydrogen bomb when I
make my second coming so that I can drop that motherfucker square on top of the Vatican.
There’s only one thing worse than getting crucified in front of your own mother and disciples
for shit that some other motherfuckers did and that’s getting to know that two thousand years
later creepy, robe-wearing, bible-wielding, lazy-headed, rich-assed pedophiles are sticking
their flesh-crosses into the holy grails of preteen altar boys and girls and are using your name
to perpetrate that shit.
The moment somebody starts violently preaching against sexual morality or
premarital sex or homosexuality or sodomy or pedophilia or anything even remotely sexual
you can bet your entire life savings that that preacher is one horny-assed pervert with a boner
the size of a scepter just dying to rape the shit out of the first piece of ass he can get his hands
on. Even if it’s a kid barely out of preschool. And that’s no exception for Hindus, Muslims,
Christians, and Jews. But the Catholic Priests seem to be taking sodomy and pedophilia to a
whole new level that even Michael Jackson’s going “These guys make me look like Mother
Fucking Teresa”. A New York Times survey in 2003 showed that over 4,200 sexual abuse
claims were made against 1,200 Catholic Priests since 1940. Now, I’m all for the idea of
innocent until proven guilty but when you have 4,200 children saying you fucked them in the
ass, you are pretty much guilty. (Google New York Times Survey Catholic Sex Scandal if you
think I’m making this shit up). Those numbers must have shot up faster than Keith Richards
with a bag of cocaine in the last four years.

As always I opt for the civilized way to deal with such issues. A good old-
fashioned debate. There’s nothing more fair and civilized than talking things out. Here’s a
Catholic Priest, Father Faggot (FF), and a twelve year old sex abuse victim, Josephucked in
the ass (JF), sorting out their differences through the medium of verbal debate with special
convener SpongeBob SquarePants (SBSP) overseeing the talk.

SBSP: Now, Father Faggot, allow me to quote something verbatim from a news report. “The
Jesuit order of the Roman Catholic Church has agreed to pay 50 million dollars to 110 Alaska
Natives to settle claims of sexual abuse by priests and missionaries in some of the world’s
most remote villages. Earlier this year the Los Angeles diocese agreed a record 660-million-
dollar settlement abuse victims while the San Diego Catholic Church later paid 198 million
dollars to victims. Since the beginning of the nationwide scandal five years ago, Catholic
authorities in the United States have paid out around 2.8 billion dollars in damages to
victims.” What do you have to say about that?
FF: I don’t understand why you’re killing this debate with such dull inconsequential
information. Those are nothing but facts. And I fail to understand the importance of facts in a
matter of religion.
JF (hurt expression): I trusted you. My whole belief system was based on everything you
taught. You betrayed me. You have defiled the teachings of the Bible.
FF: Look, young man, I’ve been studying the Bible a lot longer than you have. And there’s
nothing in there about not sodomizing your altar boys. Let’s go over the commandments
again, shall we? Do you see a number eleven that says, “Thou shall not butt-fuck children”?
That’s right, there’s no number eleven. So grow up, rub some Bengay where it hurts and let’s
all just praise the Lord.
SBSP: But, Father, do you think that as a clergyman what you’re doing under the guise of
 - 159 -

Christianity is right? In a way, you’re not only betraying these poor bastards but also
demeaning the true ideology of Christianity all across the world.
FF (hurt expression): Why don’t you attempt to hear my side before hurling such painful
accusations at me? Why can’t people just trust the clergy instead of questioning us?
JF: Then why don’t you explain yourself now? I’d like to know the justification behind your
actions.
FF (thinking): Well, I…I was merely trying to find the presence of Jesus.
JF (pissed): Up my anus?
FF: I don’t believe in taking second chances. Better to conduct a through search than come
back later and do a shoddy job.
JF: You sick animal. You ruined my entire life. I can never experience true happiness. I can’t
even sit on a fucking toilet without fearing you’re going to swim through the sewers up the
drainage pipes into the toilet bowl and violate me again.
FF (beaming): That is one hell of a plan boy. I’m going to talk to the plumber about it first
thing today evening. I like the way you think.
SBSP: Father Faggot…
FF (smiling affably): Call me Fag please.
SBSP: Alright, so Father Faggot, don’t you find it rather hypocritical that you Catholic
Priests are always protesting things like sexual freedom and abortion and homosexuality
when you’re in fact committing the very things you are against and that too in a much worse
way?
FF: That accusation is completely baseless. I’ve never had an abortion in my life.
SBSP (slightly irritated): I was talking about homosexuality and your stand on it.
FF (incensed): Homosexuality is the unholy union of two grown men. The physical love a
clergyman shares with a young supple boy is not homosexuality. It’s called having a damn
good time. We will always been anti-abortion and anti-gay. There are no two ways about it.
JF (trying to get a word in): Are you pro anything?
FF: Sure. We are pro-sodomy, pro-pedophilia, pro-nipple piercing. In fact, I’m pro-coming
over there and sticking my cock in your mouth right now.
JF (agonized by the past memories FF’s words broughto his mind): Please, take him
away from here. Please, I can’t take this anymore. My mind is so weighed down with all the
pain.
SBSP (concerned): Is there anything your parents have told you to do when you feel tense?
JF: They always told me to go to the confessional and confess.
SBSP: And did that ever help?
JF: There was never any confessionals. He transformed it into a glory hole and fucked my
ear off.
FF: Hey, I was only trying to purge his sins.
SBSP: Is it true that you sexually abused Alaskan people?
FF: I’m afraid I can’t answer that.
SBSP: Can you say anything on it?
FF: All I can say is that it felt like having intercourse with a piece of refrigerated steak. It felt
heavenly.
SBSP: But isn’t your task healing their spiritual wounds? Isn’t it abominable that you’re
causing more grief to these people?
FF: I did try and heal their spiritual wounds. It’s just unfortunate that in the event of my
doing that they ended up with a few rectal wounds. But hey that’s the deal with religion. No
pain, no gain.
JF: But why does the pain have to be in the ass?
 - 160 -

FF: Hey, I don’t make the rules. As you know God works in mysterious ways.
SBSP: Alright, it’s time to wrap up the debate. I just have one final question to ask you,
Father Faggot.
FF: Shoot.
SBSP: Do you recall coming to an island near the Pacific Ocean a few years ago as a
missionary? A little city called Bikini Bottom.
FF (unsure): I don’t quite remember…
SBSP (interrupting): You did. You spent almost a year there trying to convert the fish there
to Catholicism. And do you recall that one drunken night when you stumbled into a yellow
brick road and laid your eyes on a pineapple?
FF: Yes, but I just have a vague memory of what happened. What happened to the
pineapple?
SBSP: Well, I thought you’d never ask. You fucked the pineapple. That’s what happened.
You fucked it. You fucked the fucking pineapple till there was nothing left of it.
FF (surprised): Ok, so I fucked a pineapple. Why are you getting so worked up over it?
SBSP: Because, Father Faggot, I was in it when you were fucking it like an insane
psychopath. Do you see these innumerous holes in my yellow exterior, Father? What do you
think they are? Those are the cock dents you caused in my body.
FF (realizing that SpongeBob was beginning to lose it): Hold on, young man. That was
completely unintentional. I had no idea you were inside that pineapple. I mean, come on, who
lives in a pineapple?
SBSP: Your molesting days are over motherfucker. Patrick Star- NOW!
(Suddenly from nowhere a pink fleshy mass flies down and attaches itself onto Father
Faggot’s face blocking his air supply)
JF (invigorated by the turn of events): Die motherfucker! Stifle him Patrick Star! Stifle
him till he drops fucking dead!
SBSP: I’ve waited a long time for this.
(Father Faggot tries to fight off Patrick Star but the pink starfish is too persistent. Soon the
resistance flounders and Father Faggot weakens. Patrick Star applies more pressure and
soon Father Faggot breathes his last)
JF: Now I believe in Jesus, motherfucker!
SBSP: Nobody rapes SpongeBob and gets away with it.
(A minute or two of silence ensues. Nobody moves, no one speaks)
JF: What do we do now?
SBSP: I don’t know. Do you want to go back to my pineapple? Maybe come up for a glass of
seawater?
JF (shyly): Yeah, I’d like that.
(SpongeBob and the sex abuse victim walk away into the sunset with Patrick Star in tow)
 - 161 -

(2nd December 2007) Suicide Bomber Fan Mail

(Video link: http://www.ibnlive.com/videos/53388/caught-on-camera-lanka-bra-bombers-
blast.html )

Dear Suicide Bomber,

Mama always said you weren’t real. She said you were like Santa Claus, or Harry
Potter, or Kim Kardashian’s ass. But after seeing your work caught on video she’s like so
without speech and stuff. And I’m like so squeaking thankful to all our TV channels for
showing such graphic and kick-ass violence without any kind of restraint whatsoever. My
little nephew was lucky enough to catch it and now he wants to be just like you- the belt
bombs, splattered brains and everything. I would specially like to thank Times Now who just
the other day was thrashing the rest of the channels for not being sensitive enough to pixellate
a naked assaulted adivasi woman’s face. I think they are so not pretentious and hypocritical.
I’ve always been like super-curious about how you make up your mind to take up
such a smart career choice. I mean like I understand it may not be as adventurous or
stimulating as being an English teacher in Sudan or a BPO worker in India but I would so
like to know what inspired you to be who you are today. Was it the availability of a platform
to get across to a lot of people at the same time? Or the chance to play Holi with your
intestines? Perhaps, it was just the obvious glamour that came with the job. Anyways, you’ve
always managed to totally blow my mind off.
The other day a close friend of mine, she’s like my soul mate and all, made a joke
about you. She asked me: “What happened to the failed suicide bomber?” And when I said I
didn’t know she said like: “He didn’t bomb”. Then another day she asked me: “Why would it
really stink for Abishek Bachchan to be a suicide bomber?” And again I didn’t like know
what the answer was and stuff so I told her that I didn’t like know the answer and stuff. So
she replied: “Cuz he’s so full of shit”. That really was all I could take so I inserted a Nokia
phone up her ass and recharged it until she blew up. I know you’re a faint-hearted person and
I’m sorry I had to like say that to you but I just can’t take it when anybody defiles your name.
Although, I was made an honorary Muslim fundamentalist after my actions. My extremist
name is Sheikh Yost Uf.
One Sunday I was just doing what I always do on a Sunday, which is watch
Homicide Homies on DD-1 (Daily Death 1). And I heard someone say all your relationships
are extremely short-lived. Is that true? I think it’s cool that you’re into playing the field. It’s
better than getting into some relationship that just makes you want to kill yourself. I also
heard on Homicide Homies that you are like super good in bed. Is it because you know how
to explode at the most appropriate time? Anyways, you’re a rock star in my book. Like Kurt
Cobain.
I won’t lie to you, I’m a little sad. Because one of my buddies said like the other
day that you’re not like a good person and all. And that you do what you do to hurt other
innocent people. I mean like I didn’t believe him or nothing because I know that’s like
untrue. If you wanted to hurt innocent unsuspecting people you would have like just become
a politician or a model turned actor.
I’m super sorry if I intruded into your personal time and stuff. But I just couldn’t
like resist writing to you. I know your apartment must be like totally messy with all my
previous letters and stuff. You know I like totally admire you and everything but there’s
something that just keeps nagging at the back of my head and stuff. Something that even
 - 162 -

made me think if I should like send you a letter bomb or something. I mean like I won’t. But
I just feel so mad and everything, you know. Alright, I’m just gonna go ahead and say it.
Here goes.
I’ve sent so many letters to you but I’ve never ever gotten a single reply . I mean,
like, seriously, would it kill you to write me back?

Your hugest fan

Me.
 - 163 -

(14th December 2007) Extreme Kamasutra

Love is like Jesus. You look into your beloved’s eyes and see all your personal
dreams reveal their insignificance when compared to what you would do to keep her happy.
You are willing to stomp, for her, on every principle and ideology that you once swore you
would never relinquish. Her cherubic smile stirs inside of you something real, something
magical, something about 8 inches long. Then you take her to the nearest room and fuck the
living daylights out of her. And that’s why love is like Jesus. And a good fuck is like the
Jewish/Roman partnership. It beats the crap out of love.
Afterwards, your beloved opens up her heart about the depth of love she feels for
you while you scratch your shriveled up balls in the middle of a sleep much deeper than her
love. She looks at your face lovingly, picks up her bra from the ground, and proceeds to
strangle you to a very humiliating size 32B death. Such a degrading strangulation by a 100 %
cotton elastic innerwear would never happen to a man who is well versed in the sensual
chapters of Extreme Kamasutra. She would have been too exhausted to even close her legs,
let alone arm herself with a bra and murder you, if you had proficiency in the vast erotic
knowledge contained in Extreme Kamasutra.
The sexually illiterate might always resort to the mundane, dull, unadventurous,
everyday list of moves like “the G-spot jiggy” or “the Boston Brute” or “the Dirty Sanchez”
or “the Fire Hydrant”. Those wishing to learn might instinctively go to the nearest children’s
library and pick up a copy of the original Kamasutra. However, in the 21st century, the
Kamasutra is as outdated as fidelity. In today’s age, there’s only one manual that can
guarantee complete satiation and bliss and that is Extreme Kamasutra.
Given below are the some of the most successful and pleasurable moves and
positions detailed in Extreme Kamasutra that would guarantee complete exhaustion of, and
total satisfaction for, your partner by the time you’re done. In fact, at the end of your love
session she would be groggier than a room full of people watching the Indian Cricket League
matches. Now, let us start the education. The enlightenment. The Extreme Kamasutra.

The Empire State Lovers’ Union

In this lovemaking position the man and the woman stand in front of the Empire
State building and start snogging until mutual arousal is achieved. With the help of the
security guard present there both the man and the woman manage to strip down to their bare
minimum. The lovers proceed to rub against each other further. Now with assistance of the
hotdog vendor both the male and the female get completely naked. It is important that the
hotdog vendor gets absolutely no mustard on either of the lovers. The woman then stands on
her two hands and splits her legs exposing her open minge. At this point, the man has to
sprint towards the elevator and get to the roof of the Empire State Building before he loses
his wood. After reaching the roof the male lover approaches the edge of the roof and begins
masturbating like a rabid monkey. When the man successfully deposits his semen without
spilling a single drop from a height of above 102 stories into the vagina of the woman
standing on her hand, the sexual congress is pronounced complete.
 - 164 -

The Criss Angel Banana Split

In this particular mode of sexual congress the man and the woman place themselves
horizontally on a bed made of banana skins. They then proceed to consume two bananas
each. Ensure that neither the man nor the woman have banana between their teeth making it
seem as if they just brushed their teeth with baby shit. The man now mounts the woman and
begins to kiss her gently all over her face. After slobbering her face with more spit than a
hoard of hungry retards, the man turns the woman on her back. The male lover then mounts
the female from behind. At this point, the man reaches out for the battery operated chainsaw
resting near the banana bed and saws his lover into half. Immediately, the man starts
humping the dissected lower body while simultaneously trying to put back the severed torso.
The sexual union is only complete when the man is successfully able to put the woman back
together. If he fails to achieve sexual climax with his first female partner he can proceed to
engage in the same act of love with other female members of the severed woman’s family.
 - 165 -

The Al Gore Sexual Congress

The male and female partner must travel to the North Pole by foot. On reaching
the North Pole they strip naked and cry out “Goooore!” four times which will attract horny
polar bears. Once the polar bears make themselves appear both the male and female lovers
are supposed to take turns jerking and fingering the bears according to the respective
genitalia. Neither the male nor the female or the polar bear for that matter are supposed to eat
any kinds of food except their own feces that will again be reused the next day as meals.
After jerking and fingering the polar bears the man and the woman approach each other and
stand a few inches apart. The male then rubs the Nobel Peace Prize medal on his penis until
he ejaculates whereas the female shoves the Nobel Peace Prize diploma up her pussy and
fakes an orgasm. Both the male and the female partners are to stay away from showers, baths,
or water for the rest of their lives. If the male desires to use a condom while jacking off use
only recycled condoms.

The Catholic Priest Position

The male partner holds the female partner gently and embraces. He then clubs the
woman into a state of unconsciousness using a Bible. Following that, he approaches the
younger male relatives of the woman and engages in sodomy.
 - 166 -

The Hillary Clinton Sex Position

The female partner lies on the left side of the bed and goes to sleep.
 - 167 -

(15th December 2007) Extreme Kamasutra Part 2

The Scientology Hop Position

The lovers engage in public display of affection by sucking on each other’s kneecaps
for an extended period of time. After the foreplay session the couple then returns home on
their private spaceship. The male partner attaches long electrical antennae to the skull of his
sexual partner and buries her under the living room floor. He then mounts the sofa and hops
on it fervently screaming “Hubba! Hubba! Hubbard!” four times in Italian, Spanish, and
Indian accents. At which point he blows his load all over the couch. In this position, the male
often attains climax prior to the female who is buried alive under the floor.

The General Musharraf Maneuver

The female partner, dressed in only a see through hijab, is confined to the kitchen
making armpit-flavored pretzels. The male partner, dressed in complete army outfit,
including the silk cap, sits in front of the television watching M.S. Dhoni while
simultaneously engaging in fervent self-pleasuring. Even after the female lover finishes
 - 168 -

preparing the armpit-pretzels the male refuses to shed his uniform. The detractors of this
mode of sexual union tend to refer to the act also as the Perverse Musharraf Maneuver.

The Poultry Farm Embrace

The Poultry Farm Embrace is a highly potent erotic move that can often lead to the
swelling up of several parts of the human anatomy that are generally not supposed to do that.
Half past midnight the lovers stealthily enter a poultry farm and gain access to a chicken
coop. After stepping inside, the man and the woman disrobe each other. After sensually
licking each other’s nose hair the man and the woman proceed to sing “Glamorous” by
Fergie. As soon as the song gets into the first chorus, the sleeping chickens will wake up and
angrily begin to peck the fuck out of the lovers who are caught in the tightest of hugs. The
painful pecking serves to enrich the pleasurable experience of physical intimacy inside the
smelly coop. After about half an hour of pecking the chickens are likely to go back to their
original state of being stupid. Bodily fluids, mostly blood, will be flowing in buckets from
both the male and the female lover.
 - 169 -

The Reverse Beowulf Position

In the Reverse Beowulf Position the man and the woman engage in a ménage a trios
with a fire-breathing dragon. The male performs cunnilingus on the woman while
simultaneously receiving a fiery fellatio from the dragon. The positions are then switched as
the woman eats out the dragon pussy while the man plays Halo on his Playstation 3. When he
attains maximum body count, the man orgasms screaming, “I am Beowulf” a hundred
thousand times. The woman stops licking out the dragon muff and mounts the man. Then the
woman, assisted by the dragon, proceeds to rip off the man’s heart and also his balls and
throws them inside the nearby laundry basket. The woman then goes onto fist the dragon’s
anus eventually giving the dragon severe constipation.

The Seventy One Style

It’s 69 plus number 2.

 - 170 -

(20th December 2007) Crying, Waiting, Hoping

(Source: Trivandrum City Express, The New Indian Express- 19/12/2007)

Zombies walk around in torn clothes with half-ripped pages sticking out of their
mouths and pockets; crumpled rectangular laminated cards with letters and numbers are
wedged clumsily into the back of their skulls; the zombies have their hands frozen in a
strange position, almost as if they are holding a couple of invisible bricks close to their chest;
on listening close to their monotonous mumblings it becomes clear that half of them are
chanting “issue” and the other half “return”. That’s the kind of existence that the current
members of the British Library, Trivandrum are worried of leading post February 2008.
True lovers of the Library deal with their imminent loss in different ways. Some
have completely given up their social lives and decided to spend the last couple of months
wistfully smelling the insides of the books they have presently borrowed not even caring if
there are fossils of bugs stamped onto the pages; others consume a year’s supply of coffee in
an attempt to read as many books as they can before their world ends; certain more driven
members have taken it upon themselves to reverse the decision of the British Council to shut
down the library fully believing in Napoleon’s quote about nothing being impossible..
Literature aficionados in Trivandrum fear if names like Shakespeare, Dickens,
Woolf, Hardy, and Joyce amongst many others would not have the same impact in their
children’s world of knowledge as it did in theirs and be reduced to mere screen names used in
role playing computer games, not because it means anything to them but for the fact that they
sound strange and catchy. Academicians feel more cheated than they would if they found out
their spouses are unfaithful. The kids who had somehow managed to tear themselves away
from their computers and found a unique pleasure in spending time at the Library now feel
disillusioned and disenchanted.
The situation is quite amusing and on some levels even strangely ironic. For about a
century or more, a strong majority of our entire country headed by the most persuasive
individuals we had to offer tried to get the British to leave our land. And now, sixty years
later, in the most literate state in India, large groups of people are trying even harder to get
the British, or at least a part of them, to stay on. It would undoubtedly be a strong blow to the
booklovers of Trivandrum if the fate of the British Library cannot be reversed. However, that
doesn’t have to necessarily spell the end of our love for reading. There are other fish in the
sea. Perhaps not as big and culturally rich, but fish nevertheless. Besides, if push comes to
shove we can always resort to putting forth a threat to the generous country of Britain. If the
British Library doesn’t stay on, we take back Shilpa Shetty. Well, maybe not.
 - 171 -

(21st December 2007) Lynne Spears’s Parenting Book: Chapter One

In an age where the moral fabric of America directly influences that of the other top
countries of the world, it’s tough for American men and women, especially the ones known
globally, to live a free, uninhibited, unbiased, morally upright life. The pressure to not drink
and drive, not racially abuse blacks, nerdy whites, and foreigners, not have more than two of
your sex tapes leaked on to the Internet, not release “fuck Islam” videos on youtube every
three hours, not overdose on heroin, not have shootouts in the middle of the streets, and not
encourage Adam Sandler to keep making movies amongst several other austere demands take
severe toll on the impressionable, vulnerable minds of goodhearted Americans. Especially on
the young kids who might grow up to be tomorrow’s Bill O Reilly or Michael Savage or even
Dick Cheney.

And that’s why, I, Lynne Spears, a mother of two girls, have decided to pen this book
on parenting which includes all that I know about raising good, morally sound, responsible,
socially committed children who would in time transform into rich, famous adults who would
then in turn make their parents rich, famous, and really full of themselves as well. In this first
chapter, I would like to enlist a few of the dos and don’ts of parenting kids at different phases
of their lives. Once that scarlet little blob squeezes its way out of your hairy plug point, the
first thoughts that cross your mind shouldn’t be about whether that little ham is alive or not,
boy or girl, retarded or mentally challenged. It should be to get your worst half- the same guy
who spooged inside you while picturing your younger more attractive sister bent over- to go
out to the nearest bookstore and grab (not take, not pick, not choose but grab) a copy of my
book on parenting which is entitled “Parent second, Pimp First”.

First 12 months
Don’ts
 Absolutely no alcohol for the baby in the first one-year of its birth. Beer, although,
can be, in fact it should be administered to the little hungry toddler in buckets
whenever it reaches for your reddish nipples fresh from the weekly boob job
 No staying out after midnight. I’m talking about the kid, of course
 Never leave the baby alone with coins or credit cards or currency notes that might
cause respiratory blockage if swallowed. There’s a good chance they might steal it.
 Never leave the baby alone in a room with sharp pointed objects. The baby might get
hold of it and stick you up to get to your money.
 No drugs

Dos
 Have strange men come over to shovel your butt dirt as soon as your husband leaves
home. Or falls asleep. That way the presence of a father is never absent from the little
munchkin’s life.
 - 172 -

Age 1-5
Don’ts
 Do not give the kid beer anymore. Upgrade the kid’s beverages to vodka, gin, rum,
whisky, piss, loose shit, menstrual blood, melted ass, a cup of cum and just about
anything that you drink yourself
 Do not hesitate to have the “talk” with your child. Remind your children that having a
kid when you’re a kid means extra poop around the house. If it’s a boy always advise
him to insert his cock and shake it around in the ass of a girl so that he won’t knock
her up. Plus she won’t shit for a while too. If it’s a girl encourage her to offer her tiny
pair of buttocks to her college going broke-ass boyfriend. As a parent, you should let
your child, who’s between one to five years old, know that the cunt is out of the
question
 Do not let your kid make friends. Cut your child completely off from their social
lives and send them off to movie auditions, reality television auditions, be Internet
models. It is important to make them understand that they cannot just mooch around,
they need to become earning members of the family. And if things go well, the only
earning members of the family
 Never ever let your kid know who their real father is. Each week throw a different
name at them. Keep them guessing. It helps activate their brain cells like hell during
Christmas. Plus they develop a crappy self-image, which translates to a tighter leash
on them by you
 No drugs

Dos
 If your kid starts making mistakes or doing crazy stuff blame it all on them. Keep in
mind to always act like the struggling helpless mother cursed with the demon seed.

Age 5-10
Don’ts
 Do not nestle your child’s pussy from the public view, absolutely no pussy-nestling.
Never let your daughters get out of the house wearing underwear. Whenever they go
out to get drunk or boned shove your hands down their pants or up their skirt and
check for any presence of fabric. If they are wearing panties rip them off instantly and
ground your daughters for three days. If it’s a boy his dick is probably all over the
Internet already
 Don’t counsel your kids about publicly revealing information about their virginity.
Let the public work that out when the sex tapes hit the market
 No reading
 No writing except rehashing corny pop shit from the Neanderthal era
 - 173 -

 No taking personal breaks for playing or relaxing. It’s between the age of 5-10 that
responsible children work their hardest to pay back the loving parents who gave them
life. Work their asses off.

Dos
 You may now advise them to begin doing drugs
 Sell your children totally, completely, absolutely and hand their lives and personal
decisions over to multi billion dollar studio executives

Age 10 and above

Don’ts
 Don’t give a fuck

Dos
 Write a book on parenting

By Lynne Spears (Professional Mother)

P.S- THIS JUST IN (ha! Justin): Jamie Lynn Spears, who is 12 weeks pregnant, announced
to OK! NOT REALLY! Magazine that her fetus is 4 weeks pregnant and planning to keep the
baby. Reportedly, the fetus was impregnated by its long time boyfriend, the liver.
 - 174 -

(24th December 2007) A Message from Jesus

Dear Me-ians (think about it Pretty clever, eh?) And Rest,

I’ve got quite a few things on my list that I have to go over with you. Firstly,
tragedy struck us today morning at ten o clock when Santa Claus died of an extreme syphilis-
gonorrhea combination affliction. He caught it from Rudolph the red assed reindeer.
PSYCH!! I was just messing around. Santa is still alive. I love that red fat bastard. He does
have the syphilis-gonorrhea combination affliction though. That has been known to happen
when you slide down too many chimneys in the same night if you get my drift. And as a
result, I’ll be couriering everybody’s gifts to their homes this time. So, if you don’t get the
useless shit you asked for this year, don’t whine to Santa or me, whine to FedEx.
I don’t particularly like celebrating my birthday. One of the reasons is because the
parties in heaven suck. I mean, shit, what’s a birthday party with just eleven people?! And
Gandhi won’t even let anybody eat meat. Talking about thrusting your beliefs upon
somebody else. I’m glad none of my followers are like that. So, anyway, that’s why if I ever
feel like partying hard I just hop down to hell and hang out a little while. Say what you want
about Hitler but that Nazi motherfucker knows how to throw one hell of a fucking party. “Ich
liebe Hackfleisch”. Yeah!
Another reason I don’t want to be reminded of my birthday is because of my age. I
mean, shit, you humans freak out when you hit thirty; imagine what it is to be over two
thousand years old. Although, the popular opinion up here is that I don’t look a day over one
thousand and seventy. To be honest, I owe it to all to healthy food and dedicated working out.
Plus an occasional facelift doesn’t hurt anyone. PSYCH!! Just kidding. I’m in heaven, not
Holly-fucking-wood.
Birthdays are often occasions to reflect on and reminisce about things past. I was
never someone who looked out for the future. I tried to make each day as useful as possible
and better as many people as possible. In retrospect, I feel like such a douchebag for being so
reckless in my behavior. When I gave up my life for the rest of you, I did it so that you’ll
learn the significance of selflessness, love, and sacrifice; I even foolishly hoped you would
all become better people. Instead, some of you assholes got together and devised a big fat
hoax (in my name!) to control the lives of others and exploit it to your advantage; and the rest
of you suckers let them get away with it. The aforementioned lines are not just true for me
but some of my other comrades up here in heaven. In fact, both Krishna and Muhammad
helped me write those lines because they feel the same way about those who run around
chanting their names. You morons down there have no idea how pissed off we three are
because of your stupid ignorant behavior since forever. Fuck! I promised myself I wouldn’t
get too emotional on my birthday. Damn it! But it’s ok. It’s all right. I’m not angry; I’m just a
little dented, cardiac wise.
Speaking of things you people down there are doing wrong, I’d like a few things
about the way you celebrate my birthday changed. I mean, don’t take this personally or
anything but frankly speaking I’m kind of bored with the whole Christmas tree idea. Hell, it’s
just a fucking tree for Christ’s My sake! With some glittery shit on it. It doesn’t really say
anything about me. I would much rather prefer if you guys put up something bold, something
adventurous, maybe some midget skeletons. Yeah, that’s right, midget skeletons. I think I’m
onto something truly groundbreaking here. Just stay with me here! Get some midget
skeletons, hang it in your front yard, inside your home, wherever you want to bring that
holiday mood, and decorate it with some buffalo balls. Yeah, that’s right, buffalo balls. Or
 - 175 -

even bull balls. I don’t really care about that. Just make sure those midget skeletons look
really Christmassy. But it has to be either buffalos or bulls. No bison balls. I hate bison balls.
So remember, yes to buffalo balls and bull balls. But a big fat no to bison balls.
And one more thing, when you are doing skits and stuff about my birth make sure
you choose a cute baby to play me. I have seen some ugly-ass babies play me over the years.
I don’t want that. If you can’t get a cute baby that’s human get one of those animatronic
babies, I don’t care. But don’t rope in some shit-ass baby who looks like something that came
out of Paula Abdul’s ass.
Well, that’s it then, I guess. Hopefully you’ll have a great new year as well. Unless
you get blown up by some psycho with an underwear bomb, or slain by some preschooler, or
screwed over by your friends, family, and lovers. Or get plain depressed and end your lives.
Anyways, Merry Me-Mas (think about it Pretty clever, eh?) to all of you. I’ve got a Fuhrer
Partay to attend. Now, where did I leave my swastika?! PSYCH!!

From,
Christ.
 - 176 -

(30th December 2007) Sweetest Assassinations of All Time

From the guy who designs chains out of used dental floss to the girl who’s
allergic to cancer, from the optimistic crippled guy who’s hell bent on becoming a tap dancer
to the girl who can accommodate an entire village inside her vagina, from the guy who
claims he caught AIDS from a grandfather clock (although he may have meant grandfather
cock) to the girl who takes naps with sexually stimulated sheep, from the guy who wants to
masturbate alongside Osama Bin Laden to the girl who wants to get fingered by Hrithik
Roshan’s double thumb, I know a lot of interesting people. Plus I know this completely
bizarre guy- and I mean an absolutely mental motherfucker- who thinks Abishek Bachchan
has talent. Although, the most complex cunt of them all, I’d have to say, is this guy who calls
himself an assassination critic (Or an ass-crit). He critiques assassinations for a living. Now I
don’t know who the fuck pays him to do that stuff but that’s what he does. About a thousand
minutes back I sat down and had a talk with him, opened up a decent discussion. On the five
sweetest assassinations since time immemorial. As always I like to document the stuff that I
do. Even if it’s just taking a crap, I document that shit (10:00 pm- I clench my ass. 10:02 pm-
a sizeable piece of turd dives into the bowl. Smells like beef, sounds like a Republic Day
parade).
Therefore, in the interest of the public, I’m releasing the documentation of the spiel
that my ass-crit friend launched into about the five sweetest assassinations that has ever taken
place.

# 5: John Lennon (2 stars)

If there’s an assassination that you can broach holding your girlfriend’s hand it’s that of John
Lennon’s. Romance, suspense, intrigue, and a subtle vein of humor that consistently amuses
the audience from the start to the finish all come together in this formulaic yet well-shot
assassination. Starring the rock legend John Lennon cast opposite a practically unknown yet
undeniably talented negative hero, Mark David Chapman, the assassination flows with the
heartwarming ease of a Beatles song. Enough action to keep the male audiences happy fused
with a romantic angle, provided by Yoko Ono, to satisfy the female audiences the John
Lennon assassination satiates everyone unanimously.

# 4: Rajiv Gandhi (2 stars + 1 grenade)

Few assassinations dare to break the mould and offer something different. Even fewer
assassinations are capable of starting a trend that would branch out into something truly
groundbreaking. This is where the Rajiv Gandhi assassination proves to be a cut above the
rest. Armed with a tightly woven plot and backed up by a stalwart production banner, the
Tamil Tigers, the assassination keeps you on the edge of your seat right from the beginning.
The director of the assassination boldly breaks the tradition of casting a macho assassin and
goes with an ugly female assassin, a move that pays off immensely. The high profile target,
the unobtrusive assassin, the bomb hidden in the basket of flowers, and the deadly deafening
explosion are just few of the highlights of the Rajiv Gandhi assassination. All in all, it’s a
thorough entertainer.
 - 177 -

# 3: John F. Kennedy (3 stars + 3 bullets)

Considered by many as the sweetest assassination to have ever taken place the JFK
assassination is truly ahead of its time. With a stellar cast and a riveting storyline, the JFK
assassination is laden with twists, turns, dark humor and mystery. The assassination proceeds
flawlessly with the most talked about President of the USA gunned down in the middle of the
road with hundreds of people watching. The alleged assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, in true
Hollywood style, and arguably in the best role of his career, maintains complete innocence,
which is when the story accelerates into fourth gear. Right from the FBI, CIA, NYPD,
UNICEF, and the Teletubbies, everyone’s a suspect. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say
that the JFK assassination is one of the greatest stylistic and cerebral achievements of the
USA.

# 2 Mahatma Gandhi (4 stars + 3 bullets + 1 walking stick)

Ever so rarely comes the kind of assassination that everyone deems as an instant classic. And
the Mahatma Gandhi assassination is one of those instant classics, and for good reason too.
With one of 20th century’s greatest underdog stories as background, the Gandhi assassination
unfolds like a magical tale of ambition, struggle, victory, deceit, and tragedy. Strong on
possibly every aspect the Gandhi assassination succeeds in entertaining everyone from kids
to adults to red-assed baboons. Nathuram Godse delivers his strongest performance as the
ruthless assassin while Gandhi, as always, captivates the entire audience with his pure
charisma and crowd appeal. Despite not offering anything out of the ordinary the
assassination works perfectly owing to the cast, the story, and undeniable universality of the
theme. It is one of those assassinations that gets fresher each time you mention it.

# 1 Jesus Christ (5 stars + 1 Mean Cross + 3 Dreidels)

The assassination of Christ is undoubtedly the most widely received and critically acclaimed
assassination of all time. The assassination, which took place almost two thousand years
back, still remains one of the most stylish, most efficiently achieved assassinations to date.
The sheer budget of the assassination, what with the huge cross, all the nails, the thousands
watching, the hundreds taunting, and an ocean of other extras, is purely staggering. It is a
visually stunning creative masterpiece that transcends the boundaries of time and remains as
one of the sweetest assassinations ever known to humanity. It is one thing assassinating a
President or a Prime Minister but the assassination of the Savior of all mankind is clearly on
another level all together. The very fact that the assassination has sprouted off several cults
and sects and shows the lasting impact that this truly phenomenal magnum opus has on
audiences all across the world. And frankly speaking, there were no other targets during that
time or even now who could have fit the bill as perfectly as Jesus in a truly mesmerizing
assassination.

While my ass-crit friend had complied an impressive, hard-to-contest list of the

sweetest assassinations of all time I was surprised to see certain assassinations left out,
certain glaring omissions. He clarified that Abraham Lincoln failed to make the list because
he was just too damn ugly. I asked him about the assassinations of great black leaders like
Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. and inquired why they hadn’t made it into the list. To
which the ass-crit replied: “Black guys are always getting shot and killed. That’s no news.”
 - 178 -

And when I asked him about the assassination of the first Indian Woman Prime Minister
Indira Gandhi and the barely-a-week-old assassination of Pakistani leader Benazir Bhutto he
had this to say: “Fuck! How hard is it to kill a couple of birds? Even O.J Simpson can do that
shit”.
 - 179 -

(14th January 2008) Welcome to India, Nice to Molest You

Imagine this. A huge statue of a tall dark handsome Indian man. Located in a central spot
somewhere in our country, a place where our countrywomen, tourists, foreigners, and visitors
to India can have a deep long look at it. The statue stands tall towering well above the
monuments around it. Safe in the man’s right hand raised high into the air almost touching
the clouds hovering over it is a tablet with the inscription “Woman is God” on it. Below the
man’s waist wrapped in his left hand is a huge concrete erection that’s pointing up towards
the blue skies and two gigantic balls, which have inscribed on their vast surface the words:

“Give me your blonde, your brunette,

Your unsuspecting bitches yearning to get raped,
The wretched sluts whose pussies I’ll forcibly make wet,
Send these, the innocent, the underage, the elderly, regardless of how they are shaped
I lift my horny chauvinistic cock and rape every single cunt I can get.”

It’s been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that two out of every three Indian
men (the third is a eunuch) find it physiologically impossible to refrain from molesting at
least four women every week. So, we might as well have a statue announcing to the whole
world that east or west, we’ll do our best to molest.
Much like everything else in this world our modus molestation has also evolved. A
decade or so ago, our best men toiled in harsh working conditions (like crowded buses, jam-
packed queues, markets, poorly chaperoned nieces’ houses, movie theatres, and churches)
using simple techniques (like the ass-graze, the sleep-grope, the accidental boob jab, the
inadvertent thigh caress, the trip and grab for support bit, and the misguided peck on the
cheek) that often gave the desired result but in a degree lesser than expected. With the
passage of time, things have changed, sexual repression has increased, carnal depravity has
grown, and we, the Indian men, have developed far more impressive and efficacious methods
of molesting women. We’ve become way more adept at what we do, much more meticulous,
and thorough professionals.
The Mumbai Molestation event that transpired in the wee hours of Jan 1, 2008
(http://www.ibnlive.com/videos/55468/mumbai-shamed-2-girls-molested-on-new-years-
eve.html) marks a new milestone in the Indian Men’s molestation track record. Never have so
many men joined together for such an extraordinary cause ever before in the history of our
country since the release of Mallika Sherawat’s Murder or the Gujarat riots in 2001.
We hear all the time about corporate tycoons making a mark outside their own
country using their business acumen and their grandfathers’ fortunes. Indian men, too, have
begun expanding their activities to non-Indian pussies. There was a time, when due to social
constraints and a narrow outlook, we were restricted to molesting only the women in our
country. Now, thanks to globalization and exaggerated advertising about Indian tourism, we
are presented with several opportunities to forcibly extend our cocks to unwilling foreign
cunts. Be it the smooth molestation of a Swedish teenager in Cochin by a few dozen of our
compatriots (http://www.ibnlive.com/videos/55436/local-revelers-in-kochi-molest-swedish-
girl.html) or the molestation of an American woman by a messenger of God
(http://www.ibnlive.com/news/american-tourist-alleges-molestation-at-pushkar-
temple/55960-3-1.html) the quality of work and the ease with which the cases are swept
under the carpet to brighten the tricolor surface of our nation are nothing short of stupendous.
 - 180 -

A lot of people feel that molesting a woman is different from raping her. If you ask
a true hardcore Indian man you would realize that the two are as different as a Bollywood
actress and a Red-Street prostitute, or horseshit and donkeyshit, or a poor wife with great tits
and a rich wife with no ass. When you rape a woman, you complete the job; you finish what
you started; there is closure. Molesting someone, on the other hand, is more of an initiation
course before you perform in the big league of rape. It’s like the chicken broth before a three-
course dinner. Often, several men have a taste of the soup and take a rain-check on the main
course. But you know that sooner or later those soup tasters will come back to bite into the
main dinner.
It is undeniably true that none of the commendable progress of the Indian
molesters and rapists would have been possible if it weren’t for the police, the court, and the
various state governments. And, undoubtedly, the biggest token of gratitude goes to the word
“alleged” that the media and the officials efficiently throw around when it comes to sex
offences. Thanks to that word a giant beast with big ears, tusks, a trunk and pillar-like legs
will remain an “alleged” elephant unless proven by a court of law.
For some reason women don’t quite enjoy getting molested and raped as much as
the men who commit those acts do. I’m personally quite baffled by this lukewarm response
from the ladies. But hey, to each their own. However, one thing you ladies need to know
about Indian men is that we never say no (except when the wives ask us if we’re having an
affair). Regardless of the mediocre level of enjoyment you derive from our manly acts, we
will strive to molest and rape all women, Indian, non-Indian, alien, and feminist until the end
of time. If you don’t want to be involved in it, then keep your ass inside your home. Might
seem a little regressive but that’s our best offer. Get out and get molested. Stay home and
save your ass. Well, unless your male relatives at home wish to rape you. Allegedly, of
course.
 - 181 -

(25th January 2008) Bite that Tongue

Racism is like UFO sightings. It might happen anywhere else in the whole world
but it just doesn’t happen in India. Accusing an Indian of being racist is as ludicrous as
accusing George Bush of being eloquent or Britney Spears of covering her pole-vault.
Perhaps it’s a genetic trait, but we Indians just aren’t inclined to be racist. We do not
discriminate any human being on the basis of his/her skin color. In fact, there’s a large part of
the Indian Advertising Industry which has dedicated itself to making sure that all dark-
skinned people overcome their obscure condition and become healthy, normal fair-skinned
members of the society. And it’s an incontrovertible fact that we embrace people of all skin
colors. In fact, some of our most revered Gods, if we are to go by the evidence seen in
various illustrations, were blue in color. Now, you show me any other nation who would
embrace blue individuals and venerate them like we do.
Not only are we accepting of all races, including horse races, but we are also a
nation who strongly supports the new wave of political correctness that is imperative in
today’s troubled and hostile world. In fact, a recent episode that I had in a café enlightened
me of my own latent prejudices and completely changed the way I think and speak. It all
began with the well-mannered, unassuming waiter who came to get my order.
“Hello, sir, are you ready to order?”
“Yes, I’d like a black coffee please.”
“Sir, we do not tolerate that kind of language in our café.”
“Huh?”
“Kindly refer to it as ‘African-American coffee’, sir. We have a very strict policy against
racism in our cafe.”
“Umm…ok. I apologize. I’ll have one ‘African-American coffee’ and a plate of chicken
breasts.”
“Sir, I repeat that we do not practice any form of discrimination in our café and I’m going to
have to ask you to follow our norms. Your language is quite unacceptable.”
“I can’t say chicken breasts?”
“I’m afraid not. The first half of the compound word you used suggests a baseless allegation
of cowardice and the latter half is blatantly sexist. The appropriate term is the ‘thorax of the
fowl that has a pox named after it‘.”
“Ok, alright, my mistake again. So, I’ll have one African-American coffee and a plate of the
‘thorax of the fowl that has a pox named after it’. If you can please make it fast, it would be
helpful. I have an insane work schedule that I have to get back to.”
“Do you think it’s funny, sir?”
“Huh?”
“Do you think you can pick on anyone merely because they act differently? The word you
used to describe your work schedule is highly derogatory and demeaning. If you have to,
resort to the socially accepted substitute of that word- ‘differently sane’.”
“Look, it’s just words. You’re making it sound as if I’m some kind of a criminal.”
“Sir, you are absolutely crossing the line with your disrespect for our rules and humanity in
general. You cannot, under any circumstances, use the C-word in a civilized society like
ours.”
“The C-word? You mean criminal?”
“Sir, please, mind your language. You have no right to outcast the ‘alternately employed
members of the society’.”
“Look, stop making a scene here. There are people at other tables who are looking at me and
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giving me these weird sniggers.”

“What did you just call me?”
“What?”
“Did you just-?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, are you deaf?”
“How dare you, sir? I do not possess a ‘permanently switched off biological audibility
device’, if that’s what you meant.”
“Look, I’ve had enough of this ‘metabolic waste produced by a male member of the bovine
community’ from you. Forget the food, I’m out of here. If you have a problem with what I
said, you can go to ‘the monosyllabic place with an extremely tropical climate and trying
living conditions run by a very demanding dictator’“
“Well, at least you had the courtesy to portray your disagreement in such polite words. I
respect that.”
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(10th February 2008) India is MY Country, Not YOURS

When I first started getting memory loss and mixing up things I feared if I had
vascular dementia. I couldn’t tell the difference between news channels and sewage tanks; I
suffered from the inability to discriminate between film actresses with loud mouths and
prostitutes with gaping assholes; I was unable to distinguish between Rakhi Sawant and a
used condom; I lost the capacity to tell apart a politician from a bag of feces mixed with toxic
venom; I found no contrast between democracy and fascism; I failed to differentiate between
a man on the street and a rapist on the prowl; I lost the faculty to identify a stupid dumb bitch
and a girl who uploads her photos on social networking sites; I didn’t have the power to list
any dissimilarities when I juxtaposed doctors with ruthless cunts who would do anything for
money; I had trouble discerning businessmen from ruthless pricks who would do anything for
money; I tried my best to separate religion from science fiction but I failed pathetically; I saw
film critic Anupama Chopra and a chortling baboon and couldn’t tell them apart; I struggled
to get a clue about how teachers were different from diarrheic donkeys with their heads
shoved up their rectums; I could no longer discern an activist from an attention whore; I
failed to see any difference between the Government and an acute case of fistula; I made an
unsuccessful attempt to distinguish between tomorrow and an imminent apocalypse. And
then, suddenly, I realized I wasn’t suffering from vascular dementia; I was just experiencing
the side effects of being a citizen in modern day India.
Sometimes, when you’re under the constant watch of the public it’s easy to be
misinterpreted and portrayed in the wrong light regardless of your intention; I know that
because I had my share of negative publicity during my time as a South Indian pornstar (I
went by the name Mountmaster Mohanlal). Good people can be represented as bad, bad as
good, tall as short, fat as moderately overweight, Shekhar Suman as talented, MTV Roadies
as cool, and call centre zombies or pampered sons of rich business freaks as the prototypical
Indian youth. Raj Thackeray is being portrayed as a manipulative fascist; Amitabh Bachchan
is accused of being more close to Amar Singh than one married man should be to another;
and Rajnikanth, winner of the HENDTV-Indian of the Year (or was it CNN-IBUM?
Whichever it was, he got it during an exclusive and grandiose ceremony where only whoever
showed up with a bag of money got a useless award) is being unjustly accused by his
detractors as being unrealistic in his acting roles.
And the “news” channel Headlines Today (HT), promoters of healthy discussion
that they are, decided to hold a debate between the three main men currently courting
controversy, the topic of the discussion, of course, whether each individual should stick to the
state they are born in. Headlines Today also brought in a special guest, whom they locked
inside an opaque box which would be opened only at the end of the debate.

RT: If this very blog on which this idiotic post appears is not translated into Marathi I will
have my workers burn wordpress down.
AB: Can we just get this over with? I’ve to go found a brothel in the name of my hot
daughter in law.
HT: Where’s Rajnikanth? We can’t really start this debate without all participants present.
He has to argue that whatever he does is real and believable…
(Suddenly fourteen choppers appear and line up overhead the Headlines Today studio where
the debate is taking place. Rajnikanth pops out of the last one and swings from one chopper
to the other like Tarzan and on reaching right above his seat in the studio lets go. He glides
through the air and lands on his seat perfectly)
 - 184 -

RK: Sorry I’m a little late. I was attacked by a T-Rex on my way to the studio and I had to
kill him with my belt buckle.
RT: Do you understand now why I say Maharashtra is for Maharashtrians only? Do you
want something like this infecting the good people of Maharashtra?
RK: You’re probably right. The so called good Maharashtrians are fit to watch shameless
sluts like Mallika Sherawat shaking her tits for money.
RT: At least, it’s real.
RK: Not really. Trust me, I know.
AB: Perhaps, I need to remind everyone who was voted as the superstar of the millennium. In
case, you feel a little thick, let me reiterate that that honor makes me much bigger than you,
you, or Maharashtra.
HT: Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Bachchan but we have an exclusive Headlines Today
breaking news to report. “Kareena Kapoor who was attending a major Bollywood function
today evening was found to have calluses on her right hand. Reports suggest that she
received it from giving Saif Ali Khan a rough handjob.” Back to the debate now.
RT: Did you become the superstar of the millennium acting in Konkani films? No,
Maharashtra gave you your status, Maharashtra gave you your wealth, and Maharashtra gave
you your life.
AB: But UP gave me my Amar Singh.
RK: The Thackeray boy has a point there. Can you imagine me endorsing some place like,
say, Madras after everything that Tamil Nadu has given me?
HT: But Madras is in Tamil Nadu.
RK: Get your facts straight, news boy. Madras is in Brazil.
AB: You ignoramus, that’s Mardi Gras. It’s a festival like day. Amar and I go to Brazil
dressed in platinum thongs every year to celebrate it.
RK: Where the hell is your wife anyway? How come she’s never seen with you?
AB: She’s always there with me. You just can’t see her because she’s only as tall as my thigh
bone.
RT: You immoral greedy South Indians and North Indians come to our serene Maharashtra
and contaminate the sanctity of the place. You exploit my state and then you have the gall to
steal our jobs and not speak in Marathi.
RK: I speak great Marathi, for your information. The young chicks of today dig Tamil more,
that’s all.
HT: Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but we have a cracking Headlines Today exclusive news item
to report. “Our Headlines Today camera caught a glimpse of bad boy Salman Khan in one of
his usual deer-kebab restaurants. Images showed a red circular mark around Salman’s waist
which has sparked off a huge controversy. Is he wearing tighter underwear? Or does he try
on Katrina’s panties when she isn’t looking? Keep watching Headlines Today for updates.”
Back to the debate.
RT: What was so inappropriate in what I said anyway? I pointed out the ingratitude of
India’s supposed superstar to Maharashtra which is fully true in every which way possible.
Last time I checked India is a free country. Every citizen has the freedom of speech,
especially if he’s a Thackeray. My words will not be curbed.
HT: Do you then own up to the riots that broke out in the wake of your contentious
statement?
RT: That’s not my fault. I can’t be held responsible if some loons misread me exercising my
freedom of speech. By that logic, would you arrest Mickey Mouse if a thief told you he stole
cheese because he was inspired by him?
AB: I’m a much bigger star than Mickey Mouse. And my daughter in law nibbles a lot better
 - 185 -

than him as well.

RT: Haven’t you nibbled away enough of my Maharashtra? Leave my homeland and go
shack up with your fat slimy buddy. Maharashtra is for Maharashtrians.
RK: Anyone want to see me flip 35 cigarettes into the air and light them with my fart?
HT: Once again, I have to butt in as we’re bringing you a super exclusive Headlines Today
breaking cracking smashing news item. “Shahid Kapoor is a lonely boy on this Valentine’s
Day. Shahid was spotted moping at his best friend Amrita Rao’s flat yesterday night by our
intrepid reporter who was hiding in the bushes. Headlines Today asks its viewers to SMS in
what you think Shahid should do on Valentine’s. SMS A for MASTURBATE, SMS B for
WATCH PORNO, SMS C for MASTURBATE WATCHING PORNO.” Back to the debate.
AB (to RT): Just like you have your freedom of speech, I have mine as well. And if I want to
endorse UP, I will. If I want to endorse a unicorn I will do that as well.
RT: Well, perhaps you should. It has a better chance of winning something than your Amar
Singh.
AB (profoundly): He’s more like a unicorn than any of you will ever know.
RK: Do you know what the problem with the two of you is? You’re hungry for more power.
Be satisfied with what God has given you. Money and power aren’t important in a man’s life,
integrity, honesty, and love is.
AB: How much do you charge for a movie?
RK: About 250 million rupees. And I’ll fucking kill anyone who stands in my way of
earning that.
AB: So much for integrity and love.
RT: Everywhere you look around in my Mumbai there’s either some North Indian or South
Indian dickhead not knowing Marathi driving a taxi and stealing a job. Mumbai is not open to the
world; it’s my home and I will not let anyone assfuck my Mumbai.
HT: I have to stop you right there, Mr. Thackeray, for we have a super duper exclusive mega
cracking back breaking ground shattering Headlines Today news report from one of our reporters.
“Pathetic actor turned mediocre MP Govinda accidentally consumed some stale bhelpuri and as
a result shat in his pants. Headlines Today has exclusive sample of the shit that dripped out of
Govinda’s pants. We will be bringing you a close up of the crap very soon.” Back to the debate.
RT: There’s nothing more to debate. I’m done. I will not stop until I’ve vanquished each and
every non-Maharashtrian from my homeland. And no one can stop me.
RK: Step into my world if you really want to know how powerful Tamil Nadu is. Mumbai will
shiver in the sheer energy of Tamil Nadu. Just like North Indians and Maharashtrians shiver in
the brilliance of South Indians.
AB: I shiver only for UP and my Amar Singh.
RT: Each land for its own people! Jai Hind! Jai Maharashtra!
HT: Don’t be so sure, dear panel members. I believe we can change your outlooks. There’s one
final phase to the debate. Let us now introduce the surprise special guest who has been close to
getting asphyxiated in our big black box, the back from the dead Ms. Helen Keller. Hold the
applause because she’s deaf as fuck and it doesn’t matter to her.
RK: If only she had been half a dozen years younger, I could have made her my heroine. I’ve
never acted with a handicapped chick.
AB (to HT in a sad tone): She’s the special guest? I thought it would have been…Amar…
HT: Look at her; she’s deaf, she’s blind, she’s unattractive. That makes her ultra special, in the
Special Olympics kind of way.
AB: She’s not that eloquent either.
HT: Well, actually, that would make this whole lengthy tirade kind of meet a premature end. So,
for the interest of finishing this bizarre blog post we will have to give her the gift of perfect
eloquent speech.
 - 186 -

RT: Well, as long as she speaks in Marathi, I don’t mind.

(Helen Keller warily moves forward and addresses the debaters present. Sadly, she’s facing the
wrong way)
HK: Let me tell you about my story. I was born blind, deaf, and mute. Still I grew up, wrote
books, and…
AB: Save the story bitch. I trained you in Black, remember?
HK (turns around on hearing the voice, which makes her occasionally deaf, apparently):
Ok, fine. What I’m trying to tell you is that it is ridiculous and inhuman to discriminate each other
on the basis of geographical locations. Skin color, religious beliefs, and sexual preferences,
maybe. But regions? That’s crazy! You’re all from the same nation. Why are you cutting down
that big nation into smaller pieces? Don’t you understand that if, God forbid, terrorists attack
South India, North Indians and Maharashtrians will be affected as well? And vice versa. Do you
want a repeat of Pakistan? And if the states in India are so obstinate about your fellow
countrymen from other states subscribing to your local language and ideology how can you blame
the Americans, the Singaporeans, the Malaysians, the Kenyans, and the British who shoot up
Indians because they feel they are a threat to their culture; Indians go abroad and build temples,
build mosques, community centers, Indian clubs, all kinds of things. And not just Indians from
one state: Maharashtrians, South Indians, North Indians, everyone. So, understand that fraternity
begins at home. Treat your fellowmen right and the world will treat you right. Now, I will
demonstrate via a strong example why geographical discriminations are stupid and unreal.
(Helen Keller approaches the debate table. She touches each panel member using her hand for
about a minute or two and then goes back to her previous position)
Do you see what I did now? I touched the faces of all three of you. And I cannot tell which one of
you came from South India, North India, or Maharashtra. To me, you all felt the same. Well, one
of you needs a shave but I could not tell anything about where you are from. So you see, my
fellow humans, it’s pointless to have this entire debate on whether Mumbai is for Maharashtrians
only, and whether South is for South Indians only. India is one big painting. Don’t cut it up and
destroy its singular beauty.
(Raj Thackeray, Amitabh Bachchan, and Rajnikanth look at each other guiltily. They appear as
though they have understood the folly of their ways and the insignificance of their argument.
Suddenly, their eyes uniformly fall on Helen Keller’s cleavage. Each one looks at the other and
nods)
AB: Well, Helen, we appreciate your help and we do want to believe you.
RT: Although, if we receive a bit more convincing we might just become model citizens.
RK: I’ll second that.
AB: We will all hump you one after the other. You try and tell which dick is from UP, which one
is from Mumbai, and which one from the South. If you feel absolutely no difference then we’ll
believe you, Helen.
(Helen Keller is petrified. She takes a few steps back. Amitabh and Raj surround her. Suddenly,
Rajnikanth inserts his hand into his pants and pulls out a big dick. He detaches it from his body
and throws it at Helen Keller. The dick flies through the air and chases Helen Keller around the
studio in order to hump her. It’s only a matter of time before she is felled by the dick. After
screwing her it returns to Rajnikanth’s hand. He blows at the smoke coming out of the dick hole
and puts it back in his pants. Amitabh and Raj get to work)
RK: Nothing like molesting a woman to get the men of India to forget regional differences and
stick together.
HT: Sorry to interrupt you, sir. Headlines Today Breaking News time! “In what appears to be the
newest controversy hitting the country, the Headlines Today investigative journalists have
uncovered what experts call the Helen Keller gangbang sex tape which shows the disabled bitch
getting it on with two men and one detached penis like there’s no tomorrow. Keep watching
Headlines Today for exclusive footage.”
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(14th February 2008) Spread the VD Message

Love can be infectious. And that’s why if you’ve got a loved one I suggest you make
sure that he/she is infected with a good dose of VD fun today. And I don’t necessarily mean VD
as in rotting dick stinking cunt VD, I’m talking about cheap chocolates, cards with typos, retarded
mixed tape, fucking in the back of the car Valentine’s Day (VD). Although I wouldn’t be
surprised if the two VDs had some kind of connection initially before time took them in
completely opposite directions. There’s a good chance that it was a miscommunication or a
misinterpretation that gave an unpleasant incident romantic connotations.
Hundreds of years ago, on a February 14th, a man was seen unusually perturbed. He
wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t take a shit, and he wouldn’t sleep. But there’s a likelihood that the
three things were correlated and had nothing to do with his primary cause of misery. It even
looked like he had temporarily quit his job of being a veterinarian. Finally, one of his buddies
managed to break through and got him talking. It turned out he had syphilis. That’s why he was
disturbed. That’s why he didn’t even go to work. Understandable. If I learned I had syphilis,
checking dogs for fleas and sticking my finger up their hairy butts would be the last thing on my
list (on second thoughts, even if I didn’t have syphilis that would be the last thing on my to-do list,
right after respecting Paris Hilton).
What worried the man most was that he had infected his new girlfriend, Valentine, as
well and she didn’t know about it. She was a very conservative, unadventurous kind of girl who
would be devastated if she knew her man had not only been sleeping around but infected her too.
Taking his friend’s advice, he bought a box of chocolates, nicked some flowers from the
neighbor’s garden, and went to see his girlfriend in order to break the terrible news to her. The
girlfriend, surprised on seeing the normally hard-assed guy carrying loads of sweet gifts for her,
was clearly over excited.

Girl: You’re so sweet. Chocolates and flowers for me?

Guy: Yes, they are for you. But I…I’ve got something to tell you.
Girl: And it’s dark chocolate as well. And roses. Just the way I like it.
Guy: The thing is I…I’ve got…and I gave you…
Girl: Why, honey? Why have you given me all these gifts?
Guy: VD
Girl: You gave me gifts because it’s VD? What’s VD? Wait…V for Valentine…my name…D
for day…Valentine’s Day?
Guy: I think you mis…
Girl: Oh, I love you so much. I know I always said no to it, but I want you to take me up the ass.
I want it so much. Just for today.
Guy: I wanted to tell you I had infec…up the ass? Did you say you want it up the ass?
Girl: You meant Valentine’s Day, right? VD.
Guy: Sure, that’s what I meant. Now bend down and spread your cheeks.

And then the guy went and told all the other men that if there was anything their
girlfriend didn’t want to do in bed all they had to do was wait till February 14th, get her some
flashy, mushy shit and bam! she would turn into a slut faster than a Hyundai would turn into a
Decepticon. Some men, even now, just to keep the tradition alive perform the ritual of passing on
a venereal disease to their girlfriends and wives on every February 14th. Certain women, too, are
keen on doing their part on this special day.
So if you have a sore on your mouth, ass, cunt or dick, and it burns when you pee don’t
get mad, don’t get paranoid. It just means that somebody out there really loves you.
 - 188 -

(27th February 2008) Fuck the Tiger! Save the Moths!

I owe a lot to TV. Over the years it has given me new ideas, new philosophies, and
new women to fantasize when I’m interrogating my penis in bed. It has given me laughs,
thoughts, ecstasy, and visions into worlds I never knew existed; it enables me to have cute
newsreaders who give the headlines transformed into cute cheerleaders who’re lining up to
give me head in my sound, unperturbed sleep. But most of all, I’m grateful to TV for the
number of heinous acts it has prevented me from doing.
The other day, I was sitting home, polishing my gun (not a masturbation metaphor
this time), dusting my hunting clothes, lighting my cigar, ready to go shoot a tiger-much like
any other sane, common person in India would do sometime during their daily schedule-
when suddenly I saw Rahul Dravid on TV asking me to “save the tiger”. At first, I ignored it
like the small lump that men find near their balls which they mistake for a third testicle.
Then, after a few minutes, I saw Kareena Kapoor, who was probably wearing tiger-skin bra
and panties, request me- and every other person in their hunting clothes watching TV at that
moment- to not go and kill tigers; she, too, wanted me to “save the tiger”. I felt my heart sink;
it was at that moment the scrotal lump became cancerous. I felt disoriented by a moral
conflict. Hunting tigers was, after all, something that I, and every other ordinary Indian
watching TV most of their time, did from childhood onwards; it was, practically, part of our
lives, our Indian tradition. But here was Rahul Dravid- who couldn’t save his place in the one
day cricket team let alone a big striped cat- and Kareena Kapoor -a bitch, who in a sudden
attack of consciousness, wanted to protect a feline warning all of us that if we- sitting home
with a remote in one hand and a gun in the other- continue shooting tigers and killing them-
like we’ve been doing for so long- the tigers were soon going to be extinct. At that moment it
hit me like a big bag of feces at a rock concert, we’ve all been striving and caring for the
wrong things. Fuck world peace! Fuck religious harmony! Fuck protesting against fake-piety!
Fuck fighting against police brutality! Fuck the safety of children! Fuck the safety of
common women! Fuck protecting rape victims (to be fair they’ve been fucked already)! Fuck
fighting against dirty politics! Fuck freedom of speech! Fuck poor people! Fuck the
unemployed! Fuck the illiterate! Fuck the ill! Fuck fighting against terrorism! Fuck resisting
fake-patriotism! And fuck life all together! The only thing that matters in the world is saving
a fierce carnivorous smelly animal- who would by the way rip you into shreds if you get too
close to it- that some guy in a wasted moment named as our national animal.
I exercised my brain a great deal to figure out the kind of things I could do to help
“save the tiger”. I was initially confused when the TV channels went on about saving “the
tiger”. Clearly, they were just talking about one specific tiger. Rahul Dravid said, “Save the
tiger.” Kareena said, “Save the tiger”. Which one you crazy cunts? Which is the tiger we’re
supposed to save? It would have been a lot of help if they said something like, “Save the
tiger- the one named Billu.”
But then I decided, perhaps, I shouldn’t focus on that one tiger everybody was talking
about; if I’m intending to save tigers I should, ideally, make an effort to save all of them. On
doing research I discovered that one of the first steps that needed to be taken to ensure the
protection of tigers was building in them a strong sense of morality and a desire to survive.
To be honest, I kind of get the feeling tigers are not really keen on surviving. So we killed a
whole lot of tigers and brought their numbers down to about 5000. Big fucking deal! So
what? I’m sure they’re aware of a little thing called “banging”. When Hitler murdered six
million Jews they didn’t become endangered in the next four years, and then move on to
complete extinction, did they? No, they fornicated like crazy and are back stronger than ever.
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That’s in fact the story of mankind in general. I’m pretty sure that humans kill more humans
than tigers every day but that hasn’t brought down the staggering rise in population, has it?
You don’t see any celebrities on TV pleading with the world to “Save the mankind”, do you?
So, I say teach the tigers that if you want population then you got to have copulation.
That’s when another thought crossed my mind. What if the tigers are in fact banging
but just not having cubs? Whenever you switch on nature channels there are tigers fucking
each other. If they are horny enough to have sex on video, then having sex is probably not
their big hurdle. It could be hesitancy in conception. And there could be two reasons for that:
a) the tigers are into family planning or b) they are faggots. If the tigers are into family
planning all you have to do is either make an animal version of the movie “Cheaper by the
Dozen” or get them to have a talk with Lalu Prasad. Meanwhile, if the tigers are
homosexually inclined, a completely different route of penetrating the issue has to be taken
up (no pun intended. Who am I kidding! Of course, pun intended). Get a celebrity gay icon
like George Michael or Harsha Bhogle and have them speak to these fudge-packing tigers.
Convince these ass-mining tigers that after spooging into their partner’s anus they should
insert their fists into the rectum, swipe all the tiger semen using one of their paws, and
carefully place it inside a girl tiger’s vagina (stir if necessary). That should knock them up. If
the tiger is a lesbian convince her that tiger cum can be used as a lubricant during dyke sex
and she’s bound to fall for it. If the cubs turn out to be little fags, educate them about this
procedure as well, thereby instilling this paw-cum-pussy ritual as part of the tiger culture.
As I ponder about saving tigers, another startling revelation comes to me. Sure, the
numbers are dwindling when it comes to tigers but what about other creatures. Are we not
being a little specie-ist by only wanting to save tigers? I don’t know about you but I haven’t
been seeing as many moths as I used to a few years ago? Where are they? What’s happening
to all the moths? I’m leaving the lights on outside my home, not using clothes and books for
months at a time but I still don’t see any sign of them. Could it be that the unattractive,
wannabe butterfly-like creature is disappearing right in front of our eyes without our
knowledge? Would we have to satisfy our future generations by showing a color picture of a
moth when they cry “show us the moth, show us the moth”? Well, not if I can help it. I’m not
going to waste one more moment worrying about the stupid tigers who just don’t want to
fuck each other heterosexually. Instead, I’m going to focus my energy on saving the creatures
who really need our help. The moths. I mean, I don’t even think they have penises. Have you
ever seen a moth with a penis? How on earth are they supposed to procreate without penises?
So let’s all forget about the tigers and devise plans to help save the moths. Whatever we can
do: not swat them, not smash them with newspapers, donate sperm, whatever it takes. So, I’m
pleading with you: Fuck the tiger! Save the moths!
 - 190 -

(13th March 2008) Untake My Kidney

I respect nurses. In fact, legend has it that I tit-fucked the nurse who wiped me
clean just a few minutes after I was born. Initially, she had tried to inject me with a
tranquilizer but after I impaled her with my baby-syringe she was quite hospitable. Sadly, I
fucked her jugs so hard that she ended up getting breast cancer and came to be known,
amongst friends and family, as the Lady with the Lump.
Doctors, I don’t care much for. For starters, everyone knows they are actually
shape-shifting skunks in human disguises. Secondly, I don’t trust anyone who sticks a finger
up your ass and calls it part of “routine checkup”. Thirdly, what’s with the white uniforms?
When you’re feeling under the weather and you go to a doctor the least you expect is some
cheery colors. Give me some green, some red, some purple! But no, they have to stand there
looking like the KKK or Catholic priests. And frankly speaking I would be very
uncomfortable standing in front of either with my pants down to my ankles. Another thing
that annoys me about doctors is the number of paperweights they have on their little table or
desk or whatever they want to call it. They shower their little faggot-ass desks with so many
paperweights you’d think a fucking hurricane was going to try and blow the goddamn thing
away.
Then there’s the poking. Oh, the fucking poking. Even if you walk in with a broken
nose the doctor makes you lie down on his creepy little bed which you can only get to if you
climb a pair of retarded steps. Who makes these steps anyway? It’s just two steps. Did
someone walk up to a staircase and nick just a couple of steps while no one was looking? It’s
absolutely retarded. And once you bite down your nervousness and lie down on the creepy
cot with sheets worse than the ones you would find on a brothel-bed, the doctor lifts your
shirt up and starts with the poking. Seriously, has any doctor diagnosed any illness just by
poking a patient all over their torso? It’s fucking insane. The doctor jabs his stupid finger into
your ribcage and asks you like a crackhead if it hurts. Of course, it hurts you crazy piece of
dick, you just poked your goddamn finger into my ribcage!! Does he expect the patient to go:
No, doc, it feels good, could you put one more finger into my ribcage and jab harder? After a
while, the doctor leaves your ribs alone and moves to your tummy and starts poking at all
these really ticklish areas. What does he think you’re there for-a fucking laugh? But you
laugh, of course, and end up looking completely mental.
Another occasion when I find doctors to be total pricks is when you walk in with an
illness, say an attack of super-dysentery, and you walk out without one of your vital organs. I
don’t know about others but something like that would really mess my day up. And the really
annoying part is the excuses they come up with when you find out you’re running on just a
single kidney or half a spinal chord. They would say something like: “I didn’t steal it. It
probably came down during one of your heavy shitting sessions. Did you check your toilet?”
or “It’s possibly the work of a succubus. It’s been medically proven that succubi sometimes
tend to steal organs when you’re asleep.” Perhaps, that’s why when the kidney-stealing
bastard from India, who did over five hundred illegal kidney operations, fondly called by the
media as “Doctor Horror” or “Doctor Kidney” or “Kidney Kingpin” or merely “Doctor Amit
Kumar” was finally caught by the police there was such a ruckus to know what he had to say.
First and foremost, I think it’s swell that everybody still addresses him as doctor. In spite of
stealing over a few hundred kidneys and doing so for the last decade or longer, it’s great we
respect his academic qualifications. I’m sure if Osama Bin Laden gets his masters in business
administration the media would start referring to him as “wanted Islamic fundamentalist
terrorist Osama Bin Laden MBA”.
 - 191 -

But unlike Osama Bin Laden MBA, who’s probably sucking off a grizzly bear
inside some smelly cave in the Middle East, the kidney-stealing motherfucker, “Dr. Amit”, is
in the safe, slimy, hairy, hands of the CBI. That’s a relief, innit? And judging from the
progress they’ve made with some of the other high profile cases like the child-killers from
Nithari, it’s safe to assume the kidney case will be cracked wide open at least a few minutes
after Jesus’ second coming. I do have a short transcript of an interrogation session that took
place between the “alleged” culprit “Dr. Amit” and the CBI. Figure it out for yourself.
(Seated across either side of the table are “Dr. Amit”, the kidney-robbing cunt (KRC), and
two grim-looking CBI officials)
CBI#1: State your name and profession.
KRC: Name-Dr. Amit Kumar. Profession- belly dancer.
CBI#1: I’m sorry, what?
KRC: A belly dancer. I’m a qualified belly dancer and I do gigs regularly in front of
hammered sheikhs in Dubai.
CBI#2: What about the fact that you’re a doctor who steals kidneys?
KRC: Well, I wouldn’t really call that a profession. It’s…more like a hobby, a passion. You
know like gardening, or killing kittens.
CBI#1: Killing kittens? I’ve never heard that before. Massaging crabs, fingering turtles,
frenching weasels sure. But killing kittens, that’s a bit peculiar.
KRC: Hobbies are meant to be peculiar. To each their own, eh?
CBI#2: Is that why unlike other doctors who use their skills to relieve patients of their pain
you choose to exploit them and make profits for yourself?
KRC: I don’t think it’s fair you’re slagging off other doctors like that. I don’t think they
would appreciate you spreading insubstantial rumors about them. As soon as we get our
MBBS we all make a pledge to ourselves that we will, in all capacity, for as long as we can
and as much as we can, exploit people and make good money out of them.
CBI#1: I thought that pledge was just applicable to the members of the parliament.
CBI#2: How did you lure some of these uneducated poor people into getting on your
operating table?
KRC: That was easy. Free liquor and naked pictures of Sonia Gandhi.
CBI#1: You mean they were actually lured by naked pictures of Sonia Gandhi?
KRC: Not exactly. I ran after them with naked pictures of Sonia Gandhi and chased them
into the operating room. Easiest thing in the world.
CBI#2: Aren’t you ashamed of deceiving so many innocent people? Do you know what kind
of mental trauma a person goes through when he’s duped out of one of his internal organs?
Do you know how difficult it is to mend that broken trust in humanity he will foster forever?
KRC: I’m sure it’s nothing a bottle of free booze can’t take care of. I’m a lifesaver not a
people-pleaser. It’s not like I killed anyone. Using the kidneys of your so-called innocent
victims I saved the lives of hundreds of rich, powerful, and influential people. To be honest,
we all know rich people are more useful to society than poor people. So as far as I can see, no
harm done. (looks at CBI#1’s crotch). Actually, I don’t just deal in kidneys. Sometimes,
poorly-endowed men contact me and ask me get them something bigger. A snip there, a cut
here, and voila! You go from Ajay Jadeja to a giant stallion.
CBI#1 (embarrassed): I don’t have a small penis. What the hell are you looking at me for?
KRC: I’m just saying.
CBI#2: Why don’t you leave your mind games for the state police? We’re the CBI. You
don’t want to fuck with us.
KRC: You can’t blame me.
CBI#1: I don’t have a small penis, ok?
 - 192 -

CBI#2: Enough with the banter. Why don’t you just tell us why you got into this business of
kidney trade in the first place? You must have a motive.
KRC: So you want the truth?
CBI#2: That’s right. I want the truth.
CBI#1: I did tell the truth. I don’t have a small penis. Swear to god! Ask my pool-
boy…err…my wife…I meant my wife. ..ask my wife.
CBI#2: Oh, for Holmes’s sake, shut the fuck up! Now, Dr. Amit…
KRC: Fine, then you shall have the truth. Have you ever been discriminated against, Mr.
CBI#2? I’m sure you haven’t. Have you ever felt ignored even when you know you deserve
better? Have you ever experienced the agony caused when fame and recognition go to those
less-deserving than you merely because they sound like they’re more important?
CBI#2: Are you saying you had a rough childhood?
KRC: Not at all. I had a great childhood; cricket, video games, the full package. I was
talking about the fate of kidneys. Can you even comprehend what the kidneys feel like when
other organs are always out there in the news while they just sit there smelling like piss?
Look at Valentine’s Day. It’s practically a day for the heart. People treat the heart with so
much respect and adoration that you would almost think one wouldn’t be able to live without
the heart. Have you ever heard of anyone giving a box of chocolates shaped like a kidney to
someone they love? No! Since time immemorial they have been persecuted against by
humans and other organs alike.
CBI#2: Ok…
KRC: Or just observe the subliminal discrimination embedded in our language. You hear
people compliment each other saying “wow! He’s got brains!” or “he’s got real guts” or
“damn nigger! Look at the ass on that fine bitch”. But you don’t ever hear people go “there
goes the man with the best damn kidneys in the whole of North India”. Are you following
me, Mr. CBI#2? And that’s where I come in. I have fought, and will forever fight, for the
right of the kidneys and keep them in the news as much as I can. I will steal from the haves
and give it to the have-nots. I will eliminate any kind of class-struggle that might exist within
the human body. I’m the anatomical Robin Hood, the nephrological Che Guevara! My
message, my battle, my vision cannot ever be curbed!
(The CBI officials look at the kidney-robbing cunt and remain silent for a few moments)
CBI#2: What a load of crock!
KRC: Alright, alright, you want the real truth? Fine, but you better brace yourself for it. All
you have to do is come behind me, raise my shirt and look at the big scar across my lower
back. Once you see that scar you’ll know everything you need to know about why I did what
I did.
(The two CBI officials look at each other, shrug their shoulders and come up behind the
kidney-robbing cunt. CBI#1 lifts up the cunt’s shirt as CBI#2 leans down to examine his
lower back. Suddenly, with a loud fart, a terribly stinking liquid sprays out of the kidney-
robbing cunt’s ass. The CBI officials fall back in shock and clutch at their faces. “Dr.
Horror” gets to his feet and smirks at the two fallen officers. Then suddenly he shifts his
shape and turns into a large skunk.)
So long, suckers!
(Transcript ends)
Now, don’t start clutching at your kidneys fearing that the Nephrological Che
Guevara is still at large. He was missing for about a week after he escaped from the custody
of the CBI. But he’s back in the claws of the law now. A breathless, beaten, knackered Dr.
Amit came crawling back to the CBI seeking refuge and apologizing for trying to escape.
Apparently, Sreesanth is after him with some kind of a proposition.
 - 193 -

(29th March 2008) The Makerighter

In a world where trivial news reports like an effort by law-keepers and
authorities to make the merciless rape and murder of a 15-year-old girl appear like a drug-
induced drowning accident, or a woman, accused of being a witch, tied to a tree beaten to a
pulp by a group of villagers, or kids committing suicide out of stress and depression mar the
television viewing of common people who, after an invigorating day of meaningless work in
front of a computer screen, are sitting with a bowl of popcorn eagerly waiting to see which
celebrity is going out with who, or what new ridiculously expensive gadget is out in the
market that only rich people can afford, or the contestants of reality shows begging and
pleading, like a gay, crippled Jew on his way to the extermination chamber, to vote for them
and keep them on the show, or the latest steaming cauldron of bollocks and shit that’s
promoted as “a different, entertaining, funny movie”, there’s just one man who genuinely
cares for the interests of the common people; in a world where uneducated, illiterate hobos
with no money are nothing more than eyesores there’s just one man who stands tall and vows
to make things change; in a world where some find it wrong that young girls who’re in their
early teens are lured into “the entertainment industry” and sexualized prematurely, there’s
just one man who stands up and does the right thing; in a world where so many things are
wrong, there’s just one man who’s prepared to make them right. He is THE
MAKERIGHTER!
Following is an interview with The Makerighter (TM) conducted by a young Citizen
Journalist named Vatty Regina (RV).

RV: Firstly, Mr. Makerighter, I would like to thank you for agreeing to do this interview.
TM: That’s quite alright, Ms. Vatty Regina. I’m only pleased to be given the opportunity to
voice my opinions.
RV: Let’s get straight to some of the biggest problems that people all across the world are
facing. And then you can tell the world how you plan to make them right.
TM: I think I know what you’re going to start with. It’s the same in all interviews. So here
you go: the solution is gently insert a very thin needle, bait it, and then pull it out.
RV: Oh, is that some kind of sewing tip?
TM: No, that’s the solution to getting out a tapeworm that has crawled up your piss-hole.
RV (shocked): Is that a common problem that people request a solution for?
TM: Yes. That and mysterious bunny semen found on pillow covers. Which is not a big
problem as it can be easily washed off with a mug of boiled bear shit.
RV (unsettled): Good to know. Anyway, that’s not the question I intended to start the
interview with. I wanted to bring your attention to a recent incident where a woman in Bihar,
in India, was tied to a tree, subjected to having her hair cut off, and then paraded through a
village all because the villagers believed that she was a witch. Mr. Makerighter, how would
you make sure that terrifyingly appalling incidents like this don’t happen again?

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fEI6qeOk0pY )

TM: I agree with you, it is appalling. This is yet another case of what can happen when
dangerous and misleading superstitions survive in rural areas. Someone has to educate these
villagers about certain facts. Fact number one: there are two kinds of witches- good witches
and evil witches.
RV: Huh?
 - 194 -

TM: That’s right. Good witches are generally super sexy and give you an erection within ten
seconds after seeing them. For e.g. Hermione from Harry Potter or Wendy the Good Little
Witch. Evil witches on the other hand are ugly, have considerable facial hair, and smell like
giraffe fart. For e.g. The Wicked Witch of the West or Hillary Clinton.
RV: Ok…
TM: Now, clearly, as we saw in the video, the woman who was beaten up is an evil witch.
And the villagers are trying to rid her off her powers by tying her to a tree, beating her, and
cutting her hair off. That’s where the lack of education comes in. Anyone who has been to a
good university knows that the best and only way to disable an evil witch is by burning her
nipples with an oxy-acetylene torch and then rubbing phlegm on them. And that’s how I
would make it right.
RV (disturbed): That’s…interesting, Mr. Makerighter. Let’s move onto another grave issue
troubling humanity: Global Warming. How can we combat the big GW?
TM: As we’re all aware, most of our problems are self-created. And once they get out of
hand, like global warming has, it is each person’s responsibility to make amends and do what
our previous generations failed to do.
RV (surprised): You’re right.
TM: And that’s why the only way to end global warming is to sodomize Al Gore.
RV: I’m sorry, what?
TM: Sodomize him. You know, get in there through the back door of Gore, pulverize it,
leave some remnants, make it wider…
RV: I get the point but how in the world would ass-raping the world’s most potent force
against global warming prevent global warming?
TM: I shall explain. Bear with me because I’m about to get a bit scientific. You see, when Al
Gore’s rectum is torn apart, and contact is made with his colon, a green colored anti-toxic
vapor, called goreboxide, is released through his nostrils. These vapors combine with the
atmosphere and gradually begin to repair the damaged ozone layer. Pretty soon, before you
know it, you got the glaciers back, you have your SUVs out on the road again, and Elvis
comes out of hiding. And that’s how I would make it right.
RV (stunned): I…think we better move on. Do you have any remedies for the growing
unrest in Tibet and the friction between the Dalai Lama and China?
TM: You know, Nelson Mandela once said “If people want freedom…
RV (interrupts): Give it to them? They’ll take it no matter what? It’s a sign of growth?
TM (puzzled): No, he said “If people want freedom, all you have to do is get a bloke to ride
on a horse bare-naked.” And in this case, it’s the Dalai Lama who has to take up that task.
RV (getting annoyed): So your solution to the Tibet-China face-off is to have…
TM: The Dalai Lama ride bare-naked on a horse, that’s right. And that’s how I would make
it right.
RV: I’ll try and pass the message. Why don’t I ask you something about the young people of
today? How would you help those youngsters who are bogged down by the pressure and
stress of today’s world where they look around and see millionaires and billionaires who’re
younger than them? How would you help those youngsters who consider suicide when the
stress of daily life becomes too much to handle?
TM: Well, that would completely depend on how they plan to top themselves off.
RV: I don’t follow.
TM (quizzical smile): I can’t help them unless I know what method they are planning to
adopt, can I? If a kid is planning to hang himself, I can maybe help him out by getting some
rope, maybe kicking the stool away from under his feet. Or, if slitting wrists is their passion, I
can help them out by finding a strong vein or even get them really, really sharp stuff.
 - 195 -

Swallowing blades, meanwhile, requires…

RV (butts in): I think that’s more than enough help to last for sometime. Let’s talk about a
longstanding predicament afflicting humanity: poverty. How would you eliminate a
formidable affliction like poverty?
TM: I think it’s very important to improve common people’s attitude towards their less
fortunate fellow beings. Poor people are not to be pitied or felt sorry for. That’s not the
treatment they deserve from their own fellow humans. You have to treat them with utter
contempt and pure disgust.
RV (upset): What are you talking about?
TM: Clearly, the world would be a better place without poor people in it. We’re all thinking
it. I wouldn’t administer a method as grave as executing people stricken with poverty but I
would suggest chopping the poor men’s balls off and severely damaging poor women’s
uteruses with a monkey-wrench. They just don’t learn that if you’re poor you’re not supposed
to fuck. All they’re supposed to do is wait for death and not reproduce more problems for the
rich people of the world, the people we really need. And that’s how I would make it right.
RV (controlling her temper): Ok, Mr. Makerighter, we’ve almost come to the end of this
very…intriguing…interview. I have one final problem to pose before you. A recent dreadful
incident of a British teenage girl’s rape and murder, that took place in India, curled the skin
of the Indian women, and women all over the world, and has once again sparked off a debate
on the issue of how men perceive and treat women. The police’s attempt to cover up the rape
and murder, in order to safeguard the “Goa is Paradise” myth, added to the issue of
chauvinism, patriarchy, and the safety of girls and women convey a chilling message to
young girls like me who would like to believe the world has become a more civilized place at
least when it comes to gender equality.

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yIHt6-
m31p4&eurl=http://thedailycolumns.wordpress.com/ )

TM (looks pained): Frankly speaking, when certain men commit such despicable acts, it fills
me with shame as well. In fact, it’s a shame that all men, all over the world, have to share.
There are certain things that need to be taught to young boys who are growing up to become
the men of tomorrow.
RV (impressed by TM’s concern): I believe you’re absolutely right. They need to be taught
that all women deserve respect and…
TM (nonplussed): Respect? What’re you talking about?
RV: What do you mean what am I talking about? What are you talking about? What did you
mean when you said there are things the boys of today need to be taught?
TM: I was talking about the perfect way to dispose of a girl’s corpse after raping her
thoroughly. That’s something young boys have to be taught and educated about so that when
they grow up and start raping, they don’t get caught. It fills me with shame when I see rapists
getting caught. One of the biggest reasons for the rising rape-and-murder-rate across the
world is the discovery of the bodies of these brutally-raped girls. If the body is not found, it
just adds to the missing-person-rate and that’s not that bad.
RV (rising from her seat, completely pissed off): Ok, that’s it, Mr. Makerighter, enough is
enough. This is completely inappropriate behavior on your part and I have to say I’m deeply
offended by your remarks. Being a strong, self-respecting fifteen-year-old girl myself, I’m
totally insulted by your comments.
TM (leers at RV, licks his lips): Oh, you’re only fifteen. You know, you look a lot older
 - 196 -

when you’re angry and screaming. I like a feisty girl.

RV: That’s it. This interview is over.
(Vatty Regina turns around to leave when suddenly, like a leopard pouncing on a gazelle,
Makerighter lunges himself onto Vatty Regina. He pins her down using his strong arms and
mounts her. Shaking one hand free, he tears open her skirt, unzips his pants, and commences
the rape. After two minutes, he gets off the weeping Regina, pulls his pants up again, and
gives an accomplished stretch of his arms. He then takes out a small bag marked “paint
thinner” from his pocket and pours it on the helpless Regina’s tattered body. He then
produces a matchbox out of his shirt pocket and lights a flame. He steps back, drops the lit
match and watches the young body of Regina burn wildly into a pile of ashes. He waits until
the fire goes out and then, using a dust-sweeper he takes out of his back pocket, brushes all
the ashes into a plate he produces out of his side pocket. With a deep sigh, he lifts his head
and pours the ashes into his mouth, guzzling the fleshy, charred remains of Vatty Regina.
When every speck of her burned body is inside his stomach, he takes out a small bottle
marked “bunny semen” from his shoulder pocket and downs it. He burps.)
TM: And that’s how I would make it right.
 - 197 -

(10th April 2008) Paradise Fucked Up

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And Hooters.
Unfortunately, on the second day, one of the Hooters girls caught a nasty pussy rash (God
knows from where!) that turned her twat bluer than an Eskimo’s testicles. This upset the
Almighty and filled his mind with a dread blacker than Beyonce’s asshole. He realized he
had to eradicate the genital warts and all the blackness from the pure white paradise. So God
created Africa.
And the Lord of the Worlds, who after twenty minutes got tired of looking at girls
with big tankers, felt like he needed more to satisfy his sybaritic inclinations. So, he the
merciful, the compassionate created a few beasts to torture and kill. And God called the cow
a mongoose and the rabbit an orangutan. Later, when he checked the encyclopedia he felt a
bit daft and corrected himself. And God furiously declared, “Let no man ever actually use an
encyclopedia except to act as firmaments hiding snogging lesbians in dusty libraries.”
And the anachronistic Lord thought unto himself, “Now that I have mentioned the
word man I better create a figure out of flesh to go with it.” At first God considered creating
Man in his own image and after his likeness but when he really gave it some thought he
found it a bit gay. And so, God walked up to a nearby bison, broke off its lengthy genitalia
and created Man out of it. And the Lord, yet again speaking to himself loudly, solely for the
purpose of narration in case textual records of his actions were ever going to be created in the
times to come, bellowed into the atmosphere, “My creation, the Man, will have dominion
over everything on earth including fish, fowl, foal, and fungi. Everything except his penis
size. That’s pure destiny.” And God assigned the Man with the task of maintaining his
gardens, his accounts, and getting a new couch.
On the fourth day God detected inexplicable movements behind the green bushes he
created. On parting the foliage, God discovered his favorite creation, the Man, tapping a
chimpanzee’s red ripe ass. Fearing the wrath of the furious Lord, the chimp ran off holding
its swollen anus while the Man stood guiltily before his heavenly father with a boner the size
of a stillborn baby. And God said, “Man Alive! That’s mental. Even I’m an inch shorter!”
And God pulled out a photograph of Michael Jackson and held it before the Man which
deflated the Man’s engorgement. With a paternal chide and an attack of pox, God dismissed
the Man from his sight warning him to focus on his duties rather than engaging in carnal sins.
On the fifth day, after a good time at Hooters, the Almighty walked into his backyard
to witness a sight that gnawed at his eyes like Paris Hilton on a scrotal sac. The vertically
placed Man had before him a doubled over St. Gabriel choking on a ball-gag. Fearing the
infernal rage of the compassionate Lord, St. Gabriel ran off, his wings stuck together, holding
his swollen halo while the Man stood guiltily before the Supreme Creator with a spiked ring
around his tumescence. And God said, in unbridled anger, “I assigned you specific tasks to
complete. Why are you acting like a dick?” And the Man, hesitantly, spoke, “You’re the one
who created me from a bison penis.” The Lord snarled at his most superior creation, struck
him with a temporary attack of plague, and returned to his heavenly den.
On the sixth day, God summoned his most intelligent creation, the Man, and
announced that he had decided to present him with a mate. Apparently, many beasts, saints,
and angels, including St. Peter had lodged a complaint that the Man was forcibly trying to
gain access through their “Pearly Gates”. And God produced from a nearby cup a pair of
beaver balls which he raised into the air and proclaimed, “These balls are really squishy.”
And Lo, there was a hot naked ho with tits that stood up like a pedophile’s knob at a Harry
Potter convention. And God said, “Take your mate into your bedroom and bonk her as you
 - 198 -

please. And by the way that lamp by your bed is just a plain old lamp. It doesn’t have a hidden
camera or anything. Now, go, bonk.” And the Man took his mate whom he named Wo-man
(Whore of Man) and followed the word of God.
The weeds in the garden began to grow, and the beasts went hungry as the Man,
preoccupied with getting his hole, failed to meet the daily duties the Lord had demanded of him.
God, receiving the news of his greatest creation’s negligence, even after providing him with a
knockout chick created out of beaver balls, fumed like a Muslim fundamentalist who misheard a
Math teacher saying “Profit and Loss” as “Prophet doesn’t floss”. The Almighty admonished the
Man and banned him from engaging in any further exercises of his genitals for the day. The Lord
reminded the Man that his new couch was coming in today and he required the Man to be highly
alert and keep even a speck of dust off the brand new couch.
As the seventh day approached its end, the merciful Lordy Lord returned after an
agonizing and painstaking passage of time he spent at the Theater in Heaven watching the movie
10,000 B.C. The Almighty trundled into his bedroom in the cool of the night and witnessed a
sight more shocking than an x-ray of Jay Leno’s head. There the Man was spreading the sweaty
legs of his Whore and thrusting hard like a Celibate Hindu Swami on his deathbed. But what
stopped God in his tracks was where the Man was boning the Woman: right on top of God’s
brand new couch. The Man pumped away furiously as the Woman’s legs went higher in the air.
Suddenly, the angry Lord’s voice rumbled through the room, “You are fucking on my couch even
though I commanded you to take utmost care of it. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to
sit on that couch?” And then the Man and his whore jumped off the stained couch and cowered in
fear. The Man, in a quavering voice, said, “My dick beguiled me.”
The enraged Almighty gave a scornful look at the Man and said unto him, “For directly
disobeying me I curse you with premature ejaculation and early baldness.” The Lord turned to
face the Woman and said unto her, “I shall greatly multiply your sorrows and your predicaments.
You will not even get a proper desk job until you put a slimy smelly cock in your mouth and suck
on it like a hungry vampire bat on Oprah Winfrey’s black tits.” The Man and the Woman glared
at God before being officially banished from God’s sight. After he kicked them out, the Lord
burned the couch to ashes using an inflammable mixture of goat urine and salamander cum.
The next day God woke up to an ever-increasing din outside his palatial palace in
Heaven. He walked over to his balcony and saw a large group of assorted media personnel lined
outside his residence with huge cameras pointed at him. One of the reporters screamed through all
the boisterousness, “What do you have to say against the charges of sexual harassment leveled
against you by the Man and the Woman? Did you really harass them? What is your side of the
story?” The Almighty shuddered in fear and ran back into his den, confused and conflicted by a
flurry of queries. He knew there was only one thing he could do.
The Almighty spoke into the phone, “I don’t know what to do. You have to help me
out. Those ruthless carnivores are asking for an explanation from my side. What do I do? I can’t
just tell them I banished those two horny freaks because they had sex on my couch. I’m the
Almighty, for crying out loud.” On the other end of the line was God’s long time best buddy,
Satan, an acclaimed writer of such TV shows as “I Love Lucifer”, “Everybody Loves Hot Lava”,
and “The Ellen DeGeneres Show.” Satan thought for a while and responded with nothing but a
soft hum. God, nervous like hell, said, “Satan, are you listening to me? I’m under siege here.
What do I tell the damn press?” Satan pondered for a few more minutes before he said, “Well,
I’m currently working on something for FOX Network. But I suppose I can let you use it to
extricate yourself from this mess.” God, eager for a solution, exclaimed, “That’s great. Let me
hear it.” Satan exhaled gently and said, “Ok, there’s this forbidden tree and a talking snake,
right…”
 - 199 -

(19th April 2008) The Life of Karkodian: A Timeline

“Karkodian is you, Karkodian is me

Karkodian is the man we all are, but pretend not to be”

(quote by Nelson Mandela’s bastard white child, Milky Mandela, 1991)

August 27th 1950 -A lady notices a slight irritation between her legs and sees a puny,
scarlet, icky figure lying upside down. She, her husband, and strangely, their plumber, decide
to wash the scarlet, icky figure and raise it together. After raising it together a few feet above
the ground it slips and falls onto the ground with only a little head injury (mainly because it
had only a little head). The scarlet, icky thing is named Karkodian.

January 11th 1952-Karkodian (or K) shows early signs of baldness on his tiny injury-
sustained head.

April 23rd 1953-K falls into the toilet while attempting to get potty trained.

October 12th 1957-K stops breastfeeding and changes to bottled milk.

January 28th 1958-K goes back to breastfeeding when he finds bottled milk requires
constant manual replenishment.

February 10th 1958-K’s mother dies. Doctors diagnose it as a result of total lack of lactose
and calcium in her body. K decides to write a poem as a tribute to his mother.

March 5th 1959-K finishes the poem. It goes: “Mama, you’re dead.”

June 19th 1959-K falls into the toilet again while going potty.

December 25th 1959-K celebrates Halloween for the first and last time by dressing up as an
overweight Jesus Christ.

May 18th 1961-K’s father and the plumber officially get married. K is the best man and
mysteriously finds himself next morning in bed with the minister who did the wedding.

May 19th 1961-K doesn’t return the minister’s calls.

July 27th 1963-K learns to read and write thereby causing a factual error in this piece where
it was said earlier that he wrote an elegy for his dead mother when he was 9.

September 13th 1964-K is chucked out of primary school when he misspells the word
“Hello” as “P-A-R-A-P-S-Y-C-H-O-L-O-G-I-S-T”.
 - 200 -

January 8th 1965-K looks to break into the business of peddling drugs on the street. He’s
fired within 10 minutes after he started yelling, “Drugs! Get your hot hallucinatory drugs and
cocaine here!”

June 14th 1966-K has his first crush. It’s apple flavored.

July 12th 1966-K joins the “Sodomy Survivors Support Group” and finds out that the head
counselor is the minister whose calls he hadn’t returned. K gets the hell out of there.

February 6th 1967-K finishes reading his first ever English book. He can’t stop talking
about what a great novel “Mary had a little lamb” is.

April 7th 1968-K joins the army but he quits when he finds out that the drill Sergeant is the
minister whose calls he hadn’t returned.

November 14th 1969-K participates actively in the protest and rallies of the Second Wave
Feminists against the demeaning attitude of men towards women.

November 15th 1969-K is beaten and thrown out from the group after he looks up the skirt
of the President of the Protest group.

March 22nd 1970-K learns how to pee standing up.

August 16th 1970-K lands a job as one of the actors in a pantomime.

August 18th 1970-K is fired from the job for being too taciturn.

October 11th 1970-K watches his first porno flick. He can’t stop talking about how hot “The
Powerpuff Girls” are.

February 10th 1971-K writes a second poem in tribute to his mother’s memory. It goes :
“Mama, you’re still dead.”

July 14th 1971-K’s father and the plumber die in an unfortunate plumbing accident when his
father’s pipe got stuck in the plumber’s basement. K is heartbroken.

July 15th 1971-K gets over the heartbreak after he watches another round of “The Powerpuff
Girls”.

August 30th 1973-K gets a job as a ranger in a petting zoo.

September 1st 1973-K quits when he finds out the place wasn’t exactly what he thought the
name suggested.

December 17th 1973-K’s excited about shopping for Christmas gifts but drops the idea
when he realizes he has no friends or family or money.
 - 201 -

March 25th 1974-K moves to Cali hoping to land a spot in some movie and make it big in
Hollywood.

April 19th 1974-A director promises K a chance to act alongside Woody Allen.

April 20th 1974-K runs from the sets of the movie screaming when he finds out that Woody
Allen is actually the screen name of a gay porn actor and the movie a porno entitled “The
Powerbuff Boys”.

February 16th 1975-K loses his virginity.

February 18th 1975-K finds it under his couch.

January 9th 1976-K takes a staunch decision to become a spiritualist. He takes a vow to
strive for complete celibacy and holiness.

January 30th 1976-K sacks the whole spiritualist thing when he finds out the word
“celibacy” does not have anything to do with “celebrity”.

February 10th 1977-K accidentally knocks down a blind girl, pretends it’s somebody else
who knocked her down, helps her to her feet and manages to get his first ever date.

February 11th 1977-K has a not so impressive first date when he takes the blind girl to an
art museum.

February 12th 1977-K gets the blind girl a looking glass as a gift to make up for the terrible
first date.

February 14th 1977-K gets dumped by the blind girl who’s freaked out after he gifts her a
card written in Braille saying “Share a special VD with me.”

July 16th 1980-K wakes up questioning his sexuality and sexual preferences after he finds
Clint Eastwood steaming hot.

August 4th 1980-K is still worried about it.

September 11th 1980-Ditto.

October 21st 1980-K stops worrying about it when he understands that every breathing thing
in California finds Clint Eastwood steaming hot.

June 13th 1981-K manages to get a job as a cabdriver.

June 14th 1981-K relinquishes the job after he remembers he doesn’t know how to drive.

November 28th 1982-K attains semi-baldness.

 - 202 -

September 23rd 1983-K becomes so desperate for money he decides to mug somebody. K
has a humiliating experience when the two people whom he mugs turn out to be nothing
more than a pair of mannequins.

March 5th 1984-K thinks he’s Hispanic.

March 8th 1984-K realizes he’s neither exotic looking nor can he speak Hispanic.

July 28th 1984-K thinks he’s black.

August 2nd 1984-K realizes he can neither pull off an anorak nor does he have a big dick.

October 17th 1986-K decides to take a sabbatical from his unemployed, misery-stricken life
and joins a monastery.

November 19th 1986-K attains completion of the process of balding.

January 1st 1987-K comes out of the monastery a reformed man with newly defined goals
and ambitions. He decides his sole ambition in life is to one day be able to pronounce the
word ‘tsk’.

April 4th 1987-K believes that he has attained the power to levitate.

June 19th 1987-K becomes conscious of the real meaning of levitation and how it involves
raising material objects using mental powers and not lifting stuff using only one hand.

July 27th 1987-K tries to pronounce ‘tsk’ but cannot go beyond ‘t’.

September 5th 1987-K tries to pronounce ‘tsk’ and ends up mispronouncing it as

‘parapsychologist’.

January 1st 1988-K abandons the spiritual way of living after realizing that being a monk is
not so different from being a monkey except monkeys get to eat a lot more bananas and do a
lot more humping.

May 7th 1989-K has a yearning to become a father.

August 12th 1989-K runs out of adoption agencies to beg for a chance for him to be a father
after the last one in the city rejects him for being a total loser.

October 14th 1989-K decides to stop being a total loser and goes around the streets asking
women if they want to get impregnated by him.

March 29th 1990-K finally gets somebody who acquiesces to his request of helping him
father a child.

March 30th 1990-K runs out of the motel screaming when, on the night of the impending
impregnation, he realizes that the willing candidate is the selfsame minister who had married
 - 203 -

his father and the plumber and whose calls he hadn’t returned. K discards desires of
fatherhood.

February 1st 1991-K decides to cease his life of anonymity and force his way into the world
of the famous. K makes up his mind to enter the Guinness Book of World Records.

May 3rd 1991-K tries to produce the world’s longest fart but falls a good thirty minutes
behind the record.

September 17th 1991-K tries to generate the world’s loudest fart but falls short of the record
by a dozen decibels.

April 30th 1992-K competes for the title of the world’s baldest man but is disqualified when
the judges adjudicate the single hair behind K’s ear as a head-hair.

January 31st 1993-K builds the world’s largest toilet. K is informed by the Guinness Book
authorities that the adjudication will be done in less than three weeks.

February 9th 1993-K dies a tragic death when he falls into the toilet while going potty.

February 19th 1993-K’s body is found floating on the toilet water alongside blackened
pieces of K’s own turd when the Guinness Book people pay a visit to his apartment.

February 23rd 1993 (Morning)-K is given a decent funeral by the Guinness Book
authorities. K’s toilet, though found to be the biggest in the world, fails to make it into the
Guinness Book as the judges have no proof that it was in fact made by K.

February 23rd 1993 (Afternoon)-K’s ghost comes from the other side of the world to haunt
the guests at the funeral party but flees with all its ghostly might when he finds out that the
funeral is being conducted by the minister whose calls he hadn’t returned.
 - 204 -

(25th April 2008) Admissions Open to The Rape Academy

The Rape Academy of India (RAI), in coalition with its brother branch, the
Indian Institute of Molestation (IIM), invites applications for Diploma Courses in Rape and
Molestation, Sodomy and Murder, and also a 3 month certificate course in Hypocrisy.
Applicants are requested to forcibly collect a pair of white panties from the assaulted body of
a strange helpless girl and affix on it, using fresh semen, three attested copies of passport size
nude photos of the helpless girl’s pubis and sent it to the address given below:

To,
Mr. Horny Man,
The Rape Academy of India,
Any street,
Any city,
Any where,
All the time- 247365

About The Rape Academy of India

The Rape Academy of India is an autonomous rape institution recognized by the

Government of India. It comprises the Indian Institute of Molestation (IIM) and the Centre
for Sodomy (CFS), two institutions highly regarded for their major contributions in the fields
of physical harm and sexual violation of women. The Rape Academy of India is a
professional rape centre which offers a variety of services in forced sex and assault of women
and young girls. It is also the only institution in India that does not follow the regressive idea
of affirmative action and gives an equal chance to rapists from all walks of life based purely
on the merit of their raping.

Courses

1) Diploma in Rape and Molestation: The R&M Course is a full time, post-graduate diploma
programme. It aims at giving young and aspiring rapists a professional outlook on the highly
competitive field of harming women. The Rape Academy arms the young dicks with the
expertise and skills needed to break into the pussy of unsuspecting bitches and smoothly
leave the scene without getting caught. Students will also be educated on the history of rape,
some of the great names in the field of rape, and also the latest innovations that has made
itself inevitable in the arena of rape. Many renowned politicians, police officers, and various
media personnel will visit the Rape Academy from time to time and conduct various rape
workshops and educational seminars on pussy-bashing.
Electives: Amputee rape, Relative Rape, Date Rape, Moving Car Rape, Preteen Rape, and
Gang Rape.
Eligibility: Anyone with a dick can apply.
Career Opportunities: Unemployed bum, Horny Loner, BPO Cab Driver, Pervert Neighbor,
Lecherous Servant, Police Officer, Politician, Bollywood, Tourist Guide, Shack Owner,
Teacher, etc.
 - 205 -

2) Diploma in Sodomy and Murder: The S&M Course is a specific course meant for students
that are strictly into ass ramming. It is designed to give a thorough knowledge in the field of
ass raping and the subsequent slaughter of the victim. There is a strong emphasis on student
performance evaluation through projects and practical assignments and on research work by
the students themselves. The first semester provides a comprehensive perspective of asshole
ripping and butt cumming; the second semester is project-based with hands-on production
and execution to provide knowledge that is essential in the field of sodomy and murder.
Highly esteemed members of several rape organizations like the ‘Blow Job Pirates’ and the
‘Salacious Indians Violating SExy North Americans’ visit the Academy to give lectures and
narrate dick raising stories of real sodomy and murder.
Electives: Tourist Sodomy, Roadside Sodomy, Public Sodomy, Workspace Sodomy,
Backseat Sodomy, Dead body Sodomy, Bludgeoning, Stabbing, and Drowning to Death after
Sodomy.
Eligibility: Anyone with a dick or a sharp object can apply.
Career Opportunities: Member of the Parliament, Government Official, Minister’s Son,
Bollywood, Political Kingpins etc.

3) Certificate Course in Hypocrisy: A three month short-term course in saying one thing and
doing another. Students will be taught to engage in several hypocritical activities like
salivating after and secretly harassing secretaries and interns while publicly denouncing
women who dress in anything other than a ten-layered sari and a full-sleeved blouse.
Students will also be given training in lying through their teeth and acting like a complete
shameless retarded motherfucker. They will also be given training to appear on news
channels and compare cheerleaders to bargirls while jacking off on the side leering at the
reporter’s cleavage.

Motto of the Rape Academy: An unraped bitch is a terrible thing to waste.

Some Useful links

http://www.ibnlive.com/news/mentally-challenged-girl-raped-culprit-absconding/63236-
3.html

http://www.ibnlive.com/news/another-minor-raped-in-delhi-police-tightlipped/63291-3.html

http://www.ibnlive.com/news/constable-friend-held-for-raping-minor-in-delhi/63914-3.html
 - 206 -

(12th May 2008) The 2008 Motherfucker Awards

Retards, fuckballs, and auto-fellators welcome to the most highly anticipated
event of this decade- no this century, fuck it, this millennium- the 2008 Motherfucker Awards
where the MFG (Motherfuckers Guild) honor the year’s most noted and celebrated
motherfuckers. Now, without further ado, your host for the evening: Dyke Queen Ellen
DeGeneres.

(Muff Digger Ellen walks onto the stage wearing a man’s shirt and man’s trousers. She’s
also sporting a lobster in her pants just to accentuate the bulge. Her fifty-year old crinkly
face glows in the dimly lit hall like ET’s vagina)

Ellen: Hey folks! Did I tell you why I hate the navy?

(The desperate, lonely, brainless women in the audience go nuts and start applauding)

Ellen (smiles annoyingly): Because I’m allergic to semen.

(The audience falls silent)

Ellen: Ladies, do you know what genre of music appeals to me the most?

(The worthless bitches in the audience howl and scream again)

Ellen (smiles annoyingly): I love Cuntry Music! By the way, did I tell you guys that my
favorite band is the Dixie Chicks?!

(The audience falls silent again)

Ellen: I was walking my adopted dog the other day when I saw this old lady being
mugged…and let’s DANCE!!!

(Some gay pop song starts playing and Ellen dances her awkward irritating self into the
crowd. She gets real close to the women in the audience, rubs on their boobs, takes whiffs of
their scent, leers at them, and finally returns to the stage)

Ellen: Dang, you girls smell real nice (smiles annoyingly).

Guy in the Audience: For Christ’s sake! Stop trying to be funny you useless cunt! Get on
with the fucking show you boring piece of clit!

Ellen: Sir, you are a hater. You persecute me because I’m gay. You have no idea about the
hardships I have to endure daily because I’m different.

Guy in the Audience: No you fucking bitch, I hate you because you are annoying and your
jokes are as funny as a paraplegic baby. And, fuck your hardships you cunt, you’re fucking
Portia De Rossi. I wouldn’t mind getting brain tumor if it meant I could hit that bitch all night
 - 207 -

till I fucking died. So shut the fuck up and get on with the fucking show before I shove my
cock into your throat and choke you to death, you ass-eating dyke-bitch.

Ellen (introspecting): I needed that. Now, fags, ladies and gentlemen to present the first
award of the evening let me welcome the President of the United States, Mr. George Bush.
(Bush walks onto the stage escorted by two well-oiled men wearing thongs)

George Bush: Before I proceed with the announcement of the winner I would just like to
make a few public service announcements. The global economy is being affected adversely
by the greed and selfishness of all the people in India and China. It is because they eat like fat
hogs that a food crisis exists in this world today. Some of them should just stop eating so our
fat little tubs of shit, our bloated-ass children, can get a fourth helping. I would also like to
state that the cause of the cyclones in Myanmar is the staggering number of farts that the
Burmese people are producing. The little farts have coalesced into a big wind which
subsequently became the cyclone. When you live in a global village you always have to think
of other people as well.
Anyhow, let me get down to business. For his role in sheltering his offspring from the
predatory males of the world and for showering his child with so much love that it manifested
itself into the unification of his spermatozoa with her ovum producing a bunch of zygotes
over a period of twenty four years, the MFG is proud to present the 2008 Motherfucker
Father of the Year award to the second most famous Austrian in the world after Hitler,
narrowly pushing Arnold Schwarzenegger into third place, let’s give it up for, Mr. Josef
Frtizl.

Mr. Fritzl could not make it to the show so Mr. Billy Ray Cyrus will be accepting the award
on his behalf.

Billy Ray Cyrus: All I want to say is that he truly deserves this award and I hope one day I
can at least be half as good a dad as he is to his daughter/grand-daughter/wife/lover.
 - 208 -

Ellen: Hey folks, do you know what my favorite holiday spot in the world is?

(The people in the crowd yawn)

Ellen: Va-China. (smiles her irritating smile)

(The guy in the audience motions to his dick and suggests that he’s going to choke Ellen with
it. Ellen quickly drops the idea to tell more jokes and moves on to the next award)

To present the next award coming all the way from his own rectum, let’s welcome Abhishek
Bachchan.
(Abhishek walks onto the stage escorted by his wifey Aishwarya Rai Bitchan)

Abhishek: Hello people. I was born rich but I pretend to be self-made. I act like shit but
pretend to be the best. I beat my wife but pretend like I don’t. I have my head up my ass but
pretend it’s just a hemorrhoid. But enough about me and my family, I’m here with my lovely
wifey to present the 2008 Most Boring Blogger Motherfucker of the Year award. And the
award goes to (reads the toilet paper in his hand) Mr. Amitabh Bachchan, my Pa!! I love you
dad! You deserve it.
 - 209 -

Even though my dad couldn’t be here because of a last minute business trip he had to take
with Uncle Amar Singh he is however going to talk to us live via satellite. Go ahead dad.

Amitabh: Thank you, Abhishek. I dedicate the award to you sonny. You’re the best.

Abhishek: No, pa, you’re the best!

Amitabh: No, sonny, you’re the best!

Abhishek: No, pa, you’re the best!

Guy in the Audience: Why don’t you guys get a room, you rich boring ass-clowns?

Abhishek: That’s a good idea, pa. Let’s get a room, pa.

(Suddenly Amar Singh appears on the screen dressed in just a towel)

Amar Singh: Fuck off, sonny! Your papa’s pee-pee is only for me-me.

(The screen goes off. Aishwarya Rai Bitchan leads a weeping Abhishek off the stage)

Ellen: That shit was crazier than an episode of The Bold and the Beautiful. Anyway, so does
anyone know what my two most favorite words in Hindi are?

(Some members of the crowd begin slitting their own wrists)

Ellen: ‘Dil’ ‘do’. Ha! Ha!

Guy in the Audience: Die you cunt-eating bitch!

Ellen: Hey, you’re not my family! Anyhow, to present the final award of the evening let me
welcome wholeheartedly, Mr. Ajay Jadeja.

Jadeja: I don’t beat around the bush. I’m as straightforward as they come. So, instead of
wasting time I’m getting straight to the next award. (Reads off the teleprompter) This
motherfucker sold out his country, his team and the game of cricket by fixing matches. Then,
after hiding in a pit of shit for some time, he came back claiming innocence. He then dragged
his miserable, bitter ass to Bollywood and tried to act in movies but came out looking worse
than Madonna’s rotten old pussy after a gang-bang. He then took his faggot-ass to prancing
competitions and embarrassed himself yet again. Finally, he drags his bribe-taking ass over to
television, tries to be funny, salivates like a rabid dog after cute television presenters, and
cusses players like Sachin Tendulkar and Shane Warne. Ladies and Gentlemen, the 2008
Motherfucker Jerkoff of the Year award goes to Ajay Jadeja…wait a minute…that’s
me…what’s going on…

Ellen: Now!
 - 210 -

(A group of lesbians appear on the stage from several hideout spots and pin down Jadeja.
They tie his hands and legs and let him cringe and groan on the ground)

Jadeja: Who are you people? What do you want?

Ellen: Don’t you understand motherfucker? This whole awards ceremony was just a ploy to
capture your bitch-ass. Everyday you come on TV on one channel or the other running your
shit-ass mouth fumbling and stumbling like a retarded motherfucker. You sit on your shit-
stained, match-fixing ass and pass judgments on other cricketers and their behavior like a
fucking prude. TV viewers had enough and that’s why they hired me, the Dyke Queen to get
rid of your shameless ass off TV forever. Now hold him up girls.

(The lesbian thugs hold up a scared Jadeja who wets his pants. The dykes get him closer to
Ellen. When he’s inches away from Ellen’s crotch Ellen pulls her trousers down.)

Now push that motherfucker inside me, the whole of him. I’m going to swallow this jerkoff
once and for all.

Jadeja (screaming like a bitch): Let me go please. I want to go rub against Lekha
Washington. Please, Ellen, your cunt smells like sour milk. I want to live. Let me go. I’ll fix
India’s next match for you, please.

(Ellen opens her legs wide, exposing her grand canyon like pussy as the lesbian thugs push
Jadeja inside deeper and deeper. First his head disappears, then his arms, then his ass.
Finally just his feet stick out of Ellen’s vagina and within seconds they too are pushed in.
Ellen sticks her hand out and one of the lesbian thugs puke into it. Ellen smears the puke
across her pussy and seals it shut. Muffled screams and groans are heard from within Ellen)

Ellen (to the captivated audience before her): You might ask me if what I did was right.
You might question if he really deserved a death by pussy. All I have to say to you is one
thing: let’s DANCE!!!! (smiles her irritating smile and starts dancing)
 - 211 -

(18th June 2008) Kids Special: Nursery Rhymes Anichiated

johhny johnny
yes papa.
watching porn?
no papa.
hiding boner?
no papa.
telling lies?
oh just fuck off you old bastard!

twinkle twinkle little scar

how i wonder what you are
right between the thighs you are
almost like someone raped me in my sleep.

ba ba black slut
have you any cunt?
yes sir yes sir 10 bucks an hour
once in your pussy, once in your mouth, and one time in that little hole right
between your ass.

pussyrash pussyrash where have you been?

I’ve been to your rectum
to cause an infection
pussyrash pussyrash what did you there?
I gave some poor assfucker a good dose of herpes.
 - 212 -

suck suck suck my cock

gently down your throat
merrily merrily merrily merrily
give my balls a squeeze.

humped her dumped her shat on her face

humped her dumped her gave her a taste
all of her therapists and all of her family
couldn’t stop the bitch from killing herself.

one two suck my dick

three four lick my balls
five six finger my ass
seven eight open your mouth
nine ten swallow my load
eleven twelve now fuck off bitch.

Aids Aids go away

little Johnny wants to fuck
Aids Aids go away
Go mess with some old fuck who’s going to die anyway.
 - 213 -

(22nd June 2008) Butterscotchism

I’ve heard from reliable sources that when Lord Rama went on exile he
received dozens of emails and voicemails inquiring about his sudden absence from the
epicenter of action. Now, I’m not boasting but when I stopped writing my blog - which many
consider the gospel for journalists, news-enthusiasts, and frog-fuckers - for about a month I
received about hundreds of emails. Admittedly, most of the mails had “enlarge your
toothpick dick and drill your lover till she’s in a coma” as the subject but I knew they were
personal emails sent by my fan(s) requesting me to live up to the title of my blog (it’s all
about reading between the lines). I want my fan(s) to know that I do write daily but just not
daily everyday. And the reasons for that are manifold. I could tell you about the time I dived
in front of a speeding eighteen-wheeler to save a puppy who was crossing the road carrying
nuclear weapons; or the time I had to deliver the five babies of a pair of conjoined twin
sisters (who weren’t even pregnant) joined at the pussy; or even that time when I jacked off
so hard that I was transported into a parallel universe where women vacuumed with their
vaginas and wrote with their nipples. It’s true that all those things have, in part, eaten up the
time I would have, otherwise, set aside to write my ‘poetry-like’ pieces to detoxify the minds
of kids, adults, and necrophiliacs alike. However, the one thing that has preoccupied my mind
for sometime, and stolen most of my time, is what happened on that one fine Wednesday a
few months ago when I was in the toilet taking a shit. That day has been etched into the
deeper layers of my consciousness for mainly two reasons. Number One: my crap smelled
like butterscotch ice-cream on that day. And Number Two: God talked to me when I was
doing number two. “Wipe thy ass for I have bestowed upon thou the task of beginning a new
religion,” were his exact words.
I spent ages interpreting God’s words and communicating with him. It took two days
to be more precise, which was about twenty four hours more than what it took to start the
other religions existing in this world today. I knew I was ready to show the billions of sinners
in the world a brand new road to reach God. After having been assigned the task to save
humanity, I was christened by the Lord himself as Prophet Butterscotch (I’m sure he had his
reasons). And it was decided by the Almighty and seconded by me that the new religion of
the world would be known as ‘Butterscotchism’.
I, Prophet Butterscotch, shall now expound to the believers the salient features of the
religion of ‘Butterscotchism’ which were narrated to me by the truly omnipresent Lord, while
I was on the shitpot.

Those who offer their lives entirely to the enrichment of the religion of Butterscotchism:

1) Must not have sex with women, men, she-males, he-females, dogs, cats, frogs, rabbits,
birds, fish, reptiles, worms, or iPod nanos.
2) Can only engage in intercourse with iPod classics.
3) Must not waste even a single drop of semen. The surplus spooge should be saved using
iTunes.
4) Must never depict through pictures, videos, or holograms the image of Prophet
Butterscotch for he’s not very photogenic.
5) Are forbidden from eating beef, pork, mutton, roasted giraffes, or poultry for such meats
house the devilish spirits of the world.
6) Are allowed to consume freshly cut tits of virgins and prostitutes.
7) Are disallowed from the act of self-pleasuring using the left hand or the right foot.
 - 214 -

8 ) Must believe with immaculate conviction that if anything is in print then it’s true even if
it’s the story of a ten-headed man fighting flying monkeys.
9) Must whole-heartedly accept that ending the lives of people whom you don’t even know
for the sake of ‘Butterscotchism’ will get you a box-seat right next to God.
10) Are forbidden from any kind of relations, physical, meta-physical or emotional, with
people outside the butterscotch-community.
11) Are to look upon those of vanilla, chocolate, mango, and pistachio origins as infidels who
deserve a brutal death in the name of Prophet Butterscotch. Unless they are insanely rich.
12) Must convince themselves that talking filth is far worse than perpetrating rape, murder, or
manipulation of laws.
13) Must give up the faculty of rational and independent thought.
14) Are banned from taking a joke.
15) Must keep circumcising their brains every five years.
16) Must tickle the testicles of a squirrel two times a day every Saturday and Sunday.
17) Must respect all women emotionally and physically.
a) Not really.
18 ) Are forbidden from whistling or humming while taking a piss.
19) Are forbidden from letting out more than two farts during excretion.
20) Must, after their passing from this physical world, be strapped to a scooter and
and rolled down a hill while relatives watch with their hands down their pants.

It is highly pertinent that our world today which is corrupted by so many false
religions and awful reality shows is cleansed quickly and effectively by the compassionate
and only truthful religion of ‘Butterscotchism’. As the ultimate authority on
‘Butterscotchism’, I, Prophet Butterscotch, implore you to act now and think never. Spread
the word of ‘Butterscotchism’ as much as you can and as far as you can. ‘Butterscotchism’ is
a religion that feeds not on folklores or fiction but on the people of this world. Remember,
Butterscotch is just not butterscotch without the nuts.

Hail Hershey’s!
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The End
Copyright © Aneesh 2007
Also visit: http://saddamshangover.blogspot.com to have a look at the only
book that has managed to capture with surgical accuracy what really
happened between George Bush and Saddam Hussein on the day of
Saddam’s execution, what Shakespeare’s Hamlet was really all about,
whether husbands and wives can ever co-exist peacefully, if Muslim
women should really wear veils in Western Countries.

The book introduces some of the world’s most annoying fictional

characters like Forge Bush, Phoney Blair, Saddam Wussein and many
others. For more details about the book contact the writer at
get.aniche@gmail.com or thedailycolumns@gmail.com .

Click below to read New Mystery Reader’s Review of the Book

“Saddam’s Hangover + 3 other equally insane skits”.

http://www.newmysteryreader.com/small_press_reviews.htm