The Umpire Strikes Back

I think it's only fair that after my last post on this comatose, nearly dead blog, I should come back to the same topic for its revival. Oh yes, this is the un-end, my only friend, the un-end. That's the kind of song The Doors would've come up with if they had ODed on Caffeine, and not the other lovely, life-giving substances that they ODed on. Now that the mandatory pop-culture referencing is done, let's get down to why this blog has been dead for so long, and why this is the most appropriate moment in all of time and space when, as Jhumpa Lahiri would've described in her 'Indian' books aimed at a western audience, all the celestial bodies aligned perfectly for the astrologer to confirm that this is the best time for Ashima, I mean, Anand to restart his blog.

If you remember, and it's perfectly understandable if you don't, my last post here was about the pros and cons of this wonderful new city that I've just moved into, in comparison with the wonderful old city that I'd just left behind. Yes, Hyderabad was my inspiration, my new mistress, my new flush of love and all that. Alas, and also, Hyderabad is now a new state capital. Or at least almost is. Caught as we are in the throes of confusion, about who the 'Gults' will be now, and whether the non-Telengana part will still be called Andhra at all, we have all completely missed the bigger picture.

For the fact of the matter is, there are much deeper and profound factors behind all these agitations for a separate state, if only we look closely enough. So why did all the people involved in this do all that they did?

1. It was a completely noble cause right from the beginning. We all know how China will soon catch up with the US, it's economy will outpace it and all such things. Not to be left behind, our protestors wanted India also to catch up with the US, and get to 50 states as soon as we could. The effects are already to be seen. However, there seems to be a lack of consensus on the matter as there is an overlap between two new proposed territories themselves. To explain it in Pineapple Express terms, that will be the product of baby-fucking.
2. It was unfair of some groups in Maharashtra to rewrite the history textbooks alone to suit their purpose. That would leave the geography textbooks feeling very unwanted indeed. Hence, this new method, to increase the number of subdivisions under the 'States and Capitals' chapter and make the NCERT Geography book as unrecognizable as its historical counterpart.
3. It will give our good friend the traffic constable a lot more papers to ask for before getting to the 'can you put seven' part. 'Do you have papers for the time till it was Andhra? Then do you have papers from when it was not? Do you have NOC for the old number plate? When'll you get the new number plate? Who's our new Chief Minister? What's our Capital now? Can you put seven?'
4. It'll increase the IPL franchisee teams massively, and that's always good for the economy right? What's good for Modi, Preity and SRK has to be good for the rest of the 1.32 Billion as well. So now we'll get Gorkhaland Gunners (sorry Arsenal boys) and Telengana Transformers (it's the only natural extension from Chargers). Which will be owned by Megan Fox. Sigh.

As in any cause-effect analysis, once you've laid out the cause in such bare terms, it is only fair that you figure out the effects of the action as well, and they are as well-intentioned, if not more.

1. It's now a fundamental right to demand your own state after 7 days on a hunger strike (strict 5-day week, 9 to 6 striking hours only). However, the constitution rewriters are still trying to figure out how to reconcile this with the Right to Food Security Act.
2. States will now be like amoeba. Wherever you move, the 100-km radius around that part will be your state. This dynamic border concept is well suited to our fast-changing, ever-shrinking, global-village, other-hyphenated-words world. Also, it takes regionalism out of the picture. You can't be very regionalistic if your region keeps changing with every migrant labourer who just walked into your state. No, his state. No, your state.
3. All those people who want to have none of this nonsense can declare themselves to be Union Territories. They'll get tax-free alcohol and people from the neighbouring states will visit them to smuggle out their tax-free alcohol. However, our old friend, the constable will be alert to this fact and will get you at the dynamic border to bury you under his statehood questions. Till you slip him 2 of the bottles, or 30% of total number of bottles. Whichever is higher.
4. People like me will get their heads thoroughly muddled like this and spontaneously combust. Which will be taken as a self-immolation protest, and I will be granted my own, spanking new state. Muhahahahahaha...

Ok yeah, that's it. Welcome back!

GMail Fail

Have I or have I not found my first Fail?

Starting from Zuk

"I'm running towards a cliff, running really hard. I can see it. There's a blood river flowing beneath. So I'm running towards it and... Shit!"

"What, you fell in?"

"You tripped me man"

"I tripped you? Like, put my foot out and tripped you?"

"No... No, not exactly. You put your hand out across my neck, like a clothesline. Then I fell in and starting swimming and going with the flow..."

"If I put my hand out across your neck, how are you still swimming? Wouldn't you be unconscious or something?"

"No... your hand just cut my neck. So now it's bleeding. That's why it's a blood river, see? You've done this to a lot of other people before."

"Oh.... good funda."

"Heck, wolves man! There are wolves waiting on the shore, on the other shore. And now, sharks!"
* * * *

I get the feeling I'm beginning to get repetitive, you know, using the same thing with different people. I use the same coincidences with one person and then the other, and I always wonder when it will all catch up with me. Cos you know, I always feel like they're trying to test me, that between them they find out about the recycling. That's why I always think twice before replying, as it happened the other day, remember? That felt pretty scarily like a test.

* * * *
You know how he was to be cast even originally right? But then he came and the audition went so badly, so flatly, that he had no choice but to look for alternatives. But then he realized that this was a movie he simply had to do, so he came back for another audition, and did this. That's it, role was his. Then he wanted Madsen to do Vincent Vega. But Madsen was like, if we keep doing this same sort of movies with the same sort of roles, we'll get stereotyped. And we don't want that, not Tarantino to get stereotyped. So he asked him to suggest someone for the role, and he said "Travolta".

Update:

Credits: The Doors, David Lynch, Dev D and Dayman ;)

Life

Anticipation. Balls. Crocin. Down. Esoteric. Fever. Ganga. Headache. iGoogle. Jabber. Klingon. Late. Mukka. Naaka. Oomph. Pretension. Quiz. Randomness. Strikeout. Trouble. Undie. Vamos. Washout. Xone. Yorker. Zyzzyva.

Flying Lap

The Circuit of Kottivakkamheim is a 4.2 km street circuit, and one of the oldest on the Chennai Traffic Grand Prix calendar. Actually, it was not even a circuit originally. The history goes that there were first all the houses and buildings and the 15 temples all along the route. With the odd Onyx (or Neel Metal Falanca, whoever gave the lower tender) dustbin thrown in along the way. And then someone realized that it would indeed be a good idea to have some sort of opening in between all of the above mentioned buildings. You know, sort of so people could get from Point A to Point B. And viola, the opening became a regular, Grand Prix-fit road, and thusly Kottivakkamheim was born. Of course, as births go, this one would have probably been called a Cesarean.

A flying lap of Kottivakkamheim starts with the First Main Road straight, before breaking down into 2nd gear, 30 kmph into the right and then the left leading into the Second Avenue. This sweeping, 3rd gear right turn is also the widest part on the circuit, and sets you up very nicely for the Signal, where you break hard down to zero kmph. This novel part of the circuit tests not how fast you can go, but how patient you can be. For the true test of a Jedi, is not in how fast he can be, but how he can choose when to be fast. Anyway...

From the Signal, you take off into the MG Road straight, up through the gears till you hit 4th at 70 kmph, and then flat out up the hill before breaking to a near stop at the Vannandhurai Bus Stop chicane. Though originally designed as a right turn, an inspired act of median-placing ensures that this turn is as challenging as it's more illustrious namesake at Spa-Franorchamps. You climb up a gear into 30kmph as you negotiate the tricky gravel (and sand and bricks and mortar and old papers and vegetable peels and discarded slippers) traps on either side of the circuit to ease into the Anna Street Ascari chicane.

The Anna Street Ascari, named after the 7-time Chennai auto-driving champion, Annatha Ascari, is unique in that it's simultaneously a left turn, a sweeping left-hander and then a right turn, all rolled into one. Holding on to third, at 40kmph before breaking into the blind right which forms the end of the chicane requires driver control of the highest degree. For the back-marker in front of you, that is. Because if he's not going to cooperate, no amount of standing on the horn will make you go any faster than 20 kmph through this tight part of the circuit.

Safely negotiating the chicane leads into the longest unbroken sequence on the Grand Prix calendar, full 2.6 kms down the Kalakshetra Parabolika. Going up through the gears into 4th, this part of the circuit is not for the faint-hearted. With enough pits (as in, the depression kind, not the refuelling kind) strewn along the path, an overtaking maneuver is pulled off only with inch-perfect slipstreaming and acceleration. On a clear piece of track, this narrow but fairly straight piece of circuit can be taken flat out at 70 kmph, before one slows down for the final chicane at the Marudeeswarar Temple complex. This second gear, 25 kmph chicane (if the Maami does not choose this as the opportune moment to cross the circuit to go towards home of the Lord) leads into the East Mada Hangar straight. Another part of the circuit where the car in front of you determines your speed rather than your own driving skills. Especially when the car in front is not a car at all but a Corporation Garbage lorry which leaves behind an oil(y) spill behind it. So, this always-yellow flag part of the circuit is a strict no-overtake zone, as you trundle along at 35 kmph in a part that would usually be a straight horsepower shootout.

Out at the end of the straight, you break into La Rascalasse, a tight, sandy right-hander which has floored quite a few two-wheelers in its time and is often referred to as the most expensive spare-parts dump on the circuit. This first gear, 20 kmph turn leads into the home straight as you go up through the gears to top speed, and past the start-finish line.

Or to be precise, into the office. Where one has to come to a complete standstill, if one is to not bang into a wrought-iron gate.

Circuit of Kottivakkamheim
Lap Record: 12:34.53 Anand Natarajan, Novafax (2008)

Ta da!

Much more readable, isn't this?

Irrespective of whether there's anything to read in the first place.

Last Action Hero

The last hope. Or maybe not.

Men's Rules

I know all of this is cliched, and been said many times before, and maybe it's not even funny anymore. But, in the interest of every man who is, was and ever will be committed, here it goes, for all the ladies out there...

Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.

Birthdays, Valentines, and Anniversaries are not considered by us to be opportunities to see if we can find the perfect present . . . . again!

Sometimes we are not thinking about you. Live with it.

Sunday = sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.

Don't cut your hair. Ever. Long hair is always more attractive than short hair. One of the big reasons guys fear getting married is that married women always cut their hair, and by then you're stuck with her.

Ask for what you want. Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it!

We don't remember dates. . . .Period!!

Most guys own three pairs of shoes - tops. What makes you think we'd be any good at choosing which pair, out of thirty, would look good with your dress?

Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.

We do not like shopping. We REALLY don't. We're not pretending or something just because we supposedly don't like shopping. Shopping sucks, that's all.

Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.

A headache that lasts for 17 months is a problem. See a doctor.

Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 days.

If you won't dress like the Victoria's Secret girls, don't expect us to act like soap opera guys.

If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us. We've been tricked before!!

If something we said can be interpreted two ways, and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.

Let us ogle. We are going to look anyway; it's genetic.

You can either ask us to do something or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.

Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials.

Christopher Columbus did not need directions, and neither do we.

The relationship is never going to be like it was the first two months we were going out. Get over it. And quit whining to your girlfriends.

ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.

If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.

We are not mind readers and we never will be. Our lack of mind-reading ability is not proof of how little we care about you.

If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing," we will act like nothing is wrong. We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle.

If you ask a question you don't want an answer to, expect an answer you don't want to hear.

Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as my football team, the shotgun formation, or monster trucks.

BEER is as exciting for us as handbags are for you.

Thank you for reading this; Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight, but did you know, it's like camping.

This. Is the crack.

Perfect :)

Beep!

This is just to announce to the world in general, and to no one in particular, that I'm still alive. And I will make the announcement even though I know that no one really cares. All in all, we're just another Brick in the Wall. And all that.

I also felt a rish of adrenaline today. After a looooong time. I mean, I was wondering if I was dead inside . You know, nothing happened that could make me feel anything at all in my hollow tin chest (I know, plagiarism, so sue me!) And today I screamed, full-throated and with all the effort that Janet Leigh put into the shower scene in Psycho (I'm not going to put some unnecessary IMDB link on Psycho, you can type it into the bloody search window if you want). So basically I screamed, and put high-fives and jumped around and was on a general adrenalin-high. Adrenalin's good.

Post became longer than I envisioned. That's good too.

Life or something like shit

I came into IIT expecting a lot. And I got more than a lot, more like acres. This place is like HUGE. There is no parking lot, but there’s a lot. The amount of trees in this place is unimaginable. Apart from the Gymnosperm and Angiosperm kinds, there are the trees with numbers on them, such as Tree No. 38, tree no. 138 and tree no. x with 130 < x < 140. I came in expecting professors with brainwaves coming out of their ears, and other professors measuring these using brainwave-o-meters. I came in expecting students to find unbelievable solutions such as turn on the switch to indecipherable problems such as why the computer wouldn’t start. I came in expecting to find brainiacs in ill-fitting shirts and with messed up hair because they had stayed up all night. Not thinking up solutions to Schrödinger’s equations, but watching the latest sitcom from NBC. I came in expecting all this. And I found them.

One of the things that I most admired in my seniors was their ability to sleep in class without the professor being able to discern the same. This was a very important skill to have as it ensured that the body got its required amount of sleep, which had been lost at night on the above-mentioned sitcom. Oh, apart from that, they also had something or the other to do with this thing called the Lit-Soc. The Lit-Soc is this thing, which happens in my college, which doesn’t amount to the tiniest bit of hair on a rodent’s posterior, except for one big cup at the end of it all. Which you can get in any elec course without much effort anyway. Without any effort, actually.

And so, since I’m an Indian, and no Indian has ever had an original idea, I decided to do something else, to make my wonderfully incomplete life even more incomplete. I read classics which I couldn’t make head or tail of just because they were classics. I watched Black and White movies which even their directors would’ve forgotten having made. I played football as a two-footed winger whenever I had the opportunity, and finally got two and half minutes at right-back in the only match we played. I went to quizzes and stared blankly at the paper - the Mass Transfer/Equilibrium Operations kind of quizzes. I was desperate to be recognized as he-who-does-something-else by the band of we-all-do-something-else people. I ran from here to there and back here again. Sometimes, I just ran.

And then I found the Hat.

The Hat. It’s very difficult to describe completely what the hat is about, and I can never do justice to it. But I can try. I’ve seen cricketers kiss their helmets when they score a century, and I’ve always wondered what made them kiss that smelly, plastic object when their lips would’ve done much better in contact with another pair of lips, attached to a fragrant, organic being of the opposite sex. I’ve wondered what made them feel so strongly about something. The hat helped me understand.

The hat is the epitome of the simplicity of genius. Its power lies in its non-existence, its secret lies in its openness. It’s the ultimate paradox. To wear the hat is to experience a feeling like never before. With the hat on, you get the feeling of having done something to stir the innermost rumblings of any heart. You’ve made them feel insignificant, unwanted, ignored for that small period of time. You’ve made them stop talking, and so By Douglas Adams’ hypothesis, their brain starts to slowly grind into motion. You’ve done something that would make them remember you forever.

You’ve made them think. For once.

The hat can be worn to anyone. Professors, seniors, juniors, friends, irritating cell-phone company callers, annoying Xerox machine characters… anyone. The beauty of the hat is in the universality of its use. And it’s not that the usage of the hat is limited to people. The hat can be worn to things too, such as Computational Techniques quizzes, or assignments, or classes. Or End sems. Whatever. The point is, once you’ve worn the hat, you’re liberated. From the mundane, from the boring, from the routine, from the inconsequential.

It is difficult to totally describe what the Hat can do. And the hat says that this is enough about itself for now, and it shall be so. For the hat is never wrong. It doesn't matter what kind you have on. It could be a sombrero, a felt-hat, a bowler or a top-hat. All that matters is that it's there, or actually not there. For as said before, it's the non-existence of the hat which really makes its presence felt. Like sometimes when you feel that silence is very loud.

This could go on and on, but that would be disrespecting the hat, and all that it stands for. It’s got nothing do with memories being butterflies and you shouldn’t stick em to papers and all that. It’s just that you don’t talk about the hat. That’s all.

Amen.

P.S: I put this post up, and by some weird machination of Google's Edit function, it got deleted. But I wore the hat and reproduced it. From memory. Thus the hat also doubles as a thinking cap. See?

Shakespeare's Greatest Gaffe

To be or not to be.

That's not even a question!

Road-side Cricket

I'm tired of everyone in this universe cursing Chennai's auto drivers every time they have a bad day. A taffic hold-up on the road, a display of rash driving, blatant extortion in the name of meter-less fare... even if they're all true, you can't keep blaming these guys! This is the problem with our country, we don't know how to look at the bright side of things. I mean, step back, detach yourself from your mortal body, and look at it from an unbiased observer's point of view, and you'll see that our Auto drivers make such bloody good cricketers! I shall prove the above statement to you, and then you can give me my Nobel...

Fast Bowlers: This is so obvious that they won't consider such theses for a Nobel. Our Auto Drivers (ADs) have the kind of reckless pace and sheer ruthlessness of a Shohaib or Brett Lee. What's more, they strike fear in the heart of every other commuter on the road, including the one sitting in their own auto. Isn't that what you want a fast bowler to do, strike fear in the hearts of the opposition? Sure, they may be expensive some times, costing a life here or there, but basically they're the kind of option you want to open your bowling with. Fast, focussed and furious.

Batsmen: Ever noticed an auto weave through rush hour traffic? The uncanny ability to pick the smallest of gaps in the field, I mean road, is matched at best by only Sachin. You set a 9-0 field and bowl 3 meters outside off, and you can still be sure our ADs can pick a gap through this. It was Chappell who said Sachin had "peripheral awareness". Clearly, he's not seen enough of our ADs. Leave alone Peripheral Awareness, they also have Policeman awareness, unsuspecting-cutomer-waiting-to-be-taken-for-a-ride awareness and most important of all, signal non-awareness!

Fielders: The most important ability on the field is agility, the ability to twist and turn and generally be on your toes. And as always, our ADs are easily upto the challenge. The U-Turns that they manage to take defies all laws of Physics, Chemistry and Nano-molecular Plant Microbiology. The concept of a turning radius does not exist for the auto, it justs pivots about its back wheels. No dead end is too small for them to turn back from, and so no boundary is too tough to save. With this amount of flexibility and turnability and twistability, you put Kaif up against our AD on the field, and it's a no contest, really.

Spinners: The art of Spin Bowling is not about turning the ball, it's about the one ball which does not turn, or even better, turns the other way. It's called the Googly, and oh boy, our ADs are the last word in perfection of this art. They put the left indicator, stick out the hand on the right and then go straight, throwing a double googly to the bewildered cop at the intersection. We know that the Chennai Cops aren't an easy lot to confuse, but if our boys can manage that with such incredible insouciance, England and all... I'm looking at 64 all out.

Umpires: Not only the players, we can draw people for the ICC's Elite Panel of Umpires too from the ADs. There will be no Hair-raising controversies about ball-tampering, because the auto meters are tampered (putting it mildly) too, and they won't preach what they don't practice. Besides, their fares amount to daylight robbery irrespective of whoever gets into their three-tier, I mean, three-tire coach. Hence, you can be assured of their fairness when they are giving LBWs or close catches. Atleast all decisions will be uniformly wrong.

Commentators: I know I only said players, but most players go into the commentary box stright from the dressing room as soon as they get out anyway, so why should our ADs be any different? And that they have as colourful a language as any number of Tony Greigs and Ravi Shastris put together cannot be denied. It's not that they are lacking in content either. When an AD is in the mood, he can make more sense about the nation's economic situation than P.Chidambaram. And when he's infuriated, he can cause more of a stink than the (in)famous Cooum river. Imagine our eloquent ADs instant reaction if Dravid calls for a suicidal second run when the throw is already coming in... "Dei Kasmaalam, Vootanda Solltu Vanntiya?"...

Ergo.

My Nobel, please?

T for TNR

This Tortured soul, Tumbled into this Totalitarian world by the Twists of fate, taken for a ride both as Teacher and Torturer by the Treasonous Tryst of my parents Throwing me into a world of Tension and Trouble. The Toxins Traveling Through my veins are but a Testament to the Testimony that my Tender parts are Tingling with the Terrible Thoughtlessness, felt usually during a Traumatic Ten-hour operation.

To elaborate upon the Travails and Tribulations which afflict me would Try the Tolerance of any Timid Tribal among These Teeming millions. The only Thought of action possible is met with Terapidation and Toothlessness by the Throngs of This Ten-Thousand strong community.

But this Temerity with which I describe Trivialities of my Troubled life caught between the Throes of Tired Teetotalers and Totally Trashed Tipsters must surely take away the Tiny Tokens of Thinking matter you have been Trusted with by The Maker. Therefore, let me Take away This Totally needless Tapestries surrounding my Timely arrival to save you from your Timeless Troubles, and just say That ‘Tis my honour to meet Thee, and you may call me, T.

:)

Yeeeeah, so...

I'm alive. The blog is not. Or rather, was not. Is now.

Ok... so... I must write now. Right now. Right? Wait, I should probably write a poem. I've never written one. Well, nothing that's not a rip-off of Metallica songs anyway. No originality of thought, that's my problem. I've never thought of originality as such a precious commodity. But then, only when you lose something you feel its absence, I guess. So, I've lost my originality, what've I got?

I will not describe my poor, uninteresting life for all to comment about. I won't. I haven't read any book or watched any movie or heard any song in the recent past that has sufficiently impressed or disgusted me to describe it for all you poor, uninteresting people to share your views about. Football season hasn't started yet, and I'm sick of everyone talking about that game all through the World Cup anyway. Oh wait, I've already made that clear.

That's sad, really. All I want to is to Keep the Dream alive, I mean, keep the Blog alive. But it doesn't seem to me like a sun will shine on me again, A Well will Ring inside my head, and all will be brand new. Wait, I will go back into myself, delve deep into the unexplored corners of my soul and rediscover myself and be born again and emerge a new man and... and... do all those kinds of stuff.

It's been raining.

Silence Please.

Ah could, likesay many people who woulda watched yestirday's fitba match, write aboot the perr, perr standard ay refereeing which nearly destroyed wha promised tae be one heck ay a gaim. But it is tae the credit ay the players that thay took all those shitein decisions oan the chin, and just played their fitba like thay wir supposed tae. It did manage to turn oot to be a classic, wi the man disadvantage just provin too much tae handle fir Arsenal as the clock ran doon. When Eto'o equalised in the 76th minit, it wis Gaim Oan... and when Belletti scored in the 81st, it wis Gaim Ovah. Barca wir Champions ay Europe.

As ah said, ah could write more aboot this. But ah'm not gaun tae. Instead, ah'm gaun to write aboot somethin which ah hiv noticed ovah the past... well, the past so many days whin ah huv not had college and therefore huv time to notice things. And ah'm gaun to borrow a line from Fight Club, 'cos that's essentially wha ah've noticed. It's only whin thay think you're dyin, do people actually listen tae ye. Otherwise, thay're just waitin fae thair turn tae speak.

Ah've lost all belief in the fact tha it takes two tae make a conversation. As far as ah ken see, the two perr sods just keep talkin aboot what they think is worth talkin aboot, fuck aw if it is ay no significance to wha the other person's sayin.Ye ken wha ah'm talkin aboot?
"So, he nivir eats junk food when he goes oan tae the beach or somewhere".
"Yeah, mah grades will come oot in a week or so."
"Is it? So we try tae tell im it's awright, he ken eat that stuff once in a while, but he nivir does."
"He he. Ye know, it's aways the even sem which pulls yer CG daun... Hope that I ken break the even sem jinx."
"Yeah, hope ye do. So, whin are yer grades comin?"

Ah'm no kiddin when ah say this is usually how maist conversations will go. And that tae me is just a perr waste of time, ay both the sods. Why no just say it in the face that yer no interested and git oan wi yer life? But that cannae be done either, cos then, ye woulnae huv anyone tae listen tae your stories. So they jist keep up the charade, two people actin interested in the other's perr, soddin life, while inwardly thinking Fuck All.

Which is why, ah decided to follow the Silence is Gaulden rule. Only whin ye want tae say something, you feel irritated and restless aboot the other person gaun oan n oan n no lettin ye git a word in. Instead, if ye nivir have anythin tae say, then there's no heartburn, ken what ah say? Ye wade intae the conversation with the supreme knowledge tha ye will no be able tae say anythin of any significance. So ye jist sit back into the recesses of yer mind, switch oaf yer thought process fir a while, and nod along or make appropriate Hmms and OKs as situation demands. This also helps in ending the conversation briefly, as there is only one story runnin and no two parallel ones. Once thay're done, ye nod and smile, shake paws if ye wantae, n go yer seperate ways.

Enjoy the Sound oaf Silence.

The truth is that I'm a bad person. But, that's gonna change - I'm going to change. This is the last of that sort of thing. Now I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm gonna be just like you. The job, the family, the fucking big television. The washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electric tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisure wear, luggage, three piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption clearing gutters, getting by, looking ahead, the day you die.

The Immortal

I'm The Immortal. I have just passed my 31st hour without sleep since 5:00 P.M on 26-3-2006 and am yet to feel sleepy. My mind has transcended mere mortal shackles of slumber and rest, and has passed into an elevated state of uncaring existence, going beyond the portals of the cranium which kept it contained in its constricted surround and merging into the ultimate scheme of things, the greater good of it all, and becoming one with the universe itself...

Given above is the Text of speech running through an insomniac's mind as he made his way form the place of his dinner to the place of his residence at 12:08 A.M, 28-3-2006

bnfiefhi oldsfhb nsadvvrerkoeorererjkerqef eoijfasfklkjls dfhsfdjklasdkojvebkiw dofenflekjflekqoiqnfq ihokfnlkfnq knw dqkwnj dknw nwdjqpwijqwkfn

Text of speech written by the insomniac as he crashed on top of his Laptop's keyboard.

What the Fudge??!

Yep, I can't say it. The four-letter word. Because this is Blogspot. And that would be a profanity. And then it would be wrong. What is the point? Why should you always be in control, in your senses? How will you know what it is to be free if you've never tried it?

BAH!!!! I CAN"T EVEN BLOG!!!!!!!!!!

I can't even write something funny!!! SURELY the world is going to end...

Um... WHAT??!!!

Frog.
Pond.
Plop.

... is apparently a limmerick. Hmm...