Tag

Dhi Only One tagged me.

I am thinking

…With my brain and not with my genitalia. (Well…maybe someday)

I said

…I was out of town when the crime took place. But the cops did not believe me. They threw me into prison and I had my android henchman bust me out off that joint. We escaped through the sewers. And there we ran into Ras-Karfur, the alligator lord of the sewers. Many had faced him and had failed. But I had a shotgun and so in short order he resembled pâté de foie crocodilia. But just at that moment, when I thought I was home safe…Space Ninja Pirates from Outer Space.

…Fuck.

…Far too much.

…Far too little.

I want

… Stuff. (Refer to statement made with respect to regret)

…Two supermodels, a pair of handcuffs and butter. Lots of butter.

…That which I cannot have.

I wish

…I have no truck with genies. None whatsoever.

…That…Yeah, not gonna type that.

…That…Or that.

…That…Um, that’s just plain nasty.

I miss

…Bangalore.

I hear

…The circus is in town.

…The sound of music.

…The lamentations of their toasters.

…That the Nazgul ride again.

I wonder

…”Paint your own pottery studio” or …”Paint your “own pottery studio””

…”Who the fuck was Alice?”

I regret

…That I am not the kind of person who shares his regrets.

I am
…Spartacus.

…As transparent as a concrete wall.

…A transparent concrete wall.

…A member of the Human Saunter.

I dance…

…When just the right amount of drunk. (And I was past that point on Monday, so stop throwing that in my face!)

…Badly

…The Light Fantastic.

I sing

…In the shower.

…Of my deepest feelings. (Yeah right!)

…In the car.

I cry

…No I don’t. And you do not have the proof to say otherwise.

…Except during ET.

I am not

…What I was four years ago.

…Spartacus.

…A nice person.

I write

…Like I speak.

…Stuff that I will never publish.

…Inspirational tracts for the spiritual upliftment of mankind. (Fuck! I’m pretty sure upliftment is a word. Damn you Word’s red squiggly line.)

…To a captive audience.

I confuse

…Myself.

…Others.

…Stuff. (Refer to statement made with respect to regret)

…Alien Ninja Space Pirates with camels.

I need

… Stuff. (Refer to statement made with respect to regret)

…Two supermodels, a pair of handcuffs and butter. Lots of butter.

…what I cannot have.

I should

…Do stuff. (Refer to statement made with respect to regret)

…Hit the sack soon.

…Lose six pounds.

I finish

…With a bang. BANG.

…With a whimper. Yelp.

…As credits roll on the screen.


Well, since we link to the same folks, everyone else who reads this blog consider yourself tagged. Email me your posts or the links to your blogs.

Nobody ever expects the Ninja Inquisition...cause Ninjas are sneaky.

While on the topic of genies, is this the deal with them, “Rub my “lamp” and I’ll make your wishes come true.”?

Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Say no more.

I hope that I have successfully ruined every story in the Arabian Nights. Ones that have genies. The other ones are fine. Particularly the ones with the Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja from Outer Space. Go back and read the book. I’m sure it the name of the story was The Vizier and the Vampire Robot Pirate Ninjas from Outer Space. Or it could be The Vizier and the Camel. One of the two. I could be mistaken…because camels are rather like Vampire Robot Pirate Ninjas from Outer Space. Just without all the vampirism, roboticness and pirated sneakiness.

I’m absolutely scraping the bottom of the barrel here.

I got nothing.

And speaking of nothing. That was what I was afraid I would have had to have had for dinner tonight (That sentence seems far too convoluted to be right. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a have had in such close proximity to another have had. It’s like when you see one Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja. You would be surprised. You’d go, “What the fuck was that” or if you prefer something less colorful. “Egads! What in heaven’s name was that?”.

But then you’d move on and you might tell people at work about it, “Hey! I saw a Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja at the Burger King on Route one yesterday.” And they might believe you…or not. I rather think that more people would believe you rather than disbelieve you. Benefit of the doubt and all that shit.

“Yes, I’ve known him for a year now. He doesn’t get high…more than twice a week. Fuck it. Let’s believe him.” The “him” here is you who saw the Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja.

(Word is going insane with my writing. There are green squiggly lines everywhere. Like snakes reproducing in the spring. Green squiggly snakes. Or maybe organisms that are green and squiggly and reproduce in the spring. Fuck that, I’m no biologist.)

And they would believe you and you could talk about it at lunch. Or over dinner. Or use it as a pick up line at the bar.

You: “Hey I saw a Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja at the Burger King on Route One.”

Hot Blonde at bar: No way!

You: Oh yeah!

And then hopefully we shall pull a discrete curtain over some tasteful Horizontal Mamboifying. Or nasty Horizontal Mamboifying. Whatever tickles your fancy. Your Horizontal Mambofying could consist purely of your fancy being tickled..

Yeah, Lets abandon this train of thought.

But if you had the audacity to claim that you saw not one, but two fucking Vampire Robot Pirate Ninjas at the Burger King on route one you would be laughed out of town.

“Yes, I’ve known him for a year now. He does get high twice a week. Fuck it. Let’s burn him at the stake.” The “him” here is you who saw the Vampire Robot Pirate Ninja.

The lunch, dinner and bar scenarios are absent in this case because well you have been burnt bat the stake. Not a pleasant way to go, but completely your fault for making up stories about seeing two Vampire Robot Pirate Ninjas. The gall! )

So yeah. I found some noodles.

I got nothing. Really.

I am...

...many things.

But boring is NOT one of them.

(Take that you evil person, you. You know who you are!)

(I really, really like brackets.)

(And cheesecake.)

(And bru...Never Mind.)

(Add open ended statements to that.)

(And smirking.)

(And saying frig when I'm alone and fuck when I'm around people.)

(And making random observations. For instance, I came up with this wonderful plan for a friend who has issue with flipping people off on the road who annoy him. I suggested that he throw a salad at them.

Why?

Because nobody likes salads. And this shows that he put some thought into it, instead of a mere wag of that middle finger.

I said random observations. Not random and funny.)

The best way…

…to get over a bad mood is to take a long drive, late at night.

I’ve realized that all my drives, the ones to get over my bad moods, have a certain pattern to them.

And here is the pattern.

At some point I will have to decide whether to go left or right, and I will not make my mind up until the last second.

At some point I will turn the radio off.

At some point I will pull into a gas station. (If the gas station is in New Jersey, the guy who pumps the gas will probably be Indian and will insist on talking to me in Hindi. At that point I will gleefully practice my atrocious Hindi on him.)

At some point I will turn the heater up all the way for no good reason.

At some point I will kick my shoes off and drive barefoot.

At some point I will begin to miss Bangalore terribly.

At some point I will see a funny road name.

At some point I will have to swerve to avoid a cute, furry animal that is doing its damndest to become roadkill.

At some point I will start thinking about my next blog post.

At some point I will be doing thirty in a fifty five zone.

At some point I will pull over to let the guy behind me, the one getting increasingly pissy about me doing thirty, pass me.

At some point I will turn the heater off,

At some point I will whistle or hum a tune under my breath.

At some point my bad mood will dissipate.

At that point I will find a place to take a U-turn to get back to my apartment.

At that point I will realize that I am thirty five miles from my apartment.

At that point I will realize that the place I am in is very dark and very, very, very creepy.

At that point I will check my rear view mirror for angry mummies, hungry zombie, large carnivorous dinosaurs and rabid toasters.

At that point I will begin to think about vampires and that one movie where the serial killer was hidden away in the back seat of the victim’s car.

At that point I will twist in my seat and examine my back seat.

At that point I will turn the radio on.

At some point after that I will be doing sixty in a thirty zone.

At some point I will have to swerve to avoid a cute, furry animal that is doing its damndest to become roadkill.

At some point I will wonder if I will be late to work tomorrow.

At some point I’ll reach home.

Pa-kching

When I moved into this apartment last September, I decided that I needed a toaster. A toaster that could toast both bread and bagels (Not simultaneously. Well simultaneously if you’d prefer the bagel barely toasted or the bread slice done to a nice burnt crisp.). And this toaster that would allow me to have a moderately civilized breakfast. It would rescue me from the cereal that I have had nearly every single fucking weekday morning that I have been in this country. (Post Cranberry Almond Crunch…Positively Cranberrifically Almondy and Crunchalicious)

Well, that did not happen. The toaster sits on the countertop gathering dust and slowly, but oh so steadily going insane. Even toasters have feelings, you know. And this toaster is more emotional than most. It sits there on the countertop thinking evil thoughts and planning my demise. It scares me.

And it has an accomplice. A sandwich maker. Equally neglected and unused.

Neither of the two has been able to make me give up my cereal addiction. And now they wait for their moment. Perhaps one bright morning they will pop up and ambush me…

Yeah, I still have nothing to write about. My excuse for those previous paragraphs could be that I’m high. But I do not do mind-altering drugs, (I’m high on Life. Say no to drugs kids. Life: the anti drug.) And I have been sadly sober for so many months. But seriously, doesn’t a toaster not performing its function cause some kind of Karmic Stress in the Universe? A rip in the fabric of space time through which the legions of Hell could come pouring through. (Wouldn’t it be nice if the legions of Hell sauntered through, or walked through at a steady pace? But no, they’re mean and ugly and they pour. It is what they do. And they do not even wipe their feet on the doormat. Rude fuckers)

That incidentally is the premise of Doom. Doom, the game and not Doom, the state of Rajneesh’s social life. Rip in the fabric of space time. Big bad monsters come through (with muddy feet); Neanderthal-ic hero blows holes in them. Huzzah. (And Gadzooks!). The premise works for a game.

Not so fucking much for a movie. Yes, Doom the movie does exist. And in a stroke of cinematic brilliance (And by brilliance, I mean asinine stupidity), the movie tries to preserve the first person perspective of the game, which consists of a gun shooting stuff at stuff (Insert phallic/reproductive reference here). I don’t suppose that it could be much worse than a movie about the Da Vinvi Crap. (Which should have been shot in the same way, first person perspective, but instead of a gun we have um… a soduku puzzle book, and instead of monsters we have Eccentric English Noblemen. And if you care that I gave away the wafer thin plot of that “book” go fuck your self with a rusty fork. Or go fork yourself with a rusty fuck. Whatever tickles your cutlery!)

I’ve decided that I’ll be producing movies based on games too. My first one will be about Minesweeper. Explosions. Sex. Mines. Explosive Sex in Mines. Tons of gratuitous nudity. (Women only! Yes I’m sexist. Go fuck off!)

Clever dialog:

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Boom!”

“Of all the mines in the world why did she have walk into mine?”

“Frankly my dear, I don’t sweep a mine!”

“I’m the king of the mine. Boom!”

“Luke, I am your Boom!”

“Andy came to Mineshank in NineteeenBoomityBoom.”

“Boom T go home!” (Okay I cried during ET. I was five for pity’s sake, and ET was so sick and “ET go home”. If you did not cry you were a heartless monster.)

Catchy tag lines:

“Part Man, Part Mine. All Boom.”

“A Boom sixty five million years in the making.”

And I’ll follow it up with a movie about Pac Man. A touching family movie about how a yellow circle with a mouth ate ghosts. On second thoughts screw the family movie part. It can be the new movie in the Ghost Buster series. Ghost Busters 3: Lots of Naked women.

Yeah, so my toaster wants to kill me.

Vegetarian Vegetables

In a fit of quite possibly misguided enthusiasm, I decided that I would work today. The original plan was that I would wake up bright and early, at the crack of dawn (on the west coast, so nine thirty here in the east.) work until three and then perhaps meet a friend later in the day.

Because of a few beers and some moderately pleasant (Moderately might be stretching it. Mildly? Vaguely? Peripherally? Tangentially? Insurmountably? Lackadaisically? Unintentionally? Weightily? Sixteen Elephants of Pleasant Company?) company during the imbibing of the beers, I got home late last night and woke up at twelve today.

Now, on the menu at that bar, (Or “on the menu in that bar’ or “Bar the menu in that on?”…Coherence has never been my strong suit. Get over it. I like my stories to meander a bit. Like a river or a drunk toaster salesman. Or a drunken toaster sails-man. Toaster sailing isn’t a very well known nautical pass time, mostly because most participants get electrocuted in short order. “Splash…bzzzt “, ah the smell of freshly toasted… (Bah! Sails-man isn’t even a word. I needed to hyphenate it so that I could do the toaster sails-man bit.)) , was a list of food that you could get at that bar. It in fact, was the menu and was doing what menus have been doing since the middle ages, which is doing the whole listing of food and drink bit (Before the great menu reformation of the sixteen hundreds, menus were a wanton lot, doing body shots with squirrels, robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. They used to dress up in awfully uncomfortable green tights and say stuff like “Yoiks, my merry men”, and “Can I take a look at your bow, good Sir.” (If you haven’t guessed by now, I’m facing a minor case of blogger’s block. I am randomly putting stuff together hoping to come up with something. Anything. I fully expect that by the time I’m done typing there will be three more digressions one of which deals with my obsession with cheesecakes and brun…Um yeah, never mind.) (I think I’ve closed all the brackets that I’ve opened, but I’m not sure. I suppose I could copy this text into a programmer’s editor to look for matching brackets but I’m far too lazy.)

One of the items on the menu at that bar, (Or “on the menu in that bar”), was a Vegetarian Dosa. Yeah a fucking Vegetarian Dosa. Now I do not even like it when North Indian restaurants serve Dosas (Because they ruin them, not because I’m biased against North Indians or anything.) . And a Vegetarian Dosa? With a cilantro chutney? It’s enough to make a strong man cry. Vegetarian? Does that really need to be said? Isn’t that a given? Unless somewhere, someone has committed the atrocity of stuffing a Dosa with Chicken Tikka? ...Actually that wouldn’t be a half bad idea. Or a Tandoor Dosa. Hell, that isn’t a bad idea either. (As promised, now our regularly scheduled digression. Cheesecake and brun…um yeah never mind.)

So, yeah work. Didn’t get any of that shit done.

The lone wolf from the Jungle Book

Earlier today I had decided that for once I would write something serious. Something relevant, something that resonated with my readers, something that they would be able take away and think about and perhaps not forget.

And then at the Indian Store I saw that the title of a new Hindi movie was, the Banana Brothers. It’s like the universe is saying, “Fuck that. You know you cannot be serious so why even try. So go make some sophomoric joke about bananas.” (Nudge, nudge wink, wink say no more.)

Well, Banana Brothers. I imagine the story is about two bananas that were separated at birth. One banana was adopted by a rich Mango and went on to become a PoliceBanana, and the other was adopted by a Vegetative Fagin and eventually rose to become the head of the UnderFruitworld. And they both fell in love with the same Apple. ( I should have made them fall in love with a Cherry, but then the opportunity for absolutely fucking inappropriate humor would have been far too overwhelming for me to resist. Or should that be absolutely inappropriate fucking humor.)

There is a banana from the Middle East for comedic relief, Sheikh Banana or as he prefers to be called, Banana Sheikh. (I apologize. I truly do.), and the gangster’s moll played by an over-ripe Plum. (I have no clue where I’m going with this. Reminds me of the charts with fruits names that we had in school.) And so they’re in a crowded bus, squashed together, (I now know where I’m going with this. I’m going to fit in as many lame as fruit puns as I can.) and stuck in a traffic Jam (I’ve capitalized the jam, so that you do not miss the pun).

Um yeah so fuck that. I can’t do this to myself any longer. Make up your own puns and do not send them to me. Unless they’re good. Then send them. With money. And domin…Never mind.

So where was I? Ah yes. Sadly I’ve turned into one of those people who turns over a packet of food to see the nutritional facts listed on it. Twenty five percent of my daily allocation of hydrogenated long chained poly nucleotide ribosomal gobbledygook, three hundred calories. No way am I eating that. No, I’ll survive on cereal bars and yoghurt.

I hate yoghurt.

I really, really do.

Especially mixed fruit yoghurt. I think the yoghurt I had for lunch today had in it most of the cast of Banana Brothers.

For a few magazines more.

Yesterday, at twelve I had an appointment with a doctor, and she kept me waiting in the reception area until a quarter to one. There I was getting quietly bored, examining my fingernails, admiring the inside of my eyelids, counting the number of hair on the second joint of my left ring finger (two). You know, fun stuff.

Now, you may say, “Rajneesh, weren’t there magazines for you to read?”

And I would, with a sad smile on my face reply, “Yes there were.” And then I would shake my head and stare off into the distance, an expression of muted sadness on my face, the face of a strong silent man who has seen horrors that he cannot, will not talk about.

The look that the Lone Gunslinger gives in every western, as he contemplates the time, when as an innocent kid he out drew the Lone Gunslinger and became the Lone Gunslinger.

So that’s the look I’m giving you. Squinting off into the distance, desperately hoping that my contact lenses do not pop out of my eyes. I tip my ten gallon hat back, draw my trusty six gun and dive to the left. And then we cut to bullet vision, like the Matrix, or Max Payne, and I shoot the toaster.

Um…Yes. So the reception had magazines. Tons of them, a veritable cornucopia of magazine-osity. It was like the magazine fairy had, in an orgasm of generosity spread her bounty all over the office (Ick!). What I am trying to say is that there were tons of magazines.

Let there be no grounds for ambiguity. Magazines were profusely present. Magazines were profoundly present. Magazines were doing the horizontal mambo with nary a care.Magazines peeped at me from under the chairs; they waved at me from the racks. Some of the more adventurous ones were hanging out near the end tables, doing body shots and playing drinking games. Verily, ‘twas like the reception area that launched a hundred thousand magazines.

And.

They were all women’s magazines.

Specifically, Women’s Health and Healthy Pregnancy. Every fucking issue from the beginning of time. When people hadn’t thought up of pregnancy. When stuff used to reproduce by splitting itself across a diagonal. (One of the halves would go off to sleep and the other half would fume because the sleeping half did not want to talk about its feelings.)

There also was a book of nursery rhymes. It informed me about Jack and Jill, who apparently went up a hill. To fetch a pail of water. (No indoor plumbing). Jack fell down and broke his crown (tiara?), and Jill came tumbling after (Clearly a follower and not a leader. This will reflect badly upon here during her semi-annual review)

In sheer desperation I picked up Women’s Health, and made an astounding discovery. A happy astounding discovery. Women’s Health has more hot semi-naked women in it than Maxim does. Do women enjoy looking at hot semi-naked women? (I hope so!). Does this make them healthy? Is this why the name of the magazine is Women’s Health and not Hot Semi-Naked Women Monthly?

Um, yeah so, don’t judge a magazine by its title.

Do, a deer.

I’m wasting time while I should be doing something important. Like typing up this important document that I need to submit tomorrow.

And this is what I come across on um a place where people give themselves stupid taglines.

…And smile a lot it Cost Nothing (FREE)…

Now I suppose I should be charitable and give the person who came up with that the benefit of the doubt. But, I’m not a nice person and hell, that all uppercase free absolutely slays me. …It Cost Nothing, (FREE)… the uppercases fill me with joy. It brought a smile to my face. And the smile cost me nothing! (FREE!)

...The hills are alive with the sound of FREEEEE (It Cost Nothing),
The definitions they have sung for a thousand years.
The hills fill my heart with the sound of FREEEEE (It Cost Nothing)...

(To the person whose website had those lyrics. Embedded fucking MIDI music is not a good fucking idea. It was a bad idea when Hotmail was an innovation. You know, the early nineteenth century. Hunting through multiple Firefox tabs, looking for that one page with the tiny little pause button to stop that atrocious rendering of the hills are alive with the sound of FREEEEE (It Cost Nothing), is not pleasant)

I’m a bad person, and if a hell existed I would go to it. To be tormented by devils who would insist on making me read the Da Vinci Crap, or would use z instead of s in plural forms. (You know who you are, you evil degenerate person you.).

(I like brackets)

Or maybe they would recruit me. I could be sadistic to the bad folk. “Paint your “own pottery” studio” or “Paint your “own pottery studio””, I would ask them, and no matter what the answer, I’d force them to do nasty things. Like watch soccer.

Unless they like watching soccer. In which case I’d sadly shake my head, and give them up to someone vastly more qualified at torture than me. Perhaps one of those twisted researchers at Gillette who have come up with a razor that now has sixteen blades.

I’m not exaggerating. It has sixteen blades. However, to avoid ripping a hole in the fabric of space time, only four of them will appear in this reality at any instant of time. The rest are stored in a pocket reality inaccessible to normal humans. The one that has wayward socks and all the contact lenses that I ever lost. And contact lenses Cost Something (NOT FREE).

And no, the title does not suggest that you do a deer, unless of course you are a stag, in which case whatever rocks your boat man. It is pronounced Doh a deer. From that little-known Simpsons episode, where Homer saw a deer and exclaimed, “Gadzooks, a deer. Come Watson, the hunt is on.”

The truth.