Monday, December 04, 2006

Poker- History and Future 101

I started fiddling with cards many many years ago. But I started playing for money only much later. I think I was in class V or something when I had my first attack of jaundice (hepatitis for the technically bent amongst you), and jaundice/hepatitis as you know is one bimaari that gives you a guaranteed 1-2 month vacation, though it is not the idyllic kind as the diet you are forced to push down your throat is simply abysmal. Anyway it was during that jaundice-era that I started playing cards for money, with my Grandma that is (who by the way for some completely arbit and unfathomable reason was called Lalma by both me and my cousin sis). We used to play this wonderfully stupid game, inexplicably called "Fish" (it was kind of a poorer man's rummy in some ways), and whoever won would get 25 paise, and if the winner won by 300 points or more then he(i.e. me)/she (i.e Lalma) would earn an additional 25 paise. And believe me I grinded through hours and hours of "fish"ing during that jaundice-infested summer, often cooking the scorebook or setting-up the play deck so that yo get some really nice cards, and by the end of that summer I was the proud owner of a couple of 20 Rupee note. Voila!!

Anyhoo to cut a long story short I slowly graduated to the more brainy games primarily bridge and me and my bridge partner (the guy who taught me how to play the game and by far the best card player I have ever seen in my life) then started playing in small meant-for-fun local club tourneys. Now this wasnt for money. Because the club tourneys we played in, were not the hi-fi sophisticated clubs that you might think they were. These were instead those small shanty local clubs frequented by the people whose professions varied from being auto-drivers to fishmongers to the night-guards of residential complexes to that guy who owns that small paan-shop round the corner, but primarily those who didnt have any jobs. But I kid you not when I say that these guys were sharks when the decks were dealt out. They could guess with an amazingly high degree of accuracy the exact 13 cards that you held depending on the way you played. And of course there were bragging rights up for grabs, so the games were intensely competetive. And I had an additional advantage as well, since a bunch of these guys I played with were auto-drivers I got a huge number of free rides from my house to the auto-routes on which these guys operated (for the calcutta savvy that was free rides from garia-jadavpur/gariahat). Not bad eh!!

And then I came over to the States and got hooked onto this mother of all cash games -Texas Hold'em Poker. For those of you unfamiliar with it inspite of the constant programing on ESPN or inspite of that poker 's holy grail matt damon-ed norton starring rounders this is basically an advanced version of our desi bred teen-patti. Now contrary to what you think poker is not a luck game. It is game of great skills and this is one game which if you play skillfully in a casino you will not lose money, unlike Blackjack.

So to cut a short story long I started playing poker at Pennstate, first with friends (for cigarettes or beer but mainly for fun) and then more and more in local poker rooms in the Pennsylvania/Ohio area. Casinos you see are not legal in most of mainland USA and thus there were these private party run poker rooms where you can play these games, what you had to do was take your money there and play as long or as short a time as you want, the only thing you had to be worried about was that the poker room was properly run and it wasnt a scam operation. Anyway fortunately/unfortunately I discovered that I can make a fair amount of dough playing poker. Of course the law of averages dictate that there will be days when I lost a fair amount, but if you play over a pretty long period then the odds are that a good player will make rather than lose money. The operative word here being "good". But all that stopped when I moved out of Pennstate, first to Houston and then to California. I guess was too lazy to start hunting down local poker rooms where you could go and play.

But then began the age of online poker. No longer did you have to go out to seedy poker rooms or casinos to play, you needed only a computer at your place, download the software, deposit money through something like paypal or your checking account and start playing. But due to various reasons I didnt play too actively when I was at Stanford, only in the past few months or so after moving over to houston did I again start playing poker a bit more rigorously. And that dear readers is also one of the driving reason for the alarming dip in the regularity with which this blog is getting updated and also the reason why the lady in my life is getting stood up more and more. Anyway so over the past few weeks I have again started playing the cash games with regularity, I usually play 2-3 hours a day, 4-5 days a week and on an average I can make 300-400 USD a week.

But that is not the goal here. Maybe, just maybe, in 4-5 years time I can start playing poker full time - professionally and maybe just maybe play in the World series of poker (which by the way has an enrty fee of $25000) and more importantly it would sound ultra cool when that broad asked me what do you for a living, I wouldnt have to harp that damn beaten-down-million-desi-trodden line "Oh I am a research fuckass dickhead scientist", instead I could impress that chick with "I play poker, including strip poker" . For now that remains an elusive dream, but then reality bites dreams dont, though the social life has taken an astounding pounding.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Me and me-in-a-dress

One time:
Me: do girls masturbate?
She: Of course
Me: i mean do the desi females masturbate?
She: some do.
Me: do you?
She: Fucker do you?
Me: atleast once on weekdays and twice on a sunday.
She: make that a double for me.
Me: eyes roll around the socket in sheer glee

Another time:
Me: Which is your fav : girl-on-top or boy-on-top??
she: neither, doggy is the best
Me: on the bed or the dining table??
She: the dining table of course, no no make it the office table.
Me: Of course (eyes are now ready to pop out of thy sockets with even greater glee)

Yet another time:
She: I discovered this amazing site, check it out.
Me: what?
She:, its got free porn sweetheart
Me: (reaching for the browser) what was that url again?

Some time:
Me: what were you doing in that bookstore where I met you??
She: Browsing through some books of course
Me: Anything specific?
She: it was the kamasutra.
Me: smashing

And so I've met me, me in a dress and a black top and red shirts and the works looking all shagadelic hot!! And by god Im fucking great baby.

Monday, October 23, 2006

Girl power-- Jai Maa Kali, Kalkattewali

Do any of you guys (and of course the beautiful ladies) remember that great Indian super-hero named Shahenshah? Any bells ringing?? C'mon people its that stupid comic cop by day and a deadly one man protector of the innocent and defenseless by night, wearing a platinum made arm guard that could stop a bullet and a mortar round with equal ease. Hes the one who would mouth that famous line:

Rishtey me to hum tumhare baap lagte hai, naam hai shahenshah

And had his own personal background music which would play every-night when he started his rounds of the streets of Bombay in search of Amrish Puri and his goons that would go:

Andheri raaton me, sunsaan raho par
Har Zulm mitane ko
Ek messiah nikalta hai
Jise log Shahenshah kehte hai

And now maybe a decade and a half or maybe more, after we last heard of that great Indian superhero, he is back again . But this time with a twist. He is back in a female avtaar(s), patroling the streets of our nation's capital and my home town conducting that dreaded "Noodle Strap" Test with the background music going:

Andheri raaton me, sunsaan raho par
Micro-mini pehnane ko
Kahi bandiyan nikalte hai
Jinhe log
Blank noise kehte hai

She stalks the streets of Delhi by the wee hours of the night, wearing body hugging outfits looking for males who dare to even look up at this astonishing sight of a bunch of super-hero she-shahnshahs walking past them in the middle of the night wearing something like a wonder-woman outfit. And any of those poor fuckass, dickhead males who dare to look up is swiftly brought to justice by being reported to that new-age LEAGUE OF JUSTICE by and for the SUPER-HERO FEMALES. Justice is swift, justice is efficient-- the league warns. For my dear old home-town the league has even sterner patroling rules. Agent Jane Smith of the league goes to a street, that would put a damn fish market to shame, in the middle of the afternoon, sashays past a male-beggar in a noodle top and ass hugging jeans (the beggar by the way in all probability has never ever seen any kind of display of any degree of any fair skin in his whole life, agent Smith sashaying by him is therefore equivalent to a girl sashaying on streets of houston in a G-string) and when the beggar looks up from his bowl with the first-in-my-lifetime-sight-for-me-lady look agent smith marks her out for justice.

I, however unlike most of those males who have been brought to justice by this new super-hero female league, am completely smitten by them. These new age she -shahenshahs you see arent a protector of the innocent or the defenseless. They arent worried about issues like child marriage or the plight of that poor muslim woman in the best bakery case, or the plight of dance girls in mumbai's chamiya bars (female-dance-bars) once those closed down. Hell they arent even bothered one bit about the inhuman conditions that exist in Calcutta biggest brothel, Sonagachi. Defending or writing 200 word newspaper articles on these issues lack that cool USP quotient after all. Agent Smith doesnt take up these mundane asignments. Fuck bitch this wont even get me any fodder for my hugely popular desi blog: "the desi-wannabe-feminist-ogre.blogspot", she would complain to the CEO of the justice-league.

Instead, the new age league are the defenders of the sphagetti top, the noodle strap top, the micro mini, the sleeveless kurta worn without a dupatta, the tank top, the hot pants, the body hugging outfit, to be more precise the right to wear them. Their tagline/USP reads :

Inside every salwar kurta-clad woman is another wanting to wear a noodle-strap top.
And by sweet mother mary (note not jesus, jesus is male, the female super-league is strictly prohibited to swear via the male gender) we shall make them wear those.

You see what I mean right. This bunch is exactly my kind of a super-female bunch. What better than to have Indian lassies of all ages , the 20s, the 30s, the aunties, marching around in micro-minis, albeit with mis-shapen asses and thunder-thighs. For starters it would perhaps help to elevate by atleast one standard deviation the abysmally low sexual expression capabilities of the Indian metro-female.

Female liberation has finally entered the new millenium. Gone are the days of BRA-BURNING and enter are the days of the LETS DRESS UP AUNTIE IN MICRO-MINIS. And I for one am really looking forward to visiting Calcutta in a couple of months time. After all micro-mini wearing aunties hopping off that mini-bus would be a great spectacle if nothing else. Though I must warn the league, my mom would take some work before she comes around!!

Friday, October 06, 2006

Some news and some surprise

Ok lets start with some of the news. And before you start getting ideas about the nature of the news, in particular its proximity to the female form, let me clarify, this is good news of the kind that has never before been mentioned in this blog, infact this is the kind of good news that makes the hearts of nerdy geeky people (and no one else mind you) go ga-ga with joy. But hey then again this is that Jhantu blog, so you can be assured though that some mention of the closeness to female forms will come in, maybe a bit later. Now before the subsequent sentences start getting more and more convoluted and ever more confusing and long drawn and before you my dear reader start scratching the top of your head in frustration at the unashamed display of my command or the lack of it of the english language in its written form and scream out O blurt out that fucking good news for petes sake you dickhead fuck, dear readers it is the following:

You see all nerdy research folks and scientists pompously publish unimportant complicated techie papers in completely useless and unimportant scientific journals every year by the tons. But sadly few of them are ever read by anybody, and till date that has been the case with yours truly. But lo and behold, I was at this conference over the past week, when surprise surprise. What do I find but these bunch of Chinese research guys at some big shot company's research division referring and citing with gay abundance about a 4 page work of crap published by one Jhantu on which they seem to have based their entire work. Not just that that work of crap by that one called Jhantu now seems to be the work-horse of that un-named company's production line.

Now believe me when I say this that for us techies seeing our name cited on a random publication or a viewslide in a 20 minute long technical presentation attended by 20 people with gray/no hair, is glamour redefined. We techies you see are satisfied with little. Right from the start (meaning the day we decided to become techies), we know that all our equations and bullet-proof theorems and our super-fast codes are never going to elevate our getting-laid status at a club, the spicy girls are more likely to fall for that chunky truck-driver Chuck, rather than that lanky geeky dude wearing a t-shirt that reads:

And thus we are satisfied with trying to get laid by equally nerdy geeky girls and just to add a pinch of lemon to those out of reach sour grapes we shall say Fucking blonde bimbos who wants to date them anyway, screw those dumb bitches, of course followed by a muffled silent sigh in postscript if only we could.

Anyway without be-labouring the point any more, the bottomline is that we the geeky research folks really get turned on seeing our name displayed on this presentations and tech papers. Thus if your girl-friend or boy-friend or some such character in your life is a geeky techie, and you want to get him/her a really grand halloween present, then come halloween night get dressed in that naughty school-girl uniform (of course dont forget to go commando) and hold one of his pre-prints in your hand and coo to him would you be my professor and teach me how equation number A-4 was derived. And trust me when I say this and believe me I kid you not that you'd be treating that geek in your life to an unforgetable night of 100% pure pleasure if you follow this piece of advise.

But anyway, so I had my one slide's worth of glory in the world of geekies and even had a few students in universities walking upto me and asking me for my email to discuss some aspects of my work that they could not quite follow, but would love to. And I obliged them with my visiting cards in the manner in which Sachin Tendulkar obliges his fans with autographs, feeling all pompous and important and all that shit. Felt good you know, infact felt fucking great.

But then something happened. A few among that bunch of autograph-in-the-form-of-business-card hunting bunch of grads decided to tag along with me for dinner. Now if you have been in a grad school in the US as a geek and been to these conferences, you would know that this is a red-herring with R in caps for that company scientist. Let me explain. The trick that the grad student plays here is that he is out looking for an expensive $100 per person dinner at some posh seafood/steakhouse joint. Of course for those below the poverty line grads a $100 meal is well and truly beynd their reach. So what they do is that they'll get into conversation with a research guy from some company about oh how interested they are in his work. Now the company-research guy being a geeky techie himself, would be overjoyed that some student finds his hitherto crap piece of work so exciting, so that company research guy would take these grad students out to dinner to discuss his work in more details, pick up the tab, and those bunch of grads would get their 100 buck meal, which they were out to look for in the first place.

But what those dickhead grads didnt know is that I am fresh out of school, and for the last four years I have been playing this trick with perfection at numerous conferences. So yea I did take them out for dinner, and being of good heart I did pick up the tab, only the place wasnt Morton's Steakhouse (which by the way serves the best filet mignon in the south coast), but it was Mcdonalds. Game, set and match for Jhantu, I would say!!

And now for the SURPRISE part.

It seems romance has decided to make a comeback into my life. After being sentenced to be in the backseat of thy life for almost an eternity, it seems that she, romance, has decided that it is now time that she would make her presence felt. Now for someone, whose been involved in some of the most eclectic relationships of the heart in the past, allowing romance a foothold is a herculean task in itself. But then pretty hands have a way of tilting the balance:

The princess might kiss the ugly frog and turn him into the prince of his dreams. This might not after all be just tales from the crypt, fairy tales might still come true.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

An old old archaic Tag

She had tagged me many many moons ago, but I just hadnt got round to doing it. (On the same note tags from her and her still remain due).
But then coming back to blogging after a pretty long exile, you need something like a tag to get you going. So for today, no sex stories, no bloody indian dude/dudette bashing but lets do a simple decent nice tag.

Heres the tag rules:
(1) Say who tagged you
(2) Say 8 things about yourself
(3) Tag 6 people.

8 things about me:

(1) I have a raging inferiority complex and I often end up using sex, trash talk and really weird, deranged and the sexually explicit variety of humor as a defense mechanism.

(2) I wish I could wear my hair ala Rahul Roy (for those of you not into Bollywood movies he is the hero of that legendary modern day Hindi movie classic "Junoon", India's first and probably last werewolf movie, a singing and dancing wereworlf at that too). Being unsatisfied with my natural in situ hair and finally having given up on a Rahul roy-esque haitdo I have instead proceeded to dye my hair brown blonde and various other combinations of brown and blonde in the past. I also happen to have 7 piercings on my ear, one on my navel and a really wrong tattoo on my arm.

(3) I am addicted to the Almost Famous variety of mini-cookies most commonly found in vending machines. I have single handedly emptied more than three vending machines of their Almost Famous stock in less than 7 days.

(4) You can often find me at an AMC or a multi-plex watching movies alone. Infact I prefer to watch movies in an audi alone, and never ever prefer going to a movie-date ( in the past I have had traumatic experiences of making out in movie theatres which I am sure has scarred me forever and created a major mental block when it comes to movie dates). I am also extremely suspicious of girls who go to movies with me and buy popcorns. I get this feeling that in the dark of the theater, while reaching for the popcorn precariously balanced on my knees with my hand still inside the popcorn bag, her hands and fingers will forget about the popcorn and instead make a dash for my hand with the intention of holding onto it in a gesture of stupid PDA (public display of affection) and thus take the first step to spoiling my movie.

(5) There is probably nothing and no-one in the world I really care about (including myself). And this has been true for many years now, except for an anamolous break once. But then again exceptions and anamolies prove the rule.

(6) I'm a trained classical guitarist, meaning I have had 8 years of "formal" training in playing the damn classical guitar and my marksheets (four of them actually) read "Passed in music theory with 1st class" (theory pertains to the part where they ask you all kinds of weird questions about raags and tri-taals and things like that) , "Passed in practical with distinction" (practical pertians to the actual playing part). Surprisingly I have also played solo on the radio, and played in an orchestra at the Nazrul Manch (probably the largest open air audi in Calcutta).

(7) I hate formal wear. I absolutely detest them. And thus, much to my manager's chagrin, I end up going to the office in party shirts. I also hate shoes and snickers. Now flip-flops and sandals, thats what the man should put on, right!!

(8) I find most people boring and stupid and slow. And I'm usually blunt about it. (I would usually go out of my way to let you know that your a first class daft and boring the hell out of me with your non-sensical jabber). Consequently I find it extremely hard to make friends. Infact all my friends, casual and otherwise, (with the exception of exactly 5 people) are people I know for almost a decade now.

Now for the people to tag. The unfortunate bunch are:
M, Wishfulthinker, Sue, Aditi,

Monday, August 28, 2006

Whats your CD-Q (Cool Desi Quotient) Score??

You know you have qualified for the Cool Umrican desi tag when:

(1) You (the guy) can be seen in a crowded choc-a-bloc pub on a scorching summer night wearing your best full-sleeves designer shirt and ball-crushing tight black trousers (preferably leather), sweating like there is no tomorrow, eyeing the babes with a grin that reads "Aint I cool, I shall have all the bitches tonight"

(2) You (the girl) can be seen in a crowded choc-a-bloc pub on a freezing winter night wearing a mini-skirt and a strap that leaves nothing of your thunder thighs to imagination. Often you are accompanied by a gang of atleast 10 other leather-pant sporting cool desi dudes. After a round of drinks the 11 of you proceed to the dance floor. The music is hip-hop and the only way you dance to a hip-hop is to grind your ass on someone's crotch. And you (the girl) have 10 crotches to choose from. Unfortunately for you grinding your mini-skirt laden ass on black leather pants covered crotch will trouble your morning bathroom activities for the coming several days. But you are uber-cool, and not dancing in a disc is sin, a sacrilege you dare not commit. So much to the chagrin and bewilderment of the DJ, the 11 of you bring in the Ring-A-Ring-A-Roses element into hip-hop dancing. No-sweat baby, you croon.

(3) You have been in the US of A for just about a year, but everytime you need to call up that Umrican restaurant to make a reservation you can effortlessly put on that cool twangy Californian nasal accent with a vengence. Unfortunately for you, you're too cool and thus you end up addressing the guy on the phone with the line Whats cooking daawg, and end with the line Thats khoool baby, the matter is compounded by the fact that you are a cool desi babe.

(4) You declare the first non-desi who expresses a crush on you as your soul-mate, it is inconsequential whether the guy is just about as tall as Charlie Chaplin with a non-existant hairline or the girl is usually addressed as Miss.Beanstock. You have a non-desi girl/boy-friend and thats all that matters.

(5) You have been on orkut for years. Once you start dating that non-desi boy/girl he/she gets an invit into orkut from you. Your other ultra-cool-desi friends proceed to scrap him with one liners that read "dulhe raja chamak rahe ho (for non-desis not to be translated, ask your cool desi babe/dude)". Mystified by this sudden onslaught of scraps in your mother-tongue, your non-desi boy/girl friend puts up the heading on his orkut page "trying to learn hindi". A debate then arises as to who is the coolest amongst the two of you.

(6) Umricans like the outdoors and so should you. Thus you go hiking and camping on weekends when the mercury breaks the 100 degree barrier. On coming back from your weekend outdoor adventure, blackened and marooned, you spend a considerable amount of time in front of the mirror (over the next several days) admiring your tan.

(7) Ummricans love a good barbeque and so should you. Unfortunately you have no idea what can be grilled and what cannot be and thus you proceed to try and boil eggs on your barbeque debut. A good egg sandwich is in the waiting for all of you eh mate, you say as your invited cool desi friends nod their heads in the affirmative.

(8) An year ago when you were in India people used to call you Satyakee or at best Satya, but now Californians call you Scottie and Texans call you Sam. The problem arises when you head over to starbucks with another such Indian Sam (origin: Sampad), the confused waitress at the counter finally labels the two of you Sam-1 and Sam-2.

(9) You no longer go to desi restaurants. The food is soo oily and soo spicy you complain. Instead you can be often seen enjoying a delicious American meal at Cracker Barrel. On the same note you can never be seen in an Indian movie, the movies are just too long and those songs and dances what do those bloody indians think --we Ummricans are fools.

(10) Anytime someone sneezes an Ummrican goes Bless you. Not to be left behind the next time you hear someone fart you say bless you. When someone mumbles something incoherently the Ummrican goes Come again. The next time someone lets out an incoherent muffled fart you go Come again.

(11) You come from country that hosts a billion people, but now you are acutely aware of the concept of your own private space. You need a space where you can spend quality time with yourself but much to the disappointment of yours truly spending quality time with yourself doesnt mean letting your hands/fingers or elongated foreign objects work overtime on you. On the same note when you go back to India the first thing that hits you as you come out of the airport is the noise man, India is so damn noisy and there are so many people around, its amazing.

(12) You have heard that wine is a uber-cool drink, and thus you can often be seen asking for a glass of chilled white wine from that bartender in that crowded nightclub. Further you have also seen your Ummrican friends keeping wine bottles in their freezers, that must be fashionable you wonder. But not only are you ultra-cool but you are ultra-cheap to boot as well, and thus proceed to buy $8 wine bottles by the dozen from Walmart. You then teach your uncool desi friend invited for dinner to your house how you must wash down a good dinner with good wine every night to stay in good health.

(13) After a night of cool-desi-babe style partying you are stopped on the road by that damn cop on a DUI (Driving under Influence) offense. You proceed to wiggle out of that supposed tricky situation by hitting on the cop and letting your cool desi charms work its magic on him. A few days later, your uncool desi friend tries the same stunt on that same cop, unfortunately for her she spends the next few days in the jail-house. She lacked my cool, you croon.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

The Prodigal Son will return soon

Unfortunate (and of course mightily smashbuckling) circumstances is keeping away from this blog and the internet in general for the time being. But fear not Jhantu-heads I shall be back in a few days. Till then heres something uncharacteristically sentimental:

All our times have come
Here but now they're gone
Seasons don't fear the reaper
Nor do the wind the sun or the rain (we can be like them)
Come on baby (don't fear the reaper)
Baby take my hand (don't fear the reaper)
We'll be able to fly (don't fear the reaper)
Baby I'm your man

Valentine is done
Here but now they're gone
Romeo and Juliet Are together in eternity (Romeo and Juliet)
40,000 men and women everyday (like Romeo and Juliet)
40,000 men and women everyday (redefine happiness)
Another 40,000 coming everyday (we can be like they are)
Come on baby (don't fear the reaper)
Baby take my hand (don't fear the reaper)
We'll be able to fly (don't fear the reaper)
Baby I'm your man

Love of two is one
Here but now they're gone
Came the last night of sadness
And it was clear that she couldn't go on
Then the door was open and the wind appeared
The candles blew and then disappeared
The curtains flew and then he appeared (saying don't be afraid)
Come on baby (and she had no fear)
And she ran to him (then they started to fly)
They looked backwards and said goodbye (she had become like they are)
She had taken his hand (she had become like they are)

- courtesy BOC

And in case you though that Jhantu is going soft in the head, heres something characteristically non-sentimental :

I wanna wanna wanna wanna, I wanna get psycho

Run you little bitch
I want your power glowing, juicy flowing, red hot, meaning of life
It's not enough to have a little taste
I want the whole damn thing now
Can you dig it?

Need to get psycho
wanna hear you say it
say, you want it, need it
Don't wanna wait until we finish the show
It's not enough, you hunger for more
You're one twisted little fuck
And now you wanna get psycho with me

I can feel the blood, flowing through my veins
Spilling on my soul
And now the hunger's getting bigger
Come a little closer now pretentious whore and pull my trigger
Free the violence that is building in me
I say now end of the ride, murder suicide
Is how I've been feelin'lately
Come a little closer my pretentious whore I'm living with a feeling that I can't ignore
Come a little closer my pretentious whore I'm living with a feeling that I can't ignore
Come a little closer my pretentious whore I'm living with a feeling that i can't ignore
And the need to get psycho is not a question to me

-- courtesy Disturbed

MCQ for the blog-reader :

Often at night, I
(1) call up my girl-friend (boy-friend) professing undying everlasting love and end the conversation with the line "When is the earliest I can hold your hands and look into your deep blue eyes"
(2) call
up my girl-friend (boy-friend) professing undying everlasting horniness and end the conversation with the line "When is the earliest I can fuck you "
(3) realize I am too lazy to call or too ugly to have a girl-friend (boy-friend), but i feel I'm just right for hand-jobs

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

A beautiful Lyrical love-story

Act 1: Asking her out on that first date:

Come with me Into the trees
We'll lay on the grass And let hours pass
Take my hand Come back to the land
Let's get away Just for one day

Just when she feels oooh what a sweet romantic guy you are and is getting all mushy and cutey and coyish, finish with the following line:

Metropolis --Has nothing on this
You breathing in fumes, I taste when we kiss
Let me see you stripped.

Bottomline : Its all about the booty sweetheart, the bigger the better.

Act 2: Been dating for a while, you've been trying to score and get laid, but she isnt budging much, except for those now boring kissies, finally when you cant take these score-less dates any more you say:

I've been waiting my whole life for just one: fuck
And all I needed was just one: fuck
How can you say that you don't give a: fuck
I find myself stupified,
coming back again
All I wanted was just one fuck
One tiny little innocent fuck
And now I feel like I'm shit out of luck
I find myself stupified, coming back again.

Botomline : Fucking bitch, all those dinners and car-rides on my money and not even a grateful-thank-you fuck from you.

Act 3: This is it, you are determined to score that elusive touch-down today, so when you guys are necking in the living room you whisper into her ears:

You let me violate you, you let me desecrate you
You let me penetrate you, you let me complicate you
Help me I broke apart my insides, help me Ive got no Soul to tell
Help me the only thing that works for me, help me getAway from myself
I want to fuck you like an animal
I want to feel you from the inside
I want to fuck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed You get me closer to god.

Bottomline : Fucking me is divine, so go for it.

Act 4: Have been "making love" to her for sometime now, and its now getting damn boring , you need a break, need to find some fresh meat. Being a nice person, and not wanting to tell her that shes a lousy fuck, you first try the subtle break-up approach, the we-lack-mental-match-sweetie-but-we-are-good-friends-approach:

Finished with my woman cause she couldnt help me with my mind
People think Im insane because I am browning all the time
All day long I think of things but nothing seems to satisfy
Think Ill lose my mind if I dont find something else to pacify
Can you help me thought you were my friend

Bottomline: Take the hint and take off with your goodie two shoes parasitic ass, STAT (shake that ass tootsie)

Act 5: Subtle approach doesnt work and she has now become a full time pain in the ass, that clingy girlfriend you just hate. Desperate times, desperate measures:

I used to love her But i had to kill her
She bitched so much She drove me nuts
I had to kill her I had to put her Six feet under
She's buried right In my backyard
And i can still hear her complain

Bottomline: Bitches belong in the gutter, not in my bed-room.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Queen size beds can be traumatic

Allow me to take you back a couple of days.

On thursday August the 10th I made a move from Stanford to Houston where I shall be a Scientist by day and working one of the small houston sports bar by night. Before leaving Stanford I decided to spend a couple of nights doing some of the good old in-out (kind of a farewell-to-gradlife fuck or a farewell-stanford fuck) with my recently acquired German uttering desi-babe, albeit for the last time, though that it is a issue that has no bearings whatsoever on the event I shall be describing.Now I am a meticulous lover. I like to plan a good fuck, and when it comes to a farewell-fuck I plan it even tighter, cross all my "t"s and dot all my "i"s and make sure that the fuck-plan is bullet-proof. So armed with a vintage bottle of wine, a bunch of romantic mood-setting dvds, a fresh bunch of the most beautiful daisies you have ever seen I made my way to desi-babe's one bedroom apartment, all ready to spend two night and two days worth of pure sexual bliss. So far so good.

And it got even better. I might be a lousy date, but by God I am a super fuck. So after taking sweetie on several monumental joy-rides over the night she finally let me know that she and most of her vital nocturnal-muscles/organs have had way too much for one night and the only thing that she can now do is drop dead asleep. Fine by me.

And thats when tragedy struck. You see I have a sleeping disorder. I cannot go to sleep with someone else in my bed. I can have sex, I can kiss, I can tak, I can fondle, I can cuddle, I can grope, I can stroke,, I can do pretty much everything with you in bed, except for the sleeping bit. Now fortunately for me, the girls I've been involved with do not know this little secret of mine, the reason for which is the fact that all these girls, thankfully, had a single cushion bed in their apartments and I too have a single cushion bed at my place. So when it was sleepy-sleepy time, the moment she fell asleep I could safely get out of bed, pull out a sleeping bag and happily sleep on the carpet all by myself. When questioned the next morning Why the fuck are you in that sleeping bag and not cuddling with me, I had the perfect excuse It is anatomically impossible to fit two sleeping bodies in that single bed sweetheart and I wanted you to have the perfect undisturbed spacious night of sleep. After all I need to you to be fresh and prim for the fornicatiions I have in store for you tonight sweetheart. And I was fine.

But on this farewell night I had a huge fucking problem. She had a God damn Queen size bed.

Sweetie, having been royally and gratifyingly poked in all possibly pokable regions for the last several hours decided to cuddle up to me and fall asleep in my arms. And believe me when I tell you this that she fell asleep in exactly 5 minutes. And that left ---me, extremely awake, stuck in a Queen size bed for the night with a girl using my arm and a bulk of my chest as a pillow-rest and my torso as somekind of a wrapping gizmo around which she can wrap her arms so fucking tightly that I had to strain to breath normally. And then there was her hair. I love long hair, I really do, nothing turns me on more than a girl with a flowing mane. But for Pete's sake I do not like it one bit when that same hair frequently makes its way into my nose and my mouth. And with sweetie's head resting on my upper chest, preacriously close to my mouth and my nose, and with that fucking table fan spinning around at top speed right next to us, that same much-loved and turn-me-on-sensational hair turned into an object of intense loathing. Everytime tha fan would spin and make a sweep over her and therefore my face those lousy hair aroused to hellish proportions by that freaking fan would rise up and make a mad-dash for my noise and my mouth, desperately trying to get in and succeeding. I tell you it was a struggle, a real fight between me and her fan-aroused hair. And it was a batlle I was losing badly.

I needed a plan, some plan, any plan , anything that would get her off cuddling me. Desperate times call for desperate measures and so I resorted to the "hug-and-roll" plan.

Those of you who have ever seen FRIENDS will know how desperate this plan is, but for those of you who havent I shall enlighten. In princiiple it is really simple. What you do is you cuddle her up more tightly in your arms (thats where the "hug" comes from) then roll her to her side of the bed, getting her off you and then roll back to your side of the bed to experience the freedom of having no arms or legs wrapped around you And by God the plan worked. She was off me. I could feel my almost numb arms again, nothing was trying to get into my mouth and nose any more, my torso was liberated. I could barely control myself from singing out loudly with joy.

But that fucker Murphy had said long ago Anything that can go wrong will definitely go wrong.

Just as I was beginning to enjoy my newly acquired freedom and quitely singing a Anu-MAlik song in my head out of sheer joy, I suddenly heard a small rumbling lind of a noise , What!!can this be really happening, am I singing so well in my head that I can even hear the accompanying invisible banjo-led orchestra. But then the noise grew, it picked up volume and began to rumble and roll with abundant glee and soon it was no more accompanying my singing, it was determined to be the only noise in the bed-room, determined to hammer my ear-lobes to extinction and make its presence felt with a vengence. I looked up alarmed, panic-stricken now, What in fucks name, are we being attacked by aliens or something, sweetie dear can you hear that, I went up to say to her.

And then I saw it. It wasnt aliens, it wasnt even Anu Malik's orchestra, it was my sweetheart's nose. With every breath of hers, everytime her chest rose and fell, her nose spoke to me in a tongue I didnt understand. Of course I assumed that her nose was trying to speak to me since there was no one else in that bedroom. I desperately tried to make out what her nose wanted to say. Are you not happy with your shape dear nose, I asked, do you want her to get a nose job. FUUURRRRR -FUUSHHH-FUFFF it hissed back at me. It was obvious I wasnt getting anywhere, and the more I treid, the more agitated it seemed to get. The room was now alive with our lively banter. Me speaking in English/Hindi/Bengali, while her nose speaking in grumbles and rumbles.

By now my ears were buzzing and my eyes were a dangerous crimson red from the strain, and so I did what I had to do. I reached for that damn nose with two fingers and clamped it up. I had shut it off, the foreign tongue had gone silent. I was winning atlast. The silence in that bed-room was divine. But the moment I eased the clamp even a tad, her nose would start complaining and snarling again. Fucking bitch of a nose I shant let you win though I screamed. And so I got up, pulled sweetie back onto me in that cuddling position, wrapped her arms tightly around me in a death embrace, her face and thus that wretched bitch of a nose got buried in my chest, and finally I had shut that nose up for good.. I had won, the silence was again blissful.

But then the table fan began its sweep. With dreaded eyes I saw the hairs getting aroused and at that moment I knew I was a beaten man.