Monday, June 19, 2006

Rotten French wine served by the ugly Samba lady

I have tons of work, I have a thesis to complete and my advisor is after my ass threatening to nail it up on the haloed walls of stanford anyday. But I'm a brave boy (not man) and so over the past week, I've been defying the calls of my damn lab and simulations and stupid bug-infested code and instead happily drinking beer from 6 in the morning till 2 in the afternoon, even more happily watching the football (soccer doesnt have that same zingg). And since I run out of ideas often about what to write, and since all decent blogs that I read have their own personal posts on the football world cup, I decided to do what I do best that is ape these esteemed blogs and put in my own post on that. AHAA!! Talk about lack of better things to do...

Anyway so I've watched almost all the matches, yes yes even the Korea-Togo match with a bunch of face painted koreans singing the korean national anthem (i assume) at the drop of a hat.

But I must say the big teams have been a major disappointment, especially France and Brazil. So this post viciosly attacks the big names in both these teams and dishes out some majorly unwanted advise to the stars. Here goes.

Watching France play is like watching East bengal playing in its Chima Okerie days (remember the bull like black Nigerian), only in this case Zizou seems to be trying desperately to fill Chima's lethargic skill-less lead like feet. I counted the number of times he touched the ball in the Korean match--it was 15, thats like one touch every 5.5 mins and this from a guy who is supposed to be the premier playmaker in the world. And each time he did touch the ball, he tried to outdo himself by trying the flick-over or the sashay or the foot-over routine and happily for the defender deposited the ball right at his feet. Happily for Zidane his misery didnt last the whole 90 minutes as the utterly displeased French coach finally took him off. Not one decent pass has he made in the two matches. And then theres Thierry Henry, the most profilic scorer in the English Premier League, the guy who makes those piercing runs down the flanks before cutting into the box with his ferocious twist and finally firing in that bulls eye shot headed for the top corner of the net. But somehow Henry seems to have left his goal sense in the vaults of Arsenal who pay him more than $90k per week. The sitters that hes missed would put my grandma to shame. And those famous flank-runs of him, well I havent seen one of those from him yet. And then there are the Vieras and the Trezeguets all piped as premier medios and strikers, people who day in and day out marshall their club's midfield and offensive line with superioir aplomb, but here in the WC Viera's play has been pathetic to put it mildly. Infact I distinctly remember, him putting up the same kind of horror football show last time around too. The whole fucking Frenchies seem to be trying to live upto George dubya Bush's lifelong held belief that the French are sissies and pussies of the highest caliber.
Verdict: Will find it hard to get into the second round, if they do, thats where they will go home from
Appeal to the French team: Zidane retire from soccer and go play with your cute three kids and pretty wife. Henry your hot girlfriend is watching every match you are playing, if not for us atleast for her show us some those runs and dont just reserve all your energy for the nightly bedroom runs with her. Trust me seeing you running with that ball will turn her on no ends.

What about the mighty Brazilians???? Brazil Brazil Brazil, whatever happened to you. The football that you are playing is miserable. This year's Brazilian midfield was touted to be as good as that dream '82 midfield comprising of Zico, Socrates and Falcao. After all they have Ronaldihno, Kaka, Ronaldo and often Cafu and Roberto Carlos making their penetrating runs along the wings adding to the midfiled strength. But after two matches what kind of show has this supposedly dreamfield put up??? Not one free-flowing short-pass based move have they been able to string together in the two matches. Not one. Ronaldinho seems to be playing more for the gallery than anything else and not one penetrating run has he been able to give us. Kaka is trying, but definitely lacks imagination and has this stupid propensity of shooting rather than passing to an open man from just in front of the box. Ronaldo, well the less said about him the better, in two matches he has touched the ball a total 5 times. Roberto Carlos, a player I feel is vastly overhyped, continues to make his huffing puffing runs down the left flank and then crossing either into the stand or into the defender's foot. Adriano, well hes more in the mould of a English striker rather than a Brazilian one, he wont make his own goals but needs a good supply line to provide him with the crosses or that through ball, and till now that supply line is yet to be constructed. The only player that has impressed me is Robinho. In both of Brazil's matches hes come on for Ronaldo and made an immediate impact. He is short with low c.g giving him extremely good stability on his feet and has a dangerous turn.

Verdict: dont know, but the way they are playing I would say Quarter finals tops, but then its Brazil so I might have to eat my words.
Appeal to the Brazilian team: Ronaldo stop guzzling alcoholic beverages by the dozens at those posh spanish nightclubs with your model girl. Your paunch even puts me to shame. Go get a belly tuck or something. Ronaldinho your smile is as ugly as mine, if you forget playing football then take it from an equally ugly dude that not one girl will you get to sleep with. Robert Carlos stop playing football and go join the WWE or the world's strongest man competetion, thats where you truly belong and Im beginning to suspect that that 5 year old banana free kick of yours was a freak accident.

Friday, June 16, 2006

Superhit Muqabla

Ten most exotic googling/blog-googling ways by which people arrive at this blog:

10. s*****e jhantu
09. me jhantu
08. voluptious desi babes /desi teen (teen !! underage sex is not my thing)
07. desi sex
06. voyeurism (courtesy her)
05. jhantu has desi sex
04. jhantu desi babe fuck
03. bengali wife sex
02. moms sarees below navel (??????, how, why, where, when, me kaun hoo me kaha hoo)

and the no.1 in the list is:
01. sushma swaraj fucks

Now thats a reader base to be proud of !!!
Mea Culpa.

Smoke in my lungs, lust in my eyes

It is enticing, damnly so, infact god fucking darn damnly so. I walk down to my department and I see that stupid fucking American lighting her up like the damn July 4th fireworks itself, I see that desi cool dude who doesnt even deserve to be within a 5 mile radius of her try and get close to her for the first and last time ever in his miserable life and cough and spurt and spit his stalking candy ass all over stan-fucking-ford, I see that fucking Europeon make a clumsy grab for her, her the delicate she who deserves so much more gentler a touch, I see that bloody Latino piece of shit make a machismoic pass on her and get her within his fingertips , and I look at that fucking American and that jackass desi and that shitty latino and Europeon, a look of pure desire in my eyes, turning a dangerous shade of envious green, no no not lust for that Europeon or that desi or even that latino -- though I've had my small share of males but still, but pure desire for her-- her whom they can have but I fucking cant. Infact looking at her, I even end up with a hard on. If only I could have her, just once, oh yes once again like the once bitten twice shy and third time lucky saying goes. If only my mouth could feel her once more, if only I could lay my hands on her again and feel that smooth soft silken texture, if only I could run my fingers across her beautiful self, if only I could light her up one more time and see her tip red and glowing.

Damn it if only I could use that 5 bucks in my pocket and get her from that gas station.

But for fucks sake I cant, cos I am on my way to quitting, with tiny infant-esque baby steps . And so I must lust and froth and fornicate, and that is all I can do and that is all that I have to say about that because my mama says life is a box of cigarettes and you never know what you will get.

Surgeon general's warning: Smoking is injurious to health. Smoking kills. Quitting smoking now greatly reduces health risks.


Sunday, June 11, 2006

Bitch Hunt

Arent we cool, we shall have all the bitches tonight

My hot bitch pick-up look, Bitches here I come.

I found my two bitches, Oh Yeaaa baby

I disapprove the bitch hunt, I am committed

I shall need energy for the bitch hunt tonight, this is my third helping, there will be three more to come

Is that a bitch I see or is that jo I'm trying to find ??

Thursday, June 08, 2006

He thinks therefore he is

I think of you often, when my eyes close and I wrap myself in the yellow sheet, I think of how that cocky, know-all, hard-headed guy who packed his bags into an old green Nissan and made his way to the golden state would have been if he hadnt met you.

Theres an old bengali saying which talks about keeping the doors and windows of your mind open to let the fresh air of dialogue and discussion and knowledge flow in and keep it fresh. Knowledge that is not band-limited to numbers and equations only, knowledge that you taught him, discussions with you that acted as his catharsis, gave him new perspectives, stimuated him.
Oh but he was difficult, he resisted you at every step, with ridicule, with utter dismissals from his presence, drove you crazy with sheer word twisting logics. But yet you talked to him, yet you tred to make him see the point, yet you tried to show him the world outside equations and theorems. You didnt have to but you did. Finally after many a month of trying, you bid him farewell, sad that he could never see those things, no matter how hard you try.

And thats where you taught him the most important lesson of his life. Thats where all his beliefs , his cockiness, his hard-headedness got a rude shocking jolt. What the fuck happened ?? The chemistry was perfect, the math between us was spot on, then what?? Why the fuck are you walking away then, he screamed at you??

And even then when you did not turn back, but just kept on walking away, thats when you taught him the most important lesson of his life. Losing the most important person in his life, made him re-evaluate everything. And he retraced his steps starting from the very beginning of 2004. And then he learnt to think, thoughts that werent just made of numbers and algorithms, but thoughts you had tried to get into his thick skull with no success, whatsoever.

I think of him and I feel how lucky he was that he met you, the one person who taught him how to evolve. Would he have made an effort to try and evolve if you hadnt challenged him? Could anybody else see through him like you did and let him know this is who you are in black and white sonny boy, now judge for yourself? Would he have written this blog if you hadnt walked away? Could anybody but you would have been more firm with him in that soft voice of yours? Would he have ever made the effort to become a better person, for anybody but you?

How can he then ever settle for anybody but you?

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Perfect Bitchy 10 -- My kind of girl

My taste in women is horrid. I did suspect that for sometime and now Im utterly convinced that it is indeed the case.

A normal guy dates normal girls, girls who are nice and hot and not difficult and not bitchy. Girls who are more inclined to put their arms around your neck than put sarcasm laden nooses around it, girls who would be thrilled if you gave them flowers rather than warn you no matter what,any gift that costs even a fucking lousy dollar is not acceptable, and more importantly girls who would go out with you if you ask them once or twice or at a maximum thrice. A normal guy wouldnt ask that girl a fourh time out, especially when he has a whole collection of emminently hot and date-able ladies lined up for the weekend and one of those ladies even owns a Z4 beemer.

But as I said my taste is suspect. Not just suspect it is downright fucking appalingly despicable. You dont believe me. Well heres my perfect date's best qualfications, judge for yourself:

(1) The difficulty quotient should drill its way up the roof and make its way right into the damn stratosphere. She should be as difficult as they come. If I ask her for something her gut reaction should be to say NO FUCKING WAY.

(2) She needs to be a pastmaster at sarcasm and irrespective of the fact how romantic or sexy a moment is or might be she must have the charming (dis)ability of knocking the wind out of that moment with her sarcasm. Her favourite sarcasm laden charm me line has to be Whatever rocks your boat dude.

(3) She needs to give me the I dont care a damn for whatever you say/do attitude and in the process have the ability to completely puzzle me as to what shes really thinking.

(4) She should be a drama queen of the very first rate. No matter how insignificant the incedent she must have the ability to outdo me when it comes to putting up a dramatic show (and believe me Im stiff competetion).

(5) I need to be able to talk to her without getting distracted by her boobs or pussy or navel or whatever. That is the conversation should be more engrossing than her visible booty.

(6) She should be obstinate to the point of being able to drive me nuts with her hard-headedness. No reason or logic or coaxing or convincing from my end should ever be able to change her damn mind.

(7) I must know that shes well read than me, even though I'll never admit it to her, but she must make me look like a complete imbecile with her reading knowledge.

(8) She should be as pricey as they come. Theres no point in me wasting my charms on you if you cant act like a pricey bitch. If I ask you out you say no, if I ask you out again you again say no, if I ask you out one more time you should be able to say Go get a life sweetheart and stop wasting your breath. And believe me if you do that I'll climb nine stories via a tree and ask you out one more time while dangling in a very unsafe manner from that fragile unstable tree branch.

(9) She must be abe to make me do things in bed I can never do for anyone else.

(10) And last but not the least you must have large eyes, long fingers, long hair, wear glasses, have the most beautiful voice ever and sleep in yellow flowery night dresses.

And that sums up my perfect bitchy sweetheart through ten utterly despicable qualitites I look for in my girl. Anyone fitting the bill drop me a line.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

First date

Girl and the boy dress up in their second best suits (the first obviously being the birthday suit, which you dont wear to a first date, maybe after it if you are lucky), boy picks up girl, they talk shop in that blue stallion, on the way to that date they had talked about for the last two months. He has a fantastic evening all planned for her. San Francisco though is a tricky place and boy has this knack of getting lost even while driving in a straight line. Thus the boat meant to be ridden under the full moon and the twinkling stars by boy and girl leaves the docks while boy , girl and the stallion still try and navigate their way through crooked San Francisco streets in convoluted circles.

Im sorry he says, thats all right lets take a walk she says eyeing his rock-n-roll date-unfit tshirt with trepidation, while he eyes her white shirt and purple lipstick and combed hair with the same trepidation. He should have dressed a bit more formally, she looks so much nicer without makeups.

My fav eatery I'll take her to he has planned, but boy ends up not finding the eatery and they spend their time walking around shady San Francisco streets going round and round in mile long circles trying to find that Paki place that boy wants girl to eat in, but has somehow disappeared on the day of the date. Finally boy runs into a place which is not Paki, looks at girl who is rubbing the soles of her feet from all the walking around in those platform heels in search of that ellusive Paki place.
I think we should eat here. Yea we should.

And so over plates of butter chicken and chicken korma and naans boy and girl have their first date, both shy, both nervous, they have never dated before ( and will never date again). Though the lamp has burnt through countless nights while texts and hmms and smileys and IMs have been typed on their laptops and phone cards have been charged and recharged and recharged again, a formal date makes them nervous, makes them defensive, makes them shy. And its not past midnight yet, and their defenses dont go down till the clock strikes the midnight hour. The pre-midnight hours are meant for things more normal in their lives.

Im sorry, I messed up, boy says as the stallion now roars through the deserted freeway. Thats allright, you know the place wouldnt have mattered to us, it was a lovely crappy date, she says with a smile.

Boy looks at his watch, the midnight hour has passed, their time has come at long last. He wants to reach out and hold her hand, maybe she wants him too, but they dont. They can only look into each others' eyes and see themselves holding hands and kissing softly, but cannot actually hold hands.

See you tomorrow, he says at the parking lot, even as her phone rings that familiar ringtone reserved for people more important to her. Theres something for you though, he says. She turns back with a What look. He opens the trunk and gives her a half-feet long skeleton. It sings for you, he says, try it. She presses the button.

Im losing my head, over you, day and night, over you, Im losing my head.

She looks at him with a touched amused look, you are an idiot says her eyes. He hopes she can take the skeleton, she couldnt take the flowers he got her the first time they met.

Its lovely, she whispers, forgetting the now angrily buzzing phone.

He laughs nervously and proudly, nervous whether she would take it and proud that hes got her something he knew she would love. Their eyes lock for a minute, its the goodnight kiss their eyes see.

She turns around the skeleton still in her hands and whispers a soft goodbye. He stands there seeing her walk to the doorway, her hair bouncing in the wind, her lipstick almost gone and he could hear the skeleton singing.

Im losing my head, over you, day and night, over you, Im losing my head.