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.

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

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.

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.

Mind your language sweetie

Love is a much maimed word. Any medium of any note ever, whether it be a simple piece of paper in the hands of such difficult to understand poets as Shelly or whether it be lines in talkies delivered with such intense emote that I have to carry a whole box of tissues for my girlfriend everytime I go see Sweet November, this is one word that has faced the extreme hormone induced onslaught of mankind. Nobody and I mean nobody has spared it, anybody who is somebody has decided to pen down his two cents worth of trash on the subject.

But we poor hep-Indians have a unique and therefore difficult problem when it comes to the language of love. This is not a problem which we have when we are proposing to that girl, or when we are out with her and chatting her up like theres no tomorrow, or when our hands are entwinned in the calm and serenity of our living room and we are murmuring those mushy gooey lovey dovey nonsense, this is the problem that shows its evil devious medusa like head the moment we we proceed from the calm of our living rooms to the confines of our bedrooms and its now time not just for our hands but our bodies to entwine. That is when the problem of the language of love comes to bite us in our bloody ugly ass. And by Jove its it has a bad bite.

Now you all bloody well know that dirty talk is the one thing that makes good sex into fucking great sex, not size, not technique (well to some extent) but it is the talk in the sex that gives it that NOx boost. Now if you are an Indian or you have been with an Indian girl, you would know that when it comes to dirty-sex talk during the sex she would lose out to a blind dodo, lock , stock and two smoking barrels included. Have you ever wondered why?? Why does the language of love betray the Shakespeare and Scott and Keats quoting bloody hep-indian babe in that moment when it matters the most??

Its because the poor soul is freaking confused. In that moment of truth when shes turned on and is on the absolute verge of a monumental orgasmic joy-ride she opens her mouth and is about to say Fuck me hard Jhantu, fuck me like I'm your sex-slaved bitch, but unfortunately for her, her basic instincts have taken over and what insteads comes out is her freaking mother-tongue Mujhe chodo mere praan-naath, me tumhari daasi hoo. (in bengali: esho amay chodo amar praneshwar, aami tomar bandi daasi). And as soon as Jhantu hears that daasi shit images of his broom-armed voluptuous-in-all-the-wrong-places kamwaali-bai (not kaamwali bt the housemaid) from calcutta crops up in his head and he goes limp faster than a mustang can go from o-80 mph and that moment of pure orgasmic passion passes by.

But then a few days later a tad more wiser she comes up with a strategy that would solve the sex-talk problem. I am feeling horny Jhantu murmurs in her ears as he unbuckles his belt and she coos right back would you like to taste the forbidden nector that overflows in my pristine river of venus. And Jhantu stops unbuttoning his pants and looks up with a dazed look Come again. She was ready with one-liners that she had memorized over the last two nights penned down by Mills and Boons. Unfortunately for Jhantu she didnt see Jenna Jameson mouthing obsecenities in his stash of porn movies. For fucking sweet Jesus Christs' sake girl call the spade a spade and say the pussy is a pussy, thats what turns the man on not some sissy talk about flowing rivers.

But she shall not give up that easily. So she decides she shall let Jhantu lead the way. He is the pastmaster and she shall only respond to his dirty talk. Back in that bedroom, locked in a passionate all-consuming embrace with Jhantu's mouth buried deep in her supine form she hears Jhantu's stifled yet commanding voice echo from within the crevices of her body Feff me fu fant foo vee fuvved viffe va vich (Tell me you want to be fucked like a bitch-- fuckers thats the best you can do if your face is buried in a very delicious body). She cant make out what hes saying, he does like German bands, is he dirty-talking in German she wonders. Jhantu in the meanwhile is on an uphill slope of passion and growls his muffled sex-talk a tad more loudly this time and in the process making it even more incoherent. She is panic-stricken now, she needs to respond. Say something say anything her mind tells her as Jhantu's growls create a cacophony of German echoes in her ears. She tries to remember the words of atleast one of those German songs he had sent her. But her mind isnt working, and so she screams, the most high-pitched panic-laden passionate scream you've ever heard. She lets out her mating call with a vengence HEIL HITLER BABY!! And Jhantu comes up from within the crevices of her form You fucking Nazi cunt he screams right back.

And then on their next night in that now sound-proofed bedroom Jhantu tells her Today I shall teach you the French way of making love, my darling. What can that be sweetheart, she coos. Let me show you

WHAM BAM, THANK YOU MAM

On the mechanics of a perfect relationship(s)

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The Advanced degree seeking Indian student

I was having a conversation with my friend's brother-in-law the other day and during our chit-chat he happened to mention Well Jhantu it must feel great to have your degree from Stanford. And I went Huh!! Really!!

A couple of years ago when I was about to land up at Stanford, man o man I was mightily excited. This is Stan-fucking-ford for God's sake, where I shall meet super smart people all around me who'll dazzle me with their sharp brains and analytical minds. Problems that have forever taken me an eternity to digest will be a walk-in-the-park for my peers here at Stanford. But then just before I came in I got into this yahoo-group that was formed for Indian students coming into Stanford and thats where I got my first small shock, which in the subsequent years has magnified from small to mega-enormous. My peers were from engineering colleges in India I have never-ever heard names of or were the run of the mill software professional with an year or twos worth of work experience for some software sweat-shop churning out junk codes on systems with fancy names. There was one more sting in the tail as well. If I remember correctly 60 out of the 70 students who were coming in werent funded by the grad school at Stanford. Now this was a strange and worrying statistic. For the simple reason that the good grad schools and the good departments in the US have a very stringent admission policy. They usually do not tend to hand out admission to every Tom Dick and Harry on the road for the simple reason that the quality of a department is as good as the PhDs that it churns out.

So what was going on? Now there could be a very simple and elegant and satisfying explanation to all of this. Which is the following: These students that Stanford decided to bring in from India were brilliant, irrespective of whatever undergrad school they attended back home and hence the admission into Stanford. But somehow I find it difficult to digest that a student from MIT (not the boston one dickheads, but the indian ones, theres one in Pune and one in Allahabad and a couple more as well) who does get into Stanford engineering, is superior to say the 2nd topper from one of the IITs. The law of averages just dont work out , how ever much you scream bloddy-IIT-ass-sucking bugger.

So what was the deal then?? Before you start arriving at conclusions heres one more statistic for you. There are engineering departments here at Stanford who have an acceptance rate as high as 65-70% for some of their Masters programs, while the same departments have an acceptance rate bordeing on less that 15% for its PhD programs. The physical/social Sciences on the other hand have a strict admission-only-with-funding policy and the number of Indian students you find in these departments you can count on your hands. Also ALL the Masters students (from India) didnt have any funding from the university or the department whereas ALL those admitted into the PhD programs were fully funded by the school/their departments.

That brings me to a statement that I made earlier: Quality of a department/university is as good as the PhDs that it churns out. And the reason for that being the fact that the Masters student isnt expected to contribute in anyway to a school/department's projects or research and hence its reputation. The only purpose that the Masters student serves is being a cash-cow for the school (read pay their tuitions in dollars and make the school some money).

That being the case it is kind of pathetic that these students decide to spend a pot-load of their Dad's money (hard-earned or not is a completely different issue which I shall not get into) and come all the way to the US saying "I am geting an advanced degree from Stanford University mannn and learning so fucking much in my courses." The poor fuckers dont know the first thing about an advanced degree. An advanced degree (atleast in the US and all top schools worldwide) is meant for a student to contribute an original piece of work to his field of choice. It does not mean that you take 10 courses that you need to complete your degree requirement before going on a job hunt that will help you fulfill your dreams of living in the US of A.

In a way even amongst these people who do admit that the primary reason why they came for an"Advanced Degree" in the US is to somehow get their asses into the US of A and earn in dollars, I respect them. Atleast they are bloody honest. The people that really irk me are those amongst these bunch of "Advanced Degree" seekers who'll give all kinds of fundas as to "Oh how much Im learning in my courses Jhantu and its not the money that I want to earn after this that matters but its the educational experience that matters". Stupid cunts the only reason you are here in the first place spending your Dad's money on your education at an age when for all practical purposes you should be as self sufficient as possible is you could not get you stupid ass into any halfway decent instituion in India. You pretentious cunt, if you are so much in love with your damn subject then why in fuck's name are you in such a hurry to finish up your 10 required courses instead of going for a PhD??

As for those of you aspiring for an Adavanced Masters degree from Stanford engineering heres a sure shot recipe of getting one if you can spare $50K:

(1) Doesnt matter which instituion you are in all you need is a first class, which as far as my understanding goes is a walk in the park.

(2) GRE scores : anything upwards of 1300 and you are in damn good shape.

(3) Letters of recommendations: Since you'll be writing your own recos and getting your profs to sign at the bottom potray yourself as the next best thing since Feynman himself.

(4) Work for an year in some software-sweat shop and then write on your resume "Working on top-notch developmental projects for a leading high-tech company".

PS: Someday soon I'll write about these same "Advance Degree" holding students who go to work for such revered companies as Google or Microsoft and tell you the absolute hilarious asses they make of themselves.