Erotic Epistaxis & Banshee Bath-time

Had an odd experience the other day. While getting my bi-weekly hoggins from my nubile nob-gobbler I did what came naturally and tried a new position. This involved me being somewhat upside down and, apart from the actual perversion, i was getting a thorough workout. Not easy doing the dirty upside-down, kind of takes it out of you (sic). But coming back to the point, the odd thing that happened was that when i cleared the custard (with great vigour and potency mind you) I felt my nose start running. Strange, as i didn't have a cold. I rubbed my nose clean and when i stood up, m'lady of grace and ravishment took one look at my face and let out a startled shriek. Turns out i was bleeding from my nose.



I didn't pass out or anything, but i did feel a bit odd. The bleeding stopped after about 15 minutes. On to the doctor's we went. The doc began asking me all kinds of questions, and i answered them with the honesty becoming of a mexican mafia torture victim. I told him what we'd been upto and what position i was in, when suddenly he smiled and told me that I'd had an episode of Epistaxis. Or Nosebleeds.

I said yes, that's why i came in. Turns out being upside down had increased the blood pressure in my head, next thing you know my nose blood vessels couldn't take it and they ruptured. Here's where it went downhill:

Doc: Stop doing things like this, improve your cardiovascular health before attempting athletic sex.

Me: I can't help it doctor, the thing is my girl ties me up when i sleep after round 1 and when i wake up i find her ravishing me again. Today it was upside down.

Doc: -long pause- Ok, *closes eyes and rubs forehead*, tell your girlfriend that if she continues this, you could burst a vessel in both your eyes and go blind.

Me: *dick rapidly shortening* Ok, i'll make sure this doesn't happen again.

He gave me a prescription for some medicine that would help with the nosebleed and told me to start getting some exercise. Not cuz i'm fat, but because my body should be "more used to physical activity at your age". He also told me not to get busy for another couple of days. I told him i'd send her back to her mother's. We both laughed and oinked in a moment of mild chauvinism, and then i left.

That was a week ago. The bleeding has stopped but she's on the rag so i'm bat-boy again. Daredevil shall return.



Chauvinism: Opening the door for a woman, but not letting her go in first.

I also found out the difference between venom and poison. Poison can kill you if you swallow it. Venom is only lethal if it is directly into your bloodstream. Reminds me of this guy i knew once who had a fondness for hookahs (no, not hookers), and replaced his hookah water with diluted scotch. They had to rush him to the emergency room, apparently his blood alcohol level had dangerously sky rocketed. Apparently alcohol vapour had directly passed into his blood stream through his lungs. He got out the next day and laughed at us when we asked him about it. He said "you're not able smoke scotch maaaan". I said "yes".



The best part about working from home is never having to commute to work and back. Saves you time getting ready, money, laundry, plus you get an extra couple of hours to do your work every day. The downside is you tend to avoid bathing at a fixed time every day. Sometimes you might even skip a day. I mean come on, you don't really sweat indoors. And besides i clean up good when necessary. I had a friend once who told me that when they'd run out of bath water at his hostel, the guys would just use rubbing alcohol (spirit as he called it) all over themselves and that was their bath. I asked him, even on the cobblers? He said, yes. It made a man out of him. Dried up his skin like a banshee in the Sahara. Sahara cuz he had dried skin. Banshee cuz he was puberphonic.



Women on the rag always confuse me. Primarily because you never can tell what might piss them off. One day they can't stand what you're wearing, they'll crib about it for an hour and then they'll tell you to fuck off. So you keep your mouth shut to make sure things stay calm. The next minute they're weeping because you're not being comforting or supportive. I would be comforting if I didn't stand the risk of having my head bitten off for getting too close on a bad day. A guy just can't win during that week. But most other days, just getting them a flower or making something as simple as a personalized card or a mindless gift gives me +9001 brownie points. Also, personal poon time. Ah women, you so crazy.

Buttcheeks and first kisses

Been on the road a while. The last 2 weeks actually. Know what i learned about being on the road? Don't fucking read anything in the car. Ever. Makes you throw up like japanese porn. I hate car-sickness. Oh how I hate it. I also hate bus-sickness that is brought on by diesel fumes and shakes. My mum always told me to think of the smell of lemons to dispel the pukemon. It worked for about 2 seconds. Then i went back to sunshine and farts.



Speaking of throwing up, I've had the pleasure of living through my first near-death experience courtesy the viral offices of Hepatitis A. The nurses were nice enough, and helped me heal back to entry-level gutterworth. I've had to rapacious myself in ever increasing awesomeness to become epic once again. Experiencing deathly weakness and the inability to hold down any sort of sustenance had almost totally decimated my sinews. I am grateful to Saline, albumin, vitamin B-complex and Matron. I may not be as cunty cuz i'm still getting my wood back. But bastard.



Once when i was 9 I sat down on the pavement outside my house. Ever notice how sometimes really hot pavement feels like ice on your ass? It's so hot that your ass nerves get overwhelmed like when you touch dry ice to your face. ass to face. Yea, felt that. Got up almost immediately, ran back indoors and washed my butt with ball-scaldingly cold water. Made things much worse cuz the capillaries on my buttskin exploded. Had to sit down on a cushion for a week cuz of my cheeks.




Speaking of cheeks, let's hear about the first girl i ever kissed. This was back in '88. I was 8 years old and studied in an all-boys school. To make things interesting we had an all-girls school right next door. Not that i had any fucking ideas. Read the previous 2 sentences again. What i did have was a penchant for fishing earthworms out of the soil at the back of our school. I'd get about 25 of them in one hand, slimy little fucks, walk up to unassuming girls who'd walk into our school to play in our yard, and frighten the chums out of them. Look i didn't throw the worms at them or anything i'd just stick my hand out, ok? Fuck! They even complained to my mother after i did it for the 25th time:

Hagling 1: "Aunty he is showing us those worms again, tell him no aunty"
Mother: "Bittu, don't ever harass these girls again. If you do, I'll beat the living shit out of you and make you eat it".
Me: Ok mama :) sorry :) (*hellish anger simmering beneath my little boy face*)
Hagling 2: Aunty thank you, we didn't mean to trouble you
Mother: Ok bye

So my mother pined for a daughter. But of course. I knew mother wasn't interested in helping me rid our playground of this puerile pox and I knew that I could just not leave this alone. Either way I had to have my fucking revenge. Those beady eyed wenches thought they had had the last laugh. The very next day I began collecting my tapeworm vectors starting at lunchtime and continued at 4:30 pm after school had ended. Soon enough it was 5 pm. Having amassed about a million of them in my lunch box which I had gently lined with wet earth, I proceeded towards a gaggle of hags i'd just spotted playing handball in OUR football ground.

This is where my plans turned into exact shit. Lunch box in hand, I walked over to one of the worm-tongued kinderdykes who'd whispered her way into my mother's good books and i asked her if she'd like some sweets. Maybe my voice was shaky or something but she immediately realized I was of bastardly intent and proceeded to threaten me with carrying tales to her liege lord, my mother. I immediately began amassing rectal bricks and asked her not to, telling her that my mother would burn me with matches. She took pity on me and said that i'd have to say sorry and never fuck around again. I fucking said sorry and swallowed all my macho bullshit. Tasted worse than shit. She made me empty all the worms outta my lunch box and told me to come with her. She was walking towards where my mum would hang out when she came to pick us up from school. I realized that this just might be the last mile for me. Disobeying a direct order from mother in our house was akin to farting in the Pope's lunch. There was just no going back from the demonic beating that awaited you. We walked behind a tree and then this hag got real playful and told me to turn around and close my eyes. I knew she probably wanted to kick my asshole in. I waited and after about 3 seconds i felt two grubby hands pull my cheeks (face) down and a pair of wet, sloppy lips kissed me straight on the fucking mouth. She ran off laughing. Never saw her again. I spat out and was mostly silent. I'd just been taken advantage of. Felt terrible.

I felt like a Caucasian mountain dog that'd just gotten raped by a chihuahua. I wanted to rape my own face for being so fucking stupid. But I did learn my lesson: Bad luck is the Universe's way of telling you to stop being an asshole.



I never did understand how girls mature so much faster than boys. By the age of 11, girls for the most part attain a degree of poise and street-smarts in dealing with situations that most boys develop somewhere around the ages of 50 to 70. I've seen it happen. Maybe it's because girls introspect a lot of the time and think 10 steps ahead, while most guys think about what kind of beer goes best with KFC.



Lunchtime fuckers. Lunch. time.

Pets 'n peeves

Hi and bro-pologies for the delay in updating this Saw'mBitch blog. I have been crowdefucked with work and other matters of bastardly import. Nevertheless I aim to be your content provider for the next 5 to 10 to 15 minutes, depending on your need for read speed.

First, we talk about animals. Pets to be specific. The last time i had a pet was 92. Not my weight, the year 1992. I weigh 95, which is ok cuz of my huge Genus. He was a cat and his name was Garfield, but he wasn't orange and fat, he was grey and white and awesome. We found him curled up behind the entrance to a neighbour's building. He was a tiny little guy but he had a fighting spirit like no other cat i knew. Plus he was very friendly with his homes (me). I felt a strange kinship with this guy. We knew he was a guy cuz he had swonnicles. Swonnicles are different from regular gonads in that they cannot be kicked. That's cuz they aren't externally visible to the untrained eye. I tried explaining this concept to my family who kept treating him like a girl cat, but they just smiled and told me to "put your damn pants back on". Of course he's dead now. I couldn't harvest his skull. A cat skull is rather splendid. In a Mordoric way. The most evil thing I have ever seen is a femme dong. Being a gentleman I said nothing and proceeded to feel sorry for myself.

One for me, and one for my homes


Today we also discuss auto-fellatio techniques. Not. Let's leave that to canines and felines. What we will discuss today is people in our lives who got really REALLY fucked up by engaging in phenomenally unwarranted acts of idiocy, thereby damning themselves to lives of eternal suffering.

Take the example of my friend from school. Here was a lad who contracted an addiction to eating paper and one day instead of the standard issue foolscap sheets, he ended up eating acid-treated cardboard. He got raging appendicitis and a blocked duodenum. Completely fucked 'im up. But he went one better, the acid in the cardboard irritated his kidneys, both of which promptly told the rest of his body organs to fuck off by ceasing to function properly. This caused severe blood acidosis. Sir, there is high level of acidity in his blood and his kidneys are malfunctioning. Shall we proceed with treatment? No doctor, let him die like a small dog. Of course Yes you idiots. Luckily the doctors knew what to do. This was the first time I saw the real magic of medicine. This was also the first time I saw an Eno I.V. bottle. His skin began ripping open and his hair started looking like vermicelli. When the doctors were finished with him he looked like the bad guy from the movie Hannibal.

The bad guy who gets eaten by wild pigs in Hannibal

I don't think he looks like this anymore though. His face cleared up and his hair grew back. The smile is the same though. Was like that even before he started eating paper.


Moving on, another guy from the same class drank a bottle of bugspray to kill himself. The reason he wanted to kill himself was because he got caught with porno VHS cassettes in his bag in class. His parents got called to school and they sorted his shit out. But no, the shame of being caught with porn drove this man to consume a bottle of Baygon. He said it tasted strong. His exact words were "It tastes like a burning heat". Here's what Baygon boy looks like:

Minku, the immortal

They rushed the idiot to a hospital and had his stomach pumped. He now works, believe it or fuck you, as a successful general insurance salesman. Shit, has his own franchisee business and everything. I kid you the fuck not. Met him a few weeks ago and asked him if he thought it ironic that a suicidal egomaniac like him was selling general insurance. He threw a car registration book at me. I replied by telling him he should take up stunt racing his Kawasaki if he was really serious.

A small price to pay for awesome immortality


But I wasn't too happy about him mouthing off at me. So I told him to fuck off:

Vital organ failure is the Universe's way of telling you to fuck off and stop being an asshole


Dangerous looking things aren't always dangerous. Though they definitely have the potential to be so. Case in point: Look at this magnificent beast

Wendy, the Whippet

She's a gentle thing, look at her eyes. She's like, hello, my name is Wendy and i eat raw meat. This is how i look on a good day. I don't work out but I am double muscled. I'd like to think i'm awesome. Maybe some day I'll have little babies. If you come near them i will rip out your tonsils for them to play with. Cuz i can.

That's Potential.

Now look at this specimen:

Garth's dog 'Girl' from Wayne's World

She's a gentle beast too. Probably eats raw meat when necessary. But would/could she rip your tonsils out? I don't think so. Look at her hair. She's a lover not a fighter.

I miss the good old days when humiliation was seen as a tool for motivating slow learners. Not. But seriously, putting a dunce cap (fool's cap) on a child and making him/her sit on a high stool in front of the whole class would probably be enough to make the child pull up their socks to avoid that kind of shame again, no? I think so. Humiliation is a powerful tool. Isn't that what life is about anyway? It can knock you down, make fun of you, but then you get the fuck back up and keep fighting on. Or you drink a glass of baygon.

Terrible effect of Baygon on Minku

¡Vámonos! (¡I love that upside down exclamation point!)

The day I got pubes and straight

I just figured out how to feel normal on Monday morning. Sleep 10 hours straight on Saturday night. Wake up on Sunday morning and shred rhythm guitar and vocals with your brother. Eat lunch, sleep another 7 hours. Wake up, eat dinner and watch youtube videos with said brother. Update blog, lift weights, shower and sleep. Get up at regular time on Monday morning, drive at leisurely pace to work. Breathe deeply. Once work commences, don't give in to bullshit. If you need a week to do something, tell them you'll take a week. Don't give in to people trying to push you into a corner. If deadlines are crazy, have them extended. You're only human. Admitting it, is the first step.

Now that my organ has been played, let us embark on our customary wind breaking excursion. While it is common knowledge that at the turn of the 20th century, Schedule I drugs and their derivatives like heroin, were available over the counter (OTC) at your local general store, what isn't common knowledge is that even today the consumption and reverence of mild and wild psychoactives is widespread in the Indian subcontinent. From Kandhar to Kathmandu and Kashmir to Kanyakumari, the Indian propensity for mind alteration and the respect for the altered states of consciousness it brings is well known. I take the example of the great Indian mythological God Mahakala. He is the last line of defence, an impenetrable phalanx of darkness, if you will. In Star Wars speak, he is the dark side brought to do good. Permit me to quote from http://www.shivashakti.com/mahakala.htm

-----------------------------------------
Mahakala has four arms and three eyes, and is of the brilliance of 10,000,000 black fires of dissolution, dwells in the midst of eight cremation grounds, is adorned with eight skulls, seated on five corpses, holding a trident, a damaru, a sword and a kharpa in his hands. 

With a beautiful body adorned with ashes from the cremation ground, on various corpses he dallies with Kalika, fondling her and making love with her and fiercely kissing her, surrounded by numbers of loudly shrieking vultures and jackals, adorned with a heap of braided hair, in a deserted place.
------------------------------------------

These visions are reminiscent of DMT trips expounded in various books, the names of which I shall not utter here. But let us dwell on the image it conjures up. This God is purportedly the protector of Shiva, the protector of Tibetan dharamashalas, and it is said that he controls time. That ultimately all time shall be swallowed up into his emptiness and he in turn shall be devoured by Mahakali, the ultimate. In my opinion he is second in power only to Shiva, the czar of the gods.

Mahakala, the most fearsome, indomitable in 3 worlds:



Mind you, he comes in different flavours. This one above is my favourite.

On the subject of phantasmagoria, when i was a turd baby goblin i used to read a lot of Enid Blyton shit - the famous 5, secret 7, assorted elves, pixies, fairies and brownies peckerslappery (that was crass and i apologize) that helped me weave images of what were to become the ghosts, doppelgangers and talking animals of my dream world. Those stories led me to actually believe that my toys would come alive at night and fuck with my stuff cuz they were lonely. Of course it was fucking magical to me back then cuz i didn't know any better. Don't get me wrong, i am grateful. But one day i suddenly felt like punching the teeth out of Blyton's pants for writing what she did. There was this one particular series called "The naughtiest bitch in school", a story about a spoilt hag-child who tried fucking around with everyone's mind what came in contact with her. I'm not ashamed to say that i love that fucking book and the whole series. Looking back i realize it was just my mom's way of telling me it was ok if i turned out gay. But for a smear of testosterone, i certainly may have. However that's exactly where the tables were over-turned and sawed in half by the shark-tooth machete of male pubescence.

(Update: The damn thing really exists. Thanks Pu-239 for finding it)

Shark tooth machete

I was 13 at the time. One morning i noticed that my mickey mouse voice was deepening into a gravelly Barry White-ness. i further noticed that i could now see over the refrigerator without trying. My shoulders were broadening and my crotch hurt, but good hurt cuz my undies were too smallofasudden. I felt like i was turning into the Hulk and a bit of a lycan too cuz of all the hair. At this point i was between 2 volumes of that amazing series, the naughtiest girl returns or has chums or something. I stomped over to my seat and continued reading. I felt ashamed. Everytime i saw the word "shan't" used in isolation, i felt like beating something. Extreme confusion pervaded my mind. Why the urge to throw this giant-fonted book away and instead look at my dad's copy of sports illustrated? Should i just let go? I mean, what would you do if you were young and hormonal, and had an open invitation to peruse the pages of nubility? You'd open them up and read them in the loo and that's exactly what i did.

When mother and father got home i was at the dining table reading father's copy of Dahl with the Sports Illy on my lap. Mother took one look at me and understood that the hour had passed. Saying nothing, she walked on. Father patted me on the back as only a father could and asked me which Sports Illustrated bikini babe was the best. i answered 'the one with the big rear'. He was taken aback. they *all* had the big rear. 

my gonads had arrived.

That evening i touched my first copy of The Catcher in the Rye. I also began punching loose flooring tiles with my fists in small groups of fellow-hormonally deranged individuals. we would shatter them.

A schweinehund was born.

Poe and pee - overcoming shyness

I was wondering about beauty. The aspect of beauty. It's subjective, for one. I mean a pig might be beautiful to a pig farmer and no one else. A rooster might be beautiful to a hen. To me it's just an 8-piece chicken bucket. So the other day when I commented on a woman's necklace to a colleague at work, he looked at me like I'd just farted garlic. Made me realize that there are some things you just can't say to your home boys without having them think you're a butt pirate. Of course I immediately redeemed myself by following up with a sexist remark about how ornate my nethers would look with a necklace. They would really. Anyway here's why I like women's fashion:



Yes she is. Yes they did.

I am now gonna talk about something important. Being a crack of dawner (sort of), I come across the occasional municipal road sweeper each morning on my way to work. But of late there's been one particular dude who attends to our stretch of the public pathway each morning. This guy uses the same tiny broom everyday and ties a piece of old flannel around his muzzle to protect himself from the silicosis. He looks about mid-20s, small built, almost malnourished, but he sweeps a 100 metre stretch of concrete road in under 30 minutes (I asked him how long he takes, so that's how i know, fuck off). Well the guy has forearms like popeye, which look really odd on his tiny frame. Almost orangutan like. I bet he can climb water pipes like a mofo. I don't think he'd ever attack a widow and her daughter though (The murders in the Rue Morgue). And that's awesome. Sweepers, busboys, waiters, truck drivers and masons are all examples of people who should enlist for the world arm wrestling contests. Forearm strength is the shit. Sometimes i wonder whether he realizes his power. He probably goes to parks and challenges kids on the monkey bars. Makes sure his people was there to see him shame children. These are typical thoughts i have about Manohar Pawar while driving to work.

It gets better once i reach work. work is one place that allows a complete and utter decimation of the english language, with impunity. i'm talking about general fucking conversation. today for example, a room was being painted and the fumes were a bastard. 2 colleagues were discussing the merits of upper body strength for a job like painting walls. as i began tuning out, i distinctly heard the word "handjob". needless to say, my inner bastard took over. and yes, again i heard that magic word, only this time in a sentence:

sucker1: "actually handjobs needs a skeel (skill). you and i can't do like this kind of work".
sucker2: ya but we are more use to deskjob than handjob.
me: sorry guys but don't handjobs take practice? don't tell me you've never given a handjob.
sucker1: boss, plz, at my house i am doing all type of handjob.
sucker2: i also, but we learned at early age in my home.
me: what? u mean handjobs right? ur folks taught u?
sucker2: no, my brother. he is quite expert.
me: my brothers know jackshit about handjobs as far as i'm aware.
sucker1: yea but u must be knowing right, as u are production engineer.
me: look man, i don't want that image in my head. it was a bad experience.
sucker1: oh, sorry.
me: ya i just hated touching tools.
sucker2: why man? i laove tools.
sucker1: yea, me also.
me: you're both tools, right?
guys: of course.

i left it at that and awaited eternal damnation.

Another example of sheer butt clenchery that confronts me several times a day is any time i visit the men's room. I suffer from what is known as Paruresis or Shy bladder. First of all that's a stupid name cuz there's nothing shy about my bladder. It's the lack of privacy. I need solitude. Like a joey comin' outta his mama's pouch for the first time: Oh hello, is it safe? AAAAHH, strange fuckers abound with their offensive appendages in my airspace. Fuck you, i'm going back in. That's pretty much how it is. Freud says it's cuz i hate my mother. Actually i hate Freud's mother.

Let us end now with a gentle ode to that great ecrivant. I present to you, a tribute to Poe:

Tribute to Poe

All odd stanzas (1, 3,5...) are Poe-speak, even stanzas (2, 4, 6...) are gutterspeak:

The moors were dank under blackest skies
I reeled with the rattle of her festering lies
Ne'er such a day had i beared in vain
Ne'er such a night would i see ever again

I left kalamazoo in heat of gorilla
It refused my peanuts, i returned to my villa
Heart-broken, this butcher must return to his shop
The goats always beckon, this meat i must chop

The waters lap soundless through grains of sand
Should I awake by mine own hand
My knife knows not the richness of blood
My heart cries out in morbid flood

The PETA fights against the animal offers
Come you cutters, come bring your choppers
Bakar Kasai fights for the mutton galla
Uncle daddy wants the "badey ka nalla"

As black as the waters, my heart bleeds no more
I wept when the doors closed like hell's own maw
I now see the axe falling painfully low
I languish in life but death follows tow

Municipality wants money from my mutton shop
I say i cannot, money was taken by a cop
He came last night in the pouring rain
He threaten to take my chopper again

The smooth silver edge slices through my veins
I smile as i see the blackness again
It envelops me to the darkest degree
No need for escape once we are truly free

Omar was arrested for raping the beast
He sold the remains to a travelling feast
He said he want donkey, but he cannot yet find
I say, see your life, but he say he is blind

Only blood-memories now can I ever trust
The pangs of death soften my blood lust
My soul sags in this physical seat
I transcend us now, I die in defeat

Raju told he was marrying once more
I said 3 is crowd, he said Sex life is poor
Donate me money, I make life brand new
I said I am gutter, he said he espew

Ruminatia and Roald

I hate the bourgeoisie. They laugh at poor people. I like the petite bourgeoisie. They laugh at the proletariat. And that's ok. What's not ok is carelessness with communication. Deals fall apart because of wrongly timed jokes, or improperly placed commas. The spoken word is a particular bitch. My training in not fucking up began at home when mother would glare at us, in a state of shock, if we would ever commit verbal gaffery (sic). I'm not talking about Spoonerisms. She looked at those as a mild irritant. I'm talking about things like when you're a toddler at the park and you run up to your primary care-giver and say "I footed (kicked) the ball mama". Her reaction was similar to the way staunch catholics cross themselves when they're at an exorcism.

With this background, i would now like to reveal that there are times when i lose my composure. Blamelessness is a quality least desired:
"Actually, if you are taken the back road via flora bakery you can able to reached there more faster"
"Yesterday i saw a small utility vehicle of Nano"
"My wife is having shooger" (sugar::diabetes)
"da, plees dileete that picture of me da, my face is looking fat".

Yes man, that's why i captured your visage at that exact moment. I'm not gonna delete it. I hate people telling me what to do. Don't tell me what to do. In fact, help me out with whatever it is i'm doing and i'll be ever grateful:



It was the same when I was a swineling. People always asking me to do this and not do that. Come on bits stop eating your boogers, come on bits don't pick your scabs, come on bits don't beat your brothers, come on bits try not to crack your skull open, come on bits get up for school and learn to start hating your life, come on bits get out of that bathroom even though you're not done yet, come on bits try to eat this bowl of boiled ridge gourd for dinner and hate its texture forever after, come on bits polish your knives later and go buy the groceries, come on bits say your poem for uncle which you said so nicely in school. After "saying" a poem 50 times for practice it gets old. Even for the above-average attention whore such as myself, reciting a poem for a fawning elder is akin to swimming in prostate juice. Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, go fuck yourself. Have I any wool? I'm 5, so no bastard i don't have any wool. One time i actually did have some wool from granny's sewing kit, but i was saving it to see if i could tie it around a magnet and fetch coins from the floor. Ok, I didn't say all those things at the age of 5, but i did think them in different words. I also miss granny's hand knitted sweaters. I had a bitchin' blood red one. Those things kept me warm like hellboy. i hope mother's saved them somewhere. i lack the estrogen levels needed to remember these things. doesn't mean i don't care. effyewh. Granny always took care of us kids. she never let any of us feel left out. damn, that kind of unconditional love and caring i have never received ever again. Every Saturday from 1984 to '87, after lunch she'd sit me down next to her and she would translate for me in English from little comic strips that would be published in her weekly vernacular. This was a great lady, who learnt English simply by interacting with newspapers, her kids and her kids' kids. Hanging with Granny was akin to visiting Erana's peace in the PC game 'Quest for Glory I' (Hero's Quest) by Sierra. The same peace and calm would prevail when Granny was in the room. Here's a fantastic rendition of Erana's peace by OnewithTheClaws (Fredd Marshall) from deviantart.com. Reproduced without permission:



On the subject of books, my 2 favourite authors are Roald Dahl and Spike Milligan. Salinger, J.D. is of course very cool but i only ever read 2 of his books. Carl Sagan was a fantastic sage but his genre is limited. Nevertheless these are great men. What is a complete waste of time, however, is the Daniel Steele, Jeffrey Archer, fucking Sidney Sheldon sewagery, and the super fuckwaste epics by Ayn Rand. Long and winding books that involve a hundred characters and make you feel like you've just wasted a month of your life. These pillock-smacks require a strategy to be read. Otherwise you end up leaving it unfinished, unless you're a really, really boring person and actually read books cover to cover. Every time i picture someone reading the last sentence of a book and shutting it with a smile when they're done, i also picture myself walking over to them and throwing a cup of warm rape into their mouth. in reality, what i do is, i read the last 2 chapters first. they make very little sense, and it's almost impossible to remember them. But it helps because u know you don't have to worry about reading it till the end.

Which brings me to, perhaps, the only fictional author worth reading. I speak of none other than Dahl. This man is the reason i believe in good writing. I'm too old for Shakespeare now but i'll admit it, that Victorian bitch was quite the wordsmith. However, Dahl is the ubermensch because he weaves his stories like a ruthless mage specializing in orgasmic mind-rape. Don't compare Dahl to the epic greatness of Tolkien because they're not in the same genre. Just don't do it.

I'll end today with a tribute to Spike Milligan, the man whose World War II autobiographies taught me the meaning of funny. The seven volumes are:

- Adolf Hitler: My Part In His Downfall
- 'Rommel?' 'Gunner Who?'
- Monty: His Part In My Victory
- Mussolini: His Part In My Downfall
- Where Have All The Bullets Gone?
- Goodbye Soldier
- Peace Work

The humour within the writing can only be Milligan - the same can be said for the style of war reporting and commentary, the accounts of friendship, suffering, kindness and vulnerability, and the underlying despair at man's tireless pursuit of self-destruction.

When Spike Milligan died the world lost its greatest genius. This picture is from "Rommel? Gunner Who?".



Spike Milligan, the late. He told you he was ill:

When albino porn saved the day

I was thinking about weapons. I love weapons. They bring to mind incredible power at the press of a button (guns), or a flick of the wrist (knives), or a clench of the cooch (women). The AA12 (Atchisson Assault 12) automatic shotgun is our case in point. It fires shotgun rounds, rapid action. I hark back to my days as a 12 year old runt, thinking how powerful the shotgun in Doom was and telling my brother "imagine if they make an automatic shotgun". Military Police Systems, Incorporated - USA has made a child's dream come true. Now that's powerful right there.



Designation: MPS AA-12
Classification Type: Assault Combat Shotgun
Manufacturer: Military Police Systems, Incorporated - USA
Country of Origin: United States

But what's more powerful is capturing images of that stuff in slow motion. I'm talking about the Phantom V12.1 camera, capable of upto '1 million frames per second' at a resolution of 128 x 8. Of course they probably use it at a much lower speed, maybe 6,000 frames per second and much better resolution. I love slow motion man, cuz it looks like another world. The first slow motion cameramen were shamans (shamen?), figuratively speaking. Cuz they'd swallow peyote, psilocybin shrooms, and all manner of hallucinogens to slow down time and observe things like water dancing on a leaf, geckos licking their eyeballs and aphids lactating for ants. Slow-motion's like that. It's almost like wilfully experimenting with hallucinogens just to see what'll happen. That's how people should buy medicine. The drugs with the coolest side effects go into the shopping bag first. Time dilation is by far my favourite side effect. You go on a trip into a vibrating guitar string and while you're there u take a couple of days to fabricate your own pocket watch from the mouth parts of talking caterpillars. When you're back, only about 15 seconds of your earth time are up. So you go back some more. I call these trips 'brain droppings'. Cuz for 5 seconds no one can tell you're on the other side of the Universe petting a brontosaurus that looks like your dad.

Some OTC anti-psychotic medicines can cause all kinds of shit to happen. This one time, a friend of mine who we call Bits (cuz he speaks binary and has a computer for a girlfriend), got it into his head that he was bored out of his wits. So he started taking pills that cure multiple personality disorder. I don't know if these pills are the cure or the cause for mental illness, cuz he didn't have MPD initially. But he started experiencing time dilation and hallucinations where he'd travel back in time to another Universe and meet himself. The only difference was, his other self was a woman. This came about when, on one particularly heightened voyage, he spoke of experiencing extreme testicular shrinkage, increased nipple sensitivity and an urge to introspect. This was followed by a sudden return to normalcy and the equally sudden appearance of a woman bearing a striking resemblance to himself. Needless to say he ended up date-raping her. In his head anyway. I mean what the hell is that? Why would you rape your alternate Universe twin? We managed to get him back onto albino porn. The Internet saves lives. I am thankful to the internet for gratis porn but when i think back to my ancestors, I wonder what the hell they did back in the 18th century. There wasn't any porn, except for Khajuraho maybe, and the only place you could get laid for free was the army (more on that later). Even the ancient world must have had this problem. But you know, I bet the great library at Alexandria had a smut section. That Cleopatra was antsy. i bet most of the artifacts we find on archaeological digs that look like women, aren't "goddesses" or "fertility symbols". Those figurines were just attempts at capturing the image of nude babes so guys could have something to look at when they were hard up for intimacy. Porn is, any day, better than going back in time and date raping yourself. I bet most of the Renaissance emoters were just super talented horn dogs.

Sometimes I feel like I have no control on anything. I may have involuntary control over my pupils right now, but this control is transitory. All control is transitory. Control is an illusion. In my honest opinion, the only character i know who was in complete control at all times was Bugs Bunny. That guy could not be fucked with at all. Except that one time when he landed on the moon and panicked for like 2 seconds cuz he was alone on the moon. That doesn't count. Fuck you.

Le Roi, mesdames et messieurs:

The death of innocence

I once left a book in the toilet. It was a joke book for kids. Never been ok since.

I once cut off my left eyebrow (by mistake) with a pair of scissors. This was the same day i snipped a certain article of clothing with the same pair of scissors. Looking back I recall I was fascinated by the sound of fabric and hair being cut. The experience was almost synesthetic. Mind you, I got the living daylights walloped out of me for denying I did it. This may be the main reason for my lack of addictions in life.

On one of my many ground scavenging expeditions undertaken on weekly holidays in shorts and a sleeveless undershirt at the tender age of 7, I found an unlit cracker on the outskirts of our building premises at the end of Diwali. The discovery of this incendiary gold actually gave me wood. I couldn't do anything about my tumescence though. It just felt good when i bashed it down so I could walk properly. Fuck off, I didn't know what the hell sexual arousal was at that age, did you? Moving the hell on, I realized that this cracker had to be lit and fast. I was losing wood. In true haraami fashion, within 2 days I managed to procure a box of matches for the simple sum of 10 paise. This is back in 1987. Back then you could buy a car for Rs. 10,000, the banks had interest rates of 19% on fixed deposits, and women could buy DDT and arsenic at the local grocer to poison their mice and men. Today a box of matches costs 10 times as much. So, matches in hand, I proceeded to a spot in the compound wall that had a tiny hole in it and placed my (yes it was mine now) cracker in it with the fuse sticking out. In case you're wondering where I kept the cracker for 2 days, I hid it in my baba ghanoush. not. I hid it in my pencil box. It was really windy that day, so the matches kept going out before i could get the fuse lit. So I did the logical thing of covering the flame with my tiny 7 year old hands. The next thing i knew BOOM the bastard had exploded right in my face. This was a complete anticlimax and I realized the fuck-up happened because of the short fuse not giving my young, unaccustomed mind sufficient time to back away from the impending explosion. I recall going slightly blind, deaf and not being able to breathe correctly. This means I didn't know if I had to inhale or exhale because I couldn't remember if I had just inhaled or exhaled. This, I later found out, is called sonic shock wave disorientation. Happens to soldiers on the battle field. It's caused by subsonic shock waves. However as this was a single pulse shock wave, I quickly recovered and got my breathing back. Next came my vision and finally the hearing. I picked myself up and realized I could smell the phosphorous on my clothes. I didn't really give a fuck, having just been battle-scarred. I tottered back to the play area of the compound and continued playing football with my brothers. No one ever knew. Till now. F.

When we were 8, 9 and 11, me and my brothers got a whole bunch of G.I. Joe toys. I wasn't really into the action figure thing or the trains thing. I was always about the chemistry set and the electric set and the ripping apart the guts of toys to see what the hell made them work. I wasn't able to take the GI Joes apart cuz they had strong rivets holding them together. I never got the chemistry set, but that never stopped me. I mixed all kinds of shit together: after-shave and bleach, vinegar and baking soda, toothpaste and nutmeg. Nothing worked. My action figure was Scrap Iron. He was on Cobra team, but he looked so damn cool that we put him on the GI Joe team. At least I did. Go to hell. That Baroness though, she always had me bashing the little guy. Take that to mean whatever you want.

It's getting late and i'm gonna wrap this one up here. The last thing I did before turning 8, that was utterly bastardly delicious, was this one time my dad (rest his soul) had taken us all to Delhi while he was covering the 1988 Asian games (my dad was a journalist). Delhi was particularly dry and de-hydrating that year. This one day I had worn a piece-of-shit (that was the brand on the label) pair of jeans and a blue and red striped t-shirt with Converse-style sneakers. I fell asleep in our hotel room after drinking 3 bottles of 7-Up. When i woke up, believe it or not, there was a giant, monster of an eagle at the window. I bet he had a donkey dick cuz he looked at me hungrily. The entire room was asleep, it must have been 4:30 pm. I wanted to cry cuz I knew in my heart that I was a pussy. I hadn't a hobbit-shit's chance of fighting that bastard. Now here's the complicated part: My MOM was asleep too. I was more afraid of disturbing her sleep and facing her demonic wrath than I was of fighting off this 3 foot (at the shoulder) bird of prey. Well, as I was fucked either way I decided to fight the bird. Mind you all this decision making happened within the span of about 10 seconds after seeing the bird. When he (it may have been a girl eagle, but i doubt that cuz it had a donkey dick) looked away i picked up a 7-Up bottle and flung it at the window. Today, if I had my way, there would be a picture of that eagle in every dictionary right next to the word KA-BLAM, cuz that's what happened. He wasn't expecting that shit. Who's preying on who now mofo? I couldn't believe my luck. Mother stirred only slightly. I felt like some kind of demi-god and so I decided to celebrate with a glass of cold water cuz it was so hot. Reaching cockily for the cold water thermos I accidentally knocked down an empty bottle of 7-Up which didn't shatter. However its glassy timbre did wake up mother who proceeded to take the shape of an Asura, her waking form. I got away with a glare and a whispered spell that she chanted in the direction of my heart. I didn't die, but my demi-god powers went away. No one ever found out how I saved their lives that day from a ruddy eagle. They wouldn't have believed me any way. Thinking back in it I feel like Rambo. Colonel, they drew first blood. not. But that rapist eagle would have. Nighty night, keep your bunghole tight.

Outraging - a retrospect

i never called you a bitch on your face.

no sooner had these words left his mouth, the insane man was ever after relegated to the halls of infamy. I like how infamy isn't the same as shame. it's infamy. You cannot shame an infamous person. He won't give a fuck. Case in point: I knew a guy once who played the bass guitar like it was a ukelele. A complete brainiac? Of course. This man was a genius. But he was known for being that dumb. Soon it was his trademark style. That's infamy. Shame is what you feel when you can't open your beer using your teeth.

Back to our insane asylum fuckwit: The woman in question had asked him whether he had referred to her as a bitch in a previous conversation with another person. He could have said "no". But in a moment of trepid fear he chose to blurt out something that sounded much much worse. This outraged her modesty. And thus she responded in the only way she knew. Ka-slap. Her clutch (a type of woman's purse) connected with his ear and jaw with little force. He looked slightly puzzled. This is what was going on in his head:

Modesty has such varied definitions in different cultures. Take police brutality for example. What's completely legal and acceptable in one country may be grounds for prosecution elsewhere. As men, we don't really know which country we're in when we're talking to women. What's worse is that a man may say something and think he's just paid the woman a compliment. Like telling a woman her hair smells coconutty, and she ends up thinking she smells oily. No hag, we're saying you smells nice. We likes the coconut shampoo. I don't have the exacta statistica but i assume that a man is slapped once every 3 seconds because he's said something that he thought was harmless but a woman thought was outraging her modesty. You know what? I'd like to see the cookie monster's mom slapping him for bad table manners. I tried that shit once with a bowl of cookies when i was 10. When I came out of the coma and asked for her they released my mom from incarceration. Ha, i love the cookie monster with his crazy eyes and his frenzied cookie binges. Here, at 2:30 he loses it:



Once again, after all was said and slapped, the woman walked off in a huff. As we got down to chatting, Mr. Brainiac and I realized that Jennifer's Body (the movie) is a pretty good approximation of your average woman. You know what I mean. When Jennifer feasts on man-flesh she feels normal. When Jennifer feels ill she goes about seducing more man-flesh. And in-between there's the lesbian kissing. Do not take this literally. I'm using this as a metaphor for feminine angst. Hey just to be clear, in no way does this blog condone the practice of human sacrifice. That shit is just evil and completely ix-nay.

Megan Fox ladies and gentlemen

Psyche and story

As i grew up and achieved pubescence, a single catch phrase that would roil my sensibilities as a budding linguist was one that is still employed by cricket afficionados to compliment skilled delivery. i shall not utter it here for fear of prudish ostracizing by proper people. not. well balled.

I seem to have found the underlying cause of my suffering. I am unable to reconcile my Id and Superego (apologies for capitalizing). They pull in opposite directions. While my Id is driven by baser pleasures (no, not crack), my Superego possesses an innate altruism and the 2 get into conflict and the bastardly outcome is guilt. The Superego causes it. Guilt is what separates us from psychopaths. Which is why I bought wada pav and samosas for a couple of little urchins today. I find my Ego to be the most detached from both extremes and the one responsible for managing my day-to-day shit. The Ego seems to be entirely taken up with dealing with the external world. The Superego tells the Ego to do good. The Id tells it to look out for numero uno (mygoodself). My Id, it would appear, is extremely hedonistic and wishes to experience every possible sensation, good or bad, hot or cold, male or female. My Superego only wishes to pursue constructive thought, altruism and thereby experience pleasure indirectly. But enough about my inner child. Let's talk gutter.

Ever seen one of those guys who walks around like he owns everything? One of those macho mofos. You know what I do with those guys? I walk up to them and make friends. These are people who are governed by their Id. Both the Ego and the Superego listen to the Id. These people go on to become great conquerors and destroyers of the world. But sometimes their creative side may take inspiration and allow for the flourishing of some of the most beautiful art in history. Case in point: Hannibal Lecter, any cat, demons.

Ever seen one of those fucks who walks around like they're everyone's friend? They fucking are some of the shallowest people imaginable. I am one such fuck. These people feed off of human energy. They only feel good if they are seen as good in the world's eyes. Their sense of self worth depends entirely on environmental feedback. This is the Ego category. This type of person can, at most, revert to the Angel category below, or swing to the demon side of things. They are the most unpredictable.

Now, ever seen an angel? This person may be male or female. But their defining characteristic is their innate nature to help and be kind. It just doesn't matter who they're helping. Case in point: If you've seen Les Miserables (Liam Neeson - Jean Valjean) try to recall the priest who helps Liam out in the beginning. Even when he's being robbed he helps Liam. There do exist such people. I recall reading a story in my 3rd standard textbook about a man who travels to a penurious land to meet the king and offer assistance. He ends up crashing at a farmer's home cuz it gets dark and he has no place to stay. The farmer offers him bread and water for dinner, and he tells the traveller that the whole family will have to eat in the dark because they're short on kerosene (i don't fucking remember if it was kerosene or some other fuel so don't ask). When the traveller offers his lamp, the farmer asks him to save it in case he may need it on his travels. So they all sit down to a dinner of bread and water. Next day this man reaches the king's palace and tells the king of his travels and of the farmer. He indicates to the king that he was rather insulted that the farmer forced him to eat in the dark. He told the king that the miserly ways of his people were to blame for their state of penury. Hearing this the old king smiled benevolently and asked the traveller to take him to the farmer's home. They reached the farmer's home and were welcomed in by the farmer and his wife. The king took the traveller to the farmer's kitchen. There he opened all the containers and found each one empty. Seeing this, the traveller was puzzled as he recalled having eaten breakfast. It was then that the king told him that his people were the opposite of miserly. The previous night there was just enough food to feed one person. The farmer gave all his bread to the traveller and went hungry along with his family. They forced him to eat in the dark so that he would not have to see the farmer and his family sitting at the table, going hungry. The next day they all left early and kept what remaining provisions they had on the table, which the traveller promptly ate. These people keep giving and the sheer act of giving keeps them happy. They care less for much else.

To evaluate which category a boy falls into, simply watch him playing with his friends. If a friend takes a toy away and the boy cries helplessly till he gets his toy back, he is in the Ego category. If he immediately fights for his toy he is in the Id category. And if he smiles at his friend he is in the Superego. Of course these aren't fixed. Depending on the situation the child may let any one of the 3 dominate. However, when you notice a predominance of just one of these 3 traits, you know you have an angel, a conqueror, or a demon.

On fertility and fearlessness

Apart from concerns over allegations of butt piracy that would emanate from the depraved minds *and mouths* of friends and family, I find the single life far more relaxing than when I had a hag sucking away most of my time and of course my will to live. It bodes well for me then to inform you that great cans are transitory but epic booty is forever. Case in point: I've heard of breast cancer but I never heard of butt-cancer.

I find that it is thus best to ignore the silence that greets me whenever I notice mother's homuncular eye glaring with stark disapproval at my lack of motivation to "settle down". Of course she means well, as most mothers do. A lifetime of contemplating an eternity of loneliness strikes fear into the hearts of the most ruthless of women. Companionship seems to be top prio for 20 somethings. I suppose it always has been. I wonder why. Why derive a sense of self-worth from companionship or lack thereof? Personally, my pet peeve, what I hate most, is when anything touches my eye. God I hate it. Eyelash, dust, fibre, drops, i hate them all. Makes me wonder how soldiers manage to take the torture of eyeball electrocution. Too many men, far better than me, have been blinded and killed defending my country.

The second thing that comes to the minds of people (and women in general) is childreeeen. It appears that my sperm need to work now and produce offpsring, or else I am hurting mother by not giving her the pleasure of raising grand children. Did I miss the wtf bus? Firstly I'm not all that kicked about being alive. Frankly I don't get what all the fuss is about. Secondly, I don't recall asking to be conceived. So what if I was the fastest sperm? The onus of creating children and raising them to struggle in life is exactly that. It's an onus. I say I'd rather not.

Let's leave the world changing to the yuppies. I'm gonna go take a dump. Later peeps.