Critique- Deadpool

Considering the amount of hype this movie generated, courtesy a brilliantly well thought-out PR campaign, it would be a shame if the movie didn’t live up to it. However Deadpool isn’t one of those movies. It’s tagline “Not your average superhero movie” is possibly the most simplistic yet accurate review of the movie.

The movie, much like the comic books, relies on the titular character’s quick wit and smart mouth to keep the crowd hooked. The movie’s biggest win is in its clever writing. Taking into account the similarities in the plot of Deadpool and that of X-Men Origins: Wolverine (which incidentally did introduce Deadpool, but Brett Ratner f**ked it up on every imaginable level), the writers have done a brilliant job at taking the source material, addressing the plot holes and similarities of the two movies with the continuous references to Wolverine throughout the movie, and seamlessly throwing in the fourth-wall breaks to further the storytelling and elicit a laugh at the same time.

On the acting front, there weren’t any stand out performances by any of the cast members, barring maybe T.J. Miller, who essentially just reprised his role of Ehrlich Bachmann from Silicon Valley and gave it a new name. Ed Skrein, while reaching par in his role as the main antagonist, is unconvincing as a psychopath, a trait that supposedly makes a difference to the plot. The reason there isn’t a mention of either of the leads is that Ryan Reynolds was pretty much always in a mask, and when he wasn’t, you almost wished he was, while Morena Baccarin’s character barely had screen time (more sexy time if you ask me).

Overall the movie’s entertainment value stems solely from the beautiful amalgamation of flawless writing and breathtaking CGI. While Chris Nolan showed us that superhero movies don’t necessarily need to suck, Tim Miller shows us that good superhero movies don’t need to be dark and gritty.

 

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Three Magic Words

It was in the meeting room when Mark first had the thought. He stood staring haplessly at her, unable to speak or react. He kept getting distracted by her big green eyes and flowing red hair, but it was her voice that captivated him. This was going to be a long meeting.

As Mark sat in his chair, shifting uncomfortably, he paid attention to every word she said. It was almost too surreal to believe. Mark, a veteran of 15 years in the field of venture capitalism, having heard every sales pitch invented, was hooked on to every word that a young 27 year old CEO of a small tech startup was saying.

Mark leaned on his desk, his eyes unwavering from her face, a million thoughts rushing through his head. Should he just blurt it out? Or should he wait for her to finish and then tell her in private? The dilemma was killing him on the inside. He wanted the earth to split asunder and swallow him. At least that would save him from this predicament.

Over the course of the next two hours, Mark’s sense of unease grew exponentially. He thought to himself,” Mark, you are a 40 year old man. Have some courage goddamnit!!” He looked at his reflection in the glass table and realized he was flushed and sweaty. He took a deep breath and wiped his sweaty brow. He was going to do it. He was going to say it to her.

He raised his hand to interrupt her and calmly stood up. He tossed the 30 page document, detailing the most ridiculous business plan he had ever seen, aside and walked up to her with a false sense of confidence. He looked at her straight in the eye, her eyes puzzled, his eyes soft and compassionate. He mustered every last ounce of courage in his being and said the three magic words.

“ Go f**k yourself.”

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SWEET CORN SOUP FOR THE INDIAN AUNTY

Every country on this planet know that Indians are famous for three things-tech support, zero and spices. But the real Indian, who makes up the heart and soul of our great nation, resents these stereotypes. She is constricted by the norms of conformity, the desire to fit in.

The country is run by the evergreen, omnipresent, aunties.

Aunties, like water problems, are everywhere. While I’m writing this I’m surrounded by three of them. My Own Personal Dictionary defines auntyjis as  an omnipresent entity, who has the power to manipulate people, using their advanced speech skills. They are extremely intellectual, and are extremely aware of their surroundings.

These aunties form the backbone of our nation. In every field that mankind has forayed in, their contribution has been tremendous. After all, Amish Tripathi wouldn’t have become a banker if “pados waale Sharma aunty ke bete ne IIT kiya hai”. The entire Indian intelligence services runs on these fine and capable ladies. If it weren’t for them, how would we know that “pata hai, Roshni ki beti ki sagai toot gayi” or “ Woh Bhattacharya’s hai na? Brahmin ho ke bhi non-veg khaate hai”.

These aunties may fool you by appearing rather slow walkers, usually by declaring “hai mere ghutnein, puttar zara daba dena?”. But this is merely a ploy to confuse their foes, and gain sympathy from the younger members of the society. (By society I do not mean human society, I mean XYZ cooperative housing society). How else would you explain this:

Aunty: “ Puttar pair daba de, aaj kal chala nahi jaata zyada. Hai, meri edhiyan

Me: “Auntyji woh Bansi kaka, woh fruitwale, woh aam 100 rupay dozen ke bhaav bech rahe hai

(Aunty runs like The Flash on cocaine. )

But all jokes aside, these aunties are usually the last hope of every hungry student in town. You don’t put out your trash for the kachrewali bai  and the next evening the aunty who lives across your house sends chicken curry and rice (testament to their Sherlockian skills of deduction). Do not step out of your house for three days and on the fourth day every aunty who lives on your floor will ring the bell to check whether you’re ill, and Lord have mercy on your stomach if you are. I was once down with the flu, and the maid had decided to take a leave in those days. My neighbor, an old, deaf Christian aunty, saw me with a runny nose and bleary eyes, and all hell broke loose. The gist of it was by the end of the week I was cured of my cold by treating it with a giant dose of indigestion.

However this aunty-giri comes at a price. In exchange for the services provided, they need to be treated with respect. Usually a “Hello aunty “ will do and in some instances you’ll be offering technical support. Fairly cheap right? But wait, there’s more!! They get licence to gossip about you. Now if you’re an engineering student, your life sucks, so there is nothing there to gossip about. But if you’re a player, who can score chicks *wink wink* you sir, have done ‘it’. To put ‘it’ into perspective, imagine if gossip were a viable energy, ‘it’ allows us to kiss the Middle East goodbye and let them sort their own troubles. ‘It’ allows us to shut down every nuclear reactor on the planet and make it into a flower pot.

In conclusion these aunties are what drives us as a nation to excel, for their fierce competitive spirit coupled with their scathing remarks make for a better teacher than Mr Miyagi. Love ‘em , hate ‘em, there is no escape from the Great Indian Aunty.

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Welcome to Pune

As someone who has lived in Pune for a major part of his ancestry, I feel this post is long overdue. After all you can’t be considered a serious blog writer if you don’t write at least one blog post bitching about your city *cough* Ashish Shakya *cough* Rohan Joshi *cough*. And I feel it is time we joined the big leagues of blogging by dragging Pune into the list entitled “Cities bloggers bitch about”.

A little background would be nice here. I was born in Pune, my parents were born in Pune, my grandfather was born in Pune. Heck, the wannabe life insurance ad-makers were born in Pune. I have lived here for the first 11 years of my life, and after a brief hiatus of about 7 years I returned, much like a prodigal son. Now having established my credentials we shall proceed with the generic complaining.

Pune would have been a giant Peth if they had not already run out of names of days. Pune has a population of who cares cramped in the area of a nucleonic can of sardines (physics joke, sue me). The distribution of population is so diverse it almost seems bipolar. On one hand you have places like Laxmi Road where you go, “Where are all these people coming from??!!” and on the other you have places like Armament Road where you feel like God decided to move up the Rapture to yesterday. From ‘Oye, kidhar se aara Hero’ to the Cantonment Roads, Pune missed the lecture about Population Density.

The people of Pune are horrifyingly rude, from the rickshaw drivers to businessmen, every one of them. Scientists have been trying to fathom the reason for eons now, but they were shooed away by the Sadashiv Peth patriarchs. In a situation where you are a victim of this hospitality, the golden words are ‘Jau dya na’.

There are certain areas which are rather nice, or at least appear nice, simply because I’m more biased towards them. Camp comes at the top of that list. It’s a shopping area in the heart of the city where you can kill time for hours and then cry at the bill you ran at Marz-o-Rin in the process. The thing about Camp is that no matter how little time you spend there, you will always meet the following set of characters: (in no particular order)

  1. Bohri uncle with the typical cap on his head.
  2. A Marathi aunty with the gigantic bindi
  3. A girl from Choksey’s school, in the pink salwar (this is true at any time of the day)
  4. A Christian matriarch, with the flower print frock, carrying a carry bag
  5. A Muslim rickshaw driver chewing Manikchand
  6. A Parsi couple, and a separate Parsi uncle sunbathing in his nightdress
  7. Sindhi aunties, type A and B:
    • Type A Sindhi aunty can be characterized by her simple dressing, often chikan print, accompanied with a scowl that has been plastered since the time Hero, Anita Bhojwani’s son hit the cosmic lottery in Spain while her son is still peddling watches in Trinidad
    • Type B Sindhi aunty (Scientific name: Homo govindus), can be spotted from a mile away, with the ostentatious clothing, gaudy accessories, and lard oozing out of every sleeve

Then there are places like Sadashiv Peth and its extension, Kothrud, which are so Hindu, Brahma decided to get a PO Box there. Did I mention that people in Pune are rude? Well Sadashiv Peth is the distillate of all that is rude and mean. Out here the song goes, “Why you gotta be so rude?” *Gets hit by a MH12*

This article would not be complete without a segue into the realm that is Shivajinagar. If there is Middle earth, it is here. Distances in Pune are calculated from Shivajinagar, to Shivajinagar, through Shivajinagar. PMC played a mean Lego game with all the roads of Weekday Peths and gave them to Shivajinagar. FC Road, JM Road, SB Road (Pick the next two alphabets yo.) The place has some 8 colleges in a 6 kilometer radius, right from COEP, an engineering college with the worst sex ratio south of Haryana, to Symbiosis, which seems like it only takes in pretty girls, all in that 6 kilometer radius. It’s bustling with a lot of cheps, drunks who are not drunk enough to totter around but are still drunk enough to start professing their love to every girl passing by, pretty girls with half the world’s supply of makeup on them, nice girls who are ready to experiment, and a few bouncers (traffic mamas). Basically a giant nightclub.

My co-writer Ritu insists that I mention PCMC here. She lives in Balewadi which is nothing but the Stadium with, wait I don’t know what… PCMC is like an illegitimate son with more illegitimate sons with Phase 1 2 3… say no more. Dear MH14, you may be a lot of things, better flyovers, better mayor, wider roads, closer to Mumbai… but you are not MH12. HA!

We have one Vaishali, the most popular among the sisters. Vaishali has a queue longer than its menu at all times of the day. FC Road is where you take your date; Fergusson College if you need some privacy. Koregaon Park is like our Beverly Hills. Punekars are shopaholics with an AREA 51 Mystery about where they go shopping. Bal Gandharva Rangmandir is our Times Square. Appa Balwant Chowk is Hands Down the Largest Public Library, EVER. We might carry the Times Food Guide, but we only eat a Vada Pav.

There’s a lot to more to tell you about Pune but I couldn’t fit it in here. In conclusion I’d just like to say this: travel here at your own risk. And look out for the sign that says “Welcome to Pune, where the men are nicer than Delhi and the women dress like terrorists.”

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The Shower

It was a particularly hard moment for Julian. For the first time since he started out on his own, he had made a mistake. Mistake is a rather mild term, he thought. More like disastrous blunder. He overlooked the most crucial detail and he was now paying the price. He had compromised his ideals, ideals he had vowed to keep for the rest of his days. He sat at the nearest desk, head cupped in his hands. Was he sobbing?

He thought of heading to the pub and drowning his misery in pints and pints of cold bitter. But he remembered he was broke. And the boss won’t pay him, now that he had botched up a job. He switched off the lights of the cabin, heading home, hoping a cold shower would help him feel better.

He walked home, his head hanging low, his face clouded with grief and pain. Why had he done such a silly thing? He cursed his ineptitude, his laziness, over what others might find extremely trivial, but to him was a great deal. He opened his apartment door, threw his bag on the couch in disgust, kicked of his shoes, and walked a slow, sorrowful, agonizing walk to the bathroom.

He stepped into the shower, dejected and morose as ever. The lukewarm water, heated only by the summer sun, poured over his tense, sinewy body while he leaned his weight against the wall. He peered down into the old rusty drain, watching as each drop that fell from his body was carried away to a place where the being of the drop did not matter, where it lost identity and gained strength. He wished to be in the place of that drop of water, to be carried away from his miserable existence into a place without pain or fear.

He was lathering his hair when he first felt it. It was a deep seated, almost primal fear. He clenched his muscles, afraid, alert. The base of his skull buzzed, like he was in imminent danger. He felt the ominous rumbling in his gut like the roar of an ancient beast.

He stood there in silence, waiting, when it first struck. Silent as a whisper. It brought with it the very scent of death and decay. His first thoughts were of his own death, and the smell of his rotting flesh. He knew he was no longer safe in the shower. He tried to make it to safety but alas, it was too late.

He found himself two feet from the toilet, doubled up in pain as explosive diarrhea gushed out of his bottom.

In his lowly state of existence, Julian regretted taking that stale chili to the office potluck.

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Naggie Gyllenhaal

Before you start beating yourself over the title like Nerdy did, because you don’t get it, (do you? Sigh.) Lemme decipher.
Naggie– A Nagging Girlfriend. (Did I just hear your ex’s name?) I will repeat, a nagging chick you gave some important status.
Gyllenhaal– MAGGIE GYLLENHAAL. She fits the Overly Attached Girlfriend Bill. Refer to Hysteria, Sherrybaby, Secretary, Happy Endings, A Dangerous Women.

So, in other words. I am going to describe a BAD NAGGING Girlfriend; you should possibly stay the hell away from. And Lady, if you are reading this (I sympathize with you *sob*), do things differently, you don’t want to be Naggie Gyllenhaal.
Go on, RELATE!

• Kya khaya mele Baby ne?
Does she constantly ask you what you ate for breakfast, lunch, dinner, brunch, thanksgiving, Diwali? Does she insist on knowing when you ate, how you ate and with whom you ate? And, and… SHE JUST WON’T TAKE A NO for an answer. She’ll insist on eating at that very instant. She’ll also give you options and advice you WHAT to eat.
Woah Woman! I have a mother you know? I certainly don’t want another.

• Where were you?
When you go offline for say two minutes, does she go WHERE WERE YOU!? I MISSED YOU! Like hold on, it’s been TWO minutes. I might be pooping for heaven’s sake! Or doing something equally important. I don’t have to reply instantly you know? Go date Siri.
*Why did you take 7 minutes to pick out a shirt huh? Simran is hiding in the closet. I know*

• Who were you talking to?
Phone line busy. A late reply. And BAAM. Who were you talking to? She is the epitome of Interrogation. She just won’t let you talk to other people, peacefully. Especially if it is a girl, you are done, bro. I’ll miss you.

• Reads too much between the lines
Slip of tongue. You say something and uh Huh. There she goes. She has to find a fishy syllable in your goddamn sentence. She has a problem with everything you do and say.
“I am sleepy” *So I bore you huh?*
“Can we text? I am low on balance” *You don’t like listening to my voice? Do you have to talk to someone else?*
“I love you too.” *Why didn’t you say I love you first? Who did you say it to, first?

• Ambition-less
She be like *I will cook you dinner and take your coat when you come back from work* Because, Ms. Naggie be like I’ll be the perfect housewife and be your support system and nag you throughout your life so you can be Gates and I’ll be the gatekeeper.
Jaa Behn, zindagi main kuch banja.

• You don’t love me only.
Naggie threatens you every night. Now, go on Romeo. Be cheesy. Sexy talk and be her slave, yet again. You have to constantly tell her that you love her. C-O-N-S-T-A-N-T-L-Y. These silent sobs are A BIG SIGN. Baachale Apne Aap ko

• Tohfa Tohfa, Laaya Laaya.
Sends you random links *Seee baby. $o cute. I luv it xoxoxo* Read: Buy me this. It’s a sign from the universe. Buy her gifts.
Only if your wallet was as fat as she is. (Burn…)

• Stalker in BOLD
She has to have in on ALL your activities. Physically and virtually. She likes each one of your status updates. Comments on your pictures. Keeps a tab on your last seen and WAIT FOR IT… Expects you to do the same!
*Why did you like that girl’s picture eh? You find her pretty? Sleep with her. You never like my pictures*

• Possessive

*Why did you say Okay? Okay is Priya’s favorite word. That’s why you say it.*
This has much darker undertones. I think I will do a whole separate post for this. But, well. You are Hers. No escaping. She’s Watching. You are stuck. Her(e). *whispers* Prisoner.

• Am I fat?
Age old question. Want to do a little experiment?
Next time she asks ‘Baby, am I fat?’ Say Yes. You’ll know who you are dealing with *shudders*

• Am I pretty?
Hello Mister. SAY YES TO THIS EVERYTIME. Okay? Every time. Naggie or an Angel, every girl is pretty no matter what.
Now, Let’s do this again. Am I pretty? *fluttery eyes*

• The sacred four days
Two minute silence.
I am sorry I can’t help you with this. Every girl you know, is Naggie Gyllenhaal for four days. You gotta deal with it.

• Cheeeeeesy
She insists on watching rom-coms with you. Snuggles up really close. Insists on spooning all the time. (Wait, is that just me?) Calls you cute names *jiggly puff* *mushy pumpkin* *poodly pooh*
She is so cheesy, you could pop her on a pizza. Crunchy Munchy! (Hey! New cute name)

• Shopping
Big Word. If she makes you carry her bags, you are just unlucky. Does she constantly ask you to take her shopping? It’s a trap. So, gentleman, don’t go if it’s her idea.
On the other hand, if it was your idea, I need your phone number.

• Changes YOU
Once you are in relationship with Naggie, forget that you have an identity. She will pick out shirts, plan your diet, push you to the gym, ask you to give up porn; and Bars you from drinking or smoking. Naggie RULES!

• Marriage and Kids
Oh Yeah. She’s planned your wedding. Her Wedding actually. Picked out the curtain colors of your dream home (which you’ll be paying for). Most importantly, she’s planned the number of kids you’ll conceive and their NAMES. Separate sets for a girl and boy. (Don’t be shy. Go on tell me. I know you have them. Like Shhh. I know.)

• Friend Circle Invader
She wants to be your friends’ best friend. Hold your hand to show them you are taken. She wants to be updated on your friend circle. Gossip mostly, girls especially.

Can’t take a joke.
Don’t crack a joke, it is enemy territory. Stick to cheesy. If there is one thing Naggie can’t do, it is Take A Joke. Nuff Said.

I am sure I have a mob of Angry Chicks outside my house. Ouch. A flare just broke in.

If your girlfriend has more than 3 similarities. Run in the opposite direction. If you relate to this, chill, grab a beer, laugh a little. Then RUN.

Disclaimer: This is just generalization. (Jk. I have picked up real references. From Real People. Living) (Jk Double. Just me)

Women are beautiful. They are caring, kind and helpful. 🙂
Until you start dating them…

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Sixth Grade Romance

No, this is not a rating scale of romantic couples. And since it is not that, the next logical assumption is that I am a pedophile. No I am not. Well maybe. Haha, jk.

This is something I’m hearing about far too much these days on social media, and through my brother, who’s in the 8th grade. As you’ve probably guessed by now, I’m talking romantic couples who still require permission from their teachers to go peepee. Honest to God, I am not making any of this s**t up. There are children, 8 year olds (!!!) who have girlfriends and boyfriends.

Now despite my initial cynicism as a somewhat heartbroken, disgruntled 20 year old, who’s been single for far too long, I am actually curious as to what the dynamics of these relationships are. So for purely journalistic reasons I decide to go undercover as a 12 year old, who was looking for a nice young girlfriend. No pedo. Let the world know sacrifices have been made in the quest for knowledge. The following are excerpts from my daily journal.

July 4th 2013

I have enrolled for admission in one of the good co-ed schools here in the 7th grade. The teachers and students were a little suspicious of my age, considering my height and my deep voice. Upon being questioned I burst into tears, saying people bullied me at my previous school for my height, and I had to change schools because of that. I have now realized what a powerful weapon tears are. No wonder the females are so lethal.

July 9th 2013

I have opened my Facebook account. In order to keep up with my 12 year old personality I used the email kingkock15@hoohaa.com. Facebook however has to be dealt with utmost care. One right spelling, one grammatically correct sentence, one modest post and boom, my cover will be blown.

July 17th 2013

Keeping my cover is harder than I thought. I have stalked every girl from my class, and every junior girl too but I think I need to make more of an online presence. I need to start *shudder* LIKE WHORING. Yes I must sink to depths of hell for science. “pLzZ LykK mAh sTatu$$” will need to be posted every few days.

The other day I did try to be a little creative with my post by posting “All dOSe who lYK me raise ur handzz………………and dose who dnt ra!$e ur st@ntard!!!
^^maching ma standard is imp0ssible………….bt plzz dose who dnt lyk me raise ur standardzz^^”. Yeah, after a few readings it stopped making sense to me too.

July 19th 2013

I think I finally might be making some headway in the ladies department. I started chatting with this cute, chubby girl from class, Niharika. I think she has a thing for me, considering I’m a total badass at basketball. The team aside, I could hand the coach’s ass to him on a plate.

Anyway back on topic, she seems to really like me, which I gather from her texts saying stuff “ u r sch a qtyyy pieeeee!!!!!!!!!”. I’ve decided to pursue this matter a little further now. I have decided I will ask her out, or as is commonly termed, “setting karni hai”.

July 22nd 2013

I finally did ask Niharika out. I got down on one knee after everyone in the class left for PE and asked her to be my girlfriend. She turned beet red, at which point I was unsure whether she was just embarrassed or having a stroke. Luckily for me it was the red of coyness. She said yes and looked at me like I was supposed to pull out a ring out of thin air. I treated her to a 5-star later and no complaints were heard.

July 23rd 2013

Today was my first date with Niharika. I went to her society, her mom fed us poha and we both went inside her room and started playing carom with her two siblings there. Sounds pretty silly for grown up date standards, but is actually quite fun. (Note to self: Next time you ask a girl out from college, make sure she’s not a kaccha limbu at carom. It is such a buzzkill to be paired with such a noob.) Her brother seems to be infatuated with my charm. But he’s 4 and I have this effect on kids normally.

August 2nd 2013

Niharika’s naiveté is unnerving. In this age of Internet *wink wink* she still believes French kissing gets you pregnant. I have so much to teach her. Man, that’s gonna be one very awkward conversation. Also she is boring. We sit next to each other in class, we sit together during recess, she gives me food from her tiffin (her mom’s mutter paneer is muuuuaaah). But she is dull. How much can I talk to her after spending so much time with her? To top it off she insists I text her on Facebook once I get home. The only plus side of this relationship (read: dafuq?) is that I never have to make notes in class. Her notes are always complete and I could just copy them.

Now that I think about it, why am I even copying those notes? I AM AN UNDERGRAD STUDENT FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!! I DON’T NEED THIS SHIT!!

August 15th 2013

I am finally free. She ended things because I was caught talking to another girl from my class. Now that “girl” happened to be the cute 20 year old teaching assistant working part time at the school and “talking” here being making out. I ain’t got time to complete this. I have a hottie waiting for me.

Author’s note: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any characters living or dead is completely intentional because I am an unimaginative jackass. Also this is no means to be portrayed as propagating pedophilia. I just enjoy dark humor, that’s all. If this stirs up a controversy, please don’t picket my house. Thank you.

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The Wail

As I stepped inside, greeted with the fake, hollow smile, characteristic of such places, I smelt it. That strange artificial musk, the overpowering cologne of a hundred lost souls. There were well over a hundred people in there, each with a different story to tell. But I wasn’t there to tell their stories. I was there to begin my own.

I took a seat, unaware of the fact that it was to be a scene of “action”. We waited there, waiting for people to gather. We waited.

After the first gut-wrenching, horrific ten seconds, that left even grown men weeping, I finally acclimatized to my strange surroundings. The air was cold, yet had a distant warmth, like the promise of a “happily ever after”. And the women, boy were they pretty!! Laden with half an ounce of makeup on their faces, strutting about on high heels, helping their customers get comfortable, they were the epitome of professionalism. The  smile on their lips did not ascend up to their eyes, they were courteous as ever yet failed not in maintaining a distance from their more “overzealous” customers.

Once things had stabilized, these goddesses came bearing drinks. Alcohol is the best relaxant in such stressful situations and once the booze got flowing, that was when all these people were truly relaxed.

I, myself, while a complete teetotaler, was actually enjoying myself. Some good music, good hearty entertainment, it wasn’t an altogether bad place to be. But just when things seemed best, it all went to hell.

That’s when the wailing began.

Imagine a thousand banshees, all simultaneously making their ancestors proud with their moaning and wailing skills. That was the power of the obnoxious screaming emanating not two rows away from me. That ear-splitting, shrill wailing was more than enough to curdle my blood.

In any circumstance, moaning and wailing are inappropriate and in general extremely awkward for those around. But in a setting like this, the gravity of the situation intensifies. Its loud!! And makes everyone around very, very uncomfortable. Everyone knew what was going on. After all it is hard to ignore slapping sounds followed by louder moaning. But no one even wanted to glance in that general direction, as though they were the culprits of this travesty and now wanted to evade the consequences. The wailing went on and on, for what seemed like all eternity. It finally ceased after the perpetrator fell fast asleep in her chair, exhausted.

That day I made a vow to myself. I am NEVER going to sit behind a little kid in an airplane.

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The Tale of Two Undies

Ever since civilization came into existence, humanity has struggled to look fine. Not fine as in, “Why that’s a fine impression you’ve made there”, more along the lines of “ Dayum gurl you lookin’ faaaaaine”. There is probably an evolutionary reason for this, some boring old hypothesis that no one gives a s**t about. Bottom line is both guys and girls try to make themselves look as desirable as possible to the opposite sex.

In modern times, tools employed to attract the opposite sex happen to include underwear. To appear as a desirable mate, you need to be absolutely sure if you want to buy those white Hanes or those Speedos *shudder*. Now to give you an idea of how absolutely obsessed we are with our image, even when it concerns stuff that nobody can actually see, Birdy and I decided to pen our thoughts, individually, when it came to underwear shopping.

Birdy

Oh god I need to buy some new underwear!! Wait first lemme check how much money I have. Oh wait, I got some birthday money too. That makes a 1000. Yes, that should be sufficient.

(At the market)

Oh my god, I am so confused, what should I buy? These are all so pretty. And so ador- Holy mother of god, they’re expensive!! OK Ritu, calm down, lets go for it step by step. You’re gonna need some daily wears, the old ones are pretty much fraying. Yeah, these look nice. Do they highlight my curves? Oh it doesn’t have matching bottoms. That’s a dealbreaker right there. I think I’ll go to another shop.

(Another shop)

Oh dear Lord, there’s a salesMAN!! How am I supposed to shop here? But those lacy lingerie look absolutely gorgeous. I guess I’m gonna have to bite the bullet. God, this is so awkward. If he turns out to be a perv, I’m gonna slap him. Yeah. I’ll just slap him. That’ll teach him to ogle at my boobs. Which would look sexy in those light blue lace brassieres. Oh my god, he’s not even looking at my stuff!!! What I’m not even worthy of a glance? Do my boobs look small? Oh Lord, ARE MY BOOBS ACTUALLY SMALL??!! I’m gonna buy that padded bra just in case. Plus it’s really comfy.

*After a massive hunt, in search of the perfect lingerie at impossible prices*

Oh crap I forgot, I need granny panties. My old ones are really stained. Ugh. I hate it when that happens. Like last time, my flow got really heavy and….you know what, you don’t need to know the details. I should probably buy some strapless ones too. They’d go great with that blue tank top I have. And maybe one of those raunchy Victoria Secret stuff that Simran was talking about. Man, she is such a slut. I heard she was stringing along two guys at once, and she was making out with both of them. For all her faults she does know her lingerie. Probably because she puts it on display so often. Hahaha, I made a pretty cool burn. I should tell Nerdy about this.

I think I’ve shopped a lot. Maybe I should eat something. Something that hopefully does not make my butt look like a melon.

Nerdy

Briefs or boxers?

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Lessons from Bollywood

Now despite being an Indian, I am not a big fan of Bollywood movies. Most of them are utter trash, and the really good ones are too far and too few. But despite my protests, Birdy sat me down and we binge watched every lame awesome movie Bollywood has produced since god knows when. Here’s what I gathered at the end of this harrowing session.

  1. Touch the feet of everyone and anyone when you enter a house.
  2. Every morning, you have to enter your massive Pooja room [Bigger than your entire home, mind it.] and sing ‘Om Jai Jagdish’ like you came out of a Bhajan CD.
    The first two points entail a long list of Alok Nath jokes that we are too damn lazy to type. So just *insert obligatory sanskaari Alok Nath joke*.
  3.  If you are a girl, you have to dance in a towel after a shower and whip your hair like you just don’t care. The fact that you’re frigging freezing or it’s gonna take you atleast two hours to untangle that mess doesn’t matter.
  4. The YRF laws of nomenclature:
    (i) All stinking rich people are named Mehra, Oberoi and Malhotra.
    (ii) All stinking rich people have stinking rich kids named Aryan or Pooja, who are inexplicably obnoxious.
    (iii) All sanskaari boys, who have the hots for stinking rich bratty babes are called Raj or Rahul.
    (iv) All Poojas must be followed around by atleast 2 degenerates. The rules of degenerate nomenclature is discussed in depth         by RGV.
    (v) All Pakyas are morally obligated to join the underworld.
  5.  Basics of Cupidean geometry: Love can never exist as a linearly exclusive emotion. It must always exist as a polygon, say triangle, hexagon, nonagon. If you achieve circular love, you’re in a Sooraj Barjatya wet dream, where everyone loves everyone, and Alok Nath is seductively singing Anup Jalota bhajans.
  6. Your arch enemy is, was and will always be hotter, better and prettier than you are. Also they will hit on your partner and make you miserable Miley.
  7. Honest police officers die all the time. (This is the only thing Bollywood learnt from reality it seems)
  8. Tattoos like  ‘Mera Baap Chor Hai’ add to your CV.
  9. You can go to Switzerland miss your train, fall  in love and do crazy moves while you should be flipping shit. Your dad has to run a supermarket for god sake! How important do you think a lost daughter is?
  10. You have to constantly make references to Jhumka,  Bindiya, Kangana and Payal to prove your femininity.
  11. You have to fall in love with your family’s enemy’s son/daughter.
    Corollary to Point 13: If you’re an eligible bachelor/spinster, your family has enemies. Like India-Pakistan level rivalry.
  12. Guess what, you can start a flash mob anywhere, anytime you want. (Our politicians seem to have taken this point to heart.)
  13. Your pet will change your life forever. That little dude is your postman, your wingman, your milkman, your bania, your Rambo, your Terminator, your dominator ( people are into kinky shit, take my word for it). 
  14. Death is never the end. Picture abhi baaki hai. Yamraj has a car and is very generous. Plus if you hold any connection to Ekta Kapoor, he’ll throw in a free facelift too. You see, Yamraj has a day job as a cosmetic surgeon.
  15. You have to opt out of your marriage in a mandap; and embarrass your family in public.
  16. You are to cool to wear a nightdress while you sleep. Grab your favorite Saree and all the jewelry in the house, come on! Fast!
  17. Tumhare paas maa hai. Never forget.
  18. You will have to have a side story with no real connection to your life. Everyone has secrets.
  19. There has to be a little Emraan Hashmi in your life. (“No arguments there. 😀 ” –Nerdy)
  20. You have to have a climax AT AN AIRPORT. I KNOW WHAT YOU WERE THINKING!! JESUS CHRIST, PEOPLE GET YOUR MINDS OUT OF THE GUTTER.
  21. Jewellery aurat ke sar ka taj hota hai. You are only a jewellery store. See some skin? Put some jewellery on it, QUICK!
  22. Sindhoor is your true identity. Ek chutki sindoor ki keemat tum kya jaano Ramesh!! (Ironically, Ramesh is the guy near the Hanuman mandir who sells all this pooja/havan paraphernalia).
  23. You have to cry out your heart at your vidaai kyunki you are now ‘Paraayi’ and can never see your parents again. EVER. Because after marriage all brides are automatically shipped off to Pluto. No questions asked. 
  24. Shaadi  ka joda is the ultimate aim of your life. (As a guy, I must confess that shaadi ka joda is actually a pretty legitimate life goal. I would look hot in that mofo sherwani!!)                  
  25. God will always send a Farishta (a flower in the temple, insaan ke roop main bhagwaan) to save your sorry ass. You never have to worry if you screw up. Pheww.
  26. You will always wear same colored clothes as your partner. The true sign of ‘Meant for each other’.  You know what, let’s just not go there. Bollywood has fucked up romance in more than we can count (or type). Let’s just end it right here. I’M F**KING DONE HERE!!
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