Random Rhetorical Question 4

Why won't she die?!

(Oh, in case you don't know, see here.)

Angry Again

Yet another bout of what now seems to be an annual ritual of battling the beast called CAT has passed. Yet another situation which the great Crime Master Gogo would describe as: "Haath ko aaya, mu na lagaya" (Came to hand, didn't touch mouth). Yet again, I scream at myself for existing in a parallel universe where my "verbal ability" doesn't quite match up to the norms of the rest of this insufferable human populace.

As much as I am torn between different explanations for my itch to do this again and again, ranging from a yearning to play the lead role in the cage to grabbing a chance to make a quick buck, I take solace in the googletalk status message of my Zen fundae loaded friend :

"In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't fucking matter!"

Tell me it's true and I'll believe it.

At least I tried

Techie Trick No. 969 to hook a girl:

Hunt down female bloggers on Orkut by searching for "female blogger bangalore" and leave comments on the commendable posts by praising their ideas or cracking a good joke, hoping that they will trace you back and would want to meet you. This is essentially taking the "i wants franship" scraps, which they claim to hate so much, to the next level.

General Verdict: It still doesn't work man!

It's in the papers!

Lalbadshah is a stud. We now have evidence. I was featured in The Sunday Times (Bangalore Edition on page 12). Needless to say, me being a humble citizen and all, turned around the conversation which was primarily intended to be between me and the cute journalist, into a general chat about Mensa.

Here's a pic from the article. Feed on the glory of my image, infidels! Yes Yes! Hah! Fame, Power, Money! It will all be mine! *evil Calvinesque laugh*

Watch carefully as I exude charm and confidence while the cute journalist (not seen in the pic) is already swaying due to a certain weakness in the knees. Everyone around me is evidently mesmerised. The very next minute they all bow down and worship me, including the cameraman, which is why there is no photographic evidence for the same. You have to take my word for it. Which you will.

Also note the brilliant product placement of my 'Volga' helmet(certified by ISI and in good shape since 1999) which has been strategically positioned so as to prove my endorsement of safe riding and help troubled teenagers as a better role model to admire and emulate rather than a gay looking topless Shah Rukh Khan.

(Link to the page that carries the article here.)

A difference

Annie Zaidi writes about growing up as an Indian Muslim. As I read it, I saw the story of my own life unfold on the screen and I'm quite sure that I'm the only one to feel so.

I've noticed that these things happen to you at the most unlikely times by the most unexpected people.

My English lecturer in Christ College, during Std.12 once caught me looking in another direction. He asked me to stand up and tell my name.
"Ali".
"Full Name?"
"Mohammed Ali."
"Mohammed Ali Jinnah, right?"

I can't remember the faces of most people in my class. But that incident, that man, that question, I will never forget. Precisely the reason why we need to stop inheriting bullshit.

Do read Annie's post. It's beautiful.
(Came across the link at IndiaUncut.)