Sunday, December 30, 2007

'Pop' Goes the Music

It doesn't count as melodious sound. It counts as din. Horrific cacophony littered with words. I am of course, talking about pop music.

R&B, Hip hop, 'Soul'; yep, all pop music in my book. Navigating the mind-numbing expanse of VH1 is rather eye-opening. Or ear-splitting. Take your pick. Call me conservative, but I find no real need going in search of new genre's since I have my beloved house/trance and selected rock to keep me company. Flipping through channels though, one can't help but be sucked into the sheer IQ-depleting experience that is your average pop music video. I remember when words in songs made sense and conveyed meaning. Look at me, still living in the 90's. Pssht. Allow me to guide through, what I consider, modern master-pieces.

1. "Under my um-ber-ella. Ella. Ella. Ay. Ay. Ay."

Wow. How did the Jamaican's manage to mess music up this bad? Stick to drugs and cult voodoo religion (ie. Bob Marleyism)

My initial thoughts were: the marketing guys must have paid her a hell of a lot to endorse their umbrella. Maybe they were from Ireland; you never know. To my horror, I found that she wrote the words of that song herself! What was she thinking? What was the inspiration behind that song? If this is what a so-called diva is minting off, well, I am going to give it a crack:

"Under my rai-ain-coat. Oat. Oat. Tee. Tee. Tee."

Come on Universal, reach out and help us struggling musicians.

2. It seems someone has finally given Will.I.Am the 'birds and the bees' talk. Congratulations to him for figuring out that babies do not come from storks with beaks of steel, but from, shockingly enough, their parents! A revelation!

"Baby where’d you get your body from? Tell me where’d you get your body from. I got it from my mama. I got it from my mama"

What did you think Will.I.ThinkI.Am? She got it from her daddy? Imagine if she committed the cardinal sin of going to the gym! Can you even fathom the terror on her mother's face when she orders it off eBay? I know genetics can get confusing but give me a break.

A few things strike me about this song. First of, it is a clear case of mistrust in the opposite sex's intellect and understanding of basic English. He asks the same question to the ladies (whom he incidentally addresses three times prior to the actual verse and still feels the needs to let know that he is now ready to go) 4 times. They may not know how to drive, but dude; four times is an insult to their intelligence. The ladies return the favour by responding no less than 4 times. Then of course, there is the blatant disregard for the poor 24-year-old model's feeling when he turns his attention to her mum. Newsflash, Will.I.Am.Sure.I.Am, marriage is one of the lousy side-effects of sex. Get used to it.

Last but not least: black guys should have names like Durrel and Phazzelle and Sharquan. Not William. William is a gay, white name. This is a black Michael Jackson, if you ask me. All he needs now is for Mike Tyson to miss and bite his nose off. White name, retarded fashion sense and no nose. Done.

3. The word is delicious. It is used to describe food. Fusing it with your name does not make you like good food. This addition of a name and a word to form gibberish should not inspire a song about how plastic surgery has affected your appearance. However if this does occur, you are a retard and should call 9886793649 immediately for counselling and/or sex.

Now, I am someone who likes to learn new things. The thing is, by the time Fergie tried to teach me to spell, I had pressed mute. Sorry, sing it to 6-year-olds. And get your spellings right for god's sake.

"Fergalicious definition make them boys go loco. They want my treasure so they get their pleasures from my photo."

Hmm. Quite. Let's, as MC Hammer says, break things down.

The definition of Fergalicious is as follows:
i) To act or appear to be like Alex Ferguson
ii) A word made up by half-plastic, half-Mexican singer. She thinks it means she's yummy; good looking food to satisfy one's sexual appetite. We know it means she's too lazy to look up real words that actually mean something.

Now, if 'they' (and I can only assume she means random men that she has tempted) wanted her treasures, why would they be masturbating? Wouldn't they simply get off their random asses and rape the illiterate woman? Also, she is not a pirate and therefore has no treasure, so to speak.

Let me now make up my own word to describe the last part of the song: Hilarubbish! No prizes for guessing which two words fornicated to produce that.

Will.I.Am makes a notable contribution to the "song" too. I think he was trying to convey a message of, "Hey, I kan spel two!"

"T to the A, to the S T E Y - girl, you're tasty, T to the A to the S T E Y - girl, you're tasty
D to the E, to the L I C I O U S, to the D, to the E, to the, to the, to the, hit it Fergie"

There's poetic license, and then there's this. Even if you ARE American (and frown at 'humour' but understand 'humor', or ignore 'honour' but maintain 'honor'), this makes so sense.

"Tastey", like Fergalicious, is not a word. Maybe to drunk Scottish people it is, but not to humans who speak English. Go back to school. It's just past the plastic surgeon's who you visit every Tuesday.

I love how William 'White boy' Adams (his middle name is James if you weren't already convinced) manages to spell a world correctly, but then falters whilst trying to respell the same word 4 seconds later. On realising that he has the IQ of a paper clip, he simply hands the mike to Fergie. Way to go, tough guy.



I could go on and on. Really. Panic! At! The! Math! Class! Where! They! Teach! Factorial! is next.

Be afraid.

Saturday, December 22, 2007

Crapplications ®

These last two months have been soggy. A whole, ginormous, gargantuan list of things took a back-seat to college applications (namely football and food). Even the most casual conversation with my parents would not be complete without at least one mention of, "So how are your essays coming?". I hate essays. Anyways, after this most merry of processes/diseases, I have uncovered one of two things that I feel I must share with an 11th grader, or Indian-parent/god forbid, someone who is applying to college AFTER (yes you heard read right, AFTER), their 12th.

1. The CommonApp Fallacy

The very word 'common', when used in this context is a lie. It is NOT common. It is different. It is NOT simply one glorious application you fill in, which is then sent to all your colleges. No. That's what the FBI wants you to believe. It is actually a conspiracy by the Nazis. It should be called the:

'Teenagers have nothing else to do so let's lie to them and make them believe it's one application when it's actually a gazillion - App'

That's what it should be called.

And here I thought I simply had to do ONE essay, fill in my information ONCE and pay ONCE and that would be the end of it. Oh, how wrong I was.

What they mean by 'common', is actually 'mostly different, with a little bit of common, just so that you get the warm, tingly feeling'. I went about selecting colleges and filling in my name, age, waist-line, etc...when I chanced upon the, now dreaded, button called Supplements. (Note to Biharis: it is not a masseuse, it does not make you supple) It, in fact, contains every university's INDIVIDUAL application. I mean, who fills in their information just once? Noobs.

Each college has its own essay, its own required writing sample and/or personal information in ADDITION to the so-called CommonApp. I hate colleges.

What does this mean for you not-yet-tax-payers-but-beneficiaries-of-government-spending? Let me show you how this revelation affected the time it took me to finish my 'CommonApp':

(Time to fill in information on 'CommonApp' + (Time to fill in MORE INFO/ESSAYS/SHORT ANSWER QUESTIONS for each college x Total number of colleges) + Time spent arguing with parents + Time spent contemplating how much it is going to be worth + Sitting and actually PAYING for each and every supplement. One by excruciating one) x Time taken for everyone who feels obliged to check it, approve it, recheck it, demand changes, recheck it, consult one another and finally give you the big 10-4 to send off the application/commit suicide.

Pssht. Even hinting at the CommonApp being common is like assuming my watch-man (Note to non-Indians: he is not a man who sits around 'watching' me. We call those pedophiles) does not look like Michael Essien. You can argue otherwise, but you'd be wrong.

To wind up, I'd like to die now. I hate applications, common or not.


2. The Brits have once again shown why they are superior to the Yanks in every facet of existence bar Kim Kardashian.

Let's do a quick comparison between the applications processes of Britain and America:

i) Number of applications: UK -1, US - Avogadro's Constant

ii) Amount of stuff that needs to be mailed: UK - None, US - Enough to displace the Pacific

ii) Amount of stuff that is actually common and can be done online: UK - Everything, US - 12.2%

iv) Number of essays: UK - 1, US - think of a number above 4 million. Times it by ten. Good luck.

v) Number of those niggly, suicide-warranting, short answer questions: UK - None, US - Enough to make you question the purpose of the essays.

vi) Number of times you need to consult a college counsellor: UK - 2/3 times, US - 4 times a day (may cause drowsiness/diarrhea)

vi) Amount of times you need to pay: UK - Once, US - Same as iv)

vii) Number of Referees: UK - As many as there are in a football match, US - As many as there are in an American Football Match (Avogadro supported the Titans!).

viii) Number of SATs, ACTs, LSDs, EMIs, RPGs, and any other three letter abbreviations you can think of, that you need to do in order to even be considered: UK - Zilch, US - All of the above, plus USB and FBI. And CIA. And PSP.

I think this comprehensive, unbiased (=D) analysis shows us why the Brits made The Office and Faulty Towers, and the Americans came up with Becker and Two and a Half Men.

(Disclaimer: My love for Arsenal Football Club and hate for 'sports' such as Baseball, American Football and NASCAR have no bearing on this opinion. What I have said is, however totally true no matter what you think or say. Suck it up, you "Oh, but an American education is more broad-based and well-rounded" people)

3. If only it were as easy as sitting down, Yesterday. But no.

Can the Americans be so bold as to 'trust' the grades you get in school? Can they even fathom that you may, just may, be as smart as your high-school transcripts show? Can they decipher the complexity of a 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2 or 1 when it says you take the International 'think stupidly, act accordingly' Baccalaureate? Can you blame them? No, No, No and Yes.

Imagine what would happen to the universe if colleges decided to use one's academic record to assess their academic capability? I mean, how dumb can you get, right? Wrong!

"We, at Impossibletogetinto College, feel that the SATs provide us with a balanced and comparable assessment of a candidate's academic ability. We also know that studying for SATs takes up a huge amount of time, effort and money; we put you through them because we simply do not care about you. We care about your parents' wallets. Simple as. And after all your work, if you don't do well, we use the SAT as a means to screen you out. If you do do well, we'll scrutinise your application to try and find other faults in you. What did you think? That we admit humans? We'll have none of this "No one is perfect" lark; you are simply not good enough. Thanks for the application fee (which could have funded the families of all our immigrant cleaners) and better luck next time. Oh wait..."

I wouldn't be complaining if the exam itself wasn't such a mental marathon. A marathon you can never win, not because there are 3 Kenyan dudes who have spent their lives training for it on the set of Duma, but because you are whisked away to a retirement castle before section 9. The first section is an essay. Not really that bad, apart from the fact that they don't trust us with man's deadliest ever killing machine: the pen. Writing with a pencil brings back fond memories of grade 3, where afternoon naps and "I know you are but what am I" ruled supreme. Writing an essay on a topic as vague and vacuous as "What does trust mean to you" makes me want to punch the creators of the SAT in the back of the head. Very, very hard. And when I open up the critical reading section (because writing and math are, well, casual) and look at the novel about animal care or child sign language or Jewish fish-mongers or something irrelevant like that, I feel like taking a harpoon and shooting through the back of their knees. Those four hours, sitting in modified electric chairs in an ancient, dusty classroom, will never come back. Ever. The polarity within the exam itself is quite hilarious actually. The math sections can be done by the same people who invented sleeveless sweaters. No kidding, even THEY are smart enough! The aforementioned reading/suicide section on the other hand, make you wonder why the question-setters hate teenagers so much: the sinking feeling one gets when one turns the page and sees an entire side of text followed is quite unmatched. Then comes writing, where every answer seems right, but apparently one isn't. Because, pointing out which answer is right, as opposed to which is most right, is soooo 80's! But perhaps the most jolly time, is when you have to tell your parents the marks you got. Oh wait, the most jolly time is when they make you take it again. And again. And again. Lord, take me now.


Sigh, I had to get that out of my system: two months of talking about nothing but the future takes its toll on one as indifferent as me. If there is one thing I've realised after my ordeal with college applications: I put the pathetic, in apathetic!

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Fashion Is As Pointless As A Circle

And the men who work in the industry, are just about as straight.

I had the privilege of attending a fashion show the other night; a chance to rub shoulders with Bangalore's elite (or jobless, as I prefer to call them). We got tickets thanks to my dad's friendship with one of the designers, Tarun Tahiliani. Tarun was warm and friendly but thoroughly celebrity-ish which was a little strange. His entourage trailed behind him like afterburners. An adoring tail that smoked and posed for photos. The event, sponsored by Chivas, was a new experience for me and one that I quite enjoyed, but for different reasons than a 17-year-old boy attending a fashion show many initially think.

It was interesting to see the demographic of those attending the show at the pre-show cocktail. You had two basic groups of people. The beautiful and the ugly. Kidding. It seemed more like: the 'Page-3-Regulars' and 'those who looked as lost as me'. You could tell them apart easily. The P3R's were dressed to impress, flirting with the TV cameras and generally greeting every beautiful person they could find (by greeting I mean smiling so wide and fake, a shopping bag would be jealous of its plasiticity and kissing with their cheeks so as not to mess up their make-up or even worse, have to make eye-contact with someone whose name they have obviously forgotten). The Lost Ones were meandering around aimlessly, sticking to the 2 or 3 people they had come with while negotiating the crowd of people who were actually enjoying themselves. The Lost Ones, like me, would stay glued to their corner of comfort, nursing a drink and sniping hors d'oeuvres off passing waiters. We were few are far between, but a clearly visible lot. We shrunk away into the shadows at the merest sniff of a camera-flash.

So we stood around, mingling, the two groups. For an hour. The model's were late. Go figure? Did they get confused by the big signs saying "'In Fashion' by Chivas"? Models must have it so tough: having an army of not-so-good-looking people attend to their looks and comfort while they toil over a mirror and cell-phone. And you thought your job sucked.

And then the moment of truth: the announcement of the commencing of the show. Now you would you think people of such 'haute cuture' would be dignified enough to stroll casually into the runway-room. Wasn't this Haute Cuture? No, THIS, IS, SPARTA!!!!! (Roar manically and rip off your shirt to reveal a not-so-Leoneidus physique) It seemed like the moment there appeared a chance to 'ghusao', a switch was flicked in the back of the heads that turned from 'Accomplished Page-3-ite' to 'Standard Indian'. As soon as that door opened, it was on. Oh yeah. It was every man, woman and child for himself. It was primal fury. The French couple standing next to me couldn't believe the suave, well-spoken man they had been talking to, had thrown his drink at a table and jump into a 4-inch gap in the queue made by 6-year-old who was eaten by her mother in wake of the tribal passion that ensued.

Anyways, we managed to get in and find seats. Somehow. The lights dimmed, the trance music started pulsating and then the announcer's voice boomed around the runway. A short introduction was given about the designers, then over-head lights exploded into colour and the planes came in to taxi. Some airport this was.

I now realise what the objective of a fashion how is: take a beautiful woman and make her look as ugly as possible. Oh, and try to notice the clothes someone has thrown on her while your at it. It was hilarious watching mannequins strut around like anyone cared what they were wearing. There are a few key aspects of 'run-way' that I feel are worth mentioning here:

1. The walk.

In order to get into the cat-walk, one must first assume the correct position. First, you lean back, pushing your pelvis out in front. Then, because your head is pretty much behind your body, you lower your chin so that it touches the base of the your neck. Lastly you fasten each hand to your waist. Now that you look like a total retard, you walk. But wait, this is no ordinary walk. It was designed by those who want you to trip. The way one 'walks' is by placing one foot directly in front of the other, by swinging it around the standing leg. Thus:
a) Making it very hard for the model to actually walk
b) Causing her to look like an

I don't know about you, but I've never seen a cat actually walk like this.

2. The clothes

The first thing I remember asking myself upon leaving the show was, "Who the hell wears this crap?" I mean, it was horrific! They were adorned with some random feathery head-dress thing and stupid make up (that made them look like tall, possessed cats). And they're clothes were made of stuff you find in recycling bins: strange nylon strings, plastic mesh, green ribbons, frilly purple strips of polyester, etc... 'Designers' earn money by gluing these pieces of discarded kitchen waste together, and draping them over a person. Voila: fashion! Err no, sorry. This is modern art; random stuff together and passed of aesthetically pleasing.

Woman, wear the jeans and cook me something.

3. The men

Oh yes, at some point, they realised they couldn't inflict any more pain onto the audience, so they started making men walk the runway. Being a male-model has got to require some serious letting-go of ego. I mean, damn. "Hey guys, I'm a lumber-jack: I use brute force to cut stuff!"..."Hey guys, I'm a politician: I make money off those poorer than me!"....."Hey guys, I'm a male-model: I walk around in front of photographers wearing make-up and skimpy swimsuits!". Yes, you guys are hard-core, what with your lisps and 'looks'. Please, the only look on the runway is "I'm, too sexy for my (insert apparel here)". I mean, these guys could be out there, getting equally good looking women to do stuff FOR them. Why waste time doing the dog-walk?


What also irks me, is how literally 1 out of every 3 girls wants to be a fashion designer. No, no you don't. You want to be a model. In case you haven't noticed, the designers are saggy old men with grey hair and tight clothes. What you want, is to have an army of photographers saying things like, "Chin up....oh I'm loving this, I'm loving this look."

One cliche that reverberates in my head after that show is, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it". There is simply no NEED to come up with new collection every 3 months. Global warming isn't that good yet; last year's summer collection is going to hold up absolutely fine THIS year too.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

The Name Game

I was on Facebook yesterday (aka. Life Consuming Internet Tool), and I realised how many different names there are floating around. I should be awarded a place in MENSA for making that earth-shaking discovery, I know. It struck me how different countries have either cool or gay names.

Let us begin with the 'maaaaather' of all countries; a nation so fierce, it's hypocritical political ideals almost caused a nuclear war (but then with America, that's not too hard these days). Yes, I'm talking about a country whose original flag consisted of a red wolf holding a hammer and/or sickle, drinking Smirnoff: RUSSIA. You just don't mess with Russian men's names (remember, they are holding your aunt at gun-point as we speak). I mean, when I hear a guy at the airport saying, "My name is VLADMIR KROSVIC, brrring me kaaaastomer saaarvice", I shiver travels down my spine. VLADMIR. WOW. He didn't get bullied in school did he. I can imagine this blond, assassin, age 9, stride into the dining hall at Vodkavic Elementary: hair gelled back; Armani suit, black against pale faces of his peers; two large, bald men named Dimitry and Wasily (coincidently, awesome names too) loping menacingly behind him carrying large guns and threatening expressions; the only sound, that of his steel-toed shoes clicking against the floor. The red-sea of children parts as he makes his way towards his table (or private, student interrogation area). He sits down, takes out a cigar, strokes his white cat and says to the petrified boy about to faint sitting opposite him, "So Mr. Bond, we meet at last". Oh yeah. This guy owned.

A few thousand miles away lies a country that sucks at wars, movies, music and seemingly, in giving half-decent names to boys. France is the archetypal 'hated-by-all' national just because its people have little mannerisms that are picked up on by the Brits, and escalated into a worldwide, inter-cultural satire-fest. Trust the Brits. Anyways, after the enormous satisfaction one gets in saying: VLADMIR, what chance does "Pierre" stand? Or "Guilliaume" for that matter. "Jean-Claude"?? You may as well shoot yourself now and save the KGB the trouble. French guy names are gay. It's a sad fact that over 98% of French men have names that are either feminine and/or uncool. How does, "Good morning Washington, this is Vladmir" sound, compared to, "Jean-Luc, reporting for duty, sir"? It sounds like David (pronounced Daveed) vs Goliathski, only this David is weak and French so therefore, thinks that using a sling is too uncivilised/British for us sophisticated Parisians to follow. David is subsequently sniped by Goliathski. That was that.

We move from the manly to the queer, to just plain strange. America has two kinds of man-names. Black man-names and white man-names. Black man-names are either Muslim (Jamal = gangster) or strangely WASP (James = total tight-ass loser). White man-names......this is where the fun starts. Tell me, what would tempt you to name your son, Chase? Did your husband 'Chase' the pool-guy out of your bed? Or was your son conceived in a bank bathroom? I don't know. You thought Chase was weird, try 'Tucker'. I wonder what names he got called at school. I really do. And Cody? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Cody....sounds like a adjective: God, this logarithm is so Cody! Make the equation a little more Cody, why don't you? And last but not least, Preston. Come on America, get creative: since when do Division 2 English football teams count? What next? Grimsby? Oh, I know, I'll name my son: Sheffield. No they got relegated didn't they? What about Scunthorpe? Oh yeah. Scunthorpe takes the cake. This is my son, Scunthorpe Jones. Like he's ever going to get laid...

And last but not least, no rant is complete without a little poke at myself. Or rather, my country. Indian men's names can be short as Pal or as bewildering as Jianari-Commisariat. One name that always tickles me is Digvijay. Erm...wasn't regular Vijay good enough? Why did we have to have a dig at him (mind the pun)? I think maybe somewhere along the line (I'm guessing the 60's because they were psychedelic) some Bihari went abroad and heard some 'foreigner' say, "Yeah man, I DIG that". He came back to India, a messiah most enlightened, and in his infinite wisdom proclaimed: Dig = good! He held his son up like in the Lion King (it's Bihar so why not?) and exclaimed: Ye Vijay nahin hai, ye Digvijay hai! And so it was born; the phenomenon that took Bihar by storm (till 1973). Anyways, I know a guy called Jaymini! HA! I know! Great isn't it? What were his parents thinking.....Imagine when they have to give him a pep-talk....Jaymini! Take it to the max! "But mum, my name clearly forbids me to". Oh, whoops, son, my bad.

God that was pointless.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Has anyone actually Survived?

I was surfing channels the other day and I chanced upon the latest, exciting and thoroughly unpredictable season of Survivor. Just when you thought it was safe to watch reality TV again...

It's hard to imagine how a show, so Neanderthalic, mindless and red-neck in nature, could ever practice what it preached and, well, Survive! Let's try and ponder as to what Mark Burnett will come up with, say, 20 years from now?


"Last week on Survivor 38: Survivor Walmart.

Team Illegal-Immigrants (II's) and Team Red-necks & Fat, Black Women (RFBW's) faced off in an epic bath-soap shelving challenge. With only 6 contestants left, this challenge would be crucial in deciding who stays, and who stays and wins.

Pedro gave his team a great start when he managed to smuggle in cocaine-flavoured Dove from his grand-mother in Colombia, earning the II's a hundred points and a rather large number of anxious WASP teenagers. LeToya of team RFBW held the hick-ship steady with a fine shelving performance that brought both teams levels in round 43. The challenge reached its climax when Javier and LeMaida went head to head in the final round. Javier's experience from climbing over border-walls helped him reach the top shelves first, thus earning him the prestigious title of Stack-King and earning the II's immunity from elimination. The RFBW's walked off muttering something about American job's being stolen by immigrants or something.

Later that night, team RFBW met before the underpaid/exploited Walmart employee council (formerly known as the tribal council) to discuss elimination. The red-necks sat around watching the paint dry whilst the fat, black women talked loudly about who was going to watch whose back:

"Girl, you betta watch ma back."
"O HEYEL NO, Girl"
"Girl yooz betta watch yooz back, Girl...mouthin off the way you do"
"O HEYEL No, Girl, don't look at me like that. I'll shoot yo' ass!"
"Girl watchu gon do? Huh? What the Heyel you gon go?"
"AWW come here, Girl, I'm gonna TAKE YOU DOWN!"

And so on and so forth.

Then the moment of truth at the underpaid/exploited-Walmart-employee council: the group turned on LeMaida for her bad performance but she put the blame on LeFayette's relationship with Jonah, going so far as to say, "I even saw him give her a bouquet of the fake-flowers we keep at customer service." A statement met with mixed emotions by Team RFBW. Gun shots were heard. Finally, after a tense session of voting (in the case of the red-necks, a show of hands), LaMaida was voted out of the competition, forced to do basically the same things every day without the promise of winning her freedom from the clutches of the Walmart she works (lives) in.

Stay tuned for today's exciting episode of..... Survivor Walmart"

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Irks to Quirks

I woke up this morning feeling particularly hateful towards stuff. Maybe it was the curry last night. Maybe not. (Either ways, I could only 'think' logically again once my bowels had given me the big 10-4)

I realise, that there are many things which are stupid and should be banned or shot at.

1. The guys who go from Blade to Back-Street Boy over a girl.

I love watching how once 'macho' guys are turned into love-struck pansies. I mean, don't get me wrong, getting a little action at this age is perfectly fine. Maybe I'm biased, having not experienced the sensation on making out behind the lockers or going at it in an empty class-room (that time with Dale doesn't count: he was lonely and and one thing led to another). Still, you've got to ask yourself, how long is it going to last? And what's it worth sacrificing?

The second I see an 'msn name' change from fairly manly, "Don't go to high-school, go to school high" to a vomit-fest inducing, "Girl, I love you, I can't live without you, your my baby, I'm your baby, we are all babies, I would walk a 1000 miles for you, put my Johnson into a bowl of hungry/horny piranhas for you, run around Times Square wearing nothing but a Napoleon Dynamite T-shirt for you, blah blah blah, barf barf barf...", I know that this guy has sold his soul to the devil. At least Faustus had fun! These dudes may as well start stocking up on Kotex!

Do I need to buy you face-scrub and an N-sync album? I never thought I would stoop to stealing a line from a Maruti-Suzuki advert but, "Where have all the men gone?" The rate these guys are going, video games and Jack Daniel's will soon become about as useful as a match-box in Operation Desert Fox.

Seriously guys, pull yourself together.

2. Trick-or-Treaters

Indian society is suffering from an identity crisis. This not America, therefore there is no Halloween, therefore you 12-year-olds need not come by my house asking for candy (I will give you biscuits: the bad, old ones you get for free in school). This is India. We have our own Holidays: Diwali (festival of lights and promotional offers on stuff that wasn't sold the rest of the year), Holi (what war would look like if we had psychedelic blood colours), Eid (Biryani. That's about it) and of course, every third day of the week is an auspicious day according to the Indian calendar (Gandhi-Jayanti, Vijay-Purnima, Laxshmi-Jayanti: just take any first name and last name of an Indian person using the age-old 'eeny meeny miney moe' method and combine the two).

Anyways back to "Hulovin". So I'm just minding my own business when I realise a couple of 4-foot vampires and a black cat with bad make-up standing outside my window nervously. And nervous they should be. Who do they think they are? Even if their blood/horror make-up was better looking than the roadkill still twitching on the road outside my complex, I would still be obliged to take the chain-saw from Gears Of War and "slip". Two things piss me off about these American-wannabes: first, they say trick or treat but what they really mean is "treat or I tell my mommy"; second, the only chocolate I have is expensive Swiss chocolate I steal from my sister and Hell will pay if I have to give it to you!

Insensitive kids; thinking I am going waste precious seconds getting up and opening the door and then slamming it again before they can finish saying treeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeat (however satisfying that does sound). How's about I go as a pedophile for Halloween next year? I'd show THEM some tricks... "Don't worry, it's just a candy-cane, you can lick it"

3. NRI Families

Oh, I can just hear it now. The sound of a perfect American accent telling us that we should let the little kids play. Sorry Mr. Oh I've Only Moved Out Of My Mansion In Princeton Because I Wanted To Educate My Kids In India. This IS India. Finders, keepers; losers, sweepers.

We were playing football in my friend's complex the other day when these 10-year-olds came and told us to go away. (Credit to Valluri for smashing a ball at the kid's mug, causing a Tamil movie-like fight sequence stunt to ensue, involving the kid's flailing body being flung rag-doll-esque through the air) The irony of it all was, we (the elder lads) had got to the pitch first, and even allowed the diaper-wetting tots to join in our football match or Holocaust in their case. Then one of these little critters goes and calls the aforementioned NRI dad who strides onto the pitch with the look of a guy whose just taken a piss after an 8-hour car ride. "You guys have no right playing here. This is our property and most of you do not even live here. Please let these younger boys play."

Well, Captain America, thanks to your plan of moving back to India to give your kids an Indian up-bringing: YOU MOVED BACK TO INDIA. And being India, guess what? No ones gives a cow's balls as to what you think or do. We got here first, so get your self-righteous, "I am entitled to my civil liberties, you must follow the rules", ass off the pitch unless you wish to suffer the same fate as Rajnikanth Junior over there. (I think that kid's bottom jaw is facing backwards)


Anyways, more hate later.