Tuesday, November 23, 2010

The Non-Oestrogenic Existence

Surviving more than a quarter of a century as a female in India** has given me a fairly strong sense of what I would like to do if I am reincarnated as an Indian man. Those with no sense of humour (which often goes hand-in-hand with poor comprehension skills) would be well advised to stop reading right now.

At the risk of being a veritable rabble-rouser, here goes (in no particular order):

1. Scratch and dig at every part of my anatomy that itches in public (this would also reassure me that everything I was born with hasn’t fallen off in some freak accident)

2. Urinate on every public wall, tree and milestone I see (the more public viewers, the better because it pays to advertise, you know)

3. Similarly, flaunt the tightest pair of speedos I can find on the beach, strategically positioning myself in front of sun-bathing women who are otherwise distracted by other male forms in boxers (because if you’ve got it or not, you have got to flaunt it)

4. Leer at, pinch, grope, rub and/or fondle every slightly desirable female form I encounter on a public street (because that is what women are on this planet for)

5. Do exactly as my daddy says (because my daddy’s the strongest, greatest and most importantly, male)

6. Use every opportunity as a platform to advertise my manhood (because I might secretly doubt it myself). For eg.:
- Get me the choco latte…because I am a man.
- Move your car out of the way, damn woman driver, man coming through!

7. Declare the kitchen out of bounds for a man with the cliché “a man’s place is not in the kitchen” (because a freak accident could damage what I was blessed to be born with)

8. Order all women who might have had the misfortune of crossing paths with me, voluntarily or involuntarily, to do my every biding - be it in terms of food, beverage, household chores, bedroom chores and so forth (because women will always be lower than pond scum)

9. Dispense advice rather freely that relationships can only work if women “suppress their personalities” and make “200% of the effort” (because a man making even some semblance of that effort would be tantamount to castration)

10. I. Me. Myself.


- Terror#1 - for suggesting that I blog this

- IMM - for making me aware of the existence of an “International Men's Day

- All the related and non-related men in my life, including the ones who’ve come and stayed (and shown me that there are endearing exceptions to the aforementioned) as well as those who have exited (graciously or otherwise)

**No racist or anti-national sentiments here. This is the only country and race I am qualified enough to comment upon.

If you liked this, you will definitely like fellow-blogger Bhumika's take on Ball Breaking

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Knock Knock!

There’s a good reason why KO’s blog is called “Kaotic Workshop”. Where KO goes, chaos is apt to follow. Not that KO is not a good egg. She’s the best there is, but she ought to come with a hazard warning taped to her bottom.

So, thus it was that another mundane chinwag with the aforementioned blessed damosel triggered a rather bizarre experiment of sorts. Well, the International Man of Mystery had a lot to do with it as well (I said I would give credit where it is due, didn’t I?)

At the end of a 30-minute conversation with KO, I had been sufficiently egged on to send out a simple text message saying “Knock! Knock!” to a random lot of people from my phone book. Within seconds, minutes and an hour, I had my various responses:

"Who’s there?" - 60%

"Howdy dudee" and other forms of greeting - 20%

"How you doing?" (Including details of how the respondent was doing and where they were doing it at) - 10%

Promises to call soon (and reasons as to why they could not talk at the moment) - 10%

Variations in spelling of “who’s/who is” - 30%

I must add here that KO refuses to let me lecture here on the right spelling and grammar citing the “flexibility of text messaging language”.

When no response was received to the “Who’s there?”, 50% of the target group followed up. Apparently, (as Pest ranted on about), it is sacrilege to not carry a knock-knock joke forward once one has set it in motion.

The more colourful follow-ups included 10% cussing with a “Wtf?!” and another 10% suggesting that perhaps I had sent the text message to a wrong number?

30% of my target group tried calling me to no avail, while 10% texted me asking if I was all right.

The aforementioned Wtf-ers also suffered a breakdown of their vehicles within seconds of cursing me. If you spotted a crazed man, who has allowed prosperity - and a lot of it- go to his waist, herding vehicles away from his stranded car last night, that was the Pest.

Terror #1, who must learn to stay off the sauce, sent a follow-up which read, “Nobody here said the man who isn't there”.

Our (foregone) conclusion? I am in touch with all the right people. I dare say that if I had used people from the Chicken Shit series and other vile beings (black)listed on my phone, the results would have been different.

My thanks to the following people (in no particular order):
- My unsuspecting target group - For the 100% entertainment you provided.
- International Man of Mystery - For inspiring the chain of events with your “timely” response, which took all of five hours.
- KO - For inciting chaos as usual.

To all those who now want to hunt me down and kill me: Why knock when you can ring?

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The things I have to do for friends and the things friends make me do just because I have a blog!

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