The Multiple Worgasm

I love words. It is as simple as that. Words have been a passion, a refuge, an icebreaker, a relationship maker, a relationship breaker, a reputation creator and wrecker, a way to wheedle my way through life. I take to words in every form; be it a book, a blog, the back of a toothpaste tube, the back of an autorickshaw, rude graffiti on the door of a public toilet or even a well-spoken person.

There are the word bores and the word whores. I loathe them and love them, respectively.

Then there’s that lot of people who automatically assume that if they throw a whole lot of pseudo-intellectual psycho babble at me, it’s going to open doors… in more ways than one. NF, the pompous so-n-so from oh-so-many years ago, springs to mind. He waxed on about the umbra and penumbra of the moon in some kind of poetic verse, oblivious to the fact that my eyes had rolled back into my head. He didn’t even stop when I began to gnaw my way through the plaster on the wall in a desperate bid to get away (or at least imbibe some turpentine to ease the pain). He didn’t even stop when I had left. He probably noticed my empty seat three hours later when a bit of wall plaster fell into his eye and blocked his view of the blasted penumbra or whatever.

“You should find out whether a guy reads PG Wodehouse first before anything else, “ advised Terror #1 as I stifled a guffaw and decided I’d give the young fellow, still green behind the ears et al, a patient listen – if only to humour him.

A few days later, whilst KO, BC and I satisfied a craving for gelato and froyo, we spied a chap seated alone at a neighbouring table reading – you guessed right – PG Wodehouse. KO, who is always ready to pimp her friends out just so that she can have her cheap entertainment (what with the price of movie tickets in this city), began goading me. “Go on,” she whispered with her trademark evil gleam in the eye. I actually considered it for a second.

“KO,” I said pensively, rolling a bit of froyo around in my mouth, taking in the young fella’s ill-fitting beige-and-brown checked bermudas, bright green t-shirt with something that looked suspiciously like Tweety on crack printed on it under a lint-infested cardigan.

“Yes, child?”

“He is terribly chappal-party,” I said, uncharacteristically resorting to a more vulgar vernacular expression as words had suddenly failed me.

For there, peering cheekily at us from under the table, were his horrendous pair of leather flip-flops. You know. The kind that men here seem to embrace with great enthusiasm when they turn 50. Replete with that gargantuan ring custom-made for a gorilla’s big toe.

So much for Wodehouse.

If you’re thinking, “Gee! Judgmental b*!@#”, you’re probably right. But is there any other way to be?

However, Krazy Frog probably described best how I take to words. Although I must caution here that Krazy Frog is terribly prone to exaggeration. He needs to learn to put that bottle of Black Dog down at some point.

I yammered on excitedly about a word someone, who may or may not have caught my fancy, had used. A word long since forgotten by a world that thinks “awesome” and “kewlness” are the only words one needs to know to get by.

“Oh, my god! He used the word ********. Who even uses that nowadays?” I gushed. “Hmm,” said KF, before adding, “You know what?”

“What?”

“A man does not have to physically pleasure you. All he has to do is keep throwing fancy words at you and you’re done.”

And that, folks, is a “worgasm”.

Who Stole the Cupcake from the Cupcake Tray?

That's Noddy, my one-year-old Dobidor (or Laberman). I thought he was pretty useless (but lovable). I am now beginning to realise he just might have some great acting potential. This is what I achieved using a dog treat, a camera and a tray of freshly baked cupcakes.

How to Lose a Girl in 10 Seconds

1.Fart in the middle of that soulful dialogue about her beautiful eyes on a quiet, moonlit evening on the beach. Such sound effects are sure to break up the mood.

2.Dribble while chewing your food open-mouthed. She probably has a dog back home who does the same thing - but then, he still gets to share her bed at night because he looks cuter even while slobbering all over the floor.

3.Pick up the bill at the restaurant and then pass it over to her as soon as she offers to pay or split it - without even the semblance of an argument or something about going dutch. Pick your nose before doing this. Worse, DRIFT (Dig, Roll, Inspect, Flick, Taste)

4.Ride your fancy motorcycle in a stance not unlike a woman giving birth.

5.Stare at her cleavage. When confronted about it, tell her you were just admiring her dolphin pendant (which was actually a flower, but then, who can really tell the difference, eh?) or worse, say, “Tell your b**bs to stop staring at my eyes”.

6.Borrow money from her on your first date. Never return it or say a word about it - even on the off-chance there might be a third or fourth date.

7.Confess that you really cannot remember her name from the previous slightly drunken night when you asked her for her number at the club.

8.Unload on her the heart-breaking story about your ex-girlfriend who was an absolute b!*&# because she wouldn’t put out.

9.On your very first date, suggest names for the several children you plan on having with her.

10.Share with her material on your as-yet unwritten book titled “A Million Lovable Facts About My Mom”.

With creative inputs from Terror #1 (especially on points 3 and 5) as well as others, who wish to remain anonymous for fear of winning the ongoing “Who Dated The Biggest Dingleberry” competition.


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

Gosh, I can be gauche!

A lot can happen over coffee. Hell, yes. Like horrific self-realisations about how gauche I can be, even if only fleetingly so.

KO and I seated ourselves down for coffee and a quick bite in the middle of our mammoth shopping trip. We cooed with delight, noticing the bottles of hand sanitizer on each table. Since we’re both rather finicky about it - we carry our own sanitizers everywhere (KO sometimes showers with it) - we thought it was one of the best things to happen to coffee chains since umm… well, since the introduction of those tasteless chocolate doughnuts.

We placed our orders. Two energy drinks, rather dubiously named “XXX”, a samosa for KO and a chilli puff pastry for yours truly. Not so difficult to remember now, is it? However, it appeared that both the staff and I had left our brains back home that afternoon. Our waitress came over twice to reconfirm our order - and that proved once too many times for a feeble-minded flake like me apparently. I completely forgot about what I had ordered.

Our drinks and a plate with two samosas were placed on the table. The dubious drinks had nothing else on them except for “XXX” - we had to figure out for ourselves which one was grape and which was wild berry. KO’s tasted suspiciously like tobacco. We were right. The fineprint said the drink was a substitute for nicotine. The irony? Both KO and I are non-smokers. One sip and I felt like I was sucking on an empty carton of Gold Flake Lights. Sick.

“Mmm-hmm”, said KO, gesturing toward the plate of samosas. “How strange”, I thought while helping myself to one, “Why can’t these people place the samosas on individual plates for each of us?” Yes, I was having one of my blonde moments and had begun to believe that I had ordered a samosa as well.

I wolfed it down, still blissfully unaware that it wasn’t my order in the first place. I was too busy swapping tales of dodgy dreams. After I’d gulped down the last crumb, KO very matter-of-factly asks, “Hey, hasn’t your order come as yet?”

The horror of what I had done descended upon me. I had just gobbled up KO’s food. Without batting an eyelid. Unapologetically. Unthinkingly. “Oh, my God! KO, I ate your samosa!” I howled loudly, oblivious to the attention the rather dramatic response was drawing from other patrons. “No, no, it is quite all right. I was not going to eat the second samosa anyway”, KO said magnanimously.

I felt my cheeks burning with shame. “I am so sorry!” I lapsed into silence mulling my terrible social faux pas. How could I have been so obtuse and unaware? Then the second wave of horror struck - as KO chuckled at my beetroot-red face.

-KO?
-Yes, child?
-What if this had been a date?

O.M.G. It could happen. I am now watching myself...very, very carefully.

Veni, Vidi, Visa

It is that time of year again. Indulgence. That is the key word and what better way to kick things off than with some hard-core retail therapy?

Armed with cash, cards, cheery smiles and a mental must-buy list, KO and I shopped our way through dozens of stores across the city this weekend.

My planned list comprised of jeans and dresses. Shoes? Definitely not. Although I would have loved to add more to my burgeoning shoe rack, which would give Imelda Marcos a hard run for her money, I simply do not have the space for anything more (despite having recently given away over 30 pairs – that is how dire the situation is). So unless someone could point me in the direction of a nice delicate pair of white or off-white stilettos, footwear was strictly off my shopping list.

Just jeans and dresses. That was the plan. And what did I end up with? Well, three pairs of jeans, a pair of capris, a wee denim skirt, two tops, de-stressing aromatherapy products, dozens of junk accessories - including earrings, bracelets, necklaces, finger rings - a maroon clutch, tiny terracotta artefacts for the house, a wall plaque with a nasty message for Bin and a hot pink rubber cow that flashes like a strobe light when you shake it.

Not bad. I didn’t veer that much off my planned course now, did I? Also, on the positive side, I haven’t changed my mind about any of my purchases. Yes, not even about that pink flashy cow.

On the downside, the dresses were disappointing. I almost found something I liked. However, one look at myself in the trial room mirror (subjecting KO to a horrific preview as well) and I couldn’t get out of the little black number fast enough. The dress screamed “Forget the drinks, dinner and gripping conversation; let’s move this to the bedroom right away – and oh, keep the money on the night stand”. Yep, prudently discarded that.

KO fared almost as well. With just jeans on her agenda, she ended up with two pairs of jeans, capris, a bunch of handbags - including one gigantic enough to house a healthy Shetland pony - aromatherapy products, clutches and junk jewellery. Of course, KO decided that she would also shop for our Christmas presents and kept barking at me to stay away from certain sections of the store. After she’d bellowed at me a couple of times, I was forced to feign interest in a pink pig table lamp that lit up when its nose was jabbed just to kill time until she had finished shopping for our presents. Oh, the wretched indignity of it all.

Six hours, aching feet, bulging shopping bags and considerably lighter wallets later, we joined BC to bask in the refreshingly tangy iciness of kiwi frozen yoghurt, pleased as punch with our fruitful shopping binge.

As Swoosie Kurtz said, “Veni, vidi, visa”.