Wednesday 31 July 2013

The Apotheosis of Tushar Kapoor

This post is what I think 'randomzzzz 4' facebook albums should be made of. You know, the kind that are about 'collage lyf' and 'mah besties <3 XOXO' (an emoticon that is acutely like a one-dimensional game of noughts and crosses. and since when does an X look like a hug.) As a clear forewarning it has nothing to do with Tushar Kapoor, which takes the grand total of people disappointed to 1 (his mum).

So the previous post was about gender sensitivity and this is an agglomeration of things that pop in and out of my head. For starters, a pure unadulterated hate of Katrina Kaif. Her extreme provocation leads to commodification of women while she, in blissful ignorance, continues  to  whilstfully jalao beedi chillums with the teeli of husn as the national bird of America (read: Sanjay Dutt) tries to find an expression that isn't a  2 parts remorse and 2 parts heroin with a dash of bomb blast (yeah, no subtlety there). Her fans counter this hate with astute argumentation from a metaphysical standpoint of 'kya raapchik maal hai yaar', but even that is baseless. Every time she emerges from the sea, shakes head and droplets fall on champu looking guy, a part of me dies, for she isnt even pretty. Yes, there, I said it. She's just white. Take a moment to mentally darken her (not blacken, because Race issues, and Saif Ali Khan doesn't like that) and there is nothing left swoon over, expect for her blatant disrespect for the Hindi language.

Even though its free, I can't spend time and space on that waste of cells import. So lets talk about how ugly Ashish Nehra is. He looks like Chewbacca shagged Sharad Powar (try, try as much as you want, but that image is going nowhere. btw, powar's the taker). And he bowls like an R.K. Puram kid with Down's syndrome. Or one that didn't clear JEE, whichever's worse.

Telangana  happened, giving Punjabis more states to call 'Madras'. That last sentence was a vague attempt to direct this post somewhere reasonable. England is still facing its weird speaking criminals to fight for an urn. And that too in a sport 12 countries care a monkey nut about. That didn't even need exaggeration. Some Kate chick gave birth, and they named the baby 'Pippa's Arse'.


Friday 19 July 2013

Mere Baap Ki Accord

Gender is an issue in delhi. Even Stevie Wonder can see that (no, that is not race fuelled humour, the bigotry is in your head). Lets be constructive here, there isnt a point in blaming, raging and fuming. Nobody but Sushil Kumar Shinde has brought about any positivity with a solution. his miraculous idea of improving the auto system, which fell through due to 'resources' or the opposition, whichever one the public is more mad at, shows the intricacy with which the Home Minister understands domestic issues. But, enough of fuming and name calling ,lets deal with this head on.

How do we stop perversion from terrorizing women. My solution is going to seem a bit quirky, but lets give it a shot.

Step 1: Buy 10 Maruti Swifts. The colour of a Rajouri garden hosuewife's nail paint. Make Rohit Bal design the insides like the accompaniment to music by DJ psych-a-funk (or whatever these turntable wasters call themselves nowadays)

Step 2: Hire 50 bulky men to pretend to be homosexuals. If they naturally are then, your work is done. Dress them up in snazzy pink t-shirts with 'Drag Queen' or something written across their chests. They should be the kind that look like they gave their Cerebrums (cerebra, anyone?) as deposits to Gold's Gym.

Step 3: Put the men in the cars, with music from B-grade bollywood movies, ideally item songs and make them roam the streets of Delhi at night, randomly friskly, inappropriately touching and partially sexually harassing 'rapey-looking' men.

The results are simple. Men with a propensity to rape (read:Delhi men) are going to have their souls contorted and slef-esteem decimated by incidents where they have been fooled around with by a guy, because if there is anything that Delhi Men are more scared of than the moral abomination that is gender equality, it is the unnatural phenomenon that is homosexuality. The imprint of a pink-clad bulky man making you 'his bitch' is going to prevent potential rapists from ever leaving their houses, let alone think of violating anyone else's bodily autonomy. Moreover, the crass item song will make them associate their pains with Bollywood music, making them unwilling to salivate at the hyper-sexualisation of women.

If nothing else, this move exonerates chowmein, mini-skirts, alcohol and the night time.


Monday 15 July 2013

Suit Up

Brace yourselves (a phrase, so irrevocably tied to the image of some fancily dressed chappie holding a sword, thanks to the internet phenomenon that is the 'meme') for a barrage of 'OMG ILY Harvey and blah!' statuses from duckfaces on facebook. Im guilty as charged, in that I actually know what this TV show is, and have spent a while swooning over its female cast, so these updates are going to be more intelligible than the pick 'red wedding' or 'blue wedding' drama (ah, the pleasure of offending both GoT and Matrix fans in one sentence, if only I could add live long and prosper to it). Suits was quite a breath of fresh air, with a more menacing and rancid taste of what legalities and jurisprudence are all about. There was enough sass and razzmatazz (words that start to rhyme after 3 espressos) for an Indian wedding and twists like a DNA molecule (a joke for the biochemist).

It returns to grace our screens from sidereel and onechannel (because who's gonig to pay for a TV license or bother to do things the right way round, esp. after seeing the first two seasons of aforesaid show) as of the 16th of July. Although the second leg of season 2 was a brilliant concoction of how, not only the protagonist, but the entire organisation dealt with suffering and attacks, it really, quite frankly boiled down to a case of how moronic can a guy be to get laid. No spoilers for those who haven't seen it (yes, I'm talking to the two of you playing space invaders 3000 X), but it really had the messiest of endings. Im going to confess, I understood precious little of the finale and was far too exhausted to find the ability to give a toss and rerun the episode, but from what I've gathered, it just seems like a vague attempt to allow for any possible turn in the storyline come the following season.

So here go some guesses. harvey may get married, Donna might leave, Mike and Rachel start dating again and split up again (what's with that name Rachel), and the firm gets overshadowed by their British buyers.
Now the logical flow for the above is, I got shit-knuckled bored and wrote the first words that popped into my head. All said and done, minor critiques aside, this return will be swashbuckling (I love that word, for no particular reason). If my predictions don't come true, then you can 'FML LMAO Harvey 2cute 4lyf <3' me. 

Deck the Halls

'Twas a stroke of genius to see blades of grass and decide to make a racquet sport on it. Somebody went 'twack', and then got a 'thwoop' back (that is somewhere between actual racquet-ball contact noises, and the thing that video games in the '90's passed for a forehand). And then everyone applaud the guy with the hardest 'thwoop' (the innuendo's all in your head) or the quirkiest 'thwunk' and Wimbledon was born. That and vaguely high levels of posh-ness in South West London, garnished with a neglect for croquet (even AELTC has dropped croquet from its intials, so it has about as much of a point as a deranged right wing news anchor).

Alas, it all boiled to nothing, for when you add British expectation to  British tennis, it just means a waste of newspaper space in the Daily Mail that should go to immigrant bashing or house price furores. Its a perfect formula of lets take a system that produces one guy who knows which side of a racquet to hold and weigh him down with history and the absence of glory. And imagine how hard it is when the guy is Tim Henman, who injured a ball girl for beating him in straight sets (that might just as well have been the cause).

So right, back to the point (or lack thereof). This Wimbledon hoorah has to stop. One must realise that there is no lesser or greater feat that Murray achieved this year than what Djokovic, Federer and Nadal have done in the past. Quite simply, its another match well won, and thats about it. So while he did have the hopes of a nation and had more mental preparedness than Novak who only wanted to mock Maria Sharapova and other Russian who wouldn't Djok him (and thats how we make bad Serbian puns), he did essentially no more or less than win 7 matches, and a total of 21 sets, or as FedEx calls it, streak against Hewitt.

This Wimbledon should be remembered for its plethora of giant killing. Darcis beat Nadal, Stakhovsky-Fed and Lisicki beat one of the Williams brothers. I did wait till all the celebration simmered down so that this didnt look like an antagonistic hipster piece, but now it just looks like a pointless wallow. Or as Tim Henman called it, the first. set.  

Intro



So while google really really wants to take over the world, it does give a decent number of free platforms for expression and what not that seem all cogent with ideal of democracy. This blog is just a cohesion of my willingness to write about anything and everything, because articulating ideas and emotions through is better that just going "duh! pssstang blurggh", and extreme homesickness that made me want to exploit whatever is free (seriously, I get horribly distracted by those big signed in shining neon lights that give off anything and everything for discounted rates, except maybe petrol).

The intro will be simple. I just want to get a point across. Doesn't have to be the wittiest or the cleverest (still not sure that's a word, irony anyone??), just a point on some pressing issue. The acquittal of George Zimmerman, Indian elections, cricket, your mum (freudian slip) or debasing intellectual humour. Watch this space for your periodic dose of something to make you think and then hopefully laugh.