My girlfriend’s obsession with my calorie intake has gotten to point where she refuses to even let me lick maple syrup off of her. I’ve tried reasoning with her but she screams, “Stop doing that!” Every single time.
She then says things like, “Who the hell are you and why do you keep breaking into my apartment every night with a hot cup of maple syrup?” but I think that’s kind of cute.
Between applying to graduate school and finishing up my undergraduate thesis, I’m pretty sure I wont be doing much writing in the near future.
Recently though, there was a caption contest over at the football blog. I happened to participate and ended up winning some miscellaneous swag. Here’s the picture, and the caption follows.
Theo: I’m pretty sure that bone isn’t broken Robin, so what’s with all the horse placenta in your pants?
Context here.
I recently overheard something very strange at the cafeteria.
I might look like a cruel, heartless bastard on the outside, but I just want you to know that inside of me is a sweet little kid … who I ate just this morning.
Wait. Like the rest of you wheelin’ dealin’ human bein’s readin’ this, I realize that something about that last sentence feels horribly wrong. Let me try again.
I might look like a cruel, heartless bastard on the outside, but I just want you to know that inside of me is a sweet little kid … whom I ate just this morning.
Oh My God! I love you!
- Overheard at a Hannah Montana concert.
Is the proof that love,
‘s not only blind but deaf.- The Arctic Monkeys, who clearly know their shit.
“Our squad for 2010-11 will also feature Ross Turnbull, Ashley Cole, Frank Lampard, John Terry as part of our contingent of home-grown players. However, as we are still four short of the mandatory quota of eight, we have supplemented our squad, after a rigorous round of trials, with four more members; the finest products of…. my very own garden, Cabbage, Mango, Jackfruit and Eggplant.
“Not exactly players in the strictest sense of the word, but most definitely home-grown,” announced Ancelotti today whilst nibbling on a carrot that had apparently failed to make the cut.
“While Cabbage and Mango are undoubtedly healthy additions to the club, we have pulled off something of a coup with young Jackfruit here. As you can see, this solidly built jackfruit is clearly well equipped to deal with the rigors of the English game. Like all other members of the artocarpus family, and like most English defenders, Jackfruit is hard on the outside and soft on the inside. Consequently, not only will he break many legs, but will also appear deeply apologetic and guilt-ridden in the aftermath.
“At just 21 years old, Jackfruit shows all the signs of maturing into a peach of a player,” opined Ancelotti, beaming, clearly unaware that the peach does not feature in the jackfruit’s life cycle. Carlo however failed to mention that at just 21 years of age, Jackfruit had also started showing all the signs of decomposition. Whether Jackfruit will live up to the gaffer’s expectations, only time, and temperature, will tell.
He walked into the train station with a look upon his face that was part satisfaction, part disgust, not unlike someone who has just pulled a large ball of wax out of one’s ear. “One ticket to the lake,” he requested as the voices in his head waxed eloquent about wax-free ears. His thoughts were however, rudely interrupted by a shoe.
And the long slender leg, which was forcefully propelling said shoe towards his head.
“Die, you bald, Polish pig!” he heard her scream as her patent leather stilettos repeatedly made fresh acquaintance with his face. “Stop!” he cried, “I am not a bald, Polish pig.” His voice was shrill with the surprise; one would have after all, never expected to raise that exact protest when consuming that morning’s cuppa; but it was also unwavering and vehement; rooted in the confidence that can only come from knowing that that one is not bald, not Polish and most definitely not a pig.
She stopped.
“Um, sorry, thought you were someone else, actually,” she said, extracting her left heel out of his bloodied eye-socket, and gingerly reached out to wipe away some bone marrow that was attempting to make a dash for freedom.
The second her hand-made hand made contact with his face, he felt something electric and ephemeral. The spark of true love? The jolt from one of those handshake-buzzer thingamajigs that was strapped to her palm? We will never know. But whatever it was, it did nothing to stop him from bursting into verse, compensating for a non-existent rhyme scheme with one twinkling eye and unbridled enthusiasm.
They told me all roads lead to Rome.
Um, your shoes made my eye sockets foam?
But you won my heart with kung fu thunder,
And your, erm, quirky mannerisms.
Yet my sightless eye can’t help but wonder,
Do all loads read to spoonerisms?
She giggled. She had always been fond of doggerel. They went out for lunch.
Imagine a man, bare knuckled and lusciously bearded, living in a forest, and beating up palm trees with the sheer force of will. While his mind is still sharp and his toes are still stubby, the many years of sedentary existence have left him badly out of shape, so much so that people who try to relate by walking a mile in his shoes are inevitably left short of breath.
One fine day, somebody calls him and suggests that it would be a great idea to walk across the desert to an oasis to get some water. Despite him not exactly wanting to see an oasis, despite the sheer craziness of walking across the desert to get to water, and despite the damned well in his own backyard, the man agrees; for he loves this person very much. He sets off in his trusty hiking boots and his trusty, but by now, somewhat tight, hiking shorts.
When he arrives, a perilous journey behind him, he frowns at the sight of a crowd the size of a small country, queued up as civilized people tend to, all waiting for their turn at the oasis. While he started out as fresh as a baby’s bottom in diaper advert, the journey has wearied him and right now, water actually seems like the best thing since sliced bread. And speaking of sliced bread, he has also grown hungry. But he waits in line with the rest of them. And then finally he is there, at the front of the queue, in a gold-leaf adorned chamber, finally at the watering-hole he has traveled so far to see.
Now imagine his utter fucking dismay, when the only water in sight is a muddy little puddle at the bottom a suspicious looking wishing-well; and before he can even get a good look at the water, much less slurp at it greedily, he is asked by a couple of burly, tonsured men to bugger off. And on top of all that, not even a sight of the promised (free) Laddu.
Dear Dabur,
Either start making strawberry flavored Odomos mosquito repellent or stop putting it in tubes that look exceedingly like Pepsodent tooth paste.
Thanks,
My mouth.
Dear Dude Who Built The Toilet,
While most people will look at a hundred meter passage to the nearest toilet as an inconvenience, I personally think that I could do with the exercise; it is perfect for those long romantic hundred meter sprints at night, especially when that all-you-can-eat buffet makes its long overdue booty-call.
Son, you’re complaining to the wrong man. I can shit anywhere, anytime. It’s one of my finer qualities. Some might say my finest.
What lies at the end of this hundred meter passage though, keeps me up at night. Dad tells me that life is all about tough choices and at the end of this passage is one of the toughest choices any man, including Dad, especially after a heavy meal at Rajdhani, might ever have to make.
Even once the choice has been made, it makes me wonder as a vegetarian if the grass is greener, or at least better decomposed on the other side. While it is quite conceivable that this is an attempt to initiate an Indo-European cultural exchange, this is just another case of too many cooks spoiling the bath.
What struck me instantly was the violation of every single principle in Alfred Hitchcock’s famous work on Vaastu Shaastra, North by Northwest and a Fire Place in the Southeast Corner. In an attempt to understand the swirling whirlpool of bad karma emanating from my bathroom, I decided to get some expert opinion. As there were no Chinese Feng-Shui experts in the vicinity, the man selling illegal Chinese imports down the street would have to do.
So I got my Chinese on, met the man, and after finally convincing him that I did not have a kidney stone, and no, I did not need a laughing Buddha doll to increase my sexual drive, he agreed to look at the above picture and once he did, he concluded that the room’s yin and yang were not in balance, or in his own words, “Yin Yang, Bang Bang”. He added that the only solution was to improve the flow of Chi, which he promised could be done by buying a laughing Buddha doll.
Is all choice necessarily good? Is variety really the spice of life?
Confused, and slightly,
Constipated.
