Mind of a married man

Much has been said about the way women are at the receiving end of the practice, the mangalasutra and the toe-ring in India, the ring in the West, so on and so forth. But there is one thing that a man has to endure, nay fight, during that one excruciating ordeal which goes by the name of the Reception Party, which, in my opinion, more than makes up for these trifles that women rights organisations keep haggling about day in and day out...

In order to make the case of men fair and clear, let me take you through what an average man has to endure during the RP. It all starts with the groom being made to wear ridiculous formal clothes, which he loathes, as opposed to the bride, who, as I have garnered from reliable sources rather relishes appearing like a bedecked perennially smiling mannequin. This is followed by a seemingly innocuous procession of relatives and friends. Our man, horny and on the verge of what he believes is his biggest achievement till date, is impatient. "Oh well", he says. "Few more hours", he repeats...

Then, without any prior notice, on come the Giggling Army. I don't know whether it is a prerequisite, but invariably, the army features at least one woman who is both better looking and better endowed than the poor man's wife. If you have ever wondered what that whatiz-name-who-was-stuck-in-water-with-a-tantalising-rope-he-could-never-reach had to endure, walk in when this our man faces this ordeal. He smiles because he has to, but not at the face of course. He extends his hand to be shaken, but miraculously he misses their hands. Ah! the pain. "Why?", he asks. The answer evades him. But flinch, he does not.

Take a bow! Oh average horny man! May I request you to observe a moment of respectful silence towards the stereotype that is the Average Horny Man.

Lemon Warfare

Q1: What is the most potent weapon when your adversary is your neighbour and is off guard?
A: A Lemon, preferably injected with some vermilion water, embellished with arbitrary chants and cut into two.

Q2: How is the weapon employed?
A: One way is to generally throw it on the houses of the neighbours when they are asleep. The most important part of this process follows. Which is wait until your neighbours get run over by an African elephant making out with a Mexican Chihuahua, or wait until they become Walrus fodder, or just wait until a nuclear bomb destined to Pluto loses way and ends up in the commode of your adversary.

Q3: How did I come upon this ingenious and marvellous idea?
A: My neighbours employed this rather powerful weapon upon us. Now I am worried and shit scared whenever I get out of home. Especially when I go to office. Who knows? A lurking gay Yeti might just spring out of the Bangalore City Corporation building and decide to molest me....

Somebody help me!

PS: Forgot to say, is the Indian Army listening???

RAC

Well, I screwed up again. As I have done time and time again. And again.

But this time even I did not see it coming. I wish to His Highness Abdullah that I had, but I did not. Well, anyway...

This is what happened:

XXX: RAC?
(03:13:16 IST) Quark: confirm aaytO
(03:13:17 IST) XXX: reservation against cancellation?
(03:13:20 IST) Quark: hoon
(03:13:28 IST) Quark: nindadE caseu (Your case is that only)
(03:13:39 IST) XXX: eh?
(03:13:50 IST) Quark: hoon YYY Cancel neen Reserveu
(03:14:16 IST) Quark: sari yaake ballsu?
(03:14:32 IST) XXX: shut the fuck up
(03:14:42 IST) Quark: who let the dogs out?
(03:14:58 IST) XXX: T muchkonD hOg
(03:14:59 IST) Quark: sari urkObEDa
(03:15:02 IST) Quark: sorry and all
(03:15:26 IST) XXX has signed off.

Read the goddamned post.

Normally my weekdays begin with the following series of significant activities:

1) Wake up at 7 am
2) Brush, wash up etc etc
3) Read the newspaper
3) Have breakfast
4) Leave for office by 8:30 or 9 am.

This Tuesday was different.

It began as follows
1) I woke up at 7:30 am
2) I brushed, washed up etc (I am not Servo, you see).
3) Read the newspaper
4) Had a brainwave
5) I was on top of the world

You see, yesterday I had been treated to an amazing run chase (for those of you morons (read Americans), who did not quite get how you chase runs, go read about cricket, the game, not the insect) in the New Zealand v/s Australia Commonwealth series cricket match. NZ came close, but, as it always happens with the Aussies, they lost, not miserably this time though. But yeah, the fact remains, the goddamned Aussies won again.

Of late, every cricketing nation knows the one thing that they should not do if it wants to win the cricket match is playing against the Aussies. As a connoisseur of Cricket (the game again, you losers), I intend to change that, and I have to profusely thank Miss Shilpa Shetty, The Secular British Media, The Times of India, All the Bachchans and Miss Aishwarya Rai, soon to be Mrs Aishwarya Bachchan for the same. Here is the masterplan.

Take 11 Shilpa Shettys and replace the Indian cricket team with this ensemble. But before playing the mighty Aussies, the team must definitely visit the Kashi Vishvanath temple, the Vindhyavasini temple, The Temple of the King and The Temple of the What Not. Apply some sindoor at a 32 degree angle and spark off some marriage rumours. Publish all this in the front page of the newspaper. And yeah, the winner is quite obviously decided by popular vote.

Now that all our tools have been assembled, we have to do but one thing. Cry, and cry hard. If Glenn McGrath bowls you over, cry hard and accuse him of racism. If Ponting smashes you for a six, cry hard. And then, amidst those (crocodile) tears, accuse them of racism.

Either the Aussies will lose the match out of disgust, or they will be deluged by the tears. Either way, we win.