It is true, Bhikku. Marriages ARE made in Heaven. It's only later that they come crashing down to earth.
-- The Diary, September 529 BC
When young men of a certain age meet, the conversation inevitably turns to marriage. And so it happened when comrades K, R1, R2 and S visited your humble correspondent last spring. The natural candidate to lead such a discussion would have been the extremely kadalacious Comrade S, who is constantly in touch with (oh, grow up. you know what I mean) thousands of Girls. However, he referred to some of them as "friends", and that automatically disqualified him on grounds of abnormality.
The mantle, then, fell to me. Admittedly, I am no Cassanova, but I do wish the receptionist "Good Morning" everyday. I don't like to brag, but she always responds. Little does she suspect that I am one to wish and tell. Naturally, comrades K, R1 and R2 considered me something of an expert on Marriage, Sex, Girls and Women. I manfully shouldered the burden, and proceeded to analyze each man's expectations.
It emerged that Comrade K wasn't yet sure whether he was a boy or a girl; and Comrade R1 was sure that he was neither. That left us with Comrade R2, a hormone-filled Hamlet if ever there was one, a deadly mixture of desire and doubt. We asked him what he wanted in a wife. "She and I should have similar tastes" quoth he. In general, this is a noble if silly expectation, but in this case it was particularly tragic, for Comrade R2 had never betrayed signs of any kind of taste. We tried to make him snap out of it and focus on specific realistic goals.
"How educated do you want your wife to be?"
"What do you mean? Oh, you mean she can read, write and all that? Hey, that'll be cool."
"Hmm! OK, what about money?"
"I don't want dowry, if that's what you mean. As long as she'll inherit a lot of cash after her father dies."
"Well, if she's that rich, she might be materialistic. Are you OK with that?"
"You mean she'll want to buy stuff? Well, electronics stuff is OK. I like electronics stuff."
"Dude! Exactly how independent do you want your wife to be?"
"Huh?"
"Meaning if she disagrees with you, how assertive do you want her to be?"
He seemed shocked. "What? She'll disagree with me?"
At this point, feminists and other Phoolan Devi types (meaning you, dear cousin D~) might scream in protest. They are missing the point. The point is not that Comrade R2 treats women badly. The point is that he treats them no differently from men. The nub of the matter is that comrade R2 just doesn't dodebates. If you are bigger than him, he will not disagree with you. If you are smaller than him, he will not let you disagree with him. Comrade R2, I've always said, would have been a great apostle of non-violence, if only Arnold Schwarzenegger, and not that wimp Gandhi, had advocated it. But I digress.
As leader, it was my task to guide this child of Nature-red-in-tooth-and-claw. I conjured up an image of the woman he wanted, and compared it with all my two female acquaintances. My spine turned cold. I had a problem, a *Very* *Big* *Problem*.
Like all pious men, I immediately turned to God. And soon enough, I came up against Free Will. The trouble, you see, is that God is a bit like Peanut Butter, which can be crunchy, extra crunchy, mildly cruncy, creamy or extra creamy. In short, there are myriad types of God, and one's never sure which type is good for one. Faced with such a dilemma, most people would have drowned their sorrows in either alcohol or Art of Living. Not I. I am, as I have remarked many a time, a man of Faith, Reason and Determination. I duly applied the Scientific Method. My aim was to get R2 married off, and I knew that marriages are made in Heaven. The thing to do was to find the God that goes with the best Heaven, and apply to Him for help.
Resolved thus, I surveyed anew the list of available Gods and matching religions.
First up were the foremost flowers of ancient Brownistan: Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism. I studied these. I found, for instance, that Hinduism's Deepest Truth is Tat Tvam Asi, which a knowledgable native translated as You Are That. I was discouraged. When the Deepest Truth of a religion sounds like one's five-year-old niece fighting with her sister, one suspects something is amiss. But I persevered. I learned that the foremost Hindu Gods, Rama and Krishna, lived in Uttar Pradesh and Gujarat respectively. And I learned that they were just two among 330 million Hindu Gods. I blanched. As Bill would put it, my knotted and combined locks parted and each particular hair stood on end. Hindu Swarga, I realized, was just a fancy term for Bihar. Promptly, I crossed these religions off my list, and swore never more to break bread with Hindus, Buddhists and other kinds of cattle.
Disheartened, I turned to the West. It held more promise for my purpose. After all, Christianity started because Adam and Eve did it, in spite of God. Further, a culture that uses nudity to advertise pasta is a culture that knows the value of pleasure. (I jest not. Europe is full of such ads. A walk along the Champs Elysees is in itself a complete course in sex education.) I had hit paydirt, or so I foolishy thought. I was wrong. Firstly, there was the small matter that Christian Heaven is rather dull. From what I could gather, one just hangs around and sups with the virtuous on the right hand side of God, because of course, the left hand is corrupted by contact with chi-chi. Further, I realized that black people just will not settle for R2, because they think brown people aren't cool enough for them (and God-damn-it, they are right, the racist bastards.) That still left whites. Now white women, if they are not models, are hideous and huge. And if they are models, they are so much silicon that one might just as well love an IC instead. At any rate, white people have sex by the time they are potty-trained, and that just won't do. R2, like all brown men, insists on having produce fresh from the farm, if you get my drift.
And that brought me, finally, to brown people of the second kind: the children of Allah. Now I was in business. After all, the most alluring beauties that ever have fired up lust in the loins of a lascivious lad, have all invariably been members of the Ummah. And Islamic Heaven absolutely rocks, for it is written that in Jannat, each man shall have no less than seventy-eight, yup LXXVIII, hour-il-ein. (Hour-il-ein is the Urdu term for "Oh mamma" and connotes the ravishing virgins, note virgins, of Paradise.) Allah, I realized, was just the God for our man R2.
There was, however, a catch. Being a brown man of the first kind, R2 obviously couldn't court Mussalman (or any other) women himself, and his folks would rather murder him than marry him off to a mleccha, leave alone setting up such a wedding. The alternative was for R2 to go to Jannat, and for this I could find but two ways--penance and a life of kindness and virtue, or blowing oneself up in a crowded bus. I presented the options to R2. Penance, he said, was out of the q. because it would interfere with his evening workout. And while blowing people up sounded cool, it involved concealed plastics which were a definite turn-off.
We were stuck. I was disconsolate, R2 was shattered.
Till last week.
Because last week I discovered that the Messiah is at hand. Aye. As the New York Times proudly informs its readers, Sheik Reda Shata of Brooklyn, New York, has taken it upon himself to unite the faithful in holy wedlock. And the fact that R2 is currently a kafir is no problemo. Sheikh Shata prefers to set up truebloods, but he's not one to stand on birth. If R2 would only pronounce Allah-uh-Akbar, his kufr will be forgotten, and Inshallah, he will attain the Kingdom of Heaven here on Earth. Admittedly, R2 will miss his 330 million Gods, but you'll agree it's a small price to pay for finding True Lust.
Bismilla-ar-Rahman-ar-Rahim.
PS: For the record, I made almost all of this up. R2 is a perfectly nice bloke. He's still single, but I daresay when his time comes, he'll give his wife all the love, respect and freedom she deserves. Provided she buys only "electronics stuff", of course.
-- The Diary, September 529 BC
When young men of a certain age meet, the conversation inevitably turns to marriage. And so it happened when comrades K, R1, R2 and S visited your humble correspondent last spring. The natural candidate to lead such a discussion would have been the extremely kadalacious Comrade S, who is constantly in touch with (oh, grow up. you know what I mean) thousands of Girls. However, he referred to some of them as "friends", and that automatically disqualified him on grounds of abnormality.
The mantle, then, fell to me. Admittedly, I am no Cassanova, but I do wish the receptionist "Good Morning" everyday. I don't like to brag, but she always responds. Little does she suspect that I am one to wish and tell. Naturally, comrades K, R1 and R2 considered me something of an expert on Marriage, Sex, Girls and Women. I manfully shouldered the burden, and proceeded to analyze each man's expectations.
It emerged that Comrade K wasn't yet sure whether he was a boy or a girl; and Comrade R1 was sure that he was neither. That left us with Comrade R2, a hormone-filled Hamlet if ever there was one, a deadly mixture of desire and doubt. We asked him what he wanted in a wife. "She and I should have similar tastes" quoth he. In general, this is a noble if silly expectation, but in this case it was particularly tragic, for Comrade R2 had never betrayed signs of any kind of taste. We tried to make him snap out of it and focus on specific realistic goals.
"How educated do you want your wife to be?"
"What do you mean? Oh, you mean she can read, write and all that? Hey, that'll be cool."
"Hmm! OK, what about money?"
"I don't want dowry, if that's what you mean. As long as she'll inherit a lot of cash after her father dies."
"Well, if she's that rich, she might be materialistic. Are you OK with that?"
"You mean she'll want to buy stuff? Well, electronics stuff is OK. I like electronics stuff."
"Dude! Exactly how independent do you want your wife to be?"
"Huh?"
"Meaning if she disagrees with you, how assertive do you want her to be?"
He seemed shocked. "What? She'll disagree with me?"
At this point, feminists and other Phoolan Devi types (meaning you, dear cousin D~) might scream in protest. They are missing the point. The point is not that Comrade R2 treats women badly. The point is that he treats them no differently from men. The nub of the matter is that comrade R2 just doesn't dodebates. If you are bigger than him, he will not disagree with you. If you are smaller than him, he will not let you disagree with him. Comrade R2, I've always said, would have been a great apostle of non-violence, if only Arnold Schwarzenegger, and not that wimp Gandhi, had advocated it. But I digress.
As leader, it was my task to guide this child of Nature-red-in-tooth-and-claw. I conjured up an image of the woman he wanted, and compared it with all my two female acquaintances. My spine turned cold. I had a problem, a *Very* *Big* *Problem*.
Like all pious men, I immediately turned to God. And soon enough, I came up against Free Will. The trouble, you see, is that God is a bit like Peanut Butter, which can be crunchy, extra crunchy, mildly cruncy, creamy or extra creamy. In short, there are myriad types of God, and one's never sure which type is good for one. Faced with such a dilemma, most people would have drowned their sorrows in either alcohol or Art of Living. Not I. I am, as I have remarked many a time, a man of Faith, Reason and Determination. I duly applied the Scientific Method. My aim was to get R2 married off, and I knew that marriages are made in Heaven. The thing to do was to find the God that goes with the best Heaven, and apply to Him for help.
Resolved thus, I surveyed anew the list of available Gods and matching religions.
First up were the foremost flowers of ancient Brownistan: Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism. I studied these. I found, for instance, that Hinduism's Deepest Truth is Tat Tvam Asi, which a knowledgable native translated as You Are That. I was discouraged. When the Deepest Truth of a religion sounds like one's five-year-old niece fighting with her sister, one suspects something is amiss. But I persevered. I learned that the foremost Hindu Gods, Rama and Krishna, lived in Uttar Pradesh and Gujarat respectively. And I learned that they were just two among 330 million Hindu Gods. I blanched. As Bill would put it, my knotted and combined locks parted and each particular hair stood on end. Hindu Swarga, I realized, was just a fancy term for Bihar. Promptly, I crossed these religions off my list, and swore never more to break bread with Hindus, Buddhists and other kinds of cattle.
Disheartened, I turned to the West. It held more promise for my purpose. After all, Christianity started because Adam and Eve did it, in spite of God. Further, a culture that uses nudity to advertise pasta is a culture that knows the value of pleasure. (I jest not. Europe is full of such ads. A walk along the Champs Elysees is in itself a complete course in sex education.) I had hit paydirt, or so I foolishy thought. I was wrong. Firstly, there was the small matter that Christian Heaven is rather dull. From what I could gather, one just hangs around and sups with the virtuous on the right hand side of God, because of course, the left hand is corrupted by contact with chi-chi. Further, I realized that black people just will not settle for R2, because they think brown people aren't cool enough for them (and God-damn-it, they are right, the racist bastards.) That still left whites. Now white women, if they are not models, are hideous and huge. And if they are models, they are so much silicon that one might just as well love an IC instead. At any rate, white people have sex by the time they are potty-trained, and that just won't do. R2, like all brown men, insists on having produce fresh from the farm, if you get my drift.
And that brought me, finally, to brown people of the second kind: the children of Allah. Now I was in business. After all, the most alluring beauties that ever have fired up lust in the loins of a lascivious lad, have all invariably been members of the Ummah. And Islamic Heaven absolutely rocks, for it is written that in Jannat, each man shall have no less than seventy-eight, yup LXXVIII, hour-il-ein. (Hour-il-ein is the Urdu term for "Oh mamma" and connotes the ravishing virgins, note virgins, of Paradise.) Allah, I realized, was just the God for our man R2.
There was, however, a catch. Being a brown man of the first kind, R2 obviously couldn't court Mussalman (or any other) women himself, and his folks would rather murder him than marry him off to a mleccha, leave alone setting up such a wedding. The alternative was for R2 to go to Jannat, and for this I could find but two ways--penance and a life of kindness and virtue, or blowing oneself up in a crowded bus. I presented the options to R2. Penance, he said, was out of the q. because it would interfere with his evening workout. And while blowing people up sounded cool, it involved concealed plastics which were a definite turn-off.
We were stuck. I was disconsolate, R2 was shattered.
Till last week.
Because last week I discovered that the Messiah is at hand. Aye. As the New York Times proudly informs its readers, Sheik Reda Shata of Brooklyn, New York, has taken it upon himself to unite the faithful in holy wedlock. And the fact that R2 is currently a kafir is no problemo. Sheikh Shata prefers to set up truebloods, but he's not one to stand on birth. If R2 would only pronounce Allah-uh-Akbar, his kufr will be forgotten, and Inshallah, he will attain the Kingdom of Heaven here on Earth. Admittedly, R2 will miss his 330 million Gods, but you'll agree it's a small price to pay for finding True Lust.
Bismilla-ar-Rahman-ar-Rahim.
PS: For the record, I made almost all of this up. R2 is a perfectly nice bloke. He's still single, but I daresay when his time comes, he'll give his wife all the love, respect and freedom she deserves. Provided she buys only "electronics stuff", of course.
17 comments:
*rotfl *
...good fun,and sorry to be a quibbler, but :
Admittedly, I am no Cassanova
...it should be "Casanova", not "Cassanova".
Notes M, from the Underground:
Duodenum of Texas! Your fart jokes series is incredible fun; I am moved enough to say : "Machchi! Nee engeyo poyitta-poo!"
A very round-about sort of story but hillarious as usual.
It's not enough:
The endless stuff
That's wholly unprofound!
If you must write,
Then be a light,
Eschewing empty sound!
Philosophise!
Be deep and wise!
On all this crap I frown!
Though joking's good,
You really should
Be more than ceaseless clown!
you slip in those digs at the world-at-large very smoothly! gu'show :)
(sorry about the deletion. was going to say something else and changed my mind :D)
saale and m.: thanks much, but you give me too much credit. i'm just looking for a joke, not making any points. the world just happens to be a ridiculous place.
saale, i rather liked your post. meant to say so, but you deleted the whole damn blog :-)
m., tch, tch, tch. i thought a feminist always speaks her mind :-)
darwin & the anonymous spelling nazi:-), Touche' and thanks.
dr. peter mahadevan, peela baadu,
maybe you can call up and tell me exactly what duodenum means.
and finally, Sir Sprite:
Oh! wise I would be,
If wise I could be,
For what man shuns height?
But vast is the sky,
And wingless am I.
Not for me is flight.
If blind I had been,
And light never seen,
Attempts at Art I'd make.
But this much I know,
I'll not be Leo,
'Tis Pelham's path I take.
dear lad, you think too much like an engineer...walking down a tree of possibilities. if you truly made up this whole predicament, then you are even more qualified to be one!
saale, roger that.
srini, if you are ashamed of the name srini--and it is a perfectly understandable sentiment--please call yourself kaathamuthu or irulandi, and not anonymous.
you are wondering how i found out. in this world, my friend, there are two kinds of people: those who have subtle superbrains and those whose comments stink. your comments stink.
-- blondie.
I do not see the problem with srini being anon, b. !!! For all you know he might just be playing the part of "The Man With No Name".
Ofcourse you know who I am!
There are two kinds of people in the world... those who call their friends "macchaan", and those who are named "macchaan".
Excellent! Makes for great lunch time reading when I am at work. Stumbled here through Dq's blog. Keep writing the good stuff!
Blogrolled you!
"You owe me the uno/dos/tres. You're popularity increasing because of the me."
@car,
thanks, my man. but lunchtime is for ornithology. don't waste it on blogs.
@thedq,
to the sthitapragya, fame and obscurity are as one. so i ain't giving nobody nothing. go boil your head.
Hour-il-ein is the Urdu term for "Oh mamma"
:))
b my man, sweeet!
I love ur blog its so coooooooooooooool this one was hilarious. It had me in splits
Your lesson to be learnt: Must learn to say "Khudahafiz" or else you'll be half a Kurd.
Ah! Shame on me. I am drawn to comment only about Mullahs. Is it because they're making great history today or that Hindus are simply too proud or that Buddhists are too peaceful or Jains and Jews are too obsolete minding their own businesses or that Parsis shall always remain as "sugar in the milk"?
Signed,
ACB
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