The same nightmare again last night. Dreamt we will rule the world. I'm scared. Poor world.
-- The Diary, May 14 496 BC
All of Brownistan is agog, or so The Hindu tells me. Of course, The Hindu does not use the word agog, because agog is, after all, my favourite word, not The Hindu's. The Hindu is a bunch of dead pinkos who probably don't even have a favourite word. I, on the other hand, am a regular dude, and I do have favourite words, and agog is one of them. Therefore I say agog whenever I can say agog because I like to say agog.
But I digress. As I was saying, all of Brownistan is agog. You might wonder why. I do not; because I have noticed that Brownistan has lately developed the tiresome habit of being constantly agog. A resident native tells me, by way of explanation, that Brownistanis are feeling more and more positive about the state of their nation. They feel that they are the wave of the future, the coming superpower. They believe that they will whip the white man's ass, slip past the Chinese, murder all the Mussalmans and establish Rama Rajya all over the world. Isn't it true, after all, that only 26.15% of Brownistan is now below the poverty line, a sharp drop from 26.17% as of last year? Out goes the cry in Jharkand: The Brown Man Cometh.
All of which only goes to show that the the brown man's stupidity is even greater than his megalomania. As all thinking men know, brown people lack the three qualities that any great people must have, namely
1. Short names,
2. The habit of photographing everything they see, and
3. A fixation on the question of who is allowed to have sex with what.
Walk down this list, gentle reader, and you'll see why slit-eyed, flat-nosed, yellow-faced people with funny accents are taking over the world.
Greatness Condition 1: Not so long ago, Brownistanis used to name themselves after their Gods. Better sense has since prevailed, and now they take their dogs' names instead. Thus, they have achieved considerable pith--I know brown people called Pimmy, Shiny and Happy. Alas, they still fall far short of the world's best. Take, for instance, the great Richard Cheney, de facto Emperor of the Universe. Rather than bear his longish original name, the man voluntarily lets everyone call him Dick. Yet, for all this heroic determination, the White Man is still not numero uno in the matter of nominal brevity. He only has a fetish for short names. The Yellow Man, on the other hand, has flair for them. For instance, my yellow friend Ho calls me Mr. Shanghai, not only because of my stunning good looks, but also because my first name has enough syllables in it to name everyone in the city of Shanghai. Indeed, as Che Lai sings in celebration of the Chinese Tao,
Pa Li's name is Fa Li,
And Ma Li is named Mi Li,
The brat is called Jo Li,
What a JoLi Fa-Mi-Li!
Note further that the Yellow Man's name is just a specific instance of his calculated suppression of information. Allah's bearded warriors can stop the US in its tracks by killing Emperor Dick, but they find themselves helpless against the cunning Yellow Man: As a recent world-wide survey found, only three people, all named Yi, could correctly answer the question : "Hu is the Chinese President?" (Hint: It is a trick question. The answer is yes.) Hu, I ask, can stand in the way of such a subtle race, full of strategems, treasons and micronames?
Greatness Condition 2: Brown people from Gujarat, it is true, go to far-flung places just to stand near sign posts and get their photos taken. While admirable, they are, alas, far from good enough, for they go only where the path is easy, and the reward sure. The White Man, on the other hand, values Art for Art's sake.
It is rumoured that Da Vinci's masterpice, The Mona Lisa hangs on a large wall in the Renaissance Hall of the Louvres. Nobody knows for sure, because the damn thing is always surrounded by giant white people, and it is impossible for a normal-sized man to get a dekko. One summer afternoon, I stood there, sulking with my fellow wimps, when a somewhat small giant approached the throng, missus in tow. He surveyed the scene, closed his eyes, and with an air of resolve lifted the missus and shoved her through the thicket. When she had gotten close to the painting, she turned to him and beamed. Evidently she had detected a family resemblance between La Giaconde and herself. He photographed her triumph, and he dragged her out. Then, as Hercules must have done after his third task, he shrugged. He wiped his brow, and resolutely elbowed his way toward l'objet d'art. He put his paw near it, exactly as if he were showing off a recently netted bass. He tittered. She clicked. He fought, he emerged, and they talked.
He : "What's the fuss anyway? The chicks in the other paintings are hotter."
She: "Honey! You know like nothing about art. The hot chicks are done by a guy called Tit Ian. He was like a specialist in chicks. This da Vinci dude was gay. He does naked men well. Anyway, we got a photo of this thing. It is, like, world famous." [beg pardon for obscure joke. please google 1. Titian, 2. Vitruvian man]
They walked away, and I stood shaken, for I had realized just how far Brownistan is from greatness. We brown people have snaps of ourselves in front of the Niagara Falls and the White House, and we guffaw in pride. Laa-dee-dah, says the White Man, for he has venied all over the world, and while he has no clue exactly what he has vidied, he has videos of himself vici-ing it nevertheless.
And yet the White Man is but a minor deity, a roadside Ayyanar. The One True God of pointless photography is not he, but the Yellow Man, as I realized on a rainy Friday afternoon in the Metropolitan Museum o' Fart, New York. The Met, as it is called, is basically an asylum for doodlings by poor half-wits from across the globe. One of its proud exhibits is a 6'1'' X 4'2'' oil on canvas named White Light. It looks like the piece of paper my niece once took from me, saying "Mama, Naa draw panren, nee watch pannu. Sariyaa?" She took it, and she scratched on it vigorously with all the colours she had, made two holes in the center, and put her eyes through them. Then she asked us to hide because "Naan baby illa. Naan big maamster, sariya?" I still have that piece of paper and I swear it looks exactly like White Light, except that it is smaller, and a little cleaner. My poor niece, alas, only got scolded by her mother for making a mess. The creator of White Light, I'm sure, made a few million.
Most importantly, since White Light was kept in a respected museum by respected people, it won, well, respect. My friend and I stood in front of it, looking upon it reverently. We shifted here and there to view it from different angles, hoping that something would cast some light on it, and make us view it in a different light. We were just discussing its Ethereal Irreference to SpatioTemporal Isness when up walked a Yellow Man. He glanced at it. He turned to us, asked us to move and took a photo of it. He then gave us the camera and asked to us take a photo of him with it. Then he took the camera and zoomed in on the title card and took a photo of it. Then he checked to see he had got all three photos, and he walked past us to repeat the routine with the next painting. Not a look at the painting, not a care for what it was, not a word of appreciation or criticism. Just click, click, click.
I salute him. He has understood Modern Art; I have not. His children will inherit the Earth and photograph themselves ruling it, and mine will write software and watch in open-mouthed awe.
The brown man might as well stop being agog and face the truth: The Yellow Man is Prince. He is not yet King, because he has not yet grappled with the all-important question alluded to above: Who can have sex with what? But he is getting there. It'll take a while, but he will catch up eventually. The White Man is King because he is a past master of that question. He revels and frolics in it, the way a pig might in a sewer. He has found some answers, but is still digging around for more. You are, I'm sure, eager to hear more about it. But gentle reader, there's only so long an intelligent man can talk to an unmitigated imbecile like you. Let me refresh myself. When I come back, I'll enlighten you, if you somehow manage to stay out of jail in the meantime.
-- The Diary, May 14 496 BC
All of Brownistan is agog, or so The Hindu tells me. Of course, The Hindu does not use the word agog, because agog is, after all, my favourite word, not The Hindu's. The Hindu is a bunch of dead pinkos who probably don't even have a favourite word. I, on the other hand, am a regular dude, and I do have favourite words, and agog is one of them. Therefore I say agog whenever I can say agog because I like to say agog.
But I digress. As I was saying, all of Brownistan is agog. You might wonder why. I do not; because I have noticed that Brownistan has lately developed the tiresome habit of being constantly agog. A resident native tells me, by way of explanation, that Brownistanis are feeling more and more positive about the state of their nation. They feel that they are the wave of the future, the coming superpower. They believe that they will whip the white man's ass, slip past the Chinese, murder all the Mussalmans and establish Rama Rajya all over the world. Isn't it true, after all, that only 26.15% of Brownistan is now below the poverty line, a sharp drop from 26.17% as of last year? Out goes the cry in Jharkand: The Brown Man Cometh.
All of which only goes to show that the the brown man's stupidity is even greater than his megalomania. As all thinking men know, brown people lack the three qualities that any great people must have, namely
1. Short names,
2. The habit of photographing everything they see, and
3. A fixation on the question of who is allowed to have sex with what.
Walk down this list, gentle reader, and you'll see why slit-eyed, flat-nosed, yellow-faced people with funny accents are taking over the world.
Greatness Condition 1: Not so long ago, Brownistanis used to name themselves after their Gods. Better sense has since prevailed, and now they take their dogs' names instead. Thus, they have achieved considerable pith--I know brown people called Pimmy, Shiny and Happy. Alas, they still fall far short of the world's best. Take, for instance, the great Richard Cheney, de facto Emperor of the Universe. Rather than bear his longish original name, the man voluntarily lets everyone call him Dick. Yet, for all this heroic determination, the White Man is still not numero uno in the matter of nominal brevity. He only has a fetish for short names. The Yellow Man, on the other hand, has flair for them. For instance, my yellow friend Ho calls me Mr. Shanghai, not only because of my stunning good looks, but also because my first name has enough syllables in it to name everyone in the city of Shanghai. Indeed, as Che Lai sings in celebration of the Chinese Tao,
Pa Li's name is Fa Li,
And Ma Li is named Mi Li,
The brat is called Jo Li,
What a JoLi Fa-Mi-Li!
Note further that the Yellow Man's name is just a specific instance of his calculated suppression of information. Allah's bearded warriors can stop the US in its tracks by killing Emperor Dick, but they find themselves helpless against the cunning Yellow Man: As a recent world-wide survey found, only three people, all named Yi, could correctly answer the question : "Hu is the Chinese President?" (Hint: It is a trick question. The answer is yes.) Hu, I ask, can stand in the way of such a subtle race, full of strategems, treasons and micronames?
Greatness Condition 2: Brown people from Gujarat, it is true, go to far-flung places just to stand near sign posts and get their photos taken. While admirable, they are, alas, far from good enough, for they go only where the path is easy, and the reward sure. The White Man, on the other hand, values Art for Art's sake.
It is rumoured that Da Vinci's masterpice, The Mona Lisa hangs on a large wall in the Renaissance Hall of the Louvres. Nobody knows for sure, because the damn thing is always surrounded by giant white people, and it is impossible for a normal-sized man to get a dekko. One summer afternoon, I stood there, sulking with my fellow wimps, when a somewhat small giant approached the throng, missus in tow. He surveyed the scene, closed his eyes, and with an air of resolve lifted the missus and shoved her through the thicket. When she had gotten close to the painting, she turned to him and beamed. Evidently she had detected a family resemblance between La Giaconde and herself. He photographed her triumph, and he dragged her out. Then, as Hercules must have done after his third task, he shrugged. He wiped his brow, and resolutely elbowed his way toward l'objet d'art. He put his paw near it, exactly as if he were showing off a recently netted bass. He tittered. She clicked. He fought, he emerged, and they talked.
He : "What's the fuss anyway? The chicks in the other paintings are hotter."
She: "Honey! You know like nothing about art. The hot chicks are done by a guy called Tit Ian. He was like a specialist in chicks. This da Vinci dude was gay. He does naked men well. Anyway, we got a photo of this thing. It is, like, world famous." [beg pardon for obscure joke. please google 1. Titian, 2. Vitruvian man]
They walked away, and I stood shaken, for I had realized just how far Brownistan is from greatness. We brown people have snaps of ourselves in front of the Niagara Falls and the White House, and we guffaw in pride. Laa-dee-dah, says the White Man, for he has venied all over the world, and while he has no clue exactly what he has vidied, he has videos of himself vici-ing it nevertheless.
And yet the White Man is but a minor deity, a roadside Ayyanar. The One True God of pointless photography is not he, but the Yellow Man, as I realized on a rainy Friday afternoon in the Metropolitan Museum o' Fart, New York. The Met, as it is called, is basically an asylum for doodlings by poor half-wits from across the globe. One of its proud exhibits is a 6'1'' X 4'2'' oil on canvas named White Light. It looks like the piece of paper my niece once took from me, saying "Mama, Naa draw panren, nee watch pannu. Sariyaa?" She took it, and she scratched on it vigorously with all the colours she had, made two holes in the center, and put her eyes through them. Then she asked us to hide because "Naan baby illa. Naan big maamster, sariya?" I still have that piece of paper and I swear it looks exactly like White Light, except that it is smaller, and a little cleaner. My poor niece, alas, only got scolded by her mother for making a mess. The creator of White Light, I'm sure, made a few million.
Most importantly, since White Light was kept in a respected museum by respected people, it won, well, respect. My friend and I stood in front of it, looking upon it reverently. We shifted here and there to view it from different angles, hoping that something would cast some light on it, and make us view it in a different light. We were just discussing its Ethereal Irreference to SpatioTemporal Isness when up walked a Yellow Man. He glanced at it. He turned to us, asked us to move and took a photo of it. He then gave us the camera and asked to us take a photo of him with it. Then he took the camera and zoomed in on the title card and took a photo of it. Then he checked to see he had got all three photos, and he walked past us to repeat the routine with the next painting. Not a look at the painting, not a care for what it was, not a word of appreciation or criticism. Just click, click, click.
I salute him. He has understood Modern Art; I have not. His children will inherit the Earth and photograph themselves ruling it, and mine will write software and watch in open-mouthed awe.
The brown man might as well stop being agog and face the truth: The Yellow Man is Prince. He is not yet King, because he has not yet grappled with the all-important question alluded to above: Who can have sex with what? But he is getting there. It'll take a while, but he will catch up eventually. The White Man is King because he is a past master of that question. He revels and frolics in it, the way a pig might in a sewer. He has found some answers, but is still digging around for more. You are, I'm sure, eager to hear more about it. But gentle reader, there's only so long an intelligent man can talk to an unmitigated imbecile like you. Let me refresh myself. When I come back, I'll enlighten you, if you somehow manage to stay out of jail in the meantime.
