The Foul Mermaid

Happily Ever After

2011-08-31T01:43:00.000-07:00

Me (on their wedding anniversary) : Dad, wish you a happy married life.

Dad (sighs) : Too late, son.

India’s Sexiest Bachelor

2011-08-11T03:45:00.000-07:00

Reliance Broadcast Network Ltd, are apparently on the blood-hunt to discover ‘India’s Sexiest Bachelor’ and apparently they have chosen all the wrong contestants. The much appreciable attempt to‘put spotlight on the country's most eligible, single and sexy men’ is however, most definite to end in futility, considering the real talent of India has been duly ignored by the producers of the show. Come on, really! Why pit Yuvraj Singh, Ranbir Kapoor, John Abraham and the likes against one another, when you have unfathomable opportunities to delve into?

I duly dug into my list of ‘India’s sexiest bachelors’, and here’s what I came up with:

No. 05:

ACP Pradyuman

No list of ‘India’s sexiest bachelors’ would be complete without ACP Pradyuman, the bona fide Chuck Norris of Indian Television. For that matter, no list of India’s anything would be complete without him.

Here’s to the man, who made us believe that you can be old, fat, grubby and goaded and still be India’s sexiest.

No. 04:

Tusssshar Kapur

The only Bollywood actor to have made it into our glistening list, in spite of the rather overwhelming odds. Mind-numbing-ly talented at ridiculously sniggering at the face of despair, while glycerin struggles to extract some sort of emotion out of his rigor mortis visage. It is no wonder why the only success at the box office for him, was when he played a mute, aside half a dozen actual actors.

Known solely for the multiple ‘S’es in his name, they don’t come any more eligible than this bloke. However, sooth is that this might just be the only, even if highest accolade yet for our burning sensation.

No. 03:

Sree - wait for it - Santh

Of course, he deserves it, and here’s what the Cochin Primate had to say, when greeted with the news:

This guy is an absolute gem, and if it weren't for the sexy unmarried politicians of India, he would have run away with it too. Keep fighting, boy, keep fighting.

No. 02:

Mayawati

Alright so, you might wonder what such a charming spinster is doing in this messy lot of charming bachelors, but let’s face it.

Persistent acts of gleaming sexiness; such as tyrannical overcompensation by liberal sprinkling of statuettes of elephants and herself and herself riding elephants and elephants riding herself; like little bird-grains, simply ought to be rewarded.

Its all just so AWESOME.

If you are dissatisfied, I’m sincerely sorry; but my blog, my rules.

No. 01:

Baba Ramdev

At pole position, is our very own icon of sexuality; that rugged man, who redefines the whole concept of India’s sexiest. I would like to ascertain beforehand, that this triumph is justified, and is not merely a result of his heinous threat of fasting-unto-death, unless he wins this contest.

Keep believing, folks.

Jo bhi hoga.. Yoga se hoga…

- R.R

Drenched

2011-08-01T00:39:00.000-07:00

It was a heavy afternoon and it was so, for more than a single reason. To start things off, it was a Tuesday. It is a well established fact that Tuesdays generally tend to be heavier than any other given day. However, we as a race have gotten terribly used to its overpowering weight, so much so, that these days, Tuesdays don’t seem insatiably heavy out of the way anymore. Think about it.

This particular Tuesday was heavier than the others of its pack, for certain other causes too. It was the annual Islamic fest of Eid-Ul-Fitr, and every other co-existent human being was busy indulging in the surprisingly dreadful act of doing nothing, while hoping for dear life that whatever that has been gorged inside, would soon enough, triumph in the complicated life process of digestion. It was also a frightfully humid Tuesday, which made it all the more heavy. On top of all that, the weather bimbo had thought aloud that morning on television that the possibility of a slight drizzle could neither be ruled out, nor in on second thoughts.

So, I was on the same rickety transport back home after a sumptuous eat-all-that-don’t-bite-back fest, and I clearly remember plugging in Yanni – Pure Moods Meditation Angel II.

Life was good.

Here I was, perfectly if not a tad uncomfortably, stuffed, after having successfully laid claim to the window seat, listening to some good soothing music on a public holiday. Life could not be better.

Just as I was entertaining perfectly innocent thoughts about the morning weather bimbo, my ridiculously smiling face was moistened slightly. Fresh drizzling raindrops.

Life had just gotten better. I smiled.

“Ah, Rain…!” I thought.

A couple of drops, a few again and then a few more too, wetted my visage in quick succession and I found it easy to keep up my ridiculous smile at nature’s poetry.

The jolly good fellow reached over and pulled down the shutter-guard of the window, annoyed evidently, by the unexpected development. Maybe he hadn’t paid much attention to the weather bimbo.

I smiled at him, while he said, “That girl in the window seat up front just vomited.” I nodded and made a mental note of thanking the jolly good fellow.

“So, what was I thinking?...

Ah, Rain….. OH F*** !”

- R.R

Note : This was written as an entry to the BLOGGERATTI competition, I was invited to participate in by C.R.D, who by the way has an amazing way with his words.

Telepathetic

2011-07-28T07:57:00.000-07:00

"Thootha... Aanamangad..Perinthalmanna...", the ticket-checker of the rickety transport bus roared into my by now rickety eardrums. I shrugged and cuddled my gluteus into the pardonably protruding seat cover, with the air of a man who had many other options, and didn't really need to confront the quagmire. In truth, I hadn't.

So, I was seated next to a particularly decent looking lad, dressed too formally even for a Tuesday afternoon, music plugged into his eardrums, furnished with a neat bag that said "Dell" on its metallic plate. He looked down on the rest of us lowly beings from upon the very pinnacle of Evolution, through his UV protected sunglasses I might add. Some people betray a type of polished friendliness, in massive proportions, so much so that you dislike them instantaneously. He was just the sort. So where was I? Ah, yes. Pinnacle of evolution.

And then his phone rang.

“Hallo? Ya. I was meaning to call you. Ya. I’m travelling. No, I was not meaning to travel with you. I was meaning to call you. Ya. I’m travelling. No, I’m not busy. I’m in a moving bus. No, I’m travelling.”

“So wait till you hear this. You know how she was admitted into the hospital? I sneaked in to her room when her Dad was away for tea…."

“No… I’m not travelling to the hospital…

No… I did not have tea with her…

No… Her Dad is not in the hospital…

She is in the hospital and I met her when her Dad went out for tea…”

And then his light bulb glowed.

"Listen… Don’t talk back… Just listen… So I had a quarrel with her Dad when he came back… He said that it was impossible for us to get married, because he cannot stand me... I told him that she loves me, but she loves him too, who doesn’t love me, but her Mom loves me just the way she loves me, so he will have to start loving me, and help us fulfill our love for each other… It’s really so simple isn’t it? But he didn’t seem to understand anything I said… What do you think?”

(Static)

“No, man…I didn’t sneak in to the post-office… I sneaked in to the hospital…”

The ticket checker did finally roar in his customary fashion, "Thootha.."

I shrugged again, with a finger thrust into the left ear-drum and tugged at my seated gluteus. With a heave of distress I disembarked, and with utter nonchalance at the civilized world, I walked on.

Some people really are pathetic on telephones.

You can't help it.

- R.R

Baba Blacksheep

2011-06-18T19:11:00.000-07:00

To be frank, I was caught up in a real bloody web. Should I squabble something new here, where no one else could give a tinier rat’s ass at all, or should I really wait till the next holiday season is done with, so that I could ruthlessly exploit the previous entry. I did resolve the issue ultimately, by a purely rational scientific method, the definite technique of a through and through Objectivist. I flipped a coin.

Life really is a swell, if you’re an Indian. You wake up one Sunday morning after a bad night’s sleep and random Swamis off the pavement are holding your freaking government ransom. Having liberalized ‘the-unbreakable-vow’ of fasting unto (his own) death, on at least half a dozen different occasions, it is fairly safe to conclude that if the bearded God-sent expects the Prime Minister to wear a pink tutu and call himself Champa, there is nothing much the latter can do about it at the moment. I, obviously, feel that the Corporate Baba hasn’t really exploited the infinite ocean of creative opportunities at the in-centre of his yogic palm, despite of popular opinions. Here are some other things you mandatorily do, if you see a megalomaniac ‘Swami’ with a nerve issue in your left eye, when you look in the mirror.

1. Invite Katrina Kaif over to your sleepover. Tell her you’d fast unto death if she’s late.

2. Call Dominoes and order a large pizza. Tell them you’d fast unto death if they arrive sooner than 30 minutes.

3. Reschedule your fasting-unto-death timings to between Breakfast and Lunch. Resume the vow till tea, only if you’re feeling really adventurous.

4. If questioned by a philanthropic party-pooper, point upwards and claim profoundly, that you are being force-fed for the greater welfare of mankind.

Life really is a swell, isn’t it? That being said, if you’re the Indian Prime Minister, and were born to any one of the twelve plausible zodiacs, life at this point of time may seem rather pointless and subdued. With half a dozen Swamis breathing down your neck all at a time, rather badly, and the rest of the Swami-dropouts foul mouthing you in the Parliament, you may understandably have a craving of hitchhiking blithely, all the way up to Timbuktu.

The second best option at his hand though, is launching a fast-unto-death vow himself, until/unless his scantily clad adversaries agree to take a fast-unto-death promise of nullifying all their previous fast-unto-death demands. The first one of course is hitching blithely, all the way up to Timbuktu.

The only real rule in the game, is respect the other’s fast-unto-death sincerely. You can’t just let someone fast unto his death, nonchalantly. That would be breaking the rules, and then you’ll have to be ‘it’.

That is it for now. Unless someone gets around to fasting unto his death for the termination of the blog, I’ll be around.

- R.R

Top Foul Things this Christmas

2010-12-12T03:04:00.000-08:00

Its almost that time of the year again, when you are ready to chuck the blasted television set off your blasted balcony if they broadcast one more blasted rerun of 'Home Alone 2 : Lost in New York'.

Wet Bandits? Seriously?!

And all thanks to, as Douglas Adams noted; "..one man (who) got nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be if everyone was nice to each other for a change..."

Here are top things to do this Christmas, sorted out alphabetically, chronologically, on the basis of difficulty and then colour-coded.

Note : Once more I get the red squiggly when I type 'colour', I.... Oh Well, Fuck you Blogger.

Age : <12 Years
Things to do :
-> Wonder why it hasn't started snowing in India, yet.
-> Bug your parents till they get you one of those loud origami-stars to hang at the doorstep.
-> Bug your parents for no reason.
-> Bug your pet dog for no reason.
-> Call your parents a bunch of hypocrites for always using 'Its the thought that counts' rule to their advantage.

What I did :
-> Stay up on Christmas night, with a machete, a jute sack and ropes, to abduct Santa and hold him ransom.

Age : Teens
Things to do :
-> Learn a Christmas Carol and replace the most repetitive word with one from your own dirty dictionary.
-> Call your pet dog Rudolph for a month. Sit back and enjoy as he develops an identity crisis.
-> Be a hypocrite and learn to use 'Its the thought that counts' rule to your advantage.
-> See Home Alone : 2
-> Watch Home Alone : 2.
-> Observe Home Alone : 2.
-> Perceive Home Alone : 2.
-> Chuck the blasted television set off your blasted balcony.

What I am doing:
-> Write a sick, no-good blog entry on the day before your important Half-Yearly Physics paper.

Age : 18<
Things to do :
-> Stop believing in Santa.

What I will do :
-> Start believing in Santa.

Thats about it for now, fellas.

Happy holidays,
R.R.

Cycle Rally, Lorry Rally

2010-11-08T03:30:00.000-08:00

"The disputed site is the birthplace of Ram"

- Justice D.V Sharma.
Allahabad High Court

"Deeply pained that the memorial of Chola ruler Raja Raja could not be traced, while the birthplace of Ram was confirmed by the High Court."

- Dr. M Karunanidhi.
Cheif Minister
Tamil Nadu

"Deeply pained that the Sindhi cow of milkman Gopal could not be traced, while the birthplace of Ram was confirmed by the High Court."

- Mr. P Damodhar
Milkman who likes to say "Up Yours"

Moral of the story - Drive a lorry through the cycle gap. Its worth a shot.

Hope we've all learnt something today,
R.R

Ass you like it

2010-11-04T23:57:00.000-07:00

Ever been to a Malayalee wedding? If you have, you would know precisely what I am on about. Picture this. You plaster yourself a fake smile, dodge the heavy human traffic, push and prod and finally lay claim to one of the more comfortable seats available. Almost involuntarily you nod along to the nadaswaram and the drums, wipe the sweat beads off your forehead and amidst the overpowering aroma of fresh lemons and jasmine flowers, you with a hopeless shrug, fix your gaze on to the stage.

Almost as natural as the wedding itself, is the fact that you won't get to see a thing.

Click to enlarge

Here's an insider's account -

And you can't help but go -

Baby got Back,
R.R

In Your Face Book.

2010-10-24T06:12:00.000-07:00

Facebook is cheap. It jabs below your belt, drags your self esteem all the way down and trolleys you on with as much distaste as humanly possible. Much like a Bieber Song. How, else, are you supposed to react, if a girl you allegedly shared a classroom with, almost a decade back, claims she has 'new answers to unlock' about you, all of a sudden?

Facebook, apparently, had posed 21 questions about me to random ne'er do wells from my 'friends' list and held me ransom, demanding 48 more coins, if I were at all, to know the answers.

I, for one, had no intentions of completing surveys inquiring about the size of my underpants; whether I've yet undergone an SRS and so on, to attain the aforementioned coins. So here, I decide to vent.

I was initially given a tiny nudge to walk the plank. An ego trip, you see. Arr, Ahoy, etc.

Click to enlarge.

Q. Do You think R.R is hot?

A. Yes.

R.R : Why thank you. Although, it helps you may never have seen me, nor I have you; but your preconceived notions about my sexual temperature are indeed engaging. Hope you don't get your hopes too high though.

Q. Do you thing R.R likes brownies?

A. Yes.

R.R : Shut up, you racist piglet. I do not shelter excessive carnal desires for Scottish hobgoblins.

Q. Would you trust R.R with your life?

A. Yes.

R.R : Awwww. I swear I'd hide you in my attic during the holocaust in our next pre-incarnation.

And there pricked my bubble;

Click to enlarge.

Click to enlarge.

Q. Do you think R.R is a good driver?

A. No.

R.R : I'm a screwdriver. I drive screws. I'm pretty good at it, when you'd come to think.

Q. Do you think R.R brushes his teeth regularly?

A. No.

R.R : However thoroughly enjoyable your dissertation on my oral hygiene may have been, professor, I am humbled to think it might interest all kinds of prospective dates who stalk my wall, a tad bit more.

Q. Do you think R.R watches porn?

A. Yes.

R.R : BING! Wrong answer. I act.

Q. Do you think that R.R would look good in a bikini?
A. No.

R.R : What do I say. Two-pieces are not really my thing. Although, that Albanian guy upstairs thinks I look cute topless.

Q. Do You think R.R is funny?
A. No.

R.R : Ah, Watson, A clue. He has read my blog.

Lives to see another day,
R.R

The Ugly Duckling

2010-08-17T06:20:00.000-07:00

Geese are wonderful creatures. Terribly attractive, adorable tiny little carbon based aquatic souls of the family Anatidae. Yes they are.

On a thanks-giving table.

Back in my mid-teens, (well, I’m still in my mid-teens, but that’s of no evidential relevance); my little joint family in their lush little kingdom out south, lulled by the sparkling promotion by a cursed little devil, chose to stick a fork in poultry farming. The household buzz grew in strength and the bill was passed unanimously, considering I had no inherent Veto power back then, (well, I still lack an inherent Veto power, but that again is of no evidential relevance). The decisiveness in the family is so remarkable, that we could most certainly do with more of my kin in the parliament. After a week long wait fate finally arrived in a three-wheeled rickshaw, fully equipped with fluffy wings, webbed feet and an air of appalling superiority. More importantly, fate came as a couple.

A rousing reception by the folks, and subsequent rosy visions of eggs and hatched eggs and goslings and geese and sales and marketing and television and fame and national treasures erupted all over the tea table with remarkable jest. At that point, Aesop might have suggested ‘Don’t count your chicken before they hatch’. All I can but do is wonder now if he was probably misquoted by some dowdy stenographer when he said ‘Do pound your chicken with thy hatchet.’

Next morning, playing snow white, I almost immediately waded to their periphery, with a smile I thought was calming enough to pacify and seduce any creation of evolution. I painted within me a portrait of a fairy tale princess nursing a dying swan and told myself that that was who I am. Approaching my pair of dying swans, I realised my swans weren’t really dying. They were defecating. “Great.” I told myself. “They even lay Golden eggs.”

Geese aren’t supposed to bark. Dogs are. We are a little giant joint family with a dog at least at every joint. One of those farm houses Enid Blyton captivated us with, if you may. The quarter of a dozen dogs we have, all suffer from chronic laryngitis. None of them barked. Either they held themselves a tad too aristocratic to do so, or we had done a splendid job of socializing them. Either way, the new additions to our G.I Joe set, barked more than they quacked. These mistakes of evolution were little self-sufficient Mr. T's, all by themselves.

Feeding them was no trouble, credits where they are due. They fed themselves on literally everything. All of a sudden a dearth of socks plagued me and that plastic pitcher went missing. Justifiably so, the layers of humus affluent soil in our courtyard escalated and the undergrowth profited massively from the punctual golden eggs.

Remarkably enough, Thomachan and Annamma (as we opted to describe these otherwise indescribable feathered hogs) seemed to generate hydrogen sulphide at free will.

Bark. Socks. Excreta. H2S. Pecks. Feathers. Socks. Excreta. Excreta. Socks. Excreta. Bark.

After almost a month of persistent pacifications, the general body decided that that was it. The geese had to go. Eggs had to go. Hatched eggs had to go. Goslings, Sales and Marketing had to go. Finally television, fame and national treasures had to go.

I nudged a decider, hopefully. “Thanksgiving?”

Well that was not to be. The cursed little devil with sparkling promotions was called back. Fate took a rickshaw back and drove into the sunset.

Today, as I went through some old books of mine, I chanced upon The Ugly Duckling. I can only imagine; Hans Christian Anderson may well have got himself a pair of geese in his mid-teens for inspiration.

D'Arvit,

R.R

A Handy Handbook

2010-06-10T08:55:00.000-07:00

Don't label this blog as a Chauvinist, though you may freely label me as one for I am one. Oh Wait. Is this the part where I get 50 odd comments from half a dozen Jiminy Crickets asking me to finally mend my ways and transform into a nun?

Here we go, after my ridiculously prolonged hibernation, I now attempt to comprehend and compress the intricacies of Romance, Love and Relationship in a handy handbook.

ROMANCE

It truly is romance, when he corrects your English and you pay attention because you think he really wants you to be perfect.

LOVE

It is love when you smile gleefully at him when he corrects you, but you are actually wondering if it is time for your next appointment with the masseur.

RELATIONSHIP

It is a relationship when you are rather perplexed, whether to pronounce ‘ASS’ or ‘ARSE’ when you next address him.

ROMANCE

It most definitely is romance when you implore each other to hang up first, and the ordeal lasts till you finally run out of balance.

LOVE

You can most certainly diagnose it is love, when you wonder if you’ll ever get tired of holding up the receiver even though your balance has run out.

RELATIONSHIP

You know it is a relationship when you wearily try to get her to play the ordeal-game and almost immediately you are greeted by that abruptly droning dial-tone.

ROMANCE

Believe me it is romance, when you cheer on his football team as fanatically as him, even though you blankly reckon that Maradona is that American female pop singer.

LOVE

It is love when you ardently cheer his team on from the kitchen, occasionally hunting for that rugged handsome player in the team line up.

RELATIONSHIP

It is a mature relationship, when you fully understand that that sadly, is the height of your passion together.

That is essentially it for now.

So until my priced jury of Jiminy Crickets molest me beyond repair,

Keep your noses clean.

- R.R

Edit - Thanks, Alfred E. Neuman, for this wonderful idea I could build on.

Communism, Daffy Duck and Hot-dogs

2010-02-15T02:49:00.000-08:00

Don't label this blog as an anti-communist, though you may freely label me as one for i am one.

--
It is well said, "Before 20 if you are not a communist, you're heartless, after 20 and you are still a communist? You're headless."
--

Thankfully enough, i have had a head upon my shoulders always, and being heartless, really is too small a price to pay; besides that also being the reason why this blog germinated in the first place.

So, a few months back, the world's biggest carnival, the Indian election to the Lok Sabha was in full swing. And in a far far away district of Kannur, in Kerala, a communist *cough* intelligentsia *cough* was proving to the world the intricacies of the election and on a rather broader note, what it really means to be a communist.

They had been conveniently mopped the floor with, and this gentle-man clad in white was betraying fluids from all available orifices, entries and exits, simultaneously mopping them furiously. Utilising his remarkable relation with the microphone, and also sprinkling liberally, a large number of 'Bourgeoisies' and 'Imperialistic Opportunistic Elasticities' and 'Habeas Corpuses' and many other terminologies that made our country great, our hero was on a saliva-spree. You get the pattern.

And the awe-struck herd of sheep, left their mouth gaping wide, proudly exhibiting their tonsils, up through the TV Set into my ophthalmologic senses.

So, back to the point. This 'leader', whom by the way i would prefer not naming here, kept on ranting and raving, like a loquaciously ridiculous Daffy Duck trapped in a communist's body, accusing a hundred phenomenons for the rout. Before i stretch way too far, let me get to the point. He said and i quote, "...And yet again comrades, I stress that, the 'slip' was solely due to American intervention in Kerala politics. Fearing the spread of communism in our part of the world, Obama and his....."

Surely enough, then newly elected Barack Obama government would have had quite a bit to think about, had they not?

He had the George Bush mess to sort out, then the gitmo, the wars, and ok, basically let us stop at the George Bush mess. I practically could not digest, the solemn picture of the POTUS calling up his close associates and conspiring to post away anti-communist posters after clearly deciphering the geographical set-up in Kannur; or for that matter, imagine him sending the FBI on a mission to rig the elections.

Ridiculous.

And the saddest part is, that this statement pocketed the biggest round of applause, whistles and shouts, eventually and duly resulting in a wide, sloppy and shameless smile on the face of the orator, which can be best defined as 'Relieved'. Only once before had i seen the very same expression, and that, my memory does not fail me, was on the face of a thankful man cured of constipation.

And here my cue came. This was my turn for gaping.

On a slightly different, yet equally hilarious note, there is a communist news daily in Malayalam, named 'Desh-abhimani' which proudly proclaims, "Know Early, Know The Truth."

Ahem..Frankly enough, To know if what you knew early is the Truth, go read a sensible news paper.

A few 'cock-a-doodle doos' back, an american news-website flashed the irrelevant news of a burly american obese who broke the world hot-dog eating record, after putting an end to an 'x' number of hot-dogs. Sad Soul.

Our heroic newspaper, flaunted its typical gene of pinching news from practically everywhere, including right under your nostrils and blindly, yet melodramatically translating it into their papyrus.

And the next day, the Headline read. " American Eats 'x' number of Fried Canines."

Alas, the old propaganda of mud-slinging the Americans again, this time accusing them of eating exotic stuff.

Rack your brains and tell me a nation where that, in fact, does take place.

Till Then.

Karl Marx be with you,
R.R

Foul? Fouler? Foulest?

2009-12-18T02:20:00.000-08:00

This blog is the result of an afternoon’s parched hatred towards the world in general; the world which was once perfectly sketched by Tom Sharpe in ‘The Throwback’.

A few sunrises ago, I committed the grave mistake of actually lending my ear to one of those Malayalam soaps, and gravely hath I paid.

The scene resembled good old Shakespearean conspiracy. Two humongous baddies were discussing whether a child prodigy was killed after all. (The chewing gum plot. Yes.)

One particular dialogue went like this, and the translation is a bit rough.

“Don’t worry, boss. The ocean must have taken the child with it. Or could it be vice-versa?”

“Well! We'll have to see to believe.” Replied the desi Marlon Brando.

Well, Smack my ass and call me Charlie.
Vice-versa? Surely, you don’t mean the child taking the ocean with him, do you?
But kudos to the Mafia Don. He is a rationalist, a true communist skeptic.
He refuses to believe the child has pinched the ocean, unless he sees it himself.

If I was the star-crossed producer of the show, I would have sold the freaking rights and invested in the horse-races, but not before shooting the dialogue-writer.

Twice. Where it really hurts.

God bless*,

R.R

-
*If there's any.