The Art of Kink

Background: Ever since I started blogging, people who know me (thats three in all if I am to include my parents) have been asking - "How does a slimy pinhead like you come up with that kinda stuff?" and my answer always has been "Beer, sweet beer!". They however were not convinced and rather continue to have the opinion that the stuff that I've written must have been 'lifted off' - plagiarism to be precise. They are not completely off-base in this case as I am pretty notorious for suffering from severe oral dysentery - what that means is that the stuff that comes out of my mouth (other than bad breath) is mostly 'shit', nonsense i.e.
However it is also a fact that beer makes me 'sound' smart, more the beer smarter I sound. Had it not been for its smell in my breath, beer would have taken me places by now. After having three beers or so I start getting over the limitations of metal retardation, after gulping down five bottles I begin to sound like Stephen Hawking - slurred speech wise. Its after seven bottles that I really get super smart. In this condition I can solve all the mysteries of the universe and even tell you where Osama has been hiding all along - if only I could free myself from non stop puking.

Since my gynecologist asked me to go easy on beer I will not be able to churn out my usual philosophical drab. Now wait a minute, you must be wondering what's a gynecologist got to do with this dickhead? Well it so happens that a good friend of mine so happens to be a gynecologist. He asked me to let go of beer and try sleeping pills instead - "they work like a charm!" he said. BTW he works for the armed forces and its no wonder that the army has posted him at some northern frontier where there are no human females. My heart however goes out for the yaks whose delivery he is required to assist. It will not surprise me at all if I get to read this in the newspaper "Army doctor gored to death by crazed out yak!" Anyways, its 

Story Time!

Disclaimer: All events and characters portrayed in this blog are  fictional. Any use of real names is coincidental and purely unintentional. Any similarities to actual persons is also pure coincidence, and not my intent. I cannot emphasize enough how coincidental my fictional entities are to any real life individual, entity, or character.


There, that should take care of the biggies ever suing me. 


The Story: The series of events that I am going to tell you folks took place during April 2010. Me and four of my buddies had just returned from a trip to north India - I cannot take their names here as some of them like Neelu, Shagger Choudhury, Mots and Fodder (Real names available on request) may not like the idea of their names appearing in some kinky blog on the internet.. 
Me and Mots reached Mumbai on 11th and were supposed to fly out to Mallupradesh (AKA Kerala) on the next day. We were supposed to take a Jet Lite flight to Calicut that was scheduled to depart at 11:25 Hrs. The drive to the airport was uneventful as neither of us tried to kiss each other or even hold hands - that is because neither of us is gay and we were too busy looking outside to spot some hot girl in skimpy dress. 
'Uneventfully' we reached the airport well ahead of time, checked in our luggage and then we got creative - which meant something very bad was in the making.
Now our dude Mots laid his eyes on some electronics and book stores at the airport and went into a shopping frenzy. Before I tell you anything further I need to tell you that Mots is not exactly your usual Indian; he is an NRI what that means is that buying something that he classifies as 'dirt cheap' has a very real potential of leaving me bankrupt, a kidney less and imprisoned for credit card fraud. At the electronics store he checked out every gizmo on display, but there was only one thing that got him interested. His request for its demo was however turned down and we were not-so-politely informed that the salesgirl was not up for sale and thus a demo was out of question. Being the gentleman he is, Mots did buy some Video CDs from there, I however did not buy anything from the store as I was too busy eyeballing the sales girl. At the bookstore our dude went from section to section searching - he finally gave up the frantic search when I told him that porn was not available in Indian bookstores yet, for that you need to go to some shady alleys near CST (Now don't ask me how I know that).
Nevertheless he did buy a decent share of 'cheap' books, I too bought a 'cheap' book and the very instance I swiped my credit card for making the payment I got a call from my bank - 
"Tring Tringggg"
- Hello
- Good Morning Sir, My name is ******, am calling on behalf of I*I*I bank. Am I speaking to Mr. Sanjay Kumar
- Yeah bugger, the name is SanjOy, not SanjAy
- Sorry about that Mr Kumar, we have identified an unusually high value transaction on your credit card and would like to confirm if it is genuine.
- Yeah, it is genuine...
- Sir as a part of our policies we would like to confirm the credentials of the customer.
- What is that supposed to mean, you call me on my mobile and ask me to confirm my credentials?
- Sir these are the bank's policies.
- OK, go on..
- Is your name Sanjoy Kumar
- Yes
- Date of birth please
- Is that really required, common man people are reading that stuff off this blog. Can we please skip that question?
- I am not sure sir..
- Please dude...I'm not married yet 
- Ohhh, that is serious, let me check with my senior - he too, just like you, is unmarried, ugly and ** years old.
- Hey, I'm not ugly 
- Sorry sir but I have a photograph of you and I can clearly see that you are realy ugl..
- Hey will you stop it, man this is a blog remember..people will come to know..
- Ooh, I am extremely sorry. You mind if I put you on hold.
- Not at all plea....
The guy doesn't wait and puts me on hold and what I get to hear is some real shitty music.... 
For the next 15 minutes or so the shitty music continued and finally the human voice on the phone returned.
- Sir, I'm sorry for keeping on hold for so long..
- You better be...
- Sir we can do away with the DOB question, but there is one more question that I need to ask..
- OK shoot..
- Spell 'Czechoslovakia'
- That's easy CHEKOS-LO-VA-KIA
- Great, you are through with the confirmation. Congratulations! 
- Now look fella I do not understand how the last question come in handy in confirming someone's identity...
- It does sir. We have it on record that you do cannot spell 'Czechoslovakia'
- Great, you had to tell that OUT LOUD on this blog.
- Thanks for calling I*I*I bank, You were talking to ******. You have a good day.
- It was YOU who called ME, moron.


Boy, by now the time was 11:10 and Mots was getting real jittery not because it was getting late but because he was hungry. I wouldn't blame him, all that the poor guy had for breakfast 2 hours ago was a dozen rotis with generous helping of chicken curry, throw in some fruits and a milkshake - that is all.


Now Mots is a big boy and takes his food and drinks seriously. He knows his priorities in life - food comes in at the first position and boarding a flight on time does not seem to have a place on the priority list. So off we went to the Cafe' Coffee Day counter at the airport and ordered some packed stuff. Just when I thought that we were through all that, our guy has another one of his cravings - he needs chicken. The man needs chicken and chicken it is. "Wait a minute, did you pack that bottle of Snapple - Yes I need a Snapple".
Time now 11:20, we proceed to the departure gate and are greeted by an Airline staff who almost began to fume the moment he laid his eyes on our boarding passes.
"Where were you? we have been calling out your name for the last half an hour" Both of us make a face as if we just fell off a asteroid from outer space and did not understand the lingo. To describe that guy as furious would have been an understatement - I could almost see smoke emanating out of his ears, maybe he swallowed a cigarette butt or maybe I was scared. He made some calls over the walkie-talkie and finally asked us to board a rickety bus - thats when it dawned upon me that the guy had specifically called in for the shittiest bus to carry us around. I expected Mots to complain but he seemed to be caught up with some other thoughts - maybe he was worried for the Snapple bottle and chicken puffs or maybe he was scared too. While boarding the bus I covered my face to avoid being photographed and the images being shown on India TV.
Finally by the time we got to the aircraft and got in it was 11:30. The air-hostess mistook me for the cleaning staff (most pretty women do) and told me that it was too late to clean the loo. Even after having seen my boarding pass she was hell bent on getting me deplaned. But being someone who believes that truth alone triumphs I did not intend to give up so easily and finally managed to win her trust - all I had to do was to spell 'Czechoslovakia'.

F**K!

This is not a blog that has been thought through and neither is there any beer involved. What is there for sure are sweat and disgust. This is something that happened at my gym today morning. A ‘not so young’ couple walked into the gym, neither of them were anything unusual – lady was the typical ‘sati savitri’ image in flesh and blood, maybe bit too much of flesh here and there. She had vermilion smeared into her parting of hair that said “Don’t look at me, I’m taken”, “Right said babe, to 'take' you we’ll need a fork lift truck, and we’ll airlift that midsection of yours – don’t want to clog those 6 lane roads” I thought. The hubby had a paunch that could deflect a cruise missile, but the guy had the airs of a teenager on drugs saying “I’m cool”.



Anyways what happened next was the disgusting part; the lady went to the locker room and came back with 2 pair of shoes - one for herself and the other for the guy with the integrated missile defense system – the hubby. This made me think “What the FUCK!” and believe me she did this as a part of her ‘responsibilities’ that come as a part of being an Indian wife. I fully appreciate her selfless dedication, what sucks is the thought if the bastard of a hubby would even consider doing such a thing in the privacy of their home let alone in complete public gaze.


Trust me on this, there will be more than a majority of people who will see this act as one where a wife is performing her duty and thus make the whole episode seem normal or great (to them). If you are one of those and are reading this then I have this for you  - “FUCK you!”


It is indeed unfortunate that we live in a society that is soaked/drenched in hypocrisy. Talking of the society, let me assure you that it is some aliens who beam down and form the society – we need to remember that it is each and every one of us individuals who make up the society. So next time we think of blaming the society for something let’s first look into ourselves and check if what we are complaining is a reflection of our inner self.


BTW, every morning I have to hunt for my shoes – maybe it’s about time I got myself a wife and maybe it’s about time I looked at myself in the mirror and said “FUCK you!”