The Metro Effect Wednesday, Feb 23 2011 

The Managing Director, Delhi Metro, E. Sreedharan responds to my article ‘The Metro Effect’ in the TOI, Nationa Edition:

Here’s the link to the article:

Here’s his response


Same old story Tuesday, Sep 28 2010 

This is the link to my article “Same old Story” that appeared in the Times of India, National Edition on September 6th, 2010.




Heads Up Monday, Aug 16 2010 

This is the link to the article “Heads Up” I wrote for the Times of India, National Edition, that appeared on August 16, 2010:

Aiming for the top Saturday, May 22 2010 

Here’s the link to my article “Aiming for the top” that appeared in the Times of India, National Edition on May 18, 2010.

Khushboo’s fat head on the side too 😀

Unwelcome Condiment Monday, Feb 22 2010 

Here’s the link to my article “Unwelcome Condiment” which appeared in today’s Times of India, National Edition:

Blow, The Winter Wind Friday, Jan 8 2010 

Here’s the link to my article “Blow, The Winter Wind” which appeared in today’s Times of India, National Edition:

I Believe I Can’t Fly Tuesday, Nov 17 2009 

Here’s the link to my article “I believe I can’t fly” which appeared in the TOI, National Edition, on November 17th, 2009

McLamas Sunday, Jun 7 2009 

     In a country like India, you can’t throw a female baby out of the window without hitting something bizarre. Swamis who assist childless couples by applying holy paste from their flesh tubes inside the vaginas of the unfortunate wives married to pin-prick husbands; spiritual gurus who advise fathers to shovel the shit of their daughters’ asses with their dicks to bring good luck to the family; auto-rickshaw drivers who have pictures of hot bitches in the backseats of their vehicles but drive with their male buddies seated right next to them, their thighs intertwined; political leaders who get offended by paintings and books but whose consciences are cleansed when their barbaric cronies slash a pregnant woman’s belly and stomp on her fetus; men, a majority of them from Chennai, who think fat hoes and their flabby hips are as sensual and tender as Sonam Kapoor’s nipples; and people who believe that-in a world where humans kill each other over who gets the remote or whose Holy Text has more imaginative stories-praying thirty times a day and embellishing your room with faggy pictures of Providence which would look more at home in a Harry Potter book would get them to heaven. And in such a nation that’s crawling with assorted sights of strangeness it takes a major effort to stand out and be the king of weirdness. And I’m terrified to announce that we have a new king.

     Now, I’m not sure if what I’m about to state has come to the notice of anyone else who lives in India. Although unless you are blind or wear shades straight from Bappi Lahiri’s collection, you are bound to have encountered this, quite frankly, dumbfounding aberration. I refer to the inexplicable abundance of Tibetan monks inside places like KFC, McDonald’s, Pizza Hut and extravagant malls. The first twenty five times I experienced it I assumed it was the effect of the hallucinogenic pancakes I have for breakfast but once I realized I wasn’t the only one who was seeing these robe-clad specters-these Dalai Lama spinoffs- I knew that Apocalypse was here. Fuck you if I’m wrong but I was under the impression that these Dalai Lamas were more of the “meditate, eat leaves, shit once every two weeks, stay inside the temple” kind. And I thought nirvana was the only fucking thing on their minds. I wasn’t aware that enlightenment could be attained by gobbling down Colonel’s chicken or wolfing down McGrills by the dozen. I have even seen these Lamas lurking around inside malls feverishly text messaging fuck-knows-who, probably their fellow monks letting them know that they just clocked a hot bitch who would make Buddha’s halo get bigger. I don’t even know where these Lamas pop out of. Do they sit inside their fucking monastery praying for salvation when suddenly hunger strikes and one Lama says to the other Lama “Hey, McDonald’s ya?” And the other Lama says, “Ya, ya. Big Clown, funny, burger good”. And if at all they want to hang around in malls, why in the name of fuck do they want to loiter wearing their ridiculous clown outfits? I mean they make Ronald McDonald the fucking clown look like a fucking corporate executive. And if you have a uniform and you’re adamant that you will only walk around in that specific uniform, which happens to be sleeveless, don’t fucking flail your arms around. I don’t care if you have exclusive access to the 39th chamber of Shaolin, don’t fucking show your hairy underarms to unsuspecting passers-by.

     On the other hand these chicken-crunching text-messaging semi-urbane Lamas might be the new breed of monks that a religion like Buddhism needs. Buddhism has often been dismissed as being too, what’s the word, pussy. The very story that Buddha attained nirvana by merely sitting under a tree is a little boring. Sure, the subplot of the little raccoon that was trapped under his robe is rarely mentioned but monks are, by and large, considered a little erratic. A few decades ago, if a Lama was upset he would tell the other Lama, “I upset. What do?” And the other Lama would counsel, “Set fire to yourself.” Meanwhile, this new breed of Lamas, the McLamas, who despite their obsession with exposing their fluffy armpits, are bound to react in a different manner. If one of these McLamas tell the other, “I upset. What do? Set fire to myself?” the other McLama is likely to say “Fuck that. We eat fried chicken and check out bitches. Ya?” eliciting a “Ya, ya” from the first McLama.

     If you think about it the lifecycles of all the bizarre things in the past have proved that if they stick around long enough they become part of our lives, like cows and donkeys shitting all over the streets in North India, fat cunts ruling the South Indian porn industry, and Rakhi Sawant . Similarly, these McLamas, if they rise in number, and make their presence felt long enough and strong enough they are bound to blend into our daily environment like terrorism or a third nipple. Nevertheless, this phenomenon of McLamas is the strangest experience I have had from a religiously inclined group of people. Unless I see the Pope deepthroating a hotdog inside Nirula’s.

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Interview with Zoozoo Tuesday, May 26 2009 

To north Indians he possesses the physical beauty of Bappi Lahiri and the raw sexuality of Yash Chopra who recently turned one hundred and forty six. To south Indians, his acrobatics are nothing short of those that a diarrhoeic Rajnikant might exhibit at the privacy of his bathroom. To rich people, he’s the guilty pleasure they wank off to while they’re counting cash. And to poor people, well who gives a fuck about them? He’s enigmatic; he’s charismatic; and post coitus he’s a little asthmatic. He’s the one the only Zoozoo.

After an hour or more of telephonic communication with Zoozoo’s agent, Poopoo, which included graphic descriptions of her labia majora, superstar interviewer Mandira Bedi managed to get an exclusive interview with unarguably the most popular hairless object in the world right now after Hannah Montana’s vagina. Read on:

(Mandira wearing a white sari with a noodle strap blouse, her recently shrunken anorexic cleavage well in view)

MB: It’s a pleasure-let me correct that- it’s an honor to meet you and have the opportunity to talk to you at such close quarters. Since no one has ever really heard you speak let me start off by clarifying: dooo youuu speaaak in-uh English-uh?

(Zoozoo sits in his chair smoking a cigarette)

ZZ: Who the fuck do you think I am bitch? Jackie fucking Chan? Of course, I speak English. I’m a fucking celebrity. I need to know how to speak in English. Unless of course I’m Kapil Dev.

MB: Cool, that’s super awesome. I’ve got with me a list of questions that your fans are dying to ask you. Let me start off without wasting any time. I know what a busy schedule you have.

ZZ: Before you ask me a question let me ask you a question. What the fuck happened to you bitch? You were looking fine about a year ago. Now, look at you, thinner than a spider’s dick and just as attractive. I know people who have put holes in their TV screens watching you do your thing but now they wouldn’t even fuck you with their little pinky.

MB: When I visited South Africa a year ago, I saw a lot of these tanned thin people walking around. I got the impression that it was the in thing to be the thin thing in South Africa. That’s why I transformed my look. Only after reaching here this time did I learn that those were impoverished kids minutes away from their deaths.

ZZ (smugly): Sorry I even asked. Listen you penis-puppy, ask what you want to ask and get this over with.

MB: How do you feel when both kids and adults go bonkers for you?

ZZ: I can accept the fact that kids are excited to see me. Kids are stupid. They are easily excited. Show them the lacerated head of Rajiv Gandhi and they’ll love it. But what I don’t understand is how adults, especially grown men, look at me and say things like “he’s so cute” “he’s so adorable” “I love Zoozoo”. What a bunch of fag-bombs!


fuck you all

MB: Fair enough. Now, Zoozoo, how do you respond to the rumors that you are animated?

ZZ (agitated): What? Who are these cunt-cats who’re spreading the rumor that I like doing it with animals? I was merely checking the quality of the wool when I touched that sheep. I did not animate with that sheep. Anyway, if the sheep didn’t object what’s people’s problem. I mean-

MB: Er, I think you misconstrued my question. Animated-as in computer generated.

ZZ (smiling his toothy embarrassed smile): Oh that…No, I’m not computer generated. I’m as real as it can get. I’m more real than Kim Kardashian’s papayas.

MB: One day I sported my apple bottom jeans and my husband said my papayas are way better than Kim Kardashian’s.

ZZ: Your papayas? Bitch, in your current state, you aren’t even qualified to talk about papayas. In fact, if you were a television set, you’d be a flat TV. If you were a dimension you’d be 1D. How can you even compare yourself with Kim Kardashian? She’s the Mother Teresa of tits and ass. And you, on the other hand, you’re just a fucking leper.

MB (coyly): My husband calls me that too.

ZZ: He calls you a fucking leper?

MB: Yeah, but in a loving way.

ZZ (perplexed): Why don’t we refrain ourselves from delving into your personal life? Let’s carry on with the interview.

MB: Sure, that would be super good. I have another question here which asks: “Are there any more new ads coming up?”

ZZ: There are a few more ads in the making yes. There’s one in which two drunk Zoozoos go into a room and start making out. Soon things get hot and heavy. And the next shot shows one Zoozoo running out with his face covered in blood.

MB: What Vodafone offer is it advertising?

ZZ: Menstrual Cycle Alerts.

MB: Wow, we women could really use that. Any other?

ZZ: There’s one where a Zoozoo couple, one wearing a hijab, is walking by and another Zoozoo makes a pass at the hijab-clad Zoozoo. The Zoozoo couple walks into a room and suddenly the hijab-wearing Zoozoo runs out screaming holding her crotch.

MB: And this is for…

ZZ: Genital Mutilation Alerts.

MB: Once again true brilliance. Whoever’s coming up with all this is just a creative genius. Now, one final question, something that’s been flitting around everyone’s mind. What are you, Zoozoo?

ZZ: What do you mean what am I, bitch?

MB: People have been wondering ever since you first showed up what exactly you are. Are you an egg? An evolved Humpty Dumpty? An alien, maybe? What are you?

ZZ: Touch me.

MB: What?

ZZ: Just put a finger on me, you pussy-cake.

(Mandira hesitantly touches Zoozoo)

MB: You feel…so…gooey and sticky…

ZZ: Now, suck your finger.

MB: What?

ZZ: Just suck your finger, you cunt-samosa.

(Mandira obliges)

MB: It tastes like that candy my uncle used to put in my mouth when we used to play ‘blindfold baker’.

ZZ: So, now you know what I am made of?

MB: Dough?

ZZ: I’m created out of cum.

MB: Pardon?

ZZ: Bitch, shut the fuck up. Do I look like the fucking President to give you a fucking pardon?

MB: You are made of cum?

ZZ: That’s right. In fact an exact description would be a ‘cum mutant’. I, and the rest of the Zoozoos, mutated out of all the cum that men waste jerking off. With their cum combined I am Zoozoo.

MB: Well, that marks the end of the interview. Thank you very much for your time, Zoozoo. I have one personal question left though.

ZZ: Go ahead, shoot.

MB: In all those ads your abdominal area seem so uniform…you know…no bulges…no protrusions…almost as if you have no…

ZZ: Don’t beat around the bush. You want to know if I have a cock or not?

MB: Yes.

(Zoozoo gets off his seat, unzips his pants, and whips out a massive dick)

ZZ: Does that answer your question?

MB (stunned): Good heavens. That’s at least an arm bigger than my husband’s. Zoozoo…

ZZ: Go ahead. You know you want to.

MB: I…

ZZ: Just suck it, bitch. You know you’ve been dreaming of blowing Zoozoo since the first time you laid eyes on him.

(Mandira slides off her chair, gets on her knees and begins orally pleasuring Zoozoo. Zoozoo calls out to a director who’s nearby and asks him to shoot the blowjob scene. The director acquiesces)

ZZ (looking down at MB): Say my name, bitch. Say it.

MB: Zoozoo…zoozoo…

The Director: Which feature of Vodafone do we advertise with this ad, Zoozoo?

ZZ: Facial alerts.

*** *** ***

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Snuff Hour Saturday, May 23 2009 

      I admit it’s been long since I’ve blogged. “Too long”, one email said. “Have you finally run out of venom, you cunt?” another mail politely enquired. “I think in an effort to find more shit you shoved your head so far up your shit hole you asphyxiated to death,” yet another fan surmised. While I appreciate the concern showed by my loyal followers- or pedophilic, murderous blotches on humanity as the police call them – it’s rather complicated for me to shed light on why I stayed dad- I rarely stay mum- on so many several issues all these months. Why the U.S President’s residence is still called the White House even after a black man is in charge; a theory about how the terrorists who attacked the Taj Hotel could have been scorned prior customers who were rendered bankrupt by the hotel’s exorbitant tariffs; how an ‘activist’- or a useless piece of maggot-ridden foreskin who wants his fifteen minutes of fame – upheld our Indian values by getting Akshay Kumar and his hot biatch wife Twinkle arrested for vulgarity. I confess I too always imagined situations involving Twinkle and handcuffs but somehow getting her arrested wasn’t quite what I had in mind. And a hundred other sundry instances when I felt like indulging in some graphic ranting but four words stopped me from doing so. “Oh, well, fuck it.” And then one day I came across something that didn’t just irk me. It vexed me. I swallowed my overpowering instincts- and mind you that’s the only thing I swallow- and decided not to react. And I waited almost two months hoping the bitter feeling of poison would disappear from the roof my mind. It hasn’t and therefore I’m forced to take up this unenviable task of misusing the English Language to vent my fury. If anyone of you reading this voluntarily switched off your electricity at eight thirty in the night on March 28, 2009 calling it the “earth hour” then let me be the first to inform you that you deserve nothing less than being tied to a gurney and subjected to a five hour bukkake by ten grisly bears and Ramesh Pawar.

        I’m as ecologically conscious as a stray canine. I mean, if I ever accidentally take a shit in the middle of the road I have the good sense and etiquette to hose it down with my urine. But when people, which include the ever conscientious media, start telling me to turn off all the switches at my place to save electricity because the whole world is doing so, that’s the kind of thing that galls my balls. No one gives a fuck even if their neighbor is raping his daughter or when thousands of kids are recruited to be terrorists at the age of four or five but when it comes to saving the fucking planet everyone wants to hold hands and act together. Otherwise it’s “your country, your problem”. And once again the most annoying thing of them all was the appearances made by these scrotum smelling celebrities who think that we are a bunch of brainless, mindless, spineless puppets who would fucking obey whatever the fuck they ask us to do just because they make more money than us. If Krista Allen thinks that merely because I have made love to my hand watching her “acting” she has the authority to tell me to switch off all my lights then that biatch is way off. And if Aamir Khan thinks having a cunning image consultant empowers him to start controlling my life then that little fucker would actually be better off suffering from short term memory loss because he can forget about it. When will these assholes realize that we don’t like being told what to do? It doesn’t matter if it’s the right thing or not- don’t fucking tell us what to do.

        Since the promotion of the “earth hour” was so vexing I had made up my mind to ‘switch on’ every single working thing in my home at eight thirty in the night on March 28. I bought half a dozen extension chords, borrowed a dozen irons and about twenty electric heaters and prepared myself for the MotherfuckingEarth Hour. And at eight twenty nine my finger began itching as it edged closer towards the switch to flick it on, and a minute later I found myself sitting in utter blackness. Not because I blew a fuse, not because I changed my mind and decided to acquiesce to what the world wanted but because at eight thirty on March 28 the power was forcibly cut by the government. The entire month they preached to us about doing what was right, acting now to save the planet, being responsible, and when the crunch time came they decided to cut the power no matter what. If you were one of those dumbasses all eager to play your part in saving the world, kindly enlighten me at which point of the power cut did your contribution happen. Now, why couldn’t they just have been a little more honest with you from the beginning and tell you what they were really thinking? Instead of painting this picture where you were this powerful individual who had the ability to make a difference why couldn’t they simply tell you “Listen, you dickless cretin. We will do as we please and there ain’t a fucking thing you can do about it.”

        So next time you want to do something along with the world for the greater good of humanity, or the planet, chuck the “earth hour” and go with my “snuff hour”. On any selected day at a fixed time, chosen after a universal poll, all the human beings stand next to each other, holding hands forming the largest possible human chain ever, and, oh, fully covered in kerosene. When the clock strikes the agreed upon hour the first human being in the chain and last human being in the chain take a lighter and flick it. Then we stand there and feel powerful until the two fires meet in the middle. The “earth hour” requires you to immerse our world in pitch blackness. I really don’t think darkness and obscurity is what we need in today’s world. Don’t we have a lot of that already? What we need is some light, some spark, and some fire. What we need is the “snuff hour”.

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