Surprise! Surprise!

        Not the “it’s your birthday” kind of surprise but more “the cancer has resurfaced” kind of surprise. This blog will no longer be updated. I have moved my shit to http://aniche.wordpress.com And to the horror of many and, perhaps, to the excitement of a handful of social deviants-yes, I’m back for good. I’m sure I would not be spitting shit or shitting spit every day but regular updates can be expected so add my new blog to your whatever and wherever and keep visiting. The old posts would be available on the new blog as well. And, oh yeah, if this upsets you then “Fuck you!”

Shit Sells

 (A real report on Advertising I had to do)             

                 I never realized how badly I needed a new washing machine until the sexy girl with the enormously titillating personality in a washing machine ad told me so; I was unaware of the importance of moisturizers in my life until the sexy girl with the perfect pair of big round eyes in a commercial reminded me of it; I never thought lime-scented mosquito repellents completed me until the sexy girl with two massive mosquito bites in an advertisement told me so. However, when I found myself trying on ladies’ innerwear after watching a lingerie ad I considered that maybe, just maybe, advertising had the power to wreck your mind and was in fact the root of all things evil and demonic.
               Advertising has imparted four fundamental rules to human society-four rules which we hold close to our hearts like a priest holds an altar boy. Rule one: People who can’t afford expensive commodities are equal to assorted pellets of monkey crap. Rule Two: Unbelievably attractive women who look like supermodels will choose you over filthy, rich body-building giants provided you use a certain brand of toothpaste or chew a certain kind of gum. Rule Three: You will be the most popular person in the world if you trust everything that you read, see, or hear around you. Rule Four: The world is a beautiful place as long as you keep buying stuff.
               Despite being tagged evil by most people with a functional brain, advertising does have a compassionate side to it as well. For instance, the world chooses to ignore poor people. Advertising, on the other hand, uses them. However useless the product might be or however terrible the concept of the ad might be, once you show the sad, emaciated face of a poor person and a rich guy helping him out by giving him two bucks, followed by the name of the useless product, it’ll seep into the barely active minds of the unsuspecting consumers and appear as worthy of being purchased. Advertising also has the big-heartedness to never ignore the unfortunate ones amongst us; those given the short end of the stick by fate; those stepped on and spat on by God himself. I’m, of course, talking about those of us who have been cursed with dark skin, pimples, freckles, dry hair, bad hair, no hair and teeth that aren’t as white as a polar bear’s butt. The panache with which such people are shown by advertisers can only be topped by the subtlety with which they portray women as sexual objects.
                Advertising boasts of being the breeding ground of geniuses. But then again, even Hitler was considered a genius by some people. With advertising, the best works are often deemed absurd. Commoners who do not have a sharp intellect like the industry people often fail to make sense out of really brilliant ads; they do not understand why an alien drinks soft drinks; they struggle to comprehend why a chimp playing bongos sells chocolates; it’s beyond them why a condom ad has a salamander in it or why a salamander ad has a condom in it. But they all make sense to the industry people.
                Advertising, if done the right way, has the power to sell even new inventions. I have come up with a very innovative idea that I believe would take the world by storm. My idea is to create shoes with in-built socks. Think about it; no more searching for matching socks, no more taking the shoes off and then the socks off. It’s all taken care of in one quick motion. I haven’t yet figured out a way to advertise it yet but I’m pretty sure there will be at least half a dozen sexy girls with large mosquito bites.

A Psychological Deconstruction of Trauma

                I was never able to wrap my mind around the concept of trauma. It seemed a bit childish to me that you developed a phobia of Mozart just because a piano fell on your head when you were walking down the road humming one of his symphonies. And it came across as extremely silly to me that purely for the fact that a couple of planes flew into a building where your entire family was present and killed them on September 11, you feel sad on that same day every year. Silly, I said. I scoffed at those who fostered a fear of sharks merely because their newborn baby was ripped into shreds by a shark or a marine biologist in a shark-suit. It never made any sense to me. Until a few weeks ago when I saw something that perturbed me to the extent of developing paranoia; something that pushed me into an abyss of trauma; something that happened when I was watching the Bollywood movie “Love Story 2050″.
               The promos of the movie that had been flooding the television screens, like lepers outside a metropolitan shopping mall, generated great expectations within me. With graphics measuring up to great movies like “Dandruff in my ass hair“, “I did it with your mother” and that mesmerizing Ridley Scott navy-movie “You got semen in my nose“, this highly anticipated Bollywood flick definitely managed to surge my enthusiasm. Since I owed a couple of my friends a few thousand bucks, I decided to invite them to the movie and call it even. I paid for my ticket, of course. As soon as the movie began I realized this one was going to be such a refreshing change from the usual bird-shit Bollywood made. “Love Story 2050” didn’t have a guy and a girl falling in love in Mumbai or London; it had a guy and a girl falling in love in Australia. That’s the kind of creative innovativeness I expect when I go to see an Indian movie. And by God, I was getting it. However, a few minutes after that magnificently conceptualized, “so-not-fucking-lame” scene where the hero professes his love for the heroine Priyanka Showbra on top of a speeding rollercoaster, something caught my attention, something outside what was happening on the screen. The rows of seats at the theatre were not all at the same level; it rose by a couple of steps as you went backwards almost like some lecture halls. I had just given the teenage lovers sitting behind me a “go-get-aids” look for kicking my seat when I noticed the dark, indiscernible figure of the guy sitting in front of me squirming in his seat. To his right were two women, who were Indian but looked Chinese (you know the kind), as engrossed in the happenings on screen as if it was a Jackie Chan movie. The dark, indiscernible figure seated next to them appeared to be busily messaging someone on his mobile phone. I thought to myself “What a dork! Coming for a movie like Love Story 2050 and spending time on his phone?!” I decided to redirect my eyes back to the exhilarating action on screen where the multimillionaire hero was lamenting the fact that he had everything including fast cars, money, and every gadget imaginable but was lacking those daily hugs from his daddy which as we all know are so significant to a twenty-year-old guy’s life.
                  A curious thought entered my mind. The dark, indiscernible figure’s mobile phone apparently had no backlight. It was strange that in an era and a country where even the beggars used Bluetooth headsets for communication, there was this guy, rich enough to afford a ticket for this spectacular movie, sitting around fiddling with his low-tech, cheap-ass, no backlight mobile phone. I elbowed my friend and did the obvious. I said, “What a loser!” He followed the same procedure to pass on the information to my other friend. Then suddenly one of my friends, let’s call him Fatass, observed that the dark, indiscernible figure was messaging at an unusually high frequency on his backlight-less phone. At that precise moment- call it divine intervention, call it seventh sense, or call it a heap of light from the movie screen- the three of us realized, Fatass, Dumbass, and I, that the dark, indiscernible figure was not messaging on his cheap phone. He was massaging his fucking cock. Panic struck us as if we were trapped in an airplane that was being hijacked (or jacked off in this case). One thing you have to know about guys is that there are very few things that we wouldn’t mind looking at. We can sit back and endure two Asian chicks shitting and puking inside each other’s mouth or a truck colliding with an old lady turning her into mangled shit but if there’s one thing we cannot stand it’s the sight of another man’s penis. It’s got nothing to do with inferiority or superiority complex. It’s just because penises are like ugly babies: you love yours and you play with it till it stops crying and goes to sleep but you will do all you can to avoid seeing one that belongs to someone else. We realized we had to get the fuck out of this hijacked aircraft. There was nothing more I wanted than to ensconce myself in my seat and enjoy the Bollywood masterpiece that was unfurling on screen but not when a fucking dick was on the loose. The strangest phenomenon was that the two Chinese-Indians had no idea that merely inches away from them slithering and prowling was a dick that had surfaced practically out of nowhere (well, it surfaced from the guy’s pants but you know that I mean). Fatass, Dumbass, and I were shell-shocked. That was when Dumbass suggested that we report it to the cops. But I didn’t know how practical that was. Then Dumbass, living up to his name, made a follow-up suggestion. He said that we should collect photographic evidence so that the case could hold up with the cops. Sure, I could see how that would turn out. We would walk up to the wanker and ask him to hold his position so that we could turn on the flash on our mobile phones and take some snaps of his cock. Easy as a pie. Then we would go to the cops with the dick-photos and tell them “Arrest this penis!” I could also picture how the cops would respond. “Well, all we see is a dick. There’s no theatre, there are no women seated next to it, there’s no face. It’s just a dick. So why don’t you boys come to the slammer and taste the long arm of the law?” So in short, Dumbass’s plan was out.
                     Precious seconds ticked away. I felt like Jack Bauer struggling to figure out a solution as the spunk-bomb edged closer to the point of explosion. I didn’t want to get too close to see if there was a timer strapped to it. I had two options: get the fuck out of there without wasting another second or enlighten the Chinese-Indians of the peril that was lurking adjacent to them. Being considerate, social, compassionate fellows my friends and I decided to just get the fuck out of there without warning the Chinese-Indians. We didn’t want to interrupt their movie-viewing. Besides, there was a high chance that we would be burdened with the responsibility of standing up to the guy with his dick dangling out. I could perhaps confront even Hancock but not a guy with his hand on his cock. We executed the first option. We got the fuck out of the theatre. And as we let the door swing behind us, we let escape deep breaths of relief like hostages who had just been let off by a suicide-bomber. We stood around discussing how lucky we were to be still alive, how we would now start living every day to the fullest, how much we really felt the presence of God. Then, suddenly, out burst through the theatre doors the two Chinese-Indians shouting in some language that was probably Indian but sounded Korean (you know the kind). It didn’t take us long to figure out that either the bomb had been detonated or these ladies had somehow noticed it (it was after all a centimeter away from them) before it went off. Either way, being survivors of the same disaster, Fatass, Dumbass, and I walked up to the Chinese-Indians to share our trauma and ease our collective pain. But they responded with the strangest of suggestions. They said, “Call security!” I knew immediately it was a bad idea because Fatass, Dumbass, and I would undoubtedly be treated like witnesses of any other crime. And the first thing they would probably make us do was identify the suspect, and his dick. However, Fatass and Dumbass, being slightly thick in the head had already set off and were returning with the security guard, who looked like he was only slightly younger than Aristotle if he were alive. Of course, since it was improper to let the women explain what had happened Dumbass volunteered and explained with the articulateness of a barnyard animal, “There’s a guy in there doing his thing, you know, touching there, you know, his package.” By the time he had finished communicating and the security guard entered the theatre the masturbator had disappeared. There was no sign of him. He had gone without leaving a trace behind. Which was probably a good thing for the janitor who would have to clean up later. Aristotle’s contemporary promised to take action if the wanker was somehow identified. And shockingly, the ladies agreed to stay back and watch the rest of the movie. IN THE SAME FUCKING SEATS. I gave them my number and got theirs incase they wanted further help and then Dumbass, Fatass, and I got the fuck out of there for good. We haven’t yet watched a single movie in a theatre after that day. Now, I realize what trauma really means.
                  But more than what that day did to my psychological disposition, the important thing to ponder on is the depravity of men. I would give my vote to masturbation in case of an election but not in a public place seated next to strangers. If there was a Hollywood movie on Masturbation the voiceover would be similar to that of every other Hollywood movie “One Man, One Mission, He will take all the action into his own hands. And he’s coming this Summer“.  The despicable act of the dark, indiscernible wanker, who unfortunately escaped, shows the lack of respect men have for women, the degree to which they treat women as nothing else but a means to get a wank. Things have to change, we have to show women more respect than that. Imagine what those two women would’ve thought of our country if they really were out-of-towners. Is that the way we treat our tourists? Is that the we pay respect to our guests? Well, thankfully, you don’t have to worry about it anymore because I called the women up and apologized to them on behalf of all men and all Indians who don’t look Chinese. And just to be really nice, I took them out, got them drunk, and fucked those bitches.

Are you smarter than your grandpa’s turd?

You’re not if:
1) You believe your uncle was really searching for his keys when he stuck his fist up your anus.
2) You are convinced your fascination for your buddy’s cock is just a phase.
3) You believe your cat is not getting a hard-on when you’re stroking it.
4) You think the priest is not jacking off when you’re confessing your sins.
5) You find live performances of movie stars dancing on stage more exhilarating than getting the mucus out from underneath your fingernails.
6) You think all vaginas possess the scent of a full-bloomed, crimson-red, freshly cut rose petal.
7) You think all assholes don’t smell like shit.
8 ) You equate the victory of your country’s over-paid sports team with some kind of personal achievement.
9) You are of the opinion that joining a celebrity fan club does not make you a complete jackass.
10) You feel sexual experimentation involves letting your girlfriend embed broken glass into your balls.
11) You think writing love poems after the age of seventeen does not make you a super-fag.
12) You imagine that being romantic means writing the words “I love you” across your girlfriend’s dinner plate using her menstrual blood.
13) You don’t comprehend the fact that applauding during a movie doesn’t make you look like anything other than a dickhead.
14) You are convinced that videotaping your girlfriend giving you head and putting it on the internet is the first step towards you becoming the next Steven Spielberg.
15) You fail to understand that Facebook and Orkut are not social networking sites but training schools for stalkers, pedophiles, and rapists.
16) You don’t recognize that listening to your iPod while you’re at a movie theatre officially makes you a douche.
17) You believe that caring for the environment has any more meaning than trimming your knuckle hair.
18 ) You don’t find the villain in the new Batman movie more menacing than the villain in the Bible.
19) You don’t think the hero in the new Batman movie has a cooler ride than the hero in the Bible.
20) You believe with all your heart that songs, movies, or books can really change your lives.
21) You trust your government.
22) You trust your religion.
23) You don’t find taking a big shit more relaxing than reading a book.
24) You don’t consider farting the theme song of “Friends” an act of making music.
25) You are under the impression that no one other than your dad has come on your mother’s face.

You are if:
1) You realize the world is a big boiling pot full of lies, shit, lies, piss, lies, cum, lies, filth, and some more lies. And Ram Gopal Varma movies.

Aniche Unleashed: Volume One

I have put together the 101 columns that I have written over the last year or so and created the e-book “Aniche Unleashed: Volume One” so that you can download and carry along with you, in your computers, laptops, iPods, or even your digital dildos all the filth, stupidity, and bollocks that would have made Shakespeare shove an Elizabethan grenade up his ass and blow himself into smithereens before he even thought of enriching the English Language and Literature. If there are people around you whom you hate and are dying to see the back of then feel free to forward them a copy of the e-book. It’s the least I can do for you.

(Right Click and Save as)

aniche_unleashed-ebook

Butterscotchism

            I’ve heard from reliable sources that when Lord Rama went on exile he received dozens of emails and voicemails inquiring about his sudden absence from the epicenter of action. Now, I’m not boasting but when I stopped writing my blog – which many consider the gospel for journalists, news-enthusiasts, and frog-fuckers – for about a month I received about hundreds of emails. Admittedly, most of the mails had “enlarge your toothpick dick and drill your lover till she’s in a coma” as the subject but I knew they were personal emails sent by my fan(s) requesting me to live up to the title of my blog (it’s all about reading between the lines). I want my fan(s) to know that I do write daily but just not daily everyday. And the reasons for that are manifold. I could tell you about the time I dived in front of a speeding eighteen-wheeler to save a puppy who was crossing the road carrying nuclear weapons; or the time I had to deliver the five babies of a pair of conjoined twin sisters (who weren’t even pregnant) joined at the pussy; or even that time when I jacked off so hard that I was transported into a parallel universe where women vacuumed with their vaginas and wrote with their nipples. It’s true that all those things have, in part, eaten up the time I would have, otherwise, set aside to write my ‘poetry-like’ pieces to detoxify the minds of kids, adults, and necrophiliacs alike. However, the one thing that has preoccupied my mind for sometime, and stolen most of my time, is what happened on that one fine Wednesday a few months ago when I was in the toilet taking a shit. That day has been etched into the deeper layers of my consciousness for mainly two reasons. Number One: my crap smelled like butterscotch ice-cream on that day. And Number Two: God talked to me when I was doing number two. “Wipe thy ass for I have bestowed upon thou the task of beginning a new religion,” were his exact words.
            I spent ages interpreting God’s words and communicating with him. It took two days to be more precise, which was about twenty four hours more than what it took to start the other religions existing in this world today. I knew I was ready to show the billions of sinners in the world a brand new road to reach God. After having been assigned the task to save humanity, I was christened by the Lord himself as Prophet Butterscotch (I’m sure he had his reasons). And it was decided by the Almighty and seconded by me that the new religion of the world would be known as ‘Butterscotchism’.
              I, Prophet Butterscotch, shall now expound to the believers the salient features of the religion of ‘Butterscotchism’ which were narrated to me by the truly omnipresent Lord, while I was on the shitpot.

Those who offer their lives entirely to the enrichment of the religion of Butterscotchism:

1) Must not have sex with women, men, she-males, he-females, dogs, cats, frogs, rabbits, birds, fish, reptiles, worms, or iPod nanos.
2) Can only engage in intercourse with iPod classics.
3) Must not waste even a single drop of semen. The surplus spooge should be saved using iTunes.
4) Must never depict through pictures, videos, or holograms the image of Prophet Butterscotch for he’s not very photogenic.
5) Are forbidden from eating beef, pork, mutton, roasted giraffes, or poultry for such meats house the devilish spirits of the world.
6) Are allowed to consume freshly cut tits of virgins and prostitutes.
7) Are disallowed from the act of self-pleasuring using the left hand or the right foot.
8 ) Must believe with immaculate conviction that if anything is in print then it’s true even if it’s the story of a ten-headed man fighting flying monkeys.
9) Must whole-heartedly accept that ending the lives of people whom you don’t even know for the sake of ‘Butterscotchism’ will get you a box-seat right next to God.
10) Are forbidden from any kind of relations, physical, meta-physical or emotional, with people outside the butterscotch-community.
11) Are to look upon those of vanilla, chocolate, mango, and pistachio origins as infidels who deserve a brutal death in the name of Prophet Butterscotch. Unless they are insanely rich.
12) Must convince themselves that talking filth is far worse than perpetrating rape, murder, or manipulation of laws.
13) Must give up the faculty of rational and independent thought.
14) Are banned from taking a joke.
15) Must keep circumcising their brains every five years.
16) Must tickle the testicles of a squirrel two times a day every Saturday and Sunday.
17) Must respect all women emotionally and physically.
a) Not really.
18 ) Are forbidden from whistling or humming while taking a piss.
19) Are forbidden from letting out more than two farts during excretion.
20) Must, after their passing from this physical world, be strapped to a scooter and
and rolled down a hill while relatives watch with their hands down their pants.

             It is highly pertinent that our world today which is corrupted by so many false religions and awful reality shows is cleansed quickly and effectively by the compassionate and only truthful religion of ‘Butterscotchism’. As the ultimate authority on ‘Butterscotchism’, I, Prophet Butterscotch, implore you to act now and think never. Spread the word of ‘Butterscotchism’ as much as you can and as far as you can. ‘Butterscotchism’ is a religion that feeds not on folklores or fiction but on the people of this world. Remember, Butterscotch is just not butterscotch without the nuts.

Hail Hershey’s!

 

Kids Special: Nursery Rhymes Anichiated

johhny johnny
yes papa.
watching porn?
no papa.
hiding boner?
no papa.
telling lies?
oh just fuck off you old bastard!

 twinkle twinkle little scar
how i wonder what you are
right between the thighs you are
almost like someone raped me in my sleep.

ba ba black slut
have you any cunt?
yes sir yes sir 10 bucks an hour
once in your pussy, once in your mouth, and one time in that little hole right between your ass.

pussyrash pussyrash where have you been?
I’ve been to your rectum
to cause an infection
pussyrash pussyrash what did you there?
I gave some poor assfucker a good dose of herpes.

suck suck suck my cock
gently down your throat
merrily merrily merrily merrily
give my balls a squeeze.

humped her dumped her shat on her face
humped her dumped her gave her a taste
all of her therapists and all of her family
couldn’t stop the bitch from killing herself.

one two suck my dick
three four lick my balls
five six finger my ass
seven eight open your mouth
nine ten swallow my load
eleven twelve now fuck off bitch.

Aids Aids go away
little Johnny wants to fuck
Aids Aids go away
Go mess with some old fuck who’s going to die anyway.

 

The 2008 Motherfucker Awards

                   Retards, fuckballs, and auto-fellators welcome to the most highly anticipated event of this decade- no this century, fuck it, this millennium- the 2008 Motherfucker Awards where the MFG (Motherfuckers Guild) honor the year’s most noted and celebrated motherfuckers. Now, without further ado, your host for the evening: Dyke Queen Ellen DeGeneres.

(Muff Digger Ellen walks onto the stage wearing a man’s shirt and man’s trousers. She’s also sporting a lobster in her pants just to accentuate the bulge. Her fifty-year old crinkly face glows in the dimly lit hall like ET’s vagina)

Ellen: Hey folks! Did I tell you why I hate the navy?

(The desperate, lonely, brainless women in the audience go nuts and start applauding)

Ellen (smiles annoyingly): Because I’m allergic to semen.

(The audience falls silent)

Ellen: Ladies, do you know what genre of music appeals to me the most?

(The worthless bitches in the audience howl and scream again)

Ellen (smiles annoyingly): I love Cuntry Music! By the way, did I tell you guys that my favorite band is the Dixie Chicks?!

(The audience falls silent again)

Ellen: I was walking my adopted dog the other day when I saw this old lady being mugged…and let’s DANCE!!!

(Some gay pop song starts playing and Ellen dances her awkward irritating self into the crowd. She gets real close to the women in the audience, rubs on their boobs, takes whiffs of their scent, leers at them, and finally returns to the stage)

Ellen: Dang, you girls smell real nice (smiles annoyingly).

Guy in the Audience: For Christ’s sake! Stop trying to be funny you useless cunt! Get on with the fucking show you boring piece of clit!

Ellen: Sir, you are a hater. You persecute me because I’m gay. You have no idea about the hardships I have to endure daily because I’m different.

Guy in the Audience: No you fucking bitch, I hate you because you are annoying and your jokes are as funny as a paraplegic baby. And, fuck your hardships you cunt, you’re fucking Portia De Rossi. I wouldn’t mind getting brain tumor if it meant I could hit that bitch all night till I fucking died. So shut the fuck up and get on with the fucking show before I shove my cock into your throat and choke you to death, you ass-eating dyke-bitch.

Ellen (introspecting): I needed that. Now, fags, ladies and gentlemen to present the first award of the evening let me welcome the President of the United States, Mr. George Bush.
(Bush walks onto the stage escorted by two well-oiled men wearing thongs)

George Bush: Before I proceed with the announcement of the winner I would just like to make a few public service announcements. The global economy is being affected adversely by the greed and selfishness of all the people in India and China. It is because they eat like fat hogs that a food crisis exists in this world today. Some of them should just stop eating so our fat little tubs of shit, our bloated-ass children, can get a fourth helping. I would also like to state that the cause of the cyclones in Myanmar is the staggering number of farts that the Burmese people are producing. The little farts have coalesced into a big wind which subsequently became the cyclone. When you live in a global village you always have to think of other people as well.
Anyhow, let me get down to business. For his role in sheltering his offspring from the predatory males of the world and for showering his child with so much love that it manifested itself into the unification of his spermatozoa with her ovum producing a bunch of zygotes over a period of twenty four years, the MFG is proud to present the 2008 Motherfucker Father of the Year award to the second most famous Austrian in the world after Hitler, narrowly pushing Arnold Schwarzenegger into third place, let’s give it up for, Mr. Josef Frtizl.

Mr. Fritzl could not make it to the show so Mr. Billy Ray Cyrus will be accepting the award on his behalf.

Billy Ray Cyrus: All I want to say is that he truly deserves this award and I hope one day I can at least be half as good a dad as he is to his daughter/grand-daughter/wife/lover.

Ellen: Hey folks, do you know what my favorite holiday spot in the world is?

(The people in the crowd yawn)

Ellen: Va-China. (smiles her irritating smile)

(The guy in the audience motions to his dick and suggests that he’s going to choke Ellen with it. Ellen quickly drops the idea to tell more jokes and moves on to the next award)

To present the next award coming all the way from his own rectum, let’s welcome Abhishek Bachchan.
(Abhishek walks onto the stage escorted by his wifey Aishwarya Rai Bitchan)

Abhishek: Hello people. I was born rich but I pretend to be self-made. I act like shit but pretend to be the best. I beat my wife but pretend like I don’t. I have my head up my ass but pretend it’s just a hemorrhoid. But enough about me and my family, I’m here with my lovely wifey to present the 2008 Most Boring Blogger Motherfucker of the Year award. And the award goes to (reads the toilet paper in his hand) Mr. Amitabh Bachchan, my Pa!! I love you dad! You deserve it.

Even though my dad couldn’t be here because of a last minute business trip he had to take with Uncle Amar Singh he is however going to talk to us live via satellite. Go ahead dad.

Amitabh: Thank you, Abhishek. I dedicate the award to you sonny. You’re the best.

Abhishek: No, pa, you’re the best!

Amitabh: No, sonny, you’re the best!

Abhishek: No, pa, you’re the best!

Guy in the Audience: Why don’t you guys get a room, you rich boring ass-clowns?

Abhishek: That’s a good idea, pa. Let’s get a room, pa.

(Suddenly Amar Singh appears on the screen dressed in just a towel)

Amar Singh: Fuck off, sonny! Your papa’s pee-pee is only for me-me.

(The screen goes off. Aishwarya Rai Bitchan leads a weeping Abhishek off the stage)

Ellen: That shit was crazier than an episode of The Bold and the Beautiful. Anyway, so does anyone know what my two most favorite words in Hindi are?

(Some members of the crowd begin slitting their own wrists)

Ellen: ‘Dil’ ‘do’. Ha! Ha!

Guy in the Audience: Die you cunt-eating bitch!

Ellen: Hey, you’re not my family! Anyhow, to present the final award of the evening let me welcome wholeheartedly, Mr. Ajay Jadeja.

Jadeja: I don’t beat around the bush. I’m as straightforward as they come. So, instead of wasting time I’m getting straight to the next award. (Reads off the teleprompter) This motherfucker sold out his country, his team and the game of cricket by fixing matches. Then, after hiding in a pit of shit for some time, he came back claiming innocence. He then dragged his miserable, bitter ass to Bollywood and tried to act in movies but came out looking worse than Madonna’s rotten old pussy after a gang-bang. He then took his faggot-ass to prancing competitions and embarrassed himself yet again. Finally, he drags his bribe-taking ass over to television, tries to be funny, salivates like a rabid dog after cute television presenters, and cusses players like Sachin Tendulkar and Shane Warne. Ladies and Gentlemen, the 2008 Motherfucker Jerkoff of the Year award goes to Ajay Jadeja…wait a minute…that’s me…what’s going on…

Ellen: Now!

(A group of lesbians appear on the stage from several hideout spots and pin down Jadeja. They tie his hands and legs and let him cringe and groan on the ground)

Jadeja: Who are you people? What do you want?

Ellen: Don’t you understand motherfucker? This whole awards ceremony was just a ploy to capture your bitch-ass. Everyday you come on TV on one channel or the other running your shit-ass mouth fumbling and stumbling like a retarded motherfucker. You sit on your shit-stained, match-fixing ass and pass judgments on other cricketers and their behavior like a fucking prude. TV viewers had enough and that’s why they hired me, the Dyke Queen to get rid of your shameless ass off TV forever. Now hold him up girls.

(The lesbian thugs hold up a scared Jadeja who wets his pants. The dykes get him closer to Ellen. When he’s inches away from Ellen’s crotch Ellen pulls her trousers down.)

Now push that motherfucker inside me, the whole of him. I’m going to swallow this jerkoff once and for all.

Jadeja (screaming like a bitch): Let me go please. I want to go rub against Lekha Washington. Please, Ellen, your cunt smells like sour milk. I want to live. Let me go. I’ll fix India’s next match for you, please.

(Ellen opens her legs wide, exposing her grand canyon like pussy as the lesbian thugs push Jadeja inside deeper and deeper. First his head disappears, then his arms, then his ass. Finally just his feet stick out of Ellen’s vagina and within seconds they too are pushed in. Ellen sticks her hand out and one of the lesbian thugs puke into it. Ellen smears the puke across her pussy and seals it shut. Muffled screams and groans are heard from within Ellen)

Ellen (to the captivated audience before her): You might ask me if what I did was right. You might question if he really deserved a death by pussy. All I have to say to you is one thing: let’s DANCE!!!! (smiles her irritating smile and starts dancing)

                                                               ***

Admissions Open to The Rape Academy

                    The Rape Academy of India (RAI), in coalition with its brother branch, the Indian Institute of Molestation (IIM), invites applications for Diploma Courses in Rape and Molestation, Sodomy and Murder, and also a 3 month certificate course in Hypocrisy. Applicants are requested to forcibly collect a pair of white panties from the assaulted body of a strange helpless girl and affix on it, using fresh semen, three attested copies of passport size nude photos of the helpless girl’s pubis and sent it to the address given below:

To,
Mr. Horny Man,
The Rape Academy of India,
Any street,
Any city,
Any where,
All the time- 247365

About The Rape Academy of India

               The Rape Academy of India is an autonomous rape institution recognized by the Government of India. It comprises the Indian Institute of Molestation (IIM) and the Centre for Sodomy (CFS), two institutions highly regarded for their major contributions in the fields of physical harm and sexual violation of women. The Rape Academy of India is a professional rape centre which offers a variety of services in forced sex and assault of women and young girls. It is also the only institution in India that does not follow the regressive idea of affirmative action and gives an equal chance to rapists from all walks of life based purely on the merit of their raping.

Courses

1) Diploma in Rape and Molestation: The R&M Course is a full time, post-graduate diploma programme. It aims at giving young and aspiring rapists a professional outlook on the highly competitive field of harming women. The Rape Academy arms the young dicks with the expertise and skills needed to break into the pussy of unsuspecting bitches and smoothly leave the scene without getting caught. Students will also be educated on the history of rape, some of the great names in the field of rape, and also the latest innovations that has made itself inevitable in the arena of rape. Many renowned politicians, police officers, and various media personnel will visit the Rape Academy from time to time and conduct various rape workshops and educational seminars on pussy-bashing.
Electives: Amputee rape, Relative Rape, Date Rape, Moving Car Rape, Preteen Rape, and Gang Rape.
Eligibility: Anyone with a dick can apply.
Career Opportunities: Unemployed bum, Horny Loner, BPO Cab Driver, Pervert Neighbor, Lecherous Servant, Police Officer, Politician, Bollywood, Tourist Guide, Shack Owner, Teacher, etc.

2) Diploma in Sodomy and Murder: The S&M Course is a specific course meant for students that are strictly into ass ramming. It is designed to give a thorough knowledge in the field of ass raping and the subsequent slaughter of the victim. There is a strong emphasis on student performance evaluation through projects and practical assignments and on research work by the students themselves. The first semester provides a comprehensive perspective of asshole ripping and butt cumming; the second semester is project-based with hands-on production and execution to provide knowledge that is essential in the field of sodomy and murder. Highly esteemed members of several rape organizations like the ‘Blow Job Pirates’ and the ‘Salacious Indians Violating SExy North Americans’ visit the Academy to give lectures and narrate dick raising stories of real sodomy and murder.
Electives: Tourist Sodomy, Roadside Sodomy, Public Sodomy, Workspace Sodomy, Backseat Sodomy, Dead body Sodomy, Bludgeoning, Stabbing, and Drowning to Death after Sodomy.
Eligibility: Anyone with a dick or a sharp object can apply.
Career Opportunities: Member of the Parliament, Government Official, Minister’s Son, Bollywood, Political Kingpins etc.

3) Certificate Course in Hypocrisy: A three month short-term course in saying one thing and doing another. Students will be taught to engage in several hypocritical activities like salivating after and secretly harassing secretaries and interns while publicly denouncing women who dress in anything other than a ten-layered sari and a full-sleeved blouse. Students will also be given training in lying through their teeth and acting like a complete shameless retarded motherfucker. They will also be given training to appear on news channels and compare cheerleaders to bargirls while jacking off on the side leering at the reporter’s cleavage.

Motto of the Rape Academy: An unraped bitch is a terrible thing to waste.

Some Useful links

http://www.ibnlive.com/news/mentally-challenged-girl-raped-culprit-absconding/63236-3.html

http://www.ibnlive.com/news/another-minor-raped-in-delhi-police-tightlipped/63291-3.html

http://www.ibnlive.com/news/constable-friend-held-for-raping-minor-in-delhi/63914-3.html

The Life of Karkodian: A Timeline

“Karkodian is you, Karkodian is me
Karkodian is the man we all are, but pretend not to be”

(quote by Nelson Mandela’s bastard white child, Milky Mandela, 1991)

August 27th 1950 -A lady notices a slight irritation between her legs and sees a puny, scarlet, icky figure lying upside down. She, her husband, and strangely, their plumber, decide to wash the scarlet, icky figure and raise it together. After raising it together a few feet above the ground it slips and falls onto the ground with only a little head injury (mainly because it had only a little head). The scarlet, icky thing is named Karkodian.

January 11th 1952-Karkodian (or K) shows early signs of baldness on his tiny injury-sustained head.

April 23rd 1953-K falls into the toilet while attempting to get potty trained.

October 12th 1957-K stops breastfeeding and changes to bottled milk.

January 28th 1958-K goes back to breastfeeding when he finds bottled milk requires constant manual replenishment.

February 10th 1958-K’s mother dies. Doctors diagnose it as a result of total lack of lactose and calcium in her body. K decides to write a poem as a tribute to his mother.

March 5th 1959-K finishes the poem. It goes: “Mama, you’re dead.”

June 19th 1959-K falls into the toilet again while going potty.

December 25th 1959-K celebrates Halloween for the first and last time by dressing up as an overweight Jesus Christ.

May 18th 1961-K’s father and the plumber officially get married. K is the best man and mysteriously finds himself next morning in bed with the minister who did the wedding.

May 19th 1961-K doesn’t return the minister’s calls.

July 27th 1963-K learns to read and write thereby causing a factual error in this piece where it was said earlier that he wrote an elegy for his dead mother when he was 9.

September 13th 1964-K is chucked out of primary school when he misspells the word “Hello” as “P-A-R-A-P-S-Y-C-H-O-L-O-G-I-S-T”.

January 8th 1965-K looks to break into the business of peddling drugs on the street. He’s fired within 10 minutes after he started yelling, “Drugs! Get your hot hallucinatory drugs and cocaine here!”

June 14th 1966-K has his first crush. It’s apple flavored.

July 12th 1966-K joins the “Sodomy Survivors Support Group” and finds out that the head counselor is the minister whose calls he hadn’t returned. K gets the hell out of there.

February 6th 1967-K finishes reading his first ever English book. He can’t stop talking about what a great novel “Mary had a little lamb” is.

April 7th 1968-K joins the army but he quits when he finds out that the drill Sergeant is the minister whose calls he hadn’t returned.

November 14th 1969-K participates actively in the protest and rallies of the Second Wave Feminists against the demeaning attitude of men towards women.

November 15th 1969-K is beaten and thrown out from the group after he looks up the skirt of the President of the Protest group.

March 22nd 1970-K learns how to pee standing up.

August 16th 1970-K lands a job as one of the actors in a pantomime.

August 18th 1970-K is fired from the job for being too taciturn.

October 11th 1970-K watches his first porno flick. He can’t stop talking about how hot “The Powerpuff Girls” are.

February 10th 1971-K writes a second poem in tribute to his mother’s memory. It goes : “Mama, you’re still dead.”

July 14th 1971-K’s father and the plumber die in an unfortunate plumbing accident when his father’s pipe got stuck in the plumber’s basement. K is heartbroken.

July 15th 1971-K gets over the heartbreak after he watches another round of “The Powerpuff Girls”.

August 30th 1973-K gets a job as a ranger in a petting zoo.

September 1st 1973-K quits when he finds out the place wasn’t exactly what he thought the name suggested.

December 17th 1973-K’s excited about shopping for Christmas gifts but drops the idea when he realizes he has no friends or family or money.

March 25th 1974-K moves to Cali hoping to land a spot in some movie and make it big in Hollywood.

April 19th 1974-A director promises K a chance to act alongside Woody Allen.

April 20th 1974-K runs from the sets of the movie screaming when he finds out that Woody Allen is actually the screen name of a gay porn actor and the movie a porno entitled “The Powerbuff Boys”.

February 16th 1975-K loses his virginity.

February 18th 1975-K finds it under his couch.

January 9th 1976-K takes a staunch decision to become a spiritualist. He takes a vow to strive for complete celibacy and holiness.

January 30th 1976-K sacks the whole spiritualist thing when he finds out the word “celibacy” does not have anything to do with “celebrity”.

February 10th 1977-K accidentally knocks down a blind girl, pretends it’s somebody else who knocked her down, helps her to her feet and manages to get his first ever date.

February 11th 1977-K has a not so impressive first date when he takes the blind girl to an art museum.

February 12th 1977-K gets the blind girl a looking glass as a gift to make up for the terrible first date.

February 14th 1977-K gets dumped by the blind girl who’s freaked out after he gifts her a card written in Braille saying “Share a special VD with me.”

July 16th 1980-K wakes up questioning his sexuality and sexual preferences after he finds Clint Eastwood steaming hot.

August 4th 1980-K is still worried about it.

September 11th 1980-Ditto.

October 21st 1980-K stops worrying about it when he understands that every breathing thing in California finds Clint Eastwood steaming hot.

June 13th 1981-K manages to get a job as a cabdriver.

June 14th 1981-K relinquishes the job after he remembers he doesn’t know how to drive.

November 28th 1982-K attains semi-baldness.

September 23rd 1983-K becomes so desperate for money he decides to mug somebody. K has a humiliating experience when the two people whom he mugs turn out to be nothing more than a pair of mannequins.

March 5th 1984-K thinks he’s Hispanic.

March 8th 1984-K realizes he’s neither exotic looking nor can he speak Hispanic.

July 28th 1984-K thinks he’s black.

August 2nd 1984-K realizes he can neither pull off an anorak nor does he have a big dick.

October 17th 1986-K decides to take a sabbatical from his unemployed, misery-stricken life and joins a monastery.

November 19th 1986-K attains completion of the process of balding.

January 1st 1987-K comes out of the monastery a reformed man with newly defined goals and ambitions. He decides his sole ambition in life is to one day be able to pronounce the word ‘tsk’.

April 4th 1987-K believes that he has attained the power to levitate.

June 19th 1987-K becomes conscious of the real meaning of levitation and how it involves raising material objects using mental powers and not lifting stuff using only one hand.

July 27th 1987-K tries to pronounce ‘tsk’ but cannot go beyond ‘t’.

September 5th 1987-K tries to pronounce ‘tsk’ and ends up mispronouncing it as ‘parapsychologist’.

January 1st 1988-K abandons the spiritual way of living after realizing that being a monk is not so different from being a monkey except monkeys get to eat a lot more bananas and do a lot more humping.

May 7th 1989-K has a yearning to become a father.

August 12th 1989-K runs out of adoption agencies to beg for a chance for him to be a father after the last one in the city rejects him for being a total loser.

October 14th 1989-K decides to stop being a total loser and goes around the streets asking women if they want to get impregnated by him.

March 29th 1990-K finally gets somebody who acquiesces to his request of helping him father a child.

March 30th 1990-K runs out of the motel screaming when, on the night of the impending impregnation, he realizes that the willing candidate is the selfsame minister who had married his father and the plumber and whose calls he hadn’t returned. K discards desires of fatherhood.

February 1st 1991-K decides to cease his life of anonymity and force his way into the world of the famous. K makes up his mind to enter the Guinness Book of World Records.

May 3rd 1991-K tries to produce the world’s longest fart but falls a good thirty minutes behind the record.

September 17th 1991-K tries to generate the world’s loudest fart but falls short of the record by a dozen decibels.

April 30th 1992-K competes for the title of the world’s baldest man but is disqualified when the judges adjudicate the single hair behind K’s ear as a head-hair.

January 31st 1993-K builds the world’s largest toilet. K is informed by the Guinness Book authorities that the adjudication will be done in less than three weeks.

February 9th 1993-K dies a tragic death when he falls into the toilet while going potty.

February 19th 1993-K’s body is found floating on the toilet water alongside blackened pieces of K’s own turd when the Guinness Book people pay a visit to his apartment.

February 23rd 1993 (Morning)-K is given a decent funeral by the Guinness Book authorities. K’s toilet, though found to be the biggest in the world, fails to make it into the Guinness Book as the judges have no proof that it was in fact made by K.

February 23rd 1993 (Afternoon)-K’s ghost comes from the other side of the world to haunt the guests at the funeral party but flees with all its ghostly might when he finds out that the funeral is being conducted by the minister whose calls he hadn’t returned.

Paradise Fucked Up

             In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And Hooters. Unfortunately, on the second day, one of the Hooters girls caught a nasty pussy rash (God knows from where!) that turned her twat bluer than an Eskimo’s testicles. This upset the Almighty and filled his mind with a dread blacker than Beyonce’s asshole. He realized he had to eradicate the genital warts and all the blackness from the pure white paradise. So God created Africa.
               And the Lord of the Worlds, who after twenty minutes got tired of looking at girls with big tankers, felt like he needed more to satisfy his sybaritic inclinations. So, he the merciful, the compassionate created a few beasts to torture and kill. And God called the cow a mongoose and the rabbit an orangutan. Later, when he checked the encyclopedia he felt a bit daft and corrected himself. And God furiously declared, “Let no man ever actually use an encyclopedia except to act as firmaments hiding snogging lesbians in dusty libraries.”
             And the anachronistic Lord thought unto himself, “Now that I have mentioned the word man I better create a figure out of flesh to go with it.” At first God considered creating Man in his own image and after his likeness but when he really gave it some thought he found it a bit gay. And so, God walked up to a nearby bison, broke off its lengthy genitalia and created Man out of it. And the Lord, yet again speaking to himself loudly, solely for the purpose of narration in case textual records of his actions were ever going to be created in the times to come, bellowed into the atmosphere, “My creation, the Man, will have dominion over everything on earth including fish, fowl, foal, and fungi. Everything except his penis size. That’s pure destiny.” And God assigned the Man with the task of maintaining his gardens, his accounts, and getting a new couch.
             On the fourth day God detected inexplicable movements behind the green bushes he created. On parting the foliage, God discovered his favorite creation, the Man, tapping a chimpanzee’s red ripe ass. Fearing the wrath of the furious Lord, the chimp ran off holding its swollen anus while the Man stood guiltily before his heavenly father with a boner the size of a stillborn baby. And God said, “Man Alive! That’s mental. Even I’m an inch shorter!” And God pulled out a photograph of Michael Jackson and held it before the Man which deflated the Man’s engorgement. With a paternal chide and an attack of pox, God dismissed the Man from his sight warning him to focus on his duties rather than engaging in carnal sins.
            On the fifth day, after a good time at Hooters, the Almighty walked into his backyard to witness a sight that gnawed at his eyes like Paris Hilton on a scrotal sac. The vertically placed Man had before him a doubled over St. Gabriel choking on a ball-gag. Fearing the infernal rage of the compassionate Lord, St. Gabriel ran off, his wings stuck together, holding his swollen halo while the Man stood guiltily before the Supreme Creator with a spiked ring around his tumescence. And God said, in unbridled anger, “I assigned you specific tasks to complete. Why are you acting like a dick?” And the Man, hesitantly, spoke, “You’re the one who created me from a bison penis.” The Lord snarled at his most superior creation, struck him with a temporary attack of plague, and returned to his heavenly den.
                 On the sixth day, God summoned his most intelligent creation, the Man, and announced that he had decided to present him with a mate. Apparently, many beasts, saints, and angels, including St. Peter had lodged a complaint that the Man was forcibly trying to gain access through their “Pearly Gates”. And God produced from a nearby cup a pair of beaver balls which he raised into the air and proclaimed, “These balls are really squishy.” And Lo, there was a hot naked ho with tits that stood up like a pedophile’s knob at a Harry Potter convention. And God said, “Take your mate into your bedroom and bonk her as you please. And by the way that lamp by your bed is just a plain old lamp. It doesn’t have a hidden camera or anything. Now, go, bonk.” And the Man took his mate whom he named Wo-man (Whore of Man) and followed the word of God.
                The weeds in the garden began to grow, and the beasts went hungry as the Man, preoccupied with getting his hole, failed to meet the daily duties the Lord had demanded of him. God, receiving the news of his greatest creation’s negligence, even after providing him with a knockout chick created out of beaver balls, fumed like a Muslim fundamentalist who misheard a Math teacher saying “Profit and Loss” as “Prophet doesn’t floss”. The Almighty admonished the Man and banned him from engaging in any further exercises of his genitals for the day. The Lord reminded the Man that his new couch was coming in today and he required the Man to be highly alert and keep even a speck of dust off the brand new couch.
                 As the seventh day approached its end, the merciful Lordy Lord returned after an agonizing and painstaking passage of time he spent at the Theater in Heaven watching the movie 10,000 B.C. The Almighty trundled into his bedroom in the cool of the night and witnessed a sight more shocking than an x-ray of Jay Leno’s head. There the Man was spreading the sweaty legs of his Whore and thrusting hard like a Celibate Hindu Swami on his deathbed. But what stopped God in his tracks was where the Man was boning the Woman: right on top of God’s brand new couch. The Man pumped away furiously as the Woman’s legs went higher in the air. Suddenly, the angry Lord’s voice rumbled through the room, “You are fucking on my couch even though I commanded you to take utmost care of it. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to sit on that couch?” And then the Man and his whore jumped off the stained couch and cowered in fear. The Man, in a quavering voice, said, “My dick beguiled me.”
                The enraged Almighty gave a scornful look at the Man and said unto him, “For directly disobeying me I curse you with premature ejaculation and early baldness.” The Lord turned to face the Woman and said unto her, “I shall greatly multiply your sorrows and your predicaments. You will not even get a proper desk job until you put a slimy smelly cock in your mouth and suck on it like a hungry vampire bat on Oprah Winfrey’s black tits.” The Man and the Woman glared at God before being officially banished from God’s sight. After he kicked them out, the Lord burned the couch to ashes using an inflammable mixture of goat urine and salamander cum.
                  The next day God woke up to an ever-increasing din outside his palatial palace in Heaven. He walked over to his balcony and saw a large group of assorted media personnel lined outside his residence with huge cameras pointed at him. One of the reporters screamed through all the boisterousness, “What do you have to say against the charges of sexual harassment leveled against you by the Man and the Woman? Did you really harass them? What is your side of the story?” The Almighty shuddered in fear and ran back into his den, confused and conflicted by a flurry of queries. He knew there was only one thing he could do.
                 The Almighty spoke into the phone, “I don’t know what to do. You have to help me out. Those ruthless carnivores are asking for an explanation from my side. What do I do? I can’t just tell them I banished those two horny freaks because they had sex on my couch. I’m the Almighty, for crying out loud.” On the other end of the line was God’s long time best buddy, Satan, an acclaimed writer of such TV shows as “I Love Lucifer”, “Everybody Loves Hot Lava”, and “The Ellen DeGeneres Show.” Satan thought for a while and responded with nothing but a soft hum. God, nervous like hell, said, “Satan, are you listening to me? I’m under siege here. What do I tell the damn press?” Satan pondered for a few more minutes before he said, “Well, I’m currently working on something for FOX Network. But I suppose I can let you use it to extricate yourself from this mess.” God, eager for a solution, exclaimed, “That’s great. Let me hear it.” Satan exhaled gently and said, “Ok, there’s this forbidden tree and a talking snake, right…”

THE MAKERIGHTER

                In a world where trivial news reports like an effort by law-keepers and authorities to make the merciless rape and murder of a 15-year-old girl appear like a drug-induced drowning accident, or a woman, accused of being a witch, tied to a tree beaten to a pulp by a group of villagers, or kids committing suicide out of stress and depression mar the television viewing of common people who, after an invigorating day of meaningless work in front of a computer screen, are sitting with a bowl of popcorn eagerly waiting to see which celebrity is going out with who, or what new ridiculously expensive gadget is out in the market that only rich people can afford, or the contestants of reality shows begging and pleading, like a gay, crippled Jew on his way to the extermination chamber, to vote for them and keep them on the show, or the latest steaming cauldron of bollocks and shit that’s promoted as “a different, entertaining, funny movie”, there’s just one man who genuinely cares for the interests of the common people; in a world where uneducated, illiterate hobos with no money are nothing more than eyesores there’s just one man who stands tall and vows to make things change; in a world where some find it wrong that young girls who’re in their early teens are lured into “the entertainment industry” and sexualized prematurely, there’s just one man who stands up and does the right thing; in a world where so many things are wrong, there’s just one man who’s prepared to make them right. He is THE MAKERIGHTER!
Following is an interview with The Makerighter (TM) conducted by a young Citizen Journalist named Vatty Regina (RV).

RV: Firstly, Mr. Makerighter, I would like to thank you for agreeing to do this interview.
TM: That’s quite alright, Ms. Vatty Regina. I’m only pleased to be given the opportunity to voice my opinions.
RV: Let’s get straight to some of the biggest problems that people all across the world are facing. And then you can tell the world how you plan to make them right.
TM: I think I know what you’re going to start with. It’s the same in all interviews. So here you go: the solution is gently insert a very thin needle, bait it, and then pull it out.
RV: Oh, is that some kind of sewing tip?
TM: No, that’s the solution to getting out a tapeworm that has crawled up your piss-hole.
RV (shocked): Is that a common problem that people request a solution for?
TM: Yes. That and mysterious bunny semen found on pillow covers. Which is not a big problem as it can be easily washed off with a mug of boiled bear shit.
RV (unsettled): Good to know. Anyway, that’s not the question I intended to start the interview with. I wanted to bring your attention to a recent incident where a woman in Bihar, in India, was tied to a tree, subjected to having her hair cut off, and then paraded through a village all because the villagers believed that she was a witch. Mr. Makerighter, how would you make sure that terrifyingly appalling incidents like this don’t happen again?

TM: I agree with you, it is appalling. This is yet another case of what can happen when dangerous and misleading superstitions survive in rural areas. Someone has to educate these villagers about certain facts. Fact number one: there are two kinds of witches- good witches and evil witches.
RV: Huh?
TM: That’s right. Good witches are generally super sexy and give you an erection within ten seconds after seeing them. For e.g. Hermione from Harry Potter or Wendy the Good Little Witch. Evil witches on the other hand are ugly, have considerable facial hair, and smell like giraffe fart. For e.g. The Wicked Witch of the West or Hillary Clinton.
RV: Ok…
TM: Now, clearly, as we saw in the video, the woman who was beaten up is an evil witch. And the villagers are trying to rid her off her powers by tying her to a tree, beating her, and cutting her hair off. That’s where the lack of education comes in. Anyone who has been to a good university knows that the best and only way to disable an evil witch is by burning her nipples with an oxy-acetylene torch and then rubbing phlegm on them. And that’s how I would make it right.
RV (disturbed): That’s…interesting, Mr. Makerighter. Let’s move onto another grave issue troubling humanity: Global Warming. How can we combat the big GW?
TM: As we’re all aware, most of our problems are self-created. And once they get out of hand, like global warming has, it is each person’s responsibility to make amends and do what our previous generations failed to do.
RV (surprised): You’re right.
TM: And that’s why the only way to end global warming is to sodomize Al Gore.
RV: I’m sorry, what?
TM: Sodomize him. You know, get in there through the back door of Gore, pulverize it, leave some remnants, make it wider…
RV: I get the point but how in the world would ass-raping the world’s most potent force against global warming prevent global warming?
TM: I shall explain. Bear with me because I’m about to get a bit scientific. You see, when Al Gore’s rectum is torn apart, and contact is made with his colon, a green colored anti-toxic vapor, called goreboxide, is released through his nostrils. These vapors combine with the atmosphere and gradually begin to repair the damaged ozone layer. Pretty soon, before you know it, you got the glaciers back, you have your SUVs out on the road again, and Elvis comes out of hiding. And that’s how I would make it right.
RV (stunned): I…think we better move on. Do you have any remedies for the growing unrest in Tibet and the friction between the Dalai Lama and China?
TM: You know, Nelson Mandela once said “If people want freedom…
RV (interrupts): Give it to them? They’ll take it no matter what? It’s a sign of growth?
TM (puzzled): No, he said “If people want freedom, all you have to do is get a bloke to ride on a horse bare-naked.” And in this case, it’s the Dalai Lama who has to take up that task.
RV (getting annoyed): So your solution to the Tibet-China face-off is to have…
TM: The Dalai Lama ride bare-naked on a horse, that’s right. And that’s how I would make it right.
RV: I’ll try and pass the message. Why don’t I ask you something about the young people of today? How would you help those youngsters who are bogged down by the pressure and stress of today’s world where they look around and see millionaires and billionaires who’re younger than them? How would you help those youngsters who consider suicide when the stress of daily life becomes too much to handle?
TM: Well, that would completely depend on how they plan to top themselves off.
RV: I don’t follow.
TM (quizzical smile): I can’t help them unless I know what method they are planning to adopt, can I? If a kid is planning to hang himself, I can maybe help him out by getting some rope, maybe kicking the stool away from under his feet. Or, if slitting wrists is their passion, I can help them out by finding a strong vein or even get them really, really sharp stuff. Swallowing blades, meanwhile, requires…
RV (butts in): I think that’s more than enough help to last for sometime. Let’s talk about a longstanding predicament afflicting humanity: poverty. How would you eliminate a formidable affliction like poverty?
TM: I think it’s very important to improve common people’s attitude towards their less fortunate fellow beings. Poor people are not to be pitied or felt sorry for. That’s not the treatment they deserve from their own fellow humans. You have to treat them with utter contempt and pure disgust.
RV (upset): What are you talking about?
TM: Clearly, the world would be a better place without poor people in it. We’re all thinking it. I wouldn’t administer a method as grave as executing people stricken with poverty but I would suggest chopping the poor men’s balls off and severely damaging poor women’s uteruses with a monkey-wrench. They just don’t learn that if you’re poor you’re not supposed to fuck. All they’re supposed to do is wait for death and not reproduce more problems for the rich people of the world, the people we really need. And that’s how I would make it right.
RV (controlling her temper): Ok, Mr. Makerighter, we’ve almost come to the end of this very…intriguing…interview. I have one final problem to pose before you. A recent dreadful incident of a British teenage girl’s rape and murder, that took place in India, curled the skin of the Indian women, and women all over the world, and has once again sparked off a debate on the issue of how men perceive and treat women. The police’s attempt to cover up the rape and murder, in order to safeguard the “Goa is Paradise” myth, added to the issue of chauvinism, patriarchy, and the safety of girls and women convey a chilling message to young girls like me who would like to believe the world has become a more civilized place at least when it comes to gender equality.

TM (looks pained): Frankly speaking, when certain men commit such despicable acts, it fills me with shame as well. In fact, it’s a shame that all men, all over the world, have to share. There are certain things that need to be taught to young boys who are growing up to become the men of tomorrow.
RV (impressed by TM’s concern): I believe you’re absolutely right. They need to be taught that all women deserve respect and…
TM (nonplussed): Respect? What’re you talking about?
RV: What do you mean what am I talking about? What are you talking about? What did you mean when you said there are things the boys of today need to be taught?
TM: I was talking about the perfect way to dispose of a girl’s corpse after raping her thoroughly. That’s something young boys have to be taught and educated about so that when they grow up and start raping, they don’t get caught. It fills me with shame when I see rapists getting caught. One of the biggest reasons for the rising rape-and-murder-rate across the world is the discovery of the bodies of these brutally-raped girls. If the body is not found, it just adds to the missing-person-rate and that’s not that bad.
RV (rising from her seat, completely pissed off): Ok, that’s it, Mr. Makerighter, enough is enough. This is completely inappropriate behavior on your part and I have to say I’m deeply offended by your remarks. Being a strong, self-respecting fifteen-year-old girl myself, I’m totally insulted by your comments.
TM (leers at RV, licks his lips): Oh, you’re only fifteen. You know, you look a lot older when you’re angry and screaming. I like a feisty girl.
RV: That’s it. This interview is over.
(Vatty Regina turns around to leave when suddenly, like a leopard pouncing on a gazelle, Makerighter lunges himself onto Vatty Regina. He pins her down using his strong arms and mounts her. Shaking one hand free, he tears open her skirt, unzips his pants, and commences the rape. After two minutes, he gets off the weeping Regina, pulls his pants up again, and gives an accomplished stretch of his arms. He then takes out a small bag marked “paint thinner” from his pocket and pours it on the helpless Regina’s tattered body. He then produces a matchbox out of his shirt pocket and lights a flame. He steps back, drops the lit match and watches the young body of Regina burn wildly into a pile of ashes. He waits until the fire goes out and then, using a dust-sweeper he takes out of his back pocket, brushes all the ashes into a plate he produces out of his side pocket. With a deep sigh, he lifts his head and pours the ashes into his mouth, guzzling the fleshy, charred remains of Vatty Regina. When every speck of her burned body is inside his stomach, he takes out a small bottle marked “bunny semen” from his shoulder pocket and downs it. He burps.)
TM: And that’s how I would make it right.

                                                   **** **** ****

Untake my Kidney

                I respect nurses. In fact, legend has it that I tit-fucked the nurse who wiped me clean just a few minutes after I was born. Initially, she had tried to inject me with a tranquilizer but after I impaled her with my baby-syringe she was quite hospitable. Sadly, I fucked her jugs so hard that she ended up getting breast cancer and came to be known, amongst friends and family, as the Lady with the Lump.
               Doctors, I don’t care much for. For starters, everyone knows they are actually shape-shifting skunks in human disguises. Secondly, I don’t trust anyone who sticks a finger up your ass and calls it part of “routine checkup”. Thirdly, what’s with the white uniforms? When you’re feeling under the weather and you go to a doctor the least you expect is some cheery colors. Give me some green, some red, some purple! But no, they have to stand there looking like the KKK or Catholic priests. And frankly speaking I would be very uncomfortable standing in front of either with my pants down to my ankles. Another thing that annoys me about doctors is the number of paperweights they have on their little table or desk or whatever they want to call it. They shower their little faggot-ass desks with so many paperweights you’d think a fucking hurricane was going to try and blow the goddamn thing away.
              Then there’s the poking. Oh, the fucking poking. Even if you walk in with a broken nose the doctor makes you lie down on his creepy little bed which you can only get to if you climb a pair of retarded steps. Who makes these steps anyway? It’s just two steps. Did someone walk up to a staircase and nick just a couple of steps while no one was looking? It’s absolutely retarded. And once you bite down your nervousness and lie down on the creepy cot with sheets worse than the ones you would find on a brothel-bed, the doctor lifts your shirt up and starts with the poking. Seriously, has any doctor diagnosed any illness just by poking a patient all over their torso? It’s fucking insane. The doctor jabs his stupid finger into your ribcage and asks you like a crackhead if it hurts. Of course, it hurts you crazy piece of dick, you just poked your goddamn finger into my ribcage!! Does he expect the patient to go: No, doc, it feels good, could you put one more finger into my ribcage and jab harder? After a while, the doctor leaves your ribs alone and moves to your tummy and starts poking at all these really ticklish areas. What does he think you’re there for-a fucking laugh? But you laugh, of course, and end up looking completely mental.
               Another occasion when I find doctors to be total pricks is when you walk in with an illness, say an attack of super-dysentery, and you walk out without one of your vital organs. I don’t know about others but something like that would really mess my day up. And the really annoying part is the excuses they come up with when you find out you’re running on just a single kidney or half a spinal chord. They would say something like: “I didn’t steal it. It probably came down during one of your heavy shitting sessions. Did you check your toilet?” or “It’s possibly the work of a succubus. It’s been medically proven that succubi sometimes tend to steal organs when you’re asleep.” Perhaps, that’s why when the kidney-stealing bastard from India, who did over five hundred illegal kidney operations, fondly called by the media as “Doctor Horror” or “Doctor Kidney” or “Kidney Kingpin” or merely “Doctor Amit Kumar” was finally caught by the police there was such a ruckus to know what he had to say. First and foremost, I think it’s swell that everybody still addresses him as doctor. In spite of stealing over a few hundred kidneys and doing so for the last decade or longer, it’s great we respect his academic qualifications. I’m sure if Osama Bin Laden gets his masters in business administration the media would start referring to him as “wanted Islamic fundamentalist terrorist Osama Bin Laden MBA”.
                But unlike Osama Bin Laden MBA, who’s probably sucking off a grizzly bear inside some smelly cave in the Middle East, the kidney-stealing motherfucker, “Dr. Amit”, is in the safe, slimy, hairy, hands of the CBI. That’s a relief, innit? And judging from the progress they’ve made with some of the other high profile cases like the child-killers from Nithari, it’s safe to assume the kidney case will be cracked wide open at least a few minutes after Jesus’ second coming. I do have a short transcript of an interrogation session that took place between the “alleged” culprit “Dr. Amit” and the CBI. Figure it out for yourself.
(Seated across either side of the table are “Dr. Amit”, the kidney-robbing cunt (KRC), and two grim-looking CBI officials)
CBI#1: State your name and profession.
KRC: Name-Dr. Amit Kumar. Profession- belly dancer.
CBI#1: I’m sorry, what?
KRC: A belly dancer. I’m a qualified belly dancer and I do gigs regularly in front of hammered sheikhs in Dubai.
CBI#2: What about the fact that you’re a doctor who steals kidneys?
KRC: Well, I wouldn’t really call that a profession. It’s…more like a hobby, a passion. You know like gardening, or killing kittens.
CBI#1: Killing kittens? I’ve never heard that before. Massaging crabs, fingering turtles, frenching weasels sure. But killing kittens, that’s a bit peculiar.
KRC: Hobbies are meant to be peculiar. To each their own, eh?
CBI#2: Is that why unlike other doctors who use their skills to relieve patients of their pain you choose to exploit them and make profits for yourself?
KRC: I don’t think it’s fair you’re slagging off other doctors like that. I don’t think they would appreciate you spreading insubstantial rumors about them. As soon as we get our MBBS we all make a pledge to ourselves that we will, in all capacity, for as long as we can and as much as we can, exploit people and make good money out of them.
CBI#1: I thought that pledge was just applicable to the members of the parliament.
CBI#2: How did you lure some of these uneducated poor people into getting on your operating table?
KRC: That was easy. Free liquor and naked pictures of Sonia Gandhi.
CBI#1: You mean they were actually lured by naked pictures of Sonia Gandhi?
KRC: Not exactly. I ran after them with naked pictures of Sonia Gandhi and chased them into the operating room. Easiest thing in the world.
CBI#2: Aren’t you ashamed of deceiving so many innocent people? Do you know what kind of mental trauma a person goes through when he’s duped out of one of his internal organs? Do you know how difficult it is to mend that broken trust in humanity he will foster forever?
KRC: I’m sure it’s nothing a bottle of free booze can’t take care of. I’m a lifesaver not a people-pleaser. It’s not like I killed anyone. Using the kidneys of your so-called innocent victims I saved the lives of hundreds of rich, powerful, and influential people. To be honest, we all know rich people are more useful to society than poor people. So as far as I can see, no harm done. (looks at CBI#1’s crotch). Actually, I don’t just deal in kidneys. Sometimes, poorly-endowed men contact me and ask me get them something bigger. A snip there, a cut here, and voila! You go from Ajay Jadeja to a giant stallion.
CBI#1 (embarrassed): I don’t have a small penis. What the hell are you looking at me for?
KRC: I’m just saying.
CBI#2: Why don’t you leave your mind games for the state police? We’re the CBI. You don’t want to fuck with us.
KRC: You can’t blame me.
CBI#1: I don’t have a small penis, ok?
CBI#2: Enough with the banter. Why don’t you just tell us why you got into this business of kidney trade in the first place? You must have a motive.
KRC: So you want the truth?
CBI#2: That’s right. I want the truth.
CBI#1: I did tell the truth. I don’t have a small penis. Swear to god! Ask my pool-boy…err…my wife…I meant my wife. ..ask my wife.
CBI#2: Oh, for Holmes’s sake, shut the fuck up! Now, Dr. Amit…
KRC: Fine, then you shall have the truth. Have you ever been discriminated against, Mr. CBI#2? I’m sure you haven’t. Have you ever felt ignored even when you know you deserve better? Have you ever experienced the agony caused when fame and recognition go to those less-deserving than you merely because they sound like they’re more important?
CBI#2: Are you saying you had a rough childhood?
KRC: Not at all. I had a great childhood; cricket, video games, the full package. I was talking about the fate of kidneys. Can you even comprehend what the kidneys feel like when other organs are always out there in the news while they just sit there smelling like piss? Look at Valentine’s Day. It’s practically a day for the heart. People treat the heart with so much respect and adoration that you would almost think one wouldn’t be able to live without the heart. Have you ever heard of anyone giving a box of chocolates shaped like a kidney to someone they love? No! Since time immemorial they have been persecuted against by humans and other organs alike.
CBI#2: Ok…
KRC: Or just observe the subliminal discrimination embedded in our language. You hear people compliment each other saying “wow! He’s got brains!” or “he’s got real guts” or “damn nigger! Look at the ass on that fine bitch”. But you don’t ever hear people go “there goes the man with the best damn kidneys in the whole of North India”. Are you following me, Mr. CBI#2? And that’s where I come in. I have fought, and will forever fight, for the right of the kidneys and keep them in the news as much as I can. I will steal from the haves and give it to the have-nots. I will eliminate any kind of class-struggle that might exist within the human body. I’m the anatomical Robin Hood, the nephrological Che Guevara! My message, my battle, my vision cannot ever be curbed!
(The CBI officials look at the kidney-robbing cunt and remain silent for a few moments)
CBI#2: What a load of crock!
KRC: Alright, alright, you want the real truth? Fine, but you better brace yourself for it. All you have to do is come behind me, raise my shirt and look at the big scar across my lower back. Once you see that scar you’ll know everything you need to know about why I did what I did.
(The two CBI officials look at each other, shrug their shoulders and come up behind the kidney-robbing cunt. CBI#1 lifts up the cunt’s shirt as CBI#2 leans down to examine his lower back. Suddenly, with a loud fart, a terribly stinking liquid sprays out of the kidney-robbing cunt’s ass. The CBI officials fall back in shock and clutch at their faces. “Dr. Horror” gets to his feet and smirks at the two fallen officers. Then suddenly he shifts his shape and turns into a large skunk.)
So long, suckers!
(Transcript ends)
                Now, don’t start clutching at your kidneys fearing that the Nephrological Che Guevara is still at large. He was missing for about a week after he escaped from the custody of the CBI. But he’s back in the claws of the law now. A breathless, beaten, knackered Dr. Amit came crawling back to the CBI seeking refuge and apologizing for trying to escape. Apparently, Sreesanth is after him with some kind of a proposition.

Fuck the Tiger! Save the Moths!

             I owe a lot to TV. Over the years it has given me new ideas, new philosophies, and new women to fantasize when I’m interrogating my penis in bed. It has given me laughs, thoughts, ecstasy, and visions into worlds I never knew existed; it enables me to have cute newsreaders who give the headlines transformed into cute cheerleaders who’re lining up to give me head in my sound, unperturbed sleep. But most of all, I’m grateful to TV for the number of heinous acts it has prevented me from doing.
            The other day, I was sitting home, polishing my gun (not a masturbation metaphor this time), dusting my hunting clothes, lighting my cigar, ready to go shoot a tiger-much like any other sane, common person in India would do sometime during their daily schedule- when suddenly I saw Rahul Dravid on TV asking me to “save the tiger”. At first, I ignored it like the small lump that men find near their balls which they mistake for a third testicle. Then, after a few minutes, I saw Kareena Kapoor, who was probably wearing tiger-skin bra and panties, request me- and every other person in their hunting clothes watching TV at that moment- to not go and kill tigers; she, too, wanted me to “save the tiger”. I felt my heart sink; it was at that moment the scrotal lump became cancerous. I felt disoriented by a moral conflict. Hunting tigers was, after all, something that I, and every other ordinary Indian watching TV most of their time, did from childhood onwards; it was, practically, part of our lives, our Indian tradition. But here was Rahul Dravid- who couldn’t save his place in the one day cricket team let alone a big striped cat- and Kareena Kapoor -a bitch, who in a sudden attack of consciousness, wanted to protect a feline warning all of us that if we- sitting home with a remote in one hand and a gun in the other- continue shooting tigers and killing them- like we’ve been doing for so long- the tigers were soon going to be extinct. At that moment it hit me like a big bag of feces at a rock concert, we’ve all been striving and caring for the wrong things. Fuck world peace! Fuck religious harmony! Fuck protesting against fake-piety! Fuck fighting against police brutality! Fuck the safety of children! Fuck the safety of common women! Fuck protecting rape victims (to be fair they’ve been fucked already)! Fuck fighting against dirty politics! Fuck freedom of speech! Fuck poor people! Fuck the unemployed! Fuck the illiterate! Fuck the ill! Fuck fighting against terrorism! Fuck resisting fake-patriotism! And fuck life all together! The only thing that matters in the world is saving a fierce carnivorous smelly animal- who would by the way rip you into shreds if you get too close to it- that some guy in a wasted moment named as our national animal.
            I exercised my brain a great deal to figure out the kind of things I could do to help “save the tiger”. I was initially confused when the TV channels went on about saving “the tiger”. Clearly, they were just talking about one specific tiger. Rahul Dravid said, “Save the tiger.” Kareena said, “Save the tiger”. Which one you crazy cunts? Which is the tiger we’re supposed to save? It would have been a lot of help if they said something like, “Save the tiger- the one named Billu.”
            But then I decided, perhaps, I shouldn’t focus on that one tiger everybody was talking about; if I’m intending to save tigers I should, ideally, make an effort to save all of them. On doing research I discovered that one of the first steps that needed to be taken to ensure the protection of tigers was building in them a strong sense of morality and a desire to survive. To be honest, I kind of get the feeling tigers are not really keen on surviving. So we killed a whole lot of tigers and brought their numbers down to about 5000. Big fucking deal! So what? I’m sure they’re aware of a little thing called “banging”. When Hitler murdered six million Jews they didn’t become endangered in the next four years, and then move on to complete extinction, did they? No, they fornicated like crazy and are back stronger than ever. That’s in fact the story of mankind in general. I’m pretty sure that humans kill more humans than tigers every day but that hasn’t brought down the staggering rise in population, has it? You don’t see any celebrities on TV pleading with the world to “Save the mankind”, do you? So, I say teach the tigers that if you want population then you got to have copulation.
             That’s when another thought crossed my mind. What if the tigers are in fact banging but just not having cubs? Whenever you switch on nature channels there are tigers fucking each other. If they are horny enough to have sex on video, then having sex is probably not their big hurdle. It could be hesitancy in conception. And there could be two reasons for that: a) the tigers are into family planning or b) they are faggots. If the tigers are into family planning all you have to do is either make an animal version of the movie “Cheaper by the Dozen” or get them to have a talk with Lalu Prasad. Meanwhile, if the tigers are homosexually inclined, a completely different route of penetrating the issue has to be taken up (no pun intended. Who am I kidding! Of course, pun intended). Get a celebrity gay icon like George Michael or Harsha Bhogle and have them speak to these fudge-packing tigers. Convince these ass-mining tigers that after spooging into their partner’s anus they should insert their fists into the rectum, swipe all the tiger semen using one of their paws, and carefully place it inside a girl tiger’s vagina (stir if necessary). That should knock them up. If the tiger is a lesbian convince her that tiger cum can be used as a lubricant during dyke sex and she’s bound to fall for it. If the cubs turn out to be little fags, educate them about this procedure as well, thereby instilling this paw-cum-pussy ritual as part of the tiger culture.
             As I ponder about saving tigers, another startling revelation comes to me. Sure, the numbers are dwindling when it comes to tigers but what about other creatures. Are we not being a little specie-ist by only wanting to save tigers? I don’t know about you but I haven’t been seeing as many moths as I used to a few years ago? Where are they? What’s happening to all the moths? I’m leaving the lights on outside my home, not using clothes and books for months at a time but I still don’t see any sign of them. Could it be that the unattractive, wannabe butterfly-like creature is disappearing right in front of our eyes without our knowledge? Would we have to satisfy our future generations by showing a color picture of a moth when they cry “show us the moth, show us the moth”? Well, not if I can help it. I’m not going to waste one more moment worrying about the stupid tigers who just don’t want to fuck each other heterosexually. Instead, I’m going to focus my energy on saving the creatures who really need our help. The moths. I mean, I don’t even think they have penises. Have you ever seen a moth with a penis? How on earth are they supposed to procreate without penises? So let’s all forget about the tigers and devise plans to help save the moths. Whatever we can do: not swat them, not smash them with newspapers, donate sperm, whatever it takes. So, I’m pleading with you: Fuck the tiger! Save the moths!

Spread the VD message

                Love can be infectious. And that’s why if you’ve got a loved one I suggest you make sure that he/she is infected with a good dose of VD fun today. And I don’t necessarily mean VD as in rotting dick stinking cunt VD, I’m talking about cheap chocolates, cards with typos, retarded mixed tape, fucking in the back of the car Valentine’s Day (VD). Although I wouldn’t be surprised if the two VDs had some kind of connection initially before time took them in completely opposite directions. There’s a good chance that it was a miscommunication or a misinterpretation that gave an unpleasant incident romantic connotations.
              Hundreds of years ago, on a February 14th, a man was seen unusually perturbed. He wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t take a shit, and he wouldn’t sleep. But there’s a likelihood that the three things were correlated and had nothing to do with his primary cause of misery. It even looked like he had temporarily quit his job of being a veterinarian. Finally, one of his buddies managed to break through and got him talking. It turned out he had syphilis. That’s why he was disturbed. That’s why he didn’t even go to work. Understandable. If I learned I had syphilis, checking dogs for fleas and sticking my finger up their hairy butts would be the last thing on my list (on second thoughts, even if I didn’t have syphilis that would be the last thing on my to-do list, right after respecting Paris Hilton).
                What worried the man most was that he had infected his new girlfriend, Valentine, as well and she didn’t know about it. She was a very conservative, unadventurous kind of girl who would be devastated if she knew her man had not only been sleeping around but infected her too. Taking his friend’s advice, he bought a box of chocolates, nicked some flowers from the neighbor’s garden, and went to see his girlfriend in order to break the terrible news to her. The girlfriend, surprised on seeing the normally hard-assed guy carrying loads of sweet gifts for her, was clearly over excited.

Girl: You’re so sweet. Chocolates and flowers for me?
Guy: Yes, they are for you. But I…I’ve got something to tell you.
Girl: And it’s dark chocolate as well. And roses. Just the way I like it.
Guy: The thing is I…I’ve got…and I gave you…
Girl: Why, honey? Why have you given me all these gifts?
Guy: VD
Girl: You gave me gifts because it’s VD? What’s VD? Wait…V for Valentine…my name…D for day…Valentine’s Day?
Guy: I think you mis…
Girl: Oh, I love you so much. I know I always said no to it, but I want you to take me up the ass. I want it so much. Just for today.
Guy: I wanted to tell you I had infec…up the ass? Did you say you want it up the ass?
Girl: You meant Valentine’s Day, right? VD.
Guy: Sure, that’s what I meant. Now bend down and spread your cheeks.

               And then the guy went and told all the other men that if there was anything their girlfriend didn’t want to do in bed all they had to do was wait till February 14th, get her some flashy, mushy shit and bam! she would turn into a slut faster than a Hyundai would turn into a Decepticon. Some men, even now, just to keep the tradition alive perform the ritual of passing on a venereal disease to their girlfriends and wives on every February 14th. Certain women, too, are keen on doing their part on this special day.
              So if you have a sore on your mouth, ass, cunt or dick, and it burns when you pee don’t get mad, don’t get paranoid. It just means that somebody out there really loves you.

India is MY country, NOT YOURS

              When I first started getting memory loss and mixing up things I feared if I had vascular dementia. I couldn’t tell the difference between news channels and sewage tanks; I suffered from the inability to discriminate between film actresses with loud mouths and prostitutes with gaping assholes; I was unable to distinguish between Rakhi Sawant and a used condom; I lost the capacity to tell apart a politician from a bag of feces mixed with toxic venom; I found no contrast between democracy and fascism; I failed to differentiate between a man on the street and a rapist on the prowl; I lost the faculty to identify a stupid dumb bitch and a girl who uploads her photos on social networking sites; I didn’t have the power to list any dissimilarities when I juxtaposed doctors with ruthless cunts who would do anything for money; I had trouble discerning businessmen from ruthless pricks who would do anything for money; I tried my best to separate religion from science fiction but I failed pathetically; I saw film critic Anupama Chopra and a chortling baboon and couldn’t tell them apart; I struggled to get a clue about how teachers were different from diarrheic donkeys with their heads shoved up their rectums; I could no longer discern an activist from an attention whore; I failed to see any difference between the Government and an acute case of fistula; I made an unsuccessful attempt to distinguish between tomorrow and an imminent apocalypse. And then, suddenly, I realized I wasn’t suffering from vascular dementia; I was just experiencing the side effects of being a citizen in modern day India.
                 Sometimes, when you’re under the constant watch of the public it’s easy to be misinterpreted and portrayed in the wrong light regardless of your intention; I know that because I had my share of negative publicity during my time as a South Indian pornstar (I went by the name Mountmaster Mohanlal). Good people can be represented as bad, bad as good, tall as short, fat as moderately overweight, Shekhar Suman as talented, MTV Roadies as cool, and call centre zombies or pampered sons of rich business freaks as the prototypical Indian youth. Raj Thackeray is being portrayed as a manipulative fascist; Amitabh Bachchan is accused of being more close to Amar Singh than one married man should be to another; and Rajnikanth, winner of the HENDTV-Indian of the Year (or was it CNN-IBUM? Whichever it was, he got it during an exclusive and grandiose ceremony where only whoever showed up with a bag of money got a useless award) is being unjustly accused by his detractors as being unrealistic in his acting roles. 
                And the “news” channel Headlines Today (HT), promoters of healthy discussion that they are, decided to hold a debate between the three main men currently courting controversy, the topic of the discussion, of course, whether each individual should stick to the state they are born in. Headlines Today also brought in a special guest, whom they locked inside an opaque box which would be opened only at the end of the debate.

RT: If this very blog on which this idiotic post appears is not translated into Marathi I will have my workers burn wordpress down.
AB: Can we just get this over with? I’ve to go found a brothel in the name of my hot daughter in law.
HT: Where’s Rajnikanth? We can’t really start this debate without all participants present. He has to argue that whatever he does is real and believable…
(Suddenly fourteen choppers appear and line up overhead the Headlines Today studio where the debate is taking place. Rajnikanth pops out of the last one and swings from one chopper to the other like Tarzan and on reaching right above his seat in the studio lets go. He glides through the air and lands on his seat perfectly)
RK: Sorry I’m a little late. I was attacked by a T-Rex on my way to the studio and I had to kill him with my belt buckle.
RT: Do you understand now why I say Maharashtra is for Maharashtrians only? Do you want something like this infecting the good people of Maharashtra?
RK: You’re probably right. The so called good Maharashtrians are fit to watch shameless sluts like Mallika Sherawat shaking her tits for money.
RT: At least, it’s real.
RK: Not really. Trust me, I know.
AB: Perhaps, I need to remind everyone who was voted as the superstar of the millennium. In case, you feel a little thick, let me reiterate that that honor makes me much bigger than you, you, or Maharashtra.
HT: Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Bachchan but we have an exclusive Headlines Today breaking news to report. “Kareena Kapoor who was attending a major Bollywood function today evening was found to have calluses on her right hand. Reports suggest that she received it from giving Saif Ali Khan a rough handjob.” Back to the debate now.
RT: Did you become the superstar of the millennium acting in Konkani films? No, Maharashtra gave you your status, Maharashtra gave you your wealth, and Maharashtra gave you your life.
AB: But UP gave me my Amar Singh.
RK: The Thackeray boy has a point there. Can you imagine me endorsing some place like, say, Madras after everything that Tamil Nadu has given me?
HT: But Madras is in Tamil Nadu.
RK: Get your facts straight, news boy. Madras is in Brazil.
AB: You ignoramus, that’s Mardi Gras. It’s a festival like day. Amar and I go to Brazil dressed in platinum thongs every year to celebrate it.
RK: Where the hell is your wife anyway? How come she’s never seen with you?
AB: She’s always there with me. You just can’t see her because she’s only as tall as my thigh bone.
RT: You immoral greedy South Indians and North Indians come to our serene Maharashtra and contaminate the sanctity of the place. You exploit my state and then you have the gall to steal our jobs and not speak in Marathi.
RK: I speak great Marathi, for your information. The young chicks of today dig Tamil more, that’s all.
HT: Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but we have a cracking Headlines Today exclusive news item to report. “Our Headlines Today camera caught a glimpse of bad boy Salman Khan in one of his usual deer-kebab restaurants. Images showed a red circular mark around Salman’s waist which has sparked off a huge controversy. Is he wearing tighter underwear? Or does he try on Katrina’s panties when she isn’t looking? Keep watching Headlines Today for updates.” Back to the debate.
RT: What was so inappropriate in what I said anyway? I pointed out the ingratitude of India’s supposed superstar to Maharashtra which is fully true in every which way possible. Last time I checked India is a free country. Every citizen has the freedom of speech, especially if he’s a Thackeray. My words will not be curbed.
HT: Do you then own up to the riots that broke out in the wake of your contentious statement?
RT: That’s not my fault. I can’t be held responsible if some loons misread me exercising my freedom of speech. By that logic, would you arrest Mickey Mouse if a thief told you he stole cheese because he was inspired by him?
AB: I’m a much bigger star than Mickey Mouse. And my daughter in law nibbles a lot better than him as well.
RT: Haven’t you nibbled away enough of my Maharashtra? Leave my homeland and go shack up with your fat slimy buddy. Maharashtra is for Maharashtrians.
RK: Anyone want to see me flip 35 cigarettes into the air and light them with my fart?
HT: Once again, I have to butt in as we’re bringing you a super exclusive Headlines Today breaking cracking smashing news item. “Shahid Kapoor is a lonely boy on this Valentine’s Day. Shahid was spotted moping at his best friend Amrita Rao’s flat yesterday night by our intrepid reporter who was hiding in the bushes. Headlines Today asks its viewers to SMS in what you think Shahid should do on Valentine’s. SMS A for MASTURBATE, SMS B for WATCH PORNO, SMS C for MASTURBATE WATCHING PORNO.” Back to the debate.
AB (to RT): Just like you have your freedom of speech, I have mine as well. And if I want to endorse UP, I will. If I want to endorse a unicorn I will do that as well.
RT: Well, perhaps you should. It has a better chance of winning something than your Amar Singh.
AB (profoundly): He’s more like a unicorn than any of you will ever know.
RK: Do you know what the problem with the two of you is? You’re hungry for more power. Be satisfied with what God has given you. Money and power aren’t important in a man’s life, integrity, honesty, and love is.
AB: How much do you charge for a movie?
RK: About 250 million rupees. And I’ll fucking kill anyone who stands in my way of earning that.
AB: So much for integrity and love.
RT: Everywhere you look around in my Mumbai there’s either some North Indian or South Indian dickhead not knowing Marathi driving a taxi and stealing a job. Mumbai is not open to the world; it’s my home and I will not let anyone assfuck my Mumbai.
HT: I have to stop you right there, Mr. Thackeray, for we have a super duper exclusive mega cracking back breaking ground shattering Headlines Today news report from one of our reporters. “Pathetic actor turned mediocre MP Govinda accidentally consumed some stale bhelpuri and as a result shat in his pants. Headlines Today has exclusive sample of the shit that dripped out of Govinda’s pants. We will be bringing you a close up of the crap very soon.” Back to the debate.
RT: There’s nothing more to debate. I’m done. I will not stop until I’ve vanquished each and every non-Maharashtrian from my homeland. And no one can stop me.
RK: Step into my world if you really want to know how powerful Tamil Nadu is. Mumbai will shiver in the sheer energy of Tamil Nadu. Just like North Indians and Maharashtrians shiver in the brilliance of South Indians.
AB: I shiver only for UP and my Amar Singh.
RT: Each land for its own people! Jai Hind! Jai Maharashtra!
HT: Don’t be so sure, dear panel members. I believe we can change your outlooks. There’s one final phase to the debate. Let us now introduce the surprise special guest who has been close to getting asphyxiated in our big black box, the back from the dead Ms. Helen Keller. Hold the applause because she’s deaf as fuck and it doesn’t matter to her.
RK: If only she had been half a dozen years younger, I could have made her my heroine. I’ve never acted with a handicapped chick.
AB (to HT in a sad tone): She’s the special guest? I thought it would have been…Amar…
HT: Look at her; she’s deaf, she’s blind, she’s unattractive. That makes her ultra special, in the Special Olympics kind of way.
AB: She’s not that eloquent either.
HT: Well, actually, that would make this whole lengthy tirade kind of meet a premature end. So, for the interest of finishing this bizarre blog post we will have to give her the gift of perfect eloquent speech.
RT: Well, as long as she speaks in Marathi, I don’t mind.
(Helen Keller warily moves forward and addresses the debaters present. Sadly, she’s facing the wrong way)
HK: Let me tell you about my story. I was born blind, deaf, and mute. Still I grew up, wrote books, and…
AB: Save the story bitch. I trained you in Black, remember?
HK (turns around on hearing the voice, which makes her occasionally deaf, apparently): Ok, fine. What I’m trying to tell you is that it is ridiculous and inhuman to discriminate each other on the basis of geographical locations. Skin color, religious beliefs, and sexual preferences, maybe. But regions? That’s crazy! You’re all from the same nation. Why are you cutting down that big nation into smaller pieces? Don’t you understand that if, God forbid, terrorists attack South India, North Indians and Maharashtrians will be affected as well? And vice versa. Do you want a repeat of Pakistan? And if the states in India are so obstinate about your fellow countrymen from other states subscribing to your local language and ideology how can you blame the Americans, the Singaporeans, the Malaysians, the Kenyans, and the British who shoot up Indians because they feel they are a threat to their culture; Indians go abroad and build temples, build mosques, community centers, Indian clubs, all kinds of things. And not just Indians from one state: Maharashtrians, South Indians, North Indians, everyone. So, understand that fraternity begins at home. Treat your fellowmen right and the world will treat you right. Now, I will demonstrate via a strong example why geographical discriminations are stupid and unreal.
(Helen Keller approaches the debate table. She touches each panel member using her hand for about a minute or two and then goes back to her previous position)
Do you see what I did now? I touched the faces of all three of you. And I cannot tell which one of you came from South India, North India, or Maharashtra. To me, you all felt the same. Well, one of you needs a shave but I could not tell anything about where you are from. So you see, my fellow humans, it’s pointless to have this entire debate on whether Mumbai is for Maharashtrians only, and whether South is for South Indians only. India is one big painting. Don’t cut it up and destroy its singular beauty.
(Raj Thackeray, Amitabh Bachchan, and Rajnikanth look at each other guiltily. They appear as though they have understood the folly of their ways and the insignificance of their argument. Suddenly, their eyes uniformly fall on Helen Keller’s cleavage. Each one looks at the other and nods)
AB: Well, Helen, we appreciate your help and we do want to believe you.
RT: Although, if we receive a bit more convincing we might just become model citizens.
RK: I’ll second that.
AB: We will all hump you one after the other. You try and tell which dick is from UP, which one is from Mumbai, and which one from the South. If you feel absolutely no difference then we’ll believe you, Helen.
(Helen Keller is petrified. She takes a few steps back. Amitabh and Raj surround her. Suddenly, Rajnikanth inserts his hand into his pants and pulls out a big dick. He detaches it from his body and throws it at Helen Keller. The dick flies through the air and chases Helen Keller around the studio in order to hump her. It’s only a matter of time before she is felled by the dick. After screwing her it returns to Rajnikanth’s hand. He blows at the smoke coming out of the dick hole and puts it back in his pants. Amitabh and Raj get to work)
RK: Nothing like molesting a woman to get the men of India to forget regional differences and stick together.
HT: Sorry to interrupt you, sir. Headlines Today Breaking News time! “In what appears to be the newest controversy hitting the country, the Headlines Today investigative journalists have uncovered what experts call the Helen Keller gangbang sex tape which shows the disabled bitch getting it on with two men and one detached penis like there’s no tomorrow. Keep watching Headlines Today for exclusive footage.”

Bite that tongue

               Racism is like UFO sightings. It might happen anywhere else in the whole world but it just doesn’t happen in India. Accusing an Indian of being racist is as ludicrous as accusing George Bush of being eloquent or Britney Spears of covering her pole-vault. Perhaps it’s a genetic trait, but we Indians just aren’t inclined to be racist. We do not discriminate any human being on the basis of his/her skin color. In fact, there’s a large part of the Indian Advertising Industry which has dedicated itself to making sure that all dark-skinned people overcome their obscure condition and become healthy, normal fair-skinned members of the society. And it’s an incontrovertible fact that we embrace people of all skin colors. In fact, some of our most revered Gods, if we are to go by the evidence seen in various illustrations, were blue in color. Now, you show me any other nation who would embrace blue individuals and venerate them like we do.
                Not only are we accepting of all races, including horse races, but we are also a nation who strongly supports the new wave of political correctness that is imperative in today’s troubled and hostile world. In fact, a recent episode that I had in a café enlightened me of my own latent prejudices and completely changed the way I think and speak. It all began with the well-mannered, unassuming waiter who came to get my order.
“Hello, sir, are you ready to order?”
“Yes, I’d like a black coffee please.”
“Sir, we do not tolerate that kind of language in our café.”
“Huh?”
“Kindly refer to it as ‘African-American coffee’, sir. We have a very strict policy against racism in our cafe.”
“Umm…ok. I apologize. I’ll have one ‘African-American coffee’ and a plate of chicken breasts.”
“Sir, I repeat that we do not practice any form of discrimination in our café and I’m going to have to ask you to follow our norms. Your language is quite unacceptable.”
“I can’t say chicken breasts?”
“I’m afraid not. The first half of the compound word you used suggests a baseless allegation of cowardice and the latter half is blatantly sexist. The appropriate term is the ‘thorax of the fowl that has a pox named after it‘.”
“Ok, alright, my mistake again. So, I’ll have one African-American coffee and a plate of the ‘thorax of the fowl that has a pox named after it’. If you can please make it fast, it would be helpful. I have an insane work schedule that I have to get back to.”
“Do you think it’s funny, sir?”
“Huh?”
“Do you think you can pick on anyone merely because they act differently? The word you used to describe your work schedule is highly derogatory and demeaning. If you have to, resort to the socially accepted substitute of that word- ‘differently sane’.”
“Look, it’s just words. You’re making it sound as if I’m some kind of a criminal.”
“Sir, you are absolutely crossing the line with your disrespect for our rules and humanity in general. You cannot, under any circumstances, use the C-word in a civilized society like ours.”
“The C-word? You mean criminal?”
“Sir, please, mind your language. You have no right to outcast the ‘alternately employed members of the society’.”
“Look, stop making a scene here. There are people at other tables who are looking at me and giving me these weird sniggers.”
“What did you just call me?”
“What?”
“Did you just-?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, are you deaf?”
“How dare you, sir? I do not possess a ‘permanently switched off biological audibility device’, if that’s what you meant.”
“Look, I’ve had enough of this ‘metabolic waste produced by a male member of the bovine community‘ from you. Forget the food, I’m out of here. If you have a problem with what I said, you can go to ‘the monosyllabic place with an extremely tropical climate and trying living conditions run by a very demanding dictator’“
“Well, at least you had the courtesy to portray your disagreement in such polite words. I respect that.”

                                                             *** *** ***

Welcome to India, Nice to Molest You

Imagine this. A huge statue of a tall dark handsome Indian man. Located in a central spot somewhere in our country, a place where our countrywomen, tourists, foreigners, and visitors to India can have a deep long look at it. The statue stands tall towering well above the monuments around it. Safe in the man’s right hand raised high into the air almost touching the clouds hovering over it is a tablet with the inscription “Woman is God” on it. Below the man’s waist wrapped in his left hand is a huge concrete erection that’s pointing up towards the blue skies and two gigantic balls, which have inscribed on their vast surface the words:
“Give me your blonde, your brunette,
Your unsuspecting bitches yearning to get raped,
The wretched sluts whose pussies I’ll forcibly make wet,
Send these, the innocent, the underage, the elderly, regardless of how they are shaped
I lift my horny chauvinistic cock and rape every single cunt I can get.”

                It’s been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that two out of every three Indian men (the third is a eunuch) find it physiologically impossible to refrain from molesting at least four women every week. So, we might as well have a statue announcing to the whole world that east or west, we’ll do our best to molest.
                Much like everything else in this world our modus molestation has also evolved. A decade or so ago, our best men toiled in harsh working conditions (like crowded buses, jam-packed queues, markets, poorly chaperoned nieces’ houses, movie theatres, and churches) using simple techniques (like the ass-graze, the sleep-grope, the accidental boob jab, the inadvertent thigh caress, the trip and grab for support bit, and the misguided peck on the cheek) that often gave the desired result but in a degree lesser than expected. With the passage of time, things have changed, sexual repression has increased, carnal depravity has grown, and we, the Indian men, have developed far more impressive and efficacious methods of molesting women. We’ve become way more adept at what we do, much more meticulous, and thorough professionals.
               The Mumbai Molestation event that transpired in the wee hours of Jan 1, 2008 (http://www.ibnlive.com/videos/55468/mumbai-shamed-2-girls-molested-on-new-years-eve.html) marks a new milestone in the Indian Men’s molestation track record. Never have so many men joined together for such an extraordinary cause ever before in the history of our country since the release of Mallika Sherawat’s Murder or the Gujarat riots in 2001.
                We hear all the time about corporate tycoons making a mark outside their own country using their business acumen and their grandfathers’ fortunes. Indian men, too, have begun expanding their activities to non-Indian pussies. There was a time, when due to social constraints and a narrow outlook, we were restricted to molesting only the women in our country. Now, thanks to globalization and exaggerated advertising about Indian tourism, we are presented with several opportunities to forcibly extend our cocks to unwilling foreign cunts. Be it the smooth molestation of a Swedish teenager in Cochin by a few dozen of our compatriots (http://www.ibnlive.com/videos/55436/local-revelers-in-kochi-molest-swedish-girl.html) or the molestation of an American woman by a messenger of God (http://www.ibnlive.com/news/american-tourist-alleges-molestation-at-pushkar-temple/55960-3-1.html) the quality of work and the ease with which the cases are swept under the carpet to brighten the tricolor surface of our nation are nothing short of stupendous.
                A lot of people feel that molesting a woman is different from raping her. If you ask a true hardcore Indian man you would realize that the two are as different as a Bollywood actress and a Red-Street prostitute, or horseshit and donkeyshit, or a poor wife with great tits and a rich wife with no ass. When you rape a woman, you complete the job; you finish what you started; there is closure. Molesting someone, on the other hand, is more of an initiation course before you perform in the big league of rape. It’s like the chicken broth before a three-course dinner. Often, several men have a taste of the soup and take a raincheck on the main course. But you know that sooner or later those soup tasters will come back to bite into the main dinner.
                 It is undeniably true that none of the commendable progress of the Indian molesters and rapists would have been possible if it weren’t for the police, the court, and the various state governments. And, undoubtedly, the biggest token of gratitude goes to the word “alleged” that the media and the officials efficiently throw around when it comes to sex offences. Thanks to that word a giant beast with big ears, tusks, a trunk and pillar-like legs will remain an “alleged” elephant unless proven by a court of law.
                For some reason women don’t quite enjoy getting molested and raped as much as the men who commit those acts do. I’m personally quite baffled by this lukewarm response from the ladies. But hey, to each their own. However, one thing you ladies need to know about Indian men is that we never say no (except when the wives ask us if we’re having an affair). Regardless of the mediocre level of enjoyment you derive from our manly acts, we will strive to molest and rape all women, Indian, non-Indian, alien, and feminist until the end of time. If you don’t want to be involved in it, then keep your ass inside your home. Might seem a little regressive but that’s our best offer. Get out and get molested. Stay home and save your ass. Well, unless your male relatives at home wish to rape you. Allegedly, of course.

Sweetest Assassinations of All Time

                From the guy who designs chains out of used dental floss to the girl who’s allergic to cancer, from the optimistic crippled guy who’s hell bent on becoming a tap dancer to the girl who can accommodate an entire village inside her vagina, from the guy who claims he caught AIDS from a grandfather clock (although he may have meant grandfather cock) to the girl who takes naps with sexually stimulated sheep, from the guy who wants to masturbate alongside Osama Bin Laden to the girl who wants to get fingered by Hrithik Roshan’s double thumb, I know a lot of interesting people. Plus I know this completely bizarre guy- and I mean an absolutely mental motherfucker- who thinks Abishek Bachchan has talent. Although, the most complex cunt of them all, I’d have to say, is this guy who calls himself an assassination critic (Or an ass-crit). He critiques assassinations for a living. Now I don’t know who the fuck pays him to do that stuff but that’s what he does. About a thousand minutes back I sat down and had a talk with him, opened up a decent discussion. On the five sweetest assassinations since time immemorial. As always I like to document the stuff that I do. Even if it’s just taking a crap, I document that shit (10:00 pm- I clench my ass. 10:02 pm- a sizeable piece of turd dives into the bowl. Smells like beef, sounds like a Republic Day parade).
                Therefore, in the interest of the public, I’m releasing the documentation of the spiel that my ass-crit friend launched into about the five sweetest assassinations that has ever taken place.

# 5: John Lennon (2 stars)

If there’s an assassination that you can broach holding your girlfriend’s hand it’s that of John Lennon’s. Romance, suspense, intrigue, and a subtle vein of humor that consistently amuses the audience from the start to the finish all come together in this formulaic yet well-shot assassination. Starring the rock legend John Lennon cast opposite a practically unknown yet undeniably talented negative hero, Mark David Chapman, the assassination flows with the heartwarming ease of a Beatles song. Enough action to keep the male audiences happy fused with a romantic angle, provided by Yoko Ono, to satisfy the female audiences the John Lennon assassination satiates everyone unanimously.

# 4: Rajiv Gandhi (2 stars + 1 grenade)

Few assassinations dare to break the mould and offer something different. Even fewer assassinations are capable of starting a trend that would branch out into something truly groundbreaking. This is where the Rajiv Gandhi assassination proves to be a cut above the rest. Armed with a tightly woven plot and backed up by a stalwart production banner, the Tamil Tigers, the assassination keeps you on the edge of your seat right from the beginning. The director of the assassination boldly breaks the tradition of casting a macho assassin and goes with an ugly female assassin, a move that pays off immensely. The high profile target, the unobtrusive assassin, the bomb hidden in the basket of flowers, and the deadly deafening explosion are just few of the highlights of the Rajiv Gandhi assassination. All in all, it’s a thorough entertainer.

# 3: John F. Kennedy (3 stars + 3 bullets)

Considered by many as the sweetest assassination to have ever taken place the JFK assassination is truly ahead of its time. With a stellar cast and a riveting storyline, the JFK assassination is laden with twists, turns, dark humor and mystery. The assassination proceeds flawlessly with the most talked about President of the USA gunned down in the middle of the road with hundreds of people watching. The alleged assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, in true Hollywood style, and arguably in the best role of his career, maintains complete innocence, which is when the story accelerates into fourth gear. Right from the FBI, CIA, NYPD, UNICEF, and the Teletubbies, everyone’s a suspect. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that the JFK assassination is one of the greatest stylistic and cerebral achievements of the USA.

# 2 Mahatma Gandhi (4 stars + 3 bullets + 1 walking stick)

Ever so rarely comes the kind of assassination that everyone deems as an instant classic. And the Mahatma Gandhi assassination is one of those instant classics, and for good reason too. With one of 20th century’s greatest underdog stories as background, the Gandhi assassination unfolds like a magical tale of ambition, struggle, victory, deceit, and tragedy. Strong on possibly every aspect the Gandhi assassination succeeds in entertaining everyone from kids to adults to red-assed baboons. Nathuram Godse delivers his strongest performance as the ruthless assassin while Gandhi, as always, captivates the entire audience with his pure charisma and crowd appeal. Despite not offering anything out of the ordinary the assassination works perfectly owing to the cast, the story, and undeniable universality of the theme. It is one of those assassinations that gets fresher each time you mention it.

# 1 Jesus Christ (5 stars + 1 Mean Cross + 3 Dreidels)

The assassination of Christ is undoubtedly the most widely received and critically acclaimed assassination of all time. The assassination, which took place almost two thousand years back, still remains one of the most stylish, most efficiently achieved assassinations to date. The sheer budget of the assassination, what with the huge cross, all the nails, the thousands watching, the hundreds taunting, and an ocean of other extras, is purely staggering. It is a visually stunning creative masterpiece that transcends the boundaries of time and remains as one of the sweetest assassinations ever known to humanity. It is one thing assassinating a President or a Prime Minister but the assassination of the Savior of all mankind is clearly on another level all together. The very fact that the assassination has sprouted off several cults and sects and shows the lasting impact that this truly phenomenal magnum opus has on audiences all across the world. And frankly speaking, there were no other targets during that time or even now who could have fit the bill as perfectly as Jesus in a truly mesmerizing assassination.

               While my ass-crit friend had complied an impressive, hard-to-contest list of the sweetest assassinations of all time I was surprised to see certain assassinations left out, certain glaring omissions. He clarified that Abraham Lincoln failed to make the list because he was just too damn ugly. I asked him about the assassinations of great black leaders like Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. and inquired why they hadn’t made it into the list. To which the ass-crit replied: “Black guys are always getting shot and killed. That’s no news.” And when I asked him about the assassination of the first Indian Woman Prime Minister Indira Gandhi and the barely-a-week-old assassination of Pakistani leader Benazir Bhutto he had this to say: “Fuck! How hard is it to kill a couple of birds? Even O.J Simpson can do that shit“

A Message from Jesus

Dear Me-ians (think about it Pretty clever, eh?) And Rest,             

               I’ve got quite a few things on my list that I have to go over with you. Firstly, tragedy struck us today morning at ten o clock when Santa Claus died of an extreme syphilis-gonorrhea combination affliction. He caught it from Rudolph the red assed reindeer. PSYCH!! I was just messing around. Santa is still alive.  I love that red fat bastard. He does have the syphilis-gonorrhea combination affliction though. That has been known to happen when you slide down too many chimneys in the same night if you get my drift. And as a result, I’ll be couriering everybody’s gifts to their homes this time. So, if you don’t get the useless shit you asked for this year, don’t whine to Santa or me, whine to FedEx.
              I don’t particularly like celebrating my birthday. One of the reasons is because the parties in heaven suck. I mean, shit, what’s a birthday party with just eleven people?! And Gandhi won’t even let anybody eat meat. Talking about thrusting your beliefs upon somebody else. I’m glad none of my followers are like that. So, anyway, that’s why if I ever feel like partying hard I just hop down to hell and hang out a little while. Say what you want about Hitler but that Nazi motherfucker knows how to throw one hell of a fucking party. “Ich liebe Hackfleisch”. Yeah!
               Another reason I don’t want to be reminded of my birthday is because of my age. I mean, shit, you humans freak out when you hit thirty; imagine what it is to be over two thousand years old. Although, the popular opinion up here is that I don’t look a day over one thousand and seventy. To be honest, I owe it to all to healthy food and dedicated working out. Plus an occasional facelift doesn’t hurt anyone. PSYCH!! Just kidding. I’m in heaven, not Holly-fucking-wood.
               Birthdays are often occasions to reflect on and reminisce about things past. I was never someone who looked out for the future. I tried to make each day as useful as possible and better as many people as possible. In retrospect, I feel like such a douchebag for being so reckless in my behavior. When I gave up my life for the rest of you, I did it so that you’ll learn the significance of selflessness, love, and sacrifice; I even foolishly hoped you would all become better people. Instead, some of you assholes got together and devised a big fat hoax (in my name!) to control the lives of others and exploit it to your advantage; and the rest of you suckers let them get away with it. The aforementioned lines are not just true for me but some of my other comrades up here in heaven. In fact, both Krishna and Muhammad helped me write those lines because they feel the same way about those who run around chanting their names. You morons down there have no idea how pissed off we three are because of your stupid ignorant behavior since forever. Fuck! I promised myself I wouldn’t get too emotional on my birthday. Damn it! But it’s ok. It’s all right. I’m not angry; I’m just a little dented, cardiac wise.
             Speaking of things you people down there are doing wrong, I’d like a few things about the way you celebrate my birthday changed. I mean, don’t take this personally or anything but frankly speaking I’m kind of bored with the whole Christmas tree idea. Hell, it’s just a fucking tree for Christ’s My sake! With some glittery shit on it. It doesn’t really say anything about me. I would much rather prefer if you guys put up something bold, something adventurous, maybe some midget skeletons. Yeah, that’s right, midget skeletons. I think I’m onto something truly groundbreaking here. Just stay with me here! Get some midget skeletons, hang it in your front yard, inside your home, wherever you want to bring that holiday mood, and decorate it with some buffalo balls. Yeah, that’s right, buffalo balls. Or even bull balls. I don’t really care about that. Just make sure those midget skeletons look really Christmassy. But it has to be either buffalos or bulls. No bison balls. I hate bison balls. So remember, yes to buffalo balls and bull balls. But a big fat no to bison balls.
               And one more thing, when you are doing skits and stuff about my birth make sure you choose a cute baby to play me. I have seen some ugly-ass babies play me over the years. I don’t want that. If you can’t get a cute baby that’s human get one of those animatronic babies, I don’t care. But don’t rope in some shit-ass baby who looks like something that came out of Paula Abdul’s ass.
               Well, that’s it then, I guess. Hopefully you’ll have a great new year as well. Unless you get blown up by some psycho with an underwear bomb, or slain by some preschooler, or screwed over by your friends, family, and lovers. Or get plain depressed and end your lives. Anyways, Merry Me-Mas (think about it Pretty clever, eh?) to all of you. I’ve got a Fuhrer Partay to attend. Now, where did I leave my swastika?! PSYCH!!

From,
Christ.