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!”

 (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.

                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.

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.

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

            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!

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.

                   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)

                                                               ***

                    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