Incubus covering Massive Attack's Tear Drop

Ok, dead, I am dead. I saw this title and knew that I had to listen to it.

Brandon Boyd's vocals do magic.

(Of course the Massive Attack track is a phenomenal number. But you see when your favourite artists cover your other favourite artists, it is quite an overwhelming moment.)

Rage Against The Machine - Star Wars Theme!

Or, so have they claim! But who cares... It's awesome, sounds like Morello! Yes, but I do wish to know who made this one? Anyone who finds out will be given a reward!

What kind of Samurai Jack fan are you?

	I'm a Samurai Wannabe! Jack is an inspiration to us all. Makes me regret the samurai caste was ever dropped.
What kind of Samurai Jack fan are you?

	I'm an Art Loving Critic! Everything from the backgrounds to the characterizations. This isn't a cartoon, this is art!
What kind of Samurai Jack fan are you?

Samurai JACK! Gotta get back, back to the past, Samurai Jack! Jack, Jack, Jack!

A Song

ladies and gentlemunn, this is dedicated to all you reggae fans and awesome writers out there...
(which basically means language not be jamaican but sing to a reggae beat)

at the end of the day we'll be just fine
when i'll scratch yours and you'll scratch mine!

uh! uh! uh!

we sound like we are a feminine canine
but i scratch yours and you scratch mine!

stories were never really our turf
in free time, we will kill free verse
sugar coated saccharine, our words
we act like we'll win the booker first

bucketful of horse crap, line after line
but i scratch yours and you scratch mine!

oh! oh! oh!

we write literature which is so divine
while i scratch yours and you'll scratch mine!

nothing i ever wrote really made sense
but you had to put in your two cents
you lick my ass, through the day
someday i'm afraid you'll ask me to pay

we write bullshit 'bout lust and wine
but i scratch yours and you scratch mine!

put your hands in the air!

your english exam had a red line
still, i scratch yours and you scratch mine!

no matter how bad we really write
never ever will we have a fight
some people out here, real uncouth
they sometimes dare tell us the truth

who really cares much 'bout those swines!
cause i scratch yours and you scratch mine!

if poetry were physics then i'm einstein
i scratch yours and you scratch mine!

everybody!

i scratch yours and you scratch mine!
i scratch yours and you scratch mine!
i scratch yours and you scratch mine!
i scratch yours and you scratch mine!
i scratch yours and you scratch mine!
i scratch yours and you scratch mine!

[applause, whistles, screams, screeches]
[guitar riff]
[applause, whistles, screams, screeches]

thank you, you lovely people, we love you! mmmwuaahh!

[tosses cap into the audience]
[louder applause, whistles, screams, screeches]

Some women suck brains out with a syringe OR Zzzgk!

No, no, they do! You see they're the ones who're a little pretty, flaky, carry themselves off like prom queens in a scary movie and talk with an accent that's a brilliant blend of about twenty thousand accents. Now, this is a story about my encounters and how my brains were collected in a jar which I never saw.

You see, I was out with this female friend once and she was quite pretty. She had a quacky voice which scares you so much. This piece is also a direct reflection of what I felt in that process which of course I don't exactly remember because whatever bit of my brain regenerated, it has been placing together the memory cells and deducing the occuring of events. These are the brain cells which ran for their life and stuck to the walls of my cranium.

You see, the theory is such that these women have been endowed with these syringes which they carry in their handbags. Their needles are extremely sharp and their diameters are measured in microns. The women practice swift hand movements while they're talking animatedly and zzzgk! There goes a part of your brain. Now the first incident is with this particularly talented female, talented at the art of sucking your brains with syringe said, "There's something in your hair..." Her finger pulled out a dry yellow tamarind leaf which had fallen on my hair, but by the time I figured it was a leaf, I felt strangely empty in my head.

Since that day, I've been particularly afraid of the sound, zzzgk! You see my fears are not baseless for the sound didn't stop there. I took this really cute chick out once for dinner and she started talking about how she went to buy the perfectly pink sandals for her perfectly pink skirt which she was wearing that day but she figured she had the perfectly white top which she wanted to wear with it so she ended... zzzgk! You see how it works... and by that time, the waiter arrived with a piece of paper in a dish, I said, "I'll consume this dish!" It was the bill.

Since the last six months, every attempt my brain has been making to regenerate... zzzgk!

Coming back to my practicals during college days, at 6 am in the morning, this chick was so well dolled up that I thought she didn't sleep at night. She used to be my lab partner, I turn around and ask her, "Hey, how come you get so much time to glitter your hair, mascara your eyes, choose the perfect colour combinations, the matching set of earrings..." and I just waved my hand gesturing, "all that." She looked at me and said, "You see... Zzzgk!"

So as I was saying, that there was this woman once, who was walking down the street in that perfect shade of green, the one that my heart would go for. I smiled at her and she smiled at me. I went up to her and was thinking of this really awesome line to say but then now I don't remember what that line was because I know I said something clever which she didn't quite understand and before I understood that she didn't understand... zzzgk! Well the story so became that we went dancing that night to find that I couldn't think of anything, not even what I wanted to drink.

Last I heard was that they advanced their technologies to something called digital syringe or probably that was given to officers of higher ranks. I was talking to this woman on phone and well... I'd barely spoken ten words in half an hour of a conversation to feel lighter in the head only to call her again after five minutes. The unbelievable bit is that her high pitched voice really camouflaged the zzzgk on phone.

Ah well, so after coming across a few women like that I realised that the world had to be saved and it was in my hands because I was the only one who realised it. I called up a female friend of mine, one of the intelligent kind and told her about this. She said, "Oh dude! You can't believe it! They do that to me too!"

"What the fuck! This is not just a crisis for the men, it is a crisis for mankind! We have to do something about this!" I climb up my loft and pull out our old clothes bundle which we had decided to give away to this NGO and fished out a white dhoti which my granddad used to wear and he'd nearly worn it out. Tying it around my neck, I said, "This is a job for... Zzzgk!"

Then my friend came over, she had bought a cardboard sword from the hawkers sitting outside shaadis, the one that was covered with silver paper. Yes, we were ready to fight the evil forces. I look at my friend and say, "Did you find the source?"

"These women are not women, they're from the planet Zorg!"

"We can't travel to Zorg! We don't have a spaceship!"

"But we don't need to travel to Zorg! There are two women we have to choose from. One with an orange top and one with a green top!"

"Orange, it must be orange."

Zzzgk!

i can also ramble...

i dont want my house
i dont want my family
i feel guilty for not wanting this because they love me so much
i am responsible abt so many things but i dont want this because its pulling me down. This thought comes into my head at least once in a day and then i sulk like hell for even thinking this
im tired, im fucking tired of anything and everything that's shitty, crappy, sad, bad, unhappy i so wish to just become a recluse and live by myself... having fun starting all over again ground zero
im bored
i dont feel like going to work
im procastinating
im sweaty and stinking
heat's killing
im bored
im dying
im itching to just go and jump off a building
and i want to just go and dive in a gutter stink there and live there
i want to get drunk and puke everything that i've eaten out toss myself around like no ones business cathartic drinking puking all the fucking vile out.

i want to take a big hammer and break down some house, probably mine.
i want to take a gun and go on a killing spree killing every guy i meet on the way
i want to bring down a guy using my fists, punch him, punch him hard and harder till his face looks like a rotten lollipop
i want to kick someone in the ribs so bad so hard that his insides come straight outta his mouth and he dies
kick and kick and kick and kick till every rib comes outta his mouth.
i wanna take a car and run it into every shop which is having it's shutter down and break into it.
i wanna graffiti on the big hoardings that they've put up on every street.
i wanna bomb the bank, burn everyone's money.
i just want someone to hit back at me hard so that i start crying someone to take a revenge against me for all those things i do so that finally i cry and cry and cry and may be die.
im bored
im bored because i dont know what will happen tmrw
im bored because my mind is paranoid about it
im bored because i think too much
im bored because when im bored i think too much ahead in time
im bored because i know im thinking dreams and not a plan
im bored because i REALLY dont want to plan
im bored because why the fuck do i have to think so much ahead
im bored because i think no one really appreciates me...
im bored because im mindfucked
im bored because i want a break
im bored because im sick
im bored because i hate the world
im bored because i hate everyone who lives
im bored because i hate myself too
im just bored.
had fun reading all this?

It was a calm and bright morning (contd. 4)

"Where are we, Cavez?" said our man as we see their legs entwined as lovers and a man in custom's uniform has opened the box at the dock and is staring around. "Who the shit are you white uniformed white boy?"

Whack!

When he came to, he was in a prison. The scotland were investigating his case. They thought these were a bunch of skinheads trying to import themselves into England. But instead of the Nazi swastika why was there a 333 written on their heads? That was a question they'd decided to ask the two men. But then the medical reports said, those weren't tattoos. Those were birthmarks. Hence out of fear of the movie Omen, these two were left free. They were given clothes, similar to the ones they'd worn at the dock. The story so goes that they were the only two survivors, stuck inside a floating box when the ship they were travelling on sank.

Whack!

Those men obviously had read the anime comic that was enclosed in a polythene envelope in the box so that it doesn't get wet. They wake up at the airport. Handcuffed and they really don't know what to do.

"This kinda freaks me out, Cavez."

"Oh, I'm loving this. I've always had a handcuff fetish!"

"This is no time for a joke, Cavez!"

"What else do you expect me to do? You think we can do anything else?!"

"Hmm, you're right. So let's discuss jokes. You heard about the sardar whose wife found him with the neighbour's wife?"

"Who is Sardar?" Cavez asks and our man gets pissed.

"Bah! You cultural snob! Jokes are pointless with you!"

Cavez looks at him and says, "You heard about a nun who walked into a bar?"

"A nun inside a bar, that is not a joke, that's sacrilege!"

Cavez smirked, "SNOB!" and they start kicking each other hard since their hands are handcuffed to the chairs. In the middle of the fight our man asks Cavez, "What's that in your pocket?"

"Hey it's there in your pocket too!"

"What is it?"

They bend a little and pull it out with their teeth from each other's pocket. They tear the envelope together with their teeth like two lovers eating noodles. Meanwhile at the Heathrow airport Elton John passes by, "How romantic and bold!

Not giving a damn about that comment, our friends in overcoats, fedoras and handcuffs open the envelope. They saw air tickets inside each of them. One was a ticket to Mexico and the other was to India.

"Cavez, what if we change the air tickets and pockets?"

"What?"

"I'll go to Mexico."

"NO! That's my home there!"

"At least that way we'll fool them saying that they didn't send us where we had to go. Then we can sue them and may be get the british citizenship for free!"

Whack!

In an unconscious dream our man talks to a talking monkey, "I'm tired of these people wacking me!" I'll kill that Chinese when I see him.

-- i n c o m p l e t e c h a p t e r --
but wanted to post it anyways, so now you've read this :D

Third Person Expanded Timesense

You know how it feels? I'm sure you do. All of us do at some point or the other. You must've and I will now. You how what feels? Go ahead ask me that. You know how it feels to be beaten up by a gang of thugs? Not exactly thugs but people who're say unreasonably violent for a cause that may or may not concern them but may make it their concern if provided generous compensation in units of the lowest common denominator? Not exactly units, but may be tens, or hundreds or thousands.

There it comes, you see it don't you? Don't tell me you can't fucking see that hockey stick being swung at you? It's about to hit your right eyebrow and miss your eye by an inch.

There you go. You went and got yourself hit. Is it blue yet? Oh! It's a cut! it's bleeding. Why and how do you get yourself in such a situation? There it comes, there comes a chain swinging right at your elbow. Damn! They ruined your fucking shirt! Why do they use bicycle chains for hitting people and that too without cleaning the fucking grease off it?!

By the time this will be over, I doubt I will be able to stand on my feet. But it's interesting you know, it's very interesting to see yourself being beaten up from the third person point of view. How did I achieve that? I spent three years at a monastery in the Himalayas, learning the art of meditation from the Buddhist monks. They taught me how the soul is not a part of the body and can leave the body whenever it wishes to. The important part being making it wish to. In the beginning it felt like I was showing the dog a bone and shouting, "Fetch!" But strangely enough, the master came to me and said, "Your soul is not a dog, your body is." I learnt a strange truth but that made me learn something new. My soul was the bone. I had to make sure that I toss my soul so far that my dog doesn't feel motivated enough to go catch it. Eastern philosophies are filled with such strange analogies. You can't find the right one that suits you, you can go ahead and make your own - no one will figure out the difference.

Not the fucking balls! Ouch! That must've hurt! They kicked you in the balls! Shit! I can see your cringe, I can see your curl up in pain! Look out for those leather boots! I can hear you howl as your hands are bamboozled, your senses have lost their touch, their enigmatic touch that god placed upon them to make the right choice. Your senses have reached a point of status contention - testicles or intestine?

Now the interesting part about floating out of your body and watching every action from the third person point of view - is like you're watching a movie in 3D! No matter how hard you try, you CAN'T help Chhota Chetan, he has to DIE! Or if you were born after 1995 then he has to be turned into a bat and stay camoulflaged in Urmilla's leather bosom. Hmmm, the word bosom brings a strange thought in my head -

Oww those fucking faggots! They pounded your back with a stump, the blunt end! They might as well dig the sharper end into your neck and kill you for once!

Coming back to our conversation - the word bosom brings a strange thought to my conscious mind. Her lovely curvaceous bosom! That's what landed me here, right outside my body, watching how easy it is to land into the hospital. And I always wondered why do those doctors and nurses keep running like they've got a hundred people dying. It's because there REALLY are a hundred people dying. There are things you have to know about me still - about how I got floating around a place like this and watching my dog being beaten up like this. Those things mostly involve one or more of the seven sins performed regularly as a ritual or at least a fix. So this one evening, I'm drinking at the bar. There's this one thing about alcohol that I learnt from the arabs is that alcohol made from dates is special - it has aphrodisiac powers. One glass of date wine equals at least two or three onions crushed and juiced well into a glass, very potent. Then that evening they made me prove that with personal experience. Later they told me that they fooled me only to prove that your head is the biggest aphrodisiac. I still didn't believe that bit. I still believed you need some kind of intoxicant to believe that. So there I was mainlining tequila and after seven shots - I knew that it wasn't tequila but it was date wine. Now, I was the invincible phallus!

A boot is about to stamp your thigh flat. You twitch and he misses. You bitch! Don't twitch! If you twitch he comes back again with more force. The next time you don't twitch but this time he's jumping high in the air with both feet about to hit your thighs. Holy fucking shit! That must've hurt. I can almost hear your bones crack. You know when you pull down your trousers later at night you will see dirty boot marks turning greenish blue there. You can hate them in peace then - as of now, no matter how much you hate them it doesn't make a difference. So you might as well love them - trust me it doesn't hurt as much.

"It doesn't hurt as much when you steal from someone you love a lot."
"What makes you say that?" I asked him, "I think exactly otherwise."
"How many times you've stolen from someone you love?"
"Never."
"So what do you base your claims on?"
"Hmm, ok."
"Tell me, whom do you love the most?"
"That woman from the bar who stopped me from impersonating the phallus."
"Good."
We went-a-stealing from her. This dialogue I just had was with a thief who has said to have gotten his talents from the thieves of the past when people still were sensitive and their senses were really sharp. He is a genetic thief technically otherwise he's just a man standing in the corner who you don't realise will eat your bread but steal the remaining jam in the bottle too. So well we went-a-stealing and it proved to me that when you love someone as much - it doesn't take much effort to steal from them. Your basic assumption is that since you love them so much, their stuff is yours anyways, where as people you hate so much - you're always afraid they might catch you - mental state weakens and you're a weak thief. I learnt this from him. I do the delivery very well, don't I?

Motthherfuckker! They're carrying a knuckle duster too! Your days are numbered my friend. Now before a fist runs into you, close your eyes and imagine - a flying stainless steel semi-flying saucer and then there's a good chance that you'll be see on Mars. That is providing Scotty still mans the flight. Soon enough your nose will be broken, bleeding, one tape won't work. There are chances that you will carry half your nose in an icebox to the hospital to get it stitched back again. The best part would be if they find you after the stitches are done with and you're getting cured. Imagine them plucking each stitch out minus anaesthesia. Imagination doesn't require you to pay taxes.

Well later that evening I met Scotty. He'd been roaming around in search of a specimen and I just about knew the right one. So I take Scotty in his flying saucer right above Kshitij's house. "You see that fat fuck sitting and eating there, Scotty?" Holy Fuck I know you don't understand my words. So I had to talk through thoughts to Kshitij and Kshitij didn't know - when, what and how something hit him! So out of pure envy, I make him see the flying saucer. Kshitij is that woman's boyfriend.

On first, second and third thoughts, stay that way - once the pain's gone I'll be back. Without the soul there can be no pain. I learnt this at this hutment in the middle of the jungle. In the whole hutment there were men and women moving in ascetic clothes. And there in the middle - I saw a saint sitting in all serenity, "Sir, I want knowledge." The only way to get food is to talk about what they like, it's more like you can't scream Chelsea in a ManU club. Else you don't even get the happy hour discount. The saint taught me that the key problem in life is pain and pain vanishes with the soul. It's the soul which spreads the senses and emotions and not our bodies.

You're having fun. You can't even feel what they're doing to you. They might as well sodomise you. Suddenly, completely enraged this man comes running with a knife in his hands and stabs your stomach. Then pulls it out making that weird sound like lots of small squirts. Then pushes it again, the out again. He then continues stabbing you, on and off till he's sure that you're innards are ready to be served as hot keema soon. Don't forget the onions. That's when I realise something! Shit! I have nowhere to go but one place. I am dead. The soul has no place to go. I meditate to try and get out of my soul - assuming the soul is another body for another soul.

Well after making sure Scotty and Kshitij had some good time together, I let him out and he's been smiling eversince. I was proud of my shit! I was, I really was. And I thought it would be all dramatic to see my soul escape my wounds but now there were too many for one to escape - they made a soul-shredder out of my body.

I'm about to die and you want a last few words? How shameless! But still it's fine - I like this publicity, even if I'm dying or dead. After a few years my samadhi will be used as a set to shoot either the graveyard scenes of a movie or probably a complete horror movie - Ramsay Bros present, "Daravni Kabr" So here're famous last words: "Those things I said about the monastery, the saint, the thiefprince, the scotty and his saucer - all figments of my imagination, my great publicity stunt, my path to the news! But looks like I didn't make it. It's a plain case of attention seeking disorder who died disorderly seeking attention!"

* * *

It was a calm and bright morning (contd. 3)

He comes to inside a dark club where the bassline's bursting with hiphop beats and black rappers rapping extempore, "Hey everybody come to 313!"

There was no one familiar around. All black guys and a couple of white guys shaking their hands and heads as fast as they could trying to catch up with some insane beat that was irritating him. He ran out where the drinks were being distributed.

"Hey Amigo Fedoro!"

That voice sounded familiar. He turned around to see Cavez waiting with two glasses of beer, "Beer taste so much good than Tequila! I love America!"

"How are you here? I was wacked?"

"I don't know Amigo!"

"Were you wacked too?"

"No Amigo but I fainted when you were whacked!"

"Cavez you need a shave! Your bristled ugly moustache will get us in to some trouble here with the law."

"You mean?"

"I mean, look at your dirty mexican self. Dump that sombrero. Dump the hair on your body. Look around and find a good camouflage. You'll be kicked out for being illegal here."

"Blah!" Cavez guzzled down both the glasses of beer. The walked out from there.

"But how and why did you come here?"

"I came in the same DHL box with you and with this brochure in my pocket with your name written on it."

"Ok."

They walk towards something but they don't know what it is. Hence they keep walking.

"Cavez, we need to get you some clothes."

"I am wearing clothes."

"I mean some real clothes."

"You mean like an overcoat and a fedora like yours?"

"Yea. I love this dress. We could look like twins and may be then people won't suspect us."

He picked up a stone and hurled it randomly at all those closed shops. One of the glass panes burst open. Both of them entered the store. It had clothes! Wow, what luck! So they started hunting for the fedora and overcoat. Soon they find both of them. While Cavez was changing, our man finds a razor and shaves his facial hair off. It was ages since he shaved and it had begun to itch.

Soon Cavez came there and our man forced the razor on his face. Cavez got scared and said he will shave and come. Soon Cavez shaved his full head and came there. Out of fear what he'd done had eventually left not a strand of hair on his face and red mexican skin all over. But it wasn't that which left our man dumb founded.

In sheer joy and shock he turned to Cavez and said, "Shave my head."

"What?!"

"Shave it!"

"Ok."

With complete pleasure and vengeance Cavez shaved our man's head off. There was written in a triangle - 333. Then our man said, "Cavez go check your head in the mirror." There was just another such tattoo on Cavez's head too! It said the same thing, '333'.

This scared the shit out of Cavez, "How can I be a semi-demon? I don't mind being a demi-god BUT a SEMI-DEMON?!"

"You fuckhead! Don't you see the obviousness?!"

"Which one?"

"We're together for a purpose! For the destruction of the world. Hence we've been travelling all over the world. I've been at least trying to look for you with those wacks. You were out on your way too but then since I was closer God called you back to your house and not in Columbia. Now you know why you survived?"

"Oh my God!"

"Huh?"

"Oops! Oh my devil!"

"Yeah that's the right spirit!"

Soon enough they were sitting on the chairs at the shop like they were the evil tyrannical rules of the world. Atleast they thought they soon would be. Suddenly a bunch of homies walk in to the shop, "What you mofos doin' in here? Want something up your ass dawg?! This is our zone! We steal and breaka shops around here!"

"Oh ok!"

"We're both half-devils each and you're banned from the hell," said our man.

The group started laughing. It was quite obvious they didn't give a double fuck. Then one started rapping as the other pulled a gun out, "You fucking bitches are at detroit! Two bald mexicans are shivering in fright! Look I got a fucking gun and I fucking ruined their fun! They got no fucking names and I'm about to ruin their little game!"

"I'm not mexican. I'm Indian."

"Who cares?"

"I do."

Wack!

When Cavez and our man came to this time around - they were sitting inside a small room. It had a lot of mirrors. It was a room that could be called 3' x 3'. Here they were two bald men with overcoats and fedoras nearly hugging each other and standing inside a freaking small room, smaller than a toilet!

A voice from outside screamed, "Dawg, these bitches seemed to have woken up. What do I do?"

A distant voice: "Get them outta the fucking dressing room!"

"Ok."

The man opened the door, let out these two men and asked them, "How the fuck did you pain?"

Meanwhile Cavez had already started drawing inside that anime brochure. He drew a hand moving towards their tattoos! "Is that what happened?" This was asked to Cavez by our man. And Cavez said, "Yes."

"Good. Now we find a good armour cap for our head once we're out of here which seems doubtful. Do you'll guys eat some humans? African bastards!"

Wack!

"Where are we, Cavez?" said our man as we see their legs entwined as lovers and a man in custom's uniform has opened the box at the dock and is staring around. "Who the shit are you white uniformed white boy?"

Wack!

(to be continued)

It was a calm and bright morning (contd. 2)

Wack!

The next time he woke up, all he remembered hearing was, "Usted es loco?"

"Main kahaan hoon?" Old bollywood saying, man who wakes up from knock-out always talks in mother tongue.

"Senor, you are in Mexico City," the man with a sombrero was as astonished as our man with a fedora and he repeated again, "Usted es loco?"

"Do I look fucking Mexican?"

"Somewhat."

"I'm not."

"So?"

"I don't know Spanish! Trans-thefreaking-late!"

"Oh ok! No no, you are not to be late. You are to be on time. You arrive in beeg box. My son thought you're the my elder son Cavez who never came back from big city New York."

"I've never been to New York and I don't care about Cavez."

"I know. Man from Kenya send me anime-comic book which is a folleto on how to take care of you."

"Ah that dumb Okinawan book."

"Okinawa no, Kenya. After Kill Bill everyone either want to go to church in El Paso or drink sake in Okinawa. The hollywood is destroying world tourism. I'm starting signature campaign against Quentin Tarantino. He also polluted our own Roberto and licked toes of Salma - the mexican honour!"

"Roberto whatevero! I-o want-o to-o go-o hom-o!" Our man with a fedora screams. Not that his fedora still looks like one, it's lost it's stiffness and shape after those days in the FedEx box and before that the DHL box.

A silence followed after that. Pedro started eyeing him with suspicion. He quietly goes out and brings him tacos and some extra beans. Hungry and weak, the man starts eating with both hands. While he's eating, Pedro went and talked to some other men outside. Soon a certain senor Vargas in his mid-forties turns up and stands behind our fedora man and then suddenly feeling like he's being leched at the man turns to senor and stares.

Senor Vargas: "Usted es homo?"

Pedor walked in then, "He asking whether you are homosexual. Don't be shy, say yes. You really look like you're in dire need of some sex. You've been abstaining from Okinawa to Kenya to Mexico."

"Yes I haven't even masturbated BUT I'm not homo. I thought about Salma Hayek the last time I got off."

Wack!

When the man with the crumpled fedora woke up, "Donde estoy?"

Suddenly he stared into the mirror. His overcoat was hanging on a string besides him and his hat was nice shaped and back again but wet still. He had a sombrero with 'fedora' written on it and a poncho around his neck, BUT no pants! Biggest of all things he stared at his tongue first and said, "Oh mi dios! Estoy hablando en espanol!"

Then Senor Vargas walked up to him from behind carrying a 'English in a few easy steps' book, "Are you want coffee?"

"I want to go home."

"You want homo?"

"You ugly old perverted bastard, take me out of here."

"You want go out with me? Really? For a date?"

"Nooooo!" Our man screams and this time by mistake faints without a wack. Senor Vargas checks the anime-brochure once again, puzzled and feels cheated, 'This isn't how it's supposed to work! I didn't get to wack him' and then wacks him anyways - Wack!

When he comes to, Cavez is back from New York and they're standing near a wooden stage near their house and a few people are performing live. It's a mexican band singing the song loud and clear. The guitarist and the way he played his guitar makes our friend homesick. He stared thinking of Mithun Chakraborthy and his famous disco dancer dance, the one when he holds the guitar to his chin and plays with his wrist.

Cavez there, was a man of few words or so realised our friend who decided to get a silver shining suit to look like Mithun Chakraborthy. He was obsessed. He wanted to dance, he wanted to dance like the disco dancer to salsa music. He turned around to Cavez and asked him, "So Cavez, what did you do in America?"

"I didn't go to America but don't tell my father."

"Then what happened?"

"I met some rastafarii and we smoked up a lot of weed then I called them black africans. The lat thing I remember after that was a wack in my head."

"Then what?"

"Then I was found on the Mexican border right at the border post and they were checking for illegal immigrants. They arrested me. I was sent back. I found another group of rastafarii but they were white rastas and were going to Colombia. I worked for them silently till one day all of them were killed by a few Columbians. Then I got wacked again for insulting the Columbians. Then I woke up in my own backyard. I don't know why, I didn't ask why. Papa said I arrived just like you did, in a FedEx box. Now we have two FedEx boxes in the house and we don't have places to keep them."

"Why do you want to keep FedEx boxes?"

"Because I love FedEx boxes. I ran away from home because they threw away two small FedEx envelopes and one medium FedEx box. Now they know better than throw away two nice huge FedEx boxes."

"Ok."

By now our hero had started discodancing to latino music. All the women started laughing at him and all the men mocked. There was but one woman, Julia who stood far behind the stage and was staring at this weird half-mexican man in a fedora and black overcoat, dancing in weird disco steps to the fabulous salsa music. She was turned on by his dance steps. He suddenly noticed her blushing as he danced. He went there and asked her to the dance floor. She readily agreed and started performing her hot salsa moves on his discoing body. Soon enough they danced their way into one of those small warehouses where they kept lots of hay like it is shown in every western movie that shows a Mexican town. There're barrels of tequila and lots of grass. It's obvious about what happened next. He asked her if she was married, she lied. They then drank tequila and he said how he found latina women hot. He kept talking and talking. She suddenly felt that this was an insult and they were supposed to be having hot indian sex in that warehouse. She didn't spend time performing those hot salsa moves for nothing, at least not for a dumb disco dancer! So...

Wack!

This time around when he came to he saw a lot of black people crowding in to see inside a FedEx box. It was his FedEx box, his anime-brochure on his lap. One white guy came in as he slips from between the huge black hiphop urban homies. He picked up the brochure as our man was trying to crawl out of the box. He started laughing. He showed it to the other men around him, they started laughing too. Our man turned to them and asked, "What's your problem, dude?"

Wack!

He comes to inside a dark club where the bassline's bursting with hiphop beats and black rappers rapping extempore, "Hey everybody come to 313!"

(to be continued)

It was a calm and bright morning (contd.)

Wack! The next time when he came to, he saw a tall thin negro offering him an orange.

"Where am I?"

The negro said in a very strange accent, "You want orange, man from box from India?"

"Where the fuck am I?"

"The orange is very juicy. Here try using that to come back to senses." He held the orange to his head for sometime and mumbled something as our fedora man started looking for where he was. It seemed like a primitive hut in some forest.

A huge DHL marked box was placed inside that room, upside down where the negro had kept a fruit assortment. In a few seconds the negro squeezed the orange onto the man's forehead with all his might.

"What the fuck?! Where am I?"

"This is Kenya. Hello I'm Mwamba and I am a member of the Masai tribe here. This is one of the last few rural areas left where original traditions and religion is followed. Everywhere else they've modernised. You're our first modern gift from mankind. You came by DHL service addressed to me. I've been promoted as leader of my tribe. Thanks to you. You're the man who come in all black to absord all the heat from us in the summer and cool us down. Hence, first I cool you down with orange juice. That's what you foreigners drink in summer, right? I had to import this one from the city - not a good omen but anything for you."

"How do you know so good english?"

"I spent five years in New York."

"What the heck?"

"I was about to be selected for a basket ball team for NYSU but later on they become racist and tell me I am animal from Africa."

"You claim this vilage be unadulterated?"

"Only legend. The chief's daughter be made love to by white man two years back."

"Whatever. See dude, I last remember being Shanghai."

"Yes, I know. The DHL man said to me, that this parcel was from China."

"I'm damn hungry." Then he started feasting on the fruits that were placed on his 'vehicle' as the negro called it.

Later the man and the negro took a walk in the village. There was only one white child playing there with the whole lot of black children. Our man couldn't help but ask, "Whose child is this?"

"No one is supposed to say. We supposed to say that no one knows. He be white god's child."

"God's child?"

Wack! The next time he wakes up the negro's offering him another orange. He grabs it and eats it with the peel. The negro says, "No insulting the child or white god."

"Who is white god?"

"No asking questions."

The man shrugs.

"How did you know I was Indian and how do you know where to hit me like the Chinese do?"

"Chinese be good people. They send me letter with diagrams and explanations on how to tackle a foolish Indian like you. Here see this."

There was a nice airport safety brochure styled but with anime-figures drawn on a piece of paper. The man who was being hit in the picture didn't look like our man, he had big anime-eyes but he had the same clothes that the fedora man was wearing since the last howmanyever number of days. That stink from his body made him think of what date was it. But before he could ask, the negro turned a page and said, "You see that picture here. They describe how to switch you on and off. You be a good chinese toy, Indian."

"What date is it?"

"One week since your first blow the chinese girl hit you for calling a korean a chinese."

"How do you know that?"

"They make anime-comic of that too and send from Okinawa."

Our man stopped caring all of a sudden and said he wanted to meet white god. He wanted to pray for well being of his family and so that he could return back home soon. In truth he had no family, he was an orphan but considered every street child his family. Some times he thought he must be having some family somewhere far away - he would pray for them.

"Where is white god temple?"

Sometime later the negro and our man are standing next to a wooden small church on the outskirts of the village, "This is no freaking temple, it's a village."

Suddenly it began dawning on our man. It was the case of every missionary joke. The missionary must've fucked the chief's daughter and he must be called the 'white god'. And then Mwamba took him inside and pointed at Jesus Christ and said, this is the white god. He was born without sex and he has given birth without sex. The chief's daughter is still safe and clean and pure. I might marry her next year.

"Who sold you this junk?"

"Messenger of the white god."

"Bullshit. You people are dumb long legged ancient stupid fools with brains in your pingpong ball sized kneecaps. Some white fucker fucked your chief's daughter and your chief and that white priest are fooling you completely."

Wack! The next time he woke up, all he remembered hearing was, "Usted es loco?"

(to be continued)

It was a calm and bright morning

It was a dark and stormy night. The man walked in the rains on the streets of the city. The streetlights were poofed off by someone. No one knew who. He wore a long black overcoat and a black fedora. He tried smoking a cigar for effect but it got extinguished in the rain and the cigar became all wet and looked like a smudgestick. You could start writing with it on a white wall and get greenish black dirty coloured fading letters. But that's not the purpose of the story, the purpose is - it was a dark and stormy night.

So then, on that dark and stormy night the man kept walking and waiting for something to happen. Nothing did happen and soon it was a bright and calm morning. On his long walk which never stopped because nothing happened, he saw a man practicing Kung Fu in the garden. The man looked chinese, the man turned around and said, "Ae chingpong, you do good kung fu."

"It's not kung fu, it's Ju Jitsu and I'm not Chinese but I'm Korean."

"Bah doesn't make a difference, all you narrow eyes are the same." The man kept walking.

Suddenly he got a straight wack on the back of his head as he fell down. He came to in a small hut where a man with narrow eyes looked at him, "I'm very sorry for my daughter's misbehaviour. She doesn't stand our culture being dishonoured so easily. We're chinese. You called a korean chinese so she was pissed."

"Ah never mind. But that was kung fu right?"

"No, it was Karate."

"We're from Okinawa but we're Chinese."

"Yea, whatever. As if it matters to me. But what the heck are you doing in a slum in Bombay?"

Wack!

The next time he woke up, he saw a lot of people around him, "Welcome to consciousness O man in black coat and fedora! We're sorry for our brother's misbehaviour. He can't stand people not caring about our culture. He takes it too personally that we're being ignored like insects just because we're a huge country."

"Where am I?"

"This is a basement in Shanghai, China."

"Ahh. Ok." Then he suddenly went bonkers, "WHAT?! What the heck am I doing in chingpong country?"

"We were leaving your country, we didn't know what to do with an unconscious you so we got you along, it's against our honour to leave you there. Our ancestors would've been pissed at us."

"Ancestors, Fancestors, Blah blah, Whatever. Take me back to Bombay."

Wack! The next time when he came to, he saw a tall thin negro offering him an orange.

(to be continued)

Be very wary else you'll be very weary

Now now, see there are a lot of things one should be wary of. But never be wary of what you can be weary. The problem basically arises when you realise that the two words are actually homonyms. Not that they're words of the same kind and indulge in sexual fantasies, no. It's basically got a lot to do with the fact that homonyms do not have anything to do with the sexual preferences. I'm sure all of you actually know the meaning of homonyms. No, it's not a colloqial way of calling out homosexual nymphs. It's homo-NYMS, and that's it. But the whole motive of me writing this remains that you forget what homonyms really mean. Homonyms are basically HOrMOnal synoNYMS. Like Testerone in men is synonymous to Oestrogen in women. This really shows my biology is terribly weak and now you're actually wary of reading any more of this. But I'm sure I'll continue till the time you're actually weary of reading this. I'm quite sure you still know the real meaning of homonyms. It really means Horticultural Momentary NY (New York) MudfighterS. Ha! You still know the meaning of homonyms. Hollywood Mallu NatYa Madarsas - It's an elite association formed in Hollywood, CA by Mallus following the religion of Islam and are from the any of the basic Indian dance families/schools like BharatNatyam, Kuchipudi, Kathak, Kathakali, etc.

Somehow I have a strange recollection of weird thoughts that tell me that we all have been discussing precisely the wrong meanings of Homonyms all this while. They're just the long form of the colloqially shortened word, 'hymns'. You actually sing homonyms to the lord. But on second and third thoughts I feel homonyms are just homonyms and we should let them be else they'll all form an assemblee and come for us with vengeance and furious anger, then take us to the hangar and dump us in an airplane and make sure we're flying on a different plane and promise us various spiritual planes and soon enough our career graphs, our ECGs will all be plain plain and our bodies found in the next lane.

Is this enough insane?

Insanity

Insanity is the beginning of every reality and sanity the end... and in the middle there's forty two.

If at any times you feel sanity seeping through, please don't hesitate in registering your grievances. Honest attempts are made to avoid patterns, styles and stuctured thoughts. There are things that one sees only from a wonky perspective. There are lives that can only be led from a perspective that is lost. We are trying lead one. Now clap, then tap your feet, then snap your fingers after which there really is nothing much to do, so either comment or go do something that makes sense. If you think you can stand this and still better create it, get in touch. We're always on look-out for insane people who want to rescue themselves from the Nazi factories - The Dwindler's List.

Thank you