Back in Pune from a happy visit home.
Actually felt good at work all week. Wow!!!!
My project team is actually full of pranksters and hilarious guys!
I’m Lovin’ it!!!!! 
And the McVeggies.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, I have now decided to include posts from my old blog on here. Public demand, you see.
The post that’s ‘caught the imagination’ (rather, caught the brain i.e. burra pattesindi in telugu) of a lot of ’sillie fellloows’ (cue Mohan Babu) is the ‘101 reasons to hate my college’.
I would like to clarify here that the post is entirely mine, mine and mine alone. Any similar post you see elsewhere has been grossly, shamelessly and unimaginatively plagiarised. I now know how all those recording studios feel whe music is downloaded for free illegally off the net.
Keep off piracy, people!!!!
Start with NOT plagiarising. Be creative. Be original. Don’t be a cheat FFS!!!!
No, there’s no spelling mistake. The ‘e’ has replaced the ‘i’.
Pune can be a punishing (or is it puneshing) little place for new wannabe Puneris. Of course, I’m no more a wannabe and have resigned myself to living here for another 9 months (No, it;s not what you think, you dirty scoundrel) at the very least.
I’m in absolutely no mood to tell you why – I am leaving tomorrow for a weeklong visit to home sweet hyderabad. Plus, how can I miss the top-seeded Deccan Chargers being discharged all over by the Delhi Daredevils, who seem to be aptly named, going by their fielding in the inaugural IPL edition.
See ya guys in a week. Hyderabad is too enjoyable to sit in front of a PC and blog like a deranged … uh, well, er… blogger
Let me clarify. This is not a philosophical post about bumps on the road called life. This is not a random rant about the disease mumps. This is not about the kiddy horror series ‘Goosebumps’.
People, we are here to discuss the more serious issue of ‘Birthday bumps’, which is spreading like an epidemic to all walks of life and all companies in Hinjwadi.
Birthdays in school were a ‘prestigious’ occasion where one :
1. got to show off his/her new clothes,
2. had the privilege of NOT wearing regular school uniform that day and
3. was, for that day, considered a hero (and rightly so) for distributing Coffee Bites and Eclairs to everyone.
So the question of birthday bumps did not arise at all in school, although the occasional ‘ceremony’ was performed on a few bakras.
My first encounter with real B’day bumps came roughly a month after I stepped into the wicked world of engineeering. It was a friend’s birthday and so at midnight, the obligatory cake was brought out, friends and foes(read seniors) were invited and the poor soul whose life was being celebrated wished he had never been born. Let me describe the ritual. The tension in the air just before the ‘magic’ candles are blown out cannot be cut even with a butcher’s knife. THICK. As soon as the candles are blown out, all hell breaks loose. The ‘birthday boy’ is turned into a ragdoll and tossed around like one, kicked, punched, slapped, poked, smashed etc and is left lying flat on his back on the ground, staring at the sky and wondering if he had finally reached the peomised land, HELL. Of course, the next part of the this wonderfully twisted celebration belongs to the roommate of the BB. He is first honoured by letting him have the first piece of cake. HE is then ‘taken to the cleaners’ and is laid beside his
roommate whom, by this time, he probably hates. Wonderful isn’t it, this holy college ritual?
I was a non-violent type of fellow the first 3 years and always stayed away from the ‘action’. I preferred to just hand over bats, sticks, rods and other harmless stuff to the participants to use as props, which thankfully, they fully utilised. The fourth year, though, got me rethinking my strategy and all the pent up energy of 3 years exploded like a volcano full of lava. My palmprint attained semi-legendary status by the time I left college. You see, I decided to change after coming across an article on the bumps in India which said: “A distant relative of this is the “GPL” or “G***d Pe Lath” or “गान्ड पे लात” which originates from the Indian language Hindi. GPL is particulary popular in the Engineering colleges in India. It is slightly different from “The bumps” in that it is specially administered in the area above the thighs on the backside of human anatomy. It is also a little bit violent,“. I found this very interesting and decided to give it a go.
now that college is a chapter in the past, I am back to my non-violent best and am sincerely leading the way in anti-bumps campaigns, in the interest of Indian arses.
No more bumps.No more bumps.
We don’t want special birthday rumps.
That is our group’s chant. Our group by the way is called SITA (stop inhuman treatment of arses).
By the way, my birthday is just around the corner.
Here’s to a non-violent entry into my 22nd year.
Miss Chicken Brittle’s brother, Mr. Cock Brittle attempted to cross the road.
Why?
He said before attempting to cross (pun intended) “If Dirk Kuyt can play as a regular starting winger for a top 4 club and cross the ball, I can cross the road”.
Unfortunately, he was run over by a speeding bicycle.
If you don’t know who Dirk Kuyt is, you don’t know football. Which means you can stop reading now.
btw, I am finished
This is the end of the road for this blog.
Please visit my new page at:
HTTP://rahulgk.wordpress.com
Hyderabadi
Mumbaikar
Delhiite
Kolkataer
Madrasi
Bangalorean.
Each city, its own suffix for its people.
Likewise, my new adopted ‘home’ town, Pune.
Puneri, at first, I thought was a Marathi expletive which I didn’t quite get. Not until a Rajasthani store owner told me did I realise what it actually meant.
For the rest of this post, you will have to wait. The chapatis have arrived, brought home by my two gymming, swimming, singing, dancing pot-bellied roommates.
The driving force behind this blog is actually a virtually unheard-of book called “Oh Shit! Not Again”, written by a Pune/Nashik guy called +=forgot name=+ .
You see, I was in Crossword on Sunday, right beside Pizza Hut in Aundh, inhaling the smell of brand new books with one nostril and absorbing the aroma of Hot cheese on pizza base through the other.
I’d gone there to buy myself a book or two to keep me company during boring times(read in the apartment). I’m sure all you intelligent folks know what OCD is. I have what I term “Maniacal Book Buying Syndrome” (MBBS – sorry, doc) due to which I can’t stop buying books when I enter a bookstore. Like always, I bought and bought and bought until I ran out of cash (I wisely left my credit card back in the apartment with a couple of cockroaches for security). I’d found this particular piece of ‘literature’ (i.e. OS!NO) in the bestsellers section. I’d never heard of the book or the author before so bought it because I was mighty curious to know what made the book so special.
Well, my position turned out to be similar to Mr.C.Cat’s(refer to my first post).
This book is, without an iota of doubt, THE worst piece of writing I have come across in my living memory. And that is a compliment. Please, please, I implore you never ever to try and read this book, EVER.
In fact, it was so bad, I can’t remember what it was about. I’m trying to find the book to see what it was about, but I can’t seem to locate it. Looks like the cockroaches I had appointed to look after my credit card decided the book would count as their fee. Good riddance.
Meanwhile, I’ve started reading another book. This one’s about an IITian’s love story (Look what you’ve done now, Mr.Bhagat) and so far, it’s been readable. I guess after reading Oh SHit!, just about anything is ‘good writing’.
Which brings me to the point of this post – if ‘Shit’ can be a bestseller, I can become a billionaire in no time. I started my ‘first book’ yesrterday a few seconds after feeding ‘Shit’ to the lizards (which I now realise the cockroaches haven’t made off with). Luckily for the world, I came back to my senses quickly and rubbished the idea.
Inspiration, what a queer thing it is. Inspiration, what queer ways it brings itself to you. Inspiration, the theme behind a story in ‘Tinkle’ about an illiterate poet and a crow. But that’s another story.
For those of you who have already visited my previous blog at http://jeekinthebox.blogspot.com, the title of this post must have had you scurrying for cover before good sense prevailed and you decided to see what it was all about anyway.
You see, I’d started that blog back in college, when I had no girlfriends and had a lot of time on my hands. It was supposed to be about how I felt locked up in a college which couldn’t be called exactly that. Never took off, really.
Now,THIS blog has seen the light of day(or should I say bytes) after much thought. I am, after all, working now and although I still don’t have a girlfriend (bet you just said “Thank **** for that! That’s what I thought”), I don’t have much time either, what with all the idling in the office and the Indian Premier League doing its best to bring cricket into free-fall with pop-culture. And about the picture on in the title, I was washing the dishes a while back and this thing looked like the holey filter thing in the drain. You can call it impulse. I had to choose this picture
“This blog should bring a whole new dimension to blogging” was what I was thinking when I started to register it.
“This blog should have atleast one reader a day, including me” is what I’m thinking now.
They say curiosity killed the cat. You know why? The answer is ridiculously simple and if you had paid a little attention to the title, you might have figured out why.
You see, the cat, being the curious little bugger he is, wanted to find out why the chicken tried to cross the road and tried to follow the pesky little thing, flapping wings and all, across the road.
And 18-wheeler’s driver who was listening to “Highway Star” on full volume and whose view was blocked by the bottle of Jack Daniels he was downing (Yes, he was a rich,alcoholic truck driver) did not notice poor Mr.C.Cat and ran him over. 9 times.
When investigators came to know the cat died because he was after Miss Chicken Brittle, they asked why Miss CB crossed the road. Her answer brought forth the irony of it all – she was running away from the now late C.Cat.
So, there you go. Two answers to one question.
In case you haven’t realised it yet, you are now in a position similar to C.Cat. Like Cat tried to find out why CB crossed the road, you wanted to read my ramblings. Wait for the 18-wheeler now.
rahulgk