Monthly Archives: August 2012

Serious Classy Bloggers and How To Know Them

This blog should be odd coming from me. Which is to say, I’m nobody. How the frack would I know the signs of a serious blogger. But having become a member of the internets in ways that my 14 year old self would not have approved of, and now that I have a blog, there is nothing stopping me from spewing out my opinions in a forceful and irritating manner. And its really ok, my 14 year old self also liked to sing Blue (the boy band) songs out loud with her friends. I would have hated her.

Also, in a beautifully puke-inducing you-are-here-and-reading-my-blog-while-I’m-writing-it manner (is there a word or phrase for that? I’m sure there is) I should warn you that by the time I finish writing this, I may or may not have the energy in me to edit it so that all the random crap I say is in some understandable order. I’m also streaming/watching Gangs of Wasseypur 2 again so… take from that what you will.

So the first sign of a serious blogger, to the outsider is the fact that they will very rarely make their personal lives the subject of the blog. Incidents from their lives, maybe – if they make for a funny story or even better, a profound one that will get them likes. So they may write about meeting that crazy relative and what she said but they will not write about the fact that in a terrible twist of fate, the crazy relative ended up holding the camera in the bizarre BDSM sex scene between the blogger, her flogger and two Persian gigolos. And yes, that is the working title for my screenplay. I may or may not change it to Men And Women: Are The Gender Fucking Roles Blurred?

The next sign of a serious blogger is that that they will try to talk about the current issues as much as they can. This will ensure, on the assumption that they RSS feed or whatever their posts, that when people search Google to help them in their conversations with presumably smarter people in parties, one of the opinions that would be pronounced verbatim would be theirs. This will further ensure that if and when the blogger becomes famous for a Booker Award For Fucks, the worthless rubes who read his/her blog can say in parties – “Oh yes, him. He’s alright. Quite entertaining. All seems kind of derivative from his earlier blog posts. Which really weren’t that good to begin with.”

Further, the serious blogger will never think of writing less than 1000 words per post, minimum. This will ensure that the average person who visits the blog is not under the impression that it’s merely a twitter account masquerading as a blog. This happens more often than one would suspect. Often, the not so super important serious classy blogger is blatantly obvious for what they are when they combine personal life blogs with the tweet size blog on a regular basis without long breaks off the internet. Then it is to be understood that the blogger in question is merely mind masturbating in public in manifestation of the sick fetish they hide behind phrases like “OMG Sheila said he’s getting me flowerrsss!!”

Also, the serious blogger will use pictures liberally in between the paragraphs. This image in one way or the other will be related to what they are saying. If the connection is not obvious it will become obvious by the caption under the post. An example of this can be taken from the following gif posted by a random blogger –


“Everybody Shake.” I’m posting this here because i doubt I’ll ever be able to use it in context.


While entertaining, this gif will have no place in an ordinary post. And by mentioning that, the blogger is attempting to deflect from that fact with the post modern distraction called hipster irony. It doesn’t work too often. Its like a professor coming up to your lunch table with his food, and seating himself while you look on, trying not to seem disgusted, saying, “I know eating food with a boring professor is not really cool…” Yeah, no shit. And the fact that you said it doesn’t make you less boring or the situation any more cool.

Speaking of the gif, a great number of pop culture references will ensure that like minded people on the internets (which lets face it, is full of pop culture fanatics) will like your blog merely for validation of their love of Benedict Cumberbatch and Abed. On the same note, nude and nearly nude pictures are also something that the serious classy blogger will use intermittently to draw attention and adoration. It may not always work, and the secret photographs of all the boys in your batch, showering, that you posted in your secret blog (something along the lines of may end up offending the mothers who google their son’s name and accidently run into pictures of them with their penile piercings. No big deal, you will persevere because it’s a catch-22 for everyone concerned.

That being said, there are also ways in which you can recognize yourself as an aspiring serious classy blogger. One of the major habits of the blogger is to visit one’s own blog almost every day. This may be to increase the viewership generally, or it may be to read and re-read every day if the last post you wrote is as cool and awesome today as it was the day before.

Another tell is when you note that there are no comments or likes or anything of the sort despite the fact that the people you meet often tell you how much they like what you wrote about “ERHMGHERD THAT GUY IS SOOO HOT!” and disregarding the fact that you loathe pushing any “like” buttons or commenting on anything in places like Facebook, you keep wanting to say things like “why didn’t you like it then” in a whine. But you don’t. Cause that wouldn’t be cool.

Yet another habit you have if you’re a serious classy blogger is that every time you post something, you check out the posts (if any) of all the people who are on your blogroll despite the  fact that it’s a very outdated list of blogs. You should update that, but you don’t. You’re a serious classy blogger. You don’t have time for that shit.

As a blogger, you will also check your comments about every two days. When you do get comments and general viewership you will immediately want to check out the blogs of the people who do. Which you may find amusing or may not understand at all.

You also know you are a serious blogger when you start receiving comments which go directly to your spam mail. And when you check them out, they say things like “Warning! STOP whatever you are making right now! Blogging will never make you serous money, watch this video BUZZBOOZ.COM The good part starts somewhere around the 2 minute mark.”

Really? Well, I never! I was under the impression that blogging will make me money. I never knew I could be so utterly, utterly wrong about anything. My my, I am rubbish at knowing things. I will immediately stop making things now that you have given me this gold mine of information, young Theo Elizando, the abused yet brave child from Ecuador (he is of Greek and Spanish descent) who made that comment! You are wise beyond your years spent working as the footstool of the local drug lord who would often try to touch you on your neck to strangle you, but you bit off his fingers every time he tried.

Also, you get spam comments along the lines of “you NEED on page SEO/RSS/ other random thing that I have no idea what they are to increase your visibility”. And it suddenly strikes you as you read it – Wow! The internet has a Cosmo! It tells you how unknown, non-trend-setting and pathetic you are, and then gives you solutions that you may have to shell out some cash for, that may or may not work. Ma peeps – if you have any advice to give me, I beg of you, please don’t give me the erotic thrill of hope when I see that the number of comments I have has grown before putting a chastity belt on my high when I see it was you and not a real person. Grrrrrrr. Wherefore will go me sessual frustration now?

There are also specific blogs meant for things other than writing. These are just fun. Since I don’t do that I’m not a connoisseur, the way I clearly am with the written ones. Oh yes, I know what I’m talking about.

That’s all I had to say. Now here are some pictures. Cause I’m a serious classy blogger.

Oh! *Sigh This is what I feel like after a nice, big, long juicy post. *nods


I know its all over the fucking web, but I really like this gif from NASA cam. 🙂


Found this on tumblr. 🙂 Last Beer Pong.


I know this wasn’t 2000 words. But I’m legitimately rescinding that part of the promise because I realized I would be spewing more bullshit than otherwise if I tried to fill a word limit.

– Billy

ME: *rolls eyes*

Sarcastic Clap.




Yeah, that is Peter Dinklage.


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Posted by on August 24, 2012 in Uncategorized


Promises Promises, Mind humping Faizal and Ni!

I have insane amounts of time this semester. Above everything else, my one Friday class is probably going to get rescheduled. So I may as well get on with things I shouldn’t leave off. One would be worrying about the future. Note that I say worrying which is not necessarily the same as doing something about it.

The other would be writing and reading. Writing being more important.

To wit, I give my word to the interwebs and my dog JD that I shall write at least one 2000 page post every week. I know I can’t do it every day. And as penance in case I don’t write, I will tell one embarrassing secret/ fact about me every time I renege on my word. And the policing authority, for lack of any actual people who are interested, would be ME; and the fact that this is in writing and I would find it very embarrassing if I didn’t. Nobody judges me quite as harshly as ME. So there’s that.


Also, I am officially willing to hump Faizal and/or Khan from Wasseypur and Kahaani respectively. I would be very disturbed by possible Freudian reasons for this latent love for moustaches, if it weren’t for the fact that certain other predatorial women have also found this to be attractive. *cough S *cough. So here’s that.


This may have something to do with the intense jaw action. I don’t even like ass chins usually.


Again, usually not my type. But as S said “there’s a bloodthirsty Gult woman in me.”


This is internal reaction to above. Maybe not so non-stop. And the Wall Street thing is obviously not meant to be here.

Don’t mock me taste.


Also, following awesome things have been found.


I want to go to there.



I hate  that you can see 9gag neeche. I know I can edit it out, but who has the energy?


Also, I need to stay up all day today to get my sleep cycle in order. I may have to take drastic measures. So if I spend an hour in the shower, please know that its so I can stay up, and only that reason. I have a single room now, so, yeah, shower can go fuck itself.


Also, this doesn’t count as this week’s post.


– Billy.

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Posted by on August 18, 2012 in Bakchodi, Fun!, Public statement


Rafik – the man who restored my faith in humanity; and Goa.

If there was anything I learnt from the movie Death Proof, it is that there are two kinds of good luck in the world. And yes, despite my lack of belief in abstract concepts, I have to face the fact that sometimes situations have magic or tragedy just instilled in the butterfly wings that change them. The first kind of luck is when you never, ever get into trouble.

Jean had that luck. She and I travelled to Old City in Hyderabad with nothing but a notebook full of instructions and transportation options I had taken from Google and her Android. If it were me in that situation with anyone else, or by myself, I would have lost my way, missed the local train that came once in 5 hours, gotten leched at in a discomforting way, or worse. With Jean, it was the simplest, easiest journey to a never before visited place, I had ever taken. I used to call it traveler’s luck. Absolutely nothing went wrong. We caught the train, went to char minar, went to the bazaar, had beautiful Lassi, had Fish Biryani at Shadab, caught the train back, got on a bus to JBS and at JBS, caught the last bus in a long time, to college. It was a beautifully uneventful day. We had some fifteen year olds being weird in the train but it was laughable.

Then there is my kind of luck, but I don’t know if I want to call it luck. It’s the luck that brings you to the very precipice of hell in the context of whatever you’re doing. If I have the whole day planned, I would forget my wallet; If I catch a bus with my friends other than Jean, it would turn out to be the wrong bus, leaving is in the middle of nowhere. If I go to Goa, we may get stranded in the rain with nothing but a broken down car and the garage we end up in. The good luck here is that my friend would agree to spot me; just before a bunch of horrible Gult men get out of their SUV, presumably not to help a group of girls stranded in the highway in Hyderabad, one of your batch mates passes by in an Auto and stops; and the garage on the side of the road would happen to be run by the nicest man I have ever encountered in my life.

The starter on the car was screwed and we got helped by a group of touring men in a mini bus to a garage. Which garage owner told us that his brother Rafik, would help if we could drive down the road to him. And we did.


This was it.


It was raining. All of us were in skirts and dresses. We were just girls, and it was a stretch of road where people don’t have any reason to stop. They happened to be working on a bike when we reached the place. Rafik spoke Marathi and in our insane luck, Nose Twitch spoke Marathi fluently. A rapport was established. He examined the car and told us that we should go see the city while he checked out what was wrong. We left to see the churches in heavy rain and all we ended up doing was go to Basilica Bom Jesus, see the dead guy therein and leave V in the hands of her boyfriend, who left soon after.

We decided to walk back to the garage, by which time, Rafik informed us that we had done nothing wrong with the vehicle and the starter was screwed. All that was left to do was talk to the lady who rented out the car. She told us to wait while she sent another car with a driver.

We spent two to three hours in that garage, in our car, with only Rafik, his colleague and the latter’s little brother working on their bike, because they hadn’t yet gotten instructions from the owner to fix up the car. The rain was as bad as it ever got during our time in Goa, and Me and S were soaked from going to the nearby shop to buy chips so we could eat something.

An hour and a half into sitting and gossiping, it occurred to us. Rafiq and Co. were working on their motorcycle in the light of a hand held bulb. There was no electricity supply but that. And he was called Rafik. In our worrying, we had missed the fact that during Ramzan, there were two Muslim men who had obviously not intended to work after dark, and had not yet broken their fast. They hadn’t looked up once while working on the bike. They made no suggestive remarks, and they didn’t look at us except to talk to us. To our faces.


This is them


We felt guilty beyond words. We ventured out in the rain again and this time, brought back a big packet of Kurkure and Oreos, gave it to them and told them to eat. They refused but we insisted. Thankfully, the kid brother had no reservations about eating the Oreos, and we left them to it. Rafik didn’t keep roza but his colleague broke his fast on Oreos.

Soon after, the driver came with a car, negotiated a price for the repair with Rafik, who adamantly insisted that we were not responsible for the starter fucking up. After thanking him and his colleague, we went back to our hotel for the night.

The next morning, we went back to the garage. He had bought a new starter and fixed the car, and took the money from the owner. We had told him we would be using the car again that day, so he had checked the engine, filled the coolant tank and generally made the car ready for use. He also refused to take any money for the extra service till we insisted that we would feel rotten if he didn’t. He took a hundred bucks. He also told us that if we needed help getting around the city while we were there, to call him, and he would send someone to help out.

We spent that day seeing Panji, Churches, collecting V back, and a little bit of shopping. We gave back the car to the lady who lent it to us, and checked out of South Goa Hotel to stay at Irish Pub Guest House in North Goa. We didn’t know how to get from there to the Station because the taxis cost a mother and her children, and JustDial would no doubt give us expensive and useless options.

We called Rafik again. He said he would pick us up at North Goa, go to Margao to pick up Nose Twitch who stayed with her aunt that night, and drop us at the Railway station for 1,300 bucks, less than half of what it cost us to go from South to North Goa the day before.

The next day he picked us up. This is the shameful part. He was talkative, and when he asked us where we were from, we gave the silent consensus answer we had been giving throughout the holiday – that we were from Bombay. I don’t know why we did it. Maybe it can be justified by saying that we as girls were entitled to be cautious. I think the likely answer is that being in NALSAR and the world in general, we are simply unused to someone being that nice, that friendly, and all without any ulterior motive. He played music for the most part during the journey.

We picked up NT and on the way to the Railway Station, he had to ask for directions. He told us that this was the first time he ever gave taxi services like he was doing with us. And as terrible as the people we are, I think all of us found that strange and mildly suspicious also. Once we were two minutes away from the Station, he stopped the car because we had passed a Kaju store. He remembered that S had wanted to pick up cashews for her Mum and went along with her to negotiate a good price for her.

Further down, he got a call, presumably from work. He told whoever was on the other end that he would be at work by noon, and he was dropping off a cousin at Margao station. Again, we couldn’t fathom why he was being that nice. But then we got to the Station, and we got off without incident, and I acknowledged that I may be a terrible, hypocritical person in many ways, but here was a man who in the nicest possible manner, had restored what little faith in humanity I had. We gave him 1,500 bucks and made him keep the extra 200.

I don’t want negative comments on this. I don’t want the cynical point of view. That he scammed us in some yet un-thought of way, or anything of the sort. Because here are the facts. If he and his friend hadn’t been the people they were, it would have been insanely easy for them to disappear us for good. We were four girls in short clothes, clearly tourists, clearly without anybody who would settle accounts if we turned up missing, clearly without any men within reach. In that situation, I never ever felt unsafe. I never for a second felt that this is a situation that I need to call my parents, my relatives, anybody, about. Rafik and co. told us we could wait, waited with us while working on a bike with a bulb, didn’t eat, and didn’t look at us or talk to us once in a manner that made us in any way uncomfortable. I have walked the roads in Hyderabad and Delhi in Salwar suits and felt more unwelcome glances on me.

Faith in humans – I haven’t seen you in ages. Hi again.

–          Billy

P.S. – On a lighter note, the trip to Goa was amazing. If Goa has an off-season, it’s not August as far as I’m concerned. Despite or maybe because of the above incident, it was a highly satisfying trip. There was alcohol, seafood, beaches, seafood, alcohol, swimming, Church ruins (you know I always like my churches ruined and silent), seafood and alcohol.

ME: Tell them about your crap songs.

Oh yeah, I discovered latent song writing skills. I’ma be the next Weird Al Yankovic.


Ok, maybe not, but I can amuse myself and my friends with my musical compositions about their daily lives. So that’s something.

ME: *eyes popping out for lack of air while laughing.

Anyway, there’s that.


Also, I have discovered that I’m considered a slut by some because of certain items I keep in my room, despite the fact that I have not yet had sex. Not that you have the right to call me or shame me as a slut if I sleep with 10 men a day, and not that it is anybody’s business, but you know what? I use stuff and it feels good; and when I have sex I’ll come and describe it in detail, since what I do with my body in the privacy of not-in-front-of-your-face seems to be of such importance to others.


Further, above incident with the car has made me appreciate, all over again, certain people that I still hate deeply. The ability of some people to stick around and make absolutely sure you’re ok, despite hating your guts, will always be appreciated. Be it in the form of coming as a group to save your hide, or in the form of melodramatically (and stupidly) handing over their watches to go off with a broken beer bottle, while drunk, into a fray outside a dhaba. So there’s also that.

ME: Weak.

me: True stuff is true.


Also, here are some things friends are for – getting high off unexpectedly strong and free Cosmos with. Waking up and going swimming with. Getting into trouble with. Keeping calm during the trouble with. Laughing off the trouble with. Getting drunk after long days with. Making drunk confessions with. Shutting up at beautiful sights with. Making you deal with your inner demons. Forcing you to look at yourself. Listening patiently when things are figured out. And most importantly, to rap and human beat-box with you near the toilets on trains. And this is not emo, it’s a very abridged diary of Goa travels.


Also, it’s my birthday, though my friends refuse to wish me due to past infractions of wishing that I may have continued over the years despite trying to be better every year. I find this highly amusing.


That’s all. I have to get back to washing my underoos and clothes worn in Goa.