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Category Archives: Fun!

Amy Poehler, Linklaters Paraphernalia and Frog Non Princes

There is a story to tell here, and it literally just happened, so I may need to collect my thoughts even as I write. You may prematurely guess the amphibian…ic(?) nature of this tale from the title, and you may not be far off. If I were a more positive person, I would write about unexpected turns of events where things you consider to be a burden on your life and your room, turn out to be useful. But being me, I can only concentrate on the disgusting aspects of the fact that I left Amy Poehler a fan mail a while ago, to which I got a reply that I was reading when a frog entered my room; and when I kissed it, instead of turning into a prince, it started trying to get to third base (I let practically anyone get to second base, so the boob grazing was no big deal). Also, err… the frog really liked Links? (it’s a law firm, for the lucky people who don’t know)

I finished one of my articles for History of Punishment, which in my book is a cause for celebration. So, in celebration, I was spending some quality time with myself (not in a self-pleasuring way. My Aunt Flo – short for Florentyna – called me a few days ago and reminded me about what happens with my vagina when God watches it. She didn’t tell me why God watches it) with some coke, some chips and a lot of 30 Rock and Parks And Recreation.

I was falling rapidly in love with Adam Scott, and even getting to the point where despite being in love with him, I could imagine ripping his clothes off his skinny little body and… THIS CONTENT MAY BE CONSIDERED TOO DIRTY FOR SOME READERS. LINKS TO THE DETAILS WILL BE PROVIDED AT THE END… and as we lay there, him smoking his post coital cigarette, and me drinking my heated Nutella from an industrial grade straw, he looks towards me and says, “You need a little meat on those bones, baby, so drink up.”

So that was happening. This was when I saw that cretin… ous(?) creature. It was huge (not really) and it was trying to assault me! (It was on my bed, which is as close as I’ll ever … oh Adam Scott…) It was a frog. Or a toad. It didn’t have orange tinges so I’m hoping it was a frog. It was small, now that I think about it with my normal heart rate and my larynx able to form proper consonant sounds. It was actually, quite small. It could have been covered up by the cap of a coke bottle. But that didn’t deter me. I was sure that despite its young age and small size, it would turn into Adam Scott once I made out with it, so we went at it, me and the underage frog-toad.

No, actually I crawled out of my bed, making a low pitch dog whine type of sound from my throat (which is what I did for about the next five seconds) before I looked for the nearest container with which to trap the kraken. Now technically, the nearest containers were right at the foot of my bed – my Beatles mug (Actually from London! Brought for me by M!), my beer mug (for juice and oats), my blue mug which I actually use for beer, and my set of smaller mugs/cups which I use for decoration (they’re cute) and also as shot glasses cause they’re roughly the same size. But even in crisis, I am proud to say my OCD was intact. My mind screamed, “Not those! You use those! No! Look the other way!”

As a proud follower of my mind, I looked the other way, and there, on my desk, was the Links mug. This mug had caused me a lot of trouble. It does not belong to me. It belongs to a friend of mine who was too lazy and precious to carry it in his hand when I had a bag. It was in my room the day that I cleaned the room, the fan, the books, the fan, my clothes, the dustbin and the utensils so it had been cleaned. I had wanted it out of my room because there is space in my room for my stuff, stuff that I borrow, but no space for stuff that I have in my room for a while for no good reason. But it has been here for a while. I had since used it to catch flies, a blue colored bee, and as a stand for my tiny mirror when I need to put on eye make-up. But despite its unwanted presence on my desk, (which, for the record, is not the place for mugs unless I am at the desk at the time when its on the desk. Or unless I’m posing at the desk for the invisible camera crew that follows me around sometimes) today, it saved my life and honor.

I grabbed it, and crawled my way back to the bed, all the while squeaking, “This is not ok, not ok, not ok. Not cool. This is bad. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”, and located the devil spawn. Then in a feat of bravery and common sense, I trapped the frog under the mug. For about two minutes after that, I was on my knees, supported by my desk, doing some very deep breathing. When I came to, I realized I had done that for two minutes, which meant that for the sake of my peace, I had to check that the little green bastard was still under there. I slowly raised the mug to see that he wasn’t. A second later, I realized that he was and had only attached himself to the inner walls of the mug.

Having confirmed that the sluggish asshole was still in there, I did what Patrick Maitland taught me, and slid a thick card under the mug, picked it up, and released it into the wild. The wild that was far, far away from my door.

And so it was that the stupid mug which I didn’t want in my room saved my other mugs from having to be used for something disgusting. Really gives you some perspective, this whole incident. When life hands you mugs that have no place in your room, make frog/toad traps.

And before you ladies start picturing me as your perfect, well-breasted, lesbian Amazonian warrior in shining armor, do consider that this incredible act of bravery was conducted with the wheezy “No! Fuck! No! Fuck! No! Fuck! Gross, gross, gross, Fuck!” rant I mentioned earlier, and also by crawling that was very, very similar to this –

Despite these clear irregularities from the general stereotypes of Amazonian warriors, if anybody out there is interested in the services I can provide, along with the previously mentioned camera crew, I would be willing to consider it, for a nominal fee obviously. Send your mails to Billy Amazon, Shameerpet Law College. The address is on the website.

That’s all.

–          Billy

P.S. – to the owner of the mug – I will of course be washing the mug three times over, at the least.

ME: Well, this was ok. It still wasn’t what you were planning on writing. That story thing.

me: Dude. Just… you know that sucked.

ME: So? People should see that you suck. This blog was about honesty, right?

me: Yeah. But I have written some good stuff in the past. Its not like I’m bad at writing stories, I just happen to not have written anything good. You just want me to put up everything I ever write, including that shameful feminist post and the work-in-progress stories I write.

ME: Yeah!

me: That’s stupid. If its not good, I wont put it up. I retain the right to be my own editor.

ME: Go Fuck Yourself.

me:

P.P.S. – Here’s some more fun(ny)

Someone told me this is totally me. I like my reputation –

When People Make Fun Of You To Your Face For Being Weird

Hehehehe. Tumblr 🙂

I have discovered God on Facebook. Things have changed since 1st year.

 

Drunk Post and Acquiring Madness

Ips informed me the other day that dependence on alcohol starts once you go two entire weeks with alcohol intake every day. I hope in fifth year I don’t accidentally make it there. This is the third night drinking in a row. First night was a treat by someone who is technically a childhood friend but is way cooler than what childhood friends generally turn out to be. I’m drawing him a portrait of his face. Second night was very minor amounts of alcohol and other intoxicants where I discovered that certain songs make me nauseous now, since they seem to apply so well to me. I hate it when that happens. Who wants to be that cliché?

Now it’s the third night and I am drunk but not smashed. I haven’t done anything stupid unless you count clipping off my cuticles earlier in the day out of boredom; and then climbing up a tree, walking across the bridge between that tree and another tree and then climbing down that other tree – while drunk. Well, climbing down is a genteel term for slipping, scratching, falling down the latter tree. And falling on my butt. Didn’t hurt. But I have scratches all over my arms. And I wonder what will happen to me if I don’t get tetanus shots. Will I be a vegetable? Will I die? Will I have a fever? Obviously these possible results are in descending order of direness. And if you call that awesome tree-climbing stuff “doing something stupid”, you must be a really, really boring person. I don’t want you here, so –

Anyway, I walked back to campus with the group of people I intended to walk back with, in the process foregoing a possibly OK story from a fellow adventurous tree climber drunk. I checked mail, bathed, washed underoos, washed dishes, filled water bottles, and brushed my teeth. The latter so that Thomas the tea guy in the hostel wouldn’t give me the disappointed looks he generally gives me when I turn up drunk. Then I watched a YouTube video and saw some Seinfeld while having Ginger Tea. Cause you know, it’s healthy and good for my throat, and I’m all about the health and the good for the throat. *Insert oral sex joke here*. Oh the jokes!!

But I am reaching a point here. And I will try as hard as I can to not make this a disconnected, unfathomable (without fathom) drunk post, though some cynics may say I have already failed in that endeavor. The point is that this is that perfect stage of high/drunk. I’m not saying anything stupid or doing anything censorious, but I am nevertheless awesome and quite happy. And it brings to mind The Death of Salvador Dali, which I watched yesterday. I liked it. I’m not enough of a… the right term is “pretentious art nerd” to tell you with complete certainty what the film meant and why it was awesome. But to steal from my own words in a letter I sent to a friend of mine recently, “reviews of works of art often say more about the reviewer than the work itself.” This is of course a summation of what John Green has often said. So here goes: I liked it because to me , it spoke of how we all want to be more than what we are – to be more mad, more intelligent, more erudite, more rich, more worshipped, or to the overachiever, simply more. And about how we try to deal with our failings in trying to be that much, whether it is through using others and their words and promises as crutches (the “others” being Gala and Manic Pixie Dream Girls in general); or through using our minds as either tools to try and break everything down into a semblance of order (imaginary Freud?) or to support the madness we hope to gain (Dali). Aren’t I deep?

As someone aspiring to write, I have always wanted to be more mad, more interesting than what I am. To that end, if I were making a movie about myself, I would want my character to experiment with every drug I find anywhere, and live in a haze of hedonism and sadness. But I have found time and again that despite being given some opportunities to go down that path, I don’t want to. I don’t want to be any more mad than right now, when I say unto you, “Behold! For she will finish this blog post, watch more Seinfeld and The Office, and then put herself to sleep in the fashion she most likes. *wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more.*”

This is fun enough for me. And in many ways I have people to thank for this self satisfaction I have recently discovered is so rare in people. My mom for saying things like, “You can be the next Arundhati Roy” in the fashion of all overconfident, loving mothers. And my friends for spiking my drinks one day and getting it out of me : “I only want to write. That’s the only thing I feel really comfortable and good doing.” My sister for telling me my stuff was fun, and my dad for never stopping me from doing anything, though he could so easily have done that.

In all honesty, I wasn’t mollycoddled. My family doesn’t tell me they love me and neither do my friends, and I don’t tell them. But really, how the fuck is that something to even consider? Either way, I am unscathed. I am responsible for what I think and do, and with their presence, I have become comfortable with that fact. Asking for anything more is asking for too much.

So now, I can be completely wasted and not feel judged. I can be pretentious and talk about Dali one second and Lehman Brothers the next and not feel like I want to choke myself out of irritation. I can climb trees, walk across rope bridges and climb down trees while drunk, and I will still consider that a valuable experience the next day. If it isn’t obvious, I am seriously kicked at the fact that I did that despite the scratches and the weirdness of straddling a large tree trunk at one point.

Judy Garland not giving any fucks.

Someone took a picture of me on that rope bridge that I wish to post when I acquire it. I will blur out my face if I don’t like it. I’m allowed to retain a certain girlish self-consciousness.

ME:

Anyway, that’s all. Here’s some fun stuff.

“Zazzy!” I don’t care if Penny’s boobs are awesome. If I watch Big Bang Theory, its for this guy.

Anthropomorphic God Figures Gone Wild!!!

– Billy

 

Tags: ,

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.

 

Ni!

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.

 
1 Comment

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.

ME: ROFL

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.

 

Heavenly Socialism

I think it would be awesome if god was the way I wanted it to be, back when I believed in god. Well, I didn’t really believe in god. I wanted something there, so I imagined what I would like in something that was there and thought of it as god.

Since I figured out that the only reason I wanted there to be a god was because after I died I wanted to still know what was happening on earth, and so I wanted a laptop with a BAMF internet connection, I realized there was no point in believing for such specific and weird reasons. Anyway, with the internet, I could also have books, movies and music. Also, I wanted there to be a room in an alternate space where people like Hitler, child molesters and people who speak in the theater would be raped by pineapples. Special hell. And for those who say that I talk in the theatre, I say, 1. – only when the movie doesn’t really require quiet; and B. – it’s a reference to Joss Whedon. Go watch Firefly.

Anyway, back to my awesome imaginary god. He has mahogany hair, and blue green eyes that look blue when he wears blue, green when he wears green, and black as the depths of a sinful hell when he wears black, and he has a grin that makes me wanna grin back in a dirty, dirty… right, the other imaginary god.

I took my clues for my god from “Hogfather” by Terry Pratchett. From when I was old enough to actually think of one in a proper way, I thought everyone could imagine their own and through the powers of the universe, for their life and their death, that god, that concept of heaven and hell, could be a reality. So my god provided me with all of that.

But here’s the awesome thing about this whole plan. I figured that most people, unlike me, would have some specific ideas about good and evil acts and their consequences that they themselves would fall victim to. So when they did horrible things like kill people after thinking that one of the rules god handed down was that you should not kill, they would be fucked by their own god.

Now the amazing part about this, to my mind, is that in the there would be a basic tenet and principle behind any god that would in some way, be good. And as soon as someone fucked that up in their quest for heaven, they would in turn be handed the torture they felt others so rightly deserved, whether that be eternal hellfire, or listening to opera music (In Percy Jackson – the book, not the movie – the latter is actually mentioned as a torture device in Tartarus). It would be justice and payback, depending on how benevolent you imagined your god to be.

So in my personal afterlife, I imagined that my god was okay with anything people did as long as they did not actively take away from what someone else wanted. Technically if you never did anything to help anyone in any way, but never actually took anything, you could still avoid the pineapple rape room, and do whatever you want in the afterlife, but most people wouldn’t really like you much. If on the other hand you stole from people who needed what you stole, if you intentionally hurt anyone, or killed someone or basically did anything to someone that you would be inexcusable if it were done to you, that would mean you would probably be hated.

And here’s what’s more awesome about it, if you apply it to people other than me. Because it’s the afterlife, everyone except the ones in the rape room get every material and nutritional thing they want. They just don’t get anything that would involve other people. For that they would still have to work, and because it is the afterlife and there is not much you can do to entice people to be your friends, you will have to be nice or learn to be alone so you don’t spoil other people’s days.

And even if you say that superficial rich people would stick together in irritating ways even in such a scenario, the fact is they wouldn’t have better clothes, or better gadgets or whatever they base their lives on, and they wouldn’t be rich. Basically, social interactions would not be governed by socio-economic factors.

And if you do something reprehensible in this heaven that would have gotten you into the rape room had you been living on earth, you would still qualify. But because its heaven, you wouldn’t actually have to finish doing the reprehensible thing. As soon as you reach the point of no return with regard to doing the evil thing, you are put on pause and then transferred to the hell room. Imagine that you somehow acquire a gun (that in heaven you will only be able to aim and shoot properly at empty cans) and are about to shoot someone in cold blood, the millisecond after the bullet leaves your gun, you are paused and transferred to the rape room. It couldn’t be the asylum, because all genuinely insane people are automatically cured when they reach this heaven.

Yes, it is a very wealthy socialist utopia. Socialist in that all the wealth, which is technically unlimited, is divided utterly equally. So in order to satisfy all your people needs, you will need to be nice. Or you will engage in transactions that would require you to be nice, or at the least, act fairly. And it has a fair and awesome ruler who is like Big Brother, only its cameras are on only when you start doing any of the above mentioned reprehensible things. I know the details aren’t entirely clear and all the questions regarding economics or even social transactions aren’t answered, but that would take a long time, and I am sleepy. If you want, ask me, and I will tell you.

One of the problems I haven’t come up with a solution for is that of scientists. They study the natural world out of curiosity, and I can assume and hope that they like it. Without a natural world, these smart, amazing people would be left without. And in a world where every bit of information is available, how will they find satisfaction? I can only hope to read more about physics and come up with a space for heaven that is made of some form of physical matter that the scientists would have a ball analyzing. Curiosity and discovery is imperative, as long as one is conscious.

Let me be clear, I don’t believe in the above heaven. I imagined this would be MY heaven back when I believed in heaven. Not for everyone else. And I was very aware that I was imagining it. I’m just taking that personal imagined idea, and theoretically applying it into a real world scenario, and real world in terms of heaven and its working would mean that other people would be hypothetically involved.

That’s all.

–          Billy

P.S. – I have no pictures or gifs to put up???

This Happened.

This is Funny.

This Guy is Awesome.

I don’t know if I want to eat this or cryogenically freeze this to leave to the aliens when they come to inspect what remains of the earth gazillions of years from now, as the pinnacle of what humankind is capable of. Van Gogh and Cake!

And finally, puppies running and stumbling wiv their tiny wivvle wegs. Daaaawww!

P.P.S. – In a beautiful chance of fate thingummy, don’t you know, the two amazing things I discovered – The Book Thief and The Book Of Mormon (The Musical, not the religious text; and I only heard the songs, read the script, and all of the available internet reviews for it. Obviously haven’t seen it since I’m not allowed inside the United States). They are AWESOME. Not only are they simple stories about complex things without taking away from the complexity, they are sweet and funny and awesome, and thanks to The Book Of Mormon, I now know how to blaspheme and curse at the same time (albeit in a fake language). And I can do it with music and dance!

ME: You know, you could have left it at your stupid heaven description. You had to add in this last bit of turd didn’t you?

me: Hasa Diga.

ME: I really hate you.

me: *grins/ smirks/ feels so good

*Superior Eyebrow Rub

P.P.S. – I was gonna mention this later, but given my talk of heaven and hell, it seems apropos. I dunno if this is one of those things that everyone knows about but hasn’t mentioned in a long time, but the first time I came across this was on late night radio before I started college. It had a profound effect on me, in that I thought it was awesome.

‘The following is an actual question given on a University of Washington engineering mid term. The answer was so “profound” that the Professor shared it with colleagues, which is why we now have the pleasure of enjoying it as well.

Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)? Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle’s Law, (gas cools off when it expands and heats up when it is compressed) or some variant. One student, however, wrote the following:

“First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate that souls are moving into Hell and the rate they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, lets look at the different religions that exist in the world today. Some of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell.

Since there are more than one of these religions and since people do not Belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle’s Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand as souls are added.

This gives two possibilities: 1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.

2. Of course, if Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.

So which is it? If we accept the postulate given to me by Ms. Teresa Banyan during my Freshman year, “…that it will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you.”, and take into account the fact that I still have not succeeded in having sexual relations with her, then, #2 cannot be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and will not freeze.”

The student received the only “A” given.’

Awesome!!!

That’s better.

– Billy

 
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Posted by on June 19, 2012 in Bakchodi, Fun!

 

Humming and dancing and :)

I should write about this amazing thing that is happening to me. I am discovering things about myself, and in the process, also finding out I can be a pain in my ass in terms of feeling simultaneously proud and cynical about me.

Here’s how my conversation with me is going these days. For your convenience, “me” is flabbergastedly pleased, outraged by the world, and happy; and “ME” is annoyed and cynical about everything that is “me”.

me: holy sucking crap! Who are these amazing people? What is this amazing site? What is wrong with politicians, I hate those people? I should hate the world but then there are these other completely awesome set of people, and apparently if I type “cats in cups” on google images, I will be presented with thousands upon thousands of pictures of kittens in cups wooking juft adowabubble, even though I’m a doggy perfon, yesh I am, yesh I am, my gwod, joo are sho cute, kitten in cup wiv kittens fashe on wuh cup… man, I hate that Times Now guy, and everyone who appears on the news…

ME: you are so full of it. Go shove it up your own ass. ‘Ooh, look at me, I’m all diversified. I like to hate people and love the kittens, and there are some amazing people, so I don’t hate the world. Look at me, I’m so complicated, and I’m trying to be the next Liz Lemon.’

me: ….. well, you suck…. (looks around for smartassery) … you’re cynical.

ME: oh boo fucking hoo. Did reality burst your bubble of happiness? You wanna cry, ya big fake fake.. fake-o.

me: you know why you’re less awesome than me?

ME: Oh this should be good. Is it because I don’t think about awesomeness?

me: No, because, while you say shit like fake fake fake-o, I’ll be thinking of John Green’s awesome fucking T-shirt that says “Holden Caulfield thinks you’re a phony.”

ME: and your point is?

me: I don’t know about anyone else, but I find hanging out with me more fun than hanging out with you cause even when I’m cynical, I entertain myself, while you’re just like Walter the puppet. You’re fun and all, but everyone’s really waiting for Achmed.

ME: God, you’re so full of it. Just cause you watch the good shows and read the books and the watch the movies and watch the comedians and have psycho memory about those things, you think you’re awesome. Well, I do all of that shit too.

me: no, I do that shit, and I tell you about it. If it were up to you, you’d just lie there on the bed with the door shut and have your friends worry about you and drug you into telling them what’s wrong, while you lose yourself in a haze of reading weird fanfiction.

ME: well, let me tell you bitch, nothing’s gonna come from reading and writing and drawing and knowing all those “interesting” things as you call them. You’re going nowhere.

me: well, unless you have something better that Billy should do, you can stuff it. I like my vlogbrothers and the TDS and the TCR and the fandoms and the tumblr and the youtube and the Ashish Shakya and the Khushwant madness and the tv shows and the game of thrones. You like nothing. You don’t even like it when Billy is productive cause you’re just a cynic and nothing more.

ME: see, now you’re trying to be all deep and shit. You do realize it sounds like rubbish.

me: hey, listen, I have to find this video where John Green talks about guys who think their girlfriends are too smart. And after that I wanna read some skeevy fanfiction, want in?

ME: … yea. Bitch. You’re a stupid bitch!

me: nice! Sassy gay friend reference! You’re learning.

ME: just… lets watch the nerd boy and then do the weirdo fanfiction, mmkay?

me: Mr. Garrisson reference!

ME: *Sigh lets face, it. We’re the same person. *sigh

It’s a constant battle. But yes, I have discovered tumblr (a long time ago, but I’m writing about it now), and I have yet to see a part of it that annoys me. It’s full of art and books and movies and tv. It is everything awesome about the world and the internet. And I love the vlogbrothers. And I love Ashish Shakya more every time I read him. And I have to read Bossypants. Will have to talk to my not so sassy gay friend about that.

And this is the stuff I finished reading recently – Cider House Rules, Silence of the Lambs, The Liar. Poorly done. In my defense, I was working a thankless job, and getting paid for it bitches! That sounds like prostitution… “job”… but since I doubt anyone else is as potty brained as me, leave it in for zee entertainment (Snatch reference- I don’t know if they were referring to something else).

Currently reading “The Book Thief” by Markus Zusak, which is just beautiful. Just. So. Beautiful. Anywho, taking a page off my sister’s facebook page (I’m getting ideas from facebook?), this is a picture of some of the books I hope to have read in this year. Except if any of them turns out to be that rare book which is so dull I can’t finish it. I have a feeling the Palin bio and Pickwick Papers may or may not be in that category.

Daryaganj bitchess!!

Fuck. I forgot to add Truth, Love and a Little Malice to the pile (btw Thanks to my metrosexual friend for informing me of my incorrectly referring to that book). My sister (whom I am feeling very appreciative of) got me an awesome hard bound copy. And a tiny corner of it is mice bitten. I love it when books look like they have been read, and have had a life. Just adds character so beautifully.

ME: Pretentious.

me: *scowls

Anyway, to my sister, “Annie” as she so horridly likes to be called, this is NOT an invitation to be overly emo towards each other, or emo at all. Oh and The Liar is just as awesome as H said it would be. So thank you androgynously named friend!

Oh yeah, to my two friends who have birthdays today, (and I remember this only because all the other friends whose birthdays I forgot over the summer have been bitching about it, and rightly so), happy birthday!

Since I’m running for governor or the state of random, here’s one of the reasons why tumblr is awesome – you get to watch gifs of the amazing Hugh Laurie and his cutetastic gaffes such as this –

Daaawwww!

And it leads me to stuff like this without searching for it. It’s a short film in what is probably Portuguese. You click the cc button, and my god, it’s such a sweet film –

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Wav5KjBHbI

And I find Neil Patrick Harris doing this –

I don’t even like kids, but man….

And I find gifs like this –

*faints of cute-itis

And find stuff like this – Paul McCartney flew to Monteserrat, where Beatles producer George Martin had installed a state-of-the-art studio, to begin work on a solo album. The studio manager revealed that McCartney was planning to record with both Harrison and Starkey; ‘John Lennon may well have been on the album as well if he had still been alive.’ A guest at the sessions was the Beatles’ long-time friend rockabilly pioneer Carl Perkins. He played McCartney a song he had just written, entitled ‘My Old Friend’. ‘After I finished,’ he recalled,

“Paul was crying, tears were rolling down his pretty cheeks, and Linda said, ‘Carl, thank you so much.’ I said, ‘Linda, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.’ She said, ‘But he’s crying, and he needed to. He hasn’t been able to really break down since that happened to John.’ And she put her arm around me and said, ‘But how did you know?’ I said, ‘Know what?’ She said, ‘There’s two people in the world that know what John Lennon said to Paul, the last thing he said to him. But now there’s three, and one of them’s you, you know it.’ I said, ‘Girl, you’re freaking me out! I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ She said that the last words that John Lennon said to Paul in the hallway of the Dakota building were, he patted him on the shoulder and said, ‘Think about me every now and then, old friend.’

“And that, with minor alterations, was the chorus line of Perkins’ song, ‘McCartney really feels that Lennon sent me that song, he really does.”

And people like the vlogbrothers, and talks between Richard Dawkins and Neil DeGrasse Tyson, which weirdly reminds me…

Gullu (hehe, she hates that name being out there for the world to know) recently informed me that most of the bollywood film clips with hilarious Punjabi voiceovers that I roll around on the floor laughing to is made by people from all over Pakistan. This just proves what I have been saying all along! Muslims (I am assuming most of them would be muslims, sue me) could be to India what Jews are to America! They’re already all over our shitfaced version of Hollywood (and rightly so, they funny and talented), and theologically speaking, Islam is close to Judaism.

They got the whole pork thing, the curly hair thing, circumcision thing, when we’re hot we’ll be too hot to handle thing…. All these things in common. Anywho, all we need to do, as a country, in order to have more awesome funny, is oppress them a bit more. You know, in our daily lives. Apparently, an amazing sense of humor is one of the most common results of a screwy childhood based on stereotypical bullying. Is that not PC? Screw it. But if that doesn’t sit well with anyone, just to be a somewhat equal opportunity asshole – beef tastes amazing. It really does. I’m not just saying that. BTW I was kidding about the oppressing.

ME: man, will you ever get over your need to explain yourself so people don’t get mad? You’re such a chump.

me: ….

Ooh, and I found that picture I loved from the chintzy My Bar –

 

I should draw some more…

Anywho, back to watching vlogbrothers and reading the fanfiction.

 

–        Billy

 
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Posted by on June 12, 2012 in Bakchodi, Fun!, Random

 

The DIRTIEST Picture

I cannot stop smiling. I know the hour is late and I should be in bed if I’m supposed to perform tomorrow the way that the business demands. The things I have to do are very taxing, and I don’t mean that in a self-congratulatory way. Technically speaking, anyone can do it, but for those who know me well, they know I really am not being an egotist when I say that it just takes a special drive to give the kind of performance this job demands. I mean its taxing. Anyone who’s done it before knows it. It is never easy. And you can lose the people’s confidence in just a single second and next thing you know you’re rolling around in your own, and possibly your colleague’s shit, in a manner of speaking.

But I just saw this documentary, and right now, in that state you are in after you see or experience something that touches you, I cannot stop smiling – I loved it. I may be able to come up with a more nuanced, far more constructive review of the movie and the subject, but for now, I feel the need to let out this raw, fundamental reaction. It had most of all of my favorite comedians, some I had only heard of, and some I had seen but whose names I hadn’t known, and they were all just delightful.

I don’t remember when I first heard the joke. Or when first I read it. Or when I first saw it being told. I do remember I thought it was a hoot. I didn’t shit my pants laughing, but I was told the tame version. And the movie. Well, The Aristocrats is the dirtiest thing you can ever see if you have an imagination. It doesn’t have any violence, and there are no nude people. But boy, if you thought you had a stomach for the rough stuff, this is it. The dirtiest, sickest joke ever created, told by arguably the funniest people in show business. And it’s not the versions you heard on TV or the ones that your friends ever told you, because unless you have that weird understanding these men and women had between them, none of your friends would ever think about making up a version that will not be allowed on TV.

I can personally think of two, maybe three people I can make one up for and tell it to. I wouldn’t dare with anyone else. And I am a little ashamed of that. I long for the day when I can let one rip right here on the WWW, where eventually, boredom will bring all of my acquaintances and friends over, over a long, long period of time, and then I wouldn’t give an incestuous family about what people thought of it.

I have mentioned recently, I have rediscovered my love of comedy, and if there was anything left that could drive me further into that beautiful, beautiful pit, it would have been this. I will not deign to tell the joke as told by someone else. I swear I will only tell it if I ever have the guts to make one up. And I won’t give the outline because if you haven’t already heard a version of it, you need to Youtube it. Do not Google it and read about it, because that would just be adding to the sins here. And you need to find a video that has something along the lines of “Broke my penis laughing at this” as description, within the search results you get. I recommend Bob Saget though I’m not such a huge fan of the guy. Also, he was one of the worst/best in the movie, so it may not be good for some folks. The Sarah Silverman one is also very good.

It is recommended. So recommended. So highly.

That’s all. I’m going to try and go to sleep.

–          Billy

P.S. – for those who may know of this – yes, I found out about the movie in the most obvious manner if one considers my recent posts. Guilty as charged.

 
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Posted by on December 27, 2011 in Bakchodi, Fun!, Random