Tuesday, 17 November 2009

Ten Great Truths.

1. You cannot make people like you, not even if you are me.

2. I cannot make people like me, precisely because I am me.

3.Life is weird. Especially if the first set of people you meet in the course of the day are stoned out of their wits. One of them claimed that his aunt has stopped drinking water. She is 60 and drinks only wine. She keeps a jug of wine next to her bed every night with a goblet. He also claimed that when he was five his father got an eagle home and the eagle lounged on the sofa,but his father denies this story.

4. Do not expect much from the State. The State is out to get you, even if you are not a Maoist. (Paanchu paach chhagoler maa, Paanchu hege chhonchaaye naa! i.e., Paanchu is the mother of five goats, Paanchu does not wipe her rectum after defecating!)

5. Don't trust this bitch of a month. November is Mata Hari, November is Cleopatra. November is the Black Widow. November is Aeneas who betrayed poor Dido.(Not that "widow"/"Dido" rhyme.)

6.Don't watch the dailies on Star Jalsa if you don't want to snigger all night. Today I stared open-mouthed at this guy who went to a shop to get himself a swanky new car and said to a dealer offset against this very corny set- I want to book a....cur.

7. The stoned friend from above with the famous aunt also reported that a crocodile once ate his shoes.(No, the shoes were not made of crocodile skin. That would have been grotesque.) I do not know how this point constitutes a great truth, but I suspect that it is still profound.

8. The centre of unity will inevitably disintegrate. It's called a minor gastric problem or simply put pet byatha. Some people (rude Bengalis) could also call you; paagol na pet kharap? -thus associating madness and insanity with aforementioned gastric problem. Indeed the medulla oblongata then, in the words of the famous Professor SwapanKumarChakravorty, requires some serious water.

9. The Butler did it. What? You don't have a butler? You don't know on whom to pinpoint the petty theft/major burglary/awesome murder? How do you solve the problem in the Indian context? The baai did it sounds wrong. As if you're accusing the poor maid of suspect liaisons. The problem might as well be scrapped altogether.

10. Don't read this blog. You will learn absolutely nothing. It's not going to help you. At all. It's going to screw you. I feel sorry for you. Bye.


AUROBOROS banerjee said...

the centre doesn't disintegrate/
it simply decays/
as per the primary conditions of entropy/
but that is not what this says/
because nothing is determined/
even the do-ability of the baais/
for I have come across colorful anecdotes/
although to be sure, it must've taken a few tries/
and although November is the year's unmake/
it's pretty OK as there are b'days too/
and let's not ostracize poor Paanchu's mother for God's sake/
Cuz if I had to bear five seminal fruits,I'd have had no time to wipe my place of poo/
let's instead concentrate on how the the butler does it/
year after the proverbial year without a fail/
he kills, he thieves, he'd even impregnate Hema Malini/
(if he's prem chopra) without leaving a single trail/
so while I rupture my abdominal walls laughing/
reading this inanity's shrine of a blog/
let sons of men,bastardlings, baais and sundry butlers take note/
to laugh, be drunk and clean up after their dogs.

i learned nothing from this blog. i feel violated.
good thing, that.

Elendil said...


This is total genius. Funniest thing I've read in a while. You should write a book Panda. No, you and I! It will be a book of truly brilliant nonsense.

And knowing how strange life is, it's perfectly possible that said friend's sofa was perched on by eagles. I have a friend who's now deceased father used to get eagles drunk by feeding them wine soaked steaks at CC&FC. They used to float around disconcertedly for a bit and then fly into windows.

Grigori Rasputin said...

Ah, yarns about birds. Freud, for one, regards tales about birds with suspicion. For example, examine this passage from Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci:

It seems that I was always destined to be deeply concerned with vultures; for I recall as one of my earliest memories that while I was in my cradle a vulture came down to me and opened my mouth with its tail and struck me many times with its tail against my lips.

In Freud's analysis, this story merely expresses a wish for a blowjob. I wonder what your friend's story means...

Arse Poetica. said...

Look, my dear friend Rasputin, I do not encourage people who don't divulge their real identities to me. This blog does not respect anonymity, not even erudite anonymity. So I decline to talk Freud/Agamben/Wittgenstein with you.Your fake profile is irritating.I don't like faceless fake names, though I do like nameless fake faces...(but that is another story.)

Grigori Rasputin said...

Schau mal! I am no longer faceless.

Arse Poetica. said...

you sicken me...fuckoffffffffff

Arse Poetica. said...

Why don't you get a life Mr.Rasputin? IF you are bored European read Goethe and Mann and channelize your repression elsewhere. Read Benjamin, be illuminated. Don't read Kant, you won't understand.

I don't think you're educated enough to read French.Or Italian.

If American, watch American Pie 1& 2. It will teach you many useful things. Like using apple pie.

and if you're a bokachoda indian, then man-you need a life badly, apni ektu chude aashun, baa nijeke self-service o dite paren, aar kei ba apnake debe?

Arse Poetica. said...

How do I know that you're not a virtually generated software designed to take over my blog?

How do I know that you're not a nasty android planning to heal the world? (NOT)

You might even be the real Borat.

I'd rather be safe than sorry. get a life, get a blog, get an identity. Then most welcome. Otherwise be shunned, stunned, and woebegone-d. Toodles.

Grigori Rasputin said...

Well, I am not an android. Nor a computer program. I thought people knew about the Turing test.

I fear your anger. So much anger. Farewell.

Arse Poetica. said...

Mr. Grigori Rasputin, you stand defeated.

La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.
Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;
Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,
Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,
Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.
Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste
Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,
Et le riche métal de notre volonté
Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.
C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!
Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;
Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,
Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.
Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange
Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,
Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin
Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.
Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,
Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,
Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons
Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.
Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.
Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,
Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,
II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!
Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,
Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris
Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde;
C'est l'Ennui! L'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,
II rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
— Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère!

And if you understand, then tell all. And if you don't, then too bad. Look up the footnotes of The Wasteland.

Magically Bored said...

I loved this post - it was so much fun to read! And yes, Star Jalsha serials are totally hilarious. :-P

Death on Two Legs said...

I have stopped responding with a HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA because me it makes me feel slightly retarded. But what the hell.