All-time Fantasy Grammys


This photograph has absolutely no relevance to the post. I just want to know if anyone notices these captions that I so carefully put up.

So the Grammy’s were on the other day. I did not watch. I find they refuse to nominate me or give me awards. Clearly this is discrimination against the talentless unknowns. As Supreme Peon and Idiotic Twit (SPIT) of the Council for Recognition of Atonal Performers (CRAP), I therefore called for a boycott from my basement office. This was met with universal and unanimous approval across the Council, whose current membership is somewhat higher than 0 peaking as high as 1.

Actually the past Grammies were a few months ago. But as we come to the end of the year, it’s time when a new set rolls around soon. So, CRAP has decided to conduct it’s own ceremony, using a redesigned set of … erm… what’s the word I’m looking for, cats come into it, .. catacombs? No. Categories! Nominees are then nominated ( well, what else would they be?) and the winner selected by a selection of select selectors selected from residents of my basement office. Each category will consist of  between 1 and 4 nominees, possibly 6 or maybe eight. It may be higher. We don’t know yet, we haven’t written that far yet.

Votes will be counted online without the use of any accountants, who, to the best of my knowledge cannot count, tending, as they are wont to do, towards making the difference between the left and right side equal to zero. This is how they make a difference, actually. By making the difference zero. One of the reasons I failed at my accounting career, was due to my failing to make a difference = 0. The other reason was apathy, ennui, laziness and general interest in other things, such as wine, women and song. And cricket. But enough about me. Onwards to the awards! First, however, we need categories.

If you’ve read SloWord at all you will know that I don’t mean the boring ( and arbitrary ) categorizations they use at the actual Grammies. I mean categories, real categories, you know, like “Most Warbly”, “Best Falsetto”, “Most Screechy”.

That sorta thing… let your imagine go. Break those shackles that limit your creativity at work and let your mind run free.

Categories selected will receive due credit on the blog. Think of the sheer magnificence of it – your name on SloWord!!

Once categories have been categorized, we will move on to step 2. The Nomination. ( Or Abomination, if you have a cold… )

So there you have it! Bring it on.

SloWord is an equal opportunity pretentiousness prodder! Caste no bar! Language no bar! Age no bar! We accept blondes, brunettes, long hair, short hair, no hair! Shirt and shoes no bar! Barre chords no bar!

Here are some categories I came up with, with some sample nominations

  • Weirdly Falsetto Vocals
  • Song of Hate
  • Pearls Among Disco
  • Tree-hugger Hippie
  • College Life
  • A Beatle or a Rolling Stone
  • Psychedelic Mindbend aka The Great Trip
  • Calcutta Sunday Afternoon
  • What the heck?
  • Emotionally Weird

The game then, is to send in your nominations for every category that excites you. If you wish to create your own category, write in and let me know.

Get on it!

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Socks


Not the cat….

You know this, already. No cats allowed at SloWord. This one is dedicated to actual socks, the things you wear on your feet. Like this one.20160620_183944.jpg

Contrary to what you may be thinking, I am perfectly sane. Socks are mysterious creatures. They are prone to a half-life without the means of radioactivity. They are excellent at camouflage, merging into the texture of life without any provocation. And they do that with only half of a pair, which is a wond’rous feat. All other animals have to either disappear 100% or not at all. Socks are the only creatures on this planet that can lose exactly half of themselves. There is no point in looking for the other half, believe you me. When a sock half goes amok, it goes AWOL for good.

Socks are an essential, but much maligned and much neglected component of our daily lives. People blame socks for many of the ills in our society, such as body odor, poor elasticity and an over-dependence on function over aestheticism. With this article, I shall give socks the place they deserve in society. By the time this goes viral, socks will have been raised to the level they deserve, somewhere between marmalade on toast and purple floppy hats.20161116_090218.jpg

See, socks are important, that’s why we have so many idioms that are built around socks. To quote Brave Sir Launcelot, socks are “right for my um, ah,  idiom”. One bright and regular correspondent remarked that there is an idiom for every idiot. It may well be that she was calling me an idiot. I haven’t had time to investigate that yet. In any case, the fact is that socks feature in many idiotic idioms, for all idioms are somewhat idiotic. {Digression Alert: What does “handsome is as handsome does?” mean??? The grammar just does not work for me. Nounifying an adjective is even worse in my book than verbifying a noun. Remind me to let the Peeved Punjabi rant about these horrendously horrifying verbal and grammatical monstrosities created by otherwise bright MBAs. And yes, I do know that I just made up shit like nounifying and verbifying… It was meant ironically. }

So then let’s look at these idiomatic idiocies using the idiom of socks. I mean, what else do you have to do? You’re here, because you don’t have anything better to do, don’t you? So here we go then.

Keep your socks on.

It could well be that you are a prudent and calm person, at peace with your neighbors and colleagues at work and you wish them well. You, therefore, keep your socks on, and keep your socks, too, calm and boring. Like these boring, all grey socks.img-20160426-wa0050.jpeg

Yaaaawwwwn.

Maybe, you let yourself go once in a while and you indulge your wilder side and slip into something like this next one, or the first two sober-tending-to-rebellion ones.

img-20161015-wa0012.jpeg

Pull your socks up!

You’ve heard this saying, right? It’s meant to pep you up. It’s a multi-vitamin of sorts. It’s a threat and encouragment rolled into one. This demonstrates broad appeal and versatility. Rather like this example.20160826_073329.jpg

When you put these on, you will get going. Your socks will be pulled up, man! Actually, these are pretty long socks, going well up my shin, so they are pulled up quite normally. Slip into these socks when you have that big presentation to make and you will slay ’em. How can they possibly resist the strength, the sheer magnetism,  the brilliant reflection of blues emanating from your feet? The correct answer is, they cannot. These socks exude uncompromising power. If they don’t keel over and curl into a fetal position at this, you know you have a tough crowd to deal with and you better initiate Plan B. (Plan B is also known as “Bamboozle with Bullshit”. Thus, Plan B. See? Now you know. You’re welcome.)

Put a sock in it!

I know, you’ve often felt like saying it when you read this blog. I wish, you’ve said to yourself, when you’ve been busy reading my recipes, that he would get on and get to the recip
e already! Which proves one thing. You talk to yourself, just as I do. Which, by the way, apparently makes you a genius. I wrote an article about that once. Read it here. See how reading SloWord makes you feel better? No self-help and motivational book can bring you the peace SloWord can. No Deepak can bring you the light this next pair of socks can.

( Ask a Hindi speaking friend about that last sentence. It’s brilliant, really. Not because I wrote it, which I did, and therefore, it is, but because it’s cross-lingual in it’s flamboyance. Also, look up “modesty” in the dictionary.)

20161204_185754.jpgThis beauty of a pair that will make your pulse rate pulsate. Feast your eyes on it. Savour the richness of the contrasts. Orange, blazing bright, overshadowing the bright blue. One glance at these little beauties and they’ll be putty in your hands. Though why anyone would want that greasy putty in their hands, I have no idea.

Sock it to me!

Without further ado.img-20160828-wa0002.jpeg

If that didn’t sock it to ya, you’re probably the type that chews broken bottles for breakfast. These are bombastic, bright, brilliant, bright, colorful and bright. In short, they’re bright. In pink shorts and these socks, you will make a statement. “Look at me”, you will effectively scream, nay, shriek. But, pause and think, when you do look at them, the world becomes brighter and isn’t a brighter world what we all desire? Countless saints, sadhus and meditative specialists have sought a world that was devoid of darkness and have tried to inflict their teachings on to you. Many of them have made millions of dollars in the process. I may be onto something here…..

Knock your socks off.

Now we’re getting into the really top of the line stuff, not for the faint of heart. Readers discretion advised. Readers with sensitive eyes are advised to use sunglasses, or look through photonegative paper. I’m not quite sure where you would find such paper nowadays. I suppose you could try looking at it through the viewfinder or preview screen of your digital camera.

(SloWord, its writer, its writer’s family and descendants are not liable for any retinal damage, nervous tics and disorders or any medical conditions arising out of the viewing of such imagery as may be found here. Proceed with caution.)

img-20160827-wa0000.jpeg

img-20161016-wa0005.jpegPaired with navy blue sneakers with lime green accents, these really bring out the, uh, er, hmm, aah. Well. You come up with something…

I suggest a stiff drink to calm your nerves.

All socks portrayed here are the property of the writer and no socks were harmed in the photographic process.

An Anthology of Personal Poetry


cropped-dsc02915.jpg
I hear sunsets go well with poetry so I took this photograph from my collection. Just so we could test that theory.

Since I hear no clamor from publishers wanting to publish anything written by me, I have decided to publish my “poetry” here. I suspect it will make them look quite silly. That is, if this blog is on their reading list.

Most of these lines appeared as throwaways on assorted Facebook groups. When you read them you will know why they were thrown away. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

“Oh Alright,” you say, “Let me read them, stop talking!”

“What? Me talk? Heavens! I’m the quietest, shyest person you ever did meet. I don’t like to talk too much. I prefer to let you get on with it. Action, you know! That’s the ticket. Stop the nattering and get going. Yes sir, ( or madam ), you won’t find Ajesh B going on and on longer than necessary to get the point across. Brevity! Simplicity! Brevity! I said that twice didn’t I? Hmm. It goes to show the value of brevity. And I only want to say one last thing… uh… what? Stop? Stop what? Oh talking. You wish to read? Ok. Go on then. Do let me know how it goes, won’t you?”

Lamentary

The post was not a pome
It was a lament, no more.
Poetry is not my home.
I shall write it no more.

There was a time when
Words I wrote were in rhyme
Curs’t it was, my pen
But I’m cured just in time.

How lovely is my prose
How amusing and funny!
This ditty I must close
For I hear the call “Bunny!”

Blues #1

The old man who played the blues
on his guitar while everyone did snooze
was beaten for his pain
and for raising cain
“it’s not the playing but the singng, you goose!”

Orange Juice Blues 

The old man who played the blues
One morning while he drank his juice
remarked to no one
I wonder if anyone
Drank coffee as if it was booze

Ghostly Roast

A lady who hunted ghosts
Travelled to both of the coasts
Of ghosts she found none
She had tea with a bun
with some potatoes, pickles and roasts

Ode to Cats

Violets are blue,
my nose is red,
what cats do,
is fill me with dread.

The Second Annual Birthmonth Festival


As you may remember, most of you very carefully and diligently ignored the First Annual Birthmonth Festival. Now here is your chance to do so again. Yes, there is a difference. The last time around your indifference lasted a whole month. This time around, given that the world’s collective attention span is shorter than Trump’s fingers, I’ve decided that you get a week ( or 3 – well, maybe 4 ) to celebrate this August moment.

August, the month of hot summer days and cooling summer nights. August, the month of early leaves on the ground. August, the month of the last few school-free days. August, the month that should have been October ( don’t get it? Send me an email. See Contact Page for email form.) August, the month of Mother Teresa, who I met a couple of times. August, the month of days on the deck. August, the month of waiting for the advent of cool autumn. August, the start of the month of the Virgin. August, the end of the month of the Lion. August, the month in which I was born straddling The Lion and The Virgin. I’m told the earth itself shuddered the day after I was born. Possibly, the shock of it all was too much for Ma Earth.

I don't think it was my birthday... but what the hell, I thought
I don’t think it was my birthday… but what the hell, I thought

26th, next Friday is the day when a few decades earlier a child was born to a family meek and mild. Wait! No! I mean, yes a child was born, but not into a meek and mild family. We saw it in action during the recent wedding. Not mild. Not meek. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I suppose family is the friends we didn’t choose.

I must have chosen my mother wisely, for she was born the same day I was. This does not mean that she and I were born on the exact same day. I mean, we were born on the same annual day but were separated by 39 years. By which I mean she was born 39 years before I was. I was born on her birthday as a birthday present, I suppose. In fact, my first first words on appearing out into the world were “Happy birthday, mum!”. I remember, cake was served too, with a dollop of Haywards Gripe Water for me in addition.

It was many years ago, so my famed memory may be failing me. So maybe, it didn’t quite happen that way. In any case, the fact of the matter is, I was born. You knew that already, because you are reading this. I must have written this, so I am alive. To be alive now, I must have been born then. At least, that part is clear.

So here we are then. I’m here. You are there. I know I am here. Do I know you are there? Possibly, you are. You can prove it to me. Right in! I mean, write in! This is the part where the rite of writing can be performed even as you exercise your right of writing. Tell me about you, tell me stories, made up or real, about me. About me and you. About you.

Go ahead. Get ahead of the crowds. Apply early. Get your stories in. The first 500 stories will win spots number 1-500! Don’t wait! Do it now.

Contest open while blog lasts. See blog for details. There are no details. May cause nausea, fatigue, drowsiness. Especially, drowsiness. Also, headaches, bloating and excessive uncontrollable yawning. Do not forget to wish The SloMan, the PeevedPunjabi and LeggieLefty too. Unclejee too, though, we fear Unclejee is in a coma and not expected to recover.

Evil Eyed Cherry


A pair of cherries from the same stalk. Prunus...
A pair of cherries from the same stalk. Prunus avium ‘Stella’. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The other day I bought some cherries. Sunday, it was, yes, I remember well. I bought the cherries home and washed them and ate them and they were good. I also had occasion to visit a Bengali sweet shop and The Good Lady bought some kaancha chena. Literally translated it means “raw cottage cheese”. With some sugar added it is a traditional Bengali sweet.

Now, you know, I live in Canada, right? Right. So cherries in summer is not unusual. The other thing is. Unusual, I mean. I like cherries. I wish someone would pit them for me, but until they invent unpitted cherries, I’ll have to make do with these. Unpitted cherries will probably be GMO labelled, anyway, so I guess I’d better just enjoy these. Not that these cherries are completely blameless. I mean, not the cherries, but the cherry growers. How can an inanimate object have the attribute of blame associated with it?

Ok, I think I hear the vegetarians clamouring that cherries are not inanimate objects. But then, if they’re not we can blame them, right? No? Hmm, well, anyway, moving on. I like blueberries too, and kiwi is ok, too. Strawberries, yes, bananas, too. Even raspberries are ok, but no blackberries for me. That gritty feeling is not very pleasant. A ripe papaya liberally sprinkled with salt, pepper and lime juice is pretty  good. Try not to judge! At least try it before you wrinkle your nose.. Of course, mangoes win hands down as the king of fruits. Unfortunately, I live in Canada, so the delicious mango varieties of my past life are but a fast receding memory.

What has all this to do with Evil Eyes, Cherries and an Angel’s Kiss in Spring? Nothing. First of all, it’s summer, full blown, not spring. Angels, winged or otherwise, I have never met, so they can’t possibly be handing out kisses to all and sundry. Ah, but you see, that sweet raw cottage cheese we talked about earlier? Yes, that thing, it enters the story at this point. We bought some and I reminded people that even though I lived where I did ( Canada, in case you missed it ), I still had access to kaancha chhena. Their reply was basically “pffttt!”. I reminded them also that I was eating lovely cherries. This, for some reason, gave rise to a cold and odd reception. Clearly, they must have had something on their mind, because their speech became odd and slurry. I prudently decided to leave them alone to get over their ailment.

You may further be aware that I work. Yes, I know, you find it hard to fathom, but apply your mind. Some people do have to earn a living. No, it does not matter what I actually do. Many people have asked me that and to explain what I do would not be very interesting to you, unless you had severe insomnia and wished to find a cure, dear God, give me a cure! Suffice it say that work consists of waking up at ungodly hours and donning a suit. Trains, commuter trains, are involved. Focus on the suit and tie. Yes, the tie. Next recall, that I did not tell you that on Monday mornings I have to attend a session at 8:15am. On a Monday. This Monday morning, I was running late, so I put on my jacket, forgot about the tie and left for work.

I was wearing a freshly laundered white shirt. I wear a freshly laundered shirt ever day. I’m quirky like that. So there we have it at long last, the scene is set.

Characters:

Me, dressed in pristine white dress shirt, no tie.

Cherries, in a ziplock bag.

Work. With a very important meeting in the afternoon, after lunch ( for which I had to walk in the glare of the hot sun for 15 minutes, one way. )

Sandwich dressed in aluminium foil.

As the sun blazes away outside, I am observed, chewing contentedly through the sandwich. I work at the laptop as I eat. Soon the sandwich is done and I pull the bag of cherries closer and with my left hand pick one cherrie and bite into it. Nibbling around the outside, I delicately put the pit in a bowl created by the aluminium foil. With two cherries left, the Evil Eye strikes.

Those people who had gone off surly at the thought of kaancha chhena and cherries, must have been busy lighting incense sticks and pushing red hot skewers into plastic models of cherries and I. For with one cherry left in the bag, I bit into the last but one and it exploded into a splatter of purple juice all over the front of my pristine white, freshly laundered white shirt. White, except for large splotches of purple covering an area of 5-6 inches in the middle of my chest.

I went for the meeting in the afternoon. I wore the purple splotches as a badge of honour.

I wonder what the people I met, for the first time in my life, thought about it.

We’ll never know.

I hope.

On the positive side…. I wasn’t wearing a tie. 🙂

Practically Witty


Almost summer morning
Almost summer evening

I wrote this poem for no reason
For it’s really just the season.
This poem is quite small
and it’s very stupid and all.
Tubetops, when they put these on
you also get those bare knees on.

You know this is really quite silly
For I’m writing stuff willy nilly.
You may exclaim “Oh Lord!”
“He really is so odd!”
It’s not because of the terrain hilly
Or a preponderance of rose and lily.

In fact there is no Grace
Rose, Lily, or April in lace
So you can perish the thought
that my silliness is ill begot.
No, It’s the life and it’s pace
that makes me go red in the face.

It’s a wonder this poem got wrote.
For the 7:20am train has my vote
Now you’re here, come, say your piece
For comments here attract no fees.
Do it while sitting in your boat
or sipping wine with table d’hote.

You may think it is a real pity
believe this is practically witty
but don’t you from commenting shirk
on this blog, for you know it is a perk.
The poem such as it is is a little nitty,
a tad gritty, maybe witty, but mostly shitty.

Shameless Flamboyance!


I didn’t see it coming. It was all coming along so well. It came as a bit of shock actually. But let me back track a bit and provide some backing track to the song of my life over the  past few months.

Not quite sure what this represents, but it's made of glass....
Not quite sure what this represents, but it’s made of glass….

I used to write this blog fairly regularly. When I first started it was with the belief that I’d soon get the hang of it. As you know, I tried different styles. I had the ponderous, third person of the SloMan pondering the pond we call life. He observed the specimens in the pond and pondered on the meaning of it all. He was the first.

Then I came along as myself, writing some rather nostalgic pieces. I even inflicted poetry on the unsuspecting public. Often, I fooled them into visiting by attaching a cute kitten to the piece. Once enticed, they read the poems. Some poems actually were commended. A couple were shared on social media. A fellow blogger actually reblogged one of them on his blog. Such exciting stuff! And all that from poetry! Can you imagine the ferrous quality of the situation? ( Irony.., Iron, Fe, Ferrous .. if not chemically inclined). That was a high point. Also a low point, because I’d rather someone ( could be anyone, really, anyone at all, would you please? ) shared some of my scintillating pieces of prose. Some of them are prosaic, some are inclined to talk about my proboscis, my professional life ( or lack thereof ), none were profane, but some did talk of programming, some about my productivity struggles, some simply prolonged the post for no reason at all. Some probed the profound truths and one talked about probiotics. I’ve talked about the progress I’ve made in my goals ( none, whatsoever, thank you for your concern.) Hell, LeggieLefty has also talked about the Proteas. Quite simply, then, I have been proactive in procuring for you the best prose that my head can provide. As you can see, I have a certain proclivity or propensity towards proudly proceeding to provoke a prolonged probe into the problems facing us.

By “us”, I mean “me”. I just attended a seminar where I was told that the most important person is the room was “you”, but he pointed his finger at me. Now, before you protest ( no, I’m starting that thing again.. we’re done! I am, seriously done with that – what’s that? you prohibit me? ) Ok, well, here is the thing then, I found that I was too poetic and too ah – I don’t know, “sensitive”, maybe, in my writing? Well, we can’t have that! I can’t be seen to be “sensitive”. I’m a middle-aged, red-blooded, Punjabi male, for god’s sake! It would not be right for my idiom! Besides, there were so many things that bugged me and I needed a rant or two to every once in a while. Thus, the PeevedPunjabi, was procreated ( oops ! soooorry ..).

I’m not going to talk about LeggieLefty. LeggieLefty moons about thinking and dreaming about cricket, but his writing style is a good mix of styles. That’s me, I said. Of course, I needed proof so I looked in the mirror and I confirmed that it was indeed me. LeggieLefty looks so much like me, it’s uncanny! I checked with the PeevedPunjabi and the SloMan and would you believe it! They all could pass for me, without the benefit of dark glasses, fake Assyrian moustaches or a hair makeover! How weird is that? Identical quads, with the same glasses and identical moles, facial hair and eyebrows!

Now, the sad bits. The last few months haven’t been good to me. Business has been quite bad. All the prospective clients have proceeded to turn to dust. I haven’t been able to get any signatures on the dotted line. Things are bleak. I came close once or twice, real close, but no cigar. In protest, I proceeded to work on my writing with results that I have reported elsewhere. As they Bongs say “Jahgey! Boi ta to lekha holo!” Shall I translate? Jahgey is an exclamation that loosely means “whatever”. Boi is a book. In a singular lack of qualification, boi also means movie. Lekha is written. You get the picture…. ( At least the book got written, if still befuddled. ) Now, on the Bong need to qualify. Bongs qualify most nouns. You’re not just going to the “beach”, you’re going to the “sea beach”. A longer discussion of this phenomenon will be held over until a later post. Don’t whine! I gotta have something in reserve!

To make matters worse, the coffee machine has gone away for servicing. It’s going to be away for two whole weeks! I have to either use the Italian percolator or the French Press, which is more work than lazy ass me is usually inclined to do. When feeling really lazy, like today, and down in the dumps, I’ve even resorted to instant. Now if that isn’t plumbing the depths of coffee-snob hell I don’t know what is.

Then a certain Facebook friend, rashly promised to read the blog AND write some comments. After a delay of a day or two, during which I naturally had to prod her a few times, she read a couple of the articles here. Her prognosis?

First impressions: Funny. Interesting. Runs the gamut from self deprecating humor to shameless flamboyance. Anything but dull….makes for great reading on the long commute to and from work

Shameless flamboyance! She also labelled me a “drama queen”. But wait, there’s more!

Today, while brushing my teeth I saw it….

A tiny strand, a single tendril of hair tending towards the left of my face. On the slope of my nose.

Death, where is thy sting!

Why I talk to myself


Light in the darkness (c) Ajesh Sharma
Light in the darkness (c) Ajesh Sharma

I updated my blog recently. I don’t know that you noticed, so I am taking the logical way out and announcing it. So you know. Which you won’t if you don’t read my blog. But you are, because you’re here.

You are here, right? I’m not just talking to myself? I do that a lot, I’m told, talk to myself, I mean. I have the best conversations with myself. It’s so nice to talk to oneself and know with perfect precision exactly what you mean when you say things to yourself. No one understands me better than I do myself.

Except, of course, I don’t understand myself very well. Is it really possible to know one self – completely, deeply? Do we hide our deepest secrets from ourselves? Facing up to what you actually are, how you really feel, why you react the way you do is hard. Most people don’t even attempt it or know that they should. Some don’t believe it is necessary or productive at all.

Yet, there are plenty of tests that try to map your personality and predict your reaction to situations. They describe it under normal situations and under stress. I went through some of those issues in a previous post and you can read it if you wish to get a sense of how I scored on many of those tests. They fascinate me. I’ve been fascinated with them from the time that HJ Eyesenck IQ book came into my life as a teenager. I have done those IQ tests multiple times and have consistently scored in the 120-130 range. Which means one of two things: Either I do those tests well or I’m quite bright in the brains department. Clearly these tests are bogus. I’m ( empirically proven ) terrible at tests and not particularly bright. I can string a sentence together okay and I can stand and give presentations, but does that mean I’m bright? I’m not sure it does.

Here is a very interesting tidbit I found on the internet. Yes, on the internet, so it’s completely trustworthy. ( http://webspace.ship.edu/cgboer/intelligence.html )

Q group……. less than 75 75 to 90 90 to 110 110 to 125 125 and higher
% of total population 5% 20% 50% 20% 5%
% of group out of labor force more than one month out of the year 22% 19% 15% 14% 10%
% of group unemployed more than one month out of the year (men) 12% 10% 7% 7% 2%
% of group divorced within five years 21% 22% 23% 15% 9%
% of group that had illegitimate children (women) 32% 17% 8% 4% 2%
% of group that lives in poverty 30% 16% 6% 3% 2%
% of group ever incarcerated (men) 7% 7% 3% 1% 0%
% of group that are chronic welfare recipients (mothers) 31% 17% 8% 2% 0%
% of group that drop out of high school 55% 35% 6% 0.4% 0%

I see there is a 6% chance that I have some illegitimate children somewhere out there. It’s been more than 5 years since I’ve been married, so I guess I’m not in the 24% who get divorced within 5 years of marriage.

Here is a shout out to any possible illegitimate children – call me! Use the Contact me page here and send me an email. I’d love to see what I ( possibly ) created or helped to create.

By now, you’re wondering: why does he talk to himself? I don’t really have an answer to that. What? You expected an well-reasoned response to that question? Google says, universally, that people who talk to themselves are geniuses. Which is really, really funny, because I’ve been called many things in my life, but never a genius! But, like I said, it’s on the internet, so it’s gotta be true!

The other question you had, probably, was: “Update? What update?”

That’s easy to answer. I added a new menu item that links to an Awards page.

Now you have had ALL your questions answered. Or all the questions I thought you had. Which is almost the same thing, except that it’s not. It could be. But most probably not. You could still be wondering why the chicken crossed the road. Well, the answer is very simple.

To get there first, before the egg.

NEVER TRUST A CRICKETER


< A little comic relief before the India vs South Africa match at #WC2015. This was sent to me by a lovely lady who shall remain nameless. Exceptions may be made in the case of those willing to send me a US$10 and a SASE.>

Come all ye fair young maidens and harken unto me,
Never trust a cricketer, whoever he may be. Continue reading “NEVER TRUST A CRICKETER”

The Escaped Goat


And on a great island sat James. For he was the head, the chief. And this James coveted the riches of the kingdom of BCCI.

Cricket
Cricket (Photo credit: w3i_yu)

For James’s kingdom had once been rich in heroes. Jeff, with his slingshot thunderbolts, and the menacing Dennis had smote many in the field of battle. Shane the Wily had paired with Glenn the Metronome and they were led by the Steve of Ice. These modern greats had built upon the legends of older knights. Allan the Ugly, who had rebuilt the kingdom lost by Kim the Weeper with steel from his own sword. And Allan did thus restore the kingdom to the glory of the days of Keith and Ray and Richie, the greatest of them all, Donald, and a host of others. For the kingdom was once rich beyond compare.

But James was troubled. Revenues were falling. The kingdom of BCCI had imposed a new tax called IPL on all cricket heros except those from Pakistan. Only England had resisted, sending few of their heroes and summarily recalling the errant, Kevin the SwitchHit. And the IPL was condemned on all sides but it remained and prospered.

And James planned and plotted. He raised his own tax to rival the IPL. But the BCCI sneered and the BBL was expanded and still the BCCI did spurn it. And the BBL bloated and and gave forth no heroes. But James was pleased for 31% of BBL spectators were first-time visitors to an evening of entertainment. And James pronounced that Test cricket was the pinnacle.

And so it came about that a goat was placed in charge of a bunch of lambs. This goat, Mickey, a foreigner, was charged with creating a new army. And of the lambs there was one who was the head lamb and he was called Michael. And this Michael did dream of glory.

And with surgical precision did Michael remove all cancers from the army. Simon was slain even as he slept. Ricky was old and his bat would obey his body not. A pension for him and Ricky smote no more. Adam, the Keeper of the Catch, retired and Glenn’s metronome was laid to rest

Gilchrist standing up to Shane Warne in 2005. ...
Gilchrist standing up to Shane Warne in 2005. Andrew Strauss is the batsman. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

And Michael did scour the land for lambs that would answer his call and his call only. And seeing this did Mike the Cricket slip away. He called upon James and announced he would fight no more for personal reasons.

And Michael did find Warner the Swish and paired him with Cowan the Obedient. He did recall Hughes the Flasher from school and Michael did pray that Hughes had learnt his lessons.

But of all the cancers removed, one remained, and this one was at the head, the untrusty lieutenant to Michael himself, Shane the Front Foot. And Michael did plan many ways to remove the cancer but failed. And so did the army lose at home, first the Ashes then to the International Chokers. But victory at home against a toothless and aged India did much to raise happiness and paper the cracks.

And Shane the Front Foot was moved up and down and sideways and Michael did think to loosen his limpet grasp. But the cancer would not go. And Michael the head lamb did plot with Mickey the Goat to cause Homework and so bring the cancer under control. But Michael himself was smitten with Back and Shane the Front Foot led instead.

And so the lambs did get slaughtered by the many cuts of Ravi the Offie and Ravi the Lefty. And thus did the army of lambs reach upon the runway at Heathrow.

And lo, even before the battle commenced, Warner the Swish, mistaking a bar for the field and night for day did swish again at Root. And missed again.

And Shane the Front Foot did tattle and so Warner was banished from the land. And the media did howl and James called Mickey the Goat and told him to escape without further ado. And Mickey did present a bill for $4 million.

And Michael was left bereft of his favorite child and yet the cancer stayed.

Yep, probably should've hit that
Yep, probably should’ve hit that (Photo credit: nic_r)

And Michael did shuffle the batting order, again and again, till the watchers’ head spun. Of spinning soldiers he was given thirteen and none were trusted. And his bowlers toil both at bat and ball. And so it remains to this day.

And James sits still at the head. Michael’s lambs have appeared twice in battle against the old enemy in England and have been vanquished twice, with Michael losing yet another favorite son, Cowan the Obedient. And Hughes the Flasher does survive by the merest thread.

But Michael takes heart for the mediachemotherapy together with Shane the Front Foot’s own front foot finally threatens to remove the cancer for ever.