Marinating movies, pickling pikcharrs

It has been such a long time. Things could have rotted by now. Things have, actually. There is, for example, the pair of used socks that I had bottled up to observe the pickling effect of wine on absolutely used socks. There isn't much to write on that front, though, except that I see a curious connection between my roommate opening it during dinner, hunting for pickle, and buying a washing machine by the weekend.

But it's really been a long time. Blame it on the job; and life used to be so chilled out earlier. Or blame it on the fact that cupid stopped hitch-hiking and brought yon-fabulous-beaucephalous in true knight-on-steed fashion to accelerate platonic-turned-not-so-platonic-turned-absolutely-lovey-dovey-affair into a prospective marriage with the most awesomely elegant woman I've ever marinated, pickled, or generally sauteed my brain with by way of conversation. Well, I'm not married yet but en route and all.

So things have kept me away but I'm back now and absolutely committed to reconstructing the fun out here. So there was this all-too-appropriately clad 20-something who was more babe than dude with a definite dude name and some moustache thrown in to add to the confusion. Anyway, he passes off as a guy in most social circles. So we were discussing movies and I did mention that Rock On, the huge hype notwithstanding, was an extremely poorly made movie, at the end of which he concluded that I was a bitter old man. Pseudo-elitism rising from a taste in Western music, I can take (and aren't we all pseudo-elitist in some way or the other), but bitter and old, well, that's just weird.

Well, the bitterness notwithstanding, I did point out that in my equally frank opinion, he was more babe than dude than anyone would ever want to be and that that fact alone should bite him with the decency and frequency of a rather drunken crab with a knife jammed into the better part of its brain. It’s another matter that most crabs come into simultaneous contact with knife and alcohol only when sautéed in a wine sauce, by which time they’re very, very dead, while he, it could be argued, had never been more alive than those first few moments that followed his momentous you're-bitter-old-man judgment, which was instantly amended to a you're-a-bitter-old-man decision, for Mr. Dude, even when sautéed and knifed to your heart’s content, prides himself on his convent education and was in no general mood of having it compromised the way other smaller things like his reading taste, his choice of suicidal Greek philosophers and general chaos of facial hair have been.

Thankfully, the long drawn out conversation lightened him up (crabs can do that, they're a handy topic), and we reached amiable consensus on manliness and youth, his and mine respectively.

Speaking of movie reviews, there was the greatest furore over Dev D being given 5 stars on TOI, which is kind of fairly simple to understand once you realise that TOI never minds a huge fuss over something it prints out. A certain lady who gets very heady around French cinema pointed out that the movie was very poorly made and I did mention that some would consider her a bitter old man for saying so, especially given the parallel pseudo-elitism angle thrown in.

The other movie that has meanwhile left a good number of bitter old men in its wake is Slumdog Millionaire, which frankly, was little more than a simplified jab at what Midnight's Children did so much more elegantly, and minus the magic realism and with a good deal of marketing-the-exotic-India thrown in. But Rahman finally won an Oscar and I'm not complaining.

I hope I can write really often. The new lifestyle has killed a few things. I was 80% of my way towards finishing a novel and now, there just isn't time. So there it is on the back burner after 14 months of writing, lying around like a pair of absolutely-most-definitely used socks marinating in wine. Maybe we'll get a typewriter in this time around!

Even Einstein would've been pseudforced

What's to the left of right? You can't really tell! That's the problem with relatives! They're never absolute!

Relatives have been pouring in like sludge in the Buckingham Canal (and we refer to Chennai, of course) and well, some of them have been smelling that way too. Which is not exactly a problem on most occasions but when the cook back at home leaves a lot to be desired on the aroma front and the food is anyway difficult to gulp down, one doesn't need added incentives to puke sitting across, around and under the table.

We're still talking about the relatives obviously, though their positions relative to the table are relatively less important to their overpowering presence in my life at the moment. The truth is I've met too many of them in too short a span of time to be too gung-ho about it, frankly.

A certain notorious one, who has in the past been known to invest in Satyam shares (which some concur is equivalent to partaking of Ex-Raju's fiasco-ing) moaned, groaned and raised a significant amount of hell about the whole thing. Since that didn't quite help him enough, he decided a trip to the kitchen and a sequence of well-timed sneezes all over the exposed food was very much in order before he resumed his feeble attempt at fanfare of the pathetic kind.

Everyone is well aware of my aversion to rotund aunts, especially those who try to marry you off like it was some afternoon pastime and like life was one bright sunny afternoon. The particular specimen in question accompanied Satyam-bitten uncle, partly because she's married to him and is supposed to do all the accompanying but largely because there are few other souls in the world who display greater readiness to be crushed under her finger at every pretext.

Rotund aunt, of the aforementioned fame, did make her point about dowries and marriages and upholding the male family tradition and other such things and then got busy shouting at her husband asking him to raise a little less hell over the whole thing.

What with all the groaning and shouting, things turned pretty sour. Nothing much has been happening since then. Nothing much needs to. I've excused myself and am writing this blog while they create a general ruckus out there and as is evident, the little that they do is enough to fill a lot more space than the huge amounts a lot of others do.

That's so raven!

I feel like Groucho Marx in Duck Soup, all full of corny jokes, yet managing to be funny because I'm vintage.

Wrong feeling I guess cos at 25 yet, I'm not quite within the elasticity limit of the definition of vintage. So it's just the corny jokes then!

That can't be any good!

BTW, today marks an important day in my life. For the first time in my life, I met a 'Vegan'. Phew! She was sitting right next to me during lunch. And when I told her the meat tasted good, she just said 'I'm a vegan' the way rabbits would say 'I'm a rabbit' when tortoises challenge them to races. Of course, the rabbits don't really say it and end up losing the race.

Now that stumped me as you can imagine for Vegans are this group of really pseud people who look down on Vegetarians because they aren't pseud enough.

Vegan!

You might think the lady was from Finland. And Duh to that!

So that's cool. Eat grass and say 'I'm Vegan'.

I really love vegeterians. Trust me, I have nothing against them! In fact, I prefer eating vegeterians to non-vegeterians (and we don't eat lions in India anyway). So trust me, I love vegeterians!

But vegans! They are so IN! You can't help loving them.

She didn't quite echo my sentiments when I told her about my love for eating vegeerians and lost some cool and then she lost some more cool when I asked her whether cows could also be called Vegan!

We haven't been talking!

So there's this guy who thinks I've got the brainiest messenger taglines on the planet, which is a real good misconception to have targeted at you but which, sadly, isn't always true.

So well, when I had my tagline as Jackals on Juniper Trees, he actually gave me an entire explanation which involved monkeys and the tree as a metaphor for the corporate ladder and the monkeys looking up and down, and rather logically, no jackals whatsoever.

Which was fine except that he tried making sense of Langurs in Lingarajapuram, which frankly involved neither metaphor nor reality but just sounded cute (like Groucho Marx in Duck Soup).

And when I communicated my change in job profile as From Elevator Love to Elevator Pitch, he came back asking whether Pitch was a typo.

That was when in a moment of sitcom-inspired-frenzy (and for the thousandth time, I hate FRIENDS... that is the most boring thing being mistaken as funny, ever), I decided to put up the tagline 'Meeting Two and a half women'.

Obviously that never happened! For starters, where would I get half a person. Assuming for the sake of argument that we do procure half a person here, I wouldn't half find it savoury meeting someone who was just, well, half.

So he came back telling me that half a woman was a thin woman while two women were, of course, two women. When I asked him why two women couldn't just be a fat woman by his logic, he got confused, which was obviously a great excuse to accuse him of looksism.

Quoth the Vegan, 'Never More!'

That last bit doesn't really mean anything. Apologies to Edgar.

So there's obviously a lot happening at work. The lifts over here might not really boast the interior decoration that they did at UB City but with Vegans and Monkey-boys around, how could life ever get dull!

Do Gargantuan Gargoyles Gargle?

The question really is 'Could I care less?'

the answer, of course, is that alliterations do not really have to make sense, they exist purely for the kind of exercise that our tongues are denied when we hesitate to say supercalifragilisticexpicalidocious at the end of every sentence.

Sadly, my cab mates at the new company don't really understand this, which is probably why the guy sitting next to me shot two bloodshot sleepy eyes at me when I asked him about this and in a barely audible whisper, muttered, "Are you a North Indian?"

Now that's a question that's always confused me on account of my absolutely all-over-the-park ethnicity (i have blood from half the Indian ethnicities running inside me with a British great-grand-father thrown in). What confused me a lot more was how gargoyles or their gargantuan proportions or their gargling could lead themselves to any far-fetched Holmesian deductions on my ethnicity.

What's rather apparent though is I'm clearly not making the best of impressions with my new-found craze for alliterations in my equally new-found office-space.

Things should have obviously improved when I tried taking remedial measures by talking something sensible and telling one of my American colleagues that Sarah Palin could anagram itself to A Sharp Nail.

Things didn't! He didn't ask me whether I was a North Indian. He did muter something about Indians, though.

Nothing really made sense all day even as I sent an SMS to most of my friends looking for some meaning in the general scheme of things and asking them their opinion on the Gargling of the Gargantuan Gargoyles.

There was probably something really wrong with the phone networks. Alternatively, no one could have cared less. It was only at the end of the day, around the time I was absolutely washed out that I got a solitary reply lending some meaning to the day.

"Do Jackasses Jackass?"

Flash Fiction: The Last Page

I can never think outside that tornado of images, that moving window of light exploring the darkness of the room and its irreversible choice to illuminate!

In the darkness, the door to the room gaped like the mouth of a village idiot who didn’t understand anything about anything. A torchlight was directed into the room. Light leapt in at the speed of 300 million kilometers per second, as if in a hurry to reveal what lay within. The first intensity of flash hit the body suspended from the ceiling fan; protruding eyeballs, mocking tongue, contorted face, animating the stationary body making it seem like it had jumped out of the void. But the glare stayed making it as dead as it had been in the first place.

I was present at the worst place on earth at the worst time to be present there.

Good times don’t last and neither do good people!

I found her journal that night in that very room. I was surprised for I had never seen her write. She had never found it convenient.

Most of it was a scramble of scrawls worming formlessly. But that day, the parts that were actually legible danced together to form memories, not sentences, for most of it remained unintelligible.

Memories… of me holding her hand while she climbed the stairs counting the steps in a low voice and smiling every-time she reached the top… of her struggling with that last chicken pierce on her plate stabbing around till I held her hand and helped her fork it… of her tearing her dosa into tiny pieces and smiling while I spooned the chutney and sambhar onto them… of me applying make up to her face while she smiled foolishly and apologetically… of her trying the make-up kit on her own once and emerging hesitantly with the face of a circus clown… of her clumsily wading her way through the room hitting every table-edge and arm-rest in her way… of all those moments when she sat silently wishing she had more…

Every page thanked me wishing that she was less of a burden!

And memories clanged madly, like vessels thrown around in an angry kitchen, as I clutched the diary to my breast hoping it was her quiet body that so often racked with sobs, hoping she was there to see that it had never been a burden.

It didn’t matter anymore, did it?

I turned the pages, studying every one of them, deciphering scrawls, till I reached the last page. The last page! Rickety letters despite the labored care that had gone into creating them! Twenty-four words, not scrawled, but carefully written, knowing fully well that I’d need them to hang on for the rest of my life.

One and a half years of knowing you, more beautiful than many lifetimes! Life is too beautiful to be wasted on my blind eyes!

Flash Fiction: Courting Puberty

Again, the theme was Journal so the format is that of diary entries.


09/12/94
Riya is beautiful. I think I’ll fall in love.
Girls are good.
I hate my little sister Gudiya.
I love Pepsi and Pepsi ads! Daadi says it’s from America!

18/12/94
Cursed at the dining table. DON’T DO IT. This is for those who like to learn form other peoples’ mistakes and like to read other people’s diaries.

19/12/94
I wrote peoples’ and people’s because I wasn’t sure which was correct.
Beauty-Parlour told us today that it’s peoples’.
Sometimes I think I love Beauty-Parlour.
She is our English teacher.

20/12/94
Hi!
P.S. Being regular with diary-writing.
P.P.S. I wonder what P.S. means.

27/12/94
Riya didn’t let me touch her there. She asked why? She’s stupid. It’s obvious why. I told her it looked really round and fleshy and she asked me to touch my own. I asked her to take a close look at me and then she said sorry because I had nothing like that on me.
I asked her again for some touchy but she said No.
I wish people would be more open to letting me touch their pimples.

31/12/94
Aishwarya Rai won Miss World this year.
I think Riya could win Miss World.
I also think our head should grow Maggi noodles for hair. Daily breakfast, new hairstyle.

01/01/95
New Year Resolution: Make Riya my girlfriend. Show her I am a MAN.

05/01/95
I feel funny whenever I see her. Something happens between my legs. I don’t want to write about it.

11/01/95
Never try arm-wrestling. Never. Girls might defeat you. No’ it didn’t happen to me. It sounds impossible but you might lose. It wasn’t me, it was someone else.

17/01/95
We learnt that England conquered India. America is good after all. Daadi is stupid.

25/01/95
I don’t like sleeping with Gudiya. She has stopped wetting the bed. She has started wetting me.

27/01/95
I wet my pants while sleeping. I’m too embarrassed. I’m also scared. It was like glue mixed with water. Maybe I have cancer. I’m hardly 13.

29/01/95
I’m going to propose to her.

30/01/95
I’m going to propose.

02/02/95
Didn’t propose. She is my English teacher and can be scary.

05/02/95
One life and two girls. I feel like ShahRukh in… umm… which movie… all his movies actually.
Yeh Dil Maange More!

07/02/95
India lost to Pakistan. I stole Nadeem’s apple and said Kashmiri apples are ours. My eye hurts. Nadeem is six feet tall.

09/02/95
I finally decided on her. Yeh hee hai Right choice baby. Aha.

11/02/95
I’m going to propose to her. Valentine’s Day.

13/02/95
Tomorrow. Terminator-2. Judgment Day.

14/02/95
She tied me a Rakhi. How did she manage to get a Rakhi on Valentine’s day?
She said I’ll get gassy if I keep using Pepsi lines to propose. I thought you got gas by drinking Pepsi.

16/02/95
I’m her brother now. I hate life. If I’m her brother, I should be allowed to stay in her house.
No logic in life.

Flash Fiction: Poor Professor Higgins

The second of the submitted short stories! Same theme! Same word limit!



I never finished the story! I got married instead!

The smile animating her eyes stares into mine as she slides the ring up my finger. A lone tendril snakes wantonly up to the edge of her lips and she strokes it away reminding me of our first date.


“What do you do for a living?” she asked that night, perhaps assessing me.

I told her I was a writer, “Writing can be tough. I had this friend who wrote the name tags at a workshop for people with multiple personality disorder. It messed his head!”

Her laugh sounded rapt and soaking-in-the-moment like homeless children dancing in the rain.

“What are you writing?” She pushed the obstinate tendril off her cheek.

“It’s complicated!”

Love, though, was ironically uncomplicated.


And now she leans over, oblivious to the judgmental look from the priest, and whispers, “I dig you!” and smiles naughtily.


She coaxed it all out on the fifth meeting. The words slipped out of my brain, bounced twice on my tongue feeling the fleshy rebound, and gravitated out under an influence.

“We-ell, I’m writing the diary of a woman who is dating a man who is actually dating her to study women so that he can write a diary from a woman’s perspective denigrating women!” I blurted.

“Uhh…”

“Not worth a thought!” I hurried, hoping she hadn’t figured it already!

“Complicated enough to be fun!” she smiled.


“Do you, Christopher Varghese, take this woman as wife?” The priest rephrases a question that I’d first heard in my head a month back.


Was I really falling in love? Symptomatically-abundant love?

Did Pavlov drool over his dog?

Are guinea pigs worth a cuddle?

“Do you love me?” she asked.

Were the answers to all the questions the same?

“Uhh…”

“Not worth a thought!” she hurried, perhaps hoping I hadn’t figured it already.

But I had!


“Think Anne Frank or Bridget Jones! And this guy’s dating her to write a woman’s diary!”

“And the book’s the diary of that woman while she’s dating him?”

“Like a diary within a diary!”

“And does she know that?”

“In the end!”

“So he’s just taking her for a ride! Isn’t he a pig?”

“Uhh… yes… yes, he is!”

“Can’t they just date the way we do?” she pouted, “Can’t you make characters like yourself? Nice characters?”

But I already had!


Being a man, writing a woman’s diary is tough! Six months of research and twenty-one Barista bills, and then…

“I really dig you!” I said on our twenty-first date.

She smiled.

“Will you marry me?”

And the smile rippled across her face like a lazy drop hitting the water surface.

“That man in your book…” she asked me that night, “Still a pig?”

“He got better!” I said distractedly, “He might be falling in love!”

“And you… do YOU love me?” she asked, fishing for answers never supplied.


And I turn to look at the priest and smile, “I do!”

Flash Fiction: Many Strings Attached

Wrote a couple of entries recently for a flash fiction contest (entries less than 500 words) around the theme Journal. Will be posting my entries over here for the next 2-3 posts.

Purple pendulous lips talk of their obsession with smoking! I have a thing for lips; animating a toothy abyss, decorating a formless yawn, butterfly-flapping into words!

Cigarette-butt grinds against table-top. Mint pops into toothy abyss. She caresses me softly, her eyelids tired and drooping, and presses me right there where she knows I like it. And then she brings her lips dangerously close and whispers, so that I can feel the careful mint of her breath, the deep caress of her voice, the seductive spray of her spit.

And we talk!

She tells me how sick she is of sitcoms and all the pointless laughing, how cold the home-delivered pizza always is and how stupid some of those people are who lie down on her sofa talking for hours.

We hardly do anything but talk. That is, she does the talking. And I listen. Not that I have problems with the arrangement. After listening to other people talk all day, she needs to let out some steam.

And then, she sighs deeply and starts talking about him!

It’s the same story everyday; table-cloth-ful spread-out dinners tossed angrily, talk-it-out-please requests spurned, arguments that make her hate the sitcoms.

And then she wishes he were dead!

I’m supposed to disappear when he’s around. . It’s frustrating because he should be the one doing the disappearing. I’m the one she really loves.

“Me psychiatrist, me messed-up-life!” she purrs in a voice which sounds like Irony making love to Dreamy.

“I hate him!” She holds me close, wishing him away. Sometimes, he’s out all night.

She tells me how much I mean to her as she dozes off while I stay up all night listening to her light-kitten snore and the creaking fan overhead.

It is on one of these days that he catches the two of us snuggled together. He seems annoyed, and speaks of me almost as if I were some childish fancy, a boy-toy. Not once does he speak of me as his equal, his rival, and yet it is I in whom she confides.

I lie frozen for a minute before he catches hold of me there. Almost on cue, I tell him everything she has ever told me, as her face contorts in shock. I say it all word-for-word, helplessly, watching her collapse.

And when I reach her chants on how she hates him, his face darkens. And then he swings his seasoned tennis-playing hand.

Palm hits cheek and she cries but I hear nothing. The door bangs and yet I hear nothing. Unable to stop myself, I continue talking madly even after he’s left as she lies crumpled on the floor wailing exaggeratedly.

And yet I hear nothing!

He never returns!

That’s just how I am. I blurt everything out the moment I get turned on!

I wish I could have done something to stop it but as a mere tape recorder, an audio-journal of sorts, my options were always going to be limited.

They got history!

So yesterday could have been the kind of day where you end up meeting a random girl in a known way, a spark of a phenomenon known as Blind-dating or , in India, post-Orkut-friendship-making.

But yesterday wasn't.

Yesterday was me ending up meeting a known girl in a random way which involved a shocked exchange of hellos and an embarrassed silence where she tries hard to remember my name followed by absolutely no bulbs lighting over her head, largely because she isn't part of a comic strip, and I end up telling her my name and she is gracious enough to connect the rest of our history together.

On the whole, that's a good minute's work or so. If you really look at it, meeting someone from your past after a good deal of time is probably among the most productive minutes of your life where you flood up two biographies and spark a connection strong enough to take you beyond hello.

Kismet Connection or the lack of it, our conversation receives a fillip and a gallop with that bit of our pasts connecting. Both of us suddenly realize that we’re not all that obscure and that there was something in the general neighborhood of a first crush that happened to us oh-so-long-ago.

Or perhaps, it’s just me who remembers it for she just goes: “Long time no see!” when she actually, ideally and bring-some-politeness-to-the-table-already-ly should be mentioning our first crush with some sort of reverence.

She finally gets to it though. On the way, we stop briefly and often at other stops which go by ‘Lunchtime at school’, ‘Softies after school’ and ‘Hit me baby one more time’!

“Really?” she asks me, “You still remember how I used to dance to that song at the class party?”

Of course I do! It’s an impressionable age and the image of a schoolgirl swinging around to that song seems to have scarred me for life. Or, in the very least, is important enough to feature in my inventory of conversation topics much before H2G2.

She hasn’t heard of H2G2 when I ask her and she just goes “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?” in a tone which vaguely rhymes with ‘Duh?’. Almost simlultaneously, she realizes that we have been chatting all this while standing in the way of a lot of people who want to use the escalator, and if you know the yuppie Bangalore after-working-hours crowd at a mall on a Thursday evening, that actually is a lot of people.

That makes me tell her how convenient it is that it isn’t Saturday for we would have been holding a lot more people up at the escalator if it was and she just gives me that H2G2 look again, and now, even the look rhymes with ‘Duh?’

When we finally order some food (we’ve reached a restaurant in the meantime and are having dinner which even in the climax of our relationship around the ages of 14-15, hadn’t ever seemed close to a distant possibility), she tries to tell me excitedly about all the memories we have from our time together, and instead, just blurts out “Do you remember how you ran all over school when I tried to tie you a rakhi?”

I’d rather not remember for I was being rather inelegant that day. She had come up with a Rakhi and I’d just darted all over school trying to get away from her and when I’d finally stopped a few minutes later, she hadn’t been following at all.

It had, of course, gone worse when she’d told me later that the Rakhi had been meant for someone else. But that was the day she figured out that we were more than friends, for that was a state which made you fear the all-risks-no-rewards state of a Rakhi brother.

We started going around after that, which in its school-day avatar, largely consisted of passing chits during class and me hogging on the matar paneer she used to bring almost daily for lunch.

Suddenly, there’s more than just connection as we think of everything from the past. I can see it in her face, the eyes going starry, the look distant and appreciative, and the smile as she goes “Mmm! Nice food at this restaurant!”

So that’s how it goes. She insists we split the bill and I offer to pay which makes her offer to pay in response and we finally end up splitting the bill after a round fo negotiation and compromise.

When we finally part, it’s a lot of fun. It’s not everyday that you run into childhood flames who you haven’t met for a long time, largely because there has been no other recorded instance of a reciprocated flame at school.

So she’s special in a way, and kind-of-not in another for most of the special bits are part of history. Someone else is special now and all that and, anyway, let’s not get there or we’ll have to start a whole new blog on that with purple background and other stuff!

She calls me this morning and the first thing is say is “Check out the date, it’s eight eight eight!” which has a nice rhyme to it but also leaves me looking a bit weird and groggy, both of which I am early in the morning, and both of which could do without the unnecessary showcasing.

But somehow, I don’t worry about it the way I used to because of the history bit! I don’t worry about whether she thinks I’m weird and groggy, partly because I’m pretty sure of the answer, but mostly because it doesn’t matter either way. Another time,. Another place, I would have stammered an explanation. History and nostalgia make everything bright and easy. Somehow, it’s easiest to court a girl when you don’t feel like courting her! That’s when you’re at your most suave with her and the irony is enough to make you forget the date for a bit, isn’t it?

If I was...

a start, I would be: a false one
a day, I would be: someday. It's a lot more wistful than the otehr days.
a month, I would be: December, but in Australia. I want to know what it feels like to bathe in December.
a fictional character, I would be: James Bond meets Asterix meets Sherlock Holmes. That way, I would have the ladies but a least throw some puns instead of the regular James Bond corniness. Besides, it would be great fun to explain things to women while saying “Elementary, my dear…” Though, if things went wrong, I’d end up as a short gaulish warrior with corny lines and a long 19th century overcoat!
a foot, I would: prefer the mouth to the ass.
a festival, I would be: one without greeting cards.
an animal, I would be: an amoeba. They never die, they just keep splitting!
a direction, I would: have a Maruti Service Station.
a joke, I would be: the one about the guy who always lost at boxing. The one without the punchline!
a liquid, I would be: viscous and gooey and trying to get all over someone’s skin.
another liquid, I would be: blood, and hence, most likely already under someone else’s skin.
a wizard, I would be: Rincewind instead of Harry Potter any day.
a food, I would be: fast.
a foodie, I would be: faster.
a musical genre, I would be: Bhangra Death Metal. I would be worse than you could ever imagine!
an emotion, I would be: the-happy-in-the-happyness-in-the-pursuit-of-happyness
an emoticon, I would be: the one that keeps rolling on the floor and laughing ad infinitum but never seems to be able to laugh his ass off. Absolutely no wear and tear of the south-end!
a sound, I would be: one that would make you think it was coming from a human even though it was coming from a whoopee cushion.
an element, I wouldn’t be: Helium… it’s too girly a name!
from Jupiter, I would be: Sabu! I don’t know anyone else from there!
a song, I would be: a tune that keeps ringing in your head but that you’re never quite able to place.
a place, I would be: somewhere you could come.
a taste, I would be: chicken, milk and honey blended and tasted from a mixer.
sentence, I would be: the last one said at the end of a meal. And I would rhyme with the second last which would be Slurp!
a shape, I would be: definitely not an hourglass.
a book, I would be: Midnight’s Children.
a poem, I would be: one ridden with metaphors and yet proving useless to woo the lady.
a vowel, I would be: uttered often in pronoun form.
a consonant, I would be: ~.
a woman, I would be: confused. I would also make you fight over me!
a religion, I would: confused. I would also make you fight over me!
a finish, I would be: the kind that the runner always wants to bump against exultantly but never realizes till he actually does that someone already has.

And if I were you, I'd wonder why I was still reading this!

Ah! Laziness has me!