I wish I was a really fat guy. I mean really fat. Like some 120 kilos or something. Unfortunately I am not. Unfortunately, I am somewhat fat, hovering around 80 kilos, which for my 5’8’’ frame, is fat enough for thin idiots to make fun of me, but is not fat enough to generate some much appreciated sympathy, concern or even, and I am being a tad bit optimistic on this one, nice old-fashioned love.
Being somewhat fat is the worst kind of fat to be. For starters, you just don’t get to understand which side are you on. If you call yourself fat, then the really fat guys start looking at you accusatively and let you know in not so subtle ways of what it means to be actually fat and how tough life is for them, as if it’s all your fault. And if you deny the fatness, then god be with you, for every single thin idiot around you will snicker and crack jokes at you till the end of humanity, and if they are the really sadistic kinds they might even poke you at all the not-to-be poked places, and this ain’t the facebook poke I am talking about.
The process of choosing a t-shirt too gets absolutely redefined if you are somewhat fat. The criterion becomes essentially a simple one too. Any t-shirt in which your man-boobs don’t show is a good t-shirt. If it can actually cover your ever-expanding belly and make you look somewhat fit, it’s really an additional bonus. But here’s the tricky part. There’s an oh so thin line of difference between a t-shirt that fits you perfectly, and one that’ll eventually accentuate your man-boobs if you gain as much as a gram. Seriously, why couldn’t god just give boobs to men? Look at the advantages. First, we would have our own ones to look at and play and hence, won’t be wasting so much time just gaping at the ones owned by the opposite gender. Imagine the amount of constructive activities mankind would’ve managed to perform in such a utopian society. We would have really been milestones ahead in technology, art, science and every such field we should be ahead in. Second, the poor, good-hearted, well-meaning and love-deserving somewhat fat people like yours truly would never really have to worry about them. In such an ideal scenario, the world will look at them and theirs’ from the same viewpoint as it looks at the female ones today, ie the more, the merrier. Now there could be a third, fourth and so on, but the writer has just realized this point is getting pointless and the readers should realize that a raw nerve of the writer just got touched, and thence, the mini-rant.
Worse still, all somewhat fat guys almost always have an extremely fit guy in their close friend circle, unfortunately so. And when I say fit, I mean FIT. Like different people have different ambitions in life, say to be rich, famous, respected, etc. This idiot’s core ambition of life would be to stay fit. He would be the kind of fitoholic who actually gets up early in the morning for his morning run, which extends some thirty-five miles. This, when the unwritten laws of humanity clearly state that the only time normal humans should contemplate getting up early in the morning, it should be for awesome sex, exams, not-so-awesome sex, urgent flights, moderate sex, trains and bad sex, in that exact order. Coming back to the point, not only would this guy go for his early morning run, but he would do so in the tiniest of shorts, barely covering his body-parts that really should be covered. And yes, these people don’t breath heavy when they run. Oh no, they don’t. They just run, and run, and run, and run, look around a little bit, and then run a little more. (The writer was contemplating writing ‘and run’ few more times, but better sense eventually prevailed). And when they are not running, they make their somewhat fat friends feel like a hopeless ball of misery, literally as well as figuratively. They would actually look down upon you with the greatest contempt, and again this is literally plus figuratively since most of these idiots are quite tall, and say very slowly, in an almost Vito Corleone-like tone, ‘Dude, you need to get in shape’.
The first couple of times, you’ll just ignore these idiots, because you’re just a cheerful person. But eventually, their raw sadistic coarse tone would get to you, and you’ll agree to go for some sports session with thy fitness himself. In my case, this sport was badminton. Now, don’t take me wrong, I like badminton. It seems a nice sport. My earliest memories of childhood include watching Jeetender playing the same sport in his brilliant detergent-proud-making white attire and simultaneously singing, courting with females and what not (Yes, I didn’t have cable TV till I was 13). So, in all earnestness, I really was looking forward to it. But somehow this fit idiotic friend of yours, who by now starts seeming like a steroids addict to you, will convert the nice and sweet sport of Badminton into Spartans Vs Persians, with war-cry effects and all.
For starters, they won’t even start playing once you are at the court. Oh no, not all. They would first perform the blessed art of stretching for ten minutes, and then warm-up for the next twenty. Now first of all, an average middle class guy who grew up in a crowded society is just worried shit that if you don’t start playing immediately, some other wicked soul would come and usurp the damn court. With these tense thoughts in your mind, it’s tough to even look in another direction once you’re at the court, let alone just waste time stretching and warming up for half an hour. Second, who in the crazy world invented this whole process of stretching? Honestly, a guy getting in such obnoxious positions anywhere else would be just considered plain and simple lewd. What if some girl watches, and concludes we are being just typical Delhi men. I mean, as it is most women are convinced that all us Delhi men are rapists, women-beaters, professional eve-teasers or at least chauvinists. So we really need to avoid such controversial practices to protect our already damaged reputation. And then for a somewhat fat guy, there’s always that risk of just getting stuck or something.
My final query to the fit guy, what in the world does warming-up your muscles mean? Isn’t the whole point of playing just that? Why would one want to warm-up the muscles and then re-warm them while playing. Won’t the muscles just get too darn warm or something? Till date, I genuinely believe that I might have actually given my evil friend a fight in the match if he hadn’t completely mind-ninja’ed me and just exhausted me before we even started. Hell, at least I would have managed to win at least one point in all of the three sets that we played. Negative tactics, I tell you.
I would end with saying to all you fitness obsessed freaks, I am somewhat fat, and I am proud of it.
(No I’m not, pls suggest me easy ways to lose weight. And pls hurry, my girlfriend’s losing interest in me)
Showing posts with label Funny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Funny. Show all posts
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Buying the C-word
Times are truly changing. Ask any group of around 10-20 people on how many of them have got laid in the last one month and you’ll see at least a dozen hand shooting up. Even if one takes into consideration that the thought process of nearly 50% of them went like ‘Get Laid? Oh shit, I have to show I’m cool. Lemme raise my hand and make a confident face. (Hand shoots up) There, now I am cool’, the fact remains that getting laid has really lost its elusive charm. The problem is that in the present times all that the non-committed guys have to do is look for a hopelessly drunk chick to get laid, and the committed guys of course are committed in order to have easy, free and unlimited access to sex.
So you see, the sex part is hardly the problem anymore. But know what is still tough as hell. BUYING the FRIGGIN CONDOM. Because make no mistake about it, buying the condom is still tough as hell. Now, here’s the deal with buying condoms. Fact No 1, guys never buy the condom from their regular chemist. Nope, that does not happen. In order to buy a condom, we go at least two to three kms away from our place to a remote and shady looking chemist. Fact No 2, now this might be the most deserted looking chemist in the world with a foot fall of 2 per week, but if we are going to get a condom from there, it’ll be full of people. All kinds of people.
In fact, there’ll always be these certain characters who would be present at the chemist-shop if you are going to buy a condom there. First, there always will be this angry looking fat aunty who’s buying medicines for her diabetic husband. Second, there will be this giggly teenage girl who’ll be there to buy here whispers and what not. And lastly, there’ll definitely be a couple of 6 year olds who for some reason that very day decided that the Chemist, instead of a frigging General store, is a better place to buy their candies and what not. And there you are, out there battling against odds, trying to buy that one wretched packet of condom, without which you certainly would not have that escapade you are so desperately looking forward to. So, what do you do? You do what any sane man would have done. You wait. You hang around for couple of minutes hoping for this group of people (which is almost looking like a mob to you) to leave. But it doesn’t. Instead, as you hang about looking at cupboards full of weir medicines, you just realize more and more people are turning up. And certainly none of the present lot is leaving.
So you think, what the hell, it’s a progressive society, and it’s not like I am committing a crime, so you decide to head right over to the chemist and ask him for it. But as soon as you start heading to that sly looking chemist, your confidence starts vanishing into that pure sweet air at the rate of 100 litres a second. So, by the time you are there, all you manage to do is whisper in the lightest voice possible, ‘bhaiya condom hai kya?’ To which the sadistic chemist shouts out his reply ‘KYA CHAHIYE BHAIYA?’
Now make no mistake about it, the chemist is one of the most sadistic motherf***er in the world, for he knows as well as God does, what you want. He knew it the moment you got your happy ass inside the Chemist shop. And more so when you whispered. Because no one really whispers when they’re asking for Complan or shit. Show me one guy whispering to a chemist asking for Complans, horlicks, boost or whatever shit health drink possible and I’ll be willing to change my sexuality for good.
By this time, courtesy to the chemist’s over-enthusiastic response, everybody is intrigued in what do you want. The aunty, the girl, the two kids, all are wondering ‘what does he want, what does he want’, as if the answer to that very question would solve life’s all problems for the. Anyway, being in the helpless situation you are in, you can do little but whisper again, ‘bhaiya condom chahiye?’ To which that bastard of a chemist shouts out in the loudest voice possible, ‘ACHA, CONDOM CHAIHIYE’. By this time everybody’s staring at you with the most killer looks possible. The fat aunty is looking at you as if you are f***ing her daughter. The teenage girl looks scared sh*t like you’re about to rape her. And the two little kids are really intrigued by this new word they have learnt and are talking amongst themselves, ‘Aye, what is this condom yaar? What is this condom?’ And there you are, embarrassed as hell, wishing the earth would swallow you up.
But the chemist isn’t done with his fun yet. So, withholding his sadistic smile, he shouts out again, ‘ACHA, KAUNSA WALA CONDOM CHAHIYE?’. To which you meekly manage a response, ‘durex bhaiya’, hoping against hope that this pain and embarrassment would get over soon. But that bastard chemist isn’t done yet. So he shouts out ‘DUREX MEI KAUNSA? DOTTED, ULTRATHIN, ya yeh naya FRUIT FLAVORED’. By this time you are so gutted, so embarrassed, feeling so fu**ed, that you’re thinking, ‘Boss, give whatever you want. Chahe to sirf POLYTHENE BAG hee de de, usi se kaam chala dunga. Bas, mujhe yaha se jaane de’.
And there, the ordeal is over. As soon as you get that packet, you hand him over whatever big note you have, not caring less about the change to be got back, and rush like there’s no tomorrow. (Reports indicate that half of chemist’s revenue is from these unreturned change obtained when people purchase condoms, making the job of a counter chemist a lucrative and deceivingly well paying one). It’s almost like god’s way of ensuring a balance between pleasure and pain in the world. If you want to go through the pleasure of sex, you better be fu**ing willing to walk through this acid test of buying the frigging CONDOM.
So you see, the sex part is hardly the problem anymore. But know what is still tough as hell. BUYING the FRIGGIN CONDOM. Because make no mistake about it, buying the condom is still tough as hell. Now, here’s the deal with buying condoms. Fact No 1, guys never buy the condom from their regular chemist. Nope, that does not happen. In order to buy a condom, we go at least two to three kms away from our place to a remote and shady looking chemist. Fact No 2, now this might be the most deserted looking chemist in the world with a foot fall of 2 per week, but if we are going to get a condom from there, it’ll be full of people. All kinds of people.
In fact, there’ll always be these certain characters who would be present at the chemist-shop if you are going to buy a condom there. First, there always will be this angry looking fat aunty who’s buying medicines for her diabetic husband. Second, there will be this giggly teenage girl who’ll be there to buy here whispers and what not. And lastly, there’ll definitely be a couple of 6 year olds who for some reason that very day decided that the Chemist, instead of a frigging General store, is a better place to buy their candies and what not. And there you are, out there battling against odds, trying to buy that one wretched packet of condom, without which you certainly would not have that escapade you are so desperately looking forward to. So, what do you do? You do what any sane man would have done. You wait. You hang around for couple of minutes hoping for this group of people (which is almost looking like a mob to you) to leave. But it doesn’t. Instead, as you hang about looking at cupboards full of weir medicines, you just realize more and more people are turning up. And certainly none of the present lot is leaving.
So you think, what the hell, it’s a progressive society, and it’s not like I am committing a crime, so you decide to head right over to the chemist and ask him for it. But as soon as you start heading to that sly looking chemist, your confidence starts vanishing into that pure sweet air at the rate of 100 litres a second. So, by the time you are there, all you manage to do is whisper in the lightest voice possible, ‘bhaiya condom hai kya?’ To which the sadistic chemist shouts out his reply ‘KYA CHAHIYE BHAIYA?’
Now make no mistake about it, the chemist is one of the most sadistic motherf***er in the world, for he knows as well as God does, what you want. He knew it the moment you got your happy ass inside the Chemist shop. And more so when you whispered. Because no one really whispers when they’re asking for Complan or shit. Show me one guy whispering to a chemist asking for Complans, horlicks, boost or whatever shit health drink possible and I’ll be willing to change my sexuality for good.
By this time, courtesy to the chemist’s over-enthusiastic response, everybody is intrigued in what do you want. The aunty, the girl, the two kids, all are wondering ‘what does he want, what does he want’, as if the answer to that very question would solve life’s all problems for the. Anyway, being in the helpless situation you are in, you can do little but whisper again, ‘bhaiya condom chahiye?’ To which that bastard of a chemist shouts out in the loudest voice possible, ‘ACHA, CONDOM CHAIHIYE’. By this time everybody’s staring at you with the most killer looks possible. The fat aunty is looking at you as if you are f***ing her daughter. The teenage girl looks scared sh*t like you’re about to rape her. And the two little kids are really intrigued by this new word they have learnt and are talking amongst themselves, ‘Aye, what is this condom yaar? What is this condom?’ And there you are, embarrassed as hell, wishing the earth would swallow you up.
But the chemist isn’t done with his fun yet. So, withholding his sadistic smile, he shouts out again, ‘ACHA, KAUNSA WALA CONDOM CHAHIYE?’. To which you meekly manage a response, ‘durex bhaiya’, hoping against hope that this pain and embarrassment would get over soon. But that bastard chemist isn’t done yet. So he shouts out ‘DUREX MEI KAUNSA? DOTTED, ULTRATHIN, ya yeh naya FRUIT FLAVORED’. By this time you are so gutted, so embarrassed, feeling so fu**ed, that you’re thinking, ‘Boss, give whatever you want. Chahe to sirf POLYTHENE BAG hee de de, usi se kaam chala dunga. Bas, mujhe yaha se jaane de’.
And there, the ordeal is over. As soon as you get that packet, you hand him over whatever big note you have, not caring less about the change to be got back, and rush like there’s no tomorrow. (Reports indicate that half of chemist’s revenue is from these unreturned change obtained when people purchase condoms, making the job of a counter chemist a lucrative and deceivingly well paying one). It’s almost like god’s way of ensuring a balance between pleasure and pain in the world. If you want to go through the pleasure of sex, you better be fu**ing willing to walk through this acid test of buying the frigging CONDOM.
New Years in Delhi
Unfortunately it’s that time of the year again. The time when all conversation starters are going to be, “So what’s your plan for 31st?” And mind you, it is irritating as hell to repeatedly answer this question. The point to be kept in mind is the fact that the response to this seemingly innocuous but immensely pressurizing question is going to decide the most important thing for any Delhi’ite. WHETHER YOU DO HAVE A LIFE OR NOT. And with so much of pressure, it becomes but impossible for you to not loose your sanity.
You see new years celebrations is the time for everyone to party again, for virgins to get hopeful again, for alcohol quitters to booze again, for teenage school (mostly modernites*) girls to show their growing sluttines again, for the rich to stamp their richness again and for most importantly, for whole of Delhi Police to make some quick money again.
But there are more important things that needed to be pointed out here. The most apparent and unique one being the difference in the ways the different sections of the society celebrate their new year’s parties. Here’s a look.
THE Rich + Social
The rich and social ones undoubtedly take the crown for having the best new year celebrations. These kinds can mostly be identified by certain un-ignorable traits; parents have a facebook account and are quite active on it, kids have about two thousand friends (which are mostly studs and hotties, who all lost their virginity at the age of fourteen), parties are thrown with gay abandon in farmhouses which look more exotic than Taj Mehal and would in some years be tourist spots, booze and beauty flow like there is no tomorrow (which incidentally is the case since post these so called ‘wild’ and truly ‘animalistic’ parties everybody wakes up on 2nd Jan).
Rich + Not Social = Gujjars, Jats, Haryanvis
These are the rich people who are rich courtesy the fact that they have some thousand acres of land somewhere in Mathura. Most of them have someone in their family from political background and also someone in their family from criminal background (mostly the two someone’s are the same). New Year Party is the time for them to wear their favourite jazzy shirts, sword-like pointed shoes, huge-buckled belts and go to their favourite clubs, such as Elevates, RPM, etc, hoping to land a girl either sloshed enough to get handy with anyone remotely masculine, or a desperate enough for few drinks to get into a rough and life-ruining orgy. The biggest concerns in the minds of these people on 31st is the difference in rates in stag entry and ‘cupple’ entry, but they mostly get through inside all clubs since the bouncers are mostly their own brothers or at max distant cousins.
UPPER MIDDLE CLASS KIDS
Well, even the not-so-rich people need to have their fun. Mostly their new-year parties are house parties or terrace parties, where the acronym B-Y-O-B (bring your own booze) is put to full use. Along with it BYOB, we also sometimes see variants, such as BYOF (Bring Your Own Food), BYOG (Bring your own girl), BYOGNHF (Bring your own girl n her friends). The practice of new year kisses is put to full use in these parties by all the hopeful single guys who have been trying everything else the whole night on those elusive group of drunk giggly girls. The most significant thing in these parties is that towards the end of every such party, one fucker always says that cursed sentence, “Yaar, let’s all go to fucking INDIA GATE, it’ll be awesome…wuuuugh (vomiting sound)”. Ya, obviously the trivial little fact that there’ll be around twenty police check-posts on way hardly seems an issue to these worthy minds. Something about being excessively drunk to this kind (upper middle class youngsters) always evokes this unparalleled sense of patriotism and the need to have one sight of our dear INDIA GATE.
THE POOR LONESOME CHAPPIES
Unfortunately not all in our society get to have parties. There are always these poor lonesome chaps for whom new years is a healthy reminder that they truly do not have any life. These kinds spend their 31st night along with their parents watching 5 year old recorded re-runs of bollywood stars dancing to ancient music (Sharukh dancing to ‘dil se re’, Hrithik dancing to ‘Kaho Na Pyaar Hai’, etc). The brightest point of their 31st eve is when the countdown to new year starts, because it is at this point that the whole family huddle starts, 10-9-8- papa come here, countdown’s started-6-5-mummy come fast-3-bhaiyaaaa-1-GO!!!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!
*Don’t get me wrong. I seriously have nothing against the modernites. In fact I really love them a lot, because they were the ones who pretty much started the whole teenage sex thing in Delhi. I mean the guys everywhere were ready for it but we surely owe it to the modernite girls to be the first in the female kind to be cool about teenage sex. Again, I don’t really mean to say that all modernite girls are sluts or anything. Wait a minute. Actually, I do mean to say exactly that. That really would be the conclusion to all I’m blabbering about. So there.
You see new years celebrations is the time for everyone to party again, for virgins to get hopeful again, for alcohol quitters to booze again, for teenage school (mostly modernites*) girls to show their growing sluttines again, for the rich to stamp their richness again and for most importantly, for whole of Delhi Police to make some quick money again.
But there are more important things that needed to be pointed out here. The most apparent and unique one being the difference in the ways the different sections of the society celebrate their new year’s parties. Here’s a look.
THE Rich + Social
The rich and social ones undoubtedly take the crown for having the best new year celebrations. These kinds can mostly be identified by certain un-ignorable traits; parents have a facebook account and are quite active on it, kids have about two thousand friends (which are mostly studs and hotties, who all lost their virginity at the age of fourteen), parties are thrown with gay abandon in farmhouses which look more exotic than Taj Mehal and would in some years be tourist spots, booze and beauty flow like there is no tomorrow (which incidentally is the case since post these so called ‘wild’ and truly ‘animalistic’ parties everybody wakes up on 2nd Jan).
Rich + Not Social = Gujjars, Jats, Haryanvis
These are the rich people who are rich courtesy the fact that they have some thousand acres of land somewhere in Mathura. Most of them have someone in their family from political background and also someone in their family from criminal background (mostly the two someone’s are the same). New Year Party is the time for them to wear their favourite jazzy shirts, sword-like pointed shoes, huge-buckled belts and go to their favourite clubs, such as Elevates, RPM, etc, hoping to land a girl either sloshed enough to get handy with anyone remotely masculine, or a desperate enough for few drinks to get into a rough and life-ruining orgy. The biggest concerns in the minds of these people on 31st is the difference in rates in stag entry and ‘cupple’ entry, but they mostly get through inside all clubs since the bouncers are mostly their own brothers or at max distant cousins.
UPPER MIDDLE CLASS KIDS
Well, even the not-so-rich people need to have their fun. Mostly their new-year parties are house parties or terrace parties, where the acronym B-Y-O-B (bring your own booze) is put to full use. Along with it BYOB, we also sometimes see variants, such as BYOF (Bring Your Own Food), BYOG (Bring your own girl), BYOGNHF (Bring your own girl n her friends). The practice of new year kisses is put to full use in these parties by all the hopeful single guys who have been trying everything else the whole night on those elusive group of drunk giggly girls. The most significant thing in these parties is that towards the end of every such party, one fucker always says that cursed sentence, “Yaar, let’s all go to fucking INDIA GATE, it’ll be awesome…wuuuugh (vomiting sound)”. Ya, obviously the trivial little fact that there’ll be around twenty police check-posts on way hardly seems an issue to these worthy minds. Something about being excessively drunk to this kind (upper middle class youngsters) always evokes this unparalleled sense of patriotism and the need to have one sight of our dear INDIA GATE.
THE POOR LONESOME CHAPPIES
Unfortunately not all in our society get to have parties. There are always these poor lonesome chaps for whom new years is a healthy reminder that they truly do not have any life. These kinds spend their 31st night along with their parents watching 5 year old recorded re-runs of bollywood stars dancing to ancient music (Sharukh dancing to ‘dil se re’, Hrithik dancing to ‘Kaho Na Pyaar Hai’, etc). The brightest point of their 31st eve is when the countdown to new year starts, because it is at this point that the whole family huddle starts, 10-9-8- papa come here, countdown’s started-6-5-mummy come fast-3-bhaiyaaaa-1-GO!!!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!
*Don’t get me wrong. I seriously have nothing against the modernites. In fact I really love them a lot, because they were the ones who pretty much started the whole teenage sex thing in Delhi. I mean the guys everywhere were ready for it but we surely owe it to the modernite girls to be the first in the female kind to be cool about teenage sex. Again, I don’t really mean to say that all modernite girls are sluts or anything. Wait a minute. Actually, I do mean to say exactly that. That really would be the conclusion to all I’m blabbering about. So there.
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