Tag Archives: Humor

Austerity Overdrive

Posted on by Rofl Indian

I was quite perturbed to see a notice pinned on the hospital notice board early this morning which staidly announced -

All doctors and staff members are hereby instructed to observe strict austerity in their public conduct and refrain from wasteful expenditure wherever deemed applicable. Indulging in inappropriate acts of profligacy while on duty shall attract penal provisions and adverse comments in the annual report. Expression of public displeasure and/or mockery of the order (like calling the undersigned ‘holy cow’) will be treated with zero tolerance and may result in dismissal from service.

By Order

The Hospital Director

I winced. Austerity drives, like sex drives, were decidedly secretive issues and needed to be kept under wraps for best results. This hue and cry was entirely unnecessary and distracted us from the dignified cause of fostering doctor-doctor, doctor-patient and doctor-nurse relationships. Moreover, this sort of decorous prose was certainly not the handiwork of our HD. I suspected an element of foreign hand (Phadnis?).

Susie was the first to accost me as I settled in my chamber, and reflected dourly on the lump.

“Saar…!” she said, as usually adjusting her large and attractive pair of spectacular spectacles. (My older readers are quite familiar with, and largely appreciative of Susie’s assorted habits by now)

“What is it Susie?” I replied, with a tinge of irritation in my voice.

“The notice saar…”

“Yes, I saw it. So?”

“No saar….I mean….it is totally wrong saar!”

“What?” I sat up.

“Saar….wrong….the notice is wrong!”

Amazing! It implied that Susie had not only read the whole notice carefully, the promptness with which she had grasped the agenda and formed an educated opinion on the matter reflected her deep understanding of such abstract stuff as austerity, profligacy, tolerance and displeasure.

I felt terribly ashamed that I had doubted Susie’s aptitude all along. The girl, it seemed, was not so dumb after all. My chest promptly began swelling with pride for her. Soon I was so uncomfortably swollen (with pride of course) that I had to reach out and pat her arm tenderly to relieve myself.

“You are right Susie”, I observed with solemnity as things settled. “This notice is not only wrong, but wicked, prejudiced and sadistic. I know exactly why it is wrong, but I want to hear it from you. Give me your honest opinion Susie, as to why you think it is wrong.”

Susie bit her lower lip and twisted her hands in a sugary way that appeared quite engaging.

“Come on Susie, bite the bullet!” I exhorted her.

“No saar…”

“Soosie…!”

After another moment of silence, Susie lowered her eyes and said abruptly, “Saar….cow!”

This was so unexpected that I really thought Susie would thrust her hips forward and start crooning “Saar-cow lo khatiya jaada lage!“ But she did nothing of the sort. She just leaned closer towards me (ooh!), looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, and whispered,

“How can we call the Director saab cow? Cow is always female saar! But he is not female cow….Director saab is definitely male cow saar!”

“Holy cow!” I gasped. This was indeed indisputable logic. “Okatto jukti”, as we often say in Bangla. Had this been some other occasion, I’d have assumed that Susie had gone through the elaborate exercise of lifting the bovine’s tail from behind and peering underneath to ascertain it’s gender in a methodical sort of way. But since this was a weird situation, I dismissed her forthwith, thinking hard how to wriggle out of the mess without being branded as a cow-ard. I picked up the intercom and dialed the HD’s number to fix up an appointment with him.

.

.

“Yes, Dr. Bonerji?” The old codger rumbled as I took a seat opposite him.

“Good morning sir” I said, lowering my bottoms.

“Good mourning.  What is the matter?”

“Sir, I just saw the notice. Do we really need an austerity drive and all that?”

“Yes..yes…Dr. Bonerji! Don’t you see it is very important to give the impression that we are also caring for the poowar (poor)?”

HD was right in a way. He always struggled hard to give the impression that he was exceedingly concerned for the plight of the poor. As soon as a poor looking patient from the villages descended upon the hospital, he would summon the relatives, slap his forehead repeatedly and ask  “Tell me quickly….how poowar you are? Have you got a couple of farmlands or not which you can sell to pay for the treatment.” He was so concerned, that he’d even go out of the way and offer a huge 1 percent discount on the bills after adding another 15 percent in the name of (dis)service tax!

“Yes…but…..”

“Dr. Bonerji….last month the electric bill only was 3 lakes! Three lakes! We must reduce hospital expenditure. How can we make profit if we do not reduce many missile anus (miscellaneous, that’s how he pronounces it) costs?”

“No…but…..” I tried to interject, but in vain.

“See Dr. Bonerji. I have noticed that your department is not careful about spending money at all. You peepal drink four five cups of coffee everyday. That is why you need the AC at full speed for whole day! That nurse in your department, what is her name…..yes….Sooji…..she pours so much cocknut oil on her head! Her apron becomes oil stained. Why sud the hospital pay for dry clean? And why you are using Lux soap in toilet? You sud use Lifebuoy! I still use Lifebuoy while bathing. We cannot afford this kind of lugjery in these times!”

I was getting hopping mad at these allegations. Had I really been a celebrity on Twitter like Mr Tharoor, I’d have declared “Susie and I would be ashamed if we were spending the hospital’s money to pay for the coffee and the coconut oil. But we are not, we are spending our own savings.” And it’s not my fault if the bill is 3 lakes or thirteen oceans! Who asked him to employ a bevy of simpering mermaids as receptionists who do nothing at all except cavorting around and playing with his fish the whole day.

I have not actually seen the mermaids tinker with his fish, I’m assuming that. What else do mermaids do except playing with fishes? This HD had to be taught a lesson or two in austerity.

.

.

“Sir…” I began.

“Hmm..”

“I think you are right.”

“Eggjactly! That is what I am saying.”

“Sir, I have a suggestion to make…” I said , clearing my throat “…that will reduce expenditure by at least 50 percent.”

“50 percent!” The Hospital Director’s countenance lit up with profuse expectation, just like a toad that had seen a fat fruitfly shaking it’s ass nearby.

“Yes sir….50 percent.”

“How….Dr. Bonerji?”

“Sir, I suggest we form an austerity committee that would look into various ways of cost cutting and enforce austerity in the hospital. Of course I will see to it that my department takes the lead in cost cutting. I shall only use the AC when patients are around. I will instruct Susie not to apply mustard oil on her head…”

“Cocknut oil…”

“Yes…coconut oil. I will instruct Susie not to apply coconut oil, and I shall limit the number of coffee to two cups per day per person.”

“Very good Dr. Bonerji…very good. And Lifebuoy…”

“Yes sir. That too.”

“Go ahead Dr. Bonerji. I authorije you to form that committee. Your ideas are very promising.” HD chuckled.

“Thank you Sir” I rose from my seat. “There is one more request….”

“Please…please….”

“Sir, I wish that the committee be headed by Madam…”

“Madam….?”

“Yes….Madam”

“Which madam…?” Thunderclouds of bewilderment were starting to build up on HD’s quaint expressions.

“Your wife …Sir. That way we shall have the opportunity to share her pearls of wisdom…..”

The HD gave me a look of utter disbelief, and let out a short, painful grunt. Exactly the kind of grunt that you get to hear from a large, well fed pig which has just swallowed a rotten bag of potatoes.Then he reached out for a glass of water.

I was out of HD’s chamber before the old coot could recover his senses.

.

.

The austerity notice was withdrawn a few hours later. I ordered coffee for everyone and gifted Susie a large bar of Lux soap from the hospital supplies. Readers are requested not to gratify themselves by imagining sizzling visuals of Susie unwrapping the soap in her bathroom.

Lugjery Zindabad!

PS: I recommend viewing the ‘Sarkailo Khatiya Jaada Lage’ video on You Tube [link] with the sound off. It’s an unforgettable experience.

Anna-lysis of a Ramlila

Posted on by Rofl Indian

What is puny and small in the beginning, but swells enormously when appropriately tickled?

Crowds, of course. And an indomitably spirited Anna Hazare demonstrated exactly this to the world with his usual aplomb during the Herculean fast which he just concluded amidst the humongous applause of freshly stirred countrymen. As speaker after righteous speaker at the Ramlila grounds performed ritualistic ablutions of the annals of UPA’s history (pun intended), the Kejriwals, the Bhushans and the Bedis wasted no time in handing out (t)issues to those who volunteered to wipe out the stink in the name of the great crusader. Media houses went berserk with the live coverage. Correspondents frothed at the mouth. Children struggled in the hot sun to revisit the independence struggle. Students bunked classes on no pretext.  And proud girls wearing the Anna cap rejected boyfriends who refused to wear the same, arguing that a reluctance to wear a simple cap today might portend a reluctance to wear the family planning gear tomorrow.  In short, humanity could barely be saved from the clutches of democracy just in the nick of time.

Which brings us to the larger question. Who gained what. Undoubtedly, it was yet again the irresistible Arindam Choudhuri of IIPM who came up trumps in counting the number of chicks in the batch. Remember the seminal treatise he wrote on self help ‘Count Your Chickens Before They Hatch’? Buoyed by the events, the wily mentor might now seriously think of putting in place a comprehensive pedagogy on civil society campaigns, smartly calling it the PGPPMM – Post Graduate Program on People’s Movement Management, with the punchline ‘Dare To Think Beyond The Shy Dry PMs”.  For budding PR strategists languishing in the shadows, as described by Surekha Pillai in her column in the DNA, he could offer a few exciting Management Development Programs like Lost-Cause Management, Charm-Campaign Management and Uncertain Venture Management, although he must steadfastly refuse to entertain any calls from across the border to initiate courses on Jihad Management at his Dubai campus. Helluva money there, but still. His detractors, a bunch of impetuous retards anyway, might provoke him by demanding a course on Unemployment Management, but Arindam, the eternally sedate and conscientious guy that he is, must brush aside such barbs with the contempt they deserve.

Om Puri, on his part, must be in a perpetual self congratulatory mode ever since he shook the nation with his hideous acts of non violence. Not his fault, though. He was asked to speak on the aspirations of the common man. But the single malts that he had so condescendingly agreed to imbibe for the larger cause tricked him into assuming that he was expected to speak on the common man’s ‘aspersions’. Let me tell you, the furore is needless. For his part, Om Puri attempted to give us an objective idea of how Bheja Fry 3 would eventually come out to be. So, the most appropriate recourse would be to continue to remember Mr. Puri for his stellar performance in Ardh Satya. Which brings us to the sacred memory of poor Smita Patil. Had she been alive today, she’d easily have ousted Medha Patkar and Kiran Bedi from all forms of civil unrest.

Words are woefully inadequate when it comes to praising the outstanding contribution of that holy shrine of healthcare, the Mecca of medicine, Medanta Medicity. But for the charitable cartel of cardiologists and physicians cordoning off the venue 24×7, Anna Hazare’s team wouldn’t have dared to push the old man right up to the brink. Okay, Medanta may have a few cruel taxes imposed by the government here and there and maybe a couple of sops would get suddenly withdrawn, but that’s a small price to pay for the ginormous free publicity that was garnered entirely at the expense of Times Now. Who knows, TOI might even come out with a spiritual CD on Effective Hunger Management with liberal scholarly inputs on urinary ketones by Dr. Naresh Trehan. That is, the higher the level of ketones in your urine, the closer you are to God. Here, it would be important to note that while setting up Medanta Medicity for a cost of a thousand crores, Dr. Trehan was entirely guided by a fierce set of philanthropic ideals.

That leaves us. You and me. With the hope that the next time a bribe is demanded, we will refuse to pay it for two days. Okay, three days. By then Anna will have shoved his cap up the rogue’s gaping conscience.

Sameguy

Posted on by Rofl Indian

The similarities are just too much to ignore.

  1. Old warhorses. One nearly exhausted. The other – too much exhaust.
  2. Medium pacers in reality, but can accelerate once in a while .
  3. Slowing down with age. Needs breaks every now and then.
  4. Only their backs visible while in action.
  5. In service for long.
  6. Prone to breakdown .
  7. Unpredictable average.
  8. Sometimes useful in crunch situations.
  9. Hypothetical strategic importance.

 

Case # 2

Same गाय

Similarities:

  1. Nice, plump and smiling.
  2. No leadership qualities.
  3. Very predictable on the field.
  4. Extremely prone to milking.

 

 

 

Google Chromosome!

Posted on by Rofl Indian

This post appeared among Blogadda’s Spicy Saturday Picks on July 3, ’10

Doctors are not too well known for their IT skills. We guys usually eye the computer with considerable unease and are known to invent elaborate excuses to avoid even having to go near one. If I may confess, most docs confuse the word ‘laptop’ with an attractive and youthful female having pleasing attributes and large, inviting lap. I have often thought of broaching the subject with Susie over a cup of coffee and seek her honest opinion on the matter of fully loaded, higher end laptops with plenty of giga bites gigabytes, but every time some or the other thing crops up and the issue gets forgotten.

Many practitioners, though, do keep a PC in their clinics. The rich ones like our Hospital Director keep a Mac. The aim is obvious. To snare patients and con them into thinking that the doctor is cool, trendy and upwardly mobile. Casting an impression on the opposite sex is an added benefit. Still, they try their best to avoid having to use the computer, except on a those occasions when the urge to watch a pedagogic DVD or two becomes really overpowering. May I, at this juncture, make it clear that a pedagogic DVD is a piece of hardware that contains loads of ‘visually stimulating’ material that is usually sneaked in hidden among the pages of Harrison’s Textbook of Internal Medicine.   Many a doc has been caught red handed by inquisitive staff members (and vice versa), lapping up such academic videos in the privacy of his darkened chamber.  Now, a doc may be as cool as a frozen Tuborg when it comes to cutting the stomach open and playing Twenty-20 with the intestines, but when confronted with the challenge of snap shutting a browser window, a doc usually plops  into a deep kind of stupor, bordering almost on coma. Even the Statue of Liberty would appear much animated in comparison.

The aversion of doctors towards information technology is rooted in their unique professional upbringing. The MBBS course is one of the toughest trainings ever designed to screw a half dead human being. When the blokes in the engineering or commerce colleges ramble around on Pulsars and Yamahas (the older ones roamed about on Yezdis) with gorgeous babes wrapped around them from head to toe, the medical guy loses his sleep over the harrowing details of levator labii superioris alaeque nasi and its nasty relations with other such stupid muscles. While the MBA geeks swim around in espresso coffee mugs with sugary belles clinging on to them in hordes, the bachelor of medicine buries himself deep into Gray’s Anatomy and sighs in despair while trying hard to mug the anatomy of the female breasts. Poor guy, he must learn to identify the breast as a ‘modified sweat gland’ if he has to pass the Ist term exams.

It isn’t that we guys do not try to learn a thing or two about the internet and things like that. One of my colleagues was so impressed by Google that he started prescribing ‘two teaspoons of isabgoogle at night with a glass of water’ to cure constipation. Another named his son after the search giant. Google Shukla.

In light of the above revelations, it appears that the medical fraternity is in dire need of professional assistance from the IT guys. Docs would welcome a short course on ‘How to download useful video clips from the internet and store (hide) them on the hard disk’  or ‘How to set up a chat without letting the wife know’. And Google would really do well to come up with a doctor friendly internet browser. They may name it Google Chromosome!

Susie Returns

Posted on by Rofl Indian

I apologise to my readers for having kept Susie off my blog for a considerable period of time.  She was indisposed for a while, you see, having contracted malaria first, and then a bit of gas, ostensibly from an overdose of medications prescribed by my dear friend Dr. Phadnis. Now she is fine, radiating from the glow of iron tonics and protein powders, that I had pilfered from the Hospital Director’s room and given away to her in an act of genuine benevolence. It’s an altogether another matter that the Director was mad the next day, he having milked the medical reps for the products in the first place, with the charitable aim to improve the general health and appearance of a certain Miss Priyanka, the hospital’s newest receptionist.

So, there she was, back in my room, sipping coffee. She closed her eyes, threw back her arms, thrust forward her large cookies (Susie was indeed having large coconut cookies with coffee, trust me) and yawned noisily. She was sitting just across the table and her carelessness allowed me to steal a quick glance deep inside her throat.  Just as I was contemplating whether to reach up to her and tickle her cute little uvula with a syringe, Susie shut her mouth abruptly.

“What saar! You ver lukking inside my mauth…?!”

“Oh! W..was I?” I quickly shifted my gaze and started drumming my fingers on the table.

“Yes saar. I saw you lukking inside me!”

Now that was a lie. I was in no way ‘looking inside her’ if you go by the strictest sense of the phrase. I agree I have briefly tried to look inside her (inside her soul, I mean) on a couple of occasions in the past, but most definitely not now. Moreover, her abrupt charge caught me in a fix. If I admitted to the act, it would risk a long session of verbal ping-pong with the nursey. If I rejected her allegations, she would invariably find other means to extract a painful confession from me. Once, despite no fault of mine, she had two of my teeth knocked out completely by a deadly combination of  thayir sadham and kappa vevichathu allegedly cooked by her humongous aunt. My only fault was that I had not informed her of an inspection by the Hospital Hardware Committee in advance, as a result of which she failed to produce two paperweights that the records showed to be in Susie’s possession. Now, Thayir sadham when mixed in roughly equal proportions with kappa vevichathu forms a deadly plastic explosive like lump that is unquestionably the sourest thing on the planet. Thank God the minions of Al Qaida are yet to discover the deadly side effects of Eliamma Aunty’s cuisine, or else they’d have unleashed a series of kappa vevichathu bombings across the world! And it was only much later that I realised that one of the anagrams of sourest is oestrus! Eliamma Aunty in oestrus…lethal indeed!

“Saar?” Susie nudged me with her eyes. “Tell me na saar…you ver lukking inside my mouth na saar?”

“Umm….yes. But just a little. I didn’t see much Susie…”

“O..ho! I was right saar!” Susie’s eyes brightened. “What did you see saar? Please tell me na…”

“I told you Susie….I didn’t see much..”

“Saar…” Susie bit her lip..”You are not being truthful….are you shy of me?”

“Why should I be shy of you? I’m not even shy of my wife!” I boasted, only to realise that the comment had gone a bit too far. A doctor ought to be of an inherently shy nature, I thought. Shyness confers a degree of immunity from locker room mishaps, something I had realised last year when three young, pretty and inquisitive OT nurses (I guess they were Julie, Rosamma and Annamma …maybe not Annamma, I’m not sure) had barged into the OT locker room while I was changing. What followed was a series of polyphonic screams from the three, followed by a melee and a mini stampede, as the three rushed out and thirty rushed in, followed by the OT incharge and a little later by the Director himself. From that day onwards,  I always pretend to be extraordinarily shy and close the locker room door tightly before even I take off my shoes. Anyway, more on that story later.

Susie was still looking at my face, perhaps expecting an admission of sorts.

“Susie, stop looking at me that way….I told you I didn’t see anything worthwhile…moreover, you look sleepy. Didn’t you catch enough sleep last night?”

“No saar…I was thinking of you saar…..” Susie laid her head on the table and said dreamily.

“What!” I suddenly felt like a brooding mother hen which had just discovered that one of her eggs had got really stuck down there. I had to fight to shut out suggestive visuals of Susie eloping with me with a tiffin carrier full of kappa vevichathu. What a scandal it would be!

“Susie….” I said firmly “…you should not think about me in the night. Er….by the way…..what were you thinking?”

“Nothing saaaaaw” Susie again broke into a noisy sigh. “I was thinking of inviting you to our house for lunch next week…..Eliamma Aunty is coming from Kerala….”

A chill ran down my spine and knocked my knees together. As Susie dozed off on my desk, I silently stood up and ran my tongue on the bare mounds of hardened gum where my two molars used to stand proudly. Nah! I had to plan a holiday to Shimla next week. You don’t get decorated with military honours for surviving Eliamma Aunty’s cuisine!

GPL (The Grand Premier League) Update

Posted on by Rofl Indian

GPL, or the Grand Premier League is the fourth largest annual festival in the world after the Topless Rio Carnival, the NBA Basketball Championships and Christmas. GPL was first administered to us in 2008 by a (then unknown) cricket visionary by the name of Lalit Muddy. Lalit Muddy teamed up with another general purpose visionary Shararat Pawar of BCCI (Bored of Controlling Cricket in India) and created GPL to tackle the financial recession that threatened to wipe out all cheerleaders from the face of the earth. The duo (worms of the same hole that wriggle together) sold off teams to powerful and wealthy businessmen at astronomical sums and used the money to resuscitate a clutch of gasping retired cricketers and chinese mobile phone manufacturers.

The first eight teams that were thus borne by GPL are as follows (with the names of their owners in the bracket):

  • Kolkata Nut Traders (Owner – Mr. Shah Haaru Khan)
  • Maamu-Bhai Indians (Owner – Mr. Mukesh I’m Money)
  • King Silly One Punjab (Owner – Miss Pretty Jhinchak and her ex boyfriend among others)
  • Rajasthan Naariyals (Owner – Mrs. Spill-per-settee, her husband and some obscure newsprint/media group)
  • Real Chilly-Gingers Bangalore (Owner – Dr. Beer J. Maal Laaya)
  • Dhakkan Changers Hyderabad (Owner – The Dhakkan Croon-Kill group)
  • Delhi Daaru-da-bill (Owner – The Jiyo-Maro Group, Construction giants), and
  • Chennai Cipher Kings (Owner – India Simians)

The first and the second GPLs were both huge successes. Buoyed by the returns, GPL Commissioner Lalit Muddy and Shararat Pawar sold off two more GPL teams to franchisees at a cost that nearly equals half of Africa’s total GDP plus the 73.3% mandatory commission payable to all government officials there. NASA officials have observed that even at half this cost, they could have send all Mujaheddin prisoners to Mars and rehabilitated them permanently over there.

The third edition of GPL, too, has been a stupendous success. Moth-hue Hidden, an Australian batsman of repute unveiled a bat, Mongoose, that can catapult bowlers  and their balls to the low geostationary orbit (the kind of orbit from where cheap, third world satellites usually keep falling off). However, The Mongoose didn’t quite work in a crucial recent game, where the batsman had his stumps knocked out by a snaking delivery that hissed past at lightning speed. Pretty Jhinchak was quite thrilled by all this. Here’s a bit of conversation between her and Groovyraj Singh, a promising cricketer from the King Silly One camp.

Pretty Jhinchak: “Hi Groovy! It was a thrilling match! See I’m having mongoose bumps all over!”

Groovyraj Singh: “Yes! I can see that! There are two particularly large ones on your T Shirt as well!”

Pretty Jhinchak: “Dhatt Groovy! Those are my…you know….!” (Smiles coyly and runs away to embrace Ravi Wo-Phaara)

Dr. Beer J. Maal-Laya is quite happy with the kind of progress his team has made until now. His bunch of fossilised cricketers marinated in Kingfisher Strong Soda have cooked the goose of almost all their worthy competitors in de-la-grandi style. However, Shah Haaru Khan, owner of Kolkata Nut Traders is reportedly cross with Sourabh Gun-Goli, their captain, who has repeatedly misfired in game after game. Chris Ghayal, a hard hitting West Indian in the Nut camp, appears to be lost in thinking about his investments in Jamaican coconut farms and, therefore, isn’t playing all that well. Ashaant Soorma, their perpetually tired fast bowler, too, goes for too many runs. Not a fair sign for Kolkata.

The commentary has been a revelation this time. Set-Wax, the official broadcasters did away with Moan-dheerey Bedi, a seductive hostess more famous for cooking hot noodles and spaghetti, than for commenting on balls and the way they are gripped and rubbed and passed about. This time, they hired entirely neutral commentators, experts who are entirely unaware of the game of football (they think it is football). It’s quite refreshing, though we are missing Moan-dheerey’s sweet moans…(sigh!).

Oh! We are missing the original ‘Fake IPL Player’ too…… :(

To be continued……

Booty Baigan

Posted on by Rofl Indian

Alas, the research seems to have gone all in the wrong direction.

The scientists who invented the B.T. baigan may be gloating in glee over their success in pinching some obnoxious gene from some turdy bacteria and shoving it down an unsuspecting eggplant’s throat. But tell me – what’s the point?  What do you aim to achieve, apart from a sore eggplant and a lot of egg on the face? To begin with, the eggs laid by the bruised eggplant (the fruits, to be precise) would be no good, with the people avoiding it like plague, scared shitless at the shrub’s reported ability to bump off innocent little bugs by bursting open their tender tooshies. How ghastly!

The baigan (brinjal/aubergine) has always been adored as a messenger of peace, fostering global harmony on a platter, as the universally appreciated ‘baigan ka bharta’. To the inexperient eye, I admit the preparation may look somewhat like a dirty lump of gob, quite like cow dung that has soaked in a bit of rain (quite graphic link, watch at your own peril), but I am willing to bet my only bottle opener that it’s a delectable dish that will regale with it’s delightful smoothness and unique earthy flavour. Now, tell me, would you approve of a baigan that has blood of the bugs on its hinds, a baigan that has remorselessly bai-gunned down a thousand little beetles in cold sauce? Duh! The B.T baigan is a farce.

I tell you what. The biotech guys should have really scratched their dusters in unison and come out with something that was of more worldly appeal. Something that had true commercial value. Say, for example, something that assured of striking cosmetic enhancement both for bollywood babes and wannabes alike. Like a cross between an eggplant and Mallika Sherawat. They could have innovatively named the thing BOOTY Baigan. Imagine the headlines: “Booty Baigan assures 200% increase in ass(et) size!” (Indian Express), “Mammooty bats for Booty” (Deccan Herald),  “Booty And The Feast” (The Times of India), “We thought of ‘Booty and The Feast’ First” (Hindustan Times), “Booty Fever Grips India – 2000000 affected” (Aaj Tak) etc. etc. Imagine Bipasha, Katrina and Asin each holding an eggplant and proclaiming “We love Booty baigan” in one voice at the Fimfare Awards Nite. Oh well, Bebo would have voiced her strong disgust at Booty’s properties, but who, other than Saif, would care?

Monalisa - Before and After Treatment with Booty Baigan

There’s another upside to the Booty Baigan saga. Baba Rhymedev, who vehemently opposed the introduction of BT brinjal in India would have no serious objection to Booty Baigan. In a recent meeting Baba Rhymedev spewed venom thus, “How can a government make a mockery of its country? GM foods can lead to kidney disorder, liver disorder, brain disorder, tooth disorder, hairfall, windfall, nightfall, bathroom fall, cancer, mange, barber’s itch, swimmer’s eye, tennis elbow, washerman’s knee, dog bite, swine flu, bird flu, tapeworm, bedbugs, lice, mice, gas, heart attack, fart attack and many other physical, metaphysical, mental and sentimental disorders among millions of Indians. Doesn’t government feel shame to mull over commercial cultivation of GM crop? Of course I can cure each and every one of these problems with ease, but why burden me with such an unnecessary responsibility? You see, I’m already overburdened nowadays, having to tend to a whole exotic island off England’s coast”.

Baba Rhymedev ended his discourse by uttering a rhyme aimed at eradicating swine flu and gas from the face of the earth. I’m reproducing the chant here for the general betterment of humanity as a whole. So please close your eyes, imagine you are holding a Booty Baigan, and chant…

“Wanna cure swine flu

Wanna cure gas??

Just shove a bit o’ Booty Baigan

Up your ***”

Susie Makes Some Coffee (U/A)

Posted on by Rofl Indian

“Saar…coffee.” 

Susie’s steamy whisper hung over the wisps of instant coffee as she poured me a cup of the piping concoction. It was a chilly morning and she was arched precariously over my table, her rather large pair of cute cherry blossoms (cheeks, I hasten to add, in case you thought otherwise) oozing enough warmth to cook the cockles of my quivering heart. I may have inadvertently stared at them just for a moment or two, I admit. Then, all of a sudden, it became so sultry that my ears turned crimson, the heart began to thrash about like a fish, the head started spinning and I had to take my eyes off to prevent my poor little sang-froid from becoming all shaken and stirred so early in the morning. 

“Thanksss….Ssusssy..” I squeaked, and took a sip, trying hard to dismiss racy thoughts of Susie hunched over me and lovingly pouring coffee into a couple of oversized cups from a large pair of jugs (steel jugs, that is) which she held with both hands in a very suggestive manner.

“Saar…..” Susie said, tossing some coffee for herself. 

I was still lost in thoughts, trying to wriggle away from a clutch of titillating visuals involving myself, Susie, and some spilled coffee on the table. But it was a futile exercise. No matter how hard (our hospital director often says ‘how hardly’) I tried, the images kept flooding my noddle with perturbing regularity. Not that I was complaining much, though. 

“Saar…O saar!” 

“Uh…yes?” 

“What are you thinking so seriously saar?”

“Jugs…” 

“What… saar?” 

“No..aa…co.. coffee…I mean your jug…your coffee jugs” I stammered.

“Saar…this is flask saar! No jugs here saar….what are you saying saar?” 

“Oho! Is this a flask? Well…well….it does look like a flask! Even I thought so….! Hmm….hmmm….how wonderful” I said, quite in a shaking voice. It was a narrow escape.

Eyeing me with considerable consternation, Susie straightened up, adjusted her tunic with a tantalising pull at the sides, and inspite of my best efforts to hide behind a stack of journals, noticed the blush on my ears. “Saar….! Your ear is looking very red! Feeling alright saar?” She reached out and patted my left ear lobe. 

“O Wow! You ears are so hot!” she said teasingly. 

Now, ‘hot in the ear’ isn’t exactly the kind of compliment that rugged, robust men like me expect from well-stacked bimbettes on a crisp January morning, particularly when their tender sang-froids have been tickled recently. Didn’t Susie know that there are many other pragmatic measures that can tasty testi testify to a man’s virility? 

Useful ways to test a man’s virility

So, not really knowing whether to feel flattered or flummoxed, I backed away from her touch, scared at the sudden realisation that she might proceed to tinker with my other honorable appendages (like the nose, for example) to ascertain if they too were hot, suffused and throbbing. With Susie around, things were really unpredictable. 

“Saar….why does ear wonly become hot saar?” Susie quizzed me with innocent mischief, drawing up her chair close to mine. 

“No no Susie….it’s not only the ear that turns red….there are quite a few other…..” I began in earnest excitement, only to realise that I was being led into a quagmire of interrogation by my own subordinate nursey, who would undoubtedly proceed to share the minutes of such an intimate exchange with Nikki the receptionist. Nikki was a stunning blonde (only her hair was black) who had joined the hospital a couple of weeks back. Though we had exchanged a few pleasantries while crossing each other’s baths paths, I was yet to gain a secure foothold at her promising doorstep, so to speak. So I clammed up and began whistling. 

“Saar…O saar! You would not tell me why wonly the ear becomes hot?”  

“Susie, these are uncomfortable questions….” I told her firmly, and finished my coffee.

“Why uncomfortable saar?” Susie batted her eyelashes at me and persisted.  

“Okay Susie….if you really wish to know, it’s this.” I explained. “Redness of the ears, hotness of the cheeks and wetness of certain body parts, I mean like the tongue and eyes, are purely impressionistic, and at best only subjective approximations of emotional arousal that have nothing to do with physically measurable estimates of the physiological response to visually appealing stimuli, thereby calling into question the very foundations of such an attempt to quantify abstract attributes of a stirred up horny carcass objectively….you see!” 

“Whoa…mamma!”  Susie gasped.

“I hope that answers your question Susie….” I observed with a bit of resolve. “Next, I’d explain to you the physical changes of the human body associated with hot ears and how an change in blood supply to the skin results in piloerection ….”

Susie hurriedly made her way to the door. “Saar…there are three patients waiting outside….I’ll send them won by won…” she said, and disappeared into the the next room.

I could still make out that her ears too had turned crimson.

Risky Resolutions

Posted on by Rofl Indian
Hope you all had some great New Year celebrations and are back to work after the elaborate bang and bangings. Just to keep the spirits high and to Foster’s foster a sense of well being in these times of bitter cold, here’s something that I’d like to share with you. These are a few of my new year resolutions which I am sure wouldn’t stand the test of time. I’d welcome your considered inputs on the subject.
1. I will not mind few more of my hair turning grey. There aren’t much left anyway (on the scalp, I mean).

2. I will try to remember birthdays. I’ll mug the dates, write them down on my desk, tattoo them on my posterity, do whatever it takes. I’ll try.Talking of tattoos, this is interesting!

3. I’d stop ogling at sweets. I’d try to stop ogling altogether in spite of it’s reported salutary effects. I promise I won’t ogle at Susie’s spectacles again. My eyes, are after all, precious assets. I get a lot of eye strain ogling.

4. I’d watch more movies this year. That way I’d be able to spend some quality time with Dimpy Minochha, Susie, Nikki (the new receptionist in our hospital) and their ilk.

5. I’d shed 500 grams by the year end. Anything more would be an unreasonable target. I intend to join a gym and hope to increase my heartbeat to aerobic levels daily just by ogling selectively observing others joggers of the opposite sex.

6. I’d try to keep my blog alive. I’ll prove that nonsense can be improved upon.

7. I’ll get my car serviced at least once this year. I’ll consider changing the tyres too. And I’ll always remember to fasten my seatbelts.

8. Whenever a clock, watch, remote control, toy or anything else that works by pushing buttons stops working, I’d make an honest effort to change the batteries within two weeks. Okay, three weeks. Also, I’ll try to make a list of things that work on pushing a few buttons here and there. Trust me, I won’t put Susie on that list.

Er...Where's the button for this doll?

9. I’ll actually read the newspaper before stashing it away for the day. I’ll actually laugh while reading the ribald Obama jokes.

10. I will change calender dates every month.
11. In the winter months, I’ll use the bath soap once every week. Okay, this makes me nervous, but I’m confident of pulling it off.


12. I will discard a razor blade after 45…no…35 …..okay, 25 shaves. As they say, God shaves those who shave themselves. Whatever.

13. I’ll remember to pay my bills on date.

OMG! Today is the last date for paying the broadband bill!
Signing off. I’ll have to move fast. They take payments only until 3.00 !
Cheers!

Co Curry Cooler Activities

Posted on by Rofl Indian

Madho Singh had made a fortune by selling his agricultural land to Highmax Builders at the height of the realty boom. He had inherited the land from his father, who was a peasant. Earlier, he worked (or at least, pretended to work) as a clerk in some obscure government office. With the money, he bought a large farmhouse, quit his job and proclaimed himself to be a property dealer. I remember having treated his painful anal fissure a few years back with a combination of soothing creams, bogus assurances and some unpleasant fingerwork that involved fiddling with the nastiest parts of his anatomy. He used to visit my clinic riding a rickety Rajdoot of the 70′s, and often cursed the motorcycle for its hard seats. So, when one fine morning he alighted from a brand new Scorpio, I knew he was living a terribly good life.

“Namaskaar doxaab!” He greeted me in a booming voice that rattled my fragile ear drum and scattered the poor little ossicles.

“Namaskaar Madho Singh”, I replied, trying to look awfully pleased. “”New Scorpio…hmm hmm….!”

“Yes doxaab. Bought it this Diwali. My wife does not like to sit in small cars.” Madho Singh flashed an effervescent smile, flashing his stained teeth. “Also, my in laws live in Ajmer, so we often have to travel…”

“Right…right. You must do what your wife says.” I nodded in agreement. “So….what brings you here, Madho Singh?”

Madho Singh studied his palms for a few seconds, stifled a yawn and shifted on his seat.

“Doxaab…you know…you are like my brother….”

Brother? O ya….really? How about sharing the moolah with me partner? You take the Scorpio…I take the farmhouse!

“Yes, yes….I know that.” I said, oozing brotherly love for the cabbage.

“Doxaab…I am having some doubts about my son’s studies”

“What kind of doubts?” I politely enquired. I was well aware of the ethereal qualities his son possessed. He had once crept up stealthily behind his neighbour’s bull and managed to fasten a rather stout clothespeg to its testicles. The bull had then uprooted the cowshed, chased the neighbour’s wife for a good hundred metres and attempted to force itself upon a dozen odd terrified cows before bounding into the nearby fields, bellowing madly in agony.

“He doesn’t study his books.” Madho Singh stated sadly.

“Oh! Surely there must be some books which would engage his vacillating attention…!” I exclaimed. “Some profound literature to stimulate him, enlarge his horizons, help his abilities to grow and allow his faculties to stand tall and erect…!” I wondered.

Madho Singh reached inside his jacket and produced a well thumbed copy of Debonair. “This!” he exclaimed sheepishly “..is what I found in his school bag…!”

I was swept by a strong urge to grab the magazine and find out for myself the extent and scope of stimulation, enlargement and growth of sundry human qualities which the colourful pages of the journal offered.  

“This….I guess is not very unnatural.” I cleared my throat. “Adolescent boys do develop such…..quests”

Madho Singh looked alarmed at my unreserved straightforwardness. “But…doxaab….16 magazines! Sixteen! I found sixteen of them in his room! Look at the variety!”

I had to agree. “Yes! It does look a little wormy. With this rate of titillation he’d soon qualify as an amateur bazoomologist.”

“Huh?!!”

“Never mind.” I said shortly.

Madho Singh let out a sigh and withdrew floppily on his chair. There was a strange, dejected look on his countenance. However, after about three minutes of silence, he sat up bolt upright, eyes flashing with a steely sort of resolve ”Doxaab…I have made up my mind. I will send my son to boarding school…” With that statement, he walked out in a huff leaving the Debonair spreadeagled on my table.

————————————————————————————————————————————————–

That was six months ago. Last Thursday, Madho Singh trooped into my clinic, sporting a broad smile. He told me he was just back from his son’s boarding school and was terribly pleased with his ward’s progress there.

“Really?” I asked, feigning admiration for the worthy lad’s achievements.

“Yes doxaab! It is a very large school with so many beautiful teachers!”

There you go. Like son, like dad!

“And there is a big swimming pool…and large ground! Every room has AC! And very good food!”

“Hmm…hmm….”

“And they also do lot of extra curry cooler activity!” Madho Singh was nearly frothing at the mouth with excitement. “My son is acting in a drama directed by famous American director…..what’s his name…sex…..”

“Shakespeare?”

“Yes! Sex Pear! Funny name! I strictly told my son to call him Mr. Pear!” Madho Singh let out a guffaw.

“And you know? They also teach whores riding!”

“What?? Whores???” My jaw almost dropped out of its sockets.

“Yes!” Madho Singh seemed terribly amused at my bewilderment. ”They keep many healthy whores in the campus! You can ride whores one after other…very good sport!”

“Aww..ohh…indeed!” I was at my wits’ end. This was defying logic.

“Very beautiful whores. Trust me doxaab! Great body….great power……you have to run after them before you can catch them! And once you catch them, then riding them is very easy…”

I was nearly perspiring.

“At first, it looks difficult…you may fall down..or whores may fall down on you….you must hold on tightly when you are riding them!” 

Then it dawned. Struck me like a sackful of pumpkins. ”Horse… You mean?” I said.

“Yes..yes…whores! What else I am saying? White whores, black whores, brown whores….”

“Blond horse, brunette horse, latina horse too…I guess?” I interrupted.

“What…doxaab?”

“Nothing. Did you ride one, Madho Singh?” I asked him.

“Naah…not this time. But next time when I go there, I will ask headmaster to allow me to ride whores.”

Madho Singh got up, shook hands with me and left with a dreamy smile. He was already thinking of ways to mount a horse.

Oh well…A Very Happy New Year To You All.