Tag Archives: Sarcasm

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!

Pareshaan For Cinema: The Layman’s Step-by-step Guide to Understanding, Appreciating and Discussing Cinema Intelligently

Posted on by Rofl Indian

Warning: Long and oblong post.

Main ‘sh’ ko ‘sh’ bolta hu.

So what? Sabhi ‘sh’ ko ‘sh’ bolte hain!

Arre tere ko kaishe shamjhaaun? Shtupid ash hole…. 

There are two kinds of people who inhabit the earth.

One, the clever, articulate, bourgeois, intellectually gifted, laterally thinking, vertically pissing, upwardly mobile and fiesty geeks who really understand, interpret and dissect Cinema down to its silky underwear, and the other, crass, vernacular type, bookwormish, obtuse, girlfriend-less, tongue tied exasperating idiots who turn stiff and woody at the mere mention of Woody Allen or Quentin Tarantino. Now, if you too are one of the latter breed (as I am one I suspect), you may well have to forget about ever getting to sit in the same league with those who appreciate and discuss, with disarming nonchalance, the subtle nuances, analogies and symbolism of world cinema and are stared at with awe and reverence. 

What a shame! Are we then only fit to rot in a hole dug by RGV during one of his horrifying disaster shoots which gets filled in due course with Salman’s stout poop dropped from Katrina’s vanity van?  Tch! tch!.

Nyet! Non! Ka-ddu!

Sample this. Most of us watched Kaminey. Only a handful of clever, articulate, bourgeois, intellectually gifted laterally thinking, vertically pissing, upwardly mobile and fiesty geeks understood the movie in its fierce totality. Most of us dumb-asses who watched Kaminey and came out gasping were railroaded into believing that this was a grandiloquent, timeless, ageless, toothless classic of Indian Cinema; an earthshaking, sky splitting, head banging, spectacular, kickass movie that changed the rules of filmmaking forever.  Those who did not exactly feel like shaking their assets (heads, butts or booties) in consonance with the above theory were considered to be committing blasphemy of the most unholy kind. So we had no choice but to believe what the pious texts preached and the worthy blogs blogged, and worship the deities in toadyish reverence.

Not that there is anything wrong in it. Kaminey was good to watch, but what I say folks,  is that those of us who feel periliously handicapped when it comes to understanding and discussing cinema, should shrug off the stinking rug of slothful hesitancy and get serious about mastering the artful vocab of cinematology (I am not sure if such a word exists). For God’s sake, stop being a nincompoop at the coup and brace yourselves for a coup de grace. From now on, I urge you to watch every movie with the intent of tearing it apart at the alter of blogs. If you like what you see, heap lavish praise on the director in the most ornate of technical words. For God’s sake, do something. Speak out. Trust me, those who hang like formidable thunderstorms on the horizon of movie blogs are as human as you and I. Let me assure you, we too can become really clever, articulate, bourgeois, intellectually gifted, laterally thinking, vertically pissing, upwardly mobile and fiesty geeks with a very deep understanding of celluloid chemistry and slug it out in the open with considerable valour and chutzpah. Yes! We too can! But some toil first.

Shaala…..c-h-u-t-z-p-a-h kaishe pronounce karte hain? Chooshpa? Chu*-spa? Dhatt…..kya choo*iyapa hai!

Okay guys. No more nonsense. Here’s a list of some must learn words that you must learn to fortify your grasp on the subject of cinema. These words are the secret ingredients of all review curries. Sprinkle them here and there, add a dash in the beginning and in the end and enjoy the flavours wafting around.

1. Linear and Non Linear Narratives – This is one of the most fundamental phrases in the business of appreciating cinema.  Most good movie reviews use this at least two to three times. A non linear narrative is a description of events with a firm and unwavering disregard for sequence. In a linear narrative, the hero eats a plateful of spicy chowmein, burps, farts, kisses his girlfriend and goes to the loo to relieve himself.  In a non linear narrative, you hear a loud flush, someone farts, hero kisses his girl, enters the loo, burps and then is seen eating chowmein. It’s all there, you just have to have a keen sense of judgement to appreciate the turn of events.

2. Escapist cinema - Among the words liberally sprinkled by acclaimed critics in their articles, the word ‘escapist’ stands out in rapt erection. All fantastic, unbelievable and deceptive acts of jiggery-pockery carried out by the hero, like clinging to an aircraft’s tail at ninety thousand feet, pummelling a dozen baddies to pulp in ten seconds, frolicking on the beach with twenty nubile nymphets in revealing swimwear and all acts by Rajinikanth, Dharmender and Chuck Norris come under the banner of escapist cinema. I once went to watch an English movie with my girlfriend which had a lot of truly unbelievable sequences (the movie had a lot of unbelievable sequences, not my girlfriend).  A knowledgeable cinephile sitting next to me casually remarked that this was a fine example of an escapist movie. My girlfriend probably overheard. “Who pissed?” She asked next.

3. Jump cuts – One of the most astounding technical developments of the previous century, jump cuts owes its name to the unique act of weilding the scissors while trying to cross a floor swarming with fierce red ants. The results of such an exercise is singularly breathtaking, to say the least. With deep cuts at the most strategic of places, the scene acquires a refreshing staccato flourish. RGV shows a lot of jump cuts in his horror flicks. He cuts loose, you jump out of your skins.

4. Art Film - Once considered to be the cornerstone of all coffee table discussions on the evolution of cinema, this term probably has got its sheen knocked off in this era of multiplexes. Nevertheless, it is worthwhile to remember the word, for all genuine reviewers do get this recurrent itch to use this word in the textual foreplay of reviewing. But first, let me define what an art movie is. An art film is a movie which invokes deeply aesthetic thoughts (as opposed to commercial movies which provoke anaesthetic thoughts, i.e., the kind of thoughts which make you go numb and dizzy). While commercial movies give you a high on glitz, art flicks twiddle your psych’s innards and fill you with an overwhelming desire for scratching the abstract. Let me give you a lucid example. You must be remembering the famous VICKS jingle ‘galey mein khhich khhich’ which used to be aired on Doordarshan once every five minutes or so, once upon a time.

“Galey mein khhich khhich, galey mein khhich khhich

Kya karoon, kya karoon?

VICKS ki goli lo, khichh khichh dooor karo”

Now, this is the quintessential commercial movie. There is the throat, the hapless heroine. Then there is the baddie, the soreness, And finally the saviour, the hero, VICKS, who kicks some ass here and some ass there and genereally gets to screw the soreness, forcing a round of applause from you. Compare this with the following -

“Chaddi mein khhich khhich, chaddi mein khhich khhich

Kya karoon, kya karoon?

Beech ki ungli lo, khhich khhich door karo.”

This, is the quintessential ‘art’ cinema. The ‘chaddi’ here, is the soul. Ethereal, white, pure, undefiled. Hiding within it the macabre contortions of hell and its hideous fumes. So when the fumes become vicious and irritating, you get this overwhelming desire to scratch your soul deeply and savagely, with all your might. It’s then when the saviour arrives on the scene. The ‘beech ki ungli’ (middle finger). What follows is pure, unadulterated bliss. The storyline is quite like the commercial ones, only the representation is starker, and immensely powerful.

There are many many more such florid expressions which you are likely to discover while reading worthy film reviews. Words like ‘genre’, ‘surrealism’, ‘retroactive continudity continuity’, ‘cross cuts’, ‘dark comedy’, ‘parallel cinema’, ‘anachronism’, ‘retrospective’, ‘cult film’ etc., among others in a vast sea of cinematic glossary, the length and breadth of which is beyond the scope of this monograph.

And if you really wish to read some of the best movie reviews that I have ever read, it’s here.

Shaala..bahut bol liya….ab chup kar….

Kambakkht Ishq – Endgame

Posted on by Rofl Indian

Part III was written much earlier, but I became so numb with Kambakkht Ishq’s hangover, that this blogpost was excessively delayed. You may refresh your memories by reading the prologue here and the pain there.

As I said earlier, Bebo is a wannabe surgeon. She weighs a little over twenty kilos, roughly equal to the added weights of Sabiston’s and Schwartz’ Textbooks of Surgery, lumped together in a bikini towel. Susie and I concluded that in order to get a degree Bebo must have soaped her examiners with front row passes to her swimwear shows, and that she badly needed to practice her skills as a butcher before she could be entrusted with the job of dismembering a stuntman. However, this being a movie, we ignored the minor factual errors and concentrated on the larger picture as a whole. So Bebo cut up Akshay, and ended up leaving her watch inside his tummy.  Afterwards, Akshay moved heaven and hell to discover the source of the earth splitting chants of Manglam Manglam, which were in fact coming from inside him only!

It was interval soon, and the dim lights came on. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Faddu and Dimpy quickly move away from each other with naughty half smiles and a coy, come-hither type of look on their faces. A few nasty thoughts rampaged in my mind, but Faddu explained that he was sharing an SMS joke only.  I had my doubts, though.

Faddu stood up and trotted off, saying he was going to get some snacks, but I knew he would first go to the loo, and then to the snack bar to buy nachos and coke. It wasn’t a very agreeable thought (even if he washed his hands thoroughly), and I resolved not to touch that plate of nachos defiled with Faddu’s machos. I got up and moved to Faddu’s seat, leaned over Dimpy’s, and took up the profound matter of Bebo’s surgical skills with Dimpy.  She seemed greatly interested.

“Bonerji boss…did Akshay have to remove his clothes in the OT!”

“Dimmpal, I told you I am not Bonerji.” I said with a tone of mock offense. ”Clothes? Oh yes! every bit. You never do any surgery with clothes on…I  mean, with no clothes on the patient. Very important Dimple, very important…else the patient gets all sorts of infections!”

“Ohh Boss!” Dimpy’s jaw dropped. Susie looked quite excited.

“Wouldn’t he feel …uh….ashamed without his clothes?”

“I should think so.” I said gravely. “And with Bebo as the surgeon, all types of uncomfortable accidents are possible!”

“Accidents? What accidents?” Dimple stared at me with wide eyes.

“Things in Akshay would shoot straight up and refuse to come down…you see.”

There was a stunned silence. Susie shifted uneasily in her chair.

“Things that Bebo would really like to hold on to might get out of her hand!”

Dimple gulped. “Things like?” She was breathing heavily.

“Can’t you guess? So simple!”

“No” Dimpy whispered, her cheeks turning as red as a tomato.

“Like? Like the blood pressure! Pulse…..!” I declared casually. 

“Oh! BP! Yes….!” The two girls exchanged quick knowing glances and heaved a collective sigh of relief. Why were they getting so worked up on the trifling question of BP and pulse, I wondered.

Faddu arrived with a tub of popcorn. When he saw me occupying his seat, he looked a bit annoyed and grumbled that he had a few more SMS jokes which he wanted to share with Dimpy. I refused to budge, and assured him that I had enough of them myself and would happily share them with Dimpy if she so desired.

The second half brought more pain. Boman Irani (Doctor Deaf) and Javed Jaffrey (Sue-er ka bachcha) compete with each other for the trophy of ‘complete ace-whole’ of the movie. Bebo preserves her virginity and Akshay somehow keeps his BP and pulse under control despite both of them snoozing under the same sheet in their birthday suits.  Amrita Arora frequently changes exotic swimwear in the kitchen. Bebo bamboozles Akshay in a bikini, cuts him up once again to retrieve the watch and then dumps him. In the end everyone bashes everyone else, but not before Sylvestor Stallone makes a couple of illogical appearances and gets a peck on the cheek from Bebo for . In the end, Akshay dumps Denise and goes to watch a movie with Bebo.

Sylvestor Stallone’s appearance stirred Susie who sat up in awe and exclaimed happily “Saar…..John Dumbo!”

“John Rambo” I corrected her.

“But whats he doing in the backyard in the afternoon?” asked Dimpy.

“Susu karne aaya thaa…uske ghar ka toilet kharaab hai” mumbled Faddu and finished the popcorn.

 

Concluded (derived from the words ‘Conclusively’ and ‘Dead’)

Tips On Choosing a Doctor

Posted on by Rofl Indian

Choosing an appropriate doctor can be a ticklish exercise, particularly if you are new to the place and do not have reliable contacts to help you out. Every nook and corner of our vast nation is lavishly populated with practitioners of all conceivable kinds of ‘pathies’ – allopathy, homeopathy, unani, kaviraji, ayurvedic, naturopathy (fyi, it’s actually different from and lot less exciting than naturalism – see pic for further enlightenment), magnetic therapy, spiritual therapy, yoga, reiki, acupuncture, gem therapy, touch therapy, laughter therapy, hydrotherapy, herbal therapy, urine therapy (both own and the holy cow’s), naadi therapy, magic, mantras, jhaad phook, Jholi Baba’s holy bhasmas, home made potions, aunty’s cures, and geeky remedies of all shades and hues! Interestingly enough, each therapist is full of beans when it comes to claiming a cure for anything and everything from itching armpits to Chinese Restaurant Syndrome.  In such a knotty situation, the following general guidelines may be of help in choosing an appropriate doctor. I have chosen to focus only on the allopathic form of therapy as I consider my understanding of all other ‘pathies’ to be rather cursive!

Image 1

A GP or a General Practitioner (can either be an experienced MBBS or MD doctor) is the veritable ‘Jack of all trades’ in the medical profession. He is supposed to possess a very good ‘general’ idea about the general signs, symptoms and cures of a fairly large number of general disorders. So if you have any of the common doughs like fever, diarrhoea, nausea, aches & pains, cold, cough, allergy, acidity, sore throat, ticks and the like, just land on the neighbourhood GP’s clinic (make sure of the above qualifications to ensure that a quack is not masquerading as a GP). If you are visiting a sarkaari hospital, look out for the MD (General Medicine) OPD. Having had you in his grasp once, the GP will happily go about with his routine general check up. He will endeavour to size you and your pocket up first, and then have a measure of your  BP and the number of your heartthrobs…I mean….the rate at which your heart ‘throbs’ in a minute….or in other words, your pulse rate.  He’ll then do the following in rapid succession – tickle your guts to see if you have an enlarged spleen, dive into your throat with a torch to tinker with your tonsils, poke your ribcage with his stethoscope to hear the melodies maladies emanating from your lungs, and so on. He will intersperse his evaluation with a  sprinkling of seemingly inane enquiries like when was the last time your left shoulder ached, what was the colour of your shit like,  when you burp, do you fart too, what happened first – the toothache or the headache etc. etc. Answer all his questions truthfully; he is only trying to sort out the jigsaw puzzle of your troubles. He may either write you a prescription straightaway, or ask you to get some tests done. Suffice it to say that a good GP should be able to take care of all your routine health problems.

6960D-quackNow the question arises – if the GP is good enough, what are the specialists and super-specialists for? Generally speaking, the specialists are those lettered pedants of the medical profession who have an MD or MS qualification in addition to the bachelor’s degree in medi-sin. Most surgical specialities are outside the purview of the GP. Surgical specialists include

General Surgeons (cap-mask weilding sawbones who gleefully draw their scalpels at the drop of a hat)

Gynaecologists (guy-nakko-logists; those who…well…need I add any ornate descriptions in their sublime honour?)

Orthopaedicians (specialists of bone disorders and fractures who literally go hammer and tongs at their job, or in other words, who make a living out of making a bonsai of your bones)

Otorhinolaryngologists (auto-rhino-larrinjo-logists) –  i.e. ENT (Ear Nose Throat) specialists (proficient in the art of tweaking your tunes therapeutically) and

Ophthalmologists (of-thal-mo-logists) – or the Eye specialists (those pretty docs who insist upon revising your knowledge of the alphabet).

The medical (MD) specialists include -

Physicians – typical sombre looking bespectacled whitecoated blackbooted stethoscope dangling bookwormish gentleman seen roaming the corridors of infirmaries.

Paediatricians (child specialists – who always seem quite eager to explain even the tiniest of things in vivid detail to all those pretty moms with gaping mouths and ‘Oh! Is that so? I didn’t know’ look in their eyes)

Psychiatrists (sigh-kia-trists) or mental docs (the kind you see in movies giving electric shocks to hapless heroines – in actuality, it is a refined science on which psychotherapy and counselling is based)

Dermatologists (skin specialists who keep on writing creams, tubes and lotions by the dozens for those obstinate pimples adorning your faces)

Pulmonologists (lung fung specialists)

Anaesthetists (as opposed to aesthetics – those who knock the patients out before any surgery and kickstart them afterwards), and

Radiologists (docs with X rays vision – beware, they’d know if you are wearing an old yellow-stained underwear with air-conditioning vents at strategic spots ).

Pathologists and Microbiologists play (all work and no play, rather) an important role in arriving at a diagnosis; they may not however, see patients directly. Then there are Anatomists, Biochemics, Pharmacologists, Physiologists, Community Medicine docs – all are MD specialists but they do not treat patients. Their work is more of refined meshugaas teaching and research oriented.

Finally, the superspecialists. These are the blokes who renounce all worldly pleasures in the pursuit of clinical excellance and end up on the wrong side of forty with nothing in hand (no birds, no nest, no moolah…no nothing)except another frightfully specialised qualification (DM or M.Ch) in a specific subject. They are, from the medical side –

Cardiologists (heart specialists, dil ka daktar, who spend one week in the Alps every month – this, unfortunately, compensates for only half of the losses incurred in earlier life)

Nephrologists (kidney specialists, who frequently tour Europe and America)play-doctor-costume

Endocrinologists (diabetes/thyroid/obesity specialists who look forward to touring Thigh Thailand and Bangkok)

Gastroenterologists (liver & abdominal disease specialists, who find solace among the grapevines in Germany and France)

Oncologists (cancer specialists, South African safari lovers)

Neurologists (paralysis specialists – who never find the time to tour anywhere) and

Neonatologists (who take care of critically ill newborns between sojourns to the Middle East and Asia pacific regions).

From the surgical side, there are the Cardiac (heart) surgeons

Urologists (who deal with kidney operations, urinary stone removal etc.)

Gastrointestinal surgeons (who sort out screwed abdomens)

Paediatric surgeons (who operate on newborns)

Neurosurgeons (who open up the brain, shout much upon finding a hell lot of burnt out wirings, and then zip up the skull as if nothing has happened)

Plastic Surgeons (surgeons dealing with buttocks botox, liposuction, nose jobs, breast implants, thigh shaping, etc), and

Onco (cancer) surgeons.

Most surgeons go only as far upto Tirupati or Shirdi in their vacations (I hope you see the association). Only the plastic japanese-doctorssurgeons travel abroad.

Take your pick.

 

 

 

Rofl Indian’s Law: An apple a day, keeps the doctor away. But only if you aim it well enough.

Who Framed Todger Grabbit

Posted on by Rofl Indian

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It is indeed a queer quirk of fate that actor Todger Grabbit finds himself today behind bars, accused by his bai of fishing in forbidden waters.  To the utter consternation of Mr. Grabbit perhaps, the bars in this case are made of steel, and are not the usual assembly of glass topped tables with cushioned chairs and hovering bartenders. Apparently, Todger Grabbit weaseled into illicit territory while attempting to his hook his libidinous line with his bai’s innocent sinker, and when the police took him into custody, he was reportedly trying to fix his blemished rudder with oil stains all over it.  

Now, for the uninitiated, the word bai refers to a female domestic help in Indian households. Such a person, as a rule, is believed to possess a multitude of sweeping, unconditional rights conferred automatically upon her from the day she condescends to extend her estimable services in exchange for an ample salary. This includes holding an entire household to ransom over the right to avail unlimited casual leaves and the right to demand generous grants of credit and consumables at bai-monthly intervals. Most Indian households, particularly in the metropolitan cities, are strictly bai-polar, where the word of the bai is final and bai-nding. Understandably, no one messes with their clan, let alone even think of flexing bai-ceps before them or rubbing them in either right or wrong ways. Wrath of a bai is horror personified, as Todger Grabbit is now realising to his utter humiliation.

Mr. Grabbit’s wayward, and in a way, inexplicable behavior is increasingly being attributed to a few of his earlier films, in which he was shown cavorting amorously with assorted seductresses in wanton acts of unbridled lust. Sins Since then of course, Mr. Grabbit has come a long way, grabbing a Filmfare Award or two on the route and generally coming to be accepted as an acceptable actor. As his co stars emphatically point out, Mr. Grabbit sported a wholesome reputation on the whole and was known to keep his boat usually under wraps, at an arm’s length from raunchy vessels bobbling in alluring waters. As to why Mr. Grabbit chose to rip away from his fairly steady anchor and run after a wild goose so late in married life, is definitely a puzzle for human bai-logists to mull over.

His defense counsel may argue that poor Todger was an innocent bai-stander in the whole sordid affair, and that all evidences that otherwise point to a forced one night bai-stand are utterly fabricated. Perhaps, it was merely bai-chance that Mr. Grabbit happened to be at home when the domestic help was rubbing away at the floor hard, in a sincere attempt to make it shiny and lustrous. Perhaps Mr. Grabbit was seized by a philanthropic urge to lend a hand in her chores, and that the passionate chorus which resulted was a bai-product of those messy laws of physics involving forced vibrations and unnatural frequencies. Or that Todger was merely riding a bai-cycle in his loving living room and inadvertently lumped into the lass in question, the bai-cycle’s handle doing all the grimy damage. The counsel may also argue that the congress was consensual to begin with, and the alarm which was raised afterwards was the result of failed bai-lateral negotiations. Whichever the case may be, for once, Spongebob has been apprehended without his square pants in place.

Whatever may be the truth, Mr. Grabbit’s career appears pretty blighted for the moment. Licking illicit grape juice is an 65C68-sour-grapesinfinitely more heinious crime than, say, ferrying guns with roses. If the charge is proved, Mr. Grabbit will spend the next decade or so mending his tattered sails in undignified confinement. He may, perhaps, redeem his image later by writing a truthful autobaiography, confessing to his sins. His distraught wife, who is putting up a brave face and an impassioned fight at the moment, will eventually wipe away her tears and get on with the task of bringing up their child. It may also happen that Mr. Grabbit’s counsels manage to make him wriggle out of the bai-gamy charge through some loophole in the bai-laws of the Indian Penile Penal Code.

All characters and situations mentioned in WFTG are figment of the author’s flatulent imagination. Any resemblance to characters alive or dead or somewhere in between is purely coincidental and unintentional.

The Financial Crisis, Explained From ‘Behind’

Posted on by Rofl Indian

Seated_WinoDr. Frank Lee Noegood is a piles doctor at an apothecary in Britain.  The region where Dr. Noegood practices is inhabited by a large number of alcoholics who are do not have a regular source of income. These alcoholics, being heady by nature, often indulge in reckless drinking binges and outrageous gastronomic exertions and expectedly end up suffering from a variety of  extremely painful disorders involving the unmentionables (which, hitherto, shall be mentioned in the most colourful of apellations, readers’ sensitibilities notwithstanding).

In order to increase his practice, Dr. Noegood decides to allow his loyal patients – the unemployed alcoholics – to have their butts examined but he allows them to pay later.  He keeps track of the medicines he dispenses and the number of times he inserts his lubricated finger into the sore tooshies of his patients on a ledger, thereby practically granting his patients health loans. As you may see, his methods sometimes appear to be cruel, but his intentions are undoubtedly philanthrophic in nature. In a token exchange, however, Dr. Noegood keeps the empty beer bottles brought in by his patients in large numbers as guarantees against defaults of payment.

pinocchioWord soon gets around and as a result increasing numbers of patients flood into Dr. Noegood’s clinic. Taking unscrupulous advantage of his patients’ freedom from immediate payment constraints, Dr. Noegood increases his prices for sigmoidoscopy, the most-commonly done diagnostic drill on the inflammed arse. His diagnostics volume increases massively. His lubricant supplier borrows a huge loan and sets up a warehouse of lubricants. At this point, his sister, Rhea Lee Noegood, who happens to be a dynamic customer service consultant at the local bank recognises these patients’ debts as valuable future assets and increases Dr. Noegood’s borrowing limit.  She sees no reason for undue concern since Dr. Noegood assures her that he has the empty beer bottles of the alcoholic patients as security. As cheap credit is abundant, the loans get easily funded by a host of pension funds, hedge funds, soverign funds, mutual funds and insurance companies which are promised returns in excess of 100%. Flush with oodles of borrowed money, Dr. Noegood embarks on an exuberant lifestyle, has botox all over his face and begins vacationing at exotic destinations like British Virgin Islands with his gorgeous girlfriend.

At the bank’s corporate headquarters at Balls Street (across the Atlantic in US), expert investment bankers huddle together and find a way out to wring out an extra few ounces of dough (moolah, boodle) from the money market. They somehow leverage these greedy-mancustomer assets into collateralised debt obligations called Painbonds, Poopiebonds and Fartbonds and manage to fob off these CDOs to greedy and gullible investors.  These securities are then traded on markets worldwide.  Credit rating agencies like Fudge and May-Rules-Be-Lynched are then invited to stamp their approval on the deal. They rate Fartbond, Poopiebond and Painbond with CCC, BBB and AAA ratings respectively, in return for a fat fee. However, no one really understands what these collateral debt obligations mean and how the securities are guaranteed.  Nevertheless, as their prices continuously climb, the securities become top-selling items. Bankers in Ball Street become tremendously rich.

Lone_Drunk_IOne day, although the prices are still climbing, a risk manager of the bank, alarmed by the falling prices of empty beer bottles, decides that slowly the time has come to demand payment of the debts incurred by the patients at Dr. Noegood’s clinic. He knocks at Dr. Noegood’s doorstep, who then approaches his patients for repayment of the debts. The patients – unemployed alcoholics - however, cannot pay back the debts because they have no money.  Cornered, and under severe financial crunch, Dr. Noegood then offers the empty beer bottles to the bank, which refuses to accept them and asks for the debts to be settled by cash. By now the clinic has transformed into a huge warehouse of empty beer bottles and discarded smelly handgloves smeared with poopie, but they are of no use as Dr. Noegood is in no position to fulfil his loan obligations and claims bankruptcy.  

As the news of Dr. Noegood’s bankruptcy spreads, Painbond and Poopiebond drop in price by 95%.  Fartbond performs slightly better, stabilizing in price after dropping by 82%.  The suppliers of Dr. Noegood’s clinic, having granted him hockeybuntergenerous payment due dates and having invested heavily in the sigmoidoscopy tools are faced with a new and dangerous situation. His antibiotic supplier goes belly up, his lubricant supplier is taken over by a competitor from India. The bank, nearly insolvent by now from the effects of credit freeze, and burdened by millions of empty beer bottles having absolutely no value, is saved by the Government following dramatic and desperate consultations by leaders from the governing political parties, most of whom have itchy bottoms.  The funds required for this purpose are obtained by a tax (impots) levied on those who do not have piles.

The Financial Crisis, finally, stands explained.

Swine Flu and the Fellowship Dinner – II

Posted on by Rofl Indian

Before you read any further, may I recommend you read Swine Flu and the Fellowship Dinner – I first and then return to explore this post.

Dr. Dimple Minochha, fondle fondly called Dr. Dimpy by all of us, is the hospital radiologist (that is to say, her knowledge of the human body is understandably more than just skin deep). A youthful person of attractive features and cheerful disposition, she is particularly known for her spectacular set of huge boo books, and she quite seems to appreciate the stares that her boo books attract from all and sundry. Even patients of anal fissures in undisguised torment are known to sit up wide eyed and forget their agonies in the presence of Ms. Minochha, with mouths agape and gazes fixed on her awesome assets, the books. Therefore, it goes beyond saying that most of us utterly love to discuss her texts in our spare time, particularly the ones having interesting tit titles like How Large Is Your Dosimetry Error and Bare Bones Radiology. I must, however, make it known that I do not particularly enjoy the discussion veering off on salacious trajectories, which happens rather regularly and inevitably when Phadnis is around.

I summoned Susie and sent her off to Dr. Dimpy with the message that I wished to discuss a few topics of grave clinical importance with her at the hospital cafeteria.  Susie returned shortly, confirming the appointment. At the appointed hour, I trotted off towards the canteen, humming Ek ajnabi haseena sey, yun mulaqaat ho gayi, fir kya hua, ye na poochho, kuchh aisee baat ho gayi. No one should, however, derive any conclusions other than that I am a devoted fan of Kishore Kumar, and that the song I was humming was purely on account of an effusion of un-adult-rated happiness rather than being any reflection of immoral intent on my part.

I found Dimpy Minochha at the cafeteria table. She greeted me with a sparkling smile as I took the chair opposite her. “Hello Dr. Dimpy…er…Dimple”, I said, exposing my teeth.

“Hell-low Dr. Bonerji. How are you?”

Boner ji? BO-NER-JI?? I mean, did she actually say BONER JI???

I was aghast. To be called a boner by a young respectable lady is perhaps the worst thing that can happen to you after swine flu. Not even my most hated detractors have ever dared to address me by such slanderous endearments. I felt like drowning myself then and there in the dirty pool of spilled coffee on the cafetaria table, right next to Dimpy’s voluminous books.

“Excuse me, but my name is …(I told her what my surname was). And not every Bengali is a Bonerji or Chetterji.”

I was itching to deliver a powerful discourse on Bengali nomenclature to Dimpy, explaining in no uncertain terms how she and her clan overused the letter ‘o’ white pronouncing Bengali names. Come on guys, if you cannot pronounce Ganguly properly, better say Gun-Goli. Gongoly, Kolkota, Roshogollo, Omi Tomako Bholoboshi etc. are utterly unacceptable.

Anyway, I decided against displaying any impetuosity before this girl. My primary objective was to wriggle out of tonight’s lecture on swine flu, and I was here to see if there was anything of interest in Dimpy’s books on this matter.

“Well, Dr. Dimple..”, I began quizzing her in earnest “have you heard of swine flu?”6CD5F-flu

“Swine flu? Yes there was something about that in the papers. But I didn’t read…”

Holy hooligans! She had no idea of swine flu! This was even better. I rubbed my hands in glee.

“But you must be knowing about tonight’s seminar…”

“Yes..I just signed the circular. You are speaking on the topic tonight..na…?

“Well..you see Dr. Dimple..” it was time to play my cards “I’d have loved to but I have a terribly sore throat and won’t be able to pull it off..” I broke into a loud cough and thrashed about a bit, just to underscore my point. Dimple looked alarmed.

“Would you deliver the lecture in my place, Dr. Dimple? I mean…. its just a polite request…”

“Me! Oooh no!” Dimple Minochha gave a violent shudder whick shook the whole table with her books and all. A fly which was trying to accomodate itself at the edge of my coffee cup fell into it and drowned instantly. This was getting sticky. There was no way I could allow the opportunity to slip.

“Look Dr. Dimple…” I began reasoning with her in a calm, patronising sort of tone, “what’s the harm? We all know you are one of the most brilliant academics around (which was a lie, of course). So what if you do not know the details? I shall help you out…” I coughed again and pretended that it hurt a lot.

“You know what a common flu is…don’t you Dr. Dimple?”

“Yes…but….this isn’t common flu!”

“Hardly any difference”, I reassured her. “Same sneezing, watery eyes, choked throat…you know.”

Dimpy Minochha’s eyes brightened. “Isn’t our Director saab suffering from flu too…? I saw him sneezing violently in the morning…”

Aha! That was news to me. I wasn’t aware of the old scrooge having contracted the sneezophrenia already. “Swine… with flu”. I said to myself.

“Oh yes of course! How silly of me not to mention that…” I exclaimed. “Why, you could even quote his example while describing the signs and symptoms of swine flu. The two aren’t much different after all…”

“But…”

“Now no ifs and buts Dr. Dimple. This is a great opportunity for you to hog the limelight…”  

After another twenty minutes of cajoling, and one more round of frappe, Dr. Dimpy Minochha finally acquiesced. By now, she was enough informed to acknowledge that something called swine flu existed. I took her hand in mine (only for shaking briefly, mind you) and thanked her profusely for having saved my poor throat from complete outage. As we walked back to our respective chambers, I politely offered to carry her books and was a tad disappointed when she declined. Back in my chamber, I shot off a brief note to the Hospital Director, thanking him for considering my name for tonight’s honours. I told him about my throat problem and assured him that Dr. Dimple Minochha would address the audience in my place.

EPILOGUE – What a royal waste of food it was at the Fellowship Dinner. I’ll tell you what happened. The Hospital Director sneezed a couple of times as Dr. Dimple Minochha rose from her chair. She began her address thus-

“Dear colleagues. As you know our Hospital Director is suffering from swine flu…”

Needless to say a pandemonium broke out. The auditorium was deserted in 48 seconds flat. But not without a brief and violent elbow fight at the exit. I clearly saw Dr. Mrs. Pandey grasping Dr. Meglani’s collar and chucking him aside in a most dastardly manner, all in a bid to escape first. Only three of us, the HD, Dimpy Minochha and myself were left behind after the melee.

That night I ate 15 chicken legs. :-D

Doctor Do-Very-Little

Posted on by Rofl Indian

I have always been greatly impressed by the way doctors (the ones which are trained to treat humans) have conducted themselves in Hindi movies. Not only have they thrown their weight around with a certain degree of royal fervour, they have done the sensibilities of the audience a great deal of good by bouncing off a large number of hamming heroes/heroines on screen. Following are a few general observations on doctors (as depicted in Hindi cinemas) which I’m sure is worth sharing with a wider audience.

First and foremost of all, a doctor in a Hindi cinema is usually shown saddled with two daunting challenges in life. One, it is his professional obligation to scare the living daylights out of his patients, their kith and kin, their dogs, cats, parrots, goldfishes and in general, the unsuspecting lay viewer who chooses to be sandbagged by such technical gobbledygook as lymphosarcoma of the intestine and its evil variants thereof (Remember Anand?). Two, a doctor has to be rather passionate towards his female accomplices associates with whom he is seen to rub shoulders in the day’s work. It’s a great deal of disservice to the noble profession if a youthful doctor isn’t shown wrapping himself around well endowed nurses in skimpy uniforms behind cupboards of laxative bottles. This will albeit be shown in a dignified and courteous manner becoming of a medic, and that too in his spare time, like, in between two complicated heart operations. Such scenes often end with a minor accident or two (like the cupboard toppling over) resulting in the couple getting  well lubricated with mint flavoured Mom Plus. Remember, all this is compulsorily done with the doc attired in a spotless white coat. Talk about being particular about dress code and all that! Besides this, a doc in a Hindi movie would be seen to wine, dine, sing, dance, go to a party, go for a morning walk, go to the bed at night, to the loo in the morning, to the beach, poolside, funeral, court, temple, rather anywhere wrapped at all times in a white coat. All other things are optional; he may have a ponytail, wear slippers, pyjamas, loongi, mundu, kachchha, underwear, specs,  hats, tattoos, or even nothing at all, but he would never desecrate his profession by slipping out of his white feathers even for a second.

Then, a doctor in a Hindi movie would unfailingly carry with him a rather large syringe with a stout looking needle, and which he will endeavour to insert into the unmentionables of his unwary patient at the slightest pretext. He would proceed to do this with a sudden jabbing movement and would usually be assisted in this act by a beefy sort of sidekick in khaki shorts, who would grapple with the subject briefly before restraining him with a vice like grip. Needless to say, such an act adds immense nonsense value and is unquestionably funny.

A doctor in a Hindi cinema shall always have detailed knowledge of every single medical speciality on earth. He shall uproot teeth with a common household sandaasi, give electric shocks with wires stuck in a 240 volt outlet for curing madness, read the ECG upside down, fix fractures with karate chops, cure piles by just a few soothing words, graft hearts working under lights from mobile phones, take bullets out of the brain without injuring a single nerve, return the eyesight of a blind mother 20 years after she lost it in a kumbh ka mela, perform the most complex of transplants like interchanging heads and butts and even kickstarting dead hearts by measures which include kissing and caressing in a scientific sort of way.

Coming to more specific situations, it must be mentioned at the outset that operation theatre scenes in Hindi movies, and of course the accompanying dialogues, are by far the most fascinating of all. Few broad rules are unfailingly followed. In the ‘delivery’ scene, the  heroine thrashes about emitting complex vocalisations (an observant viewer would admit that its the same set of vocalisations which she emitted while getting pregnant too)biting her lips, clawing the poor hospital mattress savagely, and suddenly arching up her belly in a bow like fashion. This is usually followed by an infant’s wail signaling an end to the viewer’s acute embarrassment. Then comes the all important dialogue. “Badhai ho….beta hua hai”. A common variations is “Badhai ho…aap papa / dada ban gaye hai” How tearfully original! But wait…..if there is a caesarean scene involved, the usual outcome is ominous. “Bacchhe ko to humne bacha liya hai……par afsos…..hum maa ko nahi bacha paye…..” (sad violin interlude) or “operation to ho gaya…..par afsos…..wo fir kabhi maa nahi ban sakti”  (sad violin interlude again).

However, docs in Hindi films are exceedingly devout and God fearing when it comes to owning up for the actions inside the operation theatre. So much so that almost each operation in a Hindi movie is concluded with a pious exhortation to Gods to intervene and save the hopeless patient’s life. Sample a typical scene: Doc comes out of the OT with a serious look on his face, mumbles “ab sab kuch uparwaley ke haath me hai” and before the baffled audience can even bat an eyelid, the doc quietly slips away through the patli gali. Awesome. Can any doc in real life ever muster enough courage to actually come out of the OT and put everything squarely on God’s shoulders without running the risk of getting roughed up by the patient’s relatives! “Uparwaaley ke haath mein……eh? Saa*la….baap ka raaj hai? Hospital ne paisa kis baat ka liya hai???”Never mind. Just an insignificant professional hazard which docs have to face every now and then. But it doesn’t end here. Bollywood’s dialogue writers have taken faith healing to the highest echelons. So much so that docs in Hindi movies freely advise patients and their relatives to chuck medicines out of the window and take recourse to prayer and faith. “Ab isse dawa ki nahi….dua ki zaroorat hai.” How convenient. No bitter pills to swallow; no pungent syrups to gulp. Just dua it!

Three random generalisations in the end.

(a) The length of a nurse’s skirt is inversely proportional to the alphabetical grade of the movie (A grade: knee length; B grade: mid thigh; C grade: ..well)

(b) A ‘Dil ka Doctor’ shall invariably have long hair, a boyish charm on his face & be surrounded by at least a dozen pretty nurses all the time. He shall be proficient in the art of dancing around trees in the rain, and of course an expert in the science of wooing heroines.

(c) In a Hindi movie operation theatre, the assistant always passes on the correct tools in the correct sequence to the surgeon, with robot like precision, and without the latter uttering a single word.  Real life OTs are messy and anarchic in comparison, with the surgeon mouthing the choicest of expletives all the time in perpetual dissatisfaction of the assistant’s perceived lack of commonsense. Only if all OTs were like those in the Hindi movies!

Well…that was a short, and admittedly insufficient, exposition on the medical profession as depicted in Hindi movies. Looking forward to your inputs in the comments section, which I hope shall add all the missing flavours for sure.

(a)