Next generation Phone Sex Company…

… Try it today!.. It may not be as phony as it sounds!!

So you’ve had a rough day at office, and you clearly understand that some good quality end-of-the-day Phone Sex would do wonders for that mental fatigue and listlessness.
But in reality, what do you get when you make that terribly over-priced phone call? In all likelihood, it is going to be that same old female calling herself Ivana with her same old husky-breathy voice.. so much so that you can almost sniff the Halitosis coming from across the telephone line. Well almost. And the seduction ritual eventually becomes so monotonous, predictable and trite that one starts to wonder if strangling oneself with the telephone coil just may be a wee bit more gratifying.

The situation is clearly quite dire; some freshness, variety and at least moderate titillation are clearly the need of the hour. So what is the solution? The answer is, hold your breath, …….. OK hold it a little longer……………Here it is.. A semi-automated Phone Sex System! Our latest business venture, PhonySex™ provides exactly such a service.

We at PhonySex™ earnestly believe that ‘Customer is King’ and this is why we deliver the best service to our esteemed customers and strive to maintain the most stringent of standards. A vast majority of our Customer Care Executives (CCE) are graduates from prestigious universities worldwide and are handpicked by our dedicated team of head-hunters. Some of these students initially believed that a career in soul selling drudgery would be better than a career involving conversations with depraved people. We ultimately managed to convince them that the two ‘different career paths’ were actually one and the same thing- two sides of the same coin if you like. We have both male and female CCE given that our clientele span both sexes. Our team also comprises of several psychologists who are an indispensable asset to our firm. And last but not least, the two most special members of our team, Herbie and Lizzie – our resident hippopotamus and Komodo dragon respectively. Sometimes all the psychologists in the world fail to bring out the animal in our customers. When this happens we simply bring out our own animals to bring out their animals, an instance of a really simple idea that has proven to be ridiculously effective on several occasions.

Here’s how the system works:

The basic idea is really quite simple. The customer dials the specified telephone number and then simply follows the said automated instructions. He/she can choose a particular option in a menu by pressing numbers on his/her keypad, just like any other automated database handling system. He/she can undo an option or skip a menu etc -all the standard things.

Next, our team of psychologists armed with computers quickly assess your chosen options. This helps us to create a detailed sexual profile and allows us to cater to your needs and fantasies with unparalleled precision. Within minutes of your call, one of our highly-trained CCE will get back to you to fix a convenient time for your personalised phone sex session with us.

Below we list the questions that the automated system asks you. Remember that you can skip a question at any time if you feel that it is not relevant to you.

As a general rule, the options listed for the questions follow a set pattern: While the first and second options are relatively straightforward, the third option is border-line questionable. The fourth option gives us the more philosophically oriented perspective. The fifth option is designed for those who thrive on adventure and to take the customer into random uncharted territory. (Caution: Option 5 is not recommended for customers with cardiovascular ailments.) :

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A. Sex ?

1. Male

2. Female

3. I am androgynous.

4. It hardly matters in the larger scheme of things.

5. Physician feel thyself.

————

B. Above legal Age for this sort of thing?

1. Of course.

2. Not really, but I pay well.

3. I will take the Fifth Amendment on this one, thank you.

4. It hardly matters in the larger scheme of things.

5. What sort of a question is this, I demand a formal apology.

————

C. I am interested in having a conversation with a

1. Man

2. Woman

3. How about a transvestite while you are at it.

4. Why does the acceptance of one community have to entail the renunciation of the Other?

5. Who cares as long as I am on a nudist beach sipping a Long Island Ice Tea.

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D. You find which voice among these the most attractive?

1. Husky

2. Baritone

3. AC/DC lead singer.

4. Silence can be a most effective voice for communication.

5. Money talks and bullshit walks. (implying that bullshit is animate (since it walks)..but the important question to ask is , where does bullshit walk to? maybe to a public toilet to flush itself down it, perhaps? )

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E. Preferred Pre-mating activities.

1. Hollywood movie style pushing-hard-against-the-wall-while- engaging- in- highly- contrived-foreplay.

2. Whispering sweet nothings/nothing sweet and/or chewing on earlobe (if hungry or if Dr. Hannibal Lecter.).

3. Discussion of the ramifications of Quantum Mechanics in relation to Nature of Reality discourses.

4. It hardly matters in the larger scheme of things.

5. Come on Baby light my fire (and here’s the Kerosene).

————

F. Preferred ’sounds’ generated by these sorts of actions.

1. This food is really spicy.. (Gasping for air sound)

2. Softly braying donkey

3. AC/DC lead singer.

4. Silence is golden.

5. The combined sound of the whole Industrial Revolution.

————-

G. Preferred background music when engaged in such activities.

1. George Michael (eg. Fast Love, Father Figure).

2. Shakira (Underneath your clothes)

3. Enigma (The principles of Lust, Return to Sadism)

4. It hardly matters in the larger scheme of things.

5. Bad Jazz, sleazy slow playing saxophone.

————

H. Preferred time span for entire activity

1. Haste makes waste.

2. Hurry up, I’ve got a plane to catch.

3. Slow and steady wins the race.

4. Hedonism is the opiate of the masses.

5. Life is best when led as one long orgy.

————

I. Preferred sexual proverb

1. Make love while the sun shines.

2. Love thy neighbour like thy wife.

3. When in Rome, use Roman lubricants.

4. The existence and uniqueness of sex is a conjecture whose solution eludes the dogged mathematician.

5. A rolling penis gathers no salmonellae.

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Thank you for using PhonySex™.

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A Rap-acious few lines.

The Travelling Salesman- A Rap Song.
————————–——————-

A travelling salesman’s life is as much fun
as busting your balls with a big-ass gun.
Hoarse throat sales pitch its a real Bitch
but a pitch in time keeps me off crime *
So I go on using my vocal cords like twin harpsichords.
No glamour more clamour and if you happen to stammer you are so screwed Gertrude.
Come rain or shine I break my spine, to sell my wares but who the feck cares everyone stares at me like I’m some freakin swine I pine
for some compassion it aint in fashion these days.

The shopping mall ain’t nothing like door-to-door now thats a chore.
Some days it feels like I’m knock knock knockin on hell’s door**
“Who goes there, friend or foe?” Don’t yell at me like I’m your hoe.

I’ve sold everything from cars to jars, knives to housewives.
Madam try my melons they are oh so succulent- my sales pitch crescendo this aint innuendo.
” No thanks I don’t want your knives, we don’t need more of those in our lives.”

Well how about some extracurricular slice and dice?
Carve out a niche for yourself in someone else
With the help of my sharp knives enrich your mundane lives.
Variety is the spice of life. Propriety is the cause of strife.

Guess that last one made them feel pale so here I am in jail.

End.

* – Bastardised version of that famous saying- ‘A stitch in time saves nine’. With
apologies to purists.

** – Apologies to Bob Dylan and Guns N’ Roses.

Mrs. Sippy Mon Amour

The lack of direction in her brisk movements caused a flurry and had infiltrated the calm of the Saturday morning. She seemed to be looking for something inside her house. Another few minutes of futile search passed and she could not control herself any longer. “Raemmoo”, shrieked Miss Sippy , “Where have you kept those blasted yellow pages” ? Raemmoo at once stopped dusting the furniture and being the efficient worker that he was, took no longer than a minute to fish out the crumbly book. Miss Sippy heaved a sigh of relief and began rummaging through its pages. The object of her search was Paparazzi for hire. An explanation is probably in order at this juncture. What had happened was that the last time that she had attended such a glamourous, high society gathering (which was not a very long time ago), the Paparazzi media present at the party had for some inconceivable reason excluded her from their photographs. This turned out to be a traumatic experience when she failed to see her photographs in the fashion columns of various newspapers the following day. After she had recovered from that blow, Miss Sippy swore to herself that the next time, she would be the one who would conduct the hiring of the photographers so that such tragic incidents would not intersect her path again. She called them up and an intense period of haggling over the rates of hire ensued after which an amicable settlement was reached. She replaced the receiver feeling contented. But contentment has a penchant for not lasting long. Miss Sippy suddenly realized that she hadn’t a single outfit suitable for the party that night (If Raemmoo’s verdict is to be believed, he swears that she has three overflowing closets containing every kind of party wear. Nevertheless for the time being, we set aside Raemmoo’s statement as rumour).

Having eaten her lunch, she told Raemmoo to shine her leather shoes like new since she intended to wear them later that night. After that she set out on her quest for a suitable outfit. She told her chauffeur to drive straight down to a boutique called The Emperor’s New Clothes. This shop catered to the upper strata of society (not that they said so but the prices made it evident). Miss Sippy sifted through the rows of clothes for over half an hour yet nothing really caught her eye. A little dejected, she left for another of her favourite boutiques which was just around the corner. Adiposia Fittings, as it was called specialized in exciting leather wear. Miss Sippy fondly reminisced her last purchase from this shop- a beautiful leather shirt with a woolly mammoth printed on it, and trousers to match which boasted of protruding antelope horns on either side of the waist. What a hit that outfit had been. So transfixed to her recollections was she that she did not realize how awkward her facial expression looked to a bystander.
In fifteen minutes she had set her heart on a brown leather shirt dotted with heart shaped mirrors. Another added advantage was that the pair of trousers that came with it had a built in glass holder. This meant that she could now gesticulate wildly with her hands as well as have a swig of alcohol every now and then. Miss Sippy was for that moment in awe of Science.

With all her shopping requirements met with, Miss Sippy desired a nice cup of coffee. She headed straight for Brewtus, an Italian chain of coffee houses which had sprung up all over the city. When she entered the place, the people in her immediate vicinity started to look a little confused, owing to the fact that the aroma from their respective coffee cups had temporarily ceased to emanate. One coffee drinker sitting nearby pondered, “If she were a bit nearer to me, then one whiff of her fragrance might have been more fatal than seductive”.
She went up to the counter, awkwardly bumping into a man in from of her. His modesty violated, the man’s jaw literally dropped like one of those old fashioned cash registers opening with a ‘cling’. “And not too much cream on my coffee Sweety, I am on a diet”, added Miss Sippy after she had ordered it.

It was around nine in the evening. Miss Sippy opened her bathroom cabinet and took out a half used tube of Deca-Dent toothpaste and brushed her teeth vigorously with it. After that she took a shower and put on her newly acquired dress. She then set out for the party (The time frames of these events have been accelerated to avoid monotony and also to discourage the reader from accusing the writer of banality).

The venue for the occasion was Mr and Mrs Rao’s grand house. When she reached there, the house was already swarming with familiar faces. The décor of the house was most tasteful, with golden chandeliers and large solid brass statuettes adorning the corners. We must not forget those snarling leopards, stuffed to the core, which gave the house its unique ambience. Mrs Rao greeted Miss Sippy warmly and admired her outfit, talking about it at length. The house was buzzing with activity with disco music and heavy traffic around the bar. She decided to get herself a gin. On her way to the bar, she bumped into a minister friend of hers. The minister was busy in conversation with some important people. Miss Sippy kissed the air around the minister’s cheeks and this gesture was reciprocated with equal fervour. After exchanging a few pleasantries with him and his friends, Miss Sippy continued on her journey to the bar. She was happy that she had made acquaintance with some of the city’s most powerful people and was glad that she had practiced her smile in front of the mirror for over half an hour. Foresight, she often told her close friends, had always been one of her strong points. She also spotted the photographers who she had dealt with earlier that day. She smiled and winked at them and they winked back. Miss Sippy was now quite confident of being a hit tomorrow in the newspapers.
A few gins down and Miss Sippy decided to sit down in a relatively quiet spot and enjoy the party from a distance . This was a good idea since she was not entirely in control of herself. Earlier in the party, she had noticed that many people had been carrying the new Gyrato cellular phones, quite a rage these days. The phones are to be strapped on to the posterior of the waist. So every time the phone rings, it makes the fleshy parts quiver, sending the owner as well as the audience into raptures.
While Miss Sippy dreams about owning the Gyrato phone, we travel to another corner where a man is talking about Picasso and we foresee a bout of infectious laughter. “Cubism is great”, to which another man quips , “ Which reminds me, where are the ice cubes for my Whisky”?

End.

And The Moral Of The Story Is…

Here is an ‘Aesop-type’ familiar fable that provides us with some insightful ‘morals of the story’: we find here metaphors and interpretations that, at least at first glance are unlikely to appear abstruse, cryptic or even apocryphal to the ‘untrained eye’ (and also to those who haven’t had any previous exposure to Anthropoppyological Theory). The analysis following the fable is taken from a personal diary entry of the famous Tyre manufacturer- turned -Anthropoppyologist, Michelin Foucosy.
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The Ass And The Clever Crow.

Once upon a time, Ass was wandering in a forest. It was a scorching summer day and he was feeling so thirsty that he thought he would collapse any moment. Just then he caught sight of a bright object on the ground a little distance away. As he progressed further, it became increasingly clear that it was a bucket. ‘Ah, I am saved!’, thought Ass. Unfortunately his excitement was short lived. He went up to the thing and looked into it. He saw that there was some water in the huge bucket. That was great news, but the problem at hand was that the water was at a low level and he could not reach down to the level of the water, however hard he tried.
Frustrated and utterly dismayed with this situation, Ass started to slowly turn away his head as he contemplated his fate.
Crow had been quietly watching this entire episode from a tree nearby. He swooped down , collected a pebble on the ground with his beak and ever so dexterously dropped it into the bucket. Crow then spotted another pebble and as before dropped it into the bucket and continued doing so in this way. Ass watched in amazement as the water level in the bucket rose steadily with every pebble that Crow dropped into it. A little while later, the water had risen to a height sufficient for Ass’ purpose. Ass then quenched his thirst and the two parted company but not before Ass thanked Crow profusely.
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Analysis:

1. The psychoanalysis of the Ass suggests a Paradox of Intellect. Why did Ass not solve the problem in the same way as Crow. Was it the case that Ass was basically a dullard? This is possible but there is evidence in the story to suggest quite the contrary as well: Ass was frustrated but did not show his frustration in any physical manner. He never physically kicked the bucket, plausibly because Ass was aware of the concept of a Self-fulfilling prophecy: he knew the connotations of ‘kicking the bucket’ (i.e. death), and the state of believing that he had kicked the bucket physically translated metaphysically would have by an inexorable chain of events led to him ‘kicking the bucket’, i.e. his untimely death. This suggests some foresight and wisdom on the part of Ass. Thus we have a psychoanalytic Paradox of Intellect.
(mental note: must remember to use the sexy trident in sentences (sexy trident = phenomenological , ontological & epistemological).

2. The symbol of the bucket suggests a strong human link and reminds us yet again that all the symbols here are merely metaphors used to shed light on what is essentially the human condition. Ass wandering through a forest and the mysterious appearance of the bucket highlights the absurdity of our existence. Also water being an essential component for our survival means we must learn to keep our plans ‘fluid’ when it ‘boils down’ to essential things.

Crow had highly sadistic tendencies: he undoubtedly helped Ass, but not before taking pleasure from seeing Ass agonise over his predicament. An alternative but unlikely explanation to Crow’s behaviour is that he was overly gratitude-seeking owing to a significant inferiority complex, and was by the strong possibility of getting thanked seeking validation from society.

A third possible explanation is one that no anthropoppyologist in his/her right mind can overlook. By fancy swooping manoeuvres and display of skills in pebble- collecting, he was proving his suitability as a sexual partner to Ass. Crow was therefore simply finding a release for his homoerotic fantasies.

3. The Devil lies in the details. Aaaeee-men to that Bruh-tha.

Drivin in Delhi.

A Rap Song tracing the journey from angry rant to savage delusional behaviour.
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Drivin in Delhi’s drivin me up the wall,
Rules? There are none, just a freakin free-for-all.
Crazy summer heat makes me feel like faintin,
Cows walking the road freakin Dali paintin.
Snail-pace traffic someone help me cross this chasm,
People honkin all round just heightened my wargasm.
Guy overtakes me wrong side and still gives me profanity,
The bitch just drove me way past insanity.

Don’t anyone now dare cross the road aimlessly.
Cos I won’t think twice to mow your ass down mercilessly.
windscreen splatter, of bloodlust I am a fan.
wham bam bam I live for these orgies man!
I hear the police siren, which is just as well.
Aint nothing like being on the road to Hell.
He reads me my rights, cuffs me, at him I scoff.
Poor bastard thinks I’m tripping my nuts off.
Life’s a bitch man, just a roll of dice.
“Let’s go Officer, take me to Paradise”.

 

Limericks

There was once a young man called Jim
No soul was more horny than him
As he grew older
His actions got bolder
And was neutered by prudish Kim.

—————

Since the time he was nine
He dreamt of using one pick-up line
So he became a miner
And asked the girl at the diner,
‘Honey, your place or Mine ?’

—————-

Bob dozed off under a tree one night
But awoke when something didn’t feel right
For the tree was speaking
And also man-eating
Saying its ‘bark’ was worse than its bite.

—————-

A great sportsman he was but had suffered many pitfalls
His only recourse was his family business of selling dolls
He got so frustrated
That he got castrated
And then ended up playing Billiards, with his balls.

—————–

The Storm.

It was about 1 a.m. on the 23^rd of January and I lay in bed contemplating sleep. This was surprising since I was infamous for being a prolific sleeper and it was one of those rare occasions when it was refusing to come naturally. I was probably preoccupied with the unusual weather patterns that had been circulating throughout the northern region. Delhi’s weather had taken a most bizarre turn just the day before. It had been cold and intermittently drizzly for the most part, with the mercury taking a plunge in the day. There hadn’t been a single minute of sunshine and the murkiness had permeated within. I remembered that at some point of this gloomy day, three seemingly unrelated words: ‘England’, ‘bad weather’ and ‘anemic rock music’ felt intuitively connected. At 1:15 a.m., the skies fulminated for the first time and these were accompanied by bright flashes, momentarily lighting up the room through a grilled window pane located above the door that led to the balcony. The thunder caused the rain to briefly intensify as was evident from the increased level of sound. Then a powerful rumble made the hollow balcony railing resonate producing low pitched vibrations. It was at this juncture that I sat up and decided to so something more constructive.

For a long time now I had been thinking of recording a spate of the rather strange events that had unfolded over the past couple of years but somehow had never felt motivated enough to do so. Somehow the prevailing weather proved to be a potent catalyst. I decided that the time had arrived to pen my thoughts on the troubling events of the past and in doing so hopefully lay the matter to rest, once and for all.

I merely propose to present my fragmented recollections of the events that had occurred and the human elements behind them. The choice of deeming the recollections as truth or fiction ultimately can rest only with the reader.

Things started going wrong in our home about two years ago. My mother and sister were the other two family members living in the house at that time. It was well into the monsoons in Delhi when ‘holes’ first started appearing in various fabrics in the house. The word ‘hole’ does not aptly signify what we witnessed in the fabrics and does call for further elaboration. While in some clothes it did seem that some insect or animal had bitten through the fabric, the damage appeared far more sinister in other cases. For instance, the cloth covering the sofa set was frayed in a way that one could easily see the individual fibres of the cloth. What was even more peculiar was that the fabric would crumble to some kind of a powdery form just by gently rubbing it with ones fingertips. An occurrence such as this appearing totally out of the blue is bound to spook even the more rational beings among us, at least in the first instance. After the initial shock subsides, one tries to get a firm grip on reality and usually the best way to do so is to try to explain by one method or another the cause of that which has transpired. It is interesting to note how varied and creative the reasoning can be depending on the school of thought one belongs to. This is especially true in the Indian context where stuff like mysticism and spiritualism is deep seated. They happen to be an intrinsic part of our mythological legacy: one need only go through a little of the Mahabharata or other tales of gods, demons, spirits etc to get a flavour of this.

It was not as if what happened was an isolated incident. Every now and then, my mother or sister would discover a new hole in another kurta or bedspread. I would say that my mother’s nerves were the hardest hit primarily because she was quite devout and also a bit superstitious. The saving grace was that she wasn’t sanctimonious in the least.

At home opinions were divided on the issue. Despite being unable to pin down the exact cause of these holes, I maintained the scientific line. I continued to blame it on an unknown monsoonal insect or some pest that possibly was residing in our dhobi’s shack. To be quite honest though, I wasn’t entirely convinced by my own explanations. The troubling detail was that my clothes were virtually untouched in the first wave of ‘attacks’. But I kept my misgivings private for the sake of my own sanity as well as that of others. Meanwhile my mother had been making her own enquiries from friends and relatives. She even went to ‘holy’ men, good people who possessed tantrik vidya (knowledge of ancient Hindu sorcery). After a while she was convinced that there were supernatural forces behind the strange holes. My sister’s reaction to this whole episode was at least in the beginning that of mild bewilderment. She was always so busy working in her office that she hadn’t the time to get properly spooked. Also the both of us were skeptical of this tantrik bit. This helped us to remain relatively indifferent to the issue. I would try to keep my mother calm by telling her that damage to old clothes was merely a good excuse to buy new ones.

This whole episode came to an end after a period of about four months. The damage to fabric ceased abruptly. My mother claimed that it had been her efforts that had drawn the whole matter to a close. She had been given certain ‘holy’ incenses which she would burn in the house on a daily basis. She would also play an audio tape of the Mahamrityunjaya, a very powerful set of mantras which are believed to provide victory over death. It is often used in rituals to save a person in mortal danger. Needless to say, her supernatural solution did not fit in my scheme of reasoning but I have to admit that its timing was uncanny. It was almost as it someone had switched on the light in a dark room.

After months of no such incident, the memories of the holes started to fade away and calm was restored in our house. Darkness loses its grip on us when we turn on the light. But it is also true that the electricity can let one down especially in a place like Delhi and then darkness can without any prior notice once again reign supreme. Sure enough, the calm did not last long.

The next twist in this tale took place last year on raksha bandhan. At this point my sister was no longer a resident of the house. She had gone abroad to work on an assignment. On raksha bandhan, my mother’s brother and his wife expressed their desire to come and visit us. They said that it would be a good excuse to meet and also that my mother could perform the ceremony of tying a thread to her brother’s wrist. This festival is widely celebrated in India and it is a common practice for men to go and visit their sisters on this occasion. The reason that it is strange in our context is that ties are particularly frosty with my uncle and aunt. Nevertheless we reciprocated their gesture in good faith and the meeting passed of quite cordially. The only reason I introduce the reader to such a highly trivial and mindless domesticity is because all this is germane to the sinister issues at play. The day after raksha bandhan unquestionably proved the evil intentions of my uncle and aunt or at least one of them. My mother recollected how curious my aunt had been about the newly installed kitchen cabinets. My aunt had been snooping around the kitchen even after my mother had gone into the living room to join my uncle. Mother was suspicious and uneasy about it. That day she made a detailed inspection of the cabinets with the maid’s help. Now comes the eerie part. One particular shelf in the cabinet is stocked with different kinds of alcohol. My mother unearthed a perforated lemon from behind one of the bottles. It had quite clearly been put there by my aunt and in a way so as to avoid detection. To me, all that this incident proved was the malicious intent of the family members in question. It did not prove in any way whether their actions then or in the past had been effectual. In other words there was no proof of them being behind the holes. I have to admit though that I was spooked by the sheer eeriness of that incident. I can only speculate on the symbolism of the perforated lemon and surmise that it could portend evil in some form. This presumption would probably explain the reason behind placing it in the vicinity of alcohol. Alcohol could in a way be considered as something impure and due to this feature may in some twisted fashion somehow facilitate the invocation of evil.

It was and still is a matter of consternation why any one would resort to something so bizarre in the first place. The lemon incident appeared to be a desperate measure to harm us in a most peculiar manner conceivable. However their motive behind wanting to harm us was all too easy to conceive. There is a large family inheritance at stake and my mother and uncle are to be the only two legal beneficiaries of it. Also my uncle hasn’t held a job in more than a decade and does not really have any other means of subsistence and neither does he really care for one now. His disposition is exactly like that of a man eating tiger: once it gets used to easy killing there is no looking back at the days of toiling for food. However it also has to be said that my uncle is nothing more than a puppet in this show. My aunt is the person pulling the strings from behind the scenes. He is the actor and she, the director. Her skill as a strategist is as formidable as it is praiseworthy.

People generally say that money is the root of all evil. This statement is rather euphemistic since evil lurks in the recesses of the human mind and hence it is we who are the root. Evil just eventually finds a vent.

About three months after the lemon incident, the holes emerged once more. The difference this time was that some of my clothes got damaged too. Mother was by then engulfed by fear and a bit of paranoia had also started to set in. I myself became increasingly doubtful of the scientific line and felt a general sense of uneasiness. The damage was still sporadic and all we could do was to wait until the next such occurrence with a sense of nervous anticipation.

But this time it was not just a question of holes. Another eerie event was about to unfold and would prove according to me to be the eeriest of the lot.

My mother had started to sometimes complain of an odour in her bedroom. When I asked her to explain the odour, she said that it smelt of country liquor. Since I had been unable to smell anything unusual first, I dismissed the claim as a figment of her imagination. Paranoia can help conjure up anything, I thought. Then one fine day the moment of truth arrived. My mother called me into her room and asked me if I could smell anything. Albeit on previous occasions it had been a false alarm as far as I was concerned, this occasion was different. I definitely smelt something and answered her in the affirmative. She then asked me, ‘Well, what does it smell like’. I could already see the triumphal smile forming on her face. The answer was obvious to me as well and I just couldn’t control the sheepish grin when I blurted out, ‘Country liquor’. Something inside me shattered with the same sound as a stainless steel plate crashing to the marbled floor of my kitchen with that nerve rattling clamour. However I still felt that it was not a good time to tell my mother how I felt. I told her that is was simply the smell of some fermenting fruit that she had kept in the room and then subsequently had forgotten about. I also insinuated at the possibility of the smell wafting from outside. I knew in my mind though that all those scenarios were almost impossible given the nature of the smell. The troubling facts that negated them were firstly, that the smell always emanated only from my mother’s room and secondly, that the smell was of a transient nature. It would come and go as it pleased. Lastly we were unable to find any fermenting object even after a thorough inspection of the room. We were also were unable to pinpoint the exact source of the smell. It would seem to be coming from everywhere and nowhere in particular. I consciously refrained from thinking about all that it could mean especially in connection with the incident in which the lemon was placed next to the alcohol.

These are all the pertinent details and quite frankly I am at a loss of words to dissect them any further. There has been a temporary lull in this kind of activity. I am sure though that it will not last long. This is only the lull before the next big storm.

End.

Ode To Beyoncé

I am inebriated way past cuckoo, and now

You metamorphose into Beyoncé Knowles and how.

What are these strange symbols that your hand inscribes

On my bare chest with that charcoal in your hand pray describe?

O Amazon Woman I beseech you!

Sombre mantras whispered into my ear ever so gently,

Mesmerised, I listen to your voice so intently,

Transported to a primeval space, high as a kite

In a cavern by the cliff isolated by the night.

But hark! What are those strange chants coming from over there ?

Men dancing round a fire in asymmetric leaf underwear.

The light dawns on me: I will soon be sacrificed,

Prior to which I must endure being pillaged, chastised.

Trapped; helpless in this dim lit cavity,

To be sacrificed at the altar of depravity.

Beyoncé! Thou art the Goddess shrouded in mysticism,

Thou shalt perform the pleasurable exorcism.

So if you must, then go ahead ride me,

But for the love of God or Satan do not deride me.

O Amazon Woman I beseech you!

We Shall Be Released

 

We shall be released soon my love.

Your ashen form close to mine, I console you

In the silences between the distant chatter of automatic weapons.

What is left to kill of us my love,

When identity is distorted by hegemony

Raining down in pools of my reflection,

And sense

Is mangled beyond realms of cognition.

We shall be released soon my love.

How many tyrants will they kill when the myriad beasts

Leap out from every torn heart,

With fire gestating in every womb.

We shall be released soon my love.

In blue defiance we will soon rise

Above the black hawks circling the twilight sky.

 

 

Books Worthy of Praise..

Ever wondered about those lines of praise at the back of books given
mostly by newspapers, journals, magazines and famous people? Or whether
these people who write these praises actually read any of these books
in the first instance? One such book by Kohli, a writer belonging to
the psychedelic wilderbeast movement won rave (and possibly strange)
reviews, and which may cast some serious doubts on such a system of reviewing. We list some of the comments below:

“A work of supreme erudition and scholarship. Kohli has dealt with
controversial and delicate issues such as the sadomasochistic
tendencies in mules of Sub-Saharan Africa with the pristine clarity of
mud. An un-putdownable.” – The Fortnightly Gramophone

“One hell of a shag. I give this book a full 5 bunnies” – Playboy Magazine.

” Absolutely ‘riveting’ “- Levis Jeans and Co.

“This is a really slim and shady book. Gimme back my 15 dollars”- Eminem

“Kohli has done it again….in his pants this time. A real tour de force. “
- The Daily Defecation.

“This book is an exhilarating read. I must learn Shaolin Kungfu to avenge my venerable master’s killing” – House of the Flying Daggers.

“Un-putdownable or not, tell these paparazzi to get off my lawn or I
will put you down bitch.” – Kohli’s angry next door neighbour to Kohli.