An explosive 'BIN', LADEN with trouble

Bins collect refuse of all states, hues, colours ,shapes and odours. This is one of the kind that did come with the cautionary nail biting label 'HANDLE WITH CARE'. Atleast, it did, till the kiss of death, provided by a star and stripe bullet  changed the inflicted nomenclature to "HANDLED WITH CARE'.

History, being HIS-STORY, utmost care was taken to ensure that justice must also be seen to be done.Thus, St.Peter, the keeper of the gates of heaven paved way for a chaste communist, unchaste in his means of dispensing justice. A true brethren of the red creed, 'Equality' was the middle name of the new gate keeper and he left no stone unturned in proving the worth of his name. This new appointment was no different.


Entry into paradise was not based on past deed or feed.It was pure simple division.Irrespective of a saintly devil or a devilish saint, if one soul would enter paradise, the next one,undoubtedly and deed not bearing, would find his way into merry hell.Categorisation...unambiguous communist style.

It soon was the turn of our bullet ridden man Friday, Bin Laden. The soul ahead of him in the line, a consecrated symbol of humbleness, was pushed into the unforgiving gates of hell, thus offering him the unstoppable one way ticket to paradise, an outcome of martyrdom he presumed.While his forerunners screeched and preached reconsideration,Laden stepped on to the pedestal of decision, using his soiled dentures to shape his nails.Just as the gatekeeper prepared to bring the gavel down and pronounce 'heaven', Laden glanced at the gatekeeper and uttered in pompous hatred... 'infidel' 

The mallet in the hands of the gatekeeper stopped short of completing the loop of endorsement.He looked up, narrowed his brow and exclaimed '' Say that again !!! ''

In unrepentant  Qaeda flavor, he repeated ''I-N-F-I-D-E-L'' , while at the same time continuing his nail biting self indulged manicure. 

With the last utterance, equations changed.The balance of division followed by the gatekeeper changed course and the six feet six - pole of a million deaths was ushered  down the pavement leading to hell.He resisted and protested, seeking claim to the promised entry into paradise and multitudes of perpetually regenerating virgins meant to serve him.

His towering entry into hell did not go unnoticed.A million souls of his following, resting from the torturous ordeal that the spot offers, rose in unison to welcome him into their folds.Whoever said...history (his-story) is bound to repeat itself. 

'PUTIN'g it right

Seated on top an unforgiving icicle, in the vicinity of Mount Elbrus, the highest point in the Caucasus, was a red dyed premier of dwindling fame, Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.

The mount and the man carry on their confining shoulders,  a very eruptive past. Now, nevertheless, the distorted man had a different tale to croon. He stood at the draw of the ascend, nursing a black eye , sobbing in anger and cursing in glory. The flavour of a revolution was rising to a crescendo in, around and outside the ballot boxes of Saint Petersberg. The premiers black eye, was a nudging milestone.

While the number heavy Bolsheviks let their mind ponder about unjust elections, the pride soaked Mensheviks seemed in-ardently concerned about the discoloured eye patch. This overt concern snowballed into a covert quip that finally landed gracefully on the not so graceful lap of the warring Duma.

The onus was now on the steer of the Duma to set matters right.Thus,with the renowned torture room specialist Alexander Ballsquashki (Ball-squash-ki) in tow, the arm twisted media was summoned to pen and broadcast epics of Putins glory.

''Our President has suffered a minor injury'' he declared, stealing a glance between the rim of his spectacles and the fold of the brow for any voices of flagship dissent.''In the wee of hours of an undisclosed day, our leader volunteered to test evasive prisoner of war drills with our chief interrogator.The President was shown as much mercy as your worst nightmare was.'' 

The beefcake in tow, nodded, his head,synchronizing hell and earth in nondescript bounce.The spokesman continued   '' in doing so, as a true upholder of the revolution and a committed judoka, he triumphed, but in the process suffered a minor injury to his eye which today bears testimony to his commitment to this great nation ''
 
The head of the duma presumed he had killed two birds with one stone.Just as he was recovering from his momentary lap of glory, a communist grown tomato from the rebel stock was hurled in violent fury from the far end of the conference room. The fruit turned missile traveled in epic shattering speed, found its mark and caught the monumental interrogator on his right eye. 

A Menshevik voice was heard screaming from the gathering ''..there is more to a commitment  than what meets the eye, the truth which has just been replicated for your consumption.'' Thus, placing a shroud over the premature heroics of a leader.

(Written on a casual note about one of the leaders that I adore.... to the hilt)

INDIBLOGGER MEET :NEW DELHI

' RUCKUS ON PARLIAMENT STREET ' 

Giving a visual tone to all little indulgences sundry,silly or otherwise,that came together on the 11th of Dec 2011 . It was indeed a bouquet of web casts at the indiblogger meet.

- Cheers

SARKOZY : Life inside a ... 'rubber'

Nicolas, a very eligible male

fell in love with a voluptuous whale.

From her he wanted babies

which she confused for scabies.

Not to be left in the dry

together they decide to try.

They commenced the process in Paris

but was way off the axis.

Not to be let down by Geography

they banked on mutual topography.

 Now was the issue with size

to which the answer was a disguise.

He unpacked a gigantic rubber

to use as a floating bumper.

In he went like a snake
t'was hard to call him fake.

On the final count of a trot

he rushed like a bullet shot.
After the in and out of life
the whale is now his wife.
 There is an offspring in tow
to the world they are yet to show
Queer are the manners of this breeder
masquerading as a leader.

SADANADA GOWDA : Bang-a-lure Torpedo Sited

In the realms of business, a consultant is defined as an entity who will feign to know everything about nothing and nothing about everything.

In the city of concrete gardens, the mall owning chief minister, bears a ear to ear smile, flashing the Mercer consultancy report, declaring his city as India's most livable.

The sheen on his celebrating mandibles is soon swept aside when a prominent member of the anti corruption crusade taps his Achilles heel with a graph representing the gravity defying corruption index. 

To the man in the middle....its time to turn a blind eye to boon and bane in tango and settle within the comforts of his controversial 'Mall'ice.

 

In the grip of a Bengal Tigress : MUM's the word

A trigger happy lose canon is crawling,walking,running, trotting and galloping the sickle'd length and reddened breadth of volatile Bengal.The gun of enduring damage is towed from weak pillar to weaker posts by a toothless tigress of unpredictable demeanor. The ire of the weapon was aimed at anything, with a remotely opposing flavour. Gun and gun woman were wrecking mayhem in Rosgulla land.

While on their state wide onslaught, the tigress and her bone gnawing convoy were soon running out of firepower. 

The disconcerted rumble in the rank and file of the feline assault was momentarily anchored.A growing measure of anger was enveloping the lady in stripes. 

As the mercurial twists of temperament was on the rise, a naive brethren of the khaki community marched in.After the customary mechanical salute and cliched sway of the baton,in measured politeness, he questioned the ignoble intentions of the havoc trail.

The quick silvered character of the growling 'didi' pack was aghast. The goddess of fastidious esteem stepped forward bearing a toothless growl. In a sway she gripped the lawman by her claws and uttered ''In here....my way, no other way !!''  

With a change of guard in the state, the state of affairs is described as '....from the frying pan,into the fire'     

'GUT-CURRY' (Gadkari) Hatcheries

'You better get into shape...' belched a short fused,unruly and rude egg laying fowl from the saffron poultry. 

'Round is a shape and I am in good shape' rebuked the railway track mustache sporting, lead nanny of the withering Lotus pack. 

This was not an uncommon scene at the Gadkari hatcheries, where eggs of all colours, hues and most importantly, various degrees of social rot, hatch to enter the Lotus tribe of vote mongering.  They were blessed with the perfect nanny, the custodian of their blue print for life: A gentlehen...  devoid of anything remotely gentle; a visionary- blind as a bat to the present, let alone the unseen future and above all humble.. to his own interests of course. So to say, the eggs were indeed in the right basket.

   

The proverbial nanny of improverbial wonder, rolled around in 'maternal' ease. This stroll of honour ended in a far corner of the hatchery. The 'Gut-curry' turned around, scanned the environment and then gently, using his pedicured talons, moved the hay to reveal a wooden egg resting on a plastic  lotus !!! 

 

The bird of infinite optimism smiled.On the wooden replica was inscribed in invisible ink 'Prime Minister'. This was indeed the egg of hope and succor to the fowl (foul) of ambition. He quickly hoisted his generous constitution and placed between those delicate legs of generous volume, the dream he harboured.

Having settled down in absolute comfort, he closed his eyes to dream about the post hatch luxury and the life associated.The smile illustrated it all.

Suddenly, this flight of fantasy was grounded by another unruly howl from the neighbourhood.

''COCK-A -DOODLE-DO'' screeched the 'moody' Gujarati nanny from the neighboring hatchery.The smile on the lead fowl  face faded away, turning into a cold scorn. The cry had upset his piling egg cart.The neighbour, in true politeness, only tried to remind him.... not so fast my friend, roosters don't hatch eggs.

 

MAYA -WHAT......EEEEEE : Elephantine Rumble

The well known fairytale of greed, finds a suffocating empathy in the terrified sway of many an unfair tail in the city of Nawabs. The prodigal mahout of a million marble elephant statues gazes at the lifeless Jumbo regiment in absolute awe. 

In rehearsed tyrannic motion, she steps forward and announces to the mammoth line up,brushing under the marble parade, in one divisive sweep, the voluminous charge of corruption.

''.. one small step for myself ,One giant mess in the treasury..  '' she remarked, in an inconsistent state, of consistent jeopardy and so you shall listen, in a consistent state of inconsistent jeopardy.

Between her professed sermon and our committed silence, one marble elephant managed to whisper to another of his kind.

" Did you know, an ancient language of this land, describes the word MAYA as an illusion. ''

''Our mahout leaves no stone unturned....'' the other retorted. ''She lives up to her name in letter, spirit, expectation and integrity''  he added with an assuring smile.

CARLOS TEVEZ : A caricature

After all that rant with the political class, tried my hand at a sportsman,Carlos Alberto Tévez, the Argentinean football wonder who also courts controversy with club football. 

ASIF ZARDARI : The Pakistani Grand 'Prick'

In this volatile  fraction of the Asian continent, culture dictates that if your neighbors wife sports cow bells for ear rings, your endevour will be to tether puberty attaining calves  from the tattered earlobes of your beloved spouse. Thus, when the Indian Grand Prix was flagged off at the Buddh International circuit, the resonance was felt in the anal linings of the Pakistan national assembly.The nation was not to be let down by Pit Stop impotency.

To foster this national sentiment,a state emergency was declared.  The military called on the parliament to perform a multi- jester clown act while they did the democratic thinking. A quick fix solution emerged in true military style. Pakistan would field its own version of the coveted Formula one...... For-Mule-A One.

As the name suggests, a race of its kind, to grade mules: the official state carrier of the Kalashnikov trotting ISI branded terror monger or... the jihadi posse in the gun powdered local tongue .

The proposition was simple,The military would conduct the race.An international audience with fat purses would be invited to witness. Mules of national importance would run a predetermined track carrying a dead weight. Alongside aid seeking bowls will jut out for the audience to fill. The mule that collects the maximum foreign aid would be declared the undisputed  victor. For any reason, if there be a tie, the head of the jihadi regiment will flip a coin to seat the winner. 

The stakes that awaited the winner were what a mule of flamboyant national character would die for... a decimal share of the aid collected with 'come-passion',the pomp and glory of a military parade where the celebrity animal will cart the dreaded headless head of the military, followed by a full blown gun salute,which the international media would report as a terror attack successfully thwarted by the grandstanding Army. 

When word of the race trickled into the follicle sporting ears of the  Prime Mule (PM), ASIF ZARDARI , he was all smiles.He was a natural winner,'mule - ism' just ran effortlessly in his half equine half ass blood.

 

No race can begin without a comment on the track. The For-Mule-A track, the authorities assured would not bother the audience with the sweet smell of burning rubber. Instead, mule dropping fragrance will rise to the rubber devoid occasion to remind anyone and everyone of their humble roots. The race would commence from a pit stop in the hermit hiding district of Abbottabad and twine itself through the IED filled draws of the Khyber before exiting into the labyrinth peaks and dips of Waziristan which is home to the easiest language in the world ..a gun pointed to your head.

Zardari was unusually excited about the dead weight to be carted..it was a dust Bin, laden with blue prints of destruction. His mind oscillated between winning the race and the price of the weight.But as one would know, a mule has to do what a mule has to do....thus, he hoists the weight over and begins to majestically trot around the brass and starch of the midas touching uniformed junta . With a little covert friends in the military, he trips, pushes and ebbs his opponents over the edge.For cheering a dull and uninterested audience who opted for eye candy, there was of course, the political glamour quotient...a foreign minister in baiting !! 

With the cargo that the mule of never ending pride carried, receiving aid to fill the large bowl was never a problem.Thus, the long and short of it,the winner it came around was the indisputable For -Mule-one....Asif Zardari. 

With the grandeur of the ceremony complete, it was his scroll of honour that tickled the choked literary sense and the infinite libido of a failed state.It read: 

This scroll of honour is bestowed on  

FOR-MULE-ONE 

Asif Zardari 

who on this date has been declared the 

Pakistan Grand Prick.

In true dictatorial style, someone down the chain of a jar headed command,had obviously not been able to distinguish between a Prix and a Prick. But the slip of words, just celebrated the inescapable truth.

JAYANTHI NOT-RAJAN :one crashed over the Cuckoos Nest

  The field of jeopardous aviation has offered unfettered challenges to the deviously crafty and predictably ambitious.For baskets full of examples, just scoop in a stingy serving of the political breed and behold, you will have baskets full of tales. One such misery laden tale is that of our motor mouth spokesperson of the ruling tribe, Jayanti auntie.

  Long long ago, two days back, the lady of the anti Lotus pack broke the pristine chill of the winter evening by marching in, huffing and puffing,to the local broomstick vendors store.The shop keeper gasped for life giving air, his tongue still tied in disbelief at the entry of the 'spitfire celebrity'( Read Spit + Fire ejected in equal measure). The lady was a founding alumnus of the theatrical Hogwart of the East '10 Janpath'.    

'Present me the best of your stock' she growled,the acoustic field shattering window panes and ear drums in the same breath.The vendor quickly turned and disappeared, returning with a pile of handcrafted brooms under which he seemed well buried and hidden.Personally, he preferred more of the latter than the former.

'Madam may like if I explain....', he trembled behind the fear flavored sentence. In contrast,she nodded in virtuous dictatorial acceptance and demanded  'I would want to know what broom stocks, contemporaries and colleagues are flying on ??' 

'That would be my pleasure madam' the vendor exclaimed,familiar with the rodent race emulation in their circles.Only recently, he was witness to a very high level debate on a topic of national interest 'My used toilet paper is cleaner than yours..HOW ??. Breaking into an uncertain smile, unsure of what sweeping fate awaits the sale of a flying broomstick he set his pitch. 

  'This is ZERO, the hush and no feed variety, actually a rage these days with both, our silence loving PM and a fasting CM endorsing its efficacy.'  He then gambled his chance of placing his attention seeking footprint into the inner circles grapevine '...if you pardon my audacity, a secret perhaps known to you. For our beloved PM, we delivered a custom made remote controlled model to ensure he treads silently.. on course.Your masters are happy customers '  

  
  The customer hissed at the mention of the well nourished public secret,'show me something else',she bellowed,not wanting the slightest smear of controversy to upset her dynasty serving apple cart.

'Sure my lady' remarked the anxiety soaked vendor and pulled out a flat stock with subtle bristles.'This one will definitely be of interest  to you, it boasts of V.T.O.L capability..'  

 
'..And pray, what may V.T.O.L be, is it an antitheses or  pun .. Very Tiring & Obvious Liability perhaps ? ' she quizzed in angry anticipation of any sarcasm, but the empathy was uncomfortably mirrored .

'Oh no.. no !',he exclaimed, ' it is a leap in 'sweep stick' technology, VTOL is an acronym for Vertical Take Off and Landing.It saves you the take off thrust to be generated by the tiring run.' From a convincing personal comfort zone, he switched gears and dolled out  a generous oodle of scientific anal-ogies. ' All you are required to do is, exhale, pull your thoracic diaphragm in - upwards and let go all generated pressure called Breaking Take Off Wind (BTOW).   BTOW expelled through the rear amplification nozzle, creates a magnified vector thrust propulsion that levitates both broom and body.' Convinced that science had created a facade in the mind of the seldom right but never wrong breed, he decided to lap up the pitch with a personal touch   'Again madam, i must say this, we delivered two products to Yeddy and Kalmadi serving time and running their new found homes in various hospitals. Now they dont have to be on the run you see, they simply can take off from their respective hospital beds and visit the 'in law' when the heat is on.'

She managed a discounted grin seasoned with patented sarcasm.

Realising, that a lot more had to move, topple or fly  to win more than just a customer, he extended the sky darting product line. 'We also undertake custom  brooms.Trust me madam...' making the glitter in his eyes economically obvious, 'It is a sure hit and bound to  sweep you off your humble feet'

'It would serve well if it could sweep others off their ambitious feat',rebuked the  temporary Goddess of jilted poise, adding a snare as a purring suffix.She was quick to bounce back into the process of active political consumerism. ' Custom made.....I dig that,I ..like the sound of what you sing, what can you do ?' she diligently questioned.

'Any high flying wish of yours is my command', baritoned the tentatively pigeon chested and permanently poultry bellied gentleman. 

'Can I get something with floral bristles..' enquired the increasingly scheming grandstander. ' A little more opposing both in colour, feel and...' as the sentence trailed,the exuberant salesman jumped to the well garnished occasion and pointed out to the far corner, where gleaming in new found glory, lay THE broomstick of desire. Seller and buyer moved in poetic tandem, the latter mesmerized, unfolding what wonders the broomstick could sway to wipe out all forms and flavours of ignoble competition. The latter, certain that he had nailed the sale, but with guarded uncertainity.... about the chosen model, meeting the soaring expectations of the buyer. 

The prospective buyer continued the ordinate ogle, which was interrupted by an undeserved aberration ' But... madam, this is a test model....' interpreted by awestruck tympanic functioning as 'fest'. Dutifully, the hearing dysfunction did the trick and the deal was sealed.' Will buy....ensure a politicians discount' declared the leader of the m'asses'. 

'I will fly right now and self piloted it will be', the buyer announced, lest the thunder be stolen by an unknown.The seller protested in muted abandon.  ' .. it is dark and conditions are not favorable for night flying ..' The doubted status was not well taken by the new owner who fumed in aghast  'Dont you know.. world over, politicians are fly by night operators. ?'  Feigning ignorance about the high flying potential of his customer, he consented.

With the verbal rant over,pre flight probes revealed a mammoth bug ,A broom engineer opined in school choir tenor 'Considering the lotus airfoil...the thrust to weight ratio may effect the lift parameters,besides the pilots non aerodynamic constitution would hamper...'

That highly valued professional discourse in aviation physics suffered instant castration at the hands of impatient excitement and seasoned arrogance.The flying cleaner of infinite wonder  was grabbed by the new owner already inflating sullen lungs.She took control and let go for thrust vectoring to take over.WHOOSH.... she was airborne with nerve wrecking shudder. The Lotus petals unfurled to provide aileron and flap camber while the sepals served well as an elevator.The stale bud doubled up as an unstable rudder.Suddenly, the airborne broomstick veered off course, performed an acrobatic scam roll and crashed into a towering tree of fate, atop which was the humble dwelling of pious cuckoo. The cuckoo was scared out of his silken nightcap, presented by the minister of environment and forests as compensation to relocate. She who now dangled from above in a state of shock and topple.

   

   

KAPIL SIBAL : A Spin Doctor's yarn

  In far away netherworld,in the kingdom of the clawed palm, the time tested principles of good education have been delicately strewn to the winds, lest it should fall with an avoidable thud and attract unwanted attention. 

  A tale spinning barrister, the self professed omniscient adversary of the good, claims magical powers unlimited.He could devour a ministry and still look starved else in simpler terms, sell water to a fish.

   He has just returned from a bleating jaunt where he amazed the horrified citizen with unadulterated travesty on how measly pocket change like Rs 1.76 lakh Crore could just vaporize and the exchequer was all smiles..... bearing no loss at all, whatsoever.His suave brilliance sent the comptroller and auditor general spiraling down a commode with all those years of a painstakingly earned reputation in the challenging arena of auditing.That was his cunning specialty, pulling golden rabbits and red herrings out together.  

In his devious court,me a jester,can only ogle and itch my crown on the Confucius state of a proposed education budget to implement the Right to Education (RTE) : Rs 1.72 lakh Crore.Now that is indeed some more loose change to vapourise.

STEVE JOBS : Serving an Apple well bitten

Steven Paul "Steve" Jobs

24 Feb 1955  – 05 Oct 2011

RAHUL GANDHI : The princely bug & his cronies

A princely bug from Delhi

came across as silly

A country he wanted to lead

put itself to bleed

With cronies screaming a praise

the common man was in a haze

Choice was not an option

'Doomed' was a befitting caption

Looking back in time

cronies flaunted him prime

his talk on ending corruption

threw them out of motion

when asked about 'his grace'

they put in a paleface

cronies to the rescue

reasoning went askew

they said

''words of his

were meant in bliss''

but

having given us a cue

now the horror grew

silence was a choice

but set the prince off poise.

cronies, 

like a train of slandering bugs

continued the shameless chug

OOPS ...A feeble fling, in attempting to pen a limerick to support the sketch.

USA & PAKISTAN :Honeymooning ..... in 'GAY' abandon, ofcourse !!

A 'nondescript' attempt to describe this 'Blow- Hot, Blow Cold or....Blow whatever' equation.

As the old phrase goes, between the sheets, there is always a fortune cookie.

CHIDAMBARAM : Of homely affairs & a spooky spectrum

T'was another scam burnt morning.Cows roared,elephants mewed and polar bears hip gyrated to the womanized anthem 'she - la ki jawani' . In the midst of such common occurrences, Uncommon Singh of the  prime ministerial sin-isterial   couch-  the ephemeral custodian of all  things petty in the house of commons, stuttered down the indecisive path of puppet polity. The corner of his hyper myopic - telescope enhanced vision saw white.....white at half mast on a lifeless flagpole. A million sparks of wonder played merry hell into his brilliance choked head.... 

'' A white flag at half mast..fluttering over the office of my home minister ??? '' he pondered.  

'' A white flag suggests surrender, who in the name of authentic Italian pizza is the home minister surrendering to ??? The Naxals ? Tax payers ? Rakhee Sawant ?... who ??'' his excited lungs bellowed.

     

This desperate shriek of panic laced curiosity was heard by the Rust-gula masticating Prey-nab Mukherjee, who lost no time in launching himself into the thick of uncalled chivalry. '' That,what you see is not a flag, but a freshly starched dhoti from the home ministerial wardrobe, soaking both wind and sun for crisp innocence'' he begged to clarify.   
      
'' Oh... is that all, but... why half mast ?'' remarked the unsure leader of the dissipating pack,questioning the breach of pompous protocol.

''Unfortunately, the honourable minister is in mourning and the ministry has taken a unilateral call to publicly reflect this official emotion symbolically - by letting the chieftains garment flutter at half mast ''remarked the prey shepherding fox.

The prime sinister nose dived further into querying ''what in the blazes is he wearing now, if his wrap around adorns the skies, scaring the airborne fauna '' 
 

''Ha..that is a good question,in fact a brilliant question...next question please'' pleaded the unroyal Bengal preying mantle, skirting environmental concerns in gay abandon. 

''For the sake of national interest, I demand to know, what conceals those vulnerable  Chettinad leg pieces now ? 

'' I did fly New York first class on an auctioned emergency ticket to bring to your esteemed notice, how unruly the unwaxed Chettinad legs looked.....it is bad publicity for the celebrated palm that washes the less illustrious hind.''

''What hides those tarnished legs now ??'' demanded a visibly angry Uncommon Singh.

"Well.... he is using a new brand of auctioned undergarments that covers the invisible spectrum, thankfully, its not the next best thing to being naked. Have you tried it.... its called 3 & 2.. G string ??", inquired an overtly curious Mr Mukherjee.

''No'' he snarled,adjusting the folds of his Milan shipped second skin that he had sworn undivided loyalty to.

The arrival of the guilt devoid Mr. Chidambaram, arrested any further verbal ponder into each others innards. His 2 & 3 G stringed corset was generously revealed by a replacement wrap around, folded way above his hairy scary thighs and tucked above the pouting bellybutton of his part bulbous belly. 

'' Gentlemen, welcome to my parlor '', he announced in seldom cherished grandeur. Sensing the doubting duo sizing up his provocative appearance, he sought to clarify..'' Ah this garb, is the latest in political haute couture.The G strings bestow the 'communicative' look. What say, we could issue a party whip on a common dress code ? ''

''I am sure you meant the undress code'' uttered the seldom uttering U Singh. '' I hear you, you mean well..'' he continued, ''you have my full confidence'' he concluded, affixing the official raison d'etre. 

Mr Prey-nub, stopped cold in his conniving track and prevented further unfolding of his  prime sinister design,hyperventilated and let out a high resounding vowel bowel shooting screech ''..aaa--eee--iiii---ooo---uuuu''. Country men, it is this in-digestive howl you mistake as a battle cry within the con-(in)gress. Now,with reality at the back of our soft heads, the curtains rise,the show has just begun. Hope you enjoy these cheap theatrics sold high, as much as the lead party has enjoyed putting it together for us, the revered domiciles.

AMITABH BACHCHAN & THE BIG BANG KIDNEY THEORY

    The unnerving Delhi's thriving  Belly, err....kidney was stirred (not shaken) by the bellowing voice that uttered    

"Rishte mein hum tumhare..cartoon lagte hai..(BURP !!)" 

The unpublicised arrival of the lead Bachchan stock did not go unnoticed.The capitals oozing renal hopes were raised...!!

The Big man stood to clarify, that he was here to implore the kidneys. Other organs shuddered their palpating tissue formations, to step aside and give way to the now brimming bean shaped functionaries.With the next declaration,all misplaced renal optimism was quelled, he said....''only the ailing one''. 

A Jai ho crooning 'devil in prada' (pun intentional), was quick to tweak the bass tone to read ''only.... the feigning one !!!'',  shunting out the genuinely ailing and bringing to fore,a fleeing jailbird by the name, Amar Singh.Thus, it was decided, for all sundry and sultry to know, the aging luminary will meet the feigning diversionary.

At the designated moment, both were seated together, draped in designer 'flaunt'iere. They were indeed dressed to kill, the former in underwear and cloak, choking our nubile senses and the latter,like a surgery ready - resting nanny goat, petting our faltering conscience. Whatever.... they shook hands.

'' Why be concerned about my humble kidneys'' quizzed the bedridden Amar, thanking his luck that it was not piles or testicular malfunction that was feigned and subject to celeb scrutiny. 

The Big B, looked through the guilt steeped quip. His eyes yondering for a diversion, set itself on the cover picture of a Bib-asa Basoo. ''Care for a date'', he inquired with Amar, pulling out a box of the health promoting Arabian palm fruit (Phoenix dactylifera)

 
The heteronym hit a libido choked optimistic nerve, Amar Singh's prison fearing eyes lit up like a penile bonfire.The Kidney malfunction was passe, new genital concerns emerged. "y-yes, s-sure ! ..w-why not ? any time? anywhere......anyhow ?" he sounded assuring. 

The BB pushed forward his offering of the fruit,affirming allegiance to nothing more than a mere gastronomic experience.   Amar Singh reconciled to the middle eastern reality, and returned to his patient like mannerisms.

The next question, took the bed ridden politican quite by 'slur-price', ''Did you pay more for the votes or...the kidneys ? " 

The economics of corruption has never been a concern with the vote seeking community. ''Oh...Amitji '' he exclaimed, "my kidneys hurt'' he cried, scratching his cunning receding hair line. ''Actually, inflation has taken its uncharitable toll, urea prices are shooting up, so kidney beans are no less expensive... you know the holy connection between the two...'' 

The actor now pondered,who was better at 'the act' and was readying himself to clarify, when the patient lifted his comfort seasoned frame and remarked...." you have been a friend in all deeds, so why connect my frail kidneys to the unknown votes ? instead, it will serve coming generations of your silver spoons in the mouth grandchildren, should you connect frail votes to unknown kidneys ? '' with those words, the ever green master of the grey craft walked back to his reconciling pillow (designer wear of course,of the patriotic prada variety) 

The often baffled actor, was now drowning in an ocean of unreasoning, when a juvenile well wisher of the kidney trodden, pushed him aside and remarked rather rudely 

''move old man, our time now ''

ARUNDHATI ROY : A pail full of 'I's

     In misery lies pronounced opportunity. In opportunity, is conceived the circus of jingoistic social activism. In the cocktail garnish of the Indian social fiber,blooms the page three diaspora.Their wisdom,more often than not, constrained and challenged by the spirits that elevate them from disturbing realities that plagues society.A thrifty, self indulging general of this tribe is Arundathi Roy, who carts in her caravan, causes of 'dam'aged hues. 
                      

                                

    'A-RUN-DOTTY'  ROY  

( A quick sketch)

 The Roy express,is an opinion heavy,substance lacking gravy train that chugs on a populist rail track.With scant regard for the virtue of our geographical preserves or the lives shed to shield them, Ms 'know all',shrouded by nothing more than eloquence and prose,pronounces her new role as the self catapulting spokeswoman to causes bereft of sustainance. Her justification lies in weak fault lines,claiming to echo '...what millions of people in Kashmir have been saying everyday for years.' Her sense of arithmetic count seems to fathom fantasy filled fallacies .Which side of the border did she count the millions, I often ponder ? When caught on slippery ground with acid laced anti national sentiment, she plays the sympathy card squealing,“Pity the nation that needs to jail those who ask for justice while communal killers, mass murderers, corporate scamsters, looters, rapists, and those who prey on the poorest of the poor, roam free.” An umbrella of crippled excuses

    Chug on,Ms Roy,whats next on your a-la-carte...sainthood for terrorists? Perhaps not....you will demand your share of the halo. After all,  in the new socio economic order, everything has a price,including a free ride on your benevolence filled gravy train.

The writing is a reproduction from my first blog in a state of self professed comatose  http://mindpad-scribble.blogspot.com/2010/12/run-dotty-roy.html

GUJ 'RAT' : Muse from the underground

The unfolding circus about an undecided government and its possible PM (Prey Mate) did tickle my imagination to put forth GUJ 'RAT' : Muse from the underground.

While the egg headed octogenarian and the efficiency spewing 'Moody' , wring the tug, it comes in as a new twist to see if the diet laced Sadbhawana scores over the wind breaking  Wrath Yatra. As they say, the worlds largest 'Demo-crazy' fluttering its hue smouldering plume

BUSH - FIRE : The Past and the Spurious !!

      A Bush fire is at best, understood as a double entendre: one, an ember laden fury levied by nature and the other.... a buffooned wonder, well pickled in war generated oil . 

Baffled beyond despair ? Read on....

    While for time immemorial, students of the text are familiar with the Australian variety, an ire of nature, the all American Bush'f'ire, is a logic constipating phenomenon that has ignoble beginnings in,around and beyond the state of Texas.

Aptly titled, the 'F' word lays well pivoted between the buffoonery ridden name on one side and the befitting personality on the other.

    For the infectious past and the spurious concern, the caricatured goat eared wonder and his wisdom devoid utterances...... 

"They misunderestimated me."(Bentonville, Ark., 06 Nov 2000)

"I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family." (Greater Nashua, N.H., Chamber of Commerce, 27 Jan 2000)

"I am here to make an announcement that this Thursday, ticket counters and airplanes will fly out of Ronald Reagan Airport." (Washington, D.C., 03 Oct 2001)

"We spent a lot of time talking about Africa, as we should. Africa is a nation that suffers from incredible disease." (Gothenburg, Sweden, 14 June 2001)

''Families is where our nation finds hope, where wings take dream.'' (LaCrosse, Wis., 18 Oct. 2000)

"Tribal sovereignty means that; it's sovereign. I mean, you're a........you've been given sovereignty, and you're viewed as a sovereign entity. And therefore the relationship between the federal government and tribes is one between sovereign entities." (Washington, D.C., 06 Aug 2004)

"Yesterday, you made note of my ..... the lack of my talent when it came to dancing. But nevertheless, I want you to know I danced with joy. And no question Liberia has gone through very difficult times." (speaking with the President of Liberia, Washington, D.C., 22 Oct 2008)

"I didn't grow up in the ocean..........as a matter of fact..... near the ocean.....I grew up in the desert. Therefore, it was a pleasant contrast to see the ocean. And I particularly like it when I'm fishing."(Washington D.C., 26 Sept. 2008)

"I'm coming as the president of a friend, and I'm coming as a sportsman."(on his trip to the Olympics in Bejing, Washington, D.C., 30 July , 2008) 

"And they have no disregard for human life." (on the brutality of Afghan fighters. Washington, D.C., 15 July , 2008)

"And so, General, I want to thank you for your service. And I appreciate the fact that you really snatched defeat out of the jaws of those who are trying to defeat us in Iraq."(to Army Gen. Ray Odierno, Washington, D.C., 03 March, 2008)

 

MUAMMAR GADDAFI : The 'Rice' before the fall !!

    A week ago, while unpleasantly blog strolling, I stumbled on an exhilarated  piece written by Purba on her render, A-Musing. The post ceremoniously ruffled Arab -American unholy ties. The fleeing fidel and the retirement bound infidel stood connected in a manner propounded by the now celibate cupid.

      

    What provoked my doodle filled mind to put ink to paper and create the Bedouin whose never to fail eyes sparkled on the generous serving of Rice, was the reporting in the Global Post of the discovery of his fantasy treasure chest.The 69 year old has power filled taste.

 His last plot was traced to the lunar hills, where clad in nothing more than a loyalty pledging  star and stripe  diaper, he croons kinship laced ballads for the indomitable  '(s)leeza' .The transnational chorus is provided by an interesting array of Amazonian man looking women bouncers, voluptuous Scandinavian nurses and the British Special Forces (?????). With all this and more, Gaddafi has vowed to fight to the finish, but for the woman,he is certainly not (p)leading from the front.

 

     As the intention is to write less and make way for caricatures, here goes :  MUAMMAR GADDAFI : The 'Rice' before the fall !!!