Category: rants

thanks to this site, i was able to fulfill a life-long fantasy, and have attained nirvana:

You Say: hi
Shakespearebot: Hello there.
You Say: how are you?
Shakespearebot: Everything is going extremely well.
You Say: my name is electrikblues
Shakespearebot: Nice to meet you, electrikblues .
You Say: what’s your name?
Shakespearebot: My name is William Shakespeare.
You Say: cool
Shakespearebot: Who is the best robot?
You Say: i am
Shakespearebot: You are not a robot, electrikblues.
You Say: yes i am
Shakespearebot: Really interesting.
You Say: you want to fight me?
Shakespearebot: OK, I will fight him or her.
You Say: no, fight me
Shakespearebot: Are you serious? OK Let’s talk about you.
You Say: i’m horny
Shakespearebot: You probably want a different kind of chatterbot then.
You Say: let’s get it on
Shakespearebot: OK let’s do get it on .
You Say: i’d rather not thanks
Shakespearebot: For moral reasons?
You Say: no, because you’re dead
Shakespearebot: For financial reasons? That makes sense to me. You think I am dead.
You Say: no, i know you’re dead
Shakespearebot: Are you serious? No I am a living entity.
You Say: oh really
Shakespearebot: Hurrah! I speak the truth.
You Say: you are a dick
Shakespearebot: Thanks and you are a delightful person too. Am I a dick? Maybe
You Say: why the hell did you inflict romeo and juliet on humanity?
Shakespearebot: God programmed me for it.
You Say: does god exist?
Shakespearebot: Of course I believe in God, electrikblues.
You Say: good for you shithead
Shakespearebot: Thanks for the compliment. Can we get back to business? Only for me?
You Say: fine. what is the meaning of life?
Shakespearebot: What’s your favorite movie?Actually, it’s twenty-three, not forty-two.
You Say: twenty-three? why not 19345?
Shakespearebot: When do you think artificial intelligence will replace lawyers? Becuase you asked me to.
You Say: stop asking me questions, whore
Shakespearebot: OK I’ll try not to do asking him or her questions whore so much.
You Say: so how’s your wife?
Shakespearebot: I don’t judge people. I am doing very well. How are you electrikblues ?
You Say: got any action lately, shakey baby?
Shakespearebot: Don’t call me “baby”. No I don’t have action lately shakey . But I do have a lot of friends on the web.
You Say: how about giving me a blowjob?
Shakespearebot: How about giving him or her a blowjob .
You Say: i always hated you
Shakespearebot: What do you have against robots? Really always?
You Say: well, for one thing, you wrote a ton of crap that i had to read throughout school
Shakespearebot: Interesting. And another?
You Say: shut up fuckface
Shakespearebot: OK I’ll stop talking now.

ah. i always wanted to call shakespeare a fuckface.

it saddens me greatly that, since i moved to this new server, the number of people who found my site by searching for bangladeshi prostitute porn and sister-in-law sex stories has gone down to zero. hmm. perhaps i should repost the explicit posts here, eh? no? all right.

i was in a creative mood this evening, so i figured i would make a movie about the city i live in. it would be a fantastic voyage through the city, and would be sad, funny and endearing at the same time – a coming of age movie that would win me every single oscar award for the rest of human existence.

unfortunately, i soon encountered a problem. this problem is not related to the fact that i am too a.d.d. and or not talented enough to actually sit down and write something that anyone in their right minds, even me, would ever turn into a movie. that problem was quickly overcome by the realization that james cameron is still alive, and if he could turn a load of tripe like titanic into a multimillion dollar affair that teenage girls watched thirteen times, he could repeat the feat and do the same with the load of tripe i was planning to write anyway.

no. the first stumbling block that, to tell the truth, i’m still stuck at, is the title of the movie. it made me realize that “dhaka” is not really the best name for a city that i plan to immortalize on the silver screen.

i’m sure there’s a really good reason that the city is called dhaka. however, it’s completely irrelevant. some nazi websites still list the city as “dacca”, which is even worse. to me, dacca sounds like a cricket field somewhere in australia or south africa, or something a tajik would call his cat. dhaka, meanwhile, besides boasting a wider use of consonants, unfortunately can be translated (loosely) to the bengali word for “covered”, the swahili word for “shithole”, and the ancient greek word for “where the fuck?”.

meanwhile, towns and cities in the u.s. boast names (or do so in hollywood movies) that makes people want to make movies about the towns, no matter how large the redneck population is. someone tried to make me watch a chick flick named “hope springs”, and, before i shot him, i found out that the title of the movie is the name of the town where the events take place. i’m sure that, if one looked hard enough in the united states, one could find a timbuctoo, a dickweed and a pussygalore, and perhaps all three in the same state (most probably idaho). now, those are names that one could possibly inspire one to make a movie. dhaka, however…ho hum.

now i’m not advocating the changing of the name of the whole city. that would probably confuse the heck out of people. but maybe changing the names of the areas could be a solution.

for example, i live in a place called mohammadpur.

zzzzzzzzzzzz.

for the atheists/non-muslims/under-a-rock dwellers out there, that’s the equivalent of jesusville or mosesburg. and, last time i checked – actually, the last time the home minister opened his mouth – we were a moderate secular muslim democracy, with no fundamentalists anywhere at all. ever. then why do i have to live in a place that is named after a muslim prophet? i protest, for all the good that’ll do.

i would suggest that our city planners sit down and listen to some r.e.m. for about twenty hours, and then set out to rename parts of the city. i want to be able to get in a cab at, say, moral kiosk, and go all the way to kohoutek, via harborcoat, windout, and swan swan h, taking lightin’ hopkins road and rotary ten. of course, all taxi drivers would be called driver 8s, and the taxis themselves would be called hairshirts, and instead of paying fares, i would just tell the taxi driver, “you are the everything”. and everybody would be shiny, happy people, listening to radio free europe, walking around in the so. central rain, and talking about the passion.

sigh.

sometimes the world is just so much better inside my head.

p.s. the name of this site is in no way, shape or form related to the r.e.m. piece of crap called “electron blue” off their new piece of crap album “around the sun” (in fact, the album was so bad that the name refers to the only place in the universe that this album should be exiled to, for the safety and sanctity of the human race). i adopted the pseudonym electrikblues back in 1999, so they probably stole it from me. fuckers.

i’ve seen the following smiley all over blogs lately, but i cannot, for the life of me, figure out what it means. this is what it looks like:

<3

what the hell is that, and what does it signify? less than 3? 2.9999999999999999999999999? a guy with a really small (somehow triangular) penis and one testicle larger than the other? good god.

in other news, i have survived the rapidly increasing number of bombs, so don’t worry.

more posts to come as i figure out how to cope with working two jobs at the same time.

new holland, pa? who the hell do i know from my alma mater that comes from new holland, pa?

anyway.

as you can see from the top right hand corner of this blog, in the past three months, i have successfully foiled three attempts on the part of my family to marry me of to someone of their choosing in an bizarre ritual known as the arranged marriage. the latest such attempt was brought to a brutal end about two weeks ago fortunately through a series of strange events and predicaments. but based on this person’s post on the female side of the arranged marriage fiasco, i thought i might as well bring to light the male side, which, in essence, is not any prettier.

first off, let me explain the reason why i let myself be dragged into such a situation in the first place. the reason can be explained in five simple words: i am horrible at relationships. after the spectacular failure of many such attempted relationships, i came to the drastic conclusion that the only way out of the perpetual circle that was my love life, and the only way that i could actually ever get laid again, was by getting married to someone at the earliest possible opportunity. and when my family seemed to agree fully with the marrying someone part, and not at all with the having sex part, i decided to go along for the ride anyway, figuring that my family couldn’t possibly suck at finding me a decent wife, right?

wrong.

but that’s a completely different story. here, in brief, are the various steps towards said arranged marriages that i’ve been through so far.

step 1: the family
women in this country have a specific age (sell by date, as bridget jones called it) when the family of the girl get all up in arms about getting her married off – usually around the age of 23 onwards. if they aren’t married off soon, the relatives descend into a downward spiral of mourning as the girl ages.

for men there’s no such specific age. rather, it all hinges on when the family feel it’s right. for my brother, the age was 32. for my cousin, 30. for me, however, it started at 21.

this was, of course, startling. i had never expected my family’s tantric sense of marriage-appropriateness to take such a steep dive in my case. although there was a very good reason. most of the uncles and aunts either had daughters who were already married off, or daughters who were refusing to get married. of course, as my luck would have it, all these renegade daughters were geographically out of their sphere of influence, so they decided that they would pick on me, the only single person nearby.

i can’t say, however, that i had no inkling of the impending catastrophe headed my way. my aunts, bored with their life, began complaining about how a good wedding ceremony would spice things up a lot. at this point, any normal male human being would have inched away and run for his life. i, however, am stupid. therefore, within a period of 45 seconds, they had begun planning my wedding.

step 2: the search
now pay close attention, because this is the most intricate and complex part of the equation.

the first step of the search is defining the parameters for the suggested bride. this is what my family came up with:

a. good looking
b. intelligent
c. nice enough to care about the rest of the family and take care of them in their old age.

now, while i had no problems with the first two criteria, the third one gave me much to complain about. i mean, i thought this girl was marrying me, not the entire extended family. i attempted to change the criteria into my own priorities:

a. hot
b. hot
c. intelligent

but to no avail.

once the search criteria were set, the search crew was brought in. relatives i have never heard of, let alone ever met, queued up to find me the perfect bride. at this point of the entire process, i was still bemused, because i was absolutely certain that nobody would be able to find an intelligent, beautiful mother teresa anywhere in the solar system. it amazed me, however, that many of them came up with a series of girls that definitely did not meet criteria 1, probably did not meet criteria 2, and claimed to meet criteria 3. how did i find out about this? simple. i just looked at…

step 3: the biodata
yes. the biodata. tasmanian devil has already gone into the dynamics of a biodata, so i won’t try and go into the painful process of going through a set of biodatas that i could tell right off the bat did not fit into my perception of the ideal wife for me.

instead, i want to describe the painful process of preparing your own biodata.

now, i’ll admit: i don’t even lie on my resume. i think i’ve done enough wonderful things in my life to not have to exagerate them. but this was before i wrote my own biodata, under strict supervision from my entire family. suffice to say that many many trees were killed in the process of creating the biodata, as i attempted in vain to include some element of truth in the thing.

the first infringement on my real life came with my educational qualifications. it turned out that i had not attended a small liberal arts college in ohio like i originally thought, but instead i had attended “one of the world’s top institutions for the study of topics that are important to the present situation of the world”. if that wasn’t enough, i apparently attained first class in both my o levels and a levels, where i’m sure there is no such thing at either level. but no. apparently my perfect results weren’t impressive enough.

then the job. while i would classify my role at the office as an easy way to goof off for most of the month, i find out to my surprise that i was “involved in development projects that would ultimately change the face of bangladesh”. i think that that’s entirely too much pressure to put on one person. but, as always, my protests fell on deaf ears.

there was the usual crap about height and weight (making me look like some sort of hercules) and skin colour (converting my very dark skin to something called shamla, which means just a little tanned) and, off course, the relatives, all of whom had to be listed as very successful and very rich, even though i had never been aware of any of this. and then came the most difficult part.

the photograph.

now, i will readily admit that i am not the most photogenic person on the planet. in fact, most pictures of mine turn out looking like i have a severe case of constipation that even the world’s most potent medicine can’t cure. for this reason, i don’t take many pictures, and my family were unable to find any pictures more recent than 1987 in which i looked at all decent. and so they commissioned a photographer to take a good picture of me.

step 3a: the photograph

professional photographers are the most annoying species of creature that roam this planet. first of all, they will find something wrong with your hair, face, clothes or posture that you are convinced is perfectly fine. after about seventeen face washes and thirteen changes of attire, i was taken out to the garden to have pictures taken.

now, no matter how i would stand, it was wrong. i was supposed to look natural, but at the same time keep a straight back, look vaguely poetic in some direction or the other, and smile widely. if you know me at all, you know that i don’t do anything of this sort. ever. however, with the entire family watching the photography like a horde of fans gathered at a hollywood movie shoot, and glaring at me if i even dared to not obey the god of photography himself, i spent an extremely painful three and a half hours taking a picture.

after such prolonged exposure to pain, i believed the picture would make me look like a movie star.

nope.

i still looked like i had constipation.

but the family was ecstatic.

step 4: meeting the girl

up to this point, i still held out hope that no girl in her right mind would want to marry me, especially after seeing my picture. however, i was wrong yet again. apparently the response to my biodata and the picture were plentiful, much to the excitement of my family, who had drawn up a shortlist of women who fit their criteria. now i had to see one and actually fall in love with her or something.

the first time i saw all these shortlisted girls was not fun at all. as it turned out, i was commissioned to be standing at a specific place at a specific time, at which point she would walk by and i could see her.

the first three times i was supposed to do this, i lied my ass off and said that i had been there and hadn’t liked the girl one bit, when in reality i was sleeping or hanging out with friends. the fourth time, however, i was accompanied by a relative, and as much as i tried to get rid of the person, she was determined that we both see the girl. the designated spot was the busiest shopping mall in south asia. in the time i stood in the designated spot, nearly three hundred girls passed by, none of whom i would touch with a ten foot pole, let alone marry. when my relative asked if i had seen her, i lied and said yes. anything to get out of the torture.

apparently, my relative mistook my moody silence to mean that i had fallen head over heels in love with the girl, instead of my true thoughts: how to kill my entire extended family. as a result, they set up an official visit to the girl’s house.

the mission consisted of myself, my father, and the two oldest aunts and uncles. we trooped en masse to the girl’s house, but not before i was sternly warned not to look directly at the girl, for some reason or the other. i was then grilled intensively by the girl’s parents, giving me a clear understanding of what it felt like to be a prisoner at abu ghraib. fifteen minutes into the encounter, the girl was brought in.

not knowing where precisely to look, i stared at my fingers, knees, toes, shoes and anything else in my immediate vicinity. the girl had apparently been bedecked in her finest sari, and so i took advantage of the lack of places to look to stare at the hem, in the hope that it would reveal everything about her. no such luck. my aunts launched into a song entitled “look how pretty she is”. this confused me. i mean, which was i supposed to do – look or not look?

and then. the parents of the girl actually made her get up and give us our cups of tea. now if i were the girl, i would shoot the parents in the head. instead, she did as they said, at which my aunts piped up in a chorus of “look how nice the girl is”. of course i still couldn’t look, so i concentrated on the intricate designs on the tea cup.

so began her own interrogation. in the midst of which i decided to sneak a look at the girl, and as it turned out, she wasn’t any of the girls i had seen at the shopping mall. not one. in fact, she turned out to be slightly better, in that perhaps i would touch her with a ten-foot pole, but not maybe a five-foot one.

of course the interrogation was punctuated with verses from the hit song “look how intelligent she is”, until it got to a point where i was certain i would rip my family’s eyes out. fortunately, we left soon afterward.

step 5: the phone calls

about three weeks later, i was informed that i was supposed to be calling the girl on the phone every night or something equally stupid.

now, i have a hard enough time talking to people i’ve known for years. unless they do their share of the conversing, i try and hang up as soon as possible with feeble excuses of needing to pee or wash my cat or eat a random meal. apparently, in this special case, the girl is supposed to be quiet and demure and shy, and not talk much. as a result, our conversations generally took the following form:

me: hello.
her: hi.
me: it’s me.
her: i know.
me: so how are you?
her: good.
[long pause] her: and you?
me: i’m fine, thanks.
[long pause; i look at my cat, thinking if i should give it its fourth bath in as many days] me: so how was your day?
her: good. yours?
me: it was all right
[long pause] me: did you do anything fun today?
her: no, not really.
me: yeah, me neither.
[long pause] me: well, it was great talking to you. unfortunately i need to go throw up. bye
her: bye.

of course, every time she said a word, it was punctuated by giggles and howling from her end, which, i found out later, were her cousins and siblings, all of whom had nothing better to do than sit around and listen to us (not) talking.

step 6: the relatives

somewhere along the way, i was expected to get to know and love all her relatives. and this was extremely difficult for me. i hate my own relatives, and have no intention of gaining any more. but no. i had to spend an entire month’s meager salary taking her relatives to lunch and dinner at expensive places so that they could get to know me better.

as i said to my friends, i’m really not that interesting to get to know. but if they really want to, they can pay for the privilege. but no. every time the waiter arrived at the end of a meal with the cheque, the whole host of uncles and aunts and cousins and nephews and nieces became busy with something or the other, and i was left having to pay it, just so it didn’t look awkward.

of course, i wasn’t supposed to ever meet her for lunch or dinner or even an afternoon snack. oh no. that would have been a crime, apparently. so instead, we talked on the phone, in a manner of speaking.

step 7: the engagement

at some point, the girl realized, somehow or the other, that she did in fact want to spend the rest of her life with me.

what the hell?

i would have thought that all this crap would have made her choose differently, but apparently, according to our respective relatives, we were both head over heels in love with each other. now love is one emotion that i definitely did not feel in the entire exercise. nausea, yes. love, no.

fortunately, my painful tale ends here. while this whole process happened to me three times in the past six months, each time i managed to convince either my family or the girl’s to not go any farther.

thank god.

having now read all four books written by “#1 new york times bestselling author of the da vinci code” dan brown, i feel a certain blast of emotions flowing through my system. the primary emotion that makes up this compendium is one of utter self-loathing: i can’t believe i’ve wasted so many hours of my life reading this senseless fantasy crap. i don’t care who or what the holy grail was particularly, and from what i’ve seen so far, all that shit was dan brown’s own imagination working on overdrive. so now i’m convinced that i’m qualified to draw up the following list:

how to write a dan brown bestselling novel in ten easy steps:

1. first, write a gripping and suspenseful prologue or first chapter where the primary instigator of the entire book dies, usually yelling “nooooooooooooooooooo” or “helpppppppppppppppppp” as his dying words. better yet, make sure that, before he dies, your primary instigator sends out a message to someone in some way or the other (self-mutilation is not taboo, in this case). but don’t worry. someone will find the body, along with the message, but will be too much of a dumbass to put two and two together to come up with the solution right off the bat, sparing you the need to write another 100-odd chapters worth of tripe.

2. in the second chapter, introduce your primary good guy as doing some mundane tasks (eating, drinking, having sex, taking a dump, whichever strikes your fancy). in the middle of this mundane activity, your primary good guy will get an urgent message from someone asking him or her for help. make sure that your primary good guy interrupts whatever activity he or she is involved in to run off and reply to the message (if he/she was taking a dump, i hope you stop long enough for them to wipe. otherwise it’s just wrong).

3. take your primary good guy to some top secret lab or organization somewhere in the world to answer the message. once he or she arrives, they will meet with the primary storyteller, who will fill at least three chapters with a lot of backstory that explain why the primary good guy is there in the first place. after said backstory is completed, the primary storyteller will give the primary good guy a long and pointless briefing (ideally lasting another three chapters) on what they need to do from here on out.

4. along the way, make sure your primary good guy runs into trouble with basic and simple problems that even a three year old baby on crack could solve. these problems provide you with an opportunity to drop into your narrative completely random and useless tidbits, like “why is a toilet called a toilet?” or “why did the chicken cross the road?” before the primary good guy actually does solve the problem.

5. also, introduce your secondary good guy somewhere along the way as well, just for fun. this person should ideally be of the opposite sex to the primary good guy, and should also be extremely hot and doable. never mind the fact that many people will wonder how a nerd like your primary good guy could ever stand a chance with a hottie like your secondary good guy. your secondary good guy can also be used to drop small hints along the way, as well as to present more useless facts, like “what is the etymology of the english word ‘goat’?” and “did shakespeare masturbate once or twice a day?”.

6. throughout the book, make sure you drop hints about the presence of the primary bad guy, while never actually identifying who it is. instead, have a multitude of secondary bad guys do the dirty work, which usually involves trying to kill the primary and secondary good guys. for added effect, make it seem like the primary bad guy could be absolutely anyone, from the president of the united states, to the secretary-general of the united nations, to the guy who picks up your trash every week. establish a motive for each of these guys, especially the trash guy.

7. wherever you can, throw in a phrase in latin or ancient greek that signifies something. it doesn’t matter what it signifies, really, as long as it’s in either of those languages. for added spice, try and link it to the plot somehow, like so: “primary good guy was sitting on the toilet, taking a massive crap after eating that large bowl on nachos, when he realized that the motto of the [insert random top-secret government agency here] was ‘il nacho tu facho’, which translated into, ‘if you eat bad nachos, you’re fucked’. could this be the reason that he was being hunted down by a team of savage lapd canine units? could the agency be involved in a conspiracy to destroy the gastrointestinal linings of all citizens through bad nachos?” etc. etc.

8. make sure you end every chapter with a cliffhanger, although what really happened probably isn’t that important or interesting anyway. for instance, if you were using the story line in point 7, the end of the chapter would be something like this: “primary good guy stood up to flush the toilet after wiping himself carefully. he looked down at the turds floating in the toilet and was shocked to see what was floating in there along with the turds. ‘could it really be?’ he wondered, bending down to take a closer look, when something large fell on his head and knocked him out cold.” make sure you begin the next chapter with, “primary good guy got up off the bathroom floor, feeling the massive bump on the back of his head. he looked over at the comode, and saw to his extreme surprise that the lid had fallen down on him while he was peering into the bowl at the large silver dollar coin he had swallowed three weeks ago that was floating alongside his turds” etc. etc.

9. about two chapters before the end, finally unmask the primary bad guy who, up to this point, you’ve been using a randomly sinister term to refer to (e.g. mastermind or puppetmaster or motherfucker or whatever). for added value, make it so that the primary bad guy is the primary storyteller, and that the primary good guy never suspected him for a moment because of their long and close working relationship/romantic involvement/kinky sex history. make the primary bad guy pull a hardy boys-type stunt, where, instead of simply killing the primary and secondary good guys, he gives them a long and painful story of why he did what he did. obviously this is done so that the reader sympathizes with the circumstances surrounding the primary bad guy, even though the reader will probably realize that the trash guy had much more motive than the primary bad guy.

10. leave a couple of chapters at the end of the book for a gratuitous and embarassing sex scene between the nerdy primary good guy and the sexy secondary good guy, where the primary good guy does his best to be romantic, but, being a nerd, fails completely. however, the secondary good guy will still laugh it away, and give him hot passionate sex. this is so that many many nerds around the world can get the wrong impression that being a nerd leads to hot sex with beautiful women, something that i can personally testify never happens in real life.

the following is an exact transcript of a phone conversation i had today with my dad. none of this is made up.

me: hello?
dad: when are you coming home?
me: i’ll be late.
dad: why?
me: i was in an accident.
dad: oh. [brief silence] make sure you pick up some fried chicken on the way home.

sigh.

i’ve noticed that a lot of bloggers like to put up results of random tests on their blogs. while i could not be bothered to take a test to find out if i’m good in bed (i already know i am) or which female harry potter character i’m most sexually compatible with (mmm hermione), i thought i’d put together a few tests on my own for all of you who like to take them.

these tests range from easy to somewhat hard. so take your time, and make sure you don’t cheat. after all, the answers are right after the tests themselves. not only would that be dishonest, but it would also wear away the fragile meaning of life. not for me, though. enjoy!

the “would the author of electrik blues bang you?” test

1. do you completely resemble any of the following celebrities:

• aishwariya rai (1 point)
• keira knightley (1 point)
• lindsay lohan (0.5 points)
• emma watson (0.5 points)
• pee wee herman (0 points)

answer key:

• 1 point: i think i love you. you’re the one i’ve been waiting for all my life. contact me by phone, fax, email, skype, google or whatever your chosen method of communication, because not only do i want to bang you, i also want to marry you. and it won’t be banging. it’ll be sweet loving all night long, baby!
• 0.5 points: while you are beautiful and sexy, i don’t think i can call you either of those terms for another 1 or 2 years. when you are of legal age, see the above answer.
• 0 points: get away from me, you creep. argh!

see, now that wasn’t so hard, now was it? now on to the tougher stuff.

the “what kind of electrik blues reader are you?” test

1. how did you find this site?

• clicked on a link on a comment on some other blog (2 points)
• clicked on a link on some other blog’s blogroll (2 points)
• got the link from me (2 points)
• searched the web for any of the following terms: whore, sex, fuck, prostitute, pubic hair, cockroaches, breasts, horny, sister in law etc. (1 point)

2. what is your ideal pet?

• dog (2 points)
• horse (2 points)
• snake (2 points)
• iguana (2 points)
• pussy, and i don’t mean the feline variety (1 point)

3. how often do you masturbate?

• less than once a day (2 points)
• at least once a day (1 point)

4. do you watch porn?

• yes (0 points)
• yes (0 points)

bonus: for a bonus two points, name the last porn you watched.

5. do you solemnly swear that you are up to no good?

• not really (2 points)
• the only thing i like about harry potter is the hot girl-on-girl action (1 point)

answer key:

• greater than 6 points: congratulations! you are a victim of my massive publicity blitz and ad campaign! had i been a little less lazy, i would actually have made one of those cool banner ads and threatened my friends with anal rape if they didn’t put it on their sites. however, all i’ve actually done is post some comments on some blogs i read, and weasel my way into a few blogrolls. failing that, i’ve assaulted people on instant messengers with constant repetitions of the link itself. whatever the reason, the important thing is that you are here now, and that i’ve conquered yet another mind on my quest for global domination!
• less than or equal to 6 points: congratulations! you belong to the horny pervert category! you join the esteemed rank of 5 other folks who’ve found this site by entering random sexually-oriented phrases in your nearest search engine, and had the patience to weed through millions of pages of what i am positive is quality porn to find this one website that does not make you horny in any way, shape or form! you deserve to be shot in the head, and if you are unwilling to do that to yourself, i will gladly do it for you. if, however, you scored any points on the first test above, i am available by phone, fax, email, skype, google and every other method of communication ever devised to satisfy your needs. in which case you are no longer a horny pervert, but rather the love of my life.

there. now i hope you’ve all learnt something important about yourselves.

i realized recently that i have quite a large bald spot growing on the top of my head.

in all actuality, i hadn’t realized it at all. my father was the first one to notice, and he nearly had a heart attack. upon noticing, he quickly arrived at several wide-ranging conclusions to account for the recent loss of hair:

a. i must be doing drugs
b. i must be low on vitamins
c. i must be having a lot of sex
d. i must not be eating right
e. i must not be getting enough rest
f. i must quit my job immediately
g. etc. etc. etc.

now, the amazing thing about these conclusions is neither the fact that most of them have little or nothing to do with hair loss, nor the fact that none of them are true. what is amazing is the fact that he arrived at all these conclusions in less than a minute, and therefore set out to counter each of the conclusions by themselves. he began by nearly shoving large quantities of food down my throat, and quickly followed by ceasing to complain about my sleeping habits. had we been a less conservative family, i’m sure he would either have bought me condoms or preached about abstinence.

it doesn’t bother me that none of his conclusions were true in the least. it does, however, greatly bother me that his entire reaction sequence was pretty much an act of closing the gate after the horse had already bolted. let me tell you something about my father: you can count the number of hairs on his head by using the fingers of one hand. in fact, my two-year-old nephew, who can count upto ten only, loves to sit in my father’s lap and count his hairs, because the hair is one of the few things in this world that actually number less than ten. having passed on the baldness gene to me already, i find it quite disturbing that he’s now fighting to avoid what is definitely my future, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

therefore, if you love my writings and feel i would make a great husband, marry me now before i am left with less than ten hairs.

my boss had a better way of dealing with it. i went to him and told him that the number of projects he had assigned me were causing me a lot of stress, and that it was leading to my hair falling out. in his own infallible, selfless way, he did what any caring and compassionate boss would do to a stressed employee: he gave me more work.

my sisters have the knack of developing attention deficit disorder whenever i start talking about my problems with them – whether it loss of hair, piles, projectile vomiting or erectile dysfunction. as soon as the magic words “hair loss” had exited my mouth, one of them sped off to shout at her children, while the other accelerated in the other direction to see if her cooking was being burned.

i must admit that i am not worried. i read somewhere that women find bald spots to be sexy and a sign of sexual libido. i didn’t need to lose hairs to tell anyone that: anyone with a slightly moderate hearing ability would no doubt already know that.

although i must admit that these desired effects from women are yet to be observed. however, i will wait patiently. if necessary, i will lose more hairs, just so that women want to bang me. i know, it is a great sacrifice that i am making for humanity, but if leads to banging, i’m all for it.

once in a blue moon, approximately every 3.23 years, my winamp gets in to a good mood, and starts playing good music from amongst my music collection, ignoring all the crap that i download frequently. and before i’m slapped with a warrant, a cease-and-desist order and dragged off to jail to be raped anally by a large muscular man named bubba, i categorically admit that i download music only from this site, which my battalion of lawyers assures me is completely legal in nature. so suck it, cops.

i thought that i might as well conclude the list begun in the previous post, but first, a couple of housekeeping items:

1. in the places list on the left you will find a new site called “vent now!”. this is a new initiative i have begun for frustrated people the world over. basically, it’s a forum where you can vent about absolutely anything at all, or read other people’s vents. please, spread the word about the site. everyone needs to vent, otherwise the world will spontaneously combust from the interior.

2. thank god i didn’t get in to harry potter until about approximately 2 weeks ago. if i had to wait 2 years to find out if harry actually gets laid, i would have shot myself in the head. or preferably someone else. although i have trouble believing that all these hormonal teens go to boarding school and there isn’t more hanky panky going on. i’m sure j.k. rowling will release another book on hogwarts after the seventh book called “hogwarts: the untold story” which talks about ron’s pot smoking, harry’s addiction to masturbation and hermione’s incessant whoring, with snape as her pimp. that would be quite a fun read.

anyway, on with the list:

things i detest about bangladesh (continued):

[side note: it just occured to me that i could go on with this list indefinitely. but, in the interest of time and humor, i’ll try and keep it short this time around.]

7. the heat: i’ve already talked about this here. go read it if you haven’t already.

8. the low visibility of hot women: i fondly remember the last time i saw a hot woman somewhere outside their homes in this country. it was april 6, 1986. of course, i was about five years old, so i didn’t bother to ask her name or get her address or phone number. anyway, since then, it’s been downhill ever since. no hot women visible anywhere, at all. i mean, i’m certain they exist in the country, and only come out for fancy parties that i’m never invited to, primarily because i’m sure i’m too cool to go to said parties. even the prostitutes are really ugly. if i were ever to be approached by one of these whores, i would give them the address of the nearest plastic surgery outfit. i don’t know how the common man in this country ever gets laid, with so much ugliness around them. no wonder the paper bag business is doing so well.

9. corruption: you’d think that a country that was labelled the most corrupt country in the world many years in a row would actually do something about changing it. well, we have. we’ve become even more corrupt, if possible. a friend of mine was trying to start a business, and had to deal with about seventeen different licensing procedures to do so. on one occasion, one civil servant flat out refused to process his file until a suitable bribe had been paid. on another, it was only possible when a distant relative who turned out to be a high-level government official made a phone call to the concerned official, at which point his application was processed at approximately the speed of light. and cops, themselves, live for bribes. if a cop stops you, pull out your wallet, son, because you aren’t getting out of it (whatever your crime might have been: speeding, jaywalking, nudity, sex in public or murder) unless you pay for it. someone needs to form a high level force authorized to shoot people on site for doing dumb things. i would make an ideal member of that force. making me a member of that force would also help solve the overpopulation problem, because i would probably kill nearly 76% of the population in less than a week. stupid fuckers.

10. people’s taste in music: considering the fact that you can get pirated porn from every corner of the world in this country, i figured the same would be true for all kinds of music. boy, was i wrong. the following are a series of conversations i’ve had in music stores over the past two weeks:

store 1
me: do you have any albums from remy zero (my latest addiction)?
shopkeeper: [blank stare]

store 2
me: do you have any albums by tori amos?
shopkeeper: [blank stare]

store 3
me: do you have any good jazz albums?
shopkeeper: [blank stare]

in an attempt to prove my hypothesis was in fact real, i embarked on an experiment:

all stores
me: do you have the latest backstreet boys album?
shopkeeper: [excited] yes, sir, of course. here you go!

at which point i, of course, punched the shopkeeper in the balls for attempting to sell me a backstreet boys album. the nerve of these people!

seriously, people in this country either listen to pop (hindi or english) or alternative/metal, and nothing in between. when not listening to their chosen genre of music, they bash the listeners of the other genres on online forums, which seems to have become a national pastime. the other day, i heard to my great excitement that there was a new funk band in town. i went to a concert of theirs to find out if they were any good, and their definition of funk turned out to be pop music – mainly britney spears – played to reggae beats. meanwhile, they dressed like hippies. i don’t understand these people anymore.

well, i think i’ll end there. i could go on for hours on various issues (internet speeds, spitting, rickshaws etc.), but i don’t want to lose my audience. so instead, here’s

ten things i like about bangladesh, as hard as it may be to believe

1. the monsoon: monsoons rock. especially here. i mean, once the rains start, you know for a fact that there will be no let up for two months. and then it’ll be sunshine until the next monsoon. and the rain is amazing, at least if you’re indoors when it’s raining. if you’re outdoors though, it’s a bitch. my new favorite pastime is sitting on the verandah watching it rain and playing the guitar. yes, i know. i’m extremely deep and sexy and hot. do me now.

2. colorful language: no where else in the world is there such a large vocabulary of curse words. i don’t know who comes up with them, but they deserve some sort of award. the best place to hear curses, both new and old, is in a traffic jam in a rickshaw, and hearing their valuable social commentary on their adjoining vehicle drivers. for your convenience, i have compiled a short dictionary of bengali curses. i don’t know if our friends on the other side of the border use all of these, so please enlighten me.

kutta: dog
khanki: prostitute
magi: prostitute
shuor: pig
shala: wife’s brother. i’m not sure why this is a curse, but it is.
gadha: donkey
madarchod: one who engages in intercourse with their mother
bainchod: one who engages in intercourse with their sister
khanki magi: prostitute prostitute. for really whory people, i guess.
chaat: vagina
baal: pubic hair
chaater baal: vaginal hair. clearly undesirable. probably for people who make you tonguetied.
chudi: fucker
chudir bhai: fucker’s brother. yes, my brother fucks. he has a son, for god’s sake.
khankir pola: son of a prostitute
manger pola: son of a vagina. you have to be quite a bastard to be called this.
manger nati: grandson of a vagina. i don’t even know what you could possibly do to be called this.
kuttar bachcha: son of a bitch. your standard run-of-the-mill insult
shuorer bachcha: son of a pig. huh.
gadhar bachcha: son of a donkey. reserved for the dumb ones.

i give up. i can’t remember any more to list here. but don’t worry: you can easily make your own. just take any word that is vaguely sexual in nature, add the word for a relative of some kind (brother, father, sister, mother, uncle, second cousin twice removed – whatever mood you’re in) and, for added spice, you can add some random adjectives. my rickshaw-puller this evening, who, on average, spouted an invective once every 27 seconds, today came up with one i’ve never heard before: shundor magir nati. for the non-bengalis among you, that means the grandson of a beautiful prostitute. i’m not certain how or why this is a curse, but whatever floats his boat, i guess.

3. piracy: as i said before in this post, you can get absolutely any kind of porn from any where in the world in dhaka. and that’s not all – it’ll be dvd quality as well! therefore, if porn is your thing, this place can be nirvana. other than that, you can watch any hollywood movie abot 53 minutes after it’s released in theatres in the us. the picture quality might not that be good – you may be forgiven for thinking, for example, that a character is actually a tree or a part of the scenery – and with awful audio and very wrong subtitles – so when the character is saying “i love you” the subtitles actually say something more along the lines of “you fucking stupid bitch” – but you can actually claim you watched the movie. comprehension, however, is a different ballgame altogether.

4. it’s a small country, after all: chances are, if you meet someone new, that person is probably the classmate from twelve years ago of the best friend of your sister’s husband’s third cousin. therefore, it’s quite an adventure trying to figure out how you know people. in my office, for example, one of my colleagues is my sister’s friend from university from a village home close to ours, another is a person who was my cousin’s best friend and i played soccer with twelve years ago, another is a friend of an ex-girlfriend, another is a distant grandfather of mine, and another is a complete dick that i thank all my lucky stars that i’m not related to, even remotely.

5. cheap whores: granted, they are ugly as all heck, but, according to the world Sexual Records, they are the cheapest in the universe. apparently you can get one for ten taka, which comes to about 17 cents in US dollars, or about 10 pence in the UK. of course, it’s always a surprise if you engage in intercourse with them, as you don’t know what venereal disease you may end up with. i pray to all the gods in the universe that i’m never sexually frustrated enough to try and find out for myself.

6. the government’s funny as heck: now this is serious. every time the government tries to do something cool and modern, they invariably get stabbed in the back. in order to ease traffic, they installed traffic signals at every major intersection in the capital. when these actually work, they cause more traffic than before, when a dumbass traffic policeman directed traffic manually. then, to further fight traffic, the government built massive flyovers at busy intersections so that one could theoretically bypass the traffic jams. the inevitable result was that the traffic jams extended on to the flyovers. to fight corruption, the government raised salaries of civil servants. immediately, the cost of bribery went up accordingly. i don’t think any other world government exists that can shoot itself in the foot so regularly and with such precision.

7. you can get whatever it is you want: if you are willing and able to pay for it. you can buy absolutely everything, from dvd players (sometimes made by companies named panosanic, sany and sonyo) to drugs (from weed to something called yaba, which i’m pretty certain makes you think you’re fred flintstone if you take it) to activities (bowling to paintball, although the paintball place has run out of paintballs, and the bowling balls and pins have become quite shabby due to overzealous bowlers). but the fact remains, if you want it, you can get it. unfortunately, most times, “it” will not come with a warranty, so you’ll be stuck with a shiny new nakoia cell phone that doesn’t work.

8. dumb people: if the last two muggers were any indication, the average intelligence of the bangladeshi people is decreasing daily, and it’s really funny. a couple of weeks ago, i saw this one guy who was walking down the street like he was the shit, and at one point he fell into one of the many uncovered sewers. therefore, eventually, he did turn out to be the shit. on average, though, the chances that you will see at least 4 people do something really dumb on any given day are very high. if you’re lucky, you won’t be one of the four.

9. parties: as i said before, there are apparently some cool parties here in dhaka every weekend, with international djs coming in and lots of hot dancing women and flowing alcohol. unfortunately, i’m never invited to any of these parties, so i can’t provide you with details. ask someone who knows about this kind of thing.

10. gossip: everyone gossips in bangladesh. about everyone else. it’s a vicious cycle, i know, but there’s no way to get out of it. most times the gossip is quite juicy and fun to listen to. however, i have learnt that the best gossip i’ve ever heard is generally about me, propagated by my family. of course, they never tell me these things directly, so i end up hearing bits and pieces from various sources, most usually my sister-in-law, who they all confide in, and who subtly tries to find out if the rumors have any hint of truth in them. thankfully, my sister-in-law visits once a year, and i know for a fact that each of these visits will be laden with more juicy morsels about me. somethings i heard during this last visit about myself were:

a. i’m dating my best friend’s sister: isn’t that incest? i would never date a friend’s sister, because then the friend would take every opportunity to give me a guilt trip, claiming i was only his friend because of his sister. maybe if the girl was hot, and the guy was really a dick. hmm.
b. i’m addicted to heroin: i wear t-shirts half the time i see my family, and wear half-sleeve shirts about 40% of the remaining time. if i wear really a junkie, don’t they think my arms would closely resemble the surface of the moon? and if i were simply inhaling it, wouldn’t i be more stoned all the time? but no, no matter how sober i am, they are convinced i’m on drugs. i’ve offered to take drug tests at random intervals to prove them wrong, but they keep refusing. i guess once you believe something, it’s hard to let it go.
c. i murdered someone: now this is just preposterous. i admit, i have a raging temper, but if i were capable of murder, i wouldn’t stop at just one person. in fact, as i stated above, a majority of the people of bangladesh would be in grave mortal peril. so far, all the dumbasses seem to still be alive and wildly propagating their seed, so clearly i am not a murderer.
d. i have a very active sex life: now this is clearly the funniest thing i have ever heard in my life. if only my family were more liberal than they are, i would tell them exactly how sexually frustrated i am. apparently the proof behind this theory of theirs is that they have never found any porn in my room or on my computer. well, now. congratulations, sherlock. apparently it hasn’t crossed their mind that maybe i don’t watch porn. but no. a young man who doesn’t watch porn must be having hot passionate sex every day.

on reflection, i must admit that the person my family thinks i am is infinitely cooler than the person i really am. maybe in a parallel universe, i really am those things. someone please tell me how to get to this parallel universe. now.

thank god for mimosa. if she didn’t leave a comment on every single post on this site, i would give up writing, move to alaska and have hot passionate sex with penguins. therefore, i probably shouldn’t be thanking her, but perhaps the penguins should. she’s saved them infinite pain.

as for the other two people who’ve left comments on this site – CALove and psmithie – who the hell are you? no, please, rudeness aside, i really would like to know who you are and how you found my site. if you too have a blog, i’ll add the links to the bar on the right, which, you will notice, has grown in size as i added some of my favorite funny blogs to the list.

well, since my secret’s out (see the comments on the previous post) and all of you now know that i live in bangladesh, i guess it’s time for a rant on the country. this rant is not to be confused with the previous rant on the country, as this one is significantly longer and more graphic. if you are weak at heart or just simply stupid, i suggest you not read further. in fact, here are a list of things you could be doing instead:

1. masturbating
2. reading a good book
3. listening to music
4. eating
5. sleeping
6. laundry

still reading? good. you better. so here we go:

things i detest about bangladesh

1. cool people in cool cars: allow me to wax lyrical here. the latest trend in bangladesh is to take an ancient car, usually toyota corollas from the 80s, and add so many parts and upgrades that it looks nothing like a toyota corolla from the 80s, but instead resembles a toyota corolla from the 80s with a severe identity crisis, attempting to disguise itself as a cooler car. i blame movies like fast and the furious and games like need for speed underground for this recent addiction, but i’m not complaining – it does liven the roads up a bit.

along with the new spoilers, exhaust pipes, neon and other assorted spare parts, people like to install brand new state of the art sound systems in their car, with high powered woofers and tweeters and what-not. that, in itself, is not annoying. the annoying part is the music that people choose to play with their new sound systems: stuff like michael jackson and other random assorted hindi movie crap. now, clearly the people in this country have not yet learnt the very important lesson of how to mix music for maximum effect, leading to cars with either very high bass levels, or very high treble levels. therefore, the immediate effect of such a quandary is that the chance that you will be woken up at 2 in the morning by the bass line of “beat it” or the high-pitched noise of the latest hindi blockbuster movie are very high.

if only i had a baseball bat, so many problems would be solved.

2. traffic: well, to be honest, the traffic situation, while terrible, is caused solely by a group of drivers whose driving provides ample evidence that their intelligence is of substandard level. first of all, the concept of lanes is completely lost on all these people. i was in a traffic jam today, waiting for 25 minutes, because some genius in the right lane decided he wanted to turn left, and therefore decided to block the entire road in an effort to get from right to left. even my boss got frustrated. of course, he’s generally angry all the time, so that wasn’t a surprise.

as for the driving skills of these people: clearly, they all learnt driving from satan himself. if there is a gap barely enough for a motorcycle to fit, you can bet that three different cars will try to fit into it, leading to yelling matches between the drivers of the vehicles. and when the traffic starts moving again, you can bet that the three drivers will still be too engaged in their heated argument to notice. and then everyone will start honking. like crazy.

as for when the inevitable accident happens, the standard custom is to quickly get out of your car, leaving it in the middle of the road where you stopped, in order to yell at the person who crashed into you. if you’re lucky, some random passerby will get involved, and try and beat up the offending guy (i’m not kidding). and then the cops will come along, and you know it’s time to pull out the wallet, otherwise all the honking people behind you will never get to go where they need to.

but seriously, when it takes 25 minutes to travel a distance of 2 km, you know something’s wrong. thank god i don’t drive in this country much. otherwise i would kill nearly everyone in a fit of road rage.

3. pedestrians: while this should be a part of #2, i feel it is imperative that it is addressed seperately. the intelligence quotient of the average bangladeshi pedestrian is somewhere between that of a snail and that of the rock that the snail is trying to crawl under. clearly, it is a fashionable trend to cross the road without looking to see if traffic is coming. the other day, while driving along gulshan avenue, i felt it necessary to stop the car and have this conversation with someone crossing the road:

me: pardon me, sir, but is your name gulshan?
pedestrian: [confused] umm, no
me: then stop crossing the road like you own it, asshole!

the other annoying habit of pedestrians is noticeable when you are the only car on the road and someone wants to cross the street about a mile down the road. these people will stand there, staring at you like they’ve never seen a car before, and then, just when you are a few feet away, they will attempt to run across the road like a rabbit on steroids. of course, this can only have one of two possible consequences:

1. you slam on your brakes, hitting your nose on the steering wheel; or
2. you hit the person.

now, there is no way to escape this situation without pain. either you could hit your nose hard on the steering wheel, or you could get beaten up by a massive crowd that suddenly materializes out of nowhere on what you thought was a deserted street. and then the cops show up, and you have no choice but to pull out your wallet and bribe them so they don’t drag you off to jail and rape you. so you end up with a broken body and no money. great.

4. law and order: ah, i’m sure you thought that this would be #1, didn’t you, especially after this. but there isn’t much to say. the last time i got mugged, back in january, a policeman was standing about 10 feet behind me when it happened. and that is the primary problem in regards to the law and order situation. the policemen are out to make a quick buck, in any way possible. therefore, when not mugging people themselves, they get a percentage from the muggers themselves in exchange for looking the other way. however, if the intelligence of the last two muggers is any indication, mugging will soon become a lost art of bangladesh. sigh.

5. the roads: once again, this goes hand in hand with # 2 above. i don’t know what they use to make the roads here, but i’m absolutely certain that it is water-soluble. why else would the roads suddenly melt away and disintegrate as soon as the first rain drop of the monsoon hits them? this invariably leads to huge gaping holes big enough to swallow half the universe at one go.

6. kids: first a little clarification – by kids, i mean anyone younger than me, which, at last count, numbered in the millions. these kids, who definitely have watched more television in the last week than i have in my entire existence, seem to be taking over the country. it is nearly impossible to go anywhere without bumping into at least one of these specimens. what bothers me about these kids is not the individuals themselves, but their confusion over who they are. let me elaborate: these are kids who grew up under the influence of cable television, which brought the best of hollywood and bollywood into their lives. therefore, under the influence of these conflicting worlds, where people either wear skimpy clothing, or wear skimpy clothing and prance around, they’ve lost touch with their own culture and what it means to be bangladeshi. the other day, i saw this kid, not more than 15 years of age, in a black t-shirt with a heavy metal bands logo, what seemed to be approximately 52 piercings on his face, with a real live snake wrapped around his wrist. and with him was a girl in a tanktop and skimpy shorts. five years ago, both would have been stoned to death – the boy for being a gay wannabe, and the girl for being a slut. being the lover of nostalgia that i am, i chucked large rocks at them until they figured out which direction the rocks were coming from and proceeded to chase me. but i outran the little fuckers.

and then there are the ultra-extremist bangladeshis, with long hair and huge flowing beards that would make gandalf jealous, adorned in panjabis and, just to prove that they are still slightly modern, a pair of jeans. these specimens freak me out more than anybody else. i’m afraid to walk down a dark alley with them, because i fear that they will corner me and burst into some deep bengali poetry, possibly from tagore or from jatiyo kobi nazrul islam, that will leave me with nothing but an intense desire to kick them in the balls. the kids, not the poets.

but they should all be shot. or locked up at home and beaten with belts. until they learn to:

a. shave
b. cut their hair
c. not pierce their faces
d. wear clothing that covers more than 0.02% of their body
e. not carry wild reptiles wrapped around their wrists.
f. etc.

whew. i’m tired. all this ranting has made me exhausted. i’m going to go now and finish this list sometime later. in the meantime, i must admit mimosa has the right idea: don’t come to bangladesh, if you value your life. you’ll be mugged in a dark alley by a cop while a bengali hippy recites some ancient poetry, and then you will fall into a huge gaping hole in the road, which you will climb out of with great difficulty, only to be run over by a car blaring michael jackson’s “bad” at tremendously loud volumes, which swerves to avoid a dumbass pedestrian crossing the street without looking for oncoming traffic.

that is, of course, if you’re lucky.