Cute! Don't you think?

There is something about holding a ‘Labour Card’ – whether you’re a worth the tag or not – that drives UAE’s expat population to extreme lengths to redicule inhabitants of the subcontinent. I came across one in the advertising field a little while back. The genetically-challenged arsehole opened his facial spincter and craped all over me… All on account of my having an opinion?!!

Anyway, I pity the constipated bastard. His mom. And his pathetic pop (if he knows who it is). In fact, I’m quite certain that he is the product of the lack of a condom – or at least, a defective one.

WOW! I actually received an invitation to a blog that’s even more obnoxious than mine. Thanks Dickie boy. But since I’ve got some catching up to do, I’ll start without further ado.

He is a mallu-lover if ever there was one. I thought he was from beyond the Vindhyas. But he seems educated and he’s got a Goan-sort of name. Hmmm… Gotta ask his mom about that. (Not the education, stupid.) I could give you his gmail id and you could leave a message for his mom too. But then again, I don’t trust you to be civil. For my part, I am going to encourage the poor, pathetic cur to continue to fret, fume, huff, and spurt his putrid bile all over his lap and his blog. Because – and this is pure conjecture – but I think there some of that abused-child-crying-for-attention Freudian shit in all this.

Why? Why, you ask? Because his blood-curdling spite is all directed not just at mallu oil-balls – it’s aimed at his not-that-long-ago schoolmates! He has gone ahead and declared the entire Non Resident Indian academic community in Kuwait as being – wait for it – GAY. Bloody shit! I mean at an age, when he should be out sniffing pheromones on sidewalks and shopping malls, and trying hard to get into the pants of some rabid off-duty female US Army corporal from Alabama for some of that sweet Abu Ghraib-style BDSM, our sweet disfunctional dungpile is recollecting and recounting the various locations that he copped a feel of fat mallu ass (No, he doesn’t mention male or female.) Urgh! Is that debased or what?

Now, now let’s not be judgemental here. This is an individual who genuinely needs help. I am going to recommend a fleshtorch(TM). It might help. Or he can go completely au naturale and try out his friendly mangy neighbourhood mongrel bitch – if she’s willing! Remember, otherwise it’s rape, and I don’t condone rape – whether it’s a pomeranian or a mallu. But whatever outlet he finally chooses, he needs sympathy (and possibly, sperm donors, if he’s planning to leave his mom’s ample bosom anytime soon to embrace a virgin bride.) I wish him luck – lots of it. And maybe a pile of antacids and an year’s supply of online viagra prescriptions to go with it.

Time to to get your rocks off, boy-o. Maybe you should be trying to get into the abayas of those Kuwaiti sweetknickers instead of going on and on about their supposed phone sex fantasies with your mallu-macaque of a tuition teacher. Let it out. Spray it, Dickie-boy. Get off already. Your mama may not have told you this, but you seem old enough.

I’ve had it up to here (touching my privates) with motherfucking northies trying to coin Sree as ‘cry baby’. Ok, so he may be one. But you fucking northies don’t have the right to call him that. Or else we will call your boys as both ‘gays’ and ‘bastards’. Seriously. Imagine us chanting “Bastard, Bastard” when sachin or saurav came out to play. In Kolkata!

So u mothers beware! This is especially going out to the maharastrian mofo whose papa wears a bra, Anil Darkar. The dude – the man – the mard – that haven’t seen the inside of a woman in quite some time. Just ask his Maharashtrian mom!

I am vitriolic now.  And a bit alcoholic too. Sue me, mofos. Sue me.

Just look at our 2 ladies… One, a typical dipped-in-oil Mallu boy and the other a turbaned sardi-boy! Both working hard on building their image as the bad boys of that most pansiest of games, cricket. I mean name another game (except croquet) where you play with sweaters on?

But in a globalised uni-metro-sexual world, India goes ahead and tries to ape American Football. Ah! Those steriod-saturated, mass media-manufactured, uber-hunks… (Mind you they are covered from pinkie to little toe in an assortment of paddings. The only thing missing is the tampon in the… oh well, maybe some other day.) Let’s get back to Sree-kuttan and Bhajji-paaji.

What I find amazing is the sight of these ladyboys actually taking ‘panga’ with the Aussies. More so, because on a good day, Bhajji grappling with Sree in a full-nelson would about measure up – in girth – to Brett Lee’s half-hard beef-stalk. (I said on a good day… probably some young lady’s lucky day too!) But ever wonder how they muster the guts to do it? Well, you see they are prrruttty sure the Aussies wouldn’t whack them. Imagine Sree going in for ovary-implant after one of those 6′5″ blokes rips off his wee-wee! Or Bhajji-boy getting a hemorrhoid – what with his turban lump travelling all the way down to his underwear. Yikes!

Yes, our ladies are pretty confident that the Aussies (or the Proteas for that matter) wouldn’t retaliate. Unfortunately, what Ms Sree forgot is that Ms Bhajji WILL hit back! (But he should actually be thanking his stars Bhajji didn’t use his handbag. Or a tampon.) Now how embassasing would that have been for Indian cricket, eh?

But now that the fracas has abated with the pundits having disected every possibility – down to lovers’ tiff for the camera (a la Posh and Beckham) – it is indeed time to reflect… The boys (ha, what a laugh!) or girls – whatever they want to call themselves should go back to the Indian locker room and have a bonding session. I strongly recommend mutual masturbation. It works.

Then Sreesanth can go on to acting in a Telugu movie with 4 heroines! (Wonder what the producer was thinking casting five girls in a movie! Tsk Tsk, these Tollywood moneybags!) And Bhajji can rue his lost 3-crore bonanza over a several patiala pegs and lotsa sympathetic ‘kudis’. I’m sure his mom would understand that too.

Yes, mofos. I’m back. I just had a potent blend of vodka and some other beverage. And I’ve just had this uncanny desire to berate the pentecostal modhafakarz. Yes, I just found the ‘666′ engraved on my baldspot. If you’re a brain-dead pentecostal whiner, you may wanna come back later!

I mean, no shit… These here pentecostal bros are God’s chosen scum. They know it all. No, serious. They do. For example, they all know I’m gonna hell. God told them so. Some of them have visions. (I have visions too… especially after some strong contraband finds it’s way into my bloodstream.) They see stuff like the rotting of flesh in sulphurous locales… something like Mekri Circle in peak hour traffic. (You’ll know where that is if you lived this side of Bangalore.) And I completely agree with them - some people will die in Sulphur and others will kick the proverbial bucket enveloped in a pall of Antimony or – oh! I don’t know – Molybednum perhaps.

But that’s not what gets my goat(ee). What really riles me is the fact that they claim that they know the Word of God backwards. B.S. Or as I’d really like to put it - fucking bullshit. Save your sorry asses before you even think of trying to touch my tushie! Hands off mofos. You’re all gonna die miserable deaths… ‘cos as far as I know the Good Book says something about humility too. Looks like your pastor / brother / sister / born-again-bigotted-motherfucker… skipped that chapter.

I’ll stick to baptism by vodka. But the next time you run your mouth speaking in ‘tongues’, try rolling your pink lapper around this: “Suck My Cock!”

There. Moksha.

Oooh! I’d really really like to see what happens to this motherfucker after Syphillis takes him to his 700-Club sponsored evangelical rot-hole…

Click to enlarge…

Seriously. I’m an Malayalee, and although it might hurt a little, I like it straight – like this post: ’God save the Malayalee!‘. Way to go, bro.

And he’s got a point here - ’What’s not to like about Sreesanth?‘. And I like this one too (about the Mallu’s undeniable superiority where it really counts) – ‘Mallu bloggers [...]‘.

I like this guy.

Aw c’mon. You have a dirty mind – admit it. You do. Why else are you here? You have a ‘rant’ fetish? (How very original.)

Well my point is: I like stuff that others don’t – there your dirty mind goes again – what I meant was that I like to let off steam, you know vent a bit, using colourful lingo. I like it. I do it all the time. Privately. But I can’t be alone all day. So I do it in the privacy of my own little blog. Everything’s fine so far. So what the problem. I don’t have any. But some of you do. Again, just ’some’ of you.

So you don’t like what I like. Hey, that happens all the time in life to me. The jerk who cuts in front of you in traffic. The dumb chic crossing the street like it was a catwalk. The stupid goofball yapping into his mobile (Urgent grocery-list call!) while weaving through traffic with one hand on the handlebar. The mofo with a fancy car that he throws into 1-2-3-4th gear and back 4-3-2-1st gear within 10 feet. I could go on. And I think I will… The bastard who can’t make up his mind whether to turn right or left. The kambi-chettan on a bike that’s missing a silencer, gawping at the pretty young things at every bus-stop. Heck, even the jerkoffs who insist on riding their cycles 3-aside on a busy main road. They all piss me off. But what the hell, I just drive by. My time’s far too precious to waste on miss-timed ejaculates like those.

I’d rather reach where I’m going and daydream, write a blog post, guzzle some 42.8*proof vodka, or watch some porn and wank off. It’s so much more fulfilling.

That brings me back to my popsicle… (mmm it’s sooo goood) It’s raspberry. I know not many people like raspberry flavour. But I do. So if you don’t like raspberry, don’t suck it. Go try flying copulation. But please do it away from here. Don’t want wads of your yucky stuff on my screen. So what’s my point, again? Weeell, right now it looks purple.

(Hey, your mind’s dirty. And my tongue is. We’re even.)

Oh, ye of little faith, and questionable parentage, I am taken by your zealous guardianship of the Malayalee way of life. I question you not, for you may – nay, will not comprehend the query.

I shall therefore stoop to thine aspect of comprehension… So, mone, Vikata (unsold?) Kumara, I have your IP and the phone no. of the internet cafe, and you can look forward to being rhythmically loved – one orifice at a time – by an East African cellmate. Enjoy.

By the way, how’s life in the labour camp?

Dude, I have nothing against anyone. Least of all you. My only beef is that you picked on me and an other innocuous blogger when there are so many things for us as mallu – er Malayalees to get riled up about.

I got well over 300 hits in 2 days, but I’d rather those 300-odd valuable opinions were directed somewhere more deserving - like greedy MNCs, greedy college managements, greedier politicians, votebank politics, or even the general decay of our society and environment (many times right before our eyes).

I may have come out as quite a rude, self-opinionated asshole (you called me that.) And for all you know, you may be right. But… I never drugged and raped a preteen adivasi girl or boy. I’ve never stepped up to an ice cream parlour chechi and asked for anything more than a ice cream. I’ve laced alcohol with many things, but never methanol. I’ve never killed anyone for profit (Lie and cheat, I have. But murder, never). I’ve not sucked out the ground water from under an entire panchayat (and sold it back to their children as a coloured carbonated ’soft’ drink at Rs10 / 330ml). I haven’t tried to silence a witness in a court of law. I’ve never shot pics of my girl toying with my unmentionables on my mobile or a handycam (actually, she wouldn’t let me). And consequently, I have very little ‘kambi padams’ to post on desi pornsites.

I have never annexed, denuded or built luxury resorts on public land – nor dug out sand from rivers. I have never cheated job-seekers to the Gulf (or any other hellhole). I don’t have crores in unaccounted-for money. I don’t sit for sham satyagrahas at the secretariat or throw stones at public or private vehicles. I’ve never blocked a road (except when my vehicle wouldn’t start at a traffic light).

So, why me? …Anyone?