yea... whateva

100 million what!!!?

2010-10-31T02:10:00.000-07:00

I know I havent blogged in a while. These anger management CDs seemed to be working. "Seemed" being the operative word. Needless to say I have smashed them, burned them and pissed over their twisted plastic remains. Its much more therapeutic to actually scream, rant, break something or punch someone in the face. Anyway, I digress, so let me get to the point.

The nutter in question

So Chinese artist, Ai weiwei, has an exhibition at the Tate modern gallery in London. BBC Article here

What he’s done is dump 100 million sunflower seeds onto the floor of the Turbine Hall (some 1000 square metres of floor space). This moron isn’t just content with normal sunflower seeds... no sirree... these are 150 tonnes of porcelain seeds handmade and hand painted by south Chinese workers and brought over to the Tate (the seeds not the workers!).

You know how much I despise the art world. But this really takes the biscuit. 100 million seeds!!!! It beggars belief.

If we just work out what this means. This is a very rough estimate to put things in perspective. So you cost engineers and quantity surveyors please do not start picking at it. You are free to do an intricate analysis in your spare time whilst touching yourself provocatively.... as i know you are prone to do.

Let’s assume that it takes someone a minute to mould and paint one of these things. I am not an expert but I assume they’ll also need to be fired in a kiln of some sort. Anyway 100,000,000 minutes is about 190 years. Now I am assuming that not one person did all these. He says it took about two years. Now I know its china and people are worked like dogs with little break and certainly no holidays; but for comparisons sake, I’m going to assume it has similar conditions to the U.K. So; to translate the 190 years of effort into something rational. 190 years are about 85 people working nonstop or 255 people on 8 hour shifts; for those two years. If we take lunch breaks, toilet breaks and breaks to laugh at the idea; it will be around 340 people. If we take off weekends it becomes 470. Factor in holidays, we have about 520.

520 people working on nothing else but this garbage. FOR TWO YEARS!!! I haven’t even included people to fire the seeds, pack them, transport them, deliver the raw materials, run the factory... etc etc. Or even costs of energy, water and everything else. Did these people work for free?

I would wager a conservative estimate of over a thousand people. A THOUSAND PEOPLE!!!! WORKING FOR TWO YEARS!!!!! Just so some idiot could get his picture in the paper. I would have preferred if his claim to fame was that he was crushed under a single 150 ton block of concrete (porcelain’s too good for him)

The thing that really pisses me off is that chief curator at the Tate, Sheena Wagstaff was quoted as saying it was a "beautifully simple idea that belies an extraordinary rich layer of meanings and references." What? Are you serious woman? More like “a ridiculously expensive prank that belies an extraordinary thick consistency of shit occupies the space my brain should be in” Do people actually get paid for saying stuff like this?

I worry for the human race… I really do.

Flowers of love

2009-11-16T00:50:00.000-08:00

Reading the BBC News website, I came across this article. Apparently, women are having surgery to try and attain the perfect vagina! (I once worked for a boss who was the quintessential c*nt, but I don’t think that’s quite the same). The procedure entails the reduction of the size of the Labia (beef curtains or piss flaps to all you Liverpool supporters out there… I am assuming too much here about them being able to read aren’t I?) so.. where was I? oh yea... they're having surgey on the old labias they don’t protrude outside the vagina; it’s called Labioplasty for those who want to look it up. Now I suspect that they didn’t actually ask men what they considered the most attractive feature of a vagina was because I can almost hear a unanimous chorus of “AVAILABILITY!!! GIASI, AVAILABILITY!!!”. However, I am asking about tangible physical aspects. Now men are not that fussy about aesthetics. I mean look at what we sometimes wear. So when it comes to the physical criteria (now that you’ve found one that’s available) I would consider odour and size as probably high on the list. I can’t imagine some bloke on eagerly removing a woman’s underwear reeling back in sheer terror at the sight of a bit of badly packed kebab. Here in Abu Dhabi, men would still chase a vagina that had teeth and was covered with thick Amazonian undergrowth complete with green mist and Howler Monkeys.

When you compare it to the odd soft dangly collection of objects that men have, I think women should consider themselves lucky. A man’s wedding tackle looks more like the last turkey in the shop, an afterthought. As if when man was being created some angels said, “Hey God, we still have a load of elbow skin left over, what you want us to do with it?” to which God replies, “make it into little bags and find something to put in it, well sew it on somewhere later”

Art darlings, art

2009-10-11T00:34:00.000-07:00

Many would consider me a philistine when it comes to art. Unable to detect and appreciate the finer nuances of the artist's reflection of his innermost mind and soul. To see the painting exude silent melodies and waft emotive penchants from the artist’s id. To which my response would be "Kiss my arse loser!!" followed by a backhanded slap to the side of the head.

To me, art is displaying a skill which is out of the reach of the normal human. Whether it is through painting, sculpture, music… whatever.

There are times I see paintings and the phrase “bloody hell!!” jumps into my head, and often, out of my mouth. A fine example is this is a painting by an artist named Carl Brendars. It is called "Tundra Summit-Arctic Wolves”

The detail, the composition, it is truly amazing. I love it.

Another artist I like is Ralph Goings. His work concentrates on the truly mundane. Cars, diners and condiments. I know condiments seems funny, but look at this..

I would argue that few photographs capture the feel of this painting.

Heres' a diner painting.

I could go on and on, but I only set down a few examples to set the scene. I don’t need some university dropout who makes no contribution to society except target practice (where's my dart set?). A self-serving, pretentious idiot who labels us “common philistines” and walks round art galleries with a glass of wine saying things like,

“Although I am not a painter, I think that the reductive quality of the spatial relationships contextualizes a participation in the critical dialogue of the 90s.”

“With regard to the issue of content, the metaphorical resonance of the motifs visually and conceptually activates the essentially transitional quality.”

“Umm... the aura of the figurative-narrative line-space matrix threatens to penetrate the accessibility of the work.”

All the above translate into one thing for me. Which is “Hello, I am a pretentious wanker who has no purpose in life. I talk complete shite which even I don’t understand. Please kill me with a heavy blunt instrument and feed me to dogs so I can at least have made some positive contribution to this planet"

What a load of bollocks. Does anyone even understand what these morons are actually saying? Is it just me or does anyone else feel the need to kick them so hard in the nuts that they have to piss through their noses?

Let me just post a few examples of crap that these imbeciles promote as art.
These are called Neoplasticists.

Piet Mondrian (1872-1944)

This one is called “opposition of lines red and yellow”. I did better stuff when I was a kid.

This is another of his masterpieces.

Ok lets cap it off with this one…. Brilliant eh? My gran made tablecloths better than this.

Paul Klee (1879-1940)

Ah. Paul Klee. Lets start with this one. Another one obsessed with tablecloths.

Or what about this one? Obviously one of his ex-girlfriends.

I particularly like the use of breasts instead of eyes and a scrotum for a chin on this one.

Mark Rothko (1903-1970)

Rothko isnt a Neospasticist, hes an abstract impressionist. ("Really? Thats interesting Giasi." I can hear you ask enthusiastically) However, his stuff is still utter shit aswell.

Lets start with this one aptly called “Red Orange Tan and Purple”. What can I say?

Then we have “Blue Orange Red”

And finally, to give it an air of mysticism, “untitled”

But my all time favourite wanky artist is a genius known as Kasimir Malevich (1878-1935).

Geniuses like this only come around every so often.

Here are some of his masterpieces.

Black square red square

Rectangle and circle

Can you guess what this one is called?

How about this one art lovers...?

Well done readers, yes, we have Black Circle and Black Square.

I hope I have enlightened some of you. So next time you have a dodgy curry and your arse explodes into the toilet bowl the next day, take a photograph of it. Or better still, just crap into a box and send it to your local art dealer. You may be the goose that laid the golden egg.

YOU BASTARD!!!!

2009-10-01T13:11:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder why some guys choose a homosexual lifestyle. Now I think I may understand somewhat. Before you women start fretting and contemplating suicide, stop right there. No. I have not ventured into the fellowship of the ring. What I mean is, I know why men could be attracted to the lifestyle, and live quite happily without the fairer sex. I use the fairer sex term so loosely that if it was a pair of trousers, it would be round my ankles (you can stop right there you b@stards ... I can do without the innuendo).

I mean, all those sexual preferences that don't involve women. Like other men, animals, honeydew melons and the like. I mean they can't replace the female for sheer mechanical sexual enjoyment. So why consider an alternative? I'll tell you why. Sometimes, the price is simply too bloody high.

Let me demonstrate.

Her: Lets go out for dinner tonight.

Me: OK. So. what do you fancy eating?

Her: Why don't you choose.

Me: No. I'm easy. We'll go where you want.

Her: Why do I always have to choose?

Me: OK.OK. What about pizza?

Her: Don't fancy pizza.

Me: Indian?

Her: All the Indian restaurants here are crap.

Me: What about Italian?

Her: Will they have anything spicy?

Me: No dear. Its Italian. You know... pasta and all that stuff.

Her: In that case, no.

Me: What about Arabic.

Her: You know I don't like Arabic food.

Me: What about fast food? Macs? Burger King? Kentucky?

You. I want proper food.

Me: WHY DON'T YOU JUST PICK THEN?

Her: Why do I always have to choose?

Me: Maybe because a bleedin Koala Bear is less pickier than you. How about some bloody Eucalyptus leaves?

Her: Oh, I don't care anymore. I've lost my appetite. Go on your own if you want.

Me: What the hell? I'm not the one who wanted to go out anyway.

Her: I'm not good enough to take out anyway.

Me: What? Where did that come from?

You: You're tired of me aren't you? You want to see someone else don't you?

Me: What? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU ON ABOUT?

Her: DON'T SCREAM AT ME. I ONLY WANTED A QUITE DINNER! YOU ALWAYS TURN THIS INTO AN ARGUMENT! YOU BASTARD!

Me: AARRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

or...

Her: I'm just popping out with Jackie to the shops.

Me: That’s nice. Looking for anything in particular?

Her: What's that supposed to mean?

Me: Nothing. Just curious.

Her: You know damn well it's my Aunt Freda's birthday next week. Don’t tell me you forgot?

Me: Aunt who?

Her: Freda! Freda! Remember the old lady we met at my Uncle Henry's funeral? The loud one who's hearing aid was playing up?

Me: I remember. The one who's incontinence pants were also playing up if my olfactory memory serves me right.

Her: Well, it's her birthday next week.

Me: And I'm supposed to know that why, exactly? I met the old b.. b… biddy once!!

Her: Because she told you, that’s why. You were talking to her for a long while.

Me: Listen love. It was a struggle. I mean between the incessant bellowing and the rancid odour of fermented urine, I was hovering between unconsciousness from the fumes and agony from bleeding ear drums. Forgive me if I overlooked penciling her into my diary.

Her: (Sobbing) My family never mean anything to you. I'm never important in your life.

Me: Look, don’t cry. Here. Here's 100 pounds. Buy her a gift from us.

Her: I'm not spending all this on that cow!

Me: Well. Spend what you think is OK. Use any money left over on yourself. Buy some make-up. Maybe Jackie can help you pick some stuff out.

Her: What? Why Jackie? You like the way she does her make up do you?

Me: No. It's just that she's going with you to the shops. That’s what you girls do. Shop. Together.
Her: You fancy her don’t you?

Me: For God's sake woman. No I don’t. God help me!!!

Her: Why you so interested in the way she looks then? Heh? Answer that then. You preoccupied with her big breasts? You want to sleep with her right?

Me: ARE YOU MAD? WHAT THE HELL INSANELY CIRCUITOUS ROUTE DID YOU TAKE TO GET HERE???? YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO TURN LEFT TO LOGIC AVENUE AT THE END OF COMMON SENSE ROAD NOT TAKE A RIGHT INTO THE BLIND ALLEY CALLED IDIOTIC BASELESS ACCUSATION.

Her: (sobbing…again) I only wanted you to buy a present for my old Auntie and you end up screaming at me and starting an argument. You bastard.

Me: AAAARRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHH

At that point, I remember there's a honeydew melon in the kitchen.

All this and she wasn't even menstruating. That's why Muslim women don't have to fast during Ramadhan. Can you imagine low blood sugar AND PMS? Lord protect us, it doesn't even bear thinking about. We would be knee deep in blood and no sanitary pad will be upto the job of soaking that up.

Ramadhan (a.k.a Ramzan, Ramdam and Rummydown)

2009-09-07T00:51:00.000-07:00

Forgive me Father for i have sinned; its been a month since my last blog.

For all of you who have been bugging me (yes, both of you), to update my blog, here it is. I hope you're satisfied.

Aaanywaay.... Ramadan. The wonderful month of gluttony, inactivity and pure sloth.

What is it about this month that brings about certain phenomena peculiar to this time of year. In this post, I will try to unveil these mysteries to the uninitiated. For those of you that know of them already, please go sit at that corner table and talk quietly amongst yourselves.

Ramma what?

A bit of background. Ramadhan is a month, much like July, August, September etc. but its part of the Islamic lunar calendar (incidentally, it’s the 9th month). This month has highly significant religious importance to Muslims as their holy book (the Quran) was sent down during this month.

Ramadan… PARTY!!!!!

Well my little seekers of wisdom (that’s not true because you wouldn’t be here otherwise, just proves how boring your lives really are… I digress sorry… where was I?).

What many (not all of course because I am generalising for comedic effect here people) Muslims do and what they’re supposed to do are two completely different things. Let’s list the fasting person's obligations for our special needs readers.

How people should behave.

* Fast as a symbol of their strength of belief over their physical needs (yes that includes shagging and no touching yourself either).
* Endeavour to repent for the past year's transgressions by seeking a closer bond with god.
* Life moves more slowly because people are pre-occupied with prayer.
* Frugality rules with less food consumed and more food given to the poor and needy.
* Good deeds are multiplied so people are unusually helpful and kind (without alterior motives)

What really happens.

* People have no idea why they fast, they just do.
* Empty the shelves in Carrefour as if war has just been declared.
* Life virtually stops because people are too listless to do anything or are asleep.
* Eat until stretch marks appear. The sweeter or greasier a food is the better. Better still, lets fry sugar.
* People are so irritable that it’s not a good idea to argue with anyone unless you are armed with a heavy blunt instrument.
* Sleep all day and stay up all night making the measly 5 hours work in an air-conditioned office a chore.
* Spend more than you can afford buying gifts for Eid.

Is it today, tomorrow? When is it dammit??

The Islamic calendar (like the Jewish one) is a lunar calendar which means that when a month starts or ends is wholly dependent on the life cycle of the moon's visibility.
“Ok… what’s that mean Giasi?” I hear the slower ones at the back shout out. I’ll try and explain. Without getting all astronomical on your ass, simply put, a lunar month starts with a new moon (a thin sliver of the moon), then proceeds as more of the moon is seen until we reach a full moon (middle of the month) and then it slowly disappears and reverts back to a sliver (on the opposite side) and that’s the end of the month. Then it starts all over again.

Now, the cosmos being the cosmos, it has a weird and wonderful way of going about things. A lunar cycle is about 29.5 days so the months of the calendar will sometimes be 29 and sometimes 30 days. Nonetheless, the lunar calendar is 11 days shorter than your usual common or garden calendar. That’s why Ramadhan is 11 days earlier than it was last year.

When a month begins depends on when you see that thin sliver of new moon. Traditionally people used to look out for this and when someone saw it they would rush into the village screaming “I’VE SEEN IT I’VE SEEN IT!!!!” or words to that effect, to which the villagers would reply “REALLY… OH MY GOD!! DONT TELL US YOU’VE SEEN THE LOCH NESS MONSTER!!” to which he would reply “ NO… THE NEW MOON YOU FOOLS” to which everyone else would say “OH! IS THAT ALL?”. Anyway, you get the picture

Now moon watching is not as easy as you think. It may be a new moon, but seeing it is another matter. When it sets, its location in the sky, weather conditions, the eyesight and mental state of the viewer etc etc all play an important role. So what’s visible in one place may not be visible elsewhere. So, that’s why the different starting dates for Ramadhan.

I am sure all you non-muslims are sitting on the edge of your seats in eager anticipation; hungry (quite apt don't you think?) for knowledge. Next, I will try and answer some of your questions, such as “How do I, as a non-muslim, behave around my Muslim colleagues?” “Will I get put in prison for eating in public?” “Why does my colleague’s breath smell like a bottom?” “Are those little fried sweet dumplings supposed to be that shape?”.

Supermarket sweep.

There was a television show in England called Supermarket Sweep. This cringingly awful excuse for entertainment involved getting some hapless twit to run around a supermarket with a shopping trolley. They had 60 seconds to fill it with as many different items as they could. Everything they managed to get, they could keep. This was excruciatingly painful to watch. Maybe I'm just anal, but there it is.

Now in Ramadan, imagine this on a mammoth scale as hordes of crazed red-eyed people descend on every supermarket in the city on the first evening of this month. Blood will be spilt along with orange juice. Women armed with knives and chinese nunchucks scramble to get to that last crème caramel and the whole place is just a symphony of cash registers pinging away like some monster pinball machine. I have had the misfortune of witnessing this carnage myself. I was caught up in the melee this Ramadan as I attempted to buy a loaf of bread. Loaf in hand, I jostled through the heaving crowd to pay, carefully holding my bounty close to my chest like a nursing infant. I could feel it deforming under my white knuckle death grip. It was mine. I pushed an old man to the ground and jumped over a child's pram. I could see the checkout... beads of sweat dotted my brow, I was nearly home and free. I didn't see the old lady, covered in black, nor did I see her ninja kick as it made contact with my soft dangly bits. Stunned and doubled up in pain, I fell to the floor, losing my grip on my humble medium sliced. I heard her cackle as she ran away. Needless to say, when I regained consciousness, my bread was gone. Another casualty of war. The place was deserted by then, just empty shelves, the odd pool of blood and a pile of shoes, left in the stampede that I had gladly missed due to unconsciousness. Only a few footprints on my back bearing witness to the horrors that had taken place.

The driving game.

There are two times of the day one should not attempt to drive during Ramadan. The first is about lunchtime. At this point in the day, people's blood sugar levels are beginning to bottom out. I have seen people chew through steel at this time. For the sake of everything holy, do not get into an altercation with anyone at this time. Unless you enjoy watching someone eat their way through your ribcage so they can chew on your liver (obviously that would break their fast and they would have to make this day up after Ramadan). I now know why menstruating women are excused from fasting. Can you imagine PMS and this? The world would come to an end. Rivers of blood will flow (and no tampon on earth will be able to soak it up).

The second time to avoid is the minutes preceding iftar (the breaking of the fast at sunset). I'm not sure but I think it says somewhere that if you don't get home before that time some hideously awful fate awaits you. So, throwing caution to the wind and endangering yourself and everyone around you, you do whatever it takes to get home. This includes, but is not limited to, driving right up to the car in front and flashing your lights, driving at 200kph, driving on the pavement, driving on the pavement at 200kph, ignoring traffic signals etc. I think if the end of the world was near and you had only moments to say goodbye to your nearest and dearest, you still wouldn't drive like that.

Eye-watering, plant wilting breath.

Can you imagine morning breath that lasts all day. Good. The absence of any food or fluid going down your gullet all day is not conducive to minty freshness. Knowing this, one should make every attempt to maintain good oral hygiene and to avoid the consumption of "kill me instead" foods like garlic, onions, dead rabbits, toe nails, children's diapers and things of similar ilk.

Some odour is unavoidable, but can be kept to a barely noticeable level. There is no excuse for breath that curdles milk at ten yards, steams up your car windows or makes cockroaches pack their little Luis Vuitton cases and move out.

Inshallah

The wonderful " inshallah". What a wonderfully endearing term that is. Used in its proper context it means " if god wills". More specifically, it means, I will do my best to make whatever it is that’s supposed to happen and the rest is upto God " if he so wills". Normally people use it to mean "I'll get it done soon, I don't know when exactly, but soonish."

In Ramadan, it takes on a special significance where its meaning changes to " What? you are fucking kidding right? do you know it's Ramadan? come back when I'm alive asshole". So if you're hoping to renew a residence permit, get a driving license, get emergency medical treatment and you are faced with this response, I wouldn't hold your morning breath.

Ramadan is the most unproductive month of the year. If you hope to get something done you first have to a)find someone who actually turned up for work, b)they are awake and c)they can hear you and respond (it is useful sometimes to shine a bright light in their eyes, if their pupils don't dilate, find someone else).

Ready, steady, GOOOOO!!!!

If you are privileged enough to be invited to an "iftar" dinner, you have to know what to expect.

You should turn up no earlier than 15 minutes before (having wet yourself because of driving there and managing to avoid being flattened by a four wheel drive, you may want to freshen up). After pleasantries, people will take up their positions. Many will be seen limbering up with warm up exercises like mouth stretching. A few may be loosening their belts. Professionals amongst you would have had the foresight to wear elasticated pants. Maternity pants are best and a few seasoned pros will sport these.

As soon as the signal goes (the call to prayer), its every man for himself. It is advisable to keep fingers moving as any immobile object is liable to be eaten. At this point conversation is fruitless as nothing can be heard above the sound of chomping, slurping and stretch-marks creaking into formation. After a while, the most religious and pious will rise to perform prayers and others reluctantly follow. After this short interlude, the real eating begins. Do not be surprised to be faced by a mountain of rice capped by a whole sheep. Gallons of Vimto and every conceivable fried food on the planet.

Slowly, jaw muscles will tire and stomachs creak to fullness and people will start to drop like flies. Heavy eyelids and moans being the order of the day. You may be served fruit (or the dreaded crème caramel) followed by tea and then you are expected to leave. Affluent households may have a special team of servants to carry guests to their cars.

Master! Master! Shall I close the coffin?

Like Count Dracula, most people will be averse to sunlight. Preferring to sleep during the day and coming alive to feed at night. Consequently, life turns arse over tit. Places that used to close now open and those that opened are now closed. Roads are clear when there was once traffic and jam packed at the most unusual hours.

I hope that the above has given you, at least, an insight into the wonderful time of Ramadan and equipped you to deal more adeptly with the trials that you may face.

Ramadan Kareem.

Cheeeeeeeeeeeese!!!!

2009-08-29T23:19:00.000-07:00

This is the country for photographs. I have never had so many photographs in all my life. I carry photos in my wallet, they’re in my car, everywhere I go.

You can’t take a shit here without someone needing a photocopy of your passport and 45 passport sized photographs.

So I had one photograph done and made 3 million copies, just in case I needed to join a beach club, buy a burger or get a haircut.

Quite an unassuming studio is near my house, so I walk in and the guy ushers me upstairs to his bordello. A veritable Aladdin’s cave of props.

Baby Powder to take the shine off your brow
a Dishdasha and associated accessories (National dress worn by UAE men)
a phone (the old type with dial)
sunglasses (circa 1970)
a baseball cap (very greasy inside)
a leather-look jacket
boots
a wig
a bowl of plastic fruit
something that looked like a vibrator, but I was too afraid to touch it.

I politely declined to use any of the props he offered me though I did consider the boots for a second.

Waiting for my pictures to be developed, I couldn’t help noticing the pictures hanging on his wall. These were supposed to be his portfolio of experience; more like the chamber of horrors. Why people would allow themselves to be humiliated like this is beyond me. Anyway, what follows are a few examples that would more likely make you run away than contemplate walking in.

These are obviously all photos that these victims had done to send to the folks back home to show what an exciting new life they were now leading. They say a lot already, but I thought that each one should have been accompanied by a small letter. I have attempted to enter the minds of these victims and written letters on their behalf.

I apologise to my Asian brethren. These are the only photos I have and it is mere coincidence that they are all Asian.

I once went to Madame Tussauds wax museum in London and was photographed next to statues of the Queen, Gary Gltter and Jimmy Saville. At no point did I even contemplate that I could fool anyone into thinking that I had really met these people even though these lifesize statues were incredibly lifelike.

You know the old saying “a cardboard cutout is the next best thing”, well here it is. I mean, you would have to be blind to be fooled by this one. Poor guy looks like he actually believes he is being photographed with a famous film star. He is holding her so tight (maybe it was draughty in there and he was scared she would blow away). The Alpine backdrop of swiss chalets nestling in a valley really adds to the realism doesn’t it?

I think with a few strategically placed holes, this cardboard cutout could really be his girlfriend.

Dear mamma,

I send you this photo of me and padmi. As you can see she is a girl. Please tell everyone that I am very happy and that I will marry soon and have a multitude of offspring which I will also photograph and send to you. I will send you photographs of all my friends and my new house and car also. The kind photographer has arranged it and I will be sending them to you soon

Hope to see you soon

Your son pradeep

This next one is beyond me. Why two elegantly dressed ladies would want to be pictured atop a dilapidated motorbike caked in mud makes the mind boggle.

Greetings

I hope that this letter finds you in good health. My job is very nice and I have many friends. I have recently taken up motorcycling with my friend (also in the picture). It is very nice indeed with the wind rushing through our flip flops, saris dancing in the air. We travel like this all the time.

With love
Geeta

What in the hell is going on here? Ok two guys leaning on a TV set while their friend is sitting down as he uses the phone. You better be calling the mental hospital to bring a van and straight-jackets. Again, this all takes place outdoors, in the bloody swiss alps.

Dear friends,

Please find enclosed a photograph of myself and my two cousins Abdullatif and Abdulkarim. We are photographed with two items we have recently purchased called a telephone and television. As you can see, I am demonstrating how the telephone is used. We have yet to discover how to operate the television. Needless to say, we will be sending you a photograph when we do.
Next week we hope to send you a photograph of me wearing a leather jacket, Abdullatif wearing some nice sunglasses and Abdulkarim with a hard rubber thing that has batteries inside it but we still don’t know what its intended use is.

Regards
Abdulaleem

This is my favourite. Surrealism meets mind altering drugs.

Dear mummy and daddy,

I still remember people saying that a couple of cojoined twins would never make anything of their lives, how wrong they were.

I am working in a very nice office and till now, noone has noticed that I have a sister attached to my head as I cover her with a large hat. This is becoming much more difficult as anita (bless her) has discovered the joys of “all you can eat for 20 Dirhams” at KFC.

Please don’t worry about us. It may not look like it in the picture, but we are very happy

Best wishes
Rajesh

Hey buddy!

2009-08-28T23:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I looked at our relationships with the fairer sex. Our princesses that make this whole life so sweet, until you marry one of them. But thats another story.

Today, I thought I would post rules for men interacting with other men. There are etiqettes to these relationships and the following should help you form understanding, fruitful and totally manly interactions with your buddies.

Again, no credit for me here. I just added pictures for our dyslexic readers.

Under no circumstances may two men share an umbrella.

It is OK for a man to cry ONLY under the following circumstances:
(a) When a heroic dog dies to save its master.
(b) The moment Angelina Jolie starts unbuttoning her blouse.
(c) After wrecking your boss's car.
(d) One hour, 12 minutes, 37 seconds into "The Crying Game".
(e) When she is using her teeth.

Any Man who brings a camera to a bachelor party may be legally killed and eaten by his buddies.

Unless he murdered someone in your family, you must bail a friend out of jail within 12 hours.

If you've known a guy for more than 24 hours, his sister is off limits forever unless you actually marry her.

Moaning about the brand of free beer in a buddy's fridge is forbidden. However complain at will if the temperature is unsuitable.

No man shall ever be required to buy a birthday present for another man. In fact, even remembering your buddy's birthday is strictly optional. At that point, you must celebrate at a strip bar of the birthday boy's choice.

On a road trip, the strongest bladder determines pit stops, not the weakest.

When stumbling upon other guys watching a sporting event, you may ask the score of the game in progress, but you may never ask who's playing.

You may fart in front of a woman only after you have brought her to climax. If you trap her head under the covers for the purpose of flatulent entertainment, she's officially your girlfriend.

It is permissible to drink a fruity alcohol drink only when you're sunning on a tropical beach... and it's delivered by a topless model and only when it's free.

Only in situations of moral and/or physical peril are you allowed to kick another guy in the nuts.

Unless you're in prison, never fight naked.

Friends don't let friends wear Speedos. Ever. Issue closed.

If a man's fly is down, that's his problem, you didn't see anything.

Women who claim they "love to watch sports" must be treated as spies until they demonstrate knowledge of the game and the ability to drink as much as the other sports watchers.

A man in the company of a hot, suggestively dressed woman must remain sober enough to fight.

Never hesitate to reach for the last beer or the last slice of pizza, but not both, that's just greedy.

If you compliment a guy on his six-pack, you'd better be talking about his choice of beer.

Never join your girlfriend or wife in discussing a friend of yours, except if she's withholding sex pending your response.

Phrases that may NOT be uttered to another man while lifting weights:
(a) Yeah, Baby, Push it!
(b) C'mon, give me one more! Harder!
(c) Another set and we can hit the showers!

Never talk to a man in a bathroom unless you are on equal footing: i.e., both urinating, both waiting in line, etc. For all other situations, an almost imperceptible nod is all the conversation you need.

Never allow a telephone conversation with a woman to go on longer than you are able to have sex with her. Keep a stopwatch by the phone. Hang up if necessary.

The morning after you and a girl who was formerly "just a friend" have carnal, drunken monkey sex, the fact that you're feeling weird and guilty is no reason for you not to nail each other again before the discussion occurs about what a big mistake it was.

It is acceptable for you to drive her car. It is not acceptable for her to drive yours.

Thou shalt not buy a car in the colors of brown, pink, lime green,
orange or sky blue.

The girl who replies to the question "What do you want for Christmas?" with "If you loved me, you'd know what I want!" gets an Xbox. End of story.

There is no reason for guys to watch Men's Ice Skating or Men's Gymnastics. Ever.

It's all in the genes

2009-07-29T22:59:00.000-07:00

Something happened to me at the mall this weekend. I saw the ugliest baby I have ever had the misfortune to see. It was lost and some woman was dragging it round the store shrieking "is this yours?" only to be met by horrified faces as if she was pointing at some turd that someone had inadvertently dropped on the floor. She eventually caught the parents trying to slip out of the store and with a final triumphant "is this yours?" she cornered them. I could see the anxious father mulling it over in his head, he looked towards his wife for a second and with a shrug of his shoulders and a resigned look on his face he reluctantly said "yeah".

Now dont get me wrong. I havent always been this hunk of a man who makes women go weak at the knees. "NO WAY!!! THATS IMPOSSIBLE!!" I hear you scream. No. I kid you not my friends. I was the bane and nightmare of every parent. I was the ugly baby. At my birth, my father was approached by an ashen faced doctor telling him "I'm sorry, we did everything we could but it survived". My father asking about the sex of his first born was advised "we dont know yet, we haven't been able to stop it swinging from the ceiling light. Dont worry, we've sent a nurse down to the staff canteen for a banana".

It didn't stop there. My mother, bless her, used to breastfeed me in the dark. But I think even that was too much for her. In the end she just stopped and told me that she just wanted to be friends.

My parents took me to the doctor once, worried sick about my very bad breath and difficulty swallowing. The doctor soon solved the mystery by telling my parents they were holding me upside down. It was a relief to be rid of that diaper, it was suffocating me. I didn't miss that damn pacifier either.

My early childhood wasn't much better. My dad used to lock me in the wardrobe for hours when we had guests round. I believed him when he explained it was elevator practice.

My first school kicked me out because the principal said that my teachers were taking too many days off sick. My second school kicked me out because they said my hump was distracting the other students.

My father was faced with a dilemma. Find me another school or a career with the circus. As the circus wasn't hiring that year, it was another school. Recognising my talent for sport, he decided that an education in a sporting institution was what was called for. So everyday my father would drop me off at school with a tennis racquet and a cheese sandwich. I liked the school. Lots of open spaces and the teachers basically let you get on with it. It took me four years to realise that it was really the local park. I think I would have learned alot more if my dad had once given me a ball aswell as the racquet.

So, I sympathise with all those hideously ugly children out there. I was one. But patience my little vomit inducers. You will have your day one day. As I am living proof that a swan resides in that repulsive exterior waiting to be unleashed on the world. Just wait.

Save our children from this filth

2009-06-15T02:15:00.000-07:00

I picked these up from the net the other day. They are childrens book covers which I think are weird at the very least. These are actual covers.

Now call me immature if you want, but superboy being spanked by the headmaster while his friends look on is a little to close to the knuckle (or bottom) for me. The expression on the headmasters face is orgasmic

The other boys' extreme delight at watching this worries me to an extent that the hairs on the back of my neck are stiff.

This title suggest that some astronaut falls for an alien girl, and I assume they have some romantic episode going on. So whats the monkey thing? Do alien females look like this?

Again, facial expressions say it all. The seriously worried look on the monkeys face begs the question of where's the astronauts other hand? The last time I saw an expession like the astronauts it was on a man being led away in handcuffs.

A society that can print this image of a muscular virile young man looking lovingly into a monkey's eyes, is a very sick one indeed.

The fact that the monkey has an invitingly open mouth and is rubbing his neck suggest that he may have swallowed a banana too quickly.

I don't care how innocently you look at this one. It's disgusting.
The thing that intrigues me though is how the story unfolds after the guy has been hit on the head and is lying face down on the floor. Makes you shudder doesn't it?
Once agin, the expression on blondies face is sinister at the very least.

We all know that it is every man's secret fantasy to be so well endowed that he employs a young boy to help him carry "it" around.

For godssake, this picture couldnt have been made any more suggestive.

Get away from me damn you!!!

2009-05-14T01:22:00.000-07:00

What is it with people here? There are partcular nationalities here (who for the sake of political correctness will remain nameless) who have no concept of personal space. I dont know where it comes from, maybe because they suffer overcrowding at home and its a conditioned response.

For godssake, yesterday I was virtually pulling people out of my pocket. One guy was so close that I could feel his hot breath on my neck and saliva dripping on my shoulder.

I can understand that the concept of personal space may have no place at a crowded U2 concert, where musical passion mixed with alcohol assures a homogenous mass of bodies swaying and singing in unison. I'm sorry, you may think I'm a tad anal, but I dont expect that queuing for a burger at Macdonalds.

I consider myself somewhat non-descript. I am not Brad Pitt or a hideous troll. somewhere in-between. So why oh why do people stare? where I come from, eye contact in a lift, train, bar is frowned upon. It is done, but so clandestinely that if the person you're looking at catches you, you feel like you have just been caught with your hand down their underwear. I was brought up with the concept "Dont stare. It's rude".
In England, you could run through the high street completely naked with an ostrich feather sticking out of your bottom and singing Queens Bohemian Rhapsody and noone will stare. People just don't do it.

Here it's a different story. I've had people stand squarely infront of me, staring like their lives depended on it. Again, it's usually the nationalities that don't understand personal space. If you ever get into a situation where they get up close AND stare at the same time, then you're really up against it. Looks like its "fisty cuffs" time and someones going to be picking their teeth up with a broken arm. Alternatively, I could dig that ostrich feather out again "I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me.....)

God save the Queen

2009-04-15T09:51:00.000-07:00

For those of you contemplating a visit to England in the near future, here are a few hints on the English to help you assimilate more easily into English society. Part two of this post will give helpful advice on how to deal with everyday tasks like ordering a pint, asking for directions and protecting your face while being kicked by a gang of hooligans.

Drinking like there is no tomorrow.

People often mistakenly think that the English don’t have a limit. Well that’s not true. They stop when they are physically incapable of drinking any more. Be it through unconsciousness, blindness, immobility or lack of funds.

We have transcended the immature realm of vomiting, our bodies having evolved a strategy of conservation. Our stomachs screaming “we paid for this so its fucking staying in here”. This has a nasty secondary effect of getting so drunk you wake up in a pool of your own urine (or god forbid, someone else’s) or, excruciatingly more painful, a pile of shit.

Not complaining.

We never complain. We whinge, but never publicly. The English could order a filet mignon with artichoke hearts covered in a herb and truffle sauce, be served with a vomit sandwich with rabbit droppings on the side and eat it begrudgingly. They wouldn’t complain “I'll just not go there again”.

Queues

We English love to queue. Sometimes people just queue for the sake of it. I once joined a queue in Leeds. Didn’t know what it was for but I joined anyway.

The only exception is around the bar in a pub. However, even though it seems that people are haphazardly congregated around the bar, there is an “invisible” queue. The bar staff know the position of everyone in this queue and each person knows his own relative position.

Sense of humour

Yup… no one can match our sense of humour. It’s probably the only thing we take seriously. What’s so special about it is that we can laugh at ourselves and nothing is sacred. It’s not unusual to take the piss out of someone while his coffin is being carried to the grave, mock terminally ill patients and find mirth in microwaving small babies. If we can do anything well, its laugh.

Football.

This is not sport. This is religion. More blood has been shed in terraces on a Saturday afternoon than any holy war. It distinguishes the men from the women. Men who don’t follow the sport and cannot keep up a conversation about their team’s last performance are liable to be labelled “queers”. Admitting to “not following” football is tantamount to walking around in a pink dress, handbag and high heels, walking down the road singing “I am such a queer, I like it long and hard, please throw me to the ground and kick me until I piss blood”

Pork

We love our pigs. No other creature shares the elevated status of the humble porker. Roasts, chops, ham, pies, sausages, rashers, scratchings, trotters, you name it, we’ll eat it. Nothing is ever wasted.

In fact, any invading army would only have to cut off the supply of pork (and beer) and the country would surrender in about a month

The Queen.

We love the queen, bless her cotton socks. Forget the fact that she’s as useful as tits on a bull, she’s the queen goddammit, and we love her. However, the bloodline has been tainted a little of late by a few boilers. Fat Fergie started it off and now Camilla the Gorilla holds the title for questionable genetics. This woman is so ugly that if she ever gets pregnant, Charles should give her a good whack in the belly with a cricket bat. To allow the birth of a child from the unholy union of Charles and Camilla is not only cruel but criminal. For godsake, the thing would be like 4th in line to the throne. It’s quite possible its hideous features would grace every coin, banknote and postage stamp in the land. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

The sun

Everyone knows the words to the old Noel Coward song “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun”. This was not written without basis. It is an accurate reflection of the English’s complete disregard for the destructive effect of UV radiation. I have seen it here in the Gulf. Mid afternoon, the heat is torturous, sweat oozes out of every pore, you squint so hard your head aches, your testicles have decided to fuse into a single mass and your scrotum drags on the floor behind you. Not even mad dogs would brave this inferno. But you can bet your bottom dollar that some hapless Englishman is out walking, pinker than a trannies underwear, gently patting his brow and wafting his shirt “ it’s a bit hot innit?”.

DIY

Do-it-yourself (DIY) is exactly what it says. It’s the opposite to letting someone else do it for you. Those of you sniggering because you think this is a sexual reference are mistaken (and stop touching yourselves…NOW!). This pastime involves hordes of men being dragged by their wives to their local DIY stores across the country. This usually takes place on Sunday and these helpless men can be seen wheeling around tins of paint, rolls of wallpaper and fence posts as their wives hold up pieces of material from their curtains against dado rails to match colours.

There is no nation on earth that has a higher proportion of home owners who religiously maintain their properties with more care and expense than they would invest in their parents.

No sooner does work get completed than some TV wanker on a DIY programme called “lets fuck up your living room” tells you that what you’ve got is naff and this seasons colour is turd brown. “come on!! Lets go!!” you hear the wife shout from the front door.

Driving Etiquette

The English are the most conscientious, well mannered and regimented drivers on earth. It’s a pure joy to drive there. The English traits of “playing by the rules” and “queuing” make the experience a well oiled machine. Unless you’re driving around London where drivers have a shorter lifespan than fruit flies.

One thing to remember is that when another driver lets you pull out in front of him, or allows you right of way (by flashing his headlights), you are obliged to accept his kindness and YOU MUST acknowledge this as you pass him by waving. Be warned that to take up his offer and not give the customary waving acknowledgement is the equivalent of jumping up on his bonnet and crapping on his windscreen. He may follow you home, crack your head open with a tyre iron and repeatedly drive over your twisted and broken body. You have been warned.

Language

English was invented by the English, hence the same name for both language and people. We know how to spell and speak English. There is only English and fucked up English. What’s with the American English bollocks? Its aluminium not aluminum, kerb not curb, doughnut not donut, tyre not tire, programme not program. The list is endless.

If people must create their own language, they should give it a name and not copy ours. Call it Amerish or something you lazy stealing bastards.

Playing by the rules.

No one follows rules better than the English. If the sign says “don’t walk on the grass” an Englishman would rather face an oncoming lorry than save himself by walking on the grass verge.

Playing by the rules probably came from the way the English waged war in the past. Standing bolt upright wearing bright red uniforms because camouflage and the element of surprise was simply “not in the rules”. So you just stood there and got shot. That’s the only way the bleedin Americans won independence. We were too bloody “play by the rules” to duck or run and hide.

Condiments and crappers

2009-03-31T09:36:00.000-07:00

I always seem to be faced with no end of weird and wonderful situations when I fly. Here are a recent couple.

I’m flying from Doha to Abu Dhabi and have to go through the usual rigmarole of checking in, boarding, fighting with the twat in my seat etc.

Anyways… I’m sitting there a few minutes after take off and I can hear the cabin crew wheezing as they push the galley trolley laden with goodies up the aisle as the plane points into the night sky. I always refuse the wonderful coleslaw and toenail sandwich along with sickly sweet reconstituted mango juice (made with real mangoes may I hasten to add. What they really mean is there are a few dried molecules of what used to be mangoes in there somewhere so they can legally call it a mango drink)

I digress. In front of me there was a man and his mate. The one in the window seat was clearly new to flying as his delight at being in the plane was quite obvious. His colleague, on the other hand, seemed a real frequent flyer. Showing his friend where to sit, how to stow his hand baggage, how to fasten his seatbelt and all manner of things only a true jetsetter would know.

Cue the wheezing galley trolley laden with culinary delights. The stewardess hands over the sandwiches to the aforementioned jetsetter and hapless companion. They were in front of me and in the aisle of seats to my right so I could clearly see the seasoned flyer as he explained the merits of this mid air feast to his eager friend. He showed him how to open the packet, open the juice bottle and so on and so forth. Next, he carefully laid a napkin on his seat table, placed the sandwich on top of it and gently prized it open with the skill of a consultant gynaecologist. Then he picked up the wet towel (the pre-packaged wet tissues you get that smell like rotten lemons), tore off a corner and proceeded to squeeze the contents into his open sandwich. Oblivious to the fact that this was not a dressing. He strained, he grunted, I swear I heard him let go of a couple of high pitched farts as they squeezed past his tightly clenched buttocks.

No way… nothing was coming out. He tore a little more off the packet and tried again. All the time glancing over to his friend with a "silly airlines with their crap impossible to open packaging " look on his bright red sweaty face. This time he strained so hard that even my buttocks were clenching in resonant sympathy. I'm sure he shit himself, even if only a little bit.

Finally, he tore open the packet and produced the moist towel with an incredulous look of horror on his face. He turned and caught me staring with tears streaming down my face.

He ate in silence and never spoke the entire flight. I hear he's actually been struck dumb.

Another time, I was on a flight to KL (Kuala Lumpur to you plebs, KL to us jet setters)…

Halfway through the flight, I suddenly needed the lavatory. As you all know. Nothing happens all during the flight then all of a sudden everyone wants to piss at once. I’m sure they put a diuretic and laxatives in the food so everyone pisses and shits as were flying over Iran. Coincidence… I think not dear friends. I smell conspiracy, amongst other things.

Where was I? oh yea.

So I’m there holding it in as a constant stream (pardon the pun) of passengers walk past me to use the toilet. I keep looking back at the light and it's always red. As soon as it goes green, I get up and then it goes red again… this happens several times. I then see the light go green again, get up and walk towards the toilet… still green…. Wahay…. I push the door open and I am standing over a woman sitting there with her trousers round her ankles… I look down with my "OH MY FUCKING GOD" eyes… she looks up at me with her "OH MY FUCKING GOD" eyes, then she tries to kick the door shut with both feet. I see her as her bent double body slides arse first into the bowl. The image of her desperately trying to cling on to the smooth cubicle walls as the cold wet steel makes contact with her cheeks will haunt me forever. I am half hoping she flushed at that point and flushed herself into oblivion. Fucking cow. Why couldn’t she close the door? Is it too much to ask? Why abuse me like this? Needless to say, I went back to my seat, curled up into a ball, covered myself with a blanket and willed my body to reabsorb the contents of my bladder, which it kindly did.

I think they managed to get her out in the end because I saw a stewardess running past me with some cutlery. I could have sworn I heard a chorus of people cheer after a loud popping sound was heard. Mind you, I might have been dreaming.

Needless to say, I was the last person off the plane, I refused to take the blanket off my head, instead, I was escorted off the plane like some murder suspect being led to court.

Hello. Is it me you're looking for?

2009-03-01T09:47:00.000-08:00

I think I’m weird. I know a lot of you already know that, but it’s quite a different thing to admit it yourself.

What makes me realize I am weird? Well it usually the way I ramble… the things going round in my head… let me cite a few examples.

Most of these rambles I have had with friends or colleagues on the phone, just before they hang up on me.

A friend of mine called me and told me that a work colleague came to their desk and had an enormous peanut sized piece of dried mucus (bogey to the brits, booger to you yanks)?. They told me it made them physically sick.

Normally people would just say “yuck” and move on… no.. not me…

Me: What colour was it?

Friend: I don’t know. Sort of a greenish grey.

Me: Was it stuck to the hairs?

Friend: I really didn’t pay much notice.

Me: Was it hanging out or inside?

Friend: Obviously outside… that’s why I saw it.

Me: Did you tell them?

Friend: No I didn’t. I couldn’t even look at it.

Me: Do you want me to come to your office and tell them?

Friend: No thanks. I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Me: Maybe its too big. Maybe it has to be removed surgically.

Friend: (getting into it now) yes. Maybe they will write to “Extreme Makeover”

Me: Problem is that they will have to walk with their head back after that.

Friend: What?

Me: Because after all that time holding your head up with such a mass hanging off the end of your nose, the muscles in the back of your neck would have developed abnormally large to compensate. After removing the mass, the muscles will have a tendency to pull the head back.

Friend: You’re weird.

Me: No.. it’s true… I can draw you a picture if you like.

Friend: go away weirdo. I have work to do.

. Phone goes dead.

Another phone call I had this week.

Friend: Good morning

Me: Good morning

Friend: Hows things?

Me: Good. How about you?

Friend: Okey Dokey

Me: I hate ladies fingers (okra).

Friend: Ladies fingers?

Me: Yes. You know. Those vegetables that are bristly. Look a lot like chili peppers. Why they call them ladies fingers, I don’t know. If I ever saw a lady with fingers like that I would run like the wind. Can you imagine her touching you with fingers like that?

Friend: Oh I see.

Me: I hate them. Not real ladies fingers that is. Cos I like real ladies fingers. Especially if they have nice nails. Anyway, I hate the vegetables cos they are all stringy and they feel like someone has blown their nose in the stew. I always imagine the chef blowing a huge mass of mucus into the pot. That’s why I hate them. Oh… and the fact they call them ladies fingers.

Friend: ok.

Me: yes. Why the hell do they call them ladies fingers? They didn’t call cucumbers “men’s knobs”. If there’s any resemblance between a body part and a vegetable that’s it. Have you ever seen a bearded clam?

Friend: No. can’t say I have.

Me. My god. That should be called “woman’s “thingy” ”. It doesn’t just look like it. You should smell it.

Friend: Thank you. That was just the image I needed

Me: You know what else I hate?

Friend: I shudder to think

Me: Mars bars

Friend: How could you hate Mars bars?

Me: Because who would make them that shape? They even have veins on them.

Friend: You’re weird. Leave me alone.

Phone goes dead

Shake it baby. Yeah !!!

2009-02-15T00:55:00.000-08:00

Nothing says more about your character than a handshake. That first physical contact with someone speaks volumes about you. How often have you been faced with a handshake that leaves you bemused, angry or just abused?

Well, to help you in those awkward moments that plague many social occasions, I have come up with social profiles of and counter-measures for the most (un)popular handshakes that you may come across. So… here we go…

The bone crunching, incontinence inducing Vice Grip of Death.

Usually limited to the lower echelons of the gene pool. A stooped back, overly long upper limbs and unusually short lower limbs give some warning. Also look out for knuckles which reach the floor and excessive body hair.

Counter Measure.
To avoid injury, the trick is to shove your hand as far into theirs as possible. Their objective is to clasp your fingers and squeeze. The bony fingers are especially susceptible to squeezing and the thrusting of the hand forward will only allow the primate to squeeze your palm. Watch and smile as he face reddens and he may even break wind due to the strain.

What he drives.
A big American muscle car like a Corvette or Mustang

What women he likes
All breasts, ass and make up.

How he has sex
Very quickly and very noisily. As he climaxes, he may bray like a donkey or howl like a wolf.

The All-American “Hey buddy”

The person delivering it will look you right in the eye, fully engage your hand, smile and pump your hand two or three times. He may grin inanely while he does this. The giver just oozes so much damn self confidence that you want to bitch-slap him across the face.

Counter Measure.
Attack his self confidence. Pick a fault (balding hair, speech impediment, bad suit etc.) and bring attention to it. For example, after this shake say something like “Phew, what did you just eat? Your breath smells like sri lankan cricketers jock strap after a five day test”

What he drives.
A Mercedes or BMW.

What women he likes
Usually attractive professional types.

How he has sex
Usually from behind with one hand on his hip. He may say “yea baby, tell me how much you like it” or the immortal "whose your daddy?".

The Lingerer

You know this one. The guy shakes your hand normally then holds on while he talks to you. Treat this handshake with suspicion. Either the guy has a bad memory and has forgotten to let go or he likes the feel of your skin against his. Either way, you should worry.

Counter Measure.
A great counter measure for this one is to turn the tables and hold on to his hand for a really long time. He will become very uncomfortable as time goes by and may even snatch it away after 10 minutes screaming “what the fuck is wrong with you?!!!!”.

What he drives.
An average saloon car.

What women he likes
Typical housewife type. Women who love cooking and looking after the kids.

How he has sex
On top with his head in the pillow. He may whimper and break wind as he orgasms. After orgasm, he may lie there motionless panting heavily trying to remember whether he’s finished or not.

The Push-Off

Even though this grip may be firm and warm, at the end your hand is pushed or flicked away. The Push-Off can range from a slight stiff-arm to a flat-out rejection. Territorial wanker. Be careful. This shaker may start pissing all over the place to mark his territory.

Counter Measure.
Invade his personal space. If standing, stand real close to the point of touching him. If sitting, bring your chair closer to him and start going through any documents he has left on his desk.

What he drives.
A huge four wheel drive.

What women he likes
Submissive types.

How he has sex
On top with his partners legs forced unnaturally behind her ears. He may hold her arms down to reinforce his authority. The most likely lover to step back on orgasm and finish himself off over his partner.

The Pull-In

This person holds on to your hand to pull you closer, or direct you through a door or toward a chair. This is the typical control freak handshake. Do not let go or there is a danger the shaker will swing you around, drop your pants and take you up the arse before you realize it.

Counter Measure.
Make a point of grasping his hand tightly and not letting go as you walk around. An ultimate counter measure is not to let go until you reach home in the evening.

What he drives.
A Hummer or Porsche (depending on his penis size).

What women he likes
Slutty submissive types.

How he has sex
Anally. Usually with his hands around his partners neck. May say “uhu… take it bitch… take it.

The Two-Hander

During this handshake, the person's right hand will grab yours while the left hand grasps your wrist, forearm, biceps, shoulder, or neck The higher the left hand, the greater the manipulation and control. This is the favorite handshake of politicians because it implies a quick sincerity and intimacy. This person is trying to sell you something that's not really there, e.g., "we're great buddies”. Never, ever, trust this type of shaker. The complete wanker of handshakes.

Counter Measure.
Squeeze squeeze squeeze. As you shake hands, squeeze different parts of his body, arm, shoulder, neck.. Let your imagination go wild. If you’re feeling particularly adventurous, use your free hand to squeeze their nose, tweak their nipple or even cup their genitals.

What he drives.
A Rolls Royce, Range Rover or Jaguar.

What women he likes
Prim and proper types who wear floral dresses and little make up.

How he has sex
During normal sex will “inadvertently” slip into his partners arse swearing blind that he didn’t realize that he had done it.

The Finger Phantom

This person just offers you two or three fingers. A completely selfish handshake. Its just a handshake moron!!! A favourite amongst women and people afraid to show intimacy.

Counter Measure.
Hug them. As soon as they shake hands, pull them towards you and give them a hearty cuddle. After the handshake, walk around everywhere with them with your arm around their shoulder. Look intently at them and try to stroke their hair or face.

What he drives.
A Saab or Volvo.

What women he likes
Dominant overbearing types.

How he has sex
With the lights off. His partner may tug on his ears or dig her nail into his back or buttocks. She may say “faster you useless piece of shit”

The Dead Fish

We all know people who offer this kind of cold, clammy, indifferent handshake. They thrust their hand forward and don’t grab yours or move their arm. The lazy shits expect you to make all the effort. These people should be shot. Better still, the active gene should be identified so these tossers can be terminated at birth.

Counter Measure
Mirror their exact actions. Therefore, you just stand there face to face, flat open hands touching palm to palm. Do not grab their hand or move your arm up and down. This is unnerving for them and surreal to people watching.

What he drives.
A Toyota Corolla or Nissan Tiida.

What women he likes
I don’t think this question is relevant.

How he has sex
Feverishly until his arm goes numb or his mother walks in on him.

Now you are well equipped for that job interview, meeting with your girlfriend’s father or any social occasion. Go shake it baby.

I hate you!!!!!

2009-01-15T00:05:00.000-08:00

I think im a reasonable sort of guy. Angry at times, but reasonable. I try and see the better side of people whenever I can, but sometimes, the patience of Job isn't enough. There are a few pet peeves I have, nothing that endangers civilisation by bringing the end of the world nearer, but bloody annoying regardless.

People who press both UP and DOWN when they are calling a lift.

What the hell is wrong with you people. You retarded imbeciles. Haven't you made your mind up? Is it some sick game you play? Is it like rolling a dice? "Lets press both buttons today, I feel lucky".

Next time I'm going up in a lift and it stops half way because your sorry ass pressed up even though you want to go down and you peer in asking "going down?" Even though the indicator is telling you its going up, I'm going to say yes. and when you get into the lift, it will just be me and you, and believe me, you WILL be going down.

People who don't look where they're going on the street.

I have never seen people with more of a death wish than these. They are so stupid that they shouldn't be allowed to go out unaccompanied. What is wrong with you? Do you realise what 1500kg of steel coming at you at speed can do to you? It will certainly send you permanently into that dreamworld you seem to be in.

Airline safety instructions.

Are these bozos serious? "In the event of an emergency landing on water, the exit slides will serve as rafts". Really? what happens when a plane hits the water? It breaks up into tiny little pieces, much like what will happen to any passenger. "Don't inflate your lifejacket until you have left the aircraft" excuse me, "leave the aircraft?" are you taking the piss? Shouldn't that be "after being forcibly sucked out of a hole the size of a teacup?" Call me selfish, but in the event of an emergency landing, I think I would be a bit preoccupied with finding my limbs to be remembering details.

They should just be honest and say "In the event of an emergency landing on land or water, the chances of actually living through the landing are pretty slim. If some of you do make it, you'll probably wish you died on impact. Thank you for choosing to fly with us"

Horoscopes

What a pile of steaming bovine excrement. You really have to be a complete retard to believe this. You probably press Up and Down when calling a lift.

How in the hell does neptune being in line with jupiter and some stars making some funny shape together have any impact on what decisions I make today? Grow up and get a life losers.

Starbucks

Hello people. WTF is going down with the sizes of your coffee? WTF is "tall" and "grande" ? doesn't small, medium and large suffice? Are you trying to appear so poncy that even normal English is beneath you?

Why don't they ever sell normal coffee? What the hell is "columbian arabica slow roasted by ethnic lepers" ? Can't I have just plain coffee?

Well, you know what you can do with your coffee... stick it up your "grande".

Body Odour

Now I want you to imagine frying onions, putting them in a blender then bottling them and using them as a deodorant every morning. Because thats the type of smell I am constantly exposed to on a daily basis. I know that in summer it can get a little hot, but there's no excuse for it. I am prepared to contribute to a deodarant fund, please..oh please... have some pity on me. Your nasal nerve endings may have been numbed by this putrid smell over the years, but mine haven't.

Spitting in the street

This has to be high on my list. Do you turds do this at home? Sitting watching TV and think "Hmm, I feel a bit congested , I think I'll go outside, cough my insides up and leave them in a steaming pile where everybody walks". These people aren't normal. The worst ones are those that feel the need to coax their delivery by grunting and snorting loudly and then projecting a mass the size of hawaii onto the pavement.

People who dance their way into a club

Excuse me, but I think you are complete twats. Why can't you wait till you get inside? What happened ? You warming up? Did Gloria Estefan's rythm get ya? morons.

You dont see me starting to piss on the floor on the way to the toilet do you?

People who say "with all due respect" before they speak

Come on you hypocrites. We all know you want to start your pissy little speech with "No, sorry, you are a complet twat and I have no respect for you whatsoever"

People who use proverbs in normal converstation.

"I told him not to put all his eggs in one basket but he had too many cooks and spoilt the broth, but hey.. every cloud has a silver lining and a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush"

What in the name of every thing holy is that supposed to mean?

Thats all for now... because the mere act of writing these down is making my blood boil. I think I will go find a quiet dark corner and lie down for a bit.

Sleep and weird dreams

2008-12-15T00:52:00.000-08:00

Phew… I’m glad last nights sleep is over. Never been so glad to see daybreak. Nightmares were terrible (suppose that’s how they’re supposed to be). Only one type of animal on earth scares the hell out of me. Big cats. Tigers, lions, pumas, cheetahs.. the whole lot. But the scariest of all is a black panther. Yup… you guessed it, that was my nightmare. Stuck in a house with one of them.

I once read somewhere that you dream in black and white, but I swear to god this thing was not only the blackest of black but the inside of its mouth was blood red.

After a while running from room to room, I looked out of the window and the whole town was being ripped to pieces by wild animals. Not just big cats, but gorillas too.

The dream stopped being scary anymore just ridiculous.

Needless to say, the big black panther caught up with me in the end and I woke up as soon as I felt its claws rip into my back.

Now as a hormone ravaged teenager, I used to enjoy my dreams. Little excursions into sensual bliss with the girl from class 4G without the formalities of actually talking or getting to know each other. Problem was, just at the crucial point, just as soon as she was naked and I was eyeing her firm nakedness with eyes straining at their sockets, just at that precise moment…. My dad would wake me up…. I mean … what the hell was that all about? It happened every time…. How the hell did he know? Was he eavesdropping on my dreams? Had he developed a secret dream tracking device in those times he used to potter about in the garden shed? Was he silently waiting there at the top of the stairs muttering under his breath “aha… he’s having dirty dreams again… yup… she’s undressing… she’s naked… there he is with an erection that could cut diamonds…. Yup… time to wake him up”.

Some dreams are just plain annoying. You know like the one where you dream you have woken up and are getting ready for work. Then you wake up and realize that you are late. I hate that one. I once had a variation on that theme where I woke, up realized I was dreaming and was late. Rushing around to get ready I woke up again to realize I was dreaming and was later than I thought. This went on for another 4 or 5 times before I gave up and phoned in sick. Then I woke up to realize I hadn’t phoned in sick. Panic set in. At the crucial moment, I suddenly remembered I was unemployed and didn’t have a job to start with.

When I was a kid I was a bed wetter (I’ve grown out of it, honest). For all those of you who never suffered from this affliction it's real crappy (or pissy), I have to admit though, it was worse for my younger brother because we used to share a bed.

What happens is you dream you are going to the toilet. You see yourself actually peeing into the bowl. Then the sudden warm and wet feeling envelops you and you usually wake up.

Now, my dad, I’m sure, also had a bed wetting detector (I’m beginning to suspect he was a mad scientist… well he was half there anyway being mad and all) because he knew when it happened. Maybe dragging my soiled linen into the garden and setting it ablaze gave him some sort of clue.

My father was a practical man, he had an uncanny ability to analyze situations and he mused over the options of how to cure me of this curse. I’m sure he weighed up all the pros and cons of each approach and satisfied himself that the solution was to beat the living daylights out of me. It worked too. I didn’t sleep for three days.

I remember a while ago in the UK that a man was acquitted of killing his father because he was sleepwalking!! Here’s the bbc story.

In fact, I came across lots of cases after a brief search. The weirdest being this one and this one. Where was this information when I needed it?

Well, I’m off to take a little nap now. Anyone care to join me MUAHAHAHAHA

Not a very good idea

2008-10-23T00:26:00.000-07:00

Someon directed me to this article on reuters....

This is the text if the link is broken

MULTAN, Pakistan (Reuters) - Fateh Mohammad, a prison inmate in Pakistan, says he woke up last weekend with a glass lightbulb in his anus. Wednesday night, doctors brought Mohammad's misery to an end after a one-and-a-half hour operation to remove the object."Thanks Allah, now I feel comfort. Today, I had my breakfast. I was just drinking water, nothing else," Mohammad, a grey-beared man in his mid-40s, told Reuters from a hospital bed in the southern central city of Multan. "We had to take it out intact," said Dr. Farrukh Aftab at Nishtar Hospital. "Had it been broken inside, it would be a very very complicated situation." Mohammad, who is serving a four-year sentence for making liquor, prohibited for Muslims, said he was shocked when he was first told the cause of his discomfort. He swears he didn't know the bulb was there."When I woke up I felt a pain in my lower abdomen, but later in hospital, they told me this," Mohammad said."I don't know who did this to me. Police or other prisoners."The doctor treating Mohammad said he'd never encountered anything like it before, and doubted the felon's story that someone had drugged him and inserted the bulb while he was comatose.
© Reuters 2006. All Rights Reserved.

Now let me get this right, someone drugged him and while he was out cold, they decided to insert a lightbulb up his arse?

He actually expected people to believe him? My God.

How did they get it out? I have images in my head of the surgical team holding his naked body aloft and screwing the lightbulb into an empty ceiling socket. Once secure, they would pull down and hey presto... one cured patient and one brown lightbulb.

I suppose it could have been worse, it could have been a fluorescent tube.

This story got me curious (No.. before anyone starts... I wasnt contemplating any insertions of my own). I started to wonder whether this was common. After a brief search, I found a medical site dedicated to the phenomena of anal insertion of foreign objects.

To summarise, here is a list of items experienced by the doctor who wrote the artcle

Object and number Recovered

Glass or ceramic

Bottle or jar 32
Bottle with attached rope 1
Glass or cup 12
Light bulb 7
Tube 6

Food

Apple 1
Banana 2
Carrot 4
Cucumber 3
Onion 2
Parsnip 1
Plantain (with condom) 1
Potato 1
Salami 1
Turnip 1
Zucchini 2

Wooden

Ax handle 1
Stick or broom handle 10
Miscellaneous or unspecified 3

Sexual Device

Vibrator 23
Dildo 15

Kitchen device

Dull knife 1
Ice pick 1
Kife sharpener 1
Mortar pestle 2
Spatula (plastic) 1
Spoon 1
Tin cup1

Miscellaneous tools

Candle 1
Curling Iron 1
Flashlight 3
Iron rod 1
Pen 2
Rubber tube 1
Screwdriver 1
Toothbrush 1
Wire spring 1

Inflated device

Balloon 1
Balloon attached to cylinder 1
Condom 1

Ball

Baseball 2
Tennis ball 1
Pool cue ball 1

Miscellaneous containers

Baby powder can 1
Candle box 1
Shampoo Bottle 1
Snuff box 1

Miscellaneous

Bottle cap 1
Cattle horn 3
Chain (gold) 1
Frozen pig's tail 1
"Kangaroo tumor" * 1
Hair Mousse Cap 1
Plastic rod 1
Stone 2
Toothbrush holder 1
Toothbrush package 1
Whip handle 2

Collections (one case of each)

2 Glass tubes
72 1/2 Jeweler's saw
Oil can with potato stopper
Piece of wood, peanut
Umbrella handle and enema tubing
2 Glasses
Phosphorus match ends (homicide)
402 Stones
Toolbox **
2 Bars soap
Beer glass and preserving pot
Lemon and cold cream jar
2 Apples
Spectacles, suitcase key, tobacco pouch, and magazine
total of 14 collections, with approximately 500 objects

*unique case of pedunculated perianal skin tumor habitually
inserted into rectum
**a convict; contained saws and other items usable
in escape attempts

I could attempt to comment on each and everyone but the mere sight of the list is making my eyes water and my ringpiece squint.

I mean, how does this happen? They sit there watching TV and suddenly think "I wonder if this remote control will fit up my arse?" What are the mechanics of it? Do they do it alone? Sitting there arse in the air trying to stuff a well greased pair of spectacles up your rectum? What the hell is wrong with you people? Have you run out of storage space? Are you that bored? What is it?

I can't believe some of the things on that list. A magazine? For gods sake, how do you get a magazine up there? I couldnt imagine a rolled up post it note never mind an August issue of Vogue.

Lastly, I want to post an X-ray of some complete moron who, after inserting a dildo up his rusty sheriffs badge and getting it lodged tight, tried a home procedure of trying to retrieve it with a pair of tongs... yup ... you guessed it... they got stuck too.

Sometimes I regret not studying medicine. Doctors must see the weirdest things.

What? say that again!

2008-09-18T00:35:00.000-07:00

As a follow up to my previous post, i managed to get some real life examples from the Plain English website.

These are actual statements made by different entities in the UK. The "Before" is how it appears and the "after"is once it has been deciphered.

Before
High-quality learning environments are a necessary precondition for facilitation and enhancement of the ongoing learning process.

After
Children need good schools if they are to learn properly.
(Although the 'Before' paragraph does not mention it, the situation does involve schoolchildren.)

Before
If there are any points on which you require explanation or further particulars we shall be glad to furnish such additional details as may be required by telephone.

After
If you have any questions, please ring.

Before
It is important that you shall read the notes, advice and information detailed opposite then complete the form overleaf (all sections) prior to its immediate return to the Council by way of the envelope provided.

After
Please read the notes opposite before you fill in the form. Then send it back to us as soon as possible in the envelope provided.

Before
Your enquiry about the use of the entrance area at the library for the purpose of displaying posters and leaflets about Welfare and Supplementary Benefit rights, gives rise to the question of the provenance and authoritativeness of the material to be displayed. Posters and leaflets issued by the Central Office of Information, the Department of Health and Social Security and other authoritative bodies are usually displayed in libraries, but items of a disputatious or polemic kind, whilst not necessarily excluded, are considered individually.

After
Thank you for your letter asking permission to put up posters in the entrance area of the library. Before we can give you an answer we will need to see a copy of the posters to make sure they won't offend anyone.

Great to see that some people are paid by the word eh?

Anyway. My last post showed you how to expand your sentences for a truly mind numbing effect. Today, i managed to find a very funny list of pointers on writing.

They made me smile anyway. If you need me to explain any of them please dont hesitate to not contact me.

The path to better writing (from somewhere else on the web)

1. Always avoid alliteration.
2. Prepositions are not words to end sentences with.
3. Avoid cliches like the plague—they're old hat.
4. Employ the vernacular.
5. Eschew ampersands & abbreviations, etc.
6. Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are unnecessary.
7. Parenthetical words however must be enclosed in commas.
8. It is wrong to ever split an infinitive.
9. Contractions aren't necessary.
10. Do not use a foreign word when there is an adequate English quid pro quo.
11. One should never generalize.
12. Eliminate quotations. As Ralph Waldo Emerson once said: "I hate quotations. Tell me what you know."
13. Comparisons are as bad as cliches.
14. Don't be redundant; don't use more words than necessary; it's highly superfluous.
15. It behooves you to avoid archaic expressions.
16. Avoid archaeic spellings too.
17. Understatement is always best.
18. Exaggeration is a billion times worse than understatement.
19. One-word sentences? Eliminate. Always!
20. Analogies in writing are like feathers on a snake.
21. The passive voice should not be used.
22. Go around the barn at high noon to avoid colloquialisms.
23. Who needs rhetorical questions?
24. Don't use commas, that, are not, necessary.
25. Do not use hyperbole; not one in a million can do it effectively.
26. Never use a big word when a diminutive alternative would suffice.
27. Subject and verb always has to agree.
28. Be more or less specific.
29. Placing a comma between subject and predicate, is not correct.
30. Use youre spell chekker to avoid mispeling and to catch typograhpical errers.
31. Don't repeat yourself, or say again what you have said before.
32. Don't be redundant.
33. Use the apostrophe in it's proper place and omit it when its not needed.
34. Don't never use no double negatives.
35. Poofread carefully to see if you any words out.
36. Hopefully, you will use words correctly, irregardless of how others use them.
37. Eschew obfuscation.
38. No sentence fragments.
39. Don't indulge in sesquipedalian lexicological constructions.
40. A writer must not shift your point of view.
41. Don't overuse exclamation marks!!
42. Place pronouns as close as possible, especially in long sentences, as of 10 or more words, to their antecedents.
43. Writing carefully, dangling participles must be avoided.
44. If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
45. Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
46. Everyone should be careful to use a singular pronoun with singular nouns in their writing.
47. Always pick on the correct idiom.
48. The adverb always follows the verb.
49. Take the bull by the hand and avoid mixing metaphors.
50. If you reread your work, you can find on rereading a great deal of repetition can be by rereading and editing.
51. And always be sure to finish what

Hello Darlings

2008-04-01T12:12:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know, I've been away along time. You may have noticed that I have reposted a few old post just to make it look like I've been posting recently. It wont fool any grizzled seasoned bloggers but I also appeal to the downright stupid too.

Anyway... whats happening? Well, I'm in good old Abu Dhabi now. I served my sentence in Qatar and my parole hearing went OK. So here I am. The perfume capital of the world. The only place on earth where your senses can be caressed by the sultry tones of exotic aromas one minute the assaulted by the rancid pong of decomposing armpits the next. I knew vomiting had a purpose.

Is that what I think it is?

2007-12-21T22:57:00.000-08:00

I always lose my car in mall parking. I don’t think I’m stupid, just not good at remembering codes. All the damn spaces look so alike, how the hell am I supposed to remember? They should do something about it, I'm sick of waiting till every car has left the mall and walking round to see the cars that are left. There’s usually about a dozen of us dimwits, walking round, trying not to make eye contact with each other.

In Dubai they don’t use codes for identifying parking areas, they use fruit. Apparently, you’re more likely to remember you parked in banana 3 than B3. So, I reckon that they could name parking spaces in more memorable ways, like “your sister is a whore” or “you take it up the ass”. You wouldn’t forget then would you?

This brings me to the main topic of my post

I am a little annoyed. Someone I know , another blogger was flashed in a mall car park. I’m annoyed because I don’t like the idea that women can’t feel safe here. I’m also annoyed because it never happens to us men. Women are much too dignified to do that to us. You could never imagine a woman cornering you in a dimly lit car park, hitching up her skirt, rubbing herself provocatively, saying, “how about a bit of this handsome?” then making an “O” shape with her mouth and jutting her head back and forth. To be honest, I would probably be inclined to run too.

I cannot fathom the concept that there are men out there who think that a woman would be turned on by a random flaccid penis. This has to be the all time worst pick up line ever to be attempted.

She did report the incident to the police, who, on taking her statement asked her how she knew it was his penis that she saw. “Because it had an uncanny resemblance to you officer” she should have said. I can’t help thinking that the police officer assumed the fact she could recognize a penis makes her in some perverted way responsible.

If they pick up several suspects, I think she may have to go back and pick the penis out of a line up. I can see it now “All suspects please face the front and step forward.. that’s enough…. Now hold your penis in your fist… yes, that’s right… now shake it up and down… o.k. o.k... now draw imaginary circles in the air with it… now push your tongue out and flick it around…..ok..ok…please stop that… you were not asked to rub your nipples provocatively “

I maybe wrong (and im sure you’ll tell me if I am), but, a woman’s genitalia have a beautiful form, they look like they are purposely designed, they have pleasing curves. They are beautiful. A mans tackle on the other hand just looks like the last turkey left in the shop.

QTel. Let's connect. (With my fist).

2007-11-30T11:08:00.000-08:00

It’s been a long time hasn’t it? I have plenty of excuses. I can’t access my blog from work because they snoop on everyone, and my attempts to get connected at home were farcical to say the least. Let me try and describe the absolutely dismal service I got from QTel, affectionately known as WankTel from now on.

WankTel is by far the most inefficient, badly run excuse of a service provider that I have had the misfortune to use. It is full of inept, bumbling imbeciles who are not only arrogant in their incompetence but also rude.

I move into a new apartment. Now Qatar being Qatar, there’s no electricity connected. Nonetheless, the landlord has already cashed our rent cheques (one year’s rent in advance). I cannot get into this other fiasco here because it requires a posting on its own. Let me limit this one to WankTel. Ok. So I move into my new apartment, which at this point is running off electricity from a generator in the parking lot. No lift, but hey, this is Qatar, I've endured worse.

Anyway, I get a form from Wanktel for a service they call Mozaic. The service, which they have plastered on every billboard, bus and taxi in the city promises over 130 prime satellite channels, high speed internet and a landline all for 250/month. This includes a free wireless router. Well bugger me, that’s cheaper than an Oasis biffer.

I did a pretty good job of filling in the form except where it asked for an electricity meter number. Well, as you all know, I didn’t have an electricity meter since Kahramaa (the utility company) hadn’t connected us up yet, hence the fucking huge generator in the parking lot. No worries (or so I thought), there’s a Wanktel number on my building AND my apartment, that should do it. Saved at last.

I skip down to LuLu Center, completed form in hand (because they have a WankTel service centre there) and I eagerly take a ticket and sit and wait patiently for my turn. My number comes up and I sit infront of a Customer Services agent. Below appears our conversation.

ME: Good afternoon!
CS: Yes? (Expectant look on his face like he was constipated)
ME: I would like to apply for Mozaic TV please. (I hand over the form)
CS: Electricity number? (Without looking up from his keyboard)
ME: What?
CS: Meter number?
ME: I don’t have an electricity meter.
CS: Can’t do anything without a meter number.
ME: I have a water meter number and a WankTel number (triumphantly)
CS: No good. Need an electricity meter number.
ME: We have a generator… we don’t have meters. Why do you need an electricity meter number? I want a phone dammit. Here’s YOUR Wanktel number. You nailed it above my door. What the fuck use is it? What’s it for? You just had some little aluminium plates and decided to just randomly nail them over the city for no purpose? Why the electricity number?
CS: So we can locate the building.
ME: I'll take you there, ill draw you a fucking picture, ill video it, give you GPS coordinates… I DON’T HAVE A FUCKING ELECTRICITY METER.
CS: Come back when you do.

I left; form clenched in hand, knuckles white as my nails dug into the soft flesh of my palm. I stormed out of LuLu centre, pushing over several people and kicking a car washer’s bucket like a football.

A month later, we eventually got electricity meters. Not in one go mind you, it took three attempts. Each attempt requiring the generator to be switched off and the residents trying to find some way of switching it back on after the workmen had left. I could almost hear chickens and arctic rolls defrosting in the humid night air Nonetheless, that’s also material for another posting.

Ok… where was I? Yes… I half skip down to LuLu center, recently uncrumpled form in hand. Take a ticket, sit quietly and wait. Number comes up… I walk up to my arch nemesis and place the form gently in front of him and take a seat. The conversation goes something like this

CS: Yes?
ME: I want Mozaic
CS: (Flips through form…taps on keyboard) Electricity Meter not on system.
ME: What?!!
CS: Your meter number isn’t on the system. When was it fitted?
ME: A few days ago.
CS: Ahhhhh!
ME: What do you mean Ahhhh?!
CS: It’s not on the system.
ME: So? How does that help me?
CS: I need an electricity number.
ME: I fucking know that, that’s why I just gave you one.
CS: Yes. But it’s not on the system yet.
ME: What do you want me to do? Make one up. 12345678… that’s it…stick that in your fucking computer.
CS: Calm down sir. I’m trying to help.
ME: Help? Help? Sure… Trying to help turn me into a psychotic murdering cannibal… that’s what.
CS: Do you have a telephone number of anyone else in the building?
ME: WHAT MAKES YOU THINK ANYONE IN MY BUILDING HAS BEEN ABLE TO GET CONNECTED???!!! HEY ?!! HEY!!??
CS: What about a neighbouring building?
ME: Sure. Ill just knock on random doors and ask for peoples telephone numbers.
CS: (looking quite worried now as drops of my saliva drip onto his desk). Please sir calm down.
ME: Calm down? Calm down? I…. I…… (I left because I was getting images in my head of a CSI team examining his twisted body… I could almost hear David Caruso saying “dust the keyboard before you remove it from his anus"

This wasn’t funny anymore.

I drive round where I live and eventually stumble upon a telephone number of a neighbouring shop. So, the next day, I stomp down to LuLu center again, form crunched up into a tiny blood stained ball. I forego the taking a number etiquette and plop into the seat in front of the same guy and watch as he picks my form up off the floor after it bounces off his head.

ME: Mozaic! Here's a number of a nearby shop.
CS: Just checking sir (quiver in his voice)

He stares at the screen. I can see a lump in his throat and beads of sweat form on his brow.

ME: WEEELLLLLL?
CS: I’m sorry sir!
ME: What?
CS: We don’t have Mozaic in your area.

A small pause then a deathly silence

CS: HELP! GET HIM OFF ME! PLEASE. OH MY GOD!!!! WHAT YOU DOING WITH THAT KEYBOARD!!!!! NOOOOOOO!!!!!
Anyway. After explaining to the police my predicament I was released on my own recognizance.

I didn’t give up there. A week later. I was checking the WankTel website and I came across a “Residential Package”. You apply for a landline, mobile and ADSL on one form and you get one bill. I thought I would attempt that one. Id already subscribed to Showtime so Mozaic had lost its allure anyway.

Being the arse I am, I went back to the same guy in LuLu centre. I mean it wasn’t as if he had a restraining order on me anyway. I sat there in front of him and…..

ME: I want the residential package.
CS: Yes sir. (Types quickly into his terminal, which I notice hadn’t been completely cleaned)
CS: OK sir, ADSL speed is 512.
ME: NO!... look at the form. I ticked 2MB
CS: Sorry sir (looking visibly worried), we only offer 512 on the residential package.
ME: NO YOU FUCKING DON’T!... YOUR WEBSITE SAYS 512k, 1MB or 2MB. EVEN YOUR FORM HAS THE 3 OPTIONS. THAT’S WHY I FUCKING TICKED IT!!!!!
CS: Sorry sir, my computer only allows me to select 512k.

At this point I could have leapt over the desk, and eaten my way through his chest and bitten down hard on his heart, ripped it out and howled at the moon. Nonetheless, I exercised self restraint and said. JUST GET ME FUCKING CONNECTED.

That brings us neatly (albeit two weeks later) here. So that’s why I haven’t been blogging. Its WankTel's fault.

I don't trust you

2007-09-21T02:04:00.000-07:00

Not only am I an angry soul, I’m also very very mistrusting.I know it's not normally acceptable but I do make judgment on appearance (which we all do but rarely admit). Here are a few things that really piss me off. If you display any of these, don’t expect me to trust you or have any respect for you whatsoever. Please take note readers and look out for these in your Doctor, Dentist, Salesman, Teacher, mate.. etc… anyone whom a little respect and trust is a requisite.

Ties

The length of your tie should be so the tip reaches the waistband of your trousers. Not halfway down your chest or down to your testicles. If you find it difficult to achieve this maybe you shouldn’t wear one. Better still, you really shouldn’t be allowed to go out unaccompanied

Combovers

Would you trust someone who is deluded to the point where he thinks a few wispy hairs will camouflage the fact that he’s as bald as a billiard ball. Not only are they deluded, they are deceitful to the bone. I also have a nasty habit of continuously staring at it while they are talking just to make them feel uneasy. Try it, its fun.

Farting in public.

Anyone who throws dignity to the wind (pardon the pun) cannot be trusted. If you choose to bring yourself down to the level of the beasts, that’s your business but don’t expect me to entertain you. If you have a stretched anal muscle that makes it difficult to have an element of control, then maybe you should stop stuffing objects up there for a while.

Wearing socks with flip-flops

Do I really need to say anything? Hand me the pepper spray.

Tight or high up trousers

Most women look good with tight trousers on. Most men don’t. Guys, unless you stepped off the pages of a magazine, please stay away from the tight trousers. Especially if you’re over 40 because men at that age mysteriously develop the outline of a toffee apple. Looks like someone squeezed their legs and everything moved to their stomachs.
Flying trousers at half-mast? Did someone die? If the trousers don’t fit then don’t wear them asshole. And don’t pull them up so we can all see which way you hang.

White socks

If you’re not in the gym or a soccer field stay away from them. No you don’t look sporty wearing them with dark patent leather shoes, you just look like a moron.

Bluetooth Headsets

To all those freaks who wear these headsets CONTINUOUSLY. What is wrong with you? Did you lose the instructions and now having attached it to your ear you are lost on how to remove it?

Jewelry

Sorry. I just think “bling bling” stuff is the realm of ladies and men who have a propensity for having things shoved up their bottoms (subject of a future post, keep your eyes peeled).

So guys, small rings or pendants are about the limit. Stay off the bangles, bracelets, rings on every finger etc. You just look like complete queers.

Bad breath

If you cant be bothered to clean your teeth then I cant be bothered to talk to you. The last thing I want to have wafted in my face is the decomposing remnants of last night’s chicken madras which you insist on storing between your teeth. Are you saving them for later?

Piercings (other than ears)

What on gods earth possesses you people to disfigure yourself like this? You may look cool now with a staple in your scrotum and a bolt through your penis but believe me, it aint gonna be cool later.

I mean even women are getting pierced downstairs. I’m going to start walking round with a magnet to see how many women I can make orgasm on the bus.

Shoot me please

2007-07-18T02:38:00.000-07:00

Ok ok ok..... back again from a short stint in Abu Dhabi. For those who don't know Abu Dhabi, it's exactly like Doha but with more buildings and less sand; and a bit like London but with 50 degrees C... no it's not, it's absolutely not in the remotest, not by any leap of the imagination, anything like London on any level whatsoever.

Alright, now, where was I? oh yea. I flew Qatar Airways again, not like I have a choice. I won't talk about them again because I've done that rant already.

What I will talk about is the check in. You know, the part before you take your seat and you find out your sandwiched between mr smelly and mr ugly?

Anway, I arrive at the airport, and walk upto the x-ray machine they have before the check-in counters. You know the ones, where you walk through a metal detector. You should know, these detectors hate me. A guy in front of me will walk through with chains hanging from his clothes and all manner of metal fixtures piercing his body (and those are the ones that are visible!!) and the machine is as silent as a mouse. I walk through and the thing will light up like a christmas tree and sirens will go off as policemen point guns in my face.

"belt please" I am ordered. I quickly comply and walk through the machine again. More sirens and lights. I walk back, trying my best to stop my pants from falling down. "jacket please", I curse the day I bought that denim jacket, again, through the machine (you have to realise that at this point a queue of irate travellers is building up behind me) more sirens and lights. Then I remember that my boots have steel eyelets on them, I take them off and I am ordered to place them on the x-ray machine. I am seriously thinking of slashing my wrists and draining my body of blood just in case theres too much iron in it.

This time! This time! I'm uttering under my breath, MORE LIGHTS AND SIRENS. I'm panicking now, I have nothing left, I'm worried that the sight of me walking through the detector in my underwear will just be to much for the waiting queue behind me and I will be beaten to deat with my own boots and strung up with my own belt as a lesson for all.

Like a frantically drowning man clutching at straws, I repeatedly slap my pockets and chest looking pleadingly at the policeman (who by now is wishing he had shot me earlier) as if to say, "what do you want me to do? tell me? PLEEAAASSSEEE...... then I realise something is in my pocket!!! I slip my hand in and lo and behold... its a packet of foil covered gum!!! This time my passage through the machine is received with a deafening silence and I imagine the crowd behind me clapping and cheering, beating steel drums and throwing streamers. I'm so happy at this stage that I fail to realise what a sight I must look. Carrying bags, a belt, boots, skipping to the check-in barefoot with my trousers halfway down my ass.

Well. I'm so glad that ordeal is over. I queue up for check-in. When my turn arrives, I lean up against the counter and the lady comes up with the immortal "Did you pack these bags yourself sir?", what the hell is that supposed to mean? "Why?" I reply "Dont you like the way I fold my shirts?". What the hell is she expecting me to say?

Anyway, she asks me where I'd like to sit "Sir? window or aisle?" (now let me digress here... I have been waiting for the check in staff to ask me this question in this way for years so I can use my funny response. But for years all I get is "Where would you like to sit Sir?" or the equally destructive "Do you want a window or aisle seat Sir?" but never the elusive "Sir? window or aisle?" but on this occasion I got it.. after years of yearning my patience has paid off, it was suddenly presented to me like John the Baptists head to Herods wife, I got it), taking this opportunity, I responded "Window or you will what?" (now, in my head, over the years I have envisaged this scenario and how perfect it would be, like a bride dreams about her wedding. In my case, my response causes complete pandamonium. the check in girl bursts into uncontrollable laughter, everyone around bursts into fits of giggles and guffaws with people rolling about on the floor, sides splitting in every direction, a brass band appears playing "for he's a jolly good fellow" as a crowd gathers to lift me on its shoulders while they run around the airport, a huge beaming smile on my face as I wave to the masses and people try to touch me as I am carried past)

"I beg your pardon Sir?" with a blank stare, is all I get. Now at this point, any normal person would cut their losses and pretend they weren't trying to crack a lame joke. Gratified that no further embarrassment was on offer. Me? Nooooo sireee. I have the bollocks to actually repeat "Window or you'll what?" at the same time grinning inanely at passengers around me in a "stupid cow, she doesn't get it" sort of way as if we were all part of some exclusive club in which she wasn't included.

Now it's a weird feeling, I know how Einstein must have felt, to be surrounded by people who don't understand you' don't appreciate your brilliance. The silence and sea of blank faces only reinforced the belief that I am special.

Suddenly, I hear a giggle, then a cackle, then an infectious wave of laughter. My faith in human nature and the power of comedy restored once more. Why was I so quick to judge my fellow human beings, so quick to condescend their intelligence and their appreciation of my obvious wit. As the laughter rose to a cresendo, I smiled inwardly to myself, bowed my head, humbled by their admiration and saw that my trousers had fallen down to my ankles.

People must be bored

2007-05-12T00:15:00.000-07:00

I got this email recently from someone at work. here it is.

It is important

Please advice all you know
> > > Beware!!!
> > >
> > > Thieves are putting a thin clear, rigid plastic
> > > "sleeve: into the ATM card slot. When you insert your card, the
> > > machine cannot read the strip, so it keeps asking you to re-enter
> > > your pin number. Meanwhile, someone behind you watches as you
> > > enter and re-enter your number. Eventually you give up, thinking
> > > the machine has captured your card and walk away. The
> > > thieves then remove the plastic sleeve complete with
> > > card, and empty your account. The way to avoid this
> > > is to run your finger along the card slot before you
> > > put your card in. The sleeve has a couple of tiny
> > > prongs that the thieves need to get it out of the
> > > slot, and you will be able to feel them. Law
> > > enforcement would like as many people as possible to
> > > be aware of this scam, so please pass this information
> > > on to your friends and family and associates.
> > >
> > > Send to all the people you know".

Now, if theres one thing I hate it's this type of "send it to everyone you know" email. If it's not bodyless kids who need a new body, mutant chickens or corrosive cola it's something else. Thankfully this one didn't have a warning attached of some dreadful calamity that would afflict me for ignoring it.

Now, I couldn't let this one go, so I emailed a response and copied it to everyone on the original email. here it is.

"Dear all,

Another case,

As u place your card in the ATM machine and successfully remove your money, a man behind u beats u round the head with a blunt instrument (club, baseball bat etc.) thus rendering you unconscious. He then runs off with your money, wallet, expensive jewelry, clothes, shoes etc. When you regain consciousness, you realize what a mug you’ve been and you return home a wiser (yet poorer) person. So, what can u do to avoid such embarrassing scenarios in future?

1. Keep all your money under your mattress (not advisable for the incontinent)
2. Use a bank that has no ATM’s (National Bank of Tibet, Commercial Bank of Birundi, etc)

If you must use an ATM, remember these golden rules…..

1. Quickly glance over your shoulder. If the customer behind you is carrying a heavy blunt instrument and/or wearing a balaclava, politely offer him use of the machine first. If he refuses, run like the wind and don't look back.
2. Wear a heavyduty motorcycle helmet. However, this does leave softer body parts vulnerable to attack …so beware.
3. Buy a baseball bat and balaclava of your own and make your withdrawals without the need for a card.

I hope the above is helpful and happy withdrawals".

Qatar Airways

2007-02-05T02:06:00.000-08:00

Ok... I'm in qatar... there I said it... are you happy now? you know what they say, the start of any healing process is admitting the problem.

This leads me nicely into Qatar Airways. thats because I make the trip to the UAE regularly and QR, (as its affectionately known as in the IATA circle) is probably one of the worst airlines I have had the misfortune to fly with. Granted, they have a fleet of excellent aircraft and are growing faster than a hermits beard but the service (unless you travel business or first) is abysmal.

Just to summarise a few interesting experiences over the last 24 months:

Learner Pilot : One flight to the UAE culminated with the pilot coming in for a landing, putting down the landing gear, then about 50m from the ground immediately going into a steep climb at full throttle. Needless to say, the porosity of my undergarments was severely tested that day. Apparently, the pilot was fired (I guess once he'd sobered up).

Musical Suitcases : Another flight saw us board and then all the baggage was unloaded from the aircraft and layed out on the tarmac. We were then instructed (in groups) to disembark, board the bus, be driven to the other side of the aircraft, identify our luggage (which was then reloaded) and then board the bus again and be driven round again to board the aircraft.

Phantom Passenger : We've all lost luggae on flights, but last week, I was on a flight where the luggage lost the passenger. Apparently, a transit passenger's luggage arrived and was loaded onto the aircraft but the passenger was nowhere to be found! I guess he ended up on a flight to some african outpost and his luggage would have to submit a claim while it waited for his arrival in the Four Seasons. Of course, he will be found but his clothes will have mysterious tears in them, his pockets will be empty, all his zippers will be broken and he will be covered with footprints.

But last month has to take the biscuit as the most memorable experience. I was (again!) on a chocabloc flight sitting with all the other sardines in cattle class. I was in the middle seat and you can bet your bottom dollar that when I'm in that seat I will invariably be between the fattest person on that flight and the smelliest person on that flight.

Now, Mr Smelly insists on flapping his arms incessantly, wafting an interesting aroma of rotten fried onions and decomposing flesh in my direction. However, on this occasion, Mr Smelly decides that even HE can't bear the accridity of it and attempts to adjust the air vent above his head so he can dissipate the problem. This, as you all may have guessed now, exposes the "danger zone" (his armpit) and points it in my direction. I can't be certain, but I could have sworn that I heard the sound of african howler monkeys in there and see green mist, but my memory is etched by the smell which was straight from satans bottom. At this point, flight or fight syndrome takes over and your body goes into survival mode. So choking back the tears and trying to forget the burning sensation in my throat, I edge closer to Mr Fat Guy sitting in the window seat. Obviously, Mr Fat Guy, feeling territorial at this point, makes it more difficult by expanding his oversized chest and pushing his arms outward. My survival instincts are much too strong at this point and I am virtually lying across him. Then it happened. Something I hadn't anticipated. The jet of cold air that Mr Smelly had been coaxing out of the vent with his trembling hand shot out, ran all the way down his arm down to his armpit and hit me straight in the face. I never stood a chance.

Apparently, I was told that,when i eventually came around, I was incapable of any coherent speech and had to be led to the back of the plane where I fell into a deep sleep.

This week, at the gate, I was upgraded. I cried like a baby.

Read and learn

2006-11-28T02:40:00.000-08:00

In response to my arch nemesis "Fish" posting womens rules for men, I felt obliged to shoulder the burden to defend men everywhere. So below is a list of demands which I consider fair, considering theirs. (I do not take credit for this list, I found it somewhere)

1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us bitching about you leaving it down.

2. Birthdays, Valentines, and Anniversaries are not quests to see if we can find the perfect present yet again!

3. Sometimes we are not thinking about you. Live with it.

4. Saturday = sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.

5. Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.

6. Crying is blackmail.

7. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it.

8. We don't remember dates. Mark birthdays and anniversaries on a calendar. Remind us frequently beforehand.

9. Most guys own three pairs of shoes - tops. What makes you think we'd be any good at choosing which pair, out of thirty, would look good with your dress?

10. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.

11. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.

12. A headache that lasts for 17 months is a problem. See a doctor.

13. Check your oil! Please.

14. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 days.

15. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us. We refuse to answer.

16. If something we said can be interpreted two ways, and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.

17. Let us ogle. We are going to look anyway; it's genetic.

18. You can either ask us to do something or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.

19. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials.

20. Christopher Columbus did not need directions, and neither do we.

21. The relationship is never going to be like it was the first two months we were going out. Get over it. And quit whining to your girlfriends.

22. ALL men see in only 16 colours, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a colour. We have no idea what mauve is.

23. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.

24. We are not mind readers and we never will be. Our lack of mind-reading ability is not proof of how little we care about you.

25. If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing," we will act like nothing's wrong. We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle.

26. If you ask a question you don't want an answer to, expect an answer you don't want to hear.
27. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine. Really.

28. Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as navel lint, the offside rule, or motor bikes.

29. You have enough clothes.

30. You have too many shoes.

31. No you really do have too many shoes.

32. It is neither in your best interest or ours to take the quiz together.

33. No, it doesn't matter which quiz.

34. BEER is as exciting for us as handbags are for you.

35. I'm in shape. ROUND is a shape.

36. Thank you for reading this; Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight, but did you know we really don't mind that, it's like camping.

I thank you in advance for your kind cooperation.

Blog off u blogging blogger

2006-09-13T04:08:00.000-07:00

I used to post on a forum caleed QatarLiving (QL). Now, alot of posters on QL were very adept at using 20 words when two would have been just as effective (We recently had a "happening" on the website QatarLiving (QL). So we all went off and started another forum... but thats another story). Anyway, to help you lot out there in internet land who may feel a tad uncomfortable conversing with people who suffer from verbal diaorreah i have taken it upon myself to offer a wonderful nine step plan for making you look so much more intelligent.

Not only will this method make you look infinitely more clever than you could ever be. Men will prostate themselves before your greatness and women will clamber over each other to be impregnated by your superior DNA.

To show how easily you can apply these steps, I'll start with the following ludicrously short and simple sentence, related to blogging, and increase its verbiage step by step.

Blogging is fun.

Step 1: Begin to lengthen your statement by referring to studies, even if you're not aware of any studies. After all, who really cares? And if anyone challenges you, you can protect yourself by weaseling (see Step 5).

Studies have shown that blogging is fun.

Step 2: Replace simple words like fun, and blogging with multiple syllable words. If possible, use words of Latin or Greek origin.

Studies have shown that participating in electronic world wide web logs is entertaining.

Step 3: Use sophisticated verbs, the vaguer the better. The verb shown is much too clear and simple, whereas indicate, develop, and identify are excellent multi-purpose verbs with so many meanings that you can use them in almost any context to mean almost anything. What precisely does indicate mean, anyway? If you use identify or indicate, you can further lengthen your sentence by attaching "the fact that" to it.

Studies have identified the fact that participating in electronic world wide web logs is entertaining.

Step 4: Rely on such adjectives as available, applicable, and appropriate to lengthen sentences without changing or adding any meaning. If possible, use various, one of the most meaningless of all the meaningless modifiers.

Various available and applicable studies have identified the fact that appropriate participation in electronic world wide web logs is entertaining.

Step 5: Use weasel words as often as possible. A number of is particularly useful because it can refer to any number at all: -9, 4.78, 0, 5 billion, you name it. (For more effective weaseling, replace wills and woulds with cans and coulds.).

A number of various available and applicable studies have generally identified the fact that appropriate participation in electronic world wide web logs could be entertaining.

Step 6: Sprinkle your sentences with classic redundancies.

A number of various available and applicable studies have generally identified the fact that appropriate participation in electronic internet based world wide web logs could be quite entertaining.

Step 7: Add meaningless "it is" and "there is/are" expressions, not only to lengthen your sentences but also to give them a scholarly ring.

There is no escaping the fact that it is considered very important to note that a number of various available and applicable studies have generally identified the fact that appropriate participation in electronic internet world wide web logs could be quite entertaining.

Step 8: For the precision that all good writing deserves, use legalisms, the more redundant the better.

There is no escaping the fact that it is considered very important to note that a number of various available and applicable studies have generally identified the fact that appropriate participation in electronic internet world wide web logs could be quite entertaining, including, but not limited to, creation and maintenance of, and contribution to.

Step 9: Use foreign words and phrases to lengthen and enliven your sentences. Especially apt are Latinisms and other obscurities whose meanings have long been forgotten.

There is no escaping the fact that it is considered very important to note that a number of various available and applicable studies, ipso facto, have generally identified the fact that appropriate participation in electronic internet world wide web logs could be quite entertaining, including, but not limited to, creation and maintenance of, and contribution to vis-à-vis this phenomena.

So there you have it. Following these nine steps, I've managed in no time to increase the number of words in my sentence nearly twenty fold, well above the level of incomprehensibility. The meaning hasn't changed but it's so deeply buried it's like digging for a marble in a cows arse.

So, my darlings, I wish to draw appropriate attention to the fact that i strongly advise all readers to address, to the utmost of their availability, the requirements of all the applicable internet based electronic world wide web logs and to actively participate with numerous and various contributions to this widely accepted, and rapidly growing community.

Or in other words, Get blogging!!!

Watch my car watchmanologist

2006-08-25T00:35:00.000-07:00

I have a weird watchman (“no..no..no, mine is weirder !!” you may interrupt). I think he's Nepalese because in the winter months, while im wearing a T shirt, he has the full Sherpa Tensing costume on like hes going to scale the north face of the City Centre Mall.

Anyway. This watchman has no concept of personal hygiene. Body odour that even flies avoid is the order of the day. I hate to imagine what manner of flora and fauna inhabit the various dark and damp crevices of his body (I really wanted to say carcass, but hes not dead….Yet!!!)

He usually mops the floors of my building (the building which I rent an apartment in before some sod asks if I own it… fnarr fnarr, some of you are so bloody funny). This entails him dragging a balding mop, dipped in rancid water, across the shiny floors. Now couple this with the festering stench emanating from every pore in his body and you have a veritable symphony of aromas that would curdle milk at 50 yards.

Usually, I pay him to clean my apartment while I'm at work. What a mistake that was. Whenever he cleans it I have to redo it to remove the greasy streaks he left behind. I don’t have the heart to give him the elbow. I suppose I'll have to arrange for an unfortunate accident.

Last month he ran upto me while I was getting into the car. Screaming “Sir!! Sir!! Clean car.. clean car “ while waving a rag at me that so filthy and worn that I think only the dirt was holding it together. The only response I could give was “You touch car, you masalamah” while making a throat slitting gesture with my forefinger and making a noise I thought someone would make having his throat slit. Considering the language barriers between us, I think I did a damn fine job communicating my response as he turned and bolted, the rear of his trousers turning russet as he ran.

I'm a little anal about my car. I worry about parking it. I usually will not park near anything that falls into one or more of the following categories
a. Dirty
b. Anything pre 2000
c. Landcruiser, hummer, suburban etc
d. Anything that has childseats in it (especially in the drivers seat??!!)

Because, from bitter experience, this is when the sides of my doors get crunched by inconsiderate bastards who open their doors without caring about other people's property.

What’s the purpose of all this you may ask? Well my dear friends, I have three marks on my car. A scratch on the boot which someone decided would enhance the appearance whilst I was parked in the company lot. A mark on my door left by the inconsiderate bastards I mentioned above and finally, the steaming turd that crowns the pile, scratches all down the underside of the door because some bright spark left a block of concrete in the middle of the road.

To all these people. I hate you. I hate you more than you can imagine. I hate your selfish, inconsiderate and envious lives. I curse the day you came into this life and my only joy is to see you die a slow and painful death, whereby I will laugh out loud, go to your funeral and piss on your grave.

I told you I was a little anal bout my car

Now you can imagine, im a very angry man today. However, the QatarLiving Forum gave me welcome relief this morning with this post, in response to someone asking about physiotherapeautic massage for back pain.

I quote it as it appeared.

"I'm a professional sexologist and have great experience in body massage for both relaxation and spinal cord injuries , muscle tensions and general muscle inflation treatment , olso in traditional massage (african , turkish , american , egyptian , arabian ) . I do massage and sexology consulting as a part of my doctorial degree practise so i do it for free , also i can train your husband to do this massage for you for free, please refer to my subject mars venus coach
Regards
Tarek , Mars Venus Coach , Sexologist
(removed to protect the innocent)@yahoo.com

Hi Every Body
I'm a Mars Venus Coach , Sexologist , Love and Family Consultant , I'm working now in Doha for a couple of years , I'm preparing a Doctorial degree in USA . California Univesity @ Berkley in the Field of Sexology and Love Consultancy , as a part of my study , I'm willing to offer private love , family , relations and sexology consulting and training for men an women online , via telephone , or in person , all training is free and private , training fields include :
1- Love and Relational Consultancy
2- Sexology and Sex best practices
3- Family Consulting ( marriage , divorce , family complications)
4- Communication and opposite sex relational training
Sexology Traing includes professional Massage and Relaxation therapy , Orgasm detection exercises and art of kissing lessons, can be guided freely online for women ashamed to have practical sexual traing
Note : I'm not willing to have sexual relations with any woman of the clients so please just call if u r interested in real training and therapy not for fun
Please conatct me on: (removed to protect the innocent)@yahoo.com
Note : All Clients will be guided with no charge after veifying the case to be serious
Thanks
Tarek , Mars Venus Coach , Sexologist"

I refrain from commenting on his feeble attempt to get laid. As I said in the forum, I think hes a complete wankologist.

Top tips of the week

2006-05-13T04:50:00.000-07:00

Top tips of the week
Love these top tips. Again... not mine..... just sharing.

Convince bar staff that your pint is off by sticking your finger up your arse before holding the glass close to their nose.

Shoe bombers. Increase your payload by becoming a clown.

To make a pot of supermarket coleslaw go further, simply grate a carrot, some cabbage and an onion into the tub, then add some mayonnaise

Single men. Get a glimpse of married life by taping Woman's Hour on Radio 4, then playing it back at a higher volume than the TV whilst trying to watch match of the day

Single men. Convince people that you have a girlfriend by standing outside Miss Selfridge (womens clothes store) with several bags of shopping, looking at your watch and occasionally glancing inside.

Fool everyone into thinking you have just eaten an apple by rubbing your tummy and saying loudly "Mmm! That was a lovely apple."

Dont waste money on expensive paper shredders to avoid having your identity stolen. Simply place a few pieces of dog shit in the bin bags along with your old bank statements.

Burglars. When fleeing from the police, run with your right arm sticking out at 90 degrees, wrapped in a baby mattress in case they set one of their dogs on you.

Cinema goers. Please have consideration for pirate DVD viewers by having a piss before the film starts.

Women Don't waste energy faking orgasms. Most men couldn't give a shit anyway and you could use the saved energy to hoover the house.

Banging two pistachio nutshells together gives the impression that a very small horse is approaching.

Blind people. Give yourself at least a chance of seeing something by not wearing heavy dark glasses all the time.

Men Can't get a blow job? Simply strip naked, plonk yourself arse-first into an empty dustbin, and you should be able to do it yourself. Use a pile of tyres instead of a dustbin if you require deep throat

Motorists. Avoid getting prosecuted for using your phone whilst driving. Simply pop your mobile inside a large shell and the police will think you are listening to the sea.

McDONALD'S. Make your brown carrier bags green in colour so they blend in with the countryside after they've been thrown out of car windows.

S-Queue you!

2006-02-12T22:40:00.000-08:00

Weekends in Doha seem to take on a surreal sort of aspect. I don’t know whether it’s the sand blowing into my apartment through every nook and cranny and covering everything that isn't wrapped in cellophane. Maybe it’s the suffocating humidity that precipitates at every opportunity making you feel like a wet sponge, a sponge covered in sand that is. Or maybe I'm just bored. Nevertheless, I was going stir crazy. I thought I would go wax my car. It was only 9am. The heat couldn’t be that bad. Anyway, I had just finished doing the hood and in the newly shined surface I saw a blood curdling sight. A face of a man, hideously contorted in distress, bloodshot eyes popping out of his head, sweat streaming profusely from every pore, sweat that flowed freely onto the meticulously polished metal. At that point, I decided that the rest of the car could wait, till December.

There are few pleasures in life, sex after a sustained abstinence, peeing after holding it in so long that it hurts, seeing your boss fall down the stairs. One I highly recommend is that you go out into the hot humidity that we all know and love and do something strenuous like walking or standing still or, god forbid, something idiotic like wax a car. Do this for a few minutes until you feel that you are melting. Till you feel that your shoes are filling up with the sweat that is slowly creeping down your body. Till you feel the itchiness that it brings. Till you feel that your body and underwear have created some biological bond and that one is trying to absorb and assimilate the other. Now, with your last few joules of energy, get back to the welcoming womb of your apartment/villa/box (did I say that you had to have the AC on high before this?) and be blasted with cold air. Ahhhhhhh. Ecstasy... I’m getting all excited just thinking about it.

Ok Ok... I was bored this weekend. So when a friend called to ask whether I was upto anything it was manna from heaven. Upto anything? Does that include breathing and lying motionless on the settee with the AC vent directed at my naked glistening body? (An image I advise you not to dwell on). I was gleeful of the possibility of some stimulating activity, something to invigorate the mind, a social setting, with smiling faces, the buzz of conversation, cocktails, snacks, tight dresses....WHOA BOY! What I didn’t envisage was a trip to Carrefour (a large supermarket chain for those not familiar with it.. a store that sells virtually everything).

That’s how sad my life has become. A day trip to the supermarket being the highlight of my weekend. I might aswell just shoot myself now right? Like some poor crippled horse at the race track. I can hear the crowd murmuring as I lose consciousness "his life was so sad", "it was only a matter of time", "I'm sure he’s in a happier place now”, “does he have relatives or can I take this frozen yoghurt and microwave meal?".. I digress... let me get back to the point. Yes, a trip down to Carrefour.

Apparently, I am not the only sad bastard in Doha because the place was absolutely packed. The covered parking was full and other cars had spewed out onto the waste ground next to the mall like little colored balls spilled from a giant ruptured beanbag. We were lucky, we managed to find a space close enough to the mall not to need a taxi to get to it. By the time we reached the doors, my underwear had dissolved and I swear I could feel my testicles rubbing against my knee. The rush of cold air as we walked in was my second ecstatic experience of the day, the third was my scrotum retracting to normal proportions. Anymore and I would be hooked.

As I imagined, the place was a seething mass of sweaty bodies. A hum of voices and the shuffling of feet. It reminded me of those emperor penguins huddling together to keep warm in the winter. Unfortunately, in these situations lurks a hideous phenomenon, one that preys when people group together like this, no escape, panic would cause chaos and this predator uses this to stalk its victims. What is this dreaded beast? That which brings grown men to their knees, makes pregnant women miscarry, dogs howl and geriatric colostomy bags burst. Body Odour... not your common or garden musty BO... no... This stuff is lethal, kill a man at ten paces. This week, I was its victim. I don’t know where it came from but it used the element of surprise. Before I knew it, it had me by the throat, gasping for air with eyes burning, I ran into Carrefour, knocking down an old woman and jumping over a small child in a pram. It took three security guards to prise the perfume bottle out of my hand; they made me pay for it because I had drunk more than half of it.

After what seemed like an eternity trudging around aisle after aisle, where my friend insists on trying everything before he buys it (incidentally, I think that underwear and toothbrushes should be excluded), we finally arrive at the checkouts.

There are around 50 counters in Carrefour but I think only 25 actually work because the queues were enormous. “Leave this to me” I tell my friend “I’m an expert”. With this, I take up position at the rear of a queue where after careful analysis of the contents of other shoppers’ baskets and the efficiency of the checkout girl, I consider this the most expedient.

A thing about queues. I studied queuing in England. The home of queues. A country where relationships are formed in queues. Where queuing is a national sport. Where people queue just for the fun of it. The internationally recognized protocol for queues is:

Join end of queue opposite service end.
As each customer is served, you slowly progress towards your turn.
New customers join the queue similarly at the end.
Eventually, you get your turn and leave.

During queuing, you are encouraged to make polite conversation with your neighbours, though this is not compulsory. But there is strictly no physical contact allowed.

This well oiled machine can operate indefinitely until no more customers are left or the service ends.

Well, I discovered that I have had it wrong all these years.

So I’m standing here in this queue, trying not to make contact with the customer in front’s Achilles with my trolley (don’t you just hate that?) by maintaining a healthy distance of two inches. Regrettably, it was two inches too much. Turning away momentarily, I failed to notice Mr. and Mrs. Fat with their ugly baby (which I incidentally thought was a pet chimpanzee at the time) had all slipped into the gap. Don’t ask me how, they just did. My friend, using his astuteness to sense my anger (probably saw the veins in my head pulsating) managed to calm me by saying they had a small child so we should just let it go.

No sooner had my vital signs returned to normal, when a woman, arms laden with all types of bread, calmly walked straight past us and past Mr. and Mrs. Fat and the chimp to take her place at the front. I couldn’t let it go. “EXCUSE ME!” I bellow “THE END OF THE QUEUE IS THAT WAY!” gesturing behind me like a hitchhiker on acid. She looked at me as if I had just shit in my hand and was offering her the steaming turd for examination, then turned away and completely ignored me. What was I supposed to do? Beat her to death with a French baguette? That’s such a terrible waste of food. So I bit my tongue, the taste of blood in my mouth somehow comforting as I imagined it coming from her jugular.

What happened next was comical if it wasn’t so annoying. Mr. Fat turns to me with a completely indignant look on his face with shrugged shoulders, as if to say “what ignorance, how can people do that?” Having had the opportunity to bitch slap the bread woman cruelly wrenched from me, I seized upon the opportunity to respond to this sorry excuse for a human being. “What the hell you looking upset about?” I rasped “you did the same thing to us not seconds ago”. He replies” yes, but I asked the person infront of me if I could join the queue”. I’m sorry, I might sound a little anal, but shouldn’t the question be “Can I join the queue in front of you?” not “Can I join the queue behind you?” Not wanting to start a debate about the finer points of queue protocols and etiquette with a fat man carrying a chimpanzee in Carrefour, I bit deeper into my tongue, clenched my fists till nails dug into flesh and ground the tops of my teeth flat.

I thought I had seen it all, but they say trouble comes in threes. Well number three had only a can of energy drink which he had half devoured. He did try his best. First just loitering aimlessly. Examining the chocolates at the checkout. Looking around. Not making eye contact with anyone.

Little did he know that he had picked the wrong queue. I had seen him. He was a lone male. Not a woman. No kids or chimps in tow. No apparent disabilities (unless you include attempted queue jumping). He was a legitimate target. God was compensating me for the previous trials.

He seized what he thought was his best opportunity, gliding effortlessly to insert a foot between us and the chimp family. “Oi!! What you doing?” I ask “don’t you see a queue?” At this point, he feigns temporary deafness, however, a gentle prod in his back as I repeat myself immediately restores his senses. “I only have this?” he replies, holding up his half finished can as if it would banish me into submission, the holy can of power horse, not only does it give you energy but makes others bow to your every wish. “So?” I ask “I don’t care if all you have is a peanut” I continued (don’t ask me why I said peanut but I was thinking on my feet here. I had to come up with something smaller than the can that you could buy in a supermarket. Yes… I know, I single peanut is absurd)

He tries to ignore me like the bread woman. He didn’t count on me being so angry that I could have bitten into his skull and sucked his brains out with a straw. The following conversation ensues

ME: “If you don’t get to the back of the queue nothing good will happen
HIM: “Are you threatening me?”
ME: “No. I’m telling you”
HIM: “I’m from ______. Nothing scares me” (I have left the country out to protect the innocent)
ME: “Then go ahead and see what happens”
HIM: “I’m not scared”
ME: “Go ahead then”
HIM: “I will blow myself up if I have to”
ME: “You should pay for that first”
HIM: “God bless the Israelis”

He then starts to sing some patriotic nationalistic song in Arabic.

He doesn’t jump the queue and I leave Carrefour with a content smile on my face. Content that I had just had (and won) a verbal wrestling match in a supermarket with the craziest man in Doha.

Future weekends will never be the same.

Where did I leave my tranquilizers?