Archive for July, 2010


Something Evil Creeps This Way

There is a cat in the house. I don’t know how it got there or who lured it in by nailing a dead crow to the door and sacrificing a goat but the wretched thing is in the house.

Two nights ago I was powering off the computer at about 11pm and I hear a cat mewing. Grainily. Like it was an old geriatric cat which had lost it’s box of Strepsils. I just assumed the thing was outside. Then the next day, my sister asks me if I was the one who had knocked over a half dozen little bottles full of lotions and things in my parents’ bedroom. I go look at it, and it’s complete carnage. In the half-light of a CFL tube, the contents of the bottles looked like blood, splattered everywhere.

*cue Wolfman title music*

I was also resentful that she’d think me capable of arbitrarily knocking over a bunch of glass objects which are well out of regular reach, and not do anything about it. But anyway,

I came home yesterday and take off my earphones to hear the damned thing mewing again. It’s standing in the stairway, looking at me. I stare back at it. It blinks. My first thought was “fooood”. But then I realized it looked quite skinny. I walk towards it and it flees to the front of the house. So I open the door, and chase it away from the table it is hiding under. It flies right past the door and heads back to the stairway. I chase it down to where the PC is kept and switch on the light, to find it glaring at me from behind two old CRT monitors. The 14″ tubes are dwarfed by the glowing green eyes of the infernal beast. I stare at it again, till sweat goes into my eyes and I have to blink it away. The thing stares at me mockingly.

I charge at it, yelling “DIE VILE HELLSPAWN” and rattle the monitors.

It goes straight back up the stairs, to the exact same place as before, under the table near the door. Again, ignoring the portal to its freedom. So again I go to chase it off and this time it flees up, to the bedrooms. I had by now given up on it ever even noticing the door. So I trudge upstairs, flash a light under a few surfaces and kick at spaces that could potentially conceal a small furry ball of hate. I found nothing.

That night I did not sleep well. Lurking out there in the darkness was a creature so vile it wouldn’t think twice about clawing at my clothes, hung up to dry. Most of the night was spent listening to the crickets throwing about their calls like an Indian call center. But I remember, just as I was about to drift off to sleep, the sound of something scratching at a door.

dun Dun DUNNN!


I seriously do have a cat in here with me. Since chasing it out didn’t work, I shall try to lure it out with milk and cookies. Or babies. Whatever cats think is okay to eat. If it doesn’t show then, it’s either going to starve to death out of stupidity or be kicked out of the house the next time I see it. You’re all welcome to have a crack at coaxing it out.


How To Turn Into A Psychopath

Recent events have left me scarred, battered, worn and unable to make regular blogposts about it. Suffice to say my young mind was incapable of grasping such mysteries as reaching for the soap in the bathroom only to find that it has been partially eaten by something with small teeth.

I suspect papareboy.

Then I had to endure the pain of having to do my own laundry, and getting my own food. I have to pay for my three square meals! I can’t believe people actually live like this!

But you must be wondering what I’m babbling on about. The parents have left for India again, and everything but the laws of physics have been upturned in this house. My list of laments is long, but most importantly, Food: I can’t make anything much other than chocolate sauce and boiled water. I occasionally make kottu by cutting up strips of godhamba roti but it’s never the same. You can’t tape four extra limbs on a cat and make an octopus. Neither can you make it predict the outcomes of horse-races. That was an expensive day at the betting centre. I wonder what an octopus tastes like.

But yes, getting to the title of the post. I was on my way home one evening, on the bus, with a pretty girl sitting next to me, when I get a phone call from a friend.

Me: Hey!

Friend: Hey man, what was that movie you were talking about?

Me: Oh, Killers

Friend: Ah, will look for it. How’s the food situ going?

Me: We’re getting by okay I guess. Usually cook.

F: This movie isn’t about babies or anything is it?

Me: Babies?

F: Yeah, like baby’s day out or some shit. I don’t know what kind of movies you watch.

Me: Must you hate me for being a deviant?

F: Yes. It’s about the cats.

Me: What about cats?

F: You don’t like cats.

Me: It’s not that I don’t like them, they just don’t taste that good. Heh.

F: See what I mean? Freak.

Me: Yeah, the police are still trying to track me down after the neighbor’s pets disappeared.

F: Please, you couldn’t hunt a mouse.

Me: Bah, what do you know, you’re not the one who’ll be turning into a cannibal from starvation soon. Desperation can lead to many things, boy.

And that’s about the time I noticed the girl next to me staring at me with her mouth agape. I really should pay more attention to what I’m saying on the phone.


The Musician In Me

So I was watching some football world cup highlights on Youtube. I don’t see what the big deal is. FIFA 2001 for PC was more entertaining than this. At least that game let you run from one end of the pitch to the other without being surrounded by a dozen dudes looking like they’re Square-dancing class rejects.

That browser window died young.

What did catch my attention was the Vuvuzelas. The long trumpet-like instrument brandished by half the audience at the matches. It was a simple instrument. It was an annoying instrument. It was the perfect instrument for me. Nothing more than the ability to force air out of your lung is required.

Finally, I could steal some of the attention away from those tools that just pull a few strings on a guitar and have women swarm around them like cats to curiosity. And like cats to curiosity they die a terrible death after catching a bout of terminal cracked-the-guitar-in-two-and-killed-themselves-with-it from having to listen to the same three strings over and over again.

Till now, all I could do was play the air guitar. I was pretty good at it too. I even ordered a vintage model off eBay a few months ago. Alas, the appeal of this was lost on most people. It was as if there was some kind of force-field around me. People would ricochet off it the moment I started. I was crestfallen.

I don’t see why people have to throng around someone who can play a guitar. It seems illogical. I quote,

The second best way to get into someone’s pants is to play guitar.

What is the first, I hear you wail? Probably chloroform, I’d wager, but that is for another, password-protected blogpost. Baffling I tell you. John Mayer’s entire career rides on it. Douchbags have had their life turned around by it. Women get delirious over it. Bah, women get delirious over cooking.


Anybody know a friend of a friend who can hook me up with one of those? A vuvuzela, not a John Mayer.


THe Wolfman: First Impressions

Fist of all, a note. This theme makes all post titles lowercase. I find this displeasing.

I watched approximately 30 minutes of The Wolfman this morning while eating breakfast. At first I was taken aback by the same hollywood rulebook stupidity displayed by the first character you see. Wandering off into a forest at night? In the mist? That’s just asking for a were-something to attack. A were-shark. A were-weasel! Those things are vicious!

But then I kind of warmed to it when I saw Anthony Hopkins. He wouldn’t turn up in a completely crappy movie would he? But then he turns out to be always dressed like a Royal Bengal Tiger going to a fancy dress ball. On top of that, we have the actual werewolf. Feared by all! Terrorizing your villages and snatching your children. The ultimate predator; the wolf with opposable thumbs!But then you see its face and you’re left rolling on the floor laughing your fake fur off. Teen wolf looked more intimidating. Even his opposable thumbs are rendered useless by nails which look like they’re some creepy old hobo lady’s. I mean, how does he walk around with those? His front paws would keep clinging to the ground when he runs.

Anyway, I shall be watching the rest of it later. Shall report if it is anything remarkable.

Also, watch Kick-Ass! It is brilliant. So is the soundtrack.


My Mind is a Sneaky Bastard

People’s minds are usually on their side. Usually. Then there are times when they go blank at exam time or recite your secret fetish for networking cable for all and sundry to hear while you sleep.

This morning, in my sleep, I was happily marking down everyone’s birthdays on my calendar when I was rudely woken up by my phone alarm. Wait, who am I kidding? I wouldn’t mark down other people’s birthdays in anybody’s dreams.

So yeah, I was happily contemplating the meaning of life and why we choose to stay alive with Enya playing in the background when I was woken up by my alarm. Rudely. So I sleepily drag the phone over to me and try to look at the screen. Just as I’m about to press “Snooze” and try to wake up, I see another option on the screen.

“Feeling sleepy?” it queried. I clicked it. It switched to another screen and told me in impossibly tiny text which I don’t know how I could have been fooled into thinking I was reading, that “Rapid sentence reading can cause brain functions to laugh and wake up”. I was sold!

So I’m shown a few screens of well, text. I can’t really recall what was in it, but the gist of it was uh… text.

Then a few minutes into this, I am woken up again and find my phone lying next to my head. I was not amused. The alarm! It had the gall to tamper with the alarm, putting me back to sleep. The little sort of beautiful, not quite insane git. I have decided to punish it by imagining what would go through the mind of someone with a network cable fetish.


Edit: Somehow I forgot to mention the crucial bit about me being asleep while all this happened. Updated :S


Buying a Laptop

I need a laptop. Unfortunately, like most things I need, a laptop will not drop into my hands from the heavens if I merely blog about it. I’d probably drop it anyway. The reason I need one is because me and my brother both work off computers. But there is only one computer at home. All our combined geek-dom couldn’t figure out a way to shre this PC short of some handiwork with a hacksaw.

So listen up, laptop retailers! …You are reading, yes? I mean, my blog has all kinds of deviants, social parasites and women visiting it. Prime markets fresh for exploiting with a few well placed deals.

Weighing my options and taking into consideration my meager budget, I’ve narrowed down my choices to a Lenovo and an Acer. The G560 and the 4741G, respectively. Hopefully neither of those will toast my lap or flicker and die on me in a year.

So yeah, this should be fun, I can finally be all Gangsta and hold my laptop sideways when making angry wall posts and things. Just like in the movies.


Cautionary Tales

Each country has something the residents are too scared to mention on the travel brochures. Some things that lie so far beyond the line of “adventurous enough to lure people in” that if a butterfly were to flap it’s wings on the line, nothing would happen where these things are. Australia has a number of ravenous beasts intent on your violent death. India now has a handful of homesick female bloggers. Sri Lanka has public transport.

If you’ve never been in some form of public transport in your life, I crown thee a faux-lankan. You are about as Sri Lankan as Coffee Bean, which I assume you flock to each evening.

I, on the other hand, have to go through hours of torture each day. Have you seen the inside of a 154? Nobody has. Because the thing is so packed full of people, it’s mass is so great that it turns into a black hole from whence not even light escapes. The crews on these buses are supposed to have inspired the original Star Trek series. They also have burning hot coals for eyes and superhuman strength and endurance.

On top of all this, we in good old Sri Lanka have to put up with all kinds of other hassles on the bus. As if life-sucking black chambers of death that smell of chili aren’t bad enough. People have to go make things even more unbearable. It’s like some great big fish-bowl full of piranhas and a cat gets thrown into it. Try landing the right way up in that, cat. I know, that analogy doesn’t make any sense.

I just don’t like cats.


First up, little kids on buses. It’s baffling why people call these things little bundles of “joy”. I mean, they screw up your day before they’re even born by making you give up your seat to pregnant women. How can such beings be let loose in a bus? When they’re a few years older, they clog up the aisles, impeding movement. They’re all over the place, thieving, impeding, being stupid and generally being adorable. Bastards. World, Sri Lanka has the fountain of youth. Please take it away from us. In return, we only ask that you give us a fountain of smart.

Next we have the conductors, hanging off their footboards shouting “homahomahomahoma”. Why they are perpetually calling out to this fellow I have no idea. They yell at you, push you around, refuse you money and generally act like 13 year olds at a frat party. You can’t blame them though, I’d be enraged if I had to wear that same muddy coloured shirt to work everyday as well.

And then we have the strange phenomenon of women rampaging at seats. The moment a seat frees up, you are assured of at least one woman with a handbag shoving past everyone, even someone standing right next to the free seat, and plopping her handbag on the free space. Then she will calmly get around to replacing the bag with herself. It is a danger that all males and females who don’t regard empty seats the way Edmund Hillary thought of Everest should beware of. When someone gets up off a seat, listen. If you hear the sounds of a rampaging elephant thundering through the plains, crushing skulls and stepping on feet, get the hell out of there.

Finally, we have the most annoying type of person by far. One day I was inspired to see if I could contact God himself by means of recreating what Jim Carey did in Bruce Almighty. It worked. All I asked was that these blackguards be given multiple knees. So that they can be shot in them. Repeatedly.

See, I was innocently reading a book in the bus. All was as it should be, children playing in the streets, women in the kitchen, that sort of thing. Then I notice the dude sitting next to me creepily staring at my book. I go on for a few pages and he’s still reading the thing. I look at him and throw a little half smile his way and he looks away. For a few minutes. Then it’s back to “let’s-see-what-annoys-Jerry-the-most”. So I put away the book and take out my phone. I start replying to a few messages and this dude is now staring at my phone screen. I throw him a “I’m-concerned-about-your-concern-about-my-phone” look. Otherwise known as the “bugger-off” look.

Like clockwork, he looks away and gets back to my screen in a few minutes. I finally had to ask the fellow to allow me some privacy. If you ever have kids, please, please teach them the merits of not getting punched in the face for reading over people’s shoulders.