Archive for the 'tongue-in-cheek' Category


I’m Going Undercover, Folks

Feminism is strange. The whole point of feminism, I think, is to eventually make a world where feminists aren’t required, and hence don’t exist. So they’ll know a  job’s been completed when their ranks start thinning. Right now, they’re working to get women a better quality of life, to not be harassed each time they go out in public wearing anything short of a Big Bird outfit.

Bus harassment is very real. It’s a terrible problem plaguing our people. A scourge amongst the populace. Take for instance, what happened to me just last week.

I was in Boralle, about to get into a bus on my way to work. A woman got onto the footboard ahead of me. I followed behind and, as the bus started moving, quickly grabbed onto the handle-bar on the side of the doorway. The handle felt weird. I didn’t have to look at it. My finely honed instincts told me what it was. I had grabbed the woman’s hand in my haste to get on the bus.

If only my instincts were even remotely reliable. I had, upon further inspection, grabbed the handle in such haste that I had managed to capture a number of hair strands from the woman in front of me with my hand, on its curving path. As a result I was now holding on to this woman’s hair, firmly pinned to the handle-bar on the doorway. She continued upwards, was pulled back by her hair being held by my arm and very nearly fell back on me, knocking us both off the bus.

She being a woman and thus, finding basic reasoning to be as alien as cooking is to me, saw it fit to eyeball me viciously the whole time I was in the bus, as if I’d slapped her on the rump and gone “Beam me up, scotty!” or something. She even scowled at me as I got off the bus.

I’m currently involved in something called ReachOut, which is a loose organization kind of thing that does stuff to uphold women’s rights. Or something. BeyondBorders is teaming up with them, so I went along to see what I could sniff out about the feminist agenda. We’re doing a series of disruptive theatre performances, and a few workshops and things at schools based on the findings. We would appreciate it if some of you louts came along and lent a hand. Yes, the women are asking for help. Again. What else is new?


Courting Rituals

I’m quite handicapped at the whole “picking up women” thing. I chalk this down to two things;

Not playing a musical instrument
This is a huge drawback if you’re male. Most musical instruments, excluding, of course, such oddities as the Triangle and That Thing You Shake With Sand Inside, exude pheromones of some sort. The sort that make the minds of womenfolk go blank with adoration and glee. It’s been like that for centuries. Kids nowadays grow up listening to Katy Perry asking a dude to “infect me with your love and fill me with your poison”. I don’t see how they can still be that swayed by music when they’re older and slightly more independent. But then again, I remember listening, and humming along to the Thong Song growing up. I didn’t have a clue what it meant though.

Need I say anything here? Poetry is to me what logic is to women. Completely incomprehensible and dangerous if exposed to in large quantities. Writing poetry, for me, is like a cat trying to climb up the sides of a gigantic washing machine it’s been put inside, with walls covered in molasses. Unfortunately, women seem to appreciate this. Even if it’s the kind of poetry that would make the paper it gets printed on turn black with its mute screams of blatant injustice.


In other news, I’m buying a camera. I initially though of getting one shipped from Amazon, but that means spending 10% of the value of the camera in shipping costs. I’ve been looking around here, and have found a few options. Let me know if anyone’s selling a DSLR.


Disarray at The Grand

So me and a friend who might have been Himal walk into the Cinnamon Grand. Use the entrance from the side, go in through the parking lot and come up through Cheers. Coffee Stop. Ahh.

Coffee Stop is yet another place where people who like spending ridiculous amounts on beverages go. This particular establishment, in the lobby of a hotel, is slightly less expensive than most of it’s siblings, while still costing enough to make you question why you’re there. I order lime juice.

Verily, I live the high life.

Friend orders some coffee concoction which looks like it was designed by Picasso. And executed by someone with an epileptic fit. The waiter grins, cheshire cat like. I don’t like cats.

We are seated, and start discussing what the true nature of the Statue of Liberty is. In the distance, a doorman scowls and picks up a walkie talkie device. The lobby is full of people. It is half full of white people. And a smattering of brown people from other countries too, but who cares about them?

In the discussion, it is suggested that the Statue of Liberty was really a Trojan Horse. Dismissive laughter emanates from a mouth hole. Dismissive. Somewhere below, a manager places the earpiece of his phone back on it’s cradle. He sighs.

After a thorough inspection of his spectacles, mostly because he could see his secretary’s legs in the reflection, he gets up and heads to the stairs.

It is discussed that Lady Liberty really is a Trojan Horse. Except the French forgot to build an exit for the troops. It moves on to whether it was Idle Hands that made God create the universe.

Before blasphemy could be committed, and scripture quoted, the manager walks up to us.

“Dear Sir your shorts are below regulation length and your shoes are below regulation coverage percentage.”

I stare at The Friend. Shorts and slippers. “Sir I am very sorry but I must ask you to leave, as the guests have complained that their children have been scarred by your hairy legs”, he continues.

“I must object my dear fellow, as I am yet to notice a soul even glancing in our direction.”

“Sir the gentleman next to you is wearing a gas mask and it certainly is not because he’s preparing for the holocaust.”

I look at TF’s feet. Egad. We stand up.” The man doth protest”. Slow motion. We push the manager back. The Friend kicks him in the midriff. He shouts,


We bolt. Two guards rush through the guests, who have by now surrounded the scene and were waving and clapping in glee, like sausage dogs watching a movie about hot dogs. It was grotesque. We push through the crowd and end up in a large room with a raised section in the middle, corridor-like paths around it. There are orbs hanging from the ceiling. The orbs descend, and open up like flowers. Ninjas in white track suits step out, sharpening their blades on their teeth.

We stand there frozen like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding 138. We turn to run back the way we came, and hear the sound of something breaking through the far wall. It’s a 138. We stick our hands out as it runs over the ninjas like so many vegetarians being mowed over by the knowledge that they’re eating the very environment we’re trying to save. We get on.

We have no money. Alas, we are kicked out of the moving bus, unable to reason with the conductor due to our failure to look him in the eyes while we pleaded, thanks to his eyes burning so bright with rage it made our eyeballs see black dots everywhere. As my feet tumble off the footboard, everything goes black.

And we find ourselves on a platform, apparently on some scaffolding maybe 40 feet tall. It’s dark around, salty. Windy. The scaffolding wobbles. The Motocross. Trail bike engines. The commentator. Galle Face!

“Let’s give a big hand to the riders and their big gloves here today shall we? Come on!” goes the commentator’s voice. “We are truly honoured to have you here today”. If that’s not an inferiority complex, I don’t know what is. What is it with Sri Lankans and making our country seem like that desperate kid in school who’d be worshiping the ground his current crush walks on and says “Thank you” each time she talks to him? I am disappoint.

The platform wobbles again and we look down. The ninjas are back, and are climbing the sides of the scaffolding. Quite inefficiently, as a matter of fact. They shake it so much a rapper would be proud to call them his bitches. The tower of scaffolding starts to fall over, and we tumble into the crowd. Black again.

I wake up in my bed. Get out of bed, put on my slippers, slip on the patch of water outside the bathroom door and land on my posterior near the exit to my room. Get up again, get online. IM friend.

“Dude, I just had the weirdest dream”

“Me too!”

“You saw the same thing?! DUDE! Inception! Movie!”

“Uh, what did you see?”

“Coffee stop, ninjas, motocross”

“Oh. *phew*. It’s not dude. Like the movie. I dreamed something completely different.”


And most people would. I’m surprised Inception didn’t have the creepiest things from each person’s mind in it. I mean, last time I dreamed, I came out of it feeling like I was about to be chased by a mob of angry villagers. Brilliant movie though.


Update/Note: None of this ever happened. We didn’t even go to Coffee Stop after the motocross thing and I doubt there are ninjas there either.


Girly Songs

I’ve been accused of listening to girly music. Yes, me! Misogynistic, banish-women-to-the-kitchen me. I do not understand the logic behind this. Music is music. I just have a hard time actually listening to the lyrics and realizing that they’re singing about a 13-year old’s angsty whining about a boy and how she can do much better than him.

That was just an example by the way, I don’t listen to Limp Bizkit. Much.

Just because I like a few tracks from Glee doesn’t mean I’m about to start swirling around the streets like a ballerina while swinging a ribbon in my hands. A couple things I’ve gotten flak for are a few tracks from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, namely “Little Shadow” and “Hysteric”, and “Set the fire to the third bar” by Snow Patrol.

All really nice sounding tracks. Tracks that anyone who likes a nice melody or a cool sounding voice would listen to. Sometimes repeatedly. Banished from the fiery, full-of-flames-racecars-and-sharp-things-that-can-kill-you realm of man for being “girly”. I actually wouldn’t mind having “True Colours” in the background while I shovel coal or behead demons or something. Such… vandalism of playlists the world over!

Men! I call out to all of you who are secure enough in your testosterone to listen to these songs that get pushed past us just because the lyrical content will only sate the mind of an emo 14-year old(Or my batch-mates from school, sadly), or merely for it sounding a little pop-ey!


Ladies and Gentlemen; The Truth!

 Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Truth. This post will be that post you read and then print and frame a copy of. If you’re a man that is. If you’re a woman you’ll… I don’t know, what are you doing on the internet anyway? Get back to the kitchen or we’ll revoke your Praveena allowance.

I just read THIS post on Mathawaada by the Foxhound. It prompted me to first take manly swig of air in my lungs and roar like a lion having its tail caught in an elevator door. Then it prompted me to come here and jot down a clarification on what’s what in the world of terrorism.

This great big blue whale of a lie about men being wrapped around the little finger of these women “flaunting their stuff” is such a pile of Nokias* it might as well be a post by a female. A woman can shed pheromones like a rabid hyena in heat but no self-respecting man is going to envy the crevasse of a bosom like lemmings to a cliff.

I like to think of myself as a normal male. When I’m not running over vegetarians and throwing cabbages at feminists, that is. As of now I live in the sticks, study in the sticks and also work in the sticks. If it weren’t for other people I’d never see the inside of a Barista in years. So if anything seeing an attractive, intelligent female should be an event of celestial proportions for me.

And you know what happens when I do come across a member of the opposite sex who is both attractive and manages to “flaunt” her stuff? I usually start off by insulting them and then if they hang around I usually don’t drop to my knees and wail at them to allow me to worship at the altar of their feminine ways. No man not living in a basement and whose only idea of women is the product of a Japanese cartoonist being impaled by a dozen tentacles is likely to drool like a biped bovine.

And no, unlike the original poster, I don’t mind the risk of being called misogynistic. God knows you’ve had plenty of opportunity in all the previous posts.

*Refer this post for the Nokia thing.



I needed new jeans yesterday. No I am not getting fat. People just buy jeans you know? Pondering the wonders of modern social media and leveraging the knowledge of the masses so easily, I tweeted a question and checked twitter a few minutes later for the replies.

Nothing. My dreams of social media guru-dom shattered, I tweeted again, this time more desperate sounding to jump over the hordes of lolcat pictures that had taken prominence over my jean quest. After a while a few lazy replies rolled in. I was sent an email with a flyer about a sale at Crescat. I feverishly read the short text. Huge discounts! Name brand clothing! Names that didn’t sound suspiciously like actual good brands! Names that weren’t “Adibas”!

After getting there and a brief exchange with the salesperson who was breathing down my neck the whole time, I saw them!

Unfortunately for my shallow pockets, the original price of these jeans happened to be high enough so that the significantly reduced price was nearing the price of lesser name-brand jeans. Hiding my acute displeasure at this revelation, I continued to flip through the rack pretending to be interested in it all. The attendant continued to stare at me with a “I know you’re not going to buy anything, get out of here before I throw you in the pit with the lions you vermin” look. After a few seconds of browsing, I left, giving the attendant a “You’re wearing ‘Nikey’ shoes, you don’t get to do that to me!” look.

So naturally I headed off to the House of Fashions, the home ground of many a Sri Lankan looking for clothes but not wanting to pawn a kidney in the process of getting some. Or the plain cheap. I will leave it to you to decide which category I fit into.

In there, I was surrounded by a world of utter chaos. It was like Jurassic Park in there, except with clothes as people. Nay, it was like Sri Lanka in there, with clothes as free speech! I found my way up to the third floor where the men’s clothing was.

After nudging my way through a few fat old men and a few fat old ladies, I found the jeans. Okay jeans. Jeans with dubious sounding brands, but still jeans that didn’t look like they’d been through a bad 80’s music video. I was looking through the selection when I saw a middle aged woman staring at me. She smiled. I smiled back and thought “Now which pair evoked that reaction?” so that I could steadfastly avoid it. After picking a few to be on my shortlist, I took them and asked the nearest attendant where the fit-on room was. He said there wasn’t one. But how could this be? Was he just saying it because he thought jeans-customers didn’t deserve the fit on room?

Deeply hurt, I went back to the shelves and put back all but the pair which seemed least likely to get me laughed out of a public meeting. I held it against myself to check the length. The woman was still hovering around the men’s section. I ignore her and loosen the top button of my shirt as I was feeling stifled. I turn back to my jeans and the woman suddenly jumps in out of nowhere and lands on the baskets full of clothes in front of the shelves, and lies across it.

“Radish meh!” she says.

Fearing for my life and not wanting to forever be afraid of vegetables, I run away, clutching the pair of jeans to my chest and screaming repeatedly “It’s ravish! You’re old! Rape rape RAPE!”

I end up at the counter, breathless. Cycling to Galle wasn’t this daunting. I quickly pay and exit. And run half a mile to a bus stop far away from there.


And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am in possession of a pair of jeans that are just a little bit less comfortable than my usual size 32’s. Wonder if I should exchange it or just let it stretch or whatever it is clothes do as you wear them.

…most of it is fictitious, if you didn’t already realize that…


Busorama Part Deux

You might have heard about my love-hate relationships with buses before on these pages. The aluminium clad cans which are our own means of (occasionally) rapid transport.

First, a warning. This post is rated PG-You’reNeverOldEnoughForThisShit.

This scene repeats itself in countless buses on countless routes. Someone gets on a bus, finds a seat, and sits down. So far so good. But if the seat happens to be an aisle seat, that is, not the window seat, you are most probably in for a ride full of so much writhing and cringing it could be mistaken for a screening of Twilight at Cannes.

When I was little, my dad told me that I would face many injustices in life. Like the fact that women got us kicked out of Eden, yet get free pass into the best clubs. I mean, come on God! Really?

He also said “Son, by far the worst thing you will experience will be The Aisle Seat… the aisle seat… aisle seat… seat ….seat… seat… sea…” and walked slowly backwards before turning and running up the stairs.

But nothing he could have said has prepared me for this… this travesty that is the aisle seat of a crowded bus!

You must be wondering by now what I’m going on about. You must be wondering why you read this blog at all. You must be wondering if I’ve completely lost my legos. Is that the right toy? Non sequiturs aside, this post is about those times when some rabid beast of a man positions himself right next to your seat and… Does what can best be described as a war dance on your shoulder. I shudder at merely typing it! You know, when you’re sitting in a crowded bus, and sooner or later some male positions himself right next to you?

There are normal people, and then there are people who do this. They will slowly nudge themselves forward till they make contact with your shoulder. Then when you move away, squashing the person in the seat next to you, they’ll come closer. It is a complete mystery why this happens. I mean, if I were standing, I sure as hell wouldn’t be doing the Privates Salsa on some strangers’ shoulder.

The best way to get rid of these vermin, I’ve discovered, is a multi-stage process. First you stare them in the eye. Stare, not look. You convey a message of “Get your crotch away from my shoulder you vile creature, or face the wrath of my balled up fists of fury on your weakest point!”. If he doesn’t respond to this, gently nudge them with your elbow. No, not there. Creep.

If they still fail to react, then you are left with the firm push from your elbow. That’s usually enough even for the likes of Steven Hawking so stand straight.

There have been scattered reports of women doing this kind of thing for quite different reasons *cough*theWhackster*cough*, but that is best not discussed, lest I suddenly see the sky above my current position blackened by the hail of heeled shoes arching their way towards me.

@Halikazeez being assaulted by a female