My Pet Snake

I’m not big on the idea of keeping a pet. I believe that if you really want to get a dog or a cat or a monkey or something like that, then you might as well have a kid. Kids only a little more difficult to take care of and you know your dog isn’t going to be able to drive you to the hospital when you’re 63 and feel that heart attack coming. Besides, I think the clincher is that having sex is a lot more fun than a trip down to the pet store.

However, if I HAD to keep a pet, I think I’d keep a snake. I know it isn’t a very conventional choice, but I believe there are certain plus points to it.

To start off with, I’m an attention seeker. I’ll admit it -- I thrive on attention. I’d rather be walking down the street and have thirty people go, “Hey! Who’s that weirdo with the big huge snake around his neck?” than have two people smile and say, “Hey! Nice dog. What’s her name?” That’s just the way I am.

There’s also the fact that snakes don’t really require to be fed that often. An odd rodent every few weeks should do the trick. You won’t have to ruin your two-week holiday to the beach because you’re worried sick about whether your neighbor is feeding that hamster of yours or not. With a snake, you just leave him in a big box and wake him up when you get back.

Of course, there are advantages like the numerous opportunities for dirty puns that become available once you get a snake into the picture. For example, the next time I ask a girl whether she’d like to “play with my snake”, I actually wouldn’t be talking in metaphor. I guess a pet monkey would be cool for the same reason.

You can’t teach a snake to fetch the newspaper every morning, I’ll admit. But you can’t teach your dog how to fetch that pesky pen that’s fallen between your desk and the wall. With a snake, retrieving that pen is a cinch.

All this reminds me of the time when I’d caught a snake outside a friend’s house one evening some months ago. I brought it home in a cloth bag he gave me and left it next to my bed. That night, before going to sleep, I moved the bag and found it to be a little too light for my liking. So I felt it from the outside, and sure enough, it was empty! Now, 3.00 a.m. in the morning isn’t the best time to go looking for a missing snake in your apartment, and I was too tired to do the same anyway.

So I went to sleep, leaving the snake to cozy up wherever it had escaped to. The next morning I woke up and opened the bag. I found only the snake’s skin inside. (It had been shedding when I caught it.) I also found a small hole in the corner of the bag, where the stitching had opened out slightly. The snake had used the few open stitches to force its way out of the bag, increasing the hole in the process and leaving it’s skin behind. There I was with bag, skin and no snake -- looking quite foolish.

To end the story though, I finally found the snake in my parent’s bedroom, curled up behind one of the cupboards. Quite a fun time, all in all.

Why I Really Like My Job

I often try to imagine what the Best Job in the World (BJITW) must be like. Okay, you can’t choose something like lying on a sunny beach all day, with scantily clad, bronze-colored ladies flitting around you, getting you drinks and pleasuring you in ways you didn’t imagine were possible. That’s NOT a job! What I’m looking for is something that is both:

1. Sufficiently feasible to actually exist, and
2. Pays you money for it.

The above described scenario misses out on both points, and so fails to qualify.

I have a desk-job myself. I’m pretty sure the BJITW can’t be a desk job. A desk job is rarely very interesting, and I’d have to think “interesting” plays a crucial role in picking any possible contender for the BJITW crown. But let’s take a little timeout to imagine what the best desk-job in the world would be like. (Or in other words, I’ll just describe an average day at the office for me!)

Here’s what it looks like:

11.00 am - Get to the office.
11.15 am - Check mail.
11.45 am - Get coffee with cute chick from neighboring cubicle. (Flirt shamelessly while doing so.)
12.15 pm - Tidy up desk a little.
12.45 pm - Call an early, extended lunch. (If possible, find another chick and flirt some more.)
2.00 pm - Sit through a couple of meetings while pretending to be awake. (Sleep will come easy thanks to the excess carbohydrates consumed during lunch.)
4.00 pm - Break for tea. (Yes, you get it by now -- more flirting.)
4.30 pm - Start deciding what work is to be done today.
5.30 pm - Decide it’s too late to start now.
5.45 pm - Check mail.
6.00 pm - Leave.

I have to think this is a pretty good deal. I know for sure that the above job exists and you get paid for it. You’ll notice, I could have suggested carrying a pillow and blanket in for the meetings or shortening the working hours a little bit. But I know that’s crossing over the line, and the job will no longer satisfy the two necessary conditions to qualify as a “job”.

What’s your job like? And what do you think the BJITW is?

Bad Fashion in the Name of Religion

When you normally see some with a bad haircut, your first thought normally is, “What joke can I make here?” At least that’s always MY first thought. Especially if I see someone with a clean-shaven head. Needless to say, the number of wisecracks possible in such a scenario are almost limitless. Off late, though, I’ve decided to rope myself in a little bit in such situations.

The reason for this is that more often than not -- in this country, at least -- the reasons for the “no hair” look are seldom funny. For example, it’s common among Hindus for male members to shave their heads clean when someone in the family passes away. You can easily see how making a smart ass comment like “I’m sorry, the Hare Krishna Convention is at the other end of town” is not likely to draw too many laughs in such a case. The last time I tried it the guy began to cry. I tried to console by telling him that this isn’t Bombay and over here the trip across town only takes about 20 minutes, but that only brought out more tears.

The other occasion that calls for one to go Full Monty on one’s scalp is a visit to several Hindu temples, especially the important ones in South India. Again, not exactly a situation that’s very conducive to leg-pulling. Poor guy’s gone through a long, sweaty, day-and-a-half journey across the dusty plains of the country, to some temple in the South, in a rumbling, noisy train. He’s stood in a long, serpentine line for what must have been a few hours but seemed like a few weeks, eaten the terrible vegetarian food available over there [1], performed his excretal routines in the open, or even worse in a shit-filled public washroom, and all for a mere two-and-a-half second glimpse of the “idol” or whatever he’s gone to worship. And he’s gotten rid of all his hair. The last thing he wants is to be laughed at. It’s a sure-fire way to get a fat lip if you try it. Trust me, I have. Hence no more jokes about such people.

And then there are Muslims and their funny beards. Okay, I know it’s politically incorrect and all that in today’s world to say such a thing, but let’s face it -- a beard without the mustache looks quite RIDICULOUS! You’re not Amish or something for Chrissakes! What the fug’s the deal behind the “I’ll grow a beard but I’ll shave my mustache” ideology? Too much trouble to do the entire thing? Skip the mustache as well then, I say. Or wait, maybe this a will of Allah. Who am I to argue with that? My only rant is that I can’t make jokes about such things. Sheesh!


[1] - I know there exists such a concept as GOOD vegetarian food and that food need not be terrible just because it’s vegetarian, but I also know that such food doesn’t exist at such temples.

Beauty Tax

I believe beautiful people should pay more tax. In this world, “being beautiful” equals “potential money making opportunities” and I don’t think this is fair to the -- ummm -- “physically” challenged souls of this Earth.

I’m not saying that ugly people don’t, or can’t, make it big in this world. I’m just saying they have to try much harder. A girl who’s exceedingly beautiful is likely to be guaranteed a good life even with very little effort put in on her part. If she tries a little, she could probably end up really rich and famous. If she works really hard, she might even become queen of her own kingdom with her own personal poop-picker. It’s a lot harder for someone with a misshapen nose to achieve all this.

How many beautiful people do you see asking for alms on the streets? Okay, it’s hard to look really “hot” when you don’t have money to spend on cosmetics or afternoons in the salon, but I’m sure you can’t hide natural beauty. Take an actress and make her live on the street for a while and something tells me she’ll still be significantly more beautiful that the people around her.

Of course, in order to tax people, one would have to come up with a metric for measuring one’s beauty. Here’s what I propose. Have each person go up to 100 random people of the opposite sex and ask for charity. It’s a known fact that people are more likely to donate money if the person asking for it is good-looking. According to the amount of money collected, one’s taxes can be measured.

That’s my Stupid Law For The Day (SLFTD).

Not Just a Name, I Want Vital Stats

The major difference in the way guys and girls listen to any piece of news or story that they hear is that it’s crucial for the guys to know how “hot” any females mentioned in the story are. Guys view stories concerning females in very different ways depending on their hotness. For example, if Tom hears about a beautiful 18-year-old girl, who was killed when she drove her car off a cliff while under the influence, he’s thinking, “Oh, what an unfortunate tragedy that is!” However, if Tom hears about a fat, not-good-looking 18-year-old girl, who was killed when she drove her car off a cliff while under the influence, he’s thinking, “Yay! We’re safer on the streets with one less drunken maniac around!”

The other day my friend Samantha says to me, “Okay, there’s this girl Jennifer in my class whose brother...”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “How hot is she?”

Now you’re probably wondering what in the world that had to do with the story. That is, if you’re a girl. If you’re a guy, you’re probably wondering how hot Samantha is, in addition to how Jennifer is. Go on. Admit it.

Actually, the problem mainly arises when it’s a girl telling the story. If a guy is narrating, then he’s already aware of what his male audience wants, so he carefully describes each female character involved. “So Julie, who’s okay looking but with a great ass, told Alexis, who’s H-O-T, that...” You get the picture, literally.

When a girl is narrating -- to pun a little -- it’s a different story altogether. Guys get really irritated when there isn’t enough information about the physical qualities of all the females whose names are mentioned. Most guys would be far more satisfied individuals if telling a story involving girls had to mandatorily be accompanied with a picture of each girl involved to display alongside. This way the guy can easily decide whether the protagonists involved are hot enough to merit his attention or whether he ought to pretend to pay attention while thinking about the girl he saw on the subway that morning.

To make matters even more complicated for men, some names just sound “hot”. And some don’t. For example, when I hear a story about a Rachel, I’m thinking, “Nice body, good face, overall quite good.” But when I hear Olga, I imagine an obese middle-aged woman with a dirty apron and a round face. Not very attention-grabbing. Of course, it’s quite possible that Olga’s actually good looking. Which is why, I repeat, it’s so important for everyone telling a story to mention how hot (or not) the characters are! Always!

Call Names

We have at the place I work the concept of a “call name”. Simply put, it’s the name you use to call someone you’re meeting for the first time. It’s visible on your ID badge and so it saves a lot of awkward situations involving having to address someone new whom you meet. For most people, their call name is the same as their first name. (For example, mine’s “Arnold”.) However, it could be just about anything you want it to be. I really like the thought of this.

I’d like to change mine to something like Dumee. So that’s the first thing any girl coming up to me will say.

Girl: Hi, Dumee!
Me: Sure, my place or yours?

Or I could make it Youlookcutetonight-Ithinkiminlovewithyourtushy. But I think that’s a little too obvious. And I’m not really sure hypens are allowed.

Elevator People I Hate

Laziness is omnipresent, and in ubiquitous quantities. I think one the most evident proofs of the inherent nature of human laziness is the number of people who use an elevator to travel a single floor. Personally, I think this is nothing short of criminal. I’d like to propose a law that makes this a punishable offence. And double the sentence if the person is traveling down instead of up!

Okay, I can understand if you’re like 80 years old or missing a foot or something like that. But I CANNOT understand why an able-bodied young person would insist on taking the elevator to travel a single floor. Or even two floors. Learn to climb, people. Learn to climb!

You might wonder why I would rant about someone else’s laziness. It’s simple really. Their laziness is costing other people time. For example, assuming that the elevator wasn’t supposed to stop at either of the floors that our lazy friend gets in and out at, then we’ve made two extra stops for him. That’s a good few seconds wasted there. Multiply that into the number of people in the elevator and you’ve basically just managed to waste a few collective minutes. More than the actual amount of time wasted though, it’s the sheer annoyance of making unnecessary stops that gets my goat. There’s little that I cherish more than an uninterrupted elevator ride.

What makes the issue even more absurd is that most of the time taking the stairs is actually faster when it comes to traveling only a couple of floors! So you’re not only wasting my time, you’re wasting your own! (Not that I really care about you, you lazy obese imbecile!)

I swear, the next time at work someone rides the elevator I’m in for just a single floor, I’m sawing his head off! And then hanging it on the elevator wall as a reminder to others! Pah!