The questions in the “Sex Advice” columns of the daily newspapers (especially The Mirror) always scare me. I’m just worried that people this stupid are even having sex at all. Darwin would NOT be happy.
One the one hand, the couples always seem just so perfect for each other—each one as dumb as the other. Just don’t procreate, that’s all I’m asking of them. Let your stupidity die out with you. Thank you.
One of my colleagues at work, A, threw a small party for the team in the cafeteria today. She’d ordered lunch from outside and it was delivered by a guy on his bicycle. After he’d unloaded the food from the bicycle, she paid him. He asked for extra money stating “rickshaw fare” as the reason. All of us could see that he had come on a bicycle, so this request seemed out of place to say the least.
However, A felt that it would be simpler to pay him than to argue about it. Besides, he could have come by an auto-rickshaw if he wanted, but had chosen to make the effort of cycling so as to save a little money. It seemed okay.
She wasn’t sure how much to pay him though. So she asked him, “How much is the fare from the caterers to here?”
His reply?
“I don’t know! I came by cycle now, didn’t I?”
These are times when you really aren’t sure just how loudly you are supposed to laugh.
So the Olympics are on—everyone’s the sports expert for these two weeks. People, who didn’t know that an event called “Dressage” existed a month ago, are now providing play-by-play commentary as they watch it on television. I would know—my Mom happens to be one of those types.
Dressage amazes me. Just the very fact that it exists. I mean it just has to be the most boring sports event in the world? Are we five-year-old children to sit and look at a bunch of horses dancing around? At least with ballet, you can sit and watch the girls. But horses? This is an Olympic event? I suggest we add nail-clipping, nose-picking and ear-scratching too. They’re about the same level of interesting as dressage—at the very least!
And since it’s called the ‘dress’age – have you seen the way the participants dress? Eighteenth century European style clothing! What’s with that? I’m no fashion expert but if there’s anything I would describe as G-A-Y, this would be it. (Looking at it that way, it goes nicely with the rest of the “sport” though!) The ancient Greeks would have cringed in disgust if they knew that, two-and-a-half millennia later, their hallowed Olympic Games were going to contain an event like the dressage.1
The commentators try to make the sport a little more interesting. They seem to get excited at the smallest things. I can’t blame them. If you had a job once every four years—you’d be pretty excited about it too! Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone else on the planet shares that enthusiasm except the riders. Oh, and my Mom. I’m sure the horses don’t. Back at the stable later in the evening they probably get ridiculed by the show jumping horses.
Super Stud: So, hey Queenie, what did you do today?
Queenie: Ummm. Nothing much really. Don’t want to talk about it.
Super Stud: Oh! Come on! You can tell me. What’s the big deal?
Queenie: Okay. But listen you mustn’t judge me. Remember, I had no choice. I was forced to do it!
Super Stud: Okay. Okay.
Queenie (quietly): Dressage.
Super Stud (to fellow show jumper): Gaaayyyyyyy.
Queenie bursts into tears.
More on the Olympics later.
1 Addendum: The ancient Olympics in Greece were very gay. Completely nude men participating and no women allowed to even watch? Can’t get worse that that! They might actually have been proud of the dressage.
I refuse to believe that the use of the term “bull” to denote a Papal decree could be mere coincidence.
Chinese guys are weird—can’t grow a decent beard and yet I’ve never seen a bald one! It’s almost like the inability to get hair on one part of the face is compensated by the immunity to losing it on another.
Does anyone have an explanation?
I’ve been asked out, on occasion, by guys and I have to say that it’s not the most flattering thing in the world. The first thing that you do is start to wonder to yourself what it could be about you that made him think you might be gay (or at least bi enough). You look down to see what you’re wearing. “Could it be these shoes? Is this shirt a little too ‘out there’? Never mind! I’m just going to burn the whole lot!”
You begin think back to everything you’ve said before that. Could you have said something that gave out the wrong impression? Or what about something that you might have written on your blog? Maybe it’s your laugh. Could it be that? You spend of the entire rest of the day thinking about this incident. You’re constantly asking all your friends, “Do I come off as gay to you? Is my laugh too girlish? Come on! Tell me. Tell me, please!”
I, of course, turn down such proposals because I just don’t want it to get awkward later on. Let me assure you that I have nothing against homosexuals; it’s just that I’m not one. I don’t have a problem with a gay person—but I sure as heck have one with his hand sliding up my leg during dinner. That’s one place I just do not want to go.
I sometimes feel, “Hey, why not? I get a free dinner and nothing has to really happen. Might be a good deal.” The problem is that I just can’t. Girls seem to find it real easy to go out with a guy whom they’re not remotely interested in, enjoy a free meal, order the most expensive wine, and at the end of the night, say, “Thank you and good night.” As a guy, I’d find it impossible to do that—even given the opportunity. And plus, going a gay date is bad enough; but going as the girl on a gay date—that’s a little too much.
And yes, folks, for the record—I’m straight.
Today’s post isn’t funny or anything—it’s just something amusing that happened to me a couple of nights ago. I stopped, after work, at a store to pick up a half-liter bottle of Coke. I paid for the bottle and was in the process of putting it into my bag. The plastic bottle—being refrigerated—was obviously slightly wet on the outside and I was mentally debating whether I should just put it in like that or ask for a plastic bag. I decided that there weren’t any papers in the bag and so it could just go in.
The guy behind the counter was a young boy of about fifteen. He had pulled out a plastic bag from under the counter and was offering it to me—aware that I might not want to place the wet bottle inside my bag uncovered. I shook my head at him and waved a polite, “No, thanks.” I then began to put the bottle in, moving some stuff around.
At that point I heard him say, in English, “Thank you for your co-operation.”
I looked up at the guy—my surprise clearly evident on my face. There were two reasons for the surprise—the fact that he spoke in English (not that he could speak English, but that he did speak English—slight difference there) and the fact that he practiced some form of environmental awareness. Neither of these would feature among the attributes of the average Indian shopkeeper.
I didn’t say anything for a second, while these two thoughts were going through my mind. He saw my silence as a reason to explain. He continued in Hindi, “Well, there was a guy who had come here earlier who bought a small packet of Parle-G biscuits and demanded a bag to carry it in. I tried to tell him that we were running out of bags but he didn’t listen. He was one those goonda types anyway. So I had to give him. It’s nice that you didn’t need one”
I smiled. “No problem.”
