Crickety Scribbler

Reading Time: 8:02 minutes

Vacations: The interval of time when my folks didn’t expect interesting news involving me from school.

Cricket ate up most o’ my vacations. I wouldn’t say that I was the undisputed champion o’ the streets, mostly because I held the bat like a caveman. And the ball would soar real high if I hit it..... IF I hit it!

I heard the kid next door shoutin’ my name that morning.

‘What?’, I yelled.

‘You comin’ to play?’

‘I’m eating!’

‘Come on! Everyone’s here.’

‘Alright! Hold on I’m comin’’

‘Hey! What’re you eating?’

‘I just licked the plate. Forget it!’

The skinny kid was bendin’ down when I got out. (Don’t get any ideas now. That’s how we chose the sequence of who gets to bat and when. We held out fingers as the kid called out names.) As usual I was the last one to bat. Now, the one who gets to bat last, gets to bowl first. Somehow they always forgot to stress on that when I was around.

So off I went to field, right next to the kid who stood behind the wickets, ‘cause it was the best spot! The ball never came near me. And I didn’t break any flower-pots either! (Later on I found out that the former was the only reason I was made to stand there. I knew those kids didn’t care about the darn flower-pots!)

So there I was, standin’ peacefully next to the kid behind the stumps, when a big, red flower plopped on my head out of nowhere. I’d just picked it up, looked above and started examining it when I heard all o’ them cryin’ my name out aloud. Turn around, and I find that droopy-eyed, tall bowler burnin’ me with his stare. So was the short, skinny brat standin’ next to me! Didn’t take long for me to notice everyone was sharin’ the same thoughts as the bowler. Everyone, except the kid with the bat.

‘Oh he must be the nicest kid around.’, I thought.

He was grinnin’ at me like anything. (Apparently, Sachin Tendulkar over here had missed the ball which had rolled past me towards the boundary, while I was figuring out the initial position of the big, red flower by calculating the momentum and taking into account the kinetic energy, which was transferred to my medulla oblongata.)

I smiled back.

Funny...this increased the total amount of staring, a few more notches.

‘WHAT??!!’, I asked the skinny li’l brat. (Well, I would’ve asked the bowler if I was in the mood to turn into a toast...with the edges ripped off!) He turned away and mumbled something. Droopy over there decided to answer for him.

‘You let the ball go, you idiot!! You just cost me four runs!’

(Four runs! That’s what they’ve been givin’ me this VIP treatment for? Four measly runs!! This isn’t the world cup, Brian Lara!! Hey wait a minute. Did he just call me an idiot?! Why that...beslubbering, onion-eyed, tickle-brained, flap-mouthed loggerhead!!)

Lucky for him, he didn’t wait for an answer! I would’ve shown him who the boss was! Hah! (Him. Hands down.)

(Okay. So let’s move on to the next ball. Here comes droopy-eyes keeping his pace constant, steps on the line and lo! delivers with a full swing o’ the arm. The batsman keeps steady, narrows his eyes to focus on the ball, steps forward, pulls the bat towards him and catapults it straight at the ball! But wait. What’s this? The ball skips off the tip o’ the bat and goes roarin’ up towards the fat kid standin’ next to the big, red flower. The keeper shouts his name. Droopy yells with his hands on his head. A shriek of disappointment later.... He CATHES the ball! Atta boy!)

Wow! So I COULD catch the ball! Liars!

It was skinny’s turn now. In came he. I was made the wicket-keeper. Not bad! Getting promotions and all.

(In comes droopy again, with his pant-like-a-dog-and-grunt-like-a-pig-with-a-grudge delivery strategy. Skinny swings the bat which appears to be longer than him and leaps forward! I’d bet the bat could outweigh two o’ him put together. Wait a minute! The ball tips beneath the bat and goes straight to the wicket-keeper! Oh he fumbles with the ball...the ball hits the wickets and he’s OUT! What a terrific performance today Ritchie B! Wonder what he ate.)

The kids had new found respect for me. Not bad! This was gettin’ to be my lucky day! (Actually, the ball bounced off my knee and hit the wickets while the idiot was tryin’ to make a run. But they don’t have to know that!)

‘Hey! Why don’t you give bowling a try?’

‘Me? Sure!’

This was the kid with the new found airs. The kid who couldn’t keep his trap shut even if a million mosquitoes threatened to enter if he didn’t. The kid who had to screw himself with every possible nut in the world. This was the kid who chose to bowl for Droopy! This...was me.

Let me tell you somethin’ about him. Droopy is the kinda guy who could smash windows at the 12^th floor of an apartment. Now, imagine that kinda smashin’ goin’ on in your tummy. That’s what happened to Tubby when he got mad. No one saw the ball. All we saw was Tubby holdin’ his stomach and groanin’ like a pig havin’ diarrhoea before he passed out.

I could remember everything like it happened just yesterday. Damn it! I’m never eating Chyavanprash again!

I shut my eyes tight and threw the ball. The guys started yellin’. That’s it. I was done. That was the closest I could get to bein’ heroic. I could see all grinny faces when I opened up. I had become the laughin’ stock... once more. Wait a second! The wickets were lyin’ strewn. Could it be...?

Well, what do you know! I bowled him out! First time in the history of cricket, Droopy, was duck out! Hah! Loser!

‘Good goin’ man!’, cried Tubby. I could see it in his eyes. I was his hero.

‘Heh, no sweat.’, said I, just when Droopy passed by me.

Could the timing BE any better?

‘You just got lucky today you brat.’, he said, as he thrust the bat at me.

No points for guessin’ who Mr. Sunny Deol was here. But you gotta listen to the macho response I gave him. I’d bet he would’ve peed in his pants had I said it any louder:

‘Gulp’

So after losin’ the last ounce of self-respect I had, (an ounce was all there was, actually) I stood at the crease like a chipmunk waitin’ to get trampled by a dinosaur.

Time to face the music.

I never really liked the music they played at funerals. But it’s not like I have a choice here or something.

First ball. Four runs! Whoa! Maybe I wasn’t as bad as I thought I was! I just needed one more run to win. Tubby was getting overwhelmed. I looked at him and said,

‘Piece o’ cake.’

Droopy stole a look at me and spit on the ball. Uh oh! That could only mean one thing... World War III! Okay, big-mouth. You just bought yourself a hole in your paunch. Kids’re gonna name you Idlee Nagasaki henceforth.

I tightened my grip on the bat.(Well, that was the only thing I could hold on to at the moment.) It’s now or never. It was either the ball or me. Only one of us could get hit. So I leaned backward, heaved the bat with all my might and in one powerful swing...THWACK!

Commotion began. I couldn’t pull my bat back. It felt stuck. I couldn’t spot the ball either. Must’ve gone real far. Funny. Tubby was doin’ his groaning-like-a-pig-having-diarrhoea thing again.

(See this was the real deal: My mighty powerful swing, ended up in Tubby’s mouth. (I thought I had a big mouth.) His teeth all shaken up.)

I didn’t understand. Why did he catch the bat? That too with his mouth? Doesn’t he know the rules? And why the hell did he have ketchup on his face?

Everyone watched Tubby in ‘aah’. His Mom came rushing down. They took him in a car somewhere. I couldn’t find out where because I was busy being surrounded by towering neighbours who had appeared out of nowhere. These people would make sure the other kids read about me in history books when Mom & Dad got back from work. I had had it.

Next day saw Tubby with a swollen mouth. (Of course, you had to watch closely to tell the difference.) He was munching away on an ice-cream when he came across.

‘Want some?’, he asked.

‘Sure!’

Noticed the intensity? Apparently, ice-creams were the only thing he was allowed to eat for the next couple o’ days. Goin’ by his shape, I’m sure the ice-creams made up for everything he went through. And goin’ by my shape, I was just glad someone actually offered me an ice-cream.

I don’t remember apologizing to him. And I’m sure he didn’t expect any. We went on to become the best of friends. Always grinning at the sight of ice-creams, always pushin’ each other off the slides, always gettin’ yelled at by our folks, always sucking at playin’ cricket, always wonderin’ why girls are so stupid, always arguing over Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan, always bunking the Sanskrit class, stealing one-rupee coins to buy pepsi-colas, fighting over WWF wrestling, tearing up our report cards, going underground during the Parents-Teachers meet, freaking out the watch-man when he was asleep, throwing pebbles at the girls when they played, getting stared at by their mothers in return, always swearing to become like Batman when we grew up, (Actually the idiot wanted to become Superman, but I put some sense into him.) pulling the air out of bicycle tyres, befriending the Kulfiwala’s son so that he’d get us free Kulfis, getting chased by the one darn mad dog in the streets...

The point is, we didn’t have any boundaries, (Except that we were threatened in crystal words not to go beyond the third street or we would have our legs chopped off.) we never bothered about our ego. Well back then, we didn’t Have an ego. But now... here I go, treating the people I care the most as bad as I can, and giving the best o’ my smiles to the people whom I don’t give a damn.

Scooter Scribbler

School time. The old scooter coughed again. Seemed like a lifetime before it started. I was sick & tired of tellin’ him to buy a new bike instead o’ this wretched ol’ scooter. That way I don’t get to feel embarrassed when I see my friends in cars. Not that they sported around in BMWs and Rolls’, but hey, a bike’s a bike. Where does a scooter even stand a pig’s hair in front of a roarin’ monster that comes with a ‘Definitely male’ tagline?

‘Dad...’

He looked up.

‘What happened to the new bike we were gonna get?’

‘Oh that!... Let’s see’, he glanced back into the TV.

‘Yeah rite... All you see’re those crappy singin’ competitions on TV’, I mumbled without him surprisingly not noticin’ it.

‘For God’s sake sell the damn thing Dad... It’s been 15 years since you’ve been pushin’ that thing around’

He suddenly seemed to ponder a few seconds. Somethin’ that totally took me aback. (Well...uhh...you know… I’m not used to people thinkin’ over stuff I say. Odd faces and Yeah-rite-and-I’m-the-Duke-of-Wellington looks are what I get usually.)

‘Yeah you’re rite...Think its ‘bout time we got a new one’.

Wait a minute. Did he just agree with me? Agree as in OK?? Wow! The last time that happened I was in my diapers apparently signallin’ him that I had…uhh…successfully accomplished Operation Nature’s Call and wanted my diaper off. He agreed!!!...The huge ant-bite on my butt that evenin’ was a totally different story.

The next day more than half the school knew I was gonna buy a new bike. And more than half the school gave me more than half a school o’ suggestions.

On television, crappy singin’ competitions were ignored and commercials were given a priority. Newspapers were under forensic examination for ads and our mechanic became our dearest friend. Even those nosy neighbours played their parts. Always screwin’ up the bike I chose.

But before getting’ our hands on the new member of the family, we chose to dispose the old-timer. Mom didn’t know anythin’ ‘bout bikes but she was all the more excited about the gettin’ rid of the old-timer part. A nation-wide search for the apt scape-goat was launched. Neighbours, my folks’ colleagues, some o’ my worthless friends, everyone were told to keep an eye out for...uhh…vintage scooter collectors.

And after what seemed like a never endin’ fortnight, we managed to find one. Courtesy: Our new friend Mr. Mechanic. The guy offered a whopping six grand. Dad had related the tale of his prized possession countless times all my life. I chuckled as his words echoed,

‘You see the big fan here right above the engine? Well there’s a 150cc beneath it. It was a prestigious issue to own one o’ these those days you know? Was imported directly from London. You had to wait for more than three whole months after you’ve booked it. Not everyone was lucky enough to get their hands on this beauty you know? See the colour?? Ever seen any other scooter on the road o’ this same colour? When was the......’

Every time I was listenin’ to this speech of his…I found myself scrubbin’ the scooter. Gettin’ a new bike wasn’t gonna change all the scrubbin’ part, but if you’re asked to choose between watchin’ Dame Judi Dench strippin’ or Scarlett Johansson…uhh...you get the point!

The guy was supposed to visit the antique the next week. The rage o’ the road arrived home before then. I was rubbin’ my hands like a greedy villain with an evil grin who eyed the damsel in a bollywood movie. Dad cut it short by directin’ me to get some lemons in my bicycle. Bah!! He’d make the worst director if you ask me. (Oh and if you’re the same alien whom I mentioned in my first blog, then I’ve ta tell you that the lemons are for makin’ a new vehicle auspicious. You place one beneath each tyre and crush them in the first go and whoosh!!...your vehicle’s all auspicious. Yeah right! Try tellin’ that to the lemons.)

You know what they say...’An optimist is never deterred’. (Actually no one said that, but, it adds to the effect you know. By the way, if that line clicks, I’d like to have a copyright on that.) Ok I have to admit I was pissed off when he sent me to buy those stupid lemons, but, when I came ta think, (Yes, I do that sometimes too...Ha ha...Very funny you guys...), I came across the fact that I can’t be stopped by lemons! Those teeny, weeny yellow balls!! That’s ridiculous!! I’ve got more balls than a lemon!!

The grocery shop was at the street across. I geared up and sped as fast as I can. (In case you’re wonderin’, my bicycle had gears too. Eighteen of ‘em!!....I still had to pedal my ass off though.) When I raced back to the parkin’ lot with two o’ the plumpest lemons a pumpkin would’ve ever seen, I stopped by a crowd. A very nosy, noisy crowd. Neighbours!

I got closer to the source o’ the noise only to see Mr. Memon gettin’ on my ride. What nerve!! Hey wait a minute! What were those? Two lemons were lyin’ massacred on the floor! Courtesy: Dad. Apparently, he’d found some rotten lemons in the fridge while I was cyclin’ my ass off through the street. And now Mr. Memon was gonna test-ride it. Wow. How exciting. (RATS!!)

I stood there watchin’ while he sped off. I was in love with this bike. So now his daughter’s history. The engine was like a piano! Never heard more appealin’ music churn out from anythin’. And if Bach was there, I’m sure he’ll agree too.

Time stopped still as I felt the echo in my ears. No wait! It was that Memon guy comin’ back...with MY ride.

He came. He spoke. He never got up.

I can’t remember one dirty word that I didn’t associate him with. Unless of course, I heard this come outta his mouth.

‘Your motor-cycle has gotta lot of power sir. It can be fatal in the hands of teenagers.’

Have you ever wondered how it would be if you ended up in a lone island where there’s all the mouth-waterin’ food and the classiest of booze you ever wanted and loaded with the most beautiful chicks in the world, clad in designer bikinis? Well, stop wonderin’!! My heart’s bein’ ripped out in cold blood here!!

This was when I couldn’t help but think of ways to bash him up. I could wear a monkey-cap and sneak up at dark and bash him up. Yeah! I was gonna pound him left & right. Make him wish he was dead meat. So what if he was a trainer at his own gym huh?? I was the biggest guy in class! (Well horizontally....but...that’s not the point!!!)

Normally, I would’ve done what I was thinkin’, if it weren’t for somethin’ that sounded like,

‘You’re right Memon; maybe we’ll wait till he grows up a bit more and then give him the ride.’

Crap!! If it weren’t the lemons, it had to be the Memons!! Who knows what “grows up a bit” means? I could grow up to be someone who doesn’t even fit through his door for Pete’s sake!! Yeah!! Maybe then I could beat up Memon. Wouldn’t be much difficult too!! All I had to do was push him down and sit on him and the bastard’ll squish to death.

So the verdict was final. I can’t ride the bike. I can soak it, soap it, wipe it, wax it, dry it, clean it, but I can’t ride it!!

A guy came the next day. Was dressed pretty neat in shabby clothes. His hands were tight and he didn’t look like the kinda guy whose pockets were big enough. And I could tell he’d come to buy our old scooter. Dad & I took him to the parkin’ lot where it was left standin’ in a corner. It still bore the marks of the paint I scratched off as a kid (and had had a nice thwacking for it)...It still had the dent from the first accident we were in...Still had the memories of Dad takin’ Mom to the movies for the first time...The way I looked at Dad in awe when he gave that speech of his the first time...The way I scrubbed it clean all day after that...The excitement I had when I first managed to start it up...The first time I smelt petrol...The first time I went to school and ran behind it cryin’ as Dad sped off...The first time I played Speed Racer and kicked the kid next door off the back-seat...The first time I had the wind at my face...All the times that I annoyed Dad with the constant horn-thumping...All the scolding I got from him for dancin’ on the seat while riding...All the times I fell asleep on Mom’s lap at the back-seat... And as the guy drove off with the scooter, I agreed with Dad for the first time...Maybe it was priceless!!

Teenager Scribbler

Parents!!! One word to get a teenager into an instant mood (Old, torn, worn out, smelly shoes for guessin’ the kinda mood). They’re like walkin’, talkin’ ‘Tell Me Why’ books. Where’re you goin’? What do you need money for? Why’re you late? Where were you? The what, the when, the where, the who, the how….phew. And they say raisin’ up kids is difficult? Questions which basically have no answers or extremely obvious ones are what I get shot at. ‘Did you get your broken coolers fixed?’(Well Ma, would it still be lyin’ there in pieces if I had?) ‘Do you need any money?’(Are you really gonna fill me up if I said yes? Why ask ‘em in the first place if you’re not gonna give any? You don’t ask teenagers if they need money. Of course they need money. Why wouldn’t they?) Typical money conversations (which are probably only ones which take place between me and my folks) at my place go somewhat like this:

‘Ma, I need money’

‘How much?’ (Like she’s really gonna give it all to me)

‘How much you got?’

(Yes, I can be a blood-sucker at times, but c’mon, I’m their only son. They don’t have to spend money on anyone else. Pretty fair trade-off here you see? I ain’t that bad as you think. Besides, I’ll take real good care o’ them when I land myself in a job, which is gonna keep me confined to an 8 x 10 cubicle, frantically runnin’ my fingers on a cushioned key-board, on which the cushion is of obviously no use, and squeeze the juice outta me for no less than 14 hours a day and make the somewhat high salary seem like the tip that you’d give a waiter. Why am I wishin’ for such a paradisiacal job you think? I’m an Engineer. If I’m gonna wish for more I’d better be sure I’m rubbin’ Aladdin’s lamp. But all that I get to rub after I graduate, is a cushioned-chair look-alike which would analytically make you come to the conclusion that saddles are equivalent to heaven.)

‘What happened to the 100 bucks I gave you yesterday?’

(Wham. Only mothers can do that. Answer a question with a question that’ll knock you outta your senses. Now I’m really used to it (well….sorta), so I play it cool, although I’m wettin’ myself on the inside. What possible explanation could someone give for a question like that? (I’d bet a million bucks that it’ll baffle a Chartered Accountant.) Even that 100 bucks would’ve forgotten that it was with me (for like 5 whole minutes) the day before. And even if I did remember I can’t tell her the truth. Not that I took a gurl out or somethin’. (Yeah right. A 100 bucks in my pocket and I’m talkin’ about takin’ out a gurl?? Man, my Mom’s question really must have knocked my senses out. It takes at least two grand to take a gurl out these days. With these smelly restaurants and fast-food joints gettin’ new air-fresheners, confined spaces, and most importantly, a Newly Improved Menu Card, ‘impossible’ is the next word that comes to the mind of guys like me before takin’ out a gurl. And moreover, I’ve seen some guys unlike me takin’ chicks to such places. If you ask me I’d describe their condition in one word- Pathetic (with a capital ). But who asks me? I’m just another single guy tryin’ to get a life non-single ones may envy on. Why? You ask? I’ll tell you why. Remember those guys unlike me who took chicks to the restaurants? Well, their dates first test their patience (and the poor guy appointed as a waiter) by gaining a thorough knowledge of every item on the God-damned menu, due to which after some while, the waiter starts wonderin’ if he should be promoted as the Chief Chef. Then, the young lady, advances to give out an order which our poor waiter who’s already wonderin’ about his promotion, stops in the middle of it and starts calculating if he could’ve done away with a copy of the menu personally delivered to the Chef instead of findin’ a note-book large enough to jot down The Order, which if he was bright enough could’ve sold it to a publisher who foxes house-wives into buyin’ a low-cost compilation of continental delicacies. Hold on now. I’m not finished with the dates yet. Amidst all this, the guy keeps oglin’ into the chicks’ eyes as if he’d been hypnotized by a witch. (Well, the hypnotized part is certainly true, and hell, so is the witch part (What else would you call a woman with two inches of paint on her eyes, three inches on her cheeks, three and a half on her lips, nails the size of drum-sticks, and her hair havin’ a striking resemblance to a Tailor bird’s nest?)). So, as our poor and confused waiter arrives with all the stuff ordered (that he could get in one trip), frantically tryin’ to catch his breath in between, these two hold hands on the table, pretendin’ to be lost in each other, not givin’ the poor guy a chance to set the stuff down. Suddenly, the Cruella De Vil shrieks on seein’ the food set down by Mr. Poor-and-confused. Reason? She was on a diet and she forgot that while orderin’…..which perfectly explains why she ordered food enough to feed half o’ Somalia (The rest o’ the half lost their appetite on catchin’ a glimpse of our damsel). The afore mentioned pathetic guy then proceeds to feed her with his own hands, holdin’ a spoon of course (Why would anyone put food in an alligator’s mouth bare-handed?). She then advances as close to the spoon as possible, opens her mouth, and denies eatin’ (What suspense? Did you see that comin’? I’d bet Alfred Hitchcock wouldn’t have). After stuffin’ a coupla spoons, she puts up her hands in exhaustion to say she can’t eat a morsel more (Although, I’m pretty sure she can eat twice the items a ten-fold menu could hold). Our protagonist then gets up and tries to talk her into watchin’ a movie or whatever, as though he doesn’t care about all the money he wasted on the food (He doesn’t have a choice but to put up a carefree front. He can’t yell at her for orderin’ all that. Neither can he hog all of ‘em down with a gurl watchin’ him. Checkmate pal!!! Either lose your money or lose more o’ your money). Oh and if some o’ you new readers’re curious as to which movie they went to, finish your homework in the previous blog.) The point is I can’t tell her what I did with the money. Period.

I’m a genius!! All these thoughts run through me in micro-miniscule seconds, while I’m simultaneously workin’ up an answer for The question. Man!! My brain-cells must be overflowin’. No wonder they call me The Retardo Man!! Ahem….ahem….A’ rite I’ll stop.)

‘I spent it’.

(I know you’re all goin’ like “That’s it? That’s the bright answer? You made me read all that in the brackets just to hear this stupid one? I’m bringin’ my baseball bat now you bozo.” Hold it right there fellas. I haven’t finished yet.)

‘How’d you spend all that money? What’d you do with it? I gave you a fifty the day before too.’

(She says this as she puts the money on the table.)

‘Ma, where’s my socks? Why’re they never there where I put ‘em? Every single day I’ve to search for ‘em.’

(Bingo!! Perfect timing!!! She forgets all ‘bout the 100 bucks and goes sock-hunting. I did it again!! Now all those who’re gonna try this at home consult trained professionals first. The conversation must begin strictly at places where her purse is at an arm’s length and, most importantly, when she’s busy. For more details, contact me with a description of your Mom and the kinda job she does. Warning! Do not try this if your Mom’s a house-wife and your Dad’s already left for work.)

Well, such is how my day is made. I’m off now. (What? You expect me to write more with such hard-earned cash in my pocket? Hell, I’m outta here. Besides, some o’ you evil ones‘ve been complainin’ my blog’s too long. So right now, I’d better leave. Up, up, and awaaaaaayyyyy!!!).

Single Scribbler

Girls!! How do they get hooked with the dumbest, weirdest, most uncool, guys on the planet? I’m sure every sane single guy or an ex-single guy must’ve asked this himself at some point or the other in his otherwise normal life. I mean, how is it that women drool over guys like Matthew Mc Connaughey and still end up with a guy no taller than Danny de Vito, no thinner than him for that matter, and with a brain quarter the size o’ the brain he’s got?? Is it just because they’re the easiest catch??....Hmmm…Are all dumb guys rich then??...Maybe…But sane, single guys like me never seem to get the answer. I guess that’s probably why we fill our status as ‘single’. Not that we complain about it. We’re pretty happy if you catch the view from our side.

We’ve got no one to make up a thousand times because we didn’t cry on hearin’ a beautiful girl’s plight with her best friends, OR because we didn’t ‘awww’ on seein’ a li’l boy dressed in the shabbiest of rags, (I know I know…rags ARE shabby….Just adds to the effect you know), beggin’ for a rupee, (Yes…That’s what they charge….The most recent one that I heard included a Money plus scheme from the Life Insurance Corporation), OR some crappy film starring SRK, who must be spendin’ half his life in Railway stations or Airports (In case you happen to be an alien from outer space, that’s where this guy picks up chicks from, whines and dines ‘em, (Yeap…I spelt that right), makes ‘em cry, and at the end starts cryin’ himself, which is of course after he’s made sure that every other character has shed half a bucket o’ tears, and in the end gets the chick back at the same airport/railway station, whichever’s whiter in background, whom he let go of with utter stupidity and stubbornness somewhere before the interval, which would’ve saved us insensitive singles, if he didn’t, on cigarettes, who sometimes make the mistake of goin’ to watch such pathetic excuses of films because they don’t have a girl to take out to, who, on the contrary, if we did have, would obviously ask us to take them to such pathetic excuses of films, and we ex-singles now would have to end up payin’ for two tickets in place of one, and absolutely NO cigarettes which we less brighter mortals think that it relieves all the tension caused by the repeated question imposed on us by our bitch of a conscience….”What’re you doin’ here??...What’re you doin’ here??...WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN’ HERE???”), cryin’ his head off over some overtly made-up stunning woman, who eventually comes back to him anyway, makin’ his whole cryin’ worthwhile (Well, that’s what the audiences are made to believe. They don’t know what she’s gonna do to the guy after they get home. She’d probably try to kill him with her mascara or hair-dryer by shoving it into his…uhh…nose, so that she wouldn’t have to waste her polka-dotted hand-kerchief on a guy who’s never grown a beard, and ahem ahem…waxes, and never ceases to weep like a baby who’s candy has been stolen by one such pathetic guy).

We don’t spend a thousand bucks on a 1cm x 1.5cm newspaper space reserved for love notes (PUKE) which go like,

‘Every moment I’m away from you I feel I’m walking on knives,

If I had one wish, I’ll wish we’re together for all the seven lives’

- Name withheld

*Barf* Excuse me dear. Now is that puke-inducin’ or what? I mean, what kind of a guy, writes stupid love notes like that? Jeez, walkin’ on knives? Get rid o’ those filthy loafers and get yourself a Nike you bastard.

And the reaction on the chick’s face the next day you ask? How the hell would I know? I didn’t write that. And even if was drunk on, like, 10 bottles of vodka, and I do happen to write such a romantic rhyme which has the ability to wipe out Shakespearean works from the surface of the Earth, I wouldn’t wanna find out.

Oh! I forgot to tell you the most important advantage we singles have. We can look at any gurl, for any amount of time and as many numbers of times as we count err...sheep, before dozin’ off. Now hold it right there.

I know what you non-single readers’re thinkin’ (Yeah right, the only probable readers of this post are gonna be a coupla my jobless friends who’re gonna resist with utmost disgust at the words ‘read’ and ‘blog’, and I’m talkin’ about categories of readers here??? Man, some hopes I’ve got). You’re probably thinkin’ I’m jealous o’ these not-so-impressive guys who end up with drop-dead gorgeous women.

All I'd say is you’ve got a point there, a pretty valid one. But if us singles (read sane bachelors) can walk away with the above mentioned advantages of being single, and the ones that I haven’t mentioned with utmost interest in Google’s storage limit, with just a small teeny weeny itsy bitsy accusation of bein’ jealous, then we have reasons to believe that you non-singles are definitely on the wrong side of God’s blessings. And with the utmost satisfaction of makin’ non-singles look pathetic, which does hurt me a bit too as I happen to have a heart of gold, studded with diamonds in between, I think I’ll stop my very first blog right here. Oh and people who did buy a Nike after readin’ my blog and are currently lookin’ for me with their former filthy loafers in hand, please do notify your nearest dealer in Nike of me as I would be grateful to receive a reasonable amount for such generous publicity.