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Cheetahs hunting antelopes

By on Jun 12, 2012 in ffutS evitaerC | 13 comments

Do you know how cheetahs hunt antelopes? From what I gather, here’s how cheetahs hunt. So they’re sitting in this African jungle and all, right? Well the first thing they do is that whenever they feel hungry, they either contact a viral marketing agency, or the more entrepreneurial cheetahs, start their own viral marketing agency. This is the first step of the hunt. It is an important step also because Africa being poor and all, they cannot afford to buy Mountain Dew themselves. So the cheetahs need sponsorship in cash or kind for Pepsi Co, each time they feel hungry. * Mountain Dew can be switched for Red Bull. ** Red Bull spends more these days. So anyway, they get these energy drinks, right? The cheetahs now have a cooler box filled with Mountain Dew / Red Bull. Are you following me so far? The cheetahs pitch the thing brilliantly, because their hunt is good demonstration for the energy drink companies. But, you must be asking, “Why do the companies sponsor them hunt after hunt? Doesn’t it get old?!” It is a bit like how the energy drink and sporting apparel companies have sponsored snow sports, BMX bike competitions, motor sports etc for decades. For instance, as shown in this video. But…every now and then…there are rumours… Now, these are rumours only, so you shouldn’t pay much importance to them… …but…word on the street is, the CEO of Eveready Batteries likes to fuck cheetahs and cheetah sex trade is part of the whole sponsorship deal these drinks companies have. Personally, I think these are just nasty rumours. But who knows. My job is to only give full account. The cheetah-energy drink-Eveready battery cartel is very powerful, according to the rumours. Very powerful because of constant supply of free energy drinks, makes their hitmen wired and on edge all the time. There was this one reporter though… You don’t want to know how he died. It was nasty… Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. He was found dead in his apartment. You know that sometimes when you have a stomach operation, doctors shove a camera connected with fibre optic cables down your throat to the stomach to get a video feed to see what exactly is wrong in your stomach? So…apparently…the hitmen sent to deal with this reporter used a modified version of this apparatus with claws at the end to latch on to the reporter’s stomach, and ripped out his stomach through his own throat. While he was alive. The stomach lining ruptured on its way up his throat and the stomach acid ate away part of the torso too (and the linoleum floor in his apartment). Bones, reduced to ashes at the places where the stomach acid attacked. The police closed the case as a cold case file. Said it was suicide and that the reporter was mentally troubled because he had lost heavily at gambling but nobody believes that story. The reporter was working undercover as a gamekeeper in Africa. He had barely scratched the surface, but from what has been pieced together from his notes left at work (all documents from his house were missing), he found that female cheetahs, as young as a few months old, were being sedated and shipped as stuffed toy animals to India. A constant supply was needed because the Eveready CEO who’s into this thing likes to slit the throat of the cheetah when he climaxes. And he includes subliminal messages on all batteries his company sells, by having the logo as a cheetah jumping through hoops. Haven’t you, deep down, ever felt the urge to fuck a cheetah when say on family vacations you bought Eveready batteries for your camera? It’s all because of the subliminal messaging. So anyway, back to the hunt. The cheetahs get the drinks, but they don’t start hunting right away. There’s almost a ritualistic way they go about it. They sit around a campfire, eating ceremonial giraffe sandwiches brought to them by their women, laughing and drinking energy drinks…it’s almost a bacchanal atmosphere. But in their mind, they are filled with fear too, before every hunt. They are filled with fear because they know that as dawn comes, they will be hunting antelopes. Don’t even, for a single moment, think that is not dangerous. The defining characteristic of life is that it wants to live. You might think antelopes are meek animals only. But no. A cornered animal is a dangerous animal, and antelopes use their antlers to good use. You never see this on Discovery Channel but there are times when antelopes have gored cheetahs to death. So, are you following me so far? The cheetahs are sitting around a fire, their wimmin are bringing them ceremonial giraffe sandwiches, and they’re all drinking energy drinks. The hunt begins. Again, it is almost ritualistic. High on caffeine and war whoops, they leave their territory and head towards the antelopes. They lead themselves out of their den in a conga line, by latching on the tail of the cheetah in front of them, while Ride of the Valkyries plays in the background. They scope out the territory. The best place for attack is near streams, where the antelopes go for a drink of water / sandaas at dawn. The cheetahs scope out the pack. They flick their heads at each other, giving scores out...

6.47am

By on Sep 11, 2011 in ffutS evitaerC | 15 comments

6.47am. You wake up. 7.27am. You get up. Wisps of mattress protector fluff to stick to your clothes because you haven’t bothered putting on a bedsheet cover. Your Asda Smart Price toothpaste doesn’t leave a “feeling of freshness” in your mouth. You glance over its packaging. “Made in Croatia”. You remind yourself not to be a cheapskate when shopping. The shower has three temperature settings: ‘Antarctic ice-cold’, ‘Meh’, and ‘Boiled And Transported Straight From Hell™’. You like long, hot showers. The last (hot water) setting can scald your skin off. Just long enough to slather on and rinse off shower gel will have to do for now. You eat Coco Pops for breakfast with orange squash because you’re out of milk. Grab an apple on the way out. Every day is a rush to Fratton train station. Your bike’s rear wheel is misaligned. Every day you need to twist the brakes to be able to cycle. You can’t be bothered taking it for (free) servicing at Halfords. It’s the same people at the station every day. The Chinese girl who always gets a cup of coffee brought to her by her boyfriend. Middle-aged guy in leather jacket with a Raleigh bike. The girl with purple hair with blonde highlights. Two hoodied dudes who seem to work as stage technicians – they got on 8.37 to Brighton. “8.42 Southwest Trains service to Southampton Central”, pipes in the public address system. You check-in to Foursquare. It’s the same train every day to work. It’s the same order every day on train in the bicycle compartment. Big bike. Small bike. Lovely lady with lovely bike with pink tassles and a basket at the front – she’ll get off at Cosham. That’s the way it has to be. Every once in a while, a newcomer shows up and a murmur swells up through our three’s-a-crowd gaggle. You scan through The Guardian on your phone. You sneak a peek at the tabloid being read by guy sitting in front of you. “Monkey Touches Katy Perry’s Boobs”. You sit back, safe in the knowledge that British tabloid journalism is keeping the world at large well-informed. You starting eating your apple at 8.57 so that it gives you enough time to dispose it off in next coach’s litter bin, in time for the 9.09 stop at Swanwick. Everyone gets off in the same order, every day. Guy Who Takes Taxi To Work Every Day walks out and gets into a taxi. Surprise surprise. The taxi company made a mistake today and the driver doesn’t seem to have a booking. It’s all sorted out in 30 seconds though. You don’t drink coffee or tea at work. Your colleagues still ask you out of courtesy, every day, every time they go to fetch tea or coffee – knowing the answer will be a “No, thank you though!” Be an agent of chaos. Upset the established order. Introduce a little anarchy. Throw in a pop culture reference when you talk about it. Say “Yes” to coffee one day instead. You go to the same shop for lunch each day. You introduce a little anarchy by ordering your sandwich with BBQ sauce instead of mint mayo. The Sandwich Maker enjoys this break from the routine too; he compliments you for making your choice ‘different’ every day. Up there, Eris sheds a tear. It’s the same train every day back home. “6.11 Southwest Trains service to Portsmouth Harbour”, announces the public address system. This commute is slightly more interesting because the guy with a Raleigh bike is not always there. You pop in a microwave meal. Pierce lid a few times, set to high for 5 minutes, stir, set to high for 3 minutes, stand for 1 minute. You cannot introduce a little anarchy because that is The Way. You watch The Simpsons while eating dinner. You sit outside, in the backyard. Your hands are numb from cold after doing the dishes. There’s that really fat cat – sometimes black, sometimes ginger – sniffing your bike locked to the clothesline. There are birds. Seagulls? Albatrosses? You have wondered often, searched often. You don’t know the answer. Not yet. Not for sure. You watch an episode of The Killing on your laptop. Or Beaver Falls. You tune in to radio on Spotify. Little Bad Girl. (You consider skipping but let it be.) Gold Cobra by Limp Bizkit. Creedence Clearwater Revival. New Divide. (You wonder when a fat Japanese farmer replaced Joe Hahn.) (s)AINT by Marilyn Manson. Vem Vet by Lisa Ekdahl. (You set down the vin rouge.) Mic Check by Rage Against The Machine. The Man Who Can’t Be Moved by The Script. You contemplate smashing your laptop. You can certainly afford to replace it. One fag. Two fags. You want to buy a typewriter, if only to fill a sheet with “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” over and over on sheet of heavy paper. You plan to throw in another pop culture reference. Three fags. You feel synapses lighting up that you didn’t know could be active. Yes, you can write something now. You head back to your room. You have so much to say. To write. But one funny YouTube video before that surely won’t hurt? You fall asleep. 6.51am. You wake up… *** FUCK. THAT. SHIT....

My First Poem

By on Jul 29, 2009 in ffutS evitaerC | 15 comments

Originally posted at Youthpad. I mentioned in an earlier post that I’m not a big fan of poetry. Especially free verse. Yes, there are certain exceptions but on the whole I’d rather be thrown out of a spaceship with no chance of rescue than be read poetry to. Somehow, poets have this superiority complex over ‘heathens’ who write prose. So to get my point across to such so-called poets writing free verse, here’s a poem written by me: Lemme discuss this new trend in poetry called ‘free verse’, which I detest. If you’ve studied English literature you’d have noticed some poems, which have no set rhyme scheme. Oh, the agony I suffer whenever I come across such atrocities. Forced I was, to read such shit when I was in school. Oh, the joy I feel now I know that I no longer have to do that. When done properly, free verse can be quite readable. Alas! More often than not it’s just a tool for people who can’t write poetry to save their life. Write a few sentences, somewhere midway in the poem throw in a few hoity-toity words – ‘sepulchural’, ‘guttural’, or maybe even ‘jiggery-pokery’ – hit the enter key a few times, and voila! And if you don’t ‘get’ what is going on in this post – why, it’s an attempt at parody of course! Great respect for rhyming poems I have none for free verse I do; next time you come across such a ‘poem’ tear away the page, you should. This poem, by the way, was my first – and...

Bed of Roses

By on Apr 3, 2009 in ffutS evitaerC | 2 comments

Guest blogged by Anuj on May 16, 2008. Sitting here wasted and wounded At this old piano Trying hard to capture The moment this morning I don’t know ‘Cause a bottle of vodka Is still lodged in my head And some blond gave me nightmares I think that she’s still in my bed As I dream about movies They won’t make of me when I’m dead With an ironclad fist I wake up and French kiss the morning While some marching band keeps It’s own beat in my head While we’re talking About all of the things that I long to believe About love, the truth and What you mean to me And the truth is baby you’re all that I need I wanna lay you down in a bed of roses For tonight I’ll sleep on a bed of nails I wanna be just as close as your Holy Ghost is And lay you down on bed of roses Well I’m so far away That each step that I take is on my way home A king’s ransom in dimes I’d give each night Just to see through this payphone Still I run out of time Or it’s hard to get through Till the bird on the wire flies me back to you I’ll just close my eyes and whisper Baby blind love is true I wanna lay you down in a bed of roses For tonight I’ll sleep on a bed of nails I wanna be just as close as your Holy Ghost is And lay you down on bed of roses Well this hotel bar’s hangover whiskey’s gone dry The barkeeper’s wig’s crooked And she’s giving me the eye I might have said yeah But I laughed so hard I think I died Now as you close your eyes Know I’ll be thinking about you While my mistress she calls me To stand in her spotlight again Tonight I won’t be alone But you know that don’t Mean I’m not lonely I’ve got nothing to prove For it’s you that I’d die to defend I wanna lay you down in a bed of roses For tonight I’ll sleep on a bed of nails I wanna be just as close as your Holy Ghost is And lay you down on bed of roses I wanna lay you down in a bed of roses For tonight I’ll sleep on a bed of nails I wanna be just as close as your Holy Ghost is And lay you down on bed of roses To certain hypocrites, There I tried to be “normal”. Happy now? Plus this was short and you don’t need an IQ above 18 to understand...

She Sells Sea Shells On The Sea Shore…

By on Nov 21, 2007 in ffutS evitaerC | 7 comments

An old collection of mine, pictures taken at Kanyakumari. Seriously, this is wallpaper stuff, or I hope so. Do tell me how they were… View the Kanyakumari Seashore photo album