Indiscriminate Intelligence

I am not a sort of chap known among my pals for my swift thinking. And the only reason why I didn’t publish anything in this rotten old page of mine is that I couldn’t simply just write any. Suddenly a thought came when I was given a topic in an analytical writing examination which sounded something on the lines of “The Government should impose regulation of sorts to the excessive growth of technology and so forth.” that I must publish the outcomes of my efforts here in this blog. For some extraordinary reason though, I have settled on “Many Scientists in our time spend too much time with trifling projects and we hence are in need of more radical thinkers”, because I find this more germane in today’s milieu.

A very sound and popular argument that supports the above claim is that the specialists tend to have narrow foci and they fail to see the big picture mentioned god knows what that is. For me they miserably fail to see the world as it is. I was just grazing the inter-web to know what are those men in white suits and yellow goggles are upto. Sure the technical world is inundated with latest projects. But having scrutinized the crux of some of them I report with pain that those industrious fellows have gone fantastically mad.

A bloke for instance has been carrying out a study to find out why a member of a particular species of sorts hates his young son. It has been reported about the young ones that they are fleshy covered with hairs all over the body and they are suckled by multiple mothers. A sensitive parent will naturally loathe a fat, hairy, poisonous, immoral kid who goes about displaying such erotic scenes with the lady next door. So the whole study is ludicrous.

I lost count how many projects are now being done towards environmental protection. I have a point to make about global warming. Humans have already survived in ICE AGE and we are living in a warmer world now and we may most probably manage if world becomes much warmer in another fifty nine million four hundred and thirty thousand and five hundred and sixty four years and that is what was described by a nerdish chap called what-was-his-name in his Theory of Evolution. After all that is nature. We can’t prevent the happening if it ought to happen. Without comprehending that the scientists exaggerate the outcomes and tell us that we will be boiled in another three weeks and the Tasmanian rare fruit bat won’t be able to have sex. Because of those restless souls there are countless researches going on. Counting the number of shells of a not so particularly useful sea mollusc that were set aside by waves was a good one.

When are we going to land on another planet, I mean outside this solar system to meet our cousins there? Where is the next Veyron, for Pete’s sake? These were not the products of scientists. Things happen when people look at the world or for that matter the whole universe as it is or as it looks from outside. Things happen only when someone thinks, okay we are here and what kind of loonies live in the other world and how the deuce we get there? Veyron was a brilliant science exercise. But the genesis for that is a chap who wanted to rescue the company and make a car that takes all the laws of physics and tears it into pieces.

Men don’t book tickets…

If you are a regular reader of my verbal fiascos which you almost certainly aren’t, you might have read one of my older posts titled ‘Deluxe torture’ in which I have shared one of the most horrendous travel experiences of mine. Since then my relation with the ministry of transport has been mildly satisfactory. Until last week.

Part of the reason for all the discomfort was I, my employer rather, for hosting that much awaited ceremony in a village, sort of. The mistake was partly mine too; the drinking and enthusiasm I tried to show to interact with the superiors which made me leave the place by half past eleven, in other words small hours. These small hours become even smaller in small places like Hosur.

There I was, standing alongside the highway carrying a bag that weighed about two tons. And immediately there was a problem. The only transport service available inside the town was some stupid looking green coloured mini buses driven by yokels and street bastards and owned by a man who thinks that he earns by moving buckets of sand from a place to another. Naturally all of them were busy at that time raping prostitutes. Worst of all, the government has never been bothered to have a local transport system there.

Initially I felt like a man of adventure and I kept singing those lines by Metallica, “Rover, Wanderer, Nomad, Vagabond, Call me what you will”. But it turned out that I was none of them. I was hopeless, pathetic, stupid and troubled. I stood there as I watched all types of buses passed by not being kind enough to stop for me. After about half an hour I finished covering a couple of kilometers on foot not being able to do anything wiser. Then I spotted a truck, the brand of which I didn’t fancy finding because it was a truck.

Two boys seemed frightened when I was about to ask for help. Of course their fear had nothing to do with the headlamp of a passing bus that made my face much visible in an otherwise dark night. They ran for their lives on their motorcycle. The truck cleaner who was their uncle apparently started an enquiry routine assuming the role of a General, his childhood dream perhaps. Mercifully he offered a helping hand and dropped me off at the bus station. He was nice except he stopped once to withdraw cash and he was discussing with the driver about country cows and agriculture.

That was incredible. I traveled a few kilometers with a truck driver with my purse not nicked, my penis not grabbed at any point of time, my spine not broken and my cash not spent at all. I came to know that my motherland though filled with loonies and communists still provides shelter for some good chaps. I mean there are truckers who aren’t gay and don’t murder prostitutes.

Like I said, the town being useless I found only one bus in the station that would take me to Salem which is right on the middle of the way to my town. It was all jolly comfortable, that bus. When I reached the place I wanted to do what men have to. I found a ‘Pay and use’ toilette all right. It was very expensive, three for a pee. I was obstinate about my spending not more than two and I promised not to use water after the main event. He looked down at my gentleman region for a moment and yielded to my request. This not being a pleasant way of dealing people I expected silence and emptiness inside.

When I stepped inside the first thing I knew was I was wrong about it, very. It looked like there was a huge banging-on-the-door contest. It was an extraordinary sight. When the desperados were doing the heavy banging a gentleman was shouting, telling the people who were relieving themselves inside not to take too much time and try to come out in a jiffy. A midget was all red, a dark man looked like he had already relieved himself amidst the noises, a thin man was drowning in his own sweat and a comb-over head came out of his room all tired, perhaps the ordeal was too much for his stamina. The number-one zone was free though so in no time I took myself away from that cult scene.

The local people were all cheapskates because of which all the buses were horrible. I waited for about a quarter of an hour to get a bus with semi-sleeper seats. When the journey got over, which it did in a surprisingly quick time I was happy.

The most important thing to learn is when you book tickets and travel on time it is just a journey. But what I experienced was an event. I felt like a man and those four words from the song and I knew things always end well and I ploughed on. And best of all, my phone was out of juice.

Mobile phone is no gadget at all…

We did a class room exercise that involved listing of the ten most important things you might need when you have survived a plane crash and landed in the middle of Botswana. We all laughed when we looked at the option ‘cosmetic mirror’ and awarded it tenth rank and finally when the answer was revealed knew that we all made fools of ourselves because it comes first in the list apparently. Not a tin of beer as it turned out. And that is not surprising. What is surprising most of all is that mobile phone didn’t appear in that list of ten.

Every single time when I get trapped in a queue or a bus station, I always find a girl sending text to her boyfriend wearing a stupid blush on her face. She will never ever put her phone into her bag. Even guys do that. Those generally wear shorts and ride an ostentatious red pulsar. And I know that they don’t know English and they don’t need to. SMS language is totally different. ‘hw r u.. i m gr8 dood, c u 2moro, gud nite.’ Not even Shakespeare knows the meaning.

In hotels, I always end up sitting on the table next to a businessman’s who’d be decorated by an ear clip which makes him look like he is wearing a hearing machine and when he talks to someone through it a lunatic. These people want us to see that their phone can connect to the Sun; it is possible by a touch of a button to see some lady boys living on the Uranus and it can photograph the cleavage of girls sitting on the opposite side. And it can play Britney spears which can be bad for your head.

The other day when I was waiting in a bank a guy started playing some noise from the throats of rappers on his silly box that had about four hundred tiny buttons all of which look the same. A mere glance enabled me to find that it came from China which is the other way of saying that it is disposable.

I once bought an expensive phone not because it can connect me to a prostitute in Bombay or it will entitle me to videotape my genitals and put it on the inter-web or it can it can play those farting noises from Rammstein very loud. I just bought the prettiest and it is broken now.

There is a problem now. I want to buy a new phone now and there isn’t one available. Really. I went into a showroom that said “Mobile Store” and it isn’t one. They sold compact play-stations and computers, cameras and music players. That’s all. No phones. But you get one free along with any of those. And it’s hard to choose one.

I have never fancied Motorola because that just looks like a remote control and comes with a keypad where you can never hit the right key. But Nokia was always high on my list because they made simple and robust basic mobile phones that looked like bricks. It also says ‘connecting people’ on the cover which is just what we may ever need. But after seeing the new range I think the caption must be ‘Photographing people’, ‘Deafening people’ or ‘Annoying people’. So that’s out.

One of my friends told me to try Korean which I thought isn’t a brilliant idea. But I had a look. And I found that I have always been right about them. Those industrious little fellows are good at making washing machine and that’s the end. Now the market is also full of phones with thirty ports which will only cost a trifle. But they are from china which like I said means they will stop working after two weeks.

Sony Ericsson is the only thing left. The man in the showroom told me that the keypad will disintegrate in a month, the display may decide to resign its job anytime after the warranty and the singers singing through the speakers will suddenly get throat diseases. But I don’t care about them. Because they make the prettiest phones which are extremely good at one thing, making you feel happy.

I had a phone that had a green key pad and it was pretty. You can’t hear the person clearly through it. The keys are cracked. The speakers have had it. The display suddenly decided that it will show me only some lines, twice. It completely is disintegrated now. But I have always liked it. Even when it went mad I didn’t feel like hitting it with a hammer. I never cared when my friends rubbed in constantly that it is too girly for girls. It is now a thing to show to others, but a thing to be loved by the owner.

That explains why I am going to buy a Sony Ericsson, again.

O Puhlease! Not again

I think I can say something about education, so shall I. It is a rummy thing, this education. The word immediately reminds me of the famous song from the legandary Pink Floyd, ‘The Wall’ which says ‘Teachers! leave the kids alone, all you are is just another brick in the wall’, brilliant.

Every summer all the newspapers in India and ‘The Times of India’ make a worrying announcement. Following those traditions, last month there was a big noise everywhere about girls ‘outperforming’ or ‘outshining’ boys in the public exams. For some extraordinary reason, words like these seem to please the tiny little minds of those writers most of whom wear ten inch frame glasses.

Then all the TV channels and the SUN TV follow by interviewing some girls and the Chief Minister would generously give them a scholarship worth fifty pee and a smile thats worth a visit to the local hospital. The girl who got the first rank who would certainly seem to have no friends at all would chatter unintelligibly. Once I even considered to listen and find out what those girls were on about.

I can easily prepare a gist of what any school topper might have told a juddery bottom lipped reporter. She woke up before every else fell asleep, she studied for seventy six hours a day, her teacher called her up sixteen times an hour to motivate her, she would have scored four percent but for her tuition master, who would be desparate to appear on Television, her mom prepared three tonnes of coffee everynight to keep her awake and started crying because she had missed that day’s episode of ‘who has got more tears?’ contest because she wanted her talented child to become the topper. Most important one, God rewarded her with results because she worked hard, which would be the concluding statement of the interview.

Let me tell you some stories to chew on.

When I did my high school thing, a girl from a school near to ours who was neither very pretty nor very intelligent knew every letter of the book in order and in reverse by heart since she had read that for five million times. So she was the state topper, wow. Our town hailed her as Madam Curie’s reincarnation. The Chief minister gave her a gold chain and she got some thirty different scholarships which together were worth a few hundred quid. She was on cloud nine and decided to spend the rest of her life jumping in the happiness and ended up getting a percentage in class twelve that would slightly beat what Lalu Prasad would had got if he had given it a try.

Taking my mind even backwards I have just remembered what happened when I was in the Kinder-garden. I would always get the second rank because first rank was for a bitter faced girl whom I always had fights with. But that didn’t seem to help her because finally in twelfth which matters somewhat more than fifth I got twice as much as she did.

Actually class twelve is also rubbish. It is exactly the same as studying in class five only more pages and drawings. And the staff who evaluate the answer sheet would be much more anoraky and much more stupid. I even lost two marks for a drawing not because it was faulty but because I did not choose to sketch it from the same view as the book writer had fancied.

So, the results of having such a rubbish educational system is profound and was enhanced by another rule that elimites entrace exams which is daft and allows all the nitwits and imbeciles straight into the better institutions. And that also means, now all the good colleges are filled with more girls which is a good thing for the students who get more girls to look at.

Actually this is not that simple. All of the new population of girls are from a government school in a village that is a hundred kilometers away from a town which is two hunderd kilometers away from any city. She would be the daughter of a yokel and wouldn’t look better than a crow after it is boned and she would be terminally stupid and wouldn’t know to read because her preparation for the school exams included only writing the contents of the book a million times, may be more if she was from a Christian school.

Make no mistake, I am not telling you that girls are all incapable. They can store a lot of information. But they are so nerdy atleast in school. When they grow up they become very nice looking, but I never believe that they are cleverer than men, because they aren’t. And an inconvinient truth is many boys are also like that. But it is still so untrue to say that girls ‘outshine’. Yes, you may find some boot faced chauvinists with some statiscis saying twenty percent of people who did this and eighteen percent people who did that were females. But it is the other way of saying that eighty percent and eighty two percent of those population were men. And no may say that out loud.

Let me put it like this. You have a computer that can store an unnecessarily huge amount of information, has a beautiful display but powered by a steam engine. You have another one that just has memory to store required information and has a processor. You see what I mean?

Why should you be a space nut?

I have so far written many things that haven’t really captured the nation’s attention as much as I had hoped. Never mind. I have always maintained that the public transport is horrible, girls are daft, television needs to be better, eco-boxes are ludicrous, yokels are bastards and college education is not so fruitful.

Now, I want to share my thoughts on what really is the most important issue of all, space exploration.

I am sorry, but I really do think that this area hasn’t got as much attention as it needs to. What would have happened if our ancestors weren’t bothered at all to think that what is there in the other side of the sea. We would simply not have moved out from that stone age. I can’t stop thinking that there is a man who is exactly the same as me and thinks that a kindred spirit lives in some other planet of some other sun exactly like me. When I see the sky in the night, I think I am looking at some beaches that are very far away.

Lets get back to history. When the whole thing was done by the Russians it was all jolly well. They weren’t worried much about health and safety, the only motive is to explore. Unfortunately, Russia is a poor nation now and they don’t even have a proper car company. Then all the things started to be done by the Americans and the Nasa. Anyway all the scientists were German or Indian. No matter.

What they wanted was to make a statement to the world that they were doing something revolutionary without proper intention of exploring at all. Sure, they went to some places once or twice ignoring the conspiracies but the progress compared to other industries like computers and television the growth is not so profound.

It is because all the satellites are facing earth, most of them at least are. Some are used for tracking, some for television and radio and some for predicting some useless changes that take place around the earth like Global Warming or something.

It is really irritating to think that the world greatest space station is doing no more than helping an American trucker tell another trucker through satellite radio, “Maene! The weadher is owesume maene! I theink I neeid a whhorree!!!”

There is another reason for this. Today the whole world is obsessed with this climate change, we can start building a wall if we can’t prove that it won’t kill the toads living near that place. You can’t run a small factory if it accidentally drowns a polar bear. That’s exactly the problem. Those hippies poke their noses into everything.

Human beings have been living in this world for about three hundred thousand years and it had taken them ninety nine percent of the total time to invent fire. The fastest jump clearly has taken place in about a few thousand years because that’s when we started to explore and the jump was even more faster in the past several decades because of modern war which is exploring faster.

I suggest instead of worrying about the dead Tasmanian tiger we can start investing in exploring outer space. We can use bio-fuel by pulverizing all the whales and dolphins. Because they can’t even use a bloody gun. We can keep shooting them till they turn up with a bigger gun. As that is not possible why not search for more intelligence outside solar system.

So, there we are. The only way we can go forwards is by going backwards. Ditch the health and safety and sustainable growth. Feed the scientists with coffee to invigorate them and let them build the machine and keep exploring.

We may even as a mathematical certainty end up finding another Keira Knitley.

Ten years and a baby, no matter

Right. There has been a talk about my blog dimming down a bit among my friends as my recent articles were written in a narcissistic tone. I am sorry about that. I couldn’t think of anything wiser.

Plainly I was bored last weekend and I decided to watch TV. Then I tuned into a sports channel waiting to watch Tennis. But they showed the construction of a new roof, of all the things they could have done.

Good news eventually arrived in the form of an exhibition match. An elderly female happily announced that there was going to be an exhibition match played by Agassi, Graf and Kim Clijsters. Tim Henman was also about to join the pursuit, but he was a negligible factor in terms of getting me excited.

Kim Clijsters who is fat and has enormous assets is one of those tennis females which I liked, a lot actually. She went set about to become world’s number one from a hundred and thirty four in just about six months time which was an incredible record. I became very sad when she announced an early retirement when she was at a peek really, at the age of just 23.

Steffi Graf, if you may remember a bit was according to me one of the best tennis angels ever. When I was in school, when I knew nothing about tennis, I adored her for her ponytail, slim figure, smile, grace and her short skirt.

After a clearly epic career which contains a golden slam, she retired in 1999, leaving a twelve year old boy far away in the land of India weeping, me. And she was back after ten years of break and I am happy to report she still looked fit and absolutely fantastic.

Firstly, there was a mixed doubles friendly match where Hen along with the lovely Kim played against Agassis and they won. Honestly I never watch those men at all, because both females after becoming mothers were still playing amazingly good tennis.

Then good news, Hen was beaten in the singles by the bald man.

Finally the moment that I was waiting for arrived, the singles match between Kim and Graf commenced. O, yes. I have to mention, with an age differential of about 14 years it was not a fair match. But I didn’t care. The set was so long because both played brilliantly and I did not want the match to end for ever.

I was then officially the happiest man on the earth.And I became even more happier when the lovely plump Kim announced cheerfully that she is back for the US open and may consider a second career. Wow!

That brings us to a problem. Like I was before 10 years there are a lot of twelve year olds who are deeply affected by the departure of their favourites. If I have a son and he weeps when Ana Ivanovic retires I will certainly understands his concerns. Because she is desperately pretty, I will be with him and will even share his pain.

So, here is an idea to think about. Why not have a match like this as an opening ceremony for the tournaments every year, because they are so good. It will attract a lot of attention and lot of money, but most important of all it will make someone much far away from the ground extremely happy.

O! my neck!

I am not a sort of person who really cares too much about his health. I believe that I have a natural immunity to most of the diseases as I have had them all already. The last time I had a treatment of some sort was when I was in school and the arrival of a pretty nurse was the thing I was most looking forward to.

I have even shown a nurse near my house, my arse for sixty days continuously because I needed a dose of something or other to be injected in every day. Obviously that happened when I was much younger. Nothing much happened by that, apart from that nurse resigning her job and joining a chip shop in the next street.

It all started one day when I left office in the afternoon, reached home after a long journey including a walk in the hot sun and consumption of some amoeba.

The next day I pretty much got the idea of how it might feel to impale your head through some nuclear rods when things around you rotate at fifteen thousand RPM. My aunt plainly told me that I would certainly die if I didn’t eat dinner in her house. But I ploughed on and survived with a glass of juice and a cigarette.

That night, because of the unique way the government is run, there wasn’t power. I in a belief that I got fever, I wore a pair of blankets without thinking about the danger ahead. Of course, I became eventually wet and spent a miserable night and a bad day following that as well.

After a ruined weekend, I was feeling okay-ish. After reaching the office though, it hurt like hell. I was convinced that my head would explode before the day shift got over. Unable to tolerate the pain in my neck and head, I went to consult the medical officer who looked like he might have failed to clear several important papers in his course.

He listened to my explanation and told me with one of those expressions they do, that I have Cervical Spondylosis, not the jolly old common cold as it turned out. If it was flu, that would at least sound convincing for a leave request.

As I am no quitter, I went to consult a local doctor. She being different from the other one didn’t seem to have done any consulting in her life. She wrote down what I told and told the nurse to inject something, which could only be delivered through my bottom. It wasn’t as much fun as I had hoped, I have to say.

Again, I had a problem. I had two sets of drugs given by those plumbers in the name of medical officers in my factory and that amateur lady. I chose the lady because she looked nice and hers were more in number.

As I write, I still have a slightly painful neck and the rest of my body is working all right. That is excluding my stomach, legs and hands.

After experiencing this, I am able to report that this is a terrible thing to have. What I want is a disease like Jaundice which I once had and loved it. It is very simple; you just sleep for a week, drink juices and don’t feel a thing.

Gimme my room back!

I have been always banging on about various issues in my writings or whatever it is called these days, fairly constantly. I shall if I may cry out a bit now about my personal miseries.

When I shifted to Chennai, the picture I had was rather alluring. Constant visits to major centers of public activity, libraries filled with carefully chosen breed of cute girls and great food and so on the list goes. But I am not sure that is what I actually experienced after I came here happily.

The salient features that this place has offered are these. Traffic is horrid, every time the road you travel is clogged up by an auto-rickshaw driver. The climate is warm and wet or should I say muggy, you can get pretty much an idea of how it might feel when you accidentally jump into a huge deep-fry pan full of boiling salt water, every time you go out.

There is no use in going to a mall as you would imagine. Either you see girls who are already engaged to a bastard or they are dreadful or they think you are a thief.

You don’t get proper liquors because of the unique way the policies are made by the local government and are not allowed to smoke everywhere because it causes lung cancer to a lady standing fifteen meter away and global warming.

All things considered this coveted capital harbour city of Madras has made my life dreadful altogether.

So, plainly the kind of house I should live should be described by no other word than ‘tranquil’ so that I can redeem some of my lost cheers. But unfortunately it isn’t.

Because of the fact that I am financially not that well, so I can’t afford a room and I am sharing it with a chap. Well yes, he is a nice chap no doubt, but I had been living in a separate room even when I was staying with my parents and that was brilliant.

The real troubles are outside my room actually. My storey is also shared by a nitwit who calls himself a film director, only he is yet to do such a thing and a clamorous wizened old oaf and I am not joking. Then there are some Telugu narcissists who always find something to put in the washing machine right before the moment I need it and then sit in front of the TV watching a movie from their mother land where an ugly comedian will eat bananas and will laugh loudly by that humour.

When I go to the one below storey where my colleagues stay, it gets even worse. They would be watching an idiot running after a ball in the name of cricket which like I said it the most boring game in the world, if we ignore golf.

I can sum up what I need. A room where I live alone undisturbed even when I increase the music volume to theatre levels. I need a proper house too, not a place that is basically a hostel. And neighbours who are decent and well mannered with a pretty daughter.

Clearly what I have is far away from what I want. I want my old room back desperately.

There is only one thing in my life right now that is relaxing. Whenever I get time, I start painting the inner layers of my throat and lungs with a mixture of tar and nicotine.

As the problems increase day by day the nicotine coating also goes up naturally.

I am pretty sure that your mind cannot comprehend how bored and irritated I am. There is no word to describe my situation. I have heard there are eight circles of hell. This is the ninth one then.

I still haven’t caught lung cancer. But I honestly believe that it would be better.

You are a bunch of lucky bastards, and I love you

This is now serious, okay. I was giving a serious thought about my future over a judicious dose of nicotine. Why in the name of all that’s holy did I qualify as an engineer, I am clueless about as I certainly seem to lack in knowledge and passion for it. I thought a careful selection of courses that I need to do in the future would fetch some satisfactory results perhaps.

For instance if you become a scientist of some sort, you need to wear white suits, rubber gloves and yellow glasses, and then your girl friend is going to run away with some sports man. Please don’t advise me to become a sports man, because I kind of can’t.

Doing an MBA is an appealing concept to the youth that talks about business and money. But it is far from that. A business man has to spend most of his life in attending meetings, sticking a plastic clamp on his ears in the name of ‘hands free’, fiddling with his laptop that has a million ports that don’t connect to anything and spending the rest of the time in gym and hospital to protect himself from certain death.

After getting frustrated that I had made a wrong decision of taking engineering after school, I started listening to music and lit my second cigarette. Then I remembered the fact that I have once been trained to make music out of a violin.

The last time I ever played my violin was about eleven years ago when it was broken er… on the trainer. Then I went on studying something called ‘Biology’ that ended in a monumental fiasco.

A sudden realization sprung from nowhere when I was in college, for reasons I can’t quite comprehend, I enrolled myself to sing in my college festival. I might have done that because it was a girl called whatsername, a thin sweet singer that was in charge of the musical events and I wanted to impress her by my talent.

That didn’t go quite well, I must report. And I caught cold and ended up in the stage singing like I was being kicked in my testicles. I am no quitter, so didn’t abandon the project and prepared myself for the next year events.

I got an opportunity to meet her more often and get something in about music. But still I couldn’t make a worse noise than an electrocuted cat on a polythene sheet. Finally the performance was satisfactory though, I needed not de-egg myself after it. In fact many said it was excellent.

As there were some girls sort of, in my office last year I tried to show off again by unleashing my talent in a function. Sure, I got plenty of appreciations and hugs, but from guys. I became angry by that, so the next time when requested to sing a melody by that infernal boss, I performed metal music.

Thing is though, recently I have developed a liking to Rock Music. There is nothing in this world that is better than listening to ‘The dark side of the moon’ in a darkened room and figuring out whether it is about hope or death or despair.

It was deeply distressing to think that if I had learnt my music lessons more earnestly I would have become a Rock star. I really am jealous of them. All they have to do is sing, drink and have a joint and then catch Chlamydia.

Yes, they are a bunch of overpaid lunatics and I absolutely adore them.

So Kids, if your parents are telling you that they want you to become an engineer, tell them that they are daft and they are ruining you.

Especially if you are an eight year old, just go and get a Guitar and get cracking NOW, or it will be too late.

Pulic transport, too bad to tolerate

Public transport is one thing as I have already mentioned that I do not want but need. Also I do not do overtime in my office which leaves me with no other wiser option.

I am not a man who needs too much comfort, but I eventually do like to reach home in one piece. And I have to say the buses are awful.

The engine would sound like it is running a factory; the suspension would break your bones everytime the bus gets on a pot hole, the windows wouldn’t be bothered to work, the conductor would be daft, the seats would be less comfortable than sitting on a porcupine and the person sitting next would certainly be a clamorous little man or a nutter or an angry communist.

No wait, it can get even worse. It can also be a female working as a secret heroine seller with the aesthetic appeal of a baboon. She would come to you and politely tell you to let her sit which means you have to give your seat away and stand next to a plumber or a fruit seller. By the time you want to get rid of him and move towards front, the driver would brake and you may have to collide against a lady teacher who after enjoying the process is going to say that you are a hen-maniac.

Trains are not so much better either. Because, all you get after you walk hard your way to the station is the news that the next train is after forty five minutes. And in the mean time a chip seller is going to sell you something and you end up in breeding a happy colony of highly evolved modern amoeba.

If you get the train on time, you still have some more problems to face. Some young couple is going to give a disgusting look meaning that you are a useless single disturbing their privacy. A blind man will be singing an old song which will be rubbish and I can’t give him a quid for that.

And a dirty pickled-brain man with a long beard will be shepherding a horde of cows wrapped in black plastic condoms and will tell the biggest condom that you are a pick-pocket and she must be careful.

And when you accidentally sit next to a woman, she will be annoyed because she assumes that you are going to kidnap her which is too much to desire from her side. Why do females always have a feeling that they are under threat by men?

Speaking of which, we Indians have everything separate for women here. In train there is a separate coach for ladies. Why? Scientifically both are equally strong. In fact they are better equipped if we consider that they have built-in airbags, two of them.

Obviously I can’t blame the government for that because it is the fault of the people excluding humans who can be classified into mental, nitwits, halfwits, religious nuts and loonies. But as the government takes the credit for improving infrastructure and literacy which they had nothing to do with, it is fair that they take the blame for Public transport being hideous.

Even if it is the government, it means the hippies who work there. After all a place is what the people who live there are. Italians are obsessed with style and are crazy so people drive pretty cars making love to the dashboard. Americans are obsessed with size, so everyone goes in a truck with prostitutes. Australians wear shorts, so drive bikes and get bitten by poisonous snakes.

Indians are obsessed with religion, culture and some more irrelevant concepts. So, what we see here precisely is the absolute definition of the Chaos theory.

Now it is time for the solution. Clearly we know that because of about thirty percent of the people the entire transport system is being ruined. We don’t need any clever person to troubleshoot. We know the trouble; we need some gunmen to shoot them. That’s all.

In fact it is so simple that a man with a funny moustache and a side parting has already practiced this successfully before. And that job is so easy that I may even volunteer myself to take it up.

Please don’t get me wrong that I want to become a Dictator, though I may cancel other parties to avoid confusion in the elections.

But there is one thing I am certainly going to do when I come to power. Put Negative Eugenics into practice.