…but didn’t know where to start. The WTFness of the world has shot through the roof right about when I don’t have the time or the bandwidth to go on a verbal dharna. Not that my vicious teeth-grinding changes the course of the planets, so it’s just as well that this remains limited to brief bullet points:
- The Dutts, ‘Mr. and Mrs’. Waste of space, waste of time. I hope Lucknow kicks his criminal ass. We’ll see how long the wife leech hangs around.
- The Rai-Bachchan. Or Padma Shrimati, as the grown woman giggles. To have a credit card version of a human being (flat and plastic) receive the nation’s premier civilian award with utter disregard to bronze-winning Olympians makes me a very ashamed Indian. And I’m not even going anywhere near the subject of booty-swinging, cleavage-flashing Helen, supposedly deserving of a national honor for the worthwhile legacy she’s left in her bubble-butted wake. Quick, who’s next? Emraan Hashmi? Shakti Kapoor? Aaaooo would be my very appropriate response. I can’t think of better catharsis than baying at the moon.
- The Mangalore moral police who protected women’s honor by assaulting them and depriving them of the rights a sovereign, socialist, democratic nation assures them of. Who says there’s a Karnataka-Maharashtra feud? They’re swapping furtive cross-border notes on pious guardian-hood, for sure, for sure.
- The rabble-rousing cowards also known as MNS. After public barbs temporarily silenced them in the aftermath of 26/11, they’re back with a new target and the same hackneyed agenda that is transparent enough to walk through blindfolded. Karachi Sweets now sours their unschooled minds. If only they hadn’t played all that hooky when they had a chance at an education, they’d have known that history can’t be painted over and re-inscribed in Marathi.
- The Baap of Bullies, the Godfather of Goondagardi, the original Papasan of Parochialism: the Sena. Yes, we know Bombay doesn’t have many open spaces for the youth to get their regular exercise. 5-star hotel lobbies and kitchens however, are not fair game to flex frustrated muscles. (Didn’t their mamma teach them not to play with their food?) A gentle suggestion to our ungentle buffoons: We have a beautiful sea. Feel free to swim. And DROWN.
- Damien got an early start and the MNVS is taking a chapter out of his book. Not content to wait until full-time rowdyism beckons, this student wing of our stellar MNS has swung into the local front pages for their sound logic, exercised so aptly in the halls of highest learning. “The security staff person was rude to us and so we vandalized the Registrar’s office.” But of course. Who has the time to confront lowly grenade-toting terrorists? We train our sights on antique desks.
- While we’re condemning the brawn brigade, I don’t mind confessing I’d like to do some swatting of my own. At the top of my everyday list would be parents who send their children to school with viral fever so their 3-year-old doesn’t miss out on a whole 2-hour school day and falls behind on the accelerated learning curve that goes with all the sand play and singing. Never mind that the other children, their teachers and the Vice Principal are infected and hacking half to death.
In case you were wondering, yes, this is what PMS feels like. GRR.