Snorg Tees One Liners!

 

Here is a set of cheeky T-shirt text that I found on Snorg Tees.

Click on the image to view a larger version.

(My favourite? “I’m not scared of the dark. I’m scared of the NINJAS that hide in the dark”.)

The International Screw Up Society

Screwing up is not easy. Many think it is, but it is not. To screw up, it takes a lot of commitment and conviction on the doer’s part. Even though we have Murphy’s law (if anything can go wrong, it will) on our side, the ‘Side of the Screw Ups‘, the chance that that something will go wrong at the precise moment when we’re working on it is miniscule, which makes people like us a rarity. We are a group of forgotten heroes who undermine the efforts of billions of people single-handedly. We can do anything from ruining a peaceful morning in a placid neighbourhood to setting off bloddy wars between two nations that have been at peace for thousands of years. You cannot see us on the roads, wearing a cap that has ‘Screw-upper’ emblazoned on the forehead. You cannot find us in the Yellow Pages. Google cannot track us down online – in fact, if it were for us, Google wouldn’t even exist. Your complaints to anybody, written or otherwise, signed or otherwise, forced or otherwise, can’t aid you in anyway in tracking us down. We are from every country, although it is a common opinion amongst us that we don’t represent our countries. We don’t have uniforms, no communication networks, no code words, no secret gatherings – we did once, but I’ll come to that later. We come. We see. We conquer. In fact, that is our motto. Julius Caesar flicked it from one of our men. I think this piece of information also tells you we date back to thousands of years.

Just as in any other secret society, we don’t know the complete identities of our fellow men – i.e. for reasons more than one. However, unlike in any other secret society, our recruitments into the society are completely voluntary. If you want to join, you join. Our doors are open day in and day out, and there are registration fees, no rituals, no voodoo crap. In fact, you inadvertantly become a member when you screw up. We have no satellites in space, no CCTVs rigged into your household, and members from other secret societies will never ever be sent out to kill you. Even as I write this, I don’t think you, the reader, get the largesse of what I am trying to say; so, let me give you a perspective. We are so secretive, Dan Brown knows nothing of us. Nor does Walt Disney. Nor does Galileo. Nor does Jesus Christ. Like I said, forgotten heroes.

During World War II, because of the extreme chaos that also seemed all-pervading for a stretch of six years, a screw up became inevitable. Not only did many people do it, but they did it repeatedly. The inherent value was lost, and people no longer cared if you screwed up or not. This idea negated the principles of our existence itself. Even though this was not the first time such an idea had been ideated – just imagine the number of battles the people of this world have fought – it was unnerving because of two reasons:

1. The dawn of the 20th century was of momentous consequences not because of the chronological analogies, but because it happened simultaneously with industrialisation. Man had begun to build machines that would surpass his skiils and efficiency by integrating his own intelligence a thousand times over. The world became smaller as faster transport began to be built, and telephone, radio and television reduced the time taken for information to traverse the edges of the earth. In such a time as this, the value of a screw up soared. Soared? It shot through the skies! If a screw could happen in this century, then it would be legendary. (Right then, Hitler had a nightmare about Jews)
2. The second reason is simple – it, in fact, followed from what I said earlier and what was described in the first reason. In a time of good value, we don’t need bad tidings.

And so, the Screw Up Society convened for the first time ever. In order to conceal from the general populace the sheer numbers that would come together, we did two things. First, we changed the name of our society and registered ourselves as the ‘League of Nations’. Second, we asked every country to send in a team of ten representatives. We gathered together in a prominent city so it wouldn’t attract too much attention (gathering in an unknown city does, don’t you think?), and we sat and talked for days together. The press was swarming around our halls all day long for the whole time, and all they had to say to their bosses and the people was this: (imagine a lady’s voice – and her emotions as well) “The League of Nations, which convened a special meeting this week, has representatives from all member nations. Although they have been inside for hours now, there have been no updates as to the status of their talks. As France is increasingly exposed to the dangerous threat of a German blitzkrieg, the leaders have been silent in their actions. Only time will tell.”

So there! Under the glare of so many cameras and twice as many people, the Screw Up Society held its first and last meeting. If only the outside world had known the gravity of the situation then and there, it would have been a different world that we see around ourselves today. Anyway, by the end of the meeting, we had come to a desicion: one of our members would be placed as a mole within the German ranks in order to undermine their war efforts. Although this is a simple solution, the hours we spent cooped up inside were spent in deciding who the spy would be. We had finally settled on one William Joyce, who would thereon be referred to as “Lord Haw Haw” (his code name). Joyce was succesfull for a few years, until the day he double-crossed. The Germans tracked him down, and just as they were about to shoot him, a RAF warplane bombed the region. Joyce escaped with a scar on his face, but couldn’t evade the British for long: he was finally captured on the Germany-Denmark border in the town of Flensburg. His voice betrayed his identity to the soldiers. 

Although no SUS member attended his execution a few years later, his wife, Margaret did. Since attending the funeral itself was a political screw up, Margaret became one of us and, officially, one of us did attend the funeral. But hey, all’s well that ends well. I narrated this little story to you just so you could form a mental picture as to our greatness and power – both of which we never misused. We only did what we should have, and because of our steadfastness in our beliefs, it was always what we could have.

Note: The Pugwash Conference and NATO are some other groups that constitute SUS members. Although these groups did come together for meetings and stuff like that, they were never recognised as full-fledged meetings because they didn’t compare in size to the LoN conference.

We were there!

However, you will notice an aberration here: if I am one of the SUS, why am I even talking about these things? Well, the answer is this: when Osama Bin Laden piloted those planes into the WTC in NY, we received a distress call from one of our overseas members. Seemingly, a small section of the SUS had gathered for the evening in order to celebrate – September 11th was the date of the first SUS meeting – in the upper floors of WTC Tower 1, when the plane crashed into them. Then, when they expected the aircraft to blow up, one of the SUS men exchanged winks with the pilot, and pressed a button the wall. This set of a series of explosions within the building that brought it down. An investigation followed, through which was uncovered the fact that the SUS had itself been infiltrated. After this, a second meeting was convened in secret. But, this time, there was a difference: we did not all sit down in a big city and talk for hours. Instead, we made the SUS pseudo-public, i.e. we exposed ourselves and our intentions through a secure channel to leaders of nations from around the world, and made them an offer: we would need to use a part of their country’s land for our secret operations, in exchange for which the country’s government would receive exclusive information – the kinds which none could come in possession of. The deal was finally brokered with Indonesia, and East Timor, generally thought to be the last country to secure independence, became our international headquarters. 

And this document, lady or gentleman on the other side of this screen, is important. It is important because you should know that we are trapped. This document is, I think, the only surviving distress call our leaders have sent out. Indonesia is strangling us! They are perfecting everything, and our men and women are returning home from work distressed and despairing. Please help us, whomsoever you may be. We need to be able to roam the streets again. An improving world, they say, has no place for people like us, and they execute us when we disagree. I have told you so much, and I think you will agree when I say that life is interesting only when one screws up, and our organisation, our beloved SUS, stands for that and that only. If you read this and believe in this, please pass it around. Help us today, and we will help you build a better tomorrow.

– George W. Bush 

The Confused Politician: A Story

There once lived a confused politician in a small city in south India. His name is immaterial here in this story, but he had a name that spoke of an ancient hero and his more ancient heroics. He was born, as most confused politicians are, in a small village a few hundred miles south of the state capital. His father was a poor farmer, and his mother worked in the now decrepit mill, both for meagre wages. He had five sisters and one brother, all younger. One gloomy evening, his father passed away due to a fever brought on by dyspepsia. The confused politician was only five. His mother took care of them all by herself. She worked day and night, and toiled and poured her sweat into everything she did, just so she could send her children to school. However, there came another gloomy evening when she also passed away, and the confused politician was left all alone in supporting his brother and sisters. He had harboured dreams of his brother becoming a doctor and his sisters being married off to respectable husbands who held white collar jobs. As for himself, he’d like to think of himself as the man behind everything, the invisible puppet master who pulled the strings of their budding worlds.

Days passed. And so did months and years. The confused politician was older now, although not too old. His brother was a bus conductor – well on his way to becoming a doctor. His sisters were back in the village. He was proud of the youngest of them all: she had come closest to completing her high school education. But all this didn’t matter. The confused politician’s mind had begun to focus on a bigger dream, a larger dream, a more wholesome dream. He had satisfactorily overcome the challenges that life had posed to him as yet, and now, it was his turn to take the reins and ride his own chariot. The confused politician had decided to become a politician.

Some nights, before he went to bed in his little pyol at ten in the night, he could hear speeding jeeps on the streets with microphones held aloft by little boys. They would shout into the empty streets and sleeping houses about their Great Leader, a man of will and purpose, who would solve all their problems. They would plant flags in all nooks and corners, and they would brighten up the whole street with hundreds of tubelights strung out on wires that seemed to have appeared magically. And then, the confused politician would run out into the street to find himself one amongst thousands, all gathered to hear the Great Leader speak. And when the Great Leader said something about his nativity, his culture, or the foreign rulers, the crowd would erupt in cheers, and the confused politician could feel his blood rush in his veins and arteries. This was where he belonged, the confused politician thought, this was his calling in life. Opportunity had deserted his door in his little village, but now, in the Great Capital, it had come crashing through the roof. And so, the confused politician joined the party that appealed most to him, the Great Party.

The Great Party had its office on the Great Street. When the confused politician arrived there, nobody would let him in. There was a big bustle there throughout the day. Stupid looking men would stand near the door, carrying great black boxes pointed at a lady holding a black cyilnder, and they would talk to each other all day long about God-knows-what. Finally, one day, they let him through. The confused politician walked in, bewildered by all the people inside – most of them important going by the white shirt-white veshti combo. After a few minutes, he was before the Great Leader himself.

And he fell at his feet. The Great Leader laughed a grizzly laugh, and hoisted him up by his shoulders, and gave him whatever-it-is-that-they-give, and sent him back into the dark streets. You would think the confused politician would be sensible enough to understand how the system worked now, but the confused politician was in his early stages of confusion.

Years passed. The confused politician was the right-hand man to the Great Leader. Persistent hard work and relentless confusion had brought him this far. When the he finally felt that he had truly grasped the reins of the chariot of his life, the Great Leader died of a stroke. The party people were all sad, and the mood in the office plunged from exuberant to melancholic within a matter of a few minutes. But soon, it climbed back to mania when they all realised the confused politician would now take up the stead of the Great Leader, and would be a Great Leader himself. And so, they repainted the HQ a bright white, they wore their finest silken shirts, sported their brightest smiles as the confused politican stepped out of his new and white Toyota Qualis and into the room of the Great Leader. His room from today onwards for the rest of his life, and the thought made him smile. His right-hand man asked him why he was smiling, and the Great Politician said, “Finally, my turn to do something good for the people”.

Everyday, hundreds of the rich and the poor would walk in and out of the building, either giving large sums of money or taking small ones. The confused politician was now an important man. And he felt important, too. Whenever he walked outside his building, groups of men and women holding black boxes and black cylinders would swarm around him, and magically, he would see his face in the television that night. He always loved it when that happened. The knowledge of technology had failed to amaze him and he had abandoned it as a child. But that ignorance had deprived him of nothing, or so he believed. Over and above everything, the confused politician was a happy and confused man, and that’s a very happy man.

One morning, he woke up to find the sun shining bright and beautiful outside his window. The sky looked awesome, he thought. While he was smiling into the world outside and above his head, he heard a commotion below. He looked down onto the street to see some poor people fighting to get into the HQ. He opened the window, disgusted, and shouted at them to get away. He called his right-hand man in and barked at him to ask the watchman to let no one in. Today had started beautiful, and it would end beautiful. After getting back his calm, the confused politician switched on his television and saw his face smiling on the screen. He smiled even more. And then, he thought, why not do something today instead of lazing around? And so, he thought once more of those poor people on the streets, and wondered what they were doing here bothering him. He wondered why they weren’t at home, toiling away like his diseased mother and dyspepsic father, eager to send their children to school. And then, the confused politician and Great Leader realised these people had to pass exams. That’s preposterous, he thought! And so, he declared a reservation for the backward classes in the IITs and the IIMs for upto 27% of the total seats. There, problem solved! Now, they would be busy in the morning to send their children to school, and the confused politician could spend a more beautiful morning without having to shoo people through his windows.

The next day morning, he woke up to find a more brilliant sun shining in the skies, and little wisps of clouds here and there. He smiled to himself and cautiously looked down into the street. No poor people shouting at his gates. The confused politician smiled more. And then, a phone rang outside his office, startling him out of his Utopic visions. He gave a start and began to furiously walk toward the door. Just then, it banged open and his left-hand man walked in. He was holding what looked like a phone without wires in his right hand, and said, “Your supporters want to erect a statue in your honour on the Great Busisest Street”. The confused politician smiled. Today was turning out to be more and more brilliant! He immediately nodded his approval, and the plans were made, and the documents were signed, and the money was poured. The next thing he knew was that he was sitting in the front row of a gala ceremony organised by every conceivable organ of the state where important businessmen (with white collars, mind you) came to talk about the Great Leader. And the Great Leader smiled at his statue.

He woke up the next day and looked at the skies. He did not like the look of it, as was evident from the absence of a smile on his face: it was overcast, and the sun was nowhere to be seen. The air smelled damp and muddy, as though it had rained through the night. Indeed, it had. Glum, the confused politician looked down into the street. No poor people. He turned his head towards the door. No phone ringing. Something was odd about today. He walked out of his room. There was the usual bustle, and this restored the Great Leader’s faith in the normality he thought he had established around himself. Suddenly, his PA jumped up from behind him. The Great Leader was startled.

“What?!”

“Haven’t you heard, sir?”

“Heard what?! Tell me quickly!”

“There was a big accident last night, sir, on the Great Busiest Street. Your statue’s pedestal having taken up most of the space in the left lane, a lorry had hit it by mistake, skidded over to the opposite lane and crashed into a bunch of oncoming cars and vans.”

“What are you trying to tell me?!”

“22 people have died, sir.”

Today was a bad day. Today was a very bad day. Today was a very, very bad day. Today was a… I think you get the point. The confused poltician in the Great Leader pondered. Something had to be done. If the statue was not removed, then protest groups would rise up. The Great Opposition Leader would stage dharnas against him! He would lose the majority! But that must never happen. But what if the statue was removed? Then the Great Busiest Street would not be greeted by the stony smile of the Great Leader! But there was a deeper intention there as well: when the time came for the Great Leader to step down and for the Great Opposition Leader to take over, the GOL would have to have the statue removed for obvious reasons. That time, it would be too convinient for the Great Leader to stage dharnas against him! Ha!

But that opportunity was being robbed right from under his nose now! He would have to do something. And so, the confused politician announced a compensation of a lakh rupees for the family of the bereaved and fifty thousand rupees for those injured. But he refused to remove the statue.

Election day arrived. It was judgment day. Naturally, the confused politician lost. The GOL came into power, and he removed the statue, that’s the first thing he did. When the Great Leader called for a rally to oppose this blasphemous act, nobody gathered. Who would? The statue had killed 22 people! And the Great Leader’s office was taken over, and he had nowhere left to go. Luckily, his left-hand man had saved up some of the confused politician’s money, and had purchased a house with it. It was directly on the Great Busiest Street, and the confused politician took up residence there.

He awoke the next morning, and looked at the skies. The sun was there, bright and shining. No clouds whatsoever, and the confused politician blanched. It would be a good day for the GOL, he thought, which meant it would be a bad day for him. Things couldn’t get much worse: he was no longer smiling at himself through the television screens, and important people didn’t pass through his doors, and men and women with black boxes and black cylinders didn’t swarm around him if he took a walk outside. He was almost a nobody. Suddenly, he jerked out of his stupor when he heard a commotion outside.

Large earthmovers had assembled, and engineers and contractors were busy discussing something. He learned from one of the coolies at work that the GOL was having his own statue installed. The confused politican was enraged. He caught a taxi to the GOL’s house, his old house, and alighted to discover a large number of people shouting at the watchman on duty. He barged into the throng and began to shout at the watchman to let him in. The watchman didn’t respond. The confused politician got ticked off more and began to shout louder: something had to be done! Then, someone at the front door pointed up, and they all looked up.

A hand was outstretched out the top window, and it was shooing them away like they were mongrel.

(And it happens only in India!)

GG!

Count me as no expert in DoTA because I don’t play the game, but I was just witness to a game of DoTA wherein every conctructive comment you would care to make toward the winning team would be bang on – it was that good! The occasion was the newly annual Game On gaming festival here in college, with Counter Strike, FIFA ’09 and Defence of the Ancients being the star attractions. Needless to say, each of the games drew different crowds: sports freaks were more magnetic towards EA‘s digitised world of football, fans of Tom Clacy and the like migrated towards CS, and DoTA had a niche carved for itself amongst those who prized megalomania as something more than a psychological syndrome. Tonight’s game of DoTA had W.Y.D. pitting themselves against seniors Noob Chops. W.Y.D. was headed by Vohra and Charsi, while NC‘s voice was mostly Mittal. The game began after a lot of hassles in the beginning, but if you ask me, it was all worth it. If I’d been writing this narrative while I was hanging around in the game room, I’m sure I would have been more confident in doing so; most of the names of the heroes, their skills and their weaponry don’t tend to linger in my pint-sized head, but the heroics do.

Here’s the game in brief.

Game starts.

• Charsi (Lightning Revenant) goes on a free-farming spree.
• Vohra (Stone Giant) is busy singing Mittal’s ballad of sorrow.
• Benjy (Vengeful Spirit) tries to save Vohra, only ending up killing himself.
• Muzzu (Admiral Proudmoore) is busy trying to anchor his boat into the jetty.
• Dhruv (Centaur) takes his time to stun while people around him stop short of strangling him asking him to.

Game ends.

I saw nothing else. Charsi had Dagger in 17 minutes, Hyperstone in 20 minutes, Assault in 23 minutes, and Eaglehorn a few minutes before the game ended in 36 minutes. Vohra followed a little after Charsi’s Assault with a Dagon. A continuous streak of “double kill“, “triple kill“, “OWNING“, “mega kill“, “GODLIKE“, “mega kill” was on display on the left side of the screen, and seemingly, that was all that mattered. Apart from the occasional surprise and ambush, NC did nothing but die after their early push.

And I don’t know why I wrote this. I just had to let some steam out. Again, I did nothing, but it was such fiery gameplay that at some point, it turns epidemic. People whoop for no reason, victory cigars are lit, sick people look happy, and the world is revolving around Vohra.

Again.

Congrats, W.Y.D.! 

My most regretted mistake

is to have had a dream. It started a few years back, and I clung on to it as though it was the life of me. I know no other reason why I didn’t let go other than the fact that it seemed easy, natural and promising. It changed nothing about me; it did not, like JKJ says, “instruct, elevate and enlighten” my days in the sun. It was something that struck, and back then, I was glad that it did. The dream was of me writing a book. The dreams that ensued were all of the plots, and those that swept my mind in the nights were all of me winning coveted awards and deep throated announcers yelling into the crowds about how I was the youngest winner of those awards. You might know, such dreams are strong ego pills. You go to bed at the end of a pallid day, not happy at all about the state of affairs, be it the world or your home. When you wake up in the morning after such dreams, you care not which side of the bed you walk out of. There is an uncanny spring to your step which you yourself can’t explain, and ladies on the streets turn around and whisper between themselves as you pass by, and you can hear giggles and feel their sight stuck on your back, only hoping that you turn around and give them a wink. In short, you feel you’re the King of the world!

But when the only laptop you have ever had crashes four times in a single night, dragging all the contents of the external hard drive with it – along with some 203 pages of the book – to some unforeseen and unfathomable doom, you can’t help but regret dreaming about writing the book. I know I could have recovered the data after the first crash, but that seems futile thought when a puff of smoke erupts out of the ventilator. You can only stand back and let the chaotic orchestra continue. If I had been in possession of a video camera just then, along with the customary lighting equipments, I could have been witness to a symphony of sorts – with all sorts of weird and unearthly noises spilling forth in chunks. Believe me, I was hoping for a moment that the roof of my room would fly off and green lights would flash down along with a white beam that would bear forth the great Spielberg’s ET himself. But, ahh, that in no way whatsoever compensates for one’s loss of his life’s works, at least that which he prizes above all else which he ever prized or will. The loss of a dream stings and bites, it claws on your back when you’re in be, it sends ants crawling behind your neck. The blanket doesn’t seem long enough to cover your feet, and when you pull it up hoping it will magically elongate, it pulls down the hair down onto your face on its way down. It seems unnaturally warm while you can hear the A/C belching away above your head, and when you turn it up, the heat turns more oppressive. Pshaw! 

As much as you lament your losses and blame Lenovo and Seagate for their sorry attempts at recruiting a brand loyalist – which I would have become if not for this mishap – you ultimately end up mourning yourself. Could you not have done more, you stupid fat-head (fingers pointing at me, please)?! You beat yourself up even though they ask you not to, only hoping all the while that it hurts. But it doesn’t: all the pain decides to linger for ever in your head. That dream will be the death of me, I know. It is my most regretted mistake, yes, but I regret it a contented man. 

The Bucket List For The 20-year Old!

1. Always ask your friend to butter up a girl for you: THIS particular undertaking will always work out according to your wishes. Because, if you have the hots for a girl, the only way to make it known in its fullest is to tell her about it through someone else. Because whichever planet these girls you think are from, they do appreciate the efforts you don’t put in.
2. Always have a subway sandwich and some vodka before you go to sleep: As my friend Jake had to say, your dreams will be some of the best, especially if you discover them to be of you peeing in a farm filled with vegan dishes.
3. Always speak the whole truth: Though this sounds weird, surviving on this planet asks two things of you, a leverage and someone to use it against. Let’s face it, none of us are noblemen here. I agree hiding is  not lying, but especially when you have the intentions of saying it later. But no, saving some for yourself always ends in disaster.
4. Always lie in a long-distance relationship: No matter the lengths you go to to cover it up, they will never find out. Read: NEVER! And it always has to be a “meant to be” relationship – there will never be a loophole. Oh, and if you do, then please don’t lie sensibly.
5. If you’re planning to kill yourself, pick up a copy of ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’: The book really imparts a perspective and provides a sound orientation session on where you needed to be headed in life next – apart from the bottom of the cliff you’re standing on.
6. Always hold your hand out when someone is threatening to break a butane lighter: That is a splendid display of courage and blood loss! Do it, it reaffirms your faith in the value of life and the importance of losing one of your fingers in what beautiful girls will hopefully call a ‘tragic accident’.
7. Make sure your girlfriend has a maximum height of 5’7″: I don’t think I need to elaborate on this one.
8. Always make it a point to sleep 30 minutes before an important exam: It refreshes you thoroughly, and once you wake up and find the test is long past, you’ll also find that you have done as much in your paper as your sincere and punctual friends have: nothing.
9. Bunk classes (while in college) to the most: When your father is footed the massive bill of fines, I’m sure your whole family will gradually begin to gain greater insight into the world of ‘The Value Of My Money’. You will also avail yourself splendid chances to get your back broken, and if you’re a man, then it’s a free test of strength!
10. Go for that ‘A’/’R’ rated movie with mom and dad: This will lubricate your sex education process as you grow up, and you should also be able to look your parents in the eyes and ask them if you could watch it again – especially when you’re 17 years old and the school simpleton.
11. Propose to your love interest across a cadaver: This way, the girl will know you don’t give a damn about the world around you and only care for her and her intentions and her happiness. If you think about it, it’s also quite romantic in that your love for her might seem overwhelming and able to break all barriers.
12. Fart when you’re about to strike the deal of your life: Just when the tip of his pen is about to touch that piece of paper, just when he’s about to scribble the signature that will either make or break you, rip out loud! According to some ancient traditions – well known all the same! – farting is a good way to let your benefactor know you won’t let him down.
13. Do mess with Varun Vohra or Aditya Nair: Read one of my older posts linked through the names. Messing with these people could land you in more pleasure than you can ever construe, nay, concoct.

And, most importantly,

yeah right!

Harry Potter & LOTR

I was just watching the fourth installment of the Harry Potter series of movies, ‘… and the Goblet of Fire‘, when it struck me that the whole series had a lot of cliches. Here are some.

1. Harry Potter – portrayed as the underdog who rises up against all odds to emerge victor against a Dark Lord. As is the case, he has a happy-go-lucky take on life, and two friends who seem to complete him: Hermione Granger, the always worried one, is his brain, and Ronald Weasley happens to be the kinda guy who falls in the boys-will-be-boys category.
2. Lord Voldemort – A self-styled Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort is an orphan. He grew up amongst Muggles as well as wizards, and was a brilliant student at Hogwarts. Unsurprisingly, the Dark Mark that represents him is a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth, and – get this – his right hand man is, in fact, a woman.
3. Albus Dumbledore – Not much is known of his past until after his seemingly tragic death at the hands of Severus Snape, another enigma. He has a brother, Aberforth, with whom his relationship is strained, and a sister who died young. Albus also has a string of acquaintances who have all been influenced by his bleak past to turn themselves into spearhards of the Dark magic cult (Gridelwald, Riddle).
4. The Weasleys – A family consisting of seven siblings, only one of whom is a girl – albeit of exceptional talent and a bright future ahead of her. They are poor, although the head of the family, Arthur Weasley, is in excellent company as he works for the Ministry of Magic. They are all depicted as being very generous and kind people.
5. Hagrid – although a man of considerable, Hagrid is very humble and thoughtful (the seemingly mandatory gentle giant of every fancy tale). He drives a motorbike that came into his ownership after the death of its original owner, Sirius Black, thereby making the track ‘Born To Be Wild‘ a not very inappropriate choice for the movie.
6. Sirius Black – A prodigal scion of the Black family, Sirius deserts his household in favour of the Potters. Sirius and James Potter are good friends from the time they met in Hogwarts. Their companionship is fraught with extreme discomfort and brutal struggles – each emerging with a more mature outlook of the world.
7. Severus Snape – The Potions master at Hogwarts, Snape is also head of the house that represents the lighter side of the movement of which he was once an integral part: Slytherin. His allegiance with the Dark Lord is a popular topic of debate amongst Aurors, although his innocence is vouched for by Albus. And how does he repay it?

Well, these are the once I observed; there could be many more in their which I haven’t yet identified. Moving on, there are a few (uncanny?) similarities between the legendary ‘Lord of the Rings’ by J. R. R. Tolkien and the septalogy by Rowling. Again, here are a few.

1. Frodo Baggins & Harry Potter – Both set out on foggy journeys, and once they leave home, they don’t have a chance to go back until their purpose of achieved, that of felling the Dark Lord. Each has a bastion of loyal friends behind his back: Harry is always in the presence of Hermione and Ron, while Frodo stands on the shoulders of Samwise, Meriadoc and Pippin.
2. Severus Snape & Gollum – Snape bore a great loss from his past, that of his love, Lily, while Gollum killed his friend, Deagol, in order to get hold of the notorious ring of power. Snape aided Harry behind his back although he denied it tooth and nail throughout the book; Gollum guided Frodo and Sam through Gondor and Mordor, right into the fiery veins of Orodruin – revealing himself to be the blessing in disguise at the movie’s climax. (If you observed, Gollum also compares well with Peter Pettigrew.)
3. Lord Voldemort & Sauron – Both are descendants of a dark and powerful clan of warriors, more commonly called the Dark Lords. Lord Voldemort hails from Salazar Slytherin, one of the greatest wizards and co-founder of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Sauron was once the lieutenant of Morgoth Bauglir, one of the more corrupted kin of the Valinor. Both can be put down by the forces of good by the destruction of inanimate magical objects. Subsequently, Voldemort falls after Harry destroys the seven Horcruxes, and Sauron, with the consumption of the One Ring in Mount Doom.
4. Gandfalf & Albus Dumbledore – Both are old men, and both are wielders of power beyond measure, although it is unknown as to the source of their might. Both of them are killed in the course of the tale, and both of them return to life, even if for a brief period as in the case of Dumbledore, to aid the underdogs’ alliance in their quest for victory and peace.
5. Arthur Weasley and co. & King Theoden’s Rohan – One by one. Arthur Weasley’s children include the we-do-what-must-be-done twins Fred and George, Harry’s love interest Ginny, the extremely loyal Ron, and the I-learn-the-real-lessons-late elder brother Percy. On the other hand, King Theoden is the older yet fitting fitting counterpart of Percy, Eowyn of Ginny (although she gets married to Faramir instead), Eomer of Ron, and Theodred of Fred. And that’s not all: although their individual issues are dealt with as separate events, their help seems to be invaluable throughout the book. And again, both of them cast aside an irritating tit-for-tat habit prevalent amongst their peers to selflessly pledge their forces for service.
6. Peter Pettigrew & Grima Wormtongue: Both are traitorous characters with ‘wormy’ names, and play important roles in forming a section of the tale that has to do with undermining the possibly gallant efforts of a declining good power.

All the 'F' words!

I’m bored, so here are all the F words I’ve heard that turn heads – at least in my circles and some others.

(the one we all know),

feminism,

fairy,

filly,

fart,

feminine,

feminity,

filthy,

fenestration,

fornication,

fermentation,

fever,

fiance,

flying,

feverish,

finally,

financially,

finery,

finger,

fire arms,

fireworks,

first-begotten,

flabbiness,

flaccidity,

flaccid,

flamingo,

fodder,

foghorn,

forefather,

forensically,

forgery,

foundation,

fountain,

Fransesca,

France,

freedom,

Friday,

friends,

fruity,

fundamental,

fundamentalist,

fission,

fusion,

frikkin’,

flip flop.

If you got more, lemme know. I’m sure I’ll still be bored then.

Symptoms Of A Writer

I’ve started writing my own little play now, only the second I’ve ever written. I feel like a writer already, and I can only look my keyboard condescendingly. I have begun to believe that only the old Remingtons will suit me fine. My day dreams consist of winning the Nobel Prize, and if not that, then the Pulitzer or the Booker. No, it doesn’t matter which country I am from. I will win all of them, and then will come the national civilian awards! I forget to feel hungry even, spending time sitting idly on a couch, making my acceptance speeches to the walls. If ever I write anything beyond the little play or the tiringly slow novel, they always involve big words, words whose meaning only I will know on the face of this planet, and hidden amongst those big, sardonic words are some whose meanings I know not. But you don’t know them either, so when you ask for a meaning, I can reel of something abstract and walk away with my chest thrown out. I am a writer now, am I not? But ironically, the greater a writer is, the crappier he thinks his latest work is. I think my first novel is a piece of crap! It hasn’t yet been published, but given the kind of books I have read, getting my work published should be a piece of cake. As much as I think it is worthless, yours is more worthless! I will only think mine is bad in a condescending way. When you look upon them and see something very complex and intricate, you should think to yourself as to my greatness! I think this work is valueless, while you think it is invaluable. How many steps above you am I?! That is where a writer will want to sit! He will want to sit atop the tallest building, and look down upon everyone and smile gleefully. For, a writer thinks of himself as a master of puppets, pulling strings as he wishes. He kills off a character if it seems to threaten him. Godliness will only turn him crazy, for that is the only thing that spares him his sanity.

Paulo Coelho writes in ‘Like A Flowing River’ of the eccentricities of the writer. If a writer were to see a girl in a pub, and if he were to scribble her a poem on a napkin, she would immediately fall for him. I only wish! The writer surrenders all charm, but only voluntarily so. His commitment to his work sees a twofold increase when he thinks he has hit upon the next big plot for the Star Wars. It is the conviction that stems folrm that commitment that builds his pride, his ego. If you say to a writer that you have a found a mistake, he will smile and ask you what it is, and then he will thank you. But inside, he will not be crying for the mistake. He will be burning, he will want to smack your temple with a sauce pan. If he is scornful enough, he will tell you it is not a grammatical mistake but an intended device which he is using to convey the personality of the character, and he will say that even if it is not true. Nothing can be wrong, nothing should be wrong. It is the veil the writer uses to protect himself from his faults, the mask he dons to make himself feel succesful. And if the mask is colourful enough, the world will fall for it. If the picture he has painted finds an empathiser in every one of his readers, the writer will win the Nobel Prize. But if he writes a story that is too abstract and far-fetched, he will die a pauper. And every writer knows this. None of them do it for the language. They all do it for the money. If money hadn’t been involved, if every writer was being paid a fixed salary for every month of his sad life, our literature would have blossomed, matured and withered by now: such is the power hidden within a writer. The money only makes him limit his skill so he can make someone else feel better. And when that someone else is feeling better, the writer gets a bit of that someone’s money.

The writer has only a few ways in which to make his money – not all forms of literature end with a million dollar prize. He has essays and articles, he has poems and novels, he has analyses and criticisms, and he has plays and dramas. The writer’s market is very flimsy. It does not have a fixed base, there is no such thing as a market share because it is the only market of its kind, demand always fluctuates, and there is no such thing as a supply. It is as if the writer writes something, the market is set up by the publishers, and the demand generates itself. He works in such demanding conditions and still finds it in him to produce a ‘masterpiece’. Whatever he writes, he will always have Hollywood in mind. It is the closest market that works on tried and tested economic principles and also has some place for a writer. If one of the writer’s books lands a movie deal, the writer gives up writng books and becomes a movie editor. Unless, of course… no, it’s always the case. Another thing is, when the writer has his photograph taken, he never look into the camera. He will always look away, as if staring at some insect at the wall, with an expression of either consternation or supposed-humility on his face. That way, people get two messages at the same time: 1. who the writer is, and 2. the seriousness he embodies. I’m serious. You can never tell what a writer is thinking at that precise moment. His eccentricities arise from this unpredictability. Every writer wants to stand apart from the other, and he will do whatever it takes to be noticed. If he attends a Hollywood party, the actress who walked in with him will always leave him for the lousiest bum in the room. And then, the writer, by now bald and overweight, will come out of his stupid little coccoon and make some interesting jokes with the producers. He will then walk to the directors and criticise some of their work, and then he will walk to the actors and actresses and pretend as though he has never seen or heard of them. All this while, he will be on his knees inside his head, hoping that the actress goes with him to bed. But the thing is, given his intellect, he will know that own’t happen. And he will continue to be eccentric, not knowing what else to do.

The writer will always write poems when he feels anything but happy. And a writer never feels happy. Once he begins to write, he will look to make that piece of work his best ever, or else he wouldn’t be wasting time writing it, would he? He will spend more time on the backspace button than the enter button. Although, you should know there are some writers who work the other way. These are the writers who wouldn’t want to edit any of their work – they think what they have written is the best way to put down what they have in their heads. And if someone finds a fault with them, then that someone is not thinking along the same levels as him. Anyway, time is of the essence for the writer. He will not think like a businessmen. He will not believe that wasting five minutes will cost him $5,000, but he will not waste time. If he is writing something, he will begin to scribble at one point. People around him will think he has gone mad, but to himself, the writer will have a reached a point wherein the plot has formed completely. The thoughts will now rush forth! And even in these stages, the writer will not want to make a grammatical mistake. He will not want to use the ellipsis much, even though it imparts some much-needed colloquiality to the text. He will write and write and write, but he won’t make a mistake. And you know what looks most beautiful to a writer? A large paragraph without a single mistake! And it has to be large, like this one or the one before it. And the writer, when he sees such a paragraph, will read the words out aloud as if to an audience. And in the end, even if he doesn’t bow down to applause, he will play some music in his head that makes him seem like Russel Crowe, from ‘The Gladiator’, when he kills the emperor himself. You will notice that I have called the writer eccentric, sad and heroic at the same time. My last question is, why not?

The one thing I don’t like about writers (like myself) is when they don’t know how to conclude an article such as this.

Care For A Poem?

Hello. I am a writer, or at least aspire to be one. I wear glasses, I think I am very verbose, use big words and dream of sitting lakeside, somewhere in Spain one day, with a Remington typewriter in front of me and a Lucky Strike burning away a few centimetres from my teeth. I day dream about winning the Nobel Prize in Literature, although I never see that happening with the way I am going.

Howdy! I am a blogger. I have more than one blog, but choose to publicise just one because the others didn’t turn out well, and let’s face it, this one’s not that good either. But even though I know that, I wear a mask of indifference and think what I write is the new shit – and that keeps me wondering as to why my name doesn’t appear on the “Top Posts from around WordPress” list. I spend half of my day ogling at the stats page, and jump around in my lonely room when there is a jump in the number of viewers.

Hey! I’m a software programmer, although I’ve never sold anything. I have my name in the market by word of mouth, and if do land an order, I never meet the deadlines. My room has a computer, a fully equipped Alienware system with oil-cooled processors! I also have an X-Box, some old newspapers, a picture of my ex-girlfriend, and some porno videotapes. I get paid on an order-basis, and that’s usually between $1,500 to $2,000. Most of this goes away on food and rent, and other miscellaneous expenses. Oh, and I get together with my other friends on week  ends and have some beer while watching a ‘Star Wars’ marathon for entertainment. Yes, always the same movie. Why do you ask?

Hey! I’m a stock broker, and my job is to make money. But of course, with the recent recession and everything, I’ve lost a lot. I couldn’t even afford rent and my kids’ schooling. The wife left, of course. What could she do? I’m happy the kids are fine at her parents’ place. Oh, it was my birthday yesterday! Yeah! Me, Ronnie and Chuck spent some time together in the evening, they threw me a party at the local, and then we headed for some fun at Missy Margaret’s. I hope the wife doesn’t find out, though. But what can I do? I’m fifty, for God’s sakes! Sometimes, you know, I have these moments in the evenings when I’m bored… I just feel like pulling my hair out – if I had any! Life sucks!

Who’s yo daddy?! Yo man, I’m a rapper for the Numb Nuts. We fire up the gangster scene, yo! Me? I live with my mom. How the **** is that funny?! Get outta ma sight before I thump ya, ya ******f****r! What did you say?! So what if I’m white?! Yo man, you gettin’ on ma nerves now, you racist ***-**-*-*****! Get outta ma sight!

Hee! I work at Wal Mart’s; I’m a counter clerk. Yeah, I know the work’s a little too much, but I enjoy it. You know what I do after work? I go that gasoline station right over there, yeah that’s the one, and me and my boy hook up for some fun! And then we go and have some ice cream together. He knows my favourite flavour, oh he does! He’s so sweet, you know? He gets me all kinds of toys, you know! Oh! He’s so sweet. But now he wants to leave me! Can you believe that?! But I’m gonna wait for him right here. I know he’ll come back one of these days. Maybe you should come over to my place some time! We can have some coffee and then some ice creams! What do you think? Wait! Where are you going?!

Hello there! I’m the Chief Statistician here! You can call me Whiney around here, you can call me that! Weird name right, ‘Whiney’? They always laugh when I ask them what it means! See, they all know I’m funny! I always knew I was funny, you know! <Giggle> My mom used to always stifle me when I was a kid, and I never really had the chance to open up when I felt like it. So I went to my friends and told them all about my problems at home… it all seemed so trivial then that I laughed about them. They used to call me Whiney’ too, you know! Argh! I love being funny! <Giggle> Oh, please, yes, sit down! What? I’ve been served?! But today’s Christmas! What?!

(My greatest fears in life.)