Bootleggers, Bloggers, Bin Laden

NEW SITE

2007-11-28T00:05:00.000-08:00

Getting tired of explaining to people what a "tussmaloof" is - probably because my idiot roomate calls me that when he's drunk and I, for some reason, decided to use it.

The NEW SITE that I plan to update frequently:

http://thinktushar.com/

Homeless-Induced Guilt and You!

2007-03-05T17:39:00.000-08:00

As the gap between the rich and poor widens, homeless-induced guilt is also reaching new levels. Regular showers, full working fridges, unlimited daytime minutes, Starbucks coffee runs, internet porn – all the indulgences that we in mass society partake in is endlessly delightful. It seems like whenever we get lost in our self-important world, sooner or later something turns up and smacks us back down into place. And what ruins this blissful ignorance? Reality. Now there are several forms of reality, ranging from a broken nail to all the way to death. But the awkward cousin of death is poverty – rearing its ugly head on the sidewalks and frequently peeing on public transportation.

“No, but I bet I can hit you with this brick!”

Seeing a homeless person is much like noticing a pimple on your lover’s face: you feel bad for a moment, avoid touching it, and hope it will go away soon. Unfortunately the homeless problem can’t be prevented with application of exfoliating Apricot scrub and medicated topical cream. When most people see a residence-deprived individual living in the cracks of society, they momentarily acknowledge how lucky they are and perhaps feel helpless. Sometimes that sentiment snowballs into pure guilt, completely ruining the next 3 to 4 minutes of your day.

The next time you are confronted with the homeless and anticipate that your guilt might spiral out of control, try one of the following (for the purposes of this exercise, let’s name our fictional homeless person “It”):

Give It a dollar
The easy way out. Giving It a dollar automatically tells the world that you did your part. You gave 100 pennies, which means you can go back to your heated apartment, watch Seinfeld reruns, and order DVD’s off the internet 100% GUILT FREE! Everybody wins*!!

Do nothing
Tell yourself that you were hallucinating and It was simply a fire hydrant that you mistook as a person**.

Date It
This tactic is a big extreme, but it works on the same principle of “if you have a black friend it is okay to casually use the N word.” If you date It, then you will never feel guilty again because you slept with one of their kind – which by rule automatically exempts you from all self-judgment.

Stay positive
Apply the old proverb “it could be worse.” Sure, there aren’t too many things worse than being homeless, but what if you were homeless with a terminal disease or diarrhea? Or what about a terminal disease that slowly kills you via diarrhea? OR what about a terminal disease that turns you into a midget named Neal with uncontrollable, violent diarrhea? Game. Set. Match.

“It’s the economy stupid!”
Use this phase coined by James Carvel for the then 1992 Presidential hopeful Bill Clinton to justify the situation. In any capitalist society there inherently will be different levels of economic status – the Paris Hiltons of the world shopping for $5,000 wallets will be stepping over homeless people on the way. So the next time you see It on the street begging for spare change, just tell yourself it is all part of inescapable macro-economic forces.

Let Jesus take care of It
The bible says that the rich are no better than the poor in the eyes of God. As long as you repent your sins and devote yourself to the Lord Jesus Christ, everything will be fine in the afterlife. So the next time you see a homeless man cringing in the bitter cold of the night, just presume he is praying to Jesus and on the brink of death. Hooray!

Be jealous of It
Do you know who doesn’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations? It. Do you know who doesn’t have to deal with making sure enough money is in the checking account for the rent check? It. Do you know who doesn’t have to work in a shitty corporate job in order to live in an expensive city where the shitty corporate job is located? It. There is something truly liberating at the thought of being It. It has no worries other than his/her ass falling asleep (literally) while people just walk by and give money. God damn It.

Call the cops on It
Make up a charge that would ensure at least a few months of jail time. Call the cops and report the fabricated crime – ensuring that It will be in the safe confines of prison. With one swift move you gave It shelter, food, and, regardless of his sexual orientation, jail-house man-love. Rest easy, your job here is done.

* Unless it’s raining outside
** It helps actually being on a hallucinogenic drug.

Amitabh Bachchan to star in his One Millionth Film

2007-02-26T18:38:00.000-08:00

By Tushar Singh

BBC News, Dehli

Bollywood star Amitabh Bachchan has announced plans to play the lead role in Hari Potter and the Cab Driver’s Stone – making him the sole member of the “Million Movie Club”

For decades Amitabh Bachchan has been an Indian household name, consistently delivering breathtaking performances in Bollywood cinema and television. A renowned international star with an impressive resume that consists of a plethora of awards, a successful foray into politics, and being Aishwarya Rai’s first father-in-law, Bachchan can soon proudly say he has been in one million films.

Bachchan seemed destined for stardom right from conception. In early 1942 Bachchan got his first big break while still a mere fetus, taking the leading roll in Hum Thum Bhoth Dum. Even with a partially developed central nervous system and no audio sensory, the then un-named actor blew audiences away with his depiction of a wide-eyed villager in love with a girl of higher caste. On his literal birthday he was honored with his first “Best Actor” National Film Award - the Indian equivalent to an Oscar.

And Bachchan never looked back. But the road to making a million films was not an easy path - during a streak from 1979 to 1988, Bachchan made an average of eight full-length feature films everyday, sleeping only 30 minutes a week and frequently going to the hospital for exhaustion and dehydration. The fruits of his labor paid off as he starred in hit films such as Mohabbatein, Silsila, Sholay, and 999,996 others.

Part of his success can be attributed to the simple of cookie cutter nature Bollywood films. The formulaic plotlines can be broken down into three broad categories: (1) “Fighting” Theme – Son/Hero avenges father’s death by the hands of mustached villain (2) “Love Marriage” Theme – Indian version of Romeo & Juliet without the solid Shakespearian plot line (3) The Remake Film – Remake an already successful American movie. Think Patel Gump.

Whatever the case, Bachchan added his trademark deep voice, comedic edge, and, of course, unparallel synchronized group dancing skills.

It is undeniable that Bachchan is one of a kind. A 2006 study conducted at the Indian Institute of Technology put his talent in context for westerners. The three year long empirical research concluded what most already knew: “From the perspective of theatrical aptitude, if you were to somehow combine two Anthony Hopkins with one Tom Hanks and the entire cast of Friends including Gunther, you might get one Amitabh Bachchan.”

In Hari Potter and the Cab Driver’s Stone, Bachchan will test that seemingly never ending talent by depicting Hari Potter – a character adapted for Indian audiences based on J.K. Rowling’s popular book series. So confident in his acting skills, Bachchan has decided not to shave his goatee while portraying the nine year old Potter. Hari Potter is set to be in wide theater release in May of 2008.

The Future is Literally in the Palm of Your Hands

2007-02-12T17:08:00.000-08:00

Physiologically the human palm simply connects the forearm to the fingers and thumb. Utilized by people in a multitude of ways, the palm is used by everyone from a housewife opening a jar of peanut butter to a pimp establishing dominance by palm-slapping his prostitute(s)*. Its vital significance to masturbation need not be explained. While most uses of the palm immediately suggest something physical in nature, a far more fascinating application exists: palmistry. Palm reading, as it is better known and popularized by crazy homeless gypsies, is the art of foretelling one's future through the study of the lines that traverse the palm.

Nobody quite knows the origins of palm reading and thus, I will now make one up. In 2333 BC, a man of short stature named Neal became the head priest of a village in northern India. Although he was not prepared to take on the tremendous duty of being the spiritual leader of literally tens of people, he was next in line after the previous priest was forced to step down during the infamous Mangos-for-Prayers scandal of 2334 BC. Now Neal was a warm individual who wanted only the best for his people, but unfortunately he did not know, for lack of a better term, shit about Hinduism. But like all others who are in a position of spiritual power, he knew just enough to get by. It is also important to note that he was madly in love with Neha, the most beautiful girl in the village**. Unfortunately Neha was not interested in Neal for two reasons: First, he stood a mere 5’4” with sandals. Second, like most pretty Indian girls, Neha knew that she was desirable and thus was too good for anybody.

Years went by and Neal begrudgingly performed his priestly duties but never stopped thinking of her. We learn this after perusing an excerpt from his diary***:

Dear Diary,

Today I was conducting my third wedding of the month.
Ahh… always the priest, never the groom… I am going
mad. I must marry Neha before she marries some douchebag****.
Tomorrow her family is coming over to the temple for a
puja and I must say something. I have to at least give it a shot…

With that in mind, the next day Neal found himself face to face with Neha and her family. It was the big moment. Neal grabbed her hand and proclaimed “Neha, I have something to say to you.” The entire family froze. His heart pounding, Neal blurted out “You must marry me.” The family was taken aback. Neha immediately inquired “Why?” Several moments later Neal responded with “Hmmm…. Because your palm says so”, surprising even himself. He said this only because he happened to be staring at her palm. “What does that mean?” asked the dad. Neal answered “Hmm… her palm… it’s the newest thing in Hinduism… you can tell all types of things about your future from these little lines on your palm… fate, health, etc… usually, it’s really general but sometimes it’s really specific. Like this line.” He pointed to an arbitrary line on her palm, “It clearly says that Neha should marry me… see?”

The entire family swarmed in amazement around Neha’s palm as Neal stuck with this twisted line of logic and invented different definitions for every line. Of course the entire family wanted their palms read at this point. Neal exhausted his arsenal of lies as he convincingly told members of Neha’s family vague details about their palm-based future. For example, he told Neha’s mother, “This line right here indicates that you will have three children during this life, two girls and one boy.” She gasped in astonishment even though Neal knew her family well and the three children were standing in the same room. The family was so convinced of this new science that the wedding between Neal and Neha was held the next morning. Neha’s dad even bought the new couple a lavish house because of his generosity, as described in the “generosity line” on his palm. Neal lived out the rest of his days happily. Word of Neal’s story spread across Indian temples and soon priests everywhere began marrying the village’s most attractive girls. The art of palmistry was born!

Salman Rushdie, seen above with wife model Padma Laksmi, is one of the few remaining people who have truly utilized the original application of palm reading.

To cover up the brilliant lie created by Neal, the priests in different villages autonomously improvised what all the different lines on the palm meant. Luckily, the masses were naïve enough to fall for vague sentences like “You will live in this village during your life and eat food and eventually die.” Through the passage of time, the definitions of what each line meant became standardized and the seven lines seen in the figure below became the most commonly used.

1: Life line – Perhaps the most controversial of all the lines, the life line represents one’s vitality. Some say you could predict the length of your life. If you have any large gaps in this line just take a sharpie and fill in.

2: Head line – No frat boys, it doesn’t mean that. The head line represents a person’s intellectual aptitude. A deep, dark line represents a sharp, scholarly mind. Conversely, a faded one means that you are probably too dumb to spell “intellectual” and are a burden on society.

3: Heart line – This line stands for emotion and mental stability. While it is debated whether or not it can indicate how your love interests will play out, a clear break would signify a need for Viagra.

4: Girdle of Venus – Your level of homosexuality. You figure that one out.

5: Sun line – Associated to famous people. If you don’t have one, there’s a good chance you’re fat and the line disappeared like wrinkles in an inflated balloon.

6: Mercury line - The Mercury line applies more to women and is the most quantifiable in nature. The darker the line, the more percentage of disposable income will go towards hair treatment and removal.

7: Fate line - Tied in with educational and career path choices, the fate line is typically tied to the amount of financial prosperity one experiences. If you are reading this, chances are you’re probably failing school or about to get canned at work.

* A common occurrence when the “bitches ain’t actin’ right,” so to speak.
** It should be noted that being the “most beautiful girl in the village” was relative, since Neha was the only one without irritable bowel syndrome (IBS) – making beauty an insignificant factor
*** Luckily in my fake story, he kept a fake diary that withstood the test of time all these years.
**** In those days, it was customary that when a girl goes past her prime and is still not married, she is forced to “marry some douchebag,” which translates to “being burned alive”

Indian Women's Vaginas 'too big' for Men

2006-12-10T17:19:00.000-08:00

By Tushar Singh
BBC News, Dehli

A survey of more than 1,000 women in India has concluded that the vaginas of Indian women according to International standards are too large for a majority of men.

The study has quantifiably rebutted the validity of a prior study recently released by the Indian Council of Medical Research headlined "Condoms 'too big' for Indian men". The article quickly spread around the South Asian internet population, ironically, much like the spread of AIDS in India due to condom malfunction.

When questioned, the researchers who wrote the prior article acknowledged that the study did not account for the underestimated "Midget named Neal" demographic population, which inherently skewed the statistical data. The average penis length of normal sized Indian men, namely the author of this article, is, if anything, much larger than international standards.

The new study was based on 1,200 female volunteers from all over India who had their vagina's volumetric capacity measured using a technique that can be best compared to measuring the volume of a water balloon filled to its near-breaking point.

The conclusion of this scientific endeavor is that about 60% of Indian women have vaginal canals which are between six and eight cubic ounces larger than international standards.

Doctor Chander Puri, a specialist in reproductive health at the Indian Council of Medial Research, told the BBC there was an obvious need to alert Indian women across the world of their huge, gaping vaginas' threat to the escalation of unwanted childbirth and the proliferation of diseases such as AIDS.

This volumetric difference has led to several profound effects, including possible rationale to the ineffectiveness of condoms for a vast percentage of Indians. "To the blind eye, this correlation might not make complete sense, but you cannot refute scientific truth" Dr. Puri added.

But Indian women need not be concerned about measuring up internationally according to Sunil Mehtra, the former editor of the Indian version of the men's magazine Maxim.

"It's not the size, it's what you do with it that matters," he said.

"With apologies to the poet Alexander Pope, you could say, for ounces and liters, let fools contend."

Happy Conception Day!

2006-12-03T23:28:00.000-08:00

With the exception of keeping poor people really poor forever, there aren’t many issues in which you’ll find me siding with the republicans. But much to my surprise I have found another one. Both topics of stem cell research and abortion bring to the forefront an important debate: When does human life start? Does the “miracle of birth” begin sometime during the gestation process? Or is it when the baby comes out the womb? Or could it be when the child starts teething? Who knows?

After much self-reflection and several fruity mixed drinks I came to the conclusion that life begins when the sperm meets the egg. Perhaps the sperm is married to the egg. Or the sperm met the egg at an open bar and they are just having fun. Or the egg was on the rebound and emotionally vulnerable and the sperm was there at the right place at the right time to capitalize. Or perhaps the sperm simply paid a cheap Asian egg for a good time. Whatever the circumstances, life is created at that moment. It’s like if you place flower seed deep in the ground but don’t see it emerge from the soil for weeks, it doesn’t mean that it is not living/growing. If anything you should take a shit on the ground to help it grow(1).

So where was I? Ah yes, the conservatives have it right on this one. If liberal hippies had their way with the law, aborting a three year old midget named Neal would be not only legal but probably be encouraged to save on greenhouse gas emissions. And as much as I hate midgets named Neal they are living people, be it little gremlin-like annoying people, but still people(2).

Back to the topic at hand, I think we can all agree that childbirth is a beautiful process(3). Like most people I have been celebrating that glorious day consistently year after year. My extra special day, the one that reminds me that I am one year closer to death is May 8th. It is the day I made the journey through my mother’s birth canal. However, as per my logic described above, my “birthday” date has clearly been a sham for the past 25 years. Since life begins at conception, my real birthday is when my parents performed coitus to produce me. Even though it is a little embarrassing and an inherently squeamish topic, I had to call my mom in order to figure out the truth. The conversation went like this:

Me: Hey mom what’s up?

Mom: Hi beta, how are you?

Me: Good. I have a quick question… when did you and dad have sex that resulted in you being pregnant with me?

(Phone drops. Mom apparently faints and falls to the ground)

Me: Oh god damn it…

Honestly, I would be speechless and a little freaked out if she actually had an answer ready for me. Unfortunately I am now left to approximate my true birthday. Going nine months back seems to be a safe bet. With my old birthday being May 8, 1981, my new official “conception day” is August 8, 1980. One drawback to this new system of acknowledging the beginning of your existence is that you are automatically nine months older than you thought, which means I’m 26. But on bright side, I can finally legally have sexual relations with a 17.25 year old girl without getting judging looks from society. Everyone wins.

1 Wow, I totally nailed that argument.
2 A little known fact: Most midgets named Neal simply walk out of their mother during childbirth because of their unique stature.
3 If by “beautiful process” you mean “visually repulsive and vomit-inducing”

Current Events Blog #1 (One of many CLOGs to come)

2006-11-19T17:24:00.000-08:00

During last week’s mid-term elections the American voters decided to stop being a negligent parent and finally lived up to their “stop being such a jerk or we’ll take your congress away” threat to President Bush. It isn’t confirmed but some say Bush apparently responded by running up to his room and slamming the door. Much to the delight to the majority of the world, he still has not come out.

The clear democratic victory over the House and Senate in this 2006 election was glorious. Many say this conquest for the party is a mandate from the people for change! Bringing our troops home! Create a culture of socio-economic responsibility! Reform of the corporate influence over our government! Increase living conditions for the lower and middle class! Will any of that happen? … Probably not! The reason:

For the next two years our government will be operating much like a couple lost during a roadtrip vacation to the beach. Bush will play the role of the head-strong husband who claims he isn’t lost at all and that he should stay on the road they are on because it is bound to lead somewhere near the beach eventually. The new speaker of the house Pelosi will be the frustrated wife who will incessantly nag her husband to pull over to a gas station so they can figure out a plan to get on familiar roads. I am personally looking forward to the part when Bush will be forced to pull over at a gas station to refill his V12 pickup truck that gets 3 miles per gallon. Will he ask the gas station attendant for directions? Stay tuned!

In other news, Iraqis and US soldiers are still dying in record numbers. However, we took care of the root of the problem and ousted Rumsfeld. So logic says that the crisis should take care of itself in the next few days.

Just a thought, but perhaps some broad statistics should be sent to Madonna and Angelina Jolie in regards to putting a stop to the recent string of African baby adoptions. Experts say that the power of their celebrity status may set off a massive pop-culture trend that might leave orphans in this country “up shit’s creek,” so to speak. I have drafted the message:

Dear Millionaire Sex Symbols,

There are extremely poor black babies in this country too.

Best,

US Census Bureau

Guess what mom!

2006-11-14T20:02:00.000-08:00

So a few days ago I went to my favorite Café to write yet another mind-blowing blog entry on how funny Indian people do funny Indian things in funny Indian situations. The onslaught of productivity came to a screeching halt when the random question hit me: Does God read blogs? More questions immediately stemmed: Does He read all of them? Or does He have some type of RSS feed set up? Does God have someone to read it for him? Would He read something that’s not funny/insightful? What does God think is funny? Is his humor the “Yo Mama” type or Daily Show type? What speed internet connection does He have? Does He even need a computer or can He just “see all,” so to speak? Is He on MySpace? Is God into porn? If so, what kind?

The room began spinning with the whirlwind of questions. I tightly gripped the table edges and braced myself for a black out. Luckily the head rush subsided as I realized the stupidity level of my own thought process. The prerequisite to my question is this: How am I to even judge God’s potential internet practices when I haven’t even finalized my official stance on the existence of God yet? Does He exist or have my parents been trying to Punk me for all these years?

It’s easy to let my inherent pessimism say there is no God. However, some things in life are simply unexplainable without Him. For example: How the hell does Carson Daily have his own talk show? Or how are there so many midgets named Neal married to actual women? And what about breast implants? The list can go on and on....

But let’s say, for a moment, that I go against my better judgment and decide to wholeheartedly believe in the existence of God. There. Done. Wow. That was pretty easy. But now comes the hard part: choosing a religion. This might prove to be a tad difficult since I already have a hard time picking out an appetizer at Ruby Tuesdays much less choosing which set of superstitions seems the least insane to me.

So I did some research. Hinduism promotes spirituality and, using the guiding principle of Dharma, asks people to live a positive life in search of “higher truths.” But where’s the pizzazz? Do chicks even dig Hindus? How about Catholicism? I do like the whole "commit statutory rape and simply confess to get into heaven" thing, but chances are I would confess to, ironically, a homosexual pedophile. Too weird for me. So what do we have left? Buddism… eh. Chinese food gives me the runs. Islam… seriously? I'm way to lazy to teach and train 72 virgins. Zoroastrianism? Did I just make that word up? Scientology… Hahahhaha. Good one, self!

What about Judaism? I love comedy, eating bagels, and hording money. A little known fact: Harrison Ford, Indiana Jones himself, is Jewish. And most importantly, I love cracking Jewish jokes that are extremely poor in both taste and timing, thus becoming one would justify it all. So I guess it’s decided… Guess what mom! I’m a Jew!

Now let’s journey back to the question that sparked this radically life changing event: does God read blogs? And the answer is: Probably not because he’s too cheap to buy a computer. Oooooooooh ZINGER!

Until next time, Tushar Singhstein signing off.

Subway Shenanigans

2006-08-26T15:41:00.000-07:00

I must share with you an anecdote. It is a story grounded on the opposite of heroism. A chronicle that is a compilation of facts, thoughts, and statements. A tale that shall soon be forgotten. A series of events that I am not proud of on any level other than merely it's comedic merit.

It begins on my early morning subway commute. The setting is Union Square, New York metro station. It is here where every day around 9:00 I catch the 4/5/6 train up to 51st street, excited to launch my career with my exhilarating bullshit job where I am yet another corporate douchebag with trendy slacks. I usually listen to my ipod on shuffle, which usually leads to me fast forwarding incessantly to the next track because I have a bunch of "gangsta" rap music courtesy of my large-headed roomate. I always think "it is too early in the morning for nonsensical urbarn gibberish... screw the black man". Apparently it's never too early to be racist. The shuffling continues until i reach a more smooth, tranquil, white audio land such as James Blunt, Coldplay, or even Weezer. On any account, I enter the turn style and my train was just a few steps away. As I turned the corner I realized that the 6 train was already there with the doors open. At that moment, although I was in no real rush, catching that train became a personal challenge. Everyone around me, including the smelly homeless man, seemed to share that sentiment and rushed down the stairs. About a third of the way down I found myself behind a heavyset old lady.

Enter my dilemma. As most elderly people are, this old oaf was slow. Not slow like an endearing retarded child trying to figure out long division, but slow like heavy construction equipment on the highway. Let me make clear that I realize it's not her fault. The human body is prone to mechanical erosion and thus it slowing down is inevitable. I know this. That doesn't change the fact that she was in my fucking way and I wanted to punch her in the back of the head and use her body as a bridge into the subway car, mere Indiana Jones-esque moments before the door closed. But my mother raised me better than that.

With the pressure from the people behind me, my inability to pass the old bag, the 6 train doors surely closing soon, and my trademark perspiration beginning, every second felt like an hour. I momentarily debated jumping over the railing in one smooth liquid motion. Shit, I'm fairly athletic and I've seen a Jackie Chan movie, how hard could it be? The rotund bag of bones took one step at a time and then gathered both her feet on the same step. I wanted to yell out "Hey, Margarate Thatcher, it's called an elevator. Look into it." and then whisper "oooooooh snap" to myself. Surely it would have brought applause and laughter from everyone around me as they must have been thinking it. But, once again, my mother raised me better than that.

Well aware of the Sudanese, the Palestinians, and the world's indigent, at this moment I had the world's worst luck. Needless to say I missed the train. Not only a burden on society and a strain on our economy, but because of Mrs. Thatcher I had to wait a full 37 seconds before the next train. Fuck. Old. People.

Yaaaay for Divorce!!

2006-07-21T14:26:00.000-07:00

Marriage is simply a legal contract between a man and a woman. And I suppose since contracts are merely formalized rules, they are also made to be broken. With approximately a 55% divorce rate*, American culture has embraced divorce life as a new beginning, a reincarnation of sorts, where the proverbial field of sexual frustration and one night stands is in full bloom. While some still view it as negative lull point in your life, divorce can be a wonderful experience, freeing you from the prison sentence of wed-lock that is holding you captive.

Predictably and much to my chagrin, the Indian culture enthusiastically frowns upon a person getting a divorce for any reason. They view you as a tainted person with damaged goods. Even to this day, some conservative Indians would go as far as grouping the divorcees in with the “untouchables”, which is equivalent to labeling somebody mentally retarded for drooling in their sleep.

The dark cloud that lingers over a divorced Indian is prominent in our society. Many girls I know personally claim that their worst fear in life is to get a divorce. Let me repeat: their WORST fear. Not contracting a fatal disease, getting burned alive, becoming a paraplegic, or losing your loved ones, but effing divorce. But my delusional friends do illustrate a point that divorce is generally worse for women. You can thank our historically male-dominated culture for that! While the man can generally move on with his life, women are shunned from their friends/families and often left with no financial or emotional safety net. Boo hoo!

During my comprehensive research for this blog entry, I discovered that in most Western nations there are approximately 16 distinct reasons to grant a divorce. However, India has merely five (Choudhary 90): Adultery, Desertion, Cruelty, Impotency, and Chronic Disease. On a personal note, I agree with all of them with the exception of Impotency – because sometimes you are just tired or had one too many drinks or just aren’t in the mood or perhaps you’ve been really stressed out recently or have a bad headache or did it ever occur to you that you haven’t done the appropriate things to turn me on? Not that it has ever happened to me before or anything…

Anyways, there are several other reasons why a divorce should be granted: Some legitimate, some borderline, and others entirely non-legit but nonethess understandable. Let me know if I missed any:

Legitimate reasons to get a divorce:

Your wife gained 180 lbs after birthing your 3rd child.
Your husband got drunk, cheated on you with a hooker, and consequently gave you syphilis. Now you're called "Syphilis Auntie" at dinner parties.
You suddenly realized that you are married to a midget named Neal**
Your husband used you to get a visa into the country and ends up making you look like a chump
Your wife’s adrenal gland goes haywire and she now grows a full beard every night (either that or her $999 laser hair removal package finally ran out)

Borderline legitimate reasons to get a divorce:

Your spouse consistently has tattee (poop) stains in his/her chudhee (underwear)
A chronic case of mid-life acne
Your husband leaves the toilet seat up AND never flushes (because he is Gujarati and wants to save money on the water bill)

Non-legitimate reasons to get a divorce:

Bad breath coupled with crusty lips
Your spouse occasionally has tattee (poop) stains in his/her chudhee (underwear)
Your wife develops a sudden arbitrary fetish for bestiality.
Your husband wants to name your first born child “ManBearPig,” independent of its sex

When it comes down to it, divorce is an easy solution to a relatively messy problem. You no longer want to be married because you and/or your spouse has changed for the worse? Well you can change that! And weren't we always taught to embrace change? During your lifetime you will change everything: your wardrobe, washer/dryer, carpet, TV, job, computer, car, house…etc. Why not add your spouse into the loop? Just like everything else in your life, every few years evaluate your wife and see if you still like her. Clearly she won’t be performing the same as when you first got her, but is she manageable like a energy-efficient refrigerator or does she need to be changed like a broken light-bulb? If confused, you can always put her on EBay to see what her current market value is.

I personally plan to have at least eight divorces in my lifetime. The first seven marriages will be for practice and then I’ll have one more “to grow on.” I will make mistakes on purpose and through trial and error, I will figure out how to truly satisfy a woman during marriage. By the time I come around to my 9th and final wife, boy will I be the perfect husband! Yaaaay for Divorce!!

* I made that statistic up, but it sounds about right

** That conversation would go like this:
Midget named Neal: Hey honey what’s for dinner?
Amy Patel: Oh shit…
Midget named Neal: What happened?
Amy Patel: How tall are you?
Midget named Neal: 5’5” and a 1/4 inch… why?
Amy Patel: I should have seen this years ago… God damn it!
Midget named Neal: Seen what?
Amy Patel: Sorry this isn’t working out. Trust me, it’s not me, it’s you. I want a divorce…

You can take a FOB out of the village, but you can’t take the village out of the FOB!

2006-06-26T17:48:00.000-07:00

The term “uncle” usually signifies your parent’s brother. Indians have taken this term of respect one step further and use it to signify any male “grown up” that is or could be a friend/colleague of your parents. It is a sign of respect. Unfortunately the title is not specific enough. But worry not friends, I have created a list of the types of uncles that are out there:

The Drunken Blowhard Uncle – You name a social event and the drunken blowhard uncle will be there, drinking Chivas Regal on the rocks and loudly slurring his words in illogical rant about how rich he is or how he used to be a badass in college. His family always has a look of utter embarrassment and humiliation as he willingly teeters off into the blackout alcoholic abyss. If all goes according to plan, he vomits on himself and is escorted out of the social event as people like me point and laugh. I usually lighten the mood by screaming out “See you at the next wedding asshole!”

Tips when meeting him: Make him buy you all your drinks. Jumpstart his downfall by challenging his manhood and ask him to a drinking contest.

The Socially-Retarded Uncle - Ever noticed a uncle walking around while eating with one hand, chewing his food while talking, picking his ear with his keys, farting loudly, and blowing his nose with his bare hand ALL AT THE SAME TIME? Well then you have witnessed the socially-retarded uncle. He is given that title because every time you witness then spectacle described above you want to run up to him and yell “are you fucking socially-retarded uncle???”

Tips when meeting him: Run up to him and yell “are you fucking socially-retarded uncle???”

The “Still Single” Uncle – Too caught up with his work and/or social life, the still single uncle never got married. He usually travels around the world, enjoys the finer things in life, and ages well because he doesn’t have a wife incessantly nagging about the dishwasher being broken. Out of all the uncle’s this guy life seems the coolest. However, he probably cries in his pillow every night before going to sleep in his corporate hotel room. Now personally I usually don’t agree with my parents on a number of issues, but the still single uncle builds a good case for their push to get married and start a family.

Tips when meeting him: Ask him what everybody else is thinking. With a straight face “Are you not getting married because your state doesn’t allow gay marriages?”

The Cheap Uncle – Now I know the title seems redundant, but the cheap uncle is beyond simply “cheap”; he would probably sell his first born child for a Holiday Inn.

Tips when meeting him: If you are at his house for a dinner party, try to break as much shit as you can and just observe his reaction.

The Religious Uncle - He holds a pooja at his house once a week. He walks around as if he personally cleans God’s ass every morning. He always tries to throw in his two religious cents about every topic as if we give a shit. I once actually saw an uncle with a “WWKD” wrist band. It stood for “What Would Krishna Do?” It was the first time I ever seriously thought about running over a man.

Tips when meeting him: Spread a rumor in the town that he is a closet homosexual. Once it gets around tell him “It’s okay, cheer up! God knows you’re not gay!”

The Immature Uncle – Although he has three kids and a mortgage, the immature uncle still acts like he is in college. Usually with a prominent receding hairline and what is left of a once athletic body, the immature uncle is perpetually trying to escape his morbid reality by talking to the younger kids during dinner parties. Sorry immature uncle, we don’t want to have a beer with you. We don’t want to discuss girls with you in the room. We don’t care that you were once cool. Well, not lame.

Tips when meeting him: Just to ruin his mood, periodically ask him what year he graduated from college. After he responds be like “Holy mollie uncle! Gee-shucks o’golly you’re old as FUCK!”

The Sleezy Uncle - With that “I just molested something” look on his face at all times, the sleezy uncle is probably someone you should steer clear of if you have children or small pets*. A suggestion, he should be transported like Dr. Hannibal Lector from Silence of the Lambs.

Tips when meeting him: If you are reading this and are a girl between the ages of 3 and 27, then my advice to you would be to immediately kick this uncle in the genital area the moment you identify him. Or don’t. I don’t care.

The morbidly obese Uncle - Lively and jovial, the morbidly obese uncle is usually the life of the party. And by “life of the party” I mean the “fattest person in the room.” Although barely able to walk, what is usually astonishing about this uncle is that he somehow managed to marry a female human AND produce children. Wow... it never ceases to amaze me…

Tips when meeting him: Do not eat his Gulab Jamun or snicker when he proudly proclaims that he “went for a brisk walk today”. Also, hold off on laughing at his triple chin and D-cup man boobs until after he waddles away towards the buffet line.

The “I hate my wife” Uncle - Many defend process of an arranged marriage by saying ignorant comments like “the divorce rate is statistically higher for love marriages than arranged marriages.” Unfortunately, the statistics don’t highlight the fact that the majority of couples that were wed via arranged marriage hate each other but just end up living with it. Well the “I hate my wife” uncle can attest to that, because while a normal self-respecting man would get a divorce, he rode the hell-marriage out. Now he lives out the rest of his days bitter and sexually frustrated.

Tips when meeting him: You probably awkwardly run into him if you are at the local strip club. Walk up to him as if you are at a dinner party and ask him where auntie is. Keep on asking him questions until he buys you a lap dance.

The “married a foreigner” Uncle – Much to the disappointment of his family, this uncle followed his heart and married outside his ethnicity. And in our culture what do you get for following your heart and being true to yourself? You are a social outcast! Congratulations! Have fun with the language barrier for the rest of your life!

Tips when meeting him: You probably won’t because he isn’t invited anywhere.

The “Chip on his shoulder” Uncle – Always out to prove something to anybody he meets; the chip on his shoulder uncle usually has no real friends. There are two ways to visualize this uncle: 1) picture Apu from the Simpsons with a massive Napolean complex and a small penis or 2) picture a midget named Neal.

Tips when meeting him: Tell him that you’ll probably be richer than him at his age. Then punch him in the face.

The Village Uncle – You can take a FOB out of the village, but you can’t take the village out of the FOB! This uncle is my personal favorite because he has a look of relaxed glee on his face that comes from the fact that he has central air conditioning, fresh drinking water, and no longer sleeps with his face in the dirt. Conversations with him are usually confusing but absolutely hilarious because his English blends in with Hindi**. So for example, when he would ask the question “Do you want some more toast with your breakfast?” it would come out like “Do tume more toast chahiye with your nashtaa?” And you confusingly look back at him like “sure?” But give the guy a break. Why would he know English properly? He has only been living in the country for a mere 23 years. Give a guy a chance!

Tips when meeting him: Because his breath will most probably smell like a wet towel that was used to clean up liquefied garlic, try to hold your breath and just smile and nod when you can’t understand him.

The Worst Uncle Ever – A combination of all of the above. Go ahead, picture it.
Tips when meeting him: Run.

* Unfortunately we all know a few people who have been molested by a Indian uncle but it went unreported for some reason or another. If you personally know of one of these pieces of shit, please email me so I can coordinate an old-fashioned public stoning.

** “Hinglish”… if you will.

I just farted! Let’s throw a pooja for my intestinal track!

2006-06-17T12:22:00.000-07:00

If you are part of any Indian social circle in the community, you have at one point or another witnessed first hand the rollercoaster ride of fun called a pooja. Aside from a generic Indian girl’s name, a pooja is the worship to Hindu Gods/deities in the form prayer. The scale of a pooja varies. It can take on a national stage with millions of participants for the adoration a particular God. Or it can be held in a shoe closet where a mother prays every morning that her son really isn’t gay, just overly effeminate. Whatever the case, poojas seem to have withstood the test of time and still occur around the world. But why so popular? Poojas are the perfect mechanism to not only show your devotion but to pass on religious protocol to the younger generations. I suppose that last argument would be absolutely valid if the children actually knew what the hell was going on.

A perfect example is the last pooja I was forced to attend two years ago. Still vivid in my mind, I recall the weekend home from school and being woken up by my mom at 8:00 AM. Thirty minutes later I was sitting crossed legged in a crammed, 113 degree basement with six dozen people intermittently reciting chants to a small fire and a picture of an elephant. Unfortunately I wasn’t one of the lucky few who had a space against the wall. Both my legs were asleep and I was actually jealous of them. I recall tapping my mom’s shoulder and asking her what exactly this pooja is for. She replied “it’s for Neha's graduation.” No effing way. I thought I was getting Punk’d and that Ashton Kutcher would pop out of the garage at any second with a camera crew. So let’s get the facts straight. Instead of having a proper graduation party in a banquet hall or restaurant like normal people, Neha’s mom Anjana Auntie hosted the Saturday morning from hell in “celebration” that her daughter graduated high school*. You have got to be fucking kidding me. Needless to say not only did I not learn anything about a pooja or the Hindu Gods, I now wholeheartedly hate Neha and her entire family. Oh wait, I just farted! Let’s throw a pooja for my intestinal track!

If you must attend a pooja, I have compiled a few tips that I found useful:

Bring a laptop and watch season one of Entourage. Oh Arie, you're such a riot!
Bring a stop watch – it will enable you to play a game I like to call “how long can you hold your breath before you pass out.” Try to beat my personal best: a David Blaine-esque 8:43.
Start honestly asking everyone around you "So what's the deal... I don't get it... can someone explain to me why exactly we hate muslim people?"
Wait until your legs completely fall asleep (oh they will) and punch them as hard as you can while yelling “I LOVE YOU ALMIGHTY LORD KRISHNA… TAKE MY LEGS”
Hand around a plate of Beef Jerky and see peoples reactions.

Poojas also highlight Hinduism’s polytheistic view on the higher beings. Every problem in life seems to have a God specially assigned to it. If you are a lazy person it is perfect for you: just throw a pooja instead of actually methodically working hard to achieve your goals. Do you have financial issues because you spent all your money on strippers? Well just throw a pooja for Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, and hope that she brings you out of bankruptcy. Are you a parent of a 33 year old, 350 lb son who can’t seem to find a wife? Well just throw a pooja for Kamadeva, the god of love, and hope that he brings your fatass offspring an equally portly wife. Are you a midget named Neal? Well just throw a pooja for Shiva, the destroyer, and hope that he kills you. Is the love life with your wife in the toilet because you’re woefully impotent? Well just throw a pooja for Hank McKinnell, CEO of Pfizer, and hope he personally brings you an industrial sized box of Viagra. The list can go on and on…

And don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that all pooja’s are tedious, glorified social events that accomplish nothing but allow people to believe that they are actually getting spiritually closer to God by chanting a few prayers that they don’t really understand… Well… actually… that is exactly what I’m saying. Like any religious gathering, a pooja is well intended but only has good effects on people who are already good. Meaning that if you are a pedophile, you will probably come out of the pooja still a pedophile but smelling like India. Thus I have just decided that the next time I am invited to a pooja, I will probably fake my own death to get out of it. Ironically enough, they will probably have a pooja in honor of me.

* That was not a typo my friends: HIGHSCHOOL. Anjana Auntie, the only way graduating highschool in this country is an actual accomplishment is if your daughter was clinically retarded or is named Forrest Gump. Seriously, what’s next? Throwing a pooja because your daughter lost her virginity in a drunken haze to a frat boy during pledge week? It would make sense because that actually happened… sorry Neha!

Reincarnation: Why I will become what I hate...

2006-06-06T12:35:00.000-07:00

Have you ever pondered the question “What is the meaning of life?” while gazing upon the stars, laying on the beach, or making passionate love to a dead hooker? I have*. That question inevitably leads to “What happens when you die?” Personally, I believe when your physical body expires you are immediately reborn into whatever you mentally belittle the most at the time of death. Thus I will probably return into a smelly Guajarati family and live out my next life as a midget named Neal with uncontrollable body hair/acne. God damn it.

It turns out my karma-based theory is not too far off from what billions of Hindus, Buddhists, and pothead hippies across the world believe: Reincarnation. With the literal meaning of “to be made flesh again”, the theory of reincarnation serves as the fundamental tenant of most eastern religions. It is the never ending struggle to attain god-like perfection. It works like this: if you led a good life, full of helping stray puppies, honoring thy neighbor, and offering sexual favors to the homeless for free, then you will be reborn in a better and presumably happier life. Conversely, if you led a bad life, full of torturing stray puppies, killing thy neighbor, and charging the homeless for sexual favors, then you will be reborn into a worse and presumably less happy life.

Thus it can be presumed that there is a particular hierarchy of potential lives one can lead. But who is responsible for this eternal systematic judgment of all man kind? That would be good ‘ol God of course! I happened to meet God at a bar in Midtown Manhattan a few weeks ago and kept in touch with Him**. I emailed Him to inquire about the hierarchy question and the following was our correspondence:

From: “God”
To: “Tushar Singh”
Subject: Re: Reincarnation Question
Date: Sun, 04 Jun 2006 19:34:35 -0400

Hey Tushar!

How the hell are you? I have been reading the blog, great work man! Been up to my ass in work. It seems like anything goes wrong in the world I’m the first one people blame. Aside from the normal poverty, disease, hunger, blah blah blah, I have to deal with bullshit like the whole tsunami “disaster”, then Katrina didn’t help and then war in Iraq is still a thorn in my sac. People are still pissed about Brad and Jen breaking up and that retarded gray-haired redneck who won American Idol. It never fucking ends. Why can’t people focus on all the good things I’ve done? Like TiVo and the Paris Hilton video? Ungrateful bastards…

Anyways, to answer your question, reincarnation does exist. The hierarchy is the following nine groups. I like to call it my “New Aged Caste System”:

1. Rich white people who never had to do real work a single day in their life (i.e. Prince William, George Bush, Paris Hilton…etc.)
2. Rich white people who had to earn it (i.e. Bill Gates, Anderson Cooper, Dixie Chicks… etc.)
3. Rich black people (i.e. Oprah, Will Smith, Puffy, the NFL, the NBA, and eventually all organized professional sports…)
4. All other rich/middle class people (i.e. Asians outside Asia)
5. Celebrity Animals (i.e. Lassie, Mr. Ed, Rin Tin Tin, that dog from Full house… etc.)
6. Poor white trash (i.e. Mississippi, Alabama… etc.)
7. Poor/desolate people (i.e. Most of Africa/India - approximately 2/3rds of the earth’s population)
8. Regular Plants/Animals
9. Midgets named Neal (i.e. Neal Patel, Neal Shah, Neal Sheth…etc.)

Just between me and you, I usually just get stoned and pick people’s next lives at random. Cause who the hell will ever know? My all-time favorite was when I made Mother Teresa come back as Paris Hilton’s dog (haha! try saving the indigent now lady!)

Alright man, I gotta get going and figure out this Sudoku.

Take it easy,

God

---Original Message---
From: “Tushar Singh”
To: “God”
Subject: Reincarnation Question
Date: Thursday, 01 Jun 2006 9:55:56 -0200

Hey God,

How the hell you doing? Everything’s alright on my end. I know you’re busy but
I’m writing my next blog entry and I have a quick question for you. If reincarnation exists, what is the hierarchy of people’s lives when they are reborn?

Give me a ring and we’ll party together soon. I have this girl who would be perfect for you. She doesn’t really drink but that shouldn’t be a problem for you huh? (Wink Wink…haha)

Tushar

Unfortunately several inherent questions still remain unanswered. Like what exactly is “good” behavior? Is it alright to make fun of girls who are humorously hairy? Are you allowed to snicker at the mildly retarded or awkwardly obese? What happens if you literally steal candy from a baby? Can you have a 3rd trimester abortion with your lesbian lover simply because you like the overnight stay in hospitals? Nobody does or ever will know the answer to these questions. Just enjoy life, do what makes you truly happy, and hope to god you are reborn into British royalty.

* I can’t remember which ones…
** Super nice guy, really down to earth. His email is imtotallygod@gmail.com (trust me, He’ll write back eventually). And if you were wondering how God actually is in real life… boy does that guy get some tail! Although technically it’s unfair because he gets girls by turning the water that they were drinking into wine AFTER they already drank it. A biblical ruffee, if you will. I suppose thy shalt not judge?

India Travel Tip #1: Don’t Go.

2006-05-07T10:55:00.000-07:00

India: The motherland. The largest democracy in the world. One of the richest, most diverse cultures on the planet. The fastest growing knowledge-based economy in the earth. And, statistically, home of the highest concentration of B.O. in the universe.

Although I haven’t been to India since I was 10 years old, soon I must make a decision and tell my parents if I will accompany them on a three week “vacation” to the motherland this summer. So should I stay or should I go? Let’s explore the lingering memories of my 1989 India trip:

Uncontrollable diarrhea every few days coupled with having to use a bathroom with nothing but a mere porcelain hole in the ground where a toilet should reside. I was a fat little kid so the idea of squatting to poop took time getting used to. The mystical idea of toilet paper was still obviously too far fetched to come to fruition.
Rampant poverty that made me feel horrible about the fact that I was born into a family that just happened to not live on the side of a dirt road. Consequentially, I now detest the homeless for giving me that icky feeling.
Shopping with my mom and my sister and spending an unreasonable amount of money on Saris (cause fuck you poor people! take you and your starving, mood-downing children elsewhere!) You would be surprised as to how much fun it is spending a small fortune on shit that will be on your closet for decades.
No hamburgers or steak (why couldn’t turtles or cats be sacred instead of delicious, mouth-watering cow?)
Everyday running around town in 119 degree heat to visit 6 to 8 different houses of long lost friends and family. While the experience was great for my parents who seem to enjoy repeating the same conversation over and over, I recall sitting in the corner like the retarded cousin with an awkward smile hoping to mentally ward off another violent diarrheic episode.
My entire family passing time by not talking to each other for days because of classic arguments such as: “Why your side of the family sucks more than my side”, “Why should I pay for the fact that your brother’s a lazy shithead and can’t support his own family?” or, my personal favorite, “Your greedy ass dead grandfather still owes me for the 34 rupees I let him borrow in 1973.”

I think it is safe to say that not much from the preceding list would change this time around. However, added to the list would probably be having mind-numbing conversations with old Indian aunties and uncles about getting married soon and how they know a Civil Engineering girl from a good family that would be perfect for me*. To be honest with you, I would rather dry-hump a bearded woman than to willfully subject myself to that torture.

Much to my surprise, most all my friends that have recently visited India all seem to have the same consensus: “India is so fun, I had such a blast there and I can’t wait to go back.” When asked their reasoning, they responded with comments ranging from “Dude, I got so drunk with my cousins!” to “It was awesome, we ate at the new McDonalds and Burger King they just opened up!” Which begs the question: Is it worth traveling for 20 hours in coach to get hammered with FOBs and eat mediocre American fast food? I’m guessing no? If my friends came back and told me that India had something that America didn’t offer** then perhaps I would be intrigued enough to go.

So at the end of the day, my decision essentially comes down to where India falls in the priority list in my life. The following is the abridged version:

1) Figuring out my purpose in this world
2) Enjoying life with friends and family
3) Womanizing (e.g. practicing techniques for the long-term benefit of my future wife)
4) Maintaining my masculine physique
6) Television
....

....
234) Chunky peanut butter
235) Push-up bras
236) Canadian Flag Football
237) Vulcanization of rubber
238) Female menstrual cycle
239) India
240) Beastiality
241) The Bible

See? Now if my parents gave me the option between reading the Proverbs 31:6 excerpt from the bible OR watching a man make sweet love to Bambi OR take a voyage to India, my decision would be quick and simple. But life doesn’t always work out like that, does it?

Needless to say, with the comprehensive evaluation just given, my decision is a resounding no. Sure my parents will be upset ***, but, after I show them my priority list, I’m sure they’ll understand that my time is better spent exploring the vast intricacies of the female menstrual cycle.

* The thought of even talking to a girl who chose to be a Civil Engineer makes me want to be abstinent for the rest of my life and never look back.
** The only thing I could think of that would make me book a ticket to India tonight would be: No holds bar, unregulated midget named Neal street fights.
*** Mainly because there will be no one to carry around the 600 lbs of luggage.

Dude, Where’s my dowry?

2005-08-18T01:48:00.000-07:00

Of all the back-woods bullshit tribal customs prevalent in India, the dowry system is one that I actually condone on some levels. For the three of you crackers reading this, a “dowry” is a customary gift of money or valuables given before the wedding by the bride’s to the groom’s family. The reason for this bestowment is simple: compensation to the groom's parents for the amount they have spent on educating and upbringing their wonderful offspring who just happens to have a penis. Now some say this tradition has turned Indian women in our society into nothing but objects to be sold off to the highest bidder, where she will be treated like an outsider with no rights open for physical/psychological abuse. And to them I say… so? Who gives a shit? Things could be much worse. You women could be destitute, forced into a life of prostitution, or worse yet live in an Indian village with no running water, electricity, shopping outlets, or hair-salons with immigrant Asians to thread your bushy eye-brows. So quit your damned complaining. Nonetheless the naysayer’s got their way and a 1961 law officially prohibited the ritual of giving a dowry. Selfish lawmaking bastards…

Don’t get me wrong, the dowry system did have its flaws, aside from the obvious “new brides being burned alive or committing suicide” thing. Why should only the women’s side have to pay? What makes men so special, especially in today’s age when girls are spending just as much on education as their male counterparts? The old excuses just don’t apply. But I’m not saying everybody should have to pay dowry, just the ugly ones.

I am hereby officially instating a new dowry system, one that will withstand the test of time and be embraced unlike the last one. The idea is simple: the uglier you are compared to your future spouse (male or female), the more amount of dowry you pay.

But who will decide how attractive you are? My hand-chosen bipartisan committee will rate the newly-weds-to-be, of course with me as the executive chairman with veto power. After being individually rated on a scale from 1 to 100, the two love-birds will then know who is quantitatively uglier than the other. The differential number is what’s important here, as it will dictate how much dowry will be exchanged. So for example, if some guy who looks like a Men’s Health cover model (score of 100) chooses to marry a girl who looks like a bloated Chubaka in a sari (score of 1), then the dowry her side will have to give would be the state of Hawaii (or another comparable group of islands). Conversely, if they both have a score of 55, then no gifts are to be exchanged at all. It’s the idea of natural selection taken to the next level, as the attractive people will flourish and the uglies will eventually stop reproducing (hopefully).

My new-aged dowry system will revolutionize the idea of love. People will only marry other people who are as hot or as ugly as them, putting an end to my biggest pet-peeve. I’m tired of seeing some abnormally hot girl getting married to a dark-skinned midget named Neal who looks like a burn victim with leprosy. Love won’t be blind for long, I assure you.

On a more personal note, there is an off chance that I marry a girl slightly less attractive than me. In preparation for that hypothetical situation, I have already made my dowry list (in case you were wondering, my score is 93... damned love-handles):

7 fully grown cows (2 physically fervent males & 5 milk-producing females)
4 obedient goats
60 gig color iPod
$50.00 gift certificate to Best Buy
George Foreman Grill
32 Cheesy-Gordita Crunches, 3 bean burritos with extra sour-cream and 5 orders of Cinnamon Twists
A pint of each of the Baskin Robbins 31 Original flavors

Desperate Househusbands

2005-07-28T15:52:00.000-07:00

When it comes to being the breadwinner of the family, Indian wives have taken the proverbial backseat for generations. These smart, hardworking, competent women have sacrificed their personal careers so that they can cook, clean, and watch marginally entertaining Indian soap-operas like Kussum the rest of their lives. Thanks male chauvinism! You’re the best! Though this problem is more apparent in generations past, even now traditional Indian families want the traditional Indian wife: obedient child-making factories. I don’t want to make it seem like women are abused; most men care for them with the utmost respect. But when it comes to building a career, Indian women are treated like they came in 4^th place at the Special Olympics. Case in point, an actual conversation my parents had a few years ago (sounds much funnier in Hindi):

Mom: Now that the kid’s are all grown up, I am thinking about going back to school to get my masters. Maybe getting a job and earning some money…
Dad (barely paying attention): Ahh, that’s nice. Let’s not rush into things. Can you make some samosas?
Mom: but…
Dad: And don’t skimp on the chutney this time. Nobody likes dry samosas.

After the dialogue my mom begrudgingly went back into the kitchen and cooked the delicious little fried treats, seemingly forgetting her life’s aspirations so that my dad could have a good hearty snack before naptime. Surviving the miracle of birth? No problem! Cleaning up after everyone for decades? Sure thing! Trying to get educated to enter the work force? Whoa Whoa… take it easy! Let’s not get ahead of ourselves…

But times are a-changing. Progressive writers like Arundhati Roy and I are paving the way for empowering Indian women everywhere. While most Indian girls are upgrading their career goals from housewife to doctor, I’ve decided to degrade mine to househusband. Why, you ask? My options are simple: bust my ass for the next 30 to 40 years in corporate boardroom hell kissing up to assholes named “Grant” and talking about golf swings OR bust my ass for the next 3 to 4 years at social events to seduce an ivy-league medical school girl with my boyish charm and good looks. But there is a more benevolent reason for my ideology. Chauvinistic attitudes towards our women have left me ill at heart. It’s time I take a stand for what I believe in! Ladies, if you are remotely attractive and are entering any profession where you will eventually earn a large 6-figure salary, please contact me so we can break this vicious cycle of belittling women.

And don’t you worry about my ability to effectively run a household. I have that part figured all out. Twenty years from now my day will play out as the following:

Wake up and give wife some early morning lovin’. Make her scrambled eggs.
Give kids healthy dose of Ritalin with their cereal. Drive them to school in light-blue minivan.
Meet up friends for lunch/afternoon drinks. Spread town gossip. Specifically, how the midget named Neal’s reoccurring infidelity with wife Mona is breaking marriage apart. He blames it on incessant nagging.
Go home. Work on “Desi’s Hating on Desi’s” blog, with special attention to color/font size. Spend rest of day in boxers watching Oprah and playing online poker.
Crank one out (if mood permits).
Pick up the kids. Feed them Taco-Bell. Hand over parental responsibilities to Playstation II and XBOX.
Start acting like it has been an extremely hectic day after wife comes back from full day’s work.
Prepare frozen pizza bagels for dinner.
Go to bed.

Like clockwork! Now I realize that the itinerary shown above will not be my typical day as househusband. Sometimes I will make fish sticks or chicken fingers, just depends on what my wife feels like eating that day. See? It’s all about empowerment.

There's nothing wrong with dying single

2005-07-14T01:07:00.000-07:00

Same as the last post but about Indian girl types. FYI, if you are offended by the content of this post, chances are you're one of the girls I profiled and I’ll hopefully never meet you.

The “Indian Pride” Girl

Although she probably couldn’t point out India on a color-coded and labeled map, the “Indian Pride” girl knows every Bollywood movie song that has come out in the past 2 decades. She loves dressing up in luxurious lehngas and saris. She loves eating greasy Indian food and watching Hindi movies even though she can’t speak a bit of… you guessed it: Hindi! And even though she lives in the suburbs of white America, everything in this girl’s life is Indian! Even her AIM screename is DesiGirl82!! She has a big Ohm sign on the back windshield of her car! YAAAAAY FOR INDIAN POP-CULTURE!!! I love that poverty-ridden country that I visit every 2 years to go shopping!!!

Sorry you girls reading this, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret: your group dances at the Indian functions are essentially pointless and a waste of time. You put weeks upon weeks of practice to perfecting every move, memorizing every hand movement. You squander money renting outfits. You put up with the nazi-choreographer with no people skills. You lost 3 of your closest friends because Sonal’s “just being a bitch” and “I can’t stand her anymore.” And all that for what? At the end of the day you’re just another dance we had to sit through before we can go to the fun-FOB-filled after party.

The “I need to get married” Girl (aka The Desperate Girl)

Now if you have been reading these blog entries or read my friendster profile, you might deduce that I am a heartless guy who will pretty much make fun of anything. And you’re right. But I do submit my deepest sympathies to the “I need to get married” girl. Usually in her late 20’s and even early 30’s, she is constantly bogged down with the ghastly thought: “Nobody will ever love me and I am going to die single.” Newsflash: there’s nothing wrong with dying single. Come to think of it, there’s a lot of upside to dying single that nobody even talks about. For example, you’ll never have to clean your husband’s shitty underwear. You’ll never have to worry about having children and thus never clean their shitty underwear. You’ll never have to worry about having grandchildren and in turn never clean their shitty underwear. So the dilemma is simple: do you want to clean up shit the rest of your life or die single? I personally would choose the latter.

What is most perplexing about the “I need to get married” girl’s situation is that she won’t simply get married to just anybody; even though highly qualified FOBs are a dime a dozen in your local university library. She has to get married to an Americanized doctor or lawyer who her parents will agree upon. The guy has to sweep her away from her everyday shit hole of a life and treat her like the princess that she isn’t. I mean, seriously… why don’t you girls just marry your dad? Once you hit the big three decade birthday mark, get big poppa to pop the big question. You know you get along with him and everyone in your family is bound to approve. The sex life might be a little awkward at first, but then again whose isn’t? You’ll get used to it and I suspect it’s better than not getting any at all*. Anyways, incestual polygamy is surely common in several parts of the world and seems like a resolution right up your alley.

But drastic times call for drastic measures. If you’re looking for any warm-bodied male to fill the void on the other side of the bed, then let it be known. Don’t wander around clubs, bars and lounges aimlessly. Much like the color-coded terror alert level system developed by our beloved Tom Ridge at Homeland Security, I have created a color-coded “Single Indian Girl’s” Alert level system. In order for this system to be effective, all girls must properly identify themselves by dying their hair the corresponding alert level. This way, men at the club will know how desperate you really are:

RED

Severe risk of going clinically insane at that thought of dying single. Get on http://www.shaadi.com/ and create a profile with this picture: Click here. Oh, and be sure to legally change your name to Aishwarya Rai.

ORANGE

High risk of dying single. Must set up candle-light dinner with dad.

YELLOW

Elevated risk of being incessantly annoying in a public setting. Call security if she starts humping your leg.

BLUE

General risk of hooking up with every male friend in an effort to get a boyfriend. Early morning cuddling after the first night leads to "So where are we?"

GREEN

Low risk. No need to worry unless you are morbidly obese. Good luck with that.

The Ghetto Girl

I don’t have much to say about the ghetto girl, other than of all the role models in the world to potentially base your mannerisms on, you have chosen Lil’ Kim and Missy “Misdemeanor” Elliot. I just don’t get it.

The Perfect Indian Girl

Haven’t met one yet. Let me know if they exist.

The Drama Queen

With colored contacts, enough make-up to build a sand castle on her face, and blonde streaks in her hair that makes her look like a retarded walking zebra, the drama queen is the only reason I could ever see myself turning gay. Trademarked by drunken promiscuity and with a mini river of mascara tears flowing down both cheeks, she is the female counterpart to the “Cry Baby” (see last entry). She always seems to be in the middle of some epic three-way love affair involving best friends and a midget named Neal. I personally think that drama queens are put on earth as God’s way of regulating the amount of fun her friends are having.

What sparks the drama queen into an enraged alcoholic fury of going ape-shit, followed by crying and bitching? Well I did some research and found out: Pretty much anything! The following is a short list of initial thoughts that set a drama-queen’s night off into the predestined wrong turn:

“Oh no…the people I came with actually seem to be having fun for once… time to fuck it up…”
“Anand (the guy I dated in the early 1990’s) just ignored me to talk to Priya… it’s cry time”
“Damn it, nobody has paid me a empty compliment on my new top that reveals the little cleavage that I have… let’s start the water works”
“Oh Jesus… I forgot to Nair my Goatee… maybe my tears will divert attention from it…”
“Justin Timberlake’s ‘Cry Me a River’ song is playing… now’s a good as time as ever”

The attractive drama queens are by far the worst, because they actually get the attention they are so eagerly trying to grab. While I think it’s hilarious to watch them cry and bicker for inane bullshit, I’ve figured out a cure to stop the nonsense. The next time you see a girl begin to cry and have a temper-tantrum: take her to the side, wipe her tears, and, when nobody is looking, roundhouse kick her in the face. Now I know this method is a bit abrasive and I’m usually not one for violence, but trust me… It works. Say bye-bye to those ruined nights! You’ll thank me in the end...

* I know… eeewwwwwwwww

Raj Patel: YOU ARE NOT BLACK

2005-06-29T00:32:00.000-07:00

Although we all might look alike in the club light, Indian guys come in several different varieties. While there are probably a couple dozen types, I have chosen to profile three of them: the Ghetto guy, the I-Banker, and the Cry-Baby. I would have done more types but quite honestly, I’m lazy.

The Ghetto Guy

The hip-hop culture has heavily affected these individuals into thinking they are actually 50 Cent or part of his entourage. You can usually pick them out of the crowd by the “bling” on their neck, Ohm tattoos, their pants that sag halfway off their ass and wearing a XXXL basketball jersey. And let’s not forget the thin, jaw-line side-burns and the crooked hat. News Flash: Look in the mirror Raj Patel: YOU ARE NOT BLACK. You’re not even dark skinned. Your parents were born in a village in Gujarat and you live the suburbs. At no point during your life will someone confuse you for Method Man. There’s nothing ghetto about you, so drop the act. If it were possible to morph into another race simply by altering the way you dress and talk, my dad would be considered a Jew.

A Ghetto Guy’s Ideal Night:

Drinking 40’s with your boys and cruise around in daddy’s overpriced Lexus SUV with deafening rap music. Try to pick up ghetto Indian girls with prime pickup lines like “Aye shawtee holla at your boy-boy.” When that doesn’t work, start a group fight at the club. Get pissed off at the cops as they drag your friends to jail for gun possession and public intoxication. Run around the parking lot like the sexually-frustrated primates that you are. Go home, smoke an ounce of weed and pour out some liquor for your “homies” in jail. Eat a bag of Funyuns. Pass out.

The I-Banker

These guys come out of the top-tier schools and are the self-proclaimed “cream of the crop”. Pretentious and irrefutably cocky, they usually think they are superior to everyone else in the world. To add to their already high-flying swagger, Indian girls flock to them. Why? Because I-Bankers have the ultimate aphrodisiac: large penises. Just kidding! They have money and lots of it.

I-Banker’s Typical Day:

Wake up hung over at dawn. Look in the mirror for 20-25 minutes and convince yourself that you’re not balding. Be sure to thank god that you’re not anybody else. Go to work for a minimum of 13-14 hours filling out Excel spreadsheets. Drink beer at happy hour with other people in your tax bracket in an effort to forget your meaningless day. Go home and get in a quick workout (your body is a temple). Shave chest, take shower, spike hair, spray plenty of cologne… and don’t forget, it’s horizontal-stripped-clubbing-shirt day. Check your blackberry. Pheww... don't have to go back to work tonight. Meet up friends at a techno-club with $30 cover. Drop $150 at the bar. Dance like an idiot. Choose your pick of marginally attractive Indian girls after notifying them where you work and how much money you earn; making sure to include pre-tax bonuses and exercised stock options. But then the drunken girl's friends convince her not to go home with you because you're a balding douchebag. Doesn't matter though! You're a fucking I-Banker! Who need's girls? Gorging at an after-hours gyro place with your closest guy friends and talking about how many "bangin' hot" girls you turned down tonight turns into watching Tivo at home on the new plasma TV. If you have enough energy, masturbation is on the to-do list. But get some shut-eye because you have work in 2 hours.

The Cry-Baby

If the Indian scene were the animal kingdom, this guy would be a baby gazelle. Lovable and delicate, he eventually gets eaten by a pride of lions. The “Cry-Baby” loves to snuggle up and watch Hindi-movies, go on long walks on the beach, and express his feelings through mediocre art. By and large consisting of exceedingly nice guys, they can be spotted at most clubs standing around either with a gloomy look of despair or with tears flowing from their bloodshot eyes. He’s usually being consoled by a pipeline of people throughout the night; each waiting to hand him off to the next person begrudgingly stuck trying to cheer him up*: “She’s not worth it Sandeep. You’re too good for her anyways… here, drink this water.” But why is our friend Sandeep so somber? To explain, let’s go back 18 months:

Sandeep met Deepa through a mutual friend. They hit it off instantly and begin chatting on AIM and/or the phone all day and night. Instead of asking her out on a proper date, he waits until they get plastered at a club and happen to hookup, signifying “dating” in most Indian circles. Weeks of dating turn into something more and finally, on one sunny afternoon after dry-humping, they declare their love for each other. They even came up with witty/cute names like “Sandeepa” to describe their relationship. He demonstrates his affection by showering her with surprise gifts: flowers, candy, teddy bears, music CD compilations of “their” songs, framed pictures of them, and even love poems with clever lines like “What’s up my girlfriend Deepa / you are definitely a Keepa!” Although it is clear from these gifts of endearment that Sandeep is whipped and Deepa is the proud owner of his balls, things begin to go wrong after a midget** named “Neal” comes into the picture. Playing the charming new-guy routine, Neal “platonically” befriends Deepa to become the bipartisan ear to which she can complain about her boyfriend’s imperfections. After a night of wine-filled banter, she complains to him “Sandeep just smothers me and I feel like I’m suffocating.” Neal calmingly replies “you know someone as beautiful as you shouldn’t have to deal with all this.” “Oh Neal, you’re the only one that understands me.” Neal makes his move for the inevitable hookup, capitalizing on the vulnerability of Deepa, who would have made out with the toaster if it were a little more animated. BAM! Just like that another Cry-Baby is born!

Cut back to present time. Sandeep, months later and strong in his conviction that he’s over her, for some reason shows up at every single god damn Indian party attended by Deepa and the midget named Neal. Without fail he falls to pieces at the sight of them coddling each other. Boo-Hoo. Luckily, time heals all wounds and eventually Sandeep finds the next girl and repeats the vicious cycle until he’s 29, at which point he will get his parents to mail-order a bride from India.

* I’ve taken the liberty to prepare a few frequent phrases that are commonly used to console a Cry-Baby, usually occurring at a club-setting. I realize that these aren't really funny so if you can add to this list, please leave it in a comment:
Girls consoling the Cry-Baby:
- “We’ve all been there… at least she still really, really, really cares about you…”
- “You’re such a good guy, I’m sure you’ll end up with someone great. No tears...” (carefully wipes tears)
- “Are you gonna be okay? Here, I got you some water.” (As if water has the magic ability to make you not a pussy)
Guys consoling the Cry-Baby:
- “I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but I never really liked that hairy bitch anyways. This round of shots is on me.”
- “After all you did for that bitch? You want me to kill her?”
- “Your dog die or something? Cheer the fuck up.”
- “Dude, two words: Strip. Club.”
- “What are you a 12 year old girl? Do us all a favor, go home and cry yourself to sleep…” (drunken laughter)

** In my eyes a midget is any male under 5’7”

The Joy of Indian Weddings

2005-06-14T15:09:00.000-07:00

The institution of marriage is widely accepted around the world as the pillar of any monogamous relationship. Young women crave it and young men don’t know any better. Beyond the inherent marriage bullshit, Indians also have to put up with a meaningless barrage of customs and rituals, like walking around the fire pit 7 times to signify that if the wife ever misbehaved, into the fire she goes. Let’s look at the intricacies of a Hindu marriage. Usually a four to five day event of lavish spending, these productions usually provide 800-1200 people a place of social interaction: a time for the ladies to showboat and strut their best new overpriced, gaudy outfits/jewelry; a time for the men to drink for free. All this, of course, is captured by a team of smile-happy Nazi photographers.

For you “ABCD’s” (God I hate that acronym), I’ve put together a short guide of what happens during the course of a typical wedding weekend, in chronological order:

Prayer (Ganesha Pooja) – Of the eight dozen pooja’s you will have to sit through, this one is definitely the most important. Why is it so important? Hmmm… Who gives a shit? The priest is the only one who really knows what’s going on and he’s been paid to make sure God approves of the wedding. While being drunk at most pooja’s is looked upon negatively, just be discrete about it.

Tilak – Sacred mark of auspiciousness applied on forehead of the bride and groom with sandal paste (Chandan), sacred ashes (Bhasma), or turmeric powder (kumkum). If you happen to run out of these supplies on wedding day, the ashes from a cigarette or cigar will do just fine.

Music/songs (Sangeet) – I feel sorry for the bride-to-be on this one. A sangeet is when a bunch of delusional overweight aunties get together in saris and howl as loud as they can, each trying to one-up the other, all while thinking that they are creating actual music. Then the uncoordinated dancing/clapping begins, which sadly is the only exercise these ladies will have all year. But that all goes to hell because afterwards they gorge on a buffet line of fried Indian goodies and sweets.

Procession & Reception (Barat & Swagat) – This is the beginning of the special day. The morning of the wedding, a few city blocks are closed off so everybody on the groom’s side can walk outside in the blistering heat for a procession to the bride’s family (where they await in an air-conditioned banquet hall). The hung-over groom is the center attraction. Covered in flowers and with a confused smile on his face, he is probably thinking “Why the fuck am I sitting on a horse?” Now ask yourself what would make the morning better? Did you answer Indian music piercing the skies, accompanied by a harmoniously incompetent guy playing a Dhol (Indian drum)? Well you answered right! Dozens of people are surrounding the groom, dancing around like they are on fire, usually anchored by an uncle on the brink of his 3rd heart-attack. What results is a big moving, sweaty, early-morning dance-club. The rest of the convoy, realizing the absurdity of the situation, is walking nearby counting the minutes for it all to be over. The neighboring streets are filled with a mix of local white people. These onlookers are soaking in the alien culture, taking pictures of the idiot-parade and probably discussing “I don’t know hun'… But I wreckon’ they are trying to make it rain. Git the kids” After finally arriving to the hall, the typical rituals takes place of trading flower garlands, applying more red stuff to foreheads, and, if state law permits, sacrificing a young virgin girl in appease the Gods.

Wedding Ceremony (Vivah, Shaadi) – The bride, groom, various members of both sides, and a priest are seated in front of a holy fire. The priest conducts the wedding with various ceremonial sequences, all while reciting prayers in Sanskrit. But since nobody knows Sanskrit, the Pundit could very well be singing “I'm Every Woman” by Whitney Houston. Who knows? Doesn’t matter, because nobody in the crowd is paying attention anyways: the aunties are busy gossiping about some shit another auntie said last dinner party, the uncles talking about the hotel industry and the political landscape in India, the girls are talking about who’s outfit is the prettiest and how the bride is having a bad hair day, and the guys are discussing who is the least un-attractive girl from the other side who they are gonna unsuccessfully hit on after 4-5 drinks tonight.

I haven’t been through the ceremony first hand and I’m dreading the day that I have to wake up early morning to go through an obstacle of random meaningless tribal rituals. Nevertheless years from now I will be required to sit in the mandap for hours at end, having a stream of thoughts like: What in the hell is the half-naked priest saying? Why can’t this shit be in English? Why is there a fire-pit in front of me? I hope my outfit doesn’t catch on fire. When is this damned thing gonna be over? Why is it so god damn hot? There needs to be maximum weight to legally wear a sari. I’m hungry. I wonder what my friends talking about. Damn it…My legs fell asleep. I should have brought my iPod. I wonder if the cake will be good. We should have eloped to Vegas. She better not be too tired for sex tonight.

Vidaii – Wedding’s over and last goodbyes take place. This is the tear-filled moment in which the daughter does not “belong” to her parents anymore. To make this truly meaningful, I personally think that right before the girl enters the car, the father of the groom should brand her neck with a cattle-prod and give the bride a constant reminder of her new family name, thus truly exchanging ownership. Maybe I'll start the trend at my wedding.

Every Indian subculture has put their own little spin on weddings and my favorite are the Gujarati and Punjabi's. Gujarati weddings have a thing called Garba. Where all the physically-able people pair up and dance barefoot with sticks! YAAAY! Doesn’t that sound fun? To paint a better picture, a Garba is what would result if you lock a bunch of socially awkward virgins in a big room with blaring loud music and give them a bunch of sticks and a full keg. Punjabi’s weddings are the only ceremonies where you’ll see an 89 year old grandmother handle her liquor better than most college-going men. Just as it should be, drinking seems to be an integral part of the festivities, but beyond that being intoxicated is the only way that Bhangra is remotely entertaining.

As I’ve mentioned before, Indian weddings are obnoxiously large, blatantly lavish, and mind-numbingly tedious. If it weren’t for a little thing of beauty called an “open bar”, surely the suicide rate at these functions would hit triple digits. The problem is, they are all the same. Just once I would like to see a midget named Neal get shot out of a cannon during one of those boring speeches. Being a man of the future, I’ve decided to have my wedding in my living room and have it webcasted LIVE for anyone who wants to watch it. Better yet, I’ll pay a body-double to sit in for me for all the ceremonial bullshit while I go workout or do something actually productive. I’ll come back when it’s time to cut the cake.

STONE THAT BITCH!

2005-06-03T16:41:00.000-07:00

With the exception of a retarded midget in a wheelchair, I don’t think anything is more comedically depressing than a single Indian girl. Once these girls turn 26 their sole purpose in life switches from shopping to finding a husband. You can see them at the clubs, hawk-eyeing the “older guys” in search for the perfect handsome doctor who will say those four special words: “You are actually tolerable” or “Will you marry me” (I can’t remember which one).

Most people, including me, can’t comprehend the complexity and sense of urgency that these girls have to mentally bear. Every social event they hear “Beta, your sister is married, why don’t you find a nice boy like her” or “Quit whoring around and give me grandkids”. There is a certain type of guy these girls like: must be pre-approved by family and friends, must be a certain type of Indian, must have lots of money, and must be ready to eat out 7 days a week because she probably can’t cook worth shit. But what compounds the problem is that most of the guys they are attracted to are full of themselves because they went to medical school. This results in grueling 3-6 month relationships usually ending in the guy saying “It’s not you, it’s me.” What they really mean is “I had my fun but now it’s time to stop wasting time and money for mediocre sex* with you”

Much of this is understandable because since birth these girls have been programmed to believe that marriage before a certain age is the only prerequisite in which our society will accept them. What? Anjali is single at 30? STONE THAT BITCH! How dare she! DAMN her for not have a big lavish wedding where we can all drink and eat shitty food for free in an obnoxiously big hall! I wish other norms in our culture were enforced with such passion. I would love it if an auntie came up to me at a dinner party, pinched my cheeks, “Tushar Beta, you are 24 now. Have you had a three-some yet?... NO? But you are so handsome!…”

You ever see a beautiful Indian girl married to a hideous FOB-looking guy whose B.O. you can smell through a picture? Wander what happened? She essentially sold herself to the highest bidder**. Years later she’s “happy” with the 3 little trolls that resulted from the FOB’s seed. The sad thing is she’s going to teach her daughters the same things, that marriage is the end-all-be-all. So don't cry on my shoulder when you're single, 35, and body parts are starting to sag. My advice to you girls: stop stressing out, enjoy the company of your friends, and buy a vibrator. All else will fall into place.

* Yes uncles and aunties reading this, we have sex and lots of it. And those “good kids” like yours who swear to Vishnu they don’t have sex, they are dry-humping, which is essentially the same thing with carpet burn.

**The highest bidder in this case would be the guy with the most earning potential and in turn have the ability to buy the bride-to-be completely needless shit like a wardrobe full of Saris and jewelry.

Rajput Princess or Mexican Midget?

2005-05-23T19:56:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I had a conversation with my father regarding my marital status. Being indian, only recently turned 24, and with an older sister in the marriage pipeline, I realize that this conversation was merely theoretical. Everything was fine until he said “Tushar, I want you to marry a nice Rajput* girl”. I could tell he was serious because the vein in his forehead was throbbing, as it so commonly does when frivolous bullshit pours out of his mouth. As I consider myself a young liberal, forcing myself to marry a girl just because we share the same great-ancestors seems pretty tribal and not to mention, highly incestual. I tried to argue with him on the topic but I ended up mumbling “over my big dead flabby ass”.

The thing is I’m not against the idea of bringing joy to my dad by marring the village-girl he picks for me. But he equates marrying a Rajput with my eventual happiness. Who’s to say I won’t be happy settling down with a Gujarati, a redneck stripper, or a even midget Mexican? At least the Mexican would save me some trips to Taco Bell. If I were to marry a “Rajput Princess”, would it mean my life would be pristine? If that were true, my parents probably wouldn’t have their bi-weekly fight over shit that happened 27 years ago. How far will my dad take his early 1800’s mentality? What if I were gay? Would he be cool as long as I married a Rajput guy? “Dad, I’ve decided to make Vivek my life partner. Before you react, just know that he’s 100% pure-breed Rajput…”

Much to my father’s dismay, he’ll soon realize that I don’t care for his incessant barrage of “cultural values”. Because once I let him choose my wife, what is to stop him from making other life-altering decisions? I can end up a 55 year old driving a dodge minivan and working my shitty engineering job while having sex once a month with a hairy girl with strong Rajput values. FUCK… THAT. Time to find a Mexican midget.

* “Rajput” is a high sub-sect of a caste in the Indian taxonomy of culturally dividing people with no real logical basis other than the idea of suppression. I’ve been told I’m Rajput and, while my father has a lot of superfluous pride on the issue, I could care less that I am of a “higher” caste because the last time I checked I was living in 2005 America and not 1805 British-ruled India.

We Be Clubbin'

2005-05-16T14:41:00.000-07:00

That’s about all we do. Every Indian who is between the ages of 17 and 35 loves Clubbin’ and everything Clubbin’- related. I tried to calculate how many times I have been since I started freshman year of college. I got to #35 but stopped because depression took over my very being. The reason is because I took a minute to think what clubbing really is. Clubbing, from my perspective, is when a group of Indians go out to a place with a minimum $10 cover where hip-hop music blares uncontrollably. Once there, several rounds of drinks (@ $4-7 per drink) are bought in an effort to get a good buzz and thus tolerate the people you came with.

You want to have a conversation? Fudgetaboutit! The current popular radio-beat from 50 Cent that the 5’4” Indian DJ is spinning is way too loud! After you struggle to talk to a Indian girl with colored-contacts that makes her look 14 instead of 16, you proceed to take her to the dance floor and have one big sweaty, drunken haze of “fun”. Where “fun” is circle-dancing with the 15 guys you came with while passing around the 3 girls you all have hooked-up with but are “strictly platonic” now. YAY! Then it’s back to the bar for MORE drinks! Why? You guessed it, the buzz is wearing off.

Sometimes you are inebriated enough to expand your social horizons and meet some, dare I say, Caucasian people. That will only go so far before one of the three Indian girls you came with explodes into tears because you’re not showing her the interest you did 3 years ago. You asshole! Then it’s straight to damage control: Get her water. Hug her. Tell her you love her. Hold her head up while she pukes and mumbles how sorry she is. Wipe her drool and tell her it’s not her fault… “it happens to everyone”.

But wait, before you take her home, the night’s not over yet! That’s right: put a group of overtly privileged Indian kids together with an opportunity to buy drinks with daddy’s hotel money and what do you get? Fight Club! No Clubbin’ night would be complete without a good ‘ol fashioned Indian testosterone-driven fight! How do 95% of them pan out? The scenario:

5’2” Douchebag with goatee: Yo were you lookin at my girl?

5’3” Douchebag with goatee and earrings: Who is your girl?

5’2” Douchebag with goatee: The one with the unibrow...

5’3” Douchebag with goatee and earrings: Yeah I was... What you gonna do about it?

At this point 43 midgets named “Neal” pop out of the panels on the wall and brawl until the club bouncers are forced to use pepper-spray. I was thinking, since Indians like to dance Bhangra so much, why not, next time a fight is about to erupt, the dance floors clear and they have a Bhangra Dance Off. The DJ is already playing that shitty music and we all know everybody has been practicing for the next big Holi show. Just a suggestion.

So next time you’re at a club, with your spiked hair and your striped Express for Men shirt from the fall-line, look at one of the mirrors on the wall and ask yourself “Am I a douche?” I did that the other day and my reflection responded “Yes, you are the very definition of a douche”. I proceeded to have a long conversation about how hot and cool I am.

When the club-lights turn on and it’s time to leave you realize that you have been dancing with a Indian girl who can pass as Chubaka’s off-spring, time to get her number! As you leave you observe the dozens of glossy-eyed Indians, half crying and the other half trying to pick a fight, don't be upset that the night's over already. Get ready for two more nights because it’s ONLY Thursday! Off to Waffle House.

Breaking my Blog cherry

2005-05-04T21:14:00.000-07:00

Well folks, for the 3 of you reading this... I appreciate the time. I decided to start this "web log" after reading some blogs and thinking "perhaps some people shouldn't have a means to communicate their thoughts to the mass population" (you know who you are). No, nobody wants to read about your insights into your meaningless hobby, or how your favorite professional player on your favorite professional team is so underrated, or, especially, how much you hate studying. Nobody gives a shit. So with that in mind, I will try to call people out as much as possible because I have labeled myself as the authority.

On a brighter note, I'm gonna be 24 in four days where I will go to Atlanta and partake in alcoholism. If you are reading this and I don't outwardly hate you, come join in the festivities: This Saturday at Cafe Tu Tu Tango at 9pm. Afterwards, it's Tongue & Groove or Jack Rabbit.

If you are a male under 5'7" please dissolve any intention of blessing us with your presence. I'm not kidding. For the rest of you ladies and gentlemen, be sure to shave and bring your pretty smiles!