Tweeters, pickles and masochists

Swalpa Connect Madi

I am glad I am not Shashi Tharoor. I do not tweet or twitter or chirp… whatever it is that nouveau politicos and birds do.

Here he thought he was writing something breezy about his hardships in the hurly burly of economy class, hoping to evoke some sympathy, when all the holy cows he referred to, snort, hrrrph and paw the ground to banish him to his seven-star gym-ridden life.
Very much like he was busy waffling his way through a pasture when his foot get stuck in something soft squishy and smelly left behind by cattle with stomach upset.

I am happy I am not L K Advani. I can understand being called a fruit…overripe or otherwise. I can accept being called a vegetable.

Or even a Jinnah lover. But a pickle!! If I was Mr Advani, I would ask for clarifications. Did Parrikar mean lime or mango pickle or the hotch potch of wilted vegetables that they pass off as mixed pickle in the North?

Then again, did Parriker mean that Advani was improving with age or just going rancid with gray fungus on the top and baby wiggling worms underneath?

Maybe here is an idea for a jobless Advani to put to capitalise on all the sourness he has been constitutionally blessed with.

Start a pickle enterprise. He could brand it ‘Chintan Pickles’ and innovatively market them by ‘rath yatras’.

I  am glad I am not Kasab, pining for biryani. Jail food isn’t really gourmet stuff... But if this chap is going to be in for a long time, surely we don’t want him to lose weight and dwindle down to skin and bones before the electric chair revs up for its grand finale.

The least he can expect is for us to be good hosts, after gunning down a couple of dozen innocent Indians. Have we forgotten the basic ethic of ‘athiti devo bhava’? Besides, we do want that electric chair to make a satisfying sizzle with his fat.

Am I glad I am not one of those masochistic sods on Sachh Ka Samna having to answer bare-all questions. Have I ever dreamed of another man?

What colour undies do I prefer to wear when I go to the market? Do I dig my nose or snore? None of your blooming business!

If God wanted us to reveal all, he would have made our heads transparent with a ticker tape emerging out of the ear with thought process.

But it does not end with answers. Masochistic Sod goes home to hatchet-wielding husband and furious family, only to hear that some woman has committed suicide in Lado Sarai because she admitted to dreaming of Tom Cruise in the buff.

And she hasn’t even won the prize money because the polygraph said nay. I also wouldn’t want to be any of those celebrities reinforcing their celebrity status by letting little green snakes gambol in their décolletage.

I wouldn't want to be S M Krishna on an enforced austerity regime, Mayawati having to knock off all those statues, the Italian PM making out with females one third his age. Or Shiney Ahuja. But that is another column...”