Ghibli

2007-07-02T23:59:00.000-07:00

Tragedy

I have just ran out of cigarettes. Now this may seem like an ordinary turn of events to healthy, nicotine free people such as yourselves, but for someone as neurotic and dependent on external narcotic stimuli such as myself this an absolute fucking catastrophe. The only thing that could be worse is running out of air to breathe, or having my scrotum trapped in a frui...t...mixer...ouch. That was not a pleasant thought.

Getting more cigarettes is not a feat easily accomplished you understand, especially at this time of the day when I'm tired from the sleeplessness. It entails, ugh, work, as in effort, as in labour, sweat and toil. The mere mention of that word is enough to send shivers of hate and loathing down my spine. But I suppose sacrifices must be made, there are no free lunches in this world after all. Other than Thursdays on the outskirts of this city. No pain, no gain. I will once again have to make the tremendous physical effort from my bed to the bedroom door and yell at my brother to get me some fags. It's filthy, dirty work but nobody's going to do it for me, I'm willing to make that compromise for the promised rewards. Pfft, and people call me lazy. Just goes to show, with the proper motivation and interest, everyone...zZz.

2007-07-02T23:34:00.000-07:00

Sexy

A friend wants me to blog about how sexy and wonderful he is. So here it is. You're not sexy and wonderful at all. In fact, you're disgusting. I wouldn't touch you with a 4 foot pole. You're like the anti-Viagra. Your photograph can be used to cure people who are terminally aroused. You didn't just get hit with the ugly stick, you got smacked with the whole fucking tree. I bet when you were born, the doctor slapped your parents instead of you. You're so ugly, your hairline is receding just to get away from your face! You're so ugly, your toothpaste won't come out of the tube! If you had a sister, she'd die a virgin!

Ok, ok. I'm kidding.

If you had a sister, I'd definitely do her.

Btw, is this guy any relation to you?
http://www.thelinuxlink.net/images/sexy_man_sc.jpg

2007-06-25T22:55:00.000-07:00

Monday’s another day

Same old, same old in the life of a 22 year old manic depressive overworked undergrad. What a shitty summer this is turning out to be. Firstly, the heat. Dear God, the heat! I’m melting away in my knickers, it must be 50 degrees outside, the air conditioning isn’t working, all the fluids I drink are pouring out of me in gallons of sweat, the air is stuffy and humid and there’s my kid brother with 60 kilos of weight dripping out of his unclad torso and there’s some pillock on the news going on about the number of people who have died of sunburn or sunstroke or strokeburn or whatever. Well I’ve got news for you buddy, you missed a spot while shaving this morning, and you look like a bloody twit anyway, get the fuck off my television screen!

Well, at least there might be a reasonable explanation for this bastard weather. Our esteemed president and great leader, the incomparable General Mush likes to think that the sun shines right out of his arse, and I’m beginning to agree with him. Only such close proximity to the burning star could account for the scorching we’re on the receiving end of. And it’s not like he’s averse to showing his rear to the nation, almost everyday. Elections? What do you need them for? You hold elections to choose who’s going to run the country, someone already is running the country. Idiots.

That brings me to what’s really been getting my goat these past few months. Idiots. Sayeth the Oxford dictionary:

idiot
• noun 1 informal a stupid person. 2 Medicine, archaic a mentally handicapped person. 3 Formal a current or former employee of WAPDA (Water and Power Destruction Authority).

Are we the only country in the world, apart from Nigeria, who’d actually benefit from not having a water and power authority, at all? I mean, we could dig up the earth with our bare hands to catch the rising water table and be guaranteed better results. There’s more electricity in the clouds than there is in our homes. We could empty out all the plants and buildings and turn them into brothels and storehouses for drugs and ammunition, that’d fulfill more societal function than these merry band of retards ever could. Do you have to be clinically insane to land this job, or do negative IQ’s and speech impediments count as sufficient qualification? Do you ever wonder what happened to those kids you knew at school, who never passed in any of the exams, eventually dropped out and couldn’t even get work doing the rounds (asking for money) on Kalma Chowk? Guess what, they work at WAPDA! You remember that particular dimwit who used to strut around the classroom boasting, with great pride, how he can now tie his own shoelaces, in the 10th fucking grade? Well, he’s the chairman! Here he is!
http://www.wapda.gov.pk/images/chairman.gif

If he looked anymore interested, you wouldn’t be wrong in assuming that he loved his job more than himself. With enthusiasm like that, he can put any project on the death knell in a matter of minutes. This is why we are where we are, and just where are we?

We are out on the streets every night getting mugged in dark corners (I’ll get to that some other time) because the power only comes on long enough for us to see it go out again. These are basic civil needs, for fuck’s sake.

Have you seen the streets in Lahore? Neither have I. Usually it’s just miles of bumps and cracked pavements where the occasional patch of road breaks out. Then there’s the traffic. Every time I get on the main road it feels like I’m on one big parking lot. A couple of hours into the morning drive and I can still see the top of my house. No time is safe anymore. There’s probably more cars than people in this fucking city. It’s awful.

There have been 8 accounts of armed robbery in my neighborhood these past two months. And this is Model Town we’re talking about, it’s supposed to be a relatively posh area. For we all we know, the perpetrators might actually have moved in somewhere near as well, for the sheer convenience. The only investigation that follows these thefts is about who called the police station and when? After they finally figure that one out in a day or two, they piss off grumbling something about ruining a perfectly good game of poker.

There’s one particular mong who made a habit of stealing my sideview mirrors, off the parked car in front of my bloody house. No time was inconvenient for him, I could park it any hour of the day, go inside and eat some food, smoke a cigarette, have a wank and sure enough. a couple of hours later there’d be a shallow black crater where a glistening mirror used to be. I got so pissed off after the 3rd time I didn’t even bother putting in a new one. I now drive around without any sideview mirrors. It’s a pain looking over my shoulders every few seconds, but at least it gives me the mental satisfaction of no longer being anyone’s stooge. Or wait, er…

Anyway, that’s the end of this particular rant. I expect I’ll be blogging more regularly now that I’ve got the summer off. Good news for the two of you who still come here and probably won’t even bother reading this far down. Cunts.

2007-06-06T01:03:00.000-07:00

Footeh

I was thinking of doing a review of the Champion’s League final but that was before it turned out to be the dripping fresh turd off a horse's arse. I’ll go ahead and do it anyway, but not exclusively or anything and in a shorter and more concise form. So here goes: zZz.

…

…

…

Not that, given the teams that were participating in it, much more could possibly have been expected. Milan are like the Ebola virus, only their slow and torturous affliction is without the promise of eventual relief, in the form of death. Liverpool though, are in a class of their own. The scousers are tolerable as a subhuman species allowed to breed purely in the interest of scientific observation, but despite their hubcap stealing and old ladies mugging antics providing decent entertainment off the pitch, their football team has put the state of the European game in such doldrums it’s in the danger of making cricket look enjoyable.

At the helm of this evil plan to reduce the global football fanbase is none other than the inflated Spanish cushion, the magic midget from Madrid, Ra…Raf…Ben…B...nah, can’t even say his name without going to sleep. His policy of buying mediocre players and playing even worse ones is matched only by his ambitious 10-0-0 formation, the idea being to put the opponents in a false sense of security and a very real sense of abject boredom, submitting to which they may eventually go to sleep, leaving the Liverpool players completely open to grab a draw or, with a slice of good luck, maybe even a win (here, praise must be lavished on the aforementioned Liverpool players and staff, who manage to retain their consciousness when people all over the stadium are losing theirs, truly a remarkable feat).

It’s usual for ‘pool enthusiasts to see their team coming out onto the field boasting 4 left backs and couple of dozen central defenders, even though the maximum allocation of players is 11. The fat one responds to criticism of having induced more comas than freeway accidents by claiming in a press conference that, “I’m not boring!”. Actually, we’re told he said a lot more than that, but the reporters began to drift off a bit…

Anywho, his team put up an absolute snoozefest earlier this month, as they bowed out to a Milan side with an average age of 62, thanks to two Pippo Inzaghi strikes, who’s yet to score a legitimate goal in his career despite being on the wrong end of the 60’s himself. Mongs like Inzaghi should be considered permanently offside (until proven otherwise using the latest in satellite technology or something) and shouldn’t be allowed to use any part of their anatomy to participate in the game, under the offense of mongball.

Before the match began, it was impossible to decide which scenario would be worst. The 11 man sleeping pill getting second strike at killing football as a spectator sport, just two years after they successfully mounted their initial assault; or the new Mussolini’s fascist, cheating, bribing, match fixing gang of retirement home evictees, a team that shouldn’t even have been in the tournament to begin with, having been convicted of illegal and unsportsmanlike acts not 12 months ago.

It was like they said in that Alien vs Predator movie, “Whoever wins, we lose”.

And lose we did. Big time. Well, at least there’s now the slightest possibility that Benitez might be out of a job soon, ugh…whenever I think of him I just want to find his mother and slap her for bringing such a fat, tedious, irritating little plonker into this world.

2007-05-07T12:33:00.000-07:00

Cricket, justice and a guy called Bob

For a long time now, probably even before its inception, this country has been on the verge of imploding. It was like that bastard child nobody wanted to bring into this world but which nevertheless survived the abortion and managed to claw its way out of its mother’s womb against its own (eventual) better judgment. The umbilical chord was finally cut, figuratively speaking, when the northeastern and western extremities of India were handed over to some lawyers, civil servants and fruit merchants from Utter Pradesh, who quickly found out how they were totally unfit to govern this ethnically diverse smorgasbord of kinships, clans and prevailing agrarian hierarchies and thus deemed it better to share some of the responsibilities with (the elite portion of) a populace equally incapable of governing itself. Thus came into existence the moral and intellectual backwater known as Pakistan.

60 years have passed since then. A lot has happened, some for the bad, some for the worst, but like a dying mare on its last legs this country continues to limp on, only for how long?

As of 2006, we were 10th on the Fund for Peace’s failed states list and our competition is the likes of Congo, where they greet each other with a bullet through the head. We’ve got a president who thinks of the nation as only a best seller to be, we’ve got politicians who’d sell their mothers for half your vote, we’ve got an army that’s more concerned with defending class action suits (remember kids, if you leave no civil rights, they can’t be transgressed) than defending borders, we’ve got industrialists who’d invest in any country other than their own, we’ve got a national identity crisis that makes the Soviet Union’s look like French cheese, we’ve got religious zealots that make the Crusaders look like Care Bears, our constitution has been raped more times than the female sex and our law enforcement agencies are accused of half the bloody crimes taking place in the country; Le irony!

More recently, in a seamless continuation of this trend, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Pakistan, whose job it is to provide justice to others, has been busy seeking justice for himself. He's been suspended from his job for, allegedly, taking his girl for a spin in a government chopper and buying inhuman amounts of toothpaste (one is enough for a few weeks, sir, you don't have to fucking swim in it). However, it's also been alleged that the real reason for the spat was Iftikhar "Top of the Pops" Chaudhry refusing to dress up as Sher Shah Suri for Mushi's annual fancy dress bash. Which is just silly, I mean if you can waltz around the office all day in a black cape like the Grim fucking Reaper, surely you can put on a helmet and a few regal garbs for a dear friend?http://content.answers.com/main/content/wp/en/thumb/e/ee/180px-Shershah.jpg

Incidentally, I hear Mushi went as a stupid little cunt faced mong, no costume needed there then. Anyway, best of luck to the Chief Justice, hope he wins back the right to use the state helicopter and buy as much toothpaste as he likes. It would really make a fucking difference to this world.

Given this socio-economic and political background, it comes as no great surprise that people look elsewhere for some semblance of national fullfilment. That ‘elsewhere’ being cricket. This is the reason why a mere sport, which is purely a form of entertainment and distraction in other countries, has amassed a following in this country so fanatical and utterly devoted to the game it would put major cults to shame. Are you listening, scientologists?

Thus, when a little over a month ago, the national Cricket team set sail for the warm waters of the Caribbean, the country eagerly looked upon them to provide some hope and joy in these decidedly bleak times. Thus also, when the players put on a display so utterly shambolic and embarrassing to the name of Pakistani cricket, for the second World Cup running, the masses went into a spastic rage of mammoth proportions and started burning effigies and sending out death threats like they were dinner invites, but who can blame them?

What was funny though (as in funny bizarre, not funny haha) was that while they were holding mock funerals of the unfortunate Bob Woolmer, then coach of the national side, here in the streets of Multan the real Bob Woolmer was in the actual process of dying, hundreds of miles away. Poor Bob, he must’ve come to this country with so many dreams and aspirations (easy paycheck, cheap weed), I don’t think he’d ever have suspected leaving his job in a casket.

So what killed him? Our batting against the Irish? Amir Sohail’s commentary? The international bookie mafia? The infamous Jamaican weed? Spirits? Aliens? That little whore from The Ring? Thing is, who gives a shit? What I’m interested in knowing is, why Amir Sohail is still alive? If you can kill someone as inoffensive and cute as Bob, why can’t you find the decency to do the world a huge favour and kill that arse bleeding, intellectually stunted ape as well? Hey, it might even take some years off that jail time, protecting public interest always garners sympathy from the jury.

2007-03-12T22:16:00.000-07:00

Drink, drank, drunk

I am not drunk. I am, me. Who? Is. Drunk. Not for the first time…for the first time. But, I promise, the last time. This time. Sometimes, my mouth tastes like vomit. I am in my underwear, outside my room, typing tele…telipa…telepatheti...cly. I can’t see my feet, I think maybe it’s because I’ve fallen down but I’m not sure. All the ants look like people from down here. When I was 6 we went to England but I never came back. Most people wonder what life after death is like, well I’ve been dead 22 years and I can safely say it’s a huge crock of shit. Monday is such a whore. Everyone around me keeps spinning in circles and they have the audacity to call me drunk? I’m not exactly sure why, but right now I’ve got a horse in my bathroom. I had an uncle who thought he was a chicken, my aunt almost divorced him, but we needed the eggs. Is it still a morning woody if you wake up in the evening? Can God create a videogame even he can’t beat? I bet you God wouldn’t even beat Super Mario. Not in 6 minutes anyway, unlike this guy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOhCWzF3aJc&mode=related&search=

Now you know you’ve been worshipping at the wrong altar. Repent and atone.

2007-03-12T22:11:00.000-07:00

The Work of Art?

What’s bald and full of shit? Hint, it’s not your buttocks. Though it resembles them to a very great degree and probably smells just as bad. Another hint, it belongs to a bloke who used to tell people that he taught English at the Beaconhouse Garden Town campus, but us in the know er...know that what he really did was set the tables and wipe the blackboard every morning, and spend the rest of the day making tea in the staffrooms. Actually he made the tea in the canteen and then brought it to the staffrooms – and the principals office should the esteemed leader ever get tired of shagging his desk – but you get the idea. Which reminds me, I owe the gaffer at the canteen something like two hundred rupees. Not small change for a guy who makes his living off children’s pocket money – which by the way, is reaching extortionate amounts these days, just the other day my runt of a brother got two thousands for his 13th birthday, the first time I ever saw a hundred was when my old man asked me to pay off the gas bill, yesterday – but it’s not like I’d always intended to default on my debt, it’s just something I kept on forgetting and forgetting till I had graduated and trimmed my hair and gained 40 pounds and became suicidal and impotent and partly blind and wholly disillusioned with the world. I mean, it’s like I’m not even the same person I was 4 years ago. Is it still a debt if I’m not even the same person anymore? What if I got amnesia, or breast implants? Would I still owe that man any money? It’s like Mark Twain once said, “If you loan a man twenty dollars and never see him again, consider it twenty dollars well spent.” Besides, he was a hairy old weasel who would probably have spent every one of those rupees on the kind of second grade pot that burns too quickly and mixes too well and rolls so nicely that it’s only after you’ve had a few whizzes that you realize you’ve been smoking dung.

But going back to Hassan Shik…oh, what a giveaway! I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sir. I never meant to insult you. It’s just that I saw your film and got to wondering why, when there are people starving as near as Ipswich, would anyone in England give you the money to waste on your intellectual excrements, the product of which most closely resembles the still moist feces of a recently deceased rat. Oops, I’ve done it again haven’t I. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re about as good an actor as you are humble, which means you’ve got all the emotive qualities of a brick wall. I’ve seen better acting in porn movies; porn movies in which you don’t even get to see the faces of the performers. You make Peter North’s cock seem like Laurence Olivier. The semen ejaculating from that tip is poetry compared to the shit coming out of your mouth. And what was with the rigor mortis? And those bloated facial expressions? You always did look like you didn’t give a crap, I just never figured it was due to chronic constipation.

P.S. That dude who looked like Chow Yun-Fat was wicked. More screen time for him please, maybe you could take the ‘laugh for two seconds and get the fuck off the set’ role, next time?

P.P.S. Three cheers if you ever figure out who I am.

2007-03-12T22:08:00.000-07:00

Joshua Homme

Do you like uplifting, inspiring music? Do you like to be moved by sumptuous melodies, roused by passionate harmonies and enthralled by eloquent progressions? If you do, then you’d better stop reading right here, because Josh Homme has nothing do with that. Josh Homme makes music that is about as rousing as a smear of ink. Joshe Homme makes music that wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. Josh Homme makes music that just doesn’t care.

Still with his Queens of the Stone Age routine these days, he’s been involved in a number of projects over the years (even making a guest appearance on a Mastodon album, go figure), none more notable than the genre defining, acid tripping, arse kicking, pronunciation defying stoner rock outfit from the deserts of California, Kyuss. Kyuss was a little known cult of idol worshippers in the Dungeons & Dragons franchise of board games, and one of the few bands to revolt against the repetitive and insipid hair metal and glam rock bands of the 80’s and still make a successful mainstream career. It was their laid back style and indifferent music that caught the attention of the masses circa the early 90’s, and when I say indifferent music, I mean indifferent music. There’s times when they don’t even bother playing, there’s a good 5-6 minutes of static on each of their albums. What is there is a heavily distorted mix of riffs, snares, solos and some rubbish vocals that thankfully don’t last long enough to ruin many songs. “Welcome to Sky Valley” is the recommended album to get the feel for the band, though all 4 of their efforts are solid.

Anyway, Homme’s penchant for distortion and those eargasmic solos can be evidenced in any of his projects, as can his preference for working under the influence of mushrooms and LSD’s, so you’d do well to give a listen. What’s more, he’s 6’5. And ginger. And he chews on steel pipes for breakfast. Respect.

2007-02-12T11:00:00.000-08:00

“Am I gay!? I’m ecstatic!”

What follows is a list of famous men who have, up until now, successfully hidden their deepest, darkest and vilest habit from the scathing eyes of the world. No, not that they get together to watch Oprah every Tuesday, but that they’re gay. You know, queer. Crooked. Bent. Camp. Queens. Ponces. Pansies. Poofs. Buggers. Homos. Fairies. Aunties. Arse bandits. Toilet traders. Bum boys. Batty men. Backside artists. In the closet. Faggot-arsed, fudgepacking, shitstabbing uphill gardeners. They bat for the other team. They dine at the downstairs restaurant. They’re Moses and the parting of the red cheeks. They fuck and get fucked. They suck and get sucked. They rim them and they wank them. They take it where the sun don’t…well, you get the picture.

Jesus:

You knew that was coming. The hair. The beard. The dresses. Surrounding himself with a dozen young men. Being impartial to male nuditiy. Never married. Never even went out on a date. Spoke of love and peace and other effeminate nonsense us real men know doesn’t really exist in this world. What do you think had Judas so riled up? Apparently, John was Jesus’ favourite apostle, used to sleep with his head in his lap and all, only it didn’t go down all too well with the other 11. You know how these things are, it’s difficult enough with one, but that’s relationships for you. Methinks the son of God bit off a bit more than he could chew but if anybody asks, you didn’t hear that from me. If you still think I jest, just take a gander here. http://www.religioustolerance.org/chr_jegay.htm

Batman:

Is the world round? Is the sky blue? Is batman gay? I mean, isn’t it fucking obvious? “To the batcave, Robin!” But make sure Alfred doesn’t notice. We’re talking about a guy who wears tights, a cape and gloves. Not to mention the seemingly endless array of gadgets he keeps producing from his knickers, and the affinity he has for small, dark places and chasing after masked and make-upped men. Batman and Robin? More like Bruce Wayne and his homoerotic fantasies.

Superman:

No straight man would ever wear his underwear on top of his pants. It defies all logic and puts to shame the most questionable of fashion senses, even Tim Burton’s. What’s more, no straight man would ever claim a pair of transparent spectacles as credible disguise. The idea is profoundly stupid and surely the product of a homosexual mind. “I’ll just put these on and nobody will recognize me,” only glasses are supposed to improve your own eyesight, not worsen everybody else’s. Nonce.

Waylon Smithers:

Ok, so everyone knows he’s as gay as a ballet troupe, but somehow that final piece of incriminating evidence has always eluded the rest of the Simpson characters, probably because the writers of the show haven’t gotten around to it. Oh well, at least one person in Springfield knows his fags.
“What will you being doing this weekend, Smithers? Something gay, no doubt.” - Mr. Burns

Arsene Wenger:

Very languid, stoic looking guy for someone with the word ‘arse’ in his name. He likes playing with teenage boys, says they’re cheaper when they’re young and easier to handle. Has been the manager of both Sol Campbell, who used to be the most notoriously homosexual footballer in London, and Robin van Persie, who is the most notoriously homosexual footballer in London. Can usually be seen near the touchline on match days, frothing at the mouth from seeing 22 men running after a ball, knees bared and sweating from head to toe.

Younis Khan:

Now don’t think I put him here just because he carries the moniker, Khan, though it would’ve been sufficient enough reason. No, he’s here because of those surreptitious glances and flirtatious gestures towards members of the masculine sex, out on the pitch (and also the fact that he’s a god awful cricketer, so he must be fucking someone in the PCB to keep getting in the team). At first I thought he was a decent bloke you know, you see him in a match and he’s always smiling and clapping and reciting his little mantras of encouragement, trying to keep everyone’s spirits up. But upon closer inspection, it turns out that this teeth-bearing facade is merely a distraction for what’s really going on. A careless hand here, an innocuous finger there, on pants and shirts and sleeves of teammates; a pat on the back, a squeeze on the bum, a rub down the thighs and pretty soon he’ll be giving full body massages near the boundary line.

Zeeshan ‘The Builder’ Mansoor:

Alright, so he’s not really gay, but he’s not really straight either. He’s more like, omnisexual. He’ll fuck anything that stands still long enough to pull his pants down and whip that purple-headed warrior out. You give him something with a hole in it, and he’ll fuck it. You give him something without a hole in it, he’ll make one himself and fuck it. You give him something that he couldn’t possibly make a hole in, he’ll fuck you instead. Inanimate, animate, biped, triped, quadruped; it doesn’t matter. As long as his throbbing python of love still functions, you’d best cover any bodily cavities commonly left exposed.

2007-02-11T05:37:00.000-08:00

Peace on you

There are three names synonymous with the struggle for peace in the world today. George, Walker and Bush. No man has ever been more dedicated to the ideal, more supportive of the notion, been more in harmony with the very quintessence of tolerance and understanding. Bush is for peace what The Beatles were for pop music. What Jesus was for organized religion. What Maxi pads were for female hygiene. Totally committed and unflinching in his resolve, he will stop at nothing to rid this world of conflict and dissent. He’s already started two wars for peace. Says he, “I just want you to know that, when we talk about war, we're really talking about peace.”

Well, I just want you to know, that when we talk about you, we’re really talking about a tiny brained wiper of other people’s bottoms whose favourite hobby, growing up on a rented farm in Texas, was raping livestock in the barn where he lived with his mother, a ewe.

General Handgrenade

But Georgie’s not the only dignified human being around in the increasingly fickle world of politics. "It was in Forman Christian College (in Lahore) that I learned how to make a time bomb, which I later used as a commando to good effect," his close friend and ally, hailing from our own little clove on the South Eastern edge of Asia, born in Delhi, bred in Turkey and excreting on Pakistan, everybody’s favourite enlightened moderate; president, chief of army staff, husband, father, writer, publisher, entrepreneur, leader, statesman, plumber, comedian, dedicated party animal, a dictator in his spare time and all round nice guy, Pervez Musharraf.

He’s the man who claims this country was on the precipice of destruction when he came to power, and that his only thought has been to push it forward. He’s the man who’s going to rid us of the bearded menace, no not that one (http://www2.b3ta.com/namethatbeard/), the one that’s not online, yet, the *shudder* Mullahs. He’s a modern leader for modern times. He’s hip, he’s cool, he’s down with whatever you’re up to, as long as it doesn’t involve strapping bombs to your vest and concealing firearms in your knickers, unless you’re in the military of course. He’s going to stem the flow of religious fundamentalism and he’s going to look good doing it. He’s the first active president to have appeared on The Daily Show, he’s the first Muhajir to ever occupy the highest army position in Pakistan and he’s the first midget to have dined at the White House. Oh and did I mention he has his very own page on IMDB?

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1519635/

Great, great man. I’d vote for him, not that he needs those to get elected, you know. Some more gems from El Generalissimo.

“Pakistan has been made a soft state where the supremacy of law is questioned. This situation can not be tolerated any more.” That would explain the frequent trips out of the country, wouldn't it?

“Remember that mindsets can not be changed through force and coercion. No idea can ever be forcibly thrust upon any one.” Except that one.

"Most of the people in fact were against my writing this book at this moment, but like a good military leader, I took the decision against the major part of their advice." Self. Ownage.

“Before I reached class 10, at the age of 15, I had been an above-average student, usually among the first four in my class. That year, however, my grades dropped dramatically. The cause: my first romance. Truth to tell, she made the first move. I was still too shy to initiate a romance, let alone woo a girl.” Yeah, wouldn’t you like the entire world to believe that? The real reason his grades slipped was because they replaced his crayons with books.

"Considered purely in military terms, the Kargil operations were a landmark in the history of the Pakistani army." And if you’d had your way till the end, a land mark is exactly what this country would be right now.

2007-01-28T03:03:00.000-08:00

Hollywood is rubbish

And that farcical awards ceremony that’s just around the corner proves it every year. Not only has it generally ceded to populist opinion and stopped supporting progressive and forward thinking cinema, but it insists on trudging out a plethora of these ‘made for Oscar’ movies every year, that are so predictable in execution and so overbearing in motif that it doesn’t make for very interesting viewing.

Name me an Oscar winning movie and I’ll name you an adjective to describe it; rubbish. The only films of interest are to be found in the foreign language category, yeah, all 4 of them. Or off and on there’s some genuine work of art that gets nominated by mistake and promptly gets trumped in the competition proper, because it didn’t have good publicity, or not enough pretend-meaning, or not enough pretend-sex, or both.

Crash? Million Dollar Baby? Lord of the Rings? Chicago!? These weren’t even the best movies released in the space of a month, let alone a year. Did you know that Nicolas Cage was nominated for the Best Actor category? Nicolas Cage. He couldn’t act his way out of a death penalty. He’s about as effusive and charming as a rectal infection. I’ve worn shorts with more IQ, I’ve seen frogs that look more sentient. But that’s not even the beginning of it. Will ‘Fresh Ponce of Bel Air’ Smith has actually been nominated twice. Yes twice. God knows what for. It’s not like they have a special category for people who couldn’t make it as rappers.

Heath Ledger got nominated for taking a dingaling up his botty hole. Michael Caine got nominated for setting a record for using the same bloody cockney accent in every bloody fucking film he’s ever done. And Don Cheadle got nominated for playing a Rwandan, no matter how badly.

Take this years’ nominations. Titanic-boy simply wipes the floor with the competition, that’s how bloody crap it is. Though to be fair, he did put on a wicked South African accent for that Blood Diamond gaffer, and he was one of the few saving graces of Scorsese’s awful Hong Kong cinema rip-off, The Departed. But, obviously, nothing can redeem the fact that he’s the gimp from Titanic, and the gimp from Titanic is easily the best nomination for the Best Actor award. That’s how bad it is.

Still, could be worse. At least there’s some pretense of making invigorating cinema here. At least it’s not Bollywood. Take a look at the largest film industry in the world and revel in the stupidity of human kind. Who needs a plot? Let’s just have a song and dance number. Fell in love? Let’s have a song and dance. Someone died? Mourn with a song and dance. Someone’s hatched a plot to blow up the planet in a matter of hours? There’s always time for a song and dance. Rape? Murder? Gang violence? Make it all more interesting with a little song and dance.

Between heroes that are impervious to bullets and heroines that are impervious to clothes, who needs character development or constructive storytelling? Oh and when you can’t make up your mind about what direction the film should take next, just bang a few instruments together and put in some song and dance. Bloody fucking Hindus. We should have moved this country to the north of Thailand or something. Cheap prostitutes make for much better imports than Indian movies, with far less detrimental effects on society as well.

2007-01-27T04:17:00.000-08:00

All in all you're just another prick in the hall!

Just one of the many mantras that help me get through the days at LUMS. LUMS, it doesn't just sound like a disease, it is one. It's a malignant, cancerous growth on the outskirts of Lahore infecting everything that comes into contact with it and sending contagions out to contaminate society at large. It's a cultural black hole, it's a Westernizing pandemic and it's got far, far too many Karachites. Karachites, what am I saying? Look at what they've done to me. Bhayyay, bhayyay! That's what they really are, and no superficial displays of sophistication or pretend civility can extricate them from their fates. But that's a topic for another day.

More immediately is the growing concern I have for my own diminishing culture. In my 2 1/2 years at this university, I have never conversed with anyone in Punjabi, apart from Farrukh Khan, who's fat and old and an instructor and therefore doesn't count. Ok, maybe that's a bit much to ask. The degradation of Punjabi as a provincial language isn't confined to these hallowed halls of intellectual sterility, afterall. So fine, what about Urdu then? Yeah, only when they completely run out of things to say in English. It's like a last resort, a final recourse, they'd mostly not speak at all than willfully discourse in their mother tongue. If you make it a point to only reply to them in Urdu then they'll, grudgingly, reciprocate. But only in an extremely condascending manner, in thick, slow monotones. Like you're likely to bust a vein if they go too fast. Not to mention how they'll look at you like you're a stray dog. How they'll think you hit your head on something, coming out of your mother's womb. How you're so dense, that light would bend around you. How if you were any dumber, you'd be a plant. How you're mentally qualified for handicapped parking. How if you'd have another brain cell, it would get very lonely. How you probably take 2 hours to watch '60 minutes'. How...well, you get the idea.

The English language, wonderful though it is, is synonymous with elitism in this country and elitism has always been synonymous with overprivileged, derelict, arrogant, self-centered and asinine tits who wouldn't last two days in the real world, outside their sheltered lives. And LUMS is stock full of them. Talking in Urdu, here, is a veritable faux pas.

I can't go through a class without getting the urge to vomit. I can't to talk to anyone without getting a headache. I wave my private parts at their miserable attempts to imitate the televised West and call their knees bent, running around pretending to be white behaviour a silly thing. I scoff at their clothes (though there is a latent degree of hypocrisy in that). I laugh at their mannerisms (haha). I deride their conversations. I berate their opinions. I denounce any meaning to their existence. I eat three meals a day. I drink lots of water and work out every now and then, though never in a routine. I'm 21, 1.80 meters tall and weigh around 80 kilos. I like football, and dancing, and cooking. I always wanted to be a chef, but mom wanted me to take up something slightly more...manly. I'm now in my third year of a bachelor's degree in economics and mom thinks it would've been better if I'd just become a cook. I don't know what's so pansy about economists. Karl Marx was one, and he was dead butch.

2007-01-19T01:31:00.000-08:00

From now on there shall be headings. And purpose.

Jonathan Glazer. Now there's a man who's ahead of his time. Largely unheard of outside the advertisement and music video industries, despite having directed that sexy beast of a film (aptly titled) Sexy Beast and collecting numerous awards and accolades for his innovative and cutting edge videos. Unfortunately, to be successful in the business today you've either got to film two people dry humping in front of the camera or, to be on the safer side, many people dry humping in front of the camera. For more about dry humping, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frottage

For the two of you still reading, here's my favourite Glazer video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LIvc4NH4jOE

The song's pretty neat too, from back in the day when Jamiroqaui were still into the whole pop-jazz fusion and weren't a battier version of a particularly batty 70's Disco ensemble like they are now, thanks to the twat in the hat prancing around in the clip. Watch.

2007-01-19T01:27:00.000-08:00

Exam. 5:30 in the evening. Currently 8:00 am. Sleep. Haven’t had any since yesterday. First rule of insomnia; If you willfully try to sleep, you will almost always fail. Isn’t the first time this has happened, of course. With an exam that is. It’s like a fucking moth to a flame. Exam, insomnia. Insomnia, exam. Like the contents of my scrotum, these two seem inextricably linked. There’s something banging inside the walls of my skull. It’s probably my brain capsizing. I wish it would shut up and be done with it already. I can’t take much more of this.

My eyes are burning from trying to keep them closed all night. My left arm’s started twitching of its own accord, the fucker. Probably trying to make a run for it. What a coward. It’s like my father always says, ‘son, if you ever feel like life’s not treating you well, that you’ve got shit for luck or that you’re in so deep that you’d have to look up to see the down, well don’t come whining about it to me, I’ve got enough fucking problems of my own’. Yeah, the chain’s finally come off the wheel I think. I’ve gone and fucked my brain.

I need a downer. Alcohol, Opium, Marijuana, a fucking horse tranquilizer. Anything. Oh please God just let me have a downer. Just enough to close my eyes and sing me a little lullaby to take to Hypnos’ gates. Just enough to guide me into sweet inebriation.

I wish that bloody song would stop. There’s always a song when this happens. It keeps playing over and over again in my head, right through the night. It can be any song, not even one that I like. Right now, for instance, it’s one of those 80’s one hit wonders I haven’t even heard since I was like, 6. Soft Cell I think it was. The band, that is. Tainted love, oh-oooooooh, tainted love.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oEh5pWjcWCg

Ah, that brings back memories. Mostly horrible ones but that's because I was sort of confused whether the underlying message was one of flagrant homosexuality or incest. Watching it again after all these years, I figure it's definitely incest.

2007-01-12T06:11:00.000-08:00

There are two things I can’t stand this world. Intravenous injections and the bloody idiots whose job it is to give them to you. Also, the 6 day working weak, and the traffic in this city, it’s simply awful. Not to mention the abject lack of law enforcement, unless heaven forbid they should ever catch you breaking a signal. That must be all they train these people for. They wouldn’t know crime if it was standing outside their homes waiting to give them hepatitis, but show them a person being late for work and they’re like James Bond on fucking speed.

Alright, so in all honesty, there are only two things in this world that I can stand; Elephant Polo (http://www.escapeartist.com/efam/62/Thailand_Elephant_Polo.html) and Neutral Milk Hotel. The former because its Polo and it’s got Elephants in it and the latter because Jeff Mangum and his guitar are probably responsible for the best album ever created.

But I digress. I was talking about injections. Not the kind they just stick in your bum and turn the other cheek (ooh, pun) to bill you but the kind they stick in your arms and your veins in the hope of putting stuff in or pulling stuff out. For reasons that will remain undisclosed I decided to have my blood sugar tested, recently. Ok, so I may have been making frequent trips to the toilet of late, and there’s a wound on my southern extremities that just refuses to heal, I’ve got sweet smelling breath and a little pain in the abdominal area. So I start to wonder and look things up on the net and these eight letters keep screaming out to me in every link that I check, d-i-a-b-e-t-e-s, d-i-a-b-e-t-e-s etc. Well being the practical person that I am I did the reasonable thing and sat cowering under a blanket in the far corner of my room. It felt like I’d spent weeks, even months huddled up like that, but actually it was just the 5 minutes it took for my mother to realize I wasn't hunched up in front of the computer, as is usually expected of me.

She spoiled my mood with a lot of common sense and other assorted uselessness so I decided to get a blood test, and since I was producing such copious amounts of it, a urine test to go with. I go to this Shaukat Khanam collection centre or whatever and they have this attendant who asks what tests I would like them to run on my blood, and there were so many to choose from I could’ve died just standing there reading through them.

Anyway I thought what the hell, I’m not going to be doing this everyday so why not get them all done once and see what comes up. So I tell him to run an extensive glucose and sugar test and he looks at me kind of funny and says they’re going to need three samples. One random one, which they can take now, one after 12 hours of fasting and one exactly 2 hours after a meal.

I just shrug and ask him where I need to go and he points me to the back where this frail, spaced out looking man is struggling with the buttons on his white overcoat and he asks me to sit down on a stool, then puts my arm on a cushion on the table nearby and straps it really tightly just above the elbow. So far so good, he looks like he knows what he’s doing, the stool isn’t uncomfortable at all and I’ve always had a thing for fluorescent light.

So I’m just sitting there, totally relaxed, looking around at all the tubes and equipment and the charts and stuff when I feel a prickly sensation where the needle’s just entered my arm and think that the dude is really efficient, he isn’t wasting anytime. A moment or two goes by and I look down thinking he’s got to be nearly done now, and stare in amazement at the empty syringe and the as yet untouched piston. At the same time I get a few more of those prickly sensations, only this time I can’t quite tell where from because it’s somewhere inside my arm.

Turns out Florence Nightingale here hasn’t quite managed to locate my vein. It also turns out that his attempts to rectify the situation quickly involve poking around blindly with the tip and pulling the piston every few seconds to see if it’s connected with the right spot, yet.

I get half a dozen feelings in very quick succession, shock, anxiety, anger, desperation, nervousness; but I decide not to act on any of them, because one look at the prick behind the needle (as opposed to the prick in front of the needle, get it? You know, as in a puncture or a perforation? Ahem ) tells me that he’s one word away from just leaving that thing sticking out of my arm and running away from the room altogether.

I bite my tongue and wait patiently while he dithers around inside me, violating my personal space, now I know how women must feel when they’re being raped. Finally after the passing of a couple of eternities, blood starts squirting in the syringe, bouncing off the transparent walls and he fills it up halfway, unstraps my arm and removes the offending contraption from my being.

He gives me a sheepish grin and I make a sarcastic jibe or two about tests being more dangerous than diseases these days, in truth I’m just relieved the bastard didn’t mutilate my favourite limb and I want to get out of there as quickly as possible, so I just let it rest at that and go home.

The next day is the post-12 hour fasting sample. I’m sort of pensive about the same thing happening again but I reason that I went in the evening the previous day, that guy probably doesn’t do the day shift.

Was I ever fucking wrong. Still, I reason that we all make mistakes, but he’s a hired professional and probably doesn’t make that many, the previous day was probably his first in over a year. Still so fucking wrong.

A second by second repeat of everything that had occurred the previously day, and I was already devastated by not having eaten anything in 12 hours. When the ordeal was over this time, I noticed my arm was swelling badly around the area of insertion and that here was a sizeable gash where the needle was supposed to leave a barely noticeable hole. I complained a bit at the counter but my head was spinning and I couldn’t articulate my anger towards that tiny brained, feces snorting human piss stain. I just wanted to go home.

Round 3: 2 hours after breakfast. Surely he’d be more careful this time, I shouldn’t even have to tell him that, though I did just the same. He said my veins were very hard to find, why don’t you skin me first then mong? I offered my left arm this time, my right just wasn’t up for it anymore. To cut a long story short, 10 minutes later I walked out of the laboratory looking like Popeye when he’s just had a fresh can of Spinach. Both my arms were nicely bruised and swelling up. I was sure I was going to lose one of them. I told my tormentor as much, but he found the suggestion a bit amusing, if only for the second it took him to realize that I would’ve broken his neck had he actually laughed.

Snivelling little rat faced git. Anyway, I didn’t lose any of my arms. And I didn’t have diabetes either, there's just something slightly off with the kidneys. But fuck me dead, I’m never having a blood test again as long as I live. I’d rather slit my wrists with a razor and drip it all into a tube, I’d rather swallow some broken glass and spit it out but never, ever…oh bugger, I’ve got another blood test tomorrow for the uric acid.

2007-01-12T06:10:00.000-08:00

Yes, it’s that time of the day again when I’m sitting in my room, hands in the lap, staring at thin air while counting the ticks on the clock just waiting for my mind to finally go numb. I’m fucking bored and bored I fucking am.

Boredom is that most cruel of burdens no man should bear but most usually do. It’s worse than doing something you really don’t want to be doing and definitely worse than doing something you want to be doing. It’s worse than work, toil and excursion. It’s worse than an egg salad sandwich with neither the egg nor the salad. It’s worse than a cold shower on a chilly December morning when you’ve just woken up with a high fever. It’s worse than a chronic case of severe Diarrhea to the point where you have to walk around with a potty bag around your bum, although that’s pretty fucking terrible. It’s worse than a Ben Stiller movie. It’s worse than being yelled at or beaten or tortured or maimed. Ok, so it’s not worse than a Ben Stiller movie, but you get the point.

Having nothing to do, idleness, redundancy; being in a complete and utter state of static inertia. It’s the bane of my existence, my mortal enemy, but I am not alone in this fight.

Boredom has claimed more victims from the tides of human civilization than you could ever imagine, for isn’t it the very seed of that most vile and consummate evil; thought? When you’re bored you get to thinking and when you get to thinking well, let’s just say that if the world was populated with 6.4 billion Einstein’s they’d make one fuck of an explosion.

I mean look at what happened to Hitler in prison. Bored to tears and on the verge of insanity in his 6 by 9 cell, he got to thinking and decided to reinvent the human gene pool. Galileo thought the world was round (yeah, good one numbnuts). Newton spent his afternoons getting molested by trees and they wouldn’t give Jinnah a fucking work permit in England, so he decided to create the biggest toilet in the world while he waited.

Evidently, people do the stupidest things to stop from being bored. Right about now, I’d fucking castrate myself just for the fucking thrill of it. Listen to that, I’m ready to chop my own balls off just to make my brain function again. Although on second thought, it’d probably be better if I did it to someone else.

I guess what I’m really trying to say is that if you don't stand for something, you will fall for something and that people should not talk while they are eating or pepper may go down the wrong way. You see? I’m so bored I’m reading Chinese proverbs off the fucking internet. Is there a castration centre around these parts? Where can I fucking sign up?

2006-08-20T12:41:00.000-07:00

Sleep. The balm of all wounds, the answer to all adversity, the purveyor of serenity, rejuvenator of mind and body; it’s the quintessence of animal lifecycles. And I haven’t had any for months. I need some sleep.

Insomnia is a perpetual state of rest in motion. I move even when I don’t, I stay still even when I extend my limbs. My brain is a constant daze, my vision blurred, my senses impaired. Nothing feels as it should, to the point where I forget what it should feel like. Time stops and minutes cease to recede until hours have passed by without notice. I breathe in, I breathe out, I breathe in; an eternity passes as I spin around in my own head, in this prison, this limbo, this most cruel of all maledictions: Consciousness.

I must lose consciousness. I demand to lose consciousness. No man should have to bear with it anymore than is necessary for sustenance. Few men do bear with it anymore than is necessary. They go to their daily routine gleefully and safe with the knowledge that when the time comes they shall be afforded their fill of blissful slumber. I no longer possess a routine, or glee or even the slightest hint of a promise of fulfillment. I suffer from too much consciousness.

2006-05-26T07:28:00.001-07:00

To be or not to be? That is the question. Or is it? That's another question. What about this one? Is that a question or merely a statement of a seemingly inquisitive nature, of which the answer to is all too apparent, not to mention entirely irrelevant to the figurative use of it? The point of which is to suggest and not to ask? What the fuck right?

I'll tell you what the fuck. Suicide. To be or not to be? That is the question. Is life worth living? Is death worth dying? Is doing anything worth anything at all? Personally, I can't see what all the fuss is about. I'm 21, I was fed up around 10. The sheer pointlessness of life weighed down upon me one evening while I was watching my favourite cartoons. It occurred to me that no matter what cunning, ingenious or devilishly masterful plan (the dashing) Mumm-Rah ever came up with, those bitching, whining, irritating, fucking turd wheenies called the Thundercats (ugh) always managed to stop him. Always. It became so predictable it wasn't even funny. Ancient spirits of evil my fucking ass, more like ancient spirits of impotent, fucking useless fuck faced fudgepacking feces frolicking faggot fucks.

I really felt for that guy. Life, or rather death, must have been a really infuriating experience for him. But aren't we all just trapped in a cheap, hand drawn serial with our fates pre-decided and our actions ultimately inconsequential? We're all going to die. You're going to die (today hopefully, bastard), I'm going to die, he's going to die, she's going to die; we'll all end up in the same ground, eaten up by lots of weevils and nasty maggots, amidst layers of dirt and muck and manure. No amount of wealth or education or sophistication can change that.

From a religious perspective, there's lots of reasons for doing things, but nothing much to do here. From a materialistic perspective, there's lots of things to do but not a lot of reason for doing them. He who dies with the most toys is nonetheless dead.

What sets man apart from animals is his rational capacity to not only realize the futility of his own being but to act upon this realization. You'll never see a suicidal cat or a depressed elephant moping around all day in his bedroom smoking weed and quoting Nietzsche. the chances of a squirrel tying a nut to its' waist and jumping in some river are slim to none. Man is superior to brutes because of his unique ability to take his own life.

Suicide is natural, rational and even practical. It is also one of those basic human freedoms nobody can ever take from you. Appreciate it, rejoice in it, but more importantly use it. Take initiative, kill yourself today. Tomorrow who knows, you might not be around to do it.

2006-05-14T11:04:00.000-07:00

I spent half an hour standing(?) upside down the other day, leaning against the bedroom wall, in a last, desperate attempt to find some focus, some energy, some anything to start studying for the week of quizzes and finals ahead. Routine really, the exams I mean, but of particular import this time around due to my recently declining, to put it mildly, but more like plummeting, to put it correctly, grades. Not improving them would bring me that much closer to the inevitable result of my life, the complete and utter failure to perform in society. But that's another story, let's not tempt fate.

So there I was, up against the wall, feet up, head down, neck aching, my brain threatening to escape through the aural crevices, in fact once or twice I actually thought bits of it were trickling down my ears; the only thing missing was a canopy, some lights and a loud, booming voice exclaiming, "And now for his next trick..." The whole thing was a bit silly. Didn't they used to (and I have it on reliable sources that the practice is still carried out in the more uncivilized parts of the world with an almost religious zeal) hang people upside down in prisons, penitentiaries and schools (public) as a form of punishment? What then am I to possibly gain from this peculiar exertion? Why then, you ask, would I try something so fundamentally idiotic, so essentially inane?

Well, those same reliable sources had once recommended to me this, seemingly senseless practice, on the grounds that it increases the flow of blood to the brain, thereby enhancing whatever limited capabilities it previously had. I wonder if this was the well guarded secret behind Einstein's enormous success. It would certainly explain that hairdo.

Being a gullible little boy and, like I said, quite desperate at the time I decided to give it a twirl. Thirty minutes into the task, however, I was almost completely unconscious and still none the wiser. Coming to the realization that my sources weren't so reliable after all, I gingerly crept off the wall and back onto an upright position. It was definitely a marijuana moment. Light headed with dizziness and a good bit disoriented, I felt like I could fly. Only I couldn't muster the energy to stand up. What a waste. In hindsight, opening a book would've been far more effective.

Still you learn something new every day. The experience demonstrated to me the wonderful foresight and infinite wisdom of mother nature. I mean, if our brains had been hanging down in the testicular sack we'd be in a right bloody mess, all day long. I'm never going to bemoan the guiding hand of fate again. The cosmic forces know best.