Notice the smiley. It signifies happy times. All because of a super absorbent sanitary pad.
Alright, a quick explanation. There’s a brand of sanitary pads called Whisper. Their new line of communication ends with “Have a happy period!”
It is definitely not a woman who has written the line. Because, if it were, she would have known that IT IS NEVER HAPPY.
Nothing will ever make it happy.
I’m not going to pretend that I know a lot about a woman’s periods, but I know enough to dispense information to lesser mortals.
1) Don’t attempt to make it right. There is nothing to make right. Therefore you can’t make it right. Get my drift?
2) Be nice. But not too nice. And don’t be unsympathetic either. Don’t disappear thinking that if you’re out of the way you’re making things better. I’ve got a rhyme here to help you out if you’re confused.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Don’t think a knock to the nuts is pain, that’s not real pain, you’ll never know this kind of pain you sissy boy, so don’t say or do anything unless you’re asked to.
Memorise that, and you’re good to go.
3) Reference. Never refer to it as “it” or “that time”. I gotten into serious trouble for saying things like “Is it over yet?” As if it were a bad movie. Other things you should avoid saying are
“So whatcha saying is… no nookie tonight?”
“ I’ll come back in a couple of days when the real you is back.”
“The ad said that if you used one of these you could run the marathon. Why arn;t you running any marathons?”
4) If she starts crying, it’s either because her hormones are gone out of whack, or she’s experiencing pain equivalent to poking needles through your spine. Hence it might be prudent not to talk about your own suffering during this time.
For example, don’t come home and say “I got this paper cut today and maaaaan… it hurt sooooo bad.” Unless a truck ran over you, followed by a steam roller, and then a marching band, keep it to yourself. Else, trust me, that’s when you’re going to feel Real Pain.
And lastly, women, you’ve got to let us know what we should be doing, because, in all honesty, we’re clueless. A period, according to us, is this thing --> .
A little education, suggestions on what to do, a list of what not to do, and I think we’ll be one step closer to the illusory happiness that 'they' keeps talking about.
Comments anybody?
Jonathan
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Enlarge your twinkie 100$
Spammers are starting to lose it.
Just last week I got a mail asking me to increase my mortgage by two inches.
What exactly are these guys trying to accomplish by sending us this crap?
I got a bit curious and actually went through my spam messages.
What I found was a goldmine!
If you’re ever having a bad day at work, or you’re bored, or you need to do weird things to your manhood / womanhood, CHECK YOUR SPAM.
Collated a few here and interpreted them so you don’t have to run the risk of opening your own spam.
By the way, I haven’t made up these SPAM titles. They’re all real.
Get ready – this shit’s funny.
Stir up a passion in her heart with your magic wand.
There’s a small flaw here. You can’t really stir with a wand. You can make a bunny appear though, but I don’t think bunnies can help you out it bed. What they should have said is stir up a passion in her heart with your magic wooden ladle.
Huge love maker has become unbelievably real!
These guys are working under the assumption that it wasn’t real before. I have no genitals. My office will not have a problem with me playing with myself at my desk. Because, hey, it ain’t real!
Dont waste your life with your right hand.
What do you mean? My right hand is not trust worthy? It’s the good-for-nothing hand. The one that my mother warned me about? I can’t really walk out on my hand can I? Sure ol’ ‘lefty will always be by my side. But righty has been there through good times and bad. You’re not so bad dude.
Supersize your little babymaker!
What? Do they have a camera in my house? Why is EVERYONE calling it little? What I like about it though, is the reference to burgers at a fastfood joint. Supersize it. With fries and a large coke please. And take-away please, got to make me some babies with me right hand.
Enlarge your PE and your mind will follow!
Hmmmm… PE. What could that be? Enlarge your perimeter?
Enlarge your Penguin? (Do we have penguins on this side of the world?)
Enlarge your Pentagram? (in case you’ve inducted more people in your devil worshipping group)
Enlarge your Peanuts.
I’m going with peanuts. Because, hey, nobody likes small peanuts and small minds.
Your new baby-maker scores more!
Now it’s getting a wee bit confusing. First they say it’s imaginary. Now they’re telling me that ‘he’s’ playing a game down there. And something that they’re offering is going to help him win apparently. Don’t get me wrong. I want him to win. I just like to know what the game is. Volleyball is a definite no-no.
You guys got anymore? I’d love to see them. Just check your spam and paste them here. Ciao for now.
By the way, winner of the cowboy country contest was Alicia Colaco. Beer coming your way.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
The Monk Moved Your Cheese
The hot shot Ferrari driving sonofagun stole it and sold it to the motor cycle repairman (some people like to call him a mechanic).
The motorcycle repairman, who of course, is a part time alchemist, turns the cheese into rum and coke. Because, hey, that’s the way he rolls ok?
I’m trying to make a point here. It’s just that I hate getting straight to it, because that takes the fun out of everything.
People are making money. Tons of it by writing self-help, spiritual books which are convoluted and which everyone claims to understand. And there’s no way I’m going to be left behind. So here’s a little preview of my book titled (drum roll please) “Stop touching yourself. Is that chocolate cake? And, giving yourself an enema, blindfolded – A guide to a better life”.
People will nod their heads in agreement. “Yes, that’s the book for me. Paulo was getting so literal.”
My book is going to be simple. To the point. And totally unrelated. Leave anything vague enough, and there are enough suckers out there to make sense of it.
For Example, there will be an FAQ page.
Problem: In an effort to try and please everyone, I find myself in situations where I just can’t say NO to people. This results in me being unhappy, stressed and with no time to myself”
Solution: Read the book, ‘Who moved my cheese?’ Substitute the word cheese with Beer. The fact that someone is moving your beer will get you pissed enough to beat the crap out of the next person who asks you for a favour. Also, the eagle that flies west is never around for thanks-giving.
See how I covered all bases there? If someone happens to sue me for wrongful advice, I can always say, Hey… didn’t I tell you about the eagle. Then I’ll do my evil laugh. Mooohahahahaha. Sometimes mistaken for a cow mating call, but that’s beside the point.
Somewhere in the middle I will break off into an analogical story. Monks, cheese, mice, alchemists, mechanics have already been taken. I’ve done some quick research ran a few numbers (always wanted to say that) and found out that the character that people are most likely to relate to, is a one-eyed, one legged pirate named Plank. First name Wokda.
The story HAS to relate to life, otherwise it’s just going to sound like one of em wannabe writers, busy blogging their frustrations out. You know the kind.
Anyway, the story will go something like this.
There’s this pirate. Wokda Plank. Who had a parrot called Polishi. Second name Tincrackers.
And this parrot had Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Which totally ruined the pirates clothes that he took the trouble to launder after every pilferage. But the pirate had patience. Oh boy he had patience. He warned the parrot once. Twice. Thrice. Each time thinking that the parrot will soon learn. But it was not to be.
Easter came. And Polishi squawked his last. Captain Wokda missed his tasty friend dearly, but what had to be done… had to be done.
What I am trying to say is, friends, aren’t we really all like that pirate?
Lost. Lonely. Emotionally handicapped. And with friends that have gas problems?
It’s really up to us to be in charge of our own lives. The only person that can make a difference to you , is you.
You don’t need to get your cheese back. Life may be a rat race, but screw the cheese. Find another food group. Don’t let monks intimidate you. Go out and find other wannabe monks who are selling their cars for a song. That way you can own a Ferrari and everybody goes home happy.
You decide how you can make YOUR life. Don’t let anybody else tell you how.
What do you think? Send me a cheque for 1000 bucks and I’ll courier you the whole book. Including the title and last page. First 5 customers will get a free CD – “Greatest *cough* Spaced Out *cough* Covers of the Millennium” including such hits like Annie’s Bong and Weed are the Champions.
Hurry!
The motorcycle repairman, who of course, is a part time alchemist, turns the cheese into rum and coke. Because, hey, that’s the way he rolls ok?
I’m trying to make a point here. It’s just that I hate getting straight to it, because that takes the fun out of everything.
People are making money. Tons of it by writing self-help, spiritual books which are convoluted and which everyone claims to understand. And there’s no way I’m going to be left behind. So here’s a little preview of my book titled (drum roll please) “Stop touching yourself. Is that chocolate cake? And, giving yourself an enema, blindfolded – A guide to a better life”.
People will nod their heads in agreement. “Yes, that’s the book for me. Paulo was getting so literal.”
My book is going to be simple. To the point. And totally unrelated. Leave anything vague enough, and there are enough suckers out there to make sense of it.
For Example, there will be an FAQ page.
Problem: In an effort to try and please everyone, I find myself in situations where I just can’t say NO to people. This results in me being unhappy, stressed and with no time to myself”
Solution: Read the book, ‘Who moved my cheese?’ Substitute the word cheese with Beer. The fact that someone is moving your beer will get you pissed enough to beat the crap out of the next person who asks you for a favour. Also, the eagle that flies west is never around for thanks-giving.
See how I covered all bases there? If someone happens to sue me for wrongful advice, I can always say, Hey… didn’t I tell you about the eagle. Then I’ll do my evil laugh. Mooohahahahaha. Sometimes mistaken for a cow mating call, but that’s beside the point.
Somewhere in the middle I will break off into an analogical story. Monks, cheese, mice, alchemists, mechanics have already been taken. I’ve done some quick research ran a few numbers (always wanted to say that) and found out that the character that people are most likely to relate to, is a one-eyed, one legged pirate named Plank. First name Wokda.
The story HAS to relate to life, otherwise it’s just going to sound like one of em wannabe writers, busy blogging their frustrations out. You know the kind.
Anyway, the story will go something like this.
There’s this pirate. Wokda Plank. Who had a parrot called Polishi. Second name Tincrackers.
And this parrot had Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Which totally ruined the pirates clothes that he took the trouble to launder after every pilferage. But the pirate had patience. Oh boy he had patience. He warned the parrot once. Twice. Thrice. Each time thinking that the parrot will soon learn. But it was not to be.
Easter came. And Polishi squawked his last. Captain Wokda missed his tasty friend dearly, but what had to be done… had to be done.
What I am trying to say is, friends, aren’t we really all like that pirate?
Lost. Lonely. Emotionally handicapped. And with friends that have gas problems?
It’s really up to us to be in charge of our own lives. The only person that can make a difference to you , is you.
You don’t need to get your cheese back. Life may be a rat race, but screw the cheese. Find another food group. Don’t let monks intimidate you. Go out and find other wannabe monks who are selling their cars for a song. That way you can own a Ferrari and everybody goes home happy.
You decide how you can make YOUR life. Don’t let anybody else tell you how.
What do you think? Send me a cheque for 1000 bucks and I’ll courier you the whole book. Including the title and last page. First 5 customers will get a free CD – “Greatest *cough* Spaced Out *cough* Covers of the Millennium” including such hits like Annie’s Bong and Weed are the Champions.
Hurry!
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Man on the prowl: Men travellers and what they're looking for – in a woman.
I sit alone at a bar in Ko Samui, Bangkok. The bar is quite crowded, as it should be at this time of the year. But I choose to wait for the ‘right’ company. Ten minutes later a gorgeous girl brushes past me and the rest of the mob, trying to get to the bar table.
Ahh, she wants me. That’s the sign. It has to be.
On her way back I ask her if I can buy a drink.
No. (she wants me to play hard to get)
Would she like to sit by me for a while.
No. (She’s faltering, I can sense it)
Could I have her number?
No. And leave me alone, freak of nature, I’m with someone. (I can see her lips moving. But like a badly dubbed Chinese movie, all I can hear is “Ask me again and I might say yes!”)
3:00 am and eight martinis down, my hopes aren’t the only thing that are high.
Two hours later, I’m wondering why she led me on if she didn’t want to take it further. Women!
Ok ladies, there’s something you have to know about men.
We have a diminished understanding of what we look like and how charming we are. This lack of understanding is heightened outside our familiarity zone.
We take a small trip out of the city, and we’re hit by the James Bond Syndrome.
We become the kings of smooth pick up lines, and we assume women can’t escape the enigmatic charm. I think this is because we are at a place where people don’t know that we aren’t the studly studs we make out to be. For a short while we can assume an identity of someone with confidence and pizzazz.
There’s another thing you should know about us. Ask any man, and you will find that a large number of actions fall into the purview of flirting which you might not know about. Like breathing. Or walking into a club. That’s flirting according to us.
On a serious note though, you can trust us to misconstrue pretty much any look or movement. You could have a weak bladder and be looking for the little ladies room. Eye contact with any male in the room at this time will be misunderstood.
He’s not reading a face that says – Damn my weak bladder.
What he’s reading is – Come hither Tarzan.
As progressive as our society claims to be, we don’t see too many women that drink or smoke in public. It’s frowned upon. If I see a woman lighting one up, it’s going to have my antennae up. “She smokes! Who knows what else she’ll do? Maybe she’s one of those naughty girls that will give me a back rub. I’m going over and saying hi.”
Any show of skin just gives us another reason to target you. You may underestimate the level of desperation if you think that knuckles and toes are excluded. Increase the percentage of skin showing, courtesy short skirts or off-shoulders and more men will come up to you. In this particular case, even sitting with company will not deter us.
Going up and coming on to women whilst traveling is much easier because there’s no fear of failing. We don’t see the harm is falling flat on our faces, because you don’t know us. Or anyone we know. And hopefully nobody those people know. The news can’t spread. Safe to say, Bond can show his face in public again.
What’s it boils down to is, when traveling, reality gets warped. Confidence gets a boost. Libido goes up. Logic comes down. Rules don’t apply. We’ve not only taken a trip away from home, but also from all the rules and realities that bind that life.
You can travel in packs, dress however you want, and try to avoid making eye contact. But the man traveler is on the prowl, and he has packing some pretty lousy pick up lines.
Beware.
Note: I have bever been to ko samui. I have never walked up to strange women soliciting my sexual abilities. I have not hit on my colleagues. I am a nice boy (feel free to read as whipped) who has not and will not fall of the 'committed' wagon.
Ahh, she wants me. That’s the sign. It has to be.
On her way back I ask her if I can buy a drink.
No. (she wants me to play hard to get)
Would she like to sit by me for a while.
No. (She’s faltering, I can sense it)
Could I have her number?
No. And leave me alone, freak of nature, I’m with someone. (I can see her lips moving. But like a badly dubbed Chinese movie, all I can hear is “Ask me again and I might say yes!”)
3:00 am and eight martinis down, my hopes aren’t the only thing that are high.
Two hours later, I’m wondering why she led me on if she didn’t want to take it further. Women!
Ok ladies, there’s something you have to know about men.
We have a diminished understanding of what we look like and how charming we are. This lack of understanding is heightened outside our familiarity zone.
We take a small trip out of the city, and we’re hit by the James Bond Syndrome.
We become the kings of smooth pick up lines, and we assume women can’t escape the enigmatic charm. I think this is because we are at a place where people don’t know that we aren’t the studly studs we make out to be. For a short while we can assume an identity of someone with confidence and pizzazz.
There’s another thing you should know about us. Ask any man, and you will find that a large number of actions fall into the purview of flirting which you might not know about. Like breathing. Or walking into a club. That’s flirting according to us.
On a serious note though, you can trust us to misconstrue pretty much any look or movement. You could have a weak bladder and be looking for the little ladies room. Eye contact with any male in the room at this time will be misunderstood.
He’s not reading a face that says – Damn my weak bladder.
What he’s reading is – Come hither Tarzan.
As progressive as our society claims to be, we don’t see too many women that drink or smoke in public. It’s frowned upon. If I see a woman lighting one up, it’s going to have my antennae up. “She smokes! Who knows what else she’ll do? Maybe she’s one of those naughty girls that will give me a back rub. I’m going over and saying hi.”
Any show of skin just gives us another reason to target you. You may underestimate the level of desperation if you think that knuckles and toes are excluded. Increase the percentage of skin showing, courtesy short skirts or off-shoulders and more men will come up to you. In this particular case, even sitting with company will not deter us.
Going up and coming on to women whilst traveling is much easier because there’s no fear of failing. We don’t see the harm is falling flat on our faces, because you don’t know us. Or anyone we know. And hopefully nobody those people know. The news can’t spread. Safe to say, Bond can show his face in public again.
What’s it boils down to is, when traveling, reality gets warped. Confidence gets a boost. Libido goes up. Logic comes down. Rules don’t apply. We’ve not only taken a trip away from home, but also from all the rules and realities that bind that life.
You can travel in packs, dress however you want, and try to avoid making eye contact. But the man traveler is on the prowl, and he has packing some pretty lousy pick up lines.
Beware.
Note: I have bever been to ko samui. I have never walked up to strange women soliciting my sexual abilities. I have not hit on my colleagues. I am a nice boy (feel free to read as whipped) who has not and will not fall of the 'committed' wagon.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Why Do men like violent movies?
(This is something I wrote for femina a couple of months back)
I sit there wide eyed as Arnold Swazewazizname blows a hole through the head of his evil nemesis in Terminator 2. He doesn’t die of course because his body parts are of liquid metal.
My better half looks on with her mouth agape. First at the screen, then at me. And I’ve known her long enough to hear her thoughts.
“Why the hell do you like this insane movie? And if you manage to answer that, then kindly tell again why I’m with you! I keep forgetting.”
I don’t really want to take my eyes off the screen, so I try and answer telepathically too. Apparently I have not perfected the art.
It is only at the end of the movie I realize that the better half had walked out shortly after intermission. It’s because of nights like these that I’ve been well acquainted with the sofa.
To cut a long story short, I thought the movie was nothing short of brilliant.
She didn’t.
All the guys I know love it too. It’s a classic.
Women think it’s too graphic and takes violence to a whole new level of insanity.
Whaaaaat? Do you think the robots should have sat down over coffee and settled it amicably? Yeah, he’ll stop trying to kill you if you give him a good telling off.
And it’s not just this movie. I’ve had debates with women about several such ‘artful’ movies.
What it boils down to is that men like violent flicks. Women don’t.
Why?
I’ll tell you why.
(cue ambient music please)
A couple of thousand years ago before language was invented and when dinosaurs weren’t just a couple of bones super glued together at a museum, men and women had distinct roles.
Yes, yes, we all know this part. Men were the food gatherers. The hunters and the providers.
Women, stayed indoors to look after the kids and, in the absence of inane soap operas about satanic mother-in-laws, did other house-hold chores. Some even dabbled in the arts. That’s where you get cave drawings and hieroglyphics from.
Coming back to the point, men were close to the action. Hunting wild boar, steering clear of vicious lions and bringing down woolly mammoths. Stuff that got the adrenaline pumping and the bones a-breaking.
Now fast forward to a couple of thousand years ahead. The closest we get to hunting is tracking down a mosquito that’s buzzing around your ear at 3 a.m in the morning.
We miss the good stuff.
The testosterone heavy, action packed activity that’s been instilled in our blood.
So who do we turn to for help.
You know it - good ole movies.
And not just any movies. Violent ones.
Give us car crashes. Men shooting at men. Men shooting at aliens. Men shooting at aliens while crashing their cars. Killer cyborgs with catchy lines. Computers that use humans as AA batteries. Zombies that have teamed up with aliens to crash all the cars on the planet.
It’s all good to us.
Women don’t seem to understand this need. They’ll be dragging us to movies about a book store owner that falls in love with an actress. Or a prostitute that falls in love with a millionaire.
Do they have the expertise to crash a four wheel drive?
Have they been keeping up with recent UFO sightings?
Nooooooo. Because they’re too busy falling in love, out of love and back again.
Well , Whoop-di-doo! Never saw that coming did we?
All we need is a bit of action with a semi-decent plot. Safe to say that we’re flexible on the plot part too.
And don’t you think that the gore, explosions, occasional sex scene and fighting isn’t integral to the movie. You might question it, but we’re pretty sure it’s justified.
“Why does a respectable man with a doctorate eat people, and in the most gruesome fashion?”, you might ask.
C’mon…everyone is allowed to get hungry. He just ate what was closest to him - his friends. Give him a break.
“What are the chances of the helicopter crashing into a highly flammable LPG tanker which flips over a couple of times landing close to a petrol pump before exploding?”
I’m come up with a fail-proof formula to calculate the probability of the occurrence.
(N+1)p-3 . N being the number of helicopters in the world. And p being another fancy letter that I had to put up there to sound authentic.
The answer I came up with is - Pretty good.
“Why doesn’t she just kill her counterpart straight off. Why does she need to gouge her eye our and leave a deadly snake lying around to eventually bite the bejeezes out of her?”
Any violence aficionado knows that it’s a metaphor. What the director is trying to communicate is that the world has turned a blind eye to… errr… reptile conservation.
Yes, because we love them reptiles. (Snakes are reptiles right?)
One might also tend to believe that men have been conditioned by society to watch and enjoy violent movies.
We’re not. Trust me, it’s inherent.
Let’s say you have kids. A pair of twins. Give the boy a Barbie and the girl a toy truck. Odds are the boy will be ripping her head apart, maybe using the torso as a plane, whilst the girl has already painted here SUV with soft pink polka dots and invited it to her tea party.
Oh, stop complaining. You’ll be thanking us someday for the screen-attained knowledge. It’s only because of these kinds of violent movies that I have a plan, if, heaven forbid, disaster is eminent.
When monsters of the netherworld are near, if a killer in a hockey mask is on the loose, if a gun wielding mob has blocked the road, I know exactly what to do.
Run.
Scream like a little girl and run like crazy.
While you might have been keeping a close eye on the hero of the movie, I’ve been watching the tiny vanishing dot in the background. The extra who decided not to risk his unmentionables in the battle to save the earth. The one who left unscathed.
I am that man.
He who lived to tell the tale.
And all those who follow suit, are gonna be thanking their lucky stars that I’ve been well informed through the magic of cinema.
And what are the chances of that happening?
Pretty good.
I sit there wide eyed as Arnold Swazewazizname blows a hole through the head of his evil nemesis in Terminator 2. He doesn’t die of course because his body parts are of liquid metal.
My better half looks on with her mouth agape. First at the screen, then at me. And I’ve known her long enough to hear her thoughts.
“Why the hell do you like this insane movie? And if you manage to answer that, then kindly tell again why I’m with you! I keep forgetting.”
I don’t really want to take my eyes off the screen, so I try and answer telepathically too. Apparently I have not perfected the art.
It is only at the end of the movie I realize that the better half had walked out shortly after intermission. It’s because of nights like these that I’ve been well acquainted with the sofa.
To cut a long story short, I thought the movie was nothing short of brilliant.
She didn’t.
All the guys I know love it too. It’s a classic.
Women think it’s too graphic and takes violence to a whole new level of insanity.
Whaaaaat? Do you think the robots should have sat down over coffee and settled it amicably? Yeah, he’ll stop trying to kill you if you give him a good telling off.
And it’s not just this movie. I’ve had debates with women about several such ‘artful’ movies.
What it boils down to is that men like violent flicks. Women don’t.
Why?
I’ll tell you why.
(cue ambient music please)
A couple of thousand years ago before language was invented and when dinosaurs weren’t just a couple of bones super glued together at a museum, men and women had distinct roles.
Yes, yes, we all know this part. Men were the food gatherers. The hunters and the providers.
Women, stayed indoors to look after the kids and, in the absence of inane soap operas about satanic mother-in-laws, did other house-hold chores. Some even dabbled in the arts. That’s where you get cave drawings and hieroglyphics from.
Coming back to the point, men were close to the action. Hunting wild boar, steering clear of vicious lions and bringing down woolly mammoths. Stuff that got the adrenaline pumping and the bones a-breaking.
Now fast forward to a couple of thousand years ahead. The closest we get to hunting is tracking down a mosquito that’s buzzing around your ear at 3 a.m in the morning.
We miss the good stuff.
The testosterone heavy, action packed activity that’s been instilled in our blood.
So who do we turn to for help.
You know it - good ole movies.
And not just any movies. Violent ones.
Give us car crashes. Men shooting at men. Men shooting at aliens. Men shooting at aliens while crashing their cars. Killer cyborgs with catchy lines. Computers that use humans as AA batteries. Zombies that have teamed up with aliens to crash all the cars on the planet.
It’s all good to us.
Women don’t seem to understand this need. They’ll be dragging us to movies about a book store owner that falls in love with an actress. Or a prostitute that falls in love with a millionaire.
Do they have the expertise to crash a four wheel drive?
Have they been keeping up with recent UFO sightings?
Nooooooo. Because they’re too busy falling in love, out of love and back again.
Well , Whoop-di-doo! Never saw that coming did we?
All we need is a bit of action with a semi-decent plot. Safe to say that we’re flexible on the plot part too.
And don’t you think that the gore, explosions, occasional sex scene and fighting isn’t integral to the movie. You might question it, but we’re pretty sure it’s justified.
“Why does a respectable man with a doctorate eat people, and in the most gruesome fashion?”, you might ask.
C’mon…everyone is allowed to get hungry. He just ate what was closest to him - his friends. Give him a break.
“What are the chances of the helicopter crashing into a highly flammable LPG tanker which flips over a couple of times landing close to a petrol pump before exploding?”
I’m come up with a fail-proof formula to calculate the probability of the occurrence.
(N+1)p-3 . N being the number of helicopters in the world. And p being another fancy letter that I had to put up there to sound authentic.
The answer I came up with is - Pretty good.
“Why doesn’t she just kill her counterpart straight off. Why does she need to gouge her eye our and leave a deadly snake lying around to eventually bite the bejeezes out of her?”
Any violence aficionado knows that it’s a metaphor. What the director is trying to communicate is that the world has turned a blind eye to… errr… reptile conservation.
Yes, because we love them reptiles. (Snakes are reptiles right?)
One might also tend to believe that men have been conditioned by society to watch and enjoy violent movies.
We’re not. Trust me, it’s inherent.
Let’s say you have kids. A pair of twins. Give the boy a Barbie and the girl a toy truck. Odds are the boy will be ripping her head apart, maybe using the torso as a plane, whilst the girl has already painted here SUV with soft pink polka dots and invited it to her tea party.
Oh, stop complaining. You’ll be thanking us someday for the screen-attained knowledge. It’s only because of these kinds of violent movies that I have a plan, if, heaven forbid, disaster is eminent.
When monsters of the netherworld are near, if a killer in a hockey mask is on the loose, if a gun wielding mob has blocked the road, I know exactly what to do.
Run.
Scream like a little girl and run like crazy.
While you might have been keeping a close eye on the hero of the movie, I’ve been watching the tiny vanishing dot in the background. The extra who decided not to risk his unmentionables in the battle to save the earth. The one who left unscathed.
I am that man.
He who lived to tell the tale.
And all those who follow suit, are gonna be thanking their lucky stars that I’ve been well informed through the magic of cinema.
And what are the chances of that happening?
Pretty good.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Lucy in the sky
Probably my Magnum Opus.
By now you guys already know that that's a dog and not a rat.
The white ones are sheep.
Thats\'s a plane with some crows in the sky. So no more stupid questions!
I've introduced a crab called Herby here and the fish - Cajmero - has made it's second appearence.
Any other questions? Compliments perhaps? HUh?
JONATHAN
By now you guys already know that that's a dog and not a rat.
The white ones are sheep.
Thats\'s a plane with some crows in the sky. So no more stupid questions!
I've introduced a crab called Herby here and the fish - Cajmero - has made it's second appearence.
Any other questions? Compliments perhaps? HUh?
JONATHAN
Monday, March 26, 2007
Parlez Freakin Vous Angalise
Who makes words?
At first glance it sounds like a ridiculous question.
At second glance, it still sounds the same. And to some of my stubborn friends, it runs well into the sixteenth and seventeenth glance.
But seriously, who invents words? Who said "let 'to be' be a verb! Let this thing that makes funny sounds be called a piano. And this thing that awkwardly juts out of my body be called a… a nose!"
Who is this all knowing authority?
I say we put our feet down. Let's question everything. Let's make our own rules.
Let's chant loudly - DOWN WITH THE ESTABLISHMENT.
And if you're reading this at WORK, let's whisper it.
In my endeavor to create a new world 'of the people and by the people', I've decided to replace some words in the English language, evolve my own meaning of words, and pretty much create my own words. This is a democracy of course. So, let me know what you think.
And I'll let you know where you can 'PUT' your thoughts.
Let's begin.
The wind instrument Tuba will no longer be called tuba, but will be replaced by the word Flatula. The noises are the same, I think the word fits.
The female mammary glands will no longer be called breasts. Instead, I've come up with (drum roll please) ' Thingamajigglelots"
The male organ will hence be known as pokeyhontas.
Diamonds will simply be spelt differently to connote what they actually mean. DieMen.
Since they kill them financially.
Flowers will be known by their scientific name from now on - Sorry Facilitators. All of them will be from the some genus – Fergotyorbuday Heressum Prettytree
The word Pornography, for reasons unbeknownst to me, has been associated with something wrong. I figure it's purely educational, and hence its new name can either be – Howdeydoodat or Wheredeyputdat.
Unless you have something better of course.
Politics. Poly meaning many and Tics meaning blood sucking insects. In all honesty, it's not fairs to the tics. Or any breathing creature for that matter to be compared to a politician. So I'm a bit stumped here. Anyone have a suggestion? Poly_______?
And if you have anymore words that you want to add to Jon's Dictionary, do write in and we'll stick it to the establishment.
Ciao for now.
At first glance it sounds like a ridiculous question.
At second glance, it still sounds the same. And to some of my stubborn friends, it runs well into the sixteenth and seventeenth glance.
But seriously, who invents words? Who said "let 'to be' be a verb! Let this thing that makes funny sounds be called a piano. And this thing that awkwardly juts out of my body be called a… a nose!"
Who is this all knowing authority?
I say we put our feet down. Let's question everything. Let's make our own rules.
Let's chant loudly - DOWN WITH THE ESTABLISHMENT.
And if you're reading this at WORK, let's whisper it.
In my endeavor to create a new world 'of the people and by the people', I've decided to replace some words in the English language, evolve my own meaning of words, and pretty much create my own words. This is a democracy of course. So, let me know what you think.
And I'll let you know where you can 'PUT' your thoughts.
Let's begin.
The wind instrument Tuba will no longer be called tuba, but will be replaced by the word Flatula. The noises are the same, I think the word fits.
The female mammary glands will no longer be called breasts. Instead, I've come up with (drum roll please) ' Thingamajigglelots"
The male organ will hence be known as pokeyhontas.
Diamonds will simply be spelt differently to connote what they actually mean. DieMen.
Since they kill them financially.
Flowers will be known by their scientific name from now on - Sorry Facilitators. All of them will be from the some genus – Fergotyorbuday Heressum Prettytree
The word Pornography, for reasons unbeknownst to me, has been associated with something wrong. I figure it's purely educational, and hence its new name can either be – Howdeydoodat or Wheredeyputdat.
Unless you have something better of course.
Politics. Poly meaning many and Tics meaning blood sucking insects. In all honesty, it's not fairs to the tics. Or any breathing creature for that matter to be compared to a politician. So I'm a bit stumped here. Anyone have a suggestion? Poly_______?
And if you have anymore words that you want to add to Jon's Dictionary, do write in and we'll stick it to the establishment.
Ciao for now.
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