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.

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.

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.


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.

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?


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.
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.

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.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007


Question everything.
That’s what they told me. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing all my life.
Truth 1: There is no ‘they’.
Truth 2: If there was a ‘they’, they wouldn’t speak to me. Even my ‘inside voices’ have to be bribed to carry on some casual banter.
Truth 3: That’s not exactly what I’ve been doing my whole life. There has been a sizeable amount of drinking, sleeping, bad punning, pretending to exercise, nose picking and something that vaguely resembles the birdie dance.

Here we go. Some things to ponder about.

Q1) Why is heavy metal called metal? Or Rock called Rock. And people have gone so far as to determine the texture of the said rock, as in – Hard Rock &Soft Rock?
Well, I have, in my spare time, hypothesized on this question and came to this conclusion - Hypothesize is a pretty big word to connote postulate. Postulate is pretty nasty as well.
Back to the point. I postulated that the roots of rock can be traced back to the stone age. Stone Age – Rock? Get it?
The earliest band, I’ve concluded, were Guns & Moses and Def Shepherd.

Q2) Why do people wear clothes?
Seriously. Adam and Eve went on fine. Then they ate the fruit and they were “ashamed” of their nakedness.
Why? There was no one to compare themselves with. For all Eve knew, he was ALL MAN. Even when it was cold. And Eve was the hottest thing ever!
My conclusion. There was no excitement. If you’re naked all the time, there’s nothing to fantasize about. You’ve revealed the plot and now nobody wants to watch the movie.
Suddenly, here a fig leaf. There a fig leaf, and voila! Hot Pants.
Adam- some leather here and there and…. Whoa there cowboy. Looking plenty good!
Eh? We on a roll now.

Q3) Why did the turtle win the race?
Why did he? Was it because the rabbit tripped over the chicken that was crossing the road?
What are we teaching our kids? That it’s okay be a slow poke?
Shouldn’t we be realistic and let the rabbit win once in a while?
This is what I have to say:

½ tblspn salt
A pinch of oregano.
Some tobasco sauce.
Curd and a few spices that I can never remember but are small and look like twigs.
1 tasty rabbit / Turtle / any other fairytale animal.

Method: Roast tasty animal till no hint of fairytale exists. Mix in the other stuff and baste on the animal. Have with generous doses of alcohol.

I had more questions, but after that impromptu recipe, I got kindda hungry. If you guys have any questions avec the answers, do write in.

Ciao for now and all that jazz and stuff.