Call me pedantic, but am I the only one who sees the irony in staging the INDIAN Premier League in South Africa? Surely now that the new venue has been decided this megamegabuck event should be renamed. Perhaps something like the International Premier League (which, for one, would save significant amounts of money which would otherwise be spent on redesigning the logo) (not that cash is something the IPL syndicate is in any way short of).
On the other hand this move speaks volumes for the way in which globalisation has become an ineluctable part of the very fabric of 21st century life. In a virtual world, one becoming more and more so in virtually every way, what does it matter where any game is played. 99.97% (or thereabouts) of all viewers will be watching matches off-site, on tv sets and computer monitors. Hell, this could be the start of a new and wonderful chapter in sports marketing.
For example, the English Premier League, world's favourite league -- after the League of Notions [sic] -- could be played all year round. In fact, Dubai might be the perfect venue for the EPL during it's summer hiatus. This most anglophiliac of pseudocolonies would welcome EPL football stars and starlets alike with open arms, and the odd garland or two. Of course, the balmy, pleasantly humid atmosphere would do wonders for the tans of the more pigmentally challenged of the bootmeisters, while the proximity of sandy beaches must, i'm sure, be good for something (i'm just not quite sure what).
The matches might have to be restricted to 15 minutes or so (in light of the aforementioned atmosphere and the general shortening of attention spans). Perhaps 20 minutes would be better. We could then have a T20 of football. And on days when it gets warmer than usual, matches could simply consist of a 20-shot penalty shootout. Vah, whatte funne, as one LongBlackVeil might say.
But coming back to the now seemingly inaptly, if not downright ineptly named IPL, might i suggest that they also change the team names. Considering all the work that needs to be done to transport the event, i am taking the liberty of suggesting new names for the teams, to take some of the load off L. Modi and Co. so that they can concentrate on the logistics, et cetera:
1. Free State Firebrands
2. KwaZulu-Natal Kirpaans
3. Gauteng Game Beers
4. Durban Turbans
5. Blomfontein Bully Boys
6. Mpumalanga Pomelos
7. Limpopo Lungis
8. Pretorian Abdominal Guards
And, while we're on the subject, all those in favour of staging Baseball's World Series in Swat, say "aye".
Beam me up, Spotty.
kirkminos out!
March 25, 2009
October 24, 2008
Death to Infielders, Chapter IV
Hashim leaned back against the slimegreen wall of the Government hospital, straring blankly at the fluids flowing through the various IV-lines hooked up to his brother’s battered body, and this one line kept looping inside his head: “Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into!”
He’d been trying and trying to remember where he’d heard that line. A childhood memory? For sure. A good memory, too. A happy one. And it sounded so... familiar. If his brother could speak right now, this may well be the first thing he would say to Hashim.
“Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into, bhai jaan!”
And Hashim had to admit that he would have a point. After all, whatever the state of the cause-and-effect cycle in the broader scheme of things, it was, sensu stricto, Hashim’s fault that Khadim had been present, wrongtime-wrongplace, at the site of the blast. “Hashim bachha, we’re out of Marmite,” Ammi-ji had said. “Meri jaan, zara run down to Agha’s na, and get me small pot. Your father will be back from office soon.”
Hashim’s father had, post-Ramzan, taken to munching slices of buttered and Marmited bread with his post-office pre-dinner tea. Before that it had been buttered-scones-ooh-la-la, lathered with homemade raspberry jam and – before that – any one of Ammi-ji’s world-famous mixed-fruit chutneys with roghni roti. Ammi-ji was an enthusiastic preserver. Of jams and pickles and unhappy memories. And of the fragile sanity of a family loosely bound together by the tightest of lips.
Abba’s most notorious evening snack, the one they all remembered with wrinkled noses and wry smiles, had been sevruga caviar on melba toast. That menu item had lasted just three days (thank God). That is, for as long as the solitary tin presented to him with much fanfare by Basit Uncle on his return from Baku had lasted. Abba had offered to share it with them, but all had politely declined. “Heh, so much more for me then,” he had smiled, before gingerly taking a bite.
Ammi-ji later told Hashim and Khadim that Abba couldn’t really stand the stuff, and only ate it cos that’s what sophisticated English pipples ate, y’know, y’know. And so he could brag about it at the Marine Club, or whenever he met Basit Uncle and his cronies at some high-funty shaadi or other. “I’m telling you,” she had smiled, “your Abba heaved a sigh of relief when that foul stuff finally finished.”
“Ammi-ji! Do I have to go?” said Hashim. “Let Khadim go, na? He won’t mind. You know he needs any excuse to drive the car, and it’s not like he won’t be able to find Marmite.” This approach always worked, cos Ammi-ji could never resist an opportunity for her twee li’l Khadim jaan to show how independent and reliable he was, the “mmm-waaaaah, schweety-pie.”
Thus Khadim was despatched to procure Abba’s tea-time condiment, which shouldn’t have taken him more than half an hour or so. Abba came home an hour later and there was no sign of Khadim. When he discovered that his Marmite hadn’t arrived he threw a right old fit.
“Aray, why did you have to send that good-for-nothing lafanga?” he asked Ammi-ji. He pointed a finger at Hashim. “Why not this good-for-something fellow? Voh moti-choor ka luddoo hai na tumhara, must be leaning against some greasy pillar eyeing all the fat-bottomed chhokris.” He turned to Hashim. “Call the bugger on his mobile.” But the line was engaged.
“Uffo! Kaunsi chhokri hai this time?” exclaimed Abba testily. “Jao, take my car and find the fellow. Or... no, no, just get me my bloody Marmite.”
A few minutes later an almighty bang shook the house, shattering all the upper-storey windows.
That night, all night, the media circus big-topped the blast with its customary gusto. “Karachi on fire,” was the most commonly heard phrase on tv. Fatality estimates of the many networks varied between sixty-three and seventy-nine. There were as yet no clues to the identity of the obliterated perpetrator, though at least three known terrorist groups had claimed responsibility, including the loathsome TTP. Next morning’s newspapers front-paged the story. A suicide attack of this magnitude, striking at the very heart of Burgher Central, could be said to rival the apocalyptic assault on the once-grand Marriott Hotel. At one point a baritoned anchor for an English-language tv channel referred to the crater that was once Schon Circle as “Ground Double Zero.” It wasn’t clear whether he’d come up with the line himself or had read it off the teleprompter. The phrase was not heard again, at least not in this context.
One Urdu language ’paper, after logging the names of the deceased, published a partial list of those injured in the blast. At number two hundred and forty-nine was one Qadeem [sic] Farooqi, vald Zaeem Farooqi.
After witnessing his brother’s disconnection from all the life-support gizmos and lengths of tubing, time of death having been duly noted, Hashim turned on his heels and strode out of the hospital, the sound of his mother’s funerary sobs fading away behind him. There were papers to sign, but he had told the admin types his father was around and would return at some point to sign them. Nobody asked why the father had not been present. Nobody said much of anything.
He got into Abba’s car, adjusted the rear-view mirror, the electrically-operated wing-mirrors. Strapped on his seat belt. Lit a cigarette. Cranked the engine. Took a long, deep drag and slammed the gearshift into drive, fishtailing out of the parking lot. His face, which had been the consistency of putty in the hospital, had set to granite. Only his blazing eyes betrayed any sense of purpose. And his hands – gripping the steering wheel so hard the knuckles were turning green.
Avoiding known bottlenecks, he arrived at his destination not long afterwards, screeching to a halt alongside the boundary wall of a not entirely modest house. Its ornate, though rusting gates, unlike almost any house in Karachi, stood wide open. Inside, on the wide, neatly tiled driveway, stood a dark-blue fin de siècle Honda Civic and a coffee-coloured Cadillac of Ayubian vintage. Both looked well-maintained. To one corner, amidst a clutter of parts and tools strewn around, stood a partly dismantled, partially mantled motorbike, as unHarleylike as one could ever wish for, hallelujah. Hashim called it The Workshop That Jackshit Built.
The house itself was
-----
The rest of this piece has been posted at
Pak Tea House
Two Dead Ends & You Still Got To Choose
-----
He’d been trying and trying to remember where he’d heard that line. A childhood memory? For sure. A good memory, too. A happy one. And it sounded so... familiar. If his brother could speak right now, this may well be the first thing he would say to Hashim.
“Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into, bhai jaan!”
And Hashim had to admit that he would have a point. After all, whatever the state of the cause-and-effect cycle in the broader scheme of things, it was, sensu stricto, Hashim’s fault that Khadim had been present, wrongtime-wrongplace, at the site of the blast. “Hashim bachha, we’re out of Marmite,” Ammi-ji had said. “Meri jaan, zara run down to Agha’s na, and get me small pot. Your father will be back from office soon.”
Hashim’s father had, post-Ramzan, taken to munching slices of buttered and Marmited bread with his post-office pre-dinner tea. Before that it had been buttered-scones-ooh-la-la, lathered with homemade raspberry jam and – before that – any one of Ammi-ji’s world-famous mixed-fruit chutneys with roghni roti. Ammi-ji was an enthusiastic preserver. Of jams and pickles and unhappy memories. And of the fragile sanity of a family loosely bound together by the tightest of lips.
Abba’s most notorious evening snack, the one they all remembered with wrinkled noses and wry smiles, had been sevruga caviar on melba toast. That menu item had lasted just three days (thank God). That is, for as long as the solitary tin presented to him with much fanfare by Basit Uncle on his return from Baku had lasted. Abba had offered to share it with them, but all had politely declined. “Heh, so much more for me then,” he had smiled, before gingerly taking a bite.
Ammi-ji later told Hashim and Khadim that Abba couldn’t really stand the stuff, and only ate it cos that’s what sophisticated English pipples ate, y’know, y’know. And so he could brag about it at the Marine Club, or whenever he met Basit Uncle and his cronies at some high-funty shaadi or other. “I’m telling you,” she had smiled, “your Abba heaved a sigh of relief when that foul stuff finally finished.”
“Ammi-ji! Do I have to go?” said Hashim. “Let Khadim go, na? He won’t mind. You know he needs any excuse to drive the car, and it’s not like he won’t be able to find Marmite.” This approach always worked, cos Ammi-ji could never resist an opportunity for her twee li’l Khadim jaan to show how independent and reliable he was, the “mmm-waaaaah, schweety-pie.”
Thus Khadim was despatched to procure Abba’s tea-time condiment, which shouldn’t have taken him more than half an hour or so. Abba came home an hour later and there was no sign of Khadim. When he discovered that his Marmite hadn’t arrived he threw a right old fit.
“Aray, why did you have to send that good-for-nothing lafanga?” he asked Ammi-ji. He pointed a finger at Hashim. “Why not this good-for-something fellow? Voh moti-choor ka luddoo hai na tumhara, must be leaning against some greasy pillar eyeing all the fat-bottomed chhokris.” He turned to Hashim. “Call the bugger on his mobile.” But the line was engaged.
“Uffo! Kaunsi chhokri hai this time?” exclaimed Abba testily. “Jao, take my car and find the fellow. Or... no, no, just get me my bloody Marmite.”
A few minutes later an almighty bang shook the house, shattering all the upper-storey windows.
That night, all night, the media circus big-topped the blast with its customary gusto. “Karachi on fire,” was the most commonly heard phrase on tv. Fatality estimates of the many networks varied between sixty-three and seventy-nine. There were as yet no clues to the identity of the obliterated perpetrator, though at least three known terrorist groups had claimed responsibility, including the loathsome TTP. Next morning’s newspapers front-paged the story. A suicide attack of this magnitude, striking at the very heart of Burgher Central, could be said to rival the apocalyptic assault on the once-grand Marriott Hotel. At one point a baritoned anchor for an English-language tv channel referred to the crater that was once Schon Circle as “Ground Double Zero.” It wasn’t clear whether he’d come up with the line himself or had read it off the teleprompter. The phrase was not heard again, at least not in this context.
One Urdu language ’paper, after logging the names of the deceased, published a partial list of those injured in the blast. At number two hundred and forty-nine was one Qadeem [sic] Farooqi, vald Zaeem Farooqi.
* * *
After witnessing his brother’s disconnection from all the life-support gizmos and lengths of tubing, time of death having been duly noted, Hashim turned on his heels and strode out of the hospital, the sound of his mother’s funerary sobs fading away behind him. There were papers to sign, but he had told the admin types his father was around and would return at some point to sign them. Nobody asked why the father had not been present. Nobody said much of anything.
He got into Abba’s car, adjusted the rear-view mirror, the electrically-operated wing-mirrors. Strapped on his seat belt. Lit a cigarette. Cranked the engine. Took a long, deep drag and slammed the gearshift into drive, fishtailing out of the parking lot. His face, which had been the consistency of putty in the hospital, had set to granite. Only his blazing eyes betrayed any sense of purpose. And his hands – gripping the steering wheel so hard the knuckles were turning green.
Avoiding known bottlenecks, he arrived at his destination not long afterwards, screeching to a halt alongside the boundary wall of a not entirely modest house. Its ornate, though rusting gates, unlike almost any house in Karachi, stood wide open. Inside, on the wide, neatly tiled driveway, stood a dark-blue fin de siècle Honda Civic and a coffee-coloured Cadillac of Ayubian vintage. Both looked well-maintained. To one corner, amidst a clutter of parts and tools strewn around, stood a partly dismantled, partially mantled motorbike, as unHarleylike as one could ever wish for, hallelujah. Hashim called it The Workshop That Jackshit Built.
The house itself was
-----
The rest of this piece has been posted at
Pak Tea House
Two Dead Ends & You Still Got To Choose
-----
October 17, 2008
Death to Infielders, Take Five
typed by kinkminos sometime in octomber
"Woke up this morning and found myself dead" is the working title of a film treatment i'm working on at the moment. Hardly an original title, as hard core fans of the late Jimi Hendrix will testify. You have to admit, though, that as kitschy commentary on the state of affairs of the current affairs of state, it does have a certain moribund relevance to the vexatious theme of escalating puritanicalism.
"Come on, let's do it again," sang Peter Frampton.
The structure of the story conforms to the basic three-act action-flick formula. There is, of course, a mian hero, representing an heroic class of White-hatted folk. These are Good People. Kind people. The kind of people who help the old and the infirm and the respectable. Who give unstintingly of themselves and never forget to say "masha'allah" when admiring the cherubic cheeks of clear-skinned toddlers. They are not prone to prejudice, except towards the darker-complexioned, and one or two of the lesser ethnic groups of our purestate. But then that hardly counts, right? Let's face it, you wouldn't want your daughter marrying a Bengali, ya?
Our hero, a morally upright member of an uptight community, finds himself, as is often the case, unwittingly pitted against the forces of darkness, led by a shadowy figure who is in the process of assembling a motley crew of cutthroat vagabonds from the depths of society's underclasses. At the mass induction ceremonies he conducts, he likes to welcome recruits with a short speech. i visualise these speeches taking place inside a huge cavern or underground lair. (i'm thinking, something along the lines of Temple of Doom.)
"I have but three simple rules," intones the villain (Vill Ian?) – whose name is either Kifayat Khan or Sabaahat Gul, but whom the Good and the Great refer to as Girdhari Lal (tho' suggestions for more suitable names are welcome) – in his measured and melliflous baritone, "rules which are sacrosanct and inviolable, and set in the stone you see on the wall behind me.
"Rule Number One –" he declares, after an aposiopetic pause, "you must grow your beards to the precise length of a fist and a half. These will be regularly monitored for conformity.
"Rule Number Two – you must at all times carry an ablution pebble, as prescribed, to ensure that your wee-wees are always clean in the eyes of the almighty.
"Rule Number Three – Death to Infidels. Without exception."
Stroking his own luxuriant facial hair, he continues, "You will find the definition of Infidel in the instruction manual provided to you. If you are unable to read, Munshi Sabahuddin is conducting a sing-along around the campfire tonight, during which the definition will be clarified. It's all in good fun, and prizes will be awaded for qira'at and the best rendition of Surah-e-Yasin. Attendance is mandatory." (The previous batch, arriving in early Ramzan last, had been judged on the speed and zeal – in that order – of their taraavi renditions.)
I'm sure you get the picture.
(Note: Flashback? Flash forward? Fantasy flash forward of an aspiring jihaadi?)
(Note: should h.q. be set in madrassa or masjid?)
Midway through act two, our hero, after proving his courage time and again, despite losing friends and relatives and associates at an alarming rate (body bags are going to be in short supply), faces off the black-bearded villain in a thrilling scene in which hero shoots villain in left testicle, damaging right one in process. This renders Girdhari Lal incabaple of facing his band of mercenaries, now that he has no balls left to speak of. He is seen shuffling off shamefacedly in the direction of the rugged South Waziri mountains, and is never seen or heard from again. His unholy mob, now ringleaderless, without half a Weltanschauung between the lot of them, reverts to its aimless, nosepicking, urban-nomadic ways.
Act three has barely been outlined, but preliminary story options include the development of the love interest, a kidnapping of some sort by a splinter militia group of Girdhari Lal's disbanded faction, and might take in an item number. Personally i'd love to see Mallika Sherawat frolic around the rain-washed trees of Lahore's Lawrence Gardens in a green, white and saffron sari. On film, of course. (i'm sure they'll give her a visa.)
The epilogue celebrates the exploits of our hero, who is called Gubroo Shah or Rye Bahadur (haven't decided yet), being feted by the metrop's Burghers, who have been delivered from the potentially dreadful yoke of fundamentalist puritanicalism. Outside a large crowd has gathered, chanting the hero's name in chorus. They could be singing something like
jeevay, jeevay, jeevay Gubroo Shah
Gubroo Shah, Gubroo Shah, jeevay Gubroo Shah...
(Note: budgetary constraints might limit the scope and breadth of the crowd shots.)
The federal government awards him a ten-marla plot in the vicinity of Kharian Cantonment. Snow-white-hatted President of The Islamic Republic of Pakistan personally pins the Sitara-e-Jura'at medal onto Gubroo's chest (does the ghost of Yossarian enter the proceedings?) (just kidding!). Highly articulate Prime Minister of I.R. (producers feel he should be Syed, tho' i'm not sure if they mean the character, or the actor who plays him) delivers an impassioned speech extolling the incorruptible virtues of our Gubroo javaan and the need for one and all to adopt his brave and morally upright ways. With the ultimate defeat of the evil forces of anachronism, he continues, the country can return to the path of righteousness and start to achieve the prosperity it has always had the potential for. Credits roll, over the audience giving the VIPs a standing
i've never been in favour of moral ambiguity as an underlying motif in action fillums. "Give the pipples what they want" is my lucrative motto.
(Concluding note: would the obvious crowd-pulling advantages of casting an incoherent but big-bottled, blonde, Caucasian love-interest compensate for the sheer crassness of the idea?)
—–
P.S. The internal plumbing of Chapter IV of this meandering series has become clogged and is need of a dose of Drano. The Union of Plumbers has been alerted.
"Woke up this morning and found myself dead" is the working title of a film treatment i'm working on at the moment. Hardly an original title, as hard core fans of the late Jimi Hendrix will testify. You have to admit, though, that as kitschy commentary on the state of affairs of the current affairs of state, it does have a certain moribund relevance to the vexatious theme of escalating puritanicalism.
"Come on, let's do it again," sang Peter Frampton.
The structure of the story conforms to the basic three-act action-flick formula. There is, of course, a mian hero, representing an heroic class of White-hatted folk. These are Good People. Kind people. The kind of people who help the old and the infirm and the respectable. Who give unstintingly of themselves and never forget to say "masha'allah" when admiring the cherubic cheeks of clear-skinned toddlers. They are not prone to prejudice, except towards the darker-complexioned, and one or two of the lesser ethnic groups of our purestate. But then that hardly counts, right? Let's face it, you wouldn't want your daughter marrying a Bengali, ya?
Our hero, a morally upright member of an uptight community, finds himself, as is often the case, unwittingly pitted against the forces of darkness, led by a shadowy figure who is in the process of assembling a motley crew of cutthroat vagabonds from the depths of society's underclasses. At the mass induction ceremonies he conducts, he likes to welcome recruits with a short speech. i visualise these speeches taking place inside a huge cavern or underground lair. (i'm thinking, something along the lines of Temple of Doom.)
"I have but three simple rules," intones the villain (Vill Ian?) – whose name is either Kifayat Khan or Sabaahat Gul, but whom the Good and the Great refer to as Girdhari Lal (tho' suggestions for more suitable names are welcome) – in his measured and melliflous baritone, "rules which are sacrosanct and inviolable, and set in the stone you see on the wall behind me.
"Rule Number One –" he declares, after an aposiopetic pause, "you must grow your beards to the precise length of a fist and a half. These will be regularly monitored for conformity.
"Rule Number Two – you must at all times carry an ablution pebble, as prescribed, to ensure that your wee-wees are always clean in the eyes of the almighty.
"Rule Number Three – Death to Infidels. Without exception."
Stroking his own luxuriant facial hair, he continues, "You will find the definition of Infidel in the instruction manual provided to you. If you are unable to read, Munshi Sabahuddin is conducting a sing-along around the campfire tonight, during which the definition will be clarified. It's all in good fun, and prizes will be awaded for qira'at and the best rendition of Surah-e-Yasin. Attendance is mandatory." (The previous batch, arriving in early Ramzan last, had been judged on the speed and zeal – in that order – of their taraavi renditions.)
I'm sure you get the picture.
(Note: Flashback? Flash forward? Fantasy flash forward of an aspiring jihaadi?)
(Note: should h.q. be set in madrassa or masjid?)
Midway through act two, our hero, after proving his courage time and again, despite losing friends and relatives and associates at an alarming rate (body bags are going to be in short supply), faces off the black-bearded villain in a thrilling scene in which hero shoots villain in left testicle, damaging right one in process. This renders Girdhari Lal incabaple of facing his band of mercenaries, now that he has no balls left to speak of. He is seen shuffling off shamefacedly in the direction of the rugged South Waziri mountains, and is never seen or heard from again. His unholy mob, now ringleaderless, without half a Weltanschauung between the lot of them, reverts to its aimless, nosepicking, urban-nomadic ways.
Act three has barely been outlined, but preliminary story options include the development of the love interest, a kidnapping of some sort by a splinter militia group of Girdhari Lal's disbanded faction, and might take in an item number. Personally i'd love to see Mallika Sherawat frolic around the rain-washed trees of Lahore's Lawrence Gardens in a green, white and saffron sari. On film, of course. (i'm sure they'll give her a visa.)
The epilogue celebrates the exploits of our hero, who is called Gubroo Shah or Rye Bahadur (haven't decided yet), being feted by the metrop's Burghers, who have been delivered from the potentially dreadful yoke of fundamentalist puritanicalism. Outside a large crowd has gathered, chanting the hero's name in chorus. They could be singing something like
jeevay, jeevay, jeevay Gubroo Shah
Gubroo Shah, Gubroo Shah, jeevay Gubroo Shah...
(Note: budgetary constraints might limit the scope and breadth of the crowd shots.)
The federal government awards him a ten-marla plot in the vicinity of Kharian Cantonment. Snow-white-hatted President of The Islamic Republic of Pakistan personally pins the Sitara-e-Jura'at medal onto Gubroo's chest (does the ghost of Yossarian enter the proceedings?) (just kidding!). Highly articulate Prime Minister of I.R. (producers feel he should be Syed, tho' i'm not sure if they mean the character, or the actor who plays him) delivers an impassioned speech extolling the incorruptible virtues of our Gubroo javaan and the need for one and all to adopt his brave and morally upright ways. With the ultimate defeat of the evil forces of anachronism, he continues, the country can return to the path of righteousness and start to achieve the prosperity it has always had the potential for. Credits roll, over the audience giving the VIPs a standing
i've never been in favour of moral ambiguity as an underlying motif in action fillums. "Give the pipples what they want" is my lucrative motto.
(Concluding note: would the obvious crowd-pulling advantages of casting an incoherent but big-bottled, blonde, Caucasian love-interest compensate for the sheer crassness of the idea?)
—–
P.S. The internal plumbing of Chapter IV of this meandering series has become clogged and is need of a dose of Drano. The Union of Plumbers has been alerted.
September 07, 2008
“Goli” as Caesar
A Panglossian Panegyric in the Glossolalian Tongue to His Majesty, our Most Glorious, and Most Magnificent, and Most Noble, and Most Munificent Sovereign
Fiends, womans, cuntrymans, lend me your ears;
I come to praise Caesar, not to bury his crackter.
The evil that men do lives with them;
Their goods are oft confused with their bonuses;
So let it be with Caesar. The Noble mans and womans
Of Civil Society have told you Caesar is seditious:
If it be so, it is a grievous fault,
And grievously may Caesar answer it.
Here, under leave of Civil Society,
For Civil Society is a bunch of
Honourable mans and womans,
All, all honourable mans and womans,
Come I to speak at Caesar’s accession to the Bullcock Throne.
He is our friend, faithfully unjust to us:
But Civil Society says he is seditious;
And Civil Society is a right ol’ bunch of
Honourable mans and womans.
He hath brought many a chicken home to roost
Whose rancid pong does fill the general air so fragrantly:
Does this in Caesar seem so seditious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath slept:
Sedition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Civil Society says he is seditious;
And Civil Society is a right ol’ bunch of
Honourable mans and womans.
You all did see that in the capital
We thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did accept but once: was this sedition?
Yet Civil Society says he is seditious;
And, sure, Civil Society is a right ol’ bunch of
Honourable mans and womans.
I speak not to disprove what Civil Society speaks,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did hate him once, not without cause:
But give the poor bugger a chance, wontcha!
For, verily, sayeth the bard,
“All we are saying, is give the bugger a chance!”
Fiends, womans, cuntrymans, lend me your ears;
I come to praise Caesar, not to bury his crackter.
The evil that men do lives with them;
Their goods are oft confused with their bonuses;
So let it be with Caesar. The Noble mans and womans
Of Civil Society have told you Caesar is seditious:
If it be so, it is a grievous fault,
And grievously may Caesar answer it.
Here, under leave of Civil Society,
For Civil Society is a bunch of
Honourable mans and womans,
All, all honourable mans and womans,
Come I to speak at Caesar’s accession to the Bullcock Throne.
He is our friend, faithfully unjust to us:
But Civil Society says he is seditious;
And Civil Society is a right ol’ bunch of
Honourable mans and womans.
He hath brought many a chicken home to roost
Whose rancid pong does fill the general air so fragrantly:
Does this in Caesar seem so seditious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath slept:
Sedition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Civil Society says he is seditious;
And Civil Society is a right ol’ bunch of
Honourable mans and womans.
You all did see that in the capital
We thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did accept but once: was this sedition?
Yet Civil Society says he is seditious;
And, sure, Civil Society is a right ol’ bunch of
Honourable mans and womans.
I speak not to disprove what Civil Society speaks,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did hate him once, not without cause:
But give the poor bugger a chance, wontcha!
For, verily, sayeth the bard,
“All we are saying, is give the bugger a chance!”
September 01, 2008
All Terrorists are Muslim, therefore all Muslims are Terrorists
A Ballad in Plain D-monic Logic
by Ginkminos
Our world is changing. Fast. And in ways that even the more visionary of our ancestors could not have imagined. Believe it or not, many of these changes actually do benefit mankind as a whole, or at the very least a significant part of it. The dreaded curse of consumerism, for instance, has led to an unprecedented rise in the living standards of millions across the globe who would otherwise still be floundering in the murky waters of abject poverty.
Man has been to the moon, can order pizza delivery without speaking to another person, and is able to replace the human heart. These are just some of the marvels of our age. The imminent end of religion as the preeminent guiding principle in our lives signals yet another miracle [sic], which the more rational amongst the populace of terra firma are preparing to celebrate with the kind of fervour more commonly reserved for rave parties fueled by sex ’n drugs ’n rock ’n roll.
On the flip side, the long awaited and much vaunted renascence of Muhammedanism has been cheered by many. It has also been denounced by many more, including the aforementioned ravers. It is the subject of the most intense debates and is, arguably, the defining discourse of our time. It polarises opinion like no other topic, except perhaps the question of the eminently questionable elegance of Lagerfeld’s Spring Collection.
Much of the debate focuses on the definition of “Terrorism,” and what constitutes this plague on civilised human life. The world is divided into two camps. One which equates Islam with Terrorism, and one for whom Islam offers the only route to the salvation of civilisation. While the latter group is composed exclusively of Muslims, membership of the former camp is open to all and sundry, and does not exclude (sensible) Muslims.
The most feared Terrorists belong to a cult unofficially known as Suicide Bombers ’R Us. Because they believe they are death-proof, possessing an unshakeable faith in Elysian reincarnation, they are not afraid to blow themselves (and many others) up into a million little pieces in order to achieve their evil, if rather fuzzy, goals. Many realistic people feel that, in light of the clear and present danger posed to world peace by these Godless felons, it is high time we renamed our celestial orb Planet Terror.
All this is nothing new, and is widely known. What is not known is how successful the Terrorists have been in their recruitment drive. Until recently Terrorists belonged to every race, colour, creed and sexual orientation known to Man (and at least one orientation known only to the loinclothed saadhu who inhabits one of the more impressive peaks of the Karakoram Range). No more. According to the Galoop Galoop Organisation’s latest global survey, every single non-Muslim Terrorist in the world has converted to Islam, right down to (in the case of males of this disgusting species) gleefully shedding their foreskins.
And we all know how accurate GGO’s surveys are. More accurate even than a mercury-ion clock on a long-term course of anabolic steroids, in case you were wondering.
GGO’s findings reveal that there are no longer any African Terrorists. There are no European Terrorists. No Caucasian Terrorists. No Jewish Terrorists. No Hindu Terrorists. And there are certainly no American Terrorists. (There’s just a whole lot of Bloody Tourists, but that is to be the subject of yet another survey.)
Ah (plop-plop-fizz-fizz), what a relief! This unambiguous homogeneity of Terrorists makes the job of hunting down and liquidating these demons so much easier.
An argument currently doing the rounds, quite disturbing for moral reasons to many in the bleeding-heart liberal community, advocates the extermination of each and every man, woman and child of the Muslim persuasion; thereby eliminating entirely the threat of Terrorism. Thankfully no Nazi gas chamber remains in working order, or the capitalist system would implode with the removal of so many hundreds of millions of consumer-goods consumers (“suckers” in marketing parlance). Where would we be then, hain ji?
In the meantime, until we can find a viable final solution to the terrorist menace, I advise all non-Muslims, and all sane Muslims too, to display extreme caution when faced with anyone
a) Sporting a beard.
b) Wearing a veil.
c) Speaking Arabic (cos you never know, it might just be some unholy incantation).
d) Using the word “bomb” in a sentence, even as a seemingly harmless suffix or prefix. (The commercial hub of India now, thankfully, has the much less frightening handle of “Mumbai.”)
e) Trying to convince you that she is not a Terrorist, even though she is dressed from head to toe in a jet-black tent, with just enough exposure to allow two eyes to peep warily out from within the incarceration of intellectual capitulation and incapacity.
If you do come across such terrifying creatures, please just drop whatever you have in your hands, and run like hell. As Messrs Gilmour and Waters used to sing so eloquently:
If you’re taking your girlfriend out tonight
You’d better park the car well out of sight
Cos if they catch you in the back seat trying to pick her locks
They’re gonna send you back to mother in a cardboard box
You better
Run… run… run… run…
Run… run… run… run…
Run… run… run… run…
Run… run… run… run…
cross-posted up at Pak Tea House
by Ginkminos
Our world is changing. Fast. And in ways that even the more visionary of our ancestors could not have imagined. Believe it or not, many of these changes actually do benefit mankind as a whole, or at the very least a significant part of it. The dreaded curse of consumerism, for instance, has led to an unprecedented rise in the living standards of millions across the globe who would otherwise still be floundering in the murky waters of abject poverty.
Man has been to the moon, can order pizza delivery without speaking to another person, and is able to replace the human heart. These are just some of the marvels of our age. The imminent end of religion as the preeminent guiding principle in our lives signals yet another miracle [sic], which the more rational amongst the populace of terra firma are preparing to celebrate with the kind of fervour more commonly reserved for rave parties fueled by sex ’n drugs ’n rock ’n roll.
On the flip side, the long awaited and much vaunted renascence of Muhammedanism has been cheered by many. It has also been denounced by many more, including the aforementioned ravers. It is the subject of the most intense debates and is, arguably, the defining discourse of our time. It polarises opinion like no other topic, except perhaps the question of the eminently questionable elegance of Lagerfeld’s Spring Collection.
Much of the debate focuses on the definition of “Terrorism,” and what constitutes this plague on civilised human life. The world is divided into two camps. One which equates Islam with Terrorism, and one for whom Islam offers the only route to the salvation of civilisation. While the latter group is composed exclusively of Muslims, membership of the former camp is open to all and sundry, and does not exclude (sensible) Muslims.
The most feared Terrorists belong to a cult unofficially known as Suicide Bombers ’R Us. Because they believe they are death-proof, possessing an unshakeable faith in Elysian reincarnation, they are not afraid to blow themselves (and many others) up into a million little pieces in order to achieve their evil, if rather fuzzy, goals. Many realistic people feel that, in light of the clear and present danger posed to world peace by these Godless felons, it is high time we renamed our celestial orb Planet Terror.
All this is nothing new, and is widely known. What is not known is how successful the Terrorists have been in their recruitment drive. Until recently Terrorists belonged to every race, colour, creed and sexual orientation known to Man (and at least one orientation known only to the loinclothed saadhu who inhabits one of the more impressive peaks of the Karakoram Range). No more. According to the Galoop Galoop Organisation’s latest global survey, every single non-Muslim Terrorist in the world has converted to Islam, right down to (in the case of males of this disgusting species) gleefully shedding their foreskins.
And we all know how accurate GGO’s surveys are. More accurate even than a mercury-ion clock on a long-term course of anabolic steroids, in case you were wondering.
GGO’s findings reveal that there are no longer any African Terrorists. There are no European Terrorists. No Caucasian Terrorists. No Jewish Terrorists. No Hindu Terrorists. And there are certainly no American Terrorists. (There’s just a whole lot of Bloody Tourists, but that is to be the subject of yet another survey.)
Ah (plop-plop-fizz-fizz), what a relief! This unambiguous homogeneity of Terrorists makes the job of hunting down and liquidating these demons so much easier.
An argument currently doing the rounds, quite disturbing for moral reasons to many in the bleeding-heart liberal community, advocates the extermination of each and every man, woman and child of the Muslim persuasion; thereby eliminating entirely the threat of Terrorism. Thankfully no Nazi gas chamber remains in working order, or the capitalist system would implode with the removal of so many hundreds of millions of consumer-goods consumers (“suckers” in marketing parlance). Where would we be then, hain ji?
In the meantime, until we can find a viable final solution to the terrorist menace, I advise all non-Muslims, and all sane Muslims too, to display extreme caution when faced with anyone
a) Sporting a beard.
b) Wearing a veil.
c) Speaking Arabic (cos you never know, it might just be some unholy incantation).
d) Using the word “bomb” in a sentence, even as a seemingly harmless suffix or prefix. (The commercial hub of India now, thankfully, has the much less frightening handle of “Mumbai.”)
e) Trying to convince you that she is not a Terrorist, even though she is dressed from head to toe in a jet-black tent, with just enough exposure to allow two eyes to peep warily out from within the incarceration of intellectual capitulation and incapacity.
If you do come across such terrifying creatures, please just drop whatever you have in your hands, and run like hell. As Messrs Gilmour and Waters used to sing so eloquently:
If you’re taking your girlfriend out tonight
You’d better park the car well out of sight
Cos if they catch you in the back seat trying to pick her locks
They’re gonna send you back to mother in a cardboard box
You better
Run… run… run… run…
Run… run… run… run…
Run… run… run… run…
Run… run… run… run…
cross-posted up at Pak Tea House
August 24, 2008
The King is a Fink! Long Live the King!
a politically correct inept allegory by Finkminos
Pokeystan is an Asian nation with a population of 80m people. In a recent development, unprecedented in human history, 79.99 million Pokeystanis have successfully applied for political, social and psychotic asylum in various countries throughout the civilised and uncivilised world. According to a survey conducted by the Galoop Galoop Organisation (whose motto, as we all know, is "The King is a Fink!"), every single respondent interviewed (and most married ones) claimed that the Angel Gabriel had appeared to them in a dream and told them to migrate to another country.
As the respondents included not only Muslims and Christians, but people of the Hindu and Zoroastrian faiths, this struck the GGO as being a possibly fraudulent claim. Interviewers were told to conduct repeat interviews and, under intense grilling, the respondents broke down and admitted that the real reason was the impending appointment of Pir Asaf Ali Shah of Zarda Shareef as the next Führer of the Slavish Republic of Pokeystan.
If my Chinese-designed-and-built calculator is as accurate as it claims to be on the packaging, once all the successful asylum seekers leave, the country will be left with a resident population of 10,000 people. According to senior political statisticians, this is precisely the number of people required to successfully hand-carry the entire contents of Pokeystan's state coffers to private Swiss bank accounts. Serendipity most surely works in mysterious ways.
It is estimated that transporting almost-but-not-quite 80 million Pokeystanis to countries as far apart as Palau, Mali, Kiribati, Somalia, Belize and the United States will take at least thirteen days. That is if all the country's Matter Transference Pods remain in full working order, and the required quantities of enriched di-lithium can be procured on time.
Pir Asif Ali Shah is thrilled at the prospect of the impending mass exodus. Speaking from behind the veil of anonymity (to protect, claim his bevy of simpering lickspittles, millions of Pokeystanis from being blinded by the light of his seraphic smile), the Leader-in-Waiting expressed his delight at millions of Pokeystanis being finally able to pursue their dreams of travelling the globe. "The world," he intoned pontifically, "is their oyster. This one here is mine. Schlurrrrrp. Yum. Burrrrrp!"
Work is already underway on a biopic detailing the pious and holy life of Pir Sahib. According to sources close to him, the Pir had wanted Heath Ledger to play him in the film, stating that all the actor needed to do was arrive off the set of The Dark Knight without costume- or character-change in order to accurately portray the Pir. When told that the talented actor was dead, Pir Sahib was shattered, but recovered quickly and is now trying to decide between Jackie Chan and Paris Hilton. The former is the more likely choice, as nobody would deny that Ms Hilton (plug-ugly enough as it is) would look quite hideous with a mustache.
Pokeystan is an Asian nation with a population of 80m people. In a recent development, unprecedented in human history, 79.99 million Pokeystanis have successfully applied for political, social and psychotic asylum in various countries throughout the civilised and uncivilised world. According to a survey conducted by the Galoop Galoop Organisation (whose motto, as we all know, is "The King is a Fink!"), every single respondent interviewed (and most married ones) claimed that the Angel Gabriel had appeared to them in a dream and told them to migrate to another country.
As the respondents included not only Muslims and Christians, but people of the Hindu and Zoroastrian faiths, this struck the GGO as being a possibly fraudulent claim. Interviewers were told to conduct repeat interviews and, under intense grilling, the respondents broke down and admitted that the real reason was the impending appointment of Pir Asaf Ali Shah of Zarda Shareef as the next Führer of the Slavish Republic of Pokeystan.If my Chinese-designed-and-built calculator is as accurate as it claims to be on the packaging, once all the successful asylum seekers leave, the country will be left with a resident population of 10,000 people. According to senior political statisticians, this is precisely the number of people required to successfully hand-carry the entire contents of Pokeystan's state coffers to private Swiss bank accounts. Serendipity most surely works in mysterious ways.
It is estimated that transporting almost-but-not-quite 80 million Pokeystanis to countries as far apart as Palau, Mali, Kiribati, Somalia, Belize and the United States will take at least thirteen days. That is if all the country's Matter Transference Pods remain in full working order, and the required quantities of enriched di-lithium can be procured on time.
Pir Asif Ali Shah is thrilled at the prospect of the impending mass exodus. Speaking from behind the veil of anonymity (to protect, claim his bevy of simpering lickspittles, millions of Pokeystanis from being blinded by the light of his seraphic smile), the Leader-in-Waiting expressed his delight at millions of Pokeystanis being finally able to pursue their dreams of travelling the globe. "The world," he intoned pontifically, "is their oyster. This one here is mine. Schlurrrrrp. Yum. Burrrrrp!"
Work is already underway on a biopic detailing the pious and holy life of Pir Sahib. According to sources close to him, the Pir had wanted Heath Ledger to play him in the film, stating that all the actor needed to do was arrive off the set of The Dark Knight without costume- or character-change in order to accurately portray the Pir. When told that the talented actor was dead, Pir Sahib was shattered, but recovered quickly and is now trying to decide between Jackie Chan and Paris Hilton. The former is the more likely choice, as nobody would deny that Ms Hilton (plug-ugly enough as it is) would look quite hideous with a mustache.
April 09, 2008
Midnight at the Oasis
The following piece appeared on the Front Page of yesterday’s Khaleej Times (8.04.08):
Shaikh Hamdan buys camel for record $2.72m
ABU DHABI - Shaikh Hamdan bin Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, Crown Prince of Dubai, has bought a female camel for a record $2.72 million, an organiser at a camel beauty pageant said yesterday.
Shaikh Hamdan “bought camels... worth Dh16.5 million ($4.49 million), including a female camel... for Dh10 million ($2.72 million),” Hamad bin Kardoum Al Amiri said.
Now i don’t know about you bunch of cynical halfwits, but i have to cheer not only the embracing of traditional beddu values, but the unabashed celebration of said values (not to mention the wily investment decision). Yee-haaaaaaaaa! so to speak. Why is our first instinct, on hearing this sort of Breaking News, to react with supercilious disdain (or worse)? Does it not behoove us to acknowledge the fact that here we see someone not ashamed to embrace his simple culture and traditional values? What a truly wonderful example it will set for his compatriots, many of whom are actively rejecting their age-old traditions.
On the other hand, we ethnophobic Anglophiliac Packies, living it up in this desert paradice, cannot shed our Packyness fast enough. Our shalvar kameez are piled high upon on the pyre, to be replaced by rejected Armani designs and Levi Strauss’ finest, and our language jettisoned down the loo in favour of twangy American colloquialisms we never fully comprehend. Mera Pakistan nahin, ye tera Pakistan hoga!
So, whether the bright young Shaikh rides around town on his multi-million dollar dromedary, or just parks it in the driveway as a killer conversation piece, let’s give a nice, warm round of applause for the triumph of character and sense of values over rampant postmodernism.
April 07, 2008
“I stand up next to a mountain and chop it down with the edge of my hand”
(or What Is & What Should Never Be)
It wuz late an they weren’t nobody insida this room so I dragged the case in here where it wuz dark ’cept fer the tv that’s on an they wuz a nice comfy easy chair fer me ter set in. So I lockt the door an set myself down in it an open up the case an took out the first bottle. Glug-glug glug-glug glug-glug aaaaaaaaaaaah.So anyway now I’s comfortable settin here in this fancy lazyboy thang an lookin at all o’ them blinkin lights on this big flat-screen tv thang. Now you probly heard about the pres’dent bein the guy who in charge o’ "the button". Y’know the one that start a nuclear war against all o’ them evil people in this world that wants ter destroy our way o’ life (I heard the pres’dent say that on tv one time an like the sound o’ that) like them muzzlem freaks in Eye-rack an Eye-ran an them hindoo freaks in Packiss Tan an them gook freaks in Coe Ria.
Well it all true ’cept it ain’t jess one button. It a whole lotta button with li’l numbers on ’em. An on the big flat screen tv thang they got a map o’ the You Knighted States on one side with a lotta lights flashin sayin S1 an S2 an S34177 an the like. An on the other side’s a map o’ the world with a lotta lights flashin sayin T1 an T2 an T34177 and the like. I don’ get it. Wide they have the same numbers on both o’ the maps. I tell yer they says I’s dumb but some o’ those guys in they fancy suits cud learn a thang or two frum me.
But hold on while I take another swig outa my pint o’ Jack Daniels frum this here casefull I found in back o’ this closet in t’other room. Hoooooooo-ee that some sweet stuff. Not like that evil rotgut I’s use ter. I’s on my fourth pint takin it one at a time. Yes sirree one at a time. Theys eight more ter get thru after that cuz I can’t take ’em outa the buildin an if I leave ‘em here they’s bound ter find it an give it ter somebody else so I best jess finish it tonite. Burrrrp! ‘Scuse me. I guess I’s drinkin it too fast. An I’s sure that fella Charly Daniels be related ter ole Jack here. You member how he sung:
The devil went down to Joe Juh
He wuz lookin fer a soul to steal
He wuz in a bind cuz he wuz way behind
An he wuz willin ter make a deal
He came pon this young man
Sawin on a fiddle an playin it hot
Then the devil jumped pon a hick’ry stump
An said boy lemme tell yer wut
Now I’s also frum down south in Joe-juh an I don’t need to tell yer we got a hiss tree o’ hatin then niggers an them jewboys an that ol’ devil. Even tho Jimmy Cowtah frum they too. I’s frum a big Babble bashin family o’ workin class foke. But I don’ like them padres who gets the people all riled up about these thangs. I sure as hell ain’t no redneck nigger-hatin yokel. My best friend in the whole world a jewboy call Shlomo. An how this came about yer surely wants ter know. Well he save my life one time an that all they is to it. Now he my best friend cuz that’s what they teacht us in Babble class along with stuff about turnin the other cheek an all. An I may not be no saint but I sure as hell ain’t no hell-bound sinner.
Y’know they tells us here in the Wart House that we’s not ter cuss an call people no niggers an jewboys cuz it ain’t perlitickly correct an all. Well down where I come frum we’s teacht ter call a spade a spade an a hoe a hoe an ain’t both o’ them got nothin ter do with farmin. I tell yer it jess ain’t fair not ter let us do it when them bigwigs gets ter do it alla the time.
Why jess last week I wuz moppin up the floor outside o’ the evil office an I hear one o’ them holey add vizer fellas that the pres’dent brung with him all the way from Galveston or thereabouts talkin ter him about the dame they got runnin the Stay Department. Y’know the one they all call Doctor Ass. "Mistah Pres’dent" say this add vizer fella "why I don’t mean ter be no devil’s advo kate but that spade hoe better watch her mouth roun me. I ain’t got no truck with no spade hoes no how an she runnin off at the mouth about shit that ain’t none o’ her cooncern."
Now I ain’t sure about summa the other stuff he said cuz he use a lotta big words. But I sure as hell hear him call her them names an ain’t no mistakin it. It jess ain’t fair.
Yeah but this jaydee sho taste nice. Should I. Shouldn’ I. Should I. Shouldn’ I. Should I press this one here or that one they or this little piggy goin ter market or that little piggy stayin hic at home?
Theys a letter on the desk addrest ter the pres’dent from some guy call John Dutch or somethin cuz that the name at the bottom o’ the letter that I read. Say somethin about nuclear dit dit ditterents an how alla the Pennagone bunch best change they ideas about nukes cuz the way they goin about it ain’t gonna do nothin ’cept make a whole lotta countries wanna have more nukes an makin the chance o’ nuclear war a dead certainty cuz alla the hawks they got in uniform is in love with nukes. Whadduz he mean hawks. I thought they got generals up they in the Pennagone. Don’ tell me they went an made it into a hic bird sank cherry. Thass too bad. Thass jess tooooooo bad. Them generals use ter look reel nice in them uniforms.
Way I see it this Dutch fella tellin the pres’dent off an that ain’ right. He the pres’dent an yer can’t talk like that to the pres’dent. Speshly not this one. He a real standup guy an I can’t stand ter hear no bad things about him. He a good man. Why one time I was dustin the shelfs in the evil office an they wuz this hi falutin meetin with alla them generals an all. An they go quite an lookin at me like I’s stupid or somethin. Then the pres’dent says ter them don’t pay ole Joe no mind. He’s y’know special like. You can say annnnnny thang in frunner him an it won’t make no bit o’ difference. An I tell yer I felt so proud that day that my pres’dent trust me so much. Why they should put me in ter the secret service cuz I swear I’d take a bullet for the guy any ole day.
So I guess it alright if I’s here in the nuke room cuz the pres’dent trust me an I’s sure hic he won’t mind if I decide ter let off one o’ them nukes on one of our enemies. Cuz y’know he hic trust me. An he can’t do it hisself cuz o’ the me dear you dear problems he gonna have if he let one or two off. But I know he wanna do it cuz I hear him say so many times if only he cud nuke them sumbitches ter hell then all his problems be over. Anyway I’s retirin in two months an I’s already due fer my pension. Alla the me dear you dear problems don’t bother me none.
But which one which one which one ter blast in ter kingdom come like Father Johanssen use ter say. I guess it gotta be them damn hindoos in Packiss Tan. Them Eye-racky an Eye-ranny muzzlem terrorists is evil. I know cuz they did nine eleven. An them Coe Reen gooks is plain evil too. But Father Johanssen use ter tell me about them hindoos. Y’know they believes that the soul come back ter life in another body when they dies. An thass plain wrong. Jess plain wrong an I bet they all go straight ter hell fer believin it.
Theys a note here in the pres’dent han ritin says all Packiss Tannies is evil pay guns who can’t be hic trusted an don’ hic deserve ter live. Theys all a bunch o’ fundo mennerlist psychos that keeps fightin between theyselves alla the time an the whole damn cuntree gonna end soon anyway frum too much ker-rupshun. It also say the only god fearin one o’them wuz some chick call Miz Boo Toe an she dead so it ok if I blow the evil sumbitches ter hell. So here hic goes. One hic. Two hic. Three… Ka-boooooom!
Heyyyyy hic who that bangin on the door?
-----
Transliterated from the Georgian language by yours truly
March 25, 2008
Three Two Cheers For Democracy*
a typically immature rant by moi
Hear, hear.
With an absolute lack of cynicism i’d like to wish Mr Gillani and the soon to be formed government of Pakistan a memorable term in office. (Memorable for the people that is, not for them.)
Perhaps the best thing that can be said (at this stage, as he has still to prove himself worthy of the post) of Mr Gillani’s election to the office of PM is that his winning means that the other candidate, Ch. Perv. Elahi, is not First Minister (no mere silver lining, imho).
Still, the optimism (thank God there is still some vestige of it left in me, i don’t know why or how) is tinged with a sense of oh-no-here-we-go-againism. For while the freshly minted PM subsequently mentioned the release of held judges, and “vowed to take efforts for the resolution of multiple problems of people,” neither of these were his first order of business.
No. In keeping with our “feudal” modello politico, as entrenched as it ever was, il nuovo primo ministro stated as his “first job” (his very first job, mind) the passing of “a resolution for UN probe into the assassination of Shaheed Benazir Bhutto.”
Now, despite my barely disguised dislike for the excessive feudalistic tendencies that have held democracy hostage all these years, and my suspicion of the motives of members of Pakistan’s First Family, i would be the first to acknowledge the need for an independent high-level enquiry into the death of Benazir Bhutto... for many reasons. Not least of which is the need to ascertain just how many hands were involved in the shocking murder of the former chairperson-for-life and her fellow party “members” as well as innocent bystanders. In a truly democratic system, any new government would push for the same, not just one formed by the PPP. But that is, at this juncture, a mere pipe dream.
My point is that, with “the multiple problems of people” (our new PM’s words), which are multiplying geometrically and not arithmetically, should not the first job of a new PM who is, along with his colleagues, touting the restoration of democracy be the adoption of a resolution strongly and categorically calling for a comprehensive solution to said problems?
Instead it is stated almost as an afterthought.
tisk tisk tisk [sic sic sic]
[Slow shaking of head, indicating a mixture of sadness and mild horror and a questioning of his contention of vestiges of optimism]
Thus it is with a heavy heart and just a mild dose of cynicism that i call upon the nation to join me in a
Hip hip hoary
Hip hop houri
---
* One cheer for a “resolution for UN probe into the assassination of Shaheed Benazir Bhutto,” and another for a “resolution to apologize to the nation for hanging of Zulfiquar Ali Bhutto.”
March 23, 2008
The canonisation deification of Shaheed Mohtarma. (About bloody time, if you arks me!)
an unsponsored panegyric
The following item appeared [undated as usual] on the online version of The News:
The PPP finally nominated Makhdoom Syed Yousuf Raza Gilani for the prime ministerial slot.... [The] announcement... was made on behalf of Asif Ali Zardari by party spokesman Farhatullah Babar before the media outside the Zardari House. The statement read: “I have great pleasure in calling upon Makhdoom Yousuf Raza Gilani in the name of Shaheed Mohtarma Benazir Bhutto to accept the heavy responsibility and lead the coalition government and the nation to greater heights and a glorious future and Makhdoom Yousuf Raza Gilani is not afraid to lead and he knows the way.”What struck me as odd was the invocation. Until a friend of mine (who insists on remaining nameless, as he is, to put it mildly, of dubious repute) pointed out that the printed version of the statement had probably read thus:
“I have great pleasure in calling upon Makhdoom Yousuf Raza Gilani in the name ofi don’t know about you, but personally i’mGodShaheed Mohtarma Benazir Bhutto to accept the heavy responsibility...”
Our national pantheon is woefully sparse. More so since the fall from grace of Navab Viqar-ul-Mulk Imran Khan Niazi. As a nation of fallen
Jiye Jamhuriyat, Jiye Bhutto, Jiye Bilawal,
’Tis a joy to witness, take to the streets, rejoice
Our Slain Sister not a Saint, but Goddess of our choice
cross posted up at Pak Tea House
February 24, 2008
¿jail to the chief?
or as i said rather peevishly not a while back at pak tea house
the ONLY way i will ever consider respecting* the pee-pee-pee as a political party truly involved in the democratic process is when its members grow the balls (or feminine equivalent) to chuck ALL butthos (biological or marital) from the party high command and start developing a whole new set of secular (and not hereditary or “feudal”) leaders.
or as the song goes, “that’ll be the day-ay-ay when i sigh”
-----
* respecting, no less!
the ONLY way i will ever consider respecting* the pee-pee-pee as a political party truly involved in the democratic process is when its members grow the balls (or feminine equivalent) to chuck ALL butthos (biological or marital) from the party high command and start developing a whole new set of secular (and not hereditary or “feudal”) leaders.
or as the song goes, “that’ll be the day-ay-ay when i sigh”
-----
* respecting, no less!
February 21, 2008
Don’t Look Back in Anger
phew!
An election!
A General Election at that!
Not, however, a General’s Election. At least not to the extent that all of us priggish pettifoggers had predicted.
Shaheed Benazir and Ghazi Nawaz have won a significant (but perhaps not significant enough) majority of parliamentary seats. Apart from the terrifying spectre of sorry Brother Asif as First Minister, that’s a good thing, no? The King is dead. Long live the King!
So what are we, or rather they going to do now? Perhaps consult navigational charts to see what needs to be done to correct the direction of the ship of state? Yeah, right!
More likely stiffen their right index fingers with a heavy dose of 100mg Viagra and wag them at villains past. Wow! i can’t wait for the orgasmic catharsis of yet newly formed accountability bureaus to work their cleansing magic.
When are we going to stop looking back in anger? When are our poilticains [sic] going to stop basing their manifestos on the philosophy of rooting out evils past and start focusing on what needs to be done in the future?
The biggest problem, bar none, with military intervention in our affairs of state is that it has the effect of fucking up the electoral process to the extent that all anybody has to do to win an election is to promise the ouster of the military from the political sphere.
Ok.Then what???
i don’t hear anybody talking about “education of the masses” as a cure for our ills. About widening the tax net. About providing a safe, healthy economic environment as a way to nullify the lure of quasi-religious extremism.
The election is over. In my humble opinion those who boycotted it deserve to be consigned to some form of Dantean hell. Cos the only thing that will pull us out of the morass of political purgatory is the participation in the electoral process of all parties who wish to see democracy take root in Pakistan. This process will take ten, twenty, thirty years… if the process is allowed to continue unimpeded by our so-called uniformed saviours.
Having said that, i still retain warm feelings towards the erstwhile General. Don’t ask me why. i don’t know. Perhaps the result should speak for itself.
-----
cross posted up at Pak Tea House
An election!
A General Election at that!
Not, however, a General’s Election. At least not to the extent that all of us priggish pettifoggers had predicted.
Shaheed Benazir and Ghazi Nawaz have won a significant (but perhaps not significant enough) majority of parliamentary seats. Apart from the terrifying spectre of sorry Brother Asif as First Minister, that’s a good thing, no? The King is dead. Long live the King!
So what are we, or rather they going to do now? Perhaps consult navigational charts to see what needs to be done to correct the direction of the ship of state? Yeah, right!
More likely stiffen their right index fingers with a heavy dose of 100mg Viagra and wag them at villains past. Wow! i can’t wait for the orgasmic catharsis of yet newly formed accountability bureaus to work their cleansing magic.
When are we going to stop looking back in anger? When are our poilticains [sic] going to stop basing their manifestos on the philosophy of rooting out evils past and start focusing on what needs to be done in the future?
The biggest problem, bar none, with military intervention in our affairs of state is that it has the effect of fucking up the electoral process to the extent that all anybody has to do to win an election is to promise the ouster of the military from the political sphere.
Ok.Then what???
i don’t hear anybody talking about “education of the masses” as a cure for our ills. About widening the tax net. About providing a safe, healthy economic environment as a way to nullify the lure of quasi-religious extremism.
The election is over. In my humble opinion those who boycotted it deserve to be consigned to some form of Dantean hell. Cos the only thing that will pull us out of the morass of political purgatory is the participation in the electoral process of all parties who wish to see democracy take root in Pakistan. This process will take ten, twenty, thirty years… if the process is allowed to continue unimpeded by our so-called uniformed saviours.
Having said that, i still retain warm feelings towards the erstwhile General. Don’t ask me why. i don’t know. Perhaps the result should speak for itself.
-----
cross posted up at Pak Tea House
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