Did you hear the joke about the vampire? It sucked!
Bouquets for my jokes (or joke-telling abilities) may be directed to the ‘Comments’ section. Brickbats may please be directed back to wherever they came from.
If you want to make matters worse, you can also check my Yahoo! 360 blog (yeah, I got two of ’em, as if the damage done by one is not enough – there is just no limit to insanity in this world, people!) and take part in a completely useless, nonsensical, time-pass poll! Exercise your franchise – TODAY! Or never. Whatever.
Of late, I find myself in a mood for limericks about random things. Something like the original idea that Lear intended – crazy anecdotes about people who have names that rhyme with crazier words. No clue what I’m talkin’ about, eh? Try this…
This is one by Lear –
There was a young lady of Wilts,
Who walked up to Scotland on stilts;
When they said it is shocking
To show so much stocking,
She answered, “Then what about kilts?”
Get the picture? 🙂 Now for the bad part of this post – my own limerick 🙂
There was once a girl in Bloomingdale
She was shopping for a dress and a veil.
The dress was white,
And the veil, just right –
But alas, she now looked like Florence Nightingale!
I got nerve putting up my crap next to Lear, huh? Ah well..it’s my blog after all – you know, MY blog..(stress on MY, ofcourse)..
It’s good he died in 1888 (according to the www. If I’m wrong, you cannot sue me for this) – if he hadn’t, he sure would have hung himself now.
And this is just the beginning… **evil music in background**
If you never want to come back to this blog again, I can understand. 😦
He looked at the sheaf of papers on his table. His accomplishment, he felt. It was his baby. It was the one big thing he had always wanted to do. His own book. He closed his eyes to savor the moment – he had just written the last chapter. The most exciting, most unexpected of all the chapters. He was sure he had a bestseller in his hands. “Mr.M, what was your inspiration to write this masterpiece?” “Sir, how many other offers have you got, now that your first book is a huge hit?” He could hear the reporters, jostling for space with their mikes and notepads. He could feel the heat of the camera flashes.
With a satisfied smile, he started to arrange the papers – he had done that umpteen times in the last 30 minutes, but somehow, he kept doing it again. Perfection, he called it.
He placed the papers inside a folder and almost reverently, kept it inside the cupboard.
He then turned to the assortment of open books on his table. All his favorite authors. His inspiration. Would they notice the similarities? He shrugged off the thought – you’re just being paranoid, he chided himself. They wouldn’t know. No one would. It was an art, plagiarizing. And he was the master artist.
Home. It’s such a comfortable word, isn’t it? Home. Rest. Peace. Mom. Home. It doesn’t matter if you don’t own it, doesn’t matter if it isn’t huge or beautiful. Doesn’t matter if it’s just one room with a bed and a table. Nothing matters as long as you can call it home.
You fight your way through work, the traffic, the morons behind steering wheels with no clue about driving, the dust ‘n smoke and finally, home. Nothing matters the moment you cross over the threshold. You chuck the laptop on the table and slosh down on the comfy sofa. After 15 minutes of pure bliss, you get up and change. A shower, your alma mater’s T-shirt and the oldest, most comfortable pair of PJs – Armani? what Armani? I could go meet the Queen in these clothes! If they let me, that is.
Coffee in hand, you open the door to the balcony. You just missed the sunset – no worries, the sky is still saying good bye. The entire world in front of you, bathed in orange. Down on the easy chair, legs up on the stool, you stretch back and close your eyes. This is what heaven must feel like. The coffee never tasted as good. You catch the tune of an old melody in the wind. You see birds flying back to their nests, a cacophony of chirps. You don’t mind – the pings and drings of the laptop have numbed your ears – the sounds of life are always welcome. There are no sounds of automobiles or drilling machines. The only mechanical sound is that of a bus braking before the speed-breaker – the rickety ol’ bus reminds you of grandma’s village. You drift off into another world.
Time flew. It always does when you’re having a good time. The stars have come out. The moon’s playing hide and seek with the clouds. The breeze is cooler. It brings with it the smells of yummy things from the neighbor’s kitchen. It’s a different joy to realize it’s from your own kitchen. Dinner’s served. From one heaven to another.
Dinner, followed by some mangoes. You think they should make mangoes the national fruit or something. You drag yourself out of the chair and into the sofa – ‘kazhichchu kazhinjaal manushane onninum kollathillae!’. You switch the TV on and catch the last 5 minutes of the primetime soap. You wonder if they’ll ever move the story. You channel surf, only to doze off at channel no. 20. Sleep. The third heaven.
Home, sweet home.
On Thursday (27 Apr, 2006):
For a long long time, one wish forever grew –
A little place of our own, ours through and through.
Many a sleepless night,
Only one thing in our sight,
We’re moving into our own house – finally, a dream come true!
On Sunday/Monday (30 Apr – 1 May, 2006):
Little did I know that a new house isn’t just a gain –
It came with much more – my prayers went in vain!
Pack and unpack,
My back went ‘cra-aa-ack’ –
Shifting to a new house is sure a big pain!
Rest of the week:
Boxes boxes everywhere, as far as eye can see!
Umpteen sacks and covers, alas! poor me!
This is so tragic,
I badly need magic –
Dear Lord, this is my prayer to thee!