Fore-Play

Just as forewords are bodies of text that appear before the written Word, we give you a fore-play, for our blog is in essence a Play in many acts.

What you will find here is a adulterous (non-faithful) reproduction of the diverse manifestations of the human condition, both pathological (P) and non-pathological (NP). We will study such emotions as jealousy (P), greed (NP), love (P), hate (NP) and irony (P=NP?)couched in uncommon turns of phrase and amusing linguistic manipulations such as the pun (hence the name PUNNILINGUS, a new term coined to denote dextrous diddling of humor devices to release all pent up playfulness), and through the eyes of our protagonist and his supporting members. There will be numerous subliminal references to theoretical computer science, Higher mathematics, cute animals and Pop culture.

For those of you who did not understand the previous paragraph, here's the low down:
"Dumb guys. We Make Fun. Its Niiice." If you got the irony of the P=NP reference, that is fine too. We know your demographic.

To give a peek into the play, we give a little pen-picture of the protagonist, followed by an actual scan of an artist's impression (It was made in pencil, doesnt count as a pen picture).

Behold Triplicane Prasanna Sundararajan, AKA Tips!

(To the western reader: This is quite like your work mate Srinivasa Murthy Anatha Narayanan who will be trained to respond to "S-MAN".)

For your best reading experience, I recommend you make a mental image of Tips. Think of a short, stocky, bespectacled beacon of incoherent verbiage with an infinite capability for stupidity. Even better, think of a dark skinned, overconfident twenty something Homer Simpson with an Indian accent. We'll live vicariously through the experiences and profound realizations of Tips as he goes through the various existential phases of his life and reaches a climactic end once in a while. It is totally irrelevant if you relate to the character or not. In my experience, we are all related to such a character at some point of time or other. In the meantime, enjoy the witty phrasings, triple entendres (meaning-a-trois) and other such assorted amusements.

We propound the following mantra to maximize your enjoyment. Internalize this. Repeat after me.

"If you are hard to please, you will be called a dick" .

In fact, we'll call you a circus sized dick (latin: biggus dickus), if you havent been turned on by this fore-play.

WARNINGS AND DISCLAIMERS:

1. It is a crime (a misdemeanor, nothing more than an agreeable child-like mischief) to read this if you are under eighteen (does not mean that an eighteen year old is above you) or are illiterate or cannot parse parantheses. If you are just illiterate, we recommend images.google.com, but if you can understand our recommendation, you dont really need it. Keep reading for more such examples of concrete irony.

2. An unestimated number of wild animals will be emotionally damaged during the making of this play. The number is of course dependent on the readership (minus the illiterates).

Thank You. Come Again.

How I stopped playing cricket and started liking her

D.Arun was intently staring down the road, and when the hindquarters of the cow moved out of his sight, the angry bowler came in. The ball hit a hole on the road and scuttled in and bowled him!

Tips walked in to bat, mocking at Arun, "You need good technique to survive in these conditions. I could see daylight between bat and pad!!". Arun walked past muttering to himself. But he had to acknowledge the truth. Hole or no hole, no ball could get past Tips. Well...partly because he was portly. And wholly because the bowler was 12 years old and Tips was 28!

Many such characters adorn the roads of Madras. It was by cricket that Tips precariously hung on to the last vestiges of youth, very much like the veshti on his waist. While both of them forebode an impending calamity, life and cricket moved on as usual on the improvised cricket pitch. Some might say, Sir, you are repeating yourself.

But there was life outside cricket. There was, of course, food. But for Tips, food was starting to lose its dominance on the little list of his priorities. Why? you may ask. Even if you did not, I would press on. There are priorities and then there are priorities. There comes a time in every man's life, and I daresay, every woman's too, when priorities change. Tips little list of priorities was, in no particular order: food, cricket, music, books, and women. Well, maybe the order is right...nay, was right. When bile and testosterone battle it out, there's only one winner. Adrenaline versus testosterone is a more even contest. After saying so much about this and that, sometimes its inevitable that you forget what you set out to say in the first place.

Like a fact that every self respecting carnatic musician should know, there is no Darbar without a Nayaki. The manner of Tips was undergoing a tumultuous change as the generous outline of Vanaja appeared on the horizon. It was a metaphoric sunrise for the vapid heart of Tips. Suddenly his clogged arteries were commanded to pump twice the amount of blood. It looked as if days were only a minute long in his dimension. Or shall I say the sun had set without rising to it full glory. Quite the consequence of his overworked arteries. Tips was left wondering if the daylight he saw between Arun's bat and pad was his quota for the day. Ofcourse, there wasn't any danger of a shortage of Vitamin D for Tips. How he wished for the erstwhile British empire.

But if disgrace comes, can grace be far behind? It was a touching love story, and it was ironic that there was no real touching. He felt gratified if there was a glimpse. The physical proportions of neither party was to blame.