Open Letter to New Moms

 

I think we all know well enough by now that just about everything pisses me off.

But of late, here’s one thing that makes me want to run over the guilty parties with a monster truck: New Moms.

“Why new moms?” you ask. “What have they done to deserve your wrath?” you question.

 

Well lemme answer that for you. After tossing their precious little piglets out of their in house barbecue pit, new moms and their offspring start to squeal. And I hate it

You go silent for the 3 years you’re on facebook. And one day after you’ve delivered your nuclear warload of babyfat, you hit the damn site with a vengeance. Look newmom, I get it – you’re ecstatic. You’re thrilled. But you need to get your shit together. 2000 baby pics in 24 hours doesn’t endear you to me. Asking your fellow facebookers as to how to go take a long shit without being interrupted by the baby is of no interest to me. Squealing like you’re having anal sex for the first time in your life each time your nuclear reactor grows a pube or vomits down your cleavage is not something ANYONE wants to know. 

And then you tag me into that monstrosity that is your life. I don’t want to be tagged in your baby’s naked bottom wriggling video, thank you very much. If you’re really looking for someone to appreciate baby poo coming out in ‘the cutest manner ever’, there’s a website for that. And a list of people who have been registered legally for enjoying exactly that kinda thing. It’s called the registered sex offenders list. 

Look, I’m happy for you. I really am. But that baby of yours stands no chance of being appreciated if you stick it in my face or on my wall every thirty seconds. Not by someone who is not a paedophile, for sure. Every time you want to torture your poor friends with this shit, please, think again. How would you feel if I posted pictures of you being breastfed by your mother? Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?

Here’s some ground rules:

1.       Don’t post non stop shit on facebook about your kid. You look like you’re heavily trying to overcompensate for that one night where you had unprotected sex, didn’t want a child and hoped to God that your vaginal odor killed your partner’s swimmers before they hit home.

2.       If you must post shit, don’t tag people who are not family or those who actually give a shit. Unless this is my/my best friend's offspring or Godchild or nephew / offspring of a hot cousin or offspring of a lame cousin's hot wife, I'm really not interested.

3.       I know you used to know the real meaning of talking dirty. But somewhere down the line, between your food cravings, doctoral stirrups and ultrasounds, you got really old. Which is why your idea of dirty talk is to discuss your baby’s poo habits. Stop it. NOW.

4.       I know you think your newly born mammal is the equivalent of God’s own spawn. But it is not the case. People don’t care. Unless of course, the kid has 16 toes and 32 fingers. Then yes, sell your story to the newspaper cause it ll be the only chance you ll get to make money off your kid before it bleeds you dry.

5.       Don’t engage me in conversation after a whole year’s silence of every mode of communication possible just because you’re tired of talking to the same people about your baby. How the fuck is talking about your new born gonna make up for the fact that you didn’t wish me on my birthday, ask how I am or say anything in my direction every now and then? 

 
I didn’t delete you previously because, let’s face it, your sister is super hot.

But don’t force my hand, newmom, it won't end well. And before you know it, the fact that I can't virtually stalk your super hot sister because of your recklessness is what results in me having to plan out some unbelievably devious form of karmic vengeance.

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Sometimes I can't believe the garbage that comes out of my mouth...

... but when it does come out, it usually ends up being recapped here or pretty much sits on my conscience and nags the fuck out of me until I feel bad and donate $2 a month to feed some hungry child somewhere.

Ok, that doesn't happen. The truth is, each time I feel like giving away $2, I put it in a piggy bank and on the fifth such occasion, I pull out the $10 and buy a packet of smokes with it. We all deal with guilt in different ways, I guess.

But today was not my fault. It had been an unusually annoying monday at work and I was pretty much clinging on to my last few ounces of professionalism when I stepped out for a smoke.

As I dug deep into my nicotine induced escape to a happy place, this white chap scootered up to me. Literally. In his scooter like contraption.

And he said "Hey buddy, I don't mean to pry but I gotta ask - Why do you smoke when you know that it is a useless habit that is not going to help you in any way?"

To which, much to the disbelief of my brain, my mouth spat out the words "Well, if we are all to do only those things which possess a degree of usefulness in our lives, then I guess I have a question for you too - why do you wear shoes when you know that's not going to help you?"

The rage in his face told me I'd crossed a very very thick line. But he couldn't do anything about it cause I guess he'd brought it upon himself.

He then started his scooter like contraption and wheeled away.

Anyway, turns out the technical term for that scooter-like contraption is "Motorized Wheelchair".

Oh well, at least I learnt something new today.

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Of Wienerschnitzels and Tasteless Pretzels

So, we just moved to a new place. As though moving to Jersey itself wasn't a new enough experience.

This is New Brunswick. It's nice enough, and not even half as crazily busy as the Big Apple. Speaking of the Big Apple, seriously, what is the big deal with it?

Yeah, Tall buildings, insane advertising, blah blah.. but seriously, what exactly is it that makes people go all "Oh wow, NYC!!" about it? Cause I'd like to have that moment and four weeks of faffing around the damn city in search of that oomph moment has provided me everything but that.

The freaking hot dogs are yummy. And the burgers make me want to ejaculate in joy at the nearest participating Wendy's. But that aside, I'm bored as fuck. The friends who are based in America live not just far, they're so far that they have a freakin timezone of their own.

Setting up house was fun cause well, I can't for the love of God figure out in which other country I'd get a spanking new 42" LED TV for a mere 20,000 rupees. It's frightening how much of shit there is to buy here in America. And even my delightful dollar'ed salary is struggling to keep up with my incessant need for more shit. In that sense, I suppose I've come to the right country after all. Capi-fucking-talism is like trafficking in body parts - you know it's wrong on every count, at every level, to spend money on something so sinister but you can't help but do just that cause you just gotta have that sexy liver that some poor sod died without using appropriately.

I initially failed to understand how Americans can be so unbelievably fat. I mean, the smallest store merits a 45 minute walk inside it if you want to see all it's got to offer. And that's fuckloads of walking there when you combine their love for shopping and the amount of walking involved in shopping. But now I realize the truth that my rose tinted glasses failed to see - the fat fuckers stay indoors and order pizza for dinner and shop at amazon for everything else. Those of us who are now terribly bored of pizza dare to venture outdoors and do basement bargain hunting in the nearest store while those lumpheads just amazon their way through puberty,  poverty and obesity.

One thing I'm grateful for on behalf of America: It's a good thing the world moved on from carrier pigeons. Cause let's face it, these fuckers would have eaten that poor pigeon before it even got to dropping off the parcel at their dining table.

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Maya-hii, maya-haa, maya-hoo, maya ha-ha. Oh wait, it's 2012

Y'know what I hate about Christmas and New Year? The fact that everyone thinks the next 365 days will be any less miserable than the previous 365.

I mean, come on, how many cycles of this hopeful shit do we have to go through before people stop and realize that the change in the year has no more an impact on your fortunes than the color of a woman's underwear?



(Ok, speaking of underwear, the thong is an exception. After all it is well known that if you're wearing a black thong on midnight of any night and walk on the street in just that, some guy is gonna be gettin lucky indeed.)

I don't mean to be a grouch, but let's face it, the mayans seem to have their shit well figured out. 2011 had so much crap in it that the prospect of 2012 should have made us shit our collective pants.


I did get to go to NYC for new years and it was like the entire fucking planet had descended into chaos. I mean, people were all but crawling out of the gap between other people's butt cheeks, that's how fucking crowded it was.

Anyway, we met this really funny Danish couple on the yacht. Yes, I said yacht. I spent NYE on a fucking yacht party, that's how drunkenly awesome it was. The danish woman had seen hindi movies I'd not even heard of. It was freakish. She was talking about Amitabh Bachan and Shah Rukh and other movie biggies. And just when I was on the verge of being impressed, she fucked it up with the proverbial blondie westerner moment by saying two things:
a) I want to learn to speak Indian a little more fluently someday
b) My ex was a pakistani too, that's how I know so much about Bollywood.

Now, usually there woulda been fireworks aplenty fromb my side when some poor doofus makes such insulting mistakes, but it was new year's eve and I was in a good mood. So, I actually let it it go. Like, fuck, yeah, I let it go!

Anyway, you should know that I had 18 large JD's. 2 Tequila shots. 2 Kahlua shots and threw up in the magnificent toilets of that yacht. And when I finished throwing up in the wash basin, I heard the door open, so I quickly moved to the next wash basin and pretended to be gargling so that whoever was entering, didn't figure out it was me. And when he came in and saw that mess, I helped pass the blame by pointing to this mexican chap who was sitting passed out in the western closet.

I'm nice like that. Happpy fucking new year you all.

Can you believe this is gonna be the fifth year of this blog? Astonishing. How the fuck is the internet gonna survive the day I shut this shit down? What are my 4 readers gonna do with their lives after that? Yeah, I thought so too.

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Merry Christmas, you jobless wannabe underground preachers

I kid you not. Real conversation this morning on the NYC subway while going in for a customer meeting: 

He: Hey man

Me: Hey

He: Merry Christmas man

Me: Merry Christmas
He: Do you believe in Jesus?
Me: Does Jesus believe in me?
He: Yes he does. And that's why he sent me to speak to you today.
Me: I don't believe that.
He: What?
Me: You turning up proves to me that Jesus does not want me to believe in him.
He: And how is that the case sir?
Me: Of all the people in the world, he chose you?
He: Why, whats wrong with me?
Me: You're not Charlize Theron.
He: What?
Me: She's the only one who can convince me that Jesus is real.
He: Are you messing with me man?
Me: Do I look like I'm messing with you? Find me Charlize and I'll believe.
He: I don't know who that is.
Me: YOU DON'T KNOW WHO THAT IS?
He: No.
Me: Then you're not a true believer either.
He: I am. The Lord has sent me to spread his word...
Me: Well his timing is a bit off then. This is my stop

He: Walk with the Lord for another coupla stops man, it'll change your life. 

Me: I did change this one guy's life though, on a train like this, when he was trying to talk me out of something

He: Really? How?

Me: I punched him so hard, his nose broke. He can never breathe the same.


What really freaks me out is that I'm Christian and yet I found him so fucking offensive. I pity the other subway travelers of opposing faiths.

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America is just the way I'd always imagined Africa to be

Conversation at the immigration offices with a black lady. And I don't mean to be racist,(or do I?) but you know, she was black and that did explain this ridiculous conversation:





Why do you want an SSN?
Ermm, to pay my taxes, to buy stuff, to live here for the next few yrs?
I can't allow that
Uh?
Sir.. I. Can't. Allow. That..
and why not, officer?
Because you're not eligible.
Say what?
There are more deserving people out there who need it.
I appreciate you standing up for your lot, I do but I'm sure there's plenty of benefits to go around?
EXCUSE ME?
All I'm saying is, I just want the SSN. I don't want any benefits. I'm not gonna be unemployed and living on government handouts like some people you might know. Cant you just gimme an SSN?
Sir please leave!
I have a legitimate visa that allows me to work and pay taxes
Yeah. You're the one guy who wants to pay taxes? Why do you want to pay taxes?
Unlike your lot, I'm Indian. We pay our taxes and we don't take government handouts, that's why. 
Sir, please leave now or I'm gonna have to call security.

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I'm not a piece of cake, sunshine.

So I was in Central park 2 weeks ago.

As it turns out, it was a stupid thang to do cause there were only couples, families and the occassional spandex ridden, sweat faced jogging enthusiast.

Walking by myself, I was beset by misery and awe, coming at me from different sides at the same time. Misery cause, well, I was walking alone in the only place in NYC where there was some semblance of romance in the air. And awe, well, cause Central Park in the fall is just an amazing sight. The colours are crazy and beautiful.

Anyway, so there I am plodding on. I see the skating rink that's been opened to the public and stop by to lech at hot chicks in skirts flashing their bits on ice.

And that's when she saw me. And I couldn't help but see her. She was a typical American a morbidly obese woman, who looked like she could eat every single child, adult and in between at that rink.

She kept staring at me. It was odd, I thought. But then, later I realized that I must have been the odd one out, standing like a solitary desperado in the middle of canoodling couples. And she probably chose to see that solitary desperado moment as a 'come get me' sign.

Because she did. She waddled over to me, the ice thundering under her hooves, unable to bear the strain, as her lard threatened to crush the ice and create a tidal wave of nauseus fatty tissue that would endeavour to engulf and eat every living creature within  a 20 mile radius.

She came up to me, and smiled. Her teeth looked like the wiper blades of a monster truck. I couldnt help but wonder when her mouth opened to speak, if this is the closest I'll ever come to staring into Satan's bumhole.

"Hi, I couldn't help but notice you. And pardon the pun, but I wasn't sure how to break the ice"

I looked her up. And then looked her down.

And my big brown eyes bore into her blue eyes with a deep intensity she'd never experienced before.

And I replied, in dead earnest "Have you tried jumping?"


She walked away in tears. And that's when the horror of my words dawned on me:

If she'd gotten angry and sat on me, I coulda been writing this from beyond my grave.

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