A very crappy poo-em...

...cuz I was in a shitty mood.

Ladies and gents, now I'll tell you a tale
It will lighten your burden, if you observe the details
So hear of my visit - please pay some attention -
to the "Toilet Manufacturers' Annual Convention"

The shiny yellow walls looked almost divine
But the N and the U had (whoops) dropped off the sign
The exhibition hall was empty at first
When suddenly, attendees flushed in with a burst
The Guest of Honour was most certainly Brit
For when they served coffee, he threatened to quit
"I shan't drink this filth!", disgustedly said he,
"When all I asked for, was a pot-o'-tea!"

So they brought some tea quickly, and he was appeased
And the organizers, they heaved an air of release
"After all, we're family, like shishtersh and brothersh,
let'sh shit and enjoy!" slurred one to the other.
The evening began, dinner bowls passed around
I must say the flavour of the beans was profound
They were baked in France (it was the organizers' idea)
by the world renowned chef (from Loordes) called D'Arhea.

"Brethren, and Sistern" the speaker began,
(The organizers here noted this was according to plan)
"My name is Peter, friends call me Mr. P
And being among you, just fills me with glee.
In fact I'm so full, I must use the Room -
So just a quick pit stop, then we shall resume."
The speaker thus zipped off the stage in haste
Leaving the organizers slightly pale-faced.

You see, neither was good with the oral powers
One shlurred, the other confused doublews and arse.
"My fellow shitizens, we'll continue tonight
But let'sh have our raffle while P'sh out of shite
Now it'sh ten quid for the firsht one and five for more"
Said the first organizer, giving the second one the floor.
"Rhen you're done rith the tickets, re rill rork the machine
and if your number turns up, then rell, you rin!"

"Your prize", said he to the lady who'd won
"is a solid lead seat, in strength: number one!
Number two in looks, but in nothing is it third
It's so rery robust, that re call it the Sturd!"
While the winner was exclaiming how this was so great,
That her husband would never manage lifting that weight,
Mr P came back to join the crowd
Surrounding him, was a gaseous cloud

Just when it all had been going so super
Mr P, oh, that party pooper
Banished the convention, with what must
be only described as a guttural gust
What can I say? The crap hit the fan!
Men and women and animals, they ran
So quickly did the milling crowd depart
That P's stench could be called a piss-off-fart

Every year since then, in the month of July
To relieve that moment, I still sometimes try
The Annual Convention still goes on
Alhough Peter's member-ship's been withdrawn
The organizers occasionally write to me
"You're our next 'Gust of Honour' if you chose to be!"
Their profits are up, in spite of their oops
Well, the bottom line is that - everybody poops.

Starchild

"Thus is foretold," said the prophecies of old
"When the Moon will be blood upon the midnight sky,
Fire and flood will equally hold sway,
Rivers will dry, mountains give way,
The Time of the Starchild, then, will be nigh."

      The planets aligned, this was the Sign.
      Priests stared at the firmament and frowned,
      While laymen, scared witless, pointed above
      (Some said they saw a heavenly dove)
      And a solitary star dropped to the ground!

So they traveled on foot a hundred paces,

They traveled from a thousand faraway places.

They came wearing rags covered in mould,

They came bearing gifts of glittering gold.

They silently, reverently whispered his name,

They hoisted their banners and coveted his fame.

They prayed with folded hand and asked for salvation,

They spat on the ground and called on his damnation.

The King called court, nobles pledged their support
"Power be to Thou," said the chief vizier,
"Let us avow (since this 'starchild' is new)
We shall nip him in the bud, while his followers are few!"
Agreed the assembly "Hear! Hear!"

      Thus the elites took to the streets
      And poisoned every ear that lent to their lies
      Soothsayers disappeared into the night
      Murder and riot and pillage and blight
      filled the cities with tears and cries

They thought of the signs and trembled in fear,

They heard the rumours and in mocking, they jeered.

They locked their gates and boarded their doors,

They didn't even care, went on with their chores.

They cynically noted that something was odd,

They loved him and hailed him as prophet and God!

But none of them noticed it was already dawn

When lo, and behold! The Starchild was born!!

The Pattern

Anguished from tackling with a bug for a few hours, a novice had been idly browsing when he saw the reflection of a shadow flit by on the monitor. It was the Master Programmer coming in, late as usual.

The novice turned around and asked: "I come in early every day and code many more hours than you do, whereas you come late and attend unimportant social events. How do you manage to get any work done?"

The Master Programmer drew a flowchart on a screen. It was two boxes, each with an arrow pointing into a funnel, with another rectangle pointed out from under the funnel. Then, he drew a much larger third box, again pointing into the funnel, but as quickly as he had drawn it, he erased it off the board.

"Behold, the Pattern! This first square," pointed out the Master Programmer, "represents all my daily chores. The second one is my work. They are the inputs."

"The funnel is my capacity, and the rectangle is the useful code that I produce. It is the output. As long as there is balance, the Pattern surrounds me and my being. Being a programmer, I can easily manipulate both the inputs and outputs to my wishes."

The novice was impressed by the ease in which the Master Programmer had explained to him the Pattern. But he was curious for more, "Pray, Master, but why did you erase the third box?"

The Master Programmer looked stoically at the novice. "That represents Emotion. Emotion lives outside the Pattern and occupies infinite space. If you channel it into the funnel, it will obstruct the output."

"But why can you not manipulate this box, just as the other inputs?" inquired the novice.

"Because Emotion can not be programmed." said the Master Programmer, and the novice was enlightened.

Whoa! Where am... ouch headache!

The suicidal madman and the comedian

A comedian was drinking, and merrily singing
When a suicidal man came sat at his table
"Give me your strongest ale!" he cried
And turning his head to the man beside
He started narrating his forlorn fable.

The barkeep served rum, as strong as they come,
and glanced upon the looks on their faces
They had similar features, the left one was pale
And both were drinking the pub's strongest ale.
But its effects in each were opposite cases.


Said the suicidal man:
My dreams came and went and passed me by
There's naught but lightning in my sky
I turn to the heavens and shriek out "Why?!"
But there's never an answer from on up high.

I no longer feel compelled to try.
The path is clear in my mind's eye.
I fall on my knees and silently sigh
This day today is a good day to die.

Tell me, O comedian, why should I not
just cut my vein and end this drought?
Or blast my brains against this wall?
Or hang myself? And end it all!


The comedian now woken, saw the man had spoken
to him and asked him for advice
So he cleared his throat and said "Dear Sir,
Hear me out and if you don't concur
You are free to commit suicide twice."

The suicidal man, on hearing this plan
looked pleasantly full of hope
But he soon lamented - "Alas, my friend
There is no choice (this is my end)
except gunpowder, poison or rope."


Said the comedian:
Sir, in my mind, there is no doubt
That life does twist and turn about
But instead of asking - "Is this worth?"
Try to think of it with mirth

Let's take, for example, your own dreams
of lightning, thunder and your screams.
Juggle the order of things around,
add some filters, add some sound.

What happened in truth was this I recall
You looked at the sky and then you bawled
"Why?!" you cried and the clouds did part!
Thunder and lightning!
Or, was it...
a fart?

Ha ha ha, so you see my friend
I kept the punchline for the end
But look at it this way and you'll feel in your heart
On you, God farted, so on Him you must fart.


No response was evoked, from the comedian's joke
"Do you get..." The comedian began
"There's a man in my mirror. Who is he?
He taunts. He shouts. And he laughs at me!"
suddenly shouted the suicidal man.

The comedian let this fact first sink, then felt the need for some more drink
He ordered the barkeep for some more rum.
"The man in the mirror? I see him too!
Just laugh with him when he laughs at you.
This little trick, and you'll never be glum."


Said the suicidal man:
You've seen him too, and yet your relief
at something so serious, is beyond belief!
Don't you see the imposter, the robber, the thief!
We have to finish him; he'll fill us with grief!


Said the comedian:
But wait my friend, just consider this
If you make at him faces, at the mirror you piss
Isn't it funny how he'll have to do the same?
Just imagine his helplessness, his shame


Hearing this, the suicidal man, he ran
and clutched a butcher's knife
"How do you know that's what he does!
That won't make sense unless it was...
You! No wonder you love your life!"


Said the suicidal man:
You evil twin, you comedian clown.
Ha! Now I will strike you down.
Ha! I will carve you out a frown.
I'll hold you underwater until you drown!


The sharp shiny blade swept across and sprayed
red pearls of blood on the wooden floor
The man was stricken by a manic pain
When he realized who it was he'd slain
The man in the mirror smiled and closed the door

The light went out and it was darkness about
The man and the comedian were side-by-side
They looked at the news and the comedian, said he,
Funny they don't even mention of me
It read: "Schizophrenic man commits suicide"

Aloo Phataphat

Serves: 2 normal, or 1 very hungry person.
What you will need:

1. 4 medium-sized potatoes.
2. 1 onion.
3. 1 tsp each of coriander powder, kitchen king, chhole masala, haldi.
4. A pinch of heeng.
5. Salt to taste (I put in about three quarters of a tsp.).
   
6. Jeera for frying.
7. 4 tbsp oil.
8. Chopped fresh coriander OR Kasuri methi.

What will happen:


What you gotta do:

1. Finely chop the onion to a paste, preferably in a grinder.
   
2. Boil the potatoes till they're soft.
3. Peel off the skin and cut into pieces about an inch thick.
4. Heat the oil in a saucepan till it starts to let out smoke.
5. Add the jeera, stir till they turn dark.
6. Add the onion paste. Keep stirring till they turn brown.
7. Add all the masalas.
8. Add the peeled potatoes and keep stirring so that they are uniformly fried, for about 5 minutes.
9. Garnish with Kasuri methi or fresh cut coriander and serve hot.

What you don't want happening, but will happen anyway:


That's all, folks. Making aloo is simpler than "easy as pie".

UPDATE:

Experiment #AP07X

Blame it on Cupid

I wish I were a monkey still, climbin' up a tree
And life was fruit and sweet and bliss, instead of you and me.
If only I could close my eyes and will to turn back time,
I'd bring it to a point where evolution's best was slime.

It's been six years, four months, three days, and we were man and wife
And all that life has been rife with is misery and strife.
I rue the day I asked you - "Honey, will you marry me?"
Cuz I had no idea what your reaction would be.

I was so stupid
Blame it on Cupid
I should've been lucid
And asked you to lose it

And you said:
"You remember the time we spent in the mountains on the grass?
That was the time, you moron, when you should have made the pass.
I've always thought of you as sincere but lacking class
Ah fuck it, what the hell, at least you had the balls to ask.

My answer, my romeo, is an affirmative yes
I know your heart's in doldrums, now it doesn't have to guess
Come let us sign the papers, and our love we'll formalize
And the lawyer I've been cheating with can take off his disguise."

I don't know why I said "I do", why happened that mistake?
I guess I thought the chef was asking if I wanted cake.
How could I be so blind, I should have hid the wedding ring
But I didn't - now we're married, and so, all I do is sing:

I was so stupid
Blame it on Cupid
I should've been lucid
And asked you to lose it

Now we are one, but you are two, or three, or sometimes four
The postman never seems to enter in through our front door
At least he brings the mail, and of that I am so glad
Since the milk boy never brings milk, he just shows up with his dad

I love all of our children, and you know I try my best
To be a good role model, hope they'll figure out the rest
But it bothers me sometimes when li'l Jon asks me with a frown
When he's coming back from juvi, after jailtime spent downtown.

"How is it motherfucker, that I'm black and you are brown?"
It's times like this that make me feel so confused and so down.
I think I'd have been happier, if only I were gay
But I wasn't, and we're married, this's all I have to say:

I was so stupid
Blame it on Cupid
I should've been lucid
And asked you to lose it