Babble Without a Pause

September 21, 2012

Meanwhile, at Apple HQ

From: Kwon Oh-hyun [] 
Sent: Friday, September 21, 2012 1:21 AM
To: Tim Cook
Cc: Samsung, HTC, Motorola
Subject: RE: Hahahahaaaaaaa …..


You were saying …..?


From: Tim Cook [] 
Sent: Thursday, September 20, 2012 4:12 PM
To: Steve Jobs
Cc: Samsung, HTC, Motorola
Subject: RE: Hahahahaaaaaaa …..

Over his dead bo….. Oh.
Sent from my Blackberry

From: Kwon Oh-hyun []
Sent: Thursday, September 20, 2012 11:45 AM
To: Steve Jobs
Cc: Samsung, HTC, Motorola
Subject: RE: Hahahahaaaaaaa …..

Hey Steve,
What’s up, my man. No longer at Apple, I see. They kick you out again?
PS – When are you coming on board with us. You know we always have a job for you, here at Samsung.




From: Steve Jobs []
Sent: Thursday, September 20, 2012 8:20 AM
To: Steve Jobs, Tim Cook
Cc: Samsung-Worldwide
Subject: [Out of Office] RE: Hahahahaaaaaaa …..
I am out of office with restricted access to email, dependent on the 3G connectivity at the place where I must, like all others, go.


From: Kwon Oh-hyun []
Sent: Thursday, September 20, 2012 8:15 AM
To: Steve Jobs, Tim Cook
Cc: Samsung-Worldwide
Subject: RE: Hahahahaaaaaaa …..

Dear Apple,


Hows about you use some of that $1 billion we loaned you, to make your maps not suck. And while you’re at it, perhaps you could use leftover funds toward hiring an actual adult artist to make your 3D maps not look like something a 4-year old drew while high on ingested crayons and inhaled glue.



From: Larry Page []
Sent: Wednesday, September 19, 2012 9:00 PM
To: Sergei
Cc: Samsung, HTC, Motorola
Subject: Hahahahaaaaaaa …..
Hey fellas,

Look what I just found. Some Friday lulz for everyone. Tee hee hee.





October 30, 2011

Trash Metal and the Indian Grand Pricks

Delhi. That land of political scams, that Indian-Italian lady, and anti-corruption protestors with varied names like Ramesh, James, Iqbal, Mona, Donna, Shoewalla, Rocketwalla and Jain, wearing placards and all holding banners saying “I am Anna”.  Identity crisis? Me thinks so. Their parents would be so sad. Yes, the same Delhi that last year played a clueless, ill-prepared host to the world’s athletes (and some local stray canine friends) at the Commonwealth Games, and came out with its head held high, by some stroke of blind luck.  Yes, that very Delhi was in the news for all the wrong reasons (shocker!) yesterday.

First, certain hardcore music fans took the term ‘Trash Metal’ a trifle too seriously. Word on the street is that some half-wit Delhi loons, upon hearing that Metallica and co. had expressed reservations about the security arrangements, took it upon themselves to express umbrage the way only Delhi waaley know how. By storming the stage for a theatrical re-enactment of St. Anger, followed by the customary mother/daughter/sister slogans, and general destruction. Metallica, you only have yourself to blame. The people of Delhi when asked, chanted in unison that you are hereby Unforgiven. To them it’s all about the music, and Nothing Else Matters.

The violence on Friday was a perfect advertisement for the Formula One race coming up on Sunday, where a dog almost ran onto the track during practice on Friday, almost causing an accident that would’ve added to the list of unfortunate casualties in auto racing in the past week around the world.

Speaking of unfortunate accidents, Lady Gaga is scheduled to perform at an exclusive after-party at some yuppie upscale watering hole in some ramshackle downscale suburb of Old Delhi. An after-party hosted by Arjun Rampal, a man I thought was possessed of some semblance of dignity and common sense. That is, until, when asked about the ₹40,000 price tag for a seat at the concert,  he opened his mouth to say : “One has to understand that the costs are very high. Maybe if we had a bigger venue with capacity for more people, we could have gone easy on the price. But with less people, it becomes difficult to lower the price. After all it’s business, and we have to break even.” Indeed, break even he has to, for he is a struggling businessman with no other source of income but to fleece India’s teenage monsters. The local media have been going gaga (I’m sorry, it really was too easy, I can’t believe I held that one in so long) with reports of the exclusive after-party and Rampal’s scarcely contained glee, as he giggled and blushed like a little 10-year-old girl waiting with bated breath for Miss Gaga to perform at his exclusive event.

Out on the streets, Delhi’s sex workers were heard expressing anguish and outrage that Miss Gaga was able to rake in upwards of ₹40,000 for crooning lyrics as profound and soulful as:

Let’s have some fun, this beat is sick
I wanna take a ride on your disco stick
Don’t think too much, just bust that kick
I wanna take a ride on your disco stick

while they are barely able to command ₹500 for offering the same (in roughly similar sounding words) to commuters and passers-by at red light areas.

Back to the Formula One race itself. A long-cherished dream of every Indian. Almost as cherished a dream as becoming an engineer, once upon a time. Cue an incessant stream of Facebook news feed updates with posts titled anything from “I’m so proud of India”, to “Vande Mataram”, to “Vijay Mallya for president”. Call me silly, but I’m willing to wager a not-too-small sum of money, that AR Rahman been booked well in advance, to be up on the starting line singing the National Anthem prior to, after and during the race. Why you ask? Because it is a matter of national pride, to host a global event of such delusions of grandeur and prestige. Remind me again, why Indians are not up in arms against this race, like we all were when the La Tomatina festival reared its rotten head in Bangalore, Delhi, Ahmedabad and other cities around the country a month ago. Back then the outrage was borne out of depriving farmers of their hard-earned living, paying them a pittance, and we all were suitably outraged, venting on MyFace, YourSpace, Tumblr, Grumblr and a million other social networks out there.

To be clear, I’m not against the sport itself. But let’s try and get this straight shall we, it’s JUST a race. And like any other race, it is a sporting spectacle, run as always, by politicians who got their cut of the government money that went into financing this exercise in phallus size comparison. It is no reflection of the power of a country, it is no statement of prowess or ambition. All the pundits will tell you it is GOLD to host an international event. It brings in tourism, it boosts revenues, and gives our economy a massive erection. But maybe we can put off the jhanda waving and the tricolour hats until we don’t have as many underage children getting sold as sex slaves in the capital. Until our bhai log in the capital can keep themselves civilized at public events, instead of  going apeshit crazy at the drop of a hat. Until, perhaps, the leader of our country grows a pair, and does something significant towards bringing to justice a hardened remorseless terrorist after 3 years of dawdling. Scratch that last one, it ain’t gonna happen.

Till then, perhaps we can put hosting global events on the back burner, focus on things that need focus, and go back to paying ₹1000 to watch Shahrukh Khan whoring himself out on any number of commercial ventures *cough* movies, and give our film fraternity a well-earned pat on the back for their achievements in the field of scarcely-credible-cinema-making.

February 4, 2011


Life’s too short, we are told. With a world gone digital, and everyone online, it appears our vocabulary has shrunk to a handful of ridiculous acronyms to meet the need of the times. It seems like, almost overnight, we’ve been transported into an alternate universe when kids rattle off the exact specifications on a Wii or PS3 before they’ve even learned the ABC. Elementary school kids, barely out of diapers, are busy circulating the latest forwarded SMS, while their more illustrious seniors are busy doing the naughty on MMS (LOL!) A 6-year old who’s just graduated from potty training could put you to shame with his ability to rattle off the names of every character in every video game, from CoD to WoWAoE to GTA, GP4 to GT4. Every teen, tween, and pre-pubescent is going OMG at the latest Justin Bieber video. We’re obsessed with celebrities and their lives, who they did LSD with, or how many partners they’ve had SEX with (TMI!). In an always online world, everyone’s status line is habitually set to DND, and even if they do find the time to talk, they’ll always BRB because they’ve GTG. We all have varying degrees of ADD, switching between Facebook, Hulu, Youtube and ESPN while attempting to finish work due the next day, from within the confines of the same four mind-numbing walls of the same office cubicle. Every yuppie BSC and MBA aspirant is awake late at night, trying to ace one or all of the CETSATACTGRE, CAT, just so he can secure his ticket into the IIT or IIM of choice, ensuring his place as the newest FOB to fly BLR -> LHR -> JFK to take over as the CEO or CFO of a massive corporate empire like UPS or UBS, in a swank office overlooking NYC.

With IPL season 4 due to begin soon, it can only mean one thing; more ADD at the office, and even more OCD at home, characterized by family feuds for control of the TV remote, between equally passionate fans of the rival EPL and NBA leagues. When cricket isn’t on the tube, RAW is WAR. When neither of these is on, CSI rules primetime TV, I don’t know WTF for (SMH). If all else fails, it’s time to switch between CNNIBNABCBBCNBC and the slew of trusty 24-hour news channels that recycle and repackage the same combination of non-news ad naueseumIDK about you, but IMO the standard of television programming has plummeted depths heretofore unknown to the human civilization.

As a PPL, we have disturbingly low patience levels today. Every website has an FAQ page; every bank has an ATM, because everyone wants to get things done ASAP. We don’t have enough time to procreate the natural way, so we go in for IVF. We demand instant gratification, without any of the hassle or effort. Unable to cook at home, and unwilling to even try tossing a relatively healthy BLT on the BBQ, we buy dangerously toxic sludge ‘food’ (AKA ‘Happy’ meals, McNuggets, and Whoppers) from KFC and McD, and watch in surprise as we pack on the LBS. Too tired from the weight gain and premature onset of obesity, we barely have enough energy to WFH. Mechanics and garages are no longer open, because every Tom, Dick and Sally has a DIY kit from the ACE hardware store; but if you are unable to get past step 1 on the installation manual, good luck since the only thing you’ll reach if you call customer support is an IVR machine, or if you’re really lucky, an employee in a call center in BLR, who, even if he does an adequate job of helping with what you need, will get no more than a cursory grunt of acknowledgement. Lets face it, we’re in such a hurry, who has time to say things like THX, leave alone PLZ, SRY and ILU?

For a gadget to catch our attention, it has got to be flashy, sleek, fast, or all of the above. Your neighbour down the road just purchased the latest and greatest IBM, with the hottest RAM and superfast CPU, which means it’s definitely time for you to upgrade from your 20 year old computer running DOS so you can download pirated music from the best P2P service online. Your USP might be ESP, but today, nobody will even notice, since they’re busy on their PSP. Technology has empowered the common man beyond what anyone ever imagined. It’s fairly simple today to purchase a full-fledged SLR and all the snazzy equipment that comes with it, and begin snapping away as many JPGs as your gigantic memory card can hold, and JLT you’re a star photographer.In a digital world obsessed with computers, FUD is the order of the day. Y2K came and went at the turn of the millennium, yet none of us died. The CIAFBI and NSA would have you believe everyone who reads a koran is a terrorist, and do a fine job of trying to make you fear for your life everytime you walk down the street. Online, everyday is a never-ending saga of OWN or PWN, with some hacker breaking into and accessing unauthorized data. Any and every achievement, big or small, is trumped online as being FTW. Yes, seriously. WTF is FTW? Technology moves along at breakneck pace, best exemplified by antiques like STDISDFAX and PCO which have died a slow and painful death, leaving clueless phone booth operators in their wake, as every second techno-savvy teen whips out their shiny new HTC which claims to do everything short of actually substituting for toilet paper.

The economy today has been in a steady downward spiral for longer than we can remember. PSUs sink each day, and companies announce very public and very profitable IPOs to make hay while the sun shines. NGOs have mushroomed all over the place, almost like a rodent infestation. Each day the USD, the INR and the GBP wage a largely pointless battle for currency superiority. No matter what you purchase, big or small, whether it be a top-of-the-line DVD or VCD player, or a spanking new ZENKIAGMC, or a DIO, you have to think long and hard ABT your how much you’re willing to shell out on your EMI at the end of the month.

FYI, contrary to what you think, politics is no different in India than it is in the USA. There you have the INC fighting the BJP. Here you have the DEMs fighting the GOP. The same scumbag politicians are in it to win it; benefactors of kickbacks offered by powerful corporate lobby houses, from the NRA to AIG, LIC to ING. In 2001 Saddam was suspected to be hiding WMDs, the US government has long been suspected to be hiding UFOs,  and Chinese restaurants have long been blatantly loading MSG in their food. Sure, it tastes GR8, but apparently it’s bad for you (FML!).  At the EOD, maybe its time to sit down and face the harsh reality. Let’s say a quiet RIP for a world possessed of some sanity, which we lost ages ago. Maybe it’s time to send an SOS to our last hope for a solution, Santa Claus. NVM actually. Maybe some things aren’t meant to be fixed.

Hold on JAM. I gotta take this call.

“Hello …”

“Yes, speaking. Who’s this.”

“Jimmy who? Sorry? Jimmy Wales? ”

“Sincere thanks from the folks at Wikipedia for all the link-backs to your home page? Why, you’re most welcome. What’s that you say, 1000 unique hits in an hour? ”

GTG for now. BRB.


This post is an obviously amateur, slightly comical take on the pervasiveness of acronyms and shorthand in the lexicon of present-day English usage all over the world. It is a humble tribute to the late legend, George Carlin, (inspired largely by THIS performance entitled ‘Modern Man’). Watching it, you can’t help but simultaneously be left in awe at the genius of this man, as well as be let down by the intellectually inferior fare you just read.

January 22, 2011

Dear Dumbanis,

Hope you’re both doing well. Here’s wishing you and the family a happy and prosperous New …… who am I kidding. You stupid, self-promoting twits. As I write this, buzz around town is that one (and more recently, both) of you numskulls has just completed construction on a fine phallic edifice monument to your financial prowess, and have since moved into the self-aggrandizing masterpiece you call home, or Antillia, as it is known to the rest of India. Me, I prefer to call it the world’s tallest residence for the world’s smallest man. Given the complete and utter lack of upper body strength that compelled the missus to jump into the waiting arms of the Indian cricket team’s self-styled pahalwan not too long ago, I could be forgiven for thinking you’d have set aside an entire floor for a state-of-the-art gym. Apparently not.

Cue instant outrage, effigy-burning, protests, bundhs and anti-wordpress slogans from the lips of every gob-smacked Ambani-loving, socialist-hating, anti-slum, pro-development Tom, Dick and Hari who owns a Indian Rupee ₹ 1000 Reliance phone.

You know that old folk saying; “A fool and his brother are seldom parted” (or was that money. It doesn’t sound quite right, but boy it fits the purpose). Anil, is that you I see down the street, trying to outdo the bhai. You’re more than a trifle lighter than your elder brother around the waistline, but for sheer volume (or lack thereof) of grey matter, the two of you seem to be having a keen tussle  for 1st place. I am willing to bet my life savings that the two of you were adopted; your father (and 15 previous generations put together) sure as hell weren’t as vain and self-indulgent as either of you two imbeciles.

Lets be honest here; aren’t you both a tad bit too old to be playing “mine’s bigger” at the shareholders’ expense? I’d have thought that phase of your life would’ve passed atleast 20, maybe 30 years ago. Yet, here you fine gentlemen megalomaniacs are, at 53 and 51 respectively,  one having just completed work on a  27-storey house, with  600 full-time staff to maintain a “home” widely considered the most expensive residence in the world with a price tag of over USD 1 billion (Indian Rupee ₹ 4500 crore).  At 48,780 sq ft, you might argue that your house is a paltry 0.25% of Dharavi slum on the other side of Mumbai, and not worth spending this much time and space obsessing over. I’m not sure the good folks from Dharavi would share your point of view though. You see, out there in Dharavi, people are forced to live in tiny shanties, barely able to make enough for the entire family to eat, so some days, the parents might go hungry so their kids can have a morsel of food to pacify their restless young stomachs. Out there  (source: Wikipedia)

Dharavi has severe problems with public health, due to the scarcity of toilet facilities, due in turn to the fact that most housing and 90% of the commercial units in Dharavi are illegal. As of November 2006 there was only one toilet per 1,440 residents in Dharavi. Mahim Creek, a local river, is widely used by local residents for urination and defecation, leading to the spread of contagious disease. The area also suffers from problems with inadequate drinking water supply.

Yes. 1 toilet per 1440 residents. Which means if an extra poor resident of  Tent #18, Slum Road, Dharavi were to have an extra spicy plate of white rice and nothing else last night, he’d stand an even smaller chance of making it to the front of the line to take a dump in time, than you would of winning next season’s The Biggest Loser.

All of this leads up to the inevitable question. I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Are you idiots? Or are you IDIOTS. On the one hand, we have you “corporate” Ambanis, making such erudite statements like  “I think that our fundamental belief is that for us growth is a way of life and we have to grow at all times.” Based on the sheer height of your residence, and the lack of any effort to help the aam aadmi in recent memory, I’m guessing you did NOT meant economic growth. Or maybe you are confusing India for Greece, where opulence was the norm, rather than the exception. In that case, however, you should be sitting in all your naked glory (those reading this, I offer my profuse and sincere apologies for that disturbing mental image),  watching other royals bathe in the communal pools next door, while some Greek goddess(es) feed you grapes, and your servants try their hardest to wave the royal fans in your direction to get some airflow into those folds under your flabby arms. Seriously man, The Biggest Loser. Give them a call.

Azim Premji (not typically a man known for philanthropy, or public displays of magnanimity (not to his employees atleast) recently made waves with his decision to pledge Rs. 8800 crores to development of schools, and education in India, particularly in the state of Karnataka. Employees of Wipro Technologies might now be wishing they were back in primary school, if only to be party to some of Mr. Premji’s riches. I quote the story of Mr. Premji to demonstrate that not every rich jackass is, well, a pompous jackass. Surely, Ambanis, your father meant Kar lo duniya mutthi mein, NOT ungli do balcony se (for the uninitiated, that roughly translates to — Surely your father meant ‘capture the world in the palm of your hand’, NOT ‘give your city the finger from your balcony’). Precisely why you would want to build a $1 Billion house is beyond me. Was it to measure how far your spittle would bounce off the asphalt as you spit on the face of Mumbai. Were you hoping to be cast by Danny Boyle in the next installment of his Indian rags-to-riches saga, “Scumdog Billionaire” ?

Now I know what you (along with your cousin, in-laws, siblings, ex- step father, uncle & aunty) are probably saying; “what is this obnoxious blowhard so upset about. Shouldn’t it be every individual’s prerogative to determine the extent to which he/she wishes to get involved in charity/philanthropy ?”. Short answer: Ordinarily, yes. Let me elaborate. To put in perspective how much Indian Rupee ₹ 4400 crores is, have a look at this video.


Sure, giving is not everyone’s cup of tea. And I completely respect that. IF its an everyday upper/lower middle-class citizen in this country that we’re talking about. Here, on the other hand, are two men who, between them have enough corporate lobbying power to ensure they (have got and continue to) get a thousand different subsidies from the government. Whether it be:

  • Throwaway power tariffs so moguls like these can power on the millions of kW worth of “energy saving” CFLs and chandeliers in their corporate ballrooms and billion dollar homes for dirt cheap, while in nearby villages like Vidarbha, residents are faced with 8-hour power cuts on a daily basis.
  • Purchasing vast stretches of fertile (prospective agricultural) land for their sprawling 1000-acre corporate offices
  • Conveniently landing themselves into lower tax brackets (thanks to multiple obscure Swiss and Middle East bank accounts)
  • Soliciting and obtaining municipal approval for multiple criss-crossing flyovers and elevated expressways leading right into their offices; OR
  • Obtaining subsidies for selling ‘organic’ agricultural produce for steep prices in their upscale Reliance Fresh supermarkets (at the expense of the average farmer who barely makes a living selling tomatoes for Indian Rupee ₹ 2 a kg)

these guys have the government in their back pocket. Here are two sons-of-guns who have  mooched crores off government revenues, working the system to construct a behemoth of an Indian empire thus far. Now that I think about it, maybe I’m over-reacting. Maybe it’s wrong to ask a businessman of such affluence to contribute, in some minuscule way to the development of the city he calls home. Call me socialist, but in MY India, the wealthy don’t just get to construct slumfront edificies to rub it in the face of more than 50% of the country that lives below the poverty line. But hey, that’s just me.

Disgust and rage aside, from the millions and millions of aam aadmi in this dear country, I offer you a heartfelt thank you. For showing us that money cannot buy taste, just a crappy ugly-as-batshit skyrise. Hope you have a happy housewarming. Wait. Scratch that. Hope your 8 (thats right, EIGHT) elevators inexplicably malfunction simultaneously, giving you the opportunity (while you walk up and down 27 flights of stairs), to figure out a way to spend your money that doesn’t scream out Screw you, I’m rich. As for the missus, well, maybe she could use a few extra floors to house her precious collection of vintage MS Dhoni, Dwayne Bravo, Saurabh Tiwary and (insert name of muscular sportsman here) posters. A humble suggestion from this humble observer; before your next corporate splurge, please add ‘find a new architect’ to the To-do list on your Blackberry. Oh, and the next time you spend $1 billion on a home, try to make it not look like what a 3 year old would make using his Lego collection.


A concerned citizen

April 30, 2010

Of Blimps, Pimps and Corporate Chimps

The IPL circus has come to a close. Time to shut off the lights on that BLEDDY blimp, and go home. Except for Lalit Modi. The poster boy of IPL’s fall from grace will be twiddling his thumbs behind bars for a long time to come, thats for sure.

In surmising the events of the last 50 days, nothing quite typifies the pomposity, the vulgar show of banality and mind-numbing annoyance like the MRF blimp. That’s right, A BLIMP !! A fascinating manifestation of just how far science and technology have brought the human civilization. An oversized helium baloon, suspended miles in the sky, for no apparent purpose, save for flashing red neon lights that might have reminded MS Dhoni of certain parts of the city where people would come up to him and speak in Tamil. Thats right, a BLIMP. Not just ANY blimp, NOT one of those sophisticated blimps employed in stadia and sports arenas across the world, to provide the couch potato at home  a unique vantage point to look at the action down there. This blimp, has no such appendages, no apparent reason. Just the MRF logo, emblazoned on it. A comatose blimp, in a vegetative state. Someone pull the plug, please.

Which brings me to the MRF blimp’s BIGGEST  fans. Laxman Sivaramakrishnan, and Danny Morrison. Someone, have mercy and tie these two by the ankles to the MRF blimp, and untie the harness, letting it soar away. Good riddance to, as Geoff Boycott would say, Roobish. These insufferable fools would have you wishing someone instead put a steel drum over your head, and slammed against it with heavy metal rods until your aural senses went numb. Dumb and Dumber here are proud owners of a combined IQ less than a baby chipmunk, have a fine-tuned penchant to combine the words Karbon Kamaal Katch, DLF Maximum, AND Citi Moment of Success in increasingly bizarre and inane sentences, and have that elusive ability to induce mass projectile vomiting. Factor in the ability to make even the most devoted cricket fan want to throw a brick through his new 3D HDTV screen, and voila, you’ve got two chimps who make Shastri and Gavaskar appear less intolerable. Next season’s sponsor ? Karbon Kamaal Kowdung. “I use it to maintain the fine balance of  OIL and DANDRUFF in my hair, says Laxman whatshisface, and Danny chimes in with, “Oh you LITTLE beauty …..”, “Gotta love those Double D’s”, “This one’s outta here” and other derived tripe.

Lest we forget, the BCCI, that everlasting beacon of transparency, honesty and all thats good and pure, was involved in the match-fixing brouhaha all along. Those of you baying for Lalit Modi’s blood, here’s the deal. Guys like Modi have been in business as long as there are sweaty government palms ready and waiting to be greased. These imbeciles have hung on to the goose laying the golden egg, and today they expect us to believe that Pimpmaster Pimpy was acting alone. To those that are standing up for Shashi Tharoor, STOP. NOW. He isn’t innocent. Not by a long stretch. He may not be in as deep as Modi, but the sh*t has well and truly hit the fan. To those of you still creating Facebook petitions, fan pages and groups for Tharoor, as also the twits that are tweeting protests requesting Manmohan Singh to take him back, a word of advice: Delete that precious Facebook petition, and go get a life ! As someone said in the wake of the scandal recently (ironically enough, on Facebook) :

Daal me kala zaroor hai, aur kitne Tharoor hain

That this steaming pile of putrid compost (and NO, I’m not referring to Lalit Modi or Shilpa Shetty) emerged because of the recklessness of one overconfident IPL commissioner on Twitter reveals how easy it could have been to expose this fiasco all along. All the information was out there, although, we the gullible customers were sold, hook line and sinker, with the hoopla, the dancing and bright lights. Quite expectedly, the major players (read, Priety Zinta, Vijay Mallya et al) have come out in support of their beleaguered puppet-master, saying aspersions should not be cast on Mr. Modi, and that the law should take its due course.  Surprise surprise!  Of course you would want him to be exonerated, wouldn’t you. Cause that would legitimize the seedy underbelly (again, NOT talking about Shilpa Shetty’s love handles, or Mr. Modi’s generous curves) of the IPL. Thankfully, this week has brought the welcome news that Lalit Modi has been suspended by the BCCI. I welcome this decision, although with mixed emotions. Without a scapegoat to write about anymore, is there any point in watching or writing about the Pimpin’ League anymore ?

Controversy and jokes aside, could someone please reveal to me the identity of the IPL’s misguided chief marketing strategist. Because, whoever this guru is, he definitely should be stripped of the correspondence MBA he was awarded for the tons of half-baked management gyaan he learnt taking evening classes at the MRF Blimp Business School down the road. How, and I mean HOW, could someone convince leading brands like LG, MRF, DLF, Videocon, Samsung (ok, so they’re not EXACTLY leading brands), to destroy the infinitesimal brand value they carried, by labelling every inch of the player uniforms, player underwear (possibly), the outfield, and stadium urinals with their logos, together with strategically placed corporate chimps (read commentators) simultaneously assaulting all sensory organs, by yelling out irrelevant brand names ad nauseum at not-too-infrequent-intervals. How exactly is a brand like DLF supposed to be attracting enough positive attention to its gargantuan construction ventures if  the selfsame consumer’s sensory organs have been so relentlessly and horrifically abused over a 60-day period to the point that he now wants to pick up a knife and throw it at the next guy who yells DLF Maximum ! Or, the makers of Karbon Kamaal cellphones. What sort of reassurance are we, as potential customers of the Karbon Kamaal phones, supposed to be filled with, when we see these brilliant geniuses spell Katch with a K.

Between equal doses of corruption and scandal, the IPL also witnessed its first dose of  live unscripted entertainment. And entertainment it sure was. Cue, Harbhajan Singh hoisting a clearly piss-drunk Neeta Ambani into his broad arms.  Or Shah Rukh Khan’s coming out party. It’s evident Mr. Chesty McForesty (read Karan Johar) is in some corner, burning with rage at the sight, but thats a topic for another day. Hey, atleast its no longer a secret. Also witnessed, was Harbhajan-grope-any-girl-like-there’s-no-tomorrow Singh and Shanthakumaran-I’m-begging-to-be-slapped-again Sreesanth, discovering a Maa tatoo on their forearms, and discovering they were brothers separated at birth, upon which realization, they proceeded to give bromance a bad name with the usual rehearsed hug and tears routine.

The Pimping League will return next year, right on schedule, more pimped out, laden with more hyperbole, and overstuffed with an equally cringe-inducing lineup of greasy stars and corporate buffoons. Here’s a picture. Its the IPL. 2011. Bangalore squeak through to a narrow 255-run win over the Cochin Coconuts in the grand finale. Vijay Mallya runs out of the dugout, at breakneck speed, headed towards Virat Kohli,. The camera pans in on both of them. The lights dim. The video plays in slow-mo. They approach each other. Mallya jumps in to Virat’s outstretched arms. Both do a twirl, hold the pose for the flashing lightbulbs. Kohli is subsequently ruled out of playing for the next 5 years, due to, among other things, a herniated 20th vertebra. Not so pretty when it isn’t a dainty middle-aged woman jumping into a young turbanator’s arms is it ?

Well, for now, I’m just glad the lights have been turned off on this miserable charade. I can go home and rest in …… Wait, whats that red light up in the sky? It looks like, M ….. R ….. What the F ?!?!?!?

March 13, 2010

Indian Pimping League

Ah, the IPL ! That great pimp of us all. Makes whores of that illustrious breed of fine human beings called commentators and desperate customers of us, the breed of ever-willing rabid cricket lovers. Add to that some fantastic TV producers who cut away from the on-field action every 30 seconds so we can look at strategically placed ground-level cameras focussing on upskirt angles of cheerleaders gyrating with an almost obscene vulgarity that seems more like a borderline advertisement for Victoria’s Secret. Voyeurs around the world seem to be having a field day with this, and might  eventually become cricket fans, almost as an afterthought.  Throw into the mix the players, paid obscene amounts of money for 3 weeks of work, and VOILA !what you have is the closest thing society has come, or will ever come to approving a public brothel or legalized prostitution.

And lest I forget, the sponsors. Agreed, they pay filthy sums of money to have their name shouted from the rooftops at every conceivable moment, but have we REALLY come to this ? A six is now a DLF’er (or a DLF Maximum). A wicket is now called a Citi moment of success, obviously in reference to that oh-so-obvious paragon of SUCCESS, Citibank ! The hyperbole and the forced excitement in the voices of these overpaid, undereducated, pompous, vocabulary-deprived unsuccessful ex-players would be laughable, if it wasn’t so jarring and loud. Ravi Shastri, for example seems to forget that he has a microphone fitted into and held in place by the nose hair in his bellowing nostrils, (a microphone, Mr. Shastri, is a device that can, amplify your voice so you don’t have to blare it out like a foghorn). Mr. Laxman Sivaramakrishnan, that symbol of talent and longevity (who, by the way played all of 9 tests and 14 ODIs), rambles on and on, incoherently about Sachin’s batting stance, and technique, while pointing to the way JP Duminy’s front foot is coming “back and across”. Sunil Gavaskar can’t get enough of the Dilscoop, even though that last shot was an on-drive straight down the ground.

Which reminds me, its Time for the Hindustan Lever Super Stat – Batting Averages

  • L Sivarama-watshisface – 2.50
  • JP Duminy – 34.94
  • Sachin Tendulkar – 45.12

Lalit Modi has gone on record, saying

I see the IPL becoming bigger than the NFL, the NBA, the English Premier League. 

Sure. Why Not. I think so too. Can’t you just see Kobe Bryant making the game winning Burger King buzzer beater. Or Tim Duncan stepping up to the Free Throw line, with a none-too-subtle AD at the bottom of the TV screen showing a  Huggies AD, with a punchline rolling across screen, “HUGGIES – Freedom for babies Free Throw“. Or Joe Flacco making the game winning touchdown for the Baltimore Ravens against the Minnesota Vikings, with a hyperactive commentator on ESPN yelling, “…… and he scores, he scores !!! 7 points,….. with the TYLENOL touchdown !!!”. Close your eyes now. Can’t you just see it now ? Wayne Rooney makes a brilliant run down the left flank, all the way to the penalty box. He tackles, one, two defenders, makes a brilliant side-step and makes a brilliant, curling shot into the top right far post  “…….. for the GATORADE goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooallllll “. Yup. I see it now.

Here’s the beef I have with commentators and others of their ilk. These are the same guys, Harsha wheres-my-hairpiece Bhogle Sunil I-wish-my-son-was-a-half-decent-batsman Gavaskar Ravi flaring-nostrils-RayBan-at-night Shastri, Laxman oiled-and-slicked-Tamil-movie-star-wannabe Sivaramakrishnan, who write endless syndicated columns by day and during the week, romanticizing Test Cricket, and all its qualities, who go on unendurably from Monday to Friday about how  Twenty 20 cricket is a sham, a mere show, a carnival of humungous proportions, which can never mimic the appeal and the endurance of Test cricket. These same guys go into their commentary booths come Saturday and Sunday, and jump off their seats everytime a DLF Maximum is hit, or the bowler delivers a JAFFER of a delivery, or celebrate with the Deccan Chargers when theyve had a CITI moment of Success.

Commentators apart, the players are no less erudite in their assessment of the game. Shanthakumaran Sreesanth, for example, when asked after the game, says he “tried to bowl in the right areas”. I guess thats why you went for 125 runs in your 10 overs, while making faces in a sad attempt to intimidate the batsmen, nincompoop. You have bowlers saying they tried to “hit the deck hard” … (whatever that means), or fielders who “fly through the air to take a stunning catch inches from the ground” (Poor Superman has got a complex). Then you have captains  – at the toss, saying ridiculous things like we’re-looking-to-win (No kidding?) , or “The toss doesn’t matter” (Oh yeah, wise guy ? Why did you go out there … to see how many sides a coin has ??),  or after the game, going “the boys did well“. Even though they lost.

Let put all that aside for the present. Cause the GIANT circus has just rolled into town. For now, lets sit back and  partake of the legalized flesh-trade show that is the IPL 2010, and be glad we don’t have to deal with the nonsensical cowardly imbecile called Fake IPL Player this time around. Let all the hackneyed references to tracer-bullet, super-shots, fine tickle, gone like a rocket, going-going-gone,  that one’s out of here and bowling good line and length BEGIN.

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