Monday, November 19, 2007

'Do not put my chastity at stake'

A seemingly harmless absolutely avoidable humanoid form in this organisation has raised alarm among the womenfolk (at least a couple of them) with his sudden atypical behaviour.
The creature in question is puny, balding and emits sounds akin to a factory siren having a bad day, when excited. However, the sudden change in this creature's demeanour has reinforced the ultimate truth ruling this place -- perversion!
He has been showing signs of utmost sexual deprivation lately. Sources say that he has been carrying extra bundles of the holy ash in his bag to keep the surging hormones in check. Looks like the expansive lines the holy ash on his forehead is not helping him.
Attempts at touching and staring at women colleagues in pathetically perverse ways have forced some of them to hide their physical assests under layers and layers of thick clothing.
This perverted humanoid form plans his moves with the expertise of a veteran rapist. Having already created an image of being a GOD-fearing, overtly religious, vegetarian woman-hater, he makes them (women) believe he is sexless. "I cannot give you a lift on my bike as I am a virgin and will die one. Do not put my chastity at stake," he said to one of the vehicle-less woman reporters who was stranded at an assignment once without knowing how to get back.
Duped by his anti-female stand, some women here worship him as a reincarnation of Lord Hanuman.
He is currently undergoing coaching under the uncrowned king of photography, the fatso, to learn the art of licking lips when aroused and focussing on cleavages and belly buttons. Good luck to them both.

Friday, November 16, 2007

Dilbert Principle

Folks.. I found out that there is ACTUALLY a theory that could explain the insane condition that prevails in this sacred organisation. It called the Dilbert Principle - here’s the extract from wikipedia: — 'The Dilbert Principle refers to a 1990s satirical observation stating that companies tend to systematically promote their least-competent employees to management (generally middle management), in order to limit the amount of damage that they're capable of doing.
The term was coined by Scott Adams, an MBA graduate from U.C. Berkeley and creator of the Dilbert comic strip. Adams explained the principle in a 1995 Wall Street Journal article. Adams then expanded his study of the Dilbert Principle in a satirical 1996 book of the same name, which is required or recommended reading at some management and business programs.[1][2][3][4][5] In the book, Adams writes that, in terms of effectiveness, use of the Dilbert Principle is akin to a band of gorillas choosing an alpha-squirrel to lead them. The book has sold more than a million copies and was on the New York Times bestseller list for 43 weeks..'
Now I know why the dear Mr. Oxford thinks and actively promotes the idea that the 1 foot tall, camel-faced, egocentric Lilly [ whose reports literally resembles splattered shit of someone having acute dysentery smeared meticulously across the columns in the newspaper] is the embodiment of the ultimate , hard-core , talented and successful journalist ! and the snorting, screeching Pig is the God of English grammar, the ball-scratching , ass-licking Scum ,the smartest editor [ I recently discovered that he has one large hole in his pocket, not the metaphoric hole, but a real, actual hole so that he can reach up to his balls and scratch it nice and proper] , the snivelling , cackling gloomy spinster [ her reports remind me of my 8th standard economics text book] – the pinnacle of perfect reporting, the ice maiden { with her typical I-have-rotten-bananas-stuck-up-my-ass look remember? ] yet another brilliant reporter [ her reports are like pieces of dry shit strung together across the page] … and many so many, jus so that this newspaper doesnt end up as a mere paragraph in any ‘History of Journalism’ text book , but go on being the voice of the voiceless. And also for all those nose picking , ass licking sacred threads to write endless inspiring articles on how you can make your life more wretched by becoming vegetarian, the advantage of having sex at old age ( Maria Bonita Gonzalez was 80 years old when she had sex for the first time, she had been holding back so long, it all came out in one whoosh and she had a baby the next day. The happy mommy and the miracle baby pose for a photograph taken by our luminous photographer Mr. Fatso …. – this is how that article went ), on the advantage of buying second hand stuff ( Here is how the article went : Last week Madhumitha Nagarjuna Muthuswamyiyer bought a second hand refrigerator, after bringing it home she was thrilled to find out that it still contained left over food which was only slightly mouldy and to her delight pure vegetarian too !. Her ecstatic husband and two adorable children had a hearty meal of fungus-speckled thiyir sadam, mouth watering rasam , carrot–spinach lollypop, lemon rice cakes washed down with a bottle of cucumber juice. This has inspired her to buy only second hand goods. Recently she purchased a second hand toilet seat, a kennel and a washing machine… - the rest was too nauseating to be mentioned here.) And innumerable reports on garbage, sewage and drainage problems faced by this pathetic city that seems to fill the entire paper.
And I’m left to wallow and slowly drown bubbling sluggishly in this swamp of shit and goo. And as days go by the number of bubbles struggling to rise and burst on the surface is going down…. Sadly these little globules of inspiration are dying, so is the rebellious spirit to sneer at the ridiculous, hyppocritic, sad lives of the people here. If u come across a pop eyed, perpetually dazed, chronically depressed, slightly unhinged, paranoid woman who is prone to laugh hysterically, and tear her hair or gaze blankly into the distance at the slight mention of anything connected with journalism – well that is me the shoddy sub - editor.
- The Shoddy Sub-Editor

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

What I learnt from Mr. Oxford’s classes

-Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups
-Old age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill
-Some people are alive only because it is illegal to shoot them
-When people hit the rock they try to climb out, but people here dig deeper
-Everyone ( especially lilly) see the obscure immediately , the completely apparent takes a longer time
-To pass time fantasize getting fucked by a centipede, eaten by a monster, or swallowing a toad….the reality is muck worser.
-It dosent matter what you do, it only matters what you say you have done or what you are going to do
-When Mr, Oxford talks of improving productivity, he’s never talking about himself
-Above all...All this would have been extremely funny if it weren’t happening to me….

(Plagerised slightly)
- The shoddy sub-editor

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Spotlight on Bigpig

The perpetually pissed off paparazzis are suspected to have lost their fervour even for this cathartic release. But, wait a minute, I have regained mine. Thanks to the pig family.
The Bigpig is out to socialise with the half-arsed industrialist friends of his this evening. The fatso will give him gay company. Bigpig is sure to throw his weight around, gate crash at people he doesnt know, scratch their arse and if possible their crotches too. Baby, thats his idea of hard work. And the fatso will click pictures of these, which he will make a profit of by selling them to his grandfather who is a sex maniac.
Fucking bastards ought to be shot in their groins, so that they dont leave behind a legacy of piglets, all true to their patriarchal lineage.

Friday, September 14, 2007

Oh…Mr. Oxford, please come back

I guess my fellow paparazzis would be mad at me for expressing this in this blog, but...but...I have to confess it, I’ve been holding back tooo long…. I..
I… miss Mr. Oxford... Booohoooooo…. I miss him so much, I miss getting bored; miss witnessing that community masturbation, miss skipping my breakfast and cursing him left and right, miss that marvellous feeling of relief of rushing to the loo after his class to relieve all that pent up pee …but most of all I…I miss getting pissed off. Even the unending lousy jokes of Lilly, the repulsive food and ass-licking habits of Scum, and the Stuffed owl’s ogling fail to inspire that exquisite pleasure of getting royally pissed off that only Oxford could do. He perfected the art of making people pissed off in a way that none of the other’s could do. And now… he’s laid up sick, with an incurable disease [I have already composed a song to sing at his funeral which I’d be posting soon and E.C is planning to put a dictionary into his tomb, such a thoughtful act !].
All his weekly classes have been cancelled until further news. The last I heard is that he actually recommended Scum as the next boss, because of scum’s hard work, dedication, and excellent editing skills and his brilliant ass –licking expertise!! Oh... How I miss his apparent partiality, venomous backbiting, and his enthusiastic knack for ruining every one’s life around him. And his repulsive way of leering at all women !
Of- course my dear Mr. Oxford, though others might not understand, I can understand you perfectly… your frustration, insecurity and your thirst for power and your desperate longing to get laid, and the fact that even though you are only around 50 you look and act like a 90 year old with piles. Oh, and I also know that you are trying to hide your secret ASD {Attention Seeking Disorder} problem. Dear Oxford, don’t you realize that half the people here suffer from the same problem – Especially Lilly, who seem to have got a particularly brutal form of it? And I also know that you have so many things to hide sweet heart... And I know that you are ready to sell your soul to retain the position bestowed upon you by some brain- dead superior, whom you have influenced in your slimy sneaky way.
Even your physical disability cannot be helped sweetie… you don’t have to hide it behind your faked up intellectual look and that sad looking beard. Lack of spine is a common deficiency that I have observed here, so your spinelessness will not be easily detected. Moreover since all your chums here are trying to hide their spinelessness under various forms of disguise, they would be too busy to notice you. And darling… your beard is highly unbecoming; it doesn’t give you that intellectual look which you are desperately trying to cultivate, but if you shave it off, your face [I’m sorry to say] resembles a baboon’s backside. I think the best thing that you can do my lil’ sugar dimples, is to put a nice big sack over your head with two hole for the eyes. That nauseating multi-coloured bag that you often bring ,full of big books, will suit you nicely. ( to be continued)

- The Shoddy Sub-Editor

Thursday, September 13, 2007

In other news

The fatso has re-emerged after a hiatus, much to the frenzied excitement of his harem of bitches.
One was in a fit of hysteria when she didnt find him in office. She walked up and down the corridor, peering into the empty fatso den once every ten seconds, wringing her hands in anticipation.
Only when he rolled his slimy self into view did she finally relax, writhing in the sweet pleasure of wet passion!

Single column

A paparazzi was summoned by the Escapee in the wee hours of Wednesday afternoon.
After spraying his saliva into the air several times and uttering guttural noises, he looked up once and snapped, "What the F*** do you want?"
The paparazzi answered meekly, "I thought you wanted me to meet you." At this, the Great Escapee had a facial expression that resembled a rabid bull dog, with froth oozing out of its open jaws. "Do not bring such bills to me henceforth. If you do, I'll F*****G spit on your face," he snapped, picking his rotten teeth and smearing the residue he collected from this teeth on the papers strewn about his table.
The only mistake the paparazzi had committed was claim the reimbursement, which the mighty organisation condescends to give its wretched group of spineless employees. Peanuts though it is, the shoddy paparazzi wanted the amount desperately.
The Escapee, who is in charge of the funds at the grassroots level of the organsiation's branch here, however, does his best to prevent any non asslicker employee from getting his or her dues.
Whenever employees seek his help for reimbursement or allowances, Mr.Escapee behaves as though they asked for sexual intercourse with his wife or borrowed his grandmother's sex toys. The poor paparazzi is now only left in amazement that this place gets the right kind of people it deserves. And this uncouth bastard is a perfect brand ambassador.

Saturday, September 8, 2007

Confessions of a lonely tyrant

I’m restless as a cat in heat
That happens to live across the street
My obsession with cricket
Is the outcome of a big-time frustration

Over paid and under worked
I merely sit and crib
About my collegues poor language skills
Yes, u must have guessed my identity by now
I’m the shrieking Pig, the boss of this sacred shrine

I carry a pink and blue lunch bag
Reminiscence of my LKG days
With pictures of Mickey-mouse and Pluto
And inside- my sugar-free, vegetarian food

I laugh like a thousand bats screeching
And detests anyone who shows any spark of talent
I defame, destroy, and suppress their lives
Because, of course, they are a threat to my position

My best friend is the grinning Mr. Commode-face
Who is my mentor, guardian and beloved
And I have a faithful slave
The dear little Scum
who gives me tit-bit news
Of the sex_ life of the Stuffed owl
Contemplate on the contents of the shoddy-sub-editors bag
And on what the lazybones had for lunch

He also helps me scratch my back
Pay my bills and lick my ass
Still I’m never contented
I’m forever worried, unhinged and insecure

Even the one-foot tall lilly
Gives me awful insomnia
Oh..I don’t know how to go on
My sorrows seem as endless
As the useless news articles that I write
Evn that I copy from press releases
I cant write – that’s the fact
But how do I tell it to anyone
Oh dear! Can’t you see how pathetic my life is
Day by day I have more things to hide from this world
It’s making me go insane….
Mr.Commode-face I need your help !!..
[ the other paparazzis can continue from here]

- the shoddy sub-editor

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

To fatso, with love

If you thought there's none to beat Henri Cartier Bresson in photography, you are thoroughly mistaken. Known for his uncanny, almost intuitive ability to be right on the spot when events unfurl, Bresson might have carved a niche for himself in the echelons of world photography.
But, this magnetic personality gives even Bresson a run for his money. He, lovingly called the Fatso, has already carved several niches for himslef in porn photography.
He slings his camera on his rounded shoulders and makes a dash for his weather-beaten Maruti 800 as soon as his sources tip him off on a scoop. He then races at top speed before his subjects disperse.
Coming to subjects, not every one can be a subject for Fatso's all-enduring camera lens. You need to be a woman, well endowed at that and preferrably with dark skin. Excuse the explicitly racial flavour, this reporter is merely writing what the lovable Fatso prefers. He focusses on the right parts of his subject and clicks away in glee. This reporter has even spotted him wetting his slimy lips at one such pursuit.
Thus he lurks around every women's college, hostel and school, waiting to catch the right moment.
His portfolio includes stunning pictures of a hot internee who chose to entertain herself posing for his pictures and an unsuspecting broadcast journalist who was caught unawares by his omnipresent camera lens puffing away in serenity in a quiet corner. Poor soul was soothing her nerves in the middle of a tiring crime story.
He judiciously compiles snapshopt of his black beauties in office and sends them their pictures, much to their happiness.
His professional skills apart, he is also a philanthropist. He brings tid-bits to feed the hungry bitches in office. Makes tea for the boss, his black heart throb and talks to everyone with exceptional humility. He might even touch your feet a couple of times during the conversation.
He brings along a cart load of books to office. He gazes at the pictures for hours on end and smiles. Poor Fatso, thats one thing he cannot do to save his life. Read.
For everyone in the office, Fatso is friend, philosopher, guide, teacher, sex guru, all rolled into one.
For us, he is and will remain a slimy, fat, ugly bastard.


Big Bums' Bday Bash

Today is a big day in the life of Big B. The Perpetual thinker noticed the change in her behaviour from morning. She showed all signs of anxiety psyschosis and the P.T had to rake the brains to find out the reasons for her anxiety. May be she has learnt a new tecnhique on how to fuck up lives of office colleagues? May be her fan club membership has grown by leaps and bounds? May be she has discovered a magical solution for V. C ( refer share a tit...) But big B proved me wrong. All with the arrival of that one and only residentjumbo/ fatso. He barges in everyday to say hello, with his hands on his mouth ( he wants to guard his swollen lips from falling off and that is the only reason for this behaviour!). His day begins only after greeting the Big B, come what may. Even if the President of India is holding a meet, he cares a fuck, he'd patiently wait for the big B to arrive, say hello, exchange romantic looks( again a daily ritual) and then catch up with the prez. Thats how committed he is.
Now, back to the anxiety factor. Others in the room were pretty normal. The P.T as always was a busy bee and big B's bumchum activist was involved in a research on why is pig fat considered vegetarian? but the big B waited with bated breath. She kept looking at the door with longing look for a million times . P.T wondered why big B is unusually silent?.
He walked in ( though P.t. noticed the shady floral motifs on his shirt, pretended not to look at his side) the big B jumped out of her chair in joy. The room experienced mild tremors, such was the intensity. The fatso even spilt tea from his cup, because of the excitement.
After the rituals ( looks and hello), there was a twinkle in her bulbuos eyes. She flashed those decaying teeth, extended her hand coyly and wished him happy birthday in a husky tone. She was dying to give him a bday hug, the P.T. noticed. But as the activist also joined the celebration with a bday shake, the big B had to restrain from public display of emotions. Anyway, they have their regular outings in the jungles, away from the madding crowd to get up, close and personal with each other and celebrate birthday in style.
Please join me to wish the fatso an exciting Bday Bash....

Reporting by The P.T

Friday, August 31, 2007

Flash News

This news will cheer up every member of the Fool's Paradise. For my fellow paparazzis...guys, it's party time. The Perpetual Thinker has learnt from reliable sources that Mr. Oxford is down with muttongunuya. The deadly virus that has been doing rounds in God' own country targeting innocent individuals decided to attack people who harass the intellectuals, who call themselves pissedoffpaparazzis . Apparently, Mr. Oxford didn't show any signs of the virus attack for three weeks.
He developed nausea, high temperature, restlessness (the symptoms we get while attending his classes) while cooling his nerves during a holiday in the hills. Heard that he preferedd the picturesque locales to come up with new ideas on how to make his classes people friendly.
He has been rushed to his house and is under medication. It is understood that the virus will take a looooooooooooonger time to part ways with Mr. Oxford, as the virus thrives on highly cerebral heads . Long live muttongunuya!!!!!
So, where are you guys treating me for breaking the news????

Report by The Perpetual Thinker

Thursday, August 30, 2007

Ice Maiden's Corner

"Remix is something like more wreaths and less dead bodies."

"Changing clothes in a glass house is better than changing clothes in a basement."
"Eating vegetables? High time you switched to earthworms."

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

In the midst of all this I sit, feeling more and more like a piece of shit..

What would you get if you cross a pseudo-intellectual goat, a sexually repressed rat, and an insecure cockroach? The answer is obviously the one and only Mr Oxford.
However much I try I simply cannot match the indigenous writing skills of my fellow paparazzi – the eternal cynic- regarding yesterday’s class. I guess I was too dazed and stoned [not literally unfortunately] to notice the intricate aspects of the intellectual discourse that was taking place there. But in my perpetually perverted mind, I found everything as dull and irksome as getting fucked by a centipede [I haven’t tried it, but have imagined it a few time to pass time in the office]
As usual I forgot to brush, pee and bathe and arrived like a 3-day-old corpse to gape dully at his squat frame, which resembles a hideously warted, wrinkled butt. I sank down between my fellow paparazzi and the ‘gloomy spinster’. Then started the cerebral orgy, each one vying the other to reach that exquisite climax. Mr Oxford asked me some random question about my communication strategy but in my dazed state of mind, nothing registered. It was like explaining Dialectical materialism to a dim-witted hippopotamus. I merely blinked and mumbled something that made the Giantess almost wet with profound mirth [god alone knows why!!]. Then Lilly had his first attack of verbal diarrhoea, it was much more severe than usual and everyone in the room was literally drenched with the oral excrement that spewed from his mouth. But unlike usual, almost every one see to be suffering from this terrible malady, the room reeked of ideas, opinions, point-of-views and suggestions which was as dull as Mr. Oxford’s beard. The frantic community masturbation went for nearly 3 hours. There were snide remarks from everyone and Mr. Porn experienced sporadic half –hearted erections which he vainly tried to maintain and looked enviously at Lilly who was having ejaculations after ejaculations with the speed and ease of a coffee vending machine [I even wondered whether he underwent some kind of testicle upgradation]. Even the prim ice-maiden seemed unusually excited and aroused, as if someone was secretly fingering her from under the table [her typical I-have-rotten-bananas-stuck-up-my-ass look was gone] which is highly unlikely as she was sitting in between the Pig and the Giantess, and each of them were concentrating hard on their own orgasmic gratification to bother about her.
The giantess/ Ms Big B reached her climax while reminiscing about an internee with a body odour and how her innovative plot helped her attain nirvana. The perpetual thinker, looked as if she could have puked. The AC was on at the maximum and the room as frozen as a morgue with a lot of cackling, masturbating corpses. I guess the gloomy spinster lost her trademark cackle, she unusually silent. The pig snorted and grunted in ecstasy while describing his glorious days as an English professor.
It ended when I thought it would go on forever, many of them had pleased post-intercourse smiles on their faces, the 3 paparazzis , including me came out like victims of holocaust.
With Mr. Oxfords parting suggestions that I should talk more often to The pig and on how I should deal with people with bad body odour…. I simply wished I could fart on his face and die… (the writer had to stop right here as she has over come with too many powerful emotions bordering on to a mild form of hysteria , she had to go to the loo to clear her mind and asks the readers to pardon her)

- the shoddy sub-editor


For the benefit of all the unfortunate paparazzis who missed Mr.Oxford's classes this week.Excerpts from the session.

To a packed classroom sailed Mr.Oxford gaily (by the way, he is GAY), showing all his wonderfully brushed teeth. The little fair pig, emitting short shrieks of anticipation, sat facing Oxford, his small ears, all pricked up.Ms.Big B had a sombre air about her. Might have been meditating over the free community lunch that was to follow after the classes.Then a few enthusiastic journos pulled out papers and pens to jot down the pearls of wisdom.

Mr. Oxford (MO): Now, tell me, the shoddy subeditor, how would you approach a colleague who has bad body odour? a) wear a mask b) spray hit on him/her c) grow a pair of antennae on your head so that the colleague's movements can be sensed from a distance d) none of the above.
Shoddy Subeditor (SS): (silently swearing) Probably go on a picnic.
MO: Hmm...interesting answer, Mr. Lilli, what tactic would you adopt?
Lilli (L) : I would first spary hit on him/her and then subject him/her to a few of my stories. That should do the trick. (satisfied chuckle followed by uproarious laughter from the rest of the class.)
MO: Okay, okay, rrright. Now, how would you tell your boss who doesn't wear underwear that he probably must wear one? Tell me, the perpetual thinker. Here are your choices. a) send him an SMS b) Tell his neighbours, parents, wife, children that he doesnt wear underwear c) Organise a peep show d) Avoid him.
Perpetual Thinker (PT): Uhh...gasp...gulp...question pass.
MO: The Snob, would you like to answer this question?
The Snob (TS): (Nose held high in the air, answering confidently) I would talk about underwears- the size, quality, texture and the advantages of wearing one. I would also tell him what kind of underwear I use. Tight ones with little holes for air conditioning. He would sure be inspired to use one then.
MO: Bravo Bravo! Three cheers for TS! hip hip underwear!
At this point, the Ms.B is awakened from her reverie and pitches whole heartedly into the discussion.
Big B: Sir, one could even try this. Ask the boss to write a story on the disadvantages of not wearing underwear. A proper feature. With pictures and infoboxes. (grins widely). He could also give tips for readers.
MO: My my, what a wonderful response. Except SS and PT, every one else has given amazing answers.
So, I hereby declare that the award for the employee of the week goes to ..(any guesses?)..
The Snob!!
As a gesture of encouragement, the office would be gifting her a set of underwear.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Take a nap

Dedication flows in their blood. Come what may, the torch bearers of the fool's paradise will see to it that they get their daily dose of sleep. Nothing can deter them, even if you drop a bomb in the neighbourhood. They live by the dictum sleep first, stories later. You can catch them snoring away to glory in various locations of the office. One of our paparazzi's neighbour uses the trick to hog the limelight, quite literally.He perfects the act so well that even our jobless lensmen have been inspired to click his photographs. Now you know where the term armchair reporting comes from. But Mr. Lilli is different. As he is from the royal clan, he prefers the cosy comforts of an AC room, neatly maintained by the fatso for such purposes. So much in love with Mr. Lilli, that Mr.fatso prefers to oogle women in office, on the roads, in his neighbourhood for hours together, so that Mr.Lilli's woudl have a peaceful sleep. Where do you see such dedication? I am speechless...

More to come

the perpetual thinker

Monday, August 20, 2007


Tomorrow is going to be quite a day for a few of us paparazzis.
We are gonna have a community lunch with the bearded bastard. The pig, lilli, the Boss, Ms. Big B, and Scintillating company we are going to have! I'm shit excited, It's making me restless.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Share a tit, the big B arrives

I can already sense the excitement. Hold on! Mr. Lilly and Mr. Scum will pale in comparison, for the lady with the ever expanding big B (Bum and Belly) is a class apart. She is round, dark and ugly. If bad karma has to take an ominous human shape, it has to be the one and only big B. Her day begins with ‘doom for office colleagues’ yagna conducted at the most protected garbage yard in the city, which is home to dead pigs, dogs, human beings and human shit. She performs the puja in nude and all her wishes are granted in a jiffy. Even the dead want to escape from her evil spell and the smell emanating from all parts of her body.
Her expertise lies in breaking affairs (last heard, she got a divorce for her housemaid because her husband refused to have sex with the big B). Now, the poor guy has to make out with big B. This is just the tip of the ice berg of her roaring sex life. She can handle men of all class with √©lan. A professional in matters of marital affairs (of others), she eats, sleeps and breathes sex. In fact, her part-time job is to counsel office colleagues (whose sex lives are already fucked up) on how to get fucked in the most interesting way. The reasons for this behaviour are varied. She is separated from her partner by miles. Earlier, she used to visit him in the nights, now I guess he is having a loyal partner and prefers the big B to stay out of their way. Size doesn’t matter to him. He is happy with small Bs.
Battered by this sudden turn of events and betrayal from her puppet husband, who always played a silent spectator to her outdoor adventures on sex, she slipped into a state of depression. Locals recall how she walked about the streets nude, howling and throwing abuses at her husband. Counselling sessions with popular sexologists in the city and exposure to porn videos helped her regain her senses. And, thus began her journey of extra-marital enjoyment. There was no looking back.
Now, I shall tell you some simple steps on how to get a glimpse of the big Bs. Huddle in a group and throw the, sex, sex. For starters, may be something like how people have sex in a swimming pool? Do women use condoms? The choice is yours. Now, sharpen your ear drums and there it arrives like a thud: "You know, it is so nice to have sex in water. You don’t even need to take any protection. Last time, I tried a combination of hot parathas and cool sex with a young guy, it is ecstatic. No one has done it before, you know..." The big B is here.
Her bulbous eyes would instantly launch a thousand people into a delirious state of nausea, aggressive behaviour (like throwing chappals, acid bottle or even a bucket of shit) and that dark and ugly mouth ready to fall off at any moment has an incredible capacity to wolf down mountains of shit, but strictly vegetarian!
As she walks about the corridors of the office, with that bouncy pony tail (wonder when was the last time it got a nice wash), a nauseating stench fills the air. She has valid reason too. Because of the nude yagna commitment everyday, she has no time to spare and as a policy bathes once in five years. So, pardon her.
The other source of smell could be from the stinking parathas, which she neatly wraps and carries it in her smelly bag, to thrust it down the throat of any newcomer to the office. It is a tough battle to win for the new girls, as their physical attributes are minimal when compared with the ever expanding parts of her body. They suffer from high fever, anorexia and a sense of constant fear when they are exposed to the big Bs.
The best part of her bulging physique is the mammoth, monstrous Belly. She fills it everyday with shit, human blood and garbage. Her neighbourhood is where the entire city dumps their wastes of every kind, from the kitchen, from the toilets...and what more people even throng the place at dawn to unload their stomach. Anything that is free and edible finds its way directly to that container called big B and that explains the secret of the shape. (On the enormous size of the other B, I’d like to leave it to my fellow paparazzis. The subject is worth a detailed research. We should bring it up in one of our brain storming sessions. May be we’ll need to get someone to stalk her toilet habits and her notorious night outs and we’ll have the answer. It’s worth it!)
Another interesting facet of her personality is that she is the know-all of this fool’s paradise (synonym for office). Even if a cat has delivered kittens near your house, she must have handled the labour. And she will have an interesting tale of how she sobbed when she saw the cat in pain and how she rushed to feed the kittens with her breast milk.
Her fan following is immense. Age no bar; the only qualification is you need to be from the opposite sex, potent and willing to go that extra mile for sex. The innovative you get, the chances of getting up close and personal with the big Bs are more.
No wonder, our ‘fatso’ of the paradise with fucked up looks tops the list. He takes her to those places far away from the madding crowd, inside the deep jungles and has sex in harmony with Nature. He spends time poring over his rich collection of erotic books on how to bring the wow factor in sex life, the role of dark women in sex and more. He gives such a terrible complex to other members in the club. They are conspiring to drop a bomb when he is having sex with his wife.
The big B is also planning to include people of the same sex in her club as her bum chum partner; an activist in the making is starved of sex because of her abnormal behaviour. She argues that sex is enjoyable only when the partner wears vegetarian condoms. The big B is working on it.
(to be continued… other facets of the big B will be uncovered one by one. I would request my fellow paparazzis to join me in this endeavour. I am sure the big Bs have touched their lives too in many disgusting ways)

Monday, August 13, 2007

Will you walk into my parlour?

I would be failing in my duty as an evidently pissed off paparazzi if i do not mention other special features of this place, apart from its mindboggling variety of arseholes.
This place can take pride in having a lavatory that is desired by all. It is a dream destination for every one working here. So much so that it is permanently occupied. Certain people refrain from answering nature's call in their own homes and save it all up for the loo here. Like this particular staff, Lady Loo, who is the guardian angel of the lavatory. She would guard the loo, like a lioness would her cub. She would be on the prowl to see who is planning to visit the loo and the moment someone goes near the door, she runs in and slams the door on their face. Just in case that person outwits her in the race, she bangs the door until it gives away at the hinges. This blog pays its warmest tribute to this wonderful Muse, who with her obsession with peeing has inspired us to excercise greater control on our bladders.
Grapevine has it that efforts are on to beautify the premises of the lavatory. Probably fit in a few more commodes to satisfy the ever-growing demand of the staff, especially, Lady Loo.
Then comes the pantry. A quaint name at that. But, stinks like a rotting corpse. One would find delightful little lunch bags in bright yellow, green and orange colours, with pictures of mickey mouse, goofy and whatever comic characters are in vogue now. The proud owners of these bags,
Mr.Lily, the Monarch of all he surveys, and Ms.Big B (who will be discussed in detail in this blog soon.) "Such a lovely place indeed!," one would exclaim just before blacking out into the longest of fainting spells.
Last,but not the least, we have the attenders whose voices act like instant laxatives. (actually, it loosens up your bowels). They scream away in their supersonic voices even if they are standing so close to each other that their noses touch. Such darlings!
Oh yes, this would be incomplete without the mention of Mr. Escapee. A Good Samaritan to the core. It is needless to say that his desire to help people can rival even Baba Amte (who the hell is Baba Amte? never mind...some social worker is all i wanted to say). I, on behalf of my co-authors hereby swear that we would erect a statue for Mr.Escapee and decorate it with a garland of dead crows, to express our gratitude for the invaluable help he has extended to each one of us.
Ok ma, so thats all for now.

Friday, August 10, 2007

Freudians’ haven

Welcome to the haven of eternal perverts.
They are the hardcore Freudians……
As our youngest paparazzi swears….
everything here justifies Freud theory.
All seven (more) sins are here…..without doubt next Sodom,
Frustration, perversion, jealousy, lust…..
Reason: all suffering from erectile disfunctioning.

He is the ‘Hagrid’ (…..the semi-giant in Harry Potter),
who gets a high even with the remotest mentioning
of anything related to women.
He gets his highest orgy when women abuse him.
His perpetual repulsive character, along with the rotten smell
he emanates from all parts of his body….(….even sewage/garbage stories of Lilli can’t beat it), will make even you an impotent.

His antenna captures each whisper of his woman colleagues,
and he feels his irritating comments are must add-ons.
He is the epitome of sacrifice, that he even skipped his orientation class, when a girl got diarrhea…..

The ever-sleeping ambience of the office gets an occasional high when internees come, once in an year.
All the mentally-physically oldies will take a bath.
Wearing new clothes with pungent smelling perfumes,
the ever-late comers reach office early, to take internees for tea, for assignments, to toilet….etc
They sit to late night referring volumes of books for jokes, compete each other to entertain them.
The male internees will not even get to type an engagement
while giggling girls get bylines and even a lift to restaurants, and shopping mall.

Mr. Scum, who doesn’t have any police stories or Anglo-Indian looks to claim, starts his sentimental stories of losing his parents…….buying his widow sister’s kid a packet of glucose biscuit to impress internees. He, while scratching balls, will describe in full length how he got psoriasis with frequent use of holy ash and pre-owned underwear.

Mr. Lilli, who thinks girls will automatically fall for him with his charismatic presence, will sit and wait in wane.
Interns often fail to notice that bonsai culture.
In that frustration he would bare his fangs and gossip for another three hours with his venomous counter part at the centre.
And this paparazzi heard those internees quit journalism and joined barber training institute.

There are certain very interesting characters, who need entire episodes, so will be unfair to include in this.

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

Lilly, dont be silly

This is a sequel to the previous post on this blog featuring an eminent personality. At this juncture, we must admit with considerable pride that we, the authors of this blog, are surrounded by the most inspiring of characters. Some like the ballscratcher who undoubtedly, deserved the first tribute. Then we have compulsive liars, sexual deviants, perverted drama artistes, and those whose laughter makes you wonder whether you just heard the mating cry of a pig. Of course, the all-time attractions are people who resemble mummified corpses and slimy molluscs.
This week, we feature another 'towering' personality, who with his magnificent Lilliputian presence, sends us all into a temporary trance.

He believes in the supreme power of the tongue. The moment he begins wagging it inside his mouth that resembles a rat's ass, he gets a strange sort of orgasmic thrill. One that can be rated better than a blow job. His passion is blowing his own trumpet. Once he begins, everything else blurs into oblivion and Mr.Lilliput drones on and on, in sheer orgasmic ecstasy as his hapless victims are sent into convulsive epileptic fits. Sources say that some of his victims' jaws had been rendered immobile due to excessive yawning. A close observation of his victims' personal lives has also revealed that they have often suffered bouts of mental derangement. However, scientists are working with him on his enviable ability to cure insomnia.
This in a nutshell, is Mr.Lilliput.

In case a guest comes along, Mr.Lilli gets all excited. He sniffs around the guest, waiting for an opportune moment to start his oral masturbation. If he happens to hear anyone trying to take part in the conversation, talking about anything remotely sensible, he gets restless. It causes an irritating sensation in his ass, which he gets over by way of his verbal diarrhoea. And in this massive sea of shit, we wallow, sometimes drowning in it. But of course there are some faithful mongrels who lick Mr.Lilli's ass so artistically, who would lap up this shit to the last morsel, licking their lips for more.

Measuring about four feet in height, Mr. Lilliput is convinced that he is a descendent of the Great Shakespeare himself. Waxing eloquent about his Anglo Indian good looks and his impeccable accent, Mr. Lilliput has a fetish for branded stuff. Gucci bags for his dim-witted wife and Armani suits for himself, which needs to be reduced many sizes smaller to fit his puny, spineless, disgusting body. What sets him apart from the rest of the shabby looking journos are his spotlessly shining shoes. He takes utmost care to polish them every morning, using everything from spittle to hair oil to make them shine. And, he takes great care in preserving his jaundiced complexion. When he realised that imported sun-screen lotions didn't prevent his smug face from getting sun burnt, he decided to stop venturing out.
Stories of his crowning glory – locks of shimmering golden hair – abound in this office. A sure sign of his Shakesparean legacy!

Thus he walks about, brandishing his tongue at every unsuspecting soul. It is amazing how he inspires his colleagues to shove something sharp up that asshole of his. Now, this prick also suffers from a serious personality disorder. He nurtures delusions of him being the King and owning vast expanses of land in a neighbouring State. In this delusion of grandiose, he treats his dedicated asslickers to his benevolence with a story or two about his great feats. In his kingdom, which he often thinks is the office, his subjects are not allowed to make phone calls, check e-mail or least of all leave office after their work is done.

Terribly vindictive and sadistic in nature, Mr.Lilli can wreak havoc in his subjects' personal lives if he so wishes. And, he almost always thinks he has the last laugh, twitching his browning, used toothbrush-like moustache, revealing a set of decaying, yellow teeth.
And this is Mr.Lilli for you, for the time being.
It is humanly impossible to capture his versatility in one article. So, I sincerely hope readers would wait for more updates on Mr.Lilli's tales of grandiose.

Sunday, August 5, 2007

Personality of the week

He appears as a short, filthy, nose-picking, ball-scratching government clerk with an insatiable interest in other people’s business. But behind this not-at -all deceiving appearance is an equally inspiring personality….
Here, in an exclusive feature, the ace paparazzi – the shoddy sub-editor explores the multi-faceted personality of Mr. Scum, one of the most fascinating persona who has perfected the art of ass-licking and taken it to new levels. The secret of perfect ass-licking, he says is to lick the entire ass thoroughly and if possible the underwear too until it is dripping wet. {He even mentioned the rectum, but that is a debatable question which his numerous admirers having varied opinions}
The most extraordinary trait of this wonderful person is his enviable ability to survive and walk on two legs without even a trace of a spine. Defying all laws of anatomy Mr. Scum manages to live spineless.
Turning to his scrounging talents, he describes his incredible gift to identify and reach on the spot wherever there is food, and to ask for it shamelessly provided that it is given to him free of cost. And the food includes anything from squashed chocolates and stale biscuits to two-week-old rotten bananas, left over milk, and even chewed up bubble gums.
Mr Scum has an aversion for the degraded capitalist, materialist school of thought that the rest of us follow - He can’t bear to spent money. The very thought gives him week-long insomnia. Every time he went out to lunch with his colleagues, he ate his stomach full, but when the bill came, he just got up and left. Of course, how could he indulge in such a degraded practice of spending money on such perishable luxury!! Finally their spirits broken, his colleagues stopped asking him to joining them for lunch. Such is his iron strength and unshakable resolution.
However, he spends his money on the noblest of all causes. [Which almost caused this writer to clutch her hand together, and look upon him with utmost reverence, her eyes welling up with tears of admiration when he described it to her in vivid detail.] He spends all his money on upsetting tons of milk and ghee over the stone figures of his divine protectors placed in temples scattered all over the city. [I suppose they might be enjoying getting drenched in milk and ghee while having to watch this man’s face through out – combined torture??]
Mind-blowing stories of his remarkable children eating cucumber, getting constipation, falling into open drains and smearing snot under the dining table, dominates his conversation. He thinks of nothing else but how his family eats, sleeps and farts.
He loath anything that is out of ordinary – even the if you show the most minute trace of possessing a bit of intelligence, individuality or creativity, he’ll stare at you as if you had just taken off your cloths, painted yourself pink and blue and went dancing in the rain. [ though this writer personally feels that its an interesting thing to do !!]
His photographic memory records every conversation, which he strains to hear and is meticulously repeated with his own interpretation to the ass lickee [i.e. the owner of the ass which he licks, remember employer / employee?? Similarly, ass-licker/ ass-lickee].
His insatiable curiosity to reads our mails and chats, and find out what is in our hand bags, combined with his ability to accept anything [When I mean anything I really mean ANYTHING!! – there are inspirational stores of how he used to take home pens, note pads, used paper cups, crumpled tissues and once even a used torn underwear- (and that explains his perpetual ball-scratching)] makes him the towering example of a perfect ass-licker.
Being a mixture of so many enviable characteristics, Mr. Scum makes his presence felt in the office – like a stagnant malodorous sewage in the middle of the road. You simply cant ignore him- If you don’t see him around, all you have to do is to get the cheapest packet of diet biscuits, any left-over cakes or even those 10ps worth sickly sweet toffees [any thing will do as long as it remotely resembles food] there- he’ll appear before you with the characteristic street-dog-who-was-starving-for–a-month expression on his face, one hand stretched out in front of him, waiting to get at the food . And there - You are in the majestic presence of the inimitable Mr. Scum!!
- the shoddy sub-editor. Copywrited material.

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Ten time-tested ways of licking ass HERE

1.Leave behind your spine for a bunch of monkeys to discover the joys of trapeezing.
2.Discard matters of the flesh, errr, I mean, eat, digest and fart vegetables.
3. Address every one as 'saar.' Not even the most insignificant of scum should be excluded.
4.Sprinkle 'saar' liberally while having a conversation or even a mere verbal exchange with anyone belonging to the Sacred Order.
5.Nod your head in unison to whatever the big boss uttereth. Even if he says that eating raw banana skins is a panacea for erectile dysfunction.
6.Never forget to laugh your ass off when the big boss cracks a joke. Mind you, these jokes can later be used on your worst enemy and have the satisfaction of seeing him froth at the mouth and wince in pain.
7.Present the big boss with occassional chips packets. Thair sadam (Curd Rice) would be icing on the cake.
8. Beg him to let you help his highness by paying bills, carrying grocery loads home and make him herbal tea.
9.If ever an expletive escapes your lips, out you fall from the ass licking league.
10.Touch your mouth with your hand, bend forward. Strike this pose and there You Made It.

Mr. Oxford's classes

How I long for Mr. Oxford's classes
He comes armed with his books and beard

For some, its time for great celebration
For others a platform for intellectual masturbation
For me, it means loss of sleep
Of skipping breakfast and forgetting to pee.
In the hurry, I even forget to brush
And arrive with a majestic bad breath.

For some, its time to air their views
Even if it’s as dull as a pig rear view.
Some exploit this situation
by giving vent to their sexual frustration.

It’s for people who are desperate to get laid
And for people with acute mental constipation
But Mr. Oxford is the best solution
To loosen up all the clogged up accumulation
Then starts off a verbal diarrhoea
Adding to that, a lot of cerebral masturbation

I then witness a nauseatingly repulsive orgy
Ending in an orgasm so excruciatingly ghastly.
While the awful grammar exercise sheets are passed around
I see these poor souls preparing for the next round

The worst is the lilliput with an itchy butt
Who keeps talking like a whining mutt
always at the edge of his seat, ready to open his maw.
And when he opens his mouth, I stifle a yawn
His voice like a lurid, stinking poison
Enter my very schizophrenic existence.
And I strive to keep my drooping eyes open.

Then there’s another suppressed pig
Who starts shrieking like a cat in heat
There in a corner, the huge giantess
giggles as if someone just tickled her tits
Even the skinny go-green militant
Seem to experience a similar sensation

Combined by the prim Victorian silence
Of the stony, ice female in white
The gun throated cackle of the gloomy spinster
goes trough and through my head
like soldiers marching across a tin bridge.

I guess the lilliput and the pig
tops the list of all the insufferable prigs
while one, by just talking, gets a perveted gratification
the other , by airing his opinion
gets a massive ejaculation.

In the midst of all this I sit,
feeling more and more like a piece of shit
While Oxford's baleful eyes silently sneer
I sigh and drift into a depressing daze.

The rest of the day I spent in a bleary eyed stun
Dreading the next week, when he’d be back again.
Armed with his books and that dreadful beard
For another round of community masturbation.

- the shoddy sub editor/copywrited material