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

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.

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

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.

--E.C.--

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