As usual when faced with a blank screen, i do what any good creative person would do; i procrastinate. i open another browser window and head to wikipedia. i scratch my crotch. it's enjoyable. i scratch some more. a couple of minutes later i realise i'm not just scratching anymore. i stop, and come back to the screen. it's a challenge, the blankness. it's saying fuck you, you couldn't fill this if you needed to. well fuck that shit, i've got a lot to say. have you ever walked down the road and blinked and then realised you've suddenly recieved a whole new perspective on things? no? me neither. shit doesn't happen that easily around here. me i've got to be hit in the face, kicked in the nuts and slammed against a wall with a knife to my throat before i realise how i've been so wrong all this while about stuff. there's some sort of lack of a self-correcting mechanism. and that's probably because i'm one of those people who goes through ...
I'm not going to waste my breath and dwell on how truly and myopically stupid ToI's 'Aman ki Asha' is. And how it's going to be just a venue for pseuds to sip wine and share kakori kebabs, while admiring each other's pashmina shawls and over-sized bindis . Ooh and clunky silver jewellery. To truly appreciate the complete idiocy of this whole 'initiative', let's imagine that the ToI had addressed their open letter to Mr. Girhotra, father of the late Ruchika G. You know, the one who was driven to suicide by the Rathore fellow. The following piece is a parody of what was on ToI's front page, and has been (re)written by user sanjaychoudhary at forums.bharat-rakshak.com . Love Rathore Feels odd to you -- Ruchika's father -- to see those two words side by side doesn’t it? Hatred and a desire for revenge somehow sit more comfortably in your mind when you think of him and what he did. Words that you’ve been fed in daily doses over the last 19 years. ...
the riders crested the hill. the scene in the little valley below confirmed what their noses had been hinting at for a while now. 'tis a bloody day's work, havalad', said the leader. 'indeed it is, ponce-a-lot.' 'ain't seed nuffin like this in years, sire.' a bundle of rags on two legs spoke. the two mounted men looked down at it - or rather, him, because the unfortunate creature was (more or less) human - with expressions of sheer disgust. 'shut up, baldrick. be quiet while your betters speak.' 'yes do put a plug in it you oaf, some of us are trying to think out here!' more tryin' than thinkin', thought the figure. but he didn't say anything out loud. baldrick nobbsson had spent 11 years as squire and occasional salami (a kind of large sausage, best enjoyed in thin slivers between two slices of white bread) for sirs ponce-a-lot and havalad and he knew when to keep his mouth shut. and when, indeed, to keep it open. his mast...
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