No. 4, St. James' Street

(Continued from Mr. Miller and the Mysterious Mistress)

It was 23 to 3 37 past 2 nearly 3 AM when I heard the faint crash in the distance. I was lying on the floor, still half-conscious. As I laboriously made my way towards the window, something else caught my eye.

I could barely make out the silhouette of a hooded figure in the darkness. It was hard to tell whether it was walking towards or away from me, but I could see that it had a weapon in its hand. All of a sudden, lightning struck in the distance, revealing that it was the Batman action figure I kept near my bed every night.

As I tried to collect my thoughts leading up to this point, I realized that I was really hungry again, and went downstairs to get something to eat. On the way to the elevator, I glanced at my phone to check if I had missed any important calls or messages. There was nothing new -- the last message was from Jessica telling me that something was wrong, which I’d already replied to 3 days ago. So I tossed it into my pocket and began looking for a burger joint that would be open at this time of the night.

A couple blocks’ worth of directionless wander brought me to back to the hotel I was staying at. By now I was really tired of walking around on an empty stomach, so I got back to my room and proceeded to take a quick nap.

By the time I woke up again it was around 5 PM. I lazily got dressed, grabbed a sandwich ‘to-go’ and took a cab to Jessica’s. It was a fairly short drive, but the rush hour traffic slowed us down, and it was almost sundown by the time I finally reached. I rang the doorbell, and was soon greeted by Jessica’s patent half-smile.

“It’s nice to see you! Where’ve you been all these days?,” she said, as she leaned forward to give me a hug.

“Er. I was at my room all along. Why do you ask?,” I said, sidestepping gracefully.

“You never called! I thought you ran away or something,” she huffed as she tried to pick herself up and dust off her dress.

“Why would I run away?” I questioned, following her into the house.

“I’m not sure you know this, but they found your prints on the murder weapon,” she said after a while, taking a sip of the coffee she’d just made for both of us.

“What? That’s strange -- maybe the killer looks like me, then, huh?” I mumbled. My mouth was filled with the cookies I found at the back of the house.

“Uhh. I’m not sure that’s how fingerprints work. Maybe you touched it when we were inspecting the scene? Anyway, there’s another set of prints on the gun – probably belonging to the real killer. Unfortunately, they haven’t been able to find a match in the system.”

“Hmm. Well, that’s a dead end, then. How about we check out this Travis dude’s apartment?”

“Sounds like a good place to start.”

And so we decided to drive to Travis’s place in my car. Good thing I’d already parked it behind Jessica’s house a couple of weeks ago.

It took us about an hour to reach the address. Mainly because it took me a large chunk of time figuring out whether St. James’ St. stood for Saint James’ Street or Street James’ Street.

Once we got there, though, we found his place pretty quickly. There weren't too many buildings in the neighbourhood. And amongst the Burger Kings and the Subways, it stood out like an apartment in a sea of fast-food chains.

I sneaked in from the fire exit. I nearly tripped and fell over a couple of times, but eventually made my way up the eight long flights of stairs. Then it was just a simple matter of picking the lock -- a trivial task that took my expert fingers no more than 45 minutes.

From the inside, the apartment was a completely different story. Rows of neatly-lined books on shelves. Expensive-looking clothes in the wardrobe. Luxury sanitary ware in the toilet And a swanky large screen TV on the wall.

I made my way towards the living room, only to be met by Jessica's gaping eyes.

"Hey, how did you reach here? Was there another elevator or something?", she asked, looking puzzled.

"Nope. Back door. Came in through the fire escape."

"Huh? Why would come through the back when the front door was open?"

"Why would you come through the front when the back door was closed?"

"What?! That doesn't even--"

At this point I could barely make out the muffled sounds in the distance, as I was already in the kitchen. There was a pizza that looked at least 3 days old, but I was starving, and I'd eat anything to fill my stomach. Except for the stupid muffins that were in the fridge. Heck, I hated muffins so much, I wouldn't even eat them if I were full.

With that out of the way, I proceeded to inspect the living room a little more closely. There was nothing of interest -- no finger prints, no blood stains, and no wine glasses with smudged lipstick (which somehow lead to the killer by looking at what shade it is).

It was when I was heading back towards the bedroom when I really stumbled upon something big -- the dining table. I didn't notice it and ended up tripping over it and falling down. As I got up, I caught a glimpse of what looked like a discarded folder laying nearby. I skimmed through the pages -- it looked like a report of some sort. I stowed it in my jacket and began surveying the bedroom.

Nothing really stood out -- except Jessica -- who was now standing outside. I locked the door so that it remained that way I checked the drawers, and most of them were empty. However, one of them had what looked like a secret compartment. Opening it revealed a smallish-looking flash drive.

"What's that?," Jessica said, stepping back into the room. "Oh. Looks like you finally found a clue! You know what? Let me make a copy of the files so that I can take a look as well. You know, speed up the investigation and stuff."

"Cool," I said, fingering through other stuff in case any of them prove to be relevant to the case. Nothing else turned up, though. By now, Jessica had made a copy and returned the flash drive. After scanning through Travis' personal belongings for a little while longer, we decided it was time to call it a day. By the time I dropped Jessica off and reached my apartment, it was nearly 11 PM.

I plugged the flash drive into my laptop and did a cursory check of the files. It looked like a bunch of worthless junk, mainly consisting of autobiographies and documentaries about famous politicians -- yet another dead end.

Then I remembered about the folder tucked away in my jacket. I took it out and tried to make sense of the documents inside. It looked like some form of research on the local drug cartels. Some one had spent countless hours understanding and documenting each and every aspect of their operation -- complete with photos, locations, and most importantly -- names. And one of them stood out like a familiar name in a list of unfamiliar ones -- 

Joe Finch.

Finally, we were getting somewhere.

---

Will any of this ever make sense? How close are we to finding out who the real killer is? And will I have any indigestion problems due to the stale pizza? 

There's only one way to find out.

Stay tuned, for the next episode of Dragon Ball Z

Mr. Miller and the Mysterious Mistress

(Continued from Jessica)

I had no idea what I was getting into.

The recent turn of events had a very unsettling effect. The house seemed to have a creepy, dark undertone. The sun was setting in the distance, and the clouds cast a gloomy shadow on the sky.

Jessica went to the bathroom to freshen herself up. In the meantime, I sat there admiring the posters in the room. There weren’t any, so I finished quite fast.

When she came back, her hair was tied loosely in a bunch, and she looked less distraught. She was also wearing a white shirt underneath a leather jacket, and blue jeans, which I did not mention in the previous post as it was not relevant.

It is not relevant in this post either.

‘Aren’t you even going to check who he is?,’ she asked, looking exasperated, as I tried to finish my lunch. ‘Never mind, I’ll do it. Let's see. He’s roughly 5 foot 11. Well-built. No signs of struggle -- Looks like he was taken by surprise.’

She proceeded to check his pockets for more clues.

‘Expensive-looking leather wallet. Driver’s license states his name as Travis Miller. All the cash is intact. No cellphone. Single gunshot wound on the chest.’

She then started looking for things around the room that might help reconstruct the crime. There was an empty shell casing on the rug. And a handgun. On closer inspection, it looked like there were 2 sets of prints on the gun.

‘I’ll check with my friends over at forensics and see if I can get them to analyze this,’ she said. In the meantime, see if you can dig up anything on Travis.

‘Wait, what’s your interest in Travis?,’ I asked, curious.

‘Part of an undercover job. Can’t talk about it,’ she said, looking uncomfortable.

‘But aren’t you off the force?,’ I said. She flinched, trying to suppress her memory of that incident.

Then there was an awkward silence. Tension slowly built up in the air, as neither knew what to say next. Suddenly, my phone rang. But I left it at home, so I didn’t know this yet.

‘So maybe I had some unfinished business to take care of,’ she finally said, ‘What’s your motive, anyway?’

‘Doing a favor for a friend. Can’t talk about it.’

‘Fair enough. Do keep me posted. This case means a lot to me,’ she said, parting with a half-smile. I nodded in acknowledgement.

After she left, I started snooping around the house for a little while longer. Something didn’t seem right. Why wouldn't the killer hide the body? Why would the gun be left at the crime scene? I made a note of everything that seemed useful, and left, taking a cab back to my hotel room.

By the time I got there, I was really hungry, so I made a stop at the bar and ordered some snacks and a drink. Oddly enough, I spotted Sam at one of the tables.

He looked different from when I last saw him. His face was narrower and skin a little darker. He was in a grey hoodie, loose black jeans, and worn-out canvas shoes. I went up to him to let him know of the latest developments.

‘What’s up, Sam?’ I said, as I thumped my hand on his shoulder.

‘My name’s Joe,’ he said, in a voice that sounded like a cross between a whimper and a grunt. ‘Joe Finch. And I have a job for you.’

I had a strange feeling I'd heard the name before.

‘Huh. How do you know who I am?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘That’s not important. What's important is that I know about the body in the shack and that you are working on it.’

‘Go on,’ I said, now that he had my complete attention, ‘how are you involved? And why do you need me?’

‘My wife thinks that I killed him. I knew that the two of them were having an affair, so I set up a private-eye on him. Somehow, she came to know of this, and now she thinks that I killed him in jealousy, and wants a divorce.’

This just got more interesting.

‘Personally, I don’t care about the divorce. Heck, I’d probably be happier. But I want to get this murder allegation off my head. If you can prove my innocence, I’ll pay you twenty grand in cash.’

‘I guess I can’t really say no to that. I’ll let you know if we narrow down on any suspects. How do I contact you?’

‘You don’t. I’ll get in touch with you when you have the details,’ he said, and disappeared as quickly as he appeared.

‘I guess I've had one drink too many,’ I thought to myself. I paid the bartender and went back to my room.

Once there, I saw my cellphone lying on the bed and picked it up. I’d missed a call from an unknown number. And there was text message from Jessica. The forensics report was back, but something was not right, and she wanted to meet up as soon as possible.

---

What exactly was Jessica worried about? Where the hell did Joe Finch come from? And can I come up with a third question for the outro? Only time will tell. Stay tuned!

Update - Click here for the sequel!

Jessica

I remember it like it were yesterday.

It began like any other Tuesday morning. Mild in temperature, sunny in climate, and slightly windy in wind. I was taking a stroll in the backyard, looking at what my neighbours were doing minding my own business, when I heard the slow tinkling of music, which meant that the mailman had arrived.

No, wait. I guess it was an ice-cream truck. Also, maybe it was a Saturday. I don’t remember clearly.

Irrelevant little detail.

What was relevant was that I found an unusual looking letter in the male mail. It was from an old friend. It seemed to be an emergency, and he wanted to meet me immediately. I don’t know why he sent a letter if it was really that urgent. It must have been really important, I reasoned, so I quickly got dressed and headed downtown.

He mentioned that he wanted to meet up at Johnny’s. It was a shady local bar. Not like the ones in movies, though. This one was under a tree, and so it blocked most of the sunlight.

His name was Jack. One of those generic names that are usually made fun of a lot. Jack of all trades. The thing-that-is-used-when-changing-tyres-jack. Jack-knife. Jack of hearts. Butter-knife. Yeah, I remember he was the butt of all jokes in school, the poor guy.

He was already there when I reached. He looked stupid. And worried. But mainly stupid. He was wearing a crisp printed cotton shirt underneath a cardigan-like-thing that only someone named Jack would wear.

‘What’s up, Jack?,’ I asked.

‘My name is Sam,’ he said, rather huffily. I guess it was the taunting at school that made him so grumpy.

‘So what’s the problem?,’ I asked, as I signaled to the barkeep to get me a beer, whilst admiring the woodwork and stools and such.

I don’t know why Sam thought I was disinterested. He was a weird guy. He spake of his tale in a slow, grim tone.

'You look as sad as Joe Finch in the middle of a divorce,' I said, as I lit a cigarette with a lighter I found at the back of the bar.

'Who the hell is Joe Finch?'

'I dunno. But I'm sure as hell he would look just like you'

'But why would he be sad during a divorce?'

'Did I say sad? I meant happy. Typing mistake'

'What??,' he asked, with a dumbfounded look. ‘Never mind. It’s the Smiths again. I don’t know what they are up to this time, but I reckon it's something terrible. I heard gunshots coming from their apartment the other night. So I thought I’d give you a heads up’

‘You what?! And you decided to send me a letter?? Wow, sometimes your intelligence scares me. Lucky for you, I came right away, huh?’

‘Actually, it’s been 9 days,’ he said.

At this point I just freaked out and left. I don’t remember some of the events that followed, but somehow I ended up in a rusty looking shack. It reeked of something noxious. It also leaked of something dihydrogen-oxious.

Good thing I packed enough food for 3 people.

The place looked like it had recently been refurbished. Some knick-knacks were out of place, and most of the furniture looked chewn-up in places, but overall, it had a pretty homely feel.

I rummaged through the things in various rooms, looking for clues as to why I was there, but to no avail. I almost gave up hope as I made my way into the last room, where I was shocked to see someone already there -– Jessica. She saw me too, but didn't say a word. This was strange.

Jessica was not usually this silent. This was probably due to the duct tape plastered onto her mouth. I asked her why she didn’t do something about it.

‘My hands are tied,’ she said. And indeed they were. Literally.

Also, she didn’t really say this, as her mouth was taped. Pay attention.

It was a pity, really. Whoever did this to her was either keeping her hostage, trying to extort some information, or simply felt that she talked a lot. That reminds me – I did. She did talk a lot.

I undid the tape, in spite of myself. Fidgeting with the curtains was beginning to bore me.

‘This is a setup!’ she cried, ‘I’ve been framed!’

‘Framed for what?,’ I asked, rather indifferently.

‘For this!’ she sobbed, pointing in the general direction of a dead body lying nearby.

‘Oh, I never noticed. Hmm. Well, this complicate things a bit. What are we going to do with all the extra food??’

---

Will Jessica be able to prove her innocence? And what of our mysterious hero? Will he be able to recount all the gruesome tales of that day? Or will an unknown third party ruin everything?

Stay tuned to find out. 

Update - Click here for the sequel!

7 *More* Tips For Success

As I was taking a walk down memory lane, someone approached me from the medulla oblongata region. He asked me what I was doing there. I said that I forgot. He didn't get the joke and chucked me out. That's when I decided to write another brilliant article.

After weeks of extensive research and countless hours of labour, I was still undecided among a, an, and the finally managed to finish it. But my dog ate it. So you'll just have to make do with this instead I painstakingly tried to recreate it from memory, and this is what I managed to end up with.

These are some of the most vital things to keep in mind if you dream of success in any field of your choice. Even if you’re not used to dozing off in the field, they’re still pretty helpful.

1) Higher education

The need for higher studies cannot be over-emphasized. It's really important to get a feel for/understanding of higher education. Make it a point to always study on your terrace. Keep changing buildings and floors, going higher each day. It helps somehow. I guess. Also, try to get a few awards under your belt. The bigger trophies may make your stomach bulge a bit, but that's alright, as long as the belt buckle matches.

Oh, and I almost forgot, multiple degrees look great on your résumé. Not too many though. Less than 90 degrees if you're worried about your skin getting tanned ('coz tan 90 -> infinity).

2) Sleep cycle

You must have come across various self-help books that have told you to adjust your sleep cycle for productivity. But none of them have helped, have they? The reason is that people don't really explain what it is. Sleep cycle is defined as the cycle that you ride when you're asleep, duh. (See also- awake cycle) Now, how do you adjust it? Simple, just follow the following 3 easy-to-remember steps—

Step one - Make sure the wheels don't squeak.

Uh, that's all I can remember for now. (*yawn*) Too sleepy to think.

3) Grooming

You may have noticed that a well groomed person is well groomed. But how? You might think that it's due to his sharp haircut. Or the smooth hair gel he uses. Wrong. It's his beard. If you want to be anything like him, you must grow a beard asap. And then shave it. Why, you ask? Because it's in the four commandments of life—

i) Thou shalt not questioneth any of the commandments.

ii) Thou shalt not asketh what happened to the 3rd commandment-eth.

iv) Thou shalt shaveth your beard.

See? Told ya.

(Note- If you're a girl, then I understand that it may not be practical to do this. In that case, follow only the 4th commandment)

4) Value your values

No matter what level of success you reach, you should never forget your roots. Or branches and leaves, for that matter. Anyway, do not forget to place high importance to virtues and values that shaped your very being. Integrity, honesty, generosity, and electricity, among others. You might have faked faced many hardships along the way. Never forget what your struggle to the top was like. Try to give back to the society whenever you get the opportunity to. Sometimes it's easy to get carried away, though, like so—

1st person - "Hey, you know that guy? Very nice person. He donated one of his kidneys to me!"

2nd person - "That's cool, man! He donated one of his kidneys to me, too!"

5) Punctuality

//TODO: Finish this before publish date.

6) Don't take advice

Free advice? Plenty. Gullible fools just like you? Plenty-er. When someone gives you some advice, it's easy to get persuaded and mindlessly start following it. But have you ever stopped to think for yourself? Ok, maybe you did it now, but that's only because I told you to. If you want success, then don't take any advice from others. It makes you a blind follower of their ideologies, which will, in all probability, be wrong.

Consider this one, for example. If you took the advice, then you're not following it (you were not supposed to take advice in the first place). So what do you do? Don't take it, of course. But now if you don't take it, you're following the advice, and therefore taking it. See the gaping flaw in the theory? Exactly.

So that's why, take my advice— don't take it.

8) Socialize

Once you're in the high society, you need to juggle work and play very often. Over time, this can be very hectic as well as tiring. The trick to managing things effectively is to selectively do some of the work. Try to save energy. Use CFLs instead. Some people may be allergic to chloro-fluoro-carbon bonds. But that's ok, as there are no such bonds in it anyway.

Do note, however, that the ones who really move ahead in life, are the ones who know the right kind of people. Having contacts is really, really important. But do keep an expensive brand of spectacles handy just in case.

9) Team management

With great power comes great current squared times resistance. You need to handle more responsibilities, manage a bigger team, do the dishes, etc. So try to ensure that the team is up to the mark. An important aspect involved in the process of team-management is building character with the help of games.

One of the games used to teach trust involves trekking to the top of a mountain and then sky-diving off the plane without a parachute, hoping that your teammate will catch you using only a bowl of noodles. Or a chopstick. Another variation of the same game is to try it with your hands and legs tied to an anvil, while your teammate attempts to play blind-folded.

A great game to play with your in-laws, your dog or your neighbour’s dog’s in-laws.


(Actually, you don't need to do this much work, either. If you look carefully, you'll find a shortcut to success nearly everywhere. Double click to open any one of them. You should instantly become successful)

[For the original 7 tips for success, click here]

Friday

I looked at my watch. It was 10:30. Twenty more minutes left for the class to end. An eternity, more like. I tried to strain my eyes on the board, barely able to make out half the words. I had absolutely no idea what class was going on. I wasn’t sure whether anyone else in the classroom did, either.

Unable to concentrate any further, I drowsily turned to look outside the window. Through the corner of my eye I caught a faint glimpse of a handful of bees buzzing around in circles. A little further off into the distance, there seemed to be some construction work going on. There always was.

And then I looked down at the sheet of paper lying in front of me.

Blank.

No, wait. There was small circle drawn somewhere in the corner, with the letters ‘MC’ scrawled untidily in it. I was supposed to hand in my article for 19a by the end of the day. This was the plot, and all I’d come up with so far was that it would have a ‘main character’ in it. Brilliant.

Suddenly, Neha turned to tell me something. “Oye-lucky-lucky-oye is a palindrome.”

“What?!,” I asked, taken aback. And everyone around us burst into muffled laughter. I smiled, too. A much needed break from the monotony.

Rajiv glanced at the piece of paper, too. “Wassup, homie?,” he said, “Still no luck with the plot, eh? You know what? You should go out, man. Get some inseparation,” he said.

“Inspiration,” I corrected him.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Technical mistake,” he quickly replied.

Seeing as I desperately needed to get away from the class anyway, the moment the period ended, I walked out with the two of them in tow.

Once outside, I noticed that the place wasn’t bustling with much activity, for some reason. A friend of mine was deeply engrossed in a copy of Moscow Vector. And another handed me some notes. 'Kulla' (shorty), she called out to Rajiv. They spoke for a bit as I looked around the place. That was about it.

I suddenly remembered that I had to meet someone in the post office regarding a cash transaction.

“Is his name Mani?” Rajiv asked, “Coz then you can just do Mani-transfer. Get it? Money transfer?” He winked at me and both of them started giggling. I dropped my pencil and face-palmed myself in frustration, but gave in to the laughter eventually.

“Or, if his name is Deepu, we could ask him to Deepu-sit the money. Get it? Deposit?” I said, as my face lit up.

“You’re stupid, or what? If you want to deposit something then why do you need another guy? You can do it yourself,” Rajiv countered. And then he and Neha broke off into boisterous peals of laughter. I smiled slowly, accepting defeat.

As we walked further, we saw a mangled heap of metal that was the remains of a BMW-sedan and a REVA. The irony. I could hear the sirens of a cop-car echoing far away. In the adjacent lane, a few people were painting the sidewalk, and Neha went over to help them. I wanted to lend a hand, too, but couldn’t, as I had a bunch of things to do.

Upon reaching the post office, I received a text message. I frowned as soon as I finished reading it. I had to get back to college urgently. Rats. I frantically looked around for the man in question, finished off the work, and hastily bid Rajiv goodbye. He had some business of his own to take care of.

“Come online at 5,” he said while leaving.

“Sure,” I smiled, and turned to leave. The walk back was largely uneventful, save for an airplane momentarily screaming overhead. As I entered college, I was lost in thought about the article when—

*Thud*

Something hard hit my head from behind. I turned around in irritation to see what had caused it. But the moment I saw what it was, my anger evaporated, along with the sharp pain.

“What’s up?,” a voice spoke, cheerfully. It was Shalini. She had hit me with a book to catch my attention. “I thought you were in the post office? Then how did you come back so fas—”

“Speed post,” I interrupted.

“Oh, right,” she said, trying to suppress a snigger, “Should have expected that from a nerd like you.”

“Hey! Don’t call me that!”, I snapped.

“Nerd.”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Although, don’t actually try that, by the way. I’m really afraid of stones.”

“Really?! How come?” she inquired.

“Well, I had this dream once. It was a dark and stormy night. I was stealthily shooting some guards from a distance, when suddenly, alarms started going off everywhere. I ran up the stairs as quickly as I could to get cover, but on the top floor, there was a huge evil-robot that seemed to be bent on killing me. So I ran down again. On my way down, I slipped and fell, because my shoelaces were untied. So I threw them away, and bought a pair of chappals from a nearby shop. Just then, I saw a friend who had a bike, and we tried to get away, but his bike wouldn’t start. The next moment, I was at the top of the Malaysian twin towers, and I lost my footing and plunged downwards. When I woke up, my pillow was gone,” I rattled off effortlessly.

Shalini was at a loss for words for a few seconds. Finally, she spoke. “But you didn’t mention stones even once,” she said.

“Yeah, that’s because I’m claustrophobic,” I explained.

“What?!?! B-But that’s not even—” and then she stopped. “Ok, you win. By the way, sometimes I think that people live in their dreams for too long. Wake up.”

And just like that, I began wondering how life was all about dreams. Some people dream of being great writers, musicians, actors, among others, but how many of those dreams really get fulfilled? How many live in their dreams as a means of getting away from despair, and how many change their dreams into reality. About how much talent goes unnoticed. And then I remembered a verse from a poem by Thomas Gray—

‘Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air’

“Wake up,” she said again. Although this time her voice seemed different.

“Huh?” I mumbled.

“Class over. Let’s go, sleepyhead,” the new voice spoke again.

I rubbed my eyes and tried to focus. I was back in the classroom again. Evidently, I had dozed off. As I slowly tried to regain consciousness, the events that had recently unfolded played back in my head.

And then I looked down at the sheet of paper lying in front of me. There was small circle drawn somewhere in the corner, with the letters ‘MC’ scrawled untidily in it.

Sigh. Time to make a start...

Blog Swap!

Howdy! Well, the good folks over at 20SomethingBloggers have hosted something called a Blog Swap. It's where bloggers are randomly chosen to post on each other's blog. I've been paired up with Lauren, who has a delightful blog that's a blend of food, life and photography. So, I get to guest post on her blog, and this is her post on mine. Pretty cool, huh? The theme was summer, and this is her post on 'The Perfect Summer Snack'. You can find mine over here. 

The Perfect Summer Snack

Summer is here, and suddenly everyone seems to be hosting barbeques or going to the beach. Eating copious amounts of ice cream is suddenly justified, because, well, it’s summer and everyone knows that it’ll be over in a flash. Here in Massachusetts it’s true that summer is short. Three months maximum and then back to the crisp fall and bitterly cold winter. So people like to take advantage of their summer and eat accordingly. My father grills outdoors whenever possible, my mother uses fresh blueberries and raspberries to make homemade jam and delicious summer pies. But what is the perfect summer snack? To be honest I couldn’t quite decide. I’ve narrowed it down to my top 5 American summer favorites. Do you agree?

1. Cold and juicy watermelon:  There is nothing better that this sweet and fresh fruit on a hot summer day. I like it plain, but also in fresh juices, salads, and the occasional martini!

2. Dad’s homemade burgers: I’ve never been a big burger eater, but this year something just changed. When made with very fresh ground meat and topped with local onions and tomatoes it’s not quite your McDonald’s burger.  Served on top of a fresh baked roll and I’m happy to be home.

3. Crispy fisherman’s platter: When eating at the beach there is nothing better than stopping by a snack shack and ordering a plate of fried seafood. Simple but good. Shrimp, haddock, scallops, and clams are the usual fare in New England, with a few lemon slices on the side.

4. Italian Ice: Forget about ice cream. This snack is found primarily in the state of New Jersey (although other places claim to sell it but it is NOT the same) and it is amazing. Cold and refreshing without all of the heaviness (and fat) of ice cream. I wish I could have it all year long!

5. Key Lime Pie: Yes, another dessert, but for me it is summer in one bite. This pie is made with the small lime varietals that grow in the Florida Keys and creamy condensed milk. It’s both sweet and tart, and best with a homemade graham cracker crust.

Just thinking about all this food has made me hungry! What are your favorite summer snacks?

Lauren is a 24 year old Massachusetts girl currently living with her husband in Spain and trying to find an outlet for her food fascination (that hopefully materializes as a fun and highly paid job!)

How To Win Arguments. With Math.

Ever wondered why nights feel longer than days?

Yeah, I know...you have. That was a rhetorical question. Like-- 'Can pigs fly?' Or... 'Am I straight?'

Don't answer that.

So anyways, I set out to use my vast mathematical prowess (which happens to be more than simple stuff like 6+3=4) to find the answer. And after a long and calculated journey, I was able to obtain the following proof--
 

The Balance of Nature (a.k.a. The LHS = RHS Method)

Possible values for 'Day' = Yesterday, Today, Sunday, Monday...Saturday
(Total of 9)

Possible values for 'Night' = Tonight, Last night
(Total of 2. And no, midnight does not count because it comes somewhere in between)

But in a week, the days and nights are equal.
So 9 days = 2 nights.

Which, evidently, brings us to the obvious conclusion-- that days are shorter than nights.

(Corollary: Nights are longer than days, for which I leave out the proof. Oh, by the way, it requires advanced imaginary calculus and operations on partial numbers, so you wouldn't understand it anyway)

But there was some part of me that was not convinced. No, not that one. I mean, if the ratio of night:day = 2:9 - then why should we pay taxes?

Seriously, any idiot could figure out that 2/9 is...umm...twice of whatever 1/9 is. But that is irrelevant. What I'm trying to say is-- if the government does use our tax money wisely, shouldn't they provide us with a free bottle of orange soda every time we make a call?

Hell yeah, they should..and I'm gonna explain to you why. It's because, uh, because..

...

You probably find yourself stuck in a similar situation often, don't you? Of course you do. Don't be silly. *Points gun* Yeah, thought so. Notice what went wrong in that argument? Yes, the taxes. Ok, maybe the orange soda, too. But mainly, the taxes. I mean, seriously?

Hmm..to put this stuff into better perspective, maybe we need to take a look at some of the subtle things that actually went right up until that point. In case you noticed, it was the clever use of math. But you didn't, did you? *Pokes gun hard* Thought so. The idea is to sprinkle it around lightly, not throw everything you've got.

If you're not good at debate, you can use this handy guide to help you out. What's that you say? You're terrible at math? Brilliant! Then this guide is just for you. But if you're good at math already, don't worry. You'll soon unlearn everything you've learnt since school in about 10 minutes. Actually, half of that. That's right, in 6 minutes. Let's get started.

Transitions (a.k.a. A>B and C>B, so A=C, right?)

Sometimes, the topic of discussion is so vague, that you can slightly change the subject without anyone realising what you're talking about. Works well when the target does not know much about the subject. Works even better when even you don't--

Me : "One of the most sublime works in literature, Don Quixote is a must-read"

X  : "Er, it's not pronounced 'Quick-sote'. It's pronounced 'Kee-ho-te'"

Me : "Dude, it doesn't matter. I typed it"

X  : "Oh, yeah. Sorry, my bad"

I don't know what I'm getting at here. But it's something cool.

The Discrete Maths Method (a.k.a 1+1=2, so Pizza must be from Thailand)

I really don't have much more to say about this right now.

The what-did-you-just-say method (a.k.a. e=mc^2*pi^3/1.000123y, depending on if x)
 

There are multiple ways to pull this one off. If you're one of those people who can remember long-ish words and spew them out at will, without consideration for what they mean, then this is for you--

Me :  "Even though this technology has harmful side effects, we have developed ways to reduce its impact by 9.3%"

X  : "So, that's like saying sorry after killing somebody"

Me : "Not at all. In fact, if you consider the fact that most cellular degeneration occurs at the lateral genome position, you'll realise that this is the inter-planar receptor facility provided for in the most clandestine of all olfactory inhibitions. 

 

So that's like saving a life and then saying thank you"

X  : "Oh, yeah. I didn't think of it that way"

You see, people have ego problems. They'd rather agree than admit that they didn't understand. But that didn't really sound too convincing. Plus, most people are put off by large clumps of text. So here's a better, more effective method-- use clichés. Loads and loads of them. Order/relevance do not matter at all--

X  : "I think my girlfriend is preventing me from concentrating on work"

Me : "Work smarter, not harder. Loneliness didn't a better writer make"

 

X  : "But then it will look like I'm slacking off"

Me : "Many a brave soul hath fought the same battle, and lost. You wouldn't want to be the boy who cried wolf, would you?"

 

X  : "Oh, no no. Of course not. I don't know what I was thinking"

Side Switches (a.k.a  x>y, but p looks cute, so y>x)

Ok, so this one requires a bit of practice. The idea is to put forth your ideas in pairs. This way, if one of them turns out to be wrong, you can either try to hold on to the other, or, better still, turn the debate on its head, and quickly switch over to the winning side. Like so--

Me : "Hmm, so I heard that they're planning to split us up into clubs based on our interests. There's about fifty to choose from. I'm torn between Cookie Monsters and the Purple Puppies"

X : "Why the hell would you want to go into any of those groups? Do you really wanna be a part of something like Cookie Monsters?"

Me : "Umm, no..but do you really wanna be a part of Purple Puppies? That's so retarded"

 

X  : "Jeez, hell no. Of course not. Cookie Monsters it is, bro"

You could also try a more direct approach-- by attacking a modified version of your opponent's argument. As long as it bears even the slightest of resemblance to the original, your work is done. Consider--

X : "There's this new ice-cream place across the block, you should really try their butterscotch flavour"

 

Me : "Do you know that some ice-creams contain egg? Must be really satisfying for you to feast upon helpless little unborn kids, huh? You monster!"

 

X : "Omg, I'm so sorry. I vow never to eat ice-cream again" (*shudders/sobs*)

 

Me : *Ting* "Ah, looks like my omelette is ready in the oven"

If that doesn't work out, there's another tool you can use -- Guns Pathos. Attempting to persuade through the power of emotion. If done correctly, you can play with the target's emotions at will. But be warned-- this is actually quite deceptive. You may be tempted to use it every single time, but don't fall into that trap. People can have feelings, just like you. Emotions are not something meant to be played with. How would you like it if someone did that to you?

Nah, I'm just bullshitting. You can use it whenever you please. Almost gotcha, though, didn't I? Haha. Sucker. 

 

Now share this with a dozen people in the next hour, or you will die. That's right, 15 different people.

 

You don't believe that? Well, let's just say that I have a gun. And you don't. Do the math.

The Dark Night

Sorry for the hiatus. Was a li'l busy giving away autographed copies of my best-seller *still* looking for my underwear. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I managed to misplace them in a freak accident. All my attempts at locating them were pretty much futile until two days ago. But ever since then, some really strange things seem to be happening.

It all began on a dark and stormy night (apparently nights can be bright, too). Clouds floated ominously. Thunder crackled thunderously. And normally, it would be accompanied by lightning, but on this particular night, it was not free. (Plus, it was a dark and stormy night, remember? Jeez.)

There was something very eerie about the night. I was trying to read a book but the creepiness of the atmosphere had an unsettling effect. Suddenly, the sound of wood creaking pierced the hallway. I quickly turned to look back. The door was now ajar.

"That's strange," I thought, "how did the door become a jar?"

My contemplations were interrupted shortly by what seemed to be a shadowy figure standing in the pathway leading up to my house. Barely visible against the moonlit lawn, I strained my eyes to get a closer look. Before I could discern what it was, the doorbell rang.

I slowly approached the door, and my fingers trembled as I turned the knob that controlled the volume of my music player.

Then, I opened the door by unlatching it.

It took my eyes a few moments to take in what I saw.

I was in the kitchen now. I quickly realised that this was the wrong door, and proceeded to open the front door. There was someone standing on the porch. It was me. There was also someone standing about a foot away from where I stood. I beckoned her to come in.

So what happened was that some chick had randomly come over. She was holding my hand in her package. She was holding her package in my hand. She was holding my package in her hand. She seemed vaguely familiar, and yet, I didn't seem to know her at all.

I was like, "Do I know you?"

And she was like, Penelope Cruz. More like Scarlett Johansson, maybe. But I digress.

She said, "Maybe this will ring a bell." And then she pressed a button on the wall which did, indeed, ring the bell. She then handed me the package, and re-united me with my long lost inner-wear.

I was so overjoyed by this development that I felt I should make it up to her for taking the trouble to come all the way in the rain just for this. I offered to prepare some tea, but she preferred a hot cup of coffee. I said that it wouldn't possible as all my cups were made of ceramic. I'm not funny. I know.

Moving on, she was really curious when she saw my music player and began fiddling with the controls a bit. We ended up making small-talk largely pertaining to music, among other things.

Turns out she's a pretty talented Carnatic singer. Now, I had no clue what that meant, so I did what any normal person would do-- I asked.

"Hmm, so is that like a thing that you do in the car?"

"What? No, it's a form in Indian classical music."

"Oh, like the whole tribal rain dance thing?"

"No, you dumbass. Indian as in people from India, the country."

"Oh, so it's like country music then?"

"Umm, it's more like folk"

"Fork? Oh that reminds me, those cookies you're eating are poopsicle flavored. And no, that's not a spelling mistake."

She spat a mouthful of coffee on my face, and left.

I have no clue why.

Hoping to figure it out, I tried looking up stuff about music in general on the Internet. As I was surfing through Wikipedia, I was shocked to realise that although music speaks to people, it's not always telling the truth. More specifically, not all sarangis are honest--

 A lying sarangi

I know, I was devastated, too. As I delved deeper into the depths of the paedo 'pedia, I realised that a lot of things in the world aren't what they seem.

For example, inflammable is flammable.

A craps table is not a place where you can defecate. (Now they tell me)

And a blackjacking is *definitely* not what you think it is.

Wow...who knew?

How to Lose Friends and Annoy People

(Disclaimer- This may be my worst post till date. But I figured that after reading this, all other posts will seem like gems, so I'm leaving it as it is :D)

(Disclaimer 2- Mutual fund investments are subject to market risks. Please read the offer document carefully before investing)

(Disclaimer 3- The author does not know what the word 'disclaimer' means)

April Fool's. Hmm. Quite frankly, I've never really understood the concept. So this time around, I decided that to investigate what all the fuss was about. Turns out, it's not as easy as pulling off a prank on someone you know. It requires planning, timing, as well as factoring in unforeseen elements.

It was depressing to see how everyone wanted to try it but no one seemed to know how. So I thought I'll post the results of my analysis, as well as add in a few handy tips which you can use for best results, so that others don't get to know that you're a moron.

You're welcome.

Now, before all of you storm to torch my house with your pitchforks and knives, let me tell you that I'm not late. In fact, I'm writing this post about 11 months in advance. Ha.

(*Breaks into hysterical sobs*)

Ok, I'll admit it. I'm about a month overdue. But that's only because I've had a pretty stressful thirty days. My girlfriend dumped me. I burnt the noodles. In the fridge. And now even my dog hates me. I'm a loser. I'm going to die a very slow and painful death.

...Ram said to Shyam.

Now that one sucks. In fact, it's not even a prank. [But is a useful way to annoy people nonetheless- Just append 'Ram said to Shyam' at the end of any statement]. So that's tip #1 for you. Don't try clichés. Ever. And don't think that you can tell a joke and pass it off as prank. It doesn't qualify. You can try dirty jokes, though, *if* the occasion seems appropriate (and only if you really have to). But remember, no clichés.

(If you don't like dirty jokes, skip the next line)

A white horse fell into the mud.

.

See the point I made right there? No, the other one. Yeah, good.

Getting back, what did happen, though, was that my dog pee'd on the couch, and my girlfriend chewed up her leash. Or maybe it was the other way around. I forget.

Anyway, it was a long story, so I'm not going to narrate the entire thing, but I will point out that it involved a sandwich, 6 beers, 2 girls 1 cup, 17 gloves and lip balm. (And that's when the aliens started shooting and we used our plasma torches and all that blah but you wouldn't want to hear about the boring stuff, so I edited it out. You're welcome. Again)

When I tried to tell this story with a few 'fabricated' facts to a few friends with the intention of fooling them, I realised that it greatly vexed them to listen to it in its entirety. Almost to the point where I had to untie their hands and feet before I could finish telling the story. But I didn't.

So, anyway, you'll notice that there's a pattern here. What doesn't fool people, works towards annoying them. Perfect.

You'll also notice that this point is in line with the previous one I made.

    .
   /
  /
 /
.

(y = mx + c)

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. We were discussing the results of my analysis of different ways to fool people. Here's the list. It was getting huge so I removed a few points.

1. Tell everyone that you're pregnant

This one seems to be pretty straight-forward. Pretend to have a bulging stomach by inserting a small pillow or cushion near the tummy region. (Instead of a pillow, you could also use a dining table...for added effect.) Then blissfully give them the good news. Like so-

(The direct method)

You - "I'm pregnant!"

They - "Oh, that's wonderful!"

You might wanna consider the reason behind this being the best method. You see, people's brains are designed to process less stuff; take the obvious information and move on. Do not try to complicate things to the point that they have to pause for a brief moment and think about what you are saying. This will make them get suspicious and they'll start asking awkward questions. Like-

(The what-the-hell-did-you-just-say method)

You - "We're expecting a new member in the family!"

They - "Hey...where's the dining table?"

Expert tip - The most important thing to look out for is ensuring that you keep a straight face when saying the entire thing, so as to seem as convincing as possible. Try it in front of a mirror. And turn off the lights. It helps. Although sometimes, even this may not be enough, so be warned.

(Case in point? My attempt at the selfsame thing. I made sure I kept a straight face every time I said it, but hardly anyone seemed to believe me. I guess it must've been something to do with my voice. Or maybe the fact that I'm male.

Nahhh. Definitely the voice)

Like I said, I removed a few points as the list was getting really, really long. So...this is the end. Although there might be another incident worth sharing.

I'd gone to the post office, and it was really boring waiting in line for the rest of the customers to finish. So I decided- 'Let's do something interesting.' So, instead of taking a cab or a bus home, I decided to male mail myself home. But the problem was that I had to go in one package, whereas my underwear was made to go in another (heavy machinery or something it was called).

Now, I've reached home, but the other package hasn't. I'm guessing it had something to do with me exchanging the labels of my, uh, package with someone else's. It was a girl, for God's sake. Sheesh. In any case, I'll keep you posted on any updates in the future.

Alright, then. Am off to the super-market. Got a new couch to bye bai buy. (Hmm. I wonder where the dining table's at)

Tweetzilla

(Continued from Tales From The Yeast. First post in series- On Electricity)

Harry hit the wall so hard, it had a strange effect on his brain. He started saying illogical things that were incoherent and out of place speaking like a retard. It was not entirely obvious at first, but it didn't take long for Ron and Hermione to put two and two make a tutu.

"Are you alright?", asked Hermione, now wearing said tutu.

"Who names their phoenix Fawkes?", replied Harry.

"Erm. I guess that's a yes. Why did you run into the wall anyway?", asked Ron.

"Your mom told me to I thought he was Wall-Demort. (Teehee)", Harry tittered.

"Riiight. Well, anyway, we lost the IP that we were tracking. What do we do now?", said Ron.

"Purple?", Harry replied, half-confidently.

"I think something must've happened to him. He's acting strange. It's upto the two of us now. What do you suggest?", mumbled a frustrated Hermione.

"He's gone bonkers, really. But seriously, who does name their phoenix Fawkes?", Ron asked with a perplexed look.

"Focus!", Hermione shot out.

"Hmm. This Focus guy must be quite the retard then", Ron averred.

"Arrgh. You're of no use either. Why do -- Wait. We're in the matrix, right? And it's a perfect square (2x2). So we should be using its adjoint! Of course! What's Diagon Alley diagonally opposite to the station?", inquired Hermione, as her face suddenly lit up.

"The ice-cream parlor?", said a doubtful Ron.

"Exactly!", shrieked Hermione, switching off the light on her face, "That's what the IP was -- Ice-cream Parlor! Hurry, we must rush to it now! That's where the hacker is"

Ron, not really in the mood to question her extremely bizarre logic, wearily followed Hermione to the ice-cream place. Upon entering the place, they were greeted by the essence of some sort of a caramel-butterscotch blend. As they glanced around, they spotted him almost immediately -- huddled in the corner, packing up his laptop and finishing off the last bit of his ice cream -- the Death Eater.

"Where do you think you're going?", Ron huffed, blocking his path.

"Why should it concern you?", the man questioned, flustered.

"Aren't you the guy who just hacked into the Matrix?", Hermione said, her eyebrows a little askew.

"M-Me? No. I'm Sthar'Ur. I was j-just updating my Twitter", he stuttered, incorrectly.

"Oh, so it's your Twitter now, is it? Well then, what's your latest scoop?", said Ron, always pretty random with his puns. At the same time, he kept thinking to himself what the deal with all the weird names was.

The man reluctantly showed them his Twitter feed.
 
This is what his last tweet looked like:


...and ate it, too.

Just as Ron was about to let him go, Hermione noticed the second-last tweet in his feed:

..and while you're at it...make me a sandwitch

After much interrogation, the man revealed that he had never been contacted by Voldemort before that, and was completely surprised to see the tweet himself. Ron and Hermione then conducted a cross-reference analysis, until they stumbled upon this:



FAIL.



"So then this guy's story checks out", Ron surmised.

"Pretty much. The other thing is that Voldemort still uses the old T8 dictionary. That's why he mistyped Sugar_87 as Sthar'ur" revealed Hermione, showing Ron her T8-to-T9 converter.

Just as they started their attempt to search for Sugar_87, everything began to dissolve. The walls and the people seem to fade into a blur, and suddenly they found themselves in some sort of a lab.

"Hey, what happened?", gasped Squidward.

"Uhrhh?", is all that Spongebob managed to utter.

Their questions were answered when they finally came to, and heard a lady's crisp voice incessantly echoing -- "SIMULATION TERMINATED. SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE LAUNCHED"

"Oh, no! Patrick! What did you do? We were *this* close to catching the real hacker", Squidward said.

"Well, since I was of no use, I just started photocopying all my shoes in case somebody ever stole them", Patrick replied.

"Habakawa-what? How is that even--? Are you out of your--? Ah, forget it", Squidward gave up.

"Hmm. If he's not the one responsible for this, then wh--?"

Spongebob was interrupted by a loud crashing sound that reverberated through the lab. And then a thud. Then the ground started to tremble as well.

"Oh no! I think it's got something to do with that huge creature outside. What do we do now?', said Spongebob, panicking.

What IS that thing, you ask? Well, I suppose that would require a...

[Flashback]

"I guess the red pill seems safe", said one of the bacteria, and took it from Voldemort's proffered hand. Little did he realise that he had been tricked, and he slowly transformed into a ginormous dinosaur.

But Voldemort soon had to pay for his sins in full, as the bacteria's pseudopodia seemed to have a deleterious effect on him, and suddenly made him very frail. He could sense that he was dying.

So one of his henchmen tried to inform his family of the emergency, but he ran out of balance, and had already exceeded his quota of 100 messages for that day, so he proceeded to the nearest pre-paid shop, recharged his phone, made the call, and directly told them that Voldemort was dead.

Seizing the opportunity, Pikachu grabbed the blue pill and quickly ingested it. As his body assimilated it, he turned into one of the worst beasts ever to set foot on the planet -- Man.

While this was happening, the dinosaur (let's call him Rudy) was ravaging the city. He chanced upon the lab which our trio of heroes were in, and began to attack mindlessly.

Pikachu, on the other hand realised that the dinosaur was up to no good.  So he soon formulated some sort of advanced chemical, called the Buckyball (Buck, for short) and hurled it directly at Rudy.

This triggered some sort of a fierce reaction, that generated a HUGE amount of heat, and thus generated a lot of infrared waves. But it was so hot, that due to thermal expansion, their wavelength increased and they turned red.

And that's why the entire planet was soon rendered lifeless, and completely red. This incident kind of marred the situation a bit, and that's why the planet is now called 'Mars'.

the end

[Update: Thanks to Tejus and Mohit for their help with the plot!]

Communication (s)Kills

I recently realised that communicating your ideas to others is harder than it looks (er..allow me to rephrase that). Because it is a dying art that tends to be under-estimated I suck at it. It wasn't like some sudden big flash, though. In fact, this realization actually happened in parts. It all started with...

Sentence formation

Someone on the road randomly asked me what the 3 areas I'm most weak at, were. (Hmm..that doesn't sound right)

Someone on the road randomly asked me what were the 3 areas I'm most weak in. (No)

Someone, randomly, on the road, asked me if I could list areas of my weakness, choosing the top 3. (Dude?)

Someone on the road asked me why I was in the top 3 weaklings every week. (Really? Wtf?!)

The moment I wrote the first among those sentences, I wondered - "Did I frame that sentence correctly?". The answer was a much debatable no. As you can see, it took me many attempts to realise what I was doing wrong. Know what it is? That's right-- indirect speech. Indirect speech always makes the sentence complicated to understand, said I. (Oh, crap. That was passive voice Passive voice, that was) But anyway, you got the point I was making, right?

Consider its direct counter-part, direct speech (Omg a pun). I'd suggest always preferring this. It's much simpler to comprehend. Consider the same sentence in direct speech--

Someone on the road: "Wazza?"
(Direct speech pwns indirect speech)

Much better. As I sauntered across the streets all puffed up by my new found secret to idea conveying-ness, something happened. Something I wasn't prepared for. Something that made me so conscious of what I said, that I lost control over my...

Brain-to-mouth Filter

Often, you'll find yourself in a situation wherein you need to weigh your words before letting them out. In other words, you need to make wise use of your so called brain-mouth filter. Consider incidents wherein what you were about to say and what you actually said were completely different things, and eventually ended up landing you into trouble. More often than not, what happens is that while you're considering what to say, the listener has nothing to do but to stare at your blank face. And he/she perceives you to some sort of an advanced species of moron. Case in point?

Exhibit A:

(Friend on the street, surprised to see me approaching college from the side opposite the usual one)
"Hi! How come this side?"

(Me)
"Well, actually I was late and was running so fast that I overshot the main gate, and by the time I could slow down, I had already travelled an extra 200 meters, and now I'm going back" (No, dude, say something more feasible. Anything. Atleast she won't think you're some weirdo)

"Um. Just buying some..stuff.." (No. Too vague. Be a little more precise)

"0.6"

(Friend)
"Oh, ok then... (Weirdo)"

So I decided to just go with the flow. Apparently, Unrestrained talk + Negative IQ = Bad combination. Who knew? In short, I realised that sometimes, the opposite happens. You need to be able to back up whatever rubbish you utter, just in case. Coz some people can give you a run for your money. I present to you:

Exhibit B:

(Bro)
"Hey! That neon lamp is so cool"

(Me)
"Yeah. It actually works on a super-collider nano particle technology. They use the negative free energy of plasma-neurotic electrons to achieve nearly five times the amplification of light intensity"

(Bro)
"But then it would consume about 1000 watts of power, right? Considering the bipolar nature of the mid-west region..."

At this juncture, it is wise to just shut up, as the listener has clearly shown that he can match you in intellectual bullshit. But, nooo. You have to try to go one up and dig your own grave, don't you?

(Me, ideally)
"Yeah, I thought you wouldn't realise"

(Me, actually)
"No, dude. It actually uses the quasi-inter-stellar rays from dwarf stars and black holes. So in the alternate dimension, it would consume only about 0.3 kilo joules per nano second"

(Bro)
"But that's actually more, right?"

(Me)
"Er.."

This was too much. So I resigned myself to failure. (Does that even make sense?) Anyways, I quickly realised that what I was doing wrong was choosing the wrong medium for communication. Face-to-face? Not for me. Text-based? Now, there's a thought.

Enter, Text messaging.
[Text messaging enters]

Text message - m here..ssup! hwz thngz n al (w8..iz dis my lyn?)
Me - Dude, I can't understand you at all.

Txt - its k..cuz ul gt used 2 it..
Me - Eh? I don't want to learn a new language. And how am I supposed to know if 'bt' means bat, bet, bit, bot or but?

Txt - z..u wnt t old englsh lang? thr s sme thng cald dxnry..
Me - There is? Oh this is pretty cool. It can even predict what I want to say! Neat!

Text - Does this dress make me look fat?
[Curtain falls]

So, apparently, some guy was nice enough to solve two problems at once -- illegible text and poor speed. Nifty, I thought. But this joy was also short lived, as I soon came to know about the perils of using the predictive text mode. Or, what I like to call...

T-Pain


T-Pain, short for T9 Pain, is what you get when you grow accustomed to the T9 mode, and slowly realise its many quirks. There's a reason it's called Predictive Text, and not Text Prediction. It only works about forty percent of the time. The other sixty could either annoy you to death, or send the reader into coma, or both, depending on who reads the message first. Although most of the time the message is garbled rubbish, some words could alter the meaning drastically.

(Original)
There's nothing more I want. I have you...

(T9 version)
There's noughog nope I want. I hate you...

The news will tell you that most breakups happen via text messages. What the news won't tell you is why. Now you know. But that was just a tame example. Sometimes, even the phrase 'unforeseen consequences' seems to merely pale in comparison.

(Original)
Hey..what's up? :)

(T9 version)
*Censored*

See? Told ya. So what next? Logically, I thought that I ought to take advantage of the medium a little. Think. Proof-read. Don't jump the gun, look before you leap types. So I plan, cross-discuss, weigh the pros against the cons, and only then send a message. That was until the day of..

The Delayed Compliment

[At 11 am]
(To self)
Hey, she's wearing a nice top. Maybe I should let her know. Girls like compliments. Er..it might be pretty awkward though. Ok, let's chuck the idea.

[At 3 pm]
Maybe I should tell her. What's the worst thing that could happen? Hmm..then again, even if I don't, what's the worst thing that could happen? Atleast I can avoid an awkward moment. Best to steer clear.

[At 9 pm]
Oh, what the heck. I'll just text her.

[Message delivered at 1 am]
hey...nice top :) :)

[Reply at 1:01]
er..i'm not wearing one (Weirdo)

Just great. Now I had a few seconds to think of a good recovery line. Anything to ameliorate the situation. But I really suck at those. All my previous attempts have been sorely disastrous. And that's an understatement. That's when I stumbled upon..

The Funny Joke

Yes, not just any joke. A funny joke. The explicit use of the adjective emphasizes that you can't just say anything and pass it off as a wisecrack. Free messages have spawned millions of horrid 'forwards'. Ranging from lame to downright annoying. Some of them come with much fanfare, but always have a standard closing section. A typical 'joke' would read like this:

JoKe Of ThE YeAr!! (Opening section)
.         (Formatting)
.
.
.
Man before interview : "May I come in, sir?"          (The "joke")

Interviewer : "Wait, plz"

Man : "75 kg, sir!"
.
.
.
.                (More formatting, so that it looks like the best part is yet to come)
Gud nit! :P                 (Standard conclusion)

So with everyone's head muddled by things like that, it's really hard to come up with a genuinely good joke. And if you're under pressure? Well, God save you. But here's a helpful hint - Do NOT try to get inspired by them. EVER. The best you could probably come up with would be something like:

[Reply at 1:03]

lolz j/k
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me 2..v shd ttly hng out 2gthr..w8..nt hng out as in hng out 2 dry..cuz thts whr i hng my clths..cz m nt wearng thm ryt nw..i bt u do tht 2..dnt u?
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ps-w8 as in wait..nt weight..coz tht wud b 75..nd ttly lyk nt mk ny snse..ryt? lol
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gud n8 :P

(Holy %@#&)

I'd say that there is simply no good way to communicate, more or less. (Hmm..that doesn't sound right)

There's probably no good way to communicate, I'd guess. (No)

I'd surmise, more or less, that an effective way of communication is unfounded, as of the present scenario. (Dude?)

I'm surprised that more is effectively less, for I have found in many a contemplation -D' Adairo. (Really? Wtf?!)

I rest my case.

Tales From The Yeast

(Continued from Genesis. First post in series- On Electricity)

As Ovi and Mushy slowly got accustomed to life underwater, they decided that it was time to start a family. They soon had a baby boy, and they named him Pikachu (don't ask). They had other kids, too, who were named Spongebob, Patrick and Squidward (their life was soon made into a TV show). But Pikachu was the most mischievous of the lot. Like the other day, when he put the bathtub in the freezer, making a gigantic ice-cube, and then sliced off a huge chunk using his brother's hacksaw blade, shaped it using a lathe machine, and released it to the surface, where a ship accidentally hit the 'iceberg' and then sank to the bottom. (It's called the Titanic or something, I'll look it up later)

In those days, people were highly superstitious. As the Dark Ages began, people thought that it was some Black Magic, and began to get scared. But one wise man soon told them that it was just another major oil spill by the good folks over at BP. In any case, the conditions had become inhabitable (not to mention Pikachu was still randomly electrocuting people in the water once in a while 'by mistake') So Ovi and Mushy made a decision to travel East, chiefly because they'd heard of the rich cultural heritage of that region.

As they swam to the surface, they saw an old witch sitting with a few occult paraphernalia. Before their eyes could adjust to the sun, the witch spoke shrilly.

"I know why you have come here. And I also know the solution to your problem. I have with me two pills, (now also available as vials) of different potions. Take the blue pill, and you will feel anew, entering into a world like never before. Take the red pill, and your old world will be restored, like nothing happened. The choice is yours."

As they were pondering upon which form of medication to take, one of them had a genuine doubt.

"That's okay, but who are you?", he inquired sincerely.

"Me? I am Lord Voldemort", he thundered. And lightninged.

Which witch which was weird for 2 reasons.

Firstly, if Voldemort was a witch, then she should have been Queen Voldemort or something. But if he was Lord Voldemort, then he should have been a wizard. But even if he were one, he wouldn't be very good at it. And why is that, you ask? That's simply because (and this is the second point) --

Voldemort was a moron.

Yes, there are many reason as to why he turned evil, but he was still a moronic Dark Lord (there, I inadvertently put rest to his doubtful gender). Well, to begin with, his childhood was riddled with negativity. He used to fail miserably at pretty much everything he did. Especially spelling. Heck, he couldn't even spell his own name right. (see also - Tom Marvolo Riddle)

Then he saw all these people around him performing miraculous spells, and he really wanted to try it too. So on his eleventh birthday, his mother got him the gift he'd always dreamed of -- P. C. Sorcar's 101 Magic Tricks (Now with 3 new tricks!)

He practised religiously for months, and finally mustered enough courage to perform his first magic show in public. His first trick was the classic (he himself tried to do it) 'pull the rabbit out of the hat' trick. He took out his hat, wand at the ready, and nervously uttered the magic words --

[baby voice] "Abba-kadabby"
Nothing happened. So he tried again.

"Abbra-kabaddi"
The rabbit, still inside the hat, took it as an insult and refused to come out.

"Aadha-kadabra"
By now the rabbit was really annoyed. He came out, slapped him, and went back in. (Or maybe he used "Doofus Slap-acus". I'm really not too sure)

"Avada-kedavra"
This was too much for the rabbit, who committed suicide.

But everyone thought that the magic trick was intended to kill the rabbit, so they were under the impression that Voldemort had just invented the Killing Curse. Eventually he became so famous for it, that people urged him to take part in the annual May-Tricks event. On the day he decided to give in, his life took an abrupt turn. For, on that very day, the administrators of the event discovered something shocking.

[Somewhere in the 2x2 Matrix]

"Someone has hacked into the Matrix!", Ron exclaimed.

"I know! Mutating algorithms, Brute force, Chanel-5 force, nothing seems to be working. I think he has used some advanced sorting technique", Hermione shuddered.

"I really dunno what we can do. We need someone to help us. But who?", Harry wondered.

Just as he finished his sentence, Fox the faux Fawkes (who was actually a phoenix) swooped in (sporting coolers and a bandana) and dropped a ragged black object.

"The Sorting Hat! The only known sorting algorithm in O(1)!", Hermione screamed in joy, using the Hat to sort out the mess. "Now all we have to do is crack the password. It seems to have been encrypted with RSA or something." But that didn't prove to be much of a hurdle as she successfully managed to unlock it using ALoHoMoRa v1.3.

They tried to track the IP of the intruder, and soon traced it back to a laptop somewhere in the London station.

"He is planning to leave the city by train. We have to catch him before he escapes!", moaned a concerned Hermione.

"But there are 39 platforms, and only 4 of us. How can we possibly find him by ourselves?", Ron asked, puzzled.

"That's ok. We'll split up. Each of you take one-fourth of the platforms and begin searching", said Harry, in a decisive tone.

So each one was allotted 39/4 platforms. Or 9 and 3/4 in mixed fraction form. Harry saw that there was a wall in the middle of platforms 9 and 10. So he began sprinting towards it. As he approached the wall at high speed, instead of smashing directly into it, something magical happened--

He smashed directly into it.

He fell down, still reeling from the sharp pain in his head. He felt his forehead and sensed that it had started bleeding. So he started crying copiously at his boo-boo. At the same time, Fox the faux Fawkes (who was actually a phoenix) swooped in and started crying too, the tears falling on Harry's cut. And the wound started healing due to its healing powers. But because he was a fake phoenix, the wound didn't heal properly, and left a lightning-shaped scar.

While this scene was unfolding, somewhere in a remote ice-cream parlour, there was a hooded figure eating a Death By Chocolate. What was this Death-Eater plotting? What could Harry and the others do now? Stay tuned, as the saga continues...

[Actually, I'm all out of ideas and have no clue on how to take this story further. Please post your ideas (no matter how wacky or crazy) and I will try to incorporate all of them and carry this forward along those lines (AND give you due credit, too. Yay!)]

(Oh, and a big thank you to Tejus and Kanan, whose blogs have given me a ton of inspiration for my posts. Do check their's out as well, they're both better than mine :O)

Update: Click here to read the next post!

Christie

There I was, standing in the middle of the road, when it hit me. The bike, that is. The next few seconds were a blur. Although I vaguely remember watching a pale blue object as it flew across the sky in a graceful arc, landing with a dull thud on the freshly paved street. Oh, and the bike lay sprawled on the sidewalk about fifty feet from where the aforementioned girl-in-blue fell.

I had been knocked off my footing, and was lying with my face splat on the ground. Through the corner of my eye I could see her make an unsuccessful attempt to scramble herself onto her feet. I made an earnest effort to get up as well, but it was much too tedious for my aching limbs, and I collapsed to the ground almost instantly.

It was surprising to note that none of the onlookers even bothered to help. But I soon managed to ascribe the elementary lack of a Good Samaritan spirit to the fact that there wasn’t a single soul around, save for an old man in poor clothing. Technically, though, he couldn’t really be called an onlooker. Why? Well, I suppose that it’d help if I retraced my steps first.

...

It all started this morning. The moment I woke up to the mellifluous twittering of the birds, and the warmth of the sun’s rays gently caressing my face, I knew that something would go terribly wrong. Clairvoyance. ESP, if you will. I got dressed and left for the mall, an outing that was brought about following a chance encounter with an old friend the previous week. As I proceeded to hail a cab, I felt a strange tingling sensation in my ribs. Moments later, all the cabs seem to be plying from top to bottom, a very queer phenomenon. That’s when my IQ-riddled brain helped me sense that I had fallen to the ground.

I dusted myself off, and noticed that I was not the sole observer of the vertical taxi syndrome. A petite lass lay motionless on the floor, wondering what forces of nature could have conspired to cause such a mystical occurrence. Evidently, she happened to bump into me. As I leaned over to help her up, the glint of her hazel eyes told me that something greatly distressed her.

“Are you alright?”, I asked.

“Oh it’s nothing, really. This kind of thing happens to me all the time”, she giggled.

“Haha, ok. I thought you seemed pretty upset. Anything I can help you with?”

“Well now that you mention it, I do have to pick up my dad’s body from the hospital. And I could really use a helping hand. Would you come with me? Pretty please?”

At first, I found it fairly strange that a girl whose father had passed away could remain so calm about it. At the same time, I really didn’t want another errand on my hands. Plus, I was already getting late for the mall. But it would be grossly immoral of me to desert her in her exigency. Which meant that I really couldn’t say ‘no’ either. So I did what I felt would be best, even though I knew I was going to regret it. I lied. Through my teeth.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. I really wouldn’t mind accompanying you. In fact, I was on my way to the hospital myself. I have this fever, you see--”

“You have a beaver?! That’s so cute!”

“No, actually I said that I have a fever--”

“It’s ok, you can show me your beaver later. First, we have to go the hospital”

And she yanked me along before I could explain myself. On our hasty way towards the hospital, I nearly got run over by a truck. Thrice. Once we got inside, she feverishly heckled one of the nurses. The poor nurse seemed to be more than eager to divulge information about the location of the morgue at the prospect of being free from her clutches. And we stormed off towards the morgue.

Sitting by the entrance to the room was an old man, probably in his sixties, in patchy threads and sporting a pair of shades. We inquired about the body.

“Er, I’m looking for the body of Mr. Carl Evans”, said the girl. Her name was Christie, as I’d learnt en route. “Can you help us?”

“Only if you help me, too” he demanded.

“What do you mean?”, I interjected.

“I mean to say that, in return, it would be really nice if you could help me get back home. It’s just a couple of blocks away, right across the street. You see, a blind man can only travel so far by himself”

“If that’s the case, then how, pray, would you be able to help us?”, I asked, skeptically.

“Well, I have the keys to the register. Nicked ‘em”, he said, brandishing his teeth whilst clutching the key-ring.

“Seems fair”, I thought aloud, grabbing the keys from his hand, and unlocking the desk right beside him. I rummaged through the papers, and soon realized that it was a bunch of worthless junk. “You tricked us! There is no name-register in here”, I grumbled.

“Oh, I see”, he said, which I, for one, found pretty annoying – given that he couldn’t see. “Maybe they moved it someplace else. Did you try the patient-display system? I hear they’ve installed it on almost all corridors”

And sure enough, there was a large colour screen gleaming right in front of us. I face-palmed myself and searched the database. “Cool, they’ve even arranged it in an alphabetical order. What was your dad’s name again?”

“Carl. Carl Evans”, she replied.

“Oh, I ‘C’” the old man grinned. I clenched my teeth in exasperation, and then proceeded to skim through the names of people beginning with a C.

“303-A”, I announced. And we skipped over to the allotted cabinet. I held my breath and slid out the cold body, still in its bag, and Christie helped me lug it outside.

“I’m sorry, but how did he die?”, I asked.

“I dunno. Probably drunk-drove off into the lake or something”

“Oh, I sea”, the old man smirked. I stopped short at the point of giving him a fistful, flush in the groins.

As we heaved the body out, some sort of sensor on the door beeped. And alarms started ringing all over. None of us had expected this. I had to think quickly, and we decided to make a run for it. As we turned round the corner, we crashed into a stretcher trolley, and careened off towards the ledge, and into the glass pane.

Now picture a scene from an action movie, wherein an old man and a young girl are saved by a suave hero with an understated air of calm, and the trio come crashing down from the second floor of a hospital, stacked on a bed-on-wheels, miraculously landing with fullest poise neatly in the midst of a dozen awestruck bystanders on the road.

And that’s exactly what didn’t happen. Numerous shards of glass hurtled downwards, shimmering in the light and tinkling onto the ground. Amidst the chaos that ensued, Christie and I were tossed into an alley, as the body bag bounced and came to a halt nearby, while the bed veered off into the distance, carrying the old man with it.

As I tried to recover from the shock, Christie received a text message that seemed to greatly relieve her.

“It’s my mom. She asked whether I’ve picked up my dad’s toddy from the Lofty Skull yet. I guess I probably didn’t hear her right. Can you believe that?”, she tittered, pleasantly amused. “But thanks for your help anyways. Bye!” And she tottered off happily, leaving me still gaping in bewilderment.

I began to trudge slowly, reflecting on the day’s surreal occurrences, when my eyes suddenly caught a glimpse of the bed from the hospital, toppled over sideways, and the old man trying to cross the road without much luck. Too shocked to speak, I helped him without uttering a word. And it was in the middle of this road that the bike smashed into me.

…

And that’s why he couldn’t technically be called an onlooker. Because he couldn’t look! Come to think of it, I have no idea how he managed to dodge the accident and escape unscathed anyway. I looked up to the spot where I last saw him. He was gone. When I came to, I hobbled over to help the girl, visibly in pain, get back up. As she turned over, I was taken aback to see her face. It was Christie.

“Oh, hi. Are you alright? Look I’m really, really sorry--”, I stammered.

“Lorry? No, silly. I came in a bike. That one, over there, see?”, she said, quizzically, pointing to where the mangled remains of her bike lay.

“Umm. Ok. I really wish I could do something to make up for what I’ve done. At the very least, allow me pay for your medical expenses—“

“You noticed my lenses? Cool! Don’t they make me look pretty?”, she asked, gazing at me intently.

“Yes, you really do have pretty eyes”, I fumbled, digging into my pockets to take out my wallet. But I was unable to find it. After conducting a second thorough examination, I managed to pull out a crumpled up piece of paper from one of them. As I turned it over, I saw that it had three words hastily scrawled upon it. I was equally amused and appalled as I read what they said – Optical Implants Corporation. Or, acronymically --

O.I.C.