What I Really Want

I get the best of you

Your dazzling smile

Your warm eyes

The gentle brush of your fingers on my skin

The glow of your passion

The height of your desire

The depths of your lust

A nest in your arms

A rest in your dreams.

 

And yet,

What I really want is

Your uncombed unkempt hair

Your grumpy morning annoyance

The flash of anger at my carelessness

The sharp words aimed to wound my heart

What I really want is to be

A real part of your real life

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Posted in poem, Uncategorized

The Glasses Are Not Pink – They’re Red

pink shades

“When you want something, all the Universe conspires in helping you achieve it”

This sort of statement can only be made by an incurable romantic or an unscrupulous asshole who wants to sell his book by appealing to the inherent romantic nature of most people. The blatant stupidity of this statement is so obvious that it would be almost specious of me to attempt to refute it. So let just an example suffice. Let us suppose that both me and you are in love with the same deliciously voluptuous woman and desire to marry her with the exact same ardour and intensity. What the hell is the universe supposed to do now? Do all the forces of the universe sit at a round table and weigh the intensity of your desire against the intensity of mine on a cosmic balance? And then after lengthy and serious deliberations, presumably the chairman of the forces speaks in a deep sepulchral tone of quiet, sombre dignity:

“Now that measurements have shown Doctoratlarge’s desire for the voluptuous lady to exceed his reader’s desire for the same voluptuous lady by a value equal to the weight of 2 electrons plus a Higgs-Boson particle, it has been determined by this Grand Council of the Universe that Doctoratlarge will be allowed to have sexual intercourse for life with the above mentioned voluptuous lady. Mr Cupid is hereby directed to fly post haste to the abode of the voluptuous human female and strike her with his arrow that will evoke desire in her bosom for Doctoratlarge” *Clang of hammer* followed by “All Rise!”

Ridiculous, isn’t it? And yet, apparently a lot of addle-headed people actually do believe in this sort of arrant nonsense, which explains why the author of the unbelievably stupid quote mentioned at the beginning of this article is a bestselling author. In fact, most people in this world are romantics at heart. They believe that the Universe is essentially a benign, rosy, Eden of justice, where each of your actions are carefully scrutinized and evaluated and subsequently either rewarded or punished depending on where they lie on the scale starting from infinite goodness and extending to infinite evil. They believe that there’s something called Fate or Destiny that watches over them, takes care of them, and essentially wishes nothing but eventual good for them. All this of course, as a moment’s reflection will show, is total rubbish.

Of course the Universe is governed by laws. But they are not laws of justice. They are impersonal, implacable laws like Gravity, Thermodynamics, Relativity and other shit that is found in Physics and Chemistry. And I’m perfectly sure that none of these laws is remotely interested in our desire to copulate with the abovementioned voluptuous woman.

But I see that I still haven’t convinced you. This is because you believe in someone called God. The God who supposedly created this Universe and its laws, made the conditions that made life on Earth possible, and who wants us all to be good, sweet, kind, creative and loving human beings. You believe that this God wants justice to reign in the Universe, to ensure that goodness, industry and talent are rewarded while evil, slack and cunning are punished. This God stands like the final wall of defence protecting the pink bubble of your romanticism in which you dreamily float through existence.

Well I won’t burst your bubble, but help you burst it yourself. I ask you to perform this little mental gymnastic: namely, to suspend your belief for a brief moment. Come on, indulge me. After all, it’s much easier to believe that there is no omnipresent, omnipotent invisible entity called God than to believe that blind people can be cured by the miracle of prayer or that the Red Sea was parted to allow Moses and his party to pass.

So there is no God, okay. It follows that the Universe was created in some sort of a natural process which can be discovered by scientists if they put their minds to it sufficiently hard and sufficiently long. Was it the Big Bang or any other process – it doesn’t matter for the purposes of our present discussion. It also follows that life originated on earth through some sort of potentially discoverable biochemical reaction. Once life came into being, then it evolved slowly, over billions of years, and the only rule of evolution was – not poetic justice – survival of the fittest. Species competed with each other and among themselves for scarce resources. The winners won not because God or Fate or Destiny was on their side, but because they were stronger or longer or faster or more cunning – or merely more lucky. Thus the male of the species “Genusosus winneris” was able to copulate with the voluptuous female of its species and pass on its genes to its offspring, while the males and females of the species “Genusosus loseris ” died out. Simple. No God, no Fate, no Destiny. Just Natural Selection.

Life is governed by the rules of Physics, Chemistry and Biology (and of course your wife). It is like a Salman Khan movie – without any script. No higher force watches over you or takes care of you. There is no inherent justice in the world, poetic or otherwise. All the events in your life are either random or brought about by either the conscious planning of your mind or the subconscious undercurrents of it.

Goodness seldom triumphs in the world. Cruel, cunning assholes like Genghis Khan, Alexander and Stalin rule it. Good people like Gandhi are revered as saints or Gods while they are useful to the Nehrus of the world – thereafter only their statues survive as empty shells of their heritage while their souls are discarded into the dustbin of history. There is nothing good or bad about this process – it’s just the way of the world.

Movies and novels make us believe in romance and destiny – that an innate sense of justice is woven into the fabric of the universe. Authors of motivational books also reinforce this belief. Because they all want a piece of your money. They are selling you a psychological crutch to help you wobble your way through the senselessness and brutality of life, a sort of magical trick that conjures up a bubble of apparent security around you. They fool you, and they succeed because you are willing to be fooled.

We make friends because we’re lonely, and because they share our insecurities. Men love women because they find them sexually desirable. Women love men who give them a sense of security and stability, or provide them with a sense of adventure or excitement. Women are curious creatures who want the security of stability and simultaneously crave the thrill and excitement of unpredictability. What we call love is a curious and heady mixture of desire, attraction, longing, loneliness, jealousy, possessiveness, manipulation with more than just a tinge of bitter hatred. There are no soulmates, because there is no soul.

The Universe is not a benign, loving place which exists to help you find your desires. It’s an impersonal grand theatre that gives you a stage on which you can prance and caper for a while, until it’s time to give way to other actors like you. There is no script in this play. Nobody directs it, except you and your fellow actors. And it’s a brutal, bloody, senseless, meaningless play.

So dear romantics, the glasses with which you see the world aren’t actually pink – they are actually red with the splattered gore of the bloody passage of History. You just believe that they are pink

 

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Posted in Philosophy, Satire

A Manual Of Intellectuals

A ruminating intellectual

A ruminating intellectual

I have always been fascinated by intellectuals. Just like I’ve always been fascinated by vultures, hyenas, skunks and snakes. Protected by the obscurity of my own complete ordinariness, I have been able to study these creatures in their natural habitats over several years – till I have acquired an expertise in them that few fellow men can boast of. So here is a concise guidebook on the different types of intellectuals in existence, along with their distinguishing characteristics.

The Left Liberals/Secular Humanists

Strictly speaking, The Left Liberals and The Secular Humanists are 2 different categories, but – just like asses and mules – they have sufficient similarities to allow themselves to be herded into one group for the sake of descriptive convenience.

In many ways, these are the most fascinating of intellectuals. In the previous century, they roamed the earth with unshampooed, uncut hair, unshaven cheeks (both the male and the female), unwashed rumpled clothes and a frayed cloth satchel slung over their narrow shoulders. Those days they talked earnestly about such delightful things as armed revolt against democratically elected governments, converting national highways into crimson rivers with the blood of massacred bourgeois capitalists, and reminisced fondly of the charming tortures and mass murders by the great humanitarian hero Stalin.

By the turn of the century, however, this species had undergone a remarkable physical transformation. They now have bizarre $500 haircuts, reek of delightful Eau de Cologne, wear clothes tailored by the greatest Italian & French designers, and the frayed cloth satchels have been replaced by smart, elegant Apple Mac Book Pro laptop bags. But I’m happy to report the basic ideology of the species remains the same, which is that: Anyone Who Has More Money Than Us Is Evil. These creatures hate to do work for the sake of earning money. Instead they work only for poor people, through NGOs. These NGOs are of course funded by money obtained from the same venal, corrupt, blood-sucking, filthy-rich, capitalist businessmen that they despise. But they take good care to express the deepest contempt for these capitalists in trenchant, maudlin articles in newspapers and magazines.

Please note, that the aim of these altruists is not to eradicate poverty. In fact, they stringently oppose any govt policy that is aimed at making the poor self-sufficient. Instead, they lobby incessantly for subsidies to the poor – so that the poor man can be barely fed and clothed, and retain his innocence, without ever being exposed to the evils of excessive money. So committed are these philanthropists that they work excessively hard by periodically flying business class to various exotic locations in the world – braving such immense perils as delayed flights, overweight airhostesses and jet lag – to ruminate on the various strategies to maintain the poor in their virtuous poverty, only allowing themselves the Spartan comforts of French wines, 7 star hotel stays and Cuban cigars.

Another distinguishing characteristic of the members of this species is that they don’t believe in God, but are very vociferous in supporting the human rights of terrorists who kill people in the name of God. That’s because, the terrorists mostly kill common middle class citizens who spend their lives uselessly in the selfish pursuit of money to feed, clothe and educate their families, and hence deserve to die anyway.

The Right Wingers

Contrary to what the name suggests, these people are not football players. They actually despise football. But they love cricket, because according to them, cricket is a more Indian game. (Intellectually less gifted creatures like you and me might fail to see how cricket is more Indian when both the games have been invented by Englishmen – but hey, such mental calisthenics are only meant for intellectuals)

The Right Wingers believe in such lofty ideals as culture, tradition and values. Their motto is: Anything which is old is good, while anything which is modern or progressive is bad. Thus they believe that marriage between strangers is good while marriage between people who have come to understand and love each other is bad; that peeing on the roadside is good while kissing in public is bad; that empirical, traditional medicine is good while scientific, evidence-based medicine is bad; that women in saris are devis while women in skirts are devils. They also KNOW that ancient Indians invented anything that was worthwhile: from computers, to fighter planes, to robots, to vibrating dildos.

Their offices and homes are adorned by prominently displayed color reproductions of portraits of Swami Vivekananda and Pandit Madan Mohan Malviya. With tilaks decorating their foreheads, they talk passionately about promoting Sanskrit and denounce English which they declare is the chief cause of the moral degeneration of society. However, if you’re able to adroitly manipulate them into leaving the room for a while (ask them to show you the complete collection of Baba Ramdev’s AIDS curing yoga CDs for instance), and rifle through their desk drawers, you’ll often find a copy of Rapidex English Speaking Course, along with a collection of novels by the greatest English writer of the modern era, Sri Chetan Bhagat (Sri Chetan Bhagat is also the most illustrious intellectual of all times. He has severe contempt for people who speak good English, and believes that the best humans should have English only good enough to understand his novels – another mental calisthenic which ordinary people like you and me, gentle reader, should not dare to attempt).

Another fascinating characteristic of these intellectuals is that they have ferocious contempt for western people, their culture and their values – while being simultaneously extremely proud of the fact that their sons/ daughters are now well-settled in the US. Presumably, their noble children undergo this horrendous sacrifice not to earn dollars, but for the opportunity of being able to convert those dissolute, morally bankrupt Caucasians into our own shining culture and values

The Rai Bahadurs

This is the most exquisite and exclusive breed of intellectuals found in India. A person can belong to this exalted group if and only if he is in possession of the 3Fs:

  • Foreign bank account (preferably Swiss)
  • Foreign Educational Degree
  • Foreign English accent

Other than the excessive exclusivity of these criteria, these creatures are pretty open-minded. They do not have any particular ideals, principles or morals. Their great philosophy is that the truth is that which is currently fashionable. When the prevailing ideology was socialist, they used to be ardent socialists. Now that the prevailing ideology is capitalists, they enthusiastically advocate free markets and entrepreneurship.

(NB: Males of this species have the largest female fan following, because as every expert agrees – an elegantly attired man alighting from an Audi A7 is the most intellectual of humans)

The Feminists

These are women who after intense self-scrutiny, finally are forced to the inescapable conclusion that they have absolutely no talent or ability whatsoever to be called intellectuals. Far from being dismayed by this discovery, they boldly take a piece of paper, write on it in capital letters: FEMINIST, and paste it on their foreheads. And lo and behold: this act of elegant simplicity transmutes them instantly into the greatest of intellectuals, making them instant experts in every subject ever invented by mankind (oops! Humankind). Any man who disagrees with them even on such an obscure subject as the behavior of subatomic particles in a hailstorm becomes a misogynist, chauvinistic pig, capable of the most despicable and heinous sexual depravities.

Their feeling of sisterhood with the suffering women of the world is so strong that they campaign vociferously to obtain special privileges for themselves, despite never having suffered any discrimination by a misogynistic society themselves. Because, quite reasonably, their empathy with the actual victims of misogyny is such that their pain is the same as those suffering women, and hence entitles them to all the privileges like job reservations, cutting to the front of ticket queues, seats on metros, reservations to parliament, and outrage on social media platforms.

There are male feminists too, but their function is to merely acquiesce to everything that the female of the species say and to growl at and bite any man who dares to oppose the females. They are mastiffs in shining armor.

Female and male feminist intellectuals

Female and male feminist intellectuals

The Judges

This species has a very simple and devastatingly effective modus operandi: Everyone apart from themselves – police, lawyers, doctors, politicians, businessmen, teachers and the entire system – is degenerate, immoral and corrupt. By adopting this simple strategy, they are themselves magically transformed (just like in the case of the feminists) into supremely erudite paragons of virtue. For instance, a certain uneducated actor has, by using this same technique, become so wise and erudite that he now knows more about the treatment of human diseases than professors and doctors who have spent decades researching and writing text-books on these diseases. Similarly, a certain social activist and politician, has by the simple process of declaring everyone else corrupt, transmogrified into the modern Mahatma Gandhi and is currently working on how to save the people of the country by destroying the country’s institutions

NB: Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely imaginary and mischievous

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Posted in Satire

Just Past The Noon

The Sun is still yellow, kinda bright too,

Though the paint is now flaky and dim;

A rather ruminating, rambunctious, braggart,

His shadow longer than the real him.

 

The dew of promise that he sucked,

The vapours he eagerly drew from the sea,

Some clouds they formed, but his own blaze,

Will parch them soon – too foolish to see.

 

And soon – though he won’t think of it,

And say: “It’s still just past the noon” –

It will be time for the final plunge,

Though perhaps recalled by the beautiful Moon

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Posted in poem

The Moments That Lost Nothing

children flying kites

Those poor moments rich in nothing,

Like beggars with their heads unthatched,

The sun laughing on their bare heads,

The breeze brushing their sooty cheeks,

Palms crossed not by fate, but sharp kite strings.

Foolish, stupid, wasteful, purposeless moments,

Valuing nothing, wallowing in nothing

 

Thankfully, these beggars beget kings:

Moments rich, packed with opulent bits

of experience, adages, morals, wisdom;

Safe, solid, learned, brooding moments;

Hunched over books, screens, tablets;

Untouched by the catarrhal wind,

Unbrushed by the stroking sun,

Packed like a refugee train from life,

Rich in all, except nothing

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Posted in poem

Ugly Fans of The Beautiful Game

man u t shirt

First of all, let me start by a simple acknowledgment – football is a great and beautiful game. Only a fool or someone who hasn’t seen that Maradona goal against England in the 1986 world Cup will disagree with this statement. Secondly, I enjoy watching football. I even played football, both in school as well as in college. Not as well as I’d have liked (or my captains would’ve liked either), I admit – but I had passion enough for the game to bunk classes and be caned by the school principal for such truancy on more than one occasion. Our gang spent numerous sleepless nights cheering for the exploits of Romario and Bebeto in medical college hostel. And I took a leave from my hospital to watch both the 1998 and the 2002 world cup finals.

The point of this rather pointless introduction is – I like football. I’m not mad or crazy about it – if you give me a choice between getting laid with Katrina Kaif or watching the FIFA world cup final live, the boys from Brazil would simply have to win it without my encouraging presence in the stands. But I like the game – playing and watching.

Now among the youth of India on Facebook and Twitter, there are a sizable number of people who say that they’re crazy about football. They claim that they go to sleep in a Messi jersey, and the girls claim that during their orgasms, instead of the ubiquitous “Oh God, Oh my fucking God!”, they scream “Oh my Ronaldo!” or “Oh my Nani!” Even while discharging their excretory functions, they practice balancing a football on their head. Such is their devotion to the beautiful game – or so they claim. I however believe that the overwhelming majority of these devotees are what we know as ‘Fake football fans’.

A large number of these people happen to be Manchester United fans. Whenever they watch Man U play, they make sure that the world knows through tweets and Facebook updates. The tweets are not what you’d call particularly witty. Sample a few:

GOAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!

FUCK YOU REF! THAT WAS A PENALTY YOU CHUT!

PASS YOU IDIOT!!! PASS

FUCK YOUR MOM LINESMAN! THAT WAS CLEARLY AN OFFSIDE!

As you can see, the tweets are in all caps. You can also find these young men and women in bars in all the major metros of the country, keeping up an uproarious ruckus in front of a TV in a place where most normal men come for a few quiet moments of romance with alcohol.

Some of them are a little smarter than the rest, in that they actually know how to Google. So instead of being foolish enough to spoil their night, they Google the result of the game the next morning and put up the result as a status update on Facebook. Something like: ‘Yayyy!! The reds won 3 goals to nil!! Up yours Chelsea fans!’ They seem to believe that unless they proclaim this fact, the rest of humanity will be deprived of this stupendously important piece of information.

I humbly request these MU, or Man U, or Man Utd (or whatever the fuck do they consider it cool to call their club) fans to go to any of the maps easily available on a search engine called Google. They’re very easy to access – so easy, that even Rahul Gandhi has been known to access them. There they’ll find – to their immense chagrin I believe – that Manchester United FC is based in Old Trafford, which is an area of Stretford, in the Trafford Borough of Greater Manchester, England. That’s right. It is not a part of India. In fact, it never was. Not once. IT’S IN ENGLAND!!

Now pause for a moment and exert your grey cells, my dear fanatic fans. Is there really a point in being so devoted to a football club that is based in England? Can there be any earthly reason for being so emotionally attached to a foreign club? Yes, yes, I understand that the lads have played well on many occasions. In fact, they’ve been a great team. And they often have had some world class players. So go ahead, and admire their game. But such emotional upheavals that you pretend to experience with the rise and fall of the team’s fortune are, I’m sorry to say, completely artificial and contrived. Freud might have been able to give an explanation for your illogical behavior – maybe something like being stuck at the anal stage of psychosexual development, or some such highbrow stuff. I won’t even attempt.

The point is, if you love football, then love football. Enjoy the good football that Manchester United play. Or Chelsea play. Or Barcelona, or Real Madrid, or any of the numerous European clubs that play delightful, exciting football, play. Love the Tiki-taka of Spain AND the beautiful game of Brazil. By all means, admire the players and the clubs. Wear Manchester United T-shirts if you must. Idolize Robin van Persie if you feel like. It’s a free country. But please don’t pretend that Manchester United (or Chelsea for that matter) is your soul. Don’t think that pretending to be fanatic about football elevates you above the average, philistine Indian cricket fan. Don’t abuse the supporters of other teams and players. And for those of you who think that pretending to be a football fan will get you laid, don’t be deluded – only a moron gets laid with a pretentious idiot.

So my uncalled for advice to you is – don’t be so pretentiously fanatic. Someday we may hope that an Indian team will create a sensation in world football, and then your fanaticism will be justified. Then even I will be fanatic – but that will be because I will be supporting my country’s team. Till then, I will enjoy watching and supporting football – not any particular foreign club.

NB: I’d like to advise football fans that calling me a chut or a cunt or an asshole or similar cute names will not change the veracity of my beliefs (advise: Google veracity)

chelsea t shirt

 

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Posted in Satire

Time Travails

I’m always on time for everything. Except my work. I’m never on time for that. Doesn’t matter what time I’m supposed to report – morning, afternoon, midnight (quite usual during my residency days) – I’m never on time.

It’s totally inexplicable. Not that I hate my work or anything – which isn’t like saying that I’m absolutely in love with my work. I mean, you won’t find me exuberantly wishing my boss a cheerful good morning or holding his pudgy frame in a bear hug and kissing his blotchy cheek with fraternal affection, my eyes shining with gratitude for having been given the chance to save the sick and comfort the miserable of humanity. Not really. I like my work because I’m good at nothing else, and it gives me the means to maintain the subsistence levels of the upper class poor of the US of A. And I can afford to take my wife shopping on weekends (provided of course that the stores have a discount sale on).

Earlier my boss used to prowl around the entrance to the hospital to catch me coming late. As soon as he saw me, he used to glance at the watch pinned on the wall over the receptionist, and shake his head with a particularly mournful expression. But needing to pretend that he had other work too besides stalking me, he couldn’t do his ‘catching the thief red-handed’ act every day. So one day he installed a biometric machine at the entrance. It was a rather interesting piece. I mean, who wouldn’t like it when a pleasant female voice says “Thank you” when you insert your finger correctly into a particular orifice? After about a month of this, my boss called me into his office.

work cartoon blog

“You know Doctoratlarge, I hate to have to say such things to a responsible consultant like yourself, but the biometric machine says that you have been late EVERY SINGLE DAY this month!”

“Indeed! Haha! These machines, I tell you! They’re actually taking over the world. We humans are already becoming their slaves. And soon it will be Skynet and Judgment Day and we’ll have to find our John Connor.”

The boss remained dour-faced and silent. Obviously he didn’t get the joke.

It’s not that I get up late or anything. I usually get up well in time. But things happen to me. I mean, sometimes it’s the newspaper. I get the Times, and I tell you, I hate that newspaper. A completely rubbish newspaper. Especially the color supplement. They always publish these pics of nubile young actresses and models in a rather advanced state of undress. And if it is Katrina Kaif or Nargis Fakhri or Scarlett Johansson, I just have to go to the bathroom and waste my time there. These things are beyond a man’s control. Old Adam and his original sin have ensured that men will continue to waste their times in bathrooms for eons to come.

And if it’s not the paper, it’s Twitter. Every night when I sleep, I generally find myself aghast at the amount of time that I’ve wasted on Twitter. And when I think I might have spent that time in discovering an enlightening philosophy, or creating a body of literature that would uplift the entire human spirit, I feel sorry for humanity for having been deprived of the fruits of my genius. And I always promise to myself that whatever happens, I won’t check my Twitter tomorrow. Which of course means that the first thing I do on getting up in the morning is to check my Twitter notifications. And I usually find that some football fan has taken umbrage to one of my tweets about Wayne Rooney, or some feminist has called me a misogynist pig, and by the time I’ve poured some more sarcastic boiling oil over these outraged people, I find that I’m already an hour late.

Sometimes an evil angel inserts the thought into my mind that my ass is getting too fat, and then I determine that I should get some exercise. I usually choose to cycle. Firstly because, I’m too lazy to jog. But mostly because my wife is constantly reminding me that the expensive bicycle that I’ve bought is doing nothing but gathering rust (though God knows that the bicycle cost no more than half of what she manages to spend in a single excursion to the local mall).

I don’t mean to indulge in excessive self-praise, but when I start on some project, I put my heart and soul into it. So when I start cycling, I try to lose all my excess fat the very first day. So I travel so far down the road less travelled, that I find that I simply have no more energy left to ride back, and have to trundle the bicycle on foot. Which of course means an hour late for work and going off to sleep while examining a patient.

Once I bought a gym membership, and it was so expensive that I hauled my ass every single morning to get it literally burned off by the sadistic trainers at the damned place. Things were going alright, when one day a really curvy young thing started coming to the gym at the same time as I did, and that sort of took my focus off. Now don’t mistake me – I’m not such a pervert as to see a curvy young thing and immediately rush off to the gym bathroom. Like the perfect gentleman, I always rushed off to the bathroom at my home. And that of course meant that I started getting late to work again.

One day I finally decided that enough was enough. Never again would I be late for work again. I put my alarm clock to go off at 4:00 am. The clock obviously thought that I was just trying to pull off a prank on it and simply didn’t bother to go off. Not to be daunted by such minor problems, I set the alarm on my smart phone. For three successive nights, the alarm went off at 4:00, but the sound failed to penetrate the dense fog of my sleepiness. I know the alarm went off, because the third morning my wife threatened to break my smartphone on my head if it disturbed her sleep again at such an unearthly hour. Which led me to request my wife if she would wake me up at 4:00 the next morning, which led her to ask me whether I thought I’d married an alarm clock. I said, I wished I had, because it would have tickled me mightily to clonk her on her head to press on her snooze button. But of course I didn’t SAY that. One doesn’t say such things to one’s wife if one wishes not to be mowed down in the prime of one’s life.

So many things conspire to make me late. Sometimes it is a torrent that I simply have to download to conclusion to see if it’s good quality. Sometimes it’s the highlights of the late night tennis match that I missed. So many things that a man has got to do in this life, and so little time to do them in. The only thing that doesn’t make me late is early morning sex. Married men don’t get to indulge in luxuries like early morning sex – not after 10 years of marriage.

But persistence has its rewards. And once for a whole of 25 days I was able to reach work at exactly the right time. The female voice that said “Thank you” on fingering her orifice seemed especially pleased at my persistent punctuality. Even my boss very nearly threatened to give me a smile in appreciation of my sincerity. I began to have hopes that the miser might be persuaded to give me a raise if I could keep up the good work for a month. On the 26th day, when I was about to drive off in my car, perfectly on time, when suddenly through the windshield I saw my pretty neighbor Mrs P sashaying down towards me with a seductive smile on her face.

“Excuse me Doctoratlarge”, she trilled, “Would you mind sparing me a little bit of your time? I’m feeling a little niggle about my chest that I wished to consult you about.”

“Why sure Mrs P!” I said, jumping out of the car with alacrity. “I’m bound by the Hippocratic Oath to help a patient in dire need”

“Oh, you’re so sweet!” She purred, with a dazzling smile. “I sure hope I’m not making you late”

“Oh no Mrs P, not at all. I’ve plenty of time”

“Oh, but you’ve left the door of your car open” She said. I went back to slam the door shut, and then hurried to lead her into my consultation chamber. I let the car remain in the middle of the road. I wasn’t letting some irritated and irate morning drivers prevent me from discharging my chivalrous obligations.

Well of course I got late that day. Very late. And the scowl on my boss’s face was enough hint that the raise I’d hoped for wasn’t very likely to come to me next month. And anyway, who needed my boss’s raise, when Mrs P had already given me a raise?

 

 

 

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