Friday, May 16, 2008
                                                                   
 Miss Carnivorous           YOU KNOW THEY WERE CONS, WHEN ....

I ride the bus with 2 ex-cons who work at the Salvation Army store. They always sit at the very back of the bus. They stare at girls' breasts in an entirely obvious manner and engage in happy conversations with anyone near them.

Friday, February 29, 2008      Miss Carnivorous

                          In Afghanistan we need to be meaner than the Taliban in order to win the war

I was watching the Taylor-Pavlik boxing match the other day. The two fighters were pretty evenly matched and were respectful of each other, so after each round they would touch gloves to show their mutual admiration.
Finally, Kelly Pavlik went back to his corner and his trainer said, (I disremember the exact words but here's the essence) "Stop this touching gloves bullshit. He's making you like him, stop that shit. You don't need to be friendly with him, you need to get out there and beat his ass."
He was right. The Aghan populace is more frightened of the Taliban than they are of us. Why? Because we are too nice that's why. We need to make the Afghans more frightened of us than they are of the Taliban. A lot of them are sure that the lefties will make us pull out of Afghanistan and they will be left with the Taliban who will accuse them of aiding the US and execute them and their family members.
Right now if they don't aid us, they have little to fear from us. We need to make them afraid to support the Taliban and afraid to cross the US. Americans always want to be liked, it's a stupid and self defeating desire.

     Miss Carnivorous

           Miss Carnivorous               Islamic fundamentalism

Islamic fundamentalism is interfering in our ability to buy diet soda and chips!
The Muslim guy who runs the liquor store across the street from our workplace has begun to close the store between the hours of 11:30am and 1:30pm, in order that he may go to the mosque and pray to Mecca.

This is a recent development and does not bode well for his mental health nor our physical health. His sudden burst of rabid religiousity is making us nervous.  Miss Carnivorous

                                                  the liquor store                           Miss Carnivorous

The owners of the liquor store near my house have been driven insane

by the thieving local kids and criminals. After being robbed twice they have become so supicious they can barely function. The other day I was at the store talking to them and two little girls came in. The girls were picking out Now or Later candy whilst Rama, the owner, was watching them like a hawk with a nasty scowl on his face.

"Don't put your hands in your pockets, " he suddenly yelled crazily. "Get your hands out of your pockets!"

One little girl told him she didn't have her hands in her pockets. I hadn't seen either of them put their hands near their pockets.

"You did," he said, "I saw you. Never do that in my store."

His wife, Lakshmi, tried to mediate. "You should not put your hands in your pockets when you go into any store," she explained in a nicer tone of voice.

I was standing there thinking, how the heck do they get their money out of their pockets to pay for the candy if they can't put their hands in them.

It was very disturbing and I try to avoid going into the store now. I feel very sorry for them, but owning a liquor store in the inner city is bad for the soul.  February 04, 2008

Miss Carnivorous
 

                                              ihath         Guess What's Happening at Dinner  

There were numerous times when I would get a phone call at work around noon to be informed by my husband that he had invited 10 people over for dinner that very same night. In which case I would have to rush out of work early in frenzy to do grocery shopping, get home, clean up the house and have dinner ready for when the people arrived.

That was followed with desperate pleas to husband to please, please, please inform me a few days ahead whenever he wanted to invite people over for dinner so that I would have some time to prepare. 

Then there was the time my husband invited people from his work to a dinner party at our house only he got the dates mixed up and told different people different dates and so some people arrived to the party on a Saturday and others arrived the following Sunday …. Thank god for leftovers. 

That was followed with me making up a rule that next time he invites a big group of people over for dinner. I will write up the dinner invitation text with the correct date and time and forward it to my husband by email and he has to copy the exact copy of the text that I sent him and email it to all his invitees un-altered.

Then there was the time he invited three people for dinner, one was an Israeli who spoke nothing but Hebrew, the second was a Palestinian who spoke nothing but Arabic and the third was a visiting student from China who spoke Chinese and poor English. I spent the whole evening attempting to keep a conversation going, by asking one of our guests a question and then simultaneously translating it into the other two languages and then translating the responses back. Back and forth in Arabic, Hebrew and English for hours. By the end of the evening I was beyond exhausted and suffered from headache.

 This was followed by me making up a rule that he was only allowed to invite people at the same time if all of them shared a common language.

 Then there was the mother of all dinner pranks that my husband played on me. It all started with me coming home early from work because Mordecai - a good friend of many years -was visiting us from abroad. His visit was arranged weeks ahead. He was arriving late in the evening and so I had plenty of time to get the guest bedroom ready and make a nice dinner for our dear friend. I knew that my husband was working late that night in a laboratory where there are no phone lines and my husband couldn’t be contacted. As soon as I stared frying some onions in frying pan in preparation for my stuffed grape vine leaves (called dolma in Iraq). The phone rang.

 ihath: Hello.

Man: Hello! … I am Vincent … I arrived.

ihath: Ha?

Man: I am Vincent, I am here, I am at the central bus station, when will you come to get me?

ihath: what? …. (I never met or knew this guy at all)

Vincent: Your husband said that I could spend the night at your house and that you would come pick me up from the central bus station. I just arrived from France.

ihath: ok.

Vincent: So, when will you come and get me?

ihath: errr …. (hesitation …. thinking on my feet …) I am coming right away.

 So I packed my two year old daughter into her car seat and drove to the central bus station. My husband never informed me of a Vincent that was going to stay with us on that evening, but I couldn’t call my husband to confirm the story with him. As I was driving there I kept on thinking to myself “I hope I am not on my way to pick up a serial killer”. I arrived at the busy bus station looking for what might be a French man named Vincent. In one corner, next to a public phone I saw a scrawny young man with a lost look on his face, I asked him if he was Vincent and he responded with a big smile. A hand shake was followed by quick introductions and soon enough Vincent was in my car on his way to my place. On the way home, a terrifying scenario occurred to me. “My husband arrives home from work late, and no look of recognition appears on his face. Instead I get a puzzled look and get asked the question -Who is this guy?. Then ,in panic, I have to explain to my husband that I received a phone call from a young man I never met before and then I proceeded to collect him from the central bus station, brought him home and decided to give him dinner.” … “Oh my Go! … I hope my husband does actually know this guy” I kept praying as I drove home. Dinner was not even started and so heated up some leftovers for Vincent. As we sat chatting together, Vincent informed me that he was a former student of my husband back in the days when my husband was teaching at Glasgow University. Luckily my husband did in fact recognize Vincent, when he arrived from work at last. After some chit chat and small talk, I gave my husband the look that communicates “I need to talk to you in the kitchen”.

The following conversation happened in the kitchen.

 husband: Look, I know what you gonna say. I am sorry I completely forgot that I had told Vincent that he could stay with us. I know I messed up.

ihath: But where is he going to stay? You know that our friend Mordecai is coming tonight. I already planned for him to stay in the guest room. This was planned weeks ago. Where is Vincent going to sleep?

husband: ( ..pauses … scratches his head) …I know. Our friend Simon is out of town and I have the key to his apartment. I will take Vincent to stay there.

ihath: But Simon comes back from Europe tonight.

husband: No he doesn’t, he comes back next week.

ihath: I distinctly remember that Simon said that he was coming back from his trip from Europe tonight.

husband: No, no, no, I am certain that Simon comes back next week.

ihath: Anyway, I don’t think that Simon will appreciate you letting some stranger stay at his place. He gave you the key to keep an eye on his place not to use his apartment as a hostel.

husband: Look! Don’t worry about this. Ok!. I created this mess, I will fix it. You go back to whatever you were planning to do and I will take care of the Vincent situation. Let me handle this. Ok!

ihath: sigh! … ok!

 I go back to making dolma.

 The next morning, bright and early, the phone rings. I answer the phone to find Simon on the other line. It turns out that Simon had met our friend Vincent already. Simon arrives from Europe after a long trip to his apartment late in the evening, all tired and jet lagged looking forwards to getting to bed, only to find a man he never met before in his bed. The young man was sleeping tight and so Simon walks out of his apartment and knocks on the door of the next door neighbor. The lady next door opens the door.

Lady Next Door: Hi, Simon you are back.

Simon: Hi, who is the man sleeping in my bed.

Lady Next Door: It is the French guy that came with your buddy.

Simon: What French guy?

Lady Next Door: I can’t remember his name, but he had a French accent and he come with your good friend. We figured since he was with your friend he was ok.

Simon: Ok, thank you. I will have to figure this out tomorrow morning.

 So poor Simon goes to sleep on the couch in the living room of his own apartment. The next morning Vincent wakes up to find a man sleeping on the couch. The following conversation follows

 Vincent: Who are you?

Simon: I am Simon, I live here, who are you?

Vincent: I am Vincent, I was brought here by your good friend.

 So Simon makes him breakfast and arranges a taxi for Vincent’s next destination in his tour around the world.

 This was followed by me abdicating any effort to try to regulate my husband’s crazy dinner guest arrangements. The more rules I made the more creative my husband became at throwing new challenges in my face. So every dinner party that my husband arranges, I say a prayer and hope for the best.

 O! I forgot to tell you about the time when my husband told me about the dinner party days ahead, which I greatly appreciated. After I finished cooking all the food and making all preparations he informed me that he forgot to invite the people he was planning to invite. But, this post is already too long.

There is a way between voice and presence where information flows. In disciplined silence it opens. With wandering talk it closes. ....

ihath  Iraqi Giggler Laughs at the Lunacy of the World

123 I Love  You         

                                                                                             My worst fears were confirmed

She had met "someone."

Someone who would be "perfect" for me.

This girl apparently works at the local bank, and she is, to use Mother's exact words, "pleasantly plump, and real giggly."

Her name is Grace.

I will never date this woman, if only for the simple reason that, when people ask us where we met, I would hate to say "Mother set us up." That would be just awful. Not as awful as the fact that, in this same e-mail, Mother called me her "special little guy," but still, it would be pretty awful.

So the girl is pleasantly plump and her name is Grace. Even though I only have these two facts to go on, I can almost perfectly visualize what life with her would be like, and the image isn't pretty.

A plump person named "Grace" probably has seve
dedicris: the course of her lifetime this number will only increase. She enjoys watching medical dramas, and she has grown to expect that her future partner will be exactly like Dr. McDreamy. As our relationship progresses, she will come to the slow but inevitable realization that I am not Dr. McDreamy, but instead I am more like the obese employee at her local video store who dresses up like a Jedi Knight every Hallowe'en.123 I Love  You

2007  ex 007 in Africa    fingerprints

I had to give my fingerprints today. I warned the security office that I have been dubbed “the girl with fingers of an 80 year-old woman”. Indeed, it seems that my fingertips do not have the usual deep grooves and ridges fingers usually have. The security person taking care of my file laughed and told me the office had a new “water-based” machine that could lift the print of off anyone.

 I placed my finger on the monitor and rotated from one side to the next. The computer showed that there was only a 73% match, but 75% was a passing grade. The picture of my fingerprint on the screen looked minutely grooved and general smooth.

Miffed, we tried it again. Three times. With water droplets rubbed into the tip of my finger, then heavy Vaseline cream. I tried pushing hard, pushing lightly, and pushing my finger with my other index to help it along. Finally we get an acceptable print. After undergoing the same process for each finger (imagine 5 times x 10 fingers), we finally decided to leave well enough alone and kept the best prints.

 I must have looked worried, because the man walking past me said “I really don’t think that you have the profile of a criminal so don’t worry about it”. But then I (jokingly) answered “well you never know, the scariest things come in small packages”. D’oh! I’m so retarded.

14/2006

           The Judgment Day  bridge

 We’ve spent the whole day in the Colorado Springs small claims court today. What an experience. What have I done wrong, you ask? Nothing. I have never met the plaintiff before, never talked to her, and never entered into any kind of business with her. She decided to bring me to the court just because the business which I used to own happened to have a similar trade name with the company which she has been dealing with. So, she chose to bring to the court both entities: her vendor which she was not happy with, and me, a complete stranger. She claimed that she "doesn't know which company she was dealing with". Well, the companies are even located in two different cities - duh! And they say Russia is the country of arbitrariness!

 I’ve won the case and gained some experience, but lost a day and $25 which I had to pay to file a response. Not much, but believe me, I could find a better use for $25 and my time.

 I am not going to criticize the system, but it’s admitted by many people that quantity of filed lawsuits in America is enormous. I was trying to find some statistics, but could not find. Just found that 2/3 of all lawyers practice in the US, while 1/3 – in all other countries. That’s why America is called “the country of lawyers”.

 The system of filing a lawsuit is very simple in the US. On one hand, it is good. On another hand, the simplicity of legal proceedings and the huge army of lawyers are changing human nature. Instead of talking things out and trying to find a compromise, people find it easier to bring their disagreements into the court.

 In Russian there is a good word for this kind of people - “sutyaga”. “Sutyaga” means a foolish, unfair plaintiff who is fond of suing other people. The closest translation that I can think of is “litigious”, but I am not sure this translation reflects contempt and scorn that Russian people put into the word “sutyaga”. If you know a better translation – please let me know.

 When I read or hear about some lawsuits in the news – many of them seem to me ridiculous: 

A woman who admits that she is a gambling addict asked a casino to put her on the “not admitted” list. After that, she has changed her appearance, snuck in, and now she is suing the casino for letting her in.

 A California banker sued his wife for simulating an orgasm and won $242,000! 

People sue McDonalds because they spilled hot coffee on themselves. How dumb is that?

The bigger a restaurant or a store chain is, the more vulnerable it is for lawsuits. By its own count, Wal-Mart is sued around 5,000 times a year — or nearly once every two hours, every day of the year.

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                                         Kill or you’d be killed   Rafi Alsafar  

 Once upon a time, in the far past, there was a tyrant king who owned the lands and souls. Any person, young, old or even a child, who doesn’t bow for his procession, his head will be severed in the moment. The man, who doesn’t pay The Palace Share of money or any other product or doesn’t send his beautiful wife or daughter to please the king or any of his followers, will be sentenced to death. Whoever dares and whispers an offensive word against his Majesty will be slaughtered in public. And anyone who attempts to steal any kind of fruit from his Majesty’s farms will be taken immediately where they cut his hand, and if he has eaten the fruit, they may open his belly to get it out.

One day the king went mad when he was told that a band of thieves had attacked one of his farms and plundered the entire product there. Hastily, the king sent for his viceroy at that village and said to him, “You’ve got twenty four hours to redeem dignity to our crown.” The viceroy took action at once. He set fire on all the cottages of the village and slaughtered all its people, men, women and children. Then he wrote to the king, “My Lord! Your brave soldiers have redeemed dignity to your Holy Crown.” He added, “But, alas, I have become a viceroy of a village with no citizens.”

But the king’s delight didn’t last long. During a dark night, a group of armed insurgents attacked the viceroy’s house, killed the guards and captured the viceroy. They immediately chopped off his head, put it in a box and sent it to the king with a short message saying:

“Kill or you’d be killed, and no winner but who takes the initiative.”

                                           The terrible betrayal  extraplus


Back home from a long tour, I intuitively sensed that something was wrong. My wife was behaving rather strangely. The shifty glance, the stooped posture, the nervous movement of the hands... all added to my suspicion. Something sinister was afoot. All these mannerisms pointed to that unmistakable conclusion. She was cheating on me.

From time immemorial, the institution of marriage has constantly been jeopardised by errant spouses and I had read several stories concerning such behaviour. But, I had never imagined that such a thing would happen in my own house.

I was flabbergasted. Without a word, I dropped my suitcase and laptop on to the sofa and headed for the bathroom. I washed my face and hands with the soap that I had picked up from Hotel Le Meridien last month, all the while trying to figure out what my wife had been up to. The white towel that I had.. er.. borrowed from Oriental Mandarin last week was on the hanger and I wiped myself, with that grim foreboding that precedes an awkward moment in one’s marriage.

Absent-mindedly I took out the moisturising lotion (Shahnaz Hussain) from the bathroom cabinet and rubbed it on my nose and under my eyes. (Taj Bengal had placed two large bottles in the room I stayed in). I noticed the bags under my eyes. Who wouldn’t have bags under one’s eyes, when a wife that you trust implicitly lets you down?.

The small bottle of talcum powder that I had thoughtfully put into my toilet kit when I had stayed at the Hotel Atria two weeks back was still there next to the mirror and I applied the contents on to my chest and back, cursing myself for having relaxed my vigil and trusting my spouse completely.

Slipping on the bathrobe that I had taken out of the Grand Hyatt during my stay there two months back, I wondered what had happened to the good old values that served as the bedrock of marriages in the bygone era. When vows taken during the wedding ceremony were held sacrosanct for life. When each of the partners in matrimony took the other’s word for gospel. When did it all change, I muttered to myself, while adjusting my feet into the white, furry slippers that I had brought back from the eco-friendly Orchid Hotel not long back and cleaning my ears with the cotton buds that came with the hygiene kit that I had removed from Ramada Inn.

It was then that my eyes spotted the source of all our matrimonial trouble. As it always happens, the bedroom it was that had the incriminating evidence. The bedsheets!! The polka-dotted ones. They were new. They even had the price tag intact. When I had been travelling all over the countryside, staying in various hotels and carefully rummaging for stuff to bring home to my needy family, my wife had actually sneaked out of the house, gone on a shopping spree and paid good money for the bed sheets.

I mean, money for the bed sheets! While exchanging marriage vows, hadn’t I explained to her clearly that, as long as I kept travelling and stayed in fancy hotels, we were assured of free supplies of shampoos, soap, towels, talcum powder, coat hangers, bathrobes, bed sheets? I had made her take a solemn pledge that she would never ever burn good money on these things in her life. This part of the program was to be entirely sponsored by the hotel industry, I had told her.

And I have been true to my word. I have flooded the house with shampoos of every colour - pink, blue, green, yellow - flicked from hotels from every corner of the world.. I have an entire suitcase filled with soaps of assorted size and shape and each carrying a distinctive smell of the hotel it hailed from.. I have more talcum powder in the house than is manufactured by Pond’s in an entire year in all their factories. As for towels, there are enough white towels with insignias of the Taj, ITC, Hilton, etc to drape the entire lot of ChennaiCollege girls with. Why these hotels insist on keeping only white towels, I am not sure, but I am not too finicky about these minor things

It is true that I have been a little negligent about the bed sheets, and have failed in this part of the supply chain management. I can understand that I have not measured up to my wife’s standards or expectations. But if only, oh if only, she had given me a hint, I would have picked up a few from the Grand Intercontinental this week or the MarinePlaza some time back.

Wednesday, January 31, 2007                    pure calculation Veronica Khokhlova

A few weeks ago, I was in a trolley on the way downtown. As we approached a stop just outside the Garden Ring, an elderly but very slim and fit-looking man appeared out of nowhere right in front the trolley, causing our driver, a woman, to hit the brakes abruptly and curse loudly. He got in at the stop, and she spewed some of her wrath at him while he was looking for his wallet. "You like extreme, don't you?" she was saying. "You're crossing the street like this, all the while thinking, 'Will she hit me or not?' Right? Is that what you were thinking of?" To which he very calmly replied: "Thinking? What's there to think about? There was nothing but pure calculation." by Veronica Khokhlova