Pink Panther is a Giant Rock

Have you ever laughed so hard that you wet the place where you were sitting?
I haven’t. I just haven’t met with someone who has, so, just checking.
Well, I have laughed so hard today, I think I just gave myself a hernia. And, no, it’s not because I realized that the idiot on third was doing a man. I watched Pink Panther today for the hundredth time.
To all those who do not know already –I have no life.
There’s this inspector here with the name Clousseau. And boy! Is that guy a LUNATIC! He left Romeo wayyy behind him.
What?
Romeo and Juliet wasn’t a tragic love story. It was a comedy.

It all starts with Romeo , a young vivacious boy who is actually in love with a pretty little thing, christened Rosaline. She is –by no means whatsoever –Juliet. She doesn’t love him. He wants to die.
He goes to a ball, in a final attempt to win Rosaline’s heart. He meets Juliet and miraculously forgets about Rosaline. That’s the typical red-blooded male for you!
She loves him, too, but she’s actually the daughter of a family foe. He cannot have her. He wants to die.
Again.
One thing leads to another, and Juliet suddenly lands up in a garden. Juliet pretends to die so that they can get married. Romeo arrives a mere two minutes too early. [Which is why I don’t blame the Indian locals for always being fashionably late, by the way. Punctuality kills!] He sees “dead” Juliet. He cries over “dead body” of Juliet. He wants to die.
Again.
Ex post facto of some fool leaving a vial of poison unattended, he takes it, and drinks it all up. He dies. Boo Hoo.
Juliet wakes up. She sees dead Romeo. Now she wants to die. Poisons self, and dies, too.

No. this is not a romance. It’s comedy gold. Romeo isn’t a hopeless romantic –he’s just hopeless. Whosoever thinks he’s a wonderful gentleman has serious mental issues.
Can’t you SEE?! He’s not the most romantic soul in the world; he’s the most misunderstood psychotic there EVER was! The guy was obviously mad!! So it’s not a romance at all. It’s a tale of a guy who ran from an asylum in search of one girl, and ended up killing himself for a loose girl called Juliet. C’mon, Rosaline is undoubtedly hot. So this Juliet chick was evidently unchaste. I mean, why else would he let go of hot-hot Rosaline for pretty-pretty Juliet?
Fast Juliet became a heroic icon for women all around the world! An idiot who didn’t have brains enough to check for pulse and an “easy” girl made it to our history texts! I’m impressed…

Anyway, The Pink Panther is not a panther. It's the biggest pink rock in the history of the worlds biggest pink rocks.
The movie starts out with the murder of Xania's boyf, Yves Glaunt (Pronounced "Eves Glon"). I pity that name... I mean, his parents never gave him a CHANCE! No wonder he was so evil in the movie...
He was hated by everyone. He was rich and famous. He was cheating on Xania(Beyonce). And, to apologize for his misdemeanors, he provided her with a giant pink rock to put around her finger.
He is certainly the next biggest psychotic freak in the entire world, after Romeo. And Hamlet. That one definitely had a nut loose somewhere.
All this happened in France, the country of European Romance. The next time I wish to suicide, I'll go there.

Inspector Jacques Clousseau has taken up the case of Yves Glaunts' murder.
Inspector Jacques Clousseau is an incompetent, klutz of an idiot.
Inspector Jacques Clousseau solves the case and becomes a hero. He is next in like to become one of the most stupid famous-people, after a certain Indian Politician.
My favorite scenes from the esteemed are the following:
Clousseau is on the football field looking for Bizu, a suspect in the case. He hears a person coming their way.

"FOOTSTEPS!" he bellows, and walks closer to the sound. "It is a woman! ...Thirty to thirty-five years of age... five-four or five-five... wearing high-heels... and..." He sniffs the air. "...Chanel no. 5!"

Sic comes in a Russian trainer who ----wait for it....----- TRAINS!!
As I said, you must think I have no life as I am watching such utter crap right now.
You're right; I don't.

"Do you have high-heeled shoes in your bag?" Closseau points at the sports utility bag The Russian has and says.
"No." The Russian trainer who --coincidentially-- trains, says.
"At least a small pair of pumps?"
"No...?"
"Who are you?"
"Yuri the Russian Trainer."
"And what do you do, Yuri the Trainer?"
"I... train...?"
"Oh. So you are Yuri the trainer, who trains."

Then, Bizu, the suspect, gets murdered in the locker room with a dart aimed directly at the occipital lobe. Gilbert tells Clousseau about it.

"He got shot in the head," He says, slightly morose.
"Was it fatal?" Clousseau asks.
"Um... Yes." He finally says.
"How fatal?"
"C-completely!"
"I wish to speak with him."
What. The. Fuck?!
"Sir, he's dead."

After an array of weird contradictory misgivings [see Clousseau trying to seduce Xania in a hotel room but, instead, flooding the washroom and setting alight all the tapestries, getting caught with an enormous amount of punishable objects in the security check of a US airport, and being unable to say hamburger, hence getting deported to France for carrying weapons and a certain "dambergurte" in his pockets.] Finally, the killer was found to be...

                                                                              ...Yuri the Trainer who Trains!

He realized this as Russian Football trainers are always taught to use chinese herbs and shoot at the occipital lobe. Yuri was arrested at the Presidential ball. Clouseau also reveals that Yuri tried to kill Xania because she went out with Gluant and Bizu and ignored him. Xania is revealed to have the Pink Panther diamond sewn into the lining of her purse, having received it from Gluant as an engagement ring. Clouseau then reveals that he had seen the diamond in her purse while examining the photograph of his arrest, which also showed a view of her purse as it appeared to the airport's luggage scanner. Dreyfus, Clousseau's despotic senior, makes a clumsy attempt to take credit, saying his arrest of the Chinese envoy was a ploy to draw out the real killer. For his success, Clouseau wins the Légion d'honneur.

All in all, I think the movie was pretty good. It was better than the last version. That was slightly more... um... let's just say "erotically charged" than this one. A good watch, though. A comedy of errors--- and that's the movie for you!

P.S. For all those who haven't seen the movie --you've gotta be KIDDING me! And, sorry for spoiling the suspence...     

Of Kings, Jesters, and the Pursuit of the Limerick

See, I've never been very good at making rhymes, and this is probably my first time making a string of limericks. Or even one, for that matter. So, feel free to correct any lines that seem dysfunctional. And please, be gentle. I have a heart,, you know.
Here it is:

Says the Jester to the Prince, "Sir, you.
have married not one, but two.
It must be hard to decide
of whom to sleep beside.
In such a case, whatever do you do?"

The Prince says sheepishly, "'Tis true,
I am the husband of not one, but two.
And, since I cannot decide
of whom to sleep beside
I don't sleep with either of the two."

The Jester turns to ask His Imperial Majesty,
who has wed not a wife, not two, but three;
"So, how do you decide
of whom to sleep beside?
Or do you, too, sleep with neither of the three?"

Puffing up his chest, quoth he,
"I am the husband of not two, but three.
Since I, too, can't decide
of whom to sleep beside
I sleep with them all, you see!"

P.S. I thought of this over a cup of espresso, so if it's bad, I blame the coffee.
And, if it is good -- it's all me.

The Farewell- A Contorted mix of Energy and Lesbianism OR The Littlest Things Matter the Most

Click click click click.

I brush past an array of students buzzing outside the school hall, waiting to enter the start of our first -and, possibly, last -ever farewell. My six-inch heels click weirdly against the gravel and i crunch past senior boys who seemed to have an affininty of incessantly staring at my butt for no reason. But, i didn't care, then. All i cared about was----

"----I'M HAVIN' A FAREWELL! I'M HAVIN' A FAREWELL!!"

I click away toward the Gemini's* house. She'd called me earlier, telling me to come home. She, apparently, wanted to show me the varied dresses that were worn by her, Sugu-Pugu* and Ice-Kitten*. With the last whiff of nervous energy that my body had attained -fearing that i would be the only one is corporate wear -i heave myself toward the door. I had the perfect outfit out for this, too. My corporate satin shirt with lace trimmings from Westside, jeans from BHS [what's strange to note about them is that though they really ARE from BHS, they have the word "Sexy" written on their back-pocket. Well, that sure explains the weird staring...] and my bag from the Camel market [Camel market stuff is actually GOOD stuff. They're all at half off. Isn't that good?], and the most amazing heels from Catwalk that i only bought 'cuz of my shoe-fetish.
Oh, yeah! Did i mention that i have shoe-fetish?
No? No?!
Well, i have shoe-fetish.
I ring the door-bell.

"Hi! ~~I look HIDEOUS!" Gemini says as she opens the door.
"~~this school has taught us..." Sugu-Pugu trails off behind her.
"Do i look like i'mma girl going to a strip-club?!" Ice-kitten whines.

And the world spins on its axis~~~~
WAIT A MINUTE!

"Strip-club?!" I scream.
"Yeah, look at me!" she whines.

That's the most special thing about Ice-kitten*; no matter how much she whines and nags, she always manages to look cute. Just like a real kitten. I stare at her, from head to torso. Because, for some reason, i cannot look beyond her chest-region.
Oh, no no. The Lesbianism doesn't come in here.

"That necklace is so PRETTY!!" i scream.
"Lemme see what you're wearing!" The girls say in unison.
"Oh, I..." I put my leg up in the air, bent at the knee. "... am in love with THESE." I point at the six-inch torture adorning my feet.

Almost instantly does the room get filled with a hoard of shieking, maniacal female laughter that sounds close to the frantic squawking that i had to hear on the 14th of this month[as you may recall].
I still have the nightmares...

"So, whats this," I say, "About you looking like you are going to a strip-club?" I look at her again. She seems to look normal. She has a nice black top with white sequins on it, and a black skirt to go with. And....
"...Are those..." I look down. "Ankle-length boots?"
"Yeah, nice, huh?"
"Nice? I think i'm in love...." I look up at her.
"....right." She turns around and walks toward sugu-pugu.
"Do i look ok?" she asks. "Is the skirt too short?"
"What, are you kidding me?!" I say. "Zenith's* skirt is way~~~~y shorter! It's like, even if she DIDN'T wear a skirt, it wouldn't make much of a difference!"
"Are you sure?"
"Uh-huh... Say..." I begin. "Can i see those?" I point at her feet.
"Sure! Go ahead!"

At this precise minute, she turns around and bends forward. Suddenly, from being face-to-face we're... butt-to-face... I stare at her behind. That's a nice behind. Not too plump like most indian girls, and not flat. Could give even MY butt a run for my money... Not bad at ALL... reminds me of that song from Sir Mix-A-Lot. Yeah, sure, it's extremely racist; but we hate whites, too! How did it go, again?
Oh, yeah!

"I like big butts and i cannot lie.
You 'otha' 'brothas' can't deny,
when a girl comes in wi' an itty-bitty waist an'
a round 'thang' in yo' face, ya get sprung!
Wanna pull out on yo'r tough,
'cuz ya noticed that the butt was stuffed...."

Ice-kitten turns around and looks at me.

"What?" she asks. I stare up at her, my head still cocked to the right, the mouth slightly open.
"...Yeah..." I look at her, turn around, and walk away.

Today, I like big butts. Tomorrow, I'm getting married.
What has this world come to?!
~:~

"We will light the lamp of Knowledge, and everyone will be give a candle of knowledge. The first will be lit by our very own Principal." one of the teachers says into the microphone.
"Kiss-up!" I say, only to hear a murmur of giggles erupt behind me.

The teachers huddle up in groups and walk toward the students with lit candles. The unlit ones are handed to us.
"Here," my class teacher hands a candle to me. I stare at it. This is the candle of knowledge...? This golden, swirly, waxy thing with what looks like bird-poop on it is the candle of knowledge?!

"If thats the case, then knowledge is everywhere!!" I wail.
"You're right!" My teacher says. "All of us have knowledge. We must only share it with others. Thats what counts."

Knowledge is actually a bird-poop covered candle. No wonder school stinks!
My class teacher bends toward me, trying to light up my candle for me. it doesn't light up. She tries once more. No show.
And once more.
And again.
And again. But the candle doesn't light up.
I move my candle toward that of my friend in front of me.
"Figures..."


"...and now you may all blow out your candles." the principal says. I blow mine, and so does the entire hall. Now, the hall is filled with double its volume of smoke. People all around me are coughing, and blowing at their candles in vain. Some are sneezing, and some others have covered their mouths with their respective hands. I shuffle around to see whats up with the others. Suddenly, i spot XKDC* laughing with Chilly Flakes* in a far corner.
Invariably, my jaw tightens and my grip around the candle strengthens.

"...Sangeeta?" Someone says.
"What?!" i snap at them. she beckons me to look down.

Oh, my God.

"I broke it."

Thats right. I broke the candle of Knowledge. I broke the fucking candle. Since everyone's staring, this must be bad. I turn to sugu-pugu and show it to her. She giggles.
Sangeeta broke the candle of knowledge. Why does this not surprize her? Then, i think of something else.
This was a very symbolic event. My hearts envy led to the tightening of my grip on the candle, sic it broke. It is said that when there is anger and hatred on the mind, the power to think logically diminishes. This was just what happened -i was so angry that i didn't realize the breaking of the candle in my hand. This was like Gods own sign.
It's always the littlest of things that matter the most...
~:~

"Where do we get the energy to do things from?" Sugu-pugu asks, twirling the hem of her dupatta in her hands.
"Well, I get the energy to message from my mum, who pays for my phone-bills." i say.
"No, no. Where do you get the energy to do work?" she says, a little irritably.
"Food?"
"From food, we trace it to crops, which are green..." Gemini says
"And so- " Sugu-pugu begins
"-we get the energy from the sun." Gemini completes the sentence.
"Exactly. Now, where does the sun get energy from?"
"Heat." Gemini says.
"How is heat formed?"
"By the presence of Helium on the surface of the sun?" I say.
"It's hydrogen, actually..." Gemini trails off.
"Yeah. the reaction between Deuterium and Tritium(Hydrogen Isotopes). In ordinary cricumstances, the radioactive tritium actually decays into helium-3. But, on the sun, they bombard into each other and form helium-4, the cause of heat on the surface of the sun. In the reaction, a nucleus (mostly of the Triton) is discarded and 17.6 MeV(mega electron volts) of energy is released as an appropriate amount of mass converting to the kinetic energy of the products, in agreement with E = Δmc2."

Of course, this cannot be proven true in many other cases, such as that of anti-matter (specially anti-protons/anti-hydrogen).
And, of course, that isn't what i said. I said

"The reaction between two protons, or, two hydrogen ions, creates a vast amount of energy from mass. This energy is from the fusion reaction used to make helium on the surface. Hence, the heat."

What? These are teenaged girls! The last thing they wanna do is listen to an entire chapter out of The Physics of Inertial Fusion" from the mouth of a girl who sounds like a drunken boar falling into a pit full of shit!"

"In other words, we get energy from protons -" Sugu-Pugu begins.
"-which are everywhere. Exactly." Gemini chimes in.
"It's like with carbon," I say. "Our body is composed of carbon in varied different forms, and, yet, if we try to eat burn toast -carbon in its purest form -we fall ill."

"So, our entire existence relies on protons. Just radioactive matter! The littlest thing in the entire universe... and it matters the most!"

To think that such an award-winning ass was formed the courtesy of decaying radioactive matter.
That is so pathetic!


And so am i.
Excuse me while i crawl into a hole and die.


*Names changed. Duh...

Weddings, In-Laws, and Politics, Oh My!

One of the main reasons most bachelors and spinsters dread the entire alliance of marriage is the in-laws. According to Merriam Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus, an “In-law” is “a relative via wedlock”. According to Sangeeta, an “In-Law” is “a fucking idiot with no sense of fashion who is just hell-bent upon making you look fat and ugly on your wedding day and, then, stealing all your jewelry and passing them off as their own”. In-laws are people who are ‘all “the” talk and no “the” do’, meaning, they are people who blow things way out of proportion, and then buy things from the Camel market while saying they are branded. Most in-laws have an uncanny habit of wanting to act like they are ravishing their D-I-L, while all the time they are merely being penny pinchers and being complete assholes to the same. But, In India, we do not dread just the In-Laws. We dread much else...

India is, indeed, a strange country. In every other country, marriages are categorized in five simple steps:

1. Boy and Girl meet.
2. Boy likes Girl.
3. Girl likes Boy.
4. They get married.
5. They live happily ever after.

For us Indians, of course, the steps are... welll, longer:

1. Boy and Girl meet.
2. Boy likes Girl.
3. Girl likes Boy.
4. Girl’s family must like Boy.
5. Boy’s family must like Girl.
6. Girl’s family must like Boy’s family.
7. Boy’s family must like Girl’s family.
8. A thousand rituals and political mudslinging later, Boy and Girl get engaged.
9. After another thousand rituals, they FINALLY get married.
10. Then, they live in a house together where they spend the rest of their sorry lives eating pizza from the carton and fighting for the remote all day.

This pretty much sums up a typical Indian marriage. Today, I went to my sister’s In-Laws’ place.
Why? Because I have no life. And because my sister is ill, but whatever…
The rendezvous was supposed to last an hour, us discussing the timing, the venue and apparels that would be involved in the marriage. Our heated debate lasted four hours, over which we discussed politics, the weather, how nice Aloe Vera is for the skin and how wonderful it would be if we could all just get along. There WAS no mention of the marriage in the entire tryst with the dreaded “In-Laws”. That’s just how marriages in India are: We always sought to do one thing, but instead end up doing another. It’s very common in India for a girl to fall in love with a boy, and get so attached to his family, that she ends up eloping with his brother.

“Mrs. Khanna, have you heard? Lara’s daughter ran away with the groom’s brother!”


“Oh, that’s nothing! Have you seen the amount of jewelry they ran with? Only worth a million rupees! How’s my diamond encrusted crown? Could give the Queen a run for her money, couldn’t I?”

Yeah. Sure you could.
You see, I have nothing against marriages – Nothing at all! It’s just the PEOPLE getting married that put me up in the spot. Really, why buy the album, when you can download plenty bloody albums for free? No commitment, no issues, no hassle, and they would never flirt with your best friend to make you jealous.
Trust me.
So, I was in a fix when I heard that Mother and I shall go meet the beloved parents of my brother-in-law who –in completely UNrelated news – looks like a seven-month pregnant Dick Dastardly.

“How about we keep the wedding from ten-thirty to twelve and the reception from one to five?” Sister’s father-in-law says. Sure, uncle –if that’s humanly possible. Yes, and then, there is this other thing; Indian marriages are slow. Slow? That’s like saying, “Hitler was a tad aggressive.”

There’s a lot to an Indian wedding. Firstly, we start with the HALDI rasam, where the groom is made to sit on a stool with white shorts and a white shirt. To all those who don’t know, HALDI is a Hindi word meaning “Indian saffron” or "Turmeric", which is ground with water into a paste, used to give the esteemed a fairer glow. In the HALDI rasam, loads of fat women with no dressing sense and cleavages that could hold the Everest sing songs in death-defying tones similar to that of a desiccated gorilla dying at the gates of hell. In the midst of this crass cacophony, the sisters of the bride sought to tear the shirt of the groom from his body and then smear the paste on his torso. If that’s not bad enough, the mother of the bride gets to pull the groom by the nose and bring him to the staging of the marriage.
Then, the bride is to be dressed up. Now –and its customary –the weight of the bride must always be a quarter of the weight of her dressing gowns and her jewelry put together. Meaning, if she can walk, she isn’t completely dressed. And if she can't, she’s pure evil. Why, and the mudslinging after that? Goodness, it’s so freaky; I don’t even need to be funny about it.

WHEN THE BRIDE ISN’T ABLE TO WALK:

“Arre, you saw Rajesh’s bride? Practically dripping gold and diamonds, no?”


“Of course she is. What do you expect from such [a rude Hindi word for OSTENTACIOUS] people? Bloody Ramgharias*!”

AND, WHEN SHE IS:

“Oh, my GOD! Rajesh’s bride is WALKING TO THE MANDAPAM**!”


“Such disgrace! Such disregard to our Hindu customs! Those fucking Ramgharias don’t deserve to live!! Even Lohars*, Jatts* and Rajputs* would give all they can to their only daughter! Rascals!"

If that’s not pudifying enough, the make-up palette comprises of the most hideous of colors in history of the most hideous of colors! The only two things an Indian bride can possibly look like is either a prostitute, or a forlorn fool who walked into the streets of Abu Dhabi in the month of Ramadan. It’s like the stylist has been plotting sweet revenge against the poor bride all his life!

“How’s the bride?” asks the stylist from hell.



“So hideous, I think my eyeballs have started to bleed!” The assistant says.



“I know she is, but…” he thinks for a moment. “I STILL think she could look worse…"

Nobody can be more humiliated in one night than the Indian bride and groom are on their wedding day. That’s why it felt so bad to be sitting in front of the In-Laws (read: Aliens from Pluto) and discussing the wedding.
Why? ‘Cuz I’d have to be the sorry soul who escorts (read: carries) the bride to the Mandapam. In other words, my back is going for a TOSS.

I hate weddings…

P.S. *- These are Sects and Tribes in the Sikh religion.
**- The wedding venue.

My thoughts on New Moon, An adaptation of Stephanie Meyers' book w/the same name

Before we start, i just want to say:

• Yes, i AM an ostentacious bitch.
• No, i don't think Taylor Lautner's hot.
• And, finally, YES, i think Robert Pattinson IS gay.

I just hope Sugi-sama or Ice Kitten isn't reading this... Anyway. here it is:

I saw 'NEW MOON' on the telly today. In my humble, and politically non-biased opinion:

IT SUCKED!

You have a testosterone-charged Bella frantically running around on a suicidal spree, a shirtless Jacob frolicking on the sands of 'La Push', and i partically clad Edward trying to tell the Volturi that he WANTS to die, and a very hungry Volturi with little, or no acting skills, whatsoever.

Deep. Real deep.

I can practically SEE Edwards undying love for Bella in the dimples of his nipples, which -in completely unrelated news- are bronzed to the ump. And JACOB! Ahh.... he's such a great friend: he is giving free porno to a reluctant Bella, her love for him notwithstanding. How essentially moving. Really, i could CRY my eyeballs out to this pathetic attempt to making a movie.

Seriously, the only thing missing here, was Snoop Dogg singing 'Sensual Seduction' in the background. New Moon? This was 'Testosterone Rising'.

"Yes, Jacob, we know that you can withstand the cold- just don't push it into our faces by

taking your shirt off and running around half-nude!"

This 'New Moon', he takes off his shirt in the autumnal wind, next 'Eclipse', he'll freeze his testicles for Bella.

Such love is SO thought-provoking, right?

If you don't have the money for clothes, guys, I'm all up for a donation.

THESE A FEW IMAGES I'D LIKE TO SHARE WITH ONE AND ALL.

"I just heard i'm getting laid in Breaking Dawn. YAY!"

"I'm the hottest werewolf there ever~~

 ~~Wait. Is that Robert Pattinson without a shirt?? GOD, i'd tap THAT ass...."

"I gotta pee..."

The Farewell and a Dream that Never

Dreams are vivid part of ones life. Dreams constitute ones own thoughts, beliefs, and day-to-day happenings. Dreams are the very heart and soul of our inner Self: They are the portals through which our subconcious communicates with our concious self. Dreams are also said to have a very large role in portraying ones own intelligence level to oneself. Recently, researchers have found that ones dreams are linked with ones own IQ level. This is possible due to the strangeness of our dreams. The more strange ones dreams are, the higher is ones IQ level. In the same pretext, the more dreams one has, the high his capacity to learn, and retain knowledge. I had a dream which i haven't been about to understand. This is odd, since i'm so good at it. No matter how intelligent my dreams are, i always seem to get what the gist is all about. So, anyone wanna help me?

THE DREAM

this was just a simple dream about XKCD. I was in our class room, just the way it looks in reality. Except for the fact that not only were all my classmates there, but also the ones who come to REMS with me. We were on the last seat. XKCD and i were lightly talk we seemed to all be working on something or the other. So, as a joke, XKCD made me a card-like structure with a picture and a cartoon on it [excuse the pun]. So, naturally, i chose the cartoon [excuse the pun, again.] I cut out the cartoon and paste it in my diary [which, by the way everyone is interested in, seriously, if it's not personal, why is it called a PERSONAL diary?!] . Then he says something about me being a complete miser. "That is SO not true, XKCD!" I say to him, as i begin to walk all the way toward the other side of the class, right to where he is sitting. Invariably, he scoots to make room for me. I sit down there, and, before i know it, we've got our arms around each other. I'm on his right and, though everyone can see us, they don't seem to mind at all. Nobody interrogates us, or judges us for sitting so intimately together.

The best part about the dream is that its so casual, yet it feels so very delicate; so intricate. And the elation of it all, the loving joy... I've never been so happy after waking up from a dream.
But, then again, i've never cried for a dream only because it wasn't real, either... So...

In other, completely UNrelated news,

Ok, so, its not very clear. I'll write down what it says, instead:

FAREWELL PARTY ON 17TH (of February) FROM 11AM-2PM AT PODAR HALL DRESS CODE- BLUE AND BLACK. PASS ON THE MSG..

Now, i know the timings totally suck, but hey! Atleast i've GOT a farewell at school. so that TOTALLY accounts for SOMETHING! I'm looking forward to it so much, i actually fell out of my chair when i read this message.

"I'M GONNA HAVE A FAREWELL!I'M GONNA HAVE A FAREWELL! The timings suck, the dress codes totally drab and the venue's straight from hell, but~~~~

~~~I'M GONNA HAVE A FAREWELL! I'M GONNA HAVE A FAREWELL!!"

Jeez Whiz! I'm as excited as a fat person is about cake!

Or as i am about cake...

Ummm...Yum... Cake...!

"I"M GONNA HAVE SOME CAKE! I'M GONNA HAVE SOME CAKE! I SOUND like an IDIOT.... BUT WHO THE FUCK CARES?!"

For her.... and HIM?!

You know what I love about being Asian?
No, it's not the part where they stereotype us to be either Chinese, or Japanese. It's how we're related even REMOTELY to the most cockiest, craziest country on the entire planet.

And it's not france.

So, can you guess what the new "invention" of the japanese companies in Tokyo possibly is?


It's a BRA....

                 ... for MEN!!

Now, picture this ~~~~~~~

       Yours Truly just had the most passionate sex with her hubby ever, when, suddenly, the Mon says, "Could you help me with the hooks of my bra? I can't seem to reach them...."

Imagine that!

Or, maybe, one morning, he comes up to me and says, "Sweetie, all my bras are in the laundry room, could i borrow yours for the day??"

Seriosuly, guys, a brassiere for MEN?!

Thats like saying, "The new-aged SPEEDOS - FOR WOMEN."

IOW, that is TOTALLY UNSEXY!!

Check it out~~~~

AT LA PERLA:

SAN:"Would you happen to have an underwired lace bra in teal for size XXX*?"

CLERK: "Of course, Ma'am. How do you like it?"

SAN:"Oh, its BEAUTIFUL! I love it!!"

CLERK:"So, shall i pack it for you?"

SAN:"Yes... ~~OH! And~~"

CLERK:"Yes Ma'am?"

SAN: "Would you have the same in two sizes smaller? I was hoping to buy it for my husband..."

 *Withheld on request.

(<_<)

(>_<) *SHUDDER*

OR, how about.....

HUBBY:"What color Bra are you wearin'?"
SAN:(*WINKS*) "Red lace!"
HUBBY:(Astonished) "Heyy, me too!!"
SAN:(*SMILES DREAMILY*) "We have so much in common..."



I'm so glad I'm not Japanese....