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.

My Bill at our Local Pizzeria

This was the bill I received at our local Pizzeria this afternoon:

I think that's just Gods way of saying, "Sangeeta, you damnable creature, the creation of Absolute Evil! 

You have maliciously disregarded the Dieties of the Heavens, for which you shall face our wrath!"

Or maybe just, "Fuck yourself, asshole." 

Well, he does get his revenge: that pizza's going straight to my thighs...

*Sigh*

Stranger things have happened...

People never cease to amuse me.
Humans are the most wondersome and mind-bloggling creatures there ever were. How is it that one will easily believe someone who says that there are more there a billion stars in the sky, and yet question one when they tell them that the paint on a park-bench is wet?
Human nature is odd to the Zenith.
People see no harm in someone with an exorbitant libido, but if a person has a dimished one, conflicts and allegations are thrown around at the asexuality of the esteemed. A Belgian Priest such as Georges Lemaître saying that the Big Bang exists isn't good enough for us. But Newton, Einstein, Hawking, and Friedman saying it made all the difference to the world.
So what is it that makes people choose such odd decisions? Does a mere degree signify that everything a person states is politically or diametrically correct? Or is it power? Or a homogenous mix of both?
Well, i'm not too sure of that, myself.
Taking an example into account, I'd once walked into Dr. Irani's clinic on a wintry morning with a copy of "The Economic Times" under my arm. I was in a Mickey Mouse jersey and blue faded jeans, coughing and wheezing like a dying chimpanzee. Then, i took the paper and started to read, occasionally telling the woman next to me about price hikes and an overall sensex review. Do you know what i learnt?
The Economic Times is quite the accessory for anyone who wants to be taken seriously. You'd bitch and gossip about the receptionist, complain about the coffee, even crack lame jokes about sex, and people would see you as an intellectual "with broader interests".
What? It's the Economic times, for chrissake! You need to be a "learned intellectual" to read AND understand those.
Sames for anything Franz Kafka wrote. This was the conversation between me and a cute guy in the BEST today:

"Um..." he squints at the book in my hand. "Is that a book by --"
"--Franz Kafka? Of course, yes! It's a compilation, actually. The individual novels are rather pricey..." I trail off, and then smile brilliantly.
"Oh!" Cute-Guy smiles. "So, you read the stuff he writes?"

Nope.

"Why, yes! In my opinion," I clear my throat. "The Metamorphosis was a splendid novella... It's such a shame to see people being so critical about it. I think it was immensely entertaining in a rather wise way."
"Wow, you have some enticing views." the smile on his face widens.

I've never read "The Metamorphosis". I don't even know what the fuck it's all about. And i'm pretty sure is a novelette, and not a novella.

"...So, do you find him good enough to read?" He asks, turning his entire body toward me.

Please, I'd rather watch "Glen or Glenda" instead of read the crap he writes...
But, since you're cute, I'm not going to tell you the truth.
I'm going to lie!

"Absolutely!" I widen my eyes at him. "His books are extremely high-IQ, like, so it can stump the layman. But these," I point at my green 'Compilations of the Great Works of Franz Kafka'. "Are mere translations, you know..."

I sure hoped he did, cuz i had no idea what i was getting myself into.

"Oh yeah?" He cocks an eyebrow at me in curiosity. "From what language?"

Fuck.
What language...?!
Ok. Ok. He's from Hungary, so....

"GERMAN! G-German. He's Hungarian. He was born in Prague, which was earlier a part of Austria. But, now, Prague is in Czech Republic." I nod my head intelligently at him, watching him stare in amused ineterest. Suddenly, i find myself cringing at my semi-british accent.
"Whoa! How do you know all of this?" he asks, a reporter in the charming disguise of the Cutest guy to ever sit next to me on a crowded bus.

From skimming the back of the book when you weren't looking?

"Oh, hes a reknown writer. Who wouldn't know?" I cock my head to the right.
"Right. Say, what are you reading right now?"

Fashion catalogues in Cosmo?

"The Novella 'America'."
"Oh?" He asks me to continue, and bends slightly toward me. And now, he's so close, i can practically smell his aftershave.

That's a really nice smell...

"Yes, its first chapter is 'The Stoker'. It was his greatest piece work even before being included in 'America'."
"Say, what's it all about?"

...Uh?

"The story begins as a sixteen-year-old boy named Karl Rossmann arrives at the New York harbor on a slow-moving ship. We are told that Karl has been sent to America "because a servant girl had seduced him and got herself with child by him." As he's about to come ashore, he remembers that he has left his umbrella. He asks a young man with whom he had been briefly acquainted during his voyage to watch over his trunk as he runs to get his umbrella, and the boy---"
"---Is the Stoker?"

No.

"Yes." I nod.
"Wow," He says. "You've read alot."

What?! Dooood, that's, like, only the first two pages of the entire deep-shit novel! For all your cuteness, not so much with the listening.

"Yes, it's quite long. And stretched."
"Like a rubberband?" He grins, and i burst into peals of laughter.

Your sense of humor sucks. It's a good thing you're cute.

"Like a rubberband." I stare up at him, and he moves closer.
"Well," his voice grows throaty. "What else has he written? Something," He curls a lock of my hair. "Interesting?"

Yeah. His will.

I shift away, nervously. "Th-the Castle?"

Wh-which is b-b-boring!!

"Mmmm..." he stops twirling my hair, but shifts in closer again.

Please don't ask me what it's about. Please, don't. Please don't. Please, Please, Please----

"---What's it all about?"

Fuck.

"Politics..." ....I hope?
"Sorry, my Stop's here. G'bye!" he smiles at me as he gets up to leave.
"Bye!" Phew!

So, after all this adult brainstorming session, too, i do not know how and why people decide that one persons opinion is more superior to the other. People believe all that they are told, but they question the most obvious of facts.
Why that's the case, i'll never know. Because this world is a haven of mad people. After all, stranger things have happened...

How to take care of Kids the Sangeeta Way OR ...Why the sh*t is there a BABY on my couch?!

*NOTE*: To all those parents who love their children, do NOT follow the regimen provided.

Illumination engulfs me as I begin to open my eyes to the agonizing world of misery and self-deception. A constant sound gurgles disconcertingly in my mind as I stir in bed. I gather all my strength to shuffle around for the blasted alarm. God, the sound is unnerving! When I find it –which is after an eternity of groping and profanities (courtesy of me)–I pick it up gently and throw it on the floor. Mom’s going to kill me for breaking this one… I close my eyes and drift away to a more alluring world of pink skies and chocolate bunnies. When I finally am positive that I’ll not a get a wink of sleep now, I haul myself off my bed, unsteady and bleary-eyed, and walk slowly toward the bathroom.
“Toothbrush… my… toothbrush… Where the… is my toothbrush?!” I scratch my chin, half-crazed with sleep and anger. Cabinet after cabinet, I use my coarse vocabulary to its zenith, looking hastily for the device of human creation that kept me from having the certain cavities my mother would put her will on to happen. While on my hurried quest for the pink, chewed-up toothbrush, my eyes landed on the mirror. I looked like a trailer-trash mom with eyes dripping off Kohl. I shuddered at the sight of me. Reminds me of that “TALKING TURLEEN” doll with the rollers, cigarette and a c-section scar.
Seriously, a c-section scar?
Yes, I was kinky enough to actually undress dolls and check out what they looked like. Even if they were NOT mine...
Washing off the kohl from the rims of my eyes, I continue my quest for the abducted toothbrush. A series of swear words slip casually off my tongue, and my hands moved diligently on the islet of spits-villas and faucet-waterfalls. I turned over each box of tissues, medicines, and miscellaneous, but the occasional swearing continued to flow. Sighing a bit, I finally took a finger, added a dollop of toothpaste (Mint! Yummy!) and cleaned my teeth. I then resorted to flossing my teeth and fetching my towel for a quick shower.
After dressing up, I walk into the Drawing Room, pick up the Daily, and resort to dropping down on the couch and reading it, like I always do.

"Be careful. There's a baby on the couch..." My mother says.

Ahh... my sweet, innocent, delusional mother. I make The Face at her, the one i usually make at people just before i prove them wrong. I shuffle around on the couch.

"OYE!" I yelp and jump off the couch, almost running away from the puddle of animal matter.

I can't believe it. She was right. There IS a baby on the couch.

"B-but... But...."

How can she be right?! I made The Face! This is wrong!! This is so goddamn wrong!!
I want a lawyer.
~:~
"It's moving." I say to my mum.
"It's a girl, sweetheart," she says, her almond eyes glittering with motherly joy and affection.
Now, usually, when most girls see such an expression -the one my mum had on her face -they widen their eyes in disbelief and begin to shower all possible attention on the foreign baby, treating them as their own.
Instead of doing what most girls would do, I simply cock my left eyebrow at my mum and, giving her the most disturbingly grim expression, i resort to conquering the knowledge the Daily has to provide to me.
Now, i have nothing against babies -nothing at all! It's just... i haven't the slightest clue of what to do with them.
Babies are like boys; first, you don't know how to kiss them, and, when you figure THAT out, you don't know what the hell to do with your hands.
The baby stirs -on MY couch, sleeping on MY pillow, drooling over MY blanket -and yawns lazily.
Life is so unfair, its not even funny.
Soon, she wakes up and, goggle-eyed, she stares up at me.
I'm not very good with Kids, boys notwithstanding. Let me give you a step-by-step guide to taking care of kids my way.

HOW  TO TAKE CARE OF KIDS THE SANGEETA WAY

STEP 1: THE BABY WAKES UP

• Baby opens eyes: Ahh... another day... OF TORTURING, CRYING AND NAPPY-CHANGING!! ~~A little bit bit of pee on the sofa, topped with fresh baby drool. Just how i like it.
• Baby stares at Sangeeta, and Sangeeta stares at baby: A Divine discovery.

STEP 2: EX POST FACTO OF WHEN THE BABY WAKES UP

• Baby's state of mind and Body

Body: Smiles at Sangeeta
Mind: Not Applicable

• Sangeetas state of body and mind

Body: Stares at baby like a freaking lunatic
Mind: "...uh?!"

STEP 3: EX POST FACTO OF ALL THE WEIRD GOGGLE-EYED SMILING

• Baby

Body: Pulls toes with hands and laughes (I don't blame him...)
Mind: N/A

• Sangeeta

Body: Perspiration, nervousness, temporary aphasia, horror, more perspiration and acute nausea.
Mind: "Why is it so #$!&ing HOT in here?! Where are we, in ASIA?!
...Oh wait...
#$!&...

STEP 4: BABY CRIES

• Baby

Body: *Horrifying shrieking similar to that of when a colossally large woman with six-inch heels steps on ones foot. Seriously, either ban overstuffed people, high-heeled shoes, or the combo of the two. It's murder, i tell you!*
Mind: Food! Food! Food! Goo-goo-gaa-gaa! OR N/A

• Sangeeta

Body: Perspiration, nervousness, temporary aphasia, horror, more perspiration,acute nausea, and surreal calm.
Mind: AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP! IT'S LIKE THE WRATH OF SATAN!!  IT'S... IT'S LIKE VALENTINE'S DAY ALL OVER AGAIN!!

Why did i have to think of that?! C'mon, there's a BABY in the room....

So, you see, i could never be worse with a child. Believe me, if you were to ever leave a new-born within fifty yards of me, he's sure to develope atleast one type of psychological disorder. SO, if you hate you're kid, send him to India! He'll be taken care of well.... Really well...(Cue satanic laughter followed by a strange hacking noise and awkward spluttering.)

And, of course, there is a baby on my couch "Because my mother said so".
Mom, I'm not fourteen anymore.
That was ages ago.
Seriously, parents have to come up with better lines...