<Column name> - July 2, 2011
To pee, or not to pee? That was the question.
Yes, I urinated. On two tomcats, who for some reason, had decided to make my balcony their battleground on this humid, depressing, sticky monsoon night.
You see, I had just sat down to write my first piece for <magazine name> - AND I WAS READY.
The timing was perfect – It was way past midnight between a Saturday and a Sunday - i.e. the best time to write, and talk, and have a quickie, and read a book, and basically do anything at all.
I was wearing my late-night writer’s gear –
(1) Loose cotton boxer shorts adorned with 4 skulls, 6 marshmallows, 3 naked women, 1 goat, 3 cockroaches (I should wash these shorts more often), and the Golden Gate Bridge.
(2) An unwashed t-shirt that has a picture of Yoda getting butt-fucked by the Emperor. An oddly-shaped speech bubble near Yoda’s mouth has the following text – Strong is the force in this one.
(3) A strawberry-flavoured durex condom, firmly pulled over my head.
(4) A pair of white, faux-fur, bunny slippers (I.LOVE.THESE.SLIPPERS) and finally,
(5) A pair multi-coloured, tie-and-dye, knee-length, dead-head socks.
YES, I WAS READY.
I even had a cup of hot coffee at arm’s length on my desk.
Oh, allow me to digress and indulge you with some random information – I had not made myself a cup of filter coffee (yes, I’m a South Indian and I MUST have 89 cups of filter coffee every day when I go home) because I can’t.
Instead, I had opened up a sachet of pre-mixed Nescafe Cappuccino that I had quickly and easily whipped into perfection in my favourite Gold-coloured, dick shaped, ‘Gold Member’ coffee cup. Let’s digress a little further – Have you seen that movie? I think it’s stellar. I want to spend an entire day with Mike Myers, discussing accents and the abomination that is Wayne’s World 2.It was at this juncture, after I had walked the 12 steps from the kitchen to my study, placed the dick-shaped coffee cup on the hand-cut cork coaster on my desk, sat my rather large, yet curvaceous behind on my new super-soft, air-cushioned, steel grey office chair, that these two, rather rude creatures decided to strategically plant themselves in the balcony, on the other side of the window that lies behind my work desk. (it’s simple really: my desk à window à balcony).
I heard a rather strange sound (semi-gargle, semi-choke, semi-magic bullet) from the other side of the window at first, and assumed that my neighbour, Mrs. Lobo was on her late night fart spree (Yes, Mrs. Lobo’s and my balcony are quite close, very close, in fact, they’re very, very, very close to each other).
I knew I was wrong when that strange sound morphed into a conversation between two Chinese people with a very strange accent. It went somewhat like this:
Chinese #1 – Mao…
Chinese #2 – Mao…
Chinese #1 – Maaooo…
Chinese #2 – Mao…
Chinese #1 – Maaaoooo…
Here’s a little secret – I cannot write a single word in the presence of a cat – especially if the cat is in a 3 meter radius. I don’t know the psychological connection but my palms begin to sweat, I begin to stand on one leg and I see Santa Clause sitting on a western commode reading a 1995 issue of Debonair (weird, cause their best issue was April 1997) but only this time, Santa couldn’t open the magazine cause all the pages were stuck to each other.
I had to get rid of those pesky bastards.
If 7 years of touring with a band had taught me anything, it was about how to control your bladder. I can willfully hold my pee (this, of course, takes years of practice) till I find a decent enough spot to go; I can also willfully release my pee (this too takes years of practice) in case I’m not going to get an opportunity to go, like on a long road trip.
Ah! Here comes my good friend, digression – Have you ever had to pee in a plastic bottle because the only bathroom in the near vicinity (your tiny 1BHK home, in most cases) was occupied by a friend / girlfriend / eunuch / neighbour / god? Me neither.
I was at my favourite watering hole (LOL) over the weekend and I was shocked to see so many demons from the netherworld cavorting with men. Don’t get me wrong; these rakshasas were good at what they did– they had successfully got sober men to take them out for a drink. Most of them had the face of a South Indian actor and proudly exposed 3 inches of fungus-ridden cleavage. I wanted to drink a bottle of hand sanitizer as soon as one of them brushed past me. How does this relate to me urinating on a cat? It doesn’t. That’s what digression is all about.
Coming back to the cats – To ensure that I wrote something print-worthy I had to get them out of that 3 meter radius. The only thing I could rely on was my trustworthy bladder. So up I went, behind my desk, onto the window ledge and unbuttoned my boxers. The Chinese cats looked up, saw me hang out with my wang out, and cocked their heads slightly to the left. One of them even raised a paw and swatted at me. I unleashed the wrath of my urethra on him.
Now, I’m back at my desk, without any cats to bother me and I’m ready to let it rip. Here goes nothing.
I’m going to be writing this piece for <magazine name> from now on. I’ll share stories from real-life experiences, I’ll provide insider information from the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation, I’ll give advice to pedophiles and other animals, I’ll introduce you to the world of retarded songwriting, I’ll give you tips on how to make the bouncers at a high-class venue your best friends, I’ll tell you the truth about what really happens backstage at a metal concert, I’ll show you how to wear an incontinence diaper and I’ll even give you reviews of porn movies. Ok?
For now, I will leave you with a Haiku – You see, if I leave you with a little child, that would be punishable in a court of law.
It’s time. I must go.
Do not believe anything.
My beard is real, man.