A blogger comes with a shelf life. And, when the said blogger’s chosen topic is either humor or shock, that shelf life only becomes shorter. With more serious consequences beyond.
In other words, stop reading.
It’s not enough if you don’t wear denim trousers, kid; you must also stop wearing sleeveless shirts.
PS: A reader (actually, a writer) writes in,
This P.R.E.E.T.I girl is something. Look at this one from last December
Priya- my awesomely fun, beautiful and entirely LOVABLE dido.
Isn’t there a spelling mistake somewhere there?
One’s political opinions and contempt for the existing establishment have a place; that’s not in a story on the lovable Semicolon.
The linguist Noam Chomsky sniffed, “I suppose Bush would claim it’s the effect of No Child Left Behind.”
True enough. But I can’t think of something scarier than Clinton repairing my carburetor, given what she did with healthcare in Bill’s first term. Would you let her near your car?
Two questions: Have you ever lived in America for a reasonable length of time? Do you in some way work for the payer segment of the US Healthcare market?
If your answer is no for both questions, I think you should shut up. Really. Even if it’s yes, just shut the fuck up. Seriously, what do you know about Healthcare in the US? I invite you to write a 300 word basic essay on how the system functions.
Since Varma boy is in the habit of saying such things, I now order him to speak out defending Raj Thackeray’s right to free speech.
Actually, I could have put this post up yesterday, but the internet was acting funny. Every site I went to opened easily except my own. At one point, MadMan, who built this website and otherwise runs the universe, told me that perhaps the government has blocked it. We were running traceroutes and all.I looked up at the sky where no higher being exists and promised: Please FSM, if my site comes back, I will only blog about arty things. No politics, no economics. Nothing to piss governments off.
But now the site is back, and I’ve forgotten my promise. May I choke on pasta.
Or, why self deprecation is best left to Maanga.
LAST October Aishwarya Bachchan grappled with a tough choice. The Bollywood star could either stay in Los Angeles to pursue a lead role in Will Smith’s new film, “Seven Pounds,” or she could return home to Mumbai to celebrate Karva Chauth, a daylong ceremonial fast that some married Hindu women observe as a prayer for their husband’s health and long life. (The observance is a new one for Ms. Bachchan; in April she married Abhishek Bachchan, an actor and the son of the Indian film star Amitabh Bachchan, a union that prompted Time magazine to describe the three as “Bollywood’s Father, Son and Holy Babe.”)Ultimately Ms. Bachchan chose to return to Mumbai and starve with a smile. National television channels covered her first Karva Chauth as headline news. Two months later she shrugged off her loss in an interview. “You do what you have to do,” she said. “Feeling torn and thereby unhappy, confused or guilty is not something I want to feel. So you make your choices and go with it. You get some and some you don’t.”
This month Ms. Bachchan brings some of that clarity and traditionalism to a role she was born to play: that of Queen Jodhaa in the sumptuous-looking historical drama “Jodhaa Akbar.”
Thus, Amit is pardoned.
There are Universities that teach the art of writing and therefore I assume[1], there must be people who know a lot more about the said art. But I must say, when some write-up starts thus,
They are often the first sounds of the day. Under the jamun coloured sky a gate opens, groaning and creaking, protesting at being woken up so early in the morning, Water is splashed from a chipped plastic bucket, not poured, not sprinkled but splashed.
it can safely be assumed[2] that the prose has killed the content. And that reasonable people will read no more.
[1] & [2] — Attempts at drift. Please appreciate.