Of Failed Story Attempts...

Suffice to say that I thought my two attempts at a story were sufficiently rubbish for me to abandon the idea with vigour. 

I shall resume my slovenly (albeit unhelpful) commentary on various useless things I (read : my mind) encounters every now and then.

... and I've struck upon hip-hop and rap.

Or to be more accurate, the culture that goes along with it.

I mean, to be annoyingly precise, the baggy pants, and the HUGE tee shirts, and the magnificently large and wasteful necklaces, and the extravagantly stupid 'grills' (grillz, in lingo, I'm told). 

The clothing bit is fine by me. I don't particularly care, because it follows my own personal belief. The baggier, the more comfortable. Hence, the better. What I don't get is why they have to stoop and shuffle like they're deeply afflicted by rheumatism. Boggles the mind. They're going to walk the same way in another 60 odd years... why do it now? 

Oh, probably practice, now that I think of it. I'm sure there's a Rheumatoid Olympics, which they want to enter, and they want to start practising now. 

So that's explained.

Next on the agenda - the chains, and the 'bling-bling, yo'. 

My first reaction is 'Wha-?'

Essentially what our slightly retartded and rheumatoid friends are doing is making it acceptable for men to wear jewellery. 

They've got necklaces the size of my car hanging around their necks... which explains the stoops.

But let us not linger on their modes of locomotion, I'm sure people are sick of it by now.

They wear braces, apparently. Which no normal person wants to do, even if its out of compulsion, but these people hop to it like... bunnies to chocolate? The direct comparison eludes me.  Point is, they do it, with vim and vigour befitting the most illustrious soldier in battle. 

And these aren't just braces. They're braces made of diamond. 

So they're loaded with brains too, then.

To calrify a point even further, they're wearing braces, made of diamonds.

Remind my again how that's smart...?

You've got the most expensive stone on the planet, nailed to your teeth. 

Doesn't exactly speak of abounding intelligence.

To conclude, here's my own cover of a famous rap song.

Yo, 

Yoyo.

Yo..... YO!

(Swear, in appropriate amounts. Depending on fame of singer, increase number of swears)

Ma' homie.

'sup nigga?

Nigga, nigga nigga.

Nigganigganigganigganigganigga YO!

Yoyoyoyoyo nigga.

Yea'.

Hey, Hey, Everyone Wants To Be A Rock (Star)

A sort of story I'm working on. Rather large, so I'm putting it up in parts. Still haven't finished, so updates as I finish.

Thud.

“Ow.”

Hm. This was going to be harder than I thought.

Stage diving.

Yeah, that's what the crowd loves, isn't it? When their favourite guitarist/drummer/singer/pole dancer flings themselves off stage, to land in the audience, face first, and get manhandled by a million and odd people?

Hell yeah! Sign me up anyday, is what I said. But stage diving does not come to the inexperienced. It requires practice, as much as it may seem not to.

Not to get various parts of your body yanked off by rabid fans, that was an art, my friend.

But the most important part of stage diving, is the crowd.

Which I seemed to be missing.

“Where's the dangblastedsnarkin' crowd?!?”

“Wha-?”

“The crowd, Beavis. The crowd.”

“What crow?”

Sigh.

“Let me explain this to you. Rock shows have nothing to do with birds which go 'kaaa'. They've got an audience. Any questions? No, an audience has nothing to do with cars, either. They're the people who watch. Yes, them. Now for a stagediv- that's what I was doing now, you monkey. Jumping of the darned stage! Yeah, that. Okay, stage jumping then. So stage jumping involves a crowd, since I dive face first into them. They then carry me, and worship me like the God I am. What? Why do I jump face first? 'Cause its cool. Yes, its moronic. But its cool. Its what 'turns them on' to use a well used phrase. No, hopping on stage will not do. Get me a crowd. Now.”

So that threw stage diving practice out of the window.

Great.

What else did I have to do before my moderately gigantic gig tomorrow?

Oh, right. I almost forgot.

The band.

With two of the four apparently 'taking a break six feet underground' as Sood kindly informed me, I doubt they'd be willing to do the concert. So I needed to find replacements. Fairly quickly, too.

What to do, what to do?

While I was pondering these questions of philosophy, there was a god-almighty-goodness-gracious-me-I-think-I-just-wet-myself explosion behind me.

I turned around.

“Mother-”

“Flock!” a voice behind me yelled.

I looked again.

Turns out Mr.Voice was right. A flock. Of geese. All carrying a bottle of what looked like mustard in their little beaks, and what appeared to be some sort of explosive device in their claw-things.

So this is what theivery had reduced to. People using flocks of geese as disctraction, for what was obviously something more sinister.

Turns out I was right. Shortly thereafter, I was surrounded by darkness.

“Who turned out the lights” I asked, rather cliched-ly.

“Shet yer mouth, fatty. This is a hostage.”

This baffled me.

“This is a hostage? That's wonderful, Feynman, real smart.”

Prod.

“Ah shet yer mouth” I heard yet again “youse ain't got no say in this”

“No say in what, my intellectually challenged friend? All I know is that I'm in a sack, and this sack smells repulsively of potatoes, I might add. Atleast you could have got me a clean sack, me being a rockstar and all'

“Aah, yer all washed up”

Thud.

Silence.

A sound of an engine being started up.

Hm, I was in a van, or a bus. Or a pretty darned large car.

But I was shoved into this motorized mode of transport, is the point.

Shortly after that, I get shoved out of the motorized mode of transport, still trapped in darkness. My eyes have gotten pretty used to the darkness, and I'm seeing... darkness. Wonderful. So I was in a sack.

“The boss wants to see youse” said Butthead. Beavis and him would get along like Smoke and Water, methinks. Probably won't have as good a rhythm, though.

“Who's the boss?” I asked, not, obviously, alluding to the rather sickening T.V show of the late eighties.

“He'll tell ya. Now shaddap yer mouth, fatty.”

More prodding. Sometimes not in the most comfortable places, either. 

Electrocution

He walked in from the storm, drenched to the skin. 

He was pretty sure his bones were wet, but that was probably more his blood's fault rather than the rain, he sensibly thought.

God, it was hot in here. Why didn't someone turn on the fan?

Ah, there's the switch. 

*switch*

So this is what flying feels like. Its grea-

*whapcrack*

"Ow."

*thunk*

Hey! How'd the switch get to the other side of the room? I was there just a second ago... 

Pretty stars. The way they dance is just so... pretty.

And that figure standing next to that one star, it looks like...

"Maurice? Maurice Brinckenhauer Alridge Marmaduke?"

"No" answered a gruff-sounding voice.

"Maurice, I must say, you're voice is starting to sound a lot like gruff's"

"No" answered a gruff-sounding voice.

"Maurice, you used to be so verbose. All those conversations we had under that fungal growth... why so monosyllabilic?"

"Well, it all started at computer camp.."

"Was it in '84?"

"Yep. Met this girl there - "

"Really."

"Her name was Judy"

"Fascinating."

No, wait. This obviously couldn't be real. Maurice hated computer camp. 

Strange.

"Why is Maurice acting so weird?" he asked the pinstriped weasel next to him.

*grunt*

Oh, right. It was a weasel. 

Hm.

In all his excitement, he didn't notice the fan didn't switch on. Until now.

Great. Now I need to get up and walk all the way across the room.

Getting up and realising he was still pretty soaked through (stupid rain) he squelched across the room. 

*switch*

So this is what flying feels like. Its grea-

*whapcrack*

"Ow."

*thunk*

Sigh.

This was going to be a long night.

An Update.

This is the latest in the 'An ...' series.

No joke.

In the midst of the chaos that is this update, I realised that the last time I really sat down and wrote something well was... well, was a while back. 

Compared to the tripe that's generally on this blog, one of the July updates was pretty good. 

Hm.

Ah. Here's a test. See if you can make head or tail of the following statement.

"It is impossible by means of inanimate material agency to derive mechanical effort from any portion of matter by cooling it below the temperature of the coldest of the surrouding objects"

While studying, hurriedly, this is the last thing you want to come across. A string of seven words which takes you about half and hour to decipher.

And then you find the whole thing is explained three lines later. 

Frustrating, to say the least.

The prerogative of scientists to embellish their phrases with unnecessarily long and cumbersome words seems banal. Just since their average intelligence might or might not be at a loftier level than most, it does not rest on them to furnish their sentences with unnaturally long words. This habit of theirs entices ululations of frustation from me, and I strongly believe this practice should cease with immediate effect, to save mental trauma on the part of me, and several other students.

An Idiot Pt.2

Well... I may have been wrong about the endless non-update-ing-ness of this blog.

Yeah, updating is a word. But it looks longer when I say update-ing.

Why did I throw a tantrum and shut down this blog? 

Well, I thought there was no point to continuing this anymore. I thought since no one really cared about this blog, and I don't really care either, there isn't any point.

But then there's just so much to write about/rant about. And I realised that this blog wasn't for other people. I started it, just so I could have somewhere to write, apart from a notebook. Although of late, it's been more for 'other people' than me, and I've derived less enjoyment from it than I used to. So I shut it down for a bit.

Then is struck me, I really didn't like not writing. 

So here I am.

To make your lives hell again.

(P.S - In case you haven't got it as yet, the title of this post refers to me) 

... And Death

I've just realised that this blog exists for no reason at all.

Well, it does have one reason. It provides me ranting space. But none of you really care about that.

... or this blog, come to think of it.

So, following my principles, since this blog has no identifiable reason for its existence, it shall be not-updated until I figure out why I started to write here in the first place.

Good night.