KSA sat next to his sister, in front of the fireplace. She was dozing off, after a meal of wada pav, fish-and-chips and french toast with chocolate spread. "Dyspepsia, engorged, gargantuan, visceral...", she muttered. KSA sighed. He hated to wake her up (mainly because of her propensity to come up with theories he couldn't understand head or tail of) but some things Had to Be Done. And this was one of them.
"??!", he said, pronouncing her name with just the right degree of incredulous astonishment (she wouldn't respond otherwise). "Huh?", she woke up with a start, looking around. She noticed her idiot brother gawping at her and rubbing the last vestiges of apple-and-rhubarb-strudel-just-like-her-mum-used-to-make-it pipe dreams from her eyes, she looked at him questioningly. "What is it, now? Let me guess. You couldn't help make that Rowling woman's attempt at writing any better again? That job is just too hard for you. I should probably take it on.Has she already printed out copies?" "Wha-?", stammered KSA. "I only wanted to ask you if I could umm...err...y'know..ahem", he bleated.
"Cough it up, you dolt. What dya need to do?", really, she couldn't believe KSA! Waking her up from her nap (tearing her away from contemplations of Belgian waffles. With Honey. And Cream) just to blither away at her. "Well..would it be against the contract if I went back to the last d-i-d?", he mumbled, almost under his breath. "What?! Why would you want to go back? You mean the chick in the Aston? Oh and that really nice looking, Sean Connery look-alike old gent?", she allowed herself a smile. So rare to meet helpful folk during her missions. "Why would you want to go back?", she was curious now. Could it be? Had her brother finally.....she couldn't believe it. He turned a slow, tomato-red under her intent gaze. She started chuckling. "Which one of them?", she asked him in between chortles. "The one in the Bentley. With the nice man you liked.", he mumbled even more under his breath. "Nice, nice", she approved in her best elder-sister voice. She rubbed her hands together, "Let's get to work then. We need to find out where they are, don't we?".
Whirrrr.Too many cooks are better than one in the bush. Forewarned is forespawned. Tis better to have loafed and lost than never to have loafed at all. So think wisely and as well as possible. Depending on how deep it is. The well, that is. Half a loaf, as they say, is enough for dinner. Whirrrr.
KSA looked up with startled attention. "Tch", said ??! irritably. The damn 55-er Oracle spewing out gobbledy-gook again. She didn't know why she even listened to it anymore. "Do shut up", she snapped in its direction and continued looking into the crystal ball. But KSA couldn't help thinking about it. Half a loaf was, after all, enough for dinner. As long as one wasn't ??!.
Friday, July 27
Thursday, July 26
Brief Update on What Constitutes a Pain, Flaffily Speaking (Or Missives From the Trenches)
Grad school is a pain.
Orientation is a pain.
Life is dangerously set on the brink of being a pain.
"So much to do, so little time" is a saying coined by someone who was definitely a pain. I can just sense it (I have a theory that most sayings can give a very nice peephole into the character of the coiner but more on that one later).
I'm sorry I haven't blogged more :( since that is one of the few things that right now wouldn't be classified a pain.
BM, pliss to accept the spaces in lieu of words and I promise a brilliant new post as soon as the weekend swings around.
Orientation is a pain.
Life is dangerously set on the brink of being a pain.
"So much to do, so little time" is a saying coined by someone who was definitely a pain. I can just sense it (I have a theory that most sayings can give a very nice peephole into the character of the coiner but more on that one later).
I'm sorry I haven't blogged more :( since that is one of the few things that right now wouldn't be classified a pain.
BM, pliss to accept the spaces in lieu of words and I promise a brilliant new post as soon as the weekend swings around.
Tuesday, July 17
In Which some Loose Ends are Tied Up and some Explanations are Made
Remember the guy who asked me if this story was ever going to end? He recently took it upon himself to suggest that the last episode (as in the previous one-last not final-last, which would have been an entirely unamusing pun that I would never stoop so low as to use, thank you very much *sniff*) might be a good place to stop (he seems to think that I'm kowtowing to at least some of the laws of motion with much more fidelity than is required). So I thought about it and umm it seems reasonable enough. What do you guys think?
Secondly, June and July (so far) have been straggly months for poor Flaff. I've been using him very badly. Many apologies. But now I'm back (whoo hoo) and I shall take up the reins seriously and go back to my daily posting schedule (and no, that schedule isn't impelled by boredom and lack of anything better to do, Mr. Officious-person-in-the-front-row). I have some excellent posts all set up for this month (at least I have one of my renowned theory-posts, outlining a blog theory which the Prof was kind enough to proclaim a Quirky Theory, haha (the rest of you won't get the joke until you read that post, so sorry) half laid out umm kinda....sorta). Though first things first, I shall tackle the dreaded 8-tag of C.S. The rest of you can quake and tremble cos you never know where the finger of doom (ie my finger, very doomy it is) will come to rest among the lot of you. Muahahahahahaha.
Thirdly, this month shall see an unprecedented level of nepotism on this blog. Don't say I didn't warn you guys.
Fourthly (and also finally), I read two books reviewed by two blogger reviewer dudes whose judgments I normally find trustworthy. The first was Above Average which was passed off in the review as a book holding mainly rainy-afternoon value. While I ended up agreeing with a large part of Falstaff'take on it, I thought I saw something in it that set it apart from afternoon timepass status. The writing (while sometimes definitely amateurish) had that instinctive gift of storytelling implicit in it (haven't you found so often that some authors jerk along in fits and starts and while their finished products are perfectly passable - sometimes brilliant- there's something about it that doesn't sit right? Like one Christie, Agatha as illustrious example). And I think the book has more depth than it is widely given credit for and lumping it in the Five Point Someone category is quite unfair. I was never in IIT, never in Delhi, never a guy, but I totally identified with the entire book. Read it, you guys, if you haven't already. The second book, No Onions nor Garlic came recommended highly and left me totally cold. An unaffectionately rendered too clever to be called book trying vainly to imitate Wodehouse of all people and not managing to pull it off at all in my ever-so-vain-and-totally-conceited-and-infallible opinion. Give it a miss, I'd say :).
So to sum up the minutes of this post, I'm starting school next week ( :((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((( ). All sympathetic contributions will be accepted in the Comments section. Thank you vairy vairy much.
Secondly, June and July (so far) have been straggly months for poor Flaff. I've been using him very badly. Many apologies. But now I'm back (whoo hoo) and I shall take up the reins seriously and go back to my daily posting schedule (and no, that schedule isn't impelled by boredom and lack of anything better to do, Mr. Officious-person-in-the-front-row). I have some excellent posts all set up for this month (at least I have one of my renowned theory-posts, outlining a blog theory which the Prof was kind enough to proclaim a Quirky Theory, haha (the rest of you won't get the joke until you read that post, so sorry) half laid out umm kinda....sorta). Though first things first, I shall tackle the dreaded 8-tag of C.S. The rest of you can quake and tremble cos you never know where the finger of doom (ie my finger, very doomy it is) will come to rest among the lot of you. Muahahahahahaha.
Thirdly, this month shall see an unprecedented level of nepotism on this blog. Don't say I didn't warn you guys.
Fourthly (and also finally), I read two books reviewed by two blogger reviewer dudes whose judgments I normally find trustworthy. The first was Above Average which was passed off in the review as a book holding mainly rainy-afternoon value. While I ended up agreeing with a large part of Falstaff'take on it, I thought I saw something in it that set it apart from afternoon timepass status. The writing (while sometimes definitely amateurish) had that instinctive gift of storytelling implicit in it (haven't you found so often that some authors jerk along in fits and starts and while their finished products are perfectly passable - sometimes brilliant- there's something about it that doesn't sit right? Like one Christie, Agatha as illustrious example). And I think the book has more depth than it is widely given credit for and lumping it in the Five Point Someone category is quite unfair. I was never in IIT, never in Delhi, never a guy, but I totally identified with the entire book. Read it, you guys, if you haven't already. The second book, No Onions nor Garlic came recommended highly and left me totally cold. An unaffectionately rendered too clever to be called book trying vainly to imitate Wodehouse of all people and not managing to pull it off at all in my ever-so-vain-and-totally-conceited-and-infallible opinion. Give it a miss, I'd say :).
So to sum up the minutes of this post, I'm starting school next week ( :((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((( ). All sympathetic contributions will be accepted in the Comments section. Thank you vairy vairy much.
Sunday, July 8
In Which Wiseling's Legacy is Revisited
Now, before everyone jumps on my back (and leaves snarky comments like 'About time'. 'Lazy git', etc) let me just remind you guys that I'm not 1. as jobless as I am in the US when I'm pretending to work 2. left to myself for more than an hour at a stretch and 3. equipped with access to the internet (cos I've been having the funnest time roaming around forests and such like - read that and burn..muahahahaha). And also let me prove my devotion to this enthralling story (which someone despairingly asked me if I'd ever end, and to him I say (snootily) "Yes, I will! All in Good Time!!") by telling you guys that while I was driving on some of the worst roads I've come across in India (mainly cos they were completely washed away by the monsoons) I totally planned this episode out in my head. So there. Let your tears of remorse at your unjust complaints fall freely and wash the sin from your souls (I was recently at an Islamic prayer meeting and have been muchly inspired).
So, getting on with the Life and Times of an Unfortunately Unconscious RCW, we switch back to JAP, TR and Ph. Unsuspecting of the adventures that had befallen his precious Aston, the Professor walked out with JAP and Ph, guzzling a coke (which might or might not have had a drop of Something Stronger in it - and yes I'm talking about Folic Acid). JAP prided himself on his unerring sense of direction and memory. He had never lost a car in a car park in his life. Naturally, he was a little puzzled when he walked to the spot where he'd parked the Martin only to find a grey Bentley in it's stead. He scratched his head in baffled silence, walked around the car, even looked under it. But nothing. He looked at TR and Ph who were standing around idly, observing him. "Forgot where you parked it, didja?", sighed Ph. Not for the first time was she wishing she was anywhere but here with these two idiotic old men. She glared at TR who was now making bubbling noises with his straw. "No!", JAP drew himself to his full height and puffed out his not inconsiderable chest, "I *never* lose a car. It's been stolen." Ph shook her head and turned away to start looking for the car, when out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a little grey car zipping towards the exit. She whipped around, yelling, only to see the Aston pull out of the driveway onto the feeder, a girl driving it and someone who looked uncannily like RCW in the passenger seat. "Guysssssss. They've got the car. She's in it." Before she could finish the sentence JAP and TR were gazing open mouthed at the exit through which the Aston has just disappeared. "Call the police", screamed TR. "Catch them", said JAP running helplessly towards the exit. "Get in the car", yelled Ph. Not for nothing was she a high school student. She knew all there was to know about jacking open locked cars (not that she'd had to do it, someone had left the key in the car door. Rich idiots!). TR was beginning to register a protest and take the high ground re: integrity and morals (hard as BM might find to believe that) when JAP barreled into him, pushing him into the car and slamming the door locked behind him. He then ran to the other side, almost shoved Ph into the middle, got behind the wheel and in a puff of dust, the car roared out of the parking lot. The Bentley was turbo-charged (you *cannot* grumble about this, Senor JAP).
Ph and TR found themselves clutching onto the seats for dear life. "Slow down, slow down", yelled Ph against the wind trying to claw JAP's right eye out while holding onto her own hair which seemed fit to tear out of her scalp and fly away. JAP pulled out a Smith and Wesson, "Shut up, you guys. Not a peep out of any of you. RCW is in that car and we Will Save Her", he yelled pronouncing his capitals viciously. Ph moved closer to TR. JAP was obviously off his rockers. She had often told RCW that. "You're bloody off your rockers", she said, deciding to share the information with JAP himself. These things were better out in the open and treated on time while there was still hope. "You need psychiatric help" , she continued. And found herself lifted out of the seat and onto a saddle. Of a white horse. In front of someone who could be none other than the KSA. Trumpets blared in the background, she looked up into cold, blue eyes. She sighed deeply, closed her eyes and started kicking and screaming. Really, this highway banditry was getting quite uncontrollable. T White horses and armor! What next? TR looked on in bafflement. Maybe he shouldn't have drunk so much coke. Or maybe he shouldn't have put so much of the Stronger Stuff in it (still talking Folic Acid - which is sinetifically proved to have hallucinogenic side effects).
The KSA irritably hissed at Ph to stop being an idiot. Sometimes it annoyed him, how these wretched damsels in distress could never accept help graciously. Always kicking and biting. If it weren't for them he wouldn't even need the armor (which was dreadfully hot and had no scratching room). He urged his horse on faster. The trumpeting was giving him a headache. But it was in the terms of his contract and he could do nothing about it. Bugger it. He ran through his instructions in his head. He had to find a grey Aston Martin. Ah, there it was. Drop this d-i-d into it. Ok done that. He heard a yelp and a slight thud. He seemed to have dropped her onto someone else. Oh well. Not everything in life was perfect. He stopped in front of the car, his horse gracefully lifted up her fore-hooves (Good Ol' Dobby, you could always count on her). The trumpets reached a crescendo, and he galloped off. He patted Dobby on her back. A job well done.
Two minutes later, his sister smacked him on his head. "Why can't you get the simplest things right, you dolt? It was an *exchange*. Get it?? Means you give each party something the other party had!! Do I have to do everything myself?" She picked up the reins of Thunder, her velvet-black stallion and thundered back down to the freeway. She reached the Aston, identified the girl in the red blouse (at least this was better than last time when she had had to find a nose-ringed girl wearing a black tee in a high school), lifted her out of the car, bowed graciously at the driver (a girl who seemed to have lost her scream somewhere in her throat), smiled a twinkle and said "My apologies. My idiot brother screwed up". She galloped towards the Bentley that was following at a tearing pace. The driver (a total Sean Connery look alike, she thought appreciatively) was dangling a SnW in one hand and frantically pushing what appeared to be buttons on the dashboard. Before her eyes, the Bentley's carriage rose from it's wheels by a good two meters. How nice, the slightly oldish S.C type was trying to help her. She smiled gratefully at him, and neatly placed RCW on top of the man in the passenger seat. The girl seemed a bit limp. But that wasn't any of her concern. The contract was fulfilled, that was 1 grand in her pocket. One month's rent. Horizon Clouds were becoming bloody expensive real estate. She sighed as she galloped off into the horizon.
Both BM and JAP found their screams at the exact same instant. One can only sympathize (in some futility) with the Professor and Baron F. But that, gentlemen, is how the cookie crumbles.
(I hope to see at least a couple of happy campers now!)
So, getting on with the Life and Times of an Unfortunately Unconscious RCW, we switch back to JAP, TR and Ph. Unsuspecting of the adventures that had befallen his precious Aston, the Professor walked out with JAP and Ph, guzzling a coke (which might or might not have had a drop of Something Stronger in it - and yes I'm talking about Folic Acid). JAP prided himself on his unerring sense of direction and memory. He had never lost a car in a car park in his life. Naturally, he was a little puzzled when he walked to the spot where he'd parked the Martin only to find a grey Bentley in it's stead. He scratched his head in baffled silence, walked around the car, even looked under it. But nothing. He looked at TR and Ph who were standing around idly, observing him. "Forgot where you parked it, didja?", sighed Ph. Not for the first time was she wishing she was anywhere but here with these two idiotic old men. She glared at TR who was now making bubbling noises with his straw. "No!", JAP drew himself to his full height and puffed out his not inconsiderable chest, "I *never* lose a car. It's been stolen." Ph shook her head and turned away to start looking for the car, when out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a little grey car zipping towards the exit. She whipped around, yelling, only to see the Aston pull out of the driveway onto the feeder, a girl driving it and someone who looked uncannily like RCW in the passenger seat. "Guysssssss. They've got the car. She's in it." Before she could finish the sentence JAP and TR were gazing open mouthed at the exit through which the Aston has just disappeared. "Call the police", screamed TR. "Catch them", said JAP running helplessly towards the exit. "Get in the car", yelled Ph. Not for nothing was she a high school student. She knew all there was to know about jacking open locked cars (not that she'd had to do it, someone had left the key in the car door. Rich idiots!). TR was beginning to register a protest and take the high ground re: integrity and morals (hard as BM might find to believe that) when JAP barreled into him, pushing him into the car and slamming the door locked behind him. He then ran to the other side, almost shoved Ph into the middle, got behind the wheel and in a puff of dust, the car roared out of the parking lot. The Bentley was turbo-charged (you *cannot* grumble about this, Senor JAP).
Ph and TR found themselves clutching onto the seats for dear life. "Slow down, slow down", yelled Ph against the wind trying to claw JAP's right eye out while holding onto her own hair which seemed fit to tear out of her scalp and fly away. JAP pulled out a Smith and Wesson, "Shut up, you guys. Not a peep out of any of you. RCW is in that car and we Will Save Her", he yelled pronouncing his capitals viciously. Ph moved closer to TR. JAP was obviously off his rockers. She had often told RCW that. "You're bloody off your rockers", she said, deciding to share the information with JAP himself. These things were better out in the open and treated on time while there was still hope. "You need psychiatric help" , she continued. And found herself lifted out of the seat and onto a saddle. Of a white horse. In front of someone who could be none other than the KSA. Trumpets blared in the background, she looked up into cold, blue eyes. She sighed deeply, closed her eyes and started kicking and screaming. Really, this highway banditry was getting quite uncontrollable. T White horses and armor! What next? TR looked on in bafflement. Maybe he shouldn't have drunk so much coke. Or maybe he shouldn't have put so much of the Stronger Stuff in it (still talking Folic Acid - which is sinetifically proved to have hallucinogenic side effects).
The KSA irritably hissed at Ph to stop being an idiot. Sometimes it annoyed him, how these wretched damsels in distress could never accept help graciously. Always kicking and biting. If it weren't for them he wouldn't even need the armor (which was dreadfully hot and had no scratching room). He urged his horse on faster. The trumpeting was giving him a headache. But it was in the terms of his contract and he could do nothing about it. Bugger it. He ran through his instructions in his head. He had to find a grey Aston Martin. Ah, there it was. Drop this d-i-d into it. Ok done that. He heard a yelp and a slight thud. He seemed to have dropped her onto someone else. Oh well. Not everything in life was perfect. He stopped in front of the car, his horse gracefully lifted up her fore-hooves (Good Ol' Dobby, you could always count on her). The trumpets reached a crescendo, and he galloped off. He patted Dobby on her back. A job well done.
Two minutes later, his sister smacked him on his head. "Why can't you get the simplest things right, you dolt? It was an *exchange*. Get it?? Means you give each party something the other party had!! Do I have to do everything myself?" She picked up the reins of Thunder, her velvet-black stallion and thundered back down to the freeway. She reached the Aston, identified the girl in the red blouse (at least this was better than last time when she had had to find a nose-ringed girl wearing a black tee in a high school), lifted her out of the car, bowed graciously at the driver (a girl who seemed to have lost her scream somewhere in her throat), smiled a twinkle and said "My apologies. My idiot brother screwed up". She galloped towards the Bentley that was following at a tearing pace. The driver (a total Sean Connery look alike, she thought appreciatively) was dangling a SnW in one hand and frantically pushing what appeared to be buttons on the dashboard. Before her eyes, the Bentley's carriage rose from it's wheels by a good two meters. How nice, the slightly oldish S.C type was trying to help her. She smiled gratefully at him, and neatly placed RCW on top of the man in the passenger seat. The girl seemed a bit limp. But that wasn't any of her concern. The contract was fulfilled, that was 1 grand in her pocket. One month's rent. Horizon Clouds were becoming bloody expensive real estate. She sighed as she galloped off into the horizon.
Both BM and JAP found their screams at the exact same instant. One can only sympathize (in some futility) with the Professor and Baron F. But that, gentlemen, is how the cookie crumbles.
(I hope to see at least a couple of happy campers now!)
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