The Gay Foot Soldier

Normally I’d sit back and tell you guys about my day and the things that are on my mind and what not, but today is not one of those days. My brain has been pickled, you see. Someone, I’m not stating names and I’m not making this up, hinted that I am not funny enough. I get that, and I’m open to criticism of all kinds, also this criticism opened my eyes and opened my eyes to there being a scope of improvement. Thank you, mystery critic, seriously... There's no sarcasm there. This wasn’t just criticism though, because after I poked at it further, I noticed that my viewership is on a steady downward spiral. I started off with a couple of hundred views a day and then it depreciated into about 50 and now I’m at about 40 something views a day. This saddens me, because I’m a writer with no life other than this. Yes, I did say that in a desperate attempt to get you people to like me. No, I don’t think it worked out quite well. In any case, I’ve decided to test the waters a bit and do something that’s been unlike me, thus far. Here’s a little piece of fiction that I’ve put together especially for you, all 40 people per day of you. I call it – The Gay Foot Soldier.

THE GAY FOOT SOLDIER –

Elliot John was in the middle of celebrating his eighteenth birthday. His parents decided to surprise him by inviting all his friends over to the house bright and early. They even bought him a big cake. Elliot wasn’t particularly fond of baked goods. He was surprised that this three tier, pink, wedding-cake-replica was sitting in the middle of his living room. Not just because it was a giant pink cake, but also because he was lactose intolerant. He always had been. Did his parents just simply forget about that minor detail? How could they? When he was just an infant he’d throw up after breast-feeding all over his mothers bosom. When he was a teenager, the mere smell of dairy would leave his bowels coiling like a python in heat. Just on his last birthday he was sent into a spree of severe depression because his friends decided to have White Russians: A dairy based cocktail. His guidance counsellor requested him to go see a shrink to overcome the sadness and hardships of coping with a normal life sans dairy.

“Happy birthday honey!” His mother shrieked. She grabbed him and clung on to him for dear life.

“Thanks mom. Why the pink?” He asked, confused.

“Oh, erm… You see, honey…” tears began flowing down her cheeks, “Dan.. A little help here.”

Dan, Elliot’s father, was a retired policeman. He was forced into early retirement when a stray bullet ricocheted on his groin, fracturing his pelvis. He still walks with a limp to this day, but that’s irrelevant… He stepped in because his wife was short of words, “Son… We know you’re gay, we always have. So we thought we’d make this birthday party a double celebration. Happy Coming Out Day to you!” he yelled as all his friends clapped and cheered.

“I’m not gay dad!” Elliot yelled. Gasps filled the air, every person in the living room was whispering something into someone else’s ear.

“Really?” Elliot’s mom asked, confused, “Then why are your pants always so tight? Oh and why do you have pictures of men all over your room?”

“I have two posters in my room, An Elton John one and one with KISS on it!” it felt as though people were judging him for saying the word 'kiss.' Some people even nodded and mumbled, “Yup… Definitely gay.”

Elliot felt the sudden need to elaborate, “You know... the band? Knights in Satan’s Service?”

Elliot’s mother fell into Dan’s arms and sighed, “Our son is in a cult!”

Dan held onto his wife and looked over at Elliot, disappointed. “Are you crazy? Next thing we know you’ll be telling your mother about how much you like Lady Gaga!”

“What’s wrong with liking Lady Gaga?” He asked. No sooner did the words escape his lips than the gasps and shrieks in his crowded living room filled the air.

Elliot began walking towards the front door, dodging people on his way out. All his friends and family members were chanting, “Gay boy! Gay boy! Gay boy!” as he made his way to the exit, he stopped at the door step, exasperated and issued a proclamation, “I am not gay! You’ll see! I’ll go do something manly with my life!” He walked out of his house and slammed the door shut. After having done that he felt extremely guilty for possibly hurting the door and stood on the front stoop for five minutes apologising to the door. When he felt he had settled his debt with the door, he was on his way.

Elliot made it his life's sole purpose to prove to the world that he wasn’t homosexual. He never thought that there was anything wrong with being gay, but the problem was that he never wanted to be pegged as something that he was not. In fact, Elliot was so pro gay that he attended all the Gay Pride Parades; he even made placards supporting the cause. He was very proactive when it came to causes he supported.

Thus far his mission had been extremely unsuccessful. He had gone to the barbershop and gotten a haircut. He normally wore his hair parted, with one eye always being covered in his luscious and well maintained locks. The problem was that Elliot had to spend most of his money on the barber because he decided to get his hair cut by the very hands that cut Simon Cowell’s hair. He loved how Simon’s hair was always perfectly in place. There was nothing wrong in wanting a fancy haircut, absolutely nothing homosexual about that, he thought. The only problem with that was that it reduced his clothes-shopping budget significantly.

He walked into the cheapest clothing store he could find to rid himself of the tight denim pants that he always wore. He had to shop in the children’s section because he was so thin and scrawny. No pants in the adult section would ever fit him. The children’s section in the shopping market was quite bizarre. They had ballerina outfits and Cowboy outfits; they had nothing that would make Elliot seem less gay than he already did. After hours of searching he finally found a camouflage army costume. “This’ll have to work!” he thought. He went into the little kiddy trial area and put it on and came out to check himself out in the mirror.

“Oh honey, you look so adorable in that thing!” exclaimed an old lady from behind him who was wearing the store uniform; a badge pinned on her chest indicated her name was Donna. Elliot was glad that someone that wasn’t his mommy was appreciating him. “But can I suggest you go to the store down the street? They have clothes suited for people of your particular… Persuasion.” She said.

“My persuasion? What persuasion?” he asked, baffled.

“Oh, you are a Lesbian, aren’t you?” Donna asked, sincerely.

Elliot was furious. He handed the lady 20 dollars for the outfit and stormed out of the store, on his way out he yelled, “I’m not a lesbian!”

Donna chuckled. “Oh those lesbians. They’re all such lovely people. It’s a pity this one’s so far in the closet… One step back and she’ll be in Narnia.” She said out loud, to no one in particular.

Elliot was furious, his face, however, was leaking no emotion. He marched furiously to the placement agency where he had set up a meeting. He needed something manly to do as a profession, he was thinking of something along the lines of hosting a talent show or managing a boutique. You know, real hands on stuff.

On his way there a young boy yanked on his mothers arm. The boy pointed at Elliot and said, “Mommy, mommy… Look! It’s a soldier!” This saddened Elliot ever so deeply. He had tried hard to look good and be a respectable element of society, he had tried ridiculously hard to be himself, after all his efforts at trying not to be pegged as something he is not; this boy insisted on ruining his mood. The boy could have said nothing and let Elliot be nothing but another person in the world, instead this little hooligan was calling Elliot a Soldier! The horror!

Elliot hunched his back and looked the little boy square in the eyes and yelled, “I’m not a soldier!” he marched off as the boy burst into tears clutching his mother’s waist.

Elliot was distraught by the days happenings. He knew there was nothing in this world for him. He decided to end it all. He walked up a hill where couples went to make out and stood at the edge of the cliff, staring down at what was to be his fate, the end to his torment, where he was to meet his maker, and other such proverbs and euphemisms.

He looked up at the sky and said, “Today I’ve been called a lot of things that I am not, and I can’t live a lie anymore.” He wiped a tear off his cheek as he set one foot off the cliff, kicking tiny rocks to the ground far, far below. “I’m not Elliot anymore!” were his last words. A large “SPLAT” like noise followed when his body hit the ground.

The next day the headlines read: “Gay/Lesbian foot soldier committs suicide at make out point.”

So you see, inside each one of us, is a person that we are not. Whether you’re an artist trying to break free or a handyman trying to move up; or even if you are a flaming homosexual like Elliot.

“I’m not fucking gay!” Elliot yelled, from the afterlife.

fin.

The Brown Lodown

They say that racism is stupid because at the end of the day we’re all just people that are going to die, eventually. Then they say that if you want to be racist about shit you should learn from a Panda. Panda’s are cute little fuckers and all but they’re white and black and they’re Asian.

The thing is though, they may know about being all 3 of those races, but they know nothing about being brown. I do. I’m the motherfuckin’ brown Panda! Not to be confused with the Grizzly and any other kind of bear because they’re all brown too. Okay, so I’m not a fucking bear. I am, however, Indian and thus qualifying as Brown. So for this post I’m going to talk to you about the shit that you’d never know about brown people unless I didn’t tell you. Or well, you live in the Indian Subcontinent, then this post will just be a laugh riot about shit that you already know. Without further ado, here’s Shit that brown peeps have to deal with:

1: Television: You know how in the US/Canada/Mexico/Brazil, Europe/Australia/Antarctica/Africa… Okay, maybe not Africa because they’re poor and hungry and shit. What? You’re judging me for that joke? Screw you! You kept coming back for more of my shit and now you’re reading a post about racism and you’re calling me discoloured? Yeah… I thought you’d be sorry. So as I was saying, all those places have at least one television show that anyone between the ages of 15-30 would like. For instance Ripleys Believe it or Not, Americas Next Top Model, Canada’s Next Top Model, Australias Next Top Model, Ethiopia’s Next Top Model… What? There’s no Ethiopia’s Next Top Model? That’s just racist! Other than crappy television you guys also have that entertaining television show that’s great for all ages. So the problem with being brown is… You have none of that shit; we have Indian Idol: Which is basically a bunch of ugly old people dancing and singing shitty old Bollywood music. Now there’s nothing fun about that but the people in the more remote cities love that shit. Although, here’s what I think is wrong with that. I’ve worked in the Television business for about 7 years now; I am to the insides of television as the NBA players are to the insides of the Kardashians. I know that shit like the back of my hand. They say they’re only making Television to make money, now you should be looking to target the viewership from places with higher populations if that is the case. So your main target should be metropolitan cities. In India, the metros would be Bombay, Delhi, Bangalore and Calcutta. No one likes to see sob stories about what’s going on in the villages here. I live in a metro! I associate with people that live around me! I know that they don’t give the slightest fuck about how much money a farmer makes and yet our television is filled with shit that nobody in the metros watches. So you white people have it good. Put on the TV and you could watch some fancy Dragons Den type show, or you know switch on Showtime for your daily dose of tits. We don’t get Showtime here! Now they want to go ahead and make downloading shit illegal here, I mean more illegal than it already is with an IP trace and jail time and shit. I mean fuck you guys man! This is bullshit! We have to sit around and watch the shit that you guys know is full of horse semen. How is that fairer than us just downloading the shit you guys have already seen? This is turning into a bit of a hissy fit and a rant so I’m going to move on to my next point.

2: Women: Listen boys, if you ever thought Oh I gotta go get me a brown girl, those bitches be sexy! THEN READ THIS CAREFULLY: BROWN GIRLS ARE NUTS!! First they’ll make you fall in love with what they aren’t. They’ll give you as much space as you need and you’ll think about how blessed you are. Or if you’re really really Indian, you’ll think about how good you must’ve been in your last life to deserve such a goddess in this one, but take my word for it, you don’t want to be that Indian. So after they’ve painted a picture of how they’re your dream girl, your natural impulse is to ask them out. When you use the word girlfriend around her is the time you lose your penis, testicles, and all the functionality of your spine. A brown bitch doesn’t know the meaning of space. They may read this and think, bah, that’s a load of horseshit. But trust me, I’ve been around. A lot! No brown woman can deal with her man looking, thinking, daydreaming and don’t you fucking dare TALK to another woman. Now if you read things with a different voice in your head for different characters, I do that sometimes so I wont judge you… Instead I will encourage you to think of the brownest brown girl voice you can when you read out the set of questions that’ll be bombarded on you when you decide brown girlfriends are the way to go. You ready?

Where were you? Who were you with? When did you get back? I thought you were supposed to call me? Who was she? Was she hotter than me? Do your parents know? What about our marriage? Our unborn children! You are a sick bastard! How could you do this to me?

When she stops to take a breath, you can later explain that you were out with your guy friends, you know, people with penises. Even if it is true, she’ll cry and call her parents and tell them what a douchebag you are for cheating on her. If you have actually been speaking to another woman, brown, black or fucking Avatar blue; no sex for you, forever! Brown women never forget. Ever! The second you think they’ve forgiven you for something, they haven’t. On a romantic date one night you might be thinking Oh boy, I’m going to get laid tonight! Whereas she’s thinking, how could this bastard wear my slippers around the house Valentines Day 1947?

In conclusion – Brown women – fucking psychos.

If you’re a brown woman reading this post and thinking, “I am so not like that!” answer these questions:

1)   Are you single? (You probably are, if you aren’t you wouldn’t have the time to read shit on the Internet, you’d be too busy stalking the fuck out of your boyfriend)

2)   Why are you single? If you weren’t all that shit that I said you were, why are you sitting at home, alone, in your fucking pyjamas, reading shit that means nothing to you?

If you’re a brown guy you know that there was never, a truer thing said about brown girls. Sure they’re good looking, but we don’t have the variety that you white people do. White girls come with blonde hair, red hair, brown hair, some freaks with pink hair and the gingers… Mmm.. The gingers. They come with grey eyes, blue eyes, brown eyes, hazel, and the gingers with dark eyes… Mmmmm… Ginger eyes! Indian women come in Dark hair, Dark eyes, Dark skin. All 800 million of them. We don’t have the raw sex appeal that black people have. In India, the fairer you are, the more acceptable it is in society… So, black people here are not really thought of as the superior race, and I may be hunted down for saying this but they aren’t really the superior race anywhere in the world. Well maybe in Africa, but hey… Look at how miserably they’re doing down there!

So anyway, black people may not have be the fan favorites but if years of slavery are good for anything, they’re good for guaranteeing generations and generations of people so physically fit that looking at them makes the women wet and the men, piss their pants. Also, I know it isn’t just me, but whenever I see a black man, even if he is fully fucking clothed, wearing a suit and fucking trousers and shit, I have the most sudden jolt of Penis envy cursing through my body. Why are black men so hung? Why am I talking about penises? To swiftly change the topic, I fear I must move on from the subject of brown women and steer this in another direction.

3: Traffic and Roads: Now everywhere in the world people complain about shit roads and bad traffic. To that I say, you guys are fucking adorable. If you think you got the shit end of the stick when it comes to motorways and congestion on said motorways, you’ll don’t know jack. On a scale of 1 to platform 9 ¾ the traffic here is 100 billion. Think of it this way: The roads are like Dumbledore’s nuts, old, potholed and greasy… They can fit a specific amount of traffic and perform alright when it is asked of them. His pubes are the amount of cars on the road. Now you must be thinking, that’s a crappy euphimism, but I’ve taken the time to attach a picture of his face. His face has this much hair, imagine how much hair he has down there?

This isn’t the first time that I’ve ruined your childhood. The image of Dumbledores nuts should be giving you nightmares for decades to come. As much fun as that was, however, I am not here to tell you about old wizard genitals. I am here to tell you that the traffic here is so bad that you wouldn’t be able to survive a second in it. Here we have traffic lights and all but they mean different things than yours do. Green means go, Orange means go faster, Red means keep going but don’t get caught Oh look, I ran over someone Keep going, keep going… quick make the next light.

If you thought that was bad, our roads don’t have potholes, no no no… Our potholes have roads! It’s fucking ridiculous! You can’t go a mile without your tits slapping your face every second of the way. Obviously no one does anything about any of this. Who really has the time to?

Which brings me to my summary of things...

So if you thought it was easy being brown, think again! Yeah most of us have servants and people to drive us around and people that our pretty much our slaves, and these people are pretty cheap to buy. No you don’t pay a lump sum for their lives, you simply pay them a monthly salary of roughly 3,000 rupees or uhm 60 US Dollars, 50 Euro or 40 Pounds give or take a couple of bucks. Other than that though it’s a pretty shitty life. I mean I live in Bombay, or Mumbai as it’s known today and it’s supposed to be the commercial capital of the country. Nightclubs shut down at 12:30 AM. The legal drinking age is 25 years old. That’s a fucked up rule if you ask me. I’m allowed to vote for the government at 18, I’m allowed to have sex at 18, I’m allowed to drive at 18 and I’m allowed to marry at 21 but I can’t grab a beer with friends until I’m 25. I think India needs a Simple Logic Commission, the only problem is you wont be allowed to vote for them until you’re, well… Dead. That’s all for now, go be productive while I, sit on my ass and do nothing. Cheerio!

NonSense

The thing about having a blog is that you can come here and rant and fifty people a day will come by and read all about it. I would ask why that is the case but I think it makes more sense to go with the norm. I, the blogger, rant while you, the blogees, read.

So today I applied for Googles AdSense on the blog, because I, like all other greedy writers, like the smell, texture and overall goodness of money. If you don’t know what AdSense is here’s a quick break down. I don’t know why I’m doing this quickly because before I applied for the account Google forced me to read a few thousand pages on the rules and what the fuck not. Anyway, to the best of my knowledge; all those rules were adhered to. What AdSense does is: Once applied for, your blog or webpage will get advertisements from google. Now Google takes most of the money, I questioned that at first because it seemed unfair. I do most of the work and google takes all the moolah. Then I thought deeper and thought, If I was google I’d keep it all to myself! And then an extremely prolonged evil laugh followed, like so: Muahahahahahahaha…ha…ha…haaa! And then the sudden realization that I am in fact not google, but a mere pawn in their games. So now once the Ad has been put on your page, google pays you a fractional percentage of the gains. It seems like a good idea to get paid to do this because who doesn’t like money? If you don’t like money and you’re reading this
1: I think you’re full of shit.

2: I think you’re poor as shit.

3: I think you smell like shit. Because money can buy you shampoo.

4: I think you’re full of shit.

So anyway, the process is quite fucked up but they say they need 48 hours to review your shitty ass application. So I waited for all of 12 minutes and they replied. Here’s what they said:

Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. After reviewing your

application, our specialists have found that it does not meet our program

criteria. Therefore, we are unable to accept you into our program.

We have certain policies in place that we believe will help ensure the

effectiveness of Google ads for our publishers as well as for our

advertisers. We review all publishers, and we reserve the right to decline

any application. As we grow, we may find that we are able to expand our

program to more web publishers with a wider variety of web content.

I mean… What the fuck? This is just balls. I read that whole brochure and everything. I think they’re trying to say that they need people that don’t swear and shit in their blogs. If that’s the case then I’d rather die a poor man than quit swearing. Swearing to me gives me the power to release endorphins like nothing else. Actually, scratch that. Jacking off probably could release more endorphins than that.

Anyway, I’m not one to beg but… If you would like to pay me for any sort of writing material(s)/work(s) then please please please please please please, pretty motherfucking please with a shiny ass cherry on top, please… leave a comment displaying your interest down there in the comment box below.

I normally try and keep this as funny and as relatable as I possibly can and I feel that I have not achieved that with this post, so in order to keep you coming back for more and more here is a picture of Simba's father (Mufasa) dying, from the movie The Lion King:

I know that’s probably not what you had in mind but think about all the happiness that that scene caused? Simba went on to become king of the pridelands and Scar got pwnd in that heated battle at the end of the movie. After this movie Disney went on to make The Lion King 1 ½ & The Lion King 2. I agree that both of those movies sucked, but atleast they were there! If Mufasa had lived then none of those fuckers would’ve ever been released.

Simba would’ve grown up to become the biggest douchebag in the world and wouldn’t have ended up banging that hot bitch Nala. What? You don’t think that happened? How do you explain these?

PRE COITAL

DURING COITUS

POST COITAL

PS: COITUS means SEX!

 There, I rest my case. Your childhood is officially ruined. If it isn't then I am sorry, you must be a Twilight/Bieber fan and those people don't like me very much at all. I was thinking that this would be a great time to add a Twilight joke but the problem is that I thought about what would happen if Edward Cullen got arrested. He'd be banged by every fat pedophile in prison. I bet his sparkly ass would be torn apart by sundown. 

Those very weird and obscene thoughts made me laugh so hard I think I may have had a miscarriage. No I am not a pregnant woman, I am a dude. Yes I lied about being pregnant. See? You asked so many questions that it just ruined the authenticity of the joke. Nice job, douche!

I also just noticed that I get sidetracked all but too often and it's proving to be quite an annoying habit. So in conclusion: Google AdSense refuses to tell me how to make money off this thing and I refuse to give up. If you'd like to see me make money (no there's nothing in it for you!) and would like me to smile (I think you should want me to smile because I try really hard to entertain you fucks!) then keep coming back, hit subscribe, hit share and tell your friends and parents about this blog. Actually, if you like your parents to think you are a smart person with great taste in all things, then you probably wouldn't want to tell them about my blog. That being said though... Keep coming back for more. If you don't share, like, tweet, +1 and what not I will bite your head off. Now don't be a dick and not come back because I said that. Also you can't sue me for saying that because it was clearly a joke, much like everything else on my blog. I did not mean that as a threat, It was a joke.... I shall return to this post in five minutes after looking it up on the internet.

 Okay so the internet says I should consult a lawyer. Right. I've googled a lawyer that seems to be reasonable and what not. I'm going to call this dude. I should be back to finish this post in a matter of seconds...

Okay, I have confirmed that you can not sue me for what I have said. I have even spoken to a lawyer and looked it up online. Phew. That was a close one. Actually... Why didn't I just backspace the whole thing? What a fucking twat I am!

... IN CONCLUSION: Google AdSense should change it's name to Google NonSense because they refuse to see the talent in me that I see and that's just plain unfair. I'm a brilliant writer and I'm a good looking person. (THANKS MOM FOR VERIFYING THAT FOR ME.) 

That's all for now. You know the deal... Subscribe, Like, Share, Tweet, +1, Tell your friends! If you don't know how to do that, there should be a bar under the post that gives you options for all that shit. I would threaten you again but my lawyer says that I shouldn't do that more than once a day. Goodbye for now, readers of Textual Diarrhoea!

Anatidaephobia

This morning there was a lizard in my kitchen. It wasn’t the biggest of lizards but it wasn’t a tiny one either. The brown scaly thing was scaling the walls of my kitchen, proving to be quite menacing. To most people it would mean nothing but free pest control, but for me a lizard in my vicinity is alarming enough to send me spiralling into a web of holy fuckballs!  It’s called a gecko and it is not a terrorist. But it sure as hell terrorised the shit out of me; almost literally at that.

So after I yelled and screamed like a little girl who lost her knickers, I calmed myself down and stilled the contemplative thoughts of suicide into a lull; then somehow I gathered enough courage run outside my apartment, hyperventilating and all, and get to the elevator and summon the man that operates the elevator to help rid me of the beast. Maybe beast is the wrong term. I’m thinking more along the lines of Godzilla. Which makes me wish I wasn’t so afraid of lizards, because if I weren’t I could have a pet Iguana and name him Godzilla. Which would be awesome to myself and my peers, but not so much for the critics because they’d go on a little bitch fit about how Godzilla was female in the movie. To which I say, fuck you critics. I want to be the one to give Godzilla a sex change. Does that mean I have a God complex or a Godzilla complex? ANYWAY! Back to the point I was about to make… So a few moments later the man came in and got rid of the vermin for me. He didn’t kill it because that’s just fucking gross. I mean I hate the slippery little bastards and all but I wouldn’t want them to die before my eyes. Die elsewhere; I don’t want to have to clean the kitchen countertops because of your slimy cold blood. Psh… Fucking lizards.

So, naturally, this whole lizard escapade got me thinking deeply about life and all the crap that your brain does without you knowing. For instance could you imagine the amount of shit you’d be in if you had to remind yourself to take each breath you breathe? Well don’t say yes, because you’re not a fucking Dolphin and only they know what that’s like to have to breathe voluntarily. Fun-fact-a-little-too-late: Dolphins breathe voluntarily. I’m not making this shit up. They got the short end of the stick if you ask me. It’s like evolution played a nasty prank on them. But this post isn’t about dolphins, because that’s just fucking gay. Secretly though I do admire dolphins not because they’re cute and shit but because their brains are so fucking spectacular that the details will make you cum buckets.

Shortly after zoning out and impressing myself with my knowledge and newfound admiration for dolphins, I got back to thinking about phobias and how they work. There are some pretty fucking crazy things that people are afraid of. So I took the time to do some research for you lot and list out a few of those weird and fucked up phobias that REAL motherfucking people have to deal with. None of these are made up, and yes all my knowledge of this is purely from the internet. Now you might ask why you need me to do this when you could’ve just done the research yourself, to which I’d say, Go fuck yourself you ungrateful little shit! After having said that, I would carry on my usual, not giving a fuck about your feeble opinions and reveal the phobias in a somewhat orderly fashion.

So without further delay:

Ablutophobia: Fear of washing or bathing.
To me showers are sacred as fuck, I refuse to be seen outside my house when I have not bathed. Inside my house, I’ll go through the sunrise and sunset before I shower, but it’s needless to say that I do manage to shower daily. The thing about showers is that no matter how reluctant you are to get into it in the beginning; you will always be reluctant to get out of it once you do. So I spend thirty to forty five minutes a day in the bathroom. I have a very strict regiment, which I call the SSS. Shit. Shave. Shower. So to all of those with Ablutophobia, I’m so sorry you will never know the joys of bathing, I can only imagine how hard it must be for you to cope with normal living. Oh and also, kindly stay the fuck away from me you stinky bastards!

Then there’s Agyrophobia: Fear of crossing the road. Could you imagine that? Fear of crossing the fucking street? I think it should be easily treatable because all you’d have to do to get me to cross the road is hold out a couple of bucks and I’ll hop skip and trot my way to the curb. Either that or have Angelina Jolie offer to bang me only on that side of the road. She isn’t my number 1 pick for the job, but she’ll suffice. Could you imagine if the chicken from the famous why did the chicken cross the road, saga was agyrophobic? That would ruin things for generations to come!

Which brings me to Chaetophobia: Fear of hair.

There’s not much that can be said about this, other than what…the…fuck?

This next one might be a little hard to fathom but it’s a real one and I am many things but I am not a fucking liar, so take my word for it: Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia: Fear of the number 666. Now I get that some people would be afraid of the devil and what not but fear of a number is just lunacy! It’s like being afraid of the number 69. Who could possibly be afraid of the number 69? It’s such a beautiful number, everything it stands for the number 6, the number 9 and the sexual connotations it carries.

As an added bonus I have tossed in a phobia that is considered fictional but it is not because a man in London was diagnosed with this recently, don’t ask me how I know, I’m a fucking soothsayer: Anatidaephobia: Fear that somewhere, somehow, a duck is watching you.

So to test this theory I went to the local park where ducks and geese roam freely. I sat around there, bored to bits by the lameness of these feathered fucks and wandered off into thoughts about coitus with a celebrity whose name I will not mention because she’s actually quite ugly. When I turned my attention back to the ducks I noticed that one of them, in the far end of the pond from where I was sitting was staring at me. Not just into my eyes but into the very depths of my soul. All the way home I thought about that duck. It’s eyes, it’s bill, and it’s brown, grey and white feathers… It’s wings, its little fluffy tail; after all that I thought about how delicious it would be on a plate. I’m a sucker for Peking duck, and then I thought about a clever pun about how this ogling duck would be called Peeking duck. It was funnier in my head than on this post, but it made me laugh so you best laugh too. In conclusion I think that man deserves an award for being a complete and utter twat.

There you have it, fucked up phobias compiled by yours truly. I don’t know when I’ll post something again, but I will, it could be tomorrow, it could be later tonight or it could be next month or it could even be the year 2270. If that is the case then I will have managed to complete my prototype for the Time Machine and accomplished my first test flight, sucks to be you, um… Suckers!

PS: Here’s a GIF of a friendly dolphin waving goodbye.

Mmmm... Sandwich.

You don't need to know me or who I am and what I do but since you're here you may as well read this: I write for a living and also, for fun. Coincidently; ever since I started getting paid for the shit I wrote, I stopped having fun doing it. So yes, I did succumb and sell my writing prowess (or, arguably, lack of) and soul to the devil (i.e. Television, Radio and Adverts) But having fun doesn’t pay the bills. Sadly working does. (My fondness for brackets should be evident by this point, if not I’ll toss in a few more later on.) I’m 22 years old, I live in a city that the government wishes I’d call Mumbai but I prefer the old English name for it, i.e. Bombay. Yes, I live in India and no ‘Indian’ is not my first language. I enjoy short walks, long drives, and a drink or two, or three, or fourteen every now and then, but then again who doesn’t?

Before I carry on with this whole blogging deal, let me tell you a quick and fun story (Remember those words in bold, I plan on having fun with them a little later on & also… I put them in bold and shit, which means nothing but if you look deep [and I mean really, {I just wanted to add another bracket in here and say, HOLY SHIT! BRACKETCEPTION!} really fucking deep] into it you'll find that I take the extra effort to please you sometimes) about how this whole thing came about. A couple of days ago I had back to back job interviews. Well, to be honest, they weren’t really job interviews, they were more like meet and greets for a couple of television shows. I like the freedom of freelance because lets face it… I’m the laziest son of a bitch the world has to offer. So both meetings went down. Nothing out of the ordinary; there were the few thousand questions that were as useful as a bowl of warm turds freshly squeezed out of a porcupines ass. A few tidbits of me peacocking (Peacocking is an actual fucking term, don’t you dare imply that I created it!) about the crap I’ve achieved and the sweet fuckall I’ve done to bring me to this point. After hours of wasting time beating around the bush they eventually did offer me the job, but they asked whether or not I blogged. When I said that I didn’t they were taken aback as though it was expected of me. So on my way to the other work meeting I thought about it for a while and thought to myself… Holy mother of fuck I’m starving! It wasn’t until I was halfway through the peacocking at the next interview did I realize that this big interviewer dude is having multiple orgasms of the intellectual kind. In case you couldn’t figure out what that meant: His brain was jizzing. Little did I know that I was about to dread the mans next question. “Do you blog?”

What is it with people and blogs? There’s a reason people can’t hear my thoughts all the time, if they could they’d think I was a fucking nut job!

So on my way home, job contracts in hand, I pondered upon the possibility of starting a blog and thought to myself, why am I still fucking hungry?

A while before all this went down I took off on a friend of a friend of a friend because she said that she was a writer and when I asked her what she had written she replied with something that blew my fucking mind! “Oh, I have a blog.”

Immediately I thought to myself, are you fucking shitting me? Lets face it; bloggers are to the world of writing as Dentists are to the world of Doctors. Just as Dentists aren’t really doctors, bloggers aren’t really writers.

Anyway, here I am… a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Blogging. Ick! Could you imagine if one day I’d have to introduce myself as a blogger? The horror!

Hi I’m Shrey. I’m 22 years old, I sleep all day and stay up all night and I’m a blogger for a living.

I’m my biggest fan and if that were introduced to me, I would definitely not hit that.

So maybe that story wasn’t as quick and as fun as I thought it would be. (See why you needed to remember the part I put in bold? I told you it’d pay off!)  But that’s how I ended up here. So if you enjoy reading the shit that my brain spews, then please do come back for periodic updates and what not. If that sounded like I was begging I don’t give a tiny-little-white-lab-rats ass. I plan on posting some short stories and day-to-day happenings that I expect you to not give the slightest fuck about. One day I will be a famous for this page and that is the day that I will rue for all eternity and eternities to come post that eternity.

PS: I’m still fucking hungry!

Oh… and here are a few more brackets, as promised. 

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