Racquet (almost) breaks modem. Causes Racket.

I found a badminton racquet, and decided to practice my smash. I momentarily forgot that racquet + my smash + modem = bad. It has something to do with the kinetic energy of a tall man through a light badminton racquet onto a stationary blinking modem.

Today's top story, an orgy was reported in the southern district of New Delhi. Images follow.



I don't know about you guys, but I'm really tempted to tuck into that voluptuous little tart on the left.

Although fairly new to the blogspace, and tending not to be particularly inclined (or maybe the chance hadn't arisen) to meet all you loving readers and perusers of my little slice of google's god's given cyberspace deigned blogger, we decided to meet the lovely Scoutypoo on her recent visit down to Delhi.
First of all, the girl isn't fond of sleep. She called me to see her at four in the afternoon the first day, pulling me out of an exhaustion-induced coma. I met her, wet hair and all, at a possible future location of my murderous belly dance scene for my latest planned fiction film along with her friend, a quiet, sadistic coffee-butcher(this one added milk AND sugar to the helpless java), and most endearing sister, who spared no time at all getting acquainted. Gun to my head, completely honest, the little sister-thing had me at 'bye freak'. Scoutypoo also texted me about Shahrukh uncle after I'd entered my sleep countdown. I did get back at her though, oh yes I did, I replied to it when I woke up at six the next morning before workout. :D
At this point I must mention that I love Scoutypoo to death for the sheer fact that she correctly types out and punctuates all her texts, so my inbox didn't get another bunch of useless messages 'dat luk lyk dis', the kind 'ppl' know not to send me, lest I refuse to reply. I only accept 'dose' messages in times of extreme emergency, and my boys know well that at those times, a simple 'fn kar' will suffice. I say my boys know that because excluding my dear sister (I think I'm number 4 on her speed dial), none of the other lovely ladies in my life type like punju boys.
Scoutypoo also loves to point out how very muskle-y I am, and sits very meekly and appreciatively(as regards my driving) by my side when Aurelia's getting us around town. She also smoked and drank nigh incessantly while in my company, and is exceptionally good at picking up on when I'm being sarcastic, to the point that I never have to tell her when I'm doing as much. No love, that wasn't sarcasm at all.
Our Scoutypoo's a pleasantly plump, TINY little punju lady, although she takes certain umbrage to being called so(the plump part). As far as I'm concerned, Curvy would just have to be the world's sexiest body type. In fact, all models need more curves, and so do you, dear. That's right, I mean you. Not you dude, that paunch isn't flattering, I mean the girl next to you. Bingo. Scoutypoo's also rather quick about dressing appropriately. Just shy of new year's, and the girl's walking about in a very large shirt which she cleverly turned into a dress, along with stockings she tells me her aunt's dog tore while hugging her leg. I still maintain the dog was humping her. Being as brave as she was, I didn't feel the need to hand her my trenchcoat (yes, I got my trenchcoat out of where it was hiding), for fear it would drag behind her about a foot and a half, giving Priya a spring cleaning. I also didn't pull my extra coat out of Aurelia's back seat, for similar reasons. I just wanted breakfast.
Which brings me to my final point. Scoutypoo has an abysmal appetite. Who ever heard of not finishing four pancakes? Why post-gym I had a banana, two oranges and an apple, my usual post-workout snack, which we'll deem 'former breakfast'. At college I had two cups of coffee and an aloo paratha, midbreakfasten, then at the bloody pretentious place we landed upon for what Scoutypoo called a late breakfast, which between you guys and me, we'll refer to as 'latter breakfast', I had this little concoction called 'Eggstravaganza', that involved two massive slices of (non sweet, thank you Jesus, our waiter, pronounced like Jose, mind you) french toast, topped with two poached eggs (Jesus was mighty reluctant to poach the poor eggs, he said something along the lines of poaching being illegal), two slices of bacon (cooked just right) and some (I'll assume two, since everything else was in pairs) chopped and something-ed potatoes, lots of poor potatoes put through some deranged bake/fry torture by a masochistic chef in the open kitchen behind me. I even had Scoutypoo's fourth pancake with very diluted maple syrup that refused to sink into the damn non-porous pancake, followed by coffee.
Ah now the coffee. Scoutypoo was barged in on while relieving her tiny bladder for the thirty-fourth time. This by a married man with a kid. I had a front row seat to that spectacle. He walked past the door, giving it a tiny nudge, finding it loose, pushed harder, to which an outraged, albeit not really visible Scoutypoo slammed the door crushing his hand in his face.
To conclude, I'll mention that the silly girl forgot to demand I cook something for her. Silly, silly girl.