On a Woman-Woman Relationship

19 Nov 2009 | life, bullet, bike

Alright, all you perverts who’ve eagerly jumped onto this blog expecting a raunchy write-up, $@%#$% off. This is neither the time nor the place (we’ll talk about that over a drink or three some other time). Today I’m ranting about the hate/no-love-lost relationship that most women have with pretty much every other woman. Like all great writers, let moi dredge up an example from the ‘Sparkling Life of MySelf.’ In the red corner we have Agsie, a puny 182kg Bull(-et) who spends her days carrying me around the Kingdom of Nai Dilli @ a demure 40kph(speed thrills but kills). In the blue corner we have YUM-YUM, a vivacious 35kg(+10 - but you didn’t hear that from me) girl about whom I could write reams but I only refrain for fear that her pretty little head would bloat.

Round I

(Scene: Pleasant windy day, we’ve just ripped(@53kph) into the parking lot of shitty-expensive-snob-hangout-mall-in-Saket)

YUM-YUM(running a pretty hand through shiny black hair): Hmmm... My hair's all messed up.

Moi(thoughtfully scratching unshaved stubble): Wind, probably.

Agsie: [purr].

YUM-YUM: It's the ride dummy! All that wind in my hair.

Moi: huh?

Agsie: [rumble].

YUM-YUM: Seriously, you should get a car. Even 'you' can afford one.

Moi(ogling at pretty thing getting into a nearby car): [grunt].

Agsie: [growl].

Round II

(Scene: Traffic signal at busy intersection. Warm evening)

YUM-YUM(arms lovingly draped around Moi): Jeez! It's getting late. 
My crazed-over-protective-excuse-for-a-father's going to be furious if I'm late.

Moi(thoughtfully scratching... unshaved stubble): Traffic, heavy.

Agsie: [rumble-that-sounds-suspiciously-like-a-grin].
{The sun sets and simultaneously the light turns green}

Agsie: [kaput].

Moi(after 13 attempts to kickstart): @#$%@#!@$!!???!

Agsie: [floorrrp].

YUM-YUM: WTF??!!?? Daddy's gonna murder me! Can't you get this piece of $#$@% to start?

Moi(oceans of sweat pouring down brow): "Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem" 
(from the latin: In the good old days, children like you were left to perish on windswept crags).


Agsie: [bleerb-that-sounds-like-a-giggle].

Moi: I said I'd just dislocated my Ox Coxae.

YUM-YUM: Very funny. Perhaps you've also dislocated the Humerus?
{choice Punjabi words accompanied by loud honking from motorists behind}

Moi(muttering under my breath): I'd like to squash someone's Medula Oblongata right now.

YUM-YUM(walking off): Turn that infernal thing off. Let's take an auto and you can come back for the damn thing.

Moi(tears welling up, that empty feeling in the heart): Agsie, you're the best-est-est thing ever that carried me around 
(after Mommy - little slower but nine months on the trot!).
{final half-hearted kick}


Moi(with a whoop that sounds like red-indian who's about to ravish hot white woman): She's...Alive!

YUM-YUM: Hmmpph... Do you think it'll last?

Agsie: [GROWWL].
{Long traffic-infested ride to drop YUM-YUM. No goodnight kiss}

Which is what the ‘status quo post bellum’ is, like my old uncle Julius Nairus Caesar used to say. At this point I should probably be asking, “Why do women hate each other instinctively? Why do I have to bear the brunt? Why do women ask men if they look fat(if you’re asking, you probably are!)?”. Brave men throughout the ages have attempted to answer questions like these, failed spectacularly and ended up slashing their wrists/throats/’other’ body parts in despair. However, lacking that particular brand of testicular fortitude, I plan to do the only thing a reasonable man can be expected to do - reach for a glass of the ‘Aqua Vitae’ and surrender to glorious oblivion.

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