Category Archives: Humor

Sunday55: The “Black Dog” Edition

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One of my best friends sent me a virtual pep talk at 5:15 pm; he had no possible way of knowing that the words he borrowed from Winston Churchill to make his point were already on my mind. Reading his GMissive on my august, semi-blinged phone’s meager screen while parked in traffic at M St + Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown reaffirmed my belief that nothing is accidental and that especially in my life, continental, oceanic and ironic plates clash together to create quaking moments which belong on celluloid. What are the odds? I get that email when I’m already pondering the British Bulldog, while “Black Dog” by Led Zeppelin blares through every straining speaker of this zippy red morsel of German perfection, which is mine for the evening? G-d is one hell of a director; I dig all the synchronicity.

Currently, I’m being haunted by the spectre of a black dog myself, as I reboot my entire life and go it alone, in every possible sense of the word. I desperately wish that I had just one pair of my venerable Docs with me in this cocoa city, to stomp through all the omnipresent ick with…alas, every set of bouncing soles lives with Moms, 3000 miles to the left. Incidentally, that picture you see above was taken the day I met Sepia Wizard Paul for the very first time, in North Beach, for a day of molesting Harry Potter (that was me), being confused by elderly Asian people (both of us) and mais oui, espresso at Greco (that SHOULD be everyone). I’m always a sentimental old bat, but I think tumult like this makes it even easier to conjure the past, as if to remind myself that this, too, shall pass, just like everything else has.

We haven’t held a festival for 55-word nanofiction in several weeks, so this Sunday, write about your black dogs, your love of fog, your fear of being a cog. Whatever floats your clove-smoking, black wet-n-wild nail polish-wearing, Gothic boat. If you’re not too black and blue to do so, that is… Continue reading →

Two plates of curly fries, please

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Sajit mentioned comedienne Vijai Nathan in his post. She is that doubly rare breed, a female desi comedian. However, she didn’t spring fully formed out of Robin William’s forehead onto the stage. Her origin story involves a past as a copywriter until one day, her comedic talents were unleashed by a comedy workshop. The moment when she quit her day job to pursue comedy full time became a part of her act:

“… her father was furious: “He said: ‘Vijai, how could you do this to your family? I have struggled in this country for 25 years and you’re going to disgrace me this way?’
I said, “But dad, I just want to make people laugh, you know, be a comedian.’
He said ‘Oh, your mom told me you wanted to be a Canadian…” [Link]

Audiences also have a hard time getting it sometimes, too:

“This guy shouts out: “Woo! Keep it going for the Cherokee. Yeah!”
I said, “Sir, I’m not the kind of Indian with bows and arrows. I’m the kind with unlimited access to nuclear weaponry...” [Link]

She actually started out “really bad Clinton impressions” and much more mainstream jokes before developing some very desi material:

… my parents were always worried that I was becoming too American. My Dad would say: ‘So you want to wear pants, eat cows, have minty fresh breath. That’s it, you’re going back to India.'” [Link]

… her mother overheard her singing along with Madonna, and put a stop to it by insisting, “Vijai, you are not like a virgin, you are a virgin!“… [Link]

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A bride for Budhia

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I want to start by saying that I DO NOT condone child marriages. In this case however, for the good of Mother India, I think we should all consider the merits of such an arrangement. In the past we have blogged about young (4 year old) Budhia Singh who was running upwards of 30 miles on an average non-competition day. Some overly cautious adults banned him from running marathons in the state of Orissa and charged his coaches/handlers with abuse. Officials said that they didn’t want him to be exploited but I’ll bet it was to protect the other runners (who may have had friends in the government) from embarrassment. Now we get word of another young runner. Meet the hard charging Anastasia Barla:

A 10-year-old tribal girl from a remote village in Sundargarh district ran 72 km in eight hours on Monday but failed to break Budhia Singh’s record.

Five-year-old Budhia had run 65 km non-stop on May 2 in his bid to enter the Limca Book of Records, while Anastasia took a five-minute break after running 58 kms.

Anastasia Barla’s target was to cover 105 km. She began her marathon run from Sundargarh stadium at exactly 5 am amid cheers from a large crowd.

But she stopped at Rambahal near Rajgangpur at around 1 pm, after covering 72 km.

Her coach Dominque Lakra said Anastasia could not achieve the target today as she had ran on hard surface. “The girl is comfortable on soil which is soft…” [Link]

Look, if India wants to get serious about competing athletically on a global stage then they need to start making some tough decisions now. Even if Budhia and Anastasia are held back by the corrupt Indian system, at least their offspring might have a chance to be the great brown hopes. Can you imagine the running abilities of their kids given the genetic stock of Budhia and Anastasia? An arranged marriage seems to this blogger to be the most reasonable course of action. Damn any caste differences if they exist. A modern India calls for pragmatic solutions.

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Tunak Tunak Takes Over

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I found another viral video to add to the list of wackiness (Avon Lady, Little Superstar, Nike) we’ve been broadcasting from here at the bunker (thanks sleepy!). Let me present to you Tunak Tunak Jesus Jesus.

I don’t understand one word of the song, but I’m pretty sure that the the subtitles are not telling me what the song is saying.

Manish did a previous post with other earlier video remakes of the song. It has since caught like wildfire. We have of course the original version by Daler Mehndi, A Japanese game show version StarCraft Tunak Tunak, and even for Razib, a Tunak Tunak Brown. There’s even a Tunak Trailer. In fact, a search of Tunak on YouTube shows 321 videos. What is it about this song that can create this viral epidemic?

I think that it’s time for the Tunak Tunak Sepia Mutiny version to be created. I’ll get the monkeys in the bunker working right on it…

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Pavlov Auntie

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Clearly, some of you were good little boys and girls in your youth. That means that you are conditioned to associate the words “uncle”/ “auntie” and the vernacular with respect. You can’t help it. If this was just Plain Jane, the 50 year old down the street, you might be polite and pleasant, but if somebody who calls herself Bunty Auntie starts speaking to you in your mother tongue, you snap to like a pointer.

This account comes from Sleepy’s blog “Watching the Sun” but I’ll bet you have your own auntie experiences:

One morning, while back, it was 4am and I had been asleep for fifteen minutes. I was woken up by a phone call and I was a little, I don’t know, pissed off?

Me: (barely making sense through all that incredibly righteous indignation) Hello?!
Her: Hello Beta, this is Shabnam aunty!

I usually tend to wake up very quickly when someone calls herself aunty and speaks in Hindi/Punjabi/any language my twisted little psyche associates with authority. Seriously, wouldn’t you? For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out whether I knew Shabnam aunty, but I wasn’t too surprised, my mom often makes friends who call me at random times to you know, chat. [Link]

Now me, I would have just hung up. Uncle, Auntie, I don’t care. Don’t call me at 4AM unless you’re blood of some sort, a close personal friend, or an early morning booty call [the last was added after Jeet reminded me of such things ]. But an auntie I’ve never heard of? Clearly, Sleepy is made up of sugar and spice and everything nice and I am not because she continued the conversation:

Me: Um Hi?
Her: How are you Beta?
Me: Good aunty, how are you?
Her: I’m fine beta, give the phone to mummy now.
Me: ????????? Um, aunty, mom’s at home, not here.
Her: hahahahhahahah, so cute.
Me: (o.k., seriously, wtf?! and I start talking in Hindi as well, cuz you know, maybe she’ll believe me) She’s at home, do you want her number?
Her: Enough now beta, give the phone to mummy. (All stern like, velvet glove/iron fist stuff, which ya know, doesn’t sit well with me, ever)
Me: Mummy isn’t here.
Her: Are you making fun of Shabnam Aunty Beta? That’s not very nice. (o.k., this is what she said, Beta, aap Shabnam aunty ka mazaak uda rahein hain? Bilkul theek baat nahin hai. It was like she was flirting with me )

So yeah, we went for a few more rounds and then I hung up. ON. AN. AUNTY. [Link]

The next morning, of course, Sleepy felt remorseful:

I don’t know, probably shouldn’t have hung up on her because what likely happened is that she called the right number and chewed out right number’s children for being cheeky, obnoxious heathens. And then had the kid’s mom chew them out, and the dad, and the grandma etc. etc. And then they probably got chewed out for bringing shame on the family cuz Shabnam aunty’s very fond of gossip… [Link]

Personally, I don’t get it. Maybe it was my particular family upbringing, maybe it’s because I’m a boy, maybe it’s because I’m just too much of a coconut. I understand what Sleepy is saying, and while I think of myself as being reasonably nice, the title “uncle” or “auntie” just doesn’t cut any ice with me. Will I be going to a hell that I don’t believe in, populated solely by aunties bent on making me miserable? How many of you salivate automatically when this particular bell rings?

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The Love Goat

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Imagine, if you will, that the following fictional conversation took place between myself (in my best Jon Lovitz voice) and a girl named “Preeti:”

Abhi: Hey Preeti.

Preeti: Whad up?

Abhi: You know we’ve been together for two whole months now. I just wanted you to know that I’m really excited about us. I think we make a good couple. You complete me. I think we are helping each other grow, both together and as individuals.

Preeti: Uh huh. That’s sweet.

Abhi: Well, since it is our two-month anniversary I thought I would get you something special.

Preeti: Cool, did you get me a brown Zune?

Abhi: No darling. Check this out though. I just had a star named after you. I wanted you to know that my love for you will shine brightly forever.

Preeti: Forever?

Abhi: Foreva-eva. Just think! Every time you look up there in the sky at the star formerly known as ZX56C92 you will think about how much I burn for you!

Okay, has anyone vomited yet? I am willing to bet that at least one reader out there has had a star named after them or named a star after someone. Admit it! We’ve all done things we are ashamed of. This is definitely not how I’d go about declaring my feelings for someone. Then again, I’m not sure I have ever developed a really good method for showing someone I care. The fictional conversation above leads me to a real conversation that took place over this past weekend.

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That’s NOT How You Do The “Head Thing”

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never do that again please.JPG Dear Nidhi M.,

Thank you very much for sending Sepia Mutiny a story idea via our tipline three hours ago. It was so kind of you to think of us as you went about your day.

Since you have demonstrated your generosity already, I feel emboldened enough to wonder if you’d be willing to go a bit further in showing your devotion to this mutinous cause. Do you bleed Sepia? If so, would you graciously consider donating one of your eyes to me? I lost mine when I clawed them out, after watching the link you helpfully enclosed with the following succinct statement:

Nike teaming up with 24 hour fitness mixing and mucking up classical indian dances with bollywood and strange robotic aerobic moves.

Mein Gott, that’s almost poetic. You were right. And now, I am in so much pain because of it. I’d gouge away at the intern’s face, but she took one look at me and ran screaming to Rajni the lemur’s room. At least she didn’t have to watch Jamie King train three mostly wooden dancers in his “Rockstar workout” of “far-East funk”. Nor did she have to hear his priceless wisdom, which I feel I must contradict fervently after watching this entire fiasco:

There are no rules. If you’re feeling the music, you can’t go wrong.

TRUST me. You can indeed go wrong. Especially when you employ that uber-abused cliche which has appeared on browndating dot com so many times, my friends have turned it in to part of a drinking game (“OMG, he prefaced it with ‘good blend of’…DOUBLE SHOT!”).

Of course, I am referring to that bi-cultural, directional claptrap which automatically disqualified all otherwise-promising candidates from suitable debauchery; Mr. King’s spin on it didn’t prevent the gagging, not after what I saw. “East meets West on the dance floor”? Come to any random desi party and you can abuse “South” as well, i.e. “when East meets West on the dance floor, two rabidly horny underage hormones often move South in order to simulate an act which MummyPapa would spank them unconscious for, for even pondering”. Anyway. When this man who has choreographed Madge exhorts us to “just get out there and show your Bollywood style!”, I don’t think he realizes what fresh hell he is inviting the world to suffer through by doing so.

Chick Pea? Are you out there? Have you done your surgical rotation yet??? That faint, scratchy squawking you hear is Abhi, frantically paging you to the bunker’s painfully rustic OR. Go, scrub your hands already! My anesthesiologist Dr. Walker is already prepping me for surgery. As for the rest of you, just know this and remember it well– when you dance like that, you make the baby Jesus cry. Worse than that, you also piss off our Desidancer.

Blindly yours,

A N N A

:+:

(more pictures after the jump, click to enlarge them…if you dare) Continue reading →

Jagshemash!

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Borat_happy_time.jpgSo maybe this is a stretch, but surely those who hold that Vedic civilization stems from nomadic people from Central Asia will accept that we desis therefore have a vestigial family tie with Borat, the absurd, allegedly Kazakh TV reporter who’s a creation of British comic Sacha Baron Cohen. As you may know, Borat’s movie, Borat: Cultural Learnings of America Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan, opens in a few weeks, after a rapturous welcome at the Toronto Film Festival and at various sneak previews.

The Borat character is quite brilliant, as you can see on any of the video clips here. Of course, if you were Kazakh you might not feel the same way. Unfortunately, Borat had to come from somewhere, and it seems that Kazakhstan drew the short straw. I feel bad for the Kazakhs; Borat tests their patience and sense of humor, and now, with the movie about to open in the US and Europe, the Kazakh government is highly agitated about the prospect that Borat will become their country’s global image. Here’s the spokesman of the Kazakh Foreign Ministry:

“We understand that Borat is a kind of satire, but it is just a pity that Mr Cohen chose Kazakhstan as the origin of his hero,” Mr Ashykbayev told The Times. “As far as I know, he has never been to Kazakhstan, although there have been efforts on the part of some people here to invite him so that he can see what our country is really like.” …

Mr Ashykbayev said that there were no plans to ban Borat from Kazakhstan. But he added: “I hope the companies responsible for screening this movie will show some responsibility and not show it.

“It is quite insulting to the people of Kazakhstan and it may create some accusations from the public against the Government for letting such things come to our country.”

That’s from an article today in The Times, which reports that the Kazakh government is bankrolling a film of its own, Nomad: Continue reading →

I Really Shouldn’t Blog This, But…

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The “little superstar’s” moves are actually pretty tight (he’s a little person, not a child). Rajnikanth is there, and according to some of the Youtube commentors, there is some discussion of whether he should be smoking cigarettes or not. Oh, and the hip hop/ electro track is by MC Miker G & DJ Sven (“Holiday Rap”). I have no idea what movie it is (Rajnikanth has been in hundreds)… though I suspect someone out there might know. Continue reading →

The Transporter

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Recently Taz wrote about a “dreamy” new he-ro on television that in reality is just an act-or. Via our News Tab I’d like you all to focus your attention instead on a real hero. The Hill profiles Mohinder Singh, “The most trusted cabbie of Capitol Hill.” He is mild-mannered, works in the shadows, and always gets the job done.

Rule #1. Never change the deal. Transportation is a precise business.

Unlike some cab drivers in Washington, Mohinder Singh is not easily riled. No matter if passengers rob him. No matter if they swear at him in a drunken stupor.

“I never fight with a customer,” he says, through a thick Indian accent. “There’s no use to fighting. If someone says, ‘You son of a bitch,’ I say ‘Thank you.’ You cannot make me mad easily…” [Link]

Bruce Banner could learn a thing or two about anger management from Mohinder.

But Singh, 56, clean-cut in a white oxford shirt and khakis, is no typical cabbie. [Link]

Of course! Would I have bothered writing a post about him if that is all he was?

In the past several years, however, Singh has hit a stride, accumulating a famous D.C. clientele that takes him to the homes of some of Washington’s political elite who include Democratic National Committee (DNC) Chairman Howard Dean (better known to Singh as “Mr. Howard,”) former Texas Gov. Ann Richards and Reps. Grace Napolitano (D-Calif.), Rubén Hinojosa (D-Texas), Barbara Lee (D-Calif.) and Tim Bishop (D-N.Y.)…

Singh says he accumulated his clientele accidentally. One day he picked up a woman from Southeast who needed to be driven to American University. She told him how hard it was for her to get a cab. So he gave her his number, and for seven to eight months he drove her whenever she called.

“I didn’t know who she was,” he says, explaining that he later found out that she worked for the DNC. The next thing he knew, word traveled fast and Dean’s people came calling. [Link]

Let the record show that Ennis suggested that I title this post “Driving Mr. DNC.” Continue reading →