Tag Archives: love

This Valentine’s Day …


.. Fuck You!
Fuck You, you pathetic pretentious lover. Everyone knows you hoodwinked that ass-faced, gourd-shaped whore from next door so that you could get a couple’s discount to the ‘great Tantra Valentine’s bash’. So wipe that stupid grin off your face before I tell your ‘date’ about your gonorrhea issues from last month.
Fuck You, you retarded micro-mini clad bimbette. Just because you have a bunch of desperados jerking off to the sight of your bare fat legs every night, it doesn’t mean you are hot. I am not betting against you getting drilled into on the 14th, but just remember that there are tons of others getting paid for it.
Fuck You, you rich, fat, brainwashed lover-boy. Have you checked your dad’s bank balance lately? I bet you bought your ‘girl’ a diamond-studded necklace for the occasion and she promised you her undying ‘love’ in return. Now you better prepare to masturbate to her pictures on Valentine’s, because there some things and huge dicks that money can’t buy.
Fuck You, Yash Chopra and Suraj Bajratya. It is your brand of mind-fucking cinema that has proliferated a generation of confused idiots. It is your fault that populations of perfectly normal teenagers now experience an epiphany about divine love every time they pass an Archies Gallery.
Fuck You, Mark Zuckerberg. It is your money-minting, life-fucking invention that shoves an ejaculation of unbearably mush-filled messages down our throats on this very day every year. It’s your website that drives a thousand loners to suicide every February.
Fuck You, all you bunch of bullshit spewing astrologers with medieval hindi vocab, who promise sex on 14th if we wear your ring. Seriously? Is that why you have more rings than fingers on your body?? And you still haven’t got any???
Fuck You, you manufacturer of rose-imprinted-teddy-bear-hugging-a-heart cards. It’s because of you, that there is a 90% increase in blindness levels which is a direct effect of every consumer product turning into red on 14th.
Fuck You, owners of coffee shops for making coffee rates look like I asked for a year’s supply of ultra-thin condoms and a French prostitute. And also for decorating every bloody corner with heart-shaped balloons which look like they have been reused since 1969. And also for giving (un)romantic names to coffee/ food items. I do not want a Cafe de Pyaar, bhenchod. Just pass me an espresso.
Fuck You, you restaurant owners for destroying the notion of a romantic candle-light dinner, again by jacking up prices so high that I won’t have the friggin dough to buy candles after 14th, let alone dinner. And this for something that can be arranged in the simplest, cost-effective manner.
Fuck You, to all diamond chain owners for spreading your shameless discriminatory propaganda about diamonds = make your woman feel special. Because they don’t make men feel special about their wallets. They make us feel poor. Very poor if you’re a post-recession boyfriend.
And lastly,
Fuck You, all those who think V-day is the day to observe love,affection and crap. If you can’t find or observe love for whoever in the entire year, if you need one working day to suddenly celebrate love and indulge in consumerist pornography (because that’s what it’s all about apparently); then you have failed to see that love is in the celebration of those little moments of togetherness that you can, and do, experience for 365 days.
We at TanTheta pity those who need specific days to feel “isspeshul” and love.
You fuckers don’t need a day. You need a Life.
Pic Courtesy: FunnyChix.com

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Party like a rockstar. Or maybe not.


We at Tantheta don’t like December very much. This month reminds us of our inability to party like pseudo-high ‘bangla’ band rockstars. It reaffirms to us our lame, non-kewl, firgin-like existence. But like true sado-masochists we trawled through the city hotspots at night, cursing the higher beings with shitloads of cash picking up hot-n-stupid bimbos with the calmness and ease of Amol Palekar’s acting. This time around we were in Park Street.

Waiting for someone alone in Park Street anytime after 6 automatically converts you into a sex-hungry young/old professional with fond affection for school girls and college girls. (For the uninitiated, Park St pimps generally approach potential customers with a rhythmic chant of “school girl, college girl” .) Or maybe some of us just emit the “come hither pimp” vibes that attract the sex merchants. Whatever it is, it’s pretty fuckin irritating. At 16 if the same pimp approached me, I would feel a sense of dark thrill, perhaps. But at 23 the courtship of a pimp translates to “You look like you need sex and haven’t got some in a long time”. Which maybe true but that’s not the point.

where's the party tonight bhenchod?

Anyway, we ended up going to a disc in Cal (-cutta, not -ifornia). Excited like a bunch of horny hares, we shelled out 1500 bucks as cover charge. We ran out of this money in the next 25 min, following which we danced like fucktarded monkeys doing Pranayam and dard-e-disco at the same time, hoping to make it to the next Mimoh starrer (ayyee saala, woh Mithun ka laadkaa haii, agar tum bhula nahin toh ). Or at least to the bedroom of one of the many sloshed women gyrating like Johnny Lever on the dance floor. One hour and several epileptic dance moves later, we realized that the Gods have spoken. No sweet love for us for the night.

I switched on my razor sharp chick-vision and located 3 chicks promoting fags. Cigarettes I mean. A fellow Thetan was quick to spot them as well and immediately declared: “naati waali meri hai” (the short chick is mine). In a state of I’m-drunk-as-fuck-but-you-won’t-notice-it, he zig zagged his way to the girl with remarkable alacrity. Then, with all the panache of Shakti Kapoor ripping open the blouse of a mortified lead actress and the subtlety of Prem Chopra’s lustfull expression, he delivered the pick-up line of the century “I saw you standing alone and I didn’t like it.” He is still a Firgin.

Thetans never give up. They may procrastinate like hell, but never give up. So when it was my turn to score some points, I waited for 20 mins and made a mental flowchart that could be most appropriate for such situations. But such is love (or sexual desire) that all flowcharts are forgotten and all pick-up lines blurred when you are faced with your beloved slut. And when I walked up to the slut of my dreams and asked like a third-world James Bond look-alike “Are you as bored of this party as I am?”, I knew I had overcooked the chick.

“Yes” was the monosyllabic reply that had a get-off-my-friggin-face-jerk ring to it.

I was in damage control mode immediately and pat came my witty observation:

“So…do you, like…get commissions on each packet you promote or is it a per cigarette basis thing?”

Did you ever taste your foot as it entered your mouth? No? Well I did that instant.

“No” came another monosyllable with another get-off-my-friggin-face-jerk ring to it. Only the ring was louder this time.

Another Thetan, the most practical and methodical amongst us, was making inroads into the hookers circle. Realistic expectations are always easier to live upto I guess. Anyway he liased with some regulars and located 2/ 3 hookers who were quite eagerly looking for customers. We resumed our tribal dance and got as close as possible. The hooker, lets call her Miss Khanki, joined in too ! Oh the joy !! But before attraction could turn into action, a middle-aged man, with of course way more cash and sexual deprivation than us (at his age) started franctically grabbing his crotch and thrusting his hips sideways in a pendulum like motion. All the while his eyes were closed in a trance-like state, so we assumed he had a third inner eye to sense hookers around him. There are indeed superpowers in all of us. We were alarmed at first but realized later that he was only dancing.

The weight of rejection by sluts and hookers alike crushed us and we were about to go out and watch Twilight to end our lives when God showed us that good things happen to good, and horny, people on new years’ night. Two Russian women came out of the shadows and refreshed our sagging carnal desires. They took to the poles and displayed their flexibility to the enthusiastic and drunk crowd. Some articulate Bong muttered behind me : “amake amar moto thapate dao” (Let me hump it my way) a sly variation of a song with similar lyrics, almost. The raucous crowd seemed united in the appreciation of beauty in fishnet stockings on a pole.

Thus ended our night of glorious debauchery.

Happy new year to all Thetans !!

And to all our idols indulging in regular bang-o-rama sessions throughout the year: Spread love not AIDS.

(no apologies for PJs will be made)

 

pic courtesy Elin Elisabet (flickr)

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The Compulsive Coupling Syndrome


Hello ladies and gentleman and welcome to the dissemination of the latest new epidemic to have spread in our little god forsaken part of the world. It is what I choose to call the “compulsive coupling syndrome”.

I will explain the phenomenon with a story.

Subject-A is your average Indian schoolboy. Brought up on the traditional diet of heavy textbooks , music lessons and cricket coaching classes , he had rarely had time to catch his breath, leave alone discover puberty. It’s when he reached the ripe age of 17 that he suddenly came across the song, “main sola baras ki , tu sathra baras ka”  (Translation: “I am 16 , you are 17” .Yes, we keep it simple) and discovered his true calling in life , falling in love. With about a year of school left, Subject-A  with his new found pubic hair set out on the search for his Sweet 16.

Subject-B is your above average Indian schoolgirl. In stark contrast to Subject-A , Subject-B had been fed on  fantastic DDLJ-esque love stories since she was 12. By the time she was 16 and had developed lemon-sized bosoms, she was ready to take the leap of fate and run into the woods to play hide and seek with her prince charming. As destiny would have it , Subject-A and Subject-B met and in course of time , our man mustered up the courage to say those  golden words, “ Do you want to fall in love with me ?”. Now Subject-A was the dorky Bengali kind with a moustache and beard (he discovered puberty late, but boy the testosterone! ) and Subject-B was , as I said, above average and with boobs now almost the size of snooker balls. But she didn’t want her Facebook profile to read “single” when she entered college and so ,clipping her nostrils so as to not to have to smell his stinky beard again , she hugged and said ‘yes’ . The Compulsive Coupling Syndrome (CCS) had snared its first victim.

Subject-A and Subject-B soon proceeded to the customary rituals to solemnise their “falling in love”. Both of them updated their relationship status’ on Facebook and also changed their display pic to identical ones, showing the two sipping strawberry juice from the same glass. They also “Like”d every “Item” on each other’s “Wall”s so as to leave nothing to the imagination.

Now, more characters. Subject-C is the typical college student who doesn’t give shit about college because , as his Facebook profile says , he “love doing masti” .He is also Subject-A’s best buddy and used to play with his beard before he shaved it on Subect-B’s orders. Subject-D is , as you might guess, is Subject-B’s soul sister and classmate at college. She is secretly jealous of Subject-B because her breasts have now grown to the size of oranges as a result of Subject-A’s fondling.

As you might be aware , people who “fall in love” are bound, by Social networking laws, to go visit a shopping mall with common friends and click pictures to post on Facebook. They are also, perforce dictums, required to comment on how their partner’s nose looks bigger in every alternate picture before commencing the thread ending “I love you baby” , “I love you too”, “Muah”, “Muah muah muah” sequence. So Subject-A and Subject-B, both responsible Social networkers, tagged C and D along, on these visits and clicked scores of snaps. The typical positioning of the 4 in any picture is diagrammatically represented below.

As is evident , while the pictures, splattered across the site were precious to Subjects A and B, it became a source of abject embarrassment for C and D who were often alluded to as the “haddis in the kebab” .Under such circumstances , Subject C, who had secretly day dreamt of humping D, popped the all-important question “Do you want to fall in love with me ?” .For Subject-D, the lure of the jorai jorai (pair pair) pictures on Facebook was enough to surmount C’s rotten egg breath. CCS is a bitch !

A,B,C and D were now a couple of twosomes. Of course , the vicious CCS cycle doesn’t end there. As described previously, Subject-B with her “above average”ness and now melon-like boobs was always beyond A’s league. B realised this in about 4 months time. They could have quietly parted ways ,but no. Subject-A spilled his over-sensitivity on Facebook with pictures of an unshaven self and status messages like “It’s better to have loved and lost , than never to have loved at all”.

And now, more characters. Subject-E is a 23 year-old obese video-game addict of Bangalore and Subject-F is the  27 year-old even fatter shopaholic who lives on the apartment above his. By a strange twist of fortune , they both happened to chance upon A’s heart-wrenching ejaculations on Facebook. On seeing them , E experiences a moment of inner awakening and abandons his “Call of Duty” to answer his call to “fall in love”. Post “Do you want to fall in love with me?” and “Yes”, earth-shattering (literally) sex ensues. CCS claims more victims.

And so it continues. The above is an example of one of the possible courses, the spread of the CCS can take. Others run on the lines of self-pity, dwindling bank balance and a general desire to have sex.

The Compulsive Coupling Syndrome can basically be described as a pathological state wherein two human beings, under the influence of certain external circumstances, succumb to the illusion of having “fallen in love”. In most other parts of the world , such associations would safely be called one-night stands ,hook-ups or open relationships and not be extended beyond a few mating sessions. But we in India don’t believe in half measures. We in India believe in sticking to our deep-rooted principles of love and running around trees.  As the venerable Yash Chopra once said , Indians don’t just “cum” , we “Come and Fall in Love!”.

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