Pull the trigger, Nigger

Last evening, I came across what they call the Ladies Man. Essentially, he is Top of the Pops with women, and has the most ludicrous collection of shirts and eau de toilettes. More importantly, he gets away without having to shave everyday, works for a real estate agency, and is a general source of disgust to ordinary man.

Missy Too Hot for your Pants Homie has, sadly, been in such company for such a long time, I last heard she was using turbine blades as nail files. Over a period of five years, she has had more men in her life than were born in the last century. And all relationships have ended in what we have come to know as a ‘post orgasm personality failure’. You know, the sort of thing that the i10 1.2 does? You hit a hundred and twenty in no time, and then you crash even quicker, because the brakes don’t work. And “he wears a bra”.

Even the Women’s Reservation bill seemed to have no effect on her. But that’s mainly because she fancies a career in ‘fashion’; and Mamta Banerjee would look silly in a LBD. The bill, according to her, would be no good unless they could all get into bed with Omar Abdullah. Which will leave Rahul Gandhi seriously cross, as a result of which he may fling his spectacles out of the window, injuring birds (hence upsetting his extended family). And India TV will spend all of tomorrow fixing their pause-rewind-play switch. The Reservation bill, to be honest, invokes just one question; Why?

Women are pretty capable of pulling off wonders on their own steam, but a reservation is like putting a dog in a cage. You want to show you care, but the real deal is that you just don’t want it poop-partying your sofa. And chewing up your new Reeboks. Women in power is a good thing, as has been proven in many cases. But women huddled up into 35 per cent looks a bit worrying. Because soon they’ll all want statues of themselves, which is the most vague concept in the world. I have never seen statues of men who are alive, except for the sort of stuff that happens at Tussauds, and mannequins of Govinda at the fair. And just today, a garland for Mademoiselle was flown in to Lucknow from Mysore, and allegedly, it had currency where they should have put in, er, flowers.

Mademoiselle is, as you would have figured, code for Mayawati. A word more offensive than the N-word. Nigger. There I said it. Nigger, often misconstrued as somebody who compulsively deals in high-performance chemicals meant for consumption, and an eccentric mass murderer, is just short for Negro, which in turn is short for Nigerian. It should, ideally, be as simple as saying Oz, or Del, or John Smith.

But no. Say Nigger and you’ll go home hopping and whimpering, having been shot at by a man with nerves of steel and teeth of silver. I just don’t understand what these people are doing all the time. For years, all they’ve been doing in music videos is to discuss how they’re going to the club, and how badly they want to sleep with that woman in black lace. Who looks exactly like the woman in the other video. Sorry, but it’s all a bit too dark to tell. Of course they talk about their cars, but then even the cars look the same, with rims the size of the Milky Way. To top it all, Akon says Gallardo phonetically. And he is a hit with the ladies. Which really does suck.