Mine your cavity

3 Jul

Guys! You guys! I met a real life miner today! And he was nothing like those burly, barrel-chested hunks of masculinity from the movies; he was so much more!

So I had to make a journey today. A long journey. A bus journey. And since I was travelling alone, there was always the chance that I would have to sit next to a creep/pervert/paedophile hybrid for the entirety of this journey. But from the get go, I knew this one would be unique. He had that smell about him, a strong, manly musk of three day old sweat. It confused me, at first. I thought he was just a unique creep. It was only a bit later, when I discovered he was a miner. Clearly, his scent, wrapped around him like a blanket of testosterone, was an indicator of what he was; I’d just misread the signs.

Some time, and several furtive observations later, I was able to confirm that my first impression that indeed been right. He wasn’t just an ordinary miner, he was unique. Confident, thoroughly unapologetic, he glared at all the passengers around him, daring them to raise a word against his choice of profession. Engineer, doctor, banker, all quailed under his fierce gaze. No one dared say a word, not even me. It was as if he was silently shouting out to the world, “I will dig out everything! Dirt, grime, gold, diamond, copper, your deepest fears, my brain fluid.”

I was, covertly*, able to take a photo of this special, special individual. Here he is, in all his mining glory:

The Hunt For Atlantis

The Hunt For Atlantis

A few hours later, my friendly neighbourhood miner was still going strong. He carried on with the intensity canines show to their own genitals. And then, just when I’d pegged him for a one trick pony, he sighed, withdrew his implements, peered at the passing signpost, and muttered, loudly, “Khanewal… Sahiwal… Soni Mahiwal.”**

Please stab me with the bluntest object you can find.


*Covert, my arse. I came this close to spontaneously evacuating my bowels (and dying). A millisecond after I’d tapped the “take photo” icon, I remembered that I’d set the flash to “Auto”. It was only through the blessings of Odin, the All-Father, that the app deemed the ambient light strong enough to not warrant flash.

**Apologies to non-natives for being hopelessly lost after reading this. Though to be honest, I suspect most natives would be equally bamboozled.

Knowing anguish

1 Jul

Today, my sister broke my heart.

70th minute of power outage, mid afternoon. I’m walking laps around the living room, A Perfect Circle pounding in my ears, the smell of my own sweat overwhelming my nose. I turn, and there she stands, looking at me, her face a mask. Her lips suddenly drop in a pout, mouth the words “Don’t go.” I can no longer hear Maynard shouting in my ear. Our eyes lock for an eternal second. Then, she blinks, and my heart shatters into dust. I watch the tears stream down her cheeks, as my chest rapidly forgets how to breathe. I rush to her, envelope her in my arms. We hug.

Suddenly, I don’t want to go back anymore.


To my sister. You are my friend, my confidante, the sole burning supernova that lights my dreary existence. I will miss you like I have never even missed my books. You don’t know how lonely the house is without your presence resonating through it.

Heaven (An exclusive first look through the eyes of a suicide bomber) – Pt. 1

30 Jun

                 He wakes up to the sound of screaming. Belatedly, he recognises the screaming as his own and clamps his mouth shut. With his hand. What? Wasn’t he supposed to be spread out over the entire marketplace? This must mean… His eyes snap open.

“Praise be to Allah!”
“We don’t say that here. We defer to our Lord and Master; you’ll know more soon. Here, wear this, then get in line. Someone will be down to take down your name shortly.”

                 Before his hands have fully grasped the cloth thrust at him, the man barking the orders has already turned and started marching towards another prone body lying some distance away. The cloth is white, soft, seemingly ceremonial. And instantly draws attention to the fact that he is stark naked in middle of a field. As he hurriedly wraps the cloth around himself, his eyes dart around, taking in his surroundings. There are several bodies lying around him, stirring slowly. To the side, there is a line of people, stretching far out. Men and women, similarly attired in white, look around eagerly, some, warily. Heaven itself is resplendent in its simplicity, he decides, just like he dreamed it would be. The field is lush with grass, with an infrequent, symmetric smattering of trees. Birds chirp in the background, though he fails to spot any in the sky. Strange…

                 There is a disturbance down the line, the person that man told him about must have arrived. He hurries to take his place in the queue, noting that there is no gender segregation. How scandalous, he muses, but then again, these are the most pious of souls collected here on this plain. There would be no unclean thoughts going through their… His brain stops functioning as a voluptuous woman sashays into his line of sight, her body draped with the same cloth as his, only this one is form fitted in all the right places, a little slit here, a little flick there. The overall effect causes some very scandalous thoughts to suddenly overwhelm his brain, and he stares at the ground, expecting Divine Punishment any second.

“Name, please?”
“Please cover up.”
“I… Haha you’re quite cute. This is the afterlife, human rules don’t matter anymore. You may look without fear of retribution.”

                He nervously raises his head to find her striking a pose, her chest thrust out enticingly. His eyes linger.

“Nice, aren’t they?”

                He sputters and looks down once more.

“What? I didn’t catch that?”
“MY NAME IS HARIS. Please move on.”
“You are quite unique, aren’t you? The General will be quite amused to see the likes of you in this line.”
“The  who?”
“General. You do know He has more than one name don’t you? He likes to be addressed by all of them.”
“Oh yes yes yes. Slipped my mind for a second. I’ll be sure to remember your advice.”

                The woman moves on, trailing tinkling laughter. He can’t help but sneak a glance at her retreat. So shameful! No one smites him down, however. Maybe things really are different now. FINALLY! There’s a sudden, deafening burst of static, breaking his lustful train of thought,  then a powerful voice rings across the plain.

“Mic check. Mic check. Is this thing on? It is? Okay, let’s get this show on the road. I think we’ve toyed far too long with our new playthings.”

                A large section of the sky tears away, letting in a scorching wind, the likes of which Haris has never felt before. The tear quickly widens, revealing black fire. Through it walks an immaculately dressed man, grinning ear to ear.

“Welcome sinners. Welcome, to HELL. Y’all just got punk’d, bitches!”

End simulation.

26 Jun

Many, many, many (123) days later, our young chronicler still sits on that little piece of land, doing absolutely nothing at all. (Guinness Records for procrastination are being smashed left and right, we’re told.) Dragons, beautiful writers with even more beautiful beards, ships full of enticing ladies, ships full of enticing gents, nothing seems to distract our young hero from his obsessive need to do nothing at all. The simulation is at its wits end. Really, there seems to be just one way to fix this…

Our stationary protagonist is roused from his lack of thoughts by the overbearing sound of klaxons. Large text flashes all around him. “You have been inactive for: <error>… WAY TOO LONG. Terminating simulation.”


I manage to halt the progress of my head as it accelerates rapidly towards the keyboard. Has it really been so long since I decided (with a lot of manly chest thumping and roaring) that I was going to “do” the blog thing? 2 posts and 120 days later, clearly, I’ve “done” it all.


An SMS! Finally! Something to take my mind off this. “Dear Customer, we miss you as you have not logged into Online Banking for a while…”

Oh. Right. I’m still broke… Dammit, if only I were back on that island, doing nothing at all…

Going time travelling with Jess Fink

26 Jun

Things I learned today:

1. I’m not the only one who thinks self making out would be hot.

2. Poop jokes go surprisingly well with introspection. Surprisingly well.

This learning experience brought to you by one Jessica Fink in her fabulous book We can Fix It: A Time Travel Memoir. It really brought validation to my beliefs that no, I would not use a time machine to kill notorious dictators, but to make out with my younger self. Jess builds upon the initial silliness/sheer brilliance of presenting masturbation in a whole new light by taking some remarkably deep looks into coping with regrets and traumas from your past, as she revisits scenes from her life that have troubled her all her life. Armed with nothing but her outrageously sexy jumpsuit (none of her alternate selves can seem to resist it) and a kick ass time machine, Jess goes about trying to fix things in her past, with the “perspective” and “wisdom” she has gained from the experience of age. Hilarious hijinks ensue, amidst flashes of profound insight that left me quite introspective myself. It’s wickedly funny, rife with Fink’s trademark irreverence and remarkable breadth. The obsession with our past, particularly embarrassing events, or little mistakes we wish we hadn’t made, is wonderfully tackled; Often I found myself nodding my head, “Yes, this is exactly how my stubborn younger self would behave were he to be confronted with this ‘foresight’ “.

I’d enjoyed Fink’s previous work (Chester 5000 XYV). We can Fix It, however, is now, by far, my favourite work from her. If only because of that stunning poop joke.


So I have mustache dandruff.

22 Feb

I think the title pretty much covers it. What’s that you say? Details? You want details? Well who am I to say no…

So I’ve been irrigating the Amazon rainforest via my nasal passages this week, thanks to this lovely, refreshing bout of the flu. Which meant that when I stared into the mirror this morning and saw the little crusty bit on my mustache, I immediately thought, “Damn runny nose” and proceeded to reach up and scrape it off.

“But wait!” screamed my brain, “Something’s not right here!”

And on closer inspection, I realized that brain was right. The crusty bits were not on the surface of the mustache but embedded inside the hair. So I carefully extracted a piece and peered at it all scientist like until a voice rang out “Achievement Unlocked: Acquired Mustache Dandruff.”


(Yes sometimes I talk in Skype emoticons. I like to think it makes me endearing.)

There I am admiring this new (and honestly, unique) way in which my body has expressed its hatred for all things me, when brain orders me to show body who’s boss.

“Dry/flaky mustache skin, meet (beauty) soap and water! KNOW YOUR PLACE.”


I should probably have taken a photo first, spiced this whole thing up. I knew there was a reason phones come equipped with cameras now.

Brain: “There is only one explanation. You’re an idiot.”
Body: “Oh look the Amazon needs some more irrigation. THAR SHE BLOWS!”


So as must be becoming abundantly clear now, work on the blog’s going pretttty slow (stop flashing red WordPress, I know that’s a typo.) which also means, I’m not writing enough. When all the advice I’ve been given says WRITE MORE FOOL. Story of my life in one word: Procrastination. Story of my life in another word: Bone idle. Story of my life in a third word: (see #2).

I’m not even sure if this is the theme I’ll be using, that’s how much I’ve delayed every decision regarding this. … I KNOW! I’ll take a screenshot of what the blog looks like right now, paste it here. That way, I’ll not only learn how to embed images into a post (education, woot?), but if I do change (=(hopefully) improve) the layout, I can always come back here and have a good laugh about it.

Here goes:


Update: IT WORKS.

Brain: “Go write something proper, now. Idiot.”

I hate you, brain.

Wherein our young procrastinator tries his hand at chronicling.

20 Feb


Our young procrastinator spawns on a little piece of land. A sea stretches out as far as the eye can see, not a hint of shore on any side. Well this is a monumental suck, decides the young procrastinator, displaying a dazzling array of vocabulary, and a not-so-dazzling command over sentence structure. His attention is suddenly drawn to the sea, which appears to be behaving oddly. Almost as if it weren’t made of…

Really?” He can’t keep the disgust out of his voice, “A sea of words? What, the hooded robe and gem-studded walking staff were taken?”



Our young procrastinator pauses for a moment to reflect on the advantages of the billowing robe that now adorned him. Ah, that breeze did feel so much better now. … … …

“Where the bloody hell did my pants go? SONOFA-”

This was definitely not the auspicious start to his chronicling efforts that our dear procrastinator had envisioned. But things could only get better from here on. Just as soon as he got his hands on some blasted pants….


Let the great (not really) experiment begin.


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