In the search criteria that drew readers to this blog today are two that stand out: "bonbon Indians", and "fight with no panties". No, lest at this point you conclude that this is an unsavoury site that delves into unsuitable material and leave, I shall hasten to assert that NEITHER of those subjects has EVER been featured here. It is a CLEAN place.
This blogger is a keen supporter of fully clothed fighting. Men who engage in fisticuffs should ALWAYS be properly dressed. A full compliment of underwear, slacks or jeans and overshirts or jerseys, socks, shoes, plus gloves and hats if it is cold outside.
Possibly also raincoats.
If any part of their habiliment includes panties, or not, that is up to them. But they should realize that they'll look mighty silly when the emergency room medical staff discover Hello Kitty under their Fortyniners sweatshirt.
Well, maybe not. This is San Francisco. Emergency room staff see a lot in this city.
The frisson between team logo shmatte above and Hello Kitty frilly below might be what started the fight in the first place.
Among several sportsfans.
One of them probably insisted that Hello Kitty was non-sectarian. And that it was sheer heresy to wear Hello Kitty panties as a lucky garment to jinx the other side. Unsportsmanlike voodoo. So, after several more glasses of Chablis and slamming some Jaegermeisters, the fight was on.
Some men drink too much Chablis.
Typical sportsbar behavior.
BONBON INDIANS
This one truly baffles me. Being a red-blooded male, all I can think of is the stellar hotties in several Bollywood productions. Most of them, of course, female, but maybe the reader wanted hunk-o-ramas.
All such movies have an equal compliment of male and female hot. The producers do not want anyone to walk away disappointed.
Bollywood has made thousands of movies with exactly the same plotline.
Boy meets girl. They are of different backgrounds. There is a song. Numerous extras dance. Boy loses girl, because they are of different backgrounds. There is a song. Numerous extras dance.
Boy and girl meet under very public and logical circumstances, which are nevertheless presented as miraculous good luck. Boy daringly says something innocently appealing, girl laughingly or sarcastically snubs boy. They sing and dance. Numerous extras join them.
Bad guy see girl, boasts to henchmen. Girl avoids bad man. Song. Dance.
Girl realizes that she actually rather likes boy ("I've grown accustomed to his face"). Song. In the rain, at night, on a rooftop or in a deserted commercial street. As the downpour plasters her sari to her body.
Often, numerous dancing extras appear.
No, I don't know how it ends. At this point I usually go out into the lobby for some Indian snackipoos, and end up in a discussion with Latifbhai at the samosa stand about the comparative virtues of several Indian singers. Mohammed Rafi, for instance, has a voice that even a red blooded man can fall in love with.
By his dulcet singing alone, he's a total bonbon Indian.
Lata Mangeshkar? Even more bonbonish yet.
Asha Bosle is the most bonbon.
[The last two are female.]
Mmmmmmm, bonbons.
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2 comments:
Also, would you mustard my hole with a genie, babe?
Effing brilliant!
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