HALLO, JI, PLEASE SHUT UP!

Pursuant something that happened at my apartment mate's workplace recently, there is a new phrase we're throwing around: "bad Punjabi, no donut!" This relates to a certain coworker who has weaponized studious silence when it is convenient to do so.
Which is remarkable. Punjabis often can't shut the frunk up.

There you'll be, at the bottom of a cliff, having fallen over it in the dead of night, your broken leg hurts like heck, and an Indian-accented voice comes out of nowhere, keenly desirous of speaking to you about the new cash amount medicare offers and have you received the card they sent you? Or was your accident claim denied? Approved? Burial plots? Samosa? Pakora? Bucket of ghee? Taxi ride?

If the Punjabi at the bottom of the cliff isn't saying anything, worry.

Now, I sort of like Punjabis. They can be fun to be around. But some of them just aren't very intelligent. And they tend to be talkative. When they're bored, things go wrong.

Hallo ji, can I interest you in a fabulous burial plan?
I have a bridge for sale. Timeshare, ji!
Break the law, ji.

There you'll be, in the middle of the Amazon jungle wrestling an anaconda like you wouldn't believe, when a voice comes out of the underbrush. Are you needing a taxi? My brother has a five star hotel nearby with the best samosas! We do long haul trucking all over this place. I've got a superior bridge nearby, no anacondas for a fee! Bhangra?

You and the anaconda look startled. You were arguing about Trump. What is this Punjabi doing here, and what is he going on about? No, you do not want samosas and bhangra, kindly shut the frunk up, and stop waving your fabulous burial plot under my nose.

Years ago I worked with Punjabis. One of them didn't come to work for three days because he had thrown a concrete planter through the window of a drinking establishment. Another got into trouble for beating up an Awadhi cook. And one of them could sing and dance the musical numbers of every Bollywood movie made since Elvis. And did so. Often.


Did I ever mention the two hour argument over a coin?
One coin. Twenty five cents. One coin.

Kindly shut up.



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