Over the past several years one group of readers of this blog has remained constant, though, one suspects, permanently in a state of flux. They are ever present, though they never leave comments, and do not show their "appreciation".
I'm not sure "appreciation" is the right word.
Possibly "frustration" is a lot closer.
They are the pervert mass.
A contingent of desperate men from every continent, who have taken the truism to heart that the internet exists for only THREE things: kitten pictures, food, and smut.
All search criteria, in the end, end up finding nudity.
Though not on this blog. I know how to paste pictures and video clips, but, being a firm believer in the latent talent for filth of all mankind, I see NO reason to further it along by posting prawns.
Just imagine it, boys, and start sweating.
There are two posts on this blog that must be infinitely disappointing to degenerates. Though well-adjusted normal people may very well enjoy them keenly.
First in that category is a post captioned with the very criterium that pulled the sickos in: 'Naked Schoolgirl'.
In it, a warm day is described, with a somewhat Bengali theme. Ghee is mentioned, along with several stars of Bonglo cuisine, and a poet. This in the context of imagining a young lady reading a book in private while eating chocolate cake.
All very high culture.
The second one, in the same category as the first, is speculation about the mercantile effect of a bit of casual nudity in advertisements. My thesis was that showing a beautiful woman in a state of déshabillée furthered the desirability of whatever product was thus busked.
'Portrait of a Naked Schoolgirl on a bed of Tobacco'.
Again, pictures were postulated but not pasted; there is nothing there to excite the fevered eye. The power of suggestion is posed, and I aver that I myself -- an utterly clean-living man of abstemious and sober habit -- would be moved to purchase huge quantities of merchandise,
if these were shown juxtaposed with classic beauty.
Butter, Station Wagons, Kitchen Tissue, Soap.
And tobacco. Lots of tobacco.
NAKED NAKED SCHOOL GIRL
To this day, both of those posts pull in internet-O-nauts from all corners of the Globe. One can only imagine what cookies are saved on their computers; the machines at late night WiFi cafes must be rank with foul vibrations from their fecund minds. Many of them are probably Pakistani, as porn-surfing seems to be what ninety percent of the male population in that place prefers.
Judging by figures published recently.
Somewhat unkindly of me, I enjoy their imagined frustration. Surely it cannot be satisfying to have their expectations dashed by my false advertising. Which was deliberate.
KITTEN PICTURES, FOOD, AND SMUT
The idea of certain things is often better than the actuality, and in my own mind's eye the images glow more gloriously than ever they could in reality. The power of suggestion is often a personal and very private obsession.
"The petite academician disrobed, and slowly, languorously, smeared a thick coating of butter on her hot toast. It melted, melted, running in rivulets over her elegant fingers. With fevered passion she pulled at the kitchen tissues, ripping them off the roll. Where was the soap?!?
She frantically jumped out of her lover's station wagon."
About the only thing missing is Hello Kitty.
No-one searches for Hello Kitty.
That would be sick.
[One search in the last twenty fours that found my blog is unique: "Bengali middles aged naked". While I am gratified -- if that is the right word -- that someone looking for 'Bengali middles aged naked' found my blog and consequently read some of my wit and wisdom, I got nuttin'. Not a scratch on the ground nor whisp on the horizon regarding 'Bengali middles aged naked'. Zip diddly. I have never written about 'Bengali middles aged naked', and wouldn't know where to start. Nor have I ever seen any 'Bengali middles aged naked'.
It isn't part of my life.
Not yet.]
COMPLETELY IRRELEVANT AFTER WORD
While writing this, I am listening to some very nice bagpipe music from Hong Kong. No, there is no reason for you to know what search-criteria ended up finding it. It was totally innocent, safe for work, and absolutely did not contain the words 'short plaid skirts', 'golden skin', or 'heathen melodies'. We live in a wonderful world.
All internet searches ALSO end up at youtube.
It's the nature of the beast.
Go on. Click this link: Pervert Taunting.
You know you want to.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label Bong. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bong. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 07, 2013
Saturday, April 27, 2013
THERE IS NO GOD IN DHAKA
Hefajat-e-Islam demands that the Bangladeshi government arrest and prosecute what it calls "atheist bloggers'. Which appears to be anybody a bunch of rabid religious nutballs dislike. For all we know, that includes a company that sells pork, Justin Bieber, or people who decide to break their ramadan fast with bacon popsicles. The Hefajat-e-Islam will decide what an atheist blogger is, and if necessary take quite unreasonable measures.
Freedom of speech has no place in a proper Islamic country!
Islam, in the constricted minds of large numbers of its jamaati faithful, means book burning, stoning, sexual brutality, and happy mob orgies of violence.
Well, we already knew that. This blogger cannot think of a single Muslim majority country where it's safe to have a mind. And while you might mention such stalwarts as Turkey (run by a mob of savage hairy illiterates, give us back Constantinople you pigs) or Indonesia, which is supposedly secular (except for whenever they need to burn down a church or kill members of the Ahmedia branch of Islam), I will for very sound reasons reject that contention. In fact, I will request that you go to either of those countries and engage the locals in conversation about the prophet's personal life, and some of the insaner elements of the Mohammedan belief system.
This is not to say that Muslims cannot be democratic and civilized. There have been many examples of Muslims courageously demonstrating the very highest values and ideals. Unfortunately, if they aren't residents of sane part of the world, they usually get shot. Or stabbed. Or beaten to death.
Which seems to be what imams, mullahs, and the entire ulama excell at.
They're rather like empowered baptist preachers in that regard.
The Muslim world had tea-partiers before we did.
HOWLING HEATHEN MOBS OF THE SAME INTELLECTUAL CALIBRE AS GLENN BECK
[No, I'm not talking about the great American Heartland!]
Many recent rallies in Bangladesh have resulted in fatalities. This does not speak well of Bong Muslims, or their religion and their prophet. If adherents of a creed prove habitually murderous -- as so often is evident all over the Muslim world -- it is quite ridiculous to give their faith either credence or respect. Rather, we should fear its community as dangerous cultists, fanatics, and disturbers of the peace.
Again, many Muslims prove by their courage and their rectitude quite the opposite. That it takes so much courage is, perhaps, proof that masses of their co-religionists are still in the stone age.
[So in one sense, this is not about religion, but societies that still have a long way to go. If they were fundamentalist Christians the result would be the same; rigid and foaming fanaticism, intolerance, and murder. The problem is that we went through that already, and though it took several centuries of slaughter before we finally got the bug out of our ass, we're better now. They aren't.]
I'm going by newsreports from Western agencies here, and normally there isn't very much about Bangladesh to go by. We don't really read a lot about stinkingly unpleasant places where literacy, sanitation, and reason, haven't made an impact. So reports may have gotten garbled in transmission.
Do they even have soap in Bangladesh?
Or did they burn it all?
This blogger didn't know the Jamaatis read bloggers or the internet. For all intents and purposes, I really thought that those whackjobs over there were still stoning their wives and daughters and cutting each others throats. In between late-night cruising for porn on the web, as well as kitten pictures.
Bangladesh is a meaningless country inhabited mainly by grotty primitives in a state of permanent fury over insults to their faith, their prophet's big toe, or acid indigestion because of too much badly cooked sorse ilish.
Use less ghee, you dumb buggers.
The philosophy of Hefajat-e-Islam is religious syphilis; dangerous upon contact, utterly polluting, and leading to madness.
All evidence indicates that there is neither deity nor decency in Dhaka.
SO VERY VERY PAKI!
Judging by their standards of behaviour, whenever somebody insults their prophet -- some dude named 'Moomin Mommybanger' or 'Piggy Whistle blessings be upon him', or something like that -- they scream and shout and kill innocent bystanders. Really, has anything worthwhile ever come out of Bangladesh? Anything that the rest of the world could possibly value?
Other than catamites for rich Saudi degenerates?
They make very GOOD catamites.
But still.
Be honest now. Admit that the only reason that bunch even converted to Islam was so that they could eat beef and oppress their sisters. And their neighbors' sisters. And their neigbors' neigbors' sisters. Exactly like the Pakistanis, only more so.
I'll grant that this post has an undertone of bigotry. But I ain't apologizing. Until Bangladeshis and Pakistanis start acting like civilized people, I see no reason whatsoever to respect them, their beliefs, or their ghastly hellhole countries. I am glad I do not live in Dhaka (or Karachi), I avoid all businesses run by those people, and while I really like what the Bongs do with fish (as well as what Sindhis and their ilk do with kababs, paya nahari, and gosht-ka-salan..... mmmmmm, delicious!), I refuse to eat at any of their restaurants because I have very good reason to believe that their culinary practices in commercial kitchens are utterly unclean. Besides, I know how to use their ingredients better than they do.
News flash: there is no god in Dhaka. Nothing but dhoti-wearing pigheads waving lattis and screaming bloody murder. Insane Bong illiterates, sweaty weirdoes, and future whimpering bang-me-babies for Gulf Arabs.
This post is lovingly dedicated to the Jamaat Shibir.
And bushy beards dyed red with henna.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Freedom of speech has no place in a proper Islamic country!
Islam, in the constricted minds of large numbers of its jamaati faithful, means book burning, stoning, sexual brutality, and happy mob orgies of violence.
Well, we already knew that. This blogger cannot think of a single Muslim majority country where it's safe to have a mind. And while you might mention such stalwarts as Turkey (run by a mob of savage hairy illiterates, give us back Constantinople you pigs) or Indonesia, which is supposedly secular (except for whenever they need to burn down a church or kill members of the Ahmedia branch of Islam), I will for very sound reasons reject that contention. In fact, I will request that you go to either of those countries and engage the locals in conversation about the prophet's personal life, and some of the insaner elements of the Mohammedan belief system.
This is not to say that Muslims cannot be democratic and civilized. There have been many examples of Muslims courageously demonstrating the very highest values and ideals. Unfortunately, if they aren't residents of sane part of the world, they usually get shot. Or stabbed. Or beaten to death.
Which seems to be what imams, mullahs, and the entire ulama excell at.
They're rather like empowered baptist preachers in that regard.
The Muslim world had tea-partiers before we did.
HOWLING HEATHEN MOBS OF THE SAME INTELLECTUAL CALIBRE AS GLENN BECK
[No, I'm not talking about the great American Heartland!]
Many recent rallies in Bangladesh have resulted in fatalities. This does not speak well of Bong Muslims, or their religion and their prophet. If adherents of a creed prove habitually murderous -- as so often is evident all over the Muslim world -- it is quite ridiculous to give their faith either credence or respect. Rather, we should fear its community as dangerous cultists, fanatics, and disturbers of the peace.
Again, many Muslims prove by their courage and their rectitude quite the opposite. That it takes so much courage is, perhaps, proof that masses of their co-religionists are still in the stone age.
[So in one sense, this is not about religion, but societies that still have a long way to go. If they were fundamentalist Christians the result would be the same; rigid and foaming fanaticism, intolerance, and murder. The problem is that we went through that already, and though it took several centuries of slaughter before we finally got the bug out of our ass, we're better now. They aren't.]
I'm going by newsreports from Western agencies here, and normally there isn't very much about Bangladesh to go by. We don't really read a lot about stinkingly unpleasant places where literacy, sanitation, and reason, haven't made an impact. So reports may have gotten garbled in transmission.
Do they even have soap in Bangladesh?
Or did they burn it all?
This blogger didn't know the Jamaatis read bloggers or the internet. For all intents and purposes, I really thought that those whackjobs over there were still stoning their wives and daughters and cutting each others throats. In between late-night cruising for porn on the web, as well as kitten pictures.
Bangladesh is a meaningless country inhabited mainly by grotty primitives in a state of permanent fury over insults to their faith, their prophet's big toe, or acid indigestion because of too much badly cooked sorse ilish.
Use less ghee, you dumb buggers.
The philosophy of Hefajat-e-Islam is religious syphilis; dangerous upon contact, utterly polluting, and leading to madness.
All evidence indicates that there is neither deity nor decency in Dhaka.
SO VERY VERY PAKI!
Judging by their standards of behaviour, whenever somebody insults their prophet -- some dude named 'Moomin Mommybanger' or 'Piggy Whistle blessings be upon him', or something like that -- they scream and shout and kill innocent bystanders. Really, has anything worthwhile ever come out of Bangladesh? Anything that the rest of the world could possibly value?
Other than catamites for rich Saudi degenerates?
They make very GOOD catamites.
But still.
Be honest now. Admit that the only reason that bunch even converted to Islam was so that they could eat beef and oppress their sisters. And their neighbors' sisters. And their neigbors' neigbors' sisters. Exactly like the Pakistanis, only more so.
I'll grant that this post has an undertone of bigotry. But I ain't apologizing. Until Bangladeshis and Pakistanis start acting like civilized people, I see no reason whatsoever to respect them, their beliefs, or their ghastly hellhole countries. I am glad I do not live in Dhaka (or Karachi), I avoid all businesses run by those people, and while I really like what the Bongs do with fish (as well as what Sindhis and their ilk do with kababs, paya nahari, and gosht-ka-salan..... mmmmmm, delicious!), I refuse to eat at any of their restaurants because I have very good reason to believe that their culinary practices in commercial kitchens are utterly unclean. Besides, I know how to use their ingredients better than they do.
News flash: there is no god in Dhaka. Nothing but dhoti-wearing pigheads waving lattis and screaming bloody murder. Insane Bong illiterates, sweaty weirdoes, and future whimpering bang-me-babies for Gulf Arabs.
This post is lovingly dedicated to the Jamaat Shibir.
And bushy beards dyed red with henna.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 24, 2012
POINTLESS TIME WASTING
Good morning. It's Christmas eve. Most people are starting to run around frantically right about now, as they realize they have less than fourteen hours to buy some tacky crap for their beloved friends and relatives. They dawdled, they postponed, they did other things.......
They counted on the Mayan Zombie Apocalypse, figuring that when the feathered serpent demons came there would be no need to get aunt Getrude and Uncle Janosc bupkes, because after all if the Mayans were right, Santa did NOT spring forth from a giant purple egg in 1776 when the Peruvians landed the Mayflower......
Unfortunately, December 21 came and went.
The world did not explode in 2012.
You still have to buy gifts.
Hurry, hurry!
They're YOUR aunt Gertrude and uncle Janosc.
I don't have to get them jack.
I can watch youtube all day.
Youtube, in a disturbingly big brotherish intrusion, now keeps track of what people look for, and makes suggestions based on recent viewing.
Here are the first two things youtube thinks I should see.
DUDE ARGUING WITH A BIRD
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2E7akTESzA.]
That bird totally owns him.
A POPULAR BONGLO RECIPE
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=63hlG66Pr4g.]
I like a good maacher jhol as much as the next man, but I am not so fond of jeera, and I would expect youtube to know that.
I cannot recall EVER searching for cumin on youtube.
What were they thinking?
By the way, you've now wasted over ten precious minutes of the LAST shopping day before Crotchmatch. Aunt Gertrude and uncle Janosc, remember?
It's time to frenzy.
Psst! Here's another great crow video: CLICK.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They counted on the Mayan Zombie Apocalypse, figuring that when the feathered serpent demons came there would be no need to get aunt Getrude and Uncle Janosc bupkes, because after all if the Mayans were right, Santa did NOT spring forth from a giant purple egg in 1776 when the Peruvians landed the Mayflower......
Unfortunately, December 21 came and went.
The world did not explode in 2012.
You still have to buy gifts.
Hurry, hurry!
They're YOUR aunt Gertrude and uncle Janosc.
I don't have to get them jack.
I can watch youtube all day.
Youtube, in a disturbingly big brotherish intrusion, now keeps track of what people look for, and makes suggestions based on recent viewing.
Here are the first two things youtube thinks I should see.
DUDE ARGUING WITH A BIRD
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2E7akTESzA.]
That bird totally owns him.
A POPULAR BONGLO RECIPE
[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=63hlG66Pr4g.]
I like a good maacher jhol as much as the next man, but I am not so fond of jeera, and I would expect youtube to know that.
I cannot recall EVER searching for cumin on youtube.
What were they thinking?
By the way, you've now wasted over ten precious minutes of the LAST shopping day before Crotchmatch. Aunt Gertrude and uncle Janosc, remember?
It's time to frenzy.
Psst! Here's another great crow video: CLICK.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, November 11, 2012
IT'S REALLY NOT SUBTLE!
Upon reading the blogpost in which I praised hot greasy hamburgers for breakfast before six in the morning, a meal which if attempted might lead to gastric outrage, especially if no hot sauce or jalapeños were present, a friend remarked that living with me might prove vexing; clearly I was not sane before the coffee took hold.
Well, who is?
It was, I think, the little educational video clip embedded in that piece that roused his eye-brow. Somehow, it did not hit the spot.
It may have even persuaded him that a big fat oozing juices greasy bacon cheese burger was not what, in a sane world, anyone should eat.
Naturally I must vociferously disagree.
Hamburgers are gods.
Revere them.
Worship! them!
Such as the foxy redhead in this next video clip is doing. More praise than that for all manner of burgers is very hard to imagine.
It is poetic - a hymn to juicy things in buns.
OIL SPILL!
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmy9CTn6xMs&feature=related .]
There are many things I can imagine for breakfast. A big greasy burger is just one of them.
The Japanese eat dried fish at dawn, with some miso soup to make it moist. They have a diet surprisingly rich in calcium. Indians have zesty curry, Bengalis avidly consume sorson ka maach, and the dutch go for buns with cheese.
Fish features as a wake-me-up in many cuisines.
Soft greasy things star in ours.
Some have fish. Some have crabs.
Well okay, maybe there is a subtext in that song.
Still, doesn't it make you salivate?
Aren't you a better man or woman for having experienced that?
Everyone should have a little oil spill in their lives.
Gusto!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Well, who is?
It was, I think, the little educational video clip embedded in that piece that roused his eye-brow. Somehow, it did not hit the spot.
It may have even persuaded him that a big fat oozing juices greasy bacon cheese burger was not what, in a sane world, anyone should eat.
Naturally I must vociferously disagree.
Hamburgers are gods.
Revere them.
Worship! them!
Such as the foxy redhead in this next video clip is doing. More praise than that for all manner of burgers is very hard to imagine.
It is poetic - a hymn to juicy things in buns.
OIL SPILL!
[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmy9CTn6xMs&feature=related .]
There are many things I can imagine for breakfast. A big greasy burger is just one of them.
The Japanese eat dried fish at dawn, with some miso soup to make it moist. They have a diet surprisingly rich in calcium. Indians have zesty curry, Bengalis avidly consume sorson ka maach, and the dutch go for buns with cheese.
Fish features as a wake-me-up in many cuisines.
Soft greasy things star in ours.
Some have fish. Some have crabs.
Well okay, maybe there is a subtext in that song.
Still, doesn't it make you salivate?
Aren't you a better man or woman for having experienced that?
Everyone should have a little oil spill in their lives.
Gusto!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, August 15, 2011
NAKED SCHOOL GIRL
One desperate single male, almost certainly Bengali, was pulled into my blog recently by means of the phrase above: 'naked school girl'.
WHAT A LOVELY IDEA!
I assume we're talking about a nineteen or twenty year-old, yes? Someone who has already applied to Berkeley, Stanford, M.I.T., or, heaven preserve us, the institution where my super-brilliant cousin is teaching?
A fine young thing.
By happenstance, frequently quite naked.
A naked schoolgirl!
Perhaps she had disrobed for a bath... or was lying on her bed, airing out AFTER a nice hot shower and a splash of perfumed skin refresher.
Happily thinking about all kinds of nice things.....
Chocolate cake, wonton noodle soup, steamed oysters, roshgullas, flaky meat pies, bon bons, romance novels, romantic vampires, samosas, and dairy products.....
Yankee pot-roast, madeleines, pudding.
Crustaceans, pizza, dim sum.
As well as, perhaps, a vibrant Dutch-American.
Like myself.
Should the occasion arise, I would with pleasure cover your naked form with warm ghee and lick it off.
Or oyster sauce, if you are into an ethnic thing.
The high salt-content would almost certainly give me hyper-tension, or send me into shock - heaven knows at my advanced age (over thirty) it could prove quite a trial - but I'm willing to suffer as long as it makes you happy.
Anything for a giggle. It's worth it.
I am a gallant fellow.
Just dream of my tongue, miss. Velvety, warm, and quite agile.
Let us ignore the symptoms of heart-attack and hypertension, or the sheer nausea from too much salty condiment, turning green and clutching my stomach, on the verge of a gag-reflex.
Cold sweats, shaking, and eyes rolling back in their sockets.
Seizures! It's the big one, Elizabeth!
Hands turning death white.
My trembling and clammy digits.
I am the degenerate the doctor ordered.
Do NOT call 911 quite as yet.
Please.
I'm fine. Honest!
This happens all the time.
Convulsions are NORMAL.
Alas, the effect of warm melted ghee would be no less worrisome.
No matter how petite the damsel in question, I figure it would need at least four cups. To the best of my knowledge no one has ever survived four cups of ghee, although IF someone has, it was no doubt a Bengali. Probably a bohut moti maheshyari vakil or banker, who washed down the clarified butter with a few laddoos, a rosmalai or two, sondesh, rimjim, and diluted it all with a BIG bucket of mistee dohi. Mmm, yummers!
Maybe her nudity has other causes. It was a sweltering day, perhaps?
Mom and dad are visiting an aunt in the South-Bay, and she's never had the opportunity to swan about in the buff? Eat bon bons in the nude? There's a full-length mirror in her room, and she wants to see how those high heels make her look?
Hot! Trust me.
They're killers.
Sex-death heels.
You look grand!
Khub shundar!
Where precisely do you want the warm ghee?
Did you know that Buddhadev Bhosu versified enchantingly about rivulets of ghee and honey cascading down the supine body of his mistress?
A surprising fact! Given that he was a small spare man, one would never have suspected so luxurious a frailty.
AFTERTHOUGHT
There's also the distinct possibility that the nudity of the young miss in question is either figmentary or a mental blip.
In the first case, you are just imagining it. Please stop. It isn't good for your emotional health. You'll bust a vein.
If it's merely a mental blip, no harm done, though pursuing the matter on the internet suggests more than mere blip, it actually says 'obsession'.
In which case you might want to seek professional help.
[NOTE: This blog is NOT 'professional help', but rather 'incidental perversion'. Or 'random electronic degeneracy'.
As well as pipe tobacco, zebra cooking tips, and random anecdotes. Sorry.]
Maybe in a fit of forgetfulness she forgot her clothes?
Or she decided to do laundry, and dumped everything in. After all, she's in the house alone, the rest of the family is down in San Jose visiting that aunt, not due back for hours.
Such freedom, such airiness.
Time to get a spot of reading done.
Now, where is that novel about the vampire and the chocolate cake?
Her eyebrows dimple enchantingly as she reads about the saturnine stranger with the platter of sliced Black Forest, whipped cream, dark gooey icing.......
Entranced, she does not notice a drop of moisture trailing down her back.
I can't tell you how often I myself get distracted by À la Recherche du Temps Perdu while in a state of profound undress. There's just something about a good book that encourages nakedness.
You cannot eat madeleines fully clothed - they crumble so.
Picture, if you will, a slim young thing happily flaked out on the couch, glowing all over and fragrant from her recent ablutions, leafing through a thick tome while munching a crisp apple.
Such a lovely thought, don't you agree?
Shame on you, my Bengali friend, now you've got ME convinced that a naked schoolgirl is an altogether splendid thing.
I used to be so wholesome!
For a totally Bong approach to the schoolgirl, pop a handful of mustard seeds (sorshon ka beej) in a cup or two of hot ghee. Then wait for it to cool down to a reasonable temperature before lovingly drizzling it all over the subject. Please note that the little black globules will get everywhere - that is the point of the exercise utterly! Add a sprinkle of tej patta for artistic effect, plus a judicious pinch here and there of dry mango powder and cayenne.
A trickle of cooling dohi would NOT be out of place.
It might look perverse. But it is aesthetically justified.
And turmeric sauce! It's good for the skin!
.
.
.
It is highly advisable that we both step away from the ghee.
Let us purify ourselves by chanting slokas from the shahma sanggeets.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WHAT A LOVELY IDEA!
I assume we're talking about a nineteen or twenty year-old, yes? Someone who has already applied to Berkeley, Stanford, M.I.T., or, heaven preserve us, the institution where my super-brilliant cousin is teaching?
A fine young thing.
By happenstance, frequently quite naked.
A naked schoolgirl!
Perhaps she had disrobed for a bath... or was lying on her bed, airing out AFTER a nice hot shower and a splash of perfumed skin refresher.
Happily thinking about all kinds of nice things.....
Chocolate cake, wonton noodle soup, steamed oysters, roshgullas, flaky meat pies, bon bons, romance novels, romantic vampires, samosas, and dairy products.....
Yankee pot-roast, madeleines, pudding.
Crustaceans, pizza, dim sum.
As well as, perhaps, a vibrant Dutch-American.
Like myself.
Should the occasion arise, I would with pleasure cover your naked form with warm ghee and lick it off.
Or oyster sauce, if you are into an ethnic thing.
The high salt-content would almost certainly give me hyper-tension, or send me into shock - heaven knows at my advanced age (over thirty) it could prove quite a trial - but I'm willing to suffer as long as it makes you happy.
Anything for a giggle. It's worth it.
I am a gallant fellow.
Just dream of my tongue, miss. Velvety, warm, and quite agile.
Let us ignore the symptoms of heart-attack and hypertension, or the sheer nausea from too much salty condiment, turning green and clutching my stomach, on the verge of a gag-reflex.
Cold sweats, shaking, and eyes rolling back in their sockets.
Seizures! It's the big one, Elizabeth!
Hands turning death white.
My trembling and clammy digits.
I am the degenerate the doctor ordered.
Do NOT call 911 quite as yet.
Please.
I'm fine. Honest!
This happens all the time.
Convulsions are NORMAL.
Alas, the effect of warm melted ghee would be no less worrisome.
No matter how petite the damsel in question, I figure it would need at least four cups. To the best of my knowledge no one has ever survived four cups of ghee, although IF someone has, it was no doubt a Bengali. Probably a bohut moti maheshyari vakil or banker, who washed down the clarified butter with a few laddoos, a rosmalai or two, sondesh, rimjim, and diluted it all with a BIG bucket of mistee dohi. Mmm, yummers!
Maybe her nudity has other causes. It was a sweltering day, perhaps?
Mom and dad are visiting an aunt in the South-Bay, and she's never had the opportunity to swan about in the buff? Eat bon bons in the nude? There's a full-length mirror in her room, and she wants to see how those high heels make her look?
Hot! Trust me.
They're killers.
Sex-death heels.
You look grand!
Khub shundar!
Where precisely do you want the warm ghee?
Did you know that Buddhadev Bhosu versified enchantingly about rivulets of ghee and honey cascading down the supine body of his mistress?
A surprising fact! Given that he was a small spare man, one would never have suspected so luxurious a frailty.
AFTERTHOUGHT
There's also the distinct possibility that the nudity of the young miss in question is either figmentary or a mental blip.
In the first case, you are just imagining it. Please stop. It isn't good for your emotional health. You'll bust a vein.
If it's merely a mental blip, no harm done, though pursuing the matter on the internet suggests more than mere blip, it actually says 'obsession'.
In which case you might want to seek professional help.
[NOTE: This blog is NOT 'professional help', but rather 'incidental perversion'. Or 'random electronic degeneracy'.
As well as pipe tobacco, zebra cooking tips, and random anecdotes. Sorry.]
Maybe in a fit of forgetfulness she forgot her clothes?
Or she decided to do laundry, and dumped everything in. After all, she's in the house alone, the rest of the family is down in San Jose visiting that aunt, not due back for hours.
Such freedom, such airiness.
Time to get a spot of reading done.
Now, where is that novel about the vampire and the chocolate cake?
Her eyebrows dimple enchantingly as she reads about the saturnine stranger with the platter of sliced Black Forest, whipped cream, dark gooey icing.......
Entranced, she does not notice a drop of moisture trailing down her back.
I can't tell you how often I myself get distracted by À la Recherche du Temps Perdu while in a state of profound undress. There's just something about a good book that encourages nakedness.
You cannot eat madeleines fully clothed - they crumble so.
Picture, if you will, a slim young thing happily flaked out on the couch, glowing all over and fragrant from her recent ablutions, leafing through a thick tome while munching a crisp apple.
Such a lovely thought, don't you agree?
Shame on you, my Bengali friend, now you've got ME convinced that a naked schoolgirl is an altogether splendid thing.
I used to be so wholesome!
For a totally Bong approach to the schoolgirl, pop a handful of mustard seeds (sorshon ka beej) in a cup or two of hot ghee. Then wait for it to cool down to a reasonable temperature before lovingly drizzling it all over the subject. Please note that the little black globules will get everywhere - that is the point of the exercise utterly! Add a sprinkle of tej patta for artistic effect, plus a judicious pinch here and there of dry mango powder and cayenne.
A trickle of cooling dohi would NOT be out of place.
It might look perverse. But it is aesthetically justified.
And turmeric sauce! It's good for the skin!
.
.
.
It is highly advisable that we both step away from the ghee.
Let us purify ourselves by chanting slokas from the shahma sanggeets.
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A FRUITFUL DISCUSSION ABOUT CULTURE NEAR THE HOOGHLI
Some conversations are, you know from the starting moment, completely pointless. Such as discussing poetry with someone from the Bengali speaking part of the world.
All poems are better in Bengali. No exceptions.
Literature is possible only in Bengali.
Art, science, philosophy?
It's Bengali.
Only.
I could've mentioned typhus, cholera, syphilis, malaria, malnutrition, food poisoning and epic diarrhoea, or notorious black holes. But I mentioned Shakespeare.
Who should've been born and buried near the Hooghli.
England is such a miserable place!
Avon, shmavon. Hah!
Something perhaps equally pointless is encouraging a Bonglo to consume strong liquor. Even if it is only to allow him to say even more absurd things. There is something in the head of the average Banglawallah that goes disastrously haywire whenever alcohol hits a metabolism so used to chandrapuli, chumchums, doodhpuli, kachagulla, laddoo, malpua, pakanpitha, pontua, shondesh, rosgollah, and sundry other items rich with ghee, khoya, sugar.......
Cardamom, saffron, attar, and even more ghee and sugar......
It's just very bad chemistry.
Too much sugar.
He began to twitch.
It was a very amusing conversation, despite the immense irritation. What made it especially good was at the end, when I sent him off into the cold foggy night after the bar closed. The booze hit his cerebellum even harder, because of the freezing temperature, and he started a conversation about Rabindranath Tagore with a streetperson looking for beer money.
I'm sure they got along very well.
Introducing the two of them created good in the world.
They have a lot in common.
All nights should end this way.
Benny Tagore would've approved.
All poems are better in Bengali. No exceptions.
Literature is possible only in Bengali.
Art, science, philosophy?
It's Bengali.
Only.
I could've mentioned typhus, cholera, syphilis, malaria, malnutrition, food poisoning and epic diarrhoea, or notorious black holes. But I mentioned Shakespeare.
Who should've been born and buried near the Hooghli.
England is such a miserable place!
Avon, shmavon. Hah!
Something perhaps equally pointless is encouraging a Bonglo to consume strong liquor. Even if it is only to allow him to say even more absurd things. There is something in the head of the average Banglawallah that goes disastrously haywire whenever alcohol hits a metabolism so used to chandrapuli, chumchums, doodhpuli, kachagulla, laddoo, malpua, pakanpitha, pontua, shondesh, rosgollah, and sundry other items rich with ghee, khoya, sugar.......
Cardamom, saffron, attar, and even more ghee and sugar......
It's just very bad chemistry.
Too much sugar.
He began to twitch.
It was a very amusing conversation, despite the immense irritation. What made it especially good was at the end, when I sent him off into the cold foggy night after the bar closed. The booze hit his cerebellum even harder, because of the freezing temperature, and he started a conversation about Rabindranath Tagore with a streetperson looking for beer money.
I'm sure they got along very well.
Introducing the two of them created good in the world.
They have a lot in common.
All nights should end this way.
Benny Tagore would've approved.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
JEET SINGH RAWAT
BUT FIRST: A NASTY LITTLE ULU
When I started working at the Indian restaurant, the chef was a gentleman whom I mistakenly called "that nasty little Bengali". Primarily because of his casual disregard for every other employee except the Sikhs and myself.
He was respectful towards the Sikhs, because nobody messes with a Sardar - especially not with the big Punjabi tandoor-wallah, who came to us from a restaurant where he had chased the manager with a talwar when pay was withheld once too often, and at a different time pushed a seekh through an arrogant know-it-all coworker.
He was respectful to me, because I once pulled the tandoorwallah off him and saved him from being whacked with a cleaver.
Later he became fearful of me when I threatened to shove him face first into the deep-fryer if I ever found him using monosodium glutamate again. I was standing on top of him when I told him so.
I refrained from eating the food at the restaurant after that, having no wish to be poisoned by a nasty little thing-spawn.
[Actually, a U.P. wallah.]
However, when at the end of that year the nasty little Bengali (nasty little U.P. wallah) stormed out in a huff, things changed.
I think I may have been responsible for that.
IMPROVEMENTS IN THE KITCHEN:
JEET SINGH RAWAT
The chef we hired to replace the nasty little kloojak was Jeet Singh Rawat. No, not another Sikh - the surname Singh is common to all Sikhs, but not all Singhs are Sikhs. This Singh was a Kshatria from Garhwal, about two hundred and fifty miles north of Delhi. Like many hillmen he was not quite so deft with spices as Muslims usually are (and the departed nasty little U.P.wallah had been very adept at spicing), but he was a much cleaner man.
By clean I do not only mean fastidious and capable of maintaining a sanitary kitchen, but also clean in his attitude and behaviour. Jeet Singh Rawat was gentlemanly. He did not push himself forward, and treated everyone else equitably. And quite unlike the nasty little monster, he did not throw temper tantrums or hurl epithets. During his years in our kitchen there was far, far less discord at the restaurant than before.
[Excepting, of course, for the immediate vicinity of the badtempered South Indian Christian woman - whom the Sikhs nicknamed Talwar Singh, and I refered to as 'voh badbu-walli untni', or sometimes ooloo. She was not welcome in the kitchen. She was probably responsible for nine-tenths of the unhappiness and spite within a ten-mile radius of her overstuffed self at all times. The owner of the restaurant, who clearly was in it for the entertainment it provided him, kept her on for eight years. She finally left to open a "French" restaurant, taking her slow-witted ghulam with her. ]
From 1991 till his death in 2002, on those days that I worked at the restaurant, I very much looked forward to his cooking.
His chicken tikka masala, when he still made it with the pistacchio-cream sauce, was divine. His malai kofta was heavenly.
Knowing my tastes, he made saag paneer just the way I liked it - not too much cream, and with a little extra ginger. Or potatoes in cream and butter sauce with a just the perfect amount of fried dry chilies and mustard seed. Tichwan, with alu instead of mooli, and toasted cumin.
In Indian society, sharing food happens often in a religious context or a ceremonial context, but until recent times was somewhat restricted or coloured by caste considerations. Sikhs instituted the langar as a means of dissolving caste barriers by having recipients of food eat together in the Guru's dining hall, and at many temples special foods are handed out as prasad - blessed gifts or foods which have a certain sanctity because of the context and the place. The idea that shared food is in some way sacramental also underlies the Sikh attitude. And it is not entirely strange to other cultures either.
The nasty little Bengali's uncleanliness of character spread pollution. His food was not a hospitable concept by any stretch of the imagination.
But Jeet Singh added a sacramental quality to the food. An aura of good fellowship and comradeliness. Eating the food which he prepared for me was sharing prasad.
He died suddenly of a heart attack in September of 2002.
Much more than the food, I miss the man.
When I started working at the Indian restaurant, the chef was a gentleman whom I mistakenly called "that nasty little Bengali". Primarily because of his casual disregard for every other employee except the Sikhs and myself.
He was respectful towards the Sikhs, because nobody messes with a Sardar - especially not with the big Punjabi tandoor-wallah, who came to us from a restaurant where he had chased the manager with a talwar when pay was withheld once too often, and at a different time pushed a seekh through an arrogant know-it-all coworker.
He was respectful to me, because I once pulled the tandoorwallah off him and saved him from being whacked with a cleaver.
Later he became fearful of me when I threatened to shove him face first into the deep-fryer if I ever found him using monosodium glutamate again. I was standing on top of him when I told him so.
I refrained from eating the food at the restaurant after that, having no wish to be poisoned by a nasty little thing-spawn.
[Actually, a U.P. wallah.]
However, when at the end of that year the nasty little Bengali (nasty little U.P. wallah) stormed out in a huff, things changed.
I think I may have been responsible for that.
IMPROVEMENTS IN THE KITCHEN:
JEET SINGH RAWAT
The chef we hired to replace the nasty little kloojak was Jeet Singh Rawat. No, not another Sikh - the surname Singh is common to all Sikhs, but not all Singhs are Sikhs. This Singh was a Kshatria from Garhwal, about two hundred and fifty miles north of Delhi. Like many hillmen he was not quite so deft with spices as Muslims usually are (and the departed nasty little U.P.wallah had been very adept at spicing), but he was a much cleaner man.
By clean I do not only mean fastidious and capable of maintaining a sanitary kitchen, but also clean in his attitude and behaviour. Jeet Singh Rawat was gentlemanly. He did not push himself forward, and treated everyone else equitably. And quite unlike the nasty little monster, he did not throw temper tantrums or hurl epithets. During his years in our kitchen there was far, far less discord at the restaurant than before.
[Excepting, of course, for the immediate vicinity of the badtempered South Indian Christian woman - whom the Sikhs nicknamed Talwar Singh, and I refered to as 'voh badbu-walli untni', or sometimes ooloo. She was not welcome in the kitchen. She was probably responsible for nine-tenths of the unhappiness and spite within a ten-mile radius of her overstuffed self at all times. The owner of the restaurant, who clearly was in it for the entertainment it provided him, kept her on for eight years. She finally left to open a "French" restaurant, taking her slow-witted ghulam with her. ]
From 1991 till his death in 2002, on those days that I worked at the restaurant, I very much looked forward to his cooking.
His chicken tikka masala, when he still made it with the pistacchio-cream sauce, was divine. His malai kofta was heavenly.
Knowing my tastes, he made saag paneer just the way I liked it - not too much cream, and with a little extra ginger. Or potatoes in cream and butter sauce with a just the perfect amount of fried dry chilies and mustard seed. Tichwan, with alu instead of mooli, and toasted cumin.
In Indian society, sharing food happens often in a religious context or a ceremonial context, but until recent times was somewhat restricted or coloured by caste considerations. Sikhs instituted the langar as a means of dissolving caste barriers by having recipients of food eat together in the Guru's dining hall, and at many temples special foods are handed out as prasad - blessed gifts or foods which have a certain sanctity because of the context and the place. The idea that shared food is in some way sacramental also underlies the Sikh attitude. And it is not entirely strange to other cultures either.
The nasty little Bengali's uncleanliness of character spread pollution. His food was not a hospitable concept by any stretch of the imagination.
But Jeet Singh added a sacramental quality to the food. An aura of good fellowship and comradeliness. Eating the food which he prepared for me was sharing prasad.
He died suddenly of a heart attack in September of 2002.
Much more than the food, I miss the man.
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