From the Bunker of the Ed.
In general happenings, life has been as dull as ditch water. Or perhaps ditch water would be more interesting, what with myriad life forms and general admonition raining down from passers by. Of course, my weekly horoscope cheerily continues to predict great wealth (poor as a paperless pauper), happiness (generally hit on the head by Fate with bits of lead piping) and a long journey. It is not so much the first bits that annoy me as much as the last bit does.
One cannot make long journeys every week, can one? And yet there it is, twinkling merrily out from the paper each week, the promise of a long journey. I now firmly believe that the horoscope is written duly by a snail. Takes him (has to be a He, taking into account the sheer quality of apple sauce the dude dishes out) a week to get from home to work, arrives in time to hastily slap on the happies in the appropriate column, and then begins the long journey, yet again to home and back. Perhaps my daily run to office is a long journey too.
The-Keep-A-Hold-Of-Your-Hat Section
In other interesting observations, I believe that I am a case of reverse paedophilia. Not so much that children interest me, but for some reason, children are interested in me. Explain if you will, why in the space of a week, I get asked out, once by a college kid, and the next (gasp) by a SCHOOL KID! What school am I from indeed. I started to respond, before the sheer horror of it all jumped on my neck. The kid didn't mean which school I WENT to... rather which I GO to! And all I wanted to do was ensure that the kid didn't go drown himself. Seemed to be sitting glumly, looking at what looked suspiciously like a report card (is it even exam time right now?!!!). Thought I'd do the kindly thing and cheer the fella up. Seems he cheered a bit on the much side for me. Humph. And I mean that to sting.
It doesn't help that my clients reinforce the general perception of the populace. I was typing on a document, projected on-screen for the benefit of the assembled relicts, when a particularly skanky one remarked that the dude beside me typed very fast. On being corrected, she actually had the sheer malfeasance to say "Oh! Mujhe nahin pata tha thi bachchi type kar rahi hai". To add to it, the rest of the crones felt pushed (no doubt due to the surge of the milk of human kindness) to congratulate me on the feat.
In the presence of my Boss.
My cup really do runneth over. The ditch water is sounding better and better isn't it? Perhaps if I applied for membership…
The-What-Not-To-Watch Section
One may well make the case for renaming this section, based on this week's picks and add a "And-Forget-If-You-Did" to the topper, so to speak.
Off with the waiting, though and on with the new. Tried watching some top of the tops bilge on the weekend. Yes, my pretty, have a good laugh at the miserable state yours truly has descended to, to have to watch Adam Sandler, "Click". On the other hand, in my specious defence, I can safely say that I am fully absolved of the Choice of Movie. All I chose to do (with a goodish push between the shoulder blades) was to go along with it. Considering the teeming hordes that throng the capital's precious few movie halls (the ones I would choose to patronise, anyway), I believe that sympathy, rather than censure is due me.
To get on with the opening ceremony of the binge, having dispensed with the initial speech and the general flower throwing, it sucked. Or at least the first half hour did (lots of general half hearted neglect of family by Sandler, humping of stuffed duck by dog and bad bossing by David Hasselhof. Some female I vaguely recollect but can't place, thrown in for male populace. Being stuck with Sandler and an aging Hasselhof, with clothes on and undoubtedly, his hair in a braid, I rather wish I were disposed toward women). I glazed over in the next half hour (more humping by dog, finding of magic remote, vague man with bad hairdo passing off as God though not overtly and lots of fast forwarding. As expected, no real "rules" for what remote can or cannot do).
In the five minutes after THAT, I hurriedly gathered possessions and accompanying friend and fled the scene of the crime for fear of loss of sanity. I believe I broke the universal record for the "being chased by the furies" race and am now the proud possessor of miscellaneous dark looks and mumblings from the Pro crowd.
Of course, this, coming as it did on the heels of the Superman fiasco (man with superhuman strength falls in loue and gets beat by silly female who don't loue him back!!! UGH!!! ), has only served to strengthen my conviction that in the matter of life and death decisions, one must retain full control over the creative and final decision making process. The Right Ho! to watching a movie, in future, shall be issued solely from the GHQ.
Stick-And-Stones
For those who think that this section invites response from the unfortunate readers of this engaging rag, Ha! This section includes general and standard disclaimers and is best disregarded.
Start of small print:
The Ed. takes no responsibility for any harm, injury or permanent damage resulting from the reading of this, The Bugle.
All Brickbats may be addressed to the Ed., promise of non-receptiveness holds across all editions of The Bugle. As does Clause 1 (or should it be Clause I, for the sake of professionalism?), for those of you geared towards frights of fancy.
Any unauthorised copying or distribution of this, The Bugle, will result in divine retribution, a well aimed kick and widespread unpleasantness. Save the whales, don't copy this bilge. And you know I mean YOU!
End of small print.
P.S. Sticks and stones may hurt my bones, but at least I can sue you in court.
