The Proper Way To Die (Part 3/7)

4. The Revelation

Wait, wait, wait... I just said I wouldn't want to tell anyone I'm dying because of all the annoying attention it would garner. So what's with all this talk of revelations?
Quite simple. The attention is only annoying in excess. It's extremely desirable in small doses. Hell, that was the entire point of this exercise! I would tell people, but only right at the end, when there's just enough time left for me to reap all the benefits of impending death without reaping any of the annoying solicitous bastards who come with it.
I said 'reap'. R-E-A-P. And no, I don't mean it as an anagram.
Now, obviously I can't just tell someone. That would be really awkward.

"Hey man, wassup?"
"Nothing, nothing. You?"
"Oh, I'm dying."
"Yeah, right."
"No, I'm serious."
"Prove it."

So that's a lot of time wasted there. And it doesn't even end after proving it. Then I have to explain why I didn't tell anyone.

"Because I didn't want you to worry or make a big fuss about it!"
"Then why are you telling me now?"
"Because... um... now I'd like you to worry and make a big fuss about it. Pretty please?"

See? Lame.
So I'm forced to resort to filmi stereotypes once again.
Long argument with someone I care about. Probably about how I don't spend time with them anymore.
Other person says a lot of mean stuff. I don't because death has given me a sense of perspective or some kind of sappy bullshit just like it.
The argument escalates. Voices are raised, accusations are made, things are said that can't be taken back, you know the drill.
And then...
I collapse.
I'm rushed to the hospital. Hopefully there are no traffic jams on the way.
I'm admitted to the hospital. Hopefully there are no protocol-worshipping doctors from Munnabhai MBBS on the way.
While I'm in the ICU, my friends find out that I'm dying. Now see, in this scenario, not wanting a fuss is a valid excuse as it isn't weakened by the fact that I'm telling them now since I'm not the one telling them now, someone else (maybe a parent, maybe a doctor) is because there's no other choice.
Did you understand that sentence? Good.
So what happens? The impact is much stronger. They feel a lot sadder about my death since they now think I'm some kind of noble martyr who didn't want to bother his friends with something so trivial as, oh, I don't know, the frickin' end of his life as he knows it, even though that's complete and utter bullshit. 
Come to think of it, there's a lot of bovine faeces involved in this process. I'm not proud of it, but it's necessary.
It's necessary because I don't want to be remembered as a petty douche even though I am one. So yeah, I'll pretend I don't want people to worry about me even if it involves barefaced lies like, "No, no, don't worry, don't be sad, don't cry."
Yeah, right. 
Of course I want them to worry. Of course I want them to feel sad. And I wouldn't mind a couple of tears.

After all... that was the whole point!

To be continued...

The Proper Way To Die (Part 2/7)

(Quick note: For those of you who don't know, I'll be adding more to this theme every three days)

3. The Bucket List

Since we're on the subject of movies, the question of the bucket list needs to be tackled.
For those of you who don't know, a bucket list is a list of things you've always wanted to do, but never had the guts, but you definitely want to do before you die, or, in other words, kick the metaphorical bucket. It was made famous by a 2007 movie starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, called, unsurprisingly, The Bucket List.
Now, here's the problem. If I haven't told anyone I'm dying, then I can't really do all the stuff on my bucket list without making some people suspicious. I mean, can you imagine this conversation:
"Hey, dude, I heard you dropped out of college..."
"Yep."
"To become a matador..."
"Yep."
"In Barcelona..."
"Yep."
"While learning how to scuba dive and play the violin...."
"Yep."
"At the same time."
"Yep."
"And now you're going bungee jumping."
"Nope. That's next week. This week's skydiving."
"Why?"
"Because the bungee jump guys were all booked up this week."
"You know what I mean."
"Ummm... I had a religious experience?"
"..."
"I watched an inspiring movie."
"..."
"I'm kinda dying."
"Oh you poor thing! Can I hold that helmet for you?"
Followed by a long attempt to convince me that death isn't scary, that I'm really brave, that people die all the time, really it's nothing yadda yadda yadda.
See what I mean? Annoying.
Also, I don't think I'd have enough cash or time to do all those things. But if I had more time, presumably I could still be cured or medicated, which is then a completely different scenario.
As for money, I'm reminded of the Make A Wish Foundation. Basically they're a non-profit organization that seeks to grant the last wishes of terminally ill children, to give them hope, strength and joy before they leave this world, provided, of course, that the wish is possible to fulfill. I've always felt that's a really cool idea. As a kid I always dreamed of getting a chance to, I don't know, learn a new language or become rich and famous or meet my favourite author or get superpowers or become a martial artist or be inserted in an artificially created video-game-like world a la The Matrix, so the idea of getting wishes fulfilled is really appealing.
I think that's probably where this obsession with a slow death began. My over-active imagination would create these elaborate fantasies that could never in a million years come true. As I got older, the fantasies got more realistic. For my dreams to come true, it would have to involve a break from reality. Hence the introduction of a convenient far-fetched plot device like a wish-granting genie. Then, when I learnt about the Make A Wish Foundation, it was like I'd found out that genies were actually real. Except, they were only real for dying kids. So, like with all kids, my fantasies took a morbid turn. Whenever I was sulking or sick, I'd imagine I was dying and think about how everyone would be sorry for being mean to me after I died and maybe how my wishes would finally come true, thanks to the Foundation. And since I sulked (and was sick) a lot as a kid (and only a wee bit less as.. well, not quite an adult), I've had a lot of time to think things through. Which is how this blogpost was born - it's a message from ten-year-old me.
Problem is, I'm already nineteen and eighteen is the maximum age for your wish to be fulfilled by the Make A Wish Foundation since, obviously, you're no longer a child after you turn nineteen. Legally at least. I can still picture myself making That's What She Said jokes at age 69. See, I even inserted an age with sexual connotations while talking about it!
Although, technically, that's immature; not exactly childish. It's cool though, I'm childish as well. I still like Pokemon and I still cry if I'm really upset.
Nonetheless, the Make A Wish Foundation is probably one of the most noble causes I can think of. Maybe I'd make a donation if I had the money.
But anyway, let's stick to one hypothetical scenario.
What I could do is tick off the least expensive and time-consuming things on my bucket list like acting in a play/movie (I know that takes time but a bit part would do), or performing my favourite songs live, or going on a date with a girl and kissing her (preferably with her permission).
In any case, I wouldn't want to do anything really tiring or scary. So no bullfighting or bungee jumping or paragliding for me. I guess I'm just too lazy. And anyway, I want a slowish death. Slightly less scary, enough time to come to terms with my mortality. If I died while bungee jumping, I'd die really suddenly and painfully and in a terrifying way. I don't want that. Why not? I'll come to that later.
What I'd really love to do is publish a book, but that takes time and money.
So that's one downside - I'd probably be dying without really doing anything meaningful in life. I'd never become a writer or get married or have kids or anything like that.
And that's precisely why I would never intentionally do this, never intentionally kill myself. The scenario might be cool, but it isn't worth all the regrets that go along with it.
Maybe some day I'll actually put my bucket list down on paper. Maybe I might even it share it here someday, like a friend of mine once did with his blog (No links. I've put up enough links to his blog in my post. Just surf around a bit, you'll find them easily enough).
Not now though. Not yet.
But enough doom and gloom.
Let me enjoy my imaginary death spiral.
The whole point is that it's just... happened. Call it fate, Providence, bad luck, random accident, whatever.
The point is, now that I'm dying, how can I make the most of it?

To be continued...

I may not have a list, but I sure as hell have a bucket.

The Proper Way to Die (Part 1/7)

Have you ever had days when you wished you were dying of a terminal illness?
Okay, before anything else, let me clarify: I'm not being suicidally emo here. I'm not talking about wanting to die because I'm depressed, because life is no longer worth it, blah blah, moving on...
What I mean is this: I think the whole "on my deathbed" experience would be really cool.
Very filmi, but still cool.
Let me explain. I'll do it in steps.

1. So You're Dying...

Okay, first things first. I go to my doctor because I've been experiencing weird symptoms - chest pains, coughing blood, wounds that won't heal, whatever. And I get diagnosed with some kind of terminal incurable disease, and I have just a few days or maybe months to live. Not more than a year at any rate.
Now let me be clear, I admire people who are diagnosed with, say, cancer and then decide to fight it by undergoing chemotherapy or surgery or other treatment.
But in this case, it's very important that there is absolutely NO chance of my recovery AND that I'm still mobile.
Now comes the tricky part...

2. Telling People

Now, unless I went to the doctor without my parents getting to know about it, which is unlikely at this stage of my life, they're going to be the first people (after me) to learn that i'm dying. But the question is, should I tell other people?
Let's weigh the pros and cons.
If I tell other people, I'll get sympathy, understanding and presumably they'll start making a lot of time for me.
BUT they would also probably become overly solicitous. They'd start being extra nice even if I was a douche and probably pity me, which could easily get annoying.
Since I've established that I'm mobile, if I tell no one, I can still continue my normal life while hiding my symptoms and at the same time making preparations for my demise in private.
Plus, if somebody accidentally finds out that I'm dying right after being really mean to me, they feel guilty as hell (yes, I'm really that petty), which is really the best revenge there is. There's nothing more despicable than making a dying dude's life hell.
Need I mention that in most "Guy has a week to live" type movies, this is also exactly how the protagonist gets the girl?

To be continued...

Feeding My Brain-Fish

It’s been a very long time since I last updated this blog. So much has happened in the intervening span of time that I feel compelled to describe it all in detail. Yet, whenever I set out to do so, the words fail me. I suppose constantly having to justify my choices in real life has made doing the same in cyberspace seem needlessly tedious. So that will have to wait for another time.

For now, I feel unusually fecund. Creatively, not biologically. A host of things to write about are swimming around inside my head like goldfish in an aquarium, their pouty faces begging for sustenance. Excuse me, for I must feed my brain-fish lest they die an untimely death.

I just finished reading a newspaper article about Carlos Santana which led me to dwell upon the plurality of music. No two people can possibly have exactly the same tastes in music; of this I am convinced. If they do, then music itself will have entirely different meanings to them. Musicians feel this exceptionally so. The evolution of a distinctive style is what every musician strives for. While some believe in hooks and riffs, others may prefer dreamy soundscapes where no two vistas seem the same. Personally, I like my music deceptively simple. Music that affects you on a primal level on first hearing but which on repeated hearing unveils layers and layers of complexity. No, I’m not into heavy metal. I can appreciate the technicality, but the genre often seems dead to me – needless posturing and mechanical flourishes that try too hard to be something they’re not. I prefer harmonies over screams and guttural growls, slide guitar over shredding. That is not to say, however, that I can’t get tired of one when it is used gratuitously or be unusually affected by the other when it is used innovatively and tastefully.

When it comes to lyrics, I feel there is no real hard and fast rule. So many people write abstruse lyrics these days. Lyrical complexity is most certainly an ideal, but at times songs seem uncomfortably pretentious – a stringing together of random images. When the effect intended is one of chaos and unpredictability, these songs work, but when people claim that those same random lyrics hold a deeper meaning which they themselves do not feel compelled to analyze, it just seems fake. It seems like lazy writing, writing meaningless verse to shock or impress. An I Am the Walrus, I can appreciate. A Black Hole Sun, to a lesser degree. Whatever happened to beauty in simplicity?

I cannot read good books without feeling intimidated. A failing, but one that I can use productively. Such moments of inferiority compel me to improve as a writer. Evolve, or face extinction.

The cold is miserable. I do not like it. How can I enjoy life with a blocked and chapped nose? It is impossible. Yet for everything, there is a time. Without the monstrous discomfort of winter, perhaps my beloved summer would lose all meaning.

I keep trying to write about something, but it slips away like a greased orb, a simile I have borrowed from another writer, I am sad to say, but of which I am not ashamed – it is so apt.

Would human flesh taste like lion meat? I would say so. We are not so different after all.

Death erases many a grudge, smoothens many a rough personality and consolidates many a career.

Again! It slips away from me.

Time slips away so fast, leaving nothing in its wake but an overwhelming feeling of shame and regret – so much left undone!

There is no greater tragedy than when a brilliant idea disappears without a trace. But perhaps that is necessary too. Perhaps what seemed astounding in the heat of the moment is later found to be dull and inspired. Perhaps thoughts never disappear; perhaps they merely withdraw into the vegetation of the mind, eluding the questing gaze, fattening themselves on the kelps of the subconscious and re-emerging unrecognizably changed, like a camouflaged catfish in an enormous aquarium.

I had intended to end with the previous paragraph, fittingly I thought, since I revive the fish metaphor. But look! Fate, or my mind, or both had other plans! Contrarily and perversely, my missing thought has resurfaced and now I must put it down posthaste – to hell with aesthetics!

Why does the word ‘woman’ have so many associated connotations while the word ‘man’ is so sterile? ‘I am woman, hear me roar’ is filled with so much pride and power! ‘I am man’ pales in comparison. Man means only humanity. Woman seems to represent a whole different species. Of course, this is how patriarchy functions, creating stereotypical gender roles and universalizing the interests of the male, but I can’t help but feel the male has lost so much in doing so. Someone once wondered at the lack of literature on male sexuality. That would be because it never seems to be a concern to us. So overrepresented it is, we feel no need to dwell upon it. Sadly, this only perpetuates a masculine stereotype of machismo and stoic dominance. My kingdom for an alternative masculine model!

The idea is fading. Put it down, fast!

Women accuse men of so much. So much repression, so much evil has been done to women by our very hands. Yet why do I generalize? Who is this ‘us’, this ‘them’? Are we not equal? Ah, the learned ones say, equality need not mean absence of difference. We are equal but different. This seems unfair. Why complain of the evil patriarchy has wrought while talking about girl power? It either creates further division and vindictiveness or lessens the true cruelty of a patriarchal society. If patriarchy is truly repressive, should not women be stunted by generations of its existence? Even as I write this, I am aware of the flaw in my logic. If stunted, affirmative action is, in fact, the need of the hour. But need affirmative action be at the expense of another? Common sense would say yes. But there is a difference between upliftment and pettiness. But see! Even these words of mine will be criticized and called chauvinistic and regressive! Why should I be prevented from airing my opinions and judged in this way if I try not to do the same? (I’m usually very diplomatic – but to hell with diplomacy! For once, let me be a Chughtai – let me be brash and opinionated and embrace the consequences)

Why must all men be vilified for the crimes of those who are long dead? Patriarchy still exists, no doubt, but please do not tar all men with the same brush. Not all of us believe in dowry or rape women or sit in the seats reserved for women in the metro. Some of us are as angered by sexism as women. And we still feel hurt when a joke aimed at a woman is censured while similar jokes mocking men are praised as progressive. Either allow both, or frown on both. That is equality!

It is finished!

Postscript: I’ve been working on a very long blog post that is nearly finished and will probably have to be split up into multiple posts. It’s going to get very morbid, but bear with me.

Paint and Turpentine and I

Turpentine, O Turpentine!
How I recall this scent of thine
Which oft into my nostril would
Creep from yon newly polished wood
Along with Paint, thy cousin fair,
When fresh, whose fragrance too was there.
You hail fresh starts and ventures new;
To my cold casket from the pew,
Always together were we three:
The two of you and one of me.
When I was but a newborn child
And carried home in arms so mild
And tender, what should boldly wait,
But of mine home, the painted gate;
And inside: tables, polished, gleaming,
Silently heard my shrill screaming.
Unfamiliar with your scent,
I wept until my tears were spent.
But soon I grew to love thee, Paint
And Turpentine, even when faint,
I would rejoice when you were there,
Which, since forever in repair
Was my house, I would always find
You waiting only to remind
Me that though mortals always fade,
Your musk forever will pervade
All houses, halls and institutions
Like the one where all my tuitions
From the tender age of five
Till eighteen, when I learnt to drive,
Were given to me that I may
Become a learned man one day.
And still, today, thy gentle vapours
Will remind me of the capers
That I had while still a child
Whose curiosity ran wild
Except when I would kneel in church
As Jesus Christ, from his high perch,
Would send your scents from far away
To me as I would kneel and pray
Because he and his giant, sainted
Cross had just been polished, painted!
As they were when I stood standing
Right before them, smiling, handing
All my love trapped in a ring
To my bride whose bright, shimmering
Tiara, veil and gown so fair
Could not with her pure heart compare.
And Paint and Turpentine, you seemed,
(Or perhaps 'twas something I'd dreamed)
To stand by my side, silent, beaming,
Proud to see the child who, screaming,
Was presented to you all
Those years ago inside that hall
Where now I took my soul, my wife,
So that we might spend our new life
For what seemed like eternity,
But in years was but forty three,
Until far from me she one day ran
With an older, bolder man;
A beau who unlike me succeeded
Through his courtship, unimpeded,
To forever with him keep her.
And so she left with the Reaper,
Leaving me alone again,
In my large mansion by the Seine,
With tables made of gleaming pine
And you, Paint and dear Turpentine,
For we could never have a child,
To which we both were reconciled.
But as now I was left to potter,
How I wished for son or daughter
To remind me of my love
Who now looked down from up above.
Who knows how long she'll have to wait?
Not very long, because my gait
Has turned already so unsteady
And my organs all seem ready
To relax and stop their working
And so surely, there is lurking
He whose kiss, though cruel and cold,
Had turned me into a cuckold
And he shall take me to his hollow
Peaceably, for I will follow,
Meekly led by his thin hand,
To yonder silent, frozen land
Where I shall meet my turtledove
And with her look down from above;
Down at the hall that once was mine
At you, sweet Paint and Turpentine.

Top Ten Terrible Pick-Up Lines

(Partially inspired by The Woman At The Cafe)


The night is dark with limitless possibilities. Yet you stand isolated, alone, lurking in the shadows. A place in the corner, camouflaged by darkness, the light avoiding you as all else has.
You sit and you watch the throngs of people, other people, other lives, brushing against your own. But only at the edges. They seem not to notice you, as if the untold envy in the chamber of your heart is pulsating for all to see, a dangerous glow, green and frightening. No one approaches you and you approach no one.
Until you see her.
At first a face and then a vision. Her form bathed in the light of the heavens, though you know not whether she stands so illuminated in truth or merely in the depths of your desire. You blink. The world disappears, then reappears again, still gloomy, still desolate, still crowded. And in the crowd she stands, still glowing.
Longing wraps itself round your cold and shrivelled heart, extracting who knows what essence from that organ, for what love it once held has long since bled away. Yet it bleeds fresh for the first time in eons and you realize that this night is different.
She is not the woman of your dreams. She is more. She is real.
You want her.
You need her.
You never want to leave her.
Yet suddenly you remember that even to dream is futile. What would such an exquisite creature want with someone like you?
Your fancy leads you down the path of parallel universes. You see yourself getting to know her, the sound of her voice, like a brook bathing pebbles, the taste of her ruby lips, like nectar and cinnamon. You see the joy that has eluded you for so long, the companionship you thought you would never know.
And then you see her leaving like all else before her, leaving naught but a memory of an angel who touched your life, oh so briefly, yet leaving in her wake the wreckage of a man who thought he was already destroyed.
You sigh with regret as you come back to reality. You stand up to leave when all at once...she looks at you.
Was it the lovelorn sigh that drew the attention of those breathtaking orbs or did she feel it too: that electricity, that anticipation, that feeling of completeness, the knowledge that the other half of your heart lies waiting nearby?
It doesn't matter. She looks at you and she sees you.
Your first instinct is to hide, lest your bitterness and yearning and envy and despair, the monstrosity of your soul lay itself bare and scare away this vision who stands before you.
But you stay still. You let her see you.
And then...she smiles and walks away. She sits at the bar and turns imperceptibly yet surely towards you.
Your heart leaps! She knows! She sees and she doesn't care! Suddenly you have the key to your lost future in the palm of your hand, the drawbridge has been lowered and the invitation extended!
Suddenly, the darkness lifts. You see colours like you've never seen them before. They smile at you too, friends revealing themselves after so long. In a daze, you make your way towards her. The crowd parts like the Red Sea until suddenly, you stand before her, her suitor at last.
But then (alas!) your tongue stumbles and your mind grows still. Your throat is parched and your palms are moist. You don't know what to say!
What words can exist in this imperfect world that would capture the extent of your love for her? What words can tell her what she means to you as they should, as they must, lest the fire awakened afresh in your spirit and in the depths of your soul find no utterance and burn the core of your being to a cinder as if it had never existed?
What words? What words?!
In your madness, you despair and once again your mind leaps ahead.
You see yorself ten times over, the heat of your passion magnified tenfold and where once there was a goddess stands now a pantheon! And you watch as each one turns towards its respective suitor and raises an eyebrow, questioning, yet inviting.
You see yourself, ten times, search for the words that would attract her, inflame her, reveal your ingenuity, your wit, your love, that she may love you as you have loved her.
And you watch ten times over as you lean in towards that delicate ear.
And you whisper:

10. "Honey, you must be an angel, 'cause it smells like something died in here."

 9. "They say there's a fine line between beautiful and gorgeous. Well, when I look at your face, trust me, all I see are lines."

 8. (sings) "You say it best...when you say nothing at all. So shut the fuck up bitch and listen to me."

 7. "Give me all your money! No, I'm kidding. Just buy me a drink. Now."

 6. "Has anyone ever told you that your lips make you look like Steven Tyler?"

 5. "Soooooo, I ran over this squirrel on my way over here. It took a while, but I finally got the furry little     bastard. Wanna go take a look?"

 4. "Yo momma's so ugly that even if she married Brad Pitt, all her kids would end up looking like you."

 3. "Knock knock."
     "Who's there?"
     "Knock-knock."
     "Knock-knock who?"
     "Knock-knock"
     "Will you stop that?!"
     " Sorry, I just really want to knock you up!"

 2. "Love me. Looooove meeeeeee! LOOOOOOOOVVVVE MEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!"

 1. "Say hello to my little friend!"

Ten times you watch this sick charade play itself out before your eyes. Each time, the words that you utter grow coarser and coarser, the random by-products of an overtaxed mind. You cringe and you weep with rage at each new iniquity until the last one causes you to scream. In all these visions, unsurprisingly, you muse with disgust, she grows cold and distant and once again leaves your pathetic life, back to whichever Paradise from which she originated.
Then you return to reality and she looks up at you, her expression quizzical for you have stood there for a while, saying nothing, lost in what may happen, what must not happen.
And then you sit down facing her. And you hear yourself say:

"Hi, I'm Armando."
"Hey, I'm Kiki."
"Hey Kiki. Listen, I'm sorry to disturb you but there's something I need a little help with."
"Ohhhh-kay?"
"See, I have this blog. It's called Are You Passively Observing The Random Canvases At The Cafe?"
"Long name."
"Tell me about it. You should check it out sometime. Anyway, I've been thinking of putting up a post listing the ten worst pick-up lines I could think of."
"Sounds funny."
"Thanks. So anyway, I made up ten terrible pick-up lines, but I have no idea how to rank them. So when I saw you here, I thought, well, here's a girl who's probably heard a lot of pick-up lines, you know? Because you're so beautiful. No offence."
She laughs.
"None taken."
"So I was wondering, could I perhaps read these out to you and could you, like, rank them for me? Just give a number for each one between 1 and 10, 10 being not too bad and 1 being absolutely despicable."
"Sure."
And so you take out the notepad you carry with you all the time and tell her what you said in those ten visions. This time, instead of leaving, she's amused! She giggles at a few of them and by the end, she's clutching her sides, laughing. The laugh is just as you imagined it, full-bodied yet innocent.
And for each pick-up line, she gives you a number between 1 and 10.
At the end of it all, she asks if you have any more.
"Well, I do have one, but it's not as funny as the rest."
"Well let me hear it."
"Okay. Here goes - 'Hi, my name is Armando and I'm making a list of the ten worst pick-up lines ever. Could you help me rank them?' What do you think of that one?"
She smiles. This one is different. It slowly spreads across her face and her eyes grow dark and mysterious.
"That one's not too bad."
"So a 10?"
"Better. In fact, if someone used that one on me, I'd have a tough time playing it cool, you know what I mean?"
"I think I do. Well, thanks for all your help. I've got your scores written down here, your ten...uh... numbers."
Now you lean across the space between the two of you. And you ask her:
"Are there perhaps ten more numbers you have that you'd like to give me?"

Papa Pilot

This happened a long time ago. Two years ago, to be precise. I was bored and decided to try my hand at limericks. So I started scribbling little scraps of doggerel on my partner's (Rudraksh Banerjie, man, I am really promoting his blog!) notebooks. While some might get pissed off, he was actually pretty amused. So I started putting them up as Facebook statuses. Now, I don't remember exactly how it happened, but Akshat Bahl, another friend of mine started contributing as well. We started competing. I'd put up a four line stanza, he would comment on it with another and so on until finally we had a ludicrous, disgusting, juvenile, hilarious (at least, we thought it was) poem. I soon forgot about it.
A few days ago, Akshat dredged up this story-poem from the sands of time, inspiring me to post it here so I'd never lose it again.
So here it is...enjoy!

Oh, and I have no idea why I chose to call the protagonist of this epic Papa Pilot.


EssayTea     : Papa Pilot ate a cat today
                       Felt a little hungry, but it's okay,
                       'Cause he puked it out a little while later.
                       That's the last time he asks ALF to cater.

 Akshat Bahl : He doesn't know how to fly,
                       His voice will make you cry,
                       He's a funny old crappy chap,
                       Don't laugh at him or else he'll give you a slap...

ET                : Papa Pilot got arrested for DUI.
                      The cop took pity on him when he saw him cry
                      Tore up the ticket and started walking away...
                      ...Papa Pilot ran over a cop today.

AB               : All he could do was run,
                      Some gangsters considered it kinda fun,
                      After he whopped the cop's ass with a bang,
                      They took him in his gang...

ET                : But despite all his efforts,
                       Papa Pilot wasn't a thug;
                       The truth is he couldn't even harm a ladybug
                       Because he knew that crime doesn't pay.
                       So...hey wait a minute... didn't Papa Pilot  run over a cop yesterday ?!

AB               : It's a funny story, he lost his mind:
                      He broke into a bank and a penny was all he could find.
                      The people laughed at him,
                      He walked out of the bank with Tim...

ET                : But Tim was a backstabber; he betrayed his new friend.
                      Papa Pilot swore a vendetta against Tim until the end
                      Of the world, the universe, space and time  
                      Or maybe just until the end of this rhyme

AB               : A never-ending rhyme is what i call it.
                      I dont think anyone can stop it.
                      Other people should read this crazy rhyme.
                      Instead of wasting their time,
                      Let's chuck the rhyme and go back to Papa Pilot.
                      His balls were bursting and he couldn't find a toilet...

ET               : So decided to man up and ignore that need
                      Because he really needed something good to read.
                      Something insightful, amazing, something he could read in bed.
                      But then he thought, "Screw it!" and went to the toilet instead.

AB               : He wanted to pee but shit while standing instead,
                      He couldn't find his way to the bed,
                      His room was full of stuff you know,
                      His water didn't come in proper flow...

ET               : But let us move away to a less unpleasant scene;
                     Papa Pilot trying his very best to go green.
                     He reduced his carbon footprint, put up posters all o'er town.
                     But then he rammed his car into a tree,
                     And knocked the tree down.....crap!

AB              : Crap happened when he tried to get out,
                     He was stuck between two branches with a bird's egg in his mouth,
                     He was dumb; I think he knew it.
                     A man passing by said, "Gosh! That ass blew it!"

ET              : Such a sudden change of scene left Papa Pilot confused.
                     This wasn't the kind of world to which he was used.
                     Beaten, humiliated, unsure of himself, in despair
                     Papa Pilot hung himself with a noose made from his own hair

AB              : Now that he is dead,
                     I hope this poem you have read,
                     I think we should end this rhyme,
                     Bye Essay Tea, see you next time...

ET              : And so we bid adieu
                     To Papa Pilot and me and you
                     Perhaps we'll meet him in another life
                     Perhaps one day, he'll have a wife...