Archive for the 'Weird' Category

Motorola Is A Bitch, or High Phone Traffic Day

So there I  was, in the kitchen, cooking and minding my own business when all of a sudden, this tomato I was about to slice starts shouting,

“Wait! WAIT! WAIT!!!”

I freaked out! I have never heard a tomato talk before, let alone shout.

It was in that state of bewilderment that I said,


“I have one last dying wish”, the Tomato said.

“What?”, In a confused state of mind, you can only speak in single words.

“Call her Al. Call Barbie.”

This Tomato is crazy, I though. How did It know Barbie?

“How did you know Barbie?”, I asked.

The little fucker smirked, and casually ignoring my question said,

“Call her”

“I called her on Friday, but she neither answered nor returned the call”, I protested.

It started laughing. It laughed hard. It laughed so hard ketchup started coming out the top of Its head.

Dazed and confused, I asked,

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“Al, there are probably a lot of things I know that you don’t”, this was a smart ass Tomato. “But what you need to know now, because you need to know, is that Motorola is a bitch!”

I was in a state that can only be described as the lovechild of “madness” and “bewilderment”. My phone was a Motorola.

This smart ass tomato can’t just go around insulting people’s phones? It has to be stopped!

“You can’t just go around insulting people’s phones! You have to be stopped!”

I was ready to put my knife and slice the little fucker in half when,

“Relax big guy,” the Tomato pleaded with me, “It’s not Motorola I’m insulting, it’s their fucking Call Log!”

I didn’t follow.

“I don’t follow”

“You see, the log can only hold a maximum of 30 Dialed, Missed and Received Calls… or maybe even less”, It explained.

I use the bloody phone for crying out loud, so I know. But what has that got to do with anything?

“I know, but what has that got to do with anything?”

The Tomato looked at me. I think it was pity I saw in Its eyes.

“You’re not a smart one, are you?”, It said.

That was definitely pity.

The thought of a tomato that knows it is going to be in a soup by the end of the day feeling sorry for me was depressing, yet enlightening at the same time.

So like a good student on the road to enlightenment, I said,

“For the sake of this argument, let’s say I’m not. So please tell me, what has the Call Log got to do with anything?”

“You called her on Friday right”, my Sensei Tomato explained, “But before she saw the missed call, a hundred random guys called and wiped everyone, along with you and seventy percent of themselves off the Call Log. So you see, she never even knew you called”

Hallucegenic Tomato

For a tomato, my master was an enlightened one. It was the Buddha of tomatoes.

And It was right, Fridays are high phone traffic days for Barbie. I know this because she told me, but how did this tomato know?

“How did you know all these things?”

“I know, because you know”


“Al, I am you.”


Like I said, in a confused state of mind, you can only speak in single words.

“Let me put it this way: If this is fight club, I’m your Tyler Durden!”


It was exactly at that moment that I realized, fulfilling the last wish of a dying tomato is the least of my worries!


This is not a poem… again

In the tradition of my previous This is not a poem, This is not a poem… again.

The last few posts have been more Emotional than creative. This too is not very different.

I promise to write something interesting and with a  lot more creativity when I get better.

But till then, here’s my not-so-poetic poem about a lost loved one. As usual, it’s more self therapy than art….


Every night, sure as sunrise,
from a distance far, I see you rise.
Tonight I looked, overtaken by surprise,
A Murtherfucker cut down my tree.

Your body, wood and curvy,
from a distace far, it looks lovely.
From your neck, it rose thinly,
to the top, forming your head magically.
I still don’t understand why, logically,
A Murtherfucker cut down my tree.

You’ve always wanted to say something,
from a distance far, a greeting?
I should have listened, a warning?
Or was it goodbye you were waving?
O old friend, now I’m crying,
A Murtherfucker cut down my tree.

Every night, sure as sunrise,
from a distance far, I see you rise.
Tonight I looked, overtaken by surprise,
A Murtherfucker cut down my tree.

Notes: In the playground, there’s this magical tree in the distance. It has thick black bushes and thin long branches. Because I only go there at night, from a distancce, you don’t see the braches, only a couple of bushes floating in the air. It was magical and beautiful, up until some asshole brought a bulldozer and killed it. I miss my tree, too bad we never really got to know each other…

Death Trains & Kinky Sex.

The universe works in mysterious ways. Just yesterday I was talking about stupid people and the extinction of the human race, and this morning, I got hit in the face with this from Nadira.

Just in case you couldn’t find a second in your busy life to click on that link, let me tell you what happened.

Long story short, a South African couple were killed by a train while having sex on the train tracks. The End.

Now how do you react when you hear a story like this? Seriously.

OK let’s have a 3 second silence for the deceased.

One. Two. Three.

Now that that’s out of the way can I ask, What the fuck were they thinking?!

I have lots of questions that I’ll probably never get answers for. Deep down, I don’t want to know the truth; it’s probably lame anyways. I prefer speculating. Speculating is fun!

If you think this is mean and insensitive, tell you what; if I ever get hit by a train while having sex on its tracks, by all means speculate and make fun. You have my blessing. I promise I won’t haunt you in your sleep and cut off your penis.

So what do I think happened?

I think they were trying to “spice” things up. A little sex in public never hurt anyone, unless of course your idea of “public” is the train tracks. I understand doing it on the beach, back seat of the car in a shopping mall parking lot or even behind the bush at a city park. With the right persuasion, I might even give sex in the graveyard a pass. But train tracks? That shit is so far out of my reality that I can’t even imagine it – damn!

Respect to the girl though. Whether or not it was her idea, agreeing to participate proves that she’s one kinky bitch. If she was a prostitute (like some are speculating), even hotter! Some think it’s rape, in which case – The guy is a fucking asshole and I hope he fucking rots in hell!

But what if this was a love story? Have you thought of that? You know, some Romeo and Juliet shit? Maybe life was too hard for them, and they decided to commit suicide together. The right way. The fun way!

Isn’t that just the sweetest, most romantic thing ever? I think Wristcutters: A love story on X!

Fucking Orgasmic!

Now who do I have to blow to get the film rights to this story?

Where is this relationship going?


Sitting in front of my computer screen, I couldn’t help but notice something – My Blog, UC, was giving me a weird look.

As any decent, straight-thinking human being would do, I asked – What?

“Where is this relationship going?”, was the response I got.

I was caught off-guard, partly because I didn’t know that what we had was a relationship but mostly because I wasn’t expecting the blog to actually give me a reply.

So, thinking I was hallucinating, as I haven’t had any sleep in the last 30+ hours, I asked again – What?

“We either take this to the next level, or breakup”, she said.

I was definitely crazy, and speaking to my computer screen in the privacy of my own room wasn’t going to make me any crazier, so I continued – What exactly is the problem?

“You’ll see me, and then leave for several days, or weeks – no calls, no contact, and then suddenly, you’ll come back… no apologies… no nothing… like nothing ever happened!”

There was truth in that, I usually am not consistent with updating, so I chose my words carefully when I spoke –

You see, UC, I dedicate a lot of time into crafting entries for you, and when I do, it takes a while for me to find other entries worth going on to your fabulous pages. But I promise you now that everything is going to change. I’m going to make you more personal, tell you every little detail of my life, and we’ll take the journey to awesomeness together. So what do you say?

And I flashed my big teeth at the screen, knowing that I’m a sweet-talker, and I’d be damed if she didn’t accept the apology. 

“Really, that’s what you’re going to say?”

I was damed… I was dumbfounded… I was clearly not cut out to be a sweet-talker.

I didn’t say anything. I was thinking for a good line, a comeback, something to save me from this conversation that I didn’t want to keep going for a second longer than I have to.

“You know what? FUCK YOU!!! YOU CAN -“

Wait a minute… this wasn’t my computer screen talking. I was not crazy. This was coming from somewhere behind my Computer – The Window.

So I walked up to it slowly and peaked.

Sure enough, a few inches away from my window was a very pissed girl on my neighbors balcony yelling at the top of her voice on the phone .

Goodness gracious… I’m not crazy! I probably still need that sleep though…

This is not a Poem…

… It is past midnight. It is warm. It is quite. Everyone is asleep. I am Awake. I am Alone…

It is like this everyday for the past month.

I am in my bedroom. The room is cold as ice. Not the temperature. I open the windows to let the night breeze give me warmth. I get cold. I get colder. Am I ill? But I am not. So I walk out.

I am in the living room. The TV is switched on, and some celebrity scandal is showing on E! I don’t hear. I can’t hear. I turn up the volume. I hear less. Am I deaf? But I am not. So I walk out.

I am in the kitchen. I am hungry. I open the fridge and make a sandwich. It looks tasty. I take a bite. I can’t taste it. Do I have taste buds? But I do. So I walk out.

I am on the phone. It is ringing at the other end but for some reason nobody is picking up. Seven days I wait a call back. Has the call been through? But it has. So I won’t call again.

I am on the roof of my eighteenth floor apartment. It is past midnight. It is warm. It is quite. Everyone is asleep. I am Awake. I am Alone. I don’t hear. I don’t see. I don’t taste. 

I jump. The warm breeze of the night hits my face. I hear the sweet melody of the night. I see the beauty of the night like never before.

But the one question remains: When I fall, will I feel again?

Revolver: Story Of A Dream.

OK, this crazy dream I had last night, and No, it’s not what you’re thinking.

I was back home for the holidays. My cousin, lets call him Idris, picked me up from the airport. On the was home, he was telling me all the crazy things he did while I was gone, from waiting tables, to being a lecturer, and for some weird reason, running arms. And  yes, by running arms, I mean selling weapons.

Cut to a movie theater. I was seated at the back with Idris when he drew something from his pocket. It was a huge, shiny, silver revolver, and according to him, worth $36,000. It was a gift, for me.

It’ isn’t my birthday, but what the hell, who’ll say no to a free $36,000 revolver right?

So I took it. It was heavier than I thought.

Cut to the road. I, and a guy, call him Ibrahim driving were driving, and a little ahead were Cops doing a search. For some reason, this douchebag Ibrahim forgot to tell me that all this time, I was a wanted man, till when I was just a few cars away from the cops. The story was that while in the theater, his brother, let’s just call him Yaro, saw me with the revolver, and the thing was, the gun was used to kill some important feller somewhere. So Yaro told me to the cops for the reward, which he won’t get till they confirmed that I actually had the gun.

So what do you do when you learn that you’re a wanted man and the cops are on your ass???

Exactly, cut to Somalia. I don’t know why Somalia, how I got there, or who I went there with, but whoever it was, he had connections.

Quite frankly, I don’t know if there are really any warlords in present day Somalia, but while there, I was at the palace of one, no two actually. I don’t know why there were two equally powerful rebel leaders living in the same palace… wait…. OMG! Was I having a gay dream?

Anyways, I was chilling smoking whatever with whoever I went to Somalia with and the two rebel leaders when I had the greatest idea ever:

Why don’t I just give these rebels the revolver? No one is gonna come to Somalia looking for the gun. But then this thing’s worth a lot, I should just sell it to them for a couple of diamonds? Are there diamonds in Somalia? But what if they don’t want to buy? I’d rather not get diamonds than go to Jail.

So I took the revolver, which was still in my pocket, and gave it to one of the Gaylords, I mean, Warlords. He looked at me suspicously, and asked why I’d give him such a prized possession. I told him I was a film Maker, and wanted to shoot on-location in Somalia  in six months and I wanted protection. The revolver was my thank you gift in advance.

Even then, I knew It was a lie. I wasn’t shooting any movie. Hell I didn’t even have a script ready.

What if they don’t see me in six months after they’ve set all the protection for me? Will they find me and kill me?

But he already bought the film story bullshit, so Bye Bye revolver… or is it?

I don’t know exactly how long it was after I left the palace that I got a call from someone who claimed to be the warlords’ secretary, telling me that the warlords were pissed cause I took away the gun I gave them.

What? The revolver is gone?

PUFF! And I’m back to Somalia again. I started asking questions, from which I learned that the asshole that threw me to the Cops in the first place, Yaro, snuck into the palace and took the revolver.

I guess this guy is really serious about getting his reward. How much was it again?

How he knew I was in Somalia, or how he got there himself, I didn’t know. But I didn’t care, cause the revolver was gone, and both the cops and the warlords were on my ass.

And better the cops than the warlords, if you know what I mean.

I was terrified!

Yaro, you sneaky son of a bitch, I’m gonna find you, and I’m gonna shoot you with my revolver…

To be continued…