Saturday, December 16, 2006

The Biannual Potty Post/What You've Been Waiting For With Hated Breath

Friends, backslappers and assorted glorybees. Burn the sweetest incense and dance ritualistically round a holy fire, because these times are so very wrong. The Peep, the one abrim with the booze of satanic wildness, is in the teeth of a butt-clenching crisis. She, and her toilet, as it were, have fallen apart. At loggerheads, them both. And if you think people are going to be sympathetic, on this the second day of my bowels not rising to the occasion and shining forth toward the path of duty [or potty, if we're being specific], then you're wrong. It is with a sense of bitter resentment that I have resigned discussion of my ablutionary activity to this my only vent, my beloved blog, as opposed to that which is haunted by unfeeling types whose bowels, presumably have vowed lifelong allegiance to the upkeep of their well-being. I will not name names, but the pimple on my left cheek and I are feeling grossly misunderstood.
I've tried eating bananas, drunk warm water, pots of coffee. I even put on trackpants and took a long, long walk. Still nothing. I'm telling you people, this is war. And stop trying to tell me about Isabgol. My system works in wondrous ways, which are least affected by the onslaught of guzzling glasses of tasteless fleaseed husk.
Ok, I'm tired of this now. Bottomline, Peepie needs to poopoo. Khyak, I just really wanted to use that line and chuckle while you squirmed.
But seriously, it's my only weightloss programme - this relieving myself business. If I keep stuffing myself anymore with no hint of release, it's going to be a really really long time till I can buy a pair of jeans that I'm not going to be embarassed about when people suddenly come up from behind me and lift the backside of my shirt just that little bit to expose what is not the shapeliest bottom in the world (panu, thank you for the comment you shall now proceed to write), all the better to see what brand denim i'm wearing. Seriously, why the fuck would someone do that? You can just ask, yea, and I'll tell you? It's not a secret that I've got to keep or else the evil Mr. Strauss is going to monkeywash the world and put it into his slimfit pocket? And what is the DEAL with Levi's having the waist size embossed out on that patch for all the world to see, eh? My waist size, now That's an important secret. Notice the caps in the middle of the sentence and the italics, and appreciate the gravity of that statement immediately. And stop lifting my shirt from the backside already!
Uhm, that's a weird phrase. Pretend I didn't just use it twice.

Otherwise, the exams are over. I am done with the outstanding menace that was the Lit Theory paper. I need a 6 in the endsems to pass, which, considering how I unabashedly wrote 2/3rds of the paper based on life's experiences and buttercups, and NOT on any kind of literary theory, is still a tough call. But I mean, come on, I'm going to get a 6 out of 30, no? Touchwood.

And now for the true, the blushful Hippocrene! :-]


nothing said...

And this did unprecedented act of seeking release via blogdom provide the much needed erm...release?
Heavens above, O Tempora, O Mores and all that. (shake of wise, bald, old head)
Keats and Crapp juxtaposed together.
And one thought one had seen it all.
On second thought, doing a derrida to dear John is perhaps a bit worse than putting him down in the poop-pot.
But the wise or not-so-wise, hopelessly romantic heart rejoices at noticing there are still those who read the poor, ill-fated tuber.

Anonymous said...

Jesh sheet twight
It shood be aw-aite
For shomewhere o'er de pain oh
Dere eesh de potty of old

Rimi said...

You're a SICK SICK SICK girl! Where's Opaline?

Anonymous said...

Shit katurey meye aar kaake boley!

Anonymous said...


Anonymous said...

chug gallons of water, it never fails.

Anonymous said...

shotti, mota, tor dara kissu holo na.lokey eeNt shoman, tonne tonne potty korey felchhey, aar tui tor daily kaj tao korety parli na.Bass, ebar toh tui ekebarei roga hotey parbi na.khobordar ultrasonography ta korash na;dactaar babu jokhon peter bheetorey gada guccher baaNshi potty dekhtey paabey, tor bhalo lagbey?

rainbeau_peep said...

the still dancer,
Keats and Krapp, you mean? I've been quite a droning tape, haven't I? Don't talk to me about Derrida - that anthology of literary theory that i borrowed from bcl has eyes, I tell you. Even as I type this, it's looking at me disapprovingly, demanding to be read. Oh dear, I'm nuts and it's all JD's fault.
What new play are you working on now?

leanerd preenerd,
we're going to have to talk about this. jesht ewe wight, 'enry 'aagins.


And while you add insult to perjury, I, shall sit in a corner and fart noiselessly, observing all. :-[


buro thurthuro,
shitiye gechhi thandaye.

hullo! been a while, eh?
don't worry, i promise to be palatable next time.

yes, if anybody knows anything about the art of anytime-anywhere crap, 'tis you! :-] water didn't help much, actually. it was a singularly most distressing time.

mairi, oi historic potty ta jey korechhilo, konodino jaante paarle maaltaake giye selaam korbo aami! maane, ki obhutopurbo experience! [iye. ahem. ami bangla bollam kintu, dekhli?]
aar tui ki bolchhish, amar spine er photu tola'r aageo daktar babu laxative prescribe kore diyechilen, ekta noi, du duto ekshonge khete bolechhilen. amar ki mukh dekhei mone hoye aami constipated na ki rey baba? bhishon chinta'r bishoy egulo. raate ghum hoye na bhaable.

Madhura said...