Sunday to Monday

On a Sunday afternoon, trying to put together a write-up (I must add after polishing off two Avian Limbs with gravy), is as arduous as trying to whitewash the nearest building with a toothbrush. Seriously, what a generous Sunday-lunch does to a foodie is what Narco-analysis does to tainted ministers.

And to top it all, lack of sleep the previous night makes matters worse, (especially when you have started with the season opener of LOST at 10 last night). As you stare at the monitor plucking words off the screen by your eyelids, the waft of sleep intoxicate you, slowly decapitate you of your senses, and in no time it feels like you are carrying two software-engineering textbooks on your eyelashes.

Being in such a state, expecting something intelligible to escape from the keyboard to the laptop-screen is highly improbable, and the article looks more like a result of an extended session of FIFA-play, while your word document was open. Tackle-LongPass-Shoot-PublishBlog.

I switched on the TV to keep me from passing out, and suddenly I was caught up in a socio-political ad in which cross-border dumb-charades was being enacted. ‘Aman ki asha’ they call it, looks to me, like an effort to fart out loud when the stomach is running. Poor fellas, to their misery, IPL (Indo-Pak love) is as dead as a Sohail tanveer in a Bajrang dal office.

Flipping past the Sun tvs and the Vijaya tvs and their various off shoots - showing buxom actresses flapping their love-handles trying to keep step with the over ecstatic hero at some foreign locale - I settled for Dance India Dance on Zee. Mithun da sitting alongside Salman khan, both trying to outwit each other, and some deft dancing from the contestants, made good afternoon TV viewing. But it lasted until one of the judges exclaimed after one act, "Chummeshwari performance", as he blowed a kiss to a female participant. Goodness gracious, I searched for my remote, as if it was a screaming family member buried under post-earthquake rubble. Mute. PowerOff. Peace.

Focus shifted to my twitter timeline for some canned inspiration. And guess what I see there - "Arjun rampal wins the national award in the best supporting actor category". I gasped for breath as I searched for the tag #fakingnews appended to the tweet but to no avail. It was indeed breaking news.#fail. This was as ridiculous as watching the pirated version of Avatar on your Ipod nano.

Sometimes I feel my timeline looks like a green-peace protest rally, as the tweets look more like protest-march-placard text. Chill maaro yaaro.
And there are celeb-tweets, invariably followed by a smart-ass twitterer pointing out the spelling mistakes of the aforementioned tweet. Surely for them, getting a life in addition to getting one full blooded "Fukoff" as a reply from the celeb, are two of the resolutions for the new year. And the Glamour dolls have nothing to "loose" here on twitter, "definately" more followers are gonna throng "there" timelines, their #grammargandu-isms notwithstanding and with that I rest my case here.

Saturday, before its death, had poured a refreshing Sunday into the cup of our lives. You take a few sips and before you could appreciate the taste and aroma, It has evaporated and, yeah, you snickering morons I am not on crack *hic*.

And for some of you who are still reading this at your workstations, Alt+tabbing to glory, don't get caught on the wrong tab, given you already got caught on the wrong job. Have a great week ahead. Btw can u tell me the score from the cricinfo tab you just whizzed past? I know Gambhir is putting up a 'Chummeshwari performance.'

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