God was Murdered

“I’m become Death — the Destroyer of Worlds.” J. Robert Oppenheimer I watch movies because they kidnap me from the roaches-filled Gutter of Reality & airdrop me into the Ocean of bitchilicious Beauty or Bombs . Of course, most movies are more godawful than childbirth. I'd rather be naked & licking Kim Jong Un’s balls in prison in North Korea than sit through 3 hours of ₹ 700 cr VFX-disaster Adipurush or overrated jingoistic trash RRR. But some movies hit you like Thunder — they make your crappy one-bedroom apartment in dingy downtown Bihar feel prettier than Taj Mahal — they make True Love feel like a one-night stand — they make you feel happier & higher than when you chugged a bucket of Budweiser — they give you more orgasms than your dildo ever will — they make you forget all your regrets, all the terrible things you did & all the terrible things that happened to you , they make you miss all those beautiful humans who made your life less awful — they make you rea

At 21, while watching football, I often hoped I was getting a blowjob instead.   At 41, while getting a blowjob, I often hope I was watching football instead. When you’re young & dumb, a block of chocolate, a can of coke, a shot of vodka, a stick of cigarette, a slice of pizza, slightest sight of cleavage, a split-second kiss, half-page love letter, pair of new sneakers, blink-&-miss glance from a hot girl, 19/20 on the class test, 70-rupee weekly pocket money, ‘I like you’ note from your high school sweetheart feels like winning a million dollar lottery & getting an orgasm—all at once.   As years roll on, tits sag, egos swell — you get hotshot jobs, latest iPhones, travel in airplanes, dine in kickass cafés, have 24/7 wifi-tainment, live in posh apartments, party in 5 stars, drive fast cars, and yet nothing shakes your soul — nothing makes your heart wonder . The stay-at-home-or-you-will-die-bitch-days of pandemic turned lotsa privileged humans into sourdough-bakers,

You & I, born in generations divided by million miles You & I crossing paths, an unexpected beautiful surprise You & I, met & gazed into each others’ eyes You & I, felt each others’ hair & heartbeat rise You & I, shared sketches & stories before we kissed   You & I, shared Budweiser & made love on your itsy-bitsy bed You & I, just yesterday we met You & I, our tears yet to shed You & I, our blood yet to bled You & I, our dreams yet to blend You & I, our hearts yet to melt You & I, our story yet to sketch You & I, who are we to each other? You & I, where are we headed next? You & I, are we ready for life’s twisted tests? You & I  don’t know You & I might never know You & I, holding on, walking slow You & I, feeling each moment’s ebb & flow You & I, like clouds floating on mountains in Tibet You & I, like storms speeding on the sharpest bends You & I, run

I’m fitter than the pole-dancing spanish strippers & south delhi street bitches, so when on the night of 12 th January ’23, I had a [Google-verified] heart attack, it surprised me more than when my ex-fiancé sold her engagement ring to buy a Sabyasachi lehenga & dumped me for a klepto-alcoholic-bipolar lezzie. But BetterThanGod-Google had fucked up — I had acid reflux, not a heart attack. Google-promoted YouTube doctors recommended me a diet that declared all foods & drinks toxic-as-AmberHeard barring hot-ginger water & skinny-milk oats. After 7 days of ICU diet, I woke up at 4am, didn’t shower, boarded the 6am train, with Örlã, to Jaipore. What I like about Örlã is her forrestgumplikecuriosity and childlikesugarrush. But it also means Örlã, if not tied-to-a-tree, is highly likely to disappear, trespass, pulldownherpants, or hop in a Fiat with a pedophile if he lures her with a cloud of cottoncandy. It was a risk to tag her along, but she is almost the last person who

Top Nine News of 11 th January 2023 God still loves White people Communism is still Capitalism’s bitch Rich still get away with Murder Love is all but replaced by SelfLove Babies are still pureEvil Kicking babies for fun is still illegal [so draconian] Drugs-&-Sex on Earth are still better than Makingout-&-Marrying on Mars [Screw Elon] Humans are still whores And it’s Miss Karl Marx, the alleged lesbian betch’s 22 nd birthday. Hey, Miss Karl Marx Six & a half years before you were born, O.J. Simpson slashed-stabbed-butchered his ex-wife, Nicole & her lover, Ron, on the crisp starry night of 12 th June 1994.     Marcia Clark was the lead prosecutor in the O.J. Simpson trial — Trial of the Century.  At 41, Marcia was already twice divorced — raising two kids & smoking fuck loads of cigarettes.   When she got the case, even a dimwit knew that nothing but an absolute miracle will save O.J. Simpson, aka Juice, from the electric chair. The case was as cut-