Bollywood’s Six Pack Abs Obsession

Kai Po Che was a hugely depressing movie for me. Not that the film was depressing as such, other than the fact that it brought to screen yet another mediocre Chetan Bhagat novel, but because, you know, it made me feel fat. It made me feel fatter than Adnan Sami must’ve ever felt in his heydays. When he didn’t have any girl issues I guess. Anybody else notice how he lost all his weight as soon as his wife started giving him trouble? Ahh, women you see.

Har kamzor aadmi ke peechhe ek pehelwan ladki ka haath hota hai. You know, not in his anus, but morally speaking.

Back to the point where I was feeling as fat as a Sumo wrestler. And an obese one at that. Obese even among Sumo wrestlers. Even other Sumo wrestlers would ask me to lose weight. THAT FAT, YES. I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll tell you how.

First I want to know. How many of you actually have a 6 pack hidden inside that t-shirt, shirt, top, bra, baniyan or whatever it is that you’re wearing right now? There might be a few of you out there actually flaunting those biscuits (those abs do look like biscuits, right?). Well, I got biscuits of my own, and they’re in my kitchen thank you. I don’t like to carry them around hidden inside my shirt, okay?

Anyway, my only question to the world is this; how the hell does a gaonwala kid from a tier 3 town in Gujarat, where they don’t even sell alcohol so why do they need a gym in the first place, has perfectly oiled and chiselled 6-pack abs along with perfect biceps, triceps, quadriceps (dayum, this term actually exists)? Add to that a perfect jawline, great hair, an ass almost as cute as Brad Pitt’s, and probably a penis bigger than Tommy Lee’s. And to top it off, there were 2 suck specimen in the movie. Can you believe that? There were 2 Greek Gods in 1 movie. Not since Troy came out has the cinematic world experienced such madness. Although the second one’s face did look a little retarded. But hey, he had his body to compensate for the idiotic expression God gave him on his face.

But in what world does this happen? Boss, sorry, not in mine. Not saying there are only mooby men with beer bellies and long underarm hair in my world. There are those too. Probably comprising the majority. Sadly, including me too. But then I also know boys, not the little ones who I DON’T TOUCH, but the ones who’re a little more disciplined in life than average joes like me, or are simply from an Army background with strict fathers who’ d insert their walking sticks in their kid’s behind if he didn’t run 2 marathons on a daily basis. India hai boss, idhar sab chalta hai. But in spite of spending half their lives running or swimming or masturbating, most of these guys don’t have that perfect body like it’s just been carved out by Michelangelo or Da Vinci or Bahadur or whoever the heck was that famous sculptor.

Being fit and being Godly; there used to be a difference. But oh my dear Bollywood, thanks for making us fit people feel like ugly obese men in front of your ‘boy-next-door’ dudes walking around topless with an 8-pack each. Thanks, but no thanks.

What started off as a trend way back in the 60’s when Salman Khan took off his shirt in Oh Oh Jaane Jaana, my father still loves that evergreen love story by the way, is now a trend no more. It’s a norm. From the golden oldies of yesteryear like Salman, Shahrukh, Aamir, Ajay, and even the once girly Saif; to the kids of today who were probably born with a 6-pack like Shahid Gapoor, Ranbir Kapoor, Emraan Hashmi, Sonakshi Sinha, Ranveer Singh, and blah and blah and blah. Name an actor today, and I shit you not that guy will have a 6-pack.

Desi actors: Stealing the attention away from beer, since 1995.

Now reality as per Bollywood is having the perfect body. Gone are the days of Guddi Maruti. Not like I had the hots for her and wanted to do her and bang that Maruti real hard, but just saying, you know. Sadly, reality is imitating art now. I know how many of you now go to the gym to seek that perfect body like Hrithik and somehow grow that extra thumb and that extra ball that he has. I know everything.

So here’s hoping we all get that 6-pack we be dreaming of, girls and boys alike. So that we’re all equally ugly. I need to head out. Need to go register for the gym. I’ll be back. With a 6-pack all over my body. My abs, my face, my arms, my legs, heck, I’ll ensure even my penis has a tiny little 6-pack of its own. Cheers!

Chetan Bhagat vs Justin Bieber

There was elation around the world when the ‘oh-so-funny-I’ll-do-it-when-I’m-drunk’ Gangnam Style overtook Justin Bieber’s Baby as the most watched Youtube video. More so than when Hitler died or when Osama was assassinated. And people are even happier that the Harlem Shake has taken the attention away from the now ‘piece-of-shit-overrated-crap-I-don’t-get-it’ Gangnam Style.

This trend of hating anything that is popular is as natural as the spring water in the Himalayan Mineral Water Bottle and Rakhi Sawant’s penis. Kai Po Che, based on Chetan Bhagat’s The 3 Mistakes Of My Life, is the latest scapegoat for the slightly posh janta who’ve probably read that lone Shakespeare play and consider themselves connoisseurs of literature. These specimens can be found on Twitter raging about how unfair life is or playing antakshari with metal songs calling it a marathon. They can be seen drinking martini and smoking hookah in an upmarket cafe in Khan Market or Hauz Khas Village. These people are so fake that Pamela Anderson’s boobs retract inside her body in shame.

If a 25 year old man is found listening to Justin Bieber in the Metro, the crowd will probably pull the emergency brakes and tie the man to the tracks right in front of the train. Oh you may rape a woman in this country but you shall not listen to the gay pop sensation called Justin Bieber.

“That’s not real music man. Listen to some fucking dubstep yo. Zatz d real shitz yo.”

Even if you puke on this specimen it wouldn’t stop going wub wub wub wub. What is most annoying about this breed is that they are not willing to understand the simple fact that anything that is ‘popular’ will have its haters along with its fans. Instead of sharing their opinion about a certain pop act, they give out their verdict that it sucks. Do they even realise that it’s called ‘popular’ for a reason?

This in no way means that I am supporting the inhumane novels written by Chetan Bhagat or the murderous songs sung by Justin Bieber. I have a strong dislike for Justin’s music and I feel Chetan Bhagat has written one decent novel (Five Point Someone) but the rest has been mostly crap. I don’t like either of them but then again it’s not like I will sacrifice my family, my cow, my pet monkey or the lice in my hair to please the God of Wrath so that he kills them both. These guys create what their audience like. It might be crap for some of us but then it works.

“I hate chocolate. You love chocolate. But chocolate is chocolate.”

I mean there are people who say that The Lord Of The Rings is just some random made up shit that anyone can think of. I shit you not. Then who are these Biebers and Bhagats we crib about? Mere mortals, eh?

Haters gonna hate. Potatoes gonna potate.

Let them be I say. It’s natural to be jealous about someone else’s success but hey, let’s not be a bitch about it, okay? Cheers.

And You Said It Could’ve Been Worse

The other day I was walking down the street with my dog when I suddenly saw a beautiful girl coming towards me. As she came closer I got a little nervous. She made eye contact with my dog, smiled a little, and looked at me as she halted to a stop just a foot away from me. I suddenly jolted and tried to believe that it was not a dream.

“Awwwwlelelel cho chweet... Kinna cute hai...” Said this typical Delhi girl.

“Ahh, thanks lady. And what about my dog, he’s cute too, right?” I tried to sound cool.

She slapped me and walked away.

And you said it could’ve been worse.

It took a couple of minutes for me to regain my consciousness and I continued my walk with the dog. As I neared my building, and with that the end of my walk, I saw this another hot woman come out of the lift with a Dalmatian of her own. I had a Dachshund with me, who, quite honestly, felt a little dwarfed in front of the spotted beast that this mysterious new woman had. But this time around the woman simply walked past me. And her dog ignored mine. This was something that had never happened before.

I had used my dog to score chicks so many times. I’ve had girls of all ages and size come up to me and bend down right then and there begging me to tell them “Who’s yo doggy!? WHO’S YO DAUGY!?” I’d give it to them and they loved every moment of it. I’d then walk away with my dog all proud and satisfied.

This time it was a little different. I was dazed by this experience and simply walked inside the lift feeling a little lost. I tried to remember which floor I had to go to and randomly pressed 3. Still trying to figure out what had just happened I suddenly came back to life when I noticed, while the lift door was closing, I was still clutching on my dog’s leash but Tommy* was nowhere to be seen. HECK.

And you said it could’ve been worse.

Before I could reach for the ‘>|<’ Door Open button, it was too late. The lift had already started its ‘lift’ and my dog was still on the other side. I quickly let go of the leash and hoped that it’d automatically slip out from between the doors of the lift. And thankfully it did. I reached the 3^rd floor and dashed out of the lift and took the stairs to go back down. It took me less than 13 seconds to reach the ground floor but Tommy was nowhere to be seen.

I started running helter skelter yelling out his name on the streets. I ran into the girl who’d slapped me earlier and pantingly said “HAVE YOU SEEN MY TOMMY?” She slapped me again and this time she didn’t stop. She punched me in the stomach and her final blow, her knee to my crotch, was enough for a KO.

Kisne kaha mard ko dard nahi. Do tango ke beech mein maaro. Dard nahi to mard nahi.

I blacked out for a moment as I saw her walking away still looking at me. I could see the stars, looking how they shone for me, and the birds flying around my head too. Her last words were... “ZIP UP ASSHOLE!” And then I noticed that my fly was open. My goddamn fly was open when I ran up to her and yelled at her asking “HAVE YOU SEEN MY TOMMY?” I deserved that kick.

And you said it could’ve been worse.

I limped towards the nearest footpath and just lied down on the floor. I’d almost given up and was about to pass out when I saw a hint of what looked like Tommy running towards me in slow motion. Before he even reached where I was, I’d almost passed out. In my last waking moments I felt a stream of warm liquid around my crotch. It felt both cosy and icky at the same time. As the strong aroma of the said warm liquid entered my nostrils, I realised, it was pee. Dog pee.

And you said it could’ve been worse.

Moral of the story: It can always get worse fellas. Gotta always be ready.

*Har kutte ka naam Tommy nahi hota. Isliye mere kutte ka naam Tommy hai. Booyeah!

Cloudy With A Chance Of Nightfall

Do you know who the real Indian heroes are? No it’s not the Army men or the guys at RAW. Neither is it the door-breaking Daya from CID nor the blessed guy who delivers booze to your doorstep. Although, I must admit, the real Indian heroes can’t yet match up to the Domino’s delivery boys who deliver pizza at the speed of light, all they need is a cape and I shit you not we’ll have our first real Indian superhero! Anyway, it might sound a little fantasy-ish when I tell who the real Indian heroes are. And when I say fantasy-ish, I mean LOTR and Harry Potter will seem like a silent fart in front of a heavenly dump. But what I’m about to tell you now is true. Truer than Santa Claus, truer than Manmohan Singh’s voice and truer than a Tweleb’s ‘happening’ life.

The real Indian heroes are the valiant, brave, intelligent and old men working at the Indian Meteorological Department. Shocking, right? Just think about it. What can be tougher than NOT PREDICTING THE WEATHER, EVER!? Forget predicting it right or wrong, it’s easy to make mistakes, but imagine how difficult it must be to not even give yourself a chance to make mistakes. These brilliant guys’ work is to tell us, the public, what we already know! I mean, I don’t think I have the courage to tell someone something they already know. I don’t think I can ever go up to a homosexual man and tell him “Hey dude, you’re gay. And you know what? You’re going to stay gay even tomorrow!” No sir, no can do. I might be able to fight off a King Cobra blindfolded but this is something only men with at least 3 balls can do. Or the female equivalent of that: women with 3 breasts.

These men have been in ‘service to the nation’ since 1875. I mean Gandhi could only serve the country for what? About 50 years? I fail to understand why we still have Gandhi on the Indian currency notes and not the Indian Met Department working hard to tell us that is raining while we are already getting wet. Without these prodigies our lives would be mundane. I’ll tell you how. Imagine a hot and sunny June afternoon, you’re out roaming around with your friends, sweating and stinking just trying not to die of the heat wave. The usual, right? Now all of a sudden it starts raining! You never expected that to happen, did you? Had the weather department told you about it a day back, this sudden ejaculation from the sky wouldn’t have surprised you much. But once this orgasm has actually happened, our Met Department would not fail to tell you the next day that “Hey it rained and it will probably stay cloudy with a chance of nightfall.”

Here’s saluting the real national heroes of India. May you survive for another 1875 years and not tell us what to expect off the weather tomorrow. Jai Hind.