Dear readers:
Mine is not a fight for who is wrong; I’m right and a certain yubb-site whose name starts with the alphabet ‘c’ is all wrong.
It all started with a harmless activity some years ago when I was struck blind by a total absence of a volt of lighting in Pakistan, and proceeded to write articles, without any payment whatsoever, for a certain yubb-site whose name starts with the alphabet ‘c’.
Then I fell (in a gutter, actually) for its ed-eatress and choked on her miss-tearius laaahve, stooped to sending her private messages, asked her to have a wrong-Daewoo with me on a tricky intersection (resembling the figure sixty-eight) of the Lahore-Rawalpindi motorway. And so, dear readers, one mistake followed another until my distraction became unhealthy and most fetal.
Always fully clothed, I conti-nude to write and protest against her one-wayward silence, but she remained stoned in Cali-fornia under the super-vision of her doctor daddy. As a direct consequence of this, I began to dry up, my creativity began to suff-err, I stopped oozing, almost took up to boozing, and finally became devoid of pregnant thoughts. It was a case of miscarriage of justice because she reject-ulated my up-eel without caring for blind justice (not that Chaudhry), and returned all my fluid proposals in a sealed vial labeled: sperm donation. ‘How vile was this vial?’ this I’ve been thinking for a while now.
The song that you are about to listen to was written during a true Rapid Eye Movement phase, and composed to the rhythmic accompaniment of my shaved armpits right in the comfort of the master-toilet. That my voice truly resembles that of legendary Rafi sahib is indeed God’s miracle, and that Dharmendra had his face altered so he could become my look-alike is a miracle too.
More trivia:
I deliberately choose a club setting so that the culprit can be clubbed to her ignominious death, and have a legiti-mate baby placed in the lap (‘godi’) of a chocked ed-eatress who resembles Asha Parekh (and that too is Asha’s fault).
I mince words as I sing, while only moving my jawbones, and remain quite stone-faced. I exercise my fecal muscles and do not show my entire body which is under double cover for the entirety of the song. Why must I not remain covert when a certain yubb-site whose name starts with the alphabet ‘c’ continues to ban me?
Standing next to the ed-eatress with the baby is no other than madam President of CCC (of a certain yubb-site’s cheering club), looking immensely pleased with the x-plosive sit-uation.
Don’t mind the man in the band wearing a funny cap, pretending to have a fake organ-ism while playing a sex-o-phone. He’s a robot, like most inter-actors on a certain yubb-site whose name starts with the alphabet ‘c’.
Just pay very close at-tension to the heart-rundying lyrics that eventually make the ed-eatress cry crocodile tears of secret fears.
Notice that the dynamic microphone (with a cardioid polar response pattern) is donated by Arjun’s uncle, Mangal, who runs Mangal Sound Service.
Look how madam President of the CCC invites other pink frock-wearing females to join the t-errorist support group that loves me from the core of their…..never mind that. Swiftly, they take up to whirling happily to the tune of my sad song, and doing better than the Mevlvi dervishes of Konya.
At 01:32, the ed-eatress hands over the debatable babe to someone from San Jose and with whom I don’t wish to be acquainted, so that she may proceed to cry with complete and utter devotion. At this point in the song, I’m applying master strokes of verses of curse upon curse, and painting a most apocalyptic picture of the whole sordid affair. Lord, thanks for bestowing brilliance upon thine slave.
At 2:02, madam President is further pleased at the way the drama is unfolding. Deliberately, I remain unperturbed, and clutch the microphone-stand just as well-meaning men hang on to government loans.
At 2:28, the ed-eatress of a certain yubb-site whose name starts with the alphabet ‘c’ finally realizes how wrong she has been all along. But now she can’t sing a counter-espionage double under-the-quilt song. Ha! She’s clean-balled! God, am I not simple in my brilliance?
More happy scenes from 2:35 follow until 2:49; it’s a party after all. My network is about to totally unnerve the establishment. More tears eject-ulate from the ed-eatress’s eyes, more amazement appears on the face of madam President, and we see more vigorous dancing coming from the direction of the she pink panthers.
At 4:28 (also at 4:58), the CCC President decides to call the she-panthers off because as a woman she can’t see this happening to another woman. And the ‘women call each other sister half an hour after they have met, and only do that when they have called each other a lot of other things first.’
Towards the end, I’m holding the microphone-stand firmly with both hands because the moment to unleash the truth has arrived: I must visit the toilet. I could’ve sung the remaining 101 curse-filled verses but I let go out of pure compression.
Now enjoy the show please!
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