It Seems They Are All Judges

“Welcome back to Canada! It’s so good to see you again.”

“Thanks Ralph. It’s kind of nice to be back.”

“I’m so sorry Sandra it didn’t work out for you in Dubai.”

“Yes. It seems everyone there is a judge of some sort…”

A week ago

“Hello darling.”

“What are you saying? I’ve been waiting here for an hour for you.”

“So what? All hookers wait me.”

“That’s disgusting! This is supposed to be a partnership meeting.”

“Aye baby you no know Dubai ah? I put ship in your bay.”

“Please stop with this crass behaviour.”

“What you do? You sue me? Sue, sue.”

“Maybe I will.”

“How you will sue? You get lawyer, go to court. Wear nice pant suit and perfume. Who is judge? I am judge!”

“What?”

“I am judge! See, my card.”

“What the hell.”

“I rule case. You appeal. Other court. My wife is judge. Ha ha.”

“Fuck off.”

“No say fuck to me. Supreme court, my mother judge. Ha!”

“This is unreal.”

“Yeah Unreal Tournament. You think you walk to meeting in mini skirt, show legs like prostitute and life good? Maybe I also tell court you are hooker.”

“Please don’t.”

“Visa cancel!”

The Problem with Badams

One day, noted drug kingpin Dawood Ibrahim was walking around the outskirts of Karachi to clear his head. As we aimlessly strolled, kicking his heels, he thought about his reputation as one of Forbes most powerful people and everything else.

While in this reverie, he heard some Pashto singing ahead of him on the dirt path. Squinting, he saw some pathans wearing salwar khameez skipping in a circle. Recognizing some of them as his men, he ran up to them in his safari suit.

“What are you fellows doing, he asked.”

“Yeh to badam hein boss,” one of the pathans sang between verses.

He notices all the pathans were holding giant almonds – big enough to just fit in their hands. They were singing and running around with them.

“Yes I know. But what the fuck are you doing with them?” He was perplexed.

“Yeh to hamara bacha jesein hein This is like our child,” another one said. “Isne hum palla hein We raised it.”

“Arrey idiots. Yeh badam nahin hein. They’re dildos. Genetically modified to make you fall for them. Idiots!”

The men kept running around and he felt his temper rise quickly. He screamed.

And woke up. He was in his office, in a plush leather chair. In front of him were his many underbosses. They all stared at him. He must have dozed off.

A knock at the door. It opened and a white guy came in.

“Mr. Ibrahim.”

“Steven.”

“I have the expense reports, and sir they are not good.”

Dawood began screaming curses about Steven’s mother in Urdu. Between every 4th curse, he would say “You’re a charming man” and so on to him.

“I know he’s saying awful things,” Steven told the room. “But I do get paid 50,000 rupees more than any of you here per month.”

“It’s true Steven, I need that white face of yours on our company pictures,” Dawood said after he spat out the last swear. “Now, what’s the issue.”

“We seem to be ordering a lot of car seats and school bags.”

“For what?”

“For almonds.”

SMACK!

“Ow,” Steven screamed. “You’ve never hit me that hard ever.”

Steven was beaten by Dawood daily, from 8am-9.15am.

“Ah it is because you said some bakwas.”

“Well we are ordering them, and they’re being used out there,” pointed Steven out of the window that made up one wall of the office.

Outside in the Peshawar sun, pathans were running around holding almonds that wore backpacks. Some were in car seats, being taken to Suzuki Mehrans.

“What the fuckkkk! Behnchod!” Dawood yelled into the microphone that was conveniently next to his face.

The mic loudspeaker was outside so all the pathans heard.

“Arey hum tho behnchod nahin hain!” they all exclaimed.

“Where did you get this badam enlarging technology?” Dawood screamed into the mic. “With this,” he almost drooled, “We can turn one speck of cocaine into one kilo!”

It was sooner said than done. The badam enlarging technology was used to increase the size of cocaine and heroin too. To cut the drugs, the pathans were also made bigger.

The issue was that the technology could not enlarge the cutting implements; so pathans had to use magnifying glasses like those used by jewelers and also pinch the cutting implements.

Food was also an issue.

“Yeh paratha to humara thumbnail ka size hain,” they would yell.

“Yeh to normal hein,” the squeaky tiny-sounding voices of the cooks would reply.

They also needed 40 chairs to sit.

“Humara gandh mein dardh hein My ass hurts.”

Dawood, knowing some antipathy would be targeted at him, used his new inflow of wealth to buy 20 foot thick bulletproof glass for his office and had the enclosure made of lead so that it weighed 60 tonnes. Hence not even the giant pathans could pick it up or throw a stone through it.

Discount College

It was a swelteringly hot day to be driving to Abu Dhabi. The man who had made the trek got out of his car and sputtered before putting on his grey suit jacket. He checked his ensemble before grabbing his attache case, and walking up to the less than regal-looking pinkish building sitting in the middle of Mustafah semi-residential area. He had for some reason, the “Fresh Prince of Bel Air” theme in his head, and swaggered as such.

A giant white sign that had not been cleaned in a year at least welcome him over the main archway. Discount College.

“I thought they said Discan College,” he muttered as he looked up.

Well, he was here now.

He walked into the main foyer, where several clearly Karnatakan staff were walking around wearing t-shirts that had the school logo over a torn dollar bill.

Above them was a giant banner that said “50% discount this summer!”

They really live up to the name, he thought.

“Um, I’m looking for the dean,” he sort of called towards the staff as they coalesced together.

“Oh yes, Dean!” a clearly Indian woman with an African perm said. “He has been waiting for you.”

“Oh good! That’s the Dean of Partnerships right?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Um okay. I’ll follow you then.”

He walked behind the lady who whizzed past several boxes stuffed with Monopoly money. The hallway was bare, with the sort of tiles one finds in a warehouse and no decoration.

“It’s how we can offer such deep discounts,” the woman beamed as she pointed at a white door. On it was a plaque that said Dean Dean.

He walked in with trepidation. There was a smell like someone had mixed egg and milk and left it out for a week.

“Ah Mr. Oh,” the man at the big desk said. He was portly and had hair like a wet black mop.

The desk was so big that the man got up to go around it, and then changed his mind and instead sat back down and waved Mr. Oh into the chair.

“Just call me Kayo. Ah good to meet you in person Dean…”

“Dean. I’m Dean Dean. My name is Dean and I am the Dean of Partnerships.”

“Oh, what a coincidence.”

“Or serendipity. Call me Double D if you like.”

“Maybe not.”

“Suit yourself. So let’s talk about partnerships. We at Discount College like to give huge godamn discounts. No discount is big enough. I like to see students get drowned by discounts. Little bitches.”

“I don’t know about calling students that.”

“Who will stop me?” Dean shouted. The words “stop me” echoed in the room.

Kayo realized that three African men were standing behind Dean saying the words in a whisper about 3 or 4 times.

“Who are they?”

“Oh you like?” Dean smirked as he sat back in his pleather brown chair. “I hired them just for this.”

“This is kind of weird. I should leave.”

“No! You want to partner with us!”

The words “With us” echoed. Kayo wondered for a moment if he should proceed with the partnership, but then quickly snapped out of it. The echoes had a discombobulating effect.

“You can’t fool me sir. I’m leaving.” He got up.

“Hold up!” Dean put him his hands like a swami about to prostrate. As he did, huge breasts popped out of the bottom of his shirt.

Kayo could not look away. They were swinging down like pendulums.

“You see these?” He pushes one boob so that it went and hit the other. “This is why they call me Double D.”

The echoes again. “Double D, Double D, Double D…”

“Want to touch?” Dean snarled.

“Chai?”

They were jostled from the tense confrontation by the call of man in the khaki uniform. A tiny fellow, he walked into the room with a tray filled with tea glasses.

Kayo held his breath as the man came close to the table. With alarming speed for a man who had so much hanging from his body, Dean jumped over the desk and kicked the man in the chest. The latter fell onto the nearby side table, which broke as glass shattered everywhere.

Dean laughed as he held his belly and looked at the ceiling.

“What kind of sick game is this?” Kayo shouted as he got up. “I’m leaving and reporting you to the Dean of Academic.”

“Oh, you mean Dean Jay?” asked Dean with a smile.

“Dean Jay, Dean Jay, Dean Jay…”

___________________________________________________________

The short man with the boyish haircut pulled at the lapels of his brown suit and smiled.

“Of course Tanesha you can pay the tuition next month. Now please, go rest up for you chemotherapy. I want you to beat cancer and not worry about small things like this.”

“Sir, you are god in human form,” the sickly girl in the green salwar khameez told him.

“Oh no no,” he laughed and sat back. “Now please, get some food from the cafeteria with that voucher I gave you before you go home.”

The girl got up and left, noting how the setting sun dropped on the man a soft yellow light that actually made him seem holy. There he sat with his hands folded sweetly on his pot belly, his countenance calm and serene

Four hours later

Tanesha walked slowly to the door and opened it. A stone coconut grinder hit her in the chest and she fell gasping for air. She lay on the ground for minutes with her eyes closed, not sure what was going on.

As she opened her eyes, she saw a man in the red light streaming through the window. He was the definition of sinister. He wore a black leather jacket and black pants. A silver circle earring sickeningly dangled from one year. He wore shades even though it was night. As he swung his belly, he hit a vase and dropped it to the ground. He was literally throwing his weight around. His mouth sucked on a toothpick, and then spit it at her.

She coughed.

“Dean Jay?”

“At night my name is Dee Jay Dean, bitch,” he said. “Now, where’s my money?”

“You said this afternoon I could pay later.”

He punched the TV so it fell over.

“Oh all sorts of things are said in the afternoon. You think I got where I am by letting people walk all over me?”

“But I need it for my chemo.”

He walked over to the couch and began peeing on it.

“Have you ever thought,” he said as he swung from side to side to cover the whole couch, “That you would live longer without chemo? Don’t chemo. Just pay your tuition.”

“But-”

“Listen, no buts. I’ve raped 2 people today, killed a dog and beat an old man into the ICU. Don’t make Dee Jay Dean play an encore.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“You have till tomorrow,” he said as he left, spitting on her pooja area as he left.

Ode to a Nepali Taxi Driver

Not just any taxi driver though. Raj. The man who knows more about sex than any tantric guru. The man who has been on more accidental sexcapades than a white kama sutra aficionado.

He always begins his fishing expedition into the carnal world lightly. As his cab goes over some rickety terrain, he says, “Ghadi ko pyar se drive karonge, to tekh hein. If you drive the car with love, it will be fine.”

Now that love has been raised as a subject, he treads onto the segway of, “Pyar aur sex to natural cheez hein. Natural.”

A passenger will think that this is not totally related, unless of course Raj is talking about sexing the car.

“Agar adhmi sex ko chipaana karoonge, to wo bahar aoonga. If a man tries to hide sex, it will come out.”

This of course makes it seem more than he is speaking about an erection than sex. One imagines a man trying to hide this, only for the cobra to rear its steel head and bite anyone of any sex nearby.

He is wary of the tourists coming to Nepal for sex-related things.

“Is logon ko dheko. Aadmi har bhar dusri aurat ki saat aaten hein. Look at these people. Men come here with a different woman each time. Chey.”

“Aur aurat aurat ki saat sex karaate hein. Kya mamla hein. And women have sex with other women. What kind of matter is this.”

“Budhi lokh aatein hein idhar sex karne ke liye jawan ladki ki saath. Old women come here to have sex with young women.”

Of course the stories are the best.

“Ek baar ek aurat ayi mera taxi mein. Wo to 33 saal tha, but sex nahin kiya. Wo mera taange eese pakda (gestures touching his knee). Par mene uska saath nahin sex kiya. A woman came in my taxi once. She was 33 but had never had sex. She touched my leg like this. But I didn’t have sex with her.”

It is worth mentioning that Raj has a face like an old bulldog’s balls.

“Ek aurat tha jisko bas ek taange tha. Aur usko tatti karna that. Kese nahin tatti karenge? Wo itna kaya ta. Tatti ki baad wo mujko bulla usko help karne keliye. Aur bolla ‘math dekho.’ Menne mera aanke esse kiya (covers eyes with one hand, but leaves a gap over one eye. Menne sabh kuch dekkhe. There was a woman who had just one leg. And she had to take a shit. How could she not? She ate so much. After she shat, she called me to help her up. And she said ‘don’t look.’ I covered my eyes like this. But I saw everything.”

His last piece of thought on life goes like so:

“Is longon ko bas sex chahiye. Shadi, baachein, kuch nahin. Bas sex. Chal uske zindagi bi achein hein. Aur mera gar mein bhibhi ki kit kit, bachein ke school fees…These people only want sex. Marriage, children, none of that. Just sex. But their lives are nice. And me with my wife nagging me at home and my children’s school fees…”

As he stares into the distance you can hear some kind of “Mehbooba” music playing with a guitar. No doubt some idiot is trying to coax a white tourist lady into sex. Please understand, he must be saying with his eyes, the situation with my cobra. It will need to bite someone soon. Drink this dirty blended whiskey. Let the cobra into your tent.

What a way to get to know Nepal.

In Judge Abd’Azziz’ Court

“All rise for the honourable Judge Abd’Azziz,” the man that shouted these things, shouted on a hot summer day.

The older judge walked in and took his seat with some consternation. He was after all a Muslim in Delhi, which was along with the rest of north India becoming the hotbed of Hindu fascism targeted any any name that seemed to far removed from Arjun and Sita.

Nevertheless, Judge Abd’Azziz took his role seriously. Other than going commando under his robe, he was an austere man who did not put up with any nonsense.

Nonsense such as a man who had tried to, that morning, convince him that his child belonged to another man, based purely on pictures of the latter with the child. The birth records screamingly proved otherwise.

There must have been something in the water. His second case that day involved a man who accused another man of using a Western name for deceptive purposes. The accuser had been accosted by the accused for a business partnership, and jumped at the offering seeing what he thought was a gora name on the email. Upon meeting in person, a brawl ensued and led tot he suit.

He sighed. The final case for the day, thank goodness. What could it be? Hopefully a misdemeanor.

“Sar,” the clerk said as she handed him the file. “Be careful. This is big media case.”

He wanted to groan, but instead shook his balls under the robe.

“The defendants, all 8, have been accused of sex with a goat,” announced the prosecutor.

The Judge closed his eyes, hoping it would all go away.

It did not. The group of rapers took to the stand.

“Sar, ye goat tho innocent nahin hein! This goat is not innocent!” declared the purple satin-wearing leader of the 8. “Wo uska pawa esse dalla. She put her paws like this.” Here he put his arms around his accomplice. “Aur wo bolla ‘Tum marde hein. Humko fuck karo. Hamare undar bache ko put karo.’ And she said ‘You are a man. Fuck me. Put a child in me.'”

The court was silent as the last word rang out.

“So the goat got pregnant,” the Judge muttered under his breath.

“Yes sar, the goat was pregnant,” the prosecution attorney said, taking off his horn rimmed black glasses dramatically.

The Judge was incredulous. He sat back in his chair. “What?”

“Yes, pregnant.”

“Is that possible?” He looked at the clock, praying for 5pm. It said 330.

“No sar,” the defense attorney said through red-stained teeth. “The goat was already pregnant when this allegedly happened.”

“Oh,” he said, feeling a bit relieved. “What happened to the goat? Is she here?”

“She is dead, sar,” said the prosecution lawyer.

The Judge sighed again. “So your defense is that the goat was asking for you to penetrate her.”

The purple shirt man again obliged. “Sar, wo to bahut katarnak goat tha. Wo uska bum humko dikada aur bolla ‘mujko bahot lund chayye. Mujko itna lund dedho ki mera doodh nikloonga.’ she was a notorious goat. She would show us her bum and say ‘I want lots of cock. Give me so much cock that my milk comes out.'”

“The goat said this?” he looked up from the file he was staring at.

“Ji.”

“I would like to say for my client-” the defense attorney began.

“Stop,” he said, grimacing. “I’m ordering a death sentence for these men.”

The courtroom erupted.

“Sar, but there are not many women in Haryana, so these urges-” the defense lawyer began again.

“Death by hanging,” he said, banging his gavel. He got up and walked towards the door.

 

Believe it or not, this sort of bestiality is going on in India right now.