How to make your parents like your choice of bride! :) #hillarious!

How to make your parents like your choice of bride! 🙂
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DISCLAIMER-
I received this as an email forward, this is not my work but that of someone else. That said, if the original writer wishes me to take this down, I will do so immediately. Please message me to do the same. Till such times, enjoy the post.
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Grandmother was pretending to be lost in prayer, but her prayer-beads were pulling at top speed. That meant she was either excited or upset.
Mother put the receiver down.

“Some American girl in his office. She’s coming to stay with us for a week.” She sounded as if she had a deep foreboding.

Father had no such doubt. He knew the worst was to come. He had been matching horoscopes for a year, but my brother Vivek had found a million excuses for not being able to visit India, meet or call any of the short-listed Aiyer girls, or in any other way advance father’s cause. Father always wore two parallel lines of sacred ash on his forehead. Now there were four, so deep were the furrows of worry on his forehead.

I sat in a corner, supposedly lost in a book, but furiously text-messaging my brother with a vivid description of the scene before me.
A few days later I stood outside the airport with father. He tried not to look directly at any American woman going past. I held up the card reading “Barbara”.
Finally a large woman stepped out, waved wildly and shouted “Hi! Mr. Aayyyer, how ARE you?”

Everyone turned and looked at us. Father shrank visibly before my eyes. Barbara took three long steps and held father in a tight embrace. Father’s jiggling out of it was too funny to watch. I could hear him whispering “Shivva, Shivva, Narayana.”
She shouted “you must be Vijaantee?”

“Yes, Vyjayanthi”, I said with a pleasant smile. I imagined little, half-Indian children to be born calling me “Vijaantee aunty.” Suddenly, my colourless existence in Madurai had perked up. For at least the next one week, life promised to be quite exciting.

Soon we were having lunch together at home. Barbara had changed into an even shorter skirt. The low neckline of her blouse was just in line with shocked father’s eyes. He was scowling at mother as if she was the cause of all problems in the family.
Barbara was asking, “You only have vegetarian food? Always??” as if the idea was shocking to her.

“You know what really goes well with Indian food, especially chicken? Indian beer!” she said with a smile, seemingly oblivious of the apoplexy of the gentleman sitting in front of her or the choking sounds coming from mother. I muffled my giggles. Everyone tried to get the facts without asking the one question on all our minds: What was the exact nature of the relationship between Vivek and Barbara?

After lunch, she brought out a laptop computer. “I have some pictures of Vivek”, she said.

All of us crowded around her. The first picture was quite innocuous. Vivek was wearing shorts and standing alone on the beach. In the next photo, he had Barbara draped all over him. She was wearing a skimpy bikini and leaning across, with her hand lovingly circling his neck.

Father got up and flicked the thin towel off his shoulder. It was a gesture we in the family had learned to fear. He rushed to the door and went out.

Barbara said, “It must be hard for Mr. Aayyezh. He must be missing his son.”

We didn’t have the heart to tell her that if the son had been within father’s reach, father would have wrung the neck she had lovingly circled with her hand in the photo.
My parents and grandmother apparently had reached an unspoken agreement. They would deal with Vivek later. Right now, Barbara was a foreigner, a lone woman, and needed to be treated as an honored guest. It must be said that Barbara didn’t make that one bit easy. Soon mother wore a perpetual frown. Father looked as though he was destined to pay for his Karma.

Vivek had said he would be in a conference in Guatemala all week, and would be off both phone and email. But Barbara had long lovey-dovey conversations on phone with two other men, one man named Steve and another named Keith. We all strained our ears to hear every interesting word. “I miss you!” she said to both. She also kept talking to us about Vivek and about the places they’d visited together. She had pictures to prove it, too.

This was the best play I’d watched in a long time. It was even better than the day my cousin ran away with a Telugu Christian girl. My aunt had come howling through the door, and made it to the plush sofa before falling in a faint.
Father said that if it had been his son, the door would have been forever shut in his face.

Aunt had promptly revived and said, “You’ll know when it is your son!” How my aunt would rejoice if she knew of Barbara!

On day five of her visit, the family awoke to the awful sound of Barbara’s retching. The bathroom door was shut, the water was running, but far louder was the sound of Barbara crying and throwing up at the same time. Mother and grandmother exchanged ominous glances. Barbara came out. Her face was red.

“I don’t know why”, she said, “but I feel queasy in the mornings now.”
If she had seen as many Indian movies as I’d seen, she’d know why. Mother was standing as if turned to stone. Was she supposed to react with compassion reserved for a pregnant woman? Or with the criticism reserved for a pregnant unmarried woman? Or with fear reserved for a pregnant, unmarried, foreign woman who could embroil one’s son in a paternity suit? Mother, who navigated familiar flows of married life with the skill of a champion oarsman, now seemed completely taken off her moorings. She seemed to hope that if she didn’t react, it might disappear like a bad dream.
I made a mental note to not leave home at all for the next week. Whatever my parents would say to Vivek when they finally got a-hold of him would be too interesting to miss. To my dismay, they never got a chance.

The day Barbara was to leave, we got a short email from Vivek. “Sorry, still stuck in Guatemala. Just wanted to mention, another friend of mine, Sameera Sheikh needs a place to stay. She’ll fly in from Hyderabad tomorrow at 10am. Sorry for the trouble.”
So there we were, father and I, waiting outside the airport with a board painted in thick felt pen: “Sameera”.

At last, a pretty young woman in salwar-khameez saw the board, gave the smallest of smiles and walked quietly towards us. When she did ‘Namaste’ to father, I saw his eyes mist up. She took my hand in the friendliest way and said “Hello, Vyjayanthi, I’ve heard so much about you.” I fell in love with her.

In the car, father was unusually friendly. She and Vivek had been in the same group of friends in Ohio University. She now worked as a Child Psychologist.
She didn’t seem to be too bad at family psychology either. She took out a shawl for grandmother, a saree for mother and Hyderabadi bangles for me. “Just some small things for you. I have to meet a professor at Madurai University, and it’s so nice of you to let me stay”, she said. Everyone cheered up.

Even grandmother smiled.

At lunch Sameera said, “This is so nice. When I make sambar, it comes out like chhole, and my chhole tastes just like sambar!”
Mother was smiling. “Oh just watch for two days and you’ll pick it up.”
Grandmother had never allowed a Muslim to enter the kitchen. But mother seemed to have taken charge and decided she would bring in who ever she felt was worthy.
Sameera circumspectly stayed out of the puja room. But on the third day, I was stunned to see father inviting her in and telling her which idols had come to him from his father. “God is one”, he said to her. Sameera nodded sagely.
By the fifth day, I could see a common thought forming in the family’s collective brain. If this fellow had to choose his own bride, why couldn’t it be someone like Sameera?

On the sixth day, when Vivek called from the airport saying he had cut short his Guatemala trip and was on his way home, all had a million things to discuss with him.
Vivek arrived by taxi at a time when Sameera had gone to the University.
“So, how was Barbara’s visit?” he asked blithely.
“How did you meet her?” mother sternly asked him.
“She’s my secretary”, he said. “She works very hard and she’ll do anything to help.” He turned and winked at me.

By the time Sameera returned home that evening, it was almost as if her joining the family was my grandmother and parents’ idea.
“Don’t worry about anything. Just tell us if you are willing to marry Vivek”, they said to Sameera, “And we will talk to your parents.”

On the wedding day, a huge bouquet arrived at the Mantapam. The tag said: “Flight to India – $1300, Indian kurta – $5, Emetic to throw up – $1, The look on your parents’ faces – Priceless. – As always yours, Barbara.”

men are from mars – women from all over – an #email #forward!

got this via email this morning, old one- but hilarious! 🙂

A prime example of ‘Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus’ offered by an English professor from the University of Phoenix .

The professor told his class one day, ‘Today we will experiment with a new form called the tandem story. The process is simple. Each person will pair off with the person sitting to his or her immediate right. As homework tonight, one of you will write the first paragraph of a short story. You will e-mail your partner that paragraph and send another copy to me. The partner will read the first paragraph and then add another paragraph to the story and send it back, also sending another copy to me. The first person will then add a third paragraph, and so on back-and-forth. Remember to re-read what has been written each time in order to keep the story coherent. There is to be absolutely NO talking outside of the e-mails and anything you wish to say must be written in the e-mail. The story is over when both agree a conclusion has been reached.’

The following was actually turned in by two of his English students: Rebecca and Gary.
———— ——— ——— ——— —-

THE STORY

(first paragraph by Rebecca)
At first, Laurie couldn’t decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the question.

(second paragraph by Gary )
Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago. ‘A.S. Harris to Geostation 17,’ he said into his transgalactic communicator. ‘Polar orbit established. No sign of resistance so far…’ But before he could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship’s cargo bay. The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit.

(Rebecca)
He bumped his head and died almost immediately, but not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who had ever had feelings for him. Soon afterwards, Earth stopped its pointless hostilities towards the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4. ‘Congress Passed Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel,’ Laurie read in her newspaper one morning. The news simultaneously excited her and bored her. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth, when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no newspaper to read, no television to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at all the beautiful things around her. ‘Why must one lose one’s innocence to become a woman?’ she wondered wistfully..

( Gary )
Little did she know, but she had less than 10 seconds to
live. Thousands of miles above the city, the Anu’udrian
mothership launched the first of its lithium fusion
missiles. The dim-witted wimpy peaceniks who pushed the
Unilateral Aerospace Disarmament Treaty through the
Congress had left Earth a defenseless target for the hostile
alien empires who were determined to destroy the human race.
Within two hours after the passage of the treaty
the Anu’udrian ships were on course for Earth, carrying
enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet. With no one
to stop them, they swiftly initiated their diabolical plan..
The lithium fusion missile entered the atmosphere unimpeded.
The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine
headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam ,
felt the inconceivably massive explosion, which vaporized poor, stupid Laurie.

(Rebecca)
This is absurd. I refuse to continue this mockery of literature. My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic semi-literate adolescent.

(Gary)
Yeah? Well, my writing partner is a self-centered tedious
neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary
equivalent of Valium. ‘Oh, shall I have chamomile tea?
Or shall I have some other sort of F**KING TEA??? Oh no,
what am I to do? I’m such an air headed bimbo who reads
too many Danielle Steele novels!’

(Rebecca)
Asshole!

( Gary )
Bitch!

(Rebecca)
F **K YOU – YOU NEANDERTHAL!

( Gary )
Go drink some tea – whore.

(TEACHER)
A + I really liked this

Fuel for Thought

Over the weekend, I filled up my fuel tank, and I thought petrol has become really expensive after the recent price hike.

But then I compared it with other common liquids and did some quick calculations, and I felt a little better.

To know why, see the results below you’ll be surprised at how outrageous some other prices are!

Diesel (regular) in Mumbai: Rs. 36.08 per litre

Petrol (regular unleaded) in Mumbai: Rs. 50.51 per litre

Coca Cola 330 ml can: Rs. 20 = Rs. 61 per litre

Dettol antiseptic 100 ml Rs. 20 = Rs. 200 per litre

Radiator coolant 500 ml Rs. 160 = Rs. 320 per litre

Pantene conditioner 400 ml Rs. 165 = Rs. 413 per litre

Medicinal mouthwash like Listerine 100 ml Rs. 45 = Rs. 450 per litre

Red Bull 150 ml can: Rs. 75 = Rs. 500 per litre

Corex cough syrup 100 ml Rs. 57 = Rs. 570 per litre

Evian water 500 ml Rs. 330 = Rs.. 660 per litre
Rs.. 500 for a litre of WATER???!!! And the buyers don’t even know the source (Evian spelled backwards is Naive.)

Kores white-out 15 ml Rs. 15 = Rs. 1000 per litre

Cup of coffee at any decent business hotel 150 ml Rs. 175 = Rs. 1167 per litre

Old Spice after shave lotion 100 ml Rs. 175 = Rs.. 1750 per litre

Pure almond oil 25 ml Rs. 68 = Rs. 2720 per litre

And this is the REAL KICKER…
HP DeskJet colour ink cartridge 21 ml Rs.1900 = Rs. 90476 per litre!!!

Now you know why computer printers are so cheap? So they have you hooked for the ink!

So, the next time you’re at the pump, don’t curse our honorable Petroleum minister just be glad your Bike / car doesn’t run on cough syrup, after shave, coffee, or God forbid, printer ink!