Friends of Words

Category: Humor

Let’s put a smile on that face!

  • How in the world do movie-people kick doors open so easily?!

    How in the world do movie-people kick doors open so easily?!

    I have been watching a lot of crime/investigation shows lately, and it has been messing with me. 

    No, it’s not the rampant gore that gets to me, thanks to my palms-to-eye coordination. Those babies are always on standby, deployed efficiently, at the slightest cue from the suspenseful background score.

    It’s the doors. 

    Yes, you read it right. I did mean doors.

    So, here is how it rolls, someone gets some actionable intelligence, and they head to bust somebody- at their temporary residence or some rendezvous point. Now, this temporary meeting point could be a dingy apartment, a fancy house, a dilapidated house in the country, a stellar spacious condo in a high rise… you get the point.

    What almost inevitably happens is that someone breaks through the door – mostly without so much effort as a kick. One kick, and bam! – the door comes off!

    It does not matter if the person kicking it was a teenager, an average young man, or a mature adult, so long as they are the hero in the scene. 

    The debris from that kick is quite a sight to behold, it makes me question all the science I thought I knew growing up. All those memorization nights with “force equals mass into acceleration” come to taunt me. They laugh at me. 

    One kick, that’s all it takes. Really?

    But then I switch back to my art lessons. What fun would it be if you are armed, with a bunch of officers following you, you wait for the ‘dangerous and armed’ criminal to answer the door for you?

    That would probably switch the scene from intense suspense and thrill to comedy-esque. Maybe?

    I look deeper and realize it’s just plain old jealousy. Just because I can’t smash a door by kicking it hard once doesn’t mean everyone else can’t. Maybe an average person does have it in them to bring a door down with a simple power of a kick. After being driven up the wall with all this door business, I have an epiphany. 

    When life gives you lemons, just kick the door. The closest door you can find.

    And preferably at midnight when everyone is fast asleep, for sweet vengeance. 

  • Satiety or Sobriety: What would you choose?

    Satiety or Sobriety: What would you choose?

    Time and again, I find myself returning to the age-old humor classic Jerome K Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat. I have sometimes wondered why that might be but have not pursued that train of thought for long in a desperate attempt to avoid paying any cognitive taxes. 

    the cover of the book 'three men in a boat'
    One of my favorite books

    I must admit that it has been life-transforming. Wait, I lie. I have always lived my life that way- avoiding work every chance. 

    It wouldn’t be an overstatement to say that I like almost every sentence written in that book. But on every other re-read, some new wisdom catches my eye.

    The following was the highlight of my most recent re-read of the book: 

    How good one feels when one is full – how satisfied with ourselves and with the world! People who have tried it tell me that a clear conscience makes you very happy and contented, but a full stomach does the business quite as well and is cheaper and more easily obtained.

    Good indeed, no denying that. This might have to do with the fact that I read the book in self-imposed solitary confinement, avoiding all world distractions (food included) as if they were the plague. 

    But that aside, the sentence did leave a good aftertaste. I wondered about it during and after many meals and felt even more strongly that a full belly is a prerequisite for sustainable happiness. 

    Yes, you can be happy without a full belly if you have a clear conscience, but I guess at some point, the grumbling of your stomach will overpower all other senses and thoughts.

    Full disclosure, my belief in my ideas isn’t as steadfast as I would like.

    So naturally, I resort to the public library’s reference section for all the true wisdom out there. 

    This search was quite the workout – moving around in the Psychology, Philosophy, ancient wisdom, and theology aisles- to name a few. A common theme was conscientiousness as the foundational brick for any sustainable human happiness. 

    Out comes Abraham Maslow and his hierarchy of needs, where physiological needs (satiating hunger in this case) are considered key to a satisfied human. 

    And Bam! 

    I see him and Mr. Jerome in my daydreaming mind, shaking hands, hugging, and having drinks at the local bar close to my place. I decelerate my imaginary speeding car and come back to the reality of my own experience.

    The only times I remember having had trouble sleeping was – if I had a presentation at work the following day that I am sure would bring shame to my professional existence, OR I only had a green salad and a soup for dinner. 

    Oh, how powerful hunger is, how accomplished at keeping me awake! 

    Literature tells me love has the same power. Love can make you lose your sleep and your appetite. I thank my stars that I never came across that kind of love (with loss of appetite and sleep, what good would that be to me anyway?)

    This is not to undermine the importance of conscience. Not in the least. Literature worldwide is replete with advice and means of keeping a clear conscience. I wouldn’t comment on my level of conscientiousness; objective self-assessment isn’t my strong suit. 

    But I like to believe that I am reasonably conscientious.

    Now the fun part is, I found myself obsessing over the first part of Mr. Jerome’s sentence, completely ignoring the second:

    “…but a full stomach does the business quite as well and is cheaper and more easily obtained.”

    I can only speak for myself when I say that eating dollops of cream cheese, tzatziki, and a veggie burger gets me tangibly closer to happiness every day than mental cleansing – conscience or otherwise.

    Ogden Nash, from the local library’s fiction aisle, had a terrific insight laid right out: 

    “There is only one way to achieve happiness in this terrestrial ball, and that is either to have a clear conscience or none at all.”

    I have not lost all hope.

  • The Vintage Man – How Well Do You Know Your Cars?

    The Vintage Man – How Well Do You Know Your Cars?

    Now and then, I would have an urge to figure out my IQ, driven mainly by ubiquitous android or iOS Logo quiz apps on every website I am on. They claim to tell you your IQ based on your performance on their quizzes. Guess the company names by looking at their logos- what better way to know how intelligent you are! 

    If you don’t understand the symbols around you, you can’t be smart, can you? 

    Neither my words nor my logic.

    Well, I digress. The point being, I love cars, beautiful looking cars. The thing is, I don’t know much about them, except for their brand logos. 

    Unfortunately, I think I can only categorize a car as a sedan, hatchback, or SUV, and that on a good day. Maybe just big or small is the best categorization you could get out of me on a bad day.

    I digress again. Last year, on a nice summer day, while I was walking down the street after a visit to my nearby café, I noticed a car, the car didn’t look very modern actually. It seemed like one of those vintage cars I sometimes see on “Comedians in cars getting coffee” (For those of you that don’t Netflix as much, it’s a very popular comedy/chat show). 

    Just a vintage car, you might say? 

    At least I know that I thought that. 

    But no! It was as if Darth Vader had appeared with his royal vehicle, living the law-abiding life, waiting at the intersection for the traffic light to go green. 

    It seemed as if in that minute, he had enamored everyone in the 300-meter radius; everyone’s eyes were on this alien road dweller. People were spellbound, ogling at them both – the vehicle and its driver, trying to unravel the mystery of how they came to be together. 

    Some people took leave of their reservations and started whistling; the driver, a sport, acknowledged the kind gesture and honked in return. 

    The Gods of traffic lights couldn’t let that idyllic anomaly go on for long, could they? 

    The light turned green soon enough, the driver sped past in his alien vehicle, and that cute little downtown corner was back to its chaotic existence, but those 30 seconds of red light seemed like a few hours in a utopian world. At least for me. 

    My only regret: I wasn’t facing the vehicle, so I didn’t get a look at the logo – and hence, Je suis desole, never got to know what brand or make of the car was. All my hopes of evoking that enamor from random strangers were flushed down the drain, assuming I were ever able to get that royal ride for myself one day.

    I learned some critical lessons that day, which I hope stay with me, for long.

    “Never trust what logo quiz say your IQ is” (the creators for these and ‘does trump have a higher IQ than Obama’ quiz are most probably the same) 

    AND

    “Know your cars.”

    In a world full of logo quizzes every step of the way, tread lightly.

  • What’s with your accent?

    What’s with your accent?

    It happens to be dinner time, and I am eating AND watching this TV series. In one of the scenes, this guy is going about telling people that he is a cop/a Fed/a spy, whichever is convenient in the situation. 

    At best, people throw a confused look, and at worst, they exclaim, “Oh yeah? What’s with the accent?” 

    Naturally, in a world these people can make sense of, a Fed/cop/spy can’t have an accent. It just doesn’t sit right.

    Of course, I take it personally. After all, where’s the fun in watching something if you don’t picture yourself in the protagonist’s shoes. It’s freakishly easy for me to create this world in my mind, where I am this guy, and people are mocking my accent. 

    If someone said that to me as they did to that guy, I could see myself reacting in either of these two ways:

    1. Start bawling like a kid right there, which is quite embarrassing considering the grown-ass woman that I am
    2. Smack the perpetrator in the face

    As you can see, both of these reactions aren’t ideal and rightfully sit on two ends of the situational response spectrum. Both of them reflect a lack of maturity and emotional resilience to differing degrees.

    I consider a middle route between the two, maybe just tears welling in the eyes and me slapping the perpetrator lightly on their face, but that response seems even more pitiable, so I drop it off my simulation.

    Thankfully, my attention returns to the show soon enough, and I catch the guy’s response to the perpetrator.

    Poker face followed by ‘Oh yeah, what’s with yours?”

    What the hell! Why didn’t I think of that!?

    Sense returns to me eventually, and I have this epiphany, “Who doesn’t?”

    Take that, perp!

  • Have You Ever Had Yourself a Bazinga! Moment?

    Have You Ever Had Yourself a Bazinga! Moment?

    There is a good chance that you would have heard about Big Bang Theory, and I don’t mean the scientific phenomenon that formed our universe, but the famous American TV series. You probably would have seen it too. 

    And if you have, you either loved it or hated it immensely. For some reason, there are only opposites for this one. 

    Either way, there is a good chance you might have come across Sheldon Cooper’s classic ‘Bazinga!’

    Sheldon Cooper, a genius but socially awkward theoretical physicist, revels in his ability to pull what he calls ‘practical jokes’ on his friends by saying ‘Bazinga!’ after a false statement.

    The Bazinga is supposed to be surprising the somewhat confused victim. 

    a screenshot of a scene of bazinga from big bang theory
    A Bazinga moment from The Big Bang Theory

    So why the sudden rant?

    On one of the days when my willpower defeated the electromagnetic force of attraction between me and my couch (and Netflix), I stepped out on a glorious summer day with a tote bag with a book in it. 

    Today’s the day I will have tea and croissant, sit in a corner, and slowly sip my tea while it turns juice cold while making sure that the superpowers vested in me by the God of Klutz, I don’t spill a single drop on my book. 

    I envy infants/ little kids sometimes; they can wear bibs in public without being embarrassed about it. There is glory in being able to spill things and still walk around without a care in the world. 

    So here I am, reading away, mainly concentrating on my book, when suddenly I hear a song being played. 

    Now, this little joint always plays songs, and for some reason, I end up going there when they are playing The Weeknd’s latest. 

    But this time, it’s different. This is not your traditional song. This is a song from a faraway country that my parents call their own. 

    I remember it because I have seen them playing it at home. I know all the lyrics. ‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,’ I mumble and go back to my reading.

    Five sentences down, I am distracted again—this time by the server at the cafe singing at the top of his voice. 

    Lo and behold! 

    It’s the same song. 

    Typically, I won’t be surprised, but I am now. This guy speaks an entirely different language, not the one the song is in. He doesn’t know what the words mean, but he doesn’t care. Not a care in the world. 

    I feel a sharp pang of jealousy that quickly converts into shame and regret. 

    I know what the words are; I know what they mean, hell! I even have all the lyrics memorized, but I wouldn’t dare to sing that in public.

    And it’s not because I can’t sing, Mind you, I can; I pride myself in being a slightly better upgrade from your typical bathroom singer. 

    I don’t sing because, for some reason, I care about other people and what they would think about me if I did.

    They would judge me to be using a language that’s alien to most here. 

    They would brand me a freak and look at me with pity or disgust from the corner of their eyes. Speaking to each other in hushed tones about me. 

    I’m not too fond of the limelight, definitely not of this kind. So I take the easy way out. 

    But that easy way isn’t easy anymore. This random stranger has opened my eyes to a truth I don’t want to see, and it’s a sharp jab to the soul. I am patiently waiting for him to make a mistake with the lyrics, which could be a salve to the ache I am feeling. 

    But No! The damned guy knows the lyrics perfectly! I hate him. I am almost tempted to ask him where he learned everything, but I stop myself. 

    When I have 50 more pages to finish before this edge-of-the-seat thriller ends, do I really want to spend time on small talk? 

    There is no clear answer, but I consider the episode a one-off, myself Bazinga’ed, and move on.