Weaponized DNA will soon make nuclear weapons obsolete. No point threatening the whole planet when the objective is to eliminate your evolutionary adversaries and leave intact the resources vital for the survival of the victorious.
When I first began to follow a fitness regimen, it was to keep myself in a geometrically and aesthetically appealing shape. So I did cardio and resistance training basically. And stretches and warm-ups and cool-downs before and after the cardio and resistance training. As I grew older, my fitness goals began to change, and with them, the proportion and quantity of time taken up by different kinds of what may broadly be termed a ‘wellness routine’.
The funda basically is to raise your body temperature to boiling point and then plunge it into ice. This rapid exposure to extremes hardens the muscles, improves the conductivity of the nerves and toughens the bones. Some exercise routines include vitrification, where you inject varying proportions of clay and silica into the epidermis and then glaze them digitally so that your skin is as smooth and hard and beautiful as ceramic. Maya loves running her nails on my digitally glazed vitrified back though I don’t much like the sound produced which reminds me of a water snake crying. If you’ve heard a water snake cry you would know it is not an auditory stimulus conducive to sexual excitation.
I have never dreamt of Jesus my whole life but last night I dreamt that I was afraid that I would dream of Jesus. Now I don’t know if that counts as me dreaming of Jesus or not. If I had not commented prematurely to Sherlyn on how sexy her legs were, I believe we might have gotten to know each other better. My comment that her legs were the best on display at Palolem did not go down well with her for some reason that she never cared to explain. She simply stopped making eye contact with me or responding to any conversational overtures from me in anything but monosyllables.
The BRF have issued an ad online seeking new recruits. The ad says penis-size no bar – implying they’ll enlarge your penis at their expense if they hire you. The ad also says sex no bar. What does that mean? That they’ll be happy to take on trans people? I opened an account at Justendit.com yesterday. But I don’t think I have it in me to kill someone for money. I can’t afford to take on that kind of karma at this stage of my spiritual career.
The hole on my main door lock has been growing bigger and bigger with every passing day. Today the hole was the size of my fist. The key wouldn’t work. So I had to stimulate myself till my cock was big enough and hard enough. Then I inserted it in the lock and luckily the veins on the shaft matched the grooves in the lock and I could open the door. But while turning I ejaculated and the hole is now clogged with my goo. I don’t know if I can use the same lock again. Have to remember to use a condom next time.
My one punch is so powerful your left eye will go and fall in Africa and your right eye will go and fall in Europe. With one kick I can dispatch your bottom to Latin America. My one head-butt will ram your head back into your torso till it emerges on the other side through the soles of your feet.
Your eye which landed in Africa will give sight to a blind Namibian rag-picker in Johannesburg after she picks it up from the drain and slides it into her socket like a Bausch and Lomb. Your left eye will embed itself on the clock tower in Ljubljana and file daily reports on the events unfolding within its visual range. And you will die after you accidentally step on your head.
Apart from the BRF I had applied to three other terrorist organizations. All of them have called me for the preliminary round of testing, which includes a psychological aptitude test, a written test and three rounds of interviews. I had sent all of them the same SOP on ‘Why I want to become a terrorist’, just substituting the name of the organization in each case. BRF in the BRF application became LGBTQQARSTUVWXYZLF in the LGBTQQARSTUVWXYZLF application became Al Faida in the Al Faida application.
The Maoists have taken a 30 per cent stake in NeoCon Inc. and will have direct control over the manufacture of artificial adivasis to populate the forests on Niyamgir. Satya’s sperms are now being exported to fourteen different planets. It is scary to imagine one man’s DNA enjoying such wide inter-galactic traction. To my mind, this represents inbreeding of cosmic proportions and is a recipe for catastrophe. But humanity never learns from its mistakes.
There is life inside a beer bubble. I can tell you this because I lived there for many years. The only problem is getting water supply. When the bubble bursts, the oxygen in the atmosphere turns moody and violent and selfish and you have to get by as an anaerobic for a while.
The car I gifted to Anusha was an Audi A12 and not an Audi A8 as she drunkenly announced at her homecoming party last week. It has detachable Nitrogen boosters for the QOHCs which can take cruising speeds up to 440 kmph. I know she’s not a motorhead or a speed junkie. But she could be a pit babe. Put her in red spandex and micro-minis and you don’t need ignition. That said, unless they lower the qualifying age of the drivers to nineteen months, I don’t see how the cars can get any lighter or go any faster. I sat in a McMerc for the first time when I was twenty-three months and by forty-two months, I was the national under-21 champion.
From an initial time of one hour ten minutes when I was twenty-five – my physical prime, you could say, and I was no competitive athlete or sportsman – my fitness regime expanded to two hours by the time I was thirty, to three hours by the time I was thirty-five, to four hours by the time I was forty, and it was taking up eight hours of my day by the time I turned forty-five. Today, I’m fifty years old, and nearly all my waking time – about sixteen hours – goes into my wellness regimen.
I have to do separate stretches for each individual joint of my body or they start giving trouble. So I begin with shoulder rotations, which take up anywhere between thirty minutes to an hour. The neck, then the upper, middle and lower back, one after the other. Then the wrists and fingers – of either hand in turn. Then the knees, ankles, hips and the glutes. I do the stretches standing, lying on my back, lying on my stomach, squatting, kneeling, prone on one side, prone on the other side. The stretches in all take up about two hours. Then I do three hours of yoga, which are stretches with a specific therapeutic agenda, so to speak. This could be anything from preventing the onset of piles, to slowing down the ageing process, to enhancing libidinal longevity. Then I break for lunch. And after a brief power nap of fifteen minutes, I get back with two hours of cardio, followed by two hours of resistance training. Then a break for coffee and snacks followed by an hour of kick-boxing to develop oft-neglected muscle groups, an hour of pilates to build core strength, and an hour each of tennis and swimming for conditioning. I cool off with two hours of stretches and one hour of transcendental meditation for spiritual fitness. It’s 9 p.m. by the time I’m done and it’s time to have dinner and go to bed. I get my work done over phone when I’m on cardio, usually through the use of my seven assistants, who do most of the living-related chores for me while I focus on my health, fitness and longevity.
That said, my life expectancy dipped 17 per cent after I married Maya. Apparently our synapses were not compatible, nor were our metabolisms. She puked every single day we lived as spouse and spouse. She puked on the new leather upholstery I’d got done for the Volvo. And she puked on my cock while fellating me, which put me off oral sex for several years. Every time a woman took me in her mouth I was so terrified she would puke on my cock the whole point of it was lost somehow. I would be so tense I wouldn’t get hard no matter how hard the fellationer fellated me and she’d end up asking me what was wrong, and before you know it the question would’ve become what was wrong with me.
So before you marry someone make sure your metabolisms and synapses are compatible – they are more important than horoscopes and noses. Noses are very important to the people of my country. Arumugam rejected a bride from HAIRmatrimoney.com because the holes of her nostrils were asymmetrical, with one of them more oval than spherical and the other more spherical than oval, and he was, in turn, rejected by a HAIRmatrimony girl he’d liked because she found his nose to be ‘more elongate than Chile and Kerala lined up one behind the other’.
I had to go to the US for re-treading surgery when my fingertips became a complete pattern-less blank after repeated and abrasive contact with touchscreen surfaces and would no longer work on fingerprint-based security access keys. So I had to choose ten designs from among 9.7 billion unique fingerprints for my fingers. As usual I couldn’t make up my mind. I didn’t want the same old repetitive ellipses in abstract expressionist patterns signifying nothing save what a scanner would understand. I settled on a custom-made design – which cost you, of course – that imprinted the complete works of Shakespeare in the form of friction ridges on my fingers. So I had Shakespeare on my fingertips, literally. It was an ideal topic for the dinner table, not to mention a fail-proof conversation-starter with strangers on buses and blind dates. Here’s a typical sample:
At this point I’d offer my loupe to the woman – I never tried it with men – and she would, with an ‘okay, let me humour this weirdo’ expression, take it from me and scan the finger I held up for her: ‘And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas, / Olympus-high, and duck again as low / As hell’s from heaven! If it were now to die, / ’Twere now to be most happy, for I fear / My soul hath her content so absolute / That not another comfort like to this / Succeeds in unknown fate.’ Othello usually does the trick. If the way to a chick’s heart is through Shakespeare, Othello is the Autobahn.
On top of the Notre Dame, you could take a selfie with either the Eiffel Tower or the Sacre Coeur in the background. I hired a French homosexual to take all my selfies for me as I didn’t want to be distracted from my absorption in the experience of Paris by the necessity of having to pictorially document my absorption in the experience of Paris. My homosexual photographer took selfies for tourists only as a hobby, mostly over the weekend, and the French have a notoriously long weekend. His day job was to check on people’s houses after they’d left. He had about forty clients, most of them OCD-sufferers, but also normal healthy individuals. They would tap his name on their cell phone. He’d get a text, which meant he had to go to their home and check whatever they wanted checked. He got paid either on a per-visit basis or had a monthly or quarterly retainership, during which he would do a daily check irrespective of whether or not they summoned him – but the costs were proportionately higher.
More than 50 per cent were anxious about not having locked the main door. Next came the ones who couldn’t remember if they’d turned the gas off, and then the ones who obsessed about the taps, the oven, the heater and so on. I asked how often it happened that a client had actually left his door unlocked or gas on or whatever. He said one in maybe 500 visits.