Simple Man

The Indian paper tiger, at eighty-seven rupees per dollar, will soon cross the sentimental catharsis of ninety, and I’m sure the hind-loo in the country will find some popular mythology to justify the event—or better still, blame it on the nearest most-lame or christ-cunt. But will I still be alive to see it cross a century? Well, maybe—I can never underestimate how low the rupee or our ministers can stoop to poop a massive goop in the ever-expectant mouths of the losing laity who only want to exist, to survive the difficult disdain of just one more fucking day, to barely arrive at just another self-similar fractal tomorrow full of the usual apathetic blabbering bullshit from another bladder, or ungulate piss touting guru, or godmen. Or flexibly, served by political or business goons and gangbang style mafia who come with parted ass cheeks ready to shit into their mouths and so on, carnage for five years the full Lok Sabha term—until the next planning or shitting shift takes over, whence anew starts the renewed democratic precum-lubricated fisting of mother India in all her already gaping, deeply empty colonial and hemorrhagic post-colonial holes.

As more and more swaying scrotums and smelly, seepy cunts full of sand fill the politics of where we are going—with belligerent and slaverous acrimony—the nation slips deeper into the mediocre character of a sullen, dull, middle-aged hindustani clerk with a masturbatory fetish for gazing at the reflection of his rancid asshole gaping in the window mirror, oblivious to the fact that the glass has another side, where the onlookers of the wider world camp out to ogle at the destitution karma-porn on display, with popcorn, beer and routine festive subscription cheer. And just when the riveting crowd-pleasing squelchy puckering was showing the decimated labyrinthine bleeding anal polyps, a lean, menacing surpentine steamy turd scurrilously slithered on to the already disturbed and complex metaphor—to hoops and much needed cum squirting fanfare on the world outside the window pane. You could say the only thing missing was a fan—but who knows in another parallel reality the turd might have just indeed done that—hit the fan. That fan incidentally is Trump for India.

Indians may finally know what the fuck anyone is talking about—or not—this year that I turn fifty, because shit’s constantly hitting the fan here, or being fanned by the fan, but it still fails to register—this is how dumb Indians have been made with religiosity and paid press. Or maybe I’ll start enjoying passing gas so much that I stop giving a fuck about what the fuck anyone is talking about or really anything at all—especially stuff like shit that should matter, like food, air, shelter. Notice I leave out education because, in a religious or holy country—where sensibilities are dulled, you don’t need shit like that. Or medicine. Or healthcare. More astrology, palmistry, crystals, gurus smoking gajas up their assholes, babas with billions—fuck yes! No wonder I’ll be huddling in a drain in a slum in Calcutta forever—fuck me while I fart.

I’m fucking fifty. But that’s it. It all goes downhill—if there’s any more downhill left for me. I’m sure it’s below sea level at this point. The balls are already quite small and scrunched up—the sperms could go drier though, I guess. And the dick, which is already a toothpick, could shrivel up into a singularity. Well, there’s downhill—a dick black hole—but I guess that title is more apt for my asshole, which is brown, just one shade away from the singularity. But no reason not to remember I did once have a healthy looking shaft and plump testicles—hence the celebratory postage, incase you were wondering. Stupid fucking cunts!