Perfect uselessness

9/28/2025

Infinite, I tell you—my incompetencies spiral gloriously out of control, hurtling through space and time toward the great black-hole asshole of eternity. If, as the maths folks say (when they pause from their masturbatory fiddle-faddle of integrals and derivatives and let us peek into their kinky numerical torture dungeons), an asymptote is something you creep up to, panting and desperate but never quite reach, then my incompetence is asymptotic. Not that it gets infinitely better (because that would imply an upward trajectory), but infinitely worse, forever edging tantalizingly close to perfect uselessness. “Perfect uselessness”—now there’s a bloody paradox for you, you wretched miscreants. I do nothing except perhaps ogle the rare Bengali beauties that appear during the Durga Puja in my imagination.

At fifty — five decades of fruitless existence that culminated on this belated 16th of April, this date carved deep in my psyche like some twisted anti-birthday etched with urine-soaked razors—I’m suddenly aware that the long march of life isn’t toward wisdom, dignity, or utility; it’s a drunken stumble toward incontinence, incoherence, and irrelevance. This birthday was a celebration, oh no, my dearest sacks of fermenting pond slime—was a funeral with cake, a dirge rendered joyous only because society hasn’t figured out how to politely shoot the aging and incompetent and toss them out with Thursday’s garbage. (Yet.)

Before Artificial Intelligence swaggered into town, all gleaming silicon phalluses and digital promiscuity, my incompetence was merely human-sized. I was a mild embarrassment at parties, a garden-variety shitstain on the underpants of society. With AI—our new digital overlord, our synthetic salvation—it turns out I’m not just replaceable, but laughably, depressingly, disgustingly disposable. A used condom tossed aside after humanity’s climax with technological orgasm.

Let me state clearly, in a tone neither humble nor bragging (for humility is too noble a word, and bragging requires at least the illusion of achievement), that expecting any utility from me at this point would indicate severe cognitive impairment on your part. Examine the economics of it—a depressing calculation, granted, but bear with me: my resource consumption (inhalation, ingestion, excretion, fartation—my very existence as an elaborate and noisy chemical reactor) vastly exceeds my productive output. I’m a fiscal deficit in biological form, a perpetual black hole sucking resources, converting them into profound disappointment, and loudly, obnoxiously, into malodorous flatulence.

Even calling myself a “creature” seems pretentious. “Creature” implies something fascinating, something zoological, something Darwin might have pondered as he fondled his beard and fantasized evolutionarily inappropriate fantasies. Nope—I’m simpler than that. I’m what happens when entropy wears pants. I’m an oily film atop north-calcutta’s cultural-scum pond, toxic yet insipid, persistent yet unwanted, and as impossible to eliminate completely as those sari wearing bengali cockroaches who outlive nuclear winters, political revolutions, and endless cycles of inept municipal governments.

But fear not, dear readers—for whom I harbor only contemptuous yet loving disdain—nature abhors a vacuum, even if society abhors me. The great cosmic janitor of the universe will sweep away this particular lump of irrelevance eventually, recycling my molecules into something marginally less disappointing. Until then, rest assured, I’ll be here, doing exactly what I’m good at: nothing useful, but still taking up precious space and resources, shitting, farting, complaining, and above all, making your miserable existences just slightly more tolerable by comparison.