Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The Faggots: Try BanningThe Bloody Weather
The past couple of weeks have been real bar-stool-fodder: verdicts and appeals, smoking suits and rules, consensual sexes, MTRs and clauses, and now the big bling bling – state funding for political parties. All passé.
This observation of the past weeks’ many twists and turns could not be resisted without that Shakespearean line hitting the fvcking head courtesy of a jack hammer. “Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this son of York…” as a hunched back Richard the III gets all mushy and poetic on the battlefield.
And with the legal lingo dominating most of the news reports, there was an urge to scrounge for John Grisham thrillers from those negligible dusty ol’ shelves. Locus Standi – sounded like a still-stationed caterpillar at first until it was revealed that it was a human being standing up for his right to fight in front of a judge with imminent threat to his being, or Clear & Present Danger as Tom Clancy writes it and Ford acts it. I’m tempted to use that as my new Gmail ID – (firstname.lastname@example.org) - has a catchy ring to it and the seductive, inviting, James Bondesque motion – as in Slo-Mo, (email@example.com), though it’s beyond my ultra vires. What’s with lawyers?
Anyhow, the case of the Objection versus the Implementation is headed to the Super Court for a final climactic decision. There have green grounds for going super duper, one of which has been the suspicion that perhaps the Higher Court was high when it meted out that circumcised decree…with the daunting haunting irony that the OL had always agreed in general to the Tax Hike of the Govt.- turns out he was just making queries, as to the nature of the tax hike vis-à-vis the Constitution, and since life is stranger than fiction, the High Court mate of his (unverified) had suggested that the OL do that in writing.
And that’s how that Mole became a Mountain. Now no matter what the outcome, we are all gonna look like fools – a rare and early diagnosis of the traditional F&M (Foot In Your Mouth Disease). Just pray the media does not get all hyper and go tabloid on the SC’s POV this coming week. Any which way you look at it, we’re all fvcked…most of all the fact that the TAX was actually gonna do well for the ALM ADMI (Tho’ The War Against The Ciggie Still Drums).
This brings to haste the finer linings of the case. Among the many questions haunting the common ignorant fella and his eager chella are these questions (clockwork soundtrack a la Kaun Banega Crorepati drumming the background):
1. What were those taxes about?
2. Who was going to be taxed?
3. Did it include people with no money?
4. Was it targeted at the rich?
5. And if they wanted to make us responsible taxpaying citizens, why didn’t they warn us?
6. If the Objection and the House on the First Floor thought it bulldozed the Constitution, why didn’t the Implementation make their cases to their opposing faces and then sung in unison, “I’m the Taxman?” Followed by a rendition of “We all live in a yellow submarine?”
Now that everyone says it was about the procedure and not about the money, why don’t they start all over? That’s been the bugger so far. The rest of the sessions, with MTRs (sounded at first like a South Indian political bigwig was in town) presented and among the watershed moments, the unanimous passing of the Tobacco Bill that is the conversation of the day with smoke rings blown for added emphasis. A disgusted smoker said in a bar who the heck is gonna carry a receipt in case a tobacco vigilant appears like a ninja and asks for proper documentation and registration? Solid point. No arguments. “And what about enforcement? Who’s to keep watch on the capital’s some 100,000 inhabitants and the rest of the country?” as he stubbed out the illegal stick, he ordered a shot of whisky, double on the rocks and continued. “What about the booze? Is that like the acceptable norm? And made the moral point of how in this day and age, telling people what to do with their insatiable personal indulgences, habits, likes and dislikes was a reminder of our medieval sacks.
The exasperation and the aggravation was more than he could afford to bear. He was visibly humiliated. Duly gulping down the shot, he bottomed up and bid adieu. The conversation was just beginning to warm up, even as the mercury went for a freefall.
The next topic of ventilation was the age of consensual sex (sounds rather like that Martin Scorsese film). And also rather like a bohemian society at first – sex, co-sensuality, age lowered to sixteen (and here comes Dr Hook with (“She was sixteen”), the legal dribble of figuring out whether a man will be in bed the next morning groomed or handcuffed and taken to a retreat to the state meditational penitentiary.
Everyone around the bar wore a look of utter confusion. This is what legal talk does to ordinary folks – renders them absolutely habeas corpus. It’s something like what Einstein did to all of us with his Theory of Relativity. Imagine the abomination had it been instead, Einstein’s Practicality of Reality? What was he? A practical joker who twittered to Armstrong as he was getting off the Hollywood sets in the middle of the Navajo desert to utter those immortal lines: “A small step for mankind…a giant leap for me?”
Somewhere, Einstein the prankster is laughing his arse off. Remember, he was Jewish. They sure are a funny lot (Esp. when fighting a continent of Muslims from a stretch of desert called Israel). As is Woody Allen Seinfeld, Sacha Baron Cohen aka Borat, Adam Sandler, Ben Stiller, Jon Stewart et al. Woe be the day they decide to get serious. As the clock clocked and the talk turned to State Funding for Political Parties propped up, everyone had left the house, drunk and disgusted that no one had a fag on them.
You cannot beat the weather, no matter how discontent you are.