Category: Humour

Heralding the Vegetable Orchestra Era

Something tells me this is going to be the next ‘in-thing’ at South Indian Brahmin weddings:
Chinese vegetable orchestra
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newsvideo/weirdnewsvideo/9138002/Chinese-brothers-create-orchestra-from-market-vegetables.html

Let us list the potential positives:
1) It has vegetables and no meat. “We are very chaste you know?” a Meenakshi Maami or Chachu Maami will proclaim as they swallow a burfi whole (with the silver lining).

2) The first set of weddings to have it will be talked about in glowing terms till the next wedding has the same thing. Then, that wedding will talked about in glowing terms and so it goes.

3) I am sure paying these artists will be expensive and therefore, tie in nicely with the unnecessary-exorbitant paradigm. Maybe James Band can diversify his talents in the direction. Who is James? And why his band? (Please go here for answers: https://nourishncherish.wordpress.com/?s=James+Band)

In short, James Band was the illustrious band that performed at my brother’s wedding, confused music with noise and received glowing tributes from one and all.

4) There is no active participation of the audience required. One can flit like butterflies or flies near the show, smile vaguely and flutter away towards the edible end of the hall.

5) In general, we like things that knock the wind out of ya. This one has wholesome yams & potatoes.

6) It has a wind instrument touch to it that appeals to South Indians – one can make it loud and also ignore the artistes and turn to look at the cut vegetable show on the side. A simple Google search throws all of these different things one can do with vegetable cutting. I must also point to the fact that weddings now have a vegetable show where one is allowed to go and see the creative pursuits of the wedding contractor’s vegetable carver. Of course, the v.carver is never there to see/hear the appreciation, but a true artist does not wait for them apparently. He has the next set of carvings to get to.

Given that our food decoration wonders stop at the star-shaped carrot like in the dish below(The mother made the dish for the Cancer Institute Foundation fundraiser, but we were tasked with decoration and we pulled off the only thing we are adept at ), we can but marvel at the ingenuity while listening to the vegetable band:


7) The whole lot of the ‘instruments’ can make its way from Srinivasa Maama’s wedding to Vaidyanatha Iyer’s wedding and then morph into kootu at Pataamani maama’s daughter-in-law’s seemandham.

It will be nice to be able to look back at this post a few years from now when the vegetable orchestra is the in-thing.

The Bill of Health

Have I told you about the husband’s visit to the doctor a few years ago?

When asked to take up a physical exam, the husband will run a marathon or at least a half marathon. I think he just likes to tone his muscles and present himself as the ‘Man with the glowing physique’ to the physician. As soon as enters the Doctor’s office, he also makes it a point to bring the topics of conv. around to running and subtly inserts hints about his long distance running and running shoes. The psychological advantage being that the doctor with his glasses as he scans the lab reports cannot be too harsh on numbers that don’t look good. You can’t bombast a guy for his triglycerides and make him kneel down for seeing him at Saravana Bhavan with an oily dosa at hand and an oilier vada in his mouth if he has just run a marathon what?

Following his usual tactics, he ran a marathon, set up a physical exam and started bragging about his running minutes into entering the Doctor’s presence. But, he had recently changed doctors and this one was not to be fooled by marathoners. There is something about spectacle positioning that can make grown men feel like school children. It is neither too low down the nose, nor perched perfectly – the eye penetration factor to severe spectacle ratio is perfected by some causing folks so spill their guts with a mere ‘Hello’. This doctor held a doctorate on spectacle positioning and frowned upon learning that he was a runner.
“Hmm….Marathon running eh?”
“Yes..” *Gulp*
“I know you marathoners. You will run and then say,’I ran so much, so let me eat’ and you will eat.”
“No Sir…sorry, no Doctor.”
“Yes…Yes…I know you people. You will eat way more than necessary. Has your weight reduced because of the running?”
“Ehh..no, but that was not my goal.”
“Then muscle toning eh?”

There was a laugh in the muscle toning that told him that no matter what his answer, he was not going to be happy with the Doctor’s take on it, so he kept glum. (which is saying something)

Fast forward a few hours and imagine my shock when I saw a haggard looking husband droop into the house and recoil at the food I had put on the table? A little gentle probing revealed all. Apparently the doctor in his enthusiasm to drive a point told him that, “Last month….a young man – running, busy job etc came. This month dead.”
I mean…what the? What?

Obviously shaken to the core, he veered off food for a few days, and ran a half marathon after the check-up as well.

The same thing happened to me a few days ago. There I was, sitting and browsing about this and that when I read this article that said my job is killing me. A sedantary job does that apparently.

http://mashable.com/2012/03/02/work-death-infographic/

So, here is a call to all workers, please put in your quota of exercise and eat right. I myself sacrificed a bag of fries yesterday. Which reminds me – it has been a while since the husband ran a half marathon, I should ask the Doctor’s office to remind him about his annual physical exam.

The Baby Job

We have a good deal of things running by themselves at work. I don’t just mean the dogs and the people – they do too, but jobs on systems. Of course, every now and then we feel the need to put in another job to see if the first job is running. Let’s call them Job A and Job B. So, Job B has to see whether Job A is running.Of course, JobB has its set of problems: you know, it might go and check up on the wrong job and then that job puts its nose up in the air and stalks off; if not Job B decides to take an early retirement or wants its spot in the limelight and wonks off. Point is, once we are done running behind Job B to ensure Job A is running, someone suggests that we put in another job, Job C, to see whether Job B is running. Then it is Job B’s job to see whether Job A is running, and if all three are not running, we can always buckle down to developing Job D.

It keeps us fairly busy. You know dog chases cat and cat chases rat. It keeps the rat race on. (Like this Tom & Jerry poster)

So one might excuse me for getting this muddled up dream that had me rankled. I have a baby, who while being the apple of eye, also has his own view of the World. He sometimes decides that the world looks at its rosiest best at 2 a.m. and plays. I admit that when this happens, I avoid eye-contact with him completely, hoping the lack of response will bore him and he falls asleep though he sees no point in the dastardly act of sleep that his parents seem to enjoy so much. When that doesn’t work, I employ a number of techniques that include vague clucking, shushing, patting and singing (I have a blog about my singing that I shall get down to just as soon as I am able to).

He did it again last night. He looked bronzed, fit and alert, like an athlete going to start his customary training before the big match. And played. I do remember patting him and hushing him, but I also remember telling myself that what we desperately need in such moments is a job that tells us our little one is not sleeping.

Then, the left half of the brain pips in: Why do we need a job? We already know that the baby is not sleeping.
No….how do we know that?
Dull thud to the right of my head!
Left half of brain: Because he is banging my head right now, that is how.
But that means you have to be awake.
L.Half: Well, isn’t that what the job will do? It will monitor to see whether the baby is sleeping and if he isn’t, wouldn’t it alert you?
Yes….but that baby’s crying or gurgling or in this case banging his head against mine should alert me, right?

This intense debate went on for a while and finally it was decided that a job to monitor the situ. may be unwarranted, since the baby had me well under control.

Future of Mankind: Sifrhippus or Wall-E routes?

The hedgehogs in the area are confused. They came out thinking it is Spring (apparently, hedgehogs peep out of their hibernating homes and if they see their shadow, they think it is time to get up and get busy for the Spring),and then a few days later, the skies clouded over again looking very much like Winter, and hiding the hedgehogs shadow. Just when they found their blankets and decided to snuggle up again, they found their shadows again. Quite trying for hedgehogs frankly. I don’t know what I would have done if I were one. Point is, no matter what the climate is like, one can always push out a study on Global warming to an audience waiting to lap it up. If it is cold, you say,’See this is a result of global warming. The extremities in temperature.’ Then dramatically shake your head.

Another sure shot research topic is Obesity. Watching Wall-E always fills me with an unnamed fear. What with obesity rising and our inherent entertainment choices becoming sedentary, there seems little we can do to avoid the inevitable. But there is this news item that had me soothe my frayed nerves somewhat.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/24/science/sifrhippus-the-first-horse-got-even-tinier-as-the-planet-heated-up.html

Apparently, the Sifrhippus horse was a hulk (compared to what it is now I mean). But as a result of Global Warming, the horse has grown tinier over centuries. On the other hand, horses ran around then and horses run around now. I mean rarely does one find a Sifrhippus strapped up to his X-box and throwing his mane about involved in the game.

If a sifr had to run a mile for fodder then, he runs a mile for fodder now. So, his reduced bulk could be related to Global Warming.

Man, on the other hand, if he had to hunt a day for filling half his stomach then, he has to click a button for half a second now before it is delivered at his doorstep. For further explanation, I see a half-witted diagram is in order.

Do you think these two effects would balance each other out for a while.

Edible Love

It is Tucky’s first Valentine’s Day. Apparently, it is a big deal. The daughter has been making him cards and more cards to honor the occasion. She wanted to be the first person to give him a Valentine’s Day card. So, she started a week ago. Tucky was beside himself with glee. He jumped at the card, blushed hard, giggled through his gums and ate it up. Literally. He took the card and used his stubby arms and drooled a liter of A-grade saliva onto it and within minutes, he had a soggy mish mash and a dour expression on his face.

When people make Valentine cards for their loved ones, they probably expect slightly better treatment and there might have been a moment of displeasure. I swooped in and tried to keep things light by telling her that next time she might try a tastier card for him, and the daughter guffawed.

Today, the poor girl gave him a ‘Glow in the dark’ card. That was met with the same enthusiasm and if possible, even wetter treatment than before. She, however was not in a mood to let little things like luminous infant bellies trouble her and laughed some more at his spirited performance of ‘Eat the Card’.

We are waiting for tonight to see if his stomach will glow.

Happy Valentines Day to all of you. May love, health and laughter fill your lives.

The Waiter’s Opinion of Me

We’d gone out to dinner. Alone. Together I mean. What I mean is we went together but sans the remaining brood. So, we spent time actually looking at the menu and wondering aloud where the past decade had flown by. It was the occasion of our tenth wedding anniversary. With the latest addition to the nest, our dinner conversations at restaurants resemble rhinos hobnobbing with flying monkeys. Some heavy lifting; snorts and sighs evenly distributed and atleast one flying object caught deftly by the super bowler of the Roadside Cricket League of Chennai followed by a heavy tip.

Consequently, the dinner alone felt like a movie in slow motion. There we were sitting with both buttocks firmly on chairs. I mean this quite seriously, but it has been months since I sat firmly at a restaurant chair. The waiter came in and handed us a bowl of bread and we started nibbling. Pretty soon, we had chatted our way through almost the whole bowl.

The waiter came on again, adjusted his bulging tummy and performed the daily specials with ado. He let the chicken roll on his tongue and he caught the slippery oysters and bathed them in tomato sauce. But of course, we being vegetarians, we enjoyed the performance and then told the old blighter that while we admire his recitation, what we want is the baked oyster creole de-lol sans the oyster.
I could feel him frost inside. I mean maitre d’s don’t spend their afternoons rehearsing the virtues of the creme boulignon de salmon and the oyster creme de la creme or whatever it was to be patted on their backs for learning the tough menu.

“Is cheese alright?” asked he, in a Frosty-the-snowman-ish voice.
“Yes” said the husband
“No” said the wife.

Did I mention it was our tenth anniversary dinner?

We do not spar in front of menu reciting waiters and we rounded on each other the moment his back was turned. “Why the cheese?” “Why not the cheese?”

“Poor fellow – did you hear his spirited recitation of the specials? The least we can do is say yes to the cheese!” says the man of my heart. The logic frazzled me and ate the last piece of bread in the bowl, which the fat waiter caught me doing. I could feel him thinking – They sure don’t look it, but do they eat a lot?

A soup went in just as glibly and going by the size of the soup bowl applied some old fashioned extrapolation and ordered exciting items from the menus harping on the theme of the evening viz. flora is fine, but fauna is not.

The entrees made their dramatic entrance – cheese was grated on one and not on the other, and we tucked in. By around the third morsel, we realised that we may have ordered way more than necessary for a dinner for two. The soup was the googly. We decided to box the husband’s entree (it being a more boxable kind of dish – mine being the squishy, mushy gravy filled kind of dish and ate off my dish.)

I have had the opportunity to remark on this tendency of people coming at you when the mouth is full before and I will say it again. Why this thumper of a waiter had to wait till we both had our mouths brimming I don’t know, but he did. Then he comes by and asks if everything is okay. Table manners demand that we finish our morsel, but to keep the already specials-deprived waiter waiting for an answer seems cruel. So, you take your napkin and nod vigorously (which in different countries mean different things) and smile and hope that the smile will signal the benevolence and then realise you have been smiling into your napkin. You then swallow a hot lot and eyes watering tell him everything is just perfect thank you. He looks at the dish in front of me – almost half gone, and the husband’s nibbled at. The glance was merely perfunctory I assure you, but it was there nevertheless.

I don’t mean to boast, but give us a task like this and we rock. We had polished off the dish in front of me beautifully. Not a scrap left. The waiter arrived again and we asked him for a to-go box for the other dish. “Sure Madam” he said and came along with the box.

I have a confession to make: Achilles may have had a heel to trip him up. I have Tiramusu. Offer me that and you have a benevolent, mellow cat. The Tiramusu came and the husband being the chivalrous what-not asks the waiter to put it front of me.

I wonder whether you notice a trend here – place everything in front of me, while he contributes equally to stuffing in the load. The proper waiter now really can’t help wondering “How on earth? I mean! How does she eat so much?” As per usual we lick the Tiramusu clean and the waiter arrives. But now, I feel guilty.

On our way out, I ask him how many calories the Tiramusu was. He says :”720 Madam. Is that okay?”
“Fine! Just fine!” I assure him. I can feel the unasked question again and say, “Since we both ate it. So, I mean the whole dinner…” The husband tugs me away…”Why are you explaining to him?” I grin sheepishly and wave him good night.

I don’t mind eating like a glutton err…gourmand, but I don’t want random waiter guy judging me for it. He waves back and looks forlorn at his own bulging tummy.

We decided to walk a couple of miles before turning in. And that is the story of our dinner alone. Glad to have it off my chest.

PS: The waiter was a jolly old soul who reminded me of Old King Cole

The Queen’s Correspondent

Ten years is about the time in life when one knows the really funny stories from the better half’s past/childhood. You’ve probably met the aunts waiting to tell you about how they pinched your husband’s rosy cheeks and how he cried when he dropped the ice-cream. It is also about the time one unabashedly nudges them to regale the stories for those gathered for the after dinner storytime.

“Oh…tell them about the time you went to Darjeeling?”
“Which one? The one with the pooris or the train?”
Then you roll on the floor and say, “Both are funny. Start with the train one and if folks are upto it, we can work the poori one into tonight’s show!”
It is at this point that things start to go downhill. You know before hand when the jokes come and you guffaw before the funny spots and ensure that even semi-rotten stories get the laughs they may or may not deserve.

So, imagine my surprise that I discovered something really funny when my tenth anniversary rolled around.

Engage the Queen of England to an after dinner conversation, and I am sure she has many stories to regale. She may touch upon world politics, fame, money, charity, armies, economies, humanitarian aid, United Nations, monarchy, familial obligations, the Middletons, her grandsons and many more. I don’t know whether she is a funny narrator of stories, but I doubt she could narrate a story involving herself to such mirth and laughter as the one the love of my life did.

I am not sure whether I have described the husband’s school before – allow me a moment’s diversion while I do so. It is critical to the story. The schools is situated in Chennai, India and has the clarifying word ‘English’ in its name (Just to add that aura of sophistication.) I don’t want readers to dream up an image of the Metropolitan Chennai and come at my throats about English medium schools in Chennai. This is one of the poorer areas where any English is a bonus, and boys studying in an English school were considered elitist. The school may have ‘English’ in its name, and nowhere else.

For reasons fathomable to pre-teen boys alone, it seemed like a good idea that they should write to the Queen of England. Why not a cricketer or a movie star? Why the Queen? Nobody knows! Possibly one of the boys had a crush on Lady Diana and was too shy to admit it, and settled for her mother-in-law instead. Anyway…give my husband an idea like this and I can imagine the teenager being swept away by the notion of being the Queen’s correspondent. Apparently, his confidence was not brimming then and he decided to write to the Queen first and then brag to his friends after she wrote him back. A short story about obtaining the aerogramme (cost Rs.5 then) later; the letter was sent.

The rigour of evening kite flying and fighting with one’s brother eclipsed everything else, and the Queen was forgotten. And then it arrived. A letter bearing the royal seal of the Queen of England addressed to the boy in Thiruvottiyur Chennai. The news that he had received a letter from the Queen was discussed in hallways and Pallavan buses; on cricket grounds and roof terraces. Quite an event it must have been. I quizzed him on the contents and he said something about encouraging young talent to reach out to royalty.

A letter has the power to change a life. This letter may not have changed the course of anyone’s life; but it sure gave an ordinary boy the nerve to dream.

Which is why, I loved reading some of the letters on this site: www.lettersofnote.com (Hope on over when you have some time and some of them are perfectly delightful like this one: http://www.lettersofnote.com/2012/02/she-doesnt-answer-phone.html)

The Indian Twist to the Schadenfreudian Principle

I recently read a book that had Amazon’s review pages creaking and groaning. It just could not deal with all the heaps of praise and drudged along a bit moodily when you called upon the page to load. Naturally, when I started, I expected it to pull my attention given the huge fan base it had garnered. I was in for a shock. Not only did it not retain my attention, I found myself making excuses for not picking up the book. The book was dank, depressing and catered to the author’s almost pathological need to describe everything.

“He looked at his shoes. The brown leather had been cut a bit brashly along the edges, while the leather leading up to the laces were done alright; almost like the cobbler preferred the laces portion to the edges. The brown was a little too brown and on the dusty trails should have blended in, but the gathering dust on the shoes made his feet stand out. Shoes that large gathered a lot of dust.”
And on and on, he went about the dust and colours of the dust, and the patterns it made on the shoes(iff he decided not to take off on the cobbler somewhere near the lace section.) If this was his attitude toward brown shoes, he seemed to get even more excited with tragedies and dripped and dried our hearts out to dry.

Definitely not what the doctors prescribe for already depressing Januaries. I found myself moping about the house, after donating all the brown shoes I could lay my hands on, because that is what a depressing book does to me. It etches my senses down a couple of notches. It just goes to prove that one never knows what is it that people like and why. It is a known fact that humans love to watch suffering in their entertainment choices.

There is a name for it. It is called SCHADENFREUDE: enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others.

It is this that Indian soap opera producers tap into to get their daily bread. Watch any Tamil (or Indian) TV serial in the evening for a healthy dose of morbid fear and tears.
Which brings me to a fundamental question. One can hardly assume that a human being can put up with this much stress, mental agony and physical pain and still take the care to line their lips perfectly with lipstick, and pin their neatly ironed sarees while waiting for the next blow to strike them. I mean when I was reading Book One, I couldn’t even bothered to get out of my pajamas. It seemed too much of an effort.

The Schadenfreudian Principle may indicate that humans enjoy looking at troubled folks, but basic human research suggests that people subconsciously like beautiful people. The result is Indian evening entertainment. These women brave the most severe emotions – raging jealousy, copious tears, vicious misdemeanours and heavy physical and emotional abuse – all the while looking like this. Never a disheveled girl would you find in all the serials of Tamilore.

Thank you Ladies!

A simple grocery list …

This article was published in The Hindu dated 6th May 2017. (The illustration for the published article was done by a cartoonist whose work I have admired for decades, Mr Keshav)

I doubt my mother-in-law would accept the job of creating logical puzzles for the toughest segment of the GMAT. She’d scoff and probably laugh. I’d say she doesn’t know her talents enough. The trick is to get her to talk and just stand by and listen. Then, off you go and replay the conversation and Voila! Riddles galore for all.

Take a task of making grocery lists:

“I am going to the store, what do you want?” The husband says as he sets out to get some milk.
“Right…there is no milk. Curd? … but we have curd. So, no need for curd okay?” she says.
“Okay….milk:yes, curd: no. Got it.” And he tries to grab the keys while the going is simple, but no luck there. She hollers from the kitchen again.

“Vegetables….get some radish pa. No raddishes at all at home, buy tomatoes also. No need for onions – I think there are 6 or 7 left.”
Another step grocery-store bound and she pipes, “Also, get pumpkins. Long since I made avial.”
“Okay…” Now, he really wants to dash out the door to sort out this list in his head, but she isn’t done yet. She has gone to peek into the refrigerator. An act that never bodes well for grocery lists’ health or refrigerators for that matter. Ever.

She exclaims loudly from the geographical location of the refrigerator.
“Ayyo….definitely, need spinach too. Poor child has not had spinach in a long time. Appppaaa….definitely no chillies. There is no much here.”

The mind in the meanwhile, is buzzing: Milk:yes, curd : no, radish: yes, onion: no, tomato: yes

“Get some coriander also….rasam just doesn’t taste the same without some fresh coriander.”
“Okay..”
“Oh….I said to buy pumpkins for avial right? Hmm…” and she switches off mid-way through the sentence. Almost like somebody hit the snooze button on her.
“Hellloooo….some one is trying to leave the door to buy groceries. Anything else?”
To which, she gets irritated. “Oh…..stop hurrying me so. I am trying to think whether I should buy a fresh pack of curry leaves or just use the dried ones.”
“Does it matter…just ask him to get it.” pipes in the father-in-law who has been pottering about acting as though he couldn’t hear a thing.

Now…remember how one talks about hitting the raw vein? Apparently, this statement hit one of hers. “Look at him talking as though he doesn’t care whether the curry leaves are dried or not? When I do make the avial with dried leaves…he will say, his sister uses fresh curry leaves when she makes avial.”
“So what? I only say that my sister uses fresh curry leaves in avial!”
“And…what does that mean? That her avial is good.”
“Of course, her avial is good!”
“And what about mine? When I do use fresh curry leaves…not a thing! When I use the dried ones, you have to talk about your sister! So now, I have to remember all the previous avial attempts and collect all his previous comments and sort out the ones he likes and the types he doesn’t and figure out on my own what he likes. Why can’t he say something simple?”

The human mind I tell you. It just doesn’t reflect on its own grocery lists.

The husband, in the meanwhile, just closed the door and settled down on the couch. Long association has told us that the avial topic is a lengthy one. He has turned on his laptop and is cackling at some you-tube video now. A trifle tactless if you ask me. When the avial topic reaches the consistency factor, it is time for all birds flying above our homes to evacuate and change flight direction immediately; not sit down on neighbouring trees and laugh like hyenas at you-tube videos.

If anything irks her more than the sisters-avial-loving-husband topic, it is the sight of the son evidently enjoying something when the grocery needs to be done.

She gathers her wits about her and says, “Oh fine….just get any vegetable. I will sort out what I want to make later.”

A loud sigh later, he leaves. She hears the ignition and charges to the door. “Kondhai! (Child!) I also need toor dal. Don’t get 4 lbs – 2 lbs will do ”
“Okay….”
“And moong yellow 1 pound.”

The husband leaves as fast as his accelerator allows him to; before something else is thrown at him. He stands there at the grocers looking confused like a puppy that just lost its way.
Milk:yes, curd: no, radish: yes, onions: yes or no? whatever. Better get some. tomatoes: definitely no, chillies: definitely yes ….coriander?
What about fruits?
And the dhals?

The man has always been credited with thinking on his feet and he places an emergency call from the store. A joke is made about how he has to call from the store every time and the instructions are repeated in pretty much the same order without the avial-curryleaf detour finishing up with the loving note, “Just get any vegetable! It is fine!”

The man comes back looking like he physically hauled a dump-truck across the continent and dumps the produce on the counter. His mother hands him a cup of coffee – you know brace his soul for what is coming.

The man sips contentedly when she asks, “Did you not get beans?”
“NO…you didn’t ask for any!”
“Yes…but I said ‘Get anything!’ I’d have thought that includes beans..”

Eureka! τατουάζ !

I don’t like needles. There have been times when I have shut my eyes so tight and balled up my fists so tightly while having my blood drawn for medical purposes, that nurses have gently drawn my eyelids apart some minutes later, telling me they finished with me some time ago in case I hadn’t noticed. One even said, she finished and was just watching me to see how long I’d sit like that. Well…I am always willing to give people their moments of fun! Those are the good nurses.

I’ve had ones that had me screaming in pain, only to be given the stern look and asked truthfully whether that really hurt that much. To which, I have to gulp a good-ish bit, put on my best school-girl-innocent-still look and bleat about hating needles.

So, you can imagine my horror when I read this news item.
http://bodyodd.msnbc.msn.com/_news/2012/01/06/10009107-penis-tattoo-gives-guy-permanent-erection

Every one has their ‘Aaha’ moments. And not all of them have them while bathing naked in a tub. Thank heavens for that. I am not sure that what the world needs is a bunch of naked men and women running on the streets shouting ‘Eureka’ in any language that appeals to them. Having said that, I would like to know what gives some people their ideas.

Take this man for example: Not only did he have his penis tattooed, he had it tattooed with the first letter of his girlfriend’s last name. Bizarre as this sentence sounds and definitely not one I’d ever envisioned myself writing on my blog; but the world is a strange place and the best stories are not those of fiction.

Back to the penis story, I want to know why he chose the first letter of his girlfriend’s last name. I mean why not the first letter of her name? Did he think he was going to refer to her Ms.Madhatterson or Ms.Mc.Fearsome for all his love life?

“Oh my lovely Ms.Goodmundsen! ” or

“Don’t cry – I love you so Ms.Maudlin!”

The story ends on a note that doctors discourage penile tattooing lest this man trumps up some followers.