Charlie’s Chatter

There’s this weird American guy who I share a wall with, the cubicle wala wall…he’s always typing. Super duper fast, all the time! It completely freaks me out!

 Here I am sitting a my desk pretending to work and people around me keep running around talking about incredibly technical stuff, taking telephonic inerviews for job offers and then there’s weird typing guy who’s like a workaholic and everyone else who is actually doing something productive while I’m sucking up oxygen and drinking free coffee.

 I don’t want to turn into weird typoholic guy.

 He literally lives in the damn office. He’s there, typing when I get in each morning. He’s there, typing when I leave. He never seems to have lunch, he just types. He even uses the gym shower to bathe each morning.

Look, there he goes. With that weird orange and white striped beach towel across his shoulder. And he never takes more than like, 5 minutes. Ever.

Aaaaaaaaand back he comes. For God’s sake if only he dressed up before walking back to his cubicle! No, he’s all drippy and pink and wearing nothing but a damn towel around his waist. Thank God, he’s finally sitting down in his cubicle. Out of sight. And I can smell the bloody shampoo the guy uses. Crap! What is this place? And yes, he’s typing again.

And now he’s stopped. And he’s standing up again. And he’s gone down. And OH MY GOD! Those are his legs protruding off the top of the wall, and more of his legs and higher, the guy’s fucking standing on his hands and he’s wearing nothing but his towel and aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!! I need to puke.

 “We like to encourage our employees to bring a little bit of themselves into the workplace, it adds a more personal touch to the air don’t you think?”

 *Rapid typing noises*

(Charlie’s Note: LOL)

Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love.

There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done.

You need coolin, baby, Im not foolin,

 Nothing you can sing that can’t be sung.

Im gonna send you back to schoolin,

Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game

It’s easy.

Way down inside honey, you need it,

There’s nothing you can make that can’t be made.

Im gonna give you my love,

No one you can save that can’t be saved.

Im gonna give you my love,

Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you

in time – It’s easy.

Wanna whole lotta love?

Wanna whole lotta love?

All you need is love,

Im gonna give you my love,

all you need is love,

Im gonna give you my love,

All you need is love, love,

Im gonna give you every inch of my love,

love is all you need.

Yeah! all right! lets go!

sharanyan: and the beard actually looks cool
all manly and all

jaideep: dude
it’s not gonna land you any action

sharanyan: arey
ill risk it
just to see the look on my mum’s face on the 2nd of july

jaideep: dude
ur gonna GROW it till the 2nd of july?

sharanyan: maybe
depends upon the rain

jaideep: :O
why does the BEARD depend on the rain now?

Lets try it out
1) If it keeps raining like this I will shave out of sheer boredom.
2) I don’t drink beer in wet weather. Consequently the whole froth and whiskers battle won’t be fought and the beard is fine.
3) I hate wet hair.
4) Rain increases the amount of time I spend in the lab. Therefore, less time in room to shave. On weekdays at least.
5) It’s ‘RAINDROPS on roses and WHISKERS on kittens’.
6) Rains cause clogging of drains. Shaving sends hair down drain. Clogging worsens. Growing beard is a matter of civil responsibility.
7) OK I just thought of something completely irrefutable but utterly unprintable.
8) Ooh, damp weather causes razor blades to rust. It’s dangerous to shave during the rain.
9) Use of razor blades during a thunderstorm increases the probability of you getting struck by lightning.
10) I haven’t seen one single picture of a tribal in a rainforest sporting a beard.
11) Zeus, the Greek God of thunder and storms had a beard.
12) Slayer. Kerry King. Raining blood.
13) Removing my bottle of aftershave from the box increases the probability of its glass walls cracking in the comparatively low temperature outside.

A pigeon shat on my shoulder. The NITIE campus where I’m currently residing has these huge trees lining the way from the main gate to the hostel and like many a huge tree in Mumbai it hosts a large population of mynahs, crows and yes, pigeons. ‘hosts’ is a pretty bad word to use. Wait let me check the dicky (dictionary, perverts). Yes,
Host (tr.v.): To serve as host to.
Big shit! That helped. Thanks. The word is usually associated with some act of benevolence, charity, kindness or good will . But the tree, it shows none of these.
It just exists in its merry fashion the way trees do living as trees live growing and expanding as it finds convenient, picking up these goodies and nuggets of sympathy from such hopelessly blinkered individuals as I who spend each day lugging loads of wood and salt and laptops back and forth while being bombarded by arbitrary remnants of a fellow living beings lunch that it, from the security of the tree deploys at a time dictated by the impertinence of its sphincter muscles that in all their regal glory decide to banish any modicum of discomfort they might be experiencing regardless of the effects of gravity which apart, in itself from being a matter of cause for much drudgery and sloth was studied in an equally pointless waste of intellect by a gentleman who’s image abounds in black on white more profusely than any other save perhaps only The Saviour and who’s diarrhoeal discharge of math and physics has done more to simultaneously irk mankind and make him hopelessly in debt to his genius than perhaps any other single invention or discovery in history including, but not restricted to the wheel, which set man moving beyond the speed of anything he had ever imagined possible, fire without which neither pizza nor paratha would have existed, the condom- arguably the single greatest bit of engineering epitomizing ‘sense and simplicity’, the printing press, which produced those images of the aforementioned gentleman, penicillin which mended the anatomies of those who dared deny the power of the condom, the computer which is today this mass of silicon we cannot hope to live without and breast implants, which are well, pretty much that as well. So like I said, a pigeon shat on me today.