It goes on and on..

After one of our usual sit-and-talk sessions at Nescafe, where we brandish the spontaneous humour in it's full self, I asked a simple question - Isn't it amazing that we can still go on talking about absolutely nothing for as long as we want, even after two years?

Phunnyness - Part 1

(Pubby's Note: This is something us three muthas wrote on gtalk, one sentence or two (we weren't very particular) at a time. Doodie quit in the middle so the last3-4 paragraphs are me and Bing. The tale shall be continued anon. Hopefully)

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away, there lived a man named ed. He'd tried all his life to make people call him edward. Little did he know ed was short for edmund this time. He had a horse. The horse often kicked him for obsessing over his name. The memories of accidentally ending up in an enclosure full of horses often haunted him.
To him who hath a stable, what price a horse?

"Thirty four fifty" replied Ed, hearing the dry narration in his head, a voice he had grown used to since his childhood. Being in the desert, what with no water and all, narrations were always dry. Still, it was better than being in Phags-r-us, where mares weren't merely your pets.

Phags-r-us was looking better and better though, now that the invading packs of morlocks were moving closer from the west. Morlocks, however, was the least of his worries. The kingdom in his north, which was also rather far far away, was already taken over by the Thestrals.
Ever since his great gran-nanna had taken her laundry to the white lady of the water, these skinny creatures had had a bone to pick with her.

"Wait, what? Morlocks? Coming this way" he jumped high into the air with shock and ran to the town bell and rang it three times. "Morlocks! The morlocks are coming!" he screamed at the top of his voice. "Another premonition from the great sky-voice?" mocked the villagers
Little did the villagers know, that this was the beginning. The beginning of the era of blood, murder, and tonnes of cookies.

Yes, cookies. A joint venture by the Morlocks and the Thestrals, the big, brown, buttery, circles (available in 3 different sizes!) were their weapon of choice against humans, who were left paralysed for half a minute as the things cleaved pitchforks, knives and swords to come near your face; and explode their thick white, poisonous, fructose-lined fluid on you.

Ed was now resigned to people not listening to his rants about the future though they always came true, except for the odd occassion when I decided to mess with him. So to avoid the saccharine death headed the way of his village, he packed up his gun and some food and rode off into the morning sun

The land was harsh, the sun didn't help. Three months he rode his mare, ever harder, ever onward into the big, undulating terrain, until one night she finally succumbed to his exceedingly abrasive exploitation and passed away into the land of Esprit, the Stallone of the Zimmerman era.
He cursed his fates, for the nag had given way right in the middle of the Dankhe desert, of which so far he had seen only the rim. Harsh sandy razors of wind tore his robes into shreds and stung his eyes all day and all night. He walked on despite the pains, to reach the court of the king across the desert, in the city of Gaan'dit
The king, Jhataka, was an old enemy of his father's, and was known far and wide for his coarse, unwelcome treatment to his guests. Surprising it was, then, that the king welcomed his enemy's battered and decrepit-looking son in his hall with the words, "There has been enough harshness already. Let's put an end to all this"
"He cannot possibly have mended his ways!" Ed thought, as he was carried into a chamber. The aroma of the Myrrh was a welcome change from the erstwhile odour of the horse

Guess Who's Here Now!

The true adventurer is not defined by the amount of danger he's been in, or his motive and whatnot. A true adventurer, dear reader/s, is defined by the very lack of any such motive. Daring is he, who without cause or purpose, smacks a bull on the horns and, once the chase is on, tries to run it into the fat faggoty hawaldaar standing at the corner swallowing samosas. This is the tale of one of these rare spirits one may perchance get a glimpse of in one's lifetime.

And so it was that one fine day, Khoob Lal was walking down a dark, dusty, green path to his one-room apartment. Walking next to him was his trusty canine companion, Skub. The sky was a nice, confusing opal. On his way he met Beam, the big guy from his school days; who buy the looks of it was going out drinking.
"Kubby!", he yelled. "Chal let's go have a drink."
"No dude" was Khoob Lal's reply. "Some other time maybe."
"Oh c'mon! It's been such a long time since we last went to a Pub." "Be that as it may, I'm afraid I'll have to pass. I have a lot of work to do tonight."
"Whoa! Pro!" "Shats ho gayaa hai mera! What pro? Bad situation dude, crisis mode. We might have to cancel the Chubbs this year."
"Are you honestly gonna tell me that the H.L. Chubb awards are not going to be given out this year? But that's the only reason I have for coming to Goa all year! The Waves, Coco-nuts, and whatnot."
"I''m telling you dude, it's real. And they're trying to pin the whole thing on to me. Christ! I've been in the heat of things for so long, I feel like I have Burns all over me!"
"Ah! It's okay, you'll handle it."
"I'll have to! Someone has to fix this thing. Anyway dude, I'll see ya later, gotta go now. C'mon Skubby!"

In case you haven't guessed, it's ME!!!
Thank You

*wipes dust off blog*

So, back here afteh, aft-uh-*cough* *cough* *hack*

*chokes on dust and dies*