Utter rubbish, as usual.

This is an old trick of mine. I open a new file in Microsoft Word (trade mark registered by Bill Gates. Given the amount of money he has made and continues to make, his name should have been Gets [dollar] Bill). Once the file is open I start typing rubbish.

But each word (this one not the property of Gets Bill), has a meaning built into it. These words and their meanings set me thinking. I try hard to avoid that; the doctor says that my grey hair is because of too much thinking. Like all doctors he is wrong. It’s the genes. But I pay him anyway. He has two children, three cars and no hair. His wife is also a doctor but she has hair. Of course, his baldness is because of the intense trauma he has faced in his youth and not because of thinking. Doctors, you see, are students until they are half-way into middle age. By the time they start practising, they are married, usually have one or two kids and since they have started earning so late, start grabbing money with both hands once they are out. Usually their wives are also doctors because they spend their entire youth in hospitals learning important stuff like how to reach into the patient’s pocket while he is sticking his tongue out at you. (Come to think of it, at the end of the session, it is the doctor who has stuck out his tongue at you...) As students first, interns later and residents even later, their entire social life consists of passing out on the table while sipping tea in the hospital canteen. When they wake up they find out that they have to marry a co-student who has passed out next to them. After all waking up in the same bed or canteen table with a member of the opposite sex (if you are lucky), has its repercussions. All those stories about doctor and nurse romances are a whole lot of bunkum; they happen only in Mills & Boon novels or in very old black and white movies starring dead actors. No, no. I mean actors who are dead now.

But this is not about doctors. It is not about actors dead, alive or Imran Hashmi either. It is not about engineers because I don’t know any. Of course, a whole bunch of guys I knew in school and college took up engineering but ninety per cent of them went on to do MBA which is the short form of Mystery Business Application because no one has figured out what is it that MBA-holders actually do. The remaining ten per cent took their degrees, hid them carefully in the attic and went out and got jobs as advertising copywriters or some such thing that brought disrepute to their families and spoiled the marriage prospects of their sisters. Oh, I went to engineering school too. I didn’t wait all the four or forty years it would have taken me to complete the course. I ran away towards the end of the second semester and after flunking all subjects in the first semester. (My sister and I are still not on talking terms.)

What is this about then? It is about an old trick of mine. Look up there, right at the beginning: You were warned.

I read this on a blog written by a popular blogger and who recently voted for an old post of mine, ‘Work is keeping me very busy these days; but blogging works as a stress buster,’ and I said, "Hey, that’s my trick too!" I am in a foul mood today and let me bust my stress with some good old writing.

Ah. I already feel better. Now if only I could also thrash the living daylights out of someone, I would be completely stress-free.


NOTE: This post wasn't written with a foot note, but a few reactions later, it seems to warrant one: Hey, this IS rubbish. It's not serious. It is exaggerated. It is definitely not anti-doctors, anti-engineers or anti-dead actors, or even anti-Bill.  I have too many friends in those communities, not dead actors, to risk my friendship, and life. No, Bill's not a friend either. I wish he were though; I would have had genuine software then.