SHARING HUMOR AROUND THE WORLD

shashichief · 1st Moderator

SHARING HUMOR AROUND THE WORLD

shashichief · 1st Moderator

THE STRANGE PEOPLE ACROSS THE BORDER

The other day, while visiting a furniture store, I met a
worker who looked Indian. But when I told him I was from
India, he revealed he was from Pakistan. At that point, I
had no choice: I grabbed a chair and chased him around the
store, shouting, "Death to the Pakistani!"

Actually, it didn't go quite like that. Security was tight,
so I waited until his shift ended and followed him home,
where I deflated his tires, raided his refrigerator, and
tattooed the words "I love India!" all over his body. Who
said tattoos serve no purpose?

OK, I admit it: I didn't go that far. All I did was shake
his hand and smile. We had a rather friendly chat. I didn't
ask if any of his relatives were terrorists. He didn't ask
if any of mine were infidels. We didn't even insult each
other's mother-in-law.

He stated that the Kashmir dispute shouldn't create any ill
will between us. "Yes," I said. "After all, India and
Pakistan were once the same country. We are like family, you
and I. That reminds me: Does this store offer any family
discounts?"

If it were up to us, the border between India and Pakistan
would be eliminated. Of course, if that happened, the
country would have to look for a new enemy, so people in the
military could keep their jobs. Gotta keep the economy
going.

It's a funny thing about borders -- how they divide people,
how they create enmity and envy, how they give travelers the
occasional thrill of being strip-searched.

Borders often seem so arbitrary, so illogical, like a
British monarch delegated the task of drawing borders to his
pet monkey. And yet we take them so seriously. We act like
the people across the border are so different from us.

Fifty-year-old man: "They're crazy, those people across the
border. They speak a strange language and play strange
games. Crazy, I tell you."

Wife: "Oh, be quiet. You really shouldn't speak ill of the
Canadians. They're just like us. Nice people."

I've often wondered what America would be like if every
state were an independent country. It would be virtually
impossible to travel from Nevada to Utah.

Border officer: "You're from Las Vegas? What, may I
ask, do you want in Utah? There's no gambling here, you
know. No prostitution either. We don't even allow bingo."

Traveler: "I'm visiting my parents. They live just across
the border."

Officer: "Visiting your parents? I don't believe it. It's
not Christmas yet. Sorry, I can't let you through. If you
want to enter Utah, you'll have to hide in a barrel like
everyone else."

I like the Internet because it crosses borders so easily,
brings people of different countries together. People in
almost any country can read my column, people in almost any
country can send me hate mail. I love hearing from
Pakistanis as much as anyone else.

In major American cities, you will find Indians and
Pakistanis doing business side by side, some operating
stores with names like South Asia Boutique, Indo-Pak
Groceries and Indo-Pak Sweets & No Disputes. You
may even spot them at the local park, playing a few
innings of cricket -- laughing and shouting and ignoring
the strange looks from passers-by.

There's no border between these people. I hope there never
is.

shashichief · 1st Moderator

NOBODY HAS A MONOPOLY ON FINE DINING

I've eaten at hundreds of restaurants in my lifetime and am
truly amazed that many of them manage to stay in business.
I'm not suggesting that the restaurant owners are
laundering drug money or something. Some of them aren't
even smart enough to launder their own tablecloths.

It definitely costs money to operate a fancy restaurant, but
some owners don't even care to satisfy a customer's basic
needs: pleasant music that won't burst your eardrums,
clean restrooms that are bigger than a closet, decent food
that doesn't include samples of the cook's hair.

Some places call themselves "family" restaurants, because
you can't go there without meeting at least one family -- or
sometimes several different families -- of flies. Others
promote themselves as "fine dining," because when the
health inspector visits, he always gives them a fine.

I know what you're thinking: "You get what you pay for."
Well, that's not always true. Sometimes you get more than
you pay for. For example, a few years ago, my friends and
I went to a pizza place in Orlando, Fla., and were
entertained, free of charge, by a large flying cockroach.
And believe it or not, the pizza place didn't even call itself
"fine dining."

Even worse, at some restaurants, service is almost
nonexistent. If you want someone to bring water to your
table, you'd better set your napkin on fire. But be careful:
Some restaurant owners would be absolutely thrilled to see
their places burn down. It saves them the cost of hiring an
arsonist.

If a waiter or waitress happens to take your order, they'll
pass the information to the cook by yelling so loud that
pilots flying overhead can hear. Sometimes they'll use a
language you don't understand: "Mirubathbangkwaj,
thirumajafa, Coke, manchuriathong." They're of course
saying, "Bowl of chicken soup, rice with special sauce,
and a Coke for the customer with the funny hair."

Shouting an order to the cook is not just a form of
communication -- it's also good advertising. Everyone in
the restaurant can hear the order and some may say, "Rice
with special sauce? That sounds good."

In fact, that's the only advertising some restaurants do.
That's because they don't have enough business. If they
had more business, they'd advertise more.

So how do they survive?

Some survive by keeping their expenses down. They
haven't changed their plates and silverware since 1964.
And the last time they stocked the restrooms with toilet
paper, Sean Connery had hair.

Others survive by employing family members. Papa cooks
the food, Mama runs the register, daughter Maria waits on
tables, son Pablo washes the dishes, and cousin Jose fixes
the books.

Jose: "Good news, Pablo. Your papa doesn't need to pay
no taxes this year! We're getting a refund."

Pablo: "A refund? Isn't that something we give the
customers when they eat Papa's chili?"

Jose: "No, I'm talking about a tax refund. All I did was
subtract your salary and, just like that, we didn't make no
profit."

Pablo: "Salary? What salary? All I'm getting is three bucks
an hour. That's not even minimum wage."

Jose: "Hey, keep your voice down, Pablo. Your sister
might ask for a raise."

I'm not trying to single out Mexican restaurants. I'm sure
this happens at all types of restaurants - Chinese, Indian,
Italian, Ethiopian, Bosnian.

Unfortunately, when it comes to "fine dining," nobody has a
monopoly.

shashichief · 1st Moderator

TOO MANY IDIOTS ON THE HIGHWAY

Have you ever noticed there are more idiots on
the highway than anywhere else?

I don't mean this in a bad way. I've just heard
many motorists refer to other drivers as "idiots."

"Look at that idiot," they say. "His turn signal has
been on for 20 minutes."

Someone who runs a red light is almost certainly
an idiot. Perhaps even a stupid idiot (as opposed
to a smart idiot).

Someone who drives faster than about 85 miles
per hour is also an idiot. So is somone who drives
under the speed limit.

Somehow, no matter how hard you look on the
highway, you'll never find a genius. With so many
idiots out there, you'd expect to find at least one
genius. But I have yet to see a cop pulling over a
perfect driver to shake her hand. I have yet to
hear a motorist say, "Did you see that guy? He
just made a perfect turn. He's a genius."

Even if a woman drives her entire life without a
single traffic violation, no one will bring it up at her
funeral. No one will say, "Helga was such a good
driver. The highway will never be the same."

Unfortunately, the highway has only two types of
drivers: normal drivers and idiots. Once you're an
idiot, it's tough to become a normal driver.
Especially if your insurance company has moved
you to the idiot class.

You make one mistake, cause one accident, and
suddenly you're paying much more for car insurance
than rent.

To save you some trouble, the insurance company
asks you to mail your paycheck directly to them. "We
can spend it more wisely," they say. "You're an idiot."

Realizing you can't afford to have another accident,
you decide to be extra-cautious on the road. You
hesitate when merging with traffic. You resist passing
an Amish buggy. You even stop at a yellow light.
Guess what? You're an idiot again. The driver behind
you is certain of this. He honks and yells, "Go, you idiot.
What are you stopping for?"

Before long, you forget all about your accident -- you're
only human -- and you turn into Mario Andretti again.
You drive so fast, you even manage to pass a
tractor-trailer. But your luck runs out again and a cop
pulls you over. He listens to your excuse: "I'm sorry,
officer. I'm an idiot."

The cop has no sympathy. He has already ticketed 89
other idiots. Some thought the speed limit was only for
people with cheap cars. Others were trying to save gas.
A few were certifiable idiots: They were in a hurry to get
to their in-laws.

Your insurance company gets word of your ticket and
cancels your policy. They'd rather insure Mike Tyson.

Now you're stuck being an idiot. Everyone sees you
thumbing a ride. And drivers like me just smile.

I know what it's like to be an idiot. I once ran a red light
by accident. My Mazda was struck by a mini-van
and spun into another car. A cop arrived at the scene
in an instant, popping out of the car I had just dented.
This accident almost put me in the Idiot Hall of Shame.
But the selection committee decided to save room for
Halle Berry.

Considering how many idiots are on the highway, it's a
wonder normal people drive with them. It's almost like
handing out guns at the post office.

It would make more sense to erect new signs on the
highway: "Left lane reserved for idiots."
The left lane would be packed, leaving the right lane
safe for your great-grandmother.

Of course, some people shouldn't be allowed to drive
-- the ones who drink and drive. These people are
guilty of driving while D.U.I. (Definitely Ultimate Idiots).
They get an automatic entry into the Hall of Shame. For
at least five years, these people should be forced to
hitchhike and drink nothing but prune juice.

Some might consider this cruel and unusual punishment.
As for me, I'd rather keep the roads safe.

Besides, the prune industry could use a boost.

shashichief · 1st Moderator

PRISON REFORM, THE MARTHA STEWART WAY

Dear Prison Commissioner:

As you may have heard, I recently completed a five-month
sentence at Alderson Federal Prison Camp in West Virginia.
While there, I enjoyed a number of pleasant activities, such
as the 10 p.m. yoga class, which helped me reshape my body,
and the 11 p.m. security search, which helped me show it
off.

But I also encountered some conditions that can only be
described as appalling, such as the cafeteria food, which
was so distasteful, I actually felt like digging a tunnel.
No, not to escape, but to search for rodents.

Thanks to the food, I lost 20 pounds. And I discovered a
cure for the obesity that ails America, a radical concept
known as "not eating." Prison food is a lot like fast
food -- it makes you want to fast. At least that's what I
told my chef when I gave him a big hug.

But the prison food wasn't the worst thing I put into my
mouth, though I'd rather not get that friendly guard into
trouble. I'm sure he meant well when he lent me his calfskin
gloves.

The gloves weren't tasty, but at least they were soft, which
is more than I can say about the toilet paper. I found it
inferior and unacceptable, though I did manage to put it to
good use, creating some attractive birthday cards.

If the food and toilet paper sound terrible, you should have
seen the Internet connection. Not only was it difficult to
get online, I often had to share the keyboard with my crazy
prison friend, who would sit beside me and say, "You use the
left side, I'll use the right."

I realize that the purpose of prison is to punish people,
but isn't it enough that we don't have access to our
Jacuzzis? A shower isn't quite as refreshing as a whirlpool,
especially when someone keeps snapping a towel at your
bottom.

Anyway, I made up my mind that once I was released, I would
fight for prison reform. I wouldn't let my fellow prisoners
down, especially those who went out of their way to protect
me, without expecting anything in return, aside from an
occasional stock tip.

I would like to focus on important improvements, those that
will have an impact on almost every prisoner's life. As
such, I suggest the following:

---An open bar in the cafeteria. A glass of wine would make
the food a lot more palatable. If necessary, we can limit
consumption to one glass at lunch and dinner and only half a
glass at breakfast.

---A massage parlor in every prison. There's nothing like a
good massage to help relieve the stress of being a criminal.

---High-speed Internet in every cell. We've taken away so
many rights from prisoners. Do we also need to take away the
right to blog? Everyone does it these days, even my pet dog.

---King-size beds. Those bunk beds are far too narrow,
especially when your crazy prison friend says, "You use the
left side, I'll use the right."

---Free subscriptions to the New York Times. Prisoners would
really enjoy the Times, not for its hard news, but for its
soft paper.

shashichief · 1st Moderator

An Expert wrote this hilarious article from Baan, Netherlands who spent two years in Hyderabad.

Driving in India For the benefit of every Tom, Dick and Harry visiting India and daring to drive on Indian roads, I am offering a few hints for survival.

They are applicable to every place in India except Bihar, where life outside a vehicle is only marginally safer. Indian road rules broadly operate within the domain of karma where you do your best, and leave the results to your insurance company. The hints are as follows:

Do we drive on the left or right of the road? The answer is "both". Basically you start on the left of the road, unless it is occupied. In that case, go to the right, unless that is also occupied. Then proceed by occupying the next available gap, as in chess. Just trust your instincts, ascertain the direction, and proceed.

Adherence to road rules leads to much misery and occasional fatality. Most drivers don't drive, but just aim their vehicles in the intended direction. Don't you get discouraged or underestimate yourself except for a belief in reincarnation, the other drivers are not in any better position.

Don't stop at pedestrian crossings just because some fool wants to cross the road. You may do so only if you enjoy being bumped in the back. Pedestrians have been strictly instructed to cross only when traffic is moving slowly or has come to a dead stop because some minister is in town. Still some idiot may try to wade across, but then, let us not talk ill of the dead.

Blowing your horn is not a sign of protest as in some countries. We horn to express joy, resentment, frustration, romance and bare lust (two brisk blasts), or, just mobilize a dozing cow in the middle of the bazaar. Keep informative books in the glove compartment. You may read them during traffic jams, while awaiting the chief minister's motorcade, or waiting for the rainwaters to recede when overground traffic meets underground drainage.

Occasionally you might see what looks like a UFO with blinking colored lights and weird sounds emanating from within. This is an illuminated bus, full of happy pilgrims singing bhajans. These pilgrims go at breakneck speed, seeking contact with the Almighty, often meeting with success.

Auto Rickshaw (Baby Taxi): The result of a collision between a rickshaw and an automobile, this three-wheeled vehicle works on an external combustion engine that runs on a mixture of kerosene oil and creosote. This triangular vehicle carries iron rods, gas cylinders or passengers three times its weight and dimension, at an unspecified fare.

After careful geometric calculations, children are folded and packed into these auto rickshaws until some children in the periphery are not in contact with the vehicle at all. Then their school bags are pushed into the microscopic gaps all round so those minor collisions with other vehicles on the road cause no permanent damage. Of course, the peripheral children are charged half the fare and also learn Newton's laws of motion enroute to school. Auto-rickshaw drivers follow the road rules depicted in the film Ben Hur, and are licensed to irritate.

Mopeds: The moped looks like an oil tin on wheels and makes noise like an electric shaver. It runs 30 miles on a teaspoon of petrol and travels at break-bottom speed. As the sides of the road are too rough for a ride, the moped drivers tend to drive in the middle of the road; they would rather drive under heavier vehicles instead of around them and are often "mopped" off the tarmac.

Leaning Tower of Passes: Most bus passengers are given free passes and during rush hours, there is absolute mayhem. There are passengers hanging off other passengers, who in turn hang off the railings and the overloaded bus leans dangerously, defying laws of gravity but obeying laws of surface tension. As drivers get paid for overload (so many Rupees per kg of passenger), no questions are ever asked. Steer clear of these buses by a width of three passengers.

One-way Street: These boards are put up by traffic people to add jest in their otherwise drab lives. Don't stick to the literal meaning and proceed in one direction. In metaphysical terms, it means that you cannot proceed in two directions at once. So drive as you like, in reverse throughout, if you are the fussy type.

Least I sound hypercritical, I must add a positive point also. Rash and fast driving in residential areas has been prevented by providing a "speed breaker"; two for each house. This mound, incidentally, covers the water and drainage pipes for that residence and is left untarred for easy identification by the corporation authorities, should they want to recover the pipe for year-end accounting.

Night driving on Indian roads can be an exhilarating experience (for those with the mental makeup of Chenghis Khan). In a way, it is like playing Russian roulette, because you do not know who amongst the drivers is loaded. What looks like premature dawn on the horizon turns out to be a truck attempting a speed record. On encountering it, just pull partly into the field adjoining the road until the phenomenon passes.

Our roads do not have shoulders, but occasional boulders. Do not blink your lights expecting reciprocation. The only dim thing in the truck is the driver, and with the peg of illicit arrack (alcohol) he has had at the last stop, his total cerebral functions add up to little more than a naught.

Truck drivers are the James Bonds of India, and are licensed to kill. Often you may encounter a single powerful beam of light about six feet above the ground. This is not a super motorbike, but a truck approaching you with a single light on, usually the left one. It could be the right one, but never get too close to investigate. You may prove your point posthumously.

Of course, all this occurs at night,on the trunk roads. During the daytime, trucks are more visible, except that the drivers will never show any Signal. (And you must watch for the absent signals; they are the greater threat). Only, you will often observe that the cleaner who sits next to the driver, will project his hand and wave hysterically. This is definitely not to be construed as a signal for left turn. The waving is just an statement of physical relief on a hot day.

If, after all this, you still want to drive in India, have your lessons between 8 pm and 11 am-when the police have gone home and The citizen is then free to enjoy the 'FREEDOM OF SPEED' enshrined in our constitution.

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Having said all this, isn't it true that the accident rate and related deaths are less in India compared to US or other countries!!??
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