Grammar Nazi

Picture the scenario. The setting – a sweltering tuition class packed to the brim with students, like prawns in Negombo fishing nets. 

Enter lanky, lazy boy whose mother has forced him to be here but forgot to make sure he wears a belt. Five minutes later, enter giggly girl latched onto the arms of other girls who are equally giggly.  

Boy sees girl. 

Girl sees boy.

Boy and girl fall madly and immaturely in deep infatuation. 

A network operation worthy of the KGB is soon put into action, with mutual friends getting in on the scheme to do some background research in order to procure girl’s number for boy. On finding out that he wishes to make contact, her heart thumps in excitement and a grand overture of romantic orchestral music begins playing in her head. Coy looks are sneaked in each other’s directions as the girl’s phone beeps in a text message that she has difficulty opening on account of her shaking hands.

Hi gurl u luk so Qt wil u b my GF? Mt me @ da bus halt l8tr babee.

The music screeches to an abrupt halt as her face and fake eyelashes drop. The boy has just revealed himself to be an utter moron, incapable of constructing a proper sentence. Herein endeth all future potential for courtship or his success in life.

At least, that’s how this writer hopes the story goes. There is no excuse for bad spelling and lack of grammatical eloquence when it comes to the art of wooing. The first step to making a good impression- stop murdering the Queen.  

To call the new-fangled language of the youth ‘irksome’ is an understatement.  It is frustrating.... ludicrous... discombobulating (At this point, any persons below 30 reading this article would have turned the page, proving the point) at best and agonizing to read.  When did Sri Lanka’s grandiose status of highest literacy level in Asia reduce to such use of rubbish? What’s even more tragic is that the media celebrates the trend (rather, the speedy descent of intelligence) by adding fuel to the fire. A recent scan through social media resulted in a throbbing headache, thanks to the number of ‘lol’s,  ‘Kewl’s and ‘baybeh’s floating around in web space. Popular memes sporting lines like ‘Y U NO DO DAT’ or ‘I can haz ur nomz?’ just take that headache all the way to the intestinal region. Facebook should be renamed Facepalm. Twitter now showcases more twits than tweets. The only positive result in continuing this way without correction is that when Armageddon comes and the aliens invade, at least we’ll all be speaking the same language. 

The younger the generation, the lesser the inclination seems to be to type a word longer than three characters at most. Today’s children seem to believe that punctuation is the name of a vaccine and syntax the latest clothing material. Grammar would be what you call your mother’s mother.

Methinks official punishment on a national scale is befitting for the misuse of the English language. Flog them all, and if they don’t know what the word flog means, flog them some more. Put them in prisons with wall-to-wall blackboards and make them write elaborate sentences a thousand times over.  Those violating the rules of English on social media should be flagged as ‘textual predators’ and shunned in public.

“Don’t be such an archaic prude”, a teenager chortles when lectured on incorrect spelling.  Apart from points for knowing the word archaic, all he will get is a slap in reply should he continue his case, but he prevails. “Chill, aunty… its SMS lingo. Put that umbrella down.” 

No, it is NOT any sort of lingo.  It is vulgar and disrespectful to the beauty of a 2500 year-old language, to distort it to a bunch of meaningless phonetics just because your immature fingers are in a hurry to go play a game instead of making the effort to craft your correspondence. So this umbrella will STAY poised to attack unless the effort is made. 

Totes. Got dat?

A Walk on the Wild Side

 Published in LMD Living- June 2016

With the month of Poson poya finally here and the greater Buddhist populace making extra efforts at spirituality, it was quite nice to happen upon the legend of how Buddhism seeped into this little island of devils. Amongst the fascinating stories is the tale of how King Devanampiya Tissa (Sri Lankans never believed in naming kids anything even mildly pronounceable) took up compassion as his personal mantra and established the world’s first animal sanctuary in 247 BC. 

Fast forward to about 2500 years later and you have a Sri Lanka that’s a far cry from the Buddhist nation it promised to be all those centuries ago. One doesn’t have to traipse all the way to Mihintale to be rudely slapped with the reality of what a mess we’ve made today on the animal welfare front. Ol’ Tissa would roll in his grave if he knew. So would the stag whose life he spared, if someone were to reveal that a good portion of its future generations are now packed up in a smelly concentration camp called the Dehiwela zoo. Those who still remain in the wild run the daily risk of being renamed venison.  Oh deer. 

One of the more endless tales of woe would have to be relayed by the elephant – that giant guardian of mystery and spirituality. If there’s one thing to be said about us puny Sri Lankans, it’s that we can take our David Vs. Goliath mentality a little too far. It’s certainly no joke that most of today’s dwindling local elephant population are more often found shackled and swaying in broken-spirited stress in some concrete shed, than they are lazily plonked in jungle mud-baths like they should be. Apparently, the interpretation of Ceylonese compassion is to dress them up in gaudy carnival attire complete with electrical wiring and parade them on long stretches of tar road amidst fire, drums and gawping humans. When not being poked with the ankus on the street, they’re found being prodded to stand on their heads or sit on miniscule stools at the zoo, for the entertainment of more gawping humans. We do this, of course, not in the name of Buddhism but more in the name of foreign currency, but it is ironic that a country so staunch in its belief in the power of karma would resort to enslaving, chaining and abusing the very creatures it deems sacred, all for bragging rights and a few bucks. Then again, ignorance and defiance is something we voluntarily relish in sunny Serendipity. The few eles who escape the greedy clutches of private owners and tourist attractions might have it easy in their bit of hideout, were it not for the inhabitants of surrounding villages raising sarongs and voices above the noise of the lethal hakka patas tossed casually at hungry pachyderms who visit for a cup of sugar. Today, Sri Lankans are to elephants what Isis is to the world, with the precious few activists who raise concerns being speedily thwacked in the bum for speaking uninvited.

The elephants are joined in their fundamental rights petition by almost every other four-legged, feathered or scaly being in little Lanka. What once roamed freely is now scurrying to avoid speeding safari jeeps, butcher’s knives and bullets, when not going slowly mad inside a holding cell due to no fault of its own. A visit to the zoo will not only present you with that delightfully packed deer enclosure and acrobatic elephants in chains, but also ostriches who have plucked all their feathers out (no, not because nude is in fashion), an assortment of monkeys all holding their starved arms out and begging for the paracetemols and razor blades thrown into their cages by our highly intelligent youth, and penguins suffering from heatstroke because the air conditioner can’t quite reach arctic temperatures inside the room painted white to trick them into believing it’s snowing. 

We are, after all, the land of Metta and Karuna. How beautifully we live up to our own preaching.

Making Babies

Just the other day, an aunt was pestering me for the umpteenth time, in that way that Sri Lankans who have no other business to poke their noses into but yours do, to marry and have children. Not even eventually, mind you. QUICKLY. Because my biological clock is ticking its way to its death, said she. Because she needed to see me rocking a child in my arms or she would DIE.

I’ve reached a point where demands of this nature have ceased to get under my skin. You come to a point where you become immune to people’s silly notions that one must live by ridiculous norms.

But, like every woman is wont to do, this lady wouldn’t shoosh. For the sake of some quiet, I dabbled with my font of excuses that I usually mete out to annoying, uninvited personal advisors. Then I decided not to go down the tried and tested route of laughing at the thought of a piece of paper validating your commitment to someone, or putting on a superficial pageant for the sake of relatives who want to show off their latest sari acquisitions. All in favour of giving up your identity and independence in order to breed and run behind a whining, hairless HUMAN who does nothing but poop and opinionate.

I decided instead to present some hard-core facts to this clearly ignorant female.

“Look, aunty...” said I, trying very hard to mask my annoyance, “I refuse to drop babies on order because –

• Elephants in this country have no space to live anymore. To make room for the planet, we need to drastically reduce the number of humans. I advocate mass sterilization of women, therefore, and not impregnation.

• There are plenty of children who are brought onto this earth and neglected or thrown away. Why not just parent them instead?

• Neither my body nor I are willing to undergo mind-fucking pain to squeeze something the size of a large watermelon out and thereafter suffer the saggy aftermath for the rest of my life. God knows I’m flabulous enough.

• Global temperatures are in an accelerated rise. The best of scientists have reported that in the next 15 years, the ice caps will melt and raise ocean levels by as much as 20 feet. Much of the world as we know it will drown.

• Have you seen the news? Everybody’s fighting with everybody else. The Gadaffis and Rajapakses of this world are here to stay. If the planet doesn’t destroy itself, then these buggers surely will.

• According to reliable sources, we won’t have enough drinking water by 2020. That’s just 9 years from now.

• The money I earn should be used towards justice for suffering animals, not pampers and exorbitant school fees.

• I’d like to see the world and make a difference before I die and I can’t do it dragging a carry cot around.

• Ragging in schools is the fad of the day. Crimes against children are at an all-time high. Perverts, paedophiles and rapists are commonality in today’s society.

• Drugs and alcohol have a thumbs up from the younger generation everywhere. Already Marijuana usage laws are being passed, it’s only a matter of time before Coke has its day. Have you been to a rave party with teens? If you’re not getting high then you’re weird. Can you imagine how kiddie’s parties will be in a couple of years?

• The arts are dead. Lady GAGA is what kids define as a role model these days.

And you want me to have babies? You must be fucking kidding me.”

I was satisfied that I’d finally given her enough reasons to realize her own foolishness.

That was until she opened her mouth again and replied, “But you can have such CUTE babies!”

It's only a matter of time before I kill the next person who approaches this subject with me ever again. You have been warned.

I Decided to Like Women

Let me give you pervs out there a second to wipe off the excited sweat before I proceed.

Calmed down? Ok.

As if my workload and commitments are not enough already, I went and got myself activated over a new obesession last weekend- Women.

Please stop grinning lecherously. I promise I will burst that bubble of yours very soon.

Whilst mulling over what dramatic onslaught to present to my long-suffering boyfriend with on that gloriously commercialized joke called Valentine's Day, it suddenly struck me that not every woman out there would be plotting and planning like I was, because not every woman out there had a boyfriend worthy of plotting about. Given that I anyway have a thing for ball busting, I'd been doing some recent reading on the issues of domestic violence in the country and was pretty horrified to learn that an estimated 60% of the country's females are victims of violence in their homes. I say 'estimated' because there is no national survey conducted yet to assess the real numbers. All they have to go by is the number of reports logged in to the police and charity organisations. So it's safe to say that the ACTUAL number is probably far higher.

60%. SIXTY percent. That's 3 out of every 5 women. Logically, that means it could very well be your own wife, mother,sister,daughter or aunt. Or more than just one of them.

You don't have to be female to be shocked by that statistic. You just have to be human.

What was worse still was finding out that in most cases of domestic violence, all that's done about it is diddly squat. Either the victim is too afraid of the consequences of speaking out or her family is too ashamed to air their dirty laundry. More often than not, reports to the police (those champions of justice and paragons of virtue who do fuck-all for the betterment of society) result in the cops asking the woman what she's done to piss hubby off, and then advice her to go home and sort it out. After that, nobody cares anymore and life goes on. It only creates a minor buzz when her body is found chopped to pieces in a village well, and that too only if anyone feels like they need to alert the media.

Apparently, the most the authorites have done towards punishing a perpetrator of domestic violence is fined him a pittance and 'tsk'ed at his naughtiness.

Needless to say, I was incensed. I may not have had acid thrown at me, but I know what a slap on my face from someone who claims to love me feels like. I know how it all starts with a few derogatory remarks and then propels into full-blown physical acts. I also know how no matter how many people advice a perpetrator or how many apologies he makes, he's going to go back to being the same sorry bastard he always was.

And now I'd found out that 3 out of 5 women in my country are going through the worst kind of hell imaginable at the hands of such insects. I wanted to go out there and crush every testicle in the land into a fine dust and then feed it to the fishes (I would, too, except I don't think the fish are interested). I have always thought of myself as not belonging to this pathetic race called humans, with their apathetic attitudes and selfish ways. I had to do something... anything. But what? If only I had some help in the matter.

And then it struck me. I would get help. I could put out the statistic to everyone I knew and gather up some like-minded souls, and then together we could possibly make a noise loud enough to get the lazy-ass retards in government to put some goddamn justice system into place.

Valentine's plans were speedily forgotten. The boyfriend would understand. I rocked to and fro like a maddened monkey trying to figure out how to get people interested until it hit me... of course... Valentine's Day! What better day on which to shock the public into realizing that, as they traipse about like blithering romantic fools buying roses and gifts, there are women out there who will receive bleeding noses and black eyes instead. Those were THEIR 'gifts of love' from their husbands. If enough people realized this, then maybe enough people would give a shit and speak up about it.

Highly excited about the fact that I coincidentally happened to work in an industry where it's all about communication to the world, I spoke to my superiors about my idea. Could we do some work on this and get it out to the world? Could we make people care? Could we make a difference in the status quo?

My boss thought we could. We gathered arms immediately and put together a cracking team to work out the nittygritties. We contacted an organisation that works in women's welfare and got them excited too. They came on board and gave us the support we needed to put the plan to work. We contacted venues that could host our message and danced in glee when they offered to do it for free. Then we rolled up our sleeves and tried to help women. I spent days and nights living, breathing, shitting and dreaming of any research I could get my hands on. Even though I had a few bumps on the road with certain people exploiting the cause to their advantage, others at office were nothing less than inspiring, with their positivity and kick-ass attitude. People like LD, who weren't involved at the beginning, jumped on board voluntarily and helped with whatever support and advice they could. That in itself was awesome.

Three days afterwards, on the morning of Valentine's Day, we launched. Displays went up in major malls in the city, showcasing the kind of 'gifts' 60% of Sri lankan women receive - knives, acid, iron chains, hammers, poles, etc. We handed out brochures on action that responsible civilians should take when witnessing domestic violence. We directed people to a facebook site that we'd set up with the objective of educating and inspiring more people to speak out against the issue. I stalked out some of the venues that day and nearly pee-ed with thrill when people starting taking notice of the displays and reading the brochures.

That was three days ago. Today, I've got over 300 followers on the FB page. And counting.

This morning, a friend's nephew called me. He wanted to tell me that his dad sometimes beats his mom and he always thought that was ok, because it's all he knew. After reading our brochure and educating himself on the FB page, last night during a particularly violent argument he'd called the police, his extended family, and then stood up to his dad. Although the police never came and his father wasn't taken away and punished, he had nevertheless backed off and for the first time had apologized to his mother. It was a start. The boy now wants to get more involved and be an endorser of the cause in his school.

I have to tell you.... hearing that felt... and still feels... fucking good.

Please do join the page and help us out. Follow 'His gift of love' on FB, or log on to www.facebook.com/hisgiftoflovethisvalentines

I don't have to be the only one bothered about this. You're a blogger... can YOU take it up too?

Daydreamin'

It was a hot, sunny Tuesday down Dickman's Road. A crow perched up in leafy shade squinted up at the scorching sun and decided against wasting precious energy crowing. Below, a furiously panting dog drooled noodles of saliva in the hopes that a kind soul would pass him some water, or at the very least a magnanimous cat would offer it's blood. The grass shriveled in the heat as gusts of hot wind blew dust in the face of parked cars that could fry eggs on their windscreens.

Behind the closed doors of a centrally air-conditioned production house, within the arctic womb of an editing room, Dramaqueen had yet another hissyfit with the poor editor who had been punished into helping her put together a mundane AV presentation for a particularly snivelling client she loathed with passion. The editor had no choice but to piss in his underwear because that wretch DQ wouldn't let him so much as think of requesting a bathroom break until she had finished her presentation, which would only be well past midnight. He squirmed in shame as the smell of festered urine filled the room. Her ladyship's one good nostril that had survived sinusitis picked up on the wafting reek and screwed up on it's own accord. Rolling her eyes at the man in disgust she sighed a melodramatic sigh and finally permitted the crimson-faced minion to hastily escape to the bathroom. To while away her time in his absence and to avoid criticizing his clear inaptitude at bladder control, the glorious one decided to blog.

Alright. So the editor didn't really piss in his pant, or may have done so without telling me, but you have to admit it was a good read and you enjoyed the mental image of a male reduced to humiliation. You sadist you.

I don't even know WHY I recently professed to have missed the editing table. It must have been a lack of excuses to leave the office desk, because as dreamy as the memories of AV's gone by are, I am rudely reminded of the actual process that I went through time and time again with each one. Putting together an AV to a client's satisfaction is like taking the outer film of your eyeball off with a safety pin. No that I've tried, but I'm guessing its similar. Especially for the editor working with me. This must be his umpteenth AV with me and it can't be easy to hear my voice approaching his room for yet another go at the experience. Poor man. I will bake him a cake.

Speaking of, I baked my first fondant cake recently in honour of my father's birthday. Don't bother responding with 'aww' and 'you're such a great daughter' like those dimwits who commented on my FB page when I put up the pictures of said cake. I am not. I did it more for me than for him. One of this year's resolutions was to learn a new craft, and google images of whimsical cakes and sugar craft caught my eye. I wanted to try it out, having already explored every other possible craft hobby. Dad's birthday provided me with the ideal opportunity and guinea pig. The bakey types who show off on YouTube made it look easy enough, modeling creative figurines out of sugar without batting an eyelid. I'm not one of them, so the entire enterprise took me a good six and a half hours of spine-aching work, with another two to clean up after myself. Whoever invented buttercream must die painfully at my hands or I won't be happy. The end result however, was not at all bad, if you like clumsy fondant cakes that look like something heavy sat on them. pieces didn't fall off and the little fondant man I'd made to resemble Dad actually looked like a man instead of the baby amoeba I expected it to turn out into. It left me quite pleased with myself like one of those new mothers who talks about their baby for the next sixteen years until it becomes a sulky ungrateful teenager whom she can't wait to disown. Hence the proud FB pictures that got me some positive response from people who I know are not the sort to be nice for the sake of it, along with an actual order for a birthday cake. That got me rather excited. I spent two days in front of the mirror, wearing an apron and wondering if I could be the next Nigella of the cake world. Whether it was to humor me or to give me something to focus my attention on other than himself, my boyfriend fed me with tantalizing thoughts of taking up the culinary world as a profession. By the third day I had named my future cafe and designed it, floor tiles and all.

Then came Monday and here I am, getting on a video editor's last nerve. He's complained to me about the injustice of last-minute AV's so many times now that I am wont to tune out and go back to my sugar modeling dreams. I am seeing myself singing happy Disney songs as the woodland creatures and I dust baking powder at each other's faces and squeal with glee. I am mentally going through my repertoire and visualizing a menu of delicious gobbleables that I could whip up and serve to the world. I am thinking of the delightful t-shirts I could be fabric painting and selling off to gullible souls. There are a million things I could have been doing with myself and yet I chose advertising because it made me happy to let the creative juices flow free, but lately those juices have been canned and set aside and the tin is rusting fast. I am instead finding peace and passion in new creative outlets, culinary and otherwise that give me a bigger sense of satisfaction than producing a 30 second commercial ultimately directed by a client. The workaholic in me has turned into a lazy bitching bum akin to a government clerk, waiting for the clock to strike 6 so I can whiz speedily to my craft supplies. it makes me wonder what the purpose of my existence is.

This begs the question... are my AV days behind me?

Well, the video editor is, anyway... back from a bathroom stint that was suspiciously too long. I shall flog him.

Oh well... back to the rat race.

Annual Forecast

Raise your hand if you managed to catch a glimpse of Christmas speeding past you like the Starship Enterprise on turbo mode, leaving your innards vibrating with the aftershock.

Me neither.

The sheer fact that it HAS passed and I'm back to procrastinating behind an office desk after an all-too-short annual leave stint is nothing short of depressing. I see no light at the end of my tunnel. I mean that metaphorically and am not referring to my anus. That's a different post.

This post, on the other hand, is nothing but one big complaint. Leave now if you're feeling happy today. Should you choose the masochistic option of sticking around, don't say I didn't warn you and don't you dare comment with glib attempts at motivation. It's a Monday and I'm entitled to my grouchiness.

I'm not too pleased with the yesteryear, to be honest. It just wasn't speckled with the cheerful madness that my life is usually full of. Sure, there was plenty of travelling around and the odd puppy picked up and rehomed successfully, but seeing the humour in living just seemed such a task. 2010 did not, for once in my life, feature any JOY worth reminiscing about.

I blame my parents. They are Sri Lankan, after all. So am I, and blaming parents is what we children of the soil do best when things are not satisfactory. Although, come to think of it, no one seems to be pointing any fingers at Mommy and Daddy Rajapakse, no? (I have a feeling Mervin's mum is thought about alot, however...).

My two were exceptionally active with the emotional blackmail last year. To say I’m going on 32 and need approval on how my hair looks is a testament to their insanity. Their skills have reached new levels in expertise and absurdity. Mother Dearest has mastered the Quivering Lower Lip to a tee and can now whip it out at the merest 'ahem'. Dad's speciality- Delusional Rants - peaked during the Christmas season and nearly drove me to homicide.

Yes, we're a nice, quiet little family, we are. So quiet, in fact, that when we dine out together you can hear the chef’s hat pin drop into the soup, way back in the kitchens.

If my family is ever at the same restaurant as you, do check your soup for signs of dropped pin.

My resident evil aside, not everything in 2010 has been a complete disaster. I did manage to rescue and rehome 24 furry four-leggeds (I can see RD sniggering at that one), visit two new countries and learn to bake a decent cupcake. The cons outweighed, though. The least of which was my car and I careening into a wall and causing both airbags to pop out. Ah, good times.

I suppose I must now join the merry bandwagon and do my bit of resolutioning, no? Not that it makes a difference. Last year’s list is still waiting. But for what it’s worth, this year, I PLAN to-

• Find my runaway mojo
• Change jobs – by workplace or career, whichever seems more lucrative and comes first
• Outperform last year’s animal rescue stats
• Move out of home
• Get a tattoo – because really, it’s the fashionable way to rebel, innit?
• Write a book
• See a new country
• Learn to cook 10 new dishes and achieve non-toxic rating for at least one of them

Watch this space.