Wednesday, February 16, 2011

A review doth come.

I stumbled upon something awesome, have I not?
A web-comic, about an indie-music loving, simple, down-to-earth, guy who lives with his robot PC and his relationship with his unconventional, brooding, attractive and distant roommate.

Marten, is apparently quite the schmuck. His business card says 'office bitch'. He's been stereo-typed as one of the generic non-conformist indie fan-boys. Much humour and satire will be directed towards Punk, Goth, Metal, Emo and Hardcore genres of music and how individuals who follow those lifestyles interact with each other and how pretentious and retarded the whole thing can get.
You must HAVE at least  a certain amount of know-how of obscure bands and how their followings operate.  Much of the humour is self-deprecatory, as to how silly the principles of all non-conformist sub-culture can be from their dressing, to college loans and general life slaps. 

But enough about that stuff which I enjoyed.

Its an amazing comic in my opinion. Its adorable, insightful and so very very genuine.
It starts with Marten meeting Faye. But honestly it progresses into this wave after wave of keen and simple observations about the boy-girl relationship and what not. And it has its moments.

And it has plot.
It has character appreciation...mostly insecurity...but still.

Notice how the graphics get better? The artist admits that he's learning as time goes by. Its quite  a treat.

What? I already said most of the humour is insecurity-based...Its endearing okay?
I haven't posted the best examples by the way.
May the force be with you as your read them all I hope. Browse backwards by clicking previous, or like me you could start from number 1 which was published in 2003.

Monday, February 14, 2011

My name is Asif, and I should be studying

I hate how its a trend among bloggers now to justify their self-obsessions with the mere pointing out  'Oh I hate self-indulgence lol JK I r hypocrite'.

Meh, this is not the a rant session but if only I could go on one which would be fulfilling. 
I wish I was aspiring for something amazing right now, but I am not. People around me are... 

Do you what the Urdu word for inferiority complex is?

'Ehsaas-e- WAIT FOR IT- Qamtari'

I like that word.


My sisters are cat people...

And I desperately want a puppy.

Cow...Nearly asleep... I like my purple shirt


After the Literature Festival Sunday before last, we got dragged to a friend of a friend's house.... To see puppies who needed homes.

I have been empty since that day... I have barely some time left in my 2 week deadline to convince my sisters to let me adopt one...I need their support for permission from my parents...

I am tired. Those puppies are so full of life and goodness and will make me very happy.

I got my University books from London and I have not opened the carton properly...The plastic cover is still on.

I am not motivated and have not been for the longest time.

I want to be somewhere arguing about imperialism because that has become the theme of my debates everywhere... It would feel so much more enriching.
I'm gonna go use my shoes to count my blessings.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Cloak and Dagger Fan-fiction: Champion

Prague. A quaint little cafe.

'Would you care for sugars in your tea?' Hasan said with his outstretched hands holding the kettle.
'Why are you asking me this before pouring the tea?'
'I find the sugar cubes to dissolve faster when the hot liquid falls upon them,' Hasan replied with his usual mannerism affected with sincerity.

Pink Hitler readjusted her posture such that the knife taped under the table was directly above her knee.
Hasan was starting to talk a lot of bullshit. It was usually a sign that he was stalling. She hadn't completely unanticipated this. Pink Hitler had chosen the specific seat at the cafe because with it her back was facing a bus-stop. If indeed a sniper had her in his cross-airs, she would have many opportunities to stab Hasan and disappear while the buses that came in between her and her potential assassin disrupted the line of sight.

'I do not care for sugar. I am instead wondering why the PLO's bag-man is approaching me this far from Cyprus. Isn't that where your territory ends now? King Abdullah should have taught you a stronger lesson.'
'Ah, Frau Hitler. Why must you sprinkle salt on the wounds of our people? We have never been at such odds,' Hasan mock-pleaded.
'I like to anticipate the change of times and the world. If I am to believe that Fatah has limits, then I assure you I will enforce such limits if only to ensure that my perception is not at fault,' was her reply.
'This Cold-War that they call it, it is not yet over Frau Hitler. And we are in the middle of it. Cyprus, nay, Damascus even is too small a concern.'

Legends were made in this dark world that was unseen in plain sight, of hit-men and terrorists. With such words, many were created.
'Your business had better be Kosher. Remember where you are...I am East-Europe...Bitch.'
'Kosher... Ha. You think me such a noob do you not? This honour that you wave around. This disassociation from us anti-semites by an 'anti-imperialist' like yourself?' said Hasan, his words reeking with unprofessional emotions.
'Its principles that make us survive in this business Hasan. You wouldn't understand, because not only are you a noob, you're small-time,' said Pink Hitler before sipping the first of her tea.
'Ha! A noob you may call me (and I'm not admitting that I am one, seriously bring your mother and your laptop) but I see enough of your kind deteriorating around you. How does it feel to know that Carlos the Jackal now hides in Tanzania like a refugee among my muslim cousins? Or better yet, your beloved Castro sent Che Guevara to his death in his last mission...LOL'

Pink Hitler knew better than to let Hasan know how composed she really was in the face of such insult. She also judged from Hasan's gall that he was confident about his security in her presence. There probably was a team observing them now. 

She drew a red-bag of choco-balls from her purse, not only to give Hasan a sudden fright of her reaching for her purse. She needed chocolate. 
'Would you like a Maaalteser Hasan?'
'Maalteser you paindoo! Never had them?'
'Malte- Nevermind.'
'Sure? What services does your faction require anyway?' she asked while munching on maltesers "maaltesers".
'We need to put an end to the skirmishes on our refugee camps. One statement must be made...'
'Where do you propose making such a statement?'
'In Munich.'
'The Olympics...Interesting.'
'I thought you would approve.'
'I do not approve. I do not condone or condemn. While your rufoogis have my deepest sympathies... Such a public spectacle of things is not within my taste of work.'
'Think it psychological warfare. Israel has but one team of athletes this year. What better place to strike than there.'
'Logistics is all I'm promising. Provided my terms are met.'
'The real Hitler did not combat zionism with logistics.'
'Yes, the real Hitler created the zionists.'
Hasan could not out-think her. Not on his best day with water-melon flavoured hubba bubba and 14 hours of sleep. He said reluctantly 'Agreed'.
'Good. I have some interests in Egypt which need sorting. That is my price.'
'Then we're in Business.'

Hasan did not conceal his excitement. 'A black September it will be.'
Pink Hitler could only smirk at his melodrama. 'You should tell Arafat to keep that as a name. Anything else Hasan?'
'Well, I had a question,' his ears turning red and his girly hands clutching each other.
'Uhh...Yes Hasan?'
'Did you really...sneak a Korean escort into the U.N summit?'
'Yes, I did.'
'How did you fool the security into letting her in?'
'I'm very convincing Hasan.'

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Cloak and Dagger Fan-fiction: Prologue

 Praça do Comércio is the more annoying entrance to the main street of Rua Augusta. The Merchant hated Lisbon; he hated all of Portugal. The bastard of Barcelona and Naples he considered Lisbon, a city that could not pull off a decent coup was lessened in honour and glory in the proverbial halls of revolutions he had read and dreamt of. 

"Quero comprar um galo?" 
"No, I do not want to buy a fucking ceramic cockerel!" hissed the Merchant at the street vendor. 

The startled man backed up instinctively and the Merchant eased away without a glance. The main street was bustling with people and activity has always been such cover for the shady business that they were about to participate in. Speaking of they, he approached the pebbled pathway to the entrance of the apartment building oozing with Euro-ness. He climbed the stair-case to the third of the four floors in the place. He approached the designated door and removed his fedora before ringing the bell.

"Who is it?" 
"Your mother," replied the merchant to the first test.
"Mother...How did you get here?"
" a a G6."
"Who had a little lamb?"

The sounds of chains and bolts being removed were followed by the tiny click of the door being unlocked.

"You are late Merchant," was the greeting given to him by the man standing in the door way. "You should have come earlier." The Merchant's reply sent chills down his spine.
"Thats what she said."

They entered the room where the prisoner was kept.
They had had no form of communication with the blindfolded prisoner of any manner or form. No words were spoken in his presence. He was only made to hear and sense his environment.

Day 1: They entered the room. Doused him in gasoline. Left without a word.
Day 2: They entered the room. Doused him in gasoline. Left without a word.
Day 3: They entered the room. Doused him in gasoline. Left without a word.
Day 4: They entered the room. Doused him in gasoline. Lit a match 5 feet away from the prisoner...Prisoner screamed out everything from diplomatic-cover serial number to under-wear size...(small).

The Merchant walked with ominous steps towards the prisoner, whose ears twitched at the sound.
"Who was it? Who discovered my organization in Glasgow?"

What little colour had returned to the prisoner's face, drained again at an accelerated rate. The Merchant knew this was the time to let the information sink. To let him, the prisoner, know the extent of his own knowledge extracting that which he needed.
"Glasgow. Who knew?"

Prisoner clenched every muscle consciously clench-able before saying the words that would echo images of destruction into their minds' eyes. 

"Pink Hitler. It was Pink Hitler!"

Tyrant. Genius. Spy. These are the chronicles of one child of revolution who shook the clandestine world.