I need to wear a suit and a tie at work. I do not mind that (I think I look spiffy in a suit. Leave me to my delusions.), because I have excellent taste in ties and I can sometimes tie a really nice Half-Windsor.

However, (You knew that however was coming) I do obsess about the length of the tie once it has been knotted. The tie needs to come down to my front belt buckle and not go past it by even a fraction of an inch. It should be neither too long, nor too short.

In an ideal world this would not be a problem. I would be able to perform this sartorial duty in no time and could be merrily on my way to work. Unfortunately, this is not an ideal world. The ties refuse to behave themselves. They are either too long or too short, or the knot is completely and utterly fucked up. (I will never figure out how a knot manages to look like a dead chicken). The knot is easily fixed. The length is not. I end up with a tie that goes half way to my knees or one which ends up around my third shirt button.

I could go on for pages and pages about this. But I won’t. Because I came in to work late after spending a half hour trying to get my bloody tie just right. And because yesterday, I sprained my entire left side at the gym.

(Um…Yes, a piece of advice. Attempting single arm chin-ups to impress the hot chick in the tiny shorts at the gym, is not exactly a sensible move. A man must endeavor to think with his brain and not with his genitalia.)

Now, after hearing my views about ties and suits and working out, the question on all your minds has to be, “Rajneesh are you a metrosexual?”(Maybe you do not actually have this question on your minds, but I think the following bit will work.). My answer to that is, “No. I’m not as much a metro sexual as much as I am a small-town-sexual or a village-sexual.”

(That bit sounded better in the silence of my head. Honest!)

I have Shania Twain’s “You’re Still The One” stuck in my head.

Shoot me now.

Please!

To whoever surfed into my blog from http://free-penis-enlarger.blogspot.com/, you made me spurt coffee all over my keyboard.

Thank you.

It’s Monday morning and that has darkened my normally sunny disposition. I feel the overwhelming urge to growl at people and bite somebody’s head off. Unfortunately everyone here outranks me, so that might not be such a good career move.

I would restrict myself to thinking evil thoughts…Except that lately I have begun to worry that little bubbles appear above my head to let people know what I’m actually thinking…And what I’m usually thinking is immoral if not downright illegal. (Mmm…Supermodels, handcuffs and butter. Lots of butter.)

Snarling at my screen does not work. People think that I have a bad digestive problem that I’m trying to suppress.

I’m trying to practice my irritating smirk, but without an audience I cannot seem to pull it off. Instead of the caustic amusement in other’s failings that it usually conveys, all it does right now is look dopey and mildly nauseated. That is disappointing. I’ve invested a lot of time and effort into that smirk. It usually lets people know that I think that they are behaving like idiots and that their actions amuse me.

Sidebar: Do not practice an irritating smirk while you are working out. You might just have to frantically practice some fancy footwork to avoid that weight that you just dropped. The frantic footwork does much to negate the implied superiority and contempt that the smirk is trying to convey.

Another Sidebar: If you hear a “pop-creak” sound while you are working out, it probably isn’t a good sign.

Yes, I’m putting off starting on my code. Java, that wondrous creation, holds little fascination for me on a Monday morning. Monday mornings should be spent quietly lamenting the passing of another Sunday, quietly hoping for the arrival of another Friday, and quietly communicating with your inner axe murderer.

My inner axe murderer said, “GET BACK TO FUCKING WORK.” (Unfortunately I used the word “Fucking” as an adjective denoting strong emotion and not in the literal sense. “Get Fucking Back to work” is a better construct, but then the point of these brackets is lost. I suppose the Axe Murderer could have said “Get Back to Work”, but I felt the need for gratuitous obscenity. That’s a contradiction. None of my obscenities are gratuitous, but are little gems that are greater than the sum of their parts).

What was that bit about logic again?

I am the world’s most famous living Rajneesh. Google confirms this.

If you aren’t familiar with Orkut, it is a social network website. You get invited into it and have a bunch of people you link to and all that jazz. It isn’t a half bad idea. A couple of friends that I had lost touch with years ago tracked me down, in a good way, not a “Where’s that money you owe me” kind of way.

For some wonderful reason however, most of the women look really hot in their pictures and the guys look really dopey. I do not object to this. In fact it has my approval.

Well, when you join Orkut, you fill in you details and write a little spiel about yourself. This is where you see gems like…. Um I think I’ll refrain from dissing the spiels. (I’m being Diplomatic!) And then you choose options from a list to tell others why you are on Orkut.

Perhaps unsurprisingly they do not have the option I would like to pick: “Um…someone invited me and I had a half hour to kill and make up shit and stuff and some of these women are really hot and aren’t wearing very many clothes.”

The options they have are friends (I’m lonely), dating (I need to get laid), business networking (Yeah that’s going to happen)…the usual crap.

And the last option is “Activity Partners”.

You actually put that up on your profile. You state, “I am here looking for “Activity “Partners””.

No Shit! Now what the fuck is an “Activity Partner”?

Honestly, I have no clue what that term means. It sounds ominously like an over-eager parent signing their hapless offspring on for some bit of after-school improvement program/atrocity. An activity if you will. Something for which you might need a partner, a comrade in misery… an… Activity Partner. (I still haven’t forgiven someone about PPR!)

On the other hand it does sound a bit like a person looking to hook up. “Activity Partner”…Nudge, Nudge, Wink, Wink, Say no more. “I’d certainly like to be “Active“with you”. (Side note: Are nested quotation marks acceptable, or just another sign of moral decay?). “Who’s your Activity?”, “Say my Activity”.

“Activity” is a bit too all encompassing. Pretty much anything is an activity, reading, writing, breathing, throwing bricks at passing Ad Agencies (grumble, grumble), wanking off (Can this be considered wanking off, if this activity in fact has a partner involved?), cleaning your bathroom floor (I’d like an partner for this one. Please!) .

So for the sake of my sanity, STOP ADVERTISING THAT YOU ARE LOOKING FOR “ACTIVITY PARTNERS”!

And while you are at it. Stop saying this, “I am a typical &#60Insert Zodiac Sign Here&#62”. Because when you say that I hear, “I am typical dumbass”. You may say that you have the characteristics of a fish, a crab, a lion but all I hear is dumbass. Telling me your Zodiac sign tells me one thing. I do not like you and I have lost pretty much any respect that I might have had for you. It would be far more informative if you told me that you were an alcoholic, a reconstituted liquid gas combine, a dominatrix or a communist. That might tell me something about you. (If you in fact are a dominatrix… (Note to self: DO NOT GO DOWN THAT ROAD))(And now we have nested brackets and running brackets…Oh the humanity!)

So for the sake of my sanity, STOP CALLING YOURSELF A TYPICAL &#60INSERT ZODIAC SIGN HERE&#62!

G’nite.

What was that bit about logic again?

No more lower case I’s. That’s i’s . Really. Stop it

These guys came up with the idea of sticking that letter in front of their products. Nobody comes close to emulating their style and flair, so stop trying to rip off their naming scheme.

iPods, iMacs: allowed.

iCommodes, iBurgers, iRivers: Not so much.

In another sign that The Universe Is Ending, I have spent more on getting my shirt cleaned at the dry cleaners than I originally spent on the shirt.

The first sign that The Universe Is Ending was something I realized this weekend. Strip clubs, Bowling alleys and the backs of cabs smell exactly the same. Something to do with wormholes and temporal physics I’m sure.

In a related matter, when I moved into this apartment in September, I had in a burst of unrealistic enthusiasm, decided that I would start cooking regularly. Healthy meals and stuff. To further that aim, I had stocked up on vegetables and um…stuff. The frozen vegetables are currently in cryogenic suspension in my freezer. I was aware of their existence and was making a staunch effort to ignore their reproachful looks whenever I opened the refrigerator door.

However, I had forgotten about the potatoes. They’re in the cabinet below the knife drawer. No sunlight or water or fertilizer. But in a move that bodes well for the survival of the species Solanum tuberosum the potatoes decided that they would move to a higher plane of existence.

So, I now have a rampant potato based ecology in that cabinet. A small little wannabe potato bush. I will be following its progress with keen interest. I call the bush iPotato.