These women from Venus

Although I've never been put in the MCP category by any feminists around me, I do believe in the stereotype about women being bad drivers. In fact, i think it is about automobiles rather than driving. With my experiences, I tend to feel that there is some biology behind it. A recent conversation with a friend from Venus over formula one has just reinforced my belief. Excerpts...

Me: Pizza, Coke and a formula one race. What a perfect way to spend a sunday evening....(some facts about Monaco).

Her: I'm not interested in formula one racing because I don't feel its 'sporty enough'.

Me: (WTF!) Well, your disinterest is fine but I don't find your reason convincing enough.

Her: Hmm...You see, there is not enough physical exertion involved.

Me: (WTF! With a frown) Do you have any idea what the driver goes through during the race?

Her: Ya. I very well know they loose a few kilos and experience quite enormous G forces, but you can hardly call that exertion. I mean look at other sports, the players sweat and pant and work their ass out, but that doesn't happen with a formula one driver.

Me: (Do you have any fucking idea that you just let out an ocean of nonsensical garbage from your mouth?). I think its perfectly fits the definition of sport. It involves skill, teamwork, strategy, physical exertion (contrary to what you so strongly 'feel') and on top of that loads of excitement.

Her: I choose to disagree. I think it it like chess and scrabble and it shouldn't be categorized as sport.

Me: (:-O...God, forgive her, for she knows not what she speaks) Lets not continue this discussion any further dear (as it will be a disgrace to formula one racing and will only lead me to suspect that you have actually lost your mind).

A friend (who also has high regard for the fairer sex) mentions in his blog a woman wanting to lose weight so that she can put on weight again. I once had an argument over the reason behind a girl fucking up the spelling of her name. Turned out she found the correct spelling 'boring'. I'm sure every man has his share of these unfathomable conversations, and they invariably make you feel there is more to it than just bad driving. For now, lets just assume they don't have automobiles on Venus.

P.S. - Some interesting F1 facts here.

How I Met Yappy...

It had been a good day and I was waiting at the platform for the train when a gentleman approached me and attempted to start a conversation. Realizing I have another hour to pass, I gave a friendly response to his inquisition. This later turned out to be one of the biggest mistakes of my life. I had shown a matchstick to a fireworks factory. I had unknowingly unleashed one of the longest tongues in the history of mankind. From then on, Yappy (I will hereon refer to him with this name as I didn't know his name at this point) did most of the talking. I spoke a little for the first few minutes, but then realized the guy needed no responses to talk and realized I was in big trouble. So I just played with my cellphone, texted friends, checked my mail, checked out the hot middle-aged-woman in the red saree for several minutes until she noticed me, while he revealed enough information about himself to prepare a fully detailed resume, even give another an interview on his behalf.

I let out a deep sigh of relief when the train finally arrived after an hour. I thought the overwhelming crowd might save me from this torment while Yappy prepared to board the same bogey as I did. Five minutes later, I found myself struggling with my briefcase in the middle of a compartment, the crowd still pushing from all directions, while Yappy gave me a big childish grin with an empty seat next to him. 'DAMN!', I thought.

Without waiting for a minute to let the crowd settle down, Yappy continued. Top of the mind recalls are: how Yappy had to continuously travel to visit his clients, how Yappy's boss cheated him and how he started his current business, how his brother lost his mind and started running naked on the streets, how his sister got married to her unreasonably ugly husband, how he found the love of his life, spent a fortune on her and her brother while dating her and eventually got ditched, how ill-cultured the generation has become, how he was so impressed by me being a teetotaller, vegetarian virgin (God knows what made him assume all this crap), how he set up the shop that his sister now runs, how he once caught a woman shoplifting, how the bitchy girl from his neighborhood flirted with guys and he helped her deliver love letters, how she slept with her boyfriends and eventually got married to a nice guy who must be foolishly assuming she was a virgin.......And a lot more. As my eyelids became heavier, my brain froze and my ear drums went numb; I yawned, pretended to fall asleep, talked (to give my ear drums a little rest), pressed random keys on my cellphone, even made a zombie-like expression; but he just babbled away to glory. By the time I got down at my destination and bid him goodbye with droopy eyes and exhausted ear drums and a significantly lower active brain cell count, the minute hand of my Esprit had almost completed 4 rounds of the dial. By now, I was well-versed with enough facts about Yappy to write his biography.

The incident reminded me of my elders telling me not to befriend strangers whenever I boarded any train. I believe them now and swear to always follow their advice while travelling.