Yin and Yang

Yin ‘Bobby Gaylord’ Xie had everything, most of which were given to him by Yang ‘Abigail Wurtenheim’ Xu. Only five of these actually had cures. That’s how the story starts. It ends like that too. It is a heartwarming story about lost love, syphilis and one woman’s daring search for her rapist. The plot involves Bobby, Abigail and an adolescent Chinese water fountain. The whole thing takes place in Pingdingshan, Henan, China. Pingdingshan is a town of fountains and of dirty young girls. If Uncyclopedia had an article about Pingdingshan, it would read like Wikipedia’s article on deviant sex. Oscar Wilde accidentally sat on one of the fountains. That’s the last people saw of him for a whole decade. When he finally returned, he brought the ‘invisible chair’ to Europe and Massachusetts, and some pleasant thoughts about watery graves…

So the UnArticle goes.

Yin was a man of few words, even before syphilis. He was a man who followed the history of Pingdingshan keenly and knew all about Oscar Wilde. “Yao Wi”, he always used to say, but that was after syphilis. Yin was a man of few words, even before syphilis.

Yang was a dirty 19 yr old. She was like any other girl in Pingdingshan. Not anymore though. This unbecoming of Yang is sort of the plot. It’s not a great plot, but you should wait and see what happens to her. It’s a real punch in the nut sack so to speak. There I go being male chauvinist again. So that is enough of that for now. Maybe I’ll dedicate whole months later to the art form.

So Yin, confused, angry, angry because of confusion and such, planned his revenge. Now you see, planning is an understandably tricky thing when you have dementia. In sorts, it is like running a race with phantom legs. You can beat anyone provided that enough of the race is phantom, unless of course, you’re running against someone who is running on the same phantom track with an even better pair of phantom legs. Even then, if you somehow have some phantom performance enhancing drugs… Lost in the incredible stress of the race, you may either get hit by real oncoming traffic or fall from a real camel onto real treasure. It’s a very tricky thing. The trick worked with Yin and he fell from the camel, so to speak. Upon revision, this is what the plot is really about: It is about the falling of Yin from the camel. Yang’s unbecoming was, as recognized above, not a great plot anyways. This way, there’s a desert, a camel, maybe even some falcons that people have for breakfast, maybe not and a young man with severe syphilis. I’m no brazilian wizard but Yin can do way cooler things with as much syphilis as most other such characters.

I would detail Yin’s plan, but like I said, it was very tricky. So I’ll just tell you the things it consisted of and how the trick managed to make him fall off: A stream, a bluish looking pill and an adolescent water fountain. People in Pingdingshan still cower when they hear the combination. There are disputable theories that it might be because they don’t know what you are saying and your tone is suggestive of something that involves genitalia and food processors:

“These people cower because they think you’re saying something that involves their genitalia and food processors”

“What?”

“Don’t say it like that. It makes them angry.”

So I took the translating monk to the side where I couldn’t be heard.

“What the hell are you saying, monk?”

“Those who don’t have enough to spare don’t like much experimentation. Try going and telling a lion that has starved for weeks that you plan on sharing the lone bone that it has kept all its life for just this purpose. You’ll know. And then it wouldn’t matter what you knew. Fear and frenzy. Those who don’t have enough don’t like much to start off with.”

“Shit.”

And I ran from the mob that cowered first and then charged at the monk, ripping him into shreds. His English had been too loud and his tone had suggested cunningness and doom.

So maybe these theories aren’t disputable. So what?

What happened, more or less, is that Yin threw the pill into the stream, which then had its effect on the adolescent water fountain. Now what made the trick work was what was at the other end of the experiment. And this was Yang.

A real punch in the nut sack, so to speak.

Following her descent, Yang daringly searched for her rapist. What made it both daring and a search was her syphilis. One moment of intense trial came when she tried to give a reporter the disease and he instead snapped a picture. Another such moment came when she had to point out who her rapist was and he snapped a picture again. So there’s that portion of the plot. Everything can be found here, in a boring, concise, understated summary.

Note: Just for giggles, this story was made into a Brazilian story about Arabian people. The story of “Urim and Thummim” is still used for when all other plot devices fail, even by the best of wizards. Brazil has these people. Some even get their versions translated into English. Some don’t even know which one is Urim and which one is Thummim.

Divine Interruption

“Sriman Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“Sriman Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“Its SrimAn Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“SriMAAn Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“SriMan Narayana” says the big fat woman. “You are a blot on the face of this planet.”.
“You eat onions!”
“what insolence!!”
“and garlic”
“you have periods”
“so do you”
“We will go our own ways, fat woman. We’ll see who has periods”
“Sriman Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“Sriman Narayana” says the big fat woman.

For all practical purposes, the above represents a complete summary of the advancement of the generic iyengar community since times immemorial (approximately 300 B.C.E.), till date. In this process of continued advancement, was developed the unique art of making the female of the human species look like a particularly colorful penguin. It has something to do with taking nine yards of cloth and getting caught with it in a tornado.

“Sriman Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“look! penguin!” says the wayward traveller. Big fat women have a huge party and as it usually is when they get excited:

“Sriman Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“Sriman Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“Its SrimAn Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“SriMAAn Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“SriMan Narayana” says the big fat woman. “You are a blot on the face of this planet.”.
“You eat onions!”
“what insolence!!”
“and garlic”
“you have periods”
“so do you”
“We will go our own ways, fat woman. We’ll see who has periods”
“Sriman Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“Sriman Narayana” says the big fat woman.

Evangelical christians have been belted enough. Enough to make it seem like a budding sport, that is. It has great potential and all of us can rejoice at the good prospect. Thanks to the efforts of people who have dedicated whole afternoons to the sport, we now know that these evangelicals (noun. english root: oblong-genitals) do not give much for evolution; understandably, since evolution hasn’t given much to them*.
Anyways, this is about arctic birds and I deviate (although not by far). As a sincere spectator of evangelical-christian-bashing, I should suggest a working alternative for south indians, for not all of us can travel all the way to southern U.S.. Generic iyengars (G.I.s) make for good fun and if the basher is sincere enough, can be more fun than evangelical christians. For one, there is usually more of a single G.I., say Jaganadhan (who unfortunately lost the title to the onion-cooking, pot-belly-lacking Joe who went on to become the most burnt thing till ‘The Alchemist’ came along.), than an E.C.. Where most E.C.s spend their childhood giving birth to siblings, G.I.s wait their turn till they are older (about 22), although it wasnt always that way:

“Sriman Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“Sriman Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“Come children, time to deliver” says the frail old woman.
“Look! penguins!” says the wayward traveller... and so on and so forth.

When birthing and partying got boring, they went about disguising themselves as other animals and birds like the time when I saw this woman calling out to a crow with some colorful food, thinking that it was her cousin or uncle or someone like that that she married. I didn’t think that it was him at all and was so busy trying to imagine what it would be like if the crow ate the food and jammed her right in the eye for it afterwards, that I completely lost my train of thought for this post. I tried for a bit afterwards to regain it but kept wanting to find out what happened to the woman’s eye. So I dressed up accordingly - G.I. males don't need as much cloth nor do they need as heavy a wind - and visited. Two fat girls, not more than 18 years old, opened the door. After some introduction about me, my family, my family’s family, their hometown, their neighbours, their families and so on, till a common link was found, I had the happenings of the day narrated to me. The frail old woman’s eye was apparently pushed so far in that they had to use an ear-bud to check her vision. Turns out it was her husband.

So I’m sitting there right now, with the girls having gone to get the door again so that other disguised relatives can come in, except cats. No G.I. ever dressed as a cat. Most of them are penguins and fawns; one is a golf ball bleeding at the forehead and another is a belly dressed in a thread and bleeding at the forehead. All I can discern from their loud interruption is that the only thing left unchanged in the frail old woman is her sincerity as a mid-wife.

“Sriman Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“Sriman Narayana” says the big fat woman.
“Come children, its time to deliver” says the frail old woman...

Man I hate them.

* So they wrap themselves in cloth and pastors to look human and reproduce. If Adam and Eve were the only two fat nude [people] created by Elrond Hubbell (scientology must be given its dues), it is obvious and scientific that one of them - Adam - must be the pastor and the other must be wrapped with him. Hence the age-old tradition.