Early morning, a stranger and I (or, our respective families) missed a double indemnity. Instead of walking, I opted for an unhealthy drive to the milk-booth. I remember putting the right-turn-signal at a sufficient distance but I do admit that I did not pay much attention to the rear-view mirrors at that early hour. When I took the turn, I missed hitting a speedy overtaking motorcycle by a narrow whisker. The ruffled gentleman, a few decades younger than me, confronted me with accusations and threats. Little did he know that I have been entertaining psychopathic murderous thoughts and that I have been itching for a fight. But, I surprised myself and the guy with “Sorry”. Before you accuse me of being decent, my parting thought was “Let him stew in hell wondering why I told him sorry.” One of us could have become a martyr so easily, the patron saint of road-rage.
One of the reasons for the psychopathic state of this Neanderthal is the ongoing struggle to communicate effectively using modern means and that too, with and without single or double meaning. I do admit that I am a linguistic mongrel but how am I to react to comments or messages with random letters, for example, consider “LOL BFF LHSX”. And, those brief messages with smile-y-s? I like to read a sentence and try to guess whether it has subtle irony or idiotic slapstick humour without these visual aids, I mean, the excessive emoticons.
The situation gets worse with the inadvertent double entendre when one sends the wrong emoticon/smiley (“:-*” or “:P” or “:D”) to the wrong recipient (your colleague abroad or your better half or the best half with whom you believe you have a ‘consensual flirtatious relationship’ (David Davidar)). What always remain on hard-drive are the lasting consequences and not the actual or implied messages.
Unfortunately, these things just don’t go (like shit on your sole, excuse my English and no pun intended) and worse, it’s usually double jeopardy (it’s déjà vu all over again, said Yogi Berra).
I blame the Yanks for these emoticons, especially the hearty and friendly type who slap you on your back on the first meeting and greet you as if you are a long lost friend with whom you share (hope to share) everything but (including) underwear if you are of the same (opposite) sex. I prefer the Brits, especially those with a penchant for stiff upper lip double talk and circumlocution. I do not say “balmy weather, old chum” but like the Brits of my own class, I treat people standing on the wrong side of the escalator with the skill of professional footballers – a dirty look along with a barely concealed snarl followed by a quick kick at the ankles and then exhibit a countenance of such angelic sangfroid. Before you accuse me of being an Anglophile, let me confess that I have clogged many an artery on double dates with jolly Germans sharing eisbein, sauerkraut and pitchers of beer. I stay away from the serious ones, German or not. As for the French, I am still trying to figure out Je t'aime... moi non plus.
Back to my early morning trials – today’s edition of The Hindu has an editorial titled “Double Standards” referring to Obama’s action with regard to the BP oil spill and inaction with regard to Union Carbide’s Anderson. Where were the protesters, the media, the government and the opposition during the last 25 years? Why should Obama even think about extraditing an American national to a banana republic where justice delayed is not justice denied? Who is responsible for this situation? Say “I am”. If you say anything else, I will call you double faced. I do not like to think too much about such matters – of the people, by the people, for the people. I believed in the judicial system till it treated me with contempt (and the old judges who condemn as if they are doing you a favour, “Young man, I am taking just a few years of your life.”) I believed once but I no longer live that fool’s life.
Now, I kill time cursing the stars and my double helix. I know I can lose my last penny with a double dip recession. For economists, it is like roulette – yes or no, black or white, both are good bets and the stakes are high. There is of course the black swan, the dealer’s zero. For others, it is more like Russian roulette.
I am still trying to recover from the shock of the first two sets of yesterday’s Federer-Falla fight. I do not like underdogs, including myself. How many times did I pray for Falla to commit double faults?
What is left are pettier troubles – how to share a double bed for the usual price; and, how to claim that a double chin makes a well-rounded figure.
As for double u, that’s the way I like to see you – after a few pegs of Glenfiddich (whichever year, in a cut glass highball tumbler or a plastic cup – do I look like I give a damn (Casino Royale)?).
While I have the double, I like to hear Oberstleutnant Anton Grubitz say in that wonderful movie The Lives of Others (Das Leben Der Anderen):
“I have to show you something: "Prison Conditions for Subversive Artists: Based on Character Profile". Pretty scientific, eh? And look at this: "Dissertation Supervisor, A. Grubitz". That's great, isn't it? I only gave him a B. They shouldn't think getting a doctorate with me is easy. But his is first-class. Did you know that there are just five types of artists? Your guy, Dreyman, is a Type 4, a "hysterical anthropocentrist." Can't bear being alone, always talking, needing friends. That type should never be brought to trial. They thrive on that. Temporary detention is the best way to deal with them. Complete isolation and no set release date. No human contact the whole time, not even with the guards. Good treatment, no harassment, no abuse, no scandals, nothing they could write about later. After 10 months, we release. Suddenly, that guy won't cause us any more trouble. Know what the best part is? Most type 4s we've processed in this way never write anything again. Or paint anything, or whatever artists do. And that without any use of force. Just like that. Kind of like a present.”
I know what you would like to ask me: “Why did you include that? Is it a double-edged argument or are you doing a double take?”
No, my dear. Simply. Because I can.
Simply – that reminds me of:
Why did the duck cross the road?
Simply.
Why did the duck cross the road and cross it back?
It is a double-crosser.
Why did the duck cross the road, cross it back and then enter a dirty pool?
It is a dirty double-crosser.
Why did the duck cross the road, cross it back, enter a dirty pool and then leave the pool to cross the road yet again?
Simply.
This was an entry for the Annual P-J Competition eons back. (Note: P-J is “poor joke” or in the vernacular “ulutha-wittu”.) The winning entry was:
What comes after 69? Mouthwash.
I don’t never go.
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