Watcha gonna do when they come for you?

Let’s get something straight. Osama bin Laden, the head honcho of Al-Qaeda Pvt. Ltd. and Pakistan’s most profitable resident since Veena Malik (although more respected because his career didn’t involve sucking face with Ashmit Patel) is dead, and that is a good thing. Sure, his death does not signal the end of terrorism, and yes, Al-Qaeda will soon find a dynamic, strong and fearless leader (Sources say that they are keen on Sourav Ganguly)
But spare me the wishy-washy, pseudo-liberal quotes about how it was wrong to shoot an unarmed man, because the only thing worth saying now is this: Dear Pakistan. Let’s talk. Face to face. Even though that may be difficult for you, having been in a bent-over position since America stuffed that first dollar bill down your G-string.
The facts are simple: Contrary to popular expectations, Osama did not die in some Waziristan cave due to goat-transmitted herpes. No, he had been living in a million-dollar home in a cantonment town, barely a kilometre away from the Pakistan Military Academy, which may as well be renamed to the Pakistani Mujra Academy.
As expected with an event of this magnitude, there has been an unrelenting barrage of reports all week. So let’s take a quick look at some key incidents:
1. Sohaib Athar, an IT professional who had moved to Abbottabad seeking peace and quiet, hears choppers and gunfire in his neighbourhood. And compelled by his internet addiction, he unknowingly live-tweets the assassination of the world’s most wanted man. As a reward for his efforts, Poonam Pandey offers to strip for him.
2. Barack Obama announces to the world that Osama is dead, taking credit in a way that would make Vidhu Vinod Chopra proud. George Bush, who actually launched the manhunt, now feels like the guy who walked up to the hot chick at a bar and plied her with drinks, only to have her leave with the black guy.
3. Following the announcement, Obama’s approval ratings go through the roof. Later that night, he and the missus celebrate with a special role-play night involving a Navy SEAL outfit and a bin Laden mask.
4. In a rare display of honesty, America admits that Osama was actually hunted down and killed by Arnab Goswami.
5. Digvijay Singh, the Congress’s version of the loudmouth uncle who gets shitfaced at every family function, now steps up to the plate, expressing “regret” at Osama being buried without proper religious rites. What the hell are proper religious rites for a terrorist? Giving them a wildcard entry on MTV Roadies?
6. Pakistan denies having any prior information about Operation Geronimo, and insists that it was a violation of “Pakistan’s sovereignty”, a phrase about as meaningful as “Kanimozhi’s innocence” or “Kamran Akmal’s fielding”.
7. Pakistan also warns India that any Geronimo-like attempts to take out Dawood (who by the way, is totally not living in Karachi) will prove to be a huge mistake. This is the equivalent of a leper threatening to rip *your* face off.
8. Osama’s youngest wife seeks to begin life afresh with another man – someone with similar interests, someone who has a comfy home and most importantly, will not die on her anytime soon. In other words she will soon start dating Kasab.
The only way Pakistanis can turn their fortunes around is if they submit to the will of the Almighty, and realise that no matter what they do, He will be watching them. Once he’s done hosting Newshour............yes of course i m talking about Arnab Goswami 

Waiter, there’s a snob in my coffee!

I feel like you should know that while writing this column, I was not wearing any pants. That’s because I often use an ancient writing technique known as ‘working from home’, which is also what Rahul Gandhi must feel like every time he’s in Parliament. (Although he must keep his pants on at all times, unless there is a secret deal with the DMK that stipulates otherwise)
However, this work-from-home business gets weird after a while, especially when I start hearing voices in my head, all of which are telling me to go shower. That’s when it’s time to head to the refuge most favoured by nomadic professionals – the coffee shop.
Except that there’s no damn coffee to be found.
OK, I’ll rephrase. I can’t seem to find coffee that tastes like the stuff I used to drink years ago, i.e. in the pre-coffee chain days, when people thought ‘Macchiato’ was some Punjabi swearword.
Over the years, I’ve tried to make my peace with the mud-flavoured bile they serve in coffee shops, simply because I need caffeine like Kamran Akmal needs catch practice. Without caffeine in my system, I’m just a life-sized paperweight (Like Sohail Khan, who also doubles up as a door-stopper)
But this means having to deal with a bunch of flavours and add-ons that I’m sure are intended as a ‘happy’ distraction, sort of like your stalker having the courtesy to wear your favourite cologne.
So there I am, in line at a coffee shop, with a deadline looming large and my brain functioning at the speed of Andheri traffic.
Me: *hnnnzzz* Want… coffee… I… do.
At this point, the Universe unleashes upon me an attendant with extraordinary morning cheer, the kind that is acceptable only if your mornings involve waking up next to Scarlett Johansson.
Attendant: Sir, what kind of coffee would you like? You should try out the Grande Muchas Frappacino Hazelnut Ethiopian Ninja Nitrate Mpumelelo Mbangwa Blend -
Me: Don’t you have regular coffee? Y’know, just coffee, milk, sugar…
Attendant: No Sir, but I’ll throw in some coca leaves picked by Columbian midgets and top it off with fresh cream derived from Angelina Jolie’s breast milk.
Me: Sigh. Yes, whatever. I’ll have that.
Attendant: Sir, what size do you want? It is coming in Small, Medium, Large, Extra-large and Holy Mother of God, What Are You A Buffalo?
Also, if there’s one thing that fuels creativity apart from caffeine, it’s food. The right food does wonders for the imagination. In fact, the great sculptor Michelangelo was inspired to create David after devouring a sausage platter. (However, as you can tell, the portions were quite small)
In that respect, one of my favourite writing haunts would have to be the erstwhile JATC at Bandra. It scored over most coffee shops simply because it offered options other than ‘chicken-flavoured rubber strip between two slices of sandpaper’.
Of course, now it has transformed into the fancy EATC, boasting of a lovely, gulag-style boundary wall, and a management that wouldn’t take kindly to writers sitting around for hours, refining their anatomy-based punchlines.
With no other options in sight, I guess coffee shops will continue to be my workplace for a while. So if you’re out at one, and notice a convict-type fellow hunched over a laptop, feel free to come up and say hello. In fact, get me a coffee while you’re at it. Home-made, please.