"Don't take any guff from these swine"

The Indian Premier League drew to an epic close this Sunday in a high-octane and tension charged finalé with the mighty Rajasthan Royals pipping the gutsy Chennai Super Kings. As good a match as it was, it did lay one thing to rest as far as I'm concerned (after I was forced to eat my words) — Twenty over cricket is here to stay. I won't go as far as to doff my hat to the almighty Rupee (at least in cricketing terms, it is almighty), but well done, BCCI. You once again showed how crappy infrastructure, shitty production values, infinite advertising and dumb-ass presenters and commentators are nothing compared to the sheer will-power, gusto, enthusiasm and energy of the common Indian cricket lover.

With that out of the way, I'd like to segue right to the thrust of this here post. Yes Paste, it most certainly is a blatant steal from Hunter S Thompson, but it's also the theme of my latest diatribe.

How many roads... asked Bobby D at some point when in his drug-addled stupor, he made a tiny iota of sense. The real question, dear reader, isn't about roads walked down or cannon balls or ermm... what else did he sing about? Anyway, the real question has more to do with one's own self-respect. How many times must you keep being slapped down, insulted, spat on (literally or figuratively), deceived, tricked, stabbed in the back or bitched about until you throw down those gauntlets and think, "Right, that's it... This means WAR!!"?

Now, I've dealt with facetious, insincere and spiteful people before and more often than not, I've laughed it off. I've probably been called every insult under the Sun, from the M-F stuff through racially-fueled stuff to some downright bizarre stuff like a word that begins with a J that is usually used to describe childish behaviour. But, as mentioned earlier, more often than not, I've laughed it off. But, then it reaches a point, when you actually see these lovely (!) people getting a rush from making you their patsy, from using you as their magnet for spite and from using you as a punching bag to dissipate their own insecurities. It wouldn't be so bad if these people were inconsequential piss-ants (maybe it's time they were relegated to that category), but these are people you knew, could relate to and even considered calling "friends". Yeeesh!!! And still... you continue to take it with a pinch of salt.

A long talk with a dear friend revealed to me said friend's absolute refusal to take the vengeful path and chart out (and execute) a plan to get back at those aforementioned lovely (!) people. Which, it should be added isn't necessarily a bad thing if being Gandhian or living life the Dr Martin Luther King Jr. way is your thing. So, you go along with it... for a while, until...

Until that pounding and serrated blood music begins blasting its way through your system. Yanking your stomach from where it sits comfortably under your diaphragm and out your throat with that bitter and nasty bile ebbing and flowing forth unchallenged.

Disenfranchisement.
Resentment.
Red Mist.
The 'Roy Keane Syndrome'.

"Listen you fuzzy little shithead. I've been F'd around in my time by a fairly good cross-section of mean-tempered, ill-mannered and nefariously nasty people... And now... it's MY turn. So fuck you, Sir/Madam/child... I'm in charge"

A bit of paraphrasing here or there never hurt, but hopefully, the gist of it isn't lost on you, dear reader. The fuzzy little shithead, as has probably already been guessed, is a summation of and metaphor for all those people ranging from the plastic smilers to the air-kissers to those that insincerely spout "I love you"s at anyone they see to every other facetious bastard who dared to mess with you. And that paraphrased line is an ode to all of them.

Because tomorrow is a new day.
I start a new job.
I pick new fights.
I gots me a cool new colour scheme.
Not to mention, a funky new game and a kerraaayyyy-zeee new pet.
And the fuzzy little shithead needs to find a new hobby.
My cards are firmly in my hand.
I raise.