War of the pimbles
I used to have a beautiful goatee (beard). Now, I don't. Thanks to the dirty pimbles. I am being tormented by rascally pimbles. Tiny, err...kinda biggish, roundish, red-pinkish globules of my skin, mushrooming out of my face, threatening to be extra noses. There's one on my left cheek. Looks like, it's been going to the gym, turning tough! Rough and thick and crusty.
There's a family of pimbles living on my chin. They live like long-lost relatives on either side of the cleft on my chin, like India and Pakistan, separated by the cleft of the Rann of Kutcch.
Nuisance mongers. When in the train, random objects would come n nudge at it, as if people knew how much it disturbed me and were purposely doing it to quench their thirst for sadistic pleasure. The last time I expressed my anger was when the lady with the basket of chickoos brushed her basket against the pimble on my left cheek. Cheekoos! Bah!
It is tougher at night. Groggy with sleep, when the existence of the pimble has surpassed my memory, I set my head onto the pillow, the very side that the pimble sits and clasp my hand over my mouth, not to wake up my folks.
The pimbles had started mating and creating new offsprings near and around the place that they now live, the result of which is my new, clean-shaven look. And how difficult it was to shave without upsetting the pimbles! It was like tiptoeing into a room full of sleeping chicken warming their eggs, when you have to jump over stacks of hay and still not make the tiniest of thumps. Plying the razor blade over the stubble without touching the irritations felt like riding a bicycle on a railway track.
The Government of India and the NASA called upon me last night. The said they feared that the pimbles are the handiwork of certain Martians who landed on Earth a few eons ago. They said they wanted to quarantine me, like they did to all those eggs supposedly infected with bird flu (lol, imagine the chicken going atissue, atissue!) they asked me to take my dearest thing with me. I told my baby sparrow to pack her bags.
I used to have a beautiful goatee (beard). Now, I don't. Thanks to the dirty pimbles. I am being tormented by rascally pimbles. Tiny, err...kinda biggish, roundish, red-pinkish globules of my skin, mushrooming out of my face, threatening to be extra noses. There's one on my left cheek. Looks like, it's been going to the gym, turning tough! Rough and thick and crusty.
There's a family of pimbles living on my chin. They live like long-lost relatives on either side of the cleft on my chin, like India and Pakistan, separated by the cleft of the Rann of Kutcch.
Nuisance mongers. When in the train, random objects would come n nudge at it, as if people knew how much it disturbed me and were purposely doing it to quench their thirst for sadistic pleasure. The last time I expressed my anger was when the lady with the basket of chickoos brushed her basket against the pimble on my left cheek. Cheekoos! Bah!
It is tougher at night. Groggy with sleep, when the existence of the pimble has surpassed my memory, I set my head onto the pillow, the very side that the pimble sits and clasp my hand over my mouth, not to wake up my folks.
The pimbles had started mating and creating new offsprings near and around the place that they now live, the result of which is my new, clean-shaven look. And how difficult it was to shave without upsetting the pimbles! It was like tiptoeing into a room full of sleeping chicken warming their eggs, when you have to jump over stacks of hay and still not make the tiniest of thumps. Plying the razor blade over the stubble without touching the irritations felt like riding a bicycle on a railway track.
The Government of India and the NASA called upon me last night. The said they feared that the pimbles are the handiwork of certain Martians who landed on Earth a few eons ago. They said they wanted to quarantine me, like they did to all those eggs supposedly infected with bird flu (lol, imagine the chicken going atissue, atissue!) they asked me to take my dearest thing with me. I told my baby sparrow to pack her bags.
2 comments:
Nice. Good to see your old Hari Humour back! Loved this entry.
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