Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Asha Rajaratnam Has a BIZ To Do...With Me!

I guess she forgot about my allergies!

It's 10AM on a Monday morning and I'm sound asleep at my desk, head tucked into my folded arms atop the keyboard and the phone turned down as low as possible so I won't be disturbed by the shrill and strident yapping of the faceless, odorless, and tasteless corporate tards as they try and figure out just what the source of their vociferous disagreement really is. And then there it is again: that feeling that some company security mole is watching me sleep on the job from inside the computer monitor. Slowly I open a rheumy eye: the Powerpoint charts are right where I left them, on slide 1, and I curse my ineptitude for not clicking the mouse every few minutes to at lease give someone, a spying executive perhaps, the idea that I'm following along, albeit at my own pace.

I close the eye and WHOOSH, I am instantaneously swept into a deep dream state where I lie, or lay, completely and utterly buck naked on the hardwood floor of the modest entry way to our million dollar double wide in San Anselmo, my fingers caressing the holes on a pair of wing tip shoes. Women's wing tips. it appears, from the odd and even numbers of holes in the toes. And I realize instantly that this is the woman I have been waiting for - not the slimy and odoriferous Yeung Lap Ming from the cold and desolate abandoned missile sites in the deep forests of North Korea. No! Even if The Lap Dancer is really a cross-dresser coerced into a false identity and a life of 419 fraud as a result of owning a very seductive and feminine voice, this can't possibly be him. Or her. (Is Yeung a chick's name? How am I supposed to know this shit?) No, this can be no other than the lovely, tempting and emotionally available Asha Rajaratnam!

My heart felt as if it might come squirting out my ass. (Actually the floor was a little damp already from the liberation a few drops of pee pee in the nerve-wracking buildup to what surely was to be a joyous feasting on each others flesh there, naked on the cool hardwood floor.) Joyous with expectation,  I let my fingers take a jaunty little stroll up the wing tips, pausing now and then to do a little chorus line kick. This is fun, I thought, lying on the cool hardwood floor absolutely ridiculously buck naked pretending my pinkies are a junior chorus line on what I hope are Asha Rajaratnam's wing tips. I grin, very very quietly and with my lips closed so as not to let the glare of my synthetically enhanced pearly whites illuminate the room.

Now I am thinking of the lovely note she has sent me. The note that so affectionately and warmly uses that lovingly romantic salutation from the hill country of the Poonjabb:

Namaste, (There's nothing quite like words of love in Poonjabber)

No leftovers for my Poonjabbi Princess!
My name is Asha Rajaratnam, I am the wife of Raj Rajaratnam founder of  the Galleon Group, New York. I do have a proposal for you,which would be of financial benefits to you and myself. My husband has been jailed in the U.S for 11 years,I need your assistance to help me move some funds from Holland to India  or anywhere where it would at least be of some help to our family. I would give you more details of this proposal if you show yourself willing to take on it,I assure you that you would most certainly be compensated but please I would kindly request you to keep this matter confidential. I am currently here in the UK where it is a bit safe for me and my kids. You can reach me on my personal email id which is asharajaratnam@rocketmail.com

Sincere regards,

Asha  Rajaratnam

By the time I'm finished recalling every luscious word of her entreaty to me, my hands are up around her thighs, and I have clearly gotten to the point where my little Poonjabbi princess stops shaving, for now it feels like I am caressing the legs of a young wooki. And, though I admit I wasn't paying very close attention when I was lost in my reverie of everlasting love, there's no way these linebacker legs could belong to the girl I've seen in pictures attached to the Pillsbury Poonjabi Raj "Rubber Face" Rajaratnam.

If they are not the legs of my new and truly beloved Punjabber Weenie Grabber, then whose are they? Then, consistent with the entire parade of cruel juxtapositions I've been victim to ever since someone knocked upon my door, I am overwhelmed by the smell: a virulent, acrid strain of eau d' WD40 that puckers my nostrils and sets my anus on fire.

OMG is this love? Does this sudden realization that the former wife of one of the 21st century's fattest corporate crooks wears wing tips, hasn't shaved her butt in decades, and farts like a wildcatter stranded on a oil platform with tattooed Louisiana pirates constitute that which I have been missing with my mail order Siberian bride?

It is at this moment of weakness that I hear a chuckle, soft at first,  then slowly growing louder. I look up and see that indeed I am holding the hair of extraordinarily beautiful Punjabi Princess - her real hair, the hair on her head which cascades down her back, so long that I have mistaken it for steroidal pubic hair. She smiles and whispers "I have a BIZ to do...with you" and bingo: there's that dampness again. But before I can leap into her arms a voice comes from behind:

"As do I, my ignorant, disrespectful American blogger.  As...do...I..."

Oh for fuck's sake, I cry out loud. When this BIZ ever going to end and by the way would somebody please turn on the fucking lights?

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