I'm MiKajal Jackson

Just when I was fantasizing about Ajay Devgan's actress wife, thunder-thighed Kajal, dreaming of our honeymoon, and wild nights of passionate love-making and vase-breaking, what does my stupid sexretary come and do - she not only catches me in a compromising position with my portable hard drive, but she also breaks the news that our sleuths, in conjunction with forensics experts have come to the shocking conclusion that THIS indeed is American child-molester, and sometime King of Plop [he nearly dropped his baby], Michael Jackson. I am disgusted with myself. Remind me to beat up the likes of Cory Walia and Mickey Contractor - bloody makeup.



Evidence in favor of our report included the trademark hand on the crotch, badly done eyebrows, a black robe traditionally worn by the female of the species, and of course, that uncanny facial resemblance.

Other sources tell us MKaJal was moonwalking at this party - isn't THAT proof enough? Here's a close-up to convince the doubting Thomases:



What's Michael Jackson doing in Bollywood, trying to pass off as Kajal? Wasn't he supposed to be buying lingerie in Bahrain or something? Where's the Al Jeera network when you need it most?

Rooter No. 1, And A "Family Photograph" of Jeetendra's umm...Family

My girlfriend, Wow Tse Tung and I often have Bollywood sex, where she tries to run away from me, but me being the male of the species, I catch up, and pin her down, firmly, only to plant a kiss on her forehead, and then get back to our exercise routine. Without trees, there would be no Hindi movies. And the physical aspect of it would explain why Mamta Kulkarni never made it big in Bollywood.

Why this is relevant is because of the fact that the piece of equipment that sexes up my network, the ubiquitous Rooter [NO ref to plumbers], is on vacation. Luckily, my lap-topless-dancer has a modem, and I finally figured out which hose waters the hole best.

My guru, Baba HaramDev told me that because of bad karma, in my next life, I will be an inanimate piece of computer equipment. All I hope for is that I'm reborn as a rooter. A lean, mean router, whose every cavity is filled with fluid love.

Anyway, we've been off topic again, so lets pay our Bollywood friends a visit.



Here's the fabulous Kapoor family. Mummy Shobha's an elephant, daddy Jumpin' Jack Jeetu is an ambassador for Svetambaras and pointy-toed boots, daughter Ektaa Kapoor could've been a successful Bollywood actress who chose to make TV serials that make me puke but are nonetheless highly successful, and beta Tushar Kapoor has the looks of my servant, Ramu, but fortune I could only dream of. God bless them. I mean it. :-O

Yeh To Khushi Ke Aansoo Hain [All Your Tears Are Belong To Joy]...

I was over at DesiKartik's Bollywood orgy, when my sexretary told me, "SirJi, DesiKriti is ALIVE!". DesiKirti is ALICE, she'd typed, but my sharp brain picked up the typo straight away. Yes, I solve puzzles like that in a matter of seconds. And seconds are the only undies I will purchase, because new ones are just overpriced.

What is DesiCritics? Why would an important person like me with a fabulous sex life be worried about DesiCritics, you might ask?



Because, my secretary tells me, I spent a small fortune on getting this article on Wal-Mart ghost-written by an Indian content-writer. GO READ IT, unless you fancy death by firang squad.

As for the picture, that's Hanu-amaan Lamba, founder of DC, who was visiting me for some spiritual guidance. H.H., The Dalai Lama just doesn't cut it these days. The multi-colored boxes cover my privates, if you're wondering...

Ghai Makes A Subh_Ass of Himself, But Manages To Give Humpty Dumpty A Run For His Money

I think old-time Bollywood beauty, geisha-like Rekha Aunty is trying to tell Bollywood director/producer, Uncle Subhash Ghai that he's no Mithun Punker-Bertie [not Mr. Wooster, from the PG Wodehouse classics]. If I was Subhash uncle, I would listen to Rekha-san [don't be teaching me Japanese grammar :-@], who can always tell the Real McCoy from the chappu chappantikli. She once correctly identified Queeny Dhody as -hold your breath - Queeny Dhody, when the whole world, including Mohammed Al Fayed and myself thought it was the ghost of Princess Diana's late boyfriend, Dodi Al Fayed in a dress.

Coming back to Subh_AssJi, look at those feet, those arms, those graceful movements. Such energy, such rhythm. Sch(ia)muck betey, rasta naapo. SubhassJi, I 'cordially' invite you to my toddler, Calf Tse Tung's "annual day" function at his pre-nursery school, whenever Calf-Tse Tung decides to paradrop from a StorkJet.

70% Bonus Pack:
Yes, extra doodh in today's milk packet. No tetrapaks for us Indians.
Squishy Cooper and Need-U Sing's [she needs me, and I need a sugar-momma] daughter, Riddhima Kapoor got married to this kapdewaala dude, called Bharat Sahni, Bharat Sawhney [no relation to Nitin Sawhney, my music student], and Bharat Sahani [he's Not a GUJJEW or a Bahai, yo!] in various news items. Can just one desi druggie reporter get the spelling right, for the sake of our spelling-obsessed American-Desi kiddies.

And Riddhima babby, I am disappointed. I understand that most of these Bollywood actors you had a crush on are all faggots who prefer sucking on lollipops to licking ice-cream bowls, but hey, try looking outside of Bollywood. There's me, for starters, 75% Punjabi cow, asli-ghee di chamdi, accha parivar [good pedigree], top udders, sexy tail...

Yes, back in the day, I used to sing "Riddhima's a Dancer" to the tune of Snap's "Rhythm Is A Dancer". Memories. Sigh. Riddhima Sawhney.



And then there's B-Ugh-Rat - looks more like an overfed Jat "kyon shaaney" bodyguard than a husband you'd wear on your sleeve. Nice shirt, wanktank. Who'd you steal it from? Steve Irwin? Jim Corbett?

Anyway "Ridzz" [yeah, yeah, I know how much we hate these zz suffixes, but spare a thought for ZZ Top] babby, you had your chance - now, its pretty Sonam Kapoor's turn. Mmmmmmm. SonaMmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Junkie Panda In Boobywood

Seen here is sometime Bollywood star [and Bangladeshi superstar], Chunky Pandey, aka Chumpy Panty, trying to disguise himself in a panda suit, as he puffs the magic dragon. Scandalous. I'm sure no panda would ever try and disguise itself as a Chunky Lafanga when it went on doping sprees.

Do you finally understand why there is an entity called the WWF?

Addendum: Desi Critics dot orgy, from the creators of BlogCritics dot orgy is launching on Australia Day/the Indian Republic Day, the 26th of January. Do Hazaar Cheh.
All I want from you is to read my ever-brilliant posts there. And don't upset me by reading other people's crap.