Babuji Rani

Every evening, without fail, something sneaks out under my neighbours door, up my walls and through the screens on my windows into my apartment, saturating it so completely that I can’t walk in any direction without stepping in it. It is the sound of intense hip movement, occasioned by the jangling of trinkets and the eventual but ever-so-certain wailings of two voices in a crazed match to tap the most unnatural pitch known to humanity. My neighbour is eighty. And I’m getting terribly tired of being forced to listen in on his Indian movies every night. I wouldn’t mind the dialogue so much (I can say chom chom) if it wasn’t for the unspoken rule that that the entire cast should break out into mad singing and dancing after the opening credits. Today I just might go and talk to bollydude about his unhealthy passion. Or maybe I should just assume that he has a hearing impairment and leave him be.

Speaking of bad sounds, there’s a new song by tattuu called ‘Songea’. Sample a choice lyrical segment.
‘Tunasonga juu, before you know it moto. Move on (repeat until you feel unclean)’...

It is a sad day when we allow such spectacularly evil work out to the detriment of the public. Masochists and other lovers of painful pleasure should feel free to listen to this delightful tune, and rest assured, your ears WILL bleed. Grant me the permission to revoke my nationality for the spell in which this song is played. I feel so violated.