Rambodoc at large

If you are in an Indian train and want to smoke but are too scared to, just walk till the coach where all the Railway Police chaps sit and smoke bidis. That is the written smoking zone, because they stand right beneath the stern signs promising eternal damnation in jail for even thinking of cigarettes. If law makers think the Law is in the toilet, just can it, yaar! At this rate, the Railways cops will get so bribe-rich that they will be able to afford my surgery, I can't help thinking. Now it is another matter that I am mostly unable to travel in trains these days, though I absolutely love the combination of the exotoxin-demo-model food packet and the gas chamber that they quaintly call a toilet. Lots of people also feel get free exotoxin demos, and the resultant Kumbh Mela to the toilets makes it look very cultural (bacterial culture, presumably, though no studies have assessed this), very La-loo. As I said, I love this pottic justice. Before I dig further in this toil yet, I must stop these lateral excretions of the mind. Reminds me that there is a smart bowler in the England cricket team called Sidebottom. How he manages, I don't know. If he comes into one of these Waterlaloos (say when going from Kolkata to the Keenan Stadium, Jamshedpur for a match), he would find it so easy. Like those delightful guys from the Western states of India who squirt 168 ml of paan juice a clear six meters away in one visually appealing parabolic curve, and just like those fountains in Disneylands that suddenly squirt water six meters up from the ground in a short epileptic jerk. 'Spity! Disney could employ these guys instead. Imagine the awe with which fat kids from all over the world will go to Disneyland (ice creams melting in lingual neglect) just to watch the Patels, Jaiswals and Jhanjharias play rallies with paan juice. And for an additional dollar-forty, you can even see how they can do this, both of them, while talking simultaneously on the cell phone and driving their long cars. If your head is periodically used as a replacement when superstitious people want to touch something for luck, the import of the above is to wonder that if these guys can put two fingers on their lips and squirt like a cobra of the genus Naja, it spans the imagination as to how they will manage the exotoxin-induced diarrhea in an Indian train journey. There should a video of this in You Tube.
Let us, however, get back on track to Side Bottom. Now, this is getting assinine, and before the bottom drops out, and the pungent odors of my wordsmith-ry with moreass words reek, let me plug the verbal diarrhea, just like when I travel in an Indian train. Screw Side Bottom, I got sidetracked!