Fans of the reebooted franchise may have guessed what the post is about just by the title. I am now one of the scores of people who have been rocked on the edge by ‘The Dark Knight’, Christopher Nolan’s continuing saga on Gotham’s city’s legendary knight in polyester mesh armor. Not only am I giving it both of my incredibly large thumbs poised in the upright position, I have been running through my friends borrowing THEIR thumbs for similar acts of praise.

Why so late?

Well, as much as I am a Hollywood nutcase whom some consider as a prime candidate for the reel-size looney bin, I am not the kind of nut who jumps in nose first in front of the movie line for the movies. I like to wait. My nuttiness lies in a different direction. I watched the movie just last week.

Why so stupid?

What are you calling stupid? The plot was brilliant, the performances were brilliant, direction was incredible, and..

I meant the photo you put up…

Hey, watch it, there. I didn’t have a billion dollar industry backing me up. I just had a mobile-cam snap of myself and Paint Shop Pro to edit it up. Let’s stay on track here. We’re talking about the movie. THE movie. The movie in which I was having such high expectations that I was beginning to wonder whether I was putting too much hope on it…

Why so hopeful?

Well, it’s a movie by Christopher Nolan, who, as far as I can think, has yet been incapable of delivering a bad movie. His movie, ‘Memento’ had blown my mind away and had me canvassing for it so irritatingly that to this day, most of my friends figure I was being paid on the sly by Nolan himself. To add to that, ‘The Dark Knight’ had fished up a talent pool of amazing actors, including Christian Bale, Michael Caine, Aaron Eckhart, Gary Oldman, and the late Heath Ledger, who were all legends of their own right, spinning the tale of another legend. I just had to find out what was up the bend…

Why so curious?

The last Batman movie, ‘Batman Begins’, had such a unique spin on marrying the legend with ground realities that it was quite difficult for me to think how the story could be carried forward in the same vein. I had momentary bouts of doubts, but they pulled it off. And how!! I am familiar with the comic book version of the characters, and it is quite a feat to bring them, particularly the lunatic Joker down to a realistic menace. Jack Nicholson played an excellent version of the clown prince of crime in Tim Burton’s ‘Batman’, but the menace was a caricature at best. That style and tone wouldn’t have suited the Nolan atmosphere. And Heath Ledger made his final performance one that would last the ages…

Why so brilliant?

Aside from the fact that his performance inspired me to spend hours tinkering with my photo to bring out the little Joker in me, Heath has done more for this role than I could ever have imagined. The new Joker is no laughing matter. In this scarred apparition, we feel a rare grade of terror that is quite unsurpassed. We see the mind of a psychotic demented sadist; a performance rivaling even Sir Anthony Hopkins’ Hannibal or Kevin Spacey’s John Doe. The scenes of actual violence and gore, such as the actual administration of the Glasgow Smiles don’t take place on screen, but we feel the hit nevertheless. His impact is so lasting that the residual fear you carry with you can make you shudder days after the watch.

Why so tragic?

Heath Ledger has underscored his performance as the Joker to be the last in his career. He passed away on the 22 January 2008, a victim of accidental OD. If he were alive, his career would have catapulted like crazy. Plus, I would have loved to see him return in the next Batman installment.

Why so excited?

You would be too, if you’d seen the movie. Right after I finished my first watch, I wanted to pen in my thoughts. I had to write. I had to share. I had to scare (So BOO!). The way the Joker interrupts the mobsters’conference and….No, dammit. I shouldn’t reveal that. But it was brilliant. When Bruce Wayne had to go incognito to China and takes a… no, no… can’t reveal that either. But trust me, it was brilliant. Just as brilliant as the final battle where the Joker…. Aaaarghh!!! What in blazes? Isn’t there anything I can write about? Not fair. I think I’m going to go sulk for a while.

Why so comical?

Hey, for the last time. This is not about me. Stop with the personal attacks. I am trying to be serious here.

Why so serious?

Yeah. You’re right. Why so serious? Let’s put a smile on that face!

It was time. No threatening work looming over my head, an increasing pile of messy junk cluttering my room, and an artificially extended weekend for me to cool off. It was time to tip my hat off to Bangalore for a while and pop by the ol’ ancestral abode back down south in Cochin.

Of course, I am using the term ‘ancestral’ rather loosely. I guess the proper use of the term implies an age old structure that had sheltered the clan for generations. Such a structure does not exist in my case. My parents live in a modern creation that my dad built with his own bare hands; hands which he basically used to guide the construction workers.

But with your permission, which I shall take for granted, I shall proceed to continue with this slight lexical deception. It was time to login to the ancestral abode and enjoy a bit of smothering care. As with most things in my life, including my decision to do an MBA, this was also an impulsive decision. But experienced commuters would readily testify that this is not the healthiest option you could hope for.

A trip from Bangalore to Cochin is usually the culmination of months of planning. If the desired date of journey happens to be a Friday, which is so often the case, train tickets get sold out at least a month in advance. Even bus tickets are sold out around a week in advance. And here I was, dreaming of a Friday ticket as late as Thursday. Which meant I was looking at the prospect of traveling in a ‘special bus’.

There is a special kind of dread that clutches the mind of a person holding a ‘special bus’ ticket. A ‘special bus’, in this context, refers to an overpriced wheelbarrow with 72 terrified passengers pondering over the merits of suicide. And I had the dubious distinction of holding the LAST seat available for the LAST bus out to Cochin. Just getting aboard the contraption should entitle me to a daredevil status.

When I reached the point of departure, my heart sank, not that it was floating about merrily before that.

“Excuse me, sir. Is that a bus?”

“Huh? You mean… is that the bus to Cochin… right?”

“No. First things first. Is that A bus?”

“?? Errr… yeah.”

“Ok. Now… Is that the ‘special bus’ to Cochin?”

“Yup. That’s it alright. We’ll start boarding in a few minutes.”

“Ok. Thank you. Call me when that starts. I’ll be over there. I need to bang my head on that tree stump a few thousand times.”

The bus in question was not yet complete in the truest sense of the word. As I was looking on, a guy in dirty khaki trousers was fitting headlights on the vehicle. Parts of it had not been painted yet, and there was a complete absence of the customary number plate usually used to identify the vehicle. I presume it was out drying somewhere.

There was a driver on board, who was doing his bit in the form of turning the key and banging the dashboard with what appeared to be a set of books. I had the stark suspicion that this guy was not professional by nature. What clued me in was that he was sounding the horn on a frequent basis although the bus was stationary and there was nothing in its way. Also, he was shirtless. The dashboard mercifully hid the rest of him, so I can only assume – and pray – that he was at least half-clothed.

It finally gurgled itself to life, much to the amazement of onlookers, some of whom were taking snapshots of the old relic. And as predicted, I found that I had just about the worst seat on board. As I prepared for the eleven hour journey, I found myself praying.

To say the ride was a bumpy one was like saying the Pacific Ocean was slightly moist. I learned the basics of low altitude somersaults that night. The bus seemed like it had been assigned the task of finding all the bumps from Bangalore to Cochin. If that was the case, it did a pretty good job. And every time it went over a bump, I flew through the air with the greatest of ease. As with most flights, the real trouble was the landing. It takes particular skill in landing back on your seat without hurting your back. A couple of times, I fell right smack on the armrest. Do NOT try that at home.

When the going gets tough, the tough gets roughed up. To top it all, the whole journey extended to 16 hours.

And yet, here I am, tapping away on my laptop. BACK in Bangalore, and with an X-ray showing ‘no permanent injuries’. A second leash on life. A new day,  a new start. Woo hoo! Time to CELEBRATE! What do I do? WHAT do I do? What do I do? Hmm… Maybe I can visit Cochin tomorrow.

In my last article, I had said I’d be adopting the demented brain structure of the Hollywood idiot who decided to make a movie by combining movie franchises, a la Alien v/s Predator. I wasn’t quite serious about it at the time, but the more I look into the empty abyss in my pocket, the more I realize I need to write a novel that can be turned into a star-studded money-spinning mega-blockbuster on whose royalties I can live on for the rest of my life. So if any of you happen to know a Hollywood agent, show him this draft of my novel after maybe three bottles of his favorite poison. But let him know this is just a draft copy –

Chapter 1

The starship enterprise crashes into a Klingon spaceship infested by aliens. Captain Kirk notices that all Klingons have weird animatronics figures clasping their faces. They conduct some experiments to know more about the species.

“What do you make of this, Spock?”

“An alien lifeform that bleeds acid, grows fast, and incubates other species to propagate itself. And we have at least 200 Klingons infected by these beings. Fascinating.”

“Really? Fascinating?? You weren’t that moved last week when we saw the six headed space monkey chase his tail. What makes this so fascinating?”

“Because, Captain, this means we are all going to die.”

“What?? What the… damn you and your emotionless face. Are you sure about this?”

“Positive, Captain. I’m sure that by Chapter two, we would all have died and our ship would have crashed into some planet.”

Chapter 2

And of course, the planet just ‘happens to be’ Earth. The crash was so intense that most of the planet itself is wiped out. There were few survivors, but lucky for our movie producers, they were all celebrities, except the token defenseless kids, Jack and… Jill (I’m the king of original names).

Jack: There’s something out there. And it knows we’re here. I think we should call for help. Use the stellar communications unit made by… (well, whichever company pays highest to endorse the movie.)

Jill: I’m trying, dammit. I keep getting some weird message every time I try to operate this thing. Some idiot keeps saying “E.T. Phone home” over and over…

Suddenly they see a space pod crash land into the river nearby. They don’t realize it, but we see that it’s the predator, looking for some good hunting action in the newly alien infested planet. It uses its infrared vision to locate aliens. It sees at least two dozen of it jumping up and down in the forest nearby.

The aliens have started killing everybody in sight. And still more are lost in the hi-tech warfare launched by the predator. All the survivors meet up at one location, conveniently close to Jack and Jill.

Jill: Hey, aren’t you guys Jay and Kay from the Men In Black operation?

Kay: Umm… hey, lookey here. Right into this shiny metallic tube. <FIZZZZZzzzz> There are no aliens. An alien spaceship did not land on earth and launch ugly creatures into the planet. Those creatures do NOT bleed acid. They did not attract other hunter aliens from another movie franchise. They did not wipe out half the world population. And we are not stranded with few of the remaining people on the planet. Aliens are not running around killing us all like John Goodman at a buffet table. And agent Jay did NOT just pee in his pants.

Jay: Sorry, Kay

Chapter 3

Jack: Jill, we are in big trouble. The aliens have already wiped out MIB, the pentagon, and the predator is riding around in Kit, from the Knight Rider series. We are running out of celebrities. I’m not sure we can make a good impact on the public from what happened to Mork from Ork.

Jill: I don’t even want to think about it. All he said was nanoo-nanoo, and the predator went ballistic on him.

Jack: I’m not sure getting movie icons killed is going to give this movie good ratings. Too late now. There goes Scooby Doo and the gang.

Scooby: Rowr. Raggy. Rat wasn’t a rooby nack. Re-he-he-he-he. Yelp!

Ethan Hunt: Man, oh, man. When will you learn? “Your mission should you choose to accept it…” , when the recording talks about aliens which bleed acid and have already killed half the world, you say NO. Dammit, Ethan…

Ross: I don’t get it. What are WE doing here? I thought this only included movie stars. We are TV people, everyone!

Monica: Dammit. We’re stuck here without the laughter track, surrounded by deadly aliens.

Joey: I wonder what they taste like.

Phoebe: I think Ross is right. What kind of stupid author would put the cast of a sitcom in an alien battle movie, and then take out the laughter track?? The author must me a moron.

Rachel: That doesn’t matter. We are in this mess, so the best we can do is to NOT piss off the author. Ok, everyone?

Chandler: Yeah, right. Like that matters. Can we BE any more deader? The author must have more screws loose in his head than…

BOOM. A misguided missile from the predator’s shoulder pad wipes them out, which is weird because the predator was in another county at that time.

Chapter 5

Lighting strikes, thunder blasts, and a silver DeLorean shows up from nowhere, with smoke coming up from all sides. The door opens and two figures climb out.

Marty McFly: Err… doc. What time zone are we at?

Doc Brown: Great Scott, Marty. This is our not too distant future. Our planet is doomed.

Marty: Enough of that. Let’s just get back in the car and take off to the 60s.

And the DeLorean disappears into the night, leaving two streaks of fire marking the time machine’s path.

Jack: We just keep losing more and more people here. All the big names are just showing up in cameo shots with largely short and fatal roles. This is not… I mean NOT the way to write a movie. And he can’t even count straight. What the hell happened to Chapter 4?

Jill: Shhh… Jack, are you crazy?? Don’t you remember what happened to the cast of ‘Friends’?

Jack: Oh… yeah. I mean this story is great. It will have movie audiences going wild. I think Hollywood should just come and cover the author with diamonds and buy the script.

Chapter 6

Fox Mulder: Well, Scully? Do you see? Do you understand now?

Scully: Hot dang. The truth really was out there! Who would have thought of that?

Rocky Balboa: I know it sounds stupid, but I need to show them I’m not a has-been. I need to prove myself. I need to arrange a boxing match between me and the predator.

Alan “Dutch” Schaefer: Vat? Oo faind youvar own alien, Sly. Duh predator is ma-aine.

Adrian Monk: Have to say, Mr. Schwarzenegger, I’m with Sly here. You lost your right to the predator when you went to make the Terminator movies.

Dutch: But I SAID “I’ll bee back”. Anyway, vot arr YOO doing here. We don’t knead detectives here. We KNOW vot happened. It was aliens all around. Arrrrgh.

Sharona: He’s just distraught about all the goo in the city. He’s not trying to interfere in anything. If anyone should do something, it is YOU, Superman.

Superman: Me? I’m the man of steel, sure, but have you seen the alien blood go through steel? It’s like a knife going through butter. In any case, I’m not the new superhero people are looking for. Everywhere I go, people are cooing over Spiderman. Spiderman, spidey, webslinger… phooey. If he’s so hot, HE should handle this. I’m gonna go find some other planet to live in.

Spiderman: Aarh. My web gets ripped off by the predator’s laser beam. And my spider sense is tingling 24×7. I don’t even know how I can concentrate here.

Chapter 7

James: Well, there’s only a handful of us left. I think it’s best that we lay low for a while. This may look like an ordinary briefcase. But it can actually hold 30 people and supplies for an entire year. All the women, follow me. Not so fast, Roseanne!

Ray Romano: Hey, like, who are you?

James: The name’s Bond. James Bond.

Ray: Oh, like… the big spy and all that? Great. I’m a big fan. Who are you, anyway? Sean? George? Roger? Tim? Pierce? The new guy? Who?

James:<sighs> Does it really matter?

Frodo Baggins: You think this is a joking matter? That alien ate the ring. THE ring, I tell ya. THE RING!

Adrian Monk: Hold on, hold on… None of this makes sense.

Captain Stottlemeyer: It doesn’t have to, Monk. That’s the whole point of mixing up franchises. We have lots of stars here. The movie’s gonna sell itself.

Lisa Simpson: But he’s right, captain! You can’t just mix up all the characters and have no plot. We shouldn’t stand for it! I’m tired of people asking me if I’m yellow because I’m scared of the aliens. What’s next? Itchy and scratchy chopping up the Fantastic Four?

Homer: D’oh!! Don’t give any ideas, Lisa… Hmm… The Fantastic Four, you say. He he he… Well, keep talking.

Bart: Aye, carramba! Lisa’s right. I don’t belong here. I have to go back to Springfield. The predator can go eat my shorts.

Dirty Harry: Y’r damn right. We can’t let this author guy get away with this. Go ahead, punk. Make my day.

Darth Vader: Harry… Harry, I’m your father.

Dirty Harry: What??

Luke Skywalker: Don’t listen to him. He says that to everybody. I don’t believe the crummy author dragged US into this stupid plot. We are supposed to be battling in a galaxy far-far-away.

Ben Hur: You’re complaining??? I’m not even from the same time-zone. God knows I’m from a different genre altogether.

Dr. Richard Kimble: Oh, yeah. YOU guys have all the problems, eh? Look at me. I was just about to nab the one armed man who framed me for my wife’s murder when all of a sudden I’m besieged by ugly aliens all around me.

Michael Corleone: Oh, so it’s all about you guys, eh? I don’t even believe in aliens. Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!

Chapter 8

The stars got into a fighting frenzy over who least deserved to be in the movie. Things got ugly once Scarface got his hands on one of his little friends he wanted the rest to say hello to. There was fire all around, and Jack and Jill had to run away with a bucket, looking around for water.

Jack: Oh, God. Most of the guest stars have killed each other. I don’t know how this plot is going to end.

Jill: What do you mean?

Jack: Well, the story is so convoluted now. I can’t even imagine a sensible end to the fiasco.

Jill: Ah, poor Jack. We don’t need a “sensible” ending.

Jack: We don’t?

Jill: Of course not, silly. We just need SOME ending with the possibility of a sequel. I’m sure that can be arranged.

As Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water, things had gotten pretty ugly down by the port. The few survivors had all climbed aboard a gigantic ship on its maiden voyage through the Atlantic. Meanwhile, the aliens and the predator had all devoured members of the congress and developed indigestion. One by one, but within a span of minutes, they all had heart attacks and strokes, falling on their backs and dying a slow death.

At the same time, SS Titanic II set sail for an unknown ice-berg free destination. All the celebrities inside are howling in joy, ecstatic about their escape. However, Marlon Brando is having chest pains… Is that just another burrito he couldn’t refuse? Or is it something else?

The End (?)

Not altogether unlike Dan Brown’s Silas, I decided to torture myself last night. But there were differences in approach, however. For one thing, I didn’t decide on this because I thought I was a sinner. Who am I to decide on the punishment for my sins? If that decision were left up to me, I’d choose death by chocolate overdose. Secondly, the mode of torture… I was never impressed with his choice of weapon, and in any case, cilices are not really easy to find in Bangalore.

No, my own mode of torture was watching Aliens v/s Predator: Requiem, affectionately called AVPR by the brain-dead fan club of the franchise. Now, I KNEW the movie would be about as exciting as a heavy metal concert by Pee-wee Herman, and had managed to steer away from it for so long, but curiosity finally got the better of me. I bet curiosity is in a bar laughing about it right now, the lousy &$@*

So I went started watching with extremely low expectations. And AVPR still managed to come short. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The basic premise was laughable. It was too weird for me to take anything seriously. The Hollywood thought process was simple enough. A mix-and-match ceremony of the two greatest alien franchises ever created. Plot doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t be too surprised if the next installment is a romantic comedy, AWP, Alien Weds Predator.

I remember the ones that started it off…

Alien

The chilling 1979 sci-fi adventure was set in a complex future, where space travel is as common as Coke, but computers have degraded to monochrome oscilloscopes. The story was great, but I saw the movie for the first time in the mid 80’s when I was still struggling to get my As, Bs, and Cs in order. The plot seemed to revolve around an extremely shy alien creature which hides in dark, messy, off-camera locations, except for short bursts of 0.2 second peekaboo-like appearances when it grabs a crewmember and scuttles off, happy in its effort at curbing the budget.

But even with the creature’s limited visibility, the film boasted a tense air of rabid fear. I remember being scared that night. My closet was a very convenient place for the alien to hide in. It was dark. It was messy. And it was definitely off-camera. I remember sleeping in my dad’s room that night. I remember mom chiding dad for “letting the kids watch such films”.

I enjoyed the first two installments. The rest, I have dutifully discarded into my personal mental dumpster, which seems to be filling up too rapidly for my taste.

Predator

Arnold Schwarzenegger’s 1987role as an army veteran stuck in the jungle with his own gang of walking muscles was as fun as saying his name after three shots of tequila. The alien himself was an old romantic stuck in the age of slow motion tree-hopping. And his frustration is easily understood. YOU try walking around in 50 pounds of armor, jumping across trees, swimming in slimy swamps, and facing an enemy who growls “Da-arrgh. Var is dah anemy ?”, “Eef eat bleads, eet kain bee geeled”, and “Vat duh hail ARR yoo?”.

Younger generation might have trouble understanding the Californian governor’s stand on illegal aliens, but even the youngest playstation tot could be entertained by the flick. Alien, blood, alien blood, gadgets, torture, invisibility and a nuke defense – what’s not to like?

Even the sequel managed to pull it off. They had to take out the governor, though. By this time, Arnie had gotten more aggressive, and every time he’d start a dialogue, the predator would get scared and hide under the bed. This somehow did not fall in line with the image for an intimidating space alien. But even without Schwarzey boy, they pulled it off fine.

And then, of course, some weed-smoking marketing genius had an epiphany while taking a crap in the dumpster. Inspired by the noble genius who decided to combine bread with butter, he too got into the ‘if it’s good, mix em’ school of thought. And viola, we have the aliens from both franchises waltzing around in our backyard.

If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em. And I’m not licking anybody. I think I’ll follow the trend. Maybe I should also regurgitate retired scripts and wake up a few characters. I’ll save that for my next post.

That did it. It rained last night. It did. And you want to know what the big deal was? I was CARRYING MY UMBRELLA!! And no, it wasn’t one of those blissful times when I was resting comfortably inside while the rain pounded mercilessly on the outer crust of sturdy buildings. No. it rained while I was OUTSIDE… WITH my umbrella.

Some of you… Nay, MOST of you would be scratching the upper melon about now, as bewildered as George W Bush in a science convention. But this is because you haven’t read - or have chosen to forget - an old post of mine, Hamish v/s the Rain God. At that point, I had mentioned a little feud I had with the bearded, wizened God of rain, Zeus. In the past decTfft:JgKdMde”MfGYDg_*)

Huh?? Where did that garbage text come from? Anyway, let me get back to the point.

In the past decade, I never got wet when I carried my umbrella. No, not because the umbrella shielded me from rain, but because it never rained when I carried my umbrella. You can ask my friends back in college. It never failed. If I carry an umbrella, it never rains, unless I am inside a building. If I decide to go out at that juncture, it takes about a minute for the sky to clear up.

This little feud of ours had been going for quite a long while now. As I have recorded in Hamish v/s the Rain God, it came to a head the last time he caught me unawares with a violent storm, when I kinda challenged him with a stupidly-daring “Is-that-the-best-you-can-do?” cry, which basically made him up the ante from playing around with a simple rainstorm to pelting me with hailstones. A few of them hurt bad. I don’t really know xRy*UfFdff hf&a&hRrauabghyPh*&jjgfTjfRjgHfggjD

Dammit!! Garbage values again!! What’s gotten into my laptop? Ahem… To continue with my narration, I don’t really know how this feud started. I mean… I never provoked him. I was never even impolite to the blighted old geezer. Maybe it’s something from a past life. Maybe I was an Athenian God in the last life and used to leer at his daughter. Maybe he’s a big fan of Michalis Rakintzis and didn’t like it when I booed at his song, “Sagapo”. Maybe I just snore too loud.

I don’t know. All I do know is that fighting with Gods is not cut out for everyone. And I’m no George Carlin. I can’t do it the way he used to. I can only carry my umbrella and tide it out.

But yes, that was one thing I could do with confidence. I could just brandish my walking-stick shaped umbrella and walk around faking a limp, imitating a rather uncool version of Dr. Gregory House, basking in the knowledge that the umbrella is actually a weather machine. Zeus takes one look at the umbrella and frowns, “What the heck. He’s got his stupid umbrella. I guess I’ll rain in on him later.” Oh, yes. The equation was clear.

Hamish + umbrella + outside = No rain.

Hamish + umbrella + inside = Maybe rain

Hamish – umbrella + inside = Maybe rain

Hamish – umbrella + outside = Rain + Storm + Thunder + Lightning (optional)

Not too complicated, you would admit. I was learning to accept the equation; live with reason, so to speak. But that changed last night. It rained. It rained while I was OUTSIDE… WITH my umbrella. The bearded Greek spook caught me by surprise, but it got me thinking… WHY?? Was this a tactical shift in his divine plan? DID he have a divine plan? Or is he just a brat with super powers? What does his pad look like? If Zeus says “Seuss is loose”, can “Seuss sues Zeus” be news?

Oh, man. I’m mumbling. I don’t know what I’m saying now. Seuss sues Zeus?? Geez!! I still don’t know what I’m saying. And I don’t know what changed the equation. I have been carrying my umbrella everyday these days. I don’t know why… TsKfthHd”shf Mhsd}%ddh&dgfjhiOh45g2Bf1)hGewdhhfH

Damn. Laptop’s gone bonkers again. I swear, if I see more set of garba… Oh… Oh, God. Oh, my God! I know why it rained last night. I see all. I have been getting out of his carefully planned executions for a long time by simply carrying my umbrella. He must have gotten tired of waiting. And seeing that he couldn’t get to me directly, he went after those near and dear to me.

My LAPTOP! I was carrying it with me last night. And given the exponential expanse of my girth these days, even Drew Carey wouldn’t need glasses to see that an umbrella can’t protect me AND the laptop at the same time. The cunning old codger has a plan, alright. The sneaky devilish son-of-a-deity. When I get my hands on him, I’ll *&^%&$^&(*&$%^*&U()&)~#()(@!)#()@)#$+

Scott Adams didn’t paint a rosy picture when he depicted accounting personnel as trolls. Now I love Adams’ work. In fact, I could frequently be found rolling on the floor after reading his material. Yet, I used to say I had never found any justification for this scandalous portrayal. But that was because I didn’t know that kind of accounts people at the time. I was used to the helpful and rational accounting staff within my small company. However, after some exposure to the wider splatter within similar departments… I still feel the portrayal is scandalous.

The trolls should sue.

Whoever controls money shall have the power. And there is no measure to the destructive prowess of a troll with power. Of course, as with all generalizations, this one is not absolute either. Good people too can get stuck in the foothold of accounting hell. Not all accounting personnel are one-dimensional twits who should be rolled in butter and shoved down an African red ant colony. But then again, can you take that chance?

Accounts Personnel: “I’ll need you to account for that cash you took for project SV7B.”

U: “Huh? I gave a detailed account.”

AP: “Not in form 216, you haven’t.”

U: “???”

AP: “All expenses are to be tabulated in form 216, except for pro bono executions, which is to be reported in triplicate, through forms 420, 318, and 109.”

U: “And how am I supposed to know this procedure if no one explains it to me??”

AP: “It’s all explained in guide book 316, subsection (iiv). Don’t even tell me you proceeded with a project without reading guidebooks 303-462.”

U: “But… but… the guidebook is in German!!”

AP: “Not anymore. We have a few new German recruits. New guidebooks will be in ancient Hebrew. It must be there on your desk by now. Take a look at forms 420, 318 and 109. Fill them up ASAP.”

U: “I… I… HEY, form 109 is blank.”

AP: “That’s no excuse! You fill up your end. We’ll put in the form questions later. Don’t try to back-talk me, you little… Hissssss…”

This kind of interaction might be confusing for the layperson or the corporate newbie. This is because most laypersons and the average newbie live under the all-too-popular delusion that accounts team is meant to act as facilitators. In fact, for smaller companies, this delusion is so strong that even the accounts department believes it, and consequently, works hard at making the employees’ lives easier. These people become an endless source of amusement in the form of coffee-break humor for the real, enlightened veteran accounts head.

Case I

Troubled Employee: “Aargh. I need a new keyboard.”

Naïve Accountant: “What happened?”

TE: “The keys are all smudged on this one. I can’t work on this.”

NA: “Oh. Well, I can’t give you a keyboard just like that. You have to send me a written request for the same.”

Done.

Everybody’s happy. TE gets keyboard; NA gets the satisfaction of helping a fellow being; and the veteran accountant who snoops in on the conversation gets a great coffee-break story to tell the gang.

Case II

Troubled Employee: “Aargh. I need a new keyboard.”

Veteran Accountant: “What happened?”

TE: “The keys are all smudged on this keyboard. I can’t work on this.”

VA: “No problem. Fill in forms 134, 218, 264, and 398,in that order, get them approved by the GE, TPE, PM, TL, and the TRKS respectively…”

TE: “What?? Who are they? And you’ve mentioned four forms and five designations.”

VA: “Worry about that later. Right now, you have other things to do… Take these forms…”

TE: “More forms??’

VA: “We NEED these details…”

TE: “Let me see… Name, date, designation, (murrmur murmur)… height, waistline… (murmur murmur)… passport number…. drivers’ license… date of manu… DATE OF MANUFACTURING?? What the!!”

VA: “Sure. We need to know how long you had used your earlier keyboard. We also need a rough estimation of wear and tear of the device… in percentage, date of birth and dental records of the original salesman, a handwritten note of explanation for the wear and tear by the manufacturer… Then a four page essay on how buying a new keyboard will help protect the environment… for our new environmental policy plan. Then we need a…”

TE: “Aaargghhhh!! <pulls out gun, points at VA> Gimme the damn keyboard”

VA: <reclines on chair, squints left eye> “Is that gun sanctioned by company form 136?”

TE: “WAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaa” <turns gun on himself… KABANG!!>

VA: “Hey! You did NOT fill up your suicide form. And you cannot bleed on the carpet before you fill form 666.”

Of course I am not old enough to generalize from my own experience, but reliable sources in the form of disgruntled former employees from unrelated companies assure me that while there are all kinds of people in every department, it is usually the self-righteous half-assed hard-wired ignoramus who gets promoted early in the accounts department. And once they grow in power, they become immune to logic, reasoning, and independent thoughts. But the similarity to George Bush ends there. Once we clear the mist and theory, we see the true purpose of the enlightened accounts head. He is the clog in the business pipeline; the rust in the corporate machinery; the speed breaker on the information highway and the dam on the corporate workflow. If these enlightened blights of nature handled accounts issues for nations, then there’d be no wars. You know that.

“That’s it, gentlemen. This means war. Launch the thermonuclear weapon FIZZLAND. Start the countdown!”

“Very well, sir. But first, you need to fill in forms 216, 290, 531, 423 a through q except b, n, and g.”

“Hmm… maybe we should give peace a chance.”