I Want to _____ an Indian
Dear Sparkle Readers,
For the last couple of weeks I’ve had to be in New Jersey for work, and in addition to the obvious perks (corpulent women with voices like belly hair, highways that lead to more highways that lead to sewers, rashes), there exists here in refreshing abundance that most ignored of delicacies- Indian people. I can’t get enough of them. They’re as cool as black people, but they’re not irresponsible about crossing the street. They’re as smart as west asians, but they have huge dicks and pussies (or, “poonanis”). They can out-math the latinos, and out-laugh the arabs (by a lot)! They have colorful weddings, they love the Beatles, and I’m vaguely intimidated by the men until they crack a barely comprehensible joke and put me at ease. Recent linguistic studies have shown that Indian people’s voices sound like bubbles made of sexual intelligence.
If I had an Indian girlfriend, she’d wear slightly unflattering jeans and have just the slightest hint of a moustache. She would tend to my wounds and rashes with a ganesh-like benevolence. Her father would use his powerful mind to rip on me for not being more accomplished— secretely, he would hate me, and even more secretly, he would like me. My Indian girlfriend would teach me how to have sex good, like in the kama sutra, but she wouldn’t make me feel weird by being like “this position is called the ‘manatee drooling on a marigold’” (say this sentence out loud in a “boopy-boopy” Indian voice for full effect). I would marry her, and at the wedding my mother would have to glue a teal gemstone between her eyes. This would give my mother something to brag about with the people at the bank for at least a decade. And isn’t that what all lasting relationships are about?
Many years ago I had a dream where there was a ghost princess who found out that I’d been eating raw meat in the nude. I can still recall how she looked me straight in the eye and accusatorially slit her throat. And what was it, you ask, that spilled out of her ripped flesh? That’s right—chana masala. If that doesn’t say it all, then I have no idea what I’m talking about.
Thank You For Your Time,
Larpy Roncha
