SO you too live in a fool’s paradise and believe life is peachy. At least this is not the case with me. For me, life is punchy. No, it’s not that my chimney is clogged or my sewing machine is out of thread. It might be hard for you to fully apprehend this bosh and tosh if you aren’t aware of a wide variety of the numerous punches that life has to offer. Well, my interminable twaddle about a day of my punchy life will help your cognitive cortices to exactly interpret my taradiddle.
The barmy day (mind it, not a beautiful day) punched off with (no, not the bright sun smiling nor the birds chirping) an ‘irksome punch’ from the silly akhbarwala as he never forgets to punch in the newspaper through an oddity in the door. Poor soul fails to understand that the size of the hole is insufficient for such an alien activity, but who cares if the newspaper gets crinkled or wrinkled. One does somehow manage to read it, right?
Next followed the ‘brotherly punch’ from big brother, who daily punches his favourite punchline right on my head, “If you want me to drop you to college then you just have a minute, otherwise I’m leaving without you.” (Hey, nevermind the crass attitude, but at least one can pick a better punchline.)
When I finally reached the learning cell (also called college), an annoying classmate punched into me. (Oh go, how this abhorrent anxious twerp is always able to smell that I’m around. The more I wished to avoid her the more she turned into a sticky glue.) “Did you submit your assignment? Today is the last day,” she said with a spiteful smile. I punched back an equally malicious smile, “Oh I submitted it three days back. Thanks a bunch for letting me know, gotta go now, bye.” I ran off without waiting for her reply. Actually, she wasn’t curious about the assignment. The toff wanted to show off her new dress, recently bought shoes, imported handbag and the hot sensational shade she had dyed her locks with. So I punched her off with an I don’t care. Due to this ‘unexpected punch’ the smile vanished from her face (just like I vanished form the scene) and a frown took its place. Mission accomplished, said the hostile pugilist inside me.
But all the froth settled down at ultra-high velocity when on reaching home I got a ‘shocker punch’, when I found my assignment lying on the desk. So the daft idiot, that is, me, had completed the damn assignment, but actually forgot to punch it in the folder. (No wonder why the folder seemed to be weightless and I kept thinking it was my strong biceps). Your visual cortex can conceive the clear image that my teacher was pleased as a punch when she found out that I had punched her with an empty folder.
While my brain was till trying to absorb the shock waves, some soundwaves punched my tympanics and the sound localization led me towards the window. As my eyes focused and locked on a fixation point, my optic nerves transmitted signals to my cortex to exactly interpret the visual scene. The information processed was that a brand new dashing Mercedes had been punched in by an oldie stale Suzuki and now both wacky owners were entertaining each other with great punches. First went off a ‘sucker punch’, then a ‘rabbit punch’ on the neck, followed by the generous ‘kidney punch’, then a ‘rabbit punch’... Phew went a sigh of relief on my part that I was not the only blockhead. Others had been infested with the same infectious malady.
Let me enlighten you with the modus operandi of this variety of punches where you fuse your five fingers to punch someone’s lights off. The fast pain singles elicited by the mechanical stimulus are transmitted at a velocity between 6-30m/sec through the spinothalamic tracts. But soon enough the inhibitory singles suppress the pain transmission. To add to this vaudeville, the lights go dim and some dicky birds punch in to see “anybody home?” Then your brain sends in a short message: “That was a brilliant broadcast.”
Trying to free myself from this baleful imbroglio, I punched in my bed and turned on the radio. The cranky DJ said: “Punch in the magical numbers and dial into FM ... to punch in your views about what happens when you get a punch ...” Whack! So she too presented with the same symptoms and suffered from contagious diseases. An immense release of adrenaline urged me to punch my radio, but had to let go the punchy idea as I thought of the side-effects. (I knew no one would have been kind enough to bring me another set.) Suddenly the fiend (my phone) started ringing. The tintinnabulation was tormenting in such a state of nervous agitation, but nilly willy I found myself answering the call.
And I was happy that I did, because it was my pal, my life saviour, inviting me to come over and party. “So what if life keeps punching at you. Punch back,” advised my hypothalamus. The pacifying word party brought to my mind the opulent sundry of scrumptious food. (Gormandize. What else could a glutton like me think of?) Moreover, I could punch my head on a shoulder and whine about the baloney. Levitated by the guzzling idea I rapturously landed at her place. But my eyes were unable to perceive the image of any comely comestibles and my olfactory nerves couldn’t sense any mesmerizing odour of savoury dishes I had drifted off for. As the peristaltic contractions in my stomach were intensifying, I told my pal about the low ATP levels and my gobbling intentions. But what happened? She gave me a ‘shattering punch’ when she said that this was just a plain punch party. (Kaaboom went an explosion inside and the castle was pulverized.) Alas, the phantom followed my trails here too.
The icy ‘fruit punch’ was punching me right in my face and both my sensory and motor systems were coming to a halt. Puzzled what was the anaesthetic agent that turned me to a numb and dumb haggard, my pal insisted me to try the punch. (She thought it was the torrid weather). The ‘tempting punch’ with alluring odour depolarized my taste buds and transmitted the taste signals through the cortical pathway, but within a few seconds the taste substance was washed away by saliva. Ok, so no party for me. But it sure was party time for my pal two-year-old imp, who was pleased as a punch as he painted the walls, the sofa, and my dress with his chocolate smeared punches. The little devil was causing an increase in my arterial pressure so I started monkeying around to get some solace.
I settled in front of the telly and as I flipped the channels an ‘astonishing punch’ hit me. Yes I got hunted here too! The hooknosed humpbacked grotesque puppet Punch was quarrelling with wife Judy. Wow, a punch right from the 17th century! But this wasn’t over yet. Next in line was a ‘surprise punch’ as some more friends (read foes) had pitched in to the party and almost led me to a syncope. One joker asked another jester to punch in some jokes. Each time the audience went hysterical they gave me a ‘pally punch’. They think I being a stout give them the right to do so and due to my corpulence they have the opportunity to use me as their ‘punchbag’. And their punchline happens to be ‘no party without the punch’.
The repeated sessions of ‘stunner punches’ and all this pugilism led me to a state called ‘punch drunk’. Yes, the overuse of the neuronal circuits caused fatigue of the synaptic transmission. In other words, the punches lost their punch and I could no more punch up to punch the punches this punchy life had been punching into this punching bag. But, still, the punchline is: life is punchy. It sure is.
SO you too live in a fool’s paradise and believe life is peachy. At least this is not the case with me. For me, life is punchy. No, it’s not that my chimney is clogged or my sewing machine is out of thread. It might be hard for you to fully apprehend this bosh and tosh if you aren’t aware of a wide variety of the numerous punches that life has to offer. Well, my interminable twaddle about a day of my punchy life will help your cognitive cortices to exactly interpret my taradiddle.
