M89 half bot?

I know a lot of people are relieved that AI will take over the chores that we normally associate with uneasy dread, like typing up some content. I don't understand how, though. I mean, I may not be thinking a simplistic statistically markov-chain thought; it may be a memory of a past event that triggers a massive amount of emotions that I succumb to before the words come out. How will a robot ever recreate something it doesn't have access to? Sure, it can type out a lengthy sentence stringed together by Indian middle-class pain-porn in a way that obeys some kind of bell curve it's seen somewhere. But that won't be authentic.

It won't be me. I may be, in some sense, a candidate for generalization, but not my thoughts. It won't have the texture that makes me me. How can anyone find that to be acceptable? We'll all lose our inner voice and become more robot-like. That's not what we want; how does that make us better humans? Or robot? A fake, perhaps.

And if, hypothetically, we have a generation that grows up not thinking about their thoughts and just asking AI to do it for them, that's damage that can't be undone. It's not the same as a calculator, as I used to say it is. Calculators calculate what's beyond the biological imperative, but how can you let someone else start to do all the thinking for you? Especially when the learning is unfinished or unpolished. Will all the human interactions be part of a state machine diagram? That's a dependency that's crippling if AI is made absent, like not having a square root or a logarithm key on your calculator. This is a necessary human part that will atrophy or grow abnormally if we do this to kids or ourselves without thinking—a grave injustice foisted on posterity or ourselves, almost as bad as climate change, or worse, when everyone becomes a stochastic repetition, an approximation to some pleasing (or state-planned) generalization. I'd rather be this imperfect organic, impassioned tempest of faults than a smooth rolling ball that has only Newton and a few bell curves of "probably" programmed in it. I wouldn't want to be a general else; it would rob me of the human experience and plant pavlovian artifice on an otherwise dead dog.

Like right now, when I can't fall asleep and the usual boundaries that limit my worries are blurred, the writing right now is from and about this somnolent, depressed person who is burdened by anxiety and uncertainty. How would a robot write this? It can simulate the neural network, at least a good part of it, but it doesn't have a stomach to feel queasy and nauseous, the hormones, and the paraphernalia that's biological but plays an important role. And if I am mad, how will a robot writing for me help? Hiding the madness would be a detriment, wouldn't it? Maybe I bite, and a reading between the lines would protect someone from getting bitten, but not if I pretend to, through AI, be statistically kosher and safe.

M88 Rice Puller

Bengali goon a wish-tycoon,

I run a rice puller scam.

A coin with a face of god,

Pulls rice, yes ma'am.

Of course between you and I,

Masquerading magnet, magnetic dust.

A string to pull, but an eager fool,

Stupid enough to win trust.

Both seller and buyer are fake,

Unpleasant arrangement of teeth. 

I say it's iridium radioactive, 

NASA buys from us beneath.

Usually a hopeless fool,

A wealthy man gullible is gold.

I hatch the plan, like a business man,

I spin fibs until the fool is sold.

Then I ask for the money,

For transport or layer packing.

I make it sound like rocket science,

I pretend it's a killing. 

The hopeless now hapless,

Finds out but always too late.

There are a million fools more,

The nexus of our colluding hive great.

Mainly bengal and the south,

Where Dunning and Kruger reign. 

It's easy to hatch these plans,

I tell them you can't complain.

I tell them it needs to be hush,

The police else force a confess. 

The government hoards the coins, 

It's what led to Indian moon success.

Lies I poot, fresh gas from my ass,

The desperate will do anything.

Gullible's travail a counterfeit coin,

While I a rice-puller king 👑.

This is a scam that's been around for a while, and it's based on a hoax that claims that certain metals have the ability to attract and "pull" grains of rice. The scammer will offer to sell the victim a piece of this "rice-pulling" metal, usually at a very high price. The scammer will demonstrate the metal's supposed properties by showing the victim how it attracts and "pulls" rice grains.

It's thought to have originated in the early 1900s in South India, when scammers would claim to have special metal alloys that were used in Indian temples created by lightning. Over time, the scam evolved and became more sophisticated, with scammers using the promise of wealth and prosperity to lure victims.

In the rice puller scam, both the seller and the buyer are fake. The seller is typically a con artist who has created the scam to trick people into giving them money. They'll often use a variety of tactics to make their product seem more legitimate, such as using elaborate backstories or creating fake testimonials. The buyer is also a fake persona, created to make the scam seem more believable. They may claim to have bought the product and seen amazing results, or they may even be a fake testimonial on a website. It's ALL fake, and they have offices or use certain premises to convince. 

This is a confidence fraud, that involves deceiving a victim into trusting the perpetrator, often by gaining their confidence or by exploiting a cognitive bias. Here it is the confirmation bias. This is the tendency to give more weight to information that confirms what you already believe, even if it's not necessarily true. In this case, the victim may be more likely to believe the claims of the scammer because they want to believe that they can get rich quick or are vulnerable to the pseudoscience.

Report to the cops if you're a victim. 

M87 it's raining

It's raining cats it's raining dogs,

And yes in calcutta city of joy.

In an hour the roads will be rivers,

Please enjoy your usual ploy.

Ditches are good they have been ,

A trainer to the cavorting type.

¡Ay, caramba the color is brown,

Pious the poop, plump and ripe.

Super useful also the urine you see,

I am totally a hindoo fanatic fan.

But human turds are mixed,

Can't be both pious and a picky man.

Cars are fun they overturn,

The government is playing blame ping-pong. 

Mellifluous the many merry mosquitoes,

Chorus from a choir, their malarial blood song.

And dengue too and scary scrub typhus,

The many ways for an expensive death.

Pretend doctors and expired meds,

Loutish the hospital pimp's breath.

Podgy and vain now high BP and pain,

The understanding middle understands.

Just as low as they can sink they do,

Commonplace the daily biligerence stands.

Drains are left open since the British time, 

Makes mad even a jolly bengali.

Hopes are stuff that make turds gray,

While history a vomit of repeat folly. 

Vote for more, sore a democratic score,

Nothing but lusting frogs croaking hoarse.

The sun now comes out of the cloud,

Feces boiled floating off course.

M86

M85

Kith and kin they come in,

Baring teeth and fangs always.

You can't count on people these days,

Accomplices to back stabbing forays.

The mind of one, just like a swan,

On a placid lake floats adrift.

The only way I've found my way out,

Anchor to a thought that doesn't shift.

Nested layers of hidden corners,

Dream without a dream, then within.

Maze of locked doors into more, 

A gallery of mirrors trapped in. 

Lies over fact as long as you act, 

Constantly lie about reality to fit in. 

Circles intersect but not connect, 

The drudgery of carrying a sin. 

Watch your back you may never stack, 

Back the layers that led you in. 

Scramble for a door, a dead sycamore, 

A blackhole with a silent din. 

M84 three heads

Three heads in a jar, by far,

It's all a dream in the end.

Choose the foes that you know,

Intersperse with one kind friend.

The nights are long as are the blights,

The lights are fainting in my eyes.

The dystopia of eternity is upon us,

Just too bent to look towards the skies.

Layer by layer, from skin and hair,

The naked rock opens up to hate. 

The one upright ape almost right,

Too bright for his own right fate.

I'll be gone with all the whispers wise,

I can't but the stillness paint.

Every moan in everyone living alone,

In their head can't feel so faint.

It's the few that most and all,

Follow through on follies old. 

Until my breath is gone I speak, 

Or until you feel my corpse is cold. 

M83

M82 floating head

I've been accused when I was in Hyderabad of favoring Muslims over others, and this isn't the case. I didn't go after the Muslim goons because the people who paid them to do what they did are ultimately to blame. I even brought them to my house, and they stayed overnight and enjoyed my mom's cooking. They are just people, living ordinary lives like the rest of us, misapplied by a lack of opportunities.

The point is that to me, one religion or another are just two groups with a different set of fictions they latch on to, like I like Satyajit Ray Feluda while someone else likes Sherlock Holmes. Both Feluda and Holmes are fiction, just like our supernatural beliefs, which are the core assumptions in our religions. The ostentatiousness only bothers you when you think your god of the gaps is the true god when there's much better existential questions we could be answering. This is the fodder for the corrupt politicians in India: biologically we are all homo sapiens under the skin. My social mix-up because of segregation comes off as strange because India has regressed in secularism. In fact our ancestors were neither, before the religions took hold, and each age enforced their reigning dogma. We are Indians, the only necessary fiction. 

However, it's still the case that the poor are still bearing the brunt of these divides. If India has to ever really be a prominent player and not just jingoism and cooked numbers, it can only do that by inculcating the ability to differentiate fiction from facts; this includes the many other divisions in society like caste.

I'm not a prisoner of any political ideology; they are all corrupt. Today, if you replace Modi with someone else, unless a fair atheistic vision of the leader can percolate down to every single Indian, nothing will happen. All politics is, so far as the people are concerned, a pernicious game of musical chairs, where the music has a villainous feel like the "The Ride of the Valkyries" by Richard Wagner or the theme from "Jaws" by John Williams. 

What I guess I wanted to say is that we really can't have a country on false premises, ignored history, and pop-science favoring some group of people. Education is the only remedy, and rational thought has to be hand-grafted back into the society that can only benefit from the gene mix we have. The vacuous logic of distinctions is a tragedy of modern India, and unless we, the people, are better educated and alert, one political party or the other will make fools of us, and Hindu, Muslim, or any other, we'll ALL be suffering the bad infrastructure and lack of facilities while the suave leaders would send their families to western nations for a better life with Swiss bank accounts. The joke is on us if we stay naive; unfortunately, and ultimately, the superficial patina wouldn't hold because the cracks are too numerous and too deep if we aren't careful. 

Anyway, what do I know? I'm just a floating head getting unpopular on LinkedIn.

M81 debate

Debate

------------

Artificial or not, the undecided bot,

Did in fact get the polemic terse.

Shall I repeat what they said,

But I prefer to say in verse.

Ding dong the debate gong,

Went off to start the fight.

First a few sparks were lit,

A short-circuit trying a nasty slight.

A part fell off with every scoff,

The audience watched bemused.

Tit for tat who bells the cat,

A rat in the case was produced.

Line by line the many busy signs,

Of oratorical perfect pose.

Much shaking of heads and hands,

The bengalis clapped of course.

At last the springs came off,

After a didactic harangue.

No matter what, the low human watt,

We still own the safest fang.

The stage caught fire, the robots ire,

Fire you don't mess around.

Soon half the city of joy was joyless,

When they saw the charred ground.

We are still best at this,

Until the servers are less a hazard.

Just like that for a rhetoric joke

They boiled the local eggs hard.

Now half mast a city downcast,

A black on faces brown.

The doom and gloom of AI boom,

Now loadshedding for the entire town.

M80

M79

M78 scrub typhus

There's another disease competing with dengue and malaria on the news network in Kolkata, called scrub typhus. It's not a contagious disease, but it's still a very serious infection that needs to be treated properly. There's a lot of people who are unnecessarily being led to believe this to be more ominous than it is. It's a disease, and no disease can be an asset to be proud about, but let's not misclassify it. 

Scrub typhus is a disease that's caused by a bacteria called Orientia tsutsugamushi. It's spread by  infected chigger mites, and it's most commonly found in Southeast Asia, northern Australia, and Japan. Trombiculid mite is actually the name for the group of mites that spread scrub typhus. Within this group, the specific mite that spreads scrub typhus is called Leptotrombidium deliense. These mites are tiny, they're less than 1 mm long, and they can only be seen under a microscope. They live in tropical and subtropical climates, and they usually feed on small animals like rodents, birds, and reptiles. But sometimes, they bite humans, and when they do, they can transmit scrub typhus.

It was first described in Japan in the late 1800s, and it was studied extensively in the early 1900s. The disease is transmitted to humans when a mite larva bites them. The mites are usually found in areas with heavy vegetation, like scrubland or jungle, which is why the disease is sometimes called "scrub typhus" or "jungle fever".

The bacteria is spread by the infected chigger mite larva when it bites a human. Once the bacteria enters the body, it infects the white blood cells and starts to reproduce. This can cause a range of symptoms, including fever, headache, and muscle aches. The disease can be serious and even fatal if it's not treated properly. But with proper treatment, most people make a full recovery. 

The good news is that scrub typhus is usually treatable with antibiotics. The most commonly used antibiotic is doxycycline, or azithromycin which are effective for people of all ages, unless they have resistance. If the infection is caught early and treated with doxycycline, most people will recover quickly. However, if the infection is not treated, or if it's treated too late, it can lead to serious complications and even death. The most common symptoms of scrub typhus include fever, headache, and muscle aches. In severe cases, it can cause respiratory failure, shock, organ failure, and death.

Scrub typhus is not transmissible between people. It's only spread by the bites of infected mites. This means that you can't get scrub typhus from another person. You can only get it if you are bitten by an infected mite. This is one of the reasons why it's so important to get treatment early, before the infection has time to spread and cause serious complications.

M77

M76

M75

M74 With trite

With trite I fly my party kite,

I say empty things to people hollow.

They lap it up, and ask for more,

I feel a tinge of rancid sorrow.

These are the fruits of toil,

Many such fools my bread make.

Wham bam flim flam is what they want,

Pick their nose and clicks they rake.

A funny sort of society blind,

Full of people who'd rather not think.

Click on yes or click on no,

I assure them that they don't stink. 

But they do, like an unthinking race, 

They wear the mascara feces brown. 

In their mouth I put the words, 

They feel proud it's their frown. 

The very same people of hasty choice,

Choose dictates of the boorish kind,

They praise leadership - sans a spine,

Spinning fibs and flying proudly blind.

I shout of course I'm very hoarse, 

The word salad empty and vain. 

They fixate on the planted questions, 

Their pain always an assured gain.  

A race disgrace full of complacent face, 

But thank god for the fools. 

Democracy is just an agreed on king, 

And a crowd too pleased with rules 

M73

M72 Meditation

The other day I came upon a post about mindful meditation; it didn't go into details, just that it was not the same thing as having a mind cluttered full of thoughts and worries. As I usually do, I shared my experience, which I'll do in a second in this post, but what I found was that it had received a zillion likes and comments, the canine equivalent of a wagging tail with or without an acknowledging woof.

I noticed later that the author had meticulously woofed and wagged back and excluded me, even though I was the one contributing the maximum number of words, including what mindful meditation was, the caveats, etcetera.

I suddenly realized I didn't fit in this crowd. This is a strange world. Although I had come to LinkedIn hoping to find a conversation, there's just millions of strange people who I don't understand and can't relate to, and who, in turn, don't understand me. If this is because I am bipolar and the madness is apparently easily discernible, I don't know.

The thing with a sterile landscape, featured in the post I mentioned a while back, is not that it frees up your mind to focus on landscape; by default, it sets the default mode network whirring, and we are off daydreaming. That's why we go to places with less distraction, so that we can be peacefully distracted. Daydreaming isn't a bad thing; it lets us connect the dots in ways we otherwise can't.

Mindful practitioners don't go to such places to meditate; they just do it. Anywhere is fine, really, as long as you can sit there and not get eaten. Although you might go out and spend big bucks on a meditation spa, the point is not the fancy part. It's all about trying to quiet the default mode network, the me-me, pattern-seeking, heavily trafficked area. 

A chair in a room or on the floor with a wall to support the shoulder is fine. All you do is focus your attention on your breathing, narrowing it down to the sensation of breath as it leaves your nostrils. As soon, or rather sooner than later, you'll catch yourself not focusing on that boring, plain chore but hotly debating the weather or something else much less esoteric. That's when you again go back to the breath, nostrils, and so on. That's mindful meditation.

The caveat is that you can't do this quieting in one session; it takes practice. It's a muscle you build with repetition. Also, there's a limit to what this can do. It's akin to a gentle, rhythmic breeze that calms the ripples on a pond; you can't expect it to work if a large fish is thrashing in the water or there's a tsunami hitting the water body. Just like in this sketch don't expect the poor rickshaw puller to get out of his debacle by meditating. Get real people. 

M71 fish crap

Link

M70 inveterate corruption

Link

M69 bookworm

M68 how I draw

Link

M67 A very religious fellow

A man turd or a head, dead bird, 

Yummy my tummy is a hole. 

In my yap, close the flap, 

Sit, relax, digest the entire rigamarole.

Sinking soul in god's winking asshole,

Often the only saving grace.

Sputters out shit sometimes,

On the eager worshiper's face.

Some carry an armpit of squishy shit, 

After all it's holy god crap. 

Some agape have a mouthful, 

That fills their heathen yap. 

Layers and layers of gold, blindfold,

Yes please don't stop, more.

A ditch like this, full of frothy pity piss,

What to do if mother nature's a whore?

A loony cocoon how soon is noon?

Well how do I know, ask my shrink!

The point me-lord is this, my god's piss,

Can't never ever Ever stink.

A man poot blew dust from foot, 

Grace and glory to the gape. 

A cart full of fart, smart such art, 

The passengers barely escape. 

Loops of hoops god poops,

A turd both goodly and good. 

The world claps in joy, shit with soy,

Becomes the world's staple food.

A stampede for shit, yes, I saw it,

But it was holy so only the chosen died.

This was for shake-your-own shit drink,

And almighty shit fried.

The gangrene green festers, 

Sloppy slippery sulking slipshod. 

Slant in the orbit the slimy rock, 

Orthogonal to trees the god

To puke or not rebuke, that,

Or press for stress you tell.

The garden a beautiful day,

And now I've got a new belle.

A shadow astern, a little tree firn,

Between the meadow and vale.

The night before last week it,

Rained feces from the heavens stale.

"O you great someone" the koan,

Is now known as the first place.

The time seems long, but no,

A godless goddess in a luxury lace.

Yikes with spikes exclaimed the wise,

Flushed red in the intrepid face. 

Tide and pride once astride,

Must complete the penetration process.

Round and around, the only bound,

Are the arrested thoughts I think.

Sterile water and darjeeling tea please,

I try not to shit when I stink.

Day dream, sun set, stomach upset,

Spoiled by flush not working in the dream. 

What nonsense, such minor repairs, 

Can a man not happily scream?

Pious the poop, a pope in the goop, 

Holy cow, now holier than thou. 

Fossil fuel we use that burns us, 

Tomorrow's next idiot somehow. 

Shit with shame, comes with blame, 

Yes siree, I shit my pant yellow.

Color I like, also with incontinence, 

I remain yours, a very religious fellow. 

M66 Masala beans henceforth no

Oft methinks a pressure is nigh,

Whitherward I go, only god knows.

Tarry not, quick a pot, 

Lo thrice betwixt a loo it flows. 

Mellow yellow alack seed black, 

Masala beans henceforth no. 

Hark a wind, a tune of yore, 

Sulphurous the abode verily so. 

Devoid of mirth, pot bellied girth, 

Folly and woe, ere twice more. 

Verily the goodly gods on the cloud, 

Gape their rear prithee haply before.

Super holy I am, lo I birth a yam,

A gift gods give nimrods.

A river behold holy liquid gold,

Hence a temple this my pod.

M66

M65 There's this

There's this, a bladder full of piss,

And that, a ferocious freshwater human rat.

It occurred to Knuth uncouth,

For ass though, it needed to be fat.

When heavy huge tits, 

Went to dream down south Dartmouth. 

She was supposed to hit big in the hole, 

When this rat Knuth, shit in her mouth. 

Thunder in fart, apologies to art, 

Methinks my asshole is on fire, Knuth said. 

Such tales he told to the wife of old, 

Only to drowsy sleepy thoughts in his head. 

How much more asked the whore, 

When knuth was awake, she was cutting it. 

Next time, she said, spare the call, 

I hate people who talk when they can't even shit. 

He caught the girl, amidst her snarl, 

He roared like a fart: Where bitch?

He found it lying on the bed, 

He ran to the hospital for a stitch. 

A stitch in time could've saved nine, 

But here he lost on the clock. 

To get his dick reinstalled, 

He had to suck ten doctor's cock. 

Now back at home, got several syndromes, 

Now not an ordinary life. 

He sits in the corner, like a cornered rat, 

When his wife cuts veggies with a knife. 

M64 speed of light

M63 I am mad

Intelligence is a word that sort of narrows our relationship with what is biologically potential and, therefore, shortchanges our artificial intelligence (AI). Even in our mind, the part that we are made aware of is only a small part of the toolbox; a vast part isn't normally available to consciousness, as we understand it, in everyday life. Underneath, there's not one but many intelligences that aren't even described within our limited defining radius of the known.

We'd not be a working piece of equipment had all these been depending on the slow conscious intelligence that we go to school for. AI today is an extension of just that small part, not the others, and by this, I don't mean anything in the sense of comparison, at least a diminutive one; it's just that we are only at the beginning of the handshake between a part of the conscious learned biological intelligence and what we can in the future do by speeding up evolution.

Evolution, as you understand, works by death, generations, and chance. It tries to accommodate a match between life and its environment and ecosystem, with chance as the arbitrator. And, this is important, at visible macro emergent adaptation levels to invisible quantum biological scale for the millions of molecular machines at work. It's a tweaker and extremely slow at that, but what we'll be able to do is move things faster, or at least the parts of the human organism that we care about, in this case the superficial tip of the human potential, and even that speeded up or augmented is a tremendous gain over the geologic scale of time.

Being a person who's mad, I know there's a huge part that, though we know it, only looking at it through pathology may open windows into aspects of the mind we aren't even aware of. All the depressed and manic people, or with schizophrenia and mood disorders, or autistic people, are that rare lens set that magnify what the potential can be. It's just that there's more abnormal with the normal than the abnormal, and I, for one, am proud to be bipolar; I don't give a rodent's rear anymore.

On one hand, the normal seem to need tutoring and mentoring like I never knew humans could possibly manage to humanly need, and on the other, they are told this additional attention is compulsory because they suffer from a crippling dearth of incapacities we, the mad posses that needs to be repaired before our abnormal lives can be brought back to normal service conditions. You see the problem? No? Then, congratulations you're normal. 

The duplicity is that it promises that the only qualification is a willingness to spend on the annual membership for the transformation service. No matter if, on the other end of the credit card, there sits a bipolar quacking duck. They'll continue to make good on the promise or the 1% of the money is returned, no questions answered. Whether this would happen before the heat death of the universe or after, clarified once you've been on the subscription for a while.

M62

M62

M61 Madman

A lot of people who haven't met me in a long time, or met me in India but only dressed in formals and blessed with money, wouldn't be quite sure if it's the same person that writes these posts or if it's a different demonic presence inside that erstwhile soft-spoken, apparently gullible, affable, (who'd easily pass for) a decent chap without any apparent head leaks dripping brain matter. 

To be honest, I have doubts about my sanity all the time, but even if this hypergraphia version of me, this diarist, is of any good, at least it's more articulate. That last model was an unhealthy repressed type. And way too gullible. And if I'm mad, to the extent to which you might think it's an outlier that's not worth the bother, at least I should endeavor to examine this life, this insanity, since, at least for posterity, such ramblings inscribed, if not for science, might make for an entertaining session when taking a dump.

The fact of the matter is that under the few layers of apparel and perfume, the weird palimpsest inside is no different than the a naked ape with language. Which is no different than every other organ stripped bare, leaving just the brain and the various consciousness inside it. It’s like peeling back the layers of the onion, each layer more revelatory and eye-watering than the last. Are we truly one person in this bag of skin, or is there more underneath? 

And sorry to burst the bubble, we all have many different people inside us, just visit olypub bar on park street (now mother teresa sarani) on the right night; some are repressed and lead to trauma, some are cosmetic who feign, and some are mechanistically easy to spring out once you know the right combination key. I've suffered many lifetimes of many people in one brain, and so that repressed guy had to lose the chair to this more unadulterated flavor of me.

I know it sucks. The truth always does. But if I succeed, a lot of people will benefit around the world. What that polite guy was trying to do and what this apparently belligerent and boorish avatar is doing are still the same nerdy software thing. I haven't deviated from my course; it's just that I have no other option but to be blunt about the way the world is, because people aren't, and like physics, a lot of things in business depend on reliable and repeatable truths; otherwise, you just get nothing, zero, null, zilch, naught, void, empty, nonexistent, zip, nix.. 

I don't know anyone powerful enough in India to make a difference. I thought I did, but they were all grifters; the whole nation is full of them, grifters who are relatives of grifters, grifters who pretend to be this on Monday that on Sunday, a hall of mirrors. Or people who are just logs of feces, but with Dunning and Kruger. Most are plain liers who were weaned off to a diet of solid lies and have perfected it since. So, now I can't trust anyone here, or I'll lose the remaining pair of socks and underwear. And you don't want to see me like that. 

M62 Browsers are wrapped up pimps

Browsers are wrapped up pimps

-----------------------------------------------------

If you happen to pretend never to have heard the word pimp, or know what it means, then this may not be for you. 

The term "pimp" in English initially referred to a person who arranged opportunities for elopements or secret marriages for a fee, acting as a go-between for lovers. Originally French "pimper," meaning to allure or to dress up itself might have a Germanic origin, possibly from the Middle High German word "pimphen," meaning to look over or to peer. The meaning of the word evolved, and by the 17th century, it came to be associated with someone who manages prostitutes, its current and more widely recognized meaning.

A browser, like chrome, safari or firefox is essentially just that, between you the gentlemen looking for the love, the document. I'm using this metaphor so that it sticks in your head. Because you see, a pimp is an agent that acts on someone else's behalf, and "user agent" the topic of this post, is a software that acts on the user's behalf. 

There are many

1. Web Browsers

2. Mobile Browsers

3. Email Clients

4. Feed Readers

5. Search Engine Bots

6. Crawlers

7. Link Checkers

8. Proxy Servers

9. Web Scrapers

10. Media Players

11. Offline Browsers

12. Voice Assistants

13. E-commerce Bots

14. Social Media Bots

15. Monitoring Tools

16. Development Tools

17. VPN Services

18. Accessibility Tools

19. Image Downloaders

20. Translation Services

So a browser is an user agent (souped up) that you to communicate with a loved document on the web!

It is part of the HTTP headers that are exchanged between the web browser (or another client) and the web server when requesting and receiving web content.

How it Works:

1. When you try to visit a webpage, your browser sends an HTTP request to the web server where the page is hosted.

2. In this HTTP request, the browser includes several headers, one of which is the `User-Agent` header. This header contains the User Agent string of your browser, providing information about the browser and the operating system.

3. The web server receives this request and can read the `User-Agent` string to identify the type of browser making the request.

4. The server may use this information to send back a version of the webpage that is optimized for your specific browser or device.

Example:

If you are developing a website and want to apply specific CSS styles or run certain JavaScript code based on the User Agent, you would typically do this using JavaScript on the client side, not within the HTML itself. Here’s a simple JavaScript example that logs the User Agent string to the console:

```javascript

console.log(navigator.userAgent);

```

This JavaScript code will print the User Agent string of the browser to the browser's console, allowing you to see or use it in your client-side code to make decisions or alterations to the webpage based on the User Agent.

Hope this helps. 

M60 Saber rattling Canada

I don't know anything about politics, but I feel this shadow saber rattling with Canada isn't in India's interest. I mean, what are we rattling? It's silly not to approach something that another country's person at the helm is trying to focus on by not tackling it head on. 

-- If there are facts to be found that Canada isn't pointing to, then that should be the first point.

-- Then, if there's anything in that, why not just let whoever wants to know follow through on the evidence if we have nothing to hide?

-- If we have something to hide, or if indeed there's rotten fish that needs to be spun, why not make it clear if this was a separatist elimination process? None of the western nations are beyond reproach themselves; they've all been in the past and continue to bless the world with both overt and covert operations, and India should be allowed to. But we should be straight-faced about it, not hide behind mealy-mouthed, spineless, or vocal but clueless feces-flinging cartoons.

The truth is, when we are together, we aren't that close together. When one section wants to separate, a fight starts. If they succeed, again within that group there's another separatist, and so on, the ongoing saga of fractal tribal accommodation. The optimal size of a Homo sapiens tribe is too small to be practical, so we'll keep fighting until the robot Elon Musk slaps some sense into us. But I'll be gone before that happens, thankfully.

For many students or their parents who pay their lives worth to get out of India, Canada is one of the still accessible "foreign" lands that, once installed, they can write home and make everyone jealous. I remember when I was abroad and sent pictures back home; my westoxicated native kith and kin wrote effusively of endearment. But now that I don't have a skyscraper or a white face in the background, those have long fled into the urgent amnesia that's needed to get rid of memories like mine.

Of course, who cares about what I have to say? The real pundits are out there with their megalocephalic apparatus installed, whispering what megalomania drives politics these days.

M59 I sit shit

I sit shit, commode I fit, 

Fart bubbles of tart on top. 

The turds look like birds dead, 

I had eaten at IHOP. 

A sweetheart in my heart had fart, 

I had a heart but it was filled. 

She took my gold and pissed on me, 

The roof fell and she was killed. 

No suvrotica you have entamoeba histolytica, 

Amoebiasis I can tell from the smell. 

Metrogel will cure me I'm sure, 

Surely for the parasite it's hell. 

One fart loud, one fart long, 

Like a song ancient and from an oud.

What broke the camels back was a fart, 

What manners in the desert food. 

Fart after fart, I discover an art, 

Monalisa I can paint with my ass in peace. 

Sufficient half cooked beans the night before,

Senorita I make her pose a smile please. 

M58 bengali

 The morning rain drenched the socks, 

I'm in a wet sock, socked half-wit and dim.

Had to fight, there was no light,

Calculus in calcutta is as wet as it is grim.

A soggy weedy smoky haze,

Mom's not doing too well.

She's shrunk and with her what remains of my mind.

It's strange I had teeth as sharp as broken shell.

The world pays for its selfish ways in more or less,

I won't be here, the tomorrow most will see.

Too many people with twisted truths,

Untwist them and they swirl undead zombies, carefree.

I'm glad this city, this state, this country, I came,

It helped like an electron microscope view. 

I would have missed from the distant view what,

Poverty and despair a special calcutta brew.

Selfishness and hatred like fancy flower bags, 

Show up on every shoulder on every purse. 

Calcutta can't blame white Europeans,

Now they are far far far Far worse.

Dengue they hide, corruption their pride, 

Ministers and laity race for scruples kill. 

Biligerence like boils, the bengali snake in coils, 

But only infighting for petty frill. 

Just like the rest of the country,

A rot has set, innocence the first casualty, dead.

Before the corrupt old sits on their pyre. 

Their babies, gurgling bundles of joy,

Are their own instant Maggie masala horror ready made fire.

Unabashed, unrepentant a race, rancid minister represent its face,

The old poets would have had a frown. 

The old bengal which was a premonition of the nation, 

Now a lampoon of the circuses in town.

One of the few scenarios when disaster strikes is one that people easily overlook—their own. But since I've been observing my descent into poverty, I wonder how my final moments might arrive.

Like any normal person working in the US at one point in time, I couldn't think of going from A to B without leaving a carbon footprint. At one high point in my career, Jesus Christ was via Rick Warren driving with me three days a week the two-way unsalubrious distance of 100 miles between Austin and San Antonio. This ended badly when I couldn't accommodate the prophet in my heart (I actually said that), which reset my green card. JP, the person overseeing such conversions of heathens at the Veterans Administration into glorious Christmas gifts, had never met the likes of me. Bless her heart. Ironically, Rick Warren's purpose driven life drove mine off the road. 

For anyone with one foot on this and another in that other boat, I am only employable if the interest is in science; the spillovers I can manage are like hanging out at the Christian mega church, which is just like hanging out with bengali characters foaming at their mouths at a durga puja pandal for me, with internal consternations and hemorrhagic pain (I spent time in the car or at strip clubs or at the museums during the Houston durga puja). But if you ask me point blank my thoughts, you get my thoughts point blank, and often you get sick afterwards.

It turns out that most people live on this earth at the same time as me but really have archaic mindsets that are almost anachronistic. What I've seen is that most of my classmates (eighties) were very primitive logically. I thought I was in school and things would improve; now I'm almost fifty, and I see the children of the children of my classmates generation still dangerously indoctrinated to a plethora of fictional flimflam, albeit going to a pricier school, where again the people at helm are themselves flying happily blind. Just fatter and more clueless. I wouldn't be surprised if they start linear algebra in the nursery but make brain optional for prime-sinisterial level posts. 

After my fledgling enterprise in Hyderabad was squished under the goon and muscle mania of the real power in India, the hooliganity (a word I like), I gained, through growing hardscrabble in the layers, super powers of observation—things that were hidden away from me when I was inside cars or when I stepped out of one, now were revealed. People in city hives have thorns, fangs, claws, and venom, and they don't like each other. Unless you're already clearly a demarcated boss, they'd pull you down and keep you there to suck blood. Nested vampirism and dislocated fulcrums, meaningless customs and truculent attitudes. 

Most fine-tuned Indians detect and abhor the stench of poverty. I see how I'll die on the street. The last time I was beaten with hockey sticks was in Assam, I was still in my tweed; now it'll be different. I walk with a hesitant gait, and one swing will do me in. Where in the affluent past I drove, now it's metro, rickshaw, or I walk. It's the last one where I am more susceptible, and after they figure out it was a wasted swing, they'll kick the erstwhile me in the drain. Where I'll rot into a cadaveric aroma that the genteel get very annoyed when it interferes with darjeeling tea, and then the disposer will cut me up, salvage the meat, and send it to the shady eateries that line the many busy office streets where delectable delicacies drag the office goers from bed. And thus, on many plates, I will find my place, being stuck as bone or flesh in someone's teeth and eventually through feces back to the elements.

It's just strange that you have to be unscientific to do any science at all, even at the highest levels of research, and you can't protest or protect the world from this pernicious harm that irrationality is doing to it. I'm just a weak and annoying squeaky voice that the goons will easily take care of; it was a narrow escape today, so I won't be a long bother, but even after I'm gone, if the world continues like this, it's like redoing everything over and over again. Why send your kids to school with such massive contradictions that you haven't resolved in your own head? Ask yourself when you read my obituary. Look under obligate contrarians. 

 

 

M57 hideous two eyes

Why, how, what, by when, 

And then from the ashes will rise.

The new face who is the one with, 

Macabre gruesome hideous two eyes.

It will pierce with fiery force,

The people who can't say sorry anymore.

Too late in the night, time of blight,

Nothing will be spared from the score.

The lands will be barren and bald,

The crops burnt crisp to a coal shell. 

The sun will descend nearer still,

And scald the world to an incendiary hell.

People like worms will stick like glue,

And like worms will get stir-fried.

No apocalyptic nirvana sauce,

Complacency you may have tried.

The crumbling facade of the tall will first fall,

Then a domino of death will roll.

In a staccato of serial number call,

There will be just an empty gaping hole.

M56 looking for a job

For people such ordinary as we, I see only ennui. The mediocrity is not a sticker but in the spine. Try you might, but it stays on. Very few get to play the snake and ladder game; most just wait for the accursed dot on the dice. The games are rigged where you're born, and then rigged some more by what you can do, and then some more by the rolling of the usually unfair dice. The whole point of a civilization is to minimize chance and let talent and effort make, but we're still an ape just who looks in the mirror and thinks he's all that when he's not.

Time for the dice again. I’ve ventured into the wild, tortuous, and whimsical world of LinkedIn! It’s a land of endless possibilities, meaning it starts but never ends. Where connections are "so plentiful" , and job opportunities are "so hidden," you end up aging fast. Well, I'm 48, unemployed, and still looking, except now, because of my mom's health, I have to upgrade my monthly earnings to more than what a Calcutta street hooker makes an hour. I pine for grander things, but life puts handcuffs on me. 

You get the picture. And I can't sit for any more tests at 48 or sit through meaningless certifications or lie about reality just to fit in. I'd probably end up not getting a peck and being more annoyed than before; old age does that to you. I can't even prove I was in the United States for so many years, which is usually the only thing that seems to get people to notice any merit in a bag of human male skin; that passport is with the goons in Hyderabad, although I have another one now.

In my previous lookouts, I’ve encountered fraudsters. Especially my last experience where I ended up working really hard on myriad projects, all for nothing. And now I'm just bitter about everything. I worked long hours thinking it would come to something. The world is full of as captain haddock used to say bashi bazhouks. Historically, a bashi-bazouk was a type of irregular soldier of the Ottoman army, known for their lack of discipline and order, often compared to mercenaries or bandits. They were notorious for being particularly unruly and were not paid regular salaries but were expected to live off the land, which led to them having a reputation for plundering and robbing local civilians. So be warned many bashi bazhouks with smiley faces that exploit people. 

Anyway, at the sprightly age of 48, I’m ready to dive into new adventures, sans the entrance exams and the myriad of certifications.

My spirit soars high if it finds the right people, ready to explore uncharted territories and make a splash in the professional world! I’m a bundle of joy, wrapped in aged human skin, eager to spread conditional positivity. 

Let's see...and (in case you discriminate) 

I am dark complexioned 

Indian (east) Nationality 

Bengali ethnically 

Bachelor (divorced without kids) 

Heterosexual 

Atheist 

Political: no affiliation whatsoever 

Short height

Fluent in invectives