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 

M55

M54

M53 I cut my head

I cut my head, I think I'm dead,

Many a trouble it gave me. 

A chronic pain, persistent and vain,

Now as headless, I reign free.

A royal chair made from yeti hair,

I pride when I guide my kingdom own.

What do people know of headless man,

When with heads never sat on a throne?

The gods clap and cheer from the rear, 

They know, I'm more defiant without, than with. 

Marching already, the heathens on the clouds,

To arrest the spooks with their kith.

Nothing holy I say, clay props, clear as day,

Bastards with beards, lunatics I know.

These eight, need to be beaten straight,

After which my urine on their face flow. 

This, that and then, if, will and when,

The nightmare ends before the dawn.

Hopes often fade, false stone not jade,

I laugh when I wake up wet and yawn.

Shimmering the sun, head intact I hum,

The songs of haunting, of the dead.

Head still hollow, bed soaked and yellow,

The grim reaper cackles in my head.

M52 I fart from my heart

I fart I fart, I fart from my heart,

I fart so much that I am pooping.

The gods must know it's diarrhea,

And Imodium is not working.

Just some "egg tarka and roti",

And I am shooting shit like mad.

Hopelessly devoted to the shit god,

Oh my god look I shit something sad.

A pool of shit drool not cool,

The smell is bad too.

The spirit of the time vomited up,

Its miseries in fragrant shit hue.

Devil in this shit I can smell it, 

From what I ate yesterday. 

Clump and lump turds with a thump, 

No manners, no saying namaste. 

M51 Ode to religion

The strange thing is that although we spend quite a lot on the mysterious ways in which the gods work, their efficiency is still quite wanting. Why do I say this? I'll tell you. In the days of easy and cheap wireless telecommunications, when you can sit, in the height of summer, in a burlesque show in Sonagachhi, Kolkata, and order American pizza using an American carrier using a cheap Chinese phone made in Mexico, why can't a god almighty someone not condescend to get into the dream of one of the mustachioed dictators I ask?

At least in a region where floods are happening or about to happen and warn them that if they don't tighten the dams or some proactive such easy fare that can be performed without magic, he, I mean this almighty will, pluck every hair from this, I mean this dictator or official's mustache or pubes one at a time, until it hurts, and then pluck dingle-berries from his unwashed gooch, again one at a time, until it hurts, and so on. You get my point.

But nothing like this ever happens; we, the dictated common commoner, simply succumb to this or that, and it seems, therefore logically, that we are speaking to thin air, as it appears, by the lack of any kind of result or reciprocation.

And because, by definition, we are common, it seems too common to be all too ready to subvert any "absence of doing" by these gods with equal enthusiasm and jubilation as any "doing", by posthoc justifications and blame that is carefully and conveniently chosen to spare the gods. How sad is that for a species that has cleverness in its name—sapiens? Imagine running a private limited company like that, where no matter what, the customers are always too happy to bend over backwards and pay. What a scam, eh? Of course governments do and can run without accountability, which is why they cling on to one religion or another. And through the participation of gods and goddesses, they make the faith weakened commoners come loose at their wits, and sobotage commonsense by mixing logic with lozenges from the ancient which can be flexibly interpreted. 

Dust in your eyes, flotilla of bearded guys,

Smiling sweetly hundreds of years ago.

Lies of mouth now in books,

How can you ever say no.

More I sniff it gets more stiff,

Aww I am a goodly godly man.

I will my wealth renounce,

Jump verily from a cliff, I can. 

I see brilliant light for which I fight,

It may be just some bulbs lit.

But if they say it's god it's god,

I'll kill many in god's grace to fit. 

I lick the floor like no one before,

A slave of superstitious past.

I do things like in ancient lore,

I stone the weak and hold a fast.

I pray and pray, that's what they say,

Makes a bad boy very very good.

The next check I write I add a zero,

I get a blood stained clan hood.

Holy me, holy they, holy hearsay,

Super holy lascivious miss lily. 

I will reach into every pocket,

Naysayers, nay, I will slay silly. 

So I sing holy as hell, I tell,

Tales of fabrication and deceit.

Super pious my soul, so many holes,

I pray at almighty's nonexistent feet.

M50

M49 People full of shit

People full of shit, just way full of it, 

So much they ought to burst. 

I don't know how they hold it in, 

What goes in? Food or shit at first.

Fucking assholes, unreasonable and selfish, 

I hope they all drop dead. 

The world's full of these maggots, 

Now swarming in my head. 

Just sweet their tongue, bitter insides, 

Viper's venom in their hooks. 

They stab you in the back smiling always, 

Shit fucking heinous nefarious crooks.

God on their lips, left right up and down, 

Their assholes stuffed with their books. 

Ostentatiously worded criminal intent, 

The planet is fucked by these spooks.

Like prickly pear, these assholes I fear,

You dare not fuck them unaided.

A battering ram, wham bam,

Until you have peace inside your head.

A gluttonous creed of wanton greed,

They only know how to eat.

Deep in sleep I weep to reap,

The fruits of the seeds at my feet.

These fruits will grow you know,

In the gnashing of the teeth I do.

Into a paste fine, which I dine,

I'll spit the venom like glue.

Fuck this earth like a cat on a hearth,

Yeah and get drunk with witches' ennui. 

Festive the cheer, the Greeks are here,

Start gaping each other's ass, shall we.

Holy the cunt, see what she wants,

God has gaped his ass today.

The snowflakes are true six sided too,

Fuck her bearded saint on a Sunday.

People pleasing greasing asshole, 

Whodunit scarecrow on a stool. 

Shit sprang loose, banana goose, 

Your rectum can't fit the feathers fool. 

I know I can't, arthritic my rant,

The shit I proffer costs only rupee two.

Hold your fart, I come from fine art,

What the hell, how do you do?

M48 Modeling

Most people get confused by "model", it's really just a convenient approximation of reality, that science gives us, either as something very precise, or more of an average, and sometimes just as a convenient shape (like a bell curve for many biological data) to quickly grasp what looking at pages and pages won't give us. My main regret is science and math are communicated badly...

A "model" is an equation or a simpler, portable "substitute for" larger set of cumbersome "Data" points.

The terms "mathematical model", "statistical model", and "data model" are often used interchangeably. 

A mathematical model is typically more precise and accurate than a statistical model, but it is also more difficult to create and use. 

A statistical model is less precise and accurate than a mathematical model, but it is more flexible and can be used to represent more complex systems. 

A data model is the least precise and accurate of the three, but it is also the easiest to create and use.

To understand the difference between the models let's use toys as an example:

1. Mathematical Modeling: 

   - Imagine you have a toy car. You push it, and it moves a certain distance. If you push it harder, it goes further. A mathematical model is like a rule that says, "If you push this hard, the car will go this far."

2. Statistical Modeling:

   - Now, imagine you have a bag of different colored marbles. You want to guess which color you'll pick without looking. A statistical model is like a magic trick that helps you guess the color based on how many of each color are in the bag.

3. Data Modeling:

   - Think of your toy box. You have different sections for cars, dolls, blocks, and so on. Data modeling is like organizing your toy box so you know where each toy goes and can find them easily.

In short:

- Mathematical: rules for how toys work.

- Statistical: guess things about toys.

- Data: organizing a toy box.

Statistical model example:

Imagine you're tracking the salaries of employees in a company over several years. As time goes on, some employees get raises, some stay the same, and some might even take a pay cut.

1. Collecting Sample Points:

   - Instead of analyzing the salary of every employee in the company, you decide to look at a few of them (this is your sample). You record their salaries over the months for years.

2. Drawing the Regression Line:

   - Picture a graph where you plot each month on the x-axis and the corresponding salary on the y-axis. For each employee in your sample, you place a dot based on their salary for that month. 

   - Now, you draw a straight line that best fits these dots. This line represents the general trend of salaries over time.

3. Using the Equation of the Line:

   - The line you drew has a mathematical formula. This formula can predict the average salary of an employee based on the number of years (aggregate of months) they've worked.

In the business world, we assume that the sample of employees we've chosen represents the entire company. If our sample is random and large enough, and the company's salary trends are consistent, our predictions will likely be accurate!

   - So, instead of discussing each employee's salary individually, you can use this model (equation) to get a general idea. It's a simpler way to understand the overall salary trend in the company! 

Data mining and data modeling are two closely related terms in the field of data science. However, they have different meanings and serve different purposes.

Data mining is the process of extracting knowledge from large datasets. This can be done by identifying patterns, trends, outliers, or associations. Data mining is often used to make predictions about future events or to improve decision-making.

Data modeling is the process of creating a representation of data. This can be done by creating a logical model, a physical model, or a visual model. Data modeling is used to understand the data, to make it easier to manage, and to create data-driven applications.

In general, data mining can be used to identify patterns in data, and then data modeling can be used to create a model that represents those patterns for predictions about future events or to improve decision-making.

A hospital might use data mining to identify patients who are at risk for a disease. This information could then be used to create a model that predicts which patients are most likely to develop the disease. This model could then be reused for finding the right patients for preventive measures, such as early screening or treatment.

Hope it's clear now.

And I wanted to add even when we are using laws of physics, because of chaos theory, initial states can create different models, that's why when you see the future path of a hurricane, you'll see, multiple path, this is called ensemble. Reality is complex, and even with our best understanding we are scratching the surface. That's why I'm so vocal about science and math education, and against the dogma filled religious indoctrination that wastes and warps minds. We need more rational minds that can focus on reality than the bullshit and human hubris related stuff all around us. We are the apes that just has a small window of opportunity, if we can take it, we'll do well, or we'll perish together like a layer of scum on this rock.

M47 Hopes go dead

Hopes go dead, despairing head,

A mind tries to sleep it off.

The time seems long, for those forlorn,

The winner on the waylaid scoff.

The grass green where it can't be seen,

The walled gardens of pride.

The city lives like a hive, but not alive,

Its soul is rotten inside.

The earth is big, needs very small,

Smaller still the mind of man.

Every creature inherits a place, but,

We get a feudal or property plan.

I have now nothing, except the sky,

And I think it might rain.

The few books and clothes,

Will get wet, but I can't lose nor gain. 

It's the way things are now,

The tyranny of the few with force.

Money or muscle or morbid theory,

Repetition they scream till hoarse.

The decent or quiet are driven out,

Like the unwanted they're gone.

The rituals of religious rote dote,

On the made up villains they spawn.

It will be night, a storm if it might,

Will make a tree temporary too.

The fences are everywhere and barbed,

Selfish and cruel what is true.

That's where we stand, you understand, 

Many here, the educated with plans. 

We've done what we can, we're bright, 

Yet, ruled by thugs, goons and clans. 

An apple with a pit, poison kit,

This now not a problem for me.

Garden of eden in the city of joy,

Just a middle sort of revelry.

The tree is bare this time of year,

I have no plans or any place to go.

I shall see, if this road from me,

Will have a morning tomorrow.

M46 inside my head.

Cool my head when I paint with my pen, 

The paints then runoff to the side. 

The text are vext, canceled and next, 

A grotesque bird appears to reside. 

"How much mad," they ask if I'm sad, 

"Was he always abnormally bold" 

Growing up like fern, weed astern, 

I never knew I had grown up this old.

Now what others pretend to unsee,

I can't stop my pen from painting free. 

They rise as a mass, declare the crass, 

Is too much for the normal to see.

Truth and trust, transparency all rust, 

The society of sin secretly grieve. 

A creed of greed, vapid valor in seed, 

Imaginary gods make believe.

The false hope, many out of scope, 

Round and bound, echoes of their sound. 

Now and then, again and again, 

I let my pen stand its ground.

Febrile and few, my words in queue, 

I am no match for the mob. 

From my cot, I can only warn of rot, 

Destiny's child now a mother's sob. 

I can only try, words cannot fly, 

They can only be read. 

If you are, indeed reading this, 

You see inside my sordid head.

M45

M44

M43

M42 Every bite a spite

Say what, I shit on your god,

And verily you shit on mine.

We then, shit on each other,

And everything's gonna be fine.

Your shit may be spotty, not god's potty,

Like puked up beet, sweet, you can tell. 

Or like stew broth, heads, froth floating, 

Rotten carcasses, cooked very well. 

In the communion, the priest shits a tonne, 

A stampede of devout on the goodly ground. 

On this hallowed spot, they wallow nonstop, 

Consecrated fat gets mixed by the pound. 

Apposite this shit, fit the mixed manly tits, 

Plenty pious, the puny, and aplenty pinworm. 

Poked and provoked, driven and probed, 

Slithering slime sloppy the spaghetti form. 

A war of shit, tit, zit, flit, with lips bit, 

Start with the fusillade of false pride. 

A tottering turd floating ominously,

With its inherent karma on a side, collide. 

Holy much hope, shit stopper no scope,

The diarrhea of the chosen few. 

"Hey," said the god, a fart, then a nod,

Before his asshole finally blew.

Just a flood, of blood, loud thud,

The dam of patience broken at last.

Freedom as in a game of carrom,

At least the physics can reverse the past.

Top turd has a tumor, but no sense of humor,

Fart bubbles trapped to suddenly burst.

If you step on one, soft squeaky sound,

Remember I told you first.

Shit not wrong, but when shit in a thong,

And sold at an auction for lanky legs.

Sired by a beard, not anyone I feared,

These legs spread wide for full kegs.

The band in this land can be bland, 

The drums beaten with drumsticks. 

Forfeited the forever, a saintly shit saver, 

Bearded whores renowned for their tricks. 

Beseech the gods for anal rods,

Deliverance by FedEx tracking needed.

This then caused a beautiful ruckus,

The fierce tribal turds never heeded.

The gods of force, are now all hoarse,

Imaginary voice sucking a soggy dick. 

Diabetic feet, droopy nephropathic eyes,

Ganesh is out of order, and very sick.

Sanctimonious now, then, whenever when, 

The pious in search of blasphemous ass. 

Must pierce in the middle, that's the riddle, 

Rule over the rump with pomp and gas. 

Who said round, the earth is flat,

The rock was shit splat like this.

The rugged ridges in the forming fart,

Creative pressure in god's piss.

Thus entwined in kiss, heavenly bliss, 

The tongues like gyrating hips. 

Gargantuan hole waiting for a pole, 

These are no ordinary lips. 

Every bite a spite, day becomes night, 

Holy hangs the best in the brood. 

Married to the moon, unmoored tycoon,

His shit always tastes very good. 

Times when, god held cheeks, open, 

To let his fart inaudibly pass. 

But then, garlic to blame, very lame, 

Thousands die inhaling his gas. 

He did now, the kissing to stop somehow, 

Hath not seen fart of this wrath. 

The babies did cry, I did not stay dry, 

Splattered with shit, in need of a bath. 

M41 a beautiful snail

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M40 potholes

Repression and denial are as high a form of art as deep are the cavernous potholes inaugurated by a mix of shoddy road and human moral material, if any.

The nuisance is mainly visible when you fall into it, the rain conspires with the visibility during this month. Broken limbs, lives, wheels, and now "overturned" is the more appropriate adjective, as the ministers and the potholes have both been seen to have massive increases in girth.

The stuff that people who are old-fashioned drag into conversations, like truth, trust, and transparency, doesn't lie on the real number line anymore. Mathematically speaking, they have in India long been rotated to the imaginary axis, so that the normal arithmetic that the laity is taught (I would presume badly) can't even compute these hifalutin things anymore.

Ideally, the pleasure of seeing someone else in a calcutta hole (not the historic black hole of calcutta) is always greater than the pain of suffering a broken part or bearing the brunt or cost of it on yourself, especially if the amount of adipose tissue is conveniently set to cause a splash. The good news is that in the city of joy, there's enough carbohydrates (blatantly as bengali sweets and masquerading as Americanized fructose corn) and not enough common sense in the jostling or sophisticated middle class, and the sedentary lifestyle in the upwardly mobile gravitate by putting on gravity, as exhibit to the gaunt hardscrabble featherweights, that they're certainly better off.

Mostly out of sheer pride and prejudice for the skeletons around them, such podgy princesses don't always look where they're going. The fun is foolproof if the crater is near an open sewer with various amounts of ungulate body parts and human feces that can be clearly seen floating like breakfast oatmeal.

I wouldn't stand around for the splash, but if it does happen and I have an aerial or distant view, I can't say I'm not pleased. There's nothing wrong with getting a hearty laugh in the middle of the day when you're safe and dry, while someone else isn't, who's had a leg up unethically and part of the kakistocracy. Schedefreud the German word for it, and I have a belly full of it for anyone landing in a ditch.

This coincides with dengue season, and since the cosmopolitan mosquitoes on special duty from neighboring Bangladesh are doing overtime, they are rather nasty in their mood swings, and depending on which part of the ditch you splash, a thick cloud of war mantra chanting mosquitoes will arrive over the oversized flesh and start their work. Within a few minutes of screaming and crying, the mass of fat will galumph itself in parts on a rickshaw to wherever such large amounts of fat are accommodated, usually their government quarter or other such large, spacious caves left by the extravagant British.

Spheres in my cheeks, I hate nerds and geeks,

Served ten thousand sweet rosogolla daily.

A girl over a tonne, I blot out the sun,

I bribed into everything, proud bengali.

M39

M38 having a bad duck day

There's a hollow space in my head, that's for sure, that I happen to fall into, an unhappy sort of place that gets invited in when the weather's overcast and gray, the only constant in my kaleidoscope. I try to follow the trail of diminishing marginal utility in the chores I do when I start slipping into these dark moods. Right now, the rain is sort of in a dilemma; it hasn't really quite made up its mind yet. If it's done for the day, the rumbling sound of thunder is sort of an undecided monologued expression that's awfully loud for a soliloquy, even for the sky.

The day had eloped successfully into a hazy Bengali afternoon, orange with the pollution that's now characteristic of the air. The clouds broke the color space and upset the usual boundaries of the sky for the birds. A few birds are doing what birds do, and I don't know what that is, superficially to me, noise. Everything is noise, and the absence of it is really what is good for me. That's why I crave sleep; the few hours that I get are just a simulation of my absence here. I don't really matter to most people; there's just an oversupply; the rock's just coated with this infestation. Slime. A few less, at least ones that aren't of any consequence like me, would make the remaining broth healthy. 

I'm just the rancid type that form the unsavory ruinous rubble, bubbles, which froth and foam into societal scum that's bad for everyone. The rainbows on these bubbles are as evanescent as the memories of the echoes of the laughter that once belonged to me—a forever ephemeral, fantastic, merry mirage that burst with the bubbles, spending what little color it had into the meaningless gray. Eventually morbid cackles of a demented mad man possessed with metaphors and schedefreud, the outpost for most that forget to lose gracefully. At least there needs to be more room; unless we exit, where's the room to fit the newcomers? I see people who have just been born already in the same job market; if I don't expire honorably, I encourage them to push me off a cliff. I hear some want to live forever.  

Then again, I think, whenever my thinking isn't cloudy, that this is an island of meaning for the atoms that keep the space supposed to be me, me. I mean, they're never really the same atoms, but semantically, it's still me. I'm just another piece of information, really, that's alive, and the universe is a bigger clump of it. And although unfortunately and regrettably, the constraints that I'm dealing with have some challenges, it's by definition supposed to be this way; otherwise, it wouldn't make any entropy sense. When the only road points in all four directions, a peripatetic itinerant can either start questioning the geometry of his existence and go mad or look at the dot in the gray center of that nowhere and be willing to bet on a voyage. I know, I'm not making any sense, just another weird duck that's... (no, I can't use a bad word. I promised) having a bad duck day, I guess.