Excerpt 1:

The tall blonde in her tight white top and figure hugging blue jeans torn slightly at the hip, just enough to make you look and wonder about what lies beneath; the rotund, carefree, happy looking bald man in a flowery, green, red, and yellow colored Hawaiian shirt, khaki  Bermuda shorts and a matching straw hat probably purchased from a street vendor on his recent trip to the Caribbean; the fifty something, unnaturally lean, heavily made up woman with large sunglasses, brightly painted fake nails, a shocking pink plain scarf around her head, and a furiously barking miniature dog that looks more like a rat, stuffed into an obviously expensive leather handbag that hangs over her exposed shoulder….

Excerpt 2:

The desi smiles a smile that only victors can, at the end of a hard fought, long drawn battle. The salesman extends his hands as a sign of friendship. The deal is closed, the papers signed. The salesman knocks off another sale off his monthly sales quota. The desi, with much fanfare, brings home his new Toyota. He performs an aarti of the car, applies a tilak to the car’s hood and to his own forehead, cracks open a coconut in front of its wheels, and draws a large red swastika on the dashboard in full view of his stunned Jewish neighbors….

Excerpt 3:

He is quite unsure, but is surrounded by female doctors and female nurses, all looking at him with suspicion, all ready to pounce on him at the slightest sign of weakness, at the slightest hint of dissent. Unwilling and unable to endure their critical, contemptuous looks, he smiles nervously and nods. The doctor hands him a scissor and points to the grayish, warped, slimy, hideous looking thing that looks somewhat like a cross between a rattlesnake and a spring-like, long and twisted telephone wire of the bygone pre-touchtone, pre-cordless era. “There”, she says, “the umbilical cord”. …

Excerpt 4:

No self respecting NRI woman will ever reveal anything more than what is absolutely unavoidable, and the closest they come to exposing any of their assets is at the annual Diwali party where one can get occasional, rare glimpses at some mighty fine-looking, soft, luscious, breathtaking cleavages popping enticingly out of low cut silk blouses and backless cholis, and beguiling belly buttons on supple, sensual, hourglass figures, peeking out of sexy sarees tied low on tantalizingly smooth and undoubtedly delicious waists….

Excerpt 5:

If it’s not really Sholay and if Gabbar is not Gabbar and Basanti is not Basanti, then why call it “Sholay”, Ram Gopal Verma’s or not? Don’t try to pull wool over our eyes by confusing us with irrelevant snippets of totally useless information. When you say “Sholay”, that’s what we hear. We do not hear the prefix. We see Gabbar without a cellphone in his hand, we see Dhanno and her babbling taangewaali, we see Jalal Agha with his red and white bandana, and we see Helen shaking her behind like only Helen can….

Excerpt 6:

After all is said and done, after a lifetime of study of literature and science and religion and philosophy, after years upon years of long work hours spent in the pursuit of cash and in de-facto slavery of others, after all the games, after all the travel, after all the right career moves, the politicking, the stock options, the failed investments and the profits & losses, after all the love, the lust, the hate, the scheming, the smiles and the tears, after all the childhood pranks, the juvenile delinquencies, the midlife crises, and the senility, everything comes down to the endgame. The closing curtain. The grand finale….