March 18, 2019


High school was hard, na? Gossip. Petty politics. Awkward fashion. Hideous hair. Moochein and eyebros. Your “rep”. Popular people with their cryptic codes of conduct. And that shiny little shit, peer pressure — more potent, more powerful, more persuasive than any parent on the planet, shoving straight-A smart-asses into shenanigans so lame there was really no other place to land except neck-deep in a steaming pile of poop

I mean, Dina and Zoha caught egging the Aitchison Head Boy’s house, BY THE AITCHISON HEAD BOY! As if black bras under those white uniforms weren’t an option?

Kulsoom consecutively dumb-calling Faizee 34 times in 20 minutes? The only reason that stupid stalker didn’t make it to the 35th was because HE CALLED HER BACK TO TELL HER HE HAD GODDAMN CALLER ID! Variety is the spice of life, nun-kebab…as if pretend-crumpling and trashing those phone number chits boys threw at your lunch table wasn’t the way to go?

And then there were Humiliation Hall-of-Famers, Peejoo and Jazzy. Everyone swooned and waowed when they decided to elope, until those bloody buffoons were INTERECEPTED BY THEIR FAMILIES AT THE DAEWOO KA ADDA! Dude, for real?! Leaving town for some premarital nookie? Were all their cool friends with huge empty houses and parents who were always out of town dead? Literally, for fuck’s sake, get a guestroom! Frickin’ fools didn’t even make it past Kalma Chowk and their entire lives went to shit. He, Allah maara, got expelled and had his admission to Ohio Wesleyan rescinded. And Peejoo? Nikkah-o-fied to her paindoo phupi’s son — TOTAL runs-a-convenience-store-only-speaks-thait-Punjabi-or-Brad-Ford-Ka-Mirpuriya-wali-English type cheapster — and shipped off to the Yoo-Kay.

Seriously! How did these godforsaken gaddhas survive such absolutely unnecessary antics? No, really, how? Wasn’t it obvious conformity was the key to the cool crowd’s kingdom? I mean, look at me! Faithfully following Farah Qamarqas’s footsteps, I just forced Papa to fly the entire class to Paris right before student council elections and…TA-DAH!

Khair, Praise the good Lord, two decades later, zamana has totally changed, like, smartphones and social media, right? But those individuality obsessed idiots? Same to same. Saalay, dungar, waheen kay waheen — still stuck reliving the same museebat-khana, except now they’re convinced kindness and Facebook score fans and followers.

FML, you f*ckwits! It’s always been the same ol’ shizz — social standards.

It’s true. Even turds can make it to the top…if they’d just open those eyes and ears and follow the goddamn rules. I mean, viewer discretion advised, the Elite It-List is constantly evolving  and totally arbitrary, and may leave the brain perpetually screaming WTAF. And keeping up can easily bust bank accounts, which means you’re broke AF too. Plus, there’s no way to ever be 100% sure you’re doing the right thing. And endless nights curled in the fetal position crying? Totally normal. Not to mention the random hoes and bros baa-baa-ing at you, because, sheep, right? But, as Mama always says, fukras shouldn’t be na-shukras.

I have good news, though. I’m not a kanjoos-makhischoos like Mama. I’m a millennium. We’re all about shortcuts and easy outs, amirite? Even hubby and his stupid scotch-and-cigar crowd are always matar-ing about equal-shequal, and healthy cum-petition, and level playing fields — God knows how fields fit in, but, I guess, sports bring people together — so, here I am, ready to take one for the Parha-Likha-Jaahil team.

No more jungle law or getting creative for attention. Really, it’s obvious how that botched bad-assery panned out. Matlab, enough is enough! No more half-baked harkats! Time to give the thudda  to your “tribe” and being on the Shit-List, say hello to the herd and swear allegiance to my honorable 11-Step It-List, and kiss that high school house of horrors bu-bye for good!


Real people of faith know the path to piety begins with words — no, not prayers — pronunciation. Ramadan, Suhoor, Eid-ul-Adha, Al-Bakistan, Bebsi, Berjer Ging. Just look at Aunty Babbo —formerly known as Pappo. That witch found a rishta for her loser of a son, Dain, formerly known as, you guessed it, Zain, the second she took the righteous path, replacing those P’s and Z’s with holy B’s and D’s. Like, even Yallah has Allah in it, for God’s sake!



Dragging luggage, waiting in lines, flying economy, shacking up at 3-star rat-holes in Thailand with cheap drinks, cheaper food, and SHARED public beaches — “vacations” are for the less fortunate. London for the weekend, a suite at The Dorchester, £24 gin and tonics at The Artesian, Tramp…that is a holiday, darlings.


Teeka. Keto. Crossfit. Starvation. Yoga. Hakeem ki phakkis. Nothing works? Sub noo, chaddo, get the HARmones and thyroid checked.


Sheila was so sick of begging Bubbloo for money , she figured out a way to snag all the latest loot for free! Get on Instagram, make an “official” public account, force your social circle to follow you, and once you have, like, 11 followers, you can basically start cold-calling any brand under the sun to beg for freebies to promote to your puny audience. It takes time, but Naimat said 3-4 nangi-rewealing type pictures and the sponsorships and fans flood in. There is no shame in being a corporate shrill.


What is this ghussa-pee-jao nonsense? Skyrocketing import taxes on luxury cars! Liberty chakka-chak with fake designer lawn! Gucci banning fur! Deepika picking that hocha, Ranveer, over khandaani-bacha, Ranbhir! I mean, the world is on fire and we’re supposed to chup-chaap watch it burn? The least you should impose on this crumbling civilization are your completely uninformed, irrational, unsolicited opinions. Never underestimate the cheekhum-dhaari of a keyboard crusader.


God! It’s been two whole weeks since Faroo’s mother passed away and she’s still a mess. Says she might be depressed and wants to see a psychologist. I’m a stand-up saheli, so, obviously, I immediately told her not to tell anyone. Panna would have a field day telling people Faroo is a mental case. Personally, I think it’s jaadoo, so I left her Shamsi Saab’s number. I mean, if she’s willing to believe a psychic, some  Skype-dum won’t kill her, right? Waisay, someone needs to tell her grieving for more than 3 days is gunnah…

There was a time when marriages were sacred and that Key Club in Karachi was considered a total kanjar-khaana. No more my lovelies! Secret spouse swaps are for cheater-cock chutiyas. Easy scene is in — a little chaira-chaari in the backseat of the gaari never killed anyone. So morals ko goli maaro, dance floor pay bachiyan tay bachay taaro. After that, tera husband, mera husband, teri buddi, meri guddi.


There was a time when running into a gay was like spotting a baby unicorn in the wild. Suddenly, they’ve spread like a rash. Meena read something on Facebook about men pretending to be gay to get close to women. Clever, clever, Makes perfect sense in this phassi huee society. And let’s be real, women go nuts for men who actively pretend they’re just not that into them. Real women know they can change a man.


According to Bitto’s Insta-feed, bird-legs are out. Looking down, as if to find something precious, while tucking a stray lat of hair behind your ear is the thing these days. Bitch, please! I’ve been looking down at people all my life. I’m a natural. Waddi ayee!  Khair, it’s a valuable lesson for losers lusting for likes, I guess.


Samia was harnesssed to a 100-foot crane brought in from Dubai and lowered onto the stage with BabyDoll blaring in the background. Spectacular! So what if her dupatta snagged in the hooks and clips and satyanaas-ed her 15 lakhs ka Sabyasachi? Aria had a Brazilian lady flown in for a $3000 “bridal body wax.” Champoo roped in Mehroon 5 for his mehndi. But, by far, the BEST was Safina who got caught trying to pass off an Islamabad Club waiter as a bartender from Istambol. Everyone was all impressed with Turkish Arsh Kan, until he served scotch on actual rocks, and was exposed as Arshad Lala, the Pathan!

If it seems like a lot, I totally get it. Once a phattoo, always a phattoo. Khair, can’t win ‘em all, but at least I can say I tried. As for you? Good luck with the rest of your lame lives, you goddamn losers!


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