Friends are everywhere, just like pigeon droppings. But true friends are very rare.
And what is this concept of best friend? A best friend, inasmuch I understand, is someone with whom you are most comfortable, and who is amenable to adjustment to accommodate your eccentricities, much like underwear.
You can talk to him/her on anything, everything. Crushes, love, music, porn, poop, politics... the list goes on and on endlessly. He/she will stand with you through thick and thin. ‘High’ and low.
But is it necessary to have a single best friend? For me, for the time being, the answer is no. There are, in fact, loads of people around me with whom I share the same level of retardation. I can talk absolute crap in front of a multitude of friends, and have that bullshit appreciated, thought upon, and discussed.
Amongst this melee, lost somewhere is a guy, let’s call him DPM. After all, what's in a name?
|(keeping this in mind, I proceed to rant)|
He is my best friend, or more precisely, one amongst my many best friends. He is fat as fuck, and responds to ‘mota’ faster than he does to his own name. His daily routine is, on the whole, an amalgamation of a large number of subsidiary activities that remain inconspicuous owing to his ritual of chomping continuously throughout the day. He looks more like a holy cow chewing cud in the by-lanes of Indian cities who refuses to budge unless threatened with dried sugarcane.
Three helpings of anything that is served, plus 2-3 cokes back-to-back is the minimum that it takes for him to get a hold on his senses. His pregnancy is analogous to a/any hostel room under normal circumstances. You go on piling rubbish (read empty beer bottles, cigarette buds, gooey crumpled papers in that order) and take note of it only when it is too late, for ex when there is a possible visit from a family member. Then it takes a huge effort to clear all that shit. His case is the same.
His man-boobs would put many to shame and when he is running (which he has taken up lately to atone for the 7th cardinal sin) his posterior is a sight to behold.
He sulks like a mother-in-law, and people take undue advantage of the fact that he is a cross between Romesh Powar and Munaf Patel. Fat and slow, and this can be a source of amusement. So, our daily routine comprises activities, say conniving to cheat him out of a cards-game, or calling him a fat-ass (which he actually is), to excite his shorter-than-Rajpal-Yadav temper, run for your life before he gets to move his ass, and then watch the proceedings.
He cannot run for all he is worth, and an expletive-filled-rant and threats of ‘fucking you up later’ is all that he can offer. For us, well, it is funny because he is fat.
His mood swings faster than Mulayam Singh’s, so he is not eternally sulky. He returns to his usual fat-self in a matter of minutes. Hence, calling him names is a good bargain.
There is not a single bollywood movie that he hasn't seen or liked. The other day he was telling me that Bajatey Raho was a good movie. I attempted, aur meri baj ke reh gayi.
He was christened ‘Teddy’ by the ostensible love of his life, which he furiously denies, but goes full retard when he gets a call or a text from her. He is paranoid about his health and his coursework, and legend has it that he has got an everlasting stock of medicines for any eventuality ranging from fever to ulcers to gupt rogs.
Apart from all these good qualities, he is a pretty nice guy. He is intelligent, smart, dominating (obviously, given his size) and fat (it had to be mentioned multiple times to do justice to his weight). He is ever-willing to listen to my retarded mumbo-jumbo and gives equally retarded advice and solutions to hypothetical and inane questions.
In short, if he were into drugs, anybody could have mistaken him for Zach Galifianakis in Hangover.
I reiterate that DPM is one of my best friends. Just that he is fat, and that is freaking funny.
(Disclaimer: The character mentioned above is not fictitious; any resemblance to the intended person is completely intentional)