To Hell with World Cup

Guys will never figure out why women love shopping and gals are unlikely to figure out why men love cricket. I don’t think even Allan Pease can write a book with a title like that.

Cricket, to me, is what one wise man said, “11 [players] playing with 11000 fools watching”. Nothing about that truism has changed except for the number of fools having exponentially increased in the last few years.

Like last evening when I was all excited to watch my Monday sitcoms starting from Still Standing to Frasier. Only hitch being papa dear was hooked on to cricket while I had to wrestle the remote out of his clenched hairy fist. Soon a volley of abuses followed, but who cares as long as the remote was now in my tiny hand. But soon I realized it was just a pyrrhic victory as dad kept asking me to switch to SetMax from Star World. While exchanging a torrent of invectives, I had to keep switching the channels.

As fate would have it, that jerk of a bowler (din’t-care-to-know-his-name from Bermuda) kept giving one wide after another thus increasing the run rate and my heart rate as the over was stretching longer than a Hanuman’s tail.

Worse still, whenever I flipped back to my fave channel, I had to stifle my laughter as someone's face was turning a fiery crimson. Finally Frasier came to an end and I threw the remote not before announcing “I am gonna turn into a murderer before this crappy World Cup is over.” I am sure an all-women jury will not only approve but also acquit me of the parricide.