Notes from the underground - In fourteenth person

The dude had been asking him every time he was soothed into a good mood with the ever potent G, aka the B if you're one of those Velachery folks, to look at new avenues . This was the dude's proposition: please pray that I get hooked up at that speed dating this week or, (he was rolling on the floor with laughter while coughing hysterically to momentarily faze the dude) join me at the speed dating event of the fucking century. For him, praying for anyone was out of the question. The speed date beckoned.

Keeping in line with the "fatten everything before you slaughter" dictum that governs the entire American social and commercial marketplace, the speed date was set before the week of Valentine's day. They got there earlier than everyone else and stood with an unremarkable smugness about them. The organizer, J, reminded them that they shouldn't be ashamed to take organized help to get laid. However, he also reminded them, with barely concealed amusement, that the horse could only be taken to the water. After J left, the dude turned to him and said, "White bastard thinks we're going to practice Desi-speak and scare the chicks shitless. Whats goin on, man?".

They are shown into their respective "speed dating rooms". The dude dosen't figure in this story anymore. He rearranges the seating and perches his humongous "wannabe an Afro dude, but gottabe a Desi prude" black coat on the chair. It sunk in.2 men, 9 boys, 1 woman, 8 girls and 3 juvenile delinquents. He was the lone " dude with a weird accent". He smacked his lips in delight, this had to be fun.