When I heard of the case of the dying soup boys and girls and the supposed murderous rage of the soupers, I was filled with righteous rage. I goaded all the soup boys and girls to file a class action law suit against Cupid for all the love crimes. But Cupid struck a plea bargain and confessed to being a mere accomplice, charging that the souper was the main culprit.
As a jury member my heart went out to the soup-people and their plight, dark futures and all. As a judge though, I had to stick by the rule book. The evidence was circumstantial, supposed black hearts and kolaveri. Love is suicide, the defendant’s lawyer argued. A rather corny defense, I thought. Upon which the soup-person pleaded guilty to the temporary insanity that is love. This case was proving to be too cheesy for many people’s taste. The verdict was out…..
So while the soup person lies dying, the souper goes happily scot free, often let off with mere banishment from facebook friend’s list. That’s hardly much of an exile. For a charge as serious as that of the heinous crime of homicide, the souper got away easily, if you ask the disappointed prosecutor in me. My sense of fairness would have made me fly into a murderous rage, if I were capable of such a thing.
But the Holmes in me wondered if we should we haul the white moon to the court, or the holy cow for that matter. It’s often the most unlikely suspect who is the master-mind behind the crime. I seriously mulled over the connection between the cow, the moon and love crimes. Both the said suspects are known for being unusually clam, but was this their way of venting their murderous rage? The moon and the cow have got to be co-conspirators, I thought. Did they conspire when the cow jumped over the moon?
With super mama’s permission, I’d now like to change tune and rant against the obsession with white skin. And why mourn the lack of choice? One person is more than one’s fair share. No wonder the soup boys landed themselves in such a soup. Speaking of soup boys, my spunky neighbor claimed that she had decided to skip the soup and the go straight to the main course. Playing the devil’s advocate, she claimed that the souper wanted a super supper, not soup, however super it may be. Though I’m sure super mama who is on a snack diet, doesn’t concur with this change over.
My sympathies though are squarely on the side of the love rejects. May peace be with all the soup-people. The league of soup-people is fast multiplying. It is no wonder that the Kolaveri song has become such a phenomenon with its assorted variants popping up all over the place. Making light of the love angst makes it decidedly less burdensome. And nothing like language skills or lack thereof, and irreverent grins to soothingly poke fun at unrequited love. The hauntingly melancholy drunken drawl also manages to strike a painful chord. The song manages to find a non-existent absurd middle ground between pain and humor. Classic tragicomedy song, if you ask me.
Ending on a happy note, for those of us who are happily in love, I can only say….rhythm correct…maintain please….