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We’re Moving…to Tumblr

Please redirect yourself to the spanking new Tumblr page of TPB! Just do it!

Enjoy. Ta!



Them Pretentious Basterds Magazine

You know how this blog is called webzine? Well, that was because we always wanted to do a proper magazine but couldn’t. Nothing much has really changed on that front actually. What we (I say ‘we’, I mean ‘Chittz and Satwik’) did manage to do is this lovely digital offering. I present to you, dear reader, the magazine.


The TPB Magazine


She smelled like cigarettes and sweetness. Lived a very simple life. Fulfilling every requirement expected of the pop culture stereotype she fit into. Pretty, well groomed, well educated, witty, a little bit of an “eco-warrior but not quite” and a little bit of a “rebel but not quite”. She loved Sartre, tolerated sport and hated cooking. In short, his dream girl. He, being a young “intellectual but not quite” boy who liked to pretend to like fast bikes and alt rock.

He grew his hair long. She cut her hair short. He deleted his Facebook account. She complained about all the stalkers she had.

She intimidated him. He propped himself up by his cultural icons. Conversations under the streetlight turned into thorough examinations of faith. Not religious mind you, more to do with choice of music and Lays™ flavor. He longed to impress her with his unconventional views on the Palestinian question. She wisely resisted.

Everyone likes playing at passive aggressive. They were no different. He wondered if a racist dig at her people was too far. She displayed extreme nonchalance towards the vulgar. Secretly, loathing and loving at the same time instead.

He found her on Facebook. She wrote notes. So he wrote notes. He commented. So she commented. Then she messaged him. And he messaged back. And he wondered out loud in post-modern self-deprecatory way if she would ever go out with him. Facebook being what it is, she read his mind and replied to his wondering, yes. But only if he bought her cookies. Wouldn’t want to seem too forward.

He didn’t really love her. She was fine with it. They were mature. For their age.

Both were familiar with warming benches and fetching coffee. With the second best conversation at the party. With the table that was reasonably close to the center. Comfortably second rung. Careful compensation was a way of life. But never overcompensation. Obviously.

She was a tomboy. He was a feminist. They respected each others’ views. But they never talked about them. They weren’t idiots.

He was quirky. She was edgy. And together, they were zany. He was into irony. She was into casual bdsm. It was all cool though. Conservatives at heart. Liberals in mind. Confused in state.

They liked comedy movies, rock music, chocolate ice cream and pizzas. They hated twilight, george bush and the unknown. Not really. But it was common ground. And they needed to be there.

You see, she was a girl. He was a boy. And everything seemed to fit quite nicely.

Wilkommen petit-nazi amourais!

Yes, that title makes no sense. But I didn’t expect you to speak the three languages necessary to figure that out.