Thursday, August 09, 2007
Eight Time Tag Team Champion
Matty Boy sent me a scrap a couple of days ago. He mentioned that I had been Tagged. I was immediately reminded of the Junk mails that show the undesired propensity of clogging my mailbox- So-and-So has Tagged you. Go ahead and give him One Tight Slap or someone else will vent his anger before you. I therefore told Matty Boy that I had no intentions of joining any website that Tagged me before deleting the scrap, a whim of mine. Matty Boy replied saying that
a) I was an idiot, and
b) By being Tagged, I had just been inducted into a pseudo-elite group of bloggers who write random facts about themselves to either extol their inferiority complex driven souls, or just because they have nothing better to do.
I had unearthed the true meaning of Tagged before I read this flattering reply, but nevertheless I wrote back, agreeing to the (a) part and acknowledging the (b) part.
The rules of Tagging should ideally be tacit but in the real world, everything has to spelt out in black and white so:
- On being Tagged, the blogger must accept 8 as the answer to Life, Universe and Everything instead of the erroneous 42, and devote his or her energies in proving the same.
- Having pledged to do so, the blogger must post 8 random facts about him/herself.
- Next, the blogger is expected to enmesh 8 more innocent souls into the Tagged web. He must post a comment on their blog warning them of their fate and ensure that they have received his warnings.
- A blogger who does not wish to accept the rules of Tagged on being Tagged would find himself in an imbroglio. It would be prudent for him to play along. If, however, he chooses to do a “Screw you guys, I’m a’ goin’ home”, he must remember that the Big Brothers of Tagged are constantly watching him and he would have earned their ire. Their favourite method of execution is to fill the bloggers mail/scrapbook/comments with Tags unless he of she loses his sanity or the will to fight, whichever is earlier.
That said and done, we come to 8 random facts about Lefty:
- Like Matty Boy, who Tagged me, and the Piker who Tagged him, I am extremely fond of music. However, as far as putting my passion to practice is concerned, I fail miserably. In fact, before I shifted residence to R., which regular visitors of my blog will remember as the weirdo ghetto full of geeks, goofs and almost-girls, my Mother made me promise that I would exercise full restraint over my vocal chords in public. Despite many attempts by the Lords of the Farmhouse, I have succeeded in keeping my word. Such a “Boy stood on the burning deck” attitude would have definitely earned a green signal to get a bike from most parents, but mine persist in maintaining a frigid ‘no’ to my repeated pleas.
- I am exceedingly fond of milk powder. I always eat the contents of the packets that are given to passengers when they’re not flying Air Deccan or Spice Jet instead of adding them to H2O like others. In fact, during my eventful internship at GENPACT (read Summer of 007), I used to sneak into the pantry 5 times a day, furtively check that no one was around and help myself to liberal modicums of the powdered elixir.
- Despite my almost negligible claims in the world of sports, I once almost won a race. As part of our PT grading in class IV or V, we were supposed to run a 100 meters or so, touch a wall and come back. I started strongly, well in the lead. The adoring masses cried out “Lefty, Lefty” to spur me on towards breaking the world record. I was leading at the halfway stage when I touched the wall and turned back. But then, my foot fell into a pothole and I stumbled, then fell. All the other runners flew past me except a good kind girl who showed true womanly spirit in helping me up and enquiring if I was all right. Florence Nightingale could not have been more sympathetic. The damage had bee done though. I finished last in the race. Second last actually. The good kind girl was last.
- I can make the front of my tongue stick to the back of the same. Ripley’s should contact me any day. Girls, please appreciate the implications of such a talent. I can also wiggle my ears without touching them.
- I am both a hearty and poor eater. Confronted with the pedigree that our mess specializes in, I am capable of surviving on meager quantities for ages while the Matkas from Hadduland fall over each other in trying to finish the entire day’s stock alone. But put a well-cooked meal in front of me and just watch me in action. This talent is put to great use by friends and relatives alike in restaurants when everyone else is full and there’s still food, paid for through the nose, left. I’m also fond of almost all kinds of cuisines- North Indian, Italian, Mexican, Continental and the et cetras. Chinese remains my favourite. I could never take to South Indian though. Probably because they insist on being vegetarian.
- There are very few movies that I have watched. I seem to have missed all of them. For example, I have not seen any of the Terminators or Speeds. I’ve not seen Jumanji, Saving Private Ryan or Silence of the Lambs. The Decayed Canine has made it his mission in life to enhance my knowledge. He’s made me watch some of the Star Wars, Pulp Fiction and Shawshang Redemption, for which I’m indebted to him. I repay him by telling him more than his share of my brilliant jokes.
- I won a medal from Kala Sangam in a drawing competition years and years ago. I had drawn a “scenery” that I’d seen in my sister’s moral science book. Till I passed out of school, I proceeded to draw the same for the hundred-odd drawing competitions that I took part in. Unfortunately, none of those judges had the perspicacity or the knack of spotting talent as Kala Sangam did. The artist in me was stifled to death. Humanity lost out.
- I once tried to make a family tree starting from my great-great Grandfather. I realized that almost all the ladies in my family were called ‘Baby’ and that people lose touch with one’s folks. Also the fact that I was part of a large family which filled 3 A4’s despite the many gaps where names could not be recalled.
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