The worst thing about trying to get yourself three degrees is that it does away with a lot of your time – time which could be spent pursuing the better things in life – like sleep, women, alcohol and a literary career. Particularly the first, as I never had what one would term stunning successes with the opposite sex, and a literary career may come quicker to a dyslexic than to me (as the award of the Booker Prize to my old friend whom I don’t like illustrates).
The grapevine brought to me, as grapevines are oft wont to do, news of a tag. Having battled a book tag with reasonable success and having come out tops, it was a grim prospect for the Warrier soul to be confronted with. A sea-serpent had tagged me a few weeks ago, asking me to torment the world with twenty random things about myself.
I faced two problems – the first being that I had written so many technical reports and research reviews of late that I knew the first words I wrote would be along the lines of -
It has been stated by several scholarly sources [1,2] that the life of Siddhu Warrier is not one that would spark great interest in most living creatures. The reasons for his insanity are chronicled by Boneh, Durfee and Frankel in their seminal work in 1998  in great detail However, to go into this is beyond the scope of this report, and this report will therefore not delve any depper into this topic.
This report is organized as follows. The first section describes…
I can hear the multitudes (all 8 of them) scream out for mercy. The word goes around, this is not what we want of our young Warrier. (What we want is his complete extermination, which is unfortunately beyond the sphere of practical politics – unless one is an armed member of the London Metropolitan Police with a healthy disdain for brown skin)
And therefore, I waited, biding my time until the pressures of Java, CORBA, Xenoservers, Combinatorial Auction Algorithms and other unsightly creatures I would not share my bed with eased a bit.
And then, I put fingers to my ugly new Chinese keyboard and began to type. And realization dawned upon me that I can still be as boring as ever. So without further ado, leave me descend upon the aforementioned tag. Twenty wholesome facts about me (in no particular order) -
1. I admire Eminem, and have often been reprimanded strongly by some prudes whom I associate with for my excessive usage of the F word (and the B, and the S and the U and the Z words). But I persist, for I wager I am one of a dying breed of biggas.
2. I can’t stand women who attempt to paint a picture of themselves as nuns who would die of coronary haemorrhage if they were to hear unparliamentary language or an off-colour joke – the propensity to do this is unfortunately high among women of my country.
3. I once attempted to burn my house down. Before people start boarding their doors to protect themselves against a raging pyromaniac with a torch in hand, let me hasten to explain – how on earth was I supposed to know that the wrapping of a pack of butter contained aluminium? Even more importantly, it cannot be expected of a man of my commitments to think of things like switching off the power to the microwave.
But, may it never be said that I played the fiddle while 65/5 West Mains Road burnt itself down. Displaying the utmost sagacity (and a burning desire to avoid paying for the house, the microwave and the people residing therein – not to mention the desire to save what remained of the burning butter), I ran from room to room at six in the morning, attempting to wake its sleeping denizens with my ringing cries for everyone to join in on the bonfire in the kitchen.
And be it never be said that I did not thank the kindly person who switched the microwave off. I was exceedingly kind to him (and did not play Rammstein at twelve in the night for three days), even if he unfairly labelled me a ‘certified chootiya’.
4. Unlike an idiot friend of mine named Jormund Elver, I would never turn down a girl who wished to make out with me. It’s a simple matter of asking, girls! I’m waiting…
5. The world is full of short-sighted women who do not understand the enormity of the opportunity that they have missed out on all these years.
6. A lifetime of reading Archie comics has turned me as clumsy as Archie. Like the Boy Scout who basks in the joy of having done a good deed everyday, I spend most days under the shadow of my latest act of clumsiness – the act, as of even date, being spilling a whole glass of Pepsi on a girl’s jeans (and trying to blame someone else for having scratched their left nostril).
7. The most famous line that I ever mouthed was – ‘Ma’am, Siddhu was a good boy, Ma’am. Peyi eriduthu. (A ghost took possession of him)’. I still await an Oscar for that brilliant and melodramatic performace , executed off-the-cuff immediately after having been caught drawing my vice-principal dancing the Charleston in his underpants.
8. I am no Fred Astaire. My dancing style has oft been compared to a pig’s, Gandhi’s and the obese driver of an Onyx dumpster – to the latters’ advantage.
This entertaining and insightful glance into the depraved and debauched life of Siddhu Warrier will be continued, as soon as the author returns after a bacchanalian night of revelry in the company of SQL, PHP and XML.