Spring Time with ME.

I am staring relegation down the throat and honestly, I don’t really give that much of a shit.

My attitude towards the Managerial Economics examination I endured this morning was nothing short of cavalier. “I went, I saw, and I wrote rubbish” just about sums it up. In truth there was little else I could do but to “take pot shots and hope one of these ends up at the back of the net.”

It’s funny, how you can use football parlance to describe academic pursuits:

I was there early and met Kenny, who was my project mate for that thrice-damned BUS 353 Project Management module. Both of us were taking the same examination and we weren’t exactly too optimistic of surviving it. It was his sup-paper (he failed managerial economics last season) while I contemplated the fate of following in his footsteps. We shot the shit more than we did our revision. Kenny said he struggled with his past year paper until five this morning but still failed to complete it. I looked at his paper and agreed with his less than favorable assessment of it. Somebody should throw this piece of trash to those fat pricks at Wall Street and make sure they answer it. What is not meant for normal human beings should be fit for those de-evoluted creatures.

After 30 minutes of non-productivity, we went up and waited outside the examination hall. This must be what pigs must feel when they are dragged to the abattoir. I saw many faces looking lost. Maybe lots of people will fail and they have to modulate the marks. Hope springs eternal.

They called us in and I went to my seat. It was somewhere at the back and I was appalled at the lack of good looking broads in my vicinity. I had planned to write my name; wait for the mandatory 30 minutes before leaving. Some lovely scenery would alleviate my boredom during the tedious 1800 seconds. However, it was not to be. It turned out quite the opposite as I had envisioned.

The questions didn’t seem too difficult. Problem was, I was hardly on friendly terms with them. It was compos mentis for me right from the start. I was calm and collected, in full possession of my facilities. I went nice and easy, taking nearly 20 minutes to answer four 2-4 marks questions. I then decided to skip the second part of the first question and tackled the other three questions instead. I ended up doing these by bits and parts. What I could remember, I wrote. What I couldn’t understand, I wrote. What I completely didn’t understand, I also wrote. In football, we call this the percentage game. The more crosses you swing into the box, the higher the chance of someone getting on the end of it. I scribbled as much rubbish as I could compose, or imagine. A half-mark for bad trash and some marks for good trash – hopefully they all add up to 40 points (the minimum to escape relegation).

Towards the end the strain got to me and I lapsed into non compos mentis. I thought of the broad I saw earlier. She was also in my Organizational Behavior class ‘last season’ and she stood out from the rest with her 1.8m height, and more importantly, her impressive rack. I fantasized about making out with her and I nearly paid for my lapse of concentration by substituting in the wrong value. Tsk! I should have kept my eyes on the ball. But which ones? I looked around and I saw no balls. I returned to my papers and I caught no balls. Balls! Balls! One could go BALListic!

Anyway, I returned to the first question and tried to conjure up some magic with it. The question required that I find the values from points A to H. No formula materialized in my mind, and with the minutes ticking away, I decided that desperate situations demand desperate measures. Using my ruler, I measured the points on the graph and co-referenced their positions to the values given on the x and y axis. The results? Values that come from nowhere! Not very academic I know, but they didn’t explicitly tell us to explain how we arrived at our answers. So what’s wrong with good old Gawd told me so?

I didn’t even proofread my answers. Why bother checking when you don’t even know what to check for? This is the most relaxing examination I have taken since I enrolled in my university. According to Buddhism, “without attachment, there is no fear.” Spot on! I wouldn’t call it “without attachment” – “don’t give a flying shit” sounds about right.

Most people stayed until the final whistle. The lumbering fashion in which the invigilators collected the scripts reminded me of extra time. I needed to go to the washroom badly. I tried to distract myself from my pressing need by ogling at the broad sitting at table F30 (I think). From my diagonal view she had a nice rack but her elephantine waist and nondescript face turned me off. I shook my legs, closed my eyes, thought of the broad (the one with my height and good rack – hers, not mine). They finally satisfied themselves with our agony and everybody shot straight off from the ground.

I have Marketing on Friday morning and I don’t feel like revising it now. That’s why I’m writing this. My head hurts and I think a nice siesta is in order. (A good workout with the broad is also a pleasant alternative, but I have to make do with sleep, at least for now.)

Two games in the space of 48 hours. Damn. These over-paid Premiership footballers think playing three games in a week is bad? Try swapping places with me and see how these over-rated and over-hyped twats fare. It’s sickening.

By the way, Paddy Powers and William Hills are offering good odds on me being relegated this season. SingaporePoo are also taking in bets, but at a “statistically significant” 1.00000001 payout, punters should keep away.

That’s it. SHUT DOWN!