Hypothetically Speaking . . .

. . . . . . . . Because Humor Matters

Hey, You Can Always Just Drop Out

Written By: Humor Mike - Nov• 22•10

Ok, so it’s been a while since I’ve done an update. Of course, this is after I promised that I’d post an update every two weeks. Well, what had happened was, my pursuit of an MBA degree kind of took over my life. I had so much homework and research to do that one would have thought the goal was to save the world, or, more importantly, to save Brandy on Dancing with the Stars. In any case, I have great news. Due to my missing the opportunity to connect with my readers, I dropped out of school! Yes, mam. You read correctly. A measly little MBA means nothing to me if I can’t blog. Trust me. I know what’s important. I know what really matters. And it’s you. Not some degree that will all but guarantee me an extra $40,000 a year. Not some little piece of paper that will barely help me to get promoted from Wal-Mart greeter to cashier. Like they always say, there is no YOU in MBA.

But wait a minute. Before you start calling my team of shrinks and demanding that they squeeze me in for an emergency appointment, I didn’t really drop out of grad school for the sake of my blog. Instead, I was right smack in the middle of leading a group project that required a 25-page paper when it dawned on me that I needed to change schools immediately. I don’t know if you’ve ever worked on a group project, but whenever I’m assigned one, I believe the professor takes a poll of the class to see who will contribute the least and then matches me up with those individuals. Since it was an online class, the only sign I had that any of the other three members of my group were alive was that I’d get a “good job” or an “ok” message from them each time I finished one of our group assignments. And in case they’re reading this, Hi. Hope you get a good grade on my…I mean your work. Yes, readers, I went there.

Since my heart had been set on going back to the University of Baltimore where I’d gotten my undergraduate degree, I logged on to their admissions website and got the shock of my life. There was my picture on the main page listed as a recent graduate. Under normal circumstances this would have been a joyous moment and I would have called my mom, my dad, Britney Spears, and Al Sharpton, but in this case, out of the 100 or so pictures they took of me back in February, I couldn’t believe THAT photo was the best one. I’d seen road kill look more vibrant all while executing better poses. I immediately envisioned Tyra Banks looking at the photo and banning me from standing in front of a camera again—EVER—and then suing me for mental anguish. To add injury to insult, my name was wrong. I’m not sure who this Kenneth Rawhide Jenkins is, but I can assure you that I am not him. If that wasn’t bad enough, my graduation date was listed as January 2009 instead of January 2010. Awesome. Simply awesome.

Despite this travesty, I have decided to move forward with the application process. Unfortunately, because of the completed application being due by January 1st, I have about three weeks to study for my Graduate Management Admission Test (GMAT). Usually, potential graduate students are encouraged to take three to six months to prepare. I guess I’ll just have to wing it. I mean, I’m kind of smart a little bit. And you probably get points for spelling your name correctly. If I get nothing else right, I can guarantee that those points are in the bag. But if all else fails, everyone knows that the answer is always C. Even if it’s an essay or true or false question, still choose C. I’ve had an ok success rate with that technique thus far, why change it now?

In other news, on October 23rd, I accidentally turned 31. I’m not exactly sure how or why that happened, but let’s just say I’m not too happy about it. Usually I’m good at getting some form of presidential pardon that would allow me to go down a year instead of up. However, this year Barack said he had been a little busy with other things like the status of the economy. I guess that’s understandable. Well, despite my being 30ish, my plastic surgeon has assured me that I don’t look a day over 45. Next week he’s going to start me on some age-defying treatments to ensure that I’ll eventually look young enough to play a high school kid on “Glee” if the producers ever realize that they need my talent, and they remove the restraining order against me for showing on the set those one or two—ok, thirty—times.

The awesome thing about this birthday was that, even though I did absolutely nothing to celebrate it except two research papers and a mid-term exam, I got over 100 birthday wishes from my “friends” on Facebook and around 50 text messages and phone calls in honor of my special day. Even my bill collectors were surprisingly friendlier and wished me the best prior to demanding that I send a payment before they were forced to repossess my two goldfish and a toothbrush as collateral. I will definitely miss the fish, but toothbrushes are replaceable. Honestly, I don’t think it’s hit me that I’m 31. I mean, besides the back pain and my being on the list for a hip replacement, 31 feels exactly the same as 30, which felt exactly the same as 29, which oddly felt exactly like 16.

On the other hand, I do feel like I’m beginning to get more cranky and forgetful as I age. One day last week, I unnecessarily walked over 10 blocks to where I thought I had parked my car before realizing I had parked it elsewhere. Let me be the first to tell you that the police do not like it when you unintentionally call in a false report about your car being stolen. Unfortunately, I had to learn this the hard way. Also, I may have forgotten to pay my rent once or twice over the past few months. There is nothing like seeing your sofa and your stuffed animals taking up your parking spot when you get home after work on a Wednesday evening. And when I did finally write the check, I may have accidentally written it for $10.00 as opposed to the full cost of my rent. Honest mistake. I’d just neglected to add several zeros and overlooked a couple decimal places. It happens. Don’t judge me.

In closing news, I don’t know if you remember my mentioning that I have issues with insects, but despite my dislike for them, they seem to love me. In fact, they are somehow able to track me down in the weirdest of places. For instance, I was minding my own business in the bathroom stall at my job one day when, all of a sudden, a bee decided that I’d been in there too long and it was his turn. I assume the bee was male because we were in the men’s room. I didn’t check though. Anyway, before I realized what I was doing, I let out a scream higher than any note Mariah Carey has ever tackled. Then, as opposed to using the door to get away from my attacker, I somehow managed to hit the floor and wiggle my way into the next stall. Maybe this would have been fine had the other stall NOT been occupied by a soldier who was simply trying to take care of his business. It also probably didn’t help that my pants were around my ankles at the time. Anyway, to make a long story short, the police do not like this sort of thing either, especially when it’s the same officers who responded to your false report of a stolen car. I’m just saying.

Michael Rochelle

Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: http://www.justmichael.net
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One Comment

  1. Sherray says:

    I must say I am excited that you decided to continue with your Master’s at a different school as opposed to just saying forget the whole thing. Gold star for Michael!!! Your bathroom story had me crying!! I love it!

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