How do some people make it into graduate school? I mean, really. For that matter, how do some people get the green light to teach graduate level classes? I thought Skidmore College was the ultimate example of Darwin’s Waiting Room, but I’m beginning to wonder if the University of New Haven’s current cast of characters is coming up fast on the inner track to try and knock the bookie’s favorite out of the running.

I’ve already gone into great detail about Prof. Kotter, Jar Jar and Tony Lemons. Well gear up, here’s another batch of cerebrally challenged “special cases” that I have encountered in my first year of graduate school.

Let’s start with the minor offenders. First on the hit list is “Prof. Fudd.” Fudd is so codenamed because he is not only follicly challenged, but also possesses a mild speech impediment that is frighteningly similar to his Warner Bros. namesake. Now Fudd teaches Finance, and knows his stuff. However, he doesn’t really know how to teach it. I had a similar case with a Statistics professor codenamed “Foreyample” (see, because of his thick Chinese accent, whenever he said “for example,” it came out as “foreyample.” That’s not to make light of the language barrier or his ethnicity, but merely to acknowledge the fact that he uttered this maligned expression so damned much, it became emblazoned in my mind for all eternity). Smart enough guy, just not a great teacher.

The proof is in the proverbial pudding when you take into account that on the mid-term, the class average was a whopping 79 (which, according to some students who claim to have approached Fudd personally, may be overstated. It might actually be a 72. Either way, that sucks). I, myself, pulled a 76. Considering I know nothing of finance, didn’t study a lick, and the fact that numbers hurt my head, I can rest easy with that. With an almost guaranteed A-/A in my only other class this term, I can assume I will pull at least a 3.0 this term. But you know, for a 601 course (which, it should be so stated, at the graduate level is the equivalent of a 101 undergrad course), that just says something about his teaching. What is says is, “I don’t know how to teach a cwass” (that is not a typo, remember the Fudd connection).

Speaking of my other class, that brings me to “Prof. Costanza,” so codenamed for his striking resemblance to the Seinfeld character of the same name. Now I like Costanza. He’s a great guy, funny as hell, makes class engaging, and doesn’t expect too much of us. In fact, dare I say he is the ideal graduate professor for the students who work fulltime. My one and only gripe with him is the way he grades. More accurately, the way he writes the grades. Let’s say you pull an A-minus on an exam. Normal professor would write “A-,” right? Well, Costanza writes “-A.” Now, color me curious, but doesn’t that read an awful lot like “Negative A?” I sure thought so. You can understand my mild confusion when I got back two papers and one read “-A” while the other read “A.” I remember thinking, “Is this bad? I mean, if that’s a negative A, then these two papers cancel out to make a big fat zero. That means I need to pull a total of 180 on my next paper just to break even, a 270 if I wanna maintain the ‘A’ average. I don’t know if this is possible!” All kidding aside, Costanza is still a cool cat, and he ranks rock bottom on the list of offenders.

Let’s move onto “The Brazilian,” so codenamed for his homeland. This guy differs from the previous entries in that he is a student. The Brazilian is quite simply the Biff Loman of UNH’s MBA program. Lazy, contradictory, hypocritical, maybe a little dense, and undeniably useless. I’ve had the Brazilian in a few classes so far, the first of which being a Management 601 class (remember, that 601 means it’s a “for starters” course). Now this class was taught by “Prof. Anti-Rudy.” I call him this because he had the designation of being a former member of Notre Dame’s football team. During the course of the class, Anti-Rudy used Notre Dame’s stratified hierarchy of the team to explain certain breakdowns in a company or firm. It was actually a pretty sound analogy. Whilst explaining the locker/jersey designation system (which, if you know anyone who played for the Fighting Irish, ask them about it. It’s pretty trippy and very cool coffee table knowledge), he went off on a tangent and completely deflated the myth of the film Rudy. Though crushing those treasured images of Sam Gamgee getting carried off the football field on everyone’s shoulders, I felt better in knowing the truth of the matter.

Now Anti-Rudy’s class was pretty durn easy. Dirt simple, if I may say so. We had two exams, and on the first one, I didn’t study a lick (notice a trend here? Please folks, don’t send this link to my momma), and managed to pull an 84. Not bad, not bad. Most folks pulled in the high 90’s (for the record, I pulled an A in the course overall. My momma already knows that, so save your strength). The Brazilian failed. I’m sorry, but you have to be blind, deaf, dumb, mute, retarded, crippled, drooling and pooping yourself to fail this exam. Why? Because Prof. Anti-Rudy gave us the questions two bloody weeks in advance. It was impossible to fail. So what does the Brazilian do to cover his ass? Well, he essentially sets up camp outside Anti-Rudy’s office and bugs him following every frickin’ lesson, hoping his class participation grade will make up the difference. Overcompensating much? You bet. The frosting on this cake of shame is the fact that he stated, and I quote, “I don’t think [Anti-Rudy] is that smart.”

Y’know, I’d be hard-pressed to label anyone as brilliant. But after three full months of Management with Anti-Rudy, I can wholeheartedly state that he is, in a business and socially aware sense, one of the most brilliant men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. To that end, I think the Brazilian ought to be ashamed of himself for concocting such a ludicrous excuse. And all just to cover for his own incompetence/laziness.

Oh, did I mention the Brazilian got a 65 on that aforementioned Finance exam? Now I didn’t study and I got a bleeding 76. That’s not to say I’m any sort of standard that other students should be compared to, but still. My friend forgot his calculator and pulled a 77. Yet the Brazilian just can’t manage to reach the level that everyone else around him is already at. And believe me, he ain’t exactly in a rush to reach that point, either. This guy speaks perfect English, doesn’t work, has all the time in the world on his hands, and still blows it every single time. I mean, this guy took a week off from class because an acquaintance flew to New York City. Now I understand and appreciate the value of friendship, but unless that person is terminally ill, there’s no reason the Brazilian had to take himself out of the picture for a week, thereby allowing himself to stumble back a few rungs. It’s called “priorities,” Pele. Get some.

But to me, the most absurd moment came in the Marketing Management class that we co-attend. After studying a case on McDonald’s, the Brazilian went off on a sedated tirade regarding the evils of McDonald’s and junk food. Once again, I must quote verbatim: “I’m from Brazil, I don’t eat junk food. I eat salads and stuff, I hate junk food.” It should be duly noted that this statement was uttered while he was munching on a handful of M&M’s. It should also be noted that in this particular class, he is only now handing in assignments that were due upwards of a month ago. Y’know, I’m glad that there are other more diligent students in the MBA program from his home country, because if it were only him, that entire ‘berg would develop a pretty lousy rep.

But friends, this is just the tip of the MBA iceberg. Fudd, Foreyample and the Brazilian aren’t major headaches. They’re pesky annoyances who won’t go away. However, much greater evils lie within. For those of you considering continuing your education, I must warn you that the following two cases are ugly, frightening, brutal, and completely true. I suggest you read at your own risk. You may want to consider going to another website or completely closing your browser. But as for me, I am compelled to press on unwaveringly.

In terms of instructors, this next subject is sitting pretty atop the Everest of academic offenders, people. I call him “Prof. Bridgework.” I’ve codenamed as such for the dental procedures that he so desperately needs. Actually, bridgework is on the low end of things. This guy needs a complete top-to-bottom renovation of his chompers that I don’t think even the greatest Michelangelo of dentistry could pull off. And even though his teeth leave much to be desired, that’s the least of his shortcomings.

Prof. Bridgework is by far the worst professor I have ever encountered. Ever. In my 22 years of life on this pebble, 18 of which have involved some form of educational institution, he is the bottom of the barrel. If that doesn’t say something, I don’t know what does. I can say this with a clear conscience because no matter how you dissect it, this guy has no frickin’ clue what he’s doing. Lemme set the stage for you: Prof. Bridgework’s Product Management class did not require a book. Come again? How is such a thing possible at the graduate level? Instead of reading chapters, we “learned” through selected articles and class presentations by fellow students (who were clustered in groups of four or five people). OK, now don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against my MBA brethren, but they’re here to learn through example, not teach the class for the professor. If Big Daddy doesn’t know how to tie his own shoes, and he teaches me how he learned, I’m gonna go through life wearing shoes that aren’t properly tied. Silly example, but I think it serves this case well.

And believe me, that’s just scratching the surface. This cat’s got a list of offenses as long as your arm. How about the fact that this guy couldn’t even come up with a competent grading policy? Or the fact that he actually lost attendance sheets and incorrectly recorded many people as missing classes for which they were present? Or the fact that in lieu of the evaluation sheets we all filled out, he went into the current trimester telling his present class that at the end of the term, he wanted them to give him a glowing review at the end of the term? Need I go on any further? I think I’ve made my point. I could go on, believe me. Hell, I could probably write a doctoral thesis on this craptacular guy if I were so inclined. But the bottom line will never change, not one iota. They broke the mold with this guy, and I thank God in my nightly prayers for that fact.

Our final genetic defective on our yellow brick road of madness is “Dolly.” I chose this codename because “Illegally Blonde” takes much longer to type. Dolly was in our group for Bridgework’s class, and she wasn’t a bad gal. In fact, from the get-go, she seemed just fine to me. Before I go any further, it should be so stated that Bridgework’s class required a term-long project which would be presented on the last day of class. So it goes without saying that we worked on this bastard all term long, and then, two days, two fraggin’ days before the due date, with two fraggin’ hours before we were to meet and bring the paper/presentation together, Dolly sent an e-mail to myself, our teammates and Bridgework stating that she had been sick since Tuesday (this was on a Sunday, mind you), which is why she missed class. She went on to state that she was taking an Incomplete in the course and transferring back to her alma mater to continue her graduate studies.

Come again?

I literally could not believe what I was reading. How does a person just drop everything two days before the end of it all, leaving three other people hanging in limbo like that? Why, why, why, why, why? Granted, her job probably paid for her education at UNH, so she didn’t have to worry about quitting the course and essentially wasting $1,500. Furthermore, I can make an educated guess that the credit may have been nontransferable. But you know, there’s something to be said for common courtesy and this blonde tart was severely lacking that in her “resignation.” She didn’t even bother doing her portion of the work and sending it to us. Instead, we had to compensate for her departure. Thankfully, we rocked the final project, but it was not without an immense load of undue stress courtesy of Dolly. I liked Dolly from the start, even though I knew she was a little left of center, but I never in my wildest dreams thought she’d pull a stunt like this. In comparison to the others listed in this entry, she erred less on a quantitative scale. But qualitatively, she quite simply “Hulk-Smashed” the competition.

Folks, we all know what school was like. From elementary through high school right on up to college (for those of you who attend/have completed college, that is). With each progression, we, as sensible, reasonable humanoids seem to encounter the most bizarre mix of characters we could possibly imagine. And it seems that with each step forward, this collective gets stranger and stranger. Well I’ve got news for you, if UNH is to be used as any sort of accurate sample, grad school definitely holds the twisted crown for possessing the most bizarre, imbecilic, socially challenged group of amoebas than any other level of academia.

And if that statement is true, it gives me the jibblies to think of the anomalies out there in the real world.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.