Viva L.Vagus

The following is a fictious account of a real life med student. All characters in the following article are true and were meant to have resemblance to characters living or dead or both. No animals other than the author himself were hurt in the making of this article.

Before joining Medical Collage I was suicidal. That's when I was told, " It is easier to kill others than yourself". So I did join G***** Medical Collage. Personally I would have preferred a mental intuition anyday to a Medical Collage, but hey! look at the bright side. In the end, you get a certificate which is a definite license to kill and also you get to wear a cool white coat on the job. Additional perks include a cool listening device a.k.a stethoscope, needles, drugs, beautiful nurses on the job and chicks simply dig doctors outside your working place. So eat your heart out computer nerds.

Like every double cheese burger comes with additional calories and, need I mention, a heartburn ; this job too, has it's downside. For instance, the only thing I have to look forward when I enter the hospital on a beautiful spring morning is draining an abscess. Or catheterizing Mr.Peewee here or saying " Good Morning Ms.Hot Dame can I have your urine sample on my table. Yes, please - before and after breakfast. "

But that's my romantic future, I need not fantasize about it right now.

Surviving medical collage teaches us a lot too many things. Having survived it you begin to believe that you could survive the vicious creatures of the Amazon without having prepared for it. Pretty much the way we managed to survive the VIVAS.

"Viva" is a French word for "live". The people who coined the word pretty much must have had in mind that we were supposed to be reporters reporting in front of the cameras (examiners) presenting the news. But as history is evident, it turns out that we are like the victims of a breaking news and the examiners are the pestering reporters of a corporate news agency. We just stand there like a witness of a bomb blast hurt and bleeding. While the examiners are like these reporters who are asking "Sir, we suppose this bombing was conducted under the guidance of Bin Laden. What do you think about it ?". And we just stand there baffled at what the hell just happened? I can't hear. The blast deafened me out? Where is my left hand it seams to be missing? What does this freak with a mike want? We are all confused trying to make sense of what the hell is going to happen. But these freaked out examiners just don't care.

Like, I was asked once by a examiner - "Which muscle is missing in the infex of a Bat ?"

UUh? What am I like a batologist or something? Hey! mister get a life. If I wanted to learn about Chiropters I would be a vet. What are you like Dr.Dolittle or something.

It is not exaggeratation of the fact that much of our Vivas are no different than hostage negotiation. Here is this terrorist with a phony Russian accent, a British haircut and pure american jumbled up English (the examiner) whose holding this beautiful brilliant sweetheart (your marks) who somehow always manages to be a part of the hostage group. You are the pissed-off , endlessly daring idiot - in other words - A Cop who has to go through everything between sweet heaven and flaming hell to get to his goal. On the first encounter, you to have to be very tactful. You have to look him in the eye and speak to him in the most polite manner. No matter what he uses to provoke you, mock you or even ridicule you. You must remain calm punctuate your sentences with Sir, Your majesty , Your highness or even My lord. Then you must get to know his demands and in the end you have half-a-second left before you can carry your sweetheart to safety