The talk goes on, dredging out the details of light-cone systems and Kruskal coordinates. Everyone is immersed in their own personal stupor, a glassy stare on their eyes.
The invigilators keep asking questions, albeit in a half-hearted manner, asking away because they have to, because they not what else to do. He answers them dutifully, not proceeding until each and every one of the pop-eyed astigmatic asthmatic wheezing fat slobs is satisfied. He may be getting more and more frustrated, but he doesn't show it.
That's the problem with these strong, silent people. The questioners keep on questioning, as they would. And finally, he snaps. With a half-snarl half-cry, he jumps forward, removing a knife from his pocket. "Its the bloody Killing vector!!", he screams in his frenzy, and proceeds to butcher everyone in the small classroom.
Moral of the story: Don't give string theorists knives. Or forks. Or free karate lessons.
The invigilators keep asking questions, albeit in a half-hearted manner, asking away because they have to, because they not what else to do. He answers them dutifully, not proceeding until each and every one of the pop-eyed astigmatic asthmatic wheezing fat slobs is satisfied. He may be getting more and more frustrated, but he doesn't show it.
That's the problem with these strong, silent people. The questioners keep on questioning, as they would. And finally, he snaps. With a half-snarl half-cry, he jumps forward, removing a knife from his pocket. "Its the bloody Killing vector!!", he screams in his frenzy, and proceeds to butcher everyone in the small classroom.
Moral of the story: Don't give string theorists knives. Or forks. Or free karate lessons.
