Last night on the Olymbics Noreyayna Ukkapachjutka or some such was spinning her lithe, agile young body around the uneven bars.
After spinning six and a half times with a twist, she landed her dismount perfectly.
“9.785,” I say.
“9.772,” says Mrs. Scylla.
“What?” says I. “Did you not see her execute that triple Kaplooie release? Look at the extension. That is at least a 9.78, my dear, by definition. Only in a world gone mad is that a 9.772.”
“I thought she looked too Swingy…”
“Swingy? What the hell is that? You swing on the bars, you’re supposed to look “Swingy” Sheesh!”
and so on.
She scored a 9.775 which pleased the Mrs. but this is not the point. Who the hell are we fooling?
It seems completely ridiculous to reduce an olympic class performance to a number. It’s even more ridiculous to pretend that we can have that kind of accuracy.
The same goes for Mrs. America “Mrs. Wisconsin had too much Vaseline on her teeth, I give her a 9.4356 though.”
We should just grade everything this way now.
“Did you see the Mona Lisa? I give it a 9.576.”
“How’s your marriage? 9.2846”
“Who’s your favorite Poet? Well I gave “The Raven,” by Poe a 9.9945 for his use of meter, and imagery, but the gut-wrenching instinctive imagery of Blake’s “The Tyger,” edged Poe out with a 9.9976.”
WHy do we do this.