The Extravagant Story of Mister K., PhD

I forgot to say that Mister K got accepted at New York University for a Phd and offered wallops of dollars, a flight to and weekend in NY, a theater evening, probably a few cocktails, but most probably no loose women. The professor who wrote him the email, now nearly two weeks ago, to tell him he was accepted, is just what I hoped for after K. sent his applications. An intellectual who doesn't care about superficial details, and who thus wouldn't care about K.'s leaving some of my comments and some typos in his CV and statement of purpose, but would still be impressed by the genius of his essays. The professor himself made several typos in his email which he didn't even bother to finish before sending - it's cut off in the middle of a sentence.
Of course I was pleased - I spent nights during my Xmas holiday working with Mister K. on messenger and trying to get him to write decent statements of purpose that gave more of an idea of his intellectual personality (rather than his first attempts that sounded more like a child's holiday report written under duress). But obviously, and although I did all the last minute pushing and whipping, the merit is all his. Naturally, he's already found ways of diminishing his achievement:
- Sure! I'm one of only 16 candidates who have been chosen! But there were probably only 17 candidates to start with, and the 17th sent his application two weeks late, couldn't write and had mental deficiencies.

Well whatever. He'll be so proud to get his first business card with "Mister K., Phd" written on it, that he'll probably print 10.000 of them and send them to everyone in his address book, with a little note explaining, as the Germans would, that the title is part of the name. That's exactly the sort of person he is. Ex-act-ly.