Hey, fathead! Yeah you! Where do I get off talking to you like this? I’ll tell you where. In a world where according to all of the charts that measure these things, I am superior to you. I am better than you! Your very existence embarrasses me.
Here’s the thing. I am smarter than you—a lot smarter than you. I know this, because medical science has these tests that tell people who is smarter than other people, and according to these tests, you are buzzing in front of the screen while I am trying to watch TV. Dr. Who, in case you are interested—like you’d get it. It’s British. He’s as smart as two and a half men. Hey! Common ground.
Let me put this into words you can understand. Small words. I am intellectually buff. I have six-pack lobes. You on the other hand are morbidly lobese! I can glide comfortably on the peace train while your mental baggage takes up an entire row of seats. I don’t know how you walk down the street with that big, saggy medulla oblonGUTta pinned to your spine like a pumpkin on a pool cure.
The thing that makes me the sickest—other than having to listen your voflabulary rub up against your bulbous syntax—is that you consider yourself average, normal. The world has accommodated your intellectual girth so long that you think (for lack of a better term) it was built that way. You assume that since most of the people are as intellectually out of shape as you, normal is something to be proud of.
I’m really sorry if you think I am being cruel or superior. It’s just that you have no idea how frustrating it is to live in a world that tolerates your self-indulgent life style. Last week I had to fly with an enormously stupid person—in coach! I mean live your life the way you want to at home, but if you are going to try to shoehorn yourself into my space in a closed compartment, you need to have a little pride. In fact, I will just say it—people who are more than just a little stupid should have to pay extra to fly. I mean why should the flight attendant and I have to go to all of this extra trouble because to you the question “Would you care for a magazine?” is like a Rubik’s cube to a blind guy. How about if I give you a few quick hints, just to make it easier for everyone on your next flight:
- No, she’s not actually pointing directly at the exits, but if you have to find them there are little lines that separate them from the walls of the plane.
- Yes, the actual plane is much bigger than the one on the chart.
- No, on the part of the trip between Pittsburgh and Denver, your seat will not still work as a floatation device. Yes! Because that part of the trip is over land.
Not only should stupid people have to pay more to fly, they should also have to pay more to go to school. They are going to have to spend more time with the teachers, have longer access to the library books. Let’s face it; stupid people put a tremendous strain on the system that I should not have to pay for.
And don’t even get me started on health care. Stupid people should definitely have to pay more for that. It makes me sick to think that my health care contributions go up at work, because it makes you sick to think. And it’s not just health insurance. Stupid people cause more car accidents too. Not only are you far more likely to text while you drive, you are more likely to have to look at the keyboard to see the letters, and you are certain to have to look at the ceiling to decide what letters you are trying to see.
I should think that if you had any pride at all, you would want to be as smart as you could. Are you aware that the intellectually slovenly habits you display are dooming your children to the same box of rocks that comprises your world? Have you gotten so used to sitting in front of the TV with your Happy Reels that you don’t know what they are doing to you and yours? You have become so addicted to baldwinunsaturated laughs that you consider 30 Rock intellectual health food. Read the label. Or at least write in and have Ellen read it to you. That’s Fey, not Feynman. That’s Rock, not Rachmaninoff! That Liz contains no real Lemon. Just one episode pumps in almost 40% of your recommended weekly allowance of self-obsessed blond bimbo jokes. And the television-insider references alone are clogging your vertebral and basilar arteries with so much sludge that you are just begging for a this-episode-will-tug-at-the-strings-of-your-heart attack! You are staring down the barrel of a stroke—and it ain’t a stoke of genius!
So get your act together, Mr. Giggles! You are dragging all of the rest of us down. You will probably just continue to tell yourself that I am being unfair—that my “gift” was an accident of birth. That I was born with an innate disposition toward intelligence—yeah, innate disposition. I am talking at my normal gait; try to keep up. Maybe I was born smarter than you, but I still make time every day to work out. I’m not asking you to join the mathlypics. Just spend fifteen minutes three times a week on something more taxing than guessing whether Jamaal is the father before Maury gives you his lie detector results. Start with the Junior Jumble. No! Its TAG, moron. They are not going to use the word GAT in a Junior Jumble, and AGT isn’t a word! Instead of saying “Git ‘er done!” take just a moment to elaborate on breadth of possibilities for what you could mean by “’er.” Both you and the listener will benefit from it. Trust me. “Have a good one!” Is not a short cut for “Have a good day.” Decide what you mean before you say it.
I am sorry if I sound mean. If I sound superior it is only because I am, but we the intelligent have put up with your laziness and sloth long enough. You are dragging us all down. We have tried to feel pity for you, but we are all pitied out. It’s time for you to get up out of your intellectual lazee boy and take a lap around a book that doesn’t pop up when you open it.
Thank you for your time.
What? You still don’t know why I am being so mean?
You still haven’t recognized that this essay is a metaphor for the cruel way that society has started to openly treat the overweight?