BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

In order for this to make sense, I really have to start with a couple of definitions…

Rhetorical Question: a question asked solely to produce an effect or to make an assertion and not to elicit a reply.

Pedantic: overly concerned with minute details or formalisms

Remember those. They might not make sense right away, but they should if you just keep reading… In theory, anyway…

So, here’s the thing – many years ago I read a Sci-Fi novel… yes, actually I have read many Sci-Fi novels, but this one in particular has something to do with my inane rambling today… Unfortunately, I don’t recall the title of this  book, but I do remember the gist of the story. Basically, due to the constant expansion of the universe and the fact that we are simply traveling through it, our solar system emerged from some manner of interstellar radiation cloud that was acting as a damper on our brains. In short, it was making us stupid. So, as Earth moved out of the cloud, people with sub-par IQ’s became what our current definition of “normal” seems to be, those with “normal” IQ’s became geniuses, and those who were already geniuses made a sudden leap to a level that made Einstein and Marilyn Vos Savant look like toddlers.

Well, apparently this wasn’t Sci-Fi after all, as it seems we have started to move out of the “Stupid Zone”. Unfortunately, it also seems my head is still  hanging out in the clouds, so to speak.

Allow me to wax poetic as to why I think this…

Lately, it seems as if a good number of folks have become absolute, raving geniuses, whereas I have remained utterly stupid. I say this because they are pointing it out to me constantly. And, at the same time they turned into these super geniuses, they were also infected with the “pedantic virus” and are now suffering from debilitating cases of pedanticoritis. (Yes, I just made that up…)

Now, I am sure you are wondering just what the evidence may be that has led me to this bizarre conclusion?

Simple. The humble rhetorical question.

I ask them. I ask them all the time. I tweet them, I use them as status updates on BookFace and Myspank. What’s more, I ask really off-the-wall rhetorical questions. Things like, “why don’t grapefruit taste like grapes?” or “did you ever notice hot dogs don’t actually contain any dog?” – Things so outrageous as to not even beg an answer. The only way to make the joke any more obvious would be to put flashing lights around it with a giant arrow and sign that reads, “EAT AT JOkES.” (Hopefully everyone got that…)

So what is my point here? Again, simple. People are answering me.

Now, if folks were answering me with equally as silly answers it would be one thing, but instead they are answering me with serious, in-depth, incredibly ostentatious explanations. What’s worse, more than a few of them have adopted “What, are you stupid or something?” attitudes to go along with them.

I suppose if I was up on stage at a comedy club, then maybe folks would get “it”. But in all honesty I’m not so sure they would…

Which brings me to this…  Even though it would seem that my head is still floating around in the “Stupid Cloud” while everyone else has moved on to the land of “Brainiac”, I figure it’s only fair for me to point out something that may have been missed.

I’m nowhere near as stupid as I look.

Yeah. I know. Hard to believe isn’t it? I mean, after all, I look like a big, goofy moron. But in reality the opposite is true. I actually have some highly developed skills, which may be considered archaic by some, but still serve me well. Things like the ability to operate a Dictionary… Encyclopedias… Reference books… (don’t tell anyone, but I actually know where several branches of the public library are located.) And, when I’m really feeling lazy, I look up things on the Internet, cross reference the sources, and voila… And, if that’s not enough, I really and truly can count to ten without using my fingers. Amazing, I know, but I really can. Just ask E K. She’s literally witnessed this incredible feat.

And, just in case you might not have noticed, I tend to joke a lot… And by a lot I mean A LOT…

So, the next time you happen across my FB page, a random tweet, or even run into me at a bookstore and I say something like, “You know, I wonder if pine cones are just baby pineapples?” you’d probably be better off to not offer an explanation as to why they aren’t.

Why? Because I will just point and make fun of you. Believe it or not, there’s a very good chance that I’ll be better at it than you are…

More to come…

Murv

“I’m home!” I yelled as I came through the door.

It was fairly quiet in the house, which should have tipped me off right away. Well, that and the remnants of the cardboard refrigerator box that had apparently been dismembered in our dining room. I wasn’t entirely sure what that was all about, to be honest. Especially since our refrigerator had been fine earlier, so there wasn’t really a need for a new one.

But, of course, living with an Evil Redhead, you learn not to ask too many questions. Not that such has stopped me in the past. I even have the scars to prove it.

So, anyway, I checked the time just to be sure. The o-spring was still at a play-date, but EKay’s vehicle was in the driveway, so I figured she was here somewhere. Of course, since I hadn’t heard her scream, “Lackey! Get in here right now!” I assumed things were all good. But, “things” can change pretty quickly around our house.

However, what with it appearing to be safe for the time being, I headed for the kitchen to get myself something to drink.

That’s when I saw it.

A big slice of the refrigerator box was spread out on the kitchen floor. E K was standing next to it, absently thumbing through a magazine while humming the theme from Psycho to herself. On the counter nearby sat a nearly empty, somewhat drippy looking, Ultra-Economy Sized bottle of Craft Glue.

This tableau was bizarre enough in and of itself. Well, to folks who don’t live here, anyway. But, I was sort of used to it. However, there was more to the picture. At EKay’s feet, sprawled out on the huge slab of cardboard, was a friend of ours. I’ll call him Bob, because that’s the name E K assigns to most men with whom she is displeased. Apparently it has something to do with an old boyfriend and (per the redhead) the fact that men are simpletons. Her reasoning is that Bob is easy to spell, even backwards, therefore even a man should be able to do it.

So, anyway, upon closer inspection, Bob appeared to be laying in a large puddle of the Craft Glue. On top of that – And I mean literally on top – the redhead was seeing to it that he stayed put in said puddle by use of a strategically placed stiletto heel pushing down on his head.

“Ummm… Hey, Bob,” I said.

“Hey, Murv,” he sort of mumbled.

“Hush, Bob,” E K admonished. “I didn’t say you could talk.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I watched for a minute as she continued thumbing through the magazine. While it wasn’t unusual to see my wife torturing some poor guy who had annoyed her, I had to say the glue and cardboard thing was new and different. But then, she is an awfully creative little dominatrix.

Not entirely sure how to proceed, I finally cleared my throat, and then asked, “Mother Jones or Cosmo?”

“Neither,” she said. “A new jigsaw puzzle catalog.”

“Oh,” I replied. I nabbed myself a soda from the fridge, which just  so happened to be the same fridge that had been there when I left, go figure. After a sip or two I cleared my throat again. “Ummm, your worship… May I ask another question?”

“That will make two in one day.”

“I know.”

“All right. What is it, lackey?”

“Why are you standing on Bob’s head?”

“Because he was squirming too much, of course.”

“Oh… I see.” Really, I didn’t. So, I paused for a second then said, “Ummm… I’m not sure I follow.”

She let out an exasperated sigh, but didn’t look up at me.  Instead, she glanced down at Bob, leaned forward and pushed a little harder on his head and ordered, “Stop moving!” Then, she went back to perusing the catalog and addressed me, “Because he has to be still while the glue is drying.”

So, I had been correct. He was laying in a pool of glue.

“Umm… Okay. Why?” I asked.

“Don’t be stupid, lackey,” she admonished. “Oh, wait… You’re male. You can’t help it, can you? Hmph. Well, it’s simple physics. If  he moves around too much while the glue is drying he won’t stick to the cardboard properly.  If that happens then he will probably fall off.”

“Fall off?”

She sighed again. “Yes. When I hang him on the wall.”

I thought about this for a moment. “Okay… So, mind if I ask why you want to hang Bob on the wall?”

“That’s three.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sighed, then answered me anyway. “To teach him a lesson, of course.”

“About what? Art?”

“Exactly. That’s four, by the way.”

I hadn’t really expected her to say that. The “exactly” thing, I mean. The four I was pretty sure I saw coming the minute I asked the question. But then she’s an evil redhead. Her mind works in very mysterious ways and she expects you to either know exactly what she means, or just get out of her way and leave her alone. Sometimes she even wants both at the same time.

“Uhh, okay,” I replied. “I guess…” I paused again and stood there watching her thumb through the catalog. Finally, I gave in and said, “I’m sorry your worship, I’m still not sure I follow.”

She blew out a heavy sigh that spoke volumes. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, she sighs an awful lot when she is annoyed. At any rate, the particular volume this annoyed sigh spoke was, “My, my, my… Aren’t you just a complete moron today?” She tossed the catalog aside, then took a moment to stomp some strategic points on Bob that appeared to be coming loose from the cardboard. Then, she planted her foot on the back of his neck, crossed her arms, and glared at me.

“It’s simple, lackey,” she explained. “It came to my attention that he glued a jigsaw puzzle to a piece of cardboard. That’s unacceptable. Jigsaw puzzles are for working, then putting back into the box, and then working again at a later date.  Everyone knows this. They must never… and I repeat, NEVER… be glued.” She looked down and gave her heel a twist against the back of Bob’s neck and barked, “Right, Bob?”

“Right,” Bob mumbled, mainly because half of his mouth was now stuck to the corrugated backing as the glue continued to dry.

“Right what?” she said, twisting a little harder.

Bob groaned and then mumbled again, “Right, oh Queen of the Jigsaw Puzzle.”

“Better,” E K said with a wicked grin.

As it turned out, Bob hung on the wall in our living room for about two weeks.

I’m here to tell you, it was a little disconcerting. Sort of like having the McDonald’s singing fish hanging next to the sofa. However, it did work out for parties and such. E K would just smack him in the back of the head with her shoe and order him to entertain the guests. So, he would tell jokes and even sing some old classic rock tunes. I’m inclined to believe he did this  out of fear, because I often heard the redhead threatening him… It always seemed to be something to do with “missing pieces.” I never asked, but I’m pretty sure I can imagine what she meant, especially since she was always holding an X-acto knife and a puzzle piece shaped template whenever she made the comment.

I think Bob knew exactly what she meant too.

But, eventually, as often happens, E K got tired of the “Bob Art”, so she took him down and put him out at the curb on trash night.

We haven’t seen him since, but I heard through the grapevine that he’s hanging in a private mental hospital upstate. Apparently he not only entertains the residents, but is also being treated for what they consider an irrational fear of redheads, craft glue, and jigsaw puzzles.

More to come…

Murv