I Am Smarter Than You

Hey you. So you think you are so smart, with your handlebar mustache and Swarovski crystal monocle, but do not nod your top hat and shake your mutton chops resolutely in wondrous awe of your own perspicacity. Maybe you won the Wolf Prize in mathematics a couple years ago, but I know you only proved Fermat’s last theorem with blowjobs. And seriously, who wins Nobel Prizes anymore? Why don’t you just go hang out with Toni Morrison and a calendar from 1986?

I envision brilliant connections all the time. Have you ever thought about the positive correlation between owning a gun and having a moustache? Or how about the inverse relationship between the number of sexual experiences and the number of unibrows an individual has? Or that all middle-aged Japanese-American men are named Ken? I did not think so. You must be a petite young lad and I must be Socrates, for I just pillaged your derriere with my magnificent diamond-studded shaft.

While you are a simpleminded one-trick mathematical-biological-literary pony, I dominate every field ever created by man and then some. Did you know that I solved all problems in the scientific field of !xbalijko? I bet you do not even know what that is, idiot.

You “speak” the English language in the same way that a hobo has sex with a pile of leaves: Eww. On the other Super Bowl ring-adorned hand (mine), I speak six languages fluently. I speak Bushmen Swahili extra fluently. Take that, you stupid click click whistle.

So how many times have you been awarded the Pulitzer Prize, not counting the one last year? That is right my dimwitted brother, the answer is zero. So place your tail in between your legs, board your carriage fabricated on broken dreams and undeserved acquisitions, and make your way back to the mountain of mediocrity on top of which your baroque mansion sits daintily.

William Safire is on vacation.