The other day, I blew off my responsibilities and quit working in the middle of the afternoon. I traded my pants for boxer shorts, took the pillow off my bed, burrowed under a blanket on the couch, and camped in front of the television until bedtime. There were two dead giveaways, though: neither Fox & Friends nor a cheeseburger were anywhere in sight.
Oh, there were a bunch of inconsistencies in my impersonation. For instance, I’m not a fat, bald, orange-y dude with an overactive twitter account and underactive cognitive function. Plus, I’m not at all fooled by my own BS. Nope, I see right through me. I can bluster about how bigly smart I am until the cows come home. I can brag about passing dementia tests and knowing famous people like Frederick Douglass and the president of the Virgin Islands. Or yatter on about Nambia and my really great temperament. I don’t buy any of it.
See, I know me. I’ve had to deal with my bad judgment and disastrous decision-making for a lifetime. And I’m exhausted. So my goal is to keep everyone’s expectations at rock bottom, well within reach. In my zealousness, though, I may have overshot; many wonder if I can tie my own shoes (I can and do). People who know me seem to have significantly lower expectations than outsiders, who see a garden-variety birdbrain rather than a hopeless washout.
In a way, I envy old Sideshow Don his brainless gullibility. He’ll believe any fawning, two-bit snow job, especially his own. Imagine if everyone was so utterly self-deluded. Why, we’d all be kings and queens, superheroes, tycoons, and pompous boobs — awash in Thorazine and bed restraints.
Give me underachievers any day. We know how to have fun and we’re harmless; that’s what’s important.
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