In Defence of Idiots (before I eviscerate idiocy)

I'll be the first to admit that I am not renowned for my love of the human race. Although I may begrudgingly become fond of specific members of my species, on the whole people are awful. Most writers who cling to their clichés like one of those "Baby on Board" signs that come standard with every minivan will, at this point, tell you to simply look at the news to witness, second- or third-hand, the sheer barbarism of man: in the first world, politicians and bankers are paving the road to financial success with the despondent shells that used to be their co-workers and constituents; in the less fortunate parts of the world, war and famine rage without notice or care from the haves, leaving the have-nots to sort out their own problems by their own damn selves; countries invade other countries for reasons that give hippies aneurysms just to think of it -- in short, we're pretty messed up. I get it, we're a horrible, terrible species, and if the whole world were run by puppies or squirrels or dolphins or something we'd all be a lot better off. Maybe. But that's not what I'm arguing right now. Rather than focus on the cruelties of human nature, maybe we can find a more likely cause in examining the idiocy of the average humanoid, and to witness stupidity at its finest, you need look no further than your local retail shop - in my case, the Wal-Mart where, for four or five days a week, I labor under the delusion that escape is imminent, that I can become a teacher or a writer and make enough money with a real job that I can run from the store leaving a trail of petrol and throw a lit match behind me from the safety of the parking lot. You can take that last bit literally or figuratively. Reader's choice!


Like a caged bear at the zoo gains the opportunity to pass his remaining hours in captivity by gazing bitterly at passing tourists, wondering how these feckless morons got to walk around with cotton candy and ice cream while he snacks on day-old fish chum behind bars, so I get to observe my customers, wondering how someone that bitchy came to be lucky enough to afford a 60" plasma screen while I get the honor of being talked down to for eight hours a day so I can pay my bills on time for the first time in months. Sometimes they get cocky enough to assert their social and financial dominance in the form of direct bitchery ("You know, that was very rude of you to help the next person in line when I wandered off without telling you if I'd be back. I'd like to speak to your manager, young lady!") but I mostly just bear witness to passive-aggressive backward glances and sidebar at-the-register chatter that apparently I'm not meant to hear, because I'm a minimum-wage pleb with a below average IQ and no social skills whatsoever. The last one, I'm inclined to agree with, but the rest? I make over a dollar more than minimum wage, thank you very much.

I suppose that before I go too far with the rant, and considering the title of this particular entry is "In Defence of Idiots," I should probably mount that defence now, and it begins thus: under no circumstances should the reader think that idiocy equals a lack of knowledge. By that same token, not knowing things doesn't make you a bad person -- I know lots of things that may or may not ever do anyone any good and I'm one of the worst people I know. There's no shame in not knowing things that "smart" people know, like brain surgery or rocket science or how to program your DVR. I'm even okay with people being unaware of facts that I think should be common knowledge, like basic history of the country where you live (1776 and 1861-5 in America, 1066 in Britain, whenever French people celebrate things), a minimal pop culture base (even I, an old man trapped in the body of a 25-year-old woman, know who Lady Gaga is and who's judging on American Idol now), and third-grade maths. Sure, I wince when I finish an oft-told anecdote about Calvin Coolidge (US president, 1923-9), and the other party stares at me blankly and asks what they might have seen him in. Does that mean I hate them? Of course not; I'm a jerk, not a heartless prick.

The people who I deem to be idiots don't possess a lack of knowledge; rather, they wall themselves off from the possibility that there may be more to life than whatever it is they're doing at that precise moment. They're the people who are too lazy to spend a fraction of a second analysing what they're about to do or say, but spend hours focusing on what they wear, or how they put their hair up -- on the initial impression. And while it's true that you can't remake a first impression, you can certainly reverse one with your future actions, whether you choose to passive-aggressively state what's wrong with you rather than using your grown-up words to ask for help, or whether you decide that what your sagging jeans really need is a belt, or even if you're one of those inexplicable kinds who like to walk up to a cash register and put your items as far away from the cashier as possible without leaving them in your basket.

Maybe I'm just bitter because, as I say, I spend my work week on the inside looking out, but I truly believe that this is a symptom of a greater problem. At this point, I was going to let fly my inner old-man and go on a tirade about how stupidity now acts as a crutch, that so many of our generations are either inarticulate baboons or whorish supermodel-types desperately in need of an extended stay in a mental care facility, that now it's okay to be a diva in a Wal-Mart -- even though, let's face it, you're in a Wal-Mart, and you'd probably cry yourself to sleep every night if you knew the half of how stupid you looked arguing over whether your Miley Cyrus T-Shirt was $3 or $5. See, I was going to do all that, but then I'd just get myself all angry again, and then I fear that I'd actually wake up one morning and look in the mirror to find a 50-something, balding man, still working at Wal-Mart. If that happened, I'd probably cry myself to sleep every night.