Eat that pussy and be grateful. There’s starving nice guys in fedoras who don’t have any.
Well, then, suppose my auto-repair man devised questions for an intelligence test. Or suppose a carpenter did, or a farmer, or, indeed, almost anyone but an academician. By every one of those tests, I’d prove myself a moron, and I’d be a moron, too. In a world where I could not use my academic training and my verbal talents but had to do something intricate or hard, working with my hands, I would do poorly. My intelligence, then, is not absolute but is a function of the society I live in and of the fact that a small subsection of that society has managed to foist itself on the rest as an arbiter of such matters.
Consider my auto-repair man, again. He had a habit of telling me jokes whenever he saw me. One time he raised his head from under the automobile hood to say: “Doc, a deaf-and-mute guy went into a hardware store to ask for some nails. He put two fingers together on the counter and made hammering motions with the other hand. The clerk brought him a hammer. He shook his head and pointed to the two fingers he was hammering. The clerk brought him nails. He picked out the sizes he wanted, and left. Well, doc, the next guy who came in was a blind man. He wanted scissors. How do you suppose he asked for them?”
Indulgently, I lifted my right hand and made scissoring motions with my first two fingers. Whereupon my auto-repair man laughed raucously and said, “Why, you dumb jerk, He used his voice and asked for them.” Then he said smugly, “I’ve been trying that on all my customers today.” “Did you catch many?” I asked. “Quite a few,” he said, “but I knew for sure I’d catch you.” “Why is that?” I asked. “Because you’re so goddamned educated, doc, I knew you couldn’t be very smart.
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To his friend…
There are always things they don’t tell you when you move into a new apartment. Oh, usually you get the major things, like when it was last painted, or how old the appliances are. There’s always little things. Drawers that are a little too short, so they pull out all the time. Doors that are a little too wide, so they get stuck at inopportune moments. In my case, what I wasn’t told was that I had a lose banister on the second floor, and , oh, by the way, there may possibly have been some horrible atrocity that occurred here at some point in the past.
I don’t know how to praise this piece properly, or to convince you to read it, except that I found it exceptional and it gave me goosebumps.
The Future of the Internal Combustion Engine - Inside Koenigsegg
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I dunno. I kind of like it.
First, some acknowledgements :
- A good percentage of the outraged responses will come from people who skim over this quickly (or just read the title) and completely miss the point. To those that do this , I say “Thank you for providing me with insight into your character through your response.”