It's not an Einstein ciphering away in the Ol' Moi upstairs, but it's not a Glenn Beck either. I figure I can hold my own with the generality in the ratiocination department, if not with such prodigies Bro. Caldwell, Mike Tyson and Chuck Norris. Somewhere around the mythical norm. But there are some things I don't understand, and thought you might help me out.
For example, I don't understand how it came about that broadcasting provides sanctuary for so many idiots. Print has its share of them, too, of course, and it's not a small share, but the proportion doesn't seem quite so overwhelming.
I assume that they require recruits for both the host and guest spots to have high quotients of glib, objectionable and shallow, and I don't understand why there's not some sort of affirmative action requirement or equal-time provision obliging them to give semi-commensurate airtime to an obviously sane viewpoint for every segment frothed off to Cloud Cuckoo by an incontestable loon. Maybe one sane person for every three loons. One for 12 would be better than now.
I don't understand what the deal is with Billy Bob Thornton. The family show biz maven says this, drawing nods and murmurs of familial agreement: they probably sewed his toupee on too tight. That sounds about right to me. BB's never been too tightly hinged, but an old wry Hot Spring County geniality used to lurk in his weird, as when he would wink indulgently and just shake his head as his squeeze du jour necklaced with the vampire's blood vial jibbered happily about their pet beavers damming up the swimming pool.
I don't understand where these plastic surgeons' minds were when they were transmogrifying the mugs of certain movie actors, crooners and professional football team owners into Halloween fright masks. I mean, Lord have mercy, many of these quondam glamour pusses would now stop clocks. I bet they do stop clocks. You know the ones I'm talking about. Can you get your money back on something like this?
I don't understand why true believers fear death so. Makes no sense.
I don't understand why you'd bring forth 20 offspring if you didn't have to. Or eight at a time. The notion of more mouths to feed used to have a sobering effect – or at least a momentarily deflating or anti-consupiscent effect. Now it's synonymous with the more the merrier.
I don't understand why you'd feel any less special thinking the Creator brought you up out of Bedtime Bonzo rather than having brought you up out of dirt.
I don't understand why the names Goat Gland Brinkley, Fred Phelps, Nap Murphy, Jim Bruton, Mike Masterson, Pickle DeMoss, Boyce Alford, Tommy Robinson, David O. Dodd, Bryan Hendricks and Julia Hughes Jones never came up in the General Assembly's recent consideration of legislation to establish a state nut.
I don't understand exactly what the late great Jerry Neil meant when he defined editorial writers as those who are employed to help tape up Lassie's balls. But I endorse the sentiment, having done my time in the chair.
I don't understand why anybody would want an honorary degree.
I don't understand what I'm supposed to do with this Homeland Security bunker, built in my basement of duct tape and visquene in a patriotic fervor back in 2004. It was going to save me and mine from chemical or biological annihilation by the Muslim hordes, and I guess it did the job. But now it's all venom-spitting spiders and bent cans of pork and beans. Maybe I can hornswoggle the Grant County Museum into hauling it off.
Given that they have to assume the praying posture so often, I don't understand how pious Muslims with advanced arthritis are able to cope.
I don't understand how space can be curved, or how there's no other side of it for there to be nothing on.
I don't understand how these big-time swindlers can live with themselves.
I don't understand what it is about fire ants that makes them such hateful little sons-a-bitches.
I don't understand how ghost technicians can do an MRI on my automobile, including checking the air pressure in the tires, while the technicians are in Detroit, Mich., and the car dozes quietly in the garage here in Ultima Thule.
I don't understand what it is that impels my moles to burrow themselves into utter exhaustion. It's like they think they won't be allowed to do any more of it tomorrow. They'll nose up to the surface at times and just fall out panting. I feel sorry for them, I really do, when they're laid out like that and I come along and run the mower over them.
Though I've read a good deal about it, I don't understand how the human brain works, or how it is working just now in the formulation of these puerilities. I suspect that the chemical and electrical processes are pretty much the same as they are in Clarence “Frogman” Henry's brain or Kilgore Trout's, but not so much like Gary Bauer's or Michelle Bachmann's. I hope that's the case anyhow.
I don't understand how Cabot got to be the kind of place it is. Never have understood it. Sure is sad, though.