Intelligent-Stupid and Stupid-Intelligent
When I was a very young lad, my eldest brother Marc liked to tell his younger brothers fantastic fables. He told Dan, Seth, and me (the youngest) the adventures of Little Fat Guy and his friends: Big Strong Guy, Pegasus's Assistant, and Dubahoy. They went to the Moon, and Mars, and the jungle, and the bottom of the sea, and back to the dinosaur days, and so on. I do not remember much of these whirling tales, for Marc made them up as he went along.
But I do remember one of Marc's tropes. Every so often Little Fat Guy and his friends got into some trouble that they couldn't figure themselves out of. Every single time, without fail, they would then seek the advice of Intelligent-Stupid.
Intelligent-Stupid's advice was always delivered in meandering polysyllables, delivered in a posh fake-British accent that Marc mangled while Dan, Seth, and I giggled. This advice would always be wrong. The gang would always try Intelligent-Stupid's advice; and it would invariably fail disastrously. Then, and only then, the gang sought the advice of Intelligent-Stupid's brother, Stupid-Intelligent.
Stupid-Intelligent's advice was always delivered in inarticulate grunts, and this advice would always make sense. Little Fat Guy and friends try the advice, and it works! Thus Marc amused us.
Whenever I attempt to read a passage of Hegel or the postmodernists, I am reminded of Intelligent-Stupid. They too speak in polished polysyllabics.
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