As one of the nation’s foremost social psychologists, I would like to present a few of my major social theories. These theories were met with a great deal of enthusiasm when I presented them a few weeks ago at a conference held in the Smith Family Living Center, where I was in sociology class and leaned over and whispered them to my friend Rob.
My first theory (or, “Theory No. 1”) is as follows:
Most people are stupid.
By this I mean that a majority of people on the earth do a great many stupid things — enough stupid things to where you can no longer consider them “smart people who occasionally do stupid things,” but, rather, “stupid people.” I am referring to people who talk during movies, change lanes without signaling, and buy Spice Girls CDs. I am referring to people who write self-righteous letters to the editor decrying the self-righteousness of others. I am referring to people who automatically put an apostrophe in any word that ends with an “s.” (“Me and my friend’s took our car’s down to Las Vega’s.”) I am referring to people who stop in the middle of busy sidewalks and/or bookstores in order to have impromptu mission reunions. I am referring to people who insist on talking to strangers on airplanes and in doctors’ waiting rooms, even though the strangers obviously do not wish to talk to anyone. I am referring to people who have no problem taking up to 25 minutes of class time in order to discuss important issues such as Will there be extra credit available? and How many of the test questions will be multiple choice, and how many will be short-answer?
My second theory goes along with the first one. It states:
You can only be stupid for so long before everyone’s going to know about it.
The reason for this is stated in my Corollary to Theory No. 2:
Deep down inside, many stupid people have a secret, burning desire to let the whole world know that they are stupid
Case in point: a girl in my sociology class, who is the whole reason I presented these theories to my friend Rob in the first place. What this girl does is, she invades your personal space. The classroom is one of those theater-style rooms — no desks, just rows and rows of chairs attached to each other, so you’re pretty close to whoever’s next to you. This girl likes to sit with one leg crossed over the other, her foot dangling. This is fine, except that, as you know, you have to be careful in such settings, because you’re liable to accidentally kick the person next to you with your dangling foot. This girl, however, does not care about accidental kickage. I’ve sat next to her twice, and BOTH times, she has let her foot dangle there and kick me numerous times. My shin is developing a hard, reptilian shell in order to protect itself from the kicking of this girl. You would think that after kicking me once, she would notice that her foot is WELL into my territory, and move it back to her realm, maybe grunting a small apology. But no. Every time she kicks me, she looks down, sees that her foot is right in front of me, in MY space, and then she keeps it there.
OK, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “That sounds pretty annoying, but that doesn’t mean she’s stupid.” Well frankly, I don’t care much for your attitude, because here’s something else about this girl: She says random things out loud in a class full of strangers.
One on occasion, our classroom was quite cold. Actually, it’s been quite cold on many occasions, due to the apparent practice of only taking care of the new, expensive buildings and letting the old ones like the SFLC fall apart until they can come up with the money to tear them down and replace them with big holes. Anyway, it was really cold, and TWICE during our class, this girl said: “Brrr! It’s freezing!” She said this out loud to no one in particular, while the professor was lecturing. Who says “Brrr”? I mean, who actually says “Brrr,” besides comic strip characters? Also, I should mention that she pronounced “freezing” in three syllables — “fuh-ree-zing.”
I do not know this girl’s name; I suspect she may not have one. I have every reason to believe that she does not actually even exist, and is merely a figment of my imagination. And yet there she sits, day in and day out, kicking her foot obliviously and making random comments.
And yet, her random comments are not nearly as frequent or as random as those of a guy whom we have dubbed Loud Boy. Loud Boy usually sits a few rows behind me, and he always has a friend with him. And as is often the hobby of freshman guys, he likes to make sarcastic and “funny” (that is, “not funny”) comments about whatever the professor is teaching. But instead of whispering them to his friend, he says them in a relatively loud voice — loud enough for us to hear three rows in front of him, anyway.
Here’s an example. The other day the professor was talking about how the human body naturally needs a balanced diet, and how most of us would eat a balanced meal all the time if we could. Loud Boy said, “My brother wouldn’t!”
Many of his jokes are not even THAT funny.
Obviously, we wouldn’t mind Loud Boy if he would just whisper. Why doesn’t he whisper? Maybe he can’t whisper. Maybe he comes from a civilization where whispering has not yet been discovered, or where whispering is considered extremely rude, like in many foreign countries where they pick all these weird things to be offended by, like waving, or pointing, or squatting. Maybe he thinks he IS whispering. Whatever the case, it all brings me to Social Theory No. 3, which is:
I’ll usually just keep writing until they make me stop.