Tips to Sibs on Insulting Me

Intellectual inferiority pops up here as often as mentions of Clinton's crooked financial dealings but we have an actual interest in the former.  Your beloved and philanthropic Silas, supporter of freedom, kittens, and excellent-quality hamburgers is sometimes accused of being the smartest person in the Universe, perhaps even beyond that ... or at least as perceived by the doting followers.

(Ed:  kittens?)

I have some evidence:

That's the real Charlie on the right.


There's one teeny tiny problem with attacking my intelligence as our ol' Dad left us all with this creepy trip of thinking we're not intelligent enough.  He gave us a good gift of fairly formidable intelligence but at the same time crippled it with self-doubt and neurosis.  Look around, ya li'l spud monkeys, he did it to all of us (larfs).

Note:  the amusing thing for me in being accused of intelligence is it's the last thing I believe which, amazingly enough, is just the perception as any of the other, ahem, spud monkeys on the crew.  If I were smarter, cool things would happen.


Hot tip on that:  if you're trying to pull down my intelligence then there's a good chance you have a worse case of the problem than I (larfs some more).  Analyze.  Review.  We are crazy as fucking loons, the whole family, even yer beloved Mother who sometimes sang in the kitchen.  Barking mad, the bloody lot.

(Ed:  except you, right?)

Um, perhaps I need to remind I'm the one who wrote the story about the carnivorous manta rays yesterday.  There has never been a carnivorous manta ray ever recorded.  Unlike y'all, I accept being a loon and revel in it.  Firesign Theatre told us years ago:  we're all bozos on this bus.  Accept it.  Revel in it.  Start a fire for no particular reason.

(Ed:  that's dangerous!)

Fuck you.  It's more dangerous listening to people who worry all the time about dangerous things.  Those fuckers will kill you with heart sludge which gives you a vapor lock at an early age.