Welcome to Thunderdome

As much as the good liberal inside all of us wants to sing a Fanfare for the Common Man while lecturing ourselves on the nobility and wisdom of the salt-of-the-earth types who populate this country, seeing them usually just makes me sad. If that means I am a terrible person, I am a terrible person. Toothless hillbillies in pro wrestling t-shirts. A pack of juggalo teenagers. Morbidly obese women in halter tops and jorts. Eighteen year old girls and their three children. Sullen, sunburned yokels slapping their children as other sullen, sunburned yokels look on, understanding the impulse and approving of the act. Baggy-panted black kids getting in fistfights. Twitchy, meth-addled white kids picking at their scabs. Mustachioed policemen harassing the former and ignoring the latter.

I spend all day around people who have high levels of education and undergraduates who, even at their worst, are far more engaged and capable than the Average American.

At night, rather than going out I tend to stay at home reading what other reasonably intelligent people have to say about the world.

Degrees, regardless of the issuing institution or amount of Latin written on them, are by no means an indicator of intelligence.

At night, rather than going out I tend to stay at home reading what other reasonably intelligent people have to say about the world.