Human intelligence is a hard element to quantify.
An individual might not have done very well in school or standardized tests, but might be flat-out brilliant in the field of electronics or building a home. Conversely, another individual might be blowing people’s minds with work done in physics, but might just be a mouth-breathing pillow head when it comes to day-to-day conversation. Mathematicians might mangle a sentence and English teachers might not be able to balance a checkbook. What’s dumb could in reality be smart, and what appears bright might actually be dim. There is but one certainty:
I’m a moron.
I don’t say this lightly. Nobody wants to admit he or she is a moron, much as in the same vein no person has ever admitted to being a bad driver or a poor romantic performer (for the record, I deny both). It pains me to say this, but the fact of the matter remains the same: I, Darin J. McCann, son of Dennis and Elizabeth, am not very smart.
However, I am trying to learn from my mistakes and reduce the number of bone-headed forays into the obtuse I take in the future.
Case in point: I went to a wedding last weekend. The ceremony was held at the classically beautiful Prince George’s Chapel, the reception was a wonderful lovefest between the happy couple and their friends and family and the guests couldn’t have been any nicer. However ...
Guys, have you ever been to a wedding with a date? If so, did you happen to make eye contact with said date while the vows were being exchanged? If so, did you ever find yourself hoping a platoon of stick-swinging trolls would storm the church, strike you over the head with the knobby part of the makeshift weapon and cause just enough of a bump where you could claim temporary amnesia over what transpired in that brief silent conversation between eyes a few moments earlier?
By the way, these stick-swinging trolls thoughts seem to creep into my mind a lot. I remember one time, while trying to find the exact location of my feet the morning after a tough night of wrestling a bottle of Jameson, the little buggers ...
But I digress.
Where were we? Oh, yes, my stupidity.
See, I’m one of those people who feel the need to stick my finger in a shark’s mouth to see how aggressive the creature really is. Then, after the crying stops, I would learn to never do this again.
Lesson learned: Wear sunglasses to weddings from here on out to avoid that fateful eye contact, and learn controlled flatulence if the glasses are not enough of a deterrant.
Case in point: I sometimes trust too easily. I trust that Frank Miranda and Mark Hardt, our landlords, will hold me to their collective bosom and take care of the smart-alecky columnist. Then, like a dagger cutting through my spine, the walls behind me began to shake things inside of me that were never intended to shake — smack dab in the middle of the biggest deadline in the short, but illustrious, history of the Coastal Point.
Yes, the two-headed landlord team was having a building addition ripped from the wall behind me. Ever try writing a column (even one this ridiculous) while pieces of twisting metal danced the Macarena inches behind your cranium? It almost made me long for that awkward eye contact during the wedding.
Lesson learned: I love Mark and Frank. I really do. They are my friends and our landlord, but I will be carrying a concealed bazooka and two sulfur grenades next time we have a major deadline. After much deliberation, I also finally put together who would play Mark in the movie about the Coastal Point.
Assuming Rosie O’Donnell was unavailable, and Russell Crowe was busy with anger management courses, the role of Mr. Hardt will be played by Will Ferrell — big, goofy and has a pretty big heart.
Case in point — I started writing this absurd column about how stupid I am, and ... well, that kind of says it all, doesn’t it?