Marble Wattage

Whether you possess the capacity to tolerate them or not, you have to admire the persistence of idiots. Fully unaware of their idiocy, these lowbrow dimwits are more than happy to dispense venomous tirades on topics they barely comprehend, even made-up topics about nonsensical qualifiers such as "jumping jack density" or "marble wattage". When they are politely hushed or corrected by their unimpressed audience, the modern idiot will redirect his or her indignation toward the naive ideology of their supposed betters, the overweening elite, in order to regain the sympathies of their supporters, along with any loose pocket change available for bus fares.

However, tempers are easily engaged and the resulting arguments are best described as disgraceful, embarrassing, intermittently provocative, and always entertaining. I myself was fortunate enough to be gifted with the idiot's perspectives during a brief stop in Dubuque last weekend. In the spirit of discovery, I would like to take this opportunity to share the experience with you, my adoring readership.

I was traveling to one of those Canadian states, which our neighbors to the north refer to as "provinces, eh", when the airplane I was traveling upon required an emergency landing in Iowa's tenth-largest city. All 200 of the aircraft's passengers were ushered out of the terminal and given twelve hours to freely roam the city, to do with the time what we would. I volunteered that we should all visit some of the local museums which I'd heard nothing about, but the overwhelming majority elected that we should go to the mall instead.

We, the Manitoba-bound passengers, all arrived at Dubuque's Kennedy Mall around noon. As our flight did not serve any type of meal, our wearisome herd instinctively shuffled toward the food court. I tried suggesting to several people closest to me that, rather than all of us eating at the same place, we should each of us instead select whichever restaurant we desired the most. This method, I felt as strongly then as I do now, would have had the added benefit of not overcrowding one establishment. However, Burt Billingsley, middle management for a soda vendor out of Winnipeg, had already appointed himself as the de facto leader of our group and led us all to a Hot Dog on a Stick.

The Hot Dog on a Stick employees were ill-prepared for such a large group and the wait time for a corn dog (or its vegetarian counterpart, the "cheese dog") quickly rose to over an hour. I asked Burt if it would be okay if I got a slice of pizza from Sbarro, but he retorted with a string of insinuations regarding my love of museums and probable hatred of the mall. He asked me if I had designs against the group and even implied that I had played a part in sabotaging our flight. I carefully apologized to him for my disobedience, as well as to a few other passengers within earshot of our decreasingly private conversation. With a slight bow, I returned to the line and resumed my wait, deciding that I would reward my allegiance to the group with a full-flavored lemonade to go with my corn dog.

Two hours later, we had all been fed and were growing bored. A group vote was taken and we decided to venture to the rest of the mall. All 200 of us went from store to store, passing the time and deciding various things about life. Whether it was "The best sports are played outdoors!" in the magazine section at Books-A-Million or "Bring harmonica songs back to the radio!" in the home furnishings section at Sears, we seemed to have an opinion on everything. Self-preservation had set in by that point, so I decided that complete compliance was the best course of action to take. The sensation, dear readers, was fascinatingly enjoyable, like snuggling up in a terry cloth bathrobe to watch cat videos on YouTube. I dare say that my time as "just one of the group" was one of the less stressful days of my life.

However, there were a few other patrons of the mall (presumably Iowans) who would inevitably disagree with some of our group's stances. When they would speak up on behalf of the NBA or guitar music, I and the other passengers of Manitoba Flight 897 would all turn to Burt, who would immediately get in the face of the (usually elderly) person arguing against us and ask them why they hated something that people usually don't profess to hating, like the feel of terry cloth bathrobes or cat videos on YouTube. At that, me and the others would chime in with supportive words for Burt, "Yeah!" and "That's right!" and (once, accidentally) "Good got that right job!"

After about ten hours of this behavior, which the shopkeepers were surprisingly cool with, we decided that we should go back to the Dubuque airport, giving ourselves a little extra time to get through security. We exited to the parking garage where the shuttles we'd rented stood waiting for us, the drivers each quietly complaining about the lateness of the hour. I rode in the third bus, a few seats behind Burt, who looked tired. During his day as commander of our peculiar group, Burt never carried a special staff or wore a goat skull helmet to show that he was the leader; he never needed to. However, once it became obvious that we no longer required leadership, he did put his shirt back on.

My day as an idiot ended much like it had begun, with me getting in a line, this time at the airport's gift shop. As I got closer to the cashier, I wondered if I wanted some gum and, if so, which kind should I get. Should I say something to the cashier? Would I use my credit card, debit, or pay with cash? What in the hell was my opinion on gum anyway?

The cashier smiled at me as panic ballooned from within.