I often wonder what stupidity, as a substance, might look like.
Would it be a thick, brown fog enshrouding a stagnant mind so only faint, dull moans of an aimless diaphone can be distinguished?
A misshapen lump of consciousness drowning in a dense, congealed broth, rather like rancid meatballs found in the most unlit recesses of a malfunctioning refrigerator?
Or just a deflated rubber brain, long ago abandoned in a dark, dank and cavernous skull?
These are the images that I always conjure when contemplating stupidity. Perhaps because I am too stupid to think of anything else.
Alas, we stupid people spend our days collecting brittle wooden sticks of facts that we fail to build a fire from. Clever people, on the other hand, invest in a lifetime's supply of Duraflame logs and self-fuelling Zippo lighters, so they can warm themselves beside the fireplace of knowledge with very little effort.
At least that's how it seems to me. But then I'm a bit, you know, dim.