The Idiots

They’re idiots. They were all idiots. Always have been, in their own knockout ways. All except one, perhaps. He was almost an idiot. Held his tousled head up, just an inch and a quarter away from idiocy. There was a faint shimmer of promise. But then eventually, he blew up too. He went up in a shower of idiot flakes, and that was that.

The idiots continue to roll in, though. All shapes and sizes; quite a staggering range of idiot ideas, they pack between them. And like all idiots, they’re self-indulgent and needy, and they enjoy being rubbed up. They have dull eyes and fast mouths, and never knew a pure idea. Men of a common sort.

I’m beginning to think he doesn’t exist. Did I call him forth from the pages of fine literature: a heady mix of mythical hero, saint, and hard-boiled shamus? Will he vanish wordlessly in a puff of logic?

He is straight, and clean and true. He can’t be bought or seduced by women of a common sort. His eyes will never glaze over. His mouth will never curl. His eyes have light and his face is kind. He only deals in pure ideas.