My mother's favorite line was “they can suck on that.” She'd it say after doing whatever the hell she wanted. I try to live up to her example. People always say things like, “You can't say that, Car” and, “You shouldn't eat that, Car", or, “That isn't edible, Car.” I just give them the finger and continue to do what I was doing. (Unless it's something that'll get me arrested. “Disturbing the peace.” What kind of law is that?)

And you know what? People respect me for having my own mind. My friends are always following me around with cameras. There are a bunch of YouTube videos of me floating around the net. The fact that they’re all titled “idiot does x” really doesn’t mean anything. I could never gain respect by normal means. It’s not like I could become rocket scientist or a famous tennis player. Being an idiot is my shtick. Everyone has a special talent and mine is doing things other people find insane.

There’s an art to being my type of idiot. It isn’t just running around wearing a cape and pretending to be Superman. It takes a bit of genius to race through the city in nothing but a pair of cellophane shorts, while pretending to be the invisible man.

And it’s not like I’m stupid. There’s a difference between being stupid and being an idiot. A stupid person walks by a tree and just sees a tree (or maybe they think it’s some sort of funky looking telephone pole.) An idiot walks by the same tree and thinks that a couple of oversized rubber bands attached to the branches would make a great slingshot. A stupid person stares slacked jawed at a funeral procession and wonders why traffic suddenly slowed, while an idiot sees a perfect opportunity to ask the black veiled widow out on a date. (And that’s actually worked a couple of times.)

If I was stupid, I’d be dead by now. You need at least half a brain to make it through the things I have. I’ve been burned, beaten, cursed, cooked, clobbered, stabbed, steamed and otherwise maimed. Of course, most of my survival and success has been through blind luck, but not all of it. I even went to college. It was a massage academy and I just did it to be able to rub the butts of pretty girls, but that doesn’t change the fact that I went. Of course, I was kicked out for attempting to create my own escort service, but I got good grades until then!

And it’s not like I don’t read. Mud Wrestling Weekly has very interesting articles. And I have a whole collection of books and none of them have pictures. Reading is a great way to pass the time if you’ve accidentally blown out your fuse box trying to see just how electric an electric eel really is, or if an angry ex has sent you to the hospital and the television in your room only plays one cable access station.

And I’ve read all the classics. Well, I’ve watched the movies and borrowed my university attending cousin’s CliffsNotes, but it’s practically the same thing. That makes me even smarter, since I don’t waste my time reading long piles of wordy crap that are only famous because they’re old, and I still get the basic info so I can chat with all those egg heads who most likely didn’t read the books, either.

Did I mention I won an award in high school? It was for the best and most creative use of a contraption built for one of those egg drops. I modified a cannon and shot an ostrich egg (don’t ask me how I got it) over the heads of the student body and faculty. Actually, that just got me suspended for three weeks. My mother created the award to make me feel better. I did end up a legend in my school because of it, though. It made up for the fact that most of my peers called me “that ugly kid who always tries to sell us homemade soap after gym class.” (This was before my plastic surgery. Back then, the only girl I ever slept with was the creepy chick who collected the toenails of her crushes and wore them around her neck as some sort of talisman.)

So, I may not be the next Einstein, or even the next CEO of CBS, but I’m not the next Gomer Pyle, either. I am an idiot and proud of it. Idiots of the world, unite! Wear your shirts made of shag carpet and your bottle cap jockstraps. Laugh in the face of danger, even if that danger is an oncoming train. And above all, no matter what anyone says, don’t try to wire up your own homemade microwave. Trust me, I know.