Mother. Social scientist. Token smart person. Born: in a simpler, more optimistic time. Died: September 15, 2017, of complications arising from mysterious sources that doctors are already starting to refer to as “token smart person’s melancholy malingerment,” age none of your business.
Token smart persons aren’t made, they’re born.
I remember, back in grade three, when Amy got a time out because she said, “Really? Punishment for tolerating homosexuals? Don’t you think it’s much more likely that increasingly destructive hurricanes are caused by oceans getting warmer because of global hot as hellification? I mean, scapegoating homosexuals may be comforting to small-minded. superstitious poltroons, but -” I must say, she made Misses Intravanreckage’s science class more interesting! (And, those of us who looked up words like “scapegoating” and “poltroons” in the dictionary even learned something!)
Of course, this was long before Amy became a token smart person. At this point in her life, she was just a pain in the smartass. The boys would dunk her pigtails in fingerpaint pots (which required some creativity because her hair was cut in a short bob). The girls spread rumours that she was a lesbian (they didn’t know what the word actually meant – some of them thought it was defined as “person who is allergic to ceramic kittens” – if they had been taught how to use a dictionary, their taunts may have been more effective, but I will allow that they were plenty effective as it was – it’s all in the tone of voice…).
I was intrigued by Amy, so I was not enthusiastic about messing about with her non-existent ponytails. It didn’t help. Sensing my lack of enthusiasm, I received a few head dunkings in toilets (I know, I know – what a cliche! But, when you’re young, you stick with what works). Recognizing my ambivalence, Amy responded, “Talk to me when you grow up.”
We grew…older, by which I mean we grew…apart.
We met again around four yeas ago. Amy was touring the country (and France) with her third book, We’re All Idiots on This Bus (based on her PhD dissertation: The Relationship Between Idiotology and the Devolution of Civilized Discourse in Modern Society…With Graphs, which, indeed, contained graphs. Many, many graphs. I can’t wait for the colouring book…).
I had, perhaps, drunk a little more than was wise during her l(a)unch, and when I went to kiss her hand, I kissed the lamp she was standing next to. I tried to make a joke about how the shape of the lamp was similar to her shape…you know…physically, I mean; the room went ominously silent (people in the back who couldn’t possibly have heard what I had said must have known to hush because of the twelve monkeys phenomenon). Amy stared at me for a few seconds, then quietly responded, “You know, I’m sick of adults. Talk to me now that I can see that you’ve never grown up.” We moved in together two weeks later, and were inseparable up to the time of her death.
When we met, Amy was already showing signs of deterioration. Her left eye twitched faster than a symphony conductor’s baton, and she was constantly confusing the words “abomination” and “hat rack.” Fortunately, when she said things like, “This is not a tax reform bill, it is a tax cut bill. And, like all the tax cut hat racks that came before it, it’s about rewarding the wealthy at the expense of the poor!” editors knew what she was talking about and massaged (mmmm…I could use one of those just thinking about it!) her quotes accordingly.
Amy was aware enough to know that token smart personning was destroying her health. When I asked her why she continued to do it despite knowing the toll it was taking on her. She replied, “What, and give up show business?” You ask me, sometimes, you can be too token smart person for your own good!
Doctors are flummoxed (a rare breed of ox that lives mostly in the Flummondon Valley of Narnia) by TSPMM, but, having lived with somebody who had it, the cause seems obvious: when you have 1,327 news outlets constantly calling you for comment, the stress on your system is tremendous. If token smart person was recognized as a profession, it would have a higher mortality rate than dentists and sexually active teenagers in a slasher flick combined!
I…don’t really know what that means. Perhaps if I was smarter…naah. I’m good exactly where I am…
Arnie Bamshitshotshutshe
Arnie Bamshitshotshutshe was Amy Sheshutshotshitbam’s common-law partner. During the final phase of her illness, he was called upon to take her place as journalism’s token smart person. He wouldn’t wish that job on his worst enemy! Well, okay, maybe his worst worst enemy, but on the people with whom he has day-to-day disagreements that may blow up into enemy status if somebody doesn’t quickly admit they were wrong? Naah. Not them.