Ironic tale which affirms the importance of choosing one's battles carefully. |
Dangerously, almost daringly, the little man sat behind the desk, his back to the sagging shelves. They were laden with the plaques and awards he'd won, the gifts of great societies his peers had never heard of. He'd scoffed, "I'm too elite for them," his ego quite enormous; for he had, of course, been recognized by many groups as brilliant. He'd been dashing for decades, made several inane discoveries, proclaimed his own hypotheses and argued them to theories. Now in search of lasting greatness, he'd devised his denouement, declaring, "Smoother brains are better." He upended cerebral communities, his claims of correlations so connecting indications of intelligence with texture. He debated on and on, on panels, boards, and one-on-one until he'd won, when every peer and great society agreed that he was right. And when he finally hit the table in the morgue, the county coroner, a fan, removed his brain, observed the pan, and nearly dropped it. "It's as bumpy as can be!" he said, on seeing dents and dimples, pits and squiggles in the brain of he whose legacy was riding on this surface. Then one skeptical pathologist who'd doubted all along careened his eyes and wryly muttered, "Big surprise," and, by coincidence, a thousand others changed their minds that day. |