/lit/ - Literature

>He asked the audience, “How many members of congress are there?”
Noticing nobody was going to answer I said, “535.”
Thinking I cumulatively saved the entire student body two hours of their lives, a sophomore behind
me tapped me on my shoulder and said, “Hey, Einstein, how many beers are in a case?”
Not knowing, nor really caring I said, “I don’t know, 12?”
In a very Beavis and Butthead manner he snorted, “Heh heh, it’s 16! Shows you how much you
know!”
I could only think to myself, “Yeah kid, it actually does.”
The truth is this young boy was retarded. And I don’t mean that as an insult. I mean that because it’s
true. He was a mental retard. Not only did he think knowing how many beers are in a case was
superior to knowing how many people are in our national legislature, he also had a ton of behavioral
problems, suspensions, and…oh…yeah…thought it a good idea to tattoo a spider web around his
eye. All of this before he could even get his driver’s permit.
But the real reason he was a mental retard had nothing to do with
his underage drinking,
his idiocy in thinking it was “cool” to display his knowledge of beer trivia,
or his fine choice in ink.
No, the reason he was retarded is because it was in comparison to me.
The truth was this kid in all likelihood had a normal IQ of around 95. Not officially or clinically
retarded, but no genius either. Just a normal, typical piece of Wisconsin trailer trash. But as far as
what I experienced, what my brain personally interpreted and endured in relation to this kid was one
of dealing with a severely retarded individual. For when you compare his normal IQ of 95 to my IQ
of 138 the relative experience I endured was that of a normal person dealing with a severely mentally
retarded individual.

Does this book explain why I have no friends?

Is this good?