Smart Guys Finish Last
Such is the plight of the child prodigy.
I took an early interest in science and nature that became something of an obsession. While I do not disparage the desire for learning, I openly acknowledge that I was churning out papers on shellfish when I should have been as prolific in writing love notes to pretty girls. I could impress students of mollusks all over Europe, but I failed to capture the attention of the girl that sat in front of me in math class — the one with the honey colored hair that tossed her head back when she laughed.
With age came little wisdom. I spent my university years studying, writing . . . and little else. I was credited with an admirable quantity of publications, which I foolishly believed would awe lithe young women. Unlike my contemporaries, who spent their time inventing such pointless games as “Absinthe Anal Hole” (or something of that nature), I was fashioning myself into a successful and well-read man.
Not only did my strategy fail to earn me the coveted task of carrying the fiesty redhead’s biology books, but it also took me out of the dating game altogether because I became quite sickly. I was forced to retreat to the mountains for a year dreaming of those beautiful nymphs I had left behind. How could my plan have gone so awry? I worked and suffered in an effort to find female companionship. I got goats.
A student of biology and psychology, I tried to apply my book learning to the problem of getting a girl to say hi. I hope that my present students do not expect guidance in this arena. I have studied psychology for years and I still haven’t figured out what women want.
I believed that I had finally crawled into the female mind when I came to teach at the Sorbonne in France. What better place to seek romance than in Paris? The city had to be full of women just waiting to be swept off their feet! I even registered at www.hot4teacher.com to reach out to young, nubile women too intimidated to approach their lonely instructors. I had it all figured out.
But I have experienced little success in my exploits here too. That is, until now. I have Theodore to thank, I suppose. When he approached me about coming to the Ecole de la rue de la Grange-aux-Belles to research intelligence testing, I was initially hesitant. “Don’t children cry a lot and smell of fromage?” I asked him.
“Only the really young ones,” he said.
Whether a mistake or an untruth, my first week at the school I found myself outside tentatively patting the back of a young boy who was fertilizing the hedges with some partially digested breakfast, yesterday’s lunch and dinner, and, I believe, a spleen.
As I debated the best place to stand to appear supportive while actually protecting my shoes from the spewed chunks, a soft, melodious voice behind us said, “Is your son going to be alright?”
We both spun around (to his credit, the youngster seemed as interested as I) and faced a tall, curvy woman with impossibly long legs, green eyes, and a worried expression. The youth opened his mouth to correct her assumption that he was my offspring, but was thwarted by another retching of liquefied organs. I squeezed his small shoulder and displayed my best look of fatherly concern.
“I’m here to make sure he will be.”
In a flash of insight I realized that I had discovered something more attractive to women than advanced degrees, prestigious careers, or small fuzzy animals. Women are drawn to men who are good with children.
I now can see clearly my life path set out before me — a path paved with fine Parisian derriere.
- an excerpt taken from Child’s Play (The Satirical Thoughts of a Genius Who Doesn’t Have All the Answers), submitted to W.O.M.P. for authentication.