Smarty Pants

I’ve always been too damn smart for my own good.

I admit it.

Not proud of it, either.

As soon as I was able to enunciate, my big brother would have me read aloud every single word of the “Acknowledgements” of one of his high-school level books, even the word “Acknowledgements.” Then he would make my sister, four years my elder, try reading the same words. His squeals of delight and scorn filled the room as she struggled helplessly, eventually bringing her to tears.

I actually felt sorry for her.
But I couldn’t let my brother know.

I was performing above my own (second) grade level and the educators on Tachikawa Air Force Base approached my parents about moving me up to a more academically-suitable level to match my skill set.

Not to third grade.

Or fourth.

Fifth grade.

I was already so far beyond my classmates, that I spent the day ignoring the teachings and getting perfect scores on every test.



But my mother did something that I firmly believe negatively affected me for the rest of our lives.

She insisted I remain in my own age group because some horseshit about not developing socially.

I never forgave her for that.

I stayed in the requisite order, even though I always had older girlfriends starting when I was four years old. I always looked at the kids in my own age group pretty much as a bunch of stooges who were there for me to lead and take advantage of.

A very nice chap, indeed.

It was that attitude that led me to come up with the infamous Great Recess Caper of 1961 blog.

And the ass-whipping of the century.

My generations’ parents would be serving time for what they called “childcare” back then. Especially with today’s politically correct I-can’t-say-one-damn-thing-to-anyone-without-invading-their-space-and-offending-their-whole-mindset-and-worldview-because-they-are-pussies society.

There, I said it.

I was always smart enough to talk my way out of just about any situation. The problem was I was also smart enough to talk myself into crazy situations in the first place.

Before I start feeling too good about my massive intellect, remember that I am the same guy who got four DUI’s in six weeks. I also drew the same judge who gave me three warnings to no avail.

As I stood before him at my third trial, he told me: “Mr. Diaz, you have been warned and warned again. The next time I see you, I don’t care if it is on the street, you are going to prison.”

Talk about sobering words.

I stood before him exactly one week later.

If I was in any other situation, I would be panicked. I would be anticipating going to prison and not in a good way.

I was able to hire one of the biggest lawyers in Las Vegas, barrister to the stars, through some of the connections I was able to establish in my five years there.

Long story, short.
I left town like a thief in the night, after depleting my entire life savings (at that time), $80,000.

Real smart.

Stay well.

DUI’s aren’t funny at all MADD.

Published by maddogg09

I am an unmotivated genius with an extreme love for anything that moves the emotional needles of our lives.

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