Dumbo is more than just a name; it is a character, a lifestyle, a belief. Dumbos of every shape and size saturate the world, and only the chosen few can stand their obnoxiously stupid personalities. We all know one.
Every time you talk to this kid, you feel yourself drowning in a sea of pleas for death (or at least oblivion), most of them coming for your tortured consciousness. The Genuine Dumbo is the kind of person who thinks a date is a a number on the calendar, and anyone who says it’s a fruit is a liar. It (because this thing has left the placid bliss of a human IQ long behind them in their turn to the dark side) believes in the power of faith, because if they’ve got a gut feeling about something, that instinct is right. Is global warming real? No, because their tummy says that if the world keeps on spinning, nothing can be all that wrong. Is Earth the centre of the universe? Yes, because they don’t see any other planet vying for the position. Is the world flat? Of course- there isn’t anyone who hangs upside down from the ground!
When you get into an argument with Dumbo, you never win. Not because they’re right and you’re wrong, but because they drag down to their level of what-the-actual-fuck-ery, and beat you with experience. You don’t even know where to begin correcting their ignorance about everything.
If you don’t know anyone like this; knave, thy name is Dumbo. My condolences.
So buckle your seat belts, bitches: today we’ll be talking about torture.
Sometimes, I pretend to be a Dumbo, because I’m either in a particularly antagonistic mood and therefore hate everyone; or I despise that one lucky person that’s in my way. It’s fun. You get to say stupid shit that your actual friends wouldn’t let you get away with.
Exhibit A of me being a lil’ shit follows.
In a bar, flirting with a dude too aware of his own status as an Attractive Person.
“So, what’s your favourite fruit?” says Horrible Person.
“Oh, I like fruit-by-the-foot,” I reply.
“So you don’t like fruit?”
“No, I like fruit-by-the-foot.”
“You know that’s not an actual fruit, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not a fruit.”
“It tastes like fruit, though.”
“But that doesn’t make it fruit.”
“Why not? If it tastes like blueberries and it looks like blueberries, how can it not be a blueberry?”
“It doesn’t look like blueberries.”
“It’s blue, isn’t it?”
Yeah…it’s a great way to tell just how stupid someone thinks you are. How far will they let the Dumbo act go until they call you on it? Alternatively, how long will they be able to stand your stupidity until it becomes too much for even their self-absorbed brains to endure?
Another classic example of the Dumbo technique is to deal with racist/sexist/homophobic pieces of shit.
At home, laughing with a group of friends during a study session.
“Sorry, I don’t know much about engines. Could you start from the top?” says generic female person.
“Hahaha, why don’t you go make me a sandwich instead of talking about engines,” male dufus with a sexist mindset laughs.
I decide to intervene, because if anyone can change the world, it’s this girl with a shit sense of humour and the delicacy of a stampeding rhinoceros.
“I don’t get it.”
“Because…’make me a sandwich’…it’s funny.”
“Why is it funny? Can’t you make yourself a sandwich?”
“Yeah, but like…she’s a girl. And girls go in the kitchen, so ‘make me a sandwich’. Haha.”
“Why do girls go in the kitchen?”
“Can’t you go in the kitchen?”
“Well, duh, but-”
“If you want a sandwich, can’t you make one?”
“Cool, go and make me one too. No tomato, please and thank you.”
His head explodes into a shower of confetti and sexist wisdom.
If you’ve never seen a dude self-combust into a rainbow of glitter, you haven’t lived. Not that the dude is living anymore. No, he has become one with the sparkles.
So, have you ever played Dumbo before? Or have you always been a good person with an angel murmuring advice about how to be nice over your shoulder?
For those of you who enjoy dancing the tango with a devil, why not tell me what heinous deeds your mischievous heart has conceived of…I’m waiting.