JC Denton
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The more I argued with Brian, the better I came to know his dialectic. First he counted on the stupidity of his adversary, and then, when there was no other way out, he simply played stupid. If all this didn’t help, he pretended not to understand, or, if challenged, he changed the subject in a hurry, quoted platitudes which, if you accepted them, he immediately related to entirely different matters, and then, if again attacked, posted yawning emojis and then Maggie Smith memes in an attempt to affect condesension and intellectual superiority. Whenever you tried to attack one of these apostles, your hand closed on a jelly-like slime which divided up and poured through your fingers, but in the next moment collected again. But if you really struck him so telling a blow that, observed by the audience, he couldn’t help but agree, and if you believed that this had taken you at least one step forward, your amazement was great the next day. He had not the slightest recollection of the day before, he rattled off his same old nonsense as though nothing at all had happened, and, if indignantly challenged, affected amazement; he couldn’t remember a thing, except that he had proved the correctness of his assertions the previous day.
Sometimes I stood there thunderstruck. I didn’t know what to be more amazed at: his serial incapacity to comprehend anything put before him, or his virtuosity at lying.
Gradually I grew to hate him.
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