Frequently, when I come home from work, and after Karrie and the kids are asleep.  I retire to the Meditation Chamber (the Living Room) with some nourishing brain food (let's just assume it's Cheetos here) and enter my Thoughtful Position (nearly prone, on the couch).  This position allows for the optimal flow of blood to the brain, thus enabling me to calmly reflect on the days events and prepare for those of the coming day.  Plus it allows me to use my belly as a snack table for my Cheetos.

It is in such a state that I come up with ideas for what I would actually like to write about on this blog.  Mentally flipping through those ideas right now, I see a common theme emerging: Education (or the lack thereof).  Don't get me wrong, I am not always the sharpest knife in the drawer, but some of the things I observe make me wish there was a vaccine for "stupid".

In the interest of organizing my observations, I am going to focus this entry on Math.  The fact that lotteries exist, and are popular, says enough about the math skills of the average person.  But it never truly hits home as much as when I actually hear people engaging in wanton acts of math.

One evening, while commuting home on the Long Island Rail Road, I was subjected to a conversation between two vacuous, yet attractive young women.  I don't recall exactly what they were talking about, but I remember the following part word-for-word:

Ditz 1: Are you sure?

Ditz 2: I am, like, ninety-nine point nine percent sure.

Ditz 1: Oh my gawd.

Ditz 2: Yeah!  The only reason I am point nine percent NOT sure is...

At that point, my brain forcefully blocked the remainder of the conversation for it's own protection; Kinda like a circuit-breaker for the absurd.

So, you see, we are not talking about Calculus here. Still not convinced? 

Ok, how about this actual conversation overheard at a Subway (the fast food joint, not the train station) down near Union Square:

Clerk: Welcome to Subway, may I take your order?

Patron: Yes, I'd like a twelve inch meatball hero.

Clerk: I'm sorry.  We only sell six inch or foot long.

Holy sweet mother of all things idiotic! I mean, I will grant you that putting sliced meat(ish stuff) on bread probably doesn't exactly require a Mensa membership.  But knowing how many inches are in a foot seems like a standard piece of common knowledge to me.