When I think intelligence, I don’t picture Albert Einstein cycling his way past coeds on the Princeton campus, tongue out and legs akimbo. I don’t imagine Sir Isaac Newton staring up at the stars and fondling his prodigious mane. I don’t see Archimedes playing with rubber duckies while pondering the mysteries of the universe in between scrubs.
I think of a tool as the personification of higher learning. And not just any tool found in any toolbox. Not a hammer, or a sickle, or miscellaneous accessories associated with communism that I’m somehow forgetting.
Doesn’t the sheer sight of a floppy whip raise your IQ a few points? I’d like to think so. It would explain an awful lot.
Whips aren’t for beating man or beast, they are for turning the pages of a turgid tome. They’re for pointing out the modest brushstrokes in an impressionist’s painting. I’d stick to private collectors, since museum security guards tend to have a thing about slapping the art. Horses might be naturally fast, but they need a whip to win a race. That sure sounds pretty smart to me.
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