You're the Best , Around, No One's Ever Gonna Keep You Down

I overheard two people talking, and one guy said he had been out-nerded by a comic book fan who knew more than him. And his friend was like, “What’s the point? When you out-nerd someone, you just prove you’re the best dork.”

Which is true, but that is the point. People compete. As humans, we always feel the need to prove we’re at least the best at something, no matter how small. You try to prove that you’re the best at knowing comic books. But then when someone knows more about Wonder Woman than you do, you become the guy who’s best at not being that loser.

Right guys? Hey, look at me! Yeah, he knows more about Spider-Man than I do, but I am so the best at getting laid whenever I want. Yeah! Suck it, Grey Hulk! I don’t need to be the best at comic books when I’m the best at some motherfucking flag football!

It’s the same anywhere. You try to be the best sports fan of your team, but then when your team fails, you were the person who was best at knowing Eli Manning was the Picasso of choke.

You start off by trying to the best accountant at your job. But then when someone beats you and gets the promotion, you claim you’re the best at not caring, man, you knew way back this job was going to suck. That's why you're the robber-baron of cubicle 1623 - you know some shit those androids in 1622 ain't gonna figure out for a long time.

That’s what we do. And it’s weird, because we call everyone but ourselves on it.

Psssh, look at Noam Chomsky. What an asshole. He thinks he’s the best at understanding the problems with a media-controlled capitalist society. Whatever, nerd. Maybe you should be the best at being less of a dick!

And then, you don’t realize it when you say, “Hahaha, what? You think General Electric is a good investment? Hahahaha – maybe if I had to dump my Google stocks in the Bizarro world! Hahahaha – I am the best at investment banking.”

Or, you meet a new girl, right? And you hook up and you have got to be the best she’s ever had. Because no one wants a sexual silver medal. No one wants to be the Apollo Creed: all glitz and glamour, no power. You want to be the eye of the tiger! The thrill of the fight! You put your penis in and the crowd cheers, “Maximus! Maximus! Maximus!”

You want to look down at her and scream, “Am I not merciful?”

But then, but then, when she breaks up with you for another guy, you start claiming you were the best at knowing she was going to be crazy. Ah, man, I may not have been the biggest man she’s ever had, but I was the fucking champion of knowing she was a few rings short of a circus.

And, man, yeah, sure. I may not have the biggest dick. But I am the best at having a weird shape.

Even as a kid. You had to compete. When your parents were the best people at raising you and caring for you and working their asses off to put you in college, you had the best at not being a fascist, Dad!

And, man, how your sixth grade poetry book proved you were the best at feeling shit that no one else felt. And when Biggie died, man, sure, some people claimed to be upset. Whatever; I fucking felt it. When Dan Marino retired, it was like I was retiring my heart. Did anyone else feel that? Yeah, they might claim it. But I know the truth. I'm hurt, dawg! I put my heart into this shit!

But the saddest thing is that no one’s ever the best. Even when you die. Your body will be stuck in the ground and you’ll rot at the same basic speed as everyone else.

Except for my Grandma. She was the fastest.