Oh, five: Annus idious

“Make it idiot-proof, and they’ll just build a better idiot.”

My copy editor said that a lot around the newsroom, when we used to work together in our dingy fluorescent chilly section of the office. That seems like a world away now, but I take comfort in the constancy of idiocy.

Such was 2005, replete with dunderheadedness unmatched in this millennium.

That’s not to look down on other people — which I do with alarming frequency — because I have had my share of idiot moments this year. But I’d like to think I learn from my moments of lucridity, even if it takes multiple repetitions.

I may be slow, but at least I’m pretty.

My copy editor regurgitated his saying when referring to my attempts to consider all possible outcomes, usually when writing instructions for staffers. What he was really saying was to trust in the folks around me, and somehow, like every other workday, they’d muddle through. Even without my benign presence.

But he was also referring to human nature. Boneheaded, stubborn, unthinking, uncompromising, unevolving human nature.

When the state school board wants to continue adding stickers to science textbooks reminding students that evolution is a “controversial theory,” it’s on to something. After all, who can argue we’re evolving when we appear mired in stupidity?

I’m reminded of the legendary tale of the religion reporter who wanted to tack on “allegedly” to all of his stories, as in “Local pastors are preparing for Easter services, celebrating the time when Jesus allegedly rose from the dead.”

I allegedly am imperfect. My crimes against rationality are far too numerous to catalog, but one stands out from this year. I still can’t believe I violated my one tenet of being online: Don’t take anything on the Internet too seriously. But I did. In a violent (for e-mail) outburst, I ranted against my very creation, a high school alumni mailing list.

(I feel stupid just writing it.)

I threatened to shut it down, go nuclear. Over the same moronic discussions that had gone on for years on the list. Why this time, I don’t know. But in the end, I professed profound mea culpas, and the e-mailed exchange of idiocy continued unabated.

I have forgiven myself for my transgression, though it did hurt others in the process.

I have not, however, forgiven other figures for their 2005 idiocy.

Forget the standard-issue dopes: the mother-daughter pair that can’t shut up to save their lives, filling space with words words words; the petulant clerk who would rather push back than give in to courtesy; the oh-so-clever blogger who speaks first, thinks never; the co-worker who hasn’t been fired after all this time. I surrender. Just let me have my iPod and my fries, and I’ll try to stay out of your lane on the highway.

At one time, the nation would unite after a major disaster. The community would rally to pray, then muster its forces and hidden reserves to help those stricken.

Hurricane Katrina brought out the worst in us.

Sure, we shouldn’t forget the truckloads of food and water hustled down to the Gulf Coast, the thousands of relief workers swooping in to save the stranded from a watery death.

But before we got to that point, we had Brownie, who did a heckuva job all right. Michael Brown, head of the Federal Emergency Management Agency, had little in the way of relevant experience. I can overlook that. Who among us hasn’t found ourselves in a position where we had no idea what we’re doing? Millions of Americans — your banker, your food server, your doctor, your insurance agent, your babysitter — make decent wages with absolutely no idea that they’re not only unqualified for their jobs, but also are completely and utterly fucking up.

It is the rare occasion that such a poseur rises to the challenge, making for a wacky Sandleresque comedy. But more often, these boobs toil in obscurity, secure in their livelihoods because those around and above them are equal to the task.

Bureaucrats are used to such buggery and can usually function in spite of the revolving door of political appointments. FEMA was once among the most effective government agencies, respected for its quick and overwhelming response. Now, it’s a stale punchline to a most unfunny joke.

Brownie’s idiocy was long after, long after stranded New Orleans residents died in the convention center, after Mississippians waited and waited for supplies and transportation. His idiocy was rooted in his defense of his outstanding work. To the end, he learned nothing and regretted nothing.

That’s the cowboy way. (Not the gay kind, the regular kind.) Introspection and, God forbid, remorse are for pussies; no place for any of that nonsense in this take-no-prisoners (unless you plan to hide and torture them) pax americana.

The Cowboy-in-Chief is ultimately responsible for this droning idiocy, one so constant that it eventually becomes tuned out like so much background noise bloviation. He appointed Brown. He shifted crucial resources to fight the bogeyman of foreign terrorism. He unswervingly plods along, oblivious to concerns of the common man or even concerned members of his own political party.

Rapper Kanye West was wrong: George W. Bush does care about black people. The president sincerely cares about all people, and that’s cause for alarm. Bush is actually doing his best, unaware that his best isn’t just laughably inept, it’s dangerous to democracy, to stability, to the very freedom he loves more than we mere mortals ever could.

His supporters/apologists would claim that to oppose such an idiot with grandiose power is an act of high treason, the cowardice of a terrorist sympathizer. Further argument is pointless, no more productive than spending time explaining to the customer service rep that you’ve already been transferred three times to clear up a supposedly simple billing mistake.

Again, I surrender. Just please please don’t let me endure an agonizing bird flu demise because the person in charge of the Centers for Disease Control won the job after sharing a razor blade over a coke-covered mirror with Dubya.

If we can’t escape idiocy, let us hope that it remains readily apparent, visible from space. When alleged Christian Pat Robertson calls for the assassination of the Venezuelan president, let his words echo across the land. When Kayla Moore, wife of disgraced chief justice Roy Moore, asks for campaign funds to beat back those who would promote gay marriage and take Christ out of Christmas, let her e-mail arrive in every inbox.

I like my beer cold, my women hot, and my idiots in plain sight at all times.

The idiocy can’t be stopped, it can’t even be contained, more destructive than any hurricane or flood or insurgency. Still, it comforts me, knowing that this year’s idiocy is nearly over.

They’ll build a better idiot, all right. Can’t wait to see the '06 model.