Scientists, specifically psychologists (I know, I said "scientists," then I talk about psychologists; I'm capricious that way), in the early part of the 20th century had way too much fucking time on their hands. They spent much of that time dividing up the population of, you know, slow people into rigidly-defined categories. Thus, if you had an IQ between 25 and 50, you were an "imbecile," between 51 and 70, a "moron," and if you had pretty much lost the neural footrace--had, indeed, wandered off the racetrack and were hopelessly tangled in the underbrush, and in the bargain had shit your pants--and were sporting an IQ between 0 and a jaunty 24, you were an "idiot," at least if you spoke to a psychologist at the beginning of the 20th century--come to think of it, if you spoke to a psychologist at the beginning of the 20th century, that alone pretty much made you either an idiot, imbecile or moron, with the betting running pretty heavily towards "idiot." (Yes, there was betting. People in the early 20th century all had what we in our more-enlightened world of the future call "a gambling problem.") (Except that it's not a problem if you win.) As you no doubt know, modern psychology has dispensed with these terms in favor of the less-value-laden "fucktard."

            As anyone who has spent any time in the comments sections of my blog realizes, a new century has made these fine distinctions of imbecility again relevant, while also casting doubt on the usefulness of IQ as a measure of intelligence, what with how intelligence tests, which are generally written by white men, tend to find white men the intelligentest of us all. (What a coincidence, huh? Odds, anyone?) (Interestingly enough, my intelligence test finds that short guys are the smartest.) (Sample question: "What is the best way to take down an item from a high shelf? A) Stand on a stool. B) Lasso it from across the room. C) Just reach over, because it's at my height, and take it down." The correct answer is A, of course, though, to be culturally sensitive, B can be weighted to account for rodeo performers.) With so very many fucktards running around, can we simply deem someone a fucktard and let it go at that? We cannot. Well, I cannot, and neither can you without reading something besides this essay, or possibly masturbating. (Always a live option, I feel.) (Either one, actually, or even both simultaneously.)

            Let’s say, for example, that you read Garrison Keillor’s column on Salon, or perhaps don’t even read his column, but just dive straight into the comments, there to rant and rave at Garrison about how he’s in favor of torture, since he wrote a column in which his response to trying members of the Asshat Administration for war crimes was, “Eh. Don’t we have anything better to do? Like, you know, pass a healthcare bill, or get out of Iraq?” In so doing, you’ve demonstrated a certain, oh, let’s just say, idiocy, or, more in the modern vein, fucktardedness, because:

A) Keillor’s column is syndicated in hundreds of newspapers and magazines, not just Salon, so the odds of his reading your idiotic comments are roughly the same as those of our former governor, Rod Blagojevich (not easy to spell, but fun to say the way Dracula would), becoming Secretary General of the Universe;

2) Garrison wrote that column a year or so ago, and if his current column is about, say, Fourth Of July parades, you’re a teensy bit off-topic ranting about his long-ago column, imbecile; and

iii) he never fucking said what you think he said, moron.

Given where this variety of fucktard thrives--well, lives--I believe there can only be one moniker, le mot juste: carry on this way, and you, my friend, are a commentard.

            Perhaps you watch Fox News, and derive all your opinions from that august journalistic bastion. Perhaps you feel that Glenn Beck is a man of deep feeling and thought, and that his tears water the path to wisdom. Maybe you would venture over to CNN, back when Dobbs was railing against the wetbacks whom you blame for taking all the jobs that you wouldn't do anyway, because you felt that the man had a point: why couldn't these people have come over to this country in 1920, the way your family did? Or in 1600, when America was completely empty except for a few million Indians and the ancestors of those people who have no right to be in this country? Had they no foresight? And maybe, just maybe, you think that Bill O'Reilly, the dean of right-wing fucktards, makes some excellent points, when in fact he merely bloviates and rants and shouts down anyone more reasonable than him, which is, like, everyone with the possible exception of Glenn Beck and a few guys who make their living biting the heads off chickens in the carnival. (I too bloviate, rant and shout down anyone more reasonable than me, but I don't claim to be either fair or balanced.) (Especially the balanced part, and most especially not after a few glasses of Côtes du Rhône.) Perhaps you agree with O'Reilly's and his ilk's demented ideas that allowing gay men and women to marry will destroy marriage, that giving your tax money to the rich will cure all the economy's ills (it caused 'em; why shouldn't it cure 'em too? it's like homeopathy, and we all know how well that shit works), that healthcare companies have a god-given right to coin money at the expense of all of us, most notably the poor. What else could we call you, sir or madam, if not a Foxtard?

Now, it's possible you might get enraged, personally offended, when you read opinions that differ from yours. "Why, that guy is writing about me!" you might exclaim indignantly, despite the fact that the subject of the writer's essay is, say, "Whither Cheese?"  and the writer isn't even aware of your existence on this lovely blue planet that we all share. (Impossible! you think. Everyone is aware of my existence, because they all live inside my head.) (And, speaking directly to you here, champ: It's a little cramped in here, and could we maybe get cable? I cannot miss Top Chef.) (Also? For some reason it smells like cheese in here.) I'm going to give that guy a piece of my mind! (Seriously, dude(tte), don't; you can't spare it.)  I like the term “narcissistard,” for this form of idiocy, because of, you know, the narcissism. And, of course, the tardiness. (And yeah, I know "narcissistard" is little hard to say, and also makes you sound a little drunk when you say it, like "judiciary"--try it--but hey, think of it as a tongue-twister.) Do you rage idiotically at people you don't know, and become personally offended at general observations, some of them about the weather? Then you, sir or madam, are a raging narcissistard.

Having categorized the varieties of fucktards (some of them, anyway; I have a day job), you might well ask, what can we do about the fucktards who make life so hellish? Well, nothing really; it's illegal, for one thing, to shoot them. (Not that that stops me. Shhhh. Don't tell. It'll just be our little Interwebs secret.) (And actually, it's only illegal to hit them. Those of us with bad aim are free and clear.) (At worst, free and translucent.) For another thing, it's just easier to ignore them. Not, of course, that I do, particularly commentards, because I too am a form of fucktard, perhaps the stupidest of them all: I believe that human beings are capable of reason, and that by embarrassing those seemingly devoid of it, I can shame them into rational discourse. Those early-20th-century psychologists have got to be spinning in their graves over the fact that they had no classification for anyone that fucktarded.