In the golden days of public education, only the sharpest minds ascended its hallowed halls. Those less intellectually fortunate—but blessed with wealthy parents—found refuge in private schools. For the truly desperate, there was always the option of studying abroad. Many returned as cultural enigmas, armed with American accents and peculiar habits, often turning street corners into impromptu broadcasting stations.
Enter one such returnee, known by the less-than-flattering pseudonym Some Mental Lapses (SML). SML mesmerized the masses with grandiloquent speeches that sent dictionary sales soaring. Even the local lexicon juggernaut, ba NAPSA, found himself irrelevant in SML’s verbose wake. Yet, his intellectual ceiling was as low as a Kantemba roof.
Take, for instance, his mastery of funeral etiquette—or lack thereof. While mourners wept, SML would wipe his face—not from grief, but from inexplicable fits of laughter.
Wielding his self-styled media platform, he’d unleash tirades over matters requiring only a modicum of wisdom. He laughed at mental health patients, dismissing them as pretenders. He blurred the line between tragedy and comedy.
When the kingdom mourned one of its brightest stars—dimmed by a tragic accident—SML had an apt mental lapse. “Done-done!” he declared, forsaking the use of his head. The kingdom erupted in outrage.
But, oblivious as ever, SML doubled down, adding more inflammatory rhetoric, even calling for breathalyzers. His power lay in his connections and his uncanny ability to turn every situation into a lecture on his imagined superiority. In his world, streets were empires, and a selfie stick was his scepter. Yet today, as the kingdom buries its beloved flute man, SML retreats into irrelevance, missing the one lesson he ought to have learned abroad: silence is sometimes golden.
Let us pray that the somber drums of this funeral drown out the echoes of this walking, talking mental lapse.
