Insult My Intelligence Quotes

Your hypocrisy insults my intelligence.

If you say that you never lie in life, you honestly insult my intelligence.

I'm a child of Athena," she insisted. "And this is an insult to my intelligence

Setting the flowers, roots and all, aside, Millie crossed her arms over her chest. "Don't insult my intelligence, Everett. You wouldn't be bringing me flowers or children if something of a disastrous nature hadn't occurred.

I nearly forgot something my old father told me not long before he died. He said the threshold of insult is in direct relation to intelligence and security.

I respect ordinary thieves much more than I respect politicians. Ordinary thieves take my money without pretense. Unlike typical politicians, these thieves don’t bore me with silly explanations of why their thievery is for the greater good. Nor do ordinary thieves insult my intelligence by proclaiming that they’ll use the money that they steal from me to make my life better than I would have made my life had my money not been swiped from me.

In my normal world, cars do not go off the road and explode. Please, do not insult my intelligence.

Listen you little turd, don’t tell me my business. It’s not worth the risk," the Old Man snarled. "But Green … Yikes, that stings!

Insulting my intelligence is one of the worst things a woman can do.

perhaps that’s what it’s for – self-confidence and courage and energy and peace – perhaps it’s to be used in the world. Perhaps there’s only one thing to do with it: spend it. I’m always super-conscious of how whenever I go out into the world, whenever I get involved in a relationship, my idea of who I think I am utterly collides with the reality of who I actually am. And I continue to go out even though who I am always comes up short. I always prove myself to be less generous, less charming, less considerate, not as bold or energetic or intelligent or courageous as I imagined in my solitude. And I’m always being insulted, or snubbed, or disappointed. And I’m never in my pyjamas. And yet, in some way, maybe this is better. Each of us in this room could suffer the pangs of withdrawal and gain the serenity of the non-smoker. We could be demi-gods in our little castles, all alone, but perhaps, at heart, none of us here wants that. Maybe the only cure for self-confidence and courage is humility. Maybe we go out in order to fall short... because we want to learn how to be good at being people... and moreover, because we want to be people.

Wit was insulting each person as they stepped onto the island. “Brightness Marakal! What a disaster that hairstyle is; how brave of you to show it to the world. Brightlord Marakal, I wish you’d warned us you were going to attend; I’d have forgone supper. I do so hate being sick after a full meal. Brightlord Cadilar! How good it is to see you. Your face reminds me of someone dear to me.” “Really?” wizened Cadilar said, hesitating. “Yes,” Wit said, waving him on, “my horse. Ah, Brightlord Neteb, you smell unique today—did you attack a wet whitespine, or did one just sneeze on you? Lady Alami! No, please, don’t speak—it’s much easier to maintain my illusions regarding your intelligence that way. And Brightlord Dalinar.” Wit nodded to Dalinar as he passed. “Ah, my dear Brightlord Taselin. Still engaged in your experiment to prove a maximum threshold of human idiocy? Good for you! Very empirical of you.

We need to be far more careful. There was a video of us kissing in the hallway via security camera.” My eyes widened. “Do you not hear yourself, Jake? Is that not the perfect reason to end this? “No, and I’m still waiting for you to give me an acceptable one. Are you finished?” I was silent for a few seconds. “I’m not attracted to you anymore.” “A reason that doesn’t insult my intelligence.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Tell me the truth.” “I like you.” He blinked.

I’m not your type,” she again insisted. He didn’t deny it, since it would only insult her intelligence. “And yet, I want nothing more than to strip you naked and have my wicked way with you.” She said nothing. “You want me as much as I? want you, Roni … Admit it. I dare you.” … “When she didn’t answer, Marcus persisted. “Roni?” “Sorry, I was just imagining putting a moth in your mouth. I saw it in a movie once.

Okay.” He drew out the word as if unsure which option to choose in case it was the wrong one. “Doc, it is really important that no one else has access to this computer. You can’t allow anyone else to work on it or leave it unattended at any time.” “Colonel Millard, please don’t insult my intelligence. I fully comprehend

Wit was insulting each person as they stepped onto the island. “Brightness Marakal! What a disaster that hairstyle is; how brave of you to show it to the world. Brightlord Marakal, I wish you’d warned us you were going to attend; I’d have forgone supper. I do so hate being sick after a full meal. Brightlord Cadilar! How good it is to see you. Your face reminds me of someone dear to me.” “Really?” wizened Cadilar said, hesitating. “Yes,” Wit said, waving him on, “my horse. Ah, Brightlord Neteb, you smell unique today—did you attack a wet whitespine, or did one just sneeze on you? Lady Alami! No, please, don’t speak—it’s much easier to maintain my illusions regarding your intelligence that way. And Brightlord Dalinar.” Wit nodded to Dalinar as he passed. “Ah, my dear Brightlord Taselin. Still engaged in your experiment to prove a maximum threshold of human idiocy? Good for you! Very empirical of you.

With Trump, I always knew that it wasn’t my intelligence per se that was being insulted by the transparent distortions that burbled from his lips; that was just the way the man talked.

Anyone that insults my country, my intelligence, my feminist ideals, all women in general, and a favorite childhood food, and refers to both himself and me in the third person in one sentence automatically gets an honorary spot on my Hate With Every Fiber of My Being For All Time list.

For one who sets himself to look at all earnestly, at all in purpose toward truth, into the living eyes of a human life: what is it he there beholds that so freezes and abashes his ambitious heart? What is it, profound behind the outward windows of each one of you, beneath touch even of your own suspecting, drawn tightly back at bay against the backward wall and blackness of its prison cave, so that the eyes alone shine of their own angry glory, but the eyes of a trapped wild animal, or of a furious angel nailed to the ground by his wings, or however else one may faintly designate the human 'soul,' that which is angry, that which is wild, that which is untamable, that which is healthful and holy, that which is competent of all advantaging within hope of human dream, that which most marvelous and most precious to our knowledge and most extremely advanced upon futurity of all flowerings within the scope of creation is of all these the least destructible, the least corruptible, the most defenseless, the most easily and multitudinously wounded, frustrated, prisoned, and nailed into a cheating of itself: so situated in the universe that those three hours upon the cross are but a noble and too trivial an emblem how in each individual among most of the two billion now alive and in each successive instant of the existence of each existence not only human being but in him the tallest and most sanguine hope of godhead is in a billionate choiring and drone of pain of generations upon generations unceasingly crucified and is bringing forth crucifixions into their necessities and is each in the most casual of his life so measurelessly discredited, harmed, insulted, poisoned, cheated, as not all the wrath, compassion, intelligence, power of rectification in all the reach of the future shall in the least expiate or make one ounce more light: how, looking thus into your eyes and seeing thus, how each of you is a creature which has never in all time existed before and which shall never in all time exist again and which is not quite like any other and which has the grand stature and natural warmth of every other and whose existence is all measured upon a still mad and incurable time; how am I to speak of you as 'tenant' 'farmers,' as 'representatives' of your 'class,' as social integers in a criminal economy, or as individuals, fathers, wives, sons, daughters, and as my friends and as I 'know' you?

The feeling of the supremacy of general over particular, of law over fact, of theory over personal experience, took root in my mind at an early age and gained increasing strength as the years advanced. It was the town that played the major role in shaping this feeling, a feeling which later became the basis for a philosophic outlook on life. When I heard boys who were studying physics and natural history repeat the superstitious notions about “unlucky” Monday, or about meeting a priest crossing the road, I was utterly indignant. I felt that my intelligence had been insulted, and I was on the verge of doing any mad thing to make them abandon their shameless superstitions.

Denning had a mind like a battleship. Most ideas simply bounced off his hull. When an idea of sufficient caliber penetrated his armour, it was treated as a calamity. The HMS Ignorance’s crew frantically worked to seal off bulkheads, dog hatches, and do all they could to keep intelligent thought from ricocheting through his mind and doing any more damage.

Christ, I’m tired. I need sleep. I need peace. I need for my balls to not be so blue they’re practically purple. As purple as Sarah Von Titebottum’s— My mind comes to a screeching halt with the unexpected thought. And the image that accompanies it—the odd, blushing lass with her glasses and her books and very tight bottom. Sarah’s not a contestant on the show, so I’m willing to bet both my indigo balls that there’s not a camera in her room. And, I can’t believe I’m fucking thinking this, but, even better—none of the other girls will know where to find me—including Elizabeth. I let the cameras noisily track me to the lavatory, but then, like an elite operative of the Secret Intelligence Service, I plaster myself to the wall beneath their range and slide my way out the door. Less than five minutes later, I’m in my sleeping pants and a white T-shirt, barefoot with my guitar in hand, knocking on Sarah’s bedroom door. I checked the map Vanessa gave me earlier. Her room is on the third floor, in the corner of the east wing, removed from the main part of the castle. The door opens just a crack and dark brown eyes peer out. “Sanctuary,” I plead. Her brow crinkles and the door opens just a bit wider. “I beg your pardon?” “I haven’t slept in almost forty-eight hours. My best friend’s girlfriend is trying to praying-mantis me and the sound of the cameras following me around my room is literally driving me mad. I’m asking you to take me in.” And she blushes. Great. “You want to sleep in here? With me?” I scoff. “No, not with you—just in your room, love.” I don’t think about how callous the words sound—insulting—until they’re out of my mouth. Could I be any more of a dick? Thankfully, Sarah doesn’t look offended. “Why here?” she asks. “Back in the day, the religious orders used to give sanctuary to anyone who asked. And since you dress like a nun, it seemed like the logical choice.” I don’t know why I said that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Somebody just fucking shoot me and be done with it. Sarah’s lips tighten, her head tilts, and her eyes take on a dangerous glint. I think Scooby-Doo put it best when he said, Ruh-roh. “Let me make sure I’ve got this right—you need my help?” “Correct.” “You need shelter, protection, sanctuary that only I can give?” “Yes.” “And you think teasing me about my clothes is a wise strategy?” I hold up my palms. “I never said I was wise. Exhausted, defenseless, and desperate.” I pout . . . but in a manly kind of way. “Pity me.” A smile tugs at her lips. And that’s when I know she’s done for. With a sigh, she opens the door wide. “Well, it is your castle. Come in.” Huh. She’s right—it is my castle. I really need to start remembering that

You fixed the tables?" "Nonsense." Pippa grinned. "With what I know of Digger Knight, I would wager everything you have that these tables were already fixed. I unfixed them." She was mad. And he loved it. His brows rose. "Everything I have?" She shrugged. "I haven't very much, myself." She was wrong, of course. She had more than she knew. More than he'd dreamed. And if she asked, he'd let her wager with everything he owned. God, he wanted her. He looked around them, registering the flushed, excited faces of the gamers nearby, not one of them interested in the trio standing to the side. No one who was not playing was worth the attention. Not when so many were winning so much. She was running the tables at one of the most successful casinos in London. He turned back to her. "How did you..." She smiled. "You taught me about weighted dice, Jasper." He warmed at the name. "I didn't teach you about stacked decks." She feigned insult. "My lord, your lack of confidence in my intelligence wounds me. You think I could not work out the workings of deck stacking myself?" He ignored the jest. Knight would kill them when he discovered this. "And roulette?" She smiled. "Magnets have remarkable uses." She was too smart for her own good. He turned to Temple. "You allowed this?" Temple shrugged one shoulder. "The lady can be very... determined." Lord knew that was true.

From Life, Volume III, by Unspiek, Baron Bodissey: I am constantly startled and often amused by the diverse attitudes toward wealth to be found among the peoples of the Oikumene. Some societies equate affluence with criminal skill; for others wealth represents the gratitude of society for the performance of valuable services. My own concepts in this regard are easy and clear, and I am sure that the word ‘simplistic’ will be used by my critics. These folk are callow and turgid of intellect; I am reassured by their howls and yelps. For present purposes I exclude criminal wealth, the garnering of which needs no elaboration, and a gambler’s wealth which is tinsel. In regard, then, to wealth: Luxury and privilege are the perquisites of wealth. This would appear a notably bland remark, but is much larger than it seems. If one listens closely, he hears deep and far below the mournful chime of inevitability. To achieve wealth, one generally must thoroughly exploit at least three of the following five attributes: Luck. Toil, persistence, courage. Self-denial. Short-range intelligence: cunning, improvisational ability. Long-range intelligence: planning, the perception of trends. These attributes are common; anyone desiring privilege and luxury can gain the precursory wealth by making proper use of his native competence. In some societies poverty is considered a pathetic misfortune, or noble abnegation, hurriedly to be remedied by use of public funds. Other more stalwart societies think of poverty as a measure of the man himself. The critics respond: What an unutterable ass is this fellow Unspiek! I am reduced to making furious scratches and crotchets with my pen! — Lionel Wistofer, in The Monstrator I am poor; I admit it! Am I then a churl or a noddy? I deny it with all the vehemence of my soul! I take my bite of seed-cake and my sip of tea with the same relish as any paunchy plutocrat with bulging eyes and grease running from his mouth as he engulfs ortolans in brandy, Krokinole oysters, filet of Darango Five-Horn! My wealth is my shelf of books! My privileges are my dreams! — Sistie Fael, in The Outlook … He moves me to tooth-chattering wrath; he has inflicted upon me, personally, a barrage of sheer piffle, and maundering insult which cries out to the Heavens for atonement. I will thrust my fist down his loquacious maw; better, I will horsewhip him on the steps of his club. If he has no club, I hereby invite him to the broad and convenient steps of the Senior Quill-drivers, although I must say that the Inksters maintain a superior bar, and this shall be my choice since, after trouncing the old fool, I will undoubtedly ask him in for a drink. — McFarquhar Kenshaw, in The Gaean

I wasn’t going to be stupid or ignorant. And I would refuse to believe it if someone insulted my intelligence. Believing it would bring shame to me and everyone who loved and helped me find my way to freedom. Even in my agonizing grief, a beacon of hopeful light broke through the shadows:

For the most part, food plays a very functional role in American culture. We eat to work. If Aini was visiting in my home, I'd tell her, “Don't eat anything you don't like. We don't care.” And we really wouldn't for the most part. But in many parts of the world, food is deeply rooted in the life of people. Sometimes I've had Indian hosts prepare meals for me that used spices grown on their homestead for hundreds of years. The best Indian meals take days to prepare. So to pass on eating dishes prepared for you in that context could be far more insulting than passing on a dish you just don't care for. It can be seen as an all-out rejection. And as for eating with utensils versus eating with our hands, one of my Indian friends puts it this way: “Eating with utensils is like making love through an interpreter!” That says it all when it comes to the affection most Indians have for their cuisine. To reject the food of an Indian colleague can be extremely disrespectful and can erode any possibility of a business partnership. Who would have thought food could play such a strong role in successful global performance? Edwin,

Don’t insult my intelligence,” Dustin said, almost sneering now. “I know you have your little scheme to get married by thirty.” Rae felt like she’d been slapped. She wanted to slap back, but that would just be cruel, hitting someone who was already down, so she turned the fury inward. She must’ve set some of the marriage pressure on Dustin’s sunken shoulders, making him feel like being her boyfriend wasn’t enough for her. Or maybe it had been her mom’s tactless hints that she wanted to be around to see her grandkids grow up, or even his own mom’s comments over New Year’s about how it was about time Dustin brought home a nice girl and settled down like his brothers.

The One Question to Never Ask Your Customer Even seemingly widespread and innocuous practices can have unintended consequences. For example, to confirm understanding with their clients at the end of a statement or explanation, many sellers use the phrase “Does that make sense?” As in, “We understand that many of our clients have cash-flow constraints, which is why we offer monthly or quarterly payment terms that align with how they bill their customers. Does that make sense?” Or, “One of the things our clients love about our solution is the way our unique, three-layer security algorithm proactively identifies orthogonal threats to your network before they can cause harm. Does that make sense?” While the use of this confirmatory statement may seem innocuous, many people on the receiving end feel strangely put off by it (I am one of those people). The reason is because that phrase can subconsciously be interpreted in one of two negative ways. First, it can be seen as an insult to the customer’s intelligence: “Does that make sense? I ask because I’m not quite sure how smart you are so I’m afraid this concept, no matter how intuitive it may seem to me, simply isn’t something your puny brain has the ability to understand.” Second, it can imply that the seller simply isn’t good at explaining things: “Does that make sense? I ask because I’m not very good at explaining things and my words often leave people with a sense of confusion and bewilderment. I just want to make sure I didn’t do that to you.

nearly forgot something my old father told me not long before he died. He said the threshold of insult is in direct relation to intelligence and security.

Writing surrogate letters wasn’t quite so easily justified; there was something slightly but definitely dishonest about it. To get one placed, you had to sound like the real thing, but not so much that you discredited your own position or insulted the intelligence of the supporter whose name you were hoping to attach to it. You had to start the letter off with some sassy stock phrase or rhetorical question: “Representative So-and-so just doesn’t get it” or “Which constitution is Senator So-and-so reading?” Then you’d make your case without sounding like you knew too much about the topic. That’s where surrogate letters sometimes went wrong. They would refer to specific revenue numbers or to the names of subcommittees or explain the difference between house and senate versions of bills. Average people didn’t know these things, and if a surrogate letter used them, it sounded like what it was, and editors wouldn’t run them. I spent a day writing these wretched things. It wasn’t worth it unless you produced ten or fifteen; newspapers likely wouldn’t print a letter taking a certain view if they got only one, but if they got a handful they’d feel bound to run one or two. It was a mind-numbing exercise: each one had to sound clumsy but not stupid; each had to approach the question from a different angle; and none could use the same vocabulary. We sent them out to the ostensible authors, and over the next two weeks or so I would see my little creations pop up in a variety of newspapers. Sometimes a few words had been changed by the surrogates, but by and large they slapped their names on the letters and forwarded them to their hometown newspapers. I felt the whole exercise was pointless, but perhaps the letters did contribute in a small way to the sense that Knotts’s allegations had been grossly unfair and that the governor had acted properly. Had he? I thought so at the time, but enough time has passed that I can admit I don’t know. One of the melancholy facts of political life is that your convictions tend to align with your paycheck.

I would have never taken you for a coward, Mr. Mulberry, but honestly, do you really believe carting out your wards is going to convince me to agree to whatever madness has you seeking me out so late at night?” Everett smiled almost as brightly as the children. “Now, now, Miss Longfellow, there’s no cause to call me a coward. Smart like a fox, perhaps, but—” “You shouldn’t antagonize her, Everett,” Lucetta suddenly said, interrupting Everett’s speech before she turned to Millie. “And you shouldn’t be surprised he brought the children with him, considering everyone knows you have a distinct weakness for the wee ones. However, before the conversation moves forward, I really am going to have to insist that the two of you drop all of this Miss and Mister nonsense. We have a common friend in Oliver Addleshaw. Which means, like it or not, we’re now friends of a sort. And because of that, there’s really no reason for such formality.” “There is if he’s here to ask me to work for him.” “Of course he’s here to ask you to work for him,” Lucetta said. “But that has absolutely nothing to do with calling him by his given name.” Millie opened her mouth, but before she could respond, something that looked remarkably like mud began seeping through the paper wrapped around the flowers she was holding. Moving to the closest table, she unwrapped the paper before setting her sights on Everett again. “Did you pull these flowers right out of the ground, Mr. Mulberry?” Everett smiled. “Please, call me Everett since Lucetta was kind enough to point out we’re friends, and of course I didn’t pull those right out of the ground.” Millie held up the flowers, exposing the roots still clinging to dirt. “You would have me believe you purchased these from a flower shop?” “It’s after ten. There are no flower shops open, but if you must know, I had Rosetta pluck those out of the ground for you.” A little girl of about five raised an incredibly dirty hand and waved at her right as Everett cleared his throat, drawing Millie’s attention. “I think you should view it as a mark in my favor that I remembered the flowers, especially since, again, I’m a little sensitive to them, but . . . you were quite vocal about what it would take to get you to work for me.” He sent her a far-too-charming smile. Ignoring the charm, Millie lifted her chin. “You might as well tell me what disaster struck your household now.” Everett shot a glance to the children and seemed to shudder. “Why would you assume something disastrous happened?” Setting the flowers, roots and all, aside, Millie crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Everett. You wouldn’t be bringing me flowers or children if something of a disastrous nature hadn’t occurred.” “The children are adorable, aren’t they?” “Of course they’re adorable, dear, which I’m sure you were hoping to use to your advantage,” Abigail said as she arrived in the drawing room, pushing a cart that seemed to be heavy with treats.

The fact that Andre was lying, and that it wasn’t even a good lie, insulted my intelligence. It was obvious he thought I was one of the little stupid ass basic bitches he messed with in the past. That was not the case. “Queen,

step there. Though I didn’t think I’d need to since you’ve lived here for years.” I successfully climb the last step standing between me and my glorious, non-chemical-smelling bed. “You’re really mean, you know that?” I grumble. She makes a face. “I’m not mean; you’re just dumb.” The silence ironically speaks for itself. “Ohhh. I hear it now,” she says. “As my primary caretaker now, you have to be nice to me. That includes no name calling or insults to my intelligence.” “How can I insult something you don’t have?” A roguish grin quirks up the corners of my lips. “Every time you make a hurtful comment about me, I’ll be keeping track of how many orgasms you owe me.

You commit a crime if you support and collaborate with hired members of the criminal intelligence agencies who approach you to eliminate the truth. Sure, you also perpetrate and exploit the rules in an unfair context; indeed, it obtains a desired outcome that victimizes the victim.” “As a human, I love and respect all people; I fight for others’ rights as an advocate of humanity; and I also bring to justice those who commit crimes and misdeeds, regardless of distinctions, even if I face the consequences and victimization. Despite that, I never hesitate to exercise and practice it, feeling and learning that if death is everyone’s fate and destiny, then why not accept it in such a glorious way?” After being victimized by fake accounts of Rumi and the son of a shit, Sa Sha, on social media, I blocked them. However, they cannot escape from the inhuman crimes that they have been committing on social media while living in a civilized society. He, the son of a snake, and she, the shit of a snake, disappeared, working together to victimize me for many years with the consent of criminal intelligence agencies and Qadiyanis, the followers of a fake religion of a fake Jesus. More than a decade ago, their profiles started with fake names; behind that were a top cheater, criminal, inhuman, sadist, pretender, and worse than a beast, with the conspiracy of other criminals. However, I became the victim of those criminals and inhuman nature who succeeded in putting me on the death list. In 2020, the criminal’s chief and his gang from Canada, Germany, the USA, Australia, the Netherlands, Pakistan, India, the Middle East, and around the world, along with other criminals, succeeded in deleting an article on me on Wikipedia and sending abusive, insulting, and discriminating emails to my immediate family. They remained in their criminal ways to defame and damage me, but they significantly failed and faced the penalty for their wrong deeds by God and the law of the world. Despite that, they reached their mental match once to further victimize me; this time, they were directly on my social media, but through their team of evil-minded people to victimize, harass, threaten, and damage my writings, label restrictions, and lock my account every time. Read this underlined link in detail. As a result, I became compulsive enough to deactivate my profile on Twitter to stay away from all such scoundrels. Alas, deactivated Twitter account will automatically become deleted forever after thirty days; consequently, I will lose more than one hundred thousand tweets and my post data because of Elon Musk and his dastard team, who support the political mafia and forced me to remove a screenshot of a Wikipedia article that was illegitimately removed as they harassed me by tagging, restricting, and locking my account and asking my ID card to transfer my privacy to third parties of political criminals and to make my opponents happy. It is a crime to restrict freedom of expression through such tactics under the umbrella of community behaviour.

His companion? I lick my lips. “So, I’m gonna have to go for the obvious question and ask what it is you want from me.” “I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending I don’t have an ulterior motive. Don’t insult mine by pretending you don’t know what it is.” Fair enough. “Just wanted to make sure we were all on the same page is all.

No, Donovan,” I said patiently. “She’s a woman with power, and you’re going to insult her and bring her down and call her a witch and a monster. Well, I’ve got news for you, buddy.” I wagged my finger at him. “You can’t silence us anymore. Gone are the days where you can take an intelligent, powerful woman and burn her at the stake. Powerful women are not evil. We are not monsters

My expression and view about Freedom of the Press in Quotation --- The mafia’s presence in the media limits the freedom of the press, whether in uniform or a stunning civil costume. Intelligence agencies media, trade media, political parties’ media, blackmailer media, mafia media, and other media, but there is no neutral and free media; forget freedom of the press in this context. Don’t be a coward; never beg for your freedom or forget your rights; resist tyranny at all corners. The abuse, insult, humiliation, and discrimination against whatever subject is not freedom of expression and writing; it is a violation and denial of global harmony and peace. Press and speech that deliberately trigger hatred and violation fall not under the freedom of the press and speech since restrictions for morale and peace apply to everyone without exemption. Press freedom is one significant pillar of true democracy, but such democracy stays deaf, dumb, and blind, which restricts or represses the media. The neutral and honest print and electronic media are free advisers, mirrors, information, and opinions of the nation for ruling and non-ruling political parties. Thus, such media deserve subsidies without distinctions to stay stable as the fourth pillar of democracy.

If you follow me on socials or have read other non-fictional pieces by me, then you know I talk my shit. But also know that I don't talk out of my ass. Everything I write about comes from my research, whether that be in person or from doing the reading. And whenever my posts, essays, or whatever are based on anecdotal evidence, they are ALWAYS from genuine sources. I know my "hot takes" or whatever you choose to call them, may cause some animosity or negative feelings from readers. As I've said in the past, I have no control over how my words are perceived. But I want to make a few things clear:  1) You can disagree, but don't insult my intelligence as a Black woman, EVER. I deal with it enough from people in and outside the literary world who feel that you aren't allowed to be smarter than them because you don't look like them. So know your place when indulging in my space—this my shit.  2) I said what I said.  After reading this book, I hope you take what you've read and apply it somewhere that benefits marginalized women of color. Otherwise, why are you here?  Thank you for choosing this book.  If you aren’t familiar with me, then now is the time to get familiar.  -Chanel Hardy

Your conscience is what you do, not what you think or say you think. It’s also something you do when it has to be done, not as an afterthought when you’re forced to face up to your wrongdoing. Remorse is cheap and easy. It’s an insult. My awareness obliged me to act, but I did nothing: I cooperated, and my compliance enabled something monstrous. I didn’t slaughter millions, but there’s no sliding scale in atrocities, even if the robotic imagination of the law requires fixed thresholds. Each death, each act of suffering, is a complete and qualifying act of evil in itself. Humans instinctively norm. We behave like others around us, because compliance is our survival strategy. No matter how intelligent, sensible, or kind, 99 percent of human beings will carry out the most appalling acts if the rest of their tribe is doing the same. And most of our conscious acts are simply postscript rationalizations of our hard-wired unconscious decisions.

I am being quite reasonable, Mister Cotton, I assure you,’ Charlie said, unable to keep himself from grinning. ‘Mary is accustomed to us. She is more than an elephant, she is a pet, a friend, and a companion. I wouldn’t trust an elephant I don’t know to Barnum and Bailey, let alone a pet, friend, and companion. I’m fully aware of your employers’ liberal use of bull hooks in training. The conditions in which those elephants are crammed together, night after night. Out of love for Mary, I say unreservedly no. I am also aware of the business practices of your employers and know full well the extent of their philanthropic nature. You wouldn’t have turned up here, all false charm and sleazy grin, waving an envelope of cash around, if you didn’t already know Mary was worth a hundred times the value. So, don’t threaten my elephants, firstly, Mister Cotton. And secondly, dare not to insult my intelligence, in my own office. For God’s sake, man.

He had mounted the first three steps of the scaffold, when a young newsman tore forward, ran to him and, from below, seized the railing to stop him. “Dr. Stadler!” he cried in a desperate whisper. “Tell them the truth! Tell them that you had nothing to do with it! Tell them what sort of infernal machine it is and for what purpose it’s intended to be used! Tell the country what sort of people are trying to rule it! Nobody can doubt your word! Tell them the truth! Save us! You’re the only one who can!” Dr. Stadler looked down at him. He was young; his movements and voice had that swift, sharp clarity which belongs to competence; among his aged, corrupt, favor-ridden and pull-created colleagues, he had managed to achieve the rank of elite of the political press, by means and in the role of a last, irresistible spark of ability. His eyes had the look of an eager, unfrightened intelligence; they were the kind of eyes Dr. Stadler had seen looking up at him from the benches of classrooms. He noticed that this boy’s eyes were hazel; they had a tinge of green. Dr. Stadler turned his head and saw that Ferris had come rushing to his side, like a servant or a jailer. “I do not expect to be insulted by disloyal young punks with treasonable motives,” said Dr. Stadler loudly. Dr. Ferris whirled upon the young man and snapped, his face out of control, distorted by rage at the unexpected and unplanned, “Give me your press card and your work permit!” “I am proud,” Dr. Stadler read into the microphone and into the attentive silence of a nation, “that my years of work in the service of science have brought me the honor of placing into the hands of our great leader, Mr. Thompson, a new instrument with an incalculable potential for a civilizing and liberating influence upon the mind of man. . . .

Gautam Buddha used to say to his disciples, “To be angry is so stupid that it is inconceivable that intelligent human beings go on doing it. Somebody else is doing something and you are getting angry? He may be doing something wrong, he may be saying something wrong, he may be making some effort to humiliate you, to insult you—but that is his freedom. If you react, you are a slave. If you say to the person, ‘It is your joy to insult me, it is my joy not to be angry,’ you are behaving like a master.

you? I think somebody pulled the plug on your brain drain! I’d rather run through a lion den in pork-chop underwear than talk to you! Well, you started with nothing, you’ve got that left! Most people live and learn but you just living aren’t you. You’re a just a few churns away from being butter aren’t you! I’m not a doctor, but I think you’ve got suckit-itus! I think there’s a manufacturer’s defect in your DNA! I don’t know what makes you so screwed up, but whatever it is, it’s working! Your brain must feel like brand new, since you never use it! The results of your IQ test would probably be negative! Call 911! I think somebody stole all your common sense! You look like a perfect example of a total failure! Was the ground cold when you crawled out this morning? For crying out loud! You’re acting like some kind a brainless, drunk, penguin! On the bright side, as a failure, you’re a great success! If idiots could fly, you’d be an eagle! How’d you even get here? Did somebody leave your cage open? If you had your head examined they wouldn’t find a lick of sense! I think you’ve got a bug in your programming! Don’t feel bad. A lot of people have no talent. Hi, I’m a human being! What are you again? I see you’re not letting your education get in the way of your ignorance! How long has it been since they performed your lobotomy? Are you in town for an idiot convention? You’re about as fun as licking the hand rail on an escalator! I’d slap you senseless if I could spare the two seconds it would take! Tough-titty said the kitty when the milk was all gone. The world needs examples like you so the rest of us can feel better! I don’t think you’re a fool. But what’s my opinion against thousands of others? I wish I could break whatever spell keeps magic’n you here! It looks like what you lack in intelligence you make up for in stupidity!

Tabby snorts. “Can I.” Without another word, she turns and leaves, her chin in the air and her red pigtails swinging. I look at Connor. “Is that a yes or a no?” He sighs. “It’s a ‘Just fucking watch me,’ brother. With a side order of ‘Don’t insult my intelligence’ and ‘Dumbass.

I'm going to pretend you didn't just insult my intelligence. I've known Hades years now. The man does nothing without reason, and he certainly wouldn't steal Zeus's fiancee out from under his nose if he didn't want to stir the pot

Insulting your intelligence. Not making you feel special and appreciated . All the times I continued to do things when you asked me to stop. Using the silent treatment to get what I wanted. Choosing to ignore you until you said you were sorry when we had a fight . Expecting sex whenever I wanted it but not giving it when you did . Not meeting your emotional needs and driving you to get them from another man . Not recognizing just how strong of a person you are . Making you wear a bathing suit when you were pregnant so I could make fun of you. All of the times that I didn't do things around the house because I knew you would do them eventually. Not doing more upkeep on our house. Having so many hobbies and interest and not simply appreciating you, the kids, our home, and our life. Always finding something to criticize about you. Not nurturing you . Not building you up but always tearing you down. Not complimenting you more. Taking you for granted. Not taking care of my body more to give you something pleasing to look at. Not letting go . All the emails. Expecting my needs to be the first priority of the family because I was the head of the household . Not knowing the true meaning of being the head of the household . Not reading more with you . Getting mad at you about something 3 or 4 times a week, maybe more . Not learning to enjoy your hobbies with you . Not working in the yard with you more . Interrupting you when you talk . Always acting like the victim . Limiting your spending money by giving you an allowance . Being unhappy so many days of my life . Ingraining in you and the kids "Is dad mad?". Getting mad and not staying overnight at the marriage seminar a few years ago . All the 1000's of more times I’m not remembering of "being mad because ______”. Yelling at you 1000's of times. Not providing the means for you to fix up the house the way you wanted to. Destroying your dreams. Always having to struggle for money . Not going to kids events with you . Defending myself whenever you'd point out something I was doing to upset you or the kids. You being married to a man who was still a child in his emotional development. Not recognizing how hurt you were . Being verbally abusive . Taking my misery out on you and the kids . My ego and my pride . Putting you first instead of God . Making you feel as if you never measured up . Crushing the tender flower in you . Not building the children up spiritually . Always thinking your issues were no big deal . All the tax problems . Not paying all our bills . Being lazy . Thinking I always had all the answers . Never apologizing . Never backing down. Telling you why you shouldn't feel the way you felt about things . Not learning the true meaning of a godly man and godly marriage. Having to make you suffer because of my fear of abandonment . Asking you to do things during sex that you didn’t like or were not comfortable doing . Any event(s) that are strong in your mind that I have failed to recognize in this list that was ever hurtful, disrespectful or disappointing to you. Making you have to divorce me. There was no other way for me to wake up and realize exactly the person I have been and how I was in our marriage. I am waking up.

He must have felt my presence in the room, because when I moved, he turned his bandaged head in my direction. When he did that I spoke to him. I told him who I was and that I had come to let him know that he would be okay. My words came quickly and I realized they were meaningless. He and I both knew that he was in very bad shape, and I decided at that moment not to continue to insult his intelligence by telling him that he would improve. He wouldn’t be okay, and I think that if he had been able to ask me to kill him, I would have done it. I would not have wished this Marine’s misery on another living person. The sense of pain and frustration at my inability to help this man turned into a seething anger when I thought about the recent newspaper and magazine articles I had read that applauded the efforts of American men who had opted to desert their country and hide across the border in Canada to avoid the draft. I wondered what the difference was between this Marine and those men who had run away, knowing that the chances of their being selected for the infantry and actually going into combat were less than one out of ten. I was sure that the young sergeant’s mother must certainly love her son as much as those mothers who had excused their sons’ acts of cowardice; that made me sad. While I stayed in the compartment with that sergeant I simply held his hand in mine. It was all that I could do, but I hoped that in his drug-induced state of comfort he would still understand that someone was with him who cared. When a Navy nurse finally came into the compartment to check on the sergeant’s vital signs, I wiped the tears from my face and went out onto the flight deck of the USS Repose to await my flight back to Da Nang.

We told them everything--well, almost everything. I was saving the stuff I’d found out at the cabin. This was enough for now. Too much actually. Despite having seen our powers in action--my near-transformation and Daniel knocking out the pilot--Corey and Hayley couldn’t seem to process it. Corey kept saying, “Are you sure?” tentatively, as if he didn’t want to insult our intelligence, but he couldn’t help thinking there had to be a logical explanation. Hayley just stared at me. When I finally stopped talking, she said, “Are you crazy?” “Hey!” Sam said. “No, seriously. You think you’re going to change into a cougar? Maybe in thirty years you’ll start thinking college boys are kinda hot, but that’s the only sort of cougar you can turn into, Maya. Anything else is nuts.” “Right,” Sam said. “So you weren’t here an hour ago? When her face started changing?” “Yes, something did happen to her face. I don’t know what it was, but I’ll bet it has to go with those vitamins and drugs they were feeding us back in Salmon Creek. That’s what all this is about. They were doing medical experiments on us. It explains what Daniel did on the helicopter and what happened with Maya’s face.” “And Rafe?” Sam said. “Does medical research explain why Rafe thought he was a skin-walker, too, when he’d never even been to the clinic?” “I…I don’t know.” Hayley squared her shoulders. “No one ever saw Rafe do anything magical. He just thought he was one of these skin-walkers. That’s from your religion or whatever, right?” “My religion?” I said. “The stuff you people believe in.” “You people?” Corey said. “Holy hell, Hayley. Did you really just say that?” She went beet red. “I--I didn’t mean--” “We know exactly what you meant,” Sam said. “Got a racist streak there, huh? Surprise, surprise.

Mom always taught me the best way to deal with bullies is to ignore them or stand-up to them. I decided to try a bit of both. First I just totally ignored MG’s nasty comments and I kept talking to Shelby. After about 5 minutes of ignoring MG’s little rant, I saw Shelby’s face begin to show her anger at her friend being insulted. I put my hand softly on her shoulder and said, “It’s okay, I’ll handle this.” I turned to MG and calmly said, “Thanks Bethany, I’m always ready to accept constructive criticism about my appearance from intelligent, fashionable and thoughtful people like yourself.” Bethany looked confused. Then I continued in a calm and confident voice, “But hang on, I just realized, you’re definitely not intelligent, nor thoughtful and perhaps not even fashionable, so I really couldn’t care less about your opinion.” Shelby

Tis therefore on my ascendant Star, and not on the Count de Gabalis, that the Virtuosi ought to lay the Blame, if I love rather to divulge their Secrets, than to practise them. If the Stars don't do their Duty, the Count is not the Cause of it; and if I have not a Soul great enough to attempt the Mastery of Nature, to overturn the Elements, to maintain Supream Intelligences, to command the Daemons, to beget Giants, to crete new Worlds, to speak to God on his tremendous Throne, and to oblige the Cherubim who guards the terrestrial Paradise to let me take a Turn or two in those delicious Walks; 'tis myself alone that is to be blam'd or pity'd; you must not, for that, insult the Memory of that rare Man, and say he came by his Death for having inform'd me of these Things.

Don't insult my intelligence. I know it was you. But luckily for you, all I need is a powerful Vampire. And you really are your father's daughter...

She's my sister, not his girlfriend," Hughie roared back. "Don't insult her intelligence.