The Inner Monologue

At approximately 74 years old, Benjamin Franklin—scientist, diplomat, revolutionary, philosopher, Founding Father, and a man whose face would eventually appear on the hundred-dollar bill—sat down and wrote an essay about farting.

Not metaphorical farting.

Actual farting.

Franklin proposed that scientists investigate whether something could be added to food that would make human intestinal gas smell pleasant. He constructed an elaborate argument for why this would benefit humanity and concluded with a magnificent pun suggesting that some supposedly important scientific discoveries weren’t worth a “FART-HING.”

This was Benjamin Franklin.

The guy with the kite.

The guy negotiating with France.

The guy helping invent the United States.

And apparently the guy wondering whether asparagus could make your ass smell like lavender.

I mention this because occasionally I get the uncomfortable impression that some of you are taking the things I write seriously.

Please stop.

I don’t mean you shouldn’t think about them. That’s the entire reason I write them. Think about them. Argue with them. Google them. Fact-check them. Send them to your smarter friends and ask, “Is this completely full of shit?”

Sometimes the answer will be no.

Sometimes.

But never confuse “I read this here” with “therefore this is true.”

Ideas are fun.

Sometimes they start with facts and lead somewhere interesting. Sometimes they start with a hypothesis that deserves to be poked with a stick. Sometimes an argument gets deliberately exaggerated just to see what falls out of it. Sometimes something genuinely important emerges.

And sometimes we’re Benjamin Franklin investigating the future of pleasantly scented flatulence.

The difficult part is that I’m not necessarily going to tell you which one you’re reading.

That’s your job.

We have developed a peculiar cultural habit of evaluating information based on who said it rather than whether it makes sense.

My side said it?

True.

Their side said it?

False.

A professor said it?

Probably true.

Some idiot on Facebook said it?

Probably false.

Some random person on the internet said it?

God help us.

The correct response to almost everything you read should be some variation of:

“Huh. Is that true?”

Not “I agree with that.”

Not “I like this person.”

Not “That confirms something I already believed.”

Not even “There are citations.”

Is.

It.

True?

That’s a much harder question.

It requires occasionally discovering that someone you dislike is correct.

Worse, it requires occasionally discovering that you are wrong.

This is apparently considered a human-rights violation on the Internet.

I don’t expect you to believe everything I write. In fact, I would be deeply concerned if you did.

There are opinions here.

There are biases.

There will be misunderstandings.

There will be mistakes.

There will be speculation.

There will occasionally be ideas followed considerably farther than good judgment would recommend, largely because that’s where things get interesting.

That’s the fun.

Franklin understood this. Humor and irreverence weren’t enemies of serious thought. Sometimes they’re the tools that pry serious thought loose from the pompous bullshit surrounding it.

His fart essay is funny precisely because underneath the fart joke is a legitimate question:

What is knowledge actually for?

That’s worth thinking about.

The farting is just how Franklin got you there.

I’d like to think some of what appears here works the same way.

Except Franklin was Benjamin Franklin.

This is the internet.

Adjust your confidence accordingly.

So here is my standing disclaimer for everything I’ve ever written and everything I ever will:

Don’t believe something because I wrote it.

Believe it because you’ve considered the evidence, examined the reasoning, checked the assumptions, and concluded that it probably holds up.

And if it doesn’t, congratulations.

You caught it.

You have successfully passed the extremely low intellectual hurdle required to read this blog.

But if you believe something simply because I wrote it, we have a different problem.

There’s an old logical fallacy called the “No True Scotsman.” Someone declares that no true Scotsman puts sugar on his porridge. When presented with a Scotsman who does, he simply changes the definition: Well, no TRUE Scotsman would do that.

I’d like to propose the inverse.

Only a moron would believe something simply because I wrote it.

You may object:

“I’m not a moron, and I believe it because you wrote it.”

Unfortunately, the definition has already been established.

If you believe something solely because I wrote it, then by definition you are a moron.

Sorry.

I don’t make the rules.

Although, now that I think about it, I just did.

And if you believe that rule because I wrote it…

Well.

Thank you for proving my point.