An idiot is defined nowadays as a foolish or stupid person. It is almost always used as an insult, though it can also be used jokingly between friends.
I think I fit into the category of an idiot. I often amaze myself and others with the consistency of my idiocy. Let me tell you what I mean.
I recently flew to Kentucky to speak at an event with Ken Ham. My son-in-law, daughter, and granddaughter planned to pick me up at 10 PM to fly a redeye from Los Angeles to Kentucky. I found out their ETA and decided to wait in our driveway to make sure I’d be at the airport on time. I put my bag in the driveway, then went back and shut the front door. As I waited, I realized I’d locked my other bag in the house. No problem. I would go around the back and let myself in through the doggie door. I unlocked the steel door, put my hands through the doggie door, and unlocked the doorknob, only to realize it was locked in two places. The second lock was way out of my reach.
“I think I fit into the category of an idiot. I often amaze myself and others with the consistency of my idiocy.”
So I began to gently bang on the door. When I realized my wife was already sound asleep, I banged harder, then like a maniac. I also yelled her name. That’s when my ride pulled into the driveway and called out to see if I was OK. I obviously wasn’t because I was banging like a madman and yelling my wife’s name. At the same time, I was a little annoyed at my dog because she normally barks at anything—which tends to wake us when we’re sleeping. But that night she sat in silence.
Sue finally came downstairs and unlocked the door. For some reason, it didn’t seem to surprise her that I’d locked my bag inside.
The next day, when I woke up in a hotel, I couldn’t find the TV remote. I had it in bed the night before, so I ripped the whole bed apart looking for it. It had totally disappeared. Then I couldn’t lift the blinds in my room, no matter how much I tried. Both sets were stuck. It was weird. Then I couldn’t turn the air conditioning off. I was getting so cold I had to put on extra clothes. It was then that I found the remote on the couch. Obviously, a burglar had come in during the night and put it there.
When I was trying to eat breakfast in the restaurant, a psychiatrist who liked our ministry squatted beside me and started telling me his life story (a psychiatrist seemed appropriate). I decided I’d try to eat my breakfast while he was talking, but I accidentally dropped some sausage on the floor. After it bounced around and then stopped, he picked it up without missing a beat. After I asked if he was going to keep it, he kindly handed it back to me. When he left, I noticed a notification on my WhatsApp app, clicked on it, and accidentally called someone in Israel. He called me back a few minutes later. That was a bit embarrassing.
When I got back to my room, the key wouldn’t work. It kept going “click, click, click,” and when I pressed down on the handle, the door wouldn’t open. It was frustrating because I urgently needed to make a comfort stop. Fortunately, I finally got in.
After being unable to get the coffee machine to work, I planned to meet our team in the lobby after everyone had left. I say that because I got the time wrong. Fortunately, one of my staff members corrected me.
That night, my key wouldn’t work again. All I got was the same “click, click, click.” The click I was looking for was much longer—one where you could actually hear the door unlock. I went down in the elevator to the lobby and got another key. The person behind the counter couldn’t understand why it wouldn’t work. But it still wouldn’t. In fact, I had counted approximately 80 times when the door clicked but wouldn’t open. As I was getting another key, a friend came into the lobby and decided to come upstairs to see what the problem was. The second he heard that one click, he immediately pushed the door handle down, and it opened. It was a one-click lock.
If you’ve read my book 101 of the Dumbest Things People Have Done, you’ll know that all this is nothing new for me.
My idiocy peaked as I stood outside Ken Ham’s office, talking to his staff and a visiting family. I tend to be a little animated when I speak, and I lifted my left hand to illustrate something. At that very moment, a sweet young lady walked by me, and I managed to smack her in the face with the back of my hand. It was perfect timing.
E.Z., my son-in-law, threw his hands up in unbelief and kept mumbling something about “Inspector Clouseau.”
