Debate me. For three hours. At a time, venue, and decibel-level of my choosing. You bring your mountains of studies, data, and other so-called evidence, and I will bring my refusal to acknowledge those things. Oh, and a faulty microphone for you to use.
It’ll be fun. For me.
What’s the matter? Scared you might lose just because I’ve constructed this scenario to insure that you absolutely will?
Bock, bock, bock!
That was me doing a chicken sound, because you’re a chicken. A metaphorical chicken. Real chickens don’t exist; they’re just ducks who don’t play by the rules. I know this because I took the red pill, and, by “the” red pill, I mean “a” red pill. I found it under a park bench! It tasted like the truth! Truth and dirt!
Oh, you think I should see a doctor? How convenient—trying to weasel out of our debate. How about this? I’ll seek medical care if you debate me on what number I’m thinking of right now.
I’m sorry, you “don’t understand the topic, or how it could be debated”? Checkmate, loser. Questions don’t win debates. Statements do. Statements like calling your opponent “loser.”
It’s how the audience knows who’s losing!
Here’s an idea. You pick what we debate. Here are some things I believe: North Dakota is the one on the bottom; tennis balls can feel pain; it was originally the Four Stooges, until one of them grew a beard and seized control of Cuba; the sun is the moon’s cousin; there’s only one gender; tennis rackets can feel pain.
I could go on—and I will on my podcast—but you get the idea. Plus, my right ear is bleeding. Probably ’cause I’m not taking enough of these red pills. Yeah, I found more of them scattered near the first one! Whoever dropped them must have taken off in a hurry.
Don’t worry—these are perfectly healthy. And, besides, all pills are the same. Science won’t tell you that because follow the money. Everyone’s in on it, and it goes all the way to the top. Mind control. Triggered much?
Please be triggered. This is all I have.
No, don’t go! We haven’t even debated yet! Debating is the only way I know how to interact with people. I haven’t figured out why, but most people don’t want to talk to or be near me. I assume it’s because they’re intimidated by my intellect. That, or by how many more supplements I take than them.
I wasn’t always like this, you know. I grew up in a nice house with a loving family. We weren’t rich or anything, but we had everything we needed, plus enough money to take a couple of trips a year. I had friends. Played sports. Acted in a few school plays. My teachers liked me. Honestly, I don’t remember when I started needing to debate people. I think it was after college, when I moved away. It’s true what they say: making friends is harder the older you get. So I started spending more time on my laptop. And my phone. I found new friends there. Friends who liked to debate. Friends who didn’t believe the official story. Friends who wanted romantic attachments but didn’t know how to get them, and who had become truly, frighteningly angry about that. These became my people. I haven’t spoken to my mom in three years. I visited my sister’s family over the holidays, but we had a big fight during dinner when I tried to debate religion. She asked me not to come back. She was trying not to cry. There was a look in her eyes like she’d lost me.
Maybe I should see a therapist. Then I could debate someone with credentials! 
Debate Me, You Coward!
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