Ridicule is the first and last argument of a fool.

Host: The lecture hall was nearly empty — rows of wooden seats echoing the ghosts of old debates, chalk dust hovering in the sunlight that slanted through tall, arched windows. A single blackboard stretched across the front, smeared with half-erased equations and the remnants of someone else’s truth. The air smelled faintly of ink, coffee, and the slow rot of time in a place too often filled with words and not enough listening.

Jack stood by the board, a stick of chalk in one hand, the other clenched behind his back. His eyes were hard, the kind of gray that had stopped believing in soft colors. Across the room, Jeeny sat on one of the desks, legs crossed, her notebook open but forgotten, watching him with a mix of affection and frustration.

She waited until he stopped pacing. Then, she spoke — quietly, but her words carried like a bell.

Jeeny: “Charles Simmons once said, ‘Ridicule is the first and last argument of a fool.’”

Jack: turns, voice sharp, ironic “So what does that make me?”

Host: The chalk in his hand snapped, the sound brittle, clean. He looked at the broken piece for a moment — then tossed it aside.

Jeeny: softly, but with weight “It makes you angry at what you can’t control. And that’s how the fool begins.”

Jack: gritting his teeth “You think it’s foolish to fight back?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s foolish to mock when you could reason. You’re too intelligent for sarcasm, Jack — but you use it like armor.”

Host: The light shifted slightly as a cloud passed overhead, dimming the room to a hushed gray. Dust swirled lazily through the air like unspoken thoughts.

Jack: bitterly “Sarcasm’s efficient. People don’t listen to reason anymore — they react to ridicule. You want to cut through noise? Use sharper blades.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but the cut leaves a scar. Ridicule doesn’t change minds — it just hardens walls.”

Jack: quietly, almost mocking “And reason melts them, does it?”

Jeeny: meeting his gaze steadily “Sometimes. But kindness does more damage to arrogance than cruelty ever will.”

Host: He turned away, jaw tight, staring at the board as if it had betrayed him. The faint outline of an old diagram — lines and circles, argument and counterargument — lingered like a wound that refused to fade.

Jack: softly, to himself “You ever try reasoning with fools, Jeeny? They don’t argue to learn. They argue to win.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t play their game.”

Jack: spinning around “That’s easy for you to say! You don’t know what it’s like to be laughed at — to have your truth turned into a punchline.”

Jeeny: gently “You think I’ve never been mocked? Ridicule is the fool’s applause, Jack. You only dignify it when you clap back.”

Host: The wind pressed against the windows, the old glass trembling faintly. The building itself seemed to be listening — waiting for the noise to turn into meaning.

Jack: sighing, the edge softening in his voice “It’s not the laughter that hurts. It’s the fact that they mean it. That they can’t see past the joke.”

Jeeny: “That’s because ridicule is a disguise. It’s insecurity pretending to be wit. A fool mocks what he fears to understand.”

Jack: quietly “So I should pity them?”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Pity, or ignore. But never join them.”

Host: Jack walked toward her, sitting on the edge of the desk beside her. His tone changed — no longer biting, just weary.

Jack: “You know, there’s a strange comfort in sarcasm. It makes you feel invincible for a second. Like you’ve already won the argument before it even starts.”

Jeeny: “That’s not victory, Jack. That’s surrender disguised as confidence.”

Jack: half-smiling “You always have the right word for my wrong habits.”

Jeeny: smiling back “That’s what friends are for — to translate your rage into reason.”

Host: The light returned, breaking through the clouds, scattering brightness across the chalkboard. The dust caught the sun and shimmered — tiny motes suspended in gold, like thoughts briefly illuminated before falling again into shadow.

Jeeny: “Simmons was right. Ridicule is both the first and last argument of a fool — because it begins with ignorance and ends with pride. The space in between is wasted breath.”

Jack: nodding slowly “So what’s the alternative? Stay quiet? Let them win by being louder?”

Jeeny: “No. Speak with purpose. Silence isn’t surrender; it’s precision. Words lose their power when soaked in contempt.”

Host: He looked at her — really looked — and for the first time in a long time, there was no defensiveness in his gaze. Just the slow dawn of understanding.

Jack: softly “You think I’ve been fighting shadows, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I think you’ve been fighting reflections. Every time you ridicule, you’re really talking to the part of yourself that’s afraid of being mocked.”

Jack: smiling sadly “So I’m the fool too.”

Jeeny: smiling warmly “We all are, sometimes. The wise man knows when he’s being one.”

Host: A bell rang faintly from somewhere down the corridor — the echo of a world still in motion. Jack stood, brushing chalk from his hands, his shoulders lighter somehow. He turned toward the board, picking up a fresh piece of chalk.

Jack: “Then maybe the first step to wisdom isn’t silence — it’s sincerity.”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. Because truth never needs to mock to make its point.”

Host: He drew a single line across the board — clean, confident, final. The echo of chalk against slate filled the silence like punctuation at the end of an old argument.

The camera would have pulled back then — the two of them small figures framed by sunlight, surrounded by dust motes that looked, for one suspended moment, like stars.

And as the scene faded, Charles Simmons’ words lingered like a quiet verdict on human folly:

that ridicule is the noise of fear pretending to be wit,
the laughter of ignorance trying to drown the voice of truth.

Host: For the fool seeks victory through mockery,
but the wise seek clarity through understanding.

And in that difference —
in that narrow, trembling gap
between sarcasm and sincerity —
lies the choice between sounding clever
and becoming amazing.