There is nobody so irritating as somebody with less intelligence

Host:
The night was thick with rain, each droplet tracing a trembling path down the café’s fogged window. The neon sign outside flickered — red, blue, red — as if conflicted about which mood to hold. Inside, the air was heavy with coffee, smoke, and the faint echo of a forgotten piano from a nearby bar.

Jack sat by the window, his hands clasped, eyes fixed on the reflection of streetlights sliding down the glass. Jeeny sat across from him, her fingers curled around a half-empty cup, her eyes alive with the quiet light of a question yet unspoken.

The clock on the wall ticked — slow, deliberate, indifferent.

Host:
That was the moment Jack spoke — in that cold, amused tone that often hides a storm beneath its surface.

Jack:
You know, Jeeny… Don Herold once said, “There is nobody so irritating as somebody with less intelligence and more sense than we have.”
He wasn’t wrong. Nothing bruises the ego quite like being outdone by simplicity.

Jeeny:
(Smiling faintly) You mean, nothing wounds your ego like being outdone by humility, Jack. There’s a difference.

Jack:
(Scoffs) Humility? No — it’s luck, instinct, guesswork. The kind that sometimes lands right without even thinking. And that’s what irritates me — the unfairness of it.

Host:
The light from the neon sign spilled over their faces, painting Jack’s cheekbones in red and Jeeny’s hair in blue, like two worlds forever caught in conflict — fire and calm.

Jeeny:
Maybe it isn’t unfair, Jack. Maybe it’s balance. The world doesn’t belong only to the clever, or the educated, or those who can build logic like walls. Sometimes, sense — pure, human sense — keeps things from falling apart.

Jack:
You sound like a saint defending mediocrity.

Jeeny:
(Sternly) And you sound like a man afraid of being ordinary.

Host:
A faint silence stretched between them, the kind that hums louder than words. Jack’s jaw tightened, a subtle tremor in his hand betrayed a deeper anger — or perhaps hurt.

Jack:
Ordinary? You think that’s the fear? No, Jeeny — it’s not being ordinary that scares me. It’s being surrounded by people who make decisions without understanding, who act without thinking, who claim wisdom but reject reason.

Jeeny:
But reason isn’t the only path to truth, Jack. Some people don’t need the language of philosophy or science to make sense. They simply feel it — through instinct, through compassion.

Jack:
(Leaning forward) Feeling is fickle. It changes with the weather, with the mood. Sense that isn’t anchored in intelligence is a boat without a rudder.

Jeeny:
And intelligence without sense is a rudder without a boat, Jack. You’ll steer perfectly — but you’ll never move.

Host:
Her words hung like smoke above the table — curling, slow, deliberate. Jack’s eyes flickered toward the window, where the rain had started to ease, like the sky itself was leaning closer to listen.

Jack:
You talk as if emotion is the answer to every problem. But emotion is what started most of them — wars, jealousy, fanaticism. Sense, in your terms, can be dangerous when it lacks the discipline of thought.

Jeeny:
And thought can be cruel when it lacks the tenderness of sense. It creates systems, machines, laws — all built perfectly, but cold. I’d rather live in a flawed world that feels, than a flawless one that forgets to care.

Host:
The café’s light dimmed for a moment — the hum of the old bulb shuddering with age. Jack’s shadow stretched across the table, crossing into Jeeny’s space — as if his logic tried to swallow her gentleness whole.

Jack:
(Smiling thinly) You always make it sound so poetic. But reality isn’t a poem, Jeeny. It’s a calculation — survival, efficiency, adaptation. People with “more sense” might survive the moment, but it’s the intelligent who shape the future.

Jeeny:
And yet the “intelligent” keep repeating the same mistakes, century after century. The world burns — again and again — while the “sensible” ones, the simple-hearted, rebuild the ashes.

Jack:
Maybe because they don’t think long enough to notice the pattern.

Jeeny:
Or maybe because they feel enough to break it.

Host:
A distant thunder rolled across the city, soft but resonant. Jack’s eyes lifted toward the sound, and for the briefest second, something — a flicker of doubt, or maybe sorrow — crossed his face.

Jack:
You think sense is better than intelligence.

Jeeny:
No. I think they’re not enemies. But people like you — people who worship the mind — turn them into rivals.

Jack:
Because one comes from effort, and the other from accident. You earn intelligence. Sense just… happens.

Jeeny:
(Smiling sadly) Maybe that’s what bothers you. That something so powerful doesn’t need to be earned.

Host:
The rain had stopped completely now. The window was clear — revealing the quiet streetlights, the empty benches, the faint steam rising from the wet pavement. The world outside looked cleansed, as if the argument itself had washed the night.

Jack:
(Quietly) You know… maybe Herold was right. People with less intelligence and more sense are irritating — because they remind us that we’ve built towers out of ideas, while they live in the ground, where life actually happens.

Jeeny:
(Softly) Exactly. They remind us that the heart can be a compass too. It doesn’t draw blueprints — it just points toward warmth.

Jack:
(Sighs) And yet warmth can blind, too. Ever think of that?

Jeeny:
Yes. But so can brilliance. The trick is not to close your eyes entirely — to see with both the mind and the soul.

Host:
Jack’s shoulders relaxed. His hand, still resting on the table, opened slightly — a small, human gesture, but heavy with surrender. Jeeny noticed, and her eyes softened, the earlier fire in them replaced by something gentler — understanding.

Jack:
You know what’s funny?
For all my talk, I think I’ve been more irritated by my own lack of sense than by anyone else’s abundance of it.

Jeeny:
(Smiling warmly) Then maybe tonight, you’ve found a little more of it.

Host:
A slow smile spread across Jack’s face — the kind that carries both defeat and peace. The neon sign outside flickered once more and finally went dark, leaving only the soft glow of the streetlights.

The café seemed to breathe again — its walls, its tables, even the silence itself settling into something gentler.

Host:
And there, beneath the hum of a sleeping city, they sat — two fragments of the same truth: that intelligence seeks meaning, but sense finds balance. That neither alone is whole — and perhaps, the real irritation lies in forgetting that.

The rain began again, but softer this time — not a storm, but a rhythm.
A whisper between mind and heart, echoing through the night.