Being a naturally beautiful but dumb person does not really put me forward as the first person to write a blog about intelligence, but I have been handed the gauntlet and am now trying to fit in onto my hand, unaware of the fact that it's actually two sizes two short and i've inadvertantly done a pisspoor impression of OJ Simpson at the start of the Chewbacca defence.
Anyway, to avoid discussing intelligence and sounding all superior, mocking idiots and such, I figured i could write about being a spy, which is another type of intelligence, and if the Bond films are to be believed, doesn't require actual brains or common sense. All you need are a fancy car, some gadgets disguised as common objects; belt buckles, cufflinks, nipples and the like, and enemies who can't aim for toffee and you too could be a super-spy. Oh, you also have to be able to drink vodka martinis without throwing up or pulling a face. Because, shaken or stirred, the stuff still tastes like mouldy cat's piss.
Right, that was a quite bit of splurging, because now I have to go and watch a film with the missus. It's some sort of romantic comedy film, so I shall topically be using none of my intelligence, and will no doubt either fall asleep halfway through or I'll be back here writing about my next one-word-topic, which will no doubt be equally taxing for my poor little brain.
Oh, and I might have a biscuit too. I do like biscuits.