Intellectually disarmed, logically dangerous

My husband, John, loves a good hearty debate. He's always ready to jump into the middle of a topic, disassemble it, analyze it and blah blah blah about it. I can see the attraction, but serious thoughts have a very limited shelf life in my head. He's generally lucky if I have enough focus for one, maybe two, deep comments and then a few jokes before the issue goes stale for me. At best, I get excited enough to start making things up about a topic and that keeps it fresh for quite a while — like the crisper drawer for vegetables in the fridge — but John can't count on that happening on a regular basis. Besides, I don't think spouting a 10-minute string of jokes and fabricated ideas about a topic really satisfies his urge for debate anyway. He can get pretty adamant about serious discussion on some topics, and he often proves impervious to attempts at distraction, to lead him down the path of least insistence. The other night John got torqued a little too tightly while reading news about the efforts of various people and organizations to help earthquake victims in Haiti get fitted with prosthetic limbs. This is, logically, a topic a one-armed guy, like John, would get excited about. I, however, didn't know he'd been reading the news. I only knew he had planted himself in the office doorway, with his one whole arm braced akimbo on hi s hip, and was staring at me with his serious debater's face. Before I c o u l d swi t c h gears from my project to hi s burning need to say something impo r tant , he blurted out, "So, do you think people will remember H a i t i i n 1 8 months?" Huh? I was intellectually ambushed, you might say. "Um, nooo," I decided on the fly. "In 18 months, the public will have moved on to the next disaster." That wa s a g o o d answer. Right? I p l umb e d the depths of my knowledge of human psychology and added a pinch of personal cynicism and, b a m m o , I served up a serious response. Then, because I was totally on a roll, I added: "It's easier for people to feel like they're fulfilling their search for self-actualization when the drama is high. Mop up after the party is sooo tedious." "No," he replied in an adamant tone that said I didn't understand a thing. "Doctors in Haiti are fitting people with prosthetics right now," he said, "but will anyone be around in 18 months when they all need refitting." "Oh," I said, heavy on the sarcasm. "They're aaall going to need re-fitting?" Clever how I caught him in the logic fallacy, right? "Yes. All the stumps will have changed drastically within 18 months," he said — seriously ser ious about the topic. "Muscles atrophy, kids grow." Oh. Huh. Good point, John. Whatever. I mean the guy has his one right arm surgically removed, like, a hundred years ago, and all of a sudden he's an amputation expert. "What're these people supposed to do?" He added. "Whittle new legs?" Wow. And now he's a wiseacre ... with a good point. "Well," I said conceding to his expertise on the issue, "you got it figured out then, honey. We should send a boatload of pocket knives to Haiti. It's like that saying: Give a guy a prosthetic leg, and he'll walk for 18 months. Teach him how to whittle, and he'll walk for a lifetime." "You're sick," he said. Well, that's what he said anyway, but he laughed, so I know what he meant. I rock. (This is what passes for intellectual discussion at http:// viewnorth40.wordpress.com.)