Stranger things have happened...

People never cease to amuse me.
Humans are the most wondersome and mind-bloggling creatures there ever were. How is it that one will easily believe someone who says that there are more there a billion stars in the sky, and yet question one when they tell them that the paint on a park-bench is wet?
Human nature is odd to the Zenith.
People see no harm in someone with an exorbitant libido, but if a person has a dimished one, conflicts and allegations are thrown around at the asexuality of the esteemed. A Belgian Priest such as Georges Lemaître saying that the Big Bang exists isn't good enough for us. But Newton, Einstein, Hawking, and Friedman saying it made all the difference to the world.
So what is it that makes people choose such odd decisions? Does a mere degree signify that everything a person states is politically or diametrically correct? Or is it power? Or a homogenous mix of both?
Well, i'm not too sure of that, myself.
Taking an example into account, I'd once walked into Dr. Irani's clinic on a wintry morning with a copy of "The Economic Times" under my arm. I was in a Mickey Mouse jersey and blue faded jeans, coughing and wheezing like a dying chimpanzee. Then, i took the paper and started to read, occasionally telling the woman next to me about price hikes and an overall sensex review. Do you know what i learnt?
The Economic Times is quite the accessory for anyone who wants to be taken seriously. You'd bitch and gossip about the receptionist, complain about the coffee, even crack lame jokes about sex, and people would see you as an intellectual "with broader interests".
What? It's the Economic times, for chrissake! You need to be a "learned intellectual" to read AND understand those.
Sames for anything Franz Kafka wrote. This was the conversation between me and a cute guy in the BEST today:

"Um..." he squints at the book in my hand. "Is that a book by --"
"--Franz Kafka? Of course, yes! It's a compilation, actually. The individual novels are rather pricey..." I trail off, and then smile brilliantly.
"Oh!" Cute-Guy smiles. "So, you read the stuff he writes?"

Nope.

"Why, yes! In my opinion," I clear my throat. "The Metamorphosis was a splendid novella... It's such a shame to see people being so critical about it. I think it was immensely entertaining in a rather wise way."
"Wow, you have some enticing views." the smile on his face widens.

I've never read "The Metamorphosis". I don't even know what the fuck it's all about. And i'm pretty sure is a novelette, and not a novella.

"...So, do you find him good enough to read?" He asks, turning his entire body toward me.

Please, I'd rather watch "Glen or Glenda" instead of read the crap he writes...
But, since you're cute, I'm not going to tell you the truth.
I'm going to lie!

"Absolutely!" I widen my eyes at him. "His books are extremely high-IQ, like, so it can stump the layman. But these," I point at my green 'Compilations of the Great Works of Franz Kafka'. "Are mere translations, you know..."

I sure hoped he did, cuz i had no idea what i was getting myself into.

"Oh yeah?" He cocks an eyebrow at me in curiosity. "From what language?"

Fuck.
What language...?!
Ok. Ok. He's from Hungary, so....

"GERMAN! G-German. He's Hungarian. He was born in Prague, which was earlier a part of Austria. But, now, Prague is in Czech Republic." I nod my head intelligently at him, watching him stare in amused ineterest. Suddenly, i find myself cringing at my semi-british accent.
"Whoa! How do you know all of this?" he asks, a reporter in the charming disguise of the Cutest guy to ever sit next to me on a crowded bus.

From skimming the back of the book when you weren't looking?

"Oh, hes a reknown writer. Who wouldn't know?" I cock my head to the right.
"Right. Say, what are you reading right now?"

Fashion catalogues in Cosmo?

"The Novella 'America'."
"Oh?" He asks me to continue, and bends slightly toward me. And now, he's so close, i can practically smell his aftershave.

That's a really nice smell...

"Yes, its first chapter is 'The Stoker'. It was his greatest piece work even before being included in 'America'."
"Say, what's it all about?"

...Uh?

"The story begins as a sixteen-year-old boy named Karl Rossmann arrives at the New York harbor on a slow-moving ship. We are told that Karl has been sent to America "because a servant girl had seduced him and got herself with child by him." As he's about to come ashore, he remembers that he has left his umbrella. He asks a young man with whom he had been briefly acquainted during his voyage to watch over his trunk as he runs to get his umbrella, and the boy---"
"---Is the Stoker?"

No.

"Yes." I nod.
"Wow," He says. "You've read alot."

What?! Dooood, that's, like, only the first two pages of the entire deep-shit novel! For all your cuteness, not so much with the listening.

"Yes, it's quite long. And stretched."
"Like a rubberband?" He grins, and i burst into peals of laughter.

Your sense of humor sucks. It's a good thing you're cute.

"Like a rubberband." I stare up at him, and he moves closer.
"Well," his voice grows throaty. "What else has he written? Something," He curls a lock of my hair. "Interesting?"

Yeah. His will.

I shift away, nervously. "Th-the Castle?"

Wh-which is b-b-boring!!

"Mmmm..." he stops twirling my hair, but shifts in closer again.

Please don't ask me what it's about. Please, don't. Please don't. Please, Please, Please----

"---What's it all about?"

Fuck.

"Politics..." ....I hope?
"Sorry, my Stop's here. G'bye!" he smiles at me as he gets up to leave.
"Bye!" Phew!

So, after all this adult brainstorming session, too, i do not know how and why people decide that one persons opinion is more superior to the other. People believe all that they are told, but they question the most obvious of facts.
Why that's the case, i'll never know. Because this world is a haven of mad people. After all, stranger things have happened...