The Uncomfortable Truth About Human Stupidity: Why Mom Was Right All Along

A few weeks ago, a former colleague reached out to thank me for serving as a reference for his new position. After the pleasantries, he gently mentioned that he'd noticed I haven't posted anything on my blog in a few months. "Everything okay?" he wrote. "Just busy, or have you run out of things to complain about?"

He had a point. It's been a while. But if I'm being honest, I haven't run out of material—far from it. Life has a way of continuously validating certain uncomfortable truths, and lately I've been thinking a lot about one particular truth that my mother tried to teach me years ago.

Mom used to tell my siblings and me, something to the effect of: If you remember that people are dumb, you will never be disappointed...

That Mom-proverb coupled with one of her other favorites: If common-sense were common, it wouldn't be so valuable...

These Mom-proverbs have always stuck with me. I know she told us those things because she was trying to convey that she believed we were each smart and "above average." While I realize, in some respects, these sentiments are rooted in the Lake Wobegon effect, I've never really forgotten her wisdom. Whether that was dealing with Little League parents who treated six-year-old tee ball like Game 7 of the World Series, bosses who make arbitrary "design" requests, or colleagues who believe that "office transparency" means they have to know everything about everything, Mom's observations have proven remarkably prescient.

What I didn't realize until recently is that my mother had essentially distilled the essence of what Italian economist Carlo M. Cipolla would later formalize in his book "The Basic Laws of Human Stupidity." While presented with academic rigor, Cipolla's work arrives at conclusions that would make my Mom nod knowingly.

Why Experience Keeps Proving Mom Right

Cipolla identified five laws that explain why stupidity is both more prevalent and more dangerous than we assume. His insights perfectly capture what I've witnessed throughout many of my career and volunteer experiences.

Early experiments in transportation
Far Side - ©1984 Gary Larson

Cipolla's first law states that we always underestimate the number of stupid people out there. Every time I think I've seen it all, someone proves me wrong. Like the parents who sent me long emails, accusations of favoritism, and ultimatums about pulling their kids from Little League when I was president. Why? Because their 10-year-old only played three innings instead of four in a recreational game. These weren't isolated incidents; these parents were convinced their child's future athletic scholarship was on the line…in Little League. Meanwhile, their kids just wanted to have fun playing baseball, but the parents had transformed what should have been a developmental experience into high-stakes drama that served no one. Mom would have just nodded and said, "What did you expect?"

The second law reveals that stupidity strikes randomly. Intelligence, education, or position don't provide immunity. Consider the university colleague whom I've shown six times in one month how to sum a column of numbers in Excel. Six times, using the same basic function. This isn't about learning curves or complex software; it is about someone who uses spreadsheets daily but refuses to retain the most fundamental operation. Credentials don't protect anyone from poor judgment of lack of effort.

Cipolla's third law cuts to the heart of why stupidity is so destructive: stupid people cause harm to others while gaining nothing themselves, often even hurting themselves in the process. In 2024, this played out perfectly with rural farmers. America's most farming-dependent counties overwhelmingly backed Donald Trump in last year's election; his support averaged 77.7% in America's breadbasket. American farmers were convinced that Trump's policies would protect their economic interests. (Felder, 2024), (Atkinson, 2024) Yet when the new administration began implementing mass deportation policies in early 2025, these same agricultural communities found themselves in crisis. "We are dangerously close to a breaking point," and "Farmers and other employers say they worry their workers will be deported" became common refrains as the very workforce these farmers depended on faced removal. The agricultural sector, which voted overwhelmingly for Trump, now pleads for exemptions from the policies that they helped elect him to implement. Simultaneously harming immigrant communities, damaging their own economic prospects, and undermining the agricultural system that feeds our nation—all while achieving none of their stated goals of economic prosperity. (Chishti & Bush-Joseph, 2025), (Rahman, 2025)

The fourth law warns that reasonable people consistently underestimate the damage that foolish people can cause. We assume rationality will eventually prevail, that obvious problems will self-correct, and that someone will step in before things get too bad. Instead, systems are designed by committee, and processes are implemented that prioritize appearance over function, like fixing font preferences. At the same time, actual problems go unaddressed, and organizations create processes for the 20 percent of exceptional cases rather than optimizing for the 80 percent that matter most. Looking back on my volunteer Little League experience, parents spent countless hours debating rules for edge cases, uniform policies, practice schedules, and "rules loophole" scenarios—while the 80 percent that mattered, like ensuring kids actually learned baseball and had fun, became a theater of adult insecurity, robbing their children of joy and development.

Cipolla's fifth law delivers the stark conclusion: stupid people are the most dangerous because their actions are both harmful and unpredictable. You can understand and work around people who act out of greed or malice; their motivations make sense, even if you disagree with them. However, the truly dangerous person is the one whose decisions follow no logical pattern you can anticipate or counter. They're not trying to gain an advantage; they're just creating chaos while everyone else tries to make sense of senseless behavior. Like the executive who insisted I drop everything to change fonts on thirty reports because "that's the font he prefers reading internal reports in." Not because the data was wrong, not because the formatting was unclear, just because he had a font preference. Meanwhile, I'm trying to find and fix actual data errors, but font aesthetics have become the urgent priority. There's no rational framework for predicting when someone will prioritize arbitrary preferences over actual problems — you just have to build systems robust enough to survive the inevitable disruption.

The Digital Amplification Effect

What makes these laws particularly relevant today is how our interconnected world amplifies stupidity's reach. Social media platforms reward engagement over accuracy, creating perfect conditions for Cipolla's predictions to manifest at scale. Misinformation spreads faster than corrections, conspiracy theories find fertile ground in confirmation bias, and complex problems get reduced to soundbites that satisfy our need for simple answers to complicated questions.

The rapid spread of obviously false information during major news events demonstrates how we consistently underestimate both the number of people who will believe nonsense and their ability to influence others. Mom's wisdom about disappointment becomes prophetic. If you expect rational responses to obvious facts, you'll be let down every single time.

Living with the Reality

I don't mean to be cynical or misanthropic. Acknowledging the prevalence of stupidity isn't about looking down on others, and indeed, I have fallen into this very trap on occasion. Instead, understanding the phenomena is about managing expectations and preparing for reality. When I remember Mom's advice, I'm less likely to be blindsided by poor decisions in group settings, more likely to build redundancy into my plans, and better equipped to respond constructively when things go sideways.

My goal isn't to make you jaded, but to have you become realistic. By accepting that stupidity is not just common but predictable, we can all design systems that account for it, we can communicate in ways that minimize its impact, and maintain our own sanity when confronted with its inevitable manifestations.

Mom helped prepare me, my brother, and my sisters for a world where critical thinking is rare, good intentions don't guarantee good outcomes, and the phrase "I can't believe they did that" loses its power to shock. She wanted us to be ready to be wise, not bitter, not cynical.

Turns out she was teaching us Cipolla's laws decades before I'd ever heard of them. Sometimes the most profound truths come wrapped in the simplest packages, delivered by the people who love us most and want us to be prepared for the world as it actually is, not as we wish it were.

Common sense really isn't all that common. And if you remember that people act dumb, you really will never be disappointed.

You'll just be prepared. Thanks, Mom!

---

References:

• Atkinson, M. (2024, November 7). Rural America sent Trump back to the White House. Flip in Clarendon County helps explain why. Post and Courier. Link
• Chishti, M. & Bush-Joseph, K. (2025, April 25). In First 100 Days, Trump 2.0 Has Dramatically Reshaped the U.S. Immigration System, but Is Not Meeting Mass Deportation Aims. Migration Information Source. Link
• Felder, B. (2024, November 13). GRAPHIC: Trump support grew in America’s top farming counties despite first-term trade war. Investigate Midwest. Link
• Rahman, B. (2025, April 29). Trump’s mass deportations are pushing US farms to breaking point. Newsweek. Link

Searching for Mom's Meatloaf

There's a certain kind of recipe that lives only in memory, formless, undocumented, yet stubbornly persistent in taste and feeling. For me, it's Mom's meatloaf. The one she made when we were kids, back when Tuesday nights meant the smell of onions browning in her old cast-iron skillet would drift upstairs to where we were supposed to be doing homework. The one that would somehow taste even better the next day, straight from the fridge, nuked in the microwave until the edges got those perfect crispy bits, and served with some mixed vegetables and a helping of Del Monte canned pears (yes, with the heavy syrup because Mom believed dessert didn't always have to come last).

I can still see her in that kitchen, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She'd hum along to whatever was playing on the little radio on the countertop, sometimes Debbie Boone, sometimes the local news, sometimes just static that she'd forgotten to tune out. Her hands moved with the confidence of someone who'd made this meal a hundred times before, never measuring, never second-guessing. A pinch of this, a splash of that, all while keeping one ear tuned to our chatter from the next room.

I've asked her about it a few times over the years. She always gives that same good-natured shrug, the one that says "Oh, honey" and points to her old recipe box, which is really more of a time capsule. Index cards soft with age, yellowed newspaper clippings held together with scotch tape gone brown at the edges, and the occasional note scribbled in my grandmother's careful shorthand that only Mom can decode. But no meatloaf. Whatever magic formula she used back then is either lost to time or never existed outside her muscle memory and instinct, the kind of cooking that came from feeding a family on a budget and making it feel like abundance.

Cooking was one of my mom's love languages, though she never would have called it that. She was from a generation that showed love through action, not words. But you could feel it in the way she made holiday meals feel like grand occasions, even when money was tight. In the homemade birthday cakes that somehow always turned out perfect despite our ancient oven's uneven heating. In the way she'd quietly orchestrate dinner for six while juggling homework questions and referee disputes, never once making it seem like a burden. That meatloaf was part of that rhythm, part of that daily offering. It wasn't fancy, we weren't a fancy family, but it was made with intention, with the kind of love that asks for nothing in return.

I didn't inherit the creative cooking gene; let's be honest about that. Where Mom can look at leftovers and see possibilities, I see only confusion. But she did teach me something just as important: how to read a recipe with patience, how to follow steps without cutting corners, and how even a simple meal, made with care, could carry a little of that same love forward into the next generation. So I try. Even now, all these years later and eight states away from that kitchen, I find myself chasing that feeling. Recreating it, however imperfectly, in my own smaller kitchen with its different sounds and different light.

Sometimes I'll catch myself humming while I cook, usually something I heard her humming years ago, and for just a moment, I'm eight years old again, setting the table with our mismatched plates and waiting for Dad to come home from work.

So recently, I decided to try my own version. Call it meatloaf archaeology, digging through layers of memory, trying to unearth something that might never have been written down in the first place. A little educated guessing, a little wishful thinking, a little trial and error. And this time, miracle of miracles, it came out close. Maybe not exactly Mom's I suspect that particular magic is locked in with her recipe box secrets but close enough that my younger self might've mistaken it for the real thing if I'd come home from school, backpack slung over one shoulder, baseball cap askew, looking for something to tide me over before "F Troop" came on and the world got quiet for thirty minutes.

Here's what I came up with: part memory, part hope, part love letter to Tuesday nights that felt like home:

---

My Almost-Mom’s Meatloaf (Baked Alaska Style)

Ingredients:

For the Meatloaf:

    • 1½ pounds ground beef
    • 1 cup quick-cooking oats
    • 1 packet au jus mix
    • 1 egg
    • ½ cup milk
    • 1 small onion, finely chopped
    • 1 tsp Worcestershire sauce
    • ¼ tsp black pepper
    • ½ tsp minced garlic
    • 1 tbsp mustard
    • ¼ cup ketchup

For the Mashed Potato Topping:

    • 4 servings mashed potatoes (homemade or instant—no judgment)
    • Optional: more ketchup

Instructions:

Preheat the Oven: Set to 350°F and lightly grease a loaf pan.

Mix the Loaf: Combine all meatloaf ingredients in a large bowl. Don’t be shy, use your hands. That’s the only way to get it right.

Shape and Bake: Press the mixture into the loaf pan and bake for 45–55 minutes, or until the center hits 160°F.

Make Your Potatoes: Whip up your mashed potatoes while the meatloaf cooks. Feel free to add chives, cheese, or a little garlic if that’s your thing.

Top and Broil: When the meatloaf is done, spread the mashed potatoes over the top. Want to go full retro? Add a thin layer of ketchup on top of that. Then broil for 3–5 minutes to get a little color and texture.

Rest and Serve: Let it rest for a few minutes before slicing.

---

Is it exactly like Mom's? No. The honest truth is, nothing ever will be. But it feels like it is, and maybe that's the point. Maybe the secret ingredient was never something you could measure or write down; maybe it was just the love that went into it, the hands that made it, the home that held it.

I'll keep tweaking it here and there, chasing the flavor that lives in my head and my heart. But in the meantime, this one's earned a spot in my recipe box right between "Mom's Overnight French Toast" and “Christmas Kolachky,” in the place where memory meets hope.

And who knows? Maybe someday, twenty years from now, one of my grandkids will come home hungry and remember this version just the same way I remember hers. Maybe they'll chase their own perfect meatloaf, adding their own touches, their own love, their own memories to the mix. Maybe that's how the best recipes survive not on paper, but in the hearts of people who understand that some things are worth remembering, worth recreating, worth passing on.

That's what Mom would have wanted, I think. Not perfection, but connection. Not the exact recipe, but the feeling it gave us the sense that we were loved, we were fed, we were home.

Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus...

Well, Midnight Mass has been over for hours, the presents are (finally) all wrapped, the kids are asleep, and I have a few minutes alone with my thoughts as I fall into my Christmas slumber (short as it will be, before the inevitable 6am wake-up call...). In this quiet time, I realize that I've been dreading this Christmas for the last several years. I did not know it would be this particular Christmas, but I have known that it was coming...a Christmas that will be filled with "lasts" as my oldest prepares to go to off to college, and my youngest makes the transition from true believer to Elf. The morning light will bring a Christmas filled with joy but also with some sorrow. I know Christmas can be like that, but this year seems different.

One of my family's Christmas traditions is to read a letter from Santa Claus--before we open presents. Every Christmas that I can remember has included a message from Mr. C. At first, his letter was written to my brother, sisters and me, but more recently Mr. Claus' letter has been addressed to my children (and sometimes me). Year-in and year-out, the content of these letters has largely been the same... Santa always thanks us for his eggnog and cookies (and whatever goodies we left for Rudolph and company). He always mentions the decorations, and how good the house/tree look. He tells us we have been pretty good "kids" (but still admonishes us to try and be better), and then he thanks us for believing, and challenges us to continue to do so.

I couldn't help but wonder, as I finished wrapping our presents tonight, if this year's Santa message would be any different. After all, the youngest of my children (who is almost 11 as I write this) has gone from being an absolute believer in Santa Claus to being a Christmas Elf. To be honest, I think she has known, since well before last Christmas, but was pretending not to know "the secret" for my sake -- For a number of years, she was convinced that the little boy in the Polar Express story was me (which, to be fair, I will admit to believing as well). But I was worried that she would be more than a little disappointed once I explained to her the historic Saint Nicholas, and what he has meant to generations of people.

At the same time, my oldest daughter is a high school senior this year, and she is already getting ready to leave the roost for college. I know she will be home for the holidays, but I admit to feeling a little melancholy knowing that this is a "last Christmas" for us in that regard as well. I am sad to think that my chief elf will be 3,000 miles away during much of the holiday season next year, but I do know that no matter how far she roams, there's still no place like home...

That sentiment is especially true at Christmas-time. This season has always been a magical and special time for me, and I hope for my children too. But I can't help but think that this Christmas (and those in the future) will be different now that my youngest is an Elf. I am worried that our traditions will fall by the way-side, and that "things will be different". But why? Many, maybe even most, of my best holiday memories come from the kitchen and my Mom's wonderful cookie recipes. Those aren't dependent upon the magic of Santa. When I look back, I can see how my Mom did a terrific job of making the holidays special in so many ways. I hope that I have done half as good a job for my kids as she has did for my brother, sisters and me.

Looking back at all of the holiday memories my Mom gave me, the most important was teach me to really believe in the magic of Christmas. So, let me state for the record, that I do truly believe in Santa Claus. I believe that he embodies the magic of Christmas, and I am proud to come from a long line of true believers. To this day, I continue to believe with all of my heart and soul, and to paraphrase Chris Van Allsburg, I can still hear his sleigh bell after all these years...

Part of the reason for my belief is that "becoming an Elf" in my family is a big deal. I still remember how upset my Mom was the day that I came home crying, because a neighbor kid told me that Santa Claus wasn't real. I was just a five or six year-old in Kindergarten/First Grade, and part of the reason she was upset was because her first son was still "too young" to know the secret...But, my Mom took this as an opportunity to induct me to our family's fraternity of Elves. From then on, it was my duty to keep the magic alive for my younger brother and sisters. To continue Saint Nicholas' good works.

I have had this same conversation with each of my children over the years. While the conversation has never ever gotten any easier, each of my children have taken up the banner and grown into pretty good elves -- I certainly have reason to be proud. So, why did I think it would be different this year? I'm still not sure, but I decided to try and prepare for the conversation with my youngest anyway. To that end, I thought I would look for some blogger inspiration -- after all, somewhere, someplace other parents have had the same conversations with their sons and daughters, so there is bound to be some good advice out there...

I have to say that I was immediately dismayed by the (somewhat overwhelming) number of blog posts and comments from parents who feel that the Santa Claus tradition isn't much more than a lie. It could have been my feeble search skills, but the conventional wisdom on this matter seems to be that these adult bloggers either don't want their children to accuse them of lying (seeing it as hypocritical), or they are worried that when revealing "the secret" about Santa Claus, their kids will question veracity of their belief about God and Jesus.

Personally, I find these lines of reasoning to be a bunch of hooey. Parents who have good relationships with their children, shouldn't be worried about being called liars. Part of any good parent-child relationship is how they communicate with each other about important subjects (and yes, I think this is one of those). Often times good communication is about good listening. Actively listening to your children's responses will reduce the chance of misunderstanding, dissatisfaction and discontent that your child may have upon learning this secret.

At the same time, I strongly believe that how you answer the inevitable follow-up questions, the kind that always arise like "what about the Tooth Fairy?" or "what about Jesus?" will have a lot more to do with a child's future religious beliefs. Belief has never been about what you can see, nor what you you are told. Which is why I titled this blog entry after Francis Pharcellus Church's editorial message to Virginia O'Hanlon. Back in 1897, Church got it right when he wrote to Virginia about believing:

Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

While I realize that I am simply a focus group of one, I can't remember being upset with my Mom because she had "lied" to me about Santa Claus. In fact, after getting over the shock of the revelation, I really enjoyed being part of my family's Christmas Elf tradition. And to be completely honest, my belief in Santa Claus has grown stronger since I was enlisted into the fraternity, as has my faith.

In a very round-about-way, I have already answered my question about how to discuss the secret with my daughter. The conversation took place several weeks ago, but followed the same script that my mom used with me, and the same one I used with my two older children. I am sure my daughter was a little upset when I introduced her to our family's Elf tradition, but even though she doesn't have a younger sibling (to keep the secret for) she ended up being a great Elf all during this Christmas season. I am so proud, and glad, that she has become one of my family's long line of believers.

However, if you really find yourself at a loss when it comes to explaining Santa Claus, I highly recommend Mary Anne Kamol's book The Secret of Saint Nicholas, which does a great job of blending the Bishop of Myra history along with Christmas gift-giving, to keep the magic of Christmas honest. She has done, in book form what my Mom did for me (and I hope I have done for my children) initiating the readers into the privileged fraternity of elves and as keepers of one of Santa's true secrets -- the secret only older children may know.

Although I started off lamenting that this was a Christmas of "lasts" for our family, I can now see that it is as much a Christmas of firsts. At once a new beginning and a continuation of tradition for both my youngest and oldest. It is also an opportunity for my son, the middle child, to step up and take his place as chief elf in our family tradition. I believe, with all my heart, that this will be the first of many new and bright Christmases to come...

To that end, I think I will sign off with a quote from the letter Santa Claus left for my children this year... 

I thank each of you for keeping me in your heart all throughout the year. Until I see you again -- have a very Merry Christmas, and remember, always believe! 

Love always!

Mr. C.