I know someone with a wee bit of a short-man’s-complex (according to him, he’s 5′10″, and that’s how knows I’m taller than 5′4″, because when he stands next to me, he has to be on tiptoes to look down at me).
He revels in being right–but over stupid things that don’t matter, anyway. Over things that no one’s arguing with him to begin with.
Today, I made the mistake of using the word “metaphor” instead of “simile” (and, yes, I have two English degrees, and yes, he’s better than I am). He reacted with a ten-minute happy-rant about how it’s okay to be wrong, but he’s never wrong, and a simple “I’m sorry-you-were-right-I-apologize” would suffice.
And because we’re in a semi-professional environment, I have to hold me tongue to keep from asking, “every time a woman’s wrong, does your dick grow?”
