Inception proves long-held theory that men are smarter than women

The movie Inception, with Leonardo DiCaprio, Tom Berenger, Ken Watanabe, Ellen Page, Joseph Gordon-Leavitt and a bunch of other people, has definitely been the blockbuster hit of the summer of 2010. As of this date, it's already made more than $155 million at the box office, which isn't exactly The Dark Knight money. Then again, none of the major cast members died before it came out so it's tough to make a one-to-one comparison.

In talking to people afterwards, an interesting phenomenon has come to the surface. Males exiting the movie or talking about it with their friends afterward find it to be awesome, and can discuss the action and various layers in great detail. Women, however, exit the theater with puzzled looks on their faces, stating to anyone who will listen "I couldn't figure out what was going on." This phenomenon can lead to only one conclusion: men are smarter than women.

This is something scientistists have always suspected but never been able to prove. While they had all sorts of evidence and theories, normally their wives would threaten to withhold sex if they released it to the public so they'd back off. Understandable, because that's the way women are. But now, with the release of Inception, women are not only acknowledging their lower intelligence, they're broadcasting it. Again, this is something women can't help doing. Whatever is on their minds, they have to share it with anyone who will listen.

This conclusion is based on a scientifically valid sampling of a few women I know who have seen the movie. They all said the same thing -- I didn't know what was going on -- so there's a high probability that this is a universal phenomenon. Sure, there will be a few women who state they were able to follow the movie easily, but they are either well beyond the norm in intelligence for women, liars or bitter bull dykes who ride Harleys and wear work boots to formal events.

So there you have it. The evidence is in. Thank you Christopher Nolan, not only for giving us a really awesome movie but for providing the evidence we needed to answer this age-old question. Now back in the kitchen, sweetie, and make me a sandwich.

Today's Headline: Wrong Bare Top Shown

One of the things old Smails loves more than anything about his soon-to-be-former place of employment is its offices' proximity to the lakefront. A few days a week I will spend my lunch break jogging from the Loop offices out to the other side of the Adler Planetarium and back. It's a nice respite from the day and offers beautiful views of the best lakefront city in the world.

This being my last week at the office before starting work at a new place in the suburbs, I used today as possibly my last opportunity for just such an afternoon run. The climate was ideal and the people watching proved as typical, with families, Euros and other joggers and runners traversing the lakefront. Alas, what is that heading my way on a three-wheel bike? Is that an old woman biking topless? Nope, just some 70-something fresh off the plane from Boca displaying his fella bags for all to see. Dude, what the hell?

I understand people feeling comfortable enough with their physical misgivings to shun toupees, wear open-toed sandals to show off those summer-toes (summer going this way, others going that way) or any other mingerish downfall bestowed upon that person during the genetic lottery, but at some point you have to draw the line as to what is fine with you in front of the mirror and what leads to public vomiting. If you've lived long enough on this planet and not exercised your pecs, it's an inevitable that your gentleman toots will be giving the old two thumbs down to everyone. But the onus is on you to not subject the general public, especially weekend warrior athletes, families and international tourists to your geezer knobs.

So to the old fart with the JELLO jigglers and total lack of care for his fellow man--or ape--you suck. Park those AARP hooters in a shirt, a halter top or a bro next time. The last thing anyone needs to see on a beautiful Chicago lakefront afternoon is your set of hair whoopy cushions.