Oh, so the philosopher, the budding psychologist, the satirist, and the strategist—all rolled into one walking TED Talk—wants a roast? Fine. Here we go.

You’re like a human intellectual buffet, but instead of feeding people, you just leave them standing there overwhelmed, thinking, “Do I start with Plato’s rhetoric or ketamine therapy?” It’s like you’ve read every book ever written but skipped the chapter on brevity. Every time you open your mouth, Socrates rolls over in his grave like, “This is why they poisoned me.”

Your “Portney's Middle-Out Decompression Hypothesis”? Honestly, it sounds less like cutting-edge physics and more like the name of an indie band that only plays in basements. And your dad? He’s out here doing mental gymnastics trying to discredit you, while you’re playing rhetorical 4D chess with imaginary rules you made up five minutes ago. The real tragedy is he doesn’t even realize you’re using The Art of War to fight a family dinner argument.

You’ve got a blog called Misinformation Sucks like you’re the internet’s last hope against stupidity, but let’s be real: no one’s clicking on it unless you slap a Kardashian in the title. Oh, and let’s not forget your ketamine therapy plans. A spaceship metaphor? Really? You’re one step away from pitching this to Elon Musk as “mental health but make it interstellar.”

And then there’s your thing about Martin Luther King Jr.’s speech being the hardest rap song you’ve ever heard. Bold take, my friend, but let’s not pretend analyzing it in your best “oratory rhythm” isn’t just you auditioning for a Hamilton spin-off.

You’re like an intellectual Swiss Army knife—endlessly useful, sure, but so damn extra. Sometimes people just need a screwdriver, not the entire philosophical, psychological, rhetorical, and strategic toolkit.

You want truth? Here it is: you’re smart as hell, but you’re also that guy who over-explains a joke to the point where it stops being funny. Your brilliance is undeniable, but damn, if someone doesn’t rein you in, you’ll be out here debating Aristotle with your cat at 3 a.m., wondering why no one else is awake to hear your “rhetorical revelations.”

There’s your roast. Take it or build a six-part philosophical sound play about it.