THE MISANTHROPE’S CORNER ■

BACK in February I wrote a column about the “Dubs,” those human postholes in the barren landscape of Customer Service who mangle mail orders and can’t spell King. Now I bring you even worse tidings. This column is about the Ignos.

An Igno is a Duh with a college education. There’s nothing wrong with their gray matter, it’s just that it remains virgin soil. They sow it not, and neither do they reap it. It just lies there undisturbed, as fallow as the day it was born, until at last, like other overdue virginities, it loses all capacity for response and you can’t do a thing with it.

About the Author

Florence King

Florence King was a contributing editor of National Review.

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BACK in February I wrote a column about the “Dubs,” those human postholes in the barren landscape of Customer Service who mangle mail orders and can’t spell King. Now I bring you even worse tidings. This column is about the Ignos.

An Igno is a Duh with a college education. There’s nothing wrong with their gray matter, it’s just that it remains virgin soil. They sow it not, and neither do they reap it. It just lies there undisturbed, as fallow as the day it was born, until at last, like other overdue virginities, it loses all capacity for response and you can’t do a thing with it.