My mother knew I was going to be a Ricky and Morty fan 35 years ago just from following the career of a 9-year-old Dan Harmon. She began an arduous process of vaginal canal widening in preparation for my birth. In the last month she hobbled around around with a Sweet Sue canned whole chicken up there for 8 hours each day, and even then the doctors were on the fence about a C-section. In the last week or so she developed a technique where she literally popped her hips out of their sockets. I was born naturally with only minimal tearing. The head physiognomist from Oxford declared that my head was objectively perfect, my intelligence and character would be unparalleled regardless of upbringing, and that I might actually be evidence of fresh speciation within our race. He wrote a tear-stained letter of recommendation for me addressed to *any* future university or employer there and then, and he retired shortly afterwards after settling into a depression because his life’s work was at an end.

According to this Facebook test I just took I have a real IQ of 151 and an emotional IQ of 190. I have my mother to thank for all of it.