Sometimes intelligent people do some dumb things.

Lapses in judgments.

Brain farts.

Stupid pauses.

I consider myself a relatively intelligent person. I’ve got that decent GPA thing going for me and the smarts police hadn’t been to my house in a while. But lately, I think I’ve been slipping. Since Friday, I’ve had two fall-down-in-the-mud, rub-embarrass-juices-all-over-you kind of slips.

Normally, I’d cover them up, hide them in my arsenal of “Stupid Things that I’ve Done,” only to be pulled out when I get into one of those “I-can-top-that conversations.”

But I’m finding myself a little gun shy. So I figure the best way to get over my little lapse here is to dive head first into the mouth of the devil. It’s like when I was a kid and I did something really, really bad — like roll my dad’s car into the street, across traffic and onto the neighbor’s lawn (a story in itself).

I was so nervous that I walked right up to my dad and told him what happened. Granted, he would have found out sooner rather than later, his car being banged up in the neighbor’s flower bed and all.

But I was a good kid.

“Dad,” I said. “That smelly neighbor kid was playing in your car and he made it move (begin crying), and then he ran away fast (hug Dad’s leg).”

So I figure if I let my fat hang out in 14,000 copies, I’ll feel better. Right? We’ll see.

Oh, and Dad, if you’re reading, the neighbor kid still smells.

DUMB THING I DID NO. 1 — You can really work up an appetite doing laundry on a Saturday morning.

I was hungry, really hungry, but I was saving up for a big meal at this dance thing I was scheduled for in the evening. So I spent about 20 minutes thinking about just what it was I wanted.

Slurpy? Naw.

Crunch & Munch? Appealing, but hard to come by.

Apple? Hardly.

Sucker? Too sweet.

Cookie? Mmmmmm. Remember that one.

Cracker? I’m not a parrot.

Then I saw it out the laundry mat’s window. It was majestic, heavenly almost. That sweet little buck-toothed, red-haired girl. Her name is Wendy. She owns some restaurants with shake-makers.

Frosty.

I want one. I gotta have one.

Just a spitball away from the laundry joint, less than 20 feet in layman’s terms, I of course had to drive. Frostys aren’t the same if you can’t order them at the drive-through. After spanning the 2.2 seconds it takes to drive to Wendy’s from the laundry mat in about, oh, 2.2 seconds, I’m ready to order.

Problem: I don’t hear that, “crackle … crackle … crackle … Welcome to Wendy’s. May I take your order? … crackle …ÿcrackle … crackle.”

In fact, 3 minutes go by, and still nothing.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m waiting. I need a Frosty real bad.”

Nothing.

“This is ridiculous,” I said with a bit more vigor, now in Frosty withdrawal. “@#!$%*&. Come on. @#!$*&. All I want is a Frosty.”

Then there was life. “… crackle …”

But then nothing again.

“@#!$%*& @#!$%*& @#!$%*& @#!$%*&. I want a Frosty! @#!$%*& @#!$%*& @#!$%*&.”

“… crackle …ÿcrackle … crackle.”

That got their attention, I thought.

“Sir … crackle,” the prepubescent voice over two-way microphone said.

“Yeah. What gives?” I tort back.

“We don’t open until 10:30,” the kid tells me.

“My bad,” I said, already 0.2 seconds away from the laundry mat.

DUMB THING I DID NO. 2 — This one actually happened Friday morning, but it’s more embarrassing, so I decided to lead with my bout with Wendy.

It happens to everyone. It happens to me pretty much daily.

You’re tired. You sleep.

You fall asleep in class. I fell asleep in class Friday. I was dreaming while I was sleeping in class Friday.

And I was dreaming about passing gas. Yep. Passing gas.

It’s strange, I know, but that’s what happened. While in my dream state, I didn’t think it was any big deal.

I even remember having a nice chuckle, thinking about how embarrassing it would be to pass gas, loudly, in such a big lecture hall.

Just to be on the safe side, I remember telling myself that I should probably come back to planet Earth to make sure I hadn’t actually passed gas. So I made myself wake up.

And when I did, several — not “lots” or “many” or “a bunch,” (those would be worse) but “several,” rather — people were staring at me. That’s all I know.

Did I pass gas? Don’t know. Don’t wanna know.

Truth be told, I don’t think I passed gas, but the mere thought was really scary. ‘Nuff said.

I still want a Frosty.

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Chris Miller is a senior in journalism and mass communication from Marshalltown. He is editor in chief of the Daily.