Imagine a small, unremarkable town called Nered. The residents of Nered had a peculiar habit that became the stuff of local legend: they insisted on “marrying down” intellectually. It was a tradition as old as the town itself, rooted in a philosophy that prized mediocrity as the true mark of contentment.

The townsfolk believed that if a person of great intellect married someone of lesser wit, they could avoid the pitfalls of intellectual exhaustion, which, as they saw it, plagued the rest of the world. The smart ones would anchor themselves to simpler, more concrete thoughts, while the less sharp would be elevated just enough to keep the whole affair balanced. Nered was, in a way, the epicenter of intellectual harmony, or so they thought.

In the early days of this peculiar tradition, Nered’s inhabitants felt quite clever about their approach to marriage. They avoided the burnout, the existential dread, and the crises of meaning that seemed to afflict other places where people married their intellectual equals. As they saw it, they were dodging the emotional and cognitive turbulence that came with living in a world where thoughts moved too fast, and ideas collided like particles in a supercollider.

So, the people of Nered lived in a kind of intellectual detente, a truce with their own brains. They avoided challenging conversations and stuck to topics that required only a superficial grasp. The town meetings were efficient, if uninspired, with debates rarely venturing beyond whether the annual Nered Picnic should serve potato salad or coleslaw.

But as time went on, something curious happened. The younger generations of Nered, having been raised on a diet of intellectual downshifting, began to lose their taste for even the mildest of mental exercises. Marrying down became less of a strategy and more of an inevitability, as the collective IQ of the town began to drift downward, generation by generation.

The town’s intellectual decay went unnoticed for quite some time. After all, who in Nered had the brainpower left to notice? But eventually, even the simplest tasks became Herculean efforts. The local newspaper had to reduce its pages, as no one could be bothered to read more than a paragraph. The Nered Public Library, once a modest repository of knowledge, was converted into a storage facility for lawn chairs and garden gnomes.

By the time the last of the original Neredites passed away, the town had fully embraced its fate. They no longer aspired to anything beyond the immediate, the obvious, and the utterly mundane. The marriage tradition continued, but now it was no longer about avoiding intellectual burnout. It was simply all they knew how to do.

In the end, Nered became a cautionary tale for those who might consider taking the easy way out, avoiding the struggle of intellect for the comfort of simplicity. The town still exists, but it’s no longer on any map. Nered is a place that exists only in the minds of those who understand that, sometimes, the struggle is the point.

And so, in the great cosmic joke that is life, Nered stands as a reminder: you can marry down, but sooner or later, you’ll find yourself all the way down.