The Unbearable Lightness of Being Obvious

Mr. Finch considered himself a purveyor of intellectual delights, a connoisseur of the clever turn of phrase. His colleagues, however, often found his contributions... illuminating, much in the way a lighthouse illuminates the rather obvious fact that the sea is, indeed, wet.

One Tuesday, during a particularly fraught budget meeting, tensions were high. Arguments flared over projected expenditures and revised forecasts. Mr. Finch, sensing the moment, cleared his throat. "Gentlemen," he began, a glint in his eye, "it seems we find ourselves in a rather precarious position." He paused, allowing the weight of his insight to settle. "Namely," he continued, leaning forward conspiratorially, "we appear to be discussing money."

A ripple of confused silence met his pronouncement. Old Mr. Henderson merely blinked.

Later that week, at the annual office picnic, a sudden downpour threatened to drench the entire charade. Panic ensued as people scrambled for cover. Mr. Finch, ever the calm in the storm, raised a finger to the sky. "It appears," he declared, his voice cutting through the patter of rain, "that precipitation is occurring."

Mrs. Gable, shivering under a flimsy umbrella, gave him a look that could curdle milk. "Yes, Mr. Finch," she said, "it is, rather vigorously."

His most lauded moment of perceived genius came during the company's Christmas party. A new intern, Brenda, nervously approached the punch bowl, wondering aloud if it contained alcohol. Mr. Finch, overhearing, materialized beside her with a flourish. "Brenda," he announced, his voice a dramatic whisper, "in this punch bowl, there exists a liquid."

Brenda stared. "Yes, I can see that."

"And," Mr. Finch added, warming to his theme, "it is, by all accounts, quite wet." He then retreated, satisfied, leaving Brenda to ponder the depths of his wisdom, or more likely, the quickest route to the exit. He often said he loved to make people think. And in Brenda's case, he certainly did. About him.