DECEMBER 12, 2019 – If you’ve noticed over the past several years, our Commander-in-Chief has an affinity for superlatives. Among 38% to 42% of the electorate, apparently, use of superlatives is an effective rhetorical device. Actually, “rhetorical device” assigns undeserved refinement to simplistic speech patterns. Let’s stop at “effective.”
In my experience, superlatives are dilutive, meaningless or worse—often they signal weakness or the very opposite of their intended effect. To call much of anything the “best” or the “worst,” the “biggest” or the “smallest” . . . in the history of the United States is a red flag that the statement carries the evidentiary weight of thin air, which is the statement’s origin. It might be a different story if our [superlative] commander-in-chief in the history of the United States were a student of history, but he is hardly a student of anything, let alone of history.
I’m half serious here. Evidence of one thing or another comes in all weights, shapes, sizes, colors, packaging, places of origin, and levels of intricacy. Some evidence arrives fully assembled, batteries included. Other evidence comes in a million parts—neither batteries nor instructions nor tools for assembly included. But after dealing with evidence in various contexts of your life, you begin to notice patterns—cartons shipped via “United Raft” tend to be waterlogged; equipment “Made by One-Eyed, Hand-Cuffed Prisoners in Mississippi” never seems to be of the same quality as the same kind of equipment that is “Made in Switzerland”; and so on.
Evidence of phony baloney can be divined from the chronic overuse of superlatives.
Consider the carnie at the county fair who proclaims that Big Vertical is “the tallest roller coaster in the universe.” But as his cigarette dances between his moving lips, you retake control of your brain and remind yourself that the universe is vast and largely unexplored. Then you Google, “tallest roller coaster in the world” to learn it’s the 456-foot tall Kingda Ka at Six Flags in NJ.
Or think about the salesperson who ambushes you on the showroom floor of the local Jeep dealer. He says that for you, he has the “best deal in the history of the United States.” We all know better than to fall for that. Yet, a significant number of us still fall for “best,” even, apparently, if we take into account the entire history of the United States—though it’s never clear if we’re talking since the full adoption of the Declaration of Independence (August 2, 1776), the full ratification of the U.S. Constitution (June 21, 1788), or Eisenhower’s signing of the proclamation admitting Hawaii as the 50th state (August 21, 1959).
Cunning and manipulation assume infinite forms, but often the simplest methods work most effectively. Call things “best” or “tallest” enough times, and people—be they Democrats or Republicans—will check their brains at the door and swallow the bait . . . hook, line, and sinker. Which is why carnie barkers still bark “tallest” and car salespersons keep driving “best.”
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© 2019 Eric Nilsson
