“What an entire dunce!”
I hurl the words, sharp as a blade,
But you, with your gaze lost in thought, reply,
“Your insult implies the existence of fractional Dunces.
It’s better to say Absolute Dunce.”

I flinch, but you press on, unshaken:
“Though that would suggest both positive
And negative Dunces—an interesting duality.”
I frown. “Fine, then, how about Actual Dunce?”
“Well,” you pause, calculating,
“That depends if we consider
The possibility of Imaginary Dunces.”

A chill falls over the room,
As your words start to spiral into the abyss of logic.
I blink, trying to grasp the meaning
Of Dunces no longer confined to the realm of reality.
“One must therefore conclude,”
You say, with a smug nod,
“That Dunces are isomorphic
With the complex field.”

I stare at you, dumbfounded,
As your eyes gleam with mathematical delight,
Wondering how a simple insult
Transformed into an abstract algebraic truth.
For you, there’s no such thing as an absolute fallacy,
No simple cut-and-dried burn,
Only the elegant symmetry of
Positive, negative, and imaginary faults.

I search for a comeback,
But all that comes to mind is
The beauty of your impossible precision,
The way you dissect my words
Like a theorem to prove,
Until the insult itself
Becomes an object of study.

And so, with a sigh, I admit,
It’s impossible to insult you,
For you’ll always find a way
To reduce my fury to a mere equation.