Hanlon's Razor and Weaponized Incompetence

Discerning whether it's manipulation or someone is a nincompoop.

Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity. (Hanlon’s Razor)

We’ve all been there… the partner, friend, family member or coworker who can’t seem to get it right. Sometimes they’re quick to offer up their assistance, and your immediate reaction is, “NO! It’s ok! I’ve got it,” as memories of their fuck-ups flood your mind:

The spouse who emptied the dishwasher to be “helpful” but failed to notice the dishes were dirty— despite the dried smears of food and sauces and clouded glass from fingerprints and beverages. Again. And as you remove dish upon dish in search of something you can use, you’re met with, “I was just trying to help, don’t worry, I’ll never do the dishes or try to help again,” as they sulk off.

Oh, these loveable idiots, bless ‘em for trying, right?

Maybe they were tired or preoccupied? Maybe they were having an off day? They’re not one to pay attention to detail… they’re oblivious to the garbage cans being full, and when you’re standing right there—your hand gets closed in the door or drawer, or you get hit in the face or head with doors, oh, and, they put empty containers in the cupboard or fridge.

And you wonder how they navigate the world. Settling on: they must be a bumbling, Mr. Bean type—someone who is lucky, more than anything.

Remember the time they microwaved the metal container? Or when they did the laundry, but somehow it was only your clothes and the few things of theirs they were getting rid of anyway that were ruined? Or, how about when they rinsed the plate with raw meat—without soap, just water—then used that to serve your dinner? They didn’t mean for you to get sick. They don’t know any better because they’ve never gotten sick. But then, you also remember that summer, they got into barbequing—and the incident with the garbage sludge. You know, the bin they chucked the raw food scraps into that sat under the hot sun and rotted…and they coated their hands in that goo and wiped them all over your face and through your hair. Then went back, got some more, and shoved their fingers in your mouth. And when you panicked about getting sick (which you did), they got upset. You were being an arrogant, know-it-all jackass that couldn’t take a joke. And you felt terrible about it. They can’t help what they don’t know— they were just trying to have a little fun…even if that isn’t your idea of fun. They didn’t mean it.

Mr. Bean, blissfully unaware.

The “one-off” instances have piled up. You realize they were rarely the type to offer help, and when they did, it made you wince. You start to recall all the times you’ve asked for help, and they said, “Yeah, sure, just give me a minute!” but it never arrives. Or they did a bad enough job that it will now cost you even more time and energy to fix the mistakes than if you had just done it yourself. And the ol’ “I can never do anything right” song and dance starts. “I guess I’m not good enough,” tugs at your heartstrings, and you find yourself consoling them and wondering if you’re a monster.

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A flashback to that camping trip:

Due to ill planning, you find yourself in the campsite the campground affectionately calls “The Dead Spot” because it sits directly beneath the blazing sun. It’s 40-something-degrees Celcius with absolutely no cover. It’s miserably (and dangerously) hot, and you’re hundreds of miles from home.

It doesn’t take long for the heat to trigger a severe migraine. You have your first seizure (that you’re aware of), and you need medical attention—ASAP. But that’s a real bummer for everyone else, so you’re left in a hot tent to sleep it off. Except you become violently ill instead.

You’re begrudgingly taken into the nearest town, and the people you’re with have decided that instead of a clinic or hospital, all you need is some Gravol. So, you’re given a bit more Gravol than you should take (because you’ve inadvertently re-enacted the projectile vomiting scene from The Exorcist—multiple times), which takes less than 15 minutes to knock you out cold.

You’re left in the hot vehicle, unconscious, windows up, in a parking lot while the group goes winery hopping.

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And as that memory fades, the excuses remain: They didn’t know any better, they’re not doctors, they had no idea heat stroke was that serious, they’ve been working really hard and just wanted to have a fun weekend, and I ruined it, it wasn’t that bad, I’m just dramatic, maybe I do make everything about me? They’re right— I have unrealistic expectations of others…

For many of us, it’s easy not to attribute something to malice but rather incompetence. The proof is in the pudding—the simple things they’re grossly inept at—making it easier to excuse the bigger things. You’re acutely aware of your shortcomings, and cutting others some slack is easy. We’re all too happy to extend patience and grace to others—we know how painful and challenging it is not to receive it. They’ll get there eventually.

Discernment is key.

Pay attention to the patterns. Some are easy to spot—contrasting colour checkers, houndstooth and polka dots are much easier to see than the same colour stacked on top of itself. You know—those patterns you have to twist and turn in the light to catch the chevron arrows and stripes. It’s the subtleties that’ll getcha. Some people are smart enough to know when to seem stupid.