We all like to think of ourselves (though not necessarily of others) as rational creatures. You know the drill: All the other animals are our intellectual inferiors, be we — good ole evolved We — are, to mix the metaphors, either the bee’s knees or the cat’s pajamas.

Of course, that’s just self-serving, species-centric gibberish. Even though we do possess our great big brains that are perfect for logical decision-making, all too often we don’t use them for that … or for much of anything else.

The JFK Assassination conspiracy folks are a perfect example.

If you study the JFK assassination, using reputable sources and clearheaded logic, then the only sensible conclusion you can reach is Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone assassin.

But that would be too silly, too mundane, too downright un-sexy for even the sanest conspiracist. Instead, you’ll be presented with dozens, maybe hundreds of theories, each more bizarre and byzantine than the last, ad barfeum. And woe betide any poor bludger who tries to forward the Oswald lone assassin theory to them using something as silly as facts and common sense.

This all went down a few weeks ago in my office in Nori’s.

I was sitting with the King of Conspiracies, who will remain nameless to spare his family any further embarrassment (if there’s even any left).

KoC has never met a conspiracy he doesn’t like: 9/11? A conspiracy. Y2K? A conspiracy. Pearl Harbor? A conspiracy. The Alamo? A conspiracy. The extinction of the dinosaurs? Yep, you got it …

Anyhow, we’re drinking our coffee and discussing really vital stuff like the weather and what we’re gonna make for dinner, when he sighs heavily.

Oh hell, I think to myself, since I know that sigh. It’s the starting gun for a rap about some conspiracy or other. Then I sigh, cuz I know I have as much chance of stopping his rant as King Canute did with stopping the tides.

“The election’s right around the corner,” he says, disingenuously, setting me up.

“Yup,” I say, showing how keen I am on national politics.

“Ya know,” he says, “it woulda been a whole different political scene if JFK had lived out his two terms.”

“I do,” I say. “I also know it woulda been a whole different world be if elephants could fly.”

It was my attempt to get him to chuckle and thus derail the convo. Or more exactly, it was my failed attempt, because he sailed right into Nov. 22, 1963, and beyond, bringing up a list of possible villains — the CIA, the FBI, the anti-Castro Cubans and damn near everyone but the Campfire Girls. And for all know, they’ll be next on his list.

Arguing with him is futile, as is even suggesting maybe, just maybe, it might not have been a conspiracy. So I don’t argue. Instead, I just sit there, silent, as he serenades me with one fantastic plot after another — all of which I’ve already heard a bunch of times.

Finally, he takes a break to get something to eat.

–

My bro the A

–

He comes back, merrily gnawing on a wrap that looks like a combination of birch bark, dandelions and maple leaves.

I’m sitting there, my face creased in a frown.

I say, “Ya know, I never wanted to think Oswald wasn’t the assassin — especially when it puts my brother in a very unfavorable light.”

“Your brother?” he says, “What about your brother? What are you talking about?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking,” I say, “if it wasn’t Oswald, it could have been my brother.”

I shake my head, clearly lost in painful thought.

“Your brother?” he says. Then he all but yells, “Your brother?”

“Why not?” I say. “He was away in college at the time … or so he said. But I don’t know that, and he can’t prove it. Yeah, sure, he attended college then, but was he there that day? He says he was, but …”

My voice trails off as I think of something too horrible to admit.

“Plus, he was in Army ROTC then, and they could’ve brainwashed him. And I’m sure he was an ace with an M-1 and all that sort of sniper thing.”

“Your brother doesn’t even know which end of the gun the bullet comes out,” he says.

“So you think,” I say. “Listen, my bro is a lot smarter than he looks.”

He’s shaking his head so rapidly I’m afraid it’s going to fly off and land in someone’s kale and soy milk smoothie.”

“And something else that just came back to me,” I said.

“What?”

“He had a friend at college, on his dorm floor, in fact, whose name was Lee.”

“Get over it,” he said. “Probably there were a thousand kids there named Lee.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But catch this: My bro’s friend’s last name began with H.”

I paused for effect, then went on.

“Get this. His friend’s first name was Lee, and his last name began with an H,” I said. “As in Lee Harvey, and you can figure out the rest.”

“I dunno,” he said. “It sounds pretty far out. Like unbelievable.”

“Of course it does,” I said. “Which is why it was so brilliantly carried out. I mean, who’d suspect my bro of doing anything wrong, much less that? Mr. Goody Two Shoes? Mr. Butter Wouldn’t Melt in his Mouth?

“But that’s exactly why it worked,” I said. “Everyone could believe Oswald, a lifetime nogoodnik, was a villain. But not my brother.”

His brow furrows, he scratches his head slowly, obviously lost in deep thought. Finally he speaks.

“As much as I hate to admit it,” he says,“it makes sense.”

“Plus there’s one more piece that fits in the puzzle,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Remember when Oswald shouted he was a patsy?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Everyone remembers that.”

“Well, that’s it,” I said. “A secret code.”

“Huh?” he said. “A code for what?”

“Simple,” I said. “Patsy, as in the famous country singer who died in a plane crash about six months before the assassination. Remember her? ‘I Fall To Pieces,’ ‘She’s got you’ and all the others?”

“Of course I remember her,” he said. “But how’s that relate to your brother?”

“C’mon, man use your brain, willya,” I said. “Patsy’s last name was what?”

“Cline,” he said.

“Exactly,” I said. “So it’s an anagram. If we switch the letters around, C-L-I-N-E becomes L C EIN.”

“And what’s that?”

“A secret reference to my brother.”I said. “What’s his first name?”

“Larry.”

“Right. And EIN are the last three letters of his last name, right?”

“Yeah … right,” he said. “It’s beginning to make sense. But what about the C?”

“First initial of my bro’s middle name.”

“What’s it stand for?”

“Churchill,” I said.

“Churchill?” he said, clearly shocked. “What kinda name is that for a little kid.”

“Go easy,” I said. “My mother admired Sir Winston greatly. ‘We shall fight on the beaches. We shall go on to the end.’ Heady stuff, that. I think she even forgave him for Gallipoli.”

“I tell ya,” I said, “if my father wasn’t already in the Army, I’m sure she would’ve gone to Jolly Old and enlisted — if she had to stow away on a tramp steamer to get there.”

There was another long pause in our convo as he was thinking about this latest theory to add to his portfolio. Finally he spoke.

“I dunno,” he said. “Somehow, I still can’t imagine your brother an assassin.”

“So then, who better to be one?” I said. “I mean, Oswald was a perfect suspect, so he gets busted and then dispatched by Ruby. Meanwhile, my brother not only flies under the radar, but could never in a thousand years even be considered a suspect.”

“It’s a lot to process,” he says. “I’m gonna go over my files and see if I can find anything that places your brother in Dallas, and not in college.”

“Do that,” I say. “I’m sure the proof is there, but I’m also sure my bro is not gonna be easy to pin down. It’s been over 60 years, there’ve been all sorts of investigations, but at no time did his name come up. The odds are way against you. In fact,I’d say they’re impossible.”

“Impossible to you maybe,” he says. “There are lots of other people who have the experience and skill to dig deep and actually do the impossible.”

With that, he stood up and crushed his coffee cup — a gesture of macho finality, if ever there was one. Then he tore off, presumably to prove My Brother, the Doctor is actually My Brother, the Assassin.

Meanwhile — and best of all — I was left at my table, alone, and finally, at peace.