Talking to Dumb Dave is tough going. His cognitive skills are not good, hence his unkind nickname.
It's like the painstaking procedure of typing a memorandum on an old, manual QWERTY typewriter with a single, sprained finger. Click-clack, I stab those clunky, awkward keys. Sometimes the hammers get stuck. Sometimes the ribbon jams. But a smudgy word finally appears on the metaphorical blank piece of paper that is Dumb Dave's mind.
Then I fantasize about slapping Dumb Dave on his left ear to return the ribbon carriage to begin a new line, or of sticking two fingers up his nose and lifting if a new paragraph is required. (Not recommended)
Eventually, after much application of mental white-out and the smoothing of imaginary crumpled A4, a short if ungrammatical sentence emerges on Dumb Dave's brain paper conveying my message, just about readable despite the irregular margins and haphazard spacing between the letters.
Congratulations to me. I have successfully communicated a simple thought to Dumb Dave. It's been arduous and extremely messy work, often frustrating, but I think he will grasp the general concept because I didn't use too many multisyllabic words this time.
It's always a good idea to slip communications to Dave into a make-believe manila folder with a fantasy red tab, then drop them into the old-fashioned, single-draw metal filing cabinet that serves as Dumb Dave's memory. And I deliberately place that make-believe manila folder in the front of the cabinet or else he will surely forget what I've typed into his head and all my hard work will be for naught.
So rarely do I talk to Dumb Dave if such strenuous activity can be avoided. I talk to myself instead. After all, my mind is sharper than his.
I just need to let my word processor warm-up for half an hour before I can begin.