Stupidity Next Door

October 14, 2007 by Keli.

Most neighborhoods contain the presence of at least one stuper (short for a nonsensically stupid person). Thinking back to my own varying ‘hoods, I find that this type of neighbor usually lived right next door to me.

There was the quintessential snoop who excelled in peering between the blinds of his second story window so often, there was a permanent crease in one corner that he took for granted as being a clever bonus provided by the manufacturer. I caught him frequently spying on me while I gardened in my yard. Once, I became frightfully worried when the blinds were still and his repeatedly darting figure missing. I trudged over to his front door only to have his Mrs. inform me that he was at the dentist’s. He resumed his reconnaissance activity upon his return, forty minutes later.

Then there was that odd older couple who positioned enormous clay pots housing large palms in a horizontal line at the foot of their driveway. Somehow, between sunset and sunrise, these pots managed to change locations, creeping closer to the street or spreading out in a sort of waltz-like sequence all over the driveway. I never actually saw anyone playing musical pots, but I did hear the wife’s high-pitched cries periodically in the dead of night.

Most recently, there was Gertie, a woman of about 60 or so with an indeterminate accent; in the mornings, she sounded British; by mid-day, decidedly Austrian, and by nightfall, she spoke a strange mixture of English spattered with guttural noises and Mandarin Chinese.

Gertie lived alone next door, with a rotating menagerie of animals. Derby, her pug, excelled in trotting over to our front lawn every afternoon and leaving a malodorous offering, prompting my husband to reciprocate. No, he didn’t actually use her lawn as a personal repository; he just removed the pug’s contribution and returned it to the lawn of its rightful owner. Whenever Gertie saw my husband make the deposit, she just smiled vapidly and nodded.

Gertie managed to kill off her rabbits, chickens and sheep, the demise of which she blamed on the forces of nature. She set her bunnies free to roam. Stray dogs found them delightful, but delicate, playmates. After emancipation, her chickens made a fine feast for raccoons, and Gertie attributed the loss of her sheep to coyotes. Never mind that no one had seen coyotes in the area for years and that these particular coyotes’ bellies were so full, they didn’t so much as take a nibble. I won’t discuss the fact that Gertie habitually forgot to give her sheep water.

I decided to befriend Gertie. Why? Firstly, in the interest of science. She could provide ample research material for my stupidity studies, and secondly, in the interest of science (did I just say that?). I thought I could convince her to allow me to run a few experiments on her. I could douse her with a bucket of ice water to see if dormant brain cells could be stimulated. And I’d just read in The Great Compendium of Acupuncture and Moxibustion by Zhen Jiu Da Cheng, that “mental stupidity and dull-wittedness” may be alleviated if 76 needles are placed in precise areas around the skull. Now, I know many of you dear readers believe I make these things up. I don’t. I find that the truth is far more fantastical than anything I can possibly conjure about stupidity.

I went over to Gertie’s house and proceeded to engage in small talk. I can’t tell you what we discussed, as I really wasn’t listening. I bided my time so that I could request her cooperation in my science project. As she rattled on, it suddenly occurred to me that there might exist those stupers for which there is no hope. Perhaps no amount of dousing with ice water would help. Maybe poking the skull with needles would be futile. How would I recognize a case of hopeless stupidity?

Gertie was saying, “Yes, my corral has been empty since my sheep died. I think (Readers: please note that there is a red alert anytime a stuper uses the word think), I just may get a horse. I’ve never had one before.”

I snapped out of my reverie. “Yes, you did, a few years ago.”

Gertie regarded me, completely baffled and repeated, “I never had a horse.”

Okay, this is where I flip out, take the stuper by the shoulders and shake her for at least fifteen minutes, while keeping a close watch on her bobbing head, to see if I can get any brain activity at all. Or I just quietly slip away. I did the latter. I went home and opened my photo album. This is what I found:

This is a picture I took of my lovely children playing with one of our goat kids, but what’s most important is what appears in the background. Isn’t that a horse on Gertie’s property posing for my snapshot? In fact, it was her horse.

I then realized that Gertie was a hopeless stuper. No amount of dousing or acupuncture could possibly revive her. Sometimes, there’s only so much a stupidity specialist can do.

Think.

Keli
Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

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