Archive for April, 2008

Stubborn Stupidity

Tuesday, April 29th, 2008

Isn’t stupidity a peculiar malady? It typically arrives out of nowhere, wrecks havoc and then nonchalantly departs, leaving the recipient with a bad aftertaste or much worse. It’s like getting smacked on the back of the head while in the middle of innocently reading a good book (the smack being the symbol for stupidity; the book, a symbol for life).

I have days, despite the fact that I am a renowned stupidity specialist to my 3.5 readers, where I become fixated on a past idiotic occurrence that leaves me asking over and over again, “Why?” Recently, I regressed back to a time many years ago when I suffered a run-in with a person of particularly stupid proportions.

When my older child was in pre-school, we pre-school moms decided to throw a baby shower for our sixty-year-old, exalted leader, Margie. Actually, Margie was the school director, and the forthcoming baby belonged to her daughter.

I found, quite possibly, the most adorable stuffed animal ever to grace a toy store, and one on which I formed an instant crush. It took all my self-control not to purchase the precious little dust collector for myself; I bought it as a present for Margie’s grandbaby’s shower.

That very afternoon, in the school parking lot, while awaiting the dismissal of our little guys and girls, a few of us moms discussed the gifts we’d purchased. I heard one parent, let’s call her Tammy Jean Mayhew of Rolling Hills Estates, describe the exact stuffed animal that I’d bought. When I told Tammy of my duplicate purchase, she squinted her eyes, crossed her arms tightly against her flat chest (don’t get me wrong; I have nothing against flat chests on men or women. Only on Tammy), and puffed out her cheeks, squirrel-like. Then she announced in a huff,

“I think you should march yourself right back to the store and return your’s!”

“Why?” I asked.

“I bought mine first!”

Of course, Tammy’s reasoning was unsound as well as irrelevant. But stupidity rarely makes a viable defense.

I noticed other mothers stepping backwards, away from the potential fray, and/or ducking behind the nearest mini-van. Meanwhile, I pondered how to handle such disagreeable derangement. Tammy stood there stubbornly, shoe-horn style chin sticking out threateningly, pointy nose jutting upwards. Had she somehow traded places with her four-year-old a la Freaky Friday?

I then did what any thinking, rational being would do in such circumstances. No, I didn’t kick her in the shin or squash half a grapefruit on her impertinent face. And I did not give in to my unnatural desire of pulling her rubbery chin just to see if it was stretchy as well as stubbly. Instead, I informed her,

“See you at the shower.”

And I gladly left.

I may have been a receiver of stupidity, but I was certainly not going to be a giver.

Left alone and forgotten, inane situations, such as this one, generally resolve themselves. The shower went swimmingly and afterwards, I received a lovely thank-you note from Margie. In it, she stated how lucky her new grandchild was going to be to have two identical, darling stuffed animals. One would stay at Margie’s house, and the other at her daughter’s.

The less contact and thought we give to stupidity, the better off we are. It gives us more time to focus on creating our own positive, enlightening thoughts which is what I should have been doing instead of recalling Tammy’s inanity.

Keep thinking.


What is Stupidity Really Saying?

Sunday, April 27th, 2008

We all get this. Sometimes more often than we care to. None of us are immune to the two Cs: the common cold and criticism. For purposes of this blog, the latter C is defined as: the irritating habit of the feeble minded to attempt to improperly judge and define the merits of another person.

It’s a well known fact that stupers (short, yet again, for fearlessly stupid persons) excel in criticizing others. Is there any validity or meaning to their ludicrous and often hurtful critiques? In a word: hardly.

First, take note that such baseless criticism is really just a silent plea by the stuper. Read between the lines and you’ll realize what they’re saying: “Don’t focus on me or you’ll discover my many idiocies. Let’s talk about you. You’re far more interesting and intelligent than I could ever dream of being.”

In a major effort to divert attention away from their non-functioning selves, stupers become trigger happy, taking aim at the attributes of others, often mistakenly turning them into faults. It’s a sort of stuper self-defense mechanism.

There’s also a secondary meaning to this cracked criticism. I recall the tale of a minister almost a century ago who weekly warned his congregation against the generic sins along with one lesser known, moral violation that he took to be equally unholy: the purchase of a fur coat. He regularly decried fur wearers, insisting they were doomed to damnation. But what was he really saying?

“I want a fur coat.”

Often the criticism is not of others, but of something missing in the stuper’s own seemingly impaired life or just a simple insecurity. How many times have you shared an idea you felt passionate about only to have it immediately dismissed or criticized? Chances are that the person who offered such a reaction was a stuper. Stupers criticize not only because they’re incompetent, but because the object of the incapable critique may possess a talent, toy, a working mind or some other prize the stuper does not have.

The best way to manage careless criticism is to consider the source. Is the unappreciated critic incompetent? Jealous? Or just plain ridiculous? If so, just listen; thank them if you’re so inclined and move on. Learn from the criticism if at all possible, but do not return the favor by criticizing others.

Criticizing others is a dangerous thing, not so much because you may make mistakes about them, but because you may be revealing the truth about yourself. ~ Harold Medina

Think for yourself.


Movie Review: A Plumm Summer

Thursday, April 24th, 2008

Stupidity takes a break today, thanks to Marjorie and Melissa of MotherTalk, along with Abbey from Mom Central, who have kindly given me the opportunity to review a soon-to-be-released-this-very-weekend film, A Plumm Summer.

Genial and reassuring, this unexpectedly engrossing movie sprinkles enough charm to completely win over both children and adults in equal measure. Given the dearth of family fare, A Plumm Summer should drum up plenty of business.

This fact inspired picture takes place forty years ago in rural Montana where beloved superstar puppet, Froggy Doo (think Elmo of Sesame Street fame), and best buddy magician, Happy Herb (superbly portrayed by an earnest, completely believable, Henry Winkler), have captivated audiences of all ages for generations. Alas, Froggy Doo is kidnapped during a live performance, and so begins the mystery that forms the plot in A Plumm Summer. Who took Froggy Doo?

A Plumm SummerFive-year-old Rocky (who effortlessly steals every scene he appears in) is greatly distressed to hear of the abduction, and he’s not the only one; the whole town is stunned. Rocky’s adolescent older brother, Elliot, a quiet, somewhat awkward boy, longing for the love of his alcoholic dad, agrees to help Rocky locate the missing TV idol. Elliot is immediately established as a weakling who can’t even jump off a diving board in the community pool. This makes him subject to the mockery of his shortsighted peers. To Elliot’s delight, he’s soon assisted by the smart and sensitive new girl in town; they happily discover that they both have a penchant for teenage detective novels. This comes in quite handy in unraveling the mystery.

The plot deliciously thickens with many twists and turns. Throw in a slew of suspects including the boys’ good-for-nothing father, Happy Herb himself and even Happy Herb’s attention deprived wife. Add two clueless, bumbling FBI agents called in by J Edgar Hoover after a ransom note surfaces, and you’ve got an entertaining detective yarn packed with nonstop action, comedy and adventure. One of my favorite moments occurs when Rocky uses a pay phone to call a prime suspect. Rocky’s very able impersonation of Froggy Doo is enough to send the alleged perpertrator into a frenzy.

By the end of the movie, everyone has learned a lot more than just who kidnapped Froggy Doo.

I couldn’t help but be completely drawn into this unique and delightful retro film that unabashedly arouses the child in all of us. It easily hearkens back to the original Disney films, when Walt was still around.

There are no special effects or CG; just top-notch character development that gently unfolds, crafty directing, fine acting and amiable storytelling. Did I mention the engaging soundtrack? The breath-taking scenery? The fact that parents don’t need to attempt to play octopus during the movie by covering children’s eyes and ears or diverting their attention during indelicate moments because there are no offensive scenes? This movie is a breath of fresh film making.

A Plumm Summer is a kid, family and missing puppet movie of the first order. It opens this coming weekend (April 25, 26 & 27) in select cities (in California, Alabama, Minnesota and Montana). It’s worth checking out.

Many thanks again to Abbey from Mom Central for my personal viewing copy!

Keep thinking!


Stupidity While Driving Does Not Necessarily = A Ticket

Tuesday, April 22nd, 2008

We all have stuper (short, yet again, for an astoundingly stupid person) moments, perhaps even while operating a motor vehicle. In my own driving history, I’ve sometimes surpassed (just barely, mind you) the speed limit or possibly broken a few inconsiderable laws, such as driving over a curb while searching for my lost cat or easing through a stop sign that looked all but abandoned. I wasn’t exactly breaking any regulations. Not really by all that much, anyway. For all of us, these stuper moments may invite contact with members of the police force.

I’ve been driving for quite a while, and I’ve been pulled over at least a half a dozen times. Only once have I actually received a ticket. Not that I didn’t necessarily deserve more, but I believe that proper, respectable, pleasant and courteous interaction with officers of the law can lead to a happy and mutual parting of company without involving any costs due and payable by the driver.

My first time involved an officer following me home after I drove the car up and down a curb that got in the way of my search and rescue maneuvers. I’d been looking for my missing, elderly cat, which, it turned out, was dozing behind the washing machine. I firmly, but politely, explained the reason for my flustered driving, and the kindly officer bowed graciously and left me alone without any parting paperwork.

My sole ticket was the result of my speeding in the fast lane on the freeway (where else?). When the nice officer pulled me over, I immediately apologized. I had nothing to hide; I knew I was driving over the limit and told him so. I truthfully explained that it was my first day at a new job; I was nervous as well as distracted. He asked me how fast I thought I was going. I knew then that the time for negotiation had arrived. I knocked off ten miles from my actual speed. He agreed and handed me my ticket. And that was thankfully that.

Another time, an officer insisted I rolled through a stop sign without fully stopping. I respectfully asked him how that could possibly be true? No mother with two young children in the car would ever behave so rashly, and in truth, I was fairly certain that I had stopped completely and legally. The officer, who must have noticed that I seemed the responsible sort, merely gave me a warning and allowed me a free pass.

Lest you think (as I have often heard in the past by disgruntled males) that I am let off for being a woman, just the other day, my husband (H) was also given a free pass when pulled over for speeding on the highway. H admitted to going 70 mph in a 55 mph zone and apologized to the officer, explaining that there was a great tune on the radio, no cars around, and that he somehow lost himself in the beauty of the moment. Noting that the officer had little sympathy at that point, H suddenly realized he’d met the man before.

“Don’t you remember me?” H asked. “You helped me once when I had a problem with my car. You told me that you like motorcycles. So do I!”

The officer did remember. And so began a lovely friendship, and the issuance, thankfully, of a mere warning to H to pay more attention next time.

Should you find yourself engaged in a stuper driving moment, my dear readers, involving the unwelcome appearance of a law enforcement officer, get a firm grip on yourself. Don’t give in to stupidity. Realize that a stuper would most likely become annoyed or argumentative when asked to pull over by police for a potential driving violation. Instead, keep your wits about you. Communicate as honestly as you deem feasible and without incrimination. And always act courteously. It doesn’t hurt to smile at the officer who probably doesn’t receive many during the course of his/her day.

Think first, last and always.


A Day Almost Without Stupidity

Sunday, April 20th, 2008

I hope you don’t mind, dear readers, but I gave myself a day off from studying stupidity so I could just relax and go about my own business rather than the business of stupers (short for irremediably stupid persons). I tried to give myself a raise too, but I had some difficulty locating an independent third party who was financially well off enough to offer a substantial sum to a self-employed, but very deserving, specialist in the field of stupidity. Nonetheless, I will continue my search.

So I took myself to the bank yesterday, specifically a bank that sent me an invite, promising to pay me fifty dollars for opening a checking account. I’m no stuper; I carefully read the fine print (my former legal career finally came in handy), and determined I would positively be paid if I opened an account and deposited $100. I could do that.

Unfortunately, no employee of the bank had ever seen the likes of the invitation I received. I deposited my money and waited patiently, amid apologies from the staff as they attempted to sort through the means of officially forking over the fifty dollars. I bided my time by text messaging, cleaning out my purse and reading the latest Alexander McCall Smith novel when suddenly I noticed a man in a suit, across the way from where I stood, trying to get my attention.

“Watch out, ” he yelled, running towards me in slow motion. “Move your foot!”

I stepped back. The man in the suit came to an abrupt halt in front of me, lifted one brown penny loafer and slammed it on the ground. Just before said loafer hit the linoleum, I spotted the trouble. Or what in the sharp, yet profoundly dull eyes of the stuper, appeared to be a trouble spot. An itsy, bitsy spider, the size of a piece of lint from an infant’s sweater (which begs the question, is lint from the sweater of an infant smaller than that belonging to the sweater of an adult?), had been innocently strolling the floor.

The man in the suit looked at me, waiting for approval. When none came, he swaggered back and took up his original stance a few feet away, at a desk, immediately forgetting his pseudo-heroic, minuscule deed.

I’m not a fan of spiders when they appear in my home, but even so, I do try to gently escort them out as long as they’re not venomous, hairy and/or bigger than a coat button. Killing another creature without provocation or in self-defense does not score bonus points with me.

Meanwhile, the bank staff continued to be perplexed. As you may imagine, I left without my fifty bucks, but with a verbal promise of a phone call by the bank as soon as they figured out how to pay me my money. I suppose opening a drawer and taking out a little, rectangular greenish sheet of paper with President Grant’s picture was not an option.

So went my relaxing day with just a mild hint of stupidity.

Everyone is entitled to be stupid, but some abuse the privilege. ~ Unknown

Just think.


Never a Borrower or a Lender to Stupidity Be

Wednesday, April 16th, 2008

It’s a well known fact that should money be loaned to or borrowed by a stuper (short for an abysmally stupid person), said money will not be paid back. Ever. It’s akin to burying the money in quicksand.

In my pre-stupidity specialist days, I’d made such loans. But that was before I fully understood the consequences of engaging in a financial transaction with a charter member of the Stupid-Among-Us Club. My husband and I once made a very large loan to a relative. Years later, we experienced financial difficulties. The idiot borrower/ sister-in-law relation had not yet repaid. She’d secured steady income working as a professional, but decided to repay just a fraction of the loan which, to her pea size brain, equaled full payment. Perhaps her math skills were simply not up to speed. Or perhaps my husband and I should have hired a couple of thugs to beat her up in a dark alley with us as audience.

Despite my fervent pledge of never loaning money unless it’s to a genuine, authentic human, known personally to me, I did just that, almost two months ago. The amount was very small compared to the above loan; I paid for a hotel room to be shared by two of my son’s golf mates after being requested to do so by the parents. I’d driven them all to a golf tournament, and we ended up needing to spend the night.

One thoughtful, responsible parent repaid me immediately. The other, however, has not, and most likely will not. She initially told me she’d give me the cash right away. It didn’t happen. I called her a few weeks ago, and she apologized profusely for her forgetfulness, promising to send out a check forthwith. You can guess why I’m writing this. But it is my own fault. This parent was known to me as a stuper whose mind, like a hummingbird, flitted, from subject to subject with little rest. How could she possibly remember? Most stupers, as my dear readers know, are victims of ROA (Rapid Onset Amnesia). In the case of this last stuper, she may have additionally suffered from an inability to properly address and mail an envelope and/or to navigate her Suburban to my house which is a good five miles away from her own.

Some people who loan money are actually paid back. Maybe even by stupers. But, lack of repayment by a stuper can lead to, at a minimum, irritability of the lender.

In order to maintain one’s sanity, it’s imperative to keep proper perspective. Perhaps some difficulty prevented the borrower from repayment, other than inferior mental faculties.

The most important factor should be the well being of your own mind. If attempts to collect have been fruitless, think about the additional cost to your peace of mind in pursuing the matter. Maybe if the amount is small and you can afford it, let the matter go. If not, then communicate with the stuper until you receive back what is your’s; if necessary and possible, collect in person or have a third party do it for you.

I believe that if you can and would like to help another person financially, you should. But to ensure repayment, be firm and clear. Reduce it to writing. Especially if a large sum is involved. Otherwise, look upon it as a gift or donation. You’ll know what to do the next time they come a borrowin’.

Take time to think.


Stupidity Will Not Offer You a Seat

Monday, April 14th, 2008

Years ago, when we moved to a new and very rural area, I became a woman on a mission. No, not to root out stupers (short yet again, for indefatigably stupid persons) from under boulders and behind shrubbery; but to find playmates and pals for my kids and I.

Houses around here are spaced far apart, and there really were no neighborhood young ‘uns back then. My children didn’t attend the local schools. We homeschooled. We’d been part of a wonderful homeschool organization in the city so I searched for another. I felt fortunate when I finally located a homeschool group.

We met them at a park and immediately, I realized I didn’t fit in. I was fresh from the big city. I wore makeup and jewelry. My clothes were still in fashion… and they were colorful. The moms eyed me like I was a walking affront to motherhood. I realized I had to prove myself. But first, I hoped they’d offer me a seat.

These ladies were sitting around a large picnic table when my children and I arrived. There were only six moms, but bags and sweaters had confiscated all available seating space. So I stood by the head of the table…for almost forty-five minutes.

No one offered me a seat; they systematically ignored me. I introduced myself and kept a smile in place. I asked questions and did my best to join in the conversation. I might as well have been a gnat in a coconut. My very existence was in jeopardy. I swallowed a scream the size of a softball. I wanted out. But I watched my kids having a grand old time playing. Apparently, these unselfish parents had passed on all their smarts and manners to their children, leaving nothing for themselves.

I persisted, catching mothers eyeing me every time I looked away. Finally, I managed to engage one mom in conversation. She was a librarian, and I happened to be a big fan of the library. I asked her advice on good books and after a few minutes, she finally asked if I’d like to sit down. It wasn’t easy to uproot my weary feet, but I managed. She relocated a backpack just for me.

Why didn’t I ask them to move so I could sit? Firstly, I was seriously considering a hasty retreat. Making contemptuous remarks under my breath or out loud was another option, but it was not the place for freedom of expression as youngsters were present. Lastly, I was in the midst of my stupidity studies and rapidly formulated a hypothesis on the spot: Stupidity will not offer you a seat.

They asked me no questions so they learned nothing that would garner such immediate discrimination; I figured it had to be my appearance. Perhaps my faux diamond earrings were not to their liking.

Image PreviewWhy did they dismiss me so quickly? Because stupidity judges by appearances and only appearances. To these women, I didn’t look acceptable according to their limited standards. I didn’t look like them. The Cookie Cutter Standard reared its empty head. Silly me was trying to make a decent first impression. Stupidity is a harsh judge.

I went back a few more times to make merry with these moms at the behest of my children. But thankfully, we all made friends elsewhere and moved on.

Make sure you create a complete picture of another person before deciding to place them in the stuper category. And even then, give them another chance. After that, send them to me.

Thinking is an art.


It Pays to be Stupid or I Can’t Get No Stuperfaction*

Saturday, April 12th, 2008

Okay, I’m wearing my full stuper-fighting, suit of armor, and I am actively recruiting a volunteer anti-stuper militia. Stupers (short, once again, for inexplicably stupid persons) have taken over my school district. I modestly think I should be admired for considering action since I have no child currently enrolled in said district and never have or will. (I’ve steadfastly refused to send my kids to my local public schools).

I live in a small town. In fact, my area consists of five adjacent tiny towns, each with a population hovering around 2000 persons. We have exactly two weekly newspapers that report noteworthy activities such as the local trout derby and the arrest of an errant jay-walker.

Once in a while, there are hard-hitting news stories such as the one appearing today. It detailed the onslaught of teacher layoffs and program cuts. The local high school alone is expected to see a cut of $400,000. Before anyone reaches for a hankie, let me tell you what the headline on the next page of this paper said:

“High School Superintendent’s Contract Above Industry Standards”

We have one public high school; the Stuperintendent is responsible for this solitary high school, consisting of 1100 students. This fellow is new to his job having been freshly wooed away from his former position of assistant superintendent of a junior high school in another city. His annual salary in his new position is $176,000. The California State Superintendent of Public Instruction who oversees all the schools in the state earns $184,000.

In urban areas, superintendents oversee several high schools along with primary and secondary schools. For instance, the energetic Superintendent in Bartow County, Georgia makes $161K. She’s responsible for 3 high schools, 4 middle schools, and roughly a dozen or so elementary schools. Do you see where I’m going with this, dearest readers? Excuse me while I unclench my teeth.

I actively sought stuper-fighting recruits after reading a quote in the same paper about the recent teacher layoffs and program cuts. This quote came from the same, new local Stuperintendent. He ignobly stated:

“Releasing a teacher because of financial crises is heart-sickening.”

What I found heart-sickening was his $176K annual salary plus his $500 monthly transportation allowance and his $10,000 relocation expenses (he just moved twenty-four miles to be closer to the school), to name a few of his perks. Did I mention that he gets full health benefits?

Here are a few interesting salaries:

Alabama Gov: Bob Riley, $113,000

Arizona Gov: Janet Napolitano, $95,000

Arkansas Gov: Mike Beebe, $81,000

California Gov: Arnold Schwarzenegger, $207,000 (gives salary back to state)

Colorado Gov: Bill Ritter, $90,000

and so on….

This begs the question of whether a local school superintendent who oversees one school has more responsibility than a state governor?

Someone who makes a positive difference in the lives of school kids is invaluable. But this someone should prove his worth before being paid a hefty salary.

If you’re interested in joining my volunteer militia, please provide me with the size of your suit of armor (they run petite to extra large); I’ll send the bill to the Stuperintendent.



*short for satisfaction from prominently stupid persons

Say No to Stupidity!

Wednesday, April 9th, 2008

My husband (H) finally turned to the dark side. Well, not exactly the dark side; more like the empty-headed side, where thoughts continually escape like balloons in a park on a windy day. Where stupers (short, as you know, for mercilessly stupid persons) roam and annoyingly play.

I joined H on a short business trip to Los Angeles. As you may be aware, Turn Signal Deficit Disorder exists in plague like proportions in major cities. LA is no exception. We watched cars spontaneously drift in and out of freeway lanes at will, cutting off other vehicles, without care or remorse. Stupers regard the turn signal as an unnatural, complex, even tricky mechanism. One that requires exhaustive effort for the mentally bankrupt.

H suddenly announced that he would use the turn signal no longer.

“What’s the point?” he asked. “No one bothers. No one cares. No one even notices. Why should I?”

I knew that attitude just wouldn’t do. For me to have a stuper or even a pseudo stuper for a husband would be the same as a police officer being married to a felon or a shrink married to a nutcase or a politician married to a saint. How would it look for a stupidity specialist to be married to a dolt?

I bided my time.

Overcome by guilt and discomfort in not using the efficient and simple communication device otherwise known as the turn signal, H’s rebellion lasted all of twenty-two minutes. He used the signal to safely indicate to all interested parties that we were exiting the freeway.

On our way home, we followed a car that diligently used its signal. This vehicle happened to change lanes frequently, in a safe manner, always giving proper notice. It was such a pleasure to be around an intelligent driver. And it didn’t hurt the cause that he happened to be driving a brand new Aston Martin. The sight of such conspicuous, persisent exercise of thought while driving a motor vehicle filled us with tears of joy.

As H dried my eyes, (rest assured that he had pulled over at this time), he announced,

“I would always use my signal if you were driving behind me in your car.”

And that is why I married him.

Meanwhile, be strong, dear readers. Don’t give in to the idiots around you. Do not take the easy way out. Continue to use your minds and cultivate your intelligence. Since the majority of people do not think, imagine how far you can get; oh, the dreams that you can achieve! There’s great pleasure one gives to oneself and to others when exercising a bit of thought.

Why not think?


When Stupidity Smiles at You

Monday, April 7th, 2008

Stupers (short once more, for revealingly stupid persons) are completely unfazed about their blunders. Most likely because a blunder to them is simply a way of life.

Husband (H) and I entered an open house one afternoon as we were interested in a
possible purchase. Actually, H had already visited the home half an hour
earlier and spoken to the listing agent at the house in great detail about a possible
purchase of the home. He told the agent that he’d be back with his wife. So he
brought me.

I liked the house also, and now we both asked the perpetually smiling real estate agent some more questions (incessant smiling is sometimes a viable clue pointing to stupidity, but not reliably so, as many people smile out of sheer joy, not stupidity).

We left and returned a bit later with our kids. All of us liked the home.

After each of the three visits, the agent, a tall, personable fellow, in his early forties,
asked us whether we liked the home and, after each time, he was always glad to see us
back. Our interest in the house was unquestionable. Our experience was pleasant. H and I both thought we’d make an offer immediately.

After the third visit, we lingered and asked very specific questions, namely,

“Will the seller be available so that we may make an offer tonight?”

Suddenly, this affable agent said, blank smile intact, “I did tell you that the house is in escrow, right?”

Neither H nor I responded.

“Yeah, an offer was accepted last week, but I thought I’d hold it open anyway.”

Later I asked myself, (I thought I was an astute judge of character), how I didn’t see through the vacant Jack-in-the-Box type grin and the ever present giddiness.

Should we have:

A. Taken him to the nearest public square and arranged for a flogging;
B. Thanked him for holding the open house and left;
C. Asked him to donate his brain to science so that perhaps it could be studied for chemical imbalances that led to his sheer stupidity; or
D. Had one of us hold him down, while the other pummeled some sense into him.

In this case, I had to hold H back as he was a bit irritated over the waste of time and
energy. He asked the agent why he hadn’t “thought” (key word here) of revealing this
vital piece of information a little earlier. Fortunately for the agent, I, at this time, was
reading a book on utilizing Buddhist principles in everyday life and on cultivating
spiritual values like kindness, patience, understanding and compassion towards all without exception including, but not limited to, the idiots-at-large, so I stopped H from being fully expressive.

In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t. The realtor’s lackluster faculties needed to be blasted. The agent’s only reaction had been to shrug wordlessly, turn back into the house and lead other unsuspecting potential buyers on through the spacious rooms all the while holding his long forgotten “No Vacancy” sign behind his back.

It’s no wonder so many professionals dislike their jobs or are stressed out from their work. They’re operating at half speed. The professionals who do excel are thinking individuals who are aware and satisfied that they are doing their best and are intelligent enough to seek out work that they enjoy.

Great minds like to think.