Counterfeit Humans

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.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

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.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

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.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

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.

Why 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.

Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com