Archive for July, 2008

Checking Account Stupidity

Thursday, July 31st, 2008

I owe a sincere thanks to all stupers (short, as most of you know, for unmistakably stupid persons) who faithfully dawdle across my path guaranteeing me ample material for my stupidity studies. The latest incarnation of stupidity involved stuper employees in a local bank branch.

My mom and I entered a bank in which we both had an account so that she (key word here) could open a checking account. We met with Rocky, an assistant Vice President; he asked if I too desired to open a checking account. My response was not “Maybe” or “Ask me again in five minutes” or “What’s your favorite color M&M?” but rather the clearly enunciated words,

“No, thank you.”

I mentioned to Rocky that I’d recently moved, and Rocky kindly updated my information. Or so I thought. Then we left.

Mom, once in her home, examined her transaction receipt and noticed that the barely hour old checking account was actually opened in my name. She called, spoke to Rocky, who assured her he’d fix the error.

Fast-forward two weeks.

I reach into my mailbox and remove a small cardboard box that looks suspiciously like a box of checks because… it is a box of checks. And they arrive addressed to… surprise! Me! And with my name on each and every check.

To add insult to injury, as I sorted my mail, I noticed a postage due envelope that required $2.75 for the box of checks, mailed not just without proper postage, but without any freaking postage!

So they managed to send the box of checks to my current address and then made sure to print the wrong address on the checks themselves. Just to mix things up, no doubt. Or to prove, finally and without any lingering question, that they were indeed stupers.

I called and spoke to Assistant Manager, Nick. He apologized, promising they’d fix the matter immediately and send new corrected checks to my mother. I asked him what they’d like me to do with the incorrect checks.

“Should I rip them up and throw them away?”

His telltale response, “Sure, you can shred them or you can use them.”

Dear readers, do you think I should use checks I don’t want and that, more importantly, contain the wrong address? True, it might delay the District Attorney’s office in locating me, but I think it would be most inappropriate. Plus, it was my mom’s account, after all.

I discovered that the whole checking account fiasco was my own doing. Firstly, I should keep my money in a private bank, one that provides clients with dedicated financial expertise. My bank provided me with dilapidated financial inexpertness as well as incompetence.

Secondly, I recently read in Departures magazine that the right private bank can minimize my taxes, put together an estate plan, build an art collection (that alone got my attention), open checking accounts, offer money management classes to educate teens, hook me up with theater tickets and possibly even fish out a diamond tennis bracelet out of a full-size dumpster (where were they when I needed them?).

There’s just one slight hitch; private bank accounts must be in the seven figure range.

If I get moving on those inaccurately marked checks, I may be able to gather a few million into a Swiss numbered account and have time to flee to a small village just west of Boligrafo, Chile by the time my bank notices and takes action. If they notice. Then once it blows over, I can open up my very own private bank account and be treated properly.

The problem with popular thinking is that it doesn’t require you to think at all ~ Kevin Myers


Stupidity Backs Out

Tuesday, July 29th, 2008

Contentment often springs out of helping others. But what if these others are complete and utter idiots as in the case of stupers (once again, short for rambunctiously stupid persons)?

I’m in a parking lot; a rather narrow, crowded place, potentially requiring performance driving skills in order to back out of a spot. I notice a large SUV with reverse lights ready to go. I, ever eager to display uncommon courtesy, stop a bit behind the vehicle, leaving ample room and wait. Patiently.

I change the radio station. Still patient. I roll down my window and escort a small fly outside. A sliver of my patience slips outside with the fly.

I apply lip gloss, then complete the top line of a Sudoku puzzle; I use up my last ounce of patience. I try to bum some patience off Husband, sitting in the passenger seat next to me, but his had completely run out with the fly.

I step on the gas pedal to leave and, at that very instant, guess which heretofore inert SUV driver starts to rapidly back out of his spot? I must pause here to point out that though I’ve not led a cloistered life by any means, I rarely use my car horn. In fact, my automobile is over two years old, and I’ve yet to honk. Consequently, I briefly misplaced the horn. Oh, I knew it was somewhere on the steering wheel, but dead center?

I press long and hard, startling some roosting pigeons and the brother of a friend of a stepson of a client of my husband’s whom Husband happens to recognize in the parking lot. The SUV’s rear bumper jerks to a stop, two feet short of my front fender.

I proceed forward. Husband gives the driver a look reserved for the criminally insane. He states incredulously,

“Can you believe it? He’s yelling and flipping us off! He’s mad at us!”

One of my cardinal rules: Never, ever, meet the gaze of a stuper in action if you can help it, particularly if either or both of you is driving a vehicle. I calmly ask Husband to avert his eyes.

One cardinal rule of stupers: Never, ever, bother to look behind you when reversing out of a parking spot. Too much exertion is required; besides, it is the total responsibility of other folks to exercise awareness, especially while operating a motor vehicle.

Another cardinal rule of stupers: If you don’t see a speed limit sign in a parking lot, there isn’t any!

Think and grow smart.


It’s Stupidity, You Know?

Sunday, July 27th, 2008

I’ve developed an irritating habit. One that lowers me right into the bubbling bowels of stupidity. I tried going cold turkey; that lasted about eight minutes before my relapse. Consequently, I’m feeling edgy and wringing my hands. No, it’s not nail biting, smoking, excessive spitting or obsessive-compulsive yawning. It’s unthinkingly inserting the words, “you know” in every three to four sentences I speak for no apparent reason. I’m driving me nuts.

Much happiness and pain in life is caused by the words we choose to speak. Words define our experience and create emotions, you know? Yet we often insert unnecessary and worthless words. Or we speak in an abbreviated fashion. I believe there’s a happy middle ground. One devoid of redundancy.

Since I’ve been away on various golf courses the past few days accompanying my younger son on tournaments, I figured it’s prime time to rid myself of my newly discovered, annoying habit. On the first day, I caught myself uttering those errant words six times before seven am (I’d gotten up at 6:45). There was a dry spell for the next two hours, then it started again. By the end of the day, I’d lost count.

On day two, I decided to forgo all speaking and enter my own personal detox program, at least during the morning. I exercised silence. I was amazed at the number of habits that could successfully be wiped out by keeping our mouths closed – smoking, nail biting, alcohol abuse, overeating, thumb sucking, gum cracking, incoherence as well as excessive use of pointless words.

Unfortunately, during my quiet time, a golf dad tagged alongside me, talking all the while. He badly wanted me to ask what he did for a living. First, he told me he worked in an office, then explained where (a Los Angeles high-rise) practically drawing me a map in the sand trap. Next, he talked breathlessly of his clientèle (talent agents, actors, musicians etc.), never once noticing that all I did was nod and smile indulgently. I felt like saying, Buzz off, dude! Can’t you see I’m freakin’ busy?

I tried sending him away with a polite wave of my hand and a few deep sighs, but that only made him talk more. It was like he’d tied a rope to his waist, attaching the other end to me. I broke my vow of silence and said,

“You’re a lawyer.”

“How did you know?”

Well, first of all, most physicians and CPAs don’t gab so tirelessly; in fact, few professionals enjoy hearing themselves speak more. My cursed spell of aimlessly uttering “you know” continued as I spoke, though to a slightly lesser degree.

Husband suggested I speak more slowly (I do have a tendency to get excited when conversing) and pause now and then to exercise better control. It worked.

Yesterday, I uttered only a handful of “you knows” during the entire day. I slowed everything down from my walking to my talking. This promoted more deliberate speech, preventing words tumbling out of my mouth and hitting the ground hard.

Remember, the tongue should be our servant and rendered incapable of running off on its own, as it has a tendency to do, particularly with stupers (short once more, for indisputably stupid persons). Slowing speech down gives us a chance to think before we speak.

Think first.


Smacking of Stupidity

Wednesday, July 23rd, 2008

I’m currently away at a junior golf tournament with younger Son. I felt so certain that I could complete my latest post and publish it, but alas, it’s still floating around in my drafts file, half-baked. I haven’t had much of a chance to sit, spending most of my time walking the courses and watching my child.

I would like to leave my dear readers with an observation that I think applies to intelligent life in general, and unfortunately, smacks of stupidity: in order to avoid behaving like a stuper (short, again, for a disenchantingly stupid person), keep a positive attitude. Especially about a child’s accomplishments. So what if they paint outside of the lines, miss a birdie putt or permit the violin bow to do a fine imitation of sandpaper? A little encouragement and soon their performance will greatly improve.

Parents usually walk with their juniors during a tournament. After they introduce themselves to me, the first comment almost invariably goes something like this:

“Junior is not playing his best today. His wrist hurts.” or “He’s working on a new swing and it’s just not ready.” or “He didn’t sleep well last night.” or my favorite, “Junior had no time to practice. He woke up, rolled out of bed, suffered a concussion, needed three stitches and that’s why he’s not playing well.”

All this before the round has barely begun. Often parents make excuses for their child, expecting the worst. This is no more than fear festering. Is this the kind of example we want to set for our children? One of worry, anxiety and fear? I should know. I once was (and to a minor extent still am) a worrier when it came to my kids. But I’ve realized along the way, that my worry serves absolutely no purpose other than clouding my mind and preventing me from enjoying the present moment.

When Junior does miss a putt, I’ve seen parents hurl themselves to the hard, grassy ground, slamming their fists down and kicking their sneaker laden feet, tears streaming down their faces, crying “Why me?” I’m afraid I’ve also viewed parents giving their kids sharp dagger looks that say, “Just wait ’til we get home.” For heaven’s sake, it’s just a game.

I’m not a perfect parent. I suffer a certain amount of volatility, not like an active volcano, but more like a hummingbird who needs a nectar fix. But I’ve learned that patience and encouragement does wonders for a child’s self-esteem and promotes the best thoughts.

Keep a perfect picture in your head of the way you’d like things to be in your life. Polish it. Make it shine. And it will come to pass. If the pictures you paint are less than perfect, well, you know in whose blog you could be appearing.

Thinking is an asset.


The Care and Treatment of Stupidity Sufferers

Sunday, July 20th, 2008

In summary from last time: years ago, stuper (short for a visibly stupid person) neighbor, Constance, indelicately dropped by my house in the most wee hours of a Sunday morning just to pay me a Twilight Zone type visit. She managed to nose about without even stepping inside and didn’t find things to her liking. Before she left, she invited my son and me to her child’s birthday party. At the party, Constance did an admirable impression of one striven to be my bff (best friend forever). I didn’t hear or speak to her thereafter.

Now that we’re up to speed, fast forward one whole year.

Due to a downturn in our finances, we’d moved into a neighborhood not quite as nice as our previous home. Think trading a new BMW in for a slightly used and substantially underpowered Kia.

Husband and I opened a small cafe/coffee house where I’d often be found slinging lattes and alternating between playing shrink, barmaid, waitress, bellhop and stupersitter for a hyperactive, jittery and upscale crowd consisting of many of my old neighbors and acquaintances.

One day, Constance walked in with hubby, Mac. I, standing behind the counter, said,

“Hi! Nice to see you!”

Constance responded, “One black coffee and a nonfat latte.”

I whipped up the java and stared at myself in the mirror behind the coffee machine. Had my appearance altered over the past year? No drastic hairdo changes, tattoos, nose piercing or large, elongated bifocals that came dangerously close to becoming goggles. I looked the same.

I took the coffees to their table and waited. They said nothing and I returned to the counter. Minutes later, I heard,

“This coffee’s cold.”

Constance stood before me, frowning, holding a steaming cup. Perhaps she’d expected flames? I searched for the creme brulee torch. Just then Mac stormed up and huffed,

“We need more napkins.”

Gone were the smiling, delighted faces from last year’s birthday party. At first I was puzzled. I didn’t get it. Why the lack of civility? Can you actually completely forget a person in one year’s time even though you’ve had direct contact with said person many times and spent several hours together at a small, but somewhat memorable party? Possibly; a sudden bout of Rapid Onset Amnesia (commonly found in stupers) or any form of amnesia would do the trick. But such forgetfulness is definite, if you’re a proven stuper.

Stupidity, if left unchecked and untreated, will grow, gradually emptying the mind of all its contents. Look what happened to Constance. Drop by drop, her brain practically evaporated from nonuse and misuse until only the idiot, corn kernel size mind remained. Authentic humans gather worthy thoughts and deeds, building up knowledge and happiness. Counterfeit humans don’t gather anything beneficial.

Take note that in this post and the prior, Constance did not resemble a happy camper. Though she and Mac seemed content at the party, it was fleeting, a temporary high from too much cake, candy and ice cream, along with the influx of gifts. For a more consistent high (without drugs or alcohol), mind training is essential.

We are the product of our mental processes. Any limitations imposed upon us by heredity or environment may be overcome simply by properly utilizing our minds. We need to withdraw into ourselves, turn into Michaelangelos and get to work. The great Michaelangelo regarded a block of marble, then cut away all that was excessive, smoothed out the rough parts, bringing light to shadows. He labored to make his work of art beautiful. This is exactly what each of us can do with our minds.

Just think.


The Curious Case of the Stuper First Thing in the Morning

Thursday, July 17th, 2008

Early one morning, years ago, I heard the doorbell ring. By early, I mean 7:18 a.m. Did I mention it was on a Sunday?

Being an early riser, I’d already dressed and was in the midst of feeding my toddler. But Husband and older son still slept. Wondering who’d come calling at such an impolite and inconsiderate hour, I opened the door to find neighbor, Constance, waiting on the front porch.

Constance lived around the corner; I occasionally saw her at Mommy and Me class. In other words, we were not BFFs (best friends forever) or even BFs or even Fs. I hardly knew her well enough to slap a stuper (short, again, for a predominantly stupid person) sticker on her forehead, but I was beginning to get a sneaking suspicion.

For my dear readers that favor old films, I’d like to note that Constance bore a remarkable resemblance to Edna May Oliver, complete with longish, horse-like face and full fishy lips with round, piercing, yet inquiringly beady, eyes. But sorely lacking the charm and witty retorts.

She asked,

“Do you want to go for a walk right now?”

I declined,

“Uh, no thanks, I’m kind of busy…”

Not easily put off, she craned her neck so that it reached past the threshold and peeked into my living room several feet away.

“Is that a Baker?”

I frantically searched for someone in my house wearing a Chef’s hat and smock when Constance clarified, “The table. Is it a Baker?”

“Uh, maybe. I really have to…”

As her neck craned farther into my home, she continued, frowning in disapproval, “Why would you buy a three bedroom house? What about the Nanny?”

“You’re looking at her, and I like my home. Thanks for stopping…”

Constance retracted her neck and continued, “I’m having a birthday party for Junior next Saturday at the Park. I’d like you and Son to be there. Will you come?”

As much as Constance grated my rapidly fraying nerves, I could not say no to a child’s birthday party. Especially with my own child standing behind me and listening.

“We’ll be there.”

I was completely puzzled by the nature of the early morning visit; what the heck was the point? It’s often a challenge to decipher stupidity. Constance’s motor may have been running, but it was stuck in idle.

We attended the birthday party and both Constance and her husband, Mac, treated me like a long-lost friend.

“Hey, Kel, would you like more cake?” or “Keligirl, that top looks stunning on you! But then again, you always look stunning!” “Oh, Kel-Kel, you are so clever!” All accompanied by much giggling and light chattering.

I swear there was no liquor at the party, bright colored little pills or hastily rolled, suspicious looking cigarettes or pipes. But I’d bought Junior a mini basketball set that made quite an impression. The gift wrapper at the toy store inadvertently left the price tag on (pre-sale). The price made Constance swoon; I’m certain she vowed inwardly to be my best pal, then and there. I should have told her I’d paid 70% off, but she’d seemed so happy.

Yet Constance and Mac both proved themselves to be stupers to the third degree upon which I will elaborate in my next post. Before I close for today however, I want to add that stupers call when they please with no care as to time or convenience to the other party. I had a 4-H mom with whom I was barely acquainted call me recently at 6:51 am. She wanted the name of another 4-H member with nary an apology in sight. Do I look like I’m open twenty-four hours, convenience store style? Trust me, I don’t. I gave it to her and foolishly waited for an explanation. I’m still waiting.

Great minds like to think.


Stupidity Be Gone!

Monday, July 14th, 2008

Plenty of time and space is given in this blog to stupers (short, once again, for mischievously stupid persons) in order to understand and help prevent these mindless intruders from wrecking havoc and causing the rest of us annoyance, irritation and anger. However today, I’d like to acknowledge and thank a few of the thinkers I’ve come across who admirably utilize their brain power, setting positive examples for everyone.

We all (and I exclude no one from this solar system size category) have said something or acted in such a way, as to place us in the stuper category, at least momentarily. Take me, for instance. Yesterday as I drove, I heard a clunk in the backseat of my car. The handles from my rather large handbag had fallen to one side; my whole purse teetered ominously toward a dainty orchid plant I’d just purchased, threatening to decapitate its delicate single stem. It was a life or death situation for the orchid.

I drove on a one-way street. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed that no cars were around me. I slowed down and reached one arm behind me to grab the purse and move it away from potential violence.

My car weaved slightly between the two lanes. As I struggled to save the orchid, I took another look at the rearview mirror and, lo and behold, an SUV appeared close behind. I listened, but heard no sound. This motorist patiently drove without honking, racing and swerving to get around me, gesturing with one finger or uttering profanities that I rightly deserved. I stopped hogging the road and returned to my own lane. Resuming proper driving, I felt grateful to be followed by a thinker. And I felt quite foolish for driving like a stuper.

My local Blockbuster video store does not exactly hire capable employees. Never mind the fact that each and every one uncannily resembles an escaped convict and rarely uses words with two or more syllables. I once asked a worker if he knew of any good Hugh Grant comedies, to which he replied,

“Who’s Hugh Grant?”

Typical response from one who’d been in the slammer too long.

But recently, one of these so called ex-con looking types not only stepped out from behind the counter to assist Husband and myself, but actually referred us to several, high quality, family type films. And he did so with a smile while using complete sentences, including some with semi-colons and question marks. His efficiency and thought so impressed us that Husband wrote a letter to the corporate headquarters about the merits of this employee. And in hopes that they exercise care in choosing workers that can and do think.

Finally, I’d like to acknowledge the kindly and thoughtful Dr. Paula Creamer whom my ninety-one-year old grandma sees when she has a mind to, which is about every other month.

Do you know of any physicians today who make house calls (and I don’t mean Dr. Pepper)? Or who telephone after your visit to see how you’re doing? Or who hold your hand during the visit and tell you how much they appreciate your coming in? And who make time to see you no matter how busy they may be? I rest my case. Dr. Creamer does all these things and more. No stuper would even consider doing any of the above without some direct, immediate benefit.

Wherever a praiseworthy quality is found, it’s something creditable to all humanity. Therefore, it’s important that we take a moment to acknowledge it in others and in ourselves. Authentic humans make the world a nicer place to live in.

We become what we think.


Puff Daddy or Stupidity is a False Witness

Friday, July 11th, 2008

People often ask me where I’ve learned so much about stupers and how my stupidity studies started. I explain that I lived with a world class stuper (short for a mystifyingly stupid person) for many years.

I seldom mention my father. In fact, I prefer never bringing him up. In my youth, I was so certain that the man I called “Dad” was an impostor. I believed my real father would show up someday. And he’d be loving, kind and wise. But alas, many blood tests later (our blood types are the same and uncommon), and the poser is definitely the real thing.

From my earliest memories, I realized Dad excelled in lying and bending the truth so out of shape that it lay in a helpless heap on the floor, panting and out of breath. Besides telling falsehoods, Dad’s other greatest weakness lay in his perception of himself in relation to others. He believed everyone was stupid but him, including his wife and children. Hence, he lied freely.

Without revealing too many unpleasant details, I offer two examples of his wayward mind:

First, after my parents’ divorce (I was sixteen at the time; the year my life began), my father commenced telling everyone within earshot his perceived reason for the split between my mother and himself. He even had the audacity to explain his faulty reasoning to me. He said,

“My friends wanna know, why did you get a divorce? I told them it was because of my damn in-laws…”

If one is going to lie, it is important to ensure that the person on the receiving end of the lie either has amnesia or a very short memory. Even more important is for the liar him/herself to have instant recall and/or an impeccable memory.

I took a deep breath and reminded Dad of who used to answer the telephone in our home during the hours in which my mother worked and only father and kids were at home. Me. Then I reminded him of who had been on the other end of the line when I answered said phone. His latest mistress/tramp/floozy. He quickly changed the topic.

Dad had numerous flings during his marriage, and assumed we were blind and deaf. We were not.

The other example occurred just a few days ago. My father called me to say that his doctor discovered that he has an enlarged thyroid which could be cancerous. This doctor wanted to know whether my father’s children (my sister and I) had a history of thyroid issues. At that moment, I placed the receiver down on the kitchen counter as he spoke, and bit my lips and blinked my eyes in utter frustration. Decades have passed, and my father has not made a shred of progress. Since when does a physician ask about your children’s medical history in such a case? They ask about parents’ history, when applicable, for heaven’s sake.

I picked up the phone again. Now he was saying that the doctor insisted that if he doesn’t have an operation immediately, the cancer will grow. It went from “could be cancerous” to a sure thing in two minutes flat. And this ingenious general practitioner physician, according to Dad, had determined all this from a first visit. As we know, stuper doctors do exist, as stupers may be found in every vocation. However, here undoubtedly, all fault lay in my father’s story.

A few years ago, mad at myself for losing my temper over a trivial matter, I complained to my then fourteen-year-old son. My father had a penchant for flying into rages, so I stated that my temper and any failings I had were because of him. My son, being far wiser than myself, said,

“What about all your good qualities? They come from him too. He taught you exactly how not to act.”

Something we should all learn from the stupers among us. How not to behave.

I was exceedingly fortunate when growing up, to have a saintly mother and extraordinary grandparents who more than made up for my father’s shortcomings. I’ve stayed in touch with Dad off and on over the years (off whenever he had a new family; on after each divorce, which happened about three times that I know of), and often wondered why. It would be a lot easier to kiss stupidity goodbye as far as he’s concerned. But the answer is simple. I have so much, and he has so little in his life. And I’ve honed a (mostly) even temper and other desirable qualities, thanks to him.



Stupidity is Blind, Deaf and Dumb

Wednesday, July 9th, 2008

The most important activities in our lives occur in the same place, day after day. Yet stupers (short, yet again, for those disagreeably stupid persons) perpetually ignore this site, behaving as if it was nonexistent. For the meager mind, it is in fact, nonexistent. Where is this place? In the six or so inches between one’s ears.

Case in point: I have two aunts, Fay and Tori. Both are gorgeous women, around sixty-years-old; both exude health and wealth, thanks to husbands who are not just physicians, but specialists in their respective fields. And each aunt is the parent of three, wonderful adult children with bright futures. So what’s their problem? Stupidity.

For the past almost four decades, Aunts Fay and Tori have persistently loathed each other using great pretense. By pretense, I mean when together in public, they’re all strained smiles and overly gushing compliments. Meanwhile, they’re stewing over perceived insults, invisible to all but themselves. When away from each other, much hand wringing, bad mouthing and nose wrinkling goes on about the other. Don’t worry; thanks to the wonders of Botox, all symbols of stress are as nonexistent as their brainpower.

We all complain sometimes about other people. Authentic humans know when to stop. Counterfeit humans do not. They’re so busy watching others, there is no attempt at self improvement. In fact, the self is buried alive beneath the reckless ravings and perpetual fixation on others.

Besides complaining about each other, these aunts also waste their energy trying to outdo the other. Aunt Fay told everyone that her college age son was at Berkeley, leading all to believe he was a student at the University of California, Berkeley. In fact, he worked at a photo shop. Aunt Tori’s daughter just got married. Tori made a point of telling all that her new son-in-law graduated from Yale. True or not, who cares? Does that make them better people? Did I mention that both women appear constantly unhappy?

Certain creatures are blind at night while others can’t see in the daytime. Stupers are blind, day and night. They’re so busy watching others, they forget about eradicating their own weaknesses first. Nonuse or negative use of the mind is a great character flaw.

I don’t believe either of my idiot aunts is capable of harboring kind thoughts toward each other. The habit of loathing has gone on far too long. So instead, if they sought my advice, I would suggest that in order to maintain sanity, they focus their thoughts and energy on all they have to feel grateful for in their lives. Such focus would instantly jump start the empty mind, filling it with worthy thoughts and gradually generate the missing puzzle piece of happiness. Perhaps it would even soften their harsh feelings toward each other to such an extent (eventually anyway) that all such feelings would disappear.

Think first, last and always.


Gawking Stupidity Strikes Again

Saturday, July 5th, 2008

One of the most vile, lowly, meaningless and potentially harmful forms of stupidity is one I’ve posted about in the past. Yet, I must mention it again. If you ever housed any doubt that stupidity is indeed a type of disease, even an epidemic, the event below should change your mind.

There are a number of currently uncontrollable and damaging fires in the area where I live. The other night, my older son (Son), in trying to return home in the evening after work, found that many obstacles got in his way, most especially stupers (short again, for appallingly stupid persons).

During the evening, a widespread power outage took place, as did widespread stupidity. All street lights, signals, stores and homes lacked electricity. Vehicles driving provided the only source of light. In this almost complete darkness, chaos ensued, as people attempted to make their way home. Son reported that many intersections contained traffic accidents. As you may imagine, if there’s even one stuper involved, Murphy’s Law (if anything can go wrong, it will) instantly comes into play.

Although Murphy’s Law originally referred to the failure of scientific or inanimate objects, I ask you, is not a stuper’s brain an inanimate object? Anecdotally, the law has also suggested that some individuals appear to manifest a Murphy Field. When these individuals are around systems that function normally, the systems suddenly fail or operate erratically. Isn’t that so true of stupers?

Son reported that as long as one was cautious, accidents were avoidable. But how about when pedestrian stupers hurled themselves into major boulevards in the darkness trying to cross busy streets in order to get a ringside seat, closer to the fires? Suicide gawkers raced around at night, on foot, in a mad tizzy lest they miss any action. Safety was not an issue. Neither was the possibility of giving aid or assistance to the fire crews.

“Some cars were pulled over, but then there were a few who just stopped in the middle of the street,” Son said in disbelief. “Stupers had their elbows on top of their cars and were just getting a big thrill out of this disaster. I was amazed at how many people were gawking.”

I read a similar account of stupers hindering the efforts of fire trucks at a house fire in North Carolina. Consequently, the home burned down. The town’s fire chief said smoke from the blaze attracted a stream of motorists curious as to what was on fire. He stated that a number of stuper motorists detoured just to take a look at what was burning. The influx of motorists quickly jammed the narrow street, preventing desperately needed tanker trucks from reaching the burning house in time.

I plan to apply for a city permit allowing me to round up gawkers during disastrous events. It shouldn’t be difficult as these stupers usually walk in a daze or stand trance like while gawking, so no sedatives or stun guns will be necessary. Then I’ll place them in a large truck similar to those used by the animal shelter (I’m certain the local shelter will loan one to me, once they hear of my good cause).

The abhorrently curious will be transported to a labor camp. I’ll put them to work so at least they can be useful members of society. Mock disasters will then be staged periodically during their labors. When a stuper demonstrates self-control and is able to put gawking completely aside, he/she may be released back into society. But each time one succumbs to gawking, punishment will be imposed. Don’t worry, nothing too harsh. Just a little shock, courtesy of Japan’s Vision Optic Company.

These harmless looking lenses contain built in sensors, which detect the angle of your head. Should the angle suddenly change and look anywhere other than straight ahead, the motor will kick in, rocking the brain until it returns back to the task at hand. Of course, there is no limit to the rocking time…