Counterfeit Humans

It seems there’s a burning question about stupidity. A question actually posed to me during a mini (with heavy emphasis on “mini”) symposium I attended a few days ago on Perplexing Characters Traits in Today’s Society. Stupidity is not actually a trait, but a lamentable character flaw. Nonetheless, I did bask in my fifteen minutes of answering pressing queries on stupers (short, yet again, for unabidingly stupid persons) and their unbecoming behavior.

I spoke in front of a small crowd that teetered somewhere in their mid-twenties and early thirties; they regarded me as a sage relic of sorts on stupidity. The burning question was “Is ignorance bliss?” or “Are stupers happy?”

Some of my extremely sharp-minded readers are sighing profoundly right about now and politely wondering, was this perchance asked by a stuper? Because ignorance and stupidity are not synonyms. Not even part of the same family, let alone species. As you know, I don’t even count stupers as humans, deeming them counterfeit. Real humans flip on their mental switches and diligently keep them on, with only minor slip-ups now and then. Stupers don’t take the effort to turn this mental switch on. They’ve not used it in so long, they’ve forgotten of its very existence.

One can be ignorant without being an idiot. For instance, if you asked me to explain the inner workings of a carburetor for an internal combustion engine of a hand-held working tool, I would plead complete ignorance and be completely unable to explain about the suction channel and the throttle connected to the suction channel to make it pivotable and know nothing of the control chamber. (Yes, I am a modest, self-taught, know-it-all). However, if I dug a deep hole, jumped into it, was unable to come out and refused all offers of assistance, I’d qualify as a stuper. Ignorance is not knowing; stupidity is knowing and doing it anyway.

So the question went like this: “Isn’t it true that ignorance is bliss? Don’t we often see stupid people, like, looking all happy?”

My reply: Absolutely not. Stupers usually appear miserable and discontented. They are gloomy by nature, hence perpetuating their affliction of stupidity.

Sometimes those with actual, medically diagnosed disorders and/or abnormal development of mental faculties such as mental retardation, autism, and various psychological issues are mistakenly regarded as stupid. They are usually regarded as such by stupers who take no time out for understanding or tolerance. Additionally, sometimes those with disorders as above described may appear happy. I’ve met many a Down’s Syndrome (a genetic disorder) sufferer who seemed quite happy, and in fact, may be happy. I’m afraid my unpracticed audience member mistook that for stupidity.

I carefully explained that stupers have a working mind and yet abstain from utilizing it. Thought is virtually nonexistent. It’s almost a kind of selfishness where the idiot’s interests are entirely within himself. This is caused by imperfect understanding as well as an almost permanent sense of confusion. A person who can govern his thinking determines the course of his life.

I noticed several pairs of glassy eyes after my speech so I summarized my talk with this statement and quote:

Thinking is to the mind what a fine cool pair of jeans is to the posterior a*s (when in Rome, you know), and

The trouble ain’t that there is too many fools, but that the lightning ain’t distributed right. ~Mark Twain

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

If I believed everything I read in women’s magazines, I’m likely to have a deadly disease, my butt needs boosting (in five minutes or less!), I need to wage war on cellulite and stress (hopefully simultaneously), my nose should be thinner, I should engage in sneaky ways to achieve my dream weight and Botox is my only hope. Is it any wonder that the only women’s magazine I subscribe to is Town & Country? All I need to be worried about within those pleasant pages is the sizzling art scene in Paris, English gardens and Cartier watches.

“New diseases emerge more frequently than people realize” states a boldfaced, Self magazine article. Why are they telling us this, dear readers? Because they want to kindly keep us informed about calories and health threats while offering the latest fudgy Brownie recipe (all on the cover of Shape magazine)? Or are they hoping we’ll obsess, garner self-pity, give in to fear and maybe even self-destruct, so they can write about us in their unhallowed pages?

These magazines are highly presumptuous. My butt does not need boosting. I don’t have cellulite (none that I can see anyway and isn’t that what matters?), I weigh the same as I did in high school, I like my nose, thank you very much, and I don’t need their generic, life-saving advice. Even if it is allegedly from “real women” (as opposed to what? Mannequins? Lab rats? Are they trying to convince us that they actually conducted research?).

The media tends to prey on our emotions and weaknesses. They seek out our Achilles’ heels. It helps their unworthy cause if readers are stupers (short for unswervingly stupid persons). They hope to instill panic; they want us orphaned by common sense and reason.

Are you wondering right about now, intelligent readers, if persons truly exist who believe these articles? I present to you, Exhibit A: one of my stuper relatives, Scarlett. She is an attractive businesswomen in her late fifties, who reads these magazines. She advocates and uses Botox because Vogue said so. In fact, she told my mother that “all normal women use Botox.” Hence, Mom is not normal. Need I say more?

And don’t think for a moment that the broadcast media is any better. They thrive on criticism and hopelessness.

On my way to Los Angeles last week, I searched through Talk Radio stations, hoping to stumble upon some stimulating, and possibly even charming, discussions. Yes, I was stuck in heavy traffic and becoming increasingly delusional by the second. I learned that Senator McCain is a fading war-monger with senility sitting heavily on his shoulders, and Senator Obama is a socialist, possibly even a card-carrying member of the Communist party, who keeps a half-brother in poverty in Kenya. Then I was told that not for a moment should I doubt that the economy is crumbling. Warren Buffett’s encouraging words were meaningless. To hell with Buffett! The stock market will not revive. Don’t you dare carry any hope!

Listen to me, dear readers! We can rise above, conquer and outsmart the media. To do this, ironically, we must go on a diet. But this type of diet is never discussed in mediocre magazines. I speak of a mental diet. Or perhaps more precisely, a mental adjustment.

We have unlimited potential. Our potential is often like a treasure chest hidden atop a high mountain, covered by shrubbery, dirt, bird dung, dead branches and an assortment of undiscriminating insects. We need to clear away the rubbish that keeps our treasures concealed. This rubbish consists of our own negative thoughts and detrimental, jaundiced external feeds, such as that found in the media and the stupers among us. We must hone our ability to focus on that which falls under our control. (No, I am not standing atop a podium). Our minds fall within our own grasp. We control what goes in.

We need to flood our minds with positive and constructive thoughts. So much so that all dark shadows within the mind take flight. It’s too easy to droop in the face of pessimism or unfavorable news. Our mental faculties will grow only if we deposit good-will. I’ve said it before: Focus on your good, so your good will grow.

Surround yourself with loving, kind and thoughtful folk as well as reading material. Exile the stupers. They won’t notice, but you will.

Thoughts are everything.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

The purchase of a simple greeting card should be a painless, inoffensive task…unless, of course, there is a stuper (short, yet again, for an insurmountably stupid person) involved. Then it could turn into a journey similar to wading through a swamp, blindfolded, while balancing a basket on one’s head filled with coconuts that must promptly reach a starving village.

My favorite natural foods market, Lazy Acres, sports an awesome greeting card collection. I’ve always found cards so perfect, I’d swear they were created just for my intended recipients. In fact, I love the whole store. I know many employees by name; they’ve watched my kids grow up and often ask after my mother. These wonderful workers act happy to see me, and they merely smile and nod when they catch me privately confabbing with myself. What more could I ask for?

I’ve considered setting up camp there or just moving in, that’s how welcome I feel. Best of all, stupers are absent…almost. Periodically, idiot employees make a brief appearance, then vanish altogether leaving store managers looking sheepish and apologetic, muttering to themselves,

“I don’t know how that happened,” or “We were always so careful.”

However, there is Andrea (An-DRAY-uh). She’s worked at Lazy Acres for years despite her overt, obvious and ostentatious stupidity. I’m certain one of the Zen monk type store owners hired her as a sort of benevolent act of charity or perhaps to offset some karmic debt that desperately needed to be repaid. There is no other explanation.

When Andrea worked in the Deli section, my #1 Son dreaded ordering lunch. Invariably, when he’d ask for yellow mustard on his roast beef sandwich, he’d get horseradish, and the roast beef would conveniently be left out. He’d ask for a soft French roll, and get rock-hard, crusty panini, befitting a lusty sea captain.

Andrea soon vanished and peace was restored in the Deli.

Then one day, I sought a birthday card. The greeting cards that caught my eye sported poignant quotations from wise, respected historical figures.  The particular one I chose came from a group of smallish size cards with different quotes for various occasions. There were about fifty such cards, all missing one vital requirement: envelopes.

I asked a manager for help. He left for a few minutes, then returned, apologized, smiled contritely and stated they were all out of that size envelope. I found this to be quite alarming. Stupidity was lurking about.

I purchased the card, knowing I had plenty of envelopes at home. As I neared the exit, I ran smack into Andrea in the greeting card section.

“Hihowareyou,” she stated in a monotone reserved for those made mostly of hard components, wires in primary colors and assorted electronics. She shuffled away with me in close pursuit.

“So where are the envelopes to these cards?” I asked, waving the evidence (birthday card) in my hand.

“Oh, you know, customers come and take them all,” she replied flippantly.

I took a quick eye-count and noted that each one of the other types of greeting cards included envelopes. I didn’t have to be Inspector Poirot, Clouseau or even Gadget to realize what happened. Andrea’s cable connection was clearly scrambled.

My choices were twofold: continue to argue with the semi-operational Andrea and get absolutely nowhere except doused with a heavy film of annoyance or remove myself from the active presence of a stuper and thereby maintain my sanity.

I did not want Andrea to trespass into my mind, leaving her messy fingerprints. If I became irritated, she’d do just that. No matter how impatient you feel, don’t lower yourself to the level of a stuper. If the signs of the presence of a stuper are glaring, do yourself a favor and move on.

Keep thinking.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com