I’ve been spending a lot of time at UCLA lately with Son #2, as he prepares to start college. I’m happy to report, we have yet to run into any stupers (short for mercilessly stupid persons). That is…until yesterday.
As we canvassed the huge campus (I easily walked six miles from the residence hall to the book store; well, it was actually one mile, but it sure felt like six with the hills and valleys we crossed), I eyed a clean-cut fellow, a bit too old to be a student, as he appeared to be hovering around the ripe old age of thirty, dressed in a sport jacket and slacks roaming about. He looked quasi official, as if he might be capable of offering needed information. Feeling a bit frustrated, as we’d just circled the maze-like, Math Science building three times in search of Room 121 B, I was about to ask the fellow for directions when he suddenly approached two young women walking toward him.
“Hey! I know you,” He enthusiastically told one of the ladies.
“Really?” She smiled and waited for him to shed some light.
He finally said, “Do you have a friend called ‘Potato?'”
“Uh, no, ” she replied, made a face and started to walk away.
“Are you sure?” he insisted.
“I think I’d remember a friend named Potato.”
“Weren’t you at that party last Sunday night at Fran’s?” He called after her.
And so on, with Son, me and the woman’s companion the hapless audience members, as the guy continued to fumble along, insisting he knew the girl. If there is a Guinness World Book of Records for worst pick-up lines, this would make a strong entry.
I once knew a boy called “Cucumber,” but that was in the third grade, and his nickname was pinned on him thanks to a buzz haircut and a sallow complexion which made him resemble a freshly picked cucumber. Fortunately, “Cucumber” grew out of that name a short time later.
Pick-up lines do not work. Recent research backs this up. A study by psychologists at Scotland’s University of Edinburgh put a host of pickup lines to the test on 205 undergraduates, who rated whether they would be likely to continue the conversation. The results, as my intelligent readers may imagine, were unfavorable. According to this same study, the types of lines that do work are tinged with helpfulness, generosity, cultural literacy and sincerity. Any other varieties of lines are typically uttered by stupers.
Son and I ultimately found the classroom we sought in another smaller, unmarked structure across from the Math Science building. Clearly the configuration of classes at this University is designed to keep idiots away.
Just think.
Keli
Keli@counterfeithumans.com
After I decided to shove aside stupidity and take the ladies at 
Dear Keli:
This is quite coincidental, as Husband (H) mentioned that his hair stylist/cutter had one appointment left at the end of the day (this was last Friday). This appointment was supposed to be right after H. But the client called at the end of H’s cut to say she was just leaving home, and she’d be a bit late. The problem was the client lived thirty-five minutes away. H left amid murmurs of mutiny and threats of sending menacing text messages to the client. I’m not sure if H’s hair handler actually sent the messages or waited, but I can tell you how my mother successfully gets stupers out of the store where she works…most of the time.
Mom has a similar job in a retail shop; she is on her feet daily. Come 7:55, the money in the store is counted, merchandise that needs to be put away is and the employees are ready to go. Sure enough, customers breeze in at about 7:57 and decide to leisurely look around. At 8:00 pm sharp, Mom shuts off the music and the lights, then stands at the door, keys rattling. This is usually successful, except when she is confronted by exceptionally stubborn stupers.
Americans are big on family reunions. Relatives converge at barbecues, parks and campgrounds; at my town’s last Fourth of July parade, one family created a huge float, displaying their reunion proudly and quite bravely. Yesterday, I was forced to view two reunions of a different sort: stuper (short, yet again, for a predominantly stupid person) assemblies and not amid the safety of a parade or park.
The next stuper reunion took place in Trader Joe’s market, smack in the middle of the dried fruit and nuts aisle (ironic, don’t you think?). I needed a package of raisins, but was prevented from grabbing one because an idiot family, spanning several generations, parked themselves in the very spot I needed to be, while they feasted on samples of tiramisu and lemonade.
Husband (H) drove on a busy highway; a highway that conjures up a warm, special, holiday pudding type of feeling in the hearts of all Caltrans workers, as this stretch of the road has been under construction for over a decade. H’s was the third vehicle in a line of cars traveling around the speed limit of 65 mph.
A sign appeared on one side of the highway, warning, “Flagger ahead.”
A Caltrans worker, sporting the usual trendy (in the highway worker fashion industry) nylon, orange vest, stood down the road, on the side, head slightly tilted, mouth somewhat ajar, arms folded across his burly chest, staring off into the distant horizon, daydreaming undoubtedly of beers and bubble baths (I’ve heard this ale and soap suds combo is big with 4 out of 9 Caltrans workers).
Nonsense is accelerating in all settings, directly compromising our outcomes. “Directly compromising” is euphemistic. What it really means is that we will eventually lose our minds if we don’t do something. Again, violence is not the answer unless one is particularly attracted to rooms with bars (not the kind with shot glasses and olives, but the decorative, practical, steel enforced variety) and license plate making.
A few years ago, Son #2 and I waited in the car at the local college to pick up Son #1. While we sat, a large pick-up truck pulled in a nearby spot. As the occupant closest to us climbed out of the passenger side, a medium size, white paper bag tumbled out after him. A thinking, considerate human would have automatically picked up the bag and put it back in the truck or thrown it out in a nearby trash can, or at least conducted a quick scan around him for onlookers who’d hopefully shame him out of acting moronically. But this stuper (short again for a predominantly stupid person) glanced at the forlorn bag lying on the asphalt, and then kicked it underneath the truck.
As a car turned towards the supremely stupid skateboarder at that very moment, he suddenly lost his balance, fell off the board and hard on his butt onto the unyielding asphalt. The car screeched to a halt. The hapless fellow managed to stagger back to his feet, then winced as he rubbed his sorry