Waiting in line at a department store on the day after Christmas is as natural an occurrence as quills on a porcupine. It is to be expected. Stupers (short, yet again, for unflinchingly stupid persons) do not comprehend this. They regard it as highly irregular and an affront to their unwavering sense of impatience.
Yesterday, I returned seven items in the mens section of a store. When my turn arrived to be assisted, two marvelously capable workers helped me. My entire transaction took no more than four minutes. During this period, I glanced behind me. A queue of five people had formed consisting of:
- A small, quiet, resigned fellow who exuded enough patience for the entire city of Buffalo, New York;
- Two large ladies, one of whom favored the size and shape of a small elephant (think Babar, without the jaunty crown);
and the other resembled a cross between a candy cane and cement truck; and
3. A foreign couple whose accent was indeterminate.
My focus remained mostly on the completion of my transaction, but I managed to catch a smattering of chatter between the foreign couple. As you well know, striped is a one syllable word. However, this couple pronounced it as two syllables – stri-ped.
Theres a nice stri-ped shirt over there. Do you like those stri-ped pants? and so on.
I barely noticed this quaint chitchat until the cement truck-like woman interrupted them and announced, Its not stri-ped. Its striped!
Silence ensued, long enough to tie a sneaker. Then the woman continued,
You should know that youve been saying it all wrong. Its striped! Not stri-ped.
Silence again ensued, long enough to tie the other shoe.
Then the couple continued their conversation, Do you like stri-ped pants? I prefer a stri-ped shirt.
I chose that very moment to turn and face the group behind me. I apologized, saying,
Im very sorry to be taking so long.
The responses were,
No problem.
It cant be helped.
Do not worry. It gives us a chance to browse the selection of stri-ped clothing.
Well!
This last comment came out in one great huff from the cement truck-size lady, who, as you may have guessed, was a stuper. That one word indicated that I had no business returning so many items (to which I heartily agreed; but the men in my life are exasperatingly fickle when it comes to wardrobe).
In a span of a few short minutes, stupidity revealed itself. Take note of how the chatty couple dealt with the stuper. They refused to acknowledge her existence, continued their quest for stri-ped clothes and maintained their sense of well-being. They regarded stupidity as they would a pothole in the road. It existed for barely a moment. Once passed, it was readily forgotten.
Think first, last and always.
Keli
Keli@Counterfeithumans.com
I’ve recently noticed that I exhibit a stuper (short, as you well know, for a wickedly stupid person) trait, particularly in weak moments: gullibility. Though I find this appalling, I’d like to think it’s because I so want to believe that people are telling me the truth, that I fall for outright lies. I’m not talking about the Santa Claus fib or when an acquaintance says, “I’ll call you” and never does. I carry a healthy skepticism both about Santa and acquaintances. But I fall for a sob story every time. The only reason I haven’t invested in swampland yet is because the salespeople don’t bother shedding a tear or two before hobbling away and groaning in pain.
Kind, elderly Mrs. P entered my office seeking legal help. Her husband, Big John, pushed her wheelchair. Mrs P cried out in pain when a wheel ran over a pen that had fallen on the floor. She had undergone hip surgery and ended up with a host of other problems, thanks to a Dr. G., so she said.
“He says I don’t even bake him gingersnaps no more and can’t provide him no conjugal services. It’s terrible.” Tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks.
As I drove on a city street at the speed limit of 35 mph, I approached a garbage truck, quietly stopped on the shoulder. This was not cause for alarm. If I stayed in my lane and continued driving, all could be well. But throw in a variable, say an earthquake registering 6.9 on the Richter scale or a violent twister drifting off course some 1500 miles from Kansas City or a stuper (short for a heinously stupid person) on a bicycle, pulling a wagon that may or may not contain a child, who swerves in my lane just as I pass, and suddenly, a mini Armageddon potentially swings into action.
When most of us approach a stopped vehicle, we hopefully stop, or if safe, pass the car using the passing lane. Stupers, being defective in brain capacity by habit and nature, are unable to stop. They are incapable of safely passing. They just continue and either run smack into the stopped vehicle or make a sudden turn in a different direction without assessing the situation.
We, as fans, all hoped Tiger was above the sordid and seedy in life. He appeared able to manage fame and extreme wealth and talent while maintaining esteemed values, without acting moronically. At least that was what he and his business team wanted us to believe. But yet again, like many famous stupers before him, politicians and athletes alike, he lied and acted without thinking of the impact not only on those close to him, but on the general public and fans who adored him.
Yes, Tiger achieved fame and fortune at a tender age; he possibly lacked wise and loving guidance, and consequently lost his head and at least a portion of his reputation and possibly in the near future some of his wealth as well. But, dear readers, yours truly promises that will never happen to her.