The other day, after a stuper (short for a preposterously stupid person) entered my office building, wandered down its lovely, faux finished hallways to my suite, and accused my assistant of harassing him after she nicely asked, “May I help you?” I decided to take a brisk stroll, and gave my assistant the afternoon off (she deserved it, as we’d been subjected to a barrage of nonstop, sue-happy, completely idiotic callers in the legal non-profit where I work; I left a message for the people at the Guinness World Book of Records to report the phenomenon).
Alas, my walk was not stuper-free, as I came to realize: I may be the target of a hitman. Here’s why:
I waited on a street corner. When the light turned green for me to enter the crosswalk in the smallish, downtown area where I work, I hesitated before I stepped down off the curb, and it was a good thing that I did, because an SUV nearly barreled over me… during my green light.
The crosswalk was in a medium size, one way street with two lanes; yet, I felt like I was crossing a narrow bridge over a dangerous river with deceitful whirlpools and extraordinarily turbulent waters.
After that first encounter, I bravely entered the crosswalk, stepping out one foot in front of the other and eyeing the traffic from all sides, but before I could make it to the other side, an oncoming motorist drove right through in front of me, a mere three feet away from my person, brakes optional, while I posed, shoe in mid-air. You’ve got to believe me when I tell you that I’m not invisible. Especially while wearing my ruffled, red top. Nor am I overly small, as my four inch heels elongated me, lengthening my height to roughly 6 ft. Two conclusions immediately came to mind: a stuper hired a hitman to mow me down, or
I was part of a new reality TV show, where unsuspecting peds are nearly hit, just for giggles and ratings. Sheer genius.
The hitman option was not a viable one. First, because hitmen cost a lot of money, and neither of the cars that almost plowed me down were luxury vehicles. I would hope the price on my head would fall in the mid six-figure range. Also, stupers lack intent. They just act and talk freely, liberally displaying their inadequacies for all to view. They could not even consider hiring an assassin, let alone purposefully behaving like one. It was more probable that I was part of a newly developed reality show. Possibly by Fox, the same folks who put on “The Little Groom,” where a group of tiny bachelorettes competed against average-sized women for the heart of a 4-foot-5 bachelor.
Or by UBN who brought us, “Amish in the City,” where five young Amish people were plucked from their traditional lifestyles and encouraged to live life in the city with wild abandon for our viewing pleasure.
The only reality is: stupers exist. To overcome encounters with these determinedly empty-headed beings, we must keep watch over our own minds at all times and create our own realities; not the ones they want to make us believe exists.
Think for yourself.