June 22, 2008 by Keli.

A surefire way to make a stuper (short again, for a ceaselessly stupid person) your bff (best friend forever) is to show him/her your money. As long as there’s plenty of it. You’ll have your very own, newly found, totally devoted stuper buddy, not only eating out of the palm of your hand, but licking it clean and giving it a manicure followed by an exfoliating scrub and moisturizing paraffin bath with toasty mitts. It’s not just celebs who’ve got a following. Stupers follow the money.

In my formative, late teen years, I recall an exalted presence revered by quite a few of my relations. (Remember, I have enough kin to rival the number of residents in Crawford County, Arkansas, population 280).

Kenny T was his name, spoken only in the most awed tones. He started out as a friend of one of my mother’s cousins; then, once word of his net worth leaked out, many of my relatives scrambled and tripped over themselves to become Kenny’s T closest and bestest pal. It was quite a tangled mess.

Kenny was much admired for….I’m not exactly sure for what, outside of his bank account. But tried and true stupers don’t require much in order to lavish their limited attention and unending, but highly superficial admiration upon a person; just plenty of dough. And a dash of celebrity doesn’t hurt either, which Kenny T cultivated by inviting occasional celebs to his parties.

Kenny lived in a mansion, drove the requisite cars, but seemed to me to have one small defect: zero personality. He didn’t talk much, but then again, he didn’t have to. His money did the talking for him.

I remember well the time when Kenny attended a party at the home of a cousin’s mother in-law. I happened to be there too. The hostess was practically in tears the whole night since she had Kenny T lounging on her leather recliner in the living room. There was a restless hysteria in the air, thanks to Kenny’s presence. People fawned over him, smiling fondly when he yawned and blinked his eyes. Those sitting near him feared leaving their seats lest someone else take over the coveted spot. Kenny T was a brightly shining neon light in the middle of a blackout.

So he continued to amass a large stuper following until one day he woke up to find…he’d lost all of his money. Guess what else he lost?

Many years passed and I forgot all about Kenny T as did my relatives. Then I attended the funeral of one of my great uncles. During the eulogy, I glanced over and noticed a lone man standing off to one side, behind the rest of the mourners. He looked vaguely familiar. Grayer, older, smaller. Just to be sure, I asked an uncle to confirm that it was indeed, the formerly beloved, Kenny T.

“Oh yeah! That’s him.”

Kenny T got into an older Volvo and drove away without having exchanged a word with anyone. I saw people glance his way…and ignore him. Quite a contrast to his bygone glorious, hallowed, monied days.

Stupers are opportunistic acquaintances. Fair weather friends. They choose people to befriend who can provide some sort of gain to themselves. A true friend doesn’t expect anything in return, and should not be interested in your bank account.

Keep thinking.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Monumental Stupidity, Relative stupidity | 7 Comments »

May 20, 2008 by Keli.

For years, scientists have been grappling with the concept of time. They dream of harnessing this elusive, mysterious phenomenon in order to perform heretofore unimagined wonders. Stupers (short for chronically stupid persons) often manage to stop time altogether.

Take for instance, Fred’s simple excursion into a multi-story parking structure. He arrived early, knowing spaces would be plentiful. Fred entered the structure and promptly came to an abrupt halt. Another car, stopped dead center, awaited the departure of a parked vehicle. From Fred’s vantage point, he spotted numerous, lonely, vacant spots, just around the corner. Undoubtedly, they existed throughout the structure.

Meanwhile, the driver of the car in front of Fred, brushed her hair and applied mascara while she rocked out with Avril Lavigne. And the parked car that she awaited? Well, that driver had slipped into a coma.

As the clock ticked, a line of cars appeared behind Fred. Fred tooted his horn. No reaction from either stuper. Then he honked it. Motorists behind him chimed in to show their support. No reaction. When Fred rolled down his window, about to scream like a banshee, the parked car driver must have awoken from his reverie. He started his engine and slowly lumbered out. Finally, Fred was free to drive up and away and choose from hundreds of available spaces in the structure.

What should Fred have done to offset the immense annoyance and irritation he felt being stuck behind persons of such obviously impoverished intellects? He should have reached behind his seat, pulled a few levers and convinced himself that he didn’t lack patience, had plenty of time, focused on something he really desired in life, then clicked his heels together three times and said, “There’s no way stupers can get to me.”

********************************************************************************************

When I went to the post office to send a package, I considered myself exceedingly fortunate; there was only one person in line in front of me.

When it was my turn, the postal worker seemed pleasant and helpful. Visions of finishing my business in less than two minutes danced in my head. That was before the bundt cake incident.

Just after my package was weighed, the employee reached behind her to get a stamp when time froze for all present. Why? Because the worker assisting me stopped to chat with another employee who’d just arrived, and who suffered from an unnatural desire to describe, in abundant detail, the bundt cake she’d baked the night before. The kind of detail normally utilized to describe a science experiment to the professors in the physics department of MIT.

To recapture the attention I required, I attempted to exude enough personal warmth to ignite a small campfire; I smiled, threw back my head and laughed in wild abandon. Not surprisingly, it didn’t work, although the rest of the people waiting in line were quite amused. I was just about to yell, “Hey!” in a volume that would surely prove once and for all that I was a gifted yeller, when the worker turned back to me and gave me my stamp. Next time, I’ll just click my heels together and say, “There’s no place like home,” so before I know it, I will be home.

Remember, focus on your good so your good will grow. If you focus on stupidity, well, you know what’ll happen.

Keep thinking.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Monumental Stupidity, Vehicular Stupidity, Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity | 6 Comments »

May 14, 2008 by Keli.

It was pointed out to me that I seem to have a flair for finding stupidity wherever I go. It’s true. I’m always on the lookout for stupers (short, once more, for fundamentally stupid persons), but I do it for the sole purpose of assisting others, as well as myself, to avoid the commonplace annoyance and often overwhelming irritation resulting from inane encounters. After all, many illnesses and mental disorders are, I believe, an offshoot of persistent, unwelcome contact with complete and utter idiots. I sincerely hope I am helpful to my dear readers.

Over the past few days, the family and I traveled to Palm Springs as Son participated in a junior golf tournament. The hotel itself was wonderful, but the food….Lord have mercy!

Meals are important to me. Yes, I am demanding. I have this irrational desire that my food taste good, and that it meet certain specifications. Namely, to be cooked, if it’s not a fruit or vegetable or an entree that’s meant to be consumed raw. Hello? Do I look like a large, carnivores jungle cat to you? Trust me, I don’t.

I like my burgers, medium to medium-well done. Same with my steak. And I said exactly that to our server. Very courteously, of course. Here’s what I got:

My mother made the mistake of ordering a plain, old medium cooked steak.

Her order practically ambled across the table. She had it sent back to the kitchen three times. Finally, it came back looking like this:

When she complained to the server, the server said, “I stood by the chef while he cooked it.”

Stupers do not make reliable eyewitnesses.

Alas, both the cook and each one of our servers were part of an intricate plot to serve up the worst food imaginable and contrary to the customers’ orders. Maybe they were celebrating “Opposite Day,” part of some strange stuper ritual, yet to be made public.

We quietly made our grievances known to the kindly hotel staff who eyed us sympathetically, but without remorse.

On the way back home, I stopped at a bakery for a loaf of bread. Being in a hurry, I forgot to ask the person assisting me to slice the loaf before handing it to me. When I did so, she looked at me as if I’d insisted she set the place on fire.

“You didn’t ask to have it sliced,” she responded testily.

“Yes, I know,” I replied. “Would you please slice it now?”

While I waited for her to slice the freaking bread, and watched her huff and puff over it, I remembered something. Please humor me, as I wax philosophical-like. I recalled an ancient parable about an elderly monk who slowly made his way along a dirt road. Suddenly a large man, in a huge hurry, pushed past the monk and knocked the old man down as he raced by, without a glance back. As a younger monk helped the elder one up, the old monk shouted after the man, “May you be happy all the days of your life!”

The young monk said, “What are you saying? Didn’t you see what he just did to you?”

The older monk replied, “Do you think he’d have done that if he’d been happy?”

Which brings me to my question of the day: do you think stupers are happy? I say true happiness comes from helping others, nurturing a grateful heart and using the enormous power of thought and consideration, all of which surpass stupers’ capabilities.

I ignored the rudeness of the miserable bakery worker, realizing unhappiness created her attitude. Once again, stupers serve as fine examples of how not to behave.

Think first, last and always.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Monumental Stupidity, Positive stupidity, Professional Stupidity, Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity | 8 Comments »

December 11, 2007 by Keli.

Ah! What an enormous pleasure it is to feast on a sumptuous meal in excellent company. Unfortunately, nothing can deflate a delectable dining experience faster than doleful, depressing subject matter, i.e., when a stuper (that’s right; short again for an egregiously stupid person) spills the measly contents of its meager mind on the table. The unintelligent excel in spreading rubbish, diminishing all flavor and appetite. Allow me to demonstrate:

I attended a dinner party and shared a table with eight wonderful family members. We discussed our children, the weather, pets, books we’ve skimmed, recipes we’ve altered and social encounters we wished we could have skimmed or altered.

In addition to the eight pleasing relations, there sat two seasoned, industrious and steadfast stupers among us: Iris (who’s been studying the Bible for over three decades and has made, I ‘m afraid, not a shred of progress), and Gil, a fifty-three-year old bachelor/trust fund recipient/atheist.

My cousin, Scott, discussed filming his surfing documentary when he unintentionally grabbed the ears of the hollow headed:

Scott: I filmed these huge waves in Pebble Beach last week and…

Gil: I heard about the surfer that got killed there on Tuesday. Is that when you were there?

Scott: Oh yes, that…

Iris: Someone was killed? (She poked her nose in, interrupting herself while in mid conversation with my aunt).

Gil (to Scott): Did you know him?

Scott: I was there because the waves were really high…

Iris: Did you see the body?

Gil: You think you could have saved him?

Iris: How did it make you feel?

Scott: Well…

Iris: Did you get it on film?

Scott: I didn’t even know anything happened ’til much later.

Iris: You can sell the film to a TV station.

Scott caught my eye.

Me: It’s not right to profit that way.

Scott: No, I don’t think so either.

I, stupidity specialist that I humbly am, had intuitively tuned out the beginning of this conversation until the very end when I heard Iris suggest selling the footage. Then I had to put my foot down. Unfortunately for Iris, I was wearing four-inch heels (the kind that needs to be sharpened with a file now and then), and she wore rubbery sandals. Thankfully, paramedics were not necessary.

Meal times, especially at festive affairs, should be mirthful, relaxing occasions. Conversations should lean toward the lightweight and harmonious.

There are three ways to handle those who wish to discuss distressing news at the dinner table:

1. gently steer the conversation back to a different, more palatable topic;
2. scold the stuper for his/her attempt at spoiling everyone’s appetite; or
3. get up from your seat with your filled beverage glass, walk over to the stuper and pour out the liquid over the stuper’s head..accidentally, of course.

Common sense is not so common ~ Voltaire

Think for yourself.

Keli
Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Monumental Stupidity, Religious stupidity, Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity, Relative stupidity | 7 Comments »

December 3, 2007 by Keli.

I practically crash-landed into a veritable hotbed of stupidity the other day when I visited Costco, the discount membership warehouse club superstore. For over an hour, I was subjected to one stuper (short for an unquestionably stupid person), after another.

It started with the Chanel sunglasses. My sister wished to discard a pair she’d bought; one lens was scratched. Who better to donate them to, but me? A hand-me-up, if you will, since I am the older sibling. I thought they’d be a perfect pair to remake into prescription shades.

My actual prescription had just lapsed, but since my vision has remained unchanged for several decades, I figured a full-blown examination was unnecessary. Hence, I took the shortcut to Costco’s optometry center. I was hoping it was the sort of place where you enter, pass out for a few seconds, then suddenly come to, holding a pair of glasses, ready to go. If only.

A sorry sight greeted me when I first laid eyes on the receptionist. One of her arms lay outstretched on the desk, cushioning an ear; in fact, supporting her whole head which rested sideways on the arm. Her other hand drew pictures of skulls, daisies and a remarkable likeness of Walter Cronkite on paper spread before her. As you may guess, dear readers, she didn’t budge when I entered.

Another employee, ignoring the languid one, soon arrived to help me. Would that I could say this one was better.

“Hen I scratch ooh?” she said, cheerfully.

Now my hearing is still quite good despite my advancing years. Was this worker speaking a different language? No. And it wasn’t any type of discount store discourse either. Instead of facing me when she spoke, she stuck her head in a nearby cardboard box and then uttered her query.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

Pulling her head from the box, she then repeated, “Can I help you?”

I told her what I needed, and she moved me to a section a few feet away and said,

“Say ow.”

This time when she spoke, she turned her back to me and peered beneath a chair as if searching for a note taped underneath.

“What?” I wondered.

She then straightened up and repeated, “Sit down.”

There were three machines used to test my eyes. Each time she wanted me to switch to a new machine, she sprouted a muffled directive before freeing her mouth to speak clearly (upon my request).

“Whoosh a butt head.” (Push the button) “Who owe her.” (Move over), and so forth. There always seemed to be a box, folder or table for her to press her lips against when she spoke. I’d swear I was part of a secret government experiment monitoring toleration levels of those who must deal with stupers.

Finally, it was my turn to see the doctor. I don’t do well with people trying to poke me in the eye. Or those bent on stretching the skin on my face. And so it was when the optometrist insisted I try a pair of new contacts that were far superior to the pair I wore. He tried to insert a lens in my eye while pulling down the skin below it so low, I was certain the roots of my upper molars were showing. I stood up.

“May I do it myself? I’m not used to someone else inserting the lens,” I informed him.

Handing it over to me, he then pouted during the rest of the exam.

At long last, my torture session in order to lay claim to a pair of prescription Chanel sunglasses was nearly over. All I had to do was get past the woman who took the order for the glasses.

As I sat behind the counter, I noticed I had a little problem. I had to pick up my younger son in ten minutes, and this employee, Stacy, was deeply engrossed in eavesdropping on a conversation in Spanish occurring next to her.

“Do you speak Spanish?” I asked in order to return her attention to me.

“No,” Stacy responded and continued to stare, mouth open, at the Spanish speakers. For heaven’s sake, this is California. Everyone speaks Spanish.

“So what does the computer screen say about me?” I asked.

Once again I endeavored to regain her attention.

And so it went for the next ten minutes. Then I was free.

When one is stuck in the hub of stupidity, one must keep one’s focus on the reason for being there: that crisp and tasty carrot dangling at the end of the stick. Those sunglasses looked pretty darn good on me.

Thinking is worthwhile.

What is the hardest task in the world? To think. ~ Emerson
Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Monumental Stupidity, Professional Stupidity | 4 Comments »

November 2, 2007 by Keli.

“Kill himmmm!” someone screeched from the bleachers.

I had a problem with this. The screamer was yelling for someone to kill my then eight-year-old son.

The above battle cry did not come from a roving banshee. Nor did it emanate from a member of the Zamgoozee tribe from deepest, darkest Africa who somehow managed to master a few key terms in English. A parent/stuper (short for a distressingly stupid person) emitted said scream during a Tae Kwon Do meet at UCLA. Am I mistaken, or do I not live in a civilized part of the world? Isn’t California still considered civilized by some?

Kids from surrounding cities met in a match to display their prowess in martial arts. Physical contact was not permitted at the lower age levels; just a demonstration of proper moves by adorable trios of little wannabe Jackie Chans. Tae Kwon Do encourages yells by students (”Yah!”) in order to display power through muscle tension. Key words here are “by students” not “by stupers” sitting in the audience.

I read about such unseemly situations becoming so out-of-control that parents were carted off to jail for excessive behavior. Two dueling mothers set a Guinness Book World record for most utterances of b*&ch in a span of 42 seconds at a little league soccer match. A father was arrested for waving a .357 Magnum around like it was a parade streamer in the face of his son’s football coach. By the way, it was seven-and-under, peewee football.

These are instances of stupers attempting to give coaches and other parents a piece of their minds. This is severely taxing to all since the minds of these belligerent agitators are barren. It’s like turning out all trouser and jacket pockets and always coming up empty handed.

Does the fact that most of us parents spend a small fortune on classes and equipment entitle us to act like Babylonian warriors? Do we have kids so that we may perfect our little mini-selves in places where we fall short? Or is it just stupidity?

Parents who scream at students and coaches need to be thrown out or banned from such events and not permitted re-entry unless they agree to undergo rigorous sporting event etiquette training. Semi-sedation in the form of nitrous oxide (i.e., laughing gas) should be permitted in emergency situations. That would help lighten things up a bit.

The purpose of kids’ sports events is twofold. Fun and more fun. Hopefully enjoyable too for the parents who are quietly or contentedly observing in the stands.

Children should bring out the best in us. We can’t afford to allow ourselves to transform into stupers, especially in front of our kids at events that are meant to benefit them. Losing self-control is equal to stupidity. To do so in front of our children is monumental stupidity.

I hear there’s a dearth of role-models for today’s kids. Would it be too burdensome to remind parents that the best role models exist inside the home?

Think first, last and always!

Keli
Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Monumental Stupidity, Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity | 4 Comments »

September 12, 2007 by Keli.

There’s something most of us wear every single day of our lives. It’s one of the first things others notice when they look at us. Therefore, it’s of utmost importance that stupers (short once again for unequivocally stupid persons) not get their uncouth hands on this: our hair.

Before I had kids, I frequented hip hair salons near my office where I was pampered and primped. My hair was cut by stylists who obviously took no interest in their own unkempt hair; they unselfishly focused only on their clients.

Post kids, I frequented salons of closest proximity and hoped for the best. After several recommendations, I went to see Justine of Justine’s Hair Studio.  

Justine herself was an attractive blonde; her hair was carefully styled. The salon too appeared pleasing to the eye. No hint of disgruntled customers. No one running into the parking lot wearing dark shades and a bucket over her head. No sign of hysterics.

All I wanted was to cover a few gray hairs. I explained to Justine that I liked a natural look. My hair is dark brown and shoulder length. No one needed to know that I colored it but she and I. She nodded conspiratorially. I relaxed.

When she finished, my hair was not the color of a freshly picked chestnut as I desired, but of crude oil. Jet, inky black.

“It’s too dark,” I told her.

Justine’s date had arrived and hovered around the waiting area. “Go home and check it out. If you want it lighter, come back tomorrow.”

I returned the next day. Justine assured me, “Don’t worry.” (Remember what I said last time about stupers who toss that line around?)

What does “I like my natural color” mean to you? Does it mean I want my hair to resemble the hide of a zebra grazing at a Kenyan water hole? Because suddenly I had stripes that any zebra would longingly admire. Excuse me for a few minutes while I stroll out  into my back pasture, open my mouth wide and holler for a good sixteen seconds or until I empty all the air out of my body.

**********************************************

Okay, I’m back. So yes, I had cream colored, distinctive stripes on my hair. I blinked several times, hoping that each time I opened my eyes, I’d awaken from my hairgedy (short for hair tragedy). I was speechless. So what did Justine say?

“Do you want me to put it in a French braid for you?”

I realized that if I permitted Justine to do anything else to my hair, I might have to be led out in handcuffs. Yet there were no empty buckets or pillowcases around for me to cover my head with when I went out in broad daylight. While I sat there mutely, Justine braided my hair. This is what the back of my head looked like when she was done:

 I kept it in this braid for a few days while I decided what to do. Did I bother to mention that I was to be the Maid of Honor at my sister’s wedding in a week?

When I went out in public for the first time in my stripes, my son’s kindergarten teacher ran into me and stopped in the middle of her hello as her eyes fell upon my hair.

“My hairdresser was on drugs,” I explained helpfully.

She nodded in total understanding.

To cut to the chase, I ended up seeing my sister’s hairdresser (yet another person who cared nothing about his own locks) who gently coaxed my hair back to its original shade.

Moral of this tale: If the person doing your tresses looks like he/she spends far too much time on his/her own hair, chances are they are stupid stylists.

Just think!

Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Monumental Stupidity | 9 Comments »

August 26, 2007 by Keli.

There’s a habit so vile, a vice so loathsome that it can only be practiced by stupers (short, once again, for chronically stupid persons). I refer to the affliction known as… littering.

Human garbage dispensers regard the world as their personal waste bin. Teens drop food wrappers mere feet from brightly hued, easily viewed waste containers. Indifferent picnickers watch rubbish blow gently away in the wind. Car windows roll down not just for fresh air or to wave a hand or the finger, but to shamelessly spread trash. We’ve all witnessed pieces of litter carelessly pressed against a curb or intrusively entangled in the arms of weeds and shrubs. Littering is selfish stupidity at its height.

These stupers are not blind or hindered by a visible physical handicap. They could be suffering from DDD (Decent Disposal Disorder). Before I continue, those of you exceptionally intelligent readers may’ve noticed that I do spend a fair amount of time here diagnosing all sorts of maladies pertaining to stupers. It’s because I have a plan. I’m going to open my own pharmaceutical company and oversee the creation of drugs and medications directly relating to disorders suffered by stupers. These drugs will contain a slew of delicious side effects (i.e., vivid dreams featuring Jack Black, a propensity to mistake Pepto Bismol for red wine, a compulsive need to stalk mailboxes). I can’t wait to personally test some of these side effects myself, such as sudden impulse to gamble, or extreme desire to shop uncontrollably at Bloomingdale’s. But I digress.

Back to trashy stupidity:

A few days ago, I walked along a beach located in an affluent community. A respected university sits nearby; consequently, many college students reside in this town. As I strolled, I saw adventurous seagulls gliding beneath the start of a glowing sunset; shimmering waves wrinkling the smooth sea top; golden sand dented by three couches piled up, one on top of the other; a forlorn iron patio chair captured by a tangly piece of seaweed; random tires; picture frames and tennis rackets. Even a new motorcycle lay crushed and broken. Cast-off by counterfeit humans; dumped on the shore from the cliffs above. Discarded and forgotten like used toothpicks.

This profane spectacle was so disheartening that local television crews were on the spot interviewing distraught locals. The unsightly mess was likely deposited onto the beach from apartment buildings standing above. Undoubtedly, stupers lurked in and around these seemingly innocent structures.

I heard locals talk of remedies:

“I think the death penalty would make a strong statement.” “How about bringing back public floggings? We could even have a BBQ while we watched. Maybe get a TV deal.” “The landlords of the buildings should be responsible for renting to stupers.” “We’ll do what we’ve been doing all along. Pick up after them. We have to take back our beach.”

This last response was made by a thinking, intelligent being who led a volunteer cleaning crew. I asked the leader why he bothers cleaning up knowing the meager minded would deposit trash again and again.

“Maybe if enough of us did our part, these people would give up.”

I would have added that this beach belongs to all of us. It was here before we were and will be here long after. We all must share in the responsibility.

After interviewing a few of the landlords of the suspect buildings, I concluded that college students were the unworthy culprits.

I did say, in a previous post, that I don’t pick on the very young or the very old. I consider college age kids off-limits too. However, they must at least utilize common sense. They’re typically accepted to university because of keen mental faculties. There’s no excuse for regarding the beach as a dumpster. I think the university should require that students pick up the trash. That may prove a deterrent to littering in this case.

Meanwhile, should we pick up the droppings of the vacant minded or should we just shriek and stamp our feet? I hate to say it, but in order for intelligence to prevail, we must take control. Perhaps if enough of us did, these stupers would take to mimicry per the stampeding cow mentality. This refers to the fact that cattle do not think alone; they think en masse. Hence, they are only capable of imitating each other. Stupers, watching the intelligentsia clean-up, could take to doing it themselves. Isn’t it worth a try?

Think and grow smart!

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Monumental Stupidity, Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity | 3 Comments »