Every year about this time, my lone walnut tree erupts with nuts. If you’re a walnut fan and you’ve never had fresh walnuts, ’tis a pity. Just ask my walnut addicted, shell crunching dogs or the thieving, greedy crows (why did God create crows? That question keeps me awake many a night).
I struck a really fair deal with the dogs: walnuts on ground level are theirs. Then I made an equally magnanimous deal with the gosh darn crows: all walnuts at sky level are theirs for the taking. That means the remainder are for me, and my non-idiotic family, friends and neighbors, right? Not exactly.
My gardener, Eddie, is wonderful, and no, he is not a stuper (short for an exasperatingly stupid person). But his brother, Dumb Dom, is. When Eddie is too busy to do my gardening, he sends Dom and an apprentice.
I happened to be home during one of Dom’s gardening days. I peered out the window and saw, as usual, the gardener’s apprentice toiling over the lawn mower, the weeds and the rake, while Dom played around with a pair of shears, snapping them open and shut at imaginary flies.
I left the window and returned ten minutes later to view Dom beneath the beloved walnut tree, arms busily reaching upward and picking, while his pant pockets bulged with nuts… from the tree. Then he proceeded to tuck in his shirt and drop walnuts down his neck into his newly formed bag/shirt.
I rapped on the window until he turned toward me. Then I waved, just to let him know I was on to him and hopefully firmly plant the guilt seed. Instead, Dom threw me a wildly dirty look for interrupting him and continued picking. Not to be outdone, I raced outside.
“Mind leaving some for me? I like them too, you know,” I stated fiercely, waving the shovel I held in one hand around threateningly.
Dom grumbled and sauntered away, walnuts spilling from all sides, which my dogs rapidly proceeded to devour. By the way, Dom does not speak English and has been in this country only a short time. Perhaps where he comes from, picking other people’s fruit and nuts is a sign of friendliness and good will. Then again, I hear hands are cut off for less, in some places.
Typically, I pick the fruit and nuts from my trees and pass them out. Even Dom has gotten his own bag of plums and apples. But what to do with stupers who believe mi casa es su casa? What’s yours is mine? I tried heading him off at the pass by giving him his share. You saw where that went. I really wasn’t up to frisking his 6’4″ frame; even in my four inch stilettos, I’m still only 5’11”.
The next time Dom showed up for his so called gardening job, I was ready. I remembered some advice once offered by French Royal and well known stuper, Marie Antoinette, a short time before she was beheaded, “Let them eat cake.” True, such advice backfired for her, but I knew it work on Dom. Now, at harvest time, I always leave a large piece of cake or three for Dom. That way he’s too busy eating when he arrives and too full for picking by the time he leaves, I give him his share, and I get to keep the rest of the nuts.
Keep thinking.
Keli
Keli@counterfeithumans.com
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 
Yesterday, I had more than my fair share of stupidity. Even a stupidity specialist such as myself can get bombarded now and then. First, a legendary literary agent informed me the idea for my blog is “cute,” but the writing didn’t “appeal him.” Okay, I know he meant “appeal to him,” but really, how challenging was it to insert the small preposition “to” in an eighteen word sentence? I took this quite personally and had to soundly stamp him a stuper (short for an overtly stupid person). After all, anyone who’s been dealing with the business of words for many decades, should make a small effort to utilize said words with greater care and accuracy. I was highly offended.
Secondly, I made the mistake of calling the US District Court office in Los Angeles with the intent of speaking to a real, live clerk about a question their website didn’t answer. I dialed the number provided for additional information and/or questions, innocently believing my simple inquiry of “Do you need a resume attached to your judicial application?” would be ably answered.
If you live in the big city, I suggest carrying around earplugs or beeswax to promptly stick in your ears because chances are astronomical that you’ll encounter a talking stuper (short, as you all know, for a glaringly stupid person).
Alas, my dear friend, V, did not heed this advice when she decided to take her French Bulldog, Lulu, out for a walk. V lives in the big city, in a twelve story tall condo complex, which sits on a street frequented by about 200,000,000 vehicles daily.
Lulu was on a leash as they entered the building’s lobby. Four small dogs, also in the lobby, were unleashed. Two of them were well trained and belonged to V’s friend, Harvey. Those dogs sat and awaited orders. But the other pooches were frantically jumping around on their hind legs in a desperate attempt to imitate canine pogo sticks. Meanwhile, Lulu went crazy. She wanted off the leash to play with or possibly tear apart the two circus dogs. The owner of the circus dogs admonished V,
Do you like to gamble? I don’t. Unless I use some one else’s money. Like the time my mom and I went to the nearest Native American (notice I didn’t say “Indian” or “Injun,” as I strive to be politically correct) Gaming Casino and used their money. The Casino gave $100 credit to anyone who joined their “club.” We did, and we each spent $100 of their money and walked out with our self control intact and $140 cash to split between us. Had it been our money, we would have lost $60. This way, we gained $140. That’s the way I like it. Mom really liked it too.
I typically sign her up online. But when the online form malfunctions, I have to call and talk to a live, but not necessarily, mentally functioning, person, ie, a stuper. When I called last week, the online system was down. I placed a telephone call.
The first customer service representative, who sounded like she’d been smoking for fifty-five years, told me that the only way to enroll was to fax in the forms. Forms available on a website that wasn’t operational. I called again. The second representative sighed deeply, then begged me to try again later. The next one promptly hung up on me, clearly insulted by my request for assistance, but #4 asked,
Once I’m done with a stuper (short for an unsparingly stupid person), I’m pretty much done. I don’t expect, encourage or incite any further contact. However, yesterday at the Farmer’s Market, I found myself standing next to the ghastly 
I was about to shake a clenched fist in front of Kimmie’s face when she rudely interrupted two nearby shoppers to explain to them what yarrow was, an herb apparently near and dear to Kimmie’s heart, and one she was about to purchase. Observing that she was not only an expert on college acceptances but yarrow as well, I walked away thinking fatalistically that if I was meant to interact with this stuper again, I’d be given a second chance.
As I was about to leave the Farmer’s Market, I ran into …
“Because I don’t want one!” I would firmly announce while stamping my foot for emphasis, putting an end to his needling once and for all.
I entered and decided to avoid his line to make life easier on both of us, but then I realized all the young male tellers looked and dressed strikingly similar. I’d only seen my tormentor twice and I’m not the most visual person. Which one to avoid?
How many of us need to be reminded that our current economy is shaky? If you don’t listen to the news or read the headlines, all you have to do is hit the streets to hear: “bleak,” “…despite the economy…” “tough times,” “gloomy,” “colossal waste of money,” “unemployment high,” and “Paris Hilton is to blame.”
This Club invites guest speakers; this meeting happened to have the Director of an International Film Festival present, Javier Valdez. Javier had gratefully moved to the United States from the bowels of South America, leaving an impoverished life and stupers behind, or so he thought. After the Club President ended his mournful speech, Javier stood. He announced,
We can’t control forces outside of ourselves. Witness the economy or any run-in with an idiot stuper (redundant for added emphasis). But we can control our attitudes and reactions. Have you noticed that, often, when you feel, I mean deeply feel, enthusiastic, upbeat, and/or happy, you’re met with more of the same? Anything else is a waste of our precious energy. Don’t give in to the stupid among us. Don’t allow them to dictate how you should feel. And yes, Paris Hilton is to blame.
When attending a large, boisterous Christmas party, it’s positively guaranteed that a stuper (short for a prodigiously stupid person) will be seated at your otherwise cheery table. And so it was for this seasoned, stupidity specialist.
I sat between H and the delightfully pleasant Carter. Carter’s expression, demeanor and words oozed sincere kindness. Next to him sat his wife, Kimmie. Inflexible, blunt and tarnished, Kimmie had all the charm of a used kitchen knife that’s been relocated to the garden shed and used for stabbing stubborn bags of topsoil and chubby, slow-moving gophers. I don’t like gophers.
When I answered yes to the last query, Kimmie practically went into labor. “THEY BOTH LIVE AT HOME?”
assured instant pain if the stuper so much as looked my way. The rest of the evening was passed in glorious silence by Kimmie.