Archive for the ‘Monumental Stupidity’ Category

Stupidity – Cause and Effect

Saturday, December 6th, 2008

Lately, I’ve found myself pondering vital, life-altering issues such as: which came first, the chicken or the egg the stuper (short for a provokingly stupid person) or the recurring, nerve wrenching, imbecilic acts of stupidity? To find the answer, I decided to revisit a monumental idiot featured in an earlier post to see how his life has since fared and hopefully, to witness an awakening, or at least an enlargement, of the walnut size, meager mind.

Mr. Z, a dimwit of the highest caliber on whom I once was forced to perform a makeshift surgical brain analysis, was my case study this past weekend. Regrettably, the insufferable fool has engaged in an unending series of blundering, ruinous events since my original encounter with him. I can’t help but wonder if he became a stuper as a result of such events or if his uninterrupted idiocy caused the many missteps in his life. I stepped back in time, mentally recalling personal interactions with Mr. Z.

Once, in his role as junior golf dad and leader of the local league, he was requested by a private golf club official to clean up the course after his team finished playing. I happened to be within earshot of Mr. Z. After the official left, Mr Z. announced,

“We’re not gonna cleanup. We’ll just play at a different course next time.”

Then Mr Z grinned maniacally for an extended period of time, as stupers are wont to do, at the sheer genius of his unvirtuous plan.

Mr Z is the type who excels in pointing out the obvious. When a woman who closely resembled a Pacific walrus crossed his path, he loudly stated,

“Wow! Did you see how fat she is!” in a volume sure to stir even the remotest villages of Papua New Guinea.

I saw Mr Z at the gas station a few weeks ago. He stood a full ten feet away from me, squinting his beady, crow-like eyes in my direction. Perhaps he did harbor a shred of wisdom fear, after all, correctly assuming that I was capable of swinging my always overloaded, heavier than a bowling ball, Dolce & Gabbana leopard satchel over my head, lasso style, letting it loose at precisely the right moment to smack him squarely on the left side of his empty head, should he dare open his mouth. Observing him convinced me that spending most of one’s adult life as a stuper cements stupidity in place, making it virtually impossible to change without some drastic life-altering event, and even then…I’ve met mentally afflicted persons who’ve been persistently unresponsive and firmly remained stupers well into senior citizenship and possibly beyond.

A stuper perpetuates stupidity, leading it around like a stray, hungry dog with no other food source. Awareness obliterates stupidity, allowing one to see, and hopefully avoid, mistaken attitudes. The person who’s aware is conscious of his thoughts, words and actions. But awareness doesn’t suddenly happen. It must be carefully nurtured by a willing participant. Willingness requires effort. And this is where stupers get stuck in the mud.

We are the product of our mental processes.

Please think.


Stupidity and Self-sabotage

Friday, November 21st, 2008

Self-sabotage is still another pitiable offshoot of stupidity. I don’t usually feature younger stupers (short, as most of you know, for irretrievably stupid persons), but in this case, an empty head in his early twenties engaged in an unfortunate series of idiotic acts, practically nose-diving into the Hall of Fame of Stupidity. Today, I share his latest feat.

Son #1 works part-time as technical support for an internet company near his college. Periodically, he finds jobs for his pals. He did just that for Dawain who languished in Limboland at the time. Son figured that perhaps a full-time, official-looking position in an up-and-coming company might motivate Dawain and help him to gain responsibility. This was four months ago.

Dawain started as general receptionist, then moved up to screening calls for upper level tech support which happens to be Son’s department. There are six young gentleman is this department.

At first, Dawain felt excited about his new position; then, as stupers are wont to do, he become increasingly fidgety and bored, despite continually having new responsibilities. To combat his boredom, he decided that he needed to modify his duties, and likely, having a vague, fuzzy notion of the Red Scare of the Fifties gleaned from eleventh grade history class, he took up finger pointing.

Dawain wrote an e-mail to the department manager, informing him that Dawain singlehandedly answered all calls while the rest of the lazy, good-for-nothing guys played poker, computer games, smoking and napping in between, all of which Dawain himself enjoyed.

Alas, poor Dawain! When he sent the e-mail out, he inadvertently sent it to all Six in upper level tech support, the very same ones he complained about in the e-mail. On the upside, at least he had the foresight to transmit this ill-fated missive seconds before he clocked out for the evening.

The Six were none-too-happy. Two engaged in smoking breaks, but none had the time for games or snoozing. All sorts of plans were laid out for dealing with Dawain, from tossing him into a nearby dumpster just before pick-up, to letting the air out of his car tires.

This saga of stupidity took place a mere two days ago so the ending has yet to unfold. Dawain did not show up for work the day after his e-mail guffaw in a feeble attempt to prove that the department would fall apart in his absence. However, the opposite occurred; they received a record number of calls praising the efficiency and knowledge of the technical support team. And therein lies the moral: a stupid act always backfires atop the stuper.

The Six took no action although grape juice was accidentally poured over Dawain’s keyboard by an unknown assailant. Dawain’s corn kernel size mind wrongly believed that he was paving the way for his success by faulting others. If he’d only focused on improving himself, his success, and not his stupidity, would have been assured.

When you dwell on the faults of others, you lose the chance to improve yourself.


Don’t be a Doormat for Stupidity

Tuesday, November 18th, 2008

Since the infancy of this blog, I’ve received  a few complaints. Yes, I know; my dearest readers are muttering, how is that remotely possible? It just is. These choleric grumblings arrive in e-mail form, carrying a snarky, dismissive tone on their spam ridden backs. I’ve never met these disgruntled readers, yet I’ve managed to create a physical profile:

Male, 5-feet 5 1/4-inches tall, burly (discerning minds might say portly), rapidly receding reddish-blond hair, walrus mustache and tattoo of a spare tire on the left forearm.

I am not clairvoyant. Gender is deduced from their first names, and the rest I know intuitively.

They claim my posts are “weak,” “infirm,”  “cowardly,” even “spineless.” The word “wuss” was bandied about freely.  I’m “way too nice” when it comes to dealing with stupers (short, as you know, for phenomenally stupid persons).

Then these vanilla wafer pillars of manliness explain how they would have handled the situation: with explosive anger and an unending barrage of expletives, possibly followed by a fistfight or at least a serious arm wrestling match with the featured stuper(s). Why haven’t I thought of that? Because I don’t fistfight, at least not since that incident 12 1/2 years ago in that bar in Detroit. And because I seldom dabble in the zero tolerance approach to stupidity. Plus, it’ll take something with a lot more bang to displace a disorder that’s thousands of years old.

Which brings me to the subject of this post: I typically advocate kindness in managing the stupid among us. However, there are those monumentally meager minds who mistake benevolence for weakness. Kindness may be a wasted virtue when used on the determinedly empty mind.

 We should in no way resemble doormats where stupers wipe their calloused feet.  

When dealing with dimwits to whom we’ve consistently extended kindness and who nevertheless excel in displaying irritating idiocy in our presence, we must take appropriate action. (This is where I bang my fist on the nearest table). If possible, and if you believe it will make a difference, communicate your feelings firmly (profanity should be utilized only if you believe it will jumpstart the otherwise dull and deficient mind) and with temper intact. I’ve found that during such communications, if you can intermittently stare off with a steely gaze and knitted brows at an imaginary object just above the stuper’s head, thereby successfully imitating a somewhat half-crazed, verging on madness type of expression, you will meet with uncommon success.

 Should communication be impossible or not worthwhile, turn your back on stupidity and keep it turned. Don’t ever look back on the stuper unless you’re absolutely positive a heartwarming apology (as opposed to a pseudo apology – “I’m sorry if…”) is forthcoming, preferably accompanied by a token gift and several years’ worth of  dark chocolate truffles for all the troubles caused by the idiot.

Stupers should never knock us off balance in our delicate walk on earth.



Playing it Cool with Sears Repair Service Stupidity

Saturday, August 30th, 2008

If the kitchen is the heart of the home, then the refrigerator is an artery. A rascally main artery. When such artery is clogged, the heart malfunctions. Let’s just say, my fridge is currently clogging up the heart.

During a recent heat wave, our three year-old refrigerator decided to take a sudden vacation. Perishable items be damned! Committed carnivores take a hike! We had too much frozen organic ground beef anyway.

Fortunately, Husband had invested in an extended warranty on repairs for the recalcitrant refrigerator. The Sears salesman had said,

“All you do is pick up the phone and call a technician. He’ll come to your home and fix the problem at no charge. Not that you’ll need to, of course.”

Husband called the Sears Repair Center. The first twenty-five minutes were spent explaining by Husband. We’d moved in the past two years and all hell broke loose at the Repair Center when they heard. Confusion, cries of frustration and a complete lack of direction ensued. Husband was transferred from person to person. They tried to switch our address. They really did. And finally, in the end, they were successful, but during their overzealous rejoicing, they cut Husband off. Husband then steadfastly refused to call them back and handed the phone to me.

With full knowledge that a calm, collected, cool mind accomplishes far more than an angry, embittered, vindictive one, I called Sears again. I decided to use the victimized-by-the-uncooperative refrigerator approach, which was the truth.

I spoke to Nexis, (his real name or so he said), a helpful fellow, who continuously apologized and attempted to walk me through do-it-yourself repairs. I know, we’d paid for a live technician, not an over the telephone, across the continent and the Pacific Ocean, then across another continent, pseudo repair person, but I felt it was worth a shot, if it cured my problem promptly.

It did not.

I then requested an appointment for a technician to come to our home. Nexis transferred me to Jay who stated,

“The soonest possible time will be in two weeks.”

This would be the part where I unleashed a slew of expletives, both the widely known kind along with a few rarely heard, particularly grueling on most human ears variety, just to give my speech added emphasis. But I did not. Instead, I inquired,

“How can Sears possibly expect me to go without a fridge for two weeks? I have a family to feed, pizzas to freeze, not to mention the frozen, custom-made dog food my mother-in-law generously hand makes for my canines.”

“I understand and I’m truly sorry,” Jay said. “Sears will give you up to $250 reimbursement towards spoiled items.”

“And who’s going to pay for all the restaurants we’ll have to frequent?”

Jay apologized yet again and transferred me to Carma who transferred me to Leo.

I asked why Sears didn’t hire more workers if demand was so great.

“Sears has plenty, but they are all so busy. It’s that time of year…”

And herein lies the utter stupidity, incompetence and greed of Sears. Do they honestly believe their customers are such idiots as to be blind to the fact that all that mattered was the $? More repair people would mean more pay-out by Sears.

I asked Leo where he was located.

“In the Sears Repair Center.”

“Where exactly is this Center?”

“We are not allowed to give out that information.”

Was I talking to the CIA? Or the Pentagon? Or the Kremlin? I spoke to four different people. All with the same accent. Yet another way for Sears to cut costs and deprive domestic workers of jobs. Sears fell headlong into the monumentally stupid category.

I’m one of the fortunate Sears’ customers; our fridge started working once I hung up the phone. I used Nexis’ tech tip – unplugging the fridge for a few minutes, then re-plugging – and it worked.

I hope you’ll notice, dear readers, that I wanted to get angry several times. I really did. But I realized that I would not maintain the proper presence of mind to best manage my problem, and I’d not nearly have as much fun. I tried the unplugging trick twice with Nexis; it didn’t work either time. Perhaps my anger would have prevented me from trying it again and having my issue ultimately resolved.

The person we fight with when angered is ourselves. We can be our own worst enemies. Your mind can be your best friend or your worst foe. It’s up to you.

Just think.


Checking Account Stupidity

Thursday, July 31st, 2008

I owe a sincere thanks to all stupers (short, as most of you know, for unmistakably stupid persons) who faithfully dawdle across my path guaranteeing me ample material for my stupidity studies. The latest incarnation of stupidity involved stuper employees in a local bank branch.

My mom and I entered a bank in which we both had an account so that she (key word here) could open a checking account. We met with Rocky, an assistant Vice President; he asked if I too desired to open a checking account. My response was not “Maybe” or “Ask me again in five minutes” or “What’s your favorite color M&M?” but rather the clearly enunciated words,

“No, thank you.”

I mentioned to Rocky that I’d recently moved, and Rocky kindly updated my information. Or so I thought. Then we left.

Mom, once in her home, examined her transaction receipt and noticed that the barely hour old checking account was actually opened in my name. She called, spoke to Rocky, who assured her he’d fix the error.

Fast-forward two weeks.

I reach into my mailbox and remove a small cardboard box that looks suspiciously like a box of checks because… it is a box of checks. And they arrive addressed to… surprise! Me! And with my name on each and every check.

To add insult to injury, as I sorted my mail, I noticed a postage due envelope that required $2.75 for the box of checks, mailed not just without proper postage, but without any freaking postage!

So they managed to send the box of checks to my current address and then made sure to print the wrong address on the checks themselves. Just to mix things up, no doubt. Or to prove, finally and without any lingering question, that they were indeed stupers.

I called and spoke to Assistant Manager, Nick. He apologized, promising they’d fix the matter immediately and send new corrected checks to my mother. I asked him what they’d like me to do with the incorrect checks.

“Should I rip them up and throw them away?”

His telltale response, “Sure, you can shred them or you can use them.”

Dear readers, do you think I should use checks I don’t want and that, more importantly, contain the wrong address? True, it might delay the District Attorney’s office in locating me, but I think it would be most inappropriate. Plus, it was my mom’s account, after all.

I discovered that the whole checking account fiasco was my own doing. Firstly, I should keep my money in a private bank, one that provides clients with dedicated financial expertise. My bank provided me with dilapidated financial inexpertness as well as incompetence.

Secondly, I recently read in Departures magazine that the right private bank can minimize my taxes, put together an estate plan, build an art collection (that alone got my attention), open checking accounts, offer money management classes to educate teens, hook me up with theater tickets and possibly even fish out a diamond tennis bracelet out of a full-size dumpster (where were they when I needed them?).

There’s just one slight hitch; private bank accounts must be in the seven figure range.

If I get moving on those inaccurately marked checks, I may be able to gather a few million into a Swiss numbered account and have time to flee to a small village just west of Boligrafo, Chile by the time my bank notices and takes action. If they notice. Then once it blows over, I can open up my very own private bank account and be treated properly.

The problem with popular thinking is that it doesn’t require you to think at all ~ Kevin Myers


Gawking Stupidity Strikes Again

Saturday, July 5th, 2008

One of the most vile, lowly, meaningless and potentially harmful forms of stupidity is one I’ve posted about in the past. Yet, I must mention it again. If you ever housed any doubt that stupidity is indeed a type of disease, even an epidemic, the event below should change your mind.

There are a number of currently uncontrollable and damaging fires in the area where I live. The other night, my older son (Son), in trying to return home in the evening after work, found that many obstacles got in his way, most especially stupers (short again, for appallingly stupid persons).

During the evening, a widespread power outage took place, as did widespread stupidity. All street lights, signals, stores and homes lacked electricity. Vehicles driving provided the only source of light. In this almost complete darkness, chaos ensued, as people attempted to make their way home. Son reported that many intersections contained traffic accidents. As you may imagine, if there’s even one stuper involved, Murphy’s Law (if anything can go wrong, it will) instantly comes into play.

Although Murphy’s Law originally referred to the failure of scientific or inanimate objects, I ask you, is not a stuper’s brain an inanimate object? Anecdotally, the law has also suggested that some individuals appear to manifest a Murphy Field. When these individuals are around systems that function normally, the systems suddenly fail or operate erratically. Isn’t that so true of stupers?

Son reported that as long as one was cautious, accidents were avoidable. But how about when pedestrian stupers hurled themselves into major boulevards in the darkness trying to cross busy streets in order to get a ringside seat, closer to the fires? Suicide gawkers raced around at night, on foot, in a mad tizzy lest they miss any action. Safety was not an issue. Neither was the possibility of giving aid or assistance to the fire crews.

“Some cars were pulled over, but then there were a few who just stopped in the middle of the street,” Son said in disbelief. “Stupers had their elbows on top of their cars and were just getting a big thrill out of this disaster. I was amazed at how many people were gawking.”

I read a similar account of stupers hindering the efforts of fire trucks at a house fire in North Carolina. Consequently, the home burned down. The town’s fire chief said smoke from the blaze attracted a stream of motorists curious as to what was on fire. He stated that a number of stuper motorists detoured just to take a look at what was burning. The influx of motorists quickly jammed the narrow street, preventing desperately needed tanker trucks from reaching the burning house in time.

I plan to apply for a city permit allowing me to round up gawkers during disastrous events. It shouldn’t be difficult as these stupers usually walk in a daze or stand trance like while gawking, so no sedatives or stun guns will be necessary. Then I’ll place them in a large truck similar to those used by the animal shelter (I’m certain the local shelter will loan one to me, once they hear of my good cause).

The abhorrently curious will be transported to a labor camp. I’ll put them to work so at least they can be useful members of society. Mock disasters will then be staged periodically during their labors. When a stuper demonstrates self-control and is able to put gawking completely aside, he/she may be released back into society. But each time one succumbs to gawking, punishment will be imposed. Don’t worry, nothing too harsh. Just a little shock, courtesy of Japan’s Vision Optic Company.

These harmless looking lenses contain built in sensors, which detect the angle of your head. Should the angle suddenly change and look anywhere other than straight ahead, the motor will kick in, rocking the brain until it returns back to the task at hand. Of course, there is no limit to the rocking time…



Stupidity’s Greatest Love

Sunday, June 22nd, 2008

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.


Time and Stupidity

Tuesday, May 20th, 2008

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.


Traveling Stupidity or Stupidity Does Not Make a Good Eyewitness

Wednesday, May 14th, 2008

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.


Stupidity Attempts Conversation During Dinner

Tuesday, December 11th, 2007

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.