July 3, 2008 by Keli.

For the past few days, I’ve been an invited visitor at the stately, highly exclusive, legendary Los Angeles Country Club, courtesy of a junior golf tournament in which my son participated. Certain that stupidity, in all its various idiotic forms, would be absent, I never once looked over my shoulder. Alas, I was indeed assaulted.

Upon entering the elegant, exquisitely maintained grounds, I was impressed by the lushness and beauty of the gardens and golf course. I made a silent vow to become a member as soon as I made my first one, ten, twenty, fifty million. I longingly watched the centenarian members quaveringly shuffle a few feet from the valet to the front door of the club house, panting and wheezing upon their arrival. They dressed like aristocrats. There were a few younger people as well, playboy types and even a mother with younger children and nannies, but I am willing to bet these were accidental members (meaning their presence was due to some much, much older patriarch or matriarch member).

I noticed stray champagne glasses, mostly empty, deposited in discreet places around the parking lot, no doubt courtesy of the playboys or possibly even the CEO of all playboys, Hugh Hefner, who could be still disgruntled for having been allegedly denied membership, even though his mansion overlooks one of the fairways.

I continued being completely impressed by the well-dressed and courteous staff… until day two.

I had to use the facilities. The Clubhouse was off limits to guests, even humble stupidity specialists, such as myself. But I noticed they had a lovely powder room over by the driving range. Did I mention that I, and all other parents whose young men were playing in the tournament, were given a long list of rules and regulations, resembling the Bill of Rights? These governed our dress, code of conduct in the parking lot and on the course (the two places that were not off limits to us) and toilet privileges.

I skipped down the long and winding cart path to the driving range, humming and enjoying the tranquil surroundings. What an oasis, I thought, amid the smog and King Kong size buildings. I entered the little bungalow that housed the dainty toilette. I opened the door and entered an aged, almost decrepit, but genteel, small waiting area with one stall. Ancient, teal colored carpet covered the floor, including in the stall.

Innocently opening the stall door… I let out a shriek that shook the nearby and very grand Mormon Temple’s fourteen-carat gold, enormous rooftop statues. I was traumatized for the next twenty-two minutes by the sight that greeted me. Some stuper (short for a grossly stupid person), likely a very large individual or two or seven, had OD’d on a laxative-prune juice cocktail and emptied its bowels into this very toilet.

I raced out and alerted a passing gardener. He apologized. I’ve got to hand it to them; that cesspool was revitalized in no time.

Then, dear readers, I moved on to the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel to meet my sis for lunch. Another grand showplace. Since I was unable to use the ladies room at the Club, I decided to try the Hotel.

This powder room was all glamour with individual hand towels, marble floors and private, mahogany-walled bathrooms that housed each stall. I opened the door to a toilette and… the Mad Crapper had struck again. Was I part of some new reality show? Or was this the work of a stuper akin to an arsonist, a crappist, if you will, who instead of setting fires, ravaged toilets? Or perhaps the people (the women anyway) in ritzy Beverly Hills are so stressed out, they are suffering from acute, uncontrollable bowel movements? I flushed the toilet and moved to another, cleaner stall.

Whatever was happening, the stupers were at work. Both toilets could have been potentially flushed, and if not, assistance could have been requested. Toilet bowl assault can and should be avoided. I’ve seen cleaner outhouses and gas station restrooms. Out of order toilets and minds seemed to go together.

Stop and think. Please.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity | 7 Comments »

June 24, 2008 by Keli.

If you should find yourself hankering for a road trip just to see some new sights, eat junk food and sing road trip tunes, or if you’re merely yearning to play short-term tourist, but don’t quite know where or what to tour, you can stave off homesickness by staying close by, and still be entertained. Or at least mildly amused… by the ludicrous antics of the everywhere present and forever empty-headed stupers (short, yet again, for mind bogglingly stupid persons).

Stupers are an entirely unpredictable lot which are best viewed and unappreciated from afar. Which is exactly how I observed two of the most profoundly counterfeit humans on American asphalt.

I stopped on a highway, at a red light, a few miles from my home. Two cars waited in front of me, and other vehicles paused all around the intersection. No one moved. I turned my head and saw why. From the street on my left, coming at full, unstoppable gallop, two horses rapidly approached with cowboy and cowgirl riders, followed by a stumpy, panting brown jumble of a dog, who desperately tried to keep his short legs up with the riders. The stoplight for them had turned a glaring yellow, but they kept right on coming (it was a long intersection; any longer, and it could have declared statehood). I sat, biting my nails, on the edge of my seat.

The signal turned red before the brainless riders made it across, but of course the color change was irrelevant. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if they’d tried to lasso a Prius on the way.

Fortunately, all nearby drivers utilized their working heads. No autos moved until the riders and the dog landed safely across. Once there, they continued to ride rapidly, across the YMCA driveway where an unsuspecting motorist happened to be attempting to exit. The car braked in amazement, with a screech to highlight its indignation.

A few yards afterwards, the afflicted riders suddenly decided to walk the horses. I’m certain that if a neighborhood neurologist happened to be passing by and randomly decided to conduct a brain scan on said riders, he/she would have discovered an acute case of atrophy.

I live in the northern tip of southern California. Though it is the countryside, we don’t have any true, born and bred, cowboys around here. But we do have plenty of city folk ranchers who do like to haphazardly impersonate cow folk. Hence, the horseback riders stampeding in the major intersection.

Stupers provide a side show in this game of life. When subjected to such stuper sightings, don’t give in to your initial reaction of annoyance or irritation or severe hostility leading you to finally use that hand grenade you picked up at that military base garage sale. The best way to maintain one’s sanity when being subjected to stuper sightings is to laugh. And be grateful that you are capable of using your mind.

Think first.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity | 6 Comments »

June 17, 2008 by Keli.

On a gray, chilly, wintry night, does leaving the house without a coat or other proper, warm attire guarantee a bout with the flu or worse? Not if you take care not to spend too much time out in the cold.

On an average day in the city, does leaving the house to run a few small, quick errands guarantee witnessing stupidity? Not if you wear a blindfold and/or earplugs. Otherwise, it is practically guaranteed.

Yesterday, I drove into a convenience store parking lot which overflowed with parked cars as well as vehicles coming and going. I suddenly had to stop…but not because of another car or person. Not exactly anyway. I witnessed a stuper (short for an indisputably stupid person) strolling around with the steadiness of one who had dynamite strapped to his torso, except he didn’t carry explosives. He carried an open book in one hand, which he read hypnotically, and in the other, held an apple, which he munched, while in the middle of the parking lot, completely unaware of the cars around him. Unawareness = stupidity.

Once in the store, I picked out what I needed and went to the cashier. The person behind the register was a smallish person, quiet and solemn. As I handed her my money, I asked if she could please give me change for one dollar. Not receiving an answer, I repeated my request.

“I said, YES!” she roared suddenly, exhaling hotly through her nose. The unexpected gust blew back my hair.

Have you ever noticed how silly people look when they lose their tempers? Well, that’s exactly how ridiculous we look when we lose control of our thoughts and minds.

One of the hardest things for authentic humans to do is react peaceably to a person who attacks them in word or deed. Anger grows if met with anger. If I’ve learned anything from the 178 self-help books I’ve read, I’ve at least learned that much. If anger is met calmly, it often ends more quickly, even with a stuper at the receiving end.

Inner me briefly desired to rip all the heads off the nearest Pez display just to demonstrate what I thought of her unprovoked outburst. But then my anger would render me stupid too.

I apologized for not hearing her the first time, and debated whether I should point out that not only was her first reply inaudible, but likely took place only within the confines of her head as I happened to be watching her for an answer. Taking a closer look at her stopped me. Her face sagged with unhappiness. Anger and happiness do not travel in the same circles. Clearly, her anger stemmed from within herself.

I smiled and waited for her to catch my eye. The line behind me grew, but I’m certain no one would have minded if they realized my good cause. A smile and anger don’t go together.

Finally, she caught my eye and a wan grin appeared. I thanked her and left.

Anger cramps the mind’s growth.

Think.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity | 5 Comments »

June 12, 2008 by Keli.

My apologies, dear readers, but I’m in the midst of working on deadline so here’s one from the archives:

As I sat in my car at the golf course waiting for my younger son to finish his lesson, I wondered which case of stupidity to discuss next. Moments later, the answer drifted in through my open window. Two men, thirty years old or so, stood a row behind me, prepping their golf gear. This is the conversation I overheard:

Guy #1: (sounding annoyed) “I’m riding my bike up a hill and the cell phone rings. I don’t know why, but I answer it. I hear, ‘Hi babe! How’s it goin’?’”

(Guy #2 grunts in reply).

Guy #1: “So I tell her, I’m riding my bike up a hill. She says, ‘You do sound really out of breath. Anyway, I’m in this store…’ and she just continues babbling on! So I tell her I’ve gotta go, and I hear…dead silence.”

Guy #2: (chuckles like he’s half-listening).

Guy #1: “So I say, don’t be upset. She says, ‘I’m not upset. I’m just trying to communicate with you.’ (He says this last part with great drama, then raises his voice in case people at neighboring golf courses can’t hear him). Can you believe it? Didn’t she realize I was busy? There’s not a woman out there who’s not like that. She doesn’t exist!”

I’d like to say that I got out of my car, marched over to the doddering idiot, and gave the tip of his nose an unforgettable pinch, Three Stooges style, complete with sound effects. That would confirm a few things for him about women.

Instead, I stepped out of the car to get a better look at what could be a serial stereotyper. I stared in the face of a counterfeit human.

It’s not a man/woman thing. I actually have both male and female friends whom, when I say I’ve got to get off the phone, continue on for another 6 1/2 minutes just to say, “I’ll talk to you later.” Some people just don’t understand the meaning of “gotta go.” This caller seemed to fall in that moronic category. In fact, this whole failed conversation may have taken place between two stupers (short again, for impossibly stupid persons).

Let’s discuss stereotypes for a moment. Like cliches, stereotypes exist for a reason. Once in a great while, they may ring a bit true. But mostly, they’re self-serving; that is, they provide an opinion for a simple minded stuper who would be incapable of reaching an opinion without the aid of stereotyping. It also allows blithering idiots to believe they have an intimate knowledge of a truth, however inaccurate that truth may be.

“There’s not a woman out there who’s not like that!”

A bit extreme wouldn’t you agree? To lump all women or men in a single category is plain, old-fashioned stupidity. This guy demonstrated a lack of wisdom, shrewdness, sensitivity or deep thought. I didn’t once hear him say to the caller, “May I get back to you in a little while?” Wouldn’t that have been more direct and courteous?

Okay, so he was in the midst of an uphill battle on his bike. He chose to answer the call. He chose to be irritated. He chose to complain. Yet he absurdly put the reason for his frustration on the female population of the world.

Is stereotyping useful? Only if you’re a stuper.

Choose to think.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity | 4 Comments »

June 6, 2008 by Keli.

After my last post, I suffered a pang of guilt. All because of my confession that I was a wayward volunteer, slacking in my duties at the local public library. I decided to change my ways. To set a good example for my 3.5 readers.

I went in to the library yesterday and did a fine impression of the brightest, shiniest, best volunteer ever. I slipped on rubber gloves and climbed atop a mountain-high pile of filthy book bags and barely took a breath until I’d checked in each and every stained and finger-print smudged book. I did pause once to read a sentence or two from this, just in case…

Please don’t get me wrong. I’m a huge fan of the library. To prove it, afterwards, I proceeded to shelf all the books I’d checked in. Aren’t you duly impressed?

During my busy, hard-working fifty-five and one-half minutes (my limit is one hour before I blow), I did, unfortunately, witness stupidity. Keep in mind, as noted last time, that this library is small. About the size of 50 Cent’s walk-in closet (I know; I saw it on Cribs).

As I started shelving audio books, a blasphemous screeching shook the place, making quite a racket; shredding the curtain of quietude that typically fell over the library. I briefly considered taping the clamor, getting a patent and peddling it to hospitals for use during complex surgery. It would be a perfect replacement for anesthesia. Patients could be knocked out without medication or brute force.

The cause of such clamor? Not a stuper (short, as you know, for a recognizably stupid person) exactly, though a stuper was behind it all. A sixteen-month-old pushed an antiquated, long overdue-for-retirement, step-stool whose dysfunctional wheels cried bloody murder, like it carried all the world’s woes on its seat. The toddler pushed it slowly, but purposefully around, making sure everyone heard its pain, even in Detroit. The clatter made fingernails scratching across a blackboard sound like a soothing lullaby.

Meanwhile, the tot’s mom sat nearby, huddled behind a computer, throwing a furtive glance now and then to see if anyone appeared on the verge of hysteria. If not, she’d continue reading, and if yes, then she’d send out a feeble,

“Mikaela, stop….”

Annoyed people milled about, wondering to whom the little noise-maker belonged and pondering the course of action to take.

The Head Librarian, smiled uncomfortably, realizing it rested on her shoulders to take appropriate action and restore peace.

“Boy, do those wheels need oiling!” she said as she assisted irritable patrons.

Before I could holler, “Somebody grab that kid!” another volunteer, a ten-year-old young man, took charge. This kid embodied the very voice of common sense. He marched up to the little girl, folded his arms across his chest, frowned sternly and announced,

“You shouldn’t be doing that!”

He stood in front of the stool so the little girl couldn’t budge. Apparently, she hadn’t learned to go in reverse. Mikaela looked up at him, then turned her head to seek out her mother. Mom, realizing all angry eyes set upon her, nervously grabbed the kid and left.

No one said anything to this woman; consequently she saw no reason to take action. To her, the step stool seemed like a harmless and effective baby-sitter. Sometimes, stupers won’t take action unless forced to. This could take awhile. In situations like this one, shushing is okay and generally does the job. It helps if you happen to be carrying a baseball bat.

Think.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity | 5 Comments »

June 4, 2008 by Keli.

I have trouble being in the company of persons who speak of me as if I’m not even present. Such occurs while I’m wide awake, in a public setting and in complete view of such persons. Don’t worry, this is not a regular, almost planned event like London fog or a faithfully present full moon, which shows itself every 29-30 days. It happens about as often as a flat tire or acid rain (which, as you know, rarely occurs at all, if you’re careful).

I volunteer at the library. I’m not one of those perky, reliable, ambitious volunteers. I show up when I can, and they’re okay with that.

I was standing at the counter, checking in books, when I heard (and mind you this is a very small library; the size of a typical, metropolitan public restroom), quite loudly,

“Who’s she?” in a voice reminiscent of Big Bird.

And not surprisingly, when I looked up, the owner of said voice did resemble the jovial Bird in more ways than just sheer largess and yellow feathers.

The gracious librarian explained, “She’s one of our very good” (I half expected her to insert, ‘but highly unreliable’) volunteers. Just like you.”

I smiled at my Amazonian comrade-in-volunteer-arms, while Inner Me wondered whether she’d actually address me with her next utterance.

“Well, I’ve never seen her before,” she responded.

“No, you haven’t,” I elaborated helpfully, while tossing her a dirty look.

I’m not too patient when people state the obvious, especially while I’m rapidly developing a lower back ache from picking up heavy book bags that were once crispy white and are now a filthy hue of cow dung brown and brimming with volumes of the library’s weightiest reads. Is it any wonder I am the rare, ever aloof, volunteer?

I was thinking these thoughts while the wheels in the bird-woman’s head were turning. They moved so slowly that I could see them, creakily grinding away. I immediately felt guilt because, well, if you saw her, you’d feel guilty too for acting so peevishly. And there was something…innocent about her.

She waddled towards me thrusting out a wing, I mean, a hand, and said,

“I’m Rosemary. Nice to meet you,” she flashed a smile a pre-schooler would surely love.

I put my annoyance firmly and a bit sheepishly away.

The above is a minor example of stupers (short yet again, for those mindlessly stupid persons) who regard fully aware people occupying nearby space as invisible. My friend, Marla, a thirty-five-year-old psychologist, who’s been married ten years, recounted another, less amiable, instance:

Marla and her mother were shopping in a store when they ran into Anne, the mother’s friend.

Anne: (to Marla’s mother) Is this the one with the kids?

Mother: No, it’s my other daughter who has two children.

Anne: Doesn’t this one want to have any kids?

At that point, Marla wanted to smash her well-heeled sandal down soundly on top of Anne’s open-toe Birkenstocks. Instead, she excused herself, slipped into another department and called me.

It just could be that these stupers realize (too late) that the question they’re asking is frightfully awkward and obviously none of their business. This results in their spilling out the actual query onto the wrong party. Stupers have no control over the paltry contents of their mouths (the brain being empty) so the question entirely misses its target. Either way, Marla was miffed.

There are two paths that may be followed. Either the victim answers the question for herself, reminding the stuper of her presence and capability in formulating a response; thereby redirecting the meager mind in the proper direction. Or said recipient can live up to the stuper’s expectations. Since idiots treat you as if you don’t exist, why not indulge them? Try making faces and/or gestures of your choosing and see if they still think you’re invisible. Or do a little song and dance, recite that poem you memorized in the sixth grade and can’t seem to forget or share your thoughts on the current, unconscionably excessive gas prices. Let it all out!

Take advantage of every opportunity a stuper provides you of showing your best or at least your better self. Don’t let them bring out the worst in you.

Just think.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity | 5 Comments »

June 2, 2008 by Keli.

I love visiting Santa Barbara, California. It’s lovely and wild and grand and seedy and elegant; a patchwork quilt made of satin, silk, velvet and potato sack squares. Which means fistfuls of stupidity exist here and there.

In particular, there’s a stretch, more accurately, a half-block portion, embedded between bustling downtown and the sandy beach that reeks of stupers (short, yet again, for those woefully inadequate stupid persons). It was there that I witnessed a meager minded mother behind a stroller, waiting at the intersection corner. Sounds innocuous, except that the front of the stroller, carrying a round-faced cherub, sat at a downward slope, firmly planted in the street, daring passing traffic to play a rollicking game of tag while Mom stood impatiently, but safely on the sidewalk. It’s not pretty to watch frozen thought processes that likely wouldn’t even respond to jump-starting. Which reminds me, this same parent dressed warmly in sweater and knitted cap, as it was a little cool at the resort-like, yet positively popular, bohemian beach city. Baby’s bare feet dangled while the practically hairless and uncovered little head bobbed in the gentle ocean breeze. The good news was that both made it across the street. The bad news is that I next witnessed something like this:

Take note that this daredevil parent is not in any crosswalk and is maneuvering herself and her child across four lanes. Shouldn’t there be helmets? Air bags? Safety belts, a seeing-eye-dog or a police escort for this type of travel?

Finally, as I drove my merry way past this same half block yesterday, I was abruptly made to stop. No, my brakes didn’t malfunction nor did a stray couch land with a thump in front of my car. As I rounded the corner I saw a small, skinny stuper, standing in the middle of the lane. My lane.

No attempt was made to dart out of the way. In fact, my car didn’t even startle him into budging. I stopped in front of him, so close I could see the whites of his eyes and the Scooby Doo tattoo on his forearm.

I also noticed from his unmoved, cavalier expression that he was held securely in the very palm of stupidity. He moved a few steps closer to the sidewalk, but still resided in the lane. Was he playing chicken? Or was he trying to discover whether his membrane was so permeable that I could pass right through him? My mind went into spin cycle mode, trying to understand.

I gave him Look #2 (reserved for monumental cases of stupidity when nothing else seems to work). The kind of look that could shrivel an onion and curl the toes on a crow. He moved. I drove on. I looked back in my rear view mirror, and he was at it again.

Thinking is fast becoming a lost art. Imagine the price it’ll fetch for those who actually use their minds.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Vehicular Stupidity, Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity | 5 Comments »

May 31, 2008 by Keli.

I don’t live in a Communist-bloc, totalitarian country. Nor do I reside on an alien planet where insignificant citizens stand in endless lines, secretly fearing the possibility of never being seen or heard from again. Yet I’m made to feel this way every time I shop at my local, factory-quality super market.

Waiting in wretched lines to make a purchase is a given, particularly on weekends. This makes it easy to lull weary shoppers into thinking that a huge favor is granted in the form of the self-checkout lines.

Only one employee (a.k.a., the self-checkout police) oversees four self-checkout centers. Why pay for additional workers when the customers can do the labor themselves? Much of the corporate world assumes, in fact, counts on, mass stupidity. They’re mostly right since studies show that three of every four people emerged from a stuper (conjugated, yet again, to form the definition of an intolerably stupid person) mold.

I entered said market to buy four bottles of gallon size, distilled water (for my many stuper experiments). I waited in a short line at the self-checkout, leering at peppy Saturday shoppers, while nursing a constant suspicion that I was being ripped-off. For entertainment, I elbowed the over eager guy behind me smack in the ribs to gently remind him that a shoulder is not a chin rest; he was that close. Panting in my ear is only allowed with my permission.

It’s my turn. The too small, talking screen becomes somewhat confused after I skip bagging for the third time. It repeats, “Please wait for assistance,” over and over again. Assistance does not arrive until I frantically flail my arms over my head in a manner befitting one in the middle of a highway lane, desperately attempting to stop a fast approaching big rig. The self-checkout police is in the midst of an animated conversation with a customer and finally notices me after I start climbing atop the self checkout counter a la King Kong and the Empire State Building.

Why do I do this to myself? Because my bank is conveniently located within this supermarket, in full view, fishbowl style, of all who traverse the dull, vinyl floors, thereby offsetting my bank robber paranoia and offering me the comfort and security of knowing that no hardened desperadoes would dare attempt commit a felony under ever present public scrutiny. Since I am a pragmatist, I shop after banking; I’m there anyway. But it doesn’t mean I like it.

I am finally assisted. I scan all four bottles, prepare to depart, only to discover, that I was charged for five items instead of four.

“Excuse me, ” I interrupt the self-checkout police to tell her of my plight.

“I can’t help you, ” she assures me. “You have to go to Customer Service.”

She points a chubby finger towards a counter with a line so long, some shoppers sit in folding chairs, playing tic-tac-toe.

I saw my options as threefold:

• crumble like a vanilla wafer;
• verbally express my displeasure as a way to hopefully create change; or
• take control of the situation myself.

I realized #1 was not my style. #2 would require a microphone and a podium, but #3 was doable. I was charged for five bottles of water, and by God, I was going to get five bottles of water! I picked up another bottle and left.

I no longer shop at this super store, limiting myself only to the banking services housed within. I instead frequent a place where the owner knows my face, if not my name, and the workers appear happy to see me, linking their arms through mine, skipping down aisles and explaining the daily specials. It’s a place where people are expected to think and do.

Think for yourself or others will do it for you.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity | 5 Comments »

May 26, 2008 by Keli.

There are those who intentionally transform themselves into human skunks subtly spraying all who cross their path with their malodorous scent. I refer to stupers (short, yet again, for uncommonly stupid persons) who drench, no submerge, themselves in vats of perfume, in my case, at six am on the local municipal golf course.

I caddied for Son this weekend in an adult-junior golf tournament. By caddie, I don’t mean I carried his golf bag whose weight equaled a Prius with a full tank of gas or that I gave sound golf advice (I’m afraid I only offer the unsound variety), but rather dutifully provided encouragement and support.

As I stood over the putting green at 6:18 am, I was suddenly overcome by an overwhelming odor; a repelling mix recalling that of shoe polish, tea tree oil and Handy Wipes. Somewhere along the way, the perfume stopped being a scent and became a stench. I never longed so profoundly for fresh air as I did that morning.

I followed the fumes and found the source: a thirty-something-year-old woman (G) sitting in a golf cart accompanying her boyfriend (B) who played in the tournament. As I got closer, my eyes began to water, my nostrils burned and my nose wrinkled. Don’t get me wrong. There were positives. One whiff wiped out an entire red ant colony on the fifth tee box. And I briefly considered marketing the stuff to revive victims of fainting spells.

Hours later and I could still smell it on my person. The only way to avoid it was to stand far, far away and upwind.

Once during the round, with nary a breeze in sight, I stood at a distance of one hundred yards from the offender and still, the odor found me or I found it; hard to tell which.

I coughed and observed G, trying to understand the need for such serious soaking. She appeared pleasant enough. Then B interrupted my pondering. I notice he bore a startling resemblance to Julius Caesar, without the toga. If B climbed atop a large rock and started spewing, “Friends, Romans, Countrymen…” no one would think twice. Particularly if he wore the toga and sported a garland of olive leaves around his head.

Then I understood. B had a roving eye (as Caesars are wont to do). While G sat in the cart, B swiveled his head back like a bird of prey to stare at passing female joggers in shorts. All other golfers golfed. B gawked. Obviously, G’s perfume deluge was her way of calling attention to herself and of reminding B (and all others) of her presence.

Back to perfume and cologne. Both should be worn as a scent; mild enough to be appreciated only by those up close and personal.

For those of us unwillingly subjected to fumes of the oxygen-depriving nature, we must step away until we smell it no longer. Preferably move to a grove of trees or green bushes to restore the lost oxygen. Also, making an effort to understand the source of the odor can lessen its impact, as it did for me.

Think before. Speak and act later.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Plain Old Fashioned 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 »