Archive for the ‘Professional Stupidity’ Category

Health and Safety and Stupidity

Tuesday, October 5th, 2010

One of the main advancements in modern health and safety is the fact that food service workers wear sanitary gloves when handling food items. But this begs the question: is the glove truly sanitary? Not when a stuper (short for a sensationally stupid person) is involved.


I waited patiently on the public side of the bakery counter at a huge health food market so that I could get two innocent loaves of bread sliced.  I eyed the lone employee’s profile as she expertly ignored me from the other side of the counter. She fiddled with her cell phone, scratched her head and licked some chocolate off a gloved thumb that accidently scraped against a rogue cupcake sitting on a nearby prep table. She continued  texting.  All while wearing food service gloves.

I cleared my throat. She didn’t flinch. I slapped the palm of my hand down on the glass countertop. No reaction. 

“Excuse me!” I cried out for attention.

She didn’t budge. I swear. Granted Madonna was playing from somewhere overhead, possibly completely taking over the sense of hearing of those not properly using their minds. I felt…frustrated. Did I mention that I wanted two loaves of bread sliced?

Finally, I huffed so loudly, she turned her head toward me and asked, “Did you need something?” 

I mutely lifted the unwitting loaves of bread, one in each hand, which I held up for all to see. By this time, an appreciative line had formed behind me.

As you likely predicted, the distracted worker proceeded to slice my bread with the same gloved hands used on her phone, her hair and her tongue. 

“Please!” I kindly screamed. Just in the nick of time.


My one word said it all, as she quickly changed out of her gloves and donned a fresh pair. But this tale doesn’t end here, as stupidity is perpetual. Once the bread was sliced, she removed the sanitary gloves to use her bare hands to shove the bread into plastic bags to hand over to me. To add insult to injury, instead of tying the ends of the bags with those ever present twisty ties that come in all the primary colors plus green and black, she decided to tie the ends in a knot. A double knot. All this in plain view of yours truly.

My mantra lately has been to “lighten up,” as I find myself taking life far too seriously. I tried to grin and bear it. I took the bread when it was offered to me. Double knots, bare hands and all.  Did I mention that I was on the last lag of a 240 mile trip at the time?

When I returned to my car, I forced open a bag and ate a slice of bread. I’m happy to report that was four days ago. I didn’t grow a third arm, turn different shades of purple or even gag intermittently.

Beware of stupers. 


Stupidity in the Newspaper

Monday, September 6th, 2010

Newspapers may feature composite drawings of suspects involved in local crimes, hoping to bring criminals to justice. Some such drawings appear frighteningly realistic. I’m amazed at this artist’s raw ability to capture the very essence of the deranged suspect. What talent! I’d be able to pick out that psychotic expression anywhere. But, there are also some composite drawings like this:

I swear. This very drawing (or actually, a reasonable likeness) appeared on the front page of my local newspaper last week. Granted, the expression does indicate a person of low moral standing (notice the one cocked brow, the insolent, lopsided grin and elfin nose). Shaved heads are in right now, so this is somewhat realistic, but where are the ears? I’m afraid this rendering was the result of an unartistic stuper (short for an incorrigibly stupid person). Possibly working for a very low budget or barter-type police station. The artist may have been paid with eggs or radishes rather rather cash.

The local paper, perhaps feeling sorry for the artist and attempting to be helpful, added these significant points:

The suspect is a white male in his mid to late twenties and between five feet and six feet tall.

Apparently, the writer of the piece was on the same page of stupidity as the artist. Or maybe they were one and the same. There is a big difference between five and six feet in height. Perhaps the witness to the crime was the stuper, and this was the best description he/she could provide. Hard to tell. As additional helpful information, the newspaper reader is told:

The man weighs about 200 pounds and there are no apparent tattoos.

The face in the drawing is clearly chubby, (did you take a good look at those jowls?), so I’m guessing the suspect could easily weigh in the 300 range. But the fact that he has no visible tattoos – is that really helpful?

Usually, I pause and glance at such depictions, to dutifully memorize the criminal’s features, just in case I run into him at the Eco-friendly Dry Cleaners or Nordstrom Shoe Department (it could happen). But when my eyes fell upon the front page of my local paper, I had to stop and peer long and hard at the drawing. And still, after fifteen minutes or so, I wasn’t sure I could ever ID this perpetrator. Terribly frustrating.

More theories popped into my head. Perhaps the suspect is related to the artist/writer/witness, who is bent on doing a darn good job of throwing everyone off the scent. Or perhaps the artist/writer/witness was on medication – you know, like Accutane, whose side effects include psychosis (seeing or hearing things that are not real) and an unexplained desire to draw portraits of stick figures. Or perhaps, as is most likely, this was just another case of stupidity.

Keep thinking.


Chuck, Buying Office Supplies and Stupidity

Sunday, March 28th, 2010

I visited my local office supply store, not because I felt like seeking out stupers (short for incomparably stupid persons); I can do that just about anywhere. I went because I actually needed office supplies.

My company has an account there. I usually bring a copy of the paperwork that confirms our account, and no warfare, or cash output by me, is waged. It’s worked well. Most of the cashiers know me, and we get along splendidly. I pull out my driver’s license, proving I am the person whose name is printed on the paperwork, and peace reigns. However, last week, I decided to confidently stand in line and be waited on by a new cashier, one whom I didn’t immediately recognize as a stuper.

I had my reason: the guy behind the cash register bore a striking resemblance to the actor who plays the lead role in Chuck, one of the few television shows I actually watch, being a fan of goofy, comic, spy capers. And I really like the lead actor.

Big mistake. My paperwork wasn’t good enough for the cashier; neither was my driver’s license. Or that he resembled a talented lead TV actor. Or the fact that I knew most of the employees by their first name and whipped out all my prior receipts (8 in all) proving my loyalty and capability of making purchases in that very store, including one I’d made just that morning. Or that I am a stupidity specialist.

“Rules are rules,” the cashier insisted.

“What rules are those?” I asked sincerely, since this new found rule of calling the manager to verify I was who I am (keep in mind, I’d never met the manager; all she did was call headquarters and explain that my driver’s license matched my name on the paperwork, and um, was that okay? To which they heartily responded with a yes).

I briefly considered jumping lines and getting into the one next to me, but that equally idiotic cashier was reading the directions on the box of a printer to a waiting customer as if it was something out of King Lear, complete with British accent and gestures. I was stuck.

I understand about rules and the penalty for impulsively choosing to be waited on by people resembling one’s favorite TV actors. But I don’t understand why rules change depending on the moron,  idiot employee, person behind the counter.

In situations such as these, the only way to maintain sanity is to pull out all the plugs and let the patience flow or immediately exit the store if there exists an overriding inclination to detonate.

Why not think?


Stupidity is on the Rise

Saturday, March 20th, 2010

I rarely watch or read the news, preferring instead to grind my own flour or take the neighbor’s twin pit bulls for a stroll, but for the sake of my dear readers and to prove a vital point, I read today’s headlines: “Germany’s Pedophile Priest Scandal” “Final Healthcare Push” “Lady Gaga is Sued”. Take note, that nowhere does there appear a news report or headline that involves a matter of vital importance: “Stupidity Has Reached Epidemic Levels.

Last week, my office received no mail. Granted, we’ve just moved to a new location. However, the first two weeks after our move, the mail arrived without interruption. Last Monday through Wednesday, we were mail-less. I spoke to three different post office representatives who offered these vastly differing explanations,

Representative #1: “Oh, yours is being sent to Ventura.” (Ventura is a nearby city separated by a very long ocean stretch of highway, with a few other towns in between; perhaps some one could argue that the name “Ventura” is slightly similar sounding to “Santa Barbara” where my office is located, but only if that some one is a stuper [short once again, for a terrifyingly stupid person]).

Representative #2: “You haven’t received your mail in three days? You moved in the building 3 weeks ago? Well, I wouldn’t complain if I was you. Some of your neighbors have been there over ten years and they’re not gettin’ theirs neither.” (I find double negatives a form of blasphemy, FYI. If triple negatives are set loose, I pull out the hand grenade).

Representatives #3:”We don’t recognize your suite number.”

To this last explanation, I replied, “How is it that my suite number was recognized the first two weeks of our occupancy?”

Dead silence ensued, and I finally hung up the phone. I’m thinking complex questions sent the postal worker into a catatonic state.

Finally, I paid the post office a personal visit. I eyed the workers stationed behind the counter. They appeared friendly; even able-minded.

“I would like to pick up my mail, please, ” I asked in my usual polite manner.

By my carefully honed nature, I prefer to be kind. It’s true; I do carry an arsenal of assorted weapons in my oversize handbag. But I rarely use them.

The postal worker disappeared for a few minutes, then returned with my mail.

“Why?” I asked her in desperation.

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled, “Have a nice day!”

My mail arrived for the rest of the week.

Most of us do not even realize that we live in unsafe environments. There are stupers posing threats to our sanity everywhere. All the more reason for us to exercise a cool, calm, determined, increasingly steady and smooth flowing effort of attention toward attaining the definite goal of thinking. Imagine the possibilities.

Think first, last and always.


Juggling Stupidity on the Telephone

Wednesday, January 27th, 2010

Yesterday, I had enormous fun juggling the management of two county-wide organizations, by myself, and handling the stupers (short for irrepressibly stupid persons) who persisted in calling. The desks of both associations face each other in one office, so I raced back and forth constantly. I nearly pole vaulted, using my umbrella, over each desk in order to answer the respective phones. Then I catapulted over the visitors’ chairs to unlatch the front door for the UPS man, while I was still on the phone. Being hyper energetic by nature, the sweat pants and sneakers only enhanced my mobility. The true challenge arose when the phones rang simultaneously. But that is fodder for a different post.

The callers are what really made my day. They generally seek legal information; I’m afraid it’s the issues they’re experiencing that cause me to stop and ponder: Where is the human race headed? Shouldn’t stupidity have been mostly eradicated by now?  I present Exhibit A: “Chuck” who stated,

“I need legal advice. I have a terminal illness…”

Immediately, I sank to the floor to accentuate the deep compassion I felt as well as my exhaustion from pole-vaulting, until he explained,

“I’ve had it since 1992…”

Is that possible? Forgive me if I sound idiotic, but doesn’t “terminal” mean approaching death? I mean, I’m grateful that he’d made it this long, but I had trouble with his word usage. It turned out he wanted to sue a drug company for medication he thought was not working. He’d lasted almost twenty years while taking the meds, so I didn’t follow his plight. Thankfully, he and the drug company were located in a different jurisdiction so I referred him elsewhere.

Next, came Luther. I like the name Luther. It reminds me both of Luther Burbank, the famous California botanist who sweet-talked his thorny cactus plants into losing their thorns, thereby creating the spineless cactus. It’s true. My guru said so (more on my guru in an upcoming post). Wikipedia confirms this phenomenon.

Luther also reminds me of Lex Luthor, the supervillain in comic books and Superman’s archenemy. Lex allegedly lost his hair in a laboratory accident, and well, the rest, as they say, is history. I know how I feel when I have a bad hair day. I can only surmise what would happen if I lost my hair while conducting one of my stuper lab experiments.

Anyway, my caller, Luther, complained to me that he was being tortured and has continued being tortured for some time. I asked for the name of his tormentor.

“Oh, it’s not a person.”

I patiently waited, while I heard the other line ringing. I casually inquired, “Is it the po-po?” (This is the part where I begin to slightly suffer an imbalance in my mind; when this occurs, my speech is the first to go).


While he paused, I picked up the other line, only to find the caller had hung up. I breathed a thirty second long sigh of relief. I forgot about Luther until I heard a voice on the speakerphone say (I had to place him on speaker to answer the other call; my umbrella was not handy):

“It’s the Internet. I’m being tortured by the Internet.”

So here’s where I draw the line. I can’t even go into the reasons why as I am currently in relax mode, but I feel confident my dear readers know what I’m talking about. I convinced Luther that this was a matter for Homeland Security and got off the phone.


Please think.


Stupidity, the Bank and Tap Dancing

Monday, January 18th, 2010

Periodically, I engage in a song & dance routine. I get out my black, patent leather shoes, pink bow tie and glittery cane. I’ve performed this little tap number at four branches of a local bank in order to obtain necessary paperwork for a loan.

My husband occasionally buys and sells real estate. Hence, the need for loans. To borrow money from a lender, we must prove that we don’t really need the money.

My energetic little jig is usually followed by polite, staccato applause from my small, subdued audience; afterward, I am handed the requested piece of paper to show the lender. I typically begin my journey to the exit, but rarely make it out the double glass doors. Along the way, I notice that the paper, which summarizes the balance of my accounts, provides no evidence whatsoever that it originated from a bank. I could have typed it up myself.

“Where the hell does it say which freaking bank this is from?” is what I’d love to shout (years of maintaining an angelic demeanor for the sake of the kids has taken its toll on me). Instead I say,

“Would you kindly open a drawer and locate the super impressive, official-looking stamp that says ‘Los Pueblos Bank’ and illuminate this little sheet?”

So begins a mad dash from drawer to drawer by the employee in search of the elusive stamp. This occurs each and every time and can last anywhere from four to twelve minutes, depending on the I.Q. of the person assisting me. (That was mean. I’m sorry. I.Q. has no bearing whatsoever on stupidity. Highly educated people can be impossibly stupid).

Yesterday, Husband and I entered the branch closest to our home to add his name to an account that I have with my mother. Doesn’t that sound delightfully simple? Nancy assisted us. We obtained proper signatures and left to get my mother’s signature. We did so. Husband returned the signature card to the bank (I didn’t have my tap shoes on me). It was his turn to secure the little piece of paper.

Here’s what happened:

When Husband entered the bank, Nancy was nowhere to be found. He overheard some one say, “She’s in the lunch room, doing her nails.” Husband was advised that no other person, out of the 15 employees present, could add the signature and print out the paper he required. He asked to see the manager.

Unbeknown to Husband, the manager had declared Tuesdays to be “Don’t-help-customers-no-matter-what-day.”

When he asked how long Nancy would be, Manager replied, “Ten minutes.”

Husband said, “No problem. I’ll wait. I really need to deliver this paperwork to the lender today.” Husband showed Manager a sample copy of what he needed.

Manager carefully scrutinized it, then announced, “That’s a cute little paper, but you’re not getting anything today. It’s going to take at least twenty-four hours to update the account.”

Husband, realizing them’s fightin’ words, said, “Are you sure? I’ve done this before and it’s instant.”

She restated, “It can’t be done.”

Husband left. He filled up the gas tank, stopped to get coffee, then drove five miles to the next branch of the same bank. This time he met a very smart teller who printed what he needed in less than ten seconds. Unfortunately, it took another four minutes to find the infamous official bank stamp.

Why? Why must we jump through hoops and perform astonishing feats of ability in order to survive an encounter with stupidity? Well, first of all, so I can run this blog. Secondly, to sharpen our minds. Those who can think and do, can always beat ten men who can’t and don’t (to paraphrase George Bernard Shaw). Don’t you feel a sense of accomplishment when you’ve resolved a problem or completed a task, no matter how large or small? Stupers (short for abysmally stupid persons) don’t know what that satisfaction feels like. And never will.

Choose to think.


Stupidity, E-mail Correspondence, Professional Idiots and Courtesy

Saturday, November 21st, 2009

I recently discovered yet another surefire method for recognizing stupers (short for unanimously stupid persons), sight unseen. No, I’m not telepathic, super brilliant (I may be just plain brilliant though), or saintly (I hope I’m not bursting too many of my loyal readers’ bubbles). I just know an idiot when I meet one, or in this case, read one.

I correspond regularly, via e-mail, with many seasoned professionals: Attorneys, Physicians, Investment Bankers, Teachers and Certified Public Accountants, for instance. I’ve not met the majority of these people in person, so I don’t really know any of them. We’re involved in the same causes, part of the same groups, etc. But I do know that an authentic human not only thinks before speaking and taking action, but before sending out e-mails as well. Stupers rarely think and their email correspondence reflects this.

Physician Katy sent out an email to CPA Mallory, requesting information on expenses attributable to a chartitable organization that Katy headed. All Katy wanted was numbers, as you may have guessed. No questions were asked of CPA Mallory such as, what do you think about these numbers? Or do you have a good recipe for mincemeat pie or is Kalamazoo the capitol of Michigan and if not, do you think it should be? None of these questions were posed. I was copied on this e-mail.  I took note of how courteously it was written by Katy and really appreciated its brevity. “Please” and “thank you” appeared in all the right places. It warmed my heart.

Mallory took it upon herself to respond, not with any numerical information as requested, or even a salutation, but instead with this:

This is IMPORTANT, as a reply to your e-mail (note to readers: idiots believe we, meaning everyone else but them, are stupid, so they feel a need to tell us what is important, figuring we may not get it)

Your charitable organization should not accept any more donations (note to readers again: Katy did not ask about donations)

I REALLY don’t think you want to shut down the ability to get grants, funding, etc…(please note again: are caps really necessary? And keep in mind, this particular  has been in operation for decades without receiving one grant or donation.)

There are many other ways around this. (Note once more: though Mallory hints at “other ways,” she never bothers to explain. Why? She doesn’t give free advice. What is “this” anyway? Which begs the question, is hard drug use on the rise among professionals or is it just stupidity?).

Blah, blah, blah. (Readers kindly use your imagination to insert additional nonsense).

Katy, call me immediately to discuss.

Not one “please” or “thank you” to be found. Really. How backbreaking is it to insert a please or thank you, now and then? Such pleasantries immediately lift a person to thinker status and even offer the reader a slight lift. I cannot begin to tell you the many positive results I’ve noticed as a result of a smidgen of courtesy.

It’s like attending a meeting in ripped jeans (not even fashionably ripped, but slovenly ripped like you’ve been attacked by a rabid, starving coyote) and a stained shirt while your competitor rules in a stylish St. John knit.

A few carefully chosen words in the right places does wonders for making a person appear intelligent and kind, even in email correspondence. Taking the time to insert a simple salutation and make remarks in a kindly fashion make the communication appear thoughtful and intelligent. Mallory has now been branded an idiot, thanks to her failure to use garden-variety courtesy.

When we fail to be kind to others, we destroy our own peace of mind, and turn into immediate idiots.

Why not think?


Stupidity and the Gardener Part 1

Tuesday, October 13th, 2009

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.


Stupidity and Clients

Wednesday, September 30th, 2009

I have recently discovered that asking too many questions can turn a stuper (short for a disarmingly stupid person) away. And not a moment too soon.

I’m sure most of my readers are well aware of the reputation that many members of the legal profession shoulder: money grabbing, heartless, wily misanthropes who care nothing for the client. This may or may not be true, depending on the individual attorney, but I must remind you that for every idiot attorney, there is an idiot client.

I work for a charitable organization which attracts all sorts of people, including those that refuse to think. Nancy called me needing help with her landlord. A simple enough problem, no? Not when Nancy is a Class AAA+ stuper.

I try to get the facts out of my callers; directing them to dispense with the extraneous, ridiculous, cringeworthy details mostly of a derogatory nature. Nancy began her tale,

“I live in an eight unit apartment complex with a bunch of crackheads. And it isn’t even good crack.”

Which, of course, begs the question, how does Nancy know the crack’s no good? She continued,

 “I told the landlord I can’t take it anymore. The fumes sent me to the emergency room. And now I have asthma. And there’s banging on the walls. And the building is filled with gays. I’m the only female and I am constantly discriminated against. The Mexican gardeners make too much noise with their ()*#$*%& blowers. Why are all *&$&^*% Mexicans gardeners? The manager is a black homo and he’s the worst. Then there are the Asians and the Jews… I have it all on videotape.”

You get the gist of it. After about five minutes, there was no race, ethnicity, religion or gender that she failed to insult. Okay, she kept the Tibetans out of the equation. Meanwhile, I pondered hanging up on her, passing her on to some more deserving soul or breaking into song with the aim of encouraging her to grossly underestimate my abilities.

Instead, I asked her a few questions. How long she’d lived there, when did her troubles start, what does 1+1 equal, and finally,

“Do you have medical records of your visit to the Emergency Room?”

This was Nancy’s response,

“Lady, you ask too many questions! I’m going to Los Angeles to get me a real lawyer!”

Immensely relieved, I thanked her profusely, but she’d already hung up.

Now when a potentially whacked up client calls me (they are extremely easy to spot because they have zero self-control once they begin blabbering), I interrogate them to distraction. This way stupers are instantly revealed and shoved aside so I can focus on the clients that sincerely need help.

Keep thinking.


Stupidity and the Police

Sunday, September 20th, 2009

The police in my town have embarked on a sting operation. You know, the kind where a law enforcement officer poses as a cooperative member of the public so said officer may be victimized by lawbreakers who will then be immediately apprehended, possibly even wrestled to the ground, jolted with a stun gun and placed in shackles, to protect the real, wide-eyed public. Unfortunately, as you may have guessed, this operation was run by stupers (short, yet again, for unimaginatively stupid persons).

Keep in mind that the place where I live is not exactly a hotbed of criminal activity. The population hovers at around 4000, and the most heinous crime here (besides stupidity) consists of driving with a suspended license. Oh sure, there was that one alleged crime boss/racketeer/mafia kingpin, but the FBI caught him and put him away for life plus 120 years, and all of his crimes occurred in the Los Angeles area. No actual bodies were found anywhere on his spread in my town.

This highly complex decoy operation involved police in plainclothes strolling across a street using a crosswalk. The police cited six drivers in one day during this crackdown; villainous motorists who failed to yield to pretend pedestrians trying to cross the street.

“This is a disturbing number of potential tragedies…” stated Lt. Julie McCann, posing as the City Police Chief. Then she threatened, “We will have more of these covert operations in the future.”

First of all, once something is published in the newspaper, which is where I read the above quote, covert becomes overt. Secondly, when was the last time, intelligent readers may be wondering, that there occurred a tragedy on this road or any street for that matter in my town, concerning a pedestrian? Let’s see…there was that time a woman, using the crosswalk, fell out of her wheelchair after her Yorkshire terrier went haywire on his leash and chased after an unsuspecting postal worker using the same crosswalk. Yorkies can be ruthless that way.

I do so wish stupers were capable of focusing their attention on more important matters. Especially those idiots involved in law enforcement. How about trying to catch drunk drivers? Or speeders?

“Now that school is open again, we must protect those using the crosswalk…” stated Police Chief McCann.

Um, there were no schools near the targeted crosswalk. (Excuse me while I lay my head face down, but resting on a forearm, and bang one clenched fist on my desk).

Stupers have trouble focusing on the real issues or matters at hand. You know, the vital topics that actually require care, thought, focus and the utmost attention. Instead, morons prefer to waste time blithering and taking needless or nonsensical action. To make sure none of us fall into this idiotic category, make sure you focus on progress: progressing your mind to make yourself a better, more intelligent being every day. If you need tips on how to do this, please contact me.

Keep thinking.