April 7, 2008 by Keli.

Stupers (short once more, for revealingly stupid persons) are completely unfazed about their blunders. Most likely because a blunder to them is simply a way of life.

Husband (H) and I entered an open house one afternoon as we were interested in a
possible purchase. Actually, H had already visited the home half an hour
earlier and spoken to the listing agent at the house in great detail about a possible
purchase of the home. He told the agent that he’d be back with his wife. So he
brought me.

I liked the house also, and now we both asked the perpetually smiling real estate agent some more questions (incessant smiling is sometimes a viable clue pointing to stupidity, but not reliably so, as many people smile out of sheer joy, not stupidity).

We left and returned a bit later with our kids. All of us liked the home.

After each of the three visits, the agent, a tall, personable fellow, in his early forties,
asked us whether we liked the home and, after each time, he was always glad to see us
back. Our interest in the house was unquestionable. Our experience was pleasant. H and I both thought we’d make an offer immediately.

After the third visit, we lingered and asked very specific questions, namely,

“Will the seller be available so that we may make an offer tonight?”

Suddenly, this affable agent said, blank smile intact, “I did tell you that the house is in escrow, right?”

Neither H nor I responded.

“Yeah, an offer was accepted last week, but I thought I’d hold it open anyway.”

Later I asked myself, (I thought I was an astute judge of character), how I didn’t see through the vacant Jack-in-the-Box type grin and the ever present giddiness.

Should we have:

A. Taken him to the nearest public square and arranged for a flogging;
B. Thanked him for holding the open house and left;
C. Asked him to donate his brain to science so that perhaps it could be studied for chemical imbalances that led to his sheer stupidity; or
D. Had one of us hold him down, while the other pummeled some sense into him.

In this case, I had to hold H back as he was a bit irritated over the waste of time and
energy. He asked the agent why he hadn’t “thought” (key word here) of revealing this
vital piece of information a little earlier. Fortunately for the agent, I, at this time, was
reading a book on utilizing Buddhist principles in everyday life and on cultivating
spiritual values like kindness, patience, understanding and compassion towards all without exception including, but not limited to, the idiots-at-large, so I stopped H from being fully expressive.

In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t. The realtor’s lackluster faculties needed to be blasted. The agent’s only reaction had been to shrug wordlessly, turn back into the house and lead other unsuspecting potential buyers on through the spacious rooms all the while holding his long forgotten “No Vacancy” sign behind his back.

It’s no wonder so many professionals dislike their jobs or are stressed out from their work. They’re operating at half speed. The professionals who do excel are thinking individuals who are aware and satisfied that they are doing their best and are intelligent enough to seek out work that they enjoy.

Great minds like to think.

Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Professional Stupidity | 9 Comments »

March 4, 2008 by Keli.

The ideal doctor-patient relationship is one in which the two enthusiastically partner together to successfully solve the patient’s health issue(s). And everyone lives happily ever after.

However, this may not be the case if a stuper (short yet again, for an unfalteringly stupid person) is involved. This occurs when there is a physician whose ego is so enormous, the patient can barely squeeze into the room with him.

I’m certain there are cases where the patient can be troublesome, but based on my personal experience, I’ve found that most often, it’s the lack of an open mind (one of the character flaws of stupidity) on the doctor’s part that contributes to stupidity.

A few years ago, Sam, became ill with a serious bacterial infection. He went from doctor to doctor, searching for a cause and a cure. He ended up seeing a total of ten physicians before making progress. Doctors #1-9 were idiots.

The first doctor passed him onto a specialist, Dr. B. After examining Sam, Dr. B prescribed a medication. Sam did some research. He learned that certain food allergies could have contributed to his infection.

“Should I keep a food diary or stay away from certain foods?” Sam asked. “Would that help me?”

“You can eat whatever you want,” Dr. B assured him.

Sam’s condition worsened, and the medication gave him a severe reaction and pain. Dr. B cut down the dosage, but Sam saw little improvement.

To make this long story short, Sam became a nomadic patient, traveling from physician to physician; his health only became worse.

“I kept thinking there was something in my diet that caused my illness,” Sam recalled. “I mentioned this to Doctor #7 who was a renowned specialist at UCLA. He too told me it was not food related. When I continued to ask him questions about foods, I really rattled his chain. Literally. He wore a heavy gold chain around his neck, and every time he got nervous, he’d grab hold of it and start shaking the thing. Anyway, he had me take numerous tests to find out what I was suffering from. In the end, he said he believed it was a bacterial infection. Sheer genius.

“I told Doctor #8 that the medication was making me worse. He told me he’d seen hundreds of patients every week for years, and not one had any type of reaction that remotely resembled mine. He sent me to a specialist. This specialist wanted to operate. She said it was my only hope. The thought of going under the knife made my knees buckle! I decided to try going off the drug, and told the specialist what I was doing. She thought I was crazy, but said I could try it for one month, and then she’d operate.”

“As soon as I went off the medication, the severe pain and the side effects vanished. But I still had numerous other problems from the infection.”

It wasn’t until Doctor #10 that Sam made real progress.

“This physician told me about a diet that helped some of his patients. I went on the diet. My bacterial infection soon disappeared. It had been that simple.”

The average doctor spends no more than twenty minutes per patient. Why don’t more physicians allocate more time for analysis and understanding? Yes, dear readers, it’s stupidity’s wicked cousin, greed, steadfastly at work.

I hope the noble members of the medical field realize that I’m not pointing my finger at them, but at the practitioners who entered the field with good intentions, but who either never found their calling or lost it along the way. Intelligent physicians do not regard patients collectively, as a whole, but as individuals, each with his own unique reactions and needs. There are excellent doctors out there; finding them is the key to obtaining a happy relationship.

How to tell if a doctor is a stuper:

1. Wears too much jewelry (flaunting the way they spend fees is improper);
2. Unwilling to listen;
3. Closed minded;
4. Speaks in medical mumbo jumbo; and
5. Places ink on the feet of a pigeon to stamp prescription forms, ensuring that only an expert can decipher his mysterious medical code.

Thinking is a choice.

Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Professional Stupidity | 9 Comments »

February 19, 2008 by Keli.

Confrontations with stupidity often occur in the workplace, one of the most vexing being the times we’re expected to stay awake during meetings of questionable merit and interminable length. Long and boring. But, there are ways to appear intelligent even while nodding off.

I’ve sat on several boards of directors for minuscule, but nonetheless worthy, organizations, as well as for my place of business. At one of these board (or is it bored?) meetings, I was once asked to give my opinion of the topic being bandied about. The subject matter was so absurdly tedious, that to this day, I am clueless as to what everyone was discussing. I’d tuned out.

“What do you think, Keli?” asked the President who sat, without blinking, in her high-back, leather, throne-like chair, giving me the feeling that she was rarely wrong.

She didn’t have to ask twice. Upon hearing my name, my pulse raced and little beads of perspiration formed on my forehead (fortunately, I wore wispy bangs at the time so without close examination, the sweat remained hidden beneath my hair). I don’t like to be caught unprepared. Especially when no one’s to blame, but myself. The setting suddenly appeared unreal, possessed of its own laws. I paused, as if carefully pondering, then replied, “I think this matter should be given greater thought before any decisions are made.”

The President nodded her head in approval; I had successfully extricated myself at no great cost, by a somewhat vague, non-committal response.

Changing the subject would have worked also, but that must be handled with greater skill as it could get out of hand should anyone suspect the true purpose behind the abrupt shift. Not easy to do in front of a weary audience eager for some real action.

I could have confessed that I’d drifted off into faraway mental frontiers, but that may have led to undesirable consequences as well as to my embarrassment, even though it was what I deserved. Or was it? For heaven’s sake, if these meetings moved along at a proper pace and were accompanied by palatable eats, who wouldn’t gladly give greater attention? Serving M&Ms or donuts does not promote good health or alertness. Delicately prepared hors d’oeuvres would keep me happily occupied and awake. Such meetings should not scrimp on sustenance.

In order to emerge unscathed from these situations, it’s important to carry an unfailing sense of self-assurance around, or at least appear to, as in my case. Had I folded, I surely would have been branded a stuper (short for an openly stupid person). Not being mentally present at a meeting should not be an impediment to being a successful participant.

Why not think?

Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

Posted in My very own stupidity, Professional Stupidity | 5 Comments »

February 13, 2008 by Keli.

While listening to my college-attending child complain about a “moronic” professor, I regressed right back to my own school days and found myself wrinkling my nose in rancor as I recalled some of my nutty instructors. Out of almost fifty professors over a four year period, I had my share of stupers (short yet again, for observably stupid persons).

I took psychology 101 my first quarter and, oh, what an unwelcome introduction to a university course. My professor bore an uncanny physical resemblance to a hillbilly-mountain man, convicted felon type, who’d gotten all gussied up for a trip into town. Professor Nutcase appeared as if he hadn’t shaved or untangled his shoulder length locks in over a decade. He wore a heavy flannel work shirt and jeans on a daily basis, be the weather hot or cold, but had the presence (or was it absence?) of mind to balance out his outfit by foregoing shoes and socks. He paced the auditorium stage barefoot while he spoke.

But it wasn’t his slipshod physical appearance that tipped the scales of intelligence on the low side and repulsed students of delicate sensibilities. It was the fact that he muttered to the point of indistinction while he lectured, swallowing syllables and whole sentences. I resisted the urge to run frantically from student to student, yelling, “Did you get that?” I knew I’d be met by blank stares.

Professor N. did everything in his power to ensure that the few students in the lecture hall who actually listened as he mumbled could not even read his lips. He faced the floor as he paced, and if that wasn’t bad enough, he engulfed himself in smoke from his endless supply of cigarettes so that he moved about in a curtain of brown-gray vapor. These were the olden days, before indoor smoking was banned in public places. I took refuge in the detailed class lecture notes offered in the student store. Notes of this sort were for classes requiring a subtle form of an apology or peace offering to students to make up for less than stellar instructors.

After the first quarter, I learned there were professors that should be diligently avoided, like Dr. Nutcase. How then to determine which classes to take? A tip I found worthwhile was to seek out those courses which college athletes enrolled in. Classes with a heavy contingent of football players had particularly fine teachers and a manageable workload. These courses included: Speeches of American Presidents, Children’s Literature and Psychology of the Sexes.

Unfortunately, in order to fulfill the requirements for my major, I did get stuck with a few more stupers before graduating: Dr. Ihaveahugego, Dr. Idratherbeinthebahamas, and Dr. Ihatestudents. (Do note that each of their names began with the letter “I”). But I realized that sometimes even stupers provide a means to an end.

Think first, last and always.

Keli
Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Professional Stupidity | 5 Comments »

January 31, 2008 by Keli.

I have to be bound and gagged before I listen to or view news reports. I can fill my head with rubbish quite well on my own, thank you. But I periodically sneak a peak when a ludicrous internet headline catches my attention before I am able to divert my eyes. Today’s headline came from an Associated Press (AP) news story and read:

“Hen Lays Eggs-tremely Rare Eggs”

Since I have hens who lay eggs, I was curious to discover what exactly constituted “rare eggs.” The news video showed a small, remote Mexican village and an astonished rural housewife who couldn’t understand why her hen laid green colored eggs.

To the majority of my 3.5 readers, this probably does seem a bit astonishing. But any chicken enthusiast, farmer or 4-H member knows that a certain breed of hen (Americauna or Araucauna) has a tendency to lay green or blue eggs. In fact, I have some green eggs sitting out in my coop this very minute.

The photo below shows my eggs. However, I’m afraid that my amateur photography and inexpensive camera do not do the green shade of the eggs justice. You’ll have to take my word for it. Picture the underside of a leaf - a light green hue. Just like these eggs.

Shall I call the AP news service to take a gander at my eggs? Perhaps I can sell movie rights. I can see the headline now:

“The egg phenomena continues: Eggs-traordinary hen discovered in California coop”

I value accuracy and proper reporting; consequently, this story almost gave me a panic attack. This ridiculous news reporter and her cohorts obviously did no research. If they weren’t stupers (short for incomparably stupid persons), they were doing a pretty darn good imitation. Just a few strokes of the keys and a Google search would have revealed that green eggs are no rarity.

I hope you don’t mind, intelligent readers; I had to share this half-witted AP news story with somebody. If you’d like to read it for yourselves, here it is:

http://cosmos.bcst.yahoo.com/up/player/popup/?rn=3906861&cl=6162168&ch=4226726&src=news

I can’t help but wonder how often research-free reporting takes place in larger, more consequential stories.

Think.

Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Professional Stupidity | 4 Comments »

January 25, 2008 by Keli.

Stupidity not only wastes time, energy and brain cells, it squanders earth’s resources as well. To wit: paper.

How long should a simple store receipt be? A few inches in length, perhaps? How about a foot long? A yard, you say, that arrives in three separate parts? I can hear Sears’ company representatives heartily applauding those of you who agreed with this last choice because that’s exactly what they provided as evidenced by my actual photo below:

When I purchased a single gift certificate, even the sales associate was appalled at the nearly interminable receipt. He said,

“What a waste of paper! Can you believe that last week’s receipts were double this length?”

I carefully examined said paperwork for a clue as to the reason behind the unprovoked elongation. A full three and one-half inches was devoted to my actual transaction. The rest read like a one way conversation with a store mannequin, if mannequins could talk, and if they were bilingual in English and Spanish.

“We value your feedback,” took almost four inches; “Satisfaction guaranteed,” took another four inches. The second two pages were coupons that took more than two feet to list all the items for which the discounts could not be used.

I suppose if I regarded this extended piece of paper as a kind of letter from Sears to its customers, I could be appeased. But even then, the length could be reduced:

Dear Valuable Sears Customer,

We hope you are happy with your purchase. If you’re not, please save your receipt and return or exchange the item within 90 days. If you are inclined to and over the age of 18, please give us your feedback at www.searsfeedback.com. Also, to reward you for shopping at Sears, you may use this letter as a 15% coupon on kids’ clothes and a 20% coupon on adults’ clothes. Many, many, many items are excluded from these coupons, but you are welcome to attempt to find something that is not. You have until 1/31/08 to make these purchases. Thank you ever so much.

Very truly yours,

Sears

The above note could have been printed on a six-inch long receipt. It easily could include the letter plus the transaction information. The paperwork Sears provided me alone, could have been used on six customers.

Stupidity is not efficient or effective. There is little one can do with idiocy of this ilk other than to write a letter to the executive office and hope it rings a little bell that awakens an otherwise dormant mind.

Think.

Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Professional Stupidity, Plain Old Fashioned Stupidity | 7 Comments »

December 3, 2007 by Keli.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me?” I asked.

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

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

“Say ow.”

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

“What?” I wondered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once again I endeavored to regain her attention.

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

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

Thinking is worthwhile.

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

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Monumental Stupidity, Professional Stupidity | 4 Comments »

November 29, 2007 by Keli.

Hospital stays should be stupidity-free. And they usually are. I had two such stays (courtesy of childbirth) where caring, conscientious, authentic humans surrounded me. That is, except for the admitting nurse who, after I’d filled out the paperwork and left my employment status blank, nearly had a fit.

“Don’t you have a job?” she asked, none-too-kindly.

I hesitated before answering as I was on maternity leave and felt a bit limbo-like.

“You’re a housewife?” she spat out like she’d suddenly dislodged a stray corn kernel that had been stuck between her teeth for weeks.

Clearly her limited, mental receptacle somehow perceived an affront not only to the noble efforts of the nursing profession, but to the very core of all women who worked outside the home.

Back to hospital stays.

Two years ago, my then sixteen-year-old son was hospitalized for a nasty bout with the flu. He spent four days there; my husband and I switched off spending time with him as the hospital was some distance from our home.

No less than ten nurses came through Son’s room; sometimes solo, other times in pairs. Almost all staff members appeared genuinely dedicated and competent. Three were particularly memorable. One, not because he was the only male member and the cheery sort, but because he wore a novel cap with a dignified, yet highly optimistic gold tassel. The second memorable nurse was a young, very pleasant woman who caught our eyes because of her intelligence and her large, elongated glasses that came dangerously close to becoming goggles. However, I’m afraid to report the third was a stuper (short for an unnecessarily stupid person). Let’s call her Nurse Norma L. Bainbridge.

At four a.m., the morning of Son’s discharge, two nurses came by to give him medicine. Fortunately, Son is an excellent listener with a sharp memory. He recalled the Doc saying said medicine was to be dispensed for only three days. Unfortunately, Doc didn’t reduce this three day part to writing. The nurses eyed us solemnly when Son advised them of this fact. Then they left.

A few hours later, in stepped Nurse Bainbridge. I’m sure you’ve met her sort before. The no-nonsense type who not only works full-time (outside of the home for a respectable paycheck plus splendid benefits), but has four kids, bakes her own bread, churns her own butter, grows prize geraniums and still has time for pilates and basket weaving. Oh yes, she’s also PTA president.

“I heard somebody say they didn’t want to take their medicine this morning,” she said in a saccharine voice, hopelessly twee; the tone reserved for two-year-olds and the crack brained.

“We’d like to wait for the doctor,” I informed her.

She gave me a look that said I’d committed a gross gaffe, and that I’d practically snubbed her for not going to medical school and choosing nursing instead.

Nurse Bainbridge left in a huff and returned almost immediately with enough pages of forms to line every drawer in Martha Stewart’s kitchen. She told me I had to sign the paperwork to absolve her, the entire nursing staff and the hospital from any liability should Son have a relapse for refusing to take his a.m. medicine.

Thankfully, Doc arrived during our argument discussion and confirmed that the medicine was to be administered for only three days.

According to The Modern Handbook of How to be a Stuper, if one is holding an official looking piece of paper with instructions written on it, one must follow those instructions blindly. No matter if the instructions seem a bit off or if another questions their accuracy. Should these instructions appear in barely legible scrawl (thereby obviously the handiwork of a reputable physician), then all the more reason to blindly follow them.

Readers: Chances are you will be treated reasonably well should the need arise for a hospital stay. However, be certain to exercise awareness of your condition and the requisite treatment. Should you feel your mental faculties compromised, bring along an intelligent human to ensure stupers are kept at bay.

Think first, last and always!

Keli

Posted in Professional Stupidity | 8 Comments »

September 22, 2007 by Keli.

One must be prepared when facing massive idiocy to find a means of maintaining a sense of unbending tranquillity within oneself. Brush aside any urge to commit a hostile act. Subtle hostility may be allowed. For instance, carving the word “dunce” on the side of the person’s desk when they look away.  Or slingshotting a large pebble through an open window while hidden behind a nearby bush and hitting your target squarely on the side of  the neck. 

As you may recall, my son attends a private school without an athletic program. Hence, I researched and discovered that, with a bit of fancy paperwork, he could play golf for the local public high school. I was to meet with the Stuperintendent  (short for an unbearably stupid superintendent of a school district) even though I already knew his answer.

I’m not clairvoyant, but like private eyes, I have my reliable informants. No, not mobsters, ex-cons or assorted degenerates. My spies consist of the head librarian, a retired engineer and a local multi-millionaire. The latter, X,  had past dealings with the Stuperintendent. X, a sixty-year-old, retired university professor/entrepreneur, founded a digital microscope company which he later sold for nine figures. X generously offered to teach physics at the high school. Stuperintendent turned X away. Undoubtedly, all those initials (Ph.D. from MIT) confounded the Stuper.

All three of my sources informed me that there would be no high school golf team for my son. Yet, the Stuperintendent agreed to see me. Could my informants be mistaken?

I was granted an audience at eight am during the climax of chaos. Students dashed to and fro like ants whose single file line had been tampered with.  Overhead speakers mounted throughout the campus - in the offices, classrooms, bathrooms - blasted the local radio station at decibels so loud, the receptionist and I had to engage in a shouting match in order for me to explain who I was.

The receptionist whisked me away, down dimly lit corridors to the exalted office, while a voice on the speaker announced,
“No student parking at the YMCA lot across the street.  All inmates must remain on school grounds at all times.”

“Did I hear correctly?” I asked my guide.

“Well, we lock all gates and entry ways during school hours. But some students do try to escape by jumping our high wire fences, and then by taking off in cars parked across the street.”

Keep in mind, this campus is not in the Bronx or East Los Angeles; it’s in a quiet town in the countryside.

How should a Superintendent dress? My high school principal always wore a snappy suit, kept his hair perfectly combed and maintained a slight tan, indicating a healthy love of the outdoors. Picture Cary Grant in his sixties.

How does a Stuperintendent dress? Jeans and the school jacket clumsily draped over a tee-shirt indicating he’d just rolled out of bed. Picture Drew Carey (no disrespect to Mr. Carey), but not as attractive.

We met in his office and I stated my purpose. I explained the means to allow my son to play golf. Stuperintendent wanted to know why my son wasn’t enrolled in his school. My sources had told me that enrollment had been steadily dwindling. They’d 1400 students a short time ago; 1100 currently. I’d heard numerous complaints about the caliber of curriculum. Plus, my son was happy where he was.

I do not hit people beneath the belt. I find that unbecoming. Besides, in this case, I was certain there was nothing there to hit. So I asked the Stuper to stick to the issue at hand. Suddenly, he froze. He stared at me, unblinking, then blurted,

“Is this about golf?”

When I answered affirmatively, he proceeded to give me a stack of enrollment papers, one inch thick; then he boasted about how challenging the high school courses were.

“Our students are accepted at the University of Spain,”  he told me.

Immediately, I turned my attention elsewhere to maintain my sense of well being. I did not attempt to hide my disinterest; I just stared at the wall behind him where several framed accolades hung. But this is what caught my eye:

Nothing that is absurd seems impossible. The name beneath this quote was his own.

Can someone kindly explain this quote to me? I almost fell backward in my chair and hit the floor trying to make sense of that one. Maybe I was just too intent on maintaining tranquillity. I think it’s a twisted version of Cervantes’ In order to attain the impossible, one must attempt the absurd.  Appropriate in my case, don’t you think?

I interrupted his endless ravings and asked, “Do you think me absurd for attempting what you deem impossible?”

“Of course not.”

“Why can’t my son play on the team?”

“I only serve students fully enrolled here.”

“So you have the capability of allowing students who aren’t enrolled to participate, but yet you choose not to?”

“Right.”

Then he proceeded to tell me how he regularly, for the past twelve years, turned down kids from all over, including lesser neighborhoods; he ignored pleas from parents who lived fifteen minutes away, albeit in a different district, who begged him to enroll their children. He had a half-crazed expression in his shifty eyes while he spoke. But he still didn’t explain why.

“It’s about the $, isn’t it? You get no stipend without full-time enrollment within your district.”

“That’s not it.”

As he bragged again about his program, I stood up. He thrust the stack of registration papers in my hands, insisting I take them, in case I came to my senses. He followed me out saying,

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you have the last word.”

Since I don’t smoke, I bummed a cigarette lighter off a random student. The Stuperintendent didn’t notice as he busily rambled on. I gingerly lit the papers he’d given me, then dropped them in a nearby metal trash can. I didn’t look back as I walked to my car, but I knew he’d stopped trailing me.

What’s the best way to dissolve such sheer stupidity? Share your tale with some one that you love.  My son and I enjoyed much laughter at the Stuperintendent’s expense. 

Keep thinking!

Keli
Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

P.S. Every bit of information here is verbatim and factual save one: the cigarette lighter scene is my fabrication. Do not think for a moment that I contribute to the delinquency of young people. Delinquent stupers are my specialty. I set the papers on fire at home. 

Posted in Professional Stupidity | 3 Comments »

September 18, 2007 by Keli.

I’m off for the next few days meeting stupidity head-on in the guise of the much maligned, often misunderstood local superintendent of education. He has decreed it impermissible for my son to play on the public high school golf team. My son attends a private school that lacks a team. Hence, I must investigate to determine if Mr. Superintendent has a valid reason or if he’s indeed a stuper (you must know by now, this is short for an unforgettably stupid person). Ah, the things I do for my children and my research (both of which I adore equally).

Meanwhile, I leave you here today with a tale from my formative years. Even as a youth, I believe I displayed the makings of a stupidity expert. Hopefully, you’ll agree.

At age nine, I was an ambitious scholar. Unfortunately, I was also a victim of professional stupidity committed by Mr. Sussman, my fourth grade teacher.

At the very start of the school year, the Suss carefully assessed the abilities of his twenty-nine students in a unique way. Not by using a battery of tests. Review of past work was irrelevant. No questions were asked; no students were interviewed. Mr. S believed the best method for evaluating student competency was a simple one: judge by appearances.

The Suss classified students in this manner:

• Those that hailed from Japanese descent were obviously bright. They would be placed in the “A” group;
• Those exhibiting Caucasian features and who appeared “normal” would also be classified in the sought after “A” group. To fall into the “normal” category, children could not be overweight, had to sport combed hair,  be capable of sitting still for a minimum of six seconds, and they could not be the product of a father named Bubba or Bobby Ray.
• Everyone else fell into category “D” with nothing in between.

This classification system resembled that of third world countries. There was no middle class; just a small, but powerful and solid elite, epitomizing the leaders. Everyone else landed with a heavy thud at the bottom.

I am a brunette with a light olive complexion. I am not Japanese and, in Suss’ razor sharp assessment, there was a chance I wasn’t Caucasian. In all fairness to the Suss, this took place in the seventies when many Southern California schools had their share of children of Latin descent who had trouble learning the language and consequently, a challenging start in learning. Suss figured I had emerged from south of the border, though this was not the case. I was a prime candidate for category “D” which was where he placed me.

I may have only been nine, but I was outraged as my Japanese friends initially looked on in disbelief at my displacement, then snickered and pointed. I could have squeezed all the juice out of a lemon in my bare hand that day.

I considered explaining to Suss that I was smarter than I looked. I needed to kick him on the shin to get his full attention. But alas, I wore soft tennis shoes on that day. Instead, I patiently waited my turn to prove myself.

The day after his arbitrary, capricious and inane classification, we were divided into reading groups. The crème de la crème read Treasure Island aloud for the Suss while we, in the dubious and intellectually impoverished group, read something like See Spot Run. I waited my turn practically gagging myself to keep from shouting out.

I must mention why this was so maddening. At home I read Black Beauty and The Secret Garden. To be reduced to stories I’d conquered ages ago was terribly frustrating to my nine-year-old mind.

When my turn came, I was gratified to read the entire book in five seconds flat. Needless to say, Suss suggested I join the other group. I shot him looks that could have burned holes through his spectacles had I tried a wee bit harder.

As I passed by him, I noticed his baffled expression. Probably trying to figure out how he possibly could have made that tiny error. (Insert glass-shattering shreik here, but don’t forget to plug your ears first, dear readers).

Every profession has its share of mistakes. People who somehow attain a position despite lack of skill, proper knowledge or training. Perhaps another stuper opened the way. This is likely, as you know, since the stuper population is at an all time high.

I heard Mr. S is no longer teaching; he’s now a school superintendent.

Think for yourself.

Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

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