We read and hear daily about the cheerless state of our nation’s economy. What we’re not told is that there is a silver lining. I know because I’ve been the recipient of this recent benefit not once, not twice, but three times this past weekend. And as you may have guessed, this silver lining has to do with stupers (short, yet again, for significantly stupid persons).
As most of you well know, Home Depot has been adamant in its refusal to provide customer service. Trying to find an employee, let alone a helpful, thinking employee is like trying to locate the Batcave (Batman’s sought after secret headquarters). It ain’t gonna happen. I’m happy to report that to remain competitively in business, Home Depot has initiated a policy of not hiring idiots. I believe their corporate headquarters contain these very, if not similar, words in their instructions to the Human Resources Department: “THE HIRING OF STUPERS IS NO LONGER CONDONED.”
I strolled into a Home Depot to check out their potted plant selection.
The moment I stepped into the store, four helpful, happy employees greeted me, begging to be of service.
“How can we help you?’
“Thank you, but I see the orchids right over there…” I pointed to a spot about twenty feet away.
Nevertheless, one employee accompanied me in case I had questions; she helped me lift various pots and tried desperately to recall the instructions for the proper care of these delicate exotics.
Stunned, I next went to the bank; Wells Fargo, to be precise. Once again, upon entry, an overjoyed greeting committee welcomed me. I swear one of them looked to be the Bank President. They fervently thanked me for my business. I muttered,
“Um, I’m just withdrawing thirty dollars…”
They continued to thank me.
The teller was extremely helpful. He didn’t ask the usual idiotic questions, such as,
“Don’t you want to upgrade your account to executive level? Don’t you want another ATM card? Don’t you want…?” This is usually where they stop after I holler a resounding, “NO!”
As I left, the Bank President shook my hand; I swear he wanted to slip me a twenty just for coming in.
Finally, I went to Macy’s, the hit or miss store. Once again, not even a hint of stupidity. I found a worker to help me in record time. Before I could utter…
“Is there someone who…”
I heard,
“Here I am!” by a delighted employee.
To be successful in any venture, it is of utmost importance not to behave stupidly and to actively utilize one’s mind. Taking this one necessary step further, the same goes for employees, who act as extensions of the store management. If management wants to be regarded as intelligent, useful beings, they must hire the same. Then success is practically guaranteed.
Why not think?
Keli
Keli@counterfeithumans.com
Stupers (short, once again, for assuredly stupid persons) are not only incapable of listening, following directions, properly operating a motor vehicle, eating with their mouths closed and complex math problems, but their attempts to solve simplified math are akin to drilling holes in a block of cement…with a toothpick. It ain’t gonna happen. A calculator in the hands of an idiot only makes matters worse, guaranteeing a multitude of errors.
The amount involved may seem paltry, but who knows? $3.20 today may escalate into $320 tomorrow. Even calculators can’t do the thinking for idiots.
When in the eighth grade, Son requested and was granted permission from Mr. Joe, the computer lab director, to use the school’s fast running computer for Son’s science project. Days later, Son came home upset because Mr. Joe accused Son of setting up an online gambling operation.
I’ve always been an active parent, first-rate at 
I’m happy to report that the physicians were exceptional; mostly concerned, cautious and vigilant at exercising thought before acting. However, here’s the problem: the number of doctors and residents attending each patient daily, is enough to successfully wage war against the city of Harmony, California (population 18). At any given time, there could be eight people in a patient’s room. And they didn’t communicate with each other. Add to that, the social worker, nurses, nurses-in-training, nurse’s assistants, menu planner, meal deliverers, blood drawers, room cleaners, transporters (not the 
For instance, on Day 5, I decided I would no longer argue with overzealous residents who ordered chest x-rays with wild abandon. I decided to be quiet that day. Either that or explode with revolutionary outrage. Apparently, my silence caused great worry. The social worker (who’d been keeping a close eye on me for days) feverishly raced up to ask if I was okay. I nodded. Then Dr. B (in charge of the resident team) who’d overheard the social worker, asked if I was certain I was really and truly okay. I told him I was rock solid. His response,
I absolutely did feel solid. Did I need help? I’d shoved aside inaccurate diagnoses and predictions of dire illnesses as being the cause of the fever and still managed to keep my head, even though such pessimism caused me great distress. Just how well did Dr B know me, anyhow? Did I show signs of strain? Or sure, my nail polish was beginning to chip, and I did wear the same red Lacoste shirt two days in a row, but I felt fine and knew the situation would soon be over.
The seventeen-year-old, high school senior spoke with a heavy French accent that did nothing to diminish her poise and confidence. She spoke before a large group of assorted professionals. Her presentation at the podium detailed school life in her rural village in France. Her name was Nicole, and she was not a stuper (short, once again, for a prominently stupid person). Nicole attended an American public high school for her senior year, as an exchange student.
Meanwhile, my local public high school has declared a holiday this coming Monday. Why? For a special teachers’ meeting. You know. The one they have once a month or so. Where they walk around campus in circles, patting themselves on the back. Back patting is a heavily indulged-in stuper activity.
Before Son #2, who is still in high school, could take an art appreciation class at the local community college, he needed to pass an English examination, as did all students not enrolled in the college. Unfortunately, the professor of this class did not need to take such an exam, and it showed. Here’s an assignment Professor Wheezledorf passed out:
Professor Wheezledorf is no foreigner; English is his first language, and he appears to have reached the ripe old age of forty which should translate into having acquired at least enough knowledge to snugly fit into a kidney shaped swimming pool that was all the rage in the San Fernando Valley in the seventies when I was a wee tot. If you, dear readers, can provide me with a legitimate excuse for his chronic misspelling, do tell, as I’m always on the lookout to gain better understanding.
1. There was too much paperwork involved; and
I’m glad to report this story has a happy ending. You’re familiar, no doubt, dearest readers, with the adage: when one door closes, another one opens. The very afternoon following this incident, Son received an invitation to play in the Toyota Tour Cup Junior Golf Series, a string of tournaments for elite junior golfers all over Southern California.
The small, bucolic, yet highly sophisticated valley (population 5000) where I live, boasts three post offices, all of which are practically registered epicenters of stupidity. During the holidays in particular, the amount of idiocy engaged in by postal workers is akin to the energy necessary to operate 23 cell phones on the planet Pluto. That’s no small feat. Postal employees make it a habit to keep one worker behind the counter per every twelve patrons in line, keeping employee #2 within view, reading the local paper or braiding her hair. By the time I reach the counter, I’m ready to pull the safety pin out of the nearest hand grenade.
The place seemed brighter, out of the ordinarily cheerful, surprisingly welcoming. I looked around. There was a glow about the room despite the same drab walls, same dull interior cement floor. Granted, I was pleased that only one customer stood between the postal worker and me, but not pleased enough to hallucinate. Then it hit me. It was Chris, the jolly and exultant, late twenties or so, government issue employee.
His smile was so bright that he could have lit all the candles on an octogenarian’s birthday cake. He looked so happy, so ecstatically jovial, that he’d made the place come alive.
At the counter, I told Chris that I needed postage for my oversize envelope #1 as well as the self addressed large envelope #2 folded inside #1 which was to be sent back to me by the recipient. Proper procedure is to weigh each separately because envelope #2 usually weighs less on the return trip. Chris only weighed envelope #1, holding his smile of contentment and sheer delight the whole time and muttering sweet sayings. How could I quibble over a quarter or two with the very personification of bliss? It was easy to overlook his negligence and mild stupidity. I dared not rain on his happiness.
H and I inoffensively drove down the ramp marked “Arrivals” to enter LAX. As is customary in potentially crime-laden areas where opportunistic hoodlums cram themselves into every nook and crevice, officers of the law carefully scrutinized all motorists exiting said ramp. A gatekeeper type cop stopped H, giving him a seething glance during which I casually observed two other officers waiting off to one side. I should have instantly noticed signs of this rapidly spreading disorder, but my mind drifted to whether I should have worn my black cashmere sweater instead of the fuchsia. As it was, I paid only abbreviated attention.
I have great respect for officers of the law. I am grateful for their presence and the vital protection services they offer. But truly, how helpful are overweight, physically unfit officers? How fast will they be against the hungry, lanky, yet often surprisingly limber criminal element?
I donned my lab coat (with pearl buttons, in a lovely shade of lemon) and set to work, thinking it’s high time for this list. Why? Because some of my cherished readers may be out there, right now, earnestly searching for their next gig, only to be unknowingly offered a position in one of these stuper-filled companies. Or you may have the misfortune of calling on one of these companies and being serviced by a meager mind. Beware!
1. Pest Control (specifically Termite) companies:
3. Banks: Fools are prevalent here, but harder to spot. First a quick disclaimer: At least one-third of these workers are not stupers. I’ve used the services of bank employees who are thankfully competent. But there are the others. The stupid among us.