During my morning run, I came across a peculiar form of stupidity. Oh, it was human all right, but strange and unsettling. Kind of like finding a tortilla chip with a face on it in a vacuum sealed bag of popcorn. Makes my heart palpitate just thinking about it. 

 My excursion was uneventful until I neared home and noticed cars parked along the side of the road. Not unusual, you say? It is, where I live, out in the country where cars are scarce, first thing in the morning. I saw a carriage (as in horse and buggy) turned on its side. A hysterical woman raced up to me, saying,

“Do you know what happened here? Was anybody hurt?”

 I replied, “Everything was fine when I passed by earlier. I don’t see any bodies. No sign of the coroner.”

She introduced herself to me as a new neighbor and asked who I was. Before I could answer, she added, wringing her hands,

“I hope no one was hurt!”

A younger woman stepped forward, “Mom, I told you already, there was a note left on the buggy that everyone is fine. They’re coming back to get it.”

The woman’s response? “Thank GOSH!”

Who the hell is ‘GOSH?’

Urban dictionary claims ‘thank gosh’ is the “polite way of thanking God.” I say it’s stupers (short for predominantly stupid persons) at work.

When did it become rude to thank God or thank goodness, for that matter? If you have a spiritual bent, the first form works fine. And if you’re an atheist, agnostic or pagan, the second form should do. I have no problem with first amendment rights, but really? I thank God, goodness and most people who spread morsels of kindness on my path. It reminds me to harbor a grateful heart and it makes me feel pretty damn good.

But here’s my real problem: ever since I heard the neighbor say, “thank gosh,” I have an almost uncontrollable desire to blurt out the same myself. I haven’t done so publicly yet, but I could slip at any moment. Yesterday, when a squirrel narrowly missed getting squashed by my rather fast moving vehicle, I uttered, “Thank gosh!”

‘Gosh’ should be reserved for use as an interjection - a mild oath (as in “gosh darn it!”) or to express surprise (”golly gosh!”). Otherwise, how will stupers know where to stop? Thank gosh today; thank ’whatever’ tomorrow; and thank ‘hey’ the next time. It kind of takes the benefits and meaning away from giving thanks.

Think for yourself.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

I’m going to start with, what is certainly on most of our minds: the end of the world this Saturday, May 21st. It’s really a shame as the weather is supposed to be quite nice in Southern California this weekend, and I recently rescued a litter of tadpoles from certain death when their creekbed dried up. I don’t want my heroic efforts wasted.

Actually, it’s not the complete end, according to two well-known radio talk show sages,  Mark & Brian. But there will be major natural disasters, worldwide I presume, followed by five months of suffering, so that the actual end will occur in October. Shucks! my jack o’lantern pumpkin seeds are just sprouting.

I first heard about The End when I accidentally landed on a sketchy radio station a few months ago. I was captivated by the eerie, almost monstrous tone of the speaker. As I tried to figure out if modern science had taught a cockroach to talk, I learned the voice belonged to a stuper Preacher/radio show host. He took questions from listeners.  Keep in mind “took” does not mean “answer.” A caller asked how the good Preacher knew the date of The End. This was the Preacher’s reply:

“WHAT!? HOW DARE YOU ASK! I don’t have to answer that.” And he hung up on the caller.

At which point, I slipped in my Bad Company CD and forgot about The End.

But, as the media and the stupid among us do not permit us to maintain peace of mind for any great length of time, The End was brought to my attention again. I was asked by a gentleman passing by my office what would become of my animals when I went up to Heaven. Naturally, I was quite flattered that a stranger assumed my journey would be upwards, but nonetheless, I asked the reason for his concern, as I do love my chickens, dogs and newly acquired, object of affection: the tadpoles.

He identified himself as a member of HELLO -Help for Eternally Loved Lost Ones - an atheist group, exclusive to California, and dedicated to removing the burden of care of our precious pets as we begin the journey to the Pearly Gates.  How thoughtful, don’t you think?

Unfortunately, I was informed that due to high demand, the rates for such help had increased substantially. A small price to pay for peace of mind and security of our four legged and feathery friends (they’d not yet met my rabid, bantam rooster).  For $150, one pet at my residence would be saved. The rest would be saved at $50 per pet (keep in mind that I have about 70 tadpoles for which the generous atheist offered $20 per head or tail).

I sighed deeply at his offer, summoned up no less than forty truckloads of patience and gently informed him that he had three seconds to hightail it out before I picked up the large painting of a lovely pastoral scene behind my desk and smacked it over his hollow head (threats of violence do have their place, you know).

I haven’t seen him since. 

Think for yourself.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

 The caller sought the services of a lawyer, or so she claimed, but she was crazy. You’ve got to take my word for it. It wasn’t because she told me that $1 million was owed to her as the beneficiary of a will that was probated fifteen years ago. Or because she had no copy of the will or any supporting evidence or documents. Or that she told me she hated the aunt that left her the dough, but took care of her anyway for the money and because Aunty was a good cook. It was at that very moment when my index finger landed on the hang-up button.

I felt guilty for about five seconds, but I realized my fragile sanity was at issue. This caller was the last of a string of hazardous stuper callers, all in a span of three hours. I could not take anymore.

Five glorious minutes passed after I’d ended the call. Then she called again. I did not answer, but went to nordstrom.com and marveled at the shoes and sat up in astonishment at the prices (sitting in this fashion is very good for one’s posture and the spine). Apparently, the caller left a message. Pangs of guilt still haunted me.

I buckled up and listened to the message. This is what she said:

 Hi, this is X. You were so nice in talking to me that I just wanted to apologize for hanging up on you. I didn’t mean to hang up on you, but I accidentally dropped the phone and then you weren’t there any longer. I’m sorry. You were so nice to talk to. Thank you. Can I call you again sometime? Bye.

Isn’t that lovely? Vindicated without even trying.

Please, PLEASE think.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Don’t worry, I’m still seldom disturbed, and I am mostly calm and wear a cheery smile regularly, but I understand, there are readers who are incredibly irritated by prolific stupidity. For example, Reader Tammy almost pummeled (at least mentally and verbally) a stuper who entered her home. She wondered if it was okay to unleash her frustration on an idiot. I say it is allowed…to a point.

When Tammy could no longer afford her mortgage payments and her bank refused to modify her loan or communicate with her in any intelligent way or form, her home was listed as a short sale and purchased. The assholes, criminally insane, heartless/mindless subhuman bastards, people who ran Tammy’s bank, sent over an appraiser to value the property. An appraiser, I know from past experience, enters, visually examines the premises and leaves. Very little talk, other than that of the smallest caliber, is made.  Unfortunately, this appraiser was a card-carrying stuper. A card which he proudly displayed every time he opened his mouth.

 ”Wow! The buyer sure got a deal on this place!”  ”This is a great time for buyers, isn’t it?” “This was a steal!”

I suggested Tammy not condemn the moron, but rather point out his insensitivity and utter lack of understanding of the plight of many homeowners (in case you’ve not noticed, lenders filed a record 3.8 million foreclosures in 2010). Yet, it is important for thinking, breathing humans, not to condone the actions of the mentally deficient.

In other words, poisoning is not allowed, but hissing does have its place.

Please think.

 Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

To satisfy my vanity and to avoid public outcry from those not properly and accurately greeted from afar, I sometimes wear contact lenses…which tend to blur my close range vision. Bifocals are not in my vocubulary. Neither is Lasik. Can you call me a stuper (short for a noticeably stupid person?) I’m afraid so.

 So while wearing my contacts last week, I strolled over to the bank to make a deposit. Because of my blurred upclose vision, I slightly reconfigured my bank account numbers on the deposit slip, switching a 2 with a 1. This is what I said to the teller, after handing her the slip:

Me: I’m sorry, but I think I switched two of the numbers around.

To assist her, I opened my checkbook, so she could view the account number.

Teller (after glancing at the slip): OMG! This is terrible! This is SO WRONG! 

Me: Really? (I knew I’d messed up, but really?)

Teller: COMPLETELY! Look at this! (She waved the slip in the air, above her square-shaped head, for all to see. Even an old lady shuffling along in the middle of the bank, hunched over her walker, stopped and straightened up to take notice.

With great flourish, the teller pulled out a fresh slip and rewrote the numbers, all the while rolling her eyes, shaking her head and muttering, “This is SO wrong.”

I had indeed switched the 1 and 2 around.

Lately, I’ve not found any of the employees, at the banks I frequent, helpful or very nice. I asked a different teller, days before, if it was too late for me to donate gifts to a charity the Bank sponsored for Christmas. 

Her response: I have NO idea.

I have this fantasy of marching into the bank and withdrawing all of my money at the slightest provocation.

Teller: Can I see your driver’s license?

Me: (slapping my palm on the glossy black countertop) That’s it! I’m closing my account!

Or

Teller: You’ve got a little piece of a leaf in your hair.

Me: What? I’m closing my account! NOW!

In my fantasy, my account is rather significant in amount and so has a major impact. My reality is not so, at the moment.

But alas, I remind myself that for some one, even a stuper, to behave so irrationally, they must be suffering. Either from a total lack of brainpower (ie, lazy brain from complete lack of use) or some overriding problem which they are unable to set aside in order to enjoy life. 

 This holiday season, gift giving has been on most of our minds. I’d like to remind my dear readers to also hand out those gifts that are less tangible: kindness, courtesy, patience and understanding. Giving happiness to others is tremendously important to our own happiness. The benefits are immeasurable, as the satisfaction of helping another can be sheer bliss, and we make our journeys around the world a little easier.

Wishing you all the happiest of holidays!

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Alas, my walk was not stuper-free, as I came to realize: I may be the target of a hitman. Here’s why:

I waited on a street corner. When the light turned green for me to enter the crosswalk in the smallish, downtown area where I work, I hesitated before I stepped down off the curb, and it was a good thing that I did, because an SUV nearly barreled over me… during my green light.

The crosswalk  was in a medium size, one way street with two lanes; yet, I felt like I was crossing a narrow bridge over a dangerous river with deceitful whirlpools and extraordinarily turbulent waters.

After that first encounter, I bravely entered the crosswalk, stepping out one foot in front of the other and eyeing the traffic from all sides, but before I could make it to the other side, an oncoming motorist drove right through in front of me, a mere three feet away from my person, brakes optional, while I posed, shoe in mid-air. You’ve got to believe me when I tell you that I’m not invisible. Especially while wearing my ruffled, red top. Nor am I overly small, as my four inch heels elongated me, lengthening my height to roughly 6 ft. Two conclusions immediately came to mind: a stuper hired a hitman to mow me down, or 

I was part of a new reality TV show, where unsuspecting peds are nearly hit, just for giggles and ratings. Sheer genius.

The hitman option was not a viable one. First, because hitmen cost a lot of money, and neither of the cars that almost plowed me down were luxury vehicles. I would hope the price on my head would fall in the mid six-figure range.  Also, stupers lack intent. They just act and talk freely, liberally displaying their inadequacies for all to view. They could not even consider hiring an assassin, let alone purposefully behaving like one. It was more probable that I was part of a newly developed reality show. Possibly by Fox, the same folks who put on “The Little Groom,” where a group of tiny bachelorettes competed against average-sized women for the heart of a 4-foot-5 bachelor.

 Or by UBN who brought us, “Amish in the City,” where  five young Amish people were plucked from their traditional lifestyles and encouraged to live life in the city with wild abandon for our viewing pleasure.

The only reality is: stupers exist. To overcome encounters with these determinedly empty-headed beings, we must keep watch over our own minds at all times and create our own realities; not the ones they want to make us believe exists.

 Think for yourself.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com
 

The cracks in the cement of the high school tennis court resembled the San Andreas fault, and I suddenly felt concerned about earthquakes. It was also a good way to distract my competitor. But I soon found myself distracted as well. By stupers (short for remarkably stupid persons).

The high school football team was practicing on the field just outside the tennis courts. Stupers (possibly the coaches or other adults in charge) played what some might call music, to entertain the team during practice. But I don’t believe it was music at all.

If I was scrubbing out a sewer pipe, it’s what I’d listen to, to accentuate my misery and doleful mood. These were the lyrics:

Me and you, yo’ mama and yo’ cousin
Baby we can make love to a rap song
A milli, a milli, a milli, a-muthaf-cka I’m ill…

What? I asked no one in particular.

Then the next tune came on. It was another uplifter:

       First things first, I poppa, freaks all the honeys. Dummies - playboy bunnies, those wantin’ money…

I did a quick translation of the lyrics to make sure I wasn’t making a big thing of something small: Generally, I engage in deviant sexual activity with all kinds of women, including, but not limited to, stupers, nude magazine models and prostitutes.

Is this what we want our young to listen to while on school grounds, or any grounds, playing sports or whatever? This was not a high school in an oppressed area, unless by oppressed we mean consisting of a high stuper population. But, of course, stupidity is a worldwide epidemic. 

I’ve heard a lot of talk lately of alien landings. And not the E.T. brand of friendly, cute and cuddly aliens that sit nicely in bicycle baskets. Is this new alien form messing with our young? I placed a call to the UN. Some of my concerned readers may be asking right now, what happened to your tennis match? I successfully stalled the game with the discussion of earthquakes, rap music and aliens, which was a good thing, as I was leading 3-2.

Why did I call the UN? Because I wanted to speak with Mrs Othman, who is currently head of the UN’s little known Office for Outer Space Affairs (Unoosa). She is the designated official greeter to aliens. I wanted to know what the aliens, if any, that she’d recently encountered were like. Are they tired of sabotaging our nuclear missiles and instead replacing Mozart, the theme from Rocky and Queen’s “We are the Champions” with rap music in order to corrupt the minds of our young while they practice sports?

Mrs. Othman would not take my call.

I’m guessing, based on all of my previous studies which, as you know, I often conduct at the spur of any moment, that the onslaught of rap was the handiwork of idiots. Instead of making the worthwhile effort to uplift, inspire and motivate young minds or any minds, stupers prefer to fascinate those around them with the depressing, the obscene, and oftentimes the morbid. Don’t fall for it.

Think.

    Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

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. 

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

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.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

A duplex was listed for $285,000 in a quiet beach-side town. This building was offered as a short sale. The bank that held the mortgage on this property shall remain nameless.

Sam made an offer, through his real estate agent, to buy the duplex for $225,000. This undesignated bank countered Sam’s offer with their own at $275,000.  Are you with me so far? Because soon this tale’s going to get very complicated.

Sam made a counter offer to the bank’s counter in the sum of $250,000. Sam didn’t know it yet, but he would soon learn that this unnamed bank was run by stupers (short for staggeringly stupid persons). Such stupidity, in this Cinderella story, would work to Sam’s benefit.

A month passed with no word from this bank. Perhaps these bank employees were thinking, dozing, busy foreclosing, eating cheese canapes, bowling, on vacation or sick leave. Sam grew frustrated and was about to give up when the bank gave Sam a counter to his counter offer…the bank came back with $240,000! Sam could have the duplex for $240,000. Yes, that is $10,000 less than the bank’s original counter offer. Sam’s mouth fell open in disbelief for so long, bats moved in mistaking it for a damp cave. Meanwhile, the bank remained clueless, as it was, and is, overrun by stupers.

Unfortunately, short sales and foreclosures are far too commonplace, thanks to the current economy, and most of the people involved do not have happy endings, as Sam did in this case. This is because, quite suddenly, stupidity is rapidly increasing.

As a director of a non-profit legal service, I receive tearful calls daily from desperate people trying to keep their homes. Many of them start the process of modifying their loans only to find that a different department in the heartbreakingly stupid bank has foreclosed because communication is considered a waste of time in institutions run by idiots. These freakishly inane lenders prefer to foreclose and lose money on a home rather than modify and allow the homeowner (ie, the qualified party that the bank made the loan to in the first place) to remain. How idiotic is that?

How do we maintain our sanity in the face of such blatant stupidity? We have to rise above the circumstances (and the mindless) by using the heroic courage that is inside each of us. We have to think our way out and find a solution because remember, most people do not think at all, as it takes effort. Imagine what those of us who do think can do.

Please think.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com