I don’t know if it’s the roofing insulation in the chicken nuggets or the hormones added to the milk, but something is turning our populous into a country of imbeciles.
For the record, I’m not pretending to be immune to this condition. Just now, I had to check the spelling of two words in that opening sentence and neither of them were “populous” or “imbeciles.” In my defense, that type of stupidity doesn’t affect anyone but me. Thanks to spell-check, no one has to know that I tried to spell “milk” with a “q.”
What I’m talking about today, brothers and sisters, is the kind of stupidity that cannot be contained. I’m talking about the type of stupidity that causes an otherwise functional human being to wear a short sleeve shirt and Bermuda shorts — even when his Eskimo neighbors won’t leave their igloo without putting on an extra layer.
I’m talking about the kind of stupidity that drives a person to post a picture of themselves smoking a joint the size of a fire hydrant on the Internet and then wondering why no one will hire them.
Saturday, I found myself in the middle of a large department store in the tri-county area. I won’t say which store it was, but they seem to believe it’s perfectly normal to paint a red circle around a dog’s eye and film him frolicking with models in their commercials.
Interestingly, the dog is actually red and they have to paint his entire body white except for the ring around his eye.
Before I drove to the store, I visited the store’s website to make sure the item I wanted was in stock — which it was. When I get to the proper department, the ‘roided-up Doogie Howser behind the counter seemed to be generating electricity for the entire store through his open-mouth gum chewing.
I haven’t heard that much smacking since Tom and Roseanne Arnold’s honeymoon video went viral.
After doing everything short of throwing a shopping cart through the glass display case he was standing behind, I got Chewbacca’s attention. I told him what I was looking for — and he did something that will probably land me in the electric chair one day: he started talking over me before I could finish the sentence.
“We don’t (smack) carry that (smack) brand,” Chewy said.
I didn’t have any gum, but I attempted assimilation.
“I checked (smack) your store’s (smack) website this morning and (smack) it says this store has four (smackity-smack) in stock,” I said. “(Smack smack).”
Chewy then rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated gush of air from his Wrigley’s spearmint-flavored pie hole. In an attempt to prove I was mistaken, he pulled his “smart” phone from his pocket while grinning like a young Jedi who was about to kick Yoda in the head with his knowledge.
But wouldn’t you know it, Chewy was wrong. His little phone told him the same thing I did, which somehow made it easier for him to accept. That poor phone looked like the guy had been dating it exclusively for a number of years.
I made a mental note to write a letter to Amnesty International as soon as I got home.
On the way out of town, I stopped at a fast food restaurant in order to take advantage of a buy one/get one free coupon on a chicken sammich. The plan was to give the guy at the drive-thru window the coupon and $4.26 (exact change, because I’m good like that) and deliver the sammiches to the wife and assorted Tax Deductions back home.
Try as I might to lead a clean, uncluttered life, it doesn’t seem like it’s in the cards. Charles Baudelaire said “the greatest trick the devil ever played was convincing the world that he did not exist” — but I know he exists. The devil’s most recent choice of earthly vehicle is a skinny little dude working the drive-thru at a tri-county restaurant.
Immediately after handing the wormy but well-groomed kid my coupon and exact change, I was thinking I’d made this guy’s day a little easier. Thanks to my thoughtful gesture, he wouldn’t have to waste any time or brain power on coming up with the correct change for a $5 bill. As he reached to hand me the bag of food with a sparkle in his eye, a smile on his face and not an ounce of trepidation, he said the following:
“Here ya go, big guy.”
My automatic response was to smile, but within a second or two a rush of heat flew up my neck and out to my ears. Without changing my facial expression, I looked back at the wormy kid who had probably just started bathing without assistance that week.
“Big guy?” I said back to him.
“Uh, er, I didn’t mean to make fun ...” he said.
“Were you making fun of me?” I asked.
“No I mean, you know, I was just thinkin’ ...” he said, his voice trailing off again.
“You mean, you actually put some thought into that before you said it out loud?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I just meant you could be, I don’t know ...” he said, as sweat started to bead along his wormy forehead.
“You think it’s fun to goof on people with a glandular problem?” I asked.
“Oh my gosh ... I didn’t know you had a glandular problem!” he said.
“Who said I have a glandular problem? I just asked if you made fun of people who did,” I said.
By this time, the kid is starting to cry a little, so I drove off. On one hand, it was fun to deflate whatever air of misguided confidence was coursing through that little demon’s veins.
On the other hand, it made me realize I need to abstain from comfort food for the next few weeks.
Confidence in the hands of a genius like the guy who won on Jeopardy for six months straight or the guy who successfully landed a plane in the Hudson river a few years back is a great thing. Confidence in the hands of doltish, oafish skull-renters is like a deadly missile with a busted guidance system.
If you or someone you know is numb from the neck up, please contact a clergyman, police officer or trusted family member. Only you can prevent someone from trying to fax a $100 bill to the utility company as payment.
Jon Dawson’s columns appear every Tuesday and Thursday in The Free Press. Contact Jon at 252-559-1092 or jon.dawson@kinston.com. Purchase music, books and Sheila E. cassettes at jondawson.com.