Journey to the Center of Human Stupidity
Why do some people even exist?
I mean, and sorry to be such a pessimist bitch and all here; but honestly, some people should just be shot and over with so that we can preserve what little gene pool we have left. Clearly, the pool has already been pissed in so it's only damage control at this point really.
The following is an excerpt from an attempted conversation from some guy standing in line to buy Juicy Fruit and a bag of Doritos yesterday (who the fuck buys, much less eats, gum and chips at the same time?):
Doofus: "Hi."
Me: (looks around nervously) "Hi."
Doofus: "Whatchabuyin?" (It was more of a transmitted grunt than it was an attempt at an intelligible inquiry)
Me: "Umm, Vanilla Coke."
Doofus: "Cool." (uncomfortable silence follows) "What's it taste like?"
Me: (looks around nervously again) "Vanilla."
For a brief moment before the anger and fury set in, I felt almost sorry for this poor simpleton bastard. I felt like this orangutang was really trying to reach out to me like one of those upright primates in '2001: A Space Odyssey'.
Well, I'm not Philo Beddoe, didpshit; I'm only here for a Vanilla Coke, not to sniff asses and exchange grunts with some uni-browed, chip and gum chewing rhubarb with the IQ of a chipole. All I wanted at that particular moment was to see the back of this guys head and count the seconds before he, his chips and his gum fuck off outside allowing me to conduct my own business so that I can do the same. Otherwise, I was likely to give him a "Right turn, Clyde" of my own in an extreme fit of violent frustration.
Why do stupid people seem to gravitate to me? Do I have an "I Speak Asshole" sign written across my forehead or something? There must be something about me that invites people to make senseless small talk with me when I am least in the mood for it.
Even just today, after having decided to purchase the new Martin Scorcese documentary 'No Direction Home' about the life of Bob Dylan, I had an encounter with someone who could only have been the 'King of the Mentally Stunted' himself. In my search for my movie, I had wandered into the cauldron of y-chromosomes that is the local 'Blockbuster Entertainment' video store. After checking the sales racks unsuccessfully for my prize, I set myself to bid a hasty retreat out of the building back to freedom before my IQ too shrank to that of a honey roast ham.
Just as I was making my way to the door, I was stopped by a young store employee who looked like someone that even Jerry Lewis himself would have avoided. There's just not a telethon capable of raising the kind of money it would take to cure this kid I suspect.
"Can I help you?", he offered.
I should have bolted right then and there, or at least put him out of his misery. But, NOOOOO! I just had to persist with my fruitless search. Maybe he knew something that I didn't know.
"I'm looking for the new Martin Scorcese documentary 'No Direction Home', but I didn't see it on the sales rack anywhere", I replied confidently.
"Oh. Did you check those racks over there?", he asked while gesturing back from whence I had came.
"Ahh, yeah. Why? Do you have a special music or documentary DVD section?", I asked hopefully.
"No. Whats it called again?", the employee continued as he scratched the mop of hair that sat on the top of his scalp like a sleeping Pomeranian.
At this point, the retarded sales clerk begin to work himself under my skin like a bad skin irritation. He began to walk me back to the sales racks that I had just scoured; and like the mindless sheep that I am, I followed. Albeit, I was a little hopeful; mostly, I felt trapped and therefore obligated to allow him the chance to procur my movie for me.
"'No Direction Home'. It's a new documentary about Bob Dylan", I answered reluctantly.
"Bob Dylan? Did you try looking under 'B'?", the employee asked.
"But the movie is called 'No Direction Home'. It would be over there, wouldn't it?", I said as I motioned back further into the recesses of the sales rack towards the letter 'N'.
"But it's about Bob Dylan, ain't it?", the employee persisted. "That starts with the letter 'B'."
Now at this juncture of our failing conversartional, my brain started to implode in on itself. Our mental dance of the minds was starting to turn into more of a drunken lurch of a communication - so to speak.
"See? There's 'Bewitched', the 'Bad News Bears', 'Big Trouble in Little China'...they all start with the letter 'B'.", the employee explained.
Red spots started appearing before my eyes and my fingernails started to cut into the palms of my tightly-clenched fist. Was this kid really trying to explain the difficult concept of ALPHABETIZING to me? The kid continued to flip through the 'B' section of the sales racks.
"The 'Burbs', 'Batman Returns', 'Back to the Future', 'Brokeback Mountain'...Nope. No 'Bob Dylan'", the idiot child finally concluded.
I didn't have the heart to explain to this poor walking cheese loaf that even if the name of the fucking movie was simply called 'Bob Dylan', it would still most likely be categorized under 'D', for Dylan. At least it was on this planet - last I checked.
"But it's not called 'Bob Dylan'. It's called 'N-O D-I-R-E-C-T-I-O-N H-O-M-E'. There's no 'B' even in that, is there?", I explained exasperatedly.
I don't even know why I had tried. I'd have more luck stuffing Season 5 of the 'Soprano's' up this retard's nose than I would in connecting mentally with him.
"Oh. But it's about Bob Dylan, isn't it?", he said hopefully.
"Well, 'Bewtiched' is about Smantha Stephens and her twitchy fucking nose, but it's not found under 'S', is it Einstein?", I further explained. My patience was at an end.
I could actually see the kids eyes glaze over and begin to suck back into his head from their sockets due to the enormous vacuum being created from his collapsing brain. His jaw dropped slowly like a rickety drawbridge in wonderment. Yet somehow, I still don't think I managed to get through to him.
"So, you want me to check in the 'N's for you?", he asked lastly.
At this point I was ready to kill. My blood pressure had reached 'Orange Alert' levels. Not only had this brainless yob suckered me back into the belly of this neon hell for a few extra wasted minutes; but I think he actually managed to kill off a significant number of my brain cells in doing so. This poor bastard will never know how close he really came to having one of those 'Special Edition' copies of 'Bewitched' lodged up his ass.
"How about - NO! Why don't you go fucking look that up in the 'N' section, you Nitwit!"
I mean, and sorry to be such a pessimist bitch and all here; but honestly, some people should just be shot and over with so that we can preserve what little gene pool we have left. Clearly, the pool has already been pissed in so it's only damage control at this point really.
The following is an excerpt from an attempted conversation from some guy standing in line to buy Juicy Fruit and a bag of Doritos yesterday (who the fuck buys, much less eats, gum and chips at the same time?):
Doofus: "Hi."
Me: (looks around nervously) "Hi."
Doofus: "Whatchabuyin?" (It was more of a transmitted grunt than it was an attempt at an intelligible inquiry)
Me: "Umm, Vanilla Coke."
Doofus: "Cool." (uncomfortable silence follows) "What's it taste like?"
Me: (looks around nervously again) "Vanilla."
For a brief moment before the anger and fury set in, I felt almost sorry for this poor simpleton bastard. I felt like this orangutang was really trying to reach out to me like one of those upright primates in '2001: A Space Odyssey'.
Well, I'm not Philo Beddoe, didpshit; I'm only here for a Vanilla Coke, not to sniff asses and exchange grunts with some uni-browed, chip and gum chewing rhubarb with the IQ of a chipole. All I wanted at that particular moment was to see the back of this guys head and count the seconds before he, his chips and his gum fuck off outside allowing me to conduct my own business so that I can do the same. Otherwise, I was likely to give him a "Right turn, Clyde" of my own in an extreme fit of violent frustration.
Why do stupid people seem to gravitate to me? Do I have an "I Speak Asshole" sign written across my forehead or something? There must be something about me that invites people to make senseless small talk with me when I am least in the mood for it.
Even just today, after having decided to purchase the new Martin Scorcese documentary 'No Direction Home' about the life of Bob Dylan, I had an encounter with someone who could only have been the 'King of the Mentally Stunted' himself. In my search for my movie, I had wandered into the cauldron of y-chromosomes that is the local 'Blockbuster Entertainment' video store. After checking the sales racks unsuccessfully for my prize, I set myself to bid a hasty retreat out of the building back to freedom before my IQ too shrank to that of a honey roast ham.
Just as I was making my way to the door, I was stopped by a young store employee who looked like someone that even Jerry Lewis himself would have avoided. There's just not a telethon capable of raising the kind of money it would take to cure this kid I suspect.
"Can I help you?", he offered.
I should have bolted right then and there, or at least put him out of his misery. But, NOOOOO! I just had to persist with my fruitless search. Maybe he knew something that I didn't know.
"I'm looking for the new Martin Scorcese documentary 'No Direction Home', but I didn't see it on the sales rack anywhere", I replied confidently.
"Oh. Did you check those racks over there?", he asked while gesturing back from whence I had came.
"Ahh, yeah. Why? Do you have a special music or documentary DVD section?", I asked hopefully.
"No. Whats it called again?", the employee continued as he scratched the mop of hair that sat on the top of his scalp like a sleeping Pomeranian.
At this point, the retarded sales clerk begin to work himself under my skin like a bad skin irritation. He began to walk me back to the sales racks that I had just scoured; and like the mindless sheep that I am, I followed. Albeit, I was a little hopeful; mostly, I felt trapped and therefore obligated to allow him the chance to procur my movie for me.
"'No Direction Home'. It's a new documentary about Bob Dylan", I answered reluctantly.
"Bob Dylan? Did you try looking under 'B'?", the employee asked.
"But the movie is called 'No Direction Home'. It would be over there, wouldn't it?", I said as I motioned back further into the recesses of the sales rack towards the letter 'N'.
"But it's about Bob Dylan, ain't it?", the employee persisted. "That starts with the letter 'B'."
Now at this juncture of our failing conversartional, my brain started to implode in on itself. Our mental dance of the minds was starting to turn into more of a drunken lurch of a communication - so to speak.
"See? There's 'Bewitched', the 'Bad News Bears', 'Big Trouble in Little China'...they all start with the letter 'B'.", the employee explained.
Red spots started appearing before my eyes and my fingernails started to cut into the palms of my tightly-clenched fist. Was this kid really trying to explain the difficult concept of ALPHABETIZING to me? The kid continued to flip through the 'B' section of the sales racks.
"The 'Burbs', 'Batman Returns', 'Back to the Future', 'Brokeback Mountain'...Nope. No 'Bob Dylan'", the idiot child finally concluded.
I didn't have the heart to explain to this poor walking cheese loaf that even if the name of the fucking movie was simply called 'Bob Dylan', it would still most likely be categorized under 'D', for Dylan. At least it was on this planet - last I checked.
"But it's not called 'Bob Dylan'. It's called 'N-O D-I-R-E-C-T-I-O-N H-O-M-E'. There's no 'B' even in that, is there?", I explained exasperatedly.
I don't even know why I had tried. I'd have more luck stuffing Season 5 of the 'Soprano's' up this retard's nose than I would in connecting mentally with him.
"Oh. But it's about Bob Dylan, isn't it?", he said hopefully.
"Well, 'Bewtiched' is about Smantha Stephens and her twitchy fucking nose, but it's not found under 'S', is it Einstein?", I further explained. My patience was at an end.
I could actually see the kids eyes glaze over and begin to suck back into his head from their sockets due to the enormous vacuum being created from his collapsing brain. His jaw dropped slowly like a rickety drawbridge in wonderment. Yet somehow, I still don't think I managed to get through to him.
"So, you want me to check in the 'N's for you?", he asked lastly.
At this point I was ready to kill. My blood pressure had reached 'Orange Alert' levels. Not only had this brainless yob suckered me back into the belly of this neon hell for a few extra wasted minutes; but I think he actually managed to kill off a significant number of my brain cells in doing so. This poor bastard will never know how close he really came to having one of those 'Special Edition' copies of 'Bewitched' lodged up his ass.
"How about - NO! Why don't you go fucking look that up in the 'N' section, you Nitwit!"
4 Comments:
I thank you.
{{{buffs his nails on his chest}}}
Bwah!! Thanks for the laugh, brother. Good stuff.
You never fail to make me laugh. I have added a link to this site from mine now. Hopefully if someone accidentally ends up on my site someday, they can head over to yours for some real entertainment. Take it easy!
Oh my God, oh..Gawd...I haven't laughed like that in I don't know how long. You are so funny...and correct I might add.
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