There are times when I just have to stop banging my head
against the cement walls and accept that every village needs an idiot and that
said village idiot will find me and attach itself to me like a barnacle. It's a curse.
I am the Moron Magnet, and apparently I reside in many, many villages.
I try not to speak to the village idiots, but they always
seem to want to put their noses into my business. Some of them even get in my face. They ask inappropriate questions and make
comments that are way too personal. Or
they call to ask me survey questions then get their granny-panties in a bunch
when they don't like my answers (although it was great fun sparring with the
pollsters during the last election). Or
they think they know me, or know someone who knows someone who once waved to me
but in a case of mistaken identity, so they friend me on Facebook. I'm sorry, Franklin Hinklemiester IV, but I
truly don't know you, nor do I want to, thank you very much.
I always get in the wrong line, buy the wrong book, call the
wrong person, fill out the wrong paper, drive the wrong car, wear the wrong
sweater, copy the wrong worksheets, bring the wrong list, or cut out the wrong
coupons. I go to the wrong doctors, drink
the wrong beer, eat at the wrong restaurants, and watch the wrong shows.
But my lack of good judgment certainly shouldn't make me
village idiot fodder. That's not right,
man; that's just wrong. My life sucks
enough without adding stranger-danger to it, too. I have enough BS on my radar without having
to add village idiot screener to my job description. Even when I lock my door at work, one of 'em
will slip in through a side door and say something like, "Hey, I tried to
get in … but your door is locked!"
No shit, Sherlock, you cracked the case.
Someone suggested to me that perhaps I should just tell the
idiot who is currently causing me agida exactly how I feel; I should let this
idiot have it with both barrels fully loaded and spew all of my pent-up rage
against the moron machine. The problem
with that is simple: No matter how much I yell at, reason with, or smack around
the village idiot, the village idiot will never, ever be enlightened. It's kind of like talking to a conservative
or a liberal.
As a matter of fact, it's like sticking a Q-Tip into your
ear canal in order to clear out a teeny piece of wax that's giving you the
slightest trouble. It feels terrific for
about a second, and then it goes just that millimeter too far, and it hurts
like hell and drones on with a dull, annoying ache for hours, even days, after
that.
My temporary solution, or perhaps it's really my long-term
one as well, is to do my best to avoid the village idiot, smile condescendingly
and nod when we do meet, and imagine kicking its ass from here to
Washington, DC. After all, that's where
all the other village idiots work and reside.
Click your heels together, village idiot; there's no place
like home.
