Stupid Is as Stupid Does




I’m sitting in my favorite restaurant, waiting for the worst waitress in Manchester. She, on the other hand, is less anxious to wait on me; in fact, it’s obvious that she forgot about me long ago.

It really is unfair to call her a bad waitress, because she isn’t. She’s actually rather good at her job, when she remembers to do it. It’s just that she suffers from a certain disconnection from reality. This waitress–let’s call her Darleen–might take orders from three of the five people at a table, then walk away to polish silverware.

She might or might not bring you your check when you have finished your meal, or she might be busy staring into space, counting dust particles in the air. You might be impressed by how small your bill is, then be presented with another one the next time you visit.

“Um..,” the bartender might say, uncomfortably, “did you forget to pay your tab the last time you were in?”

Given the dramatic range of her ineptitude, it’s tempting—very tempting—to think of Darleen as dumb, but that isn’t really the case. Darleen isn’t dumb.

This is how I know:


A friend had been over at my house and had brought his dog with him. To keep the dog occupied, I’d given her an old tennis ball I had lying around. She loved this. She went to town on it— chewing it, growling to herself, throwing it around the room and fetching it for herself in a sort of Dog Solitaire. Over the course of an hour or so, she managed to chew the ball in half.

Later, as I was picking up, I noticed something really cool. The dog had split the ball exactly in half. I picked it up and marveled at it for a moment. It had been split in half with almost surgical precision. I tugged at the furry outer covering, which slid neatly off the rubber inside. I squeezed the rubber part in my hand and found that it stuck to my palm like a big suction cup.

Call me immature, but I found this fascinating. I pulled the ball half off my hand with a sucking, popping sound, then stuck it back on again. When I got tired of sticking the ball to my hand, I tried it on the inside of my arm and was unreasonably pleased with myself when I got it to stick there too. Then I tried sticking it to my cheek, which worked even better.

Eventually, I stuck it to the center of my forehead. This was REALLY cool— so cool, in fact, that it prompted one of those stupid behaviors that we all engage in from time to time and are grateful afterwards that nobody has seen us. I put the ball on my forehead and gave it a few extra pumps for good measure, then went to look at myself in the mirror. As I’d suspected, I looked really cool. I started prancing around the room, making Three Stooges sounds and saying, “Nyuk, nyuk...Look at me! I’m a unicorn!”

From time to time, the ball would fall off, and I’d have to replace it. Each time, I tried to pump it up as much as possible to keep it on.

This is the sort of thing that can entertain the simple-minded for hours, but eventually, even I needed to move on with my life. In my case, that meant reluctantly throwing the pieces of the ball away, finishing cleaning up, then going out.

For the next several hours, people kept staring at me, but I’m a vain sort of guy, so that seemed perfectly natural. It was only when I got home and looked in the mirror again that I saw the enormous, purple bruise in the center of my forehead.


So, as I sit in my favorite restaurant waiting for Darleen to bring me a beer or my bill or a shoe with cheese on it— whatever the voices in her head tell her to bring me—I restrain my inner criticism. I know in my heart that Darleen isn’t actually dumb. This is how I know:

Say what you will about Darleen, but it’s very unlikely that she ever gave herself a hicky in the center of her forehead.



© 2001 Hippo Press

Click here to read another story.