You see them outside of Walmart or in the Carbohydrate Platter line at Old Country Buffet. They congregate en masse at NASCAR events (although there is a disturbing trend with NASCAR--some people who shower EVERY DAY have been seen buying tickets to that sport of senselessness). They can be found cruising the aisles of almost every 7-11 or buying cigarettes and scratch-off lotto tickets at the Kut-Rate Tobacco Palace.
They are the Dumb People. There are, as you know, levels of Dumb. The ones to which I am referring have reached that critical stage known as Malignant Dumb.
This is where the basic tumor of stupidity (almost everyone on earth has stupidity free radicals roaming around their bloodstream, but some have just enough education or curiousity "white blood cells" to counteract the damage) grows and metastasizes throughout the victim's whole brain and central nervous system.
At advanced levels of metastis, the stupid tumor will take control of the nervous system's automatic responses. Most people of only average stupidity will, for example, be able to resist the urge to sit lumpishly on a greasy couch and eat handfuls of Pringles while lusting after the cubic zirconium jewelry on Channel 21. A person in the later stages of Malignant Dumb cannot resist. Like it or not, they are forced to run up high interest credit card balances in the pursuit of trashy nic nacs.
For some reason, these same sufferers are generally quite fat. Compared with Foo and Stupey, my esteemed colleagues on this Blog, I may be considered fat. I am not talking about the manly bulk that merely adds authority to one's presence. I am talking about the kind of rotundity can only be described as slop. I saw one such patient recently. He was sitting on a park bench outside of the local Walmarts. He seemed blissfully happy. The rain was drizzling down through his hair--which created a greasy patina on his forehead--but he was obliviously engaged in ferreting out the last few Dorito crums from the corner of his Family Value Pack sized bag. By his side was the obviously half consumed 12 pack of Mountain Dew X-Treme (which means, extra sugar and triglycerides, etc.). These manifestations of his condition were bad enough, but unfortunately, I glanced at his waist line. The sight caused an occurence of hyper-gagging which is embarrassing for the serious practitioner of Dumb diagnosis. I thought I was completely hardened to the worst symptoms of the disease. Apparently not. This patient was so obese that he had taken a pair of what must have been 6XL sweat pants and cut slits in the waistband so as to provide relief for his bulging fat. Over the top of the waistband and through the frayed slits, the fat had stretch marks of varying ages. His shirt had rolled up, leaving a sickly white, hair-covered beach ball belly exposed to the elements.
The light turned green and I drove away, but not before I saw him crack open another Mountain Dew X-Treme and use the pop top tab to scratch away at a fistful of Lotto tickets.
I don't know what is to be done about the tsunami of dumbness that is washing over our heartland (no offense Foo and Stupe, but your part of the country is at epidemic levels of infestation). I am mixing metaphors, but it's hard not to.
With deep concern and fear I close this entry.