Let me hasten to say that I value stupidity as much as next man. I do. Stupidity is, after all, best solution we’ve come up with to mother of all problems itself, problem of being mortal. Enabling us to recast grimmest of existential givens—making it possible to believe not only that we’ve seen image of John Baptist on two separate taco chips but that our sightings are proof-positive of a Second Coming and prospect of salvation and eternal life—stupidity is most effective means available to reduce terror and panic (the human default condition) to a relatively tolerable disquietude. So I respect stupidity. Okay? I think, in fact, that stupidity has been, since origin of consciousness, a marvel of human resourcefulness. Indeed, as a response to human condition, I think that stupidity is rivaled in its genius only by schizophrenia!

But while my regard for stupidity is equal to anyone’s, I also think it’s important to remember that (if for no other reason than simple decency) ancient Greek admonition, "anything in moderation," has application even here. I mean for all of its utility as a buffer against existential dread, stupidity is an unruly thing that can have—when it’s exercised intemperately, when no effort is made to confine it to its purpose—a very negative impact on people who are subjected to it. Yes, it’s crucial to our ability to function at all that we not always recognize too clearly that death is both inevitable and final. But if you’re a bank teller it can pose a major challenge to your customer’s medication when you’ve truncated your brain so drastically that you can’t be certain if it’s Ben Franklin or Tom Snyder who appears on a hundred-dollar bill. (Hold this last thought for just a moment.)

Now to illustrate my point I could discuss conduct of innumerable emotional shitheels who, in just this past month, used stupidity irresponsibly and, to grievous effect, tracked their slovenly handling of problem of living into my life.

I’m thinking of clerks, counterpeople and company representatives—AND NONE OF THEM FOREIGN BORN—who reduced my own circuits to flakes of carbon when they obliged me to restrict my vocabulary to dozen or so English words they were able to comprehend.

And remaining vivid in my memory are two cashiers, one of whom insisted that $42 for a quart of orange juice HAD to be correct because it was "right there on register," and other who demonstrated an appalling literalness.

In case of latter individual: After I placed some half-dozen items in front of him and was reaching for my wallet, he asked me (rhetorically, I assumed) if I was taking them. When I joked that no, I wasn’t, that I liked to go into stores and move stock around, he became irate, bellowed that I must be "some kind of weirdo" to do such a thing and demanded that I leave.

The orange juice jerkoff caused some nasty chemicals to spill in my brain that still haven’t stopped flushing through me. The second bastard triggered a twenty-four-hour period in which I experienced a profound reluctance to leave my apartment, answer phone or take any kind of nourishment.

No, I didn’t make those people up.

Earlier today I received a notice advising me that recycling program in my neighborhood has been “rebooted” and that I will henceforth risk “serious fines” if I fail to sort and, in case of jars and bottles, RINSE my garbage before leaving it out.

I hate to come off as a bad sport, but I’ve got to tell you: In all these years I’ve never once sorted or rinsed my garbage and there’s no way I’m going to start now. I mean, what exactly IS this shit? I don’t even sort and rinse stuff I keep!

Let me try to explain something here. I would never have had a problem with chore we’ve been assigned if a vital need to conserve essential natural resources was given it’s assumed to be and if claim that recycling saves significant quantities of natural resources was true. But importance and value of recycling is dubious at best. Summarily ignored, a number of reports (including one in The New York Times) revealed early on that, in fact, we’re not running out of substances recycling is intended to save. What’s more—and this applies to nonbiodegradable materials that end up as landfill as well as to organic elements—even industry’s own published (and doubtless exaggerated) figures make it clear that what recycling process manages to salvage is of no real consequence. So while I’ll allow that self-immolation would constitute a disproportionate form of protest, I have to say that reacting with less than indignation to so gratuitous an imposition would also be inappropriate. (Particularly when you consider that nowhere in notice was there mention of a tax rebate for performing what, if it’s to be performed at all, should properly have been a function of Department of Sanitation from beginning.)

It’s obviously not as dramatic, but this recycling business had always reminded me of so-called “oil crisis” of late seventies. Remember that? Remember how we were told flat out that after decades of witless gorging on a finite resource we’d all but depleted world of fossil fuels? Remember how, to be sure that we got message, we were made to endure frantic weeks of gasoline rationing and reduced thermostat levels?

(I know that my senator then, Senator D’Amato will want to cut in here to tell me this was before “Jurassic Park” came out and that at time we didn’t realize we could make more.

Yessir. That’s an...interesting...point. But, and with all due respect, SIT THE FUCK DOWN!—it’s beside point I was making. Okay?)