The “Duh” Factor
The Source
Maybe it’s eggnog poisoning. Perhaps a bit of brain rot due to excessive playing of Christmas songs over the loud speakers of retail stores. But there’s something about the holiday season that makes some of just plain stupid. It was a few days before Christmas and I motored into a neighboring town to do a piano gig when I found I was low on fuel. I won’t mention the town for fear of embarrassing the residents of Pittsfield. I’d pulled into the first gas station available and filled my tank, then went in to pay the bill. The lady behind the counter said, “Let’s see, that’ll be $27.50 in diesel.” Diesel? My Honda is motivated by gasoline only. I said, “No, I’m on pump number two. Gasoline.” She looked at me. “That’s diesel.” “No, it’s the gas pump. The pump said it was regular gas. The handle wasn’t the diesel color.” “I know,” she said, “but everybody knows that’s the diesel pump.” WHAT? I’d just filled my gasoline tank with diesel fuel because everybody in town knew that the pump had been mislabeled? “You’ve got to be kidding.” “No. Sorry. I guess we should mark it right.” “I have tank full of diesel in my gasoline car?” “Sorry. You probably shouldn’t drive it.” “No kidding! So what do I do?” “Not sure. It’ll sure tear up your engine.” It was completely the wrong place and time for attempted homicide. The gun in line behind me was a basketball referee on his way to work a game. He said, “I could make a few calls.” Since refs are good at making calls I gladly availed myself of his services. He managed to get a guy with a tow truck…fifteen miles away. Luckily, my father happened to be attending the gig where I was performing so I called him, he picked me up, loaned me his car, and two days later I had my Honda back along with a bill for draining the gas tank. The lady in the gas station had been hit by the Christmas Duhs. That very same Christmas I ordered a personalized gift for a friend. It was a doormat with his home address printed across the top. When I received it the address was wrong. I fired off an irate call to the company and complained. The gal on the other end of the line asked, “Is it close to the item you ordered?” Close! The address was one number off. “Yes, it was close, but it’s a street address! Close doesn’t count!” She’d been whacked in the head by the Christmas Duhs. Several years ago I made the horrible mistake of joining a writers’ club in Springfield. The group had been recommended by a friend…obviously a friend who’d never attended one of their meetings. Writers are weird. They make me nervous. They think too much, I think. The invitation to their annual Christmas party at Barnes and Noble said, “No gifts, please.” That was easy since I didn’t know anyone in the group. When I arrived at the holiday gathering I found that everyone had brought a gift to put into a grab bag. I whispered, “I thought it said No Gifts. The hostess smiled knowingly as she told me, “We always say that, but everybody knows you’re supposed to bring a gift.” A note that says “no gift” actually means “bring a gift?” I no longer attend meetings of writers. They don’t communicate well. If Christmas if the most stupid-causing season and writers are among the goofiest of the planet’s residents, then I had just encountered the perfect storm. I was asked to visit a local retirement home and play some Christmas music on an evening preceding the big holiday. When I arrived the cafeteria holding the piano was empty. No residents. I went to the front desk and asked where the concert was to be held. “What concert? Most of the folks are in bed.” I’d be gob-smacked by the Christmas Duhs. And yes, after my family opens my gifts to them, they pass them around to the proper recipient instead of the ones I’d labeled. I tell them it’s not my fault. I’ve been infected.