The Idiot Parade


We are surrounded by idiots in this world. Brainless, pointless, useless, mouthbreathing fuckheads who, by their very existence, hamper our evolution as a species.

You know who they are. You see them everyday. They’re blocking your way in traffic, not knowing whether they’re taking a left or a right or, when they do, either too oblivious of their surroundings or just without the simple courtesy or conscience necessary to put on a goddamn blinker. They’re clogging up the supermarket aisles, standing three abreast, staring slackjawed at the Ho-Hos and Ding-Dongs, completely oblivious to the line of people standing there hoping, praying to squeeze by. They’re on their cellphones constantly as they blow through stop signs and red lights or stand there annoying an entire bank queue with their drivel. There’s entire convoys of them driving scooters through Wal-Mart as we speak, bearing down on the Doritos display like a horde of glassy eyed, brain damaged wildebeasts.

And they have no idea you exist. Nor would they care if they did. Because it’s all about them, don’t you know? “Did I just cut a guy off in traffic, forcing him to take out his entire undercarriage on the median strip? Oh, well. Sorry, Heather, what were you saying about last night’s episode of Wife Swap?”

The Idiot Parade is about these people, this constant, endless procession of everyday morons who, by their astonishing lack of intelligence, morals and basic cognizance of others, make even the simplest, most basic tasks of our our lives a neverending, miserable hell.

Today’s example: A cro-magnon wannabe who, while shopping at a local supermarket, tied his feral, out of control dog to a pole outside the entrance. Not across from the entrance, or at the corner, or near the adjoining sidewalk but right outside the doors, within feet of the actual exit. So that every time anyone left the store who didn’t have that distinct odor of stale human fecal matter that he’s come to identify with his mentally defective owner, the vicious, howling mut starts a frothing monsoon of barking and snarling that would make Michael Vick proud.

Little old ladies were flinging their plums into the air with shocked terror, clawing their hair nets out and screaming. Children skinning their knees and palms as they dove to the pavement to dodge the rabid beast. I think he tore a skirt off of one woman as she went past. The entire walkway in front of the place was littered with broken eggs and crushed orange juice cartons as people abandoned their groceries in a mad scramble to get away.

So, yeah. That bastard wins Fuckface of the Week hands down.

And the parade goes on.


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