The other day I did a load of laundry and had the dreaded result when I opened the hatch of seeing bits of paper all over the clean clothes.  I washed a piece of paper.  Was it an important piece of paper?  I have no earthly idea.  I cannot for the life of me recall what it might have been.  Whatever it was, it’s done for now.  Hope it wasn’t that winning lottery ticket.

Completely unrelated, in a fit of ambition and because it looked like hell, I stained my deck this past weekend.  I have three possible exits off of my deck: Back into the house through the door, off a little ramp into the yard, or down three steps onto a pathway around the side of the house.  The very last things I stained were those three little stairs, and I very carefully began with the top step and worked my way down.  I then went around and back up onto the deck via the ramp to collect the project leftovers like empty paint cans and the like.

I thought to myself as I boogied around the deck and back up the ramp to tidy up that I would have to remember to exit back off the ramp again and not go down the (just coated) stairs.  So what did I do when I was done gathering my things?  Went right down those freshly stained stairs, of course.  And why is that?  Because I am the Dumbest Man in America!  I left the footprints there as a reminder to myself of just exactly how dumb I am. Maybe come Spring I’ll re-coat over them.

Turns out I didn’t really need to leave myself a reminder, because I was about to receive more proof of my own idiocy anyway.  The other night I was driving home, obeying all traffic laws as I always do, when one of Linn County’s Finest lit me up.  I quickly wracked my brain trying to ascertain what I may have done wrong, or whether there was any possibility that he was pulling me over just to thank me for being such a law-abiding citizen.  I correctly estimated the chances of the latter as zero percent.

The Dumbest Man in America had forgotten, somehow, to pay his vehicle registration.  The only thing I can think of, at this point, is that I must have run the invoice through the washing machine, oh, like five months ago.  I certainly have washed other documents in the past.  This might have been one of them. 

My problem is, I think, that I try to job the system a little.  They send that registration invoice out like a month ahead of my birthday, and it doesn’t technically need to be paid until thirty days after my birthday.  That’s sixty days that I can earn interest on the couple hundred bucks they want.  So I hold it.  I usually tack it to my fridge, and set myself an alert in my phone to remember to pay it.  Well, the invoice ain’t on the fridge, and there is no reminder on my phone’s calendar, so I guess I outsmarted myself.  So, my efforts to earn an extra buck-and-a-half in interest now cost me upwards of $200, something on the order of a 100% “Stupid-Tax.”  I can’t think of anyone who more richly deserves having that levied.

My only solace comes from the fact that I think I bummed out the deputy who pulled me over by being so dull.  He probably thought he was hot on the trail of a stolen car ring, when really all he had accomplished was to pull over The Dumbest Man in America.  That’s me.  Nice to meet you.