The Orb of Stupidity 1: Lonely Muffin

by Lane Fulps

The first thing you must be wondering after reading the title of this is what precisely is the "Orb of Stupidity"? It is, in fact, the cause of all ignorance on the planet. There is one in every town and every city on earth. While we don't yet know where they come from, we do know that they must be stopped. They are what make a bank robber write a stick-up note on the back of one of his personal checks. It is what makes one desire to check the levels in a gas can at night with a match.

It is the stuff of legends. For thousands of years the orb of stupidity has lurked among mankind, pulsating its infectious ignorance and then feeding off the intelligence it draws from those it possesses. Many have tried to destroy it over the centuries, only to be reduced to drooling masses of duh upon getting close.

There are some people however that are immune to its whims of dumb. They are those of us who feel like outcasts in society, where common sense is greeted as no less than mere wizardry. The ability to think things through and figure things out is amazing to this infected mass of our population.

This is why my wife and I have decided to track down the orb here in our own town. Fortunately for us, there has so far been no shortage of clues to its whereabouts. If we can find it and destroy it, we can save thousands from a fate that will ultimately result in them drowning in a bowl of soup.

I want to make it clear that the people in these stories are real. These people exist.

The threat that these so called "higher mammals" poses to our society is terribly real, and the only way to prevent your assimilation into this group of MENSA rejects is to BE PREPARED. Please read this carefully, take notes if need be, write all over this book. You paid for it, so why not. I even left you some space. Go ahead and write in it, (unless it's an e-reader, in which case if you do write in it, you are reading the right book) its okay, I'll wait....

You finished? OK, good. Let's get started.

Lonely Muffin

To get things started, and to help you understand the situations you will be experiencing, allow me to grant you some background information. I work in the crummiest hotel ever built. I don't think that this place has been renovated once in its 30+ year existence. There is no elevator, no pool and a cold breakfast with those tiny gag in the throat muffins. None of the finer amenities you find at modern hotels. This place doesn't even have lights in the parking lot. Basically, I think what I am trying to say is that this place is one step above the sleep'n'stab motel over on main street. You know the one I mean. EVERY town has one. It's always run by the drunk old clerk with the TV in the back blaring out wheel of fortune in the mostly pitch black office that smells of ramen noodles and know the type.

Okay, back to the story.

So I think that I may have located the king orbanite...I didn't think he existed, but he does. Breakfast starts at 6am. On the counter top I keep a butter caddy for toast. It is one of those simple designs that holds ice in the bottom and has two trays of butter that sit inside of it and have to constantly be refilled. Holds about two to three inches of butter. Well this particular morning I happen to be down at the counter filling up the coffee when the king came down for breakfast. He stands there, looking around, and then grabs the outside of the butter container, like feeling a temperature.

I ask him, "Everything alright sir?"

He mutters something under his breath. I figure he's just another early morning weirdo who is still exhausted and unable to talk until 3 cups of java. Wrong.

The King proceeds to lift the lid on the butter tray, then, taking his middle finger, shoves it all the way to the 3rd knuckle down into one of said trays. Surprising as this was, I was left speechless as he removed his finger and then jammed it the same into the other tray.

"Sir," I started, "What are you doing?" He didn't answer me, he just stood there rubbing the butter between two of his fingers. I was still too confused for words....finally he spoke...

"Your butter's not cold enough. It's melting. Look, I can stick my fingers right through it." Now here's the kicker, if you're not wierded out enough, he scrapes off his finger on the edge of the counter, then grabs a muffin from the tray and uses it to clean the remainder off. Looking at the demented muffin, he puts it back alone on the counter and starts to walk away. With his back to me as he walks he yells back- "Your breakfast here is a mess. It's gross and I can't eat here."

I see him wiping his finger on his jeans as he walks out the door, gets in his car and drives off.........So there I was, dumfounded, holding a coffee pot, with fingered butter and one sad little muffin.


The orb will return....

If you liked this and would like more information about other stories in this series, please contact me at I welcome any and all reviews.

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