PART ONE

The usual members of the Circular Congregation Breakfast Club were sitting around the round oak table at the center of Sarah’s diner. Breakfasts had been ordered, cooked, served and devoured.
Bulging bellies were pushed back from the table’s edge, belches poorly disguised as grunts and groans were exchanged, and Sarah made her way around the table, refilling each coffee cup with the same smile she offered every morning. The only thing left to do was for someone to start complaining about something.
Before Jimmy could offer up a lament about the hell-bound basket the world was in, and before Harry could counter with a disjointed contrary point of view (which was how such conversations were conducted), through the front door walked a stranger.
“Gentlemen, I’m known as Wildman and I am in your fair city due to miscommunications within a certain witness protection program. I am not supposed to be here, you are not supposed to see me, and this conversation never happened.”
With that, the stranger known only as Wildman, took a seat at a booth in the corner and opened his newspaper to the middle, presumably to hide. Also with that, the half-dozen occupants of the big round table returned to searching for something to complain about.
“Of course you’ve heard about the I.R.S. and what they’re up to now.” Jimmy was not about to be undone by some stranger spouting nonsense – he was perfectly capable of doing that on his own. Jimmy enjoyed starting conversations with, “Of course you know about…” and then dropping the subject, in the hope that someone would pick it up. Of course, no one knew about whatever he was babbling — and, of course, no one cared.
“The I.R.S.,” mused the stranger from behind his newspaper disguise, “That is one brilliant name for a government agency.”
“As I was saying,” coughed Jimmy, “The I.R.S. was supposed…”
“Originally, it was supposed to be called the Governmental Resource Accounting Board, but the guys up on the fourth floor thought a tax collection agency known as GRAB would mean tax collectors would be called GRABbers. That was too obvious. The Department felt a name like Internal Revenue Service would better serve to help confuse the citizens.”
“It certainly isn’t a service,” groused Harry, a little miffed at Jimmy for not coming up with anything worth arguing about.
“And it certainly is confusing,” agreed Mort.
“That’s the whole idea behind the name. The Department is very serious about nomenclature.” Wildman lowered his newspaper, peering over the top toward the gang of six sitting around the table. “The trick is to name a government operation with an acronym that sounds like one thing, while disguising its true purpose.” The paper went back up, and Wildman returned to hiding behind the printed page.
“To what department are you referring, young man?” At eighty-two years of age, everyone was a youngster to Tommy Jones.
“It’s STUPID,” mumbled the man behind the curtain of ink.
“Might be stupid,” chimed in Big John Hudson, “Might not. Why don’t you let us be the judges of that?” Big John was, also, getting a little miffed. This stranger had just burst into the diner and took over the conversation. That was John’s job.
“Let me explain,” laughed the Wildman, “STUPID is an acronym. It stands for Significant Terms and Unrelated Political Identification Department. STUPID is tasked with coming up with all the confusing names and acronyms populating our government and military.”
“That explains a lot,” mused Tommy.
“Oh, you haven’t heard the half of it,” replied the snickering voice behind the newspaper.

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com