I say “they” are fools!

Why? Because I’ve been looking for love and it still found me.

Yep, that’s right. Miss Right has found me. Just when I thought I might be the last single person of marriageable age in the entire world, an angel comes and sweeps me off my feet.

I present to you all the e-mail I received last night:

Hello

I am Miss nhelyn I came across your profile today and became much interested in you I will like to have you as my companion, from here lets see if our dream towards each other will became a reality I will also send you my pictures after I have received your mail direct to my box. I will be glad to receive your mail (Remember the distance or colour does not matter but love matters allot in life) Send an email to my email address (address removed to protect her privacy) so l can give you my picture for you to know who l am.

Thanks
Miss nhelyn.

See?! Isn’t she amazing?

I like a woman who knows what she wants. And what THIS woman wants is yours truly as her companion!

I know what you all are thinking.

“Kevin, this is all happening so fast.”

“But Kev, you don’t know anything about her or what she even looks like yet!”

“Kevin, are you an idiot? This is clearly a spam e-mail. She isn’t real.”

Mock our love if you must, but hear me now: This is “the one.”

Look at how well matched we are as a couple.

She believes that “love matters allott in life.” I think so, too!

She will be “happy” to receive my e-mail. I will be happy to send it to her!

She likes to write ridiculously long run-on sentences. I like to critique people’s grammar!

I even adore her name.

“Nhelyn.”

Doesn’t it just roll off your tongue?

Nhelyn. Nhelyn. Nhelyn.

“Do I need to pick up anything from the grocery store on my way home, Nhelyn dear?”

“Oh, Nhelyn. You have such an elementary understanding of the English language.”

“Why are you going through my wallet, Nhelyn? And where did you get that gun? Oh, Nhelyn. You’re so funny.”

Yep, this is a glorious day for ol’ Kev here.

I’ve finally found someone.

I hope she’s hot.

Want to congratulate me and Nhelyn? Just leave a comment or two or ten below. If you’re lucky, you all will be invited to the wedding. It will be located in whatever city/state/country Nhelyn belongs to.

This latest dream was actually normal. Actually, it was more than that. It was lucid. And it had a moral message.

Seriously, it was as if this dream was written by a producer of an after-school special.

In the dream, I am the coach for a high school baseball team.

We’re having practice.

I am working with the infielders (hitting them groundballs) while my assistant coaches (I have FOUR assistants, for some reason) are working with the other players in the outfield.

As I’m hitting grounders, my shortstop, who is my best player, keeps making mistakes. These aren’t “I am doing my best” mistakes, they are mistakes from being lazy. He wasn’t getting his body in front of the ball. He wasn’t bending his knees. He was, deliberately, missing the balls.

And when I tried correcting him, giving him pointers on proper technique, he would argue with me. He would complain.

He disrespected me, his coach, in front of the other infielders. One of the infielders, a first baseman, followed his lead and began complaining, too.

I called all the players to gather around the pitching mound for a team meeting.

I asked all but one of my assistant coaches (one I trusted apparently) to give me and the players privacy. One of the other assistants, you see, was the father of the defiant shortstop.

I didn’t hold a meeting so much as I verbally chewed out the shortstop while the rest of the team (and one assistant coach) watched in shock.

I brought the lad to tears. I told him that his behavior would not be tolerated. I told him he would be immediately cut from the team unless he apologized to me right then, apologized to his teammates for the way he acted, and promised he would never be defiant again.

Sobbing, the player did as I asked.

Then I added an addendum. I told him I was now going to walk over to his father, my assistant coach, and tell him precisely what he had done. And that unless his father agreed to support me, to hold him accountable, he would still be cut from the team and his father would be removed from his duties as assistant coach.

The dream ended with me walking over to speak with the father.

The dream is a variation of a real-life incident I encountered with a father of one of my players when I was the head coach for a junior varsity baseball team. I previously wrote about it in my Generation: Enable blog post two years ago.

Our exchange went down like so:

“A word coach,” a parent asks me.

“This really isn’t a good time,” I respond. “We’re about to start the second game (of the double header).”

“I hear you aren’t starting (my son). Is that true?”

“Yes, that’s true,” I reply.

“Can I ask why,” the parent barked at me.

“You already know why. He didn’t hustle. He forgot how many outs there were. Then he didn’t hustle again.”

“This is completely ridiculous,” the parent complained. “He’s your best player. This is why we get our butts kicked. I’m trying to recruit players from other teams to come to this school, but it’s impossible with (crap) like this.”

“You’re right,” I respond. “It is ridiculous. It’s ridiculous that your son didn’t hustle, but instead of supporting me and telling your son to hustle you’re attacking me. Quite frankly, if these players you’re trying to recruit exert the same amount of effort on the field as your son did today, I don’t want them.”

“The A. D. (Athletic Director) will hear about this,” the parent threatened.

“What are you going to tell him? That I treat all my players the same, no matter how good they are? That I expect my players to hustle and give 100%? Go ahead, he might give me a raise.”

I’m curious as to why this dream popped into my head. I haven’t coached a team in over four years now.

Of course, then again I’ve never had an ex-girlfriend try to run me off the road with a semi-truck, but that didn’t stop my brain from dreaming about that…

Have any of you had odd dreams lately? Care to share them with the class?

Last night’s dream was no exception.

Begin dream sequence!

I climb into the passenger’s seat of my Mustang. A girl is behind the wheel. She asks me something to the effect of, “so how did it go?”

Before I could answer, I see a giant semi-truck pulling out of the driveway of the home I just exited.

I tell the girl to step on it. The semi-truck was coming after us.

She takes off, but apparently not fast enough for my satisfaction. I keep telling her to drive faster. The semi was gaining on us.

The truck pulls up beside us and veers into our lane.

It hits us.

The laws of physics would tell you that my little Mustang would be no match for a giant semi truck, but somehow the semi is unable to knock us off the road.

I am, however, worried about my paint being scratched.

The semi bumps into us again. And again. I tell the girl to drive faster.

We lose the semi. It appears as though we’re out of the woods. But then, out of nowhere, a Hummer is driving beside us.

Inside the Hummer is the girl who lived in the house I exited at the beginning of the dream. Apparently, I had made her (and whoever was driving the semi) very angry.

Like the semi, the Hummer tries to run us off the road. Again, I worry about my paint being scratched.

Eventually, I spot a police car. I tell the girl to drive towards it. I am, after all, a genius.

We pull up to the policeman, who had parked his car and was, for some reason, just standing in the middle of the street.

I get out of the car to talk to him, but the girl I was with beats me to him. Before I can even get a word out, she had begun telling the policeman about our situation.

She was a bit too excited for this policeman’s tastes, evidently, because he threatens to arrest her.

I intervene.

I explain to the policeman that this was my girlfriend (my brain has quite the imagination when it dreams, apparently).

I showed him a piece of paper with a list of about thirty names. I tell him that these were the names of ex-girlfriends I had wronged and that I was visiting each of them, one by one, to make amends.

The most recent ex I talked to, I explained, didn’t forgive me. I then explained the whole semi-Hummer high-speed pursuit.

The policeman seemed satisfied with my explanation, but he didn’t seemed too concerned with the fact we had almost died and there was a crazy ex-girlfriend (and her accomplice) out there who needed to be arrested.

End dream sequence!

I’m not what you would call a dream interpreter, but I am a dream critic. So, I will now begin critiquing this dream.

How I had not previously noticed there was a semi-truck in the driveway is beyond me. And how did the thing even fit into the driveway?

Why am I, even in my dreams, a micromanager and backseat driver?

Why did I have such a long list of ex-girlfriends? And what bad thing(s) had I done to them to warrant my needing to seek them out and make amends?

What kind of current girlfriend am I with in this dream? What kind of girl not only encourages, but HELPS her boyfriend seek out and talk to his exes? Did she used to be my psychiatrist or something? Aren’t psychiatrists prohibited from dating patients?

Was that a real policeman, or a crazy person wearing a policeman’s outfit for Halloween?

Why did I bother showing him “the list” and telling him the back story? All he needed to know was there was a Hummer and semi-truck out there driven by homicidal maniacs.

I wonder, if I had been able to fast forward the dream a few months or years, if the current girlfriend in the dream would have made her way onto “the list”? Methinks, if getting her involved in high-speed car chases was a regular part of our relationship, I will have had much for which to make amends.

Silly brain. You have such silly dream plotholes.

What did all of you think of the dream? Can you actually interpret it? Are there any other critiques I forgot? As always, do leave a comment or two or ten.

“Hey, I’m just as shocked as the rest of you,” announced SKOS’s owner to a group of imaginary reporters he pretended were standing around him asking questions.

Encouraged to apply by Jennifer Weber of the blog I’m Having a Thought Here, who began working as the Columbia Baptist Examiner earlier in October, the witty blogger sent in his application to Examiner last weekend.

He did not expect a response.

“In the application, they asked for a writing sample as well as an online example of my writing,” explained the dashing humorist. “So, the only ‘political’ examples of my writing I had handy were things I’d written here on my blog.

“You guys have read my blog posts, right? In my last one, I called Obama a prissy girl. Funny? Yes. Professional? Well, that depends on whether you believe Obama is a prissy little girl with bows in his hair.”

Undeterred, the handsome blogger searched through his archives. For the online writing example, he supplied a link to his Welcome to Socialism 101 post from a year ago. For his writing sample, he modified the Entitlement: The Silent Killer blog post her wrote earlier this year.

“And then I made myself a sandwich.”

Much to the surprise of the amazingly humble writer, Examiner liked what they read and quickly accepted him as their newest contributor.

“I guess this means it’s okay for me to be witty and sarcastic when I write for them. I just need to polish it up a bit. Maybe tone it down a little. Maybe cut out a little of the silly and add in a few sprinkles of facts and information.

“But don’t worry. I’ll still be awesome.”

Everyone,

In all seriousness, I am now the Atlanta Conservative Examiner for Examiner.com. This is a chance for me to stretch a bit as a writer, and also (possibly) earn a little extra money in the process. I hope all of you will read what I write and tell your like-minded friends, co-workers and family members about it. The more traffic (and comments) I receive the more successful I will be. Also, it’ll help me avoid depression.

But no worries. I will still be doing my silly posts here at SKOS like always. All this little endeavor means is you will get to see a bit more of my “serious” side.

That said, for my first Examiner article, which is online now, I rewrote my infamous Time to Take Off the Training Bra, Mr. Obama blog post from earlier this week. It is cleaner, more professional, but still 100% Kev.

Enjoy.

It’s Halloween. It’s time for pumpkins, kids in costumes, trick or treating, and candy. It is also time for the annual outbreak of what researchers have named “Halloween Skankitis.”

Halloween Skankitis is an epidemic that used to only inflict females between the ages of 18 and 35, but now reaches females of all ages. It’s a disease that infects woman who are oftentimes perfectly normal the rest of the year.

What is it?

According to Dr. Kevin Philange, lead researcher of The SKOS Institute, it is “a virus that causes some women on Halloween to dress like street walkers.”

During the four-year study, Philange and his colleagues interviewed women from all over the country and asked them about the virus.

“Something just comes over me when the calendar says October 31st,” says Kim, a 31-year-old secretary from Omaha, Nebraska.

“The rest of the year, I am as conservative a dresser as you’ll ever meet. But when Halloween rolls around, I have this overwhelming urge to mimic Paris Hilton.”

Lisa, a 21-year-old college student from Nevada, agrees.

“I can’t explain it. On October 30th, I wear jeans and a sweater. The next day, I dress like a naughty nurse or maid. On November 1st, I wear jeans and a sweater again.”

When researchers asked Lisa why she chose to dress like a “naughty policewoman” for Halloween in 2006, she responded by saying “I’m not sure” and “it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Though SKOS researchers were unable to discover how the virus is spread or why some women are suspectible to it while others are immune, they were able to formulate a theory for how the virus affects the women’s central nervous systems.

“We believe the virus causes these women to temporarily go insane,” said Philange.

“The insanity coupled with easy access to Halloween costumes, many of which are extremely immodest, leads to the outbreak of skankitis.

“The women are innocent victims.”

Critics of the study contend the risque costumes are not due to a virus, but to the fact the women who wear them feel emboldened on Halloween to dress more daring than they would any other time of the year.

Philange and his research team find such theories insulting.

“Any notion that these women intentionally dress this way is ridiculous,” says Philange.

“The idea that these woman wish they could dress provocatively all year long, but only have the nerve to do so on Halloween when everyone is playing ‘dress up’ is insulting.

“No self respecting woman would dress like a French maid or pirate wench in public on purpose. It HAS to be a virus.”

On the heels of the White House’s failed attempt to ban Fox News from being able to interview Kenneth “Pay Czar” Feinberg (while allowing all other networks to interview him), a question begs to be asked:

Obama, why don’t you pick on someone your own size?

And by your “own size” I mean someone roughly the size of a 10-year-old girl. Because if you’re that thin skinned, if you are that sensitive to criticism, that’s exactly what you are: A little, prissy girl.

You heard me.

In all seriousness, methinks it should have been YOU, not Michelle, photographed hula-hooping on the White House lawn last week.

Everyone in society faces some sort of criticism. Athletes, movie stars, musicians, novelists, stand-up comedians, and even people who inexplicably choose to get up on stage to prove they can dance knowingly put themselves out there for criticism. Like it or not, it comes with the territory.

Teachers face criticism from students and parents.

Waiters and waitresses face criticism from customers.

Janitors face criticism if they miss a spot while cleaning.

Heck, I’m going to face criticism from those who disagree with me just for writing this.

We may not like criticism, but none of us are immune to it.

And then there’s you.

You are the freakin’ President of the United States. Every president before you, even beloved ones, has had to face criticism. But YOU can’t handle it? You can’t stand having ONE news network actually ask you tough questions and hold you accountable? Why should you be ANY different than any other individual who has held your office (or any political office, for that matter)?

It’s not like you face criticism everywhere you go.

CNN, MSNBC and the like kiss your feet. You go on Leno and Letterman and they practically swoon over you. You surround yourself with people who, if you asked them what your dirty socks smelled like, would say they smelled like a flower-filled garden with just a hint of cinnamon and peppermint.

You are already sheltered from the elements of society who disagree with you. The next time you have a face-to-face chat with someone like “Joe the Plumber” will be when you’re back on the campaign trail (if then). But that’s apparently not enough. If you had your way you would ban Fox News and all conservative-talk radio. Heck, you’re already trying.

You’re at war with Fox News. You’ve tried banning them once. You’ve put allies into key positions at the FCC, and your actions against Fox as of late would lead one to believe, with little convincing, that your motives for doing so is to one day silence Rush Limbaugh and company.

Grow a backbone, for crying out loud.

You can portray Fox, Limbaugh, Beck and the rest as blowhards if you like. You have lots of voting citizens who agree with you. I mean, you DID get elected, right? But it doesn’t matter what your antagonists are or are not. They have the First Amendment right to “calls them like they sees them.” They have the right to disagree with you.

Why? Because this is America.

You prissy, whiny, spineless, little girl.

Seriously, I’m asking.

Why should we trust them with such a huge undertaking? Because they’ve done such a bang-up job with their other responsibilities?

Ha.

The public educational system in this country is a joke. We’re graduating kids from high school who have no business graduating. Each year, the remedial reading, writing and match classes for college freshmen are overrun with students. And the worst of the worst don’t even bother with college.

We’re taxed to death by the IRS, who just happens to be headed by the one-headed monster known as Timothy Geithner, who didn’t pay his own taxes from 2001 to 2004. His excuse for not paying? He was “careless.” Yeah, that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy with feelings of trust.

It is inexplicable to me that anyone, regardless of their political leanings, could think it’s a good idea to have government run health care. If we had a Republican majority in all three branches of government, and they brought up the idea of government run health care, I’d still hate the idea. I’d hate it from the top of my head to the soles of my feet.

Why? Because it’s a bad, bad, bad, bad, bad idea.

Imagine, if you will, you had an uncle. For simplicity, let’s call him Sam. Now, your Uncle Sam is (usually) well meaning and all, but he’s a moron. He owes everyone he knows money. He has debt collectors after him. He’s unorganized. He contradicts himself.  He changes his mind all the time. He has split personalities, and those personalities are constantly arguing and bickering. When push comes to shove, he’s going to do what’s popular rather than what’s right. And, to be perfectly honest, if not for the fact he’s your uncle you’d have lost faith in him long ago.

Now, if you had your way, would you let Uncle Sam be your accountant and handle your money? Or how about teach your kids how to read and write? Would you let him perform heart surgery on you?

Hopefully, you would answer “no.”

Personally, the only thing I would trust Uncle Sam with was keeping me safe from criminals and terrorists. He does control the best military in the world, after all. I forget to mention that.

But other than that, nothing.

Not even my sandwich. He’d undoubtedly use white bread instead of wheat and regular mayo instead of light.

And there would probably be thumbtacks in it.

Directly in front of my favorite elliptical machine at the gym, about fifteen yards away, is a row of machines dedicated entirely to abdominal exercises. To my left, about ten yards away, is a machine called “The Butt Buster.” I’m sure the machine has a more technical name, but why use it when you have a sophisticated, alliteration-filled name like Butt Buster?

Anyway, there are four or five people at my gym who follow the same routine whenever I see them. They’ll come to the gym and go straight to one of the ab machines (or the Butt Buster). They’ll use the machine for five or ten minutes. And then they will leave. They won’t do any cardio. They won’t use any of the other 184 or so machines in the gym. They just do their 5-to-10 minutes workout on the abs or gluts, and off they go.

The problem with this, in case it isn’t obvious to everyone, is that you can’t “spot reduce.” You can’t be 30 pounds overweight, do ab exercises (and only ab exercises) a couple times a week, and magically obtain a washboard stomach. It just doesn’t happen. Until you drop those 30 excess pounds, it doesn’t matter what kind of muscles you have hidden underneath.

Now, I used to feel sorry for these people. “They just don’t know any better,” I would think to myself as I tried, sometimes seemingly in vain, to get my own self into shape. But then I tried looking at it from their perspective. And once I did that I realized I shouldn’t feel sorry for them.

I should heckle them.

Let’s assume none of the people who do this at the gym have been told it’s an exercise, so to speak, in futility. Put yourself in their shoes. You walk into a gym and see dozens of people of all shapes and sizes. Some are already fit. Some are overweight. Some members from both groups are just standing around talking instead of exercising, but those that are exercising are all working up a sweat. You see men and women lifting weights. You see men and women jogging, riding bikes and being awesome on ellipticals. They all appear to really mean business.

If you were in one of these person’s shoes, and you saw all these people working their tails off, wouldn’t you, at some point, question your “do ab exercises for five minutes and then go home” workout routine? Wouldn’t you think, “hey, maybe they know something I don’t?”

The people who do this are the same people who go into a bank, see several long lines with people already waiting, and walk right up to the teller that doesn’t have a line. Rather than assume the other twenty bank customers might know something he does not, this individual assumes they must not have noticed this other teller. The teller who, by the way, has a giant “Deposits Only” sign directly overhead.

Too many people in our society look for shortcuts. They always want the path of least resistance. The expression “nothing in this world worth having comes easy” is lost on them.

Rather than work hard and save, they buy lottery tickets.

Rather than actually pay their dues, they try to get a reality television show by pretending their ridiculously named son is inside a hot air balloon.

And rather than gain valuable life and political experience by serving in the Senate for a decade, they immediately run for president under the promise of “change” and…

Actually, that’s a bad example. And sadly, just like the people who do win the lottery each week, it’s the exception that validates the rest and gives them hope.

Too bad all the hope in the world won’t give them that six pack they’re after.

I’m going to have to disagree with myself.

Gyms have always been filled with unusual characters. I’ve even blogged about it before. But whereas in the past I have viewed these unusual characters as comedic relief, I’m beginning to think they are part of a widespread conspiracy designed to sabotage my efforts and keep me single forever.

(Paranoid? I’m not paranoid. I wear this hat made out of tinfoil because it’s stylish, not because I think it prevents others from reading my thoughts. That just happens to be an added bonus to wearing the hat.)

The inhabitants of my gym are a virtual who’s who of evil henchman. Though their tactics are different, their goal is the same: To get me out of the gym.

There’s “Smells Like Socks Guy”, who I sincerely believe rubs his entire body with dirty socks before coming inside the gym and grabbing the machine next to me.

There’s the “Two Older People Who Just Happen to Know Each Other”, who decide to take the machines on either side of me so that I get to be in the middle of their inane babbling.

There’s “Guy Who Wants to Talk to Me Even Though I Clearly Have an iPod and Earphones”, who I imagine owns a collection of dolls and displays them all over his home so he has things to talk to at all times.

There’s “Always Talks on the Phone Girl”, who I’m convinced must believe she will instantly die should she ever put down her cell phone. I’m willing for her to take that chance.

There’s “I am Wearing Extra Small Shorts Even Though I Clearly Need Extra Large Girl”, who seems to always use the treadmill directly in front of me. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve prayed to God that He gives those cotton fabrics the strength to hold on until I’ve left the building.

And then there are the usuals. The girls who find it necessary to wear shorts or pants with words written on the butt. The guys who are so hairy it looks as though they are wearing sweaters beneath their tank tops. The guys who inexplicably wear baseball hats at odd angles. The girls and guys who find it necessary to wear cheap perfume and cologne. The guys who spend their time talking to women who are working out rather than actually working out themselves. The guy/girl who is so androgynous I spend my time looking for clues in the hopes for unlocking the answer. 

All of these people assault my senses.

And I’m convinced they are doing it on purpose.

Well, clearly they don’t know who they are messing with. Next time, I’m going to wear two different colored socks to the gym.

That’s right. I’m playing dirty.

Take that, “Guy With Sweat Stain That Resembles Michelle Obama.”

So, I’ve decided to introduce a new feature here at SKOS called “Phoning It In.” Basically, it’s just me writing shorter versions of the silly awesome blog posts I usually write. I’ll think of a few ideas, put the least amount of effort into fleshing them out, and then post them.

Ready?

Doesn’t matter. I’m doing it anyway.

“Illegal Alien” Costume Controversy

NEW YORK, NY - Retailers have come under fire by immigrant activists for selling two “illegal alien” Halloween costumes.

Target, the mass-merchandise retailer, has already pulled the costumes from its shelves.

“We never meant to offend any of our consumers, even ones who technically shouldn’t even be in the country,” said Target spokesman Tom Phillips.

This is not the first time Target has received criticism for one of its Halloween costumes. Last year, the retailer had to stop selling its “Snow White” costume after Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton labeled it “offensive.” Three years ago, Target had to remove its “Werewolf” costume from its shelves after an activist group claimed it was insensitive to citizens who had been bitten or scratched by wolves.

In other news, the “Racist White Guy Holding a Bible” costume is once again a huge hit this Halloween season.

Obama’s Effort to Promote Kids’ Health Has Surprising Side Effect

WASHINGTON D.C. - In an effort to promote healthy eating and exercise, Michelle Obama invited local elementary students to the White House for a “Healthy Kids Fair.”

During the event, Michelle Obama joined the students in hula-hooping and jumping rope. While her intent was to help combat the obesity problem in today’s youth, the numerous photos posted online of the first lady at the event appear to have had a greater impact on adults.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” replied Keith Dugan after being shown a photo of Obama wiggling her hips.

“Why did you have to show me that while I’m eating? Good grief. I’m not hungry anymore. Anyone want the rest of this sandwich?”

The first lady, who earlier this year was inexplicably featured on People magazine’s most beautiful people issue, is being credited with making men and women all over the world simultaneously decide to stop eating.

Experts predict Americans will lose an average of 34 pounds between now and New Year’s.

“Even when I close my eyes, I can still see it,” screeched Dugan.

“The horror. The horror…”

And Finally…

Father of “Balloon Boy” Offered a Reality Show

FORT COLLINS, CO - In an ironic twist now that it’s become evident the entire “balloon boy” incident was a hoax done as a publicity stunt to better market him and his family for a reality television show, ABC has approached Richard Heene with an offer to star in a spin-off of its inexplicably popular reality show “Wife Swap.”

“Wife Swap: The Prison Edition” would feature Richard Heene as the prison bride to a different prison inmate each week.

“According to our research department, people love this idea,” cooed ABC spokesman David Heart. “People are clamoring for it.”

The irony? Richard Heene isn’t certain he wants to do the show.

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” admitted Heene.

Those were my thoughts yesterday immediately after reading the (then) throwaway line about the parents of “balloon boy”, Richard and Mayumi Heene, having once appeared on that insipid reality TV show Wife Swap.

At the time, the balloon was still in the air. The world thought the boy, Falcon Heene, was inside. Everyone was worried they might be witness to a small boy falling to his death on live television.

“This is another sad attempt at 15 minutes of fame,” I thought.

Call this an unfair, sweeping generalization if you like, but in my mind there are only two reasons people subject themselves and their families to “reality” shows. One, they want to win whatever prize is being offered. And two, they want to be famous.

Has any couple gone on “Wife Swap” thinking it would actually improve their marriage in some way? Of course not. And, unlike other reality shows, participants on this ridiculous show don’t win any prizes.

So why do it?

Fame. They get to be on television. They get to be noticed. They get to feel what it’s like to be a celebrity.

The parents of “Balloon Boy”, it turns out, TWICE participated on the “Wife Swap” show. Apparently, their marriage was improved SO much after the first appearance, they decided to try a second helping. Yeah, and if you believe that was the reason for the second appearance I pray you never reproduce.

Granted, I’m a cynic. I believed this was a hoax when all I had to go on was the parents’ TV show appearance. But look what has transpired since…

• The balloon lands. The boy, surprise, is not inside.
• An intense search begins in the hopes of finding the boy. Authorities, and people worldwide, fear the boy had fallen out of the balloon.
• A breaking news report says authorities are investigating an area where witnesses say they saw something fall out of the balloon. People worldwide fear the worst.
• The boy is found hiding in the attic of his home. He had never been in the balloon. (Never mind the fact the world been told that one of the boy’s siblings [his oldest brother] had seen him climb into the balloon.)

And now “balloon boy” and his parents are touring the media circuit. Well, who didn’t see that coming? Of course, being interviewed by the media isn’t proof that it was a hoax. The media, after all, was going to want to talk to the family. This was a big news story, after all.

But then the family is interviewed live on CNN. The following exchange takes place:

(After the boy, Falcon, said he heard his family calling his name while he was hiding in the attic)

“You did?” his mother asked.

“Why didn’t you come out?” Richard Heene asked.

And what did the boy answer?

“You had said that we did this for a show.

The parents then tried to put the genie back into the bottle. They explained that the boy is only six year old and he was confused by the question.

So now, obviously, hoards of people have jumped on the “this is a hoax” bandwagon.

The dad, Richard Heene, is quoted saying that he can’t believe anyone could think this was all a hoax.

“I went through such a roller coaster of emotions yesterday, to have people say that, I think, is extremely pathetic. I’m not selling anything. This is what we do all the time.”

I don’t buy it. I don’t buy any of it.

Of course you’re selling something, Richard. You’re selling YOU. You’re selling YOUR WIFE. You’re selling YOUR KIDS. The fact you aren’t on live television trying to sell homemade hemorrhoid cream or something doesn’t prove you’re on the up and up. It just proves you don’t take us (the world) for COMPLETE idiots.

Finally, I just want to add that I find the fact the family VIDEOTAPED the balloon “accidentally” taking off to be way, way, way too convenient. It’s like those videos on America’s Funniest Home Videos where a camera would just HAPPEN to be recording a guy standing in his living room moments before something hits him in the crotch.

And speaking of being hit in the crotch, that’s exactly what should happen (repeatedly) to Richard Heene if it turns out I’m right.

UPDATE ON 10/19/09 - And it’s official. Hoax. I hope those parents are arrested and/or publicly flogged.

Inevitably, almost as if they had gotten together to figure out how to best mess with your head, all of your professors will begin having papers and exams during the same general time frame. The trick, I told them, was to take advantage of the down time because it wasn’t really down time. The professors are just lulling you to sleep. Work ahead, begin writing your papers weeks in advance, and those days where you have ten things due all at once won’t seem so bad.

It was good advice — even though it was a classic “do as I say not as I do” kind of thing.

Life is the same way. The saying “all bad things come in threes” (a saying proven beyond all reasonable doubt after the third “Final Destination” movie) references the idea that things in life tend to come at you in bunches. Of course, these aren’t just restricted to bad things. Good things have a tendency to come at you in bunches, too. For example, I’ll never forget that October when I found two quarters face up in the parking lot. Good times, good times…

Right now, in my life, I think I am experiencing the calm before the storm. I’m in a comfortable, easy-going, transitional stage now. It’s nice, but I know it won’t last. The scary, “grown up” stage of life is waiting for me around the corner. I know it’s there. I can hear it giggling at me. Plus, I can see its shadow.

It’s time I take my own advice and use this down time to my advantage. My homework assignment? Lots of lots of praying. I could use all of your help, though. Don’t worry, in this case, helping me isn’t cheating.

This was first published at my old blog on March 20, 2006. Still quite relevant, I must say.

“I have never seen such a thing in my life,” remarked Amy Roberts as her seven-year-old son, Billy, picked up a box of cereal and threw it at an elderly woman walking by.

“She must have that boy in a trance or something.”

“No, clearly that boy isn’t from this planet,” interrupted Jake Oliver, a father of two rambunctious elementary students.

“Did you see how he didn’t run away when he saw his mom turn her head for a split second? No way that boy is human. No way.”

Timmy and his mother, Helena, first began receiving attention when Wal-Mart employees noticed the five-year-old did not scream and beg for candy when the two were at the checkout aisle.

“The way I heard it,” said store employee LaQuisha Jones, “is the kid looked up at his mom and asked if he could ‘please’ have a candy bar. She patted him on the head and said ‘not today, sweetie.’

“And then the boy did the unthinkable: he DIDN’T whine and pitch a fit. He actually behaved! Can you believe that?”

From that moment forward, Timmy and Helena have had a cult following. Initially, only a small handful of employees and customers would follow them around as they shopped. But as word spread, the numbers grew into the dozens. Then the hundreds. Then the thousands.

Everyone wants to see “the boy who doesn’t make a spectacle of himself” and his wise, mythical mother. Some, like Denise Hopkins of Louisville, want to ask questions and learn.

“I want to ask her what her secret is,” revealed the mother of four. “I’ve tried everything with my kids. I’ve tried reasoning with them. I’ve tried pleading with them. I’ve tried being their friend. I’ve tried ignoring them. I’ve even tried being the bad guy. Once I hid the remote from them so they couldn’t watch TV before doing their homework, but they just got up and turned it on manually.

“I need to know her secret. I’m out of ideas.”

And some, like devoted follower Maggie Yates of Utah, want something more.

“I just want,” exclaimed Yates, “to touch (Helena). Just for a second. If I can touch her, maybe I will absorb some of the magic she possesses. And maybe if my son, Damien, can touch Timmy, maybe he’ll stop crawling on the floor and looking up people’s dresses.”

Helena and Timmy both seem surprised by all the attention.

“I really don’t get why this is such a big deal,” noted Helena. “Timmy behaves because he knows what will happen if he doesn’t. (My husband) and I set firm ground rules, make sure Timmy knows what is expected of him and what will not be tolerated, and we punish him when he misbehaves. We’re consistent, loving and firm.”

Added Timmy, while smiling: “One time I didn’t listen to mommy at church and she spanked me and didn’t let me watch cartoons. I listen to mommy now. Do you like SpongeBob SquarePants? I do. Guess how old I am. This many.”

In an ironic twist, the previously-adoring crowd turned into an angry mob upon hearing the “spanking” revelation. Boos and shouts of “she beats that poor boy” and “she should be locked up” began to be heard from the crowd of thousands.

The crowd then cheered when one of their own, who just happened to be a child services employee, had Helena arrested and proclaimed, “Timmy will be better off in foster care.”

“I’ll take him,” shouted Maggie Yates.

“I could use a second set of eyes to help me watch Damien. Where did he go anyway? Damien? Damien?”

Oh, and he’d also be portrayed as an oddball due to the fact he’s politically and morally conservative.

Just imagine all the jokes at my character’s expense. My co-stars would have a joke or two every episode about my refusal to sleep with my girlfriend before marriage. Or the way she and I lived in separate apartments, even though frugal me could save all sorts of rent money by asking her to move in with me. Or the way I — gasp — didn’t vote for Obama.

A character like mine would always be portrayed as abnormal. In fact, a character like mine would be so abnormal in Hollywood there is no way he’d be a regular cast member. No, he’d be a recurring character for a few episodes. A character who would date the female lead…until she found out how “crazy” he was.

So, this is my question: Does the entertainment industry (Hollywood, the media, etc.) simply portray society as it is, or how it thinks it should be?

Sadly, I think this is becoming a “chicken or the egg” issue. The society that is being portrayed in the entertainment industry is becoming more and more real. This is due, in large part, to how the entertainment industry portrays it.

Why? How? 1) Because the entertainment industry is overtly liberal, and 2) because people are sheep.

Most people don’t think for themselves. They go with the crowd. Just look at fashion through the years. The only reason bell bottoms in the 70s, big hair in the 80s and “grunge” in the 90s were wildly popular is because they were first mildly popular. If I told you that in three years people everywhere would be wearing snakeskin cowboy boots with swim trucks and turtleneck sweaters, you’d say I was crazy. But you would have said the same thing twenty years ago if I had predicted everyone would be dressing like lumberjacks come 1992. All I need are a few popular rock bands to wear my snakeskin/swimsuit/sweater ensemble idea and the sheep will come out in droves.

(Where was I going with this…? Oh yes, people go with the crowds.)

In short, most people like to fit in. They like to do what is normal. And if children aren’t taught what is “normal” by their parents, they are taught by their peers and by the entertainment industry. And those peers, too, in most cases, are taught by the entertainment industry.

So where does that leave us?

It leaves us in a world where people are taught what is normal by what they see on television, in movies, and in magazines.

And what’s “normal” in such a world?

“Normal” is the producers of seemingly harmless shows like HGTV’s House Hunters choosing to follow the house-hunting adventures of unmarried or gay couples just as often, if not more often, than happily married couples.

“Normal” is the hilarious (and personal favorite) television comedy The Office having the cute, young couple Pam and Jim living together before they are married. And getting pregnant before they are married. And, at their wedding, having everyone trying to avoid letting Pam’s “old school”, “conservative” grandmother find out about such things because she just wouldn’t understand. And how the only character on the show who thinks the “living together” thing and the “having a kid” thing before marriage is wrong is Angela; who just happens to be humorless, mean spirited and — oh yes — a hypocrite since she had an affair with Dwight while engaged to marry Andy.

“Normal” is boys and girls growing up to believe that meeting, dating, getting married, THEN living together and having children (in that order) is something that went the way of the dodo.

Political leanings aside, look at me on paper. I’ve never been married. I have no kids. I have a good job. I’m educated. I have no criminal history. I’m awesome. And I’m not going to put the moves on a girl before I’ve put a ring on her finger. A majority of moms and dads out there would kill to have their daughter bring home a guy like me. It’s a dad’s dream for his little girl, right?

But we live in a world where a majority of young women dismiss guys like me because we are too old fashioned and, yes, abnormal.

Does that sound right to you? It doesn’t sound right to me.

Of course, what do I know?

I’m an oddball.

“Every day I have to deal with pundits who disagree with me and my policies based solely on the color of my skin,” remarked Obama.

“I commend the Nobel Prize committee for being color blind. I commend them for bestowing this honor upon me even though they knew critics would ridicule them for it. The critics who would say, ‘hey, he’s only been in office nine months.’ Or ‘he hasn’t even done anything yet.’ Or ‘this is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.’

“I commend them and thank them. They recognized I truly deserved this, and didn’t let my ethnicity prevent them from giving me what is rightfully mine.”

The award has come after a series of racist slights the president has had to endure the past few months.

One week ago today, Obama learned the International Olympic Committee (IOC) was racist after it awarded Rio de Janeiro the 2016 Summer Olympics over Chicago, Obama’s home city.

“I couldn’t believe how blatently racist the IOC was being,” sighed Obama.

Last month, Obama had to endure Republican congressman Joe Wilson of South Carolina shouting “you lie” during his speech on health care.

“Only a racist piece of scum would call me out like that when I’m lying,” noted Obama. “A non-racist would have let it go and let me have my way.”

Ever since July 14, when Democratic leaders in the Senate introduced the president’s 1,017 page plan for overhauling the country’s health care system, Obama has had to endure constant racism from both politicians and citizens who disapprove of the plan.

And in April, Obama was denied an honorary degree from Arizona State University because, according to the university, he was too inexperienced for such an honor.

“I have been called ‘inexperienced’ all my life,” admitted Obama. “You know what ‘inexperienced’ really means, right? It means ‘we are racists and we don’t like you.’”

The gold medal, diploma and $1.4 million Obama will receive for winning the Nobel Peace Prize helps lessen the sting of such recent events, but they don’t make up for a lifetime lived amidst racism and hatred.

“I have been on this planet for 48 years,” explained Obama. “I have had to endure my fair share of slights.

“As a freshman in high school, I had to endure a racist varsity basketball coach who didn’t put me on the team or make me the star player and captain even though my mom said I was better than anyone else on the team. In 2004, I had to run against Alan Keyes for the Illinois Senate. Keyes wasn’t even originally from Illinois — he just ran against me because he’s racist.

“And I’ll never forget the racism I felt on November 4, 2008. Instead of receiving 100% of the popular vote and all 538 electoral votes in the presidential election, I received only 52.9% and 365. I couldn’t believe how many racists there were in this country.”

Through it all, the president has remained tolerant — a character trait he wishes his critics possessed.

“I can handle people disagreeing with me,” noted Obama. “I just can’t handle racists, which is what these people who have the audacity to disagree with me clearly are.”

“Wouldn’t it be great,” Biden said to no one in particular, “if this was all just some sort of bad dream? Somebody slap me so I can wake up.”

These are surprising remarks for a sitting Vice President to make at the expense of his own Commander in Chief. However, those close to Biden aren’t surprised.

“Oh my, no, Joe’s hated the man’s guts from the very beginning,” admitted Biden’s wife, Jill.

“When he was running against Obama for the Democratic nomination, every day Joe would go on and on about how ‘that Barack guy’ was wet behind the ears and didn’t know his (rear end) from a hole in the ground.

“When Joe later agreed to be his running mate, I couldn’t believe it. I told him, ‘Joe…I thought you said Obama was unqualified? That he had JUST started his first term in the Senate and didn’t have nearly enough experience? That it would be a cold day in Hell before Americans would vote someone named Hussein into the White House?’ What happened to all of that, Joe?”

Jill Biden then described how “dead” her husband’s eyes looked, so she decided to drop the subject and make him some tea.

Though he would have a few mishaps on the campaign trail (the most notable being his speech at a Democratic fundraiser in Seattle where he promised America would be attacked if Obama was elected), Biden seemed to have put his feelings behind him as he and Obama rode a wave of optimism and lunacy into the White House.

However, as the months have dragged on it’s become apparent Biden has fallen deeper and deeper into a pit of despair.

“It’s caused him to act out,” sighed Jill Biden.

In August, several White House staff members claim to have seen Biden steal a chew toy from Obama’s family dog and replace it with a stick of dynamite. Biden allegedly had to be escorted from the area when he asked bystanders for a lighter or match.

During a recent cabinet meeting, an unshaven Biden was heard shouting, “Oh whatever, you stupid idiot,” as Obama outlined his latest strategy for Afghanistan.

Later, Biden allegedly rose to his feet and started clapping his hands very slowly after the president finished speaking. Apparently unaware the vice president was being sarcastic, Obama is said to have thanked Biden and given him a thumb’s up gesture.

During the past several days, Biden has shown up to the White House wearing a “Chicago 2016″ shirt — apparently in an effort to mock the president’s failed attempts at securing the 2016 Olympic games for his hometown of Chicago.

“One day earlier this week, (Biden) spent the entire day running around the White House shouting ‘Rio’ into a bullhorn,” said Claire Thomas, Biden’s secretary.

However, such antics aside, Biden spends most of his time moping around the White House while mumbling to himself.

“It’s clearly gotten the best of him,” admitted Jill Biden, speaking of her husband’s depression.

“He feels responsible. He thinks this whole ‘Obama in the White House’ thing is his fault. I tried cheering him up the other day by reminding him he only had three more years left of this, but he just started sobbing uncontrollably.”

When asked for comment, Biden told reporters he couldn’t talk because he had to “go put this screwdriver in an electric socket.”

Blitzer wants to date President Obama.

“My mom was the only person who knew,” admitted Blitzer. “She and I tell each other everything. We’re really close.”

Though they had suspected the unholy man crush for some time, it wasn’t until Blitzer jumped to Obama’s defense after Saturday Night Live portrayed him as a lazy, do-nothing president did his friends and colleagues decide to press Blitzer for the truth.

“SNL had been making fun of Bush and Palin and McCain for ages, but you never heard a peep from Wolf,” noted CNN’s Larry King. “Then they poke fun at Obama, and he erupts in anger. It was so totally obvious.”

After a few ideas had been thrown back and forth, one of them involving stealing his diary out of his locker, Blitzer’s friends settled on a plan for getting him to reveal his feelings.

“A game of Truth or Dare at our weekly slumber party seemed like a fool-proof way to get the secret out of him,” said Lou Dobbs of CNN’s Lou Dobbs Tonight.

“And to make sure he’d choose ‘truth’ when it was his turn, we dared Larry King to take off his adult diaper,” added Cooper.

“In hindsight, it was a poor decision on my part. Larry ruined a $5,000 rug I’d just bought. Still, the plan worked. Blitzer chose ‘truth’ when it was his turn without hesitation.”

With his secret out in the open, Blitzer initially blushed with embarrassment. However, after a few moments his insecurities vanished and he delighted in the knowledge he no longer had to hide his feelings.

“I touched his hand once,” squeeled Blitzer as Anderson and Dobbs giggled hysterically.

“It is with great pride that I announce my hometown, the greatest city on earth, Chicago, will have the eyes of the world watching it in 2016,” beamed Obama to a group of confused reporters, who nonetheless swooned with adoration.

A competitive eating event known as the official “World Hamburger Eating Championship”, the annual Krystal Square Off has, since its inception in 2004, taken place every Fall in Chattanooga, Tennessee, where the Krystal restaurant chain was founded in 1932.

James Exum, Krystal’s CEO, had never considered moving the event from Chattanooga until he received a phone call from an unexpected source on the afternoon of October 2, 2009.

“My secretary knocked on my door and told me ‘the president’ was holding for me on line two,” explained Exum.

“I laughed and told her I’d get to him as soon as I got off the phone with Bugs Bunny. She looked at me with a very serious expression and assured me she wasn’t joking; that President Obama was indeed on the phone waiting to speak with me.”

Once on the phone with Obama, Exum learned that the president wanted the Krystal Square Off to be moved from Chattanooga to Chicago in 2016. In 2017, the event could move back to Chattanooga.

When he asked Obama why he wanted the event’s venue moved for 2016 and only 2016, Exum said the president “got quiet for a few moments and then answered, ‘oh, no real reason.’”

“He made it worth my while, though,” added Exum. “He gave (Krystal) a $25 billion government loan and said we could pay it back ‘whenever’ and that no stringers were attached.

“I didn’t vote for the man, but I wanted to reach through the phone and hug him right then and there.”

Citizens of Chicago initially expressed confusion over the announcement in part due to the fact not a single Krystal restaurant exists in the entire state of Illinois, much less the city of Chicago.

“What exactly is ‘Krystal’, asked Chicago’s mayor, Richard Daley.

“It looks just like a White Castle hamburger. Is it White Castle? I’m confused.”

The mayor then scolded himself for doubting Obama’s vision and announced the city would throw a parade in the president’s honor as a “thank you” for his hard work and dedication.

“Change,” shouted Daley, as he took a big sip of kool-aid.

NANTUCKET ISLAND, MA - On the heels of news that cheerleaders at a Georgia high school had to be banned from displaying signs with Bible verses comes a similar, but even more disturbing incident.

On Tuesday, a high school student interrupted a school-sanctioned ritual sacrifice and Satanic orgy by holding up a “John 3:16″ sign.

“‘Outraged’ is the word that best describes how I feel,” said headmaster Tom Booth of Ted Kennedy High School, home of the Fightin’ Golden Calves.

“That girl was just supposed to stand there and chant with the other girls until it was time to strip naked, pour pig’s blood on the corpse of the virgin sacrifice, and join the debauchery.

“But instead she goes and does something offensive!”

As the girl, whose name is being withheld to protect her identity, held up the horrific sign, a hush fell upon the previously boisterous crowd.

“This can’t be happening,” responded eye witness Keith Avery when asked what he thought when the “John 3:16″ sign made its appearance. “You read about this kind of stuff in history books and see it in old movies and documentaries, but you convince yourself that it isn’t real. Things like this just don’t happen any more, right? I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Student Claire Jackson agreed.

“I felt like I was going to vomit,” said Jackson, who was in charge of disemboweling the virgin sacrifice and setting her organs on fire.

“I haven’t felt this nauseous since the time I saw that basketball coach lead his team in prayer before a game.”

As news of the incident spread, celebrities and politicians united to denounce the student’s heinous act.

President Obama, while speaking to international reporters, tried to assure neighboring nations that he was “shocked” by the incident and insisted his administration was “still tolerant of all belief systems that do not involve Christianity in any way, shape or form.”

Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton demanded an apology for the sign’s use of white-colored lettering over other coloring options.

Actor Sean Penn, speaking to reporters, said something inaudible due to other celebrities, standing around him, loudly applauding every time he opened his mouth. However, the condescending, pompous look on Penn’s face as he spoke made it clear he was appalled by what took place.

And “comedian” Whoopi Goldberg, speaking on her television show The View, said an appropriate punishment for the student would be having movie director Roman Polanski “rape, but not rape-rape” the girl while Goldberg videotaped the event.

“I still can’t believe it,” said Susan Marshall, the mother of the virgin sacrifice.

“What kind of world do we live in where you can’t even watch your daughter being ritually sacrificed amidst a Satanic orgy without some insensitive, oppressive Christian pushing her beliefs on you?

“I’m glad my daughter wasn’t alive to see what happened.”

To date, eighty-seven schools, a majority located in either California or the northeastern region of the United States, have implemented the “no sex in front of your roommate” policy.

“It’s about showing respect,” said Damien Thorn, spokesman for Tufts University as well as Lucifer, the evil master of Hell and tempter of mankind.

“If you want to have illicit sex, fine. If you want to shake your fist at God as you have sex out of wedlock with a stranger you only met ten minutes earlier in the parking lot, that’s your prerogative. And if you want to do all that while praising the evil master, wonderful.

“But for crying out loud, don’t do it in front of your roommate.”

In addition to the no-sex policy, schools have begun implementing additional “not in front of your roommate” policies.

New York University and Boston University, among others, have implemented a “do not convert your dorm into a methamphetamine lab in front of your roommate” policy. The universities of Ohio and Washington have implemented a “do not worship pagan gods in front of your roommate” policy. The University of Alabama has implemented a “do not steal from your roommate in front of your roommate” policy. And the University of Southern California has recently implemented a “do not murder anyone in front of your roommate” policy — a policy that has drawn the ire of USC alumnus, OJ Simpson.

“Look, we’re not trying to tell students how to live their lives,” explains Thorn.

“We have no desire to teach them morality. We don’t want to be their moral compass. Far, far from it. If anything, Tufts University, as well as most universities all over this country, if I’m being perfectly honest, wants to take that moral compass, spit on it and throw it into my master’s lake of fire.”

In keeping with that theme, Tufts University has just announced that an addendum has been added to its “don’t have sex in front of roommate” policy. The addendum:

When we say “don’t”, we really mean “do.”

“Your children are all going to Hell in hand baskets anyway,” added Thorn.

“Might as well send them to Tufts University. Our hand baskets are cushioned and smell like lemons.”

Don’t worry. I promise to give the question back to Abby when I’m finished. I’m honest like that.

DEAR ABBY KEV:

My husband and I have been happily married for 16 years. We have one son, age 12. While writing our wills, my husband told me that his wish is to be cremated and his ashes scattered in the ocean off the beach near where he grew up.

I’d like us to be together after we have both passed on, but his beach holds no fond memories for me. I would much prefer to be buried in our local cemetery with a headstone so our son can come to “visit” both of us. I don’t want to spend eternity in a cemetery plot without my husband. Any suggestions?

- PLANNING AHEAD IN MASSACHUSETTS

Dear PAIM,

First off, do you realize that if you lived in Nevada I could refer to you as “PAIN”? That strikes me as funny. Now that I’ve earned your respect by showing you how professional I am, let me dive right in to your dilemma.

Let me get this straight. Your husband wants his ashes scattered off a beach? A BEACH?? Where woman wear bikinis and play volleyball in said bikinis?

It pains me to have to tell you this, PAIM, but it’s quite clear your husband wants to sow his wild oats after he dies. And as quaint as your local cemetery sounds, it doesn’t really sound like the kind of place a swinging bachelor wants to spend eternity.

That’s right, I said a swinging bachelor. You see, there was a key phrase in your and your husband’s marriage vows 16 years ago. Remember them? “Till death do us part.” It appears your husband took that phrase quite literally. When he says he wants to be cremated and scattered off a beach, what he’s trying to say is, “Well, I had a blast, but now that I’m dead I want to go check out some girls playing volleyball in bikinis.”

I’m sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news.

Still, cheer up, PAIM. All is not lost.

For one thing, if you and your husband are part of God’s Chosen, you’ll be spending eternity together in Heaven. Who cares where your earthly bodies are if your spirits get to walk together holding hands on streets paved of gold? Am I right?

For another thing, your husband can want to be cremated all he wants, but if he dies first…

That’s right. If your husband dies before you do, you can do whatever you like with his body. Will? Psssh. What will? Your husband can put pen to paper all he wants about being cremated and distributed on the beach so he can ogle girls in bikinis. But if you choose not to follow those plans, what’s he going to do?

Haunt you from the afterlife?

Write “I TOLD YOU TO CREMATE ME” on your fogged bathroom mirror as you shower?

The man won’t be able to do a thing.

Since wives typically outlive their husbands, I think you are safe. Your husband will die before you, and then you can place his body in your local cemetery.

However, if down the road you get the sense your husband might outlive you, well…

You know what you have to do.

Best Wishes,

Kev

What sort of advice would YOU give PAIM? How would you rate the advice I gave her? It was gold, right?

As always, please feel free to leave a comment or two or ten.

Is the man in your life a bit too smug about his looks? Would you like to take him down a peg or two?

Did he forget to put the cap back on the toothpaste or do something else as equally annoying? Are you hoping to teach him a lesson?

Are you an evil succubus who likes to bring about pain and torture?

If any of the above describes you or your situation, have I got the perfect gift for you…

Neutrogena for Men Skin Clearing Shave Cream!

What is it, you ask?

In short, it is pure concentrated evil. It will destroy your man’s face.

Destroy it.

Annihilate it.

Make it cry for its mommy.

It will make the skin on your man’s face literally scream out in pain. Neighbors will be able to hear it. They’ll say, “Either Tom and Amy are skinning a goat inside their home, or Amy bought Tom some of that Neutrogena shave cream.”

And then the two neighbors will laugh before the husband catches his reflection in a mirror and sees the damage left behind after his wife had given him Neutrogena for Men Skin Clearing Shave Cream several years earlier. His wife will see a tear slowly start to roll down his cheek and she’ll say, “That’s what you get for forgetting to bring home milk from the grocery store.”

You’re probably asking yourself:

“How on earth can I get my husband/boyfriend to use this stuff if it’s so evil?”

Well, that’s the beauty of it. It looks perfectly normal and innocent. Plus, apparently evil corporations such as Neutrogena have wonderfully evil advertising executives working for them.

The packaging for this product boasts that it “fights razor bumps and minimizes ingrown hairs.” Neutrogena’s website says the shave cream’s formula of “glycerin and moisturizers form a protective barrier between your face and razor to minimize irritation and provide a great shave.”

But I assure you that these are lies.

Dirty, dirty lies.

If it does prevent ingrown hairs, it’s only because the hairs — as well as several layers of skin — are hacked away in a bloody mess by the razor. And I don’t know what glycerin really does, but based on using this product I can assure you it doesn’t provide a protective barrier between your face and your razor. On the countrary, I believe glycerin very well may enhance the razor’s sharpness and turn it into medieval torture device.

“I’m sold! Where can I find this horrible, horrible product?”

Everywhere! Neutrogena for Men Skin Clearing Shave Cream is sold at Wal-Mart, Target, Walgreens, and pretty much any other place that offers more than a few brands of shaving products for sell. You’d think finding such an evil product would be difficult, but I assure you it’s not.

Well, what are you waiting for? Go get it!

And if you REALLY want to teach him a lesson, hide his after-shave balm and replace it with a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

Supposedly, women find a man who cries endearing. So, in a way, this gift will make your man more attractive. And honestly, what better gift can you give a guy than that?

You’re welcome, fellas.

I’m thinking a headline along the lines of “Awesome Man Dies While Saving Thousands” or “Nation Weeps After Death of Awesome Man” or “Jennifer Connelly Mourns the Death of New, Awesome Husband.”

Anyway, I’m still here. I just haven’t had much to blog about lately.

Well, I mean I DO have lots to blog about. I just don’t have anything HUMOROUS to blog about. And this IS a humor site, right? Right? No, seriously, I’m asking. It’s been so long since I blogged that I don’t remember.

To those genuinely interested and not just here to be entertained, I’m doing well. Work is good. Family is good. I’m making great progress on those “goals” I kept blogging about last month. I’m not certain anything will come of them once I reach them, but that’s okay. I’m bettering myself and enjoying the journey immensely. When I get to the other side, I’ll be a better man and ready to take the world by storm.

I’ve been lax the last few days, but I AM supplying tiny nuggets of comedic genius on my Twitter page several times a day. Have you signed up and followed me yet? No? Well, that’s just silliness on your part. Just look at some of the gems you’ve missed the last few weeks:

Is Pauly Shore on Twitter? In case I’m ever on trial, I’d like to get my insanity defense ready. Following him should do the trick.

I just squished a spider crawling on my wall. At least now no one can say I have no artwork in my office.

Yahoo headline: “Kevin Federline’s weight gain shocks fans.” You know what I find shocking? That Kevin Federline has any fans.

I think Dane Cook or Ashton Kutcher should play the Joker in the next Batman movie. Why? Oh, I have my reasons. (insert evil laugh)

I’ve studied the film & I believe the reason Elmer Fudd couldn’t kill Bugs Bunny is due to a traumatic childhood experience involving Peeps.

I’m now up to 44 (Twitter) followers! I’m so pleased. This must be how Ferdinand Magellan felt after he did whatever it was he did.

It’s rained on and off all day. Methinks someone in Heaven is trying to figure out a mystery light switch in a golden hallway.

What did people do before bottled water? Our water cooler is empty and people are starting to panic and cry. Can you drink tears?

I have mushrooms growing in my yard. It must be my lucky day. I was going to buy mushrooms at the grocery store later.

I loathe meetings, but I love napping. I’m so conflicted.

Ugh. I have a meeting at ten o’clock. I hope Bill Clinton comes in and rescues me.

“I don’t wanna work. I wanna bang on the drum all day.” I don’t get this song. Who would want to bang on a drum all day? It’s stupid.

First Transformers, now G.I. Joe. I hope a female Hollywood producer doesn’t get the bright idea to bring back Rainbow Brite.

Wal-Mart and Miley Cyrus have joined forces? I’m no historian, but isn’t this how World War Two began?

Calvin Klein should create a “New Car Smell” fragrance for vehicles. Febreze Air Freshener is okay, but it just isn’t classy enough.

Gold, right? Yes, yes I know.

Okay, that’s all I have for now. Comments are still encouraged, by the way. After all, “A comment a day keeps the Grim Reaper away.” So, best to leave me lots of comments, people. You wouldn’t want my death to be on your hands, right?

Right?

It probably would have made more sense for me to join the Twitter bandwagon and advertise it here on SKOS back when the site was popular and I had more than three regular readers.

But what can I say — I’m unconventional. I cut my hair short in the winter, I’ve never before eaten a PB&J sandwich, and I waited ten years to watch Titanic just so I could steer clear of the masses.

(I totally predicted how the movie was going to end, by the way. Unsinkable ship my hiney!)

Still, poor timing aside, I’ve decided to give this Twitter thing a go. That is why I have decided to dedicate an entire blog post to advertising my Twitter account and — hopefully — convincing my insanely tiny audience to follow me.

What’s in it for you, you ask? Why, by following me on Twitter you will get a steady supply of thought-provoking gems of insight. Just take a look at some of things I’ve Tweeted lately:

I’m beginning to think this swine flu thing is an advertising gimic from the pork people. I’ve got to give them credit — it’s a bold move.

For the first time in ages today, I ordered a steak to eat. I feel manly. Tomorrow I’ll buy Stetson cologne and poke a bear with a stick.

My pool’s almost ready. I’m gonna get in Michael Phelps shape. Or at least Michael Keaton, circa Batman.

Vegan advocates want warning labels on hot dogs. My suggestion? “Warning: These are delicious. You will want seconds.”

Why do some people brag about being “color blind?” Being unable to tell if you’re eating Fruit Loops or Cheerios is nothing to brag about!

Either Michael Jackson’s corpse has risen from the dead, or we’ve hired a new 50ish female at my work. Michael? Is that you?

Okay, the new co-worker is NOT Michael Jackson’s reanimated corpse. Showed her a Macaulay Culkin photo and got no reaction. Only screams.

If I was dyslexic, I’d have 82 followers on Twitter. And if I was blind, I could pretend the number was even larger.

The TV show “Perfect Strangers” should never have been canceled. There. I said it.

Seat belts are so antiquated. I cover myself in iPods when I drive.

Water would taste so much better if it didn’t taste like water.

(Things That Are Annoying) Any “Family Matters” episode where Urkel would turn into Stefan Urquelle. Also, any other “Family Matters” episode.

A bat almost flew into my head while I was swimming. Close call. That’s what killed Val Kilmer, if memory serves.

Ashton Kutcher has almost 3 million (Twitter) followers. In related news, rivers are flowing with blood and frogs are falling from the sky.

I’d bathe in coffee if it was socially acceptable. And if I was insane.

If George Washington was on Twitter, I do believe he would follow me.

Half my department is out of the office today. You know what that means. Time to blast the Kenny G music.

I’ve picked up FIVE whole new followers this week. Clearly, my witty and sage insight on life has hit home with the masses.

Aren’t these absolutely wonderful?

Don’t you wish you had gotten to experience them when they were fresh and their relevancy hadn’t been eroded by the evil witch known as Time?

Unfortunately, you cannot go back in time and experience these above Tweets in their glory days. However, you CAN ensure the sorrow and despair you’re feeling right now is never repeated.

How?

By following me.

Come on, you know you want to. Don’t let the ridiculously low number of followers I currently have on Twitter deter you. Think of this as a hot stock tip on a small company that hasn’t yet hit it big. Yeah, that’s it. I’m like Apple or Microsoft way back in the day.

And I’m almost as funny.

Has my writing become subpar? Did the fact I went through a stretch where I wasn’t updating my blog consistently cause my readers to look elsewhere for the funny? Did I have a lot more Michael Jackson fans in the audience than I realized?

Since I cannot pinpoint the reason, I’ll take a cue from good ol’ Barack’s playbook and distract people from the current, sorry state that is the Land of SKOS (aka this blog).

No, I won’t be wearing “mom jeans” while throwing out the first pitch to the all-star game. But I will do something almost as distracting and disturbing.

I’m going to start walking like a pimp again.

Yes, there was an “again” at the end of that sentence.

Come with me, if you will, back to the year 2003. It was my first year after college (for my undergrad degree, anyway) and my first year as a teacher. I found out a lot of things about myself that year. For example, I discovered speaking in public wasn’t as terrifying as I’d always imagined it would be. I was pretty good at it, in fact. I discovered that my knack for remembering seemingly mundane details and facts could come in handy for something other than trivia games.

And I discovered I walked like a pimp.

This interesting tidbit was pointed out to me by one of my freshmen students.

“Mr. (Last name omitted to protect the innocent — aka me), you walk like a pimp,” a student excitedly told me one day after class.

After giving him detention, changing his grade in my class to a “F” and telling him his head was too big for his body (that’s what we teachers do, you see… we’re evil), I asked him to elaborate.

“You walk around with a strut like you’re the baddest man on the planet.”

Resisting the urge to assign him a 70-page paper while throwing spitballs at him, I thanked the student for his helpful insight and sent him on his way.

Now, I am 99% certain the “strut” this student saw was due to my having a sore knee. The sore knee, my compensating for the sore knee, and the fact I walked around with a diamond-tipped, mahogany cane while wearing a feather boa all likely contributed to this “pimp” persona imagined by the student.

Still, the fact remains I used to give the illusion of confidence when I walked.

I realize I’m pretty random, but believe it or not there is an inspiration behind this particularly silly blog post. In my last post, a regular reader with the most awesome name of “Kevin” left me the following comment:

“Make sure you develop a walk to fit your new posture. You could develop a John Wayne swagger, but that would require spurs on all your shoes. A better alternative is a fast, confident, power stride. The faster you walk, the more confidence you have. This is why I sprint everywhere I go.”

With Kevin’s suggestion in mind, I remembered my pimp-walking days.

Time to test out my new walk and strut around the office building.

“Don’t be silly. I don’t speak in a British accent. However, if the time comes where they re-imagine the character of James Bond to one with a southern accent, I would consider it. This is contingent, of course, on the money being right and the movie’s script being acceptable. I don’t want to be in some mindless action flick. I want to really get down into what makes Bond tick.”

Wait, where was I going with this? Oh yes.

Goals.

This next goal I will discuss may or may not substantiate the silly “Kev wants to be Bond” rumor that, for the purpose of this blog post, I will pretend is real and actually being pondered by people in this world.

My latest goal? I’m working on my posture.

That clicking sound I am pretending not to hear far off into the distance is all of you leaving this site to go to something, anything else. I am aware “posture” isn’t exactly a funny or sexy topic. But to that I ask, “why?” Why can’t “posture” be funny and sexy? I think it can. In fact, I know it can and I’m going to prove it. Ready? No, seriously, are you ready?

(Begin the funny, sexy posture blog.)

Gwyneth Paltrow slouches. Paris Hilton slouches. That annoying kid I went to school with in junior high slouches. What do all these people have in common? (Yes, I mean besides the fact they all slouch.) That’s right. They are all as annoying as heck and the world would be a far better place without them.

The moral? No one likes a person who slouches.

Now, I must admit I have, to date, been very hit or miss with proper posture during my lifetime. When I was twelve years old, I was already 5′8 with a size 12 shoe. The fact I towered over everyone around me caused me to develop an awful slouching habit. Thankfully, since I had mostly stopped growing by that point, my perceived need to slouch disappeared through the years as friends caught up to me (and in some cases surpassed me) in height.

(Of course, my feet refuse to listen to reason. After settling comfortably into “size 13″ for a decade plus, my feet have gotten the bright idea to grow some more. I tried on my brown leather Ralph Lauren loafers — one of the few items I own that was going to survive this fashion makeover of mine — and they don’t fit me anymore! I need a shoehorn just to get into the things. Stupid feet. Stupid, stupid feet. What’s that? I’m rambling? And rambling isn’t funny or sexy? Sorry.)

Still, even though I’ve mostly gotten over it, I’m not immune to slouching. I’ll occasionally catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and notice I’m not standing up straight. And I know when I’m sitting down at a table or desk I almost always lean forward instead of sitting back in my chair.

Why does this even matter?

It’s all about confidence. A person with poor posture doesn’t exude confidence. No one notices the guy with poor posture. The only time anyone does notice a guy with poor posture is when they say things like, “You see that handsome, tall guy standing next to that lonely-looking guy who is slouching?”

When I’m at my best, I exhibit the qualities of an individual who is comfortable in his skin. An individual who acts like he knows something you do not. An individual you better befriend because one day he might take over the world and you’ll want to be on his good side.

Unfortunately, as time has gone by those moments have become few and far between.

It’s time to remedy that.

What good is it to do all the work of getting into shape and buying a new, fashionably-savvy wardrobe if I don’t look comfortable or confident? People will think I’m a body that’s been taken over by an alien. And then I’d have to walk around saying “I’m not an alien” to everyone I see, which would only strengthen the “he’s an alien” theory. And then the government would capture me and run experiements on me, and you just know they won’t bother to feed me healthy foods or give me at least one hour a day to exercise. Stupid, inconsiderate government. And then all that hard work to get into shape will be for naught and I’ll have to start all over. And that’s assuming the government eventually releases me, of course.

So, to ensure the government never believes I’m an alien, I’m working on my posture.

I’m making sure I stand up straight when I walk. When I sit at my desk at work or when I’m in my car driving, I make sure to sit with my back and shoulders to the seat. I’m doing back, stomach and shoulder exercises — which helps with the posture and get-into-shape goals.

True, this isn’t a tangible goal with a finish line. But it does go hand in hand with my other stated goals. Plus, given the fact none of the girls in our class liked that annoying guy who slouched in junior high, I’m pretty sure having good posture significantly increases the odds of getting a date.

And if that doesn’t work, I’m willing to learn a British accent.

Okay, I’ll give you one example.

The world-renowned piece I wrote last October, Halloween Skankitis, was inspired by a co-worker. She is my age and has the exact same job I do. She works in one department (at a location ten minutes away) while I work in another, but we have the same boss and work for the same team. Got all that? Okay, good.

Well, last Halloween this co-worker showed up to work dressed as either a “naughty police officer” or a “stripper dressed like a police officer.” I’m not sure there is a difference in these two costumes. I would have asked, but that would have required me talking to her.

I’m a laid-back guy, but no way was I going to be able to walk up to someone wearing a very low-cut top, a very short black skirt, and a police badge held onto the top of her thigh by a garter belt and NOT asked bluntly: “What in the name of all that is good and holy are you wearing??”

I would describe her outfit as classy, if today was opposite day.

Call me crazy, but when you work with people primarily in the 50s and 60s and their idea of “dressing up for Halloween” is coming to work looking like a M&M candy, it is more than a little inappropriate to come to work looking as though you just finished your shift at the local strip club.

I know. I’m crazy.

But anyway, that is what inspired Halloween Skankitis.

Amazingly, this co-worker just left our company for another. Somehow, inexplicably, she’s gotten a job in senior management.

My reaction to the news was obvious: “You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me.”

So as to not cause you to believe I consider this former co-worker of mine unfit for her new position based solely on her Halloween exploits, allow me to provide you with some additional information.

She was incompetent.

Two years ago, I shared an office with her for an entire month. Needless to say, you learn a lot about someone by sharing an office with them for a month. And what did I learn? Why, I’m glad you asked. I learned that she spends one third of her day on the phone making personal calls, another third of her day taking smoke and coffee breaks, and the last third of her day talking to co-workers who drop by her office for a visit.

“Wait, when does she get any work done,” you ask?

Good question. The answer is, “beats me.” After that month, it became perfectly clear to me why the project she was working on was so far behind schedule.

Oh, but that’s not to say we didn’t bond. If there wasn’t a coffee/smoke break to be taken, a personal phone call to be made or a co-worker dropping by for a visit, she’d talk to me. Oh, and what precious moments we shared.

For example, there’s the time she vented how she hoped the new person our boss was going to hire wasn’t too qualified because, and I quote, “no way am I working with someone who makes more money than me.”

Or the time she talked about the guy she used to date and the guy she was currently seeing. And all of the insanely inappropriate bits of information, information that caused my ears to bleed, that were shared regarding each individual.

Ah, good times.

But anyway, yes, this person now has a job that would essentially make her my boss’s boss.

Bitter? Jealous? Nah. Why should I be bitter and jealous? She played the game and won. I watched her play the game, wrote silly blog posts critiquing her, and then sat by stupefied as she moved on to bigger and better things.

It’s a lesson to be learned. That’s what it is.

If I want to move up the corporate ladder, it’s clear what I have to do: I have to mimic everything she did.

I don’t want to give away what I’ll be wearing this Halloween, but let’s just say leather chaps will be involved.

This is probably due to the fact the only thing on my mind lately are these recent goals I’ve set for myself.

It’s a tricky situation considering this is predominately a HUMOR site. If I spent the next 3-to-6 months talking about getting into great shape, improving my sense of fashion, getting a chance to remedy a first impression, and other (as of of yet) unnamed goals, all my male readers would leave. The only readers I’d have left would be women.

Actually, come to think of it, that really wouldn’t be any different than my CURRENT readership.

Hmmm.

Anyway, I’ll do my best to balance the deep and the funny. For example:

I swam laps for 90 minutes in my pool last night. It hasn’t yet been two weeks, but I can already tell I’m making improvements. I feel good. I can do this.

Plus, I’m pretty sure I’ve lost weight in my feet. My socks feel a little loose. Assuming feet are the first things girls notice about a guy, they’ll be beating down my door in no time.

See? It’s informative AND you’re left with thoughts of “this guy is nuts.”

It’s the perfect balance.

In other, related, news: my mom almost made me drown in the pool.

We were both swimming. As I tend to do lately (see above), I discussed these goals of mine. Specifically, I discussed my theory on why I am so focused when I’ve set a goal for myself, and why I tend to lose focus once I’ve met it.

“It’s like that Miley Cyrus song,” my mom casually states.

“It’s like the who what huh now,” I eloquently respond.

“That Miley Cyrus song. ‘The Climb.’ Have you ever heard it?”

“Um, sadly, yes I have,” I admit.

“You’re just like that song. You’re all about the journey, the climb.”

Apparently, not only do they play Miley Cyrus songs on country stations even though she isn’t country, they also play her songs on the oldies stations my mom listens to. If they start playing her songs on my ESPN Sports Radio station, someone is getting an angry letter written by yours truly.

I’d end with a sarcastic quip, but quite honestly I’m a tad embarrassed the lyrics to a Miley Cyrus song describe me so well.

Granted, the book would only be only one page long. And the font size would be really, really big. Oh, and half of the book would be an introduction written by someone else — I’m thinking Ralph Lauren or Kenneth Cole, or maybe my cousin Dave.

Regardless, the book would be full of great fashion insight. For example:

Guys shouldn’t wear dresses.

Actually, that would be the entire book. “Guys shouldn’t wear dresses. Thanks for reading my book, ladies and gentlemen. The end.”

Gripping and informative, yes?

Okay, so maybe I’m not THAT much of a novice when it comes to men’s fashion. Still, I’m definitely an amateur. To steal a line often used by computer veterans discussing people who are less computer savvy, I “know just enough to be dangerous.”

[Begin Segue]

I’ve recently set several new goals for myself. Getting into better shape is one of them. Becoming a better and sharper dresser is another.

In theory, dressing better should be the easier of the two goals by a wide margin. Seriously, how hard is it to dress better? You go to a store, pick out some nice clothes, and give the effeminate man who works there your credit card.

But to get in shape, boy, you have to be persistent and patient. It takes time! I know “patience” is one of the Type B personality traits I possess, but come on! Why can’t I just snap my fingers and be in shape already?

Still, believe it or not getting into shape is the easier goal for me. Why? Because I already know what to do. I’ve been in shape before. I know what it takes to get back there. I eat fewer calories and exercise every day. Boom. In a few months I’ll be in shape.

But being a good dresser? Good grief. It might be easy to get there if you’ve been there before. Otherwise, you need a map. And this isn’t the kind of map you can buy just anywhere. No, you have to build the map yourself after collecting several pieces of it from numerous different locations. You have to put it together like a puzzle.

“Oh, GQ Magazine says your belt should be the same color as your shoes. Here’s one piece of the map’s puzzle. Only 8,945 more to go.”

Okay, so maybe it’s not as complicated as I’m making it. Still, that’s just how I am. When I task myself with something, I drown myself in it. I learn all I can about it. For crying out loud, a month ago I didn’t know the first thing about swimming pools. Now I’m teaching the guy at the local pool store the in and outs of pool maintenance.

Me: “No, I don’t need to worry about my pool’s low calcium level. I have a vinyl pool.”

Pool Guy: “Oh, well what about your phosphate level? It’s really high.”

Me: “Please don’t make me have to slap you. I’ll do it. Here is my hand.”

If things go according to plan, approximately the same time I get into shape (or at least get into BETTER shape), I will have learned about what I should wear and how I should wear it. I’ll know what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. I’ll be able to go to a store, ignore the effeminate employee holding up the hot pink shirt he says I’d look “fabulous” in, and pick out a new wardrobe.

And then I’ll be able to write a sequel to my book. And this one will have more words in it than photos!

“To know me is to be thoroughly and utterly confused by me.”

What does it mean?

Why are you asking me? I just coin the stuff. I don’t interpret them.

Okay, fine. I believe it has to do with the fact that, in many ways, I am a walking contradiction.

Follow me, if you will, as I bore you to tears with some examples.

(Cue the Indiana Jones music. Why? Because it makes you think something exciting is going on even if all that’s happening is Harrison Ford eating a sandwich.)

To most people, I have a “Type B” personality. I’m patient, relaxed and easy-going. My boss and co-workers love me because I’m such a calming influence in their otherwise hectic work environment.

Of course, when I relayed this tidbit to my mom yesterday, she laughed.

“I don’t think you’re a Type B,” she told me. “You’re a mix. You clearly have some Type A traits, too.”

And she’s right.

For one thing, I’m very competitive. If someone challenged me to a Dr. Gregory House lookalike contest, I would seriously consider taking up a vicodin addiction just so I could be as authentic as possible.

I also, as my family lovingly tells me from time to time, have a “dictator” streak in me. At its root, this is simply an “I would rather just do everything myself so I can make sure it’s done right” attitude, but I can occasionally take it to the dictatorship level. My mom fondly remembers last Thanksgiving, when I went on a 10-minute rant because she put the green bean casserole I’d prepared into the oven a full hour before we’d be eating.

“Now it’s going to be cold when we sit down to eat! Why did you put it in so soon? I’m going to have to reheat the thing!”

I believe I also threw in a “You have ruined Thanksgiving” and “Now the terrorists have won”, but I don’t remember for certain.

Of course, the confusion that is Kevin isn’t restricted simply to Type A/B personality traits. Nope. No sirree, Bob.

I am an excellent driver, but blindfolded children with fluid in their ears have a better sense of direction than I do.

I don’t consider myself a public speaker, and yet I once gave a speech that may as well have been an eHarmony commercial to an auditorium full of people.

When I was a teacher I kept meticulous records. I do the same for my financial records. But as I look down at my desk here in my office at work, I see an endless array of unorganized, used yellow sticky notes — some of which are three years old. “Staff Meeting at 11:00 on 3/8/06.” Yes, I’m so very glad I’ve kept this sticky note. I’m sure it’s vitally important.

Still, I think the most confusing thing about me, to me, is the way I handle goals. When I put my mind to something, I furiously strive to meet it. I become the most focused person you’d ever want to meet.

I’m the athlete in high school who, even though my sport (baseball) was during the spring and it was currently the month of November, could be spotted jogging, in the rain, on the track after school.

I’m the guy in third grade who wouldn’t let the teacher forget to collect the homework because my life’s mission was winning the “highest average” award for the class and there was no doggone way I was going to let the teacher deprive me of a 100 homework grade.

But I’m also the guy who, once he reaches a goal, totally and completely loses focus.

I’m the high school graduate who, after having finally earned that baseball scholarship to college he’d been striving for, decides he’s burned out by the game.

I’m the fourth grader who, after having won the “high average” award in third grade, throws an eraser at the kid in the front of the class who has the audacity to remind the teacher to collect the homework assignments.

The good news is I think I finally have a handle on what makes me tick.

Once I meet a goal I set for myself, I have to set a new goal. When I meet that goal, I have to set another one. And another one. And another one. I keep doing that until, eventually, 130 years have gone by and I’m dead. And then, once I’m in Heaven, I set a new goal for myself. And then another one. And another one.

What can I say? I’m complicated.

It’s true. He did!

You’d think the media would be covering the story nonstop or something. It isn’t every day a white man who used to be black, who has had 532 plastic surgeries, who once had a pet monkey named “Bubbles”, who lived in a place called Neverland Ranch, who was once married to Elvis Presley’s daughter, who used to hang out with Macaulay Culkin and the kid who played Webster on TV, and who was “allegedly” a child molester dies!

(Oh yes, he also was a musician or something.)

Seriously, though. I kid because I really, really don’t care.

I’m saddened, truly, whenever someone dies, but people are taking this Michael Jackson Lovefest way, way too far. His life — for all his money, for all his fame, for all his musical accomplishments, for all his impact on pop culture — was a sad one.

That’s the real tragedy in all of this. It’s not that Michael Jackson died. It’s that he left this world lost and unhappy.

Yes, Michael Jackson was unhappy. He was unfulfilled. He was lost. It’s an unfortunate reality to think about, but it’s true. His last thought on this planet wasn’t, “Wow…I accomplished so much. I’m dying with no regrets.” No, it was more than likely something along the lines of, “This is it? It’s over?”

He probably also thought about Bubbles, his monkey, but I digress.

Everything in Jackson’s life pointed to a man who was searching for something. Look at all the crazy, insane, ridiculous stuff the man did in his lifetime. Those were not the actions of a happy, content man.

A happy, content man doesn’t get so many plastic surgeries he ceases to look human. A happy, content man doesn’t spend his adult years surrounded by children in the hopes of recapturing his own lost youth. A happy, content man doesn’t sleep in a hyperbaric chamber or with Lisa Marie Presley.

A happy, content man doesn’t do those things. A lost man does those things. A man who is searching, ACHING for happiness and contentment does those things.

Why does this matter, you ask?

I don’t know. I guess it matters because, despite all of this, people want to be like him. They want his life. Crazy and ridiculous as it may have been, there are people everywhere who envied Michael Jackson’s life.

They envied the life of a lost, unhappy, sad man who died too young because he was lost, unhappy and sad.

And that makes me sad.

Society as a whole envies the lives of celebrities, and yet many of those celebrities are miserable. They might walk around and act as though they are living the good life, but many of them are dead inside. They’ll someday die, with millions of dollars in their bank accounts and millions of fans mourning them; sad, unfulfilled and unhappy.

Somewhere in the world, a remarkable man or woman died the same day as Michael Jackson. But we didn’t hear about this person’s death on the front page of the newspaper. We didn’t see wall-to-wall coverage of their life on Fox News or CNN. They didn’t have Kobe Bryant, John Mayer, Brooke Shields or Al Sharpton at their memorial service.

Why? Because this person wasn’t famous. This person wasn’t rich. All this person did was live a long, fulfilled life that had an uplifting, positive influence on those around them. This person had no skeletons (or young boys) in their closet. And when they got to Heaven their Father said to them, “Well done, My good and faithful servant.”

I don’t know about the rest of you, but to me that is the life worth envying.

I have no idea why I used the phrase “cup of tea” when it is so antiquated, feminine and I could have used so, so, so many other phrases in its place. I could have said, “wasn’t everyone’s idea of a good time.” I could have said, “was more haha-lame than haha-funny in the eyes of some.” But no, I said cup of tea.

But you know what? I’m not going to apologize. I’m going to bring back “cup of tea” into the mainstream. I’ve just decided this. And while I’m at it, I’m bringing back “cat’s meow” and “bee’s knees.” Cat’s meow and bee’s knees are making a comeback, people. And this time, they’re going to be masculine phrases. How masculine? Guys in biker gangs will use them in day-to-day conversations.

“Spike,” one biker will say to another biker.

“That skull and crossbones tattoo of yours is the bee’s knees.”

“Thanks,” Spike will reply.

And then they will go burn down someone’s house.

Yep, that’s what will happen. Who says so? Kev says so. Kev, the master of witty phrases and all things cool and hip (and masculine).

Where was I? Oh yes, my misdirection in the last blog post. Alright, since I like all of you people, I’ll follow through and share some of the best things I’ve written in the past four years. Of course, since I have SO much amazing material, I’ll have to split this “best of” idea into several different posts. First, I’ll split up my favorite funny posts. Later, I’ll post some of my favorite “deep” blog posts.

What’s that? You don’t think I’m capable of deep thought? Did you just not read my clever usage of bee’s knees? Clean your bifocals, people.

I present to you all some things I wrote from May 2005 to May 2007 — my first two years blogging. I call these, “My Best Kinda Sorta Funny Posts Most of You Haven’t Read Before, But if You Have Just Humor Me and Read Them Again: Years 1 and 2.” You’re welcome.

May 29, 2005

A forgotten part of the moving process is you have to clean your old place. And right now, my old place looks like a garbage can exploded inside of it. Why is my brother such a slob? Why do I keep everything ever given to me? An hour ago, I came across a November 2002 memo from (my former employer). Why did I hold onto it? Did it strike me as funny at the time? Did I keep it in case I ever wanted to spit out some gum? Was it a magic memo that promised to grant me three wishes? And if the latter, where are my millions of dollars, my Ivy-league educated supermodel girlfriend, and my ability to turn invisible?

July 10, 2005

God is funny. My freshman year in college, I dated a girl against the advice of friends and adults who had known her longer. These were people I trusted, but for whatever reason, in this case, I thought they were crazy. They turned out to be right, she turned out to have more issues than a magazine rack, and my poor judgment ultimately led me to move hours away back home to finish college. Tonight, I found out this girl now lives in the area. More specifically, she lives minutes away from me.

In short, I have to move again. Good one, God. You got me.

August 16, 2005

I came across some old pictures the other day, one of them being a picture from my high school prom. This immediately brought back the memory of my friend, Luke, who decided to do a “strip tease” dance on his table during the middle of the prom. Everyone was sitting at their tables in their formal wear listening to two singers sing some silly prom-themed song. Next thing you know my friend was standing on his table dancing while taking off his jacket. The school suspended him three days for that little stunt.

This friend is also responsible for two of the strangest exchanges I’ve had in my lifetime…

When planning for the aforementioned prom, my friend told me, “you know…I think I might get an orange tux like Jim Carey wore in the movie Dumb & Dumber.” Figuring he was joking, I responded, “why don’t you get a blue one like Jeff Daniels wore in the movie?” My friend responded, “no way…I don’t want to look stupid.”

On our senior class trip, we went skiing. After we reached areas where there was snow, my friend asked the bus driver, our teacher, “Mrs. Wilcox…where does snow come from?” After a few seconds and several dozen chuckles from those around us, I responded, “you see, Luke, when a daddy snow and a mommy snow really love each other…”

Last I heard, my friend was going to school to be a doctor. Be afraid, people. Be very, very afraid.

August 20, 2005

Someday, FoodTV “personalities” Rachael Ray and Emeril Lagasse are going to fall in love and have a child. And that child will one day destroy the world.

Ironically, however, the child will not be able to cook.

August 24, 2005

I have been without my cell phone for 8 days and counting. Possibly because it heard me bad mouth all phones one time too many, my phone apparently took its own life.

I do not mourn its death. For one thing, I hated it. Plus, in the later stages of its life, my phone had obtained a massive ego. This was probably due to the fact I took it with me wherever I went. Only my wallet and my keys could make similar claims. However, the inflated ego was merely a defense mechanism. Beneath its black and gray exterior was a scared lil’ thing in need of constant reassurance and attention. Unfortunately for it, I did not give it the attention it needed. This was mainly due to the fact I hated it so very, very much.

Someday soon, I will get me a new cell phone. Maybe I won’t hate this one. I probably will, though.

September 23, 2005

Do you ever envy deaf people? I just got home from a two-hour bus ride filled with teenage girls “singing” every annoying radio song from the past five years. And when I say singing, I mean screaming. And by screaming, I mean they verbally assaulted my ear drums in a manner so horrific I actually prayed for the sweet release of death at one point.

I’ll never make fun of Billy Corgan (tone deaf lead singer of the rock band Smashing Pumpkins) ever again. I would listen to ten straight hours of him singing covers of Backstreet Boys’ songs in a southern accent and a lisp before I would endure a repeat of tonight’s hell on earth. Compared to them, Billy Corgan’s voice is angelic. And by angelic, I mean slightly better.

October 15, 2005

When at a singles gathering, it is very important to keep track of the fake names, professions, general details, etc. you give to the people you meet. You don’t want to call yourself “Brad” around a girl you’d met earlier and who thought your name was “Jake.” You’ve got to have a system in place.

For example, to brunettes, you are Ross, a three-time divorced anthropologist. To blonds, you are Joey, an actor who is very fond of sandwiches. And to red heads, you are Chandler, a sarcastic guy with an eating disorder no one acknowledges and a job no one can remember. I call this one the Friends System. I also like the Seinfeld System, the Buffy the Vampire Slayer System, and the Spongebob Squarepants System. The Spongebob one should only be used when there is an unusually large number of blonds.

Now, if you find a girl who figures out your game and calls you on it, thank your lucky stars. It means you’ve found a keeper. A keeper who watches lots of tv.

January 23, 2006

I propose a new “celeb reality” tv show. Anyone who has ever appeared on a reality television show or has played a hand in the creation of a reality television show will be placed on a deserted island. Then a nuclear bomb will be dropped on the island.

Possible names for the show are, “Exploding with the Stars”; “But Can They Dodge a Nuclear Bomb?”; and “Today is the Day Your Dreams Come True, Kevin.”

Edit: It’s been brought to my attention that if this proposal of mine were picked up, technically, I would then have played a hand in the creation of a reality tv show and would therefore be required to set up residence on said deserted island. A valid point, but allow me to retort: Shut up.

February 7, 2006

I’ve researched the topic thoroughly, and apparently the best method for young males to prove to the world they are cool is doing something completely asinine while driving a vehicle.

According to my research, “gunning” a vehicle when exiting a parking lot is the epitome of coolness. It does not matter if you are driving a black Ford Mustang GT or your mom’s pink Volkswagon Beatle, if you gun your vehicle when exiting a parking lot all the girls will swoon over you.

Honking your horn or yelling out your vehicle’s window are other tried-and-true tactics. Girls will admire your boldness if you honk at them. That or they will be impressed by your ability to drive and push down on the horn at the same time.

What’s the next big thing for the male looking to make an impression? That’s easy: Running into female pedestrians/drivers with your vehicle. The exchanging of insurance info or the ambulance ride to the hospital will be great opportunities to let her get to know you. Plus, getting her attention is half the battle. And nothing will get a girl’s attention quite like chasing her down a sidewalk in your mom’s Beatle.

July 7, 2006

Granted, I haven’t seen it yet, but I think Superman Returns would have been better with some creative casting. Morgan Freeman is solid in every movie he’s ever been in. Why not cast him as the man of steel? Don’t give me any of that “he’s too old…he’s black…are you insane” nonsense. The movie would be cinematic gold.

August 25, 2006

Tyler and Cody Chung received failing grades during the recent “show and tell” in Mrs. Timberland’s fourth grade class, according to insiders who eat lunch with the brothers.

Both boys, age 10, presented photos taken during a recent Atlanta Braves game the pair had attended. Their presentation was going smoothly until Cody declared the Braves to be the best team in the world.

“That is an outright lie and you know it,” Mrs. Timberland, a disillusioned Braves season-ticket holder, reportedly remarked. “How dare you pollute my classroom with your deceitful tongues,” Timberland continued.

Unfazed, the duo continued their presentation by displaying a photo they had taken with outfielder Jeff Franceour, who they described as “an awesome player.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” an exasperated Mrs. Timberland bellowed. “That strikeout machine swings at everything!”

After a few more photos, the last one being of pitcher Tim “one of the best pitchers in baseball” Hudson, Timberland instructed Tyler and Cody to go to the restroom so that they could wash their mouths out with soap.

“You can’t coddle these kids,” remarked Mrs. Timberland when asked for comment at her home. “When they say something ignorant, I call them on it. That’s how I am. That’s how I roll.”

Both Tyler and Cody were unavailable for comment because, according to their parents, they were coming to terms with Mrs. Timberland’s announcement to the class that the boys were adopted and the Tooth Fairy did not exist.

January 16, 2007

The DMV truly is a magical place. And by magical, I mean mind-numbingly horrific. I look around at the people (my ex-girlfriend) is in line with and I’m terrified by the thought that these people are about to be behind the wheels of thousand pound vehicles.

One man, who was wearing — I kid you not — a shower cap on his head, had to have the DMV worker explain to him three times that he could not get his license reinstated until he had paid his seven — count ‘em — seven tickets.

Another man, who was wearing overalls and hair down to shoulders, went to counter #5 when he had been told to go to counter #1. Upon being told of his mistake, I overheard the man say, “I always get them two mixed up.”

Allow that to soak in for a moment.

The next time you’re driving, make sure to periodically glance in your rear view mirror to see who’s behind you. If you see a man with a shower cap on his head or a guy with long hair and a “Lynard Skynard is #5″ sticker on his bumper, drive as fast as you can.

January 18, 2007

The Olive Garden is to Italian Food as (the movie) 10 Things I Hate About You is to William Shakespeare.

March 4, 2007

A little while ago, (my ex-girlfriend) called me saying she had seen a guy on a bus wearing the exact same Kenneth Cole sandals I own. She hates these sandals like a fat kid hates broccoli. Considering she also hates my black Kenneth Cole boots and my dark blue Levis jeans, I have come to the following inevitable conclusion: (She) is jealous of my fashion greatness.

I feel sorry for her. It must not be easy being in the shadow of someone with such a flawless sense of fashion. When I wore the aforementioned sandals with tan shorts, no socks, sunglasses and a t-shirt, I know it was the jealously talking when she said I looked like a “40-year-old blind man.” And when I wore a turtleneck sweater in July, I know her “have you lost your mind?” rant stemmed from an insecure sense of self. And when I decided to pay homage to Britney Spears circa the 2001 Superbowl by wearing socks on my hands, I know her “get away from me before people think I know you” remark was made because she knew she could never pull off such a look.

Lord, why did you make me so stylish?

March 5, 2007

“Look at that guy.”

“Poor, pathetic, shell of a man.”

“Mommy, that man is holding a purse.”

These are phrases uttered at malls, grocery stores and Wal-Marts all over the nation. You’re just a guy minding his own business when your girlfriend, wife, female acquaintance or confused cousin Steve hands you a purse.

It’s not a pretty sight. And yet, day after day men everywhere are asked to hold the bag of shame.

No more.

The time has come for us men to rise up. We must throw down the lacey, feminine shackles that bind us. When we are handed a purse to carry, we must stand strong.

If you are handed a purse, give the purse giver something heavy to hold. If she questions, tell her you are just supporting women’s equality.

If you are shopping for clothes, take off your baseball cap and give it to the purse giver saying, “hold this for me while I go try this on.” And then take a nap inside the changing room while she waits outside, cap in hand.

The time for battle is at hand.

We must not acquiesce. We must fight the good fight. We must shout for all the world to hear:

“Nay woman (or cousin Steve), I will not hold your purse. For I am a man!”

March 16, 2007

“If the odds of Carrot Top winning an Academy Award for acting are better than the odds of an apparent scam not being a scam, it’s a scam.”

- The Carrot Top Rule (From my unpublished, unwritten book, “How to Make Stupid Work for You”)

April 10, 2007

(W)hat is it about babies that makes us smile whenever we see them?

Answer: Birthday Cake.

Everyone loves birthday cake. Even diabetics love birthday cake. And when we see a baby, we think of birthday cake. On that baby’s first birthday, there will be cake. On its 10th birthday, there will be cake. Assuming the baby lives to be 100, there will have been 100 birthday cakes created and eaten in his/her lifetime to celebrate the passing of each year.

Why do we smile?

Because we think maybe, just maybe, we’ll get to eat some of that cake.

April 15, 2007

If Al Gore was alive to see what has become of his precious invention, the Internet, I believe he would weep. Well, he wouldn’t actually cry (robots cannot cry), but he’d be sad. Why? Because MySpace is using the Internet to destroy civilization as we know it.

May 7, 2007

In a move experts predict will once and for all prove His existence, God used the Los Angeles legal system to sentence socialite/moron Paris Hilton to 45 days in jail for violating her probation in an alcohol-related reckless driving case.

The sentencing has been met by unanimous approval by every person in the entire world, and has sparked a religious revival not seen since the release of Mel Gibson’s film, The Passion of the Christ.

Churches across the world have been packed since the sentencing was announced.

“People have been coming in droves since the announcement,” said James O’Keefe, pastor of First Baptist Church in Decatur, Georgia.

“I was so certain God didn’t exist, but this has completely altered my outlook,” remarked atheist Dan Ryder of Omaha, Nebraska.

“God is real. And He is awesome.”

Hilton, who helped promote the “Vote or Die” campaign during the 2004 Presidential Election despite the fact she was not registered to vote, has called her sentencing cruel and unwarranted.

“I feel that I was treated unfairly and that the sentence is both cruel and unwarranted,” said Hilton as she left for a shopping trip with her mother.

“I don’t deserve this.”

Experts disagreed.

“This has been a long time coming,” noted karma expert and God enthusiast Kevin Dugan. “This [air quotes] woman [end air quotes] has been a thorn in the side of common sense for far too long. Monica Lewinsky had the decency to go away after her embarrassing scandal. Paris Hilton? She gets her own TV show and records an album.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised God didn’t smite her years ago.”

May 25, 2007

I saw you on aisle twelve at the grocery store. “Orville Redenbacher’s Gourmet Popping Corn” was written on you in big, cursive letters. You lured me in with your smiling, awkward picture and promises of 30-calorie servings. I put you into my grocery cart and dreamed of the “94% Fat Free Butter” snacking I would soon enjoy.

If only I had known the tragedy that would follow.

I took you to work with me and gave you a featured spot on the top of my desk. “Hands off,” the sticky note I put on you warned. “This delicious and healthy Orville Redenbacher popcorn belongs to me.”

Fierce were the stares I gave all co-workers who glanced in your general direction. Unnerving were the verbal assaults I hurled at anyone who stopped to read the extra-large sticky note I put on you. The stapler thrown at the head of the individual who touched you while reaching for a pencil served notice to all of the obvious:

You were mine.

Like a pirate opening a treasure chest filled with gold coins or Rosie O’Donnell opening a bag of McDonald’s hamburgers, I eagerly took one of the ten packs of popcorn you held inside.

“How is it that William Shakespeare never wrote a sonnet about you,” I asked out loud while throwing a pen at the aforementioned individual who was returning my pencil (and stapler). His screams of “my eye, my eye” could not drown the sound of the singing angels as I held you up high.

Into the microwave you went as I followed the cooking directions and pressed START. As I left to use the restroom, I could hear the “pop, pop” music you were belting for all to hear. As I washed my hands, I could hear the faint sound of an ambulance or firetruck.

“Oh no,” I thought to myself. “My popcorn!”

I rushed out of the restroom. You were in pain, I could feel it. My path to you was blocked by paramedics attending to the individual who stole my stapler, pencil and pen.

“Thank goodness,” I thought to myself as I pushed my way through the pile of people. “That must have been the noise I heard. My popcorn is safe.”

And then I smelled it.

I ran to you and opened the microwave door. You were gone. The magnificent, pure thing I had known just minutes earlier had been replaced by a burnt bag of crap. A tear fell down my cheek as I held you close, but not too close. You did smell rather bad, after all.

You left this world before your time. I knew then why blues music was invented — to document somber moments just like this one. You lived your life like a candle in the wind, never knowing who to cling to when the rain set in. And now, you’re gone.

I blame the one-eyed stapler thief…

Were these not the cat’s meow? Weren’t they the bee’s knees? Weren’t they all that and a bag of chips (yes, I’m claiming that phrase for straight men also)?

If there is an adequate demand for it, later in the week I’ll share some of the “deep” posts I wrote way back in the day.

As you were.

What’s that? I wrote a depressing blog post just the other day? Psssh. I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about. Silly people. You make me laugh with the silly things you say.

This past May marked the four-year anniversary of when I first started blogging. Granted, SKOS didn’t come around until a couple years later, but I still have a sizable backlog of material now.

In four years, you tend to have a lot of ups and downs in your life. And the good thing about a blog is you can document what you’re feeling during those ups and downs and read them years later.

Of course, this is assuming you actually use your blog for serious, deep thoughts instead of the random silliness for which I use mine.

Thankfully, on my old blog, I wrote about serious stuff. Well, most of the time I wrote about serious stuff. This was during the period of my life where I was finishing my career as a teacher, finishing graduate school, was looking for a new job, and had my first long-term relationship.

In other words, I packed a lot of stuff into that old blog.

Reading what “Kev of four years ago” was going through is an interesting experience. Those issues he, I mean I, dealt with seem like they happened lifetimes ago. Still, many of them are relatable to what I’m dealing with today in the here and now.

Anyhoo, I have ALMOST got the swimming pool at my new place ready and…

What’s that? You thought I was going to share a few of the things I wrote on my old blog? Silly people. There you go being silly again.

Before I moved in, this pool hadn’t been used in two years. It was left uncovered for dirt and leaves and frogs and (for all I know) mafia victims. It was a mess.

As part of the terms of my lease, my landlord was supposed to get the pool ready for me. Once it was ready, I would take over the duties of maintaining it. My landlord has been, to put it kindly, failing in his duties. So, naturally, I’ve had to kick butt and take names. Three weeks later, the pool is almost ready.

The timing is great because I am in the process of making major changes in my life. To start things off, I’m going to get into mad-crazy shape. I want to be able to wear outfits I wore in high school. Granted, I no longer own any of the clothes I had in high school. So, another goal of mine is to create a time machine. That way I can travel back in time, throat punch my 18-year-old self, and steal some of his/my clothes.

Of course, rather than throating punching and running, it would probably be a good idea to sit down with myself and have a long chat. After all, I’d have a decade plus worth of wisdom I could impart to my younger self. I could give all sorts of pearls of wisdom.

For example, in 2002, do NOT buy that Jeep Wrangler you see in the dealer parking lot. The roof leaks and you won’t be able to go faster than 60 MPH without the vehicle shaking. Also, I’m pretty sure it was haunted.

Oooh, at age 19, don’t date a girl named Rachel. In fact, just in case I’m misremembering her name, don’t date anyone with a name starting with R. Trust me on this one.

Don’t order the pasta from the Olive Garden in Macon, GA. In fact, don’t even step foot inside the restaurant. You can get food poisoning anywhere, so save yourself the gas money.

It’s okay to watch the first X-Files movie, but avoid the sequel that comes out a decade later like the plague. It’s awful. It’s beyond awful. I can’t believe Keanu Reeves didn’t star in it — that’s how awful it is.

Actually, I can already tell I’m not going to have the patience to explain all this stuff to my 18-year-old self. That guy was a know-it-all. He’d buy the Jeep, use it to pick up a girl named Rachel, take her to see that X-Files movie, and then go eat at Olive Garden. All so he could prove me wrong.

Best to just punch, take the clothes and run.

Thus endeth a very bipolar blog post.

“Funny,” I think to myself.

On the ticket are all of my favorite numbers. It’s as if someone made a lottery ticket using my bank’s PIN, my jersey number from baseball in high school, and the number of movies I wish Keanu Reeves had made (i.e. zero).

With my cell phone, I check to see if, by chance, the ticket had won any money. To my disbelief, it had. In fact, it had won a lot. A whole, whole lot. In my hand was a ticket worth millions.

I was rich. In that winning ticket I saw a big house with a giant swimming pool. I saw fast cars. I saw vacations all over the world. I saw an assistant who would do nothing all day except walk around with shoes on his hands killing bugs that had the misfortune of entering my domain.

But before I knew it, a gust of wind had snatched the ticket from my hand.

I run after it, but it gets farther and farther away. Out of breath, I bend over and put my hands on my hips as I watch the ticket slip off into the distance.

If my hands had been stronger, the wind would have never been able to pry it from my fingers. If I had worn running shoes that day, I would have caught it. If I had been in better shape and a little faster, I would have been able to chase it down.

If…if…if…

I should be asleep right now. It’s 5:30 on a Monday morning and I have a job which doesn’t require me to be awake and lucid for several more hours.

But I can’t sleep. The lost lottery ticket is weighing too heavily on my mind.

Hopefully, it’s obvious to everyone the ticket is a metaphor. I didn’t REALLY have a winning lottery ticket in my hands and lose it. Of course, the week is young. Who knows what God has in store for me this afternoon.

But no, I didn’t really lose a winning ticket.

It just feels like it.

Have you ever sat across the table from someone and realized, with total clarity, that certain someone possessed everything you always knew you wanted and, to paraphrase Matthew Perry’s line in the movie Fools Rush In, everything you never knew you always wanted? I’m talking about the kind of someone who is truly one of a kind. The kind of someone who doesn’t grow on trees.

My weekend started with me sitting across a table from such a someone.

My weekend ended with me losing such a someone. The wind wasn’t responsible for snatching her away, but she got away just the same.

The sad part of the story, for those of you who are wondering “Isn’t this supposed be a humor blog?!”, is that I have no one to blame except myself for my current plight.

I have baggage — much of it literal — from my last relationship. Even though it ended more than two years ago, there are still remains. And the fact of the matter is I have not worked as diligently as I should have to fully get over the few remaining issues. I have been complacent for too long.

Because this certain someone is observant, she spotted it. Because she is honest, she told me what most never would. And because she is someone who deserves the very best, she is unwilling to settle. In short, she told me I needed to get over it, get my house in order and fulfill my potential.

It was the kind of brutal honesty you normally only hear on the TV show House, but (thankfully) it was spoken with thought and kindness. These are issues I need to address not just so I can someday try again to win this individual (or someone like her), but issues I need to address for my own well being.

I get all that. I do. I realize today and the two days preceding today will be looked back on as turning points in my life. I have no doubt, truly, I will look back on these days fondly.

But right now, today, their memory makes me ache.

These feelings will, hopefully very soon, end. To coin a phrase I am almost certain has never before been uttered in history, my heart will go on. I’m tough and resilient. But more than that, I’m a guy who craves challenges. And this is most definitely a challenge. Best of all, it’s a challenge that will have, regardless of where life takes me, lots of rewards once I meet it.

So, I will put on my running shoes. I will become faster. I will make my hands stronger. And if another lottery ticket comes along in six months, I’ll be ready to catch it and hold onto it this time.

And if I’m blessed, maybe it will be the same ticket as before.

You know, apropos of nothing, but Mark tells the scariest camping stories. The other day, he told this one story about this young, handsome guy who thought he was hiking the Appalachian Trail with the governor of some southern state when he was REALLY hiking with a deranged serial killer. I don’t know how the story ends — there was an emergency at work so I had run back home — but I’m sure it was spine tingling.

What’s that? Mark wasn’t hiking the Appalachian Trail the past few days? He was in Argentina??

Huh.

Anyway, the other reason I haven’t blogged lately is I’ve had a lot of things on my mind.

Wonderful, exciting, beautiful things.

Is that reason too teasingly vague? My bad.

Do not despair, my dear reader. (Yes, I said “reader.” I’m assuming, after all this time, there is only one of you left.) I’m here now. And I shall entertain you with a blog post that has absolutely nothing to do with anything. Ready? Okay, here we go.

“Boxer Briefs” is more than simply an answer to a question no one in the universe has ever wondered about yours truly. Lately, it is is also a topic that is bringing out the former, superstitious baseball player in me. (All baseball players are superstitious, you see.)

What do I mean?

Two weeks ago, I wore one particular pair of boxer briefs. They are blue, in case you were wondering. That evening, I became ill and had to call in sick to work the following morning.

This past Thursday evening, after having showered after the gym, I put on the same blue boxer briefs. I went to bed, only to wake up a few hours later deathly ill. It was awful. Once again, I had to call in sick to work.

Since I was sick and not going anywhere that day (and also because I had showered the night before), I sported those boxer briefs all day Friday. It wasn’t until Saturday morning, when I showered, did they leave my presence. Evidently, the fact I wore them at all Saturday meant that day would be doomed for me as well. That afternoon, I went to get my haircut. I’ve been getting haircuts all my life without incident. But not that day.

The lady, spawn of Lucifer, whomever or whatever it was cutting my hair mistook my saying “I want to keep my sideburns, but trim them” to mean “cut off my sideburns completely and, if possible, salt the earth so the hair can never grow back.”

That’s right. I am writing this blog post sans sideburns. It is not a good look for me. I look like someone who has watched Forrest Gump way, way, way too many times.

Clearly, these blue boxer briefs are cursed.

I’d burn them, but somehow my house would end up on fire I’m sure.

I’d bury them, but then the curse would get into the soil of the earth and spread like wildfire.

I’d sell them, but I don’t want anyone crazy or weird enough to buy used underwear (!) to know my name or mailing address.

So, in my dresser they will remain.

They will stay there until I gather the courage to tempt fate once again. Or until I run out of boxer briefs. Whichever comes first.

“How did that happen,” you will think to yourself.

For a moment, you’ll retrace your steps in your mind to see if you can figure out how the scratch came about, but inevitably you’ll give up and brush it off as no big deal.

Silly people.

It IS a big deal.

Would you be so quick to dismiss $5 disappearing from your wallet every so often? Would you be so “meh” to figure out why your co-workers kept asking if you liked the coffee and then walked away giggling? Would you shrug your shoulders at the mystery as to why you woke up every so often to find one of your organs removed?

Scratches without known origins are ciphers, wrapped in enigmas, smothered in a wide variety of secret sauces. They demand to be solved. And just so none of you think I’m all talk, allow me to walk the walk.

To the left is poor-quality photo of a scratch I noticed on my thumb when I sat down at my desk at work this morning. No, it didn’t hurt. I’m a tough, manly man. But thanks for asking.

How did this happen? Let’s retrace my steps:

Maybe I got it while getting out of bed in the morning. The good Lord knows getting out of bed is an arduous task for me, so perhaps in the fight to get my butt in gear I picked up a battle scar?

No, that couldn’t be it. Arduous task or not, the scratch wouldn’t have still been bleeding when I noticed it at work if I had gotten it two hours earlier. I have awesome blood-clotting skills, just so you know.

For that same reason, I can rule out the possibility of getting the scratch while at the gym. Besides, I would have noticed if one of those awkward body-building guys or scantily-clad “ladies” walked up to me and scratched my thumb. And I know my precious elliptical machine would never scratch me.

Could I have gotten the scratch while showering? I do love my Old Spice “Game Day” Body Wash, so I suppose it’s possible I got carried away and scrubbed too hard. But if that’s the case, wouldn’t I have multiple scars on various body parts?

Maybe I got it while preparing my morning cup of coffee. Could the scratch be a byproduct of opening up one too many packets of Splenda? Could pouring in a little “half and half” have caused a drop of piping-hot coffee to splatter onto my thumb and eat away at my precious (though manly) skin?

Since I know the scratch didn’t happen while grasping my barbed-wire steering wheel during my drive to work, I am left when only one possible conclusion:

Aliens, or possibly Obama, are stealing samples of my DNA and leaving behind scratches in the process. I can only assume the aliens, or Obama, are trying to clone a race of super-awesome humans. Yes, that must be it. It’s so obvious.

I just hope a race of cloned aliens (or cloned Obama — oooh, scary thought) don’t someday try to steal DNA samples from my clones. As the Michael Keaton movie Multiplicity clearly proved, a clone of a clone is not as sharp as…well…the original.

So, in the end, I picked House C.

What’s that, you say? There wasn’t a “C” option when I talked about the possible rentals I was considering last time?

You know, you’re right. I decided to pass on both houses I told you all about in my last blog post. I just wasn’t feeling it with either one of them. House A had carpet in the kitchen, a “master bath” barely big enough for an infant, and noisy neighbors. House B had landlords I liked, but I just wasn’t enamored with the place. The kitchen was small and the layout was odd.

So, I decided to keep looking.

And I did.

And then I found it.

House C. Also known as the house with the pool. Also known as the house with the “naked baby wallpaper.” I’ll get to that in a moment.

This place is in a great location for me. I have a short commute to work, I’m very close to my gym, and I’m very close to my family. The rent is the same as the other two homes I was considering. It’s larger than the other homes. It’s nicer than the other homes. It has a front porch and a screened-in porch — something neither of the other homes possessed. It has a bigger and nicer yard than the other homes. It has room for both my pool table and my dining table. It has hardwood floors in half the house.

And it has a pool.

I’ve never owned a pool and I’m going to have to learn how to maintain one, but I plan on using this thing quite a bit. Swimming is excellent exercise. Plus, Lord knows I could use a little sun. If I had fangs, I’m fairly certain people would mistake me for a vampire if I was walking around at night in a graveyard (as I often do).

There were only two tangible downsides. One, there are some stains on the bedroom carpets. Two, there is the aforementioned naked baby wallpaper. It’s located in the guest bathroom in the main hallway. The first time I saw the house, I somehow didn’t notice it. I looked at the flooring. I looked at the sink. I looked in the closet. I looked at the tub. I even looked at the ceiling. But somehow I overlooked the walls.

On my second viewing, I noticed the wallpaper. My reaction was obvious and twofold:

“How on earth did I miss this before? Was I blind? I think I’d remember if I was blind. Oh no, maybe I have amnesia!”

“What kind of sick person puts up wallpaper of naked babies?”

As inexplicable as the wallpaper was/is, it’s not enough for me to pass on the house.

So, I got it. I signed the lease. Half my stuff is already moved in.

The tricky part now is what to do about the wallpaper. If I owned this place, getting rid of it would be a no brainer. But I’m renting. I’m not a fan of putting money into a rental — except for things I can easily take with me when I move. So, the question is, “can I live with the naked baby wallpaper?”

On the one hand, it IS in the guest bathroom. I never have to look at it if I don’t want to.

Also, for my guests, the wallpaper would make an excellent conversation piece:

Guest: “Um, Kevin? Are those naked babies on your bathroom wall?”

Me: “Why yes. Yes it is. You should see the guest bedroom with the wallpaper of senior citizens. It’s very classy.”

Of course, on the other hand, keeping the place female friendly was a goal of mine when looking for a new place. I even wrote a blog post asking all of you for tips. I could be mistaken, but I don’t recall any of you suggesting I get a home with naked baby wallpaper in the bathroom.

So, what would a female guest think of it?

What say you, my dear readers?

Finding a place is harder than HGTV makes it look.

I’m looking to rent, not buy, which should (in theory) make the process easier on me. I’m not looking for a place to live for 15+ years. I’m looking for a place to live for six or twelve months, and then I’ll see where I’m at and go from there.

My wish list? Oh, nothing extreme. I just want an awesome place in an awesome location for an insanely low, awesome price.

(Coincidentally, I would name the place “Fort Awesome.”)

Should be easy, right?

Well, it’s not.

There are two homes I’m considering. I don’t have photos of either to show all of you, but I’ll do you one better. I’ll paint mental pictures for you with my words. Doesn’t that sound like fun? No? Well, aren’t you the joykill.

House A and House B are located less than a minute from each other. Both are close to where I work (less than 7 minutes away) and ridiculously close to my gym. When it comes to location, House A and B are equals.

House A has hardwood floors in parts of the house. This is good.

House A also has carpet, inexplicably, in the kitchen. This is bad.

House B has tile in the kitchen. This is good. It has no hardwood floors, but the carpet is fairly nice. Carpet isn’t ideal, but I can live with it.

House A, in the rooms where it doesn’t have hardwood floors (including the kitchen!), has shabby, ugly carpet. This is bad.

House A has one full bath and one half bath. However, the half bath (off the master bedroom) is barely big enough for an infant child to fit inside. This is bad.

House B also has one full bath and one half bath. Its half bath is actually human size. This is good.

House B has a garage for my car. I have never had a garage. This is good.

House B’s garage is detached. This isn’t the end of the world, but on days where it’s raining really hard, I’m not going to like it.

House A doesn’t have a garage, but it has a carport. And said carport is attached to the home. That means I can get from house to car and car to house without getting wet on rainy days.

House A has an ideal, perfectly-sized dining room with hardwood floors for my antique table. This is good.

House B has two places where I could put my antique table, but I do not consider either of them ideal.

House B has an ideal place for the pool table given to me five Christmases ago as a gift. This is a good thing.

House A has no room for my pool table. It would have to remain in storage (i.e. in my parent’s bonus room), which is where it’s been the past five years.

(Oh, did I not mention that the mental picture I’m painting you with words was going to be random and unorganized? Hopefully you guys have been jotting down notes so you can keep track of which house has what.)

There’s more, but you guys get the idea. Each house has pros and cons.

I guess the real questions I should ask are these:

If I’m not 100% pleased with either house, should I pass on both and wait for something better to come along? Will something better come along? Given the emphasis I seem to be placing on location, it’s possible nothing better will come along in the near future.

Decisions, decisions.

I guess I should just relax and daydream about Fort Awesome some more. Did you notice how it has a mote to keep the riffraff away?

That’s my favorite part.

Enjoy your Memorial Weekends, everyone.

As a single guy, I don’t need much. Do I have a place to park my car? Is there a place to put my television? Does it have a bathroom?

In short, guys are pretty easy.

(For the purpose of this blog post, we will pretend I am your garden-variety, single guy. In other words, there will be no mention of how I need a dining room big enough for the antique table I bought three years ago. Or how I would like a kitchen with lots of storage and counter space because I have awesome culinary skills. Or how it would be nice if I could find a place with a deck, balcony or porch so I could sit outside in the shade and watch the squirrels run around and the birds sing their bird-y songs. Ah, little bluebird, your voice lifts my soul…)

Of course, as a single (manly) guy who does not wish to remain a single guy until the end of time, I have to consider the female perspective.

What would a lady I am entertaining think of the place?

(So that no one gets the wrong idea, I mean “entertaining” in the most wholesome way possible. For example, we might watch a movie together on my couch. Or we’ll have dinner together while sitting on the antique table I bought three years ago. Or we’ll sit outside on my deck and watch it rain while anxiously waiting for Captain Jack Bluebird to make an appearance and treat us to a song. Or I’ll show her the Nobel Prize I won.)

A guy can look at a place and think, “Hey, this isn’t so bad.” A woman can look at the same place and think, “What circle of Hades is this!?”

I’m not an expert on women, but methinks it’s a bad sign if the lady you are trying to woo thinks of Dante’s Inferno when she walks through your front door.

Of course, it’s one thing to know your place needs to be female friendly. It’s quite another thing to know what exactly makes a place female friendly.

So, beyond “needs actual toilet instead of men’s urinal” and “no signs that say ‘no girls allowed’”, I don’t have the foggiest clue what makes a home or apartment friendly to females.

That’s why I need all of your (my readers) help. An overwhelming majority of you are female. Therefore, it stands to reason you should have at least a tiny inkling what would make a place female friendly.

Share this information with me perhaps you will?

If you have some helpful advice (or even unhelpful advice for comedic purposes), feel free to share it by leaving a comment or two or ten below. Any crazy girl who agrees to go out with me one day will be most thankful for your input!

Men used to be tough. Now they aren’t.

What happened?

It used to be reasonably easy for a girl to find a “nice guy” who was still a guy. Now an overwhelming majority of the “nice guys” are so weak they practically wet themselves if a female raises her voice to them.

Now, I’m sure some women like spineless men. Clearly, such men aren’t having much trouble finding women. Go to any store that sells women’s clothing and you’ll see numerous guys holding purses while their wives or girlfriends are picking out and trying on clothes.

You can easily spot these guys.

Well, one, they’re holding purses (duh). That’s a little hard to miss. But you can also spot them by the dead look in their eyes. They look like they’ve been sucked dry of their joy.

Occasionally, I will walk up to one of these guys and try to free them.

“You don’t have to live this way,” I will tell them. “Drop that purse. Let’s go look at the plasma televisions. There is a football game on!”

“Ssssssshhhhhh,” they will whisper.

“She’ll hear you.”

“I don’t care if she hears me,” I will shout.

“Look at you! Look at what you’ve become. You make me sick to my stomach.”

“I know,” the guy will sigh. “But…”

“But nothing,” I will interrupt. “Are you wearing a sweater vest? Is that a pink shirt? Did she dress you?!”

Eventually, the wife or girlfriend will make an appearance. I stand back and watch the spineless master at work.

“Did you find anything you liked, dear,” the guy will ask.

“Do you want to watch Beaches when we get home, dear?”

How did this happen?

How did we reach the point where 48% of the men in this country are jerks, 48% are “nice guys” who let people walk all over them, and only 2% are genuinely nice guys who would have no qualms about punching a bully in the face if they tried to take his lunch money?

Allow me to present a few theories:

#1: Everyone Deserves a Trophy (or Why Should He Have to Fight His Own Battles?)

Somewhere along the way, parents decided that EVERY child deserved an award regardless of whether or not they did anything to earn one. This is merely one example of how boys of today are babied while growing up.

In sports, the last place team got a trophy just like the first place team did. Heck, these days, when the kids are young, they don’t even keep scores of the games.

“Who’s winning,” someone will ask.

“Oh, we don’t keep score,” a parent will explain. “We don’t want to damage anyone’s self esteem.”

This might be okay if the children weren’t still handled with baby gloves when they got older. Instead, “mercy rules” are put into place so players on losing teams don’t lose too badly. Some leagues will let every team make the playoffs so no players feel left out. Some leagues choose not to participate in “all-star tournaments” because they don’t want children who aren’t good enough to make the all-star team to feel like failures. And, as I mentioned earlier, every player gets a trophy.

This mentality isn’t limited only to sports either. Look at academics these days.

Parents and school administrators practically bend over backwards to make sure Little Timmy and Little Suzie get good grades. Teachers are forced to give numerous makeup assignments and extra credit. If a student fails, Little Timmy and Suzie rarely have to shoulder any of the blame.

“It was the school’s fault. They shouldn’t make you take Algebra if you aren’t good at math.”

“It was the teacher’s fault. Your teacher didn’t do a good job teaching you.”

“It was your father’s fault. The dog kept eating your homework, and your father kept forgetting to put him in the backyard at night.”

“It was my fault. I was so preoccupied cutting your food for you and changing your diaper, I didn’t have time to write your research paper on World War II for you.”

And so on.

And so on.

And so on.

For boys, this mentality leads them to grow up into “men” who rarely had to face failure and hardly ever had to be accountable.

Losing sucks. It does. But you know what? Losing is also an excellent motivator. It makes you tougher. It makes you try harder.

The boy who never had to face losing or had adults constantly making excuses for his shortcomings inevitably becomes an adult with the mental toughness of a boy who never had to face losing or had adults who constantly made excuses for his shortcomings.

#2: Everybody Loves Raymond-itis

Now, I enjoyed — and still do enjoy — the television show Everybody Loves Raymond. One, it was a funny show. And two, I realize it’s fiction and for entertainment purposes only. The show’s content does not alter my outlook on life.

I am that way with all television shows and movies.

I can watch a movie with profanity in it (even though I don’t like it) and not have my own vocabulary become littered with the sporadic use of four-letter words.

I can watch a television show that features an unmarried couple living together and not think to myself, “If I had a girlfriend it would be totally okay to have her live with me.”

And I can watch Everybody Loves Raymond and not think all husbands are bumbling fools married to women who wear the pants in the relationship.

However, many guys cannot.

Raymond is just one example of an assembly line of television shows and movies in the past decade or two where a weak and/or inexplicably stupid man is dating or married to a strong and/or inexplicably intelligent woman.

It’s little wonder why I see men in clothing stores holding purses and men in video stores carrying some random chick flick.

To them, fiction (TV and movies) is reality.

#3: We are Living in a Metrosexual World and I am a Metrosexual Girl. Err, I Mean Boy

Believe it or not, just a decade ago (give or take a few years) there weren’t personal care products tailored to guys.

Back in the day, we didn’t have shampoos made specifically for men. We could use Head & Shoulders, Pert Plus, or we could use one of the hundreds of women’s shampoos that smelled like fruits and flowers.

Today, there are shampoos and conditioners specifically made for guys.

Back in the day, there was no such thing as men’s moisturizer. We had after shave, which either came in liquid form (i.e. the kind packed with alcohol that set your face on fire) or lotion (i.e. the “cooling” kind that still set your face on fire). The notion of a men’s moisturizer product that improved the quality of a guy’s skin and helped prevent or treat wrinkles was insane.

Today, there are all sorts of men’s moisturizers for every skin type. Want SPF protection in your moisturizer? They have it. Want something to help with dark circles under your eyes? It exists. Want one type of moisturizer in the mornings and another type in the evening before going to bed? Then it’s a great time to be a guy, my friend.

And then you’ve got body washes. And body sprays. And body powder made specifically for men. And two hundred brands of razors to help us achieve the perfect shave.

And so on.

And so on.

And so on.

I’m not saying these things are bad. I’m just saying they are a recently-new development.

Personally, I like having a shampoo and conditioner that doesn’t smell like tropical gardens. I like using body wash instead of unscented Ivory bar soap or bars of Irish Spring. I like having an after-shave moisturizer with SPF protection in it so my face doesn’t look 60 when it’s 40.

I like all that.

But the problem is way, way, WAY too many guys don’t know where to draw the line.

They get pedicures and manicures.

They spend $60 or more to get their hair cut.

They wear body lotion.

(Guys should never wear body lotion. They just shouldn’t. Those who do are just one step away from shaving their legs. And unless you’re an Olympic swimmer, there’s never a good reason for a guy to ever do such a thing.)

Anyway, I guess I’m saying that while some of these things are okay, for the most part it’s gotten out of hand. Guys of today find themselves living in a world where there is an implied expectation to primp themselves much the same way women do.

Show me a man who gets pedicures and I’ll show you a man who is one medical procedure or blujean-zipper accident away from being 100% woman.

These are just a few of my theories. What do all of you think? Is Eastwood right? What happened to men? Do any of you ladies in the audience actually prefer one of these spineless or metrosexual types? If yes, I’d love to hear why.

As always, feel free to leave a comment or two or ten. Oh, and for those curious as to my current body wash of choice (you know you are), here it is. It smells like baseball, but without the beer.

I assume — much like the women I work with, the women at the grocery store and the female drivers I see in traffic — that you are here to be near me.

Now, now, don’t be shy. Wait, what am I saying? You?? Shy? I forgot who I was talking to for a moment. You ladies are about as shy as Robin Williams in Patch Adams or Jim Carrey in…well, Jim Carrey in anything.

That’s actually the reason for this ol’ letter here. You girls need to tone it down a bit. Strike that. You need to tone it down a lot.

Let’s go over a few ground rules, shall we? Consider this new gym policy. Yes, I realize I don’t technically own the gym. What’s your point?

Rule #1

Unless you are a 12 year old or are the size of a 12 year old, you should not wear clothes small enough to fit a 12 year old.

Rule #2

A woman’s perfume is a wonderful thing — except when worn at the gym. You want to smell nice? Go anywhere else. In the magical place known as “elsewhere”, your pleasant-smelling scent will be welcomed and appreciated. But at the gym, you and your perfume are mingling with an assortment of smells that, when added together, cause me to be envious of those who suffer from anosmia.

Rule #3

Do not wear shorts or pants with words written on the butt. If I wanted to read while working out on my elliptical machine, I’d reach for a magazine.

Seriously, I’m not a prude, but you might as well be wearing a shirt with the words “Look at My Butt” in bold letters and a giant arrow pointing downward.

Rule #4

Stretch at home before coming to the gym. If you must stretch at the gym, could you possibly not do it directly in front of me? Seriously, there are numerous places in the back where you can do that stuff.

Between you stretching in front of me to my left and the girl wearing shorts that read “hot stuff” on the treadmill in front of me to my right, I either have to close my eyes or look upwards towards the ceiling. And either way I look silly.

Rule #5

Put down the cell phone. Seriously, just put it down. If you are going to use the machine to my immediate left or right even though there are several others available, you cannot proceed to blab away on your phone while working out.

I don’t care that Katie’s boyfriend is a jerk. I don’t care where Kyle is going on vacation. I don’t care that there are “barely any cute guys” at the gym (a comment I can only interpret as either an insult to me or the lamest line in the history of lines considering the fact you know I’m on the machine next to you and can hear you).

Either put your cell phone away, or I’m taking it from you and giving it to the guy on steroids who is bench pressing a small village. I’ll tell him it’s a protein bar or something.

I know these rules might seem unfair, but it’s the way it has to be.

Of course, in the off chance you wear the things you wear and do the things you do to catch the eye of a guy who is not me, keep doing what you’re doing. You’ll end up with a superficial jerk who is only interested in one thing, but at least you wouldn’t have to buy new workout clothes.

To the rest of you, I’m going to help you by making every effort to not be so gosh darn awesome and appealing.

You’re welcome, ladies.

Sincerely,

Kev

Except for the parts I meant, everything I wrote above was a joke. How about all of you? Are you appalled at the things people wear, say and do at the gym (or anywhere else, for that matter)? Let’s vent together, shall we?

Which Sounds Better, Blalking or Wogging?

I’ve been told in the past that blogging comes as naturally to me as walking. I assume this was a compliment, although if this individual was thinking about a time I tripped or something it’d have to be categorized as an insult.

Still, compliment or kick to the shin, I have to agree with the statement. Blogging IS like walking to me. And no, it’s not because I walk funny. Although, I once had a freshman student of mine tell me I walked like a pimp. I’m assuming this was a compliment, too. Pimps are cool, right?

No, blogging is like walking to me because I blog and walk at my own pace. Others might be running around airports and malls like chickens with their heads cut off, but not me. I walk at a nice, comfortable pace. And no amount of masked gunmen and sales at the Gap is going to make me walk faster.

The same holds true with my blogging. Do others blog more frequently than I do? Sure. Do I wish blogged more? Of course. But this is my pace. If I blogged faster, I might pull a hamstring.

Wait a second…

My bad. It wasn’t walking. The person said blogging came as naturally to me as BREATHING. Okay, forget everything I wrote above.

I have to agree with that statement. Blogging IS like breathing to me. And no, it’s not because I breathe funny. Although…

There’s a Kick to the Baby Maker

I’m not sure what’s more embarrassing about the 50-game suspension for substance abuse by baseball player Manny Ramirez of the Dodgers.

Is it the fact he’s been caught and suspended for taking a substance typically used by steroid abusers? Or is it the fact the entire world now knows that, thanks to steroids, he won’t be having any Manny Ramirez Juniors anytime soon?

Personally, I think his hair is the most embarrassing thing. Thanks to this story, there are thousands of articles written about the man. And most every story includes a photo with his inexplicable hair.

That’s got to be embarrassing.

Why Buy the Cow…

You know what’s not awesome?

Turning on HGTV and seeing yet another episode of House Hunters featuring an unmarried couple shopping for a home. Let me paint a picture for you.

I’ll turn to the show when it’s already been on for a few minutes. I’ll see a man and a woman, and their realtor, looking for a new house. Immediately, my brain thinks, “Here is a married couple. I think they should pick house #2.”

Fast forward to the end of the show. They’ve selected their house, and now we get to see how they are doing six months or so later. This is how it usually goes down:

Woman: “We love our new house.”

Man: “One of the first things we did when we moved in was paint the kitchen.”

Woman: “We finally have a fenced-in backyard for our dog. And if that wasn’t wonderful enough, (name of man) proposed to me two weeks ago.”

Call me old fashioned if you must, but when did the whole “living together before marriage” thing become commonplace?

I don’t mean to offend or pick on anyone’s life choices. It just frustrates me that this has become the norm because it means people like my younger sisters grow up seeing (and possibly believing) it’s the norm. And if it IS the norm now, count me among the prudes who believe it shouldn’t be.

“How can we know we’re compatible if we don’t live together first,” some would argue.

“You don’t buy shoes without trying them on first, right?”

No, no I don’t.

But I also don’t take shoes from the store home with me and sleep with them for a year or two before deciding to buy them.

I’m classy like that.

The World Health Organization (WHO) announced Thursday it will would stop using the term “swine flu” to avoid confusion over the danger posed by pigs. The policy shift came a day after Egypt began slaughtering thousands of pigs in a misguided effort to prevent swine flu.

“Rather than calling this swine flu … we’re going to stick with the technical scientific name H1N1 influenza A,” (WHO spokesman Dick) Thompson said.

That’s right.

Despite the fact anyone who has read more than a few sentences of information on swine flu knows that pigs do not have the virus and humans cannot catch it by eating pork, Egypt began slaughtering roughly 300,000 pigs on Wednesday in an attempt at preventing swine flu.

This is arguably the stupidest thing Egypt has done since Pharaoh repeatedly refused to let God’s people go.

On behalf of guys everywhere named Kevin, I’m glad they didn’t name the virus “Kev flu.” I do sort of wish they had named the thing “Pauly Shore flu” or “Lindsay Lohan flu.” Wait, is that too mean? Sorry.

I hope there is no one out there with the name “H1N1 influenza A”, though. With the weird names parents give kids these days, it’s at least a possibility. I hope not, though, because — if so — that kid is screwed.

Of course, Egypt is not alone in its stupidity.

China, Russia, Ukraine and several other nations have banned pork exports from Mexico and parts of the United States. Why? Because they think they’ll catch swine flu from the pork.

Even world-renowned genius Paris Hilton is confused. When asked if she was concerned about the swine flu virus, Paris explained she was not due to the fact, “I don’t eat that.”

My head is starting to throb…

Your honor, I rest my case.

“When is Kev going to tell us what to do,” you’ve likely all been wondering. Your patience will be rewarded, my friends. Much like I did when the SARS pandemic hit a few years ago, I am going shed some light on the situation.

What’s that? I never blogged about SARS?

Oh.

Well, in that case I’m just going to write some random thoughts I’ve had lately about the pig flu.

If these are insightful and helpful, it’s totally by accident.

…

As child, I never understood why Charlotte in Charlotte’s Web died. But now I know. Wilbur gave her pig flu.

Those weren’t tears of sadness Wilbur was shedding.

They were tears of guilt!

…

Obama recently announced that people should not be alarmed by the pig flu pandemic. Looking beyond the fact I become alarmed whenever anything comes out of Obama’s mouth, hasn’t the man learned that every time he speaks on a topic, people dissect his words and overreact?

Heck, every time the man comments on the stock market, positively or negatively, people panic and the market goes down. If I somehow knew ahead of time when he was going to comment on the economy to reporters, I could make a fortune.

Anyway, by him saying there is no reason to be alarmed, a good chunk of the country is now alarmed. That’s just how it works.

Way to go, Obama. Maybe next time you can give a quote telling small children there is no reason to be alarmed by the monsters living under their beds.

If there is no reason to be alarmed, just shut up about it!

…

Even though you can’t get the pig flu by eating pork, I bet somewhere in the world there is a Jewish boy around the age of 12 who is sweating bullets because of the BLT sandwich he ate last weekend at his friend Johnny’s house.

…

I have no scientific basis for this theory, but if I come down with the pig flu I am going to rub kosher salt all over my skin.

…

I don’t understand why all of these U.S. citizens are visiting Mexico in the first place. Don’t they realize we have a New Mexico right here in the good ol’ USA?

I bet these are the same people who keep going to the old mall in town even after a new one opens.

…

I’m glad karma isn’t real. Otherwise, I so would be getting pig flu because of this blog post.

Are any of you worried about this pig flu pandemic? Do you think it will be contained pretty soon, or that the worst is yet to come?

In other words, you get sadness.

Still, I want to write something for the handful of you out there to read. Below are two posts I wrote at my old blog back in the day. They’ve never been published on SKOS, so they are going to be brand new to most of you.

The first one is a shorty but (hopefully) goody about a strange guy I met at the gym. After that is one of the very few surveys/memes I’ve taken in my lifetime. When you see my silly answers, you’ll understand why I rarely bother.

This first post was written on June 15, 2005.

I’ve heard it argued that Wal-Mart is the place to go to watch how people act, if you’re so inclined (if you go at 2 am you will supposedly get quite a show in the absurd). Personally, I always thought the mall was the place to go for such a thing. It struck me today that the gym is a good place, too.

Watching how people choose to dress while at the gym is a form of
entertainment in itself. At what age are men required to start wearing their socks high with shorts? Why do some men tuck in their shirts at the gym? Just seems odd.

The conversations are interesting, too. Today, a guy who had been running on the treadmill for almost an hour began recruiting those of us around him to go drinking tonight. For one thing, who goes out drinking on a Wednesday? Secondly, who asks complete strangers — both male and female — to go out drinking?

Coincidentally, this guy was also responsible for the most oddly amusing conversation I heard today. On one of the televisions, a Kylie Minogue music video was playing (he thought it was Mariah Carey, but I guess that doesn’t really matter). The guy went on, and on, and on, and on about how much he liked the video. I should point out his admiration had absolutely nothing to do with the music. When another music video with a female of note appeared on the tv, the guy would start up again. Keep in mind, he was not talking to anyone specifically. He was just talking for the sake of
talking.

In some bar tonight, there is a drunk guy sitting alone and talking to no one in particular about Mariah Carey. I can only assume he’ll go to Wal-Mart afterward.

And here is a survey I did back on August 9, 2006. If any of you are bored, feel free to leave your own answers in the comment section.

1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, and find line 4.

“And that, dear readers, is why I shaved my beard and left ZZ Top.” It is from a book I am writing called “My Life: Fact or Fiction?”

2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What can you touch?

My collection of 32 oz. Subway cups on my desk. To date, I have 22 of them.

3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?

That would be the Atlanta Braves game last night against the Phillies. They had mercy on me and won, 3-1.

4. Without looking, guess what time it is.

2:21 PM.

5. Now look at the clock. What is the actual time?

10:23 AM. Boy, that is embarrassing.

6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?

Only the voices in my head. No, wait…that’s just Rich, the co-worker who shares my office. Silly Rich, stop telling me to burn the building down.

7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?

This morning. I was stepping out of my car to enter the building where I work.

8. Before you started this survey, what did you look at?

The photo of the Smoltz Bobblehead I keep on my desk.

9. What are you wearing?

The same thing I always wear to work: swim trunks, turtleneck sweater, black socks, flip flops and a smile.

10. Did you dream last night?

I’m not much for dreams.

11. When did you last laugh?

That would be last evening during game night. While playing poker, my friend Emily said something to the effect of “I don’t sound like a horse, do I?” I responded, “no, you don’t *sound* like a horse.” Five seconds later she caught on to what I said, at which point I laughed. Hey, they can’t all be winners, folks.

12. What is on the walls of the room you are in?

I’m in my office. I’m a guy. My walls are completely bare except for the Monty Python poster in the corner.

13. Seen anything weird lately?

I saw a spider on the ceiling of my bedroom. I didn’t have anything to kill him with, so I tried spraying him with objects in my bathroom. In my research, I found that Hugo Boss cologne works much better than Axe Body Spray at making spiders smell nice. However, neither is very good at killing them.

(For whatever reason, I skipped #14. Maybe I forgot? Or maybe I was at war with the number 14 back in the day?)

15. What is the last film you saw?

In theatres, Lady in the Water. On DVD, Munich. If you are looking for a good comedy, I recommend neither.

16. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy?

Truck needs fixin’.

17. Tell me something about you that I don’t know.

Three of my friends are former students of mine. My mom affectionately refers to two of them as my “stalkers.”

18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or
politics, what would you do?

Every day would be Casual Friday.

19. Do you like to dance?

I have two left feet. Two large, deformed, uncoordinated left feet.

20. George W Bush:

Former owner of the Texas Rangers.

21. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?

LaQuisha.

22. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him?

Superfly.

23. Would you ever consider living abroad?

Depends on how long. One week on a vacation? Sure. Otherwise, probably no.

24. What do you want God to say to you when you reach the pearly gate?

“There he is. High five!”

25. Four or Five people who must also do this quiz in THEIR journal?

All who read my blog…

That’s all for now, folks. If you’ve missed me, let me know by leaving a comment or two or ten.

That was 18 months and some odd days ago.

A lot can happen in that length of time, right?

In 18 months and some odd days, a little boy with bad hand-eye coordination can learn how to play catch with his dad without the ball hitting him square in the eye.

In 18 months and some odd days, Axl Rose of Guns ‘n’ Roses could write and record almost two entire songs.

In 18 months and some odd days, Barack Obama can go from a senator with a questionable background and no experience to a legitimate presidential candidate with a questionable background and no experience.

In 18 months and some odd days, Samuel L. Jackson can appear in 10 or 11 movies.

In 18 months and some odd days, Paris Hilton can go from an inexplicably-popular tramp with no redeemable qualities to an inexplicably-popular tramp with no redeemable qualities in prison. Then to an inexplicably-popular tramp with no redeemable qualities who is also an ex-con. Then to an inexplicably-popular tramp with no redeemable qualities who is also an ex-con and who has a reality TV show where people compete to be her “best friend forever.”

Like I said, a lot can happen in 18 months and some odd days.

So why is it the bad drivers of the world haven’t gotten ANY better at parking?!?

As I left the gym and walked to my car in the parking lot this morning, my eyes immediately noticed the car next to me.

“Boy, he looks like he’s pretty close to me,” I thought to myself.

When I got to my car I saw the work of what is likely the worst driver ever to park beside me.

My car was perfectly square between my two lines. My car is pointed straight ahead. To give you a visual, the nose of my car is at twelve o’clock and the rear of my car is at six o’clock.

The nose of the sedan to the left of me was at about 10:30. The rear of his car was at 4:30. His right, rear tire was 100% in my parking space a mere six inches from my rear, left tire.

It was the most ridiculous parking job I’d ever witnessed. How he managed not to hit my car is a miracle.

And what made it doubly ridiculous is the parking lot was practically empty. The guy could have parked anywhere. But he chose that space. The one right beside me. And he did it blindfolded, apparently.

With unemployment high, I propose new police officers be hired in every town and city in the country. These officers will have one mission: to write tickets to people who cannot properly park.

Their job would be simple. If they come across a parked vehicle that is touching one of the parking lines, they give the driver a $50 ticket.

If they come across a parked vehicle that’s crossed one of the parking lines, they give the driver a $100 fine.

Once a person gets three parking tickets, their vehicle will be auctioned off for charity and they will lose their driver’s license — permanently.

It’s brilliant, don’t you think?

It will give jobs to people who currently do not have jobs.

It will stimulate the economy since the parking fines will be given to business owners (the ones who will be taxed to death by Obama).

It will help charities.

And best of all, it will get these freaks who don’t know how to park off the roads.

It’s a win-win-win-win situation.

Who’s with me?!?

“Could Kev possibly be more vague,” you are all likely thinking.

Yes, I probably could.

But since reader comments lately at SKOS have been about as rare as pro-America quotes from Obama while he’s been touring the world, I’ll drop the vagueness.

This morning, I woke up 90 minutes earlier than usual. I put in my contacts. I stretched. And then I went to the gym and hung out with my favorite elliptical machine. Then I came home, showered, dressed and went about my work day as usual.

(In short, I went to the gym before work this morning.)

Now, I am NOT a morning person. Getting out of bed to exercise before work isn’t easy for me. On my difficulty scale, I would rank it just above “not going to the restroom after drinking four cups of coffee while watching it rain outside my window” and just behind “making time stand still with my mind.”

But like many people have said before, the hardest about going to the gym is getting up and going to the gym. Once you get past that hurdle, everything is golden.

I always feel better after exercising. No matter how out of shape I might be, I feel good while working out and I have more energy afterward. Plus, getting up at the butt crack of dawn to exercise makes it very easy to avoid food temptations during the day. For example, take the following conversation I had this morning:

“Would you like a doughnut,” a co-worker asked me. “I bought three dozen for the office to share.”

“No thanks,” I responded.

“Are you sure,” my co-worker shot back. “Do you like glazed or chocolate?”

“Thanks, but I’m trying to eat healthy,” I insisted.

“Healthy? Come on, one doughnut won’t hurt,” my co-worker, who clearly is a demon sent by Satan to tempt me, responded.

How did I respond?

Well, I’ll give you three potential choices. One of them is correct:

“Want to see me make this pencil disappear?”

“I am ignoring you now.”

“Do you get a bonus if you give me diabetes or something?”

That’s right. Don’t mess with me, evil co-worker. My tongue is as sharp as a very sharp object of some kind.

Anyway…

The only negative about all of this is I have to do it all again tomorrow.

Lord give me strength.

Do I sing along with the music as loud as I can? No, thankfully for my passenger, that’s not it.

Do I fall asleep at the wheel? I’m sure I would be an excellent driver even in Sleepy Town, but no…that’s not it either.

So what is it I do?

I supply a running commentary on every other driver on the road and the (usually) inexplicable things they are doing behind the wheels of their vehicles.

For example, here are some of the things my sister heard yesterday while she rode with me to church:

“Look at this idiot. Hey buddy, it’s raining. Turn on your lights.”

“There’s someone who just got her learner’s permit. I bet she’s on her way to the dentist to have her braces removed.”

“I’m not sure where this person is from, but in their country ‘green’ must mean ‘look for something in your purse until the guy behind you honks his horn.’”

“There’s another genius with his lights off. Is there a moron convention in town? Is that where they all are going?”

“Either this guy forgot to turn off his turn signal, or his car is winking at me.”

“I could be mistaken, but I think the guy in the car in front of us is blind.”

“That car makes me sad.”

“I know I say this often, but every other driver on the road right now is a part of a mass conspiracy to drive me insane.”

I wish I was joking. I actually say these things while driving.

In all honesty, I am a nice person. I have a laid-back personality. Things really don’t rattle me. But there’s just something about being behind the wheel of a car that brings out the Mr. Cranky Pants in me.

Maybe it’s because I’m such a directionally-challenged individual — it requires me to be extra aware of my surroundings, and as a result I observe all of the stupid things people are doing around me.

Maybe it’s because, when I first began learning to drive as a teenager, I was really bad at it. I didn’t drive fast, but it’s hard to fathom how anyone could be a worse driver than I was at age 17.

Maybe that is why I’m always critiquing the bad drivers of the world. I see a little part of me when I see them. I see the careless teenager who didn’t pay attention to what he was doing, much less what anyone else on the road was doing.

Yes, maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s why I critique them.

Or maybe it’s because they’re all morons.

“why is satan allways drawen so stupid”

A big thanks to Google for referring this reader to me.

Dear Reader,

I’m much too nice of a guy to openly mock your spelling and grammar. Someone less nice would point out the multiple misspellings in your Google search, but not me. Nope, that’s not my game.

What I will say is your…um, interesting choice of letter usage has caused me to be unsure of precisely what you were asking. Are you asking why Satan is always drawn stupid, or why Satan is always drawing stupid?

If it’s the former, I assume you are a Satan worshiper who doesn’t appreciate the way people depict your evil master in drawings. My comic strip of a cartoon Satan and Obama on a date would be a good example.

If it’s the latter, I assume you are an art critic who has seen some of Satan’s drawings.

Assuming the former, have you taken a good look at your evil master lately?

Come on, man. The guy is red and has horns coming out of his head! Do you know how hard it is to draw something red with horns and NOT have it look stupid? It’s pretty darn difficult.

And what’s with the pitchfork he’s always carrying around with him? Do you expect us artists to simply OMIT it when we depict him in a drawing? Not happening, buddy.

And don’t get me started on his goatee. We get it. You’re evil. Blah, blah, blah. Goatees might look cool in real life, but it’s hard to draw one and not have it look stupid.

Look, we don’t tell you how to kiss Satan’s a** do we? And we don’t tell him how to be all dark and evil, right? We don’t tell you how to do your job, so you don’t tell us how to do our job.

Got it?

Good.

Now, assuming it’s the latter, I couldn’t agree with you more. Satan’s an artistic hack who most definitely shouldn’t quit his day job.

Why we let him design our mascot for the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta is beyond me.

God is awesome,

kev

What sort of advice would YOU have given our friend/enemy here? As always, leave lots of and lots of comments — one or two or ten, preferrably.

As such, I’m sure most of you regulars are expecting me to do something big and over the top. After all, it was on last April Fool’s Day that I wrote four works of satire for a personal finance blog of all things. “Surely Kev has something ridiculous in store for today,” you’re probably thinking.

Here’s the thing.

It’s more or less April Fool’s every day of the year here at SKOS. Seriously, just think back to some of the stuff I’ve written in the past year.

April

I wrote about how the Atlanta Braves were going to be facing a pitcher who was also a brain-eating zombie.

May

I talked about how I am able to get over concussions and the bird flu simply by thinking awesome thoughts.

June

I wrote a letter asking parents to stop expecting me to teach their children how to properly act in society.

July

I wrote a news story about how the artist currently and formerly known as Prince was brutally attacked by an assailant that just happens to look a lot like me.

August

I gave some tips to teachers that included, among other things, shooting rubber bands at the heads of students and telling them you once shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.

September

I wrote about how leather chaps will always and forever be in style.

October

I compared SKOS to the movie The Ring and told readers they would die if they didn’t tell other people about the site.

November

I wrote about how a Freddie Prinze Jr. movie is responsible for the plague that is the Obama presidency.

December

I gave dating advice and offered the following gold nugget of relationship wisdom: “People respect people who do not respect people’s boundaries.”

January

I gave advice to a mom who didn’t like the loser her daughter was dating. My advice? Kill the boyfriend, go to prison, and let me date her daughter.

February

I revealed a number of tidbits about myself, including the one about how the future homecoming queen at my high school drove me to our junior prom because I did not yet have my driver’s license. No one seems to believe this actually happened.

March

I created a series of comic strips. One of them depicted Satan and Obama having dinner together and being on the verge of making out.

See what I mean?

April Fool’s Day to a site like mine is like Halloween to a vampire or Columbus Day to Christopher Columbus.

It’s boring.

It’s crass.

It’s laaaaaaaame.

(In short, I totally would have participated this year, but I just couldn’t think of anything funny.)