On the lazy scale, there’s people who ask other people to get them things instead of getting up and getting the things themselves, there’s people who go to the gym for the sole purpose of sitting in the steam room, there’s me in high school during summer break, and there’s these people.

I realize that some people have difficulty walking.

Maybe they’re injured? Maybe they have a bad hip? Maybe they have young children? Maybe they’re in high heels?

I remind myself of these possibilities whenever I go to a parking lot and see vehicles who sit and wait forever for a “close” parking space to open. Never mind the fact there are numerous free parking places about thirty yards away, these individuals are content to hover around the parking lot and wait for something closer.

I know some of them have legitimate reasons to need a closer parking space, but I also know that more than a few of them are waiting simply because they don’t want to walk.

These people bug me to no end. But sadly, earlier this week, I became one of these people.

Our town’s hospital is short on space. There isn’t enough parking to accommodate everyone, there aren’t enough hospital rooms to accommodate everyone, and there isn’t enough parking to accommodate everyone. It’s so bad, the hospital is buying up property all around it so that it can expand.

There are about 80 parking places in the front of the hospital. All other parking places are on the far side of it several football fields away. If you have to park there, you will have to walk for a long time…in the heat…and possibly in high heels.

With my mom back in town and ready to see my dad at the hospital, we drove to the front parking lot hoping to find a spot. No such luck. Did I say “oh well” and proceed to drive to the back of the hospital?

No.

I stayed right there and waited for a space to open.

For ten minutes.

Did a little bit of me die inside as I sat there and waited? Of course. Would I do it all over again if given the chance? Yes.

Don’t judge me, people. Don’t judge me unless you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.

Coincidentally, that’s about how long my mom and I would have had to walk if we parked in the back…

The following will likely come off as a rant (this is me, after all), but it’s needed so that I can give some helpful, possibly life-saving advice in case you or a loved one is ever faced with a similar predicament. It’s also a cathartic exercise for me.

Emergency Rooms are where sick people go to sit and wait. Many of the doctors, nurses and staff who work at them are truly wonderful, caring people. But many others are not. Many are people who were born to hold jobs that do not require contact of any kind with other human beings, but have instead chosen a vocation that requires them to help and comfort other individuals who are scared, hurting and tired. And even if an ER is filled with good employees, it might be too small to address patients in a timely manner. Either way, the end result is the same: ER is the place sick people go to sit and wait.

My dad checked into the ER at 9:30 on a Thursday evening with severe pain in his side. He could barely move, and he suspected it was his appendix. At 5:00 the following morning, the ER finally calls him back to run tests. But they do not runs tests for appendicitis; instead, they run other tests first. When those checked out, they finally check for appendicitis. This was 8:00 that morning. At 10:00, they realize that, yes, it is his appendix. So they schedule him for surgery – a 2:00 pm surgery, four hours later.

Between the time they ran tests at 8:00 in the morning and performed his surgery at 2:00 in the afternoon, my dad’s appendix burst. He was waiting, in the hospital, when his appendix burst.

It took the ER 7.5 hours from the time my dad checked in before they admitted him. It took them 10.5 hours from the time he checked in before running tests for his appendix, the area he told them had been hurting. It took them 16.5 hours from the time he checked in with possible appendicitis before they performed the surgery to remove it.

Even though my dad checked himself into the ER approximately 13 hours before his appendix burst, it still burst. And the difference between having your appendix removed before it bursts and having it removed after is the difference between staying one day in the hospital and one week – if you’re lucky.

Here is a fact that would have saved my dad a lot of grief, and could save you or a loved one grief (or worse) in the future:

If my dad had called 911 and had an ambulance bring him into the ER instead of driving himself, he would have immediately been checked in and had tests run on him. There would have been no 7.5 hours of waiting. His tests would have been run immediately, and his appendix would have been removed before it burst. How do I know? I know because I’ve witnessed my brother call 911 for the exact same thing, and he didn’t have to endure even one minute in the ER waiting room. He also didn’t have to endure having his appendix burst.

“You shouldn’t call 911 except for ‘real’ emergencies,” you say?

What is a “real” emergency? Most rational people are not going to visit the ER for just anything. The notion that you have to be shot or experiencing a heart attack or stroke to be worthy of an ambulance is nonsense. I don’t buy it for a second.

If it’s an emergency – be it appendicitis so bad you can’t move, your child having fallen and hit her head, or your pacemaker going off in the middle of the night while you were sleeping – it warrants a 911 call. That doesn’t mean you have to call 911, but it means it’s worthy of a 911 call if you choose to make it. The ambulance’s relatively small financial cost will be more than worth it if it prevents you from enduring an extended stay at the hospital as a result of not having your condition treated in time.

Thank you to everyone who has commented the past few days and kept my dad in their prayers. He’s getting better each day, and we’re hopeful he’ll get to go home Thursday, 9/27.

I haven’t updated since Thursday and likely won’t be updating until tomorrow due to my dad having his appendix taken out Friday morning. It burst on him early Friday – while he was at the hospital waiting, no less – so his recovery will take a bit of time. He’s doing well, though, and tentatively due to be released from the hospital on Thursday.

Your prayers are appreciated.

Today’s installment of Dear Reader goes out to the individual from Amstelveen, Noord-Holland in the Netherlands who browsed my site today for 3 hours, 13 minutes and 58 seconds. A big thanks to humor-blogs.com for referring this individual.

Dear Reader,

Wow. What can I say? Thank you for visiting my site and staying for such a long time. My records show that you viewed 85 different posts of mine. Again, wow.

It saddens me that you did not leave me any comments, though. For one thing, your leaving a comment would have given me a way to contact you and say thanks – either by e-mail or, if you supplied a web address, leaving a comment of my own at your site. Secondly, just like a zombie needs to eat brains, my blog needs comments in order to thrive. Juicy, delicious, stick-to-your ribs comments.

You know, something here just doesn’t seem right. There are only two reasons someone would browse a blog for over three hours, but not leave a single comment:

1. My sarcastic wit left them speechless to the point they were unable to think of a worthy comment.
2. They are not an individual at all. Rather, they are a cat who jumped on its owner’s keyboard, accidentally opened my site, and then proceeded to lay down on top of the keyboard for 3 hours, 13 minutes and 58 seconds.

If it is the former, do not be awestruck, my friend. I am like you, only more awesome. Please, in the future, leave me comments. Even a poor comment is better than no comment at all.

If it is the latter, GET OFF THE KEYBOARD, KITTY!

Thanks again,

kev

Update: The mystery reader has been found! Not only that, she has read this blog post of mine, left a comment (see below), and written a post on her site that praised SKOS as “by far the funniest blog on the Internet.” Click here to check out her post (and to confirm I didn’t just make this up). Thanks, CC (aka Kitty)!

On September 13th, OJ Simpson and two co-defendants allegedly pointed guns at two individuals, taking their sports memorabilia along with the cell phone of one of the individuals and the baseball cap and sunglasses of the other individual.

Call me a skeptic, but that doesn’t sound like the OJ Simpson I know.

Simpson might be many things, but he isn’t an armed robber. Oh sure, he has previously killed two people in cold blood. I’ll give you that. But armed robber? That just isn’t him. To claim otherwise is a slap in the face to all good-natured, quasi-evil murderers everywhere.

Just look at the facts.

In this case, Simpson is charged with pointing a gun. A gun. Does that sound like OJ Simpson to you? Simpson’s weapon of choice has, and always will be, a knife. As Johnnie Cochran would say, “if the weapons aren’t the same, you must do something that rhymes with ’same’ but means let him go.”

Also, Simpson is alleged to have had the two co-defendants help him commit the robbery. I don’t think so. OJ Simpson likes to work alone. He worked alone when he was carrying the football for the Buffalo Bills back in the day, and he worked alone when he murdered Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman. He’s a lone wolf. A good-natured, quasi-evil, murdering lone wolf.

Another hole in the prosecution’s case is the failure to make any mention of Simpson wearing gloves in the alleged robbery. As we all know, Simpson likes to wear tiny gloves barely large enough to fit onto his hands when he is about to commit a crime. Are we really supposed to believe Simpson committed a crime gloveless, using a gun instead of a knife, and with two sidekicks? I’m not buying it.

And finally, the biggest hole in the prosecution’s case is the little matter of the two robbed individuals still being alive. If Simpson was truly involved, don’t you think both of them would be dead right now?

What saddens me most about this heinous accusation is how it will impact children. Instead of growing up in a world where you immediately associate the name OJ Simpson with “double murderer who got away with it,” they might have to grow up in a world where you instead think, “OJ Simpson: armed robber.”

I don’t know about you, but that brings a tear to my eye.

In thirteen years playing baseball and three years coaching, I never experienced a fight on or off the field. Oh sure, we had our share of batters being hit by pitches and players becoming angry, but nothing serious. Had I ever experienced a fight of some sort, even a small one, I might have been better prepared for what happened that summer evening in 2005 – the evening I was introduced to Softball Fight Club.

The summer after my high school teaching and coaching career came to a close, I volunteered to be my dad’s assistant coach on a girl’s fast-pitch softball team for ages 15 to 18. Both of my sisters were on the team, and this was to be the last time they would be playing together before the oldest went off to college.

Naturally, thanks in large part to my awesome coaching ability, we were the best team in the league. However, there was one other elite team in the league that played in another town, a team we had yet to play. It was a team that physically scared the other teams in our league, especially in games played in that team’s town. The players on this team were aggressive and intense, and the parents and fans of this team were loud and obnoxious. They would taunt the other teams and yell at the umpires. No one felt safe when they played them. Why this team in a completely different town was allowed to be a part of our league was a mystery to many.

Mid-way through the season, the time came for our team to play the team in the next town. The game was in their town and at night. A severe thunderstorm was predicted. And I’m pretty sure I saw numerous black cats running under ladders on the way to the game.

It was a 4-4 game in the top of the third inning when things went haywire. We were batting, and our lead-off hitter grounded a ball to the shortstop. The shortstop’s throw was wide and into the runner, so the first baseman had to come off the bag and tag the runner as she came down the line. It was a hard – but clean – tag to our player’s head that knocked her to the ground.

To say our player, the runner, overreacted would be a huge understatement.

From the ground, she took off her helmet and clubbed the first baseman in the head with it. I believe an obscenity was also uttered. Needless to say, the other team’s first baseman did not respond kindly to this assault.

More obscenities were uttered as the first baseman did her best Lord of the Dance impression on our player’s torso. As the first base coach, I was the closest to the fight so I swooped in and separated the two. I used the only thing I had handy, my body, as a shield between my player and the four or five opposing players who were now there ready to do some butt kickin’.

Two things prevented this from being a riot: The other team’s coaches blocked any of their fans or players on the bench from running onto the field to join the circus, and my dad was somehow able to fend off the five or six large men from our fan base who were trying to run onto to the field as well. Since I was able to break up the fight (none of the girls dared mess with my awesome kung-fu skills) in a somewhat timely manner, the prevention of additional players and fans running onto the field kept a really bad event from turning into the kind of thing you would hear about on the nightly news.

Of course, our player, the one who had gotten her butt kicked, did her best to get all of us lynched in the parking lot by continuing to yell obscenities at the other team. She even got a few of our other players to join in.

Not wanting to die that night, I did what any man would do in that situation.

“Hey…is that Bob Saget,” I yelled.

Okay, that last part isn’t true. But the rest is 100% real. I had the bruises to prove it. 

Most of the stories I like to tell about my days as a high school teacher involve my students. The time a student turned in a research paper on the history of hamburgers for computer class is an obvious example. Still, a few stories involve my co-workers (i.e. my fellow teachers).

In an organization with mostly older individuals who were at best computer illiterate and at worst terrified computers would soon take over the world and enslave all humans, I was bestowed the title of resident, all-knowing “computer guy” when I came on board.

Now, some of you can already relate to my predicament. Perhaps you have a friend who is technologically challenged and who relies on you to help them whenever they need to send an e-mail attachment? Maybe you have a loved one who needs your help every time they have to print something? Or maybe you have a relative who calls you in a panic every time the words they type are “magically” displayed in all capital letters? Now, imagine if you had 100 such friends, relatives or loved ones.

The biggest problem with being “the computer guy” is you cannot walk from Point A to Point B without someone relaying a computer problem to you. The simple act of walking thirty yards to the restroom can take ten minutes. To remedy this, you either have to wait to go to the restroom when the hallway is empty or (my personal favorite) create a diversion. I was particularly fond of the Bob Saget Diversionary Tactic. For those who don’t remember or have never heard of it, this tactic has two parts:

• I ask, “hey…is that Bob Saget?” whenever someone is about to ask me a question, and
• I run away as soon as the person turns to look.

Now, to be fair, an overwhelming majority of the computer-related requests I received were valid and unavoidable. But then there were the other requests. The “I forgot my password again” requests. The “I know we’re two months into the school year, but remind me again how to record classroom attendance in the computer” requests. And, my favorite, the “my computer broke/died” requests.

The “my computer broke/died” requests took on many forms. Sometimes, a teacher would come up and verbally tell me their computer had “died.” It was only after I pressed them for more information would I discover that, to them, “died” meant they couldn’t print or check their e-mail.

Sometimes, these requests would be relayed to me in the form of sticky notes left on my classroom door. “Kevin, my computer broke, please come look at it when you get a chance. – Room 314.” In these instances, I would go see the teacher, ask a few follow-up questions, and eventually discover the issue dealt with their speakers not properly working.

My favorite “computer broke/died” moment came when I went back to my classroom after lunch to find a sticky note taped to my door. It said that the person’s computer had died. A frowny face was drawn in the corner. And no name or room number was anywhere to be found. Apparently, in addition to being the resident computer guy, this teacher believed I was also the resident psychic – capable of deciphering the authors of anonymous sticky notes.

Long story short, this time the computer really had died. If I had been able to get to the computer sooner (i.e. if I hadn’t had to waste time asking every teacher if they wrote the sticky note), maybe something could have been done to save it. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me as I consoled the teacher, who was weeping uncontrollably.

“We’ll get you another,” I said.

“Try not to kill this one.”

For all practical purposes, this blog of mine is not yet two months old. Sure, I registered the domain way back in 2003, but it sat around doing nothing for years. When I finally started using it, all it did was point to my old Wordpress.com blog. The older posts you find here came over from that blog, in fact. As such, innovations like promoting the site and tracking the visitors who come here are fairly recent developments for me.

I write all that to say it truly, truly pains me that I have not been tracking my visitors since the beginning. Seriously, seeing how some people arrived at my site is comedy magic.

Because the topics I write about are all over the map (I’ve talked about a cat I expect is a serial killer, written a tribute to Orville Redenbacher, written a fake news story where the Atlanta Braves euthanize one of their pitchers, etc.), the search terms that can be used to bring people to my site is absurdly amazing.

That is why I have to decided to add a new feature to the site called Dear Reader. Occasionally, whenever a particularly “interesting” search term is used by someone to get to my site, I will write a letter to that individual here on my site. It’s my way of giving back.

First up is an individual from San Gwann in the country of Malta, who came to my site after typing the search “what do aliens feed on” into Google.

Dear Mulder,

Thank you for visiting my site! The post I wrote on September 7th titled Do Aliens Have Feet? is likely the reason my site came back in your search results. I am hopeful my post, which theorized aliens were stealing my socks, was helpful to you. However, I know there is at least a small chance my post did not contain the information for which you were looking. The possibility that my site failed you troubles me, so I would now like to attempt to answer your question.

What do aliens feed on? First, let me say that this is an excellent question and not the least bit psychotic. Aliens, like us humans, are fans of Chinese food. Sweet and sour pork, beef and broccoli, egg rolls and mushroom chicken are some of their favorites. Also, I believe they like to eat my socks.

I hope this was helpful to you, Mr. Mulder. In the off-chance you reenter your search into Google, I’m confident this post will show up very high in the results so you can see it.

I hope you have a wonderful day. Good luck with the aliens.

kev

P.S. Please don’t hurt me.

I know what you are thinking right now.

“I wonder how many times Kev has eaten Chinese food for lunch the past two years?”

Wonder no more, my friend. The answer is fifteen. I have eaten Chinese food fifteen times for lunch in the past two years. I know this for two reasons: 1) my memory is that awesome, and 2) I have not cleaned my desk in two years and all of the fortunes from my fortune cookies are in one of my desk drawers.

Now, you’re probably wondering what message was on each of those fifteen fortunes. My, aren’t you the curious one. I like that about you. Okay, I’ll give you a few.

Generosity and perfection are your everlasting goals.

Well, I did give a homeless man $5 at an Atlanta Hawks game one time. And this one time, in college, I got a 99 on a paper and was really bummed that I didn’t get a 100.

Cookies go stale. Fortunes are forever.

This one is too deep for me to even make a comment.

You need not worry about your future.

Well, that’s a load off. I guess this means I can blow my savings/retirement and buy William Shatner’s toupee on eBay. I can finally live the dream.

The next full moon brings an enchanting evening.

Does this mean…I’m going to meet and fall in love with a werewolf?

You will be awarded some great honor.
Keep up the good work. You’ll soon be rewarded.
Good things are coming in due course time.

Wow, three different fortunes with the same general theme. This can only mean one thing: That Best Blog of All Time award is mine!

Life to you is a dashing and bold adventure.

And how!

Considered to be a fairly logical and level-headed individual, I bring a critic’s eye to most things. However, the accuracy of these fortunes compels me to state, without pause or apprehension, that the individual who wrote these fortunes is a spot-on, psychic genius.

Of course, this also means his/her “werewolf” prediction is true. Wow. Okay, the next full moon is on September 26. I should get her a gift. Should I buy a box of chocolates, or just run over a squirrel or something?

Thoughts?

As part of my continuing (I just started doing this today) effort to show my loyal readers (all four of you) exciting, cool things online (i.e. things that will benefit me in some way), I want to quickly write about the Blogger’s Choice Awards (and why you should go vote for me).

What are the Blogger’s Choice Awards, you ask (as if the name didn’t give it away)? I’m glad you asked. It is a site where anyone (this means YOU) can nominate and vote for your favorite blogs in numerous categories. You can even nominate and vote for your own blog (no comment).

You have to register at their site, but it’s quick and free and once you do it you’ll be able to nominate and vote for as many blogs as you like (Note: do not vote for any blog that is competing against me in a category).

So why participate (as if the honor of voting for me isn’t enough)? Well, for one, it’s fun. You’ll come into contact with all sorts of new and interesting blogs. Secondly, it will save Christmas and help puppies all over the world (no explanation necessary). Thirdly, and most importantly, you can help someone – anyone – beat Rosie O’Donnell in the “Best Celebrity Blogger” category (a category she’s handily winning at the moment).

“What about you,” you ask? Oh sure, I suppose you could vote for my blog while you are there. That would be very nice of you. I am currently nominated in two categories: Best Blog of All Time and Best Humor Blog. Whoever nominated me (no comment) must really admire my site.

I have a dilemma on my hands.

Since I moved to my new office earlier this year, I have come into contact with someone or something that I am allergic to. At home, no sneezing. At work, it’s Sneezapalooza. I sneeze so hard and so often, co-workers are afraid to bring their small children into the building for fear I will scare and/or injure them. There is also the little matter of it being difficult to get your work done when you are sneezing every 2.81 seconds.

So where’s the dilemma? Unlike everyone else in the world, I look good when I sneeze.

It’s true. Granted, I have been unable to visually confirm this since my eyes are closed when I sneeze (and even if they weren’t, my image does not reflect in mirrors), but I have it on good authority I am one handsome devil when I do one of my patented “having to sneeze at the exact moment I am drinking coffee” tricks. True, the individual who stated it had that creepy “stalker” vibe about him, but a compliment’s a compliment.

You know how sometimes you feel a sneeze coming, you prepare for it (even getting your hand ready to cover your mouth and nose), and then nothing happens? If you’ve ever seen someone do this, you know how silly it looks. That is, except when I do it. When I do it, I might as well be posing for a magazine photographer. How else do you explain the multiple co-workers who have taken pictures of me in the act with their cell phones?

What’s a guy to do?

Do I buy some Flonase to keep the sneezing fits at bay, or do I keep a zip lock bag of pollen on me at all times? Do I choose a healthy work environment, or do I embrace a world of germy goodness?

Do I keep the male model inside me trapped, or do I set him free?

It’s like Sophie’s Choice…whatever that means.

Call me an optimist, but I’m still keeping my fingers crossed that O.J. will one day find the real killer…

Call me an optimist, but I believe history will prove Milli Vanilli sang their own songs…

Call me an optimist, but I still contend Steven, the super-annoying Dell Dude, was framed…

I have seen the future and it is not pretty. Society is divided into two groups:

1. Those who wear Bluetooth headsets on their ears, and

2. Those who want to punch in the face those who wear them.

I am growing very tired of passwords. There are just way, way, way too many to remember. My e-mail account has a password. My bank accounts have passwords. My place of employment requires several passwords. My retirement account has a password. My blog has a password.

Passwords…PASSWORDS…PASSWORDS!

It’s enough to drive a sane man to drink Diet Pepsi.

I, for one, am tired of having to remember all of these different passwords. I’m only one man. There is only so much information I can fit into my brain. True, I could purge my brain of some seemingly irrelevant items to clear space (Did you know Jim Presley was the third baseman for the Atlanta Braves in 1990, the year before Terry Pendleton came aboard and the team started its dynasty?), but doing so would be insanity. Why should my awesome knowledge of sports and pop culture have to be erased simply to make room for some stupid passwords?

I propose we do away with passwords altogether. They are archaic. We’re all adults, right? We’re all good, honest people, right? Surely we can switch to the honor system.

I promise not to raid your checking account if you promise not to raid mine. I promise not to sign into your e-mail account and send lots of spam to people if you promise the same. Etc. Etc.

It’s as simple as that.

Frankly, I see no potential negatives to this idea.