The following is an actual eBay auction description I used for a couple copies of “Guitar Hero” I bought at my local Target after I heard there was a shortage of them in some parts of the world. Ever the honest soul, I thought I’d lay a little truth and wisdom on the prospective buyers to be. Enjoy.

Waited until the last minute? Your kid is dying to get the hottest game this Christmas, but all the store shelves are empty? Is your child one of those kids that insistently whines when he doesn’t get what he wants?

Do you want to have stress free Christmas just once? Well, this might be your last chance to shut that spoiled brat up. Better yet, you need to show that kid who is boss. If I were you, I would buy this silly game for myself, and make the kid sit there and watch me play it until I got bored, and just throw it in the trash. That will teach that young punk.

I don’t think you can put a price on that type of satisfaction, so feel free to bid this item up.

“He’s trying to destroy my son. ALL of you are!” – parent of one of my former students

I am not yet married. I have no children. For many, these facts render my point of view regarding anything to do with parenthood irrelevant and totally useless. That might be true. Of course, I think these facts also mean that I am detached and impartial. If you combine these with my having been a high school teacher and coach for three years, positions that required me to be a sometimes unwilling participant in the parent-child dynamic, I think I have an unique perspective on the topic.

So what’s my perspective? Sadly, I believe too many parents and children are out of their freakin’ minds.

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There’s an awful rumor making the rounds lately that needs to be taken behind a shed and whipped with a stick.

I am not turning 30. It is scientifically impossible. Any claim to the contrary is a slap in the face to science and all things truly awesome.

Facts are facts: I am too youthful to be turning 30. My face is virtually wrinkle free. Some will tell you this is simply a result of my having avoided the sun like the plague. To that I say: “Have you seen George Hamilton lately? The sun is out to get us all!”

Oh sure, the birth date on my driver’s license indicates I am about to turn 30. But that is obviously a typo. Or, more likely, it was a deliberate mistake made by a DMV worker jealous of my youthful glow.

And yes, my high school graduation was 11 years ago. In theory, if I graduated at 18, that puts me right near the age of 30. But you see, people, I was a prodigy – a modern-day Doogie Howser, if you will. In short, it’s my contention that I graduated high school around the age of 12 or 13.

And okay, there might be photos approximately one year old in circulation showing yours truly blowing out candles on a birthday cake that reads, “Happy 29th Birthday, Kevin.” But haven’t you people ever heard of Photoshop? Those photos are obviously doctored.

The issue at hand is why. Why is this rumor out there?

That’s the real question, isn’t it? Why? The how and the who is just scenery for the public. Keeps ‘em guessing like some kind of parlor game, prevents ‘em from asking the most important question, why? Why was the rumor of my turning 30 thrown out there? Who benefited? Who has the power to cover it up? Who?

Clearly, someone is threatened by my awesomeness. They fear what they do not understand. The lies about my age, the ant attacks, the threat of Paris Hilton, Keanu Reeves movie career – don’t you see, it’s all connected.

Someone or something out there wants me crazy.

Wait, is that a wrinkle…

Lately, I’ve been kind of trying to get back into my old healthy habits like drinking more water and eating 6 smaller meals spread across the day. Well, with drinking almost a gallon of water a day you have to expel that much more fluid, so I’m spending a lot more time in the bathroom, and it would appear to the uninformed observer that I have the bladder control of a pregnant lady or of an 80 year old man.

Anyways, it got busy at work and I went longer than normal without going to the bathroom, so I really had to go. I broke away from work, and made a bee line for the closest bathroom. There were a few guys in there, but I didn’t make eye contact with any of them, because I didn’t want to tempt them into breaking the first rule: no speaking in the bathroom.

I made it to the urinal just in time – I mean I was about to burst, and then I would have to break the first rule myself in order to apologize to all the guys in the bathroom, because it would probably just be good manners to apologize to somebody you accidentally got urine on.

Anyways, I was at the urinal practically in ecstasy from the relief of pressure that had built up from all the water I had drank, when I heard it. At first, I was frightened. It sounded like the roar of a horrible beast come to devour me. I stood befuddled for a moment looking around and actually caught the eyes of some of the other guys in the bathroom, who had the same look of confusion.

Then, breaking the bewildered silence, the horrible beast made another horrible roar, but this time it sounded like it was in pain – almost like it had gotten hit in the junk with a sledgehammer. However, with the second iteration of the sound, it became a little more familiar to my ears, and I recognized the source. It was not the rumblings of a horrible beast that had initially frightened me so, but it was the unpleasant serenade of a bathroom stall. However, it sounded a little muffled than usually, and I believe that was what initially threw us all off from a prompt identification the first time.

Then, the reason for the muffled tone became apparent. The men’s bathroom shares a wall with the woman’s bathroom. I came out of the men’s bathroom just in time to see the stream of women fleeing theirs – gasping for a breath of fresh air. It was truly the fart heard round the world (TFHRTW). Like how the intensity of thunder is an indication of the power behind the lightning that made it, I can only imagine the sheer concentrated evil in the form of a bowel movement that created TFHRTW, but I ran far, far away from that place – for I did not want to know.

In the wake of my last post, where among other things I stated I was “a nice guy you can take home to mom and dad,” Paris Hilton has made news by giving the following quote to the press:

“Right now I’m single, but I am looking for a nice boy,” Hilton told reporters in Berlin on Wednesday. “He should be funny, smart and loyal.”

Needless to say, this revelation has terrified me.

I realize Paris Hilton was likely speaking about no one in particular. The odds of her having read my blog, seen the qualities she’s looking for in me, and made the above quote with me in mind are slim at best.

Then why am I so terribly, terribly afraid?

Why do I imagine her and I having the following conversation after she tracked down my address and knocked on my front door?

Paris: Hi, I’m Paris Hilton. Are those tapered jeans?

Me: Yes?

Paris: That’s hot.

My head hurts just thinking about it.

I’m a big believer in hedging your bets. Even though I’m young, 20% of my retirement portfolio is in bonds. Even though I work in a safe neighborhood, I always keep my car doors locked. And even though I don’t believe in monsters, I check my closet and under my bed every night just in case.

Along those same lines, I’m going to hedge my bets with Paris Hilton. If she is looking for a nice guy who is funny, smart and loyal, my only recourse is to stop being nice, funny, smart and loyal.

From now on, I am only going to leave my waitress a 12.5% tip. And that’s even if I receive excellent service! I will only hold doors open for people over the age of 60 or who are in wheel chairs. No one else! I will say “please” and “thank you” no more than fifty times in a day. Not once more! And if I’m saving a little old lady from a house fire, I will only go back inside to save her dogs and cats. No plants or goldfish!

“But Kevin, how can you stop being who you are,” many of you are likely shouting at your monitors.

Hear me well. As of today, a new Kevin is born. A new Kevin who, for lack of a better phrase, is pure evil.

Hear that, Paris? No nice guy here.

Move it along.

Please?

My insanely controversial last post aside, readers of my site (“SKOS” as the kids like to call it) know that good, clean, dry humor is my calling card. Unless you are Amish, in which case I’m telling on you because you shouldn’t be on the Internet, nothing I have ever written is likely to have offended you. And that’s because my writing reflects my personality. “A nice guy you can take home to mom and dad” isn’t just a tattoo I have written on my forehead, it’s who I am.

I write all that to intro a local radio commercial I have heard three times in the past week. It’s a commercial unlike any I have ever seen or heard before. My writing about it could (potentially) offend some of you, so tread lightly.

(Note: I am paraphrasing and relying on memory)

Begin commercial

Did you know that men who pay child support pay an average of $250,000 in child support over the life of each child?

Did you also know that 30% of men who have a DNA test performed discover they aren’t really the father of the child?

That’s a quarter of a billion dollars for a child not even yours!

Now, you can have DNA tests performed at <name omitted> in <city omitted>, Georgia instead of traveling to Atlanta and paying expensive fees.

Know the truth before it costs you!

End commercial

The commercial airs on the local ESPN Radio station, a station that (obviously) caters mostly to guys.

I had two immediate reactions to hearing this commercial:

• It is (unintentionally) hilarious.
• It is incredibly, incredibly sad.

Now, I haven’t been living under a rock these past twenty-something years. I know what the world is like. But does anyone else find it the least bit troubling that “DNA testing to prove you don’t owe child support” is a big enough niche market to warrant advertising?

I seriously worry about what is next. Where does society and advertising go from here? As you might expect, I have some ideas:

Idea #1

Have you committed a violent crime? Were you arrested? Was your case thrown out of court on a technicality?

If you answered “YES” to all three questions, it’s time to sue! Call our legal firm, Hell in a Hand Basket and Associates, today and we’ll get you the money our crazy, upside down legal system says you deserve.

Idea #2

Did you know that one study conducted in 1982 said that married men die 9 years earlier than men who are single?

Are you married? Do you want to live 9 years longer? Then it’s time to divorce that woman! Call 1-800-DIVORCE today and we’ll get you started on the path to a longer and significantly-less-happy life.

Idea #3

Moms and dads, don’t know what to get your teen or pre-teen for Christmas this year?

Come to J.C. Penny this Friday and Saturday for our annual miniskirt sale!

Sure it’s cold outside, but our prices are hot! Your daughter will be too once you’ve bought her the latest in our Christina Aguilera Collection. Hurry, or else your daughter will be a social outcast!

Lord help us all.

Someone recently e-mailed me saying my site was too “nice” to be a humor blog. Sir, that sounds like a challenge. Now you’ve asked for it!

Color me confused, but if Extra Virgin Olive Oil is as advertised how is there seemingly a never ending supply of the stuff? Granted, I’m no expert on the reproductive habits of olives, but something just doesn’t add up. Methinks a few olives aren’t being entirely truthful.

…

Why are sticky notes so popular? On my computer monitor at work, I have a dozen sticky notes with various notes or reminders written on them. But they are constantly falling down. Whenever I want to put one up, I have to get some tape and forcibly adhere the sticky note to my monitor. It must be the pretty colors that make sticky notes so popular. It certainly isn’t the performance. I think the inventors of sticky notes pulled a fast one on all of us.

…

Perhaps I’m being unsympathetic, but I believe a stupid tax should be levied against anyone who bought a home with an adjustable rate mortgage that they could only afford when the rates were at their initial, low interest level. And since our government seems intent on coming to the aid these greedy fools rather than punish them for their stupidity, I guess it’s up to me.

I have, just now, created what I will call The Stupid Tax. Those who do something stupid will be taxed for it. First to be taxed will be the adjustable rate mortgage people. I can either tax you at 6% of your salary for the next 30 years, or at 1% for the first 5 years and 18% for the next 25. It’s your choice.

…

In the war of Which is Better: Dogs or Cats?, dog lovers like to point out all the times dogs have come to their owner’s aid when in trouble. Dogs dragging their unconscious owners from a burning home is an often cited example. “A cat wouldn’t do that,” they say.

That is true. But on the flip side, dogs are stupid and cats are smart. My cat might leave me to die if my home is ever on fire, but at least he has the intelligence to remember me after I’m gone.

“My owner was awesome,” he will tell his cat friends years later. “He fought those flames until the bitter end.”

…

I guess I showed that e-mailer. This post will surely start riots all over the country.

Over the weekend, my family got into a discussion about stupid team names in sports. “Who came up with the name Houston Texans,” someone asked. “Yeah, that’s like having a team named the Atlanta Georgians,” someone else responded (okay, it was me).

It was then that I theorized the name came about as a result of people wanting to be 100% politically correct. “Houston Texans” was a name that couldn’t possibly offend anyone.

What followed was twenty minutes of me running down every team name I could think of and theorizing how someone – anyone – could be offended by the name (no matter how silly). In other words, what followed was comedy magic.

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