Today, as straight men awaken and drive to work on their daily commutes, there is a sense of dread. In offices all over the country, straight men will be subjected to lengthy, rambling, “Academy Awards” gossip by their female and non-straight male co-workers.

“The morning after The Oscars is the worst day of the year,” says Tom Johnson, an office manager for a small textile company in Atlanta. “Do you know what Reese Witherspoon wore to the 2005 Oscars? I do, because they talked about it for four freakin’ hours the next day.

“There is no amount of drinking that can get that info out of your head. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Johnson’s viewpoint is one that is shared by Dan Dover, a data entry specialist for Coca-Cola.

“One year, the woman I shared an office with at the time asked me if I had seen the movie, Chicago. I told her I’d never heard of it. She was flabbergasted. ‘How could you have never heard of it,’ she kept asking me. ‘It was so good,’ she kept repeating. ‘It won a buttload of Oscars last night,’ she kept saying.

“I feel kind of bad about telling my boss she was stealing from petty cash so that she would get fired, but there is only so much a man can take.”

Dr. Irene Anderson of The People Institute in Atlanta, Georgia, has researched the affect “Oscaritis” has on straight men’s psyches.

“In the past, when Mel Gibson’s Braveheart, Kevin Costner’s Dances With Wolves, Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven, or Russell Crowe’s Gladiator has been the big winner at The Academy Awards, we found that straight men were more receptive to the inevitable ‘Oscar gossip’ the following day. In fact, in those instances the men actually sometimes contributed to the conversations.

“However, in every other instance the men we studied had an extremely negative reaction. X-rays show that the frontal lobes of their brains turned a light salmon color, sort of like Jennifer Garner’s dress at the 2004 Academy Awards.

“You don’t have to be a scientist to know that isn’t good.”

With an obscure list of winners for this year’s Oscars, experts are predicting that the damage done to men’s brains this morning will be the worst in recorded history.

“Lord help me if someone says the name Daniel Day-Lewis or Marion Cotillard before I’ve had my cup of coffee,” remarked Johnson.

“I might just have to set the building on fire.”

Humor-blogs called in sick to work today.

Today’s installment of Dear Reader goes out to someone very special. At 3:14 pm on February 18, 2008, a visitor from Chepachet, Rhode Island, stumbled upon this site after typing the following into a search engine:

“A real spell to make you have anything you want at that moment”

A big thanks to ask.com for referring this most special individual.

Dear Reader,

At first, I was a bit taken aback by the method in which you discovered my site. But then I remembered what it says on my resume under Special Skills:

• Considerable experience working in a group dynamic
• Very good at time management
• Able to cast magic spells

I always forget that last one…

This is a talent I don’t exactly publicize, so kudos to ask.com for sending you my way. Google gets all the press and accolades, but does it know that I am a powerful magician? I highly doubt it.

Like most magicians, I acquired my skills by watching the wonderful and mystical Buffy the Vampire Slayer for seven seasons on television. Also, I’m related to David Copperfield.

Since you came to me for guidance, I’m assuming you don’t have the cash to buy the Collector’s Set of Buffy at Amazon.com, right?

I can also assume, since I have banished all kin to the Phantom Zone because they posed a threat to my master plan, that you are not related to David Copperfield. If you are related, please meet me behind the Burger King on Watson tomorrow night at seven o’clock. Come alone.

Where was I? Oh yes, helping you.

Ideally, you would have at least seen an episode of Buffy. Preferably, an episode in season four or later. That’s when Spike became a regular cast member and the show really got going.

Assuming that’s not the case, I’ll have to start you out very slowly. *

First, you’re going to need an aluminum pan and a spoon. Make sure it is a wooden spoon, though. Silver spoons, much like the 80′s TV show of the same name, do not mesh with magic.

Next, you’re going to need to grease the bottom of the pan with butter. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees.

Next, follow the instructions on back of your Betty Crocker Brownie Mix box. Mix the ingredients together in a bowl and add them to your aluminum pan.

Bake and enjoy.

And that’s all there is to it. No thanks necessary, I’m just glad I could help you. Just please promise me that you will not use what I’ve taught you for evil.

Magically yours,

kev

* This magic spell only works if the thing you want at that moment is a plate of chocolate brownies.

Humor-blogs believes in the Orlando Magic.

For as long as I can remember, I and everyone else in my immediate family have always been able to tell when an item has been inside my grandparent’s house. You see, my grandparent’s house has a distinct aroma. It is a combination of potpourri, mothballs and something else I can’t quite put my finger on, so I’ll just call it gorilla dust.

Whenever they brought a care package over to our house (magazines, homemade potato salad, lawn gnomes, etc.), the items would be soaked in “grandma house” residue. Years later, having been away from their normal environment for all that time, the items will still carry their trademark fragrance. I don’t pretend to understand the science behind it, but it’s nothing short of magical.

About a year ago, I found myself in need of a new residence. Around this time, my grandparents, who had been at the same location for my entire life, moved to a new place. Their old place was vacant and they desperately needed a tenant. Partly because I am a loving grandson and partly because I knew I’d get a great deal on rent, I agreed to move in.

When I moved in, the house’s smell was overwhelming. You could smell in on the walls. You could smell in on the floor. You could even smell it on the ceiling if you climbed on top of your couch and pressed your nose up against it as your brother walked in and laughed at you (hypothetically speaking).

It took a little time, but I was eventually able to air out the house. I opened all the windows. I filled the house with my two fragrances of choice, vanilla and cinnamon, in the hopes they could kill the old smell. Slowly, the smell began to go away. I had won.

I was mistaken.

You see, that smell had been living in the house for several decades. It had become a living entity. It was alive, it was powerful, and it was angry.

What I thought was the smell slowly going away was really me slowly becoming immune to the smell. I was getting used to it.

It was… attaching itself to me.

After almost a year, I have become one of those care package items my grandparents would occasionally bring my parents. I have the smell on me. It’s on my skin. It’s on my clothes. It’s in my hair.

I can’t escape it.

At church yesterday, my mom leaned over to me and whispered, “your jacket smells like grandma’s house.” I couldn’t smell it, but I knew she was right. After church, I made certain to stand at least five yards away from anyone to which I was speaking.

I went to my parent’s house immediately afterward so that I could wash my jacket. I had to wash it and let it air dry somewhere other than “the house.” Otherwise, the smell would get right back on the jacket.

My jacket can never enter my house again. From now on, before entering, I will have to take off my jacket and leave it in my car. That’s the only recourse. However, by now I am certain the inside of my car smells like grandma’s house, too.

What can I do? I would try to destroy the house by setting it on fire, but I’m sure that would only make it more angry.

I need ideas, people. And I need them fast. I’m afraid I don’t have much more time.

Humor-blogs is also a living entity.

A few weeks ago, my mom, after finally getting to experience the “Grandmother” phenomenon thanks to my brother, asked me if I was doing anything with anyone on Valentine’s Day this year.

“Of course not,” I replied. “It’s within 30 days of Valentine’s Day. I can’t break the rule.”

Confused, my mom asked me to elaborate. And so I did.

If you are already in a relationship, the thirty day rule does not apply to you. It is only for single people. You see, once January 14 – one month before Valentine’s Day – comes and goes, single people – the sane ones, anyway – go into exile until V-Day passes.

Why?

Because the absolute worst time to meet someone new is right before Valentine’s Day.

Hypothetically, let’s say you meet someone two or three weeks before Valentine’s Day and you hit it off. What do you do when February 14 rolls around? If you do nothing and the person was expecting something, you’ve potentially ruined the relationship before it even really started. If you do something, you run the risk of the person thinking, “whoa now… I’ve only known this person for three weeks. Great, now I have to take out another restraining order.”

Either route could lead to ruin. The outcome depends entirely on what is going in the other person’s head. And, surprise, since you have only known the person for a few weeks it is impossible for you to predict with 100% certainty how they will react.

That is why every year between January 15 and February 15 I go into hiding. “Has anyone seen Kevin lately,” is an often asked question amongst friends and family during this time period.

For thirty days, all I do is go to work and then go home. I don’t even bother to stop at red lights while driving in the off chance the vehicle next to me will be a single female. I stock my kitchen with a month’s worth of food so that I do not have to make any trips to the grocery store. If I need gasoline for my car, I just borrow some from my neighbor’s SUV. I leave behind a letter that says, “Thirty Day Rule.”

And, in the event I find myself trapped in a female-laden environment, I pretend to be crazy. I skip instead of walk. I talk to an imaginary friend. I wear a Bluetooth Headset on my ear.

Thanks to these tactics, in seven more hours I will have successfully made it through another thirty days.

My mom’s response to this explanation was something along the lines of, “I am beginning to understand why you are still single.”

I wonder what she meant by that?

Humor-blogs wants to be my Valentine.

Exactly two years ago, at my old blog, I wrote a short, Valentine’s Day post that turned out to be extremely controversial. One person even booed me. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt. I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t cry myself to sleep the following few weeks. Awesome people have feelings too, you know. Of course, if anyone ever asks me about it, I’ll swear up and down that I just had something in my eye.

Time, in addition to being what turns kittens into cats, has given me perspective on the matter. Now, 730 days later, I can republish the post and analyze its fallout.

Here is the post in question. It’s dated February 13, 2006.

With Valentine’s Day here, I felt inspired to present two different messages. One for the guys, one for the girls. Note: Please do not read the other gender’s message.

For the Guys

A relationship should not be about mind games and control – it should be about partnership and respect. Unfortunately, this is a lesson that women can only learn if men take the upper hand and teach them by messing with their heads.

For the Girls

You’re all very pretty.

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!

For the longest time, I could not understand why anyone would be offended by this post. For the guys, I gave great advice. For the girls, I gave a great compliment. What’s to get upset about?

And then it dawned on me.

Even though I clearly requested that guys should only read the guy part of the post and girls should only read the girl part of the post, some people must have read both parts!

I’m not certain what percentage of my readers are transvestites, but assuming the number is less than 10% it means several of my readers, including all who heckled me, read both parts without permission.

And yet, in these people’s minds, I’m in the wrong?

I’m not sure I want to live in a world where you can ask someone to “please” not do something, and when they do it anyway you are the person who did something wrong. Hey buddy, I told you not to do it, didn’t I?

If I told these same people to “please” not jump off a bridge, would they curse my name as they traveled through the air on the way down to the ground? If I told these people not to sit on the first row at a Gallagher concert, would they get mad at me when chunks of watermelon got all over their clothes?

Frankly, I just don’t know anymore.

Humor-blogs knows that I’m joking. Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!

Occasionally, almost always by someone I know in real life, I am asked for the meaning behind the name, “Special Kind of Stupid.” To those who know me in real life, my “it came about because of Denis, my roommate in college,” response is greeted with a yawn, roll of the eyes or an “I should have known.” Those who know me in real life have heard Denis stories for over a decade now, you see.

But this post isn’t about Denis, or how I thank God every day that I got out of that Fall 1996 semester alive, or how my “Special…” catchphrase originated after witnessing Denis stare at a bare wall for four straight hours. No, it’s about this site, Special Kind of Stupid, and whether it is wise for me to entertain the idea of revamping it.

In addition to my regular, awesome blog posts, I am considering allowing all of you, dear readers, to also contribute stories about the world’s immense stupidity here at SKOS.

The idea of letting other people contribute stories here at SKOS is something I’ve bounced around for a little while now. I essence, the site would be two parts: my content, and content from other contributers. It’d be twice the awesomeness (and stupidity) for the price of one.

I know this may seem like a strange and foreign idea, but, originally, I was not the only writer at SKOS. My brother and ex-girlfriend also contributed stories. Having others to split the workload allowed me to write whenever inspiration hit and still have two other writers on hand to help me meet the monthly stupid quota. Plus, in the process, they were able to plug their own blogs and gain a few new readers.

What do you guys think? Is this idea something I should seriously consider implementing?

The people over at humor-blogs can stare at bare walls for days and days.

In college, I would often sit down in front of my television with a bowl of generic Ramen noodles or a ham sandwich and watch gourmet meals being prepared on the Food Channel. Why would I do this? Well, probably for the same reason a short person watches basketball or Bill Clinton watches The Bachelor.

Now, a decade later, I often turn the television channel to HGTV even though I’m a renter instead of a homeowner. Why? Well, because there’s only so much Rachel Ray a person can take.

One of HGTV’s shows, My House is Worth What?, I have renamed “The Dramatic Pause Show.” (If you don’t know the show, check out this video at YouTube for an example of what I’m talking about. Skip ahead to the 6:30 minute mark.)

In each 30-minute episode, three different homeowners have their homes appraised. And each time the appraisal is given, we the audience are treated to a dramatic pause of epic, William Shatner-esque proportions.

During the pause, we get a closeup of the appraiser, then a closeup of the homeowners, then a closeup of the show’s host, then the appraiser again, then the homeowners again, and then the host again. And then we get the homeowners’ reaction to the appraisal. I’m still waiting for an episode that has the homeowners’ dog or cat get in on the action.

I can’t prove it, but I swear I once witnessed a dramatic pause that lasted over 27 minutes on the show. It was the funniest 27 minutes in television history.

Anyway, a previous New Year’s resolution of mine was to cut down on the amount of television I watch. I estimate I’ve cut my TV time in half since making that resolution. But it’s recently occurred to me that it isn’t enough to simply stop watching TV, I need to start doing some of the things I’ve watched other people do on television over the years.

Cooking gourmet meals is expensive, so that’s out. And doing home repairs or appraisals is pointless since I don’t own the place. But dramatic pauses….that is something I could start doing immediately.

And that’s what I did. So far, the results have been outstanding. Here is a recent phone conversation I’ve had:

Brother: I saw that I had a missed call from you. What did you need?
Me: I wanted to ask you…
Me: …
Brother: Yes?
Me: ….
Brother: Hello?
Me: …
Brother: (hangs up phone)

Thanks to dramatic pauses, people think they lose their signal whenever they talk to me on the phone. This has noticeably decreased the number of phone calls I receive, which is a good thing because I hate talking on the phone so very, very much.

And here is a conversation I had recently at the bank:

Cute, twenty-something bank employee: May I help you sir?
Me: Yes, I would like…
Me: …
CTSBE: Sir?
Me: …
CTSBE: (turns around to see if anything is behind her)
Me: …
CTSBE: (begins to blush)
Me: …
CTSBE: (writes down her number and hands it to me)
Me: …
CTSBE: I get off work at five, so you could call me anytime after.
Me: …
CTBSE: I like your snake skin cowboy boots.
Me: …
CTBSE: Wow, are those tapered jeans!?
Me: …to deposit this check.

Who knew staring at a girl for five straight minutes would have such awesome results?

Thanks, HGTV!

Humor-blogs so wants to ask me out on a date.

In an effort to clean the albatross that is my bedroom, this past weekend I went through some of the items in my closet. In the process, I found many of the shoes from my youth. There were my snake skin cowboy boots, an item of fashion awesomeness that has yet to be matched. There were my Nike Air Charles Barkley USA Olympic basketball shoes circa 1992, which destroyed my feet when I wore them to Disney World on a family vacation one summer.

And then there were my blue baseball cleats…

It was the summer before my eighth grade year in school. On the way back home from a family vacation in Florida, we stopped by a Nike Outlet we spotted. It was a warehouse full of Nike products at discount prices. For a sports-obsessed, 14-year-old boy it was heaven.

I went straight to the baseball section of the warehouse. Nike batting gloves at the time were – and maybe still are – pretty mediocre, so I bypassed them pretty quickly.

Nike t-shirts? I can get those anywhere.

Wrist bands? No thanks.

Nike cleats? Yahtzee. We’ve hit the jackpot.

I perused the hundreds of different cleats in front of me. High tops, low tops, metal cleats, rubber cleats…they had it all. And then I saw them.

Two pairs of low-top, metal Nike Air cleats laid before me. They were professional grade, the kind major leaguers wear. They were made entirely of thick, quality leather – there wasn’t a spec of plastic or nylon to be found. In short, I had never seen cleats like these before. As if that wasn’t great enough, their colors were blue and silver.

What’s so great about blue and silver? Those were my school’s colors. And at the time, you couldn’t find blue cleats at the local sporting goods stores in town. Black was it.

And the clincher: The cleats cost only $9.99 a pair.

At that price, I knew that not only would my dad buy me a pair, he’d buy me both pairs if I asked him. And that’s what I did.

My dad, master of observation, pointed out something to me that I had failed to notice due to my excitement. The cleats were both size 13 1/2.

Now, that would have been the end of the story for most boys. But I had three things working for me: 1) I already had a size 12 shoe, 2) my powers of persuasion increase tenfold when I really want something, and 3) I really, really wanted those cleats.

I began to state my case to my dad.

“As a 14 year old who already has a size 12 shoe, it seems logical that my foot will continue to grow, correct?”

“Yes,” my dad replied.

“These cleats might be too big for me now, but that surely won’t always be the case, right?”

“Yes,” my dad agreed.

“And at such a low price, purchasing these cleats now, before I even need them, would save you a considerable amount of money down the road, right?”

On our drive back home, I took my cleats out of their boxes to admire them. “I will keep you forever,” I promised them.

“Someday, people all over the world will know of your greatness.”

The people over at humor-blogs are jealous of my snake skin boots.

Even though I have an office job, “meetings” do not dominate my schedule the way they probably do most office workers. In my two plus years in this work environment, I say I’ve had to endure being trapped in a meeting maybe only one hour a week on average.

However, for the past two weeks I have had an endless caravan of meetings to attend. I would consider these meetings a pleasant change from my daily routine if not for the fact they are so terribly, terribly unpleasant.

I equate meetings to Chinese Water Torture. A drop of water repeatedly hitting you on the forehead may seem like nothing at first. But after a few hours, it begins to irritate you. And after a few days, well, you become insane.

“But wait,” you might be thinking. “If meetings are like Chinese Water Torture, and a few days of it drives you insane, what happens after two weeks??”

An excellent question.

Before I respond, allow me to first lay down my stapler and tape dispenser for their afternoon nap. Those two get super grouchy if they don’t get their beauty sleep.

Speaking of naps, have you ever been in the middle of washing your hair with peanut butter when you realize you forgot to buy conditioner? See, that is why you should always have a list with you when you go to the store. What good is peanut butter without mustard?

When I was a boy I thought like a boy and acted like a boy. But when I became a man I took that boy out back and had him shot.

Hillary would make an excellent President. And Bill would make a wonderful First Lady.

The pencil on my desk is taunting me. Let’s see how he likes it when I remove his eraser. Who’s the “stupidhead” now, big shot?

Have you ever noticed that whenever I go “insane” my grammar remains impeccable? And how is that I can remember the username and password for my blog?

Sssshhhh! Keep it down. They’ll hear you. Who are “they,” you ask? Sssshhhh! We can’t talk here.

If eyes are the window to the soul, why does it sting so badly when I spray them with Windex?

I’m not good at geography, but I’m pretty sure the capital of Montana isn’t Hannah.

My apologies, I’ve gotten off track. I’m always doing that. It’s like that time Mayor McCheese gave me the key to McDonaldland, and during my acceptance speech I kept asking, “what happened to Grimace?”

Anyway, could you please repeat the question? I have another meeting in 10 minutes.

The people over at humor-blogs are in cahoots with my stapler.