It may sound inconceivable, but my eyesight isn’t perfect. As such, I wear contacts. Now, frugal cat that I am, I try to get as much wear and use out of my contacts as I can. Disposable contacts you use for two weeks and then throw away? Nonsense. Those puppies can last for months if not years.

You might think I’m joking, but I assure you I am not: the contacts I’m wearing today are the same ones I wore approximately two years ago. To put that into perspective, Britney Spears was only half crazy when I last wore a different pair of lenses.

Unfortunately, within the past two years I have moved. Sometime during the move process, unbeknownst to me, I lost my box of backup contact lenses. And, since I haven’t worn glasses since I was 14, this meant if the contacts I’m wearing ever became lost or defective, I’d be in big trouble.

On Monday, trouble found me.

Apparently, the contact lens in my left eye had a shelf life that ended Monday around 2:14 in the afternoon. It’s been bugging me ever since then. In my right eye, it feels as though I’m wearing your typical soft contact lens. In my left eye, it feels as though I’m wearing a rusty bottle cap.

Of course, since it’s been over a year since my last annual eye exam with my doctor, I needed to make a new appointment. So, on Monday, I called them. The earliest they could fit me in? July 8th!

Yesterday, I called my eye doctor’s office to see if they could give me an emergency contact lens to get me through until my July 8th appointment.

“We can only give samples to new patients,” the lady on the other end of the phone explained to me.

“Really,” I asked. “It’s been a few years, but I know in the past you’ve been able to give me a sample when I’m on my last pair of lenses and I needed a new one before my appointment.”

“They have really cut down on the samples they give us, so we can’t do that anymore,” she explains to me. “We can only give them to new patients.”

I wasn’t sure who “they” were, but I quickly moved on.

“If this is a question of money, I don’t have a problem BUYING a pair of contact lenses to get me through. I don’t expect you to give me a free sample. Heck, forget a pair, I only need ONE lens.”

“Sorry,” she tells me. “Our lenses come in boxes. We can’t break them up to sell one to you individually.”

Everything she was telling me very likely was true. However, I wasn’t getting that warm, fuzzy “we will do whatever we can to help you” vibe. You know, the kind of vibe you would expect from an eye doctor you’ve been going to for over FIFTEEN YEARS.

“Hypothetically,” I asked, pausing for effect, “what would I do if I lost this contact lens before my July 8th appointment? I’d be blind as a bat for two weeks.”

“Do you have glasses,” she asks.

“No, not since junior high,” I respond. I said this polite response instead of what immediately popped into my head: “If I had glasses I could wear, would we even be having this conversation?”

“Oh,” she replied.

And that was the conversation. She was about as helpful as a bag of oranges at a knife fight.

So, I had to make a choice: Do I persevere for two more weeks, with a rusty bottle cap in my left eye? Or do I find a new eye doctor?

Well, I chose the latter. And this doctor was able to fit me in for an appointment THIS MORNING at 11:00.

So, assuming all goes well and they have my new prescription in stock, my agony will soon be over.

I look forward to wearing these new contacts for the next two to three years…

The following is an actual, honest to God, e-mail I received over the weekend. Other than adding hyperlinks to referenced blog posts, the e-mail has not been modified in any way. This just goes to show what I’ve been saying for years: Cats love my blog.

Dear Kev at SKOS:

After over two years of being a faithful reader of your blog, I wanted to take the time to write a letter to let you know just how awesome I think you — and your website — are.

It all began in the year 2006, when My Human (affectionately referred to from here on out as MH) discovered the “comedic gold” that is your writing.

One warm summer evening, I was in the window basking in the sunset, minding my own business, when my ears were pricked by the sounds of her mirth coming from the other room. Thinking perhaps she had been suddenly possessed by some obscure force causing her to make this unnatural noise, I meandered my way down the hallway to investigate.

Upon arriving in the area MH refers to as the “couch,” I immediately feigned concern and leapt fluidly onto her lap. MH loves this, for reasons unbeknownst to me. After taking a perfunctory sniff in the general direction of her face, I turned my attention to the source of her glee.

Little did I know that what I would see would forever change my nine lives.

Splashed across the top of MH’s laptop screen were the words I Am an Awful, Awful Actor. I began to read. The more I read, the more I laughed (on the inside). The more I laughed, the more I loved it. The more I loved it, the more I wanted to read. Next article? One Word: Gigli.

Amazing. Incredible. Addicting. A-List Stars Blacklist Mel Gibson. What Happened to the Dell Dude? Atlanta Braves Sign Charlie Sheen. I couldn’t get enough, I was hooked.

Ever since that fateful day in July of ’06, I have never missed a single article. Every time MH is on your site, I am on her lap, reading with fervor and absorbing every word. Your blog is my catnip. Sometimes, I read your site in the middle of the night, when MH is fast asleep. She does not know this.

I will admit, one of my all-time favorite entries is still 50% Fur, 50% Awesome. This cat you speak of, “Smokey,” sounds like a cat after my own heart. I have committed to memory all of the “Smokey Facts,” in case I am ever granted the privilege of meeting him whisker to whisker. I dream of such things.

Suffice all this to say, Kevin, you are one Awesome Human. Please continue writing for as long as you are able. I hope to continue reading SKOS for years and years to come. And someday, if I am so blessed, I hope to have my humble cat chin scratched by those talented, blogging hands of yours.

Sincerely yours,

DC

P.S. I have enclosed a photograph MH took one evening recently while I was reading your blog from my perch on her lap. She thinks I was keenly observing the mouse cursor skimming its way across the screen, but that is what all Humans think. In actuality, I was rapt with attention for your latest article.

For this week’s Friday Four, I am going to share four unusual things I have written in e-mails recently. These might be funny, they might be completely off the wall, they might be things that make sense in context, or they might be things that wouldn’t make sense in any context. I’ll let you all decide!

One

“That’s the great thing about my world famous deviled eggs –- when they spoil, they taste extra devily.”

Two

“Are you having trouble getting the mental image of a man dressed like Papa Smurf distributing cheese samples out of your head?”

Three

“Most men ARE born with a compass in their forehead. But when God was handing out compasses, I asked Him for an extra helping of awesome instead. True story.”

Four

“I wouldn’t know how to give a backhanded compliment even if a compliment was written on the back of my hand.”

Wait, we’re not finished yet! Here are four “bonus” Kev-isms. Best of luck trying to guess how the following quotes came about:

Bonus #1

“I’m excellent at throwing rocks at bears who are trying to eat girls I’m hiking with. I’m very accurate. By that I mean I hit the bear more often than I hit the girl.”

Bonus #2

“Invisible bears would be significantly harder to throw rocks at.”

Bonus #3

“If bears know how to throw rocks, the earth is doomed. We each need to build a bear/bomb shelter.”

Bonus #4

“I’d make my bear/bomb shelter out of honey. They’d never expect it.”

And there you have it. Proof positive that I am insane and that bears will one day rise to power and take over the world.

So, what are some off-the-wall things YOU have said or written lately? Leave a comment so we all can share your -ism.

Dear Parents of the World,

How are you all doing? Great? Glad to hear it.

Look, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a while, but the time never seemed right. I appreciate the fact you all value my child-rearing skills. I know that when there is an awesome resource (i.e. me) out there in the world, the wise thing to do is take advantage of it. And all of you have been taking advantage of it big time.

I’m flattered. Really, I am. However…

I know you don’t want to hear this, but the time has come for you to no longer use me as your parenting crutch.

I know, I know. But you can do this, people. I know you can.

The next time your two children are running up and down the aisles of a grocery store, you be the one to stand in their path, look down at them and say, “if you do not stop this behavior, I am going to kill Santa Claus.”

The next time your teenage daughter leaves the house wearing an outfit one can only assume was found in a dumpster behind a strip club, you be the one to tell her, “you look like a cross between Christina Aguilera and Danny Devito, and I mean that in the least flattering way possible.”

The next time you take your 10-year-old son to the gym with you and he proceeds to play on all of the cardio equipment, you be the one to tell him the large man on the treadmill is hungry and will eat him if he doesn’t leave immediately.

Don’t wait for me to do these things, people. You do them.

It’s time to start teaching your children the proper way to behave in society. Stop waiting for good Samaritans like myself to do it for you.

Don’t wait for me to key the words “learn how to park” into the hood of your teenage daughter’s car. Teach her how to park. Teach her that it’s rude to her fellow drivers when she takes up two lanes with her car.

Don’t wait for me to throw an orange at the head of your teenage son when he doesn’t hold the door open for an elderly lady walking behind him. Teach him manners. Teach him to respect his elders. Teach him that oranges hurt if they are hurled at your head with great velocity.

Don’t wait for me to grab the cell phone out of your teenager’s hand and stomp on it so that the rest of the movie theater patrons can watch the film in peace. Teach him proper cell phone etiquette. Teach him that only inconsiderate jerks talk incessantly on the phone in public places. Teach him that people like to bring bodily harm to inconsiderate jerks.

Parents of the world, I have faith in you. I believe with my whole heart you can teach your children these things without my help.

You can do this, buddy! I know you can.

(And if you can’t, I’m going to beat you with a bag of oranges. I’m serious.)

Sincerely,

Kev

The following is a guest post from the hilarious blogger, mother and Johnny Depp lover, Jenny. Check out her wonderful blog, I’m Having a Thought Here.

Recently my darling husband made a run to the post office, planning to do the unthinkable: purchase a stamp. I know; an intervention may be necessary. Someone this delusional needs immediate help.

It was late in the day and traffic was draconian, and despite my husband’s best efforts at speeding and tailgating, both of which he does exceptionally well, he did not make it to the PO quite in time. As in, he entered the lobby at 5:01 p.m. according to the Official Government clock on the wall.

Now, I know the post office closes at five o’clock on weekdays, y’all. Everyone knows that. Even my husband knows that. So call him crazy (I often do), but since only sixty seconds had elapsed since quittin’ time and the “workers” were apparently all present and accounted for, fiddling around near their scales and cash registers and whatnot, and a few customers were in fact still being actually waited upon, he approached a “worker” and asked if he could buy a stamp.

One stamp.

The “worker” stared at him for several seconds before speaking. She gaped at him far longer than it would have taken her to sell him the single stamp, or even a whole book of stamps. He began to wonder whether perhaps a pair of lobsters had somehow landed on his head and were waltzing there.

“You have to buy it out of the machine,” she finally said, exhibiting a level of animation on a par with anesthetized algae.

Fighting a mighty urge to succumb to the aggravation he justifiably felt, my husband obediently turned and walked the ten yards to the stamp machine embedded in the lobby wall. He attempted to buy a stamp.

One stamp.

Only, the machine was empty.

He returned to the counter and the catatonic “worker.”

“The stamp machine is empty and I really need to mail this,” he pleaded.

She did not blink. She did not move. She did not speak. She simply stared. Time continued its inexorable march toward the far reaches of eternity. Fortunes were made and squandered. Tens of thousands across our great nation came of legal age to sit for the Civil Service Exam. The price of postage doubled. Then …

“You can buy a stamp from me, sir,” came a tiny voice from my husband’s left.

It was another postal customer. A little lady with a stamp she was willing to sell.

My husband gratefully paid her, accepted the stamp, stuck it on his piece of mail, and walked back out to the lobby to deposit the envelope in the “Stamped Mail” slot.

The motionless “worker” watched his every move. For all I know she is still standing there … keeper of mum, keeper of the eternal postal flame. Keeper of stamps.

For this week’s Friday Four, I am going to talk about four things that are bugging me right now. Brace yourselves, people. I’m about to go on a rant…

One

People Who Talk on Their Cell Phones at the Gym

This one goes out to the woman at the gym who was wearing an outfit that could’ve easily passed for a handkerchief:

Look here, Britney. I know you think everyone at the gym enjoys to hear you talk loudly into your cell phone while you work out on the treadmill. However, I have to inform you that we do not. We hate it. In fact, we all kept hoping you would lose your balance, fall, and somehow swallow your phone.

Oh, sure, we would have called the paramedics for you. Of course, we would have been taunting you while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Cruel? Perhaps, but it’s not half as cruel as what you put us through with your constant yammering.

Also, I don’t know both sides of the story, but I think I know why the “Greg” person you keep squawking about broke up with you eight weeks ago…

He has two working ears!

Two

Car Manufacturers Advertising $2.99 Gas

A big thanks to the awesome Karl (aka Frogster) of the (sadly) defunct Frog Blog for reminding me of this particular issue.

You have all probably seen or heard the television commercials advertising $2.99 gas for the next three years if you buy this or that new vehicle. With gas prices reaching ridiculous levels, car manufacturers are trying to lure in buyers who are leery of prices getting higher and higher.

There are many things about this program that hurts my head, but I’ll just leave it at this: If you are an individual so overly concerned by rising gas prices that you could be lured by $2.99 gas, why are you buying a brand-new car in the first place?

If you bought a three or four year old car in very good condition, you would save FAR more money on the price of the car than you would ever save on three years of $2.99 gas.

My head hurts…

Three

The Subway Employee with the Bad Attitude

I realize it probably isn’t fun making sandwiches for people all day. But lady, come on. You have a job that requires you to be three feet away from a line of customers. They can see your every move. They can see your “I am going to kill someone” expression when you ask them, “what kind of cheese do you want?” They can see the shabbily constructed sandwich you are making for them.

Look, we’re not asking for much. You don’t even have to smile. All you have to do is dial down the menace so that we don’t fear for our lives when you pick up the knife to cut our sandwich in half. That is all.

Four

Waitresses Who Touch Me

Look, lady, I don’t know you. Touching my shoulder when taking my table’s order will not make me think, “hey… I should leave this waitress a big tip.”

No, it makes me think, “hey… did anyone order a hand on the shoulder? I’m sorry, miss, but none of us ordered a hand on the shoulder.”

And there you have it. Proof positive that even nice, awesome guys come across things in this world that bug us from time to time.

So, what’s bugging all of YOU lately? Leave a comment so we all can share your rant.

In anticipation of the day gasoline reaches $100 a gallon (which at this pace could happen some time in November), I have started going to the gym to work out. If I’m going to have to walk the 11.1 miles from my home to work each day because gas is too expensive, I best prepare myself.

Long before gasoline reached $3, my brother vowed never to drive again if gas ever reached such a price. It was a bold statement since where we live has literally no public transportation. If you don’t drive, you either have to walk insanely long distances or become a shut in.

At the time, gas prices got close to $3, but never quite made it. Prices slowly went back down. With $3 gas no longer a threat, I thought it was an opportune time to agree with my brother’s earlier declaration and make a similar vow:

“If gas ever reaches $3 a gallon, I’m going to walk everywhere I go. I’m serious!”

Fast forward to about a year later. Gas reached and surpassed the $3 barrier. It’s now approaching (and has PASSED in other areas of the country) the obscene $4 barrier. Insanity has run wild.

In essence, the oil companies called my and my brother’s bluff. That is how I view it. Neither of us wanted to WALK everywhere, and I think the oil companies knew it.

“Kevin loves to sleep and he hates to sweat. No way he’ll get up early each day and walk to work in the blistering Georgia sun. Let’s call his bluff!”

Once they reached $3, I think they decided to go up to $4 just to rub it in my face.

Well, you can only kick a man so many times before he politely asks you to stop.

It’s time for me to show these oil companies who’s boss. And so, I’m going to get back into shape. I’m going to buy some comfortable running shoes. I’m going to make a new, ironclad vow.

“Here me now. If gas prices ever reach $100 a gallon, I am going to walk everywhere I go. No more driving for me!”

And this time… I’m serious.

As serious as the heart attack I will surely have while walking 11.1 miles in the blistering Georgia sun.

The following is one of four guest articles I wrote on April Fools Day for the awesome Free Money Finance website. Of the four, this one showed me at my silliest. And so, on its two month (and eighth day) anniversary, I will republish it here so that those of you who were too lazy to go to Free Money Finance to read it may enjoy its wicked awesome goodness.

Jeff Valentine knows promotion. The owner of two extremely successful night clubs, Valentine has perfected the art of turning something without value into something the consumer cannot do without. His secret? Tell people they can’t have your product.

Looking for a new challenge, Valentine is now using his skills in the real estate market.

“Look, babe, the secret to success is being aloof,” said Valentine as he smacked loudly on chewing gum.

“You’ve got to make it seem like you have numerous options. If you’re on a date and you’re too anxious or needy, what happens? That’s right. She goes to the restroom and sneaks out the window!

“You’ve got to play it cool, my man. The same is true when you’re selling a house. You want people to want to buy your home? Make them think you think they’re not good enough.”

Valentine’s track record suggests he knows what he’s talking about. His first club, “Club You’re Not on the List,” was a wreck when he bought it.

There was no air conditioning, no lighting, and the east-facing wall had collapsed. Also, there wasn’t a ceiling. But instead of paying money to fix it up, Valentine put a velvet rope out front and hired a bouncer. The bouncer’s job? Don’t let anyone inside.

“I didn’t let anyone inside for the first six months,” Valentine said. “Before, people walked on the other side of the street just to avoid the club. But once they weren’t allowed to go to the club, those same people would stand in line for hours hoping to get inside.”

Valentine now uses that same strategy when selling real estate.

“I put up a ‘For Sale’ sign in the front yard and then have Bruno, my bouncer, stand right beside it,” explains Valentine. “Whenever someone comes up to look at the house, Bruno puts out his hand, looks down at the clipboard he’s holding, and says, ’sorry… you’re not on the list.’

“I don’t believe there’s actually anything written on the clipboard. You’d have to ask Bruno. I think one time he told me he wrote down his hopes and dreams on it or something.”

Turned away, the interested buyer usually calls his or her real estate agent to inquire about the property. The agent then calls Valentine, who after a few seconds will put the agent on hold and make himself a sandwich or go take a thirty-minute power nap. Any agent still on the line when Valentine returns, or any that calls back later, is easy prey.

“At that point, I got them. They’re like my toys. I play with them for my amusement. And then I sell them a house for 10% above asking price.”

Because he is a giver, Valentine has written a book to help real estate agents and home owners sell their properties. The book, “No You Cannot Buy This House,” costs $19.95 and is steadily moving up the best seller ranks.

Among the tips offered in the book:

• Build a mote around the property. Any home requiring a prospective buyer to swim in order to get to it is certain to spark heavy interest.
• Promise to call a real estate agent or potential buyer back, but then don’t do it. When they call you, say something like, “I totally meant to call you, but I just have a lot on my plate right now.” Be sure to call them by the wrong name.
• Hire a second bouncer.

Valentine is already at work on his next book. It is tentatively titled, “No You Cannot Buy This Book.”

He expects it to be an all-time best seller.

Enjoyed it, didn’t you? Well, why not check out the other articles I wrote for Free Money Finance on April Fools Day? There was Government Steps Up Efforts to Assist “Stupid” Homeowners, a sarcastic take on what the government will be doing next to bailout those silly subprime mortgage home owners. There was John Bogle Punks World, Admits Index Funds Aren’t Real, a look at how Vanguard founder and notorious prankster John Bogle played a practical joke on the entire world. And my second favorite, Planning for Retirement in a Post-Apocalyptic World, which needs no explanation.

The following is a guest post from one of my favorite bloggers, the witty KathyF. Check her out at the insanely popular The Junk Drawer.

Years ago, I worked with a socially inept fellow who used half these conversation starters on me. Usually, he was met with stunned silence.

He no longer works in our office, but oh, how we miss the fun of watching him get all twisted up in knots every time he opened his mouth. He was a one-man sideshow freak who gave us years of entertainment.

Here are some less than engaging ways to start a conversation. Use them at your own peril.

1. “I know you didn’t ask for my opinion, but…” Yeah, so shut it.

2. “I’m not a racist, but…” You sure about that?

3. “Long story short…” Long story to follow. (OK. I admit it. I’m guilty of this one.)

4. “Promise you won’t laugh?” No can do.

5. “Can I tell you something and you won’t get mad?” I dare you.

6. “I overheard your conversation. Can I just say …” No. It wasn’t a threesome.

7. “Don’t take this the wrong way…” Already there.

8. “With all due respect…” Doubtful.

9. “I was trying to wait for the right time to tell you this.” Wait longer.

10. “Can I have the last donut?” Not if you still need those fingers.

For this week’s Friday Four, I am going to share the details of four blog “drafts” I started to write, but for one reason or another never finished or published to the site. In the comments section, you all can vote on which draft you would like to see finished. If you hate all these ideas, that’s okay. Just leave me a comment stating all these drafts stink. I won’t cry… much.

One

Title: Single, Awesome Male Seeks Single, Awesome Female
Concept: An online personal ad — Special Kind of Stupid style.
My thoughts: eHarmony, eat your heart out.

Snippet of what I have so far:

I’m single and — let’s face it — not getting any younger. I’ve been making that old man sound when I get up from a chair for over a decade now. The words, ‘those darn teenage drivers’ have crossed my lips many, many times. And many days, I fantasize about leaving work early, going home and taking a nap.

Since this website receives several handfuls of visitors each day, I thought it might be a good idea to take advantage of its popularity and showcase myself to the single ladies of cyberspace.

Single ladies, this is for you. Married ladies, prepare to set me up with single friends, nieces or daughters. Men of the world, take notes.

Two

Title: My Office is Bigger Than Your Office
Concept: In celebration of my moving into a big, beautiful office; I am taunting lowly minions at work who do not have a similar big, beautiful office.
My thoughts: It has a great title.

Snippet of what I have so far:

I have written nothing so far. Absolutely nothing. Like all great works of art, I started with the title.

Three

Title: Hanson
Concept: I will write about the band as though they just recently hit the music scene (even though they really hit the scene a decade ago).
My thoughts: I started this draft well over a year ago. It is probably obvious why I never finished it.

Snippet of what I have so far:

As a tribute to my friend in high school who once asked if I had seen a “new” movie that had been released YEARS earlier, I am going to start a series of writings on topics that are well, well past their heyday. However, like my friend, I will talk about them as though they are brand new and fresh. Up first: The musical group, Hanson.

Four

Title: Chat with a Live Virtual Agent
Concept: I have an IM conversation with a “live virtual agent.” Does that mean I’m talking to a machine, or an actual person?
My thoughts: I was obviously bored when I started this.

Snippet of what I have so far:

Me: I am transferring a domain. How does that process work? Are you “live” or is this automated?

Grace Says: I am a live virtual agent

Grace Says: So do you want to take advantage of this great limited time offer?

Me: Yes, but I had a question or two. How does transferring my domain to you work?

Grace Says: Ok Great!! To sign up with 3 months Free Hosting CLICK HERE

Me: You really are automated, aren’t you?

Grace Says: I am a live virtual agent

Me: But what does that mean?

Grace Says: We offer 30 Day Money Back Guarentee, 99.9% Uptime, Free Setup, Free Domain For Life and Much Much More!

Me: You misspelled GUARANTEE.

And there you have it. Proof positive that even someone as totally awesome as yours truly can occasionally conjure up a less-than-awesome blog idea.

So, did ANY of them show promise? Let me know. The draft that sparks the most interest will be finished and published sometime in the coming weeks.

The following is a repost of an entry titled A Christian Warrior I wrote on August 1, 2006. John Smoltz, the inspiration for that post, announced yesterday he is undergoing season-ending shoulder surgery. At age 41, this very well could be the end of his career.

It doesn’t really matter what I gain or lose on this earth because nothing compares to this promise He has given me. I am experiencing the sheer pleasure of once being lost and now being found. – John Smoltz

Normally, when someone asks you to name your favorite athlete, celebrity or role model; you have to give three different answers. I can give one answer.

When I was old enough to follow sports and know what was going on and why, John Smoltz was beginning his baseball career with the Atlanta Braves. In 1989, the team was awful. Smoltz, in only his second season at the age of 22, was the team’s lone bright spot. I remember walking down the driveway of our home to get the newspaper and reading how he had made the All-Star Team. In the years that followed, the team got better and became a dynasty. As I grew older, my love for the game grew. I followed the team religiously. Players came and went, but Smoltz remained a constant.

In high school, I found out he was a Christian. At that point, my admiration for him reached a new level. Smoltz did not fit the profile the world typically associates with a “Christian.” He was fiery, competitive and intense. He never backed down and he had no problems letting an umpire know if he should get a new job or a new pair of glasses. He had to be the best at everything — whether it was playing golf, a video game, or a contest to see who could blow the biggest bubble of chewing gum. The radio and television announcers for the Braves have groaned on several occasions over the years after Smoltz, a pitcher with mediocre hitting abilities, would get a base hit because they knew the plane ride home would be a long one. They knew John would be talking about his hit the entire trip.

In a sport where players are mired in scandal, are rude to fans, cheat on their wives and worse, John has been an exception. And he has never shied away from sharing his faith. This past Thursday, on July 27, 2006, Smoltz was the featured speaker for the first Faith Day in the history of major league baseball. After an afternoon game against the Florida Marlins, Smoltz shared his testimony to a stadium of fans.

Baseball is a sport where it’s often in a player’s best interest not to let people know what he thinks or believes. Letting people know whether you are a Republican or Democrat will alienate half your fans. Letting people know where you stand on the War in Iraq will have the same effect. In Smoltz’s case, unapologetically declaring you are a Christian and witnessing to believers and nonbelievers alike will be met with strong reactions one way or another. Smoltz doesn’t care.

Now 38, Smoltz’s time in baseball is winding down. He’s still a great player, but sooner rather than later his time will come. His retirement or — worse — his leaving the Braves to go to another team will be one of my saddest days. His career has spanned the childhood, teenage, and early adult years of my life. To me, he is the Atlanta Braves.

I’ll never look at them the same way once he’s gone.

If this is indeed the end, thanks for the memories, John. My apologies to everyone for the serious, humorless post. I will bring back the funny tomorrow.

I’m afraid this latest edition Dear Reader is going to be a harsh one. At 1:30 pm on June 3, 2008, a visitor from Ossining, New York, stumbled upon my site after Googling the following:

“IF someone stole how long would they have to to to jail”

Now, I am painfully aware that approximately 94% of my readers are criminals. It goes with the territory. After all, criminals love me. However, I have always taken pride in the knowledge my readers — evil, immoral thugs they might be — are intelligent. But this guy? This guy is a bafoon.

Dear Reader,

You, sir, make me sick.

Let’s start with the obvious. You start typing in all capital letters, stop and then type the rest of your search in lowercase letters. Ever hear of symmetry, pal? Either make everything uppercase or everything lowercase. Google might not be case sensitive, but I am VERY case sensitive!

Next, what are you stealing? Is it a cookie out of your mommy’s cookie jar? Is it gold from Fort Knox? You have got to be specific here, friend, because what you steal has a direct correlation with how long you will have to go to jail for stealing it. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you’re stealing a cookie. I’m right, aren’t I?

Also, do you have a stuttering problem? What’s with the “to to to” repetition? I almost want to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume the second “to” was supposed to read “go,” but I’m not so sure. I think you’re just that dumb.

Look, I’m not making fun of speech impediments here. As a youth, I had one myself. But just because I talked like Elmer Fudd, it didn’t mean I had to write like him! The words coming out of my mouth might have sounded like “west and welaxation,” but I WROTE it as “rest and relaxation.” But you? You write out your stutters. Brilliant.

And what irks me most is the inevitability that one day you will make the news for doing some truly idiotic criminal act, and then television cameras will catch you shouting, “I l-l-love Special Kind of Stupid d-d-dot com” as you enter a courthouse for your trial. And then my site will be suddenly become a hot spot for dumb criminals such as yourself.

You are a stupid, stupid man.

Stay away from me.

Sincerely,

kev

Boy, I’m grumpy when I haven’t had any caffeine…

What sort of advice would YOU have given this criminal wannabe? Leave lots of and lots of comments. Who knows — the guy might actually read them.

While listening to the local sports radio station this weekend, a name was mentioned that caught my attention. Apparently, Kristen Bell — star of television shows Veronica Mars and Heroes, and the movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall — is a huge hockey fan. Why did this catch my attention? Because Kristen Bell has the quality I affectionately refer to as being “cute as a button.”

In Kev-speak, “cute as a button” is the highest praise a female can achieve for her appearance. It ranks just above “pretty” and “she seems like a very nice girl.” I hope this language doesn’t offend any of you. Kev-speak can be quite forward sometimes.

Anyway, to give you an idea how my brain works, the news of Kristen Bell being a hockey fan saddened me. Why? Because I don’t like hockey. It’s a sport that’s just never interested me. So, inevitably, I asked myself the following question:

“If dating Kristen Bell, would I be willing to embrace hockey?”

Yes, I realize such a question is silly. The odds of Kristen Bell and I ever dating are remote, at best. For starters, there is the geographical issue. She lives in California and I live on the east coast. And then there’s the issue of… um, actually, I can’t think of another issue. Geography is the only reason Kristen Bell and I could never date. Stupid geography.

All kidding aside, this brings up a great question: how far would you go for a girl or a guy? For example:

Would you give up meat if you were dating a vegetarian?

If you liked wearing your hair long but the other person liked it short, would you cut it?

If Republican, would you vote Democrat? If Democrat, would you vote Republican?

If your significant other liked to punch kittens, would you be supportive of the hobby?

If you were dating Nicolas Cage, would you tell him his acting wasn’t the least bit over the top and awful?

Would you go see the Sex and the City movie without gouging out your eyes beforehand?

Would you go antiquing?

As any ex would tell you, I have a mixed history in this area. I’m completely inflexible when it comes to God, but on the other hand I’ve actually broken my Keanu Reeves boycott and seen The Lake House for the sake of a date. If that’s not sacrifice, I don’t know what is.

How about all of you?

Let’s hear it, people. These questions were just examples. How far would you go? What sacrifices would you be willing to make? How much utter nonsense would you tolerate?