Today’s installment of Dear Reader goes out to my new best friend from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. At 2:03 am EST on July 28, 2008, this special visitor stumbled upon this site after typing the following into a search engine:

“can i get 360 billion in singles”

A big thanks to Google for referring this very wealthy individual, who I hope will show his gratitude for the advice I’m about to give by putting me in his will.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for visiting my site. As one would expect from a person of your upbringing and immense wealth, you demand the best life has to offer. You drive only the finest cars, you wear only the finest clothes, you drink only the finest beverages (i.e. Coke Zero), and you read only the finest blogs.

I don’t believe it’s an exaggeration in the least for me to say you could not have possibly come to a better place for assistance with your question. I am at your service.

But first, an obvious question of my own:

Why do you need $360 billion in singles??

I don’t mean to pry, but your reasoning is needed so I can know what advice to give you.

Are you planning on going to a strip club? I have never been to such an establishment, but I’m not going to rain on your parade if you believe it’s a worthwhile place to spend your time. That said, I think you might be tipping the “ladies” a tad too much.

Are you going to Vegas to play dollar slot machines? If so, I take it you have a gambling problem. That’s too bad, man. I’m sorry. I really, really wish there was something I could do to help.

Wait, I just remembered. Every Friday night I host a meeting for gambling addicts at my home. Sometimes, just to prove we have beaten our addiction, we play poker. If you’d like to come by, I think we could fit you in at our table. Just be sure to bring a drink with you (Coke Zero, preferably), a snack to eat (pretzels will be fine), and your $360 billion. We’ll have lots of fun. Promise.

Did your girlfriend break up with you and you’re trying to win her back by showing up at her front door and burning your money — $1 at a time — to show her you’ve changed? Take it from me, my friend, you cannot argue your way out of “dumped.” Oh sure, I suppose you CAN, but do you really want to? Why would you want to be with someone who needs convincing in order to be with you?

My friend, there are too many girls in the world to waste your time obsessing about the one that got away. Even if you were the one to blame for the breakup, don’t give her the satisfaction. Meet someone new. Visit a country in Europe. Read the archives here at SKOS. Whatever you do, don’t burn your money. If you want to get rid of it, give it to me. I’ll leave work and drive to Baton Rouge right this minute. I’m serious.

Has someone kidnapped a loved one and demanded $360 billion in ransom money? First of all, I’m sorry for your loss. I hope you’re able to get your loved one back as soon as humanly possible. Secondly, that’s a very good decision to search Google for ideas rather than contact the authorities. You definitely don’t want to get the authorities involved. Thirdly, do you have any idea how big a suitcase you would need if you had $360 billion singles? At the very least, get the cash in tens or twenties. Fourthly and finally, if I don’t get the money within 24 hours, you’ll never see your pet hamster again.

I hope this helps, my new best friend. I know I didn’t ACTUALLY answer your question, but that’s simply because I’m not a banker and have no clue if it’s actually possible to have that much money in singles. I could ask a banker for you, if you want?

All I ask for in return is $1 billion.

Kev

Can any of you think of some other scenarios where my new best friend might need $360 billion in singles? If so, leave a comment or two or ten. Just don’t be believing that you’re going to get your dirty hands on my friend’s money. Stay away, you jackals. I found him first!

After the overwhelmingly positive response I received when I explored the possibility of my becoming President of the United States, I decided to pray on the matter. Shortly thereafter, I received a bad blog review where I was accused of being boorish, cruel, smug and vain by one reader. These sound bad, but they are excellent qualities for a President to possess. Still, I clearly needed to blog about this subject a while longer before making my decision.

So, for this week’s Friday Four, I am going to list four more reasons I probably would be an excellent President of the United States. There will surely be many, many more reasons to follow in the future.

One

Since I’m not yet married, rulers of other countries will probably try to set me up with their daughters.

Mind you, I don’t say this because I think I’m a super great catch or anything. But, since I would be in a position of power, it is reasonable to expect rulers of other countries will want to “get in good” with me. And what better way for them to do that than getting me to become a member of their family?

Just imagine how much better our country’s relationship with Canada would be if I was dating the daughter or granddaughter of… whomever it is that rules Canada.

Two

I am frugal, organized and wise with money.

Our national debt is ginormous. As a country, we have more money going out than we have coming in. This simply will not do. America needs to live within its means. It needs to cut out excess spending. It needs financial peace!

It needs Dave Ramsey.

If I became President, I would require every member of Congress to enroll in Dave Ramsey’s Financial Peace University. These people will learn how to manage money. And every U.S. Citizen will be given a free copy of Ramsey’s book, The Total Money Makeover.

Those citizens who cannot read will be given one-way, business-class ticket to Canada. Why Canada? Because I’ll be pretending to date the ruler’s daughter or granddaughter, and he will owe me a favor.

Three

I would blog every day.

Can you imagine how enjoyable it would be to have a President who blogged every day about his life? You would be able to leave him comments, and he would visit your blog and leave you comments. Your voice would be heard. You’d be able to make a difference in the world.

Also, imagine how jealous your friends would be if the President of the United States had your website on his blogroll.

Four

I would change the driving laws so that 18 was the age where one could get their learner’s permit and 21 was the age where they could get their actual license.

Why? You know why, people. Teenagers cannot drive.

They don’t pay attention to what they are doing. They drive too fast. They don’t know how to break properly. They don’t know how to accelerate properly. They don’t know how to park. They don’t know what to do at a four-way stop. They talk on their cell phones while they drive. They text message while they drive. They play with the radio while they drive. They honk at people they know while they drive. They dress ridiculously and talk incoherently.

I know that last sentence really has nothing to do with their driving abilities, but it needed to be said.

And there you have it. Indisputable proof that I would make a wicked awesome President of the United States.

So, what do YOU think of these ideas? Should I seriously consider running for President some day? Who amongst you would support me, vote for me, and tell me I’m handsome and smart? Leave a comment or two or ten!

ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA – Fans of music, diminutive celebrities, the color purple, and pants with the butt cut out of them were shocked by the news Prince (pictured) was savagely beaten over the weekend near his home in Minneapolis.

The 5’2 tall singer of such hits as “1999,” “When Doves Cry” and “I am a Little T-pot” was playing on the merry-go-round at a local park when he was approached by an unidentified assailant wearing snake skin cowboy boots and tapered jeans.

“The guy looked like he was asking for his autograph or something,” said witness Lowell Mather. “Next thing you know he had picked Prince up by his feet and started spinning him round and round. I didn’t know what to make of it all.”

Other witnesses to the attack were equally baffled as to what they were witnessing.

“At first, I thought they were playing,” fellow witness Roy Biggins remarked.

“When he threw Prince in the air, I thought he was going to catch him. He had his arms stretched out and everything. But then he pulled his arms back at the last second and Prince fell to the ground head first. Then he began kicking him. It was awful.”

As the assailant pulled rubber bands out of his pocket and began shooting them at the helpless singer, bystanders began to wonder if they should break up the squabble.

“Hindsight is 20/20, but I honestly thought they were playing a game,” said Antonio Scarpacci, a taxi cab driver with a clear view of the attack.

“The guy kept saying something about how this would make a great post for his blog. I think he was, how do you say, smoking the pot.”

Asked for comment as he was leaving the emergency room, a bruised Prince replied, “I just don’t understand what took those idiots so long to get that guy off of me.

“What were they waiting for?! The guy was shooting freakin’ rubber bands at me!”

Police have released the following sketch drawing (left) of the unidentified assailant. He is described as a dashingly handsome, fashion savvy man in his late 20s. He can be identified by a very smug-looking smile, a boorish attitude, and his tendency to take pictures with his head tilted sideways.

If you have any information on this case, please contact the authorities at 1-800-555-KEVDIDIT.

The above is a repost (and slight revision) of the very first “fake news” story I ever wrote. It originally debuted at my old blog on May 31, 2006.

Because I have a tendency to over analyze things, I have often wondered how I’ve managed to escape ridicule or criticism with what I sometimes write about here at SKOS. As I explained to a friend just last week:

“You know, I know, and those who have been reading my blog for a while know the kind of person I am. They are in on the joke. But I’m amazed that someone hasn’t read a random post or two of mine, had no idea of the context or my style of writing, and left me a spiteful comment saying I am ‘smug’ or something.”

I should have “knocked on wood” after saying this, because on July 17th a user at Stumble Upon had this review for my Friday Four: Things That Bug Me post:

“The website’s author is boorish and I fail to find any humor in his somewhat cruel, smug, and self important rants. A waste of precious stumble time.”

Had it not been for the 500+ new visitors who were referred to my site on July 17th from Stumble Upon, I would not have had any idea this review even existed. When the curiosity bug bit me, I discovered the review.

In the immortal words of Jerry Maguire: “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna do what you all think I’m gonna do, which is, you know, FLIP OUT!!!“

No, I’m not going to do that. As is my way, I am going to calmly and coolly address this person’s criticism in a mature and decidedly non-boorish fashion.

Dear Stumble Upon Guy,

You are a poo-poo head.

I know it wasn’t your intent, but thank you for referring so many new visitors to my site last week. For approximately 1/500 of a second, I questioned myself and asked if there was an ounce of truth to your review. Thankfully, I quickly realized that no, no there wasn’t.

You do not know me. You did not spend any amount of real time reading my archives to get a true sense of who I am and who I am not. You have no clue.

You say I’m boorish? Well, is it boorish to write about telling small children Santa won’t be bringing them Christmas presents this year? Is it boorish to write an open-letter to lazy parents telling them to teach their children proper etiquette? Is it boorish to eat spaghetti with your bare hands?

You say I’m smug? Well, is it smug to refer to yourself as “awesome” 84 times a day? Is it smug to write a blog post outlining reasons you’d be a good President? Is it smug to open a speech in front of an auditorium full of people with, “yes ladies, I’m single?” Is it smug to write how you actually look good when you sneeze?

You say I’m cruel? Well, is it cruel to threaten people with a bag of oranges? Is it cruel to tell a criminal he’s probably too stupid for a life of crime? Is it cruel to refer to someone’s laugh as “a laugh that makes me pray for the sweet release of death?” Is it cruel to punch kittens?

You say I write self-important rants? Well, is it vain to write about your wicked, awesome immune system? Is it vain to write about your great sense of fashion? Is it vain to write about your having one or more stalkers? Is it vain to think Carley Simon was singing about you even though you weren’t yet born?

I think I’ve proved my point.

Sincerely,

kev

Most all of you know the above letter is just me being silly. A few will swear I am being serious, and a few more will fail to find any of it funny. But that’s okay. This site is not for them. It’s for you.

Do I sometimes criticize celebrities and nameless idiots in my writing? Yes. And, when you’re sarcastic and have a dry sense of humor, some people will take offense to those criticisms. These are usually the same people who (*cough*) have no problems dispensing criticisms of their own, but that’s a topic for another day.

However, these criticisms do not make me boorish. They do not make me smug. They do not make me cruel, and they do not make me vain.

No, they make me a-w-e-s-o-m-e.

I’ll stick my neck out on the line and ask: Do any of YOU think my writing is boorish, cruel, smug or vain? Leave me a comment or two or ten with your thoughts. Please be gentle.

The following is a guest post from my brother, Tim. You might remember him from his co-starring roles in Twins Reunited by Awesome Dude and Awesome Dude’s Brother and The Greatest E-mail Exchange in the History of the World. Or you might remember him for any of the numerous great posts he’s submitted in the past. Check those out here after you’ve read and enjoyed his latest!

Are you job hunting? Perhaps, despite the fact you submitted a resume consisting of, “yo, fool, hire me!” written in crayon, you got that interview with the big Fortune 500 company. And now you are worried your social ineptness will hinder your chances of landing that job. Well, you’re in luck my friend. Even with your sub-par computer skills, you happened upon the one internet article written by the one guy who can help.

“What makes me qualified,” you might ask?

I just am, okay?

First, always start the interview with a joke about midgets. Everybody loves laughing at/about midgets, and this will surely endear you to the hiring manager at the beginning and possibly distract him from noticing any obvious character flaws because he is still amused by why the midget crossed the road.

If your interviewer happens to be a midget, you’re in luck. Pick him up, hold him like a baby, and make a bunch of baby talk about how he is a poop machine and you are going to change his diapy – he will think it is hilarious.

Also, don’t think any past experience is irrelevant. Remember, big companies want people with diverse backgrounds. Just try to shed light about how your past jobs built skill sets that are applicable to the job you are interviewing for. For example, your last job clubbing baby seals taught you time management.

Confidence is key. Even if you walk into the interview with your zipper down and toilet paper stuck to your shoe, be sure to act like you meant to do it and make fun of everybody else for being conformist pigs. The interviewer will respect your confidence and think to himself, “now this is a guy who will lead.”

While everybody else interviewing for the job will be talking themselves up, you can stand out and seem less pretentious by putting on a skit about your stronger points. Remember a picture is worth a thousands words, so sitting next to a cardboard box with a contemplating look will far better drive home the message that you can think outside the box than just stating so.

Lastly, just be yourself. That is, of course, unless not being yourself will give you a better chance at getting the job. If that is the case, then be anything but yourself.

Now, go. And land that job of your dreams.

In the comments section of a recent blog post, the notion of my becoming President of the United States began to gain momentum. Now, I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t the first time people suggested I run for President. I cannot so much as go to the grocery store without someone walking up to me, smiling and saying, “I would so totally vote for you!”

Because I am a giver, I suppose I should at least explore the idea of my someday running for President. So, for this week’s Friday Four, I am going to list four reasons I probably would be an excellent President of the United States. There will surely be many, many more reasons to follow in the future.

One

I was a teacher for three years, so I know how to deal with immature people.

The Senate and House of Representatives would be child’s play compared to a room full of 14 year olds. In school, half the students hate your guts. The same would be true with our partisan government.

Now, if Presidents had the power to give members of Congress detention, I’d be made in the shade…

Two

Interns don’t do anything for me.

With me in the White House, you wouldn’t have to worry about any shenanigans ala William Jefferson Clinton. In fact, I will go so far as placing a “No Girls Allowed” sign on my office and bedroom doors.

If that doesn’t keep them away, my water gun filled with hot sauce surely will.

Three

I would immediately declare war on France.

We’re all tired of them. Am I right? Who’s with me??

Four

I would begin drilling for oil in Canada.

Forget Alaska, we have a large resource immediately north of us. Gas prices haven’t gotten absolutely ridiculous. And, as the resident bully in North America, we shouldn’t be afraid of hurting Canada’s feelings. We should go in, tell the Mounties to step aside, and begin drilling for oil anywhere we please.

Frankly, Canada should be grateful we didn’t called dibs on their land years ago.

And there you have it. Indisputable proof that I would make an awesome, awesome President of the United States.

So, what do YOU think of my ideas? Should I seriously consider running in 2012? Who amongst you would support me, vote for me, and tell me I’m handsome and smart? Leave a comment or two or ten!

As many of you may be aware, I am a fan of Alton Brown’s show on the Food Network, “Good Eats.” The man is a genius, really. If you combined his wit and knack for all things food with Giada DeLaurentiis’ looks, you would have a child that could potentially take over the world.

The other night, however, I was struggling with my usual insomnia and, after the late-night Good Eats re-run concluded, “Unwrapped” with Marc Summers came on. For those of you who don’t know, this show covers all the behind-the-scenes info on popular American foods, from the origins of French’s Classic Yellow Mustard to what’s really in Marshmallow Fluff (which we all know is nothing but clouds and cyanide).

Normally, this show is relatively entertaining. If you ever want to know the reasons the Lucky Charms marshmallows are the shapes that they are (I like the pots o’ gold, personally), this would be the show for you. But the episode I was watching – “Cheese Please” – may have just turned a normally cheese-loving awesome guy into, well, just a normal awesome guy.

This episode detailed the secrets behind making goat cheese, cheesecake, and Cheez-It crackers. Now, I love a good goat cheese as much as the next guy, but there’s something about seeing it in still-liquid form in a thousand-gallon metal vat that would turn even Joe Rogan’s stomach.

When referring to the process of making goat cheese, there’s something about the phrase, “Now we dump in the live cultures, and as soon as those start to work, the cheese will start to curdle – kinda like milky Jell-O!” that makes me never want to look at a goat again. Ever. Sorry kids, the petting zoo is out. I hate goats now.

Next up: cheesecake. I like cheesecake, I do. But in my mind, cheesecake is always made by hand, by a bunch of attractive, motherly-looking women with aprons and rolling pins, infusing their cheesecakes with love and blessings for all who may consume them. NOT by a giant machine that spits a big blob of filling into a pre-made crust in one gigantic squirt…200 at a time. Where’s the love? Where’s the blessing?

Finally, Cheez-It crackers. At first I was thinking that seeing little orange crackers in mass quantities – we’re talking feeding all of Africa here – wouldn’t bother me so much. And it didn’t…until they attacked my eyeballs with what the cracker dough looks like before it’s baked. Obviously, it doesn’t start off orange. It starts off white. Fine, it looks like bread dough. But seeing them dump a giant bowl of liquid ORANGE into the formerly normal-looking dough was too much. I don’t think I even heard what was in it. I was too busy contemplating injecting liquid Dawn into my ears in an attempt to wash my brain of the image I had just witnessed. I will never look at a Cheez-It the same again.

I think from now on, I’ll stick to Good Eats. I’ve come to the conclusion that knowing how the majority of my processed food is made is not a good thing. At least I know good old Alton infuses his food with love and blessings.

Now, if he could also infuse it with a little Giada DeLaurentiis, it would be on like Donkey Kong.

Today’s installment of Dear Reader goes out to a shy lad from Huntington Beach, California. At 11:32 pm PST on July 14, 2008, this special visitor stumbled upon this site after typing the following into a search engine:

“how to open conversation with a lady”

A big thanks to Google for referring this individual, and a bigger thanks to KathyF for writing the guest blog post that ultimately led him to SKOS. Thanks to you, this young lad is able to get the help he desperately needs and only I can provide.

Dear Reader,

Whether it’s a shy teenager or an awkward man in his forties who still lives in his parent’s basement, it warms my heart whenever I hear Cupid has struck someone in the buttocks with his pointy, rusty arrow. It brings out both the romantic and the doctor in me.

(By the way, you should probably go get a tetanus shot.)

Doug (may I call you Doug?), I am glad fate brought you to me. You see, I have never had difficulty striking up conversation with the ladies. In the first grade, I distinctly remember being tackled and held down against my will by virtually every girl in my class one day during recess. I don’t remember what I said to them, but it must have been very suave.

Because I am a giver, I’m going to help you. I am going to impart my knowhow to you, Doug. How does that sound?

The tears of joy inevitably streaming down your face right now brings me to my first tip, Doug: do not cry in front of the ladies. Television, movies, magazines and all that nonsense might have you believing ladies want a guy who is sensitive, but believe me when I say it isn’t true.

Ladies want a man who never cries. Ever.

If you are talking to a lady when three hundred bees proceed to swarm on you, you better not cry. It doesn’t matter if you are allergic to bee stings. If you cry, she will lose all respect for you.

If you are talking to a lady when an escaped lion from a zoo pounces on your back, you better not cry. She will go find a man who doesn’t cry when being mauled by zoo animals.

If you are talking to a lady when a senior citizen, mistaking you for someone she saw on America’s Most Wanted, sprays mace in your eyes, you better not cry. You better take the mace from her hand and spray HER with it just like a real man would do.

Another good tip is to make sure you have clean ears and fingernails. Girls pay attention to whether or not a guy has clean ears, Doug. Trust me. According to my own independent research, dirty ears is the number one reason for divorce in this country. It has surpassed financial issues, impotence, and Angelina Jolie for the top spot.

As for fingernails, well… that’s just sanitary.

My next tip would be to acquire some great skills. Girls only want boyfriends who have great skills, Doug. Take me, for example. I am awesome. That is my skill. Other guys might have nun-chuck skills, bow-hunting skills or computer-hacking skills.

These are just examples. The important thing, Doug, is to acquire some kind of great skill. Ladies, especially classy ones, are going to ask you about your great skill within the first two minutes of meeting you. You better have a good answer.

Wearing a bluetooth headset on your ear is great for when you’re starting a conversation with a lady. Nothing, Doug, and I mean NOTHING, makes a lady weak in the knees quite like walking up to her while talking to an imaginary friend on your bluetooth, telling said imaginary friend you “have to go,” and then telling her, “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m wearing a bluetooth headset on my ear.”

It will be on like Donkey Kong, Doug.

Finally, the best advice I can give for starting a conversation with a lady is to seem aloof and indifferent to her. If you have met her before, pretend you do not remember her name. If you are meeting her for the first time, ask her for her name, but then proceed to call her by the wrong name for the rest of the conversation.

It sounds cruel, but it’s all about remaining a mystery, Doug. Why do you think O.J. Simpson is still, to this day, able to get women to date him? Because he is a mystery. Women are intrigued by the “will he or won’t he (kill me)” aura he has around him. They can’t figure him out, but they want to. They are willing to put their LIVES on the line to figure him out.

Now, Doug, obviously I am not suggesting you mimic O.J. Simpson. For one thing, O.J. would hunt you down and kill you for mimicking him. But mainly, I just don’t think you can pull off the “possible murderer” vibe, Doug. No offense.

“Guy who can’t remember my name” is totally within your limitations, though. In fact, I bet you could also pull off “guy who can’t remember where he knows me from” and “guy who goes days without bathing.”

Mystery, Doug. It’s all about remaining a mystery.

Good luck, buddy.

Kev

I know what you all are thinking: “That is the greatest advice EVER, Kevin.” Yes, yes I know. Still, what advice would YOU have given our pal Doug here? Leave a comment (or two or ten) with your tips and advice.

After taking off last Friday for the 4th of July, the Friday Four is back and better than ever! Well, it’s back at least. I think it’s pretty obvious to everyone Friday Four peaked at week one and it’s been all downhill since.

Anyway, on that upbeat note, brace yourselves for this week’s exciting installment of F4! That’s right, I abbreviated it. If Jessica Alba and the rest of the Fantastic Four want to sue me, they can go right ahead. I’m not afraid of you, Jessica. Not anymore! And FYI, that restraining order is still valid.

For this week’s F4, I am going to list four reasons “Casual Fridays” are wicked awesome. Long-time readers of yours truly (not just SKOS) may recognize these. Enjoy!

One

There’s something about wearing jeans and having my shirt untucked that brings out the kid in me. It’s freedom. I get in my car, pop in a Stone Temple Pilots CD, put on my Oakley’s and pull out of my driveway. I’m headed for work, but I could just as easily be heading out of town for a 3-day weekend. It’s Casual Friday. I’m wearing jeans and I have my shirt untucked.

And I look awesome.

Two

Casual Fridays bring out the patient person inside me.

I stop at McDonald’s to get some coffee Diet Coke. Twenty minutes later, I’m handed a bag with an apple pie in it. Do I throw my bag at the head of the employee and tell him to try again? Of course. But after three more attempts, when he finally gets my order right, I tell him to “have a nice day.” Why? Because it’s Casual Friday.

Three

There is something about Casual Fridays that calms me.

When I get to work, someone is parked in my parking place. I key the words “Is your name Kevin?!” into the person’s car, but I resist the urge to let the air out of the tires. Why? Because it’s Casual Friday.

Four

Even more so than usual, I am a nice, caring person on Casual Fridays.

During lunch, I visit Subway and cross paths with the person responsible for getting vegetable beef soup all over my car a long time ago. After setting her house on fire, I give her the name of a good real estate agent. Why? Because Casual Fridays are days for forgiveness.

And there you have it. Indisputable proof that if every day was Casual Friday the world would be a much better place!

So, what do YOU love about Casual Fridays? Leave a comment so we all can share your love.

As my regular readers know and loath, I am a baseball fan. Occasionally, I like to blog about the sport. This is another fact known and loathed by my readers. As a regular reader once e-mailed me, “I came here for the funny, not for the baseball.”

That’s my mom for you. She does love the comedy…

Anyway, it is a very poorly-hidden secret that I am an Atlanta Braves fan. Even though they often frustrate me — and by often, I mean constantly — I just cannot get enough of those crazy guys. And so, partly because I am bored, but mostly because I wanted to write a tribute to the team I adore, I present to you all a small snippet of my yet-to-be-published (or written) book, 102 Reasons YOU Should Love the Braves.

A shiny, imaginary nickel to all who read the entire list!

1. They once had a pitcher named Joe Winkelsas. That is a funny name.

6. During home games, they often play Queen’s We Are The Champions and We Will Rock You. I could be wrong, but I believe no other stadium in any other sport plays these songs.

13. This guy is a manager in their minor league system. If Nazis or umpires ever invade the country, you will be glad to have him on your side.

34. Manager Bobby Cox holds the all-time MLB record for ejections. Old men who yell and curse are hilarious.

51. Thirty-six year old third baseman Larry Jones still goes by the nickname “Chipper.” Watching ballgames and wondering if Jones would still go by his childhood nickname today if his nickname had been “Little Snot” or “Stink” is a wonderful time killer.

66. Arguably the greatest sports commercial of all-time stars two members of the Atlanta Braves. If this commercial does not amuse you, you are not human. Also, you’re stupid. That’s right… if you do not like this commercial, you are a stupid alien. This is me telling it like it is.

70. Back in 1991, gorgeous actress Jennifer Connelly and the rest of the cast for Disney’s The Rocketeer came to a Braves game to promote their new movie. I was at that game. This probably shouldn’t have been included in a list of reasons why YOU should love the Braves, but it’s definitely one of the reasons a 13-year-old Kev began loving them!

84. The team’s stadium, Turner Field, offers TWELVE different hot dogs: They’ve got the Boston Italian Sausage, Chili Cheese Dog, Juicy Jumbo Dog, Jumbo Chicago Dog, Jumbo Georgia Dog, Jumbo New York Dog, Jumbo Southwestern Dog, Milwaukee Bratwurst, Jumbo Southwestern Dog, New York Dog, Southwestern Dog, and the plain old, generic Hot Dog. Personally, I feel bad for the generic Hot Dog. Why doesn’t it get a cool name?

90. The hilarious Alton Brown of the Food Network’s Good Eats is a Georgia resident. I’m not sure if he’s a baseball fan, but if he is he’s surely a Braves fan. The mere possibility of Alton Brown being a Braves fan boosts the team’s coolness factor by at least twenty points.

99. “Braves” spelled backwards is “Sevarb.” Obviously, Sevarb isn’t a real word, but it should be. In fact, I am coining it right now. The definition of Sevarb shall be “the act of spelling a word backwards for no reason whatsoever.” Cindy, go get Merriam Webster on the phone. Tell him it’s Kev with another new word for his dictionary. Wait, what do you mean there’s no such person?

102. If you’re a girl, and we go to a game together on a date, I’ll hold your hand and tell you the other 91 reasons.

It was a hectic week in Kevland (that’s right… I have renamed the city where I live “Kevland”). At work, I had to endure numerous, long, boring meetings. And, at home, I have been busy packing up my stuff in anticipation of my moving to a new place.

I am a “learn from your mistakes and grow from them” kind of guy, but it is clear I have yet to fully learn my lesson when it comes to the moving process.

On May 29, 2005, at my old blog, I wrote:

A forgotten part of the moving process is you have to clean your old place. And right now, my old place looks like a garbage can exploded inside of it. Why is my brother such a slob? Why do I keep everything ever given to me?

An hour ago, I came across a November 2002 memo from (my former place of employment). Why did I hold onto it? Did it strike me as funny at the time? Did I keep it in case I ever wanted to spit out some gum? Was it a magic memo that promised to grant me three wishes? And if the latter, where are my millions of dollars, my Ivy-league educated supermodel girlfriend, and my ability to turn invisible?

On August 19 of last year, I wrote the following post here at SKOS:

You would think I’d have learned from my move in 2005 to do a better job of decluttering. But sadly, I did not learn my lesson. I have too much old junk. Graded exams and assignments from back in my teaching days fill cardboard boxes in my room.

Why do I keep them? I guess I have this paranoid feeling I will be “audited” someday. The principal of my old school will contact me asking to confirm the quiz grade of some random student back in 2003. I hate audits.

I have never considered myself a pack rat, but I clearly need to wake up and smell the numerous boxes of crap I should have gotten rid of years ago.

Thankfully, after writing that last post in August, I got rid of the boxes of graded exams and assignments from my teaching days. If the principal of my old school contacts me asking to confirm a grade of a former student, I’ll just make up something. If I liked the student, I’ll tell the principal he or she had a 100 in my class. If the student was an evil spawn of Satan, I’ll tell him the student had a 13.

Fair? Well, no.

Sweet karma goodness? Absolutely.

Anyway, despite the fact I have made strides to rid myself of old junk, my place is still packed with things I do not need.

Do any of you still have shirts from your freshman year in college? I do. In fact, I have ALL of them.

Snake skin cowboy boots I last wore in 1996 and are probably too small for me now? Still have them.

My baseball cleats from my senior year of high school? Still have them.

A Hootie and the Blowfish CD? Yes, I still have it.

It’s a good thing I am frugal and don’t buy something unless I really, really need it. Because, if I wasn’t like that, Lord help us…

Kevland would be FILLED with junk from 1996.

Are any of YOU pack rats? What sort of things do you still have that should have long, long ago been discarded? Let’s hear it, people. Speak now or forever hold your soundtrack to the Titanic movie.

Oh, wonderful. Another meeting at work. There goes my afternoon.

I hope they reserved the big conference room. The small conference room makes me feel claustrophobic, which is strange since I do not suffer from claustrophobia. Methinks it has something to do with the fact the small conference room is roughly the size of my freshman dorm in college, which was roughly the size of walk-in closet. Of course, this makes it easy for me reminisce about the “good ol’ days” in college. All I have to do is find a small space, hang an Alanis Morrisette poster on the wall, and then curl into a ball and weep.

That’s just great. They reserved the SMALL conference room. I hope everyone brushed their teeth and showered this morning. Wait, I know, I just need to get my allergies to act up. Then I won’t be able to smell anything. Where’s some dust…

I’ve got to hand it to our building’s cleaning crew. They might be slow, they might have poor people skills, but you can always count on them to leave the dust that has accumulated on my desk. I’ll just take a little of the dust, sniff it and…

This was a bad idea. Apparently, mixed in with the dust was some lemonade mix I spilled on my desk a few weeks back. Am I going to die? Lord, if You’re going to take me, please take me BEFORE this meeting.

Crap. I’m going to live.

Near as I can tell, everyone in the meeting has showered and brushed their teeth. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, they all smell like lemons. I like it.

Geesh, why are some people so enamored with their own voices? “Well, I think… blah, blah, blah, blah.” That’s wonderful, long-winded man wearing a thin tie. I have listened to what you have to say, and I think I speak for everyone when I say these chairs are incredibly, incredibly uncomfortable.

I can’t feel the lower half of my body anymore. My butt and legs have gone numb. This would be beneficial if I were to inadvertently sit on a thumb tack, but otherwise I don’t care for the sensation. I wonder if I can stretch my legs under the table…

Oh no, who’s foot did I just touch? It’s either the creepy guy with the toupee or the older woman who keeps asking me to help her fix the speaker cables under her desk.

This isn’t good. Cause a distraction. Hurry!

“Excuse me, everyone. My butt is numb. Could we take a short break?”

What’s that? We’ve only been meeting for seven minutes?

I think I’m going to die here.

My mind is too drained from the meetings to write anything clever. I would try to do something wittier than the above, but I’m just too tired. I just want to get my Alanis Morrisette poster and go home.