I'm a cypher, wrapped in an enigma, smothered in secret sauce. Also, my name is Kev and I own this here website.
Alright, I'm just a guy (though an admittedly awesome one at that -- oh, and humble) who likes to blog. Sarcasm, quick wit and gorilla dust are my tools of the trade. Feel free to browse my blog and
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Earlier this week, a friend e-mailed me an audio clip of a voice mail left at a bank in Lubbock, Texas, by a woman who had been notified her car was about to be repossessed. The woman, as you would imagine, was agitated. She angrily reprimanded the bank for not understanding she wasn’t rich. That is — she wasn’t rich yet. She ended the voice mail by proclaiming this year she WOULD be rich because Barack Obama was now president.
Putting aside the sad fact that it would appear a segment of society presumably voted for Obama under the belief he was going to give them the keys to Fort Knox, this woman is a prime example of the entitlement issues plaguing the world today. This is the year she finally gets to be rich.
I first became aware of this wave of entitlement when I became a teacher a few years ago. Students who did not pay attention in class, misbehaved and didn’t study felt they deserved passing grades. Their parents felt they deserved passing grades, too. More than one parent-teacher meeting was spent discussing what the teacher was going to do to help little Johnny pass instead of what Johnny needed to do. I refused to play this entitlement game, stated so, and soon retired from teaching.
These days it’s impossible to throw a rock out a window and not hit an individual who believes he’s entitled to anything and everything (including everything you own since you just “assaulted” him with a rock). A finance article, of all things, expressed my thoughts perfectly:
(The) relationship between optimism and hard work has been lost in some quarters, thanks in part to the self-esteem movement, which gave everyone a trophy regardless of his or her effort.
The recent season premiere of ‘American Idol’ provided an example. One of the men who auditioned, Randy Madden, dresses like Axl Rose but works as a salesman in a cubicle (calling himself “a rocker in a box”). When he met the judges, he admitted to having no musical training and never playing in a band, and then proceeded to butcher my favorite Guitar Hero song, Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer”. He teared up for the camera, proclaiming, “I just want someone to tell me I’m great.”
Here was a man utterly unprepared to get the thing he wanted — so he simply decided he was entitled to it, demanded it, and set himself up for a rather spectacular fall. He is not unlike those who took out mortgages they couldn’t afford, cashed out and squandered their equity, piled on credit card debt and home equity loans, then teared up, proclaiming, “I just want someone to tell me I’m rich.”
None of us are entitled to anything unless it’s specifically stated in the Bible or U.S. Constitution. And neither the Bible nor Constitution state we are entitled to be rich. Neither states we deserve a trophy just for playing the game. You want to be rich? Work for it. You want a trophy? Practice, get better and earn a trophy.
You want your car not to be repossessed by the bank? Get off your butt and stop expecting riches to fall from the sky and into your lap.
Of course, if Obama really does end up handing these people buckets of cash, boy is my face going to be red.
And with that, I’ve met my quota for “serious” posts in 2009.
My quota? One.
For the next edition of my immensely unpopular advice column, Ask Kev, I am going to “borrow” a question recently sent to the famous Dear Abby. Why? Because no sane person would actually ask ME an important question. Don’t worry, I will give the question back to Abby when I’m finished.
DEAR ABBY KEV:
My daughter, “Alexa,” and her boyfriend, “Ryan,” were on vacation and went gambling. Ryan bet $400 at a craps table, handed Alexa the dice and told her to throw. She threw the whole night for him and won $2,500.
After they finished playing, Ryan put all the proceeds in his pocket. I thought it was unfair. Alexa says it’s no big deal. I understand that the $400 was his, but she won $2,100 for him.
What’s your opinion? Isn’t this a red flag not to invest any more time in this relationship?
- NOT BETTING ON THIS ONE
Dear Betting,
Wow. Your daughter took $400 of her boyfriend’s money and turned it into $2,500 in a single evening? Is this kind of thing common for your daughter? Has she always been lucky with money? Does it run in your family?
Betting, I think we can help each other.
You see, I am single. I like money and the idea of earning a 625% profit every day intrigues me. Yes, it intrigues me very much.
How this impacts you and your daughter is, unlike her current boyfriend, I am generous. I would gladly pay your daughter a daily commission for her hard work. Plus, she’d get to be my girlfriend, which is something to which it’s impossible to attach a monetary figure.
However, since your daughter seems perfectly content dating this loser, Ryan, we’ll have to get him out of the picture.
Here’s what I had in mind:
You, Betting, accuse Ryan of trying to poison you. In an act of self defense, you bludgeon Ryan with a woman’s purse you bought, using cash, from a flea market the previous weekend. You will tell the authorities that the purse was Ryan’s. That’s right — we’re going to tell people he was a cross dresser.
You may or may not be convicted of manslaughter or murder, but that little tidbit isn’t really pertinent to the plan.
At Ryan’s funeral, Alexa (whose name I will be changing as soon as we start dating) will be there. She’ll be crying. She’ll be crying because her boyfriend was a cross dresser. She’ll be crying because he’s now dead. She’ll be crying because her mom, who likely will spend her golden years behind bars, was the one to kill him.
And that’s when I show up.
She won’t know who I am, but she’ll be happy to see a kind, friendly face on this dark day. And that’s when I’ll say:
“Hi, my name is Kevin. You look like you could use some cheering up. Want to go roll some dice?”
And they lived happily ever after.
Let’s do this thing, Betting. E-mail me.
Kev
What sort of advice would YOU give our friend? How would you rate the advice I gave him/her? It was gold, right?
As always, please feel free to leave a comment or two or ten.
I’m certainly not the first to rant about this, but I am the latest.
It is inexplicable to me that the person who is about to become the new Treasury Secretary, the person who will run the IRS, didn’t pay his taxes from 2001 to 2004. Timothy Geithner, Obama’s nominee for Treasury Secretary, claims he was simply “careless” when he failed to pay $34,000 in Social Security and Medicare taxes.
Despite his gaffe, Geithner is expected to be confirmed anyway.
That’s just wonderful.
Maybe I’m a dreamer, but shouldn’t failing to have paid your own taxes eliminate you from securing any IRS-related job — much less Treasury Secretary?
Seriously.
Could someone who had been arrested for drunk driving get to become president of Mothers Against Drunk Driving?
Could someone with anti-Semites and terrorists as friends be elected President? (Oh, wait…)
Could a convicted bank robber ever get a job as a security guard at Fort Knox?
Could someone who had infected a million people with food poisoning ever be hired as White House chef? (One could only hope…)
Could Joseph “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” Hazelwood ever get another job as captain of an oil tanker?
Could Paul “Pee Wee Herman” Reubens ever get a job as a preschool teacher?
Could Paris Hilton tour high schools around the nation preaching the virtues of abstinence?
This, my friends, is insanity.
Can you think of any more analogies? Leave a comment below and (if it’s good and clean) I’ll add it to the list.
And the List Keeps Growing!
Could someone who refused to hand over basic identification papers of their own be hired as FBI chief? *
Could someone who refused to exercise be hired as a personal trainer? *
Could someone who flunked basic algebra be handed a CPA license? *
Could Rosie O’Donnell be a runway model during Paris fashion week? Or any week for that matter? +
Thanks: Angi*, Audrey+
Have you ever sneezed so hard and for so long that your nose became sore?
No, that isn’t the latest “ice breaker” I’ve come up with to chat up the ladies. It’s a real question. My nose feels like it’s been punched repeatedly by someone with powerful, tiny fists.
It’s not a fun feeling. If I take a deep breath, I can feel it. If I put my hands to my face and inadvertently brush against my nose, I feel it. And when I sneeze, I most definitely feel it. What does it feel like? Pain. Absolute pain.
I wish I could put an icepack on my nose, but I can’t type (i.e. do my job) and hold the icepack at the same time. So, that means I’d need to adhere the icepack to my face in some way. I have tape, but that could be painful later today when it comes time to take off the icepack. I could staple the icepack to my face, but that might be even more painful than the tape.
I know, I could cram ice into each of my nostrils — attack the soreness from the inside. Of course, the ice would eventually melt. Then I would have water slowly leaking down my face and on to my pants. People might think I had wet myself. We can’t have that. I’m a grown up.
And what would happen if I had to sneeze while the ice was in my nose? With the unbelievable force of my sneezes lately, the ice would be propelled at such a velocity it could injure someone. What if I maimed or killed someone with my ice sneeze? A jury would never believe my story.
Do you know what they would do to someone like me in prison? No, I’m really asking. Do you?
I need to lock myself in a clean room. I need a room that is completely, 100% sanitized. Maybe then I could stop sneezing. And with the sneezing stopped, the soreness would eventually subside.
Does anyone have a clean room where I could crash for a few days?
I know this is likely an unhappy topic for most of you since you do not have today as a holiday, but I am writing this blog post in the comfort of my own home. My work, God bless ‘em, acknowledges MLK Jr. Day as a corporate-wide holiday. It is my sincere hope they will eventually acknowledge all Mondays as holidays. But I digress.
So, what have I done so far today?
I slept in a little. A cold has been plaguing me the past couple days, so the extra sleep was nice. I’ve poured me a glass of Coke Zero, which I’m sipping on as I write this sentence. I don’t know what it is, but Coke Zero tastes extra awesome-y on relaxing holidays at home. I have zero new e-mails, which either means I’m incredibly unpopular or that anyone who normally writes me is languishing away at their jobs and too melancholy to e-mail. For my ego’s sake, I’ll assume it’s the latter. I turned on the television and found Giada DeLaurentiis on the Food Channel, which I’m fairly certain is God’s way of saying, “Enjoy your day, My son.”
What will I do the rest of today, you ask?
Whatever I want. The world is my oyster!
Translation: I’ll make me a sandwich, pour me some more Coke Zero, put in a Wings DVD I was given for Christmas, and goof around online.
It will be a magical day.
People are stupid.
I humbly say that with all the respect in the world, but it’s true. People are stupid. It’s a fact reinforced every time I’m driving behind a motorist who is applying makeup and talking on a cell phone. It’s reinforced every time I see someone with 50+ items attempt to check out at the express lane of the grocery store. It’s reinforced whenever I read a news story about consumer debt. And a month ago, when I was growing a beard, that fact was reinforced every time I looked in the mirror.
People are stupid.
Today this fact was reinforced when I read the news story about the nude photo of Madonna about to be auctioned. It was taken when the overrated hack was twenty years old, and it’s expected to sell for at least $10,000.
Look, I am not one of those guys who can tell you which female celebrities have appeared nude and which have not. I’m a heterosexual male, but my mom raised me right. When I heard Meg Ryan did her best Paris Hilton impression in that “In the Cut” movie a few years back, my reaction wasn’t to whistle and high five everyone around me. My reaction was: “Not Meg Ryan! She used to be so cute.”
I say that to say even I know the world is not hurting for nude images of the old hag. The woman has liver spots in places no human should have them. Heck, in junior high I remember there being all sorts of controversy on the news because she came out with a book filled with nude photos of herself and Lord knows what else.
In short, she’s been naked. A lot.
It’s been said that you are never more than three feet away from a spider. Wherever you go, a spider is nearby. Well, I think the same applies to nude photos of Madonna. You can’t go anywhere without accidentally finding a nude photo of her. Heck, I was afraid to search on Google for a Madonna photo for this blog post due to fear my eyes would be burned from their sockets.
Nude images of Madonna are everywhere. You can’t hide from them.
So who in their right mind would pay money for one? *
As I said earlier, people are stupid. Therefore, I’m putting up for auction a few “rare” items of my own. I am going to start the bidding for each at $10,000.
An unopened bottle of Coke.
A Hootie and the Blowfish CD.
A picture of a half-eaten Big Mac.
A white sock with practically no holes in it.
Two pens. (Ink not included)
A rock.
A YouTube video of someone in the media kissing Obama’s backside. (Figuratively speaking, of course. Although…)
Good luck to all bidders!
* I realize people who would bid on the Madonna photo would say it is valuable because it’s one of a kind, it’s artistic, it’s a piece of history, yada yada yada. I say that’s just fancy talk for “she’s naked!” And if that appeals to you, Mr. Pervy McPerv, save your $10,000 and go to Google. You’ll thank me later, if you can find me (I’ll be hiding from you).
Allegedly, we could get snow in my neck of the woods tomorrow.
Consider me skeptical. I’ve been burned too many times by the possibility of snow.
I know that some of you live in parts of the world where snow is an annual occurrence. To some of you, snow is an afterthought. Those you who prefer warmer weather might even hate snow.
Let me tell you something. When you live in an area of the country that hasn’t seen snow in over a decade, the possibility of snow is a big deal. In your head, you hype it up like it’s the greatest thing on this planet.
Snow is like that tropical paradise convicts in prison movies talk about going to once they “bust out of jail.” It’s like that food you crave when you haven’t eaten in a while. It’s like the music of Kurt Cobain and Nirvana.
In other words, snow isn’t really all that special. It’s just perceived as special due to circumstances. And in this case, the circumstance is: it never freakin’ snows where I live!
So, that is why the possibility of snow tomorrow is a big deal. We never get snow. Also, it’s a big deal because I love to wear jackets and snow would allow me to wear a jacket without anyone asking me, “Why are you wearing a jacket? It’s not even that cold.”
However, like I said, I’m skeptical. Every couple of years I’m teased with the possibility of snow on some random winter day.
“Did you hear the news? It might snow on Tuesday!”
“The weatherman says it’s supposed to get down to 20 degrees tonight. We could see snow!”
“It’s snowing in the Carolinas. We could be next!”
Lies. All lies.
Heck, I didn’t even get to experience snow when I visited Minnesota during Thanksgiving a couple years ago.
I was so excited about seeing snow I didn’t even mind the fact I was going to be away from my family. In early November that year, Minnesota already had over a foot of snow. I was psyched! I bought gloves. I bought a scarf. I bought a ski cap. I bought a wool trench coat. I was ready for some snow!
By the time Thanksgiving arrived, it had stopped snowing. The snow from earlier in the month had already melted. Not only was there no snow, the temperature was practically the same as my home state.
Are you kidding me??
Minnesota, the state where Grumpy Old Men was filmed, a movie that portrayed Minnesota as an icy wonderland, couldn’t even give me snow.
So, again, I’m skeptical about tomorrow.
However, I do look pretty darn good in my wool trench coat…
I don’t watch The Simpsons as often as I did when I was younger, but after watching an episode recently I was reminded of a theory I once had about the show:
There are three teams of writers on The Simpsons.
The first team is charged with writing five minutes of material. It can be about anything.
The second team is charged with writing fifteen minutes of material. It, too, can be about anything. However, neither team has any idea what the other one is up to.
The third team is charged with creating a 30-second segue that somehow ties the two stories together.
And voila. You have an episode of The Simpsons.
Of course, you can’t exactly blame the show’s creators for trying to mix things up in order to keep it interesting. When writer’s block hits, you do what you got to do.
Speaking of things I don’t do as often as I did when I was younger, I worked out at the gym on Saturday.
Yep, it’s time to get back in shape.
I’m tired of making that “old man noise” when I get out of my nice, black, 2005 Ford Mustang, which can comfortably sit two people.
I’m tired of feeling winded whenever I hold doors open for old ladies or save puppies from burning buildings.
I’m tired of getting hand cramps whenever I grab my big, heavy wallet that’s filled with cash thanks to my steady career and sound financial sense.
I’m tired of only being known for having a wonderful sense of humor, a great personality, brains and brown eyes a girl could get lost inside.
In short, I want to get back in shape (and to stop being eternally single)!
So, I’ve started going to the gym again. I’ll be doing nothing except cardio for at least the first two months. On Saturday, I did 30 minutes on the elliptical machine, which is the greatest invention known to man as far as I’m concerned. I’ll up that time over the next two weeks until I get to 60 minutes, and then I’ll start increasing the speed and incline.
Of course, I probably will go ahead and do a little resistance training. I’m sure this has already been done before, but here’s what I’m thinking: push ups.
“Whoa, slow down, Kev. Push ups? That’s a little advanced isn’t it?”
Shut up.
There are 365 days in a year (wait, is this a leap year?). On day one, January 1st, I will do one push up. On January 2nd, I will do two push ups. Each day I will do one more push up than I did the previous day. By December 31st, I will be up to 365 push ups. At that point, I will be able to scare small children with the size of my muscles.
“Um, Kev…that sounds great and all, but January 1st was two weeks ago.”
Shut up.
Yes, I realize January 1st was two weeks ago. I’m just going to have to play catch up. If I start today, the 12th day of the year, I will have to do 12 push ups. Tomorrow I will do 13 push ups. And so on and so on.
“I don’t want to be a party pooper, Kev, but do you really think you can do that many push ups?”
Hey, anything is possible.
My friends thought it was impossible for me to take the homecoming queen to prom in high school because I didn’t have a car or a driver’s license. And yet it happened. In fact, she drove me.
If that was possible, anything is possible.
Oh, and shut up.
And voila. You have a blog update from Special Kind of Stupid.
What kind of New Year’s resolutions did all of you make this year? Feel free to share with the class by leaving a comment or two or ten.
“Hoarder Dies After Becoming Lost in Maze of His Own Trash.”
That was the title of news story e-mailed to me by an individual who used to date a possible relative of this man who died amidst tunnels of trash. Stories like this one amaze me. How can someone be that messy? Do they have no sense of smell?
Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Here are the major tidbits of the story:
Human mole Gordon Stewart, 74, had filled his rooms up to the ceiling with ten years’ worth of garbage and clutter, making it impossible to walk around.
The compulsive hoarder is believed to have become disorientated inside the walls of rotting trash and unable to find a way out — then collapsed with dehydration.
When cops arrived, the stench from the rubbish was so foul they brought in a police diving team equipped with breathing apparatus.
A neighbor revealed: “A police officer said the interior was piled up with huge mounds of rotting rubbish and there was an elaborate network of tunnels to move around.”
The pony-tailed loner was often seen riding his bike around the streets — bringing back cardboard boxes and bags full of rubbish.
Another neighbor said: “He was slightly eccentric, but very clever. He lived in his own world.”
Yeah, I’d say he was living in his own world all right. A world of garbage.
There was one thing about this story that comforted me, though. There is no mention of the guy having a wife or girlfriend.
Why does this comfort me?
It comforts me because if THIS GUY was in a relationship, I was going to throw in the towel. Seriously, what would be the point anymore? I should just go ahead and become a monk or priest.
Actually, come to think of it, that’s not such a bad idea. Girls like a guy who is a “challenge,” right? That’s an idea I’ve long held to be true. So, what’s a bigger challenge than a guy who is prohibited by God from ever marrying?
Why didn’t I think of this before? It’s genius!
Of course, if girls do like challenges, why was this hoarder guy single? If girls like challenges, where was the girl who said to herself, “Getting that guy to live in a clean house will be my Mt. Everest?”
Drats. My “challenge” theory now has a hole in it. Unless…
Unless…
Do you suppose when they clean the rest of that guy’s house they might find the body of a female with Lysol in one hand and a garbage bag in the other?
Gosh, here’s hoping!
My blissfully long Christmas and New Year’s Day vacation is over. I’m back at work…dying a little inside with each passing moment. Of course, you guys don’t want to hear about that. You want an explanation.
Why, after promising numerous blog updates before my vacation began, did I only blog three times during the entire 2 1/2 weeks? (Angi contends two of these updates don’t count because they were YouTube videos. I contend she needs to lay off the sauce.)
There is a very easy explanation for why I was missing in action over the holidays. Actually, there are several easy explanations. Pick the one you like best.
I forgot the password for my blog.
Terrorists stole my laptop and held it ransom until I agreed to hand over my awesome. I agreed, but had my finger’s crossed. A few roundhouse kicks and my laptop was back home, safe and sound.
I couldn’t think of anything good to write.
Santa needed my help delivering Christmas presents this year. He might have been able to deliver all of his in one night, but it’s taken me several weeks. On a related note, don’t cry Timmy Jefferson. Your Rainbrow Brite doll is on its way.
I vowed not to blog again until there was peace on earth or my vacation ended, whichever came first.
I was too busy standing in line to watch that crappy Keanu Reeves movie where he acted badly and barely showed any emotion. (I know what you’re thinking: “Which one?”)
I lost both of my hands in a freaky wood chipper accident.
I was too busy replying to all of the wedding proposals I’ve received.
Two words: El Niño.
The sun was in my eyes.
So, there you have it. I think I’ve thorougly explained what happened to me over the holidays. Let’s never speak of it again.
What did all of YOU do while I was gone during the holidays? I’ll be back to my regular blogging routine now, so feel free to leave a blog or two or ten. I’ll respond to them.
Pinky swear.
