Much like Obama’s approval rating, the readership for my blog is at an all-time low.

Has my writing become subpar? Did the fact I went through a stretch where I wasn’t updating my blog consistently cause my readers to look elsewhere for the funny? Did I have a lot more Michael Jackson fans in the audience than I realized?

Since I cannot pinpoint the reason, I’ll take a cue from good ol’ Barack’s playbook and distract people from the current, sorry state that is the Land of SKOS (aka this blog).

No, I won’t be wearing “mom jeans” while throwing out the first pitch to the all-star game. But I will do something almost as distracting and disturbing.

I’m going to start walking like a pimp again.

Yes, there was an “again” at the end of that sentence.

Come with me, if you will, back to the year 2003. It was my first year after college (for my undergrad degree, anyway) and my first year as a teacher. I found out a lot of things about myself that year. For example, I discovered speaking in public wasn’t as terrifying as I’d always imagined it would be. I was pretty good at it, in fact. I discovered that my knack for remembering seemingly mundane details and facts could come in handy for something other than trivia games.

And I discovered I walked like a pimp.

This interesting tidbit was pointed out to me by one of my freshmen students.

“Mr. (Last name omitted to protect the innocent — aka me), you walk like a pimp,” a student excitedly told me one day after class.

After giving him detention, changing his grade in my class to a “F” and telling him his head was too big for his body (that’s what we teachers do, you see… we’re evil), I asked him to elaborate.

“You walk around with a strut like you’re the baddest man on the planet.”

Resisting the urge to assign him a 70-page paper while throwing spitballs at him, I thanked the student for his helpful insight and sent him on his way.

Now, I am 99% certain the “strut” this student saw was due to my having a sore knee. The sore knee, my compensating for the sore knee, and the fact I walked around with a diamond-tipped, mahogany cane while wearing a feather boa all likely contributed to this “pimp” persona imagined by the student.

Still, the fact remains I used to give the illusion of confidence when I walked.

I realize I’m pretty random, but believe it or not there is an inspiration behind this particularly silly blog post. In my last post, a regular reader with the most awesome name of “Kevin” left me the following comment:

“Make sure you develop a walk to fit your new posture. You could develop a John Wayne swagger, but that would require spurs on all your shoes. A better alternative is a fast, confident, power stride. The faster you walk, the more confidence you have. This is why I sprint everywhere I go.”

With Kevin’s suggestion in mind, I remembered my pimp-walking days.

Time to test out my new walk and strut around the office building.

It was recently relayed to me that it almost sounds like the motive for these recent goals of mine (to date I’ve discussed getting into shape and dressing sharper) is to win the role of James Bond whenever it again becomes available. You can probably guess my response:

“Don’t be silly. I don’t speak in a British accent. However, if the time comes where they re-imagine the character of James Bond to one with a southern accent, I would consider it. This is contingent, of course, on the money being right and the movie’s script being acceptable. I don’t want to be in some mindless action flick. I want to really get down into what makes Bond tick.”

Wait, where was I going with this? Oh yes.

Goals.

This next goal I will discuss may or may not substantiate the silly “Kev wants to be Bond” rumor that, for the purpose of this blog post, I will pretend is real and actually being pondered by people in this world.

My latest goal? I’m working on my posture.

That clicking sound I am pretending not to hear far off into the distance is all of you leaving this site to go to something, anything else. I am aware “posture” isn’t exactly a funny or sexy topic. But to that I ask, “why?” Why can’t “posture” be funny and sexy? I think it can. In fact, I know it can and I’m going to prove it. Ready? No, seriously, are you ready?

(Begin the funny, sexy posture blog.)

Gwyneth Paltrow slouches. Paris Hilton slouches. That annoying kid I went to school with in junior high slouches. What do all these people have in common? (Yes, I mean besides the fact they all slouch.) That’s right. They are all as annoying as heck and the world would be a far better place without them.

The moral? No one likes a person who slouches.

Now, I must admit I have, to date, been very hit or miss with proper posture during my lifetime. When I was twelve years old, I was already 5′8 with a size 12 shoe. The fact I towered over everyone around me caused me to develop an awful slouching habit. Thankfully, since I had mostly stopped growing by that point, my perceived need to slouch disappeared through the years as friends caught up to me (and in some cases surpassed me) in height.

(Of course, my feet refuse to listen to reason. After settling comfortably into “size 13″ for a decade plus, my feet have gotten the bright idea to grow some more. I tried on my brown leather Ralph Lauren loafers — one of the few items I own that was going to survive this fashion makeover of mine — and they don’t fit me anymore! I need a shoehorn just to get into the things. Stupid feet. Stupid, stupid feet. What’s that? I’m rambling? And rambling isn’t funny or sexy? Sorry.)

Still, even though I’ve mostly gotten over it, I’m not immune to slouching. I’ll occasionally catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and notice I’m not standing up straight. And I know when I’m sitting down at a table or desk I almost always lean forward instead of sitting back in my chair.

Why does this even matter?

It’s all about confidence. A person with poor posture doesn’t exude confidence. No one notices the guy with poor posture. The only time anyone does notice a guy with poor posture is when they say things like, “You see that handsome, tall guy standing next to that lonely-looking guy who is slouching?”

When I’m at my best, I exhibit the qualities of an individual who is comfortable in his skin. An individual who acts like he knows something you do not. An individual you better befriend because one day he might take over the world and you’ll want to be on his good side.

Unfortunately, as time has gone by those moments have become few and far between.

It’s time to remedy that.

What good is it to do all the work of getting into shape and buying a new, fashionably-savvy wardrobe if I don’t look comfortable or confident? People will think I’m a body that’s been taken over by an alien. And then I’d have to walk around saying “I’m not an alien” to everyone I see, which would only strengthen the “he’s an alien” theory. And then the government would capture me and run experiements on me, and you just know they won’t bother to feed me healthy foods or give me at least one hour a day to exercise. Stupid, inconsiderate government. And then all that hard work to get into shape will be for naught and I’ll have to start all over. And that’s assuming the government eventually releases me, of course.

So, to ensure the government never believes I’m an alien, I’m working on my posture.

I’m making sure I stand up straight when I walk. When I sit at my desk at work or when I’m in my car driving, I make sure to sit with my back and shoulders to the seat. I’m doing back, stomach and shoulder exercises — which helps with the posture and get-into-shape goals.

True, this isn’t a tangible goal with a finish line. But it does go hand in hand with my other stated goals. Plus, given the fact none of the girls in our class liked that annoying guy who slouched in junior high, I’m pretty sure having good posture significantly increases the odds of getting a date.

And if that doesn’t work, I’m willing to learn a British accent.

Believe it or not, many of the seemingly random, crazy things I write about are inspired by events in my own life. I’d give you specific examples, but numerous lawyers have threatened me with legal action if I ever do so.

Okay, I’ll give you one example.

The world-renowned piece I wrote last October, Halloween Skankitis, was inspired by a co-worker. She is my age and has the exact same job I do. She works in one department (at a location ten minutes away) while I work in another, but we have the same boss and work for the same team. Got all that? Okay, good.

Well, last Halloween this co-worker showed up to work dressed as either a “naughty police officer” or a “stripper dressed like a police officer.” I’m not sure there is a difference in these two costumes. I would have asked, but that would have required me talking to her.

I’m a laid-back guy, but no way was I going to be able to walk up to someone wearing a very low-cut top, a very short black skirt, and a police badge held onto the top of her thigh by a garter belt and NOT asked bluntly: “What in the name of all that is good and holy are you wearing??”

I would describe her outfit as classy, if today was opposite day.

Call me crazy, but when you work with people primarily in the 50s and 60s and their idea of “dressing up for Halloween” is coming to work looking like a M&M candy, it is more than a little inappropriate to come to work looking as though you just finished your shift at the local strip club.

I know. I’m crazy.

But anyway, that is what inspired Halloween Skankitis.

Amazingly, this co-worker just left our company for another. Somehow, inexplicably, she’s gotten a job in senior management.

My reaction to the news was obvious: “You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me.”

So as to not cause you to believe I consider this former co-worker of mine unfit for her new position based solely on her Halloween exploits, allow me to provide you with some additional information.

She was incompetent.

Two years ago, I shared an office with her for an entire month. Needless to say, you learn a lot about someone by sharing an office with them for a month. And what did I learn? Why, I’m glad you asked. I learned that she spends one third of her day on the phone making personal calls, another third of her day taking smoke and coffee breaks, and the last third of her day talking to co-workers who drop by her office for a visit.

“Wait, when does she get any work done,” you ask?

Good question. The answer is, “beats me.” After that month, it became perfectly clear to me why the project she was working on was so far behind schedule.

Oh, but that’s not to say we didn’t bond. If there wasn’t a coffee/smoke break to be taken, a personal phone call to be made or a co-worker dropping by for a visit, she’d talk to me. Oh, and what precious moments we shared.

For example, there’s the time she vented how she hoped the new person our boss was going to hire wasn’t too qualified because, and I quote, “no way am I working with someone who makes more money than me.”

Or the time she talked about the guy she used to date and the guy she was currently seeing. And all of the insanely inappropriate bits of information, information that caused my ears to bleed, that were shared regarding each individual.

Ah, good times.

But anyway, yes, this person now has a job that would essentially make her my boss’s boss.

Bitter? Jealous? Nah. Why should I be bitter and jealous? She played the game and won. I watched her play the game, wrote silly blog posts critiquing her, and then sat by stupefied as she moved on to bigger and better things.

It’s a lesson to be learned. That’s what it is.

If I want to move up the corporate ladder, it’s clear what I have to do: I have to mimic everything she did.

I don’t want to give away what I’ll be wearing this Halloween, but let’s just say leather chaps will be involved.

Lately, based on what I’ve been blogging about, it’s probably seemed as though the only thing on my mind are these recent goals I’ve set for myself.

This is probably due to the fact the only thing on my mind lately are these recent goals I’ve set for myself.

It’s a tricky situation considering this is predominately a HUMOR site. If I spent the next 3-to-6 months talking about getting into great shape, improving my sense of fashion, getting a chance to remedy a first impression, and other (as of of yet) unnamed goals, all my male readers would leave. The only readers I’d have left would be women.

Actually, come to think of it, that really wouldn’t be any different than my CURRENT readership.

Hmmm.

Anyway, I’ll do my best to balance the deep and the funny. For example:

I swam laps for 90 minutes in my pool last night. It hasn’t yet been two weeks, but I can already tell I’m making improvements. I feel good. I can do this.

Plus, I’m pretty sure I’ve lost weight in my feet. My socks feel a little loose. Assuming feet are the first things girls notice about a guy, they’ll be beating down my door in no time.

See? It’s informative AND you’re left with thoughts of “this guy is nuts.”

It’s the perfect balance.

In other, related, news: my mom almost made me drown in the pool.

We were both swimming. As I tend to do lately (see above), I discussed these goals of mine. Specifically, I discussed my theory on why I am so focused when I’ve set a goal for myself, and why I tend to lose focus once I’ve met it.

“It’s like that Miley Cyrus song,” my mom casually states.

“It’s like the who what huh now,” I eloquently respond.

“That Miley Cyrus song. ‘The Climb.’ Have you ever heard it?”

“Um, sadly, yes I have,” I admit.

“You’re just like that song. You’re all about the journey, the climb.”

Apparently, not only do they play Miley Cyrus songs on country stations even though she isn’t country, they also play her songs on the oldies stations my mom listens to. If they start playing her songs on my ESPN Sports Radio station, someone is getting an angry letter written by yours truly.

I’d end with a sarcastic quip, but quite honestly I’m a tad embarrassed the lyrics to a Miley Cyrus song describe me so well.

You could write a book with all the knowledge I have about men’s fashion.

Granted, the book would only be only one page long. And the font size would be really, really big. Oh, and half of the book would be an introduction written by someone else — I’m thinking Ralph Lauren or Kenneth Cole, or maybe my cousin Dave.

Regardless, the book would be full of great fashion insight. For example:

Guys shouldn’t wear dresses.

Actually, that would be the entire book. “Guys shouldn’t wear dresses. Thanks for reading my book, ladies and gentlemen. The end.”

Gripping and informative, yes?

Okay, so maybe I’m not THAT much of a novice when it comes to men’s fashion. Still, I’m definitely an amateur. To steal a line often used by computer veterans discussing people who are less computer savvy, I “know just enough to be dangerous.”

[Begin Segue]

I’ve recently set several new goals for myself. Getting into better shape is one of them. Becoming a better and sharper dresser is another.

In theory, dressing better should be the easier of the two goals by a wide margin. Seriously, how hard is it to dress better? You go to a store, pick out some nice clothes, and give the effeminate man who works there your credit card.

But to get in shape, boy, you have to be persistent and patient. It takes time! I know “patience” is one of the Type B personality traits I possess, but come on! Why can’t I just snap my fingers and be in shape already?

Still, believe it or not getting into shape is the easier goal for me. Why? Because I already know what to do. I’ve been in shape before. I know what it takes to get back there. I eat fewer calories and exercise every day. Boom. In a few months I’ll be in shape.

But being a good dresser? Good grief. It might be easy to get there if you’ve been there before. Otherwise, you need a map. And this isn’t the kind of map you can buy just anywhere. No, you have to build the map yourself after collecting several pieces of it from numerous different locations. You have to put it together like a puzzle.

“Oh, GQ Magazine says your belt should be the same color as your shoes. Here’s one piece of the map’s puzzle. Only 8,945 more to go.”

Okay, so maybe it’s not as complicated as I’m making it. Still, that’s just how I am. When I task myself with something, I drown myself in it. I learn all I can about it. For crying out loud, a month ago I didn’t know the first thing about swimming pools. Now I’m teaching the guy at the local pool store the in and outs of pool maintenance.

Me: “No, I don’t need to worry about my pool’s low calcium level. I have a vinyl pool.”

Pool Guy: “Oh, well what about your phosphate level? It’s really high.”

Me: “Please don’t make me have to slap you. I’ll do it. Here is my hand.”

If things go according to plan, approximately the same time I get into shape (or at least get into BETTER shape), I will have learned about what I should wear and how I should wear it. I’ll know what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. I’ll be able to go to a store, ignore the effeminate employee holding up the hot pink shirt he says I’d look “fabulous” in, and pick out a new wardrobe.

And then I’ll be able to write a sequel to my book. And this one will have more words in it than photos!

I am going to coin a new expression. I’m going to coin it right now. Ready?

“To know me is to be thoroughly and utterly confused by me.”

What does it mean?

Why are you asking me? I just coin the stuff. I don’t interpret them.

Okay, fine. I believe it has to do with the fact that, in many ways, I am a walking contradiction.

Follow me, if you will, as I bore you to tears with some examples.

(Cue the Indiana Jones music. Why? Because it makes you think something exciting is going on even if all that’s happening is Harrison Ford eating a sandwich.)

To most people, I have a “Type B” personality. I’m patient, relaxed and easy-going. My boss and co-workers love me because I’m such a calming influence in their otherwise hectic work environment.

Of course, when I relayed this tidbit to my mom yesterday, she laughed.

“I don’t think you’re a Type B,” she told me. “You’re a mix. You clearly have some Type A traits, too.”

And she’s right.

For one thing, I’m very competitive. If someone challenged me to a Dr. Gregory House lookalike contest, I would seriously consider taking up a vicodin addiction just so I could be as authentic as possible.

I also, as my family lovingly tells me from time to time, have a “dictator” streak in me. At its root, this is simply an “I would rather just do everything myself so I can make sure it’s done right” attitude, but I can occasionally take it to the dictatorship level. My mom fondly remembers last Thanksgiving, when I went on a 10-minute rant because she put the green bean casserole I’d prepared into the oven a full hour before we’d be eating.

“Now it’s going to be cold when we sit down to eat! Why did you put it in so soon? I’m going to have to reheat the thing!”

I believe I also threw in a “You have ruined Thanksgiving” and “Now the terrorists have won”, but I don’t remember for certain.

Of course, the confusion that is Kevin isn’t restricted simply to Type A/B personality traits. Nope. No sirree, Bob.

I am an excellent driver, but blindfolded children with fluid in their ears have a better sense of direction than I do.

I don’t consider myself a public speaker, and yet I once gave a speech that may as well have been an eHarmony commercial to an auditorium full of people.

When I was a teacher I kept meticulous records. I do the same for my financial records. But as I look down at my desk here in my office at work, I see an endless array of unorganized, used yellow sticky notes — some of which are three years old. “Staff Meeting at 11:00 on 3/8/06.” Yes, I’m so very glad I’ve kept this sticky note. I’m sure it’s vitally important.

Still, I think the most confusing thing about me, to me, is the way I handle goals. When I put my mind to something, I furiously strive to meet it. I become the most focused person you’d ever want to meet.

I’m the athlete in high school who, even though my sport (baseball) was during the spring and it was currently the month of November, could be spotted jogging, in the rain, on the track after school.

I’m the guy in third grade who wouldn’t let the teacher forget to collect the homework because my life’s mission was winning the “highest average” award for the class and there was no doggone way I was going to let the teacher deprive me of a 100 homework grade.

But I’m also the guy who, once he reaches a goal, totally and completely loses focus.

I’m the high school graduate who, after having finally earned that baseball scholarship to college he’d been striving for, decides he’s burned out by the game.

I’m the fourth grader who, after having won the “high average” award in third grade, throws an eraser at the kid in the front of the class who has the audacity to remind the teacher to collect the homework assignments.

The good news is I think I finally have a handle on what makes me tick.

Once I meet a goal I set for myself, I have to set a new goal. When I meet that goal, I have to set another one. And another one. And another one. I keep doing that until, eventually, 130 years have gone by and I’m dead. And then, once I’m in Heaven, I set a new goal for myself. And then another one. And another one.

What can I say? I’m complicated.

I don’t know if you guys have heard, but did you know Michael Jackson died?

It’s true. He did!

You’d think the media would be covering the story nonstop or something. It isn’t every day a white man who used to be black, who has had 532 plastic surgeries, who once had a pet monkey named “Bubbles”, who lived in a place called Neverland Ranch, who was once married to Elvis Presley’s daughter, who used to hang out with Macaulay Culkin and the kid who played Webster on TV, and who was “allegedly” a child molester dies!

(Oh yes, he also was a musician or something.)

Seriously, though. I kid because I really, really don’t care.

I’m saddened, truly, whenever someone dies, but people are taking this Michael Jackson Lovefest way, way too far. His life — for all his money, for all his fame, for all his musical accomplishments, for all his impact on pop culture — was a sad one.

That’s the real tragedy in all of this. It’s not that Michael Jackson died. It’s that he left this world lost and unhappy.

Yes, Michael Jackson was unhappy. He was unfulfilled. He was lost. It’s an unfortunate reality to think about, but it’s true. His last thought on this planet wasn’t, “Wow…I accomplished so much. I’m dying with no regrets.” No, it was more than likely something along the lines of, “This is it? It’s over?”

He probably also thought about Bubbles, his monkey, but I digress.

Everything in Jackson’s life pointed to a man who was searching for something. Look at all the crazy, insane, ridiculous stuff the man did in his lifetime. Those were not the actions of a happy, content man.

A happy, content man doesn’t get so many plastic surgeries he ceases to look human. A happy, content man doesn’t spend his adult years surrounded by children in the hopes of recapturing his own lost youth. A happy, content man doesn’t sleep in a hyperbaric chamber or with Lisa Marie Presley.

A happy, content man doesn’t do those things. A lost man does those things. A man who is searching, ACHING for happiness and contentment does those things.

Why does this matter, you ask?

I don’t know. I guess it matters because, despite all of this, people want to be like him. They want his life. Crazy and ridiculous as it may have been, there are people everywhere who envied Michael Jackson’s life.

They envied the life of a lost, unhappy, sad man who died too young because he was lost, unhappy and sad.

And that makes me sad.

Society as a whole envies the lives of celebrities, and yet many of those celebrities are miserable. They might walk around and act as though they are living the good life, but many of them are dead inside. They’ll someday die, with millions of dollars in their bank accounts and millions of fans mourning them; sad, unfulfilled and unhappy.

Somewhere in the world, a remarkable man or woman died the same day as Michael Jackson. But we didn’t hear about this person’s death on the front page of the newspaper. We didn’t see wall-to-wall coverage of their life on Fox News or CNN. They didn’t have Kobe Bryant, John Mayer, Brooke Shields or Al Sharpton at their memorial service.

Why? Because this person wasn’t famous. This person wasn’t rich. All this person did was live a long, fulfilled life that had an uplifting, positive influence on those around them. This person had no skeletons (or young boys) in their closet. And when they got to Heaven their Father said to them, “Well done, My good and faithful servant.”

I don’t know about the rest of you, but to me that is the life worth envying.

Okay, so apparently the misdirection in my last blog post — I began as though I was about to share my favorite posts of the past four years, but then I delved into a rambling rant about swimming pools, time machines, clothes and punching younger versions of me in the throat — wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Apparently, everyone wanted me to actually share old blog posts. Go figure!

I have no idea why I used the phrase “cup of tea” when it is so antiquated, feminine and I could have used so, so, so many other phrases in its place. I could have said, “wasn’t everyone’s idea of a good time.” I could have said, “was more haha-lame than haha-funny in the eyes of some.” But no, I said cup of tea.

But you know what? I’m not going to apologize. I’m going to bring back “cup of tea” into the mainstream. I’ve just decided this. And while I’m at it, I’m bringing back “cat’s meow” and “bee’s knees.” Cat’s meow and bee’s knees are making a comeback, people. And this time, they’re going to be masculine phrases. How masculine? Guys in biker gangs will use them in day-to-day conversations.

“Spike,” one biker will say to another biker.

“That skull and crossbones tattoo of yours is the bee’s knees.”

“Thanks,” Spike will reply.

And then they will go burn down someone’s house.

Yep, that’s what will happen. Who says so? Kev says so. Kev, the master of witty phrases and all things cool and hip (and masculine).

Where was I? Oh yes, my misdirection in the last blog post. Alright, since I like all of you people, I’ll follow through and share some of the best things I’ve written in the past four years. Of course, since I have SO much amazing material, I’ll have to split this “best of” idea into several different posts. First, I’ll split up my favorite funny posts. Later, I’ll post some of my favorite “deep” blog posts.

What’s that? You don’t think I’m capable of deep thought? Did you just not read my clever usage of bee’s knees? Clean your bifocals, people.

I present to you all some things I wrote from May 2005 to May 2007 — my first two years blogging. I call these, “My Best Kinda Sorta Funny Posts Most of You Haven’t Read Before, But if You Have Just Humor Me and Read Them Again: Years 1 and 2.” You’re welcome.

May 29, 2005

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 employer). 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?

July 10, 2005

God is funny. My freshman year in college, I dated a girl against the advice of friends and adults who had known her longer. These were people I trusted, but for whatever reason, in this case, I thought they were crazy. They turned out to be right, she turned out to have more issues than a magazine rack, and my poor judgment ultimately led me to move hours away back home to finish college. Tonight, I found out this girl now lives in the area. More specifically, she lives minutes away from me.

In short, I have to move again. Good one, God. You got me.

August 16, 2005

I came across some old pictures the other day, one of them being a picture from my high school prom. This immediately brought back the memory of my friend, Luke, who decided to do a “strip tease” dance on his table during the middle of the prom. Everyone was sitting at their tables in their formal wear listening to two singers sing some silly prom-themed song. Next thing you know my friend was standing on his table dancing while taking off his jacket. The school suspended him three days for that little stunt.

This friend is also responsible for two of the strangest exchanges I’ve had in my lifetime…

When planning for the aforementioned prom, my friend told me, “you know…I think I might get an orange tux like Jim Carey wore in the movie Dumb & Dumber.” Figuring he was joking, I responded, “why don’t you get a blue one like Jeff Daniels wore in the movie?” My friend responded, “no way…I don’t want to look stupid.”

On our senior class trip, we went skiing. After we reached areas where there was snow, my friend asked the bus driver, our teacher, “Mrs. Wilcox…where does snow come from?” After a few seconds and several dozen chuckles from those around us, I responded, “you see, Luke, when a daddy snow and a mommy snow really love each other…”

Last I heard, my friend was going to school to be a doctor. Be afraid, people. Be very, very afraid.

August 20, 2005

Someday, FoodTV “personalities” Rachael Ray and Emeril Lagasse are going to fall in love and have a child. And that child will one day destroy the world.

Ironically, however, the child will not be able to cook.

August 24, 2005

I have been without my cell phone for 8 days and counting. Possibly because it heard me bad mouth all phones one time too many, my phone apparently took its own life.

I do not mourn its death. For one thing, I hated it. Plus, in the later stages of its life, my phone had obtained a massive ego. This was probably due to the fact I took it with me wherever I went. Only my wallet and my keys could make similar claims. However, the inflated ego was merely a defense mechanism. Beneath its black and gray exterior was a scared lil’ thing in need of constant reassurance and attention. Unfortunately for it, I did not give it the attention it needed. This was mainly due to the fact I hated it so very, very much.

Someday soon, I will get me a new cell phone. Maybe I won’t hate this one. I probably will, though.

September 23, 2005

Do you ever envy deaf people? I just got home from a two-hour bus ride filled with teenage girls “singing” every annoying radio song from the past five years. And when I say singing, I mean screaming. And by screaming, I mean they verbally assaulted my ear drums in a manner so horrific I actually prayed for the sweet release of death at one point.

I’ll never make fun of Billy Corgan (tone deaf lead singer of the rock band Smashing Pumpkins) ever again. I would listen to ten straight hours of him singing covers of Backstreet Boys’ songs in a southern accent and a lisp before I would endure a repeat of tonight’s hell on earth. Compared to them, Billy Corgan’s voice is angelic. And by angelic, I mean slightly better.

October 15, 2005

When at a singles gathering, it is very important to keep track of the fake names, professions, general details, etc. you give to the people you meet. You don’t want to call yourself “Brad” around a girl you’d met earlier and who thought your name was “Jake.” You’ve got to have a system in place.

For example, to brunettes, you are Ross, a three-time divorced anthropologist. To blonds, you are Joey, an actor who is very fond of sandwiches. And to red heads, you are Chandler, a sarcastic guy with an eating disorder no one acknowledges and a job no one can remember. I call this one the Friends System. I also like the Seinfeld System, the Buffy the Vampire Slayer System, and the Spongebob Squarepants System. The Spongebob one should only be used when there is an unusually large number of blonds.

Now, if you find a girl who figures out your game and calls you on it, thank your lucky stars. It means you’ve found a keeper. A keeper who watches lots of tv.

January 23, 2006

I propose a new “celeb reality” tv show. Anyone who has ever appeared on a reality television show or has played a hand in the creation of a reality television show will be placed on a deserted island. Then a nuclear bomb will be dropped on the island.

Possible names for the show are, “Exploding with the Stars”; “But Can They Dodge a Nuclear Bomb?”; and “Today is the Day Your Dreams Come True, Kevin.”

Edit: It’s been brought to my attention that if this proposal of mine were picked up, technically, I would then have played a hand in the creation of a reality tv show and would therefore be required to set up residence on said deserted island. A valid point, but allow me to retort: Shut up.

February 7, 2006

I’ve researched the topic thoroughly, and apparently the best method for young males to prove to the world they are cool is doing something completely asinine while driving a vehicle.

According to my research, “gunning” a vehicle when exiting a parking lot is the epitome of coolness. It does not matter if you are driving a black Ford Mustang GT or your mom’s pink Volkswagon Beatle, if you gun your vehicle when exiting a parking lot all the girls will swoon over you.

Honking your horn or yelling out your vehicle’s window are other tried-and-true tactics. Girls will admire your boldness if you honk at them. That or they will be impressed by your ability to drive and push down on the horn at the same time.

What’s the next big thing for the male looking to make an impression? That’s easy: Running into female pedestrians/drivers with your vehicle. The exchanging of insurance info or the ambulance ride to the hospital will be great opportunities to let her get to know you. Plus, getting her attention is half the battle. And nothing will get a girl’s attention quite like chasing her down a sidewalk in your mom’s Beatle.

July 7, 2006

Granted, I haven’t seen it yet, but I think Superman Returns would have been better with some creative casting. Morgan Freeman is solid in every movie he’s ever been in. Why not cast him as the man of steel? Don’t give me any of that “he’s too old…he’s black…are you insane” nonsense. The movie would be cinematic gold.

August 25, 2006

Tyler and Cody Chung received failing grades during the recent “show and tell” in Mrs. Timberland’s fourth grade class, according to insiders who eat lunch with the brothers.

Both boys, age 10, presented photos taken during a recent Atlanta Braves game the pair had attended. Their presentation was going smoothly until Cody declared the Braves to be the best team in the world.

“That is an outright lie and you know it,” Mrs. Timberland, a disillusioned Braves season-ticket holder, reportedly remarked. “How dare you pollute my classroom with your deceitful tongues,” Timberland continued.

Unfazed, the duo continued their presentation by displaying a photo they had taken with outfielder Jeff Franceour, who they described as “an awesome player.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” an exasperated Mrs. Timberland bellowed. “That strikeout machine swings at everything!”

After a few more photos, the last one being of pitcher Tim “one of the best pitchers in baseball” Hudson, Timberland instructed Tyler and Cody to go to the restroom so that they could wash their mouths out with soap.

“You can’t coddle these kids,” remarked Mrs. Timberland when asked for comment at her home. “When they say something ignorant, I call them on it. That’s how I am. That’s how I roll.”

Both Tyler and Cody were unavailable for comment because, according to their parents, they were coming to terms with Mrs. Timberland’s announcement to the class that the boys were adopted and the Tooth Fairy did not exist.

January 16, 2007

The DMV truly is a magical place. And by magical, I mean mind-numbingly horrific. I look around at the people (my ex-girlfriend) is in line with and I’m terrified by the thought that these people are about to be behind the wheels of thousand pound vehicles.

One man, who was wearing — I kid you not — a shower cap on his head, had to have the DMV worker explain to him three times that he could not get his license reinstated until he had paid his seven — count ‘em — seven tickets.

Another man, who was wearing overalls and hair down to shoulders, went to counter #5 when he had been told to go to counter #1. Upon being told of his mistake, I overheard the man say, “I always get them two mixed up.”

Allow that to soak in for a moment.

The next time you’re driving, make sure to periodically glance in your rear view mirror to see who’s behind you. If you see a man with a shower cap on his head or a guy with long hair and a “Lynard Skynard is #5″ sticker on his bumper, drive as fast as you can.

January 18, 2007

The Olive Garden is to Italian Food as (the movie) 10 Things I Hate About You is to William Shakespeare.

March 4, 2007

A little while ago, (my ex-girlfriend) called me saying she had seen a guy on a bus wearing the exact same Kenneth Cole sandals I own. She hates these sandals like a fat kid hates broccoli. Considering she also hates my black Kenneth Cole boots and my dark blue Levis jeans, I have come to the following inevitable conclusion: (She) is jealous of my fashion greatness.

I feel sorry for her. It must not be easy being in the shadow of someone with such a flawless sense of fashion. When I wore the aforementioned sandals with tan shorts, no socks, sunglasses and a t-shirt, I know it was the jealously talking when she said I looked like a “40-year-old blind man.” And when I wore a turtleneck sweater in July, I know her “have you lost your mind?” rant stemmed from an insecure sense of self. And when I decided to pay homage to Britney Spears circa the 2001 Superbowl by wearing socks on my hands, I know her “get away from me before people think I know you” remark was made because she knew she could never pull off such a look.

Lord, why did you make me so stylish?

March 5, 2007

“Look at that guy.”

“Poor, pathetic, shell of a man.”

“Mommy, that man is holding a purse.”

These are phrases uttered at malls, grocery stores and Wal-Marts all over the nation. You’re just a guy minding his own business when your girlfriend, wife, female acquaintance or confused cousin Steve hands you a purse.

It’s not a pretty sight. And yet, day after day men everywhere are asked to hold the bag of shame.

No more.

The time has come for us men to rise up. We must throw down the lacey, feminine shackles that bind us. When we are handed a purse to carry, we must stand strong.

If you are handed a purse, give the purse giver something heavy to hold. If she questions, tell her you are just supporting women’s equality.

If you are shopping for clothes, take off your baseball cap and give it to the purse giver saying, “hold this for me while I go try this on.” And then take a nap inside the changing room while she waits outside, cap in hand.

The time for battle is at hand.

We must not acquiesce. We must fight the good fight. We must shout for all the world to hear:

“Nay woman (or cousin Steve), I will not hold your purse. For I am a man!”

March 16, 2007

“If the odds of Carrot Top winning an Academy Award for acting are better than the odds of an apparent scam not being a scam, it’s a scam.”

- The Carrot Top Rule (From my unpublished, unwritten book, “How to Make Stupid Work for You”)

April 10, 2007

(W)hat is it about babies that makes us smile whenever we see them?

Answer: Birthday Cake.

Everyone loves birthday cake. Even diabetics love birthday cake. And when we see a baby, we think of birthday cake. On that baby’s first birthday, there will be cake. On its 10th birthday, there will be cake. Assuming the baby lives to be 100, there will have been 100 birthday cakes created and eaten in his/her lifetime to celebrate the passing of each year.

Why do we smile?

Because we think maybe, just maybe, we’ll get to eat some of that cake.

April 15, 2007

If Al Gore was alive to see what has become of his precious invention, the Internet, I believe he would weep. Well, he wouldn’t actually cry (robots cannot cry), but he’d be sad. Why? Because MySpace is using the Internet to destroy civilization as we know it.

May 7, 2007

In a move experts predict will once and for all prove His existence, God used the Los Angeles legal system to sentence socialite/moron Paris Hilton to 45 days in jail for violating her probation in an alcohol-related reckless driving case.

The sentencing has been met by unanimous approval by every person in the entire world, and has sparked a religious revival not seen since the release of Mel Gibson’s film, The Passion of the Christ.

Churches across the world have been packed since the sentencing was announced.

“People have been coming in droves since the announcement,” said James O’Keefe, pastor of First Baptist Church in Decatur, Georgia.

“I was so certain God didn’t exist, but this has completely altered my outlook,” remarked atheist Dan Ryder of Omaha, Nebraska.

“God is real. And He is awesome.”

Hilton, who helped promote the “Vote or Die” campaign during the 2004 Presidential Election despite the fact she was not registered to vote, has called her sentencing cruel and unwarranted.

“I feel that I was treated unfairly and that the sentence is both cruel and unwarranted,” said Hilton as she left for a shopping trip with her mother.

“I don’t deserve this.”

Experts disagreed.

“This has been a long time coming,” noted karma expert and God enthusiast Kevin Dugan. “This [air quotes] woman [end air quotes] has been a thorn in the side of common sense for far too long. Monica Lewinsky had the decency to go away after her embarrassing scandal. Paris Hilton? She gets her own TV show and records an album.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised God didn’t smite her years ago.”

May 25, 2007

I saw you on aisle twelve at the grocery store. “Orville Redenbacher’s Gourmet Popping Corn” was written on you in big, cursive letters. You lured me in with your smiling, awkward picture and promises of 30-calorie servings. I put you into my grocery cart and dreamed of the “94% Fat Free Butter” snacking I would soon enjoy.

If only I had known the tragedy that would follow.

I took you to work with me and gave you a featured spot on the top of my desk. “Hands off,” the sticky note I put on you warned. “This delicious and healthy Orville Redenbacher popcorn belongs to me.”

Fierce were the stares I gave all co-workers who glanced in your general direction. Unnerving were the verbal assaults I hurled at anyone who stopped to read the extra-large sticky note I put on you. The stapler thrown at the head of the individual who touched you while reaching for a pencil served notice to all of the obvious:

You were mine.

Like a pirate opening a treasure chest filled with gold coins or Rosie O’Donnell opening a bag of McDonald’s hamburgers, I eagerly took one of the ten packs of popcorn you held inside.

“How is it that William Shakespeare never wrote a sonnet about you,” I asked out loud while throwing a pen at the aforementioned individual who was returning my pencil (and stapler). His screams of “my eye, my eye” could not drown the sound of the singing angels as I held you up high.

Into the microwave you went as I followed the cooking directions and pressed START. As I left to use the restroom, I could hear the “pop, pop” music you were belting for all to hear. As I washed my hands, I could hear the faint sound of an ambulance or firetruck.

“Oh no,” I thought to myself. “My popcorn!”

I rushed out of the restroom. You were in pain, I could feel it. My path to you was blocked by paramedics attending to the individual who stole my stapler, pencil and pen.

“Thank goodness,” I thought to myself as I pushed my way through the pile of people. “That must have been the noise I heard. My popcorn is safe.”

And then I smelled it.

I ran to you and opened the microwave door. You were gone. The magnificent, pure thing I had known just minutes earlier had been replaced by a burnt bag of crap. A tear fell down my cheek as I held you close, but not too close. You did smell rather bad, after all.

You left this world before your time. I knew then why blues music was invented — to document somber moments just like this one. You lived your life like a candle in the wind, never knowing who to cling to when the rain set in. And now, you’re gone.

I blame the one-eyed stapler thief…

Were these not the cat’s meow? Weren’t they the bee’s knees? Weren’t they all that and a bag of chips (yes, I’m claiming that phrase for straight men also)?

If there is an adequate demand for it, later in the week I’ll share some of the “deep” posts I wrote way back in the day.

As you were.

So, have you read any depressing blogs lately?

What’s that? I wrote a depressing blog post just the other day? Psssh. I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about. Silly people. You make me laugh with the silly things you say.

This past May marked the four-year anniversary of when I first started blogging. Granted, SKOS didn’t come around until a couple years later, but I still have a sizable backlog of material now.

In four years, you tend to have a lot of ups and downs in your life. And the good thing about a blog is you can document what you’re feeling during those ups and downs and read them years later.

Of course, this is assuming you actually use your blog for serious, deep thoughts instead of the random silliness for which I use mine.

Thankfully, on my old blog, I wrote about serious stuff. Well, most of the time I wrote about serious stuff. This was during the period of my life where I was finishing my career as a teacher, finishing graduate school, was looking for a new job, and had my first long-term relationship.

In other words, I packed a lot of stuff into that old blog.

Reading what “Kev of four years ago” was going through is an interesting experience. Those issues he, I mean I, dealt with seem like they happened lifetimes ago. Still, many of them are relatable to what I’m dealing with today in the here and now.

Anyhoo, I have ALMOST got the swimming pool at my new place ready and…

What’s that? You thought I was going to share a few of the things I wrote on my old blog? Silly people. There you go being silly again.

Before I moved in, this pool hadn’t been used in two years. It was left uncovered for dirt and leaves and frogs and (for all I know) mafia victims. It was a mess.

As part of the terms of my lease, my landlord was supposed to get the pool ready for me. Once it was ready, I would take over the duties of maintaining it. My landlord has been, to put it kindly, failing in his duties. So, naturally, I’ve had to kick butt and take names. Three weeks later, the pool is almost ready.

The timing is great because I am in the process of making major changes in my life. To start things off, I’m going to get into mad-crazy shape. I want to be able to wear outfits I wore in high school. Granted, I no longer own any of the clothes I had in high school. So, another goal of mine is to create a time machine. That way I can travel back in time, throat punch my 18-year-old self, and steal some of his/my clothes.

Of course, rather than throating punching and running, it would probably be a good idea to sit down with myself and have a long chat. After all, I’d have a decade plus worth of wisdom I could impart to my younger self. I could give all sorts of pearls of wisdom.

For example, in 2002, do NOT buy that Jeep Wrangler you see in the dealer parking lot. The roof leaks and you won’t be able to go faster than 60 MPH without the vehicle shaking. Also, I’m pretty sure it was haunted.

Oooh, at age 19, don’t date a girl named Rachel. In fact, just in case I’m misremembering her name, don’t date anyone with a name starting with R. Trust me on this one.

Don’t order the pasta from the Olive Garden in Macon, GA. In fact, don’t even step foot inside the restaurant. You can get food poisoning anywhere, so save yourself the gas money.

It’s okay to watch the first X-Files movie, but avoid the sequel that comes out a decade later like the plague. It’s awful. It’s beyond awful. I can’t believe Keanu Reeves didn’t star in it — that’s how awful it is.

Actually, I can already tell I’m not going to have the patience to explain all this stuff to my 18-year-old self. That guy was a know-it-all. He’d buy the Jeep, use it to pick up a girl named Rachel, take her to see that X-Files movie, and then go eat at Olive Garden. All so he could prove me wrong.

Best to just punch, take the clothes and run.

Thus endeth a very bipolar blog post.