As one might expect, people everywhere were taken aback by this news.

“How can you charge someone money when they have an EMERGENCY?!?,” many, for the purpose of this blog post, likely thought to themselves.

Personally, I love the idea.

Why? I’ll explain that in a minute.

Granted, the reason behind the fee is a need for this town (Tracy, California) to close its $9 million budget deficit. In short, Tracy needs to increase revenue. However, motives aside, this fee has an excellent, excellent byproduct:

It will eliminate stupid, pointless, non-emergency calls to 911.

The number of ridiculous calls to 911 is staggering. Seriously, it’s staggering. Need a short list of examples?

Last April, a woman in Texas called 911 to report she didn’t receive enough shrimp in her fried rice at a restaurant.

In Germany, a woman once called police due to an “emergency” at her home. When officers arrived, they discovered the emergency was the woman’s husband refusing to stop watching pornography.

In 2008, San Francisco police tracked down and arrested an unemployed man who made over 27,000 prank 911 calls. The idiot’s reason for doing it? “Because it’s free.”

My personal favorite is the Florida woman last year who called police because McDonald’s had run out of Chicken McNuggets.

Do you think maybe, just maybe, these callers might have not dialed 911 had a $300 charge been attached? “Is this really that important,” they (hopefully) would have thought to themselves before putting their phone down?

Well, except for the McNugget woman. You just can’t put a price on that kind of life-or-death emergency.

Where am I going with this? Why am I just now writing about this 911 fee — a whole month after it hit the news?

Well, the correlation between 911 calls and visits to the emergency room stuck in my head.

Have you been to an emergency room lately? Gosh, it’s packed. And rightfully so — it’s where people in medical need go for emergencies. Emergencies happen, right? Yes, they do.

I can’t help but wonder how packed emergency rooms will be once “Obamacare” (if it indeed happens) happens. Suddenly, millions who did not before have health insurance will suddenly have it.

Granted, you do not need health insurance NOW in order to go to the emergency room. I realize that. If you have a medical emergency, go get help. Don’t let a little something like “no insurance” stop you.

But isn’t it possible, just possible, that people who will have otherwise thought to themselves, “it’s not that big of a deal…plus, I don’t have insurance” suddenly think, after Obamacare, “you know, it’s not that big a deal, but what the heck, I have insurance!” when finding themselves crippled with ailments like headaches, nose bleeds, splinters, Athlete’s Foot and other similiar “emergencies”?

And won’t these new visitors to the ER make it, you know, a tad more difficult for doctors and nurses and hospital staff to take care of those with legitimate emergencies?

Don’t think it will happen?

Don’t think anyone is dumb enough to go to the ER because of a splinter solely because they’re now covered by Obamacare??

In a world where people call 911 because of a shortage of Chicken McNuggets, all because the call is “free” and there are no consequences to stupidity, anything is possible.

Anything.

Which is the bigger time waster:

• Obama continuing to push for healthcare reform despite significant evidence the majority of the public doesn’t want it and the fact the government has shown to be incapable of successfully running…well, anything (more on that later)? Or,
• Obama stepping away from RUNNING THE COUNTRY to, once again, appear on ESPN and fill out his “March Madness” bracket for the college basketball tournament?

Gosh, that’s a tough one.

I believe this is something scholars will still be pondering fifty years from now. (And by “scholars” I mean those who aren’t too busy sipping kool-aid and worshiping at the altar of their gold Obama idols to care about such things.)

Now, part of me believes Obama participating in March Madness is a good thing because it distracts him from his real job, which he is very bad at. I wish they had April Madness, May Madness, June Madness and a Madness for every other month of the year if it would keep the guy too distracted to ruin our country. That said…

On the one hand, participating in March Madness by filling out a bracket is harmless fun. He’s a sports fan, right? He likes basketball, right? People, mostly men, all over the country are doing the exact same thing, right? So, what’s the harm??

For starters, most people aren’t leaders of the free world. And since he already takes numerous smoke breaks every day, not to mention the multiple breaks he takes to talk to Michelle while trying to avoid looking directly at her face, I believe the man already meets his quota on downtime.

Plus, it’s hard to call these basketball brackets “harmless fun” when, in fact, they do cause harm.

Every year, employers across the country (you know, the ones who pay our salaries and keep us employed), lose millions and millions of dollars thanks to March Madness and its impact on worker productivity. The firm Challenger, Gray & Christmas, Inc. estimates that workers distracted by the tournament could cost employers as much as $1.8 billion this year in unproductive wages during the first week of the tournament, thanks to daily time wasting.

Scoff if you must, but I think it’s bad form for THE PRESIDENT to encourage — nay, lead by example — an annual practice that negatively impacts worker productivity. Isn’t unemployment a big issue right now? Couldn’t SOME of these employers, due to, in part at least, the money lost  thanks to worker unproductivity during March Madness be forced to eliminate a job or two? Wouldn’t that be BAD for the economy? You know, the economy that’s on such shaky ground these days and that said president is in charge of fixing?

In short, Obama’s glorifying/participating in March Madness is akin to him glorifying/participating in the practice of taking a nap on the job when you’re being paid to work. Might people do it anyway? Sure. Does that make it right? No.

(There’s also the little matter of March Madness brackets being synonymous with office pools and gambling/betting. Regardless of your feelings on such things, hopefully most can agree the president shouldn’t do anything that could even remotely be perceived as encouraging the act of gambling — especially a president who has bad-mouthed Las Vegas’s hobby of choice on more than one occasion.)

But how does this compare to his fascination with healthcare reform?

First, I should clarify I do believe healthcare needs to be fixed. It’s a broken system. We’re overmedicated, overcharged and overloaded with commercials for prescription drugs.

(Speaking of which, Obama, if you want to fix healthcare, start simple and ban all prescription drug commercials. In the past decade, since 1999 when the FDA issued its industry guidance on direct-to-consumer advertising, prescription drug sales have skyrocketed. Coincidence? Did people suddenly NEED more medications when the clock struck 2000? Or, perhaps, is the abundance of prescription drug commercials at least partly to blame for the high number of medications people are on these days and the associated high costs? Oh, and if you’re afraid of how other countries will react if you abolished such commercials [I know how much their approval means to you, after all], never fear: The US and New Zealand, as of 2009, are the only countries where prescription drug advertising is legal.)

But broken system or no, you don’t overhaul a system when your plan to “fix it” will only make it worse! Different might be different, but if it’s worse what’s the point?

Based on its track record, what makes ANYONE think the government is ready to tackle such an obstacle as healthcare reform? Look at everything “government” related in our society.

The DMV has long waiting lines and grumpy employees. The post office is no better. Our public educational system — with massive school closings in Kansas City, Detroit and others due to dwindling/mismanaged budgets; as well as more and more parents becoming so disillusioned with their schooling options that they are turning to homeschool or charter schools — is a joke. And our deficit is inexplicable. How much money do we owe China now? Over $700 billion?

If all the countries in the world were a family, the United States would be that cousin who is bad with money and drowning in debt. Think that cousin should be entrusted with handling his own healthcare needs? He’s barely competent enough to be entrusted with organizing his own sock drawer.

And yet here we are, with Obama and his kool-aid drinkers in the Senate trying to push government-run healthcare down our throats.

Frankly, it’s enough to make me wish Obama would quit his dayjob and join ESPN on a full-time basis. Heck, I can give up watching ESPN.

If I can give up drinking Coke Zero, I can give up anything.

Some, of course, have legitimate reasons to sue. However, many (MANY!) do so because they believe they are ENTITLED to whatever their heart desires.

“I deserve to be rich, so doggone it my car being slightly rear-ended by that BMW is my ticket to money town,” they might say.

“Ouch, my neck! Call an ambulance. You’ve physically and emotionally injured me,” they might add.

The fact there are so many people out there like this is why, if I was ever to get rich or win the lottery, I, despite my intense frugal ways, would splurge on two things: 1) I would have umbrella insurance and 2) I would only own sensible vehicles and would never, ever drive myself. I’d hire a personal driver if I had to — anything to keep me from behind the wheel and the target of a potential lawsuit.

But I digress.

Last year, I wrote an entire blog post dedicated to society’s sense of entitlement, so I don’t want to rehash all of that. My thoughts on entitlement are fleshed out very well in that blog post.

So, then, what’s the point of THIS particular entitlement-related post?

To express my pessimism regarding all the “issues” people are having with Toyota vehicles.

Are there problems with certain Toyotas? Yes, absolutely. Toyota has problems and needs to get them fixed before their good name permanently goes in the toilet.

That said, I believe some of these “incidents” are made up. They’re scams. They’re initiated by people hoping to get rich, get their names in the newspaper, or both.

It’s been reported that you cannot always duplicate the hiccups that are happening in faulty Toyotas. To a scammer, this news is like beautiful, beautiful music.

“Oh crap, I just ran a red light and hit a SUV! What am I gonna do?! I know, I’ll blame in on my Toyota! Everyone knows crazy things are happening with them, so people will believe me. I might even get to sue someone!”

And then you have the people (who I KNOW exist) that will premeditatedly decide to get into an accident so they can blame their Toyota. Has something like this already happened? Will it happen? Could it happen? Yes, yes and yes.

Let me be clear, I am not saying EVERYONE who reports an issue with their Toyota is being untruthful. I’m not saying that at all.

What I’m saying is SOME people who are reporting incidents are flat-out lying through their soon-to-be-gold-capped-once-they-get-rich teeth.

How bold? Well, it claims users will have “THICKER LOOKING HAIR IN 1 WEEK, GUARANTEED.”

Wow, guaranteed? That’s amazing.

Of course, when you read the fine print it isn’t so amazing. Head & Shoulders isn’t comparing its product to OTHER shampoos, it’s comparing it to “unwashed hair” (!).

That’s right. Head & Shoulders is making the bold prediction that using their shampoo for one week will make your hair look thicker than if you had not washed your hair at all that week.

I can’t wait for their next advertising campaign where they guarantee using their shampoo will make your hair smell better than if you hadn’t washed it all.

Or their advertising campaign where they boast you will look less disheveled and homeless if you use their shampoo versus not shampooing at all.

Or their brilliant advertising campaign that offers a “110% Money Back Guarantee” if users prefer renowned hair cleaners BBQ sauce and ranch dressing to their shampoo.

Bravo, Head & Shoulders. Bravo.

I know her type.

The dictator. The bully. The 800-pound gorilla in the room. The person who always gets their way because people rarely stand up to them.

She first caught my attention when she grabbed the bottle of spray cleaner that was right beside the elliptical I was using. There are dozens of spray bottles and towels throughout my gym. We use them to clean the exercise machines we’re using. Most people spray and clean a machine before using it. Many will also spray and clean the machine after they use it as a kindness to whoever uses the machine next.

Even though there were other bottles she could have grabbed, she decided to grab the one next to me (I didn’t notice what had happened until much too late). She didn’t grab the towel, though. No, that was too germ infested for her. Instead, she had paper towels she brought from home.

She walked up to a treadmill and cleaned it. Then she grabbed the only box fan (pictured) in the cardio area of the gym, unplugged it and moved it directly in front of her treadmill.

When she was finished exercising, she turned off the fan (thereby depriving others of feeling its cool breeze) and left without cleaning the treadmill.

For several days, I witnessed the same selfish routine. She acted as though the box fan was for her personal use and hers only. She would take spray bottles near other gym members even though there were other bottles near the treadmill she would eventually claim as her own. And she would always turn off the fan when she was finished and would never clean the sweat she’d left behind.

I observed her actions, but did my best to ignore them since they did not directly impact me.

Until yesterday, that is.

Yesterday, I get to the gym and find the box fan pointing directly at my favorite elliptical machine. A cool breeze while exercising isn’t a necessity, but when you’re on the elliptical for 60 minutes it definitely feels good.

“The Gym Dictator” was on an exercise bike directly to my right. After about five minutes, she gets up, grabs a bottle of spray cleaner, and makes her way to the treadmill directly to the left of the box fan.

No, she didn’t turn the fan away from me and towards herself. That’s what I expected her to do. Instead, she turned the fan OFF.

Why?

Because she was reading a magazine and didn’t want the fan ruffling the pages.

I was dumbstruck for several moments.

“Did this woman really just turn off a fan that was pointed at someone else?!”

No way was I going to let that stand. I paused my elliptical, walked right up beside her and turned the fan back on — on its highest setting, no less.

As I turned to walk away, she took off her headphones.

“Hey,” she says, trying to get my attention.

“The fan makes it really difficult for me to enjoy my magazine,” she tells me without an ounce of kindness or civility in her voice.

“Well,” I replied, “your magazine makes it really difficult for me to enjoy the fan.”

Her mouth went agape. I’m sure she had expected me to cower, apologize and immediately turn off the fan. Me more or less telling her “tough” was the last thing she expected.

“But since I do care about my fellow man,” I continued a few seconds later, “I’ll compromise with you. I’ll turn the fan down to LOW.”

“Oh…okay,” she replied.

About ten minutes later, she got off her treadmill. Usually, her routine is to follow up the treadmill workout by getting on one of the elliptical machines. She usually also, of course, points the box fan towards the elliptical she will be occupying.

But not yesterday.

The only available elliptical machine was the one directly beside me. So, instead, she grabbed her paper towels and headed for the exit.

Will she be back to her selfish ways tonight? Probably. But she won’t be pulling any of that nonsense with me.

I stared down The Gym Dictactor and kicked proverbial sand in her face.

Stings, don’t it?

This morning, I was running a little late for work. So, rather than making my own breakfast, I needed to pick up something on the way. Chick-fil-a, with its chicken breakfast burrito and medium fruit cup, is my go-to “on the run” breakfast.

So, I make it to Chick-fil-a. I’m in the turn lane, waiting for an opening in traffic so I can take a left, pull up to the drive-thru menu, order my food and be on my way.

But one particularly special SUV was bound and determined to make this harder for me than it needed to be.

Traffic was almost cleared enough for me to make my left-hand turn. Once this very special SUV was past me, I had a clear opening.

So, the SUV is coming towards me at a pretty good pace. Then it slows down. A lot. Then it speeds up again. By this point, I assumed the driver was either putting on lipstick, was on drugs or didn’t know where she was going (or perhaps a combination of all three).

Then, at the last possible moment, without slowing down, this SUV decided “Hey, here’s a Chick-fil-a…I should totally eat here!” And then she made a right-hand turn into Chick-fil-a at such a great velocity I was amazed she didn’t flip her vehicle.

But fine. Whatever. I was now free to turn into Chick-fil-a myself, so that’s what I did. Of course, I now found myself behind this ridiculously special SUV in the drive-thru menu. But that shouldn’t be a big deal, right? So long as she doesn’t do something insane, I won’t even notice that she’s in front of me. Right?

Sadly, for possibly the first time in my life (he says jokingly), I was wrong.

First, the SUV almost runs over a little old lady who was walking from her parked car to the entrance of the Chick-fil-a. Apparently, special SUV driver didn’t know to yield to pedestrians. Or, maybe she did, but she didn’t think she had to for people over the age of 70. Or maybe she didn’t see the little old lady because she was still putting on lipstick while snorting cocaine?

Regardless of her reasons, thankfully, she didn’t run over the little old lady.

(However, since I hate to see started work go unfinished, I did tap the little old lady with my fender. You know, just to keep her on her toes and show her who’s boss.)

With the little-old-lady saga now over, the SUV makes its way to drive-thru menu. There are no other vehicles in front of it. The driver is free to pull up, order and be on her way.

But that’s not what she did.

With me, and another car by this point, directly behind her, the special driver of the special SUV stopped about ten yards short of the drive-thru menu.

Then she sat there.

For two minutes.

Now, I don’t know what she was doing. Maybe she was trying to decide what she wanted to order before pulling up all the way. Maybe she had children in the back seat I couldn’t see and she was asking them what they wanted to eat. Or maybe she was feeding her children lipstick and cocaine while she had a conversation with one of the many voices in her head.

Regardless of what she was doing, a little part of me was dying inside with every passing second she did it.

Now, for those wondering why I didn’t honk my horn at this lady so she’d snap out of her trance, I didn’t have to. Multiple vehicles behind me were honking their horns at her every ten seconds or so. Releaved of this burden, I was free to ponder what it feels like to slowly die.

(To those wondering what it feels like: It tingles. Of course, that might have been from my leg falling asleep.)

Finally, the lady in the special SUV decided to pull up to the menu, give her order and drive forward.

Sort of.

She drove forward about ten yards (even though no vehicles were in front of her), which BARELY gave me enough room to pull up to the menu to give MY order without hitting her bumper. My hunch is she MEANT to block me from reaching the menu at all, but she overshot it. Once she saw that I was at the menu and able to give my order, she drove on.

I was clearly dealing with a psychopath.

After giving my order, I pulled around to the window. Already at the window was the insane driver of the SUV. She had already paid and was waiting for her food. A few moments later, with her food in hand, she drove forward towards the exit.

Now, as you likely realized given the craziness I encountered when ENTERING the restaurant, this particular Chick-fil-a is not situated at a stop light. So, there are three lanes: One lane for customers entering from the main road. A turn-lane for customers wishing to exit Chick-fil-a and take a LEFT onto the main road. And a lane for existing customers taking a RIGHT onto the main road.

Which lane did crazy SUV lady choose?

The left AND right turn lanes.

And which way was she turning? Who knows. She didn’t have a turn signal. I’m pretty sure, if her vehicle were big enough, she would have tried to block all THREE lanes. But I digress.

Why did she do this? Well, for one, she’s insane. But mainly, I believe she was trying to deliberately block the vehicles behind her (me, plus the vehicles that had honked at her) from being able to exit Chick-fil-a.

I believe this because she sat there at the intersection for three minutes. Traffic was sparse, but she didn’t move. She just sat there. And waited. Waited for a line of vehicles to form behind her.

But alas, those vehicles never came. You see, for the first time ever, Chick-fil-a had to ask me to wait for my order. My breakfast burrito wasn’t ready.

So, I waited at the window. The vehicles behind me waited. And the crazy SUV sat twenty yards ahead, at the intersection, wondering what had happened to her angry mob.

After three minutes, she finally drove away. She made a LEFT turn, for those wondering. And a few moments later my food was handed to me. I drove up to the intersection and then turned right towards my work — thankful in the knowledge that crazy SUV lady was driving in the opposite direction.

The end.

What’s that? You’re wondering why I referenced a “Jesus Fish” in my title, but didn’t mention it in my actual post. Well, that’s because I’m now convinced the crazy lady who drove the SUV didn’t actually OWN the SUV. Yep, I think she stole it. Therefore, it wasn’t her Jesus Fish.

Of course, if it WAS her SUV and WAS her Jesus Fish, I am saddened beyond words.

If you put a decal on your vehicle or wear an item of clothing that signifies you are a Christian, you are making a statement to the rest of the world. You are saying: “I am a Christian. I love the Lord. I love Him so much, I want everyone reading this to know it!”

And when you make such a statement, you become an example for unbelievers. You can either enlighten them with the things you say or the things you do, or you can tear them down.

If they hear you use profanity, it will hold more significance than a biker with twenty tattoos who curses like a sailor. If they see you drinking a beer at a restaurant, they won’t think, “Oh, I’m sure he’s drinking in moderation and being responsible.” No, they will think: “That guy in the John 3:16 shirt is drinking a beer! With children ten feet away!!”

And if you drive like a crazy person and deliberately do things intended to provoke other drivers, well, if you’re lucky, they’ll think you stole the car. If you’re unlucky, you’ll become a stumbling block for someone.

And THAT, my friends, is the last thing a Christian should ever want to do.

I had headphones in my ears at the time, so I didn’t realize I was being spoken to right away. Then the speaker got my attention, so I removed them from my ears.

“You look awesome,” she repeated.

At first, I was confused. What’s she talking about? Do I know her? Was she hitting on me? Was I being Punk’d?

“I haven’t been to the gym in a while, so I haven’t seen you in a few months, but wow, you look awesome.”

I then realized this young lady was paying me a compliment. And yes, I did remember her. She used to be a regular at the gym.

I thanked her, told her how that was “such a sweet thing to say” and that she had made my day. And then we went our separate ways.

It took several moments for what had just happened to process in my brain. This, you see, was the first compliment I had received on my appearance (family members do not count) since I switched to a healthier lifestyle.

I know I’ve made progress, but in my mind I think about how far I still have to go. I estimate it will be another three months before I’m where I should be. And because I’m constantly looking at still what must be done, I don’t appreciate what’s already been accomplished.

But then I heard those three little words.

Validation. You don’t realize you need it until someone gives it to you.

Cheap people hate to spend money. Frugal people hate to spend money on something that isn’t a good deal.

I would rather buy a $300 jacket for $100 in the summer than a $50 jacket for $50 in the winter. This isn’t just something I would do in theory — I’ve actually done this. Twice.

I will buy $30 worth of Schick Quattro replacement blades even when I don’t need them if they are on sale at a great price because I know I will need them eventually and it’ll cost me a lot more later. I do the same with deals on shampoo, deodorant, body wash, toothpaste and other toiletries.

In short, if it involves the exchanging of money, I do my darnedest to make sure I get the best deal possible. This philosophy of frugality has served me well over the years.

However, there is a drawback.

There is one area where “getting the best deal” is counterproductive to my well being. What is it?

Food.

Getting “the best deal” on food, nine times out of ten, results in buying more food than you need.

Think about it.

At movie theaters, you’re confronted with the reality that if you’re willing to pay just a nickel more, you can quadruple the size of your popcorn.

At restaurants with “all you can eat” buffet options, ordering a regular, normal-sized meal off the menu usually costs more than the buffet. And for those who do order the buffet, the need to “get your money’s worth” by overeating hovers over you.

At convenience stores, 12-ounce cans of soda barely cost less than 20-ounce bottles. At fast-food restaurants, ordering a sandwich/hamburger and a drink usually costs more than getting “a meal” and having unhealthy french fries added to your order. At grocery stores, “buy one get one free” deals are abundant (sometimes this is good, sometimes it’s not).

Now, most of these “food gotchas” don’t apply to me. I don’t get food or drinks at movie theaters. I stopped going to restaurants with all-you-can-eat buffets. I’ve stopped drinking soda. I’ve stopped eating fast food. And I take advantage of “buy one get one free” deals at the grocery when it’s for something I was going to buy anyway; otherwise, I ignore them.

But Subway…

Subway is killing my frugal brain.

Once or twice a week, I will get a Subway sandwich for lunch. When it comes to “fast” dining options that are also healthy, Subway’s tough to beat.

But here’s the problem. Right now, Subway has a special where any of there regular 12-inch sandwiches are $5. It’s a great deal…

If you usually order 12-inch sandwiches.

Not too long ago, it dawned on me that, just because I’m a guy, it doesn’t mean I had to order 12-inch sandwiches. A six-inch sandwich with half the calories could and should fill me up just fine. And so I made the switch. No more foot-long sandwiches.

The change saved me money (6-inch sandwiches cost less than 12-inch ones) and allowed me to turn an already healthy lunch into an even healthier one. All was right with the world.

But then came Subway’s “$5 foot long” special.

Including taxes, it costs me $4.82 for a 6-inch turkey sandwich at Subway. Basically, for just a quarter more, I could buy a 12-inch sandwich.

You have no idea how much it hurts my brain to know I’m not getting the best bang for my buck. I’ve tried to think of solutions.

“What if I order a 12-inch, only eat half, and then save the rest for dinner or lunch the following day?”

It works in theory, but I don’t want Subway twice in two days.

And so, I’m stuck. Stuck between choosing to eat healthy and not getting the best deal, and choosing to get the best deal and gorge myself.

I’m happy to say that, for once, my frugal self is losing the battle.

Naturally, this got me thinking.

For starters, it got me wondering how exactly it’s known how many illegal aliens reside in Georgia (or any other state, for that matter). Are the people who published the report psychic? Did every illegal alien fill out a form when they crossed the border? Did the report merely count the number of TV viewers for the talk show Lopez Tonight on TBS?

It also made me wonder if any of my co-workers were illegal aliens. Given the huge numbers in Georgia, the answer is likely “yes.”

So, the last few days I’ve been gathering intel. I’ve paid extra close attention to my co-workers. And I believe I have three candidates.

#1Carol in HR

The case for: Has been spotted eating at Taco Bell on several occasions … Has a photo of a pet chihuahua on her desk … Heard her say “si” one time.

The case against: She went to Taco Bell, with me, for lunch and going there was my suggestion … The dog photo on her desk could be of a beagle or mutt since I don’t know dog breeds very well … She might have been saying “see” instead of “si.”

#2Doug

The case for: Likes soccer … Owns a tie that has one of the colors used in Mexico’s flag … Seemed skittish when I asked him in the middle of a meeting if he was an illegal alien.

The case against: I might be looking for reasons to think he’s an illegal alien due to that one time he drank the last of the coffee and didn’t brew more.

#3John

The case for: Wears a sombrero to work on Casual Fridays … Drives a Chevy El Camino … Doesn’t appear to speak English.

The case against: His name, “John Smith”, is as All-American as you can get.

…

Frankly, guys, I’m stumped. It could be any of them!

But mark my words, I won’t rest until I’ve figured out the identity of the building’s illegal alien.

Even if, in a surprise twist, the illegal alien turns out to be John.

[Background needed in order to understand (and possibly care) about what I'm about to write: After college, I worked at my old high school for three years. I was a computer teacher (actually, the computer department didn't exist before I came along, to be perfectly honest), a coach (baseball and fast-pitch softball), and I designed the school's first website. Once I finished graduate school, I moved on.]

It shocked me a little to realize I really hadn’t thought about the school in any way, shape or form in probably two years. Understand, I used to eat, sleep and breathe this school. To not be heavily invested in the goings on at the school is something that would have seemed like madness to me years ago.

I typed the school’s URL and was shocked to see its website. My design was long gone. This I already knew (a couple years ago, when the notion to check out the website popped into my head, I saw that the school had replaced my design with a new one), but I wasn’t prepared for the amateurishness of the design I was about to see!

All totaled, I worked on this school’s website for four years. My internship during my senior year of college was spent as the “webmaster” for the school’s website. As a college student, not yet an employee, I created the school’s first-ever website. And a year later, when I graduated from college, I became an employee of the school and continued my “webmaster-ey.”

When I left the school three years later, I didn’t expect them to keep my design until the end of time. So, I wasn’t surprised when, a couple years later, they changed it. The new design wasn’t as awesome as mine (not surprising, right? Right?), but it was decent. But this…this latest one…it…it…

It stinks on ice, to use an expression I liked to use a lot as a teen. Gosh, it’s awful. AWFUL.

But fine. Whatever. The website sucks now. No big deal.

I go to the site’s employee directory to see how many staff members I remember. Gosh, there’s been MAJOR turnover. I recognize about half the names. That’s a lot of turnover in such a short period of time.

I check out the baseball page next to see if I recognize any of the players. Nope, not a single one. A few of the last names seem familiar, which likely means these are younger siblings to students I used to know.

I check out the softball page and see the same. A list of question marks.

The only name that is familiar at all is the name of the head coach. He went to school with me, although he was several years younger. I wouldn’t say I knew him exactly, though. I knew him in the same way you would know any kid you took lunch money from or stuffed in a locker.

(No, I didn’t really do that. I wasn’t a bully. Honest.)

My failed trip down memory lane did get me thinking, though. My life has changed a lot the past eight years. I remember interviewing for a job and thinking how surreal it was to be going back to the place I spent so many years as a student. I remember signing my contract and wondering if the headmaster was going to change his mind about hiring someone who still hadn’t finished college.

I remember the last week of finals in college. I remember the pressure of knowing that if I bombed horribly on any of them I wouldn’t graduate on time and, therefore, wouldn’t be able to start my new job. I remember the thrill of taking my last final on a Tuesday night, knowing I had passed all my classes, and knowing I had only a few hours to celebrate because the following morning was the first day of work for new teachers at my school.

I remember stepping in front of a classroom for the first time and not having the first clue how to process the infinite number of things I had to process at any given time. I remember the first student with whom I connected. I remember the first student I helped who “thanked” me by throwing me under a bus to his parents and the high school principal just to save his own, scrawny neck. I remember having to fight really hard not to distrust all students after that incident.

I remember my first parent-teacher meeting and coming to the realization that all parents do NOT know what they are doing. I remember my first of several “run ins” with insane parents, and I definitely remember all the times I called them on their insanity.

I remember coaching. I remember losing (a lot). I remember being baffled by how much we lost because when I was in school our baseball and softball teams were dynamos. I remember getting my first win as a coach and exhaling for about twelve minutes.

I remember all these things, but it’s as if they happened lifetimes ago.

What kind of changes will the next eight years bring? And, more importantly, will my old high school’s website still suck?

I find it a tad disappointing that the thing I arguably know better than anything else — the thing I worked at and actively studied as a child, teen and young adult — is virtually useless to me as an adult.

My brain is a database of in-depth, insightful, unused baseball information.

Had I grown up with a love of playing the piano, even if my profession wasn’t as a pianist I could still get plenty of use out of such a skill in adulthood. The same would be true had my youthful hobby been cooking, hunting, sewing or any number of other things.

But with baseball, not so much. Unless I’m playing the game, coaching the game, writing about the game or watching the game, the usefulness of my knowledge is virtually nonexistent.

This is why, I believe, I use baseball for so many analogies and metaphors in real life — I’m trying to get SOME use out of this knowledge. (Well, that and the fact sports analogies/metaphors are so easy to make.)

My favorite life-baseball metaphor didn’t even dawn on me until a week ago. I had a dream where I was playing baseball. (As a teen such dreams were common, but not so much now.) The following morning, I got out of bed and drug my sleepy butt to the gym. While on the elliptical, I remembered the dream and had my metaphor epiphany.

In the dream, I was showing a teammate the proper technique for fielding a baseball. (Yes, even in my dreams I micromanage what others are doing.) The tutorial I gave him was one I’ve given hundreds of times in my life as a player and later as an actual coach.

It’s my “play the ball, don’t let the ball play you” lesson. What it means, basically, is that when a baseball is hit to you on the ground, you shouldn’t sit on your heels and wait for it to get to you. That is “letting the ball play you.”

Why is this a bad thing? Well, because it leaves you, the fielder, helpless and dependent on the whims of a bouncing ball. All you can do is react.

If you’re very lucky and have good reflexes, the ball will bounce into your glove. If you’re a little lucky, the ball will miss your glove, but hit you in the chest (where you can then pick it up). If you’re unlucky, the ball will miss your glove and body completely (meaning you’ll receive an error for missing the ball). And if you’re really unlucky, the ball will hit you in an area of your body I affectionately refer to as “the baby maker.”

In that last scenario, you, the fielder will receive an error for missing the ball and will suddenly find yourself singing soprano.

So what’s the alternative?

Be proactive. Read the bouncing ball coming towards you. Move your feet. Time it so that you can get a nice, easy-to-field hop.

You “play the ball” instead of letting the ball play you.

Suddenly, the real-life correlation dawned on me.

Too many of us react to everything life throws at us. Now, some of this cannot be prevented. When we get a phone call on a idle Tuesday afternoon telling us a loved one is in the hospital, all we can do is react.

But how many of the situations we face in life could we see coming in the distance if we took the time to look? How many situations could we do something about? How many situations do we face that could be avoided (or, at least, their impact lessened) if we were proactive instead of reactive?

For the most part, I am good at looking ahead and being proactive. In college, I was one of those students who would take the syllabus for each of my classes and write down the due dates for all my tests and papers. Why? I was looking to see if any weeks were going to be what I call “a perfect storm” — a week where every class has something due.

By looking ahead, I was able to plan accordingly.

Still, I’m sometimes inconsistent with my proactiveness. So, after my metaphor epiphany, I did what I should always do every so often: I took stock of my life. I asked myself, “Self, where is your life right now? Where could it go in the months and years to follow? Where do you want it to go?”

Such simple questions, but they’re so important.

Where is your life right now?

Where could it go?

Where do you want it to go?

Answer these three questions and you will come to one of two conclusions: Either you love your life and where it’s headed, or you don’t love your life or where it’s headed. If it’s the former, great! But if it’s the latter, you have one more question to ask yourself:

What can/will I do about it?

Sit back on your heels and let life throw whatever it’s going to throw at you, and you’ll likely find high-speed baseballs aiming for your baby maker. But if you look ahead, see what’s coming and be proactive, you’ll save yourself much aggravation and pain.

It’s a helpful lesson for big life events, fielding a baseball and everything in between.

But mostly it’s helpful for fielding a baseball.

Last week, I bought some new running shoes on Amazon. It was a long overdue purchase. My current running shoes, you see, are almost four years old. And since I purchased them, my feet have grown.

Yep, my size 13 Nike Airs — the size and brand I’ve worn since I was a senior in high school — are now half a size too small. I need size 13 1/2 in Nike, which practically doesn’t exist. So, that means I’m stuck with size 14.

Oh well. Better to be half a size too big than half a size too small, right?

Since I last purchased athletic shoes, the designers at Nike have apparently lost their minds. Virtually every shoe they make now looks as though they were made for teenagers, adults who still act like teenagers, or gangsta rappers.

And since I am none of those things (though I don’t doubt I could have quite the rap career as DJ Kev, Dr. K or some other silly alter ego), I was forced to look elsewhere for a suitable shoe.

Reebok, based on the pair of baseball cleats I owned in college, are crap. So, they’re out. This left me with New Balance and Adidas as suitable replacement candidates.

I’ve never owned a pair of New Balance, but my parents wear them and speak highly of them. Their styles are also ADULT friendly, which is a big plus. I had a pair of Adidas back in junior high and remembered liking them, so I decided to keep an open mind about them, too.

To my surprise, the best deal (i.e. the best shoe for the lowest price)  on Amazon was for an Adidas, not New Balance, running shoe.

The “Adidas Clima Cool” running shoe (pictured) was the winner. It had an age-appropriate style. It was a normal color. And it was on sale. Yes, the frugal part of my brain liked these shoes a lot.

So, I ordered them.

Size 14.

They arrived last Friday and I quickly opened them and tried them on.

Hmmm.

They felt…tight.

This couldn’t be right. How can size 14 anything be too tight?

I kept them on and walked around my home thinking I could get used to them. Nope, they hurt. They felt like things I would wear if I wanted to bound my feet as a child to keep them from growing.

Luckily, the Amazon seller I purchased them from has a nice return policy. I can exchange them for free, or I can ask for a refund (but be charged $8.95 as a processing fee).

Nine bucks? That doesn’t sound like much, but my frugal brain doesn’t like the sound of it. I would be out $8.95 and STILL need a new pair of running shoes.

So, the alternative is exchanging them for a different size of the same shoe. But that would mean…size 15!

I do not have size 15 feet. I don’t. I just don’t. Something screwy, I repeat, screwy, is going on here.

Is size 15 the new 13 1/2? Has Adidas changed their size charts? Have other shoe makers done this, too? And if so, WHY?!

Are there really that many men out there in the world who are insecure about the size of their feet?! Did a bunch of guys with size 8 or 9 shoes write angry/sad letters to Adidas and demand the company change the way it measures shoe sizes?

“I’m tired of wearing size 8 1/2  shoes,” one letter might have read.

“Mr. Adidas, I demand that your company make it so that size 8 1/2 shoes be changed to size 10! Size 10 can become 11 1/2, and so on. This will help my fragile, fragile self esteem.”

It’s insanity, I tell you. I already had a hard enough time finding shoes I liked when I wore regular ol’ 13’s.

Thanks a lot, tiny footed men of the world.

-One granola bar
-Grilled chicken patty
-Fruit cup (oranges, grapes, strawberries & apples)
-Two spoons of peanut butter
-Water
-One giant mug of green tea

Healthy? Yes.

Manly? Um, no.

If I saw this food list, I’d immediately think “hippie.”

I hope this doesn’t mean I have to grow my hair long, stop bathing and start telling everyone to give peace a chance.

“Isn’t me acknowledging or celebrating Valentine’s Day akin to me celebrating Chinese New Year or a complete stranger’s birthday?”

Now, now. Don’t feel sad for ol’ Kev. You see, my cynical, bitter exterior is hiding a delicious, optimistic, caramel-filled center. It’s okay for me to be cynical about THIS Valentine’s Day because I fully believe NEXT Valentine’s Day will be a great one. Why? Because I have faith. I have faith that a year from now I will think back to when I wrote the following satirical blog post and laugh.

So, enjoy it, folks. I am counting on this being my last pessimistic Valentine’s Day post. It’s all kittens and puppies and gorilla dust after this one!

ANYTOWN, GEORGIA – In a story that almost slipped through the cracks due to the fact everyone in the media is blissfully distracted, a Georgia man has made a remarkable discovery: He is the last remaining “single” person on the planet.

Keith Dugan first became aware of this startling development when he went shopping for a bicycle at a nearby athletic store.

“All they had were tandem bicycles,” explained Dugan to nearby reporters who were busy texting cutesy messages to loved ones on their cell phones.

“I tried to tell the salesperson I just needed a standard road bike I could ride around my neighborhood for exercise. I didn’t need a bicycle built for two.

“He looked at me as though I had asked him to show me a bike built out of rainbows and gumdrops.”

Perplexed by the failed bicycle purchase, Dugan began noticing other strange developments.

While driving on the Interstate, he noticed every other vehicle was in the carpool lane. At the grocery store, he noticed that personal-pan pizzas, “soup for one” and similar food items were no longer stocked on shelves. And at Wal-Mart, he noticed how every guy was holding a loved one’s purse.

“Once upon a time, only about half the guys were holding purses,” noted Dugan.

“But somehow, without my noticing, it spread. I was the only guy at Wal-Mart not holding a purse with a dead look in his eyes. The only one.”

Believing that he was onto something, Dugan wanted to be sure. He signed up for accounts at Match.com and eHarmony.

“Match.com told me ‘zero results match your criteria,’ which I found discouraging since my search criteria was females of any age and any location,” explained Dugan as some reporters began holding hands and making googly eyes at one another.

eHarmony’s feedback was even more confusing.

“After I filled out a long questionnaire, eHarmony told me that my ideal mate had not been born yet and that I should try again in 25 years.”

His suspicions confirmed, Dugan has vowed to make the best of the situation.

“I compare it to playing dodgeball, but not getting picked by either team. Sure, it stinks not being picked. But you have to look at the bright side. At least no one will be throwing red rubber balls at your face, right?

“So, I’m sure if I think about it, I can find an upside to this, too.”

At work, I’ve been away from my nice, new office and found myself working on a side project in a closet-sized cubicle at the nearby Air Force base. I had use of a computer, of course, to do my work, but the computer isn’t connected to the Internet. For all practical purposes, I could have been living in Amish country this week. That’s how out of touch I’ve been with modern technology.

An additional side effect of being on base all week is having to make due with limited food options for lunch. Normally, I would either bring my lunch with me or go to the nearby Subway for a quick bite.

At the base, I do not have easy access to a refrigerator. I could bring my lunch with me anyway, but I’d prefer not to eat spoiled food. So, that means I need to get in my car and drive to a nearby eating establishment on base. The closest, and only convenient, eating option?

Burger King.

Now, I do not have any problems with Burger King. If I wasn’t trying to eat healthy, I would gladly go to Burger King and enjoy a Whopper. However, since I am trying to eat healthy, a Whopper is about as suitable an eating option to me as a bottle of Jack Daniels is a suitable drinking option to a recovering alcoholic.

“But that’s okay,” I thought to myself. “Surely Burger King has a grilled chicken sandwich of some kind. Every fast-food chain offers a grilled chicken sandwich.”

And yes, Burger King did in fact offer a grilled chicken sandwich on its menu — the “Tendergrill Chicken Sandwich.”

“I will have one Tendergrill chicken sandwich and a medium water,” I asked the nice Burger King employee.

“Sorry,” she informed me. “We are out of our Tendergrill chicken patties.” *

Taken aback, I try to rebound and glance over to Burger King’s salad options.

They did not have any salads on the menu.

“I realize your name is BURGER KING, but how is it that you do not offer a single item of food that is even remotely healthy for you?”

“We have a fish sandwich,” the nice employee assures me.

“Is it fried or grilled,” I asked.

“Fried, but it doesn’t have mayo or cheese on it,” she responds.

“What kind of sauce comes on it,” I asked curiously.

“Tartar sauce,” she replies.

I was pretty sure I was on candid camera at this point, so I begrudgingly ordered a fish sandwich (with super-healthy tartar sauce instead of mayo!) and made my way back to my closet-sized cubicle.

That was on Monday.

On Tuesday, I again drove to Burger King. Like I said earlier, I didn’t have many options. Besides, I was SURE they would have their grilled chicken sandwich that day.

Thankfully, for my sanity, they did.

On Wednesday, at lunch time I found myself feeling gravely ill. I’m pretty sure it was due to having eaten at Burger King for two straight days, so I left work early to go home and take a nap. No lunch for me that day.

Today, Thursday, I finished my work at the base at around noon.

“Hooray! I can leave the base and eat somewhere normal.”

So that’s what I did. A co-worker was with me, so I let him choose where we would eat for lunch.

“Burger King,” he suggested.

“I can and will kill you if you’re being serious,” I assured him.

His second suggestion was a Greek restaurant I had never before been to. In fact, I’m hard pressed remembering EVER eating at a Greek restaurant. How exactly was Greek food different than regular food?

I didn’t know what to expect. I was clueless. And for the first and only time in my entire life, I regretted having never seen the movie “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” since it surely would have given me some insight.

Still, curiosity got the better of me and I agreed to his selection. Even now, I’m not sure how Greek food is different than regular food. It looked like any other restaurant menu. Salads, sandwiches, hamburgers…the only noticeable difference I saw was their love of feta cheese.

I guess this means, if I ever want to start a new eating trend, I could put feta cheese on a taco and invent “The Greek Taco.”

What did I order? Well, to the few who read my last blog post, my selection will not shock you. I ordered a chicken salad sandwich.

I tried ordering something different. I did. But whenever I go to a restaurant (which isn’t often) and find “chicken salad sandwich” on a menu (few restaurants offer them) I feel compelled to order it to see if it’s as good as the chicken salad sandwiches at my college’s cafeteria.

It never is.

Cracker Barrel’s chicken salad sandwich comes closest, but it’s so messy I need an adult bib to attempt eating it. Of course, that never stops me from ordering it whenever I find myself at Cracker Barrel. I order it anyway. Sans the adult bib.

How was the Greek version of my beloved chicken sandwich? Well, not good. It tasted like…nothing. Nothing. It had no taste. It was tasteless. TASTELESS. For a moment, I thought the taste buds on my tongue had been destroyed somehow by Burger King. But then I added a little salt and pepper to the sandwich. I could taste the salt and pepper. I just couldn’t taste anything else.

So, basically, I paid $7.95 for something that tastes like air. Since air is free, the frugal part of my brain died a little due to this revelation.

What will tomorrow have in store for me during lunch time? I’m breathless in anticipation.

* Burger King being out of grilled chicken patties reminded me of an encounter I had with the food chain during high school. It was spring break during my senior year. Me and a classmate were on our way to Tennessee to spend the week with the Tennessee Temple college baseball team. We would have our own dorm room and get to practice with the team and watch their games all week. (They were recruiting us, you see.)

Anyway, on our way to Tennessee we stopped at a Burger King for some lunch. If memory serves, I ordered a Whopper. The employee then said the most inexplicable thing my young brain could have imagined at the time:

“Sorry, but our ‘hamburger guy’ hasn’t come in today yet. We can’t serve any hamburgers.”

This was at 12:30 on a Monday afternoon, by the way.

“What do you mean you can’t serve hamburgers,” I asked. “You are BURGER KING,” I added, stating the obvious.

Ironically, THAT day I had to settle for a chicken sandwich from Burger King. Funny how that works.

Dear Penny,

How’s it going? Do you think you did well on that English final? It was pretty tough, huh? Thankfully, whatever my paper lacked in clarity it made up for in redundancy.

This is Kevin, by the way. Yes, the one from English class. And yes, the same Kevin who always orders grilled chicken salad sandwiches from the cafeteria. Do you make those sandwiches, or do you just serve them? Because if it’s the former, I am really going to regret not sending you this letter sooner.

I know you liked me. And this letter is my passive-aggressive way of saying I liked you, too. When you would ask me about English class while we both waited for my sandwiches to be grilled, I wasn’t simply humoring you when I would answer and then ask you the same questions. I was sincerely interested. And no, it wasn’t just because I was hypnotized by the aroma of chicken salad.

And when I would catch you looking at me in class before you’d quickly turn away in embarrassment, I wasn’t thinking, “Gosh, such a silly girl.” No, I was thinking, “Go talk to  her after class, you idiot. Man up.”

And no, my wanting to talk to you had nothing (okay, little) to do with my wanting the chicken salad recipe.

I’ve been wanting to tell you for months that I’ve given you the nickname “Pretty Penny” in my head. One, because you are. Two, because alliteration is awesome. And three, because “Pretty Penny” is the name of a Stone Temple Pilots’ song.

In other words, this nickname is the highest form of flattery I know.

So why did I never come talk to you? Why did I never direct our cafeteria conversations away from chicken salad and English class and towards more personal topics? Why am I just now writing you this letter when the semester is over and I’m a mere days away from transferring to a different school?

Because I’m a kid. Yes, I might be of legal age and I might be absent of any childlike features (save for my adorably brown eyes), but I am nonetheless a kid.

This semester overwhelmed me. I was away from home. I hurt my arm and had to quit playing baseball, a sport that has defined me since I was six years old. I had an insane roommate. And, yes, my classes were difficult.

But a man would have been able to deal with these issues and still asked you on a date for dinner (I like chicken salad sandwiches, in case you hadn’t heard) and a movie (Costner’s Tin Cup is in theaters). But I was not a man. I was a kid. And I’m sorry.

Anyway, there you have it. Better late than never, right? I can only hope a decade or so from now, I will have made it into full-fledged adulthood. I will have learned from my past mistakes. I will have learned to take chances. I will have learned how not to  let life get in the way of me pursuing things that are worth pursuing.

Especially if said things have been given Stone Temple Pilot inspired nicknames and have the ability to create amazing chicken salad sandwiches.

Love,
Kevin

P.S. If you do know the recipe to that chicken salad, please mail it to the enclosed address.

Decisions, decisions.

I’m sure the idea isn’t original, if for no other reason than the fact I got it, of all places, from an Alanis Morisette song. Alanis, around the time she (and Val Kilmer, for that matter) was popular, had a song named “Unsent.”

It was, arguably, the laziest written song in the history of music. Basically, Alanis took several letters she had written to past boyfriends — letters she never actually sent (hence the clever title, “Unsent”) — and sang the words while elevator music played in the background.

“Gosh, that’s just lazy,” I thought to myself after hearing the song. “Still, I can top it. Someday, I will rip off her idea and make it my own.” And then I put on my X-Files pajamas, hopped into my water bed and went to sleep.

(No, I never actually wore X-Files pajamas. However, I did have a water bed. Jealous?)

Anyway, here’s my take on the whole “Unsent” idea. I will write posts that are fictional letters I supposedly wrote (but never sent) to miscellaneous recipients during random times during my life. For example, I might address a letter to “Santa Claus” and give it a “December 26, 1985″ date. What might that letter have looked like? Why, I’m glad you asked:

Dear Santa,

What the heck, dude? Clothes?! Clothes?!?! If you, as legend has it, make lists and check them twice, you would know very well I was a good boy this year. I got all A’s in school. I never once had to have a “time out” during recess. I barely picked on my younger brothers and my bedroom, as always, was kept immaculate.

So what the heck?! I asked for G.I. Joe and Transformers action figures. I asked for Hot Wheels. I did not — repeat, NOT — ask for pants. Or shirts. Or sweaters.

Year after year, you disappoint me. It’s almost as if you ask my PARENTS what to get me for Christmas!

I can’t believe I gave you cookies and milk.

Love,
Little Kevin

As you can see, even as a child my writing skills were quite extraordinary.

Now, sometimes, I might actually write a semi-serious or serious letter. I might even fully rip-off Alanis and write a cathartic letter to an ex. But more times than not, I will use it as a comedic vehicle. But serious or not serious, these letters will likely give you readers additional insight in my life.

And by “readers” I mean my two remaining regulars and the four people who will find this post after Googling Val Kilmer or Alanis Morisette.

I enjoy movies, but I loathe movie stars. Their vanity is only surpassed by their arrogance, which is only surpassed by their delusions of grandeur. And yes, I realize all three of those things are related.

Seriously, if every movie starred the cast of The Muppets, I’d probably be okay with it. Muppets don’t have egos. Muppets don’t talk down to the general public and tell them who they should vote for in elections. Muppets recognize their roles in this universe. They’re props.

Plus, it’s hard to have an ego when a puppeteer has their hand up your caboose.

The nominees for this year’s Academy Awards were announced today and my confliction intensifies. I’m curious to find out who/what did and did not receive nominations, but my curiosity is subdued by the knowledge most of these nominees are pampered blowhards who believe the world revolves around them.

Who was elected? Who’s going to win?

Much like my rooting for “ABF” during the NFL playoffs this year (“Anyone but [Brett] Favre”), for the Oscars my battle cry is usually “Anyone but Sean Penn.”

However, since Penn wasn’t nominated this year — a fact I can only assume means Penn did not appear in any films this year, because Lord knows the Hollywood community kisses the man’s backside to the point it would nominate him even if all he did was make a two-second cameo in a documentary about watching grass grow — I have to put a little more thought into who I’ll be rooting for (i.e. being the least indifferent towards) this year.

Best Supporting Actress

• Penelope Cruz, “Nine”
• Vera Farmiga, “Up in the Air”
• Maggie Gyllenhaal, “Crazy Heart”
• Anna Kendrick, “Up in the Air”
• Mo’Nique, “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire”

My Thoughts: Penelope Cruz used to date Tom Cruise. She should therefore be ineligible to win this or any other award. Plus, she’s already won one of these things. I have no idea who Vera Farmiga is, so I can’t in good conscious root for her. After all, she could punch kittens in her spare time or something. Maggie Gyllenhaal has a face only a blind mother could love and her political views annoy me. She’s out. That leaves Anna Kendrick and Mo’Nique. Mo’Nique’s name is inexplicable, so she’s disqualified. I have no idea who Anna Kendrick is, but I’m taking a chance on her since she’s cute. She’s my pick.

Best Supporting Actor

• Matt Damon, “Invictus”
• Woody Harrelson, “The Messenger”
• Christopher Plummer, “The Last Station”
• Stanley Tucci, “The Lovely Bones”
• Christopher Waltz, “Inglourious Basterds”

My Thoughts: Matt Damon is a good actor, but he annoys me. In “Invictus”, he stars in a soccer movie. He’s therefore disqualified. Woody Harrelson is insane. I do not root for insane people. Christopher Waltz portrays a Nazi in his movie, and I fear a horrible precedent could be set if we give an Oscar to a Nazi, real or otherwise. That leaves Stanley Tucci and Christopher Plummer. Tucci has starred with Monk’s Tony Shalhoub numerous times, and Shalhoub rocks. Plummer, on the other hand, starred in “The Sound of Music” back in the day. Advantage Plummer.

Best Actress

• Sandra Bullock, “The Blind Side”
• Helen Mirren, “The Last Station”
• Carey Mulligan, “An Education”
• Gabourey Sidibe, “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire”
• Meryl Streep, “Julie&Julia”

My Thoughts: Sandra Bullock should not be eligible to win an Oscar during the same year she starred in “All About Steve” — one of the worst movies in years. That would be like giving Obama a Nobel Prize during the same year he did a crappy job as president. Insanity. Helen Mirren reminds me of my Algebra teacher in high school, so she’s out. I have no idea who Carey Mulligan or Gabourey Sidibe are, so they are indefinitely disqualified until they come to their sense and co-star in a movie with Kevin Costner (that way, I will know who they are). That leaves Meryl Streep as the last woman standing.  She gets the nod due to her having co-starred with Amy Adams in “Julia&Julia.” Amy Adams is cute.

Best Actor

• Jeff Bridges, “Crazy Heart”
• George Clooney, “Up in the Air”
• Colin Firth, “A Single Man”
• Morgan Freeman, “Invictus”
• Jeremy Renner, “The Hurt Locker”

My Thoughts: I was pretty certain Jeff Bridges had died years ago, so imagine my surprise when I see he is nominated for an Oscar. Still, just in case I was right, I cannot in good conscious vote for a dead person. If George Clooney was 1/100 as talented and suave as George Clooney thinks he is, his mere presence would melt off people’s faces. He’s smug and annoying.  He’s out. Jeremy Renner sounds like the name of a guy I knew in high school. If memory serves, that kid was annoying. So he’s out. That leaves Colin Firth and Morgan Freeman. I’m assuming, of course, that Freeman is the narrator in this movie since he’s the narrator in virtually every movie that’s been released the last five years. Since I don’t believe a narrator should win an award for acting, I’ll go with Colin Firth.

Best Movie

• “Avatar”
• ”The Blind Side”
• ”District 9″
• ”An Education”
• ”The Hurt Locker”
• “‘Inglourious Basterds”
• ”Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire”
• ”A Serious Man”
• ”Up”
• ”Up in the Air”

My Thoughts: Why are there so many movies nominated? This is insane. The hype surrounding “Avatar” rivals the hype of “Titanic” back in the day. Therefore, I’m boycotting it.

“The Blind Side” is a sports movie, but it’s the wrong kind of sports movie. I like baseball. Plus, the term “blind side” refers to the offensive tackle in football who blocks on the blind side of the quarterback. If the quarterback is right-handed, the left tackle blocks his blind side. If he’s left-handed, it’s the right tackle. The real-life football player in the movie, Michael Oher, might have blocked his quarterback’s blind side when he was in high school and college, but in the pros he doesn’t. Therefore, this movie is disqualified.

I saw “District 9″, but I couldn’t undertstand half the words the lead actor spoke. “An Education” reminds me of homework. I think of “Foot Locker” whenever I read the name “The Hurt Locker.” The producers of that movie should have considered this when naming it. “‘Inglourious Basterds” starred Brad Pitt with a southern accent. As a southerner, I found it highly offensive. Why don’t we southerners have our own version of Al Sharpton? “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire” is the stupidest movie title since “Too Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar.” It’s out.

“A Serious Man” sounds very boring. How serious is he? Very serious? If so, I’m not interested. “Up in the Air” stars George Clooney. Um, no.

That leaves “Up”, a movie I saw and actually liked. Best of all, it’s animated. No smug actors are on the screen. Therefore, it’s the feel good movie of the year.

What do the rest of you think?

It was, in a word, awesometastic.

But alas, it has been nearly a year since I’ve written a live blog. What happened? Well, inspiration has been a tricky thing. Does the fact I’m about to resurrect live blogging mean my inspiration has returned? Well, no. I’m just gonna wing it.

You’re welcome, people.

11:30 AM

While running errands on Saturday, my mom sent me a text message asking if I could pick her up some milk. I agreed, reluctantly, after remembering if not for her I would never have been born.

Not wanting to deal with a grocery store just to buy milk, I stopped by the nearest Wal-Greens. I grabbed some milk and on my way to the checkout counter I noticed salted and unsalted cashews were on sale. As a cashew fan (I am pro-cashews), I grabbed my jar and proceeded to the checkout.

This cashew-diversion took all of ten seconds, but those ten seconds allowed a 40ish man with about a dozen items to get to the checkout lane ahead of me. There was no one else in line, so this man was able to walk right up to the counter. My milk, cashews and I came up right behind him.

All was well until the checkout girl, who was cute and appeared to be in her early 20s, had trouble scanning a bottle of hairspray the man was trying to purchase. All his other items had been scanned and bagged. This one bottle of hairspray was all that remained.

The checkout girl called for a manager, and then the three of us waited. The man, who was bald, was not about to leave without this bottle of hairspray. The checkout girl looked uncomfortable and did her best to look anywhere except in the direction of the man with hairspray. I surmised that the checkout girl was much more pleasant to look at than the back of the hairspray man’s head. Meanwhile, my hand was becoming numb from holding the cold jug of milk.

After a few minutes, the manager finally made his way to the checkout counter. He grabbed one of his numerous keys, turned a lock on the cash register, re-scanned the bottle of hairspray, got a confused/perplexed look on his face, mumbled something to the checkout girl, and then announced “the system” wouldn’t let him scan the hairspray. In short, the man couldn’t buy it.

“This is ridiculous,” the bald hairspray man replied. “Why can’t I buy it? It’s on your shelves, I should be able to buy it.”

This bald man meant business.

By this time, I line had developed behind me. With no other open checkout lanes, this man and his precious hair spray were keeping half a dozen people from buying their items and going on their merry way.

The manager told the man he would “be right back…let me go check on something.”

This left the poor checkout girl alone to face the angry bald man.

Five minutes, I kid you not, went by. At least two people who were in line behind me gave up and left (I’m assuming without the items they wanted to purchase).

Finally, the manager returned and said the man could buy his precious, precious bottle of hair spray. The checkout girl took his money, gave him change and the man left the store. I’m assuming he went home to sacrifice a goat in the name of the hairspray or something. Or maybe he was off to buy it flowers and write it a poem?

It was now my turn to be at the front of the line. I could tell the checkout girl was skiddish. She was no doubt worried about the possibility she would have to endure MORE angry customers like the bald hairspray man.

I did my best to put her at ease.

Smiling I said “hello” as I put my milk and can of cashews on the counter.

“That guy must have REALLY needed that hairspray,” I jokingly say to her.

She laughs and says, “yeah, apparently!”

Her nerves calmed, I decided to make sure she knew I still meant business.

“Let’s just hope we don’t have similar problems with this can of cashews,” I replied.

“That bald man was a teddy bear compared to me. I will burn this place down.”

Long story short, those cashews were delicious.

(By a show of hands, who thinks I made up this story?)

12:51 PM

Perhaps the biggest appeal of eating lunch at Subway (beyond it providing several healthy eating options) is the fact your food is prepared in front of you. You see the entire process — from your bread being cut in half to your finished sandwich being wrapped in paper.

Did the employee sneeze on your food? Nope, you were watching him the whole time. Did they put tomatoes on your sandwich like you asked? Yep, you saw them do it.

Now compare that to your average fast-food chain. You have no idea what’s happening behind the scenes. None at all. This, in itself, is worrisome enough, but have you ever taken a good look at the people who work at fast-food restaurants? I mean, a really good look?

Yeah, you paid that guy/girl to make your food.

And you ate it.

And now you’re going to die.

Someday. I dunno.

1:22 PM

Dear Yahoo.com,

Please, for the love of all this is good and holy, never again display a photo of Lady GaGa on your homepage.

If your goal was to scare children, the elderly, animals, intimate objects, monsters, aliens and people who are not blind, then congratulations. Mission accomplished.

But unless you are paying for each and every one of us to get a lobotomy, Yahoo, I suggest you cut it out.

3:11 PM

Given how well his plan to overhaul the health care system has gone thus far, color me skeptical that Obama will be able to overhaul (for the better!) the No Child Left Behind law.

I think Obama should start smaller. Perhaps he could first overhaul and reorganize his sock drawer? Once he’s done that, he can move on to something a bit more complicated: his t-shirts.

Once he’s mastered that, he can practice making himself a sandwich. No Barack, sand doesn’t belong in a sandwich. Silly boy.

3:53 PM

When I was a teacher, I was a big fan of multiple choice questions. My all-time favorite question and available choice of answers?

Question: This question makes no sense.

A) True
B) False
C) None of the above

Watching their little heads twitch after reading that one was a joy to behold.

I was such an awesome teacher.

I know. I feel your pain. Last night, I reread what I had written and was practically bored to tears by its awfulness.

Seriously, if this site were The Beatles, yesterday’s post would be a song Ringo had scribbled down on a napkin. If this site was Johnny Depp’s career and you all were adoring fans, yesterday’s post was like sitting down in a movie theater and being subjected to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. If this site were the Baldwin Brother’s parents and all my posts were children, yesterday’s post would be Alec Baldwin.

(That’s right, I took a shot at Alec Baldwin. What’s he going to do? Yell at me on the phone? Make me watch one of his lame movies? Actually, come to think of it, I probably should be very afraid…)

If this site was a database of every analogy ever created, yesterday’s post would be, well…one of the analogies I wrote in the above paragraph.

That’s how boring yesterday’s post was and I’m very, very sorry.

And to make it all up to you, I’m going to expound on one of the items I wrote about in yesterday’s post. Yes, I realize this is like a bully apologizing for stealing your lunch money by pushing you into a puddle of mud, but trust me. You’ll enjoy this story. It’s about rats!

Now that I have your attention (and no doubt caused you to call everyone you know so that they, too, could read what is sure to be an exciting and not the least bit creepy story), I will take you to a time long ago in a place far, far away.

(Translation: Last Friday, down the hall, in my old office.)

After arriving to work after a week of being away taking training, I am greeted by exciting news: I was moving to a new office!

I had been in my current office for quite some time. The two of us (my office and I)  had so many great moments together. There was the time I ate Subway’s Chicken Marinara sandwich for the first time. Or the time I forgot my password for about three seconds until, finally, I remembered it. Or all those times I sat at my desk and thought about coffee in between taking sips of coffee. Ah, good times.

But alas, an era was ending. It was time to clean out my desk and move on to bigger and better things.

Fast forward the following week. I’m situated in my new office. I’ve been given a new leather chair and a nice, big Dell monitor. Life is good. Down the hall, a co-worker was beginning the process of moving into my old office. And here is where the story gets interesting.

While visiting my co-worker in my old office, shortly after she had moved in, I see an ant crawling on my old desk.

“That’s odd,” I thought to myself while saying it out loud. “I never had ants when I was in here.”

During the next few minutes, I spotted several more ants. Later, the co-worker stops by my new office to tell me of the two roach carcasses she discovered underneath the desk on the desk’s perimeters.

“Funny,” I told her, “I never once saw a roach in that office.”

But ants and roaches were merely a prelude to what would be discovered next.

Down the hall, I hear a commotion. Numerous people were gathered down the hall. Assuming the commotion was either due to someone being pregnant or someone having brought doughnuts to the office (possibly to celebrate someone being pregnant), I ignored the chatter and went back to my job. A few moments later, someone scurried over to my office.

“Kevin, come here. You’ve got to see this.”

After assuring this co-worker that I knew what doughnuts looked like and that I didn’t want any, she tells me that something had been discovered in my old office.

“Did they find an old doughnut behind a bookshelf or something,” I thought to myself. “Why would she want to show me that? Oh no, I hope no one is going to try eating it.”

Once I stepped inside my old office, my jaw dropped to the floor.

(Background: In my old office, I had a giant L-shaped desk. On one end, the end with overhead cabinets, a large piece of cork (3 feet tall, seven feet wide) was attached to the background of the desk beneath the cabinets. This way, I could thumbtack important papers and documents for easy viewing. Sitting at this desk every day and looking at this cork background probably had something to do with the cork-themed blog design this site used to have until recently.)

My co-worker who had moved into my office had taken down the cork wall. Some cork had fallen and the only way for her to thoroughly clean the surface of the desk was to take down the cork wall so she could dust underneath it. Well, when she took down the cork wall she discovered large piles of shredded cork.

An animal — a rat — at some point in time had lived in that desk. The cork wall was not flush with the back of the desk — there was a gap of several inches. And with round holes in the desk (designed for power cables and such to go through), the rat was able to crawl between the cork wall and the desk and do whatever struck its fancy.

And what apparently struck this rat’s particular fancy was biting and clawing at the cork wall. He had bit and clawed the wall so much that there were numerous piles of cork dust several inches high.

At first, I was appalled.

“Could a rat had been living in my desk all this time?!” The desk and the cork wall had been in place long before I ever arrived, so it’s possible the piles of cork dust had been created years ago. But then again, it’s possible they had been created just a few weeks ago.

But then I began to think about it logically. I remembered the ants appearing only after I had vacated the office. I remembered the dead roach carcasses on the floor at the outer edges of edges — almost as if the roaches died suddenly once they reached the desk’s perimeter.

Suddenly, it became clear.

The glow of awesomeness I exude must have formed a protective barrier of sorts around me while I was in that office. That’s why the ants couldn’t come out until after I had left. It’s why the roaches died where they did. The rat couldn’t possibly have been living in my desk while I was in that office because my awesome glow would have killed it.

Just as I was about to explain this to my gathered co-workers, someone down the hall shouted “hey everybody, I brought doughnuts” and they scampered away.

I’m sure it was for the best. They’re probably not yet ready to learn of the glow of awesomeness.

Few people are.

(Kevin’s rant about his job and how his employer had him spend last week out of the office training has been removed on the account it was so very boring. Seriously, picture something boring. Now picture Al Gore painting a word picture that explains that boring thing you imagined. Now picture Harrison Ford doing an interview on Dave Letterman explaining the boring thing that Al Gore explained in his boring word picture. That’s how boring Kevin’s rant was.)

Wow, I’m so glad to get that off my chest. You have no idea.

Another reason I’ve had little time to blog lately is I’m trying to watch every episode of the television show LOST before its season premiere on February 2. Crazy? Anyone who has gotten into the show would know I’m not crazy. It’s the most addictive show in history. It, in a word, rocks.

(Kevin’s rant about how great of a show LOST is has been removed on the grounds it is unfair to his non-LOST-watching audience. Plus, he doesn’t want anyone thinking he is a sci-fi nerd or something. Because he’s not. He’s cool. No, he’s not overcompensating. YOU are overcompensating. Shut up!)

On top of my DVD-viewing habits, I’ve also been reading a lot. The tentative goal I set for myself on New Year’s was to read one good book a month. Well, I finished my first book on January 11, so I’ve begun my second and hope to finish it before January ends, too. Does anyone out there care to read my reviews of the books I’m reading? The reviews likely would be serious rather funny, but what can I say…I’m versatile.

I just remembered that I promised my followers on Twitter a week ago that I would blog about my nephews. I still need to do that. (Note to self: Sometime this week when you’re not working, watching LOST, reading a book or being awesome, write a blog about your nephews.)

I also just remembered, while remembering the thing about nephews, that I wanted to blog about my new office. Yep, I have a new office with a shiny new monitor and a new giant, leather chair. And if that wasn’t cool enough, it turns out that my OLD office has a rat problem. I should probably blog about that story sometime, too.

People like stories about rats, right?

But not me.

I’m tired of athletes, politicians and “celebrities” like Olbermann apologizing just to placate the masses. They aren’t sorry. There is no contrition. They don’t mean a word of it.

Olberman said what he said because he believes it. He acted like a donkey’s rear end because he is a donkey’s rear end. Why should he deny who he is and what he thinks just because the masses dictate he do so?

No, an insincere apology is pointless. However, thankfully, I do have an alternative solution.

I say we lock Keith Olbermann in an elevator with Tiger Woods, John Edwards, a giant bottle of Tequila and some sensual music playing in the background.

Twenty-four hours later, when Olbermann is vowing never to act like a spoiled baby ever again, we’ll know he’s being sincere.

Too severe? Heck, if I had my way I’d put a starving lion in the elevator, too.

(For those unaware, I am referencing Olbermann’s on-air meltdown yesterday where he attacked Senator-elect Scott Brown of Massachusetts, who was NOT, it’s fair to say, Olbermann’s preferred candidate.)

For full disclosure, I should state for the record that Olbermann’s political beliefs are the polar opposite of mine. If I’m black, he’s white. If I’m up, he’s down. If I’m the head of a donkey costume, he’s the tail.

But that’s not to say, up to this point, I have outright disliked Keith Olbermann. I’ve nothing-ed him. His beliefs and antics and how he chooses to relay said beliefs using said antics have had zero impact on my life. He’s basically been like Paris Hilton to me. Sure, I don’t doubt she does numerous things each day that would drive me up the wall, but if I just pretend she doesn’t exist there’s no harm done. She’s out there, doing her thing, and I’m here doing mine.

But then he goes and does something so inexplicable I have no choice except to acknowledge his existance.

Last night, Olbermann essentially pulled a Kanye West. Olbermann thought Martha Coakley should have won the Senate election. She didn’t. Kanye thought Beyonce should have won the MTV Music Award. She didn’t. And while Kanye chose to express his disagreement by getting up on stage and interrupting poor Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech, Olbermann chose to vent his frustration by going on MSNBC and whining like a little baby.

The term “sore loser” wasn’t merely invented for people like Keith Olbermann — it was invented for Keith Olbermann.

Hundreds or even thousands of years ago, a prophet came to the words “sore” and “loser.” This prophet told them of a prophecy — the prophecy of the giant whining baby with glasses. He told them it was their destiny — their DESTINY! — to join forces so that one day, many years later, a term would exist for when this giant whining baby with glasses pitched his giant whining baby fit on television.

“What is ‘television?’”, one of the words asked the prophet.

“Shut up,” the prophet scolded.

(Side note: This is also how the term “shut up” came into being.)

I’m not really sure what was going through Olbermann’s giant baby head last night. He didn’t sway anyone’s viewpoints on Scott Brown. Those that didn’t like Brown before Olbermann’s whining rant didn’t like him after the rant. To those people, Olbermann was essentially preaching to the choir.

But to everyone else — a group likely LARGER than Olbermann’s choir considering the fact Brown won his election (in a decidedly liberal state, no less) — Olbermann comes off as a slimy, ranting, raving, vicious, mean-spirited bully who can’t stand it that “his candidate” didn’t win.

Maybe that’s what Olbermann was going for? You know, so that the prophecy could come true?

If so, kudos Keith. Kudos.

$390?!

Last month, it was $220. The month before it was $83. The months before that were all in the $40 to $50 range.

What in the name of Al Gore is going on here?!?

Yes, I’m call you out, Al. My utility bill — thanks to my gas heat usage — has exponentially risen as the temperature has dropped. The past month it’s been absolutely freezing here.

I know, “freezing in December and January…what’s the world coming to?” But you don’t understand. This is Georgia. There hasn’t been a cold December/January in my neck of the woods since 1996. Jacket weather, which lasts approximately three weeks, doesn’t arrive until late February or early March.

But not this year. This year it’s been cold. Ridiculously cold. And I blame Al Gore.

Watch your back, Al. I’m coming for you. I’m going to kick your tail and take your lunch money, which I hope is approximately $390.

However, since I’ve established in the past that you all, my readers, enjoy reading about sports about as much as John Edwards enjoys rereading his marriage vows, I’ll skip that one.

Instead, I’ve decided to start a new series called “Parent of the Year Award.” Yes, I’m sure this has been done elsewhere MANY times by MANY different people, but it’s new to SKOS and that’s all that matters. (Right?)

Basically, whenever I come across a particularly craptacular parent during this journey I call life, I will write about it. Then I will sarcastically dub them the “Parent of the Year.” Yes, there could be numerous recipients in a given year, thereby rending the “year” time frame pointless. Don’t get bogged down in semantics. This award is just like the Golden Globes or The Oscars: meaningless and (allegedly) entertaining.

I met this very special parent yesterday at the nearby Air Force base. While sitting in a crowded waiting room for an appointment,  a 30-ish mom and her 8-ish son sat down across from me.

They seemed like any other regular mom and child you would see. He was dressed like a normal kid. She had no visible tattoos and was dressed conservatively. They both seemed perfectly normal.

But then she took out her iPhone.

I don’t know what they were watching. I don’t care to know. The audio, which was turned up LOUD for the two of them (and everyone else in the waiting room) to hear, was enough for me to know it’s nothing I’d care to see.

And even if it WAS something I inexplicably cared to see, it’s not something I would want to watch with my 8-year-old son.

And even if it WAS something I inexplicably cared to see AND something I inexplicably deemed appropriate to watch with my 8-year-old son, it’s not something I would watch in a room full of people with the audio turned up.

What was it?

As best as I can tell, they were watching “humor” videos where someone would loudly pass gas (or pretend to pass gas) near or around total strangers. Loudly. Deafenly loud. And then you hear audience laughter and the total stranger yelling something in shock and amazement (usually an obscenity).

The mom and child would laugh and giggle throughout each video.

I endured the insanity for about five minutes before I made a throat-clearing sound and asked: “Ma’am, would you mind please turning the volume down?”

After sporting a half-confused, half-shocked “it never DAWNED on me this might be bothering anyone” expression, the mom responded “oh okay” and then obliged.

Granted, it’s not like she was dangling a baby off a balcony ala Michael Jackson, but this is still pretty bad parenting.

Congratulations, mom who enjoys bathroom humor and being a poor influence on her son and being oblivious to the cares for those around her. You are the first recipient of the Parent of the Year Award, which I will henceforth abbreviate to POTY.

In your case, that abbreviation is pretty apropos.

But alas, after almost a month I have yet to post any such highlights. This must be remedied. I shall remedy it. Remedy, here we go. Now. Remedy.

The great Jenny at I’m Having a Thought Here is battling writer’s block, but that didn’t stop her from writing an “If you were a _______” conversation starter/blog post. Click here to read why if Jenny were a perfume, she would be Chanel Number Five. Check out her comments if you’d like to read why I would be Hugo Boss if I were a cologne.

And no, for you long-time readers who might be wondering, my pick has nothing to do with Hugo Boss being a great multi-tasker.

Now, I know what you are thinking. “Why did you tell the stylist to shave off your sideburns and give you a blocked haircut, Kev?”

Was it because I was tired of having sideburns my entire life? Sideburns that, it turned out, disguise a birthmark I never knew I had beside my left ear?

No, that wasn’t it.

Was it because I wanted to give the illusion of having an even WIDER head than I already have (tidbit: blocked hairlines give a wide appearance in comparison to tapered hairlines)?

Nope, that wasn’t it either.

In truth, I didn’t WANT to have my sideburns removed. I didn’t WANT a blocked hairline. So why did I get them?

Because that particular hair stylist was either deaf, evil or deaf and evil. She interpreted my instructions of “just a trim…neaten my sideburns…tapered in the back” as “do the opposite of what I just said…hack off my sideburns…make my head look as wide as possible.”

Communication and proper translation is crucial. Sometimes, a miscommunication can be easily remedied (“I asked for well done. This steak is rare.”) Other times, miscommunication isn’t so easily remedied (“Doctor, the chart says “appendectomy” not “vasectomy!”).

Getting a haircut falls somewhere in between. A mistake isn’t permanent, but it can’t exactly be remedied in the next ten minutes either.

So, this past weekend when I sat down in a (different) hair stylist’s chair, I was more than a little concerned when I discovered English wasn’t her first language.

When you have to mime what kind of haircut you want, you’re asking for trouble.

Thankfully, all went well. My regrown sideburns were trimmed, but still remain. And my hair is tapered, not blocked, in the back.

However, I think I agreed to marry her daughter. I’m not exactly sure.

As promised, here are some REAL resolutions for 2010.

1No “junk food” for an entire year.
This likely sounds crazy or impossible, but I’ve actually done it before. In high school, starting the summer before my junior year and ending just before the start of my senior year, I didn’t eat a single bite of food that I considered to be “bad” for me. I was gung-ho about baseball and I wanted to do whatever it took to earn a college athletic scholarship.

What did I consider “bad” for me? The obvious things. No hamburgers or fries from McDonald’s, Burger King and the like. No pizza from any restaurant chain. No potato chips since they’re empty calories and won’t even fill me up. No deep fried anything. And so on.

In reality, it’s much easier than it sounds. I don’t have to do anything special. I just have to make a series of choices every single day. “Don’t eat that, eat this.” I’ll never go hungry. I’ll always be full. It just so happens that the things I’m eating and making me feel full won’t be terrible for me.

And as good days turn into good weeks and good weeks turn into good months, the outcome will be an infinitely healthier version of me come 2011.

2Pay off my car.
A little over three years ago, I made it a goal to become “debt free” before my birthday in December 2007. I succeeded. Having started a little over a year earlier, I managed to pay off my student loan and all my credit card debt the day before my birthday.

However, I didn’t include my car loan on my list of debts to pay off. With an interest rate of only 4.5%, mathematically it didn’t make sense for me to work towards paying off my car loan early (other than the psychological benefit of having no car payment, of course). With online savings accounts at E-Trade, Citi, ING Direct and the like offering interest rates of 5% and higher, I was better off putting any EXTRA money I had into savings rather than into paying down my car loan.

That was true then, but it’s not true anymore.

My 4.5% interest rate on my car loan is still low, but the recession has caused banks to slash the interest rates they offer customers in online savings accounts. E-Trade, for example, gave me a 5.05% interest rate when I was paying down my other debts in 2007. Today, it offers a paltry 0.5% interest rate.

Coming into 2010, I had 14 payments remaining on my car. That puts me on schedule to pay it off in February 2011.

My (very) modest goal is to pay it off before we get anywhere near 2011.

3Read one self-improvement book a month.
“Self-improvement” is a broad niche, but basically I want to read at least one book a month that makes me a better person — a better man.

Between books, blogs and magazine articles, I already read a lot (in general). But I want what I read this year to be very specific. Much like how I do not want to eat anything that is bad for me, I don’t want to READ anything that doesn’t improve me.

If you have any book suggestions, do please share them by leaving a comment.

4Finish baking.
You’re probably wondering, “what the heck is Kev talking about…is he going to cooking school?” No, that’s not it. I would totally kick butt in cooking school, but that’s not it. The following quote from the great thinker, Buffy Summers, should help explain what I mean:

“I’m cookie dough. I’m not done baking. I’m not finished becoming whoever the heck it is I’m gonna turn out to be. I make it through this, and the next thing, and the next thing, and maybe one day, I turn around and realize I’m ready. I’m cookies.”

Still not sure what I mean? Well, this resolution is in place of the resolution common for most single adults: “Find Mr./Ms. Right” (or the equivalent).

I’m not going make such a resolution. I’m not going to because I know I’m not yet ready. If Miss Right fell into my lap right now, I’d undoubtedly screw it up by groaning and asking how much she weighed.

(Metaphorically speaking, of course. I’d never actually say such a thing.)

The good news is I’m very close. I just need a little bit longer in the oven and I should be fine. But for the first time in a long time, I recognize the fact I’m not yet ready.

Yes, I’m at the right age. Yes, I’m financially stable with a good job. Yes, I have many of the intangibles needed. And yes, I want it to happen.

But it’s the reason I want it to happen that has me not yet ready.

I still, in the back of my mind, crave that special someone because of the need to fill a hole in my life. But that’s not why a person should date or marry. It’s not fair to the woman. It is impossible for her to fill that hole. I believe many relationships end for this very reason — one or both parties expected the other to “fix” them or make them happy. That’s not how it’s supposed to work.

I should want to be with that special someone because I want to share my life (my happy, fulfilled, wonderful life) with that special someone — NOT because I need her to complete me or make me happy. I should already be complete. I should already be happy. I should already be fully baked.

When people say they found their special someone when they stopped looking, what they really mean (whether they realize it or not) is they stopped looking for someone else to give their life fulfillment. They found fulfillment on their own. And then, while living their happy and fulfilling life, they were finally ready to share their lives with someone.

So, that’s my biggest resolution for 2010. I need to finish baking. I can do this by finishing things I’ve already started: getting closer to God, discovering new hobbies, and finding something I’m passionate about.

And then I’ll be ready. I’ll be cookies.

5Do something awesome.
Okay, so I’ve already met this resolution about 800 times so far this year. I just needed to add an easy one to finish the list.

Thoughts? Comments?

Why? Well, why does a man usually do the stupid, idiotic things he ultimately regrets? Because he’s a stupid idiot, of course.

What I thought at the time was an inconsequential decision to cut down on my caffeine intake was, in fact, a choice to live the rest of my day in complete and total agony.

Had I remembered the following quote from the great Dave Nelson, my torment could have been avoided:

“I don’t know what coffee does for you, but I’m pretty sure without it your head caves in.”

Preach on, Dave. Preach on.

Alas, more times than not I find myself in the latter group.

But not this year.

Since I am a brilliant innovator who thinks outside the proverbial cardboard box, I have decided to turn potential failure into success. No matter what happens, one way or another I will be successful when January 1, 2011 rolls around.

How? Why?

Because for 2010, I am going to set completely ridiculous, inexplicable resolutions for myself — resolutions I wouldn’t WANT to meet in a million years. That way, when I “fail” to do them, I’ll be able to say “boy, I’m glad THAT didn’t happen!”

Ready? Too late. I’m doing it anyway.

1Stop being so awesome.
Seriously, isn’t the world getting sick and tired of me being awesome all the time? It has to be. Heck, even I’m getting a little sick of it. Just this morning, as I glanced in the mirror while brushing my teeth, I thought about how sad my toothbrush will be one day when I have to replace it.

“Poor toothbrush. Someday, when it comes time to get a NEW toothbrush, I will have to deprive it the honor of cleaning my teeth. Poor thing. Poor, poor inanimate object.”

Just imagine thinking such thoughts every morning. Now imagine thinking similar thoughts when you put in your contact lenses. Or wash your hair. Or bathe. Or put on a pair of socks. Or put on a cape and fly to work.

It would get old, right? Right. Now you feel my pain. My nagging, awesome pain.

2Stop making women weak in the knees.
I don’t mean to do it. Honest! It just happens. Women see me and their knees begin to buckle. As Adrian Monk would say, “It’s a blessing…and a curse.”

At grocery stores it isn’t as problematic since everyone has grocery carts to hold onto when they begin to fall. Retirement communities and hospitals are somewhat safe for similar reasons — those that would be hurt most by falling (the sick and elderly) are in wheelchairs, walkers or beds.

But then there was the time I went to a WNBA basketball game. It was horrible. Eight players suffered season-ending knee injuries. One player fell and hit her head on the scorer’s table. In the 4th quarter, with the score still tied at zero, fans began to boo and get out of hand. Feeling responsible, I stood up and tried to help calm down the crowd.

But all that did was cause fans begin to fall down like dominoes all around me.

Well, no more. In 2010, I vow that no woman will fall down because of me. I will avoid public settings, if at all possible. And whenever I see a lady begin to tumble, I will catch her.

Oh, did all of you assume I had ALWAYS tried to catch the women before they fell? Well, I didn’t.

Don’t judge me, people.

3Become dumber.
Sure, it’s nice being reasonably intelligent. But as I’m sure all of you, my intelligent readers, can attest to, sometimes it gets lonely being reasonably intelligent in a world filled with complete and total imbeciles.

Intelligent people are going the way of the dodo.

I don’t want to become a lost relic of a bygone era. I want to fit in with the common man. So, I will stop reading books. I will start reading blogs written by people who cannot spell. I will rent the first Twilight movie and go see the second one in theaters. I will shout “yes we can” without being ironic. While driving, I will “gun it” every time the light turns green.

And if all that fails, I will hit myself in the head with a hammer.

4Get in worst shape possible.
Everyone wants to “get healthy” when they make a New Year’s resolution. What ends up happening? Yep, they fail. Well, I’m going to do the opposite. I’m going to try to get in the worst shape possible. And if my logic is correct, when I fail at this resolution it will mean I actually became healthier. Right? No, seriously, I’m asking. This is sort of confusing.

5Become a procrastinator.
As a teacher, I preached the perils of procrastination to my students. Well, if I truly want my resolutions for 2010 to be a success (Or is that supposed to be a failure? I’m so confused.), I need to add procrastination to the list. That way I’ll be certain to ensure none of these other resolutions come true.

I can’t very well stop being awesome if I put it off, right? And I can’t stop wooing the ladies if I procrastinate in addressing my innate attraction. I can’t become dumber if I never get around to renting Twilight or hitting myself in the head with a hammer. And I can’t get in the worst shape possible (Translation: Eat as many McRib sandwiches as allowed by law) if I procrastinate and wait until McDonald’s stops selling them, right?

Yes, this is a brilliant plan. And look, I’ve already gotten started on the whole procrastination thing. It’s January 4. Everyone else in the world made their resolutions days ago.

Suckers.

How about the rest of you? Did you make any interesting resolutions for 2010? To those curious, my REAL resolutions will go online later this week.

Is it because it’s smothered in barbeque sauce? No, that can’t be it. Burger King puts barbeque sauce on one of its hamburgers, but it isn’t overwhelmingly popular. Heck, I can’t even remember the name of it. That’s how unpopular it is. Barbeque Whopper? Smokehouse Burger? The name will come to be eventually.

Is it the name? Does “McRib” remind women of the rib Eve swindled from Adam when God created her? (Not that I’m bitter about missing a rib or anything. Sensitive? What do you mean I’m being sensitive?)

Personally, I think it’s because McDonald’s keeps taking it away from the public. The McRib won’t be offered for a few years, and then they’ll bring it back. Each time, the public goes crazy.

“I must eat as many McRibs as possible before McDonald’s takes it away from us again!”

People are sheep.

Until today, that is.

While on my second trip to the kitchen for a coffee refill (don’t judge, people), I bumped into the person behind the voice I’ve been hearing.

She’s young. And she’s fairly attractive.

She said hello and then brushed the hair out of her eyes. Since I’m perceptive, I realized what she was REALLY doing:

She was giving me a clear view of her ring finger. She wanted me to know her marital status.

Of course, I didn’t see whether or not she was wearing a ring.

Hey, cut me some slack. I’m perceptive, but I’m not THAT perceptive.

Over the Christmas holiday, I experienced the final rite of passage into adulthood. I’m a man now.

No, I didn’t get married. And no, no one will be birthing my kid nine months from now. To anyone who believes THOSE are the final rites of passage into adulthood, I suggest you visit your local Wal-Mart or shopping mall and take a gander at all the “men” walking around who fit those criteria.

Having sex or getting married makes you a “man” about as much as drinking Tang makes you an astronaut.

No, the final rite of passage for adulthood is when, collectively, everyone you know decides to buy you “grown up” gifts for Christmas and your birthday. Gone are the days where you receive video games, CDs and other forms of entertainment as gifts. Now you receive “practical” gifts — the kind of gifts you would buy your parents or grandparents.

And since my birthday and Christmas sit next to one another on the calendar, I got to experience this rite of passage in rapid succession.

Last year, I got DVDs.

This year, I got a set of spatulas.

Two years ago, I got a baseball signed by John Smoltz.

This year, I got a lamp.

Three years ago, I got a John Madden football game for my laptop.

This year, I got a mop, a mop bucket and a bottle of Mr. Clean.

Four years ago, I got Boss headphones for listening to music.

This year, I got a book on dating.

I’m not sure if it was planned this way or whether everyone in my family came to the same idea on their own, but every gift I got this year was practical and grown up.

Now, please do not misunderstand. I’ve been aware of my adulthood for quite some time.

I stopped wearing ironic t-shirts ages ago. I’ve never been one of those guys who wears baseball caps everywhere he goes. I’m not above taking an afternoon nap if the opportunity arises. I would be much more agreeable to attending a Michael Buble concert than I would a (insert name of young, annoying musical artist or band here). And whereas a decade ago I would refuse on principle to watch a Sandra Bullock or Drew Barrymore (or the like) romantic comedy in theaters, in recent years I’ve become open to the idea (provided the movie also stars Hugh Grant, who I find hilarious).

Nonetheless, I find the notion of receiving only practical gifts an interesting revelation. It means that not only do I view myself as an adult, but everyone around me does as well.

This is indeed a momentous occasion. To celebrate, I think I’ll drink a cup of herbal tea and take a nap. Or, even better, I’ll switch out the regular coffee with decaf in my work’s kitchen and wait for one of my co-workers to have a nervous breakdown so I can blog about it!

Okay, so maybe I’m not entirely grown up.

My cat, Smokey, had been dressed like Santa Claus.

A laid-back cat, Smokey didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the attention and numerous cameras pointed his way.

Of course, around five o’clock in the afternoon we noticed something strange. His two front paws were swelled up to twice their normal size. The Santa leggings, or whatever they were, were cutting off his circulation.

There is a lesson here to be learned by one and all. Sure, dressing up your pet is funny. Heck, it can be a laugh riot. But no one will be laughing if you end up having to amputate various appendages on said pet.

Think about it. Word to your mother. Peace out.

SKOS has a new design.

Actually, make that three new designs. In the top-right corner of the screen, you should see an image of a paint can. If you click it, you’ll be taken to a page that allows you to choose between three different color schemes. So, if you don’t like the charcoal, white and burnt orange you see now, change it. Don’t like ANY of the color options I have available? Well, leave me a comment with suggestions on the paint can’s page. I’ll take your input under advisement. If I like what you have to say, I’ll work on adding it to the color choices. And if I hate it, I’ll mock you!

My goal when creating the new design was to be as simplistic and user friendly as possible. The text is large. The navigation is free of unneeded clutter. Everything you need is located where you would expect it be located. And if you are wondering what happened to my extremely handsome mugshot, just click the “Info” button at the top of page.

I began working on this design shortly after my grandfather became ill. It became my method of coping. When I was working on the redesign, my mind was able to escape the trials and tribulations assaulting my family on a seemingly daily basis. For this reason, this design holds a special place in my heart. It helped me get through a very rough patch in my life.

I hope all of you enjoy it. Consider it my Christmas gift to you, my dear readers. It’s my hope that the new year will allow me to “get back to the funny” (since this is a humor blog, after all). But I thank each of you who stuck with me through this very bipolar year.

Merry Christmas, everyone. God bless.

A few days ago, I wondered aloud whether or not having a partner, a mate, would have made the last trying month of my life easier to handle. I wondered whether or not I had reached the point where I was ready to make finding someone — anyone — a life goal.

I found my answer the very next day.

She was pretty. She was in my ideal age range. She was educated. She had a good job. And she seemed to very much be into me.

And all I could think when I saw her was this: “Yeah, but she’s not __________.”

I had my answer.

Do I want to find someone? Yes. But I’m not the kind of person who dates for the sake of dating. I never have been. And while this trying period of my life the last few weeks would have been easier to handle if I’d had someone to help me get through it, the fact of the matter is I got through it all the same. I made it through to the other side. I’m alive. I’m doing okay.

There is someone special out there for me. And I will be with her, whether she’s someone I already know or a total stranger, when the time is right. But I will not settle in the meantime. I will not go along with whomever happens to come along.

I will live my life, day by day, the best I can. And with the Lord’s help, all my heart’s desires will be delivered to me someday in the not-too-distant future. When I’m ready.

And if that doesn’t work, there are always mail-order Russian brides.

While in the break room to get a coffee refill, I see a tray of cheese cubes left over from an earlier meeting. Hungry, I put a few in a paper cup and headed back to my office.

Ten minutes later, I felt sick to my stomach. I left work early to go home and passed out on my couch. My grandfather’s wake was late in the evening, and it didn’t look as though I was going to feel well enough to make it.

Of course, this flu bug or whatever it was didn’t know who it was messing with. There was no way I was going to miss this wake.

So, in short, instead of being sick I decided to be awesome instead.

True story.

My grandfather’s passing, plus an e-mail I received from this individual last week, has actually brought back good memories about one particular ex-girlfriend. I don’t believe I ever properly thanked her for what she did over a course of several days more than three years ago, so I’m writing this to let the world know how appreciative I was and am. And in thanking her I will also segue into the here and now.

In October 2006, my grandmother on my mother’s side passed away. It was the first time I had ever lost someone close to me. It was difficult (as all deaths surely are), but not as difficult as it could have been. This was because, one, my grandmother had suffered from Alzheimer’s for years and mentally I had “let her go” a long time ago. But it was also less difficult because I had someone there to help me get through it.

My girlfriend at the time had just moved from her home in Minnesota to live closer to me. She had left her family and friends behind. Almost immediately, literally days later, she had to help me cope with loss.

I don’t know how she was feeling at the time. Maybe she was super excited and enthused to be starting a new chapter in her life. But it’s also possible, even if that was true, that she was equally sad about being away from loved ones.

But if she felt that way, she didn’t let me know about it. I cannot remember a single word she said to me between the time of my grandmother’s death and her funeral, but I remember her being a constant source of levelheadedness and comfort. I don’t know how I would have handled my grandmother’s death had I been alone, but I don’t have to know. I had someone who cared about me, and she helped me cope. I’m very thankful to her for that.

Flash forward to three years and two months later.

Unlike my grandmother, I was not mentally ready for my grandfather’s passing. His demise came very suddenly.

Also, unlike with my grandmother, I was actually present to witness his passing. I was sitting five feet away as he started breathing slower and slower and, ultimately, stopped breathing altogether.

I’ve handled everything better than I could have predicted, but I can’t deny the fact I would be handling it better had I had someone to help me get through these past weeks.

My dad has my mom. My aunt has her husband. My brother has his wife. My sister has her boyfriend.

And me?

What do I have?

I have the redesign of my blog I’ve been working on since my grandfather first went to the hospital. That’s how I’ve coped. I’ve drank lots of coffee and worked on a design for a blog that barely anyone reads anymore.

Call me crazy, but I don’t remember “work on blog design” being on the list of grief stages.

I don’t mean to sound as though I’m complaining. I am very good at being single. I’m content being single.

But I think that’s part of the problem.

I’m not meant to be single. I don’t believe I was meant to endure these past four weeks with my grandfather alone. I was alone because I’m okay with being alone. If I wasn’t okay with it, I would have done something about it a long time ago.

Yesterday, I asked my mom if I was like my dad and two brothers. Each of them has a habit of starting a project, then stopping. Then they start another new project, then stop. And so on and so on. After a period of time has gone by, behind them are a series of unfinished projects.

I don’t remember why I asked my mom this question, but I expected her answer to be “no” that I wasn’t like them. I correctly predicted her answer, but not for the reason I was expecting. Her response (paraphrasing):

“No, but then again you don’t really ever START projects. At least not in a long time. It’s kind of hard to have incomplete goals if you never have any goals in the first place.”

And she’s right.

I earned a college scholarship for playing baseball because I made it a goal.

I graduated college and later earned my Master’s because I made each a goal.

I became debt free because I made it a goal.

To date, I’ve never made “find someone — stop being single” a goal of mine. All the times in my life where I have (temporarily) found someone, I stumbled into them. It happened accidentally, almost in spite of me.

Past life goals I’ve set and reached were set and reached because I wanted them badly enough.

Have I reached that place in regards to my single status?

That’s the million dollar question.

That was my grandfather.

He was a Marine. He was tough as nails. Even at 88 years old with lung cancer that had caused his entire left lung to stop functioning, his body wouldn’t give up.

Even deprived of oxygen, his heart kept pumping.

I’ve never had to deal with death like this before. Three years ago, my grandmother on my mom’s side passed away. She had Alzheimer’s and had been living in a retirement community with full-time nurses for quite some time. We all had years to come to grips with the fact she was gone (her body might have still been here, but her mind wasn’t), and when she passed away in her sleep one October morning we were ready for it. Well, as ready as we could be.

But just one month ago my grandfather was fine. Yes, the stroke he suffered earlier this decade has caused him to be a shell of his former self. Until then, he still had a part-time job at a hardware store. He still maintained his own vegetable garden. But even post-stroke, he was self sufficient.

He drove every day. He would read several books a week. He would watch Atlanta Braves baseball games. He cooked all the meals for him and my grandmother. He liked watching golf and was a fan of Tiger Woods. (I’m a little glad he has been in the hospital the entire time this Tiger Woods scandal has gone on. He never had to hear a word about it.)

And then a month ago his health began a precipitous fall.

First he came down wit pneumonia. Then he had a urinary staff infection. And then the growth was discovered on his lung. It was a growth that hadn’t been there six months ago. His doctor suspected it was cancer. He was right.

Part of me is amazed he lived as long as he did. My grandfather smoked for decades, had a massive heart attack in his 50s, never wore sunscreen a day in his life, had the aforementioned stroke, and still lived eighty-eight years. Part of me is further saddened by the knowledge that had he NOT endured all those things, he likely would have lived even longer.

For the past three weeks, my granddad hasn’t been lucid. He’s been in a hospital bed, with medications running all through his system, and tubes hooked up anywhere and everywhere.

I hate that I couldn’t talk to him. I hate that all I could do was stand beside his bed, grab his unresponsive hand and have one-sided conversations.

I couldn’t reminisce about all the baseball games of mine he and my grandmother went to over the years. Unless I was playing an away game hours out of town, they would be there. Win or lose, whether I had a good game or a bad one, they were there to hand me a Coke or Sprite afterward.

I wanted a chance to thank him for that.

I wanted the chance to tell him that even though I hadn’t yet gotten married or given him great-grandchildren, he needn’t worry because it would happen for me someday and I would be just fine.

I wanted to tell him Alabama, his favorite college footbal team, was going to be playing for the national championship.

I wanted to tell him I wished I had visited more often.

But all I could do was stand beside his bed, grab his unresponsive hand, and say goodbye.

I love you, grandpa.

But I am also not perfect. Let’s get that out of the way right now.

Whereas in recent years I have finished my Christmas shopping weeks if not months before the big day, this year I have procrastinated. I have bought zero gifts so far. Christmas is one week away and I am giftless. I am without gifts.

Actually, that’s not totally accurate. I have bought gifts for my niece, one of my nephews, my sister-in-law, one of my brothers and one of my sisters. But I use the word “I” in the loosest way possible.

My brother’s Christmas gift was “bought” in late October. He came to me one day and asked, “Hey, for my Christmas present this year could you pay for my gym membership in November?”

“Sure,” I told him. “It’s barely less personable than a gift card, so why the heck not?”

For my niece, nephew, sister and sister-in-law, gifts were purchased by my mom. In each instance, she was out shopping for her gifts. Whenever she found something she believed “someone” in the family would enjoy, but “someone” was a person for which she had already purchased a gift, she would give me a call.

The phone conversations would go down like so:

Mom: “Have you bought a gift for __________ yet?”

Me: “No, why?”

Mom: “I found __________ for them for Christmas.”

Me: “How much is it?”

Mom: “$__.”

Me: “Okay, buy it. I’ll pay you back.”

And scene.

So when I say “I” bought them gifts, what I really mean is my mom bought them gifts for me and I am paying her back.

“I” have actually purchased zero gifts.

Why? Well, life is crazy right now. People are in the hospital, vehicles are catching on fire, and work is trying to make me loco in the cabeza. As a result, I now have one week to buy gifts for the rest of my family.

But this has made me think of another upside to being single.

I have about half as many gifts to buy as I would if I were married and had an extended family.

Silver lining, people. Silver lining.

So why am I doing it? Why don’t I just pour my energy into, you know, ACTUALLY BLOGGING?

It’s my way of coping, I suppose. As I mentioned recently, there is a lot going on right now with my family. If you add the fact it’s December, a month that tends to shine a spotlight on your life (if things are going well, it’s the greatest time of the year; if not, it can be the most depressing time of the year), you have a recipe for what I like to call “Craptacularly Humorless Blog Posts.”

And since this is a humor blog, craptacularly humorless blog posts aren’t exactly ideal. So, instead, I’ve poured my energy into redesigning SKOS from the bottom up.

It’s what I do, for those who didn’t know.

I am a website designer.

I spend my days developing professional, simplistic, BORING websites for the government. This fact is why I designed the blog you see now the way I did.

I wanted something that looked amateurish. Something that was anything except simplistic. I wanted something that was the polar opposite of boring.

Of course, after looking at it every day for almost two years, I’ve grown tired of this design.

In its place I am designing the cleanest, most minimal (without being plain), user-friendliest blog it is within my skill set to create.

Methinks the user-friendly design will be appreciated, if my readers ever return.

So, that’s what I’ve been doing. With any luck, the redesign will be online before the new year. And if I’m really lucky, I’ll figure out some way to stop time before the new year, too.

You see, my birthday is on the horizon. I’ll be 32 — a fact that boggles my still-thinks-it’s-18 mind. In the here and now, I believe I am in the prime of my life. I feel young and vibrant. And I am young and vibrant. But I also remember what I used to think of who were the age I’m at currently.

When I was 18, I considered 32 to be ancient.

I remember back in 1996, there was a Sheryl Crow song called “Home” on the radio. One of the lines in the song alluded to her being 32. I remember thinking, “Gosh, Sheryl Crow is old!”

(In related news, since 13 years have passed, gosh Sheryl Crow is old!)

Now that I’m about to be 32, I realize those thoughts were silly. Still, I can’t believe I’m about to be 32. And it’s kind of surreal. When I was 18, where I envisioned I would be in my life at 32 was very different than how it actually turned out.

I assumed I would be married. I assumed I would have one kid, possibly two. I assumed I would have a nice house with a yard large enough for my own baseball field. (Yes, at 18 I thought this would be the coolest thing ever.)

But none of those things have happened for me yet. I’m still single. I have no children. I’m renting and my yard isn’t even big enough for a softball field.

At the same time, at 18 I never thought I would have a Master’s Degree. At 18 I thought my only real skills were catching, throwing and hitting a baseball. The notion that I could become a teacher, a writer or a website designer (though at 18 I didn’t know such a thing even existed) seemed unrealistic.

At 18, I didn’t even know how to balance a checkbook. Today, I am a financial wizard with no debt, sizable savings and even more sizable retirement account.

At 18, I was a horrible driver. Today, I’m the greatest driver in the world. (Unfortunately, I still have no sense of direction.)

In almost every way, where I am at in my life at age 32 is far better than “me at 18″ could have envisioned. I’ve done very well. I’ve been very fortunate.

Still, on most days, I would happily trade my awesome driving skills and healthy retirement accounts for the ability to backspace over the words “still single.”

I would also trade them for a baseball field in my back yard.

Yes, that would still be the coolest thing ever.

Oh, I’m also taking an indefinite break from all things Tiger Woods on the grounds he is an immoral creep who plays a very boring sport. But that probably went without saying

Seriously, it would go on forever.

So since I do not wish to get caught up in an endless loop, not to mention the fact I do not wish to dwell on such negative thoughts, I am going to attempt to distract myself.

Hmmmm. What to write about?

Ashley Greene is quite beautiful. Yahoo showed a photo of her the other day. Apparently, she’s an actress and appears in those ridiculous Twilight movies I refuse to watch on principle. The principle? That I am neither an idiot nor a teenage girl.

Still, I refuse to hold that against Ms. Greene. She has it all — and by “all” I mean she has a nice face and nice legs. What can I say? I’m a simple man.

Of course, since Twilight is about teenagers and vampires and unicorns (I’m assuming…I have no idea what it’s actually about), exactly how old is Ashley Greene?

Is her character an adult or a teenager in those films? And if the latter, is she a twenty-something portraying a teenager (sort of like how Luke Perry portrayed a high school student on the TV show Beverly Hills 90210 back in the day even though he looked older than some of the teachers)? Or is she an ACTUAL teenager?

I would Google her, but I don’t dare do that at work. Like I said, I know nothing about her. There’s no telling what kind of search results I would see.

Okay, forget Ashley Greene. The possibility that admiring her would make me a creep just isn’t worth it. Instead, I’ll shift the conversation to someone safe: Jennifer Connelly.

Ah, Jennifer Connelly. The gold standard in Hollywood beauty.

She’s in her late 30s, but still looks as though she’s in her late 20s. But any way you slice it, she’s definitely not a teenager. She’s 100% safe.

Of course, thinking of Jennifer Connelly immediately brings to mind the last movie I saw with her in it:

The Day the Earth Stood Still — starring Keanu Reeves.

Good grief that was a horrible movie. And to say Keanu had the personality of a doorknob in it would be an insult to doorknobs and inanimate objects everywhere.

Seriously, either the casting director for that movie was a genius or an idiot. There’s no middle ground. If producers told him/her that the lead role of Klaatu (an alien) was going to be expressionless and lacking the least bit of personality, then the casting director hit a homerun out of the park.

“I got it,” the casting director thought after a millisecond. “Keanu Reeves.”

However, if that wasn’t the case, if the producers desired a “star” with actual screen presence and acting ability, then the casting director failed horribly.

It never ceases to amaze me the way some untalented actors keep getting marquee roles in marquee films while actors with actual talent have to take work wherever they can find it.

Seriously, how is it that Nicolas Cage gets role after role in blockbuster movies, but Christopher Lloyd has to take a role in the direct-to-DVD release Santa Buddies about talking puppies who…I don’t know, save Christmas or some other nonsense?

Christopher Lloyd is talented. Nicolas Cage is inexplicable.

And the fact the latter has actually won an Academy Award while the former possibly has never even been INVITED to the Academy Awards ceremony is madness.

Seriously, have any of you ever taken a moment to ponder the career of Christopher Lloyd? He’s almost had as many iconic roles as Harrison Ford:

He was Judge Doom in Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Has anyone NOT seen that movie at least five times?

He was Uncle Fester in The Addams Family and its sequel.

He was a co-star on the sitcom Taxi, which is still rerun all over the world.

He starred alongside Jack Nickolson in Oscar winner One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, a movie I’ve never seen, but have heard is a pretty big deal.

He’s even a part of Star Trek — he was the main villain in Star Trek III: The Search for Spock.

And then there is his most iconic role, “Doc” Brown, in the three Back to the Future movies.

How is this man not a household name? And how is it that he’s now reduced to DVD releases starring puppies that talk and (I’m assuming) make stupid jokes about mailmen and cats?

Off topic, because this guy is appreciated and does get regular work, but why has no one thought to cast Christopher Walken as the lead in a romantic comedy? Does that not sound completely hilarious to anyone else? I don’t even LIKE most romantic comedies and I think that would be hilarious.

Alright, it just dawned on me that I could safely check Ashley Greene’s age at the Internet Movie Database. And the answer is….

Twenty-two. Soon to be twenty-three.

Okay, admittedly, that’s a tad too young for me. I would have zero in common with a 22-year-old. She would, most likely, want to talk about Twilight. And I would, most likely, want to bang my head against the wall.

But hey, at least I wouldn’t be a total creep in the eyes of most.

Of course, personally, I’m all for zigging when others are zagging.

“Everyone puts up their tree before Christmas, mom and dad. Let’s be different. Let’s put up your tree AFTER Christmas! What do you say? Who’s with me?!”

Sadly, no one was with me.

While cleaning, my sister found a book with a rubber band wrapped around it.

“Who’s ‘Built to Win’ is this?,” she asked everyone.

At first, no one answered.

Since I have the reflexes of a cat and the speed of a mongoose, approximately seven minutes later I asked: “What was the name of that book again?”

“‘Built to Win,’” my sister repeated.

The wheels in my head began to turn.

“Who is the author,” I asked.

“John Schuerholz,” my sister replied — butchering the name beyond recognition.

Wait a second…

That’s my book!

Built to Win: Inside Stories and Leadership Strategies from Baseball’s Winningest GM was a book written by the then General Manager of the Atlanta Braves in 2006.

I lost it more than two years ago.

You see, I bought this book right around the time I was dating a girl from Minnesota. Before that time, I had never stepped foot on a plane. Not knowing the procedure, I asked my dad, a frequent flyer, for advice.

One of his tips was to carry a book with me that I could place my plane ticket and identification inside. That way I would not have to hold them in my hand (possibly dropping them) and I’d have them both handy for when I got to the front of the security line.

“Built to Win” was the book I used for those plane trips to Minnesota.

With the book back in my possession, I removed the rubber band. Inside I found numerous, forgotten photos of me and my ex-girlfriend.

As I looked through the photos, memories of my past returned to me. Soon thereafter arrived the 800-pound-gorilla question I could not ignore:

“Whatever happened to the black shirt I’m wearing in most of these photos?”

Seriously, where did it go?

It’s a black, long-sleeved, open-collared shirt from the Gap.

I loved that shirt. It looked great in everything from bluejeans to khakis. And it disappeared about two years ago, right around the time I lost my John Schuerholz book.

Depressed, I then took it upon myself to rewrite “Candle in the Wind” for my lost shirt. Thankfully, since I’m not very gifted musically, I was able to use most of the existing lyrics. In fact, all I really had to do was replace all “Norma Jean” references with “black shirt from the Gap.”

Sure, the lyrics no longer make any sense, but it’s still pretty catchy.

(What? Did you guys expect some OTHER 800-pound-gorilla question to be on my mind? Pssssh.)

It has been a difficult period for my family.

Grandfather goes into hospital for pneumonia two weekends ago. An unrelated, yet serious, family situation developed shortly thereafter. Grandfather comes home after two days in the hospital. The other (unrelated, yet serious) family situation seems to resolve itself.

It seems as though we made it through the rough patch.

But then my grandfather has to go back to the hospital. His pneumonia is worse, and it turns out he had a urinary staff infection. Worse, tests reveal he has a sizable growth on his lungs. The doctor is 99.9% sure that further tests will reveal its cancer.

He’s sleep deprived, ill, has an infection, is heavily medicated, is without his hearing aids and dentures, and has a swollen throat. The end result is he can’t hear us, we can’t understand him, and he’s not in his right frame of mind. He’s delirious.

The man in that hospital bed right now isn’t the man I’ve known all my life. It’s painful to see him like this.

My grandfather was a drill sergeant in the Marines. He very well may have coined the phrase “idle hands on the devil’s play things” because he was always doing something. He was employed until his early 80s. He landscaped his yard and kept up with a vegetable garden until well into his 80s. Until three weeks ago, when he became ill, he still drove.

Despite the fact he smoked or chewed tobacco for several decades, plus the fact he spent his entire life working in the sun without even a drop of UV protection of any kind, my grandfather has been an iconic figure in my eyes — so much so that I’ve always been a little intimidated by him.

Now I look at him and wish I could go back in time and visit him more often.

The possibility of losing him sooner rather than later weighs heavily on all of us. And yet, his current state isn’t even the half of it.

My grandfather has essentially waited on my grandmother hand and foot their entire married lives. With is current state, what will become of her?

If he gets better, he still will need to be moved to an assisted-living facility for the elderly. More likely is he will need full time care in a retirement home. How will they afford it? Will they be able to stay at the same facility?

My dad, who normally has a 800-pound weight on his shoulders anyway, now has a full ton on his back. His story in all of this would take a full book to write, and I do not feel inclided to share such details on a blog anyway.

In short, it’s a difficult period right now. And as is usually the case, life is piling it on:

• This morning, someone broke the rear windshield of my brother’s truck, poured gasoline inside it, and set it on fire. We have no clue who did this or why.
• Work is kicking my tail. I knew this was going to be a difficult month for me given the fact my projects have December 31 delivery deadlines. But I’m finding one of my projects to be particularly difficult due to the fact I’m working with a programmer who is overmatched. She can’t figure out her end, and it’s going to result in the entire project being late unless management intervenes and takes her off the project.

This is as trying a period as I can ever remember.

Wonderful. This just in…

Due to an office Christmas party at a restaurant in town, it appears I might be the only employee currently in the building. (I skipped the party for obvious reasons.) Since I do not have a key to lock/unlock the building and I do not know the alarm security code, I might be trapped inside.

On a Friday.

With no one returning until Monday.

I don’t swear, but if I did this seems like it would be an appropriate time to do so.

I’m sure it goes without saying at this point, but all of your prayers are welcomed and appreciated.

Yes, I realize I just quoted the opening lines of a Creed song. Is that a crime? Original or not, it seemed like an apropos opening to this blog post considering I haven’t written in ten days. And in blogging time, ten days feels like eleven or twelve!

Turkey Day

I trust everyone — and by “everyone” I mean the two people who still read what I write — had a nice Thanksgiving. There has been much chaos/drama in Kevland lately, so it would be misleading to say mine was nice. My Thanksgiving was…well, the “Garlic Parsley Smashed Red Potatoes” I made were delightful. Beyond that, I’m just thankful everyone in my family made it through the week intact.

Work

The rest of 2009 will be quite hectic. In my line of work — a line I cannot divulge due to my unwillingness to have to kill each of you for learning of said line of work — numerous projects have a December 31 deadline.

And since, contrary to popular opinion, I am not an entity unto myself, my schedule will partly be dictated by the schedule of others.

Okay, here’s how it works. Once I am finished with a project, it goes to someone else for testing. They then give it back to me so I can give it my finishing touches (i.e. a sprinkling of awesome dust).

So, this means I need to have all of my projects finished by the first or second week in December. Then the testers will do their testing. While this is going on I will have virtually NOTHING to do. But then, once they give the projects back to me, it will be a mad dash for me to finish before the 31st.

And of course, smack in the middle of all this is a little holiday you may all know about. (Christmas? Anyone?) This likely means each and every one of my projects will be handed back to me for completion somewhere around…oh, December 29 or so.

In short: Come 2010 I will be exhausted and insane. (Though, admittedly, still very awesome.)

The World of SKOS

Initially, my idea was to “surprise” all of you out of the blue (and yes, by “all of you” I mean the two of you who still read my blog) in the next week or two by completely revamping the design of SKOS.

But since in one or two more weeks (assuming my blog updates continue to be sporadic) I might not have ANY remaining readers, I thought it best to go ahead and announce it:

I am completely revamping the design of SKOS.

Even though I haven’t felt inspired to write lately, the web design bug has bit me hard during the past week. The current design you see now debuted in February/March of 2008. I “announced” the (then) new design by writing a satirical blog post about how major websites everywhere were going to mimic me.

Ah, good times.

Anyway, in need of a good distraction, I have dived head first into this latest redesign. I want it to be the following two things simultaneously:

• Eerily familiar
• Like nothing you’ve ever seen

Sounds illogical and impossible? You underestimate me, my friends.

I have a knack for resolving logical paradoxes.

That’s all for now. How were all of your Thanksgivings? Can you believe it’s almost December? Aren’t you all just super duper excited about the site redesign?!

Humor me, folks. I’ve been (trying to) humoring you for a long time, after all. Fair is fair.

I said (paraphrasing):

“I can only tell you how I would handle it. Personally, I would climb a mountain in order to be with a girl I considered worthy. I would brave the elements, bears, wolves and even the possibility of falling to my death in order to get to the top. However, if every time during my journey when I stopped to look at the top of the mountain with my binoculars I saw that the girl did not seem interested or concerned, I would stop. I’d pack it in, call it a day and go home.”

It seemed like sensible advice to me. I believed I was doing my friend a kindness.

After all, nothing in this world worth having comes easily. You want something, you have to fight for it. At the same time, you have to know when it’s time to fold and wait for the next hand of cards to be dealt.

But then I read stories like this one of the 550-pound man who died after spending 8 months in a reclining chair.

The man, Daniel Webb of South Carolina, was only 33 years old.

He was a kind, religious man with a loving wife.

He died on the couple’s wedding anniversary.

His wife, Ada, said that while it was the worst anniversary imaginable for her it was the best ever for Daniel because “he’s with Jesus now.”

If you haven’t already, go read the Associated Press article about his death. It’s one of the most bittersweet stories I have read in quite some time.

Sweet because Daniel didn’t die alone. Sweet because he knew the Lord and is walking and running around in Heaven right now. Sweet because he no longer feels embarrassed by his physical state.

But it’s also bitter.

Bitter because the headlines announcing his death will cause some to snicker. Bitter because he was so young. Bitter because he lived the last 8 months of his life slowly dying in a recliner. Bitter because he’s leaving behind a loving wife. Bitter because he’ll never see his child grow up or see his grandchildren; he’ll never get to read them bedtime stories or teach them how to drive a car. Bitter because the world needs as many people who love the Lord as possible. Bitter because I can imagine the sadness and embarrassment he must have felt.

I didn’t know Daniel. All I have to go on are the facts of his death and the quotes given by his wife. But when I read his story, what I see is a flaw in the advice I gave my friend so long ago. The flaw?

Sometimes, you have to go “all in” even when the hand you’ve been dealt doesn’t seem promising.

When paramedics brought Daniel home in March after he had knee surgery, they warned him that if they placed him in the recliner he was unlikely to ever again get out of it.

He told them to do it anyway.

In that moment, Daniel decided to pack it in, call it a day and go home.

He gave up.

He gave up even though the girl at the top of the mountain (his wife) was interested and concerned.

So why did he give up?

Well, probably for the same hidden reasons I told my friend in my mountain-climbing scenario. The possibility of embarrassment. The possibility of failure. The possibility that the next hand dealt will be infinitely greater than this one.

Sometimes, the journey is worth the embarrassment. Sometimes it’s worth the possibility of failure. Sometimes, this hand is as good a hand as you’re ever going to be dealt.

Understand, I do not contend for a moment that Daniel isn’t happier in Heaven. But I do not and cannot believe that the Lord’s plan for his life had him dying in a reclining chair at age 33.

I believe God wanted Daniel to battle on. He wanted Daniel to fight. He wanted Daniel to live a long, happy life that positively impacted the lives of others in infinite ways.

He did not want him to sit down in that recliner.

Eight months ago, Daniel had two paths he could take. He could go “all in” or he could fold.

Daniel chose to fold.

Whether we’re talking about our own life-or-death situation, a relationship quandary or any other big life decision — there’s a lesson to be found here for each of us.

Do we want to climb that proverbial mountain even if no one is waiting for us on top, or do we want to sit down in our reclining chairs?

I didn’t know the man, but it saddens me immensely that Daniel Webb chose the latter.

Rest in peace, Daniel. You’re home now.

Something I didn’t think actually existed.

Something I thought only existed in movies and television (and the dreams of teenage boys).

I saw…

An attractive, female police officer.

(What? Don’t look at me like that. Am I not allowed to notice pretty girls? This is America, right? Surely you all aren’t questioning my Constitutional right to notice pretty girls!)

What’s the big deal, you ask?

First of all, female cops in general are a rarity where I live. How rare are they? Well, they’re about as rare as acting trophies for Keanu Reeves and whistles from female admirers for Michael Moore.

In other words, they are pretty rare.

Secondly, the female police officers that do exist look like…

(Hmmm. How to put this delicately?)

…Danny Devito in drag.

Except they aren’t as tall, attractive or feminine as Danny Devito.

(Wow, and here I thought it was going to be difficult to delicately phrase it.)

This girl, on the other hand, was the polar opposite of Danny Devito in drag.

(Lots of luck getting that mental image out of your heads, by the way.)

She appeared to be in her mid-20s.

She was 5′9.

She had dark brown hair and brown eyes.

She looked exotic. Well, exotic to me anyway. She sat down at a table with what I assume was her parents and sister. Her mom was Mexican, her dad was white. Her sister looked just like her — “exotic.”

When she entered the restaurant, I was up from my table and walking in her direction.

What was I doing? Well, I can assure you I wasn’t about to rob the cashier, so just get that crazy notion out of your head right now! What do you mean I’m acting paranoid? You are!

Ahem.

Once I saw her walk in (and saw that she was a cop), I quickly tossed away the handgun I was holding for no particular reason. (You know how it is — salad buffets can be really dangerous.)

Caught off guard due to having never seen even a mildly attractive female officer up to that point, I almost couldn’t think of what to do as she walked towards me.

Do I ignore her and continue towards the cashier salad bar?

Do I amuse her with my clever wit?

(“Excuse me, officer. But the Krispey Kreme doughnut shop is down the street.”)

Do I commit a crime of some sort so that she has to arrest me and we get some one-on-one time as she drives me to the police station?

Do I pretend to be a police officer?

(“My name is Sergeant Riggs. I’m your new partner. Try not to fall in love with me.”)

I was sure she had endured each of these a million times before. So, I decided to be original. I did nothing. I did absolutely, positively nothing.

I didn’t give her even a passing glance. Later, when we were standing side by side at the buffet, I ignored her. When we were on opposite sides of the buffet facing each other, I pretended she wasn’t there.

Crazy?

Yeah, crazy like a fox.

She’s a police officer, right? An attractive one at that.

So, in her experience, there are only three types of men who ignore her: Those that are married, those that are gay, and those that are criminals.

She could rule out me being married due to the fact I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring and my finger showed no tan line.

She could rule out me being gay due to the fact I ooze heterosexual manliness.

So, all that leaves is the possibility I am a criminal.

If she’s a good cop, she’ll try to find out who I am. Maybe I just robbed a bank? There’s no way for her to know. She has to do her due diligence and find out.

And what will she find?

That I have a spotless criminal record.

This, my friends, will confuse her to no end.

“He wasn’t married, he wasn’t gay AND he wasn’t a criminal?? Why wouldn’t he look at me?!”

She’ll become obsessed with me. It won’t be her fault — she’s only human, after all. And the next thing I’ll know is I will have an attractive, female stalker who is also a police officer on my hands.

The upside?

Well, if I or any of my friends get a speeding ticket, I bet she could help us out.

Or if my neighbors get too loud, I could get her to arrest them and plant drugs on them or something.

And since she’d likely stake out my house each evening, I’d never have to worry about burglars breaking in during the middle of the night.

One thing for sure is she will be a definite upgrade from my last crazy stalker. I mean, having a girl who works at Subway be obsessed with you sounds good in theory, but after a while the extra pickles she puts on your sandwiches cease to be worth the aggravation that comes with trying to steal lockets of your hair.

Approximately 59% of this blog post is real. Lots of luck deciphering the real from fake, folks!

One moment I’m sitting at my desk in my office doing some work. The next moment I’m pondering the possibility of still being single a decade from now. The next moment I’m debating whether or not to let the ant crawling on my desk live. And the next moment I’m reading a ridiculous junk e-mail and thinking of sarcastic remarks I could make at the writer’s expense.

Wait, I should back up.

When I started writing conservative political articles for Examiner a few weeks back, at first I included my e-mail address in my bio.

It made sense at the time.

If people liked what they read, they could write me and tell me so.

If people hated what they read, they could e-mail me and I could make fun of what they said here on my blog.

It was win-win.

However, I had forgotten about the dangers of having your e-mail address displayed in text on the Internet. Spiders, crawlers or whatever they call it these days grab these addresses. Next thing you know you’re on spam e-mail lists getting all sorts of crap delivered to your inbox day after day.

I modified my bio to minimize the damage, but it was too late. I’m on lists. I receive between 2 and 5 e-mails a day that try to scam me into revealing my checking account information.

Not sure what I mean? Here’s an example:

My dear,

When my late husband was alive he deposited the sum of Eleven Million united states dollars (11,000,000.00) USD in a Commercial Bank here in the federal republic of COTE D’IVOIRE. Recently,I was confirmed to be suffering from Cancer and the Doctors informed me that i will not last for the next two months.

They’re pretty much all like this one.

Each is written by someone who’s first language isn’t English. Each has some convoluted reason for why they’re offering me the chance to get my hands on millions of dollars. Each seems to call me “dear” at some point.

Silly scammers.

If calling me “dear” was all it took to get me to give up my banking info, my grandmother would have raided my account and been swimming in twenty dollar bills years ago.

Still, reading these ridiculous e-mails brings back memories.

Memories of a time where I would deliberately bait people into trying to scam me so I could cripple them with my quick, sarcastic wit.

Once upon a time, America Online (or “AOL” as the cool kids called it) ruled the web. Never mind the fact it sometimes took up to twenty-five minutes to sign on using a dial-up connection, AOL was the bee’s knees.

I was a crazy college kid. It’s what we crazy college kids did back then.

Instant Messaging, or IMs, was how I spent most of my time on AOL.

It’s thanks to IMs that I learned to type fast. I went from 5 words a minute to 60 in just a few months.

IMs are also to thank for my (mostly) good use of grammar. I quickly realized on AOL that the only ways to differentiate between smart people and morons were typing fast and typing well.

If you were slow and had lots of typos, you were an idiot.

If you were fast, spelled properly and used punctuation, you were Albert Einstein.

Of course, Instant Messaging on AOL back in the day had its dangers.

There were AOL thugs who had programs called “punters” that could knock you offline. It would send you IM after IM that said something lame like “You have just been ICED by the Punter Ice Machine 2.0!”

The never-ending barrage of IMs would freeze up your computer. The only way to make the insanity end was to sign off from AOL. It sounds like an easy solution, but remember: It sometimes took half an hour to sign back on.

“Why would anyone punt you offline,” you ask?

Well, to be mean.

Of course, so long as you didn’t enter any of the random AOL “chat rooms” and make enemies, AOL users who owned these punting programs would never know you even existed. You’d be free to live in peace.

Unfortunately, I was a trouble maker.

I would join random chat rooms on AOL, but I wouldn’t participate.

What’s the point?

I was waiting for someone to IM me.

No, I wasn’t lonely.

I was baiting people.

I was waiting for someone to IM me asking me for my AOL password.

I was waiting for someome to IM me making fun of my screenname.

In short, I was just waiting for someone I could have some fun with.

(Yes I was bored. Wasn’t that clear?)

It wouldn’t take long before someone would IM me pretending to work for AOL.

I’d play along, of course.

Sometimes I’d play dumb and make them try for 20+ minutes to convince me they really worked for AOL. Sometimes I would turn the tables and tell them I worked for AOL; that I was an undercover agent. Sometimes I would pretend I was a small child; they’d be asking for my “mommy’s password” and I’d be asking them to read me a story.

My tactic was always different, but the outcome was always the same.

I’d drive these guys crazy.

Gosh, I miss that.

Today, I read these ridiculous e-mails that promise millions of dollars will be transferred to my checking account and I think, “I wish I could interact with this idiot.”

Of course, since e-mailing them back would surely put me on even MORE spam lists, I will instead call them out here on SKOS.

I encourage the owners of the following spam addresses…

• mr.franceskofi247@gmail.com
• mr_franceskofi247@live.com
• mikeofori_icb@anit.az
• dania01@cantv.net
• marrypierre@centrum.sk
• josephtevans001@yahoo.com
• sanisu.l@sify.com
• officefile169@yahoo.in
• wwwupsc@sify.com
• sararisa@ymail.com
• bank.intercontinetalbankplc.in@gmail.com

…to leave a comment thanking me below.

Why should you thank me?

Because I have put each of YOUR e-mail addresses (assuming they are even valid) on the web for OTHER scammers to find.

Isn’t that wonderful?

Now each of you will enjoy the splendor that is receiving numerous ignorant, lame, scam e-mails day after day.

You’re welcome, people.

The controversy?

For the cover, Newsweek used a photo of Palin wearing running shorts that show off the former governor of Alaska’s legs.

Why did Sarah Palin pose in running shorts for Newsweek magazine, you ask?

She didn’t.

The photo was taken for an article Palin did for the August 2009 issue of Runner’s World.

Palin, of course, is outraged. Said Palin on her Facebook:

“The out-of-context Newsweek approach is sexist and oh-so-expected by now.”

If this controversy seems familiar, it’s because it is.

In October 2008, Newsweek sparked controversy by putting an untouched closeup of Palin’s face on its cover. The unflattering image showed Palin’s wrinkles, pores and lip hair in all their unflattering glory.

The left, of course, is giddy. Unapologetic critics of Sarah Palin’s, liberals believe she deserves to be taken down a peg or two or ten.

They’re all hypocrites.

Can you imagine what would happen if a magazine like Newsweek put an undoctored closeup of Michelle Obama, Hillary Clinton or Nancy Pelosi on its cover? How about a photo of the trio wearing tight running shorts?

I’ll tell you what would happen.

The left would be livid. Barack Obama and every talking head in Washington would be denouncing the blatant sexism.

And you know what else would happen?

I would vomit.

I would take one look at Obama, Clinton or Pelosi’s undoctored closeup and vomit.

Whatever I had eaten that day would leave my system.

Whatever I had eaten the previous day would leave as well.

Others, too, would begin to vomit. Those who had seen the hideous photo would vomit as a result of seeing said hideous photo. Others would vomit because they saw said people vomit.

The vomiting would spread like wildfire.

In a span of minutes, every person in the world would vomit.

It would be a mess.

Once the vomiting ceased, some people, inevitably, would remember the photo they had seen just a few minutes prior.

And then they would vomit again.

Eventually, the vomiting would stop.

But that night, while asleep, I would have a nightmare about the inexplicable photo.

And I would vomit.

People all over the world would have similar nightmares. They, too, would vomit.

With all the vomiting going on, no one will feel like going to their jobs.

For several days, every business in the world will shut down. The lost productivity will be cost hundreds of billions of dollars.

Would we ever recover?

Doubtful.

By this point, the stock market would have crashed. Everyone in Wall Street will have shot or poisoned themselves.

Many businesses will have to shut down, forcing millions to lose their jobs. With unemployment so high, no one will have money to spend. Other businesses shut down as a result. The economy will crumble.

Chaos will reign.

Want to survive? You better have lots of guns and bullets and a “kill or be killed” attitude.

Me?

I’ll be carrying around a copy of the infamous Obama-Clinton-Pelosi magazine.

With it, I’ll be able to incapacitate anyone who crosses my path.

Of course, if the person is wearing reflective sunglasses, we will both be incapacitated.

The moral?

There is an upside to the media being so liberal. It means we never have to worry about an undoctored or “sexy” magazine cover of Michelle Obama, Hillary Clinton or Nancy Pelosi starting a vomit apocalypse that wipes out civilization as we know it.

I’ll sleep easy tonight with that knowledge.

A calm, peaceful, vomit-free sleep.